City of the Gods - Starybogow

by Rospond, Brandon; Kostka, Jan; Werner, CL

  *****

  The town began to attempt to rebuild, but it would take time. Several of the wealthy merchants in town disappeared when their homes collapsed into the sinkhole. The new castellan, Piorik, thought he would use the wealth of the missing families to rebuild, but their treasures seemed to have disappeared with them. Piork was in a bad mood in his rooms above the city in the keep of the castle. His fool, Lambert, sat in the corner playing with his knife. Lambert, wasn’t actually a ‘fool’ like most blanks, but just a short boy that Piork had conscripted into the position because he knew a person of his status needed one.

  The captain of the militia, Sturtze, walked over to the table and poured a cup of mead in a familiar manner. The castellan was a veteran of King John Albert’s excursion into Moldavia and the homage of the Grandmaster Frederick von Sachsen. In the end, he was mustered out and came east with a letter from the king to take command of the town militia and the small lance of Cossack used in keeping an eye on the area. While the castellan was a minor szlatcha and the captain a commoner, he did know people and he had the muscle to back up his position.

  “It’s been two weeks since the terror. It’s God’s punishment for the evil ways of this town.”

  The captain slowly placed the cup back down on the table and tilted his head to avoid the direct light in the window. “If that was the reason for God’s vengeance, I think more than this town would be in trouble right now.”

  “How do we know what is going on beyond our walls? Father Kolma…”

  “Father Kolma is a very old and foolish man who drinks too much and reads less. Couriers have come back from Vilnius to say they are fine. I am still waiting on news from the west.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed about these couriers? I am in charge!”

  “I just told you, Castellan. Besides you were indisposed at the time, but more important matters. We have been able to restore some sort of control. The wharfs are still not operable because the river has changed. There have been several mysterious deaths in the north sector, I have the barber checking for plague.” He turned to walk away and stopped at the door turning back to the castellan. “By the way, we have had several of the wandering caravans from the south come to town. I have put some of them to work on clearing and rebuilding. I will keep an eye on them.” Then he left to make his rounds.

  Castellan Piorik slumped back in his chair. He poured himself something to drink and gathered some papers. “No tolls for the river, no market taxes, means no tithes for me,” he said to himself while counting on his fingers. He threw his hands up. “Bah, we need to do something or I’m ruined.”

  *****

  Captain Sturtze took a couple of men to the docks before heading up to the northern sector of the city to patrol. The former quay was twisted and buckled from the moving ground, and part had actually sunk about fifteen feet. The river had shifted in such a way that boats could not effectively unload cargo and would be forced to bypass the city. That was, unless the castellan and the city fathers could get their thumbs out and rebuild the waterfront.

  He was staring out at the mess for a second when he felt a presence below the wharf in the riverbank. Sturtze quickly looked over the edge to the sandy bank, but saw nothing and no one. It was dusk and there were no regular lamplighters out anymore since the quake, and what would normally be a raucous waterfront was eerily quiet.

  He saw a figure staggering toward him and he grabbed for his sword, but let it go when he saw it was only Grun, still coming down to the docks even though there was nothing new to rob here. The gang stopped when they saw the patrol and stiffened warily on the defensive, then realized it was the captain. He grunted at the militia and made a move to walk the other way.

  “Hold on there, Grun.” Grun turned back toward the captain. He seemed like he was sleepwalking or drunk, but didn’t smell of alcohol as usual.

  “Captain, what are you doing out and about? These streets are not safe anymore.”

  “Is that a threat you boozer?” It was half stern, half joking, but Grun’s face turned blank as if he was thinking and scared.

  “No, Captain. This place is getting bad, the north side especially. I may take my chances with the Tartars than stay here!”

  “What are you babbling about? And where is the rest of your motley crew?”

  “I don’t know where they are; I can’t remember, but I need to get out, get away.” Then he moved his arms as if pushing and stumbled. That is when Sturtze caught a whiff of metallic smell and grabbed his arm.

  “Grun, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Then he noticed a a large lump on his head.

  “Nothing, nothing. Leave me alone.” Then Grun stumbled back toward the town square.

  “Have that neck checked out! You dumb…” then he just trailed off.

  *****

  Zoltan eyed the house from the shadows. The count and countess had not occupied the house for many years. Some people thought they were dead, but here they were. The count had arrived two weeks before and the countess arrived yesterday after her entourage was attacked by Tartars outside the city. Zolton and his brethren had other issues, his master would want a report soon. He took a pinch of zmatek and his senses exploded again. He had been watching this place for two days now, if not for this drug the boss had given him he would have fallen asleep a while ago. But he was wide awake, alive, and perceived all things around him. His third arm began to twitch again. He was getting used to it, a gift from the masters. He kept it hidden under his tunic when he was out. For a noble house there never seemed like there was much going on. Occasionally some minion would come and go, but very few visitors, and when they did, they stayed for hours.

  Eventually Horta came to take over at the post, and sent Zoltan to go back to their quarters. Several of the brothers and sisters were there chanting, trying to bring the old ones back. There were promises after all, promises of power.

  The house of merchant Schmidt looked like many other townhouses and like other German merchants in the town, it was as orderly as it could be under the circumstances; the inside was a fortress of sorts. Members of the Order used it to keep an eye on events in Starybogow and now the time was right. The portents were right and they had brought in their own mediums. They had almost succeeded in releasing the old masters. One more push and they might accomplish what they had all wanted. The forces of the Countess and those monks, though not aligned, had stopped them for now. But not much longer. First to the Black Goat of the Woods Inn to meet and plan.

  Hour of the Wolf

  C. L. Werner

  Teutonic Knight of the early 16th Century

  The white stone walls of the church almost seemed to glow as the dusky rays of the setting sun fell upon them. Except for a gnarled old oak, the building stood alone on the little hill just outside the Silesian village of Karlsdorf. A low stone wall circled the hill, encompassing the rough gravestones and simple wooden crosses that rose from the churchyard. Just beyond the burying ground, on the other side of the wall, a few crude markers denoted the resting places of the few suicides and witches Karlsdorf had produced in the two hundred years of its existence. Such grievous sinners were too corrupt to place in consecrated ground alongside the faithful and God-fearing.

  As he spurred his horse toward the church, Wulf Greimmer wondered which side of the wall the man he hunted would be buried on. If there was any justice, Klaus von Auerbach would rot in some unhallowed place, fodder for worms and crows. Wulf was determined that justice would find the Teutonic Knight. He would be the instrument of justice.

  Wulf tethered the reins of his horse to one of the stone crosses that sprouted from the churchyard and walked toward the white building. His hand closed about the leather-wrapped grip of his sword, easing it from its sheath. Disgust welled up within him. The vile nature of the crime committed by his quarry made him despise von Auerbach as he'd never hated any man before, but for the villain to flee to a church and try to avail himself of Sanctuary brooked an unspeak
able cowardice. The knight should at least be able to die with honor.

  Approaching the church, Wulf drew back when he saw the oak door swing open. The sword was ripped from its scabbard before he realized the man who stepped out across the threshold was too slight and aged to be the renegade knight even if von Auerbach had set aside his white livery to disguise himself in priestly vestments. The clergyman bowed his tonsured head in greeting, his gaze focusing upon the naked steel in Wulf's hand.

  “You come bearing your sword into the house of God?” the priest said, his words weighted with sadness rather than condemnation. “Heavy must be the sin that weighs upon your soul, my son.”

  Wulf glowered at the elderly priest. “The sin that burdens my mind isn't my own. It is the crime of the one I hunt.”

  “It is written to judge not lest ye be judged,” the priest cautioned.

  “He has been judged,” Wulf answered. “Not by prince or king, but by the people themselves. The Vehmic Court has found him guilty and condemned him for his crimes.” He nodded toward the church. “His trail has led me here. Don't try to stop me from taking him.”

  The priest shook his head. “You would shed blood in the sanctuary? You would work violence before the very altar of Christ?”

  “My cause is just, commissioned by the Holy Order of Vehm,” Wulf said. “The man I hunt is unworthy of God's protection.”

  “Who among us is worthy of His grace? Yet God has bestowed His forgiveness upon us all the same.” The priest stepped into Wulf's path as the hunter tried to move past him and enter the church. “Sheathe your sword. The man you hunt isn't here.”

  Wulf stared into the priest's weary face, gauging the depth of the clergyman's sincerity. “He was here, though. The knight Klaus von Auerbach came here.”

  “I took his confession,” the priest admitted. “Then he left, to perform penance for his deeds.”

  Fury boiled up within Wulf's heart. Penance! Atonement! Exoneration for his crimes! “Father, you took von Auerbach's confession. You know what he did! He seduced a young girl, a burgher's daughter, and when she was with child he killed her. There can be no forgiveness for such atrocity. He thought to hide behind the protection of the Teutonic Knights, but the Vehmic Court condemned him just the same. Now he thinks to hide in the grace of the church.”

  The priest reached out and laid his hand upon Wulf's shoulder. “Leave justice and vengeance to God, my son. Men cannot know all that has been or must be. Turn back from the path you're set upon. Return to your home, tell the judges that your quarry slipped beyond your reach.”

  “That would be a lie,” Wulf sneered. “I am reckoned the best Freischoffe in Westphalia, the enforcer of the Holy Order of Vehm. I have been the court's avenger for ten years now and never have I failed to bring justice to those found guilty by the Vehmic Court.”

  “Pride is the sin by which Satan fell from Heaven,” the priest warned.

  “A man must be steward of his own honor, otherwise he ceases to be a man,” Wulf said. “If I fail, then I will fail because it was God's will.”

  The priest turned, pointing his wizened hand toward the southeast. “Perhaps when you hear the penance I have set von Auerbach you will relent. He has gone to the ruins of Starybogow, to ply his sword and his courage against the unclean things that now infest it. It is there my nephew will find redemption.”

  The color drained from Wulf's face when he heard the priest mention Starybogow. The once mighty city had become infamous as a place of darkness and evil. Ghosts and vampyr were said to haunt the ruins, demons and witches to make sport among the desolation. All the evils of the world had come crawling back from the shadows to claim Starybogow for their own.

  Fear faded from his heart when Wulf heard the priest speak of redemption for von Auerbach. There could be no atonement for the crimes the knight had perpetrated. The very thought offended Wulf's sense of justice. Too often had he seen the noble and powerful escape punishment for their misdeeds. The Vehmic Courts had risen up as a response to such infamies, a way for the people to wrest an accounting from those who inflicted harm upon them. It didn't matter if the knight had fled to the very gates of Hell, the avenger would follow his trail and carry out the verdict brought against him.

  “You have my sympathies, Father,” Wulf said as he turned from the priest. “I didn't know he was of your blood. It explains why he rode all the way to Prussia to make his confession here.”

  The priest followed Wulf to where he'd tethered his horse. “Would it make any difference to you if I said my nephew's crimes aren't what you think them to be?”

  Wulf climbed up into the saddle and looked down at the old clergyman. “Judgment has already been brought against him.” He shook his head as he turned his horse from the churchyard. “No good can come from you violating the sanctity of his confession.” He cast one last look back at the priest. “Pray for me, Father, that I am spared the evils of Starybogow.”

  As he spurred his horse away, Wulf heard the priest's voice one last time. “I will pray for you. I will pray for you both.”

  *****

  Guided by plumes of smoke, Wulf came upon the ravaged caravan. Arrows and spears projected from the sides of wagons, fires flickered from burning tents and overturned carts. Slaughtered oxen and mules lay strewn about the despoiled encampment. German merchants struggled to salvage their wares from the wreckage while Slavic laborers dragged bodies away from the debris. Several men arrayed in heavy leather hauberks and steel helms kept a wary watch, their eyes roving across the edge of a nearby wood for any sign of threat. At Wulf's approach, two of the armed men advanced toward him with bared swords. As they came near, he could see they were Poles, likely mercenaries hired by the merchants as guides and guards. Their wariness lessened when they saw that Wulf was alone.

  “What happened here?” Wulf asked, gesturing at the destruction.

  One of the Poles, a tall man with a scarred nose, scratched at his black beard for a moment. “Wends,” he said. He waved his sword at some of the bodies the Slavs were dragging away from the wagons. Even in death they had a savage, dusky aspect, their feral features matching the rough hides and skins in which they were arrayed.

  “Wends?” Wulf repeated.

  The other Polish guard, slighter than his comrade and with a few fingers missing off his right hand, scowled and spat on the ground. “Wends,” he said. “Brigand raiders stealing anything they can carry away and killing anything they can't steal.”

  “It was my understanding that the Wendish Crusade saw an end to them long ago,” Wulf said. “Their kingdom was broken and their people brought to Christ.”

  “Not all of them,” the taller Pole declared. “Some of them fled, retreated into the wilds. Parts of Lusatia are still thick with them. Oh, most of them make an effort at being civilized, most of them play at being Christian, but who knows how many still revere the Old Gods?”

  “These Wends don't bother to pretend,” the other mercenary said. “They follow their pagan gods just as they did of old. They subject themselves to their volkhv, a sorcerer called Horjan.”

  The tall guard crossed himself as his companion spoke the volkhv's name, fear shining in his eyes. “It is ill to speak of their shaman,” he reproached his comrade, looking up at the circling crows. “Who can say what bird or beast might be one of his spies?”

  Wulf pointed at the dead the Slavs were laying out in the grass. Only a few of the bodies looked to belong to the caravan but there were at least a dozen that had the barbarous cast of raiders about them. “For all this sorcerer's power, his followers have seem to have come out worse for crossing your trail.”

  The smaller Pole nodded excitedly. “We were rescued by the grace of God. The Wends set upon us from ambush and would have surely overwhelmed us. Just as it seemed we would all be killed or worse, a rider came charging down upon them! Arrayed in white with the holy cross in black across his breast! You should have seen him as he strove against the brigands. His sword
was like lightning as he brought it slashing down into his foes. However many of them came at him, he beat them back, smiting them with righteousness.”

  “It was steel the knight used,” the other guard commented, more restrained in his outlook than his comrade. “He must have felled four or five Wends in the first charge, then accounted for three more when they tried to rally against him. When the brigands started to flee, he rode two more of them down and harried the others all the way back into the woods.”

  “What became of this rescuer?” Wulf asked, trying to keep his tone diffident. The Teutonic Knight who'd saved the caravan might be von Auerbach. If so, he didn't think the Poles would be happy to learn the Freischoffe was hunting him.

  “After seeing that our wounded were being attended he rode away to the east,” the tall guard said.

  “I heard him ask one of the merchants if Starybogow was near,” the other Pole interjected. He shook his head, worry creeping into his voice. “He might be looking for the volkhv, for there are many rumors that the Wends have raised a temple to the Old Gods in the ruins.”

  Wulf looked away from the mercenaries, casting his eyes across the green fields that spilled away toward the horizon. “East you say?” Before either of the Poles could answer, he set his horse galloping across the fields.

  The knight had been von Auerbach. Wulf was certain of it. The attack upon the caravan couldn't have been more than an hour old. That meant his quarry was close, closer than he'd been since Wulf had set out after him.

  Justice would soon be visited upon the murdering knight.