Chương 15: Chapter Fourteen: To Toss a Single Drachma

Seizing his throat, Cyrus felt his sobs choke him from within. His body stiffened, forehead remaining planted against the cold stone floor. Then he slowly pushed himself up, wiping the snot from his nose, and turned his trembling eyes into the gloom of the cell, focusing on a specific shadow. There was no way to hide inside Cyrus's cell. Empty, devoid of furniture, where could one possibly remain unseen? Yet somehow, Nicomedes was sitting with his back leaning against the wall of the pitch-black corner.

Cold eyes glared back at Cyrus.

"N-Nicomedes?" Cyrus couldn't help but gasp. Even as the movement of his lips opened a wound, sending a trickle of blood down his chin, he couldn't stop his gaping mouth.

"How are you in here? The Archon was just—""Philotas may be an Archon, but his senses have dulled with age," Nicomedes scoffed. The old cultivator raised his left hand, and gave it a sharp flick. And Cyrus watched with widening eyes, as the wrinkled skin on the old man's fingers paled, the solid bone and flesh dissolving into a swirling pale mist. Within seconds, his wrist was gone. Where a hand had been, there was only the cloudy fog of grey vapors. Cyrus couldn't help himself.

He scrambled back, muscles stiffening at the impossible sight before him. Nicomedes sneered. He flicked his hands, and abruptly, the mist was dismissed, his hand reappearing as if nothing had happened.

"You haven't changed at all," he spoke in a harsh tone.

"After all you have seen in this world of cultivation, you are still so surprised at the simplest of things…" Nicomedes huffed, his milky eyes flashing.

"But enough about me. What are you showing such an unsightly version of yourself? Think of your honor, boy." At that, all Cyrus could do was stare. The confusion and the shock from the old man's sudden appearance was muddling his mind, but snapping through it was the sheer uncaring tone of the other cultivator's voice. Bitter heat exploded from his chest, fiery anger pouring into his veins.

"Honor…?" Cyrus hissed the word out. He could feel a venomous glare overtaking his pupils.

"Honor? What honor?! My entire family is gone!" Nicomedes sighed, his expression one of boredom.

"Yes, yes. I know. I was here as you shouted your tragic story to the Archon."

"Shut up!" Cyrus roared. He pounced up, limbs tightening in anticipation, a contorted scowl slicing his soiled face. He pointed an accusatory finger at Nicomedes.

"You promised, damn it! You told me that if I fled with you to this cursed mountain, Ktesios wouldn't lay a hand on my family!" Nicomedes's expression didn't waver.

"I said maybe, boy. And yes, I must have underestimated his hatred. But so what? I am no oracle. I cannot see the future. You should be grateful for me, boy. If I hadn't gotten you out of that village, you would have died a long and painful death." But Cyrus would not have it.

"You lied to me," he gasped, clutching at his chest.

"Damn you! You lied!"

"Agh, quit it!" Nicomedes snapped. He turned on Cyrus, glaring eyes practically gouging out holes from Cyrus's stare.

"If you had stayed, what would you have done, huh? You would have just been another body to the pile!" He straightened to his full height. Even if he was an old man, his strong silhouette towered over Cyrus.

"Look at you. You are but a child, yet you talk about standing against armed men." The stare he sent down upon Cyrus was without a single drop of pity.

"Listen to me well. I am not your guardian. I am not your protector. I have no obligation to care for you or to keep your family safe, and I am certainly not going to start now." Cyrus shrank back. The rage seeped out of him. He knew it was pitiful, he knew it was cowardly, but he couldn't bear to stand up against a man as strong as Nicomedes.

"This is the last you will see of me for a long time," the old man continued, a dark look passing over his expression.

"I have my own affairs to attend to. And these are matters far greater than a childish boy weeping over his lost family." But as Nicomedes headed for the iron bars, a dangerous smirk spread across his lips.

"Philotas spoke of his conscience, didn't he? However, I have no such conscience." The old cultivator clicked his fingers together. And immediately a heat burst from the pores of his skin, evolving into a searing golden blaze, stealing the very breaths from the tiny cell. Without pause, Nicomedes slashed his hand down, fire ripping down with power. And without any resistant, the iron bars of the cell melted like wax. They fell down, metal clattering loudly on the stone floor.

Nicomedes stepped through the new gap and into the hallway. He paused, looking back over his shoulder at the stunned boy still huddled in the corner. Reaching into his robes, Nicomedes pulled out a familiar sack and tossed it onto the floor before Cyrus. It landed with a metallic clatter, the leather surface stained with soggy mud. It was the pouch of drachmas Cyrus had painstakingly hidden deep beneath his sleeping mat.

"Remember, boy," Nicomedes murmured, walking away into the shadows.

"Toss one drachma." ❦ ❦ ❦ The tall grass of Boeotia's wilderness rustled under Cyrus's worn sandals as he stumbled out from a dense thicket. Every breath he took felt like shards of glass were being shoved down his rattling chest. Having not tasted food or drink in days, Cyrus could barely keep his legs moving. He had no energy, no sustenance to support his bodily functions, and he was feeling the worst of it. Still, he forced his feet forward. Even as pain rippled up his bones, he kept walking.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Fool, he thought. I am such a fool. He'd fled the sect with nothing. He had carried no food, no liquids, only the clothes on his back and Nicomedes's pouch of drachmas, which he had thrown away, utterly useless in the wilderness as it simply weighed him down. He hadn't thought about what would come after escaping from the cell. He hadn't thought about it at all.

And so, he'd crossed Cithaeron already half-starved, stumbling over the same treacherous terrain that had taken an entire day even when he'd been healthy and fed. A fool worthy of legends, he told himself bitterly. It was something close to a miracle that he'd made it even this far. But even then, his mother's homeland was still leagues beyond him. The wilderness around him was quiet, save for the faint early morning songs of the birds.

With throbbing and clashing temples, with his vision fraying and blurring as the profound starvation and sheer lethargy screamed at him, Cyrus could gradually feel his body clawing him towards the dirt. He strained to focus on the horizon, on the couple, ten, hundreds, thousands of steps he had to take… No. His physical body was slowly reaching his limit. Though he managed to take three more faltering steps, his knees ultimately betrayed him, buckling under him.

Cyrus collapsed, planting his face deep into the moist and cold mud. He barely managed to catch himself with his feeble hands. His brain felt like it was shivering, a strange feeling that caused the forest to spin disorientingly around him. Cyrus tried to push himself back up, but his limbs only gave a violent shudder before refusing. He felt so sick. His skin was cold and clammy. When he tried to lift his head, a wave of dizziness swept over him, seeping the lingering vitality from his muscles.

He couldn't even summon the strength to curl his fingers. Then, through the haze of dizziness and vertigo, a soft crunching sound jerked his attention. It was the sound of heavy footsteps. His heart soared, hope flaring to life in Cyrus's chest, drowning out the agonizing numbness of his body. Someone was there. Someone, anyone! He wasn't going to die out here in the dirt!

"H-help..." he tried to rasp out, though the sound barely left his lips. The rustling stopped directly in front of him. Before Cyrus could attempt to lift his chin, a massive, powerful hand clamped around the back of his tunic and hoisted him off the ground. Cyrus let out a weak yelp, finding himself swinging in the air. He tried to move his limbs and protest, but they remained still and unresponsive. Still, he was saved!

Finally, someone had— Yet as Cyrus narrowed his eyes, forcing his bleary vision to be wiped clean, to reveal the face of his rescuer… The brief flame of hope that gloomed within his chest was stamped out violently. Sneering down at him with cruel glint of malice in his dark eyes stood the Scythian slave—Ateas, Leandros's brute.

"Look upon this pathetic thing," the man growled, his thick accent heavily accentuating his words. Oh gods, why have the Fates sentenced me to such an—"A stray rat," Ateas spat, squinting down at Cyrus's completely caked, blood-stained face and tangled hair.

"How did you end up like this?" A wave of cooling relief splashed over Cyrus, softening the flaming horror clutching his chest. He doesn't know who I am. The realization didn't fully rekindle his hope, but it proved to be a valiant and worthwhile effort. Perhaps if the brute thought he was just a random youth that had been struck with the misfortunes of life, Cyrus would be able to get away. But no. Ateas's grip only served to tighten further around Cyrus's tunic.

In fact, the giant lifted Cyrus up, hosting him with inhumane strength, and began inspecting the boy. As he did so, a disgusted look overcame his expression. Then, turning his gaze to the ground, Ateas let out a thundering sigh.

"To think that I am out here this early getting these damned pigs farmers to cough up a few obols," the giant muttered to himself. He spat out a thick slobber into the ground, eyes brimming with resentment. Then Ateas shook Cyrus, a move of violence, in an event—Cyrus supposed—the giant used to quell his irritation. Yet, the rough movement also did something else. The harsh lurches and jerks began to dislodge some of the crusts of dirt that had been caked around Cyrus's face.

Flakes of the mud fell to the ground, until gradually, his pale face was exposed underneath. Ateas stiffened at the sight. All he did was stare down for a moment, eyes wide, stare fixated on the dirtied face below him. A rumble commenced inside the Scythian's chest, until it bubbled into a roar of laughter.

"By Papaios and the Sky God..." Ateas wheezed. He wagged his head, expression incredulous.

"What are the chances?! What!" He shook Cyrus harder, bigger slices of the dried mud falling to the ground.

"It's the baker's boy!" He sneered.

"The brave lion who dared to strike young master Leandros! Did you panic and flee all the way into the wilderness? My, you don't look so well. Are you starving?" Laugher shook his hulking shoulders, sending them trembling and quivering. But soon, gradually, the sounds of amusement died out. His mouth snapped shut, Aithon narrowed his eyes. He pulled the trembling boy within his grasp closer, and peered down at him.

"But first. You… how did you make fire come out of your mouth?" Cyrus spoke no answer back. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't. His lips were basically stuck to the roof of his mouth. The Scythian's face suddenly contorted. Before Cyrus, the older man's features twisted, murderous fury pumping through his expression. He squeezed his teeth together, until the enamel squeaked, jaw tense and bulging with pulsating veins.

"Just thinking about how you used those flames…" Ateas snarled.

"How dare you commit such blasphemy?" The giant leaned in, eyes burning with such unhinged, dark disgust that Cyrus could hardly believe such emotions were possible within a mortal's pupils.

"Tabiti's living flame!" the Scythian spat, spraying spittle into Cyrus's face.

"How dare you spit her out like bile!" What? Cyrus was befuddled. Yet before he could even let his thoughts pause on the name, Ateas threw him with all his inhumane might. Sent flying, Cyrus's spine slammed against the rough bark of a nearby tree, his vision immediately exploding with splotches of darkness. He slumped down. He tried to choke out something, to mutter anything about his confusion, but his mouth wouldn't work properly, leaving him gasping like a fish on land.

Looking down upon the crippled boy, Atea's eyes only glinted with further cruelty.

"Ah, such a pathetic sight. Lucky for you, while you were running off playing the coward in the forest, Master Leandros has already settled his business with you. Your old man was struck down, and your mother and sister were taken away in chains. How very unfortunate for you." Cyrus tried to shriek.

"Silence!" Ateas barked, his free hand clamping tight around Cyrus's throat. The brute's nostrils flared, his eyes erratic and wild.

"You should also know that master Leandros wanted you beaten until you could no longer walk if we ever found you," Ateas muttered.

"But…" The Scythian reached down into his tunic, his fingers coming back out wrapped around the leather hilt of a blade.

"The gods must have dropped you onto my path," Ateas whispered, slowly freeing the notched iron edge and brandishing it.

"They demand I right the outrage you have committed." Cyrus let out a strangled rasp, a silent scream trapped behind his teeth. Hot tears poured down from his eyes, flowing down his mud-caked cheeks.

"You must pay for the sacrilege," Ateas growled. Then everything was pain. Pain as endless and vast as the fields of Elysium.