His next word stuck in his throat as his eyes grew large and fearful in the shadow cast by his torch. The German was staring like a statue past Fymurip and into the pile of dead children. Fymurip dared to turn and see what Lux was staring at.
A body rose out of the pile, one of the children most certainly, and yet, this one had eyes that could see, hair prim and well-kept, with a clean white dress. It was like a spirit of one of the girls, and yet, its skin was dark and patchy. Then she changed, her dress fouled, her skin paled. From her mouth grew thin roots, from her ears fungus. She smiled a dark set of rotten teeth, opened her mouth wide, and screamed, “Baptize me!”
The shock of her voice knocked them back. The torch scattered. Fymurip held to his weapons, but tumbled backward, hitting his shoulder hard against the floor. “What is this?” He howled, trying to right himself against the waves of piercing sound flowing out of the dead girl’s mouth.
“A drekavac!” Lux said, regaining control of his torch and fighting to stand.
“BAPTIZE US!!”
The ceiling was beginning to crumble. Dust and small rocks fell like rain from the cracks.
“Run!” Lux said. “Run—”
But Fymurip was already up and running, down one of the colonnades, deeper into the catacombs below the cathedral. Lux caught up quickly and they ran, together, not caring where they were headed. Fymurip knew that the only thing that mattered now was escape.
Escape from the drekavac who continued to scream as it pursued them down the tunnel, followed by an army of dead children.
III
Lux gasped for air as the dead children rumbled behind him, screaming their request for baptism and reaching out with boney hands to grasp at his robes. He could not stop running, for the impetus of the unholy shamble behind would plow him asunder, and how would he escape a pile of rotten children intent on tearing him to shreds? The key to this affair was their leader, the drekavac. Lux could not see the evil spirit amidst the undulating pile of bones, but if it could be brought down, then maybe. . .
“We cannot run forever,” Fymurip said, a mere pace ahead of Lux. “I am tiring.”
Lux was exhausted as well. The heavy clothing, the armor, the lack of sleep and food, combined with the stale, thick air of the catacombs made his lungs and flesh weaker than he realized. The Tartar was right. They had to stop, turn, and make their stand.
Lux was first, sliding to a stop across moldy damp cobbles, swinging around with his torch, and letting the flame serve as a sword. And just as he predicted, the bone pile hit them square, knocking them back against the wall of the tunnel. Lux let his torch drop. Its flame set alight several of the children, who did not seem to notice or mind that the dry stitching in their muddled clothing turned scorch black like burning leaves. They poked and scraped and gnawed at Lux’s arms and legs, and the only thing that saved the big man from being eaten alive was his thick robes and armor.
He tossed them off handfuls at a time, kicking and pushing them away with but a flicker of his wrists. They were paper thin and frail, their dried bones unable to handle any significant pressure. His sword, incapable of being swung in such close quarters, served more as a hammer, and he turned it around to use its hilt as a stabbing tool, knocking child after child away with crushing blows to their ribcages.
Fymurip was fairing the same, but his superior speed and sword skill allowed him to cleave heads clear off their brittle necks. His dagger was small enough to wave through the thick air and send skull after skull tumbling away.
Three bone children leaped onto the Tartar’s back and began clawing at his shoulder blades. Blood was drawn, but the swift man plucked them off one by one and ended their assault by dashing them against the rock wall.
They were destroying scores upon scores of them, yet the pile never seemed to dissipate. Then Lux saw why.
Near the back of the onslaught, the drekavac waved its corporeal hands over a pile of bones. The pile would shiver and then reanimate into another deadly skeleton. The newly formed shamble would then take its place in the ranks. An endless stream of unbaptized bones to bite and claw through his mortal flesh. Seeing this, Lux realized that there was only one thing to do to put an end to this madness.
He stood, and punching a hole through the ravenous skeletons, he produced an amulet that hung from a gold chain at his neck. It had been buried beneath his robe and hauberk of chain, but now that it was free, it glowed like the Northern Star.
He held the amulet aloft as he walked toward the drekavac, and said, “Unholy spirit. . . I cast you down with this amulet of Saint George. Go now. . . and threaten the world of the living no more!”
The drekavac reared up, letting the tendrils of is undulating form swirl into a funnel. It tried to scream its dissatisfaction, baring a mouth of teeth and flicking its ghastly tongue at Lux as if it were spitting poison. “Baptize us—”
“I will do no such thing,” Lux replied, holding up the amulet and letting its light bathe the entire corridor. “There are no souls left to cleanse. You have consumed them all and condemned these children to the fires of Hell. And so I say again. Leave this place!”
The drekavac tried again to resist the powerful light emanating from the amulet. It reached out to try to strike it away from Lux’s hand, but the charm was too powerful, too dipped in the word of God to destroy. It shrieked, then flew through a gap in the ceiling. It was gone, and the remaining child skeletons dropped dead to the floor.
Lux paused to ensure that the drekavac had really disappeared, sighed, then tucked the amulet away. He turned and there stood Fymurip, blades held forward, ready to strike.
“You are a Teutonic Cleric.”
He saw no reason to lie about it now. “Yes, I am.”
“I should have known. Your Grunwald sword, your robes, your speed and strength. I should have known that you were a warrior from the start. You lied to me.”
Lux shook his head and sheathed his sword. “I freed you from your bondage. I gave you your freedom, and you made a choice.”
“I would not have agreed had I known your affiliation. Teutonic Knights killed my father, a loyal servant of the Sultan. They bled him out before my eyes. They raped my mother and left her for dead. You killed my father, raped my mother.”
“I did these things? Or did dishonorable men, agents of the devil, do so? I cannot speak for every member of the Ordo Teutonicus. I can only speak for myself and for my lord commander, Duke Frederick. We are honorable men with an honorable purpose. I can promise you that before God.”
Fymurip took a step forward. “Tell me why we are really here, cleric! And don’t lie and say it is to find a golden cup. A man who walks on unholy ground with so much gold in his purse does so under more meaningful reasons. Speak the truth, or you will lose your throat.”
The Tartar placed his dagger against Lux’s neck. The cleric swallowed. “I doubt you have the stamina to make the slice. Step back a pace, and I will tell you.”
Fymurip held his blade against Lux’s neck a few seconds more, then stepped back. “Speak!”
Lux cleared his throat. “Many, many years ago, long before you and I were born, Simon von Drahe, the Grand Commander of my order, had a premonition on the night before battle. That premonition told him that he would fall against a Lithuanian and Polish force arrayed against him near the town of Dragu. So powerful was the premonition that he decided to entrust in his cleric, Gunter Sankt, with the honor of protecting the Cross of Saint Boniface.”
“The Cross of Saint Boniface is a myth.”
Lux shook his head. “No, my good man, it exists. Held by Christ himself before the Last Supper, he kissed it, blessed it, and imbued it with all his heavenly goodness. A pure, yet wondrous silver cross that can destroy any evil it encounters, heal even the most egregious wounds. But only in the hands of the righteous. Such a man was Saint Boniface, until he succumbed to his own mortality, where it passed from generation to generation through peace- loving hands, until it
reached Commander von Drahe. But he was worried that if he fell in battle, then pagan hands would corrupt and corrode its goodness. So he gave it to Gunter the Good, who vowed upon death to keep it safe.
“The Grand Commander’s premonition proved true. He fell in battle, hard, his body quartered and catapulted over the Teutonic battlements. My brothers fought bravely to avenge the death of their commander, but it was not meant to be. In the fighting withdrawal that followed, Gunter the Good fell as well, but neither his body nor the cross was ever recovered. Therein lays the legend, as you say, of Saint Boniface’s cross.
“But most recently, through intelligence obtained by travelers of good character, a man has been seen walking these unholy ruins. The stories claim that he is a cleric of my order, and that he wears a cross of pure silver about his neck. And thus, I have been sent here by Duke Frederick, the lord and Grand Commander of my order, to ascertain if these travelers speak the truth. If so, I am to take this cleric back to Saxony and thus return the cross to its rightful keepers.”
Fymurip huffed, but he put away his blades. “A foolish, foolish mission. Your cleric is most certainly dead after all these years. And the cross could be anything.”
Lux nodded. “Indeed, but that is why I’m here. It’s not my place to prejudge the authenticity of the stories. It is my duty to see if the stories are true.”
“And if they are not?” Fymurip asked, eyeing Lux carefully, searching his face for any sign of waver or doubt. “What then? Will you kill this man whom they claim is a cleric. . . whoever they are. Will you rob him of whatever lies about his neck?” Fymurip opened his hands and swiveled in place, motioning to the naked child bones at his feet. “Look around you, Lux. This is a mere taste of what awaits you in these ruins. You go floundering around here without care or clear purpose, you will wind up dead. And that is not what I signed on to do. To find a Christian relic for an order that has brought so much pain to my people, to my family.”
Fymurip seemed near tears, but Lux could see that the rage the Tartar felt kept his sorrow in check. “I am well aware of the risks in this place. That is why I asked you to help me. But we have had this conversation already, my friend. The question before you is the same as it was the moment I broke your chains. Now that you know the truth, will you still help me?”
Lux could see the uncertainty behind the Tartar’s eyes. He could tell that the man wanted to say no, and yet something stayed his hand. But in the end, Fymurip shook his head.
“No. I say again, this is not what I signed up to do. I will not be party to this mad endeavor. Your mission is your own. I want no part of it.”
Lux watched as Fymurip walked back down the corridor from where they had entered, picking his way gingerly through the piles of bones and tattered clothing. He wanted to call out, to try once more to convince Fymurip of the value of the mission, the righteousness of it. But he held his tongue and simply watched the man walk away.
*****
Fymurip picked a baby tooth from a bite in his forearm and let it drop to the ground. He cursed, rubbed away the pain and blood from the wound, then knelt momentarily behind a pile of stone slabs and discarded wood planks. Ahead a few hundred feet stood a group of men, talking in a circle, one pointing toward the east. Who were they? Where had they come from? What nationality? He could not discern these details through mere moonlight, for that was all he had. He had left the torch behind in the catacombs. He told himself that he had done so out of respect for Lux, despite the man’s deceit. But in truth, he had just forgotten about it, so angry he was at the cleric’s lie. Foolish old goat, Fymurip thought as he waited behind the stones for the men to move on. Floundering around in catacombs looking for a phantom. And they had indeed found one, but not the one Lux was looking for. He’ll never find what he seeks. Of that, Fymurip was certain. So what was the point of helping?
The men moved on and Fymurip rose carefully and continued toward the Kiev Gate. He would, once and for all, leave this evil place and never return. He would go home, perhaps, or pledge his allegiance to the Sultan, become once again a warrior in the Turkish ranks. Those had been good times, indeed. Why he had ever left the Sultan’s service he did not know. Ancient history. But what mattered now was getting to the gate and leaving Starybogow. Then he would figure out his next move.
He moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and tight against walls and dilapidated statues that had been pushed out of Igor Square by broken crests of ground. The earthquakes had devastated this area of the city, leaving mighty crags everywhere. It was perfect for hiding, for moving stealthily, but one false step, and a person could be lost forever down one of those crags. He tucked away his sword but kept his dagger in hand. He needed at least one free hand to use for balance as he made his way through the debris piles. A left turn, then a right, another left, and there it lay: the Kiev Gate, its door still intact, but guarded heavily outside. It would be easy to knock on that door and request departure, but difficult to pass through it. The guards were far less accommodating when it came to letting folks out. But if need be, he’d give every coin he had to be free of this place.
The coins!
Suddenly, he remembered that he had walked away with the bag still tied to his belt. For a moment, he considered turning around and going back. But no, that would be foolish. He would not go back into those catacombs . . . never again!
Fymurip breathed deeply, stood straight, and took a step toward the Kiev Gate.
A massive clawed hand came out of the shadow and knocked him aside. Fymurip hit stone hard, cried out in pain, and nearly dropped his dagger. He hit the ground and rolled, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness now formed by a massive creature blocking the moon’s light. He rolled again as a large, clawed foot slammed down an inch from his face. Fymurip gained his feet, slashed out with his dagger, and caught a bit of the beast’s hide. But it did little damage, for an arm, roped with muscle and patches of black fur, grabbed Fymurip’s shirt and hoisted him up into the air. He slashed and slashed with his dagger, but he found no hide, no meat. The beast roared and slammed him into a stone block, then pulled in close to stare into his face with red, furious eyes. The beast’s rancid breath stung his lips.
“Vasile Lupu!” Fymurip managed to mumble as the vucari’s malformed face snapped with bloody teeth and spit.
“You remember me,” the beast said, slurring his words in broken Turkish. “I certainly remember you, Fymurip Azat. I have been waiting for you a long, long time. You are the last. You are the one who wielded the blade. You will die.”
“It was not me, I swear.” Fymurip tried to speak, but the vucari’s hand was pressing hard on his throat. “I was ordered to do it. I. . . did not know. I. . . did not understand.”
The vucari ignored his pleas and flung him aside. Fymurip soared through the air and broke his fall by stretching out his left arm and plunging into a tuft of weeds, soft mud, and ornate pebbles that lay at the base of a marble statue. The vucari pursued, tried grabbing Fymurip’s leg, but was stopped cold by a bolt that struck him square in the shoulder.
The beast roared, stumbled forward, and Fymurip took this opportunity to lash out with his dagger. He swiped left to right and drove a deep cut across the beast’s chest. The vucari roared again, reached up to his shoulder and broke off the bolt. Another struck him near the first, but only a glancing blow. Fymurip tried to cut the beast again, but the vucari fell back, moving to attack the person who had struck it with crossbow bolts.
That person was Lux, and though he stood on high ground overlooking the square, he could not reload his crossbow fast enough. The vucari was on him. Lux threw the crossbow aside and drew his sword, but was only fast enough to block the beast as it lashed out with both hands, trying to maul the cleric’s throat.
Fymurip did not hesitate. Though weak and dizzy with pain, he drew his sword and rushed the beast, jumping a small gap in the ground and striking the vucari across the back. It was an ill-timed lunge, however, and
the beast easily shrugged him off. Yet the strike distracted the vucari enough for Lux to swing his sword and lop off the left hand.
The vucari’s agonized screams echoed through the ruins, and Fymurip was sure that everyone within a mile could hear it. He feared the unknown dangers the screams would bring their way. But, one crisis at a time. Lux’s strike ended the fight.
Clutching the bleeding stump on his arm, the vucari jumped a large gap in the ground, turned and roared his rage. “I will find you again, Fymurip Azat. I will find you again!”
Then it was gone, and Fymurip fell exhausted to the ground. Lux stood beside him. “That should take care of it.”
Fymurip shook his head. “No conventional blade or bolt can kill it. When it is in its wolfen form, only the power of a strong talisman, or silver, can break it. I doubt that even the trinket you wear about your neck can drive away the evil in that man’s body. No. Some day he will find me again, and next time, I might not be so lucky.”
“Hmm!” Lux grunted, taking a seat beside him. “Seems you have been keeping secrets as well. Care to explain what that was all about?”
Fymurip hesitated, reluctant to divulge the truth. He wiped sweat from his face, stretched his back to massage away the pain running through it, and said, “I came into this area five years ago. A young, immature – dare I say, stupid – kid, fresh out of the Sultan’s service. I left his army because I was tired of killing for scraps, for nothing really, other than the glory of Allah. That in itself was a good reason to fight, but at the end of the day, I was weak and wanted more. Fame, glory, and gold. And Starybogow promised all of that.
“But I quickly fell in with a band of Muscovites cutthroats. I was quite surprised that they cared not that I was a Tartar of Turkish descent, and that I worshipped Allah, peace be upon Him. Like you, they cared only for my skills as a fighter, and fight I did. But soon I realized that these despicable men were not here for treasure or for glory. They were here for revenge. They just wanted to kill and rape and plunder, until every last person – Lithuanian, Polish, Cossack, you name it – who had wronged them in some way, suffered and died. I justified staying with them because we would, on occasion, enter the city and make war on those evil, horrid denizens that lurk in the shadows. . . like those dead children. That was Allah’s work, I argued to myself, and so I stayed on, participating in all manner of vengeance.
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