by Mark Lucek
‘You must not be afraid,’ the pig-faced demon said, ‘not now when we are so near. Think of your father. Think of what will happen to the forest if the krol scrapes away at Matka Ziemia. Maybe Wislaw will manage to resurrect the old gods in the guise of the new. The clan gods may demand the blood of animals from time to time, as do the gods of the Poles; but they do not lust after human blood in the way that the gods of this altar would if ever they managed to find their way back into the hearts of men.’
‘So what must I do?’ Iwa said, conscious of how her voice was trembling.
‘You must lie down and prepare yourself to be a vessel for the Lord Bethrayal.’ As the creature took out the amulet and let it dangle from the end of its cloven hoof, a cold tremor ran through Iwa’s body. She didn’t like the sound of being a vessel of anybody’s power. And guess where I have to lie. She shivered as she approached the altar: as if it could be anywhere else.
The pig’s head watched as Iwa lay on the slab and tried not to gaze up at the cross. As she lay down the chains began to rattle, though there was no wind to disturb them, and their hooks, well rusted now, swayed as if they bayed for blood.
The demon stood before her and threw down some herbs on Iwa’s body, as the pig’s head began to speak. It took on a new voice, deep and guttural like the Karzełek, but harder. In the distance Iwa could hear a sound much like the beat of a drum. Strange words filled the void, pouring out of the pig’s head to dance around her as the ancient magic of this room awoke.
Desperately she tried not to look up. Above her she could see a tongue of metal which jutted out from the cross. She could almost picture the victims as they hung from it, their feet chained above them as they dangled over the altar, the priests ready to slice open their stomachs as the hooks waited ready to peel back their flesh.
From deep in her gut a tide of bile rose hot through her throat as the spells wove around her. It was no good, she had to look away, but her eyes wouldn’t let her. The iron creaked as if about to tumble in over her, the hooks straining for her flesh. With one last effort she managed to tear her eyes away.
‘Miskyia!’ she screamed, ‘Mother of mercy, help me!’ But as she looked at the pig’s head she could see its eyes boil; blood slavered around its teeth as the chant continued.
Iwa had no idea of what happened next. There was only the blackness and a gnawing pain. When she opened her eyes she was propped against the altar.
‘Thank the gods of this place that you are alive,’ Miskyia said. She had her own head back again and there was no sign of the pig face. Iwa was too shaken to even think about that. ‘You are all right,’ Miskyia said, as she threw her arms around Iwa. ‘I always knew you would be, my brave, beautiful girl.’
‘Shouldn’t we get out of here?’ Iwa said, struggling to her feet. Her gown was ruined, a savage rip ran across the midline and the hem was charred and blackened. Now she realised why Miskyia had made her wear it. Iwa had no idea of what magic had been woven into the thread but she was glad of it. It wasn’t as though she’d have survived the ordeal without it, or had the courage to face the stones.
Did the dress guard my mind as well as my body? Iwa wondered, as she followed Miskyia out of the room. True, she remembered what had happened, well, much of it anyway, but somehow it hadn’t left much of an impression, as if it had been no more than a childish dream.
Chapter Twenty-One
Getting back through the temple was easier this time. At least now Iwa knew the stones’ tricks. Yet, as she walked, she felt a strange force pulling her back, as if the gods of this place wanted to keep hold of her. Their magic swirled angrily about her feet as she followed Miskyia up the stairs. Even as she climbed into the sunlight, Iwa could feel the tug of the ancient craft, thick and choking about her, and it was only when she felt the breeze once more that she dared look back to find that the door had disappeared. Even the fish-headed guardians had melted away, leaving nothing more than a broken wall.
‘Is the Lord Bethrayal free now?’ Iwa asked, stretching out her arms. Never had the sun seemed so bright or the wind so soft.
‘No,’ Miskyia shook her head.
‘So all this has been for nothing?’ Iwa kicked at a loose stone: she couldn’t believe that she’d been through so much for so little.
‘Not entirely. I had to prepare your body to receive the Lord Bethrayal when he comes into this world.’
‘So he’ll be inside me?’ Iwa shuddered; she hadn’t counted on being a vessel for anything, let alone a demon like the Lord Bethrayal. ‘I don’t want him mucking about with my insides,’ she spat, and felt ancient spells glare down at her. Not that she cared, even for them. She was tired of not being told about things, of not really understanding. She’d heard the old ones talk about such things: madmen whose souls had been snatched away by the Leszy or other forest demons so that the spirit could live inside their bodies. Eventually, they shrivelled away to nothing, or else they were forced to dance until they died from exhaustion.
All at once she felt the helplessness of the situation. If only she didn’t need the sorceress and this Lord Bethrayal. She was worn out, her head buzzing as she leant against the wall. ‘I won’t be able to survive, not with something like that crawling about.’
‘You’ll be the bridge, nothing more.’ Miskyia’s words were gentle, as if singing a lullaby. ‘You’ll be the conduit that will connect him more strongly to this world and give him the strength to take up corporeal form once again.’
So long as it’s not my form he steals. Iwa’s thoughts must have played across her face because Miskyia smiled and laid her hand softly on the girl’s forehead. ‘Do not worry, child,’ she said. ‘Do as I say and no harm will come to you. We play for high stakes, but I would rather die than see any hurt fall upon you.’
Miskyia was a good actress, Iwa had to give her that. ‘And these blood gods, what will happen to them afterwards?’ she asked, hoping that Miskyia was telling the truth about protecting her.
‘Locked safely away beneath the earth where they belong. They’ll not trouble us further. Zaltys, the great snake who lies curled at the roots of the earth tree, keeps them in check and they’ll need greater cunning than even you possess to escape his clutches.’
‘But if Wislaw turns men’s hearts to them then they’ll be able to wriggle free.’
‘Now you understand,’ Miskyia nodded solemnly. ‘Once the hearts of men turn to those gods, not even Zaltys could keep them at bay, and the blood harvest will be let loose upon the world.’
‘Then we must stop him,’ Iwa said, more to herself than anybody else. Even in the sunlight she shuddered: she’d never imagined that she’d ever get caught up in anything so terrible. If only she’d known about this at the beginning, but then she doubted that she’d have been able to keep her courage before that altar, not if she’d understood what was going to happen.
Miskyia put her hand on the girl’s shoulder as if to steady her nerves as they walked through the ruins. They stopped on the outskirts, where the charred walls crumbled away into the earth: the Karzełek had gathered there. Iwa could see three, maybe four hundred of the giants: snake heads glistened lazily in the sun as they closed in upon Miskyia. They carried no armour, but their skin was tough as bleached leather and many held hide-bound shields covered with ancient runes thickly daubed with blood. Iwa shuddered. Was this from another animal drawn from the beginning of things? There didn’t seem to be any forest creatures in this hidden place. She’d not caught sight of so much as a hare for all the time she’d been here. How many other creatures has this sorceress summoned?
As they came closer, one of the Karzełek’s lips parted to reveal two blackened fangs that curved like knives. If there had been more of these fighting Karzełek, then men would never have been able to defeat them, Iwa realised, but that had been long ago. Even the men in the cave hadn’t seen such things, and that was long before the coming of the clans. She looked to the ancient weatherbeaten faces of the s
tones. How long since the last of the Karzełek were driven into this hidden place? The old ones talked about the eternal face of the mountains and the river, but generally Iwa had only thought in terms of the span of a few generations. Suddenly, eternity seemed much longer and more terrible than she’d ever realised.
Perhaps there was another reason why the Karzełek were vulnerable to the hunters – they had no iron, copper, or metal of any sort. Maybe they’ve never faced men armed with iron. The men she’d seen in the cave had only stone tools. Will they be able to fight against armed woyaks? But there was no time to ponder. Miskyia walked out of the ruins and the massed ranks of the Karzełek parted before her. Iwa followed, conscious of the looks of hate emanating from all around. Yet there was something else: a reverence that played across the faces of the Karzełek as if she were somehow special.
‘See, the Karzełek sense what has happened,’ Miskyia said. ‘Your body has been well prepared and the craft flows strongly through your veins.’
‘So there is nothing to fear?’ Iwa clung closely to Miskyia as the Karzełek closed in around her, their muscles thick as birch bark. No, Iwa didn’t care how few the Karzełek were: men would surely never have defeated them without iron.
‘There is always something to fear,’ Miskyia said. ‘We must be wary until this is done.’
Iwa was about to say something more when Miskyia stopped. Before them, sitting on a chair carved from a fallen tree trunk, was the Karzełek leader. At his feet two others sat cross-legged on the floor, huge drums cradled in their laps.
‘So all is prepared,’ the Karzełek leader said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘She has been to the place of tears and survived,’ Miskyia replied simply.
‘Then she is ready.’
‘And Lord Bethrayal will walk the earth once more.’
The Karzełek leader smiled as he signalled his drummers to begin, and the rest began a savage war chant, the beat rising as the drummers pounded on the leather and the Karzełek warriors raised their weapons in triumph. It’s lucky that we’re in a hidden place, Iwa thought as she clasped her hands to her ears, or else the woyaks would have heard us for sure.
Worse was to come. As the howl died down, the drums began a different beat, so loud that it threatened to split open her ears. It was all she could do to make her way through the throng, the Karzełek parting before her but, more than once, she caught a bitter look of hate. She might be the vessel or bridge for Lord Bethrayal, but that old enmity ran deep within them and would never be easily quashed.
Thankfully, they had other things on their mind. Some heaved up huge carcasses onto their shoulders. Iwa had never seen animals like these before: larger than elk or bison so that even the Karzełek had trouble carrying them. Maybe those animals live only in the hidden places. She had no time to find out. The Karzełek ate their flesh raw there and then, claws and fangs ripping into the freshly killed animals as, around their necks, the serpents hissed in triumph. Do the snakes eat separately? Iwa wondered, in an attempt to take her mind from the gore.
In front of the ruins two Karzełek stood guard. Best not to ask about the snakes, she decided, and tried her best not to flinch as she passed. At least they didn’t appear to notice her. They hardly moved, their oval shields sunk deep into the earth by their sides. These were different from the woyaks’ shields, far larger than even Krol Gawel’s, but made of hide stretched taut across a wooden frame. But it was the spears Iwa noticed most. In the hands of the Karzełek they moved easily as if crafted from the supplest yew, but each was large and thick enough to be fashioned from the trunk of a small tree and ended with a stone blade bound with sinew to the shaft. The Karzełek may not have learnt the secret of iron, but they were experts in stone. Nothing she’d ever seen had been napped so fine. Despite their great size the stones had been chipped to form a edge as sharp and as smooth as any iron knife. Yet, for all its savagery, the blade was a thing of beauty, the sunlight running smoothly across the napped ridges of stone to reveal the pattern of the rock like a fingerprint beneath. Allied to those powerful arms, those spears were more than capable of cutting through mail. At least it should be, she hoped. It’ll be a short battle if it isn’t.
Some of the Karzełek hefted stone axes or clubs, but it was the spears which most impressed her. Even so, she was glad to get into the cool shade of the ruins. ‘What do I have to do now?’ she said, catching up with Miskyia. If only she could get this over with. They were at the tree, where the pig’s head hung from the branches again, its dead tongue poking roughly through its lips and its skin hanging yellow from its fatty jowls.
‘For the moment, nothing,’ Miskyia replied, as Iwa tried her best to hide her relief. She didn’t think she could take much more of this. ‘Rest now, for your moment will come all too soon and you must be strong. Remember what we talked about.’ Miskyia nodded for her to go back to her place in the ruins. ‘I will call for you shortly.’
Iwa caught sight of a heap of clothing piled up against the far wall. Moving over, she found that the bundle contained a blanket and her old clothes, washed and threadbare but with the clan marks still visible in faded blue around the neck and hem.
Without a second thought she changed into them and glorified in the rough feel of them against her skin. The dark heady scent of elk and deer clung about her as she moved the blanket into the shade and settled down to rest.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dusk had fallen and the shadows lengthened across the stones. It was not quite night and the moon was not up, but already there was a chill in the air. The drums of the Karzełek had quietened, but their echo pawed through the ruins, muted like a stalking fox.
With a rustle of silk, Miskyia came into the courtyard carrying a small tray of nuts and berries and a stone cup filled with water. ‘No bread for you this time,’ Miskyia smiled. ‘I don’t want you to taste woyak food before the battle, just the bounty of Matka Ziemia. Her goodness will nourish you and lend your body strength, but it would be wise not to eat too much. You’ll need all your craft for what we are about to do, and a clear head too.’
As Iwa took a handful of berries, Miskyia wrapped her cloak around the girl. ‘It’ll be a cold night,’ she said, ‘and it’ll see some cold work too. You must hurry, there’s not much time.’ Stuffing the rest of the food into her mouth, Iwa got up and followed, thankful that she wasn’t about to be forced into wearing some silken robe. Whatever happened tonight, she would face it as one of the Bison Grass. And even if I am to die, then at least I’ll be a part of the clan, far more a part of it than any of the hunters who fled the camp and left the women to their fate.
Before, she’d always been an outsider: the forgotten girl, pushed into place by Katchka’s hand. Now she was proud of the clan symbols, the mark of the bison dyed deep into the fabric of her clothes. Not even the strongest spell could have made her feel more secure as she walked across the courtyard and faced the tree, its branches drawn pale against the first glimmer of the new moon.
The pig face had already wrapped itself over Miskyia’s head, its eyes shining with a dark power as Iwa walked forward, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she felt the runes shift beneath her. The moon had begun to rise, and around the courtyard an ancient power stirred, the runes moving into new patterns, guided by forces that had been old before the days of the mountains.
As she neared the tree the runes began to sing, their melody folding over her, soft and beguiling like a lullaby. Without knowledge of the craft, no one would have seen a thing, but Iwa saw the runes at her feet, brighter than the stars across the clearest of nights.
The simplicity of the ritual should have scared her. There was no sacred chant or beat of drums to accompany it, but she felt herself drawn to the tree all the same, her every breath guided by those ancient spells as they worked themselves upon her. Miskyia too was caught up in their power; the beat of her heart slowed with the tempo of the magic as she stood before the girl, a handf
ul of herbs clutched in one hand. In the other was a knife.
As Iwa approached, Miskyia raised her arms and then turned to face the tree, drawing her hands across her chest. Iwa waited as the Molfar witch faced her once more. Somehow Iwa knew what to do, as if she danced to the tune of the runes that flooded through her. From the tree’s lifeless branches a tiny copper cauldron hung, cold in the moonlight.
From the lake there was a hiss as a mist drew across the water and, in the distance, Lord Bethrayal howled. Dimly Iwa felt herself sway in time to the magic, the runes crafting her every step as, slowly, from the mists, a figure took shape. Now it was more solid, with the semblance of feet and the crude hint of a face etched across the haze.
She could sense its power scouring the void, seeking her out. Without knowing why, she stretched her arms over the cauldron, her wrists pressed together as the pig voice chanted, the words so quiet that she could hardly hear them. The sprig of herbs was drawn across her arms and a blade pressed against her skin. There was a jolt of pain as the blood flowed across her flesh. The pig-faced demon began to move, a slow careful dance that circled the tree.
Iwa felt herself fall away. She was alone, with no idea of where she was as, around her, the firmament raged. I am the lodestone, she realised, sent to draw the Lord Bethrayal to this world. Out there in the firmament, he waited. She could sense the presence seeking her out, the anger of centuries boiling as he searched for a way back. He could taste the world below, smell the air and the heavy scent of moist Mother Earth. Yet still he could not find a way in.