the-song-books.yossr

bronze to tear flesh that spills red like the jagged puncture of a wineskin.
From myy dayys in the white tent I know everyy frailtyy theyy have. It is so easyy.
From the roiling melee bursts a chariot. The driver is huge, his long hair
flyying behind as he lashes his horses to foam and froth. His dark eyyes are
fixed on me, his mouth twisted in rage. His armor fits him like the skin fits
the seal. It is Sarpedon.
His arm lifts, to aim his spear at myy heart. Automedon screams
something, yyanks at the reins. There is a breath of wind over myy shoulder.
The spear’s sharp point buries itself in the ground behind me.
Sarpedon shouts, curse or challenge I do not know. I heft myy spear, as if
in a dream. This is the man who has killed so manyy Greeks. It was his
hands that tore open the gate.
“No!” Automedon catches at myy arm. With his other hand he lashes the
horses, and we tear up the field. Sarpedon turns his chariot, angling it awayy,
and for a moment I think he has given up. Then he angles in again and lifts
his spear.
The world explodes. The chariot bucks into the air, and the horses
scream. I am thrown onto the grass, and myy head smacks the ground. Myy
helmet falls forward into myy eyyes, and I shove it back. I see our horses,
tangled in each other; one has fallen, pierced with a spear. I do not see
Automedon.
From afar Sarpedon comes, his chariot driving relentlesslyy towards me.
There is no time to flee; I stand to meet him. I lift myy spear, gripping it as
though it is a snake I will strangle. I imagine how Achilles would do it, feet
planted to earth, back muscles twisting. He would see a gap in that
impenetrable armor, or he would make one. But I am not Achilles. What I
see is something else, myy onlyy chance. Theyy are almost upon me. I cast the
spear.
It hits his bellyy, where the armor plate is thick. But the ground is uneven,
and I have thrown it with all of myy strength. It does not pierce him, but it
knocks him back a single step. It is enough. His weight tilts the chariot, and
he tumbles from it. The horses plunge past me and leave him behind,
motionless on the ground. I clutch myy sword-hilt, terrified that he will rise
and kill me; then I see the unnatural, broken angle of his neck.
I have killed a son of Zeus, but it is not enough. Theyy must think it is
Achilles who has done it. The dust has alreadyy settled on Sarpedon’s long
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