Rohan! Granny shouted into my head. Bogatyrs!
Upon hearing the dreaded word, the heavy bucket slipped from my fingers. Like fresh blood, the water stained the cracked surface before disappearing under the sun.
Who had sold us? A violent tremor ran along my body as if sucking away the air around, leaving me dizzy, but I forced my feet to move. Searching for safety, I raced towards our rickety old cottage, my eyes glued to my grandmother’s dark form in the doorway. As soon as I crossed the threshold, the familiar smells welcomed me - those of bread, soup and pine. If peace and stability were a perfume, that would be it.
Yet, we knew everything might change in a second.
Granny locked the creaky wooden door.
“In the cellar,” she said, her voice dark while pulling the latch. “Go.”
The well-oiled hinges revealed the gaping maw of the hole beneath. A sudden chill hit me, warning me not to venture further. I stepped back.
Her withered hand gripped my shoulder, and its sharp crescent nails dug into my skin, reminding me of silverhawk talons. “Down!” she hissed in my ear.
The terror emanating from her pulled me like a thick mud I was drowning in. Suffocating, black and sticky, it dragged me to an abyss of despair. My eyes welled, yet I forced myself into the dark, musky interior, swallowing hard. A loud bang followed the closing of the trapdoor, which my grandmother then covered with a hand-woven carpet.
“Are you not coming with me?” My voice sounded broken and whiny through the cracks of the floor.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s too late.” The bitter-sour taste of sadness dripped from her words.
“I’m afraid,” I breathed out too fast, ready to spill into sobs.
“Don’t. I’ll be with you in spirit. Hurry!” Her tone became rushed, businesslike. “Keep your mind hidden from them and pile over the roots.”
Using the bags, I barricaded the tunnel entrance, hoping she was correct and the tubers’ essence would shield me. Only then did I close my eyes, merging my awareness with the jiva, the life force. Although I was far underground and protected, I concealed my existence from our hunters. Enhanced by the universal energy, my senses, already on full alert, sharpened even more. Through our bond, grandma’s presence overlapped mine, so I felt what she did.
Noises drew Granny outside, so her slow, measured steps crossed the cottage. The door creaked open.
The bogatyrs had turned up as if out of thin air. Though relieved only two had come, I couldn’t block the ominous feelings expanding in my gut.
Massive and muscular, stretching their ample clothes, both men blocked the entrance. One was dark-skinned and silver-haired, his features creased with the lines of old age. A white overcoat showed his status as a full-fledged bogatyr. White meant purity, but right now, I saw it as an emblem of death.
Go, child! Granny’s message seemed distant and disjointed, as if someone used jiva to prevent her from reaching me. My instincts screamed to run, and yet, I gawked at them through her gaze, transfixed by horror and awe.
The youngster exuded striking beauty: broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, with pale grey eyes that gleamed with intelligence and spiky gold hair. His appearance clashed with the simple, coarse, dark-brown garments. Even though he appeared to be only seventeen, about five years older than me, he gave off a dangerous aura. An apprentice, while still a boy, possessed a strength that could overpower me.
I slid deeper into the tunnel.
“What do you want, strangers?” Granny asked, her body terse but her voice quivering from perceived age. I sensed she attempted to employ glamour on them, presenting an image of a frail, old woman—curved shoulders, rheumy eyes, trembling hands. Would her ruse work?
“You stand accused of witchcraft,” the elder declared. “Where is the other one?”
“Who?” my grandma blinked, confused. “I live alone.”
She was distracting them. Despite the mask of resolve, I sensed the flicker of uncertainty in her. Run, Rohan! she shouted through our bond, the message surging with fervour.
I crawled fast, knees scraping over stone and grit. Each pebble cut into my skin, tiny prickles of pain, but panic numbed the sensations.
The bogatyrs looked at each other.
“Do you sense any residual energy?” said the old man.
“No,” replied the boy.
“Were we misled?” grumbled the master under his breath, then he flicked his chin at Granny. “Perhaps she is stalling us. Check the cottage.”
The youth advanced, but my grandma barred his path and shook her head. “Since when is it a crime to warm my bones? There is nothing inside.”
Uncaring, he shoved her to the side. She staggered, and then, with exaggerated slowness, she straightened herself. Fiery and bright, her eyes burned with anger; however, her hands still trembled. Her deception dropped like a veil, and she redressed her crooked back. “How dare you hurt me in my home?”
As a storm, the flicker of fear rattled the bogatyrs, touching my mind. No longer hesitant, they unclipped the rogatinas, choosing the advantage of their weapons. In a flash, the plasma blades ignited in matching bright, pale yellow. Adopting battle stances, the elite soldiers surrounded her. In their hands, the swords hissed with contained power.
My breath seized. Granny, unarmed and old, faced them alone. How could she count only on her energy for protection?
“Let me be, bogatyrs!” she tried one last time. “What danger am I to you?”
“Knowledge and practice,” said the master, his voice tight, stopping short of saying ‘wisdom’, a dangerous word. A threat arises from the inability to manipulate the truth, but not beliefs.
Their beliefs.
And then they charged.
Granny lifted her hands and closed her eyes while drawing power from her surroundings. Then, with fluid, graceful movements, she rushed to weave a protective bubble made of jiva. Her gestures evoked memories old as the Universe itself.
The bogatyrs hit it from two opposite sides. The energies connected, crackling in an electrical discharge - the blue of the sphere resisting and repelling the pale yellow of the blades.
“Surrender and we will show mercy,” the master growled.
“To the likes of you?” Granny sneered. “Are you going to judge, convict, and punish me? You, too, wield jiva as I do.”
“Your hunger for power shall cause your death!” the novice cried, lunging.
The mentor stared at him for a heartbeat and hesitated, mouth agape. The apprentice launched a renewed attack, so the master followed.
While her assailants moved in mid-air, my poor grandmother flung an invisible wave of energy, repelling them. They landed with force, one knee to the ground, blades raised, sliding along the hard soil. Then, despite the pushback, both men bounced high, flipped, and ended up only inches from her.
She freed another surge, fending off their raid, but her life essence dwindled. Incapable of accumulating much power, her aged body made her position precarious. In a futile effort to defend herself, she still raised her hands, weaving the bubble.
The master trailed behind the novice, and the air vibrated around the luminous blades of their weapons with a deadly intent.
I stopped. Unable to tear my eyes away, I watched the unfolding scene. I had to know.
To see.
My heart beat like a bird with a broken wing, threatening to give out.
To remember.
A high-pitched, painful scream cut through the air, and I flinched, gripping my chest where an invisible, searing blade had pierced me. A few moments later, the stench of charred meat overcame my senses, and I doubled over, retching. The agony slowly ebbed away, leaving my body numb. Yet, my heart skipped several beats, as if unsure of being alive.
Granny collapsed while her consciousness drifted towards eternal darkness.
I became a ball of uncontrollable sobs, certain the thick ground and distance would muffle my cries. My wails echoed in the empty, dark, claustrophobic space.
Then, a shift in the flow scattered my thoughts, and I froze. Even blinded, their muted energetic presences pressed against the fringes of my awareness. Already suspecting my existence, they sniffed through the life force like bloodhounds, hunting me.
Underground, the thick soil offered some protection, but my emotional state created a dangerous weakness. One slip, and I was dead. I pulled the concealment tight around me, forcing my signature to scatter.
I scrambled deeper, limbs trembling. Above me, they entered the house.
“Search everywhere,” barked the master.
“A cellar,” the apprentice called and yanked on the hinges.
“Check below.”
“I see nothing worth attention besides those barbarians’ treasure trove,” the youth smirked before kicking the wooden shelves holding Granny’s pickles, beetroots, eggs, and other harvest items. The containers dislodged and fell to the ground, exploding into a thousand shards; their content splattering the walls and the floor.
“Damn peasants!” snarled the apprentice. “I stained my clothes!”
“Your fault,” replied the master. “Lose your temper again, and you’re out of the Order.”
The boy muttered a swear.
I clenched my jaw. Rage pulsated through my veins, but I dared not move. The bags had fooled them—for now.
They ransacked every corner, taking and examining objects, then discarding them with disdain, leaving my home defiled.
It took an eternity before they left the confines of the cottage, convinced I was not inside. Still, I waited until the bogatyrs’ signatures dissipated; finally, they had returned to the hellhole they belonged to.
Time slipped away while I hid. I held back until darkness fell before venturing from the tunnel into the forest, its life force obscuring my identity. The weak brightness of the stars cast surreal patterns of light and shadow on the ground. I lifted my face. The treetops reached the sky, their interwoven crowns providing cover from direct discovery. Green branches touched me like skeletal hands, trying to console me.
My life had forever changed. Adrift, the world I was so familiar with appeared strange, threatening, and dangerous.
I slid down, hugging my knees, and my cries erupted in silent screams and muffled whimpers. “Granny, Granny!” I howled and pleaded, hoping somehow she’d honour her promise.
No answer came.
Grief-stricken, lamenting the loss of my Granny, my parents, and all witches who fell victim to the bogatyrs, I rocked back and forth, searching for a shred of comfort.
A pair of fresian owls called to each other in the night; their familiar sounds anchored me to reality. Despite my exhaustion and shaky, restless muscles, a relative calm settled over me as I inhaled the fresh, earthy, greenery-scented air. The forest’s luminescence shifted from green and pink to red. Were the trees reading my emotions? I embraced the closest one, my forehead against its trunk, finding some solace in its living presence.
Death terrified me.
I heaved, nausea threatening again, but my eyes remained dry. Now, only fiery hatred burned in my heart, painting everything in crimson. My grief had transformed into something quite potent, terrible, and consuming.
Vengeance.
The memory of my grandmother’s love gave me strength, filling me with resolve. “I won’t rest until I avenge you, Granny,” I whispered with fierceness. “They’ll pay for what they did to us. My wrath would befall them, I promise.”
That was the exact moment I lost my childish innocence. The Order couldn’t take the legacy I already possessed. Either could the Khanate.
“May all bogatyrs experience the same sense of loss as I have today, and the ones who love be damned forever!” I mumbled under my breath. “I pray the Universe hears my demand for justice! Mote it be!”
Unaware, I cursed with passion, thinking I had paid the price for the request, and neglected the guilt that tugged at the fringes of my conscience. Why vowing innocents to misfortune?
No bogatyr is innocent, I decided.
I put a hex on those folks, but magic has the uncanny ability to manifest in unusual ways, and even to affect someone’s life after long years.
As it did mine.
*****
After this fateful night, my survival instinct took over. I remained in the woods for days, too afraid to return to the cottage. While my essence hid amongst the energy of plants, animals, and microorganisms, nature protected me. Still, the hunger twisted my insides, and the meagre edible berries and mushrooms only exacerbated it further. The forest sheltered several brooks, so at least I satiated my thirst.
Disrespected, Granny’s corpse lay untouched. This tormented me more than my physical suffering, but the mere prospect of confronting the bogatyrs left me breathless. What if they returned? Being twelve seasons old, unarmed, and inexperienced, I couldn’t stand against a veteran soldier, let alone two. Hidden in the undergrowth, grief consumed me, but I remained frozen with icy terror.
My decision to remain concealed proved right. Only days after the events, the soldiers were back. This time, however, the familiar feeling of impending doom in my gut heightened my alertness, allowing me to detect them upon landing. They didn’t spot my face hidden in a nearby bush. Burning with hate, I studied them from my position, assuming their decisions were intuitive, while reassuring myself in permanence that my concealment worked. If I were older and stronger, I’d tear them apart like a wild beast.
After a while, they left, disappointed, but I sensed their apprehension.
Then the villagers came, suspecting Granny was unwell because she missed her regular visit. I recognised several of them.
The sight of Granny on the ground shocked them.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked Brog, the village smith, with indignation. “Eachna was a healer, for all sakes!”
“Don’t you see the marks of rogatina?” Robert pointed out, “They executed her. She was a decent woman. Pity.”
Disbelief etched itself onto the smith’s face as he shook his head. “True, she was a witch, but have you ever seen her do anything evil in her life?” he asked. I wanted to kiss him for defending her honour. His eyes bored with insistence into each of them. Some, unnerved by his intense stare, avoided his gaze. Which of them was guilty?
A tremor of uneasiness ran along the group.
“What do we do without a healer?” said Robert.
“We must deal first with the one who did that and oust them from our community,” his wife seethed while studying each face with renewed intensity.
The crowd’s anger was palpable as several people nodded in agreement. Good. They’d avenge Granny for me. Warmth spread in my frozen body, still instilled with fear.
The bogatyrs, however, remained my task.
“Do you think the girl survived?” asked the baker.
Brog shrugged, “Did you find her here? No. Either they caught her and brought her with them, or she hid away. Pray that she escaped.”
Although Anka, my friend, was present, instinctual panic prevented me from revealing my proximity.
“What would we do with Eachna’s corpse?”
“Don’t you think we owe her a funeral pyre?” the smith said. “Gather wood.”
My soul leapt with joy in my breast. Blessed be this man. A short, heavyset fellow with a receding hairline, Brog wore the typical rough linen of the villagers, but in his chest beat a golden heart. How many times had he brought us supplies? Gratitude filled me. His care for Granny eased my guilt; I should have helped, but my muscles didn’t move.
Once the crowd scattered to collect branches, he stayed near my hiding spot and murmured, “How are you keeping it? I know you’re scared, but you can trust me. Come to the village tonight. I’ll leave out food for ya.”
How he sensed my presence, I couldn’t tell. Sometimes, simple, good-natured people possess innate wisdom and hidden talents. Although he knew nothing of jiva, he looked at me.
Still, I didn’t move an inch. It might’ve been a trap. Could he be the traitor?
Shaking, I prayed not.
Once they finished building the pyre, they placed Granny, and Brog joined them.
Anka set the wood ablaze.
Thick, black, acrid smoke billowed upward, suffocating me. Tears blurred my vision as my pounding heart hummed in my ears. My knees gave way, and I crouched. By chance, no one noticed the moving branches.
When only coals remained, the crowd departed, and I disappeared into the forest.
Too distrustful, I didn’t visit Brog.
The next day, a pile of white ashes marked the site. Even if I would’ve liked to gather and scatter them on the wind, as per tradition, I refrained.
From a hidden vantage point, I kept watch over our land and those who approached it. Village women cleaned up the mess my enemies made in our cottage days later. I was thankful for their efforts, but had no way of showing it.
Then, a week after the last villagers’ visit, apprehension touched on the fringes of my awareness. The bogatyrs were back. For how long did they intend to hunt me? Maybe I was mistaken, and they wished to ensure a job well done.
Consumed by despair, yet unseen and shielded by jiva, I followed them.
After an exhaustive search, I still evaded them, and they left again. Perhaps they figured a normal witch wouldn’t be so reckless as to return to the place where we lost someone. Idiots! My cottage, while a constant reminder of my vow, was also the perfect hole.
