“Oh, Max,” I said sympathetically.
“I carried out my duty by reminding myself that, had he known the fate that awaited him, he would have instructed me to do so.”
“Of course.” Imagining the horror of it, I said, “The creature who took his place was not your friend and not what he wanted to become. You did what must be done.”
He cleared his throat and retreated safely into a more academic tone. “Decapitation and fire are the effective means we had by then discovered for slaying the undead. Fire, however, was often impractical. It is, as you know, my weakest element as a mage—and was even more so, all those years ago. I was particularly ineffectual at generating fire of any kind when I was under stress or frightened, as I usually was when confronting vampires. And in the 1730s, the mundane means of generating an impromptu fire were very limited and unreliable. Nor did we have always have fuel to maintain one. Conditions were often marginal.”
I tried to picture Max as he must have been in those days. Already well into his seventies in 1730, his unusually slow aging process would have ensured that he still looked like a relatively young man. In that long ago era, he was still within the range of a biologically normal lifespan, and the world in which he was living then was not yet very different from the one in which he had been born and raised.
“So you mostly defeated vampires by decapitating them,” I surmised.
“Yes. Decapitating the animated undead in combat is a bit more difficult than it might sound—”
“Oh, it sounds pretty difficult.”
“—but it was the only reliable method of dispatch I found until . . .”
“Until?”
“Until the Lithuanians came,” he said.
“Max!” I almost leaped out of my chair. “Lithuanians?”
He nodded.
I gaped at him.
He sighed and his gaze grew distant and distracted, as if remembering the encounter vividly now, across the span of centuries.
After a long moment, I said, “Well, you can’t stop there, Max.”
He looked startled, as if having momentarily forgotten where he was. “Ah. Yes . . . They came to Serbia because of the vampire epidemic. Because of our failure to contain it and end the outbreak.” He added heavily, “Because of my failures.”
“Oh, Max.”
“There were three of them,” he said.
“Only three?” For some reason, I had pictured an invading army. Or at least a large wagon train.
“More arrived later. But the three of them were a very effective force,” Max said. “They were led by an elder named Jurgis Radvila, who was one of the most remarkable individuals I have ever known.”
“Go on,” I prodded.
“With Radvila and his comrades came the first ray of hope I had glimpsed during my terrible sojourn in Serbia,” he said. “To understand why I made the choice I did, you must understand what that terrible vampire epidemic was like. And you must also learn, as I had to, that—”
“Yes, Max?”
“That vampirism is a good deal more complicated than I had realized when dealing only with the undead.”
12
Medvegia, 1732
As his weary horse plodded into yet another humble Serbian village to which the vampire epidemic had recently spread, Max immediately recognized the apotropaics he saw—the methods by which the locals were attempting to shield themselves from Evil.
Bulbs of garlic hung in doorways and windows of homes throughout Medvegia. Crucifixes were prominently displayed on doors, and protective symbols were drawn over thresholds and on rooftops in white chalk. Some homes had a profusion of iron nails pounded into the outer walls around every window or entrance; this was a serious expense for such poor families, but less costly than losing a life to a vampire intruder. Directly outside of one cottage, a very large, ornate cross stood upright on its own, pounded into the ground.
Max heard two of the soldiers in his small escort exchange a few quiet words, speculating that the cross had been stolen from the local Orthodox church. It was clear from their tone that they were merely observing, not criticizing. These two young men had been serving in the region for six months; they had seen far too much to be shocked by something as mundane as stealing sacred ornaments from a church. They had also seen enough by now to realize why a God-fearing family had done such a thing, and why the other villagers evidently accepted it.
His back ached, his eyes felt gritty with fatigue, and his stomach rumbled irritably with the nervous digestive disorder he had developed in recent months. He knew he still seemed like a young man to others, with a smooth face, thick brown hair, and a trim, upright figure; but for the first time since his aging process had mysteriously slowed decades ago, he was feeling the true weight of his seventy-five years. Vampire hunting aged a man.
Lieutenant Hoffman, a young officer who had arrived in the region only recently, was riding on Max’s left. A courteous, slightly shy fellow, he had been silent so far. Now he pointed to a tumbledown home as they passed it and asked, “What is that, Dr. Zadok?”
Max’s gaze followed the direction of Hoffman’s gesture. He saw thick, wide streaks of brownish-red all around the cottage’s doorway and its two windows. The same rusty color was splattered on the ground in front of the door
“It’s the blood of a recent victim,” Max explained. “Someone who was a member of that household, or at least a frequent visitor there. The family collected the blood from the remains they found after the person was killed.”
“Mein Gott!” Hoffman exclaimed. “Is that some ghastly mourning ritual?”
“No. The people inside that house think that warding their home this way will prevent the victim from returning there as a vampire.” He paused. “They are mistaken. The odor of blood will attract vampires—including the one which they specifically fear.”
“Should we not warn them?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yes,” Max said. “We will do so.”
But he knew from experience that the locals probably wouldn’t heed his advice. Unable to defeat their ghoulish adversaries, the people of this region clung fervently to their beliefs in various ineffectual wards and remedies. And Max increasingly accepted this. If he couldn’t eliminate the threat or protect these people, then what right did he have to take away their false sense of comfort in empty measures?
There were too many vampires in the region, and their numbers were increasing too rapidly. Locating them or devising protections against them took too long and was too often ineffectual. Fighting them led to too many human casualties while diminishing the vampire population only slightly.
Max felt increasingly helpless—even useless. And he hated the feeling.
Meanwhile, almost as if life were still perfectly normal in this vampire-infested village, local people began emerging and appearing, as if from nowhere, drawn by curiosity to this small group of foreign soldiers and one modestly dressed civilian riding slowly toward the main square. Strangers were uncommon in rural areas, and usually a welcome diversion if they came in peace—though strangers often did not come in peace here. This region had been repeatedly sacked and pillaged by conquerors from the East and from the West for centuries. Yet despite that, Max saw some hesitantly welcoming smiles among the villagers whom he nodded to and greeted now.
Children walked beside the visitors’ horses, looking up at them with round, serious brown eyes. Max smiled down at a black-haired little boy who trotted on foot beside him, so small that he had to hurry to keep up with the plodding pace of Max’s tired mount.
Apparently reassured by this smile, the boy tentatively touched Max’s booted foot and spoke. His highpitched voice was imploring, and even Max, with his marginal Serbian vocabulary, understood what the boy said: “Please make them go away.”
He wanted to promise he would. He wanted to swear with confidence to the child that he would end this horrible nightmare, and then everything would return to normal. But, in t
ruth, he had no idea what he would be able to accomplish here. He was increasingly unnerved by his failures, and even his modest successes as a vampire hunter were marred by subsequent setbacks.
He looked down at that innocent, imploring face and felt unable to lie or give false hope. Least of all to a child.
So instead of making promises that stuck in his dry throat, he said to the boy, “Please inform the village elders that we are here.” He could tell from the slight frown on the child’s face that his foreign accent made the phrase difficult to understand. So he repeated it slowly, enunciating clearly. This time the boy nodded in understanding. Then he ran ahead of Max’s retinue, calling for someone.
Finding the main square of the village was just a matter of following this street until it reached the heart of the community. The boy had done as asked, and five older men were gathering in the square to greet Max and his party, along with many of the other locals. The five men’s faces were stern and grave. One of them was wounded, his arm cradled in an embroidered sling.
To Max’s relief, there was also a modestly prosperous-looking younger man with the elders who spoke some German. This would make communication easier. Max’s mother tongue was Czech, which he’d seldom had occasion to speak in recent years. German was among his strongest languages, along with English, Latin, Greek, and French.
The man who spoke German introduced himself as Aleksandar Bosko. He greeted Max and Lieutenant Hoffman, then introduced them to the village elders. Bosko invited them all into his home nearby, where they sat together in a sparsely furnished but comfortable room to talk, while the four soldiers who had come here under Hoffman’s command patrolled the vicinity. Max accepted something to drink, but declined food—his stomach was still bothering him—and asked the elders to tell him their story. Bosko’s role as interpreter was very useful; but Max had heard so many similar accounts since arriving in the Balkans in the spring of 1730 that he could follow some of the Serbian language in this account.
First, there was a mysterious disappearance, which was very unusual for the village—or at least it was when no foreign armies were marauding through the area. Within a few days, another villager went missing. Then people started dying. They would be found in the morning, white as chalk, their blood drained from their bodies, their corpses horribly mutilated—even partly eaten. Panic and hysteria spread through the village. Old grievances became fresh feuds, and private suspicions turned into public accusations, which soon escalated into violence and mayhem.
More people disappeared, and their families were increasingly too frightened to go out in search of them. Then someone finally saw one of the terrifying creatures that was preying on their village—and lived to tell the tale. That was when they began to understand what was happening to Medvegia.
“Now, Dr. Zadok,” said Bosko, “one person is dead or missing out of every five in Medvegia. We huddle together in fear at night and are preyed on by fiendish monsters. The dead walk among us, and people we knew and loved have become murdering demons who thirst for our blood.”
When the gruesome account was finished, Hoffman looked at Max. “Where shall we start?”
“The local cemetery,” he said promptly. “Let’s commence our work by making sure no new vampires rise from the grave here. We’ll start with the most recent burials.”
Opening graves and desecrating corpses was grisly, disturbing, and exhausting work. And, as usual, it was accompanied by an unwanted audience of protesting relatives and wailing women. Predictably, an angry Orthodox priest was also there, arguing that Max and his helpers were violating the repose of the faithful whom the church had buried.
“Not a very practical objection, considering the situation,” Max said, his rebellious stomach churning while the stench of decay gradually permeated his nostrils, hair, and clothing.
The more obvious it became that prayer and religious rituals weren’t protecting their flocks or preventing vampire attacks, the more defensive and rigid the village priests tended to become. They were usually men of humble background who had very little education and no previous experience with such matters. Max was sympathetic to the terrified panic he could see in their eyes, but increasingly impatient with their obstreperous behavior.
Among the local volunteers helping with the work this afternoon, there were also, as was often the case, one or two young men who seemed to enjoy these distasteful tasks more than Max thought was seemly.
As night fell and darkness crept across the graveyard, the work continued; but, fortunately, the distractions diminished. Whether the locals were interested in watching the vampire hunter at work or just wanted to shriek at him in protest when he beheaded or staked the bodies of their former neighbors and relatives, the villagers were emphatically not willing to remain at the cemetery after dark. They departed, fleeing to their homes before the creatures of the night emerged, leaving an eerily ominous silence in their wake.
When only two sturdy local volunteers remained, Bosko said, “It’s very dark, Dr. Zadok. Perhaps we should go now.”
“Yes, of course,” Max said absently, noticing some disturbed earth on yet another grave. “By all means. Be vigilant on your way home.”
“I meant that you and your companions should come, too,” Bosko said.
Three of the soldiers were still digging. Hoffman and another soldier were patrolling the graveyard alertly, their weapons ready, their pace measured.
“No, we must remain and work.” Max was still examining the grave which had attracted his attention. “Before you leave, may I ask when the burial in this plot occurred?”
“It’s not safe for you to remain outside after dark,” Bosko warned.
“Based on the elders’ account, being inside isn’t safe in Medvegia anymore, either.”
“That’s true,” Bosko said sadly. “Still . . .”
“I’ve come to your village to hunt vampires,” Max reminded him. “Therefore, it is advantageous for me to remain where I am likely to encounter them.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Well, then.” Bosko cleared his throat. “I must remain here, too, in that case.”
Max glanced at him. “That’s brave, but very dangerous. I don’t advise it. You would be wise to go home, sir.”
“No, I will remain.”
“He is a brave man,” said one of the two local diggers, setting aside his shovel and making preparations to leave. “He has even slain one of the vampires.”
“Have you?” Max said with interest, well able by now to follow Serbian phrases about killing vampires.
The other digger, also setting aside his shovel, said, “Tell him, Aleksandar!” He added to Max, “It’s a good story.”
“No, no,” said Bosko. “I cannot speak of my deed to a true vampire hunter.”
Max said in German, “Based on what your friends have just said, sir, I gather you are a true vampire hunter. The requirements of the vocation are quite simple, after all. It’s surviving them that’s complicated.”
“Yes, surviving the vampire was . . . not simple.” Bosko paused, then said, “If I may ask, Dr. Zadok, does your work make your wife very anxious?”
“Oh, she died some time ago.” It had been more than twenty years; but, given his youthful appearance, he knew better than to say so.
“God rest her soul. I am also a widower.” Seeing Max’s inquisitive expression, Bosko shook his head. “No, not vampires. Childbirth.”
“I see. I am sorry to hear that.” It was a tragically common story. “God rest her soul.”
The two diggers bade them farewell and departed, casting understandably nervous glances around the dark cemetery as they began walking home with long, quick strides
Max’s attention returned to the burial plot that concerned him. “We need to open this grave.”
“Oh, but this is the grave of Miliza Pavle,” Bosko said in surprise. “She was a fine woman. Much admired.”
“Alas, that is no protection against what I fear may have
happened to her.”
“But the diggers are gone.”
“They have thoughtfully left their shovels.” Max picked one up.
“Oh,” Bosko said without enthusiasm. “Very well. I shall assist you.”
“When was Miliza Pavle buried?”
Bosko suddenly lifted his head and turned it slightly, as if listening to something Max couldn’t hear. After a moment, Max repeated his question. Bosko still didn’t respond; his attention was obviously engaged by something else.
Max looked around the cemetery, now illuminated only by several torches that the soldiers had posted when darkness fell. Near one of the torches, he saw Hoffman turn suddenly, his body poised alertly as he gazed out into the night. Then the lieutenant called softly over his shoulder to Max and the others, “Riders approaching.”
“Yes.” Bosko nodded. “How strange.”
“Your hearing is most acute,” Max noted, only now becoming aware of the faint thunder of hoofbeats in the distance. “Do you know who that is?”
“No,” said the Serb. “But surely they must be strangers. No one here would make a journey after dark. Not anymore.”
Leaning on his shovel, Max listened for another moment. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out momentarily who they are. They’re headed in this direction. It seems rather—Argh!”
The grave beneath his feet heaved violently, flinging him forward. He careened into Bosko and the two men fell down, hitting the ground together with a thud that knocked the wind out of Max’s lungs.
“MwwwwarrrrgggGGGH!”
An undead woman who was presumably Miliza Pavle rose from the grave in a quick, powerful surge of motion, sending dirt flying everywhere as she issued another earsplitting howl of bloodthirsty hunger.
“Oh, dear,” Max gasped, wishing he hadn’t let the shovel fly out of his hand when he fell.
Miliza staggered toward him, her decomposing arms outstretched, foamy saliva hanging from her cracked blue lips, her ravaged torso gaping open where she had received mortal wounds from a vampire while still alive. She gave off a terrible stench.
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