Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  Magiere crawled across the ground on all fours. Her body felt as though she had run a league without pause. As she drew near the man’s body, she lifted the falchion, barely keeping it up in the air, ready to strike. There was no movement from the man.

  “Chap, get back,” she said, her voice cracked and dry.

  She reached out to poke the man with her blade, but still there was no movement. When she crept closer, it became obvious why he hadn’t moved.

  Where his head should have been was only the stump of his neck. She slumped back, her sword dropping heavily to the ground.

  So many villages had come and gone that she couldn’t remember them all. But each time there had always seemed to be a rational reason for the villagers’ deaths. This village was no different. The man’s cold skin and white complexion were obvious signs of illness, and it would not be the first time that was the real reason why mothers and fathers, spouses and siblings gathered by their dead to pray for lost spirits. Illness often brought madness, as it had done in this man. And she had killed him.

  The burning hunger was gone. The madman’s cold in her flesh was gone. Remembering those alien sensations made her skin quiver and stomach lurch, but there was no time to puzzle over it. She’d killed one of the villagers, and that was as bad as things could get. She slumped, head dropping in exhausted despair, when a small, pale light caught her attention.

  To her bewilderment, she looked down and saw her topaz amulet. She thought she’d remembered tucking it away, but there it dangled loose on top of her studded leather vestment. It glowed so softly, it might have gone unnoticed had she not been looking directly at it. She watched until it faded and then wondered if the odd light were merely an illusion—another result of fatigue and lack of air.

  She looked at the dog sitting nearby, watching her expectantly. She had to push the words past her constricted throat.

  “Come here, Chap.”

  Chap trotted across the short distance and sat in front of her. It was an effort to lift her hands to inspect him. The dog didn’t seem to have any serious injuries, just a few small gashes on his shoulders and sides. The blood matting his throat came from a shallow cut of no serious concern. Relief washed through her. He’d be stiff and sore tomorrow, but she’d expected worse after such a fight.

  Rubbing at her neck, it felt as if the bruises were already developing. Chap made a sudden lunge at her, and his tongue shot out to slap wetly across her chin and cheek.

  “Stop it,” she snapped. “You can save that for your drunken master.”

  Chap darted away and paced back and forth near the fallen body. He let out a short, low bark, then darted through the trees toward the river.

  Magiere couldn’t understand what had set him off again, but looking toward the water did bring her back to the immediate problem. The skyline was growing light. Dawn was approaching. Something had to be done with the body.

  There was no time to bury it, and even a hidden grave might be stumbled across before she could get far enough out of the area. She had no idea how far the villagers normally ranged from their homes and fields, foraging for firewood or whatever else the forest yielded. Without a way to carry the body off, the river was her only choice. Magiere began dragging the corpse by the feet down to the shore.

  The shirt was too tattered to work with, so she quickly rolled wild grass into rough twine. She used this to tie the pants legs closed and then loaded them with rocks. All the while, she avoided looking too closely at the body. Touching its flesh made her sick inside. It was chill, as if it had been dead longer than the short time that had passed. When finished, she turned to go back to the forest and hunt for the head. A rush of nausea swelled up in her throat at the sight before her.

  There was Chap, the dead villager’s head swinging from his mouth, its hair gripped in his teeth. He came up to her, dropped his burden at her feet, and sat staring at her, waiting expectantly.

  She couldn’t decide what revolted her more, the sight of the severed head, eyes open in the last moment of shock, or the dog’s calm disposition at handling the grisly object. Nausea faded to another chill through her blood as she remembered how Chap paced by the body and then ran for the river shore. She stared into the dog’s silver-blue eyes.

  He’d known what to do even before she’d thought of it. But he was only a dog.

  Magiere leaned down to take the head, her gaze not leaving Chap until she knelt by the body. There was no time to ponder this uncanny development. With no other method available, she used the long hair to tie the head onto the corpse, knotting it several times around the pants’ belt. She dragged the body into the river, wading out thigh deep in the cold current, and pushed it under and out as far as she could.

  It bobbed for a moment, floating down current. Then it finally sank beneath the surface. A metallic clatter from behind made her twist about in the water.

  On the shore sat Chap. His ears pricked up as he looked at her. This time at his feet lay the falchion she’d left behind in the trees.

  “Stop it!” she snapped at him in frustration, sloshing out of the river. She grabbed up the weapon. Bending over made her head spin with dizziness again. She paused to steady herself. “Stop doing these things.”

  Chap let out a whining grunt, and cocked his head as he watched her.

  There was still a dark stain on the blade. With a glare at the dog, she went to the forest’s edge and wiped the blade off in the grass. As she finished, someone came out of the forest clearing and stumbled across the river’s rocky shore. Leesil.

  He looked back and forth. Spotting Magiere, he rushed down the shoreline, tripping twice, but never quite falling on his face. Chap ran up to him, circling the slender man with his tail whipping back and forth.

  “I heard . . . and you were gone,” Leesil spit out between pants of breath. “What’s going on? Why are you . . . ?” He looked at Magiere’s messed up clothes, grass and leaves caught in her hair, then down at Chap, and saw the bloodstained fur. His eyes widened. Leesil quickly inspected the dog, and when he found no life-threatening wounds, he looked back at Magiere. “What happened?” he asked more clearly.

  Magiere looked away from his bloodshot eyes. The sun was somewhere just below the horizon, and the clouds were tinged with red. The day had not really begun yet, but her entire life had shifted course. If she were a superstitious peasant, she would have called it an omen.

  “I’m done, Leesil,” she said. “All of it is over with.”

  Leesil’s white-blond eyebrows furrowed together over his wide eyes, a mix of surprise, bewilderment, and anger.

  “What’s wrong?” he yelled. “We were going to talk about this.”

  Magiere’s gaze drifted toward the water. The corpse had submerged, but the river might change that. She thought of the lifeless body being dragged along beneath the surface, unable to resist the power of the current.

  “I’m leaving for Miiska,” she said. “Are you coming?”

  In the small coastal town of Miiska, a waterfront warehouse bustled with activity, even though dawn had not yet arrived. The huge main floor between the unfinished plank walls was stocked with ale casks, wheat bundles, and wool on the import side, and dried fish and a few crafted goods on the export side. Crates, barrels, and twined bundles were carried in and out, noted by clerks. Even with the doors open, the warehouse had the jumbled odor of oil-treated rope, weathered wood and metal, sweat from livestock and workers, and whatever had washed up on the shoreline in the last day or two. A small waif of a boy in an oversize faded green shirt, with a mop of dun-colored hair on his head, continually swept the wooden planks under everyone’s feet, trying to control the constant buildup of dust and dirt. Workers were busy preparing cargo for a barge leaving at dawn. In spite of the busy fury, few people spoke to each other.

  To the right of the dockside doors, which were wide enough for a wagon to enter, stood a tall man watching over the work with careful detachment. He gave no orders and rarely
checked on anything, as if knowing all would be carried out to his satisfaction. His daunting physical height made it appear he was accustomed to looking down at others, even those not shorter than himself. Long muscular arms, inside a deep green tunic, were crossed over his chest, but his arrogant bearing suggested he hadn’t built those arms by lifting crates himself. Close-cropped hair the color of blackened corn silk looked even darker around his pale features. Crystalline blue eyes, nearly transparent, watched everything at once.

  “No, Jaqua,” a voice said from behind. “I ordered twenty casks of wine and thirty-two of ale. You’ve confused the figures.”

  His gaze shifted to the back of the cavernous room. A brown-haired young woman, only two-thirds his height, scolded the head receiving clerk.

  “Miss Teesha, I’m sure you—” Jaqua began.

  “I know what I ordered,” she said calmly. “We can’t possibly sell all this wine right now. Send twelve casks back. And if the barge captain tries to charge us a shipping cost, tell him we can find someone else to do business with.”

  The tall overseer left his place by the door, moving toward the argument.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked evenly.

  “No, sir.” The clerk, Jaqua, drew back. His face became flat without expression, but his fingernails whitened as he gripped his scribe’s board tight with both hands.

  Teesha smiled with tiny white teeth. She looked up without concern at her towering partner.

  “No, Rashed. Just a mistake in the wine order. It’ll be taken care of.”

  Rashed nodded, but didn’t move, and Jaqua scuttled off to correct his error.

  “He’s confused several orders lately,” Teesha said. “Perhaps he’s been sampling the wine himself a little too often.”

  Rashed was incapable of returning her smile, but this did not seem to bother her. Few would call her beautiful, but she possessed a brightness in her doll-like face that caused men who met her to think of marriage one breath later. Rashed knew her exterior was only a sweet garment covering the truth, but still her appearance was as pleasing to him as it was to anyone—perhaps more so. Her company itself pleased him as well.

  “If you don’t like Jaqua,” he said, “replace him.”

  “Oh, don’t be so harsh. I don’t want him replaced. I just want . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence, staring at him.

  Rashed stared at the north wall of the warehouse, clutching his throat tightly with one hand. He felt a cold numbness rush downward through his body. Years had passed since he’d felt pain, and its return amazed him. His thoughts clouded, fading away before they could completely form in his mind.

  He stepped closer to the wall, and turned around to lean back against one of its timbers for support. The cold line across his throat ran all the way through to the back of his neck.

  Teesha grabbed his arm, first gently, then her slender fingers squeezed.

  “Rashed . . . what’s wrong?”

  “Teesha,” he managed to whisper.

  Her childlike hands grabbed his tunic firmly, steadying him. When he began to slump, he felt her arms shove him back up to his feet again. She was as strong . . . stronger than any man in the warehouse, though no one else knew this. She put an arm around his waist, supporting him, and hurried him out a side door away from suspicious eyes. Outside, he struggled to help her by remaining on his feet. He felt her hands touch his face, and he looked down into her worry-filled eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Sorrow washed over him in a wave, and then anger. A white face with sunken eyes and cheeks glowed in the dark of his mind’s eye. Then it snuffed out and vanished. He found himself staring out over the tops of buildings to the forest and skyline in the northeast.

  “Parko’s dead,” he said in a hissing whisper, too shocked to speak loudly, too angered to voice it clearly.

  Teesha’s smooth brow wrinkled in confusion. “But how do you know this?”

  He shook his head slightly.“Perhaps because he was once my brother.”

  “You’ve never felt such a strong connection to him, even before he left us for the Feral Path.”

  Rashed lowered his eyes to hers, anger taking hold above all other sensations.

  “I felt it. Someone cut his head off and . . . something wet . . . running water.”

  She stared at him, frozen in the moment, and through her hands he could feel the shudder run through her small frame. She quickly pulled her hands from his face, as if repulsed by what he’d described, then leaned her forehead against his chest.

  “No. Oh, Rashed, I’m sorry.”

  His eyes lifted again toward the northeastern skyline, and a chill like cold water over living flesh washed through him again. It was unsettling in a forgotten way, as it had been decades since he’d felt anything akin to cold.

  “We have to find out who did this. Where is Edwan?”

  “He’s nearby.” Teesha closed her eyes for a moment. “My husband says he is sorry, too.”

  Rashed ignored the sympathies.

  “Send him out. Tell him to find whoever did this and bring me a name. Tell him to look northeast.” He raised his gaze inland again. “Tell him to hurry.”

  A soft glimmer wavered in the air near the two, almost nothing more than the light cast from a lantern’s cracked shutter. Teesha’s face turned in its direction and her lips moved as if speaking, but not a word was heard. The light vanished.

  Chapter Three

  “We’ll have to stop soon,” Magiere said tiredly, run-ning a hand across her face. “It’s getting dark.”

  The sun was setting over the ocean off the coastal road of Belaski, illuminating the land with a dusky orange glow that made it appear less gloomy and hopeless than in full daylight. Leesil always liked dusk, and he stopped for a moment to watch the fading light over the water. The coastal road they followed south from Bela, the country’s capital city, was reasonably fast and clear, much easier traveling than the five days’ trek west out of Stravina.

  It had been twelve days since the death of the mad villager, and Leesil had yet to ask any hard questions about what had really taken place that night on the shore of the Vudrask River. Magiere had provided scant details about what had happened to her and Chap. There still remained the puzzles of why Chap had attacked without orders, and why Magiere appeared so enraged and shaken. It was something beyond the killing of the villager. Neither of them broached the subject, even when they stopped at a village to purchase a donkey and cart to carry Chap—which should have raised questions about the reason for the dog’s injuries. His wounds appeared mostly healed by then, but Magiere insisted he needed rest.

  “Let’s make camp,” Magiere said.

  Leesil nodded and strolled off the road. He watched Magiere run her hand across her forehead again, trying to push a few strands of hair dulled with road dust off her face. He knew she hated being dirty.

  “Maybe we should slip down to the shore,” he said. “Seawater’s not the best bath in the world, but it’ll do in a pinch. Though it’s no good for washing out clothes, unless you like wearing salt crust.”

  She turned a suspicious glare on him. “Since when did you care about clean clothes?”

  “Since always.”

  “Stop trying to humor me.” She let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “I know what you want, and you’d better forget about it. We’re not going to swindle even one more village. I’m through.” She started to follow him off the road, then paused and looked back.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “Since dusk, I’ve had an odd feeling that someone is . . .” She trailed off.

  “Someone is what?”

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.” She shrugged.. “Don’t put us too far from the road. It’s too hard to get the cart through the brush.”

  Leesil’s own cloak was beginning to feel thin in the rapidly cooling air, and he quickly chose a clearing in the t
rees. Magiere unpacked a dented cooking pot, loose tea, dried meat, and apples, while he cleared a space of ground and got a small fire going.

  Despite his outer calm, his thoughts were still troubled. Once again, they had fallen into simple routine, going through daily motions without really talking, and there were several subjects beyond tonight’s dinner that he wished to discuss.

  “Do you need help getting Chap?” Magiere asked suddenly.

  “No, he can walk on his own.”

  Leesil went to the cart and wrapped his slender, tan arms around the dog’s neck. “Hey, there. Time to wake up and eat something.”

  “How is he?” Magiere called.

  Chap’s eyes opened instantly, and he whined before lifting his silver-gray muzzle to lick Leesil’s face. He pulled free of Leesil’s arms and hopped out of the cart, heading toward the cooking fire.

  “See for yourself,” Leesil answered. “And I think he’s about as bored as he could get with riding in the cart.”

  Leesil always found her attitude toward Chap a bit odd. She never petted the dog and rarely spoke to him, but always made sure he ate and was well cared for with what little comforts could be offered. Leesil, on the other hand, enjoyed the dog’s companionship immensely. But in the days before Magiere, Chap had often hunted up his own supper because his master simply forgot.

  Leesil unhooked the donkey and tied it in an area with sufficient grass, then returned to the fire.

  “We passed a side road half a league back,” he said absently, taking a waterskin off the ground and pouring water into the cooking pot for tea. “Might lead off to a village.”

  “If you wanted to stop, you should have said something,” Magiere answered just as casually.

  “I didn’t want to . . .” Finally angered by his partner’s polite front, he snapped, “You know exactly what I mean! Maybe this isn’t Stravina, but the nights are just as dark in peasant villages here. We’re passing profit by for no reason other than you don’t feel like working. You want to buy a tavern? Fine, but I don’t see why we have to leave the game nearly coinless.”