The Eye of the Falcon (20 page)

T
he lion cub heard the boy's cry and quickened her pace. He needed her, but this long narrow cave was so twisty and the smells were so tangled up, she couldn't
find
him.

She reached a place where the cave split in two, and halted. Which way?

As she snuffed the air, the falcon swept past and perched on a ledge. The lion cub flicked the bird an irritable look, which the falcon ignored.

Shaking out her wings, the bird lifted off again and disappeared around the bend. Ah. Maybe that way. The cub followed on silent pads.

Her hackles rose. The bad human crouched behind a ledge a few pounces away, shooting a long flying fang into the cave below. The lion cub smelled his blood-hunger. She sensed the boy's pain and fear wafting up from the cave. Soundlessly, she gathered herself for the spring.

Intent on the hunt, the bad human reached behind him for another flying fang. He didn't know she was there.

The cub sprang. With a howl, the bad human dropped a bunch of flying fangs, which went clattering over the ledge. He was weak, but squirmier than she expected. She tried to bite his throat, but got his shoulder instead; it was surprisingly tough and tasted of ox-hide. Now he was scratching her muzzle with his forepaws and jamming his knee in her belly. For a tail flick her grip loosened. He twisted from under her and lashed out with a big shiny claw. The cub dodged, but again he lashed out, just missing her eye.

Snarling, she backed away. Snarling, the bad human lurched to his feet. Suddenly, two more bad humans came running to his aid. The lion cub turned tail and fled.

As she ran, she glanced down at the cave and saw the boy. He was limping but alive; she felt grimly satisfied. Those long flying fangs couldn't hurt him now.

The cries of the bad humans faded behind her, and she slowed to a trot. She smelled bats and blood, but she'd lost the boy's scent.

The falcon glided past and perched on a ledge, as if waiting for her to catch up. The cub ignored her—then relented, and acknowledged the bird with a flick of one ear.

Again the falcon flew past, and again waited for the cub to catch up. They reached the end of the long cave, and for the first time, bird and lion cub exchanged glances rather than glares. Then they went their separate ways: the cub to find the boy, and the falcon to seek the girl.

The lion cub felt that this was good. It was how things should be. Maybe the falcon had her uses after all.

P
irra had been in the Hall of Whispers forever, whirling and chanting in a cloud of incense. Words of power streamed behind her like smoke, cutting her off from the mortal world.

Against her thigh lay the silver knife that would soon sever her spirit. Before her rose the sacred horns and between them like a dark Moon hung the obsidian mirror that would reveal the face of the Goddess.

Incense, wine, and poppy juice had blunted her terror, but deep inside, the fierce bright kernel that remained Pirra fought to make out Hylas' voice from the distant clamor of fighting.

Still chanting, she uncovered the basket and drew out a snake in either hand. Heavy coils entwined her arms. She felt the tiny pinch of scales gripping her flesh, and narrow black tongues flicking out to taste her skin.

Still chanting, she grasped the sacrificial vessel of green serpentine shaped like a bull's head, and from its gilded muzzle poured a stream of wine in a vast dark spiral on the floor, moving inward until she stood at the heart of the vortex.

With a ringing shout, she uttered the final word of power, and shattered the bull's head on the stones. Even now, her spirit fluttered in a desperate bid for freedom—but the dark spiral sucked her down, then lifted her high in a blinding flash that scorched away terror, doubt, humanity. She stared into the obsidian mirror . . .

. . . and the Goddess stared back.

The girl named Pirra is gone. The face in the mirror is the Shining One: She Who Has Power.

Shards of serpentine are sharp beneath Her feet, but She feels no pain, for She is immortal. She will descend into the Underworld and release Her Brother the Earthshaker. She will ascend and summon Her Brother the Lord of the Sky, and together They will bring back the Sun. Then with the silver blade She will cut Her deathless spirit free from its mortal flesh . . .

Down, down She goes, and opens the doors of the Underworld. She calls to Her Brother the Earthshaker, who bows His mighty head and walks toward Her. She holds out Her hand, and His moist breath heats Her palm. With Her other hand on the matted hair between His horns, She bids Him go, and rid Keftiu of evil.

A bat flickered past Hylas as he limped down the passage. His calf throbbed where the arrow had grazed it, and he'd dropped his axe in the attack; he felt horribly vulnerable.

And he was worried about Havoc. He would never have escaped if she hadn't attacked that archer—but had she gotten away unhurt? Where was she now?

And where was Pirra? A while back, he'd heard her chanting in the distance, then a shout—and silence. Was that part of the Mystery, or was she in trouble?

By his reckoning, there couldn't be many Crows left in Kunisu. The archer had fled with his companions, convinced that the place was full of man-eating beasts—but this still left Telamon and Kreon. What if they'd found Pirra? And how was he, Hylas, to find her, when he had no idea where he was?

Another bat flickered past, and he glimpsed a whipsnake disappearing down a drain. Turning a corner, he found himself in a passage with doors stretching ahead, each marked with a handprint, except one. Hylas' spirit shrank. He was back where he'd sprung his final trap and the Crows had fought each other.

As he limped closer, he smelled blood and saw dead warriors slumped in the doorway. Waxy fists clutched bloodied weapons and he caught a snaky gleam of entrails.

He fled, not caring where he went, and from the tail of his eye he saw a ghostly warrior sit up and stare with hollow eyes.

Hylas lurched around a corner, careening into a huge jar that toppled with a crash.

Ghostly footsteps echoed. It was coming after him.

He blundered into a screen, clawed his way through a silk hanging, then another that rattled like bones.

Still the footsteps came on.

At last he had to pause, bent double and gasping for air. The thing was still following—but now he heard
breath
. What stalked him was no ghost; it was a living man, pursuing him with the steady tread of a warrior intent on his prey.

In panic, Hylas shouldered open the nearest door—and burst out into the shocking daylight of the Great Court.

He saw the sacred olive tree at its heart and the giant double axe at the north end that guarded the ramp to the understory. On all sides, painted crowds stared back at him with silent scorn. Wherever he turned, the doors were barred. With a sensation of falling, he knew he was trapped in this naked space where there was nowhere to hide.

From the doorway he'd just fled walked a warrior. With unhurried ease he shut the doors behind him, and turned to face Hylas.

“At last,” said Kreon.

I
n the ashen light of the Great Court, the Crow Chieftain looked enormous.

His boar's-tusk helmet could turn any blade, and his armor was thick rawhide and impenetrable bronze. His shield was studded ox-hide as tall as a man, but he bore it lightly on one shoulder as if it was birch bark. He moved with the swagger of a hunter sure of his prey: a seasoned killer armed with sword, spear, dagger, and whip. Hylas was a boy of thirteen with a knife, a slingshot, and a bag of beads.

As Hylas drew his knife, Kreon's whip cracked out, yanked it from his fist, and sent it skittering over the stones. The whip struck again. Hylas leaped sideways. Not fast enough. He yelped as its bronze tip bit his thigh.

Again and again the whip forced him back toward the empty heart of the Great Court. The only weapon that could help him was the giant double axe, hopelessly out of reach at the north end—with Kreon in the way. In desperation, Hylas dodged behind the sacred tree.

“That's not going to work,” sneered Kreon.

Hylas fumbled at his pouch and grabbed a bead for his slingshot. The carnelian slipped through his fingers and bounced over the stones. He loaded another and swung the slingshot at Kreon's face. The warrior parried it with his shield—and the next shot and the next.

“Is that all you've got?” Kreon grinned as he drove Hylas around and around the tree. One by one, Hylas' shots clanged off ox-hide and bronze. Suddenly he had only three left.

His first struck Kreon's kneecap; the warrior didn't even blink. The second hit his wrist bone with a crack that made him drop his spear with a hiss. As he stooped to retrieve it, Hylas took aim with his final shot. He'd saved the biggest for last, and a stone the size of a pigeon's egg hit Kreon on the throat. The warrior gave a choking roar, but recovered fast, and charged.

Dropping the slingshot, Hylas fled, zigzagging toward the double axe on its mount. For a big man, Kreon moved with terrifying speed, but Hylas was faster. Grabbing the axe shaft with both hands, he pulled. It was sunk deep in its mount; it wouldn't come out. Kreon was almost upon him. With a last gut-straining heave, Hylas wrenched the axe free. It was so heavy he nearly fell over, but somehow he swung it, missing Kreon and striking the stones instead. Kreon jabbed with his sword. Hylas leaped sideways, swung the axe again, and brought it down with shattering force on Kreon's shield.

Undaunted, the warrior cast off the mangled ox-hide and came at Hylas again, feinting this way and that with sword and whip. Struggling with the weight of the axe, Hylas edged backward. Behind him lay the dark ramp leading down to the understory: His only way out.

But no sooner had he formed the thought than Kreon guessed, and moved behind to cut him off. Once again, his whip forced Hylas back to the unprotected heart of the Great Court.

Hylas was exhausted. The yellow stone floor with its painted blue leaves swam before his eyes, and the axe was a dead weight, a lethal hindrance in close combat. Kreon wasn't even breathing hard. Like any skilled hunter, he was making his quarry do the running.

As he closed in for the kill, he studied Hylas, and his heavy face twisted in scorn. “Can
this
be the Outsider who threatens the House of Koronos?”

“If you believe the Oracle,” panted Hylas.

“Oracles!” spat Kreon. “Give me the dagger of Koronos,
boy,
and I'll give you an easy death.”

“I haven't got it.”

“I can see that. Take me to it, and I'll make it quick.”

“No.”

The Crow Chieftain was so close that Hylas could smell the rancid oil in his beard and see a thread of spittle stretched between his yellow teeth. “Listen to me, Outsider. You're going to die. The only question is how. Give me the dagger and you won't suffer. Refuse, and I'll make it last all day.”

Hylas swayed.

“I'll make you long for death,” Kreon went on. “I'll make you beg me to bring your suffering to an end . . .”

He was enjoying this. Hylas saw the red veins in the whites of his eyes, and the lightless pits of his pupils. Hylas thought of the men, women, and children who had perished in the mines of Thalakrea to satisfy this man's hunger for bronze. He thought how that hunger had angered the gods into bringing death and destruction to Keftiu. And he thought of his sister, who was either dead or battling to survive in the wilds of Messenia—because the Crows hunted Outsiders like beasts.

“My name,” he panted, “isn't Outsider. It's Hylas. And I'll never give you the dagger.”

Kreon looked at him. Then he nodded. “You've made your choice. Outsider.”

His whip cracked out, but already Hylas was swinging his axe. It came down awkwardly, the flat of the blade missing Kreon's skull and dealing him a bone-crunching blow on the sword hand. Kreon bellowed and his sword went flying—but with the speed of a snake, he switched his whip to his injured hand and yanked his knife from his belt with the other.

Hylas dropped the axe and sped for the sacred tree. Reaching it just before his attacker, he clawed earth from its roots and flung it in Kreon's face. For an instant the warrior was blinded, and Hylas fled for the safety of the understory.

Halfway there, he spotted Kreon's spear on the ground and swerved to retrieve it. Mistake. The warrior's whip caught his ankle and jerked him off his feet.

For a heartbeat, Hylas' breath was knocked from his body, he couldn't move. He saw the spear lying just out of reach. He saw Kreon closing in for the kill.

As he struggled to his knees, Hylas caught movement on the ramp. Then a deafening bellow rent the air, hooves clattered on stone . . .

. . . and out from the understory galloped the guardian bull of Kunisu.