Telamon’s face had gone grey. ‘He lost it in battle … Nobody knew that … How could you know?’
‘I told you,’ said Hylas, ‘I saw his ghost! He pointed at the sky, Telamon … he knows the Angry Ones are after you! He knows what you did – and so do They!’
Telamon gave a strangled cry. At the same moment, Hylas dashed the burning brand at him, then seized the heavy shield in both hands and bashed Telamon over the head. Half-stunned, Telamon sank to his knees. Shouts outside: another instant, and the warriors would burst in. Snatching his knife and sheathing it, Hylas grabbed the oil-jar, splashed oil all around the tent, and tipped over the brazier. The oil-spattered wool caught fire at once, and as the warriors burst in, Hylas kicked down the tent pole and wriggled out the other end.
Howls from within as the blazing tent collapsed upon the Crows. Hylas was already scrambling down the rope, into the gully. Above him he heard yells and scuffling … He pictured his erstwhile friend trapped in the blazing tent. He’s not your friend any more, he told himself grimly. He’d have skewered you like a hog if he’d had the chance.
Glancing up, he glimpsed a warrior at the edge of the gully. The warrior crouched down and started hacking at the rope.
Hylas slid further, skinning his palms and bumping against rocks and thornscrub. He grabbed a sapling. An instant later, the warrior cut the rope, which came tumbling down upon him. Somehow, he clung to the sapling. Then he half climbed, half fell the rest of the way, ending up in a clump of bracken.
The Crows’ shouts faded as he crashed blindly through the dark, clutching his wedjat amulet and praying to the Lady of the Wild Things that he would find the mouth of the gully, instead of blundering into a dead end.
‘We haven’t got him yet, my lord!’ panted the warrior.
‘I can see that,’ snapped Telamon. ‘The question is why, when there are nine of you and only one of him!’
‘Er – six, my lord, the others are still looking for the horses –’
‘Why haven’t they found them?’
The warrior swallowed. ‘They caught the black one, my lord. The other’s still missing.’
‘Then they’d better catch it, hadn’t they? And you’d better catch the Outsider!’
When the man had run off again, Telamon went back to rifling through the charred remains of his tent. His slave was on his knees and, like him, covered in soot. At some stage during the fight with Hylas, or the struggle to escape the fire, Telamon’s iron ring had slipped off his finger. He had to find it. His mind shied away from what would happen if he did not.
It was still dark, and above him, the cloudy sky seemed filled with vast, writhing shadows. Without the ring, he had no protection from the terror that came in the night.
He thought of his father’s ghost … Hylas must have been lying. It wasn’t possible that Thestor’s spirit was not at peace: that he was ashamed of what his son had become …
‘My lord?’ His slave was staring up at him in puzzlement.
Telamon flushed. Had he spoken out loud? ‘Keep looking!’ he barked. ‘If you don’t find it, I’ll have you flogged!’
‘Y-yes, my lord.’
What were you doing, scrabbling around in the soot? thought Telamon as he strode over to wash at the stream. That’s not how a chieftain acts!
His head was pounding from that blow with the shield, and the burns on his shins hurt savagely, despite his slave’s goosefat salve. He felt bleary and sick from too much wine and poppy juice.
In a tree by the stream, a dark shape stirred.
Telamon lurched to a halt.
Another gust of wind stirred the branches. He breathed out. ‘The wind,’ he murmured. ‘It was only the wind.’
A leathery thwap nearby. He cringed, picturing vast wings swooping towards him.
More thwaps, louder this time – and among the ruins of the tent, his slave stood up, shaking out his master’s singed cloak with vigorous snaps, then began folding it up.
‘Leave that!’ bellowed Telamon. ‘I told you, the only thing that matters is finding the ring!’
Grabbing a torch, he ran to the edge of the stream and jabbed the stake in the mud. Squatting on his haunches, he passed a trembling hand across his face. ‘You must get hold of yourself,’ he whispered. ‘You are a chieftain. You will be the greatest chieftain of them all!’
But he knew these were merely words. In his mind, he kept reliving the moment when he’d first begun to suspect that the Angry Ones might be after him.
It had been on Mount Lykas, just below the tallest peak, at the Place of the Ancestors. Midnight, at the dark of the Moon, in the murmurous grove of black pines that guarded the entrance to the tomb of the House of Koronos.
Long ago, the Ancestors had cut the narrow tomb into the mountain. Two moons before, its doorway had been broken open to admit Thestor’s body; and now Koronos had ordered his grandson Telamon and Pharax, his last surviving son, to return, and help him perform the rite that would summon the Angry Ones and gain Their help in the attack which would crush the rebels for ever.
The sacrifice itself was a blur in Telamon’s mind. The Angry Ones are drawn to darkness and burnt things: he remembered the hiss as the torches were quenched. He remembered his kinsmen’s chanting and the reek of burnt meat; the bitter smell of the ash on his cheeks, the coppery sweetness of the blood and wine in his mouth. Then all at once, he’d heard the rush of enormous wings.
Before, when his grandfather had made sacrifices, the Angry Ones had swept low, and then off into the night – but not this time. This time, three vast dark shadows had dropped to the ground not ten paces from where Telamon stood.
He’d caught the stink of the spirits’ charred flesh. He’d seen the darkness thicken into dreadful snake-like necks and raw red mouths like gaping wounds. He’d heard the scrabble of claws and a horrible, insistent snuffling. He’d stood rigid with horror: was it possible that They were sniffing him out in the dark?
The next moment, fiery red eyes had fixed on his. His thoughts had darted in panic. Did They know what he’d done?
The Angry Ones come from the Chaos before the gods, and They hunt those who have murdered their kin. They never give up, and They don’t care who gets in their way. You might ward Them off for a while by chewing buckthorn leaves, or muttering an ancient charm; you might disguise yourself and flee your homeland. But sooner or later, They will find you, and scorch your spirit to madness …
At last Telamon had torn himself free from those horrifying eyes. He’d staggered over to Pharax. Gasping with terror, he’d clutched his uncle’s arm. ‘They’re coming for me!’ he’d wheezed.
Coldly, Pharax had shaken him off. ‘Be a man,’ he’d said in his hollow, stony voice. ‘Or are you afraid of the dark?’
When Telamon had looked again, the dreadful, twisting shadows were gone; and shortly afterwards, the rite had ended, and they’d taken the path down to Lapithos. But for Telamon, everything had changed. An appalling suspicion had taken root in his mind: that the spirits of vengeance might be after him.
Since then, he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep – except when he drank too much wine or poppy juice. He dreaded the terror that haunted his dreams.
And now his own father’s ghost had come to him. Hylas hadn’t been lying, Telamon knew that in his heart. Thestor had come to confirm Telamon’s suspicions. The Angry Ones knew what he’d done. They knew that he’d left his own kinswoman in the churning red horror in the river, to be eaten by crocodiles … And now They were after him.
An owl hooted. Telamon bared his teeth in a grimace. He plunged his grimy hands into the stream.
The water was cold, and he welcomed that. As he watched the soot lifting from his skin and floating away down the hillside, he felt a little steadier.
It was peaceful here. The night air was sharp with the scent of mint. Ferns were cool against his calves. Somewhere, a nightingale sang.
Without warning, he found himself fighting back te
ars. There had been nightingales outside his chamber at Lapithos when he was a boy; they used to keep him awake at night. At that time, he hadn’t even known he had a grandfather Koronos, or that Koronos was High Chieftain of Mycenae, far to the north. And Hylas had been his friend, and his father was still alive.
Angrily, Telamon rubbed his hands to wash off the last of the soot. He splashed his face, dunked his head and wrung out his long warrior braids. He cupped his hands and drank. The water was so cold it set his teeth on edge. It cleared his head wonderfully.
‘Found it, my lord!’ His slave came racing across to him, and pressed the iron ring into his palm.
Telamon slipped the ring on his finger and made a fist. He drew deep, steady breaths. He felt stronger and much more in control. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
‘Good,’ he repeated, watching his slave hurry back to the ruined tent, to salvage more of his belongings. Again, Telamon cupped his hands and drank. Then he rose to his feet and squared his shoulders.
‘You are a chieftain,’ he told himself out loud. ‘You are in control. It wasn’t your fault that Alekto died. You didn’t kill her, it was the crocodiles: it was the will of the gods. The Angry Ones know that. Alekto died so that you could get the dagger back – so that you could be the saviour of your clan.’
With new resolve, he strode up and down beneath the chestnut trees. His terror was gone, he felt full of resolution and purpose. His sleepless nights were in the past. At daybreak, he would rally his men and go after Hylas. The Outsider couldn’t hide for long: not against warriors who’d grown up in these Messenian hills.
When Hylas was dead, he, Telamon, would rejoin the rest of his men. He would order Ilarkos to lead them across the mountains into Lykonia, and help Pharax defeat the last of the rebels; then he would defy his grandfather’s orders and head back to Lapithos. No more being told what to do: he would confront Koronos – and take the dagger for his own.
With a flash of insight, he realized now why the Angry Ones had come after him on that night in the grove of black pines: They had scented weakness.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘that’s what it was.’
But once he’d taken the dagger for his own, everything would change. He would be High Chieftain of all Akea. The Angry Ones would leave him in peace.
And he would never be frightened again.
‘How many more days till we find Hekabi?’ Pirra said wearily, dumping her gear on the ground and easing her aching shoulders.
The two Marsh Dweller boys went on pitching camp as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘Well, how many?’ she said crossly. ‘Two? Three? A whole moon?’
The younger one threw her a stony glance; the older one shrugged. ‘Couple of days,’ he grunted.
‘Thank you,’ she said sarcastically.
They’d been trudging into the foothills for three days, and she still didn’t know their names. They’d met her at the edge of the marshes the evening after Hylas had gone: two sullen boys, one younger than her, the other about her age; both plainly resentful at having to guide a girl.
In her head, she’d nicknamed the older boy Weasel because he looked like one, and the younger boy Stone, as he never said a word. They were scrawny for Marsh Dwellers, and wore the usual fishskin tunics, head-bindings and smelly green mud. That mud made the whites of their eyes alarmingly bright when they stared at her – which they did a lot.
Still, they seemed to know the way to the peak shrine at Dentra, and they’d led her confidently along hidden trails that followed a river north-east towards the mountains. As the mountains loomed closer, Pirra’s spirits sank still further. Those peaks were jagged and forbidding – and yet that was where Hylas had grown up. It made her feel as if she’d never really known him.
How could you leave me, Hylas, she berated him in her head, as she watched her two sullen guides gathering firewood. Why did you have to go off on your own?
Somehow, it made it even worse that he’d left before she’d been handed over to Weasel and Stone. If only you could see how horrible they are, she wanted to tell him. Then you’d be sorry!
She wasn’t the only one who was missing him, either. Echo was listless, ignoring the birds that thronged the forest, and Havoc hadn’t gone hunting since the day he’d left. The light was gone from her great golden eyes, and her fur had become dull and bedraggled. She didn’t understand why he’d sent her away.
The boy whom Pirra had nicknamed Stone treated Havoc and Echo with wary respect, but Weasel was terrified of them. Earlier, Havoc had pushed past him to reach Pirra, and the Marsh Dweller boy had whimpered: ‘Get it away from me!’ Showing fear was the worst thing he could have done, and soon afterwards, Havoc had lain in wait for him around a bend, and batted his ankles to trip him up.
‘She won’t hurt you,’ Pirra had told the squealing boy as she’d struggled to push the lioness off him. ‘She’s just miserable, that’s why she’s playing up. Havoc, stop it!’ But ever since, Weasel would flinch if Havoc so much as yawned.
They’d halted for the night at a place where the river widened into a small pool of clear green water. Not a bad campsite, Pirra thought grudgingly. Sparrows chirped in the pines and the walnut trees, and yellow irises swayed among the reeds fringing the banks. A fig tree was laden with sweet golden figs, and she spotted bushes with ripe raspberries. Raspberries were Hylas’ favourites. If only he was here now.
Stone flung down an armful of firewood, making her jump. To show willing, she offered to gather some more, and was rewarded with his unblinking stare.
‘Why doesn’t he ever speak?’ she asked Weasel irritably.
‘He can’t,’ muttered the older boy.
‘But why?’
‘He had a bad time with the Crows.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How would I know, when he can’t speak?’ snapped Weasel. ‘Maybe he seen stuff, maybe they beat him up. Some people went mad after the Crows got hold of them, so he’s luckier than most!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pirra. ‘Whatever happened to him, it must have been awful.’
Both boys stared at her, then went back to breaking up kindling. She felt more lonely and dejected than ever.
When the silence had gone on long enough, she said: ‘When we find Hekabi, do you think the shadow thief will still be with her?’
‘Why are you looking for the shadow thief?’ said Weasel without raising his head.
‘Because the shadow thief might be Hylas’ sister.’
‘Who’s Hylas?’ said Weasel with a frown.
Pirra reminded herself that neither Weasel nor Stone had ever seen Hylas, who’d left for the mountains well before they’d taken charge of her at the edge of the marshes. ‘Hylas,’ she said, ‘is my – he’s my friend. He’s looking for his sister –’
‘Why can’t he look for her himself?’
‘Because he has to fight the Crows.’
‘Are you his girl?’
She flushed. ‘That’s nothing to do with you!’
Weasel shrugged. Beside him, Stone’s mud-caked face remained as inscrutable as ever.
Havoc came and leant against Pirra, then hunkered down with her forepaws tucked beneath her. Poor Havoc. She hadn’t tucked up her paws like that since she was a cub; and only then when she’d been really unhappy.
Pirra buried her nose in the lioness’ deep, coarse fur. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I miss him too.’ Havoc gave her a rasping lick. Then she twisted one ear, and a moment later, Pirra saw Echo silently alighting on a branch.
‘Come down and have a bathe,’ Pirra called to the falcon, stirring the shallows with her hand. ‘Lovely clean water, just how you like it!’
To her astonishment, the falcon only blinked.
But Echo adored bathing. Uneasily, Pirra noticed how utterly still the falcon was sitting. Normally she’d be preening, or sharpening her beak, or stretching her wings upwards and over her back till they touched, then shaking them out with
a crisp rustle, while looking about her with those great black eyes: always eager for new prey and new things.
Now she sat hunched, dull-eyed and indifferent. Was this about missing Hylas, or was something else wrong?
At that moment, Pirra spotted an ear of ryegrass moving over the ground by her foot, apparently by itself. It was being carried on the back of the biggest ant she’d ever seen. The ant was the size of her fingernail and black; and now she saw a whole column of them, each bearing an ear of ryegrass and heading with grim determination towards a hole in the ground near where she knelt. The nest was seething with ants. Oh no, she thought.
Echo had spotted them, too. The falcon’s shrieks were ear-splitting – even the Marsh Dweller boys jumped. Havoc twitched her tail and watched Echo circling overhead, kek-kekking with terror.
Pirra heaved a sigh and got to her feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told her guides, ‘but the one thing Echo’s terrified of is ants. We’ll have to move a bit further uphill, or we’ll never get any peace.’
Weasel and Stone were building a shelter under an olive tree further up the slope, and Pirra had woken a fire and plucked the two rock partridges she’d downed earlier with her slingshot. After leaving the guts in a bush as an offering to the Goddess, she’d skewered the birds on sticks and set them to roast.
Echo sat in the olive tree, swivelling her head as she scrutinized her new perch for ants. Pirra wondered what was wrong with the falcon. Normally, she gave her perch a quick check, and that was it.
‘Here you are, Echo,’ she said, holding up a bloody scrap of partridge breast that she’d saved from the fire.
After an unusual amount of coaxing, Echo lit down on to Pirra’s leather cuff, and stared at the meat. Then she seized it in her beak, flung it in the dust, and flew back to her perch.