At last, Jinx quietened a little. Talking softly, Hylas took one small step towards him. Jinx eyed the rag and prepared to attack again.
Zan had told Hylas about the trick with the stick when they’d been slaves in the Thalakrean mines. Zan’s father had been a horse-tamer, and Zan had enjoyed talking of him; he used to say proudly that Arzawans were the best horse-tamers in the world.
‘The main thing is patience,’ he’d told Hylas. ‘Let the horse come to you, when he’s ready.’
Which would be fine, if you had days and days to spare …
The Sun was getting low when Jinx suddenly seemed to lose interest in attacking Hylas, and threw down his head and snatched a few mouthfuls of grass.
This time, Hylas got close enough to touch the horse’s shoulder with the rag: a gentle caress that made Jinx’s withers twitch – although he didn’t move away.
Slowly, Hylas passed the rag over the gleaming chestnut back and down the stallion’s rump. He lowered the stick. He took another step forwards. He held out his hand.
Jinx put back his ears and made a half-hearted attempt to bite, which Hylas blocked with the stick.
The next time he tried, Jinx didn’t bite. He stood tensely, but he let Hylas lay his palm on his shoulder.
Hylas felt the heat coming off the stallion, and breathed his rich horsey scent. Jinx ground his teeth and shook his head irritably, as if the bridle hurt, and Hylas noticed that his mouth was crusted with scabs. Now he saw why. Fastened between both sides of the bridle and forced between the stallion’s teeth, was a jagged bronze bar: that must hurt with every yank of the rope.
Hylas had never seen such a thing, but he remembered something Zan had told him. ‘It’s called a bit,’ the Arzawan boy had said, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘We never use them, we don’t need to! Only bad horsemen use bits, to hide their lack of skill.’
‘Let’s get this off you, shall we?’ murmured Hylas. Still talking under his breath, he shielded Jinx’s eyes with one hand and slipped the bridle over his head with the other, then gently eased the bit from between Jinx’s teeth.
Jinx looked startled, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He watched as Hylas slung the bridle over his arm and walked over to the brook.
With his knife, Hylas cut off the hated bit, stowing it in his pouch in case it came in useful; then he washed the bridle and scrubbed it with grit, to take away the smell of the Crows. Finally, he rubbed his palms all over it, working his own scent into the leather, then hung it on a branch, so that Jinx could get used to it and sniff it whenever he liked.
After that, things improved faster than Hylas had dared hope. When he wandered off to look for herbs, Jinx watched him go; and when he returned to the brook, the stallion ambled closer, then started cropping the grass. By nightfall, he let Hylas smear a poultice of mud and mashed wormwood leaves on the weals on his flanks; and the Marsh Dwellers’ yellow salve proved an unexpected success when Hylas patted it gently on the scabs around the horse’s mouth, as Jinx seemed to like the taste.
He liked it, too, when Hylas scratched his neck with his fingers. And he loved it when Hylas started unplaiting his mane, which the Crows had braided cruelly tight. Jinx stood patiently, swishing his tail at the flies, and when Hylas had finished, the stallion gave a luxurious shudder from nose to tail, then threw himself down and rolled in the grass, kicking his hooves in the air and snorting with delight.
By now, there was just enough light left for Hylas to make a rough shelter of branches. The Crows would still be far away; he would head off in the morning.
He was exhausted, but he slept badly, as his head was aching even worse than before; but whenever he woke, he was comforted by the sounds of Jinx’s soft slow breathing outside, and the occasional swish of his tail.
The next morning, Hylas smeared the last of the Marsh Dwellers’ salve on the bridle, and held it out for Jinx to sniff. When the horse didn’t shy, Hylas slipped the bridle over his head.
Jinx contented himself with a little side-stepping, but when Hylas walked a few paces, he allowed himself to be led. And some time later, he let Hylas ease himself gently on to his back.
The next night was colder, as they’d climbed higher into the foothills.
Hylas camped among pines at the edge of a steep forested gorge that echoed with birdsong. He’d seen no trace of the Crows all day, but he didn’t dare risk a fire. Jinx stood nearby, dozing with his head down.
Hylas now had a rough idea where he was, because just before sunset, he’d glimpsed Mount Lykas in the distance. It was to the south-east, but closer than he’d thought. He’d never seen it from this angle, and as its triple fangs glared red in the last of the light, it looked both familiar and oddly alien. He’d had a hard life on that mountain, but Issi had been with him. As he watched the light dying on its peaks, he was gripped by both pain and longing.
Huddled in his shelter, he tried to force down a scrap of dried eel, but he wasn’t hungry. His head was throbbing, and he kept shivering.
He wished he had more of a lead on the rebels. During the day, he’d come upon a few tracks that might have been theirs, as well as a false trail that would have fooled anyone except an Outsider. This told him that the rebels knew these foothills well, and that it probably wouldn’t be a case of him finding them, but of them finding him. He was beginning to wish they would.
But who were they, these rebels about whom he’d heard only rumours? The Marsh Dwellers said they were peasants, fishermen and ex-slaves. Hylas wondered if Periphas was among them; he was an ex-slave, and a Messenian. Hylas had met him in the Thalakrean mines. Together they’d survived a cave-in, and escaped the island when it blew up, then wandered the Sea with other ex-slaves, seeking the way back to Akea. Periphas hated the Crows as much as Hylas: if he’d found his way to his homeland, he would have joined the rebels for sure.
And what about Akastos, was he with them too? Hylas admired Akastos above all other men; for a while, he’d even hoped that he would turn out to be his father. But he’d last seen Akastos in the spring, on Keftiu, and even if he had returned to Akea, he’d probably be far in the north near Mycenae, fighting for his farm that the Crows had taken from him.
Although even that was unlikely, because Akastos was on the run from the Angry Ones. Why would he return to Akea, with Them haunting the skies? Years ago, Akastos had been tricked by the lies of the Crows into fighting and killing his own brother. Ever since, he’d been on the run: both from the Crows, and from the spirits of vengeance …
The thought of the Angry Ones made Hylas shiver. Under his breath, he muttered the ancient charm against Them. He went on shivering. He couldn’t stop.
If Havoc had been with him, she would have slumped against him to warm him up with her great, furry bulk, and Pirra would have made him some herb tea – or more likely rolled her eyes and told him with a grin to do it himself. He missed them savagely. And his headache was much worse. Fuzzily, he wondered if he was sick.
Somewhere close by, a nightingale sang. Again, he thought of Pirra. She’d heard one for the first time when they’d camped in the Keftian hills last spring. It had been midnight, and in the stillness, the bird’s loud song had woken her up.
‘What’s that?’ she’d muttered crossly. ‘What kind of idiot bird sings in the middle of the night?’
Hylas had laughed. ‘A nightingale, of course.’
‘Huh! Well I wish it’d shut up and let me sleep!’
Then she’d seen the funny side of it, and burst out laughing, and together they’d chucked stones at the bushes until the nightingale flew off to wake up someone else …
Jinx nosed Hylas’ shoulder, and he jolted awake. His head felt as if metal bands were tightening around it, and he was freezing, yet drenched in sweat. Suddenly, his thoughts flew to the Marsh Dwellers’ platform among the reeds. He remembered the sick people huddled on their mats. Marsh fever. He had marsh fever.
And it was getting worse fast. Waves of
sickness were surging through him, and he felt as if he was going to throw up.
Remembering the little pouch of poppy-seed tea, he rummaged in the bag. He couldn’t find it, it must have fallen out.
The last time he’d felt this ill was in Egypt, when he’d been stung by a scorpion – but then Pirra had been with him. He’d clung to her hand, gripping so hard that she’d had bruises for days.
His teeth were chattering uncontrollably, shivers shaking him from top to toe. Crows or no Crows, he had to make a fire.
He dropped his strike-fire and couldn’t find it in the dark. Instead he scrabbled around for sticks to rub together. It was all he could do to pick up a couple, but he was so weak he’d never manage it. He had to get warm, or he would die. But if he couldn’t wake a fire …
Once, when Issi was six, she’d caught a chill from swimming for too long in a lake, and Hylas had tried a cure he’d seen the peasants use. He’d found a donkey dozing in a barley patch, and laid Issi on its back, with her arms and legs hanging down on either side and her belly against the beast’s warm, furry back. She’d lain like that all night, and by morning, the warmth of the donkey’s body had done its work, and she was better.
Jinx gave Hylas a doubtful glance when he lurched towards him. Then the stallion seemed to sense that something was wrong, and after a bit of side-stepping, he allowed Hylas to struggle on to his back.
Hylas lay with his cheek against the horse’s neck, and felt Jinx’s blissful warmth stealing through his body. Jinx shifted his weight from hoof to hoof, and he nearly slid off. He mumbled a prayer to the Lady of the Wild Things to keep the stallion still, because if he did fall off, he’d never have the strength to climb back on.
Jinx’s neck drooped as he began to doze. Hylas’ thoughts became tangled and confused. He was no longer in camp but on a shoulder of Mount Lykas, and Issi was standing under a pine tree. Her arms were crossed on her scrawny chest, and she was scowling at him.
‘Why did you never come and find me?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘I waited and waited, but you never came!’
He wanted to tell her that he’d tried, but that all sorts of things had got in the way: Thalakrea, Keftiu, Egypt … Above all, the Crows.
‘And now I have to find the dagger,’ he tried to tell her, ‘or we’ll never be free of them.’ But he couldn’t move his lips, and no sound came.
Then Issi was gone, and Havoc was licking his foot with her hot, rasping tongue – and here was Pirra, walking past him with her axe over her shoulder.
‘Pirra!’ Hylas tried to call, but all he managed was a raspy wheeze.
Pirra turned her head, and her dark eyes looked straight through him as she whistled to Havoc.
He called again, but the dream faded and they were gone.
There were lions in these mountains, the she-lion could hear them. This is my land! Mine! roared an unknown female.
That female was too far off to be dangerous, but there was another lion that smelt much nearer. Earlier, the she-lion had come upon the remains of a kill, picked clean by vultures. She’d passed bushes that had been scent-marked only a few Lights ago; and just now, as she was plodding through the Dark, she’d paused at a tree to do some scratching, and when she’d risen on her hindlegs, she’d found that its bark was already claw-marked: another lion had got there before her.
She’d smelt that he was barely full-grown, and not very sure of himself; but his claw-marks were higher than hers, which told her that he was bigger.
The she-lion was too miserable to care. With every Light and Dark, she missed the boy more. She missed his foresty scent and his yowling calls when he wanted her to come. She missed their games with the ball of sticks, when he would throw it and she would race after it, batting it between her forepaws while he tried to get it back.
She even missed him telling her off. Like that time when she’d taken his head affectionately in her jaws, and he’d given a muffled shout and punched her in the chest. She’d hardly felt the punch, it was like being tickled by a moth, but the boy had seemed to think he’d overdone it, he’d kept saying sorry. She’d found that very funny.
In all the time they’d been together, they’d never had a real fight. So why had he sent her away? Why didn’t he want her any more?
Since he’d left, everything was chewed up and wrong. The girl was miserable. The two muddy little humans had left just when the she-lion was getting to like them, especially the younger one, who used to stroke the she-lion when the girl wasn’t around. There’d been something odd about that little human; something the she-lion couldn’t put her paw on, but which had made her curious.
And now there was something badly amiss with the falcon. She was too weak to hunt, and she sat shivering on her branch. The she-lion sensed that the girl was really worried about her.
The she-lion was worried too, which was actually quite surprising, because at times the falcon could be extremely scornful, and looked down on the she-lion because she couldn’t fly. But the falcon did have her uses. She was good at picking ticks out of the she-lion’s fur in hard-to-reach places, and she hated the crow-humans as much as the she-lion did, and was brilliant at spotting them from very far away.
If only she would get better. If only the boy would come back, and the pride could be together. These were good mountains, with plenty of prey and only a few humans. They could find somewhere without lions, and stay here for ever, instead of always moving on …
The wind growled at the pine trees, and in the bracken, a boar jerked up its head at the she-lion’s scent. Ignoring him, she leapt on to a rock to snuff the smells.
That was when she heard the falcon’s ek-ek-ek alarm calls. The she-lion’s pelt tightened. Something told her this wasn’t about ants.
The next moment, she heard the girl shouting. She sounded frightened and fierce. The she-lion leapt off the rock and sped through the forest.
As she drew near the lair, she caught a new smell on the wind: lion. She smelt that he was male, full-grown and big. It was the same lion who’d claw-marked that tree.
The falcon was in her tree, shrieking with alarm. The girl was on one side of the wet, the male lion on the other. The girl was clutching a stick that glimmered faintly, while in the other forepaw she gripped her big shiny claw. But against that lion, it would be as much use as a twig.
The she-lion took in the male’s heavy mane and his massive shoulders. He didn’t sense her: she’d made sure that she was downwind, and he was intent on his prey.
Noiselessly, the male retreated into the reeds, so that the girl couldn’t see him. He began sidling around the edge of the wet. The girl cast about her, trying to spot him; but like all humans, she was nearly blind in the Dark, and she couldn’t smell at all. She was looking the wrong way.
The she-lion dropped to her belly and lowered her tail, so that the male wouldn’t spot her tailtuft.
The girl was still looking the wrong way, oblivious of the male lion belly-crawling closer. He was preparing to leap from behind and snap her spine with one shake of his jaws. And still he didn’t smell the she-lion stalking him.
She slunk nearer, placing each paw with silent stealth. She saw his haunches bunch as he got ready to spring. She charged.
She landed on his back and sank her claws into his flanks. With a startled roar he whipped round and bit her shoulder. Snarling and raking his muzzle with her claws, she wrenched herself free. She was aware of the falcon shrieking, the girl yowling and waving her burning stick; then the male was on her again and they were locked together, a snarling, snapping frenzy of teeth and claws. The male was stronger but she was faster, and she was fighting for her pride. She dodged most of his paw-swipes, he couldn’t escape hers.
At last they sprang apart, panting and gnashing their fangs. The she-lion’s shoulder was on fire, but the male had come off worse: his muzzle was pouring blood, and she’d bitten off his ear. She roared at him. He roared back. But she knew the fight had gone out of him, and he
turned tail and fled.
She bounded a few paces after him, then roared again. This is my pride! Mine! she roared. Don’t come back!
The falcon stopped shrieking and folded her wings; she looked utterly spent. The girl sheathed her great claw and rushed to the she-lion, patting her with her little furless paws and talking fervently in human talk. Then she fetched some wet and poured it over the gash on the she-lion’s shoulder – even though it was nothing a good lick wouldn’t sort out.
Together, they padded back to the fire, where the girl gave the she-lion meat: a partridge, very burnt, but with the feathers taken off, which helped. On her branch, the falcon peered down at them and sneezed. The girl fed the fire more sticks, and sat watching the she-lion crunching up the bird.
When the she-lion had finished, she stretched out beside the girl and started licking the gash on her shoulder clean. She smelt that the male lion was already far away. Good. She didn’t think he would return.
Better even than that, she finally understood why the boy had sent her away. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and he wasn’t angry with her. He wanted her to protect the girl and the falcon. He wanted her to look after the pride until he came back.
This made the she-lion feel extremely proud and much, much better.
Hylas woke with Jinx’s bony withers digging into his chest. His head no longer hurt and he felt much better: the marsh fever was gone.
He lay with his eyes shut, enjoying the warmth of the stallion’s big solid body, and listening to the birds waking up in the gorge.
Waking up … he thought muzzily. Must be dawn. In a while, I’ll slide off and find something to eat … but not yet.
Some time later, he woke again. Jinx was snorting and sidestepping. ‘What is it now?’ mumbled Hylas. He felt weak and disinclined to move. Without bothering to open his eyes, he slithered off the horse’s back. His knees gave way and he sank to the ground.