“Welcome back, brother.”
Chapter forty-seven
Dearest
I tear my eyes away from his odious face that’s young and old at once, surrounded by a mane of golden hair shot with silver. Time has been kind to Perun, as was sucking the world dry of magic for his own gain.
My heart sinks when I see Jaga. She is wrapped in magical chains that hang from the lowest branches of the Great Oak, her arms stretched up, her mouth gagged. She struggles, her magic flailing around her with hot, red bursts, but she doesn’t have enough to make a difference.
Fuck, I never should have let her free the souls.
There are shouts behind me and sounds of fighting. I turn my head with effort, seeing Chors fighting with Dadzbog from the corner of my eye. Nyja throws spells at Swarog, fierce and powerful as always. They are an even match. The King of Bees wrestles with the rarog, but he’s not as strong as when he fought Dadzbog in the fall. He’s losing, his insects burning to ash.
Strzybog and Jutrzenka stand aside. My heart plummets when I realize they were never on my side to begin with. Jutrzenka claps and bounces, giggling as she watches the show, and when our eyes meet, her lips stretch in a mean, cruel smile that looks eerie on her innocent, girly face.
“You unfaithful dog,” Perun says, and ropes of lightning wrap around the god of wind.
Strzybog cries out in pain as his father drags him closer. “No, Father! I meant to spy for you! I was ready to come with news!”
“That’s a pathetic lie,” Perun hisses, bringing Strzybog’s face close until they are nose to nose. “If you were truly loyal, you would have told me about this stupid plot, like Jutrzenka did. She will be elevated, while you will rot with them all.”
“No, Father, I promise! I have so much information on Nawie, hidden things, sources of power and magic! I will show you all of them, please!”
I cringe, because there is so much terror in Strzybog’s voice. He is such a strong, carefree god, but his own father makes him almost piss himself with a look and a few words.
At least he was truly on our side until the end. I don’t begrudge him this. Strzybog always went where the wind blew, and it’s a survival strategy that’s served him well.
Jaga cries out into her gag, and I forget all about Strzybog and the fight happening behind me. My girl is suffering.
I try to kick away the roots stealing my magic, but there is no room to move. I sting them with my poisons, the little that I have left, and they recoil for a moment, only to come back angrier and more violent. They climb up my calves and pierce my skin with thorns, sticking for good. My magic pours out in a nauseatingly fast torrent, sucked out of me until I gasp for air, completely dry.
Jaga struggles, but she’s lost, too. How I wish for the bond right now. We could try to make a plan, or at least speak to each other, but she tore me out of her mind like a weed.
A scorching hot palm lands on my shoulder, and I hiss. Dadzbog crouches behind me, and I know what it means. Chors was defeated.
“Good to see you, uncle. Thank you for bringing my cousin. I don’t think you’ll see him ever again, so I’m letting you know he’ll be in good hands—mine.”
He laughs with good cheer, standing up. My skin steams from the burn of his hand, unhealed, as Dadzbog walks away. Chors follows, a collar made of blinding, hot light tight around his neck, tied to a chain. Dadzbog holds the other end. My son is gagged, and his eyes are filled with pain as they briefly lock with mine.
Nyja is still fighting, screaming in rage every time she delivers a well-aimed attack. Swarog roars with pain, and I twist my neck further to watch.
“Nyja, look up!”
The rarog descends on her from the sky, its wings of scorching flame beating the air. The King of Bees is but a pile of burned insects, and the flaming bird returns to its master. Together, they attack Nyja with burning ropes of flame, and she shields herself with a cloak of starlit darkness, falling to her knees from effort.
They rain more and more fire, and she screams, holes appearing in her protection, tiny at first, their edges red hot like embers.
Her cloak crumbles to dust, and she’s engulfed in flame. I send my shadows her way, but they dissolve into nothing. I have no magic left.
Swarog and the rarog pull back, their flames extinguished, only Swarog’s enormous hands enveloped in balls of fire. Nyja shakes, her entire body steaming, but she heals slowly. She’s done, though. When chains bind her wrists, a collar around her neck, she gets up with effort and spits at Swarog in rage.
He backhands her easily, burning her cheek and eye. I turn around, back to Jaga, facing my defeat.
It’s strange, but I am no longer afraid. The worst has happened already, and I take in Perun’s gleeful smile with acceptance that’s almost serenity.
Jaga stands, restrained next to the trunk, close to my former prison. Chors kneels in the grass nearby, his bound hands wrapped around the burning collar to ease its pressure on his neck. Nyja joins him in a moment, pulled closer by Swarog, and a troop of dragons drags in Rod and his daughters, who are forced to their knees by Nyja’s side.
Strzybog is free as far as I can tell, but his shoulders slump in defeat, his face tense and closed off. I don’t expect him to offer us help, not that he has even the smallest chance of being successful.
