The man motioned with his sword, the firelight dripping red across a blade as long as a man’s arm. A group of spearmen ran to where the sword pointed. By his side a boy crouched, dwarfed by a huge round shield that trembled in his arms. If anything it was more impressive than the banner; it too bore goat’s heads, this time on a white field, but it was rimmed with gold and the runes were etched in silver.
Some of the hunters must have gathered their bows because a few arrows flew towards the man. But the shield-bearer’s eyes were sharp and, even as the bows were drawn, the shield was turned so that the arrows thudded harmlessly against it. One managed to find its mark and rattled along the scales, like fast water over rock: the figure appeared not to notice.
Iwa gulped. Godek was no longer with her; without a sound he had begun to run, his feet steady as if stalking deer. Distracted by the archers, the shield-bearer didn’t move as Godek charged, careful to keep to the bearer’s blind side. And the hunt master was almost upon them before anybody noticed. The shield boy tried to swing round, but it was too late.
As he closed, Godek let out a savage cry to give himself strength and unsettle his opponent as, at the last moment, the spear tip flicked up to catch the man in the neck at the weak point where the helm met the mail. And perhaps he thought that he could already feel the blow land and the spear tip push through warm flesh and up into the brain pan, but the figure had turned in time so that the spear glanced away.
Carried forward by his own momentum, Godek tried to turn. But his opponent had already stepped back. The tip of the sword whipped through the air in a swift arc that caught the hunt master in the neck. There was a terrible simplicity to the motion, an economy of movement as the blade sliced clean through skin and bone and Godek’s body tumbled forward, his head falling from his shoulders, face frozen in a look of shock and surprise.
Iwa opened her mouth, but the scream stuck in her throat. The shield-bearer was looking directly at her. His words were lost in the din, but there was no mistaking his intention. Suddenly she was running, panic lending strength to her limbs as she scurried past the bodies of the dead and the blackened remnants of tents.
In her panic and terror, she’d gone the wrong way and found herself by the river’s edge. Tomaz was crying, his legs beating against her chest. She was on the shingle now, her feet slippery across the stones. All was still. The sound of battle had dimmed.
Clutching the baby to her she looked about, but there was nowhere to run. Even in summer the water would be freezing and there was no way she’d ever make it across, let alone carry the baby with her. Jezi Baba mistress of the night. The prayer formed silently on her lips. Look down upon your child and guide her steps. Iwa searched for a means of escape, but it was no use. Before her the far shore stretched into the darkness, a vast impenetrable morass of thickets. A mist had begun to settle across the waters, making it hard to see. I’ll give myself to the river. The thought came as a great calm settled over her. Now she walked as if in a dream, hardly noticing as Tomaz kicked against her.
The water lapped cold around her ankles, numbing her feet as she stumbled over wet rock. In her arms Tomaz grew quiet, his sobs stilled as she waded further in. What else was there for her to do but offer herself to the tides and let the waters sweep her downriver, so that her soul would become one with the river folk and sleep forever amongst the reeds? Better to die in the arms of the river goddess. I’ll become one of the Rusalka and my voice will sing in the water’s swell. And may it draw these raiders to their doom and their clawed demon with them. In her arms baby Tomaz began to cry again, his voice stifled by the cold. ‘Hush.’ Iwa rocked him gently. ‘Not long now and all your pain will end.’
A surge of current caught her off guard so that she almost lost her footing. ‘Father, I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll be sure to tell Mother what kind of a man you are – if you have not already entered the ancestor world before me.’
She drew a deep breath and prepared to give herself to the river. How peaceful it looked, as if the events on the shore were left far away. Ribbons of blood trailed serenely about the current. She saw nothing, heard nothing; there was only the lap of the water and the cold numbing stillness.
Suddenly a torch flared and, on the far shore, a figure swayed. Iwa paused, the sight so unexpected that she almost lost her footing. A second torch blazed in the darkness as, between them, the figure began to dance. She wasn’t sure but she thought she could hear the beat of a distant drum.
Slowly the figure turned. It wore a long black cloak trimmed with gold and she fancied that she could see the body of a woman beneath. Around the figure, the torches flared as the drumbeat picked up. The woman’s hips swayed to the tune. Iwa opened her mouth, the scream dry on her lips; the woman had the face of a pig! At first Iwa thought that it might be a mask, but then the light picked across the bristles of its forehead and the rough edges of its ears; no mask could
