‘If they string me up it’ll all be your fault Katchka,’ she mumbled.
Still not daring to get up, she crawled to the front of the ship. There she stopped and lay panting as she pressed into the cold stones. A few feet away the shale ended where the ground rose above the shoreline. At least there would be more cover. Glancing over her shoulder, she got up and broke into a shallow run, half expecting to hear the cries of the woyaks as they spotted her. But she was small and the shadows hid her well.
Then her courage gave out and she fell to the ground, cursing Matka Ziemia as her hand crushed against a thistle. She lay there for a moment and muttered a silent prayer to whichever god cared to listen, well, maybe not Piórun – she didn’t quite trust that one. The dark seemed to fold in on her, the leaves rustling as the breeze picked up, or was it the sound of footsteps? By the fire the drumbeat hastened as the woyaks leapt over the flames or swirled drunkenly to the music and, in the distance, Grunmir danced, the light picking across the ridge of his helmet and the horsehair plume.
Even now Iwa’s fear of the man was so great that the briefest sight of him was enough to send a pang of dread through her stomach and drain her courage away. Around the fire the laughter continued as Grunmir swayed drunkenly in rough time to the music. One of the woyaks tried to jump over the fire but he’d had too much to drink, and howls of pain rang out as he crashed into the flames. Drunken roars of laughter swiftly followed as the unfortunate man rolled on the ground in a desperate attempt to smother his burning clothes.
Hopefully the woyaks would be too drunk to notice her, but still she dared not move. Was it just her imagination or was there someone else hiding in the dark? She strained but heard nothing.
Up ahead she could make out the dark line of the trees, drawn like a blackened hem. At least there was no moon to give her away. If only there were some mist, but the river was calm and the water was clear. Carefully she began to crawl on her hands and knees, wondering if it would be better to break into a run. The safety of the forest couldn’t be far away. But now there was nothing to shield her from the camp, and if the men turned they’d be bound to see her. In her imagination the trees were so close that all she had to do was reach out and touch the bare bark, but, in truth, she knew they were far off; wishful thinking would be the death of her.
Yet she couldn’t crawl all the way. Up ahead some sacks lay piled up in a loose wall. If she could make for them then at least she’d have some cover. She tensed, breath held as she made ready to spring up. One short burst of speed, she told herself, and she’d be safe.
Then she heard the soft scrape of grass. Instinctively she pressed herself into the stony body of Matka Ziemia. Maybe it was a rabbit foraging in the dark, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Would the woyaks really notice me? One tiny girl amidst all this blackness?
She waited, the safety of the sacks only a few feet away, as she swallowed down a pang of fear. One of the woyaks poured vodka onto the fire and the flames leapt higher. A tiny wooden altar had been placed behind the fire, surrounded with offerings of meat and fish. At the back stood a carved wooden figurine, a copper thunderbolt glinting in his hand. Even from this distance Iwa could make out the figure: it was Piórun, the firelight flickering across his finely varnished war helm. Around the altar a white-robed priest danced, a rabbit struggling in his hands. At his feet shone a tiny silver bowl. As the drumbeat rose, the priest took out a small curved dagger and, with a shout of excitement, drew the blade across the rabbit’s neck. A line of blood poured warmly into the bowl and the rabbit’s feet twitched as if trying to break free from the man’s grasp.
And, as the blood flowed, the air became hot, crackling with an unnatural intensity as if something evil had been brought into the world. Then all was quiet again. Yet there was something in the dark, Iwa felt it – a hushed murmur as someone moved, careful to keep to the shadows.
But it wasn’t that which caught her attention: on top of the pyre the bones of Karnobog burned. She could make out the remnants of the litter as it crumbled into the fire. The flames licked over the open cage of his ribs and tickled around the eye sockets of the dying god as his neck broke and his skull tumbled into the conflagration.
A wave of anger swept through her, lending her limbs extra courage as she ran towards the sacks. Too late she realised that a woyak was slumped against them. She threw herself down and prayed that he was too drunk to notice. The woyak’s head rolled back, a dark line of vomit creased across his neck.
More vodka was poured on the flames, and there was a loud crack as the fire rose before dying down. Temporarily blinded by the suddenness of the light, it took her a moment to realise what she’d seen. The woyak hadn’t been sick at all. His throat had been ripped open, the blood congealed darkly around his neck.
She drew back, so shocked that
