Assassin's Creed Odyssey (The Official Novelization) Read online

  WAIT TO STRIKE

  Kassandra took the guard ax stolen from the Cyclops’s den in one hand and the Leonidas spear in the other, watching, waiting for the first to move. The meanest-looking of the thugs, bald with heavy gold earrings and a leather kilt, wriggled a little. When he lurched forward, she threw up spear and ax in an X to block, but the blow sent her staggering back toward those behind. She pivoted midstride to meet the expected attack from that direction, only to see the streaking shadow of Ikaros, swooping down to claw at the eyes of the brute behind her, saving her from his wicked-looking sickle. She swung to face her next attacker, parrying then chopping the ax into his shoulder, cleaving deep and bringing a gout of black blood. The foe fell away and she saw the next coming for her. She bent her body around his sword thrust and jabbed the Leonidas spear into his face. He fell with an animal moan, his head ruptured like a melon. Two more lunged at her now. One scored her breastbone with a swipe of his spear, and the other nearly crushed her head with a heavy iron mace. Too many . . . and the Cyclops himself was weighing up his moment to strike the killing blow. A Spartan must have the eyes of a hunter, see everything, not just that which lies before them, Nikolaos berated her. From the edges of her vision, she saw something on the Adrestia’s decks: the ship’s spar and the rope holding it in place—one end knotted by the rail. As the two oncoming thugs screamed, she ducked, avoiding their twin strikes, and tugged the ax from the cloven chest of the first she had killed. Rising, she hurled the ax toward the ship. She did not wait to see if her aim had been good, turning to block another attack. The next thing she heard was the thunk of the ax biting through rope and into timber, the groan of wood, the roar of the Cyclops charging at her, his heavy blade tensed and ready to slice across her belly. Then the shadow of something passed overhead. The spar—freed—pivoted around on the mast, the rope flailing past overhead. Kassandra leapt up to grab the brine-wet rope and clung on for dear life, just as the Cyclops’s blade cut through the space she had been occupying.

  The Assassin’s Creed Novels

  ASSASSIN’S CREED RENAISSANCE

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED BROTHERHOOD

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED THE SECRET CRUSADE

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED REVELATIONS

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED FORSAKEN

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED BLACK FLAG

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED UNITY

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED UNDERWORLD

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED ORIGINS DESERT OATH

  by Oliver Bowden

  ASSASSIN’S CREED ODYSSEY

  by Gordon Doherty

  ACE

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 Ubisoft Entertainment. All Rights Reserved. Assassin’s Creed, Ubisoft, and the Ubisoft logo are trademarks of Ubisoft Entertainment in the U.S. and/or other countries.

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781984803146

  First Edition: October 2018

  Cover art by Caroline Soucy and Helix

  Map by John Gilkes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For my family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big thanks to Caroline, Anthony, Anouk, Melissa, Aymar, Clémence, Stéphanie-Anne, Jonathan, Miranda, Sara and Bob Schwager, and everyone at Ubisoft and Penguin for giving me this chance to immerse myself in the world of Assassin’s Creed. It has been a hugely enjoyable journey, and your expert guidance and support along the way have been greatly appreciated. An equally big thanks to my agent, James Wills of Watson, Little Ltd., for helping to make this adventure happen.

  CONTENTS

  Wait to Strike

  The Assassin’s Creed Novels

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  List of Characters

  Glossary of Foreign Terms

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  SPARTA

  WINTER 451 B.C.

  For seven summers, I carried a secret inside me. A flame, warming and true. Nobody else could see it, but I knew it was there. When I looked up to my mother and father I felt it grow brighter, and when I gazed at my baby brother I sensed its warmth in every part of me. One day, I dared to describe it to Mother. “You speak of love, Kassandra,” she whispered, her eyes darting as if she feared that someone might hear. “But not the kind a Spartan knows. Spartans must love only the land, the state and the Gods.” She squeezed my hands and made me swear her an oath: “Never reveal your secret to anyone.”

  One winter’s night during a howling storm, we sat together in the hearth room of our home before a crackling fire, young Alexios in Mother’s arms, me sitting by Father’s feet. Perhaps all four of us carried that same secret flame within? It comforted me to think so, at least.

  And then our warm, quiet sanctuary was pierced by the sound of nails scratching upon the door.

  Father’s slow, steady breathing halted. Mother clutched little Alexios to her chest and stared at the door as if she alone could see a demon standing in the shadows there.

  “It is time, Nikolaos,” a voice like crackling parchment called from outside.

  Father rose, sweeping his blood-red cloak around his muscle-bound body, his thick black beard masking any expression on his face.

  “Wait, just a little longer,” Mother begged him, rising too and reaching up to stroke his thick, dark curls.

  “For what, Myrrine?” he snapped, swiping her hand away. “You know what must happen tonight.”

  With that, he swung toward the door, picking up his spear. I saw the door creak open, the chill rain scourging
Father as he stepped outside. The wind groaned and thunder grumbled high above as we stepped out behind him—for he was our shield.

  And then I saw them.

  They faced us in a sickle-blade arc. The priests, bare-chested, wearing wreaths on their brows. The gray-robed ephors—men more powerful even than Sparta’s two kings—holding torches that spat and roared in the tempest. The oldest ephor’s long gray hair whipped in the wind, his bald crown gleaming in the moonlight as he beheld us with bloodshot eyes, his age-long teeth serried in an unsettling smile. He turned away, wordlessly beckoning us in his wake. We followed them through the streets of Pitana—my home and one of the five sacred Spartan villages—and I was wet to my skin and freezing before we even reached the outskirts.

  The ephors and priests trooped on through the Hollow Land, droning and chanting up at the storm as they went. I used my half spear as Father did his, like a walking cane, the butt end crunching into the shale with every step. It sent a strange thrill through me just to hold the broken lance: for it had once belonged to King Leonidas—the long-dead champion-king of Sparta. Every soul in Lakonia venerated our family because Leonidas’s blood ran in our veins. Mother was of his line and thus so was I, and Alexios too. We were the descendants of the great man, the hero of the Hot Gates. Yet it was Father who was my true hero: teaching me to be strong and spry—as hardy as any Spartan boy. For all that, he never taught me the strength of mind that I would need for what lay ahead. In all Hellas, was there any tutor who could?

  We took a winding uphill path toward the looming gray heights of Mount Taygetos, scarred by plunging ravines, the high crests shrouded in snow. There was nothing about our strange journey that made sense. Something felt very wrong. It had been like that ever since Mother and Father had traveled to Delphi in the autumn, to speak with the Oracle. They did not share with me the great seeress’s words, but whatever she had told them must have been bleak: Father had been tense ever since, irritable and distant; Mother seemed adrift most days, her eyes glassy.

  Right now she walked with her eyes closed for long periods, the rain streaking in rivulets down her cheeks. She held Alexios tightly, kissing the small bundle of rags every few steps. When she saw my anxious looks up at her, she gulped and handed the bundle to me. “Carry your brother, Kassandra . . .” she said.

  I roped my half spear to my belt, took him and held him close to me as we climbed the now-precipitous path. The thunder found its voice, pealing somewhere nearby, and lightning shuddered across the sky. The rain turned to sleet and I made a little canopy with the edge of Alexios’s blankets to keep his face dry. His skin—scented with sweet oil and the comforting smell of thistledown bedding—was so warm against my frozen face. His weak hands brushed at my hair. He gurgled and I cooed back at him.

  At last we came to a plateau. At the far end sat an altar of blue-veined marble, scarred with weather and age. A sheltered candle guttered there next to a pot of oil, a krater of sleet-lashed wine and a platter of grapes.

  Mother halted with a choking sob.

  “Myrrine, do not be so weak,” Father snapped at her.

  I could sense a fire rising within her. “Weak? How can you call me that? It takes courage to confront your true feelings, Nikolaos. Weak men hide behind masks of bravery.”

  “It is not the Spartan way,” Father hissed through his teeth.

  “Gather before the altar,” said one of the priests, his bony cage of ribs running with melting sleet. I cared not for the sight of the ancient table . . . nor for the edge of the plateau and the night-black abyss lurking beyond—a well of shadow plunging down into the guts of the mountain.

  “Now, the child,” said the senior ephor, his ring of hair dancing in the wind, his eyes like hot coals. He held out bony hands toward me, and now I understood, a dark mantle of realization settling upon my shoulders. “Give me the boy-child,” he repeated.

  The roof of my mouth stung with dread, all moisture gone in a heartbeat. “Mother, Father?” I whimpered to each in turn.

  Mother took a step toward Father, placing a beseeching hand on one of his broad shoulders. But he stood there, impassive, like a finger of rock.

  “The Oracle has spoken,” the priests wailed in unison. “Sparta will fall . . . unless the boy falls instead.”

  Horror speared through me and I clutched little Alexios tight, stepping back. My baby brother was hale and strong—there was no justice in condemning him to the cruel fate that befell weak or deformed Spartan babies. This is what the Oracle had decreed on my parents’ trip to see her? Who was she to doom him like this? Why was Father not spitting on this grim mandate, drawing his spear upon these wretched old men? And when he did act it was only to shove Mother away, casting her to the ground like a rag.

  “No . . . no!” Mother wept as two priests dragged her back. “Nikolaos, please, do something.”

  Father stared into infinity.

  One of the priests came at me from behind, seizing me by the shoulders. A second tore Alexios from me and handed the little bundle to the oldest ephor, who cradled my brother like a treasure. “Mighty Apollo, the Truth-giver, Athena Poliachos, Great Protectress, gaze upon us as we bend to your will, humble, grateful for your wisdom. Now . . . the boy will die.”

  He lifted Alexios over his head, stepping past the altar to the edge of the abyss.

  Mother fell to her knees with a hoarse cry that tore my heart in two.

  As the ephor’s body tensed, readying to hurl my brother to his death, lightning struck across the heavens in time with a monstrous roar of thunder. It was as if the bolt had struck me: I felt the most tremendous surge of energy and injustice. I screamed with all my being, shaking free of the priest’s pinning hands. I lurched forward like a sprinter, desperate, maddened, arms outstretched toward my brother. Time slowed. I caught baby Alexios’s eye and he mine. If I could have captured that moment in amber and lived there for all time I would have done so, both of us alive, connected. And in that trice, I still had a hope of catching him, stopping his fall. Until I lost my stride, stumbled, and felt my shoulder crash against the wretched old ephor’s flank, heard a sudden intake of many breaths, saw the ephor flailing, saw him topple out over the edge . . . Alexios too.

  The pair plunged into the blackness and the ephor’s cry faded like a demon’s shriek.

  And then . . . silence.

  I fell to my knees at the precipice, shaking, as manic oaths of outrage rose behind me.

  “Murderer! She killed the ephor!”

  I stared into the abyss, aghast, the sleet lashing across my face.

  ONE

  Runnels of water trickled across her cheeks. Behind closed eyes, she heard and saw it all again with vivid, terrible clarity. The line of Leonidas, shamed, tarnished. Twenty years was enough for some to forget their debts, come to terms with their flaws, or make peace with the past. “Not for me,” Kassandra whispered, the broken lance in her hands reverberating. She stabbed the weapon, hard, into the sand by her side and the memories faded.

  Her eyes peeled open slowly, adjusting to the bright glare of the spring morning. The cerulean waters hugging Kephallonia’s eastern shores sparkled like a tray of jewels. The surf creamed in across the sand, fading to a gentle, cool gurgle that rolled up to where she sat and crept across her bare toes. The salt spray came in soft clouds, condensing on and cooling her skin. A squabble of gulls wheeled and screeched in the cloudless sky, while a cormorant plunged into the waters in an explosion of crystalline drops. Due east, out near the hazy horizon, Athenian galleys moved in an endless train. They were like shades, gliding across the twilight-blue, deeper waters and into the Korinthian Gulf to aid the blockade of Megara. The bright sails billowed like the lungs of titans, and every so often the sea wind carried the groan of ropes and timbers and the throaty shouts of the many warriors on board. Earlier this year, Kephallonia itself had been subsumed into the Athenian sphere, as ha
d most of the islands. And so the war grew like a canker. Some small voice inside told her she should care about the colossal struggle that raged across Hellas, stirring the great cauldron of ideologies, bringing the once-allied cities to each other’s throats. But how could she? Proud Athens, she cared little for. And on the other side . . . unswerving Sparta.

  Sparta.

  The mere presence of the word in her thoughts shattered the delicate idyll of the shore. She eyed the ancient half spear of Leonidas askance. The winged iron head, the intricate workings around the tang, and the half-length haft, worn and discolored from years of oiling. It had always seemed fitting to her that the one thing she had left from her broken past was a broken thing.

  A shrill screech pierced her thoughts, and she looked up to see the cormorant emerging from the waves with a silvery mackerel in its beak . . . but speeding down toward it came a spotted eagle. The cormorant screeched again in terror, dropped its semimasticated prize then plunged under the waves for cover. The eagle clawed at the discarded fish corpse, only for the morsel to slip under the waves too. With a mighty shriek of dismay, the great bird wheeled around and glided in toward the shore, settling with a gentle run across the sand, coming to a halt beside Kassandra. She smiled despite herself, for the damned spear was not the only thing that remained of the past.

  “We talked about this already, Ikaros.” She chuckled. “You were to bring me mackerel to roast for my afternoon meal.”

  Ikaros stared at her, his buttercup-yellow beak and keen eyes giving him the look of a disapproving old man.

  “I see”—she arched an eyebrow—“it was the cormorant’s fault.”

  Her belly groaned, reminding her of the long hours since she had last eaten. With a sigh, she plucked the spear of Leonidas from the sand. For a moment, she caught sight of her dull reflection in the blade. Broad of face, with little humor in her hazel eyes and a thick braid of russet hair hanging across her left shoulder. She wore a dark brown exomis—a one-shouldered man’s garment—shabby and sad. Just holding the spear brought the memories alive again, and so she quickly tied the lance to her leather belt, rose and turned away from the shoreline.