Jane Yolen - Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

“If I’m leaving it to you, why did you give me the knife?” he asked.

“In case the Kethite storm god proves stronger than my goddess of the hunt,” she answered grimly.

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.