The Burning Shadow (14 page)

A
lready the dogs were racing up the slope, the Crows spreading out to cut them off. Hylas jerked his head at the summit. “Only way's up.”

Pirra nodded. “I saw a trail back there—”

“If we can get around the other side and down into the thickets . . .”

If
it's not too steep, he thought, and
if
the dogs don't catch us first. He could tell from Pirra's face that she'd thought of that too.

Keeping low, they raced for the trail with Havoc streaking ahead: a horribly easy quarry for a pack of dogs.

To their astonishment, the trail turned out to be made of obsidian cobbles, and it snaked toward the summit; Pirra said the Islanders must have made it to take offerings to the Mountain. It was also treacherously smooth. Her sandals kept slipping, so she tore them off and ran barefoot.

Every moment, Hylas dreaded the clatter of claws and the whine of arrows, but all he heard was the hiss of wind and their own sawing breath. Then the Sun went dark and he ran into a wall of poisonous smoke. It bit his lungs and he fought the urge to cough. Through the murk he saw Pirra stagger and clap her hand to her mouth.

Havoc slammed against his legs, trying to keep him on the trail. Then the wind tore a rent in the smoke and Hylas saw why. Just off the edge lay the bubbling, yellow-crusted crack of a fire spirit's lair.

He grabbed Pirra's arm and pointed. “Stay on the trail,” he gasped, “they're everywhere.”

As the obsidian snake wound higher, the wind gusted more fiercely: now ripping aside the smoke, now swamping them in fumes. On either side, they heard the sputtering of the angry spirits. The Mountain was driving them toward the summit.

Hylas' gear bumped against his back, and Havoc's wicker ball broke loose and bounced into a fiery crack. A furious hiss, a jet of smoke—and the ball burst into flames.

Havoc didn't notice. She'd caught a scent. With an urgent grunt, she shot up the trail.

Hylas threw Pirra a startled glance. The lion cub hadn't seemed scared, she'd seemed
eager
.

Below them in the smoke, a man coughed.

They stared at each other in horror.

In the distance, a dog barked: three short, savage signals. Then another, farther down.

Hylas and Pirra fled up the trail. It grew steeper; soon they were using their hands. Craning his neck, Hylas saw that the summit was shockingly close, toxic vapor rolling off it in thick white waves.

The obsidian ended and he was running over unstable black scree. Through the haze, he saw Pirra stagger. Then the ground crumbled beneath her and she wasn't there.

She was clinging to the edge, her legs flailing for a foothold. Grabbing her wrist, he hauled her back from the brink.

“We're on a ridge,” he panted.

It was as sharp as a knife, with barely space for them to stand abreast. On one side the Mountainside fell away to the thickets unreachably far below. On the other was the sheer drop that had nearly claimed Pirra. Because of the smoke, they couldn't see how far it went.

“What's
down
there?” breathed Pirra.

Hylas threw in a pebble: They heard it rattle and bounce, but no sound of it striking bottom. Then suddenly the smoke drew apart and they saw it. They had reached the summit of Thalakrea, and it was
hollow
: a vast, yawning cauldron rimmed with the burning lairs of fire spirits, its barren black sides sweeping down into the swirling fumes where dwelt the Lady of Fire. One wrong move, and She would swallow them whole.

From somewhere behind came the baying of dogs. Above, the rim of the crater rose steeply, studded with giant boulders flung from within by some shattering force. They had no choice but to climb even higher.

Suddenly Pirra's eyes widened and she yanked Hylas down.

Something whizzed past his head and stuck quivering in the ground.

It was an arrow fletched with crow feathers.

Pirra rearranged her grip on her club as she stood shoulder to shoulder with Hylas on the rim of the crater.

Apart from that arrow, the Crows hadn't shown themselves, but now two bristling dogs stalked toward them out of the smoke.

“Stay close,” muttered Hylas. “You're smaller, they'll go for you first.” His face was set, and with his rawhide kilt and the lion claw on his chest, he looked more like an Outsider than ever.

The dogs were shaggy red brutes with fangs like boars' tusks. As they came on, Pirra saw the blood-hunger in their eyes.

Without warning, one leaped at her. She swung her club. Missed. Hylas' axe caught the dog midair and it fell dead.

The other dog sprang at Pirra. She caught it a crack on the muzzle that flung it sideways, but with terrifying speed it attacked again. Hylas landed it a kick that sent it howling into the abyss and him lurching backward. He would have fallen in a fire spirit's lair if Pirra hadn't yanked him back.

Now two more dogs were advancing upon them, and warriors were looming out of the smoke, some nocking arrows to bows, some gripping daggers in fists.

“Behind us,” panted Hylas with a jerk of his head. “That boulder shaped like a lion, if we can reach it, we can make a stand . . .”

Dodging arrows, they edged backward up the slope. But as they neared the boulder, Pirra heard a growl so powerful it shook the ground beneath her feet.

“Oh no,” breathed Hylas.

She glanced over her shoulder. That rock didn't just
look
like a lion—it
was
a lion.

In one appalling heartbeat she took in its massive head lowered with lethal intent, its huge claws raking the grit as it prepared to attack. Then she saw
Havoc
hiding behind its muscled haunches, and in a flash she knew that the tracks they'd found on the spur hadn't been those of the cub's parents, but of
another
lioness,
this
one, who was now bent on protecting the cub from all comers—including them.

Before them the Crows, behind them an angry lioness.

“Get down!” said Hylas, pulling her into a crouch.

The lioness snarled, baring massive yellow fangs.

Hylas unslung his waterskin and tossed it toward her, and with one huge forepaw she batted it into the crater. Pirra did the same with hers: anything to distract her.

The Crows were hanging back, but the dogs were racing toward them. Out of the corner of her eye, Pirra saw the lioness hunker down. She saw the jut of shoulder blades and haunches as the great beast tensed to spring.

“
Duck,
” said Hylas.

Pirra felt a
whoosh
as the lioness sprang right over them and met the dogs head-on. There was a crack and a howl swiftly cut off, and a dog slithered limply over the edge.

The lioness lurched to her feet, but now Pirra saw how she staggered, her flanks heaving, spit trailing from her jaws. She was old and badly wounded.

She was also
between
the Crows and their quarry, so Hylas and Pirra seized their chance and fled. But while the men harried the lioness, two dogs scrambled past her, one hurtling toward Hylas, the other heading straight for Havoc.

Pirra saw Hylas fighting the dog with his axe in one hand and his knife in the other. She saw Havoc backed against a rock, snarling bravely at her attacker, who was three times her size. Pirra left Hylas and raced up the slope. As the dog leaped at Havoc, Pirra swung her club and killed it. For an instant the cub's eyes met Pirra's—then she turned tail and sped off into the smoke.

Hylas had killed his dog too, but as he turned to join Pirra, he stumbled and lost his footing. She caught his axe handle, checking his fall long enough for him to scramble back.

A few paces below them, the old lioness stood at bay before the Crows and the surviving dog. Arrows jutted from her flanks; she was failing fast. The dog leaped and sank its teeth into her throat. With a roar she raked it with her claws. It clung on, and in a blur of teeth and fur they disappeared into the crater.

Once again, Hylas and Pirra scrambled up the rim. But now the Mountain turned against them, gusting smoke in their faces and forcing them back.

As they staggered down the slope, a warrior loomed over Pirra and grabbed her by the hair. Another seized Hylas' arm and yanked it savagely behind him.

“Got him!” he shouted.

T
he warrior caught Pirra's wrists in a bone-crushing grip. She wriggled and kicked, but it was like fighting a boulder.

“Let her go!” cried Hylas. “She's the wisewoman's slave, she's needed to cure Kreon!” That earned him a blow to the face with the butt of a knife.

“We got them, my lord!” called his captor to someone farther down the trail.

Footsteps in the smoke, and both warriors straightened respectfully. Pirra saw a young man climbing toward them.

Hylas saw him too, and paled. He caught Pirra's eye. “Save yourself,” he muttered, “you can't help me now.”

The young man was darkly handsome, with high-boned features and a warrior's long braids. With a jolt, Pirra recognized Telamon, the boy she'd been meant to wed.

It's all over, she thought numbly. He'll take Hylas to Kreon and they'll feed him to the crows.

Telamon's gaze flickered over her, and although his expression didn't change, she knew that he'd recognized her. Then he turned to Hylas.

Hylas spat blood and glared defiantly back.

Nothing moved in Telamon's face, but Pirra saw his grip on his knife tighten.

“Do we kill them here,” said Pirra's captor, “or take them back to the mines, so the others can watch?”

“This Mountain is sacred,” said Pirra, “if you kill us, you'll be cursed forever!” She'd invented the curse; but it made them uneasy.

“Let her go,” ordered Telamon. “She can make her own way back.”

Pirra's captor released her with a suddenness that made her stagger. “And the Outsider?” he said.

Telamon's dark eyes flicked to Hylas. Abruptly, he sheathed his knife and turned away. Only Pirra saw how his face worked, as if warring impulses fought within him.

“It's not him,” he said over his shoulder.

The warriors gaped. “Wh-at?” said one.

“My lord, are you sure?” said the other. “He's dressed in skins, I think he—”

“What you think doesn't matter,” Telamon said coldly. “I knew the Outsider. This isn't him. It's just some runaway slave.”

The men exchanged startled glances. “So then—do we take him back to the mines?”

“No. If we put him with the others, he'd spread rebellion.”

“Then what?”

Telamon thought for a moment. “The furnaces. We'll give him to the smith. He won't last long up there.”

“If I were to kill you now,” said Telamon, “I'd receive nothing but praise.”

“But you won't,” said Hylas, with more conviction than he felt.

“You can't know that for sure,” muttered Telamon.

“If you'd wanted me dead, you'd have done it already.”

Telamon put his hands to his temples. “I want you far away from here,” he said. “I want never to see you again. I hate this. Lying to my kin, and for what? To risk helping someone who was once my friend.”

They were alone at the Crows' camp in the thicket; Telamon had gotten rid of his men by sending them in search of the missing dogs. Hylas sat with his arms tied behind his back. They were beginning to ache, and his cheekbone hurt.

He watched Telamon prowl around the campfire's dead gray ashes. His warrior braids swung, and the little clay discs at the ends made a faint clinking that was painfully familiar. He'd grown taller, but he was still the same boy who used to run off and join Hylas and Issi on Mount Lykas.

“If you're not going to kill me,” said Hylas, “let me go.”

Telamon snorted. “And tell them what? That fire spirits carried you away?”

“So what are you going to do?”

Telamon fiddled with the sealstone at his wrist. “I still can't believe it,” he said. “You. Here.
Why?
”

“Not my choice. I got caught and sold as a slave.”

Telamon shot him a searching look. “Is that true?”

“Course it's true, I've got the tattoo to prove it.” He twisted around to display the mark on his forearm.

“But why
here,
on Thalakrea? And why now, when Koronos—when we're all here together?”

“I didn't know you were coming. Look. Telamon. I don't
care
about your wretched dagger. All I want is to get off this island and find Issi!”

Telamon studied him with an unreadable expression. “I want to believe you. But I believed you before, and you lied.”

“So did you.”

Telamon flinched. Then he walked to the dead fire and kicked it, raising a bitter cloud of ash.

For a heartbeat while his back was turned, Hylas thought about knocking him to the ground; but Telamon was stronger, and armed. Instead he said, “You don't seem surprised that I'm alive.”

“That's because I'm not,” retorted Telamon. “I've known for a while.”

“How?”

He didn't reply. “I wept for you, Hylas,” he said in a low voice. “I grieved for my dead friend. And all the time you were laughing at me.”

“I wasn't laughing,” said Hylas.

“No?”

“No.”

Bleakly they stared at each other across the ruins of their friendship.

Men's voices came to them through the thicket.

Quickly, Telamon squatted beside Hylas and pretended to tighten his bonds. “When we reach the furnace ridge,” he whispered, “you'll have to stay alive as best you can. They say the smith's a hard man with strange ways. He'll flog you, but if I stopped him they'd be suspicious, and I'm running enough risks as it is. Hold on for a few days, and I might be able to get you on a ship.”

Hylas twisted around. “Are you telling me you'll help me
escape
?”

“Sh! Not so loud!”

“But
why
?”

“Why's it so hard to understand? You were my friend. Even after everything that's happened, I can't—I can't watch them kill you. If I get you off the island, I'll be rid of you, once and for all.”

“But if you help me, you'll be betraying your own clan.”

Telamon glared at him. “Do you think I don't know that?”

The men returned with three cowed-looking dogs at their heels. In the blink of an eye, Telamon became their haughty young leader and hauled Hylas to his feet. “Move,” he snarled.

The obsidian trail cut straight across the plain, so that by late afternoon they were already approaching the Neck.

Once, Hylas glimpsed Pirra following at a distance. He hoped she'd have the sense to make for the village, and not try to rescue him. He'd seen no sign of Havoc. Had the lion cub made it down from the Mountain, or was she still up there, lost in the poisonous smoke?

Telamon picked up a horse at the Neck, then they started for the ridge. As they passed the mines, Hylas saw slaves toiling to clear the shafts. Soon it would be as if the cave-in had never happened. He thought of the snatchers deep underground. He could almost feel their anger through the rocks.

The track to the furnaces was steep, and edged with piles of burned slag. He trudged in a blur of exhaustion, surrounded by Telamon's men. As they crested the ridge, the din of hammers grew.

Telamon's horse shied. “Steady,” he growled. He was trying to appear at ease, but Hylas could tell he was nervous.
Smiths are different,
Zan had said.
Even the Crows are wary of them.
Telamon was taking a risk, making the smith take on a new slave.

Grimy slaves tended the furnaces, like ants tending enormous grubs. Each was a squat clay column pitted with holes spouting evil-smelling brown smoke. The slaves had just cracked one open: Hylas saw liquid fire spattering into a stone trough.
Crush the greenstone, burn it till the copper bleeds out . . .

From stone huts, fires glared and hammers rang. Hylas guessed that there, in some mysterious way, copper was being mated with tin to create bronze.

Then they were out on a windswept headland, hearing gulls and gulping salty air. The drop to the Sea was dizzying. No escape that way, thought Hylas.

Beneath a thorn tree, four slaves unloaded charcoal from an ox-wagon. Beyond, on the tip of the headland, a large stone hut stood alone. Hylas caught the sound of a single hammer. His belly tightened. That must be the smithy.

Telamon dismounted and ordered his men to untie Hylas. Then to the slaves, “Tell your master I wish to speak to him.”

They tapped their lips and shook their heads.

“They're mute, my lord,” said a warrior. “The smith only permits those who can't speak near his smithy.”

Hylas had forgotten that. Uneasily, he wondered what it meant for him.

The warrior had had the same thought. “My lord, I'm not sure the smith will—”

“He'll do as I command,” said Telamon. But he was sweating.

One of the slaves ran and beat a copper drum hanging from the tree.

The hammering stopped. A man emerged and walked toward them. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and muscled forearms flecked with burns. He wore a leather apron to shield him from the heat of the forge, and his dark beard was clipped short, his shoulder-length hair held back by a headband of sweat-stained rawhide. Hylas couldn't see the upper part of his face, which was hidden by a leather mask.

Telamon inclined his head.

The smith acknowledged him with the slightest of nods.

“Master smith,” said Telamon with a careful blend of haughtiness and respect, “this slave's a runaway. I want you to keep him separate, so that he can't spread trouble.”

Through the slits in his mask, the smith studied Hylas. Then he grunted at him to follow, and headed back to his smithy.

Hylas risked a glance at Telamon, but he'd already remounted and was riding off. Hylas wondered if he'd meant what he said about helping him.

“In here,” growled the smith.

Rubbing the feeling back into his wrists, Hylas followed his new master inside.

He walked into a blast of heat and a strange sweet smell of raw metal that reminded him of fresh blood. A charcoal fire smoldered in a raised stone hearth. Beside it stood a massive stone block, and rawhide bellows with blackened clay snouts; stacks of bronze ingots shaped like oxhides, a cubit long; piles of axe heads, knives, spearheads, all with the pinkish luster of new bronze. On a workbench lay stone molds, hammers and chisels, a dish of dried anchovies and cheese, and a half-open pouch of leaves.

Hylas blinked. Something about those leaves had jogged his memory . . .

The smith took a horn cup and drank from a pail. “So,” he said. “Why'd they really send you to me?”

That voice. Smooth. Powerful. He'd heard it before. And those leaves on the workbench were
buckthorn
. People chewed them to ward off ghosts—or the Angry Ones.

He mustered his courage. “Don't you recognize me?”

The smith set down the cup. Behind his mask, his eyes gleamed.

“It's me,” said Hylas. “Flea. Last summer you took me captive. You weren't a smith then, you'd been shipwrecked, you called yourself Ak—”

Swift as a snake, the man called Akastos clapped a hand over his mouth. “The name's
Dameas,
” he breathed. “Dameas the smith. Got that? Blink twice for yes, or you'll regret it.”

Hylas blinked twice.