‘What’s this?’ Katchka raised herself on her elbows. ‘These bones are too old to be wasted on your foolishness, girl.’
But the screaming had already begun. It was as if the entire camp had begun to yell all at once, the noise swelling about her so that Iwa dug her fingers deep into Tomaz’s shoulder.
‘Go see what it is, child,’ Katchka snapped, but Iwa could only sit there trembling. Across the skins the shadow grew, the shape of a horned demon with a hand of fire. She could see it, black against the dyed leather, its other hand raised like a hooked claw.
‘Have the men gone mad?’ Katchka snapped, but Iwa could only draw away, her eyes blank as she clutched Tomaz to her. She couldn’t breathe, all thought driven from her. This was the thing from the dream. ‘Have they taken too much of the traders’ vodka, or eaten bad roots?’
But Iwa could only watch as the shadow demon filled the whole side of the tent, her fingers digging so deep that she felt the baby cry out. With a savage lunge the talon tore through the hides, scattering them easily as autumn leaves.
Suddenly she could move as, once again, the claw tore into the tent, the poles cracking as the hides gave way. Snatching up Tomaz, Iwa screamed and tried to kick herself free of the skins. Too late: the thing was upon her, the single hooked claw reaching for her as the other hand blazed.
‘Back to whatever darkness spawned you!’ Katchka raised a dried sprig of purple loosestrife as she began the prayer that would bind the demon to her bidding. The words died in her throat, and the sacred chant was nothing more than a croak.
But it had been enough to distract the demon, if only for a second. Still clutching the baby, Iwa sprung up. Her one hope was to somehow dodge the thing and make for the tear in the tent. With a roar the flamed hand plunged down, tongues of fire licking past her face.
From the dark the thing bellowed as it tried to steady itself, the hooked claw cutting through the air, but Iwa was quick and ducked as it sliced over her. Fear gave her energy as she scrabbled between the thing’s legs and out into the night. Behind her it struggled; the great claw caught on a strip of leather.
Outside all was noise and confusion. Thick clouds of acrid smoke stung her eyes. ‘Yaroslav!’ Iwa screamed for her father, but it was no use – the world closed in on her in fire and flame, blocking out all thought, all vision. She could hardly make anything out, only shadows and the gnarled forms of men that flickered between the flames. In her arms Tomaz wailed, angry that his sleep had been broken and afraid because he felt Iwa’s fear. People were running without aim or reason, everyone shouting, shrieking, or crying.
She too was running. Still squealing, Tomaz reached out as if longing for the warmth of his reindeer skins and the safety of his dreams. ‘What’s going on?’ Iwa tried to grab one of the hunters as he fled past, but, without a thought, he brushed her aside. Behind her, a tent collapsed in a shower of flame and fire as she caught sight of a group of girls huddled together, their faces ashen and their eyes filled with tears.
‘Irana,’ she recognised the oldest, ‘what’s happening? Has Jezi Baba, the night hag, come to kill us all?’ But there was no answer. Frantically she gripped Irana’s shoulder and began to shake her but the girl stood mute, her eyes blank as boiled fish. ‘We have to find the hunters!’ Iwa shouted, but the other girls huddled closer and began to cry. With a final tug Iwa let her hand fall, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. And maybe she too would have been overcome with shock, but Tomaz had begun to cry.
Yaroslav. She had to find her father. Blindly she stumbled further into the camp, but the smoke wrapped around her, making it almost impossible to breathe. Suddenly a figure charged out of the smoke. She didn’t recognise the face and there were no clan marks on his clothes. Something told her that she should run but her legs wouldn’t move. Coming closer, the man drew out a spiked club and swung it wildly over his head as he screamed, and then he was gone. Dumbly she blinked; her feet were splattered with blood.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ a voice said. Rough hands gripped her. It was Godek, the hunt master. He was in his night tunic, the long white hairs of his beard matted with blood and ash. ‘The camp is under attack. Run, you fool. Head for the old path; you’ll be safe in the forest. Make for the autumn camp by the falls, tell everyone to meet there.’ She felt his grip on her shoulders and tried to heed what he was saying, but it was no use: his words floated all around and made no sense.
‘Yaroslav,’ she mumbled through trembling lips, ‘I’ve got to find my father.’
‘He’ll make for the autumn camp too, if he lives still.’ Behind them there was an almighty crack as another tent collapsed in a blaze of flame, the beams splitting like broken ribs.
But Godek didn’t notice. Iwa followed his gaze to the heart of the camp. At first it was hard to see what he was looking at, and then she noticed the man. There was an unnatural calm about him, as if he stood apart from the confusion. Gold glinted from the crest of his great battle helm and the firelight shimmered across his armour: not mail, but made of tiny plates of overlapping metal joined together like the scales of a fish. Above him a banner fluttered: two goats’ heads, one blue, the other green, faced each other across a field
