Scarlet Curse

by T. H. Hunter

  “Oh, hello Miss Flynn. I was very impressed by your performance. Very impressed indeed. We will keep training together, I hope?”

  “Absolutely, Doctor. Thank you again for all of your help, I never would have reached that far without you.”

  It was perfectly true, of course, though Doctor Yurasov waved it aside. He seemed pleased nonetheless.

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Flynn. It is rare to have a student as talented and, if I may say so, as charming as yourself. Something Prince Raphael noticed too, I am sure. At least, judging from, what he said during our training sessions.”

  An awkward silence followed. Partly to change the subject, partly out of curiosity, I asked: You trained Raph- I mean, the Prince as well?”

  “Oh, yes. For some years now. Before falling ill, King Rurik was always very particular about his son’s martial education.”

  He checked his pocket watch.

  “Dear me, I must be getting downstairs, the match is about to begin and I am refereeing. I look forward to our next fighting session, Miss Flynn.”

  I bade him goodbye and saw him hurry down the corridor.

  Feeling strangely elated, I found Lynn and the others in a box with an excellent view of the Great Hall below. The staff gallery, now left empty for the Royal Family, was almost exactly opposite ours.

  “Hey guys,” I said. “Great view.”

  “Only the best for our semi-finalist,” Sarah said, winking at me.

  “So who’s fighting the Prince anyway?” Lynn asked keenly. “Somebody know?”

  “Mr. Vox,” said Steve, trying to get a glimpse of the fighters from afar.

  “What?” I said, incredulously.

  “See for yourself, Beccs. There he comes.”

  Steve was right. Through a side entrance, Mr. Vox had slid into the room. Despite his significant height, he looked inconspicuous, almost out of place in his long black trousers and duellist’s vest.

  “I didn’t know he was a fighter,” I exclaimed.

  “Yeah, he’s the best fighter on the American continent. I heard from Owen – a Knight – that Vox served during the war, in the American theatre, too,” Sarah said. “With Doctor Yurasov, I think. But he was almost court-martialled by the Council at the end.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows officially, of course. Trials from that period are still kept top secret. But rumour has it that he... got carried away… and on more than one occasion.”

  “What do you mean… carried away?” asked Steve, turning his face to her.

  Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She looked around her and lowered her voice so we wouldn’t be overheard, though the Great Hall was now so abuzz with enthusiastic pre-match discussion that we could hardly hear the person next to us. Opposite, the Queen and several others I didn’t recognise – nobles no doubt – were accompanied onto the gallery by a dozen Knights. The King, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well – none of this is confirmed. Rumours and hearsay. Allegedly, he drank blood excessively from his enemies, against orders from his superiors. They called him the Butcher of Baltimore – that’s where he’s from originally. Many drank from their victims then, of course, but by that time the Council wanted peace – and wanted to crack down on that sort of stuff to show their goodwill towards the Slayers’ League. He was lucky, apparently several Knights intervened on his behalf. Got him off.”

  Before we could discuss the matter any further, the drums sounded once more for the final match. Raphael had already entered, and both fighters were in position. Vox had taken off his robe, revealing an old-fashioned purple vest and matching black trousers with a single purple stripe on either side.

  I had never really given Vox much thought, but I would have never guessed what lay behind that gaunt mask of indifferent reservedness.

  Doctor Yurasov lifted his arm and briefly explained the rules for the final match. Each set was over if one side scored seven hits, by a margin of two. The first contestant to win two sets was the winner.

  Whatever Vox’s reputation, I think nobody was prepared for what was to happen next, least of all Raphael.

  Whereas Raphael skill was based on meticulous technique and execution, Vox was pure energy.

  “How on earth…” I said.

  “Maybe he saves up all year like a long-life battery,” said Steve drily.

  I laughed. But there was certainly a deeper point to it. In fact, I didn’t think I had seen any fighter in the entire tournament who was this fast, though his style was undoubtedly unorthodox. His rapid darting all across the fighting area, however, made it very difficult for Raphael to take advantage of his wild technique.

  As the first set unfolded, I noticed I was gripping the edge of the balustrade hard, making my knuckles go white in the process. Raphael, though getting through more and more, was behind by two points. I wanted him to win, as did apparently the entire Great Hall, for Vox was hardly popular, neither among the staff nor among the students.

  I came as a great shock, then, to all of us when Vox, after a risky, almost mad manoeuvre landed a blow to Raphael shin, which gave way with a horrible crack. It was a foul stroke, but still within the ruleset, and so Doctor Yurasov had no choice but to award him the point.

  “First set goes to Mr. Vox by 7 to 5,” Doctor Yurasov announced heavily.

  There was polite, albeit shocked clapping in the Great Hall.

  Then, everyone broke into a heated discussion during the break. I was watching Raphael from afar. I could see that he was upset, though still very composed and determined. At that moment, chance had it that he looked in my direction. Shockwaves ran over me like charges of electricity, energising me. I waved to him, and he held up his hand in response.

  Perhaps she didn’t take to my enthusiasm, or perhaps she didn’t like her son fraternising with the ‘common people’, but the Queen gave me a look of pure venom that was without a doubt intended as a warning for me. I held her gaze. She then looked at Raphael again, though he had already retaken his position. The second set was about to begin.

  To my great relief, it started out well this time. Raphael was learning to adapt quickly. He was waiting for Vox to make the mistakes now, though the timing was still extremely difficult. With Vox, any riposte that would have normally almost guaranteed a hit could easily turn into a parry and subsequent counter-riposte. It was as if someone had pressed a fast forward button on him.

  The score was 5 – 5, and, throwing all pretence to the winds, I was now openly pumping my fist when Raphael scored a hit. Luckily, most of the hall felt the same way.

  “I didn’t know you were a Royalist, Beccs,” Steve joked.

  “Only on special occasions. You know, British tradition.”

  He laughed, but it sounded strangely hollow.

  ***

  As neither could gain a lead by two hits, the match continued beyond seven points. Then, Vox suddenly pulled ahead by executing a particularly difficult strike to the chest. He needed one more hit to win the match and the entire tournament. He was like a demon unleashed, stringing one stab to the next like a berserker. Raphael was on the defensive, parrying and evading blows as if he were fighting two people simultaneously. Vox was driving him towards one of the walls, trying to restrict his opponent’s options.

  Raphael was almost in the corner now, but Vox, overly impatient, went in for the killing blow a little too soon. Raphael dodged just at the right time, bringing his blade down on Vox’s shoulder in a swift move. He had evened the score. He could still win.

  In contrast, Vox seemed to have lost his nerve. He was still as fast as ever, but his decisions were becoming erratic. If before there had been some method to the madness, it was now truly impulsive. For Raphael, it was now more and more a matter of waiting for Vox to make a mistake. He landed two blows within a minute, and the second set ended as abruptly as the first had started. The third would establish the victor and the vanquished.

  We spent the
break passionately discussing the match. It all came down to whether Vox was able to sustain his speed and tremendous reflexes for long enough to win. Undoubtedly, the prolonged match favoured Raphael’s style, though the element of surprise couldn’t be underestimated in a tournament setting.

  As soon as Doctor Yurasov raised and lowered his arm for the third time, Vox unleashed a furious hail of blows with a viciousness that surpassed even the first set. For a while, I was seriously worried. Éven a few minutes of swordfighting was extremely taxing to the body – even for regular humans. How could Vox have possibly gained that strength during a ten-minute break? It defied reason.

  But Raphael was on top of his game this time. He mastered every lightning attack with increasing confidence and power. Soon, he was up by three.

  “Two more points,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  Vox wasn’t going down without a fight, that much was certain. He lashed out like a beast. Though they say it might be more dangerous when cornered, Vox became more erratic. Raphael landed another neat blow right in his opponent’s chest. One more point to go.

  They were squaring off when Vox suddenly began to teeter, like a speed addict going cold. Raphael, foolishly perhaps, withdrew and looked at Doctor Yurasov quizzically. The latter was just about to pause the match when Vox suddenly flung himself forward as if pushed ahead by an invisible spring. It was too late to dodge, so Raphael parried the blow just in time, twisted his blade around his opponent’s in one fluid motion and struck him hard on his right ribcage. The match was over. Raphael had come through victorious.

  The Great Hall, tense until the very last moment, suddenly erupted in applause like a volcano. There were standing ovations all around as Vox, totally exhausted, shook Raphael’s hand and collapsed onto a nearby chair.

  Raphael, with a smile of gratitude and relief on his face, bowed first towards the Royal Box atop, then to his opponent, Doctor Yurasov, and then the rest of the room.

  And then, the main doors swung open, hitting the walls with a clang. On the threshold stood none other than – but this wasn’t possible.

  “It’s Doctor Wiley,” somebody shouted, and the entire hall fell silent.

  Lurching into the room, his face white as a sheet, Doctor Wiley was clutching a massive silver bolt that was lodged in his chest. He was heaving horribly, his eyes bulging in a fight over life and death. He tried to speak, but collapsed instantly. Several people rushed immediately to his side, first and foremost Raphael and Doctor Yurasov, who were standing closest to him.

  There were screams and yells from the gallery. People started rushing for the exits in wild panic. While Raphael was attending the wounded Wiley, Doctor Yurasov turned to the spectators.

  “Everybody,” he boomed in a deep voice, “stay seated. Remain calm. You will be escorted group by group to your quarters.”

  He quickly beckoned Ms. Prill, who had been sitting below in the crowd, towards him. After a quick exchange, she nodded, and began organising several helpers into pairs.

  Several other staff members had rushed to Doctor Wiley, but from all that we could see, it didn’t look good. A stretcher was produced, and they hurriedly carried him off, no doubt to the hospital, while we were escorted back to our rooms.

  15

  The next day, we didn’t hear any news until dinner. Doctor Wiley had died from his wounds during the day. He hadn’t recovered consciousness. I felt slightly foolish for asking these things, though I had been so engulfed in training for the tournament that few other things had crossed my mind in the past weeks.

  “So how can a vampire die from an arrow?” I asked.

  Most people at the table looked at me in amazement.

  “Look, I didn’t grow up amongst you lot. I feel bad enough having to ask this stuff all the time.”

  Steve chuckled but stopped almost instantly.

  “I guess it’s not really funny. Not in the light of what happened, anyway. The First Warden is going to make an announcement after dinner, but I talked to the janitor and his son this morning. They had to clean up all the mess. More than willing to tell me the whole thing. Apparently, Wiley was shot with a bolt – you know, from a crossbow. But it wasn’t any old crossbow. It must have been a special design made by the Slayers.”

  “How do you know?” asked Lynn.

  “Well, because the bolt was pure silver. That’s the only way a vampire can die, except for burning of course. But that’s tricky to handle if you want to assassinate someone.”

  “Why not use a gun?” I asked. “I bet you could make a silver bullet or something.”

  “Technically, it’s not the impact that kills the vampire. Otherwise you could use anything really. It’s the silver itself that rots the body away from within, and because a crossbow bolt is much more massive and is usually stuck deep in the body, it’s much better than a gun. The Slayers figured that one out long ago.”

  “So, like lead poisoning for humans?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess. Silver swords, especially with added silver tinctures, were also used quite often, but it’s much messier and far less certain to kill. It’s got to stay in the body long enough to do the damage, you see.”

  “Quite the history buff,” Lynn said, rather impressed.

  “I do my best,” Steve said, flashing a grin at all of us.

  “So that’s why Wiley was still able to walk into the hall…” I said. “Any ideas where he was all this time.”

  “Nobody knows, that’s a big mystery. As you might imagine, you aren’t going to be running any marathons with that thing in your chest.”

  “Couldn’t he have just pulled it out?” Lynn asked him.

  “No, not if it’s a Slayer weapon. They used small hooks on their bolts. You’d just spread the poison even deeper, and probably not get it out at all without any help.”

  We were all left stunned. The thought of Wiley dying such a horrible and slow death was disconcerting to say the least.

  “And you know, the strange thing was that they found a small figurine in one of his pockets. Also silver. Strange thing to carry around with you, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I almost fell out of my chair. Lynn looked equally shocked.

  “A figurine. Beccs, shat’s up?”

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

  “I – I don’t know. You could ask Mrs. Prill, though. She’s right over there.”

  I walked as fast as possible over to her. She was standing at the edge of the hall, busily berating some senior students.

  “And mind you keep out of trouble for at least a day or two for a change,” she said, then turned to me irritably. “Yes, Miss Flynn?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Mrs. Prill, about the murder of Doctor Wiley.”

  “We do not know all of the facts yet. Let us not speculate unduly, Miss Flynn.”

  “Are you s-”

  She really was insufferable but I thought better of starting an argument. It would only cost time, time the killer could spend getting away.

  “So, who’s in charge of the investigation?”

  “Miss Flynn, I would advise you not to bother Doctor Yurasov at present, he is very busy. Anything you can tell him, you can tell me. I will pass it on, if it really is important.”

  I scowled. Fine, at least she was listening for a change.

  “They said that they found a silver figurine in his pocket. When Lynn and I were attacked in the cellar, he dropped a similar figurine. It must be connected somehow.”

  “You mean, when you vandalised castle property, you mean? Really, Miss Flynn, I really do not see the point of repeating your little stories over and over again.”

  “They happen to be the truth,” I said, my temper rising.

  “Even if it were – and I do not believe it for a second – then it is just coincidence. Or do you mean to say that Doctor Wiley attacked you?”

  “No, no. He didn’t have his build.”

  “I thought you did
n’t recognise him?”

  “He ran right into us! I would have noticed if he’d had Doctor Wiley’s size.”

  “I hardly think this is the time and place to comment on such personal matters such as overweight, Miss Flynn.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. Her lips were sealed disapprovingly in a tight line, while her small grey eyes had a look of outraged offence. There was something seriously wrong with her or she was intentionally misunderstanding me. Either way, she wouldn’t help.

  “Is that all, Miss Flynn? Because if it is, I would advise you to stop playing detective and start working for your upcoming exams. Life isn’t all rapiers and games, you know.”

  “But…”

  “I am warning you, Miss Flynn. This is no concern of yours. Stay out of it.”

  “Right.”

  ***

  Of course, I hadn’t the slightest intention of staying out of it. I raced immediately up to the library, though Doctor Yurasov was nowhere to be found. No doubt he had begun with his own inquiries into the entire affair. It was already close to ten o’clock when I arrived in my room to change into something more suitable for Sarah’s party. I had asked Lynn to come along, but she had declined earlier this morning. I was disappointed, though I looked forward to it all the same.

  Steve had also been invited by Sarah, so we both made our way to the East Tower. I liked him a lot as a friend. His knowledge of history was extensive, and he made it interesting. Not the sort of boring list of names and dates that usually passes for history in schools.

  The room was already crowded when we arrived. At least a hundred people must have been there.

  “Ah, here’s the first-year menace,” Sarah said, punching my shoulder in a friendly manner. “Glad both of you made it.”

  “Thanks for invitation,” I said, and Steve agreed.

  Doctor Wiley’s sudden appearance and death were of course the major topic of discussion amongst the party guests. It seemed everyone had their own theory of who was behind it.

  “I don’t think it’s the Slayers,” a middle-aged man with a monocle was saying. “I fought in the war, you know. No activity from them since. Don’t think they’d risk it.”