Nikola Stefan 👑 Tale of Tales series

Eyes in the Dark

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Marena, seemingly dismissed by the men from the onset, had been holding back beside the tree together with Senka as the battle ensued and intensified. Now though, determining that the moment had arrived for her to act, she stepped forward, leaving a safer place under the sheltering boughs, and raised her strange staff high into the air. Chanting out a series of cryptic verses of her own, not minding the men of Morlak, her voice seemed to double in force with each new phrase, as her invocation grew in pitch and volume until it climaxed in a shriek. At the height of this wail, she thrust her staff down with all of her force, driving the bottom end deep into the ground. Both red stones at its crown now glowed with a bright, saturated light, so intense that it hurt to look upon it, and the whole head of the witching staff flared up in a white translucent flame, above which rose a thick spiral of smoke. The smoke began to spread as it ascended, but not like the smoke of an ordinary fire, bending instead unnaturally forward, like an extending hand, grasping towards the sea of flying creatures perched over the forest. This witching smoke quickly reached the throng of imps, who in their unfathomable mass had already begun to descend upon the small rise, their licks of flame now intensified to the point of spurting constantly from their small vicious mouths.

Meanwhile, a lame man named Vuk… he remembered. In a staggering flash of recollection beyond words and prehension, his body suddenly began to convulse into the throes of a terrifying transformation, just as the white light of Marena’s staff illuminated the round knoll upon which they stood, blinding everybody and halting, momentarily, the furious attack of their enemies. The cripple’s arms began to stretch and thicken, bursting through the sleeves of his torn shirt. His chest broadened, tearing through the remainder of this shirt, which now hung like rags about his body. His thighs began to swell in size, stretching his wide pants to their limits, clearly displaying the absurd musculature of his transformed legs. The hair on his chest began to thicken and erupt in waves, so even the naked eye could see a fur-like mass crawling over him like an army of ants, enveloping his neck and muscles, finally covering his entire body. His nose and jaw began to elongate, becoming one, like the snout of a beast. Then he dropped forcefully to the ground on his knees and hunched over, still a man, but with his human cries becoming more and more animalistic in their nature. And when he finally rose again, rising up from the last shudders of his wakeful transformation, he was no longer a man, for his humanness was left only in traces. The upper half of his body was now almost completely wolf-like, the nails of his hands elongated, sharp, and curved into claws. Claws had also sprung out of his toes, breaking through his shoes, now tattered by this powerful metamorphosis, while his head had taken on the form of a monstrous animal. And he raised that beastly head of sharp teeth and pricked ears, ripping apart and off with one hand (if it could still be called a hand) the remnants of his ragged shirt, casting it upon the ground like a snake removing its shed skin. The fearful maw then turned towards the full moon above the forest and let out a long, drawn-out howl. A howl akin to those that had chased them all these past hours, but with something savagely primeval in it – it was the cry of an animal finally liberated, freed after being caged for too long, a cry that screamed out its painful freedom, heralding the beast to the world again and calling out its long-lost pack. And upon this call, the two men from Morlak dropped down to their knees and fell into spasms of their own transformations. But he, who now carried his name proudly, did not wait for them. No, this Vuk, this “Wolf” in full embodiment of its name, jumped straight into the devilish wolves, like a wolf among sheep, for – hark! – the paragon and primal alpha of the Morlaks had returned. The primordial werewolf chieftain was born again.

All the while, the glimmering light from Mara’s staff was unleashing a wave of confusion upon the assailants. The demonic beasts paused, turning their heads from the light, and began to pull back to the darkness of the forest in a cacophony of shrill growls and pained yelps. The imps as well shrieked from the sudden unexpected light, but it was the smoke itself that made them retreat, the conjured smoke that had risen up as if guided, hounding them and dispersing across their multitude, which in fits of panic began to scatter apart in all directions. Even the black horseman himself flinched for a moment, letting out a scream of surprise while covering his eyes with his arm, but he just as quickly recovered, jumping from his frightened horse straight into the throng of retreating animals. Landing nimbly on his feet, he then ripped apart the air with a piercing cry: “Žaaarkooo! I will feast on your blood tonight!” And almost like Vuk, who was still in the throes of his own shapeshifting, the lord of the night now unveiled his true form, until then still masked in black robes and shadows: his face had completely distorted, his mouth opening into a gape twice as wide as it seemed possible, all his teeth protracting into long fang-like spikes, the nails on his hands extending sharply into sickles, seeming to wrap around the hilt of his giant sabre, while his eyeballs bulged forth as if torn out of their sockets just before he leapt at his prey with such speed that eyes could barely follow the movement.

Žarko and Miloš, just as their attackers, had also been startled by the sudden appearance of light that had abruptly illuminated their knoll, but Žarko braced himself for this assault in time, dodging the fierce attack of the dismounted horseman, while also swinging his mace to meet the oncoming blade. Several of the six sharp points of the mace-head grabbed the blade as if biting down on it, shattering it to pieces, and leaving the attacker with only a shank in his hand. The vampire, for this surely was a vampire, threw down the remainder of his sword, turning around on the spot and twisting with a supernatural elasticity, slamming his shoulder into Žarko who still sought to evade the attacker’s weapon lunge, all of this before the shattered pieces of the blade had met the ground. The warrior was knocked back from this blow, and as he fell backwards, he kept his eyes fixed on the two sharp unsheathing fangs that were rising with the attacker’s gaping maw and rushing for his neck faster than he could fall. As he tumbled down, Žarko attempted to swing his mace again, but his enemy prevented the intended blow with a rapid grab of his hand, gripping hard onto Žarko’s own and stopping him in the act (a feat beyond the power of any mortal man), forcing him to release the weapon. As if he had expected this, however, and completely in control of himself despite the danger, the warrior completed the motion of his left hand, which he had begun at the same time as his attempted swing of the mace with his right. This movement froze the horrific grin that had begun to form on the face of his assailant – the mustached man had imperceptibly pulled his knife from its belt-sheath, and, in an adder’s flash, stabbed the blade between the loosely-hanging tails of the vampire’s ringmail, directly into its lower stomach, then slashed violently upwards until the blade hit against the lower edge of the unbreakable breastplate.

Žarko rolled to the side quickly as the vampire tumbled to the ground, his hand gripping the handle of Žarko’s knife. He groaned, bewilderingly gazing at the blade sticking out of him. But this glimmer of seeming dismay lasted but a fleeting moment, for he then looked up approvingly in Žarko’s direction, like a hunter pleased with the vigor of his impending prize, while Žarko, with a shudder of horror, watched as his opponent straightened back up with ease, pulling the knife slowly out of himself. And now the groan transformed slowly into condescending laughter, as the hero and anti-hero held each other’s eyes: “Žarko, you fool, that will not work here… try and come at me now, brute, when you are out of weapons!” And again he threw himself at Žarko, knocking him back to the ground just as he managed to stood up.

The large man struggled furiously to grab the vampire by the neck and somehow managed to pull the monster into a lock upon his chest. Knotted together thusly, Žarko squeezed and squeezed that neck with all his might, with the strength he was widely known for, but this devil just kept on laughing. He cackled, on and on, and yet he could not free himself. His hands scrambled savagely, trying to free up his head and teeth for a wound, but they could find no chance. In this embrace, the combatants struggled, rolling left and right upon the ground, each seeking to gain any advantage, yet neither would give in. Žarko felt fear, fear like he had never felt before, drawing on every last bit of dwindling strength left in him. But this was not enough – the longer this strained embrace lasted, the more it seemed as if the vampire would prevail; despite all his effort, the mustached man could not even move his back off the ground, let alone do something more.

It was just then, pinned to the ground with his hope and stamina waning, that Žarko noticed Miloš standing behind him and looking at him, keeping to the side of the scuffle and a ways off, so as not to be noticed. Their eyes met and again they understood each other without a word being spoken – Žarko feigned as if he was about to give in, releasing with his right hand the vampire’s left, which immediately plunged its nails down, scratching deep into his cheek. The warrior groaned in pain, and, in what seemed like desperation, swayed to the side and pushed the vampire off him, yet in the same movement grabbed the handle of the sabre which Miloš had thrown through the air towards him, and, with uncanny deftness, finished the slashing action which had begun with an empty hand. With this one powerful and precise stroke, the blade sliced through the descending vampire’s neck, severing completely its head from the body! As the head rolled, with a terrible grimacing smile of triumph frozen on its face, Žarko straightened decisively, barely able to climb to his feet from exhaustion, and squeezed from his lungs one last rough shout at his fallen foe: “Laugh now, phantom head!”

Just then he heard a shout from behind: “The moth! Don’t let the moth escape!” He turned around quickly towards the voice, not comprehending in his extreme fatigue what Mara’s blathering about some moth could possibly mean, until he followed her gaze – from the mouth of the severed head, which had rolled off several steps away from the body, something was emerging. Žarko jumped quickly in that direction, but too late – already this moth, barely visible, pitch black like the night, had spread out its wings and rose up to the air. The man lunged forward and stretched out his hand in a final attempt to reach this black butterfly, but he missed, landing hard on his stomach and only bumping the severed head unintentionally, pushing it several steps further from the body. He scrambled up once again, but could now only stand, helplessly watching the nearly invisible black wings fading further and further into the night sky, and it seemed like he heard again, from somewhere far off, that familiar debased laughter hauntingly echoing on and on. The moth had escaped.

This entire battle with the vampire had transpired in but a flash, before Vuk’s transformation was even complete. As it had unfolded, the demon wolves had retreated to the forest, visible here and there and everywhere as they prowled amongst the trees, growling threateningly, their eyes still showing through the darkness in a bloody red glow. The light which had emanated from the top of Mara’s staff had begun to dissipate, and the nightmarish pack appeared to be just waiting for it to extinguish entirely to launch into attack again. It was then that the werewolf went hunting, and it was then that Senka disappeared, her silent absence then still unnoticed.

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Chanting into the Night

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The conversation which had started in whispers was slowly but surely turning into a loud argument, with the men of Morlak now almost chanting rather than talking.

“Remember, Vuk, who you are, we beg of you!”

“I do not know, men, what you are talking about…”

“Remember, Vuk! If you are the one, you must remember!”

“What?! I do not understand you!”

“Remember, lame wolf, your true self! The prophecy of your arrival is as old as Morlak – Remember who you are!”

“Enough, men, let off! What to remember? You make no sense!”

“Remember yourself, lame wolf! Your arrival is foretold – that you would come with strange friends, and that you still would not know!”

“Know what?! And who could know of our arrival? Whoever told you this nonsense, it certainly was not about me!”

“It is foretold that you would not know, but that, when danger threatens, you will remember. Remember who you are!”

“Men, I cannot say it any clearer – I know not what you are talking about and have nothing to recall!”

It was obvious that Vuk felt more and more exasperated with the incessant onrush of words the two barefoot men set at him, their badgering only increasing in intensity at this worst of times. Then, without warning, one of the two men from Morlak suddenly grabbed the cripple’s shirt with both hands and ripped it open. Moonlight exposed his shaggy chest, at the same time revealing something curious on the side, high up on the left of his breast: a striking black mark could be made out there, in a shape most similar to a wolf’s head. But only for a moment, before Vuk let out an upset snarl, dropping the stick to use both hands to pull his now torn shirt back across his torso. “Are you crazy?!” he mufflingly yelled. The two men pulled back, their faces lit with wonder.

“It truly is you, leader of the pack!” The voices of Morlak men exclaimed together in one breath, now overcome with awe, though finally maintaining a small distance from the limping man. “You came with strange friends, and lame, not knowing yourself, and here is the mark etched on your chest!”

“People, for your god’s sake… that is not some drawing on my chest, it is but a birthmark. By that shape I was named Vuk, a lone wolf!”

“That is as it should be! It is said that this mark of the chieftain is the sign we draw upon our chest. Remember who you are, leader!”

They then both pulled their vests open, under which they wore nothing, each revealing that just to the left and high up on their upper left breast, in precisely the same spot as Vuk, they were marked with the exact same sign. This at once both jolted and confused the lame thief, who remained momentarily wonderstruck.

And no matter how enthralling it might have been for the rest of the companions to follow this unresolved incident to some end, their attention was suddenly wrenched by the harsh and abrupt laughter. A laugh that burst forth and began to emanate from the forest, a cruel, gratingly mocking laugh drawing quickly closer and closer. Its dissonant echoes were still grating across their ears when, from out of the shadows, appearing against the curtain of blood red eyes, emerged the black horseman. And surrounding him, above his head and all around, swarmed the hideous imps. These little beasts, like grotesque miniature people twisted into the shape of bats, seemingly covered the sky above the forest, a dark moving mass blinking with the small fires that occasionally flared out from the almost infinite number of their momentarily silent mouths. Now, as the laugh of the dark rider slowly faded into the night with the imminence of his arrival, the company on the clearing could hear only the overwhelming whirring of their wings and feel only that indescribable chill cutting straight to their bones, setting the stage for the approaching black menace.

And what a terrifying sight the horseman was! While Žarko had felt fear even at their first encounter, it now seemed as if his heart was frozen. On this occasion there was nothing left for the light to reveal, nothing ridiculous to be seen. The night had shrouded the hint of blush on the rider’s cheeks, straightened his disheveled hair, softened the tattered clothing – as if the night had been the missing element in their first encounter. Even his bloodshot eyes now had a flaming splendor, bearing no resemblance to the redness of tiredness or drunkenness, but possessing a clear, unbridled cruelty. Before the companions stood a figure of twisted royalty, haughty and callous, endlessly terrible in its sinister stance, which emanated from every part of the rider’s body, every piece of his vestments, even from the horse on which he rode. And Žarko, for the first time, believed in some of Marena’s words – that in front of them, poised, was indeed the true lord of the night, vampire or not!

The horseman had resumed his arrogant and hideous laughter as he rode slowly out of the forest, with this terrifying cackle acting almost as a servant, advancing ahead of the rider himself to pierce the very hearts of his opponents; and mercilessly it persisted, ringing out and echoing, finally ceasing only when the horse, having made a few slow steps, brought his rider completely out into the clearing. Then the dark rider spoke, his voice now completely free of all the hoarseness and rasping strain that Žarko remembered clearly from their first meeting. Now the speaker’s voice was youthful and resonant like a crystal bell, reminiscent even of Miloš’s, but possessing an unmistakable note of unshackled violent intent; one could not say whether the sound it made was pleasant or unpleasant to the ear, for the utterance of each word sent needles shivering up the skin of every listener.

“We meet again, mad Žarko… We meet, though for you it would be better that we do not! Did I not tell you plainly: ‘Beware, Žarko, that your path does not lead you across mine again?’ I see that you have not heeded me, so now you must reap what you have sown!”

Žarko did not want to waste this unexpected chance. Instead of answering, he suddenly and swiftly hurled his battle spear, aiming for the horseman’s heart! It was a powerful throw, and the spear cut briskly through the night air, yet even more quickly the rider swung his enormous saber with astonishing agility, knocking the flying spear sideways and just off its intended mark. The bladed head of the diverted spear still managed to strike the armor of the breastplate, but it just glanced off its front and fell to the side, like a branch attacking a stone wall. What devil’s armor was this, that not even Žarko’s strongest throw could penetrate?! And the momentum itself, which would knock even the best warrior off his horse, was simply not enough against this adversary – after a slight twitch, he remained stoically seated on his horse, which, under the force of the blow, swayed to the side, but kept its footing, then gave a loud and menacing neigh of victory. The horseman glared furiously at Žarko’s band of companions for a dire moment, and then screamed:

“Onward, horde: time for us to feed!”

And in shrieking his command, the face of the horseman seemed to visibly warp and stretch, like a mask tearing, losing with these final words any remote trace of raw beauty and humanity, and what remained in its stead was nothing but sheer, bared malice. The demon wolves rushed in from all open sides, running forward past the horseman in a furious charge towards the luckless bunch trapped atop the rise.

Even as the short speech of the horde’s leader unfurled, the two Morlaks, as they called themselves, still pressed on in chanting at Vuk in almost hypnotic rhythm, so focused that they paid no attention whatsoever to the events closing in upon them:

“Remember yourself, lame wolf! You must remember – only your calling can summon us when it is not our time! Remember yourself, chieftain-Vuk, remember who you are or this night will take us all!”

Vuk looked as if snared in confused turmoil. His attention constantly shifted back and forth, from the entrancing babbling of the two barefoot figures, to the events unfolding on the edge of the forest. He visibly twitched, upset, when the wolves lunged forward on command. Žarko and Miloš, meanwhile, awaited the rush, well-prepared for battle: the saber cut through the air first, slicing down two of the animals in one swoop, the first’s severed head flying off the remainder of its body, while the slashing motion continued through the other’s open mouth, gaping the demonic jaws even wider; the return stroke then cut through the forelegs of the third monstrous attacking animal, leaving it snapping its terrible jaws in vain through the open air, while still furiously sliding on the ground just a few steps from its unbitten victim; yet another charging hellhound stumbled upon the wriggling fallen body, only to be met by the sharp point of Miloš’s unrelenting curved blade. Meanwhile, with one mighty swing of his enormous battle mace, Žarko took down three of the demons at once, tossing them aside to the left like a bloodied furry mass, striking in their misshapen flight several more beasts who were racing up from the other side and disabling their progress. The now fevered cripple, despite his confusion, managed to raise the staff he had been given by Miloš and at the last moment strike one of the beasts that had somehow made it through, staggering it momentarily, while Brado, in the blink of an eye, jumped on its back, extinguishing it deftly with his knife before straightening back up, as if nothing had happened, and rejoining Vukan in their frantic incantation: “Remember, Vuk, remember, leader, remember for all of us, for our time is running out! Remember, chieftain-Vuk, remember who you are!”

Then, finally, Vuk remembered.

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Weapons of War

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The burly warrior grunted his serious dissatisfaction over the weapons they had at their disposal: Vuk had absolutely nothing – the villagers who had wanted to take off his hand had never given him back his knife; Vukan also had nothing, while Brado had a small knife about his belt, more suitable for cutting forest plants than heads; Miloš had only his hunting knife and his hefty shepherd’s crook; Senka was not only blind, but also unarmed, while Mara had her strange, carved staff, similar to Miloš’s, though the women were not regarded by the men as serious potential combatants. Žarko swore hotly. Only he, a hardened fighter, was armed for two.

“Miloš, brother, do you want a sabre, if you know how to wield one?” he asked after a little hesitation, “For I will have enough weapons with my mace and battle spear and the hidden snake knife in my belt!”

Miloš smiled. “Gladly, brother, and I shall not disappoint you: I know how to cut both heads and branches! We can tally, if the battle lasts, which weapon will bring down more: your heavy mace or your sharp-edged saber.”

Žarko smiled back through his thick whiskers, pulling out his sabre from the scabbard and throwing it over to Miloš, who caught it deftly by the handle, made several slicing flourishes through the air, then took the blunt side of the blade by his other hand and examined it in the moonlight: “This is a fine saber, Žarko… a magnificent one even – I have never held a better weapon! And such a unique blade…”

The warrior responded: “The sabre was a gift, my Miloš, earned for arduous valor in aid to a king whom I do not serve. On it are three hilts of gold, each one with a precious stone; the blade can slice right through other swords, it is worth more than three kingly cities… And if we survive this battle, or even if we fall, that sabre is yours, my brother!”

At that, the shepherd chieftain quickly looked back at him and again the two men understood one another beyond words. Miloš hid his tearful eye, only nodding slightly, and they continued with preparations for battle. The shepherd chieftain gave his staff to Vuk and handed his knife over to Vukan, who strangely refused it, saying that he could handle himself without it; Miloš shrugged his shoulders, and then bent down to Senka, putting the dagger in her hands and saying: “May the grace of your gods allow this to stay unneeded, but hold it tight, for evil is nigh.” In the meantime, Žarko unclasped his battle spear from his back, took it in his left hand and then leant on it, while in his right he held his heavy battlemace, letting it sway lightly in the air. Miloš stepped over and stood beside him, resting his sword against his right leg while looking over all that lay before them. They were as ready as they could be.

And so the company braced themselves for the looming battle and the overwhelming odds against them. They stood in silence, swathed in the shadows of the ancient tree, anxiously awaiting that which was bound to come. No one thought about the outcome; their uneasiness did not stem from the likely defeat, but from the suspense of waiting – their options were expired, and now all that remained was that which the gods had set at them, and they thought only of how best to meet it. It was not the first time that Žarko found himself in such an inescapable position – very likely the same was also true for Miloš – and the others observed their demeanor and took it on as their own. Being brave is not about being without fear, but mastering that fear. And in the company of heroes, even the most modest of souls may become one.

The howling was becoming louder and louder. By the directions from which the voices whined out, it seemed as if the wolves were setting a noose about them and slowly pulling it tighter. Then the first three hellish beasts appeared. Demonic, for it would be hard to imagine a more apt description – their eyes shown through the darkness in a red, blood-tinted glow; it was these eyes that could be made out far before the beasts themselves broke out of the forest cover, and the black, long shapes of their bodies raged onto the grassy soil. The horse felt their presence and began rearing, neighing, and turning about in its spot, while Senka, from Vidra’s raised hair and constant muffled growl, knew indeed that trouble was finally upon them.

While the howling continued to echo from the distance around them, these first three creatures attacked them without a sound. Žarko reckoned that these wolves were much larger than any he had ever come across or heard of before, but then, without wasting further thought, stepped forward quickly to engage the closest one at the front. With unbelievable precision, he threw his battle spear directly into the open growling jaws of the first wolf. With that, he bounded in the direction of the second, closing the space between them in two quick, long steps, and then brought the heavy end of his mace crashing down on its skull between the ears, stopping the beast in the place, with its head planted in the grass. Miloš held his own as well: quickly charging the third wolf, which jumped at him in a full run, the shepherd deftly stepped to the side, dodging the attack, and sliced across the wolf’s neck with his saber, almost completely severing the creature’s head from its body.

Both heroes looked around, but these were the only three attackers. Žarko rushed over and with a strong tug pulled his spear from the first corpse, then quickly retreated back under the tree’s cover. “Well, there it is… they have found us!” Vuk muttered, giving grim voice to what was clearly known to them all by the circle of howls pulling tight about them, so close that their eyes now darted around, trying to catch a glimpse of the invaders. Žarko, however, was now in a much better mood – the waiting and running was finally over and he could, at last, fight! “I am not sure if you are counting, my brother, who of us is ahead thus far in the battle?” he snorted to Miloš through his thick mustaches. “But it is still early, and I am still only getting used to my new saber…” responded the shepherd with a wide smile. Their attention, however, was then drawn over to the muffled murmur of the men of Morlak, who were urgently articulating something to Vuk as he stood leaning on Miloš’s staff…

… but all of this was suddenly interrupted by a horrible shriek that curdled the blood in each of the companion’s veins! There was nothing human in that screech, yet they knew that it could not have come from the throat of a wolf, nor from the dusk imps. It was a powerful, high, sharp, resounding scream. It ripped through the night air like an arrow, with such force that their ears pained with its echoes, even though it seemed still far off. And it must have been some kind of command, for right afterwards the forest fell into silence, and only after that silence lingered awhile did the trapped party again hear the spine-chilling whirring of wings steadily approaching from a distance. And through the forest’s undergrowth, like hundreds of flickering candles, pairs and pairs of red eyes began to appear… The creatures above and below were gathering at the edge of the small clearing, still unwilling to emerge. Soon they were entirely surrounded by a legion of eyes staring at them from the dark.

“Do we have a shred of hope left against this many?” Žarko turned to Miloš. “I do not know, Žarko, it does not look good, but we will not give our heads away lightly!”

In that uneasy quiet that hung in the air as they awaited the impending attack, all of the companions’ ears were again drawn to the strange, agitated chant-like conversation which the Morlak men pressed on with, in urgent whispers, all directed at the cripple leaning on a stick.

“Remember, Vuk, remember who you are…”

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A Nightmare on the Move

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Before midnight, they were awoken by Vuk. By the moon’s position, it was clear that the dead of night was not far off. First Miloš, then Senka, then Brada and Vukan were shaken from their sleep. When Vuk got to Marena, he hesitated a moment, but then she awoke just as he leaned over her. In moments, all of them were already up on their feet, except for Žarko, whose snoring continued. For who would dare wake him? Moody after shaking off sleep, he might kill someone just in banishing the evils of his dreams…

Who else then, but Miloš. He shouted over to him, from afar: “Have you rested, Žarko? It is a hard day’s night ahead of us…”

Žarko startled from his sleep, snorted through his nose once so hard that it looked like his mustache might fall off, and grunted: “I have not slept a wink! At all! I could not breathe, it felt like drowning, darkness like a nightmare straddling and pressing down upon me…”

“A nightmare? Surely a mora pressed upon you, since you had not pressed against her! You know what they say, greedy as a mora on a young fellow…” a mocking voice answered from behind him. At this, Žarko jumped, still sleepy, yet already grumpy, but when he saw Mara standing there with a mischievous little smile, he let his anger go. “Damn you, you wicked witchy-wench!” he raised his voice at her a little, succeeding even to smile harshly, only to turn it into a grimace a moment later when he, with a muffled cursing and a quick brush of his hand, knocked to the ground a ladybug which had carelessly settled on his neck. The young woman again smiled jeeringly: “Do not curse the bug that brings you luck… as she is a lady like me!”

Soon the group had gathered itself and resumed their march, finally dressed more fittingly. As they went, Žarko and Miloš asked Vuk if anything out of the ordinary had happened during their sleep. “Nothing whatsoever…” he told them. There had been no sound of hellish wolves, nor imps, nor any other unnatural forces. He was still saying so when, without warning, a lone long menacing howl broke the night’s silence! Like an anguished cry, but this time much closer than it had been the night before. Too close. Everyone froze in their place, only to hear a number of other wolves’ voices wail back, as if answering, and all of these as if they were just behind them.

“Get moving, folks, trouble is upon us!” hissed Žarko. And with this they immediately began rushing forward, moving as swiftly as they could while trying to make as little noise as possible. He spun a look at Mara: “We are safe until the dead of night! Is that what you said, damn witch’s daughter?” She answered him, also in a pressed whisper, as quickly as she could in this rush: “And have I misled you, Žarko? Did any danger come to us thus far? What I knew, I spoke – but now midnight approaches, and danger with it!” Žarko did not seem convinced: “Ahh, you tramp, you tricked us… while we rested, the enemy overtook us! Safe until the dead of night, my ass – we are more likely dead this night! By gods, if the going gets tough, your head will be the first to fly!” He then doubled his pace to join Miloš at the head of the column.

“Where to, my Miloš? Do we have a chance, can we get away?”

“You are asking, Žarko, of our chances? I would not bet a single sheep on us!”

At this, Žarko ruefully let a sour smile, then spoke again: “Well then where do we go, brother? If we are to lose our heads, I would rather take off a few of the enemies’ than have them get us at our backs, slaughtering us one by one…”

“Just run onward, warrior! A short ways ahead is a small rise, half of it ringed by thick brambles of poisonous thorns. If we make it to there, that would be a good place to make a stand; then we shall turn any way you want, and fight as you wish!”

The agonizing pursuit raged on. Behind them they could hear the constant howling closing in, and soon from a distance that terrible whirling of shrieks and wingbeats began to ring in their ears. On top of the night’s darkness, a more eerie blackness was coming for them. A chill began to stab at their hearts no matter the hot sweat pouring down their skin. Yet on and on they pressed, fleeing in a dash without stopping. None of the fugitives could say how long this chase was lasting – it seemed as if they were running forever, or at least a whole night’s length. Sapped and ever short of breath, they wished simply to collapse to the stony earth, but their instinct to survive spurred them forward in a race for their lives. Finally, they arrived.

When they at last gained the ground which Miloš had marked for their final stand, they were soaked through with sweat and battered from their scrambling. Even Senka and Vuk, who only had clung to the horse’s back during their desperate exertion, were covered in scratches and breathing heavily. Yet fear remained stronger than exhaustion, and the chased party quickly turned about on this small knoll, no higher than a man, surveying their lot and trying to determine the best position for confronting the adversaries close on their heels.

The rise they found themselves stranded on was nothing more than a small forest slope, gradually rising to its highest point, where stood a huge tree with magnificent branches, somehow offset from the rest of the surrounding forest. Around the tree, all along the semicircular elevation, the ground was swept bare, covered only by short, stubbly grass, while closing the full circle on the backside was a thick patch of thorny briar, just shorter than a man, which covered the remainder of the rise, crawling toward the tree, gnarling about it densely in closer proximity than the rest of the forest. They had to admit that, given their circumstances, Miloš could not have chosen a better place, with a wall of poisonous thorns to guard their backs, though he warned them to remain aware of the thorns and not get too close, even in the thick of the fight, for he had already lost one shepherd to their sting. Upon Žarko’s quick approval, Miloš related that the shepherds had come across this spot once while making their passage through the woods, and from then on used it as a place to make camp – the small clearing provided enough grazing for the sheep, while the thorns made for ample protection on the one side, so that just one man could watch over the entire flock. And, as if confirming his words, the companions noticed the remnants of a campfire near the large tree. “It is a pity that we will hardly live long enough to relight that fire ourselves,” thought Vuk grimly, though he kept these thoughts to himself.

Žarko, clearly the most experienced in combat among the party, took upon himself the organization of their defense. Women were to remain in the rear, beside the enormous trunk of the tree. Žarko told them to climb into the tree if things turned for the worse, but until then to sit tight against the trunk and rest – the dusk imps would have a hard time seeing them under the cover of the thickest clumps of branches. As soon as Senka sat, Vidra curled up against her legs. The horse was tied to a low, thick branch, quite close to the thickets of thorns, but not so close that it could scratch itself upon them if frightened. The men were also instructed to stay within the range of the tree, while Žarko laid out the strategy in the case an attack penetrated. He and Miloš would attempt to hold the exposed center and the right flank, for, as the warrior commented: “anything that can get through Žarko and Miloš will be very difficult for any man to handle.” Vuk, Brado, and Vukan were given the joint task, to the best of their abilities, of defending against anything that made it through on the left and of blocking the approach to the tree, protecting the women at all costs.

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Mara, Daughter of a Witch

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Vuk did not feel right with this mysterious girl walking just behind his back. She did not inspire his trust, and if he had been the one to decide, she never would have joined them. But no one had asked him – the decision belonged to Žarko and Miloš. As for Senka, she was not sure what she felt. On the one hand, she was somewhat cheered that she was no longer the only female member of the group, but on the other, this young woman made her feel oddly uneasy. She felt that very little could be kept hidden from her, and it was not a pleasant feeling, even for a little girl with not much to hide.

From the moment she had joined their companionship, Marena was silent, not sharing a single word with anyone since their initial conversation. But perhaps it was better this way, since everyone in the party remained anxious about her presence, excepting perhaps the two men in front. The daughter of a witch! All of them knew, if only from stories, that such a child was destined to become a witch herself, and from very early on would have begun to learn the “craft” of witchcraft, from which it seemed no good could come. And Mara made no attempt to hide this; had she not said herself that she was the daughter of the greatest of witches, something still reverberating upsettingly between each of the party’s ears? So, consciously or unconsciously, they all kept their distance from her as best they could.

“I had just found some relief in the passing of night, and look now, a whole new trouble to worry over…” thought Vuk, and the others likely had similar thoughts. The weight of Marena’s presence among them had pushed from their heads everything else she had spoken of, even though those weighty implications demanded serious consideration. They all acted in accordance with the age-old belief that a witch cannot be trusted under any terms (even if this one was a mere mora who had revealed that she had not yet achieved full witchhood). As for the other ominous matters, they were more than willing to forget them all for a while and simply worry over the one and only thing she had let be known about herself.

The day slunk by in a mood of gloom – the relief of having survived the night was replaced by a witching discomfort, made worse by the constant grumpiness of Žarko, still grunting over his swapped-about shoes. This giant, who just hours earlier had been ready to single-handedly fight the entire demonic army, now behaved as if this trip was the greatest torture imaginable. If not for Miloš, he would have long ago given up on this nonsense and dressed himself back as one is intended to be; only Miloš’s disquiet whenever he would mention doing such a thing kept him in a semblance of belief that this whole mess of switching things around – and making fools of themselves in the process – could somehow indeed save them from some unseen peril.

It was almost evening, and already for the tenth time they had halted because of the warrior, when Mara spoke up for the first time as a member of the party: “You can now end your bizarre disguise. That danger has passed.” Miloš looked back at her sharply: “How do you know this, companion?”

She answered him gently, as if clarifying something that should have been already understood. “I know much, my lord Miloš, even if I know not how, or from where this knowledge comes. Just as I know that you are dressed backwards because of the danger that is the lord of the forest, and not so you would look like a bungled troupe of fools to any one you might come across, I know too that this danger has passed. And I know what it is that is following you…” And here Marena stopped, making it tantalizingly clear that she would not talk any further if they were not interested in hearing her out.

At this, Žarko suddenly jumped into the conversation, already too fed up to suffer Mara’s ambiguities: “Speak up, woman, and speak now, so that Žarko does not open your mouth for you!”

“If you so insist, Žarko… this fellowship, so now me as well, is being followed by something utterly impure… and evil… It is something that you must have all heard of, and surely considered sinister and horrific, but the one that is following us is much more than just this… if creatures such as these roam the black places of the earth, dark and lifeless, preying on the living, then this one is their undisputed lord. There is no other way for me to say it, though my tongue repels – the foul thing in question is nothing other than… a vampire!” Having said this, the young woman already knew what scornful reaction would follow: Žarko raised an eyebrow in a pose of mocking disbelief, while Miloš smiled down at her like a child speaking nonsense; nonetheless, she continued, unwavering: “Yes, a vampire… look at me as you will, but that is exactly what it is. And it is not just any vampire – what follows us is the Nightlord, with his army; before his untimely death, the greatest of warriors, yet revived as a dark servant of the most foul forces many years after his fall. Unusual for a vampire, as even any villager knows that a man can be vampired only within the first forty days after his death, but that does not hold true for this one… Perhaps centuries passed from the time of his death before he was reborn – in darkness. And as far as I know, it has been ages since such things have existed in the realms of men. For devils such as these, it is said, in contrast to other vampires, they sleep not even during the day, and they can even bring others to darkness themselves…”

“Wench, stop with such nonsense!” interrupted Žarko, shouting at her. “Even if there ever were such beings, even a child knows vampires are only to be feared at night – by daylight it is impossible to come across one!”

“You think so, Žarko? I know you have wondered at why that dark horseman – and see here, I know indeed that it is a horseman! – did not attack you upon your first encounter. Think again why it is so…” Žarko’s gloomy look spurred her to get to the point quickly, as this was no time for riddles: “It was still day! His strength then is far from its peak, which he does not reach until the dead of night, and which holds until the first flickers of morning. Remember that cloaking swarm of imps? Their role is not only to serve as scouts – no, they serve an even more sinister purpose: they create night for their lord even while the day lives! Think well over this, then tell me again that it is impossible…”

And this time Žarko did think it over. And while he did not believe any of it, he could not deny the countless oddities and wonders that had come upon them in this short time – why would a vampire not be yet another? “It is not that I believe you, witch,” he finally grumbled, “but there is one thing that concerns me: can such a thing be killed? By blade, or mace, or battle spear?”

Mara had been awaiting just such a question: “He is unnaturally strong and almost invincible, but yes, he can indeed be killed, just as any vampire might be: the most opportune way would be to pierce his heart with a wooden stake, best if made from hawthorn, but by the looks of it, your spear would likely serve well enough. The other way is more difficult: his head needs to be cut off, but he must be beheaded so completely that every last scrap of skin is detached from the rest of his body, otherwise the vampire will put his head back on and escape, and with time the head will coalesce with the body once again. It is probably safest to do both things, and then burn the corpse – only that can guarantee that an ancient vampire of this sort will never return to torment this world again. That is, unless his soul escapes before this is done, which one should not allow.”

A grave silence followed, as all of them puzzled over what they had just heard. Some with fear, others with disbelief, and some still thinking over the hidden intentions this unusual young woman held. Miloš was the first to bring forward a new question: “As you seem to know such secrets, is there more that you would care to share?”

Mara looked him back straight in the eyes, aware of the distrust. “Since you ask so graciously, my lord Miloš, then I will tell you so: I know that we could rest right here until the dead of night, because we face no imminent danger, but I would not suggest that, since I fear that you might think that I am up to something wicked…”

This left Miloš in bit of a bind, unsure of what to do next. He could see that Žarko was at the edge of his patience, tired and unwilling. And he knew that, after so much strenuous pushing to get to where they were now, they were still nowhere close to exiting the forest before dawn. While he thought on, he saw that Žarko had already started switching his shoes back to normal, as Mara had suggested. “Since it seems we have a witch with us, we might as well listen to her once in a while…” grumbled the brute, somewhat embarrassed (or at least as close as to embarrassed as he could be) by the disappointed look of his brotherly companion. Miloš, at this, relented: “Very well, Žarko, if you say so, then let us listen to her fully on this! We are more than exhausted – some rest would do us good.” And so the company decided that right there on the spot, in the middle of the forest, they would rest until the approach of midnight.

Vuk volunteered to take the watch. “One does not get so tired on the back of a horse, and the rest of you have been on foot for a long while, so I will take the vigil.” No one had anything against this. “The females sleep beside the tree, and we men around them. So if something visits, let it meet the warriors first!” With these sparse words, Žarko had set the sleeping arrangement, and all of them could hardly wait to lay down on the ground. Senka curled up against Vidra on one side and kept her other side as far as she could from Marena. The horse was let loose to roam about and graze, trusting that Vuk would stop it if it were to wander too far afoot. The sun had yet to fully set, and already the entire companionship, save for the watchman, was fast asleep. After half of a night and a whole day of slogging, the rest was indeed hard-earned.

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Encounter Four

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And this awkward column was proceeding just so when it came across the maiden. There she was, sitting on a slight rise in the ground, right in the middle of the imaginary path they intended to follow. As if she was waiting for them. They saw her from afar, and she had seen them too, yet she still did not move in the slightest, nor show any worry or surprise. She just continued to sit, watching as they approached with their ungainly footsteps.

A maiden in the middle of the forest. She was quite a young woman, likely not more than twice the age of Senka. Yet the full bloom of her womanhood could not be hidden even under the shabby mantle she wore – and she was indeed dressed like some old woman: all in black, in a long simple dress of the most basic stitching that reached her ankles, but seemed constricting in its upper sections, visibly emphasizing even further the generous curve of her bosom; hanging over her shoulders was a long black cloak sloping all the way down to the ground, if not even dragging along the forest floor – it now fell in soft folds all around her upon the slight mound where she sat. A dark scarf partly concealed her lush and wild hair, but waves of it billowed out on all sides, spilling over her back and chest. Across her knee she held a wooden staff, long like the shepherd’s crook on which Miloš now leaned, yet finer, and carved for its entire length, curving at the top like a snake, with red stones inlaid like eyes on both sides. But most striking of all were her eyes: cheerful and mocking, they shifted ceaselessly from one traveler to another, and while they were approaching it was obvious that she was ridiculing them without a single spoken word. The travelers themselves were so surprised by this unlikely encounter in the forest that they had not shared a word with each other either – they just stared as if bewitched at this apparition of a girl in front of them, continuing to advance towards her, so that Senka remained unaware of this new presence until the maiden herself spoke up when they came very close:

“I have yet to see such a bunch! From a buffoon to a loony, a shepherd for wolves, the blind, and the lame.”

As a response, she was greeted by complete silence. Even the ever-ready warriors at the front of the column seemed surprised by the girl’s audacity. Vuk once again felt the ever more frequent creep of goosebumps up his back, followed by uneasiness; how could she know that he was a cripple if he was sitting on the back of a horse? And how could she know his name, if in mentioning wolves she had really meant him? That was possible, as his name was the same as for any wolf in these woods! It was somewhat obvious to assume that Miloš was a shepherd, but then again… how could she have guessed that Senka was blind? The young girl always had her eyes open and her gaze on the ground, as if she was constantly ashamed, so that even Vuk did not immediately recognize her blindness when they first met. Or perhaps the young woman had thought of them differently – the “lame” could just as well mean Žarko and Miloš, as they were limping with their shoes on the wrong feet…

“What is with you, unsung heroes? Should I speak backwards so that you might understand? Shall I turn around so you can see me?”

“I know not who you are, little piss-ant wench, but nobody talks like that to Žarko!” roared the giant, stepping towards her, but Miloš held him back: “Hold on a moment, brother! Surely you do not mean to beat a girl? Yes, it would be easy with arms, but let us try first with words…” Žarko stopped at Miloš’s prudent comments, but the girl continued as if she had no intention of relenting with her provocations.

“And thus speaks the great and the wise Miloš… it is my honor to meet you, O chief of the shepherds. And what caused you to split from your sheep? Have you, like your ewes, decided to follow the most headstrong ram of them all?”

Now it was Miloš’s turn to be offended, yet he instead answered in a calm voice, bell-like as always, but now with a noticeable dose of sarcasm, on par with girl’s own: “My brother here might be like a ram, yes, a battering ram that breaks things. And no sheep can outrun his horns, girl, so think closely what you say hereafter – I have held Žarko back once, but I shall not do so again! Now tell me forthwith – how is it that you know of me?”

These words seemed to shatter the young woman’s desire for further conflict. Abruptly, her voice gained a depth well beyond her years, at the same time ridding itself of any hint of sarcasm.

“I know about you, Miloš, that is true. And I know about the others, too: I know of the hero Žarko, of the cripple Vuk, of the blind girl Senka and of her dog Vidra. I know even of the two barefoots at the rear, and much more than you do, or any other member of your fellowship. But where do I know this from, that I am not going to say! It is up to you as to whether will you trust me, for I wish to travel with you.” Just like that, she had laid it all – and all of them – bare. An almost tangible confusion now seized the pack of travelers. Who was this girl who knew their names, and beyond that, she now even wished to join them?!

“Hold it right there, mad-headed woman! To our questions you answer with secrets, and you want our trust? Why accept such a stranger into our companionship? You could be a spy or a scoundrel, or even a witch – such knowledge as you possess does not come to just anyone.”

After Miloš spoke these words, silence followed, while the two disputants held each other’s eyes, unblinking. Miloš had said all he had in that clear, calm, bell-like voice, lowering the tension just as the young woman herself, but still the weight of his insinuations reached the heart of each of his companions. It appeared that the woman was also aware of this, and that she was stewing over how to respond, though her face showed no sign of emotion. After a tense, overlong moment, she spoke once more.

“You are indeed wise, shepherd Miloš, even wiser than they say. Not a witch, that I am not – yet. But I am indeed a mora; daughter of the greatest witch of them all. And though I have not yet assumed the powers that await me in my womanly maturity, I am capable of seeing things that neither you nor others can; so you all should listen to what I am about to say: your fellowship is not unforeseen. It has not come together by chance. Each of you have a quest, bestowed upon you by the gods themselves. Some of you hide yours willingly, while others know not yet what theirs are. And I have my own to fulfill: to see all your quests accomplished. About all of you I have dreamt for years… now we meet and I have revealed myself, though I could have used deception to enter your party. Think over this further if you must, for I shall say no more – already I have said too much! Let me go along with you, I will not get in the way; and if you suspect my motives, I will at least be at hand’s reach.”

Saying this, the young woman dropped her gaze, as if surrendering to the decision of the party. Miloš thought briefly, then looked inquiringly towards Žarko, who gazed back, then sternly nodded his head in consent. The two had understood one another without a word exchanged, recognizing the truth to the girl’s claims; whoever she was, she would not hamper them much, and it would be wise to keep her close, as she already knew more than one should. So Miloš spoke: “Let it be then, new companion! Go behind the horse and follow, but not quite in the back – I want to not worry over whether you will leave traces for someone – or something. And say also, before we set off, how shall we call you?”

The young woman raised her head. Her face glowed with an irrepressible joy – if she was pretending, she did so very convincingly. Perhaps she herself had not believed that she would succeed in joining the party, though her next words allayed any such doubts: “Marena is my name, but you can call me Mara, similar to the mora that I am… and thank you for accepting me, even though it was inevitable.” Saying this, she finally stood up from the elevated spot where she was sitting all through their exchange, and with quick steps strode across, taking her spot just behind the horse. The beauty of her movement struck everyone in the companionship, even more so the grace with which she moved despite the cumbersome dress and cloak, as well as the way each of her movements augmented her womanly form even under such unfeminine attire. After watching mora’s elegant glide in fascination, the now even longer column continued on its way. Žarko or Miloš would now and again look back in mistrust to see what their new companion was up to, but she only followed the horse with unbroken steadfastness, looking at the ground in front of her, as if completely lost in her thoughts.

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The Way of the Chieftain

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Miloš and Žarko, nearly step for step, went together at the front of their column. Miloš led, and Žarko again retold their story, this time speaking the true version of the past days’ happenings. He skipped over only the part about Morlak, even though Vuk, who could follow their conversation from the horse, was sure that even this would be told, as soon as the two Morlak men accompanying them at the back of the column eventually left the party. Brado and Vukan were no longer attempting to conceal their tracks, since they were advancing too fast – Žarko hoped that they had already succeeded in losing their pursuers, and so he was against any additional slowing down. Miloš obviously knew the way well, for he led them along an unseen path as if it was made for passage, and they advanced at a quick pace, dictated by the pair at the forefront.

Miloš told Žarko that they would not make it out of the forest that morning, but rather by the following one, at best. “The way is long, my brother.” And so it was agreed that they would push on without rest. It was remarkable watching how these two men spoke calmly, their voices barely louder than their footsteps, while at the same time leading the column forward through the woods at almost a run. Vuk realized that Miloš, in some inexplicable way, seemed to bring out the best in Žarko. For the most part sullen and grumbling, the warrior now moved with an agility which earlier he had not seemed to possess, all the while talking in the most pleasant and cordial way. It was simply hard to believe that this was the same man who, just a bit before, had almost caused a scuffle in the herding camp. Vuk realized how glad he was that this Miloš was with them, and hoped that it would last as long as possible.

Žarko asked their guide directly where he was going and why. After a barely noticeable hesitation, Miloš answered: “I am going to the town of Vučitrn, but do not ask my why. I can only say that I am pulled by what is strongest in this world: even a shepherd, free in the forest, cannot resist the love of his dearest.” He added that he would later tell him more, once they exited the forest and escaped from the evil following them. The shepherd chieftain was now fully aware of the enormity of their danger, yet seemed neither disturbed, nor frightened – Vuk felt certain that he would accompany them regardless of the threat. Žarko suggested that, when they succeeded in emerging from the forest, they should go with him to Vučitrn as well: for quite awhile he had been thinking that behind a town’s fortifications they would be secure from that which hounded them. Miloš agreed wholeheartedly.

There was something very similar about the way these two carried themselves – even if Žarko was a good deal rougher, they still spoke and moved alike, and appeared to understand each other perfectly. There were not too many questions in their discussions. As if two long lost brothers had suddenly found one another, they seemed to possess an understanding that went beyond words. In another situation, this might have made Vuk think deeper, but his mind was now more than occupied with worry over their pursuers; he often looked back or up at the sky through the branches, trying to spot any sign of oncoming danger. He also asked Senka to inform him when or if she heard anything suspicious – he realized that the girl now fully relied on her sense of hearing, and that this should not be underestimated: even he, who was not blind, could hear better after keeping his eyes closed for some time, and this had become apparent to him over many of his nighttime ventures in thievery. He thought, marveling for a moment, how human nature had ways of sharpening other senses at the expense of the missing ones, and with that again directed his gaze upward into the sky.

And as for Senka, she was lost in her own thoughts. While listening to Žarko’s tale once again and, as part of it, his brief overview of the small, uninteresting life that was hers until just a few days ago, she began to grasp the grand scale of the adventure she now found herself in. Žarko managed to condense all that happened to her prior to the burning house into just a few brief sentences, while his recounting of the few following days could stretch for hours. She also pondered over how the group of people around her seemed to grow by the hour. And what did she know, really, about these people? Absolutely nothing – she was travelling with a bunch of strangers, whose lives were a mystery to her. Of Žarko she knew nearly as little as when she first met him; even though she had spoken much with Vuk, their conversation had never hit upon his past, so she could say the same for him; and now here was this Miloš, at first impression irresistibly composed, and yet again just one more about whom she would likely not be able to say a thing – while as for the “Morlaks,” these men were an unexplainable mystery not only to her but for all, a riddle beyond her imagination. She wondered if the others were thinking over such things, this essential unknowing of their own companions, but then, with almost the skill of the greatest philosophers who she also knew nothing about, concluded that this is perhaps always the way, and it did no good to think too hard over it.

In their rapid journey they were soon greeted by the morning. From the moment that Miloš had joined them, they had not once come across a fly-by of the imp scouts. Were they moving faster than their enemy assumed? Was it possible that they had succeeded in somehow escaping the black menace? Yet it was now, with the coming of morning, that Miloš for the first time seemed concerned, but for another reason. He was just telling Žarko that this day they would be coming to the most dangerous part of their journey. The section ahead was the reason that no one, excepting him and his shepherds, ever attempted to lead their sheep to the greener pastures at the foot of the mountain in the middle of the forest. It was a hazardous area in which it was often possible to encounter a being of the wilderness which all men would do good to avoid – Lesnik, the lord of the forest himself.

“It is said that he may be encountered everywhere, for every forest is his kingdom. Yet it seems, just as any shepherd, that he also has his favored nooks and vales: we have come across him twice in the area that lies ahead. I would rather not speak of it now, but heed my words: we barely weathered that storm alive. And therefore I would recommend…”

And so the party accepted the strange measures of protection which Miloš went on to suggest: they halted briefly, while all but Senka took off their upper layers of clothes and turned them backwards, doing similarly with their shoes, so that on their left feet they wore those that would normally be worn on the right. Then they continued their journey, with their company now looking truly odd indeed: it was quite a ridiculous sight to see these giant men with their vests spread open on the back, while the higher back parts now rose up to the front middle of their necks, nearly strangling them. Even more so, contrary to the Morlaks, Žarko and Miloš were visibly hampered by the wrong foot shoes that constricted them, while the chieftain’s otherwise cumbersome cloak now made him look like a bear walking about on two legs. All of this of course significantly impeded the progress of their march. The men of Morlak suffered it best – they were at least barefoot, so they still moved through the woods with a silent grace. Vuk and Senka, seated on the horse, were also spared from the worst of the discomfort of their switched over shoes.

Žarko, whose behavior until then had been a model of restraint, now began to sour: “We have listened, brother Miloš, and did as you asked, without hesitation. But tell me this frankly, please: are you fooling with us out of spite?” And again Miloš had an appropriate response for Žarko. He laughed out loud, from the heart, not minding the danger, then said: “God above us as my witness, Žarko, out of malice I would not torment you, that much should be clear. Only madmen would mock thusly! I am not playing you for fools, but must insist again that this is the best and perhaps the only safeguard.” Their guide then went on to explain how Lesnik could not see travelers dressed up in such an incongruous way, or perhaps he did not care to see them; ever since the shepherds had begun to dress oddly as they passed through these woods, they had stopped encountering the lord of the forest.

Despite their earlier agreement to make no breaks, they now had to: Žarko would simply stomp to a halt whenever it became too much for him to take another step, and the others had but little choice than to follow his example, waiting for him to show his intent to move on again. His already familiar boorish behaviour returned in full, and everyone had to put up with it, yet Miloš simply guided them on as best he could, without paying it any mind.

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Encounter Three

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“Ahoy, herdsmen! May god grant you health!” shouted Žarko, loudly, but trying to refrain from being too loud, for he knew all the while that at any moment the scouting flying horde could be near. The noise around the fire died instantly and several of the men stood up and turned about to face them, while the rest remained sitting as they were by the fire, caught by surprise, cautiously peering out in the direction of the advancing bunch. Most of the herdsman were unarmed, though some had knives hanging out of their belts, but all of them had their shepherd’s crooks at hand; those who now stood leaned onto these sticks, each with a tip curved like a hook, and it was clear that they were useful for a number of things beyond catching of sheep, and would make a good enough weapon in a pinch. None of the men responded to the greeting, so Žarko yelled out once more: “So is this the way that guests are greeted in a shepherds’ camp?” To this finally came a reply from the man who had until that moment been holding court with his entertaining story: “Gods be with you, unknown travelers! What fortune leads you to us?”

“Not fortune, but misfortune, shepherds… wait a moment till we reach the fire and I will tell you of it!”

And soon the party found itself in the heart of the shepherds’ camp. There was no time for pleasantries – the travelers refused food and drink, as well as to sit by the fire. Instead, they stood among the herdsmen, while Žarko narrated a shortened version of their story. This time there was no wine, so his sense of restraint had returned; he told them that they were being pursued by bandits, from whom they escaped to the forest only to become lost. And now here they were, his sister and servants, seeking help, seeking someone to guide them out of the woods. It did not appear that his story was particularly persuasive, as no immediate offers of help came forward. Perhaps shepherds were afraid of the bandits mentioned, or of the newcomers themselves, especially this giant of a man who spoke confidently of their troubles, but looked as if he had sent a good many to their ends himself. The shepherd who greeted them first was again the one to finally speak: “Yes, that is trouble, but we are not much of a help: each of us has his own obligations, and many are the sheep to watch over, we cannot spare even a single man…” But Žarko was not so easily dissuaded: “Shepherds, it is not the way, nor does it look well, to refuse help to a guest in need! And we need a guide to take us only to the forest’s edge. Out of many, surely there is one man you could spare now, and that for a short while?!”

No, responded the shepherd, again answering similarly. They could spare no one, all of them must watch over the sheep. Little by little, anger at this unpleasantry had begun to overwhelm Žarko. And his patience did not need much to reach its end. He suddenly pulled a knife seemingly out of nowhere and threw it powerfully in the direction of the lone tree before anyone could react. Not a blink later, the blade, which had been hidden unseen in Žarko’s belt-sheath, was now stuck deep in the tree trunk, just above the head of one of the men sitting under the tree. The terrified man looked up at the blade that was barely sticking out, as if swallowed by the old tree trunk, while Žarko roared in a thunderous voice: “Hear this, shepherds, from your guest in distress! The one who brings me back my knife does not have to travel with Žarko. And so help me God almighty, if none of you can, then you will all accompany us!” Silence followed. Vuk, who was still seated on the horse, could feel goosebumps rising up his spine in response. And he was in Žarko’s party! He could only imagine how the herdsmen must have been feeling at that moment.

The stupefied group, mostly young lads, now found themselves truly in trouble. They looked at each other, but no one would speak a word. The one above whose head the knife had sung ventured first to pull it out – but he could not budge it even a hairbreadth. Then another sitting alongside pushed him away and tried, but with the same result – as if they were trying to pull the tree up by the roots. Two more shepherds tried, apparently known for their strength, but again to no avail. Then the man who had first spoken started to plead desperately, on the verge of panicked tears, realizing the situation he had put his fellows in: “Please, do not be like that, warrior, all gods be with you. I do not speak what I think, only what has been commanded to me; duties are determined by our chieftain, and we shepherds must obey!”

“Then where is this chieftain of yours? I have something to ask him!” thundered Žarko, so loudly it made even Senka and Vuk uncomfortable. Their protector was indeed strange in his ways, yet it was certainly better to be on his side of things. The pleading man answered in a quivering voice: “The chief is in his tent, that largest one, there. Maybe resting, or reading over a letter which arrived today from far away…”

The man had not yet finished speaking when, off to the right, came a voice, resonant and powerful, yet at the same time graceful and pleasant to the ear: “Here is the shepherd chief you seek, O warrior of an ancient ilk! Do not frighten my young shepherds so, rather tell me what is it you need.” While saying this, the man was at the same time quickly heading for the lone tree, which he stopped in front of, and, with what looked like ease, pulled the knife out of the thick of the tree trunk. Then he turned and brought the knife to Žarko, holding the blade while offering the handgrip to its large owner, saying: “A good knife for a good warrior… better I have never seen!” The sudden change in the situation surprised everyone, including Žarko. Who was this vigorous man who could so easily pull the knife from the huge tree, the blade thrust in so deeply? He was dressed simply, just as the other shepherds, but larger, almost as massive as Žarko. He had a beautiful face, almost feminine, yet still manfully handsome, and an even more dashing stature, which not even his cumbersome cloak could hide – he was simply a pleasure to both look at and listen to.

Žarko accepted the knife by the handle, still thinking over what exactly to say (he was a bit confused by the final words of the chieftain – that ambiguous praise made unclear whether it was the knife he was admiring, or the warrior who carried it), when the man again spoke in his bell-clear voice: “I heard you rightly from the start, unknown warrior, but did not leave my tent right away as I was reading a small missive that came from afar. Though the letter is small, its trouble is large! By the will of gods, it seems, our paths are united – I as well must pass the forest, and do so as soon as I can. It will be my pleasure to guide you and make the journey with such an ally!”

Žarko was immediately pleased by what he heard, and so even answered quite politely, trying to emulate the refined style of the previous speaker: “Thank you, chieftain, for your help in time of trouble. Though you spend your time with sheep, you speak wisely, and act even more so; your manners would not shame me were we to stand before our king and his whole court! But tell me, if it be your will, how are you called, chieftain? By what name may Žarko call his brother in arms?”

“For my shepherd brotherhood here, I am Chieftain Miloš, but to you and whole your party, I will just be Miloš, brother, your fellow companion!”

And next, to the astonishment of all, the two men embraced brotherly. “At first sight,” thought Vuk ironically, while all of them felt relieved that the unpleasant situation ended well. Fraternity had been offered, and accepted, making brethren out of the two possible opponents. The herdsmen began to cheer, and everyone relaxed. Miloš stepped back from Žarko, saying that he must bid farewell to his shepherds and issue them orders, after which they could immediately set forth upon their journey. And that is how it was – just a short while later, the strange bunch again ventured off into the forest, this time counting one more amongst its members, the one who should be their guide to safer pastures.

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* Tale of Tales is a High/Epic Fantasy saga based on the motifs of ancient myths, legends, and forgotten fairytales * Here is a synopsis to help you gauge your interest: Senka is no hero, but you never know what is coming for you. And if that burns down your house and family, while you are left blinded by your house’s guardian snake, the outlook becomes grim. So Senka clings to her dog’s back to survive, unaware of the fateful prophecy and the great changes to come. But when a wandering warrior becomes her protector and mysterious strangers join their hounded party through a series of seemingly chance encounters, they all begin to discover that all is not as it seems. What is pursuing her? And why? Can the strange characters gathering around her on her desperate quest save her from doom? Are they mere puppets of a young, beguiling witch guided by her own hidden motives, or are forgotten shadows rising again from the immeasurable depths of time? A tale of folk fairytales and myths, of swords and sorcery and mythical beings – a unique story of dark times and unsung heroes who may light your way.

The Hunt Continues

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The party left Morlak with two new companions: the bearded innkeeper, who revealed that his name was Brado, and another man from the village, Vukan, who was somewhat shorter and slimmer than the other villagers, but who had journeyed most often to the shepherds. He said this as if it was worthy of praise. Their guides remained barefoot even on this trek; without making a sound, they pressed gently across the forest floor, with steps as light as falling leaves. As they were departing, Vuk turned to look once more upon the strange village they were leaving behind. He was not surprised to see that the huts were once again shrouded in darkness, dimly lit only by the light of the full moon. He somehow expected it. All the men from the tavern, who had gathered on the edge of the village to bid them farewell, faded from sight, and not a hint of light could be seen from any of the huts.

So the column of travelers, now a few unshod figures longer, moved on. In front walked Vukan, the youngest of the Morlak men (or at least Vuk believed so), and behind him Žarko, who led the horse on which Senka and Vuk sat again, while Vidra followed along gracefully in their footsteps; fully at the rear was Brado, covering their tracks and removing any signs of their passing. The two Morlaks regarded this as necessary, since the group could no longer follow the stream that had helped to obscure their traces – the mountain to which they were heading was in a completely different direction. Brado assured them that he would erase their tracks to such a degree that after a few hours even wolves would not be able to follow them. For this purpose he used some shrubs, torn from their roots, which according to him were so strongly aromatic that in a short time the plants’ fragrance would completely overwhelm any scent they left behind. He used these bushes to vigorously strike the ground here and there, along the route they walked, as if sweeping away with a broom some paths they traversed, while leaving others untouched, for reasons only his own. Yet, as no one else was well versed in erasing tracks, they were left to trust his methods.

When they drew away from the village, the silence of the night greeted them again, confirming what the Morlak men had spoken: outside the village it was still the dead of night, which had just begun. There were still many long hours until morning. Vuk marveled, however, over their feeling of being completely rested. Even though they had only managed to fortify themselves with food and drink, over just a few hours of sitting on relatively unforgiving wooden stools, he felt as if they were starting off after several nights of sleep. Vuk tapped Senka to ask, in a whisper, if she felt the same, and she was well rested too; there was indeed something very strange about the time in that village – still they could do nothing else but accept this as merely one of the many oddities that had befallen them these past days.

The two Morlaks estimated they would reach the mountain halfway through what remained of the night. And so it was: nothing unexpectedly dangerous occurred during their quiet venture forth, though danger was always looming above. They would now and again halt in the shadows of overhanging branches to hide from the view of the flying horde which continued to fly above the forest, searching for them, but they always managed to succeed, or so it seemed, in anticipating the arrival of the dusk imps by that characteristic unpleasant humming babble of shrieks and flaps. At one point, the imps flew so close that, from the shadows, fugitives could make out the flickering shine of the fires which sometimes burst from their mouths, lighting up just for an instant their sharp teeth and small yet foul bodies. They truly were a terrifying sight, even apart from the rest of the hellish retinue. As for the bloodthirsty howling, they heard it several more times, but each time it sounded further and further away. It looked as if they were indeed outwitting their tireless pursuers.

After a long and practically uninterrupted striding at a swift pace, during which they attempted to stay quiet, Vukan finally halted and turned to the others: “Just a bit ahead, and we arrive at the shepherd camp. It would be best if you come to the front now, and we will follow. And say nothing to the herders about our village. Tell them, Žarko, that we are all your servants. Seek escort to at least the edge of the forest, and see that you get it, and we will come along with you as far as we can.” Without waiting for an answer, the smaller man went to the back of the column to join Brado. Žarko pulled on the loose reins of his horse, stepping forward, and thus they arrived at the foot of the mountain.

Vukan had led them to the right spot. As soon as they stepped past some thinning trees and out of the forest surrounding the mountain, a shepherd’s camp appeared before them. It was impossible not to see it – unlike themselves, it was clear that the herdsmen were not hiding from anything. And why would they? It was a well-organized group of about thirty or so men that sat around a large, blazing fire placed in the center of the camp. Someone was speaking something obviously humorous, since the others frequently interrupted him with bursts of laughter. A good distance from the fire stood a single large tree, on whose branches the shepherds had things out to dry; several cloaks, shirts, and pants were hung about on all sides. Two shepherds were leaning against the tree, while the third one, likely serving as the lookout, was situated on some improvised platform in the tree branches; it was clear that they expected no danger, as this sentry was laughing along with the others, without ever taking his eyes off of the merry gang around the fire. Near the fire, several large tents were also set up, all of which were glowing dimly – apparently, there were fires lit inside as well, or at least some kind of torch or candle must have been kept burning in each. The tents were arranged in a closed semi-circular formation towards the woods, acting as a barrier before the mountain and a fence towards the clearing where an enormous herd of sheep lay in the grass, encircled by many dogs far larger than Vidra. By Žarko’s quick estimation under the moonlight, the dogs seemed to vastly outnumber the shepherds, and many of them were awake, though only lazily watching the sheep. Their purpose now seemed more to guard the sheep from wandering away than from any approaching danger, as any significant threat for such a large group was unlikely. The dogs were certainly bred to be sheepdogs, and serious ones at that, concluded the warrior, who assumed that they likely even slept in shifts, just as watchmen would.

Taking all of this in, Žarko continued to advance his ragamuffin group towards the campfire. He had no intention to hide their arrival, but they did remain quiet. The herdsmen were so caught up in the entertaining story being told that the strange column had crossed nearly half the distance from the forest before they were noticed. First off, one of the closer dogs straightened his head, raising its ears and turning in the direction of the arriving party, then barked loudly. When the other dogs started baying as well, the watchman in the tree finally remembered his duty, raising his eyes to see what had set the dogs to barking. It was time for the newcomers to make themselves announced.

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Feast

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They were sitting in the central cabin, which Vuk perceived as some kind of unusual tavern. Everybody was seated on low, rough-hewn tree trunks, surrounding a large, round, wooden table, the only one in the whole large-roomed hut: Žarko, Senka and Vuk, along with another ten or so men. There were apparently no women in the village, or at least at the table. And the men were all hardened and strong, as if all coming from the same mold. They were dressed humbly, in fur vests similar to Žarko’s own, which revealed their sturdy muscles and broad chests. Except for some rough pants, also made from animal skins, which barely reached below their knees, they wore nothing else. No one carried any kind of weapon, and every single one of them was barefoot.

On the table in front of them were water, wine, and beer in simple pitchers made from pieces of hollowed out wood, lacking any kind of handle. From these pitchers they poured the drinks into similarly crafted small wooden cups, and the man whom Žarko referred to as host (though, at least to Vuk, the man seemed more an innkeeper) repeatedly rose to fetch new pitchers, changing out the empty ones. Most often fetched was wine, which Žarko immediately dove into. He right off rejected the cups as “too small” and instead grabbed one of the pitchers to drink from it. “A long time it has been since I drank a wine like this,” commented over and over the cheered giant, upon whose cheeks now shone a visible blush, while his eyes had taken on a bit of a bloodshot look. In front of them, at the center of the table, on a gigantic wooden platter, piles of roasted and dried meat were laid – the guests followed the example of their hosts, taking pieces with their hands; there were no plates and no forks, and the one and only knife was stabbed into a large shoulder of roasted meat in the middle of the oval platter, in case it was needed. There was no bread, no cheese, no salt – nothing but meat on the table. But that meat, despite being unsalted, was truly delicious, and all ate it heartily. Vuk gave Senka a little piece of everything to taste, and it seemed that in those heaps and slabs were all sorts of known and unknown meats. They were soon stuffed without having tasted everything. At one point, Senka asked if a piece of meat could also be taken to her Vidra, so even the dog, who had stayed outside with the horse, thus shared in the royal meal.

The host did not allow any serious matters to be spoken of until the guests had eaten and drunk their fill. Till then, the only topic of discussion had been the quality of their drinks, made from “water from the heart of the earth,” pulled up from a well located at the corner of the inn itself, along with endless rants on the best ways to dry or roast particular cuts of meat. Only when he felt that the guests had indeed been truly satiated, the host finally went into the topic of conversation which they all had eagerly awaited: “We rarely get a chance to listen to stories, which we love dearly. Thus, we would be gladdened to hear yours. You spoke of something troubling that was following you…”

And so, little by little, the usually very reserved Žarko recalled everything of importance which had happened to them over the last several days: the wine had obviously done its work and loosened his tongue. The men listened to him captivated, drinking in every word, exclaiming wonderment, approval, or excitement, which somehow always encouraged Žarko to speak on further. His story of encountering Senka started rather restrained, but as his narrative reached the rescuing of Vuk, he was already speaking in great detail, and by the time he got to describing the hellish wolves on their trail, he was almost exaggerating – he was so convincing that goosebumps broke out on the skin of Vuk, as if he himself had not been there to see that infernal pack. But the crippled thief remained as quiet as Senka, except now and again when a question was asked directly to him. Unlike Žarko, whose cheeks had grown more and more flushed as he had relaxed in drinking pitcher after pitcher, the thief and the girl were both still caught up in worries about their pursuers, as if they expected to hear the demonic howling in front of the door at any moment. But their hosts had obviously spoken rightly, comfortable in possessing a knowledge of which the guests could not be aware, as nothing disturbed the pleasant atmosphere of their feast. Or at least nothing but a subdued suspicion, probably fostered by concern, for Vuk had the constant feeling that these barefoot men were weighing him discreetly with their eyes, turning their heads aside whenever he would look to meet their prying gaze; he wondered if Senka had the same feeling, but did not want to spoil the pleasant atmosphere with unnecessary whispers, and so he never asked.

After hours of monologue, Žarko finally brought his tale to a close with his recount of the moment when he had seen the first cabin from within the stream they had been walking through. A hush then settled over the room. “And,” the host was first to speak up, “what do you intend to do now?” “Well,” answered Žarko, “I mean to wait here until morning, and to ask one of you, good people that you are, to lead us through these woods and out to the other side. Far from any path, and the closer to a town the better – if possible, one that is fortified. I believe that behind a walled town we might find a measure of security.” After the warrior finished laying out this simple plan, a moment of silence held the air, while the villagers looked at one another, before all together bursting into a thunderous laugh. Žarko did not find this reaction pleasant – his eyes grew immediatly more bloodshot, while his voice took on somewhat of a grim, threatening tone: “I do not know what is funny, people. Are you laughing at Žarko?”

“Excuse us, warrior-Žarko, we mean not to offend you,” replied the tavern’s host calmly. “It is just that you do not know how things are in this place. As I told you earlier, time flows differently here – and that was not a lie. You would wait until morning, but that is not possible. For when you leave Morlak, in the forest you will find it to be the exact same time as when you entered. You are welcome here to rest and recover for as long as you like, even though I believe that you have found your freshness already, but morning is something that you cannot wait for.” The man spoke all of this in a mild tone, almost as if explaining to a child some basic principles that are understood, and in which there is nothing strange to be found. “Also, you want one of us to take you out of the woods. And that also cannot be – none of us have ever left the borders of this forest, we do not know the way out of it. And to have found yourself here, this means you are lost in the woods, too – if you were to follow the stream backwards, you would never find the place where you entered it, as the water have erased your tracks and the forest have changed, so really you can only get out of it by chance, if you are to ever get out of here alive.”

The bearded man finished, looking Žarko straight in the eye with no hint of deceit or mockery – or fear. The rising rage in Žarko retreated at the man’s unusual words, and he could only mumble calmly: “So what then do we do, my host?” In the end it seems, they were indeed guests of a strange people, men who had welcomed them well and provided them comfort, and it would do no good nor be fitting to stir up trouble now: the practical side of Žarko’s wine-slushed mind understood that they already had quite enough enemies. The host then spoke up again, still not turning aside his gaze: “The way out of the forest we know not, that is how things are. But we do know that in the middle of the woods rises a large mountain, where shepherds herd their sheep. They risk passage through our forest, for they say among themselves that on the slopes of that mountain is the finest pasture that can be found. They do know a way through the forest, and we Morlaks know the way to them. And would gladly guide you there.”

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Morlak

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Only now did Senka begin to fathom what the “dead of night” truly meant. Midnight had arrived, and they all felt it. As if everything in the forest had fallen asleep or died: the breeze trailed off, the occasional night cries of birds ceased, even the owls stopped hooting, and even the stream’s steady whisper seemed to hush, so that their wading through water suddenly sounded loud and heavy, as the silence wrapped around them like a shroud. And then, abruptly, the still of the witching hour was broken by a distant howl, a long, drawn out moan from the throat of a lone animal, stretching out and out and out until, finally, another wailing voice returned its call… and then another, and another, again and again, until these outcries of numerous throats had seemingly encircled the forest, pouring out into the night air. It seemed as if this choir of howls was coming from every direction. Luckily, still from a distance.

Žarko halted on the spot once again. Vuk thought that even the decisive warrior no longer knew where to lead them next. They appeared to be surrounded; in her head, Senka imagined a noose of demon wolves slowly tightening around them. Had they indeed fooled the wolves by covering their trail? Or had they simply fooled themselves beyond any chance of escape? Then the leader of the small fugitive party tugged again at the reins of his horse, leading them out of the stream.

Senka, of course, could not see where they were going; nor did Vuk at first grasp what was happening, until he observed something completely unexpected – there, in the middle of the forest, just a stone’s throw from the edge of the creek, stood some small wooden shack! Žarko stepped out of the water and slowly led his horse towards this cabin, while trying to stay in the deeper shade of the tallest trees. The forest here seemed unnaturally bathed in the strong light of the full moon. As they approached the cottage, Vuk saw the outlines of another behind it, and then another, and yet another! Incredible – what was this, a village in the middle of the forest?! When they got closer, they could see that the huts were grouped about the edge of a small forest clearing, just beside which flowed the small stream they had just left. The moonlight now illuminated these cabins clearly. All of them but one were small, humble cottages, thrown together without a great amount of craft or skill, or perhaps just worn down by age, while at the center of the perfect circle that they formed stood a larger and more significant structure, close in size to the burned down house that Senka had once called home. Small forest trees were growing right next to the small huts, their branches protruding from the circle’s outer edges and covering the huts in part. Only around the largest one in the middle, built just as low as all the others, was a small open area, just wide enough for few people to pass. From this circle, miraculously set apart from and yet in the thick of the woods, nothing could be heard to disturb the forest peace. There were no stables, no signs of livestock, poultry or horses, nor anything else characteristic of village life. There was nothing by which one might say that anyone lived there at all – the settlement might have been long deserted.

“What in the devil is this ghost town…” mumbled Žarko into his chest, quietly, eyeing the scene in front of him. They stood on the edge of the clearing, looking through a small gap between two of the cabins, and, as far as they could see to the left and right of themselves, there was not a single path leading through the woods to this abandoned place. It was as if some demon had snatched up a handful of huts from somewhere and planted them right here in the middle of the forest. Vuk shuddered from a sudden, unexpected chill and felt a desire to turn back to the stream from which they had just come, to move away from this place as soon as possible, but Žarko, for reasons unclear, stepped bravely forward. He cautiously led the horse through the narrow space, advancing towards the wooden hut at the center. Strange was this unlikely procession made up of a burly man leading a horse with a blind girl and lame thief, trailed by a silently walking dog. And thus the small party wandered into Morlak.

Nothing happened as they stepped slowly forward. There were no threatening signs that might signal an ambush as they went out onto the small open space in front of the central building. They found themselves near the entrance to the larger hut – only later would Vuk realize this was always the case, no matter which direction one entered the round village from – and Žarko led them straight towards the door. He seemed almost entranced, offering no explanations or indications of his actions, though perhaps he only wished to not break the odd, absolute silence of the place. Step by step, he approached the entrance, lit up by the light of the moon. They were just a few short steps away from the door, when the village awoke!

It happened so incredibly quickly, and yet at the same time completely naturally, that it seemed as if there was nothing unusual about it. The door in front of them opened without a sound, and at the door stood a figure lit up from the back by firelight coming from within. And where, just a moment before, there was a musty darkness lit only by moonlight and enshrouded in a deep silence, there was now the vibrant blaze of numerous hearths and the pleasantly muffled murmur of a living settlement. Vuk could not unriddle how it had happened – the hearths could not have begun glowing all at once, together and suddenly, yet he was sure that there had not been even a single fire lit as they moved through the small passage between the huts. Now, however, a little light was gleaming out from every single hut, glimmering beneath the doors or through a few small window panes.

The figure before them stood motionlessly, its face remaining in the darkness, but the light from behind clearly outlined a large figure – an imposing man, bearded, and almost as great in stature as Žarko. And he just stood there, staring fixedly at them. Vuk noticed uneasily that the doors of all the other huts he could see had opened, and before each one there was now someone standing. All these doors were facing the center of the circle and the larger dwelling in front of them. They were surrounded and lost, while all the eyes of the village were focused on the strangers. Then, slowly, the villagers began approaching. There was nothing threatening in their movement; the horse and the dog could sense this, and they showed no sign of uneasiness. And so the fugitives were suddenly surrounded by people who were looking at them curiously. The only one who did not approach was the man at the door of the largest building, but they were already within his reach; then, as if he had been waiting for the others to gather round, he spoke out. He had a deep masculine voice, rough but at the same time inexpressibly pleasant: “I welcome you, travellers, to Morlak! Rare is the opportunity to host passers-by in our little village. Dismount and come inside, for it is time to feast!”

As could be expected, Žarko was the first to bounce back into senses, while Senka and Vuk were still completely confused: “Dear host, thank you, may goodness befall you! We would gladly eat and drink, but now is not the time; trouble is upon us, we are being hounded…”

“Put your worries aside, hero,” the large man at the door interrupted Žarko. “Here time flows differently than the stream you stepped out of. So come on in, dear guests, make yourself comfortable, and let us celebrate. There is time.” And with these words, the man turned around and vanished back through the doorway from which he had appeared.

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