He drew back and gulped down his anger. Around him he could see the woyaks picking themselves up. They were frightened and malleable. No, it had to be now, whilst the men wouldn’t question. ‘Piórun the thunderer is our god, my krol. Above all others it is he who looks down from his holy mountain to cast his protection over us. Let us not deny him his due on account of a child’s foolish tears. Give her over to me and all will be well. Piórun will reach down and smite this demon for us.’
‘But…’ Grunmir managed.
‘Piórun has guided us thus far,’ Wislaw cut him off quickly. ‘Is he not the strongest of the gods? All must bow down before him, my krol.’
An uneasy murmur ran through the crowd as, here and there, a few of the woyaks covered symbols of other gods. Now the old priest didn’t need the manikin. Iwa was too shocked to say anything more. Suddenly a great tiredness descended upon her. She hadn't recovered from her experiences in the tent and it had only been her fear that had kept her going for so long. Now even that was spent. Still some of the men looked uncertain, the amulets of far-off deities glinting about their necks. If only Wislaw would overplay his hand, then some might remember to whom they owed their allegiance.
Krol Gawel looked troubled, his hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his sword. Not that he cared about the girl, but he sensed the danger. The priest was becoming too powerful, for all the woyaks’ mistrust. Perhaps it would be better to give him this sacrifice and have done with it. ‘Your conscience is troubled,’ Wislaw said softly, ‘and that is a noble sentiment, my krol, one that is worthy of such a man as you; but the gods demand human sacrifice – this girl’s blood.’
‘Will that rid us of this curse?’
‘There is no other way.’
‘Then it is best that it is done quickly,’ Krol Gawel said as he strode off into the camp. For a second nobody dared move. Not that they cared too much for this girl, but none of them wanted to see blood spilled in such a way. To appease the gods was natural but none of them wanted to cower behind magic and spells.
‘Take her,’ Wislaw cried.
‘Listen to me!’ Iwa began to struggle but the woyaks grabbed her, rough hands pinning her to the ground. Like the krol, they wanted things to be done quickly now that the decision had been made.
And maybe the gods would look down and lift the curse. Piórun had always looked favourably upon them. ‘Can’t you see, Wislaw’s tricked you,’ she wailed, but her words were lost in the din. She felt her limbs torn as she was lifted up, her legs kicking against her captors. But they were desperate men, eager for the blood that might deliver them from the terrors of the forest.
Wislaw watched, a smile playing over his thin lips as, still screaming, she was carried away.
Chapter Seventeen
In the deeper forest there was a glade hidden by a thick copse of spruce trees. No track led to it, and if Iwa hadn’t followed a tiny brook that wound its way into the glade she’d never have found it. Here the ground became muddy, the sunlight broken by the branches so that even in summer there was a slight coldness to the ground.
At first she thought that the ground was too muddy and would suck her down, but the brook wasn’t large enough for that. It was here that some of the best flowers would grow. In the height of summer the girls would ask her to take them there. None could find the spot after and she’d had always delighted in picking the hardest, longest route. Most of the girls thought that they’d gone into the depths of the forest. A few even became scared, glancing over their shoulders and praying to the Leszy. Sometimes, when they weren’t looking, she’d throw a rock into the thickets to startle them.
It wasn’t just the joke that amused her. For once she was the centre of attention. Even Alia didn’t know of a better place to find the best lavender and myrtle and where the trees were covered with ivy.
All the girls would run, giggling as they tried to pick the best of the flowers, each trying to outdo the others. Soon the summer solstice would be upon them and it would be time to dance round the Kupała fire and hope that they would catch one of the young hunters. Of course the ones with the largest and prettiest headdresses would stand the best chance and so everyone wanted some myrtle and lavender. Those flowers were held sacred on Kupała’s night.
Other clans had their own traditions, but the Bison Grass always held that lavender and myrtle looked best by firelight. Each headdress would naturally be wound with bison grass, but that had to be cut by one of the Szeptun witches, who would whisper her magic into the stalks.
Then the women would take the flowers back to the camp and begin weaving their headdresses. Even the older hunters took an interest, anxious to know how the women were progressing. How else would the other clans know of their prowess? They had to be seen to provide enough so that the women had the time to make the headdresses, and the more elaborate and time-consuming the costume, the greater would be their esteem. You could always tell a poor season’s hunt by the scrawny headdresses.
For once Iwa could be useful. All the women came to her, even Alia. Iwa felt herself there now, bathed in the scent of the lavender as the breeze played across the sprigs of myrtle. But then there was a harsh gust of wind, and a great darkness fell across the glade. Had Simargl, the winged hound of doomsday, been let loose to eat the
