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Authors: Michael Ford

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BOOK: Birth of a Warrior
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Agesilaus bent over Demaratos and gave him a sharp slap to the side of the head. The sound echoed away across the hills. Demaratos groaned and opened his eyes groggily. When he saw Lysander with the food, the disappointment was written in his eyes. Lysander swallowed, and his throat burned. He felt his face flush with shame.

‘Here,' he said, tearing off a piece of meat and holding it out to Demaratos. ‘Take this.'

Demaratos stared in disbelief at the gift, but then snatched at the meat as though worried that Lysander might take back the offer.

‘Thank you,' he said hesitantly. The words clearly didn't come easily to him. Agesilaus glared at the two of them.

‘I was wrong about you, Lysander. You're no Spartan, after all. Your heart is soft.' He turned away in disgust, but Demaratos shared a secret smile with Lysander and Lysander found himself smiling back. He reached out a hand and helped Demaratos to his feet. For the first time since entering the barracks, Lysander and
Demaratos stood eye-to-eye and neither of them turned away.

‘I may have a soft heart,' Lysander muttered as he gazed after the older boy, ‘but I have the sense to spy an enemy.'

‘Me too,' said Demaratos, flicking a glance at Agesilaus. ‘We would do well to watch each other's backs.'

Lysander hesitated, then nodded. Demaratos was right. The two of them would survive better as friends. They started to follow Agesilaus up the hill. Lysander's mind was reeling.
Can I trust this boy?
he wondered. Lysander had no choice; he had to. But more than that – something had changed. Now, he wanted to.

As they caught up with Agesilaus he turned and stopped them in their tracks. His lip curled in a sneer as he gazed at Lysander.

‘So, boy, are you ready for your latest challenge?'

‘I'm ready,' he said. ‘What is it?'

Agesilaus pointed further up the mountain, where the snow-crested slopes were brushed by thick clouds.

‘Up there,' he said.

Lysander followed Agesilaus up the steep mountain path. They'd left Demaratos behind to find more firewood for the camp. There wasn't much greenery up here – just grey rocks. Among the sparse fir trees, Lysander saw an eagle again, soaring majestically overhead.

As they climbed higher, Lysander found himself
short of breath. He felt dizzy and realised that the thin mountain air combined with an empty stomach were almost enough to make him faint. He'd never felt so weak. He found a fallen branch, crooked, but sturdy enough, and used it as a walking stick. He felt like one of the old Helots who wandered around the settlements, begging for food.

Agesilaus looked round to make sure Lysander was keeping up.

‘Pathetic,' he said, when he saw Lysander heaving himself up the mountainside, leaning heavily on his stick. Lysander didn't have the breath to reply. Agesilaus turned and continued to stride ahead. Nothing seemed to get to the older boy; it was obvious his harsh training had made him fiercely capable.

They reached the snowline as the light began to fade. What started as a patch of snow here and there, soon gave way to larger swathes of ice. Wisps of cloud drifted across their path, enveloping them in ghostly mist. Agesilaus paused to take a drink from his flask. Watching him, Lysander realised he'd left his sack at camp. He looked at the snow. Just a mouthful would quench his thirst. He scooped some up.

‘Don't be a fool!' said Agesilaus. ‘Has Diokles taught you nothing? Eating snow will chill your body more. It's a quick route to death.'

Lysander dropped the snow, and licked the moisture from his hand. He noticed how quickly the sweat from the climb cooled on his body. Looking back, he
couldn't even spot the path on which they had ascended, but a thin line of smoke told him where Demaratos was sheltering far below. The brow of the hill hid Sparta and the outlying settlements from view. The mist closed in again, and pricks of ice landed on Lysander's face. The first flakes of snow were falling.

‘Do we have to go much further?' he asked. They'd be walking back in the dark.

The older boy looked up the slope.

‘Not far now,' he replied, and pressed on.

Lysander followed, dread filling his heart.

The snow grew deeper. Everything was white now, and a blizzard whipped around their bodies. All Lysander's faint warmth was long gone. One side of his face was completely numb. The blood from his injured feet had frozen in the intense cold. Now the soles of his feet were stuck to the inside of his sandals; every step was like tearing open a fresh scab. Agesilaus stopped a few paces ahead, and the outline of his body blurred in and out as the snow thickened and flurried. Lysander eventually drew level with him.

‘Was that the challenge?' he asked. He was leaning heavily on his stick now.

Agesilaus turned to Lysander, looking him up and down. His eyebrows and hair were dusted with snow.

‘Time to head back,' he said.

Lysander's heart lifted. Thank the Gods it was over. Agesilaus was already starting to make his way back
down the mountain, and Lysander hobbled after him.

Agesilaus turned. ‘Where are you going?'

‘You said it was time to head back,' said Lysander.

Agesilaus put a hand on Lysander's chest, and then gave a fierce shove. There was no time for Lysander to react. He lost his balance, and fell back into the snow.

‘I said it was time for me to go back,' he said. ‘Your trial has only just begun. If you descend back from this mountain before dawn, I swear by Zeus himself that I'll kill you with my own hands.'

Lysander watched Agesilaus' face for signs that he was joking.

‘Are you mad? No one could survive up here!'

But Agesilaus had already turned away and was beginning his descent. His laughter was whipped away by the howling wind.

Agesilaus had lost his mind! Lysander knew for sure he would freeze to death up here. The snow was already seeping through his tunic. He clambered to his feet. Darkness would soon be upon the slopes and any warmth from the sun would be lost.

Lysander looked frantically about – there must be a way to get through this. He couldn't remember ever being this cold before. He looked at his hands, the fingers purple and stiff, willing them to move. He could feel panic rising up through him.

‘Stay calm,' he said out loud. ‘Don't give in.'

He peered up through the flurries of snow to the craggy mountain tops. Could there be some shelter up
there, a spot out of the wind and snow? There was only one way to find out.

Lysander pulled his frozen right foot from the snow and took a slow, clumsy step. Then another, placing his left foot in front of his right.

Slowly, Lysander began to climb.

CHAPTER 7

Lysander stumbled blindly through the snow. He knew he was losing his battle against the cold. Ice was beginning to set in his hair. The hills that had always looked so beautiful from the settlement now felt treacherous. Deep shivers racked his body. Every bone ached and his broken rib sang with pain. Tears came to his eyes. They were warm at first, but cooled quickly to ice.

‘You have to keep going!' he yelled into the wind and snow.

The snow continued to swirl around him; everything was white. Lysander twisted around, looking for any vantage point, but there was nothing. He couldn't feel his feet or his ankles any more. And he realised he could no longer see the mountain peaks. Lysander had lost his bearings. It was hopeless. He had to get off the mountain – now. Agesilaus need never know.
If I stay up here
, he thought,
I'm as good as dead
.

He started walking, dragging his freezing feet through the snow. It didn't feel as though he were
losing height, but he didn't think he was gaining it either. He decided he must be skirting the edge of the hill. Lysander remembered the cliffs from earlier. What if he was walking straight towards the edge? He wouldn't even see it coming. There would be a stomach-churning drop, before his body was smashed on the rocks below.
A horrible way to die
.

Lysander trudged a few more paces, sinking up to his knees in the deep drifts, but he knew he was wandering aimlessly. He could be anywhere. He could feel the ice closing around his heart. His hands may as well have been made of wood.

‘Help!' he shouted. Lysander's lips were numb and the words came out slurred. ‘Help me!' he yelled again. There was no reply. The snow absorbed the sound, muffling his voice like a pillow over a face. He took another step forward. The snow collapsed, its white surface giving way with a soft sigh. Before Lysander could reach out to stop himself, he'd fallen up to his middle in the snowdrift. Trapped! Snow and ice pressed up against him on all sides. But as Lysander struggled to climb out, he realised that, if anything, the packed snow was warmer than the icy wind. A vague memory stirred: sitting by the fire with his mother as she told her stories. What was it she had told him about travellers lost in the mountains?

Lysander found that even his mind was slowing down now. His eyelids drooped and he felt sleepy. It seemed to take longer between telling his body to
move and the movement itself. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He tried to remember his mother's face, but his brain refused to work.

What had his mother said? They used to survive by digging holes, chambers in the fallen snow. Anything to keep their bodies sheltered from the wind.
They buried themselves alive?
That couldn't be right, surely. His eyes drooped shut. He told himself to wake up and slowly they opened again.

The cold didn't seem to matter so much any more, though he was aware of his body shivering and his teeth chattering uncontrollably. If he could only sleep, everything would be fine. He shook his head.
No!
he told himself.
You have to stay awake
. He tried to call out for help again, but his voice came out even more weakly this time. His mother's words echoed through his head.

Bury yourself alive
. It meant something.

Bury yourself
.

Lysander scooped snow towards him using his clawed hands. He packed the snow against his torso, working as quickly as his frozen limbs would allow. The wind whistled around him, like some demented flute.

‘Come on,' he said out loud. ‘Don't give up.' He let his body rest against the bank of snow he'd built up around him. With his last reserves of strength he dragged more piles of snow around his head, leaving a small gap to breathe. The whistling wind melted away
as the sides of his head were submerged. Nothing now. The snow was damp next to his skin, but his shivering was already subsiding. Through the small hole, he watched fat flakes of snow falling through the immense silence, adding to the heavy blanket of ice.

Lysander concentrated on slowing his breathing. Could the shallow grave be working? He didn't dare move, for fear of disturbing the rest of the snowdrift and bringing it down over his head. He did manage to shift his arm though, so that his palm rested over his chest. The place where the Fire of Ares had always been. Even without the pendant itself, Lysander felt its power. He clutched the imaginary red jewel.
You'll make it
, he told himself.
You'll get through the night
.

Looking up, he saw that the clouds were thinning, revealing patches of night sky. Stars twinkled. Lysander was too weak to move, and his eyes blurred in and out of focus as his eyelids became heavy. He had no way of knowing whether it was sleep or death that was drawing him near.

But something strange was happening in the sky. A collection of stars directly above seemed to move in the firmament, vibrating in time with his heartbeat, becoming brighter than the rest. Was it a trick of his mind? He watched as the glowing stars appeared to drift towards one another. They coalesced into a ring, which melted to an oval. Lysander thought he must be dreaming, but the constellation became a face. He wasn't afraid. He knew who this was.

‘Father,' said Lysander through cracked lips. Though he had never seen his father Thorakis, Lysander felt a flash of recognition. ‘Father, help me,' he whispered.

The face shimmered and smiled reassuringly.

Warmth suffused Lysander's body, as though his blood had turned molten. The snow was no longer his enemy – it caressed him. The blood once again pulsed through his veins. His father was watching over him.

Lysander let his eyelids close. Then he fell into the embrace of Hypnos, God of Sleep.

Lysander was woken by warm light, orange behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes. Above him glowed an iridescent blue sky. Damp snow crushed against his lips. He'd survived! Elation turned to panic when Lysander realised he was trapped – he couldn't move. Under the snow, his arms felt heavy, like they were made of iron. Lysander strained with his whole body under the drift, his heart pounding. The snow shifted, but only a little, and he had to sink back defeated. Patiently, he told his fingertips to move. They wriggled weakly in the snow. Lysander was breathing hard with the exertion, but he wouldn't be beaten. With regular movement, the snow around his hand began to melt. A dull, but satisfying ache seeped into his limbs, and he managed to work his hand from under the snow. He was nearly there, and began to shovel the layer of snow away from around his body. Pulling his torso free, he scrambled to his feet, laughing for joy.

‘I'm alive!' he shouted. ‘I'm alive!' His voice echoed in the still morning air.

Lysander stood and shook the loose snow from his clothes, just as the sun winked over the horizon, and began to warm his stiff and aching limbs. The sky was bursting with light, and everything was peaceful, covered in a pristine layer. He looked around him to try to find his bearings. The path, if there was one, was invisible. But neither could he see the cliff edge he'd been so worried about. Below, trees were weighed down with snow. He couldn't wait to climb down. What would Demaratos say when he saw him again? Would Agesilaus be angry? Lysander didn't care. His laughter echoed off the mountainside.

BOOK: Birth of a Warrior
4.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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