Then the room exploded into movement, woyaks running for their shields, Grunmir screaming out his orders as Wislaw slunk into the shadows, his voice lost amid the chaos. There was a shimmer of sound as the boy helped Krol Gawel with his armour, so swiftly that the inner padding was almost on before the woyaks had time to bring out his scale mail.
From out of the shadows there was another crackle of power. A few boxes lay scattered on the floor behind the chair and, as Iwa peered closer, she saw a strange blue-green stone. In the centre there was something that looked like the semblance of a face, the eyes closed as if asleep. With nobody paying her any heed Iwa scrabbled behind the chair. She could see the stone closely now, the smooth features of a young man marked clearly on its surface, his skin glowing as if anointed with oil. In the distance there was a throb of magic and suddenly the eyes opened. Instinctively Iwa drew back, but when she looked again there was no sign of the face.
Outside, the sound of the magic swelled as the woyaks ran for their weapons. ‘Bring the girl,’ Krol Gawel commanded, ‘and guard her well.’
‘To arms, you fools!’ Grunmir yelled. ‘Get the archers on the ramparts, quickly! Burn the men out of their ships if you have to, but get those archers on the wall!’ Without waiting, he charged out into the dark, the woyaks following uncertainly behind. Only Alia hung back, caught in a soundless scream as she retreated into the gloom.
Outside, all was chaos. Iwa was dragged down the steps so fast that her knees scraped along the wood. Woyaks ran everywhere, armoured shadows scurrying in the night. Someone ran into a brazier: hot coals scattered across the ground, the flames flecking over the grass as a pile of furs caught light. Not that anyone seemed to notice; they all appeared to be screaming. Iwa raised her hands to her ears in a desperate attempt to drown out the sound as everything dissolved into a confused blur. ‘Gather round and fight, you dogs!’ Grunmir screamed. A few woyaks rallied to his call and formed up around him. But his words had little impact on the other woyaks, who turned tail and ran, their shields scattering across the ground.
None wanted to go near the ramparts, casting hasty glances to the imagined safety of their ships. After so many untroubled nights they’d begun to hope that the curse had lifted and the demon had returned to whatever place it had come from. Now the evil had returned and that brief flicker of hope had been extinguished.
Wislaw bowed before the statue of Piórun, his voice trembling as he summoned what magic he might. But his words were lost in fire and confusion. Even so, Iwa could feel his panic, the trembling of his hands and lips as he tried to raise a paean to the thunder god. Around him some of the woyaks stood, their eyes trained on the row of skulls, each one praying that the magic might hold.
Then, striding through the dark and the smoke, she saw the krol; the flames reflecting across his battle helm as his leopard cloak fluttered behind him. Four woyaks walked with him, old trusted men, their armour battered and scarred as, above them, the battle standard flapped like a reed caught in the current. In the distance the club-footed boy limped as he struggled with the shield.
Until then Iwa hadn’t understood why the woyaks followed their krol: Grunmir had always seemed the more natural choice. He was taller and had always seemed good at making others obey him gladly. Now Krol Gawel stopped before them, his breath misting as if, under that great helm, he breathed fire. He was like the trapped fox and death held no terror for him. Before him the men scurried, spears and shields clattering. But, even in his fury, there was a calmness about him, like the sweet smell of the air before the thunderclap. Around them the sound of the craft rose, hard as iron. Iwa winced as the hands that gripped her tightened with fear. But the krol came forward, a fluidity in his movements, a grace about him despite all the armour and the heavy battle helm.
‘Show yourself, demon!’ the krol yelled. ‘I challenge you!’ There was another blast of sound, like a wolf caught in the grip of madness. Iwa turned to the black ship. On either side of the steps a woyak stood; each carrying an iron horn twisted high above their heads, so large that the end had to be fixed to the ground with a stake or else the men would never have been able to hold the instruments aloft. Even amid all the clatter, she had to stop and stare: the ends of the trumpets were carved in the shape of wolves so that the sound bellowed from their iron snarling fangs.
‘Hear my wolf call and despair!’ the krol yelled as he looked to his men. Once more the horns sounded and then fell quiet as the woyaks regained their breath. The krol unsheathed his sword, circling the great blade slowly.
Around them the sound of Bethrayal undulated, the noise pulsing through the night,
