Gods and Warriors Read Free Page A

house-snake’s bowl as he went; snakes talk to each other, and if you annoy one, you annoy them all.
    The next hut belonged to Neleos, and it was empty. Hylas grabbed a waterskin, some rawhide rope for a belt, and a wovengrass sack into which he crammed a coil of blood sausage, a ewe’s-milk cheese, a flatbread, and handfuls of olives. He also stole a drink from the old man’s wine jar, then flung ash in what was left, to pay him back for all the thrashings over the years.
    Voices were coming closer; the spirit gates creaked shut. He slipped out the way he’d come—and realized too late that he’d forgotten to steal a knife.
    The Moon had risen and the night crickets were starting up as he reached the shadowy grove of almond trees beyond the village. Hastily, he pulled on the tunic and tied the rope around his waist.
    A few late bees hummed about the hives, and he spotted an offering-table in the grass. Hoping it had been there long enough for any creatures sent by the gods to have eaten their fill, he gobbled two honey cakes and a chickpea pancake crammed with a delicious mush of lentils, dried perch, and crumbled cheese. He left a scrap for the bees and begged them to look after Issi. They hummed a reply; he couldn’t tell if it meant yes or no.
    It occurred to him that Issi couldn’t have been this way, or she’d have eaten that pancake. Should he wait for her here, or try to find his way to Lapithos, and hope she’d gone there to find Telamon? But Lapithos was somewhere on the other side of the Mountain, and neither Hylas nor Issi had ever been there. All they knew about it was from Telamon’s vague descriptions.
    Somewhere in the distance, that dog he’d heard earlier was still barking. It sounded dispirited, as if it no longer believed anyone would come. Hylas wished it would stop. It reminded him of Scram.
    He didn’t want to think about Scram. There was a wall in his mind, and behind it were bad things waiting to be remembered.
    In the mountains the heat goes fast once the Sun is down, and despite the coarse woolen tunic, he shivered. He was exhausted. He decided to get clear of the village and find somewhere to sleep.
    He hadn’t gone far when he realized that the dog had stopped barking. Now it was uttering long, outraged yowls.
    These grew abruptly louder as Hylas rounded a bend.
    The dog wasn’t as big as Scram, but just as shaggy. Its owner had tied it to a tree outside his pine-bough shelter and left it a bowl of water, which it had drunk dry. It was young and frightened, and when it saw Hylas it went wild, rising on its hind legs at the end of its rope and flailing its forepaws in an ecstasy of welcome.
    Hylas felt as if a hand had reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart. An image of Scram flashed before his eyes: Scram lying dead with an arrow in his flank.
    The dog barked at him eagerly and waggled its hindquarters.
    “Shut up!” he told it.
    The dog cocked its head and whined.
    Quickly, Hylas untied his waterskin and sloshed water in its bowl, then threw it the sausage. The dog slurped the water and inhaled the sausage, then knocked him over and licked his cheek. Grief twisted inside him. He buried his face in the dog’s fur, breathing in its warm doggy smell. With a cry, he pushed it away and scrambled out of reach.
    The dog swung its tail and made imploring
oo-woo-woo
noises.
    “I can’t untie you,” said Hylas. “You’d only follow me and I’d get caught!”
    The dog gazed at him beseechingly.
    “You’ll be all right,” he told it. “Whoever tied you up cared enough to leave water; they’ll be back soon.”
    That was right, wasn’t it? Because he couldn’t take it with him, not with the black warriors on his trail. Dogs don’t understand about hiding. You can’t tell a dog not to give you away.
    But what if they killed it, like they’d killed Scram?
    Before he could change his mind, he snatched the water bowl, untied the dog, and dragged it after him. When they