Gods and Warriors

by Michelle Paver

  “It must’ve been a forest fire,” said Hylas. “Only not like one I’ve ever seen.” He snapped off a branch of black laurel. Every leaf was intact, but scorched to an eerie dark-red sheen.

  “Like bronze,” she said.

  That seemed to disconcert him. “The trees of bronze,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I don’t like the feel of this. In the mountains we avoid places where there’s been a forest fire, because they draw the”—he lowered his voice—“we call them the Angry Ones.”

  Pirra’s skin prickled. “So do we.”

  They exchanged glances.

  Hylas threw away the branch. “It’ll be dark soon. We’ve got to get out of here. I think our camp’s somewhere to the west, over that ridge.”

  “That’s not a ridge, it’s a cliff. We’ll never get up there.”

  He scanned their surroundings. “Looks like the only way we can go is south.”

  “Which will take us even farther from camp.”

  “I know. But we haven’t got much choice.”

  Pirra had the uneasy feeling that this was what the island wanted all along. First it had drawn them into the caves; and now it had spewed them out into this devastated valley for some shadowy purpose of its own.

  There were no signs of life, but as they walked, they passed the blackened carcasses of creatures that hadn’t managed to escape. Pirra found the tiny charred remains of a bird. She sensed its small spirit—and the spirits of the poor burned trees and the other dead creatures—begging her to find out why this had happened. The island had been wounded. A great burn had seared its very heart.

  The Sun vanished behind the ridge, and the light began to fail. Their feet sank with a whump into deep, soft ash. The sound only emphasized the stillness.

  Hylas walked with his head down, limping slightly; there was a bluish mark on his calf where the sea-snake’s fang had grazed him. After a while he halted. “It’s getting dark. We’ll have to find somewhere to camp.”

  Pirra was horrified. “Not here! Surely once the Moon rises—”

  “Pirra, it isn’t going to rise. It’s the dark of the Moon.”

  They both knew what that meant. The dark of the Moon is when people keep a lamp burning all night, for fear of ghosts and evil spirits.

  “What will we do for water?” said Pirra.

  He spread his hands. She thought with longing of the waterskins they’d left behind in the caves.

  A few early stars were out when they reached a shadowy gully leading off to the west. It was flanked by dark cypresses, and farther in, Pirra glimpsed a lone poplar standing guard.

  “That might be a way to the Sea,” she said uncertainly. “Then we could get around by the coast.”

  “I don’t like the feel of it,” said Hylas. “I think we should keep to the main trail.”

  “But it’s going the wrong way.”

  “If we follow the animals, they might lead us to a spring.”

  “What animals? They’re all dead!”

  “No, some managed to get away. Look at the tracks.”

  “What’s a track?” she snapped. Thirst was making her irritable.

  “Oh, surely you know about tracks? They’re footprints, they tell you things.” Impatiently, he pointed out what he said was a hare’s trail, then a row of sinuous lines made by a snake; he said the gaps in between were where it had gathered its coils.

  “So it’s like writing,” she said. “Well if you’d told me that to start with, I’d have understood.”

  “What’s writing?”

  “Oh, surely you know about writing?” she mimicked. “It’s marks that mean things.” With a stick of charcoal, she scratched lines on a pebble. “There. That’s for you, it says goat.”

  “What d’you mean it ‘says’? It can’t talk, it’s a pebble.”

  “Oh, never mind! I’m going to take a look down that gully; I bet it does lead to the Sea.”

  “Fine. Do what you like.”

  “Fine.”

  She stalked off, scuffing the ash with her feet. Hylas stayed behind, examining his precious tracks.

  It was darker in the gully. A wind sprang up, raising columns of ash that seemed to follow her. The dead trees rattled their brittle bronze hands, and she shivered. She would go as far as that poplar tree, then turn back.

  Suddenly a shadow crossed her heart. She heard a rushing high overhead, like great wings moving fast. Something dark cut across the stars.

  She raced back to the mouth of the gully, where she found Hylas staring at the sky. In the gloom she saw how pale he’d gone.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I thought I saw something crouching on the ground. It flew up. At first I thought it was a vulture—”

  “What’s a vulture?”

  “A big bird that eats carcasses. But it felt wrong. And I’ve never known a vulture to fly that fast.”

  Neither wanted to mention what was in their minds; but this time, when they headed off, they stayed close together.

  They hadn’t gone far when Hylas motioned her to silence.

  Then she heard it: a faint, echoing babble of water. “Oh, thank the Goddess,” she muttered as they stumbled through the gloom.

  Rounding a spur, they came upon a jostling throng of wild creatures: deer, lynx, wolf, all scrabbling at the ground, united by their desperate need for water. Ravens exploded into the sky. A stag raced toward Pirra—swerved—and thundered off into the dark. Then she saw the cause of the animals’ desperation: The Earthshaker had buried the spring beneath a rockfall. They couldn’t reach it.

  “Don’t move,” said Hylas, drawing his knife and stepping in front of her.

  The lion was four paces away, a huge male with a matted mane and a battle-scarred nose. Its eyes threw back the starlight as it staggered toward them, uttering harsh, sawing grunts.

  It halted, panting and trailing ropes of spit. Then, with an exhausted sigh, it slumped onto its side and laid its great head in the dust.

  Hylas sheathed his knife. “It’s in pain,” he said. “Look at its paws.”

  Pirra felt sick. The lion’s pads had been scorched to rawness by the fire. Every step must have been agony.

  Forgetting her thirst, she ran to where the spring was buried and started pulling away rocks. “If we could give it some water…”

  It didn’t take them long to clear a gap big enough to draw out a few gritty handfuls. The lion lay struggling for breath, gazing at them with weary patience; but when they trickled water into its muzzle, it was too weak to swallow.

  “It’s no good,” said Hylas.

  “Surely we can do something?”

  “No, Pirra. It’s too late.”

  She watched him lay his palm on the lion’s heaving flank. “Be at peace,” he told it gently. “May you find a strong new body—and no more pain.”

  The golden eyes dulled. Pirra felt a fleeting warmth on her face as the lion’s spirit swept out into the night.

  Pirra sat with her back against a boulder and forced down the last scrap of tough, bitter lion meat.

  Hylas hadn’t wanted to do it; he’d said eating the flesh of another hunter went against the old ways, but that you were allowed to if you were starving. Pirra had asked what he meant by the old ways, but he hadn’t replied.

  They’d camped far enough from the spring to avoid being trampled by thirsty animals. It was a hot night, so they didn’t bother with a shelter. Hylas had coaxed a fire from a pile of charcoal—at least there was plenty of that—then he’d started grimly hauling away more rocks. Pirra had suggested that he wait till morning, but he’d retorted that he hadn’t been able to save Scram or the lion, and he wasn’t going to let another creature die if he could help it.

  Together they’d cleared the spring until Hylas said a blind hedgehog could reach it; then he’d part-skinned the lion and cut a slab from its ribs, which they’d roasted and tried to eat. After that they’d d
ragged the carcass into the scrub for others to feed on, leaving the heart and tail on a rock for the Goddess.

  It hadn’t taken long for the animals to discover that the spring was clear, and from where she sat, Pirra heard a constant scuffle of feet and hooves and paws. Growls flared into short-lived squabbles, then subsided to slow slurpings and the sound of water dripping from satisfied muzzles.

  She was exhausted, but she couldn’t settle. She dreaded hearing the sound of wings.

  She knew why Hylas had insisted on skinning the lion and unblocking the spring. He needed to keep his mind off what haunted this place.

  He sat on the other side of the fire, scouring the lion’s bladder with cinders to make a new waterskin. Feeling her eyes on him, he raised his head. “Back at that gully—I don’t think it was a vulture.”

  She swallowed. “Neither do I.”

  A rustle of wings made them start. A raven flew past with a sonorous cark!

  Hylas blew out a long breath. Pirra peered into the dark.

  She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t feared the Angry Ones. Everyone did: priestess, peasant, slave. The Angry Ones have always existed, and they always will. They are the shadow that follows you at midnight, and the dread that turns your dreams to nightmare. When you wake in terror of the dark, or your skin prickles with fear but you don’t know why—then the Angry Ones are near. They come from the Chaos before the gods, and they hunt those who’ve murdered their kin. You might ward them off for a while by muttering an ancient charm; you might even evade them for a time by disguising yourself, or fleeing your homeland; but sooner or later, they’ll find you, and scorch your spirit to madness.

  “Why are they here?” whispered Pirra. “They hunt people who’ve done terrible things; but there isn’t anyone here except us.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hylas. “But I wish we had some buckthorn. Where I come from, they say it helps ward them off.”

  There was silence while they thought about that. Both knew that even if you haven’t done anything wrong, the Angry Ones can still destroy you if you get too close.

  Hylas threw more charcoal on the fire, making her jump. “I’ll keep this burning all night. Let’s hope dawn comes soon.”

  Surprisingly, they both slept until sunrise, and after filling the new waterskin, they set off, feeling braver as gray light began seeping into the valley.

  Around mid-morning, they stumbled on a trail that looked as if it might lead down to the Sea, but they hadn’t gone far when it opened into a clearing: a clearing blocked by a great pile of charred trees.

  The slopes on either side were covered in fallen pines, as if toppled by a giant’s hand. Something about the way they lay aslant each other didn’t look right to Hylas. He went to take a closer look.

  He found axe marks on their trunks. Returning to the pile of charred trees, he unearthed the burned bones of several oxen and some blackened fragments of earthenware. He sniffed one. He smelled oil. He blinked in disbelief.

  “Someone did this on purpose,” he said. “Someone cut down these trees and doused them with oil and set them alight. Then the wind caught the fire and blew it up the valley.”

  “But—they couldn’t have meant to burn the whole valley,” faltered Pirra. “It must’ve gotten out of hand.”

  Hylas stooped to examine a slab of granite that had been placed before the woodpile. On it lay a glistening pile of obsidian arrowheads. He turned one in his fingers. It was shaped like a poplar leaf. He’d dug one just like it out of his arm.

  “Crows,” Pirra said in a hard voice.

  “But why?” he murmured.

  “It’s said that they burn their sacrifices.”

  “You think that’s what this was? A sacrifice? But what could they hope to gain?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No sacrifice should be this big. They must have destroyed timber enough to build ten villages.”

  “And all the poor tree spirits.”

  He felt himself growing angry. All those dead creatures and defenseless trees. And the Crows had done it. Always the Crows. “What’s wrong with this island?” he murmured. “It feels as if—as if everything’s joined up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did that ship run aground? What happened to Spirit’s pod? Why did the Earthshaker wake?” He frowned. “Ever since the Crows attacked, I’ve felt there’s some kind of pattern, only I can’t see what it is. I’ve felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web.”

  Pirra didn’t reply. She was craning her neck at the fallen trees littering the westward slope. “D’you think we could climb out that way?”

  He followed her gaze. “Maybe. I’ll try it first, you wait here.”

  The trees were alarmingly unstable, and spiky with broken branches. He called down to Pirra to stand back, in case the whole lot came crashing down. Halfway up, he saw what he couldn’t have seen from below: an overhang that made further climbing impossible. It seemed that the island still wouldn’t let them out.

  Coming down was harder, as his hands and feet were slippery with charcoal. His knife-sheath snagged on a branch and tipped upside down; the knife fell out and clattered to the bottom. Pirra ran to retrieve it. “I’ve got it!” she called.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Hylas spotted what he’d missed on the way up: a ravine, hidden behind a spur on the other side of the clearing. He saw a slash of brilliant green, and his spirits rose. The ravine was untouched by the fire. It had to lead down to the Sea.

  He was about to call down the good news when the bushes in the ravine stirred.

  He froze.

  There it was again.

  Someone was coming.

  29

  The man who emerged from the ravine walked with a limp, and he kept to the shade as if he didn’t want to be seen.

  He was barefoot, in a ragged tunic of salt-stained rawhide, with a half-empty waterskin slung over one shoulder, and a knife stuck in a twist of rope that did for a belt. His dark hair was long, so he couldn’t be a slave; and although he looked like a homeless wanderer, he had the build of a warrior. He was too far off for Hylas to see his face, but he gave an impression of intense awareness that made Hylas’ skin tighten.

  From his hiding place among the fallen trees, Hylas peered down at the clearing. He could see no sign of Pirra. He only hoped she’d heard the man coming, and taken cover.

  Still keeping to the shade, the man halted at the pile of Crow arrowheads. He stood looking down at them. His hand went to his knife. Slowly, he scanned the clearing. Hylas felt the power of that gaze coming at him like heat from embers.

  The man limped to the charred remains of the sacrifice, directly below Hylas. He stooped for a shard of earthenware. Sniffed it. Set it down. He found a boulder and leaned against it, kneading his right thigh as if it pained him. From a pouch he shook a few leaves and crushed them in his palm. He rubbed some on his forehead and chewed the rest, washing them down with a pull from his waterskin, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “You up there,” he said calmly. “I think you’d better come down.”

  “I know you’re up there,” said the Stranger. “And we both know that the only way out of that woodpile is down.”

  A beetle crawled onto Hylas’ foot. He didn’t dare brush it off.

  The Stranger folded his arms on his chest and yawned. “I can wait all day. How about you?”

  The beetle wandered off and was replaced by ants.

  “All right,” said the Stranger. “I’ll wait.”

  The Sun rose higher. Hylas felt sweat trickling down his sides. A wind sprang up, blowing ash in his eyes. His mouth was dry. Pirra had their new waterskin.

  “Can’t be much fun up there,” the Stranger remarked. His voice was as smooth as honey, but with an undercurrent of strength that made you want to listen and obey. “You’ll be thirsty. Hungry too. Boys like you always are.”

  Hylas caught his breath. How could the Stran
ger know he was a boy, if he couldn’t see him?

  “Oh, I know quite a lot about you,” said the Stranger, as if he’d spoken aloud. “You’re skinny. Tired. Bit of a limp in the left leg. What’d you do, step on a thorn?”

  Hylas began to feel dizzy. Was it possible that this wasn’t a man, but an immortal in disguise?

  And yet—if he was an immortal, surely he could simply make him come down?

  And if he wasn’t an immortal, why didn’t he just climb up and drag him down? Unless—unless he couldn’t climb up because—

  “You’re right,” conceded the Stranger. “I’d rather not do any climbing with this scratch on my thigh. By the way, what’s your name?”

  This was so unexpected that Hylas nearly blurted it out.

  The Stranger shrugged. “Well then, I’ll give you one. I’ll call you Flea, because only a flea could jump up there. So now, Flea. If you don’t come down, I’ll have to hurt the girl—”

  “No, don’t!” cried Hylas.

  “Ah—it can talk,” the Stranger said drily. “And by its accent, I’d say Lykonian—”

  “Don’t hurt her!”

  “Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  Hylas chewed his lip. It occurred to him that if the Stranger really did have Pirra, then where was she? Was this a bluff?

  Then it came to him. Tracks. The Stranger had read his tracks, and Pirra’s too.

  The Stranger scooped up a handful of ash and watched it trickle through his fingers. “A good sailor,” he said, “always knows what the wind’s doing. Although that wouldn’t mean much to you, since you’re from the plains.”

  “I’m not, I—” Hylas shut his eyes.

  “A mountain boy? Yes, of course, I should’ve guessed from your hiding place. Though you’re a long way from Mount Lykas, aren’t you, Flea?”

  Hylas didn’t answer. He felt like a mouse trapped by an alarmingly clever fox.

  Pushing himself off the boulder, the Stranger started collecting branches and piling them upwind of Hylas. Now what was he up to?