“Are you saying that until they broke into the cave, the gaunt couldn’t roam free?” Ivan asked.
“Exactly,” Nadia said. “Now we know why Karlo came to Belgorod Holding. He needed blood sacrifices to stir the gaunt. Oh how blind I’ve been.”
Ivan turned his head. He was Belgorod’s dog trainer. Nadia couldn’t be right. Yet when he’d blown the horn, the gaunt had flattened against the cave wall and faded from view. For a while, he had sensed Stribog’s thoughts. His eyes widened. He smelled something. It was a fox investigating them. He smelled the small animal, and he had a desire to give chase and crush the little fox with his teeth.
Sweat jumped onto Ivan’s forehead. He couldn’t smell foxes. And why tear into them with his teeth? He groaned and bowed his head.
“Ivan?”
He shook his head. He was the Lord of Hounds, the wielder of the Dragon Horn. Magda used magic. Nadia had gone to school for years in order to understand her talent.
“Ivan? Are you all right?”
“Leave him,” someone whispered.
Ivan knew he shouldn’t have been able to hear the whisper, but his hearing had improved. “I am the Lord of Hounds,” he said under his breath. In that moment, a terrible smile wove itself onto his face. Perhaps as the Lord of Hounds, he could defeat Karlo and keep Nadia out of the Bavarian’s grasp.
“If we have these treasures,” Feodor asked Nadia, “won’t Karlo try to take them away from us?”
Ivan regarded his friends. “Magda!” he said.
“What?” Nadia asked.
He told them Magda’s plan. Master Volok with the freeholders surely marched toward them even now.
“Then we must flee,” Feodor said.
“Not until Petor returns,” Yury said.
Feodor seemed about to speak again. Suddenly, the hounds barked in alarm, interrupting him.
Ivan shrugged off the blanket and staggered up.
“What is it?” asked Nadia.
Ivan lifted his nose, testing the air. A powerful, damp odor wafted on the wind. Ivan moved to his hounds. The hounds lifted their heads and bayed wildly.
“Storm wolves,” Ivan said. His hounds had smelled the odor when they’d found the giant wolf-print before. They knew the storm wolves as evil wolf-beings because they’d smelled the corruption, the were-transformation done to the beasts.
“Quickly,” Nadia ordered, “everyone stand around the fire and face outward.”
They hurried to obey. At Ivan’s command, the hounds circled nearby. Stribog stood by his side.
Beasts howled from within the forest. The hounds growled.
“How many storm wolves are there?” Yury asked.
Ivan cocked his head. “Two, maybe three.”
An eerie piping cut through the winter chill like a razor. The notes were high and grated against them.
Yury tossed back his long blond hair. The music seemed to affect him the most. “Let them come,” he muttered.
The eerie piping continued, and upon its heel drifted a tortured moaning.
“They practice the dark arts,” Nadia whispered, her forehead pressed against her upright wand.
The wicked piping warbled its song as storm wolves howled with delight.
“They’re closing fast,” Ivan warned, his grip tight around his warspear.
“No matter,” Yury boasted. “It shall go ill with them.” He grinned oddly, with only one side of his mouth. “I assure you, they won’t be ready for this.” He shook the monstrous sword with one hand.
Nadia curtly told Yury, “You must resist any pull to join them.”
“I’ll never join them,” Yury said.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Nadia said, “but the power that the sword wields over you might conquer your will and force you to do its bidding.”
Storm wolves howled. By the sound of it, they were near. Ivan envisioned huge wolves, beastly-deformed things the size of bears. He clenched his warspear. Storm wolves! The very idea made his knees wobble. Because he lacked a shield, he reached down and took a thick branch out of the fire. His heart beat faster and his breathing became rapid.
Suddenly, two grotesque beasts broke into the clearing and pulled up short. Huge, shaggy wolf-creatures—their red eyes gleamed with madness. Foam shot from their snapping jaws. A bear would have surely fled from these monsters. Incredibly, a form of saddle sat high on their thick shoulders. Perched in the saddles were clawmen.
Ivan stared in dreadful fascination. The two riders were baleful creatures. Much shorter than men, they had powerful, furry shoulders. Their faces were a mixture between a wolf and a man’s: slavering, snapping jaws with yellowed fangs, coarse dark fur and pinhole eyes that glared at them with greed. For armor, each clawman wore a crude leather jerkin and iron-shod boots. One held an evil-looking whip with bits of jagged metal embedded in the leather. The other, smaller clawman held a target shield with a spike and a small throwing dart. A frightful reek blew from them, while the intelligence in their pinhole eyes seemed warped, unholy, a corruption of true humanity.
Behind the two riders, from out of the forest, continued to play the maddening pipes.
Feodor sucked in his breath, and then he began to pray quietly to Hosar. Nadia moaned to herself. Yury shouted in glee and seemed on the verge of charging them.
“Stand fast!” Feodor shouted.
Yury threw a worried glance over his shoulder. “Never fear,” he said. “I’ll stand with my friends.”
The two clawmen lifted their snouts to the sky and howled together with their mounts. The piping increased.
Nadia moaned again. Her head drooped.
Ivan grabbed her elbow.
She lifted her chin and whispered so low that Ivan could barely hear. “An old power is out there. She works magic over us. I think you must blow the horn again to gain greater protection from her spells.”
“If I blow again,” Ivan said, “I think I’ll faint.”
“Then you must attack those two before I collapse. I’ll use my power for as long as I can to hold back her magic.”
So saying, Nadia’s back stiffened as she raised her wand. The gem at her throat pulsed. The wand moved in her grasp. “Fly from us!” she shouted.
The wolf-riders cowered, shielding their eyes with their hairy arms. The two storm wolves slunk to the left, their tails between their legs.
Dark laughter floated out of the forest. Upon its heels rode another clawman. Her dark eyes glittered like the falling of an axe.
“The crone,” Ivan whispered. He recalled the bewitched calf. “The Imp.”
The storm wolf she sat upon was massive, much bigger than the other storm wolves. Even Stribog looked like a playful pup against it. The storm wolf was as big as a bull and had yellow eyes. The Imp had grotesque hair that glimmered with eldritch magic. Her flesh was pale—unlike the others, her face had no fur. She laughed at them as if they were children. She wore silver mail, and between her armored breasts dangled a set of ebony pipes.
“Come,” she said in a brittle voice to Yury. “We have far to journey.”
Nadia’s resistance faded. Where a moment before she had stood proudly, now she wilted and barely stared into the Imp’s eyes.
The Imp snarled at Nadia, “Youngling! I grow weary of your tricks.” She raised her hand and flicked out her crooked, hairy fingers. It seemed as if an icy shroud spread out like a net and descended upon them. “Kneel!” she cried.
To Ivan it seemed that the sun flickered weakly. Dread squeezed his heart. Heat fled his body so he trembled. He was unable to gaze upon the Imp. Beside him, Feodor’s legs shook. The woodcutter groaned as he crashed to his knees. His axe fell to the snow.
Nadia also fell to her knees. Yet still she stared at the Imp. Still the clawmen shielded their eyes from Nadia. Still the storm wolves slunk like frightened curs.
The Imp’s eyes flashed with blinding power. A deadening chill, worse than before, swept through the clearing. Nadia screamed. Her wand
fell from nerveless fingers. As if stricken, she slumped face-first into the snow.
The Imp spoke to Yury. “Why do you tarry with these mortals?”
The wolf-riders howled with fierce joy. The bigger one snapped his whip. The other clashed his dart against his shield.
“Go back!” Yury cried, as he took a wooden step forward. “Go back or I’ll destroy you!”
The Imp regarded him strangely. “Come, Sword-Bearer. Let me right this wrong done to you. Together, let us search out Vlad Blackheart that we may bring you to your full might.”
Yury turned pleading eyes upon his friends. “Help me.”
Fear welled within Ivan. His feet were rooted to his spot. He couldn’t help Yury. Shame overcame him.
The Imp laughed. It was an evil mocking sound. The wolf-riders jeered at their weakness.
Stribog glanced up at Ivan. Something in that glance caused Ivan to drop his fiery brand and clutch his horn. Heat flowed into his hand and filled his body. His fear vanished as his hatred for the Imp and her riders overwhelmed him. He clutched Feodor’s shoulder and said, “Stand and help me fight.”
Feodor looked upon him in wonder. Fear no longer twisted the woodcutter’s features. He snatched his axe and jumped to his feet.
As Yury woodenly stepped toward the Imp, Ivan yelled a war cry and charged. His hounds growled at his side. Feodor paced him.
The Imp shouted to her wolf-riders. “Gnash, take down the Sword-Bearer. Zhum! Slay the young men!”
Howling, the clawmen urged their mounts to the attack. The storm wolves dug their paws into the snow as the clawmen leaned low in the saddles. Side-by-side the wolf-riders attacked. Stribog led the Belgorod Folk as they raced across the clearing. Yury, no longer restrained, charged, too. The two parties surged together and met in the middle of the clearing.
Ivan slid to a stop as the smaller wolf-rider rose up before him. He barely had time to throw up his spear as the storm wolf chomped at him. The clawman’s arm blurred. Feodor screamed, staggering backward with a black dart in his thigh. Stribog launched himself and bit into the shaggy storm wolf throat. Vesna, not as bold, slashed at the monster’s flank. Flay hobbled closer. The storm wolf, savage and filled with terrible strength, shook off Stribog and bit down on Flay’s neck. A dull crack and a whine and Flay slumped to the snow. Ivan roared, and hurled his spear into the storm wolf’s side. It howled. The clawman’s arm blurred again. Ivan threw himself back as a dart hissed over his head. He rolled and picked up Feodor’s fallen axe. He hurled that as the clawman snatched up yet another dart. The axe-handle struck the clawman’s head. He slumped in the saddle. Snarling, the storm wolf backed off from Stribog and Vesna, neither quite ready to close with the vicious monster.
Yury, meanwhile, shouted vile oaths as he tried to close with his battle-blade. The whip-armed clawmen proved too clever for that. He and his storm wolf functioned smoothly and precisely. The nimble monster danced out of Yury’s reach. The whip flicked many times, once on Yury’s check, laying open his skin. Another time it struck his arm, drawing blood. Then the whip wrapped around Yury’s leg. A yank, a quick jump back by the storm wolf, and the clawman jerked Yury off his feet.
The Imp laughed. “Come, dear Yury. Surrender. Let Vlad Blackheart teach you how to deal with those like Gnash.”
Yury slashed with the battle-blade, parting the whip. He leaped up and hurled himself at the maddening warrior. The storm wolf danced out of range, its evil yellow eyes almost glowing with fiendish delight.
Suddenly, a heavy horn sounded. Petor thundered into the clearing on his war-horse. He cried, “Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” and tucked his lance under his arm.
The Imp’s storm wolf dashed out of the way. Gnash, as he raised his whip, looked up in horror. The lance entered his back and swept him from his saddle. The storm wolf, crowded by Thunder, couldn’t avoid Yury’s sword. The wolf fell with a cloven skull. Yury wrenched his weapon free and roared with laughter.
The dart-thrower’s storm wolf turned and limped after the Imp.
Dazed, Ivan watched them go.
Yury shouted with glee, waving his bloody battle-blade over his head. “Come, Warriors! Let’s rout them for good!”
“No, Yury!” Ivan shouted. “Let them go!”
“Go?” Yury roared. “What cowardice is this, I hear? The enemy flies. Let us give chase and cut him down.”
“How?” Ivan asked. “On foot?”
“Bah!” Yury glanced at the tracks, making ready to run.
Ivan hurried beside Yury, grabbing him by the shoulder. He was going to warn Yury about ambushes. Instead, Yury cried out and writhed under his touch.
“Unhand him!” Petor shouted from his war-horse.
Shocked, Ivan let go and stepped back.
Sweat popped onto Yury’s face. Where a moment before he’d been flushed with exuberance, now he stood pale-faced and trembling.
An extra sense warned Ivan: a combination of a decaying odor and a flittering movement. He spied a winged being hovering at the edge of the forest.
“The dark man,” he whispered.
The tip of the bloody battle-blade touched the snow. Yury gasped for breath.
Understanding filled Ivan. The dark man, the gaunt of Vlad Blackheart, had wanted the wolf-riders to take Yury away from them. Then he could enter Yury at his leisure. Boldly, Ivan brought the Dragon Horn to his lips as he advanced upon the gaunt.
Evil green eyes flashed with hatred, then a hint of fear. Ivan broke into a run toward it. The gaunt hissed, and with a quick beat of his wings, he faded from view.
Ivan stopped and let the Dragon Horn swing at his side. He was too weary to sound the horn again, but the gaunt didn’t know that. If it could be frightened off, then maybe they really had a chance.
Thinking of that, Ivan hurried to Feodor. Petor had already dismounted and inspected the thigh-wound. His thick fingers took hold of the dart.
“No,” Feodor whispered, with sweat dripping from his chin. “I’ve tried. It’s barbed.”
“Do you feel ill?” Petor asked.
“I’m tired,” Feodor said.
Petor nodded curtly. “Put this in your mouth.”
Feodor chomped on a piece of wood.
Petor took hold of the dart and snapped off the exposed shaft. Then, expertly, he wrapped a handkerchief around the wound. “We must flee while we can,” he told Feodor. “Master Volok marches here with the freeholders.” Petor turned. “Yury! Fetch the horses!”
Yury shook his head as if he had a hangover.
“Yury!” Petor roared. “The horses!”
Yury rose. As he walked, he limped. Soon the limp vanished.
Nadia stirred by the fire. Ivan went to her and helped her up. “What happened?” she asked. Ivan told her.
By then Petor clanked up. “Yury holds a strange sword and you, Ivan, have gained a horn. I followed Perun’s tracks to a camp of wolf-riders and saw Farmer Lech practicing swordsmanship. Of the other farmers there’s no sign.”
“They’re dead,” Ivan said.
Nadia painted the Belgorod knight the picture. “We must flee,” she said afterward.
“Yes,” Petor said. “We must leave before Karlo escapes the crypt and arrives at his camp. I think its luck that the piper didn’t have more riders with her.”
Ivan studied the corpses. He’d never seen a monster like Yury’s storm wolf. The mangled clawman reminded him of a rabid badger his hounds had killed once. The badger had seemed all teeth and claws, twisted muscle and fur.
Ivan knew their smell now. He touched one of the claws on the deformed hand. He touched the storm wolf’s saliva and brought it near his nose. It had a poisonous taint. He wiped his finger on his breeches.
Lastly, Ivan went to Flay. The dog lay dead in the snow. The storm wolf had exerted cruel strength. He picked up Flay and found one of the pits dug by the farmers. As quickly as possible, he threw dirt over the brave old dog. Someone was going to pay for this. He vowed that,
by Hosar.
Shortly, Yury brought his old packhorse and Nadia’s gelding to Petor. By that time, Ivan had found three boar-spears, adding them to their supply of weapons. Ivan sat behind Nadia. A pain-fevered Feodor sat behind Yury. With Ivan’s help, they stood. Then Petor, with his lance in hand, led them out of the deserted camp.
-32-
No one said a word as Petor threaded the way through the icicle-fanged forest. Yury grunted tiredly, one hand on the reins and the other holding his huge sword. From time to time, he switched hands. Feodor, his head slumped, held on to Yury. If the red packhorse moved too close to a tree, and Feodor’s wounded leg brushed against it, he moaned in pain. Riding behind them on the gelding, Ivan held onto Nadia, keeping warm by their closeness. Despite their peril and the way branches clawed at his face and jacket, all he could think about was how he held onto her small waist. He yearned to turn her around and kiss her. He yearned to tell her that he loved her.
Stribog and Vesna, who both paced Nadia’s gelding, radiated worry. Evil smells wafted on the wind. Wicked sounds filled the frost-marked forest. Ivan knew about his hounds’ uneasiness. Perhaps as importantly, the hounds knew he knew. They’d become closer to him since he’d blown the Dragon Horn. In their limited way, they recognized the change. Perhaps, even, they’d gained from his change as much as he had.
“Duck,” said Nadia.
Ivan didn’t catch the meaning until a branch scratched his cheek. “Ow,” he said.
“Maybe if you paid more attention to the forest and less to me that wouldn’t have happened,” she said.
“Huh?”
“You’re holding me too tightly.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip, feeling foolish.
“Thanks,” she said. “Now I can breathe again.”
Petor came to a small, frozen stream. He turned onto it, following it through the forest. Thunder’s iron-shod hooves clashed ominously upon the ice. They made better time, and fortunately, for them the ice didn’t break.
Later, Feodor moaned louder than before. His hands slipped off Yury’s waist.
The Dragon Horn Page 22