“Calm down,” he shouted over the growing uproar. “Nothing has happened! Go back to your work! I want to see another dozen logs on the bank before it's totally dark out!”
The men started muttering and calling for more details. They knew that something bad had happened. They were afraid. Prokuy shouted once more for them to go about their business and turned to Bushek. “Take me there.”
But they had hardly reached a dozen paces when an unexpected cry swept throughout the camp: “Riders!”
The woodcutters fell silent and looked off towards the valley. At least two dozen men on horseback were racing up from the River Morava along the trail that ran between the zemlyankas and the tents stitched from cow and horsehide. Prokuy froze. He instantly recognized the cast bronze helmets and plated armor of the prince's retinue. They were being led by a man of about forty, wearing a pockmarked face and armor adorned with silver. This was Vlchan, Moymir's right-hand man, the leader of his personal entourage, the most feared warrior in the Moravian basin. Next to him rode a somewhat older, bearded man wearing a simple dark frock tied with ordinary rope. A large, shiny cross dangled around his neck. Prokuy clenched his teeth. The priests of this peculiar religion, which had moved Moymir to reject the true gods not too long ago and was now forcing all other Moravians to do the same, had inspired little love among the people.
The riders rode up to the enclosure in front of Prokuy's zemlyanka. The woodcutters quickly drew back before the approach of the horses. As soon as the warriors formed ranks on both sides, Prokuy noticed another man holding back on a sturdy black stallion. He was unusually tall, bony, and dressed all in black. His raven black hair contrasted sharply with the deathly pale look of his face, which bore a hideous scar made by a deep gash. His black eyes cast an eerie look on everything around him, as if they were capable of penetrating a man's flesh and looking to the bottom of his soul. Prokuy immediately knew this was a wizard and the monstrous black wolf that obediently trotted next to the black horse easily confirmed the suspicion. Only a sorcerer could tame such a wild beast. The foreman's entire body broke out into such a case of goose pimples that he could have easily sanded a piece of oak with his skin.
“You are the foreman?”
Prokuy looked back towards the head of the party. There wasn't a trace of friendliness in Vlchan's eyes. Quite the opposite. They radiated malice and arrogance.
“Yes, sir. I am Prokuy.”
Vlchan sat forward in his saddle. “Prince Moymir isn't satisfied at all with the rate of construction. And the reason for it is the raftsmen have little wood to float down the Morava.”
Prokuy swallowed dryly. “It isn't our fault, sir. Evil things are happening. The men are afraid . . .”
“I heard. Moymir was told that one of your men was found dead in the woods, his body mutilated.”
“Two men, sir,” Prokuy corrected him. “Last night another one disappeared. He was found not too long ago and his body is said to be in a worse state than the first one.”
“So then, there have been two heinous murders?” the man with the cross suddenly cried out and sat up in his saddle. “Surely some godless creature in the woods has done it!”
“Undoubtedly,” Vlchan nodded. “And that's why we're here. Moymir has instructed us to remove whatever is holding up the swift clear cutting of trees for his fortress. It's time to put an end to these accursed witches.”
“Rusalkas,” a calm but bone-chilling voice corrected him. “They are water nymphs.”
All heads turned towards the wizard. The tall, thin man had been following the conversation with a blank look on his face. The black wolf sat on the ground next to him and pricked up its ears as if it understood every word.
“Witches, fairies, nymphs, it doesn't matter?!” a voice called out into the subdued silence. “They're all heathens. Odious, bloodthirsty vermin that must be exterminated!”
“On that we are agreed, Bolerad,” Vlchan frowned. “We shall enter their lairs and slay them once and for all. Who can lead us to the place where the last man murdered was found?”
Prokuy looked at Bushek.
“I can, sir,” the boy spoke up sheepishly.
“Good. Then I want to see the body.”
“The dead man is still there, sir,” said Bushek almost in a whisper. “Nobody has dared touch the remains.”
After everyone rushed up into the clearing, Prokuy prayed in his soul for his gods to perform some miracle and transport him to the other end of the world.
“Jesus Christ and all the saints in heaven,” Bolerad groaned and clenched his teeth, the veins on his ears protruding out. Even in the flickering light of the torches, everyone could see how pale he was.
Bushek had led them across the ridge and into the valley on the opposite side of the hill. At the bottom was the creek that flowed around the mountain and fed the Morava. By the time they got there, it was already dark. The moment they cleared the underbrush on the bank, they saw the horror on the opposite side of the stream.
Several of the warriors forgot their recent baptism in the waters of the Morava and invoked the names of the old gods in whispers. At first Bolerad resisted the temptation, but he swiftly turned away and began vomiting violently. Vlchan grimaced in disgust at the site on the opposite bank and without thinking reached for the hilt of his sword hanging at his side.
“The poor fellow must have died an unbearable agony,” he let slip out.
“I don't think so,” the black-haired wizard demurred. He moved to the front of the group and nimbly jumped over the creek. His cloak flapped behind him like large wings, making him look for an instance like a large, overgrown raven. The wolf followed him.
“Be careful, sir,” Prokuy warned him. “This place is bewitched with nymph magic.”
“Quiet, man!” Bolerad snapped at him. “Belief in pagan magic is blasphemy against God!”
“Even if some kind of magic occurred here,” growled Vlchan, “it won't hurt him. He's a wizard, after all. Some people even say that the blood of the Chernobog, the god of darknees himself, flows through his veins.”
Bolerad crossed himself so violently that it was nearly impossible to follow the movements of his hand. “We shouldn't have brought that heretic with us. It is desecration against God.”
“He took it upon himself to join us,” Vlchan said, shrugging his shoulders. “He understands witchcraft. He can be useful to us.”
“Who exactly is he?” Prokuy asked in muffled tones.
“You haven't heard of Rogan, the sorcerer of the Temple of the Blood-Red Fire?” asked one of the warriors, turning to the foreman so he could undoubtedly take delight in Prokuy's expression. Of course, the name was familiar to him. Few people didn't know it. Inside, Prokuy scolded himself for being such a fool. Why didn't it occur to him earlier? The wolf, the sword forged from blackened metal jutting out from underneath a wizard's cloak . . .
“It's just what I thought,” called out Rogan from the other side of the stream. “They were playing around with him after they killed him. He didn't suffer. They're not cruel. They only want to scare away intruders.”
Urosh's head had been stuffed inside the hollow trunk of an old oak tree by the creek. Two sickening holes remained where his eyes had been gouged out, the blood around them still glimmering in the torchlight. His arms and legs were dangling from branches all about, the same as with his eyes, his ears and innards. His intestines had been bizarrely interwoven as if to create some kind of specific pattern. The empty trunk, with the ribs gleaming white from the torn flesh, lay under a tree.
“The first victim was also mutilated?” the sorcerer asked.
“No, this one is much worse,” said Prokuy, approaching the stream. “It's all getting worse. First there were only amulets hanging everywhere, like bewitched knots of animal innards and the teeth and skulls of predators. There were howls in the night and flickering flashes of sorcery in the dark. But after we cut on, more frightening things started to happen. More and more of the men refused to cut down any more trees. Already a third of them have packed up and left. That is why the work has been going so slowly.”
Rogan turned to look at him. Prokuy sensed that those two black eyes were sucking his brains right out of this skull. He hadn't been at all affected by the sight of the dismembered body, but now felt as if a large boulder had been placed in his gut.
“They are defending themselves,” said the sorcerer. “These woods have belonged to the water nymphs since time immemorial. Their spirits are bound to the spirit of these woods. By cutting down their trees, you are robbing them of their life force.”
“We realize that, Almighty One,” Prokuy nodded. “We have always been respectful to them. When we got the order to cut down their forest, we tried to appease them by making sacrifices, but . . .”
“What?” Bolerad shouted. “You admit to servicing and worshiping pagan demons? You are condemning yourself to burning at the stake!”
“We shall concern ourselves with that later,” said Vlchan, stemming another tide of priestly outrage. “Now is the time to deal with these creatures. I have enough men here to undertake an expedition against them. If I understand correctly, they are principally creatures of the night. They will offer less resistance during the day. We set out when it gets dark.”
“Don't be rash, Vlchan,” warned the wizard, fixing his piercing look on him. “Things could turn out differently from what you imagine.”
Vlchan bared his teeth. “They were the first to draw blood, remember that, Sorcerer. I cannot let them kill our people and go unpunished. What you say about us doing some wrong to them has no bearing here. To me, they are only beasts that have to be hunted down.”
“You can think that way if you want, but remember, this beast will defend itself.”
“I hope so. They will learn that an armored warrior won't be as easy a prey as a scruffy woodcutter. Back to camp!” With these words, Vlchan sharply turned and galloped off up the hill. The men-at-arms and Bolerad followed him. Only Prokuy, Bushek and two other woodcutters remained at the creek with the wizard
“Take the remains of your friend back to camp,” Rogan ordered them. “You needn't fear, there is no curse upon them. Gorya,” he bent down to the wolf, “I hope you are not too tired for a little walk in the night.”
As he watched the sorcerer and his silent companion disappear into the darkness of the woods, Prokuy gripped his amulet so hard that the knuckles on his fingers turned white.
The night was unnaturally quiet. There was perfect calm, not a single rustling of leaves in the treetops. Two shadows moved about in the forest silently, like phantoms lost in the wilderness, unseen and unheard. These two didn't need the way to be lighted for them. The magic of Blood Fire, which transformed their eyes into demonically glowing slits in the dark, made it possible for them to see everything around them in a red-tinted light.
Suddenly both shadows stopped.
Directly in front of us
, Rogan said in his thoughts.
I feel it
, was the inaudible message sent by the sorcerer to the wolf's thoughts.
They proceeded more cautiously than before. They slipped through a densely packed clump of young oaks with not a swish or sound of heavy breathing and came to a stop on the edge of a large clearing. Their eyes darkened the moment they released the spell of their night vision.
The grass in the clearing had been trodden on in a very unusual way—the blades of grass were lying so as to form the shape of a circle. Hovering above them was something like a soft, blue flickering mist.
Spirits around
, said Goryvlad.
Precisely the one I'm looking for.
Rogan came out from behind the trees and slowly approached the circle.
They say he who enters the circle of a spirit does not survive the blows
, the massive black wolf warned him.
The rusalkas will dance him to death.
Are you sure they use a dance?
Rogan stopped for a moment at the edge of the circle and looked about warily. The surrounding woods were shrouded in quiet darkness. An owl was hooting somewhere in the distance. The sorcerer walked on the trodden grass. Goryvlad's dark silhouette crawled out from the black shadow of the trees and followed him with the poised steps of a predator.
There's a very strong magical field here
, the wolf determined as it entered the circle.
Yes. And the water nymphs no doubt are maintaining their connection to it. They can immediately sense when someone enters and disturbs their protective magic.
So they will soon be coming.
Precisely. For me.
Rogan stopped in the middle of the circle, tossed his cape back and drew his sword from the sheath at his side. The blade quietly whooshed and bathed in the blue light of the magic field. The sorcerer knelt on one knee, gently stuck his sword into the ground and clutched the hilt with both hands. Goryvlad sat close to him.
Rogan squinted his eyes in order to concentrate. In an instant a flare of freshly effused blood appeared and began to flow from the ruby-colored eyes of a demon whose horribly twisted face was embossed in the black metal protective shield of the sword. A blood-curdling red effulgence shrouded the blade, dripped onto the ground and quickly shrouded both man and wolf.
The sorcerer opened his eyes.
We probably won't have long to wait
, the wolf heard inside its head.
We have no time to lose.
No fear. They are already coming.
Goryvlad was not mistaken. A soft blue light gleamed somewhere deep in the woods, revealing the black silhouettes of the trees in the darkness. The light quickly grew and began to whirl wildly about in the woods.
Can you hear it?
marveled Rogan.
A song could be heard throughout the woods. A peculiar song, alternating between a quivering wail of invocation and a haunting, alluring melody. Beauty and horror were wedded in it as one. Rogan felt a slight shudder inside, something which didn't happen to him often.
Then they saw them. The lights came closer, grew bigger and shinier until suddenly they were no longer eerie phantoms, but had emerged from behind the trees in the form of naked women bathed in blue light. Half were flying about, half were dancing in the clearing—slender, fleet-footed with long hair whirling about their heads as if caught in a gust of wind. Their appearance, just like their song, combined irresistible allure with icy horror. A few of them didn't hesitate to dart towards the intruders. Rogan tightly gripped the hilt of his sword in his palms. The blood-red light began pulsating and beaming against the blue light of the water nymphs. Attacked, the nymphs cried out in pain and surprise and quickly recoiled. Their song died down and in its place the woods were filled with the sounds of malicious hissing and whistling. The rusalkas bared their fangs, heretofore concealed behind sensual lips, at Rogan. Like cornered cats in the wild, they lashed out at him with claw-like fingers tipped with long, sharp nails.