Hippolyta: Ultimate Loyalty

Hippolyta

Ultimate Loyalty

by Ian Johnstone

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Ian Johnstone

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter One

The army of Amazon warriors stopped on the edge of the forest. They wanted to be certain there was no danger before venturing out onto the lightly snow-covered hills to their front. They were still hidden by the small evergreen trees and shrubs of the forest through which they had just passed, while their queen remained sitting on her black stallion looking towards the hill. On either side was a sloping knoll that curled around and forward, hiding anything that might have been there.

It was the perfect place for an ambush. If the queen’s army was being hunted, she might have been worried. As it was, she was doing the chasing and she was merely cautious. Somewhere in front of them was a small detachment of Attila’s army. She had been warring with the Hun for a long time, and this splinter group was an itch that needed scratching.

Hippolyta looked down at the man standing beside her horse. He was six feet in height with jet black hair, brown eyes and thick eyelashes. The muscles on his fit, young body were shining with sweat from hours of running. The army’s horses had left him far behind, and yet it had not been long before he had caught her up and once more took his place at the side of her horse. He was only twenty-five years old, but he was more than simply another slave to her. He had placed himself between her and the Hun on so many occasions.

What she would ask him to do now would test his loyalty to the limit, not that she felt the need to test his loyalty. She considered the options. Was there another way to draw the Hun out into the open? She could not think of one. She was on the point of giving her commands when he began to speak, keeping his voice low so that no one else would hear.

I do not like the look of the hill, my Lady. There could be a trap. Bataar will know that the only exit from this forest is where we are now. They could be waiting for us just over the hill, and we cannot see the lay of the land from here. If it pleases you, I will run out of the trees and up the hill, and then I can report back. If Bataar is there and sees me, he might think that I am just a messenger. The chances are that he will show himself and the position of his men. In any event, my Lady, this is the only way back for him.

Hippolyta knew he had volunteered to take the responsibility from her of having to send someone to what would be almost certain death if Bataar chose to attack. The young man was a devoted slave, but he was a slave of his own making. She had found him on the shores of the Black Sea over a year previously, and he had been at her side from that day. His swordsmanship was second to none. She enjoyed his banter and his company. Sometimes at night, during the winter months, had she allowed him to share her cot. Now, he was prepared to go forward for her in the knowledge that his chances of survival were slim, and yet understanding that the queen and her army were at risk if no one took that chance. She was reluctant to let him do as he asked.

As if he was reading her mind, he began speaking again. You must let me do as I ask, my Lady. Your safety is my only concern, but the Hun must be defeated.

Hippolyta stared at him. She was Queen of the Amazons living on the eastern shores of the Black Sea, and the Amazon warriors in her army called her by her given name. Taras treated her like a queen, and when she allowed him to make love to her he treated her like a goddess.

Hippolyta turned to the army and commanded, Pass the order quietly. Unsheathe your swords and be ready to charge at a moment’s notice. As she looked down at Taras, he took hold of her trailing hand and kissed it.

May your gods be with you, Taras.

She was reluctant to let go of his hand, but he slipped from grasp and smiled at her. There was nothing more to be said, and he ran from the forest alone.

She watched him run forward between the sloping knolls, kicking up the snow as he moved. Then, just before he had reached the bottom of the rise, a lone archer stepped onto the skyline. Unseen by Taras who had his head lowered, the archer cocked and aimed his bow to shoot. Taras was a hundred paces from the woodland when the arrow struck him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

Moments later, the splinter army had gathered behind the archer, all of them on horseback. The leader moved his horse forward, and shouted. You will have to do better than that, you whore. Don’t send a boy to do a woman’s work. That murdering barbarian has received his just rewards for being a pain in my side for so long. I, Bataar, the most powerful General after Attila, challenge you, bitch, to catch me if you can.

He laughed loudly, turned his horse and led his army over the brow away from Hippolyta. The sound of their hooves could be heard as they galloped down the other side of the hill.

It had all happened very quickly, and now the queen’s army were racing forward from the trees towards where Taras lay. Hippolyta guided her horse at Taras’ body, and while the horse was still moving she slipped from its back to his side. The rest of the army continued to the top of the hill in pursuit of the Hun, but by the time they reached the summit Bataar and his army had disappeared deeper into the mountains. Wearily, Hippolyta’s army returned to where their queen had dismounted.

She had Taras’s head cradled in her arms. He was alive but only just. He looked up at her and in a whisper said, Put my sword in my hand, my Lady.

With tears in her eyes she did as he asked. Looking down at him she said, You served your queen well, Taras, and this will not go unavenged. We will have you back in the village in no time to tend your wound.

I am dying, my Lady. There will be no more sunrises for me. It is for you to avenge my death with the death of Bataar. I will be watching over you from near the seat of the gods. Please, as a last favour to your slave, kiss me one last time. Hippolyta leaned over and kissed him on the lips, and as she did so his eyes closed for the last time.

She pulled his body to her breast and cried, until her second in command touched her shoulder. We must leave him here, Hippolyta, and go after the Hun.

Hippolyta looked up, and with venom in her voice she said, "We leave him nowhere. Make a litter. We are taking him back to the village, and he will be given a funeral befitting a warrior and a hero.

My army will rest there awhile. We will gather our strength and join with those who have followed behind us. The thunder of our galloping horses will be loud enough to wake the gods, and we will find that piece of shit and his army. I swear I shall not rest until I have avenged the death of Taras, and those who have done this will have no peace before I have my revenge. They may wear the feather of a bird as their emblem, but even if they were able to fly they would not escape me. No, they will not be hard to find. Sooner or later they must come out of the mountains the same way as they rode in. I will kill them without mercy, and every one of them will feel the pain they gave me this day.

* * * * *

Attila’s army had found little serious resistance as it rampaged across Europe, killing, raping, looting, destroying and generally having a good time. It was not, perhaps, the disorganised frenzy it might have appeared, although the Huns had little time for recording their successes or failures, and what little of their history has been recorded was done almost entirely by their enemies, who were undoubtedly a little biased against them.

Be that as it may, Attila’s military skills must have gone far beyond uttering a few grunts and charging headlong to overcome his enemies by brute force, as scribes of the time might have suggested. His army was one of the most feared by the Roman Empire, and it was far too large to have been commanded directly by one man.

Attila had generals, and a well-organised command structure. He was wary of his flanks and his supply routes, and never one to leave an area unchecked if there was any chance of it harbouring a threat that could later rise up and cause him serious problems.

So it was that Bataar had arrived on the eastern shores of the Black Sea, on the instructions of a commander known only as Chernobog, although one may suppose that it was an assumed name and not actually the mythical, much-feared dark god of the Slavic people whose name was synonymous with evil for the sake of evil. Probably.

No doubt it was thought unlikely that Bataar would meet any major problems in that area, for he came with no more than fifteen hundred warriors, and Attila’s more senior commanders could hardly have failed to notice that Bataar was not the sharpest blade in the armoury when it came to military tactics. It was, undoubtedly, just a matter of attention to detail; the same attention that accounted for Attila’s other military successes, and Bataar was unimportant enough to be assigned to this inconsequential task.

Unfortunately for Bataar, on the shores of the Black Sea he and his small army came upon a great force that neither he nor Attila nor any of the other commanders had expected.

It was as Bataar and some of his army were intent on the important task of ransacking a small and apparently defenceless village near the lower hills to the north of the Caucasus Mountains that it began to go horribly wrong. One man was holding them up, and had succeeded in striking down many of Bataar’s army that had entered the village. In fact, Bataar had taken only fifty warriors into that village while allowing the main body to go ahead, and now one young barbarian warrior was killing the Hun warriors as fast as they attacked him, not seeming to be worried by how many were fighting him at any one time.

When one of Bataar’s men heard a horn being blown some distance away and looked up to the hill at the rear of the village, his expression of elation at being involved in the usual looting and pillaging – albeit somewhat delayed by the one young barbarian warrior who would surely fall against Bataar’s overwhelming forces shortly – turned to real fear.

Bataar looked in the same direction, and it would be fair to say that his expression changed to one of utter terror.

Charging down the hill towards them was a huge army of women on horses.

He had heard rumours of this army of Amazon women, led by their queen. He knew also of what would happen if he were caught in this village. There were stories of what had happened to other warriors of Attila’s army who had been taken by these women, although Bataar had privately doubted their existence. Now he could see them for himself, he could well believe that the stories were true, and this was the merciless army that had fought the Hun along the coast of the Black Sea and north of the Caucasus Mountains. This village they were ransacking was undoubtedly in the queen’s realm and Bataar was now left with only a few of the Hun warriors he had taken into the village; the rest were dead and strewn all around him, courtesy of the young barbarian warrior.

Leave this barbarian to fight these women from hell and mount up, Bataar shouted as he saw the advancing army coming rapidly closer. We must move fast. We are in the wrong position to fight a battle with these devil women.

Bataar might have been ranked as a general of Attila’s army, but his ability to lead was debateable. The commanders below him and above him considered him to be a liability, and he frequently made stupid mistakes. It was surprising that he had never been deposed, but there were good reasons that he had managed to sustain his position.

The small group of Hun, consisting of only swordsmen, rapidly mounted their horses and swiftly rode out of the village to join up with the rest of Bataar’s forces that had already moved on. By the time the army of Amazons arrived, they were a great distance away down the valley.

The Amazon army stopped just outside the village, allowing a group of twenty warriors to ride forward. At the head of the group was a woman riding a black stallion, with a female warrior on either side of her. All three had their swords out with shields on their arms. The leader was sitting upright as if proud of herself, and like the other two riding at her side she kept looking all about the village for danger.

She was dressed in furs, and so too were the others in her army of Amazons. They all wore long, knee-length fur boots, cross-laced around the ankle and leg to just below the knee. Their skirts were of soft animal hide, but the jackets were of thick fur and so too was their headwear. Some carried a bow, some a spear, and some a labry – a double-edged axe – but all had a sword at their sides, hanging from a wide leather belt, and each one of them was a proficient swordswoman as well as being skilled in her primary chosen weapon. There was a toughness about them that belied their femininity, with weather-beaten faces and the appearance of being seasoned fighters.

As they rode into the small village, which was no more than a few scattered dwellings, the peasants began to come out from their simple huts, but what surprised Hippolyta was the number of dead Hun scattered between the buildings. She knew these villagers were not fighters, and yet Hippolyta counted at least thirty dead bodies.

Be aware, this village has an army to protect it, Hippolyta told the women warriors accompanying her. She knew that it was usual to find that the young men of the villages were killed by the Hun, not the other way round. It was because so many young men had died over the years when the marauding Hun ransacked the villages that Hippolyta’s army was made up exclusively of women fighters and, as her ancestors had done, she invariably found that the women were more trustworthy.

When she saw an old man come from one of the dwellings carrying a staff and moving towards her with confidence that the other villagers lacked, Hippolyta stopped and looked down at him. He had a smile on his face, and yet there was anger there too.

Have you not taken enough from us? What more do you want? he shouted up at her. If I were younger I would give you a good fight.

He was at least seventy years old, and it made Hippolyta smile to think that this old man had such courage.

He gazed up at her, defiant. This woman sitting proudly on the horse before him was only in her mid-twenties, and yet her face spoke of years of experience. Her long, black hair blew behind her in the gentle breeze curling through the village, and her face was long, narrow, with high cheekbones and her skin tanned and roughened by the harsh weather. Despite her tough exterior, she was a rare beauty that held the eye and made men catch their breath when they saw her.

Yes, old man, she told him. I think you might well have done, but where are your fighters, your army that destroyed all these Hun? I have not come here to rob you. We have no need to steal from our own people, and I am Hippolyta, Queen of this realm and of your village.

The man laughed. He shouted to the others gathered around. Where is our army, our queen asks? We have no army, and our young men are long dead. We can ill afford to live, let alone pay for an army. As we starve and live in fear of being burned in our homes, the Hun ride through your realm taking what little we have left.

Then who killed all these Hun?

That was Taras, and he will not fear you. Nor will he be frightened or defeated by the Hun.

Where is this Taras?

You will find him at the end of the village. You had better take care: he is more dangerous than the fifty Hun who came this time. The dead strewn about the street were killed by him.

Then step aside, old man. I have business with this Taras.

The man did as she asked, and Hippolyta and her group of Amazons rode past him slowly.

On hearing what the old man had said to Hippolyta, the Amazons remained on the alert. Hippolyta had seen the Hun ride off at great speed, and she knew that the danger to the village was over for the moment. Later, she would follow the Hun, and she fully intended to chase them from the shores of the Black Sea and from her realm, but for now she intended to investigate this Taras who had, apparently, defeated so many Hun fighters single handed.

At the end of the village, the Amazons stopped their horses while Hippolyta stared at a small lean-to with two small goats tethered to a post, just outside. It was remarkable that any animals were still alive in the village, as it was the Huns’ custom to take animals and food first from the villages, to keep their armies supplied. On the left of the goats, sitting on a large stone and sharpening a broad sword, was a man. He was unlike the other men in the village, who were mostly old and frail. This man was young, and he looked after his body. His muscles were toned and oiled, and there was a band around his forehead keeping his long, black hair out of his eyes. The upper part of his body was naked, but on the lower part he wore trousers of soft leather that were tight to his skin. On his feet he had soft leather boots that were much the same as those that Hippolyta and her army were wearing. She could see that this person was no ordinary swordsman, but a young barbarian warrior.

He did not look up, but it was evident he had registered their presence and did not anticipate any danger. Ignoring them, he dipped a stone into water before running it along the blade of his sword. Hippolyta was amused by the indifference this young man showed her and her army. When she confronted most strangers, they usually cowered away in fear of the power that exuded from her. Are you, Taras? she asked in a loud voice.

Now he looked up at her, but still showed no concern that the weapons of the others were pointing in his direction. He did not even look at them. Then, to Hippolyta’s surprise, he looked down at his sword and gave the long blade another stroke of the stone. Yes, I am Taras. Who is asking?

I am, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. This village is in my realm.

He looked up at her again, smiled and glanced at her warriors as if seeing them for the first time, only to look down once more as he gave his sword two more strokes of the stone. "If it were not for the fact that I am busy sharpening my sword, I would run over to throw myself at your feet, my Lady. At the same