“Alright, Victoria. If you wish to come with me, I warn you that this quest will be dangerous. As you have said, Starybogow is not a place of peace anymore. The city is fraught with dangers beyond my control, but I will protect you if you are determined to go.”
“I have to.” She stood tall, pushing the hair behind her ears. “Everything I have is gone. I am in the same position you were when I found you. To repay me, and my father, for everything, I request to go with you. I can fight if given a weapon; I am not some damsel in distress. I am a hardworking girl, and do not forget it, deity.”
He raised his eyebrow as she punctured the last word with no fear. He nodded, the smile still there.
“Then come, we must be off at once.”
They got back to the wagon and he took the driver’s seat for the first time since he ventured out with her. She looked at him, confused, but he nodded as he grabbed the reins and she settled next to him.
“While what you knew was one side of me, there are also some parts that you do not. In my day, before I was sealed away, I was quite the horseman. Watch, my lady, and pray these horses still have fight left in them.”
With that, he whipped the reins hard, forcing the horses into action once more. Victoria had to grab hold of his arm tightly. As the wind whipped through his long hair, the speed of the horses propelling them forward, he smiled broadly. He was Triglav, and despite being separated from the three mystic heads, he felt alive for the first time in a very long time. This human guise would do just fine until he was reunited.
Blood Bat
C. L. Werner
Elizabeth Bathory, the “Blood Countess”,
Artist unkown, 1600
The moon hung gibbous and full in the night sky, its sinister rays conjuring ghastly shadows from the rubble and debris that had once been a great city. Empty windows stared malignantly from the splintered facades of ruined houses, the broken doors of abandoned workshops gaped like hungry mouths. The autumn wind groaned through crumbling rooftops and cracked chimneys, whistling with the eerie cry of mourning.
Zoja recognized the frightful aspect of her surroundings, but they made no impact upon her. There was only so much terror a human vessel could contain, and she was already filled to the brim with fear. Her heart pounded relentlessly beneath her breast, throbbing with the fury of a furnace. Her breath was hot, stinging her lungs as she drew it down into her chest. Her legs felt like lumps of dead iron as she forced them across the broken cobblestones, each impact of her feet sending a lance of pain speeding through her nerves.
Behind her, in the darkness, Zoja knew it was following. She didn't need to see or hear it to know it was there. She could feel its presence in her soul, a ravenous chill that pawed at her with spectral claws, an icy whisper that filled her mind with hopelessness. Lie down, it said, lie down and let there be an end to it.
Somewhere, deep within her, Zoja found some unguessed reserve of strength. She raced through the shattered streets, raw terror feeding her flight. She thought of her family, safe back in the village. Perhaps her father was waiting at the door, wondering why she was so late returning from tending her sick great-aunt. It was too much to think that he was alarmed, to hope he was out there looking for her. More likely he'd decided she was staying over with his aunt and gone to bed. Even if he was looking for her, even if he did find her, what could a simple farmer do against the nightmare that now hunted her?
Ahead of her, Zoja could see a wall of darkness. It took her a moment to understand it was no trick of her fear, but indeed an actual wall that rose before her. She'd reached the edge of the broken city, the perimeter wall that had once defended it against raiders and Teutonic Knights. Sight of the barrier caused her step to falter, the hopelessness inside her to swell. Then she spotted a scratch of light amid the darkness. A crack in the wall, a gash left behind by the earthquake that had devastated the city. Desperately, Zoja hurried for the cleft and the promise of escape that lay beyond it.
Mustering herself for one last great effort, the girl hurled herself at the gap. Even her lean body found the gap too narrow. Only a few inches and she became stuck. A panic greater than anything she'd yet experienced swelled inside her. With her face turned to the fields beyond the ruins, she had no way of seeing what was happening in the city behind her. She had no way of knowing what might even now be stalking toward her from those broken streets, ready to seize her in its claws and drag her back into the shadows.
Squirming and squeezing, Zoja forced her body through the breach. She bit down on her lip as pain flared through her body. She was scraping her skin raw, slashing herself on the jagged stones. Blood dripped from her cuts, seeping through the ragged tatters of her dress. Despite the pain, the girl forced herself on, sliding and shifting until at last she was free!
Zoja collapsed in the field just beyond the crumbling city wall. The grass felt cool against her cheek, the hearty smell of the soil was rich in her nose. A cool breeze flowed across her bruised body. Around her the land was bathed in moonlight, dispelling the ghoulish shadows that had closed in upon her within the ruins. A sound, half-sob and half-laugh, rose from her mouth. Jubilation that she had escaped. She had survived!
Then, in the moonlit fields, Zoja's eyes fastened upon a dark splotch of shadow. The sound of relief caught in her throat as she stared in horror at the black thing. She hadn't escaped, not at all. The thing hadn't abandoned its hunt. It had gone ahead of her, been waiting here for her when she left the ruins.
In the moonlight, Zoja could see every detail of the monstrous thing. It sat upon its haunches in a circle of dead grass, emaciated arms folded around its withered knees. Grey skin, so thin it appeared almost translucent, stretched tight across its bony frame. A coarse black shroud was wrapped about its body, whipping around it in the breeze, the folds expanding into the semblance of batlike wings. The thing's head was shriveled, little more than a leering skull. The nose was rotted away entirely, leaving only a pit at the center of its face. The mouth was impossibly wide, a gash that stretched from ear to ear. The eyes that smoldered deep within the shadows of its visage were a ghostly white, chips of marble from which all warmth and humanity had long ago fled.
The vampyr sat there, staring at its prey. It raised a blackened claw to its mouth, opening that gash-like maw to reveal its wolflike fangs. A long, lupine tongue lolled out, licking the claw with feline attentiveness. The monster was in no hurry to seize its prey. It kept its cold eyes focused on Zoja while it licked each of its claws clean. She knew it was savoring her mounting terror, that it was simply toying with her like a cat with a mouse. She also knew that the time would come when it would tire of its ghastly play.
Zoja tried to move but found that her strength had abandoned her. She lacked even the ability to cover her eyes with her arm, to shield herself from the monstrous image of the vampyr. Her mind was her own, awake and aware, but her body was frozen in a hideous paralysis.
At last the vampyr rose from its crouch, unfolding its limbs with a grisly motion that suggested a spider creeping from its web. Standing upright, the monster evoked some echo of human shape and form, though the semblance only heightened its ghastly appearance. The black shroud draped down its shriveled body, tears in the cloth exposing the rotten form beneath. As the vampyr stole toward Zoja, she could see the grass withering under its step. A fell, charnel reek struck her senses as the fiend prowled closer and a spectral chill slithered across her skin.
The vampyr's slow, mocking advance persisted for a few awful moments. Then a hungry light shone in its dead eyes. In a burst of motion, the monster pounced upon Zoja. Spidery limbs wrapped themselves around her body, a skeletal foot stamped on her neck and pushed her face in the dirt. Zoja screamed into the dust as she felt the vampyr’s loathsome tongue licking at her cuts, lapping up her blood.
The vampyr shifted its hold, irritated by Zoja's muffled scream. Its ghastly strength was far in excess of its starveling frame. The peasant girl was like a rag doll
in its grip. Easily it wrenched her up from the ground and pulled her close to its chest. One clawed hand seized a fistful of her hair and forced her head to one side.
For a moment, Zoja saw the vampyr’s fangs glistening in the moonlight. Then, like a striking serpent, it lunged at her, stabbing its fangs into her throat.
After that, for Zoja Radzienski there was only darkness.
*****
Dobrogost Radzienski glowered at the men around him. A delegation from the village of Swinka, his companions represented friends and neighbors, people he'd known all his life. Or had he? It was only in moments of great tragedy that the true quality of a man revealed itself. Listening to them now, he appreciated more fully what kind of petty, miserly people these were. There was Maciej Bogacki, whose sheep had been victimized all winter by a bold she-wolf until Dobrogost helped him track the animal back to her den and stick her with a spear. There was Waclaw Tokarz, whose harvest had been commandeered by a gang of roving mercenaries and who'd relied upon the charity of the Radzienskis to carry his family until the next harvest. There was Rafal Kucinski, whose brother Lucjan had been held for ransom by bandits, a ransom gathered together by all the men of Swinka.
Now it was Dobrogost who was in need and he found that these same men he'd helped and stood by through their own trials were dissembling. True, they'd made the long trip to Wormditt with him, representing no small investment of time and risk, but now that they were on the cusp of accomplishing their purpose, they'd finally decided that the expense was too great.
“They say that this man's services do not come cheaply, Dobrogost,” Rafal whispered as the four Poles walked through the narrow streets of the German town. “Even with our tithe to the church forgiven by Father Henryk there is no guarantee we can pay this man.”
“You did not sound so thrifty when Black Wladimir had your brother,” Dobrogost snarled back.
“That was different,” Maciej said. “As a village we agreed to pay the bandit because doing so could save Lucjan.” The sharpness left his tone when he met Dobrogost's gaze. When next he spoke, his words were laced with shame, but that sense of guilt didn't keep him from saying them. “Your daughter is dead. Paying this man won't bring Zoja back.”
Waclaw dodged away from the gutter as a bowl of night dirt was dumped from the window of the house he was walking past. He scowled at the residue that spattered across his boots and wool leggings. “Be practical, Dobrogost,” he said as he wiped the filth off with his hat. “We are all of us saddened by Zoja's death. You know I had hopes my son and your daughter would make us family.” He paused, frowning at the now soiled brim of his hat.
Dobrogost rounded on his friend. “What if it had been your son who was taken? What would you say then, Waclaw? Would you cry and whine about money or would you do everything you could to get justice?”
Waclaw retreated before Dobrogost's anger, turning an imploring look to the other peasants. Rafal rose to his defense. “If it is justice, then we should have entrusted the matter to Baron Ksawery and left him to deal with it.”
A bitter laugh hissed over Dobrogost's mustached lip. “His lordship has no time for superstitions,” he scoffed. “Hasn't he told us so many times? Have his men even once stirred themselves to look for this monster? How many have been lost from the other villages? How many travelers and strangers have been found lifeless just outside the city walls?”
“It isn't justice you want, Dobrogost,” Maciej said. “You want revenge.”
The last word seemed to hang in the air. Dobrogost felt it jabbing against his chest like an accusing finger. Still, it wasn't enough to deaden the anguish and anger that raged through his heart. “If it is revenge, then it is revenge that is to the good of us all. Our lives are hard enough without the worry that our families will fall prey to a vampir.”
When he spoke the dreaded name, Dobrogost at once regretted it. Not only his companions, but many of the townsfolk in the street around them, turned pale at the word 'vampir'; many of the Poles made the sign against the evil eye before hastening away from the four peasants, some of the Germans crossed themselves and did likewise. A few wealthy burghers made a point of laughing at the sudden fright provoked by Dobrogost, but instead of a condescending snort it was a nervous titter that rolled from their tongues.
One man, a wizened old campaigner by his military swagger and the gray scars that marred his face, didn't share the timidity of the others. Instead of hurrying away, he approached the men from Swinka. Doffing the fur cap that covered his balding pate, he addressed Dobrogost. “Forgive my intrusion, good sir, but as you can see, I could not help overhearing your speech.” He gestured at the retreating townsfolk at either end of the street. “It will be some time yet before the folk of Wormditt forget their own dealings with... the undead.” The grizzled veteran pressed his palm against the little copper cross fixed to the breast of his tunic.
Rafal shook his head. “We heard that the trouble here was over, that the shadow was gone from Wormditt. That is why we came.”
“Just so, just so,” the veteran said. “But even when dawn breaks, it is hard to forget the night.” He turned a scowl toward the fortress that loomed over Wormditt. “Of course the Knights still refuse to admit what it was that took eighteen souls these past ten months.” He tapped his brow. “They know, though. That is why they have been digging up the victims and checking for decay. Anybody that looks too fresh...” He made a slashing motion across his neck. Beheading, among other rituals, was essential to ensuring a vampyr was truly destroyed.
“We came here hoping to find help,” Waclaw said.
“Then it is the krsnik you've come to see,” the veteran nodded. “I thought as much.”
Dobrogost grabbed the man's shoulder, fingers digging into his bony flesh. “He is still here? You know where we can find him?”
The old soldier pulled away from Dobrogost's clutch. “I should say that I can. Was it not Mateusz Niziolek who assisted the krsnik in finding the secret grave of Anton Gornik? Was it not I who helped burn the foul corpse when Gornik was brought to ruin? Yes, of course I know where he can be found.” Mateusz looked over the four peasants, studying them with a practiced eye. From the state of their clothes as well as the accent of their speech, he knew they had come from far away. “Your need must be great to seek out the krsnik. I am sure you will not scruple about a few coins if I am taking you where he is.” He held up a warning finger. “Mind, I do not promise that he will help. I think he has lingered so long in Wormditt in case one of Gornik's victims does rise and he can collect another fee from the Knights. If that is his intention, I doubt he can be induced to leave town.”
Dobrogost looked over at his friends. Before any of them could speak he gave Mateusz some coins. “We've come this far,” he declared. “We won't leave until we've at least spoken to the man.”
*****
For most of an hour, Mateusz led the four peasants through the cramped lanes of Wormditt. Word had spread about Dobrogost's injudicious utterance, for at every turn Poles and Germans and even Jews shunned them. No one in the town was anxious to associate with anyone who would remind them of the horrors their community had so recently endured. The sole exception was Mateusz. The old veteran regarded the recent horrors not with fear but pride. Helping to rid the town of its vampyr had lifted him from his beggarly existence for one brief moment. With each step, he regaled the men from Swinka about the monster's destruction, exaggerating his own role until the peasants wondered if their guide would claim sole credit for slaying Gornik before they reached the krsnik.
It was with a touch of reluctance that Mateusz brought a halt to their journey. He waved one of his grimy hands at a sign hanging from the second floor of a half-timbered building ahead of them. Painted onto the sign was the image of an upraised sword with a cat transfixed upon its point. “That is the Katzbalger,” he announced. “Czcibor Niemczk has made this tavern his headquarters since he arrived in Wormditt.” He smiled and gave Dobro
gost a reassuring clap on the back. “The krsnik is a man of the people,” he said. “The Knights offered him lodging in the fortress but he turned them down. Maybe if the good God looks kindly on your purpose, Czcibor will prefer peasant copper to knightly gold.” Bowing to the peasants, Mateusz walked off down the dirt lane, his fist clenched tight around the coins Dobrogost had given him.
Dobrogost led his companions into the tavern. The common room within was a long hall, its floor strewn with sawdust, several long tables with plank benches dominating the space. A small fire smoldered away in the depths of a large stone hearth, its glow and that of a few rushlights providing what little light could be had. A forlorn-looking man leaned against the timber bar that stretched across one wall, a flash of hope passing across his heavy features when he saw the peasants enter. It seemed that word of their purpose had reached even this place, for the tavern keeper’s expression darkened and he returned to a dispassionate study of the scratches on the counter he was resting against.
“Don't be unsettled by Otto,” a voice called out from the shadows. “His custom has suffered of late. When you opened that door, I imagine he thought his troubles were over. Instead you simply bring him more of the same.”
As their eyes adjusted to the gloom of the tavern, the peasants could pick out the speaker from the darkness around him. He seemed to be the only customer the Katzbalger was entertaining at the moment. Rafal called out to the man. “You are Czcibor Niemczk... the krsnik?”
“And you are the men who have come so very far looking for me,” Czcibor replied. He waved his arm, motioning for the peasants to join him. “Otto, bring my guests beer. And cheer up, these fellows are trying to extract me from your premises.” The last comment did seem to cheer the taverneer and he hurriedly filled two braces of steins from one of the barrels behind the bar.
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 12