The sun was approaching its zenith as the horse, sweat-sheened and with billowing breath, entered the village. The rider pushed his charge harder, squeezing every ounce of energy from the tired steed.
Finally reaching his destination, the rider dismounted and threw the reins to a local with a sharp command to stable the horse. Without waiting to see the deferential nod, the man strode to a large hut. The building was set aside from the others in the village and was larger. The importance of the place was clear by the ornate designs carved into the wooden doors; constellations, ladybirds and the divine faces of gods. Ignoring the images, which he had seen a thousand or more times before, he shoved a door open and entered.
Of the four people inside, only one appeared relieved. She rushed forward and threw her arms around him, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Džeisons, you return. I was so worried,’ she said through her sobs.
‘Milla, my love,’ Džeisons greeted, kissing her cheeks. He felt his urgency abate when he saw his wife’s wan complexion. Placing a hand on her swelling belly, he asked, ‘Are you strong?’
Ludmilla smiled and rested her hand over his.
‘This one kicks still,’ she said.
Džeisons returned her smile. Relief showed on his face for only a moment before his expression turned dour again.
‘Milla, you must away,’ he muttered. ‘What shall occur here will not be an easy thing to witness and I fear it be too much for your condition.’
‘Then it is true?’ one of the men asked. ‘The Schwertbrüderorden come?’ He stepped forward, leaning on a decorated staff, its delicate features worn by the caress of countless hands before his. About his neck hung a tattered bear paw and a polished dagger, symbols of the man’s place in the community.
Džeisons nodded grimly and held the shaman’s eyes.
‘Yes, Jānis,’ he said with a resigned sigh. ‘The Brothers press on. I’ll warrant we will not see another dawn ere they arrive.’
‘Then we must prepare,’ Jānis said. ‘We will meet their upstart god and we will show them the awe,’ he banged his staff on the floor with a sharp tunk as he said the word, ‘of true divinity.’
As Jānis and his acolytes began the work in the temple, Džeisons escorted Ludmilla to their home. Theirs was the largest structure in the village, befitting Džeisons’ position as village leader, though the rooms were empty and quiet upon their return.
‘Are you certain your plot is hardy?’ Ludmilla asked as they crossed the threshold. ‘It is not wise to meddle with gods.’
‘The Schwertbrüderorden have taken Riga,’ he replied, ‘and now they follow the Daugova east. Our fellow countrymen have fallen to their advance. If we wish to live, if we wish our child to live, this scheme is our chance.’
‘If only I could be present with you,’ Ludmilla said, her tone close to pleading. ‘For if this is to be our last day, I would face the end by your side.’
Džeisons stared deep into her eyes. His voice was soft, but his tone firm.
‘I could not risk you losing another,’ he said, gently touching her stomach. ‘The knowledge of your safety – for both of you – is the strength that will carry me through this night.’
‘But what of Jānis? Has he the fortitude and the wit for the subterfuge?’
‘I have no doubt,’ Džeisons lied.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs as Džeisons re-entered the temple. Rosemary for purification and basil to provide protection. One of Jānis’s acolytes knelt in the centre of the room, carefully scratching a white stone over the floor while Jānis walked in measured steps along the rough wood walls. Incoherent words fell from the cleric’s lips in a barely audible mumble. Upon reaching one corner of the room, Jānis cracked his staff on the floor – tunk – and began walking along the next wall. Džeisons waited until the older man had completed the full perimeter before speaking.
‘There is much to do,’ he said. ‘How best can I aid?’
‘Demetrijs could use assistance with the circles,’ Jānis said, indicating the kneeling boy. ‘Can you craft the sacred sigils?’
‘Crudely. Not well enough for this purpose,’ Džeisons admitted.
‘Then what use are you?’ Jānis breathed, tunking the floor at his frustration.
Džeisons gritted his teeth and allowed the man this indiscretion. In normal times, taking such a tone with him would have been a slight worthy of a lashing. But this day was uncertain and treacherous, and much depended on Jānis’s skill.
‘I can grind coal for your dust or weave leaves for a wreath,’ Džeisons said.
Jānis dismissed the suggestions with a wave of his hand. ‘Bernards has that in hand. Konrads,’ he added with fervour. ‘The herder is tardy with the offering. You could hasten him.’
With a curt nod, Džeisons turned and left the temple. Though the sun was still far from the horizon, the streets were quiet. Much of the population had cloistered themselves away to spend what may be their last hours in the hearth of their loved ones.
He had only walked a few hundred yards when he saw Konrads approaching. The herder pulled on a thin rope, dragging a goat behind him. Džeisons blanched when he saw the creature. The left horn was misshapen and its ribs were visible at its side.
‘This runt is all you bring?’ he barked. ‘Konrads, we would have the stoutest of your stock this evening.’
‘A-apologies, pan,’ Konrads stuttered, using the honorific to show his respect. ‘These past months have been hard. Of all my herd, Bārda here is the strongest.’
‘The winter was rough for us all,’ Džeisons agreed with sympathy. He reached for the rope, saying, ‘Go to your home, Konrads, I will deliver the offering. When this ordeal has passed, I will see you properly compensated.’
Bowing with deference, the goat herder quickly turned and fled. Džeisons tugged on the cord. Bārda stubbornly held his ground but Džeisons’s determination was stronger and soon the goat abandoned its fight and was trudging along.
As they passed the road leading from the village, Džeisons was hailed by an incoming rider.
‘News?’ Džeisons asked, though he could tell from the look in the man’s eyes there was nothing good to report.
‘There are four hundred men not two leagues from here,’ he panted.
‘They’ll be here before nightfall,’ Džeisons calculated. ‘Good work, Elmede. Go rest. Hopefully, I’ll see you in the morrow.’
Džeisons turned back and moved urgently toward the temple. Bārda must have sensed his mood for the goat gave no further resistance.
The arcane circles had been completed by the time he returned. Etched in chalk and bolstered with coal dust and the ash of burned wolfsbane, one circle sat within the other. In the narrow ring formed at the outer edge, sacred glyphs had been traced. Interspersed between these sigils, four items had been placed at equal distances: a flask of water, a lit candle, a carefully shaped dome of soil and an ornate box, sealed by wax and sorcery, which held the dying breath of a village elder. The items represented the elements; water, fire, earth and wind.
In the central circle, Demetrijs was using a rag to daub oil in intricate patterns. The acolyte worked slowly and steadily, painting the almost invisible shapes with care.
Jānis entered from a back room with Bernards in tow. The shaman took in the paltry goat and shook his head.
‘This is the best we have,’ Džeisons said firmly. ‘Its blood is as good as any other’s and we have no time to argue. The Brothers will be on us within the hour.’
Jānis paused a moment, then gave a small nod. ‘Then let the ritual begin,’ he said quietly.
The approaching horde were a distant blur when Džeisons left the village and stopped after fifty paces. He would greet the invaders on his terms, before they could gain ingress to his homestead, but he could not allow himself to be drawn out too far.
Time passed and the Schwertbrüderorden drew closer until he could make out their standard despite the deepening gloom; two simple lines, the longest a downward stroke with the other crossing it a third of the way from the peak. The Brothers stopped marching when they were a hundred yards away. Džeisons heard the sounds of wood striking wood, sheets of leather being thrown and men barking orders, and he recognised the noises of a camp being erected.
Presently, two horses broke from the throng and trotted forward, each bearing a rider. Though unfamiliar with their uniform, Džeisons knew these would be the Schwertbrüderorden leader and his second-in-command. Ten feet from him, the riders stopped and dismounted.
‘We do not want war,’ Džeisons announced, keeping his voice steady, firm.
‘We do not bring war,’ the tallest of the two said. ‘We bring deliverance.’ A strong German accent told of his origin, though he spoke the Baltic tongue well enough to be understood.
‘I am Commander Waltherus Tripp,’ the man continued as he strode forward, his companion falling in line behind him. ‘It has been twelve hundred and twenty-eight years since the birth of the saviour, and we come to bring you salvation through His word.’
‘You would speak with our shaman, then,’ Džeisons said.
‘I would,’ Waltherus said dryly.
Without another word, Džeisons turned and led the men into the village. They walked in silence through the muddy streets and up to the wooden temple. Pausing briefly at the door, Džeisons took a deep breath to calm himself. He resisted the urge to offer up a silent prayer for fear that it would be received.
Džeisons opened the door and stepped inside, his guests close behind him. In the far corners of the room, Demetrijs and Bernards were kneeling and mumbling the words of an incantation. Jānis stood in front of the sacred circle, one hand gripping his staff while the other held a goblet filled with a dark liquid. On his chest, the ceremonial dagger dripped blood onto his woollen tunic.
Waltherus took in the scene and sneered.
‘Your godless rites are foolish and unfounded,’ he said to Jānis. ‘There is but one true god, and to Him you must turn.’
‘I have met with my gods,’ Jānis said, with a tunk of the staff. ‘Can you say the same of yours?’
‘The one God speaks to me in my dreams,’ Waltherus answered. His voice was confident in his piety.
‘In dreams?’ Jānis scoffed. ‘Then witness with your waking eyes.’
He lifted the cup to his mouth and tipped it back. From their corners, the acolytes’ voices increased in pace and volume. When Jānis lowered his hand, his beard was stained red, his cheeks bulging. He turned to face the arcane diagram and spat a mouthful of blood into the inner circle.
As the viscous liquid hit the blessed oil, it bubbled and steamed and the air was rent by a thunderous hiss. The vapours rose, swirled together, becoming thicker rather than dissipating. Within the maelstrom, dark shapes appeared; an arm, a mouth, a hoof.
Džeisons’s heart pounded. Though it had been his idea for Jānis to conjure a demon, he now wondered if the plan had been folly all along. Could there have been another way to save his village?
Waltherus took a step backwards while his sergeant drew his sword. Džeisons inched closer to Jānis.
The writhing steam within the circle was now as thick as smoke, yet still blood red. The eddying motion slowed as the shadowy forms coalesced into one. It looked like a large man but for the scarlet skin, cloven feet and horns atop its head.
‘Virtus Christi te urget,’ Waltherus’s champion cried as he stepped toward the creature, his weapon raised.
‘Hah!’ the thing within the circle roared over the cacophony of the demonic hissing. The sound of its dread voice shook Džeisons to the bone. ‘Your god’s bastard holds no power here. These are my people. These are my pets.’
The demon reached out to the knight but stopped before it crossed the outer circle.
‘This is a real god,’ Džeisons shouted to Waltherus, taking another step to Jānis. ‘Jods is the deity who rules these lands.’
‘Yes,’ Jods screeched at the two Schwertbrüderorden. ‘Witness now the passion of my faithful.’
‘It is by his whim that we live,’ Džeisons continued. ‘It is for his pleasure that we suffer.’ He turned to Jānis, placed his hands at the older man’s chest. ‘Our winters are blighted by his will.’ Fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, muscles tensed. ‘Our children die in their mother’s bellies by his cruelty.’
With one fluid motion, Džeisons pushed Jānis to the ground and yanked the dagger free from the old man’s neck. He spun to face the ensnared demon-god.
‘But no more,’ he yelled. ‘We would be free from your evil.’
With a cry pent from his years of strife and fear and frustration, Džeisons leapt into the circle. His aim was true, his ire focused, and he plunged the weapon through the god’s right eye.
Jods howled in fright and pain. He writhed, arching his back and reaching wildly for Džeisons. Iron-like talons pierced Džeisons’s side. Džeisons cried out in anguish but did not release Jānis’s dagger, worrying the sacred blade back and forth within Jods’ eye socket.
The pair tumbled to the floor as Jods’ legs gave way. Despite his agony, Džeisons noticed the demon’s right leg had returned to a pall of smoke. As he watched, the drifting smoke dissipated in a rain of blood.
Jods gave a guttural scream as more of his earthly body began to evaporate. The claws still in Džeisons’s side vanished, allowing his blood to flow freely from the wounds.
Reduced to only chest and one side of his face, Jods bellowed his rage.
‘I curse you.’ The anger in his voice was almost palpable. ‘Beware of this: unto the fiftieth generation, I will curse you and all your kin, Džeisons Balodis.’
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