It was only by some miracle, Maleva surmised, standing with the group looking down on the miserable creature, that this thing has lived long enough to creep into the village.
The boyars appeared with Feigl and shouldered their way to the front of the small crowd encircling the bedraggled thing. Some monstrosity from the swamp, pronounced Feigl, and—even I felt some fleeting emotion like sadness for the Ashkenazi as my father recounted this part—a look of consternation crossed his face. He squatted down to study the beast, which was reaching out with one small hand, what passed for its fingers bent and broken in different directions.
Zol Got mir helfen, Feigl was beyond distress. Oi gevald! He collapsed on his knees besides the thing, touching it gingerly. Even this slight probe caused it to bleat in pain, such was the punishment visited upon its body. Feigl’s wails joined those of this expiring swamp thing, a dissonant chorus echoing to the blue skies. And then, at last reunited, the thing shuddered, a death rattle spiraling up out of its maw. Whereupon it promptly rolled over, dead.
Symeon! Feigl cried, oy-oy-oy! This thing was his youngest.
The boyars led the search of the swamp. They had not scoured long before they happened upon the corpses. An atrocity in the bog. Dozens of bodies, wrapped in muslin. I did not see them myself, but I heard the men of my village discuss their condition in hushed tones, their faces pale. Great affliction had been visited upon these corpses. The bodies were mutilated and drained of blood. Under the cover of the night, it was surmised, wolves had ventured to the swamp and eaten from the remains, further desecrating the bodies.
Under the cover of the night. That evening I lay in bed awake for some time, anxious, my mind spinning thoughts and their ramifications. My brothers and sister had not ventured to the stream, such was the terror that had gripped the land. The boyars had uncovered the victims of some fell plague none could comprehend but left it to the village folk to dispose of the butchered remains.
In bed I listened to the sounds of the night, my father snoring, crickets chirruping outside the window. Somewhere, far off, a wolf. I thought of the tumbrel and its midnight sojourns, of a horse steered by no driver. There was no doubt in my mind as to the cargo transported. I pondered the implications of my own complicity in this scheme. I was nine, but I knew the bodies were those of the itinerants I had sent to the manor house. I felt responsibility, yes, but no guilt.
I imagined Symeon, lured with his brothers to the manor house, taken within its confines. I hoped they had suffered greatly, all of them, before succumbing. The brothers, carted off to the swamp, their bodies dumped in the mire. Symeon alive still, bled out at the ankles, most of his shoulder gone from his body. He would have lain there in the dark, cold and afraid, only to feel the wolves champing on his extremities. How he must have struggled to drag himself from the swamp and along the road to the spot where he was found.
I could not feel bad for him. He, Ezra and Gerald had gotten what they had deserved. Though I could not foresee the particulars when I had set the events in motion, I had hoped for some similar outcome. The weak and the botched shall perish, Fritz had proclaimed as the first principle of our charity. And one should help them to it. It was apparent, I felt with some satisfaction, that Symeon at least had suffered greatly before dying. Good for him. I only hoped Ezra and Gerald had as well.
It took me some time to sleep that night.
I woke a few hours later, the sun paling the window in the eastern wall. After a days’ labor, after a meal of porridge and stale bread, Leonid, Mina, Viktor and Sasha left our cottage and set out on the road to the stream. I stood outside the cottage and watched them go, resigned. Go with them, lubyj. My father spoke from behind me and I turned. He was standing in the doorway to our dwelling, the jug of vodka in one hand. Go with them, he invited me, gesturing after my brothers and sisters. Go.
I will always remember my father in that moment. His image, there in the door, the jug in one hand, his shoulders narrow and sloped from hard work, an image etched into my memory. Life had not been kind to him, but he had somehow managed to remain decent in the face of a million little indecencies. Even in the grips of his alcoholism. I thanked him and ran off after my siblings, hailing them.
We made merry on the way to the stream, reunited again, not having to fear the calumnies and abuses of our former tormentors. We passed the manor house, august in the twilight. We passed the Boyar encampment, alive with activity and fire. At the stream we laughed and cavorted, kicking its icy waters at one another. There was still snow on the tops of the mountains and the water was frigid, but what a reprieve from the heat of the day. Sasha was careful to remove her shoes and place them away from the waters. We laughed as we had not laughed in a long while, as we would never again laugh any of us.
When the moon had risen in the sky, full and white, we dried off and headed back home to father. The boyar camp was still, and though the night was well lit, none of us noticed it was empty. Where a candle shone from within Maleva’s cottage, Feigl’s home was dark. In the distance a din became audible to us. What is it brother? Mina begged Leonid, who looked uneasy. When the road turned we confronted from a short distance the origin of the bedlam. A crowd had gathered in front of our cottage, a mass composed of our peasant neighbors and the boyars. The group was armed, from the elaborate weaponry of the boyar to the torches and pitch forks of the farmers. And this crowd faced my father, who was alone in the doorway of our cottage.
Come children! Maleva had appeared beside us. You must go! The old Roma tried to usher us back the way we had come. Our father--, What is the meaning of this?--, Mina and Leonid protested.
Not now, children, there was fear in Maleva’s voice. I fear I have—she kept looking towards the cottage and the throng about it. No one there had seen us, intent as they were on my father. Above the steady din of the mob came Feigl’s voice, loud and hoarse, screaming at my father, condemning him, damning him.
Father! Leonid tore away from Maleva, away from us, and sprinted towards our father. The look on Maleva’s face. She knew my eldest brother was lost to us. She grabbed Viktor and Mina by their arms and pulled them away. Sasha, gripping Mina, went along. I stood there in the road and watched, transfixed. Maleva called me a fool or some such, but I was riveted on the scene and did not take heel to heed her warnings.
Leonid disappeared into the crowd and there was a rumble. He burst from the gathering, appearing disheveled, and stood next to my father in the doorway. Feigl’s shouts rose in intensity and the crowd shimmered, advancing a step. My father put a hand on Leonid’s shoulder and looked down into his son’s eyes. I watched as the mob surged forward, their sheer numbers driving my brother and father back into the cottage even as torches were tossed through the doors and windows and upon the thatched roof. I watched in disbelief as flames licked up from the only home I had ever known, as the crowd circled the cottage and thrust lance and pitch fork towards the door and windows, trapping those inside.
Stop! I screamed, but my words were useless against the blood thirsty mass. Useless, yes, but not unheard. I rubbed the tears from my eyes with my fists to find Feigl staring at me, across the distance. He spied me under the moon and when he recognized me he reached out and tugged on those around him, shouting and gesticulating. I turned and bolted.
She was an old woman leading three children and I caught up to Maleva quickly. Brother, Mina cried, where are father and Leonid? Maleva looked at me. She knew I had knowledge of what had been done to Leonid and my father. Behind me, pricks of light jutted up and down, the torches of our pursuers bobbing.
It is Feigl, Maleva attempted to explain events adults would have trouble comprehending to children. He blames the little one for the disappearance of his boys. She spoke of Sasha, my dushka. I thought back to that day on the road of which I had only heard, of Sasha eyeing Gerald and his brothers following their latest indignity. My people were a superstitious people. They would believe a five-year-old girl could draw down a curse.
You must run, children, Maleva gasped as she led us, you must run and head to the mountains. Do not look back, do not stop. Maleva led us past the manor house, past the stream and the swamp, into the night. Finally she stopped. Back towards the village came the plaintive cries of hounds. They have dogs, the Roma breathed. Run now children, run as you never have! May god have mercy on your souls!
To the mountains and the forests did we flee, my brother and sisters and I. We were frightened and we were grieving our father’s and Leonid’s demise. As dusk fell across the land, the howls of wolves sent chills through our little bodies. Sasha clasped my hand more firmly. Viktor cried out, a forlorn cry. He stood looking back, transfixed upon whence we had come. Behind us, on the plane, the torches pulsed in the dark. The torches were unnecessary; the waxing gibbous moon illuminated all.
I remember now, looking back on that line of infernal flame pursuing us, there were dozens of torches, pinpricks of light on the plain. Ever so many more than were necessary to hunt four little children to the earth. But these men and women of my village, and the boyars, were in the grips of a blood lust that would only be sated with our apprehension and execution. Their delirium would prove their undoing.
Upon reaching the first trees, my sister Sasha gasped, bringing us all up short. A form stood waiting in the dark of the branches, backlit by the moon. We feared spirits, a man-beast of the forest, some creature of faery of which Maleva had told us. Then it spoke and we knew a relief none of us had ever expected. It was he. Vinci, the lord. He bid us follow him and we did, certain he had some secretive mountain redoubt where we could hide. We walked at a fast pace for some distance, and as we did I spied the manifold weapons adorning the master’s form. How could he bare such great weight, my brother Viktor whispered to me. Then, we knew not. The lord, Mina remarked, sotto voce, looked prepared to singlehandedly fight a war. Her assessment was not far off.
As we walked through the trees the torches and voices behind us drew closer. We were four children and one man. They were driven by blind rage and a hunger for revenge, fleet of foot with sole purpose of mind. Theirs’ was a bloodlust, and blood they would have. They had dogs. I remember how Sasha cringed each time the beast’s howled, shivers of dread wracking her little body. She knew these would not be like Maleva’s anonymous canine. In my mind I was resolved. I would not see my little sister torn apart by hounds.
We entered a vast clearing in the trees and as we crossed it, the lord instructed us. Go, he said, continue on to the trees beyond this opening, to the mountains ahead. Do not stop, do not look back, he would find us he told us. But lord, he silenced me with a look and ordered us continue. And we did, across the clearing and into the trees beyond, and when we had gone some distance I pressed Sasha’s hand into that of Viktor’s and I enjoined them continue, declaring that I must halt to relieve myself, that I would catch up immediately. They hurried on without a word, only little Sasha looking back at me in the moonlight, almost as if she knew she would never see me again.
I hastened back to the clearing. The bays of the dogs and the voices of men were distinct in the night. The trees thinned about the clearing and it was here I stopped, crouching low to look upon the glade and the lone man who stood there. The lord Vinci was finishing his preparations. He had set a number of weapons on the ground at intervals of several meters, and as I watched he placed the last of these upright. It was a bardiche, its shaft jutting into the night as the moon glittered off its two foot blade.
Vinci’s movements were unhurried, unconcerned. He looked a man eminently comfortable about his task. When he had disencumbered himself of his many and varied armaments, the lord turned and strode across the clearing, past all these weapons, to the trees we had emerged from minutes before. It was back into these trees, the howls of hunting dogs nearly upon him now, that Vinci disappeared.
What was he doing? I waited where I was, hidden behind a trunk. The valor of the lord Vinci, I thought, to sacrifice himself that my brother and sisters may escape. For there was no chance, I knew, that one man could prevail against so many. The lord would fall in glorious, hard-fought battle, and I would bear witness to his final stand. If need be, I would snatch up one of the discarded weapons and do what little I could to slow the advance once the lord had fallen, that my brothers and sisters may succeed in their flight.
The clamor of the dogs in the woods rose in intensity, and as I listened I could not believe my ears. The barks and bays transformed to mad snarls and growls, which gave to anguished bellows, then strangled whimpers and, finally, silence. The din of men and women quickly drowned out the silence of the dogs as I waited and watched. Vinci emerged from the trees, looking none the worse for wear. He had slaughtered all those dogs, it occurred to me, and I saw no weapon in his hand, so I was left to wonder how he had accomplished such a task.
What happened in the next few minutes transpired with such fluidity and poise, as if it had all been planned in advance. As the first of the torches reached the edge of the trees, there were screams of rage as the dogs were discovered. The lord reached the first of his weapons, an ashen bow and a quiver of bolts. Vinci took up the bow and fitted the first of the arrows, turning to face the horde of men and women and soldiers as they breached the clearing. They saw him and roared their indignation. The lord did not hesitate. His first arrow punched through the armor of the lead boyar and left the man standing there wide-eyed in the moonlight, contemplating with his final breaths the spurting aperture in his chest. Before this first combatant had collapsed, Vinci had buried two more shafts in human targets.
In retrospect, those that followed should have turned and ran back to the village, although even that place would not prove a safe haven. But spying one man, alone in the field, those that followed became maddened, blind with fury, and charged headlong into that clearing, to their deaths. The lord drew the bowstring back until the quiver at his feet was emptied and at least a dozen forms lay inert on the grass. Seeing so many of their own felled did nothing to deter the maniacs lunging across the clearing with an assortment of farm tools, torches, and more polished weaponry.
The lord turned and walked to his next station, where he had set a halberd which he now took up to deadly effect among his attackers. I watched this scene unfold in the moonlight, this one man who stood against many, the many racing headlong to their ends, and I watched in disbelief. My brothers and I had fantasized about warfare often enough, even re-enacting our takes on famed battles in the fields beyond our cottage or in our stream. But this would be the first time I was to witness close quarters combat, and its pitch transfixed me.
Vinci fought and deliberately controlled ground, falling back less he become encircled. He never turned his back to his opponents, stepping delicately backwards as he parried and thrust with first halberd, then axe and sword. Every step of the way left a freshly fallen opponent, yet still they came. It was not until later that I understood the lord’s gaze itself drew them on. So engrossed were they by his stare, so consumed by their own hatred and enmity, that they ignored their fallen only to fall themselves.
In the din of battle an arm was severed and landed in my proximity. It still clutched the dagger it had wielded ineffectively. I took my eyes off the fight before me long enough to pry the dead fingers from the blade and take it up into my own small hand. I did not think I would pose much of a threat with the weapon, but it was better than being unarmed. I looked up and more had fallen, my own retrieval of the blade having gone unnoticed.
The final image I have of the lord in that clearing is of him standing, the blood stained blade of the bardiche in his hands, confronting the remaining boyars in their armor. About them in the field lay the shattered and broken, the dying calling out their last pleas and contritions, their torches burning in the grass. There appeared some trepidation amongst the boyars, whether from fear or training. Vinci tossed the bardiche to the ground and faced them bare handed. I thought back to that first night at the stream, when his hands had dra
wn my attention, and I thought now that though he was disarmed, the lord Vinci had the advantage. His apparent lack of defenses made brazen these last men standing and they assaulted him one final time.
Something warned me, something conveyed to me that I was not alone. A baneful hiss, much too close, drew my attention away from the battle. There, a mere few steps from myself, was Feigl. He had crept upon me in the night, his hands reaching out before his body, intent on my throat. It did not occur to me to strike him with my newfound blade. I cried out in surprise and fled, the Ashkenazi plodding after me in the night. I turned back as I ran but once, enough to see Feigl loping after me through the trees and scrub, his face transformed by loathing into an ugly mask, only an approximation of something that was once human.
I ran like I had never run before or since. My heart beat with a fear and terror born of the knowledge that this man was responsible for my father’s and brother’s death. That he would murder my brother and sisters should he reach them. I had to get to them first, to protect them. I ran and as I ran the noise of Feigl’s clumsy pursuit faded behind me. It was not for some time that I dared to slow and then to walk, glancing back furtively along the path I had come, expecting at any moment to be set upon. And it was only in slowing my pace that I felt the fatigue that had come over my body, for my brother and sisters and I had been on the run for some time that night.
With the coming of exhaustion I knew hopelessness and despair. What if I were unable to reunite with my siblings? To warn them before Feigl stumbled upon them in the dark? But where was I? I stopped and stared and looked around, unable to decipher my bearings. I looked up to the moon but it offered no succor. I was a boy, alone and afraid, hunted in the woods. I thought of father and his valiant efforts to forestall our harriers, of Leonid rushing to his side.
I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) Page 24