Wislaw began to back away but the shield bearer blocked his path. ‘Work your art – priest,’ she heard Grunmir say, his voice all but lost in the din. With a moan Wislaw collapsed to the ground. He stretched out his arms and began to work a spell, his song drowned in the clamour as Krol Gawel walked forward, his body no more than a fragment almost swallowed in the lights that blazed about him. If it hadn’t been for the colour reflected from his great sword, there would have been no trace of him at all.
But Iwa had other things on her mind. Around her the ground was littered with weapons. Without taking her eyes off the barrier, she reached for a spear, a bit unwieldy perhaps, but the blade was sharp enough. The woyaks had deserted the ramparts and there was nobody to stop her escape. First I’ll get Yaroslav and then we’ll be rid of this place and not even all the demons of the night will be able to find us. She ran across the camp, too scared now to even think about the women locked away in the ship. She had to get Yaroslav away; nothing else mattered.
But she hadn’t counted on Wislaw. In her panic and terror she slipped again on the wet grass. A strange feeling had taken hold of her and a numbness spread across her body. At first she thought that she’d been dazzled by the light but then, over the noise and the clamour, she heard Wislaw’s spell song. Dimly she realised why the words formed, strange and alien on her tongue: it was his voice that came from her lips, her vocal cords straining to accommodate his words as the chant took hold.
No, she cried, but she had already dropped the blade, her body nothing more than a manikin, and still her lips moved; her tongue curling stiffly around the words as the spell wove through her. She could almost see it; taste the magic bitter in her mouth as an ancient power entwined her. She was blind, her whole body caught up with the spell. All at once her world tumbled in upon her, as a huge rushing sound engulfed her.
When Iwa next came to herself she was free of the spell, the last traces of it crawling like pins and needles along her arm. Propping herself up, she blinked and realised that everything had gone quiet. There was no sign of Lord Bethrayal, no magic crackling at the barrier.
In the distance she could see Krol Gawel fallen near the shoreline. At first she thought that he was dead, but then, slowly, he started to pick himself up. His great sword lay only a few feet away, mired in the mud.
‘See!’ Wislaw raised his hands in triumph. ‘My magic has prevailed: the power of Piórun protects this camp.’
‘But for how much longer?’ Grunmir muttered as he helped the krol to his knees. There must have been some residual link with Wislaw because she doubted she could have heard Grunmir from where she lay. Do I listen with his ears? she wondered as she pulled herself up. Can he hear me now?
No, she decided: she could catch brief glimpses of the world through Wislaw’s eyes, the scent of mud, or the odd glimmer of a sound, nothing more. She knew that his power was spent. She felt his tiredness, the anger at still being trapped and a dark hollow feeling that beat within his heart.
Getting up, she tried to shake the last vestiges of his craft from her. She was drained, her limbs trembling as she struggled up. He’d used much of her magic to keep the barrier intact but she was younger and, with a few deep breaths, she recovered.
Quickly she began to run between the boats. She had to get away now, whilst the camp was in confusion. Anything was better than having that priest in her head and having to face this demon.
‘See,’ Wislaw’s voice serrated the gloom, ‘how I drive the enemies of Piórun before me.’ Already a few of the woyaks were peering out from under the tarpaulins. Soon they’d come out and any chance of escape would be gone.
‘We’ve got to get out now.’ She ran helter-skelter into the hut and looked about her for a knife or a blade, anything to cut Yaroslav’s bonds. ‘Quickly, before the woyaks come out of their ships.’
‘Run,’ Yaroslav whispered, ‘leave me.’
‘No,’ Iwa said, pushing through the canvas. He was strung up on the spit, a tiny candle set on a barrel by his side. Even in the gloom she could see the bruises swelling around his eyes and the line of blood that seeped from a partially closed wound across his forehead. ‘I couldn’t leave you,’ she said.
‘How touching.’ A voice cut through the gloom – it was Eber. Iwa felt her body sag: she hadn’t counted on anyone bothering to guard the hut. Slowly he picked himself up from behind the barrel. He still looked scared, his shoulders hunched as he glanced around him and prayed that it was all over.
‘Grunmir was right,’ the woyak said as he took the spear from her, ‘you’re a cunning one.’
‘You should have forgotten about me,’ Yaroslav muttered.
She didn’t have time to answer. In one swift movement, Eber’s spear blade was at her throat. Still he couldn’t move as well as some of the others, but he’d learned how to balance himself well enough so the blade fell just a little short, the tip pointing at her thorax.
Then, with a simple motion, he began to lead her out of the hut, his spear pressed against her back. ‘You could let me go,’ she pleaded against all hope, ‘and tell Grunmir I escaped in the confusion: nobody would blame you.’ But the woyak didn’t answer. He’d had enough of this demon-haunted forest, enough of taking orders from that priest, enough even
