The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  Iwa glanced around; everyone was caught up in the scene, even Grunmir. He stood with his mouth open, the magic almost burning in the air and reflecting across his face and the bright dome of his battle helm. She seized her chance and twisted free of the woyaks. The colours intensified, sparks of light darting across the night as she ran into the camp. Behind her there was a savage cry and an awful rending sound and she couldn’t help but turn, her feet slipping across the wet grass as she fell to the ground. Still she couldn’t take her eyes from the scene, as the light blazed and Lord Bethrayal struggled, the barrier bending against the weight of his fury.

  Wislaw began to back away but the shield bearer blocked his path. ‘Work your art – priest,’ she heard Grunmir say, his voice all but lost in the din. With a moan Wislaw collapsed to the ground. He stretched out his arms and began to work a spell, his song drowned in the clamour as Krol Gawel walked forward, his body no more than a fragment almost swallowed in the lights that blazed about him. If it hadn’t been for the colour reflected from his great sword, there would have been no trace of him at all.

  But Iwa had other things on her mind. Around her the ground was littered with weapons. Without taking her eyes off the barrier, she reached for a spear, a bit unwieldy perhaps, but the blade was sharp enough. The woyaks had deserted the ramparts and there was nobody to stop her escape. First I’ll get Yaroslav and then we’ll be rid of this place and not even all the demons of the night will be able to find us. She ran across the camp, too scared now to even think about the women locked away in the ship. She had to get Yaroslav away; nothing else mattered.

  But she hadn’t counted on Wislaw. In her panic and terror she slipped again on the wet grass. A strange feeling had taken hold of her and a numbness spread across her body. At first she thought that she’d been dazzled by the light but then, over the noise and the clamour, she heard Wislaw’s spell song. Dimly she realised why the words formed, strange and alien on her tongue: it was his voice that came from her lips, her vocal cords straining to accommodate his words as the chant took hold.

  No, she cried, but she had already dropped the blade, her body nothing more than a manikin, and still her lips moved; her tongue curling stiffly around the words as the spell wove through her. She could almost see it; taste the magic bitter in her mouth as an ancient power entwined her. She was blind, her whole body caught up with the spell. All at once her world tumbled in upon her, as a huge rushing sound engulfed her.

  When Iwa next came to herself she was free of the spell, the last traces of it crawling like pins and needles along her arm. Propping herself up, she blinked and realised that everything had gone quiet. There was no sign of Lord Bethrayal, no magic crackling at the barrier.

  In the distance she could see Krol Gawel fallen near the shoreline. At first she thought that he was dead, but then, slowly, he started to pick himself up. His great sword lay only a few feet away, mired in the mud.

  ‘See!’ Wislaw raised his hands in triumph. ‘My magic has prevailed: the power of Piórun protects this camp.’

  ‘But for how much longer?’ Grunmir muttered as he helped the krol to his knees. There must have been some residual link with Wislaw because she doubted she could have heard Grunmir from where she lay. Do I listen with his ears? she wondered as she pulled herself up. Can he hear me now?

  No, she decided: she could catch brief glimpses of the world through Wislaw’s eyes, the scent of mud, or the odd glimmer of a sound, nothing more. She knew that his power was spent. She felt his tiredness, the anger at still being trapped and a dark hollow feeling that beat within his heart.

  Getting up, she tried to shake the last vestiges of his craft from her. She was drained, her limbs trembling as she struggled up. He’d used much of her magic to keep the barrier intact but she was younger and, with a few deep breaths, she recovered.

  Quickly she began to run between the boats. She had to get away now, whilst the camp was in confusion. Anything was better than having that priest in her head and having to face this demon.

  ‘See,’ Wislaw’s voice serrated the gloom, ‘how I drive the enemies of Piórun before me.’ Already a few of the woyaks were peering out from under the tarpaulins. Soon they’d come out and any chance of escape would be gone.

  ‘We’ve got to get out now.’ She ran helter-skelter into the hut and looked about her for a knife or a blade, anything to cut Yaroslav’s bonds. ‘Quickly, before the woyaks come out of their ships.’

  ‘Run,’ Yaroslav whispered, ‘leave me.’

  ‘No,’ Iwa said, pushing through the canvas. He was strung up on the spit, a tiny candle set on a barrel by his side. Even in the gloom she could see the bruises swelling around his eyes and the line of blood that seeped from a partially closed wound across his forehead. ‘I couldn’t leave you,’ she said.

  ‘How touching.’ A voice cut through the gloom – it was Eber. Iwa felt her body sag: she hadn’t counted on anyone bothering to guard the hut. Slowly he picked himself up from behind the barrel. He still looked scared, his shoulders hunched as he glanced around him and prayed that it was all over.

  ‘Grunmir was right,’ the woyak said as he took the spear from her, ‘you’re a cunning one.’

  ‘You should have forgotten about me,’ Yaroslav muttered.

  She didn’t have time to answer. In one swift movement, Eber’s spear blade was at her throat. Still he couldn’t move as well as some of the others, but he’d learned how to balance himself well enough so the blade fell just a little short, the tip pointing at her thorax.

  Then, with a simple motion, he began to lead her out of the hut, his spear pressed against her back. ‘You could let me go,’ she pleaded against all hope, ‘and tell Grunmir I escaped in the confusion: nobody would blame you.’ But the woyak didn’t answer. He’d had enough of this demon-haunted forest, enough of taking orders from that priest, enough even of the krol.

  But he had the girl. She seemed to be important somehow. Moments ago he’d been terrified, crying to the gods as he cowered behind the barrel and prayed that Wislaw’s barrier might hold. Like the others he’d been living in hope that the thing had gone, that tiny spark of optimism kindling with each passing night. He’d even began to think again of the kroldom in the forest, of the bread and the vodka that would follow, and the easy women. And to have all those dreams dashed, to realise that he was nothing more than a prisoner cowering behind the barrier was too much to bear.

  But now he had the girl, caught, he imagined, by his own cunning. Grunmir had set him to guard the prisoner, the battle captain had always picked on him for such things, always kept him back and well away from the fight. Well, let that battle hag underestimate him now! He smiled as he drove the wretch forward, his spear butt driven hard into her back as he imagined himself the all-conquering hero. Yes, Grunmir would see his worth, the krol too, even that idiot priest.

  Iwa felt the stab of the spear, the pain hard in the small of her back as she stumbled across the broken ground. She didn’t even bother to look to the trees, her head hanging as she made her way through the camp. She was too tired now even to think of escape. Truly the gods had deserted her. I should have thrown myself into the river. Now it was too late even for that.

  Dawn was nearing and already life had begun to creep into the camp. Some of the woyaks had ventured out of the ships and had set about gathering their armour. Others examined the barrier, casting fearful glances to the far shore. A few of the women had joined them, many having taken refuge with the men in the night. Alia was there, quick to organise the women into working parties so that they could set about clearing up the camp.

  ‘Ah, the prodigal daughter has returned,’ Wislaw said as Iwa was pushed forward.

  ‘Are you hurt, my krol?’ Grunmir said as he pulled Krol Gawel towards the camp.

  ‘My magic was there to protect him.’ Wislaw smiled as he hid the doll in the folds of his cloak. ‘Piórun would not forsake his servant.’

  ‘But the demon grows
ever stronger,’ Grunmir replied. ‘And each time I see his face more clearly. I doubt that even your magic will hold it for long.’

  ‘And even if it could,’ the krol muttered, ‘is this how we are to live, like a trapped hare, caught between the hunters and the demon? This is not the way for men to die, cowered behind their ships and waiting for their doom.’

  A few of the woyaks dragged a fresh stake into the water where Lord Bethrayal had tried to cross. A few of the stakes had split, the animal skulls shattered into a multitude of tiny fragments scattered on the riverbed. Iwa felt the spear butt force her forward. Behind her Eber hovered, unable to understand why he’d been ignored. If it hadn’t been for him she’d have run into the forest, this girl who Grunmir and the priest were so ready to fight over.

  ‘We’re lucky that the creature comes only at night,’ Grunmir said. ‘Give me one of the boats and a few good men and we could sail back for more supplies.’

  ‘And how many would return with you?’ The krol looked to his woyaks, ‘and what of those who’d remain? How long would my power hold sway once they realised that I’d let so much as a dog leave?

  ‘Our strength fails and the demon grows stronger: soon I doubt even the protection of Piórun will stay its power.’

  ‘Give me the girl,’ Wislaw said as, sensing his moment had come, Eber jabbed her forward with the end of his spear, ‘and I’ll rid us of this demon.’

  ‘What is she to you?’ Grunmir replied. ‘She’s a spy, nothing more.’

  ‘My lord krol, Piórun demands a blood sacrifice. I have seen his anger in the sky.’

  ‘What have you seen?’ Grunmir scoffed. ‘You’ve spent too much time without a woman, old man.’ But there was a hollowness to his laughter as he looked over the wreck of the camp. Surely there were more important things to be done.

  Yet this girl intrigued him. She seemed different somehow. He didn’t trust her, the way she looked at him as if there was some deep secret locked behind her eyes. She should have been frightened, like the others. Even Alia was careful to keep her gaze far from him, for all the kindness that the krol had lavished upon her. Such kindness could shift in an instant, he knew that well enough. Alia recognised that too, her power in the camp hanging by a sliver, but this girl was different, although she was not openly defiant. At least that would have been easy to deal with. She was sulking, like all her clan. They should not have come to this miserable place. He would have left long ago, if it hadn’t been for the krol. Carefully he looked to Gawel, careworn and bitter. He should not have to deal with this priest, not now there was so much else to be done. What does that idiot see in the girl, he wondered. Nothing more than a forest wretch, surely. He wasn’t even convinced that she was much of a spy. So why does he want her so badly? It couldn’t be for her body, surely. One word and he could force far better into to his bed. Grunmir smiled at the thought. He couldn’t conceive of any woman who’d want to bed a worm like that fool priest willingly.

  ‘Piórun the thunderer demands his sacrifice,’ Wislaw said. ‘Have you not heard his cry rumble through the mountains?’

  ‘A summer storm, nothing more, or have we taken to hearing the chuckle of gods in the bracken?’

  ‘You speak as a woyak should,’ Wislaw replied, as down by the barrier the broken skull of a bear was thrown into the river, ‘but this demon is not a thing of nature. Leave the clans to Grunmir’s tender mercies, my krol; but when it comes to magic, let one who has knowledge of the craft guide you.’

  ‘As if a chit of a girl could do anything,’ Grunmir spat, ‘let alone appease the gods.’

  ‘I’m nothing to a god,’ Iwa managed. She tried to say more, but traces of the spell clung about her. Her throat ached as if someone had tried to strangle her, so that even her breath was painful. ‘I’m sure that Piórun wouldn’t be satisfied with me.’ She looked round at the assembled faces. ‘You might even make him angry, you know how pernickety these northern deities can be.’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Piórun demands her blood,’ Wislaw said, but there was a caution in his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe that she had managed to shake free of his power. ‘I have heard his voice in the thunder: it speaks to me in the rustle of the reeds and the chatter of leaves.’

  ‘Nothing speaks in the rustle of leaves,’ Grunmir said, but some of the woyaks turned away from him. ‘Or should we now take council from the wind?’ He smiled, but he was losing the argument. ‘Maybe we should ask that stone what it thinks, or if that clump of earth has hatched a cunning plan to free us?’ Some of the woyaks smirked but they were quick to hide their mirth from Wislaw’s scowl.

  ‘I’d listen to Grunmir,’ Iwa said as she glanced hopefully about her. Few of the woyaks bothered to listen. Even the women who’d gathered, anxious to see what all the fuss was about, didn’t appear to hear her.

  Only the old priest appeared to notice, or to care. Could it be that he’d underestimated this girl? Still he couldn’t see how – she was just a mud-caked wretch who trembled at his feet. Momentarily their eyes met in a grim understanding. Maybe she would have made an interesting playmate, but circumstances dictated otherwise. No, she could not be left to run free.

  Perhaps the craft within her was not so great; the manikin was newly formed, such an untested instrument. Still she fought against it, her words stuttering so that the others thought that she was afraid, if they thought about her at all. Despite himself he was impressed. She had more of the craft about her than he’d been willing to admit, but that only made her all the more dangerous. She had to be disposed of. Nobody could have something like her running about free. The sooner she could be put to the blade, the better for all.

  ‘We need a sacrifice,’ Wislaw’s voice rang out over the assembly. He hadn’t counted on such resistance. These men who were used to blood and slaughter… even the krol appeared to draw back. ‘Only with the blood of this girl can we fight the demon. Piórun has spoken to me: his instructions are clear. She is to be sacrificed in his tradition.’

  ‘But my blood’s never been good for anything,’ Iwa said as the vestiges of the spell choked at the base of her neck, ‘it’s not been able to fight off so much as a cold.’ The woyaks sniggered as, behind cupped hands, the women hid their mockery. Iwa looked round for a friendly face but all she found was Katchka’s glare. ‘You can’t kill me,’ Iwa said, ‘what god would make do with an unwilling sacrifice?’

  She drew a sharp breath and hoped that her words sounded pitiful enough, but it was no good. The gods lapped up blood whether it was willing or not, even she knew as much.

  ‘What do you understand of such things?’ Wislaw spat. At least he’d graced her lies with an answer. ‘We spill the blood of animals easily enough – does the rabbit or the hare come as a willing victim? Does the sheep bleat its consent before the blade is drawn?’

  ‘But I’m not a sheep.’ Even Grunmir had to stifle a laugh. She looked round and knew that it was hopeless. This should have been the river camp. She should be running around after the women or trying to catch the first of the fish in one of the tiny inlets where the men spread their nets. This was the great river, she’d come here since she was a baby carried in a birch-bark cradle slung on one of the women’s back. Before, it had seemed that Matka Ziemia hardly changed here from one year to the next. There were the reed beds where the white storks would sometimes gather, or the little hollows in the dead trees where the woodpeckers and short-eared owls nested.

  Now she looked round and felt the landscape to be a strange and alien place. How was it that it was now so different? Even the water smelt wrong. I don’t know this place. Suddenly she wanted to get out, run away into the forest and follow the great river as if she could still find the autumn camp, as fresh as it had always been.

  ‘Enough of this foolishness.’ Wislaw raised his hand as a couple of woyaks took Iwa’s arms. He wondered why the krol didn’t see the danger. Krol Gawel’s instincts had always been so sharp. This wasn’t th
e quick decisive warrior of old. Now he appeared bowed down like some ancient stag whose antlers had grown too heavy.

  No, the time for patience was at an end. And if the krol didn’t see the danger then he’d have to be brought to his senses, either that or… Again Wislaw stifled the thought. But how long could the krol stag rule? Wislaw had had to bide his time long enough with this girl already. The years had taught him how to wait, but it had been a harsh lesson rather than an inclination.

  He drew back and gulped down his anger. Around him he could see the woyaks picking themselves up. They were frightened and malleable. No, it had to be now, whilst the men wouldn’t question. ‘Piórun the thunderer is our god, my krol. Above all others it is he who looks down from his holy mountain to cast his protection over us. Let us not deny him his due on account of a child’s foolish tears. Give her over to me and all will be well. Piórun will reach down and smite this demon for us.’

  ‘But…’ Grunmir managed.

  ‘Piórun has guided us thus far,’ Wislaw cut him off quickly. ‘Is he not the strongest of the gods? All must bow down before him, my krol.’

  An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd as, here and there, a few of the woyaks covered symbols of other gods. Now the old priest didn’t need the manikin. Iwa was too shocked to say anything more. Suddenly a great tiredness descended upon her. She hadn't recovered from her experiences in the tent and it had only been her fear that had kept her going for so long. Now even that was spent. Still some of the men looked uncertain, the amulets of far-off deities glinting about their necks. If only Wislaw would overplay his hand, then some might remember to whom they owed their allegiance.

  Krol Gawel looked troubled, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword. Not that he cared about the girl, but he sensed the danger. The priest was becoming too powerful, for all the woyaks’ mistrust. Perhaps it would be better to give him this sacrifice and have done with it. ‘Your conscience is troubled,’ Wislaw said softly, ‘and that is a noble sentiment, my krol, one that is worthy of such a man as you; but the gods demand human sacrifice – this girl’s blood.’