Yet nobody seemed to notice. Inside the camp the women worked freely, washing clothes by the river or crowding round a fire. Some of them even sang as they worked, but their tune carried little conviction. Their song was grey and filled with a weary resignation. Alia was there, an earthen pot balanced on her shoulder as she walked up from the river, though she was careful not to catch Iwa’s gaze.
Katchka was there too, her knife scraping away the scales from a salmon. The old woman hummed to herself as the blade cut away the fins but, as Iwa came closer, her tune dipped and a bitter look crossed her face. But she said nothing, her knife not missing a beat as Iwa was led away.
The ships which held the men captive had been dragged further in from shore, the earthen wall hastily enlarged to accommodate them. Groups of woyaks stood guard, and some fishing nets had been hung from stakes to form a crude barrier.
Something was wrong. Iwa sensed it, but couldn’t work out what troubled her. She was led away to a hut, hastily erected on the far edge of the camp. It was a crude thing, made from rough planks with nothing more than a thick cloth drawn across the entrance to serve as a doorway.
Inside, a tarpaulin hung across the length of the hut. Sunlight seeped through the gloom and there was a stench like rotten flesh. At the far end was an iron spit large enough to cook an elk. She was flung inside, almost tripping over a woyak who’d been sitting, half asleep, on a barrel.
‘Bind her well,’ Grunmir said, as the woyak dragged her over to the spit.
By now Iwa was too tired to resist; all the fight drained from her as her hands were tied to the crosspiece. A gag was forced into her mouth. Instinctively she thrust her tongue against it, only to be rewarded with a slap across the face.
‘Careful!’ Grunmir barked. ‘I want this one unhurt.’ With that he turned to go. ‘Just remember: this one is not for you. I want her treated well, and give her something to drink – there’s no telling when the krol will have time for her.’
Then he was gone. The gag was taken away and a cup of water thrown into Iwa’s mouth. ‘Keep still and give me no trouble,’ the woyak grunted, angry at being put down in front of a girl: but he dared not cross Grunmir, so he contented himself by taking out a strip of meat and eating it very slowly in front of her.
Then he moved back to the barrel and tried his best to pretend to ignore her, a smile playing on his lips as he took another bite of the meat. It was only then that she realised it was the man from the forest, the one who’d taken back to camp that first day she’d been captured, the one who had called himself Eber. He finished the meat, his withered arm dangling by his side. If anything he looked worse than he had in the forest. His eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept in days, and his skin was sallow and pockmarked. His hair, rank and matted, dangled limply around his shoulders.
‘You could give me some food at least.’ For once Iwa cursed her lack of height. The spit was high enough to allow a fully grown man to stand easily, but her feet hardly touched the ground. ‘I’m sure that this Grunmir of yours doesn’t want me to starve to death.’
Eber didn’t answer, but his eyes slithered down her body. She probably didn’t look particularly good herself. Her clothes were torn and muddy and her skin crawled with a multitude of scratches.
‘I could take you now, girl,’ he said, a smile playing thinly on his lips. He’d had enough of living in fear, in terror of the thing that lurked in the night. He’d no idea what had been happening. All was rumour. Was it some vengeful Leszy as the old women said? He’d heard Grunmir blame the old priest, something about a curse. But if that was the case then both he and the krol were keeping silent about it.
And, in a way, the secret made the thing more terrible and more terrifying. Who could fight against the unknown? More than once he’d risked his life, paid for his bravery and courage with a burnt arm. But those enemies had been seen. Men and flames could be comprehended and held no terror for him; but never had he seen anything like this creature in the night, such a thing was unknown even in legend.
Almost unconsciously he glanced down to his arm. Every day he missed the use of it, and what had been his reward? He’d dreamt of a share of the kroldom, what man amongst them didn’t? An end to being hunted and risking his life at every turn. He’d have slaves to work his share and his pick of the women. His reward for following the krol.
But where had that got him? He’d failed to gain his due respect, even from the other woyaks, let along the women, who looked down on him because of his arm. That Alia especially. She could have any man she chose, that one, and she knew it only too well. So he’d been left to scrabble around for the runts of the litter. Was this all his sacrifice was worth?
Now he looked at the girl. She wasn’t much, some forest waif dragged up from whatever bog Grunmir had dredged. But now he felt the weight of too many nights of fear. He looked her up and down once more and felt the first stirrings of lust. How long was it since he’d known a woman, one who was willing to overlook the deformity of his arm?
‘Let’s not cry out.’ He wound his poor arm round
