Chapter 6: pain
Every step was agony. Pain shot up his left thigh every time he put his foot onto the stony ground. An ache snaked from his right hip, around the small of his back and up to his right shoulder. Javor realized it resulted from favouring his left foot. His boots were nearly worn out. His right boot was pinching his little toe where it poked out the side, and grit had worked in and scraped his sole.
The bruises on his chest and side smarted with every little bump from the salvaged armour—none of which fit very well. The helmet had become too hot and uncomfortable a long time ago, and he had tied it to his pack. Now it bumped against his hip with every step.
Photius talked all the way down the mountain and continued as they walked through the forests and meadows. “It seems as if the earth itself has determined to eradicate humanity. A century ago, Hell opened its gates, somewhere far to the East—perhaps even beyond Asia on the edge of the world. Out of those gates have issued hosts of evil: evil men and all sorts of monsters, and pestilences, diseases that men had never seen before,” he prattled on. “But that was not the first time that the earth has seen monsters or evil. No, evil has been with us forever. And the races of monsters are far older than the race of men. You can feel it, can’t you, the immense age of these fiends?”
Javor realized that he had not heard much of what Photius had been saying all day. There had been stories about monsters and demons and gods. But his attention was claimed by his thigh, back, shoulder and bruises.
Javor looked at the sky. Clear tomorrow. The farther they got from the monster’s cave, the more familiar and predictable the clouds and the weather looked, and the monster and dragon seemed less plausible. He had given up on looking over his shoulder for the dragon that attacked them on the mountainside because Photius did not seem concerned about it. The clouds made him think of sitting in the pasture again, and that made him think of his father … not now.
To keep from thinking about his parents, he paid attention to Photius. “The dragons—which, of course, originated in the far East—their race goes especially far back, perhaps as far as the beginnings of the earth,” he was saying as he used his walking stick to push branches out of his path. “One of my colleagues, now, believes that the dragons embody the essence of the earth itself. Of course,” he laughed slightly, “I don’t hold with that, myself. How can they represent anything but the spirit of evil, when they wreak so much destruction wherever they go?”
How much farther is it to home? Javor wondered.
“Of old, a race of immortals arose on the earth and they began a war to rid the earth of the monsters. Some they imprisoned deep under the earth, others they pushed into the depths of the Ocean Sea, and some they simply slew with swords and other weapons. These monster-killers travelled around the world, destroyed many monsters and earned many names for themselves: Zeus, Apollo, Gilgamesh, Herakles, Siegfried. There are many stories, and some of them are simply fabrications. But doubt not, dear boy, that all those stories have some essence of fact, or at least they once did.”
Photius’ ceaseless voice began to irritate Javor. “I don’t know many of the old stories,” he said.
“No? You never heard of Herakles, or Zeus, or ... “
“Sorry.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve been doing all the talking today. Tell me the stories you have heard.”
“The only story that I know is about my great-grandfather, Medvediu.” Javor could not stand the pain in his leg any longer. He sat on a log beside their path and stretched his legs in front of him, letting the pack fall into the brush behind.
“Medvediu—that means ‘bear’ in your language, doesn’t it?” Photius asked, putting down his own pack.
“Sort of. Medvyd is ‘bear.’ I never thought about that, before. He was a soldier in the Imperial Army, and fought against the Persians. He went to the Caucausus Mountains and killed a giant that had been terrorizing the people around, and he threw its body off a cliff, but no one ever found its body. Then he took some treasures from the giant’s cave ... ”
Photius pulled a small metal bottle out of his pack, then gingerly parted the torn trouser leg and applied two drops from the bottle onto the long, red welt that ran the length of the thigh. “Just as we did yesterday, your great-grandfather took that enchanted knife and magic amulet, and passed them down to you,” he said.
“Yes. That’s why I had to get them back, you see: they’re the only things of any worth that my family ever had, and my mother gave them to me at my—my birthday ...” Tears welled up in Javor’s eyes, and finally a dam of some kind broke in him. He sat down by the path and cried. His father, his mother, six brothers and sisters, all killed one by one by pestilence, by a silent, mysterious death in the cradle, or in their mother’s womb—and now, most unbelievable of all, by a monster. Javor cried until he felt drained.
The sun was high. Photius gave Javor a small towel to dry his face. They sheltered in the shade of some beech trees, sipping Photius’ wine.
They started again when the afternoon had worn on and a northwest breeze cooled the air. Javor stepped gingerly on his left foot until he was sure the pain had decreased. His thigh was still uncomfortable, but he was surprised by how well Photius’ potion had worked.
“I know how hard it is,” said Photius as he shrugged his pack onto his shoulders and led the way. “I lost my wife, too, to a pestilence, a mysterious plague from the East, when we were visiting in Persia.
They continued in silence until Javor asked “How long have you been were you following it, searching for it? How did you come to my village a day before this—this monster?”
“Indeed, I was looking for Ghastog. As I said, I belong to an ancient order of learned men (and some women, too, by the way) whose purpose is to find and destroy as many monsters, fiends, ogres and dragons as we can.”
“But why?”
“I told you: they’re inimical to mankind. It is the theory of my order that the legions of Hell began a war long ago and conquered the Earth, destroying many of the gods. And there is another phenomenon happening now: the arising of the one God. I am not certain what it means, but the old gods, it seems, are dying out.”
“What does all this mean to me?” Javor asked, impatient.
“It is your destiny, Javor.” Photius stopped dramatically. “You have been chosen.”
Javor stepped around Photius and kept walking. “Chosen? For what?”
“To help rid the world of monsters, to clear the way for the development of mankind. You are destined to carry on the struggle to rid the world of monsters.”
“Forget it, old man. I’m going back to my holody and putting my parents’ farm back together. I’ve had enough of monsters.”
With another dramatic gesture, Photius swept back his cloak to reveal a long sword belted to his side. “A long time ago, I was chosen. I have carried the struggle on. In my time, I have destroyed dozens of such things, werewolves and ogres and monsters that beggar description. I have seen comrades, friends, loved ones ripped apart by them. But I did not shy away from my fate. I was chosen, I took up the arms, and I fulfilled my destiny.
“Now my doom has called me not only to follow demons, but in my old age, to find one to carry on the struggle for me when I am gone. And that one is you, Javor. You have been chosen to follow me.”
“Choose someone else, old man. I don’t care about your monsters. I don’t want to chase ogres around the world. I want to go back to my village and marry Elli and raise children. Forget it!”
Photius laughed again. “I did not choose you, Javor! You have been chosen by a power far higher than me or the Emperor of Constantinople, or the Patriarch of the new Church. You cannot evade this fate, Javor. It will follow you.
“Do not doubt yourself, Javor. Look at yourself: you’re taller and broader by far than anyone else in your holody, even your parents. You fought and defeated that monster without any training in warcraft, or in wielding a blade.
And the magic amulet of your great-grandfather leaped into your hand of its own accord—because it knows its rightful owner.”
“I don’t care, Photius. I want no part of this.”
“If you’re so sure of that, my boy, then why haven’t you taken off the armour and sword?”
Javor swore and strode on, but he didn’t take off the armor or the sword.
By late afternoon of the next day, they could see Nastasciu again. Still, no one was out. Just like the last time I came back, with Elli and Grat. I guess I’ll never get a hero’s welcome.
The villagers were still hiding inside the holody, but this time, he did not find it any more damaged than when he had left. Javor waved at a woman wearing a flowered kerchief on her head who was watching over the log-wall. She called down to someone else to open the gate.
People had set up temporary shelters inside. They were tending fires or cooking, afraid to venture outside the stockade. They stared at Javor and Photius.
Javor went to the big wooden cistern in the centre and scooped water into his hands to drink. He washed his head and when he looked up again, there was Roslaw. That fool, Borys, was behind his shoulder.
“You’re back,” Roslaw said. Javor nodded and drank more water.
Hrech ran up and threw his arms around Javor. “You’re back! You’re alive! I was so worried for you!” He let Javor go, then hugged him tight again. Finally, he just stared as if he could not believe that Javor was really there.
The villagers gathered around them. “Where did you get the weapons?” Roslaw asked.
“From the monster’s cave,” Javor answered. Small children came up to touch his buckler. One started to play with the helmet on the ground. “Don’t touch that,” said Roslaw, sharply, and the children backed away. But the whole village stood around them.
Javor pulled his boots off, wiggling his toes gratefully in the dirt of home.
“So what happened to the monster?” asked Borys.
Photius put his hand on Javor’s shoulder. “Javor slew it after a tremendous battle, using the dagger of his great-grandfather, Medvediu.” From the back of the crowd, someone guffawed. “After dispatching the fiend, he despoiled it and then tossed its foul carcass back into the abyss whence it sprang.” Someone else snorted at that.
“The monster is really dead?” Roslaw asked.
“Verily!” Photius reached into the purse hanging from his belt. “Behold its claws!” And he held up one of the cruelly curved claws for all to see. The villagers drew back as if Photius would attack them with it himself.
Then Roslaw patted Javor on the shoulder. “Well done!” He smiled broadly, which twisted the scar across his face hideously. But his eyes were not smiling. “Thank you. Come, join us for supper. Tekla!” he called to his wife. Soon, Javor and Photius had bread, wine and meat and a crowd had gathered to listen to their story.
Photius did most of the talking. “We walked for days, three days trailing the fiend, on a trail as hellish as you can imagine. Every step was more and more desolate, until finally we were in the midst of a lifeless landscape. We stopped to rest for a moment, a minute’s respite from our labours, when we were attacked — ”
“By the monster?” someone asked.
“No, by one of its underlings, a minor cold-drake, a huge worm, the length of five tall men. I would have been devoured in an instant had it not been for the quick reflexes of young Javor here. He moves like a cat, indeed he showed himself a true warrior. He leaped and in one blow of his father’s axe dispatched the evil monstrosity ...”
Another laugh interrupted Photius’ monologue. It had come from Mrost, the young man who most consistently tormented him. “You said before that he used his grandfather’s magical dagger. Your whole story’s nothin’ but goat-shit!”
“It was his great-grandfather’s dagger, and that was on the monster that attacked this village, not on its menial ... ” Photius protested.
“You didn’t kill any monsters,” Mrost sneered. “You ran off, scared when you saw your parents killed, and wandered around for days. You picked up some of the armour from those raiders—we saw what the monster did to them, and you had rich pickings. Now you’re hungry so you come back here and try to claim some glory for yourself, you coward.”
Javor stood up, hand on his sword-hilt. “I went for revenge for my parents, Mrost!” he shouted, his face hot. It was the first time he had ever stood up to Mrost, and he felt his heart pounding. Why am I afraid of him? I’ve just killed two monsters! “Who’s the coward! Come over here and say that!”
“Javor is a great warrior, a kind this village will not see again,” said a low, calm voice. It was Vorona, the witch. As usual, no one had noticed her until she was right behind them. This time, she was covered almost head to toe with a featureless cloak and grey hood. “It is time for you to be anointed as a warrior of the gods, Javor. Come.” She held out her hand. Everyone fell silent as she led Javor toward the gate of the holody. She said not a word nor made a gesture, but two of the young men serving as guards at the gate opened it for her so that she didn’t even break stride.
She led Javor down the slope past the village, directly to her hut near the riverbank, as the villagers watched from the gate. Javor hesitated outside her doorway. He had never seen the inside of her hut—he couldn’t think of anyone else who had, other than Photius. Then he thought again that he was a warrior who had killed two fearsome monsters, and he must look silly, afraid to enter a woman’s hut.
Still, he nervously pushed past the skins across her doorway.
In the dim light, Vorona gestured for Javor to remove his armour. He dropped his helmet, buckler and weapons to the ground, standing in his tunic and torn trousers and rope sandals. She herself removed her hood and cloak, leaving just a thin colourless wrap. From some recess, she brought out earthenware jars and some wooden bowls. Murmuring prayers or spells, she mixed wine, water and milk in the bowl, then sprinkled a handful of dust into it. Next, she lit a candle, which cast very little light but seemed to give off a lot of strange-smelling smoke. More dust on the candle filled the hut with a sharp smell and made the flame dance crazily.
Javor began to feel dizzy. He found he couldn’t look at anything but Vorona, who seemed to shimmer in the candle’s dancing light.
She stood. Without taking her eyes from his, she bent at the knees, grasped the bottom of Javor’s tunic and pulled it over his head. A tug at the tattered trousers’ waistband made them fall apart, and he was nude. Javor felt his throat go dry. She gave him the bowl; Javor drank. It tasted awful, but he swallowed without gagging, his eyes still captivated by hers. “Wine, to represent the blood of life. Water, the cleanser and purifier. Milk, which represents the female and male liquids that bring new life into the world. Salt, essential to life.”
She poured fresh water into another bowl, dipped a cloth in it and began to wash Javor, starting at his face, working downward. The scrubbing aroused Javor. Vorona washed every bit of his skin, which first warmed him, then left him cool. He felt as if every nerve in his body was alert, seeking stimulation.
From a small vial, Vorona poured some strong-smelling oil into her hand and spread it over his skin, starting at his neck, then his shoulders. The oil made his skin tingle. He felt hot, suddenly. “Sacred oil, pressed from acorns of the oaks holy to the gods,” she murmurred.
Vorona’s hand moved lower, across his stomach. Javor flushed as he realized his penis was stiffening. Then her hand swept across it and his erection jumped, full. He held his breath. What is she doing?
“Your actions have shown you to be one chosen by the powers of the world to accomplish wondrous deeds,” she said, as if she had heard his question. Her hands moved up his arms. Without losing contact with his skin, she moved around him and began spreading the oil on his neck and shoulders. Drops of oil set his skin on fire as they ran down his back. His vision swam, and he felt as if he were rocking back and forth on his feet, no matter how hard he t
ried to stand still. He couldn’t speak.
“As a warrior, you must be anointed before you set out on your quest,” she said.
What quest? Vorona shook her head slightly. “You have begun a great quest. The events of the past few days show that you must leave the narrow confines of your life and seek a greater glory. Your quest will change the world, but first you must see the truth.” All through this, her hand swept across his skin, up and down his thighs, down to his feet, then back up the back of his thighs, across his buttocks, higher on his back.
Javor’s skin burned. He breathed hard as if he were running. Sweat ran into his eyes. She turned and seemed to be searching in the shadows behind her. Javor looked at her curvy back, barely covered by her threadbare wrap.
Before Javor could react, she stabbed him in the thigh with a thin blade. Javor jumped but somehow remained silent. Vorona collected the blood that flowed from the wound into another small bowl. When she was satisfied with the amount she had collected, she held a broad leaf against the cut, patting it in place.
She held out a tiny bottle. “Spit,” she said, and he spat as much as he could. When she had enough, she sealed the bottle and put it away behind her.
“Wine and water, blood and saliva,” she said. Then she stepped back and in one motion shrugged and shook her breasts, and her wrap fell from her body, revealing an impossibly voluptuous beauty. Her breasts were full and heavy, her hips wide, her thighs smooth and white. He was aware, mortified of his erection stiffening again, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Vorona knelt in front of him, rubbed more oil onto her palms, took his erection in hand again and stroked, gazing into his eyes. Javor couldn’t believe what was happening. His mind went blank. His penis jumped and his skin burned. His breathing grew faster and hoarser, and in a few seconds he ejaculated. Calmly and efficiently, Vorona caught his semen in another bowl and set it aside. “Milk and semen, the beginning of new life.” Then she blew out the candle, dipped the cloth in cool water again, and again washed his whole body.
When it was done, Javor collapsed onto her straw mattress. She patted his forehead and gave him some wine in a clay cup. “Now it is time, my young warrior.” She gave him his tunic and helped him pull it on. “Time for you to go and find your destiny.”
Somehow, Javor struggled back into his armour and buckled his weapons on. He staggered out of the hut into the setting sunlight. How did it get so late? How long was I in there? He blinked, then walked back to the holody, where the villagers were getting ready for bed. Four stood on benches so they could see over the wooden palisade around the holody. Others tended the animals that had been brought into the shelter for the night. Javor found Photius beside a small fire, quietly eating a frugal evening meal. Photius shared a little more of his wine, and they listened to the muttering from the fires scattered around them.
Hrech hunkered down beside Javor. “Are you okay?”
He is the only one who shows any concern, Javor realized. He nodded.
“So, what happened here while I was away?”
“Nothing much,” Hrech shrugged. “We just brought as much as we could inside the holody, and kept a lookout. Vorona wanted to continue the solstice ceremonies, but no one else did. But other than that, it’s been quiet. No raiders, no monsters. Nothing.”
It was now dark. Hrech patted Javor on the shoulder and went back to his family. Photius said “You take first watch, Javor,” then stretched himself out on a blanket and fell asleep immediately.
Javor looked up at the sky, thinking of his parents. Have I failed you?
Yes, came the reply, but he could not tell whether it was his own thought, his father’s or someone else’s. He shook his head. There was no use wondering about that.
He tried to remember the sound of his parents’ voice. He thought of his mother, first: her quiet, high voice, so assured, yet so sad. “Not enough rain this year,” she had said while picking new beans—how long ago? Five days? Six? Seven? The day before the solstice. Javor was too tired to work it out, yet too nervous to sleep.
It had not been a good year for farming. The sun had shone mercilessly since the snows left, rain had been rare and the crops were puny. “Tomorrow will be a big day,” he remembered her voice saying. “You’ll be a man. Oh, the years go by so fast!”
“Do you ever think about Alla and Swat?” he had asked.
Ketia stopped picking beans and reached up high to touch Javor’s cheek gently. Tears wet her face. “You’re so big,” she said with a sad smile. “I never would have thought my baby would grow to be so tall.” She turned away and pretended to look under the leaves for more beans. Javor heard her sniff.
Sitting in the darkness beside the snoring Photius, Javor scolded himself. Why did I make my mother cry? Idiot!
Javor knew how much sadness his mother had carried every day. Her first baby, a girl, had been stillborn, as had her fourth. The second child, another girl, was Alla. Javor remembered her long dark hair and hazel eyes like her mother’s, and her clever hands that used to knit little toy lambs for him. She and Young Swat, the third child and first boy, had been Javor’s only friends for most of his life.
There had been two other children, but Javor had never known them; one had died in her cradle only a few weeks after being born, the other had drowned in the stream as a baby, before Javor was born.
Then came the winter of the pestilence, three years ago. Javor remembered seeing men, women, babies looking drawn, pale, remembered how they coughed and trembled all day, remembered the babies’ weak cries. Within days, they would die. Boleslaw, the shaman, and his acolytes, two thin teenage boys, would go from house to house chanting prayers and burning incense, with no effect. Ketia prayed to Mokosh, the goddess of health and the spinner of the thread of life. Swat worked feverishly to patch every draft in the hut, but the winter wind still blew in, and ice still collected on the walls.
That winter was deep and hard. Snow came early and in volumes the oldest villagers had never seen, and they succumbed to the pestilence first. Boleslaw coughed up blood while burning incense and died in front of his acolytes. They were also dead by the next day.
In the deepest winter, Young Swat and Javor helped their father dig a trench through the snow so they could get in and out of their hut. Young Swat tired quickly and slumped into the snow as he watched the others dig with crude wooden shovels his father had made. He went back to the hut, and his mother screamed when he collapsed in the doorway.
Ketia touched her oldest boy’s face and recoiled: he was hot with fever. She and Alla pulled him into his bed and covered him as well as they could. He began to sweat and shiver at the same time. Frantic, Ketia tried to give her boy some soup, but he could not swallow.
Through the day, as the snow swirled and the wind howled, Alla wiped her brother’s forehead. She wiped his mouth and chin when he started to cough. By nightfall, Young Swat was coughing blood. Alla wiped his face and chest through the night, but by the next morning she had fever, too. They both coughed and shivered through the day, while their father stoked the fire until the hut was so hot that Javor had to step outside periodically and wet his throat by eating snow.
The coughing kept them awake all the next night. Until it stopped.
Ketia wept continuously for weeks. Javor never saw her without tears on her face. But she continued cooking and mending and cleaning and looking after her last child.
“I think about them every day,” she had answered Javor on that summer day, only a few days but an entire lifetime earlier. “But we can’t bring them back.”
Once, Javor knew, Ketia had been a pretty woman with long, dark hair that shone as it cascaded over her shoulders. Now, her hair was gray and ragged, lines circled her mouth and neck and she seemed to squint all the time. She smiled rarely, and when she did, Javor could see gaps between her teeth. She occasionally complained of several more loose teeth.
But her voice, her voice was still high an
d musical and the sweetest sound that Javor knew.
Can you ever forgive me?
Wolves howling brought Javor back to the night. The moon and stars were quickly covered by swirling black clouds. Clouds never move that fast, he thought.
The villagers stopped talking; mothers held their children closer. The wind blew dust around the holody.
Clouds come in before the wind starts? That never happened before.
Javor stood and looked over the stockade. Even the trees in the forest seemed to have come closer. The wolves sounded closer, howling to each other as if they were planning a strategy. And there was another noise, too: something moving through the woods, breaking boughs and crashing through underbrush.
Photius appeared beside Javor, peering into the night. The darkness seemed to be a thick smoke.
“What’s going on?” Javor asked.
“Something is coming for you, Javor,” Photius whispered. “Another of Ghastog’s lieutenants, like the drake on the mountain side.”
A violent gust blew out most of the campfires and all of the torches. Then the wind stopped entirely. The forest was completely silent, without any sound. None of the villagers dared make a noise.
No one was sleeping now. Most of the men crept to the palisade to peek over its northern edge. A sudden rushing noise came from above and the wind came back, pushing down hard. Then something hit Javor from above, knocking him sprawling to the ground. He looked up and the sky above was blotted out. He heard Photius yelling. Then he saw what for a moment looked like branches of trees, stripped of their bark. No—those were teeth, long fangs, a dozen of them at least, in a maw that was gaping for his head. He realized it was the dragon from the mountain as it settled one hideous claw on his chest. The talons ripped his clothes, even the ancient armour he had taken from the monster’s cave.
As dragons go, it was not huge, about the size of a horse in its body, but with a neck as long again as its body and a long, long tail that ended in a whip shape. It had a head like a snake’s, but longer, with sharp, short horns and flaring ears like bats’ wings. Its skin was black and scaly, shining almost wetly in the firelight. Its eyes were red as flames, shaped like a cat’s, no, like a snake’s, slitted and hypnotic. Javor felt his will bending, he felt he wanted to submit to this fiend. Then another voice spoke to his mind, to a deeper part of his very being, and his hand went to the amulet again, hanging around his neck.
As soon as his fingers touched the amulet, the dragon’s head recoiled with an angry hiss. It lifted its claw quickly as if Javor’s touch burned it. Javor scrambled to his feet, whipped out the sword he had taken from Ghastog’s cave and slashed. The enchanted blade slid across the dragon’s neck, drawing the slightest scratch on its hide. Black blood oozed along the blade’s edge and began to smoke. Javor saw the blade evaporate into smoke until the dragon’s whiplike tail slashed his legs from under him.
“The dagger! The dagger!” It was Photius, running across the holody. The top of his staff glowed and his cloak waved behind him as he ran, swift for an old man. His own sword banged against his side with each step. “Use the dagger!” he cried.
Medvediu’s dagger! Javor scrambled to his feet again as, almost of its own volition, the knife swept out of its sheath with a ringing sound. Instinctively, Javor grasped the hilt between two hands and held it in front of him, facing the dragon, which drew back from the blade.
The world faded away for Javor again, leaving only the dagger and the dragon, but he had no idea what to do next. The dragon seemed to realize it, too. Its head struck forward, stabbing with its hideous long teeth. The dagger seemed to move of its own will, slashing down at the neck. The dragon dodged at the last instant, hissing. Its spittle hit the ground, smoking and hissing.
Then the dragon raised itself on its rear legs and, screaming, swiped at Javor with its front claws. Again the dagger led Javor’s arms, out up and down, a mighty sweeping stroke at the demon’s extended leg. Javor felt a shock and a rush and saw a spray of black blood and realized he had shorn off the dragon’s front left foot.
The dragon’s screaming hit a deafening note. It spewed froth from its mouth, a venom that burned whatever it touched. Its tail thrashed madly, knocking Photius down and sending his glowing stick clattering on the stones. It stretched out its wide wings, beat them twice and lifted into the night sky, disappearing with a gasping, choking scream.
Javor helped Photius to his feet. “Are you all right?” the old man asked. Javor gasped and nodded. But before he could say anything, before he could even think, a sudden gust shook the trees. Javor climbed up the palisade again. A shadow deeper than the night swept over the grassy slope and then WHAM! a huge impact shuddered the palisade, knocking the watchers down.
Pandemonium now inside the holody as the villagers panicked. WHAM! again, another blow to the flimsy walls, and women were screaming, children crying and men shouting. Every dog in the village was howling and the other animals were bleating, lowing and rushing around, trying to get away from the force that was trying to get in.
“Weapons, everyone, whatever you have! They’re ramming the gate!” Roslaw shouted.
Javor clung to the palisade, peering into the night, but no matter how he tried he couldn’t see anyone, let alone an organized army battering the log walls. Another impact knocked him onto his back.
Photius strode to the gate, his cloak billowing behind him, showing his armour and long sword. His walking staff was glowing again. “Lift me up to the top of the stockade!” he shouted. The villagers hesitated. “Help me up!” he commanded, and men rushed to stack up benches against the wall. Javor stood behind Photius as he climbed the makeshift structure, ready to catch the old man at the next impact.
Photius raised his staff and the light at the top grew blinding. “Begone!” he shouted. “You cannot come in. Your master is destroyed. Leave this village now! Begone!”
Everything stopped then, all movement, all sound, as if in expectation. Photius’ staff glowed like daylight, but no one dared to look over the palisade. Then another crash shook the walls, the logs of the gate splintered, and despite the villagers standing behind him, Photius fell back onto the ground. The wind came again and extinguished Photius’ light. There was another rushing sound from beyond the palisade, a sound like something big and heavy retreating, moving back to the forest. Slowly, life seemed to return to normal. Someone rekindled the campfires and torches.
Javor was immediately at Photius’ side, helping him up. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you, Javor.”
“Who was it, Photius?” It was Roslaw. “More raiders?”
“No, not raiders, but another fiend from the same hell as Ghastog. Rest yourselves for now—it won’t be back tonight. I made certain of it. You all should get as much rest as you can, tonight.”
No one slept the rest of that night, but it was quiet. The clouds parted from the moon, then disappeared. The wolves were silent. The villagers huddled around their fires, not speaking other than to comfort their children. Together, they waited long hours for a cold grey dawn.
Javor and Photius hunkered down apart from the villagers. “How do you feel, my boy?” the older man asked. He offered Javor more of his wine.
Javor couldn’t find his voice, so he nodded. He still felt breathless. Finally, he croaked out, “Was that the same dragon from the mountain-side?”
Photius nodded. “Another of Ghastog’s lieutenants, I think. That means we have drawn two of them here after us, and I don’t think they’re as anxious for simple revenge as you were, Javor. They want something.”
“My great-grandfather’s amulet.”
“Or the dagger. One or both of them hold great power, my boy, something these monsters fear a great deal. Let me see the knife.”
Reluctantly, Javor drew the dagger from its sheath. Making a dim light with his staff, Photius squinted at the markings around its edge. “Hmm. Runes,” he said, pursing his lips
. “I’m not certain what they mean; they’re of an unfamiliar form, perhaps in an ancient Asian language. You say your great-grandfather brought it back from the Caucasus?”
“Yes, that’s what my mother said. He slew a giant and took it and the amulet from its hoard.”
“Hmm. Let me see the amulet.” Just as reluctantly, Javor took the amulet from under his tunic and took the chain off his neck and handed it to Photius, who inspected it closely, running his fingers over the runes carved around its outer edge. “If your great-grandfather found these in the Caucasus, then this amulet and this dagger could have originated even farther east, or south. I am not certain, but these markings on the amulet seem to be an invocation against evil, a protection for the bearer. And these,” he pointed to marks on one side of the dagger, “are similar to others I have seen before, which usually signify that only those who are worthy may wield the blade. That’s why it has an affinity for you, Javor, and why the amulet of its own accord left the grasp of Ghastog for yours.”
“But if it’s a protection against evil, then why do the monsters want it?” Javor asked.
“Ah!” Photius held up one finger, as if about to impart a lesson. But he failed. “That is a very good question, but for now I do not have the answer. Suffice it to say, though, that the monsters do want it, and obviously it’s very important that they do not get it. Ghastog had been hunting this for many years, Javor; it moved into this region decades ago and has roved around here, spreading destruction ever since. As for why, I do not know. I have colleagues, however, in Constantinople who may be able to decipher this mystery. But for now, let us rest.” Photius’ staff dimmed again. He settled against a tree stump. “I’ll let you take the first watch, Javor. But I have the feeling that if anything happens, you won’t need to wake me.” He fell asleep.
Javor watched Photius close his eyes and fall asleep almost instantly. How can he look so peaceful, so quickly? How can he sleep after all that’s happened?
Too much. It’s too much.
Maybe I have already gone crazy. Maybe I am imagining all of this—the dragon, the monster. Maybe if I close my eyes, I will be back in my bed.
He tried it, but when he opened them again he did not see his mother in front of the plescha, did not hear his father snoring on the next mat. He was still slumped in the middle of the village, looking into a small fire. Another villager looking at him would have seen a slack, blank look, eyes staring sightlessly into the flames. They would have thought Javor was exhausted beyond sleep, beyond thought. And they would have thought, as they had many times before, that he was a strange, somewhat addled young man who never seemed to be paying attention to the world around himself.
They would have been wrong, as usual.
Javor kept his armour on through the night, dozing in turns next to Photius, but he didn’t sleep much. In the morning, Roslaw brought Photius and Javor bread and water. With him were a group of other men of the village, including Borys, Mrost and even Javor’s uncle Bogud. “We’ve gathered some food and other supplies for you, not a lot but enough for a few days, at least. For both of you.”
“Why?” asked Javor, but he knew the answer already.
“We think—all of us, Javor, even your aunt and uncle—that it’s best if you, if you ... if both of you leave as soon as you can. I’m sorry, boy, but I have the whole village to think of, not just one person. Like it or not, these monsters appeared soon after you did, Photius, and we all think that the sooner you go, so will the monsters. And I’m sorry, Javor, but you seemed mixed up with this traveller and his enemies, too. If you leave soon, you should be able to put a lot of distance between yourselves and whatever that was in the night.”
“A lot of distance?”
Roslaw nodded, but Mrost spoke up before he had a chance to say anything. “Three monsters in five days, and they’re after you. The farther you go, the safer we’ll all be,” he sneered.
“So now you say they’re after me—and now you’re afraid to be near me. Who’s the coward now, eh, Mrost?” Javor said.
Mrost spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of you fighting anything. Just get out, Javor.”
In a single fluid motion, Javor grabbed Mrost’s wrist, twisted it behind his back and kicked his backside. Mrost fell face-first in the dust. “You get out, Mrost. My parents are dead and I don’t feel like hearing your voice anymore.”
Someone touched his arm, and Javor spun, whipping the enchanted dagger out to find himself holding it to Roslaw’s throat. “Now, now, Javor,” the older man sputtered, trying to sound conciliatory but trembling with fear. “There’s no need for fighting among ourselves, especially when we’re surrounded by as many enemies as we are.”
“He is right, Javor. Put away your weapon,” said a low, calm voice. It was Vorona. As usual, she had come into their midst without their notice. She wore her plain grey hood and cloak, but just looking at her made Javor hold his breath. “You have proven yourself in battle, Javor, and you have been anointed. Now you are ready.”
Javor put away the dagger. “We’ve prepared enough food for you and Photius for some days. Perhaps you should say goodbye to your friends and leave early, so you can make some distance and perhaps find some shelter before dark.”
Javor looked at Photius, whose face was unreadable. But the old man nodded.
“All right,” Javor said slowly. “I’ll go right now.”
Just inside the gate, the elders of the village—those who were left alive, such as Roslaw, Borys, Bogud and a few other men—had prepared a backpack for Javor. “It has your things from your parents’ house,” said his uncle. Photius was ready to go; he wore his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, and a full pack on his back. On the ground were also some bags of food that Javor and Photius could carry over their shoulders. Behind the men, the rest of the villagers had gathered in an uneasy mob.
Hrech came out of the crowd with tears in his eyes. He hugged Javor so tightly that Javor had trouble breathing. Javor squeezed back and patted his shoulder until Hrech let go and, head low, turned away.
Javor went to Elli, who stood with her friends. She drew back, looking around for help. Javor had imagined making a grand speech, but now he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Good-bye, Elli,” he said, awkwardly, taking her hands in his. “I ... I’ll miss you.” Stupid, that’s not good enough! Do it! he thought. “I love you.” Her eyes went wide and she shrank back again. Javor leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but Elli leaned back, whimpering, and Javor gave up. He turned away, picked up the back-pack and shoulder bags and without another word strode out of the holody.
Photius fell into step beside him and together they turned south in the late morning sunshine. Neither spoke and neither looked back.
END OF PART ONE
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends