by Mark Lucek
‘We must be patient,’ Miskyia continued, more confident now. Behind her Sturmovit’s teeth continued to grind. Iwa wasn’t convinced either, tightening her grip on Miskyia’s hand. Somehow she didn’t think that patience was a particular virtue of the Karzełek. ‘We have not yet brought the Lord Bethrayal into this world. The time is not yet right, the planets are not aligned.’
‘Then why do you wake us from our sleep?’ Once again the Karzełek moved in closer, their clawed hands ready to strike.
‘Because the time draws close and you must be ready to attack. There are many men in a camp by the river. They have thwarted the Lord Bethrayal and brought down his anger upon them. There is also one amongst them who has some knowledge of the craft. He could be dangerous.’
‘Then let us strike now, in the night. Point this man out to us and we will take him before he realises his fate.’
‘That would not be so easy. The camp is guarded and there is a wall to protect it. Many armoured woyaks guard its boundary.’
‘Then what would you have us do?’
‘We must attack together. The Lord Bethrayal will want to move against the woyaks as soon as he is through the barrier into our world, but there is an enchantment that surrounds the camp which he cannot cross.’
‘Then this priest is very powerful to have crafted such a thing.’
‘The Lord Bethrayal is still too weak. If the priest senses what is happening then he could still keep the Lord Bethrayal from entering this world. The magic need not be powerful should the timing be right. Even now he works his spells against us. You could rip the barrier to shreds and between us we could destroy the woyaks and this priest.’
‘But not the captives in the boats,’ Iwa was quick to say, then she gulped in terror as all heads turned to her, the snakes around the Karzełeks’ necks regarding her coldly with hard stony eyes, their forked tongues licking the air as if trying to catch her scent. ‘The people in the ships are the woyaks’ enemies too.’
‘The people in the ships are human,’ the Karzełek leader said, looking about him as the rest began to cheer, their mouths opened wide to expose sharp yellowed teeth. They too had snakes’ tongues that flecked spittle as they hissed in anger. ‘It is too long since we have spilt man blood, my brothers. Let us take our vengeance upon the oppressor.’
‘But not against the captives in the ships,’ Miskyia said softly.
‘Is this what the Lord Bethrayal commands?’
‘Yes,’ Iwa said, but it was only when Miskyia nodded that the Karzełek took notice.
‘Very well, then,’ their leader said. There was a hiss from the others but a quick look from their leader stifled them. ‘If it is the Lord Bethrayal’s command,’ he said, as if the words had to be dragged from between his teeth, ‘then it shall be done. We owe him our allegiance.’
‘As the Lord Bethrayal commands,’ Miskyia said, ‘be sure to be ready for the next night, we shall call him forth and Lord Bethrayal will tread this earth once more.’
With that she turned to go and Iwa decided that it would be a good idea to follow, but the Karzełek leader blocked her path. ‘One day…’ He bent low so that his face was almost pressed against hers, the mucus dripping from his flat, savage nose, dark as a rotten mushroom. ‘We will be free to have our vengeance upon you,’ he growled. ‘It is true that we are in the service of the ancient gods of this place, but you cannot hide behind Lord Bethrayal forever. There will come a time when his word will no longer protect you.’
So long as I am far gone when that day comes. Iwa bent away; the air reeked with the earthy smell of his breath, thick like burnt tar. But it wasn’t that which caused her to tremble. Before, she had thought that each Karzełek kept the snakes as pets. Only now did she realise that the snakes weren’t coiled about their masters’ necks but grew from them, moving as if they were separate living creatures, yet still part of their host.
‘Do not mistake us for friends,’ the leader said. ‘There will come a night when the moon is high and we shall rid ourselves of human flesh, and your stink shall be cleared from this forest forever.’
Iwa didn’t answer, but slid past and ran after Miskyia. ‘Did you enjoy your chat?’ the sorceress said, without breaking her stride. ‘The Karzełek can be rather forthright when they have a mind.’
‘Can we trust them?’
‘We can trust them – to hate humans and kill them on sight. But they are an honourable race and keep kinship with their blood oaths.’
‘As you do?’
Miskyia paused and tucked the statuette into the folds of her cloak. It was then that Iwa caught sight of the thing: it had the body of a man but the head of a snake and the wings of a bat. ‘The Lord Bethrayal always extracts the full price for his help; remember that, my child, and consider that well, should you ever be tempted to beg his favour.’
‘But it is he who will owe me the favour.’
‘For now,’ Miskyia said, ruffling Iwa’s hair. ‘You can trust him to spare your father and let you both leave this place, if that is the price of your service.’ She turned away. The moonlight played over her face and an understanding passed between them. You must bind him to your will – the words remained unuttered, Miskyia’s hands trembled – and never let these stones know of our treachery. The Lord Bethrayal will never keep his word to one such as you. ‘Now you must rest,’ Miskyia’s voice betrayed no hint of concern, ‘soon you will have to wake the Lord Bethrayal; your trials are about to begin.’
Chapter Twenty
A drum beat through the ruins, its hollow rhythm reverberating across the stones. There was a murmur of magic as the spells twisted from ancient resting places and, despite herself, Iwa felt drawn to the beat. Cautiously, she picked her way through broken rooms and shattered columns. At the edge of the ruins she stopped. Beyond the stones the Karzełek had gathered.
Sitting on a broken tree trunk, one of them beat on a huge kettle drum, the skins drawn taut to give a flat, dulled sound. One of the Karzełek turned and instinctively Iwa hid behind the walls, peering out through a crack in the plaster. Still the beat continued. She could just about make out the drumsticks, which were fashioned from the thighbones of some animal, longer and thicker than even the largest bison. A ball of leather was wrapped around the end of the bone and, as the music continued, ancient runes sunk deep into the bone crackled with magic.
But nothing could have prepared her for what came next. A group of Karzełek danced in front of the drum, their bodies swirling in time to the music. In the centre was a patch of mud and, as the figures danced, the earth began to move. Again the beat picked up and the Karzełek began to howl. Underneath the mud was a membrane covering a thick, yellow, yoke-like substance. Slowly something moved inside. Then, as the creatures wailed, a claw ripped through the membrane and the yoke exploded as, with a roar, a Karzełek clawed itself up from the mud.
Iwa flinched. She’d seen this before, and not just with Miskyia. Around her the drumbeat picked up as another set of claws tore through the mud. A shiver fluttered across her spine. No, it wasn’t her memory. Iwa remembered the painted cave. She must have read the minds of the hunted men there far better than she had realised, because now their reminiscence stirred deep within her.
They knew of these creatures. She remembered the old mage, his hands filled with paint as he daubed his magic on the cave wall. For a moment she thought that it might even have been the Karzełek who’d hunted them, their snakes’ bared fangs dripping with poison as they waited outside the cave. No – it had been something else, something far worse. For the cave painters the Karzełek had been nothing more than a memory, a song passed down from generation to generation until it had become little more than a myth that lurked half-forgotten at the back of their minds.
‘This is how we sleep through the centuries,’ a voice said. Iwa jumped: a Karzełek stood behind her. For all its size it had crept up on her without the slightest sound until its shadow rested across her shoulders
. ‘We await the return of the master and the old gods.’
‘Did Lord Bethrayal give you the power to do that?’ Her curiosity overcoming her fear, Iwa nodded to where the new Karzełek stood, the yoke dripping yellow across his skin.
‘This is our magic, which not even Lord Bethrayal could master.’
‘Then why do you serve him if you are so powerful and hate us so?’ She flinched as she caught the look of anger on the Karzełek’s face.
‘That is not for you to ask. You should not be here, human, you should not watch.’
That was good enough for her. Without another word, she turned and fled back into the safety of the temple.
Inside, Miskyia waited. ‘When are we going to rescue my father?’ Iwa was impatient. For all of Miskyia’s reassurances, she wasn’t convinced that Wislaw wouldn’t kill Yaroslav the first chance he got, and she didn’t want anything more to do with the Karzełek, either. ‘We need to get going,’ she continued, following after Miskyia as the sorceress led her through the stones.
They were at the water’s edge with the courtyard spread before them. Iwa shuddered as she saw the tree again, the pig’s head hanging from its lifeless branches. Now she could make out the runes that ran across the courtyard. The whole floor was paved with them, incredibly ancient and etched into the stone so thinly that they were almost imperceptible.
‘So your powers have grown,’ Miskyia said from behind her. ‘You never noticed the runes before.’
‘It was dark.’ Somehow the fact that the sorceress knew what she could see didn’t surprise her. What else does she know?
‘That is when they are at their most powerful. In sunlight they merely sleep, and it takes all my craft to summon them. It is only in the moonlight that they truly wake.’
‘So why not summon them at night?’
‘Because we need to act quickly. The planets will not be in a favourable alignment again for many moons. The Lord Bethrayal cannot keep coming into our world for very much longer: each time he uses a little more of his energy and when that is gone…’ Miskyia took a deep breath and didn’t bother to say any more.
‘But won’t that…?’
‘My service is to the stones,’ the witch was quick to cut her off, ‘and the magic that lies within. They are my masters and I am always quick to obey.’
‘Will we attack the camp soon?’ Iwa said hopefully. ‘Now that Wislaw has found out about this hidden place it’ll only be a matter of time before he seeks us out. He’ll come here, and convince the krol to bring his woyaks.’ She shivered. Would there be enough of these Karzełek creatures to fight them off?
In the ruins, Sturmovit quaked. He’d kept very much to the shadows. Maybe he too didn’t trust his brethren. Iwa tried not to look in his direction, but it was hard not to feel some sympathy for the creature. Perhaps he has as much to fear from them as we do, more probably. But she kept the thought to herself as she felt the presence of the spells whisper softly around her.
‘If you understood the dangers you’d not be so eager to summon the Lord Bethrayal.’ The sorceress laid a finger on Iwa’s forehead. ‘We would not be the first to perish under these stones. You must do exactly as I say, and do not be afraid, for fear is the mind killer. Fear will stifle your actions when you need courage the most, and to falter is to die.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Iwa said as she drew closer to Miskyia.
‘I wouldn’t take my warnings lightly.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Keep close to me and do as I say.’
Iwa had no idea how Miskyia worked her magic. Unlike the other spells, there was no music or ritual chant but, as the air became charged, Iwa sensed that some ancient magic had awoken. Miskyia raised her hands and the air became hot as the runes began to sing. She was at the foot of the tree, the pig’s head glowing down, its slanted eyes picking up every movement as Miskyia uttered a sacred word so softly that Iwa hardly heard a breath.
Then the pig’s head slipped from the branches to fold itself over the woman’s head. Around her neck a few pieces of skin flapped loosely. In horror, Iwa watched the skin sink into Miskyia’s flesh and close about her throat, the last tentacles moulding deeply about her neck so it became impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Almost too terrified to face the creature, Iwa looked to Miskyia’s chest. Underneath her skin the pig’s flesh crawled, thick and yellow as phlegm.
‘What’s going on?’ Iwa mumbled, too scared to raise her voice lest she interrupt the spell, but there was no reply as, with the eyes of the pig, Miskyia looked down at her. Somehow Iwa didn’t think that there was much left of the sorceress in the creature which now stood before her. Without a word the thing began to glide across the stones, its feet hardly touching the ground.
Iwa followed as closely as she dared, her heart thumping as she reached the end of the yard. Without a pause the creature slid through the ruin of an ancient archway. There, in the wreckage of a once great hall, it stopped. Before them stood a doorway; surely it hadn’t been there before? Carved snakes withered by the winds across the lintel, but it was the statues which caught her attention. On either side a carved figure crouched on a marble plinth. There was no way that they had been there before. She’d have remembered them, even if they’d been human. They had the lower bodies of men, but from the shoulders they were like fish and the sharp ridges of fins curved along their spines. Each was about twice the size of a fully grown man, the stone weather-beaten and covered with moss.
So caught up with the sight, Iwa didn’t notice the pig-faced creature had stopped until a hoof fell on her shoulder. She gasped as she felt it pull her back. Underneath the silken gown was the body of a woman, but the creature’s hands ended in cloven hooves. ‘Be careful,’ the thing warned in a voice that held little trace of Miskyia, ‘these guardians will not let us pass easily.’
As if to prove the point, the creature waved its arm and, as a brief incantation was uttered, a stone lifted and hurled itself at the doorway. In a flash one of the statues moved, its body no more than a blur as its hand smashed the stone into a multitude of tiny fragments. When Iwa next looked, the statue had resumed its position, the stone so ancient and weather-worn that she could hardly believe that it had moved at all.
‘Only those possessed of the craft can enter here,’ the voice of the pig said. ‘Even then we have to be careful. The guardians have their own magic, ancient and dark: one false move and we too shall perish.’
If it hadn’t been for the thought of her father lying trapped in the woyaks’ camp, Iwa would have turned and fled. Instead she clung to the pig-faced demon as the thing raised its arms and uttered another incantation. Then it stepped forward. Iwa followed, hardly daring to glance up at the statues as she passed, her head bowed in expectation of a blow. But the statues remained impassive, their fish eyes looking down blankly at her as she darted through the door.
Sturmovit followed behind, leaving hardly a trace of his passing as he moved across the stones. There was no fear on him now that he was away from his larger brethren. And Iwa was glad that they could no longer hear the sound of that drum, which had seemed to follow her around the ruins. Even by the tree she’d felt it, some strange disturbance which had rent the air even after the sound had faded from hearing.
On the other side the pig-faced creature waited, its breath muted as its tongue flickered through rows of fangs. They were in a narrow corridor that led down deep into Mother Earth. Slowly, the pig-faced demon began to walk down the passage, the air crackling with static behind it.
This is wrong. Iwa hung back as she made a sign to ward off evil. Why should people want to dig into Matka Ziemia? Surely this too was a sacrilege: worse than cutting away at her to grow crops. At least the woyaks only want to scrape away at moist Mother Earth: a tiny scar, nothing more. But this was a far deeper wound, cutting deep into the mother goddess. Yet she had no choice but to follow the pig-faced demon. Behind her the doorway had already disappeared and there was only the corridor rea
ching out into the blackness.
Behind her Sturmovit prodded her forward, glad now that he was underground. He moved more easily here, as if he’d never been used to the sunlight. They were alone in the dark with only a tiny pinpoint of light emanating from the walls. Where’s the light coming from? Iwa glanced round as she fought to control her breath. The air was sour and thick with must so that it clogged in her mouth as she stumbled along. Once or twice she heard a crack, as if the walls were trying to press in on her.
The Bison Grass rarely went into the deep caves, preferring the shelter of their tents, but some of the other clans scrabbled about for the stones and minerals that the traders valued. Perhaps that was alright for them, if the clan gods had laid down sacred paths into the caves for them to follow, but she’d never had anything to do with such things.
She glanced at the axe that hung from Sturmovit’s belt. Silently he led them on, his eyes seeming sharper now to enable him to guide them down the tunnels. Surely men had never made such a thing? Nobody could have carried out all that rock or made the sides so smooth. Sturmovit appeared to be enjoying himself, humming as he walked swiftly down the corridor.
‘Miskyia,’ Iwa murmured, but the words dried in her throat. Somehow she felt as if she’d left the confines of Matka Ziemia far behind, but that didn’t lessen her feelings of sacrilege; this place was wrong, all of it. Maybe the enemies of Lord Bethrayal had been right to tear down the temple.
By now the air was so stale that Iwa thought she was about to be sick. Her head swam and she could feel her own skin cold and clammy. She raised her fingers to her face and realised how much they were trembling. Up in front, Sturmovit didn’t appear to notice as he continued down the corridor, sharp eyes picking out the tiniest marks even in the gloom.