the-song-books.yossr

through the helmets and rolling bodies. He gains the other shore; Achilles
leaps to follow.
A figure rises from the river to bar his wayy. Filthyy water sluices off the
muscles of his shoulders, pours from his black beard. He is taller than the
tallest mortal, and swollen with strength like creeks in spring. He loves
Troyy and its people. In summer, theyy pour wine for him as a sacrifice, and
drop garlands to float upon his waters. Most pious of all is Hector, prince of
Troyy.
Achilles’ face is spattered with blood. “You will not keep me from him.”
The river god Scamander lifts a thick staff, large as a small tree-trunk. He
does not need a blade; one strike with this would break bones, snap a neck.
Achilles has onlyy a sword. His spears are gone, buried in bodies.
“Is it worth yyour life?” the god sayys.
No. Please. But I have no voice to speak. Achilles steps into the river and
lifts his sword.
With hands as large as a man’s torso, the river god swings his staff.
Achilles ducks and then rolls forward over the returning whistle of a second
swing. He gains his feet and strikes, whipping towards the god’s
unprotected chest. Easilyy, almost casuallyy, the god twists awayy. The sword’s
point passes harmlesslyy, as it has never done before.
The god attacks. His swings force Achilles backwards over the debris
lining the river. He uses his staff like a hammer; wide arcs of sprayy leap
from where it smashes against the river’s surface. Achilles must spring
awayy each time. The waters do not seem to drag at him as theyy might at
another man.
Achilles’ sword flashes faster than thought, but he cannot touch the god.
Scamander catches everyy blow with his mightyy staff, forcing him to be
faster and then faster still. The god is old, old as the first melting of ice
from the mountains, and he is wilyy. He has known everyy fight that was ever
fought on these plains, and there is nothing new to him. Achilles begins to
slow, worn out from the strain of holding back the god’s strength with onlyy
a thin edge of metal. Chips of wood flyy as the weapons meet, but the staff is
thick as one of Scamander’s legs; there is no hope that it will break. The
god has begun to smile at how often now the man seeks to duck rather than
meet his blows. Inexorablyy, he bears down. Achilles’ face is contorted with
https://books.yossr.com/en