Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  “He is not Centaur,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. Pirithous would still have had his people, his friends, his brothers-in-arms to live for. She had nothing. Not anymore. “I do not expect him to understand. Nor you. I only know what I must do.”

  “It is the coward’s way, Mia. And I pray the gods curse you for it.”

  And then Antiope was gone, leaving her alone in the room. Hippodamia let out a breath. There was nothing to do now but wait. For the centaurs to give up their rampage or be repulsed. For Pirithous’s body to be collected and brought to her, to be anointed. She would paint his wounds upon her body and see him entombed with all the proper rites and honors of his people, in peacetime. Buried beside Dia in the domed chambers, heaped over with earth, that the Lapiths built for their kings.

  And with or without Antiope’s help, she would follow her husband to the House of Hades.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Hippodamia

  She did not know how she found her way into his room, did not remember clothing herself in his tunic. But she woke, wrapped in the lavender and musk of his bed linens, to shouting and pounding against the doors, Pirithous’s final command loud in her mind.

  …If Peleus comes before we finish, do not stay atop the wall. Go to the palace. To the storeroom.

  Peleus. She had forgotten Peleus and his Myrmidons, in her grief. She had forgotten and now he had come, and she had not even honored Pirithous’s last request—

  “—lives! The king lives! The centaurs are repulsed, and my lord Pirithous survives!”

  She threw the linens off and launched herself at the door, tearing it open. It was one of the servants, running through the halls, banging on every door and shouting himself raw. The same words, over and over.

  “He lives! The king lives! The centaurs are repulsed and my lord Pirithous survives! Praise Zeus and thank the gods, the king lives!”

  Hippodamia raced through the halls, down the stairs and into the inner yard, where men clogged the way. She pushed through them, careless of their swords and spears and shields, undisturbed even by the pong of sweat and smoke and the bronze flavor of blood choking the air. And then they began to part before her, stepping back to allow her through before she reached their backs, making way with a murmur of her name upon their lips.

  “Let the queen through!” one of the men called out. She had seen him speaking with Pirithous, and now he touched his fist to his forehead, offering her the same salute Pirithous had, before… Before.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing. “My lady, we forced them to retreat with a storm of arrows and spears after he fell. I heard your screams even through the walls and knew—I brought him back to you, my lady. I brought him back.”

  She swallowed, nodding absently as he stepped aside, and her eyes fell upon her husband, bruised and swollen, beaten and bloody and pale. But breathing. Hard and laboring, the sound of fluid rattling in his chest, but breathing still. She let out a sob then, more relief than sorrow, and dropped to her knees at his side.

  They had laid him upon the table, and he clutched his sword again, his fingers white-knuckled on its hilt. She covered them with her own, pressed her forehead to his hand, and let her tears spill down her cheeks.

  He was alive. He was alive, thank all the gods. Thank Zeus, and Poseidon Horse-Lord. He was alive, alive, alive.

  “Mouse.”

  It was less than a breath, a rasp and gargled cough, but she lifted her head and met his heavy-lidded eyes in the lamplight. His fingers gave up the sword, twisting through hers instead.

  “My brave mouse.”

  She smiled, then laughed, and kissed his knuckles, his hand. How it had escaped injury, she did not know, did not care, only too glad to feel his strength, still, somewhere. “Do not waste your breath,” she said. “You must rest and heal.”

  He gave a jerk of his head, struggling up, as if he meant to sit, and Theseus pushed him down again. “You have broken ribs, you fool, and likely a cracked skull, though your head is so thick, I do not wonder that you haven’t noticed. Lie back.”

  “Peleus,” he gasped.

  Theseus pressed his lips together, his gaze meeting hers. Pirithous could not fight. Likely could not even walk, as difficult as it was for him to breathe. And they faced still another battle. A greater one.

  “They will not come until sunrise,” Theseus said. “And I will do what I can to prepare your men. But you must rest, if you are to survive this night. And you must survive, Pirithous.” He met her eyes again, his jaw tight, his gaze knowing. Antiope had told him. “For your queen’s sake.”

  He let out a breath, rattling again, and closed his eyes. “My brave mouse. I’ll be well enough—” he coughed, rough and wheezing, “—by morning.”

  “Melanthos,” Theseus said, and the man who had brought Pirithous, who had heard her cries, stepped forward again. “Take him to his rooms. Your queen will no doubt wish to care for him there.”

  Melanthos nodded, and three other men joined him as he advanced. Hippodamia squeezed Pirithous’s hand and moved back. The four men, all broad-shouldered and bloodied, lifted the table itself rather than their king, and Melanthos murmured something to Pirithous that she did not quite hear. She hesitated, glancing at Theseus again, his face grim as he watched them shoulder their burden through the doors and then the crowd of men in the yard.

  “He cannot fight against Peleus,” she said to him, her voice low enough that they would not be overheard. “Son of Zeus or not, he will be fortunate to heal from his wounds at all, never mind by morning.”

  “He promised to let me lead his men against the Myrmidons when he asked me to remain inside the walls. I think he knew—or at least, he feared he would not be able to do so himself.”

  “It will not be enough,” she said. “With Pirithous half-dead, defeated already, his men will lose confidence. Even if you lead them.”

  “And what would you suggest, Lady?” Theseus asked, his voice hoarse. “Would you have me do nothing? Would you rather let Peleus kill you both, sparing you the trouble of arranging your own death later?”

  She lifted her chin. “Pirithous lives. As long as there is breath in his body, I will fight for everything that is his.”

  “Then fight,” Theseus growled. “As long as his people survive, you must fight. Not just for him, but for them too. That is what it means to be a queen. What it means to be their queen. And no matter how you were raised, as centaur or woman, that is what you are now. Queen of the Lapiths even more than you are Pirithous’s wife!”

  He did not wait for her response. Did not give her the chance to answer at all.

  She stayed at Pirithous’s side, her eyes scratchy and dry with exhaustion, but awake, watching his every breath. Pirithous, her Pirithous, her king now, with Centaurus’s death. And he had made her his queen. Expected her to rule in his absence, to protect his people while he went raiding. To rule, as Dia had after Ixion’s death.

  Queen of the Lapiths, even more than you are Pirithous’s wife.

  The sky shifted from the deep black of the smoky night to the purple of false dawn, the haze of burning fields still lingering in the valley. Pirithous stirred, his hand tightening around hers, and she stroked his hair, careful of his bruised flesh.

  “Atukhos,” he mumbled, not truly awake. He had spoken of him before. Spoken of Melanthos, too, and his ships. Called out for Antiope to take the women and children below. All the things he could not do, all the things that must be done to preserve his people, haunting his dreams. “The horses.”

  “Sleep, Pirithous,” she murmured. “Theseus cares for your people.”

  She did not know if he heard her, but he quieted, falling into a deeper slumber. Hippodamia drew her hand from his, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. Too warm with fever, now. She hated to leave him. Hated to walk away from the reassuring rise of his chest, the sound of his rattled breaths.

  But Theseus had been right. She was queen. The only woman Pirithous thou
ght worthy of the role. The only woman he trusted to rule in his place. She was his queen.

  And she must fight.

  Pirithous’s armor, bronze and leather both, was far too large, but she was not so much smaller than Antiope that the Amazon’s leather breastplate would not fit. Finding her, however, was not so easy. She was not in the room she shared with Theseus, nor in the megaron with the women. Hippodamia should have expected to find her upon the walls, at her husband’s side, with her bow strung and her quiver full, but she had thought perhaps she might have taken some sort of rest…

  “Pirithous has not taken a turn?” Antiope demanded, catching sight of her before she could speak.

  She shook her head. “He sleeps. But uneasily. He worries for his ships and his horses, and I promised him before to see to the women and children—Pirithous wishes them sent below, into one of the storerooms.”

  Theseus grunted, though she had not realized he’d been listening. “I will go now and shift the stone, but I would not close them in until there is real threat. It is bleak and black beneath the palace.”

  “I remember,” Hippodamia said. “And I agree.”

  Theseus gave her a nod, murmured something to one of the other men upon the wall—Melanthos, she thought—and left them at a jog.

  “Antiope, I must beg a favor from you.”

  The Amazon gave her a hard look, her lips pressed thin. “Must you?”

  “I have need of a breastplate at least, if not greaves and bracers as well. Pirithous’s will not fit me, but I thought perhaps you might know where I could find something that would.”

  She had more than Antiope’s attention now, for Melanthos stared at her with eyes just as narrowed, if far more lined with exhaustion. He had already fought once this night, and by the look of him, he had not even taken the time to wash the dust, smoke, and blood from his skin. “What need does the queen have for armor?” he asked.

  Hippodamia stiffened. “It is the queen’s right and duty to defend the palace in the king’s absence. I mean to ride out to meet Peleus and his men, as I rode out to meet Cyllarus.”

  “You have even less a chance of swaying Peleus than you did Cyllarus,” Antiope said. “None at all, in fact.”

  “Perhaps that is so, but just as I did then, I must try now.”

  “If you intend this only to get yourself killed—”

  “I intend to lead Pirithous’s people as their queen. As Dia would have, before me. As Pirithous wished me to do, in his place. Whether he is off raiding or lying bloodied in his bed, it is my duty, and I intend to see it through.”

  “And I will ride with you,” Melanthos said, his lips curving. “My lord Pirithous would want me at your side. King Theseus, as well, if he is willing.”

  Antiope glowered at him, tugging Hippodamia a step farther away and lowering her voice. “You have said yourself you know little more than how to hunt with a bow, that you were taught no other weapon. If that is so, and you wish to fight, you are better off upon the walls, as before. Safer.”

  “And I will take my place there, after I have done what I am able to do for the Lapiths. After Peleus sees that we do not cower, afraid, behind the walls. You wanted me to be queen, Antiope, and you were not wrong. As queen, this is my responsibility. Not Theseus’s. Not yours. Will you lend me the armor, lend me your support and aid, or not?”

  “You are still a fool,” Antiope said, her jaw tight. “A brave fool, but still a fool. I have only leather, and we must dress you in bronze, at the least, but I am certain we can find you something. Theseus will know where to look. I’ll speak to him, and we will meet you at the stables with armor of some kind.”

  “My thanks, Antiope.”

  Antiope embraced her, hard and tight. “Just live, Mia. That will be thanks enough.”

  “Pirithous spoke of Atukhos, with the herd,” Hippodamia said, addressing Melanthos after Antiope had gone. He had obviously been listening from his place at the wall. “If Peleus has come for the horses, should we not send men to defend them?”

  Melanthos shrugged. “You are queen, my lady. If you believe we should send men to protect the horses, command it.”

  “A queen who commands without first learning all she can does not deserve to be obeyed. I would know your thoughts, and anything Pirithous might have mentioned.”

  He grinned as if she had passed some test, and offered her a bow. “Pirithous sent a dozen men to the herd when the centaurs came. King Peleus is the greater threat, to be sure, and another dozen fresh men sent out would not be amiss. But we dare not send many more than that. Better to lose horses who will find their way back than to see our women and children taken as slaves. And we will need all the men we have to defend the palace.”

  “Choose the twelve you think most capable of the task, and tell them it is their queen’s command,” she decided, staring out from the wall. Smoke still rose from the smoldering remains of the village, and she could not see the river or the ships grounded upon its bank. “Was everything burned? Even the ships?”

  “What wasn’t destroyed by the centaurs will surely be burned by the Myrmidons,” Melanthos said grimly.

  “No,” Hippodamia said. “The twelve men you send to the horses will take the best remaining ship upstream, out of sight, then go to join the others with the horses. It will slow them, I know, but I will not give Peleus the satisfaction of crippling us. See it done, now.”

  “As you wish, my queen.”

  She let out a breath after he had gone, and hid her hands by crossing her arms, the better to keep the others from seeing how she shook. The sun had not quite risen yet, and she could only hope the men Melanthos chose would slip away before Peleus came. Poseidon, protect us! One more long look from the walls, her gaze sweeping from the village to the mountain, and she forced herself not to hesitate over the bodies of the centaurs still dotting the ground. She had given them every opportunity to save themselves. They had made their choice. They had chosen Peleus, and there was nothing more she could do for them now.

  She had made her choice, too. To be queen. To be Lapith.

  Lord Poseidon, protect us all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Hippodamia

  She felt steadier atop Podarkes’s back, though the gold oval plate over her chest felt awkward and heavy as she rode. At least the rest of her armor was leather and bronze, but Antiope had insisted she should look the part of queen if she meant to act as one. And she must. Peleus’s ships had been sighted, and if she meant to ride out to meet him, to show him the Lapiths were not afraid, not broken, she must go now.

  “Are you ready, my lady?” Melanthos asked.

  Hippodamia clutched the reins all the harder, her knuckles white, and Podarkes tossed his head in response. Perhaps she was not feeling so much steadier after all.

  “You need not do this, Mia,” Theseus said, at her other side. “It was never my intention to suggest you should endanger yourself, and Pirithous will hardly forgive me if Peleus takes you captive while he lies injured in his bed.”

  “There will be nothing for Pirithous to forgive,” she said, lifting her chin. “We will ride out, prove our strength, and with the blessing of the gods, take the heart out of some of Peleus’s men.”

  “Even better if we water the river with their blood,” Melanthos said. “We are ready at your word, my queen.”

  “Open the gate!” she called out, before she lost her nerve.

  The bar was removed and the wooden doors groaned on their hinges. A touch of her heels to Podarkes’s flanks, and he broke into an eager gallop, bursting through the gate to the other side. The thunder in her ears told her the other men followed. Every horse in the palace stables had been turned out, and men with spears and bows rode at her back, following her to the riverbank.

  The Myrmidons did not fight on horseback, and in truth, the Lapiths did not either, outside of the hunt. But why should Peleus not think them more skilled than they were? Why should they not show themselves to
be a mightier force, when from birth they were set astride their horses?

  She raced with them through the scorched embers of the village, Melanthos and Theseus no more than a nose behind Podarkes. At the edge of the once-lush bank, just before the land sloped down into silt and sand and loose rock, she drew her horse to a halt and raised her arm, signaling the others to do the same. The men formed a line, their horses steady beneath them, and spread out along the bank, forming a wall of horseflesh between the river and the palace. Bronze and gold glinted in the sunlight, an advantage now that they no longer fought in shadow. Hippodamia hoped it blinded Peleus’s men, visible on their three ships as they heaved upon the oars. She curled her fingers into a fist, and the Lapiths fitted arrows to their bows. Flame passed from arrowhead to arrowhead, for if Pirithous’s ships could burn, why not Peleus’s as well?

  “I am Hippodamia, Tamer of Horses, Queen of the Lapiths and Daughter of Centaurus,” she called out. “If you land upon our shores, you will meet death by our swords!”

  “And where is King Pirithous, that his queen addresses us so boldly?” a voice called back. “A queen who could not even save the Lapiths from the violence of her own people!”

  She dropped her hand and her men loosed their arrows in answer to his taunt. A ripple of heat and fire raining down upon their Myrmidon heads. Shouts broke out. Shields, hastily thrown up for protection, caught fire. A few arrows lodged into the hulls and the decks, flame licking at the wood. Her men had already drawn their bows again.

  She lifted her arm to hold them, narrowing her eyes. The Myrmidons were armored. More bronze than the Lapiths had ever dreamed of wearing, covering their chests and backs completely. But not all of them had donned their helmets yet, and their heads and necks were exposed, along with their arms and legs. She would simply have to hope the gods were on their side, and in the meantime, she waited until they put down their shields and began to scramble—