C. Cherryh: Chernevog

He struck at it, he tore himself away, with Eveshka shrieking at him, wishing it away from him.

Thunder cracked. Lightning burst a tree in the woods beside him.

He could not hear, then, he could not see—except Volkhi’s rearing shape seared into his sight. He thought, My wife, dammit! ’Veshka’s doing this! Damn her, she’s our hope—she’s the only hope. He ran, blind for that black shape his vision still held, he grabbed the tight-stretched tether Volkhi was fighting, slung the sheath off his sword and cut it.

He dropped the sword. He needed both hands to get a hold on Volkhi. He wrapped his hand in the tether and hauled himself for Volkhi’s neck, Volkhi’s shoulder, grabbed a fistful of mane and flung himself in the direction Volkhi was bolting, landing astride.

He had a little vision in his streaming eyes, he ducked low on Volkhi’s back as branches raked over them and hoped to the god Volkhi was not as blind.

He knew where she was. Volkhi was going that direction. He heard ’Veshka’s voice, he knew she was in trouble and he wished to the god he had the sword—but he had enough on his hands, keeping Volkhi on his feet in the dark-hazed woods and telling his wife, the while he did it, Dammit, ’Veshka, stop it— listen to me, hear?

“Pyetr!” Sasha cried, “Pyetr!” Thunder cracked. Wind howled through the trees, pelting them with leaves, and Chernevog caught Sasha’s arm, wanting him to stop, wait, use his head—

“You’ve no choice!” Chernevog yelled at him, “you’ve no more time for dithering, boy! Make a choice—join me or join that! If he puts my heart in her hands we’ve neither of us got a choice at all! Help me!”

Sasha spun on one foot and tore from his grip, raced through the lightning-seared dusk toward the remaining horse, and Chernevog wished not—

Sasha stopped and swung about, in the gibbering chaos about them, the horse struggling and screaming in fright—Sasha wished, fighting his attempt to reason with him…

Chaos and magic — wild wishes racketing about the walls in physical form-Wanting him —

“God!” Chernevog cried, as a white shape flew in his face, buffeted him with icy wings.

Sasha had caught up the fallen sword, beckoned him with it, shouting. “Come help me! Help me, for the god’s sake!”

“Nothing we can do!” Chernevog cried. “Dammit, he’s giving Draga everything she wants—and a wizard’s no help to me! Join me, boy, join me, or I’ll be joining her, and then where will you be, where’s hope for any of us?”

Sasha squinted in the wind, shielding his eyes with his arm, and cried, “I’m going after him! You can do what you want, Chernevog!”

Thunder cracked. A tree shattered, spun burning fragments along the wind. The horse reared, cracking the limb it was tied to. Sasha grabbed after it, hacked at the tether.

Chernevog wanted the lightning elsewhere, he wanted Sasha to listen to him—he no longer knew anything for certain: no longer knew what had waked him or what had brought him here—Draga had shaped his magic, Draga had used it—

“Come on!” Sasha shouted at him, wanting him.

But a jagged shadow loomed between himself and Sasha, face-to-face with him—caging him with outstretched arms. He wanted help. It wanted—him. It was—him.

The night he had tried magic on his own, to know enough to free himself—

A wish unfinished, a desire Draga had ripped away and twisted—

“Chernevog!”

“All right!” he yelled at Sasha, waved his arm and swept up the fragment, crazed as it was—

The shadow—the fragment—vanished; but Owl was still there, Owl flew ghostly white and unruffled by the gale as Chernevog ran toward him. Sasha grabbed Missy’s mane, wanted her still just as long as it took: he heaved himself onto her back, pulled her about as Chernevog reached him—

Wanting him to stop, wanting up with him—this… Thing along with him.

It wanted to beat Draga—it saw lightnings and a rider on a black horse—

It took his offered hand, clambered up over him and flung itself astride as Missy took out running, held on to him as Missy trampled a rotten branch to splinters and took the hill in a dozen long strides.

He wanted to overtake Pyetr before it was too late. Chernevog offered help. And what he had taken up behind him and what was clinging to his back—he had no idea.

Lightnings cracked, throwing the whole woods into white glare, a broken limb tumbled into their path, Volkhi sailed over it and kept going, along a hollow and up a bank, between two trees so close one braised Pyetr’s leg.

It was ’Veshka’s wish guided him, Pyetr trusted that it was, it was her voice he heard wailing over the rest.

Lightning showed an abrupt edge to the ground—it came up through the trees, under Volkhi’s feet, and Volkhi plunged down a slope, took a shallow brook in stride and headed up again.

A thunderbolt hit behind, showing brush between the trees. Volkhi crashed through it, under limbs, and Pyetr grasped mane along with the reins, tucked low and held on as branches stabbed his back.

He heard wolves over the splintering of brush and Volkhi’s pounding strides, he saw clear ground ahead, lightning lit—a hill beyond a thinning screen of trees.

They came pounding into the clear, under open sky, where lightnings flickered—and Volkhi came to a sudden sliding halt, then laid back his ears and swung about as if something invisible held him.

A bear’s warning sounded over the wind. Pyetr saw the moving darkness at the edge of the trees as Volkhi turned. Thunder crashed and rumbled, and Volkhi kept turning, smelling the bear, it was damn sure. He gave Volkhi a gentle kick to make him move, and Volkhi only shivered, making nervous small steps, turning again.

Eveshka stood in front of him—looking up at him.

She said, “Pyetr?” But it seemed a dozen voices were speaking in his head.”Pyetr, get down, come here, do you understand me?”

He wanted to get off the horse. He wanted to get down and go to her, but there was that small cold slither about his heart that said,

Fool. Don’t trust favors.

Don’t trust anything Draga’s touched.

He said, with the lightning flickering overhead, casting her alternately in light and dark, “ ’Veshka, if you’re doing this— make it stop.”

The dark spot grew colder, cold that went through all his bones. He did not trust that heart, he did not trust himself near ’Veshka of a sudden, did not like ’Veshka’s coldness either, or the way she was looking at him.

He was afraid suddenly of what that heart in him might ask, or make him do—and he reined Volkhi further back.

He heard the bear moaning a challenge at his back—heard a voice very like Eveshka’s say, behind him, “Son-in-law, no one means you any harm. Get off the horse. Get off the horse.”

Missy was not fast, double-burdened as she was, but she charged through brush and trampled over the debris the gale flung into their path. It was wishes kept her going, it was wishes kept them on her back, and Sasha wished everything she could do. It felt as if Pyetr had just vanished from the world—no sense of where he was, only where he had been going when he had just quit being there.

Don’t trust anything! Sasha wished him. Don’t believe, don’t trust ’Veshka—she’s not safe.

Chernevog tried to tell him, it’s the wolves that have her heart, Draga’s wolves. They’ve torn it in pieces, and it can’t put itself together again—

Missy shied and skidded, almost went down. Sasha caught her neck as she came up, wished her steady.