by Mark Lucek
She’d no idea how long she was kept in the hut. She hadn’t eaten since the forest and drifted in and out of consciousness, with only the ache in her arms to keep her awake. She was vaguely aware that night had fallen and, sometimes, she imagined that she could hear a breath coming from the other side of the tarpaulin. Eber had gone to sleep, his body slumped against the side of the hut as he sat on the barrel, the scent of vodka all about him.
She watched as a spider crawled along the side of the spit. There it was again: that half breath on the other side of the hut. At first she thought it was her imagination, either that or Eber had started to snore, but no, there it was again.
‘Is there anybody there?’ she whispered, not daring to wake Eber. Silence. Then, very softly, someone moved.
‘So they have you,’ a voice said, so broken and weary that she hardly recognised it. ‘They told me that you were dead.’
‘Father!’ she cried and then fell abruptly silent as Eber’s snore cut short, but after a moment it resumed.
‘Though I almost wish that it was true; better to feast happy in the ancestor world than rot in a place like this.’
‘I came back for you.’ Now there was a glimmer of hope. If only he’d managed to stay out of the reach of the woyaks, but at least he hadn’t wandered off into the depths of the forest. Suddenly her mind raced with plans of escape. All they had to do was to get rid of that fool Eber and make their way out of the camp once darkness settled. Let’s hope they take to their vodka quickly. She couldn’t help but twist at the knots.
‘Then it was a fool’s errand. Jarel told me that you were dead, dragged away by a bear. He even showed me the remnants of your basket, drenched in blood. I always hoped that you had lived… unless you come to me now as a spirit, or some figment of my imagination.’
‘I almost wish that I was, at least then these bonds wouldn’t hurt so much.’
‘You’ll get used to it after a while.’
‘How long will they keep us here?’
‘Am I a fortune-teller? I only hope that when the end does come it will be painless and quick.’
‘If the woyaks wanted us dead they’d have killed us long ago. That’s something at least.’
‘Maybe,’ Yaroslav said. ‘Who knows why they do anything? There’s no way to understand this krol. Sometimes he makes sense, but then his words drift into madness. You’ve got to get away from here. These woyaks, they’ve brought a sickness into this place and no one is safe.’ There was a long silence as, behind the tarpaulin, Yaroslav gasped, his words pained and halting. ‘When they captured me I thought that this Krol Gawel was nothing more than a bandit who’d ended up on the wrong side in some war, but there’s much more to him than that.’
There was another pained breath and a quiver of anguish as his voice resumed. ‘There is evil at work here, over and above mere banditry. Get out of here, leave me behind if you have to, but you must escape: promise me that.’
‘We can get away together,’ she said, though her voice was not much more than a mumble.
‘And above all don’t trust the priest.’
‘The one who worships before the alter of Piórun? I saw him slay a rabbit at the foot of that statue of theirs.’
‘They call him Wislaw. He wears the scars of Piórun the thunderer, but I have seen other marks upon him, more ancient and evil. Not in all my travels have I seen anything like them; those runes don’t belong to the Polish gods or any of the northern deities. He had me tortured. I don’t know what hold he has over Krol Gawel but, if that Grunmir hadn’t intervened, Wislaw would have killed me.’
‘I wouldn’t be too quick to trust that Grunmir: one woyak is much like another.’ Keeping one eye on Eber, she tried to twist free. Yaroslav’s voice had given her hope. If only she could get free and deal with the woyak whilst he slept.
‘He may be rough,’ Yaroslav gasped, ‘but he is an honourable man, after his own way. He sees much and says little; even Krol Gawel respects him, and that priest fears him.’
‘Do they come here often?’ she said, as she struggled against her bonds.
‘Who knows when the krol will summon us? At first they thought I was a spy. Jarel told me you’d been killed near the river and I’d gone to look for your body. That’s when they caught me.’ He slumped, too tired for more questions. He was just glad that she was alive and, in his state, that was enough.
So she has come here in time to see me die. A deep sadness came over him. Better that she had run off into the forest than be brought back here. Perhaps they would kill her when they were done with her. And he couldn’t help a tiny cry at the thought.
You should not have wasted your craft on me, little one. If only he hadn’t gone to look for her. It wouldn’t be the first time that a girl had been dragged off into the trees by some bear and her body never found. If the hunters couldn’t find the body then there must have been some good reason.
But he couldn’t have left her. The image of her body lying broken and unburned was too much for him. He’d been so proud of her after she’d rescued him from death in the cave. Perhaps she did have the healing skills, despite all of Katchka’s complaints. Maybe she would find her clan place after all.
And to have all his newfound hopes dashed so quickly had broken his heart. So he’d wandered the forest in a daze, which was when the woyaks had come across him. He should have heard them long before, it didn’t take a hunter’s skill to be able to hear them coming through the forest. Not that they were as foolish as he’d been led to believe. To those born for the hunt and who knew the wilds as well as the calluses of their knuckles then, yes, they must have seemed as foolish as foundling deer.
But there was more to these woyaks than the hunters suspected. They were men used to war and ambush. How else could they have crept up on the camp so easily? True, once the pits were dug to stop animals going in or out, the clan hadn’t posted any guards, and they’d been tired after the long march and the unexpected cold, but it still wouldn’t have been that easy to creep up on the camp unnoticed. And already the woyaks had begun to learn the ways of the forest, their steps no longer so faltering.
‘These woyaks see spies everywhere; Grunmir even accused me of being one,’ he heard his daughter say and, even now, he couldn’t help but be glad of the voice, no matter how much he wished that she’d stayed hidden in the safety of the trees. Better that he should have faced the ancestor world still thinking that she was there waiting for him than he should have found her here.
What will they do to you once they find that you’re no use to them?
‘So much the worse for you, then,’ he sighed. ‘The clan still raid the camp for food and weapons, but their attacks are too well timed and too precise for mere chance. There’s a traitor in the camp. Krol Gawel wanted to behead some of the women until he found out who it was, but Grunmir talked him out of it. So the raids continue and the woyaks see traitors everywhere. I overheard a couple of the guards talking: they’re ready to desert. These woyaks are built for war and easy conquest, and farming is far harder than they imagined. Most of them would have run off long ago, but they’re all scared of Grunmir and Krol Gawel and that priest of theirs, so they stay and grumble. But there’s something else, something more than loyalty or fear that binds the woyaks to this place.’
‘What’s that?’ Iwa asked, though she’d already guessed at the answer.
‘Nobody will say, not even the women who bring me food. Some nameless evil keeps the men here. Go, get away from this place, run as far and as fast as you can and never look back.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Iwa mumbled, as she gave up trying to break free of the knot.
‘You must find a way, leave this place: the gods have cursed us. Karnobog no longer protects us.’
‘We can get away together,’ Iwa said, trying to sound as positive as she could; if only the knot wasn’t so tight.
‘I would only slow you down,’ Yaroslav replied, ‘but you must escap
e, if you can.’
‘We could go together – upriver to the Eagle Claw or the Wolf’s Jaw. They’ve always been good to our clan.’
‘You go: you were always one for skulking. I haven’t the heart for escape, or the strength for it, either.’ I don’t want to be the cause of your death. Before, he’d cared little for the woyak’s torture. A few days of pain and he’d find his way into the ancestor world. With Iwa said to be dead there was little left for him in the world of the living. Iwa, the ways of the clan, all had been swept away and he’d longed for the cave of the ancestors where she’d be waiting for him.
Now that she was alive hope had dawned, but fear also.
‘I’m not going to leave you. I can’t.’ Iwa tugged harder on the rope, her eyes trained on the sleeping woyak. ‘Once you get some food you’ll feel differently, then we’ll run away.’
‘Forget me; you have to go by yourself. Something evil prowls the night: I’ve heard the screams. Nobody knows the forest paths like you, and nobody’s better at hiding. If anybody can escape it ought to be you; the rest of us are doomed. I don’t know what lurks in the woods.’
‘But your daughter does.’ A voice cut through the gloom. Suddenly Eber was on his feet, the barrel spilling on the floor. ‘I think that this child knows far more than you credit.’ Iwa felt her body go limp as, dressed in ritual white, a figure came forward, his face hidden under a cowl. Around the cuffs of his long sleeves the sacred sun runes were marked out in gold thread on red. More sun runes in the ancient swastika pattern were etched below his shoulders and, in the centre of his cloak, a bird rose with wings of flame.
‘How long have you listened, priest?’ Yaroslav spat. ‘Have you been outside all the while, with your ear pressed to the wood like a thief?’
‘You flatter yourself,’ the priest chuckled as the woyak picked up the barrel. ‘You are not that important, and I have much better things to do than listen to foolish plans of escape. I have often noted how a desperate man will cling to such notions, even when he knows that they are hopeless.’
The old man hobbled into the centre of the hut. Then he turned with surprising speed and pointed to Eber. ‘Get out!’
‘But I was told…’ the woyak mumbled.
‘I do not care for your orders. I have told you to leave.’ Eber gulped, his eyes looking to the girl. His fear of Grunmir may have kept him in check but now there was a far more immediate danger. Slowly the priest turned his back to the man. ‘A mud-soaked girl and her half beaten father? Do you imagine that there is anything here for me to be afraid of? My spear carved out a trail of blood before the emperor’s guard, remember that.’
The last two words came as a whisper, the voice quiet but so laced with threat that the blood drained from Eber’s face. He needed no further encouragement, the leathers flapping behind him as he made his exit.
Only then did the priest reveal his face to the light. Maybe once he had been handsome; a gently sloped forehead pressed down over high cheekbones and a lean, hungry face, but now the skin was pockmarked and haggard. On the crown of his shaven head a tattooed snake shimmered as he regarded Iwa with dark, careworn eyes.
‘Now, let us have a look at you.’ He grabbed her chin and turned her face to the light. As the old priest reached out, the sleeves of his cloak fell away to reveal another tattoo: it was the sign of Piórun the thunderer. But further down there was a hint of something else. At first she thought it was a snake, fangs bared as its scales flickered around his elbow. There was something about the tattoo, was it only a trick of the light or did the thing move? Suddenly she recoiled, a deep primeval fear welling up from her stomach and pricking along her spine.
‘Leave us alone!’ she yelled as she tried to kick out, her wrists fighting against the knots which only seemed to wrap tighter around her.
‘Ah, such defiance in one so young,’ he chuckled. ‘Such misplaced confidence; it is the prerogative of youth to be so stupid.’
‘Don’t you dare touch her,’ Yaroslav managed, the ropes straining as he too fought with his bonds.
‘Perhaps stupidity is the prerogative of more than youth.’
‘Hurt my daughter and I’ll hunt you down,’ he said, but his voice was little more than a whisper. You’ll die screaming, I swear it: even if I have to wait a lifetime for you in the ancestor world.’
‘See how your father cares for you,’ Wislaw said. ‘Even from the ancestor world he threatens me. So have you no words for him?’ Iwa refused to speak, but watched coldly as the priest transferred his attention to the ropes around her wrists, but, if he saw any signs that they had been loosened he did not show it. ‘What, nothing? Have you no words to save him?’
‘If you plan to kill him, then you will, whatever I say.’
‘Still defiant.’ Wislaw raised his hand as if to strike her, but Iwa couldn’t take her eyes off the tattoo. It wasn’t the head of a snake, but some other reptile. Cruel eyes glared as the ink slithered slowly around his elbow.
‘So you have something of the art about you,’ Wislaw said, lowering his arm to hide the tattoo. ‘You saw the pattern move, didn’t you?’ She shook her head, but Wislaw paid no heed. For the first time he realised that this girl might have more about her than he’d imagined. ‘There are not many who would have noticed such a thing. Only those schooled in the craft are capable of such perception.’ He paused, his head bowed deep in contemplation. ‘Or those who are born to it.’
‘She’s just a girl,’ her father managed through trembling lips, ‘nothing more.’
‘That I do not believe.’ Wislaw grabbed Iwa’s jaw, moving her head as if examining a mule. He’d studied her reactions well, though outwardly he’d given no sign of it, so that he’d caught the girl unaware. And there had been something, a flicker in her eyes. He was sure of it but he had not, as yet, any understanding of the creature who hung frail before him ‘Yes, there is something of the craft about you. You know a little of the art, a smattering perhaps.’
‘She knows nothing. Let her go, she can be of no use to you.’
But Wislaw ignored him as he snapped his fingers away. ‘You sensed the power etched into my flesh, and you reacted to it.’ He was angry now, a hard edge to his voice. He hadn’t counted on the girl being able to do that. How could she see the runes? Nobody had been able to do that, not even the mages of the far north.
He shouldn’t have given himself away so readily. She’s tricked me. His suspicions began to grow. This filth-soaked wretch. He’d have to be on his guard, she wouldn’t catch him out a second time.
‘I saw nothing,’ the girl mumbled, ‘only the snake: and it didn’t move.’ In one swift movement he grabbed her mouth, his fingers holding her tight as he brought his other arm closer, the sleeve of his robes falling to reveal the creature once again. It had moved, there was no doubt about that, the scales had slithered around the old man’s elbow and the eyes, like two blood-red seeds, eyed her with a cold, inhuman gaze. Frantically she tried to turn away, but Wislaw held her firm.
‘Do you know what creature this is?’ His hands were tight over her, his thumb and forefinger pressing over her lips to choke her words.
‘Leave her alone,’ Yaroslav said, the frame of the spit rattling as he struggled to break free. ‘She is nothing to you, nothing at all.’
But the priest ignored him, his fingers pressing tighter. ‘Be glad that you do not. This is something raised from the depths of time, a thing of the craft long lost to the world. If you were to come across it, it would strike you down without mercy. Thank your misbegotten god that your path has never crossed with it. But you knew it was not a snake, didn’t you?’
He was still a little shaken. This girl should not be. Was she trying to make a fool of him? He’d heard of those who were born to the craft and whose veins dripped with magic, but such things were rare even amongst the northern mages.
Releasing her head, the old man turned to the tarpaulin. At least she seemed broken now, her breath sallow an
d her lips silent as, through terrified eyes, she watched his every move. ‘You have done well to keep her away from the art,’ he said to her father and delighted in the flicker of terror in the girl’s eyes, ‘but, nevertheless, it has laid its mark upon her. Do not lie to me, girl, or your father will find his way to the ancestor world on a river of pain.’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Yaroslav spluttered, ‘not without orders from the krol.’
‘We shall see.’ Slowly Wislaw turned back to Iwa, eking every last ounce of fear from the girl. He was enjoying this, now that the natural order of things had been re-established. Yet there was some inkling of doubt left in his mind. ‘So how do you come to carry the power of the craft in your veins?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she replied.
‘Some wise woman, perhaps,’ Wislaw muttered almost to himself, ‘a forest mage casting spells with root and leaf? But, no, I don’t think so.’ He pushed his face up to Iwa’s as if trying to smell her. ‘Once, many years ago, I heard a tale of a witch, one who was taught by the Lapish mages of the far north.’ The priest pulled away, the lizard tattoo glistening darkly on his forehead. ‘One who fled off into the forest and gave birth to a young girl.’
‘Leave her alone!’ Iwa’s father cried.
‘Some say that she died in childbirth, here amongst the forest clans. But there is another story, not as well-known. In this version, it is the child who dies. It is a girl, stillborn, the heart fractured so that life never enters her body. And, in her anguish and her grief, her mother makes a pact with the dark places of this world and they breathe life into the child.’ Wislaw laid his hand upon Iwa, holding her up by her chin. ‘Who knows what terrible price the dark powers exacted in return?’
‘No.’ Yaroslav’s voice trembled, hardly more than a whisper now. The old priest gave Iwa one last look before he let her head go. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘Who would credit a stripling like you with such a tale? You have a trace of power about you, nothing more. Tell me, do you even know who your mother was? I doubt any of these backwoods clanfolk know who sired them, or even care. Even so, I cannot have one such as you wander round unbridled. Let us test your knowledge of the craft.’