The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age) (14 page)

“
They’ll be back, tonight, unless I’m much mistaken,” said Photius. “They did not expect a fight. We have much to do.” He began ordering the villagers to put out the last of the fires, to dispose of the dead horse, to repair the gate. He delegated four young men to gather wood to make arrows, and three women to tend to the wounded. “We will bury the dead as soon as possible,” he said.

Mstys roused himself to coordinate the villagers’ burial. Six bodies were carried out to the village cemetery and quickly interred; Photius said a few words over them. Meanwhile, others were improving the defences of the
holody
. Javor stripped the raiders’ bodies of their weapons and armour, and gave them to likely young men of the village.

Photius moved back and forth, fussing over details, ordering people to shore up the stockade here, make him more arrows, and fill as many containers with water as they could find in the village.

The whole village watched, transfixed, as Photius used his own sword to cut the heads off the three raiders’ bodies that still bore them. Holding them by their long hair, he then picked up the head that Javor had severed the same way. At that, Javor bent over and retched heartily. He felt ashamed, but no one else seemed to notice. They just watched as Photius stuck the four heads on poles in a matter-of-fact way. He instructed the villagers to place them at the four compass points around the
holody
. “For luck,” he said, smiling grimly. “And to discourage more raids.”

Photius spent the rest of the day fussing over his potions and powders. He prepared a bucket of a foul-smelling liquid and soaked new arrows in them. He ground powders and set them into a complex arrangement of bowls near the gate and the path to the forest where the raiders had retreated. Between the bowls he laid a rope, soaked in oil as a primitive fuse.

Javor spent the rest of the day training a dozen young men to use weapons. Six had taken weapons from the dead raiders; the rest had homemade spears and long knives and axes. Other than what they took from the raiders, they had no armour at all.

Javor felt himself a complete phoney, knowing almost nothing about fighting with a sword and armour, but the young men apparently trusted him. He found himself giving tips, things he had only just learned, and sounding very credible. At one point, Photius asked him to find the best archer in the village. Javor set up a target and organized a short tournament. The winner was one young blonde man named Hach. Photius gave him his own bow and told him to practice.

They rested in late afternoon, eating what they could. Javor took the opportunity to take some of the water and wash, cleansing himself of not only sweat and grime but also a good deal of strangers’ blood. He felt much better, then, even stronger.

Sunset came, gleaming sullen and red under the clouds. Then a cry rang out from the watchers around the stockade. “They’re coming! I see torches in the trees!”

Javor ran to the log wall, loosening his sword. It was true: firelight flickered in the forest until the raiders rode hard into the clearing before the holody. In the sunset, their torches lit up the sky.

There were many more than before, close to fifty, all mounted and masked. They carried torches, spears and long, broad swords. Hach, the archer, took a position prepared for him: a small opening in the stockade, narrow on the outside wall but offering him a good view of the field. Photius took the arrows that had been soaking in potion, dipped one in another liquid and immediately gave it to Hach. With only a quick glance at his target, Hach let fly. The arrow sped to a raider in the front row and hit him full in the chest. As the man fell from his saddle, his body burst into flames. Hach shot again: the arrow hit a raider’s shield, but also caught fire, which spread to several others. Soon several raiders were on fire, slapping themselves to extinguish it. Their horses panicked and broke away, screaming, carrying their riders into the woods again.

The leader waved his sword and the troop charged the gate. Photius grabbed a torch and touched it to his fuse; it caught and flame moved along to the bowls of powder he had prepared. One by one they shot sparking flames high into the air, scaring the raiders and their horses even more. Javor’s attention was torn between that spectacle and the raiders riding forward—their chief led a group that dodged between Photius’ flames. Just when Javor thought it was too late to do anything, a huge ball of flame burst in front of the gate. The raiders’ horses reared up, screaming, but checked their charge.

Overhead, a ball of fire roared into the air. It spread, flattened and began to take shape. And then, in the unbelieving eyes of the villagers and the raiders alike, it became a blazing golden dragon.  It stretched upward, roared, spread wide golden wings and rose higher into the night sky. A few arrows rose against it and passed right through it, blazing. Then Javor saw the raiders turning, spurring their horses faster as flame fell on them. Two died in burning agony, rolling futilely on the ground. The others disappeared into the forest again.

Silence again, and then a whoop from the holody. Then everyone was cheering. Even Photius was smiling. “Yes, that will keep them away for some time to come.”

Someone stoked the bonfire in the centre of the village, someone else found some bread and wine and soon the whole village was celebrating. A little band of drum, lyre and pipes struck up and the villagers started singing.

They’ll be back,
Javor knew. He walked the perimeter of the holody, peeking over it or through spaces between the logs long after dark. But when daylight had faded completely, he guessed that the raiders were not used to fighting at night, so he relaxed a little.

He put his weapons away in the hut he shared with Photius, and when he stepped back outside, Lalya was at the door. She pressed a cup of wine into his hands. “Thank you, Javor. Thank you.”

Javor drank. “For what?”

Lalya just smiled in answer, but gently pushed him into the hut. Inside, she pushed her mouth against his, and with her body steered him toward the straw bed. Her tongue pushed into his mouth and her hands pushed his tunic off his body. Before he knew it, they were both naked. Her mouth roved all over his body. He felt a rush as her skin touched his hard penis. He was aware that she was older than him by a good ten years, older than Elli by probably more. But in the flickering firelight that filtered in through the open window, she was beautiful. She was over him, now, smiling, caressing his face. “You are beautiful, and you don’t even know it, do you?” she asked.

He pulled her down, rolled on top and kissed her, hard. She pulled away. “Relax, Javor. Not so fast. We have all night.” She smiled again, and Javor kissed her again, softer this time, making an effort to be slow. He remembered how feverishly fast it had been with Elli that first time.
Make it last longer,
he reminded himself.

Lalya took the lead, kissing him slowly, encouraging him at every step. Javor took her example and kissed every inch of her body, moving his mouth over her high, pointed breasts and marvelling at how she responded. He tasted her, drank her in, took care to experience every bit of her, and she did the same. And when he entered her, he took time again, going slow and fast, consciously enjoying it as long as he could. At last, he could hold back no more, felt himself flowing into her. He collapsed, hot, sweating, spent, felt her body press against his.
Skin on skin,
he thought.
It’s wonderful.

Chapter 9
: Refugees

Morning dawned with the sun gleaming redly under heavy black clouds. Drizzle started within an hour and continued on and off the rest of the day, leaving everything and everyone soggy.

Lalya was gone when Javor woke, but there was a loaf of bread in the hut. He ate it and looked through the doorway at the drizzle. He found an old cloak in the hut and held it over his head against the rain, then went to look for Lalya. She was crouching in the doorway to her father’s hut, doing something he couldn’t see. But Mstys was standing outside the doorway, miserable in the drizzle, and he glowered at Javor. Javor decided not to approach.

He found Photius near the stockade. In his wide-brimmed hat and long cloak, he seemed impervious to the rain. He had ordered pairs of sentries stationed at intervals around the stockade, and the two young men beside him, peering into the rain, looked very unhappy.

“
Just because the raiders left last night, don’t think they will not return,” Photius explained. “In fact, they’re doubtlessly anxious to punish this village—they have a reputation to support.”

“
Look sharp up there!” Mstys bellowed from right behind Javor, who jumped. The boys on the stockade looked briefly at Mstys, their faces miserable, but then quickly turned back to peer harder into the mist and drizzle.

In mid-morning, one of the sentries called out. Staggering up the hill was a sorry-looking group, men and women, old and young. Several limped, bled from wounds on their heads and limbs. One man had wrapped his head in an improvised bandage, almost completely pink. Another man was being partly carried by a heavy-looking woman; one of his arms hung limply, bleeding from a savage rip near his shoulder.

“
Bilavod!” one of them called. “Help us, please!”

“
They’re from Kletka, by the river,” said Mstys. “Let them in!” he bellowed.

Someone opened the gate, and soon the wounded were gathered around the fire in the centre of the
holody
. The people of Bilavod rushed to bring water and bandages, while  Photius directed cleaning their wounds.

“
What happened to you?” Mstys demanded.

“
Raiders. Avars, I think,” said one man. He had a raw-looking cut across his face.

“
No, not Avars,” said the man with the arm wound. “At least, not like the usual. Most Avars don’t wear furred hats like that. And they had a symbol on their shields, too. More like Sarmatians.”

“
Don’t be a fool,” said a third refugee. “There haven’t been Sarmatians here for centuries. They were Avars.”

“
Goths, maybe,” said someone else.

“
Whoever they were,” said the first refugee, raising his voice. “They attacked our village at dawn. They didn’t even make demands for food or anything. They just shot fire arrows at our
holody
, then burst in and started killing people. They burned down the village, killed the livestock.” He looked down and started weeping. “They killed all the children.” He started to sob.

“
They took the young women and raped them,” said a woman, herself bloody and bruised. “They tied the men, and killed many who fought back. They were merciless, completely merciless!”

Later, by the fire, Mstys held a council with the elders of his village, Photius and the eldest man and woman of the refugees from Kletka. “It’s very strange, the way the raiders have attacked both our villages without warning or demands,” he said. “I don’t understand why they didn’t take food or supplies or animals, but were only after killing and destruction.”

“
How often have you faced the raiders before?” asked Photius.

“
Groups come through every month or two,” Mstys answered. “Usually six or seven at a time. The big groups spread out through the country, sending small parties to each village to gather what they need. Occasionally they would take a girl for their pleasure, but always leave her afterward.”

“
Is it the same raiders from time to time?” Photius asked.

“
No, never. But usually they’re from the same tribe, I think. They dress the same,” Mstys said. “They have the same kinds of weapons, and they always use horses.”

“
They’re monsters from the wildernesses of the east,” said Slawko, the one-handed man from Kletka; Photius had had to amputate his left arm above the elbow because of the savage sword cut that had nearly severed it. “I think they came out of Hell in Asia, across the prairies for our land.”

“
Don’t be so superstitious, Slawko,” said the woman from Kletka. To Javor, she seemed ancient, a haggard crone with long lank hair and deep circles under her eyes, but she couldn’t have been even 40 years old. “They’re just barbarians, raiding and taking what they want.”

“
I tell you, Allia, they’re not human!” Slawko shouted, shaking his remaining fist.

“
Men can be plenty evil, Slawko. You know that as well as I do,” retorted Allia. “They’re just men, doing horrible things to whoever they can to get what they want.”

Photius interrupted: “Did the group that attacked you have a dragon design or symbol on their shields?”

The two refugees stared blankly for a moment. “No,” they said together.

“
What about those who have attacked you before, Mstys? The ones who demanded food and tribute?”

Mstys looked at the other elders gathered around him. Finally, he said “No, not that I remember. Most had no symbols about them at all.”

Photius nodded. “This was a different group, then,” he said.

Javor whetted his sword. He felt angrier with every moment. Finally, he walked through the village, stopping to speak to young men. “Meet me at the gate at sunrise,” he told each one.

The next morning, Javor had a group of ten young men. A few had the arms and armour from the dead raiders, while others had hunting bows, spears, axes and long knives. Javor led them out the gate, to the surprise of the guards on watch, and through the forest path to a clearing near the river. He redistributed the arms: most ended up with a helmet and upper-body armour and a sword of some kind. But no one was fully armoured, and none of them knew how to fight with these kinds of weapons beyond the rudimentary skills he had shown them the day before. He started to show them the basics of sword-fighting. After a few near-disasters with the real weapons, he got them to practise with sticks instead.

Javor felt like he never had before as he showed the boys how to hold their “swords,” how to stand and how to move. The boys asked him questions, to approve their stance and the way they swung and stabbed. No one had ever asked him for advice before, let alone instruction; his own village had always treated him with pity or scorn. He felt older, smarter, more serious. He had never felt so…competent. He corrected the boys’ movements, told them how to anticipate their opponents’ reactions. He was aware that his voice sounded deeper. He could feel his brows knitting together until he got a slight headache.

When the sun started to climb, the boys and young men returned to the village; none of them would tell much of what they had been doing, Javor knew. And every morning for the next seven days they met again. By the end of that time, they were by no means warriors, but they had developed a rough proficiency with weapons. Javor convinced himself that they could face an enemy force, and the boys themselves were enthusiastic. After that first week, Javor started giving out the weapons again, and for most of each morning they drilled, practising attacks and defences.

When the sun got too high and too hot for intensive drilling, Javor led his little class down to the stream to bathe, and then back to the
holody
where they all had to get back to chores.

Javor felt a pang as he watched the boys go back to their chores.
They’re exhausted
. But each morning at sunrise, they all gathered to drill and train some more.

Photius found them one day. He strode purposefully into the clearing where Javor directed their training, motioned Javor to one side and demanded “What do you think you’re doing?”

“
I’m training them the way you trained me.” Javor had expected Photius’ objections. “I’m passing on my skills like you said you were doing for me.”

Photius was grave and spoke quietly and quickly. “Javor, you’re sentencing these boys to death. They’re not warriors, and no more than two of them ever have a hope of becoming one. You’re wasting time when they should be strengthening their defences.”

“
How can they defend themselves if they don’t know how to use weapons?”

“
By building up their stockade and their gate, laying in supplies of food and firewood, making refuges and secret escape routes. The only hope they have is in staying out of sight of raiders, making it difficult and costly for raiders who find them and want to attack, and paying them off as cheaply as possible. If any of them raises a weapon, he’s not only going to get killed, he’s going to cause the deaths of many more.”

“
And what about things that aren’t Avars, the men who attacked with the dragon symbol, the things that have been following
me
?”

“
If you really hope to help these people, then you will get away from them as fast as possible. Supernatural beings in this area are looking for you.”

Javor didn’t know how to respond to that. But just then, one of his students, a skinny, dark-haired man of about 20 named Krasimir, delivered a savage blow on Hach’s arm with a stout stick that he was using as a sword. Hach howled in pain: the arm was broken. Javor was dismayed: their best archer was incapacitated. Muttering under his breath, Photius splinted the young man’s arm, and the whole group, dispirited, trudged back to the
holody
.