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You will be able to read each new chapter/episode of my upcoming Tale of Tales series, which shall be gradually unveiled over two and a half years (2022-2024), with the first book published in late 2022.

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Tale of Tales: A Fantasy Novel Series Based on Myth & Legend

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Night Hunt

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“You say, lass, that you know not why some are after you?”

The question was asked in a clearly doubting tone – and even someone as young as Senka, unsophisticated in conversation, could make out the clear disbelief expressed in this short sentence. They were now scrambling through the woods, as quickly as was possible. After coming together once again, Žarko told them that they must stray off the path. The forest would offer some semblance of shelter from the watchful eyes of their followers, even those above. This time the burly man was displaying a bit more sympathy, or rather the situation simply demanded it: either way, Senka and Vuk were now seated on the horse, while Žarko led it by the halter at a hasty step, quickly and decisively choosing a way through the forest dark. But if he had by any chance seen the rapidity with which the crippled man had moved just shortly before, on all fours, as he and the girl ran away, or the agility with which he had climbed up the tree and came down when he heard the gathering shouts, it would have made it immediately apparent as to how this supposed thief might have succeeded in such a vocation, and then they would probably have switched places on the horse. As they hastened, the dim light of the full moon would occasionally break through the branches above, signifying that the dangerous night had long ago already begun – thus far, however, there had been no sign of their pursuants. Yet the question of their whereabouts was far from the only one on Žarko’s mind – his surly curiosity was far from abated. Beyond the still lingering question of why she was being followed was the essential mystery of what exactly it was that was after them…

“I do not know, Žarko. Truly, I do not.” Senka was still frightened, along with bewildered by the tone of the question, so she was answering on the verge of tears.

“Really, sister? You have not, mistakenly or purposefully, concealed something?”

Žarko’s questioning was now becoming too forceful for the girl. He never was a lover of mysteries, and here he was running from one, a completely terrifying one at that, and still unknowing of the reason. This was surely making him anything but pleasant to his companions. Senka again answered that she did not know who or what was following them, nor why. She was no longer able to withhold tears from slipping down her blind eyes – she felt as if was losing the barely gained trust of her protector. From the tremble in her voice, Žarko made out that she had started crying, and softened his voice somewhat.

”Sis, come now… do not cry. But I must know from what are we running away – our heads depend on it. If I know what we are up against, then perhaps I can beat it. This is why I am asking: are you sure you have told me everything?”

For who knows which time, Senka again responded that she knew not a thing about their assailants. And Žarko fell back into a deep, unsettled silence, seemingly focused only on choosing their path, for he was no longer sure what to think or how to behave. As opposed to Vuk, he remained doubtful. While Vuk had fully accepted Senka’s life story, like many other stories which he had listened to patiently and attentively over his years and journeys, Žarko saw it all as the fantasized tale of a poor orphaned girl: the sudden fire, the striking cold, the manner in which she had become blind… sure, he had been entertained by her minutely decorated story, even pressing her to tell it again and again and not finding any inconsistencies, but not for a moment had he believed any of it. Without much thought, he had come to the conclusion that the little girl had simply beautified her tragic story into a fantastic truth. Which was not so important, since for him in essence she remained exactly what she was: a blind orphan who asked for help. And he helped her. But now he was no longer certain… then, suddenly, he stopped the horse.

“The necklace. Let me see it, little sis.”

For a moment, Senka did not understand, but then he was already standing beside her, trying to remove the necklace from her neck – the metal necklace which Senka called “the wrapped snake,” and this was indeed its shape. He was not able to take it off, however, and the young girl let out a breath of relief, long held while he had fumbled with the smooth metal and then agitatedly turned away from her. That was the moment when Senka decided to say nothing of the snake’s voice reappearing – she did not knew why Žarko would regard the wrapped snake as the source of their troubles, but she knew well that she wanted to dispel any kind of reason for her protector to forcefully remove the “necklace” that hung around her neck. Slightly astonished, she now suddenly realized she somehow trusted the snake that made her blind; disturbed, she envisioned telling them everything, fearing that some magic was influencing her will, but just then she felt a pleasant warming sensation around her neck, and the hint of a doubt which she had felt for a moment slipped from her mind.

They continued moving through the forest at a brisk pace, Žarko still in front leading the horse forward. Soon, from the noisy burbling of running water, Senka recognized that they had reached a wide stream – one that sounded very much alike to the one she had listened to so often back home. Their leader, without hesitation, stepped into the creek, pulling the horse along with him. Since the sound of the rushing water never left them, Senka realized that they were now actually marching onward in the stream itself. As if reading her mind, Vuk, who was sitting just behind her on the horse, leaned over and whispered into her ear: “We are following the brook downstream – this way the wolves will have a harder time picking up our tracks and scent. A very wise move, in my estimation, for we can perhaps fool them in such a way. Our fair leader is not only mighty, but also clever.”

Time took on a different flow in their constant state of expectation. Senka could not say for how long they had been trekking through the water: minutes or hours, but she was alert constantly, all the while hoping not to hear the sound of those horrible wingbeats and cries and howling from behind her. After some time, she finally managed to single out a gentle splashing sound, quieter than the muffled steps of the horse’s legs as it made its way through the water – Vidra had as well followed their example and was trotting in the stream just behind them. It made her proud, but all these sounds of water also made her suddenly realize that she was thirsty.

“Žarko, could we stop for a moment? So I can get down and drink some water?”

“No!” Vuk cried out. This was so sudden and unexpected that it startled Senka, while Žarko stopped and looked back at him. Vuk then explained more calmly: “The stories I have heard about the dusk imps, those ghastly little flying creatures, say they can poison an entire lake, so that anyone who drinks from it would fall dead from just one drop! This creek is flowing and so disperses the poison onwards, but we have no way of knowing whether the poison is in front of us or behind us, or whether we are walking through it at this very moment, if it is in the water at all. No, it is not safe to drink this water. It is not safe to drink any water we come across until we are certain that they are no longer following us; for now, we can rely only on the water we carry with us.”

Žarko looked at him oddly: “What nonsense are you talking? Why carry when there is water at every step? And I have only wine. Perfectly good wine, mind you, and there is enough for all.” At this offer, Senka mumbled that she was not so thirsty after all, and so they moved on down the stream, the hum of the water now tinged sinister.

Their march continued quietly, the party warily listening out for whether, above the mild murmur of the stream, that more disturbing buzz from above would be heard. And finally there it was – as if they knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. Žarko pulled at his horse to make a few brisk steps before coming to a stop under the cover of a large tree, still in the creek, with thick branches draping over them. There they stood in complete silence, as the perverse buzzing and shrieking came closer and closer. There was no need to say anything, as they all understood what loomed above them. The dreadful scouts were likely flying over the forest in every direction, looking for the girl. Senka held her breath, as if these flying things above could hear even her breathing. There they stood, motionless and waiting, as if petrified, even when the sounds of that infernal swarm had seemingly moved farther away. Only when the distant sounds were utterly drowned in the gentle humming of the stream did Žarko pull at his horse silently, nodding thoughtfully for them to continue. Judging by this recent arrival of the spying scouts, it must have been close to midnight, as the dead of night had been marked as the beginning of the hunt. They remained speechless, still pensive and anxious. Soon they would likely know whether they had succeeded in covering their tracks, though actual safety and survival were still far and away, with many long hours of night ahead.

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The horseman and the winged cloud above halted just a few horselengths away from Žarko; he thought he could reach him with a few quick, deliberate jumps, if only his fool horse would obey him. Now the two riders surveyed one another, cautiously and inquisitively. Žarko knew full well the kind of impression he made on people when he scowled; he imagined that those people felt quite similar to how he was feeling at this moment. The horseman confronting him was downright frightful. Through the murkiness that accompanied him and the shadows that concealed him, he saw a heavy black piece of armor that covered his chest, and underneath that armor, a sheath of thick chain-link ringmail draped across his body like a shirt, dropping to his thighs; in his cloaked belt was a saber of enormous proportions, even by Žarko’s measure, yet the horseman did not even rest his hand on its hilt, let alone have it pulled out. He was attired entirely in black, so uniformly dark that it was hard to discern any gaps between the armor, his sheath, and his legs. Žarko was barely able to observe that the rider wore full black gauntlets extending down his arm to his fingertips, and long black boots up to his knees – the only thing unblackened was his livid white face, bordered by his raven black hair draping down to his shoulders. This whole appearance elicited a strange impression – one that was sinister, yet at the same time lordly and almost beautiful. Whatever aberrant sort of beauty this was, it was tainted by the glow of his blood-stained eyes and red-blotched cheeks, and the deception in his posture and performance seemed obvious and purposeful, as if staged in a play just for Žarko’s eyes to see.

But in examining him more closely, Žarko began to pick out details that seriously marred the original impression given off by the black rider: his black hair hung down in dirty whips, and his clothes at the folds were ragged, old, and worn. “This hair was not braided by handmaidens, these garments not washed by any servants,” thought Žarko. And this thought gave him a fragment of sudden pleasure, inducing even a momentary smile. As if in answer to this smile, the rider in black tugged hard at the reins of his horse, which whinnied out a terrible screech. This momentarily undid Žarko’s whiskered smile, prompting him to speak quickly and loudly.

“Hail to you, unknown knight! What good quest has brought you here, if god knowest?”

Then the horseman responded; to Žarko’s great relief, since he was uncertain as to whether this spectre would speak at all. The voice was dry and crude, as if he spoke with effort; at the same time threatening and scratchy like a muffled growl, yet somehow entirely articulate, so that Žarko could clearly make out every spoken word:

“Know this, man, who recognize me not: a king-warrior I once was, but for long now, much more than that! And I know not what god you serve, but it surely is not mine… No, who are you, you crazed nomad rambler? Rare are men who dare to stand in my path, you should bow before me!”

Now Žarko felt emboldened, for this was his ground; he had been through such exchanges countless times. “Hear, warrior, in front of you stands Žarko: my path goes wherever I go, and I bow to no one! I am neither here for you, nor do I step down before thee.”

The rider now seemed to smile himself: “So you are that Perunović Žarko…” His scowl was a parody of joy, horrific like the grinning of some rabid beast.

Žarko spoke again:

“And you seem to know me, stranger. But… I know not why you mention Perun, when I serve not him, nor any other god: honor to them all, but Žarko serves no one!”

The terrible smirk on the face of the horseman grew wider: “I know you well, you mad Žarko, at least from some stories. Who has not heard of Žarko the hero? But heed this, hero: it would be wise for you to get out of my way. I will not bother to scuffle with you, since I have nothing with you.”

“You argue well, king-warrior, but you make do poorly! Tell me with whom you have something, and let us see where that leads.” With these words, the smile vanished from the rider’s face, yet Žarko almost enjoyed the scowl that replaced it, even if it was equally horrific when the black figure spoke again.

“Listen, Žarko: do not play the fool! I do no explaining, save to whom I serve now. And even then, only when I choose to, because I, too, bow or kneel to no one! But fine, if you wish to know, I will tell you this: I have an unresolved matter with that lass who fled me. Let me have her, so we may part on good terms.”

At these words, the man with the mace frowned, unintendedly and openly. “Listen, stranger… as it happens, that little one is my sister in fate, made so by the will of the God of gods, the God of the heavens. As much as I might wish to, leave her to you I cannot, for that would be a great sin. And I would not let her go even if I had not become brother to her fate. Therefore, it is better that you just turn your great horse around, so that we can part peacefully!”

Then, there was silence. The horseman glared at Žarko, inquisitively, while Žarko gazed back at the rider defiantly. And then the black-tressed man laughed with his whole voice, a laugh as sharp as a knife’s blade, raw and cruel. And short. After ridding himself of this hollow pretense of mirth as suddenly as it had begun, the rider spoke:

“Very well, Žarko, if that is how you want it to be, I will allow it. Why clash here where there is no victory? My sabre might not be meant for your head… But think again, and think quickly, for in the dead of night my pack will set out in hunt. We will hunt for what is ours, and kill everything in the way. Kill, wound, or simply trample, it matters not. Beware, Žarko, that your path does not lead you across mine again!”

And after saying this, the horseman spurred and raised his horse, turned, and rode off, away from Žarko, followed by the high screams and wing flaps of the creatures above his invisible crown, not looking back even a single time. It was clear that he was not fearful of Žarko, and that made it even less clear as to why he would at all accept to withdraw. But while a biting chill still lingered, whether from the unnatural cold or the unmistakable threat which the stranger’s final words held, Žarko finally allowed his limbs and body to relax somewhat. For the time being, they had pulled through. Yet it was now high time to ride off, and, reviving and turning his horse with a sudden twitch of reins, the large man spurred it into a full gallop, riding back to the spot where he had left his companions. Night was approaching. Long, perilous night.

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A Thief Named Vuk

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“Eh, my Žarko… who have you gathered around you? First a blind girl, now a cripple! Without a doubt, an impressive lot…” The big man went on, occasionally muttering to himself under his breath, allowing the horse that was carrying both him and food to wander off relatively far in front of his companions. Senka shivered at the thought of how upset Žarko would be if he also knew of her illness, which seemed to return at the worst moments, but she quickly dispelled such thoughts – she did not want, not even in the slightest, to be an even greater burden to her protector.

When the saved man figured that Žarko could no longer hear him, he spoke for the first time, addressing Senka, who was walking unsteadily alongside him. “Thank you,” he said, “as I assume that you have played a large role in my unexpected salvation. I am sure that a warrior such as Žarko would not even look back once at a fellow such as me – it is you that I have to thank for still having two of these.” With that, he extended both his hands and folded them about Senka’s – her free hand, the other was holding constantly onto Vidra’s back – saying: “My name is Vuk, and I am eternally in your debt.“

Senka opened up unusually easily to this strange man. Thief! Her father had spoken about such persons with disgust, yet something in the tone of his voice assured Senka that every word this man uttered was true. He was not looking for explanations, but Senka offered them anyway. He had not asked, but Senka told him the whole story of the strange events that had fundamentally changed the course of her life, and which had led her to hang on the back of the rough warrior who was now her guide and guardian. After listening to her story all the way up to her first encounter with Žarko, the man who limped audibly next to her left side suddenly sighed strangely, and Senka left off her tale in mid-sentence. Taking this as an invitation, the silent Vuk spoke.

“And up till now you have not yet asked yourself who he is? Who is this man who saved you, and then me?”

Senka was confused by the question. “Well, he is Žarko. Or at least that is what he said his name is…”

Vuk spoke on in a completely serious voice, so Senka remained unconscious of his smile: “And truly, that is how he is called. I know, because I have heard stories about him in all the villages and cities through which I have passed, from the shores of Ohrid to the foothills of Mount Miroč. That is Žarko. Everyone knows of him. The greatest warrior-hero, the bravest, the strongest, and, though fiery and dangerous, always just. And yet all the stories of him seem to pass around him. Did you notice how in that village he did not know anybody, even though everybody seemed to have known him? Perhaps… well, I would not be surprised if they had seen him before, for that kind of fear in an entire mob cannot be caused by just one man, even one as large and strong as he, no matter who he says he is and how imposing he appears…”

Vuk fell silent. They continued far behind the big man on the horse for several minutes, and Senka realized that the limping man was thinking over whether to continue speaking further. Though now quite curious, the girl remained quiet, letting him reach his decision. Finally, Vuk abruptly continued on with his story, just as suddenly as he had fallen silent.

“In a small town, in a tavern, quite some time ago, after a great deal of wine and even more beer, I heard a strange story. Now, like any other story, it may be true, and it may be not. I found it hard to believe it that day, but now I am not so sure…” Vuk paused as if to take a breath, then continued: “The story speaks of a great warrior-hero, the son of a god, who was named Žarko. It is said that this hero was the son of Perun the Thunderer himself, while his mother was a mortal woman. And so they say there was nothing other for that child but to become the greatest of all warriors…” A short silence arose and lingered for some moments, and Senka felt that Vuk was cautiously observing her reactions to his story, perhaps weighing whether his words seemed too unbelievable. At last though, as if having pushed through some troublesome barrier, he broke the suspenseful silence and the rest of his narration proceeded without a single pause.

“Yet, only when that child had indeed grown into a warrior like no other, did this story become truly interesting. If I was lied to, then I am lying to you now as well, but it is said that it was the time when the gods were clashing over the division of our world. More precisely, over who will be given charge of the lands through which we are now passing. And as you might imagine, agreements are not reached easily among the gods, those gods you know well and those you may not know of at all. Conflict seemed inevitable, and who knows what would come of it, had not the gods, in their final attempt to resolve the division of the world, sought the opinion of someone outside of their circle. And, well, who could offer such an opinion better than the greatest warrior of our world, the son of the god of justice and lightning, and thus comparable to those beyond compare. The most powerful among the gods assented to this resolution – even though he could have taken what he wanted by force – for the sake of avoiding conflict, believing that his own earthly son would surely rule in his father’s favor. And so messengers were sent out for him, powerful horsemen who could trample over all in their path, but who bowed before such a warrior. They told him that the gods were quarreling, and that he had been called on to say who should rule over the lands. The gods believed, at least as the narrator told, that: ‘Žarko will decide this justly, for Žarko fears no one.’ And not only did he not fear, but his mother had advised him before her passing: ‘Žarko, my son, my one and only, do not speak wrongly, neither for your father’s behoof, nor in the behoof of uncles, but speak with the true righteousness of the god of justice! Truth is stronger than any sword, it will be your sharpest weapon.’ And so the hero went to pronounce judgement on those who judge…

“Of course, for the story to be interesting, the righteous division of the world that would be proclaimed would in the end please the god of justice the least! For who can judge the bringer of justice itself?” Vuk here laughed a bit to himself and continued on in a quiet voice, all the time taking care that the horseman in front of them could not make out what they were speaking of. “You see, Žarko proceeded to scold the gods well, each god in his turn, sparing not even his own father. He told them that they had become lost in their conflicts, that they scrambled for lands that were not theirs. He told them that this was the kingdom of Dajbog, made for him by Svarog, the creator, out of the darkness of his first dream, for his first son only. He told them, he told the descendant gods: ‘From the father it dawned upon the son, the first son of God almighty!’ When Perun the Thunderer, the mightiest god of this world, heard this verdict, one which he never could have expected, he grew red with rage. He jumped at his son, striking him with thunderbolts, and he, even the great warrior-hero that he was, ran: he ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. For he did not think it right to fight against his own parent, a fight he would also be sure to lose. And it was then that he would have died, as the story goes, had not his angel interfered: like a cloud of light, the angel descended in front of the enraged god only to be struck by a thuderbolt that would surely have killed the god’s son. This guardian had sacrificed his immortal life for the life of Žarko, and so was he left without his angel, unlike you, me, and all other people of this world, and therefore there is no one left to take him to that other world when his time comes… And so our hero escaped, yet the consequences of this judgement he voiced unto the gods, he carries with him to this day. Perun cursed him while Dajbog blessed him, and both of these legacies have made him what he is today.”

Vuk now dropped his voice almost to a whisper, more and more careful that a stray word not accidentally reaches Žarko’s ears. “I think that I memorized word for word all that I heard that night in the tavern. It is said that Perun proclaimed the following: ‘Žarko, my son – may God strike you dead! You shall know no grave nor kin, bereaved of throne and origin! You will wander without end! May your soul never ascend before to the conqueror you bend!’ Perun cursed him, but with this came also Dajbog’s blessing: ‘My brave Žarko, God still smiles upon you! You are lit by heaven’s light, you will strike forever right! There shall be no greater hero! Your name shall be ever spoken while there shine the Sun and Moon!’ And much of what was proclaimed has come to be, though some of it may yet…”

And here again Vuk sank into silence, broken by the occasional sound of his limping feet pulling across their path. Senka remained alone for a while in the grasp of the story, taking time to gather her impressions. “And you think that…” she finally uttered. “I do not think anything!” Vuk interrupted. “It is just a tavern story.”

After another pause, however, he could not refrain from speaking his mind. “And yet, here we are, followers of perhaps the greatest of heroes, whose name is known by all. A warrior who wanders from village to village, from town to town, and knows nobody anywhere, though everyone knows him. A hero whose accomplishments are so much greater than could be accomplished in a single human life. A warrior who men look upon in fear, and women with adoration. But who, in spite of everything, remains alone, just like you and I…” And Vuk drew in a long breath, during which it seemed that he was preparing the great conclusion of his story: “I do not think nor claim anything… yet, there you have it, if anywhere in this world exists one man who can die only by the will of the creator, God of all gods, I would be willing to bet my freshly-spared hand that he is riding on the horse ahead of us.”

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Encounter Two

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They were somewhere near the tavern, which Žarko first headed for, when they heard the mob. Senka realized that something was happening from the sound of rough shouts and the unusual uproar, and immediately felt uneasy, while Žarko stood calmly in the middle of the street. He was interestedly following the goings on, just as his young companion once upon a time would raise a glance at any bird singing in the forest. While they stood so in the open, Senka began to grow more fearful as she began to pick apart some of the shouted words rising above the clamor.

“Žarko, what is happening?”

“They have caught some thief, so they are going to chop off his hand.” Senka’s horror grew even greater at the calm and dispassionate way in which he said this.

“They cannot do that!” she murmured in disbelief.

“O, but they can… the law says so,” answered Žarko.

Then the piercing shrieks of the captured man reached Senka, as he pleaded with all of his voice: “Please do not, people…. Please, for god’s sake, do not… Please not my hand; I am already crippled in the leg!”

What exactly happened in Senka’s heart at that moment, what broke within her, is hard to say. But she managed to overcome the stifling fear and the sudden shock at the terrible thing this angry mob was preparing to do in the name of justice. Something in her made a snap decision that stood in complete contrast to her actual abilities, and she screamed out: “Žarko, we cannot let them do it!”

“What are you talking about, you poor thing, do not be a fool!” Žarko hushed her up harshly. But if she could see his gaze, she would have known that he had spoken to her more moderately than he wanted to. This was not a man prone to delicacy.

“Please, Žarko! Please, please, please! You are so big and powerful, a true hero! You must not let this poor man suffer in front of you! He stole, did a bad thing, but they want to cut off his hand! They want to take away his hand, Žarko, and maybe he just stole a mere hen so he could eat! You heard that he is crippled, maybe he cannot work for his own food! Like me, Žarko – what would I do if I had not met you? How would I find something to eat? Žarko, you cannot let them do it! Please, Žarko, I plead before the God of the heavens, please, please, please!” Senka was on the verge of hysteria, tears running out of her eyes. There was no explanation for her behavior; she simply felt that her new world, whose foundation had just been built, would collapse into dust if she would allow this barbarity to happen in front of her protector’s eyes. For she had already blindly built a vision of her crude companion against the gods – as ill-tempered but righteous, as mighty yet merciful. And she could not allow herself to see him as cold-hearted; he could not be someone who would indifferently watch the mob abuse the weak.

Though he would never have admitted it to a living soul, not even to himself, Žarko was moved by the girl’s pleas. This powerless, young soul begging so desperately on behalf of an unknown and even unseen person in spite of all the tragedies she alone had already faced, struck a chord in Žarko’s heart. She had even reached out to the sleeping God of the heavens, not for herself, but for the fate of a stranger! He himself would never think to meddle in such a situation – the thief had stolen and had been caught, and the law commanded that he be punished. Žarko did not write the laws, and he also did not bother to think about whether they were just or not. He repeatedly violated them himself, killing those shielded by the law even though they deserved death, yet his head had always remained on his shoulders. The times in which they lived were shaped by people like him, a thing he felt unconsciously, though such thoughts were too subtle to ever be expressed in words. The law of might instead of the might of law was often the reality, the unwritten truth above the official laws of towns: for the laws to be enforced properly, a righteous force had to be behind them, and where such force was lacking, strength alone prevailed.

Žarko carefully scrutinized the bedlam in front of him. Twenty or so villagers, perhaps more, two holding the thief tightly by the hands, dragging him forward to the place where they intended to carry out his punishment, with others going out of their way to beat him, kick him, and spit on him. Some other men of the village were surely still out in the fields plowing or pasturing their cattle, while the remainder of the settlement was likely made up of women, children, and the elderly. He saw their heads peeking out from some of the houses, through windows, and all of them stared, following the furor unfolding; the capture of the thief had overshadowed even their arrival in the village, which would ordinarily have been a real spectacle for such a place. Only some of the men from the procession carried arms, if just some rough pitchforks or worn out hoes, and they used them to poke the thief crudely in the back; they were, obviously, peasants, and not warriors. Žarko had not actually regarded the thief at all – he was not interested in him in the least, even though he was close to deciding to help him and so change the course of that pathetic fate.

“You speak well, dear little sister… your words are pure, but what you spout is madness! Nevertheless, Žarko will do what you wish, as it is too heavy a day for bloodshed.” And just like that, a momentous decision has been reached. For, such was he a giant among men – what others would think over for days and days, he decided in seconds, according to the whims of his mood. And once he decided, Žarko acted with all of his might. He nudged Senka towards the tavern door, across the street’s pavement stones, rushing her out of the way while putting the empty wineskin into her hand, at the same time pulling out his mace with his other hand: “Come on, little sister… do not stand here, go get me my wine; say to them: ‘Žarko ordered it.’ Who knows what will happen after, and I need to fill up.” While still speaking these words, he had already moved towards the mob. A few huge steps and he was close enough, so he halted in the middle of the dusty street, exclaiming:

“Hey, villagers, hear me out!” Žarko’s booming voice rose above the noises and in a moment there was silence, the people all turning their heads towards him as if under command. Then the mighty man continued: “Tell me, who among you knows to read and write? Who of you has read the books of old?”

In the mob there was confusion as some of the men looked around at each other questioningly. Silence reigned. Then one voice shouted falteringly that there was no one literate in the village, before abruptly falling silent. Žarko stood there, upright, gazing at the crowd. Frowning grumpily as he was, this big man was a terrible sight to behold. His spectacular figure stood at least a head higher than anyone’s in the village, and in broadness he was twice the man of the largest peasant. On his head the wolf cap, its upper jaw extending over his brows; on his chest the wolf pelt, a furry vest he wore inverted. In his hand the heavy mace, behind his back the battle spear, and in his belt the saber. The two huge sides of his mustache relaxed somewhat, as he continued looking at the peasants, saying nothing… Little by little the villagers grew uneasy, and nervous mutterings and muffled whisperings could be heard among the mob. Only then did Žarko speak again:

“With no one who reads or writes, how then can you know the law?” Silence. Nobody ventured a word, though nervousness seemed to be growing in the crowd, as if it could sense impending trouble in the air. Žarko again stood silently, regarding them for a time, and then spoke:

“Well, here is Žarko, standing alone in front of you all! And I tell you: I know both, to read and write. The one who thinks he knows the old books better, has to cut off Žarko’s hand first, and only then the thief’s!” After saying this, the giant of a man suggestively moved that heavy mace in his right hand, letting it swing gently back and forth. The mumbling in the mob stopped fully, and silence hung, as if echoing in their ears. And it lasted. It lingered in the air like the people’s fear – it was one thing to catch a hobbled thief, but quite another to confront a fierce warrior. No one risked a word, let alone rose up against Žarko. Žarko left them hanging for a while, staring at them grimly, one by one. And whoever he glared at, the other man’s gaze would drop. Then he raised his voice once again:

“Look here, look here… no one knows the book of law better than the warrior Žarko? If that is how it is, I will take that thief as a slave. I will pay you fairly for the damage he has done; and I say: this is by the law. If someone has an objection to this, come forth now, complain to Žarko!” And, saying this, he scowled even more menacingly, which would have been thought unbelievable just a minute before.

Again one could hear whisperings from the crowd, more strongly even, but now no longer so agitated. The mob had calmed when faced with danger, the man from whom the thief had stolen shouted his consent from the safety of the crowd, while others used this opportunity to already begin slipping away. And so it was resolved; the two men holding the thief by the arms led him up to Žarko, somewhat hesitantly, their heads bowed and their eyes on the ground. They released him and then quickly turned back. The village street emptied, even the man to whom damages were to be paid went away, saying there was no need, that he would not want to take money from such a warrior. Then Žarko, watching the last few people scattering, addressed the thief: “With me, if you value your head.” Then he turned, not looking at him again, and headed straight for the tavern. Senka had not, of course, filled the wine – like everyone else, she had been caught up in the excitement of the events, and had not moved from the entrance, listening, all the time holding the empty wineskin in her hand.

And while the whole village still lingered in a daze under the powerful impressions of what had just occurred, Žarko had already devoted himself to other things. He sent a scared barmaid to fill up his wineskin and fetch the innkeeper; when the man came out, visibly frightened, Žarko asked him to estimate how much was owed to the man from whom the thief had stolen, as he did not want to have a debt to anyone. He told Senka and his new drudge to wait in the tavern while he went across to buy a horse, enough bread, and one whole, uncooked lamb, skinned and well-salted, then threw all of that onto the horse and came back. He reentered the tavern and told the thief, for the first time looking him straight in the eye, grimly: “Now I will eat and drink with my sister until the time for heading out. And you, my servant, will wait in front… Watch the horse! When I come out, if you are not here, or my horse is not here, know there is no place nor hole under the heavens where you can crawl in to hide from me!”

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Who is Žarko

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“What to do with you, lassie? To lead you onwards would not do, but to leave you here is worse!” These words the strange man spoke more for himself than anything else, the longest string of words Senka had heard him say during the whole morning. She felt desperately like crying, like pleading for herself, for help, to throw herself into his arms… but she remained silent. They were eating the leftovers from the night before, some kind of tasty meat which the rider had carried along with him under his saddle, very likely the last bits of some wild game which the man had himself hunted.

After a few more minutes during which Senka ate in silence, the mustached man announced his decision: “For now you will stay with Žarko, until we find you a home.” This time Senka could not stand to wait and immediately asked: “And who is Žarko?” This triggered an eruption of laughter from the man. This gargantuan laugh, which hardly resembled a laugh as one would normally think of it, went on and on, and it seemed like the man was barely able to catch his breath as he replied: “Who is… har-har-har… who is… why, it’s me, you poor thing! I am Žarko, who else would it be?!” And so Senka, just then, finally learned the name of her odd companion, even though she had already (more than once!) recounted the details of her recent calamities for him, as well as the brief story of her life.

And off they headed, the man announcing resolutely that it was time to depart. Senka did not know where to, but she also did not care; in the company of this man she felt more secure than she had ever felt in her short life, not really knowing why. As opposed to the evening before, when he had placed her on the back of his horse as he led, her companion now showed far less gentleness – Senka went on foot behind the horse, holding on to its tail with one hand, and onto Vidra with her other. The stranger kept the horse to a light pace, and this with no trouble whatsoever; any observer would certainly see that the animal was already overburdened by the size and weight of such a rider alone, and the walk was likely what the horse would choose anyhow.

Senka would have been, if she were to think about it, surprised by the speed at which she adapted to life without sight. Her eyes were now Vidra, and her step was perfectly aligned with the rhythm of the hoofs of the horse whose tail she held onto. And she felt safe. She did not stumble, but already stepped firmly, sure that this strange rider was already choosing a way for her. Everything was happening so fast that she did not have time to acknowledge, let alone grieve for, what she had lost, and her young spirit had become almost immediately accustomed to this unexpected adventure that now made up her life. She did not know what tomorrow held, or even what to expect in an hour or two, but that was exactly what she had longed for in the unmeasured days of her carefree, but also monotonous and fairly lonely childhood. She had dreamed of far away places, and now she was on her way to them. She has lost everything, but all that she had lost had already begun to look more and more like a far-off dream, like the sad story of some other person. Having lost her eyesight, security, and the chores of ordinary life, forced by cruel fate to rely on previously neglected senses and on chance encounters with strangers, Senka was reborn as a new person. She was open to the world around her, for there was nothing left to grab onto in fear of what might come. Deprived of every support, this girl of twelve was forced to fly like a leaf swept off a tree. And now she flew, aware of every step, every word, every sound, every moment. Senka was alive.

“There, a village near the road. I will fill my wineskin there… and buy a decent horse, because this old nag is at her end.” Senka realized that she was enjoying all of these rare proclamations of her protector, for that is how she had thought of him since the first moment they met. His statements were guideposts, dictating the direction of her current life. And this last one seemed prophetic: as soon as the rider spoke these words, the horse just collapsed underneath him! “There! See, I said so and I did not lie!” shouted the man with a dose of droll complacency, and then, without wasting another moment, he took upon himself all the things that the horse had been carrying with difficulty. After he slung his heavy weapon about his belt on the left side, he went onwards, allowing Senka to grab on to the muscle of his right arm. He even merrily whistled something almost like a tune. The village was close by, and he was pleased that the remaining walk would not last long.

And so they went forward, leaving the dead horse (or dead-tired, Senka was not sure) behind them. They went along on the only sort of road that Senka had ever known; not the one paved with cobblestones, like those supposedly known to larger places and towns, which her father had once spoken of (this sudden thought of her father elicited a brief wave of sadness), but rather an ordinary path of stamped earth, occasionally rutted and collapsed, just wide enough for the passage of a horse and wagon – in the rare event that two horse carts might meet going in opposite directions, one of them would have to stop and turn off of the path so that the other could pass.

After a short while, the familiar sounds of a settled area began to reach Senka. The road led right through the village, even widening a measure, unlike those “real” roads which her father had spoken of, which would skirt about the edges of towns rather then lead into them. She could not grasp that only by hearing, but this village was not much bigger than the only other settlement she had seen before, and also looked more or less the same. A bit more than a hundred souls, dwelling in twenty or so houses. In the middle of the village stood a small tavern where one could get a drink, a meal, or a place to sleep for the rare traveler passing through, and just across the road was the one and only store in which one could find anything and everything: from foodstuffs and small items, to weapons and tools, and even horses, which were kept in a stable behind the shop. The road became flatter, and Senka no longer needed to lean so heavily on Žarko’s arm. For a moment she thought to completely let go; she wasn’t sure how the villagers would look at the sight of a blind girl holding onto the forearm of a large man instead of a stick, or whether Žarko might feel uncomfortable because of it. But her companion walked on in at an unbroken pace, with that same natural confidence which Senka had already learned to appreciate, so she simply relaxed and continued to curiously listen and take in the world around her.

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A Night by the Forest

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“Come on then, lassie, tell me once again… Something came after you, but you don’t know what?”

If Senka were able to see, she woudn not have missed, even with her inexperienced eyes, the mocking expression in the eyes of her questioner. The enormous man raised up his waterskin, and gulped from it an amount that only he could call a sip. Then he smoothed out the two long sides of his mustache before addressing Senka again: “Talk, poor lassie, talk! Come on, string me along once again!”

And Senka again repeated her story to this strange man. He would now and again let out a few muffled sounds, which most likely signified wonder, or interest, or perhaps just a simple sign of attentiveness. The squeaking sound of the man’s large waterskin opening reached Senka’s ear more and more often, and from it the stranger swallowed larger and larger gulps. Without giving much thought to it, Senka had at first assumed that he was simply thirsty after a long days’ journey. Shortly after their encounter, when she had said that she was thirsty and would like some water, it surprised her to no small degree that the man replied: “What? Water?!” with a tone of derision in his voice, “Water is bothersome in the boot, let alone in the stomach! I do not have water, I do not… but I have wine! Do you want some?” When Senka rejected the offer without hesitation, the man seemed to think for a moment, and then in his strange euphonious manner of speaking, almost melodious despite the masculine rudeness of his voice, said that there were numerous streams in the region and he certainly planned to make camp along one of them. And with that, the man decisively stood up and in one easy movement lifted Senka onto the back of his horse. Senka had never felt lighter! She had the impression that she was lifted without a trace of effort, and her impression was not false – the strength of the man was incredible and her weight was not enough to cause even the slightest tightening in his muscles. After setting her on the saddle, he hung his large wineskin up on the horn of the saddle, letting it fall against the horse’s right flank, while tying his weapon, whose look alone would surely have frightened Senka could she see it, to hang to the left, mumbling: “That should keep it in balance, not pulling here or there.” He grabbed the horse by the reins, which he skillfully threw forward, turning them into a halter, and led his new party (a horse, a dog, and a blind girl) where he wanted. Just like the horse, the dog and Senka both accepted, without a word, this unknown man as their undisputed leader.

And so soon they found themselves sitting beside a small fire, just alongside a brook they could hear clearly babbling away, and Senka, no longer thirsty or tired, retold yet again what had happened to her. The man listened, leaning back against a thick tree, and sitting so, drinking and listening, his head would now and again fall forward, until he finally drifted off to sleep. Senka continued to speak awhile about how she and Vidra had lain unmoving for how long no one could say, revisiting that horror once more, until the heavy snoring sigh of the man interrupted her story, assuring her that he was indeed sound asleep. Then she finally fell silent, and the quiet of the night confirmed her doubts. Wrapping herself up as best as she could, Senka lay down on the ground and fell asleep, tight against her dog once again. Her tormented spirit found, with unexpected ease, at least a moment’s peace in the face of tomorrow’s temptations.

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