The Burning Shadow Read online

  “I mean it, Pirra, keep your head down. It’s not just clothes that make a disguise. You still hold yourself like the daughter of a priestess. And you’re too clean. You’re poor now. Act like it.”

  Pirra scooped a handful of mud and rubbed it over her face and hair.

  “Better,” said Hylas.

  “I will help you escape,” she said fiercely.

  Again that strange, lost look. “Don’t even try,” he warned. “You’ll only put yourself in more danger than you are already.”

  “That’s my choice, not yours. We’ll find a way off this island. Then I can finally give you that amulet I’ve been carrying around since last summer.”

  Hekabi was almost within earshot.

  “How will I reach you?” whispered Pirra.

  Hylas shouldered his waterskins. At the last moment he turned and breathed one word: “Hedgehog.”

  “So who was that?” said Zan as they dragged their empty sacks down to the deep levels.

  “I told you,” said Hylas. “Just some slave I met once.”

  “Oh yes? Is she your girl?”

  “No!”

  “Fine. Then you won’t mind if I—”

  “Yes I will, you stay away from her.”

  “Why? She’d be quite pretty cleaned up—”

  “Zan!” Hylas gave him a shove.

  Zan laughed. “All right, all right. So if she’s not your girl, what’d she want?”

  “She’s scared. They’re taking her to Kreon. I told her I couldn’t help.”

  “You’re right about that,” said Zan.

  They went deeper, and the older boy became more subdued. Ahead of them, Spit began to whimper. Beetle swung his head from side to side, peering into the dark.

  Mice scurried along the floor and a bat flickered past Hylas. He hardly noticed. Pirra was here, on Thalakrea. Pirra. Shock, joy, anxiety, fear—all churning inside him. He hated thinking of her in Kreon’s stronghold. She was clever, but she hadn’t grown up living by her wits. She’d need help getting out of there.

  All of which should’ve made him angry. Now he had to think about her as well as himself. And yet—somehow, that didn’t matter. He was no longer alone.

  They reached one of the shafts that opened onto the deep levels. The greenstone was piled near it amid coils of rope, and the men who’d hauled it up from below were heading back to the upper levels. Hylas loaded his sack and tried to forget about Pirra. He had enough to worry about, staying alive down here.

  This was one of the better places in the mines, where the roof was strengthened with beams; and the men had a lamp, so he could keep an eye on Spit.

  Spit had grown even thinner and more like a skeleton than ever. Sometimes, Hylas almost felt sorry for him. Then he would remember the snatcher inside him, and what it might do.

  “What’s Kreon want with a wisewoman?” Bat asked Zan as they filled their sacks.

  “He gets these terrible pains in his head,” said the older boy. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Maybe he’ll die,” Bat said hopefully.

  They sniggered. Hylas didn’t. If Kreon died, the wisewoman would be punished—and so would Pirra.

  “Pains in his head,” repeated Zan. “Maybe some spirit’s sticking its knife in his ear, eh?”

  “It’s ’cuz he killed that lion,” said Bat with feeling. “He shouldn’t of, it done nothing to him.”

  “You and your animals,” teased Zan.

  Hylas stopped listening. I’ll help you escape, Pirra had said. She’d been so certain. That was only because she didn’t know what the mines were like, but it still helped. And she’d called him Hylas. It had been a shock hearing her say his name, but a good one. For the first time in a moon, he felt like himself: not Flea the slave, but Hylas of Lykonia, who was going to escape and find his sister.

  A bat brushed his ear, bringing him back to the present.

  “Come on, Flea,” called Zan. “Time to get moving.”

  As he started after them, mice scurried over his hands, and he shooed them away.

  Lots of mice: a river of tiny furry bodies and scratchy little feet. It struck him that they were all scurrying the same way.

  The bats too were all flying up the tunnel.

  He stopped. What had they sensed?

  Beneath his palms, he felt a tiny shudder in the rock.

  He went cold. “Zan!” he yelled. “Bat! Beetle! Get back here!”

  “What?”

  “Get back here under the beams, quick! It’s caving in!”

  There was a roaring in his ears and the lamp snuffed out.

  Then the darkness slammed down.

  12

  “Zan? Can you hear me?”

  “F-Flea? Where are you?”

  “Down here by the shaft. You?”

  “Uh . . . Tunnel’s blocked. I can’t see a thing.”

  “Me neither. Are the others with you?—Zan?”

  “Um—yes.”

  “There’s space where I am. Can you make it down?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “There’s a gap, can you reach my hand? Got you. Can you get through? Zan. Answer me. Can you get through?”

  “M-maybe.”

  “Right. Bat, you first, you’re the smallest. He’s through, Zan. Get behind me, Bat, and mind the shaft. Beetle, you’re next. It’s Flea, I’ve got you. Your turn, Zan.”

  “N-no, Spit’s next.”

  “Spit?” Hylas hadn’t reckoned on Spit being there; he was the one who’d caused the cave-in by knocking out the prop.

  “H-help me,” stammered Spit.

  In the dark, Hylas felt bony fingers clutch his through the gap. He hesitated. He was trapped eight levels down with a mad boy possessed by a snatcher. But this was no time for a fight. Quickly, he pulled Spit through, followed by Zan. The five of them huddled together, their breath loud in the dark.

  “What do we do now, Zan?” said Bat in a small voice.

  Zan didn’t reply. Hylas could feel him shaking. He was supposed to be the leader, but instead he was frozen with fear.

  Hylas said, “What do you think, Zan? The main tunnel’s blocked; any chance we could dig our way out?”

  “None,” said Zan curtly.

  “Right. So we find another way. Help me feel for gaps.”

  The older boy seemed to get a grip on himself, and together they started groping in the dark.

  “How did you know it was going to cave in?” said Zan in a low voice.

  “What?” said Hylas.

  “You warned us just before it happened. How’d you know?”

  “Ask Spit,” muttered Hylas. “He got us into this.”

  “I n-never!” stammered Spit.

  “He couldn’t have,” said Zan, “he was right in front of me, he wasn’t doing anything.”

  “We’re wasting time,” said Hylas. Then later, “I think I’ve found something. Can you feel a draft? Behind these rocks. Wasn’t there a side-tunnel?”

  Zan gasped. “Of course! It’s not used, but—”

  “If we could clear the entrance,” said Hylas, “it might be a way out.”

  A cold hand clutched his shoulder. “It’s no use,” said Beetle.

  Angrily, Hylas shook him off.

  “It’s no use,” Beetle repeated.

  From below, a man’s voice rang out. “Who’s up there? Let down the rope!”

  They froze. They’d forgotten the men in the deep levels.

  Hylas crawled to the shaft and peered down. A man holding a rushlight peered up at him. He was filthy and gaunt, but Hylas recognized the man with the broken nose.

  “Let down the rope,” he ordered.

  Hylas grabbed it, but Zan held him back. In the glimmer from below, his face was clammy
and pale. “What if that’s not really a man?” he breathed. “What if it’s a snatcher?”

  Again Hylas peered down the shaft. The man with the broken nose had been joined by three others. All were wild-eyed and covered in grime. They didn’t look human. Did those matted beards conceal the telltale ridge?

  “We can’t leave them to die,” he said.

  “What if Zan’s right?” whispered Spit, his eyes bulging with terror.

  Hylas swallowed. He called down to the man with the broken nose. “What’s your name?”

  “Periphas. What’s yours?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “What does that matter? Throw down the rope!”

  “Answer me!”

  “Messenia, you know that! Now the rope!”

  “That proves nothing,” hissed Zan.

  “You’re right,” said Hylas, “but we need them. We can’t clear this tunnel on our own. We’ll just have to risk it.”

  When you’re underground, time doesn’t exist. Hylas had no idea how long it had been since the men had climbed out of the shaft.

  Only four survivors from the deep levels; although from glances exchanged between them, Hylas guessed that an overseer had survived, and been swiftly finished off.

  They weren’t snatchers. At least, he didn’t think they were, but they worked with the strength of ten men, while he and the others helped as best they could.

  At last the entrance to the side-tunnel was clear. It led upward; they felt a faint draft that was slightly fresher.

  From the deep levels, the men had salvaged three rushlights, two coils of rope, and a full waterskin. Periphas, who seemed to be the leader, allowed everyone a mouthful of water, then they headed off. The men went first to clear the way, followed by Zan, Bat, Spit, and Beetle. Hylas volunteered to go last, with a rushlight, so that he could keep an eye on Spit.

  It was painfully slow going, as they had to keep stopping to clear rubble and listen for more cave-ins. Soon Hylas’ rushlight was nearly spent.

  He began to regret having offered to go last. Ahead of him he heard Beetle’s harsh breathing, and the others shuffling forward. Behind him—what?

  He pictured the angry ghosts of dead hammermen crawling out of the shaft, and snatchers emerging from the walls and silently following. He thought of cold earthen fingers stealing down his throat, squeezing his hot fluttering heart . . .

  In front of him, Beetle came to a sudden halt.

  “Why’d you stop?” said Hylas. The glimmer of the others’ light was moving ahead.

  “It’s no use,” said Beetle, shaking his head.

  “Stop saying that!”

  The others rounded a bend and their light blinked out. Hylas’ own was nearly spent. He called to them to wait, but they didn’t hear.

  “It’s no use,” repeated Beetle.

  Hylas grabbed his shoulder and shook him. “I’m not leaving you, so get moving!”

  Beetle turned his head and stared at him. In the rushlight’s dying glimmer, his eyes were unblinking and strangely dull. His flesh felt clammy. Hylas snatched his hand away.

  The light died.

  In the dark, Hylas felt Beetle’s breath on his face. It smelled of clay. Horror washed over him. Everything fell into place. Beetle was friendly aboveground, but surly and silent down the pit: like two people in one body.

  “It’s not Spit who’s possessed,” whispered Hylas. “It’s you.”

  13

  The thing that had stolen Beetle’s body slammed Hylas against the rocks. His nostrils clogged with the smell of earth. Cold fingers crawled up his chest, feeling their way like spiders toward his mouth . . .

  With a huge effort he shook his mind free, pushed Beetle off, and fled.

  Stony laughter echoed behind him, and he heard the earthy flap of feet.

  He hadn’t gone far when the ground beneath him creaked. He felt the roughness of wood and an uprush of hot foul air. He guessed he was on the log bridge that spanned the other shaft over the deep levels. As he blundered across, he glanced over his shoulder.

  All was dark—and yet somehow, he sensed what was there. He knew that on the other side of the bridge, there were two tunnels: the one he’d just left, and beside it another, a gaping mouth guarded by stone teeth jutting from the floor. And among them, flitting like half-seen shadows, were the vengeful spirits of the earth. In his mind he saw hair like spun dust, and eyes of lightless clay; earthen fingers groping for the tremors that betrayed the movements of their mortal prey.

  Hylas backed away, loosing a trickle of pebbles.

  The darkness tensed. They knew where he was. Now they’d found the bridge. They were surging across.

  He raced up the tunnel. Beneath the noise of his flight and his urgent breath, he caught a whisper of voices. Lone . . . sss . . . leave . . .

  Some mad impulse made him wheel around. “What do you want?” he cried.

  Dark against dark, they swayed, their lipless mouths snapping at his words.

  “What do you want?” he said again.

  Leave . . . lone . . . sss . . . leave . . . sss

  “But how can we leave?” he shouted. “You won’t let us out!”

  Sss . . . leave . . . lone . . .

  Suddenly the sounds came together in his mind and he grasped their meaning. He knew what they were trying to say.

  A man was calling him, somewhere close.

  Hylas lurched around a bend and thudded into him. Panting with terror, his fingers groped a matted beard and a broken nose—and below it, not the ridge of a snatcher, but the groove of a mortal man. “They’re behind us,” he gasped. “I think I—”

  “Come on,” muttered Periphas, “it’s not far to the others.”

  “I think I know what they want!”

  “He’s lost his mind,” said Zan. “It can’t be Beetle!”

  Murmurs of agreement from the others.

  “It is,” insisted Hylas. “He’s the one who’s possessed, not Spit. It was him all along.”

  They were in a low echoing cavern, faintly lit by their final rushlight.

  “How do we know Flea’s not the snatcher?” said Zan. “How do we know he didn’t kill Beetle, and it was him all along?”

  Hylas set his teeth. He knew that Zan was ashamed of his earlier failure, and desperate to reassert himself. “It’s Beetle,” he said. “There’s a snatcher inside him. It made him bring down the roof, and it’ll do it again.”

  “It’s true,” said Spit.

  All eyes turned to him.

  His skull-like face was shiny with sweat, but for once he was looking them in the eye.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” said Hylas.

  “I couldn’t,” said Spit. “Beetle—the thing inside him—it said it’d kill me. It said such terrible things. I’ve been so frightened—”

  “None of this matters now,” cut in Periphas. “What matters is getting out.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Hylas. “We’ve got to give them what they want—or they’ll never let us go!”

  “And what’s that?” demanded Periphas.

  Hylas took a deep breath—and told them.

  Snarls of disbelief.

  “Now we know he’s mad!” said one of the hammermen.

  “I say we kill him and give him to the snatchers,” said another. “Maybe then they’ll let us go.”

  Periphas was staring at Hylas. “We’re seven levels down, with who knows what ahead—and you want to make it worse?”

  “It’s the only way,” said Hylas. “Look. I know I can’t prove any of this, but I also know I’m right. This is what they’ve been trying to tell us. Don’t you see? They want the deep levels. If we can’t make that happen, they’ll never let us out.”

  Out, out, out . . . His vo
ice echoed through the cavern.

  “He’s right,” whispered Spit. “Can’t you feel them? They’re here in the walls, listening to everything we say . . .”

  The others glanced at one another, then at Periphas.

  He licked his lips and rubbed a hand over his beard.

  Hylas crawled back down the tunnel with one end of the rope over his shoulder and the last rushlight clamped between his teeth: back toward the bridge, and the angry spirits of the earth.

  This was the price the others had exacted for doing what he said. They would wait in the cavern, gripping the other end of the rope—which was actually the three ropes, knotted together—while he found his way to the main prop on this side of the bridge, and tied the rope around it. Then, when he’d rejoined the others, they would pull as hard as they could, and yank out the prop.

  If it worked, it might bring down the roof without killing them all—and seal the deep levels forever.

  The murmurs of the others faded behind him as he reached the bridge. All was eerily still. Shadows shrank from his rushlight and hid behind the stone teeth on the other side. No sign of snatchers—or Beetle—but Hylas could feel them watching.

  He found the pit prop, a sturdy log supporting the tunnel roof near the bridge. It looked immovable. He prayed it wasn’t.

  Jamming the rushlight in a crevice, he passed the end of the rope around the prop.

  At the corner of his vision, one of the stone teeth seemed to move. He forced himself not to look.

  The braided rawhide was thick, and his hands were slippery with sweat. He struggled to tie a knot.

  Laughter like falling stones echoed around the walls.

  “We’re doing what you want,” he panted. “We’re giving the deep levels back to you . . .”

  The laughter sank to an angry hiss.

  “Flea?” called Periphas. “Have you done it yet?”

  “Nearly,” he called back. There. That had to hold.

  Another hiss from across the bridge. He saw a figure crouching in front of the stone teeth. It was Beetle. He was beckoning.

  “Flea come on!” shouted Periphas.

  Hylas froze. Was that a draft gusting from between the stone teeth, cooling his sweat-soaked skin? Were those mice scurrying between them? And what was that dim light filtering through?