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.

‘Keep the fires burning all night,’ Telamon barked at his men. ‘I want a brazier in my tent, torches staked around camp, and two sentries on duty till dawn.’

The men’s shoulders slumped. ‘But my lord,’ said one. ‘There’s not many rebels in these parts. And to do all that, we’d have to gather lots more wood –’

‘I don’t care,’ Telamon said coldly. ‘Get it done.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Turning on his heel, Telamon stalked back to his tent. Scowling and grumbling under their breath, his men heaved themselves to their feet.

Hylas settled down in the bracken to wait for dusk.

The song of the crickets slowed, and as the Sun went down, Hylas watched the valley gradually fill with shadow. The sky was overcast. Good. The last thing he wanted was moonlight.

In the mountains, thunder growled, and with a pang he thought of Havoc and Pirra, far to the south. But he’d been right to send them away, he knew that. Staying together would have been far too dangerous.

Below him, the Crow warriors were trudging back to camp, bearing armfuls of firewood. Wearily, they fed the fires and planted torches around camp, then lugged a bronze brazier and a large pile of sticks into Telamon’s tent. After that, they settled around their fires and fell on their evening meal. The oniony smell of gruel drifted up the slope.

It was almost dark when one of the warriors stood up, yawning, and wandered over to the horses. The black horse whickered a greeting as the man untied its tether, but the brown one with the dark mane set back its ears and lunged at him with its yellow teeth bared.

‘Get away, you monster!’ snarled the warrior, snatching a stick and striking the horse a vicious blow on the head. Then he dragged the docile black one over to the water, and waited impatiently while it drank. In the evening hush, Hylas heard the beast’s long, slow, grateful slurps.

After returning the black horse to its grazing spot, the warrior hefted his stick and warily approached the brown one. It set back its ears, rolling its eyes at the stick, and as he stooped to undo its tether, it nipped him on the thigh.

Bellowing with rage, the warrior struck the horse across the eyes. It squealed and reared. ‘Then go thirsty!’ shouted the man as he stomped back to the fire, amid jeering and laughter from his comrades.

The brown horse was tugging at its stake in vain, and eyeing the stream that was so far out of reach. The sound of the water must be agonizing.

Something about the horse’s bony nose and scarred flanks jogged Hylas’ memory. Jinx, he thought. Yes, I remember you, your name is Jinx. And the black one’s name is Smoke.

Two summers before, these horses had belonged to Telamon’s father, Thestor, the Chieftain of Lykonia. Telamon had ‘borrowed’ them and the chariot without his permission, and driven to Hylas’ rescue. He’d helped Hylas escape. Back then, he and Telamon had been best friends.

For a moment, Hylas’ spirits plunged. They’d been friends … Telamon used to slip away from his father’s stronghold of Lapithos, and he and Hylas and Issi would range the slopes of Mount Lykas, stealing honey from bees’ nests, and getting into scrapes. They’d built their first raft together, and learnt to swim. Telamon had saved Hylas from an angry bull, and Hylas had hauled Telamon out of the cave of an irritated lioness.

Where had all that gone? How could it be that Thestor, who for years had kept Lykonia peaceful by having nothing to do with his kinsmen of the House of Koronos – that Thestor was dead in battle, and his son Telamon had become a cruel, arrogant, murderous young warrior? How was it possible?

Night fell. Bats flickered overhead. Hylas struggled to stay awake.

Below him, the horses stood dozing with their heads down. The two sentries leant on their spears by the fires. The other warriors had rolled themselves in their cloaks and fallen asleep.

Telamon’s slave slept on the ground outside the front of the tent, whose red walls glowed, lit from within by the brazier. Hylas made out Telamon’s dark silhouette, pacing up and down inside. Now and then, Telamon raised a drinking cup to his lips, pausing often to refill it from a jug on the ground; and from time to time, he fiddled with something at his wrist. Hylas guessed that was his sealstone. When he was a boy, Telamon used to fiddle with it when he was nervous.

Was he nervous now? But he’d beaten the rebels, so why did he still fear attack? Was that why he’d had his men pitch his tent at the edge of the gully? To prevent attack from that side? Was that why he’d insisted on all those torches planted around camp, and on having a brazier burning in his tent, even though the night was warm?

Midnight passed, and still Telamon paced. Hylas’ legs felt stiff and cramped. It was hard to keep his eyes open.

At last, the dark figure inside the tent stopped pacing. Hylas saw Telamon kneel and draw something from his belt. Was it the dagger? Now he was lifting the lid off some kind of box and laying something inside, then carefully replacing the lid. Hylas was wide awake. He thought of the narrow box of polished wood in which the Crows had kept the dagger, on Thalakrea.

By the stream, the warriors still slept, and the sentries dozed at their posts. The Crow camp was dark, only fitfully lit by the torches.

Finally, Telamon settled himself on the ground, and after much tossing and turning, he too lay still.

Soundlessly, Hylas started down the slope. First, he would secure his escape by tying the rope to that tree, then he’d stampede the horses.

Passing downwind of them so as not to wake them too early, he found the dismantled chariot, where he hid his waterskin and the bag of provisions which his Marsh Dweller guides had given him before they’d headed back to the marshes. Over his shoulder, he slung their parting gift, a coil of tough fishskin rope.

By the stream, a warrior muttered. Hylas ducked behind the chariot wheels. The warrior grunted in his sleep and turned over. His grunts didn’t seem to have woken the sentries; and no noises came from Telamon’s tent, except the occasional snore.

Hylas crept behind the tent to the pine tree at the edge of the gully. It was surrounded by clumps of prickly broom; pushing through this, he tied one end of the rope round the tree trunk, then quietly uncoiled the rest down the gully.

Suddenly, a cry of terror rent the air.

Hylas dived into the broom bushes.

That cry had been Telamon’s. Hylas heard warriors running towards the tent – ‘You all right, my lord?’ – and the slave’s tentative, ‘My lord?’

‘Go back to your posts, all of you!’ shouted Telamon from inside the tent. To Hylas, crouching behind it, he sounded terrifyingly close.

‘Yes, my lord,’ muttered the slave.

Not daring to breathe, Hylas listened to the warriors’ footsteps retreating, and the slave settling down again at the front of the tent. He heard Telamon muttering as he threw more wood on the brazier, then throwing himself once more on to the ground.

Finally, all went quiet.

Hylas pushed his head out of the bushes. Yes, still quiet.

He was about to crawl out when he heard footsteps coming round the other side of the tent. He froze. The footsteps stopped. Whoever it was must be standing no more than a few paces from where he knelt.

‘This can’t go on,’ said Telamon. ‘This can’t go on!’