Gods and Warriors by Michelle Paver Read Free Book Online

he looked tired and careworn.
    Telamon felt a flash of love for him, and a twinge of anger at Hylas for coming between them. Hylas was his friend, but he would never understand that being the Chieftain’s son meant you were torn between friendship and blood.
    Hylas knew nothing of Telamon’s world. He’d neverseen painted walls where the Ancestors speared boars and conquered enemies. He’d never seen doors studded with bronze, or marble cups, or gold. He’d never even seen stairs, or a bath. And he had no idea that when Telamon was with him, he only ever brought his second-best knife, because his bronze one would have been showing off.
    His father was scowling and tugging at his beard. “Things are worse than you know,” he said suddenly. Then he heaved a sigh. “If you’re a peasant, you can live your whole life without ever going out of earshot of your village; but we can’t, Telamon. We’re leaders.” His scowl deepened. “For years I’ve kept Lykonia separate from what’s been happening in the rest of Akea. But now this. I can’t keep us apart any longer.”
    “What do you mean?” said Telamon.
    His father met his eyes for a moment, then glanced away.
    Telamon felt a stab of alarm. He’d seen something in his father’s eyes that he’d never seen there before. Fear.
    “Father, I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “But whatever’s going on, I’ll help you!”
    Thestor rose to his feet and hefted the whip in his hand. Then he told his son to bare his back. “I’m sorry too,” he said.

    As dusk fell, Hylas found a fisherman’s raft drawn up on the bank.
Much
better. Now the river could carry him all the way to the Sea.
    Lying on his belly on the raft, he paddled with his hands. To his relief he saw no people, although once he glimpsed the fires of a village through the reeds. He pictured everyone huddled inside with the spirit gates shut against the Crows. But did they have spirit gates on the plains? In the mountains they said that plains people grew black barley and had no toes…
    On impulse, he drew the bronze dagger from his food sack. Holding it made him feel stronger. It was too dark to make a sheath for it now, so instead he cut strips of willow bark and twisted them into twine, then strapped the dagger to his thigh, under his tunic, where it wouldn’t show.
    With more reluctance, he tied the Keftian’s hair securely to his belt. He hated touching the dead man’s hair, but if his food sack fell in the river with it inside, that would be worse: Then he’d have an angry ghost at his heels.
    Gripping the edge of the raft, he peered into the darkness, while the gurgling river swept him ever closer to the Sea.
    The Sea will give you the answers you seek,
the Keftian had said.
    Hylas had never even seen the Sea except from the mountains as a distant blue-gray blur, but when he was small, Neleos’ mate, Paria, had enjoyed scaring him with tales of the monsters of the deep. He had no desire to get any closer.
    Night wore on, and the creatures of the wild came out.A viper swam past, its tapered head glinting in the moonlight. On the bank a lioness raised her dripping muzzle to watch him pass. In the reeds he caught the shadowy flicker of a water spirit. Her eyes were silver and inhuman, and she looked through him as if he didn’t exist.
    What power, he wondered, had chased him from the mountains?
    Until now, he’d never thought much about the Great Gods. They were too far away and they didn’t care about goatherds. But what if he’d offended one of them? The Sky Father or the Earthshaker, or the Lady of the Wild Things? Or the shadowy immortals whose true names may not be spoken out loud: the Angry Ones, who hunt those who have murdered their kin; or the Gray Sisters, who crouch in their cave like ancient spiders, spinning their vast web, which contains one thread for every living creature?
    Which of these had decided that Skiros should die and he, Hylas, should live?
    And what about