Previously in Wonder Woman…

Hidden from the world is the island of Themiscyra, home to the Amazons of old, and guardians of the Gateway to Tartarus. Legend tells that should a man set foot on the shores of Themiscyra that the Gateway would fly open, heralding a new dark age on Earth. For thousands of years an immortal sisterhood has watched the Gateway until the present when without explanation the mystic barrier started to crack.

In search of a champion to remedy their plight, Queen Hippolyta determined a competition of skill and speed. From it emerged her daughter, Diana; a child born to Themyscira, sculpted from clay and given life by the goddess Hera. With determination and sorrow Diana left her native land on a quest, never to return again, and in doing so became a heroine to all humanity known as Wonder Woman.

Upon finding her way to Celestial City, Diana takes arms against a botanical invasion at the hands of Poison Ivy. Fresh from her victory she makes acquaintance with Air Force Colonel Steve Trevor.

Meanwhile, after slaying the Amazon Queen Hippolyta in cold blood, the jealous Asteria journeys to the world of men; her sole mission, to avenge her honor against compatriot turned rival, Diana.

THE PATH OF WARRIORS

PART I

By Miranda Sparks

For Diana, former Princess of the Amazons, the appraisal of others had long been custom. As a child, the only of her kind among grown women, her mere existence attracted the attention of sister and stranger alike. They watched with a vested interest as she grew from a babe to a girl, and to a young woman. So familiar was she with their interest that it fell from her notice; at least until she locked eyes with a shy voyeur.

She smiled a friendly smile, as did the young man who averted his gaze. To be regarded by an unfamiliar sex remained a novelty. Though time would surely dull that notion, Diana remained certain of surprises yet to come, for good and for ill.

Steve Trevor’s lip curled under his mustache. “You know, some might mistake that for flirting.”

“Flirting?” Diana cocked her head. “All I did was smile.”

“It’s a very fine line between a smile and a flirt,” he said. “I know you mean well, but you don’t want to give folks the wrong idea.”

She mulled the thought and frowned. Again Diana turned to her admirer, who in turn balked in the face of her soured expression.

“I can’t be blamed for that kind of presumption,” she said, swirling her fork in mashed potato. “Your people spend every day in shared company. How is it possible for one sex to be so inept at discerning the intentions of another?”

Steve offered a non-committal shrug. “I think you’ll find men and women are more segregated than even you can imagine.”

“More segregated than an island of Amazons?”

He chuckled. “You bet.”

Diana set down her fork. Though rich and flavorful, and presented to her with skill and expense, food no longer held appeal. Her brow furrowed, heavy with the knowledge of a world divided – not merely by nations or races, but the array of individuals who shared it.

Steve paused. His grin faded. “Listen, I’m sorry if I-”

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “This place is so different to everything I know. I can never go home again. It’s difficult to make peace with that.”

‘And never again look upon my mother,’ she didn’t say. Once Hippolyta was the mainstay of her existence, the constant upon which Diana could rely. In a land of immortals, she had never known longing. Now she was filled with it.

Did she regret? Silently Diana swore to make the most of her new life. Even when her quest was completed she would continue to move forward.

Steve scanned the restaurant. Wandering eyes turned back to their plates. It must have seemed like a date gone wrong; the lucky man spending an evening with Wonder Woman, her uniform replaced with a little black dress, left her staring morosely at her plate.

He reached across the table. Worn, cracked digits ran over the back of Diana’s hand. Though her fingers were calloused, that side of her remained soft.

“Whatever you need,” he said in earnest.

Diana regarded his touch. She smirked and raised an eyebrow, her mood changed. “Is this your attempt at flirting, Steve?”

He beamed. “Sorry, darling. I play for the other team.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, and paused. “It means I’ll explain it to you later.”

The former princess returned to her food. Another surprise from the world of men; an inside joke Diana was all too happy to draw out. There was time for mourning later, away from the ears of her host.

It was shortly after ordering dessert that Steve Trevor returned to form. Diana had ordered the New York baked cheesecake – a delicacy she declared was ‘fit for the gods’. The Colonel, on the other hand, opted for coffee.

“What you did in saving Celestial City,” he began, “and your work with other metahumans is no less than incredible.”

Diana leaned closer. “Tell me, Steve Trevor. Why does that sound like the start of a proposition?”

“Because it is,” he said.

The Amazon might have been surprised. She wasn’t. “So you lured me here under false pretenses,” she teased.

His military visage cracked. “A dinner with Wonder Woman is its own reward.”

“Perhaps next time I should bring my lariat, just to be certain.”

“Diana,” he said, “are you familiar with my operation?”

“You’re an Air Force Colonel, yes? Working in conjunction with Eden.”

“Air Force, yes,” he continued, “but overseeing operations with Eden on behalf of a government entity known as ‘The Agency’.”

Diana – no, Wonder Woman – regarded him with a hawk’s precision. Her cerulean eyes tightened, never blinking.

“Go on.”

“Our mission is the same as yours,” he said. “Stop the bad guys, protect the innocent. The only difference is that we do it on an official level, and with resources that you’ve never heard of.”

Still she did not blink, though her smile faded. What did he know of her mission? Nothing. All he had was the proof of her actions, and nothing of the purpose that drove her.

“I’m leaving tomorrow to oversee a strike operation,” he said. “It would mean a great deal if you were a part of the team.”

“And if I refuse?”

Steve Trevor might not have balked if not for the arrival of the dessert tray. He fumbled politely as the waiter served them, and only after she was gone did he realize Diana had not broken contact.

He chuckled and turned the handle of his drink to face him. “Then… we go alone, and do what we can without you.”

The cheesecake sat untouched.

“Is your Agency dedicated to justice?” she asked.

Colonel Trevor stared back. “Yes.”

“Though I’ve only been in your world for a short time I have seen much of what men call ‘justice’,” she continued. “It is a justice without compassion; a justice without mercy, or forgiveness.”

“There are times compassion is not warranted,” he said.

“Even so, from what I have gleaned it is in short supply.”

It was during these moments that Steve questioned his career choices; working with free agents under no chain of command. Gone were the days of cadets falling into line the moment he stepped into a room. Then again the traditional career ladder would have failed to deliver him here, to the company of a bona fide superhero.

“I encourage you to bring your lasso next time. Then you could snare me, and I’d tell you all the same that the Agency is doing good work.”

She regarded him a moment longer, then looked upon her dessert. Diana took a fork to the cheesecake and scooped up a greedy mouthful. How decadent it must have been to make royalty moan.

“I’ll go with you,” she said between bites. “You’ve inspired my curiosity, Steve Trevor.”

The military man eased and sipped his coffee. His superiors held him to a high standard; Wonder Woman’s, he feared, were a great deal higher.

To ask any of the great minds through the ages all would agree that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Though for the Amazon Asteria that line was shorter still. No sooner had she immersed herself in the salt and brine than she lifted from the sea foam and marched to a new shore. The power of gods themselves turned the Earth beneath her feet, carrying her closer to vengeance.

She emerged under darkened skies. Clouds churned with distant rumblings, coupled with a brisk sea wind to prickle her flesh. Zeus and his ilk were never known for their subtlety, but what care had Asteria? The gods were fickle and prone to mistakes, such as bestowing a child with their blessing over a seasoned warrior.

There was a time Asteria may have been haunted by her actions, and dread the path she’d chosen. Yet her conscience remained still. The journey washed clean her blood-soaked hand. Cold murder lay behind her, property of a land to which she’d never return.

No life adorned the beach that day, and the shacks beyond the grass appeared empty. The only light shone atop the cliffside in the distance. It was warm, inviting, and without her awareness, Asteria was drawn to it as would a moth. Her journey continued, sandals crunching in the sand before ascending the uneven terrain.

Sometime later she reached her destination and was met with an orange hue radiating between the pillars of a temple. Within she spied a hunched figure, busying themselves between a table and a stove. Asteria gripped the hilt of her sword, uncertain the shape of a coming threat.

“You can put that away,” the woman croaked. “I don’t bite, ‘less you ask me to.”

Asteria frowned but released her hold. She peeked inside and made a form shrouded in scraps and pieces. The woman herself was a crone, with withered hands the age of dust. She appeared naught but skin and bone, tanned like leather and cracked with time. It was not until she stood by the table that Asteria noted the endless chasms where eyes should have been.

The old woman lifted her head and smiled. “Oh, I fear I’m being a bad host. Please, sit.”

Still lingering, Asteria regarded the sweet, boiling liquid the crone poured into a pair of cups.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the old woman said.

Asteria scoffed. “That’s impossible.”

“And yet here I stand, preparing a welcome, as I have for countless of our sisters.”

It was then that Asteria’s nature got the better of her. She drew her weapon – a double-edged short sword known as a xiphos – and aimed the tip between the absence of the old woman’s eyes.

“Reveal yourself, creature!”

“Creature!” She brushed the sword to one side. “Let’s see if you remain as fair after the ravages of mortality! Now, sit. Sit! We have much to discuss, you and I.”

Such instruction ran counter to instinct, particularly if to do so meant making her a fool, but the old woman seemed to pay it no mind. Therefore, neither would Asteria. She sat.

The old woman lifted her cup and blew on the contents. “Drink.”

Asteria lifted hers carefully, and considered the earthy scent. “Kykeon, or some other hallucinogen?”

“Tea, dear. You drink it for enjoyment.”

The warrior sipped on the liquid, and contorted in disgust. “I do not enjoy this,” she said.

“Then a spoonful of honey might-”

Asteria’s fist rattled the table. “Enough idling! Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

“Oh, where are my manners? I’ve not even so much as introduced myself. I am she who is Ettahcandei, daughter of Themiscyra, an exile such as yourself.”

Asteria gave pause. “I… am here of my own will.”

“And all the same fated never to return,” said the old woman.

It was a reality that Asteria had nary considered. One thing to enter a world of mystery and avenge her honor, but another to look back on the only world she’d known – her friends, sisters, teachers – and be eternally parted. Yet she remained resolute.

“So shall it be,” she said.

Ettahcandei set down her cup the same she would a great burden. One arm opened her tattered shawl, the other stayed before reaching inside.

“To survive this world you will need papers, identification, official documents,” she said, “and knowledge. The world of men is different from the stories we were told. It has… grown.”

“And you would give me this,” Asteria said.

Ettahcandei nodded. “Such is my role. Any loyalties once held to Hippolyta have passed, but duty to my sisters – particularly those who land on these strange shores – remains strong.”

“Then give me information, fellow Amazon.” Emerald eyes flared. The fires of the warrior spirit burned with vengeance, and tools to aid her quest were in dire need.

The crone reached under her shawl, and removed an object with a sudden weight. She held it with the same concern that Atlas shouldered the world, and slowly, meticulously, unveiled a shimmering, silver orb.

“The Eye of Graeae,” she explained. “My gift alone to carry, but… I am generous with it.”

Asteria fixated upon the object. “And with this eye you are granted supernatural knowledge.” It was a statement more than it was a question.

“Indeed, sister. And you shall have a peel.”

She scraped the orb with a brittle, yellow nail, and from it produced a single sliver, fine as hair, and offered it to Asteria. The Amazon took the piece, and with it received a sharp pain that pressed into her brow.

Asteria struggled to her senses, but was with each attempt forced to her knees by a rushing vision. They showed her a world beyond comprehension; structures of metal and glass reaching to the sky, machines snaking down roads with men and women in their bellies, and electric windows that captured pictures to send across the world. And there was more – men, super-men, and among their ranks a Wonder Woman. She grit her teeth, no longer fighting the pain accompanying truth.

“This is natural,” the old woman said. “Let it pass.” And it did.

The Amazon gasped as she found her feet. What power! What knowledge! All the better to aid in her mission.

“The Eye of Graeae,” the warrior said. “I shall have it for my own.”

Ettahcandei shuffled back, clutching the Eye in her rags. Her benign features turned with her mouth opening a foul pit. The stench of rot and ash blackened the air with the force of a hurricane; woman became other.

“It is mine,” she roared. “You cannot have it! I should die before I let it go!”

“Then die you shall!”

With a determination sharpened over a century the younger Amazon charged. The tip of xiphon pointed to run the crone through, but the old woman was deceptively agile, leaping from corner to corner, even scaling the pillars as would a lizard. Wherever she jumped Asteria remained a step behind, but only a step.

Ettahcandei wailed. “Argonauts!”

Asteria turned with the expectation of men. At last! The opportunity was at hand to slay the legendary oppressors of her kind. However the men she faced were not of flesh and blood, but bronze and iron, towering over her like the temple statues in Themiscyra.

With each step they groaned and landed with ground shaking force. Two by two they crossed the threshold, some bearing spears, others bearing a single-sided blade known as a kipos. Each bore a frozen expression stained green from moisture, as equally cold as their intent.

Thunder roared and wind shrieked like the maw of Tartarus beckoning them to death. Asteria lunged. If she were to die on this hill it would be because she was unworthy of revenge; a notion so abhorrent that it turned her stomach.

She rolled across the dusty tile, narrowly avoiding a sweep from a giant blade. From there she dove between his legs and slashed his tendons. Before the bronze monster fell to his knees a spear shot down, though only grazed Asteria and she veered away. The spilling of blood served to stoke her rage, inspiring a barbarian rush toward the advancing Argonaut. He reached for a xiphon of his own, too soon to deflect the Amazon’s weapon piercing his chin with a grinding, metallic screech.

Ettahcandei threw her arms high. “No! My Argonauts! Kill her!”

Adrenaline surged through Asteria like wildfire. For so long had she known combat without consequence, fierce sparring in a land of immortals. No more. Though merely statues the felling of Argonauts offered a taste of what was to come. The bronze men collapsed as real men did, clasping at their wounds, never to rise again. Wide eyed and thirsty for blood Asteria grinned, and raised her sword to the next foe.

To call it a battle would be to overstate the strength of the Argonauts. One by one did the Amazon scale their height, and one by one she delivered them her blade. Steel and ironed hissed and clanged, mingled with the grunts of a warrior realized. Her deft of movement and a skill honed through the ages she flew between opponents until the very last man.

The legendary captain, Jason, was the last to the slaughter. His likeness struck the earth with a deep, metallic thud. Like the others he became still, and though legend was not so swiftly dashed this incarnation was gone from this world.

Asteria stood victorious, and wiped the corrosion from her xiphon the same as she would blood. The blade was thirsty as she was for more, thus she turned to the crone, Ettahcandei.

“You killed my Argonauts!” she cried.

Though Asteria did not share her anguish.

“Give me the Eye,” the warrior said, both as instruction and warning.

Ettahcandei reeled toward the corner. Neither the shadows or the rags she pulled tight provided any refuge. Even without her physical sight there was no mistaking the murderous glint projected by her sister. Such was the way of the spirit Asteria had chosen to feed.

She fled like a prey animal into the open with Asteria but a few steps behind. The crone’s heart beat like a tribal drum against the chill of death, and perhaps in doing so clouded her thoughts.

“The Eye will never be yours!” she wailed.

With hurried steps she rounded toward the cliff’s edge and sprinted into the air. Gravity claimed her and pulled down to the crashing waves. In those final moments as her stomach collapsed into freefall Ettahcandei found peace. No matter the circumstance she was far from the warrior’s reach, as was the Eye of Graeae.

Asteria peered over the edge, though too late to catch the old woman strike the water. She scowled.

“A coward’s death,” she said. Better to face the sword than be stabbed in the back.

With a sharp pain through her temple Asteria was struck with another vision; of mountains, a pine forest, and a floor thick with dry needles; of fanatical men with strange weapons spewing hot pellets; and a name. Asteria steadied herself for the journey ahead.

“Montana…”

Sleep proved elusive for Diana of Themiscyra. Though Steve Trevor offered her a hotel room out of courtesy, the mattress which the bed had been fitted was softer that she could stand. Perhaps men were accustomed to such opulence, but an Amazon preferred a firm surface upon which to rest.

For a time the sofa seemed a better fit; closer in hardness and shape to the klines of which Diana was familiar, and were it not for the sparse dimensions and the rests on either end she might have slept. Ultimately the former princess chose the floor, and it was there that she slipped into the realm of dreaming.

She opened her eyes to a haze of understanding, and as naturally as she drew breath sauntered above the clear ocean water. In only a few steps she was near to the shore, with man’s world a distant memory.

The moist sand pressed beneath her toes, and the nostalgic smell of pomegranates called beyond the salt air. Diana was like to a child, eager to devour sweet things though she was not hungry. Already she could hear Queen Hippolyta scold her for spoiling her appetite, but for the taste and the juice running down her chin it was all worthwhile.

And then she stopped. She became aware of eyes pouring over her. Diana dropped the fruit and turned, and there between the palms and the brush was a woman. Though her black hair fell over her face Diana knew her to be her mother. Something was wrong, though what she could not say.

The disheveled Hippolyta vanished into the forest.

“Wait!”

The young woman sprinted after her, breath short with alarm. She batted through the leaves and branches, until stumbling upon the steps leading into the city. Diana peered ahead to the lazy shape of her mother, trudging in agony along the path to her throne. No matter how fast Diana’s pace Hippolyta remained distant.

It was then that she realized that her mother had left a trail for her to follow. Diana leaned down and pressed the sticky liquid with a finger, removing all doubt to what it was; blood.

The former princess and current champion, once so proud, prostrated herself on the steps. Her prayer was only a whisper.

“O Hera, Queen of Olympus, Guardian Mother of the Amazons, she who has given us our virtue, our strength, and our nobility; I pray for mercy. Let this prophecy be the conjuring of dark imagination and no more. Spare the life of our Queen Hippolyta in the name of your daughters…”

Gone was the sun, and the azure that stretched to the horizon. In its place was no night, no moon, and no stars. Not even so much as a cloud loomed above. Gone also were the trees, the sand and the ocean waves. All that remained were the marble steps, incandescent in the void, and the red splatter leading up, up, up.

Diana steeled herself, and climbed almost as far as her legs could carry. When finally she reached the town pavilion she sprinted past the fountain and toward the Great Hall. Another set of stairs lead her there, and the blood trail to the wings, and at last the Queen’s chambers.

The young woman froze like a cornered animal. On the tile a few steps inside from the pergola was a body, white dress stained crimson from the pool she laid in. Dread hung greater in Diana’s chest the closer she moved. She kneeled down and reached for the mess of hair hanging over the other woman’s face.

Hippolyta snapped awake with wide, misty eyes. “Diana…”

“Mother?”

Diana’s sweat chilled against her flesh. Surely her senses deceived her; surely this was the mass of her fears given form by sleep. Yet the vision of the woman who reared her was so vivid in detail.

The grey body of Hippolyta then began to weep. She reached out blindly. “My daughter! Is it you?”

Ugly tears ran down both their cheeks. “Mother, what is this? What’s happened to you?”

Hippolyta gasped with a gurgle. “Murder,” she said.

Diana stumbled back.

“Wicked spite fermented into hatred, driven by madness,” the Queen said. “She is all consuming… relentless… Diana, she comes for you. Gird yourself, my daughter! For the fates will guide her to your path…”

Hippolyta wretched and wheezed. Diana removed the wet hair from her mother’s throat to reveal the mortal wound. Any weapon alone would not be enough to end the life of an immortal, unless tainted with the sickly touch of poison.

It wasn’t simply Diana who despaired, but the eternal child inside who needed the guidance of her mother. She threw her head to her mother’s cold breast, and pleaded.

“Tell me, mother! Tell me who did this to you!”

Perhaps Hippolyta was too far gone. “Listen, daughter… and listen well. Do not… give yourself to vengeance…”

Diana threw her fists to the floor. “No, you must tell me who!”

The body winced. Life’s breath lifted from Hippolyta’s body, abandoning the fleshy husk. Yet Diana continued to shake her, to scream, to prompt an answer. Who? Who would commit such a vile crime against their people?

Diana jumped from the hotel floor under sheets drenched with sweat. The same cold from Hippolyta’s quarters chilled in her bones; the same sickly smell lingered in her nostrils. Was it only a dream?

She looked to the curtains. It was still dark out. Diana laid back down, and clutched the churning in her gut. Dead or alive her mother was gone, home in a land that was forever lost to her.

NEXT ISSUE: ‘The Path of Warriors’ continues…