Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE FIRE OF COMBAT

“BE CAREFUL,” TITHONUS WHISPERED BEHIND her.

The concern in his voice irked Hippolyta so much she pushed him aside rudely. Then she walked back to where the old warrior stood and planted herself firmly in front of him.

“Now, old man,” she said, “that we’re both armed, perhaps you will treat me with respect.”

He chuckled, a sound like rushing water over stone. Little water. Large stone. “All you need to do is knock me down to win, Amazon.” The way he said the last word was not a compliment. “Then you will have proved yourself worthy of me.”

“Worthy of you?” Hippolyta felt her cheeks flushing. Yet she willed herself to be calm, counting silently as she’d been taught. Taunting one’s opponent was always the opening gambit of any fight. If the old man really had been a warrior, he would know that well. “You think a lot of yourself.”

“With good reason,” the old man said softly.

Then, with a sudden movement, he twisted his arm, and his staff lashed out at Hippolyta’s face.

She jumped back and felt the wood just brush her nose. “You’re slow, old man.” Holding her own staff horizontally, she fell into a crouch, ready to ward off another blow.

He stepped back and leaned casually on his staff, then picked at his yellow teeth with a casual finger. “That dried venison is so sticky,” he remarked.

The hunger knot in Hippolyta’s stomach tightened at the mention of food, and she launched a swift counterattack with the point of her staff. The old man effortlessly beat her attack aside with his own staff, then whacked her across the back as she fell forward. She landed flat on her face.

“Beaten already, eh?” he cried.

Hippolyta leaped to her feet and spat dirt from her mouth.

“I may be an old dog,” he said, “but I still have plenty of tricks.”

Some trick, Hippolyta thought, but she filed it away in her head for another fight. She let her head hang down as if she were indeed beaten, then charged again without looking.

Once more the old man sidestepped her attack, smacking her across her rear as she went by him. But this time he almost missed.

Hippolyta turned and stood glaring at him, panting, flushed partly with rage and partly with hope.

“You’re like an angry dog snapping at chariot wheels,” the old man said, this time less like a teacher and more like a smug young fighter. “You don’t expect me to stand here and let you hit me?”

Then, without warning, he came at her fast as a viper striking from the undergrowth. His staff jabbed and poked; it swatted and swung with such energy and accuracy Hippolyta backed off as fast as she could. She kept swinging her staff from side to side, trying to protect herself. Finally, she stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell backward onto the ground.

Tithonus rushed toward her, and she waved him off, angrily.

Meanwhile the old man turned his back on her and walked over to the river. He knelt and splashed water on his face, then stood up again.

“Frankly,” he said turning around, “I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have more spirit.”

Getting up, Hippolyta said, “I’ve plenty of spirit.” She no longer addressed him as old man. He hadn’t seemed very old when he was attacking.

“Oh, you’ve got anger enough,” the warrior conceded. “But you don’t know what to do with it. Fire is your friend when it lights your way. It is your friend when it keeps you warm. But if it burns your house down, what use is it to you?”

“Riddles!” Hippolyta said. She spat to one side, to show her disdain, though her mouth was dry as dust.

“I know what he means—” Tithonus began, stopping when Hippolyta glared at him.

“Your riddles won’t protect you,” Hippolyta snapped. She understood without Tithonus’ help what the old man meant. She’d been reckless in her attacks, letting her anger drive her. She’d been too eager to strike him down without sizing him up first, without remembering all her fighting techniques.

She rehearsed them in her head: Don’t let your guard down. Probe your opponent for weaknesses. Watch how he moves. How could she have forgotten?

When she closed with the old warrior this time, she watched with care, calculating the way he used his staff. She checked his feet out of the corner of her eyes.

There! He took a step forward, signaling an attack.

Now she could sidestep his thrust.

Whack! She struck him a glancing blow across his bony shoulder.

He hopped away, grimacing.

“That must have hurt,” she said. “Old bones have little padding.”

He flashed her a fierce grin. “That’s better, girl. Now we’ll really test your mettle.”

He came at her faster than she expected. She blocked high, but he swept his staff low and scooped her feet out from under her. She landed hard on her bottom but leaped up again before the pain could keep her down, aiming a blow at his head, then his knee, then his belly. Not one of the blows connected, but the attack was furious enough to get him to retreat, huffing and puffing, like an old boar in a fight for its life.

“There!” he cried out. “Now your blood is flowing, like a river in spate. And you’re finally using your speed and your strength, instead of simply squandering them.”

Their staffs cracked together, again and again.

Hippolyta had risen above her anger. She was high on battle fever, using it to fuel her ferocity and drive herself on. She repeated the moves she’d practiced since she was a little girl. But now she was putting a passion into each strike that she’d never had before.

An Amazon battle cry burst from her lips. “Aeeeeeeiiiiiii!”

And then she was whipping the staff around the old man like lightning in a summer storm. At last she cracked him across the bald skull, and he toppled like a felled tree.

At once the battle fury left her, and she stood, panting, waiting for him to rise.

Tithonus knelt over the old man.

“Is he—” Hippolyta whispered, “is he alive?”

“I don’t know,” Tithonus said, looking up at her. “But I can’t see a mark on him.”

Just then the ancient sat up and rubbed his head. “That was good,” he said, oblivious of the boy’s astonished face. “Very good.” He found his staff and used it to stand.

Tithonus stepped away, but Hippolyta held her staff ready. She had no energy left, though. She wondered if she could fight any longer.

The old man looked at her. “Took you awhile, girl.” His head nodded up and down, like some sort of addled stork. “But in the end you fought like a warrior. Take your reward, but don’t forget the lesson that comes with it.” He started off into the woodland.

“Sir,” Hippolyta called after him, “you haven’t told me your name.”

The old man turned back slowly. For a long moment he seemed to be studying Hippolyta’s face, as if memorizing it. “I’ll tell you that next time we meet,” he called. “But I will tell you this, turn east and north that way”—he pointed—“and you will get home a lot more quickly than you came to Troy.” Then he grinned broadly, walked into the trees, and disappeared.