Gods and Warriors (26 page)

The fire hissed and the branch collapsed in a flurry of sparks.

“How far to the ship?” said the Stranger.

“Not far,” lied Hylas. “We could be there by nightfall.”

“Where is it?”

“On some rocks just off a point, but you can reach it if the wind’s not too strong.”

The Stranger hauled him to his feet and grabbed a burning brand from the fire. “Which way?”

Hylas’ mind raced. It was vital to look as if he knew where he was going, which ruled out the ravine from which the Stranger had come. “North,” he said confidently.

As they headed back into the burned valley, he racked his brains for a plan and came up with nothing. He only hoped that Pirra was long gone, and would have the sense to stay that way.

Huddled behind her boulder, Pirra listened to them heading off. What was Hylas up to? Why was he leading that man back the way they’d come? Did he have some sort of plan?

The thought of following them made her belly turn over. If she got too close, the Stranger would catch her and gut her like a fish. If she lagged behind, she’d get lost. She saw herself wandering alone through the burned valley; stumbling into that haunted gully as night was falling, and feeling the dreadful presence of the Angry Ones…

But Hylas needed her. She couldn’t let him down. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be trapped underground.

Taking a swig from the waterskin, she mustered her courage. One thing was certain: If she ended up anywhere
near that gully, she’d need buckthorn to protect herself. She didn’t know if Hylas had realized it yet, but the Stranger was a haunted man.

Diving into the ravine, she frantically searched the scrub. Laurels and holly, but where was buckthorn? She had just a hazy idea of what it looked like, as she’d only seen it in a picture and some leaves in a bowl; and all the time, Hylas and that man were getting away.

With a cry of triumph, she found some. Hacking off a few branches with the knife and jamming them in her belt, she scrambled back to the clearing.

It was empty. Hylas and the Stranger were gone.

She raced after them—or rather, after where she guessed they’d headed; there were more trails than she remembered, and tracking turned out to be a lot harder than it looked.

Wild plans of rescue swirled in her head, all of them hopeless. The Stranger looked like a beggar, but moved like a warrior; and if she was right about him, he was even more dangerous than that. If she was right, he’d committed the worst of crimes.

Hylas must have guessed by now, even if he hadn’t heard the spell the Stranger had muttered as he’d crushed those leaves in his hand.

Pirra couldn’t remember when she’d first heard that spell whispered in the House of the Goddess, but she knew that it had been said on Keftiu for thousands of years—and in Egypt too; Userref had told her that. Terrified people
had whispered it long before the very first House of the Goddess was ever built, or the mountains of stone that the Egyptians had raised in the desert. It was older even than the wild tribes who’d dwelt in caves before the gods taught men how to farm.

It was the oldest spell in the world.

The spell against the Angry Ones.

S
hadows were creeping out from under the trees, and fear was thickening in Hylas’ throat. Beside him the Stranger kept glancing about uneasily, and snuffing the air like a stag scenting danger. “Why this way, Flea?” he growled.

“It’s the way to your ship,” lied Hylas.

“It’d better be.”

The Stranger held the burning brand high, as if to ward off the night. At times he chewed another leaf from his pouch, or muttered a charm under his breath. The leaves were buckthorn, and even if Hylas hadn’t already guessed, the charm would have told him why the Stranger wore no amulet or sealstone. He didn’t want to give himself away to what hunted him: the Angry Ones.

The sky was overcast and tinged with red. The valley was hushed, holding its breath. The haunted gully wasn’t far off. Hylas thought of darkness moving under the black cypresses. He strained his ears for the sound of wings. Just by being with this man, he was in mortal danger.

The light was failing when they reached the spring.
Thirsty beasts had trampled it to a muddy wallow, but now it was deserted, clouds of midges the only signs of life.

No bats, thought Hylas. With so many midges, there should be bats.

“We won’t stop long,” muttered the Stranger. “We have to get out of here before dark.”

Tying Hylas to a tree stump and setting the brand against a boulder, he drank swiftly, refilled his waterskin, and splashed the wound on his thigh. Then, to Hylas’ surprise, he brought over the waterskin and gave him a drink too.

“Thanks,” said Hylas.

The Stranger didn’t seem to hear. The brand was almost spent; he was prowling about seeking another branch.

Hylas couldn’t make him out. He was ruthless and frightening, and he must have done something terrible to be pursued by the Angry Ones, but at times he showed flashes of kindness; and despite himself, Hylas wanted to like him. It was as if there were two men inside that powerful frame: one who didn’t want to hurt him, and another who would do whatever it took to survive.

A gust of wind whirled the dust into twisting spirals. Quick as a lizard, the Stranger snatched the brand and spun around, sweeping the shadows. His face was wild, and his teeth glinted in his beard.

The wind dropped. The Stranger lowered the brand. His forehead glistened with sweat. He caught Hylas staring. “Funny thing about fear,” he said. “Live with it long
enough, it becomes a companion. But you know that, don’t you, Flea? You know what’s wrong with this valley.”

Hylas nodded. “What did you do, that they’re after you?”

The Stranger looked down at him. “You’re too young to understand. Too young for any of this. You should be at home, tending your goats.”

“The Crows killed them. They killed my dog.”

The Stranger frowned. Then he startled Hylas by asking what had happened to his knife. When Hylas didn’t reply, he said, “You have an empty sheath at your belt, so where’s the knife?”

“I—I lost it.”

The Stranger considered that. “Do you know why the Crows burned this valley?” he said quietly.

Hylas shook his head, wondering where he was leading.

“Think about it, Flea. People sacrifice because they want something. The Crows must have wanted something badly to burn a whole valley.” Carefully, he lit the new brand with the old, then moved to Hylas’ tree stump and sat beside him. “I’ve been asking myself why Kratos would go to the trouble of hunting Outsiders,” he said. “A snake strikes when it’s threatened. So ask yourself, Flea, why do they feel threatened? How could a skinny little Outsider threaten the Crows, the all-powerful rulers of Mycenae?”

“I don’t know,” said Hylas.

“I’ll tell you. To threaten the Crows, you take the thing that keeps them in power. Do you know what that is?”

Again Hylas shook his head.

“The power of the Crows is rooted in a dagger.” He paused to see how Hylas took that. “Odd, isn’t it? Not an alabaster cup, or a collar of purest gold. Just a plain bronze dagger. Three rivets, and a simple mark on the hilt: a chariot wheel to crush their enemies. With that dagger they’re invincible. Without it, they’re not.”

Hylas fought to keep his face from betraying him, but inside he was reeling. His mind flew to the tomb where the dying Keftian had urged him to take the dagger.
It’s precious. I stole it. Keep it hidden.

“B-but—how could they do that?” he stammered. “How could their power be in a dagger?”

“I’ll tell you,” said the Stranger, still watching him intently. “The first Chieftain of the House of Koronos fought a great battle with his enemies. He killed the leader by a blow that split helmet and head in two. Later, from the cloven helmet, he forged a dagger. He quenched the heated bronze with blood from his own battle-wounds. Then he sacrificed seven bulls, and called on the Sky Father to steep the dagger with the power of his clan—and to give them the strength and endurance of bronze. The Sky Father sent an eagle as a sign that the prayer was heard. As long as the House of Koronos keeps the dagger, it is invincible.”

He paused, his deep eyes never leaving Hylas’ face. “When I saw that great burned sacrifice at the head of the valley, it told me something. It told me the Crows
have lost their dagger. That’s why they came to this island. That’s why they made that sacrifice. To beg the gods to give it back.”

The wind had died. The only sound was the babble of the spring.

Suddenly the Stranger leaned close to him. “Is that why they’re after Outsiders, Flea? Did an Outsider steal their dagger? Did
you
?”

Hylas met his eyes. “I didn’t steal it. On my sister’s life, I swear it.”

“But you know of it.”

“Yes.”

“Where is it now?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you come to know of it at all?”

“Just now, when you told me.”

“When did you last see it?”

He hesitated. “A few days ago. It’s lost, it fell in the Sea…” He tried to look away, but the Stranger’s gaze held his. He saw that Hylas lied.

“Has your girl got it? The girl whose tracks I found in the clearing?”

“N-no,” faltered Hylas. “I don’t
know
where it is! That’s the truth!”

Another penetrating look. “Oddly enough, I believe you. So it seems that we’re both in the dark.”

He took a few paces, as if pondering something: something he didn’t like. Then he squared his shoulders and
threw Hylas a fleeting look of pity. “I’m sorry, Flea,” he said. “Why did you have to lead me here, to this terrible place?”

Hylas’ mouth went dry. “What are you going to do?”

Shouldering the waterskin, the Stranger untied Hylas and pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

The spring was left behind, and in no time the black cypresses loomed out of the darkness.

“No,” said Hylas. “That’s the wrong way.”

The Stranger ignored him.

The lone poplar stood like a sentinel in the middle of the gully. Sticking the brand in the crook of a branch, the Stranger made Hylas sit on the roots; then he tied him to the trunk. He worked quickly, glancing often at the darkening sky.

Hylas’ teeth were chattering. “What are you going to do?”

The Stranger drew his knife and hacked off a lock of his own hair, then tied it around Hylas’ neck. Grabbing a piece of charcoal, he held Hylas steady, and scratched marks on his forehead and chest.

“I hate this, Flea,” he said fiercely. “To do such a thing to a child… But I have to. I can’t let them get me. It’s not just my life at stake—and there is no other way.”

Rising to his feet, he seized the brand and called to the shadows thronging the gully. “Spirits of air and darkness! See this mark on his head and heart! This is the mark of
Akastos! Come for him. Take him. Feed on
him
!”

“Akastos,” panted Hylas. “That’s your name. You’ve put your sign on me. You’ve marked me with your hair. I’m—I’m
bait.
You’re going to leave me here for the Angry Ones.”

The man called Akastos limped toward the mouth of the gully.