Warrior Bronze

by Michelle Paver

  ‘Keep the fires burning all night,’ Telamon barked at his men. ‘I want a brazier in my tent, torches staked around camp, and two sentries on duty till dawn.’

  The men’s shoulders slumped. ‘But my lord,’ said one. ‘There’s not many rebels in these parts. And to do all that, we’d have to gather lots more wood –’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Telamon said coldly. ‘Get it done.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Turning on his heel, Telamon stalked back to his tent. Scowling and grumbling under their breath, his men heaved themselves to their feet.

  Hylas settled down in the bracken to wait for dusk.

  The song of the crickets slowed, and as the Sun went down, Hylas watched the valley gradually fill with shadow. The sky was overcast. Good. The last thing he wanted was moonlight.

  In the mountains, thunder growled, and with a pang he thought of Havoc and Pirra, far to the south. But he’d been right to send them away, he knew that. Staying together would have been far too dangerous.

  Below him, the Crow warriors were trudging back to camp, bearing armfuls of firewood. Wearily, they fed the fires and planted torches around camp, then lugged a bronze brazier and a large pile of sticks into Telamon’s tent. After that, they settled around their fires and fell on their evening meal. The oniony smell of gruel drifted up the slope.

  It was almost dark when one of the warriors stood up, yawning, and wandered over to the horses. The black horse whickered a greeting as the man untied its tether, but the brown one with the dark mane set back its ears and lunged at him with its yellow teeth bared.

  ‘Get away, you monster!’ snarled the warrior, snatching a stick and striking the horse a vicious blow on the head. Then he dragged the docile black one over to the water, and waited impatiently while it drank. In the evening hush, Hylas heard the beast’s long, slow, grateful slurps.

  After returning the black horse to its grazing spot, the warrior hefted his stick and warily approached the brown one. It set back its ears, rolling its eyes at the stick, and as he stooped to undo its tether, it nipped him on the thigh.

  Bellowing with rage, the warrior struck the horse across the eyes. It squealed and reared. ‘Then go thirsty!’ shouted the man as he stomped back to the fire, amid jeering and laughter from his comrades.

  The brown horse was tugging at its stake in vain, and eyeing the stream that was so far out of reach. The sound of the water must be agonizing.

  Something about the horse’s bony nose and scarred flanks jogged Hylas’ memory. Jinx, he thought. Yes, I remember you, your name is Jinx. And the black one’s name is Smoke.

  Two summers before, these horses had belonged to Telamon’s father, Thestor, the Chieftain of Lykonia. Telamon had ‘borrowed’ them and the chariot without his permission, and driven to Hylas’ rescue. He’d helped Hylas escape. Back then, he and Telamon had been best friends.

  For a moment, Hylas’ spirits plunged. They’d been friends … Telamon used to slip away from his father’s stronghold of Lapithos, and he and Hylas and Issi would range the slopes of Mount Lykas, stealing honey from bees’ nests, and getting into scrapes. They’d built their first raft together, and learnt to swim. Telamon had saved Hylas from an angry bull, and Hylas had hauled Telamon out of the cave of an irritated lioness.

  Where had all that gone? How could it be that Thestor, who for years had kept Lykonia peaceful by having nothing to do with his kinsmen of the House of Koronos – that Thestor was dead in battle, and his son Telamon had become a cruel, arrogant, murderous young warrior? How was it possible?

  Night fell. Bats flickered overhead. Hylas struggled to stay awake.

  Below him, the horses stood dozing with their heads down. The two sentries leant on their spears by the fires. The other warriors had rolled themselves in their cloaks and fallen asleep.

  Telamon’s slave slept on the ground outside the front of the tent, whose red walls glowed, lit from within by the brazier. Hylas made out Telamon’s dark silhouette, pacing up and down inside. Now and then, Telamon raised a drinking cup to his lips, pausing often to refill it from a jug on the ground; and from time to time, he fiddled with something at his wrist. Hylas guessed that was his sealstone. When he was a boy, Telamon used to fiddle with it when he was nervous.

  Was he nervous now? But he’d beaten the rebels, so why did he still fear attack? Was that why he’d had his men pitch his tent at the edge of the gully? To prevent attack from that side? Was that why he’d insisted on all those torches planted around camp, and on having a brazier burning in his tent, even though the night was warm?

  Midnight passed, and still Telamon paced. Hylas’ legs felt stiff and cramped. It was hard to keep his eyes open.

  At last, the dark figure inside the tent stopped pacing. Hylas saw Telamon kneel and draw something from his belt. Was it the dagger? Now he was lifting the lid off some kind of box and laying something inside, then carefully replacing the lid. Hylas was wide awake. He thought of the narrow box of polished wood in which the Crows had kept the dagger, on Thalakrea.

  By the stream, the warriors still slept, and the sentries dozed at their posts. The Crow camp was dark, only fitfully lit by the torches.

  Finally, Telamon settled himself on the ground, and after much tossing and turning, he too lay still.

  Soundlessly, Hylas started down the slope. First, he would secure his escape by tying the rope to that tree, then he’d stampede the horses.

  Passing downwind of them so as not to wake them too early, he found the dismantled chariot, where he hid his waterskin and the bag of provisions which his Marsh Dweller guides had given him before they’d headed back to the marshes. Over his shoulder, he slung their parting gift, a coil of tough fishskin rope.

  By the stream, a warrior muttered. Hylas ducked behind the chariot wheels. The warrior grunted in his sleep and turned over. His grunts didn’t seem to have woken the sentries; and no noises came from Telamon’s tent, except the occasional snore.

  Hylas crept behind the tent to the pine tree at the edge of the gully. It was surrounded by clumps of prickly broom; pushing through this, he tied one end of the rope round the tree trunk, then quietly uncoiled the rest down the gully.

  Suddenly, a cry of terror rent the air.

  Hylas dived into the broom bushes.

  That cry had been Telamon’s. Hylas heard warriors running towards the tent – ‘You all right, my lord?’ – and the slave’s tentative, ‘My lord?’

  ‘Go back to your posts, all of you!’ shouted Telamon from inside the tent. To Hylas, crouching behind it, he sounded terrifyingly close.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ muttered the slave.

  Not daring to breathe, Hylas listened to the warriors’ footsteps retreating, and the slave settling down again at the front of the tent. He heard Telamon muttering as he threw more wood on the brazier, then throwing himself once more on to the ground.

  Finally, all went quiet.

  Hylas pushed his head out of the bushes. Yes, still quiet.

  He was about to crawl out when he heard footsteps coming round the other side of the tent. He froze. The footsteps stopped. Whoever it was must be standing no more than a few paces from where he knelt.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ said Telamon. ‘This can’t go on!’

  ‘This can’t go on,’ muttered Telamon. ‘You have to be strong …’

  Hidden in the bushes, Hylas heard Telamon’s voice grow louder, then softer as he paced the edge of the gully. Telamon came to a halt, appallingly close. Hylas held his breath. His life depended on a few branches of prickly broom, and on keeping utterly still.

  But Telamon was oblivious to his surroundings. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he told himself. ‘You didn’t do anything!’

  It was too dark to see him clearly, but Hylas saw the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes.

  Something tickled Hylas’ foot. Spider? Scorpion? He fought to keep still.

  ‘Not your fault,’ repe
ated Telamon, twisting his sealstone as he paced.

  Only a spider. Silently, Hylas breathed out.

  This time when Telamon drew near, Hylas saw that it wasn’t a sealstone he was twisting, but a ring on his forefinger, a broad band of dull grey metal which he was grinding into his flesh. Hylas had seen Koronos wearing a ring like that once. It was made of iron. Hylas had learnt about iron from Akastos, the mysterious wanderer who’d crossed his path several times over the years, and for whom he’d worked in the smithy on Thalakrea.

  ‘Iron,’ Akastos had told him, ‘is the rarest of metals because it falls from the stars. You can use it to ward off the Angry Ones – but not for long; against Them, nothing works for long.’

  But why, wondered Hylas, does Telamon wear iron, when the Crows worship the Angry Ones?

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Telamon told himself a third time.

  But it was, and he knew it. Three moons ago in Egypt, he had left his own kinswoman to die. Hylas would never forget Alekto’s screams as she clung to her sinking boat, and the crocodiles glided towards her like the rays of some evil green star …

  Telamon could have saved her, but he’d chosen not to. Was that why he couldn’t sleep? Did he live in terror of the Angry Ones, the dreadful spirits of vengeance who hunt those who have murdered their kin?

  Suddenly, pain stabbed Hylas’ temples, so fierce that he nearly cried out. Lights flashed behind his eyes. He put his hand to his mouth to keep from retching.

  The sickness subsided, but this time when he peered through the branches, what he saw nearly stopped his heart. His skin prickled. He felt the hairs on his forearms rise.

  Telamon was still muttering and staring down at the ring he kept twisting round and round – and before him, on the empty air above the gully, stood his father’s ghost.

  It wavered, as if Hylas saw it through rippling water, but he knew it was Thestor. He’d seen him once, and he’d never forgotten, because it was the first time he’d seen Telamon, too. A cold winter’s day: Hylas had been rescuing Issi from a fight with some village boys, when Telamon and his father, out hunting, had stopped to watch …

  It was Thestor’s ghost, but shockingly altered from what he’d been in life. One side of its body was a horror of black blood and mangled flesh, and its heavy, handsome features were haggard with despair.

  Perhaps sensing something, Telamon raised his head. ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered, gazing unseeing into the dark.

  The ghost glared at his son with dreadful urgency.

  ‘Who’s there?’ hissed Telamon.

  The ghost’s gaze never wavered, but a look of shame convulsed the haggard features. Slowly, it shook its head. Then it raised its hand and pointed at the sky. Hylas found it horrible that Telamon should be staring straight at his father’s spirit, and yet he could not see.

  Again, the spirit shook its ruined head. Then it turned and slowly limped away across the void.

  ‘My lord, you called?’ whispered a voice, making Hylas jump.

  Telamon, too, spun round with a start.

  His slave was peering nervously around the corner of the tent: fortunately for Hylas, the side furthest from him.

  With a shaky hand, Telamon wiped the sweat from his face. ‘What d’you want?’ he said thickly.

  ‘My lord, you’re ill! I can mix more wine, or – or there’s poppy juice left …’

  ‘Poppy juice,’ mumbled Telamon. ‘Yes … I’m tired, that’s all. I just need to sleep.’

  Hylas watched them disappear around the far side of the tent. He heard them go back inside. He breathed out. He felt hollow and sick, and his head was throbbing.

  And in the darkness over the gully, he could see Thestor’s ghost growing fainter and fainter as it limped off over the empty air.

  An owl called from the gully. The pine tree creaked in the night wind. And still Hylas stayed in the bushes, waiting for Telamon and his slave to go to sleep.

  At last, all was silent, and Hylas crawled out. Somehow, he had to put the vision of Thestor behind him and get on with his plan: stampede the horses and hope against hope that in the confusion, he could steal the dagger and escape.

  Dawn wasn’t far off, but the camp was in darkness, except for the glimmer of torches staked at intervals. Keeping to the shadows, Hylas retrieved his waterskin and food bag from behind the chariot, then stole to the nearest torch and wrenched it from the ground.

  The horses had been asleep, but as he crept behind them, the black one, Smoke, smelt the fire and woke with a start. Jinx was already snorting and rolling his eyes, but he seemed more intent on nipping Hylas than on running away. Hylas yanked the slipknots from their tethers and brandished the torch before their noses, waving his arms and hissing.

  That did it. Smoke squealed in terror, Jinx reared, then both went thundering through camp. The whole place sprang awake: sentries shouting, their comrades blearily grabbing weapons, Telamon and his slave bursting from the tent. Now all were rushing after the horses, which had gone hurtling down the trail that led to the next valley.

  ‘After them!’ yelled Telamon. ‘I’ll have any man flogged who dares come back before we’ve caught them!’

  As soon as they were gone, Hylas raced for the tent. Inside it was stiflingly hot, the brazier redly aglow, but there lay the wooden box, half-covered by Telamon’s black cloak, which in his haste he’d flung aside. Hylas threw off the lid and grabbed the dagger.

  Or rather, he grabbed a dagger – but not the dagger of Koronos. What he held in his hand was nothing but a cheap copper knife.

  Suddenly, he felt eyes on him. He threw himself sideways, and Telamon’s spear skewered the ground where he’d been kneeling a heartbeat before. Telamon had set a trap, and he’d walked right into it.

  ‘How’d you know I was here?’ panted Hylas, scrambling to his feet and putting the brazier between them.

  ‘I didn’t, I guessed,’ said Telamon, wrenching his spear free.

  ‘But you laid your trap with the knife before the horses ran off,’ said Hylas as they circled the brazier, feinting this way and that. ‘You couldn’t have known I was here!’

  Another thrust with the spear, which again Hylas dodged. ‘I didn’t know when you’d come,’ panted Telamon, ‘but I knew that you would. I’ve been making that little show with the knife every night.’

  As they circled the brazier, Hylas’ mind raced. He was armed with his own knife and the inferior copper one, while Telamon had a vicious bronze sword and a heavy bronze thrusting spear; he was also a year older and a trained warrior. And his men might have come back with him, they might be surrounding the tent right now.

  And yet … It would be unlike Telamon to seek help from his men: he would want the glory of killing the Outsider for himself. And that meant he’d probably left his men going after the horses, and returned alone.

  ‘Aren’t you going to squeal for help?’ taunted Hylas, to make sure.

  Telamon jabbed his spear at Hylas’ chest. He’d moved clumsily, the point only nicked Hylas’ wrist, but the pain was enough to make him drop his knife.

  ‘I don’t need help,’ snarled Telamon, kicking it out of Hylas’ reach. Now all he had was the copper knife.

  ‘So where’s the real dagger?’ said Hylas. ‘With your grandfather Koronos, at Lapithos?’

  Telamon didn’t reply, but something in his face told Hylas that he’d guessed right. ‘Poor Telamon,’ he sneered. ‘Your grandfather didn’t trust you with the real dagger, he sent you off as a decoy with a fake! Not very heroic, is it, being pushed around by your elders!’

  Once more, Telamon lunged with his spear. Hylas side-stepped, grabbing the shaft and twisting it upwards. Telamon hissed, but clung on. Wrenching the spear from Hylas’ grip, he thrust his sword at his chest. Again his aim was off, and the point grazed Hylas’ forearm. Hylas cried out, and the copper knife went flying. Telamon flicked it out of reach with his spear and forced his enemy back behind the brazier.

  Weaponl
ess, Hylas grabbed a burning brand, scanning his side of the tent for what else he could use. A jug of wine, a bronze scraper and a jar of oil – doubtless Telamon’s slave used that for cleaning dust from his master’s limbs – and a man-high shield of thick oxhide that looked too heavy to be much help.

  Telamon made another clumsy jab with the spear, which Hylas dodged, and Telamon stumbled and nearly lost his footing. Hylas gave a breathless laugh. ‘Not too steady on your feet, are you? What’s wrong, all that wine and poppy juice fuddling your wits?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ spat Telamon. ‘I swore once that I’d kill you and feed your heart to the dogs –’

  ‘– and maybe then the Angry Ones will stop haunting you, eh?’ Hylas shot back.

  Telamon blinked.

  ‘That’s why you wear that iron ring, isn’t it? They’re after you because of what you did in Egypt –’

  ‘I did nothing!’ cried Telamon. ‘It just happened, it was the will of the gods! Alekto fell overboard –’

  ‘Is that what you told Pharax and Koronos? We both know it’s a lie, though, don’t we? I was there, I saw! You could have saved her, but you left her to the crocodiles! You can’t fool the Angry Ones, Telamon. You can’t fool your Ancestors, either. Your father knows what you did!’

  Telamon lurched to a halt.

  ‘I saw his ghost,’ panted Hylas. ‘He was right there in front of you while you were pacing up and down on the edge of the gully!’

  ‘You’re making that up,’ said Telamon, scarcely moving his lips. But he stood rooted to the ground, his weapons forgotten in his hands.

  ‘He shook his head in shame, Telamon. He turned his back on you and walked away –’

  ‘You’re making it up!’ cried Telamon.

  Hylas caught the sound of running feet in the distance: the warriors were coming back. ‘Then where’s his sealstone?’ he countered, playing for time and wondering desperately what to try next. ‘He was bloody and mangled down one side, and his sealstone was missing from his wrist. You told me once that he never took it off, that he’d sworn he would take it with him to his tomb.’