*****
When he next awoke, Damiano was in a room, his head bandaged and feeling like a swarm of bees were attacking it. One on the countess’ retainers was there and motioned to the soldier to remain lying down. He left and the great lady returned.
“Oh, Captain!”
“Corporal,” he grunted as he tried to correct her.
“Well, no doubt you will be promoted to captain when your commander finds out how brave you were.” She sat down across from him, smoothing out her dress, and then motioning to the servant to pour some wine.
“What happened… Where are we?”
“About the time you gallantly defended me, soldiers rode out of Starybogow to assist us. They succeeded in chasing the brutes away and saving the day. Unfortunately, not in time to save many of your compatriots.”
Damiano could not maintain focus after this, drifting in and out of consciousness, wracked by nightmares and dreams. There was strange music and chanting; sometimes there were shrieks. The soldier would wake up in a cold sweat, but he was too dizzy or nauseated to stand. Every time the retainer would be there, stoic and unsmiling, and summon the countess who would give him something and he would drift off again.
Finally, he had a dream of a wood spirit, what the Venetians would describe as an elf – smaller than a person, with long ears and covered in a bark tunic, chanting to him, beckoning him to follow it. He stumbled along like a drunk man through the corridors following the creature, but never catching him; at the same time unsure why. There was torchlight throwing shadows that showed monstrous figures. He hid in the dark patches, sweating and always feeing like he would pass out, walking with caution as the sprite tried to keep him safe. The creatures, obviously from a nightmare, did not see them, and he was glad as he would almost scream with horror. The creatures scampered around like spiders, clinging to the walls, waiting until they were beckoned by the ‘countess’. She was standing in the middle of the ceremony, but not like she was before. The clothes were still expensive material, but she had translucent skin, pulled taunt on her frame and thinned hair. Her mouth was full of blood with long canine fangs projecting from her mouth. She was chanting in an archaic tongue with more and more fever.
Still, it was like a gauze curtain was over his eyes. Finally, he found stone stairs, stumbling, crawling, but moving toward light, he found himself by what must have been an old wharf section along the banks of a river. It looked like the quake that hit Starybogow had shifted the waterway away from the old wharfs, forcing the merchants that remained to build makeshift extensions to the new river edge.
As he reached the open air, Damiano gasped for breath as if the air below ground was foul. He collapsed, trying to rise again, he fell into the muddy clay shore. He had no idea how long he was captive, where his comrades were, but he was free again.
*****
When he woke up, he tried to focus. He wasn’t sure where he was; nothing looked familiar as his vision began to focus. It looked like a strange hut, but how he had gotten here, the details were very fuzzy. That is when he noticed he was not alone. An old man with a grizzled look stared at him, concerned. He mumbled something unintelligible, crossed himself three times, and spit over his shoulder.
After trying several different languages, they settled on speaking in German.
“What happened to you, son?” the man asked. Damiano told the man his tale, giving the last of the halting bits of information he could remember.
“You are lucky to be alive my friend. My name is,” the man hesitated, his brows wrinkling before relaxing. “… I am the gatekeeper of Starybogow, such as it is now. Even the Tartar attacks never damaged it like this. I was out combing the old river bank for treasure – they say if you look you can find things that have fallen off old ships – when I found you.” He sighed and shuffled to a table, then back with a wooden cup, handing it to the soldier.
“Mead,” he motioned to the cup with a nod. “It’s good for you. Help you clear your head. Better than water if you know what I mean.” He reached for a chair and pulled it close to the bed, scrapping along the floor. “There are many things in this area that might seem strange to a worldly man such as yourself but that are quite normal here. The inn you described sounds like Baba Yaga’s house. I doubt there is another like it. It has legs that rise and moves it at night to a new location. Baba Yaga is neither bad nor good, but straddles the line between both realms. It is no problem. But, there were horrors in the area, not just the Tartars and bandits. Other things. They used to only be outside the town, now they are in here as well. There are spirits, both good and bad. You have survived one such adventure with your life. Be happy.”
“But what of the countess?” Damiano let the last syllable linger like steam escaping, looking far away, past the old man.
The man shrank back in fear, shaking his head. “If the countess is the reason for your sorry state, then I fear for you more. The countess has been dead for over ten years.”
Damiano felt his jaw slacken as he stared at the old man in disbelief.
“The countess and her family first came with the original Teutonic crusade. They annihilated the Prussians and Slavs and brought in German settlers. They destroyed the old Slavic groves, threw the totems in the rivers or burned them. What Prussians still remained lived in the swamps and marsh areas. Occasionally, one would be captured worshipping to their dark gods and delivered to the warrior-brothers.” At this he stopped and looked around, almost seeming like he was making sure they were still alone.
“She was present when one old priest was brought before the brethren council. It has been told he promised to cure her of something she had caught from one of the crusaders. Eventually she and others in her family were rumored to be vampyr in league with the Prussians – it was truly an unholy alliance. Around the time of the thirteen years war, Duke Witold took the town and discovered all sorts of foul practices they tried to use to protect themselves. He sacked the town and put them to the sword. About forty years ago, a woman claiming she was the new countess reclaimed the ancestral lands – she supposedly strongly resembled the young lady who held the title before her. That countess died ten years ago, though no one ever saw the body; she supposedly never aged as people normally do. The current countess reclaimed the properties a year after. They all resemble each other so no one ever questioned it.
“If it was the countess you were traveling with, then it is a vile pack of monsters with some foul purpose in those tunnels. If your friends were with you, they are probably no more. If she has you in her sights, you had best run my friend. Seek shelter in some holy place, because there will be no rest for you here.
“Those of us who have grown up here know that this land hides many layers of faith. On top is the Catholic faith, but beneath the surface, lay the old Slavic gods. Below them however, are the dark, Eldar Gods, gods of destruction and they still linger. We live here. We always have and we always will. We live with this cycle. You however are from outside and very few outsiders last here. It is best for you to go. Stay till you are well, but go.”
Damiano just stared back at him “No. No, I shall seek revenge for my comrades. I can’t go back to Venice after this and there is no future under these circumstances. For all purposes I am dead. Tell me about this area; as a favor. Tell me. All I want is revenge.”
The old man smiled knowingly, shaking his head in the affirmative. He would use this man against the countess and her kind. For the benefit of all life.
The Cross of Saint Boniface
Robert E Waters
Knight, Death, and the Devil
by Albrecht Durer, 1513
The olive-skinned man in the center of the fighting pit moved like a dervish. He fought Florentine, a Turkish kilij sword in one hand, a Kurdish khanjar dagger in the other. The man facing him was a brutish oaf, big in the chest with thick, black Armenian hair covering his lacerated skin. He hacked and hammered his way forward, trying to catch the more nimble fighter
by surprise, but Lux von Junker could see the exhaustion in the man’s eyes, hear the man gasping for air even from his comfortable view from the slavers’ loft. The quicker man stepped aside, paused in mid-motion while the bigger fighter lost his balance. Then he struck, sliding his dagger across the nape of the man’s pale broad neck with one clean stroke. The blade cut straight to the bone. The brute was dead before he hit the bloody cobbles of the fighting pit.
The crowd roared.
Lux could hardly hear himself think, let alone speak. He pointed at the victorious fighter, shouted, “Him! That’s the one I want!”
“Not for sale,” Stas Boyko said with a grunt.
“It’s not a request, Stas,” Lux said, turning to eye the old man. “You agreed to allow me my choice. I’ve made it. He’s the one.”
“I’ve changed my mind. He’s far too valuable to free.”
Lux pulled a jeweled dagger from beneath his brown robe and placed it on the table between them. “More valuable than this?” Then he reached into a loose sleeve and untied a leather bag dangling from his forearm. “Or this?”
The slaver, his eyes large with surprise, moved cautiously to the items. He ran his dry fingers over the rubies in the dagger’s handle and along the blade’s gold-inlaid blood groove. Then he hefted the bag, letting the enclosed gold coins click together like Spanish castanets. He smiled, forgetting himself for a moment, then grew serious again.
It was all part of a slaver’s game. And Lux knew how to play that game.
“What do you want with a washed-up Tartar soldier?”
“He’s a soldier?”
Stas nodded. “Was. . . or so he claims. Though he practically threw himself at me when we found him drunk, destitute, and half dead near the Pregola. He’s unstable, erratic. He’s got dangerous history I’m sure.”
Who doesn’t? Lux turned toward the pit again and watched as the fight masters opened the gate and another poor sap lurched forward to meet his executioner.
“Regardless. I want him.”
“He’s Muslim, too, though I’m not sure how devout.”
That paused Lux for a moment, and he considered. What would Duke Frederick say about him using a heretic on such a sensitive mission for God? Nothing, most likely, as the Duke was hundreds of miles away in Saxony, and he would never know of this man if all went according to plan. In fact, no one could know why Lux von Junker was here, in Rostenbork heading for Starybogow.
Stas Boyko huffed as if he were about to say something funny. “Judging by who you are, who you represent, I would think a Muslim in your company would bring unwarranted attention to—”
Lux brought his fist down onto the table, knocking the dagger to the floor and tossing the coins from the bag. Stas jumped, but Lux reached out fast and grabbed the slaver’s silk shirt and pulled him close. “The dagger and coins are not just for that man’s freedom, Stas. They’re for your silence as well. You will not speak of who I am, or what I represent, or speculate among your slaver friends as to why you think I’ve returned. For if I find out that people are aware that I’m here, I will blame you. And then I will use that man’s dagger to gut you from balls to brains.” He let go of Stas’s shirt. “Now. . . I will ask you once more: do we have a deal?”
The slaver fixed himself, cleared his throat, adjusted his neck, and tried to keep his anger and fear in check. “Very well. Take him.”
Lux smiled and nodded politely. “May God show you mercy.”
Lux turned again to the pit and watched as the fast man easily finished off his next opponent with a swift undercut of legs and a sharp jab of steel through the liver.
Lux nodded. The duke – and even God – might disapprove of his choice of partner on this mission. But the cursed city of Starybogow looming so large down the long road that he yet had to travel, required the best, most savage fighters to survive. Lux allowed himself the small vanity that he was one of those fighters. The man in the pit, holding his bloody weapons aloft to the enraptured glee of the crowd, had already proven that he was one of them as well.
“One more thing,” Lux said. “What’s his name?”
*****
Fymurip Azat sat shackled in the back of his new master’s wagon. It was an uncomfortable ride. It was bumpy, and the dry, cracked planks creaked back and forth as the weak, aged team stammered through the uneven ruts of the path. They were heading east; that much he could tell. And along the narrow bank of the Pregola River as well; he could smell its deep muddy flow. Where were they going? To Swinka, perhaps? Or maybe Kukle, where he had fought in another pit to the satisfaction of a blood-thirsty crowd just a few months ago. What did it matter, really? When he got there, he’d be required to kill again, and again and again, until his master’s coffers swelled with coin. And perhaps this master would be generous enough to throw him a few as appreciation for a job well done. Fymurip huffed at that notion. White masters were never so generous.
He took a deep breath and laid his head back against the side of the wagon. Amidst the faint light leaking through the tears in the canvas cover, he studied the crates and the few barrels packed around him. There were even a few bags of barley; for the horses no doubt, and sizable too, which meant that the man had travelled far. But there was no distinct smells in the air beyond the barley, no indication that there was anything in the crates or barrels of any merit or substance. He pushed a barrel with his sandaled foot; it moved easily. There was nothing in them. Travelling with empty containers, and east as well, where mercantile activities were scant at best. Fymurip screwed up his brow. Things weren’t making sense. Who is this man, and why is he travelling with empty boxes?
The wagon stopped, and the driver stepped off. Fymurip waited quietly as his master walked toward the back. The man opened the flaps, motioned with his left hand, and said in broken Turkish, “Come. Come on out.”
He hesitated at first, his eyes adjusting to the sharp light of the setting sun. Then he crawled to the end of the wagon, letting the chains of his manacles drag along the slats.
“Please, step out.”
He did as instructed, though the flay marks on his back from his last beating were growing stiff with scar tissue. He stretched his taut skin as he emerged, then straightened himself as best he could to stare into his new master’s eyes. A sign of defiance; some might say, disobedience. But he was tired of looking away.
They were big, brown eyes, inset in a long, gaunt face, covered with a thin beard of graying hair. He was older than Fymurip, that was clear, perhaps twenty years or more, but the thick, loose dark robe that covered his tall frame seemed small, draped gently across his broad shoulders. He was wider than he had seemed at first; not fat, really, but big-boned, his hands larger than Fymurip’s but with fingers longer, narrower, pointy like brush needles. His nose was long and thin, and he stared at Fymurip with a wry smile on pale lips.
He pointed to a rock at their feet. “Lay your chains over rock.”
Fymurip hesitated again, then knelt and pulled his chains tight until the links were taut and straight.
Before he could look up into his master’s face, the big man drew a sword and cut the chain in half.
Fymurip fell backward, his arms splayed out fully to his sides. He lay there like an image of Christ Jesus on the cross, spreading his fingers out, then making a fist, then back again. The only time in the past three years that he had ever felt this free was in the pits, killing. And now here he was, lying in the muck and mud, before a giant of a man whom he thought owned him.
“I apologize that I remove your shackles cannot,” the man said. “That horrid man of an excuse Boyko refused to give me key. But we’ll find a way to cut them up.”
Fymurip stood slowly, uncertain that he had heard the man’s words correctly, his Turkish imprecise. Fymurip replied in more correct German. “You are letting me go?”
“Ah, you speak my language.” The man smiled and chuckled. “And far better than I speak Turkish. Very well, then, German it i
s.” The man reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out Fymurip’s sword and dagger, cleaned and wrapped in leather. He unwrapped them and held them in the light a moment, admiring the bright glint off their newly sharpened edges, then held them out as if offering them as gifts. “Take them. They’re yours. And yes, I’m letting you go. From this day forward, you are a free man, unless through careless judgment you should find your way back into Boyko’s grubby hands. You may go by God’s grace. But I would like to offer you an alternative path, if I may.”
He offered his hand. Fymurip neither moved nor took it. The man cleared his throat, then put his hand down. “My name is Lux von Junker. I’ve come a long way on an important mission, and I would like you to help me complete it. Your skills as a fighter are most impressive, and I daresay that a man who can survive Stas Boyko’s pits for more than three years can survive anything.”
Almost anything. “Where are we going?”
Lux pointed through a tree line on the east side of the path. “Through those woods, to Starybogow.”
The very word made Fymurip shudder. “It’s a cursed place.”
Lux nodded. “Yes, and more dangerous than any other place in the world. Or so they say, though again, I’m sure a man of your talents can survive it.”
“What is your purpose there?”
“Treasure. Or, rather, one particular kind of treasure. A goblet, in fact. One that used to belong to my grandfather. He acquired it through distant relatives whose ancestors shared in Marco Polo’s journey to Cathay. I never lived in the Town of the Old Gods myself, you understand, but my father would speak of it often, so much so that I can describe every jewel, every line of gold along its foot, stem, bowl, and rim. It’s a priceless family heirloom. . . and I want it back.”
“And you believe it has remained in Starybogow?”
Lux nodded. “When the city was ravaged by earthquakes, my father and his sister and little brother escaped. My grandfather, an old stubborn goat, refused to abandon his home. My father spoke of a tableau where he waved goodbye through gathering grey smoke as his father clutched the goblet to his breast while being consumed by the crumbling spires of St. Adalbert’s Cathedral. If so, then my grandfather is buried there, his white boney hands still clutching the goblet in prayer. I want it back.”
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 4
