“Watch out!” cried Nadia.
Yury let go of the reins, turned and steadied Feodor. Feodor mopped his brow and then held on again.
“Petor!” Nadia called.
The Belgorod knight drew his mighty charger to a halt. He slipped the lance into its holder, threw his leg over the high saddle and slid onto the ice. He motioned the others to do likewise. All but Feodor complied.
“Help him farther onto the saddle,” Petor said.
One-handedly and from on the ground, Yury did.
“Can you hear me?” Petor asked up to Feodor.
Feodor nodded miserably.
“You must hang onto the saddle-horn,” Petor said.
“Yes,” Feodor groaned. His wide face had turned pasty white. Sweat slicked around his mouth. He blinked constantly.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Ivan.
Petor stepped near them. “I think the dart was poisoned,” he whispered. “We have to get him to Magda as fast as possible.” He raised his frosted eyebrows at Nadia. “Unless you can do something?”
Nadia shook her head.
“Where is Magda?” Yury asked.
Petor let out his breath as he gestured vaguely. “West somewhere.”
“Yes, but where exactly?” Yury said.
“I don’t know!” Petor shouted.
Yury recoiled, then scowled and turned away.
“I know,” Petor told a surprised Nadia and Ivan. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”
Faintly, the howling of storm wolves stirred the air.
Petor clenched his teeth, as a haunted look swept into his eyes. “Damn them,” he whispered. “Damn them to the Eternal Void!”
Shocked, Nadia covered her mouth at the rude epithet.
“I beg your pardon,” Petor said. He turned away, his eyebrows knit into lumps.
Feodor slumped lower in the saddle, his groans growing more audible and often. Yury tried to soothe him, to little avail.
“I’m drained,” Nadia whispered to Ivan. “I’m too tired to practice more magic.” An eerie sound floated on the wind, almost like piping. Yet surely, the Imp was too far away for her music to be heard. Whatever the sound, it promised dire consequences. “I’m afraid,” Nadia said, clutching Ivan’s hand. “The Imp will kill us this time.”
“What about Karlo?” Ivan asked bitterly.
Nadia had no answer for that.
“How are we going to escape?” Ivan turned and asked Petor.
“By Hosar,” whispered the knight, “I wish I knew.”
“You don’t know where the Belgorod freeholders are?”
“Near the yellow rocks, but if they’ve reached there or not…” Petor wiped sweat from his brow. “I must admit something. I’m not certain which is the fastest trail to the yellow rocks.”
They’d passed the yellow rocks on the way in. Five big boulders covered with yellow lichen stood in a clearing. Unfortunately, those boulders were far, far away. Even with stiff riding, it would take them well into dusk to reach them.
The faint howling grew stronger. The storm wolves and surely their riders gave chase.
“We must move,” Ivan said.
“Yes,” Petor agreed.
As he idly stroked the horn, Ivan had an idea. He bent on one knee, held Vesna’s head and concentrated. The dog whined. Ivan concentrated. Suddenly the dog barked, wagging her tail. She turned and bolted away into the forest.
“What came over her?” Petor asked.
Ivan wiped sweaty palms on his breeches. Quietly, he said, “I told her to run ahead.”
“What?”
“I can sense what she senses,” Ivan explained, “at least for a distance.”
Petor stepped back in alarm.
“No,” Nadia said. “It’s good magic, from the Dragon Horn. And it’s a good idea.”
“Very well,” Petor said in a dispirited tone.
“We still have hope,” Nadia told him.
“Hope?” Petor snorted. “I don’t see how we can avoid the wolf-riders.” He grabbed his charger’s reins. “Walk briskly,” he told them. Then he led them off the frozen stream and into the forest, following the path Vesna had taken.
A half mile later, they exited the icy undergrowth and remounted. Petor led them at a trot. The howling, which had increased the entire time, grew quieter as the horses trotted over a stretch of open ground.
“We’re gaining ground!” Petor shouted.
Ivan studied the horses through Stribog’s senses. The ability awed him. He could study beasts as a dog, as a hunter who tirelessly tracked prey and cut animals out of herds. He studied the horses as the storm wolves probably sensed such things. With his new ability, Ivan tried to puzzle out a plan of escape from the storm wolves.
Petor slowed the pace and ducked under a branch as they reentered the forest. Before them lay Vesna’s tracks. A few times the paw-prints doubled back and moved in a circle. When the dog had taken the final path, she’d urinated beside it. The first time Ivan explained that, the others stared at him.
“I told her to do that,” Ivan said. “So you must keep a lookout for yellow snow.”
Petor hadn’t even nodded, but had simply spurred Thunder.
White bleakness surrounded them. Evil howls floated after them, making the hair on the back of their necks stiffen with foreknowledge.
Thunder, Ivan decided, could travel all day and night. If the knight desired, he and his charger could travel fast enough to flee the storm wolves. The red packhorse floundered the most. Yury and Feodor outweighed Nadia and himself. The gelding was in better condition and was surely as half as old as the packhorse. Ivan understood that if he alighted onto the snow, Nadia could probably escape with Petor.
Ivan began to think as the pursing howls grew louder, nearer. The wind, when it shifted, carried a damp odor of great strength. At least ten or more storm wolves and their hairy riders followed. Could they defeat ten wolf-riders? No, that seemed impossible. The two riders they’d faced had been trained warriors filled with guile. Ten such warriors, in the thickets, would ambush them with ease. Poisoned darts, cracking whips, tainted storm wolf-bites—they would die miserably under such an assault. Nor could he forget Sir Karlo and his men. The Bavarian had ridden a mighty charger the equal of Thunder. Perun and his ruffians would also be close behind on their mounts. Added to everything else, was the Imp, a worker of baleful magic. If she played her ebony pipes...without Nadia’s magic to shield them, they’d be doomed.
Panic gibbered at the edge of Ivan’s thoughts. He kept the panic at bay with his hatred of Karlo. If they failed, the Bavarian knight would have Nadia. The thought made Ivan clench his teeth and his head to pound with fury. He must think! He must somehow use the Dragon Horn.
“Ivan!” Petor shouted from ahead.
Ivan dismounted because Petor had. The forest in front of them was impenetrable. Vesna’s tracks showed that she’d wormed her way into the mass.
“How are we supposed to travel through that?” Petor demanded.
Ivan didn’t know.
“Where is your cursed dog now?” Petor shouted in dismay.
Ivan closed his eyes. He didn’t sense anything. He reached down and clutched the horn. Ever so faintly, he sensed Vesna trotting through the forest. The dog held her nose high. She’d caught a whiff of men.
“She’s located Master Volok,” Ivan said.
Petor grabbed Ivan by the shoulders. “What?” Petor’s intensity shocked Ivan. He’d never seen the Belgorod knight like this. Petor let go and shivered as dreadful howls wove through the air. The knight’s chubby face no longer seemed cheery or the model of healthy Belgorod living. Their doom had turned his fleshy face into a stark mask, his eyes into staring orbs.
“We must stand and fight,” Yury said, the black battle-blade clutched in his hand.
“Fight?” Petor asked.
“Here,” said Yury.
Petor shook his head. “To stand and fight is to die. Then all of you will die.�
�� For a moment Petor couldn’t speak. When he did, his voice was lifeless. “Nadia is on her way to becoming a mighty shaper. This magic Dragon Horn cannot fall into the hands of Sir Karlo. And that sword you hold, my brother. No, the enemies of Great Moravia must never gain it.”
“To run is to die,” Yury countered.
“No,” Ivan said. “We must flee while we can, and trick them.”
“How?” Yury asked.
“I don’t know,” Ivan admitted.
Feodor took that moment to groan. His thigh had swelled, pressing against his pant-leg. He was in constant pain.
“We have to go through here,” Ivan said. He plunged into the undergrowth, madly snapping branches.
“Ivan, come back!” Petor called. “Feodor can’t make it through.”
Ivan didn’t obey. They had to keep moving. He tore at the branches and strained to crack the bigger ones.
“Stand aside!” Yury roared.
Ivan looked back in time to see Yury swing his battle-blade. Ivan ducked, slipping out of the way. Methodically, with incredible strength, Yury lopped off the bigger branches.
“Get behind me!” Yury shouted.
Ivan wormed his way behind. Then he followed his best friend and cleared out the smaller branches. It took them too long. The sound of the approaching pack was ominous. By the time, they brought the horses through, the howling storm wolves were almost upon them.
“We’ll never make it,” Nadia said. “Our only hope is that I bargain with Sir Karlo.”
Petor laughed starkly, almost madly.
“No,” Yury said. “You’ll make it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nadia.
Yury planted himself in front of the thicket they’d just passed through. “Here I stand. Here I will buy you time.”
None of them said a word.
“By Hosar,” Petor whispered at last.
Ivan watched him, worried that the knight had cracked under the terrible strain.
“Ride!” Yury shouted.
The fear drained from Petor’s face. His eyes lost their staring look, his face its tenseness. He smiled, not in joy perhaps, but in understanding.
From the other side of the thicket came fearsome howls. The pack had made wonderful time while they’d hacked through the dense undergrowth.
Petor laid his hand on Yury’s shoulder. The Belgorod knight spoke with his normal volume. “Dear brother, I love you. You have been the greatest squire any knight could wish for. I bid you now to follow your oath and obey me in this last request.”
“I-I don’t understand,” Yury said.
“You will ride with the others and protect them with your life. That is the charge I lay upon you. It is my right, as your knight, to give you this charge. You’ve sworn to obey me. Now is the not the moment to foreswear yourself.”
“I must guard this pass,” Yury said.
Petor applied pressure. “No, my brother. That is not your right. You haven’t yet earned it.”
“Then—”
“Listen to me,” Petor said earnestly. “I am the knight. I will stand here and buy the rest of you time.”
The weight of his words stunned them.
“No,” Yury said.
“Squire! Obey me!”
They stared at each other.
“None of us should stay,” Nadia said.
Petor told Yury, “Give my love to Mother and Father. Tell Andrei and Vuk that I thought of them at the end. And you, little brother, know that I’ve cherished your wild stories all my life. Become Moravia’s greatest knight. Wield your battle-blade in the service of Light. But now, by Hosar—ride!” He shoved Yury toward his horse.
Petor marched to Thunder, mounted up smoothly and put on his gauntlets. He set the iron helmet on his head and took hold of his lance. He readied his kite-shaped shield. Then he trotted Thunder fifty yards from the entrance they’d made. Petor sat proudly, stiffly, like a knight of old. For a moment the sun appeared, its rays shining off his gleaming chain-mail harness.
“Go!” he roared.
“We must ride,” said Nadia.
They mounted up. With a wail of misery, Yury spurred the old red packhorse for the trees across the clearing. Nadia kicked her gelding. Ivan hung on. Tears filled his eyes. He knew that Petor had been wrestling with the problem ever since they’d left the farmers’ camp. His last vision of Petor was of the knight astride his charger. In the end, there stood Light’s greatest hope: a good man armored by faith and steel.
They reentered the forest, moving as fast as possible. Behind them floated the awful howls. The storm wolves taunted them, jeered at them, promising to rend them from limb to limb.
“I hate them!” Ivan hissed into Nadia’s ear.
He heard her sob.
Then it came to him, how they could defeat the storm wolves. “Wait!” he bellowed.
Yury drew rein. Nadia twisted back to stare at him.
“We must go back,” said Ivan.
“No,” Nadia said. “Petor’s sacrifice must not be in vain.”
The storm wolf howls were near. He didn’t have time to argue. “I’m sorry,” he told Nadia. He put his arms around her waist and hurled her from the saddle. Then he scooted forward and took the reins. “Follow me, Yury!” He turned the gelding and slapped her rear. With a snort she bolted the way they’d just come.
“Come back!” shouted Nadia.
“Faster!” shouted Ivan. “Faster, faster!”
The gelding responded, her hooves pounding on the cold ground. Ivan ducked as branches whipped past his head. In the near distance, the storm wolf howls grew louder. Beside him, Stribog ran strong. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
Suddenly, the howls changed. Where a moment ago they’d jeered, now they cried out in dismay.
“Petor,” Ivan hissed. With his heels, he kicked the gelding in the flanks. He pictured Petor charging the emerging pack. He pictured the splintering lance, the sword that would be swept from its scabbard. From his greater height, Petor surely dealt potent death. Thousands should have viewed the last stand of the Belgorod Champion. Instead, surrounded by howling enemies, Petor Belgorod fought his last battle alone, the true hero.
“Not if I can help it,” said Ivan.
The howls of storm wolf misery filled the forest.
Then Ivan broke through the trees and into the clearing. He saw the fight. Petor sat astride his stallion, the kite-shaped shield sprinkled with darts. Around him snarled storm wolves and their riders. Whip-tips and darts flew at Petor. He hewed and a hairy rider would never rise again.
Then a storm wolf bit one of Thunder’s back legs. Thunder screamed, and kicked back with his other leg, crushing the storm wolf’s head. Other huge beasts leaped forward, slavering jaws snapping. Thunder went down, Petor with him.
Ivan put the Dragon Horn to his lips and blew with everything he had. An eerie blast shook the forest, washing over the storm wolves.
They whimpered, cowering, slinking low and away from the sound. Their riders cried out with rage, striking them. The wolves looked at Ivan. Once they had been normal wolves. Now they were huge, evil beasts, given over to Darkness. Shame filled them at the sight of the Lord of Hounds. They knew in an instinctive way that size and power wasn’t worth the bargain of becoming evil and vile.
Ivan rode at them. He rode as the Lord of Hounds.
The riders beat their mounts. Then Petor rose up among them. He’d lost his helmet, but not his spirit. He bellowed a war cry as he swung his sword.
Ivan winded the Dragon Horn once more.
It was too much for the storm wolves. Howling, shaking off their riders, they bolted and fled back the way they’d come.
Petor leaped at the fallen riders, at the small hairy beasts who had once been men. Then Yury shot past Ivan on his old packhorse. Bloodlust gleamed upon Yury’s face. Some of that battle madness, in a way Ivan couldn’t understand, had transformed itself to the old red packhorse. The old horse ran as he once must have
run when he was a young colt in the fields.
“Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” shouted Yury.
The small hairy clawmen, who surrounded and closed in on Petor, looked up in dismay and alarm.
Yury smashed in among them. He slid from the saddle, landing expertly. With two hands, he held Night, the huge battle-blade. Its long black blade gleamed evilly. The runes etched into the blade, for just a moment, pulsed with sinister power. Yury’s face twisted with fury and raging bloodlust. He bellowed a wild and alien cry (it was spoken in an ancient tongue, but none of them knew that). The nearest clawmen, men transformed and shaped into the images of upright beasts, curled their lips in a snarl, revealing long and deadly fangs. They raised their small target shields. Yury laughed and swung. Wood splintered. Flesh parted. Bones cracked and blood sprayed. Yury pivoted, swinging harder than before. More clawmen died. The others, screaming in fear, tried to scramble away to safety, out of range of the evil battle-blade. Night crashed down upon their backs, slaying them in their cowardice. Yury ran after another who fled, cleaving his skull. Petor fought, too, although he stood well back of the battle-blade. Then the small hairy beasts who had once been men, the few who lived, fled back through the thicket opening.
Ivan reined in the gelding as Petor turned to Yury. The blood madness still shone on his brother’s face. Yury lifted the battle-blade high, screaming an awful oath in that strange and alien tongue. Petor, who grinned in delight, frowned as he stepped away from his brother.
Ivan dismounted, and shouted, “Yury!”
Yury, foam flecking his lips, turned with a snarl.
Then jangling armor bade them all turn back to the opening. Sir Karlo, on his huge black stallion, a massive lance couched under his arm, thundered at the nearest of them, at a surprised Petor.
“No!” shouted Ivan.
Sir Karlo’s eyes gleamed with rage. His long hair flew behind him. Like an avalanche, a force of nature, the huge stallion thundered at Petor. Petor’s face drained of blood. He lifted his sword and set his feet. Sir Karlo grinned. The lance shifted, the point aimed at Petor’s chest. Petor, knowing he was about to die, bellowed “Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” He swung desperately at the lance. It made no difference. Sir Karlo’s arm never moved. The gleaming head of steel pierced Petor’s chest. It ripped chain mail and broke skin and bones. Petor cried out once and then he fell dead on the snow, a gory ruin of what once had been a man.
The Dragon Horn Page 23