Kneading the dust with her claws, the she-lion wondered what to do. The hot wind carried a tangle of scents from the vast human lair spread out below: she smelt goats, dogs, donkeys, even a horse – and so many people. She had an idea that the girl and the falcon were among them, although it had been a while since she’d caught their scents. Surely with them to comfort him, the boy couldn’t be lonely for long?
A dog barked angrily. Then another and another. It sounded as if they’d caught the she-lion’s scent, and were warning her to keep out. She twitched her tail in scorn. What did they think, that she could be frightened off by a pack of dogs?
She hunkered down and watched the boy pacing up and down, unable to tear herself away.
After a while, the dark-maned human who was the leader came back again. He spoke quietly to the boy. The boy shook his head and pointed at the bushes where the she-lion was hiding, and she knew that although he couldn’t see her, he sensed that she was still there.
Should she go to him? Or should she seek the little half-grown human who so badly needed looking after? It hurt to see the boy so miserable. But he was safe here among his kind, and he had the girl and the falcon and the dark-maned human. The little one on the mountain had no one.
This little human puzzled the she-lion a lot, because she smelt so very like the boy. She had the same tawny eyes as him, the same lion-coloured mane, the same laugh; she even played the same game with a ball of sticks. She had to be of the same pride; the she-lion felt this in her fur. And if that was true, the she-lion had to protect her, just as she’d protected the girl and the falcon.
Besides, she liked the little human, who was tough and extremely good at hiding. For a long time she’d cleverly masked her scent, by smearing herself in mud and wrapping her head in fish skins. She was also an absolutely brilliant climber, and could scramble up trees much better than the she-lion.
The she-lion hesitated, while the scents flowed down to her from the mountain: pines, a night heron, a stag. It was such a good mountain, with so much prey and not too many lions. It would make an excellent range for the pride; surely even the falcon would think so?
But it was no place for a little human cub on her own.
The she-lion thought of the male lion who’d stalked the girl a few Darks ago. That young lion wasn’t experienced enough to catch big prey by himself – so for him, a little human cub would be an easy kill.
The she-lion vividly remembered when she herself had been a tiny weak cub, and the evil crow-men had killed her mother and father. For a few dreadful Lights and Darks, she’d been on her own. She’d never forgotten the hunger and the terror of the buzzards swooping down to attack, it had been awful – until the boy had found her and made everything better.
For the last time, the boy called to her.
The she-lion gave a low, anguished mew. But she didn’t stir from her hiding place.
Wistfully, she watched him trudge back towards the lair with the dark-maned human. Then she turned and headed up the mountain. She knew now what she had to do: she must find the little human cub and keep her safe. Then she must think of some way for them all to be together: herself, the boy, the girl, the falcon and the little human.
Yes. The pride must be together, in their beautiful new range. This was how things should be.
Telamon had been feeling much better since he’d resolved to seize the dagger from his grandfather. The terror of the Angry Ones had faded, and not even the thought of his father’s ghost could trouble him now.
True, not all was going to plan, for his men had failed to catch Hylas. But victory comes to he who dares, he told himself as he cantered up the track towards Lapithos. Once I have the dagger, no Outsider shall stand in my way.
Earlier, he’d left Ilarkos in command of his men, with orders to lead them through the pass and down on to the plains, where they would make contact with Pharax and the main force.
Ilarkos had been alarmed. ‘But my lord, what will I tell the lord Pharax if he asks where you are?’
‘You won’t need to tell him anything, by then I’ll have caught up with you, or seen him myself.’ With that, Telamon had slapped the reins on his horse’s neck and started for the stronghold where he’d grown up.
As the Sun rose higher, he saw charcoal stormclouds massing in the east, and for a moment, the thought of Pharax cast a shadow over his spirit. Telamon remembered the night he’d returned from Egypt, when his uncle had interrogated him in the great hall at Mycenae. Not a muscle had moved in Pharax’s gaunt countenance as Telamon had told of Alekto’s dreadful death. And afterwards, Pharax hadn’t mentioned her once, he’d merely demanded to know why Telamon had disobeyed his orders by becoming involved in a skirmish on the Great River. Pharax didn’t care that his own sister had been eaten by crocodiles – but if his orders were flouted, he would not forgive.
Well, and what of that? thought Telamon rebelliously. Only the bravest of men would dare disobey Pharax – and I am that man. When I’ve seized the dagger from Koronos, then Pharax will have to obey me.
He saw himself driving his chariot at the head of his warriors, brandishing the dagger aloft and sending the last of the rebels fleeing in panic. Already he could feel its weight in his hand, its strength coursing through him. He saw its strong clean lines and the lethal sweep of its blade; the quartered circle on its hilt that signified a chariot wheel to crush his enemies.
The first-ever chieftain of the House of Koronos, the warrior who’d built his stronghold at Lapithos, had forged the dagger from the helmet of his slaughtered enemy, and had quenched its burning bronze with blood from his own battle-wounds. With ancestors like that, was it any wonder that the gods had decreed that Telamon should rule?
At last Lapithos rose into sight, and his heart swelled with pride. It sat with its back against the mountain, dominating all it surveyed. Crows wheeled and cawed above its dark-red walls, and on the watchtowers that squatted at each corner, the black crests of the guards’ helmets streamed in the wind.
Reining in his horse, Telamon turned and stared down over the rich plains of Lykonia, with their olive groves and barley fields stretching all the way to the mountains of the east. Below and much nearer, he saw the ant-like rebels clustered on their ridge. There were more of them than he’d expected; but not enough to withstand the great red dust cloud on the plain that was Pharax’s forces. It was still some distance away, but moving inexorably closer.
With a thrill of pride, Telamon pictured the glory he would win in battle. We will crush them to the last man, he thought. We will enslave their women and children. That rabble down there will be no match for the House of Koronos.
The sentries on the walls had seen him, and the great bronze-studded gates creaked open to let him in. Clattering into the courtyard, he leapt off his horse and flung the reins to a slave.
The captain of the guard hurried towards him, bowing. From the man’s babbled greeting, Telamon grasped that the guards were beginning to lose their nerve, after watching the rebels massing on the ridge.
‘More of ’em than we thought, my lord,’ the captain said apprehensively. ‘And the omens are bad –’
‘What omens,’ growled Telamon, snatching a wine cup from a slave girl and draining it.
‘Starlings, my lord, a great cloud of ’em, never seen so many! Flew right over us, darkened the sky. They even scared the crows off for a time. And that’s not all, my lord, there are rumours –’
‘What rumours?’ snapped Telamon. ‘Go on man, spit it out!’
‘My lord, they say …’ He gulped. ‘They say that the Lion of Mycenae has returned.’
Silence in the courtyard: every man was watching to see how Telamon took that. He noticed that most of them were very young, some still without beards. It appeared that Pharax had taken the experienced warriors, and left Koronos guarded by boys.
This made Telamon feel manly and in control. ‘The “Lion of Mycenae”,’ he said in a scornful voice that rang acro
ss the courtyard, ‘is merely a name which cowardly peasants once gave to a man called Akastos, whom my grandfather killed a long time ago, when he seized control of Mycenae. Such tales are for women, not warriors.’ His glance raked the guards, who hung their heads in shame. ‘If I hear any more gossip like that, I’ll have you all flogged!’
Flinging down the wine cup, he turned to the captain. ‘You’ve wasted enough of my time,’ he barked. ‘Take me to High Chieftain Koronos, I must speak with him at once!’
It still gave Telamon a shock to enter the great hall of Lapithos, and find Koronos there instead of Thestor, his father.
Koronos sat at the far end, on a bench behind a richly carved table of gilded wood. He was alone, except for the guards at the doorway and a slave who was mixing wine with honey and crumbled cheese in a great silver bowl. The slave looked frightened. So did the guards. Everyone was frightened of Koronos. Fear surrounded him like a mist.
Telamon strode past the great central hearth where the fire had been burning for generations. He passed the throne of green marble against the west wall: the throne that had been Thestor’s. His heart skipped a beat. For an instant, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his father’s ghost, watching him with grim disapproval.
Very deliberately, Telamon turned his head and stared at the throne. It was empty, of course. Lies, lies, he told himself, with a surge of hatred at Hylas for planting fears in his mind and making him see things that weren’t there. Then all that was forgotten, and he was striding towards the High Chieftain.
‘Koronos,’ he said brusquely, dropping to one knee and putting his hand to his heart.
His grandfather regarded him in silence.
As always, Koronos wore the purple tunic and white goatskin mantle of the High Chieftain of Mycenae, secured at the shoulder by a gold cloak pin the size of a clenched fist. A spiked circlet of hammered gold bound his temples, and around his waist was the great golden belt of the House of Koronos, with its clasp in the form of four axes radiating like a jagged star. Age had silvered the High Chieftain’s beard and scraped the hair from his skull, but instead of draining him of strength, it had turned him to granite.
Telamon had always been terrified of him – but now, as he rose to his feet, he noticed the iron ring on his grandfather’s thumb. There had been a time when Koronos had only worn that ring for important sacrifices, but these days, he was never without it. Did this mean that even Koronos was afraid of the Angry Ones?
Telamon found this oddly heartening. His grandfather was not invincible, after all.
‘Why are you not with your men,’ said the High Chieftain in the voice that made seasoned warriors turn pale.
Telamon took a deep breath. Courage, he told himself. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said harshly. ‘Soon the battle will begin and I must be there.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve come for the dagger. I need it to lead our men to victory.’
Silence in the hall. The old man licked his lipless mouth with a slow, pale tongue. ‘You?’ he said drily.
Telamon caught a lethal glint in the hooded eyes. He clenched his jaw. ‘The men need to see it, Koronos. It’s doing no good hidden away up here.’
With appalling deliberation, Koronos rose to his full height. ‘When I’m dead, you can fight Pharax for the dagger. While I live, boy, you will obey me.’
Telamon flinched. Then he lifted his chin. ‘Listen to me!’ he spat. ‘I am young, Koronos – and you are old! Soon, you will die.’
The slave gasped and fled the hall in terror of his master’s wrath. But Koronos’ features never moved.
‘You will give me the dagger,’ said Telamon, meeting his grandfather’s stare.
A harsh bark of laughter rang through the hall, making Telamon step back. Over his shoulder, he saw the guards at the doorway exchange startled glances: like him, they’d never heard the High Chieftain laugh.
‘I sent it to Pharax days ago,’ Koronos replied. ‘I want a man to take it into battle – not a boy.’
Telamon felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Pharax has the dagger, he thought in disbelief. You’ve come all this way for nothing.
Numbly, he watched his grandfather resume his seat and place one granite fist on the table. ‘Your father was weak,’ Koronos said coldly. ‘He tried to keep himself and his son apart from his clan: he had no stomach to rule. You are weak too. Despite your bluster, you are afraid. Now get out of my sight. And try not to disgrace yourself on the battlefield.’
There was a roaring in Telamon’s ears. A red mist came down over his eyes. He pictured himself thrusting his sword through his grandfather’s mottled throat … blood bubbling and frothing from that lipless mouth …
With an immense effort of will, he turned on his heel and staggered down the hall, with Koronos’ stony laughter ringing in his ears.
Wheezing with laughter, Issi threw herself out of the chestnut tree and landed in the water lilies with a satisfying splash.
Havoc leapt in after her with an even bigger splash, swamping the riverbank. Issi swam under the lioness’ belly and made a grab at her tail, but Havoc twisted round and ducked beneath her, eliciting bubbly underwater squeals. Still play-fighting, they burst out together in a spluttering spray.
Breathless and spent, Issi scrambled on to a rock, and Havoc did the same, shaking the water from her fur and slumping down beside her.
It was a hot night, pulsing with the voices of crickets and frogs. Issi lay on her back, gazing at the Moon between the chestnut tree’s branches. She still couldn’t believe how quickly things had changed. A while ago, she’d been sitting under this tree with her head in her hands, so lonely and miserable that she couldn’t summon the will to move. Then Havoc had come bounding out of the reeds, rubbing against her and making happy little groany owmp owmp noises.
Putting out her hand, Issi touched the lioness’ rough, leathery pad. Thank you for coming to find me, she told Havoc silently.
She must have slept, because when she opened her eyes, the night was turning grey, and Havoc was back from a hunt, hauling a dead buck by its neck over the ground.
Once, Issi had seen a pride of lions feeding on a boar. She’d felt a twinge of envy as she’d watched the orderly little family at its meal: the male lion eating first, followed by the lionesses, and then the cubs. They’d been so at ease with each other, so close. Issi had never known her own parents. Hylas had been the only family she’d ever had.
Pushing that thought away, Issi woke up a fire and waited respectfully for Havoc to eat her fill. After a while, she was rewarded with an affectionate nudge from the lioness’ big, bloody muzzle: Go on, it’s your turn.
Issi hacked chunks of venison and set them to roast, then cracked the thighbones and guzzled the delicious, fatty marrow. After this she got fed up with waiting, and gobbled the meat half-raw, till she was as full and filthy as Havoc. She gave a contented burp. It felt so good to be part of a pride.
Sparrows chattered in the chestnut tree, and a thrush began its morning song. The forest was waking up. In the strengthening light, Issi watched Havoc’s pelt turn from its nighttime silver to daytime tawny. She loved the lioness’ enormous paws and the leathery smell of her pads, she loved the deep black fur inside her ears. Most of all, she loved Havoc’s huge, slanted, dark-rimmed eyes of that beautiful red-gold, like sunlight through autumn leaves.
Thank you for coming to find me, Issi told her again.
Havoc hauled herself to her feet and waded into the shallows to lap the water. Then she ambled over to the chestnut tree, rose on her hind legs, and started scratching deep grooves in its trunk. As she flexed her claws in and out, her muscles rippled beneath her pelt, and she slitted her eyes with pleasure.
Issi knew better than to disturb her, so she scrambled up the other side of the trunk, picked a handful of chestnuts, and sat on a branch with her legs dangling, splitting open the prickly fruit and munching the nuts. She wondered what Hylas was doing now. With a stab of jealousy, she
wondered if Pirra had found him, and they were together again.
On her way down the tree, she came upon one of Havoc’s claw-sheaths embedded in the bark, like a fingernail. This pleased Issi immensely: it was almost as good as an actual claw, and it felt like an excellent omen. With a flake of flint, she drilled a hole in the claw sheath, then made a string from nettle stems and hung the sheath around her neck. There: the best, most powerful amulet she could ever have. This had to be a good sign.
The Sun rose higher and the heat intensified. The crickets’ song grew louder and faster, and the birds lapsed into stunned silence. Issi felt the slight pressure behind her ears that told her a storm was coming.
Havoc lay on her side, rumbling in her sleep. Issi snuggled against her and dozed, luxuriating in the amazing, unfamiliar feeling of being utterly safe.
Drowsily, she chided herself for having been so miserable. So what if Hylas was friends with that girl? Maybe they would have a fight, and Pirra would go back to Keftiu and never bother them again. Issi didn’t want anything bad to happen to her; she just wanted to be with Hylas, the way it used to be, with no one in the way.
But all that was a problem for the future. The main thing was to find him. And with Havoc to guide her, surely that would only be a matter of time?
To Issi’s surprise, Havoc woke well before noon. The lioness seemed alert and keen to be off, uttering eager little whines as she snuffed the air. It looked as if she’d caught an exciting scent. Could it be Hylas?
Certainly, the lioness seemed very sure of where she was going, skirting the mountainside at a brisk trot that had Issi struggling to keep up. But whenever she dropped too far behind, Havoc paused and waited for her, which strengthened Issi’s belief that Havoc might be leading her to her brother.
The morning grew even hotter and more airless. To the east, Issi saw grape-coloured clouds. She heard the crazy laughter of a green woodpecker. She noticed that the swallows were flying lower than usual, and the bees were staying close to their nests. Definitely a storm on the way, she thought. But she wasn’t worried, she was used to storms; and Havoc was keeping to the mountain’s lower slopes, where there were caves for shelter – so there’d be little danger from the lightning that stalked the peaks.
Warrior Bronze Page 13