A kroldom in the forest. Nobody thought it would be easy, but to be caught like a hare in a trap? Taking the camp had been easy, the hunters broken almost before the battle started. There were many, himself included, who had reckoned that the hardest part was over. They should have had the women to work for them and to keep in the camp as hostages so that the hunters would return each night with the catch.
They’d have to put a few to the sword. That much had always been understood. And who would have it any other way? Men were not built for easy subduction, particularly those bred to a life hard as this. But nobody had counted on such stubbornness. He could see it in the eyes of the women, that subtle defiance that would linger long after he’d gone.
Slowly it had started to wear the men down. They’d counted on being safe in their ships. But they’d had to learn not to trust the women. A few of the woyaks had let their guard down and one of them had almost paid for it with his life.
The others kept a weary watch. They were a stalked herd, and the women knew it. How many were biding their time? That old Katchka, for one. Few could feel safe when they couldn’t even trust the hands that bound their wounds.
Then there was that thing in the forest. What man could stand against such a creature of the night? A silent killer which seemed proof against every mortal blade? And yet how many men would have fled the camp already if it hadn’t been for that stalker in the night? At least, in this, that old blunderer Wislaw had proved his worth. Perhaps the krol wasn’t so foolish in keeping that one.
From somewhere outside there was the faint trace of laughter. It came as a forced, distant sound but laughter nonetheless. The demon hadn’t been seen for the last few nights and already some had begun to hope that the curse had passed them by. And, around the campfires, some of the men had even begun to sing again.
‘The men sing of your glory,’ he said as he drained the last of the vodka.
‘I have not heard them.’ There was a weariness to the krol’s voice as if his thoughts and his heart were far away. ‘Perhaps you were right, my friend. War beckons in the east and we were fools not to rally to its cry.’
‘Our only mistake was to waken the evil…’ Grunmir paused as if he’d said too much, but Krol Gawel appeared not to notice; he slumped in his chair and called for wine. From the half dark a woman came, carrying a jug on a silver platter. It was Alia, the light playing over her scar as she walked, her body sheathed in a long green dress that shimmered in the gloom. Surely even the Polish ladies had never looked so fine. She was careful not to catch Iwa’s eye as she passed, a slight uneasiness in her stride. The light glinted from a golden necklace and on her forehead a tiny jewel glimmered, held in place by a silver chain. Iwa’s eyes couldn’t help but follow Alia’s every move as she poured the wine into a silver goblet: surely no lady had ever looked so fine, not even in the halls of the Polish krols.
Alia handed the cup to Krol Gawel and then stood by his side, her head bowed. ‘So this is the young spy who has caused us so much trouble,’ Krol Gawel said as Grunmir pushed Iwa forward.
‘We caught her on the trail above the camp, my krol,’ Grunmir said, ‘the one which the hunters have taken to using. We were following their tracks when we stumbled across her hiding in the bracken.’
‘And you are sure that she’s a spy?’ Krol Gawel looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I see nothing more than a hardly whelped stripling.’ Carelessly he held out the cup for it to be refilled. Was there nothing that could quell the ache? Not even the wine seemed to help. Outside all was still, no hint of a breeze that might cool his head.
At least there was no sign of the demon. Six nights and the thing had not come. Perhaps the curse had passed. Maybe there was more to this Wislaw than he’d first imagined. Or had the curse merely lifted of its own accord and drifted off to some other part of the forest? He should have drawn some comfort from that, but there was just a hollow feeling, a great emptiness that could not be filled with wine.
‘This isn’t the first time that I’ve caught her skulking on the edges of the camp,’ Grunmir said as he thrust the girl forward. ‘I am beginning to think that there is far more to this one than meets the eye.’
‘Her!’ Alia scoffed, her voice ringing hollow through the gloom so that a few of the woyaks jumped. Red-faced, she cast her gaze to the floor but the krol appeared not to notice.
‘So what do you have to say for yourself – girl?’ he said, almost absentmindedly.
‘I haven’t sneaked anywhere,’ Iwa replied, her words failing in the flickering light. The woyaks must have been desperate to think she was a spy. Beware the wounded animal, Kazik had told her once. For it is when the prey is at its most deadly. Watch carefully, for it is when the animal is likely to be at its most unpredictable, its actions as fathomless as the winter winds.
And he had the scars to prove it, his left leg gouged by an elk buck when he was young. He’d been lucky to survive, and it had taken all of the wise women’s skills
