Read Online Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One by Bernard Evslin - Free Book Online Page B

caught Pollux between shoulder and elbow. His left arm went limp. His mouth bled. The crowd roared. But it seemed that the taste of his own blood refreshed the Spartan. He moved swiftly, stepping away from Amycus, twirling, dancing, springing away, swaying out of reach. As reeds sway before a wind, so Pollux bent away from the giant’s flailing fists.
    Amycus was breathing heavily now. He kept rushing, punching. Now Pollux began to strike back, using only his right arm. He did not aim at the brass face, but at the body. The king’s rib cage boomed like a drum under the youth’s lightning fist. Nine blows Pollux struck, and whisked away before Amycus could strike back. The king’s massive body was hidden by his pelt; it was hard to tell the effect of these blows. But Jason judged his torso to be one big bruise.
    The giant’s strength was undiminished, however—or so it seemed. He plowed ahead now, accepting all the punishment Pollux offered, taking all his punches, trying to get close enough to use his mallet head. The tactic filled Jason with anguish as he watched. It seemed to be working. Pollux was retreating, but straight back, without springing away. Jason thought he might be too tired to leap.
    Amycus shuffled toward him, like a bear moving toward a fawn. Pollux retreated until he was stopped by the wall. He slumped against the rock, and Amycus was where he wanted to be. He did not punch, but seized the youth’s shoulders, and drew back his head for the fatal butt. And in Jason’s vision, the presence of death thickened the air, slowing everything. He saw the brass head smashing through the sunlight toward that beautiful face.
    Then, more swiftly than the eye could follow, the yellow head twitched away. It moved just enough so that the king’s head barely grazed it, and smashed into the rock wall. The roaring of the crowd changed into a vast sigh as it saw the rock wall split. Fracture lines radiated from the dent. And for a moment, it seemed, the brass head was socketed in the rock, holding Amycus still. Only a moment, but enough for Pollux to slip away behind him, and to raise his own fist.
    He pivoted on the soles of his feet and smashed his bleeding knuckles into the brown pelt, just above the waist—a terrible kidney punch that would have killed anyone else. But Amycus turned to face his foe. The brass forehead was dented slightly, his face was scratched, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. When he moved, however, he moved slowly; something was muffling him. He lifted his arms—slowly. Pollux’s left hand clawed itself painfully into the air; the arm was indeed broken. With two fingers of his left hand he lifted the king’s chin in what looked like a weird caress.
    He swung his right fist again. He planted his feet, turned on his ankles and twisted his body around with all the whiplike power of his spine, all the elastic strength of his shoulders, all his love of fighting, and all his loathing of the brass-headed brute who had caused his brother such agony.
    His fist landed on the giant’s throat. Jason, watching breathlessly, felt that he was attached to that fist, and he could feel the king’s windpipe breaking under the blow. Amycus swayed on the grass. Blood gushed from every hole in the metal face. From nostrils, ears, mouth. He bellowed weakly, blowing bubbles of blood—then fell face down. And everyone in the vast crowd knew he would not rise again.
    The people were yelling, jumping, screeching, roaring—not with rage but with joy. For now that Amycus was dead they could show what they felt. Jason rushed to Pollux and threw his arms about him.
    â€œWant to be king?” he whispered. “They’ll sit you right on the throne, if you wish.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Pollux. “I’d have to talk it over with Castor. He’d have to share the throne, you know.”
    â€œNo!” called a voice.
    The young men