Legend's Legacy

By Amanda Witow

If you follow those who are lost,
you will never find your way...

Atalanta and Damien are the last descendants of the mythic figures of Medusa and Perseus. Their divine blood is not the only thing they have in common--they are mortal enemies locked in a centuries long feud. One that would have ended if not for the interfer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prairie Owl Publishing
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995240520

Amanda Witow

Amanda is a nerd, a book lover, a wife, and a ninja. She lives with her husband and two cats in windy/sunny/snowy/sweltering Saskatchewan. Despite temperamental weather, she loves it there. She's had a love affair with myths and fairy tales since she was a young girl, and graduated in 2012 with a BA in psychology and classical studies. She is a frequent participant in NaNoWriMo and Camp NaNo.

Book preview

My darling daughter, Isabella,

This is the book of tales my father read to me every night when I was a young boy. They were written by his father. I hope you will pass them on to your own children someday.

Like my grandfather before me, I regret that I won’t be able to share them with you myself.

Be a good girl, listen to your mother, and I will see you again someday.

All my love to you this March xxiv of 1583.

To my son, Dominic

—so that you may hear the stories I will be unable to tell you myself.

I have spent many long nights contemplating how to begin this history of our family. But my days are running out and I can wait no longer. You won’t remember, but it is the summer of 1545 and you are sleeping in the chair next to me as I write this. My heart aches that I must leave you. Your mother and I love you very much.

Be strong, and some day we may be reunited in another world.

Our family traces its lineage back to the old gods. To Zeus and Poseidon. You may laugh, but it is true. From the famous Perseus and infamous Medusa to the unknown legends of Atalanta and Damien, we have a rich history of heroes behind us.

By understanding the story that unfolded only three generations before you, I hope you will grasp the importance of their legacy. It has consequences that will affect your children’s children for many generations to come.

But rather than a dry historical accounting, let me tell it to you as I first heard it—as a bedtime story.

And so, my dearest Dominic, let me tell you the story of Atalanta and Damien.

Chapter One

On a still night, when the first breath of spring brushed across the Mediterranean, a priestess of the old religion awoke from dreams heavy with omens. Her eyes were clouded as she silently slipped from bed. The warmth of her lover was left behind and she padded across the one-room cottage she called home. A ragged curtain was pulled aside to reveal a wall covered in scratches and smears of paint. Although her eyes were unseeing, she turned and gathered up half-dried jars of paint without hesitation or error.

She dipped her fingers into the paint and quickly drew them across the wall. After several minutes of intense work, she stepped back and let her paint-covered hands hang limp at her sides. A shuddering breath whispered through her lips as the cloudiness cleared from her blue eyes. She brushed the back of a hand across her forehead before studying the fresh marks.

Well now… that’s interesting, she whispered.

She glanced back at the sleeping form of her lover before returning to her study of the runes. Eventually she nodded to herself and pulled the curtain back over the wall. She washed her hands with a rag and bucket of water intended for her garden before she returned to bed.

Mm? her lover mumbled, rolling over in his sleep. His golden curls spilt across the pillow like sunlight contrasting against her long black hair as she slid beneath the thin blankets.

Shh, my lord, she said and curled her body against his warmth. Go back to sleep.

Did you have a vision? he asked, his voice thick and groggy.

I thought I had, but it slipped away from me, she lied. I am sorry I woke you.

The gold-skinned young man sighed and sank back down against the pillow. I am sorry, my little priestess—his yawn was muffled by the pillow—the years have begun to touch you. And I cannot even grant you visions any more.

Hush, she soothed, running her fingers through his hair. Think of it no more. The world no longer recognizes your powers. It is only good fortune that you have not completely succumbed to the changing times as your kin have.

Mm, he grunted, already well on his way back to a deep sleep.

Though you cannot escape time completely, she whispered. A smile played on her lips as she slipped into a dreamless sleep, content with the future she had foreseen.

Nestled among the hills of Sicily, Placeolum was a dusty little town. Though the sky was clear and the sun shining, only a tall, broad shouldered man walked down the street. His steps scuffed against the ground and a hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his hip. A distant neigh and an almost inaudible murmur of voices were the only hints that this cluster of buildings were still inhabited. A lazy wind swirled the dust of Damien’s cloak as he trudged toward the alehouse. The sign hanging over the door was too faded to be read as it creaked in the summer breeze.

He entered the common room and swept his gaze over the few occupants. Other than a bartender who barely glanced up at Damien’s entrance, there were only two other people. A woman sat very near the door and wore a travel-stained cloak over a simple dress with its hood pushed back off her thick black curls. Her delicately pretty face seemed out of place in such a small town. More so in a rundown alehouse. Despite her pale skin, rosy cheeks, and plump lips, his gaze brushed across her before locking on the other patron.

The other woman sat alone in the middle of the room, the crumbs of a meal on the board-and-trestle table before her. A heavy haversack had been dumped atop the table. Her long brown hair was half covered by a thick scarf tied around her head. Both the scarf and her leather clothes were dusty, mud-spattered, and frayed. A long, thin, metal barrel peeked over her shoulder from a holster slung across the back of the chair. She froze with a mug halfway to her mouth when their eyes locked.

Time seemed to slow as their mutual surprise gave way to anger.

She shoved her chair back and dropped the mug. Cheap ale splashed across the floor and the barkeep let out an indignant shout. Damien fumbled with the clasp at his shoulder before letting his cloak drop to the ground as she pulled a small arquebus from the holster. Her other hand dipped into a pocket and withdrew a match. She struck it against the table as he freed his bastard sword from its sheath with a metallic and leather sigh.

The cord threaded to the lock lit with a sizzle and the woman raised the gun. A practiced flick opened the pan. She took only a moment to steady her hand before pulling the lever. That moment had been all Damien needed to dive forward. He rolled behind one of the empty make-shift tables as the shot blasted through the wood beside the door.

A cloud of smoke and the fading reverberations of the blast filled the alehouse.

The woman pulled a sealed paper tube out of a pocket and bit off the end. A small amount of powder was tapped into the pan before she slammed the cover closed and dumped the rest down the muzzle.

Damien surged back to his feet with a grunt. He could see the portly barkeep shouting at them from where he cowered behind the bar, but the ringing in his ears blocked out any sound. Before he could take advantage of his opponent’s reloading, the pretty woman from near the door threw herself at him. She clung to his arm as if to drag him back down to the ground.

He shook her off and ran toward his target.

She had finished her reloading and brought her gun back up. Damien snatched a chair and threw it at her. The legs clipped her as it tumbled past and knocked her back a step. She was off-balanced when she pulled the lever again. This time the blast tore a chunk out of the tavern’s roof.

She dropped the gun and growled in frustration. Both hands darted to the back of her hips and drew out two long daggers.

Damien closed the distance between them. A quick swipe of his sword left a small gash on the palm of her hand and sent one of her daggers skittering across the floor.

Before he could bring his sword back around, she stepped forward and grabbed at his sword hand. His free hand smacked the flat of the dagger she stabbed toward him. She clenched her teeth and strained against his greater height and strength to keep the sword from dropping down on her.

It dropped an inch, then another, the metal glinting in the alehouse’s weak light. She released her grasp on his sword and twisted as the blade fell. The edge grazed along her upper arm and she punched toward his face. Off-balance from the sudden lack of resistance, Damien tried to jerk back to avoid the blow. It connected with his cheek instead of his nose or eye.

He snarled and slammed his head against hers.

She staggered back, a hand pressed to her temple. As she steadied herself, she ripped the scarf off her hair. Damien snatched at the pair of goggles dangling around his neck and pulled them up over his eyes.

He clipped her jaw with the pommel of his sword in an awkward backhand. She stumbled back again and ran into a wall. His free hand slammed her shoulders against it as he swung the long blade around.

The woman hissed and her hair writhed. Several snake heads poked out from amongst the long brown tresses. They snapped at him and their eyes glowed a dull red.

The woman smiled expectantly.

When nothing happened, she glared at him.

He chuckled. You didn’t really think that would work, did you, Atalanta? he asked, the edge of his blade pricking her skin.

She shrugged a single shoulder and relaxed against the wall. The snakes fell dormant with one last hiss before slipping back beneath her hair. You can’t blame me for trying, Damien.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the simultaneous shout from the barkeep and other woman interrupted him.

Not in here! You two’ve done enough damage, the man shrieked, still cowering behind the relative safety of his bar.

You can’t kill each other! Are you trying to doom the world? the other woman demanded, brushing herself off.

Come on, Damien growled, grabbing Atalanta around the neck and shoving her toward the alehouse’s door. He half dragged and half shoved her out into the afternoon sun. She squinted in the bright light and stumbled along beside him until they had gone around to the back of the alehouse. A stray chicken squawked at them before continuing on its way down the narrow alley.

Haven’t you two heard about the prophecy? the other woman asked as she hurried after them.

Damien’s jaw clenched and he felt a throbbing in his temples as he turned to frown at the pretty interloper. He gave his head a slow shake and Atalanta took the opportunity to wrench herself free of his grip. He shot her a withering glare.

She held up her hands and said, You won; I’m at your mercy.

He gave her a quick nod before he re-sheathed his sword. He shifted his attention back to the small, worried looking woman. Foresight is too often confused with witchcraft and all the superstitions that go along with it. Prophecies aren’t exactly spread around any longer.

The woman sighed in frustration, the shake of her head making her curls bounce. Country superstitions cannot stop, or deny, true prophecy. The Pythia has foreseen that two feuding families must set aside their differences or the world will come to ruin.

That has to be a pretty old prophecy, Atalanta said, rubbing at the slight cut on her neck. So who says the time is now? Or that it applies to us?

And weren’t her prophecies always vague and obtuse? Damien added. I mean, I’m pretty sure Menelaus’s line and—

No, the pretty woman cut in. You are both wrong. The Pythia is still very much alive, and she told me to be at this establishment, on this day, to find the families she has foreseen.

If the Pythia were still alive she would be thousands of years old, Damien exclaimed.

And I don’t know about the Hero over here— Atalanta jerked her head at her opponent—but I didn’t even know I was going to be here on this day. She ignored his glare and retied her scarf around her head, running her fingers through the length that extended past the edge of the fabric.

The woman drew herself up to her full height, though she was still half a head shorter than Atalanta, and a full head shorter than Damien. Along with the gift of foresight, Apollo has granted the Pythia extended youth.

Apollo’s still around? Atalanta asked as her eyebrows shot up.

Of course he is!

Damien frowned. I thought all of the old gods had fallen victim to the eternal sleep?

The woman shifted her weight and rubbed a hand up her arm. Well… many of them have. But not all.

Assuming I’m not dead by the end of the day, these are going to scar, Atalanta grumbled as she inspected the cuts she’d received during the fight. And I didn’t even get to give you one to remember me by.

Damien felt his lips twitch with the start of a smile before he smoothed his features. I still have the ones on my back from Valencia.

I was ten when I gave you those.

Enough! the other woman cut in again. You two are being incredibly flippant for people who have just been told the fate of the world rests with them.

Atalanta shrugged a shoulder. You’re assuming we believe you.

And why would you not? she demanded. I was here, waiting for both of you. I have intervened were no sane person would without good reason. What more proof do you need?

Damien scratched at his chin. Well, it would be nice to know you aren’t just some nutter of the old ways. Or someone of the new, trying to trap us in a charge of blasphemy.

The woman made a noise of frustrated annoyance. I will swear by any of the old gods that I am not trying to trick you. You must come with me to see the Pythia.

Suppose we believe you, Atalanta started, but paused when Damien scoffed. She cleared her throat and continued, Can’t you just tell us what task we’re supposed to do to save the world?

She… did not actually tell me why she needed to see you two. Just that you would be here and I needed to bring you to see her. Or else something disastrous would happen.

Damien shot Atalanta a look full of disgust. You don’t actually believe any of this, do you?

She tossed her hair and glared back at him. And what if I do?

I think you’re just trying to find an excuse to put off your execution, he said. He pulled his goggles down and let them dangle around his neck. I had thought you were more honourable than that, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by a snake’s betrayal.

Atalanta stiffened and would have swung at him if the other woman hadn’t grabbed her shoulders. Please, you must believe me.

Damien gently pulled her away from Atalanta and the soft hissing coming from under her scarf. Look, I know you mean well, but this is a centuries long feud that will finally be over today. I don’t think either of us want to drag this out any longer than we have to.

And if completing your petty feud means the world will come to ruin? she demanded.

Atalanta smoothed her hands over her hair to settle the snakes. Even if I want to believe you, I’m not sure we have a choice. We are enemies, sworn to vengeance on the river Styx. Not even the gods, old or new, can go back on an oath like that without serious repercussions.

The woman’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she cleared her throat. Does your oath say when, or how, you have to kill each other? Are you only allowed to take actions that further this goal?

No… Damien shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking toward Atalanta and the small frown creasing her face.

Then call a temporary truce and come with me, the woman suggested. That way you can see for yourselves I am telling the truth.

And if you’re lying? Or crazy? Atalanta asked.

Then I will not stand in your way as you try to kill each other.

Damien sighed. I suppose it couldn’t hurt to check—

The woman smiled. Wonderful, then we should get going. A boat is waiting for us at Syracuse.

You were that confident you could convince us? Atalanta laughed.

I had that much faith in the Pythia’s vision, the woman said, raising her chin.

Damien scoffed and shook his head. We’ll see.

I’m Atalanta—she extended a hand to the other woman—daughter of the Arrephori. Clearly my mother felt that being the latest descendant of a mythical being wasn’t pressure enough. I needed to be named after one too.

I’m… Calista. The other woman smiled and took the proffered hand after only a moment’s hesitation. The Pythia’s apprentice.

Damien captured Calista’s hand in his and laid a gentle kiss on the back of it. I am Damien, fair priestess.

Atalanta rolled her eyes and tugged at her scarf before heading back into the alehouse to fetch their things. The door had barely swung shut behind her when angry shouting and several loud bangs emanated from inside. Calista jumped and took a step toward the door. Damien placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave his head a little shake. A moment later, Atalanta returned with her arms full of the items she had retrieved.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he wanted to confiscate our belongings to cover the cost of repairs, she said with a grin.

Did you at least pay him? Damien asked, his eyes narrowing.

She shrugged a shoulder and handed a small satchel to Calista. He was awfully rude. Even threw a couple chairs at me. Thanks for giving him that idea, by the way.

You have no respect— he started to growl, but was cut off as she threw his cloak in his face.

Not that I was born well-heeled, but yes. I paid him what he was owed.

Calista glanced between the two of them, her fingers playing with the strap of her pack. She put on a strained smile and said, Come on then, it is a long walk to Syracuse from here.

It’s a day—

Hush, Damien scolded. I doubt the priestess has done as much traveling as either of us have.

Calista frowned and put her hands on her hips. "You two better promise me, right now, that you will keep the peace until after you