“The centaurs began this war,” Hippodamia said. “The centaurs broke the peace. You have a duty to make it right, not worse! If you had offered terms, Pirithous would have listened. He would have done everything in his power to keep peace between our peoples.”
“He has no power,” Hylonome spat. “If he did, he would not have told us to run. To flee before his people came for our blood.”
“The centaurs wronged them,” she said. “Wronged me because King Peleus whispered lies in Eurytion’s ears, knowing what he would start. Do you not see this is what they want? An excuse for war and butchery! Peleus makes fools of you, using you for his own ends, his own reasons. If you had gone, shown that you meant no further threat to the Lapiths, Pirithous and I might have persuaded them, in time, to give up their anger, their thirst for vengeance. But not now. Not ever again, if you continue on this path. You sentence our people to death, if you charge!”
“But the Lapiths will die with us,” Cyllarus said, baring his teeth. “And when we are finished, King Peleus will kill the rest. We will have peace after that, the fool men in their palaces too weakened to bother with hunting us. Peace on our terms!”
“It is no use, Lady,” Theseus said, his voice low. “He is committed. And by the sound of it, Peleus has struck his own bargain with your people, now. One in which you have no place.”
She shook her head, and beneath her, Podarkes stamped the earth. “You are blinded by lust and rut, Cyllarus, if you think Peleus will treat you with anything but contempt. The Lapiths are our brothers, our blood, through Ixion.”
“And Ixion is dead,” he snarled. “Pirithous is no son of his, no kin of ours at all. You plead with me for your own sake, that you might return to your husband’s bed without guilt. To save his life, more than ours. And now that I know it, now that we all have seen where your loyalties truly lie, we need not worry ourselves over your sacrifice. Go back to your palace, go cower behind your walls, and when your husband dies, you will see the truth in how quickly the Lapiths turn you out.”
“Come, Mia,” Theseus said, catching hold of Podarkes’s bridle. “You need not listen to this. You have done your duty to your father’s dream.”
But she had one last thing to say, and she raised her voice, lifting it to be heard even by those who waited in the trees.
“At the shrine, you promised that if the Lapiths must pay in blood for peace, the centaurs would offer their share of it in sacrifice. You knew the omens, and you agreed to the price. If you do this, if you fight this battle against the Lapiths, you are oathbreakers and betrayers! You are beasts.”
Cyllarus growled, drawing a sword from a scabbard across his back. Theseus jerked Podarkes’s bridle, cursing, but Hippodamia dropped from the horse’s back to stand before the centaur she had once counted as a friend. She lifted her chin and spread her arms wide as the point of the blade pressed against her throat. A blade he should not have had at all, for centaurs did not carry swords. None but Chiron knew how to forge metals from the earth, and men were rarely willing to trade good bronze up the mountain.
“Go ahead,” she said. “You are so determined to destroy everything Centaurus built, everything he worked toward, why should you not begin with me?”
“Cyllarus, stop this,” Hylonome hissed. “You cannot strike her down this way. Not here, not now. Sheath your blade and leave her to the Lapiths. That is punishment enough for her betrayal.”
The tip of the blade pressed harder against her throat, pricking her skin, and she felt the cold chill of her blood welling beneath its edge.
Then Cyllarus reared, twisting away from the arrow that had appeared in the ground at his hooves. Hylonome cried out, and that time, Hippodamia heard the thwip of the arrow as it flew through the air, sinking into the dirt.
“Come, Lady!” Theseus urged, whirling upon his horse and offering his arm to her. “Quickly!”
Hippodamia grasped it, swinging up behind him onto his mare. Podarkes followed close at her tail as Theseus kicked her into a gallop, back toward the wall and the gate. She could hear the thunder of hooves behind her, and knew the centaurs charged down the mountain, chasing after them. But if nothing else, she had given Pirithous and his people more time. Time to find safety. Time to gather behind the walls. Podarkes squealed and charged ahead, leaving them choking on dust, and Theseus pushed the mare faster.
The gate opened just wide enough to allow them through, and arrows thudded hard against the wood at her back as it closed again. Pirithous had Podarkes by the bridle, and torches were lit inside the walls, blindingly bright after the darkness on the mountain.
“Easy,” he said, but he handed her horse off to Machaon the moment their eyes met, and he half pulled her from the mare’s back, searching her face, her body for any sign of injury or harm. He touched her throat, his fingers gentle. “He cut you.”
She buried her face in the curve of his neck in answer, her mouth too dry with dust to speak and her thoughts too scattered. He wrapped her in his arms, and if he felt her trembling, he made no mention of it, only tucked her head beneath his chin.
“Brave mouse,” he murmured. “All the women and children are safe because of you. Inside the palace, now, where I would send you, if I thought for a moment you would go.”
She might have laughed if her chest were not so tight with sorrow. “He would not listen. He says I have betrayed them. And Peleus. They’ve come to terms with Peleus.”
“That sword was Phthian bronze,” Theseus said, though she had not realized he stood with them still. “No doubt he means for the centaurs to weaken you, to waste their lives in order to tire your men. I expect Peleus will be here by morning, hoping to catch you exhausted by a night of battle.”
“Then we will have to save our strength,” he said grimly. “I will go and speak to the men, ask for half of them to remain behind, in reserve. Even to rest, if they are able, assuming the centaurs do not break down our gates.”
“My lord!” a man called, half-frantic.
Pirithous grunted, releasing her from his arms too soon to take her by the hand instead, squeezing tightly. “Antiope is on the wall with a bow and quiver for you. Go to her, and do not take any further risks, I beg of you. Unless there is anything else I should know?”
She shook her head. “Nothing that Theseus cannot tell you. But you must live, Pirithous. It is you they want dead more than anyone, to punish me. To punish us both.”
He grinned, bringing her fingers to his lips. “I would not give them the satisfaction, I promise you. And this time I will know how best to defend myself.”
It was a relief to know he spoke truly. That she had shown him the way herself. And from the wall, she would be better able to watch him, even to guard him, if she must, though her aim was not so well-honed as Antiope’s, and she had never thought to hunt her own people with the bow.
“I will find you when this is over,” Pirithous promised. “But if Peleus comes before we finish, do not stay atop the wall. Go to the palace. To the storeroom. You remember? Antiope will know how to shift the stone. Bring as many of the women and children with you as will follow. You will be safest there.”
“And you?”
He closed his hand upon the pommel of his sword. “I am a son of Zeus. Unless Peleus brings Heracles to fight for him, he will not win. At worst, I will simply be a few horses poorer come nightfall.”
She prayed to the gods he was not wrong, and went as he asked, to join Antiope upon the wall.
There were arrows still to fear, even upon the walls, and she and Antiope took shelter half-bent behind the stone, their own arrows nocked and ready to fly as needed.
“You are a fool!” Antiope said, her eyes liquid in the moonlight. Upon the wall, they depended on shadow for safety, and Antiope had nearly knocked one of the men senseless with his own brand when she saw him trying to light a torch. But now her fury was directed only at Hippodamia, and she could not deny that she deserved it. “Pirithous did not see what ha
ppened, his eyes spoiled by the fire, but I did, and if you ever do anything of the kind again, it will be my sword at your throat, I promise you.”
“He would not have killed me,” she said, though she was not so sure she believed it, now. Her fingers itched to touch the soft scab at her throat, but she forced herself to fidget with her bow instead. A better excuse not to meet Antiope’s eyes.
“You make a poor liar,” Antiope snapped. “And as long as you are on the wall with me, you will do as I say. I will not have Pirithous holding your injury over my head for the rest of my days, and I do not intend to let you put yourself in danger again.”
She glanced over the top of the wall, catching glimpses of fire and centaurs racing past, some with clubs, others with swords. Pirithous had kept the men inside the walls, so far, but she knew it would not last. Already, smoke rose in thick black plumes, blocking the stars. The houses were burning, along with the goat sheds and the fields. And the men wanted blood, just as the centaurs did. Putting out fires inside the walls would not sate them for long.
“What will we eat when this is over?” she heard herself say, her gaze caught upon the burning grain. “The wheat is utterly lost.”
“Pirithous has stores, and plenty to trade for more, if what he has set aside is not enough. But Theseus is sure to offer foodstuffs, and unlikely to accept anything in payment for the kindness.”
“Hylonome and Cyllarus want Pirithous dead, in the hopes that the Lapiths will turn upon me after he is gone. That I might suffer for my betrayal. For speaking as my father would have, with reason instead of rage.”
Antiope grasped her wrist. “If the Lapiths send you from their midst, you will always have a place at my side, in Athens. And as Pirithous’s bride, Theseus would give you his protection even if I did not insist upon it. You have nothing to fear, Hippodamia.”
But it was not fear of losing her place among the Lapiths that chewed at her insides. It was not fear of how they might treat her. It was fear for Pirithous. Pirithous, who was all she had left.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Pirithous
Pirithous did not like dividing his men. A few dozen at each of the gates, ready with swords and dressed in leather armor; his best archers upon the walls, half-blind in the dark; and the other half of them held reluctantly back, though Pirithous did not think they would remain so for long. Had he men and space to spare beyond that, he would have sent them for his horses, but even with the delay Hippodamia had provided they could not have returned them to the shelter of the palace in time.
He could only hope that Atukhos would scatter the herds, that Peleus would not find them so easily raided in any great number. A few mares here or there did not matter, but the wealth of the Lapiths depended upon the herds, and with the crops burned, they would need to trade the horses for food, or risk starvation come winter.
“My lord, we cannot wait here, putting out fires inside the walls and letting them destroy our fields and our homes,” Melanthos said. “The men do not have your patience, and I must admit that mine wears thinner by the moment, as well.”
“Short of breaking down the gates, the centaurs cannot breach our walls. We are safe, Melanthos. And what is the rest? Nothing we cannot rebuild, or plant again. Nothing we cannot recover, given time.”
“Perhaps if they had not already killed our brothers, our fathers, raped our wives and daughters, it would be easier to cower behind these walls, to let them have their way this night. But not after what we have already suffered at their hands. This is insult added to grave injury, to grief. We who have fought with you will do whatever you ask, but you cannot ask this of the others. These men will not be satisfied by anything less than blood.”
“And as their king, I should let them throw themselves upon centaur swords?” Pirithous demanded.
Melanthos looked away, staring at the gate, where the constant thud of arrows and clubs could be heard over the voices of his men. “You are my king, Pirithous, and I am proud to name you so, but these others—they do not know you as I do. To them, this is weakness, not strength. To them, this is proof you have betrayed us to the centaurs by your marriage to Hippodamia. If you wish to keep your throne, you must let them fight. You must lead them in battle—now, tonight.”
He knew it. Had known it from the start. But he liked hearing it even less than he cared for dividing his men. And even worse, it meant opening the gates, and if even one man’s courage failed then, the centaurs would have opportunity to invade the palace itself. And he could not afford that fight. Not now. Not with Peleus and his Myrmidons waiting for the sun to rise.
“I want our men at the gate when it opens. The blooded raiders, ready to cut down any centaur who forces his way through. Gather them, and we will fight.”
Melanthos nodded, his lips curving in anticipation, and left him. Pirithous glanced up at the wall, at Antiope and Hippodamia huddled against the stone, taking turns shooting into the dark beyond, harrying the centaurs for whatever good it would do. He wished he could stay at her side. Wished he could sweep her away from all of this, that she need never watch her people die.
“Which gate will you open?” Theseus asked, rejoining him not long after. Pirithous had sent him off to the village gate to check on the men there, but Melanthos would surely have spoken with him. Not that he intended to allow Theseus into the fray. If Pirithous failed, he needed someone he could trust inside the walls to keep his people safe. To keep Hippodamia safe.
Pirithous grimaced. “I suppose that depends a great deal upon how much smoke cloaks the village. The centaurs have better vision in the dark, and I would rather not watch my men choke to death before they see battle.”
“It would provide them more cover than the mountainside. The centaurs seem less intent upon breaking through at the main gate, besides. Too busy destroying the buildings beyond the walls to bother with what they cannot yet reach.”
“Then they make the choice for me.” And he could only hope it was not some cunning on their part, to drive him out with the river ahead and the walls behind. If Cyllarus had planned this—or even hoped for it—he would be leading his men into a trap. “What is there to be seen from the walls?”
Theseus shook his head. “Smoke more than anything else. Movements and shadows. We must keep the men close to the ground and pressed against the walls until they escape its cloak.”
“Not we,” Pirithous said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “I need you here. To lend the men upon the walls your wisdom, and guard the mountain gate against invasion. Hippodamia, as well.”
“Your wife seems well able to care for herself.” Theseus’s gaze shifted over his shoulder, and Pirithous knew he watched the women. “She will not be in any real danger unless this ends badly, but I suspect Antiope would serve her well enough as a protector, even so.”
“If I do not survive the battle, I would know you live to shelter her in Athens. She has no one else, nothing else but us, now.”
Theseus grunted. “It is a good thing we did not marry before now, or neither one of us would have any reputation at all, the way we are so desperate to live for our wives. Go then, and may Zeus and Athena see you safe. I will guard both our women and your palace, though I hope you do not expect me to stay behind when Peleus comes.”
Pirithous grinned. “You may be among the first to fight against the Myrmidons, I promise you. At least they will fight like men rather than beasts.”
“Go!” Theseus said again, his smile wry. “Before I change my mind.”
He did not know how many centaurs waited beyond the walls, and though many of his people were desperate to spill their blood, there were only a few dozen he could trust to keep their heads in battle. Less than half of the men who would follow him through the gates.
“We are ready,” Melanthos said, touching his fist to his forehead. “The gate opens at your word.”
“Be wary,” Pirithous told him. “If this is a trap meant to lure us, I would not have the
bulk of our men caught unawares.”
“Centaurs haven’t the cunning for ruses, my lord,” Melanthos said.
Pirithous bit his tongue on an argument, and gripped his shoulder briefly in answer, instead. Melanthos might not agree, but he would do as Pirithous asked. He always did.
From the main gate, he could not see Hippodamia. Did not know if she realized he had gone to lead his men. She would know it soon enough, he supposed, and he could only hope she would not watch too closely.
“Cyllarus and the centaurs have come for our blood,” he called out, raising his voice to be heard even upon the walls. “They accuse us of false crimes, of false friendship, while they break our most sacred bonds of hospitality and alliance. They have murdered our men, raped our women. They offend the gods and betray your queen! Tonight, we fight for those they have taken from us. And we must win!”
The men roared, swords thumping against the wood and leather of their round shields. Leather armor and hide shields would do little to protect against the swing of a club or the kick of powerful hindquarters, but they would prevent an arrow from sinking too deep into a man’s chest, perhaps even stop it from drawing blood altogether, if the gods were with them. Melanthos and most of the rest of his raiders wore bronze chest plates, greaves, and bracers, though Pirithous was not sure how much good that would do them against the centaurs, either.
He jerked his chin at the gate, and the heavy wooden bar was removed, the wide doors groaning slowly open.
“Stay low and close to the walls!” Pirithous commanded. “And keep together.”
Otherwise they would be run down, one at a time. But it would do him no good to say as much. The men who would obey would live, and those too rattled to listen would break from the line no matter what warning he gave.
He did not wait for the gate to open fully, but slipped through with Melanthos the moment he could fit, crouching low. He’d abandoned his bronze helm, and chosen a wooden shield wrapped in hide rather than metal. The bronze would only reflect the fire light, and he preferred the cover of shadow. Sometimes, in the night, he could convince a tired guard to ignore the evidence of his own eyes, but against the centaurs, he was unsure of his power. Lust and rage were not easily squelched, and while he could easily fan the flames of those emotions, it would only give the centaurs greater strength in the moments when he would no doubt wish them exhausted instead.
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