But would she betray Katchka to the krol? Would she stoop so low? Iwa shook her head, but there was no getting rid of the vision of Fang decapitating the women, their slaughtered bodies slipping into the mire. Maybe she should wait for Miskyia? The sorceress had been kind, but this was still the place of evil Leszy and, in the dark, Iwa could almost hear their chuckles in the bracken. A shiver fluttered along her spine at the unnatural chill in the air.
In the distance there was a scrape of rock. Perhaps Strumovit watched her still. He’d been away helping Miskyia for most of the day and Iwa had been able to gather rocks to place under her sleeping skins so that it would appear that she was still under them, so long as the thing didn’t come too close. If only Yaroslav was here to help her and tell her what to do. Iwa hugged her shoulders to stifle her shivers. She was alone, and who knew how long her subterfuge would last? So long as it doesn’t get too near. But a Karzełek’s eyes were bound to be sharp and used to the dark.
She had to get back to her father. Suddenly the thought of him lying alone in the cave gripped her. Perhaps Miskyia would never have helped the women, there was no trusting one so wreathed in magic. Now, alone in that unnatural night, there was only the vision of him. He was the only one who she could really trust. All else was washed away, even Katchka and the rest of the clan. Hadn’t they betrayed her? The idea of her father lying alone in the cave was almost too much for her to bear.
As the music changed Iwa found the power to move. She began to run, all thoughts of stealth forgotten as she stumbled across the ruins and the broken faces of stone gods. In her haste she almost slipped, her feet fighting to keep her upright as she slid on loose stones. But not even that could serve to slow her.
Then she realised that she’d lost her way. Iwa paused and took deep gulps of acrid air. Things had been easier inside the ruins, where the walls had served to guide her, but now she was on the grass and everything looked the same: an incomprehensible jumble of blackness. Even a hunter would have trouble finding his way. Jezi Baba, take pity on me, she almost cried out in fear. Up ahead she could see the fallen column stretched like a felled tree.
Without thought, she ran to it. If only she could find the way to the boat. The reeds shivered in the moonlight, but there was no sign of the craft. She ran down the length of the stone until she came to the broken capital.
She paused for breath, the true hopelessness of the situation dawning on her. It wasn’t as if the column pointed in the exact direction of the jetty. She’d planned to follow along the stone and then veer off to the left by a small patch of withered grass: it had all seemed so much easier in the daylight. Now there was nothing except the stillness and the distant echo of the drum. She had to get to the boat and quickly, but if she missed the jetty she might spend the night searching amongst the reeds and still not find it.
In amongst the reeds something slithered. She paused, her every muscle strained as she waited to catch the faintest trace of movement. It could be Sturmovit, but somehow she doubted that. Iwa sensed a presence. She was being watched, she was sure of it.
Something bit her finger. With a sharp wince of pain she brought up her hand, half expecting to see blood flowing from a gaping wound, or a tiny animal clinging to her flesh, but there was nothing. There it was again, a sharp pain now crawling along her leg. Around her, ancient magic stirred. Iwa could sense the spells weaving over her. The sensation reached upwards and intensified, as if someone had rammed a branch into the small of her back. The air began to swell and the ground swayed beneath her feet as Miskyia’s warning rang in her ears.
Then she was running, running for all she was worth, her mind flooded in a daze of panic as, almost without realising, she crashed through a tangle of reeds. All at once she fell, her legs caught in a syrupy mire of mud and plant matter that sucked at her ankles. She tried to run, but the mud was too thick and she fell head first into a tangle of reeds. Her mouth clogged with grit and water as her arms flailed helplessly and the leaves tore at her skin.
More by luck than anything else, Iwa managed to grasp hold of something and pull herself up, the mud giving way with a loud plop. It was one of the stakes that held up the jetty. Without waiting to gather her breath, she grabbed hold of the wood and, hauling herself up, lay panting on the roughly hewn planks. Her limbs ached but she forced herself up. She could just about make out the drumbeat as she uncoupled the boat from its mooring and climbed on board. With a hard push the boat slid past the reeds and into open water.
It was only with much difficulty that she managed to get the oars the right way round. She’d seen traders paddle upstream but had never actually rowed a boat, and it proved far more difficult than it looked. At first she found it almost impossible to use both oars at once. Then she didn’t dip them in deeply enough, nearly losing her grip as she struggled with the blades. Finally she gave up and tried using a single oar, paddling the thing as if it were a canoe. Taking a firm
