Hawk, she whispered. He went lower. And suddenly Hana felt watched. The man’s eyes had opened – clear blue – and although he could not see her she felt he was looking through Hawk and finding her. She shifted quickly; splashed off the boulder into the stream; and suddenly Hawk’s cry, far away, rang in her head – a cry she had not heard before but understood instantly: danger. A new picture sprang into her mind: herself, tiny, in the stream, and two men on the banks in front of her, and a third, thigh-deep, coming behind.
Hana slid down the silver rope that bound her to Hawk. She saw with her own eyes, which brought the men close as though they had jumped at her. A black man, a white man, dressed in leather jerkins with the Limping Man’s emblem scratched on the front. One had the two lines tattooed on his forehead. Burrows men – she knew it from their grunting at each other, and from their smell as they came close. Behind her, the third man was city – he was smoother, white-skinned and used to command. Yet he held an iron knife, balanced in a way that showed he knew how to throw. Hana was used to running and hiding. But there was nowhere to go, upstream or down. The men on the banks carried crossbows. They grinned at her, waiting for her to move. The water slowed her legs and stones rolled under her feet. If she could get into the trees it would spoil their aim. She dived sideways, clawing at the bank.
‘Shoot her. Shoot,’ cried the man with the knife. She wriggled sideways and heard a bolt thud into the bank. She clawed her way past it, almost to the top. Then she heard Hawk scream and she flung herself round in time to see him swoop at the second bowman and rake his face open with his claws. The man sprayed blood but kept his hold on his bow and swung it upwards. Hawk hovered for a second dive. The man released his shot. Hana felt the pain. The bolt took Hawk in the wing, puffing out feathers and making him lurch towards the stream. Somehow he kept himself in the air, losing height, gliding between the enclosing banks down the narrow gorge. His feet touched the water where it heaped over a rock. He tried to flap. She heard his scream of pain. Then he settled in the water and floated out of sight round the bend. Feathers drifted in the air. One fell on Hana’s throat. She raised her face and made a long bitter cry of loss.
The knifeman grabbed her ankle and hauled her into the stream. He put his foot on her and held her under, then jerked her up by the hair, let her suck in air and pushed her under again. The next time he pulled her up he forced her head back.
‘Now, tell me your name.’
‘Hana,’ she gasped.
‘Where do you come from? Quick.’
‘The city. The burrows.’
‘A runaway.’
‘Kill her,’ groaned the man Hawk had attacked. He was sitting up to his waist in the stream, trying to stop the flow of blood from his torn face.
‘Where are your people?’ the knifeman asked.
‘No people,’ she said. ‘I’m alone.’
‘She’s lying. Kill her,’ sobbed the wounded man.
‘I ran away. I’m by myself.’
‘We hunt runaways. All who don’t worship the Man die. Say you worship him. Say you love the Limping Man.’
‘No. No.’
‘Kill her.’
The third man was crossing the stream. ‘Let’s have some fun with her first,’ he said.
‘Shut your traps,’ the knifeman said. He was enjoying himself. ‘Now, say after me, the Limping Man is Lord. He is Master.’
‘I – I can’t,’ Hana said.
‘And then I might kill you quick. Do you know who we are, girl? We’re bounty hunters. See here.’ He flipped open the cover of a pouch he wore at his waist. ‘Do you know what they are? Thumbs, girl, each one worth a piece of silver when we get home. Runaway thumbs. Dweller thumbs. Seventeen in there. You’re eighteen. But if you say “The Limping Man is Lord”, then I’ll cut off your thumb and let you go.’
‘Ha,’ scoffed the second bowman.
‘Shut up, you. Now girl, you know what to say.’
‘He . . .’
‘He what?’
‘He burned my mother.’
‘Witch-spawn,’ growled the wounded man. ‘Kill her.’
‘Yes,’ said the knifeman. ‘Enough talk.’
He drew his knife, took a handful of Hana’s hair and forced her head back. The blade began a swoop, back-handed, at her stretched throat. She opened her mouth to cry Hawk’s name. A thudding sound came, like the closing of a door. The man grunted with shock. He let her hair go and dropped his knife. Slowly he sank to his knees and fell face down in the water. Threads of blood drifted away from the blade embedded in his back.
Ben threw without thinking. There was no time. As his knife flew the man’s blade flashed in a crossways slash. The girl’s face vanished behind his arm. Then the knife fell from his hand. He knelt as though his knees had been struck from behind and fell face down in the water. The handle of Ben’s knife stood above the surface like a snapped twig.
The girl blinked. She opened her mouth, gulping air – gulping life into herself. Then she moved: jumped in the water up to her thighs, pulled the knife from the dead man’s back with a savage jerk, scrambled up the bank, screaming a name – her own or someone else’s? – to where the man with the bloody face had retreated. He was frantically arming his crossbow and he swung it up as the girl leaped like a fangcat, pointing the knife double-handed. She went over the weapon, making a spear of herself, and plunged the knife deep into his throat. Then she stood and raised her face to the sky. ‘Hawk,’ she screamed.
Ben looked for the third man. Lo held him in midstream. At some command Ben could not hear, he dropped his crossbow in the water. The girl, turning, saw him. She hurled herself from the bank, holding the bloody knife spear-like again.
Stop, girl, Lo said.
Ben heard the command. It held him still as though it was for him. The girl kept on until she was a dozen steps from the helpless man.
Stop, Lo said in a stronger voice.
She strained as though against ropes. ‘They killed Hawk,’ she managed to say.
‘Give the knife to Ben,’ Lo said aloud.
Ben saw how he strained too, holding both the man and the girl. He came up behind her and slid the knife out of her hand. Quickly he washed it clean of blood.
‘Go to the bank. Sit down,’ Lo said.
She obeyed, murmuring brokenly.
Lo looked at the bowman. He held him only lightly.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Steyn.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Blood Burrow.’
‘The dead men too?’
‘One’s from the city.’
‘Why do you come here?’
‘We hunt runaways and Dwellers.’
‘To kill them?’
‘Yes. And take their thumbs.’
‘Who to?’
‘Our master. The Limping Man.’ He raised his hands in front of his chest, thrust out his index fingers and drew one down straight, then the other, crookedly.
‘That’s his sign?’ Lo said.
‘The sign of the Man. We serve the Man.’
Ben felt the sadness in his father. He held himself ready to throw if Steyn broke free. But Lo felt the danger and increased his hold.
He has a knife. Take it, he said to Ben.
Ben felt in the man’s clothing and found a hidden knife. He looked at the blade, used for cutting off thumbs, and threw it as hard as he could into the trees.
‘Now go,’ Lo said to Steyn. ‘And don’t come back.’
‘Can I . . .’
‘What?’
‘Can I take the thumbs? The agent pays . . .’
‘Go.’
‘I am a poor man. I must buy food for my sons.’
‘Start running now. Go home. Never leave the burrows again,’ Lo said. He repeated the command silently, digging it deep. Steyn’s eyes went blank. He turned, climbed into the trees and vanished from sight. Lo washed his face in the stream, washing Steyn away.
Look after the girl, he said to Ben.
She sat near the bowman’s body but took no notice of it. Her hands were red with his blood. Ben approached cautiously.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘They killed Hawk,’ she whispered.
‘Tell me your name.’ She was ugly, he thought. Black ragged hair, face stained with blood and tears, eyes wet and blurred. They were green, with golden flecks. He had never seen eyes like them.
‘Killed him,’ she said. Her voice had the same edges as Hari’s – did that mean she came from the place, Blood Burrow, Ben had heard him talk about?
‘Wash your face,’ he said.
He turned away from her and threw the dead man’s weapons into the trees.
Lo approached the girl. His beard dripped water. He looked as if he’d risen from the bottom of a pool. She looked at him with no interest.
‘Her name is Hana,’ Ben said.
‘How do you know?’
‘She took the message to Tealeaf. She talks with a hawk.’
‘You use the bird’s eyes?’ Lo asked. ‘He watches from the sky?’
‘He’s dead,’ the girl said. ‘It’s all dark now.’
Lo turned away from her and looked down the stream.
‘Wash yourself, Hana,’ Ben said. She stank of blood.
She took no notice, but closed her eyes and rocked back and forth. Again tears ran down her cheeks.
Lo turned to her slowly. ‘Say what you say to him. Say his name.’
‘His name is Hawk.’
‘He’s still alive.’
‘How do you know?’ Hana whispered.
‘He’s in the water downstream. Run, girl. He’s drowning.’
Hana ran through the trees close to the bank. She saw the one-handed boy jumping from rock to rock in the stream, keeping pace with her. He reached the bend and gave a shout, pointing into the cleft between two boulders, where the water broke into spray.
‘Don’t touch him,’ Hana screamed. She jumped into the water and splashed past Ben, up to her waist. Hawk lay submerged in the cleft. The boulders locked his wings to his sides, while the weight of the water held him down. Only his head was free. His beak stretched upwards, seeking air.
Hana pushed her way into the cleft. ‘Hawk, I’m here.’ She pushed her arms around him, scraping them on stone, and pulled him free. He was heavier than she had expected. She could not fight her way out but lay helpless in the cleft with Hawk in her arms. She thought they would die there. The boy, Ben, took her belt with his one hand and hauled her back. Slow and heavy, they came out of the cleft.
‘No,’ she cried when he tried to help with Hawk. She struggled to the bank and on to dry ground, where she sat and hugged the bird like a child.
‘I’ll make a fire,’ Ben said.
Lo came through the trees. He crouched beside Hana and Hawk and looked at them without speaking. Hawk sensed him and opened his eyes. He clacked his beak weakly and Lo stood up.
‘Where’s he hurt?’
‘His wing.’
‘Let me see.’
‘No. He’s mine.’
‘He’s no one’s, girl. Do you want him to die?’
She shook her head.
‘If his wing isn’t too badly hurt I can fix it. Let me see.’
‘He’ll bite you.’
‘Not if he’s asleep,’ Lo said.
‘How . . .?’ Hana said. She trusted this limping man, who reminded her of Danatok, but she did not want him touching Hawk.
‘I don’t need to,’ Lo said, and she started at the way he’d read her thoughts. He grinned and said, ‘See, he’s sleeping already.’
It was true. Hawk no longer strained in her arms. She waited a moment longer, then laid him on the ground with his damaged wing free. Carefully Lo spread it out.
‘See, the bolt went through. It tore out a lump of flesh and broke the wing bone. The bird is lucky, it’s a clean crack, it didn’t shatter.’
‘Can you fix it?’
Lo stood up. ‘Keep him in your blanket. Wind it tight or he’ll fight his way out. Tell Ben to get it. I’ll be back by morning.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘There’s a weed that grows where fresh water meets salt.’ He made no other explanation but vanished into the trees.
Hana picked up Hawk and held him in her arms. Ben came back with an armful of dry branches.
‘He’s gone,’ Hana said.
‘Where to?’
‘Looking for weeds,’ she said sourly. ‘He said to tell you to get my blanket and pack. They’re on a rock up the stream.’
He was gone a long time. It was her chance to get away. These people had saved her, she would be dead without them, but she did not want anyone but Hawk. Yet if she ran with him he would never fly again. There was something about the man with the limp that made her believe he could fix Hawk’s wing. He was quieter than the boy. He was stiller than the boy. She waited, breathing the forest smell of sap and ferns and listening to the soft rattle of pebbles in the stream. Hawk slept on.
‘There,’ Ben said, putting her pack down in front of her.
‘What took you so long?’
He turned away. Something had upset him. ‘I buried the thumbs,’ he said.
‘What about the men?’
‘There’s plenty of things that’ll eat them. Maggots will. You’d better wrap up your bird.’
He watched while she bound Hawk tightly in her blanket.
‘How did you make friends with him?’
She hid the fact that she did not know. ‘Some people can do it.’
‘He shows you what he sees.’
‘Yes. I go up there.’
‘What do we look like?’
‘Nothing much. Like ants.’ She remembered the battle she had seen. ‘I could tell you only had one hand.’
He looked at her with dislike. ‘One’s enough. Why don’t you wash your face? You’ve still got blood.’
She laid Hawk down carefully and went to the stream, where she washed and drank. Ben made a fire. Then he went away without a word. She sat nursing Hawk in her arms. How did something as heavy as he was fly? She began to understand his strength – and, looking at his beak, his savagery. You and me, she thought, and again she wanted to run. Only his broken wing made her stay. She put more wood on the fire.
Ben came back at dusk, bringing an eel and a forest pigeon. He cleaned them by the stream and laid them in the fire.
‘Who is . . .’ She did not know his name. ‘. . . the man?’
‘Lo’s his name. He’s my father.’
‘What . . . what is he?’
Ben frowned. ‘A man. If he says he can fix your bird, he can.’
‘He’s like a Dweller.’
‘He’s lived most of his life with the people, that’s all.’
‘What are the people?’