The Tyrant's Tomb

I’d like to sing a
Classic for you now. Thank you.
Please stop stabbing me.
IN RETROSPECT, I SHOULD have given ravens sponges for beaks—
nice, soft, squishy sponges that weren’t capable of stabbing. While I was at
it, I should’ve thrown in some Nerf claws.
But nooo. I let them have beaks like serrated knives and claws like meat
hooks. What had I been thinking?
Meg yelled as one of the birds dove by her, raking her arm.
Another flew at Reyna’s legs. The praetor leveled a kick at it, but her
heel missed the bird and connected with my nose.
“OWEEEEE!” I yelled, my whole face throbbing.
“My bad!” Reyna tried to climb, but the birds swirled around us,
stabbing and clawing and tearing away bits of our clothes. The frenzy
reminded me of my farewell concert in Thessalonika back in 235 BCE. (I
liked to do a farewell tour every ten years or so, just to keep the fans
guessing.) Dionysus had shown up with his entire horde of souvenir-hunting
maenads. Not a good memory.
“Lester, who is Koronis?” Reyna shouted, drawing her sword. “Why
were you apologizing to the birds?”
“I created them!” My busted nose made me sound like I was gargling
syrup.
The ravens cawed in outrage. One swooped, its claws narrowly missing
my left eye. Reyna swung her sword wildly, trying to keep the flock at bay.