by Scott Bury
“Don’t be a fool,” said a third refugee. “There haven’t been Sarmatians here for centuries. They were Avars.”
“Goths, maybe,” said someone else.
“Whoever they were,” said the first refugee, raising his voice. “They attacked our village at dawn. They didn’t even make demands for food or anything. They just shot fire arrows at our holody, then burst in and started killing people. They burned down the village, killed the livestock.” He looked down and started weeping. “They killed all the children.” He started to sob.
“They took the young women and raped them,” said a woman, herself bloody and bruised. “They tied the men, and killed many who fought back. They were merciless, completely merciless!”
Later, by the fire, Mstys held a council with the elders of his village, Photius and the eldest man and woman of the refugees from Kletka. “It’s very strange, the way the raiders have attacked both our villages without warning or demands,” he said. “I don’t understand why they didn’t take food or supplies or animals, but were only after killing and destruction.”
“How often have you faced the raiders before?” asked Photius.
“Groups come through every month or two,” Mstys answered. “Usually six or seven at a time. The big groups spread out through the country, sending small parties to each village to gather what they need. Occasionally they would take a girl for their pleasure, but always leave her afterward.”
“Is it the same raiders from time to time?” Photius asked.
“No, never. But usually they’re from the same tribe, I think. They dress the same,” Mstys said. “They have the same kinds of weapons, and they always use horses.”
“They’re monsters from the wildernesses of the east,” said Slawko, the one-handed man from Kletka; Photius had had to amputate his left arm above the elbow because of the savage sword cut that had nearly severed it. “I think they came out of Hell in Asia, across the prairies for our land.”
“Don’t be so superstitious, Slawko,” said the woman from Kletka. To Javor, she seemed ancient, a haggard crone with long lank hair and deep circles under her eyes, but she couldn’t have been even 40 years old. “They’re just barbarians, raiding and taking what they want.”
“I tell you, Allia, they’re not human!” Slawko shouted, shaking his remaining fist.
“Men can be plenty evil, Slawko. You know that as well as I do,” retorted Allia. “They’re just men, doing horrible things to whoever they can to get what they want.”
Photius interrupted: “Did the group that attacked you have a dragon design or symbol on their shields?”
The two refugees stared blankly for a moment. “No,” they said together.
“What about those who have attacked you before, Mstys? The ones who demanded food and tribute?”
Mstys looked at the other elders gathered around him. Finally, he said “No, not that I remember. Most had no symbols about them at all.”
Photius nodded. “This was a different group, then,” he said.
Javor whetted his sword. He felt angrier with every moment. Finally, he walked through the village, stopping to speak to young men. “Meet me at the gate at sunrise,” he told each one.
The next morning, Javor had a group of ten young men. A few had the arms and armour from the dead raiders, while others had hunting bows, spears, axes and long knives. Javor led them out the gate, to the surprise of the guards on watch, and through the forest path to a clearing near the river. He redistributed the arms: most ended up with a helmet and upper-body armour and a sword of some kind. But no one was fully armoured, and none of them knew how to fight with these kinds of weapons beyond the rudimentary skills he had shown them the day before. He started to show them the basics of sword-fighting. After a few near-disasters with the real weapons, he got them to practise with sticks instead.
Javor felt like he never had before as he showed the boys how to hold their “swords,” how to stand and how to move. The boys asked him questions, to approve their stance and the way they swung and stabbed. No one had ever asked him for advice before, let alone instruction; his own village had always treated him with pity or scorn. He felt older, smarter, more serious. He had never felt so…competent. He corrected the boys’ movements, told them how to anticipate their opponents’ reactions. He was aware that his voice sounded deeper. He could feel his brows knitting together until he got a slight headache.
When the sun started to climb, the boys and young men returned to the village; none of them would tell much of what they had been doing, Javor knew. And every morning for the next seven days they met again. By the end of that time, they were by no means warriors, but they had developed a rough proficiency with weapons. Javor convinced himself that they could face an enemy force, and the boys themselves were enthusiastic. After that first week, Javor started giving out the weapons again, and for most of each morning they drilled, practising attacks and defences.
When the sun got too high and too hot for intensive drilling, Javor led his little class down to the stream to bathe, and then back to the holody where they all had to get back to chores.
Javor felt a pang as he watched the boys go back to their chores. They’re exhausted. But each morning at sunrise, they all gathered to drill and train some more.
Photius found them one day. He strode purposefully into the clearing where Javor directed their training, motioned Javor to one side and demanded “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m training them the way you trained me.” Javor had expected Photius’ objections. “I’m passing on my skills like you said you were doing for me.”
Photius was grave and spoke quietly and quickly. “Javor, you’re sentencing these boys to death. They’re not warriors, and no more than two of them ever have a hope of becoming one. You’re wasting time when they should be strengthening their defences.”
“How can they defend themselves if they don’t know how to use weapons?”
“By building up their stockade and their gate, laying in supplies of food and firewood, making refuges and secret escape routes. The only hope they have is in staying out of sight of raiders, making it difficult and costly for raiders who find them and want to attack, and paying them off as cheaply as possible. If any of them raises a weapon, he’s not only going to get killed, he’s going to cause the deaths of many more.”
“And what about things that aren’t Avars, the men who attacked with the dragon symbol, the things that have been following me?”
“If you really hope to help these people, then you will get away from them as fast as possible. Supernatural beings in this area are looking for you.”
Javor didn’t know how to respond to that. But just then, one of his students, a skinny, dark-haired man of about 20 named Krasimir, delivered a savage blow on Hach’s arm with a stout stick that he was using as a sword. Hach howled in pain: the arm was broken. Javor was dismayed: their best archer was incapacitated. Muttering under his breath, Photius splinted the young man’s arm, and the whole group, dispirited, trudged back to the holody.
Chapter 10: Counter-attack
Why is the night so quiet? The afternoon breeze had brought in high, wispy clouds, but it had died and smoke rose straight up. The thin moon sank early and in the almost complete darkness, every creature seemed to try to be silent. Even the owls and crickets seemed hushed, afraid to make much noise. The people of Bilavod stepped carefully to avoid making noise and whispered to each other.
Mstys ordered groups of men, including all the youngsters that Javor had tried to train, to stand watch in shifts through the dark hours; Photius stayed with them through the night, never tiring. Thrice, they heard a wolf howling, and all the men stopped their furtive whispering and touched whatever they had for weapons. But nothing happened.
Javor could not sleep. Tired as he was through the night, he could not hold still and paced around the village, from the gate to the stockade on the opposite side. Men and boys woke up a youn
g man who fell asleep with his chin resting on the top of the stockade. Once, he saw Lalya near her father’s hut.
Will this night never end? It has to be sunrise soon. But the sun refused to cooperate. Photius found Javor drumming his fingers on the eastern side of the stockade, staring impatiently at the darkness as it greyed with infuriating slowness.
When the first orange light touched the clouds, Javor exhaled noisily through pursed lips. “Finally,” he muttered.
When the light was strong enough to see individual bushes scattered in the meadows outside the holody, one of the watchmen started to scream. On the grassy slope before the holody’s gate sat a severed human head. Its eyes were half-closed, its mouth gaping, the tongue protruding, its hair matted with dried blood.
The rising sun revealed the full horror on the slope. Twenty paces from the head was another, also grimacing in pain and horror, covered in its own blood.
Mstys took an axe and leather jerkin and ordered some of his men out of the gate. They were joined by Bohdan, the scarred man and some of the others from Kletka. Javor and Photius followed. As they neared the first head, the men of Kletka started to weep. “Miro! It’s Miro!” said one. The second head was a woman’s. “Oda!” cried another man.
They could see a long line of severed heads leading down a path in the forest, but Photius stopped them from going farther. “We’re getting too far from the safety of the holody already,” he said. “This is a trap. Don’t fall into it.”
It was too late. Yelling, the young troop that Javor had tried to train came pouring out of the gate, waving spears and swords over their heads. They charged down the path, following the trail of severed heads from Kletka.
“See what you’ve done, Javor!” growled Photius. But Javor was already running after the boys, shouting “Wait! Stop!” It was futile.
He caught up with them when they had come a stop deep in the forest, unsure of where to go next. Javor could not see the holody. “You’re not ready!” Javor panted. But it was panic, not exertion, that made his heart pound. The amulet, on its chain under his tunic, chafed him.
“We’re not afraid!” said Krasimir, lifting his notched sword. His pilfered helmet was too big for him and slipped over one eye. “You see what they’ve done, what they’re going to do to all of us if we don’t fight back!”
“They’ll cut you to pieces!” said Javor, but by the time he finished that statement an arrow was protruding from Krasimir’s exposed eye and hooves were thundering around them. Javor just managed to draw his long sword and slash at a horse’s leg before he realized the little troop was surrounded. Singing, the raiders joyfully cut down the young men. Javor leaped forward to parry a sword as it swung toward Hach, but a spear went through the archer’s body from another direction. Javor killed the raider with his sword, whirled and cut down another who had dismounted, but it was useless. He was the only one fighting, and before he knew it he was surrounded by a ring of mounted spears and the dead bodies of the boys he had tried, and failed, to train.
The raiders were laughing now, talking in their strange language. Are they arguing about which of them will gut me? His left hand gripped the amulet through the tunic as one raider, evidently elected by his fellows for the honour, urged his horse a step closer.
Something flashed brighter than the sun. The horses reared and screamed, the men shouted and two fell off their mounts. Trees ignited all around them. Another flash, and two raiders were burning, running in circles and screaming.
“Javor, here!” Javor darted toward Photius’ voice through an opening in the ring of horses where the two men had fallen. The raiders shouted and shot arrows, but they bounced off the trees. He found Photius with his staff glowing. “Get back to Bilavod, quickly!” he shouted, and they ran as fast as they could.
Behind them, hooves thundered again. Photius whirled and his staff flashed bright again, but he slumped, exhausted; the spells were sapping his strength. Javor grabbed his shoulder and propelled him through the trees until they reached the clearing and could see Bilavod’s holody. Mstys stood inside the barely open gate, waving the two closer. “Hurry, hurry!” he called, and slammed the gate shut just as the two jumped inside. They heard thunk! thunk! as arrows hit the logs.
“Are you all that escaped?” Mstys asked, dismayed.
“I’m afraid so,” Photius panted. “The young men—”
“I’m sorry, Mstys,” said Javor. “I tried to stop them.” He felt tears on his face as he thought of the brave, stupid Krasimir and the doomed Hach.
Mstys didn’t say anything, but a woman stepped up behind him. “Murderer!” she screamed. “Butcher of children! Don’t think we don’t know what you’ve been up to!”
Javor shrunk back. “It was you who told them they knew how to fight!” the woman went on. “It was you who lied to them! It was you who led them to be slaughtered!”
“No, I was trying—”
There was no time to argue; burning arrows fell inside the stockade and villagers ran to put out the flames. A few archers shot through the loopholes that Photius had ordered made, while women brought Photius his powders and tools.
The rain of arrows stopped. Mstys peered through a loophole. “They’ve surrounded us, but they’re not doing anything. They’re waiting for something.”
Photius worked feverishly, measuring out powders and treating arrows, doling them out as he could to the archers. “Don’t shoot anything until I tell you to,” he said. Javor helped as much as he could. The villagers rushed to reinforce the walls and pile logs and other odd items against the gate, but Javor knew it was useless. They need to be doing something. Somewhere, the mothers of the dead young fighters in the forest cried.
A tense calm gradually filled the holody. No one spoke. They stood, peering through loopholes and watch-holes, or tended fires or held unlit torches ready.
Outside, the raiders slowly circled the holody, silent and terrifying, just beyond bow range. The morning wore on, growing hotter, but still they did nothing. “They’re waiting for reinforcements,” said Mstys. He was soon proved right. By midmorning, thirty more riders joined the twenty that had ambushed Javor and the young men. They spread around the stockade evenly and, when they were all in place, raised their bows and shot volley after volley of fire-arrows into the holody.
The villagers did not panic. Mstys had ordered that thatch be taken off the roofs of the buildings and thrown outside the walls. The arrows did little damage as the villagers quickly and efficiently poured sand on the flames or stamped them out.
The raiders broke off their fusillade. Mstys took the chance to put his head above the wall. “What do you want?” he yelled, but received only jeers in reply.
Javor looked through a loophole to see a group of riders raise their swords and charge. There was a loud crash at the gates, and the whole stockade moved, but held.
“They have a battering ram!” shouted Mstys. Archers jumped to loopholes on the sides of the gates where they could shoot at anyone attacking there and began to fire Photius’ burning arrows. They hit their targets, but the raiders had learned since the night before and immediately dropped and rolled on the ground. Several were hurt badly enough to withdraw, but Javor knew they couldn’t drive them all off that way.
The battering ram was a big log carried between two horses; its crew backed the animals up, then slapped their hindquarters to send them charging at the gate again. “Kill the horses!” Javor shouted. Reluctantly, an archer shot at the horse, setting it afire. It tried to run, but fell on the other horse, setting it and the log ablaze as well. Javor felt sick at the pitiful sight of the dying horse.
Then the riders charged from all directions at once, standing on their saddles to vault the stockade. One landed behind Javor, whose sword seemed to find its own way to the raider’s head, biting through the mail and killing him on the spot. Javor wrenched the sword free of the falling body and ran toward another attacker. His sword led the way, piercing the man’s ch
est.
But there were too many of them. They killed villagers indiscriminately. Spears and swords bloodied tunics and skirts. Mstys wielded a scythe, cutting down the raiders until a blow to his head knocked him down. Photius had his sword out and Javor saw him dispatch two raiders before another blocked his view.
Javor swung his sword, but the raider was quick and skilled and engaged him in a terrifying bout. Time after time, Javor barely dodged swipes of the curved blade. He couldn’t connect and was conscious of his own lack of skill and experience.
The other man knew he had the advantage. He hit Javor on the arm, then on the head with the flat of his blade. He drew no blood, but the pain slowed Javor down. He swung his blade again and missed again. His opponent seemed to go for his chest, but suddenly swiped savagely at Javor’s legs, tripping him. Javor went down hard. The amulet fell out of his jerkin then, but its chain was still on his neck, and Javor grabbed it unconsciously. The curved sword struck his back, ringing on the armour, but it didn’t penetrate.
Javor rolled on top of his sword. He tried to get out his dagger, but the raider brought his down on Javor’s chest. The blow winded Javor, but the armour held, ringing.
He sat up and leaped forward at his opponent’s legs, bringing the man down, and drove his dagger into the man’s face and up into his brain. The raider spasmed, then slumped, dead.
Another blow took off his helmet and blinded Javor. He scrambled to his feet, clutching at his amulet. A huge raider, almost a head taller than him, swung a huge sword at his neck, aiming to take his head off, but missed; Javor felt the wind as the blade swept past his face. He lunged forward, using the dagger-to-the-brain strategy again, and it worked again. He picked his broadsword off the ground and ran to a knot of villagers who were trying to fend off ten or more raiders. From the corner of his eye, he saw yet more climbing the walls. It’s hopeless.
