Warrior Bronze

by Michelle Paver

  Pirra laid a restraining hand on his arm, but Hylas shook it off. ‘Keeping us here by force,’ he said hotly, ‘is no way to beat the Crows, or get rid of the Angry Ones!’

  ‘How do you know?’ said a Marsh Dweller stonily.

  ‘You wouldn’t survive beyond the marshes,’ said another. ‘No one would help you. The Crows will pay well for the hearts of the Outsider with the yellow hair, and the Keftian girl with the scar.’

  Pirra swallowed. ‘So they know we’re coming?’

  ‘Beyond the marshes,’ said a man, ‘you could trust no one! You will stay with us.’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Hylas between his teeth. ‘We’re looking for my sister! She’s here in the marshes, she must be!’

  Muddy faces stared at him blankly.

  ‘She was nine summers old when she went missing,’ he said with a catch in his voice. ‘She’d be nearly twelve now. Fair hair, like me –’

  ‘When the Crows came,’ an old man said, ‘a few Outsiders fled here from the mountains.’ He held up four stumpy fingers. ‘Four boys. No girls.’

  Hylas continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘She’s very noisy, always talking, singing, arguing. And always making friends with wild creatures … Her favourites are frogs.’ His voice cracked. ‘Once, I carved one on the hilt of her knife.’

  Pirra felt desperately sorry for him. He wanted so much to believe that Issi was still alive.

  But the old man was shaking his head. ‘All boys,’ he insisted. ‘No girls.’

  ‘She’s not dead!’ Hylas burst out. ‘I’d know it if she was, I’d have seen her ghost!’

  This horrified them, and their spears drew closer.

  Hylas glared at them defiantly. Havoc set back her ears and bared her fangs in a snarl.

  ‘Fin, feather and fur,’ Pirra put in quickly. ‘You said it’s some kind of charm. How do you know?’

  The Marsh Dwellers glanced at each other, as if unsure who should speak. They lowered their spears.

  ‘Last summer,’ a man began, ‘when the black ash darkened the marshes, a wisewoman came.’

  ‘She cured many who had the marsh fever,’ said a woman. ‘Those who get it often die, but she showed us how to make medicine.’

  ‘We begged her to stay,’ said another. ‘To protect us from the Angry Ones. She refused. We dared not keep her by force. But before she left, she gave us a charm against Them.’ He touched a grimy little pouch at his neck. Pirra noticed that all the others wore one, too.

  ‘The wisewoman did a spirit reading,’ a woman put in. ‘She said: They will come with fin, feather and fur. They will fight the Evil Ones.’

  Pirra nudged Hylas with her elbow, but he didn’t respond. He sat with his head down, clenching and unclenching his fists, still brooding about his sister.

  ‘Where is this wisewoman now?’ Pirra demanded.

  A woman waved her hand. ‘She sought some shrine in the mountains to the east. We know she reached it because the Crows thereabouts are plagued by a shadow thief. We think this is a spell of the wisewoman’s.’

  ‘A shadow thief?’ said Pirra with a frown.

  ‘Small as a child, very cunning. It slashes the Crows’ waterskins, it spoils their meat. As a sign, it leaves behind a little clay frog.’

  Hylas’ head jerked up. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘With the wisewoman. The shrine they call Dentra.’

  ‘What if it’s Issi?’ cried Hylas. ‘What if the shadow thief is Issi?’

  ‘But Hylas,’ Pirra said gently. ‘Just because Issi loved frogs, that doesn’t mean it’s her. Besides, they say it’s some kind of spell …’ Privately, she wondered whether Issi might be dead, and this wisewoman was making use of her spirit.

  ‘Issi used to make clay frogs,’ insisted Hylas. ‘It was the only creature she could do!’ Then to the Marsh Dwellers: ‘I have to find this shadow thief, you’ve got to let us go!’

  ‘No! You will stay with us!’

  ‘You are part of the charm!’

  ‘You protect us from the Angry Ones!’

  ‘Nothing can protect you from the Angry Ones!’ he roared.

  Echo flew off with a shriek, and Havoc snarled and kneaded the platform with her claws. Pirra put a restraining hand on the lioness’ scruff, and shot Hylas a quelling glance.

  ‘This wisewoman,’ she said to the Marsh Dwellers. ‘What was her name? Where did she come from?’

  ‘What’s that to you?’ spat an old woman.

  Pirra drew herself up. ‘I am the daughter of the High Priestess of Keftiu, I’ve had dealings with wisewomen. Tell me!’

  ‘She came from some island,’ the woman said sullenly. ‘The one that blew up and sent the black ash. She said the Crows destroyed it, so now she lives to destroy them.’

  Pirra’s heart was pounding. ‘Did she have a streak of white here?’ She touched the hair at her temple.

  The Marsh Dwellers went very still.

  ‘Her name is Hekabi,’ Pirra declared. ‘We knew her on Thalakrea. We helped save her people when it blew up.’

  More muttering.

  ‘Hekabi,’ added Hylas, ‘is an extremely powerful wisewoman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to cross her,’ said Pirra. ‘She would definitely want you to let us go.’

  The Marsh Dwellers squatted at a respectful distance, watching Havoc whiffle in her sleep. The lioness lay sprawled on her back, with Echo perched on her belly, pecking ticks out of her fur.

  Hylas and Pirra had withdrawn to a corner of the platform where they could talk without being overheard. The night song of the crickets was changing, and some of the marsh birds were waking up: soon it would be dawn.

  The Marsh Dwellers had at last agreed to guide them out of the marshes. But which way should they go?

  ‘If what they say is right,’ Pirra said in an undertone, ‘the dagger’s in the north, with Telamon. And if you’re right, and the shadow thief really is Issi – if – then she’s in the mountains to the east.’ She looked at Hylas. ‘We can’t go after them both.’

  He sat cross-legged, scowling and digging at the platform with his thumbnail. Pirra sensed the warring impulses within him. Must he give up the first potential lead he’d had on his sister in two years, to seek the dagger?

  ‘Maybe we could look for Issi first,’ she suggested. ‘And then go after the dagger …’

  ‘How could we do that?’ he muttered without raising his head. ‘If we missed our chance at the dagger, how many more rebels would die? And it’s my fault the Crows got it back! My fault!’

  ‘It’s mine too.’

  ‘No it’s not. I was the one who gave it back.’

  Pirra’s thoughts flew to the battle on the Great River of Egypt. She remembered the knife at her throat, and Telamon yelling at Hylas: Throw me the dagger, or she dies!

  ‘Do you regret that?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Of course not! But because of what I did, the Crows are rampaging through all Akea, slaughtering rebels.’ He blew out a long breath. Then he sat up and squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’ve got to go after the dagger.’

  Pirra stiffened. ‘Don’t you mean “we”?’

  He met her eyes. ‘Pirra … I think we need to split up.’

  She went cold. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The Marsh Dwellers will take you east into the mountains, to the peak shrine at Dentra. If you’re lucky, you’ll find Hekabi there and – and maybe – maybe Issi, too. While you’re doing that, they’ll guide me north. I’ll go after the dagger.’

  ‘Oh you will, will you?’ she said angrily. ‘A while ago, you said that where you go, I go. What happened to that?’

  ‘Pirra – you know this makes sense.’

  ‘No I don’t! What I do know is that there’s more to this than you’re letting on! It’s your visions, isn’t it? That’s what’s behind this. You told me in Egypt they’ve been getting stronger, and now you’re worried that they’ll be so strong that you won’t be a
ble to protect me!’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ he cried.

  ‘Hylas, I can protect myself, I don’t need you to do it for me!’

  ‘Fine! But we’re sticking to my plan, whether you like it or not!’

  Pirra felt sick with anger and fear and desolation. She couldn’t bear the thought of heading off alone with these inscrutable people, into mountains she’d never seen, seeking some child she’d never met, in an alien country, far from her homeland of Keftiu. And all without Hylas.

  How can you be so calm? she wanted to yell at him. Don’t you realise that if we split up now, we might never see each other again?

  But she was too proud to argue, or to beg. ‘Fine,’ she said shakily. ‘I’ll look for Issi. You head after the dagger.’

  At first, the she-lion had no idea why the girl was so upset. Why wasn’t she talking to the boy any more? Why weren’t they together?

  It couldn’t be because of the muddy little humans. There was no harm in them, the she-lion had smelt that from the start. In fact she quite liked them, as they were always giving her fish.

  She liked this place, too. It was such a relief not to be lurching around on the Great Wet, being sick all the time. This place might be a bit soggy, but it had some good rough trees for scratching, and plenty of reeds for hiding in; wet for splashing about, and lots of lovely squelchy mud for cooling her pads. Best of all, it had no bad crow-humans, or dogs.

  And so much prey! Frogs, ducks, herons. Small sideways-scuttling creatures that reminded her of spiders, but had interestingly crunchy shells … And lots of fish. Some were almost as big as she was, and lurked at the bottom of the wet, while the smaller ones let themselves be caught by the muddy humans in little grass sacks that were great fun to rip open.

  Yes, this place would make an excellent range for her pride. So why didn’t any of the others want to stay?

  As usual, the falcon was making her views extremely plain. Instead of roosting in a tree as she usually did rather boringly every Dark, she kept starting awake and glaring at the Up, then angrily shaking out her feathers and settling down again. This gave the she-lion a squirmy feeling in her belly, because it reminded her of the shadow that had sped across the Up just after they’d reached land – and that reminded her of the terrible spirits who used to haunt her very worst sleeps when she was a cub.

  The she-lion hated thinking about the terrible spirits, and she hoped They would never ever come back. In fact, They were the best reason of all for staying in this safe, soggy place among the reeds.

  But instead, the boy and the girl were heading for the edge of the reeds – and they were going in different directions.

  Like all humans, they were noisy and slow, so it was easy to keep track of them. As the Light grew stronger, the she-lion kept bounding ahead to catch the smells from the land beyond the reeds – grass, hare, deer, mountain – then trotting back to check on the rest of the pride. Each time she did, she was alarmed to find that the gap between the boy and the girl had grown bigger.

  The next time she went back, they were very far apart indeed. The boy was trudging one way with a small group of muddy little humans; and the girl was already a long way away from him and heading for the mountains, in the company of a new pair of mud-people, who’d been waiting for her at the edge of the reeds.

  The she-lion didn’t understand this at all. Once again, she went and found the boy, and rubbed against his legs, rumbling deep in her throat, to ask for reassurance.

  The boy bent and touched his forehead to hers, talking to her in human talk. His voice was low and rough with sadness. Then he pushed her away and spoke more sharply, pointing at the mountains, where the girl and the falcon had gone. Then, without looking back, he walked off in the other direction.

  The she-lion bounded after him and biffed him playfully around the hindlegs, knocking him over and batting his head lightly between her forepaws. He pushed her off and scrambled to his feet. Again he spoke sharply. Again he pointed at the mountains.

  This must be some new kind of game. The she-lion leapt at him and flung her forepaws round his neck, telling him in groany lion talk how much she loved being with him.

  He pushed her away quite hard (for him), and this time when he pointed at the mountains, he shouted, and she was astonished to hear anger in his voice – although with sadness underneath.

  Suddenly, the truth bit the she-lion on the nose. The boy didn’t want her to go with him. He wanted her to follow the girl and the falcon into the mountains. The pride was splitting up!

  The she-lion sat on her haunches and gazed up at him in bewilderment. She forgot about being full-grown, and whimpered like a cub. No no no, you can’t break up the pride!

  The boy was taking big ragged breaths and rubbing his muzzle with his forepaw. Then he turned and stumbled away.

  Mewing softly, the she-lion watched him walk off under the trees. He didn’t look back.

  Still mewing, she padded in a circle. She trotted after him. She stopped. She leapt on to a rock and watched until she could no longer see him and the wind had chased away the last of his scent. She went on watching, but he didn’t return. He really was gone.

  The she-lion felt a gnawing emptiness, as if she hadn’t eaten for many Lights and Darks – only this hurt far worse than that.

  She couldn’t believe that the boy had actually left. She kept hoping it was another game, and that soon she would hear his funny, breathless human laugh as he came crashing through the undergrowth, calling for her …

  But though she stayed on her rock, patiently waiting while the Great Lion rose higher in the Up, all she heard was the chatter of birds, and the trees talking to the wind.

  What had she done wrong? Why didn’t he want her any more?

  At last, she leapt down from the rock, and started plodding after the scent of the girl and her two muddy little humans.

  The Great Lion rose higher in the Up, and the she-lion grew dusty and hot as she headed into the hills. She plodded past the scattered lairs of humans, where there were tempting pigs and goats. She climbed through forests full of deer, and the rich hot smells of boar. She ignored them all. The scent-trails of the girl and the muddy humans streamed over her nose, and she tracked them without eagerness, for she had nowhere else to go – but they were the wrong scents and the wrong humans, because they weren’t the boy.

  This was not how things should be. Why had he sent her away? Why didn’t the girl go and fetch him?

  Everything was tangled and wrong. They were a pride, and a pride must never, ever split up. A pride must stay together.

  Hylas heard the whinny of a horse and dropped to his knees in the bracken. From somewhere below came the sound of men’s voices and a whiff of woodsmoke.

  Silently, he made his way down the slope, moving from one pine trunk to the next. He peered through the bracken.

  The Crow camp lay about thirty paces below. By the look of it, his Marsh Dweller guides had been right, and Telamon had left most of his warriors rounding up the defeated rebels in the north, while he headed south with a handful of men.

  Did Telamon have the dagger? Or was it in the Crows’ ancestral stronghold of Lapithos, on the other side of the mountains? Hylas had no idea – but he knew Telamon. Telamon was arrogant, and growing more so. Having regained the dagger in Egypt, he wouldn’t want to give it up. Could he have found some way to keep it from Koronos or Pharax? If so, he might have it with him now.

  The Crows had camped for the night on a shoulder of the hillside. To Hylas’ left, he saw chestnut trees bordering a stream, and a trail leading downhill into the next valley. Two Crow warriors in black rawhide armour sat cooling their feet in the water, while three more tended a cooking-pot hung over a fire. Twenty paces downstream, four others tended a second fire. All of them looked dusty and exhausted.

  On the other side of the camp, to Hylas’ right, the hillside fell away sharply into a gully, and at the edge of this, a pine tree shaded the
camp’s only tent. It was of scarlet wool, and clearly the tent of a chieftain: it had to be Telamon’s.

  Immediately below Hylas, two chariot horses, tethered to stakes, were cropping grass near the disassembled pieces of a splendidly gilded chariot. Hylas smiled grimly. A chariot and horses weren’t much use in the foothills of mountains, but they were costly and rare, and Telamon had always cared immensely about appearances. What was it to him if his men had to look after the beasts, and lug the pieces of his chariot over the mountains? Doubtless the moment they reached the plains, he would have it reassembled, so that he could enjoy driving his high-stepping horses before his men.

  A scrawny, anxious-looking slave scuttled out of the tent bearing a large bronze basin, which he ran to fill at the stream. Shortly afterwards, the tent flaps were flung back, and Telamon himself strode out.

  He was even more magnificently dressed than when Hylas had seen him in Egypt, three moons before. From the top of his boar’s-tusk helmet swung a glossy black horsetail, and his armour was no longer rawhide, but burnished bronze. Strips of gleaming bronze covered his kilt; bronze greaves protected his shins, and bronze arm-guards his forearms. His figured breastplate dazzled in the late-afternoon Sun, and his shoulder-guards were so broad that he resembled a legendary hero from the past. On a hauberk across his chest hung a sword with a gilded hilt. And yet, Hylas noticed with a jolt, from the scarlet sheath at Telamon’s belt jutted a knife’s plain, unadorned hilt.

  Hylas’ heart began to race. Surely that was the dagger of Koronos?

  It didn’t take him long to work out a plan. When everyone was asleep, he would sneak down the slope and prepare his escape route, by tying his rope to that pine tree and letting it down the gully, so that it would be ready when needed. After that, he would stampede the horses – and pray to every god he could think of that Telamon and his men would go after the beasts, or at least be distracted for long enough to let him snatch the dagger and make off down the gully.

  It wasn’t much of a plan, not least because he wasn’t entirely sure that the rope would be long enough to reach the bottom of the gully. Also, Telamon might take the dagger with him when he went after the horses, instead of leaving it in the tent. But it was the best Hylas could come up with, and he knew he had to act now. If Telamon joined up again with the rest of his forces, or if he returned to Lapithos, the dagger would be out of reach.