Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  Pirithous grinned, then caught Peleus’s sword by the hilt with the tip of his blade and flipped it up at him. All the better to keep him distracted, to keep his back to his ships and his men and his prizes, and give Hippodamia the time she needed. He could see her, now, a small figure moving among the horses. “Give up your armor, call off your men, and face me, man to man. Let us settle this, you and I.”

  Peleus’s eyes narrowed. “If I win?”

  They circled one another, Pirithous careful to keep Peleus’s back to the bank. “Keep the horses and plunder already aboard your ships as my gift to you.”

  “You’ll be dead,” Peleus said, “and your queen will be mine, as well. Your people will have nothing left.”

  “That is none of your concern, surely,” Pirithous said. “And at least they will live freely.”

  “And if you win?” Peleus asked.

  “I take back my horses and my queen, and your men leave my lands, never to return.”

  Peleus smiled slowly. “Are you truly so confident in your father’s favors, Pirithous?”

  He twitched a shoulder. “I wish to put an end to this fighting, once and for all. If the cost is my life, so be it.”

  “Perhaps I do not wish for so quick an end. Perhaps I would prefer you to suffer.”

  “Then may the gods have mercy upon you,” Pirithous said. “For I will surely show you none.”

  “Myrmidons!” Peleus called out. “To me!”

  Pirithous grinned, though he could feel himself weakening. Exhaustion so deep it ached in his bones. He grinned because even if Peleus won, he would sail away with nothing. From what he could see over the fool’s shoulder, Hippodamia would see to that.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Hippodamia

  She hadn’t planned on being captured. Antiope and Melanthos had fought for her fiercely, but the Myrmidons had surrounded them, leveling their spears at the horses’ breasts, and Hippodamia, fool that she was, had not been willing to sacrifice Podarkes for her freedom. She had made them swear to let Melanthos and Antiope go free, and given herself up to them as a prize, along with their three horses, to be kept alive.

  But it had not only been that, either. She had seen the Lapith horses taken. Watched as, after their riders were unseated or killed, the Myrmidons rounded them up into a makeshift pen to be loaded on their ships. And she had cursed herself for her foolishness in bringing the accursed Myrmidons all the plunder they had hoped for—the finest of the Lapith horses, theirs for the taking. The king’s own stables, turned into prizes, without even having to breach the palace walls.

  Peleus had been right. She was no threat to his Myrmidons.

  Or at least, she had not been much of one, even upon Podarkes’s back. Among the penned herd of horses, however, whispering in one ear after another, seeing the spark of Poseidon’s rage lit in their rolling eyes and stamping hooves, perhaps she was not entirely without worth. These horses knew her, trusted her words, and with the Horse Lord’s favor, she would set them free.

  The horses stamped and whinnied as she moved through them, now, and the Myrmidons laughed, just as they had laughed when she had asked to be penned with the horses and thrown her into their midst.

  “Had enough, yet, centaur-girl? Or do you prefer the favors of beasts to men?”

  “No wonder King Pirithous let her ride out to meet us,” another said. “After being pleasured by those horse-men, she can’t have been satisfied even by a son of Zeus. Maybe he hopes to be rid of her to save his pride.”

  “Look at her, half-wild, worse than an Amazon—perhaps she unmanned him altogether,” said the first.

  “She’s so skilled at horse riding, it can’t be too hard to teach her to ride a man instead,” said a third.

  Hippodamia ignored them. Whatever they believed, whatever rumors had been spread about her desires, natural or unnatural, hardly mattered. She stroked the neck of the horse she had chosen to ride in Podarkes’s place and smiled to herself. She would see them soundly thrashed soon enough. Trampled until they were nothing but bruised, broken flesh. And let them speak spitefully of her behavior then. If they could speak at all.

  “You’ll lead them,” she said to her horse, named Aithon for the brilliant flame-chestnut of his hide and the fiery temper to match. One of the ten Pirithous had gifted her, and Fire’s get, besides. He had the heart for it, the size and strength and speed, even if her Podarkes was finer—deeper in the chest, and sturdier in the leg. Aithon threw back his head, nostrils flaring wide as he snorted and stamped, and the other horses responded.

  She trailed her hands over his back, circling him with a careful eye for any wounds he might have been given, anything that might slow him, but he was unmarked, unbloodied, and eager. Hippodamia caught him by the bridle, pulling his head down until they shared the same breath. She inhaled his, warm and grassy, and gave it back again from her own lungs, binding him to her body, to her will.

  “You’ll lead us all to freedom, and destroy any Myrmidon in your path. They are ants and snakes, to be stamped and cut to pieces beneath your hooves. Do you hear me?”

  He sighed, going still in her hold, and she pressed her forehead against his, breathing with him again and finding her own steadiness. And then she swung up onto his back, feeling his body as an extension of her own, all muscle and power and effortless grace.

  She had always felt stronger on the back of a horse. As if she belonged there. And among the centaurs, as a child, it had been the one place where she had always been safe, where she’d never had to worry about being stepped on or trampled. She could sit upon a horse’s back and never be lost. And upon Aithon’s back, she could see more clearly now. The horses, their own fury fed by her determination, her outrage; and the guards, turned away, never thinking for a moment that the herd behind them might be the greater danger.

  Hippodamia twisted her fingers through Aithon’s mane and pressed her heels to his ribs, urging him forward. Slowly at first, forcing their way gently through the other horses to the front of the pen. The only way out, unless she meant them to swim against the river’s current, for the horses were trapped between two ships and the river itself, the final barrier of the pen made of broken spears and pikes, any makeshift wood that the Myrmidons had found. Pirithous’s horses were too well-trained to force their way out alone, but wild and angry and led—that was another matter altogether.

  “Now,” she breathed. And Aithon surged forward, kicking out with his hooves to break through the pen as the other horses reared and whinnied, following in his wake. The broken spears, the pikes, the driftwood turned to splinters, ground into sand and soot, and the guards turned too late, swords still sheathed.

  Aithon reared and the first man fell, trampled beneath the horse’s strength. Another man freed his sword, but one of the mares landed a kick square upon his chest, and he stumbled back. Aithon used his teeth, then, snapping at his hands until there was nothing but blood staining the hilt of his sword. Hippodamia slithered from his back, taking up the blade and stabbing it into the man’s neck. The bronze was strong and sharp, and his flesh offered no more resistance than the soft goat cheese their guests had spread upon the bread at the wedding feast. Three more men fell beneath the horses, moaning and rolling in the dust, but she wasted no more time on foot.

  Mia ran to catch Aithon, not waiting for him to slow before vaulting up on his back again, and they were flying over the sooty bank, the burned grasses and the scorched earth. She raised her stolen sword, wet with blood, and loosed her own frenzied cry, matching the furious screams of the horses around her. The thunder of their hooves echoed in her heart, throbbed through her veins, and she kicked Aithon faster. Up the hillside and onto the plain, into the field above.

  But the fighting she had expected was stilled, the men gathered all together, the clang and clash of swords ringing clear from inside the loose circle they’d formed. The horses slowed, sensing her confusion, her hesitation, and she slid from Aithon’s back onc
e more, the sword in her hand just a weight, falling to her side.

  “Go,” she told him, absent-mindedly. She could not drag her eyes from the men, her stomach twisting, her heart too tight. “Back to the palace. To your stable and your grain. Go.”

  Aithon snorted, tossing his head in defiance, but the others turned away, the fury draining from them as quickly as it had leached from her. She let the sword drop, felt Aithon’s breath upon her shoulder as he followed in her wake. Her legs were so much stone, her mind whirling. There was Theseus, among the men, his jaw tight, his body stiff. And Antiope beside him, bloodied but whole. And if it was not Theseus in the center, fighting, if it was not Antiope, who else? Who else could it be?

  Hippodamia picked up her pace, stumbling over the uneven ground. Aithon bit at her tunic, impatient, but she only swatted him away. She did not want to see. She did not want to see, but she knew she must, and she broke into a run.

  “Pirithous.” Her lips shaped his name without thought. Her body knowing what she could not yet see with her own eyes. What her mind refused to believe. “Pirithous, you fool, you fool!”

  And then she was shoving her way through the men, past Melanthos and the other raiders, bunched together in the mob. Past Theseus and Antiope, leaving Aithon, at last, behind.

  “Pirithous.”

  Bruised and beaten, eyes blazing white and lightning crackling over his skin. How he even stood upright, she did not understand, but it was Pirithous, his sword crossed against Peleus’s blade, both men bleeding from shallow cuts on arms and legs. Both men bloodied.

  Pirithous swayed, losing half a step to the force of Peleus’s blade upon his. She could see the exhaustion in every line of his face, every shift of his weight. And she did not dare call out to him. Could not risk distracting him, even for a moment, weak as he was. Too weak for this.

  “Mia?” Antiope touched her shoulder. “Mia, he knows what he is about. And Zeus is with him, do you not see?”

  She shook her head, pulling away. “He’ll get himself killed.”

  “He won’t,” Antiope said. “Not so long as his father protects him.”

  Peleus grinned, feral now, as if he sensed he was near victory. Pirithous stumbled back another step, breaking away. He listed to one side, his shield hand dragging him down. He wore nothing but his kilt and his sword belt. No armor of any kind, beyond the lightning licking at his skin. And now that he had turned, she could see another long, shallow cut, across his bare chest.

  But Pirithous’s gaze searched beyond Peleus, and then the men surrounding them, ever so briefly. He straightened, pressing his lips together into a thin line, and she made a soft noise, half-strangled, for his distraction. He was looking for her. She was almost certain of it. Looking for her below, and now—

  Hippodamia stepped forward. “Here!”

  Peleus and Pirithous both turned at her voice, the Myrmidon king wide-eyed and disbelieving. But Pirithous only laughed, the lightning in his eyes fading to the storm-gray she knew so well, and lit with fierce joy instead of Zeus’s fire.

  “Please,” she said, hoping he understood all the rest. All her worries, all her fears for his safety, all her hopes for their future—lost if he did not win, if he did not end this. “Please, Pirithous.”

  Peleus growled and charged. “You planned all of this! You knew!”

  Too slow, Pirithous turned, and Peleus’s sword slipped between his ribs, where his shield no longer guarded him. Lowered just too far when he had seen her, when he had realized what it meant that she stood in the circle of his men.

  Pirithous grunted, his eyes closing for just a moment, and his face going white. So white. And then he lifted his shield and brought it down hard on Peleus’s sword arm. Something cracked between them, but she could not tell what, until Peleus screamed, stumbling back, cradling his arm to his chest.

  The sword still stuck from between Pirithous’s ribs, and he grasped the hilt, drawing it slowly from his body, jaw tight, teeth clenched. How he made no sound, Hippodamia did not know, and it was only Antiope’s hiss in her ear that kept her from running to his side.

  Pirithous threw the blade away as he stalked forward, far more menacing now, even so gravely injured. Perhaps because of it. He no longer listed. No longer swayed, but stood straight and tall and strong, though she could not imagine he would remain upright much longer.

  “You should not take what you cannot keep, Peleus,” he growled. “You should have learned that lesson long ago, instead of coming here now. You should have given up before it came to this. While peace was still possible between our peoples.”

  “You swore to let us leave,” Peleus said, backing away still. “You swore if you won you would take nothing but the horses and your wife.”

  “I did not promise to let you live. Why should I?” Pirithous said. “To let you betray us again? You came as a guest to my hall, sowed the seeds of war while you drank my wine, and you expect me to let you walk away now, to trust that you will keep your side of the bargain we struck?”

  Peleus bared his teeth. “In all honor, you have no other choice.”

  “There is always a choice, Peleus. The same choice you made when you gave Eurytion my wine and whispered treachery in his ear.”

  “And bring Ixion’s curse back down upon your people?” Peleus taunted. “The gods are with you now, that much is clear. But if you kill me, what of tomorrow? Is that not why your father was cursed, in the end, for abusing their love and favor? Would you take so great a risk when you are so newly made king? And what will become of your wife, then, when the Lapiths have driven you out?”

  Pirithous’s jaw tightened, Peleus’s words no doubt cutting just as deeply as his sword had. She could see the pain in the lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

  “Pirithous, he has lost everything he came for. And if he ever dares return, we will defeat him again.”

  “And what of all you have lost?” Pirithous asked, though he did not take his eyes off the Myrmidon king. “What of all he has cost you?”

  “Centaurus would not want more blood spilled. It will not bring him back. It will not give us peace with the centaurs, whether Peleus lives or dies. But do not let him take your honor, too. Let him go, shamed before his men.”

  Pirithous grunted, lifting his sword and pointing it at Peleus’s throat. “You are fortunate that my queen has a merciful heart.” Then he raised his voice, loud enough to carry even to the river’s edge. “Swear now, before all your men, never to return here again, and I will let you go.”

  Peleus sneered, his gaze upon her hot with hate, but Hippodamia only lifted her chin, ignoring the threat. Let him hate her. He was in her debt now, and if he tried to harm her in the future, the gods would not forget what was owed. And she was owed much.

  “By the Styx, I swear never to return,” Peleus spat. “But I will never promise you peace, Pirithous. Not so long as we both live.”

  “I could not stomach it, if you did,” Pirithous replied through his teeth. “Take your men and go, and be glad my wife did not burn your ships when she stole back her horses.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Pirithous

  He managed to keep himself upright until Peleus turned his back, leading his men down the slope to the riverbank and their ships, but only just. He dropped his shield, and tried to sheath his sword, only to find his hands shook too fiercely to allow him to slide the blade into the leather scabbard.

  Hippodamia’s hand covered his, steadying him. But she could not stop the cold which had replaced the burning pain in his side. She could not stop death if it came for him this day, and he knew he had pushed himself too far, drawn too much on his father’s blood. The lightning gave strength, but it came at a cost, and he was scorched through and through.

  “Melanthos!” he called, unable to tear his gaze from Hippodamia’s face. Those warm brown eyes and the white light of her love almost drowning him.

  “My lord?”

  “See that
Peleus leaves none of his ants behind.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Melanthos said. And he heard him call out to the others—his raiders—passing along the command. He heard, but he did not look away, because the only thing keeping him standing was Hippodamia, and he did not think even her presence, her love, her courage, could hold him up much longer.

  “Pirithous,” she said, lifting her hand to his cheek. Stroking his face. Likely the only part of him which did not bleed, though not for lack of trying on Peleus’s part. “I suppose it was too much to hope you would stay in your bed.”

  He sank to his knees, buried his face in the softness of her body, nestling his head beneath her breasts. He was so cold. And she was so warm. “Forgive me.”

  Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into his hair. “What is there to forgive?”

  But even if she did not remember, he did. Her voice hoarse with fear and pain and desperation. How small and broken she had looked when she confessed she had nothing left but him. He had promised to return to her whole and unbloodied, and he had known even then it was a lie. But he had not quite expected to fail her so utterly. He had not expected to die. Not truly. Not yet.

  “Forgive me,” he said again, though he did not know if she heard.

  He did not know, because even the bright light of her love could no longer hold the darkness back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Hippodamia

  “Pirithous!” He was so heavy, too heavy for her to lift alone. Hippodamia dropped to her knees, struggling to keep him upright. He’d gone completely slack, his eyes rolled back in his head, and she swallowed a sob at the sight of his face, so pale, so wan. “Pirithous! Please! Antiope—Antiope, help me. Find Podarkes, or Aithon.”

  Theseus reached her side before his wife could, cursing under his breath. “Thrice-cursed fool!”