The Burning Shadow Read online

  Still Hylas and the smith faced each other across the smoldering fire. Akastos was breathing hard: The brand had scorched an angry wound down his calf. Grimacing with pain, he lurched against the wall and sank to the ground. “You fool,” he gasped.

  Hylas fetched the water pail and a jar of almond oil, set them within reach, then retreated. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said. “But I couldn’t let you kill him.”

  Akastos leaned back and shut his eyes. “Sorry,” he repeated. “What good to me is ‘sorry’? Can I forge it into a weapon to kill Koronos? Can I make it into a chariot to ride against them?” He banged his head against the wall. “Fourteen years I’ve been on the run. Hiding. Plotting. Failing. Starting again.” His forehead glistened with sweat. A vein stood out in his neck like rope. “This was the closest I’ve ever got. Everything would have ended tonight. I would have been free. If it hadn’t been for you.”

  Hylas twisted his hands. “But you still have the dagger. We can destroy it right now, in the forge!”

  Akastos opened his eyes and glared at him. “Do you think it’s that easy?” he said as he struggled to his feet. “Do you think it’s that easy?” he roared. “Then why didn’t I do it the moment I got back here? Why? Because no forge made by mortal men will ever be hot enough to destroy it! Because the dagger of Koronos can only be destroyed by a god!”

  34

  Dawn was still far off, but the sky was aglow with a strange dark angry red. As Hylas ran down from the furnace ridge, the Mountain loomed into view. Smoke no longer seeped from its summit, but rose in giant plumes to touch the sky—and it was lit from beneath by the same furious red.

  He thought of the Angry Ones doing battle with the Lady of Fire. Anger, all was anger.

  Akastos had raged like a lion when he’d realized that he was too badly hurt to destroy the dagger. Then quite suddenly, he’d mastered himself. He’d trickled oil on his burn, and sent away the guards who’d come running at the uproar. He’d told Hylas to pour him a beaker of wine. Then, shockingly, he’d laughed.

  “Well, well, Flea. It seems that you and the gods have done for me again.”

  Draining the beaker, he’d wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Then he’d astonished Hylas by tossing him the dagger. “Take it. Find the wisewoman. She’ll know how to destroy it.”

  It had fit Hylas’ grip as if it was made for him, and as he’d rearranged his fingers on the hilt, he’d felt a jolt of cold power shoot through him. “There’ll be guards on the way to the village,” he’d said. “How will I get past them?”

  Akastos had taken a lump of clay the size of a walnut, and stamped it with his sealstone. “The smith’s mark, it’ll give you safe passage. There. You hold your life in your hand. Mine too. Don’t fail.”

  In the Moonless dark, Hylas made for the crossroads. On the cliffs, seabirds were flying up. Distractedly, he thought how odd this was; seabirds always roosted at night.

  The dagger in its sheath bumped against his hip. Akastos had made him hide it under a scrap of sacking, but it still gave Hylas a heady sense of invincibility: as if he, not Akastos, had drunk that wine.

  He hated it. The dagger had separated him from Pirra, and sliced through his plan for escape. It had severed his hopes of finding Issi.

  He thought of his brave, fierce, reckless little sister, struggling for survival in the wilds of Messenia. “I’m sorry, Issi,” he told her under his breath. “Turns out I can’t come and find you. Not yet. Not till this is over.” It flashed through his mind that if Issi knew what he was doing, maybe she would forgive him—because in his place, she would do the same thing.

  On the hill, Kreon’s stronghold was ablaze with torches. Had they discovered that the dagger was gone?

  He drew it from its sheath, and in the starlight its edges gleamed faintly scarlet, as if stained with blood. Despite the heat of the night, he shivered. He wondered if the dagger knew that he was bent on ending its life.

  But how could he, when it could only be destroyed by a god? Would even Hekabi know what to do?

  Across the plain, the Mountain went on venting that angry smoke. Hylas thought of the fire spirits in their lairs: lairs that tunneled deep into its burning heart.

  And suddenly he knew how to destroy the dagger.

  Across the plain, the smoke rising from the Mountain was weirdly tinged with red.

  “It looks angry,” said Pirra.

  “She is angry,” corrected Hekabi. “The Crows have sent the spirits of air and darkness against Her. She will vanquish them. But She won’t forgive.”

  The wisewoman was angry too. In bristling silence they’d picked their way down from the stronghold and started for the village. They had failed to steal the dagger, and by now Hylas would have fled the island, taking with him their chance of defeating the Crows.

  But halfway along the trail, Hekabi had halted. “It isn’t over. I can feel it. We’ve got to go back.”

  So once again, they were nearing the crossroads. In the starlight, Pirra saw the silent ponds where she’d first encountered Hylas, it felt like months ago.

  She had railed at him for putting his sister before everything, and he’d said, If Userref was in danger and you could save him, what would you do?

  Well, now she knew.

  “There’s someone you should see,” Telamon had snarled as he’d dragged her off to another chamber in the stronghold. Then he’d left her to face the man who waited inside.

  At first she didn’t recognize him. He was richly dressed as an emissary of Keftiu: a fine green cloak and a braided blue kilt cinched with a belt of gilded calfskin. On his chest, along with the familiar eye amulet, hung a wax tablet mounted in lapis lazuli and bore the seal of High Priestess Yassassara.

  Being Userref, the first thing he did was scold. “Pirra, look at you! Dressed like a peasant, hair far too short—and your feet, they’re filthy!”

  “I’ve missed you,” she said simply. But when he stepped toward her, she put up her hands. “It’s no use, Userref. I can’t go back.”

  “You must,” he said gently.

  “This isn’t about being free anymore, it’s more than that now.” She dared not mention the dagger in case they were overheard, but in an undertone she told him about the Crows invading Keftiu.

  To her astonishment, he already knew. “The High Priestess has known for months. Part of my mission is to learn more.”

  “She knows?”

  “Pirra, when will you learn? The High Priestess knows everything.”

  She struggled to take that in. “I still can’t go with you.”

  “You must,” said Userref in an altered voice.

  Then he told her. Yassassara was clever. Bring back my daughter, or you forfeit your life.

  Pirra stood facing this gentle young man who’d cared for her since she was a baby. “I can’t,” she said again.

  “Pirra. For me.”

  “But—you can run away too! Now’s your chance! Go to Egypt, find your family, you’ve always longed to! You can be free!”

  In the torchlight, his handsome face became stern. “How can I ignore the will of the gods? They made me a slave, they sent me to Keftiu. I have to return, no matter what.”

  She didn’t know what to do. Right now, the others were trying to steal the dagger; she should be helping them.

  “Come with me,” urged Userref.

  Things had happened quickly after that. With a cry she’d fled the chamber, stumbling through a maze of torchlit passages, trying in vain to find the others. Then, somehow, she’d fetched up at the gates—and found Hekabi clamoring for her release.

  Seagulls wheeled above the crossroads, calling in the dark, and Hekabi hissed at her to hurry.

  What would you do, Pirra? Hylas had asked.

  Well, now she knew. She was just as ruthless as her mother. She had con
demned Userref to death.

  And in the end, it had been for nothing, because the plan had failed. The Crows still had the dagger. And Hylas was gone.

  Without warning, Hekabi grabbed her arm and yanked her behind a thornbush. “Someone’s coming!” she breathed.

  A figure was approaching the crossroads. Pirra watched it whip off its cap and wipe its brow. She saw the starlight gleam in its fair hair.

  She stepped out from behind the thorns. “You didn’t leave,” she said.

  Pirra looked very pale, and she was staring at him as if he was a ghost. “I thought you’d left,” she said. “I thought—”

  “No time to explain,” he cut in. Then to the wisewoman: “We’ve got to take it to the Mountain, yes?”

  She didn’t reply. She was transfixed by what he held in his fist. “Is that . . .”

  “Yes,” he said impatiently.

  “The dagger,” gasped Pirra. “How did—”

  “Let’s just say Akastos is a better thief than we thought. Hekabi, the Mountain. That’s what we’ve got to do, isn’t it? Find the lair of a fire spirit and throw it in; then the Lady will destroy it.”

  Hekabi clutched his wrist. “And it must be you who does it.”

  “Of course,” said Pirra. “An Outsider wields the blade and the House of Koronos burns . . .”

  “And then at last,” said Hekabi, “Thalakrea will be free.”

  Hylas glanced at the dagger in his fist. He didn’t like the way things were coming together. He was being pushed around by forces beyond his power to understand.

  In the starlight, he made out great flocks of crows cawing in alarm around Kreon’s stronghold. He had the uneasy feeling that somehow, they were part of it too. But how? What was he missing?

  “We’ve got to hurry,” said Hekabi. “There’s no telling when they’ll find out it’s gone.”

  Pirra snapped her fingers. “Horses! They keep them at the Neck, if we could steal some . . .”

  Hylas didn’t move. He was watching the gulls and the crows cutting across the stars.

  “Hylas?” said Pirra. “What is it?”

  He thought of the wild creatures who’d been acting so oddly: the mice fleeing the deep levels, the birds who should have been roosting but weren’t, the frogs who’d disappeared from the ponds. In his dream, Issi had tried to warn him. Where are the frogs, Hylas? Where are the frogs?

  He thought of the blood spurting from Akastos’ swollen thumb, and of that blasted spur on the Mountainside, which bulged as if something vast was trying to force its way out . . .

  Then he knew. Kreon had dug too deep, and the Lady of Fire was angrier than anyone imagined.

  He turned to Pirra. “It’s going to blow up.”

  “What is?” she replied.

  “Thalakrea.”

  35

  “It’s not true,” Hekabi said fiercely. “The Mountain’s been angry before—but She would never destroy Her own people!” Her arms were tightly crossed, as if to keep out the dreadful suspicion that Hylas might be right.

  Pirra felt wrenchingly sorry for her, because she knew that he was. “The red river swallows Thalakrea,” she said.

  He shot her a glance.

  “I just remembered. Hekabi said it when she was in a trance.”

  “I say lots of things in a trance,” spat Hekabi, “that doesn’t make them true! We know the Lady of Fire, we’ve worshipped Her for thousands of years!”

  “The Crows haven’t,” cut in Hylas. Swiftly, he told her about the restlessness he’d observed in the wild creatures at the mines. When she brushed that aside, he described the bulge in the Mountainside.

  At that, the spirit seemed to go out of her. She was shaking her head, but Pirra could see that the truth was sinking in.

  “Hekabi,” said Pirra. “Your people need you more than ever.”

  Hekabi stared at her in a daze of shock.

  “Go to your village,” Hylas told her. “Warn them, warn the slaves at the mines. Tell them to get off the island!” Then to Pirra, “You too, you go with her.”

  “No! I’m going with you, you can’t do this on your own.”

  “Yes I can, there’s no sense in your staying.”

  “Hylas, if we can find just one of those fiery cracks and throw in the dagger, we can be back at the village before the last boat leaves!”

  “Like I said, there’s no sense in your staying—”

  “And like I said, yes there is, because you don’t know the way to the village.”

  He chewed his lip. “Come on, we’re wasting time.”

  The Mountain was spewing columns of smoke that towered above the plain. Lightning split the darkness. The horse squealed, nearly bucking them off.

  Hylas clung to handfuls of mane and dug in his heels. He smelled the beast’s terror, and felt Pirra clinging to his waist. He strained for the sound of hoofbeats behind them. So far, nothing.

  Thanks to Akastos’ seal and a story about making an offering to the Mountain, Pirra had talked the guards at the Neck into letting her through, and while she distracted them, Hylas had sneaked into the horse pen and stolen a mount. Now its hooves struck sparks off the obsidian trail as it flew across the plain, and the Mountain loomed closer with astonishing speed.

  They reached the edge of the thickets and slid off to let the horse catch its breath. Pirra had persuaded the guards to give her a waterskin, and they both took a pull; but when she poured some into Hylas’ hands for the horse, it shied, too frightened to drink.

  “Not much farther,” he told it, stroking its neck.

  Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. Hylas and Pirra exchanged glances. The Lady of Fire had woken the Earthshaker, and now She was calling on the Sky Father too: Commanding both Her immortal brothers to help fight the Angry Ones, and rid Her of these upstart mortals who’d been gnawing at Her innards.

  From where they stood, the Mountain’s flanks were dark with broom. Pirra pointed to a shadowy outcrop just above the thickets. “I remember those rocks; weren’t there fire spirits just beyond?”

  “That’s good,” said Hylas, “they’re closer than I thought.”

  The horse sidestepped and rolled its eyes, but he managed to scramble back on. As he pulled Pirra up behind him, the earth shook and the obsidian trail heaved like a snake. The horse reared—flung them off—and galloped into the murk.

  Hylas got to his feet, and saw Pirra rubbing her elbow. “You all right?”

  She nodded. “You still got the dagger?”

  He gripped the hilt.

  The earth’s growls died away. The smoke venting from the summit thinned, and a weird calm descended. The Mountain was holding Her breath.

  The obsidian trail cut a swathe through the thicket, which made climbing much easier, and they emerged above the broom sooner than they’d expected. Hylas cast about him in the eerie red glimmer. No crusted yellow rocks, no hissing cracks. This part of the Mountain had utterly changed.

  “Where have they gone?” said Pirra.

  He shook his head. The fire spirits had fled. In Pirra’s eyes, he saw his own dread. What if they couldn’t find any?

  She jerked her head at the summit. “There were lots farther up.”

  He didn’t reply. What was that pattering? Something was falling from the sky: softly, like gray snow. But it was hot.

  Pirra coughed. Her dark hair was speckled with gray. Hylas picked a flake off her shoulder. “It’s ash,” he said.

  She motioned him to silence.

  Through the pattering of the ash, he heard it too. Many hooves clattering on obsidian. The Crows.

  Together they raced higher, but soon reached a dead end. A landslide had buried the trail. Above them, steep slopes of black rock gleamed in the weird red light.

  “We’ll have to climb,” muttered Hyla
s.

  He’d scarcely started when Pirra yanked him sideways. A heartbeat later, a giant slab of rock broke off and slid over where he’d been standing.

  They watched it crash into the thickets and disintegrate in clouds of dust.

  Pirra broke a chunk from the slope and crumbled it in her fingers with startling ease. “It’s not stone,” she said in disbelief. “It’s sand. How can we climb sand?”

  Hylas craned his neck. If that slope came down on them, they’d be buried alive—or sent hurtling to the plain. But the hoofbeats were gaining on them. “We’ll have to try,” he said.

  To spread the load, they separated. Hylas took a step up. His foot sank and slid, sending sand hissing down the slope. He waited till it had settled, then tried again. This time, he managed to climb a little higher. He went on sinking and sliding, climbing with nightmarish slowness. He saw a boulder jutting from the sand, and hauled himself onto it. He saw Pirra do the same. From there, he worked sideways to a patch that looked firmer . . . And still the ash fell, speckling the slopes with deathly gray.

  At last he reached a ridge of solid rock. He hauled himself over and lay gasping. Pirra had reached it too, she was on her knees not far off. They were back on the obsidian trail.

  But where were the fire spirits?

  “They can’t be much farther,” panted Pirra.

  Hylas lurched to his feet and started up the trail.

  They hadn’t gone far when it came to an abrupt end. They had reached the summit. Only here it wasn’t a knife edge, it was ten paces wide, and jagged with huge black boulders like broken teeth. Peering between them, Hylas glimpsed the far side of the crater, and the bulging spur. It had swelled to a huge canker, and was spewing smoke. When it burst, it would destroy Thalakrea.

  “Where are the fire spirits?” cried Pirra.

  Hylas tried to reply but his mouth had gone dry.

  Between the giant teeth, he could see down into the crater, and it was no longer a cauldron of cold gray stone, but a blinding red glare. He felt its heat, he saw how it heaved and rocked, spattering the sides with liquid flame.