The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  Caught between Grunmir and the priest, Eber wondered if he should not untie the bonds, his gaze flickering between them. But they stood motionless, eyes trained on one another, the axe blade still resting on Wislaw’s shoulder. Then, much to Eber’s relief, the old priest began to untie the ropes. ‘And what is it that my lord krol would want with someone such as this?’ he said, without turning to face Grunmir.

  ‘That is for nought but him to know,’ Grunmir replied. ‘The krol keeps his own counsel these days and his words are not for you.’

  Too worn out to stand, Iwa slumped to the floor and rubbed her wrists, the marks scored deep where the leather had bitten into her flesh. Grunmir was about to motion to Eber and then he stopped, his gaze settling on her father as if he guessed the truth. ‘Please,’ Yaroslav murmured, ‘whatever you’re going to,’ but his words failed him and he slumped back down the ropes creaking with the weight of him as, without a word, Grunmir pulled her up by the hair.

  Chapter Sixteen

  More dragged than walking, Iwa was led through the camp. Around the perimeter the animal skulls blazed; flames licked round the eye sockets of deer or poked through the broken fangs of bears and boars. A few guards stood on the ramparts, their bodies silhouetted against the fire, but their fear was palpable. She looked to the rest of the ships. She could almost see the faces that cowered inside, hear the strange prayers muttered to foreign gods, mixed with the sounds of fear and weeping. Now she realised why the ships had been dragged so far from the shore and tied down with so much rope; the woyaks were ready to flee. Thank the bones of Karnobog: this could all be over soon. If only I can keep Yaroslav alive until then.

  ‘The clans would have little need for a spy tonight,’ Grunmir muttered to a woyak who had come up beside him. ‘I left sixteen more bowmen on those walls at least.’

  ‘They’ve gone off to skulk behind the boats,’ the woyak said. ‘The men are scared.’

  ‘I don’t care. Burn the boats if you have to, but get those men back on the ramparts. We have Wislaw’s barrier to protect us now.’

  ‘The men don’t trust magic,’ the woyak whispered. ‘Nobody trusts…’ His voice fell away as he realised that the priest was there.

  ‘Just guard against human forces, woyak,’ Wislaw said softly, ‘and leave the demons to one who has knowledge of such.’ It was hard for him to keep the trace of scorn from his voice as he looked at the young woyak, his face ashen with fear.

  ‘But will it come again tonight?’

  ‘If it does then Wislaw’s magic will hold us safe, boy,’ Grunmir replied, as he scanned the embankment and the line of trees beyond.

  ‘I cast the last of the sacred spells myself last night,’ Wislaw said. ‘The power of Piórun will protect us now; the demon will not be able to break my craft.’

  ‘Just be ready should the hunters attack,’ Grunmir said to the woyak, glad that there was something understandable that he could face and cut down. ‘And keep the men away from the vodka.’ He motioned for the woyak to leave. ‘Your barrier had better hold,’ he said to the priest.

  ‘There has been no trouble these past six nights. I think that this demon has realised the full extent of the forces now arrayed against him. Perhaps he has thought better than to test my craft.’

  ‘Maybe we have shaken this demon after all.’ Grunmir gave the trees a withering look. ‘But somehow I doubt that. I do not trust this forest.’

  Outside the main ship two woyaks huddled round a brazier, pale faces hardly looking up as they passed. Iwa was led up the stairs and thrust inside. She hadn’t expected so much light; candles blazed from iron holders, the smoke drifting through a gap at the top of the tarpaulin where it was lashed to the mast.

  But the gap was not enough to prevent the air being close, hazed with the scent of sweat and oil. At the far end of the ship a pile of herbs smouldered in a copper bowl hung above a brazier. She didn’t recognise the scent, but it did little except add a pungent, acrid stench which stung her eyes. At the back of the space a wooden chair stood upon a raised dais. She blinked and uttered a prayer to the clan gods. She’d never seen a chair before and, to her, it could have been the altar of some terrible woyak god. Tiger skins shimmered across the back and the armrests were carved in the shape of claws, inlaid with ivory that gleamed coldly in the candlelight.

  ‘You took your time, old friend,’ a voice growled: it was Krol Gawel. He was half naked, his body still wet from bathing, the muscles of his chest rippling as, with hardly a glance, he walked to the great chair. Iwa had never seen him up close before; his skin was covered with a morass of old scars and his face was haggard, the lines drawn deep around his eyes, which shone blue with a dark, brooding intelligence. Around his neck he wore a golden torque, the head fashioned in the shape of a leopard, and around the circlet were carved tiny points like claws. Behind him the club-footed boy followed, his leg dragging across the floor, a line of drool falling across his mouth as he mumbled dully to himself.

  ‘Do you not hurry to follow my orders?’ the krol said as Iwa was flung to the floor, two woyaks gripping her shoulders as she was forced to kneel before the great chair.

  ‘I wanted to check the perimeter, my krol,’ Grunmir replied.

  ‘And how many stand guard tonight?’ His voice was distant as if he didn’t expect an answer.

  ‘The men are scared. Iron and steel are nothing to them, but who can fight against the demons of the night?’

  ‘They are cowards,’ Krol Gawel said softly, as one of the woyaks handed him a silken shirt. He took it without a glance, the battle scars marked along his ribs glowing in the candled gloom as he slid the thing on, the silk cold and oddly comforting against his back as it shimmered in the light.

  Maybe, to some of the woyaks, such finery seemed out of place amid the creak of the decks and the stench of the braziers and the hides. For Iwa’s part, she had hardly ever seen anything like it. Rarely one of the traders would bring up a gown of finely woven cloth from the Polish lands but she’d never seen such a thing as the krol’s shirt, no one had. This was finer than even Miskyia’s gown or any of the things that Alia or her friends had ever been given.

  Around her the air swelled with the thick scent of incense. Too many new things crowded round and threatened to overwhelm her. Even the symbols dyed into the thick fabric of the tarpaulin seemed strange somehow as they fluttered in the breeze. Some of them she knew, there were the sun wheels and the axes of Piórun, as well as the lime leaf and elderflower mandalas, but even these were different, their colours all wrong.

  ‘Give them a human foe to fight and they’ll gladly risk death for you, but against such evil…’ Grunmir’s words fell silent as the krol stood before the chair, a dark look upon his face.

  ‘The men cling to the ships like beetles to dung,’ he said as he slipped on the shirt. ‘They cower behind walls of wood and sing to the gods for help.’

  ‘Not so, my krol, many are loyal still. Your command holds sway over them.’

  ‘Many are loyal, you said: so what of the others, those who aren’t?’

  ‘I flogged the last of the rabble-rousers last night. Don’t worry, my boot will have the men in order and, if that’s not enough, then Fang will make short work of the ringleaders. That should quell the camp.’

  ‘But for how long, old friend?’ The krol’s words were hard and careworn, but there was a trace of genuine friendship in there too, as he looked to the floor and rubbed his forehead. ‘Men will not follow a krol who offers them naught but failure and death. It is victory which binds men and we have had little of that of late.’

  Perhaps he’d dreamed too much, the krol thought. He rubbed his forehead. If only his head didn’t ache so. Around him the air was stale, choked by the candles and the scent of the herbs that smoked in the brazier. No, that was not it. It was the forest, this place. The air even seemed stale outside. More than ever he longed for the salt air of open waters, a good clean wind. Things would be better then.
He should not have come here.

  He looked round the boat, seeing the woyaks who stood guard at the entrance. Did their hearts long for home? Did they blame him? No, he could not turn back, not now. He’d set his own course and if it failed, what then?

  The men would be quick to elect a new leader. But not Grunmir. No, he too had sent his heart upon this uncharted course. And, in the gloom, that understanding passed between them. They’d been through too much together, their fates so closely entwined; such bonds were not to be lightly broken.

  And it was the same for Wislaw. Let him have his schemes and dreams. Ah, his mind was ever shifting like the deepwater currents, but his heart would hold true whatever he might imagine. He has not learned to look into his heart, for all his guile and bookish tongue. No, he was riven to their cause as they all were.

  ‘The woyaks still remember the battle of the nine hills.’ Grunmir spoke, looking to the krol and trying to glimpse part of the man who’d once broken through the lines of the horse lords. ‘They sing of how you slew that Avar champion and cut his legs from under him to leave him no more than a crying wreck, breathing out his last on the battlefield.’ The old woyak nodded to a cloth that hung behind the chair.

  It was an old thing, torn and stained with blood. It was hard to see the pattern in the light, but could make out the form of a white horse rearing over a half moon on a field of green. A gold braid ran round the edges, glinting darkly in the gloom. She’d never seen anything like it. The tattered remnant hung so wide as to obscure the rest of the ship behind, but did it come from the Avar horse lords whom the traders talked of, scouring the endless plains beyond the forest?

  ‘Yes, that was a good day,’ the krol said wearily as he sat in the great chair, his arms pressed along the carved sides. ‘I can still see you, your great war axe swirling as you rallied the men for one last charge; and let us not forget Fang, there was much to occupy that blade that day.’

  ‘I doubt that the Avars will forget your sword either. They came with lust for gold and found naught but blood.’ He laughed and signalled for a cup of vodka. If only he could raise up some part of the man who’d cut his way through the lines of armoured horse warriors. Gawel had been unstoppable, ankle deep in the blood of his enemies and barely a thought for his own safety as the battle lust took hold and he dodged beneath the blow of some Avar champion, a giant of a man whose spear cut an inch away from his face.

  Grunmir would have felled him but Gawel’s sword had already slipped past the man’s shield and sliced through his armpit. The man reeled back, the blow so quick that he didn’t have time to feel the pain as his arm dangled, held on now only by his leather armour, and grim death took him.

  Gawel had already turned away, pressing deeper into the enemy ranks. There was a man who could lead and have others follow. But perhaps the burden had become too great. He’d seen more than one man cast low once the weight of command was fastened upon him. And there was so much to deal with, enough to break any man. They’ll swallow us whole. He glanced to the tarpaulin as if trying to look to the trees beyond. Then, in an instant, he snapped back, his gaze turning smoothly to the krol so that none could have guessed at the thoughts hidden darkly behind his eyes.

  ‘It was you who held us firm under their charge,’ he said. Since when did he have to talk like this to remind them of the better days? The days when they had been free and felt the wind roll across the steppe. ‘Had it not been for you then our war band would have broken. It was you who brought us victory that day and not even the Avar Khan’s arrival prevented it. None but you could have fought your way right to the edges of his hearth guard. The gods themselves must have shielded the Khan from raven tongue.’ He nodded to the krol’s great sword. ‘His young son almost received the Khanate upon that day.’

  ‘Yes, it was a great victory, but a poor memory, and one that grows stale as the seasons pass.’

  ‘The men still sing of it.’ No, there was little trace of the man who’d once put the Avars to flight. Grunmir lifted the cup to his lips and took a slow gulp. He’d seen krols broken before, once great men who babbled like children as they were carried on litters or on the backs of attendants.

  But that had been back in the civilised lands. Out here there was no telling what may happen. They’ll kill him if he fails. And then what decisions would befall him, Grunmir?

  A kroldom in the forest. Nobody thought it would be easy, but to be caught like a hare in a trap? Taking the camp had been easy, the hunters broken almost before the battle started. There were many, himself included, who had reckoned that the hardest part was over. They should have had the women to work for them and to keep in the camp as hostages so that the hunters would return each night with the catch.

  They’d have to put a few to the sword. That much had always been understood. And who would have it any other way? Men were not built for easy subduction, particularly those bred to a life hard as this. But nobody had counted on such stubbornness. He could see it in the eyes of the women, that subtle defiance that would linger long after he’d gone.

  Slowly it had started to wear the men down. They’d counted on being safe in their ships. But they’d had to learn not to trust the women. A few of the woyaks had let their guard down and one of them had almost paid for it with his life.

  The others kept a weary watch. They were a stalked herd, and the women knew it. How many were biding their time? That old Katchka, for one. Few could feel safe when they couldn’t even trust the hands that bound their wounds.

  Then there was that thing in the forest. What man could stand against such a creature of the night? A silent killer which seemed proof against every mortal blade? And yet how many men would have fled the camp already if it hadn’t been for that stalker in the night? At least, in this, that old blunderer Wislaw had proved his worth. Perhaps the krol wasn’t so foolish in keeping that one.

  From somewhere outside there was the faint trace of laughter. It came as a forced, distant sound but laughter nonetheless. The demon hadn’t been seen for the last few nights and already some had begun to hope that the curse had passed them by. And, around the campfires, some of the men had even begun to sing again.

  ‘The men sing of your glory,’ he said as he drained the last of the vodka.

  ‘I have not heard them.’ There was a weariness to the krol’s voice as if his thoughts and his heart were far away. ‘Perhaps you were right, my friend. War beckons in the east and we were fools not to rally to its cry.’

  ‘Our only mistake was to waken the evil…’ Grunmir paused as if he’d said too much, but Krol Gawel appeared not to notice; he slumped in his chair and called for wine. From the half dark a woman came, carrying a jug on a silver platter. It was Alia, the light playing over her scar as she walked, her body sheathed in a long green dress that shimmered in the gloom. Surely even the Polish ladies had never looked so fine. She was careful not to catch Iwa’s eye as she passed, a slight uneasiness in her stride. The light glinted from a golden necklace and on her forehead a tiny jewel glimmered, held in place by a silver chain. Iwa’s eyes couldn’t help but follow Alia’s every move as she poured the wine into a silver goblet: surely no lady had ever looked so fine, not even in the halls of the Polish krols.

  Alia handed the cup to Krol Gawel and then stood by his side, her head bowed. ‘So this is the young spy who has caused us so much trouble,’ Krol Gawel said as Grunmir pushed Iwa forward.

  ‘We caught her on the trail above the camp, my krol,’ Grunmir said, ‘the one which the hunters have taken to using. We were following their tracks when we stumbled across her hiding in the bracken.’

  ‘And you are sure that she’s a spy?’ Krol Gawel looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I see nothing more than a hardly whelped stripling.’ Carelessly he held out the cup for it to be refilled. Was there nothing that could quell the ache? Not even the wine seemed to help. Outside all was still, no hint of a breeze that might cool his head.

  At least there was
no sign of the demon. Six nights and the thing had not come. Perhaps the curse had passed. Maybe there was more to this Wislaw than he’d first imagined. Or had the curse merely lifted of its own accord and drifted off to some other part of the forest? He should have drawn some comfort from that, but there was just a hollow feeling, a great emptiness that could not be filled with wine.

  ‘This isn’t the first time that I’ve caught her skulking on the edges of the camp,’ Grunmir said as he thrust the girl forward. ‘I am beginning to think that there is far more to this one than meets the eye.’

  ‘Her!’ Alia scoffed, her voice ringing hollow through the gloom so that a few of the woyaks jumped. Red-faced, she cast her gaze to the floor but the krol appeared not to notice.

  ‘So what do you have to say for yourself – girl?’ he said, almost absentmindedly.

  ‘I haven’t sneaked anywhere,’ Iwa replied, her words failing in the flickering light. The woyaks must have been desperate to think she was a spy. Beware the wounded animal, Kazik had told her once. For it is when the prey is at its most deadly. Watch carefully, for it is when the animal is likely to be at its most unpredictable, its actions as fathomless as the winter winds.

  And he had the scars to prove it, his left leg gouged by an elk buck when he was young. He’d been lucky to survive, and it had taken all of the wise women’s skills to keep him from the ancestors.

  Only once had Iwa encountered a wounded animal, whilst out playing by the aspen copse. A fox had got itself caught in the thickets where something, a wolf perhaps, had chased it. She still remembered the bared teeth and the eyes filled with anger as it faced her, its stomach ripped open and the blood dripping into the bracken. There had been a startling ferocity about the fox as it clung to life and made ready to kill anything that came close. Now she sensed the same fear clinging about the ship. She could see the krol’s eyes, the anger which blazed behind them. The anger of a trapped animal.