by Ian Hall
Some animalistic need railed within and I dropped to his wilted form, biting instinctively at his dripping arteries, draining whatever remained. I swallowed greedily, mercilessly, until the dim light left to his eyes extinguished entirely. Licking my lips and tracking my finger through the red puddle, I looked to Ivan and his grave expression.
“What have you done to me?” I demanded.
He supplicated himself to me, falling on bended knee. “I could not bear to see the last of your noble family taken in our country’s time of unrest. Our people need a leader, Tomas, you were the last Lucescu…the last son.”
“You fool!” I thrust my rebuke at him. “I am the third son, born to academics and scholarship. What do I know of leadership? Of war? You should have saved Dmytro; schooled in those disciplines from the first day of life.”
Ivan’s bent posture straightened; his false show of deference fell away like a cloak. Instantly, he became a man of authority, of decision.
“Dmytro was as much a barbarian as your father; their ways brought the Zaporozhian Cossacks into decades of despair.”
“Our great-grandfather sacked Constantinople!” I roared at the top of my voice.
Ivan just stared calmly through my rage. “And what did he bring back for the Zaporozhian people? Some golden goblets and a hundred empty saddles. Even now the Russian court finds new ways to schism the Cossacks. We need a new type of leader, not one who just thinks with his blade.”
I looked at the man who had been my father’s trusted advisor, the same who had just disgraced my family honor. For three decades, Ivan Vyhovsky stood at Apostol Lucescu’s side, whispering tactics and schemes into my father’s ear as our own people turned against us. And now he had the gall to disparage the great man in his death.
“Barbarians, were they? What, then, are you?” I showed him my bloodstained sleeve. “What have you made of me?”
Ivan looked unsympathetic. “You will learn to tame your cravings; I will teach you.”
It took all my resolve not to crush his throat. “What gives you the right to do this evil deed? I would have preferred death to becoming a monster!”
“Precisely, Tomas,” Ivan said levelly. “It is for that reason, I chose you to save.”
The blame lay plainly at the feet of Yakiv Ostranin, not so many years ago. If we Romanians had not ridden to the aid of the Polish Cossacks, we would never have been defeated and banished to Russia. If we had remained nomads, and never settled, the blood plague would never have struck.
But we settled here, in Moshny, trading our tents for stone.
Then the plague hit, and it struck harshly; in some places taking nine men in ten.
I looked at the pale bald head of the young man, barely eighteen years old. A Cossack from a long line, he held the purest heritage. Yet he held the pen with more surety than the sword. I stood in the castle, the interloper, the agent of the Elders for thirty years. I had listened to three decades of Hetman politics, and in the end, I had to act on my own volition.
The choice for Lucescu leadership thrust into my hands.
I am quite certain that if there had been time to talk, the Elders would have decreed that we could not let the Zaporozhian Cossacks perish. They would, of course, debate my choice for decades.
Thirty years ago I was sent here, to Moshny, to the ancient house of Lucescu, to spy on the greatest Romanian Cossack; Apostol Lucescu of Zaporozhia. My mission tonight lay simpler; to save his dynasty.
As I watched Tomas suck on the hound, I wondered if I’d done the right thing; chosen correctly, alone in the selection, no guidance, no officiating body to pull any political strings.
If my will was questioned later, I can say with some conviction that I did not regret my action; I was in no doubt that someone had to take command.
But I considered the consequences of my choice of survivor.
Dmytro had been a warrior prince; a noble of Zaporozhia, destined to rule in his father’s place. He proved himself a strong-willed and fierce Cossack, but I watched him die, the power to save him, unused. As he croaked his last breath, I knew that I’d made the correct decision. Dmytro would have been too powerful with the gift of the turning. The Order could do without factions that would undoubtedly have followed.
Vasili died next, and I had no compunction watching him take his beloved cross to his grave. I could not have endured the philosophical revolt as he came to terms with his newest gift. His precious God watched from the heavens as he choked on his own vomit.
So I’d chosen Tomas, the third brother; the man of books, of learning.
I imagined the Elders’ questions; having to justify my decision to them.
My argument would be simple; the Hetmanate had to survive the plague. The Order had groomed most of the Hetman families for generations; it was no time to throw away a good plan.
One of our disciples would rise to Hetman one day, the ruler of all the Zaporozhian Cossacks. That day would herald the zenith of the Order.
Tomas ranted at me, questioned my loyalty, and threw insults at my race. One thing did not pass his lips; appreciation for saving his life.
I walked forward and gripped him by the face, squeezing his jaw with such force, he railed in pain. “Listen to me, you little whelp. You had better learn gratitude pretty damn quick. Let this realization dawn; if I can save you, I can crush you, too!”
Ivan spoke of gratitude. Should I have kissed his robes and sang hymns to his glory for turning me into such an abomination? Gratitude? I had only detestation – both for Ivan and for myself.
On the third night since my changing, he arrived at my chamber as the previous two. A silver tray, laden with hunks of raw game meat. Fresh blood seeping from the tissues stymied my resolve, whetted my craving. As each night passed, it became more difficult to ignore my desire to feed. Ivan set the tray on the table beside his last two offerings; flies had begun to swarm the rotting meat and, no doubt, maggots were gorging within.
“Word has gotten out that the youngest Lucescu has recovered from the blood fever,” Ivan reported as if glad news. “Your family’s holdings have already been the subject of much discussion, the spoils of the Lucescu estate greatly coveted. You will need to stake your claim and position as head of this household without delay, Tomas. You will make your showing at the craft hall tomorrow. We’ll ride at sunrise.”
“Sunrise?!” I rebuked heartily, “So I should burn up and turn to dust as the first ray touches me? All your mighty efforts would be for naught, fool.”
Indeed, Ivan’s reputedly fantastic memory had failed him. Much to the dismay of my mother, and embarrassment of my father, I had come into the world severely allergic to sunlight. Skin bleached and thin as paper, not even the finest down of hair to buffer, I stood defenseless against the sunshine of the day. For all my twenty-one years, I had been sequestered to skulk in shadows. And now this harbinger of Satan meant to lure me into the light.
“You will find yourself quite healed of that affliction as well, Tomas. I should dare say – you will find yourself remarkably indestructible in this new incarnation. Even your dramatic attempt at starvation will not satisfy your unfortunate death wish. ”
“Depart from me, Devil, and take your forked tongue with you!”
“In due time, you will learn, Tomas.”
Ivan did leave me then with a swift pivot of his heel and no further lies. Alone with the rank of rotting meat mixing with the nectar of fresh blood, my hunger pangs began to roil anew. Soon my body trembled, sides splitting to feed.
Like a dark temptress casting a spell, the fragrance enveloped me. I heeded its call, first sinking my dripping canines into the fresh kill, draining every drop of blood from the tissues. Then I devoured the raw flesh, mashing the un-softened muscle to pulp.
And yet my hunger remained, whipping me to frenzy. I proceeded to the next platter, and the next, tearing chunks of rancid meat and throwing them down my gullet, parasites and all.
The dar
kness within me had won its first victory.
Adamant that he would burn, Tomas wrapped himself in the thickest of fur coats. The usual retinue could not be managed, but twenty proud Zaporozhian Cossacks rode with us; ten in front, ten behind. Although Tomas had buried his head in books for the last ten years, he still knew how to ride, and we cantered along the road at a good pace.
The citadel town of Moshny soon lay behind us, and still no response from the boy. I rode in silence, and watched him blot his dripping brow with the thick sleeve of his fur. Summer on the Steppes is a fantastic time, and the sun did us proud that day. Before we knew, the craft halls were showing in the east, and the sun, now high above, burned my forehead.
“It’s fine to get out, isn’t it, Tomas?” I said, my slight smile belying my roar of laughter inside.
“What do we seek to find at the craft halls?” he demanded, little but a set of thin lips behind a heavy hood.
At last he showed interest, I hoped he realized that he now ruled Moshny, and much of the surrounding country. “Your father used to buy much of the leather tack made by the men of Kiev. They are much prized for their workmanship.”
Tomas nodded, then neared his horse to mine. “And this new hunger of mine?”
“You force it down,” I replied. “You force it down till it’s a speck under your shoe.”
“Easier said than done, Vizier Vyhovsky.”
As we neared the building, I saw a good many horses already corralled outside. “One thing I will warn you of. The other families will take their aim at your new position. Don’t let them tempt you to a duel. Keep your temper in check, make some good purchases, and let them see how the House of Lucescu still conducts business.”
Inside, there were fewer attendees than usual, the blood sickness had ravaged the Cossacks, and the reduced number was understandable. To my pleasure, Tomas bought well, taking a nod from me once or twice, and even bargaining some good prices from the thieves of Kiev.
Three families were disdainful of the new Lucescu, and I noted them for later; Boran Pugachev of the Igmars, Yermak Ifkoshev of the Lugar men, and of course, our old favorite enemy; Azov Kuban of the eastern Tatars.
The men had never been our friends in any of the councils, and their remarks had not raised a hackle with me.
Once we were out in the sunshine again, I announced a hunt, and the whole detachment rode through the forest in a line, hoping to flush out a deer, or even a bear.
As we rode, hand on the reins, I even saw Tomas smile.
The ride in the open air enchanted me, despite my heavy covering. My head I kept down, away from the sun, but the breeze still licked my face soothingly.
Ivan announced the hunt and, like soldiers to battle, the entire complement trotted toward the plush canopy. With the forest as my shield, I at last shed the cumbersome fur and felt a pleasant chill as the sweat evaporated off my body. Keenly, my enhanced hearing picked up the grumbles of some of our complement. I pulled my horse astride Ivan’s, talking only for his ears.
“They find my appearance disturbing,” I said.
He looked all-too pleased with himself. “Were you unaware of the mystery surrounding the fable of the youngest Lucescu son, Tomas? Always kept from view, there has long been much speculation about you.”
I let the revelation seep in; like the sunlight, it dealt a potent sting. True, I had been confined to the holdings of my father’s lands, attended solely by the most trusted household staff and free to wander the grounds only at nightfall. Never did I suspect the nature of my condition had caused such musings among the townsfolk; a fact those close to me had kept hidden.
“It is good that you are something of a mystery to them, Tomas,” Ivan suggested with a confidential tone. “It will keep them on their toes; they will not know what to expect. As for your appearance…they will grow accustomed.”
I wondered at that. My own mother had never grown comfortable to my bizarre attributes; even seeking to protect me from the disgrace of my own reflection. All mirrors had been removed from the east wing of the house that I may never have to look upon the disease of my pallor. But, she could not keep my pale eyes from seeing; a basin of water, a well-polished spoon; through these I caught glimpses of my odd features. This fact I kept from the mistress of Lucescu estate, knowing it would only trouble her further.
Leaving me little time to ponder, the most experienced trackers among us pulled his horse up to the front of the line and quickly dismounted. Ivan reined his horse to a halt and the rest of us followed suit.
To my chagrin, the tracker reported to Ivan. “Bear – due west,” he announced, pointing to invisible imprints in the soft ground. “The forest grows thicker that direction; we should tether the horses and continue on foot.”
A thrill came over me as another of our party outfitted me with bow and full quiver. This would be my first opportunity to show the men Tomas Lucescu was more robust than he appeared. I was an excellent shot and my eyesight quite remarkable in limited lighting. Surely, were I to bring down a spectacular kill, my standing would heighten dramatically.
Ivan pulled me by the elbow. “Easy, Tomas. Victor will take the lead.”
Victor indeed! With much resentment I allowed not only Victor but the full band to push ahead of me into the dense wood. My inability to thwart Ivan’s commands became increasingly aggravating; I believe he knew full-well the ownership he possessed over my will. I resolved quietly to myself to find a way to break this peculiar bond.
Nevertheless, I found myself trailing the others, Ivan flanking me on the left, his own bow and quill at the ready. Before long, the spindly trees grew so thick there was barely the breadth of a man’s shoulder’s between them. Ivan, my keeper, had no choice but to fall back; at last I enjoyed some autonomy.
Up ahead, I smelled the musty scent of wet bear. The awning of branches became even thicker. I lost sight of Victor and most of the others and knew full-well they would converge on the mark before I ever got within eye line of him. My opportunity to prove myself would then be lost; I might forever be the peculiar weakling with no manhood to speak of.
I set my will against Ivan’s and increased my pace. Like a rush of wind, I sped past the others. The trees bent to my passing. Only a scattering of broken limbs remained in my wake.
The bear sensed my coming and rose to its full, enormous height. Its massive arms opened as if to welcome me to a dance. I smiled at the bold invitation and let my arrow fly. A clean hit, dead center of its chest, but the beast did not fall. Instead it advanced on me, snout curled back in a ferocious snarl.
I felt my own lip peel, my own fangs sharpen, and I flung at it in a crushing embrace. My claws tore at the bear’s side, peeling flesh like the rind of an orange. Once the fresh blood gushed, my fury could not be stopped. I mauled it with such viciousness, that by the time my mind returned to me, the bear’s stomach lay open, ribs broken and torn asunder, it’s bloody heart in my hands.
And then I feasted. Its blood warmed and energized me. I had never before felt so alive, so powerful. So immersed in the feeding, my wits utterly failed me.
Victor’s swift arrow struck my neck square-on. Fangs wet, I turned on him, snapping the arrow from my neck like a twig. Human blood, I found, tasted even more intoxicating than anything animal. As I sucked on his artery, I tasted intellect, cunning, indeed the man’s very soul, in a liquid rush down my throat.
Engorged, I lifted my head to find the remainder of our party lying like wreckage over the forest floor. Ivan stood above them, great anguish in his eyes.
“You fool! You left me no choice!” he bellowed. “They had seen you for what you are.”
What a waste. Twenty of the best men the family boasted, all survivors of the plague, had perished, at my hands, in the blink of a human eye.
Tomas stood above Victor, his clothes covered in blood. The arrow still skewered his neck, the white swan feathered flights tucked under his chin.
And for what? A goblet o
r two of bear blood? Hardly worth one single death, never mind twenty.
I looked at the mess I had created. Twenty men had died, but at least the secret lay safe, Tomas could still return to Moshny. I cursed the Order under my breath, the lack of training given to me, the lack of foresight. Easy for them to see the plague an unforeseen variable, but they might have prepared me better for the act of turning.
Tomas, still crouched over Victor, obviously caught in two minds; he had gorged on the bear, but now had tasted the sweeter juice of human blood. “Be still,” I counseled, trying to come up with a convincing story for the townsfolk. “Fight the feeling. Push it deep inside.”
“Don’t you smell it?” he asked, advancing on the nearest fallen. “Can’t you feel it pulling you?”
“Enough!” I roared. The word fell flat in the forest, but Tomas did stand still. I walked to his side. “Was the order to stay behind so difficult to carry out?”
“You wanted to deny me my prize!” Tomas’s neck muscles strained at his protest.
I took him by the shoulders and shook him severely. “You ignorant whelp! I put you behind to protect you from assassins! You are the foremost Lucescu! And yet you forge ahead out of greed?” I reached behind his head and broke the arrow at the nape of his neck. Tomas did not flinch.
“I ran to protect my standing. To be first to the kill.”
I carefully pulled the fletching through his neck. “You would have done well to heed my orders,” I said slowly. Blood pumped twice from the open wound, then stemmed.
He grabbed the bloody stalk of the arrow from me and cast it aside. “I am Tomas Lucescu, the last Romanian Cossack! I take orders from no one!” he spat in my face.