33

In the ashen light of the Great Court, the Crow Chieftain looked enormous.

His boar’s-tusk helmet could turn any blade, and his armor was thick rawhide and impenetrable bronze. His shield was studded ox-hide as tall as a man, but he bore it lightly on one shoulder as if it was birch bark. He moved with the swagger of a hunter sure of his prey: a seasoned killer armed with sword, spear, dagger, and whip. Hylas was a boy of thirteen with a knife, a slingshot, and a bag of beads.

As Hylas drew his knife, Kreon’s whip cracked out, yanked it from his fist, and sent it skittering over the stones. The whip struck again. Hylas leaped sideways. Not fast enough. He yelped as its bronze tip bit his thigh.

Again and again the whip forced him back toward the empty heart of the Great Court. The only weapon that could help him was the giant double axe, hopelessly out of reach at the north end—with Kreon in the way. In desperation, Hylas dodged behind the sacred tree.

“That’s not going to work,” sneered Kreon.

Hylas fumbled at his pouch and grabbed a bead for his slingshot. The carnelian slipped through his fingers and bounced over the stones. He loaded another and swung the slingshot at Kreon’s face. The warrior parried it with his shield—and the next shot and the next.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Kreon grinned as he drove Hylas around and around the tree. One by one, Hylas’ shots clanged off ox-hide and bronze. Suddenly he had only three left.

His first struck Kreon’s kneecap; the warrior didn’t even blink. The second hit his wrist bone with a crack that made him drop his spear with a hiss. As he stooped to retrieve it, Hylas took aim with his final shot. He’d saved the biggest for last, and a stone the size of a pigeon’s egg hit Kreon on the throat. The warrior gave a choking roar, but recovered fast, and charged.

Dropping the slingshot, Hylas fled, zigzagging toward the double axe on its mount. For a big man, Kreon moved with terrifying speed, but Hylas was faster. Grabbing the axe shaft with both hands, he pulled. It was sunk deep in its mount; it wouldn’t come out. Kreon was almost upon him. With a last gut-straining heave, Hylas wrenched the axe free. It was so heavy he nearly fell over, but somehow he swung it, missing Kreon and striking the stones instead. Kreon jabbed with his sword. Hylas leaped sideways, swung the axe again, and brought it down with shattering force on Kreon’s shield.

Undaunted, the warrior cast off the mangled ox-hide and came at Hylas again, feinting this way and that with sword and whip. Struggling with the weight of the axe, Hylas edged backward. Behind him lay the dark ramp leading down to the understory: His only way out.

But no sooner had he formed the thought than Kreon guessed, and moved behind to cut him off. Once again, his whip forced Hylas back to the unprotected heart of the Great Court.

Hylas was exhausted. The yellow stone floor with its painted blue leaves swam before his eyes, and the axe was a dead weight, a lethal hindrance in close combat. Kreon wasn’t even breathing hard. Like any skilled hunter, he was making his quarry do the running.

As he closed in for the kill, he studied Hylas, and his heavy face twisted in scorn. “Can this be the Outsider who threatens the House of Koronos?”

“If you believe the Oracle,” panted Hylas.

“Oracles!” spat Kreon. “Give me the dagger of Koronos, boy, and I’ll give you an easy death.”

“I haven’t got it.”

“I can see that. Take me to it, and I’ll make it quick.”

“No.”

The Crow Chieftain was so close that Hylas could smell the rancid oil in his beard and see a thread of spittle stretched between his yellow teeth. “Listen to me, Outsider. You’re going to die. The only question is how. Give me the dagger and you won’t suffer. Refuse, and I’ll make it last all day.”

Hylas swayed.

“I’ll make you long for death,” Kreon went on. “I’ll make you beg me to bring your suffering to an end . . .”

He was enjoying this. Hylas saw the red veins in the whites of his eyes, and the lightless pits of his pupils. Hylas thought of the men, women, and children who had perished in the mines of Thalakrea to satisfy this man’s hunger for bronze. He thought how that hunger had angered the gods into bringing death and destruction to Keftiu. And he thought of his sister, who was either dead or battling to survive in the wilds of Messenia—because the Crows hunted Outsiders like beasts.

“My name,” he panted, “isn’t Outsider. It’s Hylas. And I’ll never give you the dagger.”

Kreon looked at him. Then he nodded. “You’ve made your choice. Outsider.”

His whip cracked out, but already Hylas was swinging his axe. It came down awkwardly, the flat of the blade missing Kreon’s skull and dealing him a bone-crunching blow on the sword hand. Kreon bellowed and his sword went flying—but with the speed of a snake, he switched his whip to his injured hand and yanked his knife from his belt with the other.

Hylas dropped the axe and sped for the sacred tree. Reaching it just before his attacker, he clawed earth from its roots and flung it in Kreon’s face. For an instant the warrior was blinded, and Hylas fled for the safety of the understory.

Halfway there, he spotted Kreon’s spear on the ground and swerved to retrieve it. Mistake. The warrior’s whip caught his ankle and jerked him off his feet.

For a heartbeat, Hylas’ breath was knocked from his body, he couldn’t move. He saw the spear lying just out of reach. He saw Kreon closing in for the kill.

As he struggled to his knees, Hylas caught movement on the ramp. Then a deafening bellow rent the air, hooves clattered on stone . . .

. . . and out from the understory galloped the guardian bull of Kunisu.