Painfully, Hylas got to his feet and started plodding up the valley. No broken bones, but lots of bruises and an aching head.

Jinx was long gone. The immediate threat of the Crows was gone, too, but Hylas was still lost. He decided his best chance was to keep climbing, in the hopes that he could get a glimpse of Mount Lykas.

And after that, what?

He knew now that the dagger was at Lapithos, the Crows’ ancestral stronghold on the lower slopes of Mount Lykas, which had once been Telamon’s home, and had been taken over by Koronos. But Lapithos was said to be impregnable, with walls ten cubits thick – and with Koronos and the dagger inside, it would be bristling with guards. Even if he found his way there, he couldn’t steal the dagger on his own.

Maybe he should try to find what remained of the rebels, and see if he could persuade them to help?

Pondering this, he rounded a spur.

It turned out that Jinx hadn’t gone far, after all. He’d found himself a shady spot in a ravine, and was quietly cropping the grass.

Catching Hylas’ scent, the stallion jerked up his head and stared at him.

Hylas wondered what to do. The ravine was steep-sided and narrow, and behind Jinx, it had been blocked by a rockfall; it should be possible to trap the stallion by closing off this end with dead wood. But getting Jinx to trust him would take time, and it might prove impossible – not to mention dangerous: those hooves could split his skull like an eggshell.

And yet. He could cover more ground and find the rebels faster on horseback – as well as escape the Crows.

There was something else, too. If he left Jinx now, then sooner or later, the stallion would be recaptured. More whips, more beatings. Jinx needed Hylas as much as Hylas needed Jinx.

Hylas also had a strange feeling that if he helped Jinx, then the Lady of the Wild Things might help Issi. He’d felt something like this before, when he’d first found Havoc on Thalakrea: a small, frightened lion cub in danger of starving to death. Jinx was neither small nor starving; but the feeling was the same.

Slowly, with no sudden moves, Hylas picked up one end of a fallen sapling, and dragged it across the mouth of the ravine.

‘The hardest thing about taming a horse,’ a fellow slave called Zan had once told Hylas, ‘is taming your own feelings. If you’re scared, the horse will know it in a heartbeat, and he’ll use it against you.’

Hylas clearly wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing his alarm, because as he tried for the tenth time to approach Jinx, the stallion tossed his head and stamped one hoof, flaring those nostrils as big as plums; then he lunged at Hylas, baring his yellow teeth.

For the tenth time, Hylas raised his long bendy stick, to the end of which he’d tied a scrap of his tunic: not to strike, merely to block the horse’s attack.

Jinx shied away from the rag, snorting and side-stepping. Foam flecked his chestnut flanks: he was trembling with anger and fear. Mostly fear. He knew he was trapped, and he hated the smell of the human who’d done this. He hated all humans.

Hylas lowered the stick and waited. The Sun beat down on his head, and he longed to cool off in the little brook he heard chattering among the rocks.

At last, Jinx quietened a little. Talking softly, Hylas took one small step towards him. Jinx eyed the rag and prepared to attack again.

Zan had told Hylas about the trick with the stick when they’d been slaves in the Thalakrean mines. Zan’s father had been a horse-tamer, and Zan had enjoyed talking of him; he used to say proudly that Arzawans were the best horse-tamers in the world.

‘The main thing is patience,’ he’d told Hylas. ‘Let the horse come to you, when he’s ready.’

Which would be fine, if you had days and days to spare …

The Sun was getting low when Jinx suddenly seemed to lose interest in attacking Hylas, and threw down his head and snatched a few mouthfuls of grass.

This time, Hylas got close enough to touch the horse’s shoulder with the rag: a gentle caress that made Jinx’s withers twitch – although he didn’t move away.

Slowly, Hylas passed the rag over the gleaming chestnut back and down the stallion’s rump. He lowered the stick. He took another step forwards. He held out his hand.

Jinx put back his ears and made a half-hearted attempt to bite, which Hylas blocked with the stick.

The next time he tried, Jinx didn’t bite. He stood tensely, but he let Hylas lay his palm on his shoulder.

Hylas felt the heat coming off the stallion, and breathed his rich horsey scent. Jinx ground his teeth and shook his head irritably, as if the bridle hurt, and Hylas noticed that his mouth was crusted with scabs. Now he saw why. Fastened between both sides of the bridle and forced between the stallion’s teeth, was a jagged bronze bar: that must hurt with every yank of the rope.

Hylas had never seen such a thing, but he remembered something Zan had told him. ‘It’s called a bit,’ the Arzawan boy had said, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘We never use them, we don’t need to! Only bad horsemen use bits, to hide their lack of skill.’

‘Let’s get this off you, shall we?’ murmured Hylas. Still talking under his breath, he shielded Jinx’s eyes with one hand and slipped the bridle over his head with the other, then gently eased the bit from between Jinx’s teeth.

Jinx looked startled, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He watched as Hylas slung the bridle over his arm and walked over to the brook.

With his knife, Hylas cut off the hated bit, stowing it in his pouch in case it came in useful; then he washed the bridle and scrubbed it with grit, to take away the smell of the Crows. Finally, he rubbed his palms all over it, working his own scent into the leather, then hung it on a branch, so that Jinx could get used to it and sniff it whenever he liked.

After that, things improved faster than Hylas had dared hope. When he wandered off to look for herbs, Jinx watched him go; and when he returned to the brook, the stallion ambled closer, then started cropping the grass. By nightfall, he let Hylas smear a poultice of mud and mashed wormwood leaves on the weals on his flanks; and the Marsh Dwellers’ yellow salve proved an unexpected success when Hylas patted it gently on the scabs around the horse’s mouth, as Jinx seemed to like the taste.

He liked it, too, when Hylas scratched his neck with his fingers. And he loved it when Hylas started unplaiting his mane, which the Crows had braided cruelly tight. Jinx stood patiently, swishing his tail at the flies, and when Hylas had finished, the stallion gave a luxurious shudder from nose to tail, then threw himself down and rolled in the grass, kicking his hooves in the air and snorting with delight.

By now, there was just enough light left for Hylas to make a rough shelter of branches. The Crows would still be far away; he would head off in the morning.

He was exhausted, but he slept badly, as his head was aching even worse than before; but whenever he woke, he was comforted by the sounds of Jinx’s soft slow breathing outside, and the occasional swish of his tail.

The next morning, Hylas smeared the last of the Marsh Dwellers’ salve on the bridle, and held it out for Jinx to sniff. When the horse didn’t shy, Hylas slipped the bridle over his head.

Jinx contented himself with a little side-stepping, but when Hylas walked a few paces, he allowed himself to be led. And some time later, he let Hylas ease himself gently on to his back.

The next night was colder, as they’d climbed higher into the foothills.

Hylas camped among pines at the edge of a steep forested gorge that echoed with birdsong. He’d seen no trace of the Crows all day, but he didn’t dare risk a fire. Jinx stood nearby, dozing with his head down.

Hylas now had a rough idea where he was, because just before sunset, he’d glimpsed Mount Lykas in the distance. It was to the south-east, but closer than he’d thought. He’d never seen it from this angle, and as its triple fangs glared red in the last of the light, it looked both familiar and oddly alien. He’d had a hard life on that mountain, but Issi had been with him. As he watched the light dying on its peaks, he was gripped by both pain and longing.

Huddled in his shelter, he tried to force down a scrap of dried eel, but he wasn’t hungry. His head was throbbing, and he kept shivering.

He wished he had more of a lead on the rebels. During the day, he’d come upon a few tracks that might have been theirs, as well as a false trail that would have fooled anyone except an Outsider. This told him that the rebels knew these foothills well, and that it probably wouldn’t be a case of him finding them, but of them finding him. He was beginning to wish they would.

But who were they, these rebels about whom he’d heard only rumours? The Marsh Dwellers said they were peasants, fishermen and ex-slaves. Hylas wondered if Periphas was among them; he was an ex-slave, and a Messenian. Hylas had met him in the Thalakrean mines. Together they’d survived a cave-in, and escaped the island when it blew up, then wandered the Sea with other ex-slaves, seeking the way back to Akea. Periphas hated the Crows as much as Hylas: if he’d found his way to his homeland, he would have joined the rebels for sure.

And what about Akastos, was he with them too? Hylas admired Akastos above all other men; for a while, he’d even hoped that he would turn out to be his father. But he’d last seen Akastos in the spring, on Keftiu, and even if he had returned to Akea, he’d probably be far in the north near Mycenae, fighting for his farm that the Crows had taken from him.

Although even that was unlikely, because Akastos was on the run from the Angry Ones. Why would he return to Akea, with Them haunting the skies? Years ago, Akastos had been tricked by the lies of the Crows into fighting and killing his own brother. Ever since, he’d been on the run: both from the Crows, and from the spirits of vengeance …

The thought of the Angry Ones made Hylas shiver. Under his breath, he muttered the ancient charm against Them. He went on shivering. He couldn’t stop.

If Havoc had been with him, she would have slumped against him to warm him up with her great, furry bulk, and Pirra would have made him some herb tea – or more likely rolled her eyes and told him with a grin to do it himself. He missed them savagely. And his headache was much worse. Fuzzily, he wondered if he was sick.

Somewhere close by, a nightingale sang. Again, he thought of Pirra. She’d heard one for the first time when they’d camped in the Keftian hills last spring. It had been midnight, and in the stillness, the bird’s loud song had woken her up.

‘What’s that?’ she’d muttered crossly. ‘What kind of idiot bird sings in the middle of the night?’

Hylas had laughed. ‘A nightingale, of course.’

‘Huh! Well I wish it’d shut up and let me sleep!’

Then she’d seen the funny side of it, and burst out laughing, and together they’d chucked stones at the bushes until the nightingale flew off to wake up someone else …

Jinx nosed Hylas’ shoulder, and he jolted awake. His head felt as if metal bands were tightening around it, and he was freezing, yet drenched in sweat. Suddenly, his thoughts flew to the Marsh Dwellers’ platform among the reeds. He remembered the sick people huddled on their mats. Marsh fever. He had marsh fever.

And it was getting worse fast. Waves of sickness were surging through him, and he felt as if he was going to throw up.

Remembering the little pouch of poppy-seed tea, he rummaged in the bag. He couldn’t find it, it must have fallen out.

The last time he’d felt this ill was in Egypt, when he’d been stung by a scorpion – but then Pirra had been with him. He’d clung to her hand, gripping so hard that she’d had bruises for days.

His teeth were chattering uncontrollably, shivers shaking him from top to toe. Crows or no Crows, he had to make a fire.

He dropped his strike-fire and couldn’t find it in the dark. Instead he scrabbled around for sticks to rub together. It was all he could do to pick up a couple, but he was so weak he’d never manage it. He had to get warm, or he would die. But if he couldn’t wake a fire …

Once, when Issi was six, she’d caught a chill from swimming for too long in a lake, and Hylas had tried a cure he’d seen the peasants use. He’d found a donkey dozing in a barley patch, and laid Issi on its back, with her arms and legs hanging down on either side and her belly against the beast’s warm, furry back. She’d lain like that all night, and by morning, the warmth of the donkey’s body had done its work, and she was better.

Jinx gave Hylas a doubtful glance when he lurched towards him. Then the stallion seemed to sense that something was wrong, and after a bit of side-stepping, he allowed Hylas to struggle on to his back.

Hylas lay with his cheek against the horse’s neck, and felt Jinx’s blissful warmth stealing through his body. Jinx shifted his weight from hoof to hoof, and he nearly slid off. He mumbled a prayer to the Lady of the Wild Things to keep the stallion still, because if he did fall off, he’d never have the strength to climb back on.

Jinx’s neck drooped as he began to doze. Hylas’ thoughts became tangled and confused. He was no longer in camp but on a shoulder of Mount Lykas, and Issi was standing under a pine tree. Her arms were crossed on her scrawny chest, and she was scowling at him.

‘Why did you never come and find me?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘I waited and waited, but you never came!’

He wanted to tell her that he’d tried, but that all sorts of things had got in the way: Thalakrea, Keftiu, Egypt … Above all, the Crows.

‘And now I have to find the dagger,’ he tried to tell her, ‘or we’ll never be free of them.’ But he couldn’t move his lips, and no sound came.

Then Issi was gone, and Havoc was licking his foot with her hot, rasping tongue – and here was Pirra, walking past him with her axe over her shoulder.

‘Pirra!’ Hylas tried to call, but all he managed was a raspy wheeze.

Pirra turned her head, and her dark eyes looked straight through him as she whistled to Havoc.

He called again, but the dream faded and they were gone.