The smell of burning flesh stung Andrij’s nose as Ctirad dove from the flames, still ablaze and swatting at his seared armor. He found no aid.
Beáta swung her sickle into the raider’s neck as Andrij grabbed the Firebird feather. Ctirad’s body slumped to the ground, but Beáta sliced again and again. Andrij looked away as she decapitated the man in her fury.
When Beáta yelled and raised her weapon, Andrij met her gaze. He winced at the blood strewn across her face. “We have to help the others,” she said, her voice stern.
They charged into the fray. Many of the raiders had fallen in the flames, but a dozen remained, cutting down women, men, and children alike as they rushed up the hill. Andrij couldn’t tell how many villagers had been slain. It didn’t matter. One was too many to lose to these brutes, and he would make them pay.
Andrij’s spear found the first raider’s stomach with little effort, slipping by his damaged shield. A second shouted from his flank as he spun. The spear raced toward his stomach, but Andrij knocked aside the weapon and drove his spear into the attacker’s thigh. Screaming, the raider dropped to a knee as Andrij drew his hunting knife and sliced his throat without hesitation.
That’s two.
Smoke obscured the battle around him. Cries and yells echoed down the hill, but there was little to separate friend from foe. Everywhere Andrij looked, people dropped to the dirt, forever leaving Jawia for a life beyond. Had he failed? And where was Valentyn?
Another raider burst through the smoke with a sword in hand, catching Andrij in his thoughts. He barely raised his shield in time to deflect the raider’s first blow, and with his spear still stuck in the downed attacker’s thigh, Andrij had nothing but knife and hatchet to fight with—again.
The raider charged him over and over, battering Andrij’s shield with every strike and driving him down the slope. Each swing of Andrij’s knife met air as his feet slipped in the snow. The battle had lasted only minutes, yet he was exhausted. His eyes stung from the smoke, and each breath ended as a sputter.
Keep fighting, he told himself. You were trained for this.
Yet the raider was stronger, better armed. Andrij’s shield cracked from the onslaught, and the top third of it gave way as his pursuer slammed his own shield into Andrij’s. Andrij swore under his breath and spun away, just avoiding another strike.
Ice cracked beneath his feet. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with blood as the raider forced him closer to the trail’s flames. Andrij spat, but the taste of salt and iron lingered. “C’mon! What are you waiting for?”
The raider smiled with his broken teeth and lunged. Andrij waited until the last second before diving to the side, sending the raider onto the ice and then slipping into the fire.
On the ground, the snow burned Andrij’s skin, but he laughed as he stood. It had been a silly trick. He was alive, though, and the raider’s screams were music to his ears. King Boz would’ve been proud of him. Was that a good thing?
One last cry tore through the air before silence.
Only the crackle of the slowly dying fires greeted Andrij as he stood, the smoke still obscuring any view of survivors. When he retrieved his spear and trudged to the hill’s peak, he saw the villagers’ heavy faces. Blood soaked their clothes as they dropped their make-shift weapons and hugged those who remained. They had won, but from Andrij’s count, eleven were missing. Valentyn and Beáta were among them.
Andrij turned back toward the battle, waiting for his mentor’s stout body to appear. Come on, Valentyn. Don’t leave me now…
For too long he waited with his pulse hammering his mind. Just as his patience ran out, a cough broke through the smoke as two figures climbed the trail. Valentyn’s dark beard was charred at its ends and blood seeped from a wound on his leg, but he fought on with Beáta’s arm slung over his shoulder. Together, they limped to the village center, where they dropped to their knees with a collective huff.
Andrij rushed to them. “Thank the gods!”
“Thank Dziewanna,” Beáta said, pushing away the stray brown hairs that had fallen into her face. “And thank you, Firebringer.”
“Oh, thank him!” Valentyn grumbled. “Not like I saved ya from the flames…”
With a wry smile, Beáta rose, holding a hand to Valentyn’s cheek for a moment. “Thank you both—and to all of you.” She surveyed those who remained. They had lost nearly half of those who had joined the fight, but they had killed every last raider. “Our village has suffered today, but we are free from Ctirad’s grasp!”
The villagers nodded in recognition, too weary to give any more. Andrij couldn’t blame them. Death was no stranger to the tribes, especially in the harsh winter moons, but to have lost so much of their small settlement in minutes was a blow they would never forget—he never had. There was triumph over the raiders. As Andrij studied the mourning strangers in the dying firelight, though, he wondered if it had been worth the loss.
“Come,” Beáta said to him and Valentyn. “You have more than earned a warm home to lay your heads, and I must tend to Valentyn’s wound. The blade’s slice was deep.”
Valentyn once again tried to object, but she shushed him as they hobbled toward her cottage. Andrij followed, stepping into a warm room. The glow of the hearth revealed two doorways, covered with nothing more than sheets of fabric. Beáta brought Valentyn into the one on the right and laid him down on a bed. When Andrij entered, she nodded to the second. “You two may stay here as long as you wish. Because of you, we will not starve, so you may take whatever you need to finish your journey.”
Andrij shook his head as she grabbed rags and examined Valentyn’s wound. “This is too much. You have little, and we need no more than food for tonight.”
“Do not reject our hospitality after what you just did for us,” Beáta replied, insistent. “Radogost would not look kindly on us failing to take care of you.”
Andrij chuckled at her invocation of the god of hospitality but surrendered to her will. “Very well. Thank you, Beáta.”
With a yelp, Valentyn gripped her arm, taking the pressure off his leg. “No more of that!”
She scowled. “If you don’t wish to lose your leg, then you’ll stop complaining. You, Andrij, take the dagger on the table and heat it in the hearth. There’s no time for me to sew such a large wound.”
Nodding, Andrij scrambled into the main room and grabbed the iron dagger upon it. To see Valentyn in so distress… He winced. Cauterizing the wound would be no less painful, but if it kept his mentor alive, Andrij would help Beáta do what she needed to.
The flames flickered around the blade for a few minutes as Andrij tapped his foot and looked toward Valentyn. The warrior’s groans weren’t muffled by the fabric between rooms, and each one gripped Andrij’s heart. In had been so long since he’d lost his brother, then his real father. But in the time since, Valentyn had been Andrij’s only family. He couldn’t lose him now.
When the blade was hot, Andrij rushed back to Beáta and slid the hilt into her hand. She didn’t tremble as she held it flat against the wound. She’d already slid a stick into Valentyn’s mouth, and it stifled his screams until the gruesome process was finally finished.
Swiftly, she rose and took a deep breath. “My apologies for the pain. This was the only option.”
Valentyn’s breaths were raspy as he lay on the bed, staring at her with tears in his eyes. “Don’t apologize for saving my life. Nawia may be a paradise, but I’d rather stay here, especially if you’re around.”
Beáta raised her brow. “It will be you who is around me for longer. With that leg, you won’t be riding anytime soon.”
“What?” Andrij exclaimed, gripping his head. “We need to reach Dwie Rzeki by the Drowning of Marzanna. There’s no time to wait!”
“What you need to do is irrelevant. Valentyn must rest. Besides, the ride to the capital is no more than three days from here. Nothing a strapping warrior like you can’t handle, right?”
I can see
why Valentyn likes her. Beáta had a fight in her. No simple woman could handle Valentyn’s mood, but around her, Valentyn seemed the weaker of the pair. “It may be possible, but—”
“Go, boy,” Valentyn mumbled. His eyes were glazed as he fought to stay awake after losing so much blood. “Enjoy the festival without me. I’ll be ready to go when ya return.”
Andrij sat on the other bed, staring at the dirt beneath his boots. “Then I’ll ride alone.”
Anxiety entrapped his chest. His breaths were short as he thought of everything relying on the journey’s completion: his freedom, his tribe’s hopes against the clans, and potentially even winter’s end. Though he still didn’t understand why, Dziewanna had sent the Firebird for a reason. Andrij promised himself he wouldn’t fail the goddess. He would reach Dwie Rzeki. He would bring the Krowikie army to his tribe’s defense. And he would ensure the pair who Dziewanna had spoken of began their own journey—whatever that was.
“Very well,” Beáta said with a swift bow of her head. “If you must leave in the morning, I will return soon with food and any supplies we can spare. For tonight, however, you both must rest.” Then she stepped through the strip of fabric, leaving behind the smell of lilacs mixed with smoke as Valentyn’s snoring filled the room.
Chapter 7
ANDRIJ ROSE THE NEXT DAY with a full stomach and a rested but sore body. For each moment after, villagers stopped into the cottage to wish both him and Valentyn well, but there was sorrow in their eyes—the same sorrow in Andrij’s heart. Like them, he had lost those he loved because of forces outside his control. That longing to be with them lingered wherever he went, but at least he had hope to reunite with his family. The villagers had lost theirs forever.
Once the villagers had finally left, Valentyn huffed and scratched his beard.
“What?” Andrij asked as he prepared his pack.
“Just thinking ‘bout the Krowikie.”
Andrij smirked. “Please tell me it’s something other than their women. After leading a dozen of them into battle, I don’t know if I’m more intrigued or frightened.”
“I’m capable of other thoughts!” Valentyn exclaimed before glancing at the fabric between the rooms. But Beáta was gone, doing her part to rebuild the village.
“Oh, really? Tell me, then. What was it you were thinking about? Beáta?”
Valentyn ignored the last question and swept his arm toward the door. “The trail west of here. It was here last time I went with Boz, but why don’t they build more of them?”
“Huh…” Andrij tried to remember if they had seen any others outside of villages themselves, but he couldn’t. “That must make Małe Wzgórze a pretty sizeable village if it’s important enough for a trail, but I would hardly consider it that large. Boz told me the Krowikie were dispersed. I guess I didn’t realize how much.”
“The king and the Krowikie ain’t good friends,” Valentyn replied. “We might be allies, but I doubt he likes to talk about them much. Not that he likes talking to you at all. They’re spread out because they were divided between at least fifteen chiefs until twenty-or-so years ago. Jacek united all of them when he defended against Solga’s invasion from the west—with Boz’s help. Then they made him high chief.” He shrugged. “Well, that’s what the stories say at least.”
“And Jacek can keep them in line without trails to move his warriors?” Andrij shook his head. Boz would be disappointed in his counterpart. When Boz had crowned himself king, he had ordered trails built to connect all the villages in Astiwie lands. Though he still claimed it was for the sake of trade, everyone knew it was to ensure the many warriors in Kynnytsia could march as quickly as possible against bandits or rebels.
Valentyn shrugged. “Men remember what Jacek has done for his people. His villages have enough warriors for him to send against bandits out here, but ya gotta realize the Krowikie fear the Solgawi more than anything.”
“Then what hope do we have of him sending his warriors east? If he needs every man he has to defend against a potential Solgawi attack, an invasion three hundred miles away means nothing.”
“The last war was bloodier than any for generations.” Valentyn rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a scar Andrij had seen a hundred times. “Boz was a new king when it broke out, but with Jacek marrying Boz’s sister, Natasza, he had to honor the alliance. We both know the king hates to look weak. I assume Jacek’s the same.”
“So much is resting on a chief’s pride, then.”
Valentyn laughed and laid his head against the wall, staring up at the thatched ceiling. “Boy, everything has always relied on chiefs’ prides.” His gaze flicked to Andrij for a moment. “Ya should get on that horse of yours and go. Appreciate the sentiment to stay and talk with your old mentor, but Boz will kill us both if you’re late.”
Andrij rose and grabbed Valentyn’s forearm. As Valentyn returned the gesture, Andrij smiled. “I’ll drink a few extra mugs of oskoła for you. Don’t get too soft without me. Wouldn’t want a woman to take away Astiw’s best warrior.”
“If I’m Boz’s best warrior, we’re all doomed.” Valentyn unclasped his cloak and held it before him. “Take it.”
“No.” Andrij stepped back. “Those cloaks are for generals and heroes in war. I’m neither.”
“Tell that to the people out there. To them, you’re the Firebringer. If it doesn’t feel right, ya can give it back to me in a few days. Better to let old Jacek see an Astiw rider in the right gear, though, eh?”
Without waiting for an answer, Valentyn threw the cloak to Andrij, who held it up, examining it in the candlelight. “This thing’s obviously been through a lot of battles.” Their own battle had left charred bits along the sides, and Andrij took pride in knowing he’d led the charge.
“And it’ll see more,” Valentyn said. “Now, go! Get that runt horse of yours and ride.”
Ash coated the village when Andrij emerged from the cottage. The fires had been kept mostly to the trails, away from the buildings, but sections of the forest had gone up in the blaze. Though he winced at the sight of the damage, Andrij clenched his fists and held his head high. Every battle brought destruction. The Firebird’s feather had saved Małe Wzgórze, and even if it would take time for them to recover, they wouldn’t suffer as his family did. They had food and a well free of corpses, and now, no raiders would dare threaten them after the stories spread.
Beáta offered him a smile as he untied Oleh from a pasture fence. “I will take good care of him.”
He nodded. “I know you will. Just keep an eye on him. Valentyn has a knack of eating a village’s entire stock of verhuny.”
“Those treats are called chruściki here,” she said with a giggle, “but I fear we will not have desserts for some time. Thanks to you, though, we will not starve.”
She swiftly returned to the woods, likely collecting any herbs that had peeked above the snow before the equinox. Andrij felt a bit of joy watching her go. Valentyn deserved to be happy, and with her, maybe he finally had a chance.
Oleh nuzzled his hand as he offered the horse a bit of grain. “C’mon boy, let’s ride.” There were still days to go, but after protecting Małe Wzgórze, Andrij sat straighter on Oleh’s back. He wasn’t a general or a hero yet. Someday, maybe he would earn the cloak on his shoulders. First, though, he would earn his freedom.
The day’s travel west was quiet as Andrij pondered battles of the past. He had seen combat but never like the night before. This fight had been a success, but what if things had gone wrong? He had failed to fight by Valentyn’s side, and now, his mentor was lying with a wound that may never fully heal. In his mother’s tales of warriors, they never failed. It was a heroe’s job to sacrifice for those around them and ensure none died.
“No prize in this life comes without struggle,” she’d said. “Not the crops of the ground or the cloak over your shoulders. For some, the burden is lighter, but those raiders made sure ours would be as heavy as the yolk of a workhorse.”
When night fell, Andrij struggled to keep Oleh on the narrow trail with only the crescent moon’s light. Each tree seemed the same, and his progress slowed to a crawl as the gales picked up.
“Something isn’t right,” Andrij said to Oleh as he gritted his teeth and pushed the horse on. The east wind blew the storm, not the typical north or west. “It’s an eastern wind, like the one that sent the last blizzard. Dziewanna said that Marzanna…”
Then he saw the two piercing blue eyes.
He’d hoped the wolf had stopped stalking him after the battle at Małe Wzgórze, yet here it was, watching. Why? With the wind whipping through his hair, he dismounted and pulled his spear. “What do you want?” he shouted. “Haven’t enough died?”
The wolf growled, and Oleh whined behind Andrij as he advanced. Whether it be raiders, beasts, or the king himself, Andrij had always lived in fear of forces more powerful than him. But he was done being afraid.
“What do you want?” he demanded again, his voice sharp. “Speak or leave!”
For a moment, the winds calmed. A chill washed through Andrij, beneath his skin like the grip of a deadly illness. The wolf stepped forward. Its eyes bore into him, and it seemed to smile as a woman’s voice pierced the night. “Your time will come, Andrij.”
Then the wolf bounded into the woods, disappearing as quickly as it had come. Before Andrij could call after it, the storm returned. He scowled and gripped his spear. That voice… There had been power in it, like that he’d felt in Dziewanna’s. Could it have been the goddess of winter herself?
Swiftly, Andrij mounted Oleh and kicked the horse into a gallop. He had no answers, but if he was to make it to Dwie Rzeki, he couldn’t afford these distractions. Storm or not, he would ride through the night.
For days Andrij traveled west, only resting for an hour at a time when Oleh needed to drink. The stubborn horse had served him well on the journey, but both mount and rider were exhausted. So close to Dwie Rzeki, though, he had no choice but to charge on.
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