The demon charged again, forcing Andrij further down the steepening hill. His feet slipped in the snow as the demon pushed and slashed.
He tumbled.
Andrij’s shield slid from his grasp. When he finally stopped rolling, shaking and covered in snow, his skull struck a hard surface. He cried out and gripped his knife with both hands. The creature was only strides away, and he could sense its hunger to kill.
Andrij staggered to his feet. His head throbbed from the impact. With the winds blurring his vision, the world spun around him. He wobbled and collapsed, slamming to the ground again. The snow wasn’t enough cushion to stifle the blow, and he groaned, watching the demon sprint to the bottom of the slope just as the earth began to shake.
Andrij scrambled away as fissures split the ground ahead. Ice! This is the Wyzra!
The demon hissed and followed, but its steps broke the ice further. As it neared Andrij, a snap split the air. The demon’s leg slipped into the frigid water. It screamed, and Andrij took advantage of the hesitation, driving his knife into the demon’s head and ripping his spear free.
His breath caught as he staggered back and examined the dead creature before him. The ice continued to break at the swift motion. So, slowly, Andrij shuffled toward the other bank, his face stinging and heart racing. He was so close.
Get to the shore, he told himself. Then you can find Valentyn and Mykyta. Once Andrij was reunited with the others, would find Oleh and thank the horse for keeping him alive. But as he neared the river’s edge, his foot dropped through the ice.
Water swept into his boot, and Andrij winced as he pulled his ankle free and jumped to the river’s western bank. He wished for the numbness to return. His entire leg burned worse than his already frozen face. Fire was his only hope, but with his companions and his gear across the river, starting one would be a slow process.
He groaned and glanced across the river. The blizzard blocked his view of the demon, but he knew it was out there. The priests had told tales of their many types—from ovinniks in threshing houses to zmory that sat upon sleeping people and sapped their life—but zmory were undead women, not men. Whatever that thing had been, it was either unheard of or too frightening for the priests to speak of.
Thinking about demons wouldn’t save him from the cold. Andrij rose and started gathering whatever kindling he could as he made his way up to the ridge above the river. By the time he arrived, he’d collected enough to attempt a small fire, but with the wind and the dampness of the sticks, it refused to light.
“Swaróg, gift me fire,” he prayed.
With a sharp breath, he struck his iron dagger against a stone, once again showering sparks over the tinder in hopes of flame. None came. And as Andrij stood, the gales blew across the sticks, scattering many of them across the ridge.
His heart sank. He cursed Marzanna for her winter, the god Strzybóg for his brutal winds, and Swaróg for abandoning him. They had only set forth two days before, yet he’d already lost his companions. He would die without fire, without help. Here, west of the Wyzra, Andrij knelt in Krowikie lands. It was the furthest he had ever gone, and already, he wished to turn back.
“Why does it have to be me?” he asked the storm. “Why must my tribe depend on me?”
The kindling erupted, sending a wave of heat crashing over him. He spun away and reached for his shield in expectation of another attack, but a bright bird dove through the storm and into the fire. Though set ablaze, it was not consumed. Instead, its power seemed to swell, and the Firebird emerged from the flames in a brilliant light that burned away the blizzard.
Andrij covered his eyes as they watered. “Firebird! Firebird! What have I done to earn your presence?” There were as many legends of the Firebird as those of the witch of the Mangled Woods and the gods themselves. Until now, Andrij had believed them to be just that—legends.
“Look upon me, traveler, and hear the truth,” a strong woman’s voice said.
He did, and awe filled him as he watched the flames, crowning the bird in a golden glory. What more is this journey if the Firebird would come to me?
“Marzanna’s wrath should have taken you this eve,” the voice continued. “Though you saved one of your companions from her nezhit, you would have frozen on this ridge had I not called upon this Firebird.”
Bowing his head, Andrij took a sharp breath. “You’re a goddess! Who else could control the Firebird?”
“Yes, Andrij. I am called Dziewanna, queen of the wilds. You and your people have foolishly forgotten me, but I have saved you from Marzanna.” The Firebird slashed its wings through the air at the mention of her name. “My sister seeks to separate the tribes, to make you weak. If she succeeds, then all of Jawia is destined for years of winter—of starvation and death.”
“How?” Andrij shook his head. “The equinox is days away! Jaryło will kill her, right?”
The goddess sighed. “Marzanna’s spite cannot be quelled so easily. Jaryło and I have fought to keep our sister in check for centuries, but there is something far greater than us at work. Though I will do what I must, I fear it may not be enough.”
The Firebird dropped, landing in the melted snow before Andrij. Its flames snapped and flickered around it, and as Dziewanna continued, Andrij felt her rage, “She has stolen everything from us, betrayed us! Her desire for death and suffering is too great to continue beyond the winter moons, and I will burn her to ash when the time comes. But without the tribes’ sacrifices, without their strength, I cannot end her. You must complete your journey.”
“My goddess, how does my journey help stop Marzanna? I am to ask the Krowikie to fight the clans of the east, nothing more.”
“It is not what you will do but what you will send into motion.” The Firebird drew closer, its heat singing Andrij’s skin. “I cannot know what is ahead. None know Destiny’s will, not even the gods. I believe, though, there lies a pair in Dwie Rzeki who can change the fate of Jawia, of the world. Your message will bring about their own journey—one more difficult than any mortal has ever known.”
Change the fate of Jawia? “Who? How will I know where to find them?”
“You will not. Someday, you may meet if they survive their trials, but before then, you will face many struggles of your own.” The flames dimmed slightly, and the bird hung its head. “It is still Marzanna’s time. Though my strength is fading, the blizzard has all but passed. One of your companions has fallen to my sister, but the other is coming here now with the horse you call Oleh. Go, ride through the night, and do not rest when the godless moon shows its face.”
“Wait!” Andrij shouted, but the Firebird took flight in a rush and soared into the night, its flames following it until the bird appeared as another flickering soul in the sky. Behind remained only a single feather, still ablaze. He took it in his hand, yet it did not hurt as the fire danced through his fingers. What is this?
As Andrij looked to where the Firebird had flown, he thanked the goddess for his second chance at life. It was a gift he would cherish. Though her warning overwhelmed his mind, Dziewanna had saved him for a single purpose—to finish his journey. And finish it he would. Whether through storm or against demons, he would fight on, for his tribe, for his family, and for the goddess who had placed her faith in him.
Chapter 4
“SHE SAID WHAT NOW?” VALENTYN GROANED as he rubbed his thighs. “Better be good to keep me ridin’ so long.”
Darkness swallowed the world as their exhausted horses carried them through the woods west of the Wyzra. Despite Valentyn’s assurances that crossing the river would be the hardest part of the trip, Andrij dreaded the days ahead. If the goddess of winter truly was trying to stop them, then what else lay ahead? The creature had killed Mykyta, who, according to Valentyn, had bled out until he burst into flames, allowing his soul to travel to the underworld of Nawia. That loss weighed on him. Friend or not, Mykyta had been a companion, and Andrij missed his ramblings already.
Sighing, And
rij buried his thoughts before describing his encounter with the Firebird again. Like most of the guards, Valentyn was skeptical of tales like this, but he was Astiwie. Most within the tribe understood there were powers far beyond what they could grasp.
“Explains Mykyta’s fire,” Valentyn said before shaking his head. “Kid was too young. They’re always too young...”
Andrij raised his brow. “You don’t seem surprised by the Firebird.”
Valentyn shrugged. “Listen, if you get to be as old as me as a guard, you’ve seen more than you’re willing to admit. Usually its ‘cause of too many swigs of oskoła, but if you swear you saw it, I ain’t one to doubt it. Doesn’t change much anyway. We’re going to Dwie Rzeki whether this Dziewanna wants us to or not.”
“But what about the pair in the village or Marzanna’s plan? That doesn’t scare you? Mykyta died so fast. We could be next.”
“I’ll die when it’s my time. Besides, Mykyta will be enjoying the paradise of Nawia while we’re still obeying king lunatic’s orders. Ever thought ya might be better off in Mykyta’s spot?”
With a tight grip on his reins, Andrij considered that for a moment before forcing away the temptation. “No. My family needs me.”
“Your family probably thinks you’re dead, kid. Boz pulls boys like you out of random farms because so many of his guards die following his whims. They wouldn’t know the difference if you’d froze last night.”
“You’re wrong!” Andrij spun Oleh around to block Viktor and his mentor. Their gazes met, and for once, Valentyn backed down. “My mother said she’d wait for my return, and I will go to here when we’re finished. Boz has promised my freedom.”
A shadow fell over Valentyn’s rugged face. “I had your fight once. Goes faster than ya think.” He rounded Andrij and continued through the trees, his gaze focused on something immaterial.
Groaning, Andrij followed. Pain and regret or not, he had a job to do. It didn’t matter that Boz was the one forcing him west. Between the Horde the clan riders had spoken of and Dziewanna’s warnings, there was something much larger at play. If either were true, he had to finish the journey. For both his tribe and his family, he would reach Dwie Rzeki and bring his king an army. He would be a hero. More importantly, he’d be free.
They trekked through the night in silence, only the sound of the barbarous northern wind tearing through the trees to keep them company. Valentyn’s cape—blue and gold like Boz’s—drifted through the little moonlight as he rode. Andrij studied the Astiwie symbol of the kalina plant embroidered upon it: red berries for blood and white flowers for purity. One out of two at least…
“Why do you think Boz kept the kalina?” Andrij asked, pulling alongside Valentyn. “He hated his family.”
Valentyn considered that for a second. “The little I know about power tells me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He chuckled. “No one cares what you think, just what you do for ‘em. Before King Boz, bandits raided the outer villages all the time, but, crazy as he may be, Boz found all of them. Cut off enough heads and men stop thinking a raid is worth it.”
“What about the ovinniks, the grain shortages?”
“You know our people.”
Andrij nodded. “Blame the weather and demons and they’ll believe it, but we know how to tame some of them. At least the priests claim so.”
“You’re from a small village, kid. Think about it. You ever see a priest who knew anything before Kynnytsia?”
“Fair point.” Khakovo’s bumbling idiot of a priest had barely remembered the names of the gods when he was sober, which was rare. The priests of Kynnytsia had their own intentions. Everyone knew that. But at least they pretended to care about what they preached.
When daylight cracked above the horizon, Andrij smiled at the thought of sleep. His soreness from their battle with the nezhit had long numbed, but his eyes slipped shut every few seconds, demanding rest.
They stopped beneath an elm, its wide, strong branches offering some shadows as they lay on their bed rolls and wrapped themselves in their furs. He’d awaited this moment for hours, and as the sun climbed above the trees, he took one long breath before fading to sleep.
“Andrij.”
Andrij winced as he opened his eyes, the sunlight splitting the gaps of the naked branches. His arms ached and his head throbbed from its impact against the ice. By Dadźbóg’s position, it was just past noon, but his mentor hovered over him, breaking the rays as he shook Andrij.
“Andrij, get up!”
Pushing away his dreariness, Andrij scanned his surroundings. “What’s wrong?”
Then he heard the snap from the woods. He was on his feet in an instant with both spear and shield in hand, his breaths controlled and his mind ready for a fight. Valentyn took his side, gripping his ax. “Someone’s watchin’ us. Could feel it last night.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“You spook easy. Needed you rested.”
Andrij huffed. “Well, I’m rested now. Where’s the stalker?”
Valentyn nodded to a thicket twenty-strides north, down the slope to the Wyzra. Whoever it was, they had the high ground. “C’mon. Let’s smoke the scoundrel.”
They crept forward with their shields locked. Two wasn’t enough for a shield wall, but it created a solid enough front to hold back a frontal attack, and the symbols of Perun’s Thundermark painted on them would scare away minor demons. At least, that’s what the priests claimed.
A gust swept through the woods, stringing Andrij’s face as they approached the thicket, but he ignored the pain. Mykyta was dead because they’d been too slow to stop the nezhit. This time, his training would not fail him. Valentyn had been by his side since the moment he stepped into Kynnytsia, and he wouldn’t lose his mentor now—not to demon, animal, or man.
The thicket stirred as Andrij yelled and drove his spear into its branches, finding nothing but wood. Again he struck, and again the dense brush rejected his attempt. Crouching, he examined the maze of thorns and vines. “It’s empty, Valentyn.”
“It’s not!” Valentyn pushed him aside and swung his ax into the branches. Thorns jabbed at his arms, but he pushed on until Andrij grabbed his tunic.
“Valentyn! It’s empty!”
The old warrior stopped. With hearty breaths, he examined the scrapes in his tunic and his blood dripping to the snow. “Ay… Seems I got a lil’ carried away.”
Andrij chuckled and patted Valentyn’s shoulder. “We’re both shaken up after yesterday, but nothing’s following us.” He glanced at the sun as it began its descent. “It’s about time we left, though. You sure you’re ready to ride?”
“Am I sure I’m ready? Pah!” Valentyn stomped past him and began packing his gear onto Viktor, who was tied to a tree not far away. “I’ve seen more than my share of death. Pray to the gods you never have to remember the faces I do.”
For a moment, Andrij watched Valentyn with worry. There was no doubt he’d lost more than Mykyta, but Valentyn had never lost his temper so quickly before—at least, not around Andrij. Whether it was the nezhit’s attack or something else, something had him anxious.
“C’mon, boy!” Valentyn said. “Boz ain’t a patient man, and I’ve heard enough stories to know Jacek’s the same.”
Andrij mounted Oleh and slipped a spare bit of grain to the horse, who huffed happily at the offering. “You just want to arrive in time for the Drowning of Marzanna rituals,” Andrij laughed.
Valentyn grinned and shook the layer of white from his beard. “Not the ritual but the oskoła. The Krowikie have enough of it to make any warrior fall flat on his face in glee—and that’s before ya see the women.” He chuckled. “Oh, that got your attention.”
“I’m not that desperate.” Andrij averted his gaze, thinking of the many girls who’d denied his advances and the two who’d ducked into the woods with him more than once. Even those dalliances had ended as quickly as they had begun, though.
/> “Ya don’t need to be desperate to want these ones.”
Andrij shook his head as they continued their journey west. “I’ll just take your word for it.”
Chapter 5
AFTER ANOTHER NIGHT OF RIDING THROUGH THE DARKNESS, Andrij came to an uncomfortable conclusion: They were in fact being followed.
Valentyn claimed they were nearing a village that would hold both supplies and better places to sleep than the ground, but as Dadźbóg flickered behind the blanket of clouds above, Andrij doubted his mentor’s memory. They had passed a few villages in recent days. None, though, were any larger than the tiny one of three families that Andrij had grown up in himself. The people needed the little food they had this late in winter, and there were no signs of a larger settlement. Surely a hunting party would have left some tracks nearby if Valentyn had been right?
In fact, the only tracks they had seen were those of a solitary wolf. It kept its distance, ahead at times and behind at others, but Andrij spotted its prints in the soft snow as they trotted.
Why would a wolf stalk us?
That question haunted him. Wolves were dangerous in packs, but alone, they were hardly a threat against two armed warriors. If it was following them, there had to be another reason.
“Marzanna…”
Her name chilled his tongue as he spoke. Dziewanna had warned him of the winter goddess. Could this be one of her servants, or was he mistaking a lone, possibly starving, wolf for something much bigger? He didn’t know, but it was indeed watching them. He was certain of that.
“Don’t go praying to her now,” Valentyn muttered. “Jaryło will slay her in days.”
Andrij pushed Oleh up beside Valentyn and Viktor. Despite being nearly a head taller than Valentyn on foot, their eyes were level due to Viktor’s ridiculous height. There was no reason for Valentyn to ride such a ginormous horse—except for his ego.
The Rider in the Night Page 3