by Mark Lucek
Slowly Wislaw took something out from under his cloak. ‘Can you tell me what this is?’ In his hands was a clay doll. Carefully, he wrapped a chain around its neck. ‘What, do you have nothing to say?’ He dangled the figure before Iwa and let it spin slowly on the end of the chain. She tried to turn away, but no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t take her eyes from the doll. It was a simple thing: a crude, featureless form with thumbprints clearly visible on the roughened clay. There was not even the semblance of a face; yet there was a sense of power about the doll and, as it spun before her, Iwa felt a cold touch of evil as if it were somehow trying to draw her in. ‘So you have never seen a manikin of making before? I would have thought that even here there would have been some wise woman with a smattering of the art to make such things.’
‘We have no use for magic.’ It was Yaroslav who answered. ‘And the sense to manage without it.’
‘Whilst I am only a poor fool who has had to learn the craft,’ Wislaw smiled. ‘Unlike some, I was not born to it and it does not run freely in my veins but,’ he drew closer to Iwa as his voice became stern, ‘I have gained more than a little knowledge, and the wit to use it well.’
‘You’re not the first to think so, but they have all come to a bad end.’
Ignoring him, Wislaw took out a silver knife, the blade curved sharp as the crescent moon and, as he came forward, Iwa caught sight of the runes carved deeply along the blade; ancient and evil and glowing with power. With his other hand Wislaw grabbed her hair and pulled back her head. He was close now, his breath rank on her lips as he chanted an ancient song. Iwa tensed, eyes closed as she waited for the blade to cut her neck, but the knife slipped past her ear to cut a lock of hair. Wislaw took up the doll, his song hardly faltering as he began to wrap the hair around the manikin’s neck.
Frantically, Iwa tugged against the rope. Still the old priest ignored her as his chant rose and the words swirled around the room. She couldn’t breathe; it was as if the chant had somehow entered her, its rhythm throbbing at the base of her throat. Iwa kicked out as she struggled to break free, and all the while the song continued as the lock of hair was wound tighter.
The song was inside her head now, the words ready to burst. She couldn’t make them out. Often, in their paeans, the clans would use the words of their ancestors, elder words that held power and were not to be used lightly. But this was another language altogether, dense and unfamiliar as the words of the niemcy, but far older.
Then the knife drew blood, but it was the tiniest prick of her skin so that only a drop fell against the clay. Still the chant continued, the doll dangling before Iwa as the priest’s eyes turned a milky grey and his skin became pale as death. Then all was silent. Wislaw’s head fell forward as if someone had cut the strings from a puppet. Only very slowly did he raise his head and open his eyes. ‘So now I have bound you to my will.’ He held the doll in triumph. ‘For all your natural power, I have trapped you.’ On the other side of the tarpaulin her father groaned.
‘Much good may it do you,’ Iwa said, trying to keep the fear from her voice. The doll spun slowly in front of her. Somehow it had grown a face; the lineaments were blurred and indistinct but Iwa felt a shiver run down her spine as she realised that the face was hers.
‘Yes, much good it will do me,’ the priest said as he put the doll away.
‘Cast your spells for all their worth,’ Iwa said, ‘your words are nothing, like dried leaves rattling in an empty wind.’
‘It would be best not to underestimate me; many have made that mistake and paid dearly for it.’
‘You’re powerless: you can’t even…’ She let her voice trail away.
‘Even do what?’
‘If you have power over me,’ her voice trembled, ‘why don’t you force me to tell you?’
‘Perhaps I should,’ Wislaw replied, somewhat taken aback: he hadn’t expected such continued defiance. ‘A simple demonstration.’ He smiled to cover his shock as he took out the doll and placed it between his hands. On his forehead the serpent tattoo flickered as he began to sing in a low soulful tone. At first she could hardly make out the words, but then the rhythm took hold. Wislaw looked deep into her eyes and she felt the song pour out of him and into her as easily as she had slipped into the mind of the owl.
It took all her concentration to try and block him out, but the old priest was skilled and his mind twisted around her defences, oozing, like tar, into her thoughts. Somewhere she was aware of her father. He was screaming but the voice seemed faint, as though far away. Jezi Baba, help me, she cried: but there was nothing, only the song and a cold, clammy sensation as Wislaw crawled further into her mind.
Then the song stopped and she felt him fall away. ‘So this Lord Bethrayal has a helpmate,’ the priest muttered. ‘I should have expected as much. I doubt that even one so powerful as this Lord Bethrayal obviously is could break into our world without assistance. Though I never realised that there was a hidden place nearby. It must hold great magic, or else I would have sensed its presence. It is a pity you had not the wit to find out how close he is to entering our world. His power grows, but I doubt he is strong enough for that yet.’
‘But he will be powerful enough soon and when he breaks into this world he’ll destroy you all.’
‘I doubt even he would find it easy,’ Wislaw said.
Suddenly Iwa remembered the prison ship. Now she realised what had troubled her. It wasn’t the ship at all but the line of skulls that had run round the entire perimeter of the camp, the stakes placed deep along the shore.
‘So finally you understand.’ The old priest chuckled. ‘I have created a barrier to keep this Lord Bethrayal at bay.’
Iwa turned and tried to shake the sense of disgust. She could still feel his presence pawing at the back of her mind, but she was not so easily controlled and there was much she’d kept hidden. So long as he doesn’t find out about the amulet. She pulled away from the thought lest he detect it, but if he did, the priest showed no sign. Wislaw placed the manikin back in his cloak and, almost at once, his presence slipped from her. The doll was not the subtlest of instruments and she doubted that he’d learnt much. She felt the rope bite hard around her wrists as she struggled to free herself: the thought of that man wandering around in her mind again was almost too much to bear.
‘Perhaps you could help me defeat this Bethrayal,’ Wislaw said almost to himself. Now he had the look of a hunter about him. Outwardly he’d been calm but, when he’d entered her mind, she’d felt the desperation burn deep within him. Desperation and fear – she could almost smell it on him, like a wounded elk hearing the wolf call.
Yes, the woyaks were hunted but only he really had an inkling of the forces that ensnared them. He’d always stood alone from the others, marked out by his powers. Iwa could feel his loneliness. At least the rest could huddle together and cower behind their spears. But for Wislaw there were no illusions, no comforting thoughts of escape.
Around his neck another tattoo twisted, some lizard that wove its tail thickly about his throat, its scales glistening wetly in the half light. No, it could not be a trick of the light. She recoiled as the thing moved its head towards her, rows of barbed fangs gleaming from a gaping mouth, the lips shining dull red as the twin tongues flickered across the man’s wizened flesh.
Quietly he looked her over, this forest wretch who’d hardly guessed at anything beyond her pitiful existence scrabbling out a bare life amid the trees, yet he’d felt her craft as he slipped inside her mind and she learned more from him then he’d ever bargained for. Could he have underestimated her still?
But there’d be more important things to think about. For all his guile and cunning he’d entered the hut as a hunted animal, trapped behind his own spells. Now, in the most unlikely of ways the dim possibility of release had presented itself. He’d have to be cautious with this one. His mind reeled with plans and possibilities. Already he’d begun to weave his schemes.
And
what if he could bring an end to all this? No, it was too early to plot the krol’s downfall. He’d never imagined such a thing before, but what if he could do it? Now the prospect dawned and, no matter how much he tried to calm himself, he could feel the excitement rise within him. Suddenly from the pits of despair a new possibility had opened up before him. He’d never had much interest in ruling men – there were so many greater powers to be had, far more than the krol had even begun to dream of. But now the possibility lay before him. He could have it all, the kroldom of the forest.
And yet he was not one for betrayal. Grunmir, yes, he’d deal with that old woyak, but that was different. How often had the old woyak stood in his path? He could still hear the man’s easy laughter, the way he’d belittle him in front of the others. And so it had become easy for him to make Grunmir the object of all his hatreds, the cause of all his disappointments.
But the krol was different. True, he trusted that old battle hag too much, always falling too readily under his sway. But Gawel had been good to him, stood by him even when the others had blamed him for unleashing the terror upon them. Few had ever expressed such faith in him as the krol, and few had such a memory for either a slight or a kindness as Wislaw.
Yet the thought would not leave him but lingered as a vague disquiet that he pushed to the back of his mind. If only the krol would see his worth. And that day would surely come. Then all would see.
‘If you think that I would help you,’ Iwa said slowly, ‘then you are mad.’ She’d given up trying to break free of the ropes and hung there trying not to notice the lizards as they scurried over the old man’s flesh. She could still feel a trace of him at the back of her mind.
She’d no idea of the priest’s thoughts or the plans that he now conjured about him, but she’d seen enough of his mind to hate him, and the idea that he had been inside her was almost too much to bear. That he might take out the doll and begin all over again brought up an acrid stench of bile deep in her throat.
‘There is nothing you can do, for all your stupid powers,’ she spat.
The priest stood before her, his face filled with anger, but then the anger subsided to be replaced by a wry smile. ‘I could force you,’ he said, as he placed the blade of his dagger at her throat. ‘I could make you nothing more than a doll, a mere conduit for my power.’ He raised the blade and pressed it hard against her jaw, forcing her head back. ‘A living cell through which I could channel your craft and together bind the Lord Bethrayal to my will, though I am not sure that you would survive such an experience.’
‘And what would you do then, when the demon is bound to your will?’
‘Ah, you are a cunning one, but that is for me to know. My plans are my own and not for the ears of one such as you. But now you will tell me everything about this Lord Bethrayal.’ He paused, glad that the forest wretch had bitten her tongue and refused to say anything. He smiled to himself and let the blade scrape against her neck. Around him the tattoos enjoyed the spectacle, they too had been caged for far too long. He felt their power surge, the tiny pinpricks that coiled over his skin and reached deep inside to his heart. ‘I can be very persuasive,’ he whispered, and felt their magic rise within him.
‘Leave her alone,’ Yaroslav croaked, ‘or I swear I shall hunt through the ancestor world and rip your eyes out and feed them to Zaltys.’
Suddenly Wislaw withdrew the knife, but there was no trace of fear as he glared at Iwa. ‘No, perhaps I should not waste my magic on you just yet; but you will answer me all the same. There are less subtle ways of persuasion.’ With that, he took a step backward and, with the blade of his knife, lifted up the tarpaulin.
Behind, it was almost too dark to see; a single candle spluttered in the dark. Yaroslav was bound to a stake but, even in the dim light, Iwa could see that there was something wrong. He turned away but not before she caught sight of his face; black and blue with bruises and his eye swollen and almost closed by what must have been a savage blow.
‘So you see, little girl, there are many ways to bend you to my will: no need for clay dolls or magic tricks. How long do you think Grunmir will protect your father now that he has you to play with?’
Once again Wislaw felt the tattoos move about him, the great lizard coiling about his head as its tail slithered along his cheek. Did they want to savour this moment as much as he did, to glory in his sudden power?
‘Let him go,’ Iwa gasped in shock. ‘He can be of no use to you, he knows nothing. He’s nothing to do with the craft.’
But he paid no heed to her words, lost in his plans and schemes. Around his eye the lizard’s tail flickered. He sensed its urgency, the longing to be free burning within it, and it took almost all his concentration to quell the thing.
No, he must not be too hasty. He’d underestimated this girl once before, though he couldn’t understand how. She should have succumbed easily, this girl who could not even read or write. Yet, for all his learning, he’d felt her struggle, her mind drawing round like a cloak set against him. No, he’d have to be careful. But that was one thing he’d always been good at, care and patience.
‘He knows nothing,’ he heard her say again.
‘But teasing out the limits of his understanding would yield me much pleasure. I could be merciful if you co-operate.’
‘And afterwards, you’ll do whatever you want, no matter what I say.’ Iwa spat into the old priest’s face. She was too scared now for any clever pretences.
‘We need not be enemies,’ Wislaw smiled as he wiped a trace of spittle from his cheek. Yes, he’d have to be careful with this one, careful and patient, but his day would come. ‘We need each other. We are opposing sides of the coin. You have the natural ability, but I have the knowledge. There is so much for you to learn; the craft lays many traps for the unwary. I could help you, teach you. You could be so much more than a mere conduit, a puppet. Bind yourself to me and together we could rule over the woyaks, carve out a kroldom here amongst the forest. Matka Ziemia will never have seen the like of us; our power could extend to the furthest reaches, to the Arab lands and beyond.’
He paused and shook his head solemnly. ‘It is such a sad fact that I cannot trust you. In time maybe you will come to appreciate what I can offer.’
‘Yes,’ Iwa said, ‘we could be very great, and powerful.’
‘You lie well, and I wish that I could believe you.’ He came forward as if to whisper in her ear. ‘Truly I do. But many things start with a lie and some day you might have even believed in it yourself. Yet I do not think that it would ever happen; you are too wild, untutored and untamed, and I could never trust you.’
Such is the pity, he thought. He’d offered her a kroldom, more power than she’d ever known. Did she really understand? Such a waste for things to come so naturally, and you just a ragged strip of a girl. Not that he’d been serious. He’d only been testing the girl, looking for weak spots, trying to capture her with greed. As if such things should be cast before her. I’d rather give a kroldom to a horse.
Yet he had found the idea of becoming a krol more amusing than he dared realise. Why should he not be krol, why not? These woyaks were always so quick to trust to a warlord to lead them, but there had been times when a mage had ruled over them. What are they without my protection? See how they cower behind the walls that my craft has conjured.
And, in some part of his heart, an anger rose, born of all the slights that he’d had to endure. But his heart was not ready to betray the krol. He was capable of many things, but not that. Some part of him remembered before, the days when he was young and lived in the great halls of the Poles. There things had been good, there was an order to life, a pattern by which each would know their place. And we will bring such order here.
‘Then let me escape: I can take Yaroslav and never return, I swear by Jezi Baba and all the Leszy of the night.’
‘And what of Lord Bethrayal? No, you are a gift, a way for me to bind him once and for all. Ah, it is such a pity that I
must destroy your body in the process.’ He grabbed her by the throat but his touch was soft, his fingers supple across her skin. He’d been without a woman for too long not to savour the touch.
No, the tattoos were right. He heard them whisper their warnings. Part of him still clung to the idea of her as a consort, savoured the softness of her skin, the sharp rise and fall of her thorax as she turned away in disgust. How long had it been since he’d felt a woman’s touch? How long since a girl had rested her gaze upon him? He who was so much more than ordinary men, condemned to live out his life in dark solitude.
She’d make such a plaything. Surely her power was nothing to his. But this was a delicate time, no, she must not be allowed to disrupt the balance of things. Even a trace of the craft, no matter how weak, could be enough. ‘Such a great pity,’ he murmured, his fingers slithering along the soft flesh of her throat and down to the hollow at the base of her neck. ‘but, still, there is no sense in wasting you.’ The old priest chuckled as his free hand slid up her skirts. ‘For me to allow you to die unused, now that would be a crime.’
Iwa tried to kick out but he held her firm. ‘Do not struggle,’ he whispered, ‘let me give you a taste of honey, before I send your body to the fires.’ With that he grabbed her neck and bent forward to kiss it. Suddenly he stopped short, his hand withdrawing from between her legs. An axe blade rested on his shoulder, the edge lying gently against his neck. ‘Krol Gawel will see the girl now,’ Grunmir said.
‘Of course.’ Wislaw bowed, the axe resting heavily against his neck. ‘The krol’s command is my humblest wish.’ Around his face the lizard hissed, but only Iwa noticed.
‘You’d do well to remember that – priest.’ Grunmir withdrew the axe and motioned for Wislaw to untie the bonds. Behind them Eber hovered, his face uncertain. Perhaps once outside the tent, his fear of Wislaw had diminished as his fear of Grunmir had grown. If only he’d come earlier, she shuddered, before the doll.