The Young Griffon

Our objective in Thracia was simple. It was also nearly worthless.

A golden cup filled with spirit wine. That was all the guidance the Gadfly had given us, along with a vague marker on an endless charter of land to find it in. The belligerence in my heart urged me to take him at his most literal word, dip my toe into the vast expanse of Thracia and fill the first golden cup I found with the cheapest spirit wine available. Accounting for the time wasted sailing here and back, we were out a week of travel no matter what - and three months could pass in the blink of an eye if we chose to explore.

The temperance in my treacherous mind urged against it, however, and so the Roman’s proposal won out in the end. I wanted to get these errands over with, but I could all too easily envision a world where we returned to Olympia with insufficient ingredients and were sent back out to do the work properly. And as much as it galled me, we’d have no choice but to do it.

The Gadfly held the reins in this arrangement. I had come to Olympia to see the Oracle, but more than that I had come to speak to her - and so far as the Gadfly was concerned, the latter would be impossible without a divine cure. I had my doubts. Truthfully, I was confident that mortal hands could mend the problem, if only Old ‘Zalus could find his wife a physician worthy of the title. If I had the time to properly immerse myself in medical study, I knew I could cure it without any nectar at all.

If I had the time.

As things stood now, however, I had only just started walking the physician’s path a few weeks ago and the Olympic Games were in four months. That meant I had three months to reach the Heroic Realm or else find another way to gain entry as a competitor, otherwise I would be barred entirely. I had ideas, but they would take time to implement. Ruinous time, each and every one of them.

The Fates had stranded me in a market that only accepted one singular currency, time, and I was a very poor man. None of the options presented to me were appealing.

If I chose to dance to the Gadfly’s tune and run his errands for him, I risked missing my opportunity to compete in the games. I also risked my audience with the Oracle - after all, the Gadfly had only said he should be able to synthesize nectar with the proper materials. Not that he could with certainty.

If I chose to race down the physician’s path and mend the Oracle myself, I put myself at odds with Sol. Normally an enticing prospect if anything, but in this case an irritation. The girl would never agree to abandon this quest now that it had been offered to her, and I knew Sol well enough to know that he wouldn’t abandon her in that pursuit without a compelling reason. And I still risked missing my chance to compete, even then.

Socrates had us over a barrel and he knew it. Even if we knew he was being deliberately vague, even if we knew he was parceling out objectives to keep us away from his city, we had little choice but to suffer it and make the best time that we could. After all, as Sol had pointed out on the beach, what else were we to do? Ask around? Make the nectar ourselves?

Yes. Obviously. We were going to do exactly that.

We couldn’t just grab the first golden cup we saw and fill it with piss wine, that much was likely true. We also couldn’t wander blindly through the Mediterranean and the lands beyond without any idea what we were searching for, not if we hoped to make good time. Thankfully, we had discovered shortly after Sol and I had reached that conclusion that we wouldn’t have to.

The sea dogs that we had liberated from pirates were an eclectic bunch, put politely. Put frankly, I had discovered on our way to Olympia over a month ago that they were the dregs their slavers couldn’t sell. Not pretty enough for sexual servitude, none of them the correct combination of young and healthy and strong to be bought up as miners or field laborers. And somehow, some way, not a single one of them skilled enough in a trade to catch a merchant’s eye.

It was so tragic that it crossed clear over the line into comedic. They were all worthless. Each one the runt of their litter, each one the only slave not sold. Good for nothing but rowing.

They were worthless, and because of that they were exactly what we needed.

By good fortune or by providence, ten men from ten wildly different backgrounds had been disdainfully chained together and then dropped into our laps over a month ago. We had ten destinations on the map that the Gadfly had given us. And as it happened, for every location marked by gold there was at least one filthy sea dog that had been there before. Even some, like the Thracian, that had been born and raised in one of those destinations.

Each of those ten men had decided against returning my cousin’s ship as I had advised for their own various foolish reasons, and had decided to repay their perceived debts to myself and my Roman with their service. They were all too happy to share with us their knowledge, stories of the places they had been and the homes from which they had been taken. Best of all, they were willing to do it for free.

They could still lie, of course, in the interest of telling a more exciting story or saving themselves personal embarrassment. I doubted they could fool Sol and I if they did, though. A slave with the acting skills required would have been bought up long ago. I was confident enough in that to make the wager, and so was Sol.

So rather than stumble blindly through each gold-marked nation in search of locals willing to guide us to forbidden knowledge, or otherwise wait for the Gadfly to get around to being useful, we could use our sea dogs. Now, were any of them particularly knowledgeable about the mythos behind divine nectar? No, of course not. Did any of them know about the late Tyrant Bakkhos, whose footsteps we were following? Less than us, if anything at all.

Their past experiences were useful, but only if we knew the proper questions to ask.

Surprisingly, that was where Scythas earned his keep.

*

We docked as the sun fell out of the sky. On our first night in Thracia, we scouted the immediate coast for a trader willing and able to sell us a few decent horses. On the first day, we brought the Thracian along with us.

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“Like this, žibùtė,” Khabur told me with an old man’s patience, deftly avoiding the snapping teeth of an ornery mare while he saddled her. He was spry for an old man and handled the horse without fear.

Not that the beasts Scythas had secured for us were anything to fear. Giant man eating mares had been the Champion’s labor to overcome when he came to Thracia in the distant Golden Age of Heroes - but these beasts were hardly large enough to ride, let alone monstrous enough to warrant iron chains and a bronze manger. I waited and let the old sea dog show me his method anyway, out of courtesy if nothing else.

“There!” Khabur grunted, swinging up onto his mare and swatting her hind leg when she bucked halfheartedly. “Simple as that! Even a Greek can do it.”

I glanced at the mare provided for me, fidgeting and quick-stepping in place. She was a slight thing, taller than Khabur’s but with legs so slender it was a wonder she could support her own weight, to say nothing of mine. Her coat was white beneath the grime, and her mane along with her tail were pitch black. Pretty enough, I supposed, if not for the look she was giving me.

I reached out with an empty hand to distract her while the other brandished the leather harness, just as Khabur had done. Unfortunately, my horse had been paying attention to his lesson as well. The slender mare disdained my empty hand and took the saddle in her mouth, whipping her head back with the full strength of her frame.

Four pankration fists slammed into her head from every cardinal direction, and the mare collapsed like a lead weight. I sat myself on her naked back and patted her encouragingly.

“Up with you. I have places to be,” I informed the impudent beast of burden. Something like a winnie came wheezing out of the horse’s mouth. She rose, dazed and on unsteady legs.

I looked expectantly at the old Thracian. The sea dog’s lips were pressed together like I’d forced him to bite into a lemon. His stocky mare seemed a bit nervous.

“Is that how they treat their horses in the Scarlet City?” Scythas asked disdainfully, leading his own horse over by the reins. He’d tacked his horse already, the beast larger abreast than mine with slightly shorter legs. He hopped up onto its back with superhuman grace and sneered at me as if he’d proven a point.

“It isn’t,” Sol said, walking up with his own beast in tow. “He’s just impatient.” Exasperated shouting and Selene‘s delighted laughter drifted out of the stables behind him. Her horse was giving her a fight, it seemed.

“You can’t treat a horse you intend to ride like that,” Khabur said, the old Thracian finally finding the words to express his discomfort. “Especially not a Thracian mare. She’ll hate you til she dies.”

“She can hate me in the underworld if it suits her,” I said easily, gripping a handful of her glossy black mane in lieu of reins. “So long as we understand one another.”

The white mare tossed her head and snorted, shaking the last of her dizziness. She returned to what she’d been up to before I mounted her, dancing in place and casting around for a good place to run. She’d do fine.

Though I could have likely made better time without her. The cost of doing business in Thracia, according to the good Hero.

Vicious Thracian cursing and a young woman’s shriek preceded the final member of our party, a black stallion exploding out of the stables with Selene balancing precariously on its back. Her eyes were wide, but the flames behind them burned merrily and her smile was pure white.

“I told her to avoid that one,” Scythas murmured, trying and failing to be more aggravated than amused.

“Mean lookin’ bastard, he is,” Khabur agreed, stroking his coarse red beard while the stallion bucked and screamed furiously. Selene, for her part, whooped and waved excitedly as they spun in our direction. Two young men sprinted out of the stables with panic writ large across their faces. A third staggered out a beat later, clutching his side and gagging.

“The reins!” one of the stable hands shouted. “Pull the reins!”

Selene did so, heaving back on the rope. She was a slender girl, utterly dwarfed by the horse underneath her, but a Heroine was a Heroine. The stallion’s head snapped back so hard it looked for a moment like it had snapped its neck.

“Not like that-!”

Then he screamed furiously and whipped his body around so hard that Selene was spun clean off his back.

Scythas winced and Khabur hissed sympathetically as she hit the ground and rolled. Her stallion snorted and snapped its teeth in satisfaction, thick slabs of muscle coiling in its legs. It braced and shot forward in the opposite direction of the stable.

Sol caught its naked reins as the stallion passed and planted his feet. The horse was as tall as my father, and likely weighed more than Scythas’ and Khabur’s mares combined. It took half a step more before the reins went taut in the Roman’s hand and the whole beast whipped back like the string of a loosed bow. This time, we heard its neck snap.

The stable hands howled in dismay while our own Thracian sea dog buried his face in his hands, unable to stand the grotesque sight of the stallion’s legs spasming and kicking in its death throes. Scythas’ lips moved soundlessly, a silent prayer - whether for the horse’s spirit or his own patience, I couldn’t say.

Sol’s eyes rolled. “Up.”

He kicked the dying horse in its side.

And, with an irritated snort, it stood.

“A faker,” I said, impressed by its sheer gall as the massive beast shook itself off. Evidently no worse for wear. Sol tossed aside its reins and the broken bridle attached - the sound we’d mistaken for the stallion’s neck snapping - and jumped up onto its bare back.

“Take mine,” he told the holy girl as she found her feet. Selene saluted, giggling breathlessly, and stumbled over to the docile mare that Sol had chosen.

“‘Suppose that is how Alikons treat their horses,” Khabur said faintly. Scythas inhaled deep and slow.

“Our transportation is secured,” I reported, swaying with my mare as she trotted in place. Antsy from the spectacle and itching to run. An attitude I could appreciate. I raised an eyebrow at the Hero of the Scything Squall. “Where to now, herdsman?”

It was the Gadfly’s intent to keep us out of civilized society until he saw fit to allow us back in. Without a doubt, he wanted to avoid another Unkindness until at least the games were settled, if not the entire question of succession in the Raging Heaven. And so long as we desired the end result but lacked the means to achieve it ourselves, he knew he could feed us just enough that we wouldn’t starve. A single drop of liquid gold at a time.

But that was assuming we knew nothing about Bakkhos’ heroic deeds. An assumption rightly made - up until the moment Chilon’s scroll and my dear uncle’s story had jogged the memories of every Heroic cultivator in our company.

“Khabur,” Scythas said wearily, in lieu of a straight answer. “Where’s the nearest vineyard?”

“Why?” Sol asked, his fuming stallion snapping at my mare as it drew close. She was unimpressed.

Shielding his eyes with a hand, the Hero of the Scything Squall appraising the sun above.

“It’s time we offer our thanks to those below.”