The Burning Shadow (3 page)

By the time Hylas and Zan rejoined the others, Spit had also found his way back. Hylas slammed him against the tunnel wall. “What was that for?” he shouted. “I didn't
do
anything!”

“I—I thought you were a snatcher!” stammered Spit.

“Leave him alone, Flea!” barked Zan.

Hylas turned on him. “Is this a trick? We had a truce!”

“He made a mistake. Come on, we got work to do.”

In grim silence they found the piles of greenstone and filled their sacks. Hylas kept Spit where he could see him. He was either extremely cunning—or the snatchers had turned him mad. Hylas didn't know which would be worse.

At last a ram's horn blew and the mines began to empty.

Hylas was exhausted, but as he hauled himself out of the shaft, an overseer chucked three waterskins at him and told him to go and fill them at the “splash.”

Bat offered to show him where, and Beetle came too; he seemed like a different boy, now that he was out of the pit.

Dusk was falling and the mines were quiet, but on the furnace ridge, one hammer beat a lonely rhythm. Hylas asked who it was.

“That's the smith,” said Beetle. “Sometimes he works all night. He won't let anyone near the smithy, it's guarded by slaves who can't speak. If someone comes, they warn him by beating a drum.”

“Why?” said Hylas.

Beetle shrugged. “Smiths are different, they know the secrets of bronze. Not even the Crows like to cross a smith.”

They skirted the hill, and Hylas saw that the island narrowed to a neck, then bulged out, like some huge humpbacked creature. At the neck, an encampment of Crows kept watch.

So no escape that way, he thought.

“That's where they keep the horses,” Bat said wistfully.

Hylas didn't reply. Beyond the neck, an arid black plain stretched to the Mountain. Its steep flanks blotted out the sky, and smoke seeped endlessly from its weird, lopped-off summit.

Pirra had said once that there was only one Goddess, but Hylas didn't think that was right. The immortal who ruled this harsh land felt utterly unlike the Lady of the Wild Things, or the shining blue Goddess of the Sea he'd encountered last year.

The “splash” turned out to be three dismal pools scummed with pollen from a few dusty willows, and noisy with frogs. Proudly, Bat pointed out some swallows swooping to drink. “But I like the frogs best, 'cuz they're so beautiful.”

Frogs reminded Hylas painfully of Issi; they were her favorite creature. “They're not beautiful,” he snapped, “they're just frogs!”

Bat blinked.

Hylas rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he muttered. “You and Beetle go back to the others. I'll manage on my own.”

When they'd gone, Hylas plunged in the waterskins and watched them fill like bloated bodies. He ached all over, and his mind was full of darkness. The terror of the snatchers. That angry, inhuman breath . . .

Far away on the Mountain, a lion roared.

The swallows flew up in alarm. Hylas went still. On the furnace ridge, even the smith stopped hammering. He too was listening.

There were lions on Mount Lykas, where Hylas had grown up. They hadn't troubled him or the goats because Scram was such a good guard dog, but sometimes at night, Hylas and Issi would lie by their campfire and listen to them roar.

When a lion roars, he is telling all the other creatures whose land this really is.
It is mine!
Mine!
Mine!
he roars.

It is mine!
roared the lion of Thalakrea.

As Hylas listened, rebellion kindled inside him. This was the voice of the mountains: wild and strong and free. It was telling him that someday, he too would be free.

The lion's roars changed to sawing grunts, then ceased, but the sound stayed with Hylas long after the echoes died.

He thought of the lion he'd encountered by the spring. He had drunk from its paw print. Maybe some of its strength
had
entered his spirit.

Shouldering the waterskins, he started back to the others.

T
he lion cub
loved
it when her father roared. He made the earth shake and he kept her safe.

She was especially glad now, because she'd had a bad sleep. In it she was being chased by savage dogs and terrible creatures who ran on two legs like birds, but instead of wings, they had horrible loose flapping hides. It was good to wake up and hear the roars. No two-legged monsters could get her now.

The lion cub stretched happily. She liked the Dark.

Then she saw that she was alone. Her father was roaring many walks away, and her mother and the Old One had gone hunting and left her behind. This made the cub extremely cross. Sometimes they let her go too, so that she could learn to hunt—but why couldn't she go
always
? She hated being on her own.

A beetle buzzed past and crashed into a thistle. The cub scrunched it up, but it tasted bad, so she spat it out.

She padded to her pool and lapped some wet, then splashed about attacking sticks. She stalked a lizard, which escaped, then sneaked up on a frog, which nearly didn't. She had a scratch at her best scratching tree until her claws felt tingly and strong. Then she climbed the trunk, got stuck, and fell off.

She yawned.

Once, she'd had a brother to play with, but a buzzard had snatched him in its talons and flown off. The cub remembered the swish of the great bird's wings and her brother's panicky mews. She missed him. It was boring on her own.

The Dark wore on, and at last the lion cub saw the beloved gray shapes coming through the grass. The Old One was uttering soft greeting grunts, and the cub's mother was gripping a buck's neck in her jaws and dragging the carcass between her front legs.

Eagerly the cub bounded over, nuzzling the full-growns' faces and mewing:
Please please I'm hungry!
But her mother was hungry too, and after a hasty cheek-rub, she swatted the cub, who scampered off to her favorite bush to wait her turn.

Her father arrived, and the females withdrew to let him feed. The lion cub watched respectfully as he ripped open the carcass and gulped great juicy chunks of loin. When his belly was bulging and his chest and chin-fur dark with blood, he shook his enormous mane and ambled off to roar some more.

Now it was her mother's turn. The lion cub watched in admiration as she tore off slabs of haunch with her fangs, while the Old One—whose jaws were weaker—chewed the squidgy guts.

Finally
, it was the cub's turn. Hungrily, she lapped the delicious sticky blood; then the Old One pulled out some of the buck's fur with her teeth, and the cub attacked the flank. The meat was tough, so she soon gave up and snuggled against her mother to suckle. Milk was easier, and there was always lots.

By the time she'd finished, the buzzards were circling, so she stayed near the full-growns, where it was safe. She play-hunted the Old One's tail-tuft, which the sleepy old lioness obligingly twitched from side to side. Then her mother summoned her with a soft
ng ng,
and she bounded over to be licked.

Being licked by her mother was the cub's best thing. She loved the warm mother-smelling breath, and the big strong tongue rasping dirt and tiny itchy creatures out of her fur. Most of all, she loved that she had her mother to herself.

The cub's mother was the strongest lioness
ever
, and so good at hunting that she easily killed enough prey to feed the whole pride. Her great watchful eyes shone golden in the Light and silver in the Dark; and with one swat of her paw she could fell a buck, or nudge a hungry cub to suckle.

When the licking was over, the cub curled up between her mother's forepaws. Her belly was full, and her fur was sleek and clean.

Everything (except the buzzards) existed to keep her happy and safe. The pool was there to be played in, the frogs and lizards to be stalked, and the bushes to provide places to hide. Her mother and the Old One were there to give her milk and meat, to keep her clean, and to pull thorns from her pads with their teeth. Her father was there to protect her from bad things.

No two-legged creatures with flapping hides could
ever
get near her.

The Dark became the Light, and the Great Lion in the Up changed color. Like all lions, He was silver in the Dark, but when the Light came, He turned gold. Now His mane shone so bright that it hurt to look.

The cub loved the Light, when the whole pride snoozed together, but this time she couldn't sleep. Her belly felt crawly, as if she'd been eating ants.

Suddenly her mother leaped to her feet with a
whuff
of alarm. The Old One rose too, and both stared tensely into the wind.

Anxiously, the cub rubbed against their legs. They ignored her.

Far away, her father roared. Then he stopped. Usually he went on much longer.

Whuff!
grunted her mother. She and the Old One turned tail and raced off, with the cub bounding after them. This wasn't a hunt. Her mother smelled of fear.

Struggling to keep up, the lion cub followed their black tail-tufts through the long grass and into the prickly thickets on the Mountainside.

Far behind, she heard barking. The savage dogs had escaped from her bad sleep and were coming after her.

Then she heard a strange yowling noise. No no, the terrible two-legged creatures with the flapping hides were after her too—and now she remembered: These creatures were
men
.

Until now, she'd never been scared of men. They were just puny, timid creatures who sometimes ventured into the lions' range and left them a goat.

But these men were different. Her mother was afraid of them.

Tirelessly, her mother and the Old One ran, and the cub labored after them.

This part of the Mountain was the heart of their range, and she knew it like the spots on her paws. She knew the black slopes where the earth was growly and hot. She knew the pools of talking mud and the hissing cracks higher up, where the fire spirits lived. Surely here they would be safe?

As they climbed a ridge, she glanced back. A long way below, she saw huge angry dogs and men with long black manes and flapping hides. The men were waving big shiny claws in their forepaws—
and they were attacking her father
.

A dog lunged at him and he bared his fangs, lashing out with his claws and sending it crashing into a rock. But more dogs were snapping at his haunches and the men were closing in. How could this be happening? Lions aren't prey. This was all wrong.

An urgent
whuff
from her mother—
wait!
—then she and the Old One went hurtling back down the slope, to help him.

Obediently, the cub hid under some thistles and made herself very small and still, as she'd been taught.

At last her mother reappeared and whiffled to her to follow. The cub saw with horror that she was panting and dragging one hind leg, and her belly was dark with blood. It wasn't the blood of prey. It was hers.

They ran for a long time, to a part of the forest that the cub didn't know.

Why didn't the Old One come?

And where was her father?

When the lion cub woke, it was the Dark again. Her paw pads hurt and she was
hungry
.

Above her in a pine tree, an owl peered down at her, then spread its wings and flew away.

The cub didn't know this place. The tree smelled of her father, but the scent-marking was old: He hadn't been here for a long time.

There was no sign of him or the Old One, but a couple of pounces away, her mother lay asleep among some bushes. With a grateful mew, the cub limped over to suckle.

She drew back in alarm. Her mother's teat was
cold—
and no milk came.

Cautiously, the cub crept nearer and patted her mother's nose.

She didn't wake up. Her eyes were open and staring, but they weren't the shining silver they should be in the Dark. They were dull—
and they didn't see the cub
.

Mewing with fear, the cub squirmed under her mother's paw and tried to
make
her move.

It didn't work. The great watchful eyes went on staring at nothing.

Frantically, the cub batted her mother's face with her forepaws. She nose-nudged her mother's flank, she licked the big gentle muzzle.
Please please please!

Still nothing. The lioness who lay sprawled in the bushes
looked
like her mother, and smelled like her—but all the warmth and the meaty-smelling breath—all the motherness was gone.

The cub put up her muzzle and yowled.
Come back, come back.

Her yowls sounded loud in the stillness, and horribly alone.

Trembling, she crept beneath a thornbush.

Maybe if she kept very quiet, and waited like a
good
cub, her mother would wake up.