Even a wolf would attack from behind. But the fear of the thing overwhelmed her as if to turn would invite it to attack. Death hardly ever came from the stalking wolf, but from the others which lay in wait ahead. Yet somehow she sensed that the creature which followed was no wolf.
She peered into the darkness about her, her senses strained as, without a break in her stride, she made her way across the uneven ground, the track little more than a break in the foliage. Once again she realised that the forest had rearranged itself behind her back, but the thing that followed slid easily through the dense vegetation.
Once or twice she glimpsed it, a dark presence brooding in the shadows, a strange muggy scent on the breeze, or the snap of a twig in the distance. At least there didn’t seem to be any others. Maybe they lay in wait. If only she could turn and run… but the thought of her father drove her on. She couldn’t leave him to Wislaw and the others. She had to find the witch and get this Lord Bethrayal to free him, no matter the danger. I’d never make my way back anyway. She fought for courage. Who knows where the path behind would now lead?
She made her way to the familiar lake. How still it seemed, with not even the stir of reeds to disturb the surface. A boat waited on the bank: but it wasn’t a crude thing like the tiny, wooden, flat-bottomed craft that she’d escaped in. This was larger, carved from a white wood like ash, but stronger to the touch. At either end a couple of carved wooden poles rose, over which was stretched a pure white sheet of muslin. The vines from some strange plant ran green along the prows and the wood seemed to sing as it took her weight. There was even a bench for her to sit on. A silken sheet lay draped across it.
She turned to the forest, half expecting to hear the snarl of the thing in the woods. If it was to attack, then this would be its last chance. Just let me get to the other side, she pleaded as the silken sheet crackled with a soft energy; runes of magic were woven deep into the fabric. Behind Iwa the forest stirred and she thought she saw some misshapen creature prowling the undergrowth. She clambered on board, knees scraping the wood as she looked for the oars or any other weapon.
Until her escape from the island she’d never been in a boat before. Suddenly it dawned on her that she’d have to push the thing out into the lake. Without taking her eyes off the tree line, she scrabbled about inside the hull but there was nothing, no way to defend herself or steer the craft.
But, as she settled on the bench, the boat lurched away from the bank, an unseen hand guiding it as it moved swiftly across the lake. More magic. She pressed herself against the side of the ship and made the sign to ward off evil. Would Miskyia be angry? Would the sorceress forgive her?
Through the mists the dark outline of the island reared. This must have been the opposite side to the one she’d seen before, because she didn’t recognise any of the features. To her left a stone jetty reached out across the waters. On the pebbled shore Miskyia stood, her long robes fluttering in the breeze. Behind her the stones glowed white and crackled with power.
For the first time Iwa realised how big the ruined building must have been. She looked at the ragged lines of walls, the scorch marks still visible across the marble, and the lines of columns that lay broken amid the reeds. How many had died in the battle to destroy all this? She gripped the amulet and felt a tingle of magic run through her fingers as the boat slid to the shore. With a final jolt, it beached and Iwa scrambled out, almost tripping in her eagerness to feel the earth beneath her feet.
‘So you have returned.’ Miskyia’s voice betrayed little surprise.
‘I had no choice.’
‘You should never have left.’ Miskyia fought down a look of anger. Only when she had regained her composure did she continue. ‘I warned you of the danger that surrounds this place; you were lucky to survive. Many things lurk unseen beneath these waters and it would only take a moment for them to drag you to your doom.’
‘I had to find my father.’ Iwa held out the amulet but, to her surprise, Miskyia hardly appeared to notice. Here, in this place, the trinket seemed alive, the bronze burnished with the craft. Iwa felt the spells tingle along her arms and deep within the stone the images shifted.
‘Couldn’t you have waited? Didn’t you trust me?’
‘I had to find him.’
‘And did you find him, this man for whom you’d risk your life rather than wait for safe passage? Or did you think that I would have held you captive?’
‘My father’s a prisoner in the camp.’ She’d been about to tell Miskyia about the hut but decided against it. The less the woman knew the better. ‘The woyaks caught me too but I managed to escape.’
‘So your father is not with you?’
‘No.’
Miskyia’s face revealed nothing, not even when she took the amulet.
‘We have to get him away from Wislaw. He’s the one who stole your amulet and he’s got Yaroslav prisoner.’ Her words tumbled out. Now she was too tired
