Baba Medved and the Syndicate of Steel
From the window of her modest abode, Baba Medved watched as sheets of white paper traced rippled paths through the moonlit sky, like pale ghosts in search of a home. Below, the nervous whisper of birch leaves shivered in the valley; she knew they were not just troubled by the wind, but by the portents of ruin.
Those trees called out to Baba Medved now, an invisible tether pulling at the core of her being. She must protect them, she knew. Slipping into her coat, the sable’s fur grazed her flesh, and as she stepped into the embrace of the snow, something within her began to shift. Her steps quickened, grew uneven, matching the erratic yet purposeful gait of the creature that shared her shadow — silent, almost ghostlike against the white canvas beneath her feet.
She ran.
Nearing the hill’s peak, the stark scene of upheaval lay bare before her, and her heart raced.
From her vantage, Baba Medved saw the invaders: mechanical monstrosities with spinning blades and harrowing drills, their limbs stained with the sap of the forest they desecrated. Flurries of snow and splinters of wood whirled in the air as the giants made their ruthless foray, devouring tree after tree in their path. Their age-old whispers silenced by the groaning engines and clanking chains of unrelenting progress.
Time slowed as her senses honed to a razor’s edge, and the world bathed in the machines’ amber radiance. With eyes fixed upon the hulking contraptions above, she extended her will outward, and the power within her surged. The winds bloomed at her silent command, tendrils of rust spreading across the invaders’ metallic hides, and their strength was sapped.
The largest of the machines shuddered as the rust consumed its joints and gears, groans and screeches filling the air. And then it succumbed—its structure buckling and collapsing. As it crashed to the earth, dust and debris mushroomed into the sky, and fearful creatures darted from the remnants of fallen logs, seizing their chance to escape. The smaller machines, having witnessed the defeat of their ironclad leader, hesitated for only a moment before retreating into the encroaching night.
Baba Medved absorbed the scene before her. She whispered a mournful eulogy to every fallen tree, her small voice blending with the wind as it sighed through the remaining sentinels of the birchwood. Her heart clung to the hope that these forests would one day recover their former glory and that the spirits who lived here would hold their ground against future usurpers. As silence reclaimed the grove and the specter of danger receded, Baba Medved breathed a sigh of relief. She knew her vigil was far from over, but for now, the forest had been spared, and in that, she found a solemn peace.
The forest’s sharp edges began to blur, and its vividness dissolved into a gentle haze. Baba Medved’s heartbeat, which had pulsed in time with the urgency of the wild, now slowed its frantic pace. The icy night retreated, and the menacing drone of machines was but a memory, fading into silence.
She shot up from her bedding with a gasp, clutching her chest. The spirit link had been severed, but the memories of the journey lingered on her skin like an old fur coat. The embers in the hearth cast a soft, flickering glow; its warmth brushed against her. Sergei, with his tail curled around her, sat on her lap, his gentle purrs working in harmony with the hearth to anchor her back to the here and now. She looked down at him, grateful for his friendship and protection. His spirit was strong and wise, she knew, but the young sable was a fragile little critter. Baba Medved vowed to keep him safe, no matter what. Oh Sergei, she thought, how lucky I am to have you.
As she basked in this moment, a distant rumble shook the silence, and the embers in the hearth stirred. Misha, she thought. The old crone’s peace shattered. A nagging sensation clawed at the edges of her mind, a pull that warned of a loyal friend’s peril. Misha, you gentle beast, please be safe. Had the machines already returned? she wondered. Impossible. Doubts swirled around her.
She closed her eyes and concentrated, reaching out through her deep-rooted bond to the bear. Gradually, images and sensations filtered into her consciousness: the thick scent of damp undergrowth, the distant rustling of leaves, a sharp sting of pain. She could feel Misha, deep in the woods. He was breathing ever so rapidly, a mix of fear and weary relief. And though he was safe and hidden, he was nursing a wound that pulsed with agony.
Her frayed nerves found a momentary solace in his condition, yet Baba Medved’s heart continued to throb with the pain of knowing her dear friend had been hurt. With a heavy exhale, she sank back onto her bed and pondered her next move. The looming threat of this syndicate of steel cast long shadows and she would not stand the encroaching darkness that threatened her beloved forest. She tightened her grip on the bed’s edge, determination replacing the fleeting tranquility. Time was of the essence. The hour of confrontation was upon them.
"Come on, Sergei. It's time to eat. We must fare well," she said, as she tossed the covers off her bed.
Sergei's nose twitched, and Baba Medved knew that he understood. He scampered away to find some blueberries, knocking over stacks of clay pots and tearing through paper towels in search of the sweet treats. She drew a ladle from the rack of tools above her cast iron stove. Bone broth of ibex bubbled in the cooking pot, where it simmered all night long with the aromas of bay leaves, garlic and onions. The sharp smells of fennel and thyme filled her nostrils as she roused from her sleepy state, a bite of juniper adding a hint of spice and wakefulness. She would need all the strength she could muster, for there were harsh battles to come. The winds of change were blowing.
“Baba, we go.” Sergei’s thoughts echoed in her mind. Red streaks of jam on his muzzle, he had already gathered their belongings, as much as a sable could—a satchel of provisions, and a small silver talisman from their past adventures dropped from his mouth, their straps slung over his long neck. Baba Medved smiled at Sergei and squeezed her feet into a pair of wool-lined steel toe boots, huffing with the effort. She clutched a cup of mors from the stove and downed it in one, chasing a shot of lingon brandy. A warm fire spread inside her chest.
“Oh, you are a dear one, Sergei,” she said, ruffling his flaxen fur as she wiped the alcohol from her lips. She slung the bags on her back, donned her waxed coat and a knitted shawl—red and blue like a river in the shadow of a blood moon—and tied it around her shoulders, before turning to the door.
In her youth, she had been a soldier in the Great War, and in her later years, a commander in the War of Formation. Now, she was going to war once more, and she would not rest until her beloved woods were safe. It saddened Baba Medved to think of the destruction these machines had wrought over the years, and how much of the forest had been lost. The Syndicate’s lust for titanium and gold would not be sated, but she had faith that Mother Earth would rise to protect her own, and she saw herself as part of that work. Repentance, she thought, and the end of all wars.
She grabbed her gun from the porch, a Czech military flare rifle that had been a gift from her father, and descended into the permafrost. If only he could see me now, she thought, as a chill breeze brushed her face. If only they hadn’t all died. Her brothers had taught her to shoot, and she was fiercely loyal to their memory, but that war claimed all men, and Baba Medved had never seen any of them again.
Sergei followed her, his small feet pattering on the hard earth. The moons hung low in the horizon, casting a pale light on the trees ahead. Baba Medved could feel the fear and excitement of what was to come bubbling in her chest. Raindrops fell like bullets, but her eyes were clear with purpose.
She looked up at the velvet sky and whispered a prayer to the elements. “Guide me, my friends. Show me the way.” She called to the wind, which rustled through the pines, carrying whispers of hidden paths. Snowflakes began to fall, delicate and pure, promising to mask their approach. A distant thunder rumbled, its raw power igniting a spark of determination within her. May Aisyt protect us all, she thought.
She could hear Misha’s call in her head and knew that he was waiting for them, just beyond the tree line. Baba Medved clapped Sergei on the back, and together they set off into the night, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead.
“Baba, Misha hurt.” Sergei’s words cut through the dim fog of her mind, and she felt her heart break, but she held steady. They would make it in time, she knew they would.
Through the meadow valley they ran, along deep ravines and over sharp cliffs, guided only by the faint light of the moons and Misha’s ethereal beckoning, silent except for their panting and the crunch of grass underfoot.
Finally, a clearing appeared — a blue-green meadow, lined on one side by stone white birch. Baba Medved’s breath grew short, but her pace never slowed. The machines that threatened her forest were close now — too close. The sound of their engines was like thunder in her ears. She lunged forward and pulled her gun off her back. Her knuckles whitened as she clenched it tight, and her heart pounded.
Misha growled, this time from the trees. Sergei quickened his pace, dashing ahead, and Baba Medved followed close behind, her old legs carrying her as fast as they could. The taiga was an unforgiving place for an elder, but she pushed on. Baba Medved had seen enough war to know that the only way to win is with courage and conviction. Even though she was an old woman with aching hips and battered boots, she had the advantage of years to guide her in her convictions.
At last, they reached the border of the birch forest, and Baba Medved knew that she was out of time. She climbed a small precipice, where the forest opened to yet another clearing. Her heart sank as she saw how little of it remained, the once-dense grove reduced to scattered stumps and debris. Drawing a breath, she raised her arms to the sky and screamed:
“Leave this place! Or face my wrath!”
Sergei sprang into action, launching himself at the machines with teeth bared and eyes ablaze. He pelted them with a barrage of stones, distracting them from Misha’s hiding spot in the brush. From where she stood on high, Baba Medvev could see the welt on Misha’s leg where the intruders had already inflicted their damage. Misha had somehow managed to escape from a spring foothold trap, but his injuries were slowing him down.
Baba Medved stepped forward, her flare gun raised and her knitted shawl rippling in the wind. The machines stared at her, their headlights blinking at the small figure that stood before them on a hillock. She must have looked like a ghost, she thought, with her pale skin and ivory white hair illuminated in the moonslight.
Down below, Sergei grabbed some ribgrass from the ground and used it to dress Misha’s wounds. Together, they limped beneath the machine’s treads, seeking shelter in the shadows of the white forest.
Baba Medved cocked her gun and aimed it at the machines. Her hands trembled with rage, but she made her decision—she would protect this grove, no matter what. She fired her flare into the night, and in that moment of blinding light, the invaders pulsed and sparked. Then, with a loud hiss and a cloud of steam, they signalled to each other and motioned to retreat.
“Leave now,” she said. “You are not welcome. Go home, and never return!”
A bellowing din filled the air as the machines lapped up her words and slowly began to reverse, clanking and whirring as they made their way back over the prominence, their lights blinking off one by one. Baba Medved watched until they had completely vanished from sight, and then she slumped against a tree in relief. She could handle the scout patrols, opportunistic contractors and a poor excuse for soldiers. But a full mechanized unit was different—much more dangerous, and much less predictable. She knew they would be coming. The Syndicate would dig their quarry sooner or later.
“My old bones ache,” she sighed, touching her chest and feeling the warmth of Misha’s presence return at her side. His hot breath tickled her neck as he nuzzled his head into the crook of her arm. Sergei lay at her feet, panting.
“You did it, Baba.”
“Maybe I’m not as old as I thought,” she said with a smile, gazing up at the stars through columns of smoke rising from the meadow. “But they’ll be back,” she added, “and I’ll still be here.” She could hear their haunting shapes cross the valley, daring her to believe that one day, the forest’s protectors would be triumphant. The sad, bittersweet sting of smoke filled her eyes, and she felt a warm sorrow in her gut, as if the trees were thanking her for defending them, even as they smouldered.
So much death, so much destruction, she thought, resigned. They would come back, as they always had. Tall hollow imposters, relentless in their pursuit of conquest, forever stripping the land of its generous bounty. How could an old woman like her make a difference?
But then she felt Misha’s paw on her knee, and she remembered her answer to that question. That same paw that had brought her back from the brink of death, now told her to keep going, to carry on fighting for what was right. She had found Misha so many years ago, a broken cub, abandoned in the woods by a mother who couldn’t nourish him, only to be stumbled upon by a desperate soldier who sought to take her own life. In that moment, they had become connected—by love and by fate.
“No matter what happens,” she said, blinking at the moonsbeams in his eyes, “we will never give up. As long as there is breath in my body, we will continue to defend this sacred place—our home.”
Just then, a thunderclap echoed through the sky, and she knew she was not alone. She smiled and nodded her head, rising to her feet, her spirit restored.
Baba Medved knew she couldn’t protect the entire forest alone — saving one creature, one tree, one grove at a time wouldn’t be enough. She had to venture deeper into the shadowed thickets, where elusive allies waited, where her death was all but certain. She wondered if perhaps there was another way, but she conceded. There is not, she knew.
Twigs and leaves crackled as she strode forward, Misha ever-loyal at her side, Sergei at the rear, scouting for danger.
In the east, the sun had begun to rise, and the forest was alive with birdsong and the buzzing of bark beetles. She raised her arms, a silent plea to the wind, and began to hum—a tune of hope, of strength, and of courage.
More joined her song, echoing through the trees—forest sprites and fawns, birds and wolves—all singing in harmony.
Until a shriek broke the silence, and Baba Medved froze.
Sergei had seen it first—a puppet-like figure in the branches, its features twisted in a rictus of pain. It was then that Baba Medved remembered the horror of what she’d done.
She had destroyed one of the machines, and in doing so, she had condemned a poor soul. Tears filled her eyes as she took a step forward, clutching Misha’s fur in her hands.
But then Sergei spoke up, his voice soft and strong in her mind. Baba, you save, he said.
Sinuous vines had since spread from the cockpit of the machine and through the other woman’s body, and Baba Medved watched in awe as they rose up into the sky, connecting the old soldier to the forest and all its inhabitants.
The sun cast its golden light over all, and a gentle breeze stirred Baba Medved’s head. She tightened her shawl around her shoulders and looked into the woman’s eyes—the eyes of an old friend, once a soldier, died a plunderer, a murderer. Her blue and red scarf draped her face, like a veil of sorrow. Dried blood and dirt caked her skin, and her gaze was distant, as if searching for a way home.
Baba Medved reached out her hand and gently touched the woman’s arm, whispering a quiet prayer of peace and absolution.
A drumming of footsteps approached—Misha and Sergei looked around, and soon enough, the forest folk began to join them. They’d come from far and wide—sprites of the taiga, carved from birch, and creatures of the deepest depths, a caravan of the free and wild.
“Baba, you save,” Sergei said again, and Baba Medved nodded in agreement.
She wiped a tear from her eye, and spoke for all of them—for the forest, and for the future.
“We will never forget,” she said. “We will do what we must to protect our home, but we will never forget.”
Lord Stag and Lady Wolf, the great protectors of the woodlands, led the procession onward. Baba Medved followed close behind them. As the sun rose on this new day, she knew that in their fight for survival, their bond would be the greatest weapon of all.
In the center of the grove was a great stump, and Baba Medved laid her hands upon its side. Carved into its bark were runes of power—ancient symbols of protection. A bear and a wolf circled a great tree, their guardian forms locked in a timeless pact.
A hush fell over the crowd as Baba Medved spoke her words. “This is the sacred heart of our forest,” she said. “Let it be known that we are here to stay, and no one will take away what is ours.”
As one, the forest folk bowed their heads in prayer, their pale skin flaking in the morning breeze. She closed her eyes, offering up her heart to the woods and all who lived here.
“This is our home!” Baba Medved shouted.
Her voice echoed through the boughs, a call to arms against those who would challenge their way of life—and they answered her in kind.
“You are very certain,” Lord Stag remarked.
Baba Medved smiled, wiping a tear from her eye. “Yes, my friend. As long as we fight together, and as long as we give back to the forest as much we take, then our home will stand forever.”
Lady Wolf stepped forward, her eyes twinkling in the morning dew. “It is time for us to make our stand then,” she said.
Baba Medved closed her eyes and nodded, taking a deep breath as the cries of the forest joined in harmony around her.
“Once you would have been an enemy,” said a tall, imposing beast of a man as he held out his hand. Baba Medved took it without hesitation, and the man smiled. “But now, together, we stand.”
“Oh, my dear Lazar,” she said. “Once I would have shot myself in the foot to avoid this fight. But now...”
Lazar laughed, and Baba Medved smiled, understanding that their destiny was fixed—for better or for worse.
“A convoy of steel destroyers approaches, unlike any the forest has ever seen,” he said. “But we will stand together, and protect the sacred birch grove.” His bare muscles glinted in the morning light, his pale blue eyes reflecting the determination of a thousand generations. White scars criss-crossed his arms and chest, a warning to any who would dare challenge his domain.
Lazar, Prince of the Birch Grove, stepped forward, his deep voice ringing proud and true, a cloak of leaves and roots draped from his shoulders. “We shall fight together, to protect our home.”
Baba Medved nodded in agreement, solemn yet proud.
The sunrise cast its light upon the woodlands, stretching ever farther as if to embrace all those who stood beneath it. A cheer rose through the air, and a sudden gust of wind stirred the trees carrying it to the horizon. The forest folk stood shoulder to shoulder, their blinding birch skin glinting in the morning light like a wall of ice, ready to swallow the raging sea of steel before them.
Baba Medved placed her hand upon Misha’s head, and bore into her pouch. She withdrew a single shimmering spirit cap. She considered it for a moment before raising it into the air above her, silken tassels trailing behind, like memories of a life long past.
“We may not always be victorious,” she said. “But we will never, ever surrender.”
Baba Medved consumed the morel and waited a moment, her eyes held wide open in anticipation. She pulled out the silver talisman from her pouch and gazed at the engraving of the tree entwined with the same guardian forms etched on the heart’s tree stump. Is this what you would ask of me? Is it finally time? Holding it tightly, she whispered a prayer to the goddess of the taiga. Mother of all life, grant me your strength, let your power flow through me. She closed her eyes, and then a spark of lightning blazed through her lids, and a storm coursed through her soul.
Baba Medved opened her eyes, and what she saw made her heart stop, though in truth it already had.
Misha was nuzzled against her stock-still corpse, a single tear streaming down his snout as he mourned her old form, its sagging bones, its tired legs, dead and gone, all but reclaimed by the taiga.
But Baba Medved knew that, in death, life found purpose again. She paid her respects to the earth and the sky, and mourned her old life as she welcomed in the spirit of the Great Mother.
They stood together now, a single, united force against the encroaching greed and destruction of Gred, its thousand silvered tentacles grasping for life beyond its eternal bargain with death. The city of steel roared, but the birch forest sang.
“Let us go,” Baba Medved whispered, and the bear carried her spirit with him into the dawn.
Down through scattered rock and brook, Baba Medved and Misha charged, moss and mud clinging to their paws like a thousand tiny hands pulling them onward.
Misha grew strong and swift, pushing forward as Baba Medved’s ethereal form clung to his fur. Her babushka, now white as the sun, was no less part of the wind than her spirit.
The two sped forward, and with each passing breath the forest seemed to clear, as if they had broken through some invisible barrier that had once kept them caged.
The great bear and his rider soon reached the edge of the forest, where an army of machines waited to meet them. Their blades caught the light of the horizon with a thousand chattering teeth. The air rippled with heat and smoke, and the birchlands groaned in protest as her friends, the trees, were cut down in the wake of the steaming leviathan.
Behind the two, the fire of the rebellion spread, engulfing the valley in a wave of green and brown and white, beasts and birch trees rushing proud against the encroaching grey wall of death. The eagles and wolves, stags and sprites, all rose in unison, humming a single war cry.
Ahead of them, the mountain stretched, its peaks reaching ever farther as if to embrace all those who stood beneath its wings, a fortress of life in the face of the Syndicate’s thirst for power.
Prince Lazar’s army, a host of five hundred creatures of the wood, looked small against the lumbering goliaths. But Baba Medved knew that size was no measure of strength. It was courage, faith in their cause and respect for the forces of nature that united them beneath the mountain.
Sergei caught up to them, his coat of glowing blonde fur standing out against the fierce black-and-brown of Misha’s. He bowed his head to them, eyes shining with admiration.
“Baba, we fight.”
“Yes, my dear, we will fight.”
Together, the three — woman and sable and bear — stood at the centre of the precipice, and faced the enemy.
The machine’s engines roared, and its tracks churned up earth as they turned towards them. Baba Medved saw one of the devils, a giant claw at its front, spearing towards a cadre of allied saboteurs, their nimble birch bodies standing little chance against its great pummel. Like pulp, the forest sprites were torn and scattered, and yet Baba Medved saw the bravery in their eyes, even as they lay broken on the ground.
We must save them, she thought, and before she could think twice, Misha had charged forward, his roar echoing in her mind. Together, they fought against the machine, every claw and tooth of Misha’s fangs tearing into the steel monstrosity. Sergei joined in, his small frame moving like lightning; he burrowed into the engine and disassembled its circuits.
The machine, its movements becoming lazy, finally stopped. Soon it was nothing more than a pile of shattered scrap.
The survivors ran towards them, their eyes bright with hope, before another tore through the field, its tracks still smoking from battle, and swallowed them up in its metal jaws. Baba Medved’s heart sank, despair washing over her like a wave.
Chaos ensued. The survivors scattered. The creatures of the woods fought for their lives. The machines of the dark city advanced. Lord Stag had broken his horn in the attack and bugled in pain, while a lynx had taken a swipe to its flank, exposing sinew and bone. An eagle had its wing torn from its socket, and it hobbled in the dust until it could hide away into the brush. A great-horned owl had lost an eye and dove into the trees with a scream. Lady Wolf led a pack of her brothers in defence, but even their courage could not prevail against the Syndicate’s forces. Each failure met with the punishing ripostes of gigantic claws and blades that cut the air without mercy. Their bones crushed, the machines finished them with a flurry of nails.
Misha attacked again, his fury undiminished. Aided by Baba Medved’s spirit and Sergei's dextrous shadowstep, they were able to fend off the first wave.
Hundreds dead. Prince Lazar’s army lay scattered, their spirits broken under the weight of Gred’s mighty hand.
Baba Medved and Misha stood atop the broken arm of one fallen machine, surveying the devastation.
Tears streaming down her face, Baba Medved turned to Misha, her faithful companion in life and death. “We will not rest until these monsters are defeated.”
A row of one hundred more, clanging and whirring, cut below the tree line, and Baba Medved and Misha looked on in terror.
“We’ll have to find another way to stop them,” she said, surveying the field of fallen friends.
To the west the river rushed, a reminder of life and hope in the face of dark tragedy. Baba Medved stared into its depths, a spark of resolve kindling in her chest.
“I swim?” Sergei asked, as if knowing exactly what she was thinking. What she knew had to be done, the fate she had hoped to avoid, even in death.
Baba Medved whispered to Sergei, a secret plan for revenge and redemption, knowing that this was the only way to restore balance to their beloved woods.
He scurried off into the field, a smirk on his snout, and Baba Medved smiled a sad smile.
The sun rose higher, denying any portent of rain or respite. And yet there was something in the air, a feeling of hope that despite all odds they might still be able to save their home.
With a heavy heart, Baba Medved and Misha watched as Sergei and his entourage of allies, both animal and birch alike, raced towards their destiny.
Suddenly the earth was shaking, and a mammoth machine rose from the woods like a titan, its arms reaching skyward in a thunderous challenge. Baba Medved and Misha watched in horror as the unlikely heroes fought, torn to shreds like driftwood in a cyclone.
Far above, through the sun-bleached windshield of the great machine, a small figure peered down at them with a face of pure malice, and through the speaker she shouted, “I am the City’s Fang! And you, puny white knight, are an abomination.”
Prinze Lazar shouted at the intruder, his voice full of rage, “YOU WANT OUR LANDS? TAKE THEM!”
The great man charged forward, his longsword raised in one hand and a sceptre of storm in the other. He smashed into the backside of the metal beast, his rippling albion steel slicing through its vast shin. Sharp cracks of lightning followed. The machine shuddered, its body heaving with what looked like pain and panic, before half of it slumped down onto its side, sending a spray of sparks into the air.
But just as it succumbed to the earth, it retaliated in a desperate last strike, clenching Lazar’s chest with its giant claws before flinging him across the clearing. He slammed into a pile of earth, his breath exhaling from his lips in a single gasp, so loud that the clouds dared not clap for fear of offending his royal blood.
But Lazar was not alone — his allies had followed him, and some had surged forward to surround the half-fallen mammoth who had attacked him. Their weapons of choice — logs, stones, and fire — smothered its body with every strike. The machine’s groaning thundered through the birch forest, and Baba Medved and Misha watched in awe as the battle unfolded in full force around them, metal clashing against wood, iron and flame.
“Baba, it rise!” Sergei called from a distance, a shrill note echoed by the other beasts following in his wake.
From the river, nine woollen tentacles clawed out wildly at the sky, searching for something to grab onto and tear apart. And then wings rose from its back, and a maw opened wide, ten thousand daggers flashing in a black abyss.
The witkul’ roared, a sound so terrible that Baba Medved and Misha felt their minds tremble.
But Baba Medved stepped forward, her hands raised in defiance. In a single motion she reached into the heavens and pulled down a stream of stars, which twirled and spun around her wrist — like the strings of a thousand tiny marionettes. She stepped closer to the beast, and with a sweep of her hand she released her lance of stars into its eyes, blinding it, and binding its soul to her own.
The beast writhed in agony as Baba Medved’s struck it again and again, each blow causing its form to contort in pain — slaaash, slaaash! As she battered it with her lustrous weapon, the creature’s soul began to shatter and splinter. At last, the beast was forced to submit, for Baba Medved was its master and it had no choice but to yield to her will.
With a single nod, she commanded the beast to turn and face its new enemy, and with a cackle of madness the great creature waded towards the storm of saws, where Lazar and the others lay in desperation.
Nine at a time, the machines were crushed and the tiny women inside were evicted from their metal shells; a scene of carnage that no living creature should ever witness. Baba Medved watched as the Fang was slain, and when it finally collapsed, the forest was filled with a powerful and all-encompassing stillness.
And suddenly the river was pouring into the sky, and the creatures of the wood were diving for cover. Baba Medved and Misha watched from their perch on high, as their allies hurried up the hillside, their weapons held above their heads, the great torrent flooding the valley below in a ripple of forked lightning.
And with that, the machines were vanquished, their crass forms melting into the mud like a dream forgotten. And the woollen tentacles of the mighty river beast crashed down to the ground, sinking into the retreating water. The birch forest, now a stream of rock and mud, returned to the silence of the morning.
Baba Medved and Misha embraced each other on the hilltop, and Sergei, and Prince Lazar and his coterie of allies, and all the creatures of the wood, thanked her for her courage and fortitude. And they all shared in the warmth that had once been so cold.
Together with Misha and Sergei, Baba Medved descended the hill where they had all fought, through taiga and plain, river and valley, and found her way back to the small log cabin she called home, where the smell of bone broth, still boiling, greeted her. She sat down to rest in her chair. But the wood did not meet her the same way it had before, and Baba Medved grew pensive. Her old hand glittered with the silver talisman she had brought with her to the mount, and as she whispered a last goodnight to Misha and Sergei, Baba Medved felt her heart fill with a newfound hope. For tomorrow, she thought, would be the beginning of something beautiful.
But they would not leave her side; the light of their bond remained in her heart, and in Misha’s. They both knew that no matter how far they travelled, or how much changed, the friendship between them could never be broken.
A line of birchmen walked through her door right then, pots and pans in their hands, and welcomed her home with a bundle of incense, cleaved from their very skin — a gift of gratitude and respect for the woman who had saved them all. In the doorway, Lazar emerged, a gash in his side, and spoke of the pact that had been forged in battle, of how Baba Medved had been the one to bring back the promise of hope for future generations.
He bowed and thanked her, and together they all partook of the feast. Beetroot salad with fern, pine nuts and berries, mushroom soup with truffle and hazelnuts, and a kebab of roasted rabbit — friends who gave themselves up to the cause — were all shared among them.
Sergei, a cup of blueberries in hand, joined the others in toasting Baba Medved and her bear. For this was an evening of celebration, for the birchmen, and for the creatures of the wood, and for the woman had tapped into a power older than time itself to save them all.
She smiled, and thanked them — for without, none of this would have been possible. And together, they all rejoiced in the blessings of their forest — its creatures and trees, its smells and sounds. For a while, they lingered there, unwilling to let go of the moment, of their respite from the harsh lessons of resilience.
But at long last, the sun was setting, and Baba Medved knew that for now it would be time to part ways.
Misha eyed her softly, and she knew that he longed to stay by her side, but there was work to be done. As long as we give as much we take, she thought, the forest will forever remain. She climbed onto his back, and with a snarl of farewell, the two of them traced the path down the hill and disappeared into the night.
Misha carried her to the river, and with a light huff, set her spirit down. One last glance — one final farewell — and then he was gone. Baba Medved knew that somewhere, up the river, he would wait for her, and that he always would.
The stars shone brighter now, and Baba Medved held up the talisman that had been her steadfast companion since the beginning of her journey, and tossed it into the rushing water. She exhaled deeply, releasing the weight of worry and fear into the night air, and for a moment, she found solace in the expansive void above. Finally, she approached the river’s silvered surface.
Reflected in the moonslit waters, a transformation unveiled itself. Tentacles, sinuous and alive, rose from her back. She saw wings unfurl from her arms, strong and wide—not meant for the skies but born for the depths. A fierce grin reflected back at her, a fortress of sharp fangs. They were powerful. Menacing. Strong enough to shatter steel.
Martin Erlic is a olive oil producer and science fiction author from the Dalmatian coast of Croatia. In addition to running his family’s orchard and producing authentic Croatian olive oil, Martin has poured his love of Eastern European culture into his debut novel, Babushka: Echoes of Immortality. Set in a post-war metropolis where immortality reigns, the plot follows Doctor Anastasia Zakharovna through a web of power and deceit. When he’s not tending to his olive groves or writing, Martin can be found spending time with his family in their little village by the sea.
