The Bones of the Earth: The Dark Age, #1

By Scott Bury

The Dark Age, eastern Europe: the earth has decided to rid itself of humanity with earthquakes, volcanoes and new plagues. Civilizations, even the mighty Roman Empire, crumble under the pressure of barbarian waves that are fleeing worse terrors.

 

Rejected by his own people, pursued by a dragon, young Javor heads for Constantinople, the centre of civilization, looking for answers to the puzzle of his great-grandfather's dagger and the murder of his family.

 

On the ancient, crumbling Roman highway across haunted, deserted Dacia, Javor rescues the beautiful Danisa from a human sacrifice. He cannot help falling in love with her. But Danisa has her own plans, and when she is kidnapped again, Javor has to wonder: what is the connection between his dagger, his lover and his enemies?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Bury
• Release date: Dec 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781987846430

Scott Bury

Scott Bury can’t stay in one genre. After a 20-year career in journalism, he turned to writing fiction. “Sam, the Strawb Part,” a children’s story, came out in 2011, with all the proceeds going to an autism charity. Next was a paranormal short story for grown-ups, “Dark Clouds.” The Bones of the Earth, a historical fantasy, came out in 2012. It was followed in 2013 with One Shade of Red, an erotic romance. He has several mysteries and thrillers in the former Kindle Worlds program: Torn Roots, Palm Trees & Snowflakes, Dead Man Lying, Echoes, Stealth The Wife Line and The Three-Way. With the cancellation of the Kindle Worlds, Scott is re-writing these titles. The new, expanded Torn Roots and Palm Trees & Snowflakes are now available. He then wrote a military memoir trilogy: Army of Worn Soles, Under the Nazi Heel and Walking Out of War, the true story of a Canadian-born man drafted into the Soviet Red Army in World War II. Since then, he has launched a new Wine Country Mystery series, with the first title, Wildfire. Scott’s articles have been published in newspapers and magazines in Canada, the US, UK and Australia. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, he grew up in Thunder Bay, Ontario. He holds a BA from Carleton University’s School of Journalism. He has two mighty sons, two pesky cats and a loving wife who puts up with a lot. He is a recipient of Maclean Hunter’s Top 6 Award and a member of a team that won a Neal Award for business reporting.

Book preview

Part 1: Initiation Rites

Chapter 1: Mystery and ecstasy

Chapter 2: The rescue

Chapter 3: Coming home

Chapter 4: The hunt

Chapter 5: The cave

Chapter 6: Pain

Part 2: Tests

Chapter 7: Journeying south

Chapter 8: Attack

Chapter 9: Refugees

Chapter 10: Counter-attack

Chapter 11: Into Dacia

Chapter 12: On the road

Chapter 13: The stricken village

Chapter 14: The Roman outpost

Chapter 15: Dragon attack

Chapter 16: To kill a dragon

Chapter 17: Down from the mountain

Part 3: The mission

Chapter 18: Old wisdom

Chapter 19: Constantinople

Chapter 20: Finding the order

Chapter 21: The Abbey

Chapter 22: Novice

Chapter 23: Deeper knowledge

Chapter 24: Initiation

Chapter 25:  The barbarian princess

Chapter 26:  Examining the dagger

Chapter 27:  The Hippodrome

Chapter 28: Fire and glass

Chapter 29:  When the Danube was blue

Chapter 30:  Barbarians and monsters

Chapter 31:  A conversation with the dragon

Chapter 32:  Barbarians versus monsters

Chapter 33:  The hall of the mountain king

Chapter 34:  The goddess’ cave

Chapter 35: The people of knowledge

Chapter 36:  The spell on the mountain

Epilogue: Constantinople

Acknowledgements

About the author

Books by Scott Bury

Foreword from the author

The Bones of the Earth is a work of fiction; some would even say fantasy. However, it is set in a very real time and place, and writing it involved extensive historical research. For that reason, the genre or label I like best is historical magic realism.

The real setting of this story is eastern Europe in the sixth century CE. The story begins on the southern slopes of the western Carpathian Mountains, a region now at the borders of Ukraine, Romania and Hungary, and that may be the origin of the Slavic peoples.

The names may seem strange to those used to reading fiction set in more western locations. They are all old Slavic, Gothic, Greek and Latin names, chosen to make the story as true to the period as possible. The geography, historical details and religious ideas are also as true to the period as I could make them.

But those details are not the point. The most important thing is that you enjoy this story.

The Eastern Roman Empire and neighbours, late 6th century CE

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Part 1: Initiation Rites

Chapter 1: Mystery and ecstasy

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Wait until the full moon is high, Vorona chanted. Wait until magic fills the night.

They waited as Vorona’s steady drumbeat pulled the full moon over the trees.

Mysyach, she repeated with every drum beat. No one else spoke or even moved. They waited as Mysyach, the moon goddess, slowly revealed her face. On this warm night, they felt a promise being fulfilled: A full moon the night before the summer solstice is a very rare event, Vorona had said one full moon ago in this same clearing. It is the time for young men and women to worship, to celebrate their own fertility. They had danced naked to Vorona’s beating drum and returned home, exhausted and expectant.

Now, one month later, the night before the summer solstice, they gathered again in the clearing. Vorona’s moonlight ceremonies were irresistible, and open only to the unmarried young adults—no children or married people allowed. Twenty such came to the clearing just before moonrise, speaking low and fast in small groups. In the middle were the most popular couple, Mrost the bully and his girlfriend Grat; the others laughed at all their jokes and never dared interrupt them.

As always, Javor was the last to arrive and stood a little apart, wondering what to do. What if they tell me to leave? he thought. He shifted his weight from foot to foot until he spotted Hrech, his only friend. Then he saw Elli talking with her two girlfriends at the side of the clearing. She is prettier than Grat, and nicer, too, he thought as usual. Why does everyone like Grat better? He wondered whether he should go to Hrech or Elli.

No one noticed Vorona arrive; she seemed to appear in the centre of the clearing. Vorona had set herself up as the village’s witch: the woman who knew about herbs and remedies, who knew who was too closely related to marry, who dispensed potions and advice about finding a lover or getting a baby. But she was no crone. Perhaps twenty years old, she had long, rich brown hair and curves that Javor had started to notice when he had turned 13. She had big, widely-spaced eyes that she accented by painting dark outlines around them, and they flashed green in daylight and strangely silver by firelight. She had high cheekbones, a delicate face, wide lips and a delicate dimple like a tiny furrow in the end of her nose.

Tonight, she wore a metal necklace and a silvery bracelet. A single piece of amber hung in the centre of her forehead, suspended from a leather band around her head. A long robe of yellow and red, woven in a fiery pattern, hung from her shoulders. The front was cut very low and Javor took a good look at the curve of her breasts in the moonlight. As she turned he could see that the robe’s skirts parted at the side, revealing not only her leg but her whole hip. His heart started to beat faster.

The moon’s lower edge cleared the tallest tree and Vorona startled them all by crying Worship, young people! She lifted her hands. Mistress of the night, Mysyach, bless us tonight as we pay homage to thee. A pyramid of wood at her feet burst into flame all at once, quickly building into a bonfire. How did she do that? Javor wondered.

It is time, young worshippers. Join hands in a circle around the fire and begin the ceremony. Vorona commanded, then bent her head down and crooned words Javor didn’t understand.

What’s she saying? someone whispered.

She does this every gathering, Hrech whispered back. It’s some ancient language for speaking to the gods and spirits.

Javor suspected she made it up as she went along.

The young people joined hands around Vorona and the fire. And now came that familiar fear, that empty space below his ribs as Javor wondered whether the others would let him into the circle. Hrech had already taken the hand of Elli’s friend, Teshla. Teshla’s other hand held Elli’s, but Javor pulled them apart and stepped between them. Elli looked startled, but then smiled nervously as her eyes met Javor’s.

Teshla clicked her tongue—she didn’t like Javor.

But tonight, they could not exclude him. Vorona had commanded them all to dance beneath the full moon. They had to obey their village shaman, even if she was a woman.

They started an awkward, slow dance around the fire as Vorona continued her keening chant. Suddenly, she threw her hands skyward. Dance, young lovers, dance! Tonight Mysyach, goddess of the moon is full and ripe. This night is filled with power, with the energy of youth, of life, of strength. She beat on her small drum, crooning wordlessly. The beat went on and on, faster and faster. The dancers moved frantically to keep up but Vorona was relentless, beating and singing faster and faster.

With a final beat, she stopped. The dancers stopped, too, puffing. Sit, my children, said Vorona. So now we’re her children, are we? The dancers dropped onto the grass. Javor made certain he was lying on his elbows close to Elli. He noticed she didn’t move away.

Tonight, the moon goddess reaches the height of her power. Tonight is a night for youth, for new lives to begin. Tonight the moon goddess breathes life into our crops, begins transforming flowers into fruit. Tonight babies are conceived. The girls giggled nervously.

It’s been a long time since a baby was born alive in our village, Javor thought.

Tonight, my children, the moon goddess’s power reaches into our bodies and souls and kindles a fire, an irresistible hunger that can only be satisfied in one way ...

How’s that, Vorona? It was Mrost, leering from across the fire.

Vorona glared at Mrost until he lost his smile and looked down. She passed around two wineskins. Javor had drunk sweet, thick undiluted wine before, but this stuff was different. One sip made every sense hard-edged. Javor could hear Elli whispering to Teshla: ... kiss him ... He could see the fire bright and hot against the black night, could see each of the young people in the ring around it. But the forest beyond vanished, the stars faded. Even the crickets and owls fell silent.

Vorona sang again in her weird language, and Javor thought he could understand her in some roundabout way. All the young people understood. They rose to their feet, joined hands and danced again. Vorona’s drum drove them. She threw her head back and sang, voice rising and falling. The dance went on and on, around and around the fire until there was nothing else but the motion and the fire and Vorona’s voice.

All at once, the dancers pulled off their rough tunics. Javor felt a moment’s panic when Elli let go of his hand to pull her tunic off, and he gasped at the sight of her long neck, her breasts, her belly and hips and thighs in the firelight. He pulled off his own tunic and dropped his trousers, stumbling over them. He and Elli grasped hands again and Elli looked at him with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open, hair over her face as they danced.

He breathed fast and could feel sweat coming between his hand and Elli’s. On and on they went, naked before the fire that jumped higher and higher. How does it keep growing if no one is adding fuel? Javor wondered once, and then the beat of the drum and Vorona’s voice and the motion of dancing filled his mind and Javor didn’t think anymore.

And then Elli’s hands were on his shoulders and her mouth was pressing on his. Javor’s knees buckled and Elli came down on him. He felt a thrilling shock as her naked belly touched his own. He fell softly onto damp, cold earth, weeds scratching his naked skin. He kissed her, hands roving over her skin. He was afraid when he touched her breasts, but Elli kissed him hard again, open-mouthed, then moved her mouth onto his neck. I should try to make this last, Javor thought, but then he was on top of Elli. She pulled him close and then he was inside her. He moved, awkwardly at first, and Elli gasped once in pain, then pulled him closer. Javor pushed his body up, and some small part of him was still amazed at what was happening. His eyes could see only Elli’s, and his body was not under his control. He thrust his hips harder and quickly felt himself flowing into her as Vorona’s drum drove them on. He fell to the side, looking at the bonfire, conscious of other couples in the grass around him.

Slowly, reality returned. Javor looked over at Elli, who stared, panting, at the sky. Vorona’s drum was slowing, her voice falling. He gradually heard other voices, low and embarrassed.

Javor rose up on one elbow. Elli ... But he didn’t know what to say, so he kissed her cheek gently. She didn’t seem to notice, so he kissed her again, breathing in her scent. His thigh felt wet. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, then her breast, hoping to pull the nipple between his lips. Why didn’t I do that before? he wondered, but Elli sat up and pulled away, looking at him with wide eyes. Javor smiled sheepishly. He looked at her, carefully, taking the moment to look at her naked body. She was thin, too thin, really, as they all were. But her breasts were round and high and they made his mouth water. She had almost flawless skin. Her lips were wide and thin but her eyes were large. Those eyes were what Javor had first noticed about Elli.

She gave a little cry, and tears ran down her cheeks. Javor hugged her close, caressing her smooth back. Vorona’s drum made three final, slow beats, and Javor could now hear Elli sobbing into his neck. Sshh, shh, he said. Why is she crying?

Vorona’s song ended. Slowly, the night sounds returned, the crickets and frogs and night birds, the sound of the stream and the breeze, the gentle roar of the fire. Javor felt the breeze stirring the hair on his neck, and was conscious of the silky feel of Elli’s skin under his hands and pressing against his chest, side and legs, of the slight tickle—did he imagine it?—of her nipples against his ribs.

Mysyach is sinking into the night, my children, said Vorona. Her voice brought them all back to the present. Now Javor was also conscious of the grass prickling his leg, of the scratches on his back and how cool the night breeze felt. We have all done well. We have worshipped the goddess. You felt her power in your genitals, her fertility in your wetness. Now dress yourselves and go. The celebration is ended. Elli moved away from him and pulled her tunic over herself. Javor looked for his. What difference does it make which one we each put on? They’re all the same.

He looked up, but Elli was already with her friends, talking fast and low. They left the clearing, heading toward the village.

Go back, my children. Go back to your homes. Sleep while you can. When the sun rises, it will be the solstice, the celebration of the sun.

The fire was dying. Vorona gathered her belongings into a cloth bag, shouldered it and started back to the village. Javor wanted to speak with her, but didn’t know what to say.

Come on, Javor, your parents will be up soon. It was Hrech. Without answering, Javor followed him along the stream. The moon was setting. How long had they danced? I hope we can get a little sleep before dawn, said Hrech.

Yah. Without talking any more, they walked back to the village of low, round clay-and-twig huts, half-sunk into the ground, arranged in a flattened circle at the foot of a low hill.

Javor’s hut was at one narrow end of the oval, nestled against a small ridge of the hill. Javor’s father, Swat, liked to say that the slight rise protected them against the north wind, but Javor could never understand how a rise as high as his waist could provide any shelter.

It was only as he crept through the doorway and fell onto his straw mat that Javor realized how tired he was. He fell asleep immediately. And he dreamed a terrible dream.

He was flying a over wide plain where tall grass browned in the sun. On top of a small hill, a palisade guarded a village. Smoke drifted over the palisade—the village was burning. Bodies lay in front of the huts, and children huddled against the walls, crying for their murdered parents.

Across the plain, horsemen chased people on foot. He wanted to warn the running people about the horsemen, but he could not bring his mouth to open, nor make the smallest noise.

One horseman closed on two men and a woman. The horseman raised a curved shape—a sword. He brought it down sharply, once, twice—the running men fell, twisting, arms flailing, then still. Now, only the woman was left. The horse ran in front of her. The woman darted to one side, then the other, but the horse blocked her. The rider tired of the game quickly, and struck her, too, and she fell.

Javor rose higher, and he could see across the plain. Everywhere, groups of mounted men in dark armour chased terrified villagers on foot. Villages burned. Armoured men raped women. Finally, he descended, watching a group of grinning men taking their turns raping two girls while a village burned behind them. The smoke billowed and concentrated into an enormous man shape.

He forced his lungs to contract as the smoke grew darker and the shape it formed grew more distinct. He could see two great arms, thick as trees, ending in great curved cruel claws.

Javor strained. He pushed and then the scream climbed out of his throat, and he was sitting upright in his bed. The watery dawn light filtered in. He was sweating. To one side, he could hear his parents shifting.

A dream, he whispered to himself, falling back onto the heather that made up his bed. He gradually slowed his breath, but he could not go back to sleep.

His father got up and smiled. Time for the ceremony.

Chapter 2: The rescue

Look down. Two young men, boys really, walk across the meadows and forests on the southern slopes of mountains that rise gently, then heave up suddenly to angry grey crags occasionally topped by snow. One of the boys is very tall, with long yellow-gold hair. His long legs propel him swiftly across a meadow thick with yellow and purple flowers. He pays no attention to flies buzzing around him, to crickets and rabbits that leap out of his way.

His companion is smaller with tangled, long black hair. Blotches of soft black fuzz swirl around his chin and down his neck. He scurries to keep up with the blonde’s strides and is out of breath. They have been walking fast, nearly running, for hours. It is the solstice, some time past the year’s highest noon. Birds are quiet in the hottest part of the day, but insects chirp and hum and trill. Leaves on the trees are still a light green, not yet burned dark by the summer. The air is warm, not hot, not yet.

The dark one gets more anxious with every step. But all morning, the blonde boy has ignored him. The dark boy recognizes this trait in his friend: his ability to focus on one thing to the exclusion of everything else, for hours at a time. In their village, he was called the dreamer, or worse. Even in normal circumstances, you had to call him by name two or three times to get his attention. But now, he is following the trail of horsemen, mounted raiders, and no matter how many times the dark boy calls Javor, no matter how futile the quest, he cannot be pulled away.

Sometimes, it is easy to see the trampled grass or broken twigs and bushes, or a torn bit of cloth on a branch. Often, the light-haired boy seems to follow signs that his dark companion cannot see, and every time the dark boy doubts his friend and thinks they have lost the trail, he sees another sign—horse droppings, the surest of all, or once, a girl’s colourfully embroidered apron.

The dark boy begins touching every oak and birch tree they pass to pray to their spirits for protection, help, sanity for his friend. You know, we keep going east. East is bad luck, Javor, he puffs as they start up a slope.

Javor ignores that, too. At the crest of a ridge, he looks around, sees something that his friend cannot, continues at his same obsessive pace.

You realize, his friend says, trying hard to keep up, that we fall farther behind them with every step we take. They’re on horses. Still no response, so he reaches out and grabs Javor’s arm, forcing him to stop.

The blonde turns and looks at his friend without recognizing him. Javor, we’re chasing mounted warriors, the dark boy repeats. We’ll never catch up.

Javor blinks and looks uncomfortable. He seems to realize where he is, comes out of the trance he can put himself into.

We’ve been chasing them for hours, and we have no more hope now of ever catching up to them than we ever did. Let’s go back home.

Home? Javor says it like he has never heard the word before. No. We have to get the girls back, Hrech.

Javor looks at Hrech, his best friend—his only friend—but what he sees is the morning in the village, all the villagers in their best, whitest clothes, the men in their embroidered vests, women in embroidered aprons and garlands of flowers, all standing in a circle around the oak tree on top of the holy hill.

He remembers how Vorona, the shaman, led the villagers in the hymn to Zaria, the heavenly bride of the sun, to pull the sun over the horizon. They lifted freshly-cut maple branches and sang to the kupalo, the spirits who came out of the forest at the end of winter to spend the summer under the growing grain. The sun rose; Javor saw Elli wearing flowers in her hair, dancing with the other marriageable girls in a separate circle around Grat, the popular girl who had been chosen to be kupailo. The kupailo girl threw out wreaths of flowers; the girls who caught them would be married by fall. The kupailo was supposed to be the most beautiful, but Javor thought Elli was prettier than Grat.

Javor watched intently, hoping and at the same time dreading that Elli would catch a wreath. Before she could, they heard a rapid drumming noise. Someone yelled horsemen!

Down the hill, in front of a cloud of dust, mounted men rode fast toward the village. Javor counted: five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Immediately, the villagers dropped their maple branches and ran for their homes—there was no time to get to the holody, the wooden stockade around the low hill. Riders were invariably soldiers, and that meant trouble.

The women hid in their huts while the men gathered in the centre of the village. The riders reined in hard enough to make their horses rear. They were all armoured and helmeted, with long black hair and beards. They all wore leather armour reinforced with iron strips and studs. Each had a shield on his back, straps over each shoulder, a sword at his side and a small battle-axe on his saddle.

The leader was a large man. In their armour, his shoulders looked to Javor to be wider than any he had ever seen, and his bare forearms rippled with muscle. He bore a horrible scar across his nose. He barked with broken grammar and a harsh, strange accent, Who headman here is?

Roslaw stepped forward. We are a peaceful village, sir. We want no trouble.

The rider stared at him. I Krajan am, Lord of this region in the name of King Bayan, he barked. This village owe tribute to Bayan, King of the Avars, Overlord of the Empire.

But Maurice is the Roman emperor, said Old Oresh. The oldest man in the village, he looked up at the man on horseback, swaying a little.

Krajan guided his horse over to Oresh. So fast Javor could hardly see it, Krajan struck Oresh with an iron bar. The old man toppled face-first into the ground and lay still. From a hut, a woman screamed.

Rome dead is, Krajan bellowed. Bayan supreme is! This village owe tribute and support to men of Bayan. You! he pointed his cudgel at Roslaw. Food for my men and horses. Bread, meat, wine. Now!

Terrified, Roslaw ran for his hut. "Borys, some feed for their horses. Hurry."

Javor heard a yell, rough laughter and girls’ screams. One of the Avars had dismounted and was pulling two young women by the hair toward his fellows. With a shock, Javor realized they were Grat and Elli. Stupidly, they had hidden behind a haystack to watch what was going on, and the rider had caught them. The girls struggled and cried uselessly. The rider brought them to his leader.

Krajan dismounted and grabbed Elli by the chin. His mouth twisted into a horrible smile.

Elli! Javor yelled and lunged toward them, but his father, Swat, caught him from behind, pinning his arms and pushing him to the ground.

No, Javor. They’ll kill you! Javor managed to break free in time to see the girls’ mothers run out, screaming. Another raider stepped in front of them and savagely hit them with a heavy club. All the other villagers groaned, but no one had the courage to move. The women tried to get up, but the Avar hit Grat’s mother on the head again. She fell into the dust and did not move. Elli’s mother backed away on hands and knees, crying.

Roslaw and some other men ran up with bags of food. No, please, leave the girls alone. Take the food, take it all, but leave our daughters.

Krajan backhanded Roslaw savagely. The warrior’s heavy leather and steel gauntlet made a sickening crushing sound as it connected with the headman’s face, and Roslaw slumped into the dirt, bleeding from the nose and mouth.

Mladen, Elli’s father, sprang forward with a scythe, screaming Everyone together! We outnumber them. Faster than anyone could see, another raider drew a sword and slashed down. The scythe clattered to the hard ground, Mladen’s severed hand still gripping it. The Avars cheered and laughed; Mladen fell to his knees, gasping and staring in disbelief at the empty space at the end of his arm. Blood spurted over and over again onto the ground, splashing Elli and Grat until the Avar thrust his sword into Mladen’s neck, then kicked his body down. Elli’s mother shrieked. The village men cried out, but still no one dared move.

Krajan, the leader, looked down from his horse. We take these, he declared flatly. His men packed the food into their saddlebags; two of them tied the girls’ hands in front of them, then loaded them, crying but complacent, onto the backs of their horses. Laughing, the Avars rode down the hill and into the forest.

"We can’t save them. Hrech’s insistent tone brought Javor back to the moment. He realized they were both still in their dress clothes, bright white now stained with mud and sweat and grass. Even if you do catch up to them, you can’t fight them, Hrech said. There are at least 10 of them, all of them heavily armed. And they know how to fight and they don’t hesitate to kill anyone."

I can’t just do nothing, Javor said, his voice hoarse. He swatted absent-mindedly at a fly near his face. I have to try to get them back. No one else is doing anything.

Hrech nodded, remembering how the village women had come out of their huts to join their men as the Avars rode away. Only when the thundering sound of hoof beats had faded into the distance, when the raiders were surely gone, did the women begin to wail and the men to cry.

Elli’s mother helped Grat’s mother to her feet. She turned to scream at Roslaw, the headman. Do something! Blood smeared the dirt on her face from where the Avar had knocked her down. They’ve killed my husband! They’ll kill my daughter! They’ll rape her! Get them back!

What can we do? Roslaw protested. He held one hand over his eye and his own blood seeped between his fingers.

We can all go after them, said one man.

They’ve already killed Mladen and Oresh! Roslaw barked. You go after them, they’ll kill you, too.

Not if we all stayed together, said someone else. Like Mladen said.

Who here even has a sword? Who’s willing to die today? With one eye, Roslaw glared at each man, one by one. Each one looked down. Exactly. There’s no point in all of us getting killed.

Hrech put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. They’re gone, Javor. They might as well have died in a pestilence. And if you don’t stop this madness, you’ll just get yourself killed.

Javor blinked. He looked down the Avars’ trail, where it skirted a stand of poplars and beeches. Two boys armed with a knife and a wood-axe don’t stand a chance against heavily armed, trained and experienced warriors on horseback—who probably had friends they were meeting, he realized. I am going to be responsible for killing my only friend. Hrech, go back home if you want to, he said. I’m going on.

Hrech sighed. I can’t leave you out here, far from home, alone, he said. He did not say No one else is likely to come looking for you. Not for Javor. Maybe they would search for someone else, anyone else, but Hrech was almost the only one in their village, other than Javor’s parents, who cared at all about the strange, tall blonde boy. Weird, they said. Strange. Touched. Nobody ever said stupid, no one except Mean Mrost, who delighted in making people feel bad. No, Javor was not stupid, Hrech thought. But he certainly had his own way of looking at things.

So what’s your plan? Hrech asked. Javor looked at him blankly again. "Do you have a plan?"

Javor had to admit that he had none. He had set after the raiders in heat and anger, thinking only of Elli, the girl he loved, whom he last saw crying and afraid.

He still could not understand it. He knew people could be cruel—he had suffered the cruelty of children often enough. But to kill men just to show how tough you were ... to steal food from hungry people ... to beat women so you could take their daughters ...

He shook his head as he followed the trampled underbrush and broken branches of horses’ passing.

He also could not believe that the other villagers, his people, his relatives had done: nothing. They buried Oresh and Mladen, they laid Grat’s mother down on a straw bed. They talked and argued and yelled and cried.

But they just let the Avars take the girls away.

He remembered how his father, Swat, had sat down beside Roslaw with a pitcher of ale. I know we don’t have much. But if we gathered everything we have, food, ale, the few treasures any of us have, maybe we could negotiate with them, get the girls back.

Roslaw just shook his head.

It’s too dangerous, said Bogdan, a small nervous man with a continual tic in his left eye. They would just take what we offered for the girls and kill everyone who came to talk!

We would need to arm ourselves, Swat had tried to say reasonably. But other men gathered and the whole thing became a squabbling, useless argument.

It was at that point that Javor had known what had to be done—what he had to do. He could almost see himself doing it. He went quietly to his hut, found the little wooden case his mother had shown him the day before and took out his great-grandfather’s long dagger. Even in the dim light of the hut, he could see the angles and spirals on the blade, the fish-shape of the handle. The blade’s curve was comforting, as if there were no other shape a blade could be. Like a big tooth. He wrapped it in a soft cloth and tucked it into his belt, then stepped out of the hut and toward the edge of the village.

At that moment, he heard a sound like an owl’s call from the hut. Anyone else would have wondered about that: why is there an owl in my hut? Why is it calling during the day? But Javor was focused on something else.

Where are you going? said a voice at his side. Javor jumped, but it was only Hrech.

I’m going after Elli and Grat. Are you coming or not?

"Are you crazy? Are you trying to get killed? Do you even have a weapon?"

Javor took out the fish-handled dagger. Hrech goggled. Where did you get that?

It was my great-grandfather’s. Come on.

Javor, you can’t, Hrech sputtered, arguing what would become for him a refrain for the day. You can’t catch up with mounted men when you’re on foot. And even if you do, what could you do by yourself?

"I have to do something. No one else is."

"No one else is stupid enough. Hrech felt more afraid now even than when the raiders were in the village. You’re one boy against 10 armed men, and all you have is a fancy knife."

Javor took long strides into the grass the horses had trampled. Behind him, the adults argued and cried and whimpered, oblivious to the two boys leaving. They’ve got to stop to rest sometime. I’ll keep going and sooner or later, I’ll catch up with them. Are you going with me?

Hrech scrambled to keep up with Javor’s long strides. Poor guy never has been able to see straight, he thought. The only thing you’re going to accomplish is to get yourself killed.

I don’t care. If Elli’s gone ... What? He did not think past that. I’ve got to do something, he repeated. He started to run along Avars’ trail.

Hrech knew he could not stop Javor, but he also knew his friend would not be able to survive on his own. Javor was bigger and physically stronger—he didn’t know it, but he was the strongest bachelor in the village—but Javor acted very young, like a child. I’m with you, Hrech panted. But I’ll need a weapon, too. He ran as fast as he could back to the village and found Swat’s axe beside Javor’s hut. By the time he had caught up to Javor again, he did not have enough breath to argue anymore. So he had followed Javor. By noon, his throat was parched.

He finally made Javor stop to drink at a clear stream. Javor hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was, even though the sun was high and hot. He touched his hair: it was hot on top, wet in the back. He drank some more, then splashed water over his head. Hrech did the same.

I don’t care what you do. I’m taking a breather, Hrech said. Javor said nothing, but sat beside his friend in the shade of a birch tree. Hrech looked up at his friend. He could see Javor withdrawing into himself. His jaw went slack, his lips parted slightly. He stared at the birch tree as if he were trying to count its leaves, but his eyes were not focused. Hrech knew he had to say something to bring Javor back to the here-and-now. So, what now?

Javor looked up the stream bank, where the Avars’ trail led into the trees. Our only hope is that the riders are not too worried about putting much distance between themselves and us, and that they’ll stop soon to rest and eat. But then, they’ll probably rape the girls.

Hrech winced. It was another trait of Javor’s to say out loud exactly the thing you didn’t want to think about.

They hadn’t taken any food or anything for the night. But Javor remembered Elli screaming as the rider dragged her by her long hair. And he thought of all the men of his village, waiting for someone else to make the first move. If we had all rushed them when Mladen did, we would have saved the girls. But who else would be dead?

I hate to repeat myself, Javor, but we’re two kids with a knife and a wood-axe, and there are ten of them with armour and swords and gods know what else, Hrech argued. We won’t stand a chance.

We’ll catch up with them at night, sneak into their camp quietly, free the girls and steal the horses, Javor replied, surprising himself. The moon will still be pretty big tonight, and the sky will be clear. We’ll have enough light.

There’ll be at least one on watch, Hrech protested.

Then we’ll have to kill him quietly, Javor answered. Where did these words, these ideas, come from? "We’ll have to be careful not to make any noise that would alert them. But they won’t be expecting us. They’ve done this before, I’ll bet. And I’ll bet that every time, the poor villagers were too afraid of getting killed to follow and rescue two girls.

I think they’ll get really drunk, eat everything they can, rape the girls, then tie them up and fall asleep. We’ll sneak up when they’re deep asleep. If there’s one on guard, we’ll have to kill him quickly before he can alert the others. I’ll sneak up behind him and ... and cut his throat. Javor felt the dagger’s fish-shaped handle, which nestled in his palm comfortingly. You untie their horses and lead them away, but be sure you don’t make any noise doing it. Then we’ll untie the girls. They’ll probably be tied up near the guard. Then we’ll get out of there as fast as we can. He was making this up as he went along, but it all seemed to make sense.

They’ll follow us, you know, to get the girls back. And to revenge their dead guard, Hrech said.

You’re right. Well, we’ll have to kill all of them. First save the girls, take them someplace safe, then sneak back and cut their throats while they sleep.

I—I don’t think I can do that, Javor.

You’ve killed chickens and pigs, haven’t you?

I can’t kill a sleeping man, Hrech said in a very small voice.

Javor turned to look at Hrech directly, something he almost never did. "Do you know what they’re going to do to the girls? First, they’ll rape them repeatedly. They’ll each take their turns with them, keeping them for their amusement as they ride back to wherever the Avars stay. When they get tired of them, they’ll kill them and leave their bodies to the vultures and dogs. And they’ll go to another village and take more girls.

If Elli and Grat are really lucky, the raiders will sell them to a slave trader and they’ll go to Persia or someplace even farther and live the rest of their lives as slaves for some prince. Either way, we’ll never see them again alive, unless we do something right now. Are you with me or not?

Hrech fell into step without another word, his face miserable.

At nightfall, they stopped by a stream to rest and drink. They found some nuts and sour pears. Hrech fell asleep, but Javor couldn’t. Elli, he thought. He thought of her thin legs, cut and dirty, of the tears on her face as she was pushed astride the horse.

When the moon rose, Javor woke Hrech and they slowly followed the horses’ tracks. From the droppings, they knew they had almost caught up to the riders. The group must have stopped long before nightfall and had a lazy afternoon.

The trail soon led into the forest. Javor and Hrech crept ahead, trying not to make any noise, listening. Javor winced every time they broke a twig or made a branch swish.

Soon, they heard a girl’s sobs. The moonlight would not penetrate the shadows under the trees, so Javor felt his way toward the sound. Hrech stepped on his heels and whispered sorry. A twig cracked underfoot and the sobs stopped with a sudden inward breath. Javor squinted: a darker shadow under a tree seemed head-shaped. Javor fell to his knees and found himself touching Elli’s soft hair. Her fist was in her mouth. Grat was beside her, trembling with the effort to stop sobbing.

The girls were bound to the tree with a thin rope looped around their waists and wrists. Hrech stepped around Javor to cut the rope with the axe, frustrated because Javor never seemed to know how to do anything practical. He pulled Grat to her feet. Where are the soldiers? he whispered. No answer. Did they let you go? Javor and Hrech led the girls to a narrow path. Are you hurt? Hrech asked as they stumbled along, but Elli would only shake her head. She pointed toward a clearing. When they reached it, the girls would go no closer. Leaving Hrech with the girls and holding his dagger in front of him, Javor stepped into the clearing.

It was hard to make out at first what he saw in the moonlight, but when his foot struck something that rolled, understanding hit him like a cold wave. It was a severed head; the Avar helmet rolled off it and continued a short distance before it fell over in the grass.

Javor found himself surrounded by the dismembered bodies of the whole troop. Ten heavily armoured men had been literally torn apart. There may be more. The men who attacked us may have had friends. Everywhere he looked there were legs, arms, torso, heads. A shadowy heap turned out to be a horse, its throat torn open. Javor turned and turned, his head swimming. What could have done this?

Trembling, he returned to Hrech and the girls. He could only shake his head when Hrech asked, What is it? What’s there? What is scaring you all so? They found the path and went the opposite way they had come, hoping it would lead home. In the next clearing they came to, they found two of the soldiers’ horses, grazing, wearing their saddles and bridles. The boys took the reins. No one thought of riding the horses—no one in their village had a horse and no one knew how to get on, let alone hold on and ride.

Finding their way home was easy—they just followed the same path that had brought them to the raiders’ camp. Hrech and Javor fell behind the girls and whispered. What was in that clearing? Hrech demanded.

The soldiers. They’d been torn apart.

What do you mean?

What I said. Arms and legs and heads ripped apart.

More soldiers? Greeks?

No. That wasn’t done by swords. It was like—like when you eat a chicken and pull the meat off the bones. It was ... I don’t know. Unbelievable.

They drank at a stream. Hrech made a fire while Elli and Grat washed. They had nothing to dry themselves with and shivered, even though the night was warm. Grat didn’t say anything, only sobbed continually. Finally, they huddled together for warmth. Again, Hrech fell asleep. Javor felt weary, too, but could not sleep. If he closed his eyes, he saw the dead, mutilated raiders in the field. It’s no more than they deserved, he thought. But still—what had done that?

Elli was awake, too. Grat was crying, but she seemed half asleep. Did they hurt you, Elli? Javor asked.

She shook her head. She answered haltingly, pausing and shuddering. Nothing serious. They hit us to make us stop crying when we set out. We kept slipping off the horses, and they would get mad and slap us when we fell off. She absently rubbed her face, remembering pain. Javor could see tears glistening on her face in the sinking moonlight.

Did they touch you? Javor asked. He hesitated. Did they...did they rape you?

Elli shook her head. Not yet. They were going to. I knew it. Her voice started to tremble. They actually gave us some food. They made a camp where you found us and ate the food that Roslaw gave them, and gave us a little. And they started to drink some strong wine. They made us drink, too. Grat got sick ...

What happened to them?

Elli looked down. I don’t know, she said in a shaking whisper. "At sunset, they tied us to a tree. I thought they would rape us then—they were all gathered around. But their horses started to make a lot of noise and they ran to see why. One stayed to guard us. Then there was