Iwa looked at the faces of the woyaks. Many nodded. Why not get rid of the extra mouths and exchange them for food and vodka? They were tired of having to guard the hunters, but some cast their eyes hungrily to where the women were held.
‘Would you trust such a cargo to the river?’ Grunmir asked. ‘If the ship sunk before it got to port, we’d have neither workers nor money. Even then, markets are strange beasts; the Arab slavers will cheat you quick as a hunting eagle flies the nest.’
‘Once more, Grunmir plays his tricks.’ Wislaw raised his voice, the snake glistening at his throat as the old priest pointed to the crowd. ‘He plants fears into our hearts so that he can rule them. Who can doubt that we would get money to buy food from the traders? Even one shipload would bring us more than enough.’
All eyes were on Wislaw now, except for Iwa’s, whose gaze never left the krol. He stood alone, his grey eyes taking in both Grunmir and Wislaw as he weighed up their words. He was too clever to make such a decision so quickly, and so publicly.
‘We came to forge a kroldom,’ he said slowly, each word so soft that it might almost have been dragged from his throat, yet they could be heard through the crowd. ‘A kroldom is built on grain and the bounty of the earth. If we raise money now, we will have food aplenty for this year, but what will happen in the next? Does the clan have a leader?’ the krol asked without turning. There was a long silence as Iwa realised that he had spoken to her.
‘Godek, the old hunt master, is dead, but the hunters will listen to my father, Yaroslav.’
‘Bring him to me,’ Krol Gawel said. ‘Tonight we shall feast and sacrifice a deer to Piórun to give thanks for our victory.’
‘Karnobog is the god of this camp,’ Iwa muttered, her mouth drying as Krol Gawel turned to her. ‘You burned his sacred bones in that fire of yours…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘I have not heard of this Karnobog,’ the krol said.
‘He is the god of our clan and we are his people.’
‘Then maybe we should burn some meat for him. Piórun is mighty enough to share a sacrifice. Bring this Yaroslav to me: I will talk with him.’ Krol Gawel raised his hands as if to bless the assembly. ‘We have a camp to rebuild—’ he was quick to change the subject and move the conversation to a surer footing ‘—and a feast to prepare.’
Will things ever be that easy? Iwa thought. It’ll take more than pretty words to wipe away the blood that has been shed.
Yet, as she looked around, all she could see were smiling faces. Some of the woyaks even hugged the women, or each other. They had survived the night and all was well. Now their hearts turned to feasting and the promise of vodka. This was not a time for differences. Some of the men struck up a song.
Maybe the krol will have his way after all, Iwa thought as she picked herself up.
‘Let us set about building a pyre,’ Krol Gawel’s voice rang out above the tune, his voice filled with merriment.
With that, he walked away and the woyaks followed him back into the camp. As he left, Grunmir gave Iwa a narrowed glance. There was a look of puzzlement on his face, mixed with respect and maybe a trace of warmth.
Then he too turned away and Iwa was alone. Perhaps, after all that had happened, it was better that the woyaks forgot about her: she didn’t want to face any awkward questions. They’ll probably think I’m mad anyway, or else possessed.
A gust of wind rustled across the trees. Iwa looked to the ship that held the hunters. There was a chill in the air and she had a sense of things passing. Maybe the krol would tear down the trees and bring the land to the plough. He has already enslaved the clan, what is there to stop him enslaving the land as well?
It was hard to believe that she could have ruled all this. And now I am nothing more than a little girl, so easily put aside. Maybe Yaroslav would convince Krol Gawel to let the hunters go, but nobody would remember her. Somewhere, in the distance, a fox scrabbled through the bracken. Maybe it was for the best. Perhaps she could have saved the forest, for a time, but in the end, the old blood gods would have bent her to their will, just as they had done with Lord Bethrayal, and their dominion would have been far more terrible than that of men. At least with the krol there is a chance, no matter how slim.
She looked down at her mud-sodden clothes. As she examined a tear in the material, she noticed something different. There was the familiar outline of the bison, dyed a deep blue into the fabric, and the sacred symbols of Karnobog. Slowly a smile spread across her lips. Jarel had been wrong; she was far more a part of the clan than even she had imagined. As she smoothed out her dress, Iwa fancied that she could almost hear Tomaz begin to cry. I hope he is over the fever. Perhaps I’ll pick some silverweed so that Katchka can make a broth for him.
Behind her the waters of the great river lapped. She looked to the far bank – there was no sign of Miskyia. At least she found her freedom; anything would be better than to be a slave to the stones. The totem lay at her feet, the spells quiet now, or else exhausted. The amulet had shattered when the link with Lord Bethrayal had been broken; bits of it lay scattered in the mud. So that’s an end to the
