by Jane Yolen
Pulling out her ax, Hippolyta made ready to move. The Kethites had found further traces of blood and were edging steadily closer to their hiding place, swords upraised.
The Lycian laid a hand on her arm. “You have courage, young Amazon,” he whispered. “I’ll always remember that.”
“I plan to be around to remind you of it,” Hippolyta said.
Her heart was pounding, and her fingers trembled. But at the same time a strange clarity came over her. It was how she had felt when she fought the old man by the river, when she finally refused to let her anger guide her but rather took control of it. Now it was her fear she needed to channel into strength and determination.
For a moment longer she watched the Kethites through the chink in the rocks. They seemed to have lost the trail and were standing toe to toe, bickering. Hippolyta waited until the three of them finished arguing and once more bent over the ground looking for fresh signs.
She forced the horse up and leaped onto its back in one single motion. Digging her heels into its flanks, she sent it galloping at the enemy, shrilling a battle cry. “Aieeeeeee!”
The Kethites scarcely had time to realize what was happening before Hippolyta was upon them.
Few nations had the Amazons’ skill at taming and riding horses. Trojans, Lycians, Kethites all preferred the chariot. So the three men were unnerved to see an enemy bearing down upon them from the back of a horse. They scattered before her charge.
Hippolyta had spent her childhood on the practice field striking turnips from the tops of wooden posts. Still, she’d never actually fought against a real foe—except for the old man. And he hadn’t actually been trying to kill her. Only to subdue her. For a second she wondered if she really had the strength and will for a battle to the death.
Then she remembered her mother, arms upraised and weeping, and she swung the ax. Turnip or head—she no longer distinguished between them. What mattered was the ax in her hand.
And the honor of her people.
“Aieeeeeee!” she trilled again, the years of practice pulling her arm easily through its arc. The ax was well weighted and became an extension of her arm, her hand. It sang through the air and split the spearman’s helmet, cracking his skull as he turned.
He toppled senseless to the ground, the spear clattering next to him.
The old man’s horse was not used to this kind of combat, though. When the ax hit the helmet, the horse began bucking wildly. Desperately Hippolyta leaned over its neck and cooed soft words into its ear, till it settled and stopped trying to throw her. Then she had to get it to wheel about in order to face her enemies. Her only advantage against the Kethites was the horse. And if she couldn’t control it …
From the corner of her eye she saw a figure dashing toward her. Turning on the horse’s back and clinging to its heaving sides with her thighs, she lashed out with the ax again, just in time to deflect the edge of the Kethite’s curved iron sword. The weapons clanged harshly together, and the Kethite snarled at her in his rough tongue.
At that instant the horse turned, smacking the soldier across the face with a wildly flailing hoof. He was thrown backward onto the dry earth and lay there unmoving.
Hippolyta gulped in a deep breath. “Good horse!” she muttered, her voice cracking. She patted the beast with a sweaty palm, then wiped the sweat off on her tunic.
She looked around for the third Kethite, the spearman. She spotted him dashing for the chariot. If he got into it, he would have the advantage. And if he got away, he could bring the whole Kethite force down on their heads.
She struggled to control the horse and launched it in pursuit of the man. The Kethite heard the hoofbeats bearing down on him and turned quickly. He raised his sword and jabbed it upward.
The horse shied away from the iron blade, rearing so suddenly Hippolyta was thrown from its back. She went heels over head, and the ax slipped from her hand. Landing heavily, she felt as if every bone in her body had been jarred by the impact.
Groaning, she tried to push herself up. Through a blur of pain, she could see the horse trotting away toward the rocks. Could see the Kethite closing in on her.
She groped blindly for her knife. Then she remembered: She’d given the knife to Tithonus. Even if she could get up, she’d nothing left to fight with.
She heard a strange sound, part growl, part something else, and looked up. The Kethite was standing over her now, sword upraised, a wolfish grin on his face. He was laughing.
“Get away from her!” squeaked a voice.
Both she and the Kethite looked around.
Leaping down from the rocks, Tithonus dashed toward them, the knife in his hand. Behind him came the Lycian, but he barely had the strength to crawl out of the jumble of stone.
Hippolyta tried to gasp a warning to the boy, to order him to run away, but she hadn’t the breath to form the words.
The Kethite punched out at Tithonus with the handle of his sword, as if the boy weren’t worth the bother of the blade. The blow sent Tithonus tumbling backward, stunned.
Then the Kethite returned his attention to Hippolyta.
With a grin of triumph he held the sword above his head. Hippolyta raised a futile hand to ward off the attack, but she knew there was nothing she could do. “Oh, Artemis,” she whispered, “I have failed my sisters. I have failed you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE STRANGER
AS IF FROM NOWHERE a javelin came whooshing through the air and drove deep into the Kethite’s throat. There was a spurt of blood as the man was thrown backward. He was dead before he struck the ground.
Hippolyta realized she had stopped breathing and took a huge swallow of air. Clambering shakily to her feet, she saw the owner of the javelin walking toward her with a confident swagger.
He was a tall, handsome man with a close-cropped black beard and thick black curls protruding from beneath the rim of his helmet. He snatched up his weapon and casually wiped the blood off on the ground.
Hippolyta suddenly felt sick, as if she had to vomit, as if she, and not the Kethite, had swallowed blood. She turned her head away, but not before seeing the broad grin on the tall man’s face.
What kind of warrior am I, she thought, to be so stricken by the sight of blood? Molpadia would not feel this way. Valasca would not….
She heard feet pounding on the ground, turned back to see Tithonus run up to the tall man. “That was amazing!” Tithonus enthused. “You must have thrown that spear forty or fifty feet!”
“Oh, I doubt it was as far as that,” said the stranger.
Hippolyta walked away from them and plucked up her ax from the ground. “Get away from him, Tithonus!” she ordered.
It was clear from the man’s garb and weapons that he was another Lycian and therefore a potential enemy.
“He saved your life!” Tithonus exclaimed. “And mine. Trojans know how to give thanks, Hippolyta. Don’t Amazons?”
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “If I had meant you any harm, young Amazon, I would have left you to your fate and not bothered to bloody my spear.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Hippolyta admitted, lowering her weapon. Still, she didn’t trust him. He is too—too—she thought. And then she had it. He is too conveniently here.
Suddenly Tithonus pointed to the wounded Lycian, who had collapsed only a few feet from the rocks. “Can we help him?” Tithonus asked, pointing.
A waterskin was hanging from the stranger’s back, and he gave the bag to Tithonus, who splashed a few drops on the wounded man’s face to revive him. The Lycian’s eyelids fluttered open, and when he saw first the boy and then Hippolyta, he smiled grimly. “So you triumphed without my help.”
“Oh, we had help,” Tithonus told him, wide-eyed. “From this man here.”
“Polemos is my name,” said the stranger.
“He’s one of your countrymen,” Hippolyta added unnecessarily.
“A Kethite was about to finish off Hippolyta when Polemos killed hi
m with a javelin,” said Tithonus, his voice filled with boyish enthusiasm. “Sixty feet at least! I’ve never seen a throw like it!”
Polemos knelt by the wounded man and unwrapped the bandage. Carefully he washed the wound, then produced a mixture of leaves from a bag that hung from his belt. Placing these over the wound, he fixed a fresh piece of cloth on top of it.
“The Kethite weapons do terrible injury,” he murmured to himself as he inspected his work.
“If these two hadn’t helped me, the Kethites would have finished me for sure,” said the wounded Lycian.
“That was nobly done,” said Polemos approvingly. He smiled at Hippolyta, who felt uncomfortable receiving such friendly treatment from a man she barely trusted.
She grunted in response.
But Tithonus grinned. “She is noble, isn’t she? She’s the daughter of a queen. And I’m her brother.”
Polemos looked suddenly grave. “I didn’t know Amazons had brothers.”
“Some do,” said Tithonus with equal gravity.
“Well, then, you’re fortunate in your sister,” Polemos told him.
“And she’s fortunate in me,” Tithonus said, his open face wreathed in smiles. “I saved her from a sea monster.”
“Did you now?” asked Polemos.
“Well, we sort of saved each other,” Tithonus admitted.
“Then I suppose you and your sister will wish to continue your journey now.” Polemos spoke directly to Tithonus, but somehow Hippolyta felt he was really addressing her. She was reluctant to answer. He knew too much already.
“Tithonus!” she said sharply. “We’re going.”
Polemos looked to where Hippolyta’s horse was darting about, still spooked by the experience of battle. He let out two sharp whistles, and the animal came running up to him as though it had known him all its life. He stroked its flank with a brawny hand, gently calming it.
“In time he could become a fine war horse, if you treat him well,” he said. This time he addressed Hippolyta directly.
“I’ve had him only a couple of weeks,” Hippolyta said. “I got him from—”
Before she could finish the sentence, she realized for the first time that Polemos was wearing a bronze armlet decorated with a dragon, just like the one the old man at the river had worn.
“I got him from an old man,” she said carefully. “He wore an armlet just like that.” She pointed to the Lycian’s left arm.
“They’re common enough,” said Polemos with a shrug.
Too convenient, she thought. And too humble by half. She remembered how skillfully Polemos had thrown the javelin.
“Are you a pupil of his?” she asked suspiciously.
Polemos laughed. “Perhaps I am. If so, I’ve learned many things in his company. Among them was never to make a man my enemy if he would be my friend. Hate is a poor motive for battle. It is better to fight in defense of the helpless and the innocent.” He cast a meaningful glance at Tithonus.
Hippolyta was sure the man knew far more than he was saying, but when she opened her mouth to speak again, he waved her questions aside impatiently.
“Once the rest of the Kethites make a stop, they’re going to wonder why this chariot hasn’t caught up,” he said. “And those two you knocked out will be waking up shortly. What do you suppose they’ll have to say to their friends?”
“Then I didn’t kill them?” Hippolyta asked. The awful knot in her stomach began to unravel.
“No, but for some time they’re going to wish you had,” Polemos said. “First their heads are going to ache like the inside of a volcano. And then they’re going to remember that a girl beat them, and their pride will feel as hot as their heads. I’ll tie them tight and hide them where their friends won’t find them easily. Then my countryman and I will take that chariot back to Lycia.” He nodded in the direction of the empty Kethite chariot.
“What about us?” Tithonus asked. “Where should we go?”
“Through the rocks and into the hills,” Polemos replied.
“Through the rocks?” Hippolyta was puzzled. She’d been certain that the rocks hid nothing more than a shallow cave.
“You’ll find a fine trail,” Polemos said, “though the way through is too narrow for the Kethites to follow, except on foot. Keep always to the left, and no trouble will come to you, even in the dark. You do know left from right?”
They both nodded.
“Good,” Polemos said. “When you come out again, you’ll see a range of mountains. Look for the one with the double peak. Go toward it, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“How do you know what we’re looking for?” Hippolyta asked, once again suspicious.
“Surely you seek your ancestral home. Why else would a young Amazon wander so far, with none of her sisters accompanying her?” said Polemos. “Now go, while there’s still time.”
In spite of her suspicions, the urgent command in his voice jolted Hippolyta into action. She climbed onto the horse and pulled Tithonus up behind her.
“Good luck,” Tithonus called to the two Lycians.
“And to you, young prince,” called out Polemos. The wounded Lycian waved feebly.
“May the gods …” Hippolyta began softly. It felt strange speaking to any men, let alone two she would normally have considered her worst foes. But Polemos’ words—about never making a man an enemy if he would be a friend—suddenly repeated in her head.
“May the gods give you safety as well,” she said. Then she kicked the horse lightly with her heel.
“Make your battles few and choose them well,” Polemos called after them. “Then fight with all your heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FARTHER ALONG THE ROAD
THEY THREADED THROUGH THE dark cave passages with a single torch made from a broken tree limb wrapped with the Lycian’s torn cloak. It gave a feeble light that flickered and flickered, ever threatening to go out.
Tithonus talked of nothing but Polemos. “Did you see how he appeared from nowhere to save us? Do you think I could learn to throw the javelin with such skill? How do you suppose he knew so much about this country? He must be a very famous warrior back in Lycia.” He went on and on without needing any encouragement from Hippolyta—or getting any.
At last she snapped at him, “I beat two of the Kethites by myself. I don’t hear you talking about what a great warrior I am.”
“You were very brave,” said Tithonus, abashed. “It’s just that, well—”
“That I’m a girl?” Hippolyta suggested. “A mere woman? You think I should be busy in the kitchen or weaving a tapestry or prettying myself with makeup and jewels?”
“I didn’t say that,” mumbled Tithonus, fidgeting behind her uncomfortably. “It’s just that men already do enough fighting. If all the women became warriors as well, there would be nothing but fighting all over the world. It would go on and on until everybody was dead.”
“Then let the men give up their weapons and leave the fighting to the women,” said Hippolyta. “Try that idea on your father.”
“If I ever see him again,” Tithonus said, sighing wearily. He put his head against her back.
Just as he spoke, the torch gave a final sputtering bit of light and went out. The cave was suddenly as black as a tomb.
“If I ever see anything again,” Tithonus whispered fearfully.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be at home with your family again,” Hippolyta said. Even as she spoke, she hated herself for the half lie.
“I hope so,” he whispered.
But Hippolyta suddenly understood. All of Tithonus’ talking had helped him keep his spirits up. But now that they were in the pitch black, he’d run out of both conversation and courage. Now he was only a little boy in the dark.
And he was afraid.
So am I, she admitted as she tried to see something—anything—in all that black.
She dismounted.
“What are you doing?” Tithonus cried. “D
on’t leave me, Hippolyta.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said. “But I’m going to have to lead the horse so it doesn’t knock itself out walking into stone. I’ll keep a hand on the cave wall, and that way we’ll know which way we’re going.”
“All right.” Tithonus didn’t sound convinced. “But why can’t I walk with you?”
“Because you’ll be safer on the horse,” she said.
Her hand trailed along the wall, which surprised her by being both cold and damp. At the first real crossroads, the horse started naturally to the right.
“Left!” Tithonus cried. “Polemos said we have to go left.”
Hippolyta yanked the reins leftward, and the horse reluctantly obeyed. But as they passed by the passage on the right, Hippolyta saw hundreds of bright spots, like eyes, winking at her. She shuddered, hoping that Tithonus hadn’t seen them.
“Left it is,” she said. “Good thinking, Tithonus.”
“Thanks,” he answered. There was a bit of lift in his voice.
Lucky he can’t see how hard I’m hugging the left wall, Hippolyta thought, or he wouldn’t he so happy.
She was extra careful after that always to pull the horse to the left. If there were other bright, waiting eyes down the right-hand turns, she didn’t want to know.
After what seemed like days, but was probably only hours, they emerged out into a gray afternoon, and Hippolyta quickly remounted and looked around. A fog sat heavily on the shoulders of the mountains around them, like a shawl on an old woman, so she couldn’t tell which mountain had the double peak.
The horse brought them into some sort of meadow where the ground was cracked and the vegetation sparse and brown. It began to crop what grass remained.
“We’ll camp here,” Hippolyta said, gesturing around them. “We don’t dare go on in any case, not until we can see which mountain is the right one.”
She left Tithonus guarding the horse and circled the meadow slowly but could find only a single twisted tree, some sort of ancient olive. Circling back to the horse, she took the reins from the boy and led them both over to the tree, where she tied the horse.