Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also by Brendan Noble
Dedication Page
Major Gods and Their Marks
Pronunciation Guide
Map
The Rider in the Night
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
A Word From The Author
About the Author
The Story Continues:
ADOTW Prologue – Wacław
ADOTW Part One: The Drowning of Marzanna
ADOTW Chapter 1 - Wacław
ADOTW Chapter 2 - Otylia
Text Copyright © 2021, Brendan Noble
Eight-One-Five Publishing
[email protected]
Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design
www.derangeddoctordesign.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, stored in a database and / or published in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Brendan Noble
The Frostmarked Chronicles:
A Dagger in the Winds
The Prism Files:
The Fractured Prism
Crimson Reigns
Pridefall
White Crown
For my amazing wife, Andrea, who has encouraged me and tolerated my endless rants about Slavic mythology.
Pronunciation Guide
Major characters
Andrij Myroslavovych Yakymchuk: Ahndrey Mihrohslahvohvihch Yahkihmchuhk
Valentyn: Vahlehnteen
Mykyta: Mihkeeta
Oleh: Ohleh
Boz Vladyslavovych Kramarenko: Bohz Vlahdihslahvohvich Krahmahrehnkoh
Beáta: Behahtah
Major Gods
Marzanna: Mahrzahnah
Dziewanna: Djehvahnah
Jaryło: Yahrihwoh
Mokosz: Mohkohsh
Perun: Pehruun
Weles: Vehlehs
Swaróg: Svahrohg
Dadźbóg: Dahdzbohg
Strzybóg: Strihbohg
Other Terms
Kynnytsia: Kihnihtseeah
Dwie Rzeki: Dvee Zehkee
Małe Wzgórze: Mahweh Vzgohzeh
Krowik(ie): Krohvihk(ee)
Astiw(ie): Ahstihv(ee)
Solga(wi): Sohlgah(vee)
Zurgow(ie): Zuhrgowv(ee)
Simuk(ie): Sihmuhk(ee)
Chapter 1
A HARSH CHILL BLEW OVER THE PEAKS OF PERUN’S CROWN and swept across the scattered trees of spruce and pine. Andrij shivered, pulling his furs tight over his shoulders.
Why did I have to speak up?
King Boz hadn’t responded well to his suggestion to place a spare rooster or two in each of the threshing houses in case the ovinniks got the wrong idea at winter’s end. The blasted demons had burned down three in in the surrounding villages already. But Boz never took kindly to ideas—other than his own.
Guarding the trail through the Narrow Pass was an easy station for a warrior during the summer. Now, though, during the waxing Marzec moon, Andrij could barely feel the tips of his fingers beneath his woolen gloves.
His mother would’ve scolded him for not wearing an extra layer. Luckily, she was in his home village of Khakovo, far from the mountain winds.
Andrij hoped his mother was warm, huddled with his six siblings around their cottage’s stove. After all she’d suffered, he wished he’d been able to provide more. Though he had done his best on the farm with her for twelve years, that’d been before the king had come to collect his late father’s debt, forcing Andrij to become a guard.
It had been five years since Boz’s warriors had torn him, yelling and kicking, away from his widowed mother and starving family. He hadn’t seen them since.
He sighed, creating a puff of fog that was barely visible in the moonlight. Just a week until the spring equinox, he reminded himself, but that hope of warmth felt distant during the long night.
Another gust of wind slipped through Andrij’s gloves, and he swore as his fingers grew numb against his spear’s wooden staff. The cold wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had Mykyta’s humor or even Valentyn’s old stories of battles against the nomadic clans from the east. Instead, he was alone with the cries creeping through the cliffs high above.
Many of the other guards had spoken of the voices in the Narrow Pass when he’d first arrived. Andrij hadn’t believed them, but since then, he’d spent many nights guarding the eastern trail. It sounded like a woman’s scream at times. Others, it reminded him of a serpent hiding in the brush.
Hours passed slowly, but Andrij let himself smile when the golden light of Dadźbóg, god of the sun, finally crested the peaks. With the lifeless sea of white around him no longer shrouded in darkness, his fear and exhaustion faded. Soon, another guard would replace him. He could remove his boots, slurp down some lukewarm soup, and drop into his bed. It wasn’t much, but the thought of sleeping until late afternoon, uninterrupted, was the only thing keeping him sane.
Then the ground began to shake.
Instinct took over. Andrij flipped his shield off his back and gripped his spear, wriggling his fingers to bring some feeling back into them. Unfortunately, the only sensation that followed was a dull throb from the cold.
“Halt!” he shouted, though his voice was little more than a squeak.
The sound of horses galloping through the snow approached, unrelenting. Two of them, Andrij approximated. There was a slim chance he could fight them, but he would never make it back to Kynnytsia to alert the others in time. Gods, why did he have to send me alone tonight?
“Halt!” he tried again to no avail. His lip quivered and his breaths were raspy, but Andrij forced himself to hold his ground. If the clans finally had the guts to attack the Astiwie capital, he wasn’t going to be the first to flee—just the first to fall.
The first rider tore down the trail, his bay horse huffing at full gallop and his tan cloak flapping behind him. His gaze was fixed on Andrij.
Andrij waited for the horseman to draw within a spear’s length, just like Valentyn had taught him. When the next rider swarmed from his other flank, though, his footing failed. He stumbled and dropped to a knee as the attackers advanced, their frames casting a cold shadow over him.
They spoke between themselves in a quick tongue unlike anything he’d heard. Warriors from villages further north had described the eastern clansmen as beasts with spiraled horns that sowed destruction and massacred innocents, but the riders before him appeared to be merely a dark-skinned man and woman—one of each.
“Who are you?” Andij asked.
The tan-cloaked man grinned and drew down his hood, revealing his curled black hair. “I am Bidaês of Clan Simuk, eldest grandson of Marzban Katiôn,” he said in the Astiwie tongue, “and this is—”
“You do not speak for me,” the woman snapped. “You may call me Zhaleh, messenger of Clan Zurgow and priestess of Otlezd.” She left her hood up, but Andrij eyed the green line of paint arcing above her furrowed brow. They have female warriors?
Bidaês rolled his eyes but continued, “We come with an offer for your king.”
“Our… Our king?” Andrij mumbled, examining the man. He rode tall with his chin held high, but his voice was young, a
nd Andrij guessed he was no older than himself.
“Yes,” Bidaês said with a sigh. “Show him to us, or we will find the way ourselves.”
The girl scoffed and muttered something Andrij didn’t understand, but he’d heard enough. The riders would reach Kynnytsia whether he showed them or not. Boz won’t like that. The king despised most people, and Andrij doubted these uninvited foreigners would be any different. He winced at the thought. If he doesn’t kill me, he’ll have me shoveling manure for weeks.
Andrij rose and steadied his breaths. “I will show you the way, but allow me to enter the village first. Your presence will startle our warriors.”
Bidaês laughed with a hand on the hilt of his curved sword. “If your warriors are anything like yourself, we should have few issues.”
“Follow me, then.” Andrij backed away, feeling even smaller than he had before. “I will show you where it is safe to wait.”
They both nodded, and he led them down the steep slope. From here, many of the rolling hills within Astiwie lands were visible. Marzanna, goddess of winter and death, ruled them all for now. Come the equinox, though, the Jaryło—god of spring and war—would slay her and bring life to the crops and nature. Dadźbóg’s full light would then cast a golden dawn over the forests and plains. Andrij had anticipated that day for many moons. With two clan riders at his back, however, that hope faded.
Kynnytsia was nestled among the trees and hills an hour’s hike from Andrij’s guard post. It was the largest village in the tribe, yet even from this elevation, Andrij could barely make out the scattered cottages. In fact, the only clear building was King Boz’s circular home at the peak of the highest hill.
“Your people live here all their lives?” Bidaês asked as they passed the first fields and homes.
Andrij, still rigid from his shock, forced himself to nod.
“And what if there is little to eat? Surely you cannot forage for enough in one place for so long?”
“Mother always said Jaryło blesses our crops,” Andrij replied. “Our lands have never been barren, and as far as I know, we’ve never moved from the shadow of Perun’s Crown.”
Zhaleh shook her head. “You speak of gods that do not exist. Only Otlezd and his six Uzeša Teṇpa protect the earth. If your people have found food plentiful, it is because of their giving.”
“All I know is the stories Mother and the priests tell.” Andrij paused and glanced back as the riders sneered at the single room cottages. “What offer do you have for the king? You should know he isn’t a fan of talking.”
Another smirk crossed Bidaês’s face. “That reminds me of a certain high priestess.”
“High Priestess Rasa is Otlezd’s voice to our people,” Zhaleh replied, eying the dagger at her side. “Speak ill of her again and I will slice off your fingers.”
Noted.
“We come with a warning,” she continued, turning her attention back to Andrij. “A great Horde has swept across the Anshayman Steppe. We have lost many to their arrows tipped with bone, and we intend to travel through your lands to evade them. Your king has two choices: allow us to pass or die.”
Andrij swallowed. “Oh…”
“And this is why I was supposed to do the talking,” Bidaês muttered. “Zhaleh puts it in unnecessarily harsh terms. We don’t intend to harm your people, but if we are forced to face you or the Horde, we will choose you.”
Is that supposed to make it any better?
Bidaês’s attempt at reassurance hadn’t stopped the churning of Andrij’s stomach, but he faked a smile. The king would be furious when he heard their demand. All Andrij could hope was that he wasn’t in the room when it happened.
The sun hung high above by the time they reached the place where the crossroads met. Andrij eyed the southern one—the trail home. Someday, he promised himself he would return to his mother and feel her soft embrace. This was not the day.
“Can you wait here?” Andrij asked the riders, considering if he should add “please” at the end to avoid Zhaleh’s wrath.
The priestess waved a dismissive hand. “Be quick, and do not bring warriors to attack us. Our clans will march west whether we return or not.”
Andrij nodded and took the center trail, passing more cottages as he passed through the wooden gate and neared the village center. Here, men gathered to sharpen their hunting spears, and old women with their patterned headscarves watched their grandchildren run amok. A few of them slipped across the trail, only missing Andrij’s legs by half-a-stride. He chuckled at the scolding that followed. Life had never been easy for Andrij. Being a boy with an imaginative mind, though, had ensured his childhood had no lack of heroic battles against cattle or bundles of wheat, always drawing his mother’s ire.
When he reached the circular clearing that marked the village center, he coughed from the stench of the tannery. King Boz had allowed it to be built four hundred strides to the west—upwind. No one had taken a breath of fresh air in Kynnytsia since.
Andrij felt the gaze of the king’s guards as he approached Boz’s home atop the hill. He’d returned from the Narrow Pass too soon, and they would surely whisper to the other warriors.
“I urgently need to speak with the king,” he said, stopping before them with his hand tight around his spear. Please make this easy. He knew better. As one of the youngest of Boz’s forced recruits, Andrij needed to prove himself at every opportunity. This one would be no different.
Ostap, the bulkier of the guards, stepped forward. “You can pass the message on with us.”
Andrij matched his glare. “There are clan riders here who have a deal… or I guess a threat… that he will want to hear.”
“You brought them here?” Ostap swapped glances with the other guard, Dmytro. “You better tell him then. I’d rather not die.”
Dmytro’s eyes widened, and he backed away, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine letting Andrij do it.”
Wonderful…
Andrij took a sharp breath and pulled open the door to the house. Inside, the heat stung his frosted skin, but he ignored it as he passed down the narrow hall, lined with bear pelts upon the dirt floor. He’d never understood the king’s obsession with killing any bear near the settlement; though, he had heard Boz mumbling about the bear-god Weles under his breath more than once. Each time one was spotted, the warrior on duty was required to go directly to the king. Then, Boz always insisted on slaying the beast himself.
At the end of the hall, the space widened into a circular room floored with more pelts, but King Boz’s most prized kill hung behind his throne—the dragon-like demon the priests had called an aspid. Its hide was draped across the entire back wall with arrays of purple and gray dancing across the scales.
Andrij thought it would have been a magnificent beast to see with his own eyes, but Boz had hated its presence in the mountains. With a team of warriors, he’d slayed the aspid seven moons before, taking a few of its scales for his crown and its bones for his throne.
The king sat upon this throne, holding a clay mug and fixing his deep brown eyes upon Andrij. A cape of blue, trimmed in gold, draped from his shoulders. Though his hair had receded half-way up his scalp, no one dared to mention his age.
Andrij knelt at the room’s entrance and waited for his king to speak. Silence reigned for a minute, and sweat collected on his brow. What have I done? He’s probably deciding how to punish me for abandoning my post.
“Andrij,” Boz began, his voice like that of a snake, “You come at the most inopportune time.”
“I apologize, my king, but—”
Boz shot to his feet, throwing away his mug and spewing the liquid across a pelt. “Did I ask you to speak?” He stormed across the room and grabbed Andrij’s ear. “I give you an opportunity away from that puny farm and you repay me by leaving your assignment?”
Andrij winced as his ear throbbed, but he knew better than to talk back. Everyone knew King Boz was cruel. Few, though, understood what his collection of gua
rds did.
He was insane.
“Answer me!” Boz snapped before slamming Andrij’s head into the dirt and stepping back.
“I… I…” Andrij tried to speak, but fear and the pounding of his head drowned every word.
The king huffed and eyed the guards along the rim of the room. “You smirk? Why? None of you are better than him!”
“The clansmen,” Andrij stuttered, kneeling once again. “My king, messengers from the clans of Simuk and Zurgow have arrived with a warning.”
Boz’s eyes narrowed. “They dare cross the Narrow Pass to talk after all the villages they have raided in the north? What is the warning?”
“It may be best if they tell you.”
The backhand caught Andrij off-guard, and his cheek stung as Boz scowled and returned to his throne. “You allowed clan riders into Kynnytsia—into my settlement?”
Andrij stared at the ground. I’m dead. “My king, they said they would carry out the worst of their plans if they didn’t speak to you. I thought—”
“I do not care about your thoughts.” He looked to a guard along the wall, “Bring them.”
The guard nodded and jogged down the hall as Andrij shook his head. “But my king, I—”
“Have not learned your lesson apparently.” Boz drummed his fingers on the bone armrests of his throne. “You will listen quietly during the meeting. Then I will decide what I want to do with you.”
“Yes, my king.”
Chapter 2
“KING BOZ, I PRESUME?” BIDAÊS SAID without a bow at the throne room’s entrance. “My name is Bidaês of Clan Simuk, grandson to Marzban Katiôn.” He still held a cocky smirk, and Andrij, from his kneeling position along the side wall, wondered if his cheeks hurt from holding it like that for so long.
Boz studied the visitors, clicking his tongue. Then, he stood and rounded his throne to the aspid hide. “Do your people have stories of dragons, ‘Bidaês of Clan Simuk’?” he asked.
“Not of the air, but there are many stories of what lives beneath the dry ground of the steppe.”
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