‘Terpin. The village chief I am,’ the man replied promptly. ‘I have business for you, honourable hunter... Sad business...’
‘My name is Arioch,’ Oleg introduced himself with a slight nod of the head. ‘How can I help you?’
‘There’s a korrigan among us,’ the chief hung his head sadly. ‘There you are. Five hundred gold pieces. It’s all I’ve managed to collect. Alas, our village is not a wealthy one.’
‘A korrigan?’ said Oleg, amazed, throwing himself back in his chair. ‘But they were all exterminated long ago!’ And indeed, those river maidens or ‘spidery widows’ as the local peasants called them, a type of unclean living in the creeks of Trir and making men fall in love with them – with usually fatal consequences– had been considered destroyed more than a decade ago.
‘Exterminated, aye, exterminated they may be, but there’s one resides here... May Hel take her!’ the chief cursed. ‘Well, will you take it?’ and he pushed the purse over to Oleg who was thinking it over seriously. On the one hand, his hunter’s account was almost full and there was no need at all to risk taking on such a dangerous opponent as a korrigan. The couple of fog beings he had destroyed last week were quite enough to arouse the Committee for Nobility’s respect, so he could easily manage without taking any risks. He only needed to destroy two or three lower vampires or werewolves on the way to Volgrad.
On the other hand, the sum the village chief was offering was very tempting and besides, one of the last – if not THE last – korrigan would look very good on his “resume”. Admittedly, there was another sticking point here. Korrigans belonged to the so-called “intelligent” unclean and Oleg had had no desire to hunt them down.
Weighing all these arguments, Oleg happened to glance into Terpin’s eyes and was struck by the anguish they held.
‘Were there many victims?’ he asked rather unexpectedly.
‘I buried my son last week,’ Terpin answered hoarsely, turning his eyes away.
‘The korrigan?’
‘The very same...! She was his bride. We were planning the wedding but he went out of the yard one evening, thought the cow was mooing kind of funny, and he only came back the next morning... fell under the Song, he did.... his eyes were crazed, he obviously weren’t himself... he was consumed in three days... So will you take this job?’ the chief asked persistently, looking at Oleg searchingly.
‘I’ll take it!’ Oleg said decisively, taking the purse. ‘Hey, inn keeper! A ginger beer! – I’ll go this evening,’ he said in reply to the chief’s silent question, sipping the refreshing drink from his mug and straining to remember everything he knew about korrigans.
And indeed, not that much was known about them at all. Korrigans - splendid maidens of the creeks - had lived in Trir since ancient times. They appeared as incredibly beautiful and attractive women, especially at night. They had been considered one of the best matches for the highest nobility and not a few offspring of well-known families had spent their nights by creeks where a korrigan had been noticed in the hopes that the beautiful stream maiden might turn her attention on them.
But alas, the curse sent on Trir had hit them, too. The korrigan turned from splendid, loving maidens and wives into devilish darkness. Since then, the Song of Love which the stream maidens sang had become the Song of Death, bewitching men and luring them into the singer’s dwelling. The night which had formerly been the harbinger of a joyous wedding turned into the night of death. Once you’d known the caress of a korrigan it was impossible to survive. And the bones of the hapless husbands were fashioned into wonderful arbours on the river banks into which, on moonlit nights, the korrigan would sit and entice new victims.
And there was more. If, either from fright or from love of their own girl or bride, anyone summoned up the strength to refuse the love of the ‘she-spiders’ – that is what the country folk called the transformed korrigan – then not three days would pass before that man died as though consumed by an invisible fire.
As luck would have it, the korrigan themselves were rather vulnerable. You could kill them with ordinary steel, let alone with silvered weapons. Or enchanted ones. However, victory over a korrigan in close combat was far from easy and many bones which had formerly belonged to Hunters of the Unclean now served as building materials for the graceful arbours on the river banks.
***
Twilight fell unnoticed. With a sigh, Oleg looked his sword over for the last time, ran his fingers over the blade, tested the point, yelped, licked the scratch and thrust his trusty blade into the scabbard. It was time to begin the hunt.
Going beyond the village fence he made his way down to the creek and slowly strolled by the flowing water. He didn’t have to wait long.
It was as though the mysterious twinklings of moonlight suddenly blinked, transforming into previously unnoticed shades, as though the rushes rustled with a slightly different sound, the murmuring of the brook suddenly mingled with a most intricate and tender melody, and Oleg heard the wordless and compelling song of the korrigan.
The korrigan’s arbour appeared unexpectedly. One minute, nothing, the next, there it was: a lowish, graceful construction on the bank of the stream could be seen in the moonlight. The high arrows of the rushes cast shadows of the slightly yellowed bones and, through the mesmerizing motifs of the music, Oleg understood that they were the bones of those who had come before him. But that was not important. Not at all important, for coming towards him was the most ravishing woman he had ever seen.
Like a fiery arrow the image of Heliona flashed in his mind and the bewitching charms chaining him loosened their grip slightly; he recognized the girl he had met on the way to the village. Except that now in the moon’s light, no-one would dare call her face unremarkable.
‘You came to me, knight,’ she whispered, holding her hand out to him and new strength flowed into her song.
‘I came,’ said Oleg submissively, unable to tear himself away from her bewitching gaze. The burgeoning idea to draw his sword melted under the influence of the song and the music. Here, this night, under this moonlight, the very idea of baring his coarse blade of cold iron seemed sacrilege.
‘Let’s go,’ Korrie took him by his powerless, lowered hand which could not even brush the sword’s hilt and led him into the arbour... ‘Come with me, this night we shall dance together!’
The dance was wonderful. But...something was not right. That song, it was somehow not real and the love and the passion which Oleg felt in every movement his partner made in that fairytale dance seemed ever more strange to him, a clumsy fake, a crude bait for naive simpletons. Anger burned in his soul ever more strongly, the black fire of protest – demons cannot be puppets! That is how his sensations might have been put into words had he got around to expressing himself. Nevertheless, it was too early to interrupt that song just yet....Still too early...And his sword continued to rest peacefully in its sheath.
The kiss was sweet. Then tender lips slipped lower, a light, anything but strong pain pricked his neck and suddenly there was a wild cry. Starting away from him the girl rubbed her face desperately as though trying to wipe off a burning acid. Except that there was no acid, only the thick, black, blood of a demon bubbling on whitened lips. Lips? Really? The delicate skin was changing. What had looked like a wonderful maiden only seconds earlier was transforming into something incomprehensible, and in no way attractive. Sharp pincers stuck out of the mouth which was now opening wide in a distinctly inhuman way, becoming an incredibly wide gash. Terribly long, hairy spider’s legs lifted up the body which had still not completely lost its human contours and a cold glint gleamed in the multifaceted eyes.
But the music could still be heard, only now Oleg mentally intercepted the melody, taking control of it.
And evidently there was power in that song, in that magic, as the black blood glistening on the pincers ignited with a bright fire, and with a faint little cry not at all befitting a monster, the spider recoiled. Recoiled and with an unexpected leap, sudde
nly threw herself at Oleg.
Dodging easily, Oleg completed an instantaneous transformation and the long claws of a demon slashed the soft belly, and the venomous pincers of his opponent merely brushed powerlessly against resilient demon scales.
But the korrigan had no intention of giving up. One low whistle – a summons – and the rustle of hordes of little feet forced Oleg to be cautious. Spiders came crawling out from everywhere. From the eye sockets of the old, bleached skulls ‘decorating’ the arbour, from the thick rushes, from the cracks between the bones...
‘Well, the evening’s full of languor no longer!’ the demon smirked, and baring his sharp fangs, he shook his head. Thin snakes, formerly his hair, fell to the ground and slithered purposefully towards the massing insects, hissing evilly and swivelling their cold eyes.
‘Snakes against spiders. Don’t you find it symbolic, my dear? I wonder who will win? I’ll bet on my snakes!’ Oleg announced to his opponent with evil glee, drawing his sword and keeping a cautious watch on the spider’s every move as she retreated. ‘So, time for the second round?’ And with a brief flap of his wings he attacked, dissolving in a whirlwind of blows.
‘Eh, people, people,’ announced Oleg thirty seconds later examining his sword, having leapt to one side to get his breath back. ‘Why do you forge such flimsy weapons?’ he sighed sadly. The robust shell which covered all the upper part of the spider’s body was more than a match for the sharpness of his sword and now the once fearsome weapon could at best serve as a cudgel.
‘What are you doing, you bitch?’ Having given the korrigan a reproachful look, Oleg tossed the weapon which had failed him down the bank and ducked abruptly, avoiding the sticky threads which had been spun out in his direction. ‘Can you even imagine how much the sharpener will overcharge me for getting such a ruined blade back into shape?’ A short wave of his activated darkh and his opponent was left without half her left foot-finger. Judging from the furious hiss which rang out, the aforementioned loss was most grievous for the korrigan.
‘Well, what’s to be done?’ Oleg queried in a deliberately melancholy tone, tossing the magic dagger bathed in dark fire from hand to hand and carefully following the spider’s every move as she pulled back once more. ‘There, there, don’t get huffy now, my dear. C’est la vie.’
A sharp movement of his left hand and the creature, mesmerized by the constantly gleaming dagger, was unable to turn aside from a smallish but extremely hot fireball which burnt a hole of considerable dimensions in the shell on her chest.
A sharp pain in his left leg suddenly reminded Oleg that he had more than one opponent. A huge spider the size of a soup bowl had latched onto his left leg a little higher than his Achilles tendon and inserted its pincers between the scales protecting his skin.
The demon’s claw terminated the life of that spider swiftly, but the korrigan noticed his distraction and made the very most of the chance given her. No, she did not attack Oleg. Evidently she had soberly weighed up the balance of power: she fled.
Eight legs flashed, merging in movement and a gigantic living torpedo hurtled to the exit, covering Oleg in a wave of musky scent and mercilessly trampling her own servants, desperately battling with the demonic little snakes.
‘Hey, where are you off to?’ was all Oleg managed to say, watching as a yellowish slime oozed out from the four deep wounds his claws had left in her belly. He spread out his broad wings and threw himself into the chase.
In general spiders run fast, and when they are afraid of something they can even run very fast. However, even the swiftest overland race cannot compare to the speed of even a relatively slow flight. And Oleg was flying anything but slowly. What’s more, making the most of his elevated position he was actively hurling tiny fireballs at the fleeing korrigan, literally showering the poor spider with fire.
Oleg, on high, could calmly finish off his opponent without any danger of receiving reciprocal blows himself. Victory was in his grasp. However, it only seemed like that. The korrigan, now convinced that there was no chance of outrunning Oleg in the open, decided upon a counter attack.
A long, whitish thread hit the demon in his chest and stuck there. Before Oleg could wipe it off with his dagger, a strong tug literally jerked him ‘back to earth’. No sooner had he straightened up than the spider’s long leg straightened out and struck him in the stomach. The long talon at the end of the spider’s paw couldn’t penetrate his protective scales, but nevertheless the force of the blow was such that Oleg rolled in somersaults on the grass, crumpling his half-spread wings.
Without hesitating for a second the korrigan attacked again. The venomous pincers opened wide, the multifaceted eyes gleamed grandly – gleamed and dulled. The long blade of the activated darkh, blazing with darkness, penetrated the head-heart of the gigantic insect, wounding her fatally. Picking himself up with a sigh, Oleg shook his wings, checking whether they were fit for duty, after which he turned his gaze on his dying enemy. The form of the gigantic spider paled and melted away and under his very gaze, dimly at first, but then ever more clearly, the contours of a beautiful young girl with a horrendous wound in her chest began to emerge. The blackened, burnt off lips moved with great effort and a quiet whisper reached Oleg: ‘It was a good dance, demon... What a pity that we were dancing against one another and not together... Perchance, if it had not been for our curse, ours might have been a different fate.’ She fell silent. The magical spells laid on the dagger at its creation were doing their job but the mighty body of the unclean was fighting even now. She was still breathing.
‘How did your song end?’ Oleg asked unexpectedly, surprising even himself.
‘Oh, that means you did fall under its spell after all. Well then, listen! And try to understand. I really did love...’
‘I understand,’ Oleg answered gravely. ‘Loved. And killed. A spider.’
‘Yes...’ Korrie tried to smile but quickly aborted the attempt. ‘It hurts.’
A solemn smile flickered over the burnt off lips of the dying korrigan and the next instant the blade of the magical dagger gleamed in the moonlight, ending her suffering.
‘Mmm... So ends the fairytale,’ Oleg murmured softly, taking on his human form again and looking around for the sword he had tossed away at the beginning of the battle.
Picking it up, he sighed once more and slowly set off in the direction of the village. His bruised stomach was hurting badly, his neck was aching where he’d first been bitten, the leg the small spider had bitten was aching badly and had swollen up, and Oleg was glad that the venom had a much weaker effect on demons than on humans. Moreover, he was nagged by the thought of what the korrigan must have been before the curse falling on Trir had warped them. How beautiful and clever must they have been if even traces of this were still noticeable after their transformation into evil unclean?
Oleg walked into the inn dragging his feet, throwing a tired: ‘Your job’s been done’ to the village chief anxiously awaiting his return. With heavy, slightly limping steps, he went up to his room.
Time was getting tight. The exams were due to start in ten days and Oleg urged his horse on. Although the entrance exams to check the candidate’s capacities should last around fifteen days, Oleg wanted to be there at the beginning – just in case.
He had completed his task; soon he should receive the nobility he desired. His “personal account” commanded respect. It was mainly made up of zombies, werewolves and minor vampires, although there were also kikimora (a class of female Unclean), a couple of fog-beasts and, of course, the Korrigan. He had earned over two thousand imperial gold coins killing monsters, and if he watched his purse that should be ample for his first year of study. But now time was short and so he had turned down very profitable offers on several occasions.
However, after his meeting with the Korrigan, Oleg accepted a job hunting a werewolf. Used to easy victory, he underestimated his opponent and the werewolf got his jaws on his left arm. Oleg managed to strike it with his
sword and kill it but the scales on his arms were much thinner than on the rest of his body and could not offer him complete protection. The monster’s jaws had broken his arm, and the scales stabbed by its fangs left deep wounds.
Fortunately this took place not far from a town where there was a magician-healer, and Oleg had enough money to make use of his help. Admittedly, after thoroughly cleaning his wounds and applying a magical bandage, the magician quizzed him for a long time about the chainmail able to withstand the bite of a werewolf, for that is how Oleg had described the somewhat unorthodox nature of his wound. Thus apart from lack of time, Oleg had another very good reason to avoid meeting the Undead. The magical splint fixed his arm pretty well, enabling him to use it almost as a healthy one, but it was extremely painful. And if in battle his opponent managed to land a blow on his damaged arm… No, it was better to avoid battles for now. And anyhow, he didn’t have much time…
It was with precisely these thoughts that Oleg, having stopped for the night at a village bar, noticed a sign: “Hunter urgently required. Preferably with magical talents. Object: an unclassified Undead. Salary for removing it: very high. Apply at the Bel Castle. For further information, enquire at the inn-keeper.”
With a snort, Oleg turned away from the wall and enquired of the inn-keeper:
‘A mug of your best beer and something to eat. Do you have a room?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ The inn-keeper quickly eyed up Oleg’s garments, sword and the fat purse on his belt and decided to suck up to a wealthy client. ‘I’ll send the maid. She’ll tidy upstairs. Today’s menu is roast ram ribs, a hot roast, pork chops, pea soup or cabbage ragu.’
‘Give me the chops. A double portion. I’m starving.’
‘I’m on my way.’ And the inn-keeper did indeed scurry off at top speed. Soon Oleg’s meal was on the table. Once he’d had a bite, Oleg noticed that the inn-keeper was not serving his other guests - of which by the way, there were none too many – but was still standing by his table.
The Road to Magic (Book 1 of the Way of the Demon Series) Page 25