A monster?
At the head of the gully, he made out a derelict farm: a dung heap, a stone cistern, a mud-brick hut. From thirty paces, the white handprint on the door of the hut shouted “Plague.”
But the stream looked clear, and its banks were thick with willows; Hylas even spotted a few patches of green grass. It was such a relief to see green after the endless gray that he took this as a good omen, and kneeled to refill his waterskin.
He stiffened. Beside his knee was a hoof print bigger than his head.
Quietly, he rose to his feet. Near a clump of boulders a few paces off, he saw a vast mound of steaming droppings.
At that moment, he heard a snort, and from behind the boulders stepped an enormous cow and her giant calf.
His belly turned over. The cow had the vicious forward-pointing horns of wild cattle. He’d encountered them in the mountains where he’d grown up. They were twice as big as tame cattle, and twice as mean. And this one had seen him.
“It’s all right,” he told the cow quietly. “I’m not going to bother you or your calf.”
The cow lifted her huge blunt muzzle and tasted his scent.
“I’m going to move slowly away from you,” said Hylas, doing just that. “I—I can’t climb out of the gully on this side, it’s too steep, so I’m going to cross the stream and climb out over there, see? Where it’s not so steep? I’m not coming anywhere near you.”
The cow decided he was no threat, and put down her head to drink.
Hylas was halfway across the stream when he heard a rustling directly ahead, and from the willows stepped the biggest bull he’d ever seen.
Its horns were over an arm span wide and its hide was matted with foul-smelling ash; it had been rolling in its own urine. Bulls do that when their blood is up, and they’re spoiling for a fight.
In horror, Hylas took in its flaring nostrils and hot red-rimmed eyes. This was what the Keftian had been trying to tell him, pawing the earth with his foot and pointing his arms: Like horns. Rauko, rauko. Bull.
All this flashed through his mind in a heartbeat. He couldn’t climb out of the gully, the bull was blocking his way, and—which was much, much worse—he was in its way.
Without meaning to, he’d put himself between the bull and its mate.
9
The bull didn’t paw the earth as the Keftian had done. It just charged.
Dropping his waterskin, Hylas raced for the hut with the bull thundering after him. He made for the cistern, hoping to leap from there to the roof. It was too far, he’d never do it. He grabbed a pitchfork lying on the ground, took a run at the hut, jammed the butt of the pitchfork in the earth, and tried to vault onto the roof.
He didn’t quite make it and clung to the edge, scrabbling with his feet. Moments before the bull struck, he hauled himself up. One horn missed his boot by a hand’s breadth and gouged a furrow in the wall.
Thatch came out in handfuls as Hylas crawled farther up the roof. He saw the bull swing around for another attempt. Surely it wouldn’t attack a house?
The great beast’s head slammed into the wall, scattering chunks of mud-brick and sending a shudder through the roof.
Shaken and out of breath, Hylas watched it trot off for another attack. He still had his axe, knife, slingshot, and the pig’s leg slung across his back. None of these would be much good against an angry bull.
The hut on which he perched was close to the steep side of the gully, which was sheer rock, impossible to climb. He had to reach the other side across the stream—but to do that, he had to get past the bull.
Another crash shook the hut, and the bull bellowed, furious that it couldn’t reach its foe.
Hylas crawled higher. If he could distract the beast, he might have time to make it across the stream.
Below him, on the side of the hut the bull couldn’t see, he spotted an abandoned cart. Its two shafts pointed downward, like the horns of a grazing beast. That gave him an idea.
While the bull cantered away for another charge, Hylas slid off the roof and swiftly tied one of his red wristbands to the cart-shaft, then propped both shafts on a log, so that they pointed forward, like a bull leveling its head to attack.
The earth shook with the thunder of hooves, and Hylas jumped from cart to roof. Yanking out a handful of thatch, he leaned down and waved it at the bull. “Hey you!” he yelled.
The bull jolted to a halt and glared up at him.
“There’s another bull round the back!” shouted Hylas, trailing the thatch. “He’s after your female!”
The bull swung its massive head from side to side. Then it charged Hylas’ handful of thatch—and chased it around the corner of the hut.
The bull saw the cart and again jolted to a halt. It saw the red wristband flapping in the wind. It snorted, pawed the earth—and charged.
Praying it would be too busy to notice him, Hylas slid off the other side and splashed across the stream, snatching his waterskin as he went, then scrambled up the side of the gully to safety.
He glanced back once, and saw the cow and her calf solemnly watching their master savage the cart to splinters.
Two days later, Hylas found a cave and made camp for the night.
At a frozen stream he broke the ice with his axe and filled his waterskin; then he woke a fire inside the cave and huddled over it, chewing a chunk of pig’s leg.
He was exhausted, and he missed Periphas. In some ways, the Messenian reminded him of Akastos, the mysterious wanderer he’d encountered in the past. Both had fled homelands invaded by the Crows; both could be harsh and withdrawn, but they had been roughly kind to Hylas.
He was cold too. The mountains were deep in snow. His legs ached from laboring up snowbound gorges and through steep forests of silent pines.
And he was frightened. He’d come upon few huts and fewer ghosts, and yet a sense of dread had been growing on him all day. He dreaded the monster Gorgo had warned him about. It couldn’t have been the bull, she must know about wild bulls, and she wouldn’t have called it a monster. So what was it?
He feared the Crows too. Gorgo had mistaken him for a Crow spy—so she must regard them as a threat. The Crows’ stronghold was far away across the Sea, but they were a mighty clan, and now that they had their dagger back, they would be even stronger.
Was it possible that they were here, on Keftiu?
The fire cast leaping shadows on the cave wall. Sleepily, Hylas made a shadow-rabbit with his hand. He used to do that for Issi, especially in winter, when the nights were long. They used to play at warriors with icicles as swords, and Issi had been a lethal shot with a snowball.
But most of all, she loved water. The summer she’d turned six, he’d taught her to swim with a blown-up goat bladder for a float. In half a day, she’d been better than him, and after that she was always in any stream or lake they came upon. He used to tease her that she’d grow webbed feet, like her beloved frogs . . .
He woke with a start to the chill certainty that he wasn’t alone.
He heard harsh, panting breath. In the dark at the back of the cave, something moved.
Drawing his knife and seizing a burning brand, Hylas swept the shadows. He caught the gleam of eyes. His blood ran cold. Wolf? Bear? Monster?
Suddenly the creature sped past him. Hylas flung himself against the wall. As the creature fled the cave, it glanced back, and he glimpsed matted fur, huge golden eyes—and a scar across its nose.
His heart lurched. “Havoc?” he cried.
10
The boy stood at the mouth of his lair, peering into the Dark. He couldn’t see her, the lion cub was certain.
Was it the boy who’d looked after her long ago?
When she’d caught his scent lower down the mountain, it had scratched at her heart and she’d been desperate to go to him. Fear had taken over—but she hadn’
t been able to make herself leave, so she’d followed him through the not-Light and into the Dark. She’d even padded into his lair and sniffed him while he slept. She still didn’t know if it was him.
His scent had changed. It was more like that of a full-grown man, and he also smelled strongly of sheep, which was odd. He never used to smell of sheep.
He looked different too. He was broader, and as tall as a tree. Worst of all, he didn’t sound like the boy she had known; his voice was much deeper.
As the lion cub went off to hunt, her wariness grew. This boy was scared of her, but the boy who’d looked after her long ago had never been scared.
And the boy in the lair had lashed out at her with fire and his big shiny claw. So even if he was the same boy, he had become like all the others.
He was just another human. And the lion cub would never trust a human, not ever again.
Was it really Havoc? wondered Hylas as he followed the paw prints through the snow.
He’d glimpsed a young lion. But had he really seen that scar on her nose? Even if he had, lots of lions had scars.
He tried to remember if Pirra had ever said there were lions on Keftiu. He thought she’d said there weren’t, but if he was wrong . . .
One thing was certain: Those paw prints in the cave were real. While he slept, she’d stood right over him. Surely no other lion would have done that?
It began to snow. To the west, the slope fell away to a forested saddle that looked as if it led to the peak of Mount Dikti. Pirra was somewhere up there; but the trail of paw prints climbed south, toward a rocky ridge that led away from the peak.
Pirra needed him—but so did Havoc. The lion cub was only a yearling; she couldn’t survive for long with no pride to help her hunt. And it was his fault that she was here on Keftiu.
Hylas rubbed his chin and stomped in circles. If this snow kept up, those tracks wouldn’t last long. He blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Pirra,” he said out loud. “I will come and find you. But I have to find Havoc first.”
He hadn’t climbed far up the ridge when he came upon a grimy little pus-eater glaring down at him from a boulder.
His breath smoked in the frosty air, and around him the pines stood watchful and silent.
By now he’d learned that Keftians put pus-eaters not only by dwellings, but also by tombs, to catch the Plague wafting from the newly dead. Sure enough, a little farther on, he spotted a small tomb cut into the ridge. Whoever had sealed it had been in a hurry. Stones had been clawed away from the entrance, and to judge from the harsh croaks of ravens, the corpse inside had been dragged out by hungry scavengers.
A dreadful thought occurred to Hylas. Had Havoc become a man-eater?
His boots crunched in the stillness as he detoured around the pus-eater and followed the paw prints toward the tomb. Ravens flew away with loud caws, and a fox slunk off.
Havoc didn’t. She lay tensely on her belly with her head between her shoulder blades. Watching him.
It was her. She’d doubled in size since last year, and her fur was thick and shaggy, but he saw how thin she was underneath. She was still a cub—a gawky yearling—who must have survived by scavenging what she could. Was that why she’d hunkered down near the bones of the human dead?
No, thought Hylas. I won’t believe it. She can’t be a man-eater, not Havoc.
“Havoc?” he called softly. “It’s me, Hylas. Do you remember me?”
Havoc lashed her tail and hissed, baring huge white fangs. Her eyes were colder than he’d ever seen them, and she stared at him without recognition.
“Havoc, what’s happened to you?”
Her huge claws kneaded the snow, as if she was getting ready to spring.
His hand went to his knife. This can’t be, he thought.
With a snarl she sprang away and vanished like a ghost among the pines.
“Havoc!” he shouted.
She didn’t come back. She hadn’t recognized him.
The lion cub fled up the mountain with the boy’s yowls fading behind her. It was him, she was sure of it. She remembered his eyes and his lion-colored mane—and she sensed the lion in his spirit. But he’d changed, she was sure of that too. He was almost a man. And she would never trust a human, not ever again.
As she slowed to a trot, things clawed at her heart that made her snarl. She remembered lying with her head on his legs while he scratched behind her ears. And climbing trees and getting stuck, and him helping her down.
The Bright Soft Cold was hissing harder now, and the wind was beginning to growl. How would the boy survive? There were bears and wolves on the mountain, and like all humans, he was puny. If anything hurt him . . .
The lion cub spun around and raced back down the slope.
When she caught the boy’s scent, she slowed to a walk. She couldn’t go near him, but she could follow him and make sure that he came to no harm. And at least it would be easy to stay hidden; like all humans, he didn’t notice much and couldn’t smell.
The not-Light gave way to the Dark again, and the Bright Soft Cold pelted the mountain. The wind howled in fury—and still the cub followed, slitting her eyes against the storm.
The boy was in trouble. He was staggering, and his furless face was turning gray. The lion cub knew that despite his sheep-like overpelt, he couldn’t just curl up under a boulder as she could, and sleep till the wind calmed down.
If she didn’t lead him to safety, he would die.
You should’ve known better, Hylas told himself as he struggled through the blizzard.
He’d grown up in mountains and survived countless blizzards. Why hadn’t he had more sense? At the first sign of a storm, he should’ve found shelter, woken a fire, and waited it out; but in his eagerness to find Havoc, he’d plodded on, and now night was falling and he was so cold that his thoughts were beginning to blur. If he didn’t get under cover fast, he would die.
A flash of movement between the trees—and there was Havoc, not ten paces away, watching him.
“Havoc,” he mumbled, but his voice was lost in the screaming wind.
Havoc turned and headed off at a muscular trot with her tail held high. She glanced back. Did she want him to follow?
Knee-deep, he floundered after her. Again she waited, then trotted off, her tail-tuft showing black against the snow.
And so it went for an endless time. Snow stung Hylas’ face, and every step became a struggle. At last he halted, panting and swaying. He caught a whiff of woodsmoke. Woodsmoke? Out here?
Havoc returned and lifted her head, as if to say Hurry up.
Nearly spent, Hylas labored on for a few more steps. Between the trees, he glimpsed a blocky shadow. A hut.
A few more steps and he made out a small hide window: a glowing red kernel of warmth in the freezing darkness of the storm. He staggered toward it. Couldn’t take another step. He shouted, but the roar of the storm drowned his voice. He sank to his knees. He couldn’t reach the door, he was spent.
He lay on his back, watching the snow hurtling toward him out of the black night sky. But now through the whirling whiteness, two great amber eyes were gazing down at him. “Havoc,” he croaked.
Warm meaty breath heated his face. A big black nose brushed his cheek, and he felt the prickle of whiskers. Clumsily, he put up his hand and clutched shaggy fur.
“Havoc . . .”
The door creaked open and firelight washed over him.
Havoc slipped from his grip and fled into the night just before Hylas blacked out.
11
Hylas is dreaming that someone’s brushing snow off his face.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Flea,” growls the man in the dream. “Mountain boy like you, getting caught in a snowstorm!”
That voice: strong, smooth, startlingly familiar. Hylas’ heart leaps. “Akastos?”
>
“Shut up and drink this.” A spout is jammed between Hylas’ teeth, and he chokes on vinegary wine. He can’t see, but he’s sure it’s Akastos: wanderer, blacksmith, exile, murderer haunted by the spirits of vengeance. Hylas admires him more than any man he’s ever met. He doesn’t want this dream to end.
“Stop grinning, Flea, you’re dribbling.”
Hylas gives a spluttery laugh. It’s so good to hear the nickname Akastos gave him once. If only this dream would last . . .
He woke up. Akastos was still there. “It’s really you!” cried Hylas.
“Well of course it is,” snapped Akastos.
He was sitting on a log by a roaring fire. Steam rose from his sheepskins and his grimy fur cloak, and snow speckled his beard and his long, dark tangled hair. His light-gray eyes were as keen as ever, and fixed suspiciously on Hylas. “Why were you following me?” he demanded.
Hylas struggled to sit up. “I wasn’t. I didn’t even know you were on Keftiu, I was following Havoc—”
“Havoc?” Akastos was startled. “That lion cub is on Keftiu?”
“She led me here, she must have known it was you. She saved me . . .” He trailed off. It was warm in the hut, but outside, the blizzard was raging, the wind roaring in the pines, making the roof beams creak. Havoc was out there alone.
“A lion led you to me,” murmured Akastos, scratching his beard in a gesture Hylas remembered. “I wonder what that means.”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad she did. And I’m really glad you got away from Thalakrea!”
Akastos sighed. “I suppose I’m glad you did too, Flea.”
“Why only suppose?”
The wanderer stared at him. “How can you ask? Fifteen years I’ve been on the run from the Crows. I had one chance to kill a highborn Crow. One chance to destroy the dagger of Koronos. What happens? You. And you think I’d be glad to see you?”
“Then why rescue me?” Hylas said sulkily.