From the camp there was a howl of rage as the woyaks grabbed their weapons. Fire arrows scarred the night and one of the men near her fell, an arrow shaft running clean through his neck. Suddenly everyone appeared to be yelling. Iwa clamped her hands to her ears to drown out the noise, her knees pressed to her stomach as she curled against the sacks.
Someone almost ran into her – it was one of the hunters, the clan marks tattooed clearly along his arms. He was scared, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Perhaps he’d been asleep when the woyaks had attacked, for he wore nothing more than a thin tunic, woefully insuffcient for keeping out the cold.
He’d been caught up in the fighting. A dark line ran ragged across his cheek where someone had hastily tried to bind the wound. Now he paused as another arrow flew through the air, and she could see the fear in his eyes.
Desperately she tried to cry out, but she was too scared. The events of the last night tumbled over her and blotted out all reason. The hunter paused over her for a moment, his hand reaching out. Maybe he would kill her. Iwa shuddered. But he reached for the sacks, grabbing fitfully for the nearest and the lightest.
Already the woyaks were running towards them. War cries howled in the night as a spear clattered by her feet. She was running with the men. She’d no idea how she’d found the courage to get up, only that she was running, her breath driven from her and her limbs trembling with fear.
Everyone made for the trees, the hunters dodging over the broken ground so that the woyaks couldn’t take aim against them. In her panic, Iwa forgot to dodge and made straight for the forest. Maybe she should have been killed there and then, but the woyaks were loaded with meat and drink, and their arrows whistled harmlessly through the air.
Taking a deep breath, Iwa covered her face with her hands as she crashed through the line of trees and into the forest. Instinctively she jumped behind an oak and slumped heavily against the bark. Then, without a look back, she made her way deeper into the forest. She moved slowly now, careful to keep silent as she pushed past a tangle of roots. Hopefully the woyaks wouldn’t want to wander in this far at night. Weighed down by armour and shield, they wouldn’t be able to move easily and would be vulnerable to whatever traps the hunters might spring.
Suddenly everything went quiet. She couldn’t make out any of the hunters, but knew that they were there all the same. She could hear their shallow gasps as they hid in the trees and the thickets. Stifling the urge to rush, she made her way through the trees with barely a sound to mark her passing. Tread lightly, Katchka’s words came back to her. Be one with the forest; make your every step as natural as the fall of a leaf, as careful as the tread of a fox. Craft each footfall with reverence, for you walk upon the body of Matka Ziemia herself.
Maybe she should wait for daybreak and make her way to the summer camp. The hunters would be sure to gather there. But that was far away and she hadn’t any food.
Then she heard the crack of flame, the scuff of armour and the scrape of bracken as a shield pushed through the forest. Resisting the urge to run, she moved cautiously into a clearing. Maybe she could keep going deeper into the forest and hope that the woyaks wouldn’t follow, but the need for silence slowed her. At the far end of the clearing there lay a tangle of hawthorn bushes. Creeping closer, she began to make out a gap where the bushes parted to form a tunnel so narrow that she could barely squeeze inside.
Behind her a torch broke the darkness. She tensed and tried her best to melt into the surroundings. The sound of the woyaks was all around as she pressed flat against Matka Ziemia. If only the hawthorns could be thicker. With a thud two men entered the clearing, vodka-soaked eyes scanning the bushes.
Neither carried much armour, all but their helms and shields forgotten in their race to get at the hunters. Now they looked scared, as if they longed for the easy comfort of their ships and the soft caress of vodka. But they carried spears and one kept his shield strapped to his back so that his left hand was free to hold a torch.
‘These hunters take to the shadows like rats,’ the torch-bearer said, as he swung the brand slowly over the scene. ‘Gone to ground and skulking like cowards,’ he muttered, as he prodded the bushes with his spear. ‘What I wouldn’t give for the chance to get even with the vermin.’
Behind him the other man shivered. ‘Best be getting back,’ he mumbled. ‘As if we could find anything in all this.’
If they were hunters they’d have spotted Iwa instantly, but they were young, their eyes sodden with vodka and the need for sleep. ‘It’ll be a cold night for guard duty,’ the torch-bearer replied, making a final sweep of the clearing. ‘Let’s not get back too soon; Grunmir always picks the shirkers to stand the night.’
‘Better the night watch than another moment in this place.’ The other man scanned the trees fearfully. ‘Wislaw is right, these trees are haunted. The souls of those
