32
Two warriors marched toward Hylas and he flattened himself against the wall. As they swept past, he caught the creak of rawhide and the stink of ash. His belly clenched. He was in the very stronghold of the Crows.
Akastos and the slaves were somewhere behind. In front, he could see Hekabi—but no Pirra. Had she gone on ahead?
The way she’d looked at him . . . I thought you were better than this.
Hekabi halted before a doorway shrouded in red.
“Where’s Pirra?” he whispered.
“Sh!” she hissed.
Akastos and the slaves caught up with them, then the guards drew back the hanging and pushed them inside.
The chamber was dimly lit by smoky lamps at either end. In the gloom, Hylas made out a window hidden by a screen, and on the wall, the pelt of an enormous lion; he guessed it was what remained of Havoc’s father. In the middle of the chamber stood a great bronze tripod piled with unlit charcoal. The air crackled with the aftermath of sacrifice. A black arc across the rush-strewn floor showed where a carcass had been dragged away.
A shadowy woman circled the tripod, dipping her fingers in a small crystal bowl and flicking oil on the charcoal. Hylas couldn’t see her face, but from Pirra’s description, he guessed this was Alekto. She wore a robe of strange shimmering stuff as fine as spiders’ webs. Gold clinked at her wrists and ankles, and in her hair nested a diadem of gold spikes.
A warrior squatted by the tripod, spearing chunks of flesh from a heap on the floor and laying them on the charcoal. This must be Pharax. He wore a plain tunic with a studded swordbelt across the chest, but he wasn’t using his sword to spear the meat, he was using the dagger of Koronos. Hylas knew it even in the dark. He felt its call. Beside him, he heard Akastos catch his breath.
A third man emerged from the murk. Kreon wore a mantle of red wool and a headband of hammered gold, but he seemed ill at ease, his face slick with sweat. “Is that the fire?” he snapped.
“Yes, my lord,” replied Hekabi.
“This had better work.” He jerked his head at Akastos, who emptied the embers onto the tripod. The oil-soaked charcoal caught, and in the leaping light, the shadows of the Crows reared to the rafters.
Alekto circled Akastos and Hylas, trailing a sweet smell with an acrid undertow of ash. “Why does the smith wear a mask?” she asked coldly. She was young, and so beautiful that Hylas could hardly look at her; but her great dark eyes were as empty of feeling as two holes cut in marble.
Akastos nudged him in the ribs.
“A-an accident at the forge,” he stammered. “Scars too dreadful to be seen.”
Alekto shuddered. “Get him out of my sight, I loathe ugly things.”
“The smith stays,” snarled Kreon.
“Can’t he speak for himself?” said Pharax, rising to his feet.
“The f-fire scorched his throat,” said Hylas. “I must speak for him.”
Pharax took that in silence. He was leaner than his brother, and far more frightening. There was a peculiar fixity to his stare, and his free hand was half clenched, as if to grasp an unseen weapon.
“Why is the wisewoman here?” said Alekto with a frown.
“I need her to read the smoke,” said Kreon. “I have to know this has worked. Or to put it another way, Alekto, she’s here because I wish it.”
His sister gave him a mocking bow. “So masterful,” she murmured.
Kreon glowered at her, and Pharax barked a laugh. He’d been cleaning the dagger with rushes, and now he laid it in a narrow chest of dark wood that stood on a bench behind the tripod. His hand lingered on the lid, as if he wanted to claim the dagger for his own.
Telamon ran in, mumbling an apology.
“You’re late,” growled Kreon.
Telamon saw Hylas and glanced away. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said again.
“He was with a slave girl,” taunted Alekto. “A scrawny one with a scar. Nephew, what taste!”
Pirra, thought Hylas. He threw Telamon a furious look, but Telamon gave a faint shake of the head. What did that mean?
“And will our nephew join us in the feast?” said Pharax with an edge to his voice.
“I doubt it,” said Alekto, enjoying Telamon’s discomfort. “He’s only a boy, he can’t take strong meat.”
Strong meat, thought Hylas. What had they sacrificed?
Then Alekto saw someone in the doorway, and the mockery died on her lips. Pharax and Kreon stiffened, and the flames in the tripod seemed to sink.
An old man entered the chamber, attended by four terrified slaves. He wore the purple tunic and white goatskin mantle of the High Chieftain, secured at the shoulder by a gold cloakpin the size of a clenched fist. Age had silvered his beard and scraped the hair from his skull, but instead of weakening him, it had turned him to granite. Fear flowed in his wake, and like the wolf who leads the pack, he regarded no one, but gazed stonily over their heads.
Pharax, Kreon, and Alekto put their hands to their breasts and bowed. “Koronos,” they murmured. Telamon did the same.
The slaves set down more benches covered with black sheepskins, put vessels on a three-legged table, then fled. Kreon approached his father, but Koronos drove him back with a cut of his hand, and took his seat on the central bench.
Hekabi cast Akastos an anguished look. The High Chieftain sat directly in front of the chest that held the dagger. There was no point feigning a fit now, it might as well be at the bottom of the Sea.
“What do we do?” whispered Hylas.
“We wait,” breathed Akastos.
On the tripod, the meat of sacrifice was turning black, hazing the air with bitter smoke.
Alekto took a pitcher and poured water over her father’s hands, then dried them with a cloth. She was trembling, and she made sure not to touch his flesh with her own.
Pharax grasped a tall vessel of polished obsidian and filled an earthenware cup so fine the firelight glowed through it. The liquid was red and thick: Hylas guessed it was blood and wine. With pounding heart, he watched Koronos drink. Hooded eyes like a lizard’s. A slow pale tongue that slid out to lick a lipless mouth.
Kreon offered the High Chieftain a bronze platter of burned meat, and he ate one morsel. His fingernails were stained black and cut to points, and on his thumb he wore a ring of gray metal; Hylas guessed this was iron. “Now you, grandson,” he said stonily.
The others waited.
Telamon licked his lips. He reached for a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
Koronos nodded once, then ordered his sons and daughter to eat.
The Crows seated themselves and fell on the burned meat, snatching chunks and snapping it up with their sharp black talons. Hylas saw grease glinting in Kreon’s beard, and a fleck of charred skin caught between Alekto’s white teeth.
Again the High Chieftain drank, then flung the cup to the floor, shattering it to pieces. Hekabi had said that Koronos only used new vessels, and only ever once.
Hylas must have flinched at the noise, because Koronos saw him. Hylas bowed his head. He felt the lizard gaze sweep over him with the force of lightning. He swayed. This man had decreed the slaughter of all Outsiders. Because of him, Issi was missing, maybe dead . . .
A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and Akastos breathed in his ear: “Soon. I’ll tell you what to say.”
The Crows were daubing their cheeks with ash. The feast was over. It was time to read the smoke, to tell if the rite had worked.
With his sword, Pharax struck the bronze bowl that had held the embers, making it sing. Alekto began to chant, circling the tripod and crushing hemlock beneath her glistening feet.
Koronos rose and held his hands palms upward over the tripod.
Still chanting, Alekto took the obsidian vessel and poured a red stream over her father’s hands and onto the char
coal, raising hissing clouds of smoke. The liquid that touched his fingertips was for the gods, that flowing between his fingers for the Ancestors, and that in his palms—which was most of it—was for the spirits whose true names not even Koronos dared utter aloud: the Angry Ones.
The vessel was empty, and Alekto withdrew. Koronos leaned forward, breathing the smoke. Hekabi moved closer, to read the signs.
In the silence, Hylas heard the crackle of embers and the whisper of breath. He clutched the lion claw on his chest. Beside him, Akastos gripped the pouch that held Hekabi’s charm.
The lamps flickered and died. Now only the glimmer from the tripod held back the dark. The hairs on Hylas’ arms rose. His flesh went cold.
Suddenly a fierce wind gusted through the window. The screen fell with a crash. Hylas sank to his knees. As the wind whirled around the chamber, he saw a deeper darkness: vast winged shadows that froze his heart with dread. He screwed his eyes shut, but he could still see them, their nightmare heads burned black by the fires of Chaos, their raw red mouths like gaping wounds . . .
Then they were gone, obliterating the stars as they sped toward the Mountain.
At last he opened his eyes.
The smoke had cleared. In the ember-glow, he saw Hekabi standing aghast. “It worked,” she gasped. “They’ve come.”
Telamon looked appalled. Kreon wiped the sweat off his brow. Pharax beat his chest with his fist in triumph, and Koronos’ stony grip tightened on his knees.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Akastos whispered to Hylas. “Tell them what I just said! Now! It’s our chance!”
But Hylas couldn’t move, he was still frozen with dread.
With a snarl, Akastos pushed him aside. “Dameas the smith,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper, “brings Koronos a gift to honor his triumph over the Lady of Fire.” Then he withdrew into the shadows, and his slaves stepped forward. The Crows turned toward them, watching intently as they set down the covered basket before the tripod and pulled off the cloth.
Telamon gave a start, and the children of Koronos peered at the smith’s gift. The High Chieftain didn’t stir.
With a cry, Hylas sprang forward, but Hekabi held him back. “Hush!” she whispered in his ear. “Don’t draw attention to yourself!”
The cage was so cramped that Havoc couldn’t turn around. Her muzzle was bound with a strip of rawhide to keep her quiet, and she was shaking with terror.
Kreon glanced at Hekabi. “What do we do with it?”
Hylas saw the hard cruel faces bent on Havoc’s cage. He felt Hekabi’s fingers digging into his shoulders. “That’s for you to decide, my lord,” she said.
Kreon licked his lips.
Pharax went to the chest and lifted the lid. Firelight glinted redly on the dagger of Koronos. “It’s a sacrifice,” he said. “We kill it, of course.”
33
“Go on, stick a knife in it,” said Alekto, “that’s your answer to everything.”
“What’s yours?” retorted Pharax.
Hylas couldn’t stand it any longer. “The smith says it’s got to stay alive!” he blurted out, ignoring Hekabi’s startled glance.
“Why?” demanded Pharax. He’d raised the lid of the chest and was clearly keen to make use of the dagger.
“It—it belongs to Kreon,” stammered Hylas. “It was found on his land.”
Kreon’s eyes glinted, and Pharax scowled. “So?”
Hylas thought fast. “So it must stay alive because—as it grows stronger, so shall the House of Koronos grow stronger. Like the Lion of Mycenae, only greater.”
Kreon liked that. He cast his brother a triumphant look.
“Also it’s female,” Alekto added drily, “which means it’s a better hunter than the male.”
Koronos rose and signed to Pharax to shut the chest. “It lives,” he declared.
In a daze, Hylas watched the High Chieftain leave the chamber, followed by the others, Pharax bearing the chest in his arms, and the slaves hurrying behind with Havoc’s cage. Hylas saw the lion cub trying in vain to turn her head and keep him in view. Then she was gone, and Akastos was dragging him out into the passage.
It was nearly midnight. Hylas quickened his pace. The furnace ridge was dark, except for the glare of watchfires, and the guards had let him through, as he was slave to the smith.
But where was the smith?
He’d been with them as they’d emerged from the stronghold. Then Hekabi had declared that she wasn’t leaving without her slave, and had argued with the guards until Pirra was brought out, shaken but unhurt. After that, they’d made their way down the steps in the dark; then suddenly Hekabi and Pirra had headed off for the village, and Hylas was alone: Akastos was gone.
The wind roared over the headland and rattled the branches of the thorn tree. The door of the smithy stood ajar, casting a slab of yellow light across the ground. Hylas saw Havoc’s paw prints in the dust, and her beloved wicker ball. His throat closed.
Akastos sat on his stool by the forge, calmly sharpening a blade on a whetstone. He was intent on his work, and didn’t raise his head at Hylas’ approach.
“Why?” cried Hylas.
Akastos sighed. “I’m sorry, Flea. I needed to distract them.”
“But Hekabi was going to do that!”
“You think they’d have been fooled by some madwoman throwing a fit?” Holding up the blade, he scrutinized it with narrowed eyes. “It worked better than I’d hoped, thanks to you. You think fast, Flea, I’m impressed. What you told them saved that cub’s life.”
“And because of you, her life will be a miserable one in that terrible place!”
“Better than no life at all.”
“Is that all you can say?” He wanted to rage and shout and fight: to do something, not just stand there and watch Akastos coolly passing the blade over the whetstone in long, sure strokes.
“I’m sorry,” Akastos said again. “But I’ve been waiting too long to let pity get in my way.”
“Don’t you care about anything? Don’t you even care that you couldn’t steal your precious dagger?”
Akastos did not reply.
Hylas opened his mouth to berate him—then shut it. He saw the red gleam of firelight on the bronze knife in Akastos’ hands. He took in its broad square shoulders and its strong straight spine sweeping down to a lethal point. He saw the three rivets on the hilt, and the quartered circle incised on the blade. A chariot wheel to crush the enemies of the House of Koronos.
“You did steal it,” he said.
Akastos flicked him a glance.
“But—I saw it in the chest. I saw Pharax shut the lid and take it with him.”
“You saw a dagger,” said Akastos.
Everything fell into place.
“You made a copy,” said Hylas. “You swapped them.” His mind flew back to the moment when the slaves had uncovered Havoc’s cage. Akastos had withdrawn into the shadows, and after that, Hylas hadn’t seen him. Nor had the Crows. All eyes had been on Havoc. “But—they searched us going into the stronghold. How did you get the copy past the guards?”
Akastos snorted. “I know a thing or two about smuggling weapons. Unlike those idiots at the gates.”
Outside, the wind moaned in the thorn tree. Hylas thought he heard hoofbeats in the distance.
Akastos had heard them too. Gripping the dagger, he moved noiselessly to the doorway and took up position behind it. He was no longer a smith, but a warrior trained to kill.
The hoofbeats came closer. It had to be Telamon.
Akastos too was listening intently.
Hylas went cold.
Two things I’ve swore to do before I die, Akastos had told him. Destroy the dagger of Koronos—and appease my brother’s ghost.
How can you appease a ghost? Hylas had asked.
By feeding him
the blood of vengeance.
The blood of vengeance.
The lifeblood of a highborn Crow.
“No,” said Hylas. “I won’t let you kill Telamon.”
“He’s the grandson of Koronos,” said Akastos.
“He was my friend.”
“He’s a Crow.”
Hylas planted himself in the doorway. “I won’t let you kill him.”
“Don’t get in the way, Flea. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Hylas didn’t move. He had no weapons, the Crows had taken them, while Akastos had the dagger and was a grown man twice his size.
“Out of my way, Flea,” said the smith with an odd pleading note. “Don’t make me do this!”
The hoofbeats came nearer.
Hylas turned to shout a warning, but Akastos lunged at him and clapped his hand over his mouth. Hylas bit hard. Akastos didn’t let go. Hylas hooked his leg around Akastos’ knee, trying to throw him off his feet. It didn’t work, but Akastos lost his balance and staggered against the forge, dragging Hylas with him. Blindly, Hylas reached behind him, grabbed a burning brand from the fire and lashed out. Akastos hissed as it bit his calf, and for an instant his grip loosened and Hylas wriggled free.
“Telamon!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Get out of here! Danger!”
The hoofbeats skittered to a halt.
Clenching his teeth in pain, Akastos sprang at Hylas, who dodged behind the forge. They circled, now this way, now that.
“Telamon go back!” yelled Hylas. “He’s going to kill you!”
Akastos lunged. Again Hylas dodged. It was a feint: Akastos nearly caught him.
“Get out of here!” shouted Hylas. “He’s not after me, he’s after you!”
The horse squealed, and he pictured Telamon yanking its head around. Then the hoofbeats went thundering down the slope and faded into the night.
The Burning Shadow Page 17
