Gods and Warriors Read Free Page B

were within sight of the village, he tied it to a tree, refilledits bowl, and checked that the rope around its neck wasn’t too tight.
    “You’ll be all right,” he muttered. “Someone will come.”
    He left the dog sitting on its haunches, whining softly and watching him go. When he glanced back, it sprang to its feet and gave a hopeful
oo-woo.
    Hylas clenched his teeth and ran off into the night.

    Clouds hid the Moon, and he lost his way. The waterskin and food sack weighed him down. At last he found a stone hut built into a wooded hillside. He could tell from the silence that it had stood empty a long time.
    He crawled through the low doorway, crunching over bits of broken pot and inhaling a dank breath of earth. It was cold, and it smelled as if something had slunk in here to die—but it was shelter.
    He huddled in the dark with his back against the wall. He could smell the dog on him. He thought of the last time he’d been with Scram. He’d pushed his muzzle away—but had he stroked his ears, or scratched him under his front leg, the way he liked?
    He couldn’t believe that he would never see Scram again. No big, warm, furry body leaning against him. No whiskery muzzle snuffling under his chin to wake him up.
    Wrenching open the waterskin, he gulped a drink. He opened his food sack and groped for olives. His hands began to shake. He dropped the olives. He scrabbled on the ground. He couldn’t find them.
    The wall in his mind broke apart. Everything flooded back.
    He and Issi had made camp in a cave on the western peak. Issi had wandered off to dig up asphodel roots, and he’d skinned the squirrel and set it to roast over the fire.
    “I’m going to the stream to cool off,” he’d called to Issi. “Don’t let that squirrel burn.”
    “When have I ever done that?” she’d shouted indignantly.
    “Day before yesterday.”
    “I did not!”
    Ignoring her, he’d started down the track.
    “It wasn’t
burned
!” Issi had yelled after him.
    At the stream he’d left his knife and slingshot on a rock, pulled his tunic over his head, and eased himself into the water. The cry of a hawk had echoed from the peak:
Hy hy hy.
Vaguely, he’d wondered if it was an omen.
    Suddenly Scram was barking furiously:
Come quick! Bad trouble! Come quick!
    Then Issi had screamed.
    Hylas hadn’t stopped to fling on his tunic. Grabbing his knife, he’d raced up the trail. Bear? Wolf? Lion? It had to be bad for her to scream like that.
    As he neared camp, he’d heard men’s voices, low and intent, and caught a strange bitter stink of ash. Ducking behind a juniper bush, he’d peered through the branches.
    He’d seen four goats lying slaughtered; the rest had fled. He’d seen warriors—
warriors
—searching the camp.He’d seen Scram. In one appalling heartbeat, he’d taken in the shaggy fur matted with burrs, and the big tough paws. The arrow jutting from Scram’s flank.
    Then he’d glimpsed Issi hiding in the cave, her sharp little face white with shock. He had to do something or they’d find her.
    His slingshot was back at the stream. All he had was his flint knife—but what good was that? A boy of twelve summers against seven men bristling with weapons.
    Stepping into plain sight, he’d shouted, “Over here!”
    Seven ash-gray faces turned toward him.
    Zigzagging through the trees, he’d led them away from his sister. He couldn’t risk calling to her, but she was clever; she’d grab her chance and get out of that cave.
    Arrows whined. One struck him in the arm. With a cry, he dropped his knife…
    Huddled in the hut, Hylas hugged his knees and rocked back and forth. He wanted to rage and shout and howl.
Why
had the black warriors attacked? What had he and Issi and Scram ever done to them?
    His eyes stung. A lump rose in his throat. Angrily, he choked it down. Crying wouldn’t bring back Scram. Or find Issi.
    “I won’t cry,” he said out loud. “I won’t
let
them do that to me.”
    Baring his teeth,