There was no mistaking the conical outline or the black plume that danced from the silvered top. This was the demon in the night.
‘Then perhaps I’ve caught one of the water folk.’ His voice came hollow from behind the mail. ‘A Rusalka come to tempt us to our doom.’
Iwa struggled to get up but he grabbed her shoulder and forced her down. Only then did he take off his helmet and gave her a withering look as if he were examining some strange insect. He was old, his beard streaked with grey. His skin was worn and tanned like old leather and the sliver of a scar curled around the rim of his left eye, cutting across to the side of his mouth to give his smile a cruel, lopsided look.
‘No,’ he chuckled, as the others pressed closer still, each one clearly enjoying the spectacle. ‘Well then, perhaps I’ve caught myself a bog spirit; a Bignica.’ The men laughed as Iwa squirmed under his grip. ‘I don’t know of any marshes near here.’ The greybeard looked around as if searching for something. ‘Plenty of marshes up north – you must be far from home, tiny bog spirit.’
‘I am no Bignica.’ Her words drifted into the stillness. ‘Or a Rusalka either. And if I was I would cast your souls into the pit for worms and snakes to peck at.’
‘Not a Bignica?’ he echoed, his voice filled with surprise.
‘No.’
‘Or a Rusalka?’
‘No.’
‘So is this one of the Leszy?’ He paused, a look of deep concentration on his weatherbeaten features. ‘Or are you one of the deathless ones taken human form? So what would you say, boys?’ He looked round at the others, a grin playing across his cruelly lopsided face. ‘Perhaps I have a hold of one of the gods, but which one? Are you the goddess of love?’ He shook his head slowly as he examined her hair, matted with mud and broken twigs. ‘Surely Živa would not have taken such an ill form. Maybe you are Veles, who watches over the fertile earth,’ he pondered, the mirth barely hidden behind his words. ‘You have the look of the soil about you. Or maybe you’re Kostroma, come to change dull winter into glorious spring. Have we disturbed you, is that why you have not breathed warm spring yet into these roots and briars? Is that what you were up to before we caught you?’
He bent his head in mock salute. ‘Apologies, mistress of the spring, we should not have troubled you. See how the land longs for your touch to drive the winter cold away, we could hardly delay your work.’
‘That’s fine,’ she mumbled, her head reeling at the ridiculousness of his words. ‘Let me go and I’ll be on my way to give the gift of spring to the forest.’
‘But on the other hand, our souls would really be in the pit if you were one of the deathless ones. What, lads, do you not feel the viper’s kiss?’ The others laughed as the youngest dropped his shield and mimicked being bitten. ‘No, I do not fear for our souls. Why then, you must be a little girl.’ The three men continued to smirk but Greybeard fell silent, a look of anger playing across his face. ‘One who could hide from the three men I sent out to scout.’ In his right hand he still had the war helm and, before the laughter had time to die, he swung it in a vicious arc that caught the nearest man squarely on the shoulder. ‘And if she’d so much as a knife upon her she could have crept up and cut your throats before you’d finished your vodka.’
He had his back to her now, but there was no disguising the fury of his voice, his great battle helm quivering in his hand. All at once the laughter died as the men looked at her, as if it had somehow all been her fault. The one nearest to her raised his spear, more of a reaction to the blow than a serious attempt to strike, but with a savage swipe of his battle helm, Greybeard brushed it aside.
When she looked up again, Greybeard had an axe at the man’s throat. ‘When I tell you to scout,’ he said, ‘you scout. Because this,’ he pressed the axe in tighter so that a thin sliver of blood oozed along the blade, ‘is Fang and, if I catch you shirking again, I’ll set this blade to work and Fang will whittle your bones to shreds.’
With that he let the man fall, oblivious to the looks of fear and hate emanating from the others. They paused, spears trembling as they weighed up the odds, the older man running his finger across his wound, but none of them were in the mood to fight.
‘You two,’ Greybeard said, without bothering to turn, ‘up on that ridge and keep a sharp watch. Any ships come round that bend, I want to know about it double quick, understand? And you,’ he turned to the man nearest Iwa, ‘take this girl back to the camp and try to make sure that she doesn’t outwit you again.’
There was a pause before the two men slunk off into the trees. Without a word the other one came forward, his face grim as he hauled Iwa to her feet and prodded her forward with the butt of his spear. Only now did she see him clearly. His skin was pockmarked and weatherbeaten, bitter lines drawn around sallow eyes. Strands of grey dangled from beneath his open-faced helm and, along his neck, a thin line of blood ran.
‘You’ve given me more than enough trouble for one day, little girl,’ the man said through rotted gums. ‘One single move is all I need and I’ll gut you quick as a pike.’ He prodded her forward again with his spear. Like the others he wore a padded tunic under
