But Iwa didn’t want to stay. Somewhere out in the world of men Yaroslav was alone. A deep longing had come over her. What lies had Jarel told him? If he’d bothered to say anything at all.
Miskyia drew a cup to Iwa’s lips. Inside, a thick, dark liquid swirled: it was the colour of blood. ‘Take this, it will give you strength.’ For all the softness of Miskyia’s words Iwa found it difficult not to pull away. She didn’t trust the woman, there were too many unanswered questions and this place seemed too unnatural. Rock should never be so smooth. Iwa pressed her tongue to her teeth, but Miskyia tipped the cup further and the drink swelled into her throat so that Iwa couldn’t help but gulp it down.
‘There you are,’ Miskyia said, ‘you will feel so much better in the morning.’ With a rustle of clothing she was gone, the lace of her dress sweeping along the paving.
Chapter Eleven
The walls didn’t seem nearly so imposing in daylight. They weren’t as tall as Iwa had supposed and had sunk into ruin long ago. Stone figures lay smashed on the floor, large half-clad men as well as other strange animals, the like of which she had never seen.
She was careful not to look at their faces in case they bewitched her. Her people often carved faces in the bark of sacred trees or whittled totems from wood. Sometimes they carved in stone too, but nothing so realistic or imposing. Maybe they’re the bodies of giants, turned to stone. Iwa remembered the old stories about the battles between the gods and the giants of the mountains. In the end Bielobog had cast all the giants into a great mire so that Chernobog could smash out their brains with his hammer, until only one remained.
That was the one the clan called Kocroł Krwi because he could boil away your blood with a single glance of his left eye. He had been the mightiest and the greatest of them all. Not even Bielobog could stand against him. For eons they fought but none could defeat him until Chernobog used all his power to dash out his brains, and even then the god was almost killed by the giant’s club.
Nothing remained of Kocroł Krwi except a single thumb, which Bielobog turned to stone. It stood there still, an evil presence that haunted the base of the great mountain that the clans called Broda Kozica, or goat beard, because by the light of the morning sun the snow would have the colour of a goat’s muzzle. Out of fear the hunters sacrificed to the stone, but nobody really liked to go near the thing. Not even the herds would stray close to it.
Somewhere above Iwa sensed movement. Cautiously, she pressed against the stone wall and drew grim comfort from the solid weight behind her. Nearby, a giant stone hand rested on the floor, the palm still clearly visible, though the fingers had long since crumbled away. Maybe it was Kocroł Krwi’s hand, or that of one of the lesser giants whom Bielobog had magicked into stone. Either way, it had to be a thing from the elder legends.
She hugged her knees to her chest. There was something wrong about this place. It wasn’t just the statues: the air smelt strange and there were no sounds of animals, no cries of birds, no rustling in the undergrowth, only an unnatural stillness that sank deep about her. Even the lake was still, with no breeze to stir the waters.
Above her the misshapen thing moved, the feet creeping across the jagged line of stones. With practiced care she sank back and readied herself to flee, her hand groping for a loose rock. She didn’t trust this place. It was only now that the full realisation of what had happened began to dawn on her. Before, she had been too overcome to think of anything but bare survival; numbed by the horror of Krol Gawel and the woyaks’ attack. Now the passage of events weighed down upon her. I was an idiot to ever imagine that the clan would survive. Karnobog is dead and I have no place to go. Yaroslav had travelled the lands of the Poles, rootless and unafraid, but she wasn’t like him. All her hopes and dreams of being different from the other children had turned to dust. All those evenings playing at being a Polish lady, dancing in some great court or singing before the throne in great Byzantium, and for all that she’d always been far more a part of the clan than she’d ever imagined. And now I am nothing.
Above her the creature hovered, its breath stalled like a stalking wolf. She sat perfectly still, watching the sun play across the distant waters without even the slightest flicker to give her away. She couldn’t let it know that she was aware of its presence. She remembered the crack of bone under those teeth the night before, the terrible power that had rippled behind those squat muscles. If the thing attacked, when it attacked, surprise could be her only hope, and a thin one at that.
‘You mustn’t be afraid, child.’ This time Iwa wasn’t surprised at the voice: Miskyia moved silently as a hunting eagle. ‘This is a place of many dangers. I left Sturmovit to guard you.’
Silently the creature hopped from the high stones. It was a small thing, reaching hardly above the woman’s gilded waist. Yet, for all its bulk, the thing moved with an unnatural swiftness.
‘He is one of the elder races,’ Miskyia said, ‘do not fear him.’ She reached down to pat the top of the creature’s bald head, the skin the colour of bleached leather. Seen from a distance he could have been mistaken for an old man, but his skin was a muddy colour and glistened like a wet rock. Slowly he peeled back his thick lips and emitted
