The Ice Queen (Odd Tangle-Hair Saga) by Macbain Bruce

Author:Macbain, Bruce [Macbain, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
Published: 2015-11-29T16:00:00+00:00

17

The Caves

Clinging to roots and brush, I eased myself down the side of the ravine. The night was dark, the bottom of the ravine darker still; but it was when I put my head into that cave’s mouth that I felt darkness envelop me like a black sack.

A quavering inner voice pleaded to go back, but no—just a little farther—a little farther … The floor took a sudden dip, I lost my footing and slid down on my backside in an avalanche of pebbles. When I finally came to rest, I lay still, my heart beating like mad. From the echoing clicks of the falling stones I sensed a large space around me.

Off to my right something stirred. The scuffling of feet? Tightening my grip on Kuchug’s saber, I crept in that direction. Again the scuffle of feet—surely human—rapidly retreating. Did whoever it was fear me more than I did him?

“Ya drug,” I called softly in Slavonic, “I’m a friend. Show yourself.”

But there was only the echo of my own voice. Then, more stirrings: soft steps, an indrawn breath, the rustle of cloth. Whoever they were, they surrounded me now. Why didn’t they speak? For a swift instant I was in Pohjola again, in the bowels of Louhi’s Copper Mountain with its buried horrors. The hairs on my neck stood up. I would have run away except that I had lost all sense of direction. I crouched down, feeling the cold sweat run down my back.

“In Christ’s name, stranger,” came a voice nearly at my elbow, making me jump, “you are welcome if you come in peace.”

Flint scraped against steel; a candle blazed; then another and another … Standing in the yellow pools of light, were white faced men, wrapped in dark robes.

The one who had spoken held up his candle, allowing me to see his face. It was covered by an immense white beard that began below the eyes and rippled over his chest right down to the knotted rope that served him for a belt.

“I am Feodosy, a servant of God and the abbot of these humble brothers,” he said. “We are all poor monks here; you will find little to eat, but you are welcome to what we have.”

Feodosy? Didn’t I know that name? Father Dmitri had mentioned a Feodosy of the Caves in our catechism class and read us something by him. Yes, that was it—he was the one who warned against sharing your bowl with a heretic for fear of pollution. Well, never mind, I thought. If only he hates the Pechenegs half as much as he does the Catholics.

“Who are you, stranger, and what do you seek in Pechersky Lavra—the Monastery of the Caves?” It was a deep, not unpleasant voice.

Quickly gathering my thoughts, I answered that I was a druzhinik of Yaroslav the Wise.

A current of excitement ran through the shrouded figures around me. “The prince here!” they whispered. “How? When?”

Briefly I told of our arrival and explained our position. “I was sent to scout the camp and chanced to see the entrance to your cavern.

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