Hylas glanced behind him at the quiet, forested hills, and thought of Pirra and Havoc and Echo – and maybe Issi, too – up there somewhere, safe from all this. Then he turned back to the battlefield, rearranged his grip on his sword, and waited for the order to fight.
He hadn’t expected the start of the battle to be so silent and so orderly. Periphas had formed the rebels into lines just in front of the ridge, and positioned the archers and the slingers at the back, ready to shoot over the others’ heads, when the Crows advanced within range.
That won’t be long now, thought Hylas in the front line. He watched the vast Crow army marching towards them in clouds of red dust. It was almost within arrowshot. He could hear the creak of armour and the clink of weapons. He could see the faces of the men he had to fight. He thought of the wedjat amulet beneath his tunic. He prayed it would protect him – or at least grant him an honourable death.
The enemy halted. A gasp went up from the rebels. Slowly, from the Crows’ front line, came a monster of bronze, riding in a chariot drawn by two enormous black horses.
‘Pharax,’ muttered the man beside Hylas. The name swept through the rebel lines faster than fear.
The Crow Chieftain was faceless and inhuman: like a god. His cold, hollow voice rang out as he raised the dagger of Koronos. ‘The House of Koronos cannot be beaten! The gods Themselves have decreed that the enemy shall be destroyed!’
Hylas’ spirit quailed, and around him, the rebels shrank back in terror. What if Pharax was right? What if nothing could beat the Crows, and the very gods were against them?
‘No man is invincible!’ called a clear, calm voice from further up the line – and Akastos rode forwards on Jinx. His armour shone, and the white crest on his helmet fluttered in the wind. He raised his sword and glanced round at his men. Unlike Pharax, his face could plainly be seen beneath his helmet, and it was resolute and unafraid. The power of his voice was so great that Hylas felt new courage coursing through him, and around him, men and boys gripped their weapons and took heart.
‘No man is invincible!’ repeated Akastos, leaping down from Jinx’s back, and hefting his oxhide shield as easily as if it was made of straw. ‘And no man can say for sure what it is that the gods have decreed – not even Pharax over there! Especially not Pharax! For what is he, beneath all that armour? Nothing but the son of the thief who stole Mycenae!’
Ripples of jittery laughter from the rebels.
‘I am the rightful High Chieftain!’ cried Akastos. ‘I am the Lion of Mycenae! When you fight for me, you fight for your farms and your fishing boats, your vineyards and your villages – you fight for your families and your loved ones! Follow me, I will lead you to victory!’
‘The Lion of Mycenae has returned!’ cried Periphas from the rear, and the rebels took up the cry: ‘The Lion of Mycenae has returned!’
And the battle began.
A blazing ball of pitch-soaked straw whizzed past Hylas and thudded on to a fallen shield. Thunder growled: the Sky Father was grinding the clouds to make a storm.
If only it would rain, thought Hylas. Then surely everyone will come to their senses and this will end?
The chaos was so great that he had no idea who was winning. He was staggering through a stink of blood and burst bowels: men screaming, arrows hissing, spears thudding into earth and hide and flesh. His mouth was dry, and beneath his unwieldy bronze armour he was pouring sweat – but there was no time for fear, it was all he could do to keep up with the rebels, while clumsily parrying blows with his heavy shield, and jabbing with his unfamiliar sword at whatever Crow warrior crossed his path.
A few paces ahead, Akastos was scything through the Crows like a storm through barley. Hylas ran to catch up. A Crow warrior loomed in front of him and lunged at his chest with a spear. Hylas dodged sideways and hacked at the shaft, but his sword bounced off. Again the warrior lunged. Hylas darted behind the man and drove his blade through the gap between breastplate and straps, into his flank. The man gave a choking grunt and collapsed. Hylas felt the drag and suck as he yanked out his sword. The man lay where he’d fallen. He didn’t move.
He’s dead, thought Hylas numbly. I’ve killed him. He’s dead. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stumbled after Akastos.
The High Chieftain was working his way towards Pharax, who’d leapt down from his chariot, and was stalking towards him on foot.
In the confusion, Akastos didn’t see another Crow warrior leap at him from behind – but Hylas did. Racing forwards, he dropped the warrior with a jab to the calf; and Periphas leapt out from nowhere and finished the man off with his spear. Akastos acknowledged their help with a curt nod, and forged ahead.
Again Hylas struggled to catch up. Something struck him on the back of the head. The next moment, he was lying on the ground with his face in the dust. Spots floated before his eyes, blood trickled down his neck. He felt no pain, but when he tried to rise, his head whirled sickeningly, he couldn’t get his balance.
At that moment, the sky went black. Hylas forgot his dizziness, he forgot everything. Dread darkened his mind. He heard a horse squealing in terror. He was dimly aware of men screaming, scattering in panic: ‘The Angry Ones! The Angry Ones have come!’
Telamon had been gone a while, and still Hekabi hadn’t burst in to set Pirra free. She’d heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard as Telamon galloped away, and after that, silence.
‘Hekabi?’ she shouted. ‘Hekabi, I’m in here!’
Where was she? Surely she’d only been biding her time until Telamon was gone? Or had he brought men with him, who’d caught her – or killed her?
From behind Pirra came a sudden agitated scratching of falcon claws. Echo might be bound, hooded and silenced, but she was frantically twisting her head this way and that. What new danger had she sensed?
A heartbeat later, Pirra smelt it too: fire. At the far end of the hall, smoke was curling round the doorway. With a sensation of falling, Pirra grasped why Hekabi hadn’t come. The wisewoman had set fire to the eastern storerooms and then, thinking Pirra had done the same on the western side, she’d fled the stronghold, as they’d agreed. She must be up on the spur, waiting for Pirra, quite unaware that she was still inside, bound hand and foot.
‘Hekabi!’ Pirra shouted at the top of her voice. But she was deep in the heart of the stronghold. No matter how loud she screamed, nothing could reach Hekabi through so many cubits of stone.
Wildly, Pirra cast about her. Telamon had taken her knife, she could see no other weapon. Then she remembered the spear on the floor at the other end of the hall.
‘I will come back for you!’ she told Echo fiercely as she lay down and started wriggling across the floor.
It was painfully slow, kicking with her feet and boosting herself forwards on her side, and by the time she was halfway down, she had to stop. Her breath stirred the ashes on the hearth. What a grim joke, she thought, that a fire that’s been burning for generations should have died just as the entire stronghold’s going up in flames.
She struggled on, trying to shut her mind to Echo’s panicky scrabbling. A pall of grey smoke was thickening above her and she could hear a muffled roar, as if a monster was attacking the stronghold. She pictured the storerooms engulfed in flames: all those man-high jars of oil. We’ll need great heat for the fire to take hold, Hekabi had said. And who would know more about setting a fire than she who worshipped the Lady of Fire?
At last, Pirra reached the spear. It was sharp bronze, but meant for jabbing, not sawing, and with her wrists tied behind, she couldn’t see what she was doing. The smoke was stinging her eyes and making her cough. At this rate, she’d never free herself in time.
Suddenly, she caught the patter of bare feet out in the passage. ‘In here!’ she croaked.
A figure appeared in the smoke.
Astonished, Pirra took in the sullen features of one of her Marsh Dweller guides: the mute boy she’d nicknamed Stone. ‘Quick, cut me free!’ she gasped.
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br /> The boy stood scowling in the doorway. He still wore his fishskin head-binding, but he’d washed the mud off his face and his features looked more delicate and childlike.
‘Hurry!’ shouted Pirra. ‘Echo’s tied up at the other end of the hall, we’ve got to get out of here!’
Still the boy hesitated. Something about him was oddly familiar: those eyes, and that tuft of barley-coloured hair poking out from his head-binding …
It can’t be, thought Pirra. Then she saw the knife at his hip – and the frog carved on the hilt.
‘Issi?’ she said.
Issi stared at Pirra with Hylas’ clear tawny eyes. Now that Pirra had realized, the resemblance was startling. Here was Hylas’ younger self – except that this girl was mute and suspicious, a child of eleven summers, scarred by too long alone and on the run.
‘Issi, please, cut me free!’
Still scowling, Issi drew her knife and set to work on Pirra’s wrists.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ said Pirra, rubbing the feeling back into her hands.
Issi ignored her and started on her ankles. The last rope snapped. Pirra tried to stand, but her legs gave way. She grabbed the doorway for support. ‘Fetch Echo,’ she gasped, ‘but don’t untie her till we’re outside, or she’ll panic and never find her way out –’
Issi shot her a glance that was incredibly like Hylas: Of course I won’t, I’m not an idiot! – then headed off at a crouching run under the smoke, returning soon after with Echo cradled in her arms.
Blindly, they staggered out into the passageway, into a nightmare of scorching black smoke. As Pirra held her breath, she tried not to think about Echo and whether she was still alive.
At last they burst into the courtyard: more roiling smoke, and a deafening roar. Bent double with her hands on her knees, Pirra took great heaving gulps of air. She saw Issi cut Echo’s bonds, then slip off the falcon’s hood and throw her to the wind.
Echo recovered in an instant and shot skywards. As Pirra watched her hurtle out of danger, some of the tightness in her chest snapped loose, and she breathed more easily.
Huge orange flames were pouring out of the storerooms and attacking the roof – but now, beneath the roar, Pirra caught the frantic screams of donkeys and horses.
She and Issi exchanged horrified stares. In Hekabi’s single-minded urge for vengeance, she’d forgotten to open the stable doors and set the animals free.
Pirra and Issi slid off the horse’s back and collapsed, coughing and retching in the grass.
Below them the roof of a watchtower caved in with a crash, sending great jets of flame roaring skywards. The horse squealed in terror. Hekabi grabbed the reins and tied it to a thorn tree.
‘That’s the last of them,’ panted Pirra on hands and knees.
‘Here,’ said Hekabi, tossing her the waterskin. Like them, she was covered in soot; when Pirra hadn’t met her on the spur, she’d returned to Lapithos, and found them desperately freeing the frantic animals.
Pirra gulped a mouthful, then passed the waterskin to Issi, who was crouching in the grass, blinking owlishly. In the child’s small pointed face, Pirra saw the same mute distrust as before. Except it’s more than that, thought Pirra in puzzlement, it’s almost – hostility.
She turned to Hekabi. ‘Have you known about her all along?’
‘Of course not,’ said the wisewoman, never taking her eyes off the blazing stronghold. ‘I told you, I thought the shadow thief was a boy …
Great charcoal thunderclouds were darkening the sky, lit from within by flickers of lightning – and yet no rain fell. The gods Themselves were letting Lapithos burn.
‘But did you really never suspect –’
‘While I was waiting for you,’ Hekabi cut in, still watching the fire, ‘I saw a Crow warrior on a horse: a boy, heading down the mountain. Was that Telamon?’
Another paroxysm of coughing seized Pirra: she could only nod. When she could speak again, she told the wisewoman what had happened in the stronghold. ‘Koronos is dead,’ she croaked.
‘Dead,’ gloated Hekabi. ‘My curse is beginning to work.’
‘Maybe – but Telamon has a plan. I’m not sure what he means to do, but he said that if it succeeds, no one will be able to reach the dagger – it’ll be safe for ever! He said …’ Again she broke off to cough.
Impatiently, Hekabi waited for her to go on. Even Issi crept closer to listen.
In bursts, Pirra told Hekabi everything Telamon had said. ‘He’s going to give it to his Ancestors. But what does that mean?’
Firelight danced in the wisewoman’s dark eyes. ‘The Ancestor Peak,’ she muttered. ‘Issi, you know Mount Lykas, is it true that above the tomb there’s a crack in the peak? A crack that reaches right down into the heart of the mountain?’
Issi nodded.
‘That’s it!’ cried Hekabi. ‘If he threw the dagger down there –’
‘We’d never get it out!’ exclaimed Pirra. ‘It would be safe with his Ancestors for ever!’
They stared at each other.
‘But he might not get his hands on it,’ said Pirra. ‘First he’ll have to find Pharax in the middle of the battle, then he’ll have to take it off him: how likely is that?’
‘True,’ said Hekabi. ‘But I have a feeling that he will. This has a whiff of destiny about it.’
Pirra’s thoughts raced as she watched Echo soaring overhead. If Hekabi was right and Telamon did get the dagger, they had to go up the mountain and stop him flinging it down the crack. But they didn’t know the way.
Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. ‘Issi knows how to get there! Issi, you have to take us … Issi? Issi!’
The hillside was empty. Issi was gone.
The din of battle had fallen away, and all Hylas could hear was his harsh panting breath as he stared at the Angry Ones wheeling overhead. He saw Them more clearly than he ever had before: Their vast wings and writhing necks, Their raw red mouths like gaping wounds.
He was still on the ground where he’d fallen after the blow to the head, and his legs still wouldn’t work. Not far in front of him, he made out Pharax and Akastos. Akastos glanced up at the Angry Ones and faltered, dread convulsing his hard features. But Hekabi’s charm still hung on its thong around his neck, and he gathered his courage and stalked on to meet his enemy. Pharax seemed scarcely to regard the spirits of vengeance: he feared nothing while he held the dagger of Koronos.
He was a head taller than Akastos, and faceless in his high neck-guard and his helmet with its jagged horn crest. Akastos was less heavily clad and swifter, circling and forcing his enemy to twist and turn.
Akastos thrust his left forearm through his shield-handle so that he could fight two-handed, and began changing his sword from left to right, to disconcert his opponent. Pharax, too, thrust his left forearm through his shield, but he had both the dagger of Koronos and a massive thrusting-spear three armspans long, that vastly extended his reach.
He lunged with the spear. Akastos dodged, Pharax stabbed with the dagger; but the blade glanced harmlessly off the lion on Akastos’ breastplate. More blows and counter-blows, too fast to follow.
Suddenly, Akastos sank to the ground. Hylas stared in horror. Akastos was clutching his side. Pharax’s spear had found its mark.
‘Akastos!’ yelled Hylas, struggling to his knees.
Pharax loomed over the High Chieftain with the dagger raised for the kill.
‘Akastos,’ whispered Hylas.
But as Pharax made to deal the death-blow, Akastos, baring his teeth in a grimace of pain, hefted his sword, drove it sharply upwards – and skewered the Crow Chieftain through the groin. With a dreadful howl, Pharax pitched backwards, and the dagger of Koronos flew from his fist. Hylas saw it land not far from where he knelt. He struggled to his feet and lurched forwards. But Pharax wasn’t finished yet: he too was crawling towards the dagger.
From the corner of his eye, Hylas saw Akastos grab Pharax’s fallen spear. With the last of his
strength, the High Chieftain cast the spear. It hissed past Hylas, and with lethal accuracy it found the hair-thin gap between Pharax’s breastplate and shoulder-guard, and pinned him to the ground.
Akastos slumped back, breathing through clenched teeth. Pharax writhed in his death-throes in a spreading pool of blood. Hylas saw the Crow leader claw the earth a whisker from the dagger – then his hand went still. Pharax was dead.
Hylas stared at the blood around the corpse. The lifeblood of a highborn Crow …
Above him, the Angry Ones were circling: but why didn’t They swoop down and drink? For fifteen long years, Akastos had laboured to appease his brother’s ghost and rid himself of the Angry Ones with the blood of a highborn Crow – so why wasn’t it working?
Then Hylas saw Hekabi’s charm on the High Chieftain’s chest. Was that keeping the Angry Ones at bay?
The dagger of Koronos could wait. Staggering over to Akastos, Hylas fell to his knees and ripped the charm from the High Chieftain’s breast, then he flung it as far as he could.
‘Spirits of air and darkness!’ he yelled. ‘There is the lifeblood of Pharax, son of Koronos! Drink – and leave Akastos in peace for ever!’
Like monstrous vultures, the Angry Ones dropped out of the sky and thudded to earth. Hylas heard the leathery rustle of wings and smelt the stink of charred flesh. He saw Their serpentine necks bent over the scarlet pool in which Pharax lay. He heard the dreadful, greedy sounds as They sucked the blood of vengeance.
Then he became aware of a grey human shape among the vast, jostling wings: a warrior on its knees, also stooping over the blood, and greedily lapping. Hylas clutched the wedjat amulet on his chest, but he couldn’t look away.
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