Dhampir

by Barb Hendee

  “How soon can we expect people to arrive for the meeting?” she asked.

  “Any time now.”

  When she looked at him, it seemed his walk was a little more stooped and his hair a little more gray than when she had met him. Poor man. So much had happened in the past few days.

  “Where’s Rose?” she asked.

  “I think she’s sitting with Leesil. I’d better get them.”

  “No, I’ll do it. Why don’t you find some tea mugs?”

  For some reason, she didn’t want Caleb to know how badly Leesil was injured. The half-elf couldn’t even walk without help.

  She jogged up the stairs and found Rose sitting next to him on his bed, showing him some pictures she’d drawn with charcoal on old paper. The scene struck her as too calm, too normal for their present circumstances.

  “I like the one with the flowers,” he said.

  Rose’s muslin dress was clean, but no one had bothered to brush her hair since Beth-rae’s death. It was beginning to look quite tangled. Her small face glowed with a rosy tinge. In the way of children, she accepted change and appeared to be turning to Leesil for company. The purple color of his jaw was nearly black in hue, and although the scratches on his face were healing, the savage nature behind those long claw marks was obvious.

  Magiere wavered. Perhaps she should keep him up here and try to convince the townsfolk herself. But he was the talker, not her.

  “Are you ready?” Magiere asked quietly.

  “Yes, just help me up.”

  “Come on, Rose,” Magiere said. “We’re going downstairs. You can sit with Chap by the fire.”

  By the guarded wince he made, she knew the effort to stand caused Leesil more pain than he would ever admit. She pulled his arm over her shoulder and supported him as best she could.

  “I know you’re injured,” she said, “but try to hurry. I want to get you settled in a chair before anyone arrives. Do you have any ideas yet?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I know what to do.”

  Not long after that, Leesil found himself in a chair by the fire, feigning comfort. He did not blame Magiere for pulling him downstairs like this to face a mass of townspeople. On the contrary, he admired her strength and clarity of thought. But at least three of his ribs were broken, and he feared that when Ratboy had thrown him against the fir tree, the action caused more damage than simply bruising his back. Sitting up was agony.

  Forty men and women from Miiska were now gathered in the common room of The Sea Lion. Leesil knew Magiere had hoped for more, but forty were better than none and almost overfilled the room. Caleb served tea and Magiere served thick, nut-brown ale to those who wanted it. The whole affair appeared more like an afternoon party than a discussion of survival.

  His partner walked over to him and leaned down. She was still wearing the torn blue dress, carrying a tray of ale mugs, and her hair had pulled loose from its braid. She hardly fit the image of a warrior.

  “I’m going to force them to admit what we are facing, and then you explain the plan,” she whispered.

  The plan? Didn’t a plan usually involve careful thought and discussion? But he did not have the luxury of time. What he basically had to do was sell these people on the idea that if they wished to be saved, they would have to help save themselves.

  Magiere turned to face the crowd. Karlin, the baker, and his son, Geoffry, sat directly in front of her.

  “Yesterday,” she began, “many of you donated coins to pay me and my partner for ridding this town of a nest of vampires.”

  Several people flinched or gasped slightly at the use of the word “vampires” out loud. One of them was Thomas, the candle maker. Magiere pointed at him.

  “That reaction is part of your problem,” she said. “You all know what’s been going on or you wouldn’t be here. But no one is willing to even openly talk about it, much less take matters into his own hands.”

  “Mistress Magiere,” Karlin stammered. “Perhaps this isn’t the best way to—“

  “Yes, it is,” she cut him off. “Why did you all try to pay me? Because you know exactly what’s going on. Many of the bodies you’ve found were buried pale and bloodless. Some of you even carried Brenden’s body here today. And you saw his throat.” She glanced at Leesil and back to Karlin. “These killers are not natural, and cannot be destroyed by natural means, but Leesil and I can’t do this alone.”

  Thomas was staring at her. “What exactly do you propose?”

  She motioned to Leesil. “Let him explain.”

  As he took in the hopeful, yet doubtful expressions on the faces of Miiska’s shopkeepers, fishermen, and dockworkers, Leesil realized he’d have to make them trust him first. He’d have to do anything, say anything to win their confidence. Humor had served him best in this regard. He smiled weakly for effect.

  “I know I’m not as pretty as usual,” he said wryly. “But I’ve fought the same undead four times now and neither of us seems able to win.”

  His jovial manner caused some people to relax visibly.

  “None of you know Magiere or me very well,” he went on, “but I do want you to know I’ve been trained in both defensive and offensive battle strategy. I was once a personal counselor to a warlord in the east, near my homeland.”

  If he’d told them exactly who the warlord was, the mere mention of Darmouth’s name would have won them over. But he couldn’t risk becoming a legend or having word of his location reach the wrong ears. And in turn, have that someone reveal exactly who and what he had actually been in that life.

  “Magiere and I now believe all three undeads escaped the fire,” he said. “We saw the female, called Teesha, and the one who resembles a street urchin, called Ratboy, last night. The warehouse owner, who some of you know, is their leader, and we should act on the belief that he wasn’t destroyed.”

  “Are you saying you want us to fight these creatures?” asked a dockworker he didn’t know.

  “Not exactly. Magiere and Chap will do most of the fighting. What I want you to do is establish a perimeter around the tavern. The vampires seem determined to kill the three of us, so we’re going to be the bait to lure them in. If enough of you can shoot crossbow quarrels soaked in garlic, it might wear them down, or at least prevent them from escaping. We’re going to lay a trap.” He paused, and then added reluctantly, “And we may have to burn a few buildings down.”

  This comment brought murmurs and outright curses of disbelief from a number of those present. Leesil’s voice gained strength.

  “What good will those buildings be if the people of Miiska keep vanishing? You want safety? You want this problem solved? If that is your desire, then you must not only defend yourselves, you must help us carry out an attack that will finish this once and for all. I have a plan, but it’s useless until I know there are enough people here with the courage to help me carry it out. I need to know first if you’ll help yourselves.”

  He couldn’t imagine what Magiere was thinking, as he was hardly playing the role of her drunken partner these days and now sounded more like some world-weary military commander.

  “I’ll help,” Karlin said instantly.

  “Me too,” said Geoffry.

  But the rest of the crowd spoke in low voices to each other or just muttered in discomfort. Whatever their expectations for this meeting, being asked to battle vampires wasn’t on the list.

  Leesil did not expect to win them easily, and he was about to speak again when the door to the common room burst open. The man who stumbled through it looked vaguely familiar, and then Leesil realized it was one of the guards who’d arrested Brenden that very first night the blacksmith came to the tavern to question Ellinwood. In fact, it was the guard who had tied Brenden’s hands behind his back. He was panting hysterically, and his eyes were wild.

  “Darien, what’s wrong?” a young fisherwife asked, jumping to her feet and running to him.

  “Korina’s dead,” he breathed. “I stood watch all night
at the guard house. When I got home, I found her outside our window. . . . Her throat’s torn open.”

  He stopped talking and began to sob without sound.

  “Who’s Korina?” Leesil asked, even though the question hardly mattered.

  “His wife,” Karlin said flatly. “They’d only been married since winter.”

  Gripping the table before him, Leesil somehow managed to stand.

  “These creatures are growing bolder. Magiere and I can’t do this alone.”

  Several dockworkers crowded in around Karlin. Not pleased but resigned, one of them said, “Tell us what to do.”

  Sometime before sunset, Magiere stood in the street outside of The Velvet Rose, hesitant to go inside. She would rather have fought Rashed ten times than ask Welstiel for help again, but too many people depended on her now.

  The lovely brocade curtains and white shutters seemed a travesty now. This pretty facade seemed to reinforce the notion that Miiska was safe and no unnatural beasts dug tunnels beneath it or fed on its people at night.

  No one who lived here would think of helping her destroy vampires, much less admit the truth . . . except for Welstiel. But how much help was he? She’d grown tired of his cryptic advice by their second meeting. She needed specific information regarding the weaknesses of her enemies. Perhaps she never expected Leesil to win help from the common folk of Miiska. Though not exactly eloquent, his words were powerful and direct and convincing. He’d almost made her believe that part about him serving a warlord.

  “Well, he’s done it now,” she said aloud to herself.

  Back at The Sea Lion, he was overseeing preparations for an attack. Such work was his domain, although she had no idea how he managed to stay on his feet. Her task was more personal, more private. She required more information about herself and about finding an effective method to destroy Rashed.

  In addition, she needed more help than a few untrained shopkeepers and laborers could offer, and sitting at a desk just inside the door of The Velvet Rose was someone she’d like on her side.

  Loni, the handsome elven proprietor, raised his head as she entered and stunned her with an expression of relief.

  “Magiere,” he said instantly as if she were an acquaintance. “Master Welstiel is expecting you. Please come this way.”

  She stopped. “He’s expecting me?”

  “Yes, yes, he’s asked about your arrival several times,” he answered in near annoyance, as if any delay was too much. “Please follow me.”

  When he stood up, she noticed he was about the same height and build as her. He wore a plain, but well-made, white cotton shirt and a thick pair of black breeches. He seemed most eager to assist her and bring her down to Welstiel. Since he was being so obliging, a thought occurred.

  “Loni, may I borrow some clothes?” she asked tiredly. “If you wish, I’ll pay for them.”

  There was no time for a tailor, and she couldn’t fight Rashed in this dress. Expecting Loni to give her a befuddled stare, she silently thanked him as he merely glanced up and down at her tattered clothing in comprehension.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll have them ready before you leave.”

  He knew what was happening, she thought. Or at least he knew something critical was happening, and that his honored guest was waiting to see Magiere, the legendary hunter of the dead. Her falchion was hanging on her hip, and he did not ask her to remove it.

  Loni led the way through The Velvet Rose’s opulent main room, past the paintings and blooming flowers, and down the stairs to Welstiel’s room.

  He knocked lightly. “She’s arrived, sir.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and ushered her inside, closing it quietly behind her.

  Welstiel sat in the same chair as before, but he seemed to be brooding rather than reading this time. The room had not changed. However, his expression actually flickered in surprise at the sight of her. Not that she cared what he thought, but she knew her appearance was that of a barmaid who’d been rolled in the hay.

  “How long since you’ve slept?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember. I didn’t come here to discuss my sleeping habits.”

  She’d never noticed how black his eyebrows were before. They contrasted sharply with the white patches at his temples.

  “Why did you come here?” he asked, without moving from his chair.

  “I thought there might be a slight chance you’d actually offer some help instead of your usual riddles.”

  The absence of windows and the unnatural light from Welstiel’s glowing orb now unnerved her slightly.

  “I heard a rumor. Of course, I’m sure it’s just a rumor,” he said, “that you had enlisted some of the fishermen and dockworkers.”

  “It’s no rumor.”

  He stood up, and his tranquil face showed a hint of anger.

  “Send them home. All of them. You are dhampir. Involving commoners will only cause chaos. This whole affair should have been finished days ago.”

  Magiere crossed her arms. “Fine, then you and Loni carve some stakes and come fight with me.”

  Welstiel’s flicker of anger disappeared, and he smiled.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, my dear. I once thought you clever, but perhaps you still don’t understand. You are the dhampir. Your purpose, your existence, revolves around destroying the undead.”

  A mix of fury and frustration filled her, and on impulse, she drew her sword.

  “I’m so tired of your games! If you know half as much as you pretend to, then spit it out now.”

  His dark eyes looked down to the falchion’s edge and back up again.

  “Can you feel the rage building? Every time you battle one of these vermin, does your strength not grow?” His tone dropped low. “Have you ever heard a foolish old saying that evil can only be conquered by good? It’s a lie. Evil can only be conquered by evil. These bloodthirsty creatures are unnatural and have no place in the land of the living. However, one of them must have been wise enough, unselfish enough, to create you.”

  She lowered her sword. “What does that mean?”

  Welstiel stepped a little closer.

  “I have studied the ways of vampires at length. In the first days after being turned, it is still possible for one of them to create a child. One of your parents, probably your father, was undead. Half of you belongs to the dark world, a negative state of existence that needs to draw in and consume life in order to exist. But your mortal side is stronger. In dhampirs, this imbalance creates a hatred for their own unnatural half that they cannot control. By drawing on the powers of their black side, they become the only living weapon capable of battling and defeating vampires. Do you understand now?”

  His words cut like a blade. She did not want to believe him, but could not deny recent events.

  “How did you know, about me, I mean? How can you tell?”

  He pointed to the leather thong and chain just visible around her neck. “Those amulets, hiding inside your dress. Who gave them to you?”

  She paused and several pieces of the puzzle began to shift reluctantly into place.

  “My father, or so I was told. He left the armor and the falchion as well. But if he were a vampire, why would he create me and then leave me weapons to destroy his own kind?”

  Welstiel’s hand impulsively reached out and then it stopped. Perhaps he sensed the sorrow she felt. “Sit down,” he said.

  She didn’t move.

  “Some vampires revel in their existence. They welcome it,” he said, “but others are sometimes created against their will. I believe it is possible for a vampire to hate its own kind.”

  He seemed to be speaking with candor, and Magiere did not know whether to be grateful or regretful. She’d spent her life blotting out her past as thoroughly as she could. As it was, there was so little of it worth remembering. Her father abandoned her and her mother was dead. Both gone from her life before she was old enough to even remember their
faces. At times, she had even envied Leesil for knowing who he was and who he came from, even if he was reluctant to speak of it. Now this arrogant madman believed she was born of the same kind of creature as the ones she’d been trying to destroy ever since arriving in this town.

  She didn’t want to share such thoughts with Welstiel, but he seemed to know more of her than anyone. If he was right, or even partially so, then somewhere in this world her father might still . . . exist.

  “You think my father was turned against his will, and he made me as some kind of weapon?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Then why would he leave me? He left me in a village of superstitious peasants who hated the sight of me.” She would never cry, had never cried, but her voice broke slightly. “Why would he do that?”

  “I do not know,” Welstiel answered. “Perhaps to make you strong.”

  She studied his face and the intelligence in his eyes. “How do you know any of these things? Tell me, please.”

  He paused. “I study and I observe, and I’ve traveled many places. I heard a hunter of the dead was coming to live in Miiska, and I had to see for myself. The first time I saw you, I knew. Do you remember? You were in the tavern, wearing that dress, although it was in much better condition, and you tucked those amulets out of sight.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I remember.”

  “Sit.” He gestured to the end of the small bed.

  This time she obeyed. He pointed again at the neckline of her dress.

  “Have you figured these out yet?” he asked.

  She looked down, but did not pull her amulets into view.

  “I’m not sure. The topaz seems to glow when I’m near a vampire.”

  He nodded. “Yes, like the dog, it is an alarm, of sorts. It senses the presence of negative existence. The bone amulet is different. I’ve read of this, but yours is the first one I have seen. Undeads who feed on blood are actually feeding on the life force. They are an empty vessel that constantly needs to be refilled. A negative life force, if you will. Consuming life maintains their existence and causes them to heal so easily.