Anya and the Dragon

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Anya and the Dragon Page 15

by Sofiya Pasternack


  “I wasn’t afraid for myself,” Kin said. “I would have thrown him from one end of my forge to the other. But I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

  Anya almost asked who, but she knew: the owner of the headstone outside the little house. “Yelena.”

  Kin flinched at her name. “Yes. Another stolen child. A fellow slave. She helped me heal and helped me forgive, and when the time came, she helped me leave.” He pointed a finger between Anya and Ivan. “I want to make something clear to ye. Not all Northmen are Varangians. The Varangians are men who left the North for various purposes. Most of them are good men, and most of them go back North when they’re done traveling.”

  Anya and Ivan nodded.

  “I wasn’t a Varangian,” Kin said, “but I traveled with them. Yelena came with me. The Varangians I traveled with were my friends, and we went south down the rivers. We were on our way to Istanbul when we found . . . the woman.”

  Kin peered over at Håkon, who rested his head on a hay bale. The dragon looked down at his own snout.

  “Yelena found her, really,” Kin said, “in what was left of a ragged boat. Not even a boat. A raft. The woman spoke the tongue of the Northmen, and she wouldn’t let go of a bundle in her arms. Yelena came and got me, and we sat with her, and finally she handed the bundle to me.”

  He swallowed thickly and pressed his knuckles against his mouth. “I think she knew she was dying. She handed me wet rags with this tiny dragon inside.” He nodded at Håkon. “I nearly dropped him out of surprise. We could barely understand a thing she was saying. She said his name, though. We got that. Håkon. Everything else was a jumble until the end. She screamed at us, ‘The city, he’ll die, the city, Istanbul, Istanbul.’ And then . . .” Kin shook his head.

  Anya was leaning so far forward, she almost lost her balance and fell onto the floor. “Istanbul? He was going to die in Istanbul?”

  “That’s what Yelena thought,” Kin said. “The woman was fleeing Istanbul with a tiny dragon, but for what reason, we’ll never know. Yelena said we couldn’t go there. We couldn’t leave the baby dragon, either. She was fierce about him. Told me she’d go raise him by herself if I wouldn’t go.”

  To Håkon, Anya said, “Do you remember any of that?”

  “No.” Håkon shrugged. “I was just a baby. Do you remember things from when you were a baby?”

  “I guess not,” Anya said. “So, Kin, you left with Yelena and Håkon?”

  “I did,” he said. “Yelena grew up around here. Not in this village, but close enough to know about the valley. About how quiet and secluded it was. The rivers. The distance from Kiev. We brought the baby dragon here, but soon it was obvious he’d get too big to live inside the village and not be noticed. So I built a house in the ravine by the river, where he could swim and be safe.” He sighed heavily. “And he was, until now.”

  “What happened to Yelena?” Anya asked.

  Kin clasped his hands together on the table. “I don’t know. Ten years ago, she went out in the morning, and she never came back.”

  Anya frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then she noticed the domovoi. He was still on the railing, but he was stiff, eyes wide, head cocked. Like he was listening to something.

  Anya stood. She had seen the domovoi act that way when a storm was coming. The last time he had listened like that, a blizzard hit that trapped them inside for close to a week. That was his disaster stance.

  But it was summer. There wasn’t a blizzard coming, for sure. And earlier that day, the sky had been clear. What kind of disaster could the domovoi be hearing?

  The domovoi looked at Anya then, his wide eyes full of terror. Desperation on his face, he pointed a gnarled finger at Håkon. His mouth opened, but he said nothing. He never did.

  “What?” Anya asked, skin crawling.

  Ivan and Håkon noticed the domovoi, and they came closer to Anya and the agitated spirit.

  “What’s he saying?” Ivan asked.

  Kin stood. “Who’s saying?”

  “My domovoi,” Anya said. “I don’t know.”

  One of the chickens flapped her wings, and as she did, the barn door slammed open. Anya startled away from it, and the domovoi vanished from the railing as Sigurd rode his giant horse into the barn.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Anya turned to Håkon. “Hide!” she said.

  He did, ducking behind the hay, but it was too late. Sigurd fixed the hayloft with his cold eyes, a snarl on his face.

  “Give me the dragon!” he bellowed.

  “No!” Anya yelled, leaning over the railing to punctuate her words. “Never!”

  Kin hobbled to the railing. “Ye’ll only get to him stepping over my cold body!”

  Sigurd drew his sword. “My pleasure.” The fury in his eyes was enough to make Anya’s belly drop, and a sick feeling spread through her. She swallowed hard, and then the domovoi appeared in the air over Sigurd’s head. He raised his arms, and the tools on the wall shuddered as his magic pulled at them.

  Kin grabbed Anya’s shoulder. “Get out of here. I’ll distract Sigurd.”

  Anya nodded and stumbled back from the railing as tools flew off the walls, rocketing for Sigurd. Anya retreated from the railing and Ivan followed her, dashing to where Håkon cowered at the back of the loft.

  “You have to run, Håkon!” Anya said.

  The dragon shivered. “Where? He’ll just find me.”

  “How did he even find you here?” Anya wondered aloud.

  She hadn’t expected Håkon to answer, but he did. “The birds. They told him.”

  “Those traitors!”

  “It’s not that,” Håkon said. “The little ones aren’t smart enough to keep it to themselves. It’s my fault. I never should have called them here.”

  Anya sized up the window. “Can you fit through here?”

  Håkon darted for it but stopped short. He put his head up, cocked it back and forth, and snorted. “No!”

  “Well, run out the door while Kin and the domovoi distract him!” Ivan said.

  Anya looked down to the barn’s main floor. Sigurd had dismounted and was using his sword to whack away the objects that the domovoi threw at him. Kin’s fingers struggled in the air, and whenever he would grab hold of a thread, Sigurd would swing his sword at Kin with a snarl.

  Kin huffed for breath and looked sideways at Anya. “Ye’ve got to get Håkon out of here.”

  “But—” Anya said, and then Sigurd let out a roar that shook the walls. He grabbed the wriggling, screeching domovoi out of the air, and his roar turned into a triumphant laugh. He flung the domovoi into the cellar and slammed the door shut.

  Her mouth was dry. How could he grab the domovoi? How could he even see the house spirit? Then she remembered. Dragon’s blood.

  “He’s too strong.” Kin’s words came out like someone was sitting on his chest. “And he can . . . I don’t know how he’s doing it. He’s cutting my threads. Every time I grab one, he cuts it. I can’t control him. Get Håkon out of here; keep him safe.”

  “What about you?” Anya asked.

  Kin limped to the ladder. “Don’t worry about me.” And then he was gone out of the loft to the floor below.

  Kin reached a hand up, and the scythe he had used against Anya earlier flew to him. He hobbled across the barn floor toward Sigurd, and the Varangian smashed his sword against the scythe, knocking it out of Kin’s hands. “I took the liberty of removing my weapon from your forge!”

  Sigurd lifted a foot and kicked Kin in the chest. The blow launched Kin backwards, and as the blacksmith flailed for balance, Sigurd charged after him.

  Kin managed to stay on his feet. He balled the horseshoes up and threw them at Sigurd.

  Sigurd slashed his sword past the misshapen horseshoes, and they both jerked to a stop. The Varangian flicked his sword at Kin, and the horseshoes spun back around, like they were tethered to rope that Sigurd had caught on his sword.

  Anya gaped. The tether was magic.
Sigurd could manipulate magic threads with his sword.

  Sigurd whipped the sword hard at Kin, and the horseshoes rocketed at him. Kin moved his hands, trying to pull threads, but the horseshoes didn’t change trajectory. The metal hit Kin’s head, and he fell backwards.

  “Kin!” Anya yelped. He didn’t move.

  Sigurd looked up with a face like a thunderstorm, and he crossed to the hayloft ladder.

  Anya ran back to where Ivan and Håkon were clawing and kicking a large hole in the barn wall to escape out of. The loft vibrated with every heavy footfall on the ladder’s rungs.

  “Go, Anya!” Ivan said, motioning to the hole.

  Anya ducked for it but stopped when a loud thump! came just before a strangled cry from Håkon.

  Sigurd’s sword had him pinned against the wall by his tail. Blood dripped around the blade, and Håkon tried to bend back to claw at it. But every movement made him cry out more, and he collapsed against the floor.

  “Håkon!” Anya screamed, and Sigurd grabbed her by the back of her dress. He snatched Ivan as the fool tried to run, and the Varangian threw them both out of the hayloft.

  Anya yelped as she fell, but the sound oofed out of her when she hit the packed ground. Ivan lay on the floor, not moving. She pushed herself up, dazed, as she heard the dull slam of Sigurd’s boots on the barn floor. A moment later, he yanked her up again, holding her by the front of her dress.

  “Little brat,” he growled, reaching for a dagger at his belt.

  Anya screamed and flailed, but his grip was like iron. As the dagger flashed in the light, something hit the side of Sigurd’s head.

  Sigurd bellowed as the domovoi latched his cat claws into the side of the Varangian’s head and gnawed at his face. The dagger flew out of his hand. Sigurd managed to keep his grip on Anya while he swung at the house spirit. The domovoi vanished and then reappeared a moment later on the other side of Sigurd’s head, where he resumed his attack.

  Sigurd whipped Anya around as he flailed. He swung her toward Ivan, who was pushing up off the ground with what looked like a lot of effort. She yelled, “Ivan! Help Håkon!”

  Ivan stumbled to his feet and nodded, heading toward the hayloft.

  Sigurd grabbed the domovoi, his giant fist squeezing the house spirit hard enough for Anya to hear a squelch and a crunch. The domovoi howled with pain and clawed at Sigurd’s hand, but it did nothing to loosen the Varangian’s hold. Sigurd stomped to the cellar and kicked the trapdoor up, throwing the domovoi in as hard as he could.

  The spirit bounced against the floor, then leaped back up. Sigurd brought the arm holding Anya back, and she realized what he was doing a moment before he did it.

  She screamed as he threw her at the domovoi, barreling him backwards as they both tumbled across the floor and hit the well. Anya knocked stones into the rushing water, and her legs went frigid as she fell into the well.

  “Ah! No!” Anya yelled, scrambling for a handhold. She gripped the remaining well stones, holding herself from being swept away by the water. It pulled too hard for her to climb out.

  The domovoi flickered as he lay on the floor, transforming from dog to cat to old man. He climbed to his knees, his kippah sliding off the side of his head.

  He shook his head, gaining his bearings, and went to charge up the stairs again.

  Anya yelped, “Wait! Help!” Her legs were numb, and the cold was creeping up her body.

  The domovoi froze, then turned, and his eyes popped wide when he saw her. He vanished and reappeared in front of her, tugging at her arms to get her out of the well.

  A shadow passed over the cellar door as Sigurd stood before it. Anya watched the shadow linger there, terrified that he was on his way down to kill her like he’d promised to.

  A pair of feet stepped on the top step, but they were too small to be Sigurd’s. Ivan stumbled down a moment later, tripping down the stairs, and he landed hard at the bottom. He looked up as the cellar door shut, and something scraped the outside, jiggling the handles around.

  The domovoi finally pulled Anya out of the water. She lay on the floor, gasping. She couldn’t move her legs. She was so cold.

  Ivan cradled one arm against his chest, face wet with tears. He sat on the floor, hunched over his arm, shoulders stooped.

  “Ivan,” Anya said, shivering on the floor. “Håkon. Is he—”

  Ivan bit his lip, looked away from her, and said nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The domovoi wavered between Anya and Ivan, then looked up at the ceiling as heavy boot steps clunked down on the floor from the direction of the hayloft. A moment later, something heavy dragged after the boot steps, and liquid leaked through the wood slats of the barn floor into the cellar.

  The leaking fluid spattered over the floor in front of Anya. Blood.

  “Håkon,” she whispered, and then she screamed, “Håkon!”

  The dragon didn’t answer, and neither did Sigurd. The boot thumps and the sound of dragging dulled as they moved from the hollow barn floor to the solid earth outside. Anya put her forehead down on the floor, trying to hold in her tears. She succeeded, mostly. A few escaped to fall onto the dirt, but most of them she kept inside. Crying wouldn’t help Håkon. She could cry later.

  She managed to move her heavy, cold legs closer to her body so she could sit up. “Ivan, you have to open the door! Get back up—”

  She stopped when the domovoi grabbed his own beard and yanked hard. He shrieked and ran up the steps, gesticulating frantically at the top.

  She smelled something: smoke. Then the unmistakable dancing of flame winked between the floorboards.

  Anya struggled to her cold feet, eyes wide as smoke began to seep through the floorboards into the cellar.

  Ivan gawked at the smoke and flickering light on the far side of the cellar, then ran up the steps to join the domovoi. Using his back, he pushed against the doors and screamed, “Help! Help! Let us out!”

  Anya hobbled to the door with him and also pushed. But Sigurd had done something to the outside, and the door gave only a tiny bit before it wouldn’t go any further. They shoved at the door as the smoke continued to billow through the floorboards, and the fire spread wider, roaring as it went.

  “Kin!” Anya turned to the domovoi. “You have to get Kin out of there! He got knocked out. He’ll die.”

  The domovoi vanished. His footsteps thumped across the floor above them, and then came the sound of something else heavy dragging toward the door.

  Anya and Ivan kept pushing, and then the domovoi was back. He hammered at the door with them, his kippah askew on his head.

  “Is Kin outside?” Anya asked.

  The spirit nodded.

  Ivan looked at the house spirit. “Get out there and unlock the door!”

  The domovoi bared his pointy teeth at Ivan and vanished, and Anya heard his pitter-patter on the other side of the door. He huffed to himself, paced around, and then whacked the door a few times.

  “Open it!” Ivan yelled.

  The doors heaved up but didn’t open. They slammed back down, then heaved up again, and then the doors buckled. With a tremendous crash! a section of barn floor collapsed into the cellar. Sparks shot out, and flaming pieces of debris scattered across the floor. Anya and Ivan yelped and cringed, and the domovoi reappeared. His kippah was smoking, his jacket was singed, and his hands were blistered.

  He shoved Ivan and Anya away from the door. They reached the bottom of the steps just before the cellar doors fell in, consumed with flames from the outside.

  They huddled by the well, watching the barn above them go up in an inferno that nearly scorched them where they stood. Anya shut her eyes against the heat, coughing with every inhalation.

  Ivan had his good arm around her, and he shuddered rhythmically. He was crying.

  “Ivan,” she said, “can’t you . . . Your fool magic. Shouldn’t that . . . save us somehow?”

  He shook his head, face twisted with anguish, and said, �
�I don’t . . . I don’t have any fool magic.”

  Anya squeezed her eyes shut against the smoke. “Can’t you just try?”

  “No, I can’t try!” Ivan yelled over the fire’s roar. “If I try, it will backfire!”

  She sniffed and wiped her face, not sure of whether the tears coursing down her cheeks were from despair or the smoke.

  Ivan coughed. “I’m sorry, Anya.” He coughed again, choking as the smoke thickened in the cellar.

  She cracked her watering eyes open, and through the haze and the smoke, she spied the well. “Ivan, what about water magic?”

  “Water?” He looked at the well. “I . . . I don’t—”

  “Please!” Anya said, motioning like she was scooping the water from the well. “You can put the fire out! At least enough for us to get out of here.”

  Ivan hesitated, and then his eyebrows met. He nodded. “You’re right! If Dobrynya can use it to beat up Sigurd, I can use it to put out some fire!” He put his hands up, grabbing the air, yanking toward himself with a grunt.

  He cringed, holding his hurt arm, and the well splashed a little.

  “Ivan.” Anya coughed. The smoke was too thick.

  He clenched his teeth and balled his fists in the air. He pulled again. Still just splashes. The heat on Anya’s skin was making her faint. She watched the cold water run past and wondered if they just got into the well, would it protect them enough? They’d just have to make sure not to let go and get . . . swept . . .

  The water in the well. It was just an underground arm of the river, coming from the Sogozha and . . . going back to the Sogozha.

  Anya grabbed the domovoi’s shoulder. “Go warn Babulya to get out of the house, in case the fire spreads!” The spirit clung to her, shaking his head, and she said, “Don’t worry. I have a plan. We’ll be okay.”

  The domovoi scrunched his face but obeyed, vanishing as another section of floor crashed in.

  Ivan yelped, and Anya grabbed his uninjured arm. “Hold your breath!”

  “What?” he said, and then sucked in a huge lungful of air as Anya jumped into the well, pulling Ivan into the freezing water after her.

 

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