Gods and Warriors (25 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Why did that ship run aground? What happened to Spirit’s pod? Why did the Earthshaker wake?” He frowned. “Ever since the Crows attacked, I’ve felt there’s some kind of pattern, only I can’t see what it is. I’ve felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web.”

Pirra didn’t reply. She was craning her neck at the fallen trees littering the westward slope. “D’you think we could climb out that way?”

He followed her gaze. “Maybe. I’ll try it first, you wait here.”

The trees were alarmingly unstable, and spiky with broken branches. He called down to Pirra to stand back, in case the whole lot came crashing down. Halfway up, he saw what he couldn’t have seen from below: an overhang that made further climbing impossible. It seemed that the island still wouldn’t let them out.

Coming down was harder, as his hands and feet were slippery with charcoal. His knife-sheath snagged on a branch and tipped upside down; the knife fell out and
clattered to the bottom. Pirra ran to retrieve it. “I’ve got it!” she called.

Glancing over his shoulder, Hylas spotted what he’d missed on the way up: a ravine, hidden behind a spur on the other side of the clearing. He saw a slash of brilliant green, and his spirits rose. The ravine was untouched by the fire. It had to lead down to the Sea.

He was about to call down the good news when the bushes in the ravine stirred.

He froze.

There it was again.

Someone was coming.

T
he man who emerged from the ravine walked with a limp, and he kept to the shade as if he didn’t want to be seen.

He was barefoot, in a ragged tunic of salt-stained rawhide, with a half-empty waterskin slung over one shoulder, and a knife stuck in a twist of rope that did for a belt. His dark hair was long, so he couldn’t be a slave; and although he looked like a homeless wanderer, he had the build of a warrior. He was too far off for Hylas to see his face, but he gave an impression of intense awareness that made Hylas’ skin tighten.

From his hiding place among the fallen trees, Hylas peered down at the clearing. He could see no sign of Pirra. He only hoped she’d heard the man coming, and taken cover.

Still keeping to the shade, the man halted at the pile of Crow arrowheads. He stood looking down at them. His hand went to his knife. Slowly, he scanned the clearing. Hylas felt the power of that gaze coming at him like heat from embers.

The man limped to the charred remains of the sacrifice, directly below Hylas. He stooped for a shard of earthenware. Sniffed it. Set it down. He found a boulder and leaned against it, kneading his right thigh as if it pained him. From a pouch he shook a few leaves and crushed them in his palm. He rubbed some on his forehead and chewed the rest, washing them down with a pull from his waterskin, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“You up there,” he said calmly. “I think you’d better come down.”

“I know you’re up there,” said the Stranger. “And we both know that the only way out of that woodpile is down.”

A beetle crawled onto Hylas’ foot. He didn’t dare brush it off.

The Stranger folded his arms on his chest and yawned. “I can wait all day. How about you?”

The beetle wandered off and was replaced by ants.

“All right,” said the Stranger. “I’ll wait.”

The Sun rose higher. Hylas felt sweat trickling down his sides. A wind sprang up, blowing ash in his eyes. His mouth was dry. Pirra had their new waterskin.

“Can’t be much fun up there,” the Stranger remarked. His voice was as smooth as honey, but with an undercurrent of strength that made you want to listen and obey. “You’ll be thirsty. Hungry too. Boys like you always are.”

Hylas caught his breath. How could the Stranger know he was a boy, if he couldn’t see him?

“Oh, I know quite a lot about you,” said the Stranger, as if he’d spoken aloud. “You’re skinny. Tired. Bit of a limp in the left leg. What’d you do, step on a thorn?”

Hylas began to feel dizzy. Was it possible that this wasn’t a man, but an immortal in disguise?

And yet—if he was an immortal, surely he could simply
make
him come down?

And if he wasn’t an immortal, why didn’t he just climb up and
drag
him down? Unless—unless he
couldn’t
climb up because—

“You’re right,” conceded the Stranger. “I’d rather not do any climbing with this scratch on my thigh. By the way, what’s your name?”

This was so unexpected that Hylas nearly blurted it out.

The Stranger shrugged. “Well then, I’ll give you one. I’ll call you Flea, because only a flea could jump up there. So now, Flea. If you don’t come down, I’ll have to hurt the girl—”

“No, don’t!” cried Hylas.

“Ah—it can talk,” the Stranger said drily. “And by its accent, I’d say Lykonian—”

“Don’t hurt her!”

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

Hylas chewed his lip. It occurred to him that if the Stranger really did have Pirra, then where was she? Was this a bluff?

Then it came to him.
Tracks.
The Stranger had read his tracks, and Pirra’s too.

The Stranger scooped up a handful of ash and watched it trickle through his fingers. “A good sailor,” he said, “always knows what the wind’s doing. Although that wouldn’t mean much to you, since you’re from the plains.”

“I’m not, I—” Hylas shut his eyes.

“A mountain boy? Yes, of course, I should’ve guessed from your hiding place. Though you’re a long way from Mount Lykas, aren’t you, Flea?”

Hylas didn’t answer. He felt like a mouse trapped by an alarmingly clever fox.

Pushing himself off the boulder, the Stranger started collecting branches and piling them upwind of Hylas. Now what was he up to?

Unnerved, Hylas watched him limp to the mouth of the ravine, returning almost at once with a fistful of downy grassheads. Kneeling a little awkwardly because of his bad leg, he drew his knife and deftly struck sparks into the tinder.

“You’re wondering what I’m doing,” he said easily. “Well, I’ll tell you. You know how it is after the winter, when your hut’s crawling with lice? So what do you do? You throw wormwood on the fire and smoke them out.” He blew on the kindling, then stood back to let the wind get at it. “It works on fleas too.”

In no time the wind was sending black smoke billowing up the slope. Soon Hylas couldn’t breathe. Coughing and
swallowing smoke, he crawled out blindly, lost his footing, and fell.

In the blink of an eye the Stranger hauled him the rest of the way, slammed him facedown on the ground, and jabbed the point of his knife under his jaw. “Where are they?” he said in a voice like granite.

“Who?” gasped Hylas.

“The sons of Koronos! Quick! No lies!”

“I don’t know who you mean!”

Strong hands pinioned his arms with his own belt, wrenched him upright, and held him in an agonizing grip that nearly broke his collarbone. “Where are the Crows?” demanded the Stranger. “You must know, you’re one of their spies!”

“No I’m not!”

“Not good enough. If you want to live longer than that branch I’ve just put on the fire, start talking!”

“I’m not a spy, I swear!”

The Stranger flipped him around and held him at arm’s length. Hylas found himself staring up into a strong, wind-burned face. He saw a sharp dark beard crusted with salt, and deep-set eyes that were strangely light, as if bleached by years of staring into vast distances. They were studying him with all the compassion of a lynx for its prey.

“If you’re not a spy,” barked the Stranger, “what are you doing here?”

“Trying to get away from them!”

The Stranger gave him a look that searched to the roots
of his spirit. “You’re clever,” he said at last. “But what you need to bear in mind is that I’m cleverer.”

Hylas swallowed. “I—I’m clever enough to have realized that.”

The lines at the sides of the Stranger’s mouth deepened, as if he would have smiled if he hadn’t forgotten how. “How old are you, Flea?”

“Um. Twelve.”

“Twelve.” A shadow of pity crossed the hard features. “Is it possible?” he murmured. “I’ve been on the run longer than you’ve been alive.”

“From the Crows?”

“And other things.” For a moment the deep eyes were haunted. “So now, Flea. What do you know about the Crows?”

Hylas took a breath. “We were on the peak with the goats and they attacked our camp, me and Issi, that’s my sister. We got separated. They killed Skiros, he’s an Outsider too. Thestor—that’s the Chieftain—he let them on his land, I don’t know why. I got away and ended up here. I’m trying to get back to find my sister. That’s all I know.” That was a lie, he hadn’t mentioned the Keftians, but that would’ve led to Pirra, and he hoped the Stranger had forgotten her.

“How many attacked your camp? What did they look like?”

Hylas described them as best he could. “Their l-leader,” he stammered. “Who is he?”

The Stranger spat. “His name is Kratos. Kratos, son of Koronos.”

“What
is
Koronos?”

“Not what, who. Koronos is head of the clan that rules Mycenae. Once they were honored and respected, but they grew drunk with power and seized what wasn’t theirs. What you call the Crows is the name people gave them out of fear; it’s come to mean the whole clan, and the warriors who fight for it.” He paused. “For a captive, you ask a lot of questions. Here’s one for you. Why is Kratos after you?”

“I don’t know. He’s after all Outsiders. Maybe I’m the only one left. And Issi.”

The Stranger took that in silence, and Hylas sensed a subtle mind sifting outcomes with dizzying speed. He mustered his courage. “Are you—are you a god?” he asked.

Again the lines around the Stranger’s mouth deepened. “I might be. How would you tell?”

“You’d have a burning shadow.”

“True. Although if I were a god, I could make you think it wasn’t.” His voice had turned smooth again, but still with that undercurrent of strength. This man could make you believe that fire was water.

“Are you a shapeshifter?” said Hylas. “Like the Man of the Sea? Or some other spirit in disguise?”

“Oh, I’m good at disguises. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

The fire spat. Hylas gave a start. The branch was nearly burned up.

The Stranger had seen it too. “What am I going to do with you, Flea? I want to believe you—but can I risk it? The Crows have set traps for me before; and I haven’t survived this long by being kind.”

Hylas took a leap in the dark. “I know where your ship is.”

The Stranger went still. “That’s convenient. A little too convenient.”

“Ow. Please. It’s true. It’s got—um—undyed sails and jars of olives—and—and a wind pouch, with all different knots!”

The grip on his collarbone eased. “Any survivors?”

“I didn’t find any.”

“What, none?”

Hylas shook his head.

Something showed in the Stranger’s face, and Hylas saw that although he was ruthless, he had cared about his fellow sailors.

“I can take you to the wreck,” said Hylas.

“You can tell me where it is now and save me trouble.”

“If I told you now, you—you might kill me.”

“I might kill you anyway. It’d be the sensible thing to do.”