The Rivers of Pelion

The Rivers of Pelion.

Garanthias looked down the Valley. He knew that he was the last hope. All others of his Tribe had died down there, in that terrible battle. Three score centaurs and seven giants lay dead or dying on the plain, but two Giants were left, and they made their way up the narrow Gorge. Garanthias was old but he had trained many young centaurs and two heroes. The deeds of those heroes had already passed into legend. Centaurs had no wish to be heroes themselves, they knew that their wooded valleys around Mount Pelias held all the earthly treasure they could desire.
         
Was that why the Giants had attacked, after all these years? Had his kind become complacent? Garanthias had little time for philosophising for only he stood now between those two Giants and the women and children in the Valley behind him. He knew that he could not get there in time to get them to safety. The Giants were injured, several well aimed arrows had seen to that. One had only one good eye left and was favouring one leg, and the other held a maimed hand and was still bleeding from the stomach. But these injuries had obviously enraged the pair, who stomped threateningly up the valley, knocking over young saplings and old willows in their path.
         
Garanthias had been left behind as an afterthought. Perhaps due to his gray hair but also as a last defence or warning. However his graying coat still rippled with sinewy muscle.  This was due to the regular gallops over the fields of Tharandia with his two sons, whose blood now stained the fields below. And he still held one of the sharpest intellects of his centaur kind, which was to say a lot. He knew that now was not the time for grief, but for desperate thought. A half forgotten memory rose to him, and he headed for the river rushing through the Gorge, for he knew faint hope was better than none at all.

         Gorlak snarled in pain, as he looked at his one eyed mate. “We will make them pay, and then we will return, and tell the King of this costly victory.”
“I will spit the women and children on my spear, as a sign to other Centaurs,” added his one-eyed companion Rangor. They breathed heavily as they made their way up the side of the Gorge, the preceding battle and their injuries having tired them, but their anger spurred them on. Ahead of them an old Centaur suddenly appeared, galloping up the side of the ravine. The giants looked at each other bemused, for he was laughing, almost prancing like a young stallion.
“I’ll spit this crazed old one first!” grunted Rangor, and he moved towards Garnthias.
“I have sealed your dooms, barbarians of the North”, cried Garanthias, rising up on his hind legs, “Come Peneus! Here are those I told you of, the defilers of your grandchildren!”

         A strange sound as of a rushing waterfall made the Giants turn their heads, and though their heads were among the tops of the Oaks, they had to look up at the huge form that rose above them.
As if the river had birthed the immense form of a man from an uprushing cascade of water, a huge wavering form appeared with the head, arms and legs of an enormous man, a vortex of water within. He turned to the giants with furrowed flowing brows;
“Fortunate that I, Peneus, the Gods of these Rivers was visiting one of my nymphs, but not fortunate for you, most hated of Giants.”
Rangor stepped back. “We have no quarrel with you Peneus, we stay out of the doings of Gods. Our fight is only with the Centaurs.”
Peneus leaned back, sending cascades of water across the sides of the Gorge, and his laughter boomed like watery thunder through the Valley, sending a further rainstorm over the grimly smiling old Centaur and the agitated looking Giants.
“You would tell me my business, little Giants? Know you not these Centaurs are my Kin, sons and daughters of Apollo and my daughter Stilbe? Your lack of knowledge will cost you dearly!” A huge hand swept up the two Giants, sending them skyward as on a geyser, and then plummeting their forms, soundlessly screaming in a watery vortex, crashing into the rocky sides of the Gorge, from where they were washed into the flowing river, and away.

         Peneuas looked on the old Centaur. “With your permission, ancient one, I will gather up my grandchildren and your children in the Valley below, and give them a watery burial. The river nymphs shall adorn your sons, and all the rest, with river gold and cover them with river stones and honour their memories with river lays.” Garanthias looked up at the God, and tears now flowed in his eyes.
“Of course, all those in the village, and yourself, I will call to attend the funeral. At sunset tomorrow meet me at the River beside your Village, and I will lead you.”
Garanthias nodded mutely, choking back more tears.
Peneus sank back into the River, which swelled and then resumed its regular rushing course. Wiping his eyes and shouldering his bow, Garanthias turned for his Village. He bore a heavy tale for his fellow villagers, who would not immediately be thankful for their own near escape.