‘No.’ Yaroslav’s voice trembled, hardly more than a whisper now. The old priest gave Iwa one last look before he let her head go. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘Who would credit a stripling like you with such a tale? You have a trace of power about you, nothing more. Tell me, do you even know who your mother was? I doubt any of these backwoods clanfolk know who sired them, or even care. Even so, I cannot have one such as you wander round unbridled. Let us test your knowledge of the craft.’
Slowly Wislaw took something out from under his cloak. ‘Can you tell me what this is?’ In his hands was a clay doll. Carefully, he wrapped a chain around its neck. ‘What, do you have nothing to say?’ He dangled the figure before Iwa and let it spin slowly on the end of the chain. She tried to turn away, but no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t take her eyes from the doll. It was a simple thing: a crude, featureless form with thumbprints clearly visible on the roughened clay. There was not even the semblance of a face; yet there was a sense of power about the doll and, as it spun before her, Iwa felt a cold touch of evil as if it were somehow trying to draw her in. ‘So you have never seen a manikin of making before? I would have thought that even here there would have been some wise woman with a smattering of the art to make such things.’
‘We have no use for magic.’ It was Yaroslav who answered. ‘And the sense to manage without it.’
‘Whilst I am only a poor fool who has had to learn the craft,’ Wislaw smiled. ‘Unlike some, I was not born to it and it does not run freely in my veins but,’ he drew closer to Iwa as his voice became stern, ‘I have gained more than a little knowledge, and the wit to use it well.’
‘You’re not the first to think so, but they have all come to a bad end.’
Ignoring him, Wislaw took out a silver knife, the blade curved sharp as the crescent moon and, as he came forward, Iwa caught sight of the runes carved deeply along the blade; ancient and evil and glowing with power. With his other hand Wislaw grabbed her hair and pulled back her head. He was close now, his breath rank on her lips as he chanted an ancient song. Iwa tensed, eyes closed as she waited for the blade to cut her neck, but the knife slipped past her ear to cut a lock of hair. Wislaw took up the doll, his song hardly faltering as he began to wrap the hair around the manikin’s neck.
Frantically, Iwa tugged against the rope. Still the old priest ignored her as his chant rose and the words swirled around the room. She couldn’t breathe; it was as if the chant had somehow entered her, its rhythm throbbing at the base of her throat. Iwa kicked out as she struggled to break free, and all the while the song continued as the lock of hair was wound tighter.
The song was inside her head now, the words ready to burst. She couldn’t make them out. Often, in their paeans, the clans would use the words of their ancestors, elder words that held power and were not to be used lightly. But this was another language altogether, dense and unfamiliar as the words of the niemcy, but far older.
Then the knife drew blood, but it was the tiniest prick of her skin so that only a drop fell against the clay. Still the chant continued, the doll dangling before Iwa as the priest’s eyes turned a milky grey and his skin became pale as death. Then all was silent. Wislaw’s head fell forward as if someone had cut the strings from a puppet. Only very slowly did he raise his head and open his eyes. ‘So now I have bound you to my will.’ He held the doll in triumph. ‘For all your natural power, I have trapped you.’ On the other side of the tarpaulin her father groaned.
‘Much good may it do you,’ Iwa said, trying to keep the fear from her voice. The doll spun slowly in front of her. Somehow it had grown a face; the lineaments were blurred and indistinct but Iwa felt a shiver run down her spine as she realised that the face was hers.
‘Yes, much good it will do me,’ the priest said as he put the doll away.
‘Cast your spells for all their worth,’ Iwa said, ‘your words are nothing, like dried leaves rattling in an empty wind.’
‘It would be best not to underestimate me; many have made that mistake and paid dearly for it.’
‘You’re powerless: you can’t even…’ She let her voice trail away.
‘Even do what?’
‘If you have power over me,’ her voice trembled, ‘why don’t you force me to tell you?’
‘Perhaps I should,’ Wislaw replied, somewhat taken aback: he hadn’t expected such continued defiance. ‘A simple demonstration.’ He smiled to cover his shock as he took out the doll and placed it between his hands. On his forehead the serpent tattoo flickered as he began to sing in a low soulful tone. At first she could hardly make out the words, but then the rhythm took hold. Wislaw looked deep into her eyes and she felt the song pour out of him and into
