The Tyrant Riot by Y.B. Striker

Author:Y.B. Striker [Striker, Y.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Timeless Wind Publishing
Published: 2023-04-05T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One

THE YOUNG GRIFFON

Olympia’s western dock town was as I remembered it, though it felt downright decrepit after weeks spent in the grandest city in the free Mediterranean. Stout wooden constructions were the standard out here, no amethyst-veined marble or towering bronze doors. It was refreshing, in a way. The beaches teemed with fishmongers and their patrons, a cool breeze of waning winter offset by the cheerful warmth of unclouded sun.

The port’s rubble mound breakwater could be seen from a respectable distance, jutting up from the Ionian several spans out. It hugged the coast up and down as far as mortal eyes could see, and if the maps were to be believed, a bird or a god looking down on it from above would see the winding lines of rubble as a gorgon’s snarling face—each of the tangled serpents of her hair a point of entry for enterprising ships. It was a sight that Nikolas had boasted of seeing for himself after returning home for his wedding, all the while smugly refusing to explain how he’d done it.

I had a few ideas, myself. Someday soon I’d bring one of them to life and have a look for myself. See the ugly leer that the free Mediterranean cast across the Ionian at her lowly scarlet colony. Later, of course, when there weren’t more compelling things to do.

I cast a lingering glance at the Roman walking down the beach beside me.

“You were confident about that one, weren’t you?”

Sol’s lip curled in silent contempt.

“There was weight behind those words, I could tell,” I said, considering the crowded shacks, broad oak tables buried in the sand for the day’s catch to be displayed. “It wasn’t difficult at all to imagine you in your armor, cape and all. Was that how you spoke to your legionnaires? I’m sure it inspired them on their way to the underworld.”

Strong hands grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. Scythas pulled me down to his eye level, his influence clashing with my own. Hands of my violent intent clamped down on his own shoulders and along his arms and neck. They fisted themselves in his faded green robes, glowing with building heat.

“What is the matter with you?” Scythas demanded, golden coals burning.

“The Oracle wasn’t wrong,” I mused, leaning further in. This close, it was impossible to deny. “You are a pretty thing. Thicker eyelashes than most marble beauties, and lips well suited to pouting. If you shaved that stubble you’d be a hot commodity in any bathhouse.”

I added my flesh-and-blood-hand to the mess of pankration intent, pressing my palm flat against his forehead and pushing him down. The Hero’s pneuma rose. His lips pursed for a whistle.

“Leave him be, Scythas.”

The Hero of the Scything Squall scowled. “He had no right.”

“No,” Sol agreed. “He didn’t. I apologize on his behalf.”

“I wasn’t talking about what he said to me.” The fair Hero shoved me off and whistled a sharp note, blasting my pankration hands off his body with gale winds. “I’m going to find us a ship.

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