Sarwat Chadda - Billi SanGreal 02 - Dark Goddess

by Unknown

  Jesus. The Bogatyrs and Koshchey on one side, and Baba Yaga on the other. Where the hell was her dad? She couldn't fight everyone alone.

  "He's dead, you know that?" Billi said to Olga. "That boy over there—and his mother. You're all racing off to your deaths." Olga tried to turn, but Billi just blocked her path. "Fimbulwinter is coming unless we do something."

  They'd stopped beside a rusty-looking van. Two men loaded chests and boxes on to the roof rack. A man in a parka attacked the deep snow with a shovel, hacking at the thick ice that had set around the wheels. The night echoed angrily with the bedlam of machines and wolves. Olga shoved the rear door open. "What's your answer, then?"

  "All I know is that we need to stop this... madness."

  "It is not madness. It is the will of the Great Mother."

  Olga held the door open for Billi. "Do you not have a similar saying? Deus vult?"

  Billi stepped into the van, followed by Ivan. A man was already sitting in the passenger seat, a big Swede. There was steel mesh between them. He glanced at Billi and Ivan, then pulled his thick parka closer around him. Olga climbed into the driver's seat and revved the engine. The headlights came on and the vehicle shook itself into action. Snow slid off the hood as the van climbed out of the snow-packed trench. Olga glanced at Billi through the rear-view mirror.

  What is she thinking? Billi wondered. Olga wasn't a blind fanatic like her granddaughter. She was the Polenitsy pack leader and took her responsibilities seriously. The survival of the pack was paramount, but loyalty to Baba Yaga had been bred into the Polenitsy for thousands of years. Olga looked away, and the van began to move, bouncing over the rough snow.

  Billi felt the Venus figurine in her pocket. She shifted closer to Ivan and put her head on his shoulder. His arm came up around her, and they settled into silence together.

  She sniffs the air and growls to her sisters. Mingled with the fresh scent of the forest is ash, the smell of burning, of man. She flexes her claws and peers into the veil of snowflakes that drift from the moon-bright sky.

  There, at the edge of the trees. She sees light come from a window and hears the sounds of singing and music. But it is a harsh sound that hisses and crackles— men and their false voices and noises. A thin spiral of smoke rises from the stone chimney.

  Billi steps over the low fence and comes to a wall of cloth. The human woman has hung out the sheets, though they are brittle with frost Billi sniffs the white cloth and her head swims with the soft, milky odor of a suckling baby. She licks her lips.

  Her sisters creep beside her as they approach the front door. Through the glass, Billi sees the family sitting in front of their glowing box of colors. She blinks. The light is painful and the noise tears at her sensitive ears. No wonder humans are driven mad, in this pandemonium of hateful sounds and lights. The human woman laughs and the babe in her arms wails.

  Billi reaches for the door. Her hands, covered in glossy black hair, touch the cold brass handle, and her claws click together as she turns it.

  Four humans gaze at her. The woman screams now, clutching the baby close to her chest. The boy stares, eyes blank with terror, and the acid sting of urine rises as he wets himself.

  The man reaches for the poker beside the fire, though his hand trembles.

  "Manflesh," Billi growls. She and her sisters will feed well.

  She leaps.

  "Billi!"

  Billi woke. Ivan was staring anxiously at her. Her head was on his lap now.

  God, she was boiling: sweat soaked her clothes, and her hair stuck to her scalp.

  "Are you okay?" He held her tightly, and his face was close to hers.

  "What happened?" she asked. "Nothing. Just a bad dream." Thank God.

  She was tossed and bounced as the van rattled across the countryside. Billi saw the lights of a convoy through the rear window; a dozen or so vehicles followed while wolves chased after, weaving in and out of the dense forest on either side of the road.

  But where was Vasilisa? Billi caught a glimpse of something above her: a huge, cumbersome bat-shape that darted through the whirling snow. Ribbons trailed from the edges of its cloak, and a scream of wild joy pierced through the wind.

  Baba Yaga rode the storm.

  Billi desperately fought the primordial feelings threatening to take her over forever. "You'll make it, Billi," whispered Ivan. "No I won't," she answered. He wanted to reassure her, but she knew she didn't have long. "Listen, you know where the stone is." She nodded to her left trouser pocket. "If I change tonight, I'll need you to take it and use it."

  "You'll make it. I know you will." He stroked her hair while Billi hugged him, putting her head against his chest and closing her eyes. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and tried to forget the hunger she'd felt in her dream when she'd walked into that room.

  This wasn't over yet.

  The long night wore on, and Billi sweated and shook with lycanthropic fever. The weather worsened, and the only relief came when the moon went behind snow-stuffed clouds. Ivan stayed beside her, never sleeping, murmuring to her in Russian. Billi leaned her head on his shoulder, focusing on his gentle voice.

  The engine rattled and gears screamed as the van came to a halt. Billi's eyes snapped open.

  Olga turned the ignition off and on, but the noise was getting even worse, as though the entire vehicle were having a seizure.

  The big Swede swore and jumped out of the passenger door. Olga got out too.

  The storm had lifted, but snow fell heavily from a dull, colorless sky. The sun was up, somewhere behind the clouds, and Billi was washed over with relief; she could rest now that the moon was no longer in the sky.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  Ivan twisted his head and looked out.

  "We've lost the others. Storm must have broken up the convoy."

  The Swede hauled out his tool kit as Olga popped open the hood. She held up a flashlight while the man rummaged around in the grease and steel. He leaned farther in, complaining that Olga wasn't directing the flashlight properly.

  Olga slammed the hood down on him.

  He groaned and she did it again, making a hollow, clunking noise. The man's legs gave out, but he was still conscious. He swung his amis, but Olga stepped back, then struck him across the forehead with the heavy metal flashlight, just to make sure. He hit the ground with a thud.

  The rear door opened and Olga addressed Ivan. "Tsarevich, I am going to have to trust you." Ivan said nothing, but his grim gaze spoke loudly enough. Olga sighed.

  "I killed your lather, but I meant him no ill will. It is war and that is the way of things. Do you understand?" Billi hadn't noticed, but Olga wasn't wearing her tribal outfit anymore; she wore instead a wool tunic and jeans tucked into a pair of stout boots. Her gray hair was loose and swayed in the wind.

  "I understand my father is dead."

  "We will all be dead unless you and I can work together." Olga helped Billi out of the van. "Though we are enemies, there can be respect between us."

  Ivan pulled himself out, never taking his eyes off Olga. Eventually he gave a curt nod.

  "We will settle our differences another time," he said.

  Olga and Billi made their way to the front of the van, beside the unconscious Scandinavian.

  "Take his legs," Olga said, and together they rolled the big man into the verge.

  "What made you change your mind?"

  Olga watched the man slide through the deep snow and come to a stop at the bottom. "My first duty is to the Polenitsy. I managed to speak to the Spring Child alone after seeing you. She is truly innocent and has no guile in her. If the Spring Child says it is so, that Baba Yaga plans to kill us all with Fimbulwinter, then it is so."

  "Thank you," said Billi. "What about Vasilisa?"

  Olga pointed back down the road behind them. Two weak headlights shone through the snow as a hulking Humvee lumbered toward them, part of the convoy that had fallen behind. Olga went to the glove com
partment in the van and pulled out a heavy revolver. The chunky Smith & Wesson's barrel was over seven inches long, and it looked like it had been built to hunt elephants.

  "Ambush?" asked Billi.

  "Ambush."

  Billi slid a foot or so down the verge and waited. Olga waved her flashlight at the approaching vehicle.

  The car stopped, its engine still running. Peeking over the embankment, Billi saw a man jump out of the backseat and approach Olga, smiling. He was still smiling when she swung the flashlight against his head.

  Billi scrambled up the slope and ran to the driver's half-open window. There was a woman at the wheel, one of the Polenitsy still in human form.

  Vasilisa lay in the back, asleep under a shawl. Billi poked the long barrel through the window.

  "I'll take the Spring Child, if you don't mind," she said.

  Vasilisa woke up as Billi opened the door. She screamed and backed away, frantically wrestling with the door handle.

  "No, Vasilisa, don't!" Billi reached out with her hand slowly. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

  "You promised before and you lied." She pressed herself hard against the far door, knees up against her chest and hand still on the door handle. Looking at her, Billi's heart broke. She had been dressed for sacrifice. Someone had combed out her hair, and it shone like the gold necklaces that hung around her. Small wire armlets studded with gems covered her upper arms. Henna patterns had been applied around her eyes, spirals and delicate feather shapes that seemed to transform her into a fairy princess. Her dress was white and embroidered with gold thread; outlines of prehistoric animals and sorcerers covered the cloth.

  Billi nodded; she had no answer. "Please, Vasilisa. I need you to come with me."

  Olga ordered the other Polenitsy out of the car and confiscated their cell phones. Billi put the gun down on the car seat in front of Vasilisa and raised her hands.

  Vasilisa snatched up the revolver and pointed it at her.

  That would be perfect, Billi thought. If Vasilisa blew my brains out. She smiled at the irony of it. She could take the gun from the girl, but she needed Vasilisa to trust her.

  "You're right to be angry, to not trust me, Vasilisa," Billi said. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Ivan limping toward them. "But you can either come with me, or go with them to Baba Yaga. The choice is yours."

  With a sob, Vasilisa dropped the gun. "Why, Billi? Why would you want to hurt me?"

  There was no answer except that Billi was a Templar and that meant making life-and-death decisions. Maybe, if they survived this, Vasilisa would understand, once she too was a Templar.

  Billi took Vasilisa in her arms and helped her out of the car. Ivan grabbed the gun and then shot one bullet through the radio transmitter and one in the radiator.

  Billi carried Vasilisa to the van.

  They drove on down a side road and away from the forest, trying to put some distance between themselves and the rest of the convoy. Ivan was up front with Olga, Billi in the back with Vasilisa.

  "They will come after the Spring Child. The Polenitsy and the goddess," said Olga.

  "That's what I'm counting on." Billi got out the statuette and handed it over to Olga. "This is part of the meteor that struck Tunguska in 1908."

  One hand on the steering wheel, Olga inspected the small rock. "Yes. It was from this element that Baba Yaga was sent into a coma."

  "So we can use this against her. I just need to turn it into a weapon of some sort. A knife or something."

  Olga stopped the van. "I have something better." She checked that the road was empty, then got out and climbed onto the roof and began unbuckling the straps holding the luggage on the roof rack.

  Ivan and Billi came out and watched her.

  "Vasilisa is bait," said Ivan. "But that's what you're counting on, isn't it?" He glanced back through the window at Vasilisa. The girl was under a blanket, staring out at the snowbound world.

  Billi didn't like the idea of using Vasilisa like that, but it was the only plan she had. "Yes. If anything happened to Vasilisa, Baba Yaga would just turn around. She'd send her Polenitsy after us, for revenge, but she wouldn't come herself. This way"—she nodded in Vasilisa's direction—"we force Baba Yaga to make a personal appearance. We want Vasilisa alive."

  Ivan looked up at the sky. "And tonights the full moon."

  "Help me," Olga ordered. Together they lowered a heavy trunk to the ground. Billi and Ivan gathered around it as the old woman lilted it open.

  "You like?" asked Olga. Billi grinned. "Oh yes."

  Weapons lay neatly arranged in the trunk. Not guns or rifles, but swords, a bow and arrow, and suits of chain mail. All beautifully made and lovingly kept. It was like Christmas. Billi's sort of Christmas.

  First she took out the mail armor. The suit was knee length with sleeves that covered her to mid bicep. The links shimmered in the bright white light of the snow. The sword was a single-edged saber, an Ottoman cavalry sword. Billi peered at the Arabic lettering along its mirror-bright blade.

  "What does it say?" asked Ivan.

  Billi frowned. "Roughly translated, it says, 'Eat this, you Christian,' er, 'seed-spiller.' Or something." She cleared her throat and slid the blade in to its scabbard. "It's a religious reference. Genesis 38,1 think." Then she saw the Mongol bow.

  It was black, made of wood and horn, and formed a curved C shape. Olga lifted it up and strung it.

  "They called the Mongols the wolves from the east," she said. "They ruled Russia for over two hundred years. The blood of the Mongols is strong in the Polenitsy."

  Billi lifted the quiver. The arrows were neatly arranged in two rows. Wide-barbed man-killers at the front, narrow-headed armor-piercing bodkins at the back; all with eagle fletching. Billi spotted a silver ring on a tassel off the side of the quiver. She put it on her right thumb. Olga handed her the bow, strung and ready. The bow was a masterpiece. "This will do," said Billi.

  They worked together to arm her. As Ivan laced up the mail shirt, Billi tucked in the sword and a long knife. Finally she threw the quiver over her shoulder and notched her first arrow, hooking the bowstring around her thumb, then pulling back, slowly letting her back muscles do the heavy work alongside her arms. The draw was powerful. They'd use the figurine to make arrowheads. She'd have no problem putting a meteor-tipped arrow through Baba Yaga's thick skull.

  Olga stepped back and straightened Billi's armor. "Maybe some Mongol blood runs in you, child. You are more wolf than you know."

  Ivan gave a low admiring whistle. "Now you are beautiful," he said. He'd taken a mail shirt of his own and a plain, straight sword. But he seemed happiest with Olga's big revolver and a fistful of bullets. "They will have the advantage out here," he said, surveying the wild landscape. "They'll come at us from all around. We need a better battlefield."

  "We'll find one," replied Billi. She took one of the mobiles they'd confiscated, and checked it. Barely any reception.

  "Dad? Where are you?"

  "Billi? Billi?"

  "Dad, we've got Vasilisa."

  "Billi? Where are you?"

  "We've got Vasilisa!" Billi shouted. Her dad sounded like he was shouting from the other side of the world. "Where are you?" Damn it! Billi stared around the road. To one side was a fenced-off stretch of woodland, picketed with spindly trees. Signs hung every thirty feet along the fence. They were all a trisected black circle on a yellow background: the international warning symbol for radiation.

  "Where are you?"

  Somewhere made of concrete and choked with pollution, a place where Baba Yaga would be weakest. Billi read the dented road sign up ahead.

  "Chernobyl, Dad."

  Chapter 39

  THEY DROVE THE REST OF THE DAY, STOPPING ONLY to snack on dried meat, hard bread, and water. Olga said nothing, but each time she stopped, she spent the meal searching the horizon. But nobody came.

  Using the toolbox, Billi disassembled the arrows. She cut the heads out and then, holding the Venu
s figurine between her boots, smashed it with a hammer. Vasilisa sat silently beside her as she chipped the shards of polished black stone into something that resembled arrowheads.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  Billi handed her a rough triangle of meteoric stone.

  "This is the meteoric rock from Tunguska I told you about. Your great-grandmother knew that it had injured Baba Yaga before."

  Vasilisa inspected the stone. "You think this will kill Baba Yaga?" Her voice betrayed her doubts.

  "Bloody hope so."

  By the time they'd finished their meal, Billi had three decent stone-tipped arrows. She used up a tube of superglue to hold them into the shafts; they weren't particularly well made and she would have liked to try shooting with them, to get an idea of how they flew, but time was too short; they needed to move.

  The late afternoon sun hung low on the horizon, bathing the landscape with pinks and oranges. Sparse woodland gave way to overgrown and abandoned fields, dotted with crumbling old farmhouses and empty villages. The signs of humanity increased as the day wore on. They'd reached the outskirts of Chernobyl.

  Chernobyl had been the site of the worst nuclear disaster in history. Back in the 1980s, a nuclear reactor had exploded and launched a huge radioactive cloud over most of south Russia and Ukraine. Tens of thousands of people had been evacuated overnight, taking only what they could carry. They'd never returned. It seemed like ancient history, but the town itself looked as though it could have been emptied yesterday. The cars, the buildings, parks, and gardens all remained. Not demolished, as they would have been in a war—just empty. Only the humans had left.

  So this was the world Baba Yaga wanted.

  Silent, gray tower blocks stood like titans guarding a city of the dead. A flock of crows launched themselves into a cloud of black feathers, cawing angrily at their arrival, their cries sharp and keen. Otherwise the streets were eerily empty. The snow-laden boughs of the trees lining the road sagged over them, their branches scratching the van's roof. Roots had broken through the tarmac, and pond-sized potholes pockmarked the road, each glistening with dark ice. Cars sat abandoned, rusting. Their hoods had been thrown open, and engines, tires, and seats were all stripped out.