Chapter One
Her blade whistled through the air, sure and unwavering, first through the warrior’s leather armor, then through the soft flesh of his belly.
A spray of blood arced upward as he toppled from his horse.
Already racing away, Hippolyte paid him no mind.
Her mare’s hooves churned the dry earth beneath them, sending up clouds of dust as the queen locked her aim on her next victim.
Within moments, he too lay face down in the dirt.
From all around came the clang of metal—swords against shields, arrowheads against breastplates—and the stench of blood, bitter and cloying, hung densely in the arid air.
The aroma was one she knew well. One of battle.
Of sweat and pain. Burning skin under the glare of Helios’s sun, of horses slick with perspiration.
But above all else, it was the scent of victory.
Their adversaries, who only an hour ago had been screaming in rage and fervor, were now crying in fear, begging for mercy, choking as they drowned in their own blood.
If they were fortunate, her women would offer them a swift death.
Flies had already arrived in droves, settling on open wounds, buzzing around the corpses already graying in the dirt.
By the time the last scream had faded, and the sun had reached its zenith, the earth was crimson with the blood of the fallen.
Hippolyte cast her gaze across the scene. These were young men. Some barely in their teens. It was a weak king who thought to send such boys to face them.
“Back home to Pontus and Themiscyra, my queen?”
Hippolyte turned to face Penthesilea. Her sister sat upright upon her horse, her embroidered tunic, leather trousers, and boots—the traditional warriors’ garb—possibly even more stained with the colors of battle than Hippolyte’s own.
The princess’s bow was stowed in a sling on her back, the elegant weapon with its double curve, smaller than those their enemies favored.
Smaller than those that littered the ground around them.
The bow had been carved, planed, and strung by Penthesilea’s own hand.
Wood and bone, shaved off in the finest of slivers, imperceptible to some, yet enough to shift the weapon’s balance and ensure the truest of flights.
Hippolyte could not imagine how many arrows had been loosed from it that day, how many bronze tips had met their target, piercing hearts or skulls. Penthesilea’s arrows did not miss.
“Back home to Themiscyra, sister,” the queen replied. “Although first we must collect our payment.”
It was a handsome settlement; the best they had received in months.
The bulk was in metals—gold, iron, bronze—that would be hammered out or melted down, but there were other items, too.
There were jewels, both raw stones and those already cut and polished.
There was pottery. There was even a lyre, and although she did not play herself, Hippolyte knew many of the women would strike a fine tune from it.
Within the city walls, the king had thanked them profusely, bowing low to the ground in the awkward, angular movements of one unaccustomed to such humility, even less so toward women.
Hippolyte was almost as uncomfortable with the display as he was.
Afterward, settled into a more reposeful posture, he asked if they wished to stay the night.
Most kings prayed she would refuse and offered only out of courtesy, and this was the case today.
She could not help but note the flash of relief dart across his face when she declined his offer and found herself feeling a pang of sympathy for the man.
This was unlikely to be the last battle they fought for him.
Their saddlebags full and their horses rested, they began the ride east, back to the region of Pontus and their citadel home, Themiscyra.
The journey to the edge of the Black Sea would take two days at a leisurely pace. If needed, they could ride at a gallop and without stopping unless unavoidable—that was the way they had ridden to reach here—but the women and the horses had earned a little respite.
Blue skies, scattered with feather-like clouds that hovered motionless in the still air, stretched above them as they rode.
On a clear day like today, from its southernmost point, they could see all of Anatolia.
To the north, beyond the Sea of Marmara, was Thrace, and west, across the Aegean, lay Thessaly and Athens.
They had traveled to these places, and further still.
They had traveled to Thebes and the Peloponnese, called to fight for kings who might otherwise have lost their lands.
Called to rain their arrows on armies with whom they had no quarrel.
And paid handsomely for it. Sometimes the battles would come one after another, and they would race from one beleaguered land to the next, always ready, always victorious.
But for now, they were headed home to rest, basking in the scent of the ferns that littered the hillsides around them.
Women chattered as they rode. There was always a rush that came after battle.
The adrenaline that had lent them such force and ferocity now drew words from their lips as quickly as the blood had spilled from their enemies.
Such exuberant conversation between her women might endure for miles, over plains and through valleys, across rivers and around grand lakes.
Yet inevitably, at some point before the sun set on that first day after a battle, the quiet would descend.
The quiet in which they recalled those they had lost. Those that had been granted the most honorable of deaths. A warrior’s death. An ’s death.
“Four women made their first kill today.”
It was Antiope who spoke to the queen through the quiet. “Four who can ride with us to the Gargareans next spring.”
“That is good news. I will meet with them personally upon our arrival home.”
Shortly after midday, they halted at a shallow lake that had survived the droughts of summer. Shingle stones shimmered beneath the surface as the women knelt to wash the blood and grime from their skin and watched as swirls of red eddied from their palms.
While Hippolyte and her sisters considered Themiscyra their home, this was not the case for all Amazons.
Certainly, many dwelled within the citadel walls, with the protection and luxuries provided by so many warriors living in close proximity, but there were those who found such a life constrictive and claustrophobic.
These nomads spent their time away from the battles wandering the steppes and camping out beneath the stars.
They hunted with bow or spear, preferring to make small fires and pick the meat from the bones of the birds and beasts they had caught alone, rather than with the company of the other women.
They craved solidarity, returning to join the rest of the warriors only on those occasions that required them to do so.
At festivals, or to fight, or to embark upon the annual springtime trek south to the Gargareans.
There was no enmity between the two groups of women.
The queen had no preference in how the women lived and did not judge one way of life more favorably than another.
Each woman could choose to spend her days in the manner in which she found the greatest delight, and each woman would therefore fight for it with the strongest fire.
By the time they had pitched their bivouacs, the sun had long since sunk below the horizon, and streams of stars glimmered above them.
A chorus of cicadas hummed and buzzed, a complement to the chatter of the women.
Lying with her back on the grass, her sword by her side, Hippolyte listened.
This was her favorite time to learn—the night after a battle had been fought and won.
The women would regale their comrades with stories of their opponents: how they fought, how close they came to striking them down.
The maneuvers they had mastered and those that had nearly lost them their life.
The queen would seal it all away in the back of her mind, ensuring they would not make the same mistakes again.
They had lost a dozen women that day. Nothing when set against the hundreds their opponents had suffered, but more than was acceptable.
They had brought the bodies with them, wrapped tightly in linen to be returned to their homes in Pontus.
They would perform a proper burial there, committing the women to the land with their weapons and horses and all the honor they deserved.
Next time, Hippolyte told herself as the fire sizzled and spat, she would not lose any. And she would offer a greater sacrifice to her father. Her father. Her immortal father. Ares, the God of War.
* * *
On the second day, the sky had brightened to the point of brilliance, Helios’s glow so radiant they were forced to pull their hats lower on their heads and squint so tightly their eyes were barely open.
The grass they trudged was short, brittle, and brown, and the horses flicked their tails, agitated by a heat that caused the flies to buzz in swarms and their coats to darken with sweat.
Spring was a swift season in these parts, with lush green turning dusty and arid almost overnight.
Heat rippled from the ground, blurring the air immediately above it.
This part of the journey would end soon enough, though.
The further northwest they traveled, the cooler it would become.
And by nightfall, Pontus, and perhaps even Themiscyra, would be in view.