“This is all for greed.”
For a moment, Fymurip thought he had erred, that taking such a confrontational tone against a man who had just cut his chains was not his best move. He had no doubt that, in a fight, he could best this tall stranger. But despite his lanky appearance, Lux von Junker was strong, and fast. He had cut those chains straight through with one swift stroke. It was not a move that Fymurip had seen often in his days as a pit fighter.
But the pale-skinned German merely paused, nodded, then continued. “One would think so, indeed. But I assure you that my reasons are pure. If anything, I wish to recover said goblet to ensure that it does not fall into the hands of a cutthroat who would exploit its value to make other lives unbearable. I do not seek to find then sell the item. I merely wish to find it and take it back home so that my family can enjoy its history.”
“You have a family?”
Lux nodded. “Indeed I do. A wife and a young son.”
“I’m surprised that you are here, then. Risking your life for such a silly thing as a cup.”
“Silly to you, perhaps. But as I say, it’s a part of the history of my family, and I intend on finding it. So I ask you again. Will you help me find it?”
Fymurip fixed his sword and dagger to his belt, adjusted them so that they were equidistant from one another, the dagger on his right side, the sword on his left. He fiddled with the angle of the belt so that the sword sat a little lower on his hip. He preferred it that way; it made for a quicker draw.
He stepped forward and stared up into Lux’s big eyes. “What is in it for me? You get your goblet. What do I get?”
Lux opened his palms as if in prayer. “I have already given you the greatest gift a man can give: freedom. But, if it makes you happy, you may keep all other riches that we may find among those ruins. As I said, I’m not here for glory, fame, or fortune.”
It was a tempting offer, indeed. Rolling images of gold coins and jewels swirled through Fymurip’s mind, and it all had a favorable glow. But the man was correct. The greatest gift he had now was freedom. He had the freedom to choose, which was something he had not had for a very long time. And he was not about to let that lay fallow with indentured servitude to a man he didn’t know. For that is certainly what would happen if he agreed to Lux’s terms. Accepting his offer would merely replace one form of slavery with another.
Fymurip shook his head. “Thank you, sir, for my freedom. But I must decline. You may handle your own affairs as you wish, and I shall handle mine.”
Lux paused, then stepped aside. He motioned to the woods. “Very well, then you may go. May God keep you safe.”
Fymurip stepped carefully, afraid that it was some trick, that the man would suddenly produce another set of chains and clap them on his wrists with the same swiftness that he had cut the first set. But he reached the wood line, and nothing happened. He took a step into the wood, nothing happened. Then another and another, and suddenly he was alone. He kept walking, picking up the pace, a newfound energy in his stride. He stepped over fallen trunks, pushed through brambles, ignoring the scratches from thick needles. He brushed aside a rotten limb. He took more steps, and then the old fears returned, through the dark haze of his memory. A pair of eyes stared out at him through that haze; large, uncompromising, savage, and blood, blood red.
Vucari eyes.
He paused, right on the lip of a ridge line, right before falling down an eroded escarpment thick with exposed roots and jagged rock. He wavered on the grassy lip, regaining his balance. He stared into the river valley below, and miles away, the ruined spires of Starybogow reached up into the clouds like broken fingers scraping a deep blue sky.
The City of the Old Gods.
He didn’t even notice that Lux had come up behind him.
“She’s a wondrous sight, isn’t she?” Lux asked, moving to stand beside Fymurip. He pushed out a long breath, then continued. “See how the evening fog off the Pregola is drawn over the walls like a man drawing smoke from a Hookah pipe, and even from this distance, you can hear the thousand sounds of those who still walk its streets. The screams, howls of the destitute, the crack of whips, the snarl of savage teeth, the clamor of steel on wood, rock against bone. Light from the setting sun casts its shadows long and deep through the detritus and filth, giving it an almost solemn, thoughtful veneer, but at its center beats a heart that God has forsaken. Scandinavians, Cossacks, Moscovites, Imperial thrill-seekers, Poles, Lithuanians, Romani and, dare I say, Tartars, all come to bask in its danger, its promise of riches and unearthly delights. Worshippers of Perun and Dazbog, Veles and Jarilo walk its cluttered streets, sounding clarion calls for the return of the Old Gods, while Prus pagan tribesmen chitter out their foul incantations in hopes of keeping those Old Gods in dominion over the Eldar Gods. Indeed, it is not a place where humble, spiritual men like us should venture, and yet, there is no other place that I want to be. . . where I must be.”
Fymurip turned and stared into Lux’s face. “For a man that has never lived there, you sure know a lot about it.”
Lux ignored the statement, turned and said, “I know I don’t have a right to ask you to help me, given your life these past few years, but I ask once more. Come with me to Starybogow and help me do God’s work.”
God’s work? I do not worship your Christian God, German. But Fymurip did worship Allah, though he had not been given the honor these past three years of praying each day, bent on his knees to face Mecca. It would be nice to do that again. But there would be little time for that in Starybogow. Every step down its cobbled streets, its darkened alleys, would be a danger. It was madness to go down there, and yet, it was madness to be out here alone.
The red eyes of the vucari invaded his memories once more.
He turned to Lux, but instead of accepting, he pulled his kilij and thrust it above the German’s head and into the swollen belly of a dog-sized black-and-gold spider that dangled above, readying its stinger. Lux ducked reflexively and shifted to the right, and lucky he did so, for the spider, pierced straight through, tried spraying its poison. Fymurip pulled his blade free, let the green toxic fluid squirt to the ground, then with one swift stroke, cut the spider’s silk strand and let it fall to the ground. Its wounded belly popped open like a tick, and for good measure, Fymurip hacked the vile creature into three even pieces.
“God’s grace!” Lux said, recovering. “What a horrid beast!”
Fymurip wiped his sword clean on nearby weeds, sheathed it, and said, “A Pajaki Death-Spitter. If that poison had hit your face, you would have died instantly.”
“I owe you my life.”
“No, sir. On that score, we are even. And yes, I will go with you to Starybogow against my better judgment. Because if I do not,” Fymurip said, staring down at the gurgling pieces of the giant spider, “you will be dead in a day.”
II
Lux paid a farmer six copper coins. The old man agreed to keep the wagon hidden and the team fed and well-rested. “We’ll be back in a couple days,” Lux said as they readied meager provisions and fastened their blades to their belts. With a few crude chisels and a hack saw that lay in the farmer’s barn, Lux removed Fymurip’s shackles. They then made for the ferry that would take them across the Pregola and up to the Konig Gate, but they would not cross until nightfall, Lux explained to Fymurip. It was a risk to cross the river by day.
“What does it matter if we wait till dark?” the Tartar asked, as they entered the tree line. “You are taking us through the front door.”
“By night, there’s little chance of being targeted by snipers or distrustful Romani from the outer wall.”
“I thought you said you had never visited.”
Lux shook his head. “I haven’t. I’ve been told of the threats.”
Another lie. If a cat-o-nine-tails were convenient, Lux would beat his back for the constant lying, but what choice did he have? He could no more tell this Tartar soldier the real reason for their mission any more than he c
ould accomplish it on his own. I lie for God, he kept telling himself, and it helped. I must keep it secret until the mission is complete.
An hour later, with the sun fully setting in the west, they stood at a guard post on the bank of the Pregola.
“No, no, no,” a foul-smelling Belarus guard said with his bulky frame blocking their passage. “No one gets into Starybogow. . . especially on the ferry. It only goes north to Wystruc. It never lands on the opposite bank.”
There were many Lithuanian and Belarus guardsmen strewn about the perimeter of the city with orders to keep out any thrill-seekers, vagabonds, beggars, what have you.
“But it is such a pleasant night for a river ride,” Lux said, rolling a thick gold coin between the fingers of his right hand. “Be a shame to lose the chance of catching that cool breeze blowing upstream.”
The guard stared down at the coin, his eyes widening. He remembered himself and cleared his throat. “There are two of you.”
Lux sighed and fished into his pocket for another. He handed them over with a firm handshake. He squeezed the guard’s hand a little longer, and a little stronger, than normal, making it clear that negotiations were over, and that if they persisted, the next offer would be in blood. The guard understood. He pulled away, massaged the pain out of his hand, and flipped one of the coins to a henchman.
“That could have gone badly,” Fymurip whispered as they stepped onto the ferry. “You paid them too much. They will never see the likes of that coinage again. That kind of money loosens lips. They are going to talk.”
Lux said nothing, but perhaps Fymurip was right. Six coppers to keep an old dirt farmer quiet was reasonable. Gold coins for a ferry ride was obscene. But he couldn’t risk not getting to the other bank, couldn’t waste time bargaining with foul, inconsequential guards. Now that he had gotten this far, there could be no interruptions, no further delays. He’d risk the publicity. But Fymurip did have a point.
He pulled a bag from beneath his robes and handed it over. “You are in charge of negotiations from now on.”
Fymurip took the bag, stared at it through the ferryman’s torchlight. It was probably more money than the Tartar had ever held in his life. He opened the bag and fished around in it, letting the gold, silver, and copper pieces tumble over each other. “This. . . this is Royal coinage. Where did you get it?”
The ferryman pushed off from the bank, and Lux shrugged. “A German nobleman travelling to Posen refused to pay my toll. I asked for it politely, but he didn’t agree to terms until I stopped twisting his neck.”
Fymurip huffed. “You expect me to believe that?”
Lux pulled his robe tight against the chill off the water. He leaned forward and glared into Fymurip’s eyes. “You doubt me?”
The Tartar stared for a long while, then blinked, shrugged, and turned away.
Lux relaxed and straightened, turned his head to the far bank and watched as the tiny sconces along Starybogow’s high walls flicked in the wind. He closed his eyes and prayed that God would forgive him for yet another lie.
*****
No one lifts this much Royal coin from a traveler, Fymurip thought as they left the ferry behind and made it quickly up the worn escarpment toward the Konig Gate. It was an absurd statement, and perhaps a mistake by his large companion, who up to this point, had carried himself fairly well. Now, the German seemed nervous, agitated beyond comprehension. But perhaps it was not unusual. If what he said were true, getting this close to Starybogow was a milestone, and cause for concern. So close, yet so much to do to find this goblet Lux spoke of. Was there a goblet? Fymurip did not know, and in their current situation, now was not the time to press him on it.
They found the gate easy enough. The Konig entrance was a big, double wide iron banded door that, these days, sat askance against the crumbling stone wall. One of the earthquakes that had ravaged the area had nearly torn it off its hinges. Now, it hung there on rusty joints, daring anyone to come and touch it, and risk it falling on them and smearing them into the mud and grime. They did not dare, for again, another set of guards needed tending to. These, however, were more amenable to bribery, and cost a third what Lux had paid the others. They took their money and stepped aside.
Fymurip had to admit that it was wise to enter the Konig Gate, for it was closest to the Town Hall and Igor Square. That area of the city had been ravaged by earthquakes and years of looters. Even in the poor light of their torches, he could see the detritus and filth that had been strewn along the cobbled streets, the cluttered back alleys, and enclosed neighborhoods that lined their passage. But this part of the city was the most open, and far harder for any wandering brigands or cutthroats to try an ambush. Fymurip pulled both blades and kept them out and visible for anyone, or anything, that dared try a move. Lux did likewise.
The German pointed down a narrow passage through piles of broken work stones. “This way. The cathedral is near.”
In its day, Saint Adalbert’s Cathedral was a marvel to behold. Fymurip had never seen it without massive cracks along its base and blood-stained prayer chambers, full of rat dung and the bones of unfortunate thieves, but he had heard of its majesty upon his first arrival. The stories that the old citizenry would tell marveled any tales of Christendom and its glory days here in East Prussia. And then the earthquakes came, and then the Teutonic Knights, who slaughtered most of the citizenry in an attempt to rid the dying city of its sin and its slide back into paganism. Such an attempt had failed, of course, and now the city and its cathedral, whose ruined spires lay before Fymurip as a testament to man’s infinite skullduggery, died a little death every day.
Fymurip could feel eyes upon them. Every glance left, right, behind, always seemed to flush out a streak of some shadow, some blurry mass that moved from debris pile to debris pile. Off in the distance, he could hear the howls of the ravenous, the screams of victims. There was a flush of balmy wind off the Pregola as fog drifted over the walls and settled around everything like virgin snow, and yet he felt no comfort in it. Not that he should, but behind the grey billows of condensed water, with weapons in his hands, and beside a large man wielding a massive sword of his own, Fymurip felt that he should feel more comfort, more security. He did not. It was true that every man had a destiny out there somewhere, and in this place of Old Gods, that destiny was usually a sword or a steel bolt through the heart. The difference being, most did not know when the end would come. Fymurip, however, did know his fate. My destiny is out here somewhere, he thought as they reached the cathedral entrance, and it’s waiting for me with teeth and claw.
He made a move to the left toward a pathway along a line of old apartments and ruined single homes. “No,” Lux said, pointing to the right and toward a dark gap between fallen columns. “Through there.”
“But that will take us below the cathedral,” Fymurip whispered, trying not to arouse the interest of anything watching from a distance. “Surely your grandfather’s home is in this—”
“It was buried in the earthquake. It will be this way!”
It did not make any sense to Fymurip, but he let it go. He did recall Lux’s comment about his grandfather being buried by falling debris, but it was very unlikely that his home would be underground. More likely the home’s remains would be under piles of rock, in the direction Fymurip had suggested. Something is not right here.
They slipped through the gap. The way was pitch black and smelled of moldy dead things. Lux held his torch high to reveal a passage downward. Fymurip followed, keeping tight control of his blades, letting his feet fall in the exact same places as Lux’s. The boards along the ground were spaced as if they were walking down stairs, but Lux’s massive feet took them in stride, two at a time, as if he had been here before and knew the way instinctively. Fymurip kept close behind, letting the tall man clear the path of spider webs and loose debris that Lux kicked out of the way. He looked back over his shoulder constantly, making sure that no one followed.
He coughed. “Ar
e you sure you know where you are going?”
“Yes,” Lux said, his voice echoing through the dank tunnel. “Not much further.”
The passage leveled and became wider, until it opened into a circular chamber, with three exit colonnades before them, just as dark and brooding as the passage they had entered. Lux raised his torch. What the light revealed trapped Fymurip’s breath in his throat.
Stacked against the far wall were bodies, mangled and contorted into one giant mass. Limbs of half flesh, bone, and rotten wool stuck out everywhere like weeds in a field. The corpses’ heads revealed damp, moldy hair of fair blonde, red, and black. The eyes inside shrunken sockets peered out in long, deadly stares, as if searching for their lost souls.
Fymurip dared take steps toward the pile, and the closer he drew to it, the more disgusted he became.
“Children! Every one of them!”
“God have mercy,” Lux said, nearly dropping the torch. “They must have all died together. In the quake. A nursery, perhaps.”
Fymurip found the courage to step closer and use his sword blade to push aside strands of dark hair from the sallow face of one of the victims. He leaned in and studied the exposed neck bone.
“These children did not die in the quake,” he said. “Look at the deep cut on this girl’s neck bone. And this one. . . and this one. No, Lux, they were murdered. Their throats cut. Probably in sacrifice to the Old Gods to keep the quakes from happening.”
“Monstrous!”
Fymurip nodded. “We should bury them.”
Lux shook his head. “I agree, but we don’t have the time or the tools to do so. Perhaps later, when—”
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 5