They were in the very centre of the camp, by the remnants of the great fire that the clan would light before Karnobog’s shrine, but there was no sign of the god. A line of shields blocked everything from view. Then the song subsided and an odd stillness fell as the children pressed their faces into their mothers’ thighs. A few began to cry, but there was no escape. The men had formed a tight circle around them, their faces hidden behind their shields.
Much against her will, Iwa found herself pushed near the front. At least now she could see what was going on. Miraculously, Karnobog’s shrine had survived. She could just about make out the bleached white bones and the oak beams of his litter. She swallowed and took a strange comfort from the sight. At least they would die under the eyes of the clan god.
In the distance a horn sounded and the men parted. Catching sight of the shrine, the garlands still hanging along the spine, she couldn’t help but mutter a prayer. But the bones lay silent and the eye sockets stared back at her, blank and hollow. A shiver ran through the group. How many of them had uttered silent, half whispered prayers to the god?
A figure stood before the altar. Slowly he came forward, the sunlight banded across his scale mail. It was Godek’s killer, except now he had on a cloak made from the skin of a great snow leopard, the claws fastened around his neck and fixed with gold. He’d taken off his helmet to reveal a mane of red hair flowing over his shoulders round a weatherbeaten face, not handsome but striking, his jaw thickset under the beginnings of a beard. Grunmir stood to one side and eyed the women coldly. Was it just her imagination or did his gaze momentarily settle on her? But, when she next looked up, he’d turned away.
Godek’s killer stood before the women, tall and lean, his face inscrutable. A clubfooted boy followed him. Maybe he’d been the shield bearer. Iwa couldn’t be sure. He dragged his leg painfully behind him, a small figure, dressed in a simple black tunic, his tongue poking through crooked teeth as he hunched like a toad at the armoured man’s feet. Behind them the shield wall closed.
Only then did the man speak, the words halting, as if he was unused to talking to such a crowd. ‘I am Gawel,’ the words rang out across the camp, ‘and I am your krol.’
There was a stunned silence from the women. Nobody knew what to say or do: most of them still expected death. In the distance Iwa thought she heard a twig snap. Perhaps the hunters had come back. She could sense them lurking just beyond the tree line. There was the sound of footsteps, the scrape of bark and the rustle of bushes. Under their heavy battle helms the raiders didn’t appear to notice. Iwa tensed, ready to duck the moment the arrows began to fly. She imagined them coming from behind every tree and bush, wave after wave of hunters until all the raiders lay dead.
But how many had managed to gather their bows before they’d fled into the woods, would there be enough to kill them all? She’d seen a full-grown elk felled by a single arrow, the flesh shivering under the weight of the blow as the animal’s legs buckled. But would the arrows be any use against the raiders, with their heavy armour and metal-rimmed shields?
‘You must bow down before me,’ Krol Gawel continued, ‘and all must call me their krol.’ He paused as he realised that the women had no idea what a krol was. ‘Krol,’ he said again as if to a child. ‘Krol, king, kaiser?’ Still the women didn’t understand. Slowly Krol Gawel took out his sword, the blade so heavy that he used both hands to wield it. At last the women understood.
‘Krol!’ Gawel shouted and raised his sword. Then the men began to chant, beating spears against shields as they yelled the word ‘krol’ over and over again. Maybe they realised that the hunters were watching: this was as much for their benefit as it was for the women. Then Krol Gawel lowered his sword and the chant stopped. ‘Obey my will and my warriors – my woyaks – will protect you.’
‘Since when have we needed the protection of woyaks?’ a voice spoke out. It was Katchka. ‘We have hunted these forests and these mountains since Bielobog and Chernobog spat dry land into the sea. Our men have always looked after us.’ The crowd was quick to draw away until Katchka stood alone. There was a dreadful silence as the women almost willed that Krol Gawel would cut the old woman down before she’d had the chance to make him angry. But the krol burst into laughter, his cheeks trembling as he turned to face his woyaks. ‘And where are they now, these men of yours? They were quick to run into the woods or else crawl on their knees and beg for mercy.’
The krol turned back to the women, his face full of fury. ‘Do you think that my woyaks are the worst thing that could have befallen you? You are surrounded, the lands of the Poles stretch around you in all directions. Many war bands scour these mountains. Demons armed with spear and flame, men who’d spill out your guts and toast them on the fire for your children to eat. Compared to them my woyaks are as lambs. You should fall on your knees and give thanks to Piórun, the thunderer, that it was I who came across your camp, for I am merciful. And I will spare you, old woman, so long as you accept my command and do not try to hurt
