Legends II

by Robert Silverberg

  “That I do not know,” von Namtzen admitted. “Some people say that the body itself rises with the succubus; others say that the body remains in the grave, and by night the demon rides the air as a dream, seeking men in their sleep.”

  Tom Byrd’s figure was indistinct in the gathering fog, but Grey saw his shoulders rise, nearly touching the brim of his hat. He coughed again, and cleared his throat.

  “I see. And . . . er . . . what, precisely, do you intend to do, should a suitable body be located?”

  Here von Namtzen was on surer ground.

  “Oh, that is simple,” he assured Grey. “We will open the coffin, and drive an iron rod through the corpse’s heart. Herr Blomberg has brought one.”

  Tom Byrd made an inarticulate noise, which Grey thought it wiser to ignore.

  “I see,” he said. His nose had begun to run with the cold, and he wiped it on his sleeve. At least he no longer felt hungry.

  They paced for a little in silence. The Buergermeister had fallen silent, too, though the distant sounds of squelching and glugging behind them indicated that the digging party was loyally persevering, with the aid of more plum brandy.

  “The dead man,” Grey said at last. “Private Koenig. Where was he found? And you mentioned marks upon the body—what sort of marks?”

  Von Namtzen opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled. Karolus glanced suddenly to the side, nostrils flaring. Then he flung up his head with a great “Harrumph!” of startlement, nearly hitting Grey in the face. At the same moment, Tom Byrd uttered a high, thin scream, dropped the rope, and ran.

  The big horse flexed his hindquarters, slewed round, and took off, leaping a small stone angel that stood in his path; Grey saw it as a looming pale blur, but had no time to worry about it before it passed beneath the stallion’s outstretched hooves, its stone mouth gaping as though in astonishment.

  Lacking reins and unable to seize the halter rope, Grey had no recourse but to grip the stallion’s mane in both hands, clamp his knees, and stick like a burr. There were shouts and screams behind him, but he had no attention to spare for anything but the wind in his ears and the elemental force between his thighs.

  They bounded like a skipping cannonball through the dark, striking the ground and rocketing upward, seeming to cover leagues at a stride. He leaned low and held on, the stallion’s mane whipping like stinging nettles across his face, the horse’s breath loud in his ears—or was it his own?

  Through streaming eyes, he glimpsed light flickering in the distance, and realized they were heading now for the village. There was a six-foot stone wall in the way; he could only hope the horse noticed it in time.

  He did; Karolus skidded to a stop, divots of mud and withered grass shooting up around him, sending Grey lurching up onto his neck. The horse reared, came down, then turned sharply, trotted several yards, and slowed to a walk, shaking his head as though to try to free himself of the flapping rope.

  Legs quivering as with ague, Grey slid off, and, with cold-stiff fingers, grasped the rope.

  “You big whitebastard ,” he said, filled with the joy of survival, and laughed. “You’re bloody marvelous!”

  Karolus took this compliment with tolerant grace, and shoved at him, whickering softly. The horse seemed largely over his fright, whatever had caused it; he could but hope Tom Byrd fared as well.

  Grey leaned against the wall, panting until his breath came back and his heart slowed a bit. The exhilaration of the ride was still with him, but he had now a moment’s heed to spare for other things.

  At the far side of the churchyard, the torches were clustered close together, lighting the fog with a reddish glow. He could see the digging party, standing in a knot shoulder to shoulder, all in attitudes of the most extreme interest. And toward him, a tall black figure came through the mist, silhouetted by the torch glow behind him. He had a moment’s turn, for the figure looked sinister, dark cloak swirling about it—but it was, of course, merely Captain von Namtzen.

  “Major Grey!” von Namtzen called. “Major Grey!”

  “Here!” Grey shouted, finding breath. The figure altered course slightly, hurrying toward him with long, stilted strides that zigged and zagged to avoid obstacles in the path. How in God’s name had Karolus managed on that ground, he wondered, without breaking a leg or both their necks?

  “Major Grey,” Stephan said, grasping both his hands tightly. “John. You are all right?”

  “Yes,” he said, gripping back. “Yes, of course. What has happened? My valet—Mr. Byrd—is he all right?”

  “He has into a hole fallen, but he is not hurt. We have found a body. A dead man.”

  Grey felt a sudden lurch of the heart.

  “What—”

  “Not in a grave,” the Captain hastened to assure him. “Lying on the ground, leaning against one of the tombstones. Your valet saw the corpse’s face most suddenly in the light of his lantern, and was frightened.”

  “I am not surprised. Is he one of yours?”

  “No. One of yours.”

  “What?” Grey stared up at the Hanoverian. Stephan’s face was no more than a black oval in the dark. He squeezed Grey’s hands gently and let them go.

  “An English soldier. You will come?”

  He nodded, feeling the cold air heavy in his chest. It was not impossible; there were English regiments to north and to south of the town, no more than an hour’s ride away. Men off duty would often come into town in search of drink, dice, and women. It was, after all, the reason for his own presence here—to act as liaison between the English regiments and their German allies.

  The body was less horrible in appearance than he might have supposed; while plainly dead, the man seemed quite peaceful, slumped half sitting against the knee of a stern stone matron holding a book. There was no blood nor wound apparent, and yet Grey felt his stomach clench with shock.

  “You know him?” Stephan was watching him intently, his own face stern and clean as those of the stone memorials about them.

  “Yes.” Grey knelt by the body. “I spoke to him only a few hours ago.”

  He put the backs of his fingers delicately against the dead man’s throat—the slack flesh was clammy, slick with rain, but still warm. Unpleasantly warm. He glanced down, and saw that Private Bodger’s breeches were opened, the stuff of his shirttail sticking out, rumpled over the man’s thighs.

  “Does he still have his dick, or did the she-thing eat it?” said a low voice in German. A faint, shocked snigger ran through the men. Grey pressed his lips tight together and jerked up the soggy shirttail. Private Bodger was somewhat more than intact, he was glad to see. So were the diggers; there was an audible sigh of mass relief behind him.

  Grey stood, conscious all at once of tiredness and hunger, and of the rain pattering on his back.

  “Wrap him in a canvas; bring him . . .” Where? The dead man must be returned to his own regiment, but not tonight. “Bring him to the Schloss. Tom? Show them the way; ask the gardener to find you a suitable shed.”

  “Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd was nearly as pale as the dead man, and covered with mud, but once more in control of himself. “Will I take the horse, me lord? Or will you ride him?”

  Grey had forgotten entirely about Karolus, and looked blankly about. Where had he gone?

  One of the diggers had evidently caught the word “horse” and understood it, for a murmur of“Das Pferd” rippled through the group, and the men began to look around, lifting the torches high and craning their necks.

  One man gave an excited shout, pointing into the dark. A large white blur stood a little distance away.

  “He’s on a grave! He’s standing still! He’s found it!”

  This caused a stir of sudden excitement; everyone pressed forward together, and Grey feared lest the horse should take alarm and run again.

  No such danger; Karolus was absorbed in nibbling at the soggy remnants of several wreaths, piled at the foot of an imposing tombstone. This stood guard over
a small group of family graves—one very recent, as the wreaths and raw earth showed. As the torchlight fell upon the scene, Grey could easily read the name chiseled black into the stone.

  BLOMBERG,it read.

  CHAPTER 2

  BUTWHAT, EXACTLY, DOES ASUCCUBUSDo?

  They found Schloss Lowenstein alight with candles and welcoming fires, despite the late hour of their return. They were far past the time for dinner, but there was food in abundance on the sideboard, and Grey and von Namtzen refreshed themselves thoroughly, interrupting their impromptu feast periodically to give particulars of the evening’s adventures to the house’s other inhabitants, who were agog with curiosity.

  “No! Herr Blomberg’smother ?” The Princess von Lowenstein pressed fingers to her mouth, eyes wide in delighted shock. “Old Agathe? I don’t believe it!”

  “Nor does Herr Blomberg,” von Namtzen assured her, reaching for a leg of roast pheasant. “He was most . . . vehement?” He turned toward Grey, eyebrows raised, then turned back to the Princess, nodding with assurance. “Vehement.”

  He had been. Grey would have chosen “apoplectic” as the better description, but was reasonably sure that none of the Germans present would know the term, and he had no idea how to translate it. They were all speaking English, as a courtesy to the British officers present, who included a Captain of Horse named Billman, Colonel Sir Peter Hicks, and a Lieutenant Dundas, a young Scottish officer in charge of an ordnance survey party.

  “The old woman was a saint, absolutely a saint!” protested the Dowager Princess Lowenstein, crossing herself piously. “I do not believe it, I cannot!”

  The younger Princess cast a brief glance at her mother-in-law, then away—meeting Grey’s eyes. The Princess had bright blue eyes, all the brighter for candlelight, brandy—and mischief.

  The Princess was a widow of a year’s standing. Grey judged from the large portrait over the mantelpiece in the drawing room that the late Prince had been roughly thirty years older than his wife; she bore her loss bravely.

  “Dear me,” she said, contriving to look winsome, despite her anxiety. “As if the French were not enough! Now we are to be threatened with nightmare demons?”

  “Oh, you will be quite safe, madam, I assure you,” Sir Peter assured her. “What-what? With so many gallant gentlemen in the house?”

  The ancient Dowager glanced at Grey, and said something about gentlemen in highly accented German that Grey didn’t quite catch, but the Princess flushed like a peony in bloom, and von Namtzen, within earshot, choked on a swallow of wine.

  Captain Billman smote the Hanoverian helpfully on the back.

  “Is there news of the French?” Grey asked, thinking that perhaps the conversation should be guided back to more earthly concerns before the party retired to bed.

  “Look to be a few of the bastards milling round,” Billman said casually, cutting his eyes at the women in a manner suggesting that the word “few” was a highly discreet euphemism. “Expect they’ll be moving on, heading for the west within a day or so.”

  Or heading for Strausberg, to join with the French regiment reported there, Grey thought. He returned Billman’s meaningful look. Gundwitz lay in the bottom of a river valley—directly between the French position and Strausberg.

  “So,” Billman said, changing the subject with a heavy jocularity, “your succubus got away, did she?”

  Von Namtzen cleared his throat.

  “I would not say that, particularly,” he said. “Herr Blomberg refused to allow the men to disturb the grave, of course, but I have men ordered to guard it.”

  “That’ll be popular duty, I shouldn’t think,” said Sir Peter, with a glance at a nearby window, where even multiple thicknesses of silk and woolen draperies and heavy shutters failed to muffle the thrum of rain and the occasional distant boom of thunder.

  “A good idea,” one of the German officers said, in heavily accented but very correct English. “We do not wish to have rumors fly about, that there is a succubus behaving badly in the vicinity of the soldiers.”

  “But what, exactly, does a succubusdo ?” the Princess inquired, looking expectantly from face to face.

  There was a sudden massive clearing of throats and gulping of wine as all the men present tried to avoid her eye. A explosive snort from the Dowager indicated whatshe thought of this cowardly behavior.

  “A succubus is a she-demon,” the old lady said, precisely. “It comes to men in dreams, and has congress with them, in order to extract from them their seed.”

  The Princess’s eyes went perfectly round. Shehadn’t known, Grey observed.

  “Why?” she asked. “What does she do with it? Demons do not give birth, do they?”

  Grey felt a laugh trying to force its way up under his breastbone, and hastily took another drink.

  “Well, no,” said Stephan von Namtzen, somewhat flushed, but still self-possessed. “Not exactly. The succubus procures the . . . er . . . essence,” he gave a slight bow of apology to the Dowager at this, “and then will mate with an incubus—this being a male demon, you see?”

  The old lady looked grim, and placed a hand upon the religious medal she wore pinned to her gown.

  Von Namtzen took a deep breath, seeing that everyone was hanging upon his words, and fixed his gaze upon the portrait of the late Prince.

  “The incubus then will seek out a human woman by night, couple with her, and impregnate her with the stolen seed—thus producing demon-spawn.”

  Lieutenant Dundas, who was very young and likely a Presbyterian, looked as though he were being strangled by his stock. The other men, all rather red in the face, attempted to look as though they were entirely familiar with the phenomenon under discussion and thought little of it. The Dowager looked thoughtfully at her daughter-in-law, then upward at the picture of her deceased son, eyebrows raised as though in silent conversation.

  “Ooh!” Despite the late hour and the informality of the gathering, the Princess had a fan, which she spread now before her face in shock, big blue eyes wide above it. These eyes swung toward Grey, and blinked in pretty supplication.

  “And do you really think, Lord John, that there is such a creature . . .” she shuddered, with an alluring quiver of the bosom, “. . . prowling near?”

  Neither eyes nor bosom swayed him, and it was clear to him that the Princess found considerably more excitement than fear in the notion, but he smiled reassuringly, an Englishman secure in his rationality.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  As though in instant contradiction of this stout opinion, a blast of wind struck the Schloss, carrying with it a burst of hail that rattled off the shutters and fell hissing down the chimney. The thunder of the hailstorm upon roof and walls and outbuildings was so great that for a moment it drowned all possibility of conversation.

  The party stood as though paralyzed, listening to the roar of the elements. Grey’s eyes met Stephan’s; the Hanoverian lifted his chin a little in defiance of the storm, and gave him a small, private smile. Grey smiled back, then glanced away—just in time to see a dark shape fall from the chimney and plunge into the flames with a piercing shriek.

  The shriek was echoed at once by the women—and possibly by Lieutenant Dundas, though Grey could not quite swear to it.

  Something was struggling in the fire, flapping and writhing, and the stink of scorched skin came sharp and acrid in the nose. Acting by sheer instinct, Grey seized a poker and swept the thing out of the fire and onto the hearth, where it skittered crazily, emitting sounds that pierced his eardrums.

  Stephan lunged forward and stamped on the thing, putting an end to the unnerving display.

  “A bat,” he said calmly, removing his boot. “Take it away.”

  The footman to whom he addressed this command came hastily and, flinging a napkin over the blackened corpse, scooped it up and carried it out on a tray, this ceremonial disposal giving Grey a highly inappropriate vision of the bat making a second appearance at break
fast, roasted and garnished with stewed prunes.

  A sudden silence had fallen upon the party. This was broken by the sudden chiming of the clock, which made everyone jump, then laugh nervously.

  The party broke up, the men standing politely as the women withdrew, then pausing for a few moments’ conversation as they finished their wine and brandy. With no particular sense of surprise, Grey found Sir Peter at his elbow.

  “A word with you, Major?” Sir Peter said quietly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The group had fragmented into twos and threes; it was not difficult to draw aside a little, under the pretext of examining a small, exquisite statue of Eros that stood on one of the tables.

  “You’ll be taking the body back to the Fifty-second in the morning, I expect?” The English officers had all had a look at Private Bodger, declaring that he was none of theirs; by elimination, he must belong to Colonel Ruysdale’s Fifty-second Foot, presently encamped on the other side of Gundwitz.

  Without waiting for Grey’s nod, Sir Peter went on, touching the statue abstractedly.

  “The French are up to something; had a scout’s report this afternoon, great deal of movement among the troops. They’re preparing to move, but we don’t yet know where or when. I should feel happier if a few more of Ruysdale’s troops were to move to defend the bridge at Aschenwald, just in case.”

  “I see,” Grey said cautiously. “And you wish me to carry a message to that effect to Colonel Ruysdale.”

  Sir Peter made a slight grimace.

  “I’ve sent one. I think it might be helpful, though, if you were to suggest that von Namtzen wished it, as well.”

  Grey made a noncommittal noise. It was common knowledge that Sir Peter and Ruysdale were not on good terms. The Colonel might well be more inclined to oblige a German ally.

  “I will mention it to Captain von Namtzen,” he said, “though I expect he will be agreeable.” He would have taken his leave then, but Sir Peter hesitated, indicating that there was something further.