Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER TWENTY

KETHITES

“I CAN’T MAKE IT.”

The Lycian soldier was now panting, and his face glowed with sweat or fever. Hippolyta couldn’t tell which. His feet dragged on the ground. It was all she could do to keep him upright. Without his cooperation, she couldn’t haul him more than a few inches forward at a time.

“Surely you can get as far as those rocks,” she said. “Or are all Lycians really the weaklings they say?”

The man bared his teeth—as much against his own weakness as against Hippolyta—and pushed himself on, leaning heavily upon her shoulder.

“Hurry up with the horse,” Hippolyta called to Tithonus. “The Kethites will be in sight any moment.”

It seemed to take an eternity, but at last they reached the shelter of the rocks. Hippolyta let the Lycian slide to the ground and took the reins from Tithonus. She coaxed the horse down onto its side as she had been taught years before by her riding instructors. Lying alongside the animal, she laid a hand across its muzzle to quiet its anxious whinnying.

“Keep low,” whispered the Lycian, following his own advice. “Kethites are always on the watch for enemies. It’s said they have a third eye in the back of their heads. Though I’ve never seen it, I believe it.”

Hippolyta peered cautiously through a chink in the rocks. At first all she could see was a cloud of dust kicked up by a multitude of hooves. Then she could see the vague outlines of horses. As they drew closer, she could see the chariots themselves, and they were like nothing she had ever seen before.

The chariots were bigger and heavier than those driven by the Trojans and were pulled by pairs of huge, powerful horses. Each chariot carried a crew of three, and the axle had been placed in the middle of the chariot instead of at the rear in order to support the weight. One of the crewmen was the driver, another carried a large iron-tipped spear, and the third held a shield large enough to protect all three of them in battle.

“Very impressive,” she whispered.

Tithonus squeezed up beside her for a look. “I think they’re clumsy,” he said. “Our chariots are faster.”

“The Kethites don’t need to use speed to outmaneuver an enemy,” the Lycian croaked. “Not with that armament. Why, those spearheads can rip through a shield as if it were made of papyrus.” He was lying flat now on the rocky ground. “The Kethites charge straight into the ranks of their foes, trampling them under the hooves of their horses.” A spasm of coughing shook his body, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise.

Hippolyta started, turned, grabbed the handle of her ax. Someone would have to quiet the Lycian!

But immediately she realized that there was no fear the Kethites would hear him. The thudding of their horses’ hooves and the rumble of chariot wheels was so loud, it felt as though the earth itself trembled at their passing.

Hippolyta stared out through the chink once again. The Kethite soldiers looked as intimidating as their weapons of war. They had round faces with low brows, heavy jaws, and small dark eyes. They wore high pointed helmets with flaps to guard their cheeks. Metal rings were sewn into their tunics to give added protection.

Hippolyta counted at least thirty chariots by the time the last of them passed. This final one trailed a good fifty yards behind the rest, who were fading into dust now.

“Rear guard,” Tithonus whispered.

Hippolyta nodded. Just what she’d been thinking.

“Watch out for that third eye,” he added.

The chariot’s spearman was staring at the shriveled tree where they’d found the Lycian. He pointed and jabbered in an agitated fashion at the driver, who brought the horses to a halt.

Hippolyta swallowed hard when she saw what had caught their attention. It was the Lycian’s bloodstained cloak and the knife.

The spearman leaped down from the chariot and sprinted over to the tree. Laying his spear against the trunk, he picked up the cloak and knife to examine them. He called to his companions in the Kethite tongue and waved his arm around excitedly.

The other two soldiers climbed down to join him, leaving behind the cumbersome shield. Each of them drew a curved sword and examined the ground for further signs of blood. The spearman took up his weapon again.

“They’re like hunting dogs who’ve caught the scent of their quarry,” gasped the Lycian, who was now upright and staring out through another chink in the rocks. “They’ll not stop until they’ve tracked us down.”

“Shh,” Hippolyta hissed at him, thinking that three Kethites were surely more than she could handle. A full-grown Amazon might have a chance against them, but she was still only a girl. Then she thought: If Tithonus and I get on the horse now and bolt for it, we might have a chance. Escape was not for herself but because she knew that she was Themiscyra’s only hope.

“It’s three against three,” said Tithonus, trying to control the quaver in his voice.

“A wounded man and a boy—what use are you to me in a fight?” Hippolyta demanded in a scornful whisper.

“A wounded Lycian,” growled the soldier. “I’m still a match for any Kethite once he’s out of his chariot.”

Hippolyta glared at him. “A tongue is not a sword,” she whispered fiercely. “You’re in no condition to defend yourself. And they’ve found your knife.”

She wondered briefly if she could leave him there to be slaughtered and still preserve the honor of the Amazons.

Probably.

Then came the quick, bitter afterthought: Probably not.

She licked her dry lips and looked at Tithonus. He had turned pale, but he was trying his best to be brave. The shadows from the rock fell across his head like a battle helmet. “I’m ready to fight,” he said in a small voice.

Hippolyta sighed. She didn’t have much of a choice.

“We still have the advantage of surprise,” she told Tithonus, handing him her knife. “Stay hidden, stay low, and leave this to me.”

“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.”