“Let’s go,” he said, scooping ash and rubbing it over his head. “Sooner we get under cover, the better.”
It was a relief to reach the other side, even if there was no cover, and they rewarded themselves with some imperfectly dried goat meat and a few mouthfuls from their waterskins.
“Those tracks reminded me,” said Pirra. She took something from her pouch and held it out to him. “I keep forgetting to give this to you.”
Hylas stared at the lion claw in his palm.
“I thought you should have it for an amulet,” said Pirra, “because you worship the Lady of the Wild Things, and because, well, lions are strong, and so are you. Anyway, you gave me that falcon feather, so it seems fair.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. First that lion on the day he was caught, then Havoc, then the lion scat, and now this. He had the alarming feeling that it made some kind of pattern.
“Put it on,” urged Pirra.
He tied the thong around his neck.
She nodded. “It looks good.”
It did make him feel stronger, but he didn’t like the idea of the gods pushing him about like a piece on a gaming board.
They found a goat trail and walked single file, trying not to glance up at the summit looming over them, or down to the broom thickets, dizzyingly far below. Then they crested another ridge and suddenly the wind blew fierce in their faces: they had reached the north coast of Thalakrea.
No settlements, not even a hut, and no way down to the Sea. Nothing but wind-battered cliffs and raging surf.
“No chance of a boat,” said Pirra, narrowing her eyes against the dust.
“There might be, farther along,” Hylas said stubbornly.
But they hadn’t gone far when they caught a distant sound of hammering—and there below them lay the black plain and the Neck, and beyond it the snarling head of Thalakrea, with the red wound of the mines and the all-seeing eye of Kreon’s stronghold.
The trail widened, and Pirra found a little hollow out of the wind. Flinging down her gear, she sat with her forearms on her knees. Havoc glanced uncertainly at Hylas.
He stood with the hot wind buffeting his face, and a wave of hopelessness broke over him. The only village was Hekabi’s, dangerously close to the mines. Even if they reached it and bought passage on a ship, how would they avoid capture, when Kreon saw everything from his aerie?
“Hylas,” Pirra said quietly.
He shot her a warning glance.
“We can’t put it off any longer. We’ve got to decide what to do.”
“You mean the dagger,” he said between his teeth.
She nodded. “If we try to escape, we’ll miss our only chance of stealing it. We have to choose.”
Savagely, he hacked at the grit with his heel. “The dagger,” he said curtly, “has nothing to do with me.”
Her dark brows drew together. “Last summer, you were determined to stop them getting it. What’s changed?”
“A year, that’s what, and being down the pit. All I want is to find Issi.”
“And if the gods won’t let you?”
“What do they want from me?” he cried. “What do you want?” he shouted at the smoking Mountain—and it flung back his voice: want, want, want . . .
“You’re frightening Havoc,” Pirra said sternly.
Hylas turned his back on her. In his mind he saw the dagger of Koronos: its broad square shoulders and the beautiful deadly sweep of its blade. He wanted to seize it and make it flash in the Sun, to feel its power coursing through him . . . He wanted to fling it to the bottom of the Sea.
“It’ll always be with us,” said Pirra as if she’d heard his thoughts. “Whatever we do, wherever we go. No, don’t walk away, listen. We don’t know how long it’ll be here on Thalakrea, but one thing’s sure: It won’t be forever. They’ll take it back to Mycenae—and when they do, it’ll be gone for good. This is our only chance.”
“Why do you even care?” he retorted. “It’s nothing to do with you!”
“Yes it is! Keftiu’s my country. I can’t walk away.”
“Last night you said you’d die if they sent you back. Do you really think you can save Keftiu without getting caught?”
She flinched. “I can try.” She touched the sealstone on her wrist, and the tiny amethyst falcon flashed in the Sun. “Hylas, I don’t think it’s by chance that you ended up here, or that I did, or that they’re bringing the dagger to Thalakrea. It’s not by chance that the Oracle mentioned you—”
“But I never asked to be in the Oracle!” he burst out. “It may not even mean me, I’m not the only Outsider! I won’t do it! Since I lost Issi I’ve done nothing but get farther away from her! Well no more!”
“You’re angry because you know it’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t care about right, I care about Issi!”
“And if you find her, how long do you think you can live on your Mount Lykas, with the Crows still in power?”
He glared at her. “Last night you asked about my mother. If I ever meet her again, what do I tell her, Pirra? ‘The only thing you told me to do was look after my sister—and I failed’? I have to find Issi. Everything else—the Oracle, the Crows, the dagger—it’s just in the way.”
“And me?” Pirra said levelly. “And Havoc? Are we in the way?”
Hylas gave her a long look. Then he turned on his heel and left.
Some time later, he returned.
Pirra sat where he’d left her, in the hollow. Beside her sprawled Havoc, licking the ash off her paws. As he approached them, the lion cub bounded toward him with little ng ng greeting grunts. Pirra didn’t turn her head.
“I’m sorry,” said Hylas.
Pirra nodded. “So am I. Because I’ve made up my mind. Whatever you do, I’m going back. I have to find some way to steal the dagger, and send a warning to Keftiu. And yes, Hylas, I’m going to try to do both.”
“That’s madness. You told me what that stronghold’s like.”
She ground the butt of her axe in the dust. Her scar stood out pale on her cheek, and in her flinty resolve, Hylas saw traces of her mother, the High Priestess.
“What about you?” she said without looking up.
“I don’t know.” He walked to the edge of the trail and stared down the Mountainside. Distractedly, he took in the black slope falling away to the broom-choked gullies. He smelled dust and thyme and woodsmoke. He didn’t know what to do.
“I can’t let them invade Keftiu,” said Pirra. “Even if all I can do is warn my people, I have to try.”
He smelled woodsmoke . . .
He dropped to his knees.
“Hylas?”
Far below in the thicket, he caught the flicker of fire. Through the branches he made out men and dogs.
“Hylas?” repeated Pirra.
Hard to see at this distance, but he counted six or seven dogs and maybe seven Crow hunters. They looked as if they were setting up camp.
Then, through a gap, he saw a boy about his own age: tall and well-built, with long dark hair in warrior braids. He saw how he fiddled with the sealstone on his wrist in a way that was instantly, shockingly familiar. The blood roared in his ears. It was Telamon.
Havoc came to see what he was doing, sending pebbles bouncing down the slope. Telamon glanced up. Hylas grabbed Havoc by the scruff and hauled her out of sight.
“What is it?” said Pirra, coming toward them.
“Get down!” he whispered.
She ducked.
Too late.
Telamon had seen her.
25
Already 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 ca
n 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.<
br />
“Got him!” he shouted.
26
The 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—”