The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  Wislaw’s chant woke her. She’d been asleep, her dreams filled with blood and sacrifice. Through a gap in the tent, she’d seen the woyaks gathered at the river’s edge, the wind sending sparks trailing over the waters in bright swirling patterns.

  Wislaw stood before the altar, right at the edge so that his feet touched the river. Behind him the torches fluttered, petals of flame weaving though the gaping mouths of the beasts’ heads as he raised the crescent-bladed knife that flashed silver in the moonlight. Before him a lynx lay stretched out on the tiny altar. He must have drugged it, because the creature didn’t move even as its head was pulled back. But it was quite clearly alive, the eyes staring into the blackness as it waited for the knife. Or perhaps it was the chant itself, some magic locked beneath the words that had lulled the creature into a stupor.

  She felt Wislaw’s tattoos move, forked tongues flickering across his forehead in anticipation as the blade struck and the blood gushed into a tiny copper bowl. Around them the magic howled. Iwa felt a jolt as it ran through her veins, her body alive with the craft. Suddenly she was fully alert.

  All was dark, the air cold and still about her. But she was awake, her body shivering as she remembered the pain along the side of her ribs. Some part of her could still see the woyaks, as Wislaw anointed the krol’s head with blood. But the vision appeared distant, the figures blurred, the men’s faces melting into the darkness.

  Carefully she tested the ropes. Nobody had bothered to check the knots. Few expected anything more from her now, other than to wait for death. And if it hadn’t been for that rush of magic, maybe they would have been right. She could feel it still, the craft coursing through her body, giving her arms extra strength. If only her body didn’t ache so. A swift jolt of pain greeted her as she pulled on the ropes. There was a moment’s pause as she readied herself and then, with a final tug, she slipped her hand through the knot. There was a wince of pain as her other wrist took the full weight of her body. Quickly she slipped it through, the skin raw and bloodied.

  Silently she flopped to the ground, her eyes trained on the curtain. Outside, nothing moved as she crept away. At least now there was no time to think. She had to get Yaroslav, and quickly. From the far end of the camp there came a soft sound. The woyaks were singing a low lament that drifted through the dark. She couldn’t make out the words, but she didn’t like the tone, and a shiver crossed the top of her spine as she crawled under the tarpaulin.

  On the other side Yaroslav hung, his breath coming in short gasps as he twisted on the end of the rope.

  ‘Go without me,’ he whispered. ‘You have to be brave. There is nothing you can do for me now.’ She looked away from his beaten face, her fingers trembling as she tried the knots that held him firm. Along his right leg there was a bloodied gash. ‘So you see, I cannot walk,’ he said, trying his best to smile. ‘You have to leave me.’

  ‘You never did, even in the snow.’

  ‘But then there was a chance of success, here you have none. You cannot save me, only my memory. You need to run before Grunmir finds you and Wislaw binds you to that cross of his. Get out, go as far and as fast as you can. Leave and…’ he paused, ‘remember me.’

  Knowing he was right, Iwa wiped away her tears and then, with a final hug, she slipped into the dark.

  Outside, the woyaks stood by the river, torches blazing as they sang a paean to the dark mistress of the night. Over the waters the animal skulls blazed. With breath held, Iwa moved through the camp, her body moulded to the shadows. On the ramparts a few of the woyaks kept watch, but most were gathered at the water’s edge, leaving large parts of the perimeter unguarded. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to slip past, but she turned and made her way further into the camp.

  Panting, she sank against the side of Krol Gawel’s ship and tried to make herself as small as possible. Behind her there was a noise: it took all her strength not to run. All was still except for the woyaks’ song. By the shore the giant cross blazed in the light reflected from the fire. From here she could see a tiny platform near the top, the chains ready to take her feet.

  Resting at the base of the altar was what she first took to be a war axe but, as she looked closer, she could see that the shaft was too long to be wielded properly, needing a second handle placed halfway along. The blade was curved like the crescent moon and crackled with magic. Runes shimmered across the wood and she could sense deeper, darker runes hidden in the steel; ancient magic that bayed for blood. By its side rested another implement, much like the first but perhaps only a quarter of the length. The shaft curved where a handle jutted out so that it looked like the outline of a wading bird. It too held magic, the spells woven tightly about the steel, but the blade was shorter and more cruelly curved.

  That should have made her run, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene. From the waters the wind picked up and rattled the chains that hung from the cross piece, each ending in a savage hook. As the woyaks’ song swelled, the wind followed it so that the rattle of the chains mingled with the words into one savage sound, soft as a whisper. Slowly she made her way along the side of the ship. It should have been a simple thing to get to the palisade. Moonlight glinted through gaps in the timbers to illuminate the broken ground before her. Most of the woyaks were watching the sacrifice, and even the few on the walls were looking out at the forest, not inwards to the camp.

  Carefully she moved her body through the shadows, but not towards the palisade. Sooner or later somebody was bound to find out that she was gone. Would Wislaw demand Yaroslav’s body in her place? She had to put a stop to all this, even if it meant going back to Miskyia.

  The rest of the camp was deserted. Even the guards outside Krol Gawel’s ship were nowhere to be seen. By the altar the curved blades glinted. She could almost sense the runes stirring deep within those steel crescent blades as she slunk along beside their curved prows.

  Silently she crawled up the steps of Krol Gawel’s ship, her muscles tensed, ready to fling herself aside at the first trace of danger. Inside, all was still. The light shimmered across the polished wooden planks and, behind the chair, the amulet lay forgotten. Even now she didn’t dare crawl inside. She felt the air thick about her as she peered into the gloom and, if it hadn’t been for her fear of Wislaw, she doubted that she would ever have found the courage to slip inside.

  Dropping to the floor she hid behind one of the sacks, the feel of the wood strange beneath her feet. There was no sign of life. The amulet lay only a few feet away. Surely it was the gem, with the last remnants of Bethrayal’s craft locked inside. It had to be. Outside, a spell was cast and, from deep within the bowels of the ship, the amulet crackled with life. Maybe Wislaw lacked the subtlety to sense the amulet’s spell, but sooner or later he’d surely discover the magic. It wasn’t that she trusted Miskyia, but the thought of anything so powerful falling into the hands of that old priest and his reptile-headed god was almost too much to bear.

  That moment’s hesitation saved her. She was on the verge of leaving the shadows, and then a figure moved. Hidden behind a curtain, she’d had no chance to notice him before. It was the lame boy. His club foot dragged across the hull as he went to sit on a bench and began to polish Krol Gawel’s golden cup, a tune dribbling from his lips as he worked the wax into the metal.

  He had his back to her, his shoulder blades moving slowly as he worked. Iwa’s feet hardly made a sound as she padded over to the chair and reached for the amulet. It was such a simple thing, a circle of polished bronze in the centre of which lay a blue-green gem. But, as she curled it into her fist, a tingle of power ran through her fingers.

  Something was wrong. She paused, ready to run, the hairs pricking up along the back of her neck. Wislaw’s doll, she thought, as a sense of panic gripped her, but she felt no touch of magic. Half expecting to feel a woyak’s hands upon her, she turned and looked behind her. All was silent. But something was wrong, she knew it. Even before she’d finished turning
back, the realisation hit her: the boy had stopped his song.

  He had his back to her as he sat hunched over the cup, but the cloth was still in his hand. He’d seen her reflection. Maybe, in the light, the cup had distorted the image so that it had taken him a moment to realise what was going on, or maybe he was just shocked to see her behind him, but the boy hadn’t reacted until, across the cup’s polished surface, his eyes met hers. There was a moment’s pause as the realisation sank in and then, with an almost unnatural swiftness, the boy leapt up.

  But Iwa was quicker: she’d already grabbed his arm and thrust her knee into his stomach so that the force of the blow drove the wind out of him and smothered his cry. Desperately she tried to push past, but she wasn’t quick enough and the boy fell on top of her. She jabbed the palm of her hand into his throat but missed the thorax and, now that the initial shock had worn off, the boy was quick to grip her wrist, his fingers tearing through her skin. He tried to call out but Iwa pressed the palm of her free hand against his mouth so hard that she felt his teeth crack as she tried to twist his head away, her fingers ready to gouge out his eyes, so the boy had little choice but to let go.

  He was on his knees now, towering over her, fist raised ready to smash her face. Somehow she managed to get her knee against his chest and kick him off her. In one fluid motion he rolled and reached for a dagger tucked into his belt. Before he had a chance to rise, she leapt up and grabbed the krol’s cup, bringing it down on the back of his head so hard that the force of the blow reverberated through her arm. With a groan the boy fell to the floor, the back of his head matted with blood.

  She slumped to the floor and lay against the side of the ship. A stray gust of wind rustled the tarpaulin. A woyak could come in at any moment. Lungs aching, she picked herself up and, grabbing the amulet, ran over to the stairs, all thoughts of stealth forgotten as she jumped over the side. She hit the ground and became cautious again. She had to get out quickly before the boy came to his senses.

  Where was Wislaw? Fear gave her courage as she broke into a shallow run. It was a fool’s gambit – but the woyaks had finished with their sacrifice and were now hard at their vodka as they danced round the fire. There was nobody to notice as she made her way to the wall. Hopefully there would only be a few woyaks left on guard.

  Up above a figure moved. She froze, breath held, as the figure rested against the parapet, the wood creaking under his weight as he scanned the forest. Maybe he was one of those who Grunmir trusted, or the old woyak’s bark had terrified the man because he didn’t spare so much as a glance to the camp. Keeping her eyes trained on the figure, she began to crawl on her hands and knees. Here the ground had been cleared, making it difficult to find any cover.

  By the shore, the dance was in full swing, the shadows flickering across the camp. Crawling slowly, Iwa tried to make her way to the earth wall. In the dark it looked even larger and more terrifying, the shadows closing in around her as she looked up and tried to fight down the panic. There had to be a way up. Luckily the watcher on the parapet hadn’t spotted her. But she couldn’t see how she could get to the top.

  Then she stopped. In the dark there was a scuffle, the faintest trace of a footstep; the hunters were close. She could sense them, their breath halted as they clung to the shadows. There couldn’t be too many out there, a raiding party perhaps. She looked about her but caught little more than a few fleeting glimpses of figures scurrying in the night.

  Keeping a tight watch on the wall, she began to crawl forward as, by the river, the woyaks’ chant swelled. Wislaw’s voice was raised above the din. Then, as she neared the base of the wall, she stopped. A figure came out of the night, a woyak in full armour. Around her she sensed the hunters tense, as the woyak walked along the base of the earthwork. He was old, his limbs stiff as he stopped to arch his back.

  Luckily he turned to the river and the spectacle of the sacrifice. Iwa closed her eyes and prayed to Jezi Baba. The hunters had melted into the shadows, but she had never mastered the skills of the hunt. She was a child of the clan, far stealthier than any woyak, but she was no hunter and, at any moment, the old man would be bound to see her. Maybe the hunters would kill him before his warning cry had left his lips.

  He was close now, his footsteps creaking. She tensed. Still there was no sound of an arrow or spear thrust. Surely the hunters will help me? They were far from the river and, once the woyak had caught her, it would have been easy for the hunters to slip past him unseen and scrabble over the wall before Grunmir and the others arrived. So they have me in the bear pit again. She cursed and wondered if she shouldn’t make a run for it now.

  ‘It’s a cold night,’ a voice said. It was Alia, her footsteps sliding smoothly across the hard ground, ‘and you are far from the fires.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be on the shore, with the others?’ the woyak replied. There was a hint of suspicion as he glanced at her. She was the krol’s woman, the one who kept at his side, so what was she doing here so far from the fire?

  ‘I have no stomach for such things,’ she smiled as the woyak raised his spear to her.

  ‘And I thought a huntress born of the forest wouldn’t be so squeamish.’

  ‘I’ve gutted more than my fair share of the kill before now, and we too burn our meat before the sacred fires of Karnobog, but never the whole of a carcass. Our god is not so greedy.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why Piórun is more powerful than this Karnobog of yours.’ There was a pause as Alia came closer, the firelight shimmering around her tight dress. ‘Shouldn’t you be with the krol?’ the old woyak said slowly. ‘If not, then shouldn’t you be with the women? I heard no orders for you to wander free.’

  ‘I brought you some vodka.’ There was the sound of a cork being opened. ‘Come rest your bones by the fire.’ She nodded to where a fire burned in a small iron brazier.

  ‘I should stay by the wall. These forest clans are cunning as a trapped rat.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be on the ramparts?’ Alia mocked.

  ‘On a night like this?’ the woyak murmured, allowing Alia to lead him away. ‘Only fools would brave this cold.’

  Almost at once the hunters moved, silent shadows cutting through the night, and Iwa was with them, scrabbling up the earthen slope. She had no time to think about whatever game Alia was playing, or even to rest once she got to the top. Now she realised why the woyak hadn’t stood guard on the top of the wall. A line of stakes had been driven deep into the earth to form a crude palisade, but the woyaks’ handiwork was patchy, with long stretches left bare. Above Iwa the skulls of animals glowed, tongues of fire licking round the sockets of their charred eyes. So the old woyak trusted to the barrier rather than go up into the wind and see for himself. There was a tingling sensation as she crossed the barrier, and a sharp intake of breath as she slipped through a gap in the wood and scrambled down the other side.

  She walked as if in a dream. The death of Godek and the others had shocked her more than she realised. I should have stayed with Yaroslav in the cave. I could have warned him of the woyaks when they came, they’d never have the wit to catch us, not out in the forest, and he’d be safe now. The clan is dead and I was a fool to ever think that I could change anything. Only Yaroslav mattered now. The thought of him bound helpless before Wislaw and the krol made her skin crawl, as she pushed through the bracken and realised that she could no longer see the path ahead. Who made these tracks? Part of her no longer believed that Karnobog had given them to the clan or that they were sacred. Nothing but empty bones. It was all a lie, Karnobog was never anything more than a childish game; a trick the elders played to bind the rest of us to the clan. I was an idiot to think that I could ever have been one of them. Karnobog’s nothing, nothing, just a worthless promise. She shivered. He never gave us any sacred knowledge, or paths to follow the herds. How many feet have trod these ways, cut their path through the trees? Were they like the men who painted in the caves, or are they older still? Did they kneel before
false gods? Perhaps the old god had never lived inside the bones at all.

  Then she stopped and looked about her. Like all the clan, she had a mental map of the forest, built up ever since she was old enough to walk. Now everything seemed different. Where were the familiar landmarks, the childhood places that should have been so clear? It was as if the whole forest was blurred. The well-known sights were no longer there, as if they too had fled the trees.

  Everything had happened too fast: Bethrayal, Miskyia and the woyaks’ attack. Until now Iwa had been caught up in things, tossed and turned like river flotsam with no chance to realise what she’d been through. Only now, in the stillness of the trees and the loneliness of the forest, did the weight of events fall upon her. I should be happy by the fire with the clan around me: all those people who should never have died, Godek, Gedymin and who knows how many others? She could picture them now with the firelight playing across their faces as they laughed and drank their fill, their bellies stuffed with the fruits of the hunt. If only I never had anything to do with demons or magic. I should have stayed a child and done nothing more than hide from Katchka when the others went berry-picking. There was a strange scent in the air and Iwa realised that she was shivering, though it was not from cold.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Iwa couldn’t tell exactly when she crossed into the hidden place. There was no change in the scenery, no tingle of energy or crackle of power, but somehow she knew that she had stumbled into it. All was still, yet she couldn’t help but feel that she was being followed. There was an odd pricking sensation at the back of her head, and once or twice she almost caught the image of a man blurred at the edges of her vision but, when she next looked, there was nothing.