The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  ‘Please,’ she managed. ‘I have to get back to my father.’

  ‘Please. Please is good, little girl: the sooner you start to plead, the sooner you’ll start to talk.’

  There was a pause as Iwa looked into Grunmir’s face and wondered what kind of lie would get her out of this. Carefully she opened her mouth, but couldn’t find the words. From the corner of her eye she saw one of the woyaks aim a spear, the tip thrust towards her, but, hardly bothering to look, Grunmir brushed the blow aside.

  ‘I said talk, you idiot. We need this one alive.’

  ‘They killed Swen,’ the woyak sulked. ‘Gunnar too.’

  ‘And I’ll kill you if I have any more foolishness out of you. Do you think that girl could kill anyone, let alone a woyak, even one as vodka-sodden as Swen? But she knows our enemy, she knows their plans and their hiding places.’ He looked round at the group to make sure that they understood. ‘The sooner she talks, the better for us.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything,’ Iwa said.

  ‘That would be a pity for you, little Rusalka, but somehow I don’t believe you. Now let us go down to the camp,’ he smiled, ‘and then you will tell your good friend Grunmir all he needs to know.’

  ‘But the hunters hate me, probably even more than you do. They’ve branded me a witch and left me to die.’

  ‘So you have been talking with the hunters, then?’ How much did she know? Even now he was unsure. The girl could be telling the truth and there was little time to waste. Even in daylight the forest wasn’t safe. Not that any of the hunters could have stood up to him or his men in open combat, but they were crafty and the forest belonged to them.

  Around him the shadows darkened. Then the real danger would come. The woyaks huddled in closer. Nobody wanted to be caught in the forest by night even this close to camp. He could feel their fear, the kind of dread that could drive a man to all kinds of stupidity.

  They were too young, without the hard teaching of warcraft to temper them. One sign of danger and they’d be ready to scamper back to camp. Somehow he had to keep them alive, not the easiest of prospects. If only he had some of the old comrades about him, hardened men who knew their trade and wouldn’t scare so easily.

  He was tired of bringing up boys who weren’t his. This demon has them jumping at leaves. But at the fall of night, when he heard that demon’s dread call, then the terror would come upon him too. No one was immune, when death could come so unnaturally. But, even then, in the midst of the tumult, his courage would not fail. He’d seen too much of war and death.

  ‘So what about these hunters then?’

  ‘They threw me in a bear pit,’ she said, already regretting that she’d mentioned them at all, but it was too late. If only she hadn’t been so scared, and now she was in more trouble.

  ‘Then you owe them nothing.’ Grunmir patted her shoulder.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ she pleaded and looked into his eyes, desperate to find a trace of understanding.

  ‘And I had hoped for such a long conversation. You are one for slithering, little Rusalka, and I’ll bet you see so much. If only my scouts walked as quietly as you.’

  A woyak stepped forward and bound her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll go back to camp with this one,’ Grunmir said. ‘This Bignica is a tricky spirit and liable to give dullards like you the slip.’ With that he made as if to test her bonds.

  Maybe he should have stayed. But no, these boys had to learn. He couldn’t babysit them forever. And there was still a while to go before the danger would come. Plenty of time for them to scout round and get back to camp. So long as they don’t do anything foolish.

  He couldn’t help but give them one last glance. But then there was that Vioslav. The young man was always eager to prove himself. He had the makings of a woyak. A little too hasty perhaps, but he’d always managed to keep his head in battle and not just against hapless forest nomads either.

  Well then, it’s time he proved his worth. We’ll need battle captains in our Kroldom. Wordlessly, he pointed to the young woyak and knew that his command had been understood. ‘Just be back before nightfall.’

  Iwa was prodded forward, but walking with her hands bound proved difficult. Her feet slipped over the wet grass so that Grunmir had to catch her. By now they were almost at the camp. Grunmir had kept the woyaks busy; a rough ditch ran round the perimeter, the earth piled up behind to form a rampart before which the ground had been cleared.

  ‘Soon your hunters won’t find it so easy to raid our camp.’ Grunmir clapped her shoulder as he led her through the blackened waste. ‘We’ll have the wall finished soon.’ He pointed to where the woyaks had constructed a wooden palisade on top of the earthwork, ‘and then there’ll be no way in for your hunters, little Rusalka.’

  How many trees will these woyaks cut down before they’re done? she wondered. Would there be any left once they’re finished? Or will they turn this place into one of their endless steppes like in the traders’ stories?

  ‘They’re not my hunters,’ she said, as she stumbled onto the wooden bridge that reached across the ditch. It was nothing more than a few tree trunks sawn in half and hastily nailed in place. On either side the woyaks had hung ropes so that they could raise the bridge to cover the gap in the rampart that served for a gateway.

  But it wasn’t that which caught her eye. A line of wooden stakes had been set at regular intervals all along the top of the rampart. From the top of each the charred skull of an animal hung, runes marked in blood upon their foreheads.

  There was something terrible about the sight. Sometimes the hunters would offer up animal skulls to the lords of the forest by hanging them from the branches of a tree, but this was different. As she passed under the stakes there was a crackle of magic and a chill in her stomach. She turned to Grunmir, but if the old woyak felt anything, he didn’t show it. Perhaps only those who have something of the craft notice these things. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. What if she really was a witch and, once magic was in your blood, there was no escape?

  Nobody ever gets the better of the craft. She remembered how Katchka would talk. A few may benefit in the short term, but, in the end, magic always turns against the caster: and a bad end awaits those who wield it.

  She was trying to warn me because of my mother, she realised and, despite her fatigue, she felt a stab of anger. Katchka should have told me about my mother, but instead she washed her memory away, like some guilty secret to be muttered in the dark. The whole clan must have known about her: except for me. Even a fool like Jarel knows more about her than I probably ever will.

  But there were more immediate things to worry about. Inside the earthworks the camp was much as she remembered it. The ruined tents had been cleared; dark patches blotched on the earth where they once stood. Only a pile of ruined pots and a few broken arrows marked the signs of struggle.

  There was a chill in the air that brought with it the scent of something evil. With a rough shove, she was pushed deeper into the camp, a sense of unease crawling over her. ‘You move slowly, little Rusalka,’ Grunmir prodded her forward, ‘though maybe you are right not to hurry. Your fate is unlikely to be a fair one, unless you tell me what I want to know.’

  She didn’t bother to answer as she was led further in. The breeze picked up and only then did she catch the scent. It was the stench of carrion. As they walked past one of the ships, she stopped dead in her tracks, the sight before her so unexpected that even the butt of Grunmir’s spear couldn’t move her forward. At one end of the camp the bodies of animals lay heaped up against a rock, their bones poking through the wet remnants of their pelts. There were the carcasses of elk and deer, even a few bears and some beaver. There was even a bison amongst the carnage.

  The woyaks bring nothing but death and sacrilege. She crossed herself with the ancient sign the clan used to ward off evil. Nothing could be worse than to show such disrespect to Matka Ziemia. No hunter would ever dream of killing anything m
ore than he needed, or to leave good meat to rot, and not even a prod from Grunmir could force her to move. Even the air seemed sticky with the scent of blood.

  ‘You see we too can hunt, little Rusalka,’ Grunmir said as he pushed her forward. Iwa didn’t have to be prodded again. Anything was better than having to look at that pile of corpses, even the stench in the prison ship wasn’t so bad. Most of the animals were scrawny things, the runts of the pack, old and easy to catch. No true hunter would have bothered with such prey except under the direst circumstances. But, as she passed, she realised that there was something else about the creatures: each had been decapitated, their heads crudely severed from the bodies as if in great haste. Somewhere nearby a dog barked and a shower of flies flew up from the pelts like a dark cloud.

  Yet nobody seemed to notice. Inside the camp the women worked freely, washing clothes by the river or crowding round a fire. Some of them even sang as they worked, but their tune carried little conviction. Their song was grey and filled with a weary resignation. Alia was there, an earthen pot balanced on her shoulder as she walked up from the river, though she was careful not to catch Iwa’s gaze.

  Katchka was there too, her knife scraping away the scales from a salmon. The old woman hummed to herself as the blade cut away the fins but, as Iwa came closer, her tune dipped and a bitter look crossed her face. But she said nothing, her knife not missing a beat as Iwa was led away.

  The ships which held the men captive had been dragged further in from shore, the earthen wall hastily enlarged to accommodate them. Groups of woyaks stood guard, and some fishing nets had been hung from stakes to form a crude barrier.

  Something was wrong. Iwa sensed it, but couldn’t work out what troubled her. She was led away to a hut, hastily erected on the far edge of the camp. It was a crude thing, made from rough planks with nothing more than a thick cloth drawn across the entrance to serve as a doorway.

  Inside, a tarpaulin hung across the length of the hut. Sunlight seeped through the gloom and there was a stench like rotten flesh. At the far end was an iron spit large enough to cook an elk. She was flung inside, almost tripping over a woyak who’d been sitting, half asleep, on a barrel.

  ‘Bind her well,’ Grunmir said, as the woyak dragged her over to the spit.

  By now Iwa was too tired to resist; all the fight drained from her as her hands were tied to the crosspiece. A gag was forced into her mouth. Instinctively she thrust her tongue against it, only to be rewarded with a slap across the face.

  ‘Careful!’ Grunmir barked. ‘I want this one unhurt.’ With that he turned to go. ‘Just remember: this one is not for you. I want her treated well, and give her something to drink – there’s no telling when the krol will have time for her.’

  Then he was gone. The gag was taken away and a cup of water thrown into Iwa’s mouth. ‘Keep still and give me no trouble,’ the woyak grunted, angry at being put down in front of a girl: but he dared not cross Grunmir, so he contented himself by taking out a strip of meat and eating it very slowly in front of her.

  Then he moved back to the barrel and tried his best to pretend to ignore her, a smile playing on his lips as he took another bite of the meat. It was only then that she realised it was the man from the forest, the one who’d taken back to camp that first day she’d been captured, the one who had called himself Eber. He finished the meat, his withered arm dangling by his side. If anything he looked worse than he had in the forest. His eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept in days, and his skin was sallow and pockmarked. His hair, rank and matted, dangled limply around his shoulders.

  ‘You could give me some food at least.’ For once Iwa cursed her lack of height. The spit was high enough to allow a fully grown man to stand easily, but her feet hardly touched the ground. ‘I’m sure that this Grunmir of yours doesn’t want me to starve to death.’

  Eber didn’t answer, but his eyes slithered down her body. She probably didn’t look particularly good herself. Her clothes were torn and muddy and her skin crawled with a multitude of scratches.

  ‘I could take you now, girl,’ he said, a smile playing thinly on his lips. He’d had enough of living in fear, in terror of the thing that lurked in the night. He’d no idea what had been happening. All was rumour. Was it some vengeful Leszy as the old women said? He’d heard Grunmir blame the old priest, something about a curse. But if that was the case then both he and the krol were keeping silent about it.

  And, in a way, the secret made the thing more terrible and more terrifying. Who could fight against the unknown? More than once he’d risked his life, paid for his bravery and courage with a burnt arm. But those enemies had been seen. Men and flames could be comprehended and held no terror for him; but never had he seen anything like this creature in the night, such a thing was unknown even in legend.

  Almost unconsciously he glanced down to his arm. Every day he missed the use of it, and what had been his reward? He’d dreamt of a share of the kroldom, what man amongst them didn’t? An end to being hunted and risking his life at every turn. He’d have slaves to work his share and his pick of the women. His reward for following the krol.

  But where had that got him? He’d failed to gain his due respect, even from the other woyaks, let along the women, who looked down on him because of his arm. That Alia especially. She could have any man she chose, that one, and she knew it only too well. So he’d been left to scrabble around for the runts of the litter. Was this all his sacrifice was worth?

  Now he looked at the girl. She wasn’t much, some forest waif dragged up from whatever bog Grunmir had dredged. But now he felt the weight of too many nights of fear. He looked her up and down once more and felt the first stirrings of lust. How long was it since he’d known a woman, one who was willing to overlook the deformity of his arm?

  ‘Let’s not cry out.’ He wound his poor arm round her and pressed the girl to him, glorying in the soft line of her body. The lust was coursing through him now as she fought against him, the gag falling from her. Surely the gods had blessed him? Would Grunmir know? The wretch had probably been taken already. He’d heard about the rites practiced by the forest clans as they danced around the fires. And even if she was as yet unknown to men, then so much the better.

  ‘We don’t want any fuss now, do we?’ With his good hand he skirted the outline of her breast. Would Grunmir even care, for all his fine words, once the deed was done? The girl could tell that dried-up old battle hag all he needed to know whether she was a virgin or not.

  She turned away from him, her face ridden with disgust, but that only spurred him on all the more. She was helpless before him, her body there for the taking, and not even her squeals of protest were enough to discourage him. ‘I know you forest creatures like to do it in the open, you don’t care who’s looking, do you? But you just relax and give Eber his due.’

  ‘And Grunmir would like that, I suppose?’ she managed in a tone that she hoped sounded defiant. She’d been through so much, but suddenly her disgust at this man had awoken her anger and given her energy. It coursed through her once more, so that she was able to twist away from him sharply, her face filled with loathing.

  Men and women often went off together, that was the way of things, and if one of the hunters caught a girl at Kupala then of course she would lie with him. But this was something out of her comprehension. Suddenly she felt a deep hatred for the man. Lucky for him that her hands were tied, or else she would have gouged out his eyes for all her tiredness.

  ‘Why don’t I just call him now?’ she screeched. ‘And Fang can carve out your guts.’

  There was an explosion of pain as he silenced her with a slap. But he was shaken, and some part of her was glad for that. So she still had some power over him.

  Eder leaned back against the barrel and took out a short knife, which he used to cut at a strip of meat on a tiny wooden plate. He was used to only having the one hand, and the knife expertly sliced through the meat. He balanced a thin sliver on the blade and bro
ught it up to his mouth as he tried to figure out the girl before him.

  He hadn’t counted on such defiance. And she’d named Grunmir’s blade. How had she known that? He’d not told any of the other women. Suddenly he was afraid. What was this girl to the battle hag? Nothing, surely. But the suspicion remained in his mind. He’d have to be cautious. There would be time enough to whelp as many of these forest girls as he could later. And then he’d have his revenge on this slut. All he had to do was be careful. She’d not last long in Grunmir’s eyes, whatever she was to him, now. He’d be bound to forget her once she’d given him what he wanted.

  ‘Give me some water at least.’ She glanced at the skins hung from the tentpoles. Already a dull ache had begun to creep along her forearms from the strain of holding them up. ‘You heard what Grunmir said.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care much for you,’ Eber replied, ‘not once you’ve given Grunmir what he wants. You’ll sing a different tune then.’ With that he came over to her, his hands running up her skirts. He’d planned to bide his time, but that note of defiance in the girl’s voice was too much for him. Who was she to defy him? Not just her but the others too, that Alia and the rest who laughed at him. He’d done more than his share. ‘He said not to harm you, but there’s a lot I can do without harm and no thinking that Grunmir would mind.’

  He pressed close, his hand running up between her legs as his anger mixed with his lust. ‘I can do anything much I want,’ he whispered. But maybe he was scared of Grunmir, for all his studied nonchalance, because he let her go. ‘Forest slut.’ He turned to go back to the barrel. ‘The leaves are more use than you.’ Then, without warning, he spun round, his fist catching the side of her face.