Gods and Warriors

by Michelle Paver

  “On my island,” murmured the Keftian, “we call such as you the People of the Wild. They paint patterns on their skin. You don’t… How can they tell what you are?”

  Hylas touched his left earlobe. “We’ve got a nick cut out here. Neleos did it when he found us.” He swallowed. He’d never forgotten Issi’s screams when it was her turn.

  “Do you worship the Goddess?” breathed the Keftian.

  “What?” Hylas was startled. “We—we worship the god of the Mountain, and the Lady of the Wild Things. But what’s that got to do with—”

  “Ah, that’s good…”

  “Tell me about the Crows,” Hylas cut in impatiently. “Who are they? Why are they after Outsiders?”

  “The Goddess… She has many names, in many different lands—but She is always the same Goddess…”

  Hylas opened his mouth to reply, but just then a hoopoe called from the hillside: oopu-pu-pu-pu. Dawn soon. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  “No! Stay! I don’t want to die alone!”

  “I can’t.”

  “I’m scared!” begged the Keftian. “At home we bury our dead in sight of the Sea—but I have nothing of the Sea—I’ll never get home!”

  “You’ve got that fish on your chest—”

  “It’s not a fish—it’s a dolphin—but it’s made of ivory, that’s not of the Sea! Please…”

  Hardening his heart, Hylas gathered his gear. Then, with a snarl, he crawled back to the coffin.

  “Here,” he muttered, wrenching off his amulet and pressing the little pouch into the young man’s palm. “It hasn’t done me much good, but you’re dying anyway. It’s got a bit of rock crystal I found on the peak, that’s for strength, and some hairs from a lion’s tail, that’s for courage, I found a dead one in a cave. And a shell. I don’t know what that’s for, but it’s from the Sea.”

  “The Sea!” The Keftian’s face lit up. “So you’ve been there!”

  “No, never. Someone gave it to me, but I haven’t—”

  “The Sea will give you the answers you seek! Yes, and the Fin People will find you…” Suddenly he grabbed Hylas’ wrist and pulled him closer, his dark gaze piercing Hylas with alarming intensity. “They know you’re coming,” he breathed. “They are seeking you through their deep blue world… They will find you…”

  With a cry, Hylas wrenched himself free.

  “The Fin People will take you to their island… the fish that fly and the caves that sing… the hills that walk… the trees of bronze…”

  He was raving. And gray light was stealing into the tomb. Hylas slung his waterskin over his shoulder and reached for his food sack.

  “And when you reach the Sea—” the Keftian went on.

  “I’m not going to the Sea—”

  “—you must give it a lock of my hair.”

  “I can’t, I just told you!”

  “Take it, take it now…”

  Grinding his teeth, Hylas grabbed an arrowhead and cut a lock of the crinkly black hair, then crammed it in his belt. “There! See? That’s the last thing I do!”

  The Keftian smiled up at him: no longer a ghastly grin, but a true smile that transfigured his face. “And when you reach the Sea, you will ask the Fin People to fetch my spirit… You will see them coming… leaping together over the waves—so strong—so beautiful… and they will take me to the Shining One—and with Her I shall know peace, as a drop of water becomes one with the Sea…”

  “For the last time, I’m not going to the Sea!”

  The Keftian didn’t answer.

  Something about his silence made Hylas turn back and peer into the coffin.

  The Keftian stared up at him with eyes that would never see again.

  Without knowing why he did it, Hylas reached in and touched the lean cheek with his finger. He felt the warmth draining from the flesh as fast as water sinking into dust. A moment before, this had been a man. Now all that remained was an empty husk.

  Again the hoopoe called from the hillside.

  As quick as he could, Hylas slid the heavy coffin lid in place and muttered a swift prayer.

  In the strengthening light he made out the coffins stacked against the walls, painted with red and yellow people dancing and making sacrifice. He spotted the Keftian’s hareskin cloak in a corner, and hid it behind a coffin. Where the dead man had lain was a big dark stain. He scuffed earth over it. That was the best he could do.

  A distant music of reed pipes floated in from outside. The villagers were coming. Despite the terror of the black warriors, they had to bring gifts of wine and honey for the kinsman who’d become an Ancestor.

  No time to lose. Hylas headed for the doorway.

  The dagger. The Keftian had said he could take his dagger, but he’d gone and left it on the body, inside the coffin. He glanced back—and was startled to see the dagger lying right there on the ground in plain sight, beside the coffin.

  He told himself that the Keftian must have slipped it from its sheath and let it fall just before he’d climbed into the coffin. He must have done that. Because there it lay.

  Take it… Keep it hidden…

  It was made of bronze, very plain and unadorned. It had broad square shoulders and three smooth rivets on the hilt; a tapered blade twice the length of Hylas’ hand, with a strong straight spine sweeping down to a lethal point. The edges gleamed faintly red in the morning light. Hylas had never seen anything so beautiful.

  He picked it up. It was heavy, and though its hilt felt cool to the touch, in a heartbeat it acquired the heat of his hand.

  The song of the flutes was coming closer.

  Clutching the dagger, Hylas fled.

  4

  Hylas had scarcely taken cover on the hillside before the villagers reached the tomb.

  To his relief, they hadn’t noticed anything wrong: Already they were piling rocks in front of the entrance. In the throng he spotted the dog from the night before, standing close to one of the village boys. Hylas was glad it was all right, but it hurt to see it snuffling the boy’s palm. Scram used to do that.

  He started over the hill at a run, picking buckthorn leaves to keep the Keftian’s ghost away, and stuffing the lock of hair in his food sack, along with the dagger. He would make a sheath for it later; for now it had to stay hidden. Bronze wasn’t for Outsiders. If he was seen with it, it’d be like shouting “thief.”

  Trying to remember everything Telamon had ever said about Lapithos, he headed east into the foothills. Straggling pines gave no cover, and man-high thistles scratched him with spikes as long as boars’ tusks; but he saw no sign of the black warriors, or anyone else. He was thinking about this when he rounded a spur and nearly fell over a chariot.

  In one horrified instant he took in two horses and a warrior in a rawhide helmet. The warrior had his back to him, but when the horses whinnied, he turned. Hylas didn’t wait to see any more, he was off like a hare, racing up a ridge where the chariot couldn’t follow.

  Scrambling over the top, he skittered down the other side and made for the stream at the bottom. The chariot came thundering around the base of the hill in clouds of dust, the warrior yelling above the din. Hylas splashed into the stream, the waterskin and food sack bumping at his back.

  Behind him a crash and the squeals of horses, then the warrior was coming after him on foot. Hylas zigzagged. The warrior zigzagged. A hand grabbed Hylas’ shoulder, yanked him back, and they both went down with a splash. The warrior got him in an armlock, but Hylas flipped him over and held his head underwater. Wildly, the warrior lashed out with his fist, catching Hylas on his wounded arm. Hylas snarled and jerked aside. The warrior twisted out of his grip and came up spluttering. Hylas kneed him in the groin. The warrior fell back with a howl—but was up before Hylas and kicked him on the jaw. Hylas swayed. The warrior knocked him over and knelt on his chest, grabbed his hair with both hands, and shook him till his teeth rattled.

  “Hylas it’s me! Telamon! Your friend!”
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br />   “I can’t believe you didn’t recognize me,” gasped Telamon.

  “I told you,” panted Hylas, “I couldn’t see you with that thing on your head.”

  They sat by the stream, splashing cold water on their bruises. The horses were tethered nearby, quietly drinking.

  “Sorry I kicked you,” mumbled Telamon.

  “Sorry I nearly drowned you,” Hylas replied.

  Telamon snorted a laugh. “What happened to your arm?”

  “I got shot,” said Hylas. His makeshift bandage had come off, and the wound was throbbing viciously.

  “Does it hurt?” said Telamon.

  Hylas splashed him in the face. “What do you think?”

  Telamon grinned and splashed him back. Then he jumped to his feet. “Come on. We have to get out of here.” He seemed to take it for granted that they were in this together. Hylas wanted to thank him, but couldn’t find the words.

  They’d been friends for four summers, but always in secret, because Telamon’s father had forbidden his son to befriend an Outsider. Despite that, Telamon sometimes managed to slip away to see Hylas and Issi without anyone knowing, although he went through agonies of remorse about deceiving his father.

  At first, Hylas had been suspicious. What did this rich boy want with him? He’d soon perceived that Telamon didn’t want anything, except to be friends. They were very different, but maybe that was why it worked. If Telamon needed to make a decision, he considered the outcomes carefully before he did anything, while Hylas thought fast and acted faster; he had to, or he wouldn’t survive. Telamon lived by the warrior code of honor, which Hylas only laughed at, although he secretly found it intriguing. Above all, Telamon had a father whom he loved and revered. Hylas couldn’t imagine what that was like. He’d never known his own father, and he’d never revered anyone.

  For four years they’d been friends without anyone knowing—except of course for Issi, who adored Telamon. Together they’d built their first raft, and learned to swim. Telamon had saved Hylas from an angry bull, and Hylas had hauled Telamon out of the cave of an irritated lioness. Telamon was a year older, and bigger because he got more meat, but Hylas knew more tricks in a fight. Telamon hated the fact that Hylas stole, he said it wasn’t honorable; and yet he never betrayed Hylas and he never let him down.

  But now, as Hylas watched Telamon inspecting the chariot for damage, he was struck afresh by the gulf between them.

  Telamon was the son of the Chieftain, and he looked it. His tunic was banded with scarlet at sleeves and hem, and his calf-high boots gleamed with oil, as did the sheath at his belt that held his knife. His long dark hair was braided like a warrior’s, with little discs of clay at the ends to stop them unraveling, and on his wrist hung his sealstone of polished red jasper, carved with a tiny boar with bristles down its spine. His father had given it to him that spring, when he’d turned thirteen and started hunting boar. He had to collect enough tusks to make his own helmet, which meant killing twelve. So far he’d only gotten one; but he wouldn’t let Hylas help, because to become a warrior you had to do it yourself.

  “Telamon, what’s going on?” Hylas said abruptly. “Why are the Crows after Outsiders?”

  “The Crows?” Telamon looked startled.

  “The raiders, the black warriors! Why are they after Outsiders and no one else?”

  Telamon frowned. “I don’t know. Soon as I heard what was happening, I went to warn you. I—I found your camp.”

  “They killed Scram.”

  “I know. I buried him. It was horrible. I thought they’d killed you too. Then I found your tracks. I lost them, but I picked up Issi’s—”

  “She got away?” cried Hylas.

  “She was heading west, but I lost her trail too.”

  “West! And I’ve been going east! I thought she’d be bound to make for the village, or try to find you.”

  “We’ll find her, Hylas. She’ll be all right.”

  “She’s only nine summers old.”

  “They won’t bother going after a girl.”

  “But why hunt us at all?”

  “I told you, I don’t know!”

  “What d’you mean you don’t know?” exploded Hylas. “Your father’s the most powerful man in the whole of Lykonia!”

  “Hylas—”

  “He’s the Chieftain! He’s supposed to fight raiders! How can he let them hunt his own people?”

  Telamon’s dark eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning my father’s decisions?”

  “Or does he only protect villagers, and leave Outsiders to fend for themselves?”

  “Are you questioning my father?” demanded Telamon. His handsome face had gone stiff, and he was gripping the hilt of his knife.

  The thing about Telamon was that to him honor was everything. He wouldn’t hesitate to punish the least slur on his kin.

  “No,” snapped Hylas. “I’m not questioning your father.”

  “Good,” Telamon said curtly.

  There was an angry silence. Telamon went to check the horses’ hooves for stones, and Hylas stayed where he was, by the stream. He knew his friend’s capacity to brood. Telamon would not be the first to break the silence. Hylas thought about showing him the bronze dagger; but then he’d have to explain about its being stolen, and hiding a dead stranger in a tomb, and Telamon would be horrified.

  Instead he called out to Telamon to lend him his knife. Without a word, Telamon chucked it over, and Hylas cut a strip from his tunic for a new bandage for his injured arm. He found some woundwort and chewed a few leaves for a poultice, then bound it in place with the bandage. Walking over to the chariot, he handed back the knife. Telamon took it, still without speaking.

  When the silence had gone on long enough, Hylas said, “So these are horses.”

  Telamon grunted.

  There weren’t any horses on the Mountain, and Hylas had only ever seen them at a distance. The one nearest him was a towering monster with a glossy chestnut hide and a mane as black as pine pitch. He made to stroke it, but it set back its ears and tried to bite.

  The other horse was friendlier, rubbing its nose against his chest and whiffling into his ear. Its great dark eyes were soft as plums, but the neck beneath his hand was solid muscle. “Are they yours?” he asked Telamon.

  “Not likely,” snorted Telamon. “They’re Father’s. I’m not allowed to take them out.”

  Hylas whistled. “Don’t tell me you stole them,” he said drily.

  Telamon flushed. “Borrowed.”

  Telamon was fiddling with his sealstone, as he sometimes did when he was thinking through a problem. “They’re not raiders, Hylas. They’re from the east, from the High Chieftain of Mycenae. And they’re not called ‘Crows.’ They’re a great clan: the House of Koronos. They have many warriors who fight for them. It’s only ignorant peasants who lump the clan and their warriors together, and call them all Crows.”

  Hylas gave him a sharp glance. “You seem to know a lot about them.”

  “I’m a Chieftain’s son,” retorted Telamon. “Of course I know something about them.”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, Crows are Crows. They killed Scram and they tried to kill me and Issi.”

  “I kn ow, but…” Telamon’s flush deepened. “My father—he has no quarrel with them.”

  Hylas stared at him. “No quarrel? With raiders who come on his land and hunt his people?”

  “Hylas…” Telamon hesitated. “He’s a Chieftain. That means he can’t always choose who he—who he has dealings with.”

  Hylas brushed that aside. “What about you?” he demanded. “Do you have ‘no quarrel’ with them?”

  Telamon knitted his brows. “I don’t know why they’re after Outsiders—but I’ll do my best to find out.” He looked Hylas straight in the eye. “I’m your friend,” he said distinctly. “We will find Issi. I will get you out of this. I swear it on my honor. Now shut up and let’s go.”

  Gathering the reins, he jumped into the
chariot. The horses reared, and he struggled to calm them.

  “Do you know how to drive this?” said Hylas as he leaped in beside him.

  “Hold on tight,” muttered Telamon, “and keep your knees bent.”

  The horses sprang away, the chariot lurched, and Hylas nearly went flying.

  “I said hold on!” yelled Telamon.

  As they went rattling over the stones, the flimsy wicker frame bucked so violently that Hylas thought it was going to break apart. The rawhide webbing sagged alarmingly under his feet, and he had to narrow his eyes against the grit thrown up by the flying hooves. But the horses were fast, faster than anything he’d ever known. As the land rushed past, the hot wind streamed through his hair and he laughed aloud.

  Telamon threw him a glance and grinned.

  With a jolt, Hylas realized they were going the wrong way. Grabbing the reins, he hauled the horses to a skittering halt. “We’ve got to turn around! We’ve got to go west!”

  Telamon was furious. “Why’d you do that?” he fumed as he battled to bring the horses under control. “We can’t take a chariot into the mountains! Besides, they’re guarding the pass, we’d never make it! We have to go around the mountains! I’ve got it all worked out. We’ll head south to the Sea, then we’ll—”

  “The Sea?” cried Hylas.

  “We’ll find a boat and row up the coast, then make land on the other side of the mountains and head in from there. It’s not that far. We’ll find Issi. I promise.”

  The Sea, thought Hylas.

  And when you reach the Sea, the Keftian had said… When. He’d been so sure.

  “Which way d’you want to go?” demanded Telamon. “Hurry up, Hylas, I can’t hold them much longer.”

  Hylas chewed his lip. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll have to head south, and go around by the Sea.”

  “Thank you,” said Telamon. He slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps and they were off, clattering down the trail in billows of dust.