Gods and Warriors Read Free

were daubed with red ochre and, from the wild bull’s horns lashed to the crossbeam, the Ancestor peered down. It had taken the body of a magpie, but it was an Ancestor all right—although not one of his.
    Hylas scattered the barley he’d stolen on the way, but the Ancestor ignored his offering. It knew he didn’t belong. The spirit gates were there to protect the village—and keep Outsiders out.
    The gates creaked open a crack, and grimy faces peered through. Hylas had known the villagers all his life, but they glared at him as if he were a stranger. Some held sputtering torches of giant fennel stalks; all gripped axes and sickles and spears.
    In a frenzy of barking, the dogs burst through and hurtled toward him. Their leader was a sheephound named Dart, as big as a boar and trained to rip open a man’s throat at a command. He came to a bristling halt before Hylas and fixed his eyes on him, his head menacingly low. He knew Hylas wasn’t allowed in-village.
    Hylas stood his ground. If he took a step back, Dart would attack. “Let me in!” he shouted.
    “What do you want?” growled Neleos, the headman.“You’re supposed to be on the Mountain, watching my goats!”
    “Let me in! I want my sister.”
    “She’s not here. Why would you think she was?”
    Hylas blinked. “But—where is she?”
    “Dead, for all I care.”
    “You’re lying,” said Hylas. But inside he was panicking.
    “
You left my goats!
” roared Neleos. “She wouldn’t dare come back without them—and neither would you unless you want a red skin!”
    “She’ll be here soon. Let me in! They’re after me!”
    Neleos narrowed his eyes and scratched his beard with one horny hand. He had a peasant’s bent legs and lumpy shoulders from hefting a yoke, but he was sharper than a weasel, always scheming to get more for less. Hylas knew he was torn between the urge to punish him for leaving the goats, and the desire to keep him alive so that he could do more work.
    “They killed Skiros,” said Hylas. “They’ll kill me too. You’ve got to break the rules and let me in!”
    “Send him away, Neleos!” shrilled a woman. “He’s been nothing but trouble since the day you found him!”
    “Set the dogs on him!” shouted another. “If they catch him here, we’re all in danger!”
    “She’s right, set the dogs on him! He must’ve done something or they wouldn’t be after him.”
    “But who
are
they?” cried Hylas. “Why are they after Outsiders?”
    “I don’t know and I don’t care,” snarled Neleos; but Hylas could see the fear in his eyes. “All I know is they’re from somewhere out east and they’re hunting Outsiders. Well,
let
them! They can do what they like as long as they leave us alone!”
    Shouts of agreement from the villagers.
    Hylas licked his lips. “What about the law of sanctuary? If someone’s in danger, you’ve
got
to let them in!”
    For a moment, Neleos hesitated. Then his face hardened. “That doesn’t work for Outsiders,” he spat. “Now get moving or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

    Dark soon, and nowhere to go.
    Well then, all
right
, Hylas raged at the villagers in his head, if you won’t help me, I’ll help myself.
    Doubling back through the pines, he made his way to the rear of the village. It was deserted: Everyone was still at the spirit gates.
    If they thought he’d never been in-village, they were wrong. When you’re an Outsider, you steal to survive.
    Slipping through a gap in the thorns, he crept to the nearest hut, which belonged to a sly old widow named Tyro. The fire was banked up, and in the smoky red gloom he upset a little dish of milk that had been set down for the house-snake. On a cot in the corner, a bundle of rags grunted.
    Hylas froze. Silently, he lifted a haunch of smoked pig off a hook.
    Tyro shifted on her cot and snored.
    He took a tunic slung over the rafters, but left the sandals, as he always went barefoot in summer. Another grunt from Tyro. He fled, righting the