They turned as if about to go and then stopped, their hands gripped tightly on their spears. ‘Did you hear that?’ one of them said as he backed into the clearing.
Iwa sank deep into the bushes. She’d heard the noise long before. So the woyaks are deaf as well as blind.
‘Maybe it was nothing,’ the torch-bearer said, though she could still hear the sound plainly. It had an odd, unnatural timbre, like the rustle of a chain or the rushing of a fast stream over loose pebbles.
‘You sure?’ the other replied, as he looked to his companion. Neither of them appeared in a hurry to find anything. ‘Yanek?’ one of them said, as they came forward into the clearing, the torch-bearer making ready to grab his shield. The sound intensified and an acrid smell filled the air, heavy like congealed pitch. ‘Yanek!’ the man shouted again, more in hope than anything else, his breath ghosting on the air.
From the edges of the forest something moved and both men froze, the blood draining from their faces. It was like the mist, an outline, nothing more. Yet, as it began to congeal about the clearing, Iwa felt a sense of dread in the back of her throat, as if the air had been sucked from her. It was closer now, the sound ringing through her ears as the mist swelled and, in amongst the vapour, she thought that she could make out the semblance of a human face. In the centre, there was nothing but a gaping hollow that fell open like a hungry mouth.
The woyak raised his spear as his companion struggled to bring round his shield. The sound was intense now, thudding through Iwa’s ears and humming inside her head. The smell clogged her throat as she fought for air. There was a scream. She screwed her eyes shut. Jezi Baba, she prayed, for it could be none other than the night hag herself, spare me, a lone child of the forest who has done nothing to harm Matka Ziemia.
Even with her eyes closed she could sense the presence of the night hag, as Jezi Baba swirled around the clearing, her breath slithering over bark and leaf. The thing was upon her now, and she could feel the night hag flying over her, her prayer draining away as she screwed her eyes tighter still. The air was thick with the stench of rotting flesh. She could almost picture the hag’s skin, drawn thin across her crooked nose as her eyes burned cold like waning moons. Why doesn’t she kill me? Iwa trembled as she readied herself for whatever fate the night hag had in store for her. Will she grind my bones into dust with her pestle and black stone mortar?
If only she’d get on with it. Nothing could be worse than this waiting. But the night hag would not be hurried. The sound of the mist closed in all around and nothing could make Iwa open her eyes.
Then it was gone. She waited, eyes shut, for a death that never came and when she next dared to open them, the sight made her close her eyes tighter still. In the middle of the clearing both woyaks lay, their faces twisted in agony. But it was their flesh that made her retch. It was as if they’d been sucked dry. Their skin was white and brittle as a smoked carp, and their eyes were the colour of soured milk. And yet there were no marks upon their faces and their armour was untouched.
There was a cry; torches flared as a group of woyaks pressed into the clearing. They stopped short as they made signs to ward off evil or mutter curses under bated breath. Grunmir was the last to arrive, torchlight flickering darkly across his battle helm as he glanced at the fallen men and to the trees beyond. Iwa caught her breath and hugged the roots of her hiding place but Grunmir did not appear to see her. ‘Best get these two under cover quick,’ he said, as he took out a bearded axe from a sheath behind his back. The woyaks were quick to gather up the corpses and, laying them on their shields, carried them off through the woods.
‘Sound the horn,’ Grunmir said to the two woyaks who remained. ‘We need to get the others back to camp as quickly as possible.’ One of the woyaks raised a polished horn to his lips; the tone cut short as he turned and ran back. Only Grunmir remained, torchlight playing over the blade of his axe as, with one last look, he turned away.
It was a while before Iwa gathered the courage to crawl into the clearing. Even then she was hardly able to move. She’d had enough, trembling as the trees cast malicious shadows, their branches scraped thin in the breeze. Numbly she began to stumble through the forest, hardly able to register the snap of twigs as she made her way aimlessly past the roots of a great tree.
A hand grabbed her from behind, rough fingers crushing her lips as her head was pulled back. Instinctively she bit down hard and, with a squeal of pain, the hand let go. She didn’t have the energy to run as a blade struck out for her throat but, at the last moment, it fell short. ‘Iwa,’ a voice said, ‘what in the name of Karnobog are you doing stumbling around out here? I could have killed you!’
She turned. In the dark it was hard to make out the figure which stood before her. He was only a fraction taller than her. His clothes were ragged and his skin was covered in mud and blood so that she could hardly make out the lineaments of his face. But, as he raised his hands, she could just about see the clan marks tattooed
