Breaking an Amazon Warrior

When Echon defeats the Amazon Warrior, Orithyia, the real tail begins!

R.R. Ryan

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Breaking an Amazon Warrior

Thirty-Four-Hundred-Twenty-Three Years Ago

In Ancient Greece, no warriors were feared as much as the Amazons of the Steppes. These warrior women came from the Scythian region of the Steppe. The most dangerous creature to women, in those days, was the woodland beast known as the Satyrs. Often, these horned creatures, resembling men with legs of horses or goats, were depicted in the art of the day, with massive, permanently erect penises.

Our story takes place in the earliest days of the Greek City States. Shortly after the defeat of one of those city-states’ armies by Amazonian women. The Argosians attacked a small outpost of the Amazon women and slaughtered most of those residents.

Soon, the Amazons retaliated. When the Argos army retreated, the Amazons followed, slaughtering as many as possible.

Hades himself hath not so much fury as a wronged Amazon.

With her companions recovering from the battle, Orithyia carries the news back to their Queen of their victory over the Argos army. Moving through the forest, she sees the trees as suspects and the ferns as informants. Each footstep lands where she means it to, and each breath she measures against the silence following her as close as a shadow.

The sun, late and orange, leaks through the tangled canopy in thin, weak needles, more an accusation than a blessing. What light there is plays across her shoulders, catching the rents in her leather cuirass and the dried blood caked in patterns on her bracers. She wears the blood the way a wealthy widow wears jewelry.

Unapologetic, heavy, meant for others to see. The blood of her fallen foe screams, I’m the victor.

The Amazon warrior stands six feet of muscle and memory, all of it tuned to the possibility of violence. Her stride is the slow rolling gate of a woman who knows there’s no sense in running. Why? Because whatever’s behind you has already picked up the scent and waits for you to relax.

While her left hand hangs loose at her sides, the right flexes in time with her heartbeat. The sword at her hip is nothing special to look at, a length of sharpened bronze, but she’s killed two kings with less.

The ground is soft, forgiving in a way mud never is, especially when you want to keep your boots clean. She picks her way through it, her senses alive to the forest’s minute betrayals. A hawk’s cry splits the air and falls dead. A squirrel chatters a warning. Far off, something enormous moves with the deliberate stealth of a predator that doesn’t have to try.

The world is wound tight. And Orithyia prefers it that way. It makes the release much sweeter.

She returns from a raid that had been a bloodbath. Except the blood didn’t run in the direction the Argosians expected. The details are already fading. The faces erased, names reduced to a tally in the ledger of regrets. But her body carries the message.

A gash across the bicep, stitched up with rough thread. A bruise on Orithyia’s ribs, blooming purple under the skin. She smells of sweat and old leather and the ghosts of her sisters who didn’t make it out. The forest receives her without comment, a priestess who’s heard worse.

Dusk creeps in with a thief’s patience. The birds quit pretending and shut up. The wind stirs, and every leaf on every tree turns the same way, like the whole forest is listening for something. Orithyia slows. Her ears hunt for a sound beneath the quiet-something not quite matching the rhythm of her own steps.

There it is, a shift of weight behind the veil of undergrowth. Letting her hand drift to the hilt of Orithyia’s sword, thumb caressing the worn grip the way lovers in stories trace the jawline of someone they’re about to betray.

With Orithyia’s pupils blown wide in the failing light, her eyes rake the tree line. She doesn’t see anything, but that’s the problem. The woods are old, older than memory, and every inch of them has been used for ambush since before language had words for it.

The path narrows ahead, funneled between two ancient oaks that stand like dueling sentinels. Orithyia draws a slow, careful breath, expanding her lungs until her chest strains against the battered cuirass. She measures the risk and steps forward anyway. Caution is another form of cowardice; hesitation gets you killed.

Standing in the center of the path, Orithyia rounds the bend and finds him. A question you don’t want to answer. He’s enormous-taller than her by nearly a head, broader by twice that. The lower half is all animal, hooved, and muscled and designed for speed.

The torso is human, but only in the sense that a statue is human. Because he’s exaggerated, idealized, terrifying in his lack of compromise. Twin swords hang at his sides, and the arms that wield them are thick enough to snap bones like twigs. His chest is bare, covered in a patchwork of old scars and new scratches.

Curling horns crowned his head. Curled spiny protrusions, thick and rough as tree roots. Hair falls in wild, matted clumps around his face, streaked with dirt and leaves. His eyes are yellow-gold and too bright. And they sweep over her in a way that leaves no doubt this is not an encounter, it’s an appraisal.

She recognizes the look.

After all, she’s seen it in every warlord and brute and highborn noble who ever thought of an Amazon as a challenge worth taking. But there’s something else, something animal and sharp, a hunger that’s more than violence.

The Satyr doesn’t speak.

Stands there, chest rising and falling, lips peeled back to show teeth that aren’t quite human. Digging his hooves into the mud, grinding it underfoot to remind her whose territory she’s in. The swords at his hips are ready to leap into his hands.

Not breaking her stride, Orithyia narrows her stance. Shifts her weight to the balls of her feet. Gazing at him, cold and clinical, she already maps the distance. Calculating the angle of attack. She’s killed monsters before. Sometimes she’s wondered if there’s any other kind of man.

The forest holds its breath. The wind dies. Every animal within a hundred yards is leaving the ground to them. It’s only the two of them, balanced on the edge of something sharp and inevitable. Flexing her hand around the sword, not quite drawing it, but not fooling anyone either.

Letting the silence stretch, she waits, because the first one to move is the one who’s afraid. And Orithyia is never fearful. Not until it’s too late.

The standoff stretches, the kind that eats away at the nerves of lesser mortals. Letting him see the calculation in her eyes, Orithyia holds his gaze. She knows men like him-muscle and bluster up front, something colder underneath. If he wants a fight, she’s already written the first three moves in her mind. If he wants something else, she’ll see it coming before he does.

There are tells, always.

Echon’s gold eyes drift downward, taking the pleasurable route from her face to her boots and back again. It’s not leering, exactly-it’s more like the way a butcher looks at a side of beef, trying to decide where to start cutting. He breathes heavy through his nose, the rise and fall of his chest exaggerated, deliberate. When he finally speaks, his voice is sandpaper and storm clouds.

“You came far from the river, Amazon. You bleed easy, but walk proud.” His tongue shapes the words with a kind of mocking respect.

“Step aside,” she says. Not a plea, not even a threat, instructions. Orithyia gives him nothing. She stands at ease, but her fingers are wrapped tight around the hilt, white at the knuckles.

“The toll for passage is steep. I take payment in blood, or flesh, or both. Do you have enough to cover the fare?” Nostrils flaring, he leans in, strokes his fat cock, and Echon grins wide. His lips pull back too far, gums black against the points of his teeth.

The joke is old. The promise behind it isn’t something to take lightly. The ghost of a smile playing at her lips, Orithyia shakes her head.

“Satyrs never change. Always the same bargain-always the same ending. You’re a woodland, malicious, failed deity.” She shifts, a fraction, widening her stance. There’s something electric in the air, the moment before a thunderhead bursts.

“You expect me to believe you walk this forest for sport? Alone, armed, and looking for trouble? I could snap you in half and wear your ribs as a necklace. Fucking Amazons want what I’ve got, but they never offer it to one like me. I have to beat you and take it, or it isn’t fun for either of us.” With palms out, he lifts his hands, a performance of innocence. The veins stand out on his forearms, dark and ropy.

Then the Satyr’s voice dips to a purr, soft as bruised fruit.

“While your people can’t win, I enjoy myself when any woman tries.”

Orithyia’s laugh is low, disbelieving. She’s seen this play out too many times. The end is always violence. The only question is who leaves the stage.

“Try me,” she says.

For a second, he watches her, head angled, like he’s listening for the punchline. The smile drops, all artifice gone, and his eyes narrow to predator’s slits. Not quite drawing, his hands go to the hilts of his swords, making a point. Slow and deliberate, he moves a step closer.

With his hooves grinding divots into the wet earth.

However, Orithyia stands her ground.

“If you want a fight, make it worth my time. Otherwise, you’re nothing but another animal blocking the road.”

Echon laughs, sharp and sudden.

“You have spirit. I will enjoy breaking it.” The tension ramps up, crowding the air between them until it’s thick enough to taste. For a heartbeat, nothing moves.

After a few moments, Echon shifts his weight, the muscles in his shoulders rolling like thunderheads. The following words are a promise, not a threat.

“The river’s that way, Amazon. But you’ll never see it unless I allow you to live.”

At that moment, his hands tighten on his blades, and the last shred of pretense disappears. The challenge is out, naked and unambiguous. Orithyia’s fingers squeeze the sword hilt, her stance low and ready.

No more talking. The time for talk is over.

The first strike comes with no warning. A sudden flash of steel as Echon’s twin swords clear their sheaths and come at Orithyia. A lightning-fast crosscut aimed to gut her from hip to breastbone.

She catches only a heartbeat of movement. A twitch of the forearm, a tightening of the jaw, the blades are already singing through the air. Intercepting the lead blade with a tooth-rattling clang, her own sword comes up in a blur.

The second sword catches her off guard. Sliding in low, and she has to torque her hips and leap back, boots skidding in the soft rot of last year’s leaves.

The fight is everything it’s supposed to be: ugly, fast, and lethal. Echon presses the attack, his body a battering ram of muscle and instinct. Each swing of his arm is a problem she has to solve or pay for in blood.

The female warrior parries, blocks, and sidesteps, the edges of the blades nicking at her armor and drawing new scratches on the old leather. No question about it, He’s stronger and faster than any man his size has a right to be.

He fights like he means it, and there’s no room for error. The air is thick with the stink of exertion, of sweat and blood, and the green tang of freshly sliced foliage. The undergrowth shrinks from them, saplings shattered by Echon’s hooves and the wild arcs of their weapons.

Every movement is a negotiation between death and survival. Each misstep is a chance for the other to cash in.

He grins through the onslaught, the yellow of his eyes never leaving her face.

“You’re quick, Amazon. Quicker than the last three.” Without warning, he punctuates the compliment with a backswing that would have split her skull if she hadn’t ducked. She answers with a jab at his exposed flank, but the sword skips off his ribs, barely drawing blood.

Echon laughs, a cackling howl that might be mistaken for a landslide.

“Come on. Show me something worth breaking.”

Orithyia obliges. She baits him, offering half an opening and paying attention as he lunges into it. At the last instant, she pivots, sending him crashing into a birch tree.

The trunk shudders from the impact, bark flying. Spinning on his hooves, Echon recovers instantly. Using the tree to brace himself as he swings both swords in a horizontal sweep. Rolling under the blades, she throws herself downward, feeling the rush of wind as they pass a finger’s breadth from her face.

Up again, she goes for his knee, aiming to cripple, but the bastard hops over her blade and comes down hard, stomping at her chest with a hoof the size of a dinner plate.

The impact slams her back into the ground, driving the air out of her lungs. She barely raises her sword in time to block the downward stab that follows. And Echon’s blade grinds against hers, inches from her eye.

“Yield,” Echon snarls, his face a mask of sweat and anticipation.

“I don’t yield.” Orithyia spits in his face.

He rears back, using his leverage to try to pin her. Twisting, rolling out from under him, Orithyia scrambles to her feet. Relentless, he chases, his hooves tearing trenches in the earth, his swords flashing in the slanting dusk.

When she ducks behind a fallen tree for cover, he hacks at the trunk, sending wood chips spraying. She times his swings, vaults the log, and comes at his blind side. Her sword glances off his shoulder, finally biting in, and blood wells up, dark and thick. Echon roars, but the pain only stokes his frenzy.

The world narrows to movement and pain. The forest is a blur, trees whirling past, every shadow a potential enemy. As the battle continues, Orithyia’s arms ache, her shoulder throbs, blood slicks her fingers, but she keeps moving.

Fighting for life and limb, she feints, she dodges, she fights dirty. Using every lesson Orithyia learned in years of training. Every trick picked up in the alleys, the barracks, and the battlefields of her youth.

But Echon adapts, too. He’s not only a brute; he’s a forest spirit, a hunter, and a quick learner. The fight pushes them deeper into the woods, past the narrow path, into the thick dark where even the birds have stopped singing. Here, the ground is uneven, twisted with roots, and Orithyia uses it, baiting him into overreaching, making him stumble. She scores another hit, this time on his thigh, and for a second, he falters.