The midday sun poured like molten gold into the gorge. The air shimmered. Dust motes hung like powdered gold. The rock walls carved the light and shadow into a stage. Set for a play of vengeance.
Aeneas crouched in the shadows. His bronzed face was tight. He gripped two broken short swords left by the Amazon warriors.
His mind was cold, hard. Now… Their blades will make these animals pay.
Soren cursed and grumbled as he led his two lackeys closer. Aeneas saw his moment. He leaped from the rocks like a panther. The broken bronze swords spun lightly in his grasp.
He looked at the startled bandits. His greeting was cheerful. His voice was ice.
"Hi! Surprise!"
His arms shot forward. Two streaks of bronze sliced the air.
Time seemed to stretch. The ancient patterns on the spinning blades caught the light. Then the points sank deep. Into the soft space between collarbone and windpipe.
The sound that followed was soft and vile—a crack of bone in the quiet gorge.
The two lackeys froze mid-curse. Hands flew to their necks, useless against the blood spilling fast. They jerked once. Staggered. Fell.
Pebbles kicked loose by Aeneas's boots. They rattled down the slope, clattering against stone. That sound—small, sudden—was what broke them. Panic ignited.
Soren let out a raw, strangled roar. He yanked his sword free. "Ambush!"
The bandits erupted into chaos. They shoved and scrambled like a stirred hornet's nest. The two archers were tripped by their own men. They tumbled awkwardly into the scree.
Almost before Soren's cry faded, a figure burst from the vines on the right. Melanippe's deep brown hair flew like a battle standard. Her bowstring thrummed. Three arrows streaked through the dusty air, one after another—
One punched through an archer's eye socket. It took bits of his lens with it. The second thudded home in a spearman's throat. He clutched his neck, collapsing. The third sparked off Soren's hastily raised blade.
Aeneas watched the silver trails of arrows weave a net of death. He saw the light flare on Melanippe's leather cuirass as she charged.
A thought flickered. The crazy girl… She's a damn sight to behold in a fight…
From the rock crevices, Thaleia sniped with cold precision. Her arrow found a bandit's knee as he tried to form up. The crack of bone and his scream were one sound. She whispered a silent vow. For my brother… For all you've hurt!
Above, Nisus and Euryalus sealed the escape route with precise, arcing shots.
Nisus's deep green eyes, flecked with gold, tracked his targets with unwavering calm.
Each arrow flew with a hunter's precision—silent, deliberate, inevitable.
Euryalus still wore his mocking grin. He looked like he was watching a fine play.
Ainippe moved near Melanippe. Her arrows always found the wrists of any bandit lifting a sword near the princess. As a steadfast shadow, guarding Melanippe's flank.
In moments, the twelve-strong bandit band was halved. The survivors panicked. They shoved in the narrow gorge. Like trapped animals with nowhere to run.
A few who tried to flee back the way they came stopped short. The gorge mouth was blocked by a figure like a Titan. Achates stood there. A mountain. A cold fire burned in his deep brown eyes.
His face was expressionless. His bronze sword came down in a brutal chop. It shattered a bandit's collarbone. The sound was sickening. A scream. The bandit fell to his knees.
"'The young master's orders. No one leaves,'" Achates boomed. His voice echoed in the gorge. Each word hit the bandits like a physical blow. "'You filth die right here!'"
Four bandits scrambled in panic, shoving and trampling one another. One lost his footing on the blood-slicked stones and fell hard. Before he could rise, Euryalus loosed an arrow—clean through the back of his neck.
The ever-smiling hunter's eyes were cold. Empty. They held a focused, deadly chill.
Aeneas moved through the enemy. Fluid as a dancer.
He yanked a vine from the rock wall and swept it low—perfect tripwire timing. The bandit went down with a yelp.
Aeneas stepped in, grabbed the elbow, twisted. Something popped.
Modern MMA joint locks. Still works in Bronze Age. Nice.
He didn't even break stride.
Nearby, Melanippe's quiver was empty again!
She didn't hesitate. Dropped her bow. Drew her sword. Charged into the fray like a lioness. Her short sword carved a fierce arc. Lopped off three fingers from a bandit's sword hand. Then the point drove deep into another's gut. She gave it a vicious twist.
Her deep brown hair flew. Her bronzed face was a mask of vengeful fury.
A dying bandit used his last strength to hurl a short sword. It spun slowly towards Melanippe—
She sidestepped it easily. The blade only severed a few strands of her flying hair.
Then, the turn.
Soren saw the fight was lost. Desperation flashed in his eyes. He snatched up a fallen comrade's sword. Hurled it straight at Melanippe's face.
Ainippe, always watching her princess, screamed. "Look out!" She threw herself in the way. The blade screeched against her shoulder guard. Sparks flew. The leather strap severed. A line of blood welled up.
She winced, her light green eyes narrowing in pain. But her body remained a firm shield in front of the princess.
"Cover me!" Aeneas's eyes sharpened. He barked the order.
He braced one hand against the rock wall, vaulted clean over the chaos, and dove for Soren like a stooping eagle.
In the backlight, Aeneas's charging silhouette and Soren's panicked, twisted face flashed in the dusty, blood-hazed air.
He saw the bandits bunched at a bend in the gorge. Kicked a spray of loose stones into Soren's face.
The hail of loose gravel struck Soren's face, making him flinch.
It was all the opening Thaleia needed.
She drew her bow. The arrow tip held steady on the disoriented Soren. Her face was cold as ice.
Soren swung wildly at the approaching Aeneas. A desperate, hopeless slash. The blade scraped off bronze armor with a teeth-grating shriek.
Then an arrow thudded into the back of his sword hand. He howled. His sword clattered to the ground.
He stumbled back, terrified. His voice cracked, trying to bluster. "Who... who the hell are you people?! Don't you know there's more of us? Are you the lord's patrol? You can't kill me! I... I work for Prince Helenus of Troy!"
Aeneas didn't pause. Closed the distance in a heartbeat. His movements were a fluid, deadly dance. His short sword struck like a viper. The blade found its mark, clean and sure. It sliced the tendon in Soren's wrist.
A twist, then a cut down to the ankle. A brutal elbow drove into his jaw.
Every strike targeting gaps in the armor, found a joint, broke something inside.
The sound turned ugly—bone cracking under bronze.
Blood filled the air, thick and hot. Metal scraped, sharp and bitter.
Aeneas glanced at his sword. The edge was curled, dulled from the blows.
Sweat slid down his temple, through his black-and-gold hair, and stung his eyes. It stung. He refused to blink.
After the final blow broke Soren completely, Aeneas planted a foot on his spine. Grabbed his hair. Forced the pain-twisted, terrified face up to meet his.
Melanippe's bloodied face filled Soren's wide, terrified pupils. She strode toward him, her steps firm and deliberate. Her figure was graceful, but to Soren, she was a vengeful Fury come to claim his soul.
Her words were ice, squeezed through clenched teeth. A final judgment. "For my Amazon sisters."
The short sword spun deftly in her hand. She reversed her grip. The sharp edge pressed against Soren's violently trembling throat. Then she drew it across. A decisive, final motion.
Sudden silence fell in the gorge. Only the weak, gurgling breaths of the dying echoed hollowly off the rocks. The sun baked the blood pooled on the ground. A faint, reddish mist rose from it.
Achates moved silently, collecting any usable arrows scattered among the dead. Thaleia gently touched Ainippe's trembling shoulder. She checked the wound under her damaged shoulder guard. Her voice was soft, reassuring. "It's over, Ainippe… We're all alive."
From the top of the rock wall, the scene below was stark. Bodies lay scattered in the narrow defile. Seven avengers stood amidst the central pile of the dead. Dust motes drifted slowly in the shafts of light piercing the crevices.
Aeneas wiped the blood from his short sword. The curled edge reflected his face—smeared with grime and blood, yet still holding a trace of gentleness. His gaze was concerned. It rested on Melanippe.
Melanippe's face was streaked with tears and blood. She whispered a low tribute to her fallen sisters. The words were for her alone. "Sisters of the Amazons… Have you received… this final honor… I offer you?"
Thaleia finished carefully bandaging the cut on Ainippe's shoulder.
Ainippe walked slowly to Melanippe's side. Her voice was a soft comfort. "They have received it, my princess. The Moon Goddess will guide their brave souls… to the eternal Elysian fields."
Watching the weeping Melanippe, Ainippe's heart melted. This is the real her… Beneath that hard shell, a heart so soft and full of love.
Nisus and Euryalus began efficiently checking the bodies. They collected weapons and any items that might hold information.
Achates stepped close to Aeneas and spoke in a low voice.
"Young master, we need to move—soon. There are still around thirteen bandits holed up in the mountain stronghold. If we strike now, before word of this reaches them, we can catch them off guard."
Aeneas shook his head slightly. His eyes remained on Melanippe as she wiped her tears. His voice was calm, logical.
"No. We need rest. Food to regain our strength. It's high noon. They won't suspect anything yet. We wait for their meal. For their lazy, post-lunch rest. That's the perfect moment. The best time to deliver their judgment."
Melanippe heard him. She scrubbed the tears and blood from her face with force. A cold, determined fire rekindled in her eyes. She looked at Aeneas. Her tone was absolute.
"You're right. This… isn't over!"