Hippolyta wrenched her eyes from the goddess with great difficulty and watched as the gryphon backed Tithonus toward a far wall with lazy confidence. Its sharp claws clicked on the cracked paving stones, its beak snapped playfully. There was a fluttering and a harsh murmur from above as the other gryphons anticipated the kill.
“Come into the temple,” Artemis insisted, mounting the first few steps. “You don’t have to watch this.”
“Don’t believe her,” Tithonus yelled, his voice loud enough to make the gryphon on the ground mantle its wings for a moment. “Don’t believe that story of hers. Who do you think told the people of Arimaspa they could steal from Apollo and get away with it?”
His words hit Hippolyta like darts.
He’s right, she thought suddenly. There’s some wrongness at the heart of Artemis’ story. But she couldn’t think what it could be.
Artemis lifted an arm, and as if that were some signal, the gryphon trailing the boy swept out one of its great wings and knocked him flat on his back. Then it pinned him to the ground with one massive paw.
The goddess smiled a serpent smile, all teeth and no lips, as she watched the creature prepare for the kill.
For an instant Hippolyta saw her again as the old woman, her eyes hardened with years of selfish cruelty.
“Tithonus is right,” Hippolyta gasped. “You—you said an oracle told them how to get past the gryphons. But an oracle only speaks for a god—or a goddess. It was you, wasn’t it, Artemis? It was you who sent the Scythians to rob your brother.”
“What of it?” snapped the goddess, coming back down the steps and seizing Hippolyta by the arm. “Hadn’t Apollo’s followers just dishonored one of my shrines in Arcadia? He started the war, and it was time for his pride to suffer.”
Hippolyta pulled away from the goddess’s icy grip. Raising her ax, she ran toward Tithonus.
The gryphon spotted her and reared up, baring its vicious claws. It screamed at her with its lightning-strike voice, and Tithonus used that moment to scramble away.
Then Hippolyta swung her double-headed ax and sliced clean through the beast’s feathered throat. It fell to the ground, green blood puddling beneath its body.
At once an earsplitting cry went up from the other gryphons, and they rose into the air as one. The beating of their wings sent a huge wind whipping around the square. Tithonus grabbed hold of Hippolyta’s tunic to keep from being blown over.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Hippolyta,” he gasped.
She didn’t answer.
“Come, Hippolyta,” Artemis said sternly. “It’s not too late. I can still grant you sanctuary. Without my help, you’ll be torn to bits, just like the boy.” She beckoned toward the temple.
“Not unless Tithonus goes in there as well,” Hippolyta answered defiantly.
“Impossible!” The goddess’s voice was hard as stone. “Men are not allowed—”
“We live together or die together,” said Hippolyta.
“Why?” the goddess demanded.
“Because—because he’s my brother. Because there’s no reason he should die just for your hurt pride or Apollo’s. Either one of you could lift the curse on the Amazons without any such a sacrifice if you wanted to.”
A gryphon dived out of the sky at her, and she lashed out with her ax. She felt its beak crack under the impact before it wheeled away, shrieking in pain.
Tithonus squared his shoulders and called to the goddess, “If you’re so keen on sacrifices, why don’t you lie down under the dagger yourself?” It was the ultimate challenge. “Then you might not be so ready to watch humans die for your sake.”
“I will watch you die,” said Artemis grimly. “Both of you. And enjoy every last bloody moment.”
The beating of gryphon wings grew louder as the creatures massed above them for a full-scale attack.
“Together,” whispered Tithonus to Hippolyta.
She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. “Yes, together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JUDGMENT
HIPPOLYTA SHOVED TITHONUS BEHIND her and lashed out with her ax. The ax clipped the leg of the closest gryphon and sent it darting up into the sky with a howl of pain. A paw batted the cap from her head as another beast made its strike. Hippolyta ducked. Whirling her ax above her head, she sliced feathers from a passing wing, then cracked another beak.
Meanwhile Tithonus set himself back to back with Hippolyta. He pulled out the knife she’d given him days earlier, and then he too busied himself slashing at their attackers. The screeches, sizzles, and howls of the gryphons were almost deafening, and the breeze whipped up by their wings buffeted the two on every side.
The gryphons renewed their attack, and one managed to slip though the slashing blades, its beak tearing a red stripe down Hippolyta’s arm. Another, sensing an advantage, followed the first in and raked its sharp claws across the back of Hippolyta’s tunic. At the same time, its heavy wing gave Tithonus such a knock on the head, he saw bright stars.
Still, the two children wouldn’t stop fighting. Hippolyta’s ax drew blood time after time. And if Tithonus wounded fewer, it was because he was smaller, with a shorter blade, not because his heart was any less stout.
But they could feel themselves growing tired. Muscles ached, and sweat ran down their brows so quickly neither one could see very well.
Hippolyta guessed that death was now very close at hand. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps this is what I deserve. She’d been only too ready to sacrifice Tithonus a short time ago, and now she would die in a vain effort to save him.
A gryphon landed heavily on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. Whom can I pray to now? Hippolyta thought wildly. Then she thought, Might the gods not accept me as sacrifice in place of the boy? She smiled under the weight of the creature atop her, thinking, Perhaps Tithonus could return to Troy, after all, and carry with him a fond memory of his dead sister.
From somewhere far away she heard Tithonus cry out, but whether it was in pain or anger or joy, she couldn’t tell. She pitched face downward onto the dirt, thinking that the screeching of the gryphons had changed, too. There was terror in it now as well as triumph and rage.
“Oh, Mother,” she whispered through lips as stiff as stone, “wait for me.” And she gave herself over to death.
But death did not seem to want her, and she pushed herself back onto her knees, dimly aware that someone was standing over her, fighting off the gryphons in her stead.
Looking up blearily, she saw a black-bearded warrior in bronze armor wielding a wide-bladed sword and fending off the claws of his attackers with a round shield.
“Polemos!”
Had she said his name aloud? She couldn’t tell. But for a moment he looked down at her and grinned. Then he focused all his energies on the attacking creatures.
Sunlight broke through the shadow of the circling flock as the gryphons drew back from the Lycian’s bloodstained blade. Ten or twelve of them lay dead on the ground by his feet.
Tithonus helped Hippolyta up. His face gleamed with pale horror, but his voice held pure joy. “Look, Hippolyta, it’s Polemos. He’s come out of nowhere to save us!”
“He always comes out of nowhere,” she said.
Breathing hard, she felt as if her chest were on fire, as if her whole body had been beaten with hammers.
“You can call off your pets now, Apollo!” Polemos yelled over the din of the gryphons.
Hippolyta gasped at his tone.
“If I don’t,” a smooth voice replied, “they’ll beat you eventually and eat your little pets. You know that, don’t you?”