The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age) (13 page)

Msyts and the guard watched Photius and Javor return to their borrowed hut without saying anything. Grateful to drop the heavy armour, Javor fell onto straw mattress and fell asleep almost immediately.

Chapter 8
: Attack

They slept late again the next day. After breakfast, Photius talked two old women into leading him into the forest to help find herbs. Javor found Lalya, the chief’s daughter. She seemed less worried now, younger and prettier, although he was conscious that she was nearly ten years older than he. Still, he found himself listening to her talk about her family, about how her mother and then her husband had succumbed to a pestilence some years earlier, perhaps the same disease that had swept through Javor’s village. But she also had good stories to tell, about how her father had often kept raiders at bay with shrewd negotiation and a little bluster, and how her mother had kept her father at bay, when she was alive.

Javor leaned against a haystack, enjoying the sound of Lalya’s voice and the way the summer breeze blew the top of her tunic. Two boys his own age came up to them, both very thin with thin, dark hair. One wore a sly expression that reminded Javor of Mrost’s twin; the other was smaller, somehow thinner with a few dark wisps on his upper lip.

The sly-looking one did all the talking. “Hey, there—Javor, is it? I’m Bogdan. So, your father there is quite the healer.”

“
He’s not my father.”

The sly one ignored that. “And they say you’re quite a fighter.”

Javor sat up straight, Lalya’s neckline forgotten. “Who says that?”

“
So, my friend Lezek here,” Bogdan nodded toward his silent friend, “he wants to see your weapons.”

Javor did not know what to say. Photius had kept their weapons hidden until last night.

“
Come on,” the sly one pressed. “Lezek’s never seen a real sword before.” Other young men of the village gathered around them, looking at Javor.

Javor looked at Lalya, who raised her eyebrows and smiled. Evidently, she was just as curious.

“
Come on,” Bogdan repeated.

“
Yah, come on, big guy, show us!” said someone in the crowd.

What could it hurt?
Javor went back to the hut he was staying in, followed by a growing crowd of children and adolescents. He strapped on his sword, buckler and helmet and, even though the people of Bilavod oohed and were obviously impressed with the way he looked, he felt self-conscious, especially with Lalya watching intently. But he also noticed the other young women looking at him. He was also conscious, as always, of how the straps chafed. He wondered how long it would take before he was fully comfortable with them.

But what will happen when I need to use these weapons?

As the sun got lower, the men returned from their fields and stoked up the fire in the middle of the holody for communal cooking. They were preparing a mild celebration in honour of Photius’ healing skills. Photius, returning from the forest with a basket brimming with leaves, flowers and roots, protested only weakly.

It was a meagre feast, but someone had wine and someone else had prepared a stronger, clear liquor that Javor had never seen before. Photius sipped it appreciatively. Javor touched it to his tongue: it was very strong, and some of the village men laughed at his reaction. Then someone brought out pipes to play, and someone else a drum, and soon the villagers were singing. The young men began dancing around the bonfire.

Javor enjoyed himself immensely. By the time it was completely dark and some of the older people had gone off to bed, he had his arm around Lalya’s shoulders and was talking to her very earnestly about something, but he seemed to have lost the thread of his own argument. She laughed and pressed closer to him.
Does she want me to kiss her?
he wondered. Almost simultaneously, Lalya’s father, Mstys and Photius, one scowling and the other looking worried, started toward him.

Before either could say anything, a high, drawn-out wail pierced the night, followed by another. The villagers froze. “Wolves!” someone said, and several ran to the stockade to make sure it was closed fast.

Lalya pulled away; she looked afraid. The howling started again, and was answered again, closer this time. “They’re howling strangely,” said Mstys.

“
Not natural wolves, Javor,” Photius said quietly. “We must take turns keeping watch tonight.” He led the young one back to their borrowed hut, Javor looking wistfully over his shoulder.

Everyone else dispersed to their huts; the happy mood was gone. The howls continued, but Javor couldn’t distinguish between them and those he had heard four nights ago in the hills. He did not rest: every few hours, Photius would wake him.

Photius was true to his word that night: they took turns sleeping and keeping watch until the sun rose again.

The next day, the sun rose, dull and weak behind thick, threatening clouds. A cool wind whipped from the north, and Javor shivered in the summer.

“
Unusually cold for this time of year,” said an old man who brought them breakfast this time. Photius just nodded, staring down at the dirt.

The villagers led the cattle and pigs out of the
holody
to the fields, but no one went very far. They said they didn’t want to get caught in rain, but no rain fell. The sky got lower and darker, and there was a feeling of tension all around. Children squabbled in the centre of the village.

Javor wandered to the crest of the cliff near the
holody
, watching the stream hurl itself over the rocks, and heard a yell. Looking up, he could see a cloud of dust north of the village. He remembered the same sight from solstice at his home: riders on horseback. The villagers ran back to the
holody
, driving livestock before them.

Javor tore to his hut. As he buckled on his weapons, he could hear the villagers crying, “Raiders! Raiders are coming!” The villagers gathered in the
holody
or hid in the forest; Mstys ordered the gates shut and the men gathered at the stockade.

A dozen raiders rode into the clearing at the bottom of the hill. They were archers mounted on small horses. They wore round metal helmets, furs and leather armour reinforced with metal. Some held drawn, curved swords, others had bows and arrows at the ready. Their round shields each bore a device in the shape of a winged serpent—a dragon, Javor realized.

“
Damned Avars!” Mstys cursed, peering over the stockade beside Javor. “Will we never have peace. Perhaps,” he added hopefully, “they’ll just take some food and be gone.”

As if in answer, one rider lifted a burning brand. An archer used the flame to light an arrow, then fired it at the stockade. Dozens of burning arrows began to hit the logs. “Get water! Put out the fire!” Mstys screamed, and the villagers began hauling pots and buckets. Javor backed away from the stockade as the smoke grew denser.
Maybe it will rain,
he hoped, and knew it was a stupid wish. He ran for water and threw bucketsful over the stockade.

He heard a scream and looked up to see one of the young men of the village, a handsome youth named Hlib, falling from the stockade. One hand grabbed uselessly at an arrow protruding from his neck, the other still clutched a pot—he had reached over the stockade to pour water on the fire. Hlib fell to the foot of the stockade and didn’t move anymore.

The gate crashed open and then there were horses all over the
holody
. The raiders slashed with their curved swords and trampled women and children.

Javor found his sword in his hands. A horse rode toward him, a curved sword swung through the smoke. Javor raised his sword and slashed and a body fell from the horse. He felt his body thrust the sword downward to finish the rider off. Another horse charged at him and he slashed again, slicing through the animal’s neck. He dodged the dying horse and found himself face-to-face with its rider. The raider swung a curved sword at Javor; Javor parried, thrust forward and felt resistance—then he saw his opponent crumple, pulling Javor’s sword down with him. He yanked backward, panicking. He glimpsed another raider at his right, so he swept the weapon around. He felt it hit something, felt the sword slow in its sweep but then continue, saw the raider’s forearm fall off, still clutching a sword. Blood spurted over Javor’s face, but he pulled his sword back and leaped forward. There was another raider, sword raised over one of the villagers. Screaming, Javor swung the blade with all his might and cleanly sliced off the attacker’s head.

The villagers were running in every direction, women clutching children, men running with axes and daggers and burning brands to defend their homes. Riderless horses ran back and forth, confused and snorting.

He ran toward the broken gate, swinging the sword. He felt it checked with a ringing metal sound, and realized he was fencing a man on horseback. Again, he swung at the animal’s neck, but the horse dodged and its rider leaped down. Javor hesitated and the raider attacked. Javor jumped back, parried the slash with his sword, pressed forward. Back and forth they fought. Then he saw his opening. He feinted a left slash, checked it and lunged forward, watched the sword cut through his opponent’s chest, watched blood splash everywhere.

A blow square in the middle of his back knocked Javor to his knees. He turned and realized a spear had hit his armoured back. Someone was rushing at him now, screaming. Javor jumped up, slashing his sword. It dug into the man’s chest and came away again.

He pressed forward, slashing at the horses near the gate, but they drew back. He realized then that the raiders were withdrawing, leaving the
holody
. They turned their horses and galloped down the hill and disappeared into the forest. He started after them, but felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Photius’ voice, “Hold, Javor!”

Javor turned, sword high, but found himself facing Photius and Mstys. “Don’t chase them!” Photius yelled. “They want us to follow them! Out in the open, their horses have the advantage! They’ll cut us down!” The last of the raiders left the
holody
. Javor saw the remains of the gate lying on the ground. A young villager leaned into the opening to take a look and fell back instantly, an arrow protruding from his chest.

Photius drew an arrow from the quiver on his hip, spat on its head and fitted it to his bow. Without looking over the stockade, he aimed the arrow upward and bent the bow. Javor saw the old man’s lips move, but his eyes were squeezed shut. Then he released the arrow. It flew high over the stockade and disappeared beyond it. They heard a scream. “You hit him!” Lalya cried. She was peering through a small space between two logs.

Photius drew another arrow, spat on the head, prayed and let fly again without looking; again Lalya cried out “Got him!” joyously. “They’re running away!”

Javor realized he had been holding his breath. He looked up; the grey clouds were getting darker and lower. Villagers were still running with pots and buckets of water to put out fires. A dying horse kicked and thrashed. Men’s and women’s bodies, villagers and raiders, were scattered on the ground. A woman, her tunic soaked in blood, sobbed on her knees beside a headless raider. Another woman wailed, clutching the limp body of Hlib, the young man who took an arrow in the throat after standing too high over the stockade to put out a fire. Then the air was full of the cries and weeping of parents and children of those killed, of moans of the wounded. One of the huts burned fiercely, despite the efforts of some twenty to douse it.

“
I don’t understand it. They usually just demand food and water, maybe a girl, then they go,” said Mstys, sitting on the ground. His face was covered in blood from a slash over his eye.

A thin rain began to fall, chilling them all.

“
How many times have they come before?” Photius asked.

Mstys looked at the ground. “Four or five.”

“
And they’ve only asked for food?”

Mstys nodded. “Until last time. There wasn’t enough for them, so they started beating and killing and raping women. And today, they didn’t even ask first. Why?”

“
Were they the same barbarians as today?”

Mstys shook his head again. “I don’t know. They had fur on their clothes, round helmets, curved swords—they were Avars.”