Warrior Bronze

by Michelle Paver

  Hekabi’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘You have something from my Island? How can that be, when it no longer exists! The Crows angered the Lady of Fire and She blasted it from the Sea!’

  ‘I have something,’ insisted Pirra. ‘But first, swear to cure Echo!’

  ‘Not till you show me.’

  Pirra cleared her throat and called. She waited. She called again.

  Hekabi caught movement on the slope below – and gasped.

  Havoc stood at the edge of the pines. Her ears were pricked, and she glanced warily from Pirra to Hekabi as she sniffed the wisewoman’s scent. In the last of the Sun, her fur blazed golden, and her great black-rimmed eyes were filled with light.

  ‘I’ll give you one tuft of her fur,’ said Pirra, ‘but no more. And first, you must swear to cure Echo – and not hurt Havoc.’

  ‘Hurt her?’ whispered Hekabi, sinking to her knees. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, carving runnels in the cracked grey clay. ‘Hurt a sacred creature of the Lady of Fire?’

  ‘Swear,’ repeated Pirra.

  ‘I swear,’ murmured Hekabi. ‘By my lost Island – by the Lady of Fire Herself – I swear.’ She drew a ragged breath and held out her hands. ‘Give me the falcon. I’ll do what I can. Although I think it may already be too late.’

  ‘Sometimes – when she’s flying,’ faltered Pirra, ‘it feels as if I’m flying too. I’m riding the wind, I can feel it under my wings, and I can see the prey, incredibly far below. I’m with her in every swoop and glide, every twist and somersault and dive. But now …’ She pinched the bridge of her nose to hold back the tears. ‘Now there’s nothing but darkness and a tiny point of light, very far away. I’m so weak I can hardly move my wings – I mean, Echo can’t – and she’s frightened and angry, she doesn’t understand that she’s sick. All she knows is that she can’t fly, and for a falcon that’s the worst thing ever …’

  Hekabi sat cross-legged with the falcon in her lap. Slipping her fingers under one wing, she felt Echo’s breast. ‘Too thin. The muscles are wasted.’ She wiped foam from Echo’s beak and sniffed. ‘Smells foul. What medicine have you tried?’

  Pirra told her about the Marsh Dwellers’ black powder. ‘I don’t know what it was, the boy who gave it to me couldn’t speak.’

  Something flickered in Hekabi’s brown eyes. ‘Sounds like ground poppy seeds.’

  ‘Well it doesn’t work on falcons.’

  Hekabi touched Echo’s dull yellow foot and frowned. ‘Hot where she should be cool –’

  ‘I know all this!’ Pirra burst out. ‘I know her feathers have lost their shine, I know she can’t stop shivering! what are you going to do about it?’

  Echo half-opened one eye and gave a croak that twisted Pirra’s heart. ‘Can you save her?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. Have you meat?’

  Pirra handed her the smelly little pouch in which she saved scraps for Echo, and Hekabi took out a shred of pigeon. From her battered goatskin bag, she drew a stoppered cow horn and tipped a few drops of greenish liquid into her palm.

  ‘What’s that?’ Pirra said suspiciously.

  ‘Mustard seed, garlic, a few other things.’

  Havoc pushed in her muzzle, and the wisewoman gently moved her aside. Having coated the meat in the potion, she prised open Echo’s beak and tucked it in, lightly massaging under the chin till the falcon swallowed. ‘First, I must put her to sleep. The deepest of sleeps … to the very border of death.’

  Pirra licked her lips. ‘And then? Are you going to do a spell?’

  ‘No. You are. Lie down.’ Hekabi held out the cow horn. ‘Drink.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I must put you to sleep, too. So that you can go after her spirit and bring her back.’

  The falcon is burning hot and aching all over. Everything sounds fuzzy and unfamiliar and she can’t see, except for a tiny spark of brightness, very far away. She knows she has to reach this, although she doesn’t know why, and she’s too weak to fly.

  Somehow, she finds a way to spread her wings, so that the wind can do the lifting for her. It isn’t proper flying, she’s merely gliding, but it’s all she can manage because she’s so weak.

  Glancing down, she spots the she-lion very far below. The she-lion is racing after her, glancing up now and then, to check that she’s still there. The she-lion is doing her best – in fact, the falcon has never seen her move so fast, her paws scarcely touching the ground as she hurtles around pines and leaps over rocks – but like all earthbound creatures, she’s no match for the Wind, and with a pang, the falcon sees her slipping behind.

  The bright point is growing steadily bigger as the Wind spirals upwards, carrying the falcon towards it. The earth is dropping away fast. She doesn’t want to leave it, and she knows that if she goes too high, she will never get back.

  Now someone else is coming after her. She sees who it is and her spirit soars: it’s the girl, and she’s flying. Her strange beakless face is pale and intent, and her long hair is streaming behind her, dark locks shot through with brilliant glints of purple and red. She is utterly determined to stop the falcon leaving her. The falcon feels the strength of the girl’s love, pulling her back.

  But being human, the girl is no good at flying. Slower than a pigeon, clumsier than a fledgling, she’s wobbling about on the Wind, and when she comes to a bumpy bit, she nearly falls off. The falcon wants to slow down, so that the girl can catch up, but the Wind won’t let her.

  The girl is calling her back in her deep, slow human voice. It sounds muffled, and beneath it the falcon feels the heat of the girl’s fiery spirit, desperately tugging at hers. And yet – like the she-lion – the girl is slipping behind. It isn’t fair. The falcon doesn’t want the Wind to carry her towards the light. Once she reaches it, she will never return. She will never see the girl again.

  With an enormous effort, the falcon tilts the tip of one wingfeather, trying to shift herself sideways, off the Wind. It isn’t enough, and she hasn’t the strength to do it again – but somehow, she does. And again … and again. With an ungainly lurch, she topples off the Wind.

  Mustering the last of her strength, she draws in her wings, tucks in her head and feet – and plummets back to earth.

  Towards the girl.

  Pirra woke with a thumping headache, rolled on to her side, and threw up.

  Slumping back against the fig tree’s knobbly roots, she lay squinting at the morning Sun through the leaves. Shreds from yesterday drifted back, and she started up again. ‘Echo! Is she –’

  ‘Alive,’ said Hekabi. ‘All she needs now is food and rest.’

  The falcon was perched on a tree root near Pirra’s head. Her feathers were freshly preened, there was no foam around her beak, and the sparkle had returned to her large dark eyes.

  Weakly, Pirra stretched out her hand. The falcon sidled towards her and hopped on to her shoulder. She took a lock of Pirra’s hair in her beak, and gave it swift little preening tugs.

  Pirra’s eyes stung. Echo hadn’t done that since they’d left the marshes. With her finger, she stroked the falcon’s scaly foot. It was no longer feverishly hot, but cool, and a bright, clear yellow.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re better,’ whispered Pirra.

  Embarrassed, Echo glanced away. Then she stretched her wings behind her, bobbed up and down, and sicked up a pellet.

  ‘Here,’ said Pirra, offering Hekabi the neat oval of crunched-up pigeon feathers. ‘To help with the curse.’

  Hekabi took it without a word and went on cramming things into her goatskin bag. During the night, she’d washed off all the clay, and now that her hair was brown again, the white streak showed at her temple. She looked much more her old self, although her eyes still had that hectic glitter. She’d brought the offering-table from the cave, and was busy wrapping the three pieces of the curse in fig leaves.

  Pirra asked what she was doing, and Hekabi told her that the first part of the curse was finished – now she had
to send it to the Crows. ‘For that we need to go to the other side of the peak.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You owe me a tuft of lion fur.’

  Pirra didn’t reply. For the first time since Echo had fallen ill, she’d remembered why she’d been looking for Hekabi. What would Hylas say if he knew that she’d forgotten all about Issi?

  They followed a goat trail that circled the peak: Pirra carrying the offering-table with Echo perched on her shoulder, and Havoc following. Now and then, Hekabi turned aside to gather herbs or firewood, examining each stick and flinging most of them away.

  Pirra thought of the three grisly offerings: Telamon’s hair, Koronos’ potsherd, and Pharax’s bandage. ‘The pieces of the curse,’ she said carefully. ‘How did you get them?’

  Hekabi didn’t answer.

  ‘Was it – did the shadow thief help you?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Hekabi, it’s important. The shadow thief … The Marsh Dwellers think you made it in a spell, but Hylas – he thinks it might be his sister.’

  ‘Why?’ Hekabi said irritably without turning round.

  ‘Well, because … He says she’s good at stealing, and her favourite creatures are frogs, and the Marsh Dwellers said the shadow thief leaves little clay frogs. And I saw one in the cave –’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about frogs!’ snapped Hekabi. ‘All I care about is the curse!’

  ‘You cared about Hylas once, you said he’s the Outsider in the Oracle; and you prophesied to the Marsh Dwellers about him: Fin, feather and fur –’

  But Hekabi had gone striding ahead.

  Shortly after noon, they reached the eastern side of Dentra peak, and Hekabi halted at a rocky ledge. Beneath them was a dizzying drop, above them loomed the dark-red heights of Mount Lykas.

  ‘The Crows call its tallest fang the Ancestor Peak,’ Hekabi said grimly. ‘That’s where they dug the Tomb of the House of Koronos, long ago. If I can send the curse all the way to their Tomb, I can blight them for ever.’

  Pirra threw her a glance. ‘How do you know this? Have you been there?’

  She gave a crooked smile. ‘I didn’t need to.’

  ‘Why not? Did the shadow thief tell you? Was it Hylas’ sister? Her name’s Issi, Hekabi, and she grew up on Mount Lykas, so she’d know all about it!’

  ‘Stop plaguing me, I know nothing of sisters! And if I did have a “shadow thief” to help me, that’s in the past! It’s time to complete the curse. Give me the lion fur.’

  ‘Hekabi please –’

  ‘The fur!’

  Setting her teeth, Pirra placed Echo on the branch of a thorn tree. She didn’t have to summon Havoc; the lioness seemed to sense that she was needed, and leant against her while Pirra cut a tuft from her scruff. Havoc gave her a rasping lick on the cheek to show that she didn’t mind, then slumped under the tree and yawned.

  Pirra noticed that the gash on the lioness’ shoulder was smeared with a greenish poultice that gave off a sharp, clean herbal tang. ‘Did you do that?’ she asked Hekabi.

  ‘No,’ muttered Hekabi. ‘Give me the fur!’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘How do I know? Give it here!’

  ‘Was it the shadow thief?’

  ‘Give me the fur!’

  Seething, Pirra did as she was told.

  ‘Watch,’ commanded Hekabi. ‘Listen. Don’t say a word.’

  First, the wisewoman woke a fire. The wood she’d gathered was mastic, and caught quickly: soon tarry smoke was stinging Pirra’s eyes.

  Squatting and rocking back and forth, Hekabi threw Pirra’s little ivory comb into the flames, then Echo’s pellet and the piece of Keftian gold – and then, with reverence, the tuft of Havoc’s fur … Lastly, she cast in the three pieces of the curse.

  Smoke twisted into the air. The curse-fire crackled and spat.

  Havoc put her head between her paws. Pirra saw flames dancing in the lioness’ golden eyes.

  Hekabi sat cross-legged with her palms upwards on her knees and began to chant. ‘Bind, bury and banish … May the cursed ones cower in darkness for eternity … May the cursed ones have nothing to eat but dust for bread, and clay for meat …’

  Echo peered down from her branch. Suddenly, she swivelled her head right round, as if she’d spotted something in the distance. A moment later, a vast twittering cloud of starlings swept across the sky. The flock was so dense that the birds darkened the Sun like cloudshadow, and their wings created their own breeze, stirring Pirra’s hair and wafting the smoke from the curse-fire towards the Ancestor Peak.

  Closer and closer drifted the smoke. ‘Bind, bury and banish …’ chanted Hekabi.

  Pirra’s scalp prickled. Havoc sprang up, turning her head to follow something Pirra couldn’t see: something that rose from the fire and flew swiftly through the air towards the Ancestor Peak.

  A violent wind came roaring in, scattering the starlings and blowing the smoke back in Pirra’s face.

  Hekabi stopped chanting. She sat rigid, her fists clenched.

  ‘Did it work?’ whispered Pirra. ‘Did the curse reach the Ancestor Peak?’

  Hekabi drew a ragged breath. ‘Only the gods know for sure … But time will tell.’

  They sat in silence until Pirra couldn’t bear it any more. ‘Hekabi, you must tell me – for Hylas. Is the shadow thief Issi?’

  ‘The shadow thief?’ Hekabi frowned, as if her mind had been far away. ‘Issi? Until you came, I’d never even heard that name!’

  Pirra swallowed. ‘I don’t believe you. You can’t have gathered those things by yourself, and you can’t know all about the Ancestor Peak if you’ve never been there! If Issi is the shadow thief, you have to tell me where she is!’

  Hekabi turned on her. ‘The shadow thief is a boy, Pirra! He’s a boy! I know nothing about any girl called Issi!’

  Issi had thoroughly enjoyed watching the wisewoman do the curse. After all, she’d helped make it happen. She’d risked her life stealing what was needed, and she’d put that little clay frog in the cave, to keep an eye on things for her.

  From her hiding place among the rocks, she’d watched the wisewoman feeding the Crows’ things to the curse-fire, and given a silent cheer when it ate Telamon’s hair. Serve you right, you traitor, she’d told him in her head, picturing Lapithos crashing down in flames and the Crows fleeing in terror. Burn, burn! This is for Hylas, wherever he is – and for Scram, and for everyone you’ve killed …

  Now the wisewoman and the girl called Pirra were heading down the mountain. Issi’s belly tightened with excitement. Soon, she would make herself known to the girl. The girl knew Hylas – Issi had gathered that from what she’d overheard – so she’d be delighted to see Issi. ‘Issi!’ she would cry. ‘Can it really be you? Hylas will be so happy! He’s never stopped looking for you, let’s go and find him right now!’

  That was what Issi wanted to happen; but out of habit, she stayed hidden as she followed them. Careful, Issi, you don’t yet know for sure that you can trust this girl. Remember what’s kept you alive all this time: stay hidden, say nothing, trust no one. Never reveal who you are.

  Slipping between the pine trees, she didn’t notice she was being stalked until a powerful blow knocked her legs from under her and sent her sprawling in the bracken. For a moment, she lay winded. Then she broke into a grin.

  Havoc stood over her, play-growling and nuzzling her tummy with her furry muzzle. Giggling, Issi pummelled the lioness’ chest with both fists, then squirmed out from under and flung her arms around Havoc’s neck. They rubbed cheeks, the lioness making groany noises which meant she was glad she’d found her new friend again.

  Issi was pleased that the gash in Havoc’s shoulder was healing so well that she wouldn’t have to smear on any more of her salve. And clearly the lioness was no longer worried about the falcon: she was ready to play. Remembering something Hylas used to do, Issi cut some switches, swiftly wove them into a rough wicker ball, and tossed it to her.


  Havoc loved it, seeming to know at once what it was for, and batting it back with her forepaw. Issi threw it further and they raced for it. Havoc won, and after an uproarious play-fight, they collapsed in a comfortable, panting heap. Havoc flung one huge paw across Issi’s chest, and with a laugh, she struggled to push it off. Her laugh sounded unfamiliar. She hadn’t laughed since the coming of the Crows.

  To stop the memories from breaking through, she pressed her face into Havoc’s fur and sniffed her musky lion smell. It didn’t work. She felt as if she wasn’t snuggling against the lioness, but Scram …

  The day the Crows attacked, it had been fiercely hot, with clouds piling up over Mount Lykas. ‘Storm on the way,’ Hylas had said as they pitched camp in a cave on the western peak. ‘I’m going to the stream to cool off. Don’t let that squirrel burn!’

  Issi rolled her eyes. ‘When have I ever done that?’

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘I did not!’

  With a wave of his hand, he headed down towards the stream. ‘It wasn’t burnt!’ she yelled after him, but he only grinned in his infuriating way.

  Muttering, Issi wandered off to gather asphodel roots.

  Scram’s warning whuff! stopped her in her tracks. The next moment, she heard his frantic barks.

  Drawing her knife, she rushed back to camp. She heard men’s voices and ducked into a thicket. She caught a strange, bitter stink of ash.

  Scram’s barks cut off. Issi heard a whimper – then silence. She crept forwards. She blinked.

  Three goats lay with their throats cut, while seven men bristling with weapons ransacked the camp. They wore black rawhide armour and long black cloaks, and their faces were grey and inhuman with ash. Then she saw Scram. There was a roaring in her ears. She saw his big tough paws and the arrow jutting from his flank.

  Her thoughts tumbled over each other. Hylas. He was down at the stream, he didn’t know. ‘Hylas!’ she screamed. ‘Warriors! Run!’

  She darted back into the thicket with the warriors crashing after her. They were bigger than her, they couldn’t get through. Somehow, she worked her way around and slipped between the rocks into the back of the cave: they’d already searched in here, they wouldn’t search again …