Resting at the base of the altar was what she first took to be a war axe but, as she looked closer, she could see that the shaft was too long to be wielded properly, needing a second handle placed halfway along. The blade was curved like the crescent moon and crackled with magic. Runes shimmered across the wood and she could sense deeper, darker runes hidden in the steel; ancient magic that bayed for blood. By its side rested another implement, much like the first but perhaps only a quarter of the length. The shaft curved where a handle jutted out so that it looked like the outline of a wading bird. It too held magic, the spells woven tightly about the steel, but the blade was shorter and more cruelly curved.
That should have made her run, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene. From the waters the wind picked up and rattled the chains that hung from the cross piece, each ending in a savage hook. As the woyaks’ song swelled, the wind followed it so that the rattle of the chains mingled with the words into one savage sound, soft as a whisper. Slowly she made her way along the side of the ship. It should have been a simple thing to get to the palisade. Moonlight glinted through gaps in the timbers to illuminate the broken ground before her. Most of the woyaks were watching the sacrifice, and even the few on the walls were looking out at the forest, not inwards to the camp.
Carefully she moved her body through the shadows, but not towards the palisade. Sooner or later somebody was bound to find out that she was gone. Would Wislaw demand Yaroslav’s body in her place? She had to put a stop to all this, even if it meant going back to Miskyia.
The rest of the camp was deserted. Even the guards outside Krol Gawel’s ship were nowhere to be seen. By the altar the curved blades glinted. She could almost sense the runes stirring deep within those steel crescent blades as she slunk along beside their curved prows.
Silently she crawled up the steps of Krol Gawel’s ship, her muscles tensed, ready to fling herself aside at the first trace of danger. Inside, all was still. The light shimmered across the polished wooden planks and, behind the chair, the amulet lay forgotten. Even now she didn’t dare crawl inside. She felt the air thick about her as she peered into the gloom and, if it hadn’t been for her fear of Wislaw, she doubted that she would ever have found the courage to slip inside.
Dropping to the floor she hid behind one of the sacks, the feel of the wood strange beneath her feet. There was no sign of life. The amulet lay only a few feet away. Surely it was the gem, with the last remnants of Bethrayal’s craft locked inside. It had to be. Outside, a spell was cast and, from deep within the bowels of the ship, the amulet crackled with life. Maybe Wislaw lacked the subtlety to sense the amulet’s spell, but sooner or later he’d surely discover the magic. It wasn’t that she trusted Miskyia, but the thought of anything so powerful falling into the hands of that old priest and his reptile-headed god was almost too much to bear.
That moment’s hesitation saved her. She was on the verge of leaving the shadows, and then a figure moved. Hidden behind a curtain, she’d had no chance to notice him before. It was the lame boy. His club foot dragged across the hull as he went to sit on a bench and began to polish Krol Gawel’s golden cup, a tune dribbling from his lips as he worked the wax into the metal.
He had his back to her, his shoulder blades moving slowly as he worked. Iwa’s feet hardly made a sound as she padded over to the chair and reached for the amulet. It was such a simple thing, a circle of polished bronze in the centre of which lay a blue-green gem. But, as she curled it into her fist, a tingle of power ran through her fingers.
Something was wrong. She paused, ready to run, the hairs pricking up along the back of her neck. Wislaw’s doll, she thought, as a sense of panic gripped her, but she felt no touch of magic. Half expecting to feel a woyak’s hands upon her, she turned and looked behind her. All was silent. But something was wrong, she knew it. Even before she’d finished turning back, the realisation hit her: the boy had stopped his song.
He had his back to her as he sat hunched over the cup, but the cloth was still in his hand. He’d seen her reflection. Maybe, in the light, the cup had distorted the image so that it had taken him a moment to realise what was going on, or maybe he was just shocked to see her behind him, but the boy hadn’t reacted until, across the cup’s polished surface, his eyes met hers. There was a moment’s pause as the realisation sank in and then, with an almost unnatural swiftness, the boy leapt up.
But Iwa was quicker: she’d already grabbed his arm and thrust her knee into his stomach so that the force of the blow drove the wind out of him and smothered his cry. Desperately she tried to push past, but she wasn’t quick enough and the boy fell on top of her. She jabbed the palm of her hand into his throat
