Free Gods and Warriors by Michelle Paver Page B

sails in the distance that turned out to be waves. And yet he knew the Crows would come after him. They were relentless. They were like the Angry Ones in human form.
    When the thirst became unbearable, he scooped up a handful of seawater and drank it. It made him retch. He peed in the boat and tried some of that, but it tasted so bad he spat it out.
    He still had the bronze dagger strapped to his thigh, buthe hadn’t seen a single fish; just some weird see-through creatures without eyes, that floated like pulsing veils. He caught one, but it stung worse than nettles, so he chucked it back.
    Then he had an idea. The willowbark twine had dried tight around his thigh, but he managed to unpick the knots and free the knife. Cutting a strip off the hem of his tunic, he dipped it in the Sea and wrapped it around his head. The wet cloth was blissfully cool.
Much
better. He splashed himself all over, soaking his tunic. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?
    The bronze knife shone fiercely in the Sun, and for the first time he noticed that there was a mark engraved on the hilt: a quartered circle. He wondered what it meant.
    He caught sight of his face in the blade. He looked bony and determined. It made him feel stronger. There
were
things he could do—and the knife could help.
    Hacking another strip from his tunic, he cut two slits in it and tied it around his eyes. At once the sun-dazzle became bearable.
    Next, he took the willow twine and strapped the knife by the hilt to the narrow end of one oar. There. A fine, sturdy spear. It was much heavier than a proper spear, but as he hefted it in his hands the blade flashed, and his heart swelled with pride.
    He was
not
alone. Not while he had the knife.
    He’d thought the spear would bring him luck, but by mid-afternoon he still hadn’t seen any fish; and the seabirdwas gone. Black spots swam before his eyes. He was so hungry it hurt.
    He’d never imagined the Sea would be so vast and so strange. It had no smell, no shelter, no tracks. He stared at the red dust under his fingernails: the last trace of the mountains. His spirits sank. Scram was dead. Telamon and Issi were far away. He was lost in a wilderness of water.
    Leaning over the side, he peered into the deep. Back at the coast, the Sea had been a sunlit blue, but out here it was nearly black. He couldn’t see the bottom. Did it
have
a bottom?
    Far down in the dark, something sped past.
    Hylas gripped the side of the boat. He knew that the Sea was full of horrors. Paria told tales of monsters with many limbs that seized ships and dragged them to their doom; of giant man-eating fish with teeth like knives…
    Suddenly he was sharply aware of how he must look from below, huddled in his fragile little shell, waiting to be eaten.
    A splash behind him. He spun around.
    The Sea was calm, except for a trail of foam rocking on the water.
    Another splash, this time in front.
    He saw it: a fish leaping clear of the waves. At least, it looked like a fish—
but it had wings.
    Openmouthed, Hylas watched it glide through the air and drop back to the surface, where it thrashed its tailand leaped again, spreading its strange spiny wings in another soaring arc.
    The fish that fly…
The Keftian’s voice echoed in his head. It reminded him of—what? He had a nagging sense that there was something he’d forgotten to do.
    No time to think of that, the waves were alive with flying fish: leaping, churning the Sea white as they fell and flew and fell again.
    Grabbing his spear with both hands, Hylas lunged, missed, and nearly fell in.
    Then he spotted something familiar: not a fish but a turtle, swimming slowly in the shade of the boat. He jabbed at it. Yes! The dagger caught the soft underbelly. He leaned out to drive it deeper—
    He fell in.
    Down he went into the cold green Sea. It roared in his ears, rolling him in a net of bubbles till he couldn’t tell up from down.
Keep hold of the spear, don’t let go!
    Kicking toward the light, he