The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  She tried to run but the woyak caught her and slammed her against the side of the ship. ‘What are you doing here?’ he yelled. A line of blood ran across his cheek and his eyes were filled with fear. ‘Didn’t you know to keep to the ships, didn’t you hear Grunmir give the order? Or has all sense left you?’

  Without replying, Iwa sank to the ground. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ the young woyak said as he turned his back on Iwa, his shield drawn over her. In all the confusion he hadn’t realised that the Karzełek had been her guard: all he’d seen was a girl who needed protection.

  Around them the ground was littered with the flotsam of war. The broken shaft of a spear lay by her feet along with a few scraps of leather and the shattered remnants of armour. Further along, a dagger glinted, the blade hidden under a shard of wood. Keeping her eyes on the woyak, Iwa knelt to reach for it. ‘Be ready to make for the boats,’ he said sharply. She flinched, but he kept his back to her. ‘Wait till I give the word and then you run; be sure to make for the farthest ship, you’ll be safe there – for the moment.’ Still keeping her eyes on him, Iwa snatched the dagger and hid it under the folds of her clothes.

  Gripping the hilt, she looked at the base of the woyak’s neck where the leather hung loose around the nape. She’d never killed a man before. What’s wrong with me? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t helped slaughter plenty of animals before: killing this young boy should have been easy.

  She tensed as the woyak crouched, the broken end of his spear held useless in his hand. One quick movement, she told herself. Just begin the blow and let the movement guide itself.

  ‘We’ll wait until the coast is clear,’ the woyak was saying. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep with you until you’re at the women’s ship. At least you’ll be well out of the fight there.’

  Somewhere in the distance, Lord Bethrayal roared as Iwa closed her eyes and tried to focus on the bridge, but it was no use. All around her she could sense the Lord Bethrayal as he flailed in the dark, his grip on the world falling away as the firmament closed in upon him.

  I’ve waited too long, she could feel his desperation as his voice rang within her, centuries of nothingness: condemned never to feel the sun on my face or the wind against my skin.

  Somehow she managed to find him: a chink of his presence calling to her across the firmament. Don’t leave me! His voice was thin, lost in the howl of the outer dark. Not after all these years, centuries of sorrow: you cannot let the firmament claim me.

  I won’t leave you. Iwa tried to focus in on the voice, her consciousness reaching out for him. Then she found him, just a thin sliver of his spirit lost in the dark, but it was enough. She breathed slowly as the link strengthened, but Wislaw cut her off, those ancient spells of Lord Bethrayal’s enemies bending his magic to their will. She could sense the old priest as he cowered nearby. It was no use; she had to deal with him, now. Who knew how long Lord Bethrayal would be able to hold his form in this world without her? Already she could sense him fade as the amulet burned around her neck. Slowly Iwa drew out the dagger. First she had to get rid of the woyak, then she’d deal with the priest. Cautiously she raised her arm. Beads of sweat trickled along the woyak’s skin as Iwa trained her eyes on the base of his neck.

  ‘Here,’ she said as she tapped his shoulder with the hilt of the dagger, ‘you’ll need this.’

  ‘Keep it,’ he said with nothing more than a glance. ‘It might not be much, but it could save your life,’ he added, as if he actually believed that she could bring down a Karzełek with the thing.

  ‘I’d take a dagger over a broken spear.’ She tapped his shoulder with the blade, more urgently this time. She had to get rid of him. One way or another. ‘This will be far more use to you than me.’

  ‘Just get ready to run.’ He turned his back on her again. ‘We’ll only get one chance, so be quick.’

  ‘Over there.’ She pointed to where a spear lay discarded on the ground. ‘Do you think you could get to it?’

  ‘After I get you to the ships there’ll be plenty of chances to get back to the fight.’ With another look he made ready to run, but Iwa put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Go for the spear; I’ll manage by myself.’

  ‘Against those demons? They’ve slaughtered many of our best.’

  ‘Get back into the fight: your krol needs you.’

  ‘I can’t leave you out here. Not with those things ready to butcher everything in sight.’

  ‘It’s my fault for straying away from the ships, I can hide here.’ Even after all she’d seen she wasn’t prepared for what happened next; had he just kissed her? ‘Keep to the ships. Go now, run for the ship and keep out of sight.’ Then he leapt up and prepared to enter the battle once again.

  ‘May the protection of Piórun guide you to safety,’ Iwa called after him, but he’d already left, breaking into a crouched run as he darted out of the shadows. She saw him take up a discarded spear and then he was gone. She drew a deep breath; she had the dagger and no scruples about using it on Wislaw. Taking one last look to check that the coast was clear, she levered herself from the side of the ship and began to run towards the priest.

  Of course, if Lord Bethrayal was victorious, then the young woyak would probably be ripped to shreds by the Karzełek – and I’d have killed him as surely as if I’d slit his throat. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She had to block out everything but the priest. The dagger was ready in her hand. All was smoke and confusion, figures scattered through the dark as the camp burned, but she hardly noticed. She could feel that priest nearby; almost taste the scent of his magic.

  Suddenly she stopped dead. Wislaw was looking at her. In his hand he held the manikin. Now it was his turn to show his mastery of the craft for, without breaking his previous spell, he pushed his fingernail into the doll’s neck. Iwa clasped her hand to her throat, the dagger dropping to the floor. Wislaw smiled as he pressed his thumb further into the clay, crushing the air out of her as she collapsed to the ground.

  With a flourish Wislaw released his grip on the doll, but not his power over Iwa. He still wants me as a sacrifice, she realised. Frantically she tried to scrabble away, but the doll wouldn’t let her. Its power burned inside her head, calling her on. I have to find Lord Bethrayal. It was no use; Wislaw held her in his grip just as assuredly as his hands tightened round the doll.

  She found herself on her feet, currents of magic swelling around her, guiding her every move as Wislaw bade her to walk forward. No. She had to stop herself, but there was nothing she could do. Around her she could see his magic; soft tendrils that called her forward.

  Somehow she had to stop the magic. Seeing it made things easier as she tried to focus on the craft inside. Miskyia! There was still no sign of the witch – perhaps she was dead. Desperately Iwa tried to get the tendrils of the craft to move. Perhaps if she imagined them changing…

  She was closer now, Wislaw standing ready to receive her as she moved into the shadow of a ship. Then the magic shifted; Iwa felt it swirl and eddy as another power took hold. She found that she could move then. Wislaw drew back, his face filled with fury as he gripped the doll ever tighter, and she felt the magic inside her fall away.

  No, she couldn’t let him catch her again. She screwed up her eyes, every ounce of her being drawn into trying to pull the spell away from him. From deep inside she felt her power rise, the spell working on her lips. Suddenly the tendrils changed as Wislaw moved to counter the spell, his lips also working frantically as he drew the doll to him, but it was too late. He’d been caught off guard and cried out in horror as the thing burst into flames.

  With a gasp Iwa felt the magic loosen as the bond of Wislaw’s power fell away, but now she was exposed in the middle of the camp with the battle raging around her. She had to find somewhere safe and reestablish contact with Lord Bethrayal. Already she could feel him fading, the firmament waiting to reclaim him like an open mouth. With all her might she tried to summon what magic she had, but it wa
s no use; he was too far away, his power exhausted. She ran through the battle, ignoring the shouts and cries that thundered around her. Only when she got to the shore did she stop.

  ‘Miskyia!’ she yelled. ‘Tell me what to do!’ Iwa closed her eyes and tried to work a spell. The craft has left me. Iwa fought against a rising tide of panic. There was no sign of the witch. Maybe she was hiding, or dead.

  ‘No!’ Iwa cried as the form of Lord Bethrayal stumbled blindly into the river, his features contorted into a mass of flame and mist.

  She felt his anger and frustration close in upon her. Then the craft found her again. Without realising quite how, the magic ran through her, reaching out across the void to Lord Bethrayal. Her lips worked as if of their own accord, but it was not enough. Carefully Iwa stilled her tongue, the magic swirling around her, raw and untamed. Somehow she had to control it, just as she’d done in the temple. Closing her eyes she struggled to calm her magic as she tried to picture its colour, soft and yielding, folding over her like a deerskin robe. Still the craft raged, the colours angry as though ready to rip into her flesh. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and slowly the colours calmed. Now she began to turn the magic, feeling it reach out of her and across the void, allowing the power of Lord Bethrayal to flow into the world.

  ‘Get out of there, you little fool!’ someone shouted: it was Grunmir. He grabbed her as if in an attempt to fling her away. ‘It’s death to get caught by that night demon.’ His rough hands shook her and then fell away as he saw the figure of Lord Bethrayal rise before him.

  Now, she realised, now is the time to bind him. Instinctively, her magic began to work, its craft threading around the Lord Bethrayal. So caught up was he in bloodlust and anger that he didn’t notice as the spells wove around him. A spear flashed through the air and burned before his body. Iwa could see through his eyes; the pathetic figure of Grunmir cowered before him as the old woyak prepared to throw another spear.

  But Lord Bethrayal was quicker, his hand ready to snuff out the old woyak’s life. Then, just before the blow landed, his hand turned away as Lord Bethrayal sensed the trap. With a terrible roar the figure turned towards Iwa: but it was too late. ‘Run, you idiot!’ Grunmir shouted as the figure of Lord Bethrayal hovered above her, but she paid no heed. Over the shores the waters bubbled and burnt as the grass withered and the Lord Bethrayal struggled to break free.

  ‘Have you lost all taste for life?’ Grunmir pulled her away, but Iwa only smiled. The fool still thought that he could protect her. ‘Get away,’ he said uncertainly as he turned, a pitiful figure, his spear raised in a futile effort to fend off his doom as the power of Lord Bethrayal flooded into her. She could feel it pulse through her, an unstoppable tide that beat through blood and bone, down into the tips of her fingers and the roots of her hair. She could see herself in the years to come – the mistress of stones, her dominion spread across the forest, crawling into every branch and leaf. The Karzełek would serve her, just as they had served the temple in the old days, and the ancient gods would raise themselves once more over this land. She could see the temple as it once had been: a palace of marble and gold. Not even the Polish lords in their wooden halls could dream of such a place. It was not just Lord Bethrayal’s power she commanded, but his memory also. She could see him as he had been in life, his body anointed as he sat on a golden throne, the priests bowing down before him.

  Yet there was something else: a vague feeling that hovered uncertainly on the edges of her vision. What did she want with such power, or kneeling lines of Karzełek?

  There is no time for such dreams, the voice of the stones whispered inside her. There is much that is left undone; save your visions for later. Around her neck the amulet burned and its bronze surface crackled with power as the ancient spells rejoiced.

  Deep inside a strange feeling stirred. She was aware of things around her: Grunmir’s voice as he urged her to flee, the form of Lord Bethrayal burning across the night, and the smell of blood and fire. Carefully, she reached into the folds of her clothes and pulled out Jacek’s totem, her fingers running over the carving. She could feel the magic locked away deep inside. Miskyia had laid them well, those spells which had kept the thing hidden from her until the moment was ripe.

  Now their power merged with hers like a cloak. She closed her eyes and saw the sun rise over the temple; the first kiss of day warm across the pillars, bringing with it the scent of roses. She could smell the sun burnished upon Lord Bethrayal’s oil-scented skin as he walked among the temple walls. I have conquered this place. He smiled. Yet there was something else, something which the stones were anxious to keep from her, even as the Lord Bethrayal bent down to examine a flower that grew in a hollow amid the marble, its petals riffling in the breeze.

  The sense of unease lurked inside her. Even as the stones conjured another image to smother it, the sensation grew. Iwa could see the Lord Bethrayal’s hand as it touched the stones, the marble cold under his fingers. He never conquered the stones, she realised. She could see them as he picked the flower, watching, waiting, centuries of spells lying vile beneath the surface.

  Nobody can rule over the temple. For all his cunning and guile, Lord Bethrayal had never seen the danger. Over the years the stones had worked upon him, the power of those old gods slowly oozing their corruption into him, playing on his greed and his vanity, tempting him with thoughts of power. It was they who kept a memory of him alive after he had been flung into the firmament. It was they who had sought Miskyia out and allowed her pact with Lord Bethrayal, and it was they who had planned all this.

  She was back in the tiny room deep in the heart of the temple with the sobbing lines of victims, as the high priest prepared them for the slaughter and, as he turned, Iwa caught sight of the priest’s face: it was Lord Bethrayal. In the end his corruption was complete and he had served the old blood gods. Just as I will. And, through her, the power of those old gods would engulf the forest.

  ‘Karnobog, lord of the clan, help me!’ she cried out, but there was nothing except the roar of Lord Bethrayal. If only she could have severed the link; but the old gods were clever and had worked their plans well. And, try as she might, Iwa couldn’t break their spell. Deep within her Lord Bethrayal’s power rose up. No. She had to fight against it.

  Do you not want to rule? The voice of the stones sounded in her ears. You could have everything you desire. All shall be yours to command: every root, every blade of grass bowed down before you.

  The craft always turns against its caster. The words came to her as she struggled against the voice of the stones. In the end you’ll eat me up until there is nothing left but your will.

  Do you really think that you could ever defeat us? the voice of the stones chuckled. Take us to your heart, rule in our name: you could be powerful, more powerful than the Polish lords in their halls.

  But what of the forest? Iwa struggled as the stones brought forward visions of her seated on a golden throne, ranks of men and Karzełek bowed before her. I don’t want to rule. I don’t want any of this.

  And what will happen to your precious forest should you fail? The vision of the temple faded. Instead she could see Krol Gawel seated on his throne, the clan bowed before him as they were led off in chains. She could see the trees cut away, cleared by axe and flame, and the river choked with silt. More woyaks would come, the land would be soaked with blood as they carved out kroldoms in the forest, until all that was left was a vast expanse of wheat rippling like water in the wind. And she could see Yaroslav laid out on an altar as Wislaw drew a sacrificial knife above him.

  Is that what you want? the voice of the stones cried out. At least under your dominion the trees would survive, the krol offers nothing but blood and death.

  Leave me alone. Iwa closed her fist about the totem, pressing the ivory into the palm, but it was too late. The power of Lord Bethrayal flooded over her, drowning out her voice.

  Then let me serve you, a voice rang inside her head – it was W
islaw. Let me serve you if she will not, this forest wretch. I have searched for you. It was I who guided the woyaks here in the hope that I might seek you out. I have given so much in the quest to find you, made so many sacrifices.

  You know nothing, the voice of the stones replied inside her head. Do you think that we care for your petty meddling? You have trifled with forces beyond your understanding, little man.

  Make me a channel for your will, oh lords, Wislaw pleaded, and I shall serve you faithfully.

  You seek only to serve yourself, the stones answered. You managed to stumble upon half truths, but you know nothing and understand less. Do you think you could ever serve us? No, if this forest girl will not bend to us of her own free will, then we shall bind her to us forever.

  As you did to me. Miskyia was there, her voice bitter as she wove a spell of protection over Iwa. It was almost too late. Iwa felt herself slipping away, a tiny figure all but drowned out under the power of the old gods.

  Do you think that you could ever deceive us, insect? the voice of the stones spat.

  ‘Save yourself!’ Grunmir yelled, ‘Get out whilst you still can!’

  Iwa stayed rooted to the spot, her lips spinning a song of power as she called forth all the magic she could in one final attempt to break the bridge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Grunmir backed away as Iwa sang, the words flowing smoothly from her lips, but it wasn’t enough. She felt her powers failing, the last traces of the craft lost as the might of Lord Bethrayal washed over her, and soon there would be nothing left of her, her body nothing more than a vessel for his power.