The Burning Shadow

by Michelle Paver

  The hollow heart of the Mountain had become a lake of fire.

  Pirra came to stand at his shoulder, and he heard the hiss of her breath. “Throw it in,” she said. “Forget about the fire spirits, the Lady will destroy it!”

  She was right. But first he had to reach the crater’s edge, and to do that he had to find a way between the giant teeth.

  They were clustered too tight, he couldn’t get through.

  “Maybe I can do it from here,” he said, drawing the dagger from its sheath. If he threw with all his strength, it might clear the boulders.

  Behind him, Pirra cried out.

  He glanced over his shoulder, but she wasn’t there anymore.

  “Don’t move!” shouted a voice.

  Telamon stood five paces away, legs braced, arrow nocked to his bow. “One move,” he said, “and you’re dead.”

  36

  “Where’s Pirra!” shouted Hylas.

  An arrow struck the ground by his foot, forcing him sideways. “I kept my word to you!” Telamon yelled. “I had a boat waiting!”

  “And I would have gone, but I had to warn you, he was going to kill you!”

  Another arrow thudded into the dust. Again he leaped sideways.

  “You’re making that up,” snarled Telamon. “You just needed time to destroy the dagger! Throw it over here!”

  In the red glare they faced each other, while the Mountain shook and the ash hissed down like poisonous snow.

  Telamon was clever: Hylas saw how he’d been driving him with his arrows away from the rocks. Now he was too far from the crater; if he tried to cast the dagger from here, it would clatter harmlessly to the ground.

  “I will do it,” said Telamon, taking aim at his heart.

  Hylas rearranged his grip on the hilt. A few paces to his left, a clump of boulders offered cover and maybe a way through to the crater’s edge.

  “No,” he said.

  Telamon’s arrow trembled. “Hylas. Throw me the dagger.” His features were set, but his voice shook. “It belongs to us! It’s got nothing to do with you!”

  “Or Issi? Or Scram? Or all the Outsiders the Crows have slaughtered? They’re evil, Telamon. This ends here!”

  Telamon’s face worked. “They’re my kin!” His arrow sang as Hylas leaped for the boulders, and he heard it strike the rock a hand’s breadth behind him.

  “Coward!” roared Telamon. “Come out and fight!”

  Hylas scrambled between the rocks. Spotted a gap. Too narrow, he couldn’t squeeze through . . .

  “Hylas, above you!” screamed Pirra from somewhere he couldn’t see.

  Glancing up, he saw Telamon crouching on a boulder and reaching into his quiver for another arrow. Hylas turned sideways and forced himself through the gap, shot out the other side, and landed on his knees.

  A thud behind him. Telamon had jumped down. Ahead of them, more rocks were wreathed in smoke. As Hylas lurched to his feet, the fumes blew hot in his face, engulfing him in the choking breath of the Mountain. He heard Telamon coughing. Then the smoke sucked back and he saw it, just beyond the rocks: the throbbing red glare of the abyss. He drew back his arm . . .

  “No!” screamed Telamon.

  . . . Hylas threw the dagger as hard as he could.

  Time stopped as it flashed over the rocks—struck the last one—and clanged to rest on the edge.

  Hylas stared in disbelief.

  Telamon’s jaw dropped.

  The dagger of Koronos refused to be destroyed.

  The rocks sloped steeply down to where it lay on a boulder that jutted over the crater like a broken fang. Hylas started toward it, pebbles rattling past him to the burning lake far below.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back. He hit the ground with a thud and Telamon was on him, crushing the breath from his chest. Hylas tried to squirm free, but Telamon was too strong. Grabbing Hylas’ hair in one hand, he drew his knife with the other. Hylas gripped his wrist with both hands and fought to keep the point from his throat. It came steadily closer. With a supreme effort, he boosted himself sideways with his legs, bucking off Telamon and knocking the knife from his hand. It clattered across the stones and Telamon lunged for it—but Hylas seized his long locks and dragged him out of reach.

  Still holding Telamon by the hair, Hylas bashed his head against the ground, but Telamon dug both thumbs into his throat, cutting off his air. Hylas clawed at his hands. Telamon kneed him in the belly, then flipped him over and knelt on his upper arms. Hylas felt the grip tighten on his throat. Black dots darting before his eyes, hot ash raining into his mouth, everything going black . . .

  Telamon howled in pain and rolled off his chest.

  Pirra saw Hylas taking great heaving gulps of air. She saw Telamon clutching his thigh in disbelief as she scrambled away.

  She staggered, nearly dropping his knife. She was still dizzy from the blow he’d struck her earlier, but if she could distract him for long enough, Hylas might be able to get to the dagger.

  “Call yourself a warrior?” she sneered. “Squealing like a girl at a pinprick like that?”

  Still on his knees, Telamon swayed. Blood trickled between the fingers clamped to his thigh. Squinting in pain, he looked from her to Hylas, who was making his way down toward the dagger.

  “Coward!” taunted Pirra, waving Telamon’s knife in his face.

  Suddenly he stiffened. Pirra glanced behind her. The insults died in her throat.

  Out of the whirling smoke came a man, a warrior in black rawhide armor. Swift as a lynx, Pharax raced down the rocks, flung Hylas aside with one thrust of his hand, and snatched the dagger from the brink.

  Hylas lost his balance and slid off the boulder.

  Pirra rushed to help him, but Telamon grabbed her and yanked her back.

  In triumph Pharax held up the dagger of Koronos, its blade flashing scarlet in the glare. At his feet, Hylas clung desperately to the edge.

  “Kill him, Pharax!” shouted Telamon. “He’s the Outsider in the prophecy!”

  Pirra struggled and kicked, but Telamon was too strong. In horror, she watched Hylas fight to haul himself back onto the boulder. She saw Pharax towering over him. She heard his cold voice ringing out above the thunder of the Mountain:

  “If an Outsider wields the dagger, the House of Koronos burns . . . But if Pharax wields the dagger—it’s the Outsider who burns.”

  With his heel, he stamped on Hylas’ hands.

  “No!” screamed Pirra.

  But Hylas was gone.

  37

  He was falling through scorching red smoke: bouncing off rock-faces, clawing at stones that snapped off in his hands. Then the Mountain punched him in the back and he wasn’t falling anymore.

  The air was black and bitter with ash. His eyes stung and every breath hurt. He felt battered and scraped—but he could move.

  Coughing, he rolled onto his knees. Beneath his palms the earth was restless and hot. At any moment it might open up and swallow him. Lightning speared boiling clouds of ash. Fireballs hissed through the air, striking the ground around him.

  Craning his neck at the crater wall, he saw the edge, dizzyingly high above. Behind him, not twenty paces away, lay the heaving red chaos of the burning lake. Its heat blasted him. He heard it thickly bubbling, spurting jets of liquid fire that netted the darkness with dazzling scarlet, before spattering back into the crater.

  If it spattered him, he was dead.

  Through the murk, he made out a small hillock of cinders at the foot of the crater wall. He stumbled toward it. It wasn’t very tall, but when he’d scrambled to the top, the stink was slightly less biting.

  To his surprise, he still had his lion claw around his neck, and this heartened him a little. At his belt, he found the rag that Akastos had given him to hide the dagger. He tied it over his mouth a
nd nose—and breathed a bit easier.

  The crater wall sloped outward like a giant cauldron, but as he groped for handholds, it crumbled in his fingers. He tried again and again. The truth sank in. He wasn’t going to be able to climb out.

  Is this how it ends? he thought hazily. The Crows keep the dagger, and it was all for nothing?

  Then across the burning lake, he made out the cankerous bulge. It had grown so huge that it thrust like a hunchback above the crater’s edge. It came to Hylas that the dagger didn’t matter anymore, because when that burst, everyone on Thalakrea would be killed.

  Strangely, he felt no fear, only a weird kind of peace. Now that the worst was happening, there was no more dread.

  Then he thought of Zan and Bat and Periphas, and all the other slaves. Hekabi and the Islanders. Akastos and Havoc and Pirra. Anger flared within him. They didn’t deserve to die.

  Lurching to his feet, he stood swaying on his hillock of cinders. “Why punish us all?” he croaked. “We’re not Crows! We didn’t do anything!”

  The Mountain growled, spattering the rocks around him with liquid fire.

  “What do I care?” he shouted. “I’m going to die anyway!”

  The Mountain roared—and Hylas roared back. “I did everything I could! I gave the deep levels back to the snatchers! I saved Havoc—one of your creatures! I did my best to destroy the dagger—but you stopped me, you did! What more do you want?”

  Lightning flared, the Mountain shook, and Hylas thought it was the end.

  Then, abruptly, the roars sank to a rumble. The lightning died. The cankerous bulge stopped venting smoke.

  Hylas sank to his knees. “What do you want?” he panted.

  The liquid fire ceased to bubble and spurt, but now its glowing heart began to heave. The air quivered with the presence of an immortal.

  And from the blazing lake rose the Lady of Fire.

  She walked in a crackling glare of light, and Her burning shadow seethed behind Her. Her floating hair trailed filaments of flame, and Her face was more terrible than a thousand Suns.

  Hylas knelt on the hillock with his arms across his eyes. “Please,” he gasped. “Let the people get away!”

  She turned toward him and he felt the full blast of Her gaze. And in return? Her voice rushed through him like a forest fire.

  He clutched the lion claw. “T-take me,” he stammered.

  Fiery laughter engulfed him. I already have!

  “Let the others get away. Just give them time!”

  Though his eyes were shut, he felt Her stoop over him, dripping fire. He didn’t dare look, but in his head, he saw Her bright hair blazing in the black air. He tasted Her bitter breath as she reached down to him. He cried out in pain as She touched his temple with one searing finger.

  The fire gives . . . whispered the Lady. And the fire takes . . .

  With a jolt, his wits returned. His head throbbed where the Shining One had touched him—but She was gone. Again, thunder crashed and lightning speared the clouds. The cankerous bulge vented smoke, and liquid fire spurted from the lake.

  Something shifted painfully in his chest, and everything changed. He could hear the snatchers far away, burrowing under the earth, and every particle of ash pattering onto the Mountainside. On the lake, he glimpsed figures as insubstantial as flame. He heard their high thin voices and saw their fierce, inhuman faces.

  This must be death, he thought, and those are the fire spirits coming to get me.

  And yet—his bruises still hurt, and he could still taste the gritty bitterness of ash, so he must be alive.

  As he squinted at the burning lake, a small, bright ball of flame that didn’t feel frightening detached itself from the fire spirits and bounded toward him.

  In her sleep, the lion cub wasn’t caught by the bad humans in the horrible cramped tangle of branches.

  In her sleep, she was sleek and strong, hurtling as fast as a full-grown lioness: up the Mountain and down into its fiery belly. In her sleep, she was racing to help the boy.

  He was stuck, and he couldn’t climb out. It was just like the time when she’d been stuck down the hole—only now it was her turn to help him.

  Fast as a flame, she left the fire spirits on the burning lake and bounded toward him. She felt amazingly sure of herself: She knew exactly where to place each paw, when to grip with her claws, and when to push off and go leaping through the air.

  For the first time ever, she could really climb.

  The ball of fire bounded toward him, and Hylas shielded his face with his hands as it quivered and resolved into Havoc.

  Except—it wasn’t really Havoc, she kept blurring and scattering sparks. He sensed that what stood gazing up at him with those great golden eyes wasn’t Havoc as he knew her, but her spirit.

  There was no time to wonder what was happening. The spirit-Havoc flicked one fiery ear and scampered past him, leaping—with un-Havoc-like grace—for a boulder that he hadn’t noticed before, which jutted from the crater wall not far above his head. Her paw prints left a glowing trail over the cinders, and when she glanced back at him, her meaning was clear.

  Follow.

  The boulder looked big enough for him to crouch on—if he could reach it. But he was dizzy with exhaustion, and his limbs were made of stone.

  And yet—Havoc’s bright spirit wouldn’t let him give up. With an impatient glance at him, she climbed deftly higher, lashing her glowing tail for balance as she found another boulder: another small island of solid rock in the crumbly wall, which Hylas would never have spotted without her.

  When she reached it, she peered down at him, her ears expectantly pricked. Now it’s your turn. Follow me. I’ll lead you to the top.

  Hylas heaved to his feet and began to climb.

  38

  With every step, Pirra sank ankle-deep into fine black ash, then slid two paces farther, down a choking tunnel of darkness.

  She told herself that Hylas might still be alive. She hadn’t actually seen him killed; and if the dagger could get stuck on a boulder, then so could he. He was a mountain boy, he could climb anything.

  “Keep up, Telamon!” barked Pharax from somewhere in front.

  “It’s the girl, she’s slowing us down,” called Telamon behind her. “Can’t we just leave her?”

  “No,” Pharax replied coldly. “If she’s the daughter of the High Priestess, the Keftians will pay to get her back.”

  “Oh they’ll pay all right,” muttered Telamon. Since the fight at the crater, there was a new grimness in him. As if, thought Pirra, the Mountain had scorched away the boy he had been.

  They hadn’t bothered to search her, so she still had the obsidian knife strapped to her thigh—but she knew that trying to reach it would be fatal. To Pharax, she was nothing but flesh and bone to be used as he saw fit. If she made trouble, he’d slit her throat.

  He and Telamon had come alone to the Mountain—she guessed they hadn’t told their men the dagger had been stolen—and now he strode with it in his fist, scorning danger. The Mountain was merely another obstacle to his will.

  At last dawn came, but it was unlike any she’d ever seen. It didn’t begin in the east, where the Sun woke up, but lit the whole sky with an angry red glow.

  It was the end of the world.

  The day had been born in a welter of anger, but it hadn’t lived long. The ash spewing from the Mountain had spread in a vast pall across the Sun, and for a long time now, Hylas had been riding through a ghostly gray twilight.

  He galloped with his head against the horse’s straining neck. Although he was exhausted, his mind felt sharper, now that he was out of the crater’s toxic fumes.

  He missed the company of the spirit-Havoc. She had led him up the crater wall, then down the Mountainside to the thickets, where she’d vanished in a shower of sparks. Shortly afterward, he�
�d heard a desperate whinnying and found the horse he and Pirra had stolen, struggling with its reins snagged on a root.

  At last he reached the Neck and skittered to a halt. All was eerily silent: The guards had fled. Jumping off and winding the reins around his wrist, he searched the camp. He found a waterskin and drank greedily, splashing some in a trough for the horse.

  He tripped over a guard sprawled in the dust with a knife-hilt jutting from his belly: Killed in some desperate struggle to escape. Hylas yanked out the knife, wiped the blade on the dead man’s tunic, and jammed it in his belt. No time to spare for the man’s angry spirit. Not even a ghost could follow him in this.

  As he galloped for the crossroads, he passed signs of flight, but no people. He wondered if they’d all gone, and he was the last one left on Thalakrea. Then through the murk he made out figures swarming down from Kreon’s stronghold, and more fleeing the mines. Where was Havoc? And Pirra? Had Pharax killed her on the Mountain, or taken her with him?

  Suddenly the earth roared and a great crack zigzagged across his path. With a squeal the horse flung him off and thundered into the gloom.

  Painfully, Hylas got to his feet. A trail led north, that must go to the village; if he took it, he might find passage on a boat. To the south, another led past the mines and down to the shore. If Pirra was still alive, Pharax would have taken her there.

  Hylas leaped the crack and headed south.

  Chaos on the shore. The fury of the Earthshaker had ripped a great chunk from the western cliffs and flung it into the Sea. The furnace ridge no longer existed; Hylas hoped Akastos had escaped in time.

  The Sea was sludgy with ash, the beach crammed with fallen boulders and panicking people desperate to get on a ship. Hylas saw three ships packed with Crow warriors heading into the bay, and many smaller fishing boats bobbing near the shore. In one he spotted Hekabi; he guessed the villagers had come to rescue as many as they could. Far out to Sea, he glimpsed a splendid ship with bellying black sails. Koronos and his kin were saving their skins and leaving the rabble to take their chances. Hylas prayed they’d taken Havoc.