by Megan Linski
“I’d prefer not.” Smok’s mouth remains thin. “Zirnitra knows I’ve never gotten this far. He’s realized I’m serious. I knew he’d try and stop me, but I didn’t believe he’d go so far.”
“What’s between the two of you?” I ask, before quickly adding, “If you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“He did something to me that can never be forgiven. I’ve attempted to kill him many times for it, and failed thus far,” Smok says. “We’ve been fighting for two decades now. After so long, I’m willing to go our separate ways, but Zirnitra doesn’t want me to. He likes the game, you see.”
“How cruel.” I make a discontented sound.
“Yes.” He stops walking, and looks at me. “If you want to give up and go back to Krakow, I’ll take you. I can’t give you your freedom, but it might not be worth it for all the danger I’m putting you in.”
He’s serious. For a moment, I want to say yes. I want to see Wanda again, and go home.
But then I think of Smok. If I go back now, I doubt he’ll ever find another virgin to travel with him to the Baltic Sea. I’m just as bad as the enchantress that cursed him if I have a chance to stop his suffering and do nothing.
“You don’t seem like someone who deserves to be cursed,” I say. “It’s a good enough reason for me to keep going.”
Smok smiles. “You’re very kind, even to someone like me. You must’ve learned it from somewhere.”
“My mother was a very sweet lady.” I smile, remembering her. “But I don’t think you need anyone to teach you how to be kind. I believe we all have the capability within us, even though most don’t choose to show it.”
“They weren’t nice to you in Krakow?”
“Besides Wanda? Not really.” I shake my head. “Krakus was always fair, and so were the other members of his house and his servants, but none of them went out of their way to be particularly nice to me. To them, I was just a slave. I wasn’t worth paying attention to.”
Then I remember. “There was someone,” I add. “A man in the lower districts of Krakus. He was giving out bread and coin to the orphans and the elders. He was amazingly gentle. A kind soul. I would’ve liked to meet him, but he ran away.”
“No need. You saw me.”
“What?” I stumble forward. Smok catches me and lifts me upright. He then lets me go and continues on.
“That was you?” I ask. “You were the one handing out coins in the square?”
“Yes. What of it?”
His dark eyes penetrate mine. I recall the stranger in the square, his face concealed by a hood. Now I can remember. The thick jawline, the soft lips. My desperation to see his face. It was Smok giving out the money in the square. But why?
“Why did you run from me?” I ask. I rush forward and pull on his arm. “You had no need. I only wanted to say thank you.”
“No one in the village knows who I am. I wanted to keep it that way,” he explains. “I donate often to those who have nothing. If my charity was exposed, I’d become known. Eventually someone would discover my secret.”
“You’ve only appeared to most as a dragon. It would be a stretch for anyone to make the connection,” I argue.
“It’s still a chance I didn’t want to take,” he says firmly. “My identity would’ve remained a secret, if you hadn’t decided to follow me down into my cave after.”
My mouth drops open. My reasoning for entering Smok’s cave that day now becomes vastly clear to me. I wasn’t merely curious… I was following a feeling. Inside, I knew it all along.
“That might be so, but I wouldn’t have done it if you had just said you’re welcome,” I reply, putting my hands on my hips.
“It didn’t matter. Your venture into my cave that morning was further assurance to me that humans were getting bolder. I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to break the curse,” he says. “If you had stayed out, I most likely would’ve never asked Krakus for a sacrifice at all.”
“Ha. Knew it was my fault.” I grab a twig off a tree, and snap it. “But that still doesn’t answer my question about why you’d give your fortune away.”
“What need do I have for it?” he asks. “I’m still willing to give you whatever you please from the horde, if you wish to take it.”
“Yes, but I’m one person, and I’m technically working for you. That’s far different than charity,” I say. By the life of me, I can’t understand why someone would have that much money and not want to be bothered with it.
“Gold is gold. There is only so much one man… and even one dragon… needs,” he says. His eyebrow twitches. I can tell he’s getting annoyed.
“Then why did you request that King Krakus deliver you a cartful of gold every month?” I ask, baffled.
“For appearances,” he explains. “Wawel Hill was one of the few places in the lowlands that could house a dragon of my size, without me having to emerge daily to expose myself. Yet we both know Krakus wouldn’t have let me stay peacefully, so I threatened to burn down the village, giving the illusion that gold would keep me from doing so. This way, the king and his men would leave me alone.”
“So you give all of it away?”
“Everything I don’t use for my own needs, yes. I have no wife, and no heirs to provide for. Beyond that, the allure of treasure is useless to me.”
My heart softens for Smok. Although in outwardly appearance he appears gruesome, fierce, and terrible, inside, he’s merely a gentle giant.
At least I got some answers on this quest. Dragons, it appears, come in all temperaments and personalities, just like people do. They’re all different, not one of them the same.
The forest changes, turning from a heavy woodland into a swampy marsh. The thick grass morphs into seeping, soft ground, packed with dirty water and sludge.
“Ugh. I’ll just be a moment,” I say. I don’t have any shoes, and my foot got stuck in a mud pit. I grab my knee and wrench it up, doing the same with the other.
I’m forced to repeat the process over and over as I move through the slop. It’s a snail’s pace.
Smok sighs loudly, just to irritate me, I’m sure. “Here.”
Before I can argue Smok grabs me with one arm and boosts me up on his back. He acts like he’s carrying nothing at all as he tramps through the muck.
I open my mouth to tell him to put me down until I see a bubbling, green pile of goop nearby. I decide that it’s better to ride along.
Smok walks until the sky begins to darken and twilight falls. He puts me down at the edge of a large pond. It’s deeper than the river was, and lined with reeds and foliage.
“Now we wait,” he says. “She’ll come out once the moon rises.”
“Who exactly are we meeting?” I ask, hoping it’s not another demon or fae.
“She’s a rusalka. A water nymph.” Smok finds a dry, firm patch of ground, and sits to wait.
“Like a siren?” I sit down next to him, folding my legs underneath me.
“Not particularly. Rusalka are more dangerous,” he says. His eyes are intently watching the water. “They like seducing young men into the water and drowning them. This particular one likes tickling them to death. It’s her favorite way to kill people. Takes time, and it’s funny to her they die laughing.”
“Then why are we here?” I squeak. The last thing I want is some nymph tickling me into oblivion. I don’t think it could be possible, but I’m not signing up to find out.
“I’m a dragon, and you a maiden. We have nothing to fear from her, as long as we stay away from the water.”
“What a terrible creature.” I shudder. “Why did the gods think to create such monsters?”
“She wasn’t born this way.” Smok’s whole body is tense. “She used to be a human, like me. She was changed after her husband dragged her out here to drown her in the swamp. Needless to say, it was a decision he regretted very quickly.”
Smok sits back. “These waters have a magic of their own. Take care you don’t fall into them and becom
e a rusalka yourself.”
No thank you. I make a note to stay back and let Smok talk. Slowly, the moon rises above us. When it does, the waters of the pond begin to ripple.
A beautiful woman emerges from the pond. Her skin is turquoise, algae rippling over the surface of it. Her hair, blue in color and thick like strands of reeds, ripples down her back and past her knees. A dress made of silver moonlight cascades around her slender form, a wispy cape decorated with pale waterlilies floating on the pond behind her.
Her eyes are like the Blud’s, resembling an insect, but are green in color instead. She doesn’t seem as scary as the Blud, but I have a feeling she’s much more dangerous.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time, Smok.” The rusalka’s voice is sweet, and musical. “Why have you come back?”
“I need your help. We’re trying to get to the Baltic Sea.” Smok gestures to me. When she notices, her face deepens in concern.
“You’re going through with it? I’m disappointed, Smok.” The rusalka shakes her head.
Smok licks his lips. “Zirnitra’s following us. We can’t fly. We have to get to the sea, quickly,” he says. “Will you help us?”
“I am no friend of Zirnitra’s, but I am not his enemy.” The rusalka crosses her arms. “Why should I do this for you, and risk bringing his wrath to the swamp?”
Smok stays silent. He drops his head, and his brow furrows. Thoughts hidden from me twist inside his head. What is he thinking?
“Listen, Smok.” The rusalka reaches out. He touches a hand underneath Smok’s chin, to lift it. I immediately feel a twist of anger as she does so. “You may feel you have no other choice, but this is a path I urge you not to take. If you do so, you will regret it forever. Because of this choice you have made, I will not… no… I cannot help you.”
Smok seems so defeated at her refusal. I stand up. “Come, Smok.” I brush off my dress, and turn my back on the rusalka. “We’re going.”
“Fliss, stay here,” he says firmly.
“No, Smok. We don’t need her.” I bunch my hands into fists. “You said she was a friend, but friends help each other, not turn each other away.”
“I am helping him, girl. I’m doing what’s best for him,” she says. “You shouldn’t interfere in things you as a mortal can’t understand.”
“I do understand. I’m the only way he can break this curse, aren’t I?” I ask. My pitch rises to a sharp tone.
The rusalka pauses. “Your voice,” she whispers. “Sing for me, girl.”
“Why? Why would I want to sing for you when you don’t want to help us?” I ask bitterly. “Smok’s in terrible pain, and you want to keep him that way. It’s vile.”
“Fliss, do it,” Smok says. It’s not a command this time. It’s a request.
I let out a huff. “Fine. But only for you, Smok, not for her.” As if makes any difference.
I look at Smok. His smoldering gaze gives me courage to go on. I take a quick, angry breath, and begin to sing.
“A woman and a candle,
Waiting in the night,
To unveil a situation,
That surely needed light.
She had discovered her husband’s secret,
Found out his terrible game,
The woman confronted her husband,
And laid curses upon his name.”
I was infuriated when I began, but as I continue with each note, the melody of the ballad calms me, takes me to a place where I’m strong, and brave. I’m determined to get us out of here. I’ll break Smok’s curse and win my freedom, no matter how many songs I have to sing to get us out of this stupid swamp.
“The woman cried out for salvation,
Yet no one heard her shouts,
The woman sunk into darkness,
As her husband snuffed her out.”
When I glance back at the rusalka, I’m shocked to see that tears glimmer in her eyes. Probably not common for someone who likes to tickle men to death for a living.
She puts her hand on Smok’s arm, and says, “You’ve made a mistake with this one, Smok.”
“I’m not asking for permission. Only guidance,” he says.
The rusalka takes back her hand. “Very well. If you believe this is the right path, I will lend my aid to you this once.”
The rusalka tips her head back. From her throat comes a screeching, ear-splitting scream that echoes around the swamp for many lengths. I grit my teeth at the noise, while Smok flinches. The rusalka only deepens her cry, and her yell increases in volume.
Finally, she ceases her cry. From various corners of the swamp emerge ethereal, mist-like beings. They appear like clouds in the shape of voluptuous young women, wearing skirts of green leaves with wispy, twig-like hair that falls down past their feet. They carry an array of bows and swords, assembling around the rusalka dutifully.
“The wila shall take you wherever you need to go,” she says. “They are fierce warriors, whom Zirnitra dares not face alone. You won’t be bothered as they carry you to the Baltic Sea.”
“Thank you, my friend.” Smok bows his head. “I won’t forget this.”
“I only hope you don’t live to regret it,” she says quietly.
When the rusalka turns her attention on me, I’m surprised to see she appears mournful. Sympathetic even. Whatever for?
“Fliss, hold onto me. The wind nymphs won’t drop us, but you have to be very still,” he instructs.
He opens up his arms. I walk into them obediently, grasping on for dear life. The wila put their hands on us, and our feet begin to float off the ground. I’m hovering in mid-air. A curious, light feeling fills my entire body. I’m put off by it, but Smok seems used to it. Maybe this is what it feels like to him when he flies.
We rise higher and higher, like a gust of wind being pushed toward the stars. I make a resolution not to look down again, and cling tighter to Smok as I witness the moon shine down upon the mirror-like reflection of the marsh.
“Good luck to you, Smok,” the rusalka calls. She waves goodbye as the wila carry us up into the air and into the sky, leaving the swamp far behind.
Chapter Eleven
When the wila finally take us down, the clouds clear away and the fog passes to reveal a beautiful landscape. The green flatlands stop at a clear, sandy shoreline that seems to go on forever. Crystal blue water crashes waves against thick, black rocks. The sun sets behind the line where the sky meets the sea, casting the cold world into a purplish-red glow.
Our feet touch down upon the sand. The wila fade away like wisps of smoke, like they weren’t ever there at all. I turn to look at the water breathlessly.
The Baltic Sea.
Spray from the water splashes onto my clothes, and I shiver. It’s ice cold. Smok steps in front of me to shield me from the droplets. When they hit his skin, they sizzle and dissolve.
“It’s beautiful.” I dare to venture closer to the water. The sea is rough and turbulent. Does the Queen of the Baltic really live beneath these waters? Does she control them?
“Do we enter here?” I ask, gesturing to the sea.
Smok shakes his head. “No. We have quite a ways yet before we may meet the Queen of the Baltic.”
A loud horn sounds from far away. My attention turns to a group of strange, curved ships sailing on the edge of the horizon, with large, striped sails and a set of rowers on both sides. There’s at least ten of them, a whole fleet.
“Who are they?” I ask curiously. The wind passes by and I shiver, drawing my cloak around me.
“Norsemen, from Norway,” Smok says. “Some call them Vikings.”
“Are they friends to us?”
“No. They’re not a nice people.” Smok’s voice is sour. “I doubt even as a dragon I would be able to handle a horde of them. They are fierce, and unpredictable. They take great honor in a glorious death. It is best to avoid them.”
Smok begins unpacking. “We’ll sleep here for the night and venture out to sea in the morning. It’s bes
t to wait for the Norsemen to pass before setting out.”
“Uh… how best do you think we should venture out to sea?” I ask warily. “Should we buy a boat?”
“No. Boats are too easily spotted in these waters by Vikings. They own this area.” Smok unrolls the sleeping skins. “We’ll swim.”
“What?” I loudly snort. “That’s funny.”
“Why is that funny?” Smok stands up, completely serious. The smile slides off my face.
“I, uh… can’t swim.”
“You what?” His eyes bulge out of his head. “What did you say?”
“Do you speak Polish, Sir Dragon?” I ask snarkily.
“Stop calling me that.” Smok’s eyes narrow. “You know it irritates me.
“Why?” I ask. I’m utterly confused by this. “I am a slave. It is common for me to call anyone above me sir, and if you haven’t noticed, that includes everyone.”
“I am not a lord. I have no title,” Smok says through clenched teeth. “I do not deserve to be called sir by anyone, even by you.”
A thought crosses my mind. In our language, Smok’s name means dragon. I’m not even calling him by a name, merely by what he is. It would be like calling a dog, Dog or a cat, Cat. Calling him “Sir Dragon” was originally a joke, but it’s not all wrong. It would be more respectful, give him some sort of status or identity.
He despises himself so much that he doesn’t want to be called anything other than an animal. This hurts me deeply, in a way I can’t explain. It makes me want to fall to the ground and cry.
Smok sighs. “Anyway. Back to our original conversation. What do you mean you can’t swim?”
“You can’t be so daft that I have to explain it to you.” I make little paddling motions with my hands. “I mean if you put me in water, I’ll sink like a rock. Why do you think I didn’t save myself when I fell into the stream? There was no need for me to learn to swim, so I never did.”