‘They’ve gone off to skulk behind the boats,’ the woyak said. ‘The men are scared.’
‘I don’t care. Burn the boats if you have to, but get those men back on the ramparts. We have Wislaw’s barrier to protect us now.’
‘The men don’t trust magic,’ the woyak whispered. ‘Nobody trusts…’ His voice fell away as he realised that the priest was there.
‘Just guard against human forces, woyak,’ Wislaw said softly, ‘and leave the demons to one who has knowledge of such.’ It was hard for him to keep the trace of scorn from his voice as he looked at the young woyak, his face ashen with fear.
‘But will it come again tonight?’
‘If it does then Wislaw’s magic will hold us safe, boy,’ Grunmir replied, as he scanned the embankment and the line of trees beyond.
‘I cast the last of the sacred spells myself last night,’ Wislaw said. ‘The power of Piórun will protect us now; the demon will not be able to break my craft.’
‘Just be ready should the hunters attack,’ Grunmir said to the woyak, glad that there was something understandable that he could face and cut down. ‘And keep the men away from the vodka.’ He motioned for the woyak to leave. ‘Your barrier had better hold,’ he said to the priest.
‘There has been no trouble these past six nights. I think that this demon has realised the full extent of the forces now arrayed against him. Perhaps he has thought better than to test my craft.’
‘Maybe we have shaken this demon after all.’ Grunmir gave the trees a withering look. ‘But somehow I doubt that. I do not trust this forest.’
Outside the main ship two woyaks huddled round a brazier, pale faces hardly looking up as they passed. Iwa was led up the stairs and thrust inside. She hadn’t expected so much light; candles blazed from iron holders, the smoke drifting through a gap at the top of the tarpaulin where it was lashed to the mast.
But the gap was not enough to prevent the air being close, hazed with the scent of sweat and oil. At the far end of the ship a pile of herbs smouldered in a copper bowl hung above a brazier. She didn’t recognise the scent, but it did little except add a pungent, acrid stench which stung her eyes. At the back of the space a wooden chair stood upon a raised dais. She blinked and uttered a prayer to the clan gods. She’d never seen a chair before and, to her, it could have been the altar of some terrible woyak god. Tiger skins shimmered across the back and the armrests were carved in the shape of claws, inlaid with ivory that gleamed coldly in the candlelight.
‘You took your time, old friend,’ a voice growled: it was Krol Gawel. He was half naked, his body still wet from bathing, the muscles of his chest rippling as, with hardly a glance, he walked to the great chair. Iwa had never seen him up close before; his skin was covered with a morass of old scars and his face was haggard, the lines drawn deep around his eyes, which shone blue with a dark, brooding intelligence. Around his neck he wore a golden torque, the head fashioned in the shape of a leopard, and around the circlet were carved tiny points like claws. Behind him the club-footed boy followed, his leg dragging across the floor, a line of drool falling across his mouth as he mumbled dully to himself.
‘Do you not hurry to follow my orders?’ the krol said as Iwa was flung to the floor, two woyaks gripping her shoulders as she was forced to kneel before the great chair.
‘I wanted to check the perimeter, my krol,’ Grunmir replied.
‘And how many stand guard tonight?’ His voice was distant as if he didn’t expect an answer.
‘The men are scared. Iron and steel are nothing to them, but who can fight against the demons of the night?’
‘They are cowards,’ Krol Gawel said softly, as one of the woyaks handed him a silken shirt. He took it without a glance, the battle scars marked along his ribs glowing in the candled gloom as he slid the thing on, the silk cold and oddly comforting against his back as it shimmered in the light.
Maybe, to some of the woyaks, such finery seemed out of place amid the creak of the decks and the stench of the braziers and the hides. For Iwa’s part, she had hardly ever seen anything like it. Rarely one of the traders would bring up a gown of finely woven cloth from the Polish lands but she’d never seen such a thing as the krol’s shirt, no one had. This was finer than even Miskyia’s gown or any of the things that Alia or her friends had ever been given.
Around her the air swelled with the thick scent of incense. Too many new things crowded round and threatened to overwhelm her. Even the symbols dyed into the thick fabric of the tarpaulin seemed strange somehow as they fluttered in the breeze. Some of them she knew, there were the sun wheels and the axes of Piórun, as well as the lime leaf and elderflower mandalas, but even these were different, their colours all wrong.
‘Give them a human foe to fight and they’ll gladly risk death for you, but against such evil…’ Grunmir’s words fell silent as the krol stood before the chair, a dark look upon his face.
‘The men cling to the ships like beetles to dung,’ he said as he slipped on the shirt. ‘They cower behind walls of wood and sing to the gods for help.’
‘Not so, my krol, many are loyal still. Your command holds sway over them.’
‘Many are loyal, you said: so what of the others, those who aren’t?’
‘I flogged the last of the rabble-rousers last night. Don’t worry, my boot will have the men in order
