Page 23 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

I hold the stone with the corner of my cloak, giving it a wary look and being careful not to touch it as I drop it into my pack. It is not the blood that bothers me. The blood of one’s enemies is always a welcome sight. No, it’s the stone itself, oily black, heavier even than copper ore, shimmering as if it contains the stars.

There is no doubting that it is of the gods. Of Asterion.

I shudder, then rise to stand, spine snapping straight at the sounds echoing up the distant canyon. A nervous whiney, the plaintive cry of some terrified horse. The sharp sound of hoof on stone, the cadence as fast as my racing heart. A dog howls, another barks, followed by a sharp series of excited yips.

I’m going to die. Not even twenty summers old. And I’m going to die fetching a rock for a Keptui woman.

I grip my sword, every muscle tensing as I squint into the distance to where the trail disappears down the steep mountain track ahead. I’m momentarily at a loss for what to do. I thought I’d have enough time to run and get the stone for Sira because I’d stupidly assumed the Keptui guards would be on foot.

I was wrong. Now, I’m going to pay the price.

Hoofbeats thunder. I cringe at the sound of it against stone. Horses are made for earth and grass, for open plains and sand. They are not made for places like this, with sharp rock and uneven ground. Certainly not at that speed.

“This way,” a familiar voice calls. “Hurry.”

Ice rushes through me, stealing my breath. It’s not Xenodice’s hunters, but my brother. My brother and his men and his dogs and his horses.

No, not just his horse, I realize with sinking dread as a tall figure rounds the crest of the hill, his leather and bone armor glowing like bronze in the rising sun. Frothy sweat coats the haunches of the horse beneath him, the poor creature’s nostrils flaring wide.

That’s my horse. My horse. Cyllarus.

My brother lifts one arm to point to the copse of trees. The same trees where we spent the night. Where Sira might be, even now.

“This way.” He pulls up short, making Cyllarus snort and dance. The dogs dart ahead, barking frantically, circling and looking back at their master to follow. Five other men come into view, their horses looking equally ill-used.

Without thinking, I scramble out from the shadows of the boulders, climbing quickly until I’m perched on top of the largest one, and draw my blade.

“You never were an observant hunter,” I drawl, pressing the tip of my sword against the stone and leaning on the pommel.

My brother and his men turn to stare at me, matching looks of wide-eyed surprise on their faces. I grin, cocking my head to one side. As if I am not one man against five. As if my queen is not in danger. As if my favorite horse is not being ridden half to death before my very eyes.

Cyllarus gives a hopeful nicker, stretching his neck out toward me in recognition. Atreus snaps the reins, pulling the poor beast’s head back in. My hand trembles, a white-hot rage nearly making me blind.

“Where is my bride, Lykos?” Atreus’ voice booms out, dark brows furrowing as he glances around, as if expecting to see Sira cowering somewhere in this forsaken landscape. “I know you took her. Where is she?”

Running, hopefully. Going towards Zominthos. Safely in the trees, where your horses cannot follow.

“Your bride?” I smirk, flicking a lock of hair from my forehead. “She’s a delightful little creature. Soft, if you like that sort of thing. Makes the most enticing noises…”

Behind Atreus, a few of the men bite back smiles, one of them pressing his face against his armored shoulder to hide his grin.

This is just sport to them. A hunt. A display from their king and his troublesome younger brother. It’s a display I’m happy to give them, if it means giving Sira more time to escape.

“Lykos…” my brother rumbles out in warning, spurring his horse towards me. My horse. Away from the trees. Away from Sira. “This is not a game.”

My grin widens, even as something sharp twinges behind my ribs. No, for once, this is not a game.

Perhaps it was, when I first left Knossos, carrying a stolen queen in my arms with every plan of using her for my own advantage. Then, I might have bargained with him. Offered her back in exchange for some ships of my own, for some land in Mycenae and Sira’s weight in gold. I would have given him information too. Told him of what I’d learned from the message from Britomartis. Told him of the ships that, even now, might be at Crete’s northern shores.

“Suppose she doesn’t want you?” I ask teasingly. “Now that she’s had the wolf, perhaps she won’t want the boar.”

Atreus lets out a frustrated growl, reins flapping as he pulls Cyllarus around the boulder. But he cannot reach me. Not unless he dismounts.

“She’s a Keptui,” I continue conversationally, angling my body to keep Atreus in my line of sight. “They’re used to choosing their lovers, you know.”

“Zeus’ balls,” Atreus swears. His face is red, sweat beading on his forehead, on his neck. He turns to glare at his men. “Why are you just standing there?” He waves one arm in my direction. “Will no one deal with this whelp?”

His men look nervously between themselves, silently asking who will be first. But they are not fools. They have seen me in battle. They are not eager to crash their sword against my own.

Even if they were, even if I was an easy opponent, I am Atreus’ brother. Who is to say what he would do if I was actually killed by a hand other than his own?

“Speaking of taking things that aren’t your own,” I say, nodding towards Cyllarus. “Why are you on my horse?”

“Mine was lame,” Atreus grumbles, glaring down at Cyllarus. “And I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with this creature. He’s got more fire than blood in his veins.”

I hum in agreement, my gaze tracking briefly to the rising sun. It’s nearly over the mountains, the sky changing from blood-red to gold. Sira should be deep in the forest by now, following Inanna and the other servants of Astarte towards Zominthos. Towards safety. Towards freedom.

I swallow, a strange ache in my throat as I realize I will never see her again. There will be no joining her in Zominthos now, not with my brother and his men surrounding me. They will take me back to Knossos, or kill me. Perhaps both.

I blink rapidly, half-formed images flickering through my thoughts, teasing and broken as sunlight on waves.

Me on my knees before her, my blade at my chest, an oath on my lips, a smile on hers.

Her in my arms, her soft lips against my throat, the sound of my name against my skin.

Her striding through Knossos, with all the power and grace of a queen, and me behind her, basking in the jealous stares of all the Keptui who called me an Achean as if it was a curse…

“…should have taken one of the other horses,” Atreus continues, kicking Cyllarus hard in the flanks and yanking at the reins. Cyllarus tosses his head, fighting against the bridle, his eyes so wide I can see the whites around them. “Stupid beast,” Atreus curses. “Should be fed to the dogs…”

Those words, his treatment of my horse, the thought of Sira gone from me forever… it’s too much.

My composure snaps.

“Get off my horse.” There is no mirth in my voice, no teasing lilt. My fist tightens around my sword hilt, my other hand reaching for the second blade at my belt.

Atreus stares up at me in surprise, his mouth half open.

“Get off my horse,” I repeat, drawing my second sword. “I swear to Zeus, brother. If I see you kick him one more time…”

“You dare…” Atreus’ voice is thick as he glares up at me. “You dare to threaten me? You can’t be serious.”

I let out a shaky breath, tightening my grip to keep my hands from trembling with rage.

“You’ve had your little game, Lykos. Stop posturing, get off that rock, and give me back my bride.” Atreus’ voice is booming, a deep rumble that shakes the very stones of Mount Ida.

The men behind him are no longer smiling. Neither am I.

“She’s not yours.” My voice is low, barely more than a whisper, and yet it carries across on Mount Ida’s cold wind. “She’s not your bride.”

I adjust my stance, knees bending, body tensing as I gauge the distance between me and Atreus, sending a silent plea to Cyllarus for forgiveness for what I’m about to do. “She is my queen. My minas. And you cannot have her.”

Atreus’ eyes widen, his hands flexing around the reins. He is close enough that I can see his nostrils flare in agitation, see the vein throbbing on his forehead in warning of his temper. He is close enough that I might just make it.

“Please Diktynna,” I whisper to Mount Ida’s icy winds.

I don’t know why I pray to her now and not to Zeus. Perhaps because this is her mountain, because every harsh line of that goddess’ power is written in the very stone around us. Perhaps because Zeus has never answered my prayers before.

“Please Diktynna, guide my hand.”

And then I leap.

For a brief moment, I’m flying, my cloak fluttering around me like the useless wings of a fallen bird, my blades outstretched and glittering in the sunlight.

And then I strike.

Atreus cries out, not quite a scream, but a sharp call of surprise that catches in his throat. I feel him struggle beneath me, reaching no doubt for his own blade. Cyllarus lets out an alarmed whiney, sending both Atreus and I tumbling to the ground, me first, with Atreus on top of me.

The move has my blade slamming into his side, through armor and flesh, against bone.

“Assassin,” Atreus croaks from on top of me, his face close to my own. “My own brother.”

My hand trembles, stomach churning with something close to panic as I push out from beneath him. The blade pulls free of my brother’s body with a sickening sound. He falls back against the earth, hands clutching his side, chest rising and falling beneath his boar-tusk armor as he struggles to breathe.

I had not meant to wound him, had I? Unhorse him, yes. Disarm him, probably. But wound him?

His eyes fix on mine, blinking rapidly as if he’s struggling to see, his mouth opening as if to speak. He coughs instead, a wet sound. Pink coats his lips.

The sickening sensation deepens, sinking heavy as ballast stone at the pit of my stomach, threatening to send me to my knees. That is a mortal wound. There is no mistaking it. I have heard that sound, seen that sight so many times before.

I’ve killed him. I’ve murdered my own brother.

There’s a faint wheezing sound. His hand falls away, dropping heavily to his side, revealing the wound. It is not a big wound. Barely bleeding. His eyes stare up at the sky, unseeing…

“Lykos! Behind you!”

My head snaps up, pulse thundering wildly at the sound of Sira’s voice. She should be on her way to Zominthos, in the safety of the trees. Why did she come back? Why in the gods names would she come back?

“Lykos, run!” she screams.

And that’s when I hear it. Men shouting, dogs barking, hooves against stone. My brother’s men. I cast a glance over my shoulder, then back to where Sira stands at the edge of the trees, her women behind her with bows strung and arrows nocked.

There are twenty paces between me and her, and thirty between me and Atreus’ men. I can’t outrun them, not when they are on horseback and I am on foot. And if I try to reach her, I will only draw them to her.

I turn to face them instead, drawing myself up to my full height as I sheath my blades.

“Your king is dead.” I thank the gods my voice doesn’t tremble. “I have challenged him, and he has fallen.”

The men murmur between themselves, frowning and whispering in hushed voices too low for me to hear. I can imagine what they are saying though: Our king never even drew his sword. It was not a fight, but a murder. Lykos is just the bastard brother. An upstart.

“I was second in command,” I remind them coolly, my voice echoing against the stone. Well, second in command here, far away from the hordes of brothers born after Atreus. “I am first now.” I lift my chin, then give a cocksure smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes as I open my arms and stride towards them. Making myself vulnerable.

“My brave and noble Acheans,” I throw back my cloak, making my chest a target, pressing one hand to the leather armor above my heart. “Did you not come across the sea seeking glory and riches? Would you throw it all away for a king who could not hold his sword? When I am here, ready to fulfil my brother’s promises, and more?”

I see the moment the danger facing them registers. If they kill me, our fleet will be without a leader. There will be no one to reward them for their work at the end of their journey. The men will fight amongst themselves like dogs hungry for scraps until there is nothing left of our ships. And we are on enemy soil, outnumbered, isolated from any support or reinforcements.

“Argyros.”

I address the older of the men. An experienced landsman and hunter who had been given care of the horses and dogs while on board my ship. But the sea had not agreed with him, and in the end I had taken over most of his tasks myself.

“Have I not always been good to you? Fair and even-handed?”

Argyros nods, his cheeks coloring, his gaze dropping to his weather-beaten hands. “Always, sir,” he rumbles, then casts a frown to where my brother lays behind me. “And good to the animals too. Not like…” he clears his throat, then shakes his head.

I give him a grim smile at his unspoken words. Not like Atreus .

“But what of the alliance with Knossos?”

It’s Galenos. My brother’s closest friend, I recall with a sinking sensation. I’m close enough now to see that his eyes are red rimmed, his expression drawn and face pale. Close enough to see his hands tremble where they clutch the reins of his horse. Close enough that he could urge his mount forward and cut me down before I could utter another word.

But he doesn’t.

“We will form a new alliance,” I promise, with more confidence than I have any right to feel.

I don’t dare look behind me, to where Sira stands sentry beside the trees, but I can feel her eyes on me. She came for me. The thought is enough to send hope spiraling madly behind my ribs.

“I will form a new alliance,” I clarify, my cheeks heating despite the winter wind. “I will take my brother’s place.”

Galenos lifts one bushy brow in disbelief. My preference for men is no secret, though I made it a point to never take one of my brother’s men as a lover, despite how lonely the nights at sea might have been.

Still, his pointed look irks me. As if he doubts my ability to woo a queen.

“She’s with me now, is she not?” I wave one hand to where Sira stands, still not daring to glance back at her. Hopefully, she is out of earshot. “You think I can’t make her mine? She ran from my brother, and yet she stands with me. Even now, her women would fire on you to protect me. I am the only thing holding them back.”

Several of the men glance nervously at the armed women, at the bows pointed in our direction.

The servants of Astarte are famed as archers, treating their practice as a form of worship to their goddess. Even us Acheans know that.

“But what of Xenodice?” Galenos asks, relentless in his questions. “We were instructed to bring her sister back to Knossos.”

“Instructed?” I give him a pointed sneer, and he has the good sense to duck his head. “Since when do you take orders from Xenodice?”

“It is her city,” Galenos counters with no small amount of agitation. “Our men, our ships, we are at her mercy here.”

“It is not her city.”

It’s Sira who speaks, appearing as if out of nowhere at my side, her cloak brushing against my arm as she places herself beside me. I turn to look down at her with panicked alarm. She shouldn’t be so close to them, so close to danger. It would take less than a moment’s work for one of them to run me through with their sword and sweep her up in their arms.

To take her away from me.

“It is mine. Knossos is mine.” Sira holds Galenos’ gaze with her own, staring up at him as he looms over us on horseback. She’s fearless as a queen. As a minas.

My breath hitches, a stuttered sound wheezing out of me. Sira ignores me.

“Even now, hundreds sail upon this island to support me. Our allies, our rivals, and even the gods themselves side with me. Xenodice will fall, and I will take her place and claim my birthright.” She gives Galenos and the rest of the men a sharp look, then adds, “Those who support her will fall too, and it is not our way to show our enemies mercy.”

The men pale at her words. They came here for adventure and riches, to get copper ore and Keptui-made weapons. Not to be caught in a battle between queens. Certainly not to attract the ire of the gods.

Galenos shoots me a look of silent question, and I dip my head.

“It is as she says,” I agree, then shoot Sira a sheepish glance before drawing a worn slip of papyrus from a small pouch tied at my belt. “Read this for yourself.”

It’s the missive from Britomartis. The one I intercepted while at sea. Perhaps… perhaps I should have told Sira about it before. But it’s too late for that now. I’ll just have to beg for forgiveness.

Assuming I survive this day.

Galenos’ brow dips as he unfurls it, his frown deepening as he squints at the scrawling script, then thrusts it back into my hands. “I see.”

He shoots Sira an appraising look, gaze sharp as a butcher’s cleaver as he considers this new information. Sees her—perhaps for the first time—as more than just the virgin bride for our king. Sees her as an ally. As a force to bargain with.

Sira stares implacably back, expression smooth as marble. For a long moment, the only sound is the snorting of the horses, the wind whistling through the leafless trees, the dogs sniffing idly at our feet.

“And do you offer to ally yourself with our people, like your sister did?”

Sira gives a mirthless huff. “My sister never sought your people as an ally. She only sought to get rid of me—that’s all a union with Atreus would have achieved.”

“It would have opened up trade.” Galenos works his jaw, no doubt thinking of the promised copper ore. Of the storerooms full of treasures Xenodice had shown us in Knossos. Goat-bone bows made in Crete. Leather armor made to look like the scales of some reptile, strong enough to protect against bronze-tipped arrows. Bronze blades with ivory and gold hilts and intricate sheathes. “Your sister promised to open up trade with us.”

“My sister has broken her oath to her own people,” Sira replies. “What makes you think she would do better by yours?”

Galenos gives a reluctant hum of agreement, his cheeks reddening slightly. Sira is only saying what many of us already suspected. What my brother’s detractors voiced when we left them behind on Mycenaean shores. Even my brother doubted whether Xenodice could be trusted, and kept most of his men on his ships at Amnisos so we could be ready to flee or fight at a moment’s notice.

“What about you?” Galenos presses. “Would you ally yourself with our people?”

I shoot Galenos a glare.

This is not a time to forge alliances. Not when we are standing between my people’s swords and her people’s arrows. Not when Sira doesn’t yet have the throne.

“I don’t know your people,” Sira replies simply, then turns to me. Looking at me for the first time since this surreal exchange began. “But I know Lykos.”

A small smile curves her lips. It’s sweet and soft, and gone in an instant, fleeting as the rising sun behind storm clouds. Small, but enough to have my heart thundering wildly in my chest.

“I would ally myself to him.”