First In Might

Using the hand which still held my axe, I pushed myself up, rising to my knees. Taking my axe in two hands, I looked, defiantly, up into the eyes of the man who'd skewered me.

I was dying, but I was not yet dead. My name is Prothoe, meaning First in Might, and I meant to live up to it. It would have been shameful of me to not continue the fight.

He wheeled around and stared at me, the she-devil who had risen to oppose him once more. He smiled, and I saw joy in his eyes. Now this, he seemed to be thinking, was a worthy opponent! I smiled back and he rushed toward me, drawing his sword. As its gallop brought his horse nearly on top of me, he struck at my head. I ducked aside and struck him such a blow on the hip that it tore his cuirass open and knocked his great horse down onto its side.

The champion fell free of his steed and dragged himself to his knees, favoring his hip. Blood poured from the wound, and I imagined the bone must be shattered underneath. Still, he raised his sword in an attempt to defend himself against my lurching assault. I beat the blade out of his hand with my axe, weaving drunkenly with each swing. His shield came up, and I sundered it with two mighty chops, then

I clove his forearm in twain. Finally, I split his skull and spilled his brains to the ground. I lifted my chin high, the lance which still protruded from me wobbled in time with my heaving chest.

I am Prothoe, First in Might.

I looked around for my enemy.

But the Greeks were retreating now, the great-bearded giant included. His face looked livid with rage, and even I felt a twinge of fright upon seeing it, but he knew he was beaten. We had won, and had proven again why we were the race all men feared. My lovely, raven-haired life-mate Areto strode to my side, her posture steady and her voice calm. Only her eyes betrayed her grief. "Prothoe. Let's go home."

I struggled onto Deliverance's back, scanning my troops to see how many had fallen. Three sisters were dead; four, soon enough. Blood seeped out around the edges of my wound as we rode home together, Areto and I. Yet I felt proud; we had been twenty attacking a band twice that size, yet the Greeks left more than half their number dead on the ground.