Gods and Warriors, Page 2

  Hylas stood his ground. If he took a step back, Dart would attack. “Let me in!” he shouted.

  “What do you want?” growled Neleos, the headman. “You’re supposed to be on the Mountain, watching my goats!”

  “Let me in! I want my sister.”

  “She’s not here. Why would you think she was?”

  Hylas blinked. “But—where is she?”

  “Dead, for all I care.”

  “You’re lying,” said Hylas. But inside he was panicking.

  “You left my goats!” roared Neleos. “She wouldn’t dare come back without them—and neither would you unless you want a red skin!”

  “She’ll be here soon. Let me in! They’re after me!”

  Neleos narrowed his eyes and scratched his beard with one horny hand. He had a peasant’s bent legs and lumpy shoulders from hefting a yoke, but he was sharper than a weasel, always scheming to get more for less. Hylas knew he was torn between the urge to punish him for leaving the goats, and the desire to keep him alive so that he could do more work.

  “They killed Skiros,” said Hylas. “They’ll kill me too. You’ve got to break the rules and let me in!”

  “Send him away, Neleos!” shrilled a woman. “He’s been nothing but trouble since the day you found him!”

  “Set the dogs on him!” shouted another. “If they catch him here, we’re all in danger!”

  “She’s right, set the dogs on him! He must’ve done something or they wouldn’t be after him.”

  “But who are they?” cried Hylas. “Why are they after Outsiders?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” snarled Neleos; but Hylas could see the fear in his eyes. “All I know is they’re from somewhere out east and they’re hunting Outsiders. Well, let them! They can do what they like as long as they leave us alone!”

  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.

  Not daring to breathe, Hylas reached for his gear.

  In the corner, the dead slave opened his eyes and stared at him.

  3

  The corpse had the waxy pallor of the newly dead, and its eyes glinted in the moonlight.

  Hylas shrank against the wall of the tomb. He watched the gray lips part. He heard it speak.

  A voice as distant as death. Speech like the cry of hawks in a high, cold sky—in a tongue that he couldn’t understand.

  No, he thought. This can’t be.

  The corpse gave a long, rattling sigh. “Ah… Stay…”

  Hylas gasped. He saw how its speech stirred the dusty moonlight. Breath. This corpse had breath. “You—you’re alive,” he whispered.

  The corpse bared its teeth in a terrible grin. “Not—for much longer…”

  Shrinking inside, Hylas edged closer. Beneath his hands the ground turned sticky. He smelled fresh blood.

  The dying man was young: He had no beard. He wasn’t a slave as Hylas had thought; his dark hair wasn’t cropped, but long; it lay twisted beneath him. And he wasn’t a peasant; his feet were too smooth. He wore a knee-length kilt of fine linen sewn with spirals around the hem, and a wide leather belt cinched tight about his slender waist. From the belt hung a dagger in a richly tooled sheath, and from his neck a beautifully carved amulet of white bone: a tiny, leaping fish with a mysterious smile. The fish swam on his chest in one black glistening slick of blood.

  “Hide me…” he breathed.

  Hylas tried to draw back, but the young man’s icy fingers clutched his.

  “I am from Keftiu.” He spoke haltingly, in a tongue not his own. “A great island… far across the Sea…” His face worked. “Dawn. They’ll come to shut the tomb. They’ll find me—fling my body to the vultures.” His agonized gaze sought Hylas. “Help my spirit find peace.”

  “I can’t,” said Hylas. “I’ve got to get away, if they catch me—”

  “You need a knife,” gasped the Keftian. “Take mine. I stole it. It’s precious. Keep it hidden.”

  The hairs on the back of Hylas’ neck rose. “How did you know I needed a knife?”

  Again that terrible grin. “A man crawls into a tomb to die. A boy crawls in to live. You think that’s chance?”

  Hylas didn’t know what to do. The Moon was setting, and the night crickets were changing their song. He had to get out of here before the villagers came.

  “Hide me…” pleaded the Keftian.

  A dying wish is a powerful thing. Hylas couldn’t bring himself to ignore it.

  Quickly, he searched for somewhere to hide the man. The tomb was bigger than he’d thought, and in the gloom he blundered against piles of clay coffins. Some were for children, as small as cooking-pots, but others were bigger. He found one in the darkest corner and heaved back the lid, releasing a musty smell of bones.

  Nothing would h
ave made him touch them with his bare hands. Grabbing one of the broken arrow shafts, he shoved the skull and the larger bones aside, to make room. “I can’t carry you,” he told the Keftian. “You’ll have to climb in yourself.”

  It was horrible, dragging the dying man across the floor and half pushing him into the high-sided coffin, then folding his limbs till he lay curled like a baby in an earthenware womb. It must have been torture, but the Keftian barely moaned.

  “How did you get here?” panted Hylas when it was done. “And who killed you?”

  The Keftian closed his eyes. “They come from the east—from Mycenae. They’re… I can’t say it in your tongue. Birds that make a noise…” He gave a feeble caw.

  “Crows?”

  “Yes. We call them the Crows. Because they’re so greedy and they feed on death.”

  Hylas thought of the black warriors. He saw their dark cloaks flapping like wings.

  Again the Keftian bared his teeth. “It was night… To disguise myself I wore a poor man’s cloak of rough hareskin. They mistook me for a—an Out-sider. What does this mean, Out-sider?”

  “It means someone who wasn’t born in a village,” Hylas said curtly. “It means you’ve got no Ancestors to protect you, and you’ve got to live out-village. You’re not allowed to take part in sacrifices, so you don’t get any meat unless you can snatch time to hunt, or kill a sheep on the Mountain and fake its death in a landslide. Everyone looks down on you. That’s an Outsider.”

  “You’re an Out-sider,” said the Keftian, watching him. “Yes, you look different, your hair… you belong to the Wild. Are there many Out-siders in Lykonia?”

  Hylas shook his head. “Far as I know, only a handful.”

  “And—you have kin?”

  Hylas didn’t reply. When Neleos had found him and Issi on the Mountain, they’d had nothing but the bearskin on which they lay, and Neleos had told them their mother had abandoned them. Hylas had never believed that: Partly because he never believed anything Neleos said, and partly because it didn’t fit his one memory of his mother. She’d loved him and Issi, he felt sure of it. She would never have abandoned them.