Gods and Warriors (3 page)

Shouts of agreement from the villagers.

Hylas licked his lips. “What about the law of sanctuary? If someone’s in danger, you’ve
got
to let them in!”

For a moment, Neleos hesitated. Then his face hardened. “That doesn’t work for Outsiders,” he spat. “Now get moving or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

Dark soon, and nowhere to go.

Well then, all
right
, Hylas raged at the villagers in his head, if you won’t help me, I’ll help myself.

Doubling back through the pines, he made his way to the rear of the village. It was deserted: Everyone was still at the spirit gates.

If they thought he’d never been in-village, they were wrong. When you’re an Outsider, you steal to survive.

Slipping through a gap in the thorns, he crept to the nearest hut, which belonged to a sly old widow named Tyro. The fire was banked up, and in the smoky red gloom he upset a little dish of milk that had been set down for the house-snake. On a cot in the corner, a bundle of rags grunted.

Hylas froze. Silently, he lifted a haunch of smoked pig off a hook.

Tyro shifted on her cot and snored.

He took a tunic slung over the rafters, but left the sandals, as he always went barefoot in summer. Another grunt from Tyro. He fled, righting the house-snake’s bowl as he went; snakes talk to each other, and if you annoy one, you annoy them all.

The next hut belonged to Neleos, and it was empty. Hylas grabbed a waterskin, some rawhide rope for a belt, and a wovengrass sack into which he crammed a coil of blood sausage, a ewe’s-milk cheese, a flatbread, and handfuls of olives. He also stole a drink from the old man’s wine jar, then flung ash in what was left, to pay him back for all the thrashings over the years.

Voices were coming closer; the spirit gates creaked shut. He slipped out the way he’d come—and realized too late that he’d forgotten to steal a knife.

The Moon had risen and the night crickets were starting up as he reached the shadowy grove of almond trees beyond the village. Hastily, he pulled on the tunic and tied the rope around his waist.

A few late bees hummed about the hives, and he spotted an offering-table in the grass. Hoping it had been there long enough for any creatures sent by the gods to have eaten their fill, he gobbled two honey cakes and a chickpea pancake crammed with a delicious mush of lentils, dried perch, and crumbled cheese. He left a scrap for the bees and begged them to look after Issi. They hummed a reply; he couldn’t tell if it meant yes or no.

It occurred to him that Issi couldn’t have been this way, or she’d have eaten that pancake. Should he wait for her here, or try to find his way to Lapithos, and hope she’d gone there to find Telamon? But Lapithos was somewhere on the other side of the Mountain, and neither Hylas nor Issi had ever been there. All they knew about it was from Telamon’s vague descriptions.

Somewhere in the distance, that dog he’d heard earlier was still barking. It sounded dispirited, as if it no longer believed anyone would come. Hylas wished it would stop. It reminded him of Scram.

He didn’t want to think about Scram. There was a wall in his mind, and behind it were bad things waiting to be remembered.

In the mountains the heat goes fast once the Sun is down, and despite the coarse woolen tunic, he shivered. He was exhausted. He decided to get clear of the village and find somewhere to sleep.

He hadn’t gone far when he realized that the dog had stopped barking. Now it was uttering long, outraged yowls.

These grew abruptly louder as Hylas rounded a bend.

The dog wasn’t as big as Scram, but just as shaggy. Its owner had tied it to a tree outside his pine-bough shelter and left it a bowl of water, which it had drunk dry. It was young and frightened, and when it saw Hylas it went wild, rising on its hind legs at the end of its rope and flailing its forepaws in an ecstasy of welcome.

Hylas felt as if a hand had reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart. An image of Scram flashed before his eyes: Scram lying dead with an arrow in his flank.

The dog barked at him eagerly and waggled its hindquarters.

“Shut up!” he told it.

The dog cocked its head and whined.

Quickly, Hylas untied his waterskin and sloshed water in its bowl, then threw it the sausage. The dog slurped the water and inhaled the sausage, then knocked him over and licked his cheek. Grief twisted inside him. He buried his face in the dog’s fur, breathing in its warm doggy smell. With a cry, he pushed it away and scrambled out of reach.

The dog swung its tail and made imploring
oo-woo-woo
noises.

“I can’t untie you,” said Hylas. “You’d only follow me and I’d get caught!”

The dog gazed at him beseechingly.

“You’ll be all right,” he told it. “Whoever tied you up cared enough to leave water; they’ll be back soon.”

That was right, wasn’t it? Because he couldn’t take it with him, not with the black warriors on his trail. Dogs don’t understand about hiding. You can’t tell a dog not to give you away.

But what if they killed it, like they’d killed Scram?

Before he could change his mind, he snatched the water bowl, untied the dog, and dragged it after him. When they were within sight of the village, he tied it to a tree, refilled
its bowl, and checked that the rope around its neck wasn’t too tight.

“You’ll be all right,” he muttered. “Someone will come.”

He left the dog sitting on its haunches, whining softly and watching him go. When he glanced back, it sprang to its feet and gave a hopeful
oo-woo.

Hylas clenched his teeth and ran off into the night.

Clouds hid the Moon, and he lost his way. The waterskin and food sack weighed him down. At last he found a stone hut built into a wooded hillside. He could tell from the silence that it had stood empty a long time.

He crawled through the low doorway, crunching over bits of broken pot and inhaling a dank breath of earth. It was cold, and it smelled as if something had slunk in here to die—but it was shelter.

He huddled in the dark with his back against the wall. He could smell the dog on him. He thought of the last time he’d been with Scram. He’d pushed his muzzle away—but had he stroked his ears, or scratched him under his front leg, the way he liked?

He couldn’t believe that he would never see Scram again. No big, warm, furry body leaning against him. No whiskery muzzle snuffling under his chin to wake him up.

Wrenching open the waterskin, he gulped a drink. He opened his food sack and groped for olives. His hands began to shake. He dropped the olives. He scrabbled on the ground. He couldn’t find them.

The wall in his mind broke apart. Everything flooded back.

He and Issi had made camp in a cave on the western peak. Issi had wandered off to dig up asphodel roots, and he’d skinned the squirrel and set it to roast over the fire.

“I’m going to the stream to cool off,” he’d called to Issi. “Don’t let that squirrel burn.”

“When have I ever done that?” she’d shouted indignantly.

“Day before yesterday.”

“I did not!”

Ignoring her, he’d started down the track.

“It wasn’t
burned
!” Issi had yelled after him.

At the stream he’d left his knife and slingshot on a rock, pulled his tunic over his head, and eased himself into the water. The cry of a hawk had echoed from the peak:
Hy hy hy.
Vaguely, he’d wondered if it was an omen.

Suddenly Scram was barking furiously:
Come quick! Bad trouble! Come quick!

Then Issi had screamed.

Hylas hadn’t stopped to fling on his tunic. Grabbing his knife, he’d raced up the trail. Bear? Wolf? Lion? It had to be bad for her to scream like that.

As he neared camp, he’d heard men’s voices, low and intent, and caught a strange bitter stink of ash. Ducking behind a juniper bush, he’d peered through the branches.

He’d seen four goats lying slaughtered; the rest had fled. He’d seen warriors—
warriors
—searching the camp.
He’d seen Scram. In one appalling heartbeat, he’d taken in the shaggy fur matted with burrs, and the big tough paws. The arrow jutting from Scram’s flank.

Then he’d glimpsed Issi hiding in the cave, her sharp little face white with shock. He had to do something or they’d find her.

His slingshot was back at the stream. All he had was his flint knife—but what good was that? A boy of twelve summers against seven men bristling with weapons.

Stepping into plain sight, he’d shouted, “Over here!”

Seven ash-gray faces turned toward him.

Zigzagging through the trees, he’d led them away from his sister. He couldn’t risk calling to her, but she was clever; she’d grab her chance and get out of that cave.

Arrows whined. One struck him in the arm. With a cry, he dropped his knife…

Huddled in the hut, Hylas hugged his knees and rocked back and forth. He wanted to rage and shout and howl.
Why
had the black warriors attacked? What had he and Issi and Scram ever done to them?

His eyes stung. A lump rose in his throat. Angrily, he choked it down. Crying wouldn’t bring back Scram. Or find Issi.

“I won’t cry,” he said out loud. “I won’t
let
them do that to me.”

Baring his teeth, he ground his fist against the wall to keep back the tears.

Moonlight woke him, shining through the doorway, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He lay on his side, fighting panic. Then it all came back, and that was worse.

Soon as it’s dawn, he told himself, you’re off to Lapithos to find Telamon. Issi’s bound to be with him. If not, you’ll find her. She’s tough and she knows the mountains; she can survive until then.

He shut his mind to the possibility that she might be dead.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out what looked like a clay brazier near the doorway, mounded with charred bones. Beside it lay a broken flint knife and a row of arrows, each one neatly snapped in two.

With a prickle of alarm, Hylas sat up. There was only one reason for a row of broken arrows.

The dead man lay on his back against the opposite wall. His face was covered with a cloth, but Hylas could tell from his undyed tunic and calloused feet that he’d been a peasant.

His kin must have been torn between terror of the black warriors and the need to placate their kinsman’s angry ghost; but they hadn’t neglected the rites. They’d laid him on a reed mat with his sickle and spear, having killed both weapons by breaking them in two, so that his spirit could make use of them. For the same reason they’d smashed his cup and bowl and strangled his dog—which lay nearby, ready to pad at his heels into the afterlife. And this
must have been one of the richer peasants, because in the far corner huddled a dead slave. Like the dog, the slave had been killed so that he could attend his master.

A
tomb
, thought Hylas. You’ve taken shelter in a tomb.

He couldn’t believe he’d missed the signs. This was why the villagers had left that offering at the hives: so that the bees could share in the funeral feast. This was why the tomb had been standing open: to let the spirit pass.

And he’d broken all the rules. He hadn’t approached from the west with his fist to his forehead, or asked the Ancestors if he could come in.