Prologue
“Grovel,” growled the witch.
The silver-haired knight did, abjectly. Behind him in the darkness voices tittered.
“Enough,” she said.
The knight lay still, exhausted.
“You failed me.” The witch spoke in a whisper because long ago a Hunnish arrow had pierced her throat.
“Let me repair this failure,” said the knight.
In the darkness, the evil titters changed to hisses. One zealous servant, his face hidden by a veil, stepped into the candlelight and kicked the knight in the ribs.
“No,” the witch told him.
Hands reached out of the darkness and dragged the cringing servant back into the smothering womb of shadows. Fists struck flesh. Soon, the meaty thuds stilled the man’s dismal cries.
“Feed him to the wolves,” the witch said.
The knight thought she meant him. Then he heard servitors drag the man from the chamber. The knight’s stomach unclenched. Soon he was alone with the old witch.
“I see that you are still too arrogant,” she whispered.
“Forgive me, O Wretched.”
“Your words lack meaning.”
Although the knight feared for his soul, he envied the Wretched her power.
“Yet….” she whispered. “You are cunning, and your form is pleasing to my eye.”
As he lay before her, the knight grinned secretly. Surely she meant to let him live, to use him once more.
“After centuries of searching,” she said, “my spies believe they have discovered the crypt of the Lord of Bats.”
“...it is his resting place?”
“That is my hope, yes. But our Lord was clever. He might have left an ancient blood-drinker as guard or perhaps the gaunt of an Old One.”
The knight calculated swiftly. He had heard tales of blood-drinkers. Yet he feared a gaunt more.
“Would you redeem yourself?” the witch asked.
He hesitated, wondering if she meant to sacrifice him on the altar of her ambitions. Then he realized that she would try. His opportunity would come in her attempt.
“Yes, O Wretched,” he said.
“Then you must go to the crypt.”
“I will do it.”
“Yes, you most certainly will do it. Perun and his men will join you. You will go to Great Moravia and speak with the fool there who calls himself king. Only then will you approach the crypt. Fear not, I will teach you how to trick a gaunt. You already know what is needed to defeat a blood-drinker.”
The knight’s eyes gleamed. This was the chance he had waited years for.
“Arise, worm, and approach me.”
The silver-haired knight arose, his flesh crawling. As the candle flickered brighter, he saw a misshapen lump of flesh on an obsidian throne. Then he left the light and stepped into the darkness to embrace her.
-1-
The long-legged youth tramped effortlessly through the snow as he shouted for Master Volok’s lost dog. With him were two leashed beasts with dark fur, snuffling at the snow. Everyone called him Ivan. Unlike others at Belgorod Holding, he had only one name. But a single name worked well enough for the holding’s dog trainer, or so Ivan told himself whenever he bothered to think about it. Now was definitely not the time.
He hefted his club, wondering how useful it would prove if he met the marauding wolf. The club had a gnarly head sprouting nails. Last summer, he’s pulled the nails out of Farmer Lech’s burnt barn. Later, he’d hammered each nail through an oak branch. Then in the fall, he’d borrowed a saw and cut the branch, creating his club.
As his breath puffed white, Ivan turned uneasily toward the nearby wood. He disliked the moaning wind that knifed through the pines. “Stribog!” he shouted. “Here boy!”
Ivan listened, but only heard the moaning wind. Then he saw a shadow slink into the pines. That might have been his errant dog. Ivan began to trot as his two leashed beasts whined with delight.
He grew hot plowing through the drifts. He tore off his woolen hat and stuffed it in his jacket. Dark hair spilled out and fell to the nape of his neck. He was a tall youth, taller than anyone else at Belgorod.
“Stribog!” he shouted.
A hundred yards later, he heard a horn. He dug in his heels and shouted, “Whoa! Stop now.” Despite their obvious wish to advance, the two hounds halted.
Ivan turned and saw a horseman gallop toward him. He recognized Yury’s fluttering red cape. Both Yury Belgorod and he were the same age, and as long as he could remember, they had been best friends. Yury was Master Volok’s son, and therefore by blood he was able to become a knight. Everyone at Belgorod Holding knew Yury’s dream: to become Moravia’s greatest knight, as great as the legendary Bogdan Monomakh.
Three factors boded against that ever happening. One, Belgorod Holding guarded over only enough farms to field three knights and their squires. Two, three older brothers stood in Yury’s way. Three, a ravaging childhood disease had cursed Yury with a gimpy left leg and a left arm weaker than it should be. The rank of Belgorod knights went from Master Volok, to Petor the oldest son, and then to either Vuk or Andrei. As squires, the last two vied for the final prize in a holding to the west. Soon one of them would be knighted and he would take up his new station on Belgorod territory. Good Master Volok, in his kindness, had temporarily allowed Yury to act as Petor’s squire. Everyone but Yury knew that the act would soon be over.
Yury rode up smoothly, reining in the packhorse. The old red horse reached back to nip at Yury’s boot as if to ask, Why am I being ridden so hard today?
“I heard the hounds,” Yury gushed. “Did you spot Stribog?”
Shorter than Ivan, Yury had the beefy Moravia build. He also had long blond hair, wide-set eyes, although the left drooped slightly, and a quirky mouth that seemed forever twisted to one side. Despite the rich red cloak, something else caught Ivan’s attention.
“What’s with the sword?” asked Ivan. He’d been on enough wolf-hunts to want spears instead.
“You mean this?” Yury asked as he proudly slapped the Carolingian longsword strapped to his side.
Ivan nodded.
“Now that father’s gone….”
Master Volok had gone by sleigh to Rudel’s Inn to pick up Nadia. After three years, she finally returned. Instead of tramping near the woods, Ivan would rather have helped bring Nadia back. Wolf-season, however, meant dog-trainer work out here.
Ivan shrugged. “So your father’s gone. That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Look a little closer, good sir.”
Ivan did. His mouth opened as he recognized the waxed leather scabbard. “That’s Petor’s sword,” he said.
Yury nodded sharply and said in jest, “Very good, milord. Since Petor was bellowing orders at everybody, making sure the party preparations go flawlessly, I figured he wouldn’t need this today.”
“You’re taking a risk.”
For a moment, Yury looked sour. “What risk?” he asked. “Father doesn’t think I can ever be a knight. I mean to prove him wrong.”
Which is where all the trouble had started, Ivan knew. Quarrelsome Farmer Lech had come to the holding late last night to speak with Master Volok. Master Volok had already left, of course, and Petor had been sound asleep. Therefore, as a good squire, Yury had listened to Farmer Lech’s complaint and had assured him that the wolf would be taken care of in the morning.
Early this morning, Yury had come into the kennel, shaken Ivan awake and bidden him to bring several hounds. “But not too many, mind you. We don’t want to make a fuss.” Ivan had taken two hounds and, at Yury’s insistence, Stribog as well. Two hours ago they’d split up. Against Ivan’s wishes, Yury had taken Stribog and had promptly lost him.
“I saw something near the edge of the woods,” Ivan now told Yury.
“A wolf?” Yury asked.
“I hope not. I’d rather find Stribog. Besides, you know that your father and brothers never hunt wolves alone. They always take along some farmers. Sometimes they even send for Vladimir.” The man was a noted hunter.
“Oh, don’t worry about Stribog,” Yury said, ignoring Ivan’s blatant advice. “He’ll come home when he’s tired.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Besides, you don’t have to brush out his fur later. If he gets lost in the woods, his fur will be full of burrs and last year’s thistles.”
Yury stood up in the stirrups and shielded his eyes against the sun as he scanned the woods.
Ivan gazed at the location where he’d spotted the slinking shape. A chill swept over him as the wind moaned. He dug out his woolen hat and put it back on.
Sitting back in the saddle with a creak of leather, Yury said, “I say we head into the wood and see if we can’t pick up the spoor. Petor once told me that white wolves love to hide at the wood’s edge and come out and raid at night.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Yury made an impatient gesture. “Come on. I’ve got this.” He patted the sword. “And you’ve got those two hounds.”
“They’re good at tracking, but for a fight Stribog is another matter entirely. What if the wolf stands and fights?”
“I hope for nothing less.”
Ivan knew that his friend desperately wanted to prove old Master Volok wrong. Only a knightly deed could do that. Sometimes, though, Ivan wondered whether knightly concepts of bravery and daring-do weren’t a bit addled.
“I’m not so sure, Yury. I mean, you’ve got that sword and all, but what we really need are some spears.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got your club.”
Ivan wanted to add that Yury sat high upon his horse in safety. That, however, would only cause Yury to jump down and offer him the spot. Then Yury’s limp would become evident. The cold, or too much exertion, always made it worse. In any case, as the squire and the noble-born between them, Yury had to ride the noble animal. Yury often ignored those rules. A noble-born didn’t walk so a lowborn could ride. It just wasn’t proper.
“Look!” Yury cried. “The wolf!” He spurred the old packhorse and drew the sword, then galloped off toward the wood.
“Wait!” Ivan yelled. But Yury was already bent over the horse’s neck, lost to his world of adventure. With a shake of his head, Ivan grunted and ran after him. Yury quickly opened the distance between them. At this rate, he would enter the woods alone.
Ivan let go of the leashes. “Hunt!” he shouted. “Go get ‘em!” The two hounds whined with delight as they chased after Yury.
Ivan lowered his head and lifted his knees as high as possible as he floundered through a deep drift. Salty droplets of sweat dripped into his mouth. Suddenly, however, despite his hard running, the cold feeling bit him again. It was a strange feeling, almost eerie. It curdled his stomach.
“I’m not scared,” he whispered. He swished his nail-studded club back and forth to prove it.
Up ahead, Yury ducked under a snow-covered branch and vanished into the forest. The two hounds dashed in after him. Ivan plowed on and listened to the dwindling barks.
By the time Ivan reached the pines, sweat poured down his face. He drew in great, heaving gasps and unbuttoned his jacket. Steam rose. He took out a rag and mopped his face and neck. Then he reached under his tunic and wiped his torso as well. He had to be careful. As he cooled off, the sweat might chill him so he caught a cold.
A horn blared faintly from within the forest.
“Yury,” he whispered. Ivan rubbed his face with snow, delighting in the crisp coldness, then tucked his tunic back into his breeches and plunged into the forest. The snow wasn’t as deep here, although it was cold under the pines. The wind moaned, and the heavily laden branches creaked as they swayed. The horn sounded again and the hounds howled. He knew their voices. They’d spotted the wolf. Suddenly, he heard a new howl, heavier, but not as loud.
“Stribog.” Ivan grinned, now more than ready to face the wolf. The giant dog dwarfed the others in both size and courage. Master Volok loved Stribog for sound reasons. Old branches snapped as Ivan ran with renewed zeal. As he ran, however, the sounds dwindled. Soon, short of breath, he started walking once more. Worry crossed his face. Yury needed help. Against a lone wolf? he asked himself. Stribog’s there remember? He nodded. Yury will be fine as long as he has Stribog.
As he trudged through the woods an odd feeling stole over Ivan. Someone watched him. He stopped and peered around. The moaning, swaying pines threw their shadows everywhere. He buttoned his coat and put on his woolen hat. Snow fluttered down from the upper branches, but not a rabbit or a rat stirred within the gloomy underbrush.
Wait! He saw movement atop a pine. He craned his neck and spotted a huge black raven, one with a white mark on its beak. The monstrous raven eyed him. Woodenly, as if his legs moved on their own accord, Ivan walked toward the bird. There was something decidedly strange about the raven, something not quite right.
Ivan stopped, his heart thumping, and glanced about. He saw a wizened, cloaked person hunched over a tiny fire. The fire crackled as the person fed it twigs. Ivan didn’t recognize the person, and he knew everyone near Belgorod Holding.
“Hey!” he called. “Who are you?”
The cloaked person, by their size a small woman or child, turned with startling swiftness. The face remained hidden within the shadow of the hood. For an instant, however, Ivan saw black eyes that glittered like the blade of a falling axe.
Fear wormed into Ivan’s belly. He took a step backward as he vainly tried to marshal his courage. He could out-wrestle Yury and Feodor, their good friend. Once he’d even ground a spear and faced a charging boar. This...thing, however, was different.
The huge raven cawed loudly, almost obscenely so. Ivan gave it a quick glance. When he looked back at the fire—
“Huh?”
Ivan blinked in confusion. The small cloaked...person had vanished. No, not vanished. Ivan saw tracks leading away from him. He also noticed a wisp of black smoke curl up from the now smothered fire.
Ivan licked his lips, wanting to examine the tracks. He also wanted to flee from here. Unable to decide, he glanced back up. The raven was gone.
With a sudden shake of his head, Ivan turned and hurried after Yury. The strange event soon felt unreal. He mocked himself. All I saw was a crone, a terrified old woman. He snorted at his former fear. Some dog trainer I am.
He found the horse’s tracks and finally heard barking hounds. Seconds later, he came upon a deer run and increased his pace. Up ahead, Yury shouted. Then a wolf snarled and a dog yipped.
“Hang on!” Ivan shouted.
Yury yelled with glee.
Ivan broke into a clearing just in time to see Yury plunge back into the forest after a large white wolf. Stribog and Vesna followed Yury deeper into the woods.
Flay stood panting in the middle of the clearing, holding up his right foreleg. Ivan dropped his club and dashed toward the dog, kneeling by its side. Ivan was careful as he touched the leg. These hounds were quick, able to open a man’s skin with a slash of their teeth. Flay’s foreleg was definitely broken.
Ivan made soothing sounds. Then he retrieved his club. It was good that Yury had the wolf on the run, as Ivan couldn’t keep tracking with a lamed dog on his hands. Going to the nearest tree, Ivan snapped off a branch. He returned and soothed the creature, gingerly using the snow to clean the wound.
“Good boy,” murmured Ivan. “That’s a good boy.” His ability with hounds awed many of the locals. Few could handle the edgy beasts like him.
Flay began to pant too fast, a bad sign.
“Easy now,” said Ivan. “This is going to hurt a little.” Knowing that a pained dog could rip the flesh from his face in two quick slashes, Ivan still dared and grasped the leg, setting the broken bone together. Flay’s teeth clicked together and he shivered. Ivan held his breath and tied the splint into place. Quickly, he slipped off his jacket and put it around Flay.
Flay licked his face.
Ivan stood and looked down the path that he’d just come up. He didn’t want to head back that way. So he headed east out of the woods. Flay trotted behind him, carefully keeping his broken leg off the ground, which gave him an uneven gait.
Ivan trekked for where Yury and he had dropped off their packs this morning. It took longer now because Ivan searched out the easiest paths for Flay, and at times, he made lanes through the deepest drifts for him. It took a full hour to leave the woods, cross the open fields and come upon Yury’s fresh trail. Ivan soon climbed the small hill where they’d stashed their belongings.
“It’s about time you showed up!” Yury shouted. He warmed his hands over a fire that also cooked a spitted rabbit. Nearby, the old red horse munched contentedly from a feedbag. The two hounds, leashed to stakes, gripped old bones between their paws as they gnawed them.
Ivan had seen the smoke a half-mile ago, but had refrained from calling out in case Yury hadn’t leashed the hounds. He hadn’t wanted them wrestling with old Flay.
“I didn’t know when you were coming back,” Yury said. “So I went ahead and fed the hounds.”
“Thanks,” Ivan said. He untied his jacket from Flay and put it back on. Then he climbed the rest of the way into the hollow. He took another stake from his pack, hammered it into the ground, leashed Flay and tossed him some dried trout. Finally, Ivan stepped to the fire and gave the spit a twist. “The rabbit should be ready in a few more minutes,” he said.
“You’re the expert,” Yury said. He made a poor job of trying to keep his mouth straight.
“Okay,” Ivan said, sitting on a rock. “What’s got you so excited?”
“Are you kidding?” Yury sat forward. “I chased him away, Ivan.” Yury beamed now.
“The white wolf?”
“Of course the wolf!” Yury shouted.
The hounds looked up, but quickly went back to their bones.
“And I cut him, too,” Yury added. He proudly drew the longsword. Dried blood splashed the end.
“Wow!”
Yury puffed out his chest. “I did it when he bit Flay. I swung down and caught the wolf in the shoulder. He let go of Flay and snarled at me. I swung again and almost chopped him, but the sword caromed off a rock instead.”
Ivan examined the blade more carefully. He saw a notch.
“It happened just as you broke into the clearing,” Yury said in a rush. “The wolf fled and I decided to make sure he left this area for good. I don’t know how far I chased him, but she,” he jerked his thumb at the feeding horse, “was soon in a lather. You know how Petor always says to take care of your mount?”
“What’s a knight without his horse?” Ivan said, repeating what Petor hammered at Yury at least once a day.
“Exactly. So I called off the hounds and reined in Star. Stribog was panting harder than Vesna was. I guess that’s why he finally listened to me.”
Ivan looked uneasy.
“What’s wrong?” Yury asked.
“What are you going to tell your father?”
“Is that a jest?” Yury asked. “That we chased off the white wolf!”
“But Flay broke his leg.”
“He did?” Yury glanced at the eating dog. “Is he well?”
“He should be if I get him home soon enough. That wasn’t what I meant, though.”
“What then?”
“You notched Petor’s sword. He’s going to be angry.”
“I can file out the notch,” Yury said defensively.
“Maybe, but Petor will notice it just the same.”
Yury bit his lower lip and fidgeted with his hands. “Could you file it out for me? I know you’re better at it than I am. You could make it look like new.”
“Yes,” Ivan said. “I’ll do it while you turn the spit.”
Yury jumped up and turned the rabbit. A greasy droplet of fat dripped into the fire and sizzled.
Ivan took out a whetstone and went to the sword. Clamping the naked blade between his knees, he ran his thumb over the notch. Hmmm. Shallow and rather flat. He studied the blade from several angles. Finally, he touched the whetstone to the highly tempered steel. After five minutes of careful work, he chewed on the inside of his cheek as he examined the blade.
“Here, take a look,” he said.
Yury inspected the sword and glanced up with a grin. “Perfect,” he said.
“Well, not exactly perfect....”Ivan shrugged. “It might fool Petor.”
“Yes, great. Let’s eat.” Yury yanked the rabbit off the spit and divided it up. Both youths polished off their portions in a hurry. Ivan wiped his greasy hands on his breeches and dug two sorry-looking carrots out of his pack. He tossed one to Yury and then munched on his own. Later, they drank snow-melted water. Ivan sighed contentedly and began to clean up.
“How about a game of chess?” Yury asked. Two winters ago, he’d carved a set from some old pinewood. Now he kept the set in his pack. Yury took his playing seriously. One of a knight’s duties, or accomplishments, demanded the intelligent play of chess. Of course, Yury had taught Ivan to play, brushing aside Ivan’s worries. It hadn’t seemed right to Ivan that a dog trainer play the noble game.
“I’d love to play,” Ivan now said. “But I want to get Flay home as soon as possible.”
Yury eyed the dog. “He looks all right to me.”
“If he lies around too long he’ll begin to stiffen. That will make him more edgy than I like.”
“It seems to me that he’d be tired after such a long, three-legged walk. Wouldn’t it be better if he rested a bit more before he hiked back home?”
Yury had a point. Therefore, Ivan used his last argument. “I don’t know why you bother. You always win.”
“I’ll play without one of my castles.”
Ivan frowned. He didn’t like pity. A boy without a family couldn’t afford to accept it. He might come to expect it then. Magda had taught him long ago to stand on his own two feet and accept life the way it was.
“I’ll play if you really want to,” Ivan said. “But only one game. And you keep all your castles.”
“Fine, fine,” Yury said. He rolled over a rock to its flat side, brushed off the dirt and carefully set down his board. Taking the two tall kings, he put them behind his back and then brought both closed fists before Ivan.
“You move first,” said Ivan.
Yury poked him in the side. “Don’t be so touchy about my willingness to give you a break. Now choose a hand.”
Ivan flicked his fingers against the right hand. Yury revealed the white king.
“You move first,” Yury said.
Ivan did.
The game went quickly, and Yury won. As Yury packed the set away, he said, “Your mind didn’t seem to be on the game.”
Ivan shrugged.
“Are you still angry about my castle offer?”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“What then?”
“Let’s get going first,” Ivan said.
Yury nodded, limped to the horse and put on the saddle and bridle. Ivan pulled out the stakes, absently picked a burr out of Stribog’s fur and shouldered his pack.
Stribog leaned against Ivan. Ivan petted him. The huge dog stood taller than the others and probably outweighed each by forty or fifty pounds. Ivan favored Stribog over all the other hounds. The intelligent beast exuded bravery, and at one year of age, he could be expected to live a long life. Since his weaning, Stribog had slept beside Ivan in the kennel.
Yury lurched up into the saddle as Ivan strode beside him.
“Ready?” Yury asked.
Ivan nodded.
They started down the hill and toward the puff of smoke in the distance. It would take them until mid-afternoon to tramp home. No farmers lived this close to the woods. Therefore, they’d have to wait for the holding’s fireplace before they dried their snow-dampened clothes.
“So what happened?” Yury asked.
Ivan wondered if he should tell Yury about the crone—if that’s what the wizened person had even been.
“Come on, Ivan, out with it. What are you hiding? Did you break one of Father’s clay figurines?”
As a youngster Yury had knocked down Master Volok’s favorite clay figurine, that of a bull, and had cracked it. Ivan had felt sorry for Yury because his older brothers always picked on him. There had also been an incident with three farmers’ sons. They’d thrashed Ivan. Yury had come upon the scene and beaten the boys off with a stick. Back then, with the broken figurine at Yury’s feet, Ivan had stepped up and told Yury he’d take the blame. Even in those days, Yury worked overtime to please his father. Yury had agreed to Ivan’s plan. Later that evening Master Volok had learned what Ivan had supposedly done. He’d sent Ivan to the kennel without his supper. Yury had watched from his spot at the table and soon his guilt had overwhelmed him. He’d confessed to what had really happened. He, too, had been sent from the dinner table without his supper. Nor had Ivan been called back. Magda had told him later, “You need to tell the truth. That’s very important. Do you understand?”
Ivan had and he’d told Magda so.
The outcome of the episode had proved to be of lifelong importance. Yury had snuck down to the kennel and spent the night with Ivan. Since then they’d been the best of friends.
“No, I didn’t break any clay figurines,” Ivan said.
“What then?”
Ivan told Yury about the raven and the strange crone. Yury listened raptly and spun out fancy ideas as to why the crone had been there.
“Look,” Ivan said at last. “Have you ever heard about this old crone?”
Yury shook his head.
“Neither have I.”
“I wonder if Magda has?” Yury asked.
“You think she might?”
“She’s a healer,” Yury said.
Ivan considered that.
“She knows more about mystic things than anyone else I know,” Yury added.
“That’s true. But what does that have to do with the crone?”
“I’m not sure he really was a crone,” Yury said. “She moved quickly, you said. Old crones would be slow, aged by the elements. Nor did the raven act in a normal fashion. The raven sounds like an animal an enchantress would have.”
“Maybe,” Ivan said.
Yury eyed him. “What are you saying?”
“You know how Belsky always spins out those wild yarns?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe there are more like him in the world. Maybe there are many wild storytellers out there.” Ivan waved his arm vaguely. “Over time these stories grow in the telling.”
“You don’t believe in enchantresses? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Maybe once there were some. But now,” Ivan shrugged. “I believe in what I can see and feel.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s ‘hmm’ mean?”
“Just that I’ve never heard of a crone out in the woods who had a raven for a pet. Nor have I ever heard of a raven that eyes people as if he were weighing them.”
“You think I’m making it up?”
Yury laughed, looking down at his friend. “You? Ivan? Making up stories? Heavens no! You’re too practical for that. I believe every word you said. My ‘hmm’ is for another reason entirely.”
“I’m waiting to hear it.”
“Maybe you’ve finally ‘seen’ an enchanted creature, but you won’t accept it. We’re a long way from anywhere here. I think there’s a lot more in the world than we realize.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Ivan muttered.
“We’ll ask Magda about it later.”
“Sure,” Ivan said.
They stopped talking and concentrated on traveling. Far too long a time later, at least for Ivan’s half-frozen toes, they crested a rise and stopped beside an old oak tree. Below them dipped a shallow and quite familiar valley. In the center of the valley stood Belgorod Holding, beside which grew a small grove of chestnut trees. The white-painted holding with red trim stood stoutly and strong. The foundation together with the first three feet had been made of stone. The rest had been constructed out of peeled logs. Including the hayloft, the holding towered three stories high and had enough extra rooms to house comfortably twenty more people than presently stayed there. Smoke curled from a chimney. A large red stable with white trim stood to the side, and a white picket fence as high as Ivan’s chest surrounded the area where in summer the chickens roamed. Behind the holding, presently hidden from view, stood several other buildings, including the kennel, the blacksmith shed and the miller’s room. In fall, all the farmers brought their grain to the mill for grinding.
“Look!” Yury cried. “Nadia’s sleigh.”
Ivan followed Yury’s finger. Sure enough, parked beside the holding’s porch rested a covered sleigh.
“Nadia,” Ivan whispered. He glanced at his friend. Yury clearly wanted to go dashing down and prove his horsemanship to anyone who stepped outside. Ivan said, “You’d better get Petor’s sword back before anyone notices that it’s gone.”
“You’re right,” Yury said, but he hesitated.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got to take care of the hounds.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” And to emphasize his point, Ivan used the handle-end of his club and whacked the horse on the rump. With a snort from the horse and a shout from Yury, the horse galloped toward the stable.
“Nadia,” Ivan whispered. He wondered at the strange feeling in his gut. He shrugged and trudged after Yury, all the time thinking about what he’d say to Nadia at tonight’s party.
-2-
By the time Yury galloped to the fence, Ivan realized that he didn’t recognize the sleigh.
Whose sleigh is it? he wondered. A messenger with bad news? He wasn’t sure why he felt that. It’s probably something completely harmless, he decided. Master Volok’s trip was an easy one.
Gruner the Blacksmith had joined Master Volok and his squire for the journey southwest. A trip to Rudel’s Inn took many days by sleigh, much of it through rough country. The third day one reached the Old Roman Road. From there the route went sharper west to Rudel’s Inn. Everyone said that no other highway compared to the Old Roman Road.
It would have been absurd and dangerous for Nadia to trudge all the way from Rudel’s Inn to Belgorod Holding. The merchant caravan by which she traveled from Pavia would stop at the inn. She’d join and then ride with Master Volok the rest of the way home. Naturally, Master Volok and Gruner had left a few days early so they had time to sample the ale.
Curious about the sleigh, Ivan hurried down the slope. They didn’t get many visitors here. Surprisingly, winter made travel easier rather than harder. Except for the Old Roman Road cobbled with its peculiar bricks, highways and trails soon grew rutted in the warmer seasons. To take a wagon over most trails—when the trails could even be found—took a man with an iron stomach. The lurching, bouncing and rattling wearied even the strongest traveler. A smooth blanket of snow changed everything. The steady swish of runners made for a pleasant ride, while the jingling of sleigh-bells produced a feeling of comfortable security.
Flay lurched as he worked down the slope and growled with weariness.
Ivan paused as Vesna helped Flay lick the wound. Stribog leaned against Ivan’s left leg. Ivan absently scratched Stribog’s head and examined the sleigh.
He’d never seen that particular design before. It lacked flourishes or any sense of elegance. The wood didn’t look handcrafted, nor did any whorls or spirals or other carved decorations beautify it. It had the feel of something hastily-built, something hammered together for a rough trip. Only the covering paint, black with silver trim, had been done well.
“Come on,” said Ivan, “let’s see who our guest is.” Flay obediently three-legged it down the slope.
It would be good to sit in front of the fireplace and soak up heat. Maybe Lady Belgorod would brew some hot broth. A fireplace and hot broth warmed him faster than anything else did. Of course, he’d have to take care of the hounds first and make sure Janek had fed the other hounds while he’d been away. Then he’d have to find Magda and ask her to look at Flay. He grinned at the thought of the fireplace, dry feet and steaming hot broth.
As Ivan neared the fence, Yury limped out of the stable. His red cloak no longer fluttered from his shoulders. He’d wrapped the sword with it. The stable boy hailed Yury.
Ivan opened the gate. From a distance, Yury gave him a quick nod and limped toward the back of the holding. The stable boy shouted at Yury, then stopped when Yury disappeared around the corner. The stable boy scratched his head. With a shrug, he headed into the barn, no doubt to give Yury’s horse a rubdown.
Mary, one of Lady Belgorod’s housemaids, stepped onto the porch with a broom. She shouted a greeting to Ivan. He waved and was rewarded with a smile.
“Better go hide in the kennel,” Mary cheerfully called.
Ivan didn’t like the sound of that. He gave Mary a questioning glance.
She smiled artlessly and used her broom to knock down icicles.
“Mary?” he said.
She began whistling as she swept snow off the porch.
To ask further would only play into her hands. Mary loved holding secrets and giving out frustrating hints. Ivan decided to maintain a poise of indifference.
He clucked his tongue at his hounds and picked his way through the slush—everyday foot-traffic had churned up the snow near the great house and mixed it with the nearly frozen dirt. He almost slipped before he stepped up onto the split-log walkway and headed toward the right side of the building.
A second story window flew open. Lady Belgorod, a large, ruddy-cheeked woman, stuck her head out. “Ivan!” she called.
“Yes, milady.”
“Where’s Yury?”
She sounded angry, which wasn’t like her at all. After Magda, Lady Belgorod was the kindest person he knew.
“I think he’s in the house, milady.” He added, just in case, “We’ve been near the woods most of the day.”
“Yes!” she said. “I know.” Without another word, she shut the window.
Ivan raised his eyebrows. Although his back itched, because Mary surely smirked at him, he resumed walking. He passed the corner and saw narrow-faced Farmer Lech pacing back and forth by the blacksmith shed. A hammer rang from inside the shed. Several more blows followed in quick succession. The hounds in the low-built kennel started barking. The kennel stood a mere twenty yards beyond the blacksmith shed. Out beyond the kennel hunkered the stone-built mill.
The hammer rang again. No doubt, the blacksmith’s apprentice mended one of Farmer Lech’s tools. Most farmers took care of their tools. Lech always seemed to bend or break his, and bring them to the holding’s blacksmith for fixing.
Ivan wondered at the otherwise empty yard. He nodded. The rest of the Belgorod household most likely helped clean the great house. Nadia’s party would commence once she arrived. And now that there were guests, everyone would be working harder and faster.
Ivan turned sharply to follow the walkway toward the blacksmith shed. Suddenly, the house’s back door banged open. A big man stepped outside. He wore a richly worked black jacket with silver fur cuffs and a fur collar.
A knight from Frankland, Ivan thought to himself. Custom said that only nobles could wear fur. Sometimes rich merchants did and highly ranked priests.
“Ho, lad!” the man called, speaking with an accent. “Stop a moment.”
Ivan paused, as did the hounds.
The broad-shouldered knight wore silver spurs and knee-high black boots. His silver-colored pants were fashioned out of some costly fabric that Ivan didn’t recognize. He did recognize the pearls sewn onto the knight’s waist-belt. A heavy broadsword in an ornate black scabbard hung from the belt. The sword’s silver pommel had been fashioned into a lynx’s snarling face.
With spurs jangling, the knight stepped down from the porch and onto the walkway. Vesna’s hackles rose, as did Flay’s. Both hounds backed up. Stribog whined throatily.
“Stop that,” Ivan ordered, embarrassed and outraged at his hounds’ behavior. “I’m sorry, milord, for their bad manners.”
The knight stroked his square chin. His head seemed a trifle too wide and rectangular, but that was the least of his strangeness. Extremely fine, silver hair hung down to his shoulders. His age couldn’t be determined. His chiseled features made him seem old, until one noticed the smoothness of his pale skin. The eyes seemed to hold the key. They were a washed-out icicle blue, hard and knowing.
Ivan swallowed and averted his gaze.
“Interesting,” the knight said in his deep voice. Spurs jangling once more, he stepped closer.
Vesna growled and crouched. Flay followed her example. Stribog’s legs became stiff as if he meant to lunge and slash with his teeth.
Ivan wanted to order them to stop. He couldn’t because he kept staring at the knight’s boots. Besides, he trusted his hounds. If they didn’t like someone, neither did he.
“Look at me, lad.”
Ivan fidgeted. Knights were supposed to be obeyed, but he couldn’t lift his gaze.
“Boy!”
The two hounds cowered and pressed against Ivan’s boots. Stribog’s lips peeled back to reveal his fangs.
“Your pardon, good sir,” Ivan said hastily. He turned and ran toward the kennel, dragging his hounds with him. He didn’t look back as he rushed past the blacksmith shed and banged against the kennel door. He clawed it open and hurried within. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, panting.
Would the silver-haired knight follow him?
It took perhaps two heartbeats of silence. Then the kennel erupted with a bedlam of whining and barking. Hounds stood on their hind feet, their front paws resting on the wooden siding of their stalls as they greeted Ivan.
He blinked at them, his fear of the knight draining away. “All right, all right,” he said a moment later. “I’m back. You can all rest easy now.” With his head ducked forward because of the low ceiling, he worked his way down the row and touched each dog in turn. That caused their tails to way.
Many of the kennel hounds were big creatures, used to chase down bears and wolves. Grown men shied away when these hounds ran free. To Ivan they were simply his charges. During his years as trainer, a few had bitten him and made blood run, but they’d never torn away long swaths of flesh with a slashing attack to the bone. He was their friend and they were his. It seemed, too, that a pact had been worked out within the kennel. Ivan would fight for them so they would fight for him. Here, he felt safe. Here, he was at home. And here, he was the king, even if he was the servant outside the kennel.
The door opened as Ivan picked up the feed pails. He looked up fast, worried the knight had followed him.
Instead, a plump woman wearing a shawl over her head stepped inside. She had keen eyes and a sharp way of looking at people. She was Magda, and she was unique to Belgorod Holding. She gave sage advice and her cheery spirit lifted others out of gloom. She also had a special gift. With it, Magda could have found a position in the king’s household.
Ivan had heard the story many times. It had happened before his birth. Lord Mikulas had held a tourney just as they did in East Frankland. Master Volok had joined in the mock battle. The thunder of war-horses, the clash of lances and iron swords, the cheering, it had been a grand time. However, a young noble of Great Moravia, the present king, had taken a terrible blow to the head. When retainers had pried off his helmet, they’d cried out in anguish. Blood had flowed from a cut to his scalp. The leech had been summoned and he had sadly shaken his head.
Master Volok summoned Magda, a young housemaid then. She knelt, prayed to Hosar and then laid her hands on the prince’s head. Her hands had grown warm as her countenance had grown haggard. To everyone’s surprise, the scalp-wound had closed and then miraculously healed. The weary but very alive prince had taken Magda’s warm hands in his cold ones.
“Stay with me,” he had said. “You must always be by my side.”
Magda had demurred, saying that her place was at Belgorod Holding.
Magda had a miraculous gift. At times, when the spirit moved in her, her hands became warm. Then she had a healing touch. After Lady and Lord Belgorod, it made her the most important person at Belgorod Holding. In some ways, though, Magda had become the most important person. Her words carried great weight here and throughout the territory. Her unique gift had vaulted her out of the lower class and into that of the noble-born.
“Hello, Magda,” Ivan said.
“Oh no, don’t you ‘hello Magda’ me,” she said as she set a steaming mug atop a barrel. She waggled a plump finger at him and set a long object, wrapped in a spare cloak, beside the mug. “Where have you been?” she asked. No smile lit Magda’s face, and Magda always smiled.
“Yury and I went hunting this morning.”
“Hunting?”
“For a white wolf.”
“Just the two of you?”
Ivan didn’t like what her tone inferred. “We’re old enough,” he said.
“Old enough for what?” she asked. “Old enough to take Petor’s sword?”
He gulped. “You know about that?”
She sighed and stepped up to him, searching his eyes. She patted his arm. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose.”
He nodded hopefully.
“Oh!” She turned and picked up the steaming mug. “Here, I thought you might like something hot.”
Ivan smelled the broth aroma as he accepted the mug. “Thanks.” He sipped and sighed as the hot liquid slid down his throat. He took two more sips. Some of the chill left him.
“I watched Yury slip inside,” Magda was saying, “and set the sword back onto its pegs. Yury slipped away just as quickly, to hide, I suppose. But Petor won’t be fooled.”
“Are you sure about that?” Ivan asked, clutching the mug with numb hands.
“Very sure.”
“Oh!” Ivan said. “Flay broke his leg. I was wondering—”
“Where is he?”
Ivan pointed.
Magda opened the gate and stepped inside the straw-littered stall. Flay wagged his tail. Hiking up her coat, Magda bent down and ran her fingers over the splint.
“You did a good job,” she said.
Ivan grinned as he sipped hot broth. “Can you heal him?” he asked quietly. He’d only seen Magda heal someone twice before. Those times had left him speechless and amazed.
She gently squeezed the leg.
“Careful,” Ivan said. “He might bite your hand.”
Magda seemed not to hear. Finally, she stood. “I’m sorry. I can’t heal him.” She stepped out of the stall.
Ivan noticed that he’d been holding his breath. He let it out as he closed the gate.
“Did a wolf break it?” Magda asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you kill the wolf?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” Magda folded her arms. “Flay has to stay locked up for a week then.”
“A week? But that’s too long.”
“Not to see if he has the foaming sickness, it isn’t.”
Ivan nodded after a moment, seeing the wisdom of her words.
“Did you see the wolf?” she asked, studying him.
“Well…a little. You—”
“No. Forget it,” she said. “There isn’t time.”
“Huh?”
“You saw the sleigh, did you not?”
“I did.”
“It belongs to Sir Karlo Aufling, the Silver-Haired. He’s a Frankish knight from Eastern Bavaria. Or he was until only a year ago. Sir Karlo told us a grim tale. Wend warriors crept up one moonless night, bewitched the mind of the guards and slipped into his castle. They butchered everyone.”
“That’s horrible!”
“The Bavarians and Wends attack each other endlessly. It’s a harsh land north of Vaclav Mountain. And it breeds harsh men.”
Ivan had a vague notion of local geography and history. The dreaded Avars of the plains had once held much of Moravia in thrall. Then Charlemagne and his knights had ridden out of the west and engaged them in battle. After several campaigns, Charlemagne’s knights found the hidden Ring, the Avar capital encircled by earthen mounds where the horse-archers buried their dead. The Ring also had a wall seven cubits high and wide of oak and yew. Moravians had fought with Charlemagne and afterward, their lands became a vassal state of his glorious empire.
With Charlemagne’s passing and the struggles between his sons and grandsons, Moymir I had set himself up as king of Great Moravia.
King Sviatopluk ruled now, although he paid homage to the vicar of Rome. The Wends of the north raided Great Moravia just as they attacked Bavarian outposts. Sometimes, too, Frankish knights rode east in search of plunder. And lately, there had been troubling news of new horsemen who’d appeared in the plains to the south.
Moravia’s king seldom summoned the kingdom’s warriors into one host. Instead, local places relied on their lords, knights and armed freeholders for protection. News from the outer lands told of fierce struggles and bearded raiders wielding axes. Kingdoms fell or they splintered into warring factions. Sometimes, warriors with holdings smaller than Belgorod claimed the rights of sovereign rulers, acting in any manner they chose.
As far as Ivan knew, the East Franks bound Moravia to the west. The Great Plains to the south limited them there. Primitive mountains tribes marked the eastern frontier, while the savage Wends blocked them in the north. Vaclav Mountain marked the northern boundary and the beginning of the land of the Wends.
“Why did Sir Karlo leave Bavaria?” Ivan asked.
“A good question. One that Lady Belgorod put to him. Sir Karlo answered vaguely. I suspect Sir Karlo had been nothing more than a robber. His castle had probably been nothing more than a log-cabin filled with villains.”
“Magda! What an awful thing to say.”
Magda nodded sourly. “You’re right. I suggest it only because those are the only tales I’ve heard about the East Bavarians.”
“Who do you know who has been there?” Ivan asked.
“Folkwin.”
Of course. Folkwin was a wandering monk, a big fellow with a stout staff. He fearlessly preached Hosar’s goodness wherever he went.
Magda said, “Sir Karlo claims that his warrior days are over. He fled with his life and a pouch of rare Roman coins. Now he claims that he’s a hunter of ancient relics.”
“I don’t understand.”
Magda patted his cheek. “Karlo has a writ from the king. It seems he gained the king’s trust, or ‘tickled his fancy’ might be closer. The royal writ allows him passage through Moravia and demands that aid be given him from loyal subjects. Sir Karlo told the king he knew the location of an ancient horde of coins. Once this horde is secured, Sir Karlo is supposed to return to the king to give him his third—the price for the writ, I suppose. Sir Karlo and his men came this morning while you two were out hunting.”
Ivan winced.
“When the stable boy came rushing in and told Petor about Sir Karlo, Petor hunted for his sword. He wished to greet Karlo in proper knightly style. Imagine Petor’s surprise, and anger, when he couldn’t find his sword.”
“Oh no,” said Ivan.
“Well, enough about that. I don’t trust Sir Karlo. That’s what this amounts to.”
“You think he’s a bandit?” Ivan whispered.
Magda gave him a wry smile. “Many things are possible. What neither Lady Belgorod nor I like is that Master Volok and his squire aren’t home. There are too few fighting men left in Belgorod Holding tonight. By law, however, we’re required to house Sir Karlo and his retainers for up to a week.”
“Because of the royal writ?”
“Yes, and out of noble courtesy.”
Ivan digested that. “The hounds don’t like Sir Karlo.”
“I saw that.” Magda compressed her lips and glanced at the door. She turned back and studied Ivan. “I have an errand for you.”
“What?”
“I want you to go to the woodcutter’s cabin and invite your friend Feodor and his father to supper.”
There goes the warm fire, Ivan thought to himself. He sipped his broth and realized now why Magda had brought it. He finished off the drink and set the wooden cup aside.
Magda said, “I want you to tell the woodcutters to bring their axes.”
Ivan’s eyes widened. “Do you really think Sir Karlo will break the laws of hospitality?”
“Lady Belgorod and I have agreed on this decision.”
Ivan nodded. Master Volok gave many orders. In reality, Lady Belgorod and Magda saw to the essentials.
“Feodor and Dimitri may not be in the cabin,” Ivan said. “They might have gone into the woods.”
“I realize that. You’ll have to go into the forest after them. I know you’ve been out most of the day and that you’re tired and damp. I’m sorry. I wish we could send someone else. But you know the woods better than most.”
Ivan suppressed any grumbling. If Magda wanted him to run an errand then he’d run it without complaining. That was another thing she’d taught him, although it had been a difficult lesson to learn.
“Do you really think Sir Karlo will do something bad?” Ivan asked. “I mean…well….”
“A wise person counts all the possibilities. Belgorod Holding lies at the edge of Moravia’s influence. Therefore, when strange knights come knocking and ask for lodging, a show of strength becomes the height of wisdom. Master Volok, his squire and Gruner will return. Until then, I want Feodor and especially his father, Dimitri, here. You must make sure they come. Of course, Petor must never hear of the reason why they were invited. That would wound his knightly pride.”
Ivan understood. “Should I take one of the horses?”
“No. Both Feodor and his father will have to walk. Besides, this is only a precaution. You’re to quietly slip away.”
“Is Yury coming with me?”
“Yury is Petor’s squire,” she said. “Knights and squires are fighting men.”
Ivan nodded once again. Yury, as a squire, had practiced many hours with both sword and spear. That’s why he had been able to cut the wolf today from horseback. If he, Ivan, had tried such a swing, he’d probably have cut the horse instead.
Magda squeezed his arm. “Be careful.”
“Is something wrong, Magda? Something you’re not telling me?”
She smiled sadly. “Oh, Ivan, you’ve grown up so quickly.”
He looked away, embarrassed.
She let go, patted his arm and turned to leave. “Take Stribog with you.” Without facing him, she unwrapped a long object: a stabbing spear. It had a razor-sharp head and three feet of solid ash behind it.
Ivan’s eyes widened. Master Volok kept the stabbing spear above his bed, pegged to the wall. Its wonderful balance made it a heavy dart. Wends used these with skill. The short spear could be used like a stabbing sword, and a moment later could be hurled at one’s enemy. In his youth, Master Volok had gone on a campaign with Lord Mikulas north of Vaclav Mountain. There they’d defeated the Wend chieftain who had led raids against their farmers. Master Volok had taken the spear as a trophy. Apparently, it had once belonged to a tough Wend clansman.
Without facing Ivan, Magda set the warspear against a stall. “Take it with you,” she said.
“Magda?”
She wiped her cheek, and for a moment, Ivan thought to hear her sniff. She walked away and closed the door behind her.
Ivan stared at the spear. It was a warrior’s weapon. He’d only trained with hunting weapons. He knew how to grip a boar-spear. And he’d been taught some of the carefully guarded mystique of archery. At those times, he had used Petor’s bow.
Even here at Belgorod Holding, nobles were touchy about bows. Custom called it an aristocratic hunting weapon. Nobles with bows shot at bears, wolves, deer and boars, not men. If a farmer owned a bow, he labeled himself a poacher. Therefore, no farmer admitted to having a knowledge of archery. Besides, good bows could only be bought from bowmakers, who by law and even more by custom only sold them to the highborn.
Master Volok had thought it prudent to give Ivan a working knowledge of bows. For the most part, however, Ivan only assisted in the hunts. Thus, his main skills came in handling the hounds, tracking, netting and the proper use of a boar-spear to back up the hunting knights.
Ivan glanced at the kennel door. A big boar-spear was pegged above it. It had a heavy crossbar directly behind the iron head. It had been last year’s birthday present and was one of the few items that he actually owed. He would have used it this morning if he’d taken only one dog. With all three along, he’d only had hands enough for his club.
He went to the feed stall and stuffed his pack with some smoked fish, a lump of cheese and a hard chunk of bread. Ever since Master Volok had sent him from the dinner table without his supper, Ivan kept extra food in the kennel.
The door opened. A ten-year-old boy with red hair and a purple birthmark on his cheek rushed in. “Did you see the knight, Ivan?” Janek asked excitedly. A leather sling dangled from Janek’ back pocket.
“I saw him,” Ivan admitted.
“Isn’t he huge?”
Ivan nodded as he hefted the pack to check its weight. “I have an errand to run,” he told Janek.
The young boy’s face lit up. “Can I come with you?”
“Not today,” said Ivan. He eyed Janek. “Say, after you run the three whelps do you think you could feed the hounds for me?”
“Sure!”
“Good. Remember, keep the whelps away from the holding. Take them out behind the mill. Mind you, don’t let them stray.”
“Yes, Ivan.”
“I haven’t had time to run the whelps today, and they’ve been cooped up for a couple of days.”
Janek took three leashes from the wall-pegs and opened the gate to the litter. The whelps barked in delight as Janek snapped on the leashes.
Ivan hid the warspear. Then he changed into dry clothes and donned an old jacket. “When you’re finished feeding the hounds, I want you to take these to Mary.” He pointed at his wet clothes.
“Yes, Ivan.” Janek pulled the whelps and raced out of the kennel. Ivan smiled. Janek was a good lad, but had trouble with the bigger hounds. Like himself, Janek had a hard-luck story. But also like himself he’d found a home at Belgorod Holding.
Shouldering on the pack and picking up the warspear, Ivan leashed Stribog and peered out of the kennel door. There was no silver-haired knight in sight. Therefore, Ivan slipped out and strode for the chestnut grove.
-3-
As Ivan crunched over snow, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He glanced back at the holding, at the smoke drifting in a thin line out of the chimney. There was nothing unusual that he could see. The feeling didn’t go away, however, and caused him to twist his shoulders. Increasing his pace, he glanced at Stribog to see if he noticed anything. The dog seemed unconcerned. The feeling of being watched grew. Ivan clutched the warspear as his stomach roiled with uneasiness. He finally reached the top of the slope and stood beside the barren old oak tree. The feeling intensified. He looked all around, wondering if the white wolf had doubled back to the holding.
“Don’t you smell anything?” he asked Stribog.
The dog glanced at him.
Ivan squinted up at the oak. Not more than five feet above him perched a huge raven with a heavy black beak. The raven bent forward as it watched him. A white mark marred the beak.
Ivan’s heart thudded. He’d seen this raven in the woods. He stared into the shiny black eyes. A chill swept down his spine. Intelligence flickered there. It wasn’t a kind intelligence, either, but a nasty, spying, plotting sort.
Sweat beaded Ivan’s forehead. He felt lightheaded. As he stared into those midnight-colored eyes, the raven bobbed its head. It seemed to be leering at him, mocking him. Ivan’s throat tightened. If the raven spoke, Ivan was afraid he’d drop the warspear and run screaming down the hill to Magda.
The raven cawed loudly. Ivan lurched backward. With a second cry, the raven spread its huge wings and leaped into the air, making the bare branch shake.
Open-mouthed, Ivan watched the raven spiral down toward the holding. Some instinct caused him to crouch behind the oak’s trunk and pull Stribog from view. Then he peered below. Men carted bundles off the sleigh and through the house’s front door. A big man in silver and black stepped off the porch and looked up in his direction.
“Sir Karlo,” whispered Ivan.
The raven landed on the porch-roof. Karlo turned to it. In moments, Sir Karlo turned toward the oak tree again. In Ivan’s imagination Sir Karlo squinted, but it was too far to tell. Frightened, Ivan tugged Stribog and strode away from the tree.
He glanced over his shoulder from time to time. No one followed him. What just happened? As Ivan put distance between himself and the incident, he slowly lost the feeling of danger. He began to question what he’d really felt.
Ravens don’t think like men. “Magda and her stories,” he told Stribog. “That’s what spooked me.”
He wasn’t quite able to laugh it off, however. He would never tell anyone. No, that would be silly. Ravens that think like men—ha! People would call him a fool. If he were unlucky, people would call him Raven-talker, or something equally unpleasant. So....
“So nothing,” he said. “Concentrate on your task.”
In the distance rose the woods. Feodor and his father Dimitri supplied most of the firewood to the farmers of Belgorod Holding. In spring, after the planting, some farmers joined Dimitri up in the woods and near the Berryborne River. Then all throughout the forest echoed the sounds of chopping axes. Woodcutter Dimitri chose the trees to be felled and made sure never to over-cut in any particular area. It meant, at times, dragging trees a little farther to the Berryborne, but nobody really minded. They could use the forest, but not abuse it. That was an ancient law.
Ivan had joined the farmers last spring and developed two handfuls of raw calluses. Woodcutter Dimitri had kept a careful count of who cut down which tree and which team dragged which log to the river. Then, when the carpenters from Verchen came to pay for the logs that had been floated down-stream, Dimitri took out his records and made sure each farmer received his share of coins.
Ivan had earned thirty coppers. He’d given them to Magda to help Nadia in Pavia. At first, Magda hadn’t accepted the coins. She’d told him to buy something that he could call his own. Ivan had insisted, however. He keenly felt his debt to Magda. He also knew that she’d run short of money for Nadia’s schooling. In the end, he’d simply poured the coppers onto her night table and hurried from her room.
Ivan sighed as his legs began to ache. Since early morning, with all the wolf hunting, he’d covered at least twenty miles. Dimitri’s cabin lay five miles from the holding. It stood near the Berryborne River and a stone’s throw away from the woods.
He unclipped Stribog’s leash. The tall dog bounded ahead and tested the air with his nose.
Suddenly, from off in the distance, a wolf howled. Ivan halted. Stribog cocked his head as his hackles bristled.
“What do you think?” asked Ivan.
Stribog took a few steps forward.
“No you don’t,” Ivan said sternly. “You stay unless I tell you otherwise.”
Stribog’s ears drooped. Obediently, he took up a position near Ivan.
“I guess we might as well keep going.” Thinking about Magda and her worry, Ivan broke into a trot. The pine forest drew closer and the ground became hillier. He saw the frozen Berryborne to his left. In another hour, it would be dusk.
“I just hope they’re in the cabin,” he told Stribog as steam misted from his mouth. Tramping about the woods at night without a torch…Ivan shook his head. He wanted no part of that.
He increased his pace, passed several familiar trees and spied the cabin. Sturdy pine logs, with the bark still on them, made up the cabin’s stout walls. Piles of chopped wood leaned against three of the cabin’s sides. Tendrils of smoke trickled out of the chimney.
Ivan’s stiff lips widened into a grin.
A dog from within the cabin began to bark. Stribog barked back. The door opened and a wide-shouldered youth peered out.
“Who’s there?” the youth called.
“It’s me, Feodor. Ivan!”
“Ivan?” Feodor stepped outside as a dog streaked out at Stribog.
Stribog raced toward the dog. As the two creatures closed, they slowed and circled each other. In another moment, they sniffed each other carefully.
“Crazy hounds,” Feodor said as he shook hands with Ivan.
While shorter than Ivan, Feodor had shoulders just as broad and thicker arms, legs and chest. His bluff leather coat strained at the seams because of his muscles. Feodor had a wide honest face with a blunt nose, somber gray eyes and brown, shaggy hair that hid his ears.
“It’s good to see you.” Feodor examined his friend. “You look cold. Come on inside.”
“Great idea.”
The two friends wiped their feet before tramping within. The hounds, after allowing their masters to wipe their feet, followed.
“Where’s Dimitri?” Ivan asked.
“Father’s out,” Feodor said.
The interior of the cabin was small and cozy. It had thick quilts and heavy furniture. The biggest kitchen chair had huge armrests and a snarling bear carved in the headrest. Two axes lay beside a foot-driven whetstone, and a metal smell lingered throughout the house.
Ivan slipped off his jacket. “I was hoping your father was in.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
Ivan told Feodor about Sir Karlo Aufling.
“Silver hair, eh?” Feodor said at last.
Ivan nodded.
“Hmmm.” Feodor sat beside the whetstone. He picked up an axe, pumped the foot-pedal and ground the edge against the big spinning stone. Sparks flew as the axe and stone made a loud noise.
Stribog shook his head.
Ivan knew that Feodor wasn’t being rude. He had his chores to finish. Feodor followed methodical procedures about such things. No doubt, it came from Dimitri’s teachings. The woodcutter and his son were alike in many ways. For instance, before they chopped down a tree they would first inspect it from many angles. Once inspected, either father or son would step back and carefully examine the lay of the other trees.
Ivan had asked Feodor about that last spring.
Feodor had stared at him for a moment. “I have to figure out how the tree will fall so it does the least damage to the forest.”
When everything was decided, Feodor would spit on his hands, rub them together and pick up the axe. At first, he’d swing slowly, watching wood-chips fly. At twice the speed Ivan could do it, the wedge into the bark deepened. Then, when the first section had been chopped out, Feodor walked to the next position and began to swing. These swings came quicker than before, until broad blows hammered against the tree. Ivan had to rest several times when he felled a tree. Feodor just kept chopping until suddenly he stepped back. The instant he did so a loud crack sounded, and ever so slowly, the tree fell.
As Feodor let the whetstone roll to a halt, he set aside the axe. “We have two choices,” he said.
“Yes?”
“We can head into the forest and look for father, or we can wait here.”
“What do you suggest?”
Feodor drew his thick eyebrows together. “Hmm. Magda wants us there as fast as possible. For supper, you said.”
Ivan nodded.
Feodor’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Men don’t fight in earnest when they’re eating.”
Hounds do, Ivan thought to himself.
“So Magda really only needs us for nighttime.”
“I guess so,” Ivan said.
“Then we’ll wait for father.” With the decision made, Feodor picked up the other axe and began to sharpen it.
Ivan tugged off his boots and socks and set them before the fire. He roasted his toes as he lay back on a quilt. Stribog came over and lay down beside him.
“Hey, boy,” Ivan said as he idly petted the hound and stared at the ceiling.
Two strangers in one day, Ivan mused. First the strange crone, then Sir Karlo. Ivan wondered if they had anything in common. What did the raven have to do with them? Had the raven carried a message to Karlo? That seemed silly. He hadn’t seen a message tube. Nor could raven’s talk, not unless magic was used. He wriggled his toes. Maybe a talking raven was a dumb idea, but when the raven had been staring at him....
Feodor’s dog perked up and began to bark. Setting aside his axe, Feodor said, “Father’s home.” The dog jumped to the door and wagged its tail in anticipation. Feodor went to the fireplace and ladled hot broth into a bowl.
Wood clattered outside. A moment later, a large man tramped to the door. The door opened and the dog leaped eagerly forward.
“Hallo, hallo,” Dimitri said. He stopped upon seeing Ivan. Dimitri was a larger version of his son, with an even deeper chest and bigger arms. He held a huge axe, while a heavy brown beard dangled midway down his chest. “Ivan,” he said, smiling. “Welcome, welcome.” Dimitri banged the door closed. “What brings you out this late in the day?”
Ivan told him the story.
Dimitri frowned as he sat in the throne-like chair. He nodded. Feodor handed him the bowl. Dimitri slurped up broth and cut into the bread and cheese that Feodor set on the table.
Ivan waited, knowing Dimitri’s thorough ways.
“A silver-haired Bavarian knight, you say?” Dimitri said at last.
“He says he’s a hunter of ancient relics,” Ivan said.
Dimitri plucked at his beard. “How many servants did he have?”
Ivan shrugged.
“It matters not, really.” Dimitri glanced at Feodor. “Did you sharpen the axes?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then I suppose after we change into our best clothes that we should be off.”
“We’ll need torches,” Feodor said.
“Yes, agreed,” Dimitri said.
In their thorough way, the two set away the dishes, put on their best clothes, lit torches and doused the fireplace. After adjusting their green woodcutter cloaks, Dimitri picked out the biggest axe for himself and gave the next biggest one to his son.
“Dusk is upon us so we must march quickly,” Dimitri said.
Ivan had his fire-warmed socks on and was ready to go.
Dimitri ushered them outside, secured the door and laid the axe-head over his shoulder. Ivan and Feodor held the torches. The smaller dog playfully nipped Stribog.
“Off we go,” Dimitri said.
-4-
When they were halfway to the holding, Ivan asked, “Do you really think there’ll be a fight?”
Neither Dimitri nor Feodor answered right away. Ivan watched the torchlight flicker across the snow, casting dancing shadows upon it. They followed the trail he’d made earlier. Above, the moon shined eerily, while wisps of clouds flew high across the nighttime sky.
“I think not,” Dimitri answered at last.
Ivan blinked in surprise at the delayed answer. “If you’re right, then why does Magda want you at the holding?”
Dimitri mulled the question over. At times Ivan felt the woodcutters guarded their speech too much. Each of their words seemed carefully chewed over and pondered. In that way, Feodor was quite unlike Yury, who spontaneously wove countless reasons for just about anything. The more fantastic the reason, the better it suited Yury’s tastes.
Ivan knew he would fight, if it came to that. Then he recalled Sir Karlo’s hard eyes. Could he stand up against a knight like that? He could try, and perhaps with the aid of Stribog he could do something. But in the end, he dreaded the idea of facing Sir Karlo. If the knight drew his sword, the fight would be short and savage. He, Ivan, would be on the losing end. Even Master Volok would surely fall before Sir Karlo.
Dimitri cleared his throat. “Magda wishes to avoid a fight. She also wishes, I think, as does Lady Belgorod, to add weight to Petor’s decision.”
“Huh?”
“Sir Karlo has traveled far,” Dimitri said after a moment.
“If Sir Karlo is from Bavaria,” Ivan asked, “what is he really doing at Belgorod Holding?” Ivan didn’t believe the horde of coins story.
“A good question,” Dimitri said.
Feodor spoke up. “Yes, I as well have been trying to understand the knight’s true purpose.”
The three of them crunched through the snow.
“Maybe,” Dimitri said, “Sir Karlo is really what he says he is: a hunter of relics.”
Feodor glanced at his father. Ivan caught the look.
“Maybe it’s time to tell Ivan a tale,” Dimitri said.
“Can I really tell him?” Feodor asked.
“Tell me what?” asked Ivan.
Dimitri smiled. “Tell him,” he said.
“Last winter,” Feodor began, “Father and I trekked east into the Old Forest.”
This was news. Few went into the Old Forest, which was situated on the ancient slopes of the inner Carpathians. At night, people whispered bad legends about the olden place. Evil beasts and especially bats were said to haunt it.
“The winter work was done. Father wished to repay his debt to the Axe People.”
Ivan stopped, putting his torch near Feodor’s face. He was surprised that Feodor wasn’t laughing. “The Axe People?” Ivan asked, trying to understand the joke.
Dimitri laid a hand on his shoulder. “Keep walking, lad. Let Feodor tell you the tale. It is the truth.”
Ivan gazed in amazement at Dimitri’s blunt features. He finally nodded and resumed marching. Throughout the region, Dimitri was known as the most honest man there was.
Axe People! Goosebumps rose on Ivan’s arms. His stomach felt hollow. It seemed incredible, but Dimitri said they were real. Ivan smiled in spite of himself.
Feodor cleared his throat. “There are indeed Axe People, Ivan. I’ve seen them. Father met them first. He told me about them, but bade me not to speak about them, not even to Yury or you, although Magda knows the story.” Feodor lowered his voice. “The axe on Father’s shoulder is of their make.”
Ivan eyed the axe.
“The metal is better than regular iron,” Feodor said. “It holds a better edge and that for a longer time. Even so, it sharpens more quickly than other axes.”
“Amazing,” Ivan said. He could hardly believe this. Just how far had the two woodcutters trekked into the Old Forest? And if there were Axe People, why did they keep themselves hidden?
“Five years ago,” Feodor was saying, “the year my mother died and upon Folkwin’s suggestion, Father trekked into the Old Forest. It time he came upon a band of Axe People, stout folk with long dangling beards that they tucked under their leather belts. Shorter than men, and most especially shorter than you, Ivan, they were still very strong and had wide hands for their size. My Father talked with them for many nights. One night, when clawmen attacked, Father helped them defend the camp. The—”
“What?” Ivan said. “Clawmen! You’re telling me there are such things as clawmen, too?”
Dimitri coughed into his hand.
“I’m sorry, Woodcutter Dimitri,” Ivan said. “It’s just that I thought clawmen were a singer’s invention. This is all very surprising.”
Dimitri marched in silence. “Yes,” he said at last. “Clawmen are all too real. I stood with the gallant Axe People against them. They grieved after the battle at their losses, but they were pleased that I had fought with them. To show their pleasure they gave me this axe. It went ill against my pride that I couldn’t give them a proper gift in return.”
“My father took me into the Old Forest the next time he went,” Feodor said. “Last winter we marched in secret to their camp. There, Father and I worked hard chopping trees for their mine.”
“Their mine?” Ivan asked in bewilderment.
“The Axe People dug into a mountain in search of ancient treasures,” Feodor said. “They needed lumber to shore up the crumbling tunnels. After many weary weeks, their king came to us and said that we should work no more without pay. Father supped with the king and told him that he was merely paying back an old debt. We left three days later.”
Ivan could only stare at the woodcutters in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine these two solid men on such a wild adventure. They had actually trekked deep into the Old Forest. It was something he’d never heard anyone else in Belgorod Holding doing. And they had actually seen Axe People and their king. Ivan snorted softly. There had even been clawmen.
“Why haven’t you ever told anyone else but Magda about this?” Ivan asked.
Dimitri asked, “What was there to tell?”
“Are you jesting? Yury would love these stories.”
“Therein is the problem,” Dimitri said.
“Yes?” Ivan asked.
“The farmers trust me as a solid man of few words. That I am. They also trust my judgment. If I told them wild stories like a singer, the good folk of Belgorod Holding would laugh in their sleeves at me.”
“Then why did you tell me?” Ivan asked.
“You’re a good lad, Ivan, with sound judgment. My son has also told me that you can keep a secret. When I am in the woods or with my son, and now when I am with you, I can talk freely. Most men have little to say, and the less they have to say the more they say it. Therefore, I like to hold onto my words and live my own life.”
“You still haven’t told me why you decided to tell me,” Ivan said.
“I, too,” Feodor said, “would like to know.”
“I have my reasons,” Dimitri said. “We will leave it at that.”
“All right,” Ivan said. He mulled over his words. “And thank you for telling me.”
Dimitri put his hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “No. Thank you for coming so often to my cabin. My advice to you is this: Beware of Sir Karlo, for I believe he tells but half the truth.”
“That he truly hunts for rare coins?” Ivan asked.
“No. That he searches for ancient relics.” As Dimitri spoke, they neared the old oak tree.
In a moment, Ivan saw the great house below. Light shined from windows, while within the yard padded several shadows. Those would be hounds on watch.
Ivan called a halt. “You have my word that I’ll tell no one about your adventure.”
Dimitri nodded in approval.
They tramped down the hill. The watching hounds barked in the darkness. A youth with a lantern jumped up from the porch and ran toward them. Two big hounds ran with him.
“Who’s there?” shouted the youth.
“It’s Ivan, with Dimitri and his son Feodor. Go tell Master Volok that his guests have arrived.”
The youth raised the lantern, peering at them. It was Belsky the Cowherd. He grinned. “I’ll go tell Master Petor, Ivan. You’re to put up your dog and take your turn at watch.”
Ivan groaned, but remembered his manners. Turning to Dimitri, he said, “You should go with Belsky. I need to put up Stribog and your dog as well, if you wish.”
“That would be good,” Dimitri said.
Ivan pulled Stribog and the other dog after him. The creatures on watch sniffed at the others, wagging their tails. The hounds soon went back to staring through the picket fence. As Ivan neared the house, he heard laughter, along with the sounds of eating people. Belsky must have eagerly awaited his return. He couldn’t blame him. Still, it didn’t seem fair. He was hungry and cold.
Ivan sighed, trudging along the walkway. He soon put Stribog in his stall and the woodcutters’ dog in another. He threw them some meat and made a quick inspection of the other dogs. Each seemed well-fed and content. He put away the warspear and covered it with a hide. He finally hurried to the yard and relived Belsky.
A lit lantern rested on a peg near the bench he sank upon. The hounds on watch prowled the yard. Although he was supposed to keep a sharp eye out, Ivan leaned toward the door. The walls were too thick, however. He heard little.
He shivered and began to feel sorry for himself. Why did he have to pull watch duty on this particular night? He’d completely forgotten about it. By the time his turn was over, the dinner party would be over. He hadn’t even gotten a look yet at Sir Karlo’s servants. Were they as strange as the silver-haired knight?
Ivan sighed again, rose and checked the lantern for oil. If it was low he’d have an excuse to go inside and fill it up. He’d catch a glimpse of the dinner party then. Of course, the oil pan was full.
In a while, he heard the sounds of heavy feet. Sitting up, he peered keenly into the night in a show of alertness. The door-handled rattled. The hinges squeaked.
“Ivan.”
Ivan stood and inclined his head. “Yes, Master Petor.”
Petor was a couple of inches shorter than Ivan, but much heavier. He had the typical knightly Moravian build: medium height, stout and with a large stomach. Petor ran thick fingers through his well-groomed hair. A thick mustache covered his mouth. He had merry eyes and a great lump of a nose. Tonight he wore his best finery. His thick fingers bore three rings, one of which had a red bloodstone set in gold. It was his prize possession.
“You’ve been busy today, Ivan.”
“Yes, milord.”
Petor crossed his hands behind his back and stepped onto the porch. Without looking at Ivan, he said, “I wonder if you’ve heard that I looked long and hard for my sword today.”
“Ah...yes. Magda told me about it.”
“Magda told you, eh?” Petor brought his hand to his mouth and belched. “Excuse me. The meal was excellent.”
Ivan fidgeted, and finally managed to ask, “Ah, so did you find your sword?”
“I did.”
“I’m glad to hear it, milord.”
Petor turned to Ivan. “Even after chasing a white wolf near the woods this morning, you’ve trekked to Woodcutter Dimitri’s cabin. Yes, you’ve been busy indeed.”
Ivan waited.
“Now you’re finally home, wishing for a hearty supper, I suppose.”
Ivan remained silent, not sure that Petor wanted an answer. Petor had always been something of a mystery to him. Most of the time it seemed Petor wanted nothing more than to quaff ale, eat good pork and discuss crop-yields with the farmers. More surprising, Ivan had seen Petor roll up his sleeves and take a farmer’s place behind his plow when the farmer was pale and shaking because he’d planted while sick. Yet Ivan had also been with Petor as the two of them stalked through the forest in a long chase of a sheep-killing bear. Then, when the moment of truth came, Petor ran faster than Ivan and struck harder than Master Volok. Yet Petor would never talk about his hunting skills and almost seemed embarrassed by them. Yury thought his older brother a sleepy-eyed knight who might have been better off as a tavern keeper beside the Old Roman Road.
Petor knuckled Ivan on the shoulder. “Rest easy, lad. I’m no longer upset that Yury used my sword. For he wounded the white wolf, I overheard.”
“You did?”
Petor chuckled. “How could I not but overhear? Yury bragged endlessly to everyone but me.”
Ivan shook his head at Yury’s indiscretion.
Petor inspected Ivan, and then nodded. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes, milord.”
“You must keep this secret to yourself. So be very sure that you can really keep it.”
“I’ll keep your secret, Master Petor.”
“I know you will, for you’re a man of your word. Both Mother and I approve of that.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“No. Don’t thank me. Rather, work to keep it so.”
Ivan wondered at Petor’s mood.
“I’m glad that Dimitri came, for there is more to the woodcutter than meets the eye.” Petor turned away and whispered, “And there is more, as well, to this Sir Karlo Aufling and his retainers.” Petor took a deep breath and faced Ivan again. “You’ve had a long day. It’s time you supped before all the food turns cold. As well, I want you to hear what Sir Karlo will say, for supper is over and the time of talking is upon us. The reason I want you inside is to hear the same words that Yury does. I’m afraid my younger brother sees Sir Karlo as one of his imaginary adventurers. You must be Yury’s counterweight, Ivan. Do you understand?”
“I think so, milord.”
Petor eyed him. “Yes, I think you do. Come, I’ll send Janek out to watch the yard.”
“Master Petor?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure that Janek is big enough to be out with the guard hounds.”
“You don’t, eh?”
Ivan gulped. “No, milord.”
Petor clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s good you look out for Janek. I approve. Sometimes, however, it’s also good for a young lad to have a mighty challenge to overcome. The guard hounds are leashed and they’re used to Janek. I deem that if he gains the confidence, Janek is big and old enough for watch duty. Now, come with me.”
Ivan obeyed. They walked down a corridor lined with tapestries of farmers in the field, and tapestries of bright flowers and snowcapped mountains. They passed doors that led to different parts of the house, and they passed a wooden set of stairs and an archway into a wide room with a fireplace, butter-churns, looms and several rocking chairs. Finally, Petor opened the way into the Feast Hall.
The warmth, the loud buzz of talk and the smell of cooked pork, corn and strong ale hit Ivan. The talk quieted as Petor stepped within the hall.
Three trestle tables had been arranged in a wide U shape. At the middle table, which was the smallest of the three, and which faced Ivan, sat the highborn. In order sat Magda, Yury, Lady Belgorod, an empty, high-backed chair (Petor’s), Sir Karlo and three hunch-shouldered men with scarred faces.
The three men had each tied their oily brown hair behind them. Each also wore fine red tunics with puffed-out sleeves. The tunics seemed out of place on the ruffians. Ivan wondered if they hid knives in their sleeves, for he had the distinct impression of highway robbers. They would be better suited in a rowdy alehouse, wearing torn tunics and clutching ill-smelling haunches of beef. The three whispered among themselves and at times broke out into bawdy laughter.
The other two tables held farmers in holiday finery and the entire Belgorod household. Magda wore her best green dress. The taller and larger Lady Belgorod wore a yellow dress and had many rings upon her fingers. Her blonde/white hair had been fixed in a great bun. Clearly, Ivan was the worst-dressed among the happy-seeming throng.
Petor pushed him gently. Ivan moved to the nearest table, sat on a stool and wallowed in the aroma of pork and steaming corn.
“Eat hardy,” Petor whispered. He strode to the high-backed chair.
“So, you found the urchin out in the cold,” Sir Karlo said. “Come, what is the urchin’s tale? Why is he late to the feast?”
The talking died down as people regarded Ivan. Ivan looked up as he shoveled a forkful of corn into his mouth. He saw Sir Karlo staring at him and noticed how the hall had quieted. The pale, silver-haired knight wore a black tunic and a heavy silver chain. He was the largest man in the hall, and there was a princely quality to him. He seemed, well...regal and lordly. Beside him, Petor looked like a country bumpkin. The rest of the feasters seemed like grubby onlookers, except for Lady Belgorod with her wise brown eyes and confident bearing.
“Well?” Sir Karlo asked Ivan.
Ivan gulped down his corn, almost choked, and had to quaff a goodly amount of water before he could breathe. “I’m sorry, milord. I didn’t hear your question.”
Lady Belgorod laughed, and said, “Sir Karlo, why not let this urchin eat his fill before you grill him. Meantime, you and Petor can talk.”
“As you wish, milady.”
Red-faced, Ivan glanced at Yury. Yury winked. As he began to eat, Ivan noticed Feodor and Dimitri at the other table. They wiped their plates clean with pieces of bread.
“We are well supplied with provisions,” Karlo told Petor. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed.” The feasters quieted, and like Ivan, they tried to listen in on the highborn.
Petor toyed with his mug of ale.
“Yes,” Lady Belgorod said, in her son’s stead. “I’ve noticed.”
“I plan to journey to the Old Forest,” Sir Karlo said.
“Indeed,” said Lady Belgorod.
“I said as much to your king. He was curious and asked to what purpose.”
Lady Belgorod nudged Petor. Petor looked up. “Like our king, I, too, am curious.”
Sir Karlo glanced at the listening feasters. Imperiously, he snapped his big fingers. The nearest ruffian loosed the string at his wrist. He took out a rolled parchment.
A low murmur of surprise and anticipation arose. Yury leaned forward to get a better look.
With a flourish, Sir Karlo held up the parchment. “This shows where I wish to travel.”
“Will you tell us what is written there?” Yury asked.
“Do you truly wish to know?” Sir Karlo asked.
The feasters held their breath. Yury smiled with delight. Lady Belgorod frowned. Magda watched the feasters. Dimitri plucked at his great beard. Petor quaffed ale.
“Yes, I’d like to know,” Yury said.
Sir Karlo lowered the parchment, untying a leather string. He cleared a space on the table between Petor and himself and unrolled the parchment. He put a saltshaker on the top and his hand on the bottom.
“What do you see?” he asked Petor.
“I see a map.”
“A map?” Yury eagerly asked.
“A map,” the feasters whispered to one another.
“Here, I deem,” Sir Karlo said as he stabbed the map with his forefinger, “is Belgorod Holding.”
Petor nodded. “Yes, such may be the case.”
“This,” Karlo said as he moved his finger, “is where I wish to travel. To here, right here.” He stabbed the spot several times.
“Tell us where that is!” Yury shouted.
Lady Belgorod gave her youngest son a stern look. Petor studied the map.
“Where did you find the map?” Lady Belgorod asked.
Sir Karlo removed his hand. The parchment rolled up. “Perhaps the better question, milady, is what lies at my destination. That is the question which most intrigued your king.”
“I am not the king,” Lady Belgorod said.
“No,” Karlo said after a span of silence. “You’re not.”
Petor looked up as his eyes narrowed.
“Of course, I meant nothing by the observation,” Sir Karlo said.
Lady Belgorod shrugged as she put her hand on Petor’s forearm. “It matters not.”
Sir Karlo examined the feasters until his eyes fell on Ivan. “Ho, urchin, are you curious about what lies at my destination?”
Ivan tried to catch Dimitri’s eyes for a clue as to what he should say. The big woodcutter seemed interested in his napkin, however. Ivan choose his words, raising his voice as he said, “Since you’re a hunter of rare coins and relics, I assume that such articles lie in wait for you.”
Sir Karlo told Petor, “Your urchin is quick-witted. And more, he is right.”
“Treasure,” Farmer Lech stage-whispered. His thin face broke into a smile.
“Yes, but in the Old Forest,” said a more prosperous farmer.
Lady Belgorod whispered to Petor. He banged his mug on the table. People gave him their attention. Petor asked Karlo, “Are you saying, sir, that treasure lies in the Old Forest?”
“Yes.”
“And your plan is to trek to this spot and dig up the treasure?”
“It is,” Sir Karlo said. “What is more, I told your king this and he approved. Of course, the king told me that he would collect his royal third. And this is just, as the location lies within the jurisdiction of Great Moravia.”
“It does?” Yury asked in surprise.
Lady Belgorod touched Yury’s arm and shook her head.
“What I ask of you, Sir Petor,” Karlo said, “is to allow the king’s writ its due and to give me your permission to hire farmers. They will help us dig up the treasure. Of course, they will be well paid.” Karlo snapped his fingers.
The second-nearest ruffian reached below the table and lifted a heavy sack, placing it in his neighbor’s hands. That ruffian untied the sack and handed it to Karlo. Sir Karlo overturned it and dumped a pile of silver coins onto the table.
“I pay in silver!” Sir Karlo shouted to the feasters.
The feasters burst into loud voices as they turned to one another in wonder. Petor leaned toward his mother. They whispered together.
Ivan watched Sir Karlo. The silver-haired knight leaned back as he studied the crowd.
Petor banged on the table again. “Silence!” he said. “I ask for silence.” It took longer this time, but soon the people quieted. Petor told Karlo, “You state a generous offer, good sir. But I am unable to give you permission to hire Belgorod farmers.”
Sir Karlo frowned. “Your king gave his permission.”
“Master Volok, my father, is the first knight here. Such a decision you ask for is only his to give.”
“When does he return?”
“Perhaps this very night.”
Sir Karlo smiled, tension easing out of him. “I can wait.”
“Of course,” Lady Belgorod said, “you are welcome in this house until then.”
Sir Karlo inclined his head. “Thank you, milady. Yet I am reluctant to idly rest in leisure and feast off your bounty. Surely, I can be of service. I overheard several grooms say that Yury wounded a white wolf today. Perhaps tomorrow Sir Petor will permit me to help him hunt down this wolf.”
“I have other tasks on the morrow,” Petor said.
“I could go with Sir Karlo,” Yury offered.
“Yes,” Karlo said, “let the hunter return to the field of honor for another try.”
Lady Belgorod appeared uneasy.
“I only ask one condition to the hunt,” Sir Karlo said.
“Yes?” asked Petor.
“I’ve become accustomed to hunting without hounds,” Karlo said. “I deem it less a challenge to hunt with hounds than without them.”
“You hunt wolves without hounds?” Petor asked in disbelief.
“I do.”
Ivan saw that Dimitri appeared thoughtful.
“What say you, Sir Petor?” Karlo asked. “Will you allow the hunt?”
Petor knuckled his mustache.
“My son and I would join you in the hunt,” Dimitri said.
Karlo paused but a moment. “You would be most welcome.”
“Wonderful!” Yury said. “Then the hunt is on. Is it not, Brother?”
“Yes, of course,” Petor said.
Sir Karlo slapped the table so cutlery jangled. “Good!”
Many of the farmers nodded in approval.
“I ask, however,” Lady Belgorod said, “for a show of hands of those farmers who will join the hunt? My son hunted without the aid of any wood wise farmers today. All here know that Master Volok and Petor always hunt with the help of sturdy yeomen.”
Magda nodded.
Several farmers raised their hands. Ivan raised his hand, too.
“No, Ivan,” Petor said. “I need you tomorrow with me.”
Ivan wondered what Petor planned to do. He shrugged, too tired to care. It wasn’t long, despite all the excitement, that he yawned.
Lady Belgorod rose. “I believe that for me the feast is over.”
Everyone rose as Lady Belgorod and her maidens walked out. Magda followed, as did Ivan. He wanted to check up on Janek and then on the hounds. Besides, Ivan felt dead tired. It was time to go to the kennel and get some well-deserved sleep.
-5-
A rough hand shook Ivan awake early the next morning. Bleary-eyed and sore, Ivan lifted himself with his elbow to peer at Belsky the Cowherd.
“Master Petor wishes to make an early start,” Belsky said.
Ivan grunted and fell back against his pillow. From the foot of the cot, Stribog, with his head resting on his paws, watched Belsky closely.
“Did you hear me?” Belsky asked.
“I did.” Ivan peered out the door as Belsky took his leave. He groaned. Darkness still held sway. Ivan almost pulled his covers back over his head. His legs were sore although without being stiff. Still, he felt drained from yesterday’s activities.
“But I won’t get anything done lying here,” he told Stribog. He flipped off the heavy blanket and, because he could see his breath, he quickly put on his clothes. After he splashed his face with water, he grabbed a bucket and began his morning chores. The sun rose later as he ran his last batch of hounds into the kennel. After putting up Stribog and giving Janek his instructions for the day, Ivan found Petor in the kitchen.
“Finished with your chores?” Petor asked.
Ivan grunted as he sat at the table. Mary set a bowl of porridge before him and a hot cup of broth. Hungrily, he wolfed down both. Petor sipped a cup of broth as he talked quietly with Mary. Soon, Ivan pushed aside his bowls.
“Bring the sleigh around to the mill,” Petor said.
Ivan hustled to the barn. The stable boy waited with a sleigh and a harnessed, two-horse team. After a few brief words, Ivan climbed aboard and flicked the reins. Bells jingled as he drove to the stone-built mill. Petor held open the gate there and waved Ivan through. After locking the gate, Petor climbed in. He set his sheathed sword at his feet and reached back for two heavy blankets. As Ivan and he tucked their blankets around their legs and tightened their scarves, Petor told him to head to Farmer Danko’s house.
It was a dreary day, full of cold cloud-cover and an icy breeze. Neither Ivan nor Petor spoke, content rather to keep their lips sealed behind their scarves. Seven miles later Ivan pulled into Farmer Danko’s yard. Danko had a well-built house. Three children hurled snowballs at each other in front of it. The oldest two did their morning chores.
“Ah, Master Petor!” a cheery, heavily bundled man shouted from the barn. “Welcome! Welcome!”
Red-nosed Farmer Danko doffed his hat to Petor. He told his eldest son, who was two years younger than Ivan, to look after the sleigh. Then Danko tugged Petor and waved for Ivan to join them in the house. Petor and Danko talked quietly while Ivan trailed behind. Soon they sat in the warm kitchen. Danko’s smiling wife ladled them hot porridge and handed each a steaming cup of broth. After eating his fill, Ivan went over to the fireplace, warming his hands and face.
He wondered how Yury and Feodor fared. This was a bad day to be hunting. It wasn’t that great of a day to be sleighing across the countryside, either.
“Ivan,” Petor called from the table. “Come join us.”
Ivan put on his mittens and scarf, and followed them outside. Farmer Danko led them to the back of the barn and into a small area beside the pigsty. His oldest son held back a mother-dog with sagging teats. Five pups playfully yipped in the straw.
Ivan grinned, but made no move toward them.
“Take a closer look,” Petor said.
The pups vied to be under Ivan’s hand and nipped one another’s ears. He laughed and tried to touch them all at once.
“What do you notice most about them?” Petor asked.
Ivan examined them closely. “They have wilding blood in them.”
“Very good,” said Farmer Danko, who looked impressed.
“What do you think?” Petor asked. “Would these make good guard hounds?”
Ivan studied the mother-dog as she watched him. He could feel her desire to slash his hand, but she didn’t whine in anticipation. He tried to envision the pups as fully-grown hounds. He’d trained a half-wilding once. It had been a trying experience.
Brushing his hands on his breeches, he stood and said, “They could be trained to attack, yes, but wilding-hounds can be dangerous. Usually, they’re only loyal to one person.” He considered. “If you want my opinion, Master Petor….”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t use these as guard hounds.”
“What would you use him for?” Petor asked.
Ivan hesitated but finally shook his head. “I’d be worried these hounds would run away and join a wolf pack. They might draw off the other hounds of the kennels. These would always have to be kept away from the others. I suppose they might become good bear-hounds, but only if you used them alone.”
“I see,” Petor said.
Farmer Danko thoughtfully inspected Ivan.
Ivan backed away from the pups and nodded to the boy holding the mother-dog. Released, she went over to her pups, nudging them. She glowered at Ivan before she lay down. The pups yipped and crawled across her as they played.
“Well,” Petor said to Farmer Danko, “I suppose my trainer is right.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
“Will you need bear-hounds, Farmer Danko?”
Danko smiled wryly. “You’re a wily trader, Master Petor.”
Petor tried to look abashed.
“What will you offer me for the litter?” Danko asked.
Petor studied the pigsty’s ceiling as if it contained the answer. “One of my father’s prize calves,” he said.
Danko eyed the mother-dog. “I would wish for two piglets as well.”
“Would that be a fair trade?” Petor asked Ivan.
“If the hounds proved trainable, yes, more than fair.”
“Could you properly train them?” Petor asked.
Ivan knew his talents. Magda had taught him not to be ashamed of them and to speak truthfully when asked about what he could do. “I could train them,” he said.
“Very well,” Petor said. “I accept your offer, Farmer Danko.”
“And I accept yours, Master Petor. When will you pick up the pups?”
“Ivan?” Petor asked.
Ivan squatted and examined them. “In three weeks,” he said.
“Three weeks it is,” Petor said.
Danko said, “Now you must stay for lunch.”
The two men walked around the farm the rest of the morning, exchanging the latest news. With his hands in his pockets, Ivan trailed them. In time, Danko’s oldest son asked him if he’d like to play checkers in the house.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Petor called back. “Go on, Ivan.”
Ivan and the younger lad played several games before lunch. The generous meal of thick pea soup, brown bread with tasty butter and sweetmeat pie filled Ivan. After lunch, Petor said goodbye. The dreary weather continued. They both wrapped themselves in their thoughts and said little on the return trip.
About a mile from home, Ivan asked through his scarf, “Do you think they found the wolf?”
Petor hesitated, “I couldn’t hunt a wolf without hounds. Does that mean Sir Karlo cannot? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. In this weather, I’d be surprised if they stayed out long.”
“Do you believe Sir Karlo?” Ivan blurted.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you really think he searches for buried treasure?”
Petor shrugged and he would say no more.
When they returned home, Petor went inside while Ivan drove to the barn and gave the sleigh to the stable boy. Neither the hunters nor Master Volok had returned yet. Ivan went to the kennel and brushed the fur of a few hounds. Later, together with Janek, he ran some hounds.
“I’m cold,” Janek said.
“Go inside,” Ivan told him. “Ask Magda if you can give her a hand with something.”
Janek ran out the door, then came bursting back in. “Ivan! Ivan!” he yelled.
“What?”
“Nadia’s home!”
Ivan looked up sharply. “They’re really home?” he asked.
“Yes! Come on!”
Ivan followed Janek through the back door and into the central hall. Shouting, laughing people milled about. Several folk slapped Master Volok and Gruner the Blacksmith on the back.
“Ivan!” Magda called. “Over here. Come see Nadia.”
Ivan shouldered his way forward as his stomach knotted. Nadia, after three years, she was finally home. Once she had been his constant companion. They had laughed, played and kept secrets together. Then, to Magda’s delight, Nadia had shown signs of healing ability. Lessons had soon begun. They were simple lessons at first, but strictly given. Finally, four years ago, Magda and Lady Belgorod had decided that it would be best to send Nadia to the Sisterhood Chapter-House in Pavia. Letters were written. When the next merchant train came up the Old Roman Road, the Sisterhood letter had welcomed Nadia to join them. The little money Magda could afford had been quickly used up. After that, Lady Belgorod had shouldered much of the expense for Nadia’s lodging, food, teachers, travel and all the other sundry items needed by a young woman in a large city. The farmers’ wives had also agreed to shoulder a portion of the burden. Folkwin the Monk had surprised them all and given five silver coins for the cause. Where he’d gotten the money no one knew. That had been three years ago. Now Nadia had returned.
Finally, Ivan reached Magda, who beamed with delight. Beside her stood a slender young woman with long dark hair braided down to her waist. She wore a costly-white dress tied with a golden cord. A golden-colored torque with a green gem circled her throat. She had smooth skin and straight white teeth. Her eyes glowed a happy green and her full mouth smiled to breaking at all the attention. What Ivan found the most surprising, besides the wonderful workmanship of her clothing, was the change to her figure. It was womanly, although not overly curvaceous. What she didn’t look like was somebody from Belgorod Holding. Instead, she seemed like a young princess full of courtly grace.
The young woman turned. Her eyes alighted upon him. Impossibly, her smile widened. “Ivan!” She held out her hands. He blushed furiously, feeling clumsy and lumpish. He almost tripped as he advanced the last step. The greatest shock came as she gripped his fingers. Lightning seemed to course up his arms and slam against his chest. All moisture vanished from his mouth.
“Nadia,” he rasped. He cleared his throat as fast as possible. “Nadia,” he said again, his smile almost reaching his ears.
“You’ve grown so tall,” she said.
He nodded awkwardly as he searched for words. Then he realized that he still held her hands. Reluctantly, he let go, and let his leaden arms swing stupidly to his sides.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
Lady Belgorod laughed as she stepped beside them. “Yes, indeed,” she said. “Nadia’s time has been well spent. Did you hear that a pack of wolves attacked them?”
“What?” Ivan asked.
Lady Belgorod told Nadia, “Master Volok was impressed how you drove off the wolves.”
Nadia seemed embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. Wolves are easily tricked.”
“Maybe it is a small matter for one with your skills, dear, but we here at Belgorod are proud that you’ve learned your lessons so well. I find myself bursting with pride.”
“You’re most kind, milady.”
Bewildered, Ivan asked, “How did you drive off wolves?”
“Nadia is an initiate in the Sisterhood’s mystic arts,” Lady Belgorod said.
“You drove them off with magic?” Ivan asked open-mouthed.
“I’ve learned other things as well,” Nadia said, smiling. “But I’ve so much more to learn.”
“Come,” Lady Belgorod told Nadia. “I wish to show you off to several of the ladies who helped pay your way.”
Nadia moved in a courtly manner, following Lady Belgorod.
Ivan watched Nadia, amazed at the change. She’d become a lady. It seemed as if she’d never lived here, but had grown up in a royal castle. Her bearing and rich garments made him feel loutish. Even more, though, he was amazed that she’d become an initiate in the mystic arts, as Lady Belgorod had said.
From the front of the house, somebody swung the door so it banged loudly. Thumping feet pounded toward them. “Make way!” a loud-voiced youth bellowed.
Everyone turned toward the shouting.
“Here now,” a man said sternly. “What’s the meaning of this?” The man was almost an exact image of Petor. The differences were a bald dome, a longer and heavier mustache and an even bigger stomach than Petor’s. Master Volok wore a brown linen tunic and scowled fiercely.
Fully booted and clothed for the cold, Feodor tromped into the room with muddy feet. “Make way!” he shouted. “Make way!”
Dimitri bulled in after him. He held a bleeding and semiconscious Yury. The throng gasped. “Hurry!” Dimitri roared. “Make way!” He shouldered his way to the crackling fireplace.
“Set him down!” Magda said in a commanding voice as she pushed people back.
Ivan stood spellbound. Yury groaned as blood dripped out of his side. Feodor clutched his axe with a bone-white grip. He looked ready to faint. Dimitri, with ragged and bloody scratches across his face, set Yury near the fireplace. Magda used a knife that seemed to appear magically and she cut away the crude and bloody bandage swathing Yury’s torso. As she worked, Master Volok and Lady Belgorod urged the crowd out of the room. Ivan backed away into a corner as Nadia joined her mother.
Volok turned a fierce face toward Dimitri. “What happened?”
Before Dimitri could speak, Petor said, “Yury went wolf-hunting with the visitors.”
“Visitors?” Volok spat.
“Yes, Sir Volok, visitors.”
Volok turned and eyed Sir Karlo. The big knight wore a thick black jacket stained with blood. He gripped a gory spear. Behind him, his three brutish servants looked on.
Volok glanced at his wife. Lady Belgorod whispered in his ear. He nodded and said brusquely, “Await me in the Feast Hall.”
Sir Karlo, who was the very image of the masterful hero, eyed the overweight, bald knight. “As you wish, sir,” he finally said. He bowed to Lady Belgorod and then marched with his men to the Feast Hall.
Still scowling, listening again to a whispering Lady Belgorod, Volok spotted his squire. He was a blocky knight’s son from a holding twenty miles distant. “Get my sword,” Volok snapped. “And Petor’s as well. And wear your own.”
“Father?” Petor asked as the squire raced off.
Volok brushed aside Petor’s words as Lady Belgorod stepped up to Magda. “How is he?”
Magda’s sleeves were rolled back as she pressed a rag against Yury’s side. A frown creased her wrinkled forehead and her gray hair was disarrayed.
Nadia, who had slid closer, spoke up. “Something is wrong here.”
“Wrong?” Volok asked.
Nadia fingered her torque as she studied Yury.
Magda said, “Bring me boiled water and salt.” Lady Belgorod pointed to Petor. He raced out of the room. “Nadia,” Magda said, “take a look at this.”
Nadia hiked up her costly-white dress and knelt beside her mother. “It isn’t deep,” she said.
“But he bleeds freely,” Magda said. “Do you know why?”
The green gem in Nadia’s torque seemed to glow for a moment. Slowly, she shook her head.
Magda pressed a new cloth against the wound.
Volok’s head snapped up and he glared at Dimitri. “What happened?”
Dimitri frowned and plucked at his great beard. “Feodor saw what happened.”
Master Volok turned to Feodor. “Speak, lad! Tell me what you saw.”
Feodor didn’t stir. He stood transfixed, staring at Yury.
Nadia gently pried Feodor’s white-knuckled hand from his axe. She handed the axe to Ivan, who set it on the fireplace mantle. “Feodor,” Nadia said, shaking him. “Master Volok asked you a question.”
Feodor regarded Volok.
“Please,” Volok said, “tell me what happened.”
Feodor flexed the fingers that had gripped the axe. Some of the dullness left his eyes. He began to speak:
“Sir Karlo found wolf-tracks near the woods. Yury told us it’s where he and Ivan had hunted yesterday. Sir Karlo split our hunting party. My father, most of the farmers and me made up the first group. Yury, Farmer Lech because he had a horse, Sir Karlo and his men made up the other. We marched as the others galloped ahead of us. White wolves appeared at the edge of the wood. Yury blew his horn. Sir Karlo’s group charged into the wood after the wolves. Our party struggled to keep up.
“‘Go,’ my father said. ‘Catch them. I like it not that Yury rides without any Belgorod Holding Folk.’
“I tracked as my father had taught me and saw that the mounted party had split up. I followed Yury’s tracks. Then I heard eerie howling. It didn’t sound like a normal wolf’s howl, but something bigger, stronger and more evil. It made my hair stand on end. The wood seemed to close around me like in a nightmare. I yelled until I became hoarse. Then I broke into a clearing. Yury lay bleeding on the ground, with a huge white wolf draped over him. Sir Karlo stood over them, his bloodied weapon in hand. He faced down a snarling wolf-pack. I yelled and charged them. Sir Karlo turned as one surprised. Then he faced the pack, and in a mighty war cry that froze my blood, he charged them. And then….”
“Yes,” Volok said in encouragement.
Feodor frowned. “I thought to see a shape of something else leaping and cavorting among the wolves.”
“What did you see?” Volok asked in wonder.
“I don’t know. When I ran to Yury’s side, I saw that he lay bleeding and that his face was as white as death. I ripped away his tunic and tied on the crude bandage that he wore here. Sir Karlo returned to us, thumping down a wolf carcass.”
“‘Run for help,’ he said.
“‘No,’ said I, although fearfully. His order was hard to disobey. ‘You have the horse. You ride for help.’
“I thought he would strike me down. Then my father broke into the clearing. He strode forth and in one swoop picked up your son and turned and headed back to the holding.”
Feodor stopped, turning away from Volok’s searching gaze. He blushed with embarrassment.
“What about Sir Karlo?” Lady Belgorod asked softly. “Did he ride back beside you?”
Feodor shook his head.
“Why not?” she asked.
“You must ask him,” Feodor said.
The fireplace crackled as Magda continued to croon over Yury. Petor lugged a pot of boiling water and a bag of salt. Magda dipped rags in the water and squeezed them dry. She salted the wound and set the hot rags upon it. Slowly, the deathly paleness left Yury’s skin. He breathed more deeply.
Magda rose wearily and swayed. Nadia caught her. No one spoke. Magda told Lady Belgorod, “He caught a fever, but I think he’ll be well if we’re careful.”
“What other than the wound was wrong?” Lady Belgorod asked.
“There was a taint to the wound,” said Magda.
“From the wolf’s bite?” asked Lady Belgorod.
“From what else?” whispered Magda.
“Indeed, nothing else unless Sir Karlo practiced foul arts upon my son.”
“He did not,” Magda whispered. “If he had done what you think, I would have felt it in Sir Karlo.”
“Then he knows no dark spells?” asked Lady Belgorod.
Magda laughed weakly. “As to that I cannot say, milady. I merely know that he cast none today. But why do you ask such a strange question?”
“Because of Feodor’s tale,” Lady Belgorod said.
“He’s a good lad,” Magda said, “but a lad still. Today’s hunt fell under a dreary sky. Being alone in the woods with wolf howls is a frightful thing. No spells are needed then to scare someone.”
Gently, a servant lifted Yury and headed upstairs. Magda followed, as did Nadia.
The squire returned with Volok and Petor’s swords. Once the three fighting men had armed, a servant called for Sir Karlo and his retainers. Ivan and Feodor sat at the back of the room with Dimitri. Volok clutched his belt and stared at the fireplace. Petor and the squire stood nearby.
“You wished to see me, Sir Volok?” Karlo had discarded his jacket and now wore his black tunic and silver chain. His ruffians wore their red tunics from the night before. Each had a dagger belted at his side.
Volok asked, “May I see your writ?”
Karlo took a written document from his pouch. Volok handed it to Lady Belgorod. She studied it closely before handing it back to Karlo.
“The writ is from your king,” Karlo said.
Lady Belgorod nodded at her husband’s questioning glance.
Karlo smiled faintly. “You should be proud of your son. He fought well.”
“How did he take his hurt?” Lady Belgorod asked.
“Yury rode ahead of me, milady, for in his blood sang the joy of the hunt. I followed his horn and heard the wolves howl. When I rode into the clearing, I saw him stab the great brute as it fell upon him. Another wolf darted in. I spurred my charger and alighted on the snow to stand over your fallen son. Ill and churlish it would have been to flee while my hostess’s son lay wounded.”
“What happened next?” asked Lady Belgorod.
“The clever wolves circled me, lunging whenever I turned my back. I thrust time and again, but failed to wound any.”
“And when Feodor came they ran away?” Lady Belgorod asked in doubt.
“I think the lad surprised them, milady. He yelled as one demented and charged with a berserk’s fury. The wolves retreated. Yet I knew that if given time they would see that he was but one man. So I charged after them. Many a battle has been won by a single gallant charge against a dispirited and fleeing host.”
Lady Belgorod nodded as she glanced at her husband. Volok sighed heavily. “Petor tells me that you crave permission to recruit some of our farmers.”
“Your pardon, Sir Volok, I but ask that you allow me to do what your king has already decreed. On my part, I believe it is a matter of sound policy to work hand-in-hand with the local nobility. Yourself and your wife, in this instance.”
Volok clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the fireplace. He whispered into his wife’s ear. After a span, she whispered back. Volok faced Karlo once more.
“Feodor the Woodcutter’s son said he saw you lunge at the wolves. He said you dumped a dead wolf at his feet. By your own word, you claim to have stood over my son when he was sorely injured. Yet your rashness allowed my son to charge ahead of you. Still, for your gallant deed, I will give you my hand in friendship.”
Volok somberly shook hands with Karlo.
“However,” Volok said, after he glanced at his wife, “we do not think it is good for farmers to trek into the Old Forest in the dead of winter. We will try to dissuade them from joining you. If you find any that will join you, he is free to go. In a few weeks, I will send out men to make sure that the farmers have been fairly treated.”
Karlo bowed. “You have spoken honestly, sir. I feel, though, that you should hear me out so I may persuade you to encourage the farmers to earn solid silver coins from me.”
“You will be given the chance later. Now I must ask you to retire to the Feast Hall, your rooms, or outdoors. I must speak with my folk and plan tonight’s feast.”
Sir Karlo bowed again. “As you wish.” He and his retainers took their leave.
Volok brooded. Finally, with a sigh, he and Lady Belgorod stepped aside and whispered together. When they were done, he cleared his throat. “Until now Yury has been Petor’s temporary squire. A squire, a knight-in-training, is required to do many things. The most important is to show his bravery. My son slew a white wolf, even at injury to himself. What is more, he led the charge with zeal.”
“What are you saying, Father?” Petor asked.
“Do you think such an action can go unrewarded?” Lady Belgorod asked.
Petor considered and then shook his head.
“This is my word,” Volok said. “If Yury heals and I feel that his bravery and spirit are still sound, I will make him your squire until such time as he sees fit to do otherwise, or until he can acquire enough land and vassals to become a knight.”
Ivan gaped in surprise, as did most of those present.
“Of course,” Volok said, “I still think that Yury should practice a different art. But today, if he still craves it, he has earned the right to try to become a knight.”
Petor nodded. “You have ruled justly, Father.”
“Yes,” said Lady Belgorod.
Volok brooded. “Perhaps,” he said. “My fondest hope, however, is that I have ruled wisely.”
-6-
Ivan wandered outside with Feodor and leaned against the mill beside him. Two hounds frolicked in the snow while Feodor recounted his tale. Then he fell silent and watched the hounds.
Ivan said, “I’ve been wondering about something. When you entered the clearing, you thought to see something cavort with the wolves. What do you think you saw?”
“I don’t really know. The image was only for a moment. Then the cavorting thing disappeared into the forest.”
Ivan nodded thoughtfully.
Feodor shivered. “I’m going in. Coming?”
“No, I still have to run a few more hounds.”
Feodor nodded and ran to the house.
Ivan whistled and the two hounds dutifully returned. He took them into the kennel and took out two other hounds, one of them the shepherding mother-dog with a newborn litter. As he leaned back against the mill, he slipped off a mitten and blew on his fingers. Only then did he dig out a piece of jerky, chewing on it like a cow with cud.
Many strange things had happened or been revealed. Yury’s wounding merely added to the list. For instance, Axe People existed and the Sisterhood did indeed teach magic. Maybe some people called a healer like Magda a magic-user, but that was different. Magda could sometimes speed-up knitting bones or a bad cold or fever. Magic, though, that could confuse wolves enough to drive them off….
Ivan finished the jerky and noticed the open gate. Dog-tracks led through it. He whistled for Mokosh, but heard nothing. With a sigh, he followed Mokosh’s tracks. They led toward a grove of oak saplings. Her pups would miss her if she stayed away too long.
“Mokosh! Here girl!”
He heard barking from the middle of the grove.
“Crazy dog,” he muttered. He ran to the grove and found Mokosh digging at the base of a large rock. Freshly dug-up dirt lay on the snow behind her. She gnawed at something, trying to free it.
“Mokosh!”
She looked up and then went back to digging and growling, trying to free—Ivan stepped closer. It was a leather pouch.
Ivan leashed Mokosh and pulled her away from the pouch. “What’s got into you, girl?” Mokosh whined, her eyes on the pouch. She seemed upset, angry, and tried to reach it.
Ivan pulled her to a sapling and wound the leash to a branch. Then, as she whined and tried to get back to the pouch, he went and inspected it. Mokosh’s teeth marked the leather, but she hadn’t destroyed it. The carrying strap was pinned under the rock. A buckle kept the pouch sealed.
“What’s it doing out here?” Ivan asked aloud. He studied Mokosh. Her ears perked up and her hackles rose. Alarmed, Ivan wished that he’d brought his club. All he had was a dagger, which he kept for chores. He picked up a hand-sized rock and glanced at Mokosh. She growled toward the wilds. Ivan squinted, his heart pounding. Then he sucked in his breath. He thought to see a shadow shift from one sapling to the next. It might have been a small man.
“Hey, you!” Ivan shouted. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to try to give chase. A last bit of caution held him back, although he yelled again.
“What’s all the shouting about?”
Ivan spun around. One of Sir Karlo’s ruffians tramped toward him. The thick-limbed man wore a fur coat, had a shaggy head of hair and a heavy, beetling brow. A crooked and rather odd-looking short sword slapped at his side. The pommel looked worn, well used. The scabbard had seen better days and had frightening splotches in it. Ivan could only think of deeply soaked dried blood. Then he noticed the man’s hands: big, scarred, almost deformed, each hand having several black fingernails.
“I asked you a question.”
“My dog saw someone,” Ivan said.
“Out here?”
“You’re out here.”
That seemed to anger the man. His beetling gaze suddenly fell onto the pouch. His fingers twitched as a vulture’s might at the sight of meat.
“My dog found it,” Ivan said.
The man eyed Ivan, took in the rock he held.
“You’re Sir Karlo’s man, aren’t you?” Ivan asked, not liking the bloodshot manner to the man’s eyes. The teeth had seen better days, too. The face was pockmarked and scarred.
“Of course I’m Sir Karlo’s man. What kind of stupid question is that?”
“What’s your name?” Ivan asked, trying to deflect the man’s sullenness.
“Perun. What’s yours?”
“Ivan.”
Perun grunted and took a step closer. “The pouch is mine.”
“The one under the rock?” Ivan asked in surprise.
“That’s right.” Perun took another step and craned his neck to see it. His head shot up. “Your beast gnawed on it.”
Ivan frowned.
“My lunch is in it,” Perun said, trying to smile. “I came out here yesterday. Yes. I enjoyed the beauty here. I forgot the pouch when I went in.”
Did the man think he was a fool?
“You can drop your rock,” Perun said. “Unless you’re going to throw it at me.” The idea seemed to please the man. Perhaps it would give him a reason to draw his crooked sword.
Ivan tossed his rock and stepped aside. “My dog spotted something in the woods,” he said.
“Wolves,” said Perun.
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” Ivan asked, deciding he didn’t like Perun.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just asking.”
Perun studied him a moment longer, and shrugged, walked to the pouch and easily rolled aside the big rock. He slung the strap over his shoulder. “It’s cold out here,” he said.
Ivan unwound Mokosh’s leash. The dog didn’t like Perun by the way her hackles rose. Perun tried smiling again. It came off wrong, maybe because how big and yellow his teeth seemed. They tramped out of the grove together and toward the house. Above them, high in the sky, a raven circled. Its caw drifted down to them.
“What do you think of that?” Ivan said, pointing at the raven.
Perun shrugged. The gesture seemed feigned, but then almost everything about him seemed false.
“I’m going to hunt ravens,” Ivan said.
Perun laughed, and for the first time smiled truly. “That’s the spirit, lad. Kill off them ravens. They’re all carrion-eaters, and they lack guts, flying off at the first sign of danger.”
“Yes,” Ivan agreed, wondering what Perun had against ravens.
They parted ways at the gate. Perun, without a word of farewell, strode to the house. Ivan brought Mokosh to her crying pups and smiled when she lay among them. Not yet able to open their eyes, the pups crawled over one another and pawed at her teats as they yelped and suckled hungrily.
He went back to his chores. Perhaps an hour later an excited Janek rushed into the kennel.
“Ivan! Ivan!”
“What is it?”
“The party’s going to start soon.”
“Party?”
“For Nadia!” Janek shouted. “Magda told me to fetch you. So you’d better hurry.”
Ivan hurried to the bathhouse to clean up. Outside the wooden shed, a fire smoldered in a stone fireplace. Ivan tossed in extra kindling, stoked the fire until the flames crackled and heated some stones. He carted the stones into the shed and plopped them into a tub of water. The stones hissed. He tested the water and found it properly warm.
He soaked for a few pleasurable minutes and let the grime sweat out of his pores. Then he ran naked outside and rubbed snow against his body. The bathhouse was sheltered from view, so no one saw him. He gasped, but felt refreshed. Quickly, he raced back to the kennel and picked out his best clothes: a soft green tunic, brown deerskin breeches and a shiny pair of boots. Combing out his damp hair, he put on an iron ring and belted on a small decorative dagger.
A few minutes later, he strode into the kitchen. Women bustled everywhere, with Lady Belgorod in the center giving last minute instructions.
“Ivan.”
Ivan spotted Magda at the side door. He flinched a piece of heavily sauced chicken and headed toward her.
“You look nice, Magda,” he said.
“Thank you.” She wore a yellow dress and she had put a yellow flower in her old gray hair. A red jewel hung from her neck while red slippers clad her feet. She dusted off his tunic, saying, “Now look at you, Ivan. All fine and strapping. Yes, a sight indeed.”
“Come on, Magda,” he complained.
“Oh, go on to the Feast Hall,” she said with a laugh. “I think they’re about to start dancing.”
Ivan hurried to the Feast Hall. Bright streamers hung from the ceiling. Pushing the tables to the back had made extra space. A long-bearded fiddler stood atop the tables.
Ivan moved beside Feodor and Dimitri, who had combed out his huge beard. They began to talk. He mentioned his run-in with Perun. The two woodcutters listened quietly, until Dimitri said he’d mention it to Master Volok. That relieved Ivan, who had been wondering if he should say anything about it or not. He still couldn’t figure out what had drawn Mokosh to the grove in the first place.
More people filed in, among them Master Volok, his squire and Petor. Lady Belgorod walked in together with several farmers and their wives. Gruner the Blacksmith, his wife and an oak-armed apprentice from a neighboring holding walked in next. Finally, a small lady in a fine hooded cloak entered with Nadia. Nadia wore her white dress and moved with courtly grace.
“Who’s the hooded lady?” Ivan asked Feodor.
“Nadia’s escort.”
“Escort? What do you mean?”
“She came with Nadia from the Sisterhood. My Father says it’s to keep an eye on her. According to what Master Volok told Father, Nadia has a surprising talent. The Sisterhood is interested in her and has agreed to pay for the rest of her schooling.”
“What does that mean?” Ivan asked, with a sinking feeling in his gut.
“I imagine it means that this is just a vacation for her. She’ll be going back to Pavia.”
“When?”
Dimitri leaned over. “In the spring.”
Ivan felt betrayed. Nadia, his Nadia, well, not really his Nadia, but an old and dear friend. Now she would leave Belgorod Holding for a long time, maybe for good. He didn’t know much about the Sisterhood, other than that healers trained there.
Master Volok clapped his hands for attention. He made a short speech, and soon the dancing began as the fiddler fiddled. People danced, laughed and clapped their hands. Ivan danced with Magda, Mary and finally with Nadia herself.
She laughed as she spun in rhythm to the music. He concentrated because his feet had suddenly turned clumsy. When the dance was over, he walked with her to a quiet corner.
He said, “Now that you’re back, what do you think of the holding?”
“I love it here. It’s good to be back.”
He grinned foolishly, nodding. “And it’s great to have you back.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, touching his check.
Oh how he longed for her to leave her hand there. But why did his face heat up when she touched him?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He blurted out the question that he was burning to ask. “Are you really going back to Pavia in the spring?”
“Who told you that?”
“Ah….”
“Tell me the truth, Ivan.” She poked him in the ribs. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“Feodor told me.”
“I wonder how he found out?”
“Master Volok told Dimitri.”
“I see. You men just can’t keep a secret.”
“Is it true?” he asked. “Are you really leaving in the spring?”
“I suppose so.”
“Why go back? Why not stay here?”
Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I have so much to learn. It’s exciting in Pavia and in the Chapter House. The lore books are filled with ancient wisdom. Everything I learn makes me yearn to test myself.” She smiled sadly. “How could I possibly not go back?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have a gift, a special talent. Many people here paid for my schooling. Now the Sisterhood has agreed to pay the rest. Now I have to learn everything I can. I must prove myself worthy of the trust the good folk of Belgorod put in me.”
“You’ve changed,” he said. “You used to never talk like that.”
“I suppose Pavia’s duchess brought on much of the change.”
Ivan’s eyes widened. “You spoke to a duchess?”
Nadia laughed. “I spent a lot of time at the palace. It was part of my training.”
Ivan nodded numbly.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“What?”
“Your nod?”
“Just that I understand why you act so…regally.”
“You think I act regally?”
“It’s in the way you hold your shoulders or take your steps,” Ivan said, “or in the tilt of your head when people talk to you. But most of all it’s in the way you talk.”
“You’re most kind.”
“There, that’s what I mean.”
Nadia smiled. “You’re too easily impressed. I don’t act anything like the knights I saw or the ladies-in-waiting.”
“Ladies-in-waiting? What are those?”
“Ask Yury sometime. I’m sure he can tell you.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Ivan said with a laugh.
Nadia sighed, and for a moment, the conversation dwindled. He stole a glance and saw that she watched Karlo from under her long eyelashes. The big knight danced with Lady Belgorod. He moved gracefully. Lady Belgorod and he had become the center of attention on the dance floor, although the song was almost finished.
Ivan suddenly felt hollow, dispirited.
Nadia turned back to him. For several heartbeats, nothing was said. Then she smiled and asked, “You know what I missed the most?”
He shook his head.
“Our snowball fights. Remember how I used to ambush you when you walked the hounds?”
“I do.”
“Why was it that I always won?”
“You didn’t always win.”
“Yes I did.”
“Maybe you did,” he said, smiling, “but only because once you hit me, you ran into the house.”
“So you admit that I always won?”
“You wouldn’t win anymore.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
Karlo appeared beside them. He asked Nadia, “May I have the next dance, milady?”
Nadia said as she curtsied, “It would be my pleasure to dance with such a noble knight.”
Sir Karlo laughed and held out a heavily muscled arm. Nadia took it. Looking back over her shoulder, she waved goodbye to Ivan.
Glumly, Ivan went to Feodor. Together they watched the others dance.
“Maybe we should go upstairs and cheer Yury,” Ivan said.
“I heard he’s asleep.”
Ivan shrugged, turning moody.
After the dance, Master Volok said, “It’s time to eat.” Lady Belgorod escorted Nadia to the head of the table. Housemaids set hot food and ale before them. Lady Belgorod made a short speech and everybody clapped at the end. It was a grand time and everyone enjoyed themselves. At the end of the evening both Nadia and Lady Belgorod were given a standing ovation.
Feodor spent the night out in the kennel. The next morning he helped Ivan with his chores. Yury slept, while Petor, Volok and Dimitri traveled to the nearby farms to tell the farmers about the moot in two days time. The few times Ivan went inside, he found Karlo and Nadia together in the main hall. They played backgammon and traded tales.
Ivan’s dislike of the knight increased. He began to question Karlo’s motives. Most of all he wondered about Perun and his sealed pouch. He wondered if someone could have left notes in the pouch. That would mean confederates hidden out in the woods. Hadn’t Magda first thought of Karlo as a bandit? The idea seemed a bit of a stretch, not because there couldn’t be bandits, but because it would be difficult to hide all the trail signs of bandits.
“Let’s go look for trail-signs,” Ivan told Feodor later.
“Today?”
“If they’re out there then today is better than tomorrow.”
“You won’t find anything,” Feodor said.
“Why not?”
“Last night Petor and my father looked. They took your pouch-story seriously.”
“Oh,” said Ivan. Then he thought of how Karlo had looked at Nadia. He turned mulish. “I still want to search.”
“Then let’s start.”
Ivan took Stribog, Vesna and his club. Feodor took his dog and an axe. They prowled around the holding in a mile-wide circuit. Once they came upon a lone wolf trail.
“Here’s a bold one,” Feodor said.
Ivan studied Vesna as the dog sniffed the trail. It must have been old. The dog wasn’t interested.
Later, Ivan spied a raven on a pine branch. He took out a sling and slipped in a stone. He muttered an oath as snow jumped up near the raven’s feet. The big bird cawed with rage, taking off to safer parts.
“Why did you do that?” Feodor asked.
“I’m hunting ravens now,” Ivan said. He told Feodor about the strange raven with the white mark on its beak.
“You’re letting yourself get worked up. I think you’re just jealous about how much time Sir Karlo is spending with Nadia.”
Ivan fell moodily silent as he kept an even sharper watch for ravens.
They returned to the house toward evening, worn out and having found nothing.
-7-
The morning of the moot, Yury finally awoke and asked for food and water. In the afternoon, Feodor and Ivan went up to see him. Yury grinned a lot and endlessly told them what his father had said about him remaining a squire. To his disgust, he couldn’t remember the wolf fight, but in his buoyancy, he shrugged it off. Finally, dusk came and both Feodor and Ivan were dragooned into helping set up the moot logs. By the time the logs had been rolled into place (outside the picket fence but near the mill) farmers, their wives and children rode up in their jingling sleighs.
The horses were left in their harnesses, while the sleighs were parked a goodly distance from the logs. Once the sun set everybody from the holding, including a heavily bundled Yury, stood around the moot logs. Master Volok gave a short prayer to Hosar before he threw his torch onto the logs. Soon a blazing roar crackled. The huge flames kept everyone warm in the winter night.
Master Volok climbed atop a small wooden platform and shouted for everyone’s attention. He told them how Sir Karlo had saved Yury. Next he said that yes, Sir Karlo did have a kingly writ and permission to enter the Old Forest. And yes again, Sir Karlo could recruit farmers to help him find and dig up this treasure. “Yet I would have you hear what my wife said to me,” Master Volok said. He climbed down from the platform and gave his wife a hand up.
Lady Belgorod surveyed the crowd before she cleared her throat. “I urge you against this. You are farmers, not miners. It is better to rest for the coming spring than to go off tramping into the Old Forest. You have your own choice in this, of course, but in my heart I see nothing good happening from it.”
The people nodded as Lady Belgorod climbed down.
With his broadsword at his side, Sir Karlo climbed atop the platform. With the flames casting a play of shadows and light upon his pale face, he seemed every inch the knight. He showed them his map and the bag of silver coins. Then he talked about stout work being richly rewarded.
He ended with: “You would earn silver coins to buy more cattle, pigs and sheep. Or perhaps you wish for a new plow or an iron cooking pot from Pavia. Or maybe you wish to travel to the court to see the king. A few weeks tracking and spirited work in the Old Forest would allow all that. I personally vow that no harm will come to you.” Sir Karlo drew his blue-steel sword. “Few things, I wager, would gladly face a Bavarian knight when he has drawn steel.”
Master Volok motioned for him to step down. Magda stepped up next.
“You know that I don’t usually speak at a moot,” Magda began. “This time I feel I must. Strange events have occurred. Where one wolf prowled the district, suddenly an entire pack appears. What’s more, I know you’ve heard that several wolves charged Master Volok in the sleigh when he brought Nadia home. Only by Nadia’s magic were the wolves driven away.”
A murmur swept through the crowd.
“Yes, Nadia uses her talent in ways different than I use mine,” Magda said. “My point is this: Do you dare to enter the Old Forest with so many white wolves in the district? It’s something you should consider.”
“Nadia!” a farmer shouted. “Tell us how you chased off the wolves!”
“Yes!” another farmer cried. “I wish to learn about this.”
Lady Belgorod motioned to Nadia, although the Sisterhood escort seemed displeased.
“Go on,” Ivan whispered. “Tell the good folk about it.”
“Very well,” said Nadia. In her courtly manner, she walked to the platform and let Petor help her up the steps. Like Lady Belgorod, she surveyed the crowd. Nadia seemed every inch the highborn princess.
“Good folk of Belgorod Holding,” Nadia began. “If the truth be known, my tale is short and rather mundane. Master Volok held the reins while Gruner slept off his mighty feats at Rudel’s Inn.”
People laughed, well knowing Gruner’s ability to drink ale. Gruner himself smiled, although his wife didn’t. He quickly wiped away the smile.
“From out of the forest,” Nadia continued, “five white wolves gave chase. Master Volok shook the reins and we drove faster. The wolves leaned low to the ground and ran with purpose, their tongues slavering for our blood. Seeing they would reach us, I took out my wand and used the art taught me in Pavia. I could practice this art because your money and love had sent me to the Sisterhood Chapter House to learn. With my wand, I tricked the wolves and made them fear. They slunk away with their tails between their legs.”
The people clapped.
Nadia blushed. “Please, please,” she asked, holding up her hands, “don’t clap. Or better yet, if you clap for me, then clap for Gruner the Blacksmith when he makes a solid plow. Or clap for a good wife when the chicken she cooks tastes delightful. Or clap for a huntsman when he flushes out quail. In other words, my skills are just like yours, given to me by Hosar for the good of the community.”
The people whispered at her skill with words. They smiled proudly, especially the women who had helped pay for her schooling.
Sir Karlo motioned to Master Volok, indicating that he wished to speak again. Master Volok gestured toward the stage.
The big knight took the stand and gazed out over the crowd. He nodded to Nadia, to Magda and to Lady Belgorod. “You are persuasive speakers, I freely grant you that. Belgorod Holding is a lucky place to have such folk as you. Yet I believe that we are forgetting an important fact. Consider the idea of danger and the rewards won from braving danger. Would Nadia have become a powerful magic-user if she hadn’t braved the danger of leaving Belgorod Holding to travel to Pavia? For three years, I’ve heard, she lived alone and among strangers. Now she has returned with powerful and helpful skills.”
Karlo surveyed the crowd. “Surely many here spoke three years ago about the dangers Nadia would face if she left Belgorod.”
A few people nodded.
“But Nadia was brave enough to overcome those dangers and win renown with her art,” Karlo said.
“He’s twisting my story around,” Nadia whispered to Ivan. “You know I didn’t leave in order to gain renown, but to use the talent Hosar had given me.”
“He’s right just the same,” Yury whispered.
“Shhh,” Feodor said. “Let me listen?”
Ivan couldn’t decide if the knight’s words had truly displeased Nadia, or if she’d said that for their benefit. Then he felt guilty for questioning her words.
From upon the platform, Karlo raised his voice. “Let me tell you about another time when danger overcome brought great rewards.”
Yury’s eyes lit up.
Karlo told the tale of Bogdan Monomakh. The knight had helped Charlemagne defeat the Avar Khagan at the Ring. The people listened, entranced by Sir Karlo’s skills. Then Karlo deviated from the tale and told the story of Bogdan Monomakh’s groom. He’d been a young lad from a small village. There the bullies had beat him up and the good wives had scoffed at his scrawniness. Finally, the lad had run off. Through a series of local adventures with an old she-bear, Nine Fingers the Bandit and Bog the Giant and his infamous toll bridge, the lad had won some courage. A few of the Belgorod folk laughed at the tale. Then Karlo told how the lad had helped save Monomakh from vengeful Avars by pretending to be a leper. As such, the lad had escaped the Avar camp to make it to Bogdan Monomakh’s retainers. The end of the tale was well known, with Bogdan Monomakh killing the Avars in their camp.
Men shouted in approval.
Sir Karlo smiled, eyeing the throng. “Because Monomakh faced danger, he won great rewards as well as a great name. If you join me in this quest, you too may earn fame as well as riches. So what say you?” Sir Karlo shouted. “Will you join me for a few weeks of adventure, stiff work and well-earned pay?”
“I’ll join you!” a farmer shouted.
All eyes turned toward narrow-faced Farmer Lech. He smiled at his neighbors. “I wish to gain some easily won silver,” Lech said. “What say you, Danko? I know you’d like a new sleigh. Why not join me in the Old Forest and earn enough silver for it?”
Farmer Danko shook his head.
Feodor whispered to Ivan, “Everyone knows Farmer Lech is lazy. He’s always looking for ways to make quick money.”
Ivan recalled that Lech had once hotly argued against Dimitri and his record keeping. In the end, Dimitri had given Lech a few extra coppers out of his own pocket. After that, however, Dimitri wouldn’t allow Lech to join the farmers in the spring cutting.
“Your pardon, Master Volok and Lady Belgorod,” a farmer said. “But I do need a new plow and oxen. Silver would come in handy to buy both.” He examined his feet, then looked up and said, “I’ve never had a chance to earn silver before.”
Lady Belgorod whispered to Volok. Volok cleared his throat. “You do not need my pardon, Goodman Pavel. And I will add that either Petor or I will check on Sir Karlo within the Old Forest.”
In the end, three farmers and four farmers’ sons agreed to join Sir Karlo. They would leave in two days time.
Ale was brought out and the folk drank freely. As the fire died down, the farmers took torches out of their sleighs and lit them. They climbed into their sleighs with their wives and children and took their leave.
The moot was over.
-8-
Ivan finished his morning chores the next day and hurried into the kitchen. As he started his second bowl of porridge, Petor entered and sat across from him. Ivan knew the look on Petor’s face. The Belgorod knight had found him something extra to do today.
“I want you to check the hunting nets,” Petor said.
Ivan accepted a cup of broth from Mary. “All of them?” he asked.
“No, just the bear-nets.”
Which, Ivan knew, were really the bear and wolf nets. Deer and elk nets were bigger than bear-nets, while the rabbit-nets were much lighter and surprisingly even bigger yet. The bear-nets weren’t large, as things went, but they were strong and heavy.
“If any bear-nets need mending,” Petor said, “you can fix them in the parlor.”
“Are we going to be hunting bears soon?” Ivan asked.
Petor took his time answering. “No, but maybe we’ll trap a few wolves.” With that, he arose and took his leave.
“I don’t like all this talk about wolves,” Mary said from the washing basin.
Ivan bantered with her a bit and then realized she was serious. With the wolves chasing Master Volok’s sleigh and those that had attacked Yury and Karlo, Mary couldn’t shake the idea that wolves would besiege the house.
“That’s crazy,” Ivan told her. “Look, a pack of white wolves have come down out of the mountains. That’s all. They’re hungry. Yesterday two of them died. The rest are sure to high-tail it somewhere else now.”
Yury had long ago infected Mary with his fantastic stories. She now lowered her voice and said, “What about storm wolves?”
“Storm wolves? What do you mean?”
“You know the old tales.”
Sure he did, but they were tales that’s it. Then he got to wondering. Axe People existed. The Sisterhood taught magic to those with ‘the talent.’ Could it really be that long ago a vile lord had almost swamped the world with evil? That only with the gathering of all the good folk of the world, had the evil lord been pulled down from power? Maybe there were storm wolves, after all.
Mary finished cleaning the porridge bowls. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat at the table. “After the moot I spoke with Nadia. We stayed up late. Finally, early this morning, Nadia told me that rumors of storm wolves have reached Pavia.”
“What kind of stories?”
“You know what storm wolves are, don’t you?”
Of course he knew. In the old tales, storm wolves were evil wolves. Well, they were more than that. Storm wolves served evil. In time that had changed them from normal-sized wolves to huge, slavering beasts noted for savagery and berserk courage.
“What else did Nadia say?” Ivan asked.
Mary lowered her voice. “She said that from the plains of the Avars have came rumors of wolf-riders and a race of warriors called Magyars.” Mary wiped her hands again, as if by her action she warded off evil.
“Did anyone in Pavia actually see these so-called storm wolves?” Ivan asked.
“What? You don’t believe Nadia?”
“I believe people heard rumors, sure,” Ivan said. “But people are always hearing rumors.” He laughed. “You know how farmers are always running here to tell Master Volok about witches they’ve seen or nightmares who haunt their fields. The witches turn out to be old women who have lost their wits and the nightmares are simply horses that have become wild again.”
“You don’t believe in storm wolves?” Mary asked.
Ivan chewed that over. Dimitri and Feodor had seen Axe People. Axe People existed. Nadia practiced some sort of mystic art—magic was real therefore. That didn’t mean that every wild story had to be true.
“Maybe storm wolves do exist,” Ivan admitted. “But all Nadia heard were rumors. And out of the Avar Plains, too. Everyone knows that the plains are a wild place. I bet people tell tall tales in Pavia just for the fun of it. Besides, even if the rumors of storm wolves were true, remember that they come from the southern plains. Our white wolves came out of the mountains, the north.”
“How do you know that?” Mary asked.
Rising, Ivan laughed. “That’s where white wolves always come from.”
Once more Mary twisted her hands in her apron. “I hope you’re right.”
“Sure I am,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
She gave him a weak smile. “I’m worried. What if those storm wolves come here? What if I’m trapped outside when they come?”
“Mary!” he said. “Don’t worry. If there are storm wolves, they’re far away in the grasslands. Do you have any idea of how far away that is?”
She gave him a hopeful look.
“Far!” he said.
Mary’s smile grew stronger.
“Besides, my hounds will howl at the first smell of wolf. Then Petor, Feodor and I will chase them away.”
“Or maybe Sir Karlo can kill them.”
Her vehemence shocked Ivan. Hunting a wolf now and again was one thing. Killing packs of them...no, that didn’t serve any purpose. Nor did he like the way Mary looked to Sir Karlo to save them. Had she said that because of things Nadia had told her about the knight?
“This is a hard winter,” he said. “You’ve seen how it’s snowed more than usual. That means it’s harder for the wolves to track prey. That’s the only reason we’re having trouble with them. When it warms up a bit, the wolves won’t bother us. Believe me, they like being near us as much as we like them near us. In other words, wolves are scared of people.”
“Then why did Yury get chewed?”
“No doubt he launched himself at them.” Ivan nodded. “I bet if we questioned Sir Karlo enough, he’d tell us that Yury came upon them as they devoured a kill. That’s not a good time to attack wolves. That’s when they’ll turn at bay.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, Mary,” he said, patting her shoulder. “My hounds and I will make sure you’re safe.” Her smile of gratitude made him feel good. It also made him resolved to talk with Nadia. She should watch what she told people. Not everyone was as hardheaded as he was. Maybe that’s why he liked Dimitri and Feodor. They had a wide-open view of the world, meaning, they viewed the world with open eyes and saw what really happened. Yury viewed the world through a stained glass window. He saw strange colors and distortions.
Ivan stepped outside. In the back of the kennel lay the rolled-up nets. One by one, he took out the bear-nets and unrolled them on the snow. Three needed work.
Each net was made up of heavy ropes twined together to make hundreds of squares. Rabbit-nets had weights along the edges. But then one threw rabbit-nets. Bear-nets were dropped. Occasionally, one made a fence out of bear-nets, driving the animal into them.
Ivan lay the three aside and brought the rest back into the kennel. Clouds hid the sun. A wind whisked snow through the yard. He shivered as he hefted the three rolled-up nets. Then he hurried to the house, glad that Petor had said he could work in the parlor. He ran down the walkway and entered through the front door.
Karlo and a bundled-up Yury glanced at him as he stomped snow off his boots. The silver-haired knight sat back in a huge stuffed chair. Yury sat on a stool near the fire. A thick quilt blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. A fire warmed his back. A table stood between the knight and squire. Upon the table lay an ivory chessboard.
“Whose winning?” asked Ivan.
“The trainer shows interest,” Sir Karlo said in a faintly mocking tone.
“He can play,” Yury told Karlo.
Silver eyebrows rose.
“I taught him,” Yury said.
“As one teaches a bear to walk?” asked Karlo.
Yury frowned before he nodded, saying, “Oh, I see. That’s a joke.”
“But in poor taste,” Karlo said. “Forgive me.” He didn’t ask for Ivan’s forgiveness, though.
Yury grunted. The board absorbed his interest.
Ivan wiped his boots and rolled out the first net near the stained glass window. The shutters were open and admitted the muted sunlight. The stained glass had been imported all the way from Milan. It had turned the parlor into one of the holding’s best-loved rooms. It was a big room with several deer heads and one bear on the wall. Two boar-spears had been crossed over a polished plaque. Two woven tapestries, of hunters chasing elk, hung on the walls. Various chairs were scattered throughout the room, but now only the three of them occupied it.
“It’s cold today,” Ivan said.
“Don’t interrupt the game,” Sir Karlo said.
Ivan scowled. He hadn’t been talking to the knight. He looked up from where he knelt, but both Karlo and Yury stared at the chessmen. Yury concentrated in his usual way: eyes fixated, brow furrowed, right forefinger gently rubbing his cheek. Karlo sat back, his look hooded. Every once in awhile he sucked in his upper lip, chewing over it with his white teeth.
Yury’s right hand hovered over a piece as his eyes roved across the board. He abruptly yanked the hand back, only to snake it out over another piece. Finally, hesitantly, Yury slid his chosen piece to its new spot. Karlo sank even further into his chair, becoming a statue. Suddenly, decisively, he reached out, picked up his piece and clunked it onto its new square.
Yury had captured three of Karlo’s pieces. Karlo only had two of Yury’s.
Ivan bent to his task. Where a strand had broken, he tied on new rope. Where a piece had frayed, he took out his kit and sewed thread around it.
The fire crackled as chessmen slid across the board or were clunked onto a new spot. Once, Yury said, “This is Sir Karlo’s board. It’s made of Gronlandia ivory.”
Gronlandia was a mythical land. It was supposed to be made up of ice and snow, an island surrounded by icebergs: floating ice mountains, if the stories could be believed.
Magda entered and made Yury drink a steaming mug of chicken soup. “How are you feeling,” she asked quietly.
“Tired,” Yury admitted.
“Are you winning?” Magda asked.
“He is,” Karlo said brusquely.
“And how are you, Ivan?” she asked.
“A lot warmer now,” he said. “Yourself?”
“Quite fine,” she said.
Karlo cleared his throat. He sounded annoyed.
“This is an important game,” Yury said softly.
“Oh?” asked Magda. “Are you wagering?”
Yury paused, “I suppose we are.”
Ivan perked up, listening more carefully.
“What’s the wager?” asked Magda.
“If we tell you, will you let us play in peace?” Karlo asked.
Magda, who had been smiling, only smiled wider and more sweetly. “Why of course, Sir Knight.”
Karlo said, “I wagered two silver pieces against that knife of his.”
“His father gave him that,” Magda said.
“Don’t worry,” Yury said quietly.
Magda studied him, then the board. “The knife isn’t worth two silver pieces,” she said. “Why would you want one of his personal belongings?” she asked Karlo.
That brought Karlo out of his chair. He towered over her. “Please, good woman, let us play in peace. If I chose to give him the better of a wager that is my business.”
“Is it?” Magda asked, not backing down.
Yury slid one of his chessmen. “Check,” he said.
Both Karlo and Magda stared down at the board. Karlo grunted, slouching back into the stuffed chair. He took longer than normal, but finally clunked his king out of danger.
Two moves later, Yury said, “Checkmate.”
Karlo, with an irritated look on his face, handed two silver pieces to Yury.
“Again?” Yury asked.
“Two silver against two of mine?” Karlo asked.
“Yes,” Yury said.
“Done,” said the knight.
Magda turned away and took her leave.
The second game moved along as before. Ivan heard the slides and the clunks as he repaired the bear-nets. Whenever he looked up, Yury either rubbed his cheek or rubbed his fingertips above the piece he pondered moving. Sir Karlo reminded Ivan of a lazy eagle he’d seen once atop a dead tree, one barren of leaves. The eagle had puffed-out its feathers, preening itself, all the while keeping a sharp lookout at the rabbits below. Finally, when the rabbits had gotten comfortable, the eagle swooped down to strike.
“Tired?” Karlo asked later.
“I’m a little chilly,” Yury said. “It’ll pass.”
“Perhaps we should adjourn and pick up the game later.”
“No, I’ll see this through,” Yury said.
“Ah, so speaks a true hunter,” Karlo said. “Yet sometimes a bit of prudence can work miracles. If you’re weary, why let me take advantage of it?”
Ivan wondered that himself. Then he saw Nadia. She watched from the doorway. She turned abruptly and walked away.
“You haven’t beaten me yet,” Yury said.
“That’s true,” Karlo said. “Yet the advantage is mine.”
Yury squinted at the board. Ivan recognized the look. He’d seen it the few times that he gotten ahead of Yury in pieces. Now grim stubbornness and determination would take hold of the Belgorod squire. He’d move more slowly, almost timidly, but never did he set more bitter traps then when ‘the look’ dropped onto his face.
Curious, Ivan hurried with the last few strands. Thus, he pricked himself with the needle, muttered a curse and wiped the spot of blood on his breeches. He tied off the thread and rolled up the net. He threw it atop the other two and then pulled up a stool to watch the game.
Karlo scowled, but said nothing.
Ivan could see that Yury was in trouble. Karlo had his queen, although Yury had his castle in exchange. Otherwise, they had both captured six identical pieces from each other.
“Does it look familiar?” Yury asked.
“The game?” asked Ivan.
Yury nodded. Karlo sighed heavily.
Ignoring the big knight, Ivan said, “No. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Watch,” Yury said. He moved his castle.
Ivan examined Karlo as the knight pondered his move.
Karlo said, “Am I a lout or a stray dog?”
“Milord?” asked Ivan.
“You gape at me in a most boorish manner,” Karlo said, lifting his gaze.
Ivan felt the menace in the big knight as the icicle eyes measured him. “Forgive me, milord,” he whispered, afraid that Karlo would lash out at him. At that moment, the Bavarian seemed quite capable of murder...nay, as those hard eyes bored into him Ivan knew that Karlo could cut out his heart for the mere infraction of displeasing him with his presence. He tried to look away, but found himself trapped by Karlo’s will. Ivan shivered as a feeling of dread iced down his spine.
The tiniest of smiles played upon Karlo’s lips. It was a contemptuous smile. It seemed to say that he’d measured Ivan and found him wanting in some crucial and very important way.
“Speak no more,” Karlo warned.
Ivan barely managed a nod.
Karlo clunked his queen out of danger.
Ivan stared at the board. He feared Karlo, and he knew now that his hounds had been right. This was a dangerous man. The menace radiated from him. Oh, he could be charming, as he’d charmed Yury and Nadia, but underneath that lay...what, exactly? Ivan didn’t know, but he knew that he didn’t want to find out.
Yury coughed. Sweat dotted his brow. Every once in awhile he shivered and tightened the quilt around his shoulders.
Without a word, Ivan threw more logs onto the fire. He went into the kitchen and hurried back with a glass of water. Yury drank greedily and asked for more.
“Bring me some beer,” Karlo ordered.
Ivan brought back both. A glance at the board showed him that Yury still pressed the attack. It seemed like a stupid attack. He chased Karlo’s queen, but once the queen was out of danger, Karlo would be able to mount a vicious counterattack.
“Do you ever defend?” Karlo asked.
Yury didn’t answer. He coughed instead.
“Hmm,” said Karlo. He sipped his beer and studied the board. A moment later he moved.
Yury moved his castle and then he hissed between his teeth and looked up in alarm. “Can I take that move back?” he asked.
“You took your hand off the piece,” Karlo said.
“I know,” Yury said. “But...” He shook his head. “No, you’re right. Forgive me for asking.”
“No, no, that’s quite all right,” Karlo said. “Normally I wouldn’t mind. But we wagered.” He smiled in a disarming way. “And you’ve already beaten me once.”
“Yes, yes. I understand.”
“I’m sorry. It was a good game.”
Yury shrugged moodily.
Karlo brought up his bishop. “Check,” he said.
Yury moved his king to the only spot possible.
Now Karlo moved his queen. “Check,” he said again.
Yury moved a pawn into place, protecting his king. What that did, however, was open a path for Yury’s bishop. Because of how Karlo’s queen had moved, it now uncovered his king. The only place the king could move was covered by Yury’s castle.
“Checkmate,” Yury said, with a broad smile on his face.
Whatever blood was in Karlo’s pale face seemed to drain away. It made his silver hair shine and his pale blue eyes blaze with murder-lust. Yury didn’t notice because he drank his glass of water.
Ivan almost leaped up in front of Yury, certain that Karlo would drive his dirk into his best friend’s chest.
“You tricked me,” Karlo whispered.
“Eh? What?” Yury asked, his broad smile still in place as he set down the empty glass.
The transformation to Karlo stunned Ivan. He didn’t think anyone capable of such quick deception. The loss angered the knight. Now, however, Karlo smiled broadly at Yury.
“Well done, Squire!” Sir Karlo almost shouted. “Well done, indeed. You tricked me with your question.”
“You mean when I asked if I could take my move back?” Yury asked.
“Yes.” Karlo stuck out his hand, the huge smile still on his face. They shook hands.
“Do you remember now?” Yury asked Ivan.
Ivan could only gape at his friend. Didn’t Yury realize that he was in deadly peril? Didn’t he know that Karlo seethed in hatred because of the loss? This was all show, a mask. A trick, Ivan told himself.
“Oh, you’re a sly one, Yury Belgorod,” Karlo said. He pulled two silver coins from his pouch and tinkled them onto the board. “Here are your winnings.”
“I feel a bit badly,” Yury said, although he scooped up the coins. “It was a trick and this is a gentleman’s game. Here, let me give you my dagger.” He began to unbuckle it.
Ivan wanted to tell him not to do that.
“No, no,” Karlo said. “There’s no need for that.”
“Ivan!” a man bellowed. The sound came from outside. At the second bellow, Ivan recognized Petor’s voice. He hurried to the nets and threw them over his shoulder.
“I feel that I should give you something,” Yury said.
“No, that isn’t important,” Karlo said. “However—”
Ivan almost paused at the door to hear what the however meant. Petor bellowed a third time. Reluctantly, Ivan opened the door.
“What we could do,” Sir Karlo said….
Ivan saw that Petor saw him. He hesitated no longer, but hurried outside to see what he wanted. He decided that he could ask Yury later what Karlo had suggested. If it sounded suspicious enough, he’d tell Magda.
-9-
Petor wanted Ivan to help the woodcutters move some cordwood. “They’ve been busy all morning,” Petor said. “So you’ll probably be working for a while. Be sure to stop around noon and eat some lunch. Make sure the woodcutters sit down for lunch, too. And not outside in the snow but in the kitchen. Now hurry, they’re waiting for you.”
Ivan hurried, first putting the bear-nets back in the kennel. When he saw the stack of wood that the two woodcutters had chopped, he groaned aloud.
“Ready to work your back?” Feodor asked.
“No,” said Ivan.
Dimitri laughed. He never seemed able to understand that most people did not like hauling wood. To him it was like a hobby or a pleasure to see how great a stack of wood he could balance on his shoulders and bring to the woodpile. Feodor had long ago caught his father’s disease. Ivan never had.
He almost wasn’t able to get the woodcutters inside the kitchen for lunch. He ended up by telling them that he’d get in trouble if they didn’t do as asked.
“Oh. Well. Why didn’t you say so?” Dimitri said. “Of course, we’d be delighted to stop for lunch.” Both woodcutters grinned at each other as if some great joke had been told.
Ivan detoured to the kennel. He told a napping Janek to feed the hounds for him today. As he stepped onto the walkway, which started at the blacksmith shed, he glimpsed a white dress with a silver-fox fur jacket. Nadia entered the Chestnut Grove. Ivan almost hailed her, even though she was quite distant. Then he wondered if he should rush up to peg her with a snowball. He shook his head. She looked too much like a princess for that. Then he saw a black-clad Sir Karlo step off the walkway at the side of the house. The Bavarian glanced both ways, but somehow seemed to miss Ivan. The knight hurried after Nadia.
Ivan stopped. His mouth was dry. Surely, Nadia couldn’t be having a...a... What had Yury called it when a knight and a princess had a secret affair? He couldn’t remember the word. His eyes widened. Maybe Sir Karlo planned something worse than that. Although he feared the knight, Ivan rushed after them. Maybe I should get Stribog.
There wasn’t time. Hardening his resolve, Ivan gripped his dagger-handle and charged into the Chestnut Grove. Their tracks led toward the bench Master Volok had built his wife ten years ago. Ivan hesitated. If this was a secret affair...might Sir Karlo thrash him for following? The Bavarian could easily explain something like that to Master Volok without losing the farmers’ help. The thought of it slowed Ivan’s step, which made him feel even more like a sneak.
Then he heard Nadia giggle.
All fear of Karlo vanished. That she could giggle over something horrid Sir Karlo said...it was too much. Ivan stepped in their footprints. The bench, which they most certainly must have walked to, faced away from the house. If they sat, he could probably approach without their noticing.
Such proved to be true. Ivan jumped from the path and behind a big chestnut tree. Ten feet away stood the bench. Both Nadia and Karlo sat upon it. She had her hands in her lap, warmly bundled by a fur wrap. He gestured in grand sweeps and spoke how he had once ridden in a huge parade in Pavia for the duke’s coronation.
“It was a fine sight,” Karlo said in a breathless way. “I’m sure you would have loved it, milady.”
“I’m sure you’re right, milord.”
Ivan scowled at the way Nadia said that.
“Don’t let me make up your mind for you, milady,” Karlo said. “I am your servant, after all.”
“Milord?”
Karlo stood and bowed grandly. “Don’t you know that a knight can be captivated by a beautiful maiden?”
“Oh, Sir Karlo. What sort of talk is this?”
The knight grinned. With his pale features and silver hair, he looked lordly indeed. He pulled one of Nadia’s hands from her fur wrap, engulfing her fingers with his own.
“Your skin is so delicate, milady. Like silk.”
“Silk, milord?” Nadia asked mischievously.
Gently, as Karlo bent one knee into the snow, he pulled her hand to his lips, which he brushed. “You’ve captivated me, milady. When first I saw you, my heart fluttered like a frightened doe’s. When you spoke at the moot, my admiration for you soared. ‘This,’ I told myself, ‘is a lady.’ Ah, beauty matched with poise and intelligence. Such a combination is rare.” He kissed the back of her hand again, but with more zeal. “My goal has always consumed me. Little else has gained my attention. Yet when I saw you, my plans became bitter ashes in my mouth. Here, in Belgorod Holding, I’ve found that which I’ve yearned to find my entire life.”
“Sir Knight,” Nadia said, pulling her hand back. “Please. You cannot mean that.”
“But I do,” Karlo said. He sat on the bench, closer to her than before. “I am a sprite, caught by your charms. I can do ought but what you desire.” He touched her elbow. “Yet I, a knight, still dare to dream. I dream of a castle with wide lands. And you, milady, are in the castle together with me.”
Nadia turned away. “I don’t know what to say.”
Karlo slid closer, putting his arm around her. “Say that you’ll fly away with me, milady. Say that you’ll be mine. Say that you won’t break my heart and leave me a bitter and broken man.”
Nadia jumped up. “You tease me, milord. You think me a simple maiden lost at the edge of the world. You think that I’ll fall for the first handsome knight who speaks boldly, shamelessly.”
Karlo went to one knee again. He cleared his throat. In a stunning voice, he began to sing a love sonnet.
Ivan couldn’t believe it. He’d heard Yury tell stories about knights. But this! It was more than he’d expected. Karlo singing? The man had been ready to kill him less than two hours ago. Nadia, he saw, also looked stunned. Her hand covered her mouth as her eyes locked onto the singing knight.
With a wild smile, Karlo stood abruptly. He held Nadia as he towered over her. “I love you. I’d give anything to have you.” He kissed her.
For an instant, Nadia returned the kiss.
Ivan seethed and felt weak all at once. He had to do something. He couldn’t let Nadia be swept away by this...this charmer.
“What’s this?” shouted a crude-voiced man.
A heavy hand clapped onto Ivan’s shoulder. Ivan saw both Karlo and Nadia glance up in alarm. Then Ivan found himself spun around to face a beetling-browed Perun. The thick-limbed man, although shorter, surely outweighed him by a good eighty pounds. Perun’s breath stank and his bloodshot eyes showed amused cruelty. His grip was painful.
“A spy, eh?” Perun growled.
“No!” Ivan said. “I—”
Perun punched so Ivan doubled over, wheezing.
“That’s what I do to spies!” Perun roared. One-handedly, he hurled Ivan against a tree. Ivan slammed against it and fell forward onto his hands and knees.
“No,” Nadia said.
Ivan retched.
“No. Stop this,” Nadia said.
Her voice did something to Ivan. Deep within a fierce rage broke out. He was being humiliated in front of Nadia. Karlo with his charms and stunning voice awed her. Bear-strong Perun made him look like a fool.
“I saw him spying on you, milord,” Perun growled. “I thought I’d teach him some manners.”
“Yes, yes,” Karlo said. “I understand. He’s a lowborn lout.”
Ivan couldn’t take any more. Yes, he ached from carrying all that wood. He could hardly breathe because of Perun’s foul shot to his gut. And his back hurt because of the tree. Yet rage drove those pains aside. He wasn’t going to be made to look stupid in front of Nadia. He shot to his feet.
“Ivan?” Nadia said, sounding worried.
Perun laughed. The hairy man with the dull face and bull-sized shoulders laughed. “Run to your dogs, trainer. Quit spying on your betters.”
Ivan spat at the ground. Normally he obeyed the rules and his betters. One thing he couldn’t stand, though, was being hit.
“Are you that stupid, trainer?”
Ivan took two swift strides and punched Perun in the face. Blood spurted from the broad nose. The head minutely jerked back. The thick neck was strong, however. Perun’s bloodshot eyes blazed as his thick lips parted to reveal yellow teeth. Ivan swung again, scared now. Perun accepted the second blow as his black-nailed hands crushed into Ivan’s flesh. Pain shot from Ivan’s thigh and shoulder. He felt himself hefted off the earth.
“No!” Nadia screamed.
“Stop,” Karlo said.
Perun didn’t listen. He hurled Ivan to the ground. Ivan grunted at the impact and felt his left arm go numb. He rolled and managed to stagger back to his feet. In his hand was a rock. He threw. It clipped Perun’s right cheek, drawing blood. Perun uttered a roar. His crooked short sword appeared in his hand. The black blade glittered in the muted sunlight. Like a bear, the shaggy Perun charged. Ivan stood frozen in shock. He was going to die. One minute he’d seen Nadia talk with the charmer. Now a monstrously strong maniac charged. That evil blade was going to hew out his guts! Heart hammering, Ivan whipped out his dagger and fell into the fighting crouch that Petor had taught him.
It wasn’t needed. Karlo stepped into view and faced the charging Perun. The shaggy brute ignored the knight. Karlo smashed his wrist against Perun’s. The crooked sword spun into the snow. Perun uttered another of his roars. Karlo’s fist, heavier and bigger than Ivan’s, connected with Perun’s face. The bear-like man staggered backward. Karlo stepped forward and backhanded Perun. Incredibly, the brute staggered against a tree. A look of fear swept across his features.
“Mercy, master,” Perun whispered.
Karlo clutched the thick throat with one hand. When the shaggy man tried to pry away the fingers, Karlo knocked the hands away.
“Who is first?” Karlo hissed into Perun’s purpling face.
All Perun could do was choke and gasp.
“Dog! It is I!” Sir Karlo shouted. He threw Perun down.
The brute gasped for breath, content to lie in the snow. Contemptuously, Karlo picked up the crooked sword and tossed it to Perun.
“Obey me the first time I speak,” Karlo said.
Perun nodded.
“Now go!”
Perun hurried up. He shot Ivan a murderous glance. Then he limped away to a safer place.
“Forgive me, milady,” Karlo told Nadia. “Sometimes the bloodlust overcomes their training.”
“Yes,” said Nadia, her eyes wide.
With his hands trembling, Ivan sheathed his knife. He could only blink at the two. He didn’t know what to think. Perun had almost killed him. His blows had been as nothing to the brute. Sir Karlo had easily, without weapons, handled Perun and saved his life.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Eh? What?” Karlo said, barely glancing at Ivan.
“Thank you for stopping him,” Ivan said.
Karlo said nothing, as if only now recognizing Ivan. “You were in the chessroom, were you not?”
“I was, milord.”
Karlo nodded. He turned back to Nadia. “If we could keep this quiet,” he said, “I would appreciate it, milady.”
“Quiet?” she asked.
“I try to discipline my own men. There’s no need for Master Volok to do any more. Besides, it was his servant that did the spying.” Karlo lifted an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you already knew about the spy.”
Nadia blushed as she shook her head.
“No, I thought not,” Karlo said.
“Yes,” Nadia said hastily. “Let us keep this quiet. Ivan?”
He blinked. A man had just tried to kill him. They couldn’t keep this—then he understood. Neither the escort nor Magda would approve of what Nadia had done: coming out here to be alone with Sir Karlo. A sick feeling filled his stomach.
“Ivan?” she repeated.
“Does he need persuading?” Karlo asked, with an edge to his voice.
“No!” said Nadia. “Leave him alone.”
“As you wish, milady.”
“Ivan?” she asked again.
“I won’t say anything,” Ivan said in a miserable voice.
“Fine,” said Nadia. “Now maybe you should go inside.”
Despite his embarrassment, Ivan managed to stare into her eyes for a moment. “I’ll go,” he said. “But I’m releasing the hounds. It’s time for their noon run.”
“Insolence,” Karlo said as he stepped toward Ivan.
“No,” Nadia said, clutching the knight’s sleeve. “He’s right. I better go in.”
“Then this is my loss,” Karlo said, his voice sweet once more.
Ivan slunk away. Whatever else had happened, Nadia mustn’t leave Belgorod with Karlo.
-10-
After an uncomfortable supper, Ivan asked for Nadia’s advice.
Sir Karlo, Magda, Nadia and the Sisterhood escort sat together in the Feast Hall. They listened as the fiddler idly played his instrument. The Belgorod nobles had disappeared after supper, while Karlo had sent his retainers to their rooms. A few servants cleared the tables.
“My advice?” Nadia asked.
Ivan bobbed his head. “Yes, milady. It’s concerning some pups.”
“What do I know about pups?” Nadia asked.
“Here now, Ivan,” Magda said. “Don’t go all formal on us. This is Nadia, my daughter, your old playmate.”
Nadia blushed as the escort studied Ivan.
“As you wish, Magda,” said Ivan.
Karlo told Magda, “Maybe being more formal would improve their attitude.”
“What do you mean?” Magda asked.
“I’ve noticed that a few of the servants are rather impertinent,” Karlo said.
“Are you complaining?” Magda asked.
Karlo chuckled. “No, no, nothing so crude as that, my dear Healer.” He seemed to consider his words. “Perhaps impertinent is too strong a word. What I mean is that sometimes the servants seem to intrude upon matters that are better left to their superiors.”
“For instance?” asked Magda.
“Pardon?”
“You must have a for instance,” Magda said. “Why otherwise do you impugn our lord?”
“Have I done that?”
“You claim that we don’t know how to control our servants.”
“Ah, I see,” said Karlo. “I brush upon a touchy matter.”
“Not at all,” said Magda. “I think what you show is our differences in custom. The Bavarian March is a harsh place. Order is considered the supreme good there, or wherever it is that you come from now.”
Karlo seemed to stiffen the tiniest bit.
Magda said, “Here at Belgorod order is not considered the greatest good. Here we strive for unity, for a general feeling of tranquility. Our ‘servants’ as you would term them, are our friends, our compatriots. They pull the same way we do because of love, not because of a fear of the whip.”
“You paint me harshly,” Karlo said.
“Not at all, Sir Knight. You are obviously a military man. To you rank is important.”
“And it is not important here?”
“I never said that. I said that order wasn’t our chief goal.”
Karlo nodded. “You are a stern logician. You have defeated me. I therefore withdraw from the battlefield and chose to speak on another topic.”
Nadia laughed as she laid her hand on Sir Karlo’s arm. “This, Mother, is how many of the boldest knights acted in Pavia.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Magda said. “Now run along with Ivan and give him some of that advice he’s so desperately craving. I grow weary of watching him shift from foot to foot.” Magda turned to the escort. “If that meets with your approval.”
The escort nodded.
“Can’t you just ask me here?” Nadia asked Ivan.
“I have to show you the pups first,” Ivan said.
Nadia sighed, rising and curtsying to Karlo. “With your pardon,” she said.
Karlo arose and bowed, then turned to leave.
“No, please stay,” said Magda. “There’s something I wish to ask you.”
“Of course,” he said, sitting back down.
Ivan showed Nadia the way.
“Did you have to do that?” Nadia asked as they stepped outside.
“Do what?”
“Embarrass me.”
“How did asking for your advice embarrass you?”
“Ivan!”
“Don’t you want to talk to me anymore?”
She stamped her foot. “I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about when you spied on me.”
“Oh,” he said. He felt Stribog’s pressure as the dog leaned against him. He’d taken Stribog in for supper. He didn’t like the idea of facing Perun alone and in the dark.
“Is that all you can say?”
“No. I’ve a lot more to say. But in the kennel,” he said.
“Then you really don’t want my advice?”
“I never said that,” he said. “But I want to talk in the kennel.”
She gave him a funny look.
“I don’t want to be interrupted,” he said. “I don’t think either Karlo or his men will enter the kennel.”
“Why not?”
“You know how we feel about wolves?”
She nodded.
“I think they feel the same way about hounds.”
Nadia shook her head, but followed him into the kennel. The hounds gave them an enthusiastic welcome. He touched them, tossed a few choice bits of meat he’d flinched from the table and told them all to be quiet so he could talk to Nadia.
“Look,” he said, from within Mokosh’s stall. He held up one of the pups. They still had their eyes closed.
“Oh, he’s adorable,” Nadia said, holding the pup against her cheek as it nuzzled her. Soon she handed the pup back. “You’re worried,” she said. “You brought me out here to warn me. And that’s why you followed us into the Chestnut Grove.”
Ivan fidgeted.
“Speak,” Nadia said. “You’re so quiet.”
“What do you think about Sir Karlo?”
Nadia sighed. “I wasn’t completely honest with my mother,” she said at last. “Karlo is unlike any knight I’ve known. In Pavia, there are two kinds. Either they’re tough, grizzled men with badly scarred faces and rough manners. Those knights fight and keep the kingdom safe. The other kind infests the court. They’re courtiers with smooth manners, pretty faces and soft hands. Those can swish a sword well enough. One finds them in gardens, skewering one another over stupid insults. More likely, however, one will find them with willing maidens. Strap armor to that kind of knight, let him feel his stomach scrape his spine in hunger or let cold steel touch his pretty face…” Nadia shrugged. “That kind would whimper about a cruel fate. Only in the court, where they can swagger without becoming dirty, are they any good.
“Sir Karlo,” said Nadia, “can surely ride in the saddle as well as any of the fighting knights and battle with a sword in the middle of a blizzard. He’s been hungry before, and the scar under his chin came because enemy steel kissed him there. Yet he can sing like a courtier and his manners are smooth and polished. I’m sure he’d skewer those fancy knights any day.”
“Do you love him?” asked Ivan.
Nadia frowned, although she didn’t look up.
“Do you trust him?” Ivan asked.
“…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you taken a good look at his men?”
“They’re a rough bunch, and brutal. I did see what happened this afternoon.”
Ivan scowled.
“You shouldn’t take it so badly,” said Nadia. “Perun is a trained killer.”
Ivan looked up sharply.
“I-I mean a trained man-at-arms,” Nadia said.
“No. You were right the first time. He’s a killer. You can see it in his eyes.” Ivan fidgeted. “I hit him good, but it didn’t shock him. Petor would have a hard time with Perun.”
“Be honest,” Nadia said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Perun would destroy Petor. I saw how Perun lifted you above his head. He toyed with you, Ivan. He could have killed you at any time. Could Petor do that?”
Ivan shook his head.
“I know you’re strong,” said Nadia. “I know you’re no palace courtier. I’ve lived here almost all my life. I’ve seen you out-wrestle the other boys. But Perun...he’s something else altogether. He’s one of those men that loves battle, thrives off it. He’s like a bear, a brute born for battle.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you don’t have to feel ashamed at how Perun handled you.”
“Maybe,” Ivan muttered, “but I do.”
“You always were stubborn.”
He tried to return her smile.
“Perun also shows us what kind of man Sir Karlo is. He easily handled the brute.” In a breathless tone, Nadia said, “He must be a champion.”
Ivan glowered. “Can you trust someone who travels in the company of men like Perun?”
“I suppose it depends on why he does that traveling.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
Nadia pursed her lips. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve been spending so much time with him. I’m trying to figure out the answer.” Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s the opinion you wanted, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t, but he nodded. “You probably know him better than anyone else here. There have been a few strange occurrences, and I was wondering if I should go to Master Volok about them.”
“You promised to keep quiet.”
“I have. But…”
“What strange things?” she asked.
“For one, my hounds hate Sir Karlo.”
“What?” Nadia laughed. “Your hounds? You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she said a moment later. “I see. Yes, that is strange. Hate him, you say?”
“And fear him,” said Ivan.
“Hmm. Don’t tell my escort that. It might ruin everything.”
“Maybe that’s just what I should do,” he blurted.
Nadia gave him a stern look.
He told her about the leather pouch and the chess match with Yury and how Sir Karlo could change his manner so quickly.
“All courtiers can do that,” said Nadia.
“Mask their true feelings?”
“Oh yes. They’re quite expert at it.”
Ivan shook his head, wondering what a duchess’s court would be like. It didn’t sound like a nice place.
“I appreciate this talk,” Nadia said. “But I’m getting cold.”
“You’ll be more careful?”
Nadia smiled and touched his face. “You’ve always been a true friend. And Mother told me long ago that I can trust you. So if you have some qualms about Sir Karlo, then yes, I’ll be more careful.”
As Nadia turned to go, Ivan wondered if she’d just given him a courtier’s answer.
-11-
Night came quickly. In the kennel, Petor told Ivan that he wanted both Janek and he to stand guard tonight.
“Two of us?” Ivan asked.
Petor lowered his voice. “I saw a set of wolf tracks this morning. And…” He eyed Ivan. “I saw Perun. His type doesn’t bruise easily, but someone hit a few good ones.”
“His face did look bad,” Ivan admitted.
“Your left arm looks sore.”
“Yes. I hurt it.”
“Carrying wood?” asked Petor.
“I suppose…”
“Listen to me,” Petor said. “Leave Perun alone. You’re a dog trainer, not a man-at-arms. His kind eats dog trainers for breakfast.”
Ivan wondered what Petor knew and how he knew it. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he finally said.
“Perun gives you murderous glances. His face and your arm fill in the rest of the story. I also noticed that you brought Stribog in with you for supper. Did you have a reason for that?”
Remembering his promise to keep quiet, Ivan shrugged.
“I’ll not order you to tell me what is going on. If you’re keeping quiet then there’s a good reason for it.”
“Yes, milord.”
“No. I don’t want you picking up Sir Karlo’s habits. I’m a Belgorod knight and this is Belgorod Holding. You’re Ivan, not some sniveling servant to a Bavarian lord. Now it’s clear to everyone that Nadia adores Karlo, just as it’s clear that you adore Nadia.”
Ivan tried to splutter a reply.
“No, don’t bother,” Petor said. “I’m sure she’s twisted you around to making a foolish sort of promise. That’s the way of young beauties. Magda understands this and so does the escort. Maybe your silence is for the best. It keeps Father from noticing. That stops him from doing something that might be hard to finish.”
“Master Petor?”
Petor fiddled with his sword pommel. The knightly waist-belt hung below his soft belly.
That’s when Ivan truly noticed the sword. Petor seldom wore it. Then it occurred to him that maybe it was like him taking Stribog everywhere. Petor had also become afraid of Karlo and his men. Well, maybe not afraid, but worried.
“Karlo has become harsh with his men,” Petor said. “There’s a reason for that. I wouldn’t be surprised to find Nadia entangled in the reason, maybe you as well.”
Ivan couldn’t help but turn red.
“I see,” Petor said in a tired voice. “Magda was right.”
“Magda?”
“Don’t underestimate her, lad. Maybe we are country bumpkins compared to Nadia’s Pavia court, but we at Belgorod understand people as well as anyone.” Petor dug a finger into Ivan’s ribs. “I’ll tell you a secret. If you’re honest with yourself, if you study your own feelings, then you can understand others and why they do things.” Petor laughed. “I’ve stumped you, eh? Then think of it like this. Why do you know your hounds so well?”
“Master Petor?”
“You know your hounds because you can get inside their heads.”
“I suppose.”
“Think, Ivan,” Petor told him.
Ivan crunched his eyebrows. He did know how his hounds’ thoughts—usually. He knew because he understood them. He understood them...because he could put himself in their place. He grinned at Petor.
“If you can do that with hounds,” Petor said, “begin doing it with people. Magda has the knack and so does my mother.”
“What about Dimitri?”
“Yes, Dimitri understands himself,” Petor said. “That’s the trick to understanding others. Try to put yourself in Perun’s place, try to understand him. Then maybe you’ll still be alive by the time they leave.”
The knot Perun’s glances had put in Ivan’s stomach tightened once more. His felt his arms tingle and his mouth begin to dry out.
“Take your club with you tonight,” Petor said.
“I don’t know if Janek is the right person to be with me.”
“He is,” Petor said. “You tell him to run in and start screaming if Perun shows up. We’ll do the rest.”
Ivan grabbed his club, which lay on his cot, and chose the needed hounds. Soon, Janek and he prowled the starlit front yard. Ivan gave Janek his instructions and soon told him to stop asking so many questions.
“Go sit by the porch,” Ivan said. “And don’t go to sleep.” He kept the taller hounds with him. From time to time, a cold gust of wind blew eerily through the treetops. Ivan rattled the lantern, watched his misty breath and studied the stars. The hounds seemed restless tonight.
The full moon rose and filled the landscape with silvery light. Ivan brought the lantern to the porch and gave it to Janek. They told jokes until Feodor stepped outside.
“Go warm yourself by the fire,” Feodor told the lad.
Janek bounded inside.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Feodor told Ivan.
“What’s going on inside?” asked Ivan.
“Karlo told stories for awhile. He finally grew sleepy and went upstairs.”
“He turned in, eh?”
Feodor said, “Let’s walk. It’s too cold to stand still.”
They strolled to the barn and headed toward the Chestnut Grove as the hounds ambled with them.
“Everyone’s restless,” Feodor said. “Nadia itches to be with Sir Karlo. The escort frowns and seems ready to give her a good tongue-lashing. Perun scowls at everyone, even at my father. Master Volok moodily stares at the fire. Only Magda seems calm.”
“What about your father?”
“He just combs his beard with his fingers,” Feodor said. “I know him, though. He’s nervous.”
“How can you tell?” asked Ivan.
“His axe always lies within easy reach.”
“Are you nervous?”
“What happened this afternoon?” Feodor asked.
“What do you mean?” Ivan asked.
“Ivan. This is me, Feodor. Something happened.”
“...if I told you, you couldn’t tell anyone else, not even your father.”
Feodor nodded.”
“Then you swear?” asked Ivan.
“You know my father and I never swear. Our word is our oath.”
Ivan knew that. He also knew that when he’d told Nadia he wouldn’t tell, that she and he both meant he wouldn’t tell the adults. At least, that’s what he decided now. It was his out and he wasn’t breaking his word. He wondered if other people did that. They must, if Petor was right. Know yourself and you could know others. What an interesting idea.
Feodor nudged him. “Are you trying to be a woodcutter?”
“Huh?”
“You’re not saying much, and you’re thinking before you speak.”
Ivan returned his friend’s grin. Slowly at first, then quickly and breathlessly, he told Feodor about the fight. He left out most of what had occurred between Karlo and Nadia before the fight, though.
“No wonder you’re nervous,” Feodor said.
“Does it show?”
Feodor laughed, clapping Ivan on the back. Then he sobered. “I suppose this is no laughing matter.”
“Maybe in several weeks after it’s over it will be.”
Feodor grunted.
“But I’m worried. How can I handle Perun?”
“Yes. A good question. Let me think.”
They crunched across the snow. The wind moaned. Once, it seemed, a wolf howled. It came from far away, however.
“Who chops down a tree faster than anyone else?” Feodor asked.
“Your father, of course.”
“Who do the hounds love best?”
“I guess that would be me,” Ivan answered.
“Would you say that Yury tells the wildest stories?”
“I would.”
“And when a farmer wants his plow fixed, doesn’t he go to Gruner?”
“What are you getting at?” Ivan asked.
“Perun knows how to fight. You would be a fool to go at him as if you’re a fellow fighting man.”
“So I should run away every time?”
“That isn’t what I said. You’re a dog trainer, and you do a lot of hunting. So treat him like a bear.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t face Perun as if you’re a warrior. You aren’t trained as one. He is. In fact, it sounds as if he’s an expert at war. Would you bet your life in a contest against my father at chopping down a tree faster than him?”
“Of course not.”
“It would be just as senseless to face Perun in the trade where he’s the master. You, however, are a trained huntsman. You know how to trap bears. Very well, treat Perun as a bear. Use your hounds, your nets and your various hunting skills.”
“That’s not fighting fair,” Ivan said.
“Fair! Is it fair for a trained killer to go one-on-one with a lad? No! So don’t. Treat him like a bear.”
Ivan saw the wisdom in that. “Maybe you’re right. Yes, then we could defeat Sir Karlo and his men.”
“I never said that.”
“I know. But it gives Belgorod Holding a chance for victory in case the Bavarians try something.”
Feodor nodded.
“A-ha,” said Ivan, snapping his fingers. “I wonder…?”
“About what?” Feodor asked.
“Petor told me to fix the bear-nets. Could he have already been thinking like you?”
“It’s possible.”
“I know,” Ivan said. “I’ll rig my kennel. If Perun tries to sneak in there, bam, a net will drop on him.”
“Now you’re starting to think like a hunter.”
Ivan stopped and peered at his friend. “When did you come up with this insight?”
“I didn’t. My father did.”
“And he sent you out here to tell me?”
Feodor clapped Ivan on the shoulder. “You know, it’s cold out here. I’m going in. I’ll send Janek back out.”
As Feodor turned to go, Ivan said, “Thanks.”
“What are friends for,” Feodor said. He jumped onto the porch and disappeared into the house.
-12-
The moon toured the night sky. Stars glittered. A wolf howled, making the hounds bark fiercely in return. Ivan calmed them as he waited for a wolf-pack to bay. Instead, the wind responded as it moaned through the snowy branches.
As he sat on a stool, Janek nodded off. Ivan put the lantern near the lad’s face, studying for signs of frost-burn. There wasn’t any, so he let Janek sleep.
It was cold tonight. It was cloudless, that’s why. Ivan stamped his feet and walked back and forth in front of the porch. Stribog paced with him. The other hounds slept in the snow, their tails covering their noses.
Stribog’s hackles rose as the dog peered into the night.
“What is it, boy?” Ivan whispered. Stribog aimed his snout at the Chestnut Grove, as he whined softly. Stribog’s whine increased as his sleek body tensed. Slowly, the dog pulled Ivan toward the Chestnut Grove.
Ivan awoke to the danger. “No!” he hissed. He tugged the leash. Stribog paused. “I need my club.”
Soon, Ivan hefted his club. “Janek, wake up.”
The young lad stirred. After another shove, he looked up with bleary eyes. Ivan told him to stay alert. He was going to check on something.
Then, with his club and Belgorod’s three toughest hounds, Ivan marched toward the Chestnut Grove. His heart hammered. If Perun baited him, the brute would learn a thing or two. Ivan stopped. Feodor had told him to be a hunter. A hunter should be ready for any contingency. He’d heard wolf howls before. Ivan ran to the kennel and took one of the bear-nets. He unrolled it, folded it and draped it on his shoulder. A quick flip and by using both hands, and he’d drop it over a wolf, trapping the beast. Only then, did he return to the house and approach the Chestnut Grove.
Stribog’s hackles had settled. The other hounds didn’t seem to sense anything. Ivan had left the lantern behind, so it was dark and eerie among the chestnut trees. Then Stribog sniffed the snowy ground.
Ivan squinted. He saw tracks, boot tracks. He knelt. These were Sir Karlo’s tracks. What was Karlo doing prowling around this late at night? Ivan debated turning back. The knight was likely a champion, but if he treated Karlo like a bear…
“Let’s see what we trap tonight,” he whispered to the hounds. Ivan followed the tracks. He knew it might be unwise, and that Karlo could take this wrong. Ivan paused. What if Nadia met the knight? Panic threatened. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? “No,” he whispered. I haven’t. He continued tracking. He saw, by the brushed-off snow, that Karlo had climbed the fence. Ivan did likewise. Now he felt exposed, however. He was in the open, out of the yard. He followed the tracks up the hill and toward the lone oak tree. A bad feeling rose in his gut. The hounds didn’t cower or grow angry, however.
Ivan reached the old oak tree at the top of the slope. The tracks led toward the pines. In the darkness, he couldn’t spot the knight.
Stribog whined. The others grew tense.
Ivan squinted and squinted some more. He set down the club, with the handle sticking up for easy grabbing. Then he lay out the net and picked it back up, ready for throwing. He unleashed the hounds, but they stayed by his side. Ivan remained motionless for about a hundred heartbeats. His gut roiled the entire time. Then he saw a dark shape head toward him. It came from the pines and seemed to follow the tracks. Could it be Karlo, and if so, should he stay where he was?
The hounds slunk back, baring their fangs. Their fear combined with their hate told Ivan Karlo must be approaching.
I’m no warrior. I’m a dog trainer.
What would he do if Karlo were a bear? He wouldn’t run away, because a bear could run him down before he reached the holding. Maybe some people thought bears slow and clumsy. For short distances, however, a bear could outrun a horse. He’d stay and net Karlo if it came to that and brain him with the club. The idea of that made him tremble. There wasn’t any way around it now. He was scared, very scared. Ivan almost dropped his net and ran anyway. Stribog looked up at him then. It was like a slap in the face. He couldn’t show himself a coward in front of his hounds.
“Ho! What’s this I see?” Karlo’s strong voice shouted out. “Are you truly holding a net?”
Ivan wondered how the knight saw so well in the dark. That frightened him. All he saw was a dark blot about sixty feet away. The man’s night-vision was close to miraculous.
Stribog growled. The other hounds leaned against Ivan’s legs, their fangs barred, their hackles straight up, their manner one of fear mixed with hatred.
“Who are you?” Ivan shouted.
Karlo cursed as he marched nearer. Moonlight gleamed off his drawn broadsword. “You’re a stupid youth. Perun was right about that.”
“Sir Karlo?” Ivan asked.
Karlo laughed. It was a nasty sound. “Oh, so it’s pretend time, eh? As if you didn’t know that it was me you tracked.”
Ivan tried to steady himself. Without Stribog, it would have been impossible. “Yes. I tracked you. Will you try to kill me for it?”
“Ha! Try to kill you. No. It’s do I kill you or not?”
Ivan could think of nothing to say to that.
“Or do you think that your hounds can save you?”
Ivan almost made a bold reply. Then Stribog’s growl changed as a hint of worry entered it. The dog backed up a step. It almost seemed as if he sensed…
Ivan squinted. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed several long and deadly shapes slunk in the distance behind Karlo. They looked like wolves.
“You grow silent, boy. Why?” The voice utterly mocked him.
Ivan ran a dry tongue over cold lips. He forced himself to speak. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Karlo walked near, to about ten paces away. He seemed to ignore the hounds. If there were any wolves, they hadn’t yet come into full sight.
“Kill me,” Ivan said slowly, “and you won’t get your farmers.”
“Maybe not so stupid,” Karlo said. “Yes. You have a point. Still, after you go running in with this tale, maybe everything is already ruined.” White teeth showed in the darkness. “This comes down to just how smart you are, boy.”
“Milord?”
Karlo laughed. “You’re not a stubborn lout, after all. Maybe if you were better trained…” The knight sheathed his sword and squatted on his heels. “Why not set down your net. It’s making people nervous.”
“People?”
Karlo shrugged. “A turn of phrase.”
“You’re nervous?” Ivan asked.
Or does Karlo mean whomever he went to see? Suddenly Ivan knew that Perun had been giving and receiving messages through the leather pouch hidden under the rock.
“You’ve an open face,” Karlo said. “I can almost see your thoughts as they come into being.”
Ivan lowered the net. Then he, too, squatted on his haunches. “What do you want to tell me?”
“Join me,” Karlo said.
“Milord?”
“Come with us into the Old Forest. Earn some silver coins.”
Ivan laughed. “No thank you, milord. I prefer Belgorod Holding.”
“Yes. I can see your point. Hounds don’t like me and you like them. I suppose you’d miss your hounds.”
“Even more, I’d miss being alive.”
Karlo chuckled. “Well put, boy. You have wit as well as spirit.”
Ivan realized that Karlo was trying to charm him. Should he play along?
“Listen to me,” Karlo said, all warmth and charm forgotten. “There are a few things you’d better consider before you make your report. Firstly, I have the king’s writ. If harm comes to me, eventually the king will learn about it and send his knights here. Murder is met by hanging.”
“Murder?” Ivan asked.
“Yes, as hard as it is to fathom how Sir Volok and his motley crew could overcome my men and me, it would still be looked upon as murder. Perun and his boys are trained men-at-arms, trained killers. Belgorod Holding has nothing to compare, except maybe for your dog there, your tall one. He’s a warrior, a fighter. The rest of your hounds, they seemed infected with Belgorod’s weak spirit. Perun and his boys could probably slay everyone here by themselves, but they also have me along. As Perun stands above Belgorod Folk, I stand above Perun. Yury calls himself your friend. The squire knows something about real knights. That’s what I am. I’m a knight, not a farmer pretending to be one. Even more, I’m a champion of more than ten jousts. Not the tame jousts they have here. I’m talking about Frankish jousts. Knights die or are maimed for life in those contests. In those jousts I’ve always been the champion.”
“I understand, milord.”
“Do you? Do you realize that if I decide to draw my sword, that no one in Belgorod Holding can stop me? If I order my men, then blood will run. Master Volok, Lady Belgorod, Magda, the escort, the woodcutters, everyone dies. Oh, they could fight, but in the end, it won’t matter.”
Karlo’s arrogance shook Ivan. “So what are you saying, milord?”
“That you’d better be careful what you report. You’ll be the first to die. Then who will look after Nadia?”
Ivan heard the mockery. He still managed to say, “What are your plans for her?”
Karlo said nothing. Stribog looked more alert. “You still don’t understand, do you? I am in command here. Become impertinent one more time, and you will die. Then I will slay everyone. For Nadia’s sake, I put up with these indignities. I will not take her against her will. I know that’s your fear. She I cherish.” Karlo laughed softly. “Strange, isn’t it? I cherish again. It feels…” He coughed, then he drew his sword and stood.
Ivan jumped up, grabbing the net and getting his hands entangled in it.
“What do you say?”
Finally untangling his hands, Ivan asked, “Milord?”
“What are you going to report?”
Ivan chose his words with care. “Milord, I must do what I was trained for. I thought I heard something. I found and followed tracks. Then I found you outside the fence. I should probably give them a reason why.”
“I see. Yes. I thought I heard a wolf. I came to kill it. I wanted its skin for Yury.”
“May I ask you a question, milord?”
“Ask.”
“You aren’t planning a raid, are you?”
“By the Wretched, what do you take me for? I’ve eaten here. Of course, I don’t plan that. You deserve a thrashing for even suggesting it.”
Karlo truly sounded angry. Ivan believed him, and that was important. For he couldn’t keep quiet if he thought Karlo meant to slay everyone here. He could keep quiet, however, if by doing so he was saving lives.
“Very well, milord, I will do as you suggest.”
“Good. Now leash the hounds before they try something stupid and I’m forced to slay them.”
“At once, milord.”
-13-
Ivan dreamt about storm wolves and Perun. They chased him through a spectral forest of black, leafless trees. Perun ran among the storm wolves. They were massive beasts with red eyes. When they howled, it sent shivers down Ivan’s spine. He sobbed and pleaded for them to leave him alone, all the while running through the forest in his bare feet.
“Spy!” Perun roared. “Come back here, you sneaking little spy!”
Then nets fell from above, entangling Ivan, trapping him. He thrashed and cried out, and cried out some more.
“Little spy!” Perun howled. “You’re mine!”
“No!” Ivan shouted. All around him, hounds bayed. Vaguely, as sweat soaked his face, he became aware that he kicked at his blanket as the kennel reverberated with noise. He realized then that he’d been dreaming—no! He’d been having a nightmare.
“What an awful dream,” he said.
“Ivan?”
He saw Janek rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Why are the hounds barking, Ivan?”
“Go to sleep, Janek.” Ivan arose, hushing the hounds.
The kennel door swung open. Petor with a drawn sword stood wide-eyed at the entrance. Behind him, the peeking dawn sun showed itself.
Ivan stared stupidly, not understanding. Petor, sword-point first, stepped through and—
“Petor! Don’t move!” Ivan shouted.
Petor froze.
“Step back,” Ivan said. “Slowly.”
“Why?”
“If you hit the line a bear-net will drop on you.”
Petor stared at the floor. His eyes widened. He looked up at the bear-net hung over the entrance. He chuckled ruefully. “Ah, Ivan, you’re a clever lad. You had me worried there, what with your hounds going wild.”
“I had a bad dream,” Ivan said, donning a tunic and putting on some breeches. It came to him that Petor must have come running. “What did you think was happening?” he asked.
“What do you think?” Petor said. Carefully, he made to step over the line.
“No. Don’t do that,” Ivan said. “You’ll hit the second line. Here, let me unhook the trap.”
“Ah, a clever lad indeed,” Petor muttered.
“Should I get up now?” Janek asked.
“No, go back to sleep,” Petor said. “I’ll give you another two hours before you start your chores.”
Janek grinned sleepily, pulling the blanket over his head.
Ivan knew he wasn’t going to be so lucky. He unhooked the trap, toed Stribog, picked up his club and followed Petor outside. He saw snowflakes drift down from the sky, which startled him. It had been clear last night. Looking up, he saw a dreary canopy of clouds.
“What happened last night?” Petor asked.
Ivan stood very still. He studied the gloom. The peeking sun didn’t light up much. Sir Karlo or his men could be hiding anywhere. Stribog idly licked up snow. That convinced Ivan that it was safe to talk. Before he spoke, however, he noticed that the sun would soon climb high enough to hide behind the cloud cover. The snow almost seemed too convenient, like the weather was meant to cover up last night’s tracks. Combined with the lingering of his eerie dream, his thoughts made him shiver in fear of the supernatural.
“Ivan?”
“I’m sorry, Master Petor. I was thinking about my dream.”
“Was it a bad one?”
Ivan nodded. He was hungry. He dug a bit of jerky from his pocket and started chewing.
“Do you have any more?” Petor asked.
Ivan tossed him a piece.
“I asked you about last night for a reason,” Petor said, talking as he chewed. “The escort slept lightly. I think you can understand why. Do you know what she saw?”
Ivan shook his head.
“Can’t you guess?”
“Sir Karlo?” Ivan said slowly.
“Yes, Karlo wore a cloak, had his sword and wore gloves. He slipped out the back door while everyone else was asleep. The escort waited for Nadia, but she never showed. So the escort checked her room, waking up Mary. Nadia slept soundly.”
The escort’s actions surprised Ivan. He decided that maybe the escort knew her business after all.
“What I’d like to know,” Petor said, “is what Sir Karlo did after he slipped outside.”
“You think I know?”
Petor gave him a level stare. The pleasant features had hardened, the mustache stiffened.
“He told me that he thought he heard a wolf,” Ivan finally said.
“A wolf?” Petor asked with a frown.
“He wanted to kill it and give its skin to Yury.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Well...I tracked him up the hill to the old oak tree. We spoke there, but I didn’t see any wolves.”
“What do you think he really did?” Petor asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to.”
“Why not?”
“Master Petor,” Ivan said, “I think Karlo is a forceful warrior. I think he knows what he wants and will kill anyone who stands in his way.”
“Including me?” Petor asked.
“Anyone. Or maybe everyone.”
“Ah,” Petor said, brushing his mustache. “Now I understand. Yes. Your actions make sense.” He shook his head. “Trust Magda to have it right once again.”
“...you mean.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think Karlo told me?” Ivan asked.
“It doesn’t matter. My father is bound by the king’s writ. He gave the farmers fair warning. They made their choice. Unless Karlo does something rash, we can’t forbid the farmers to go with him. Nor, according to you and Magda, would it be wise to thwart him in this matter.”
That Magda and Petor and no doubt Lady Belgorod knew most of what happened made Ivan feel better. In fact, it made him feel so good that he blurted, “I think I sensed wolves last night.”
“When?”
“When Karlo went out there. I think...I almost wonder if he can control them somehow.”
“What?”
“Well, like I can control my hounds.”
“You’ve been running with Yury too long,” Petor said with a laugh that sounded forced.
Ivan thought about what he’d said. It did sound like something Yury would make up. “You’re probably right,” he said.
“Still, maybe we should check,” Petor said. “There have been an awful lot of wolves around lately.”
Ivan realized that if they took hounds, nets and horses up by the pines, that Karlo would know he’d talked. Would that send Karlo into a rage? Would he draw his sword and slay everyone in Belgorod?
“I’ll check it out myself,” Ivan said.
Petor took his time. “Karlo has you worried, eh?”
Ivan shrugged.
“All right. You check it out.” Petor lowered his voice. “If you want the truth, he has me worried, too. I’ve listened to a few of his tales. If even half of them are true then he’s a knight I never want to tangle with.”
The admission surprised Ivan, and it made him realize something. “You fear him, but you came running anyway when you thought he might be in the kennel.”
“I’m a knight,” Petor said stiffly. “I have responsibilities. You, too, have responsibilities. Now I’m giving you a new one. Keep Nadia from leaving with Karlo.”
“What?” Ivan asked, shocked.
“I know. It’s a heavy responsibility. But you have wide shoulders.” Petor paused. “This isn’t just me giving you this responsibility, either. Magda requested it and Lady Belgorod agreed.”
Ivan spluttered, “What makes you think I can stop her?”
Petor laid a beefy hand on his shoulder. “You may not know it, but Nadia has always liked you. Oh, I know, you were friends. But once she reached...well, when she got older her feelings for you changed. Those feelings are still there. At least that’s what Magda thinks. You obviously act like a mooncalf around her. So there’s no doubt how you feel.”
Ivan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It made him mad and glad all at once. It made him mad that Magda, Petor and others spied on him and his feelings. It made him glad to think that Nadia would actually like him in that way. Then reality sunk in.
“I don’t compare to Sir Karlo,” he said.
“Well, neither do I,” Petor said. “But I think you like me better than him.”
“Of course.”
“And how do you know that you don’t compare to him? He can swing a meaner blade. He’s stronger.”
“And smoother,” Ivan added.
“That comes with age and training,” Petor said. “Besides, I didn’t tell you try to marry Nadia. Just make sure she doesn’t run off with Karlo.”
Ivan fidgeted. Had that been a rebuke? “I’ll try my best,” he said.
“Succeed rather,” Petor said.
Ivan digested that. “Can I give you a piece of advice, Master Petor?”
Petor raised his eyebrows before nodding.
“I’m sure Magda, you and Lady Belgorod have already talked about this, but...I’d be very careful about Sir Karlo. Don’t anger him. I think he’s serious about Nadia—” Petor grunted at that. “So I don’t think we should make him think that we’re trying to thwart him.”
“Do you think you’re cleverer than him?” Petor asked.
“Huh?”
“That’s what you’re suggesting. That we play a more clever game than him.”
Ivan hadn’t thought of it like that. “Well, all I’m trying to say is that we don’t anger him.”
“Or?”
“Or maybe he’ll release his men and draw his sword.”
“And burn down Belgorod Holding?”
“Something like that,” Ivan said.
Petor brushed his mustache. “Do you think he can do it?”
“Maybe.”
“Which is your way of saying yes,” Petor muttered. “Very well, I’ll keep your advice in mind.” He turned to go. “I’ll send Feodor out to help. After that, you work on your new responsibility. Do it for one day and one night, for tomorrow they leave.”
“Yes, Master Petor.”
With his Carolingian longsword clanking at this side, Petor strode back to the house.
-14-
Feodor, Ivan, several hounds and Stribog tramped past the mill and toward the pines in the distance.
“I don’t see why we can’t head through the Chestnut Grove and just go straight up to the old oak tree,” Feodor said. “Why are we heading south first?”
“I told you, to fool Sir Karlo.”
“This won’t fool him. He can simply send one of his men to follow us. He’ll see that we’re circling around in the woods and finally heading north.”
“So?” said Ivan.
“So he’ll know that we’re trying to trick him.”
“No he won’t,” Ivan said. “He’ll know that we didn’t want to make anyone suspicious.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Good. That’ll probably keep Karlo happy then.”
Ivan had decided that he couldn’t trick Karlo outright. If the knight was as smooth as Nadia made out, like a Pavian courtier, then Karlo could out-think him and his ploys. What he might be able to do, however, was work within Karlo’s subtlety. Karlo would know that he, Ivan, was attempting to trick him but not arouse his anger. What the vain knight might not know, was that he, Ivan, knew that the knight knew.
It was complicated, that’s for sure, and maybe the Bavarian could figure out all the angles better than he could. What he needed to do then was bow and scrape to Sir Karlo, to act meek and not at all make it seem as if he was trying to thwart him. So Feodor and he would go around the house out of sight of everyone else, even thought they left tracks. That might even make the Bavarian think the dog trainer was a fool. Actually, as Ivan saw it, that was his real chance. He’d play the fool to arrogant fighting men. In his spare time, he’d start rigging bear-nets in carefully selected ambush sites.
“This is foolish,” Feodor said later.
Ivan breathed hard. They’d marched for quite a while. Circling took a lot of stiff walking. During that time more snow had fallen. Any tracks they might have found would surely be filled in by now. That didn’t trouble Ivan. He’d decided early on that the falling snow had already done its task. What had Lady Belgorod asked that day in the main hall: had Karlo practiced any dark spells?
At the time, Ivan had thought the question an odd one. Now he was no longer so certain. Karlo had been able to see at night better than a man should. He could hunt successfully without the use of hounds. Wolves, it seemed, had slunk near him last night. His strength now seemed unnatural. With one hand, he’d throttled Perun, an incredibly strong man himself. Too many things didn’t add up. If Sir Karlo knew magic, well...maybe that would answer a few things. It could certainly be a reason why the hounds hated him—at least Ivan figured it could be a reason. He didn’t know much about magic. Dark spells, though, wouldn’t their use warp a person? What Ivan had decided, after Petor’s talk, was that he’d grant Karlo the ability to use magic. He’d work from that premise. He wouldn’t tell anyone else, though. They might think that he’d lost his sense.
The storm wolf dream, he decided, had pushed this idea into his head. Axe People existed, as did clawmen. Nadia could actually use magic as singers said wizards did in tales. Storm wolves roamed the grasslands. Very well, a hardheaded person could accept the fact that evil spellcasters also existed. Hadn’t there once been a lord of Night? Ivan now believed that yes, there once had been.
“Snow, Ivan,” Feodor said. “You know. How it fills up tracks?”
Ivan grunted as he studied the trees. They had finally circled to where Karlo had probably entered the pines last night.
“All this work for nothing,” Feodor complained, which wasn’t like him.
Ivan kept searching and he kept a careful watch of his hounds. The reward soon came. A dog whined and sprayed urine onto a tree. Ivan stepped near there.
“What are you looking for?” Feodor asked.
Ivan saw old bark, a pinecone, dog-tracks, a bit of yellow snow, more tracks. He waited. Another dog whined and urinated over another pine. Ivan walked there.
“You seem to know something,” Feodor said.
A grin tugged at Ivan’s lips. He crouched down as he took off his mittens.
“What did you find?”
Ivan showed Feodor a tuft of white fur. He’d pried it from a rough piece of pine bark.
“Is it wolf-fur?” Feodor asked.
Ivan let the tuft flutter to the snow. He gestured to the hounds. Most of them were sniffing, urinating here and there.
“They sure are busy,” Feodor said.
“That’s because wolves rested here,” Ivan said. “They marked the trees. Now the hounds are doing the same thing.”
“And the fur?”
“You ever have an itch?” Ivan asked. He had to keep calm about this, otherwise he’d go screaming back to the house. Somehow, in some sinister manner, Karlo could control wolves! It belied common sense. It bespoke the use of magic. It frightened Ivan to the core of his being.
Feodor shook his head. “You are a dog trainer.”
Ivan shrugged.
“So now what?” asked Feodor.
“Now we circle halfway back and go in for lunch.”
Feodor eyed him. “You okay, Ivan?”
“I’m fine.”
“You seem...wound up.”
“Do I? Huh? I guess I need more sleep.”
“Sure,” Feodor said, giving him an odd look.
Ivan whistled to the hounds, knowing that last night Karlo had freely walked among wolves. Why? To leave a message? But to who? And why didn’t he see the strange raven any more?
Something odd occurred. Yet he didn’t believe that Karlo meant to attack the holding now or after he left. It had something to do with the farmers. That led to the buried treasure. It must all go back to that.
“You sure are quiet today,” Feodor said.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“And?”
“I think once we get back I want to see how Yury’s doing.” Ivan smiled instead of laughing hysterically. He trusted Feodor, but he also feared Karlo more than ever and took the knight’s threat seriously. Therefore, he’d keep as much to himself as he could. Otherwise, clever Sir Karlo might realize that he knew too much. Then the holding might run red with blood.
-15-
Ivan ate lunch in the kitchen. After excusing himself, he soaked in the bathhouse to give his muscles a rest and his mind a chance to think. He checked the hounds after that.
Later, by the blacksmith shed, he snapped his fingers. Yury had tricked Karlo at chess. Maybe Yury could help him trick Karlo again.
Ivan found Yury in the main hall in a rocking chair, all bundled up and half-asleep. Mary churned butter, while other housemaids knitted scarves. A fire crackled nicely. By the sound of it, the other Belgorod nobles were upstairs.
“How are you feeling?” Ivan asked, pulling up a rocking chair. He was far enough away from the housemaids so if he kept his voice down they wouldn’t hear him.
Yury opened bleary eyes. His skin looked pale. He smiled, though. “I still have a fever,” he said.
“Do you need any water?”
Yury gave him a gritty laugh. “No, I’ve got something better than water.”
“You have. What?” Ivan was too absorbed in his own problems to realize the truth of Yury’s statement. That would come later, when it was already too late.
Yury closed his eyes as if drawing strength, then he sat up. “I’m feeling better already,” he said.
“I hope so. Because by the way you’re talking the fever still has a tight hold of you.”
Yury gave him that gritty, tired laugh again.
“Do you feel like playing chess?” Ivan asked.
Yury opened his eyes to their normal width. “Oh, I see. You want to beat me while I’m groggy.”
“Actually, no. I want your advice.”
“About chess?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose. For isn’t life just a slice of what chess really is?” Ever since Yury had taken up chess, Ivan had had to endure endless silly quotes about the game. Usually they zipped through his head to escape out of the ear farthest from Yury. The squire thought any chess-master would make a stunning battlefield commander.
Yury coughed and blew his nose. His eyes looked more bloodshot than ever.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m feeling wonderful,” Yury muttered. “Can’t you tell?”
“Your tan has improved.”
Pulling the quilt tighter, Yury leaned forward and asked, “What’s this about chess?”
“I want your advice on how to trick someone.”
Some of the glassiness left Yury’s eyes.
“You and Sir Karlo seem pretty close,” Ivan began.
Yury nodded.
“Do you think he should take Nadia away with him?”
“Huh? Nadia?”
“He’s been courting her,” Ivan said.
“He has? How come?”
“I think he loves her.”
“He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
Ivan caught the pout. Yury was disappointed in the knight. Maybe he thought of Karlo as his special find. About certain things, Yury could be awfully possessive.
“You should see it,” Ivan said, forcing himself to sound eager. “It’s like something out of a singer’s tale. He kisses her hand and makes all sorts of promises.”
“Karlo told me he had to leave to—” Yury stopped abruptly, with a crafty look on his face. “Oh,” he said.
“What Sir Karlo does is his own business,” Ivan said. “Don’t you agree?”
“Of course.”
“And I hope you don’t tell him that I said anything about this.”
“Why not?” Yury asked.
Ivan leaned close as he licked his lips. “Because I love Nadia, too,” he whispered.
“Ahhhh.” Yury nodded as if he were the world’s greatest sage. “Yes. I see.”
“But you’ve got to keep that quiet,” Ivan pleaded.
“You can count one me, Ivan. You know that.”
“Of course I do. That’s why I came to you to help me trick Karlo.”
“I can see that now,” Yury said. He shook his head. “No. I don’t think you could do it.”
“I know I couldn’t,” Ivan said. “But maybe you could. I saw how you tricked him in the game.”
“Hmmm. That was a one-time trick.” Yury’s good hand shot out, clutching Ivan’s arm. “It isn’t Karlo you need to trick, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a knight, Ivan. You know that you and I are best friends, right?”
“Yury.”
“I hope I don’t hurt your feelings by telling you this. Sir Karlo, he’s better at these things than anyone here at Belgorod.”
“I know,” Ivan said.
“But Nadia is still Nadia. I’m sure she wants to leave….”Yury’s mouth was open, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip. “Of course! That must be why Magda and the escort are watching her so closely. They’re worried she’ll run off.”
“Would you run off?”
Yury thought about it. “I’d sure want to,” he said. “But in the end I’d only want to leave with everyone’s blessing. Unless…”
“Yes?”
“They’re going to push her into leaving. I bet she’s getting advice from her mother and from the escort. That sort of thing drives me wild. I bet Sir Karlo is working off that. He knows how to talk to people.”
Ivan knew that with his imagination Yury was often able to put himself in another person’s mind.
“Listen, Ivan,” Yury whispered excitedly. “I have a plan.” He chuckled in that gritty, sick-man’s way again. “I don’t want my best friend losing his girl-to-be. Besides, this’ll take Sir Karlo down a notch.” He grinned wickedly. “I like him, Ivan, but sometimes he thinks he’s going to win everything he tries to do. That can be irritating.”
“I know what you mean,” Ivan said.
“So listen closely, because I don’t know how long I can stay awake.”
“I’m listening.” And as Yury wove out his plan, Ivan began to grin as well.
-16-
The stairs creaked as Ivan slipped up them. Supper had been an hour ago. No one had said much except for Master Volok. He’d regaled them with tales. Oblivious or seemingly so to what went on around him, Master Volok had guzzled ale as he’d spoken. Nadia had picked at her food, and never once had she glanced at Karlo.
That had troubled Ivan. It was as if she was trying to show everyone that she didn’t care about Karlo. It showed the exact opposite.
Ivan moved down the hall. Only a few torches flickered, while snores came from the master bedroom. Sir Volok had turned in early. Soon the others would as well. Night came quickly in winter. He stopped in front of Nadia’s room and scratched at the door. It opened instantly.
Mary looked surprised upon seeing him.
“Can I come in?” he whispered.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. Then she frowned at Ivan. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
Ivan played a dirty trick then. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said.
Her frown deepened.
He shoved her and slipped through. Mary stumbled on the bottom of her dress and landed on the floor. Nadia looked up guiltily from the bed. Hordes of clothes were spread out on it. Lit tapers illuminated the bed and highlighted an open carrying case that lay on the pillows. An arm-length piece of wood lay across Nadia’s knees. The wood was deep brown in color and highly polished. About it twined carved ivies, flying owls, stars and an open eye. The craftsmanship of the carvings was stunning. Nadia, it seemed, had been crooning to it.
“What’s that?” he asked. Ivan had never seen it before.
“It’s my wand.”
She’d said something about a wand at the moot. With a wand, she’d defeated the wolves that had chased their sleigh. With it, he guessed, she was able to practice her art, her magic.
“Do you mind telling me why you pushed Mary?”
Ivan went to help Mary up. She glared at him as she stood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I had to see Nadia.”
“Could you step outside, Mary?” Nadia asked.
Mary hrumphed loudly, brushing past him.
“That was rude,” Nadia said as the door closed.
Ivan had his doubts about Yury’s plan now that he was here, but it was all he had. The sooner he started… He sat on the bed uninvited. “Looks like you’re planning to leave.”
“Maybe I’m just now unpacking.”
“Sure, Nadia.” He gave her his best grin.
Anger twisted her mouth. “Why not get it over with. Say it.”
“Say what?” he asked.
“On no, don’t give me that. I know my mother sent you.”
He took a deep breath. “No, you don’t understand. I’m here to help you.”
She folded her arms, staring at him.
“Look,” he said, becoming earnest, hoping Yury knew what he was talking about. “I know you love Sir Karlo. Hosar knows that he loves you. You and I, Nadia, we’ve been friends almost all our life. Right?”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly.
“I think in my own way I love you, too.” That hurt, but Yury had told him he had to say it.
“Ivan,” she said, seemingly at a loss.
“It’s true, Nadia. I do love you. That’s why I want you to have whatever pleases you the most. If that means leaving forever with Sir Karlo…well, by Hosar, that’s what I’m going to help you do.”
“Ivan,” she said, louder than before.
“I can see you’re already packing, but I think slipping through your window isn’t the right way. Magda and your escort will be expecting that. I think you should have Mary wash some of your clothes. I’ll take them then and bring them into the forest for you. Then—”
He stopped because she reached out to put her hand on his arm.
“You’re willing to help me?” she asked.
He nodded.
She blinked several times. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me that you’ll be happy with Sir Karlo. Tell me that he’s what you’ve always wanted.”
She looked away.
“I know it’s a big decision,” he said. “I also know that you’re a wise person. A man like Karlo must come along only once in a lifetime. Therefore, you have to snatch at it. He’s a catch all right. I can see that. He’s big, strong, handsome, and he can sing.” Ivan lowered his voice. “We’ll miss you, Nadia. I’ll miss you the most.” He took hold of her hand. “I bet he’ll understand when you have to go back to the Sisterhood. Or—” He squeezed her hand. “Will you be going back?”
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He let go of her hand.
“No. Not that. You know I can’t go back to the Sisterhood if I leave with Karlo.”
“Oh,” he said.
“No. Don’t ‘oh’ me. You know that.”
“Okay,” he said, backtracking. “I guess I do know. I had to try, though, didn’t I?”
She thought about it. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“I’m still going to help you, though.”
“Oh, Ivan. I-I don’t know what to say. I thought everyone was against me on this.”
“No, not against you. They’re worried for you. It’s just that I know better. I know you know that you’re doing the right thing.”
She bit her lip.
“You do know that, don’t you?”
Nadia stood abruptly, turned and walked to her window. She hugged her shoulders. “I’m confused, Ivan. Part of me yearns to go. The other part…that part says I’m a fool.”
“Oh,” he said.
She faced him. “What do you think I should do?”
He bent his head as if in thought. His heart hammered. He couldn’t take many glances like that. Soon he’d be up on his feet trying to hold her. Then he’d try to kiss her. Then everything would be ruined. She’d probably slap his face.
“Ivan?”
“Nadia, I don’t know what to tell you.” Yury had said to stick as close to the truth as possible. So he said, “I love you, you know?”
“That’s sweet, Ivan.”
He hated how she said that. He plowed on, nevertheless. “So knowing how I feel, you’d have to know that I want you to stay. If you think you’ll be happier with Sir Karlo, though, then I’ll help you.”
The door opened behind him. It felt as if Death breathed down his neck. Nadia’s eyes became as round as coins. Ivan turned, and his blood froze. Karlo stood behind him in silvery chain mail. He held his sword. His mouth was set in a tight line. Mayhem danced in his eyes.
“So,” Karlo growled, “you’re interfering once more.”
“He’s not,” Nadia said.
The big knight, who made the room feel small, frowned at his ladylove.
“Ivan’s been telling me that he’ll help me escape.”
Karlo’s hard face showed surprise. Then contempt filled it. Even more quickly, he nodded as he sheathed his sword.
Ivan felt as if the Angel of Death had just flown by.
“But I can’t do it, milord,” Nadia said.
Karlo’s eyes narrowed.
“At least, not until you come back,” she said.
“Why the change of heart, my love?” asked Karlo.
“I-I need to think. I-I can’t slink off from my home. I have to leave in style.”
“Ah. Of course. I understand. Now I feel myself to have played the knave, milady. Forgive me.”
“No,” Nadia said, rushing into his strong arms. “It was my fault. I pushed this on you. Can you give me the weeks you’re away to think on what you’ve said?”
“Of course, my love,” he said, “although the parting will be painful.”
“As it will be for me,” she said, kissing him.
Ivan couldn’t believe this. It was worse than he’d thought. Yury’s plan had maybe bought them a little time, nothing more than that, however.
A board creaked outside.
Karlo let go of Nadia and moved swiftly to the window. His chain mail clinked softly.
“Nadia?” the escort said from the other side of the door.
“Help us,” Karlo whispered to Ivan.
Ivan knew it was a command. He nodded sickly and stepped to the door. As it opened, Karlo opened the window and leaped out.
The escort’s eyes rose in shock upon seeing Ivan. The stiff rebuke began at once. Before he fled to safety, the escort boxed his ears. Worse than any of that, however, was the look of gratitude on Nadia’s face. What a sick joke.
Luckily, he made it to the kennel without running into Karlo or Perun. He had a lot to think about.
-17-
Ivan couldn’t sleep. For what seemed like two hours, he kept staring up at the rafters even though it was too dark to see. Hounds whined in their sleep. A few paced back and forth. Their energy unnerved Ivan. He’d seen a caged lynx once that had paced like that. Hour after hour, the poor beast had lashed its tail and moved back and forth within the tight confines of its cage. Lord Mikulas’s chief herder had brought it in a cart, charging a copper a peek.
Ivan finally rose, donning his clothes and a heavy jacket. Flay was the worst of the pacing hounds. Despite his splint, the dog hobbled on three legs, back and forth, back and forth.
“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Ivan whispered.
Flay whined, but he didn’t stop pacing.
Ivan had never seen Flay like this. Did he have the foaming sickness? Last time Magda had checked, she hadn’t thought so. Still, it was too early to be certain. Ivan peered at the water dish. A dog with the foaming sickness kept drinking and drinking, never able to quench the terrible thirst that led to death. Ivan touched the water. Half full. That was about right for this time of night.
The hounds on either side of Flay nervously watched him. Suddenly, their ears rose as they cocked their heads. One shook its head as if someone had blown on its nose or in its ear. The second dog cowered, moaning softly.
“Stop that,” Ivan said.
Flay never missed a pace. To one end of his small stall to the other, then he turned around and began again. His ears twitched from time to time.
“Come on, now,” Ivan whispered. “You settle down.”
Flay didn’t even look up.
Ivan stepped into the stall. Flay simply paced around him. Ivan squatted and held Flay. The dog quivered. Suddenly his lips rose as a low growl rumbled from his throat.
That shocked Ivan, and hurt his feelings. He didn’t let go, though. “Easy now, fellow. What’s got you so upset, eh?”
Flay’s ears kept twitching. None of these hounds had ever backed off from a bear or wolves. Too many hounds died in summer when they hunted wild boars. The hounds didn’t have sense enough to be afraid of the tusks. Flay feared now. He trembled and began to pant.
“Easy now,” Ivan said. “You calm down, old Flay. There’s nothing that’s going to happen to you in here.”
Another of the pacing hounds stopped and lifted its muzzle. It howled in a mournful way. Flay tried to respond. Ivan shook him, taking the head and peering into an eye.
“What’s wrong, boy? What do you hear?”
The other dog howled. It was a low and eerie sound.
Ivan stood up. “Enough now! You quit.”
The dog obeyed, although it began pacing again.
“What’s wrong, Ivan?” Janek asked in a sleepy voice.
Yes, what was wrong? Something had the hounds spooked. Then Ivan realized that the pacing hounds were his best hearers. The noise from a cracked twig could unerringly lead these particular hounds to their quarry. Could these hounds be hearing something the others couldn’t?
“Ivan?” Janek asked.
“I’m going outside,” Ivan said.
“What for? Belsky and Jarred have guard duty.”
“Lock the door behind me,” Ivan said. “And re-rig the nets.”
“Should I wait up for you?”
“No. Go back to sleep.”
Janek sat up, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. He waited as Ivan collected a bear-net, club and Stribog. Ivan didn’t want to anger Karlo, not after such a close shave this evening. Stribog could keep quiet when ordered. And the back of the holding was his responsibility. If something strange occurred, he was supposed to check. Wends had made winter raids before.
“It’s probably nothing,” Ivan told Janek.
“Okay.”
Ivan stepped outside and heard Janek drop the bar into place. The full moon shined. Stars twinkled around it. Not a cloud could be found. By the house, smoke drifted from one of the chimneys.
“You hear anything?” he asked Stribog. His words came out with white puffs of mist.
Stribog yawned, sending up more mist.
Using the silvery moonlight, Ivan studied the landscape for tracks, but found nothing. He looked up at the moon again. It seemed eerie and baleful, almost like a watching eye. He couldn’t shake the feeling, nor was he able to leave the kennel’s perimeter. Therefore, he watched, waiting for something to happen.
At first, he hardly noticed the calf. Then he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, almost stealthily, the calf moved from the blacksmith shed and toward the mill. Whenever the icy breeze shifted, the calf froze. Then it would start up again, carefully taking a step at a time.
Why hadn’t Belsky noticed the calf? It was his responsibility to make sure the cattle were locked in the barn each night. How could the calf have gotten out?
Then Stribog noticed it. Ivan dropped his hand onto Stribog’s head. The dog understood, keeping silent.
Ivan watched the calf pass the mill and head to the gate. What did it plan? Ivan’s heart beat faster. With its nose, the calf nudged the latch in a determined way.
Ivan felt his heart hammering. The calf nudged until Ivan heard a click. The calf used its shoulder and pushed. The slow creak was audible in the darkness. It seemed, for a moment, that the calf looked around. Then it walked toward the sapling grove.
Ivan felt dizzy, although his lungs unlocked. He gasped a cold bite of air. His knees wobbled as he sank against the kennel. Ivan peered at Stribog, half-wondering if the dog would speak. Inside the kennel, Flay gave a mournful howl. It was a lost sound, and it made the hairs on Ivan’s arms stand on end. Ivan didn’t dare look up. He was afraid he’d see a pupil in the moon watching him. Something evil, something malignant watched, or at least prowled near. In that moment, Ivan heard soft piping. The sound drifted from the sapling grove. Fire flickered there as from a torch.
“The crone.”
The calf bounded toward the sapling grove as if it raced to its mother’s milk.
“The crone is stealing the calf,” Ivan whispered in awe. He’d heard Yury tell a story about a piper leading all the rats out of a town.
He had to do something about this. Why am I afraid to move? His brows thundered as he gripped his club harder. I will move. Perun had thrashed him, but he couldn’t let himself fear for the rest of his life. The back of the holding was his responsibility.
Ivan forced his right foot, making himself take a step. In that moment, his rigid fear vanished and the soft piping faded. He still saw the calf frolicking toward the grove, however.
“Let’s go,” he whispered to Stribog.
With the bear-net over his shoulder and Stribog’s leash in his hand, Ivan hurried after the calf. Even though his innards twisted, he planned on capturing the crone and bringing her to Petor. That might clear up some things. Ivan didn’t know what, but his gut feeling told him that he was right.
His long stride ate up the distance. Only when he entered the sapling grove and realized that the calf bounded out of it did he grow more worried. He heard the piping again. Stribog’s hackles rose because of it. Then Ivan heard other sounds as well: loud groans and savage growls.
“Wolves?” Ivan whispered. No, wolves didn’t groan.
Stribog didn’t act as if wolves were out there. His hackles were up, but the dog didn’t strain at the leash the way he would have it he’d smelled wolves.
Ivan blinked sweat out of his eyes. That surprised him. It was too cold for sweat. Then he understood. His body knew things weren’t right tonight and had responded accordingly. Evil walked in darkness. He began to tremble as the groans increased. They sounded wicked, unholy, almost demented.
At the edge of the sapling grove stood an open area, then the beginning of the pines. In among the pines flickered a fire. That’s where the sinister piping came from, where the calf bounded toward and where the strange moans and groans emanated from.
Ivan tried to force himself to stop trembling. It only got worse. At last, he groaned and dropped to one knee. He bent his head and whispered a prayer to Hosar. He asked for courage, and he asked for strength to withstand the evil piping and the soul-numbing effect that it had over him.
Ivan clenched his teeth and drew cold air through his nose. The moon seemed to mock him. At the edge of his consciousness came the desire to cast aside his club and Stribog’s leash. He wanted to run, shout and cavort toward the weird music. He wanted to throw himself around the fire and dance and dance and dance. He wanted to gnash his teeth, slash his limbs and call out to, to…
“No!” he hissed, bending his head low. A shudder ran through him. His mind whirled. He let go of the club and reached down to steady himself. The music licked at his resolve. All he had to do was let go of the leash and twirl to the fire. Then he could join in the ecstasy. Then he could release himself to the madness. Then he could rend, destroy and sate himself upon innocent blood.
“Hosar,” he whispered. “Help keep these evil thoughts from me.”
The piping sounds threatened to drown his reason, to drown his very will.
Stribog’s worried muzzle pressed against Ivan’s cheek. That brought a moment’s respite. A flash of inspiration filled Ivan. He began humming one of the ancient battle hymns of Hosar, the God of Light.
The mad piping lost its grip. Ivan no longer trembled.
He thrust snow into his mouth, letting it wet his dry tongue. Now the sound didn’t beckon. Instead, it felt oily, repulsive and sinister. A portion of it still worked on his mind, however. It made Ivan want to destroy. He picked up his club, wishing to ram a nail through someone’s head.
As he continued to hum the hymn, a fierce resolve took hold. He must cleanse by washing with spilled blood. Even so, Ivan didn’t feel like charging blindly. The incidents with Karlo had taught him that much. Instead, he circled from boulder, to bush, to tree, to boulder, to bush again. He entered the pines three hundred yards away from the fire. He circled that, too, so he came toward the fire from the south. The crone would probably only suspect someone coming from the north, from the great house.
The piping had stopped. Men shouted, and the growling noises continued. Slowly, stealthily, Ivan and Stribog crept toward the fire. Finally, he pulled up at a rock, peering over it. The sight amazed him, even as he hummed ever so softly Hosar’s old battle hymn.
Perun and the other two ruffians cavorted around the crackling fire. They had taken off their tunics. Sweat glistened in the matted hair of their chests. Ivan had never seen such hairy men. One by one, the men took off their boots and then their breeches. Naked, the three hairy and over-muscled men twirled, howling at the moon, calling out names in a growling, savage language. The sight bewildered Ivan, shocked him and in a deep way angered him.
Something ancient and evil occurred here, but he didn’t know what. He saw Karlo standing to the side. The knight wore a dark cloak and his silver chain mail. His belted sword hung at his side. He smiled at his men as a father would at playing children. Licking the knight’s hand was the calf, Master Volok’s best. In Karlo’s other hand was a dark knife, curved and slender.
The piping began anew.
Ivan saw a small, cloaked being sitting upon a rock. A hood hid her features. This, Ivan was certain, was the same crone that he’d seen days ago. The crone held an ebony set of pipes. Her deformed hands seemed to have claws or very long fingernails, and they were hairy. She played an evil song, her head and shoulders bouncing and swaying to the tune.
Perun and the others danced in wild abandon. They howled and threw their heavy arms into the air. At times, they beat their chests and slavered as wild beasts. Once, Ivan thought, he saw the firelight gleam out of their eyes as it would a wolf’s.
Ivan gripped his club as he hummed. He wanted to join the dance. He also wanted to slay these evil men. It amazed him that none of this seemed to affect Stribog. The dog waited, as if willing to take his cue from him.
Karlo shouted the savage language. It seemed like an invocation, a prayer. He held the curved knife up to the moon. The piping slowed. The dancers stopped, and with expectant eyes, they watched the knight.
Karlo cruelly dug his fingers into the calf’s nose. It bawled in fear. Expertly, swiftly, Sir Karlo yanked up the nose. With a deft slash, he cut the throat. Hot blood sprayed. Steam rose in the icy air. Bodily, Karlo shoved the calf at the men. It stumbled with its last life and fell in a heap before Perun and the others. The piping exploded into a frenzy of sound.
Ivan had to look away as Perun and his fellows fell upon the calf. When he looked up again he saw that they were drenched with blood. They clawed at the fresh meat and tore off bloody chunks, bolting them down like hounds. Karlo looked on, with a wicked smile in place.
Nauseated, Ivan staggered away. He didn’t know what to do. Normal men didn’t do that. No, not even bandits did that. He wondered vaguely if his hounds had been able to sense this madness about Karlo. It didn’t matter. He had to run back to the holding and warn everyone. Sir Karlo and his men were wicked, evil, spawns of Darkness. Would this mean bloodshed? Probably. Who would die in the fighting? Ivan didn’t know. What he did know was that he had to make it back to the house. The farmers couldn’t go into the Old Forest with men like these!
Ivan stumbled and panted beside a tree. Sweat ran off him. What he’d just witnessed made his stomach roil. He thought again of Perun’s face smeared with blood as the man clutched gory entrails.
Ivan retched into the snow. He had to keep moving, but he retched again.
Beside him, Stribog whined. The ghastly night had frayed Ivan’s nerves. He sensed Stribog’s rage and felt the tension. Ivan looked up.
Standing before him in his silvery mail, with his hands on hips, towered Sir Karlo. “You’re a busy lad,” the knight said in a neutral tone.
Ivan could only gape. Moments ago, Karlo had spoken in the bizarre growl-language. Moments ago, he’d pinched a calf’s soft nose and slit its innocent throat. There wasn’t a speck of blood on him.
“What are you?” Ivan asked.
Karlo chuckled in an approximation of a hearty manner. It came off false and forced.
“What are they?” Ivan asked, gesturing toward the firelight.
“Men,” Karlo said.
“Men don’t bury their faces into raw meat and feast like hounds.”
“So speaks the lad who has traveled the world. I suppose I must bow to your superior wisdom.”
Ivan’s shocked thoughts couldn’t cope with Karlo’s mockery.
“Or do you know the rites of the Bat?” Karlo asked. “Have you seen the blood sacrifices of the priests of Night? No? Then maybe you’ve penetrated the secrets of the Moon Lady. Surely this must be the case.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re a country bumpkin. All you know is the happenings of Belgorod Holding. Like most of your sort, you’re quick to judge others.”
Ivan straightened. He held his club and Stribog’s leash. The bear-net hung over his left shoulder.
“I’ll grant that the rite you just witnessed is a bit bloody.” Karlo shrugged. “I don’t hold to its tenants myself.”
“You slew the calf,” Ivan accused.
Karlo sighed. “Boy, sometimes you do things as a leader that you don’t approve of. It’s the way of the world. Perun and his men, they’re a primitive trio. Yet I’ve never found better woodsmen. And woodsmen are what I need. Therefore, I tolerate some of their disgusting habits. One of those habits is their bizarre moon-worship. As their leader I’m forced to act as the priest.” Karlo shrugged again. “A chore, I’ll grant you. Once I find the old horde of coins I can finally dispense with it.”
“Why tell me all this?” Ivan asked. “Why not just slay me out of hand?”
Karlo chuckled again, shaking his head. “Yes, I’ve treated you roughly these past few days. I thought you were just a rough-necked yokel. You’ve proved yourself to be more than that. You’ve a bit of nerve in you. Twice you’ve come out in the dark with your hounds. I don’t think any of the other Belgorod Folk would have done that. Maybe that’s why you’ve the wherewithal to see that Nadia would do well by me. I appreciate your help, even if you didn’t do it for my good. I love the lady. She obviously likes you. So, for her sake, I’ve decided to tolerate your forays into my affairs.”
Ivan couldn’t put these pictures of Karlo together. “What about the piper?” he asked.
“You’ve a right to be suspicious about her. Did you see her hands, perchance?”
Ivan nodded.
“You saw that they were hairy then, deformed and animal-like.”
“I did.”
“She’s a strange one. The men call her the Imp. She’s a bit simple, but she has a knack for the pipes. She can charm animals with them. I’m supposing that you followed the calf.”
Ivan nodded.
“It’s an unnerving trick, but it’s the Imp’s only one. She’s ugly. Peasants like you usually beat her up because of that. Therefore, she wishes to stay out of sight. Perun has been bringing her food now and again. Would you like to meet her?”
Ivan shook his head.
“I thought not. No, country bumpkins are a suspicious lot. They think old women are witches. Have you ever noticed that?”
Ivan admitted that he had.
In the distance, the ghastly sounds of feeding changed. Karlo cocked his head. “Well, I must be getting back.” He eyed Ivan. “You have a decision to make. You can cause trouble… Well, I’ve told you what will happen then. I don’t want that. I want to convince Sir Volok and Magda to give me Nadia’s hand in marriage when I return. A scene from Perun’s men could rough things up for me.”
Suddenly Ivan knew that Karlo would call him a liar if he told others about what he’d seen tonight. Karlo was trying to trick him with soft words. The knight didn’t want trouble, but he wanted his way even more. Perhaps the knight would be able to call more wolves. They’d devour whatever parts of the calf Perun and his men couldn’t. Maybe they’d even hide the carcass. Master Volok would have to hold an inquest before he could revoke the king’s writ. While the inquest took place, maybe Karlo and his men would simply draw their swords and start killing.
“What about the farmers?” Ivan blurted. “Will they be safe in the Old Forest with men like Perun?”
“I’ve already given my knightly word on that. Do you doubt that word?”
Ivan studied his feet. His didn’t want to say no, but he didn’t want to say yes, either.
“Don’t try my patience,” Karlo warned.
Ivan wouldn’t tell Petor about this. He would tell Magda, though. She’d know what to do.
“I love Nadia, lad. But I will not throw away my honor for her.”
“Milord?” Ivan asked.
“I will not be thwarted by a peasant.” Karlo dropped his voice, stepping closer.
Stribog growled. Only Ivan’s restraining hand kept the dog from attacking.
“You upset Perun earlier by hitting him. He’s a bloodthirsty man. For what you did, he wants vengeance. The Moon Lady is a harsh mistress and demands harshness from her followers. To appease Perun I had to give him blood, the calf’s blood. Now he won’t slay you and gut you like a deer. So you see, much of what you saw tonight was for your benefit.”
Ivan couldn’t believe that, and yet…
“So if you want to start the real bloodshed, it will be on your head. You’d better think about that before you run off at the mouth. Keep quiet, and everything will be fine. No one will get killed. Talk too much…”
“I understand,” Ivan said. “I won’t tell Master Volok about this.”
“You swear to that?”
“I do,” Ivan said.
Karlo studied him. At last, he smiled. “You were wise enough to try to help Nadia escape unnoticed. I’m going to trust that you’re wise enough in this, too. Of course, if you do speak I’ll deny that any of this happened.”
Ivan nodded.
“Tarry here a while then. We’ll walk back together, you and I. If you flee, Perun and his men will run you down.”
“Yes, milord.”
Karlo strode back to his men.
Ivan almost bolted. He knew, though, that he’d have to play a smarter game than that. Karlo must be a sorcerer. Either that or he commanded the crone, who was a sorceress. How else could he explain the calf’s actions? A fight in the great house would end with many deaths. Maybe they could ride this out. When Karlo came courting Nadia again, Master Volok could have gathered fellow knights and give Karlo what he deserved.
-18-
Ivan didn’t go to the house that night. Karlo would know that he’d talked to Magda. That might start the bloodshed. No. If they were going to do something about Karlo, it had to be by surprise.
Early the next morning, Ivan came in for breakfast. He was tired. He’d hardly slept. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he had seen in his mind’s eye Perun shove raw meat into his maw. It shocked him when Perun ambled into the kitchen. The man bade the housemaid good morning. Then he asked for a bowl of porridge.
Ivan stared in slack-jawed wonder.
“What are you looking at?” Perun growled.
Ivan closed his mouth, shaking his head.
“It’s like you seen a ghost.” Perun thereupon attacked his bowl of porridge.
Ivan had to leave. He spiked Magda as she came downstairs. Karlo, with Nadia, followed behind.
“Ah...Magda,” Ivan said. “Flay’s been acting up.”
“Can it wait till after breakfast?” Magda asked.
“Umm…” Ivan knew Karlo gauged his speech. “It can,” he admitted.
“You’re on pins and needles it seems,” Magda said. “I’ll take a quick look.”
“Don’t dawdle, Mother,” Nadia said. “Karlo is giving a breakfast speech.”
“Here, here,” Karlo said. “It’s of small matter.”
“Don’t be silly,” Nadia said.
Ivan felt lightheaded. He’d seen the wicked smile last night. Now Karlo played the model guest. The deception sickened him, although a small part of him realized that to beat Karlo he’d have to play a similar game.
“I’m not trying to interfere, milord,” Ivan fibbed to Karlo.
The knight gestured his worries aside.
Soon Magda walked arm-in-arm with Ivan. As they approached the kennel, she said, “You seem to be on better terms with the knight.”
Ivan grimaced as he opened the kennel door and ushered her in. Then he shook his head as he said, “Flay’s fine.”
“Then why—”
“Listen!” he hissed. He told her about the calf, about the dancing and the one called the Imp. He also told her what Karlo had said about the Moon Lady.
“Who is she?” Ivan asked.
“An old deity, at least Folkwin has said so before. It makes sense Perun worships her.”
“What are we going to do?”
Magda’s brow furrowed. “The king’s writ makes this tricky. I think you’re right when you say that we won’t find the calf carcass. That means there’s nothing to prove your tale but you. If you accuse the Bavarian, Master Volok will have to hold an inquest. Your word against a knight’s…if it comes down to it, Sir Karlo can demand a trail by combat.”
Ivan felt miserable. It was even worse than he’d thought. “We can’t let the farmers go into the Old Forest.”
“How do we stop them?” Magda asked.
“We go to each separately.”
“That would break Master Volok’s word.”
“We must do something!”
Magda dug her fingers into his arm. “Listen to me. There are things occurring that have more to do than just Belgorod Holding.”
“The horde of coins?”
Magda laughed. “The Bavarian doesn’t hunt for that.”
“For what then?”
“That’s right,” Magda said, her fingers tightening. “We need to know what he seeks.”
“Who is we?” Ivan asked.
Magda stared at him.
“What’s going on?”
“An old game,” she said, “one that began before my birth. We must wait for Folkwin now.”
“The old monk? What does he have to do with any of this?”
“Never mind. Have you told anyone else what happened?”
Ivan shook his head.
“Don’t. You did the right thing in coming to me first.”
“Magda, you’re frightening me. I don’t understand you.”
She released his arm. “I’m an old healer, Ivan. I know a little about the mystic arts. There is a mystery about Sir Karlo. Can he work magic as you and Lady Belgorod suspect? Such may be the case. Is that a crime? Not unless he does something wicked with it. Can we prove anything against Karlo? No again. Never forget that he has a royal writ. That means we must tread carefully. If we don’t, Lord Mikulas will be forced to side with him against us. Mikulas will do that, especially as Sir Karlo is an East Frank.”
“So we let the farmers go with Karlo into the Old Forest?” Ivan asked in disbelief.
Magda turned away.
“Even after I’ve told you what happened last night?”
“The farmers were warned, Ivan.”
“Not against this.”
She faced him again. “Royal politics have entered into this. The writ ensured that. You as a peasant cannot use your word, without evidence, against a knight. You have no evidence and therefore must keep quiet.”
“Then why call in Folkwin?”
“Because of whom Karlo might be.”
“And that is?”
Magda studied Ivan. “A servant of Darkness.”
Ivan gave a tried laugh. That was obvious.
“Or he could be a knight with a smattering of dark knowledge who yearns to dig up ancient relics that he hopes to sell. With the money he’ll buy his way back into power.”
“Which do you believe to be true?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“Does it really make any difference which?” asked Ivan.
“It does. No, don’t frown at me like that. If Karlo were a servant of Darkness, then Nadia or the escort should have been able to tell. He has a mystery about him, but he doesn’t have the taint of Darkness.”
“What about Perun?”
“He’s a bad fellow, certainly.”
“Could a servant of Darkness mask his…his taint?”
“I don’t see how. The old legends say that healers can ferret out such matters better than most.” Magda sighed. “Ivan, a servant of Darkness wouldn’t need a royal writ. He would have slipped into the Old Forest and dug up what he wanted. That Karlo came here and asked for workers strongly points to the latter guess.”
“What about Perun and his men worshiping the Moon Lady?”
“That is troubling.”
Magda is holding something back. Why, Ivan didn’t know. Maybe the old game answer had been the closest she’d been willing to come to the truth.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “but I trust you.”
Magda patted his cheek before hurrying out of the kennel.
It was then that Ivan really began to think.
-19-
After breakfast, Karlo met the party of farmers. The retainers, led by Perun, filled the sleigh with provisions. Combined with the farmers’ packs and Sir Karlo’s own belongings, the sleigh only had room enough for the driver. Karlo rode a wild-eyed war-horse. Among the farmers and their sons, only Farmer Lech rode a horse. The others filed behind the sleigh and followed Karlo east toward the legendary Old Forest.
Ivan felt both a vast sense of relief at Karlo’s going and a terrible sense of dread for the farmers. From the porch and while bundled warmly, Yury morosely watched the sleigh slid away.
“I wish I were going with them,” Yury sighed.
“You do?” Ivan asked. “Why?”
“Adventure, my friend. Bold adventure into the Old Forest. Who knows what secrets Sir Karlo and his men will dig up?”
Feodor said, “The only secret they’ll find is a lot of hard work.”
“Why do you say that?” Yury asked.
“Mining is hard work,” Feodor replied.
Yury laughed. “So speaks the hardened miner, eh?”
Ivan thought to see a ghost of a smile on Feodor’s face. He wanted to tell Yury about the Axe People and let him know that Feodor knew what he was talking about.
“Sir Karlo is mighty warrior,” Yury said. “I wish he would have told us more battle-tales.”
“I agree that he’s a mighty warrior,” said Ivan. “But he also seems, well…filled with doom.”
“Don’t speak ill about the knight who stood above me while the white wolves hungered for my flesh,” Yury said.
Feodor shuffled uneasily.
Yury noticed. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a prickly tone.
“Do you really know, beyond doubt, that Karlo guarded you?” Feodor asked.
Yury looked puzzled.
Feodor stared at his feet.
“Because of what happened in the clearing,” Yury began. He glanced at Feodor, then back at the dwindling sleigh. “Because of what happened, Father has agreed to let me become a knight.”
Which wasn’t exactly true, Ivan knew, but it was near enough to the mark.
“You also acted bravely that day,” Yury solemnly told Feodor. “Maybe if you hadn’t arrived when you did, the white wolves would have overcome Sir Karlo and slain me.” He thumped Feodor on the back and held out his good hand. “I’ll never forget that.”
Nadia stepped outside. Her face looked puffy, from crying no doubt. “Hey, you three,” she said with what sounded like forced gaiety, “come inside. Mary just baked a pie and she wants more testers to try it.”
Feodor marched in. Ivan turned to follow. He stopped, seeing that Yury still watched the sleigh.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Ivan asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Let’s try the pie.”
Yury nodded.
The pie was good, but not as tasty as Lady Belgorod’s always were. None of them said that, but endlessly extolled Mary’s skill. Feodor soon had to leave to help his father pack. Dimitri wished to hunt in for more kindling. The winter-work wasn’t finished yet. Now that Karlo had gone, Dimitri could go home.
Yury became sleepy and went to his room. Ivan helped Mary clean up the kitchen and wash dishes.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” he said after a while.
She put a soapy hand on his arm. “Nadia told me you came to help her. I didn’t realize you were so noble and romantic.”
“Romantic?” he asked.
“To help someone you love leave with someone else. That was a very noble. I don’t like being pushed, but how else were you going to see Nadia? I understand now. But thank you for the apology.”
Ivan’s thoughts drifted to his new preoccupation. He was determined to understand Sir Karlo. Ever since he picked up a tuft of white fur, he also wanted to know more about storm wolves. He’d like to ask Mary. She’d first told him about them, but he felt now was the wrong time to ask.
Instead, he said, “How is Nadia taking the parting?”
Mary first looked around and then lowered her voice. “He climbed up to see her late last night. They spoke, thinking I was asleep. I wasn’t, and I didn’t want to be an eavesdropper, but I couldn’t help overhearing a few things.”
“You’re supposed to protect her,” Ivan said. “So you had to know if his intentions were honest. Therefore, you were honor-bound to listen in.”
“I knew you’d understand,” she said with a smile. “You’ve a heart of gold about these sorts of thing.”
Ivan wished she hadn’t said that. It made him feel dirty, like a fake, but the prize was huge. He had to stop Nadia from making the worst mistake of her life.
“Anyway,” Mary whispered, handing him another dish to dry, “he told her to cheer up. He said he’d be back for her. If that wasn’t soon enough, he told her to come out to his camp. If not right away, then with whomever Sir Volok sent later.”
Ivan forced himself to keep smiling.
“He thinks highly of you, Ivan. Sir Karlo said that you understood the situation. He said that if there were any problems that she should come to you for help. He doesn’t believe you’ll do anything to stop them from achieving happiness together.”
“We’re real friends,” Ivan muttered.
Mary nodded. “You have that way about you. People just seem to take a liking to you.”
Her smile made him uneasy. “As long as Nadia’s happy,” he said. He dried his hands and said he’d better start on his own chores.
-20-
Ivan hurried after Dimitri and Feodor. He walked with them as they started home, and soon found himself telling them about last night. Both father and son listened in silence. Ivan also told them what Magda had said.
“I heard the uproar in the barn,” Feodor said. “Master Volok bawled out Belsky about the missing calf.”
“You did well to keep silent,” Dimitri told Ivan. “Magda was right. You have no evidence to show others.”
“Yes, but—” Ivan tried to say.
Dimitri held up a hand. “Karlo has a royal writ. Therefore, he has the king’s protection.” Dimitri smiled grimly. “I believe you. But my belief is not enough.”
“I understand,” Ivan said. “What I was wondering: could you tell me more about clawmen?”
Dimitri nodded somberly. “You’re shrewd, for there is much about Perun and his men that reminds me of clawmen. When I battled them,” Dimitri said slowly, “I found myself detesting the enemy. They were savage. I saw several fall upon a downed Axe Man. They gnawed on the fighter like wolves.” Dimitri shook his head. “All clawmen are hairy, with fangs and talons. Only a few of them use weapons. Even less, use armor. They attack with abandon, but their battle stamina wearies if their initial charge doesn’t sweep all before them. For their size, clawmen are incredibly strong.” Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. “In size, they equal this Imp you speak of.”
“What are you thinking, Father?”
“That we have much to ask Folkwin when he arrives.”
“Do clawmen serve the Moon Lady?” asked Ivan.
Dimitri shrugged.
“Who do they serve?” Ivan asked.
Dimitri said, “The Axe People said they were creatures of the Old Ones. I asked Folkwin about that. The Old Ones, he said, were once servants of Old Father Night. More I do not know.”
“Do you think the Imp was a clawman?” Feodor asked his Father.
“No.”
“Why not?” Ivan asked.
“She played pipes, you said. No clawman I know of could do that.”
Ivan scratched that idea. Then he reconsidered. Dimitri wasn’t an authority on clawmen, just the only Belgorod Folk to have seen any.
“I’d better go,” Ivan said. “Hosar guide you.”
“And you,” Dimitri said, a devout believer.
-21-
Lord Mikulas’s messenger arrived a day later. He made it clear that Lord Mikulas wished Sir Karlo to have every courtesy extended him. The king’s messenger had told Mikulas that his majesty had taken a liking to the bold relic hunter.
Two days after Sir Karlo’s departure, a pigeon flew into the holding coop. Folkwin the Monk expected to arrive in three weeks time. A hard snowfall had barred the passes, delaying him. It seemed the news worried Magda, for she kept muttering, “Too late. It will be too late by then.”
Three days after Sir Karlo’s departure, Nadia joined Ivan by the mill. Hounds frolicked around her. She petted some, then told them to shoo. She seemed sad and wistful, although her face didn’t look puffy any more.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said.
Ivan waited, not trusting himself to speak.
“It took courage to do what you did the other night. It also helped me.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
“It helped me stall. I need time to think, to weigh things over. Just having one other person than Mary on my side helps.”
“You really love Sir Karlo?”
“I must,” she said. “I almost ran away with him.” Nadia smiled sadly. “It has been hard these last three years. Sometimes I wonder if I should have returned at all. The sisters advised against it.”
“Why?” asked Ivan.
Nadia took her time answering. “It’s hard being in the Sisterhood. It costs.”
“I thought Lady Belgorod paid most of the costs.”
Nadia laughed. “Not that kind of costs, silly. Life-costs.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t. You have everything you want.”
That surprised Ivan. He didn’t know how to reply. They watched the hounds romp. He had so many questions, but he didn’t know how to start. He was tired of playing this false game.
Nadia said after a while, “Sometimes I wonder about Sisterhood Magic, how it really works.”
“I thought that’s what they taught you at the Chapter-House.”
“It is. But there is much to magic that is a mystery to the Sisterhood.”
Ivan thought about Dimitri, Feodor and their trip into the Old Forest to help the Axe People. The woodcutters had wanted that kept secret. Most likely, the Sisterhood and Nadia had their own secrets.
“Are you forbidden to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Oh?”
Nadia seemed troubled. “It isn’t what you think.”
“What do you mean?” He was puzzled.
Nadia pressed her lips together. “I don’t know if I like being so different, having the talent.”
“It’s a good thing,” he said.
“Is it?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know the story of Moiré?”
“I know that’s what the Sisterhood is named,” Ivan said, “the Sisterhood of Moiré. I know that Moiré was the first healer and that the Sisterhood is supposed to follow in her footsteps.”
“All that is true,” Nadia said. “But did you know that Moiré could never have children?”
“Why not?”
“They say her power, her talent, burned her out and used her up. Although she created mighty spells, she never created life. She sacrificed much to wield her power.” Nadia’s smooth forehead puckered as she studied the sky. “I’m not sure I’m willing to make such hard sacrifices. I think…I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off running away with Sir Karlo. He’d never question me about my decision. He’d accept me for me.”
Ivan nodded, finally understanding why Nadia had fallen so quickly for Sir Karlo.
She touched his cheek. “Even-tempered Ivan. You always were a good listener. Nothing daunts you.”
“Is that how you see me?” he asked in surprise.
“It’s true.”
He shook his head. “Lots of things daunt me.”
“Like what?”
He thought about it. “Like storm wolves,” he said.
“Storm wolves?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “Whatever made you say that?”
“Mary talked to me.”
“Ah. Mary. Yes, she does fear storm wolves. I never should have said anything about them.”
“How did you come to hear about storm wolves?”
“…sometimes a few Magyars come to trade in Pavia.” Maybe she saw his frown. “The Magyars are the newest horse-barbarians to trickle into the grasslands.”
“Into the land of the Avars?” asked Ivan.
“Exactly,” Nadia said. “The Magyars are expert archers, and the ones I spoke with are wonderful storytellers. In the ancient times, they used to ride against the lords of Darkness. The Magyars remember those times better than most. I heard one of their storytellers say that in the far south the Magyars war against wolf-riders. He said a tribe of clawmen has tamed a large breed of wolf—storm wolves.”
“So what are storm wolves?”
Nadia lowered her voice. “They say the Dark Ones slumber, the gods of evil, but that some of their servants still walk aboard. Those servants are Old Ones. Many of those are accomplished spell-casters. More about them, I don’t know. Storm wolves and clawmen, though…” Nadia gripped Ivan’s arm. “Evil changes people. It twists them if they serve it long enough.”
“Like a were-wolf?” Ivan asked.
“Were-wolf, clawman, storm wolf…they were all normal once and became twisted by evil.”
Ivan frowned.
“If storm wolves exist,” Nadia said, “then some of the Old Ones are near to have worked the transforming magic.”
“And that means?”
“That the Sisterhood of Moiré must rise up to fight,” she said, studying Ivan. “I’m not certain I’ve the strength for that. I’m not certain I can pay the price that standing takes.” She fidgeted. “I’ve learned one critical law or rule in the Chapter-House. Nothing is free. The power to defeat Darkness is costly.”
“Your choice to leave with Karlo is even harder than I thought,” he said.
“Either that, or I’m fleeing my responsibilities. That’s why what you said the other night hit me so deeply. I need time to think.”
Shortly, one of the housemaids came and told Nadia that Magda wished to see her. She and Ivan agreed to finish the conversation another time.
-22-
The days passed. Yury grew stronger as color returned to his cheeks. He began to practice his swordsmanship with Petor. A week after Karlo had left, Yury saddled up his old red horse. Ivan and he trekked to the woods to search for fist-sized pinecones. When they returned, and after Yury had rested, Ivan hacked into the frozen ground and set up a number of poles. Atop the poles, he secured pinecones. As long as the supply of cones lasted, Yury galloped by and slashed them with the sword his father had given him.
As sweat began to freeze on his face, Yury cantered to Ivan. “What did you think of that?”
“You swung well,” Ivan said, “with assurance.”
Yury shivered, but grinned. He patted the sword pommel. “The sword has a fine balance.”
“Where did your father get it?”
“He had it locked away. He finally decided that a real squire should have a real sword. ‘How else’ he said, ‘are you going to learn a knight’s trade unless you have knightly weapons?’ Of course, chopping down pinecones is another matter entirely from chopping down foemen who swing back.”
“We’d better go inside. You’re looking chilly. I’ll take care of the horse.”
“A squire’s duty—”
“Is to make sure that he’s well enough to serve his knight,” Ivan cut in. “So don’t argue, you old hardhead. Go on.”
Yury stiffened and then relented. “Yes. I am tired.” He slid out of the saddle and handed the reins to Ivan. “I’ll see you inside.”
After Ivan returned the horse to the barn, he tromped into the house and found Yury in front of the fireplace, sipping broth. Several of the housemaids sat in rocking chairs, mending clothes. Lady Belgorod needled a new scarf for her husband. Nadia grinned at them as she worked a butter-churn.
“Now this is what I missed most about the holding,” she said.
Magda stepped in and glanced at Yury. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes Magda,” Yury dutifully said. When Magda walked out, he leaned over to Ivan and whispered, “I’m getting tired of people treating me like I’m a weakling. I’m a real squire now. Don’t they know that?”
“Sure they do. But you took a nasty bite and scared all of us.”
Yury chewed his lip. “Come on!” he whispered. “Let’s go to my room.”
Ivan followed him upstairs into a small bedroom. It contained a down bed, a portrait of his father in full chain-mail, a few clay figurines of knights and a dozen shoes scattered throughout the room.
Kicking a shoe, Ivan said, “What a mess.”
Yury doffed his tunic and unwound the white bandage at his side.
“What are you doing?”
“Look at this.” Yury dropped the bandage onto the floor and pointed at the purple puckered scars. Ivan inspected the ugly wound. The wolf’s bite had torn away a goodly amount of flesh, but there weren’t any scabs. That surprised Ivan, because he recalled how the blood had flown when Yury had been brought back to the holding. There should still be scabs.
“It’s healed rapidly,” Ivan said.
“Exactly.”
Puzzled, Ivan asked, “What do you mean exactly?”
“I think Magda’s suspicious about it.”
“In what way?” asked Ivan.
“She’s mumbled that the wound shouldn’t have healed so quickly. Then in the next breath she wonders why I’ve been so pale of late.”
“What’s your point?”
Yury put his tunic back on, but didn’t bother to re-wrap the bandage. “Maybe I’ve received a gift of rapid healing.”
Ivan laughed weakly. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“I have.”
“When?”
Yury glanced about as if somebody where trying to listen in. He lowered his voice. “Sir Karlo told me about it.”
“Sir Karlo?” Ivan asked in alarm.
Yury stiffened. “What’s wrong with that?”
Ivan shrugged. “I don’t know. “You surprised me.”
“Really? Sir Karlo said that some warriors have an inborn talent to heal faster than others do. He also said that there are magic potions that can quickly restore a man to health. In fact, he gave me just such a potion.”
“What?”
“Shhh, not so loud.” Yury glanced around. “I’ve been drinking from it. That’s why I’ve healed so quickly.”
“You should tell Magda.”
Yury shook his head.
“What did Karlo put in the potion?”
Yury laughed. “It’s a magic healing draught.”
“I don’t know.”
Yury stepped closer. “I want you to promise not to tell anyone else about this.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Yury threw up his hands and began to pace. “I don’t believe this! I thought I could trust you, Ivan. I thought of all the people here, you’d be the one who would understand. Now you aren’t even willing to keep a small secret.”
“It isn’t that, Yury.”
“What else is it?”
Ivan hesitated. “I’m concerned about what’s in the potion.”
“You saw how the wound has healed.”
“Yes…”
“So why are you so worried?”
“Because my hounds didn’t like Karlo,” Ivan said softly.
Yury stared at him in disbelief. “That’s a foolish reason.”
Ivan turned away, uncertain if he should say more.
Yury grabbed his arm. “Ivan! You must promise not to tell. I trusted you.”
There wasn’t any question now, Ivan knew. Karlo was a sorcerer or had access to one. Magda already knew that, though. So what difference would it make telling her or not? She must know that Yury couldn’t have healed so quickly without supernatural aid.
All of a sudden, Ivan had the terrible feeling of being a pawn, a piece in a game of strategy between hidden factions. Magda and Folkwin represented one side, Karlo the other. Each was probably a captain for higher powers. Yury could throw a chess piece into a dangerous position, even allow it to be taken. He did so in the interest of the greater good of winning the game. Ivan wondered if Yury and he were pieces that had been thrust into enemy territory.
“Promise, Ivan,” Yury said.
For all her kindness, Magda ran Belgorod through Lady Belgorod and therefore through Master Volok and Petor. She’d seemed harried as of late. Maybe making the decisions she’d had had drained her.
“Say something, Ivan.”
Ivan knew no higher game. He had his friends, and one stuck by his friends. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I promise not to tell anyone on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You must pour out the rest now.”
Yury stepped back in disbelief. “Pour it out?”
Ivan had guessed right, Yury had more. “Yes,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll go to Magda and your mother.”
Yury sighed and said half to himself, “Sir Karlo warned me that nobody else would understand. I should have heeded his warning.”
“Maybe you’re right, but that’s my price for silence.”
Yury squinted at his hands and then slyly glanced at Ivan. “Agreed.”
“Now,” Ivan said.
“Now?”
Ivan nodded.
Blowing out his cheeks, Yury said, “Oh, very well.” He reached under his bed and withdrew a leather jug. Slowly, he went to his window and threw open the shutters. Unstopping the cork, Yury looked back at Ivan.
Ivan stepped near, knowing that something important happened.
Yury drew back his arm. “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I told you anyway. Sir Karlo said this had to remain a secret. I vowed not to tell anyone.” Yury looked up in agony.
Without thinking about it, Ivan snatched the jug out of Yury’s hands and upended it. A stream of purple liquid poured toward the snow below. Yury made a strangled gasp and lunged for the jug. Ivan interposed his body between Yury and it. Soon the purple liquid was gone. Silently, Ivan handed back the jug and closed the shutters.
“You did the right thing,” Ivan said.
Yury stared at the empty jug.
Ivan put his hand on Yury’s shoulder. “I need to finish my chores. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Glumly, Yury nodded, but he said nothing more.
-23-
Two weeks after Sir Karlo departed, a sleigh-full of worried mothers came to the holding. They asked Master Volok when he was going to the Old Forest to check up on their sons. Master Volok assured them that a party would be gathered in a day. That night at dinner, after talking with Lady Belgorod, Master Volok brought up the subject.
“What do you think, Petor,” Volok asked his oldest son. “Which of us should go?”
Ivan worked on a chicken leg as he listened to the conversation.
“Petor should go,” Yury said from his spot at the table.
Volok raised his eyebrows. “Why Petor?” he asked.
“So I can go,” Yury answered bluntly.
Volok looked skeptical.
“I’m much better and I’m tired of doing nothing. You’ve barely returned from visiting Andrei. You deserve a rest while Petor and I do this needed chore.”
“My back is sore,” Volok said. “And I’m weary of the winter cold.”
“There you are,” Yury said.
Petor stared sourly at his plate.
“What’s wrong?” Volok asked. “Don’t you want to go?”
“I’ll go if you will it,” Petor said.
“Hmm,” Volok said.
Ivan noticed Magda studying Yury. She cleared her throat.
“Yes, Healer?” Master Volok said.
“Are you certain that Yury should travel so soon after his injury?”
“I’m better,” Yury said stubbornly.
“Squire,” Volok said, “do not interrupt the healer.”
Yury hung his head.
Volok asked, “Has the wound healed?”
“As far as I can tell,” Magda said.
“Then what is your objection?”
Magda straightened her folk before she said, “I begin to wonder if the air within the Old Forest would be good for his recovery.”
“The air?” Volok asked in bewilderment.
Magda glanced at Nadia and the escort. “Yury took his hurt in the woods.”
“But not in the Old Forest,” Yury said.
Volok scowled at his youngest son.
“You still took a terrible hurt in a forest,” Magda said. “Your wound was tainted in some manner that I either don’t understand or cannot fathom. To trek into the Old Forest…I feel it would be an ill thing for you.” She smiled in an obvious attempt to take the sting out of her words. “Maybe you can journey to the Old Forest later.”
“No!” Yury banged the table with his fist and glared first at Magda and then at Master Volok.
Everyone looked at him in shock.
“Father,” Yury said hotly. “I’m a squire, a real squire as you’ve said. Should a squire be banned from adventure because of some nebulous danger? Neither you nor Petor truly wishes to make this journey. I do. Why should that be held against me?”
“As a squire,” Volok said, “your manners are lacking.”
“I ask your pardon. Yet my blood boils at this caution. You said I must earn my spurs and the wealth and vassals to become a knight. How can I do either if I’m forced to inactivity? No, rather I must search out interesting and adventuresome tasks if I’m ever to advance.”
“A squire’s task is to serve his knight,” Volok said.
Yury looked down, obviously struggling to hold his temper. The room was silent except for the sound of clattering forks and eating people.
“Perhaps,” Lady Belgorod said, “your youngest son is like a feisty stallion. Many times, I’ve heard you advise others to give a feisty stallion its head in order to drain off its wildness.”
“It was from his wildness he received the wolf-wound.”
“Yet from the action he gained his real squire-hood,” Lady Belgorod said.
“Master Volok?” Magda asked.
He indicated she should speak.
“If Yury is to enter the Old Forest with Petor, then I think it would be wise he take the woodcutter’s son with him. I’m sure Woodcutter Dimitri would give his permission.”
Lady Belgorod nodded approvingly.
“Why do you suggest this?” Volok asked Magda.
“Because it was the young woodcutter who came to Yury’s rescue.”
“It was Sir Karlo who stood over Yury,” Volok said.
Magda said, “It wasn’t until Feodor came that the wolves retreated.”
Volok knuckled his mustache. “I shall ask Dimitri if his son can join the party.”
Yury whipped up his head. “Then I can go?”
Volok eyed Petor. Petor nodded. “Yes,” Volok told Yury, “you and Petor will head the party. And in order that you find Sir Karlo’s camp, you will take the two best tracking hounds.” He turned to Ivan. “Which two would that be?”
“Flay and Vesna,” Ivan said. Although Flay still wore a splint, he’d been running around easily enough on three legs.
“There you have it,” Volok said. “In order to ensure the hounds do their best work, I’m sending Ivan along.”
“Could Ivan take Stribog?” Magda asked.
Master Volok frowned. “Stribog? What reason—”
Lady Belgorod put her hand on Volok’s arm and whispered in his ear.
Volok’s frown deepened. “Oh, very well, Stribog goes. The party will contain a knight, a squire, a woodcutter and a dog trainer with three charges. Does anyone else have anything to say?”
“I do,” Nadia said. “I should go.”
“No,” the escort said.
“Are you sure?” Volok asked the escort. “Nadia would be a valuable addition. I can attest to that myself.”
“I wish to go,” Nadia said.
Magda put her hand on Nadia’s arm and leaned near, whispering into her ear. In a moment, Nadia stood. “Excuse me, please.” She strode angrily from the hall.
“Very well,” Volok said as he watched Nadia leave. “It would have pleased me if Nadia was allowed to join, but I will bow to the Sisterhood’s wishes in this matter. The party, as it stands, will leave in a day.”
-24-
It didn’t surprise Ivan when Magda followed him out to the bathhouse. Nor did he lift his eyebrows or ask any questions when Magda took hold of his elbow and propelled him into the small shed. Of course, they hadn’t heated any rocks. Magda sat him down on the bench beside the tub and then sat beside him.
“We must talk.”
“In here?” he asked.
“What I say must be kept private. You must not even hint what I’m about to say to anyone. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
Magda looked worn. The aura of well being and confidence no longer exuded from her. Rather, she seemed like a poor peasant’s wife, one whose husband had lost his horse or oxen team. Under such conditions, crude peasants sometimes hitched their wives and older sons to the plow. Wives of such men aged quickly and moved with slumped shoulders and glassy expressions.
“Much has occurred since Karlo’s departure,” Magda said. “Yury’s rapid healing is only part of the puzzle.”
“You know about that?”
“Know? I am the Healer, am I not? That my art had no effect upon the wolf-wound told me much. When it healed with supernatural speed that told me more. The rest I can guess.”
“Good.”
“Since Karlo’s coming, we have all kept secrets. The arrival of a powerful servant of Darkness does such things.”
“You think Sir Karlo is such a one?”
“Now I do, yes.”
“What decided you?”
Magda shook her head. “Much has happened, my foster son. Sir Karlo’s seeding has begun to bring forth fruit. Yes, he sowed in secret. Now he plans to harvest his bitter crop.”
“If what you say is true, then why are you sending us into the Old Forest?”
Magda bowed her head. “Hosar help me,” she whispered. “All that I hold dear will be in danger, but to do otherwise… To draw Karlo out I am forced to this drastic measure.”
“You’re not making sense.”
Magda took hold of Ivan’s hands. “Whoever sent Sir Karlo is clever, for he is well-disguised. Even so, Folkwin knew that Belgorod Holding protected a hidden treasure—although not even Folkwin knows the nature of the prize. Therefore, he sent me here many years ago. My charge has been to protect the hidden treasure. The Axe People have helped me. They, however, play their own dangerous game.”
“Do…?”
She squeezed his hand. “Of course I know Dimitri spoke to you about the Axe People. It was a wise decision, although I wouldn’t have agreed to it if he’d told me ahead of time.”
“Why do the Axe People keep hidden from us?”
“They don’t, really. We just never travel to where they live. A few of us do, perhaps. The true servants of Hosar travel into the legendary places.”
“Who are the Old Ones?” Ivan asked.
“They’re our enemies who learned their trade at the feet of Old Father Night and the Moon Lady.”
“They must be ancient.”
“They remember the old days because they were there. By their arts, they prolong their bitter lives. Countless generations of men have lived and died since Old Father Night fell asleep. The last Old Ones…they have long remained hidden, plotting for power. Now Darkness stirs again and sends forth its champions. Now Light is weak, the old world and its alliances long vanished. It is the likes of you and me who must stand against Darkness, against the ancient spell-casters and their minions.”
“Why have the Old Ones waited so long?”
“Because they were sick,” said Magda. “Because with their twisted knowledge they knew that a time of ignorance would descend on the world. Men’s vigilance has withered. Only a few like Folkwin still see the larger scheme of things.”
“What makes him so special?”
“He is the last of the Order of the White Flame.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“The Sisterhood of Moiré and the Order of the White Flame, only they remain from a time of war and bloodshed. From a time of strongholds and armies, sorcerers and blood-drinkers, bold captains and sly deceivers. In those days, Darkness and Light waged open warfare. Now, Darkness strains to gain a march on a weary world.”
Ivan pulled his hands away. This was a lot to take in at once. He was just a dog trainer in an out-of-the-way holding. Sir Karlo, with his silver hair and sword, he appeared to be a champion. How were they supposed to out-think and out-do him?
“We play a dangerous game, and we play it against a deadly opponent,” Magda said. “Our one true advantage is that our opponent underestimates us.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he didn’t kill you the night you witnessed the ancient ritual of the Moon Lady, and because he didn’t try to kidnap Nadia. She is potentially our most powerful spellcaster.”
“Maybe he loves Nadia,” Ivan heard himself say.
Magda examined his face. Finally, she nodded. “That is our other advantage. Because Karlo never radiated Darkness’ familiar taint, I think he retains a portion of his humanity. I think his Old One has seen to that. Thus we were tricked.”
“But not any longer?”
“The escort and I haven’t discovered all of Sir Karlo’s secrets. A few of them, maybe. Therefore, we have decided to play the game boldly. There is danger in that. Yury and Nadia have been sorely tempted. Both waver. Both are likely to make the wrong choice at the wrong moment. Only, I think, if they see evil up close and in time will they chose correctly.”
“What must I do?”
“Help Karlo believe that his fruit is ripe for the plucking. Otherwise…” Magda bowed her head. “Otherwise he will call in his reserves and take everything by force.”
“Why doesn’t he do that now?” Ivan asked.
“Nadia must tempt him because he wants her love. He must realize that if she knew his ambitions she’d reject him. Yet I could be wrong.” Magda’s voice grew softer. “Pray that I’ve guessed right. Otherwise I’m sending all of you to your doom.”
“What is my part in this?”
“You must be ready to stop Yury or Nadia at the critical moment.”
“To stop them from doing what?” asked Ivan.
“From whatever it is that Karlo has groomed them to do.”
Ivan gave a sour laugh. “Magda, I’ll be killed. We’ll all be killed.”
“In a day, I will go to Master Volok. He’ll muster the freeholders. With Dimitri and Danko as his captains, Master Volok will march into the Old Forest. The escort and I will join them. Once you thwart Karlo you must flee to us.”
Ivan studied her. Something wasn’t quite right. He said, “And what about Sir Karlo’s prize. Am I to thwart his gaining of that as well?”
Magda shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. If you can.”
“Do the Axe People know your plan?”
Magda smiled. “You’re a shrewd, lad. It gives me hope.”
He thought about what she’d said. “No. Your plan won’t work. The raven with the white beak will see Master Volok’s force and report to Sir Karlo.”
“The raven died soon after its appearance. We were lucky there.”
“How did it die?” he asked.
“By a piece of luck, I said. I think an eagle slew it.”
“Then you saw this raven?”
“No. Dimitri told me about it.”
Ivan recalled that he’d told Feodor about the raven. “Okay, Magda. But something else puzzles me. The escort didn’t allow Nadia to join our party. What makes you think she’ll be with us?”
Magda laughed as she rose. “I am her mother. Mothers know certain things about their daughters, even when their daughters are making bad decisions. Nadia will join you. However, it is important that she sneak away.”
“Why?”
“So her guilt will gnaw at her, hopefully enough to bring her back to her senses. Believe me, Ivan, sometimes a mother can tell her daughter only so much. At those times, the daughter must learn for herself.”
Ivan nodded. Magda hadn’t lost her guile. It made him fell better. “How much does Petor know?”
“Enough.” She touched his shoulder. “I pray that Hosar watches over you. Your next few days will be the most dangerous of your life. Take care.”
-25-
The hour of departure arrived. Ivan shouldered a heavy pack and wore a warm coat that almost reached to his feet. He also wore a woolen hat and thick leather mittens. He held Flay’s and Vesna’s leashes in his left fist, Stribog’s in his right. The Wends warspear was tied to his pack. Master Volok had insisted he take it.
Nearby on the porch, Feodor retied one of his bootlaces. He, too, shouldered a heavy pack, wore a long coat with leg slits, a big woolen hat with ear flaps and a wide leather belt with a loop for his axe.
Yury cantered toward them on his old red horse. He’d tied his sword to the right side of his saddle. A round shield hung on the other side. He wore a fur coat, while underneath it he wore a leather jerkin for armor. He held onto the reins of a mule loaded with supplies. Lashed among the supplies was Petor’s knightly banner.
Petor cantered up. His stallion, named Thunder, towered over Yury’s horse the way Stribog towered over the other hounds. The muscle-bound charger was fleet of hoof and trained for knightly combat. Hardened leather barding covered his chest and flanks. He snorted importantly at everyone around him.
Petor seemed like a new man. He wore a conical helmet with a nasal guard and a chain-mail harness over a padded coat. The heavy chainmail hung to his knees, with a slit up the middle to his groin so he could sit astride his charger. On the left side of his saddle hung a kite-shaped shield, on the right side rose a stout lance tipped with a wicked-looking head. The head was double-edged and over a foot long. It had been forged in the Rhineland and had been purchased by Master Volok over ten years ago. Armored and mounted as he was, Petor had become a fearsome warrior, a Moravian knight.
“Bid the farmers to come home,” Volok told Petor in way of last minute instructions. “Be sure to tell the farmers’ sons that their mothers are worried about them.”
“Yes sir,” Petor said.
“And don’t let Sir Karlo bluster you, either,” Volok said.
“I won’t.”
“But most importantly,” Lady Belgorod said from the porch, “I want all of you to take care of yourselves.”
Each of them nodded in turn.
“Yes,” Magda agreed. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
Feodor and Yury nodded again. Ivan looked around for Nadia. No doubt, she’d join them later as Magda had said.
“Let’s go,” Yury said.
“Yes!” Volok said gruffly. “Off with you now.” He slapped Yury’s horse on the rump.
Sucking in his stomach and expanding his chest, Petor clucked his tongue. The war-horse cantered away. Yury followed suit. Both Ivan and Feodor hurried to catch up as they floundered through the snow.
“It will be better in the forest,” Feodor told Ivan. “The snow banks will be less deep there. The horsemen will have to dismount because of the thickets and low branches. Then they’ll be afoot like us.”
Ivan adjusted his pack so the straps felt more comfortable. He hurried to the east gate and opened it. Petor and Yury rode through. Feodor jogged past, and then Ivan himself stepped through, closed and secured the gate.
He stared back at the great house’s weathered timbers and peaked roof. He swallowed. Would he ever see Magda, Master Volok or Lady Belgorod again? He shook his head. This was madness. He scanned the skies for ravens. The sun shone weakly and threw its pitiful rays over the snow. Ahead Yury and Petor had already made gains up the hill. Feodor shouted and waved for him to hurry up.
Ivan plowed through the snow with the hounds in tow.
“What were you doing back there?” Feodor asked.
“Thinking.”
“About what?”
“When I’d see the holding next.”
Feodor chewed that over as they followed the Belgorod knight and squire. “Are you already homesick?”
Ivan shrugged.
When they crested the low hill, the Old Forest became visible in the distance. The trees were wider and more twisted there than in the regular woods, and there wasn’t any end to them either. The Old Forest just went on and on, and as far as anyone at Belgorod knew, perhaps the Old Forest went to the very edge of the Scythian Steppes.
“My father has a bad feeling about this trip,” Feodor said.
Ivan grunted in agreement.
“It wasn’t what he said as how he acted last night. Father stared at the fire and poked at his food. Finally, he took to sharpening his special axe. He only does that when he’s worried. I asked him what the plan was. He kept right on sharpening the axe. I waited. In the end he set aside the axe and came to where I whittled by the fireplace. First putting his hand on my shoulder, he said, ‘Keep a close eye on Yury.’
“‘Why?’ I asked.
“‘Just do it.’
“He also told me to stay by your side no matter what happened.”
Ivan was glad for that, and said so.
Yury rode ahead and eagerly eyed the Old Forest. Several times, he shouted back or laughed joyfully.
Petor rode behind Yury. Once out of sight of Belgorod Holding, he took off the helmet. In its place, he put on a thick woolen hat. A heavy cloak came on next. Then he dropped his chain-mail gauntlets into his saddlebags and slipped on mittens. Petor rode slouched in the saddle.
At noon, they halted beside an icy stand of rocks. From a pot that hung at the edge of his backpack, Ivan took out several coals and set them among the twigs that Feodor gathered. He boiled a pot of broth and handed around full cups. They ate cold cheese and chicken legs, muttered some and set off again.
Step-by-step they drew closer to the Old Forest. Naked branches clawed skyward, although green, snow-laden pines rose up in various spots. From time to time Petor pulled out a leather map and examined it from his high-backed saddle. Around late afternoon, about an hour before dusk and a mile-and-a-half before they entered the Old Forest proper, Flay perked up. In the past few minutes, the wind had shifted several times.
“What is it, boy?”
Flay sniffed, looking around. Vesna caught Flay’s movements and immediately lifted her ears. She, too, began to sniff.
“What does she sense?” Feodor asked.
Ivan laughed good-naturedly. “Do you think the hounds talk to me in some sort of special speech that only dog-trainers know?”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Feodor said. “Trees talk to me in a way only a woodcutter’s son could know.”
Snorting mist, Thunder trotted back until Petor towered above them. “The hounds sense something. Do you know what?”
“Not exactly,” Ivan said. “They’re not straining at the leash to give chase. So they don’t sense the normal animals they’re used to hunting.”
Yury shouted from ahead. “What’s going on? Let’s go!”
“Have either of you noticed anyone tracking us?” Petor asked.
“I have,” Feodor admitted.
“What about you, Ivan? Have you spotted this tracker?”
“No,” Ivan said. “Until Flay picked up the spoor, I had no idea anything was amiss.”
Petor rubbed his frost-reddened chin. “Who do you think tracks us?”
“I thought you knew,” Feodor said. “Nadia follows us.”
Ivan turned and cupped his hands. “Nadia!” he yelled. “We know you’re here!”
A quarter-mile away on the trail they’d just blazed a figure on horseback appeared. She rode out of a clump of trees and toward them.
Yury cantered back as she approached. “So she followed us, eh? Yes, I would’ve done the same thing.”
Nadia rode up, warmly bundled in a white fur coat. Several scarves hid her face. A pack sat behind her saddle, while lashed underneath her right leg was something in leather wrappings. Its length seemed that of a solid walking staff. No doubt, it was the polished and carefully carved wand. What surprised Ivan was an unstrung bow on the left side of the saddle, within easy reach of a bow-case.
“You have a bow?” Ivan said.
She pulled down her scarves. “A former Magyar chieftain taught me archery at the Chapter-House. I’m not very good from up here in the saddle. On the ground, however, I can hit most targets.”
Impressed, Ivan wondered if she’d let him use it. He liked bows, but since it was a nobleman’s sport weapon, the likes of him seldom used one.
Petor rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, this talk about bows is all very well, but what am I going to do now?”
“Do?” Nadia asked.
“You can’t stay with us,” Petor said.
Nadia arched her eyebrows. “You mean you’re going to deny your fire to a wandering maiden?”
“What fire?” Petor asked.
She made a vague gesture.
“Let her join,” Yury said. “We need to keep traveling.”
Petor eyed his younger brother. Yury had already lost interest in Nadia. He turned his horse toward the forest.
“She can’t go back tonight,” Feodor told Petor. “It’s too far. I don’t know about Ivan, but I’m tired. I need to throw down my pack, eat and sleep.”
“I’m joining you,” Nadia said.
“Excuse me?” Petor asked. “I don’t think I heard you.”
“I said I’m joining you,” Nadia said.
Petor shook his head. “You heard what your escort said.”
“That’s why I had to sneak away. But don’t worry. I left her a note.”
“This is ridiculous,” Petor said, getting frustrated.
Ivan could have told him that arguing with Nadia was a waste of time. She planned on seeing Sir Karlo and that was that.
“I don’t see what’s so ridiculous,” Nadia said. “You can go home and I’ll even ride along, but the next chance I have to saddle a horse, I’ll be off again and following you.”
Feodor told Petor, “My advice is to let her join.”
Petor knuckled his mustache in thought.
Yury shouted from ahead, “Are you four going to stand around and jaw the rays of sunlight away? Come on! Let’s go.”
“Well?” Nadia asked Petor.
“For tonight you may camp with us.”
“Where do you plan to camp?” she asked.
“At the edge of the Old Forest.” So saying, Petor turned Thunder.
They traveled until the sun ballooned into a red ball on the western horizon. The east looked like a vast wall. Yury galloped ahead, then raced back and told them he’d picked the campsite. It was a sheltering under several closely-packed pines. They set up three small crawl-tents and threw fur-lined sleeping bags into them.
Feodor built a fire and cooked supper. Nadia and Yury attended to the horses. Ivan looked after his hounds. Petor tramped around until he was satisfied everything was in order.
Subdued by their thoughts, they ate supper beside the fire. Nadia, Feodor and Petor climbed into their separate crawl-tents and slipped into their sleeping bags. Yury had first watch and Ivan wished to ask him a thing or two.
The dying fire threw shadows on the pines. With his belted sword, Yury sat on a rock and stared into the night.
Ivan walked up. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
They sat quietly, listening to the whispering wind. Branches creaked. An owl, somewhere in the darkness, hooted in flight. Then, very faintly, they heard an eerie howl. Both of them tensed, waiting for more howls. They never came. The two youths glanced at one another.
“Was that a wolf?” Yury asked.
“It must have been.”
“It sounded different than a wolf.”
Ivan agreed. The howl had made goosebumps jump onto his arms. There had seemed something lost about the sound. He’d been glad when it stopped. Already the Old Forest seemed more sinister because of it.
Maybe that’s when Ivan noticed that Yury didn’t wear his gloves. Ivan frowned and then squinted in the darkness. Yury passed something from hand-to-hand.
“Aren’t your hands cold?” asked Ivan.
“Huh? Oh! No.”
“What are you holding?”
Yury seemed reluctant to answer. At last, he smiled sheepishly and showed Ivan a black chess piece, a king. Only this king wasn’t one of his pine-carved pieces. It was twice as big as Yury’s regular pieces and looked to be made out of ivory.
“Gronlandian ivory?” Ivan asked in sudden understanding.
“It’s one of Sir Karlo’s pieces. I gave him my white king. He gave me his black one.”
Ivan nodded, recalling that Magda hadn’t liked the idea of Yury losing something personal to Sir Karlo. Did it have anything to do with magic? He’d have to ask Nadia. There couldn’t be anything more personal to Yury than one of his self-carved chess pieces.
“Can I see it?” asked Ivan.
Yury held up the king for inspection, but he didn’t offer to hand it over.
Ivan wondered if he should snatch the piece. The mulish look on Yury’s face decided him against the attempt. He grunted instead and pretended to lose interest.
Yury slipped the king away and put his gloves back on. He gave Ivan several sly side-glances. Ivan noticed, but pretended not to.
“Adventure in the Old Forest,” Ivan said. “You’re right, Yury. This is the thing. Maybe we should have joined Karlo. He asked me to join him, you know?”
Yury licked his lips and lowered his head. He whispered, “Have you seen him then?”
Ivan stiffened. “I’m not sure.”
“I’m sure he watches us.”
Ivan asked with feigned idleness, “Is he watching us now?”
“No! Not now.”
They watched the stars for a time. A shooting star fell.
“Say,” Ivan asked, “it isn’t Sir Karlo who watches us, is it?”
Yury snorted.
“Who then?” asked Ivan.
“I don’t know his name,” Yury said. “But I’ve seen him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall. Dark. Shimmering cloak. Pale green eyes.”
“Green?”
“Like swamp gas,” Yury whispered.
Ivan took hold of Yury’s forearm. “Are you feeling well?”
“Sometimes I’m not sure. Sometimes…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” Yury said curtly, disengaging his arm. “You’d better get some sleep.”
“Sure, Yury, but if you see this man again, will you come get me?”
“Yes. I’d like it if someone else saw him.”
Troubled, Ivan crawled into the tent with Feodor. He lay in his sleeping-bag, thinking. In time, he fell into a fitful slumber.
-26-
Ivan’s dream began sometime after midnight. In his dream, he stood in a forest. This forest had no snow and was made up of gnarled oaks and towering beeches in full bloom. Down the shadowed lanes—for the shimmering leaves kept the dream-forest in eternal gloom—grew a profusion of red and yellow toadstools. Ivan walked down one of the aisles, carefully tiptoeing between the toadstools so as not to crush them. That seemed terribly important for some reason.
As he strolled down the wooded lane, he began to wonder where everyone else had gone. He knew he was supposed to be with others, but he couldn’t quite remember who they were. Suddenly, with the swiftness of a lightning bolt, a foreboding presence stole near. He glanced right and left. Looking down, he saw that the toadstools changed from a healthy red and yellow to a sickly rotting color. Walking faster, throwing worried glances over his shoulder, he saw the leaves wither and blacken. A foul stench rose from the ground like a fog.
Confused and scared that something stalked him, he broke into a trot. He crushed the rotted toadstools. Something dead within the forest moaned. The horrid moan was of someone who had lost all hope. The black-barked trees with their black leaves twisted and tried to touch him. Then Ivan saw pale, evil green eyes stare at him from within the darkest part of the forest.
He tried to yell. Instead, his question came out in a whisper. “Who are you?”
The evil thing with the pale green eyes advanced. It wore a dark helmet and a large black cloak that shimmered with a horrid life of its own.
“Who are you?” Ivan asked, this time louder than before.
The sinister shadow stopped, hissing, “You are not the one.”
Ivan grew faint at the death-like voice.
“Yet…”
Ivan turned and ran.
“Come back,” the foul shadow whispered.
Ivan ran faster. Fear ate at him. The thing closed. Ivan quailed, yet with a valiant effort he roared, “NO!”
Ivan bolted upright and looked wildly around. He sat in the crawl-tent. Outside the stars twinkled. Beside him, Feodor tossed in his sleep. “It was just a nightmare,” Ivan told himself. Before he could decide, he fell back asleep.
-27-
In the morning, snow drifted down from the sky. As Ivan crawled out, a clump of snow that had gathered atop the tent fell onto his neck. He jumped with a muttered curse. Wetness trickled under his collar despite his hurried brushing. He approached the fire. Feodor feed it tiny, broken pieces of twig. It almost seemed that his hands shook. He stirred a pot of porridge and twitched each time a snowflake hissed into the fire.
“Are you all right?” asked Ivan.
“Did you sleep well?” Feodor blurted out in a rush.
Ivan gave him a quizzical glance as he sat and warmed his hands. “I had a troubling dream,” he admitted.
“You too?”
“What do you mean?” Ivan asked suspiciously.
Feodor picked up a twig and with his thumb snapped off tiny pieces. When he’d gathered all the pieces in his palm, he tossed them into the fire. A sheen of sweat covered his face and his breathing seemed rapid.
Feodor said in a rush, “I woke up several times last night and found it difficult to go back to sleep. Every time I did…” He brushed his eyes. “Every time I did a dark man stalked me through a rotted-out forest.”
“What did he look like?” Ivan asked, with worry worming in his gut.
“I don’t know, exactly. He kept himself hidden within the shadows. Once or twice, I saw that he wore a helmet. He also had a long dark cloak. Sometimes the cloak seemed like wings.”
“His eyes,” Ivan whispered. “What color were his eyes?”
“A pale, pale green.”
“Oh no,” Ivan whispered. “I dreamed the same thing.”
Feodor wiped his eyes again. When he threw another twig into the fire, his hands definitely shook. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“I think we should ask Yury.”
Just then, Yury stepped into the clearing. “Ask me what?” he asked.
Feodor told him about the dream. Then he demanded to know, “Why did Ivan say I should ask you?”
Yury stared mulishly at the fire. Finally, he said, “I suppose Ivan said that because I’ve seen this dark man, as you put it.”
“You’ve seen him?” Feodor asked in disbelief. “As in the waking hours?”
“Yes,” Yury said.
Feodor sat back with a dazed look. He asked, “When did you first see him?”
Yury shrugged.
“That’s no answer.”
Ivan knew the woodcutter’s son. He hated to be afraid. When he did become afraid, as he’d once been on a bear hunt, he became angry. The anger camouflaged the fear. It was also one of the few times when Feodor became unpredictable.
“Oh, all right,” Yury said irritably. “I saw him a week ago.”
“What?” Ivan and Feodor shouted together.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Ivan asked.
“I don’t know,” Yury grumbled. “At the time it didn’t seem important.”
Ivan glanced at Feodor. Feodor wore his mean look.
The hounds began to fight then. Ivan, half as an excuse to leave and think this through, raced off to separate the hounds. He saw Nadia and Petor sit down with the others. They joined the argument. Scolding his hounds once more, Ivan hurried back to the fire.
“You should’ve told Father about the dark man,” Petor said. He handed Ivan a bowl of porridge.
Despite his hunger, Ivan only picked at it.
“Actually,” Nadia said, in what sounded like an offhanded manner, “Yury should have told Magda or me.”
“Why?” Petor asked. “Why not tell Master Volok so he could capture and question the man?”
“Because Master Volok couldn’t have captured him,” Nadia said. “Both Feodor and Ivan dreamed about the dark man. In the dream he chased them through a black forest, and the dreams were terrifying enough that it woke both Feodor and Ivan.”
“What are you saying?” Petor asked.
“That the dark man isn’t human,” Nadia said.
Petor blanched. “Why do you say this?”
“Because the dark man was in Feodor’s and Ivan’s dreams,” Nadia said in her maddeningly calm manner.
Petor asked, “When you say he was in their dreams, do you mean that the he who this dark man is, was actually inside their dreams?”
“No,” Nadia said. “Nobody can do that. But I think this dark man isn’t real in the way that you and I are real. I think his...his presence invaded Feodor’s and Ivan’s dream because he watched them last night.”
Petor gaped in amazement. Feodor shot to his feet.
Nadia said, “I think the dark man is a faint.”
The blood drained from Feodor’s face. With a groan, he sank back onto his stone and stared fixedly at the fire.
“What’s a faint?” asked Ivan.
“It’s all that is left of an evil person after he dies. Such was his bondage to a powerful spellcaster that the faint remains for further service.”
Feodor made a choking sound.
Nadia rose. “We should be on our way.”
Petor shook his head. “Not until I gain an understanding of what’s going on.”
“Yes,” Yury said. “Why the skullduggery?”
Nadia sat down. “A week ago, both the escort and I sensed a presence stalking Belgorod Holding. It was evil, we knew that, but we didn’t know its purpose. The escort attempted to name it. The effort failed. I feared to attempt a naming.”
“Did you tell Master Volok?” Petor asked.
“I told Magda. She conferred with Lady Belgorod. Finally, in the end, we spoke to Master Volok.”
“This is confusing,” Petor said. “If you sensed this presence, then why didn’t you tell any of us? And since you didn’t tell us, why did Father allow this mission?”
“You’re to bring back the farmers,” Nadia said. “If it’s dangerous for you to travel, then it’s even more dangerous for them to be in the Old Forest.”
“No,” Petor said. “If it was that dangerous, then my father would be here. He wouldn’t send his sons into peril if he himself wouldn’t go. What aren’t you telling us?”
Nadia sighed. “If you must know…Magda, the escort and I believe that the faint was sent to watch me. It isn’t a danger to the rest of you.”
“Who sent it?” Petor asked.
Nadia fidgeted, no longer meeting their eyes. “I believe this began at the Chapter-House in Pavia.”
Ivan was certain that she was lying. This…faint must have everything to do with Karlo.
“If all this is true,” Petor said, “then why have you left Belgorod Holding? There is more safety behind the holding’s walls and in the company of the Sisterhood escort than here with us.”
Nadia bit her lip.
“Please, Nadia,” Petor said, “Speak plainly. We’re your friends. We need your help.”
Nadia remained silent.
“If this faint follows us,” Ivan said slowly, “then why has only Yury seen it in the daytime?”
“Yes,” Feodor growled.
Yury said, “Shouldn’t we first hear what Nadia’s purpose is?”
“The plain truth,” Nadia said, “is that I plan to destroy the faint. The escort would try to stop me. Therefore, I’ve left her company and joined yours. Once I’m far enough away from her influence, I’ll vanquish this evil creature.”
Silence greeted her words. Feodor straightened. Some of his anger had vanished to be replaced by hope.
“The faint is an evil thing,” Nadia said. “It’s filled with malice and deceit. Once, long ago, it served Old Father Night or the Lord of Bats.”
Alarmed, Petor asked, “Can you truly vanquish this thing?”
“Yes,” said Nadia.
“Why couldn’t the escort destroy it?” Feodor asked.
“She didn’t try,” Nadia said. “She tried to name it, which is a different thing entirely. Besides, the escort is a warder.”
“And Magda’s a healer,” Yury said, snapping his fingers.
Petor asked his brother, “What do you mean?”
“I’m just trying to understand the various types of magic-users within the Sisterhood,” Yury said in a rush. “Magda’s a healer, the escort’s a warder.” He faced Nadia. “So which are you?”
“I’m a shaper.”
“What’s that?” Yury asked. His face shone with excitement as his crooked smile twitched into place.
“A shaper shapes things,” Nadia replied.
Feodor poked the fire with a stick. “Are shapers rare?”
“They are,” said Nadia.
Petor asked, “I wonder if that’s why Karlo came to the holding? What do you think?”
“I think not,” Nadia said. “He’s not interested in me as an initiate.”
“Is the faint from Karlo?” Petor asked.
“No,” said Nadia.
“How do you know?” Petor asked.
“The escort said the faint is very ancient, although it’s very weak. That’s all she could learn about it. Now I have a question for you,” Nadia told Petor. “What makes you think Sir Karlo can practice the magical arts?”
It was on the tip of Ivan’s tongue to name all the pieces of evidence, including the healing draught.
Maybe Yury sensed that, because he said, “Ivan! Why not give me a hand with the horses. We need to be on our way.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ivan rose and walked with Yury to the picketed mounts.
“Do you remember your promise?” Yury whispered hotly, breathing his porridge-breath into Ivan’s face.
“I remember, but I wonder why you wish to keep it a secret.”
“If Petor learns about it he’ll demand I go home. I want to see the treasure Karlo has dug up.” Yury smiled. “Don’t you?” He tossed a blanket over his horse’s back.
“I suppose so.”
“Of course you do. It’ll be fantastic.”
“How do you know?” Ivan asked.
Yury heaved a saddle onto the horse. “Sir Karlo told me what he searches for. It will be quite a surprise.”
“Gold and diamonds?”
“No,” Yury said. “He seeks old weapons the legendary heroes used. I can hardly wait to swing one of them.”
“What makes you think Karlo will let you?”
Yury shrugged.
“Karlo didn’t promise anything, did he?”
Yury laughed. “I wish he would have. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just wondering what gives you the confidence to talk the way you do.”
Yury didn’t answer. Instead, he cinched the saddle and went to Thunder.
The mule, Ivan and a frowning Feodor were soon loaded up and they tramped down the trail. Ivan kept a close watch over Yury, worried about his best friend. He recalled Magda’s words, to try to stop Yury and Nadia from making bad choices.
After two miles, Petor and Yury dismounted. The branches had become too thick for them to keep riding. Nadia stayed upon her horse a while longer. Finally, she dismounted and walked.
“How did Karlo take his sleigh through all this?” Nadia asked, with twigs embedded in her scarves.
“He took a different path,” Petor said. “The farmers told me their route. They said Karlo’s destination was the Golghiz Region.”
“Is this a shortcut?” Nadia asked.
“It is,” Petor admitted.
Feodor asked in a sullen tone, “Aren’t there old legends about the Golghiz Region?”
“None that need worry us,” Petor said.
Feodor snorted.
“What are you worried about?” Petor asked.
“Bats!” Feodor said. “They say this region is filled with rabid bats that some say are strangely intelligent.”
“I’ve never heard that,” Yury said.
“Nor I,” said Petor. “Nadia?”
Nadia shook her head.
Feodor seemed ready to speak again. Then he hunched his shoulders.
“If you know something,” Petor said, “you should tell us.”
“Like Yury and Nadia told others about the faint?” Feodor asked.
Irritation crossed Petor’s face. He kept his thoughts to himself, however.
At noon, they stopped and ate cheese and hunks of cold bread. Ivan heated up broth and that seemed to revive spirits. The Old Forest was a bleak place. The naked, claw-like branches gave it an empty feeling, although the few snow-laden pines softened the image. Three times, they surprised rabbits, while another time Feodor pointed out a snowy-white owl as it blinked at them. Later, during mid-afternoon, Ivan had to hold back the hounds. He figured they’d caught a whiff of fox.
They entered a clearing and crossed a frozen stream. At the edge of the clearing, Stribog paused, and growled. He lifted his leg and urinated. He sniffed again and whined.
Ivan hurried to Stribog, then ahead of him. He stopped, eyes widening. Kneeling, he inspected a huge set of tracks.
Feodor edged beside him. “Wolf tracks?” he asked.
Ivan shucked off his mitten and placed his hand beside the track. He looked up at Feodor. “Ever see a wolf-print bigger than a man’s hand before?”
“Not that much bigger,” Feodor said softly.
The others gathered near. The hounds whined and took to urinating.
“Those tracks are huge!” Yury said excitedly.
Petor muttered under his breath.
Nadia paled. Her eyes met Ivan’s.
“Storm wolves?” he asked.
“I-I don’t know,” she said.
“Storm wolves?” Petor asked in alarm. “Are storm wolves real?”
“The Magyars think so,” Nadia said. “In the far south they war against wolf-riders.”
“I’d heard rumors,” Petor said, shaking his head. “I thought they were just tall tales.” His shrewd face zeroed in on Nadia. “Wolf-riders did you say? What kind of riders?”
“What do you mean?” asked Nadia.
“A man can’t sit a wolf like a horse,” Petor said. “No, not even the wolf that made these tracks. So my question is, what kind of riders are small enough and still dangerous enough to battle these Magyars?”
“Clawmen,” said Nadia.
Petor muttered as he scowled at the track.
“That’s what a Magyar told a Pavian merchant who sold him sabers and hard spirits,” Nadia said.
“Did the Magyars unload any corpses?” Petor asked. “Or did they sell any salted jars with clawmen heads in them?”
“That’s disgusting,” Nadia said. “The Magyars are more cultured than that.”
“Who’s talking about culture?” Petor asked. “This is a matter of proof.”
“Clawmen are real,” Feodor muttered. “My father fought them once.” He gave them a terse description of Dimitri’s journey.
“Incredible,” Petor said at last.
“How exciting,” Yury said.
“The important question,” said Ivan, “is whether clawmen or storm wolves are near. And if so, can the faint guide them to us?”
“Remember,” Petor said, “all we’ve spotted are over-sized wolf tracks. There are no companion tracks of clawmen. Perhaps this track is simply of a wolf with porcupine needle-swelled paws.”
Ivan recalled the eerie howl from last night. He told Nadia, “Maybe you should keep your wand handy. And maybe you should let me carry your bow.”
“You?” asked Nadia. “I can shoot well enough.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” said Ivan. “But if storm wolves are loose, you’ll be too busy casting protective spells to use your bow.”
“Since when did you learn to shoot?” asked Nadia.
“I’ve let him practice with my bow,” Petor said, studying Ivan. “Father thought it a good idea for the dog trainer to understand the intricacies of archery. Ivan is a fair shot if the target isn’t moving and he has time to line it up.”
“Should I let him borrow the bow?” Nadia asked.
“It might be a good idea,” replied the knight.
Nadia went to her mount and returned. “Don’t break it,” she said, handing the unstrung bow and case to Ivan. “And don’t waste arrows. They were specially made and are each very straight and eagle-fletched. Only string it when you’re ready to shoot.”
“Petor did teach me about bows.” Ivan ran his hand along it. “Say, this isn’t wood.”
“No,” said Nadia. “It’s made of horn and sinew. It’s a Magyar’s bow, one they shoot from the saddle.”
“Is it as good as a yew bow?” Ivan asked.
“If you don’t like it you can give it back,” she said.
“Oh no,” he said. “It’ll do.” Ivan had never told anyone, but he loved bows. The ability to shoot a distance…the idea enthralled him. The bow was the perfect hunter’s tool.
-28-
An hour later Feodor and Ivan led the way. They squeezed through a dense thicket, breaking branches for the others and their horses. Sweat glistened from their faces and they breathed hard.
“You realize that we’re hiking closer to death,” Feodor wheezed.
“I saw the Moon Lady’s rite before.”
Feodor strained with a branch. The crack was loud in the cold. He tossed it aside. “Storm wolves could be here.”
“And clawmen,” Ivan said. “I’m beginning to believe that the Imp was a clawman.”
“So why are we here?”
“To trick Karlo,” Ivan said without hesitation.
“Magda’s orders?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
Feodor grunted. They broke more branches. Behind them Petor cursed. The Belgorod knight quickly apologized to Nadia for using such crude language.
“Sir Karlo isn’t going to be tricked,” Feodor said.
“He might be,” said Ivan. Yury had only drunk half the healing potion. Nadia didn’t strike him as completely lost to love. In the end, he trusted the good breeding and life-long training that both Yury and Nadia had received. And he’d heard something in Karlo’s voice when he’d spoken about Nadia. Maybe the knight really did have a weakness because of love.
“You’re not thinking,” Feodor muttered. “Sir Karlo has Perun and his men with him.”
“We have the farmers,” Ivan said.
Feodor shook his head. “We’re walking into a trap.”
“Yes, with our eyes open.”
Feodor snorted. “And since when has a bear been helped by letting itself be trapped?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Not suggesting, just wondering which of us are going to die.”
The idea froze Ivan’s chest. Some of them were going to die. Maybe he would. Surely, one of his close friends would.
“I asked that so you’ll be ready to fight for your life,” Feodor said. “At the first sign of treachery, maybe even before, you must hit hard and keep hitting until you know your opponent is down and dead.”
Ivan swallowed. Feodor’s wide face was set in a grim mask. He knew the woodcutter’s son planned to do exactly as he suggested.
“Don’t take any chances,” Feodor said. “Perun will kill you the first time you’re alone with him. So kill him first.”
“How can you be so certain about it?” Ivan asked.
Feodor grabbed his arm. “This isn’t a game. They’re evil men ready to slay us. We have to slay them first.”
“Are you stopping?” Yury called from behind.
Feodor let go of Ivan and broke off another branch. “When you have some time, talk sense into Nadia.”
Ivan nodded. Trust Feodor to think things through. Out here in the Old Forest, the old rules came into force: Strike first and strike hard.
-29-
Near dusk, the wind moaned with an icy chill. Ivan shivered after setting up his tent. He hurried to Yury.
“Have you seen the faint today?” Ivan asked.
“No.”
“Do you feel him?”
“He knows we’re here, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“How do you know?” Ivan asked.
Yury muttered, “It’s the same way you know it’s going to rain. The air gets charged up and the wind shifts around with various smells.”
“How come you sense him and Feodor can’t? Feodor is the best among us at woodcraft.”
“I think it is a side-effect of the healing potion,” Yury said. “It left me with sharper senses. If you’ve noticed, I haven’t limped since then.” He lowered his voice, “And my bad hand feels stronger.” Using his left hand, he grabbed Ivan’s and squeezed.
“You’re right,” Ivan said, feeling the new strength there.
“Now maybe you understand why I’m not as suspicious about Karlo as you. Not only did he stand over me when the white wolves attacked, but he cured the worst effect of my childhood disease.”
Ivan nodded. Using magic, Karlo had tricked Yury. He’d have to keep an even sharper eye on him.
“Then you’ll keep your promise?” Yury asked.
“You know me better than to ask such a question.”
“I do,” Yury whispered. “You and me, we’re like this.” He twisted two fingers together. “I can trust you with anything.”
“You can trust Feodor, Nadia and your brother just as much.”
“I can trust them to do what they think is best for me. But I know Petor doesn’t trust Sir Karlo. He might disagree that the healing potion was a good thing.”
Ivan nodded for Yury’s sake. Then he moved to the fire. It crackled beside a boulder, which gave them protection from the wind. Feodor rolled sitting stones around the fire and they ate vegetable soup with generous chunks of beef.
“You have first watch tonight,” Petor told Nadia.
She ran a hand across the wand on her knees. She’d told Ivan during the day that making it had taken months of careful labor. Each carved image of an eye, owl, star and bear helped fuel the talisman. The long hours of polishing had allowed her to acquaint herself with the wand’s properties. No two were alike, nor did they impart similar powers. A Sister of Moiré’s wand became as individual as the maker. It did more than focus her talent, Nadia had explained. In its making, the wand absorbed a Sister’s talent and magnified it. Without her wand, a Sister almost became powerless—until she made a new one. Nadia’s wand had become her most precious belonging.
Petor and the others crawled into the sleeping bags as Ivan ministered to his hounds. He brushed their fur, took out burs, twigs and checked their paws. Flay’s broken leg wasn’t bothering him. Ivan still wondered how wise it had been to bring him. What if they faced storm wolves and clawmen? Ivan frowned as his stomach tightened. What if they fought against Karlo and Perun?
He walked to Nadia as she leaned against the boulder and peered into the forest. “Are you tired?” he asked.
“I’m cold.”
He told her about Yury’s chess-piece and the one he’d given Karlo. He also mentioned the rite to the Moon Lady and the calf’s bitter death.
At the telling, Nadia’s face stiffened. Behind them, a log popped and sparks showered.
“You know that Sir Karlo can practice spells,” Ivan said quietly. “Or that he has someone who can.”
Nadia bit her lip.
“I know you’re clever,” he said. “I’ve had a lifetime to learn that. So you can’t fool me into thinking otherwise.”
She glanced at him.
“What’s your plan, Nadia? Are you going to leave with him?”
“I have to take care of the faint first.”
“Why?”
“I must test myself. I must see if I can do this.” She shrugged. “Maybe I must in order to find out if there really is a cost to magic? I don’t know. I’ve got to use my talent at least once in the cause of Light.”
“So a faint is automatically evil?”
“Yes.”
“Who controls it?”
She shook her head.
“Does Sir Karlo?”
Nadia sighed. “No, Ivan. I know he doesn’t control it. That’s what gives me hope.”
“Hope for what?”
“Karlo.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nadia stared up at the stars. “Have you ever heard the story of Jakub Vladimir?”
Ivan frowned. “Should I have?”
“I learned about him at the Sisterhood. Long ago, Jakub Vladimir grew up in the Golghiz Region of the Carpathians. It was a wild and trackless place during ancient times, much worse than now. Huge grimalkin cats came from here, and in this region lay the lair of Grakengol the Red.”
“That sounds like a dragon?”
Nadia nodded. “Jakub Vladimir’s father was a sorcerer, a servant of Old Father Night. He knew the dark rituals and taught them to his son. Jakub grew up strong in mind and body, and he grew up serving Darkness. Yet his mother had treated him with tenderness and taught him to cherish humanity. Then one day he met a maiden who had escaped the clutches of wolf-riders. The riders had been on their way to Grakengol the Red’s cave, to feed the maiden to the dragon. Well, Jakub Vladimir took one look into her eyes and knew he loved her. For her sake, he slew the wolf-riders. For her sake, he went with her to Rada and returned her to her parents. And for her sake he listened to the teachings of Light and forsook the dark path and worshipped Hosar. The maiden saved Jakub Vladimir from a life of evil. And it was he who in years to come slew the dreaded Golghiz blood-drinkers.”
The fire crackled as Ivan listened. He understood Nadia better now.
“Can I do any less than the maiden?” she asked.
“Can Sir Karlo be saved?” countered Ivan.
“I don’t know, but I must use this chance to find out.”
“Do you love him?”
“…I think so.”
Ivan’s heart felt heavy. He hated the Bavarian knight.
“Can I do any less than the maiden?” Nadia asked softly.
Ivan couldn’t answer that.
“He might be a sorcerer,” she said. “Yet I also think he can be won over. I felt it when our eyes met, when we touched.”
Ivan pushed off the boulder.
“Ivan?” she asked.
He waited.
“Maybe the rest of you should return home. It might not be safe for you, Yury and Feodor.”
Ivan shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Neither can I change what I must attempt.”
“Luck,” he managed to say. Then he turned and stumbled to his tent.
-30-
The morning began with an alarm as Yury shouted. The others came running, Nadia with her wand. To Ivan’s horror, he saw the dark man advance upon Yury. Feodor moaned at the sight as his axe fell from his fingers.
“Stand back!” Nadia cried to Petor.
The Belgorod knight rushed the faint, with his longsword gripped two-handedly. Heeding Nadia, however, Petor halted his mad attack.
Seen here, it was obvious the dark man had wings instead of a cloak. They were poised for flight. His green eyes glowed within his helmet as menace radiated from him.
Nadia took a wide-legged stance and held her wand aloft. Her throat-gem shone brilliantly. “Away, creature of the Night! Retreat to your shadows!”
Hissing, the dark man turned from Yury and stepped toward Nadia. Heat or some equally invisible substance passed from the wand to the dark man. He screeched and curled his leathery wings to protect his face.
“Back, you damned creature!” Nadia cried. “Leave us in peace.”
The dark man leapt backward as his wings spread wide. Three leathery flaps like a gigantic bat took him into the shadows of the trees. Then he vanished, either fading from sight or retreating into deeper shadows.
Nothing was the same after that. In a towering rage, Feodor demanded they return home. At last, Petor slapped him across the face and ordered the woodcutter to keep silent. Feodor blinked in shock, touching his cheek. Soon thereafter, he began watching the forest with fearful eyes as he muttered to himself and clutched his axe.
Nadia began to issue curt orders. Yury must stay beside her at all times. Petor should wear his helmet and keep his gauntlets on. Feodor and Ivan should scout ahead.
Feodor balked at this.
Nadia explained. “The faint watches Yury so I must protect him. With the faint moving so openly, I am afraid that Sir Karlo definitely means us harm. For the farmers’ sake, we must find the others before they find us.”
“In what direction should we scout?” Ivan asked.
“You ask as if I should know,” Nadia said.
“Can your art not help us in this?”
Nadia’s nostrils flared, but Ivan kept staring at her. Finally, she nodded, closed her eyes, and after a time pointed east.
An hour of tracking brought them to a dense thicket. Feodor, Stribog and Ivan crawled through the thicket until they spied a valley. In the valley were newly-hewn tree stumps and sagging tents. There was no sign of a cave, a mine or treasure. Instead, Perun prowled through the camp, with his curved short sword in hand. He seemed to be hunting for someone.
“Kill him,” Feodor whispered.
Ivan held the horn bow, with an arrow notched against the string. He debated with himself. More than ever Perun reminded him of a bear, a brute with only the semblance of a man. His manner of walking seemed feral, like the pacing of a caged beast. Ivan marveled that Master Volok had ever allowed Perun into the great house.
“Do it,” Feodor urged.
Ivan drew the string to his cheek. He waited for Perun to pause. At last, the brute lifted his nose as if to test the wind. Slowly, Ivan eased tension from the bowstring.
Feodor glanced at him.
“I can’t kill him in cold blood,” Ivan whispered.
“The camp is deserted. Now is the time to kill Perun while you can.”
“What if Sir Karlo kills farmers in retaliation?” Ivan asked.
Feodor rubbed the stubble on his jaw.
“Who says I’ll hit him?” Ivan whispered. “If I miss, Perun will climb up here and kill us.”
“We’re all going to die,” Feodor whispered. “Since that’s so, let’s hurt them while we can.”
“You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
Feodor bowed his head. His shaggy hair hid his face as his fingers tightened around the haft of his axe. “Actually seeing the faint…I want to go home.”
So did Ivan, but first they had to help the farmers. He laid a hand on Stribog’s head. Why didn’t the faint terrify him as it did Feodor? Maybe witnessing the Moon Lady’s ritual with the calf had hardened him to things like faints.
“Your father fought clawmen,” Ivan whispered. “Dimitri must have feared for his life then.”
Feodor regarded him. “My stomach churns at the thought of seeing the faint again. I want to vomit. I’m afraid I’ll run away when the moment of truth arrives.”
“You won’t run.”
“How can you know?”
“Listen,” Ivan said. “You’ve hunted bears before. I saw your face turn white as a bear charged us. But you held your spear as steady as any grown man. You won’t run now either.”
Feodor shook his head.
“Magic is simply another weapon. If we remain brave and keep our heads, maybe we can come out of this alive.”
“I’d love to believe that,” Feodor whispered.
“Shhh,” Ivan said.
In the valley, Perun cocked his head. The brute shaded his brow and looked west. Ivan heard a horse neigh and a branch crack. Another horse nickered. That sounded like Thunder. He wondered if Perun heard those sounds.
Perun sheathed his sword and picked up a small branch. He crept backward out of camp while brushing away his tracks.
“This is your last chance to shoot him,” Feodor said.
They watched Perun back into the leafless oaks and beeches as he disappeared from view.
Ivan and Feodor backtracked in the opposite direction, soon meeting the others. Ivan reported to Petor. Nadia told them that the faint had left the area, no doubt heeding a magical call.
A half-hour later, they entered the deserted camp, the three Belgorod riders astride their mounts.
“I’m going to follow Perun,” Petor said, drawing his lance. “You four stay here and keep guard. See if you can find any sign of the farmers. Is that understood?”
“We should all stay together,” Nadia said, “including you with us.”
“From Ivan’s report, Perun didn’t know he was being watched,” Petor said. “I wish for more information before I meet Sir Karlo Aufling again.” Thereupon, Petor clucked his tongue to the charger and trotted east out of camp.
“That’s foolish,” Nadia said, as she watched Petor leave.
“What should we do?” Ivan asked.
“I’m going to start a fire before we all freeze to death,” Feodor said. He went in search of firewood.
Ivan tethered his hounds so they wouldn’t wander off. Then he stuck his head in the nearest tent. It contained leather sleeping bags, articles of clothing and a spider-web near the entrance. Strange, anyone coming in and out should have destroyed such a web. What had become of the farmers? When Ivan stepped out, he saw that Nadia had tethered her horse and was inside a tent.
“What did you find?” he shouted.
“Nothing,” she said, as she stepped out. “It’s as if the farmers walked away several days ago. I don’t like it.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Look for them,” she said. “They may be in trouble. We should split up in order to cover more ground.”
“I don’t agree,” Ivan said. “We should stick together as you said earlier.”
“I’ll take Feodor and head west,” Nadia said. “We’ll circle the camp northward. You and Yury head east and circle around to the south. We’ll meet back here in a half hour. If either of us spots anything we’ll let the others know.”
“What about storm wolves, clawmen, faints and Sir Karlo?” Ivan asked.
Nadia shook her head. “I used my arts. None of them but for Perun is near. If you’re worried about the faint, I’ve already put a protective spell over Yury. He’ll be safe long enough for you two to find me.”
“Why did you say it was a bad idea for Petor to follow Perun?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Nadia asked. “Perun is a killer.”
Ivan didn’t like any of this. If Perun killed Petor, the game was over. Maybe he should have shot the brute when he had the chance. “I want you to take Vesna and Flay. I’ll take Stribog.”
“Wise thinking,” Nadia said.
Ivan unleashed Stribog and went to Yury, who brushed his horse. Yury had already taken off the saddle and blanket and stuffed his belongings in a tent. After Ivan outlined Nadia’s plan, Yury, Stribog and he tromped toward the east. Yury had his sword. Ivan hefted the warspear. In the distance, Nadia and Feodor shouted for the farmers by name.
“I wonder what happened to them,” Ivan said.
Yury shrugged. He seemed preoccupied, although he took the lead and Ivan had to hurry to keep up.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Ivan asked. “You walk as if you do.”
Yury didn’t answer as they ducked under snow-laden branches and crawled over rocks. Nadia and Feodor’s voices soon dwindled to nothing. The wind picked up as it moaned through naked branches.
It’s getting colder,” Ivan said.
Yury merely grunted as he stared ahead.
“Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine,” Yury said.
“Do you sense the dark man?”
Yury grinned. Then he held back a branch as he ducked under it and let go. The branch whipped back and clawed Ivan in the face.
“Hey!” Ivan said. “Be careful.”
Yury’s stride lengthened.
Ivan ran and grabbed Yury by the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” Yury shrugged off the hand and continued to march. Ivan stared at his friend open-mouthed.
Yury glanced sharply left, and he stared as if he spied something important. He glanced back at Ivan, grinning.
Ivan hurried and looked where Yury had. He spied a dark opening into the side of a hill. The opening was man-sized and appeared to have been hacked out of rock. Rubble lay around the opening. The way the rubble lay—it seemed like a fresh opening, newly hacked with picks and chisels. There was something…the place felt like a tomb. Just as bad, Yury was striding toward the opening.
“Yury, no!” Ivan shouted. Yury ignored him.
Ivan hesitated. Should he find Nadia and Feodor? If he did, Yury would go in the cave alone. I can’t let him do that.
Yury ran and darted inside.
Clutching his spear, Ivan raced after him with Stribog in tow. A bad feeling rose in his gut. He saw the rubble, the stone pieces littered around the entrance. Strange designs had been painted on them.
Ivan recalled Feodor telling them that the Golghiz Region had sinister legends about bats. He paused in front of the opening. Did rabid bats live in here? A draft whistled out of the opening. The draft was warm, which seemed strange. Ivan swallowed, unwilling to enter as a feeling of dread crept over him. Why had Yury gone inside? He cupped his hands and shouted, “Yury! Come back!” There wasn’t any answer, not even an echo.
Fear wormed in Ivan. By force of will, he peered in the opening. It was gloomy inside. There was a low ceiling, while rocks and dirt littered on the floor.
“Yury! Come back!” The cave echoed his call.
A whisper of ill wind brushed Ivan then so he jerked aside. A feeling of evil made him shiver. He saw a flicker like a cape as something flew into the darkness. He scowled—the faint! It was after Yury again.
Ivan stepped inside. The low tunnel branched two ways. How could he proceed without light? Then he had an idea. He tapped his spear against the wall and walked around the right-hand bend. It was pitch-black. He kept going and soon tapped against timber.
Stribog stayed beside him, brushing his leg. The low ceiling grew higher until Ivan could straighten. A moment later, he came to steps that led down. There wasn’t any timber here, but stone ribbing instead. It was warmer, but the air was stale and tasted wrong.
“Yury.” Ivan tried to shout, but could only whisper. He listened for Yury’s footsteps. He could hear Stribog’s claws click on stone, but nothing more. His heart beat faster as fear of this place began to overwhelm him.
“Yury,” he whispered.
There was no reply, not even an echo. It felt as if darkness had swallowed the world. Then Ivan cocked his head. He heard rusty hinges squeal.
What are they doing to Yury?
Fear for his friend’s safety moved Ivan’s feet. He went down the stairs. The corridor twisted several times, and it was hotter than before. Ahead he saw flickering light.
Stribog whined beside him.
“Give me guidance,” Ivan prayed to Hosar. “Help me in my hour of need.” He and Stribog ran toward the red light.
A terrible moan sounded from ahead.
“Yury!” Ivan shouted. The heat made his face shiny with sweat. The rock walls oozed with a sticky substance and a foul odor.
“Pick up the battle-blade,” Ivan heard a sibilant voice hiss from ahead.
Ivan turned the corner and gasped. Yury knelt on a black dais. Upon the dais lay the largest blade Ivan had ever seen. The battle-blade rested on two bronze prongs. The black blade was over five feet long and the pommel was a huge red ruby. Strange runes were etched along the blade as an evil light pulsated from its razor edges. The twin quillons that jutted from the hilt were shaped into snarling lynx heads. It was just like Sir Karlo’s pommel.
In front of Ivan was a stone pit or trench. Red flames licked from it. Yury had used a narrow stone archway over the fiery trench to get to the dais.
Yury stared raptly at the sword. Then he looked upward. “Is it truly for me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Ivan squinted. Then he saw two green eyes floating in the air. “The dark man,” Ivan whispered.
A black helmet appeared. The dark man lifted his evil eyes and glared at Ivan. “Leave while you can, mortal.”
Ivan stepped toward his friend. “Yury!” he shouted. “Get up and run.”
Yury looked over his shoulder. “Ivan?” he asked.
“Run!”
“No,” the dark man said. “You have been chosen and readied. The sword awaits you. Now pick it up.”
Yury faced the dark man. “Do you mean that? I can truly take it?”
“You will become the greatest swordsman of the age if you do,” the dark man said.
“What is the sword’s name?” Yury asked.
“Night,” the dark man hissed, and his voice was filled with yearning and desire.
“Yury!” Ivan shouted. “Turn back!”
The dark man raised his wings as he pointed at Ivan. “Be gone, mortal most foul.” An icy wind blew Ivan backward as he saw Yury reach for the battle-blade.
“By Hosar, no!” shouted Ivan.
Yury hesitated as his fingers flexed.
“Pick it up,” the dark man said. “You must.”
Ivan noticed another item near the huge blade. By a silken cord, it hung from a peg. At the end of the cord dangled a bone-white horn. It looked like a hunting horn, an oliphant. The horn looked bigger than most, and the whiteness glistened as if oiled. Ivan stepped closer.
“Pick it up,” whispered the dark man.
Yury reached for the sword.
Ivan recalled what had made Yury pause before. “By Hosar, no!”
Yury hesitated again.
“Do not name that one again,” a new person said.
Startled, Ivan turned and peered deeper into a side passage. A man in silver armor stepped into view. He had silver hair and a drawn sword. It was Sir Karlo Aufling.
Stribog barked, interposing himself between the Bavarian and his master.
“Run from here, Ivan,” Karlo said, “and I will grant you your life.”
The dark man waited. Yury didn’t move.
“Nadia comes,” Ivan lied.
Something crossed Karlo’s face. It could have been pain, but he was too deep in shadow to tell.
“Do you wish her to see you like this?” Ivan asked.
“You are a fool,” Karlo said.
“You love her and she loves you. But will she love you after this?”
Karlo scowled.
Ivan cocked his head and pretended to hear her. “She comes,” he said.
“You lie,” Karlo said hoarsely.
Ivan would never recall what prompted him then. The desire had been growing and now he moved. He crossed the bridge as oily flames licked up. Heat billowed all around. Then he was over and touched Yury’s cold shoulder. With a tug, Ivan moved past Yury and reached for the horn.
“No!” Karlo roared. “Don’t touch the horn!” He started forward. Stribog braced himself and growled at the knight.
Ivan touched the horn. A shock shot up his arm.
“No,” hissed the dark man. He reached for Ivan. His hand was immaterial and passed through the dog-trainer.
Ivan felt icy-cold numb him, except for the hand that touched the horn. It remained normal. He clutched the horn, picked it up and staggered backward, holding the horn against his chest. The numbness faded from his body as feelings returned.
“No,” whispered the dark man. “You must not.”
Ivan drew a breath and put the horn to his lips. He blew, but the horn sucked his strength as heat washed over him. Only a tiny sound issued from it.
That was enough to make the dark man wail in despair.
“Drop the horn!” Karlo shouted. “It isn’t meant for you.”
Ivan felt heady from the winding. He took another breath and blew again. A louder, surer sound issued.
Stribog barked, and it seemed to Ivan he understood what Stribog meant by the noise. The dog planned to kill Karlo once he got past the long-fang in the knight’s hand.
Frowning, his head swimming, Ivan blew yet again.
The dark man flattened backward as if in pain. He still managed to hiss, “Quickly, Yury, pick it up. We must be one together.”
Seeing that the horn had an effect upon the dark man, Ivan blew it again as hard as he could. Heat radiated from him as a loud peal issued, the sound reverberating off the cave walls.
As the sounds died, the dark man began to fade. He whispered, “You must do it now, Yury. Pick up the sword before it’s too late.”
Wearied by the exertion of sounding the horn, Ivan sagged to his knees. He scowled. Why did he feel so weak?
Yury shouted triumphantly then. “It’s mine!”
It took an effort of will and strength for Ivan to raise his head. For a moment, his mind was blank. Then he saw Yury holding the battle-blade. His friend smiled strangely and cut at the air above Ivan’s head.
Karlo laughed, almost gleefully. He backed into the shadows.
Stribog followed the knight.
“No,” Ivan whispered. “Stay.”
Stribog instantly sat down, although he kept watch for the silver-haired Bavarian.
Something was different between them, Ivan knew. But he was so tired. He looked at his friend. “Yury,” he whispered.
Yury blinked at the mention of his name and lowered the weapon.
“Do you know who I am, Yury?”
“That’s a stupid question. You’re Ivan.”
Ivan blinked as a great weariness settled upon him. “What about the dark man?”
Yury frowned. “Yes, once he owned the blade.”
Ivan was bewildered, but he wanted to get out of here. He rose with a groan and stepped forward, only to stop short. “There’s blood on the sword.”
“Well so there is.” Yury took a cloth from his pouch and wiped off the crusted blood.
“Why not put it down?” Ivan said.
Yury shook his head.
“Do you want to go back to the others?”
“Yes,” Yury said. “Let’s go.”
Ivan found a stick and thrust it into the fire-pit. Once the end burned, he staggered over the bridge. Many passages were evident, but Yury seemed to know the way out. When they passed one particular corridor, Yury paused and glanced into it.
“What’s wrong?” Ivan asked.
Yury licked his lips, as he turned pale. Then he hid his face and hurried on.
Ivan thrust the torch into the side-passage. In the flickering light, he saw corpses, brutally murdered men. Then he fled. He knew where the missing farmers were, and that none would be going home. Ivan knew where the blood on the battle-blade had come from. Karlo must have sacrificed the farmers in some unholy ritual, just as he had sacrificed the calf two weeks ago.
-31-
Blowing the horn exhausted Ivan, and the murder of the farmers depressed him. He stumbled over a rock and almost went down.
Yury turned, and he switched the battle-blade from his right to left hand. “Lean on me,” he said.
Ivan’s knees buckled as Yury grabbed him. “I’m out of strength,” Ivan whispered.
“Don’t worry. I feel as strong as an ox. Lean more of your weight on me.”
Ivan pressed against Yury, and to his amazement, his friend seemed like iron. Ivan couldn’t recall Yury ever having felt so strong before.
They emerged through the opening and back to the snow. Ivan tossed his makeshift torch as Nadia and Feodor came running.
The two hurried near and then slowed, perplexed. “Where did you get the sword?” Feodor asked.
“From in there,” Yury said, “in the crypt.”
Nadia eyed Yury. “The crypt?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Yury said, “the crypt for the Lord of Bats. He lies deeper—much deeper.” Yury chuckled. It was an evil sound.
Nadia grew tense.
“Is anything wrong?” Yury asked.
“Can’t you feel the evil emanating from the sword?” Nadia asked.
“What nonsense,” Yury said.
Nadia eyed him and then asked Ivan, “What happened?”
“The farmers,” Ivan whispered. “They’re dead.”
“Yes,” Yury said. “They’re all dead, slain in a brutal way.”
Ivan sagged to his knees for the second time today.
Feodor reached him first. “He’s freezing,” Feodor said. “We need to get him to a fire.”
Ivan missed whatever else was said because everything became a blur. He knew Stribog was at his side, but little else. After a time they set him beside a fire. He quit shivering after they wrapped a blanket around him. Feodor squatted by the fire and poured out cups of broth. Using both hands, Ivan drank deeply, even though the broth burned his lips.
“Ivan?” Nadia asked. Fortified, he looked up. “What happened in there? How did the farmers die?”
Ivan squeezed his eyes shut as if he could shut out the memory. “They were sacrificed…”
Yury spoke into the silence. “It was terrible, but at least I was given this sword.”
“Who gave it to you?” Nadia asked.
“Vlad Blackheart,” Yury said.
“He means the dark man,” Ivan whispered.
Nadia took a step back from Yury. “You spoke to the dark man?”
“He’s Vlad Blackheart,” Yury said. “In a different age, he wielded the sword. He was a champion, a warrior of surpassing valor. Then he became something darker, a drinker of human blood. Yes…that part is bad.”
“But my mystical protection…” Nadia said. “How was the faint able to speak to you?”
Yury chuckled. “Vlad Blackheart isn’t a faint. He’s become a gaunt.”
“Hosar help us,” whispered Nadia. “A gaunt? Are you certain?”
Ivan shuddered. In a singer’s tale, everything about a gaunt was unholy. They were wickedness purified: fell powers that had been slain and buried long ago. The essence of them refused to perish and thus they stalked the living. His fear for Yury grew.
“He is Vlad Blackheart,” Yury repeated, almost boastfully. “And yes, I’m quite certain that he’s become a gaunt.”
Nadia said in a fearful voice, “You have named him, and ill it is for you that you have.”
“Who is Vlad Blackheart?” Feodor whispered.
“He’s a friend,” Yury said in a rush. “He needs my help because a new age is about to descend upon us.” He eyed the sword. “But, there was something else, too. I think Ivan told me. What was it you said, Ivan?”
Ivan felt weary, so very tired. “It’s time we cleared up a few things.”
“What kind of things?” Nadia asked suspiciously.
Ivan nodded to Yury. “I’m going to tell them. With so many people dead, we can’t afford secrets.”
Yury shrugged as he smiled at his sword.
“Sir Karlo gave him a healing potion,” Ivan said.
“What?” Nadia said.
“He only drank half,” Ivan said. “When he showed me the draught, I convinced him to pour out the rest. Yury said the potion made his bad leg and hand better. When he helped me out of the cave just now, I felt his muscles. They’re like iron.”
“I see,” Nadia said.
“Now I wonder what else was in the potion,” Ivan said. He sat up to take a bite of bread, but when he remembered the farmers his appetite fled.
“Pray continue,” said Nadia.
Ivan concentrated. “I heard the dark man tell Yury that he had been readied for the sword. To my way of thinking, the potion did that.”
“Yes,” Nadia said. “That makes sense. So do the chess pieces now.”
“There’s something else,” Ivan said. “I don’t think the dark man was sent to watch you. I think he’s been after Yury the entire time.”
“If he’s a gaunt,” Nadia said, “then yes, what you say makes sense. I-I thought he was a faint.” She shook her head. “I’ve been a fool. I should have known something was amiss when the escort couldn’t name him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Yury said. “Even if Vlad Blackheart is evil, Ivan drove him away. So the sword is mine.”
“How could Ivan possibly have driven away a gaunt?” Nadia asked.
“He did it with the horn.” Yury tore his gaze from the sword. “Say, that was strange, wasn’t it?” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Something’s wrong with me. I’m not thinking straight. Am I?”
“No,” Feodor said, “I don’t think you are.”
Yury frowned at the sword.
Feodor asked, “Why don’t you set aside the sword and give me a hand with some logs?”
“Sure.” Yury set the sword on the snow. He held the position for several seconds.
“Is anything wrong?” Feodor asked.
Yury straightened with the sword in his hand. “I can’t let go.” He grinned shyly. “That doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Nadia opened her mouth to speak.
“No!” Feodor said hastily. “It doesn’t matter at all.”
Nadia closed her mouth and nodded after a moment. She turned to Ivan. “You still haven’t told us how you drove away the gaunt.”
Ivan had hidden the horn under his cloak. He revealed it now. Its texture and dull color proclaimed it to be made of bone. The red silk cord was attached near the mouthpiece and halfway up the flaring end. It was shorter than a short sword and rather tubby. It looked like an ordinary horn, if larger than a cowhorn. The horn’s texture reminded Ivan of old elk bones that he’d found before in the fields. Yet the horn didn’t seem brittle in any way. In fact, he had the feeling it was stronger than iron.
“A horn?” asked Nadia.
“It hung beside the sword,” Ivan said.
“So what happened?”
He described the scene, telling them what the horn had done to him and to the gaunt.
“May I touch it?” Nadia asked.
Ivan felt no reluctance giving it to her. Her eyebrows rose as she held it. She even tested it, blowing through the mouthpiece. No sound issued.
“Does it make you feel hot?” Ivan asked.
Nadia shook her head, handing the horn to Feodor.
Reluctantly, the woodcutter’s son blew it. Nothing happened.
“How about me?” Yury asked.
“Not yet,” said Nadia. She indicated that Feodor give it back to Ivan.
Ivan felt a moment’s warmth as he took it. He told Nadia that.
“It’s magical,” she said.
Ivan inspected the horn with an odd feeling. Just then, a rabbit peered from behind a tree. Ivan grinned at it. When Flay perked up, Ivan said, “No. Leave it.” The dog lay its head back down, although he watched the rabbit.
“Leave what?” asked Nadia.
“That rabbit,” Ivan said.
“What rabbit?”
Ivan threw some snow at it. It jumped with a start and bounded away. Vesna rose. Ivan shook his head. Vesna sank back down.
Nadia tugged her lower lip, studying Ivan.
“What does all this mean?” Feodor asked in a bewildered tone. “Why did Karlo kill our friends?”
“It means that I found a mighty sword,” Yury said.
“No,” Nadia said. “I’m afraid it means more than that.”
“Like what?” Yury asked.
Nadia gave him a worried look. “It means that a gaunt tried to take over your body.”
The blood drained from Yury’s face. He examined the battle-blade with a new light. For the first time it seemed he wanted to let go.
“Quickly,” Feodor said. “Drop the sword.”
Yury almost seemed ready to do so, but he shook his head and said, “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Nadia asked.
“No!” Yury shouted. “I’m no one’s tool!” He threw the battle-blade away, but his hand refused to release its grip. He was jerked after the sword and he stumbled onto the snow.
“Get it away from me!” he screamed.
Ivan stepped forward. Nadia held him back and shook her head.
“Why won’t you help me?” Yury sobbed.
Feodor whispered, “What should we do?”
“Knock me out, if you have to,” Yury said, “and pry my fingers loose.”
“I don’t think we could,” Feodor said.
Nadia nodded in agreement. Ivan looked agonized.
Feodor said, “I think you’d defend yourself with the sword if we tried.”
“Yes,” Nadia told Feodor, “I think you’re right. You feel its evil as much as I.”
Yury turned away and strove to regain mastery over his emotions. Finally, he asked, “What happened to me?”
Stroking her chin, Nadia paced back and forth.
“Nadia?” Yury asked.
She regarded him. More than ever, she seemed like the wise princess. Her eyes were clear and bright, stabbing into the heart of Yury’s eyes. She swept a hand through her long hair and brushed it back over her head.
“What happened?” Yury asked. “Do you know?”
She glanced at Ivan, eyeing him as well.
Feodor poked a log so it split apart and burst into sparks. He spoke to Nadia. “You said that a gaunt tried to take over Yury, right?”
Nadia didn’t answer.
“Am I right?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And this gaunt’s name is Vlad Blackheart?”
“It is ill to speak his name,” Nadia cautioned.
Feodor said, “Yet he has been named and Yury holds an ancient battle-blade.” He turned to Yury, who was pale-faced. “Does the sword have a name?”
“Night,” Yury said.
Nadia moaned and took a step away from Yury.
“What is it?” Yury cried. “You must tell me!”
“I’m surprised you don’t know the significance of the name,” Nadia said after a moment. “You seem to know so much already.”
Yury stared at her, and slowly a change came over him. A sly smile worked onto his face. “I hold the battle-blade named Night,” he said.
“Once wielded by the Old One, Vlad Blackheart,” Nadia said.
Ivan sucked in his breath. “An Old One? If the battle-blade is evil, this horn must be as well.”
“No,” Nadia said. “For with it you drove away a gaunt. Think about that for a moment. You drove away a gaunt, Ivan.”
“So did you this morning,” Ivan said.
“No,” Nadia said. “It tricked me. The gaunt is clever as well as wicked. I’ll not underestimate him again.”
“What about the horn?”
Nadia peered at the horn as her forehead puckered. “I recall something about a horn, something one of my history teacher’s said. Ah! Your horn must be Karlo’s goal.”
“This?” Ivan asked.
“The famed Dragon Horn,” Nadia said in awe. “Long, long ago,” she said, “in the dawn world, there was the Dragon Golghiz the Red. Yes, I remember the story. He was a terrible monster. He devoured villages and destroyed towns. At last, a band of champions formed together—so my history teacher taught us in the Sisterhood. They called themselves the Dragon Hunters. For six long months, they studied the beast. At last, they devised their plan. After a terrifying sweep of a far country, the dragon came to his cave to sleep. He’d eaten well and his belly bulged. His inner fires, after such destruction, had become low. He wormed his way into the cave and fell into a fitful slumber. The desperate Dragon Hunters slipped in after him. He awoke, as they knew he would. In one fiery blast, the dragon slew half their number. Then the spells flew and the arrows sang. And then Grogan Ironfist bellowed his war cry as he attacked. In his rage and pain, the dragon slew more hunters. Only two survived. There was an old veteran and an enchantress of wonderful cunning.
“The enchantress bade the veteran to hack away part of the dragon’s scaly armor. Soon drenched in dragon blood, the warrior cut away muscle and sinew. Then he sawed away part of the dragon’s shoulder blade. Using Grogan’s magic spear, the warrior probed deep into the dead monster. Black smoke hissed out of the dragon’s nostrils when the tip of the spear touched the heart. The enchantress ordered the warrior to smear the heart-blood on the sawn shoulder blade. Then, with the air still charged by spells, with the dragon-spirit still passing on, the enchantress created her most powerful tool: the Dragon Horn.
“The enchantress died in the creating. Therefore, only Pepin the Lord of Eagles emerged from the cave. An eagle was the first beast he saw upon blowing the horn. From that point, he became one with eagles, and he became gifted with eagle virtues and abilities, except that of flight. At Pepin’s passing another blew the horn, and he too gained mastery over a select form of beast. The horn is neither good nor bad, but magic of the highest order.”
Nadia became thoughtful. “Since the Lord of Bats was Vlad’s patron, I think it is obvious who Vlad controlled and become like—bats. I’m sure I know of him, but under a different name. The Old Ones have long hidden themselves, even to giving themselves new names.”
“You’re right,” Yury said. “Once he called himself Binder.”
Nadia grew pale.
“Is that bad?” Feodor asked.
“If Vlad Blackheart was him known as Binder…” Nadia gripped her wand. “The gaunt would be powerful beyond ordinary measure. That Sir Karlo seeks the gaunt’s resting place…no.”
“What is it?” asked Ivan.
“Sir Karlo must serve an Old One,” Nadia said.
“What makes you say that?” asked Ivan.
“Sir Karlo’s Old One uses him. Yes, the Old One seeks mighty weapons and willingly releases a gaunt. That one knew Karlo would need others to risk the gaunt’s presence. Yes, but they didn’t count on you, Ivan.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Nadia peered at him with red-rimmed eyes. “There is still a modicum of hope for Sir Karlo. We have hope and terrible peril. For a new hunter has arisen.”
“You meant Yury?” asked Ivan.
“No, you,” Nadia said. “For you blew the horn. Until you die, there cannot be a new hunter.”
“But—”
“Stribog was with you,” Nadia said. “You saw one of your hounds first. How fitting, Ivan. You have become the Lord of Hounds.”
Ivan blinked in confusion.
“They say the more times you blow the horn, the more it will protect you from evil,” Nadia said. “That is how you were able to defeat the gaunt. Because of your action, we also have a Sword-Bearer. Yet for how long?” she asked herself. “Yury, you must remain by Ivan. Yes, the gaunt must fear him, and that is important. For if the gaunt enters you, all is lost.”
“Are you saying that until they broke into the cave, the gaunt couldn’t roam free?” Ivan asked.
“Exactly,” Nadia said. “Now we know why Karlo came to Belgorod Holding. He needed blood sacrifices to stir the gaunt. Oh how blind I’ve been.”
Ivan turned his head. He was Belgorod’s dog trainer. Nadia couldn’t be right. Yet when he’d blown the horn, the gaunt had flattened against the cave wall and faded from view. For a while, he had sensed Stribog’s thoughts. His eyes widened. He smelled something. It was a fox investigating them. He smelled the small animal, and he had a desire to give chase and crush the little fox with his teeth.
Sweat jumped onto Ivan’s forehead. He couldn’t smell foxes. And why tear into them with his teeth? He groaned and bowed his head.
“Ivan?”
He shook his head. He was the Lord of Hounds, the wielder of the Dragon Horn. Magda used magic. Nadia had gone to school for years in order to understand her talent.
“Ivan? Are you all right?”
“Leave him,” someone whispered.
Ivan knew he shouldn’t have been able to hear the whisper, but his hearing had improved. “I am the Lord of Hounds,” he said under his breath. In that moment, a terrible smile wove itself onto his face. Perhaps as the Lord of Hounds, he could defeat Karlo and keep Nadia out of the Bavarian’s grasp.
“If we have these treasures,” Feodor asked Nadia, “won’t Karlo try to take them away from us?”
Ivan regarded his friends. “Magda!” he said.
“What?” Nadia asked.
He told them Magda’s plan. Master Volok with the freeholders surely marched toward them even now.
“Then we must flee,” Feodor said.
“Not until Petor returns,” Yury said.
Feodor seemed about to speak again. Suddenly, the hounds barked in alarm, interrupting him.
Ivan shrugged off the blanket and staggered up.
“What is it?” asked Nadia.
Ivan lifted his nose, testing the air. A powerful, damp odor wafted on the wind. Ivan moved to his hounds. The hounds lifted their heads and bayed wildly.
“Storm wolves,” Ivan said. His hounds had smelled the odor when they’d found the giant wolf-print before. They knew the storm wolves as evil wolf-beings because they’d smelled the corruption, the were-transformation done to the beasts.
“Quickly,” Nadia ordered, “everyone stand around the fire and face outward.”
They hurried to obey. At Ivan’s command, the hounds circled nearby. Stribog stood by his side.
Beasts howled from within the forest. The hounds growled.
“How many storm wolves are there?” Yury asked.
Ivan cocked his head. “Two, maybe three.”
An eerie piping cut through the winter chill like a razor. The notes were high and grated against them.
Yury tossed back his long blond hair. The music seemed to affect him the most. “Let them come,” he muttered.
The eerie piping continued, and upon its heel drifted a tortured moaning.
“They practice the dark arts,” Nadia whispered, her forehead pressed against her upright wand.
The wicked piping warbled its song as storm wolves howled with delight.
“They’re closing fast,” Ivan warned, his grip tight around his warspear.
“No matter,” Yury boasted. “It shall go ill with them.” He grinned oddly, with only one side of his mouth. “I assure you, they won’t be ready for this.” He shook the monstrous sword with one hand.
Nadia curtly told Yury, “You must resist any pull to join them.”
“I’ll never join them,” Yury said.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Nadia said, “but the power that the sword wields over you might conquer your will and force you to do its bidding.”
Storm wolves howled. By the sound of it, they were near. Ivan envisioned huge wolves, beastly-deformed things the size of bears. He clenched his warspear. Storm wolves! The very idea made his knees wobble. Because he lacked a shield, he reached down and took a thick branch out of the fire. His heart beat faster and his breathing became rapid.
Suddenly, two grotesque beasts broke into the clearing and pulled up short. Huge, shaggy wolf-creatures—their red eyes gleamed with madness. Foam shot from their snapping jaws. A bear would have surely fled from these monsters. Incredibly, a form of saddle sat high on their thick shoulders. Perched in the saddles were clawmen.
Ivan stared in dreadful fascination. The two riders were baleful creatures. Much shorter than men, they had powerful, furry shoulders. Their faces were a mixture between a wolf and a man’s: slavering, snapping jaws with yellowed fangs, coarse dark fur and pinhole eyes that glared at them with greed. For armor, each clawman wore a crude leather jerkin and iron-shod boots. One held an evil-looking whip with bits of jagged metal embedded in the leather. The other, smaller clawman held a target shield with a spike and a small throwing dart. A frightful reek blew from them, while the intelligence in their pinhole eyes seemed warped, unholy, a corruption of true humanity.
Behind the two riders, from out of the forest, continued to play the maddening pipes.
Feodor sucked in his breath, and then he began to pray quietly to Hosar. Nadia moaned to herself. Yury shouted in glee and seemed on the verge of charging them.
“Stand fast!” Feodor shouted.
Yury threw a worried glance over his shoulder. “Never fear,” he said. “I’ll stand with my friends.”
The two clawmen lifted their snouts to the sky and howled together with their mounts. The piping increased.
Nadia moaned again. Her head drooped.
Ivan grabbed her elbow.
She lifted her chin and whispered so low that Ivan could barely hear. “An old power is out there. She works magic over us. I think you must blow the horn again to gain greater protection from her spells.”
“If I blow again,” Ivan said, “I think I’ll faint.”
“Then you must attack those two before I collapse. I’ll use my power for as long as I can to hold back her magic.”
So saying, Nadia’s back stiffened as she raised her wand. The gem at her throat pulsed. The wand moved in her grasp. “Fly from us!” she shouted.
The wolf-riders cowered, shielding their eyes with their hairy arms. The two storm wolves slunk to the left, their tails between their legs.
Dark laughter floated out of the forest. Upon its heels rode another clawman. Her dark eyes glittered like the falling of an axe.
“The crone,” Ivan whispered. He recalled the bewitched calf. “The Imp.”
The storm wolf she sat upon was massive, much bigger than the other storm wolves. Even Stribog looked like a playful pup against it. The storm wolf was as big as a bull and had yellow eyes. The Imp had grotesque hair that glimmered with eldritch magic. Her flesh was pale—unlike the others, her face had no fur. She laughed at them as if they were children. She wore silver mail, and between her armored breasts dangled a set of ebony pipes.
“Come,” she said in a brittle voice to Yury. “We have far to journey.”
Nadia’s resistance faded. Where a moment before she had stood proudly, now she wilted and barely stared into the Imp’s eyes.
The Imp snarled at Nadia, “Youngling! I grow weary of your tricks.” She raised her hand and flicked out her crooked, hairy fingers. It seemed as if an icy shroud spread out like a net and descended upon them. “Kneel!” she cried.
To Ivan it seemed that the sun flickered weakly. Dread squeezed his heart. Heat fled his body so he trembled. He was unable to gaze upon the Imp. Beside him, Feodor’s legs shook. The woodcutter groaned as he crashed to his knees. His axe fell to the snow.
Nadia also fell to her knees. Yet still she stared at the Imp. Still the clawmen shielded their eyes from Nadia. Still the storm wolves slunk like frightened curs.
The Imp’s eyes flashed with blinding power. A deadening chill, worse than before, swept through the clearing. Nadia screamed. Her wand fell from nerveless fingers. As if stricken, she slumped face-first into the snow.
The Imp spoke to Yury. “Why do you tarry with these mortals?”
The wolf-riders howled with fierce joy. The bigger one snapped his whip. The other clashed his dart against his shield.
“Go back!” Yury cried, as he took a wooden step forward. “Go back or I’ll destroy you!”
The Imp regarded him strangely. “Come, Sword-Bearer. Let me right this wrong done to you. Together, let us search out Vlad Blackheart that we may bring you to your full might.”
Yury turned pleading eyes upon his friends. “Help me.”
Fear welled within Ivan. His feet were rooted to his spot. He couldn’t help Yury. Shame overcame him.
The Imp laughed. It was an evil mocking sound. The wolf-riders jeered at their weakness.
Stribog glanced up at Ivan. Something in that glance caused Ivan to drop his fiery brand and clutch his horn. Heat flowed into his hand and filled his body. His fear vanished as his hatred for the Imp and her riders overwhelmed him. He clutched Feodor’s shoulder and said, “Stand and help me fight.”
Feodor looked upon him in wonder. Fear no longer twisted the woodcutter’s features. He snatched his axe and jumped to his feet.
As Yury woodenly stepped toward the Imp, Ivan yelled a war cry and charged. His hounds growled at his side. Feodor paced him.
The Imp shouted to her wolf-riders. “Gnash, take down the Sword-Bearer. Zhum! Slay the young men!”
Howling, the clawmen urged their mounts to the attack. The storm wolves dug their paws into the snow as the clawmen leaned low in the saddles. Side-by-side the wolf-riders attacked. Stribog led the Belgorod Folk as they raced across the clearing. Yury, no longer restrained, charged, too. The two parties surged together and met in the middle of the clearing.
Ivan slid to a stop as the smaller wolf-rider rose up before him. He barely had time to throw up his spear as the storm wolf chomped at him. The clawman’s arm blurred. Feodor screamed, staggering backward with a black dart in his thigh. Stribog launched himself and bit into the shaggy storm wolf throat. Vesna, not as bold, slashed at the monster’s flank. Flay hobbled closer. The storm wolf, savage and filled with terrible strength, shook off Stribog and bit down on Flay’s neck. A dull crack and a whine and Flay slumped to the snow. Ivan roared, and hurled his spear into the storm wolf’s side. It howled. The clawman’s arm blurred again. Ivan threw himself back as a dart hissed over his head. He rolled and picked up Feodor’s fallen axe. He hurled that as the clawman snatched up yet another dart. The axe-handle struck the clawman’s head. He slumped in the saddle. Snarling, the storm wolf backed off from Stribog and Vesna, neither quite ready to close with the vicious monster.
Yury, meanwhile, shouted vile oaths as he tried to close with his battle-blade. The whip-armed clawmen proved too clever for that. He and his storm wolf functioned smoothly and precisely. The nimble monster danced out of Yury’s reach. The whip flicked many times, once on Yury’s check, laying open his skin. Another time it struck his arm, drawing blood. Then the whip wrapped around Yury’s leg. A yank, a quick jump back by the storm wolf, and the clawman jerked Yury off his feet.
The Imp laughed. “Come, dear Yury. Surrender. Let Vlad Blackheart teach you how to deal with those like Gnash.”
Yury slashed with the battle-blade, parting the whip. He leaped up and hurled himself at the maddening warrior. The storm wolf danced out of range, its evil yellow eyes almost glowing with fiendish delight.
Suddenly, a heavy horn sounded. Petor thundered into the clearing on his war-horse. He cried, “Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” and tucked his lance under his arm.
The Imp’s storm wolf dashed out of the way. Gnash, as he raised his whip, looked up in horror. The lance entered his back and swept him from his saddle. The storm wolf, crowded by Thunder, couldn’t avoid Yury’s sword. The wolf fell with a cloven skull. Yury wrenched his weapon free and roared with laughter.
The dart-thrower’s storm wolf turned and limped after the Imp.
Dazed, Ivan watched them go.
Yury shouted with glee, waving his bloody battle-blade over his head. “Come, Warriors! Let’s rout them for good!”
“No, Yury!” Ivan shouted. “Let them go!”
“Go?” Yury roared. “What cowardice is this, I hear? The enemy flies. Let us give chase and cut him down.”
“How?” Ivan asked. “On foot?”
“Bah!” Yury glanced at the tracks, making ready to run.
Ivan hurried beside Yury, grabbing him by the shoulder. He was going to warn Yury about ambushes. Instead, Yury cried out and writhed under his touch.
“Unhand him!” Petor shouted from his war-horse.
Shocked, Ivan let go and stepped back.
Sweat popped onto Yury’s face. Where a moment before he’d been flushed with exuberance, now he stood pale-faced and trembling.
An extra sense warned Ivan: a combination of a decaying odor and a flittering movement. He spied a winged being hovering at the edge of the forest.
“The dark man,” he whispered.
The tip of the bloody battle-blade touched the snow. Yury gasped for breath.
Understanding filled Ivan. The dark man, the gaunt of Vlad Blackheart, had wanted the wolf-riders to take Yury away from them. Then he could enter Yury at his leisure. Boldly, Ivan brought the Dragon Horn to his lips as he advanced upon the gaunt.
Evil green eyes flashed with hatred, then a hint of fear. Ivan broke into a run toward it. The gaunt hissed, and with a quick beat of his wings, he faded from view.
Ivan stopped and let the Dragon Horn swing at his side. He was too weary to sound the horn again, but the gaunt didn’t know that. If it could be frightened off, then maybe they really had a chance.
Thinking of that, Ivan hurried to Feodor. Petor had already dismounted and inspected the thigh-wound. His thick fingers took hold of the dart.
“No,” Feodor whispered, with sweat dripping from his chin. “I’ve tried. It’s barbed.”
“Do you feel ill?” Petor asked.
“I’m tired,” Feodor said.
Petor nodded curtly. “Put this in your mouth.”
Feodor chomped on a piece of wood.
Petor took hold of the dart and snapped off the exposed shaft. Then, expertly, he wrapped a handkerchief around the wound. “We must flee while we can,” he told Feodor. “Master Volok marches here with the freeholders.” Petor turned. “Yury! Fetch the horses!”
Yury shook his head as if he had a hangover.
“Yury!” Petor roared. “The horses!”
Yury rose. As he walked, he limped. Soon the limp vanished.
Nadia stirred by the fire. Ivan went to her and helped her up. “What happened?” she asked. Ivan told her.
By then Petor clanked up. “Yury holds a strange sword and you, Ivan, have gained a horn. I followed Perun’s tracks to a camp of wolf-riders and saw Farmer Lech practicing swordsmanship. Of the other farmers there’s no sign.”
“They’re dead,” Ivan said.
Nadia painted the Belgorod knight the picture. “We must flee,” she said afterward.
“Yes,” Petor said. “We must leave before Karlo escapes the crypt and arrives at his camp. I think its luck that the piper didn’t have more riders with her.”
Ivan studied the corpses. He’d never seen a monster like Yury’s storm wolf. The mangled clawman reminded him of a rabid badger his hounds had killed once. The badger had seemed all teeth and claws, twisted muscle and fur.
Ivan knew their smell now. He touched one of the claws on the deformed hand. He touched the storm wolf’s saliva and brought it near his nose. It had a poisonous taint. He wiped his finger on his breeches.
Lastly, Ivan went to Flay. The dog lay dead in the snow. The storm wolf had exerted cruel strength. He picked up Flay and found one of the pits dug by the farmers. As quickly as possible, he threw dirt over the brave old dog. Someone was going to pay for this. He vowed that, by Hosar.
Shortly, Yury brought his old packhorse and Nadia’s gelding to Petor. By that time, Ivan had found three boar-spears, adding them to their supply of weapons. Ivan sat behind Nadia. A pain-fevered Feodor sat behind Yury. With Ivan’s help, they stood. Then Petor, with his lance in hand, led them out of the deserted camp.
-32-
No one said a word as Petor threaded the way through the icicle-fanged forest. Yury grunted tiredly, one hand on the reins and the other holding his huge sword. From time to time, he switched hands. Feodor, his head slumped, held on to Yury. If the red packhorse moved too close to a tree, and Feodor’s wounded leg brushed against it, he moaned in pain. Riding behind them on the gelding, Ivan held onto Nadia, keeping warm by their closeness. Despite their peril and the way branches clawed at his face and jacket, all he could think about was how he held onto her small waist. He yearned to turn her around and kiss her. He yearned to tell her that he loved her.
Stribog and Vesna, who both paced Nadia’s gelding, radiated worry. Evil smells wafted on the wind. Wicked sounds filled the frost-marked forest. Ivan knew about his hounds’ uneasiness. Perhaps as importantly, the hounds knew he knew. They’d become closer to him since he’d blown the Dragon Horn. In their limited way, they recognized the change. Perhaps, even, they’d gained from his change as much as he had.
“Duck,” said Nadia.
Ivan didn’t catch the meaning until a branch scratched his cheek. “Ow,” he said.
“Maybe if you paid more attention to the forest and less to me that wouldn’t have happened,” she said.
“Huh?”
“You’re holding me too tightly.”
“Oh. Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip, feeling foolish.
“Thanks,” she said. “Now I can breathe again.”
Petor came to a small, frozen stream. He turned onto it, following it through the forest. Thunder’s iron-shod hooves clashed ominously upon the ice. They made better time, and fortunately, for them the ice didn’t break.
Later, Feodor moaned louder than before. His hands slipped off Yury’s waist.
“Watch out!” cried Nadia.
Yury let go of the reins, turned and steadied Feodor. Feodor mopped his brow and then held on again.
“Petor!” Nadia called.
The Belgorod knight drew his mighty charger to a halt. He slipped the lance into its holder, threw his leg over the high saddle and slid onto the ice. He motioned the others to do likewise. All but Feodor complied.
“Help him farther onto the saddle,” Petor said.
One-handedly and from on the ground, Yury did.
“Can you hear me?” Petor asked up to Feodor.
Feodor nodded miserably.
“You must hang onto the saddle-horn,” Petor said.
“Yes,” Feodor groaned. His wide face had turned pasty white. Sweat slicked around his mouth. He blinked constantly.
“What’s the matter with him?” asked Ivan.
Petor stepped near them. “I think the dart was poisoned,” he whispered. “We have to get him to Magda as fast as possible.” He raised his frosted eyebrows at Nadia. “Unless you can do something?”
Nadia shook her head.
“Where is Magda?” Yury asked.
Petor let out his breath as he gestured vaguely. “West somewhere.”
“Yes, but where exactly?” Yury said.
“I don’t know!” Petor shouted.
Yury recoiled, then scowled and turned away.
“I know,” Petor told a surprised Nadia and Ivan. “I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”
Faintly, the howling of storm wolves stirred the air.
Petor clenched his teeth, as a haunted look swept into his eyes. “Damn them,” he whispered. “Damn them to the Eternal Void!”
Shocked, Nadia covered her mouth at the rude epithet.
“I beg your pardon,” Petor said. He turned away, his eyebrows knit into lumps.
Feodor slumped lower in the saddle, his groans growing more audible and often. Yury tried to soothe him, to little avail.
“I’m drained,” Nadia whispered to Ivan. “I’m too tired to practice more magic.” An eerie sound floated on the wind, almost like piping. Yet surely, the Imp was too far away for her music to be heard. Whatever the sound, it promised dire consequences. “I’m afraid,” Nadia said, clutching Ivan’s hand. “The Imp will kill us this time.”
“What about Karlo?” Ivan asked bitterly.
Nadia had no answer for that.
“How are we going to escape?” Ivan turned and asked Petor.
“By Hosar,” whispered the knight, “I wish I knew.”
“You don’t know where the Belgorod freeholders are?”
“Near the yellow rocks, but if they’ve reached there or not…” Petor wiped sweat from his brow. “I must admit something. I’m not certain which is the fastest trail to the yellow rocks.”
They’d passed the yellow rocks on the way in. Five big boulders covered with yellow lichen stood in a clearing. Unfortunately, those boulders were far, far away. Even with stiff riding, it would take them well into dusk to reach them.
The faint howling grew stronger. The storm wolves and surely their riders gave chase.
“We must move,” Ivan said.
“Yes,” Petor agreed.
As he idly stroked the horn, Ivan had an idea. He bent on one knee, held Vesna’s head and concentrated. The dog whined. Ivan concentrated. Suddenly the dog barked, wagging her tail. She turned and bolted away into the forest.
“What came over her?” Petor asked.
Ivan wiped sweaty palms on his breeches. Quietly, he said, “I told her to run ahead.”
“What?”
“I can sense what she senses,” Ivan explained, “at least for a distance.”
Petor stepped back in alarm.
“No,” Nadia said. “It’s good magic, from the Dragon Horn. And it’s a good idea.”
“Very well,” Petor said in a dispirited tone.
“We still have hope,” Nadia told him.
“Hope?” Petor snorted. “I don’t see how we can avoid the wolf-riders.” He grabbed his charger’s reins. “Walk briskly,” he told them. Then he led them off the frozen stream and into the forest, following the path Vesna had taken.
A half mile later, they exited the icy undergrowth and remounted. Petor led them at a trot. The howling, which had increased the entire time, grew quieter as the horses trotted over a stretch of open ground.
“We’re gaining ground!” Petor shouted.
Ivan studied the horses through Stribog’s senses. The ability awed him. He could study beasts as a dog, as a hunter who tirelessly tracked prey and cut animals out of herds. He studied the horses as the storm wolves probably sensed such things. With his new ability, Ivan tried to puzzle out a plan of escape from the storm wolves.
Petor slowed the pace and ducked under a branch as they reentered the forest. Before them lay Vesna’s tracks. A few times the paw-prints doubled back and moved in a circle. When the dog had taken the final path, she’d urinated beside it. The first time Ivan explained that, the others stared at him.
“I told her to do that,” Ivan said. “So you must keep a lookout for yellow snow.”
Petor hadn’t even nodded, but had simply spurred Thunder.
White bleakness surrounded them. Evil howls floated after them, making the hair on the back of their necks stiffen with foreknowledge.
Thunder, Ivan decided, could travel all day and night. If the knight desired, he and his charger could travel fast enough to flee the storm wolves. The red packhorse floundered the most. Yury and Feodor outweighed Nadia and himself. The gelding was in better condition and was surely as half as old as the packhorse. Ivan understood that if he alighted onto the snow, Nadia could probably escape with Petor.
Ivan began to think as the pursing howls grew louder, nearer. The wind, when it shifted, carried a damp odor of great strength. At least ten or more storm wolves and their hairy riders followed. Could they defeat ten wolf-riders? No, that seemed impossible. The two riders they’d faced had been trained warriors filled with guile. Ten such warriors, in the thickets, would ambush them with ease. Poisoned darts, cracking whips, tainted storm wolf-bites—they would die miserably under such an assault. Nor could he forget Sir Karlo and his men. The Bavarian had ridden a mighty charger the equal of Thunder. Perun and his ruffians would also be close behind on their mounts. Added to everything else, was the Imp, a worker of baleful magic. If she played her ebony pipes...without Nadia’s magic to shield them, they’d be doomed.
Panic gibbered at the edge of Ivan’s thoughts. He kept the panic at bay with his hatred of Karlo. If they failed, the Bavarian knight would have Nadia. The thought made Ivan clench his teeth and his head to pound with fury. He must think! He must somehow use the Dragon Horn.
“Ivan!” Petor shouted from ahead.
Ivan dismounted because Petor had. The forest in front of them was impenetrable. Vesna’s tracks showed that she’d wormed her way into the mass.
“How are we supposed to travel through that?” Petor demanded.
Ivan didn’t know.
“Where is your cursed dog now?” Petor shouted in dismay.
Ivan closed his eyes. He didn’t sense anything. He reached down and clutched the horn. Ever so faintly, he sensed Vesna trotting through the forest. The dog held her nose high. She’d caught a whiff of men.
“She’s located Master Volok,” Ivan said.
Petor grabbed Ivan by the shoulders. “What?” Petor’s intensity shocked Ivan. He’d never seen the Belgorod knight like this. Petor let go and shivered as dreadful howls wove through the air. The knight’s chubby face no longer seemed cheery or the model of healthy Belgorod living. Their doom had turned his fleshy face into a stark mask, his eyes into staring orbs.
“We must stand and fight,” Yury said, the black battle-blade clutched in his hand.
“Fight?” Petor asked.
“Here,” said Yury.
Petor shook his head. “To stand and fight is to die. Then all of you will die.” For a moment Petor couldn’t speak. When he did, his voice was lifeless. “Nadia is on her way to becoming a mighty shaper. This magic Dragon Horn cannot fall into the hands of Sir Karlo. And that sword you hold, my brother. No, the enemies of Great Moravia must never gain it.”
“To run is to die,” Yury countered.
“No,” Ivan said. “We must flee while we can, and trick them.”
“How?” Yury asked.
“I don’t know,” Ivan admitted.
Feodor took that moment to groan. His thigh had swelled, pressing against his pant-leg. He was in constant pain.
“We have to go through here,” Ivan said. He plunged into the undergrowth, madly snapping branches.
“Ivan, come back!” Petor called. “Feodor can’t make it through.”
Ivan didn’t obey. They had to keep moving. He tore at the branches and strained to crack the bigger ones.
“Stand aside!” Yury roared.
Ivan looked back in time to see Yury swing his battle-blade. Ivan ducked, slipping out of the way. Methodically, with incredible strength, Yury lopped off the bigger branches.
“Get behind me!” Yury shouted.
Ivan wormed his way behind. Then he followed his best friend and cleared out the smaller branches. It took them too long. The sound of the approaching pack was ominous. By the time, they brought the horses through, the howling storm wolves were almost upon them.
“We’ll never make it,” Nadia said. “Our only hope is that I bargain with Sir Karlo.”
Petor laughed starkly, almost madly.
“No,” Yury said. “You’ll make it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nadia.
Yury planted himself in front of the thicket they’d just passed through. “Here I stand. Here I will buy you time.”
None of them said a word.
“By Hosar,” Petor whispered at last.
Ivan watched him, worried that the knight had cracked under the terrible strain.
“Ride!” Yury shouted.
The fear drained from Petor’s face. His eyes lost their staring look, his face its tenseness. He smiled, not in joy perhaps, but in understanding.
From the other side of the thicket came fearsome howls. The pack had made wonderful time while they’d hacked through the dense undergrowth.
Petor laid his hand on Yury’s shoulder. The Belgorod knight spoke with his normal volume. “Dear brother, I love you. You have been the greatest squire any knight could wish for. I bid you now to follow your oath and obey me in this last request.”
“I-I don’t understand,” Yury said.
“You will ride with the others and protect them with your life. That is the charge I lay upon you. It is my right, as your knight, to give you this charge. You’ve sworn to obey me. Now is the not the moment to foreswear yourself.”
“I must guard this pass,” Yury said.
Petor applied pressure. “No, my brother. That is not your right. You haven’t yet earned it.”
“Then—”
“Listen to me,” Petor said earnestly. “I am the knight. I will stand here and buy the rest of you time.”
The weight of his words stunned them.
“No,” Yury said.
“Squire! Obey me!”
They stared at each other.
“None of us should stay,” Nadia said.
Petor told Yury, “Give my love to Mother and Father. Tell Andrei and Vuk that I thought of them at the end. And you, little brother, know that I’ve cherished your wild stories all my life. Become Moravia’s greatest knight. Wield your battle-blade in the service of Light. But now, by Hosar—ride!” He shoved Yury toward his horse.
Petor marched to Thunder, mounted up smoothly and put on his gauntlets. He set the iron helmet on his head and took hold of his lance. He readied his kite-shaped shield. Then he trotted Thunder fifty yards from the entrance they’d made. Petor sat proudly, stiffly, like a knight of old. For a moment the sun appeared, its rays shining off his gleaming chain-mail harness.
“Go!” he roared.
“We must ride,” said Nadia.
They mounted up. With a wail of misery, Yury spurred the old red packhorse for the trees across the clearing. Nadia kicked her gelding. Ivan hung on. Tears filled his eyes. He knew that Petor had been wrestling with the problem ever since they’d left the farmers’ camp. His last vision of Petor was of the knight astride his charger. In the end, there stood Light’s greatest hope: a good man armored by faith and steel.
They reentered the forest, moving as fast as possible. Behind them floated the awful howls. The storm wolves taunted them, jeered at them, promising to rend them from limb to limb.
“I hate them!” Ivan hissed into Nadia’s ear.
He heard her sob.
Then it came to him, how they could defeat the storm wolves. “Wait!” he bellowed.
Yury drew rein. Nadia twisted back to stare at him.
“We must go back,” said Ivan.
“No,” Nadia said. “Petor’s sacrifice must not be in vain.”
The storm wolf howls were near. He didn’t have time to argue. “I’m sorry,” he told Nadia. He put his arms around her waist and hurled her from the saddle. Then he scooted forward and took the reins. “Follow me, Yury!” He turned the gelding and slapped her rear. With a snort she bolted the way they’d just come.
“Come back!” shouted Nadia.
“Faster!” shouted Ivan. “Faster, faster!”
The gelding responded, her hooves pounding on the cold ground. Ivan ducked as branches whipped past his head. In the near distance, the storm wolf howls grew louder. Beside him, Stribog ran strong. He prayed he wasn’t too late.
Suddenly, the howls changed. Where a moment ago they’d jeered, now they cried out in dismay.
“Petor,” Ivan hissed. With his heels, he kicked the gelding in the flanks. He pictured Petor charging the emerging pack. He pictured the splintering lance, the sword that would be swept from its scabbard. From his greater height, Petor surely dealt potent death. Thousands should have viewed the last stand of the Belgorod Champion. Instead, surrounded by howling enemies, Petor Belgorod fought his last battle alone, the true hero.
“Not if I can help it,” said Ivan.
The howls of storm wolf misery filled the forest.
Then Ivan broke through the trees and into the clearing. He saw the fight. Petor sat astride his stallion, the kite-shaped shield sprinkled with darts. Around him snarled storm wolves and their riders. Whip-tips and darts flew at Petor. He hewed and a hairy rider would never rise again.
Then a storm wolf bit one of Thunder’s back legs. Thunder screamed, and kicked back with his other leg, crushing the storm wolf’s head. Other huge beasts leaped forward, slavering jaws snapping. Thunder went down, Petor with him.
Ivan put the Dragon Horn to his lips and blew with everything he had. An eerie blast shook the forest, washing over the storm wolves.
They whimpered, cowering, slinking low and away from the sound. Their riders cried out with rage, striking them. The wolves looked at Ivan. Once they had been normal wolves. Now they were huge, evil beasts, given over to Darkness. Shame filled them at the sight of the Lord of Hounds. They knew in an instinctive way that size and power wasn’t worth the bargain of becoming evil and vile.
Ivan rode at them. He rode as the Lord of Hounds.
The riders beat their mounts. Then Petor rose up among them. He’d lost his helmet, but not his spirit. He bellowed a war cry as he swung his sword.
Ivan winded the Dragon Horn once more.
It was too much for the storm wolves. Howling, shaking off their riders, they bolted and fled back the way they’d come.
Petor leaped at the fallen riders, at the small hairy beasts who had once been men. Then Yury shot past Ivan on his old packhorse. Bloodlust gleamed upon Yury’s face. Some of that battle madness, in a way Ivan couldn’t understand, had transformed itself to the old red packhorse. The old horse ran as he once must have run when he was a young colt in the fields.
“Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” shouted Yury.
The small hairy clawmen, who surrounded and closed in on Petor, looked up in dismay and alarm.
Yury smashed in among them. He slid from the saddle, landing expertly. With two hands, he held Night, the huge battle-blade. Its long black blade gleamed evilly. The runes etched into the blade, for just a moment, pulsed with sinister power. Yury’s face twisted with fury and raging bloodlust. He bellowed a wild and alien cry (it was spoken in an ancient tongue, but none of them knew that). The nearest clawmen, men transformed and shaped into the images of upright beasts, curled their lips in a snarl, revealing long and deadly fangs. They raised their small target shields. Yury laughed and swung. Wood splintered. Flesh parted. Bones cracked and blood sprayed. Yury pivoted, swinging harder than before. More clawmen died. The others, screaming in fear, tried to scramble away to safety, out of range of the evil battle-blade. Night crashed down upon their backs, slaying them in their cowardice. Yury ran after another who fled, cleaving his skull. Petor fought, too, although he stood well back of the battle-blade. Then the small hairy beasts who had once been men, the few who lived, fled back through the thicket opening.
Ivan reined in the gelding as Petor turned to Yury. The blood madness still shone on his brother’s face. Yury lifted the battle-blade high, screaming an awful oath in that strange and alien tongue. Petor, who grinned in delight, frowned as he stepped away from his brother.
Ivan dismounted, and shouted, “Yury!”
Yury, foam flecking his lips, turned with a snarl.
Then jangling armor bade them all turn back to the opening. Sir Karlo, on his huge black stallion, a massive lance couched under his arm, thundered at the nearest of them, at a surprised Petor.
“No!” shouted Ivan.
Sir Karlo’s eyes gleamed with rage. His long hair flew behind him. Like an avalanche, a force of nature, the huge stallion thundered at Petor. Petor’s face drained of blood. He lifted his sword and set his feet. Sir Karlo grinned. The lance shifted, the point aimed at Petor’s chest. Petor, knowing he was about to die, bellowed “Great Moravia! Great Moravia!” He swung desperately at the lance. It made no difference. Sir Karlo’s arm never moved. The gleaming head of steel pierced Petor’s chest. It ripped chain mail and broke skin and bones. Petor cried out once and then he fell dead on the snow, a gory ruin of what once had been a man.
Behind Sir Karlo rode Perun and his ruffians. They veered away from Petor’s dead form and galloped at Yury. They howled as they held their sabers high. They laughed and jeered. Their steeds snorted in grim battle rage.
Yury bellowed and his eyes rolled in his head. He drank air in great heaving gasps. His knuckles whitened and his face turned an awful shade of crimson. He sprang at the horsemen as they thundered upon him. Like some insane war god gone mad, Yury swung, ducked, pivoted, hewed, side-stepped to the left, chopped, rolled under the hooves of a stallion, leaped to his feet and hacked with all his might. It was a scene out a singer’s tales. Yury slew the horsemen and gutted their mounts before they knew that the gates of Hell had opened to receive them.
Ivan stopped in shock. Sir Karlo rode away from Yury and then dismounted.
“I wield Night!” shouted Yury.
Then Ivan saw two things at once. The gaunt watched from nearby high up in a pine, and Karlo strode to do battle with Yury.
“Yury,” whispered the gaunt.
Yury blinked, lowering the mighty battle-blade.
“Yury, look out!” shouted Ivan.
Sir Karlo snarled, leaping at Yury. Yury snarled, too, lifting his battle-blade and hacking. Ivan expected Sir Karlo to be sliced in two—the way Yury had just slain the others. Incredibly, Sir Karlo’s sword clinked against the battle-blade. One, two, three blows, they traded sword strokes that caused sparks to fly.
“You wield Night,” Sir Karlo said tightly.
‘Die!” shouted Yury. He hewed again.
Sir Karlo neatly blocked the blow.
“I’ll kill you!” Yury roared.
Sir Karlo twisted his wrist in a clever move, deflecting the huge battle-blade. Then he cut Yury across the chest.
Yury blinked in surprise.
“The death of a thousand cuts,” panted Sir Karlo, “or enough to let the gaunt enter you, at least.”
Yury howled in renewed rage, swinging. It didn’t matter. Sir Karlo skipped back and parried, parried again, then cut Yury across the arm.
“A thousand cuts,” said Sir Karlo. He grinned evilly.
The gaunt laughed from up in the trees.
Ivan knew there was only one thing he could do. He lifted the Dragon Horn and pealed out a loud blast. The gaunt screamed. The sound continued as Ivan blew with all the air in his lungs. The gaunt finally fled, unable to bear the horn. And the blast did something to Yury—it stole his battle madness.
“Ivan?” Yury asked.
Sir Karlo snarled and stepped forward to attack. Then he grunted as a blue beam pushed him back and back again, away from Yury.
Ivan turned. Nadia stood just inside the clearing, her wand held high. Then she collapsed. Yury, too, sank to his knees. He was exhausted.
Sir Karlo shook his head. He also was groggy.
Ivan knew this was his moment. He wasn’t a warrior, not like any of the others. He was a dog trainer who had found a strange and wonderful horn. He was the Lord of Hounds. He was a hunter, and he would deal with Sir Karlo as he would deal with a dangerous, man-eating bear. Fairness had nothing to do with it.
“Stribog,” he said.
The dog was at his side. Together, they charged Karlo.
Karlo looked up. “Yes, you and I, dog trainer, it is time I taught you manners.” He brought up his sword.
Ivan slowed. Stribog paced him, his hackles high. The knight advanced a step. He breathed heavily, and his chest smoked where Nadia’s spell had hit him. Ivan readied the warspear to cast. One good throw and it would all be over.
“You die today,” said Karlo.
Ivan said nothing, because you don’t talk to bears. That would be stupid, and worse than stupid, foolish.
Stribog flanked the knight.
Sir Karlo glanced at Stribog, then Ivan. His pale features were slack, tired, but grim. “You have one cast, dog trainer. Then I kill your dog.”
Ivan faked a throw. Karlo made to parry with his sword. Ivan laughed, knowing that mockery would make the knight enraged. Karlo swore a vile oath and his eyes narrowed. Then he charged Ivan. Stribog growled as he ran after the knight. Sir Karlo whirled around and hacked. Ivan heaved the warspear. It flew true, and bit deep into Sir Karlo’s back. The knight groaned, stumbling. Then Stribog was upon him.
-33-
It was a somber occasion, even though it was a happy event. Wives, mothers and fathers still mourned the deaths of the farmers and the farmers’ sons. And the noble death of Sir Petor—and his brave stand and sacrifice—all the people of Belgorod Holding mourned his passing. Such a shock, a bloodletting, and to know that storm wolves, beastly riders and evil knights dared to invade their land—it was on the lips of everyone.
Runners had been sent to Lord Mikulas. And a sleigh-team was even now being readied for a trip to the king. The travelers would hand back the royal writ and give an account of Sir Karlo’s passing. There could be trouble in that. Therefore, Master Volok would go, together with Magda.
Storm wolves, beastly riders, evil knights, and the gaunt of a terrible and ancient Old One, Vlad Blackheart, all these things and more were true. No one had seen the gaunt since that awful day, but he was out there, somewhere.
It was a somber occasion today, but a happy event. People thronged in Belgorod Hall. They wore their best finery. From all around they’d come, many to see the three strange and very different youths. Nadia stood tall and serene by the fireplace. She wore a white dress and held a carved wand of wood. With the wand, while summoning up last reserves she hadn’t known where there, she’d blasted Sir Karlo with a pure force of magic. Her face showed serenity, that she was seemingly at peace, but within her heart… She spoke less than before, and always looked directly at a person in an unnerving manner. Here, people realized, was a shaper of great promise.
The hall hushed. Young Yury Belgorod, in a blue jacket and dark pants, with leather boots and golden spurs that jangled as he walked, moved before his father. A huge black battle-blade hung on his belt. It was a monstrous sword, with a long hilt for two hands to clutch and topped by a sinister ruby. Yury never parted with his blade, not even to bathe. He, like Nadia, was changed, different then before. He no longer limped, nor did the left side of his face sag as it used to. Hard muscles rippled under his jacket, and his visage had turned grim, more like a veteran warrior. Some of the good folk whispered that he was fey, given now to outbursts of rage. Other people noted his laughter, that it was louder, more sinister than before, and how he keenly watched the shadows, especially at twilight.
“Yury Belgorod,” his father said.
Everyone fell silent.
“For you valor in defense of your friends and our fair land, I grant you the boon of your choice.”
People held their breath. What would Yury ask for? Many noted Master Volok’s red eyes, and how his skin sagged—he neither ate nor slept as much as he used to, not since Petor’s death.
“My boon I leave to thee,” Yury said.
Master Volok nodded. “Kneel then, Squire Yury.”
Yury bent on one knee.
Master Volok drew his sword. Yury bowed his head. Lady Belgorod and Magda watched with wide eyes. Nadia’s features never changed, although she clutched her wand more tightly. Feodor, leaning on crutches, grinned from ear to ear.
“For you valor,” said Volok, “I dub thee Sir Yury Belgorod, Knight of Great Moravia and servant to Hosar, the Lord of Light.”
The tip of Master Volok’s sword touched Yury’s right shoulder, then his left.
“Arise, Sir Knight.”
Yury rose.
The people cheered, clapping wildly.
A huge smile stretched itself onto Yury’s face. He laughed strongly like a knight.
In the back, by the door, Ivan nodded to himself. Yury at last had his dream. He was a knight of Great Moravia. He waved to Yury. Yury waved back, even though pretty maidens surrounded him. Ivan opened the door and slipped outside. Stribog, Vesna and many other hounds leapt to their feet. Ivan grinned at them. They barked as they rushed toward him, trying to put their heads under his hands.
Then Ivan raced to the woods to hunt. He wouldn’t rest or make merry until he slew the gaunt. He touched the Dragon Horn slapping at his side. He was the Lord of Hounds. Then he and his hounds entered the woods and began to trek in earnest.
The End
To the Reader: I hope you’ve enjoyed The Dragon Horn. If you would like to see the story continue, I encourage you to write a review. Let me know how you feel and let others know what to expect.
If you enjoyed The Dragon Horn, you might also enjoy another Alternate Europe novel: The Doomfarers of Erin. Read on for an exciting excerpt.
Novels by Vaughn Heppner
The Ark Chronicles:
People of the Ark
People of the Flood
People of Babel
People of the Tower
Lost Civilizations:
Giants
Leviathan
The Tree of Life
Gog
Behemoth
The Lod Saga
The Doom Star Series:
Star Soldier
Bio-Weapon
Battle Pod
Cyborg Assault
Planet Wrecker
Alternate Europe:
Assassin of the Damned
The Doomfarers of Erin
The Assassin of Carthage
The Dragon Horn
Other Novels:
The Great Pagan Army
The Sword of Carthage
The Rogue Knight
Invasion: Alaska
Strontium-90
The Doomfarers of Erin
FOREWORD
Alternate Earths have alternate histories. Near the Year 1000 in the forests of Russia, a man rediscovered a tome of the lost Hyperboreans. Using the spell-book, he practiced the sorcery of Old Father Night and sought the aid of the Moon Lady. It changed much.
1147 on our Earth was the beginning of the Second Crusade. In DOOMFARERS OF ERIN, the knights of England, France and Germany went doomfaring into the cold pine forests of Muscovy. The stone castles of the Sword Brothers in Livonia and Lithuania marked the boundary between the lands of Darkness and those of Light.
In that place, Ireland was called Erin and England was referred to as Albion. The precise landscape of Erin was different from our Ireland, and its history bloodier. It was a time of tragedy, as one from Muscovy secretly arrived in Erin. He searched for the crypt of the greatest and darkest of the ancient Hyperboreans—the sorcerer who lived a millennium ago in a warm Greenland.
CHAPTER ONE
Swan’s cell was blackness and stench. It was misery and sickness. As she lay on a damp cot, her skin burned with fever. In her delirium and pain, she called upon Hosar, the Lord of Light.
For a time, nothing happened. Then a strange speck oozed from the ceiling, as if it had taken time journeying this far underground. The speck twinkled like a star on a pitch-black night, and it brightened, shining a ray on Swan’s clammy skin. A foul vapor trickled past her bleeding lips, the vapor increasing each time she exhaled. The ray blazed as if with wrath. Like a snake, the vapor twisted and retreated into her mouth. The speck of light followed the vapor, and the cell became dark again except for a red glow from Swan’s cheeks. She whimpered. She twitched upon damp straw. Then ashy smoke puffed from her mouth as if from a charred house, and she lost her wretched wheeze.
More occurred as Swan’s bleeding lips scabbed in an instant and then grew soft. The sickly hue of her skin became pinkish. Then the speck of light floated from her mouth and soon hovered near the ceiling, although its brightness had diminished. Swan cried out, using a long forgotten language.
The speck blazed with light.
Swan moaned in her feverish sleep, and she began to dream strangely. She dreamed she was a mote of light floating through the subterranean ceiling, leaving her wretched prison cell. As the mote, she passed through stone and dirt and then through a castle. She soared into the air and sped at a passing crow of unusual size. As the mote, she entered the crow.
In this dreamy state or vision, Swam peered out of the crow’s eyes. She became the crow and felt the working of breast and wing muscles and the exhilarating rush of air. Oh, this was like no dream she’d ever had before. It felt real. The flock flew above trees snarled with spidery moss, the trees mired around slimy ponds from which floated fetid odors. They flew toward the bloated orange sun that sank into the horizon.
Swan forced the crow to look around, and through its eyes, she spied an ancient keep of old stones choked with ivy and moss. In the keep’s depths is where they held her body prisoner. A limp flag hung from a broken tower, the lightning-shattered tower seeming more ruin than functioning castle.
Swan cawed in alarm, for she sensed evil, something that had just awakened. It saw her! It stirred, and a smoky dart, a spiritual javelin, flew from the castle and at her. As the crow, she veered wildly, and the bird lost its smooth beat and tumbled out of the formation. The evil manifestation brushed Swan. Like a filthy coating of oil, it soiled her. She no longer felt exhilaration at flying, although the crow regained its beat and flapped hard, rejoining the flock. The feeling of freedom had vanished from Swan, as had the comfort of an otherworldly benevolence. She felt trapped now within the crow, and the sense of foreboding grew until it became a grim certainty that she was about to witness a wicked thing.
Other flocks joined theirs, a grand summoning of crows. Each flock glided toward a swampy clearing. Each flock flew to an assigned hangman tree, the crows alighting onto the twisted, mossy branches. Out of the crow’s eyes, Swan noticed that the flocks peered—
A vile compulsion drew Swan’s gaze. She fought it, hating this overtaking of her will. She soon weakened and stared at a lonely shack. Recognition came, more from repute than ever having seen it before. The shack’s boards were filthy, warped and old. It only had a single door, and smoke trickled out of a hole in the roof. There were no windows. Around the shack, leaning against it, were piles of carefully stacked old branches. The door opened with an eerie creak and out shuffled a humped-shouldered man wearing a sooty cap and coat. He knelt, raised a hatchet and chopped branches. He was the local charcoal-maker, and soon he carted wood into the shed, closing the door with a bang.
Bushes rustled then and Swan knew loathing and horror. A creature with long hairy arms and brutish shoulders shambled toward the shed. It had inhuman features, a snout full of yellowed fangs and—Swan wanted to caw and caw and caw. She tried to scream, but that dreadful compulsion that had originally reached out of the castle yet controlled her. She recognized the creature, or enough of his twisted features to know that once he had been Kerold the Carpenter, strangely vanished seven months ago. What evil had taken hold of his soul and turned him into that? Poor Kerold, he had been a simple man yet always greedy for coin, always ready to believe the worst of anyone.
Before the creature that had once been Kerold the Carpenter reached the shed, the door rattled. The creature made a soft hooting noise, picked up a branch and rushed forward with obvious malice.
Out stepped the charcoal-maker. He raised his head, grunted, hesitated—perhaps in profound shock—and then reached for his belted hatchet. By then it was too late. With a terrible thud, the branch struck him between the eyes and the charcoal-maker collapsed onto the ground. The creature hooted and danced with his bowed, shorter than human legs. He also continued to thump the inert body. Then the creature bounded into the shack. Loud bumps and noises began from within. In seconds smoke billowed out of the roof-hole.
A shriek sounded. The creature shot out of the shed, his fur ablaze. He screamed, tripped, rolled several times and thereby put out the flames. For a moment he lay on the ground, panting. Then he looked up at the silent, watching crows. The thing that had once been Kerold the Carpenter scrambled upright. He hunched his head and shambled away in the direction of the castle.
Smoke poured out of the shack until flames licked the open door. That roasted the charcoal-maker and caused a wicked stench.
Still the crows kept silent. They watched as here and there a black bird ruffled its feathers. Soon orange flames roared. Sparks whirled into the twilight. Wherever they landed, the sparks guttered out with a hiss because of the damp soil. The shed burned as its flames blackened the branch-piles around it, until they too blazed into crackling life. Finally, with a crash of red-glowing wood and a geyser of sparks, the shack fell inward. The blaze grew again, briefly, and then weakened until the spent, charred wood flaked into glowing embers.
It was then the crows stirred. Swan felt the compulsion and although she tried, she couldn’t resist it, nor could she leave this nightmare. Her loathing for the evil under the castle grew, as did her terror of it.
With the rustle of hundreds of wings, the flocks swooped upon the destruction. They landed on hot ashes, and against all sense of self-preservation, they pecked at the embers. Each bird grasped a fiery coal and then exploded into flight. Ten, twenty, thirty crows flew away at a time. The rush of air fanned their embers, yet if anything, they tightened their hold.
Swan nearly fainted at the red-hot agony. She grew nauseated as her beak smoldered. The flocks were like a living stream, beads of fire in the night. Swan wanted to shriek, to caw, to dive into the dark waters below, but that evil force kept her holding onto the ember.
Soon the crows swooped upon a nighttime village, a shabby housing of swamp dwellers. Each hut had a reed roof. A limping watchman with a lantern and hound patrolled the lanes. The first crows winged for the shrine of Hosar, a large hut fronted with a tall post and a spike hammered in it. Like a spent comet, the lead crow thumped upon the shrine’s roof. The bird wiggled its beak, stuffed the ember into straw and broke the coal apart. The ember guttered and died. The next coal brought by the second crow caught with a curl of smoke.
Now the night rained crows. They thumped onto roofs.
A shout went up as the night watchman clanged his bell and his old hound woofed tiredly.
Divested of her coal and with her head fogged with pain, Swan hopped to the edge of the roof. A savant in a black cassock ran out of the shrine. He had a long white beard.
Swan recognized old Ran of Cathal Village. He had headed the delegation against Leng the Scholar, the foreigner she had accused of sorcery. Ran had also argued against the baron’s counter-charge against her of witchery. The savant waved his arms as villagers fled screaming out of their pitiful huts. Dried reed roofs smoked and burned as demented crows swooped upon the people. The mad birds used talons and beaks to grasp and peck.
The vile compulsion tried to make Swan attack the savant. She cawed wildly. She grasped her talons around a reed roof, fighting the summons. Nausea filled her. Dizziness disoriented her. She gathered her resolve like a shredded coat, clutching it as if to garb nakedness. She sensed a weakening of the evil, that it had too many things to control at once, that it had spent itself this dreadful night. Therefore, Swan tried once again to leave the crow, to exit this foul dream.
In that moment, Swan realized this was no dream. Her spirit eased out of the crow. That bewildered her. It was frightening. She looked around, and a beacon of light flared with brilliance. The beacon drew her spirit hard, fast, and she slammed back toward the castle.
A turret rushed near. Guards there rattled dice in an ivory cup. They hunkered under a lantern. Swan wanted to vomit, but as a spirit, she had no stomach. In the yard, gory-handed boys wrung chicken necks for the baron’s supper. A hound barked wildly. Then the Earth gulped her. She sank. In a vault, the wine steward selected a cask. Swan scratched and clawed for purchase, trying to halt her terrible descent deeper underground. Small, subterranean cells held men, or what had once been men. Many of the creatures hooted forlornly. Others snarled more savagely than wolves.
On a lower level, Swan’s spirit came upon the baron in his frock coat, a lanky, yellow-haired man. He set his lantern onto a pile of rubble. Moisture pooled on the low ceiling, dripping into puddles. His eyes were wide and wild, his features twisted into a frozen snarl. The sight shocked her. Swan had always known the baron as an urbane nobleman who read arcane literature and collected ancient artifacts. He often referred to past events that no one else understood. The baron dropped to his knees and clawed at the rubble. His fingernails bled, and his strange intensity…
Something lurched below the baron. It was under the rubble and deeper in the ground. It was evil. It slept in a crypt, and it stirred.
Swan recoiled in horror. She fled this wicked place. She hurled herself toward a last cell in a corridor, the source of the beacon, her own body. Through the heavy, barred door and into the moaning girl she went.
Swan’s eyes flew open in the darkness. She shivered and drew a thin blanket to her chin. She lay on damp straw, and from the cell’s corners rustled cockroaches. She moaned. It had happened again. She hated…had Hosar the Lord of Light sent her a vision? She shook her head. Hosar had surely begun the vision and then something—the thing deep in the crypt—had taken over. Yet this had been more than just a vision, a feverish dream. What she had seen through the crow’s eyes had happened. Her spirit had broken free of her dying body—what had been her dying body down here in the dungeon.
Iron hinges groaned and interrupted her thoughts. The grim sound came from down the corridor. Stone grated against stone. Hooting erupted, barking and snarling.
Swan shuddered. Once those had been cries from pitch sellers, horse traders, eel-fishers and pilgrims. Once they had begged for release and proffered coin, service and then any oath Leng cared to name. She swallowed hard. Kerold the Carpenter—is that what had happened to him?
Boots scraped and stamped along the corridor. Metal jangled. Harshly spoken orders for silence stilled the barking. In its place ruled a cringing quiet. Crackling torches became audible and the flickering light grew. Swan breathed deeply and was amazed that didn’t hurt her lungs. She struggled up and squinted at the painful torchlight. Yet that didn’t make sense. She had just seen through the crow’s eyes, had witnessed the sun’s last rays of daylight. That didn’t seem to matter to her own body, however, to her own eyes.
The torches brought revealing light. Slime clung to her cell’s walls. White cockroaches scurried under straw and through cracks in the bricks.
From the other side of the door, steel slid from scabbards. Visors clicked shut. Someone rattled keys, inserted one and twisted the door’s tumblers.
“You will have to step back, milord.” The jailor grunted, swinging open the door.
There was a shuffle of feet, the clink of mail and the banging of shields. Two knights entered. Each wore a helmet with the visor down and each aimed his sword at her. By their size, these two could only be Sir Durren and Sir Kergan, the baron’s hardiest knights and cousins. Behind followed the stump-footed jailor, with his stubby fingers curled around a torch. Leng stepped in last. He was tall, lean and wore a brown robe like a priest, with a cowl thrown around his head. His eyes were inky pools and he had a beak of a nose. In one pigskin-gloved hand, he held a torch. The other hung onto a chain with a golden pendant that bore a woman’s portrait, the image bringing a curl to Swan’s lips.
“What have you done?” Leng asked. “Tell me. I command it.”
Swan frowned, perplexed by the question. They had incarcerated her here for months. What did he mean, ‘what had she done?’
“Do not play the innocent with me, witch,” Leng said.
Both knights turned toward him.
“Keep watch of her, you fools,” Leng snarled.
Swan chuckled, even though the effort made her shiver. “They are as bemused as I at your charge of witchery against me.”
Leng dared approach and thrust his torch nearer as he held up the golden pendant like a shield.
The heat felt wonderful upon Swan’s cheeks. It had been so long since she had truly been warm.
“Look at her lips,” Leng said, his lean, remote face full of wonder. “They’re smooth. And her skin is no longer splotched, nor does she spew the noxious fumes as before.”
“Kill her,” grunted the biggest knight, a massive man.
Calculation entered Leng’s dark eyes. “She wields power, sir. That is obvious, for otherwise she would have already been dead. It is seldom wise to throw away such power.”
“She is no witch,” the second knight said.
“Perhaps not,” Leng admitted. “But it is clear that she is a mystic.”
“You say this of Swan?” asked the second knight.
“Look at her,” said Leng.
The knight shrugged.
“Can’t you see it?” asked Leng.
“You keep hounds in the dungeon and marvel at a girl’s skin,” said the knight. “What you need is a wench instead of your dusty volumes.”
Swan was amazed. Did Sir Kergan think those howling creatures in the nearby cells were hounds? Didn’t he realize they had once been men?
“Yes,” muttered Leng, who watched her closely. “Your eyes have been opened. What did you just do, eh? Oh, don’t think that I don’t know. None here can practice their mystic arts without my knowing.”
“Then you are a sorcerer,” she said.
Leng stepped back, and he glanced at the two knights sidelong. “See how she plies her subtle words? She is filled with guile, with trickery.”
Swan turned to the knights. “Stop the baron,” she pleaded. “You’ve no idea what he tries to unearth. It is evil beyond calculation.”
Leng laughed in a brittle manner. “Still spewing the same old lies, eh, witch?”
Inspiration struck Swan. “Examine the baron’s fingernails. They will have grown cracked and bloodstained. Tell me, sirs. Why does your learned cousin scratch at the earth like a maniac?”
Leng retreated out of the cell. “She practices her spells. Hurry, get out!”
The jailor almost tripped over his feet in his haste to follow. The knights glanced at one another. Sir Durren shuffled out backward, his sword and shield aimed at her. Sir Kergan touched her throat with the tip of his sword.
“What are you doing?” cried Leng. “You have no idea of the danger you are in.”
Sir Kergan leaned his visor-hidden face closer to her. His words were low-voiced. “Why does our scholar fear you? What can you do to him? Tell me truly, lass.”
Swan reached out a hand.
“Don’t let her touch you!” shouted Leng.
Sir Kergan flinched, his sword point pressing against her throat.
Swan touched the blade as her gaze deepened. “You will meet a knight,” she whispered. “But for you, Sir Kergan, that will not be as dangerous as the knight’s woman.”
“What’s this?” growled Kergan low under his breath. “Are you hexing me?”
Swan tried to peer past his visor, to see his eyes. “Beware of Leng,” she whispered. “He will betray you soon, to your everlasting horror.”
“I’ll gut that weasel at the first sign of treachery,” Sir Kergan said.
“You will not, sir, if the baron digs any deeper into the crypt,” whispered Swan.
“If she bewitches you,” called Leng, “we’ll have to lock you in with her.”
Sir Kergan backed away. Then he turned and strode out of the cell, jostling Leng. “If you ever threaten me again, you Muscovite swine, I’ll gut you like a hog.”
“Shut the door,” said Leng.
The jailor strained, pushing it closed it with a thud and a click.
“Stop the baron!” called Swan. “Don’t let him dig up the evil. We’re all doomed if he does. If you don’t believe me, Sir Kergan, examine the creatures in these cells that you think are hounds. Look at them closely and remember that once they were men.”
“Silence, witch!” shouted Leng. “By the Moon Lady you will not cast your spells on us.” He spoke to the others. “The mystic is sly. She casts enchantments upon your sight. Beware of whatever you see while in the dungeon and remember that it was your cousin who ordered her here.”
Then Leng, the two knights and the jailor hurried down the corridor, the sounds growing fainter and the torchlight dimmer. Soon it was dark again, and the distant stone door shut with a final grate of noise. Only then did the cockroaches scurry back into her cell, and Swan wondered how long until she too was possessed by evil and turned in a hideous creature like Kerold the Carpenter.