Anya and the Dragon

by Sofiya Pasternack

  And Sigurd would chase them. He’d kill Ivan, kill Håkon, and none of their efforts would have mattered.

  The mistletoe felt heavy in her hand. Strike when the time comes.

  Could she? If she did, would she destroy the entire world, or save it?

  Ivan was picking apart knots in the ropes that tied Håkon down. Without realizing it, Anya glanced their way as the sun crested the hills and splashed its first waves over the valley. Sigurd followed her eyes back to the dragon.

  “Sigurd!” Anya screamed, trying to distract him again. He ignored her and charged back toward the fool.

  Ivan tried picking one more knot, but Sigurd was approaching too fast. Ivan stood and backed away, stumbling toward the cliff edge, where he teetered as Sigurd closed in.

  Anya ran toward them, knowing there was no way she could get there in time. She wouldn’t be able to cross that gap before Sigurd shoved Ivan off the cliff and stabbed Håkon. They were dead. Ivan was dead. The last dragon in Kievan Rus’ was dead.

  Sigurd bellowed as he raised his sword at Ivan. Ivan tried to dodge to one side or the other, but Sigurd lunged in every direction he tried for. Håkon was struggling in his ties, trying to flop toward Ivan, but the knots bound him up too well. His tail was caked with blood, and his struggles made new blood flow from his wound.

  As Sigurd swung his sword, Ivan lifted his hands, clenching his fists. Then he ripped his hands down, and a huge ball of water shot out of the river. It slammed into the side of Sigurd’s head, exploding and raining water in a wide arc. Sigurd stumbled to the side, his swing going wide and slicing nothing but air.

  The fool took his opportunity to escape from the cliff’s edge, heading away from Håkon and yelling as he pulled more watery missiles out of the river.

  Anya ran to Håkon, sliding to the ground next to him. She sawed at the rope frantically with the mistletoe dagger, but it made slow progress.

  Håkon watched Ivan. “I didn’t know he could use water magic.”

  “He didn’t really either,” Anya said, sawing through the first length of rope. “Can you try chewing this rope or something?”

  “I could, but I can’t reach—”

  She shoved some rope in his mouth, and Håkon gnawed on it while Anya kept slicing at the hole she was making.

  Ivan whipped ball after ball of water at Sigurd’s face, forcing the Varangian to keep his head down and his eyes shut. Ivan moved to the side, arcing around so he wasn’t a still target for Sigurd’s mounting fury.

  “Almost,” Anya grumbled, and the rope finally frayed enough for her to yank it apart. She had cut three consecutive pieces of the net, and that was enough space for Håkon to wiggle his long body out.

  As Håkon pulled his bloodied tail free of the net, Sigurd roared. Anya looked up in time to see him charging in their direction, Ivan forgotten.

  “Run, Håkon!” Anya shoved him toward the river, but he resisted. His face darkened with fury, and he whipped his tail up. A ball of water shot out of the river like a cannonball, and just before it hit Sigurd, it crunched into ice. The ice ball shattered as it hit Sigurd’s face, knocking him down. Pieces of ice littered the ground.

  Sigurd fell and didn’t get back up. His face bled from cuts. A steady trickle of blood seeped out of his nose. His sword lay on the ground a few inches from his outstretched hand.

  “Is he dead?” Anya asked.

  “No.” Håkon nodded toward the Varangian. “He’s breathing.”

  Anya let out a sigh of relief. “Let’s get you out of here before—”

  Heavy footsteps pounded up the path, and Anya turned as Dobrynya and Yedsha appeared at the top.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Anya shoved Håkon behind the dead tree, hoping he wasn’t seen. He crouched down, coiling himself into as small a ball as he could, and Anya ran to where Ivan stood. If she could make sure Yedsha and Dobrynya’s attention was away from the tree, hopefully Håkon would go unnoticed.

  Yedsha came up the path first, and he sprinted to Ivan and Anya. He grabbed them both, smooshing them together in a bone-cracking hug as he yelled, “You’re alive!”

  Ivan and Anya wiggled, trying to squirm out of Yedsha’s grip. Of course she was alive. Why would he think she wasn’t?

  Then she remembered. The barn. The fire. It was strange to think her barn burning down wasn’t the most unbelievable thing that had happened to her that night.

  “Uh, yes,” Anya said, managing to dislodge herself from Yedsha’s hug. “We’re alive.”

  Dobrynya came toward her, sword pointed at Sigurd. “What happened?”

  Concentrating hard on not looking toward Håkon, Anya said, “What happened? Um, you know, that’s a long story.”

  Yedsha pointed to Sigurd. “We have to do something about this one. The blacksmith said he’s the one who started the fire in your barn.”

  Anya grinned. Kin wasn’t hurt! Or if he was, he wasn’t hurt too badly to speak.

  “He was,” Anya said, just as Sigurd stirred. He grunted as he opened his eyes and rolled over. He spat blood onto the ground.

  Dobrynya leveled his sword at Sigurd. “Put your hands on your head!”

  Sigurd didn’t acknowledge Dobrynya’s order. He grabbed his sword and got to his feet, unsteady, but not unsteady enough for Anya’s taste. He would still be formidable.

  “Drop your weapon!” Dobrynya ordered.

  Still, Sigurd ignored him. He faced the enormous tree where Håkon sheltered, frowned, and charged at it. He stabbed his sword through the trunk, then heaved the sword through one side. He shoved the half-felled tree hard, and it crashed to the ground. Dead wood plinked as it snapped and shot off in every direction.

  From behind the tree’s remaining stump, a red head peeked out, blue eyes huge and terrified.

  Sigurd roared and grabbed for Håkon. The little dragon dodged backwards, scampering over jagged branches in an attempt to escape.

  “Come here!” Sigurd yelled, crashing after Håkon through the wood.

  “The dragon!” Dobrynya gasped, then took off after Sigurd.

  Anya watched Håkon flee, slithering as fast as he could go. He was moving erratically, panicked, not thinking. She had to help him.

  The river. He could hide in it and use his magic to ride down the waterfall and get away. It was his only hope.

  Yedsha grabbed Anya and Ivan and pulled them down the path.

  “Wait!” Anya yelled. She struggled out of his grip.

  “Stay back,” Yedsha said. “If you get caught between them . . .” He shook his head. “We already thought you both were dead. I won’t let it happen for real.”

  Anya heard Sigurd bellow, and she yanked her arm out of Yedsha’s grip. She ran back to the plateau, ignoring his cries for her to stop.

  She reached the top of the path as Sigurd swung his sword at Håkon and missed, barely. Håkon squeaked and pulled his tail tighter to him, pushing off to try to gain some ground as his blood spattered the rocks behind him. Every step brought Sigurd closer.

  Håkon changed direction as Sigurd stabbed his sword down. The blade missed Håkon’s tail by a hair’s breadth, driving into the rocky ground instead. The sudden stop made Sigurd trip, and Dobrynya slammed into him.

  Håkon raced toward Anya. He got closer, and Anya could hear him saying the same word under his breath: “Help. Help. Help.”

  “The river,” Anya said, pointing.

  Håkon nodded, and they both ran to the riverbank. Håkon nearly dove in, but at the last moment, he hesitated.

  “What are you doing?” Anya said. “Go! Hurry!”

  “And then what?” Håkon said. “They’ll both come after me no matter what. I can’t go back home and put my father in danger. So I’ll be on the run for the rest of my life, alone, and that’s not a life I want to live.” He sighed. “I’ll never be happy that way.”

  Anya wanted to shove him into the water, but he was completely right. He was a fugitive, and Sigurd, Dobrynya, and Yeds
ha would hunt him until the end of his days.

  The mistletoe dagger in Anya’s hand throbbed, and she remembered the mysterious woman’s instructions: Death. Only if you want it.

  But what if she didn’t want it?

  Across the plateau, Sigurd shoved Dobrynya away and heaved himself to his feet. He turned, snarling as he set his eyes on Håkon and Anya.

  Strike when the time comes.

  She imagined she could feel Sigurd’s footsteps on the ground as he charged toward her and Håkon. Maybe it was just her imagination. It didn’t matter. The time the woman had spoken of had come.

  Anya turned to Håkon, throat tight and nose stinging. “I want you to be happy.” Her voice cracked as she said the final word, and as soon as she did, she lifted the mistletoe dagger and stabbed Håkon in the chest.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anya heard Sigurd shout and Ivan scream, but both of those sounds faded into background buzzing as Håkon’s mouth dropped open with surprise. He looked down at the piece of wood embedded in his chest, and then back up at Anya.

  “Anya?” he asked. She didn’t hear it over the buzzing, but she could tell that’s what he said.

  Her vision blurred with tears, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep it still. She yanked the dagger back, pulling it out of Håkon’s scaly chest with a wet smack. Blood followed the dagger, splattering on the ground and the front of Anya’s dress.

  “Go home,” she whispered, and she shoved him backwards.

  Håkon fell into the river. He didn’t swim against the current, and in the time it took Anya to inhale, he was gone over the waterfall’s edge.

  The roar of the waterfall was all she could hear for a moment. The dagger in her hand was sticky with blood. Her friend’s blood.

  The thundering of Sigurd’s feet was louder, and then he grabbed her by the arm. He yanked her around to face him and screamed in her face, “What have you done?”

  She didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t thought he’d bleed like that. The woman said the dagger would kill only if Anya wanted it to. Had she lied?

  Sigurd shook Anya hard and screamed at her some more. Then he stopped, and he said, “Give me that dagger.”

  Anya pulled it back. “No.”

  “The dragon’s blood is on it!” Sigurd swiped for it, and Anya felt the subtle crunch of the dagger’s sharp tip piercing Sigurd’s palm.

  He didn’t act like he felt anything at all, and he grabbed the dagger from Anya. He lifted it to his mouth and licked once, twice, and then stopped. He dropped the dagger to the ground. His arms went limp at his sides. Blood trickled anew from his nose, and more from his ears, and then he fell forward without putting his hands up to catch himself. He slammed into the ground, taking the impact full in the face.

  Dobrynya limped up, holding his side with one hand and his broken sword with the other.

  “Are you hurt, Anya?” Dobrynya asked.

  “No,” she said, and noticed blood seeping between his gloved fingers on his side. “Gospodin, you’re bleeding!”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Just a little nick, is all.” He hooked the toe of his boot under Sigurd’s chest and kicked him onto his back. The Varangian didn’t move. He stared at the sky with frozen-open, bloody eyes.

  Dobrynya winced at the sight. “Good God. What happened to him?”

  Anya glanced at the mistletoe dagger. “I think it was the dragon blood,” she said, not really thinking that at all. The dagger had poked Sigurd’s hand, and just like the woman said, it killed him. “He licked some off that stick I stabbed the dragon with.”

  “I heard dragon’s blood gave a person special powers,” Dobrynya said. “I never heard about it killing someone.”

  She didn’t say anything. Ivan stood at the top of the path, staring at Anya with disbelief. She’d explain herself to him later, maybe. If he let her.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Anya followed Dobrynya down the road toward the village. Ivan walked close behind her, with Yedsha bringing up the rear, leading Sigurd’s horse by its reins. She kept checking around for Håkon’s red head peeking out at them, but she never saw it.

  To break the silence they traveled in, Anya asked Dobrynya something she had been wondering. “How did you know where we were?”

  Dobrynya smiled. He had his hand pressed against his injured side. “I didn’t know you’d be there. I thought you were dead. But I knew Sigurd would be there.”

  “How?”

  “Yedsha and I have been all over this valley, between the two of us,” he said. “He mentioned this plateau to me, and the altar. I knew Sigurd planned to use the dragon’s blood to make himself more powerful, and . . .” Sheepishly, he said, “I admit. I have looked into the ancient rituals. Not for myself,” he added quickly. “Just to understand. The greatest magic in the world is an open mind. So when Kin told us Sigurd had been there, I thought maybe he had found the dragon somehow. If he killed the dragon, he’d need to do it at sunrise, and he’d need a way to make sure the blood didn’t get lost.”

  Anya shuddered at the thought of her friend’s blood in the stone bowl. “I’m glad you figured it out. I guess Ivan was right about how smart you are.”

  Dobrynya’s smile faded. “Smart, but not fast enough. I’m sorry we didn’t realize he had taken you two as well. Do you know why?”

  Anya tensed. He thought Sigurd had kidnapped them. Of course he did. What other reason did they have for being there?

  “I don’t know why he did it,” Anya said, and Dobrynya didn’t press.

  They came out of the woods onto the road north of town. The wood smoke still smoldering from the barn fire made Anya’s eyes water, and her stomach clenched.

  Dobrynya turned onto the drive to Anya’s farm, and the rest of them followed. The entire village was gathered in the field between the river and what remained of the barn and the house. Most of the villagers were smudged with soot and dirt, and others were all wet. They all looked exhausted and heartbroken.

  The bogatyr cut a path through the crowd, with Anya following close behind him. The crowd gasped and murmured as they saw Anya and Ivan.

  Near the riverbank, the crowd thinned. The house and barn were gone, and smoking piles of ash and charred wood were all that remained. The villagers nearer to the remains of the house held buckets, and a few were patrolling near the ash, looking for embers that still needed extinguishing. The goats were milling behind the ash pile that had been the house, bleating every now and then, like they were confused. Zvezda had his head lowered, gazing toward the river. If goats could be forlorn, Anya thought Zvezda looked very forlorn.

  Someone sobbed, and when Anya peered around Dobrynya, she stopped cold. Her mother was on her knees under the willow tree, hands over her face, bawling as Ivan’s mother, Marina, knelt beside her. Marina also cried and had her arms wrapped around Mama’s shoulders.

  Mama and Marina weren’t alone. Dyedka and Babulya huddled together, foreheads touching, silent, with eyes shut. Babulya clutched the Torah, wrapped in its mantle, in her arms. Ivan’s brothers stood in a tight gaggle. All but two had their faces turned down, and the two with their heads thrown back were openly wailing.

  Ivan stopped beside Anya, and he murmured, “Mama?”

  Zvezda trotted over from the herd, turned his eye to Anya, and then let out a loud “MYAH!”

  One of Ivan’s brothers looked up, and his brilliant blue eyes widened. He pointed at Ivan and screamed, “Vosya!”

  All of Ivan’s brothers looked up now, and the two who had been wailing silenced abruptly. After a heartbeat’s pause, they all ran at Ivan, shouting his name.

  Ivan took a step back, hands up, and said, “What’s the—​grk!” as they barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. Each one tried to hug Ivan.

  “Vosya!”

  “You’re alive!”

  “We thought you were dead!”

  “I’m not dead, Pyatsha! Get off!”

  “But y
ou burned up!”

  “I’m so glad you’re not dead! I would have been the youngest!”

  “You’re not a ghost, right?”

  “I’m alive, Semya! I’m fine, Shestka! Get off!”

  Anya smiled at Ivan’s brothers’ enthusiasm, and then she realized Yedsha was gone. She looked up the drive in time to see him disappearing around the trees onto the road, and then Mama gasped, “Anya?”

  She turned as Mama stood, eyes wide. Her mother said nothing as she ran to Anya, and the hug she enveloped Anya in was nearly rib crushing. Anya wheezed under the force of Mama’s hug, and then she returned the embrace.

  Mama cried against Anya’s kerchief. As she looked past Mama’s head, Anya spied Dyedka talking to Babulya, and the old woman wiped tears from her face with one hand as she smiled. The domovoi in his cat form sat beside her, and his tail whipped back and forth behind him against the ground. He glared at Ivan’s family with his ears flattened back against his head.

  “Mama,” Anya whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Mama sobbed. “I’m so happy you’re not hurt.”

  “But the house—”

  “Oh, the house.” Mama released Anya and wiped the tears from her face. “The domovoi got Babulya out before the fire spread. He even managed to get out our clothes and all the books.” New tears streamed down her face. “We can rebuild a house, Annushka.”

  Anya’s heart sank. What good would be rebuilding a house if their land got taken away?

  Ivan’s mother ran up to Mama then, her beautiful smile brightening the day.

  “Masha, they’re back!” Marina yanked Anya into a hug, pressing Anya’s face against her dress bodice. Ivan’s mom smelled like the river after a thunderstorm, and a handful of salt crystals, and some kind of flower that Anya couldn’t place, and an ice-cold winter night. She was warm, and soft, and Anya leaned into her.

  Marina released Anya long enough for her to get a breath, and then she hugged her again. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re not hurt, Anya! We all thought you were . . . Well, never mind what we thought. We’re so glad you and Vosya are here!”