Gods and Warriors (5 page)

H
ylas had scarcely taken cover on the hillside before the villagers reached the tomb.

To his relief, they hadn’t noticed anything wrong: Already they were piling rocks in front of the entrance. In the throng he spotted the dog from the night before, standing close to one of the village boys. Hylas was glad it was all right, but it hurt to see it snuffling the boy’s palm. Scram used to do that.

He started over the hill at a run, picking buckthorn leaves to keep the Keftian’s ghost away, and stuffing the lock of hair in his food sack, along with the dagger. He would make a sheath for it later; for now it had to stay hidden. Bronze wasn’t for Outsiders. If he was seen with it, it’d be like shouting “thief.”

Trying to remember everything Telamon had ever said about Lapithos, he headed east into the foothills. Straggling pines gave no cover, and man-high thistles scratched him with spikes as long as boars’ tusks; but he saw no sign of the black warriors, or anyone else. He was thinking about this when he rounded a spur and nearly fell over a chariot.

In one horrified instant he took in two horses and a warrior in a rawhide helmet. The warrior had his back to him, but when the horses whinnied, he turned. Hylas didn’t wait to see any more, he was off like a hare, racing up a ridge where the chariot couldn’t follow.

Scrambling over the top, he skittered down the other side and made for the stream at the bottom. The chariot came thundering around the base of the hill in clouds of dust, the warrior yelling above the din. Hylas splashed into the stream, the waterskin and food sack bumping at his back.

Behind him a crash and the squeals of horses, then the warrior was coming after him on foot. Hylas zigzagged. The warrior zigzagged. A hand grabbed Hylas’ shoulder, yanked him back, and they both went down with a splash. The warrior got him in an armlock, but Hylas flipped him over and held his head underwater. Wildly, the warrior lashed out with his fist, catching Hylas on his wounded arm. Hylas snarled and jerked aside. The warrior twisted out of his grip and came up spluttering. Hylas kneed him in the groin. The warrior fell back with a howl—but was up before Hylas and kicked him on the jaw. Hylas swayed. The warrior knocked him over and knelt on his chest, grabbed his hair with both hands, and shook him till his teeth rattled.

“Hylas it’s
me
! Telamon! Your
friend
!”

“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me,” gasped Telamon.

“I told you,” panted Hylas, “I couldn’t
see
you with that thing on your head.”

They sat by the stream, splashing cold water on their bruises. The horses were tethered nearby, quietly drinking.

“Sorry I kicked you,” mumbled Telamon.

“Sorry I nearly drowned you,” Hylas replied.

Telamon snorted a laugh. “What happened to your arm?”

“I got shot,” said Hylas. His makeshift bandage had come off, and the wound was throbbing viciously.

“Does it hurt?” said Telamon.

Hylas splashed him in the face. “What do you think?”

Telamon grinned and splashed him back. Then he jumped to his feet. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” He seemed to take it for granted that they were in this together. Hylas wanted to thank him, but couldn’t find the words.

They’d been friends for four summers, but always in secret, because Telamon’s father had forbidden his son to befriend an Outsider. Despite that, Telamon sometimes managed to slip away to see Hylas and Issi without anyone knowing, although he went through agonies of remorse about deceiving his father.

At first, Hylas had been suspicious. What did this rich boy want with him? He’d soon perceived that Telamon didn’t want anything, except to be friends. They were very different, but maybe that was why it worked. If Telamon needed to make a decision, he considered the
outcomes carefully before he did anything, while Hylas thought fast and acted faster; he had to, or he wouldn’t survive. Telamon lived by the warrior code of honor, which Hylas only laughed at, although he secretly found it intriguing. Above all, Telamon had a father whom he loved and revered. Hylas couldn’t imagine what that was like. He’d never known his own father, and he’d never revered anyone.

For four years they’d been friends without anyone knowing—except of course for Issi, who adored Telamon. Together they’d built their first raft, and learned to swim. Telamon had saved Hylas from an angry bull, and Hylas had hauled Telamon out of the cave of an irritated lioness. Telamon was a year older, and bigger because he got more meat, but Hylas knew more tricks in a fight. Telamon hated the fact that Hylas stole, he said it wasn’t honorable; and yet he never betrayed Hylas and he never let him down.

But now, as Hylas watched Telamon inspecting the chariot for damage, he was struck afresh by the gulf between them.

Telamon was the son of the Chieftain, and he looked it. His tunic was banded with scarlet at sleeves and hem, and his calf-high boots gleamed with oil, as did the sheath at his belt that held his knife. His long dark hair was braided like a warrior’s, with little discs of clay at the ends to stop them unraveling, and on his wrist hung his sealstone of polished red jasper, carved with a tiny boar
with bristles down its spine. His father had given it to him that spring, when he’d turned thirteen and started hunting boar. He had to collect enough tusks to make his own helmet, which meant killing twelve. So far he’d only gotten one; but he wouldn’t let Hylas help, because to become a warrior you had to do it yourself.

“Telamon, what’s going on?” Hylas said abruptly. “Why are the Crows after Outsiders?”

“The Crows?” Telamon looked startled.

“The raiders, the black warriors! Why are they after Outsiders and no one else?”

Telamon frowned. “I don’t know. Soon as I heard what was happening, I went to warn you. I—I found your camp.”

“They killed Scram.”

“I know. I buried him. It was horrible. I thought they’d killed you too. Then I found your tracks. I lost them, but I picked up Issi’s—”

“She got away?” cried Hylas.

“She was heading west, but I lost her trail too.”

“
West!
And I’ve been going east! I thought she’d be bound to make for the village, or try to find you.”

“We’ll find her, Hylas. She’ll be all right.”

“She’s only nine summers old.”

“They won’t bother going after a girl.”

“But why hunt us at all?”

“I told you, I don’t know!”

“What d’you mean you don’t know?” exploded Hylas.
“Your father’s the most powerful man in the whole of Lykonia!”

“Hylas—”

“He’s the Chieftain! He’s supposed to
fight
raiders! How can he
let
them hunt his own people?”

Telamon’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my father’s decisions?”

“Or does he only protect villagers, and leave Outsiders to fend for themselves?”

“Are you questioning my father?” demanded Telamon. His handsome face had gone stiff, and he was gripping the hilt of his knife.

The thing about Telamon was that to him honor was everything. He wouldn’t hesitate to punish the least slur on his kin.

“No,” snapped Hylas. “I’m not questioning your father.”

“Good,” Telamon said curtly.

There was an angry silence. Telamon went to check the horses’ hooves for stones, and Hylas stayed where he was, by the stream. He knew his friend’s capacity to brood. Telamon would not be the first to break the silence. Hylas thought about showing him the bronze dagger; but then he’d have to explain about its being stolen, and hiding a dead stranger in a tomb, and Telamon would be horrified.

Instead he called out to Telamon to lend him his knife. Without a word, Telamon chucked it over, and Hylas cut a strip from his tunic for a new bandage for his injured arm. He found some woundwort and chewed a few leaves for a
poultice, then bound it in place with the bandage. Walking over to the chariot, he handed back the knife. Telamon took it, still without speaking.

When the silence had gone on long enough, Hylas said, “So these are horses.”

Telamon grunted.

There weren’t any horses on the Mountain, and Hylas had only ever seen them at a distance. The one nearest him was a towering monster with a glossy chestnut hide and a mane as black as pine pitch. He made to stroke it, but it set back its ears and tried to bite.

The other horse was friendlier, rubbing its nose against his chest and whiffling into his ear. Its great dark eyes were soft as plums, but the neck beneath his hand was solid muscle. “Are they yours?” he asked Telamon.

“Not likely,” snorted Telamon. “They’re Father’s. I’m not allowed to take them out.”

Hylas whistled. “Don’t tell me you
stole
them,” he said drily.

Telamon flushed. “Borrowed.”

Telamon was fiddling with his sealstone, as he sometimes did when he was thinking through a problem. “They’re not raiders, Hylas. They’re from the east, from the High Chieftain of Mycenae. And they’re not called ‘Crows.’ They’re a great clan: the House of Koronos. They have many warriors who fight for them. It’s only ignorant peasants who lump the clan and their warriors together, and call them all Crows.”

Hylas gave him a sharp glance. “You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I’m a Chieftain’s son,” retorted Telamon. “Of course I know something about them.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, Crows are Crows. They killed Scram and they tried to kill me and Issi.”

“I kn ow, but…” Telamon’s flush deepened. “My father—he has no quarrel with them.”

Hylas stared at him. “No
quarrel
? With raiders who come on his land and hunt his people?”

“Hylas…” Telamon hesitated. “He’s a Chieftain. That means he can’t always choose who he—who he has dealings with.”

Hylas brushed that aside. “What about you?” he demanded. “Do you have ‘no quarrel’ with them?”

Telamon knitted his brows. “I don’t
know
why they’re after Outsiders—but I’ll do my best to find out.” He looked Hylas straight in the eye. “I’m your friend,” he said distinctly. “We will find Issi. I will get you out of this. I swear it on my honor. Now shut up and let’s go.”

Gathering the reins, he jumped into the chariot. The horses reared, and he struggled to calm them.

“Do you know how to drive this?” said Hylas as he leaped in beside him.

“Hold on tight,” muttered Telamon, “and keep your knees bent.”

The horses sprang away, the chariot lurched, and Hylas nearly went flying.

“I said hold on!” yelled Telamon.

As they went rattling over the stones, the flimsy wicker frame bucked so violently that Hylas thought it was going to break apart. The rawhide webbing sagged alarmingly under his feet, and he had to narrow his eyes against the grit thrown up by the flying hooves. But the horses were
fast,
faster than anything he’d ever known. As the land rushed past, the hot wind streamed through his hair and he laughed aloud.

Telamon threw him a glance and grinned.

With a jolt, Hylas realized they were going the wrong way. Grabbing the reins, he hauled the horses to a skittering halt. “We’ve got to turn around! We’ve got to go
west
!”

Telamon was furious. “Why’d you do that?” he fumed as he battled to bring the horses under control. “We can’t take a chariot into the mountains! Besides, they’re guarding the pass, we’d never make it! We have to go
around
the mountains! I’ve got it all worked out. We’ll head south to the Sea, then we’ll—”

“The
Sea
?” cried Hylas.

“We’ll find a boat and row up the coast, then make land on the other side of the mountains and head in from there. It’s not that far. We’ll find Issi. I promise.”

The Sea, thought Hylas.

And when you reach the Sea
, the Keftian had said…
When.
He’d been so sure.

“Which way d’you want to go?” demanded Telamon.
“Hurry up, Hylas, I can’t hold them much longer.”

Hylas chewed his lip. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll have to head south, and go around by the Sea.”

“
Thank
you,” said Telamon. He slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps and they were off, clattering down the trail in billows of dust.

Hylas didn’t have time to change his mind. Suddenly they were sweeping around a bend and the plains were opening out before him: a vast, flat, forested land dotted with patches of golden barley and silver olive trees—and beyond that, frighteningly far away—mountains: peak upon peak, holding up the sky.

Hylas had never been so far east, and for a moment his spirit quailed. Mount Lykas was all he’d ever known: the peaks, the gorge, the village. He had only a hazy idea of what lay beyond.

He knew that Telamon’s father got his wealth from the rich crops of the plains, and that Lykonia was the southernmost chieftaincy in a vast land called Akea. He was vaguely aware that somewhere far away there were other Akean chieftaincies—Messenia, Arkadia, Mycenae—and that across the Sea lay distant lands peopled by monsters; but he’d never really thought about them. Until now. The outside world was unimaginably huge. It made him feel as insignificant as an ant, and as easily crushed.