Tales of the Slayer

by Nancy Holder

  She had slain many vampires since her calling a half year previous, and often her Watcher, despite his great age, had helped her with these endeavors, tossing her a well-timed weapon, even setting a blow or stake himself a time or two. Oddly, tonight’s excursion appeared to have taken more out of him than a dozen of the others combined. This seemed to go beyond the injury he had sustained, as though what he was about to reveal were a weight nearly too great for him to carry. If such is the case, is it not better that he should share this burden with me? she wondered.

  Now Rendor leaned forward on his chair and gripped his mug tightly, warming his hands on the rough stoneware. “The Countess Erzsébet—Elizabeth—Bathory came to us as the young bride of Ferencz Nádasdy. She has been in Castle Csejthe for nearly twenty years, and while the count himself ran about the countryside battling the Turks, his wife had free rein in his absence. It is said that she . . . grew bored with the everyday tasks of raising her family and running the royal household.”

  “Bored?”

  Rendor nodded tiredly. “She was a beautiful but obstinate young woman, proclaimed in her youth to be nearly uncontrollable.” Ildikó’s Watcher glanced at her and smiled faintly before gazing again at the liquid in his cup. “Now she has grown in power and will not tolerate disobedience. No matter what her orders.”

  Ildikó tilted her head to one side. “And what things does our lovely countess demand?”

  Rendor rubbed his forehead and Ildikó was again struck by the way his age seemed to hamper him tonight. This Countess—was she truly so much to be feared? “Some say she drinks the blood of virgins,” he said softly.

  “What!”

  He cut off her surprise. “Others claim she only bathes in it, that she is not truly vampyr.”

  “Sweet Lord,” Ildikó breathed. “But why? A vampire would be bad enough, but if she is not . . . for a human to do such things to her own kind is unspeakable!”

  “It is,” Rendor agreed. “And while the number of her suspected victims makes her crimes the more monstrous, no one can prove her wrongdoings.”

  Ildikó gripped the sides of the small plank table between her and Rendor. “How many?”

  “Some say . . . several hundred.”

  It was all she could do not to throw the table aside and shake her Watcher. Splinters from the rough wood dug deep into her palms as she fought to control her temper. “Why have you waited so long to tell me of this?” she demanded. “How many more were you willing to sacrifice, and for what?”

  “I am not willing to sacrifice anyone,” Rendor shot back. “Least of all you, Ildikó.” He paused for a moment, then inhaled deeply. “To be truthful, for some time I have sought to prepare you for exactly this—to face die Blutgrafin. But I do not feel that you are ready. Tonight was evidence of that.”

  Ildikó inhaled, willing herself to calm down even as her face flushed with embarrassment. “I am sorry you are disappointed in me. But though that one skill may be lacking, it is only a small thing—I can do much else. Why do you not acknowledge that, Rendor? I am strong, capable—”

  “Because you cannot simply go rushing into Castle Csejthe,” her Watcher said sharply. “It is a huge place, filled with people, darkness, and more importantly, the unknown. You seem apt to dismiss it, but that ‘small thing’ could be the very sense that saves your life! Ildikó, this is far beyond the blood beasts you have battled in the forest, or even the nest of vampyr you discovered in the cave at Skole. If the countess is to be your next adversary, your past foes will seem like insects by comparison, easily crushed and hardly consequential. This is no mere human with whom you must deal, nor is it a feral beast of blood with little to consider beyond its hunger. The countess is no doubt the worst of both the light and dark worlds, a human with a soul who walks in the day, but who possesses the black heart of a devil.”

  Ildikó lowered her gaze. “It is hard to believe such a person exists,” she said in a quiet voice. “To slaughter so and be without conscience—perhaps she is in league with a vampire, or under the spell of a demon. Because to be so evil and still function beneath the eye of God in the sunlight . . .” She shook her head, then her chin lifted. “Be that as it may, she is still just a woman. I will—”

  “You will what?” Rendor interrupted. “You forget that this ‘woman’ carries the benefits of royal blood and family. She conducts herself with impunity from within a closely guarded castle. She has relatives and servants and soldiers, likely hundreds more than you or I have seen, who inhabit that abominable fortress she claims as her home.” Her Watcher brought his tea down on the tabletop so hard that the now-cooled liquid splashed out of his mug and made a sloppy wet circle on the wood. Rendor pointed at it. “She is like this cup,” he told her. “The ruler of a small country surrounded by servants and a constant entourage. If you think you can simply announce yourself and request an audience, you are sorely mistaken.” He ran one hand across his forehead. “No, we should wait until your skills are more fully developed, until you can feel the night beast that might surprise you from the shadows. Six months is far too soon for you to face an adversary such as this.”

  “We cannot wait any longer, Rendor. Perhaps we have even waited too long already. You know that—every week that passes marks the death of more innocents. If the countess is a night beast, it is my duty to destroy her, the very reason I exist as a Slayer; if she is a monster in woman form, then her crimes must be exposed to the king in the courts of Hungary so that he can punish her as he sees fit.” Frustration made her hands ball into fists. “But how?”

  Rendor pressed his lips together. “Those we saw tonight were no doubt several of her personal serving maids,” he said. His mouth twisted downward. “Tonight they buried perhaps another half dozen unfortunate victims. I have heard that there are many more of these sad, hidden graves.”

  “What is she doing to them?” Ildikó asked suddenly. “You never said.”

  For a long while Ildikó thought he wasn’t going to answer. “It is rumored that at first the countess only beat her charges,” he finally replied. He pulled the collar of his coarse shirt closer about his neck, as if just to speak the words chilled him more than the November night. “Her temper ran high and quick, and quite often. As the years of her reign increased, the villagers whispered of torture and depraved acts of the flesh, and the pastors talked of young girls who perished from ‘strange maladies’ while under the attentions of the countess. But upon her husband’s death in 1604, die Blutgrafin began to overshadow even her own evil. Now she believes she can retain her youth and beauty for the remainder of her life by draining and bathing in, and perhaps drinking, the blood of young virgins.”

  Ildikó’s eyes widened. “Then she is a vampire!”

  But Rendor shook his head. “That is not confirmed. Her servants—the ones who survive—are relentlessly loyal.”

  Ildikó stood and began to pace the tiny, one-room house. At one end was Rendor’s small bed, at the other her pallet on the floor, and she covered the distance in only a few strides. “Then I will have to get into the castle,” she decided. “The countess is always sending ladies-in-waiting to secure new servants. I’ve paid little mind to such matters in the past, but I will make it a point to be among the next group selected to serve.”

  Her repeated pacing took her past the table, and Rendor reached for her with surprising swiftness. His fingers locked around her wrist and his touch was dry and papery, stronger than she’d expected. “Listen well, Ildikó. You must use great care in this matter, perhaps even reconsider. I cannot be of assistance to you should you gain entrance to Castle Csejthe—I have had no time to prepare, no time to find and make ties with those within who might come to your aid should you need it. Hear me well when I say again that I do not believe you are ready for such a battle as this. I know not if this evil woman has turned to true vampire, but in the eyes of those of royal blood, my influence is as that of a gnat on the hide of a great beast—not even noticed. Once
the doors close behind you, there is nothing I can do, and no one to whom I can turn if you need help.”

  Her first impulse was to shrug away his concerns, but Ildikó made herself stop and think about his words. Perhaps it was because she was finally gaining a measure of maturity, or an appreciation for Rendor’s wisdom, that she realized what he said was true, frighteningly so. All her life she had been an outcast among her peers because of her lack of interest in or skills with the feminine arts. Asking her to turn a tapestry thread or prepare a boar for roasting was the same as demanding she construct a stone dwelling of her own—she had as little knowledge of the first two as she did of the last.

  Three years ago she’d been a wild runaway from her parents’ gypsy camp and Kurt Rendor had saved her life, taking her in and giving her shelter on just such a night as this. When her calling as Ildikó the Vampire Slayer had come six months ago, her life had changed again, even more drastically than before. Under the guise that she was the granddaughter of Kurt Rendor’s deceased cousin, she’d gone from a nomadic child to the charge of a respected village elder; from there she’d ultimately been told that the safety of those within her small world, literally whether or not many would see the next dawn, rested on her young shoulders.

  She’d never had much in this world, but what she did have she’d gotten these last three years. Inside the castle she would be more isolated than she had ever been, cut off not only from the outside world but also from her savior, the only person in the world who likely cared if she lived or died.

  Still, in her heart Ildikó knew she had no choice. Because if she did not stop die Blutgrafin . . .

  How many more unsuspecting girls would perish?

  * * *

  “From now on you will accompany me to the market each morning,” her Watcher told her when they rose at the next dawn. “It is well known that the countess sends her ladies-in-waiting not only to supervise the purchases of the housekeeping staff, but also to peruse the maidens for suitable additions to her entourage.”

  “Shopping? With . . . money?” Ildikó looked at Rendor doubtfully. Surely he hadn’t forgotten how poorly she had fared with his repeated attempts to teach her reading, writing, and addition. “My numbers aren’t very good.”

  “Yes, shopping with money.” He tapped the small money bag hanging on his belt, but his expression softened. “Don’t worry—I’ll be there to do that part. You just take care of positioning yourself properly when the time comes. And you must remember—absolutely no behavior unbecoming a maiden. This means no arguing with the other girls, or being disagreeable with anyone.” He sounded frustrated already. “I do so wish we had more time to ready you—the spring would be better.”

  Ildikó scowled and shook her head in answer to his hint. She disliked the learning part as much as he, but she knew it was necessary—the countess’s women were unlikely to choose her if she seemed unladylike or ill-tempered. She would not voice her doubts to her Watcher, but it might already be overly hopeful for her and Rendor to believe this plan would gain her access; unfortunately, it was the only plan either had been able to devise.

  “And you must clean up a bit.” Rendor’s semi-irritated tone pulled her thoughts back to the present. “Bathe yourself, and keep your face and hands clean at all times. Pay particular attention to the fingernails. And you must wash the dirt from your garments regularly.”

  Bathing? Washing? Wastes of valuable time, but again Ildikó kept her silence, recalling the differences between her and the other girls of the village. Some of those contrasts could not be changed—her hair, for instance. The battle to destroy the nest of night beasts at Skole had been intense and brutal, her injuries extensive. It had taken Ildikó several weeks to recover, sequestered in their small home while the cuts mended and the bruises faded. The scars were easy to hide once she was well again, but Rendor had been forced to cut her hair to a boyish length, even with her chin, to eliminate the ragged chunks that had been torn out by the vanquished vampires. Once long and luxurious thanks to her gypsy heritage, her short, shiny locks would now be much more fitting on a man. Ildikó actually preferred her hair cut this way—it was easier to care for, and appearances weren’t something with which she was often concerned.

  Rendor pushed the frame of his bed aside with one knee, then reached into the space between it and the wall. When he straightened, he held a small, well-filled money bag that Ildikó had never seen before. “Today at market we will purchase another dress for you,” her Watcher announced. “This way you will always have a clean garment to wear.”

  Ildikó frowned. “Surely the money would be better spent on food,” she said.

  Rendor lifted one eyebrow. “Sacrifices must sometimes be made in order to achieve a goal,” he told her. “If we are to have a chance of getting you inside Csejthe Castle, you must be properly attired.”

  Ildikó pressed her lips together, then nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Come on then,” he said. “It’s time for us to start the process of turning you into one of the countess’s serving girls.”

  * * *

  The day was no less cold for the sun that was shining down on the village, the breezes swirling down the mountainsides no less sharp. Huddled into capes and scarves, shivering despite the deceptive brightness, people hurried about their business and spent as little time as possible in the bitter outside air. Ildikó could not have put into words how much she despised these simple, everyday tasks, nor could she have said specifically why. Perhaps she was more suited to the life she had fled, that of a wanderer with her family’s gypsy camp along the borders of Hungary and Romania. Wild and free—at least to the extent that a woman was allowed to be such—she and her family had traveled with a dozen other families and lived out of their wagon.

  But no, that life had not fit well with Ildikó. She had wanted something more, something . . . illusive and unnameable. Never would she have imagined the contentment she had found in Rendor’s simple household, the evenings of sitting before the fire, sometimes talking and sometimes not. The lessons he tried to impress upon her were frustrating but not so much that she had ever considered abandoning the effort, and when he had told her one beautiful spring morning that she was the newly called Vampire Slayer, Ildikó had finally understood in her soul what the word destiny meant. She was fated to find Rendor and this small village and, perhaps, fated to face the dreaded Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

  “This would suit your niece well, would it not?”

  Their first stop was in a small fabric shop, and the owner, an older woman of nearly fifty years, held up a dress invitingly. Ildikó cringed when she saw the feminine cut—a gathered bodice above a high-cut waist—but at least the material seemed sturdy, and the dyed dark blue skirt would hide stains. She didn’t have the buxom build that adorned the frames of most of the other girls in the village, and if nothing else, the style of this dress might conceal that shortcoming.

  “Hold it against yourself,” Rendor instructed. Ildikó did so, feeling self-conscious as her Watcher and the shop woman eyed her up and down. “Yes,” he said. “I believe it will. How much?”

  The woman named a price that made Ildikó wince, but Rendor countered with a lower offer. The two haggled for a while and finally agreed on an amount that Ildikó still believed was robbery. Be that as it may, her Watcher paid it and waited as the shop woman bundled up the dress and tied it with a bit of string.

  Outside the bright sunshine had disappeared, blocked by a building cloud cover. They fought the biting wind and turned gratefully into a slightly larger shop in the village square. Ildikó wasn’t sure what they were after, since they had plenty of root vegetables at home, as well as bread and cheese. Then she realized that Rendor wanted more than simple foodstuffs—he wanted to expose her to the other villagers and find out what was going on in the area. She hung back and listened to him chat with others from the village, waiting as they shopped and browsed and talked about things she basical
ly considered worthless. What did it matter in her world if Magdolna was now betrothed to József, or if Alisz and Hajnal had just reached their fifteenth years and their seamstressing skills were remarkable?

  Her impatience was running high when she felt Rendor grip her arm and pull her to his side as he spoke with an elder named Barna from the village. The well-dressed man was nearly as ancient as her Watcher, although clearly not as well preserved—his teeth were crooked and blackened, his skin creased with the ravages of age below a crown devoid of all but a wisp or two of gray hair.

  “Oh, yes,” Barna was saying. He turned to Ildikó and gave her a smile that made her shudder inside. “My two youngest daughters were in the market square and caught the attention of the countess’s ladies-in-waiting the last time they visited the village.” He nodded vigorously. “They’ve been at the castle for nearly two months now, so busy with their new duties they’ve not had time to even send us word. But we’ve been well paid for their services.”

  Two months without word—does not Barna think that strange? Has he not noticed the aura of fear that must surround talk of the countess and her entourage? Ildikó barely stopped herself from frowning; obviously his concern was more for the sums funneled into his money bag by the royal family. God help this man’s children, but she had a terrible feeling that they might have been among the nameless girls buried in the various graves outside the castle walls.

  Barna leaned in close to Rendor and lowered his voice, as if what he was about to say were some great secret. “It is said in the village that they will return the day after tomorrow,” he said confidentially. “If your goal is to have your niece selected for service, you would do well to clean the girl up a bit and have her at the seamstress shop at midday two days hence.” Barna’s gaze flicked around. “Should she be chosen, they will pay you—” He finished the sentence with a whisper in Rendor’s ear.

  Rendor nodded, and Ildikó was gratified to see that his expression didn’t change—the coins meant little to him. “We’ll consider it,” he said, then added, “thank you for the information.”