‘But you did find me, just as I have found you now.’
‘Near to death and ready for the ancestor world.’
‘I’ve always had you to look after me.’ Iwa felt the warmth of his chest, the soft touch of his hand as he stroked her cheek. ‘I’ve always had you to guide me,’ she whispered.
‘There is somebody with you.’ Yaroslav nodded to the remnants of the fire where a salmon skin glistened over the ash and the last flicker of flame. ‘I had an inkling that one of the hunters had returned. My eyes were filled with death, but I caught sight of somebody moving in the gloom: one of the ancient spirits of this place, or so I thought. Except that the ancestors are not given to hunting in this world.’
‘It’s Jarel. He found me and brought me to you.’
‘He keeps to the darkness, that one.’
‘His leg is hurt, some woyak’s arrow caught him as he tried to flee the camp.’
‘Then he will struggle to find food and I’ll not recover my strength easily, even with your potions.’
‘I’ll pick berries.’ If only she could stay in the cave. Perhaps they could live here forever. She could learn to hunt as well as any man. Then the others could come and they could begin the clan anew, safe here in the deeper forest far from the krol and his woyaks. Who knows, in time some of the women might escape and join them. And they could raise the great fire and slaughter a bison so that the god would be reborn and come to live in the bones once more. Behind her the patterns of the cave wall shone. But they were paintings, colours daubed on gypsum and lime, nothing more.
‘But first we must get to the river and clean away that stench,’ she said. ‘You smell worse than rotten bark. We’ll go to the river and…’
‘That may not be so easy.’
She jumped at the voice; she hadn’t realised that Jarel had come up behind them.
‘We don’t want to bring the woyaks down upon us.’
‘Then it’s lucky that the woyaks stick to their ships, like old women keep to a fire,’ she said sharply, as she turned to hide her look of anger. Couldn’t Jarel have given them a moment’s peace?
‘Or rather they used to. The woyaks cling to the shore by night, but they come into the forest by day. They’ve taken to using some of the more open paths, small groups only, but heavily armed. They might not be hunters, but they’re not fools and their eyes are sharp.’
‘I thought they would have left by now,’ Yaroslav said. ‘There’s nothing to keep them here once the plunder’s done.’
‘The woyaks want to stay,’ Iwa said. ‘Krol Gawel told us.’
‘They have a krol?’ Weak as he was, Yaroslav couldn’t help but laugh. ‘As if there’s anything in this forest to tempt a Polish krol.’
‘That’s what everybody calls him, and everybody does what he says, even Grunmir, who’s Krol Gawel’s knez.’
‘Kneiez.’ Yaroslav corrected, hardly able to keep the mockery from his voice. ‘These woyaks carry such noble titles with them.’
‘What is a krol?’ Jarel slumped against the cave wall, as he tried to take all this in.
‘He is like a hunt master,’ Iwa began slowly, though she had little enough of an idea herself. It was only now that she began to realise how little she knew of these Poles outside of the traders’ romances, and those were sketchy enough.
‘If only that were true,’ Yaroslav cut in, ‘but a krol is far more than a hunt master.’
‘But everybody obeys him as if he was one, except they’re all afraid of him. He has this sword, as big as a man, and he has the protection of Piórun.’
‘A krol is power,’ Yaroslav said, ‘and ambition. Where there are krols then war is never far away.’ He paused. If only he could make them understand. But suddenly, as he looked into his daughter’s face he was aware of the great gulf between them. Jarel too didn’t understand. How could they? They’d known nothing but the clan and the herds. Suddenly he realised how much he had grown to love this life, the rhythms of the seasons and the soft scents of trees and bracken. All to be swept away.
‘Krol Gawel talked of other war bands, and Grunmir sets guards on the river to watch for their ships. That’s why they go into the forest.’
‘That and to hunt,’ Jarel smirked. ‘Though they stick to the well-worn paths and cower like rats.’
‘We’ve always had the mountains and the forest to shield us,’ Yaroslav said stiffly. ‘It’s only the river that links us to the rest of the world. If there are more war bands out there then that’s how they’ll come – across the water. I know what these woyaks are like. They’ll have enemies, others who’ll slaughter them and take their place if they get the chance. War and death come easily to men such as them.’
‘What would they want with us?’ Jarel played with his thick fingers as he tried to understand what was going on. Until now he’d never considered much beyond his own survival. ‘What have we to do with krols or kneiezes?’ Jarel was panicking now, his voice echoing shrilly around the cavern. ‘Why can’t they leave us and take their wars with them?’
‘Because they want to strip the trees away from Matka Ziemia,’ Iwa replied. ‘This Krol Gawel has brought seeds with him, sacks of them, and he plans to cut open the belly of Matka Ziemia so she’ll give him bread to eat.’
‘That’s trader talk,’ Jarel laughed. ‘All this nonsense about crops and seeds has addled
