“Gunter refuses your council of safety?”
Fymurip nodded. “He wishes to go out in a blaze of glory.”
“Then he shall, praise God. Is he in place? And what about his guard?”
“They are ready, and waiting for whatever will come.”
Lux turned and placed his hands on Fymurip’s shoulders. “Then let it come.”
An hour later, it came.
An entire Hanseatic army, or so it seemed to Lux. Scores of men, dressed in dark red-and-black cloaks, pouring out of the fog of Igor Square, moving in mob form – though in unison – toward the escarpment of The Citadel. From his perch on the battlements, it was difficult to know what weapons they carried, but he figured the usual swords and bows were present. Perhaps some even had crossbows, but that was unlikely. Lux looked again down the line. Every twenty feet stood a Romani with a bow, an arrow notched, waiting. Fymurip anchored the end of the line, near the door where the spiral staircase lay.
Lux raised his arm, letting the small red rag in his hand wave in the wind. He waited, waited, until the first line of men reached the wall. Down his arm came, and the Romani pulled their bowstrings back, and let their first volley loose.
Several Hanseatics fell at the base of the wall. The moving mass paused, took shelter in the rubble, returned fire, but their shafts missed the wall or ricocheted harmlessly away. Another volley followed, continuing to pin the Romani but causing no damage. Lux knew that wouldn’t last for long. Seeing the ocean of men hanging behind their bowmen skirmish line, it wouldn’t be long before men were climbing the escarpment, and there was no value in wasting so many shots at such long distance.
But Lux gave them the sign to fire again, and again, and again, until their supply of arrows ran low. Many men were falling dead to the ground below them, but not enough.
“Halt!” he said finally, “And draw swords!”
They would come now, for Gunter and his Romani did not have enough power or resources to stage a fortified defense.
Within the hour, the Hanseatic League set grapples, and sticks of ten, twelve men worked their way up the escarpment and The Citadel wall. They were supported by bow fire, which was just frequent enough to keep the Romani hiding. On occasion, Lux would order counter fire, but it did little to stem the rising tide. A Romani even cut one of the grapples, and they watched as the line of men fell screaming into the rocks below. But they couldn’t cut them all, and soon the battlements of The Citadel were swarming with Hanseatic goons.
Lux tossed aside his crossbow and drew his sword. He swung it against the hasty defense of a man who had just scaled the wall, and sliced through his face with one mighty stroke. He pushed the man over the wall, hitting other men trying to reach the top, sending them falling as well. Then three came at him, swinging maces and what looked like a paddle with iron spikes. Lux let a mace graze his arm in order to find security against a block of stone. He hesitated a second, then thrust his Grunwald into the chest of another man. The blade cut clean through the ribs, getting caught as it exited the back. Lux pulled desperately on the blade as he fended off man two with his arm. The man hammered at Lux with his nail paddle. Lux ducked, placed his boot on the stuck man’s chest, and finally kicked him off. He swung up with his free blade and cleaved the paddle man’s throat in two. The final threat was taken down by Romani blades.
At least a dozen Hanseatics were racing toward a small clump of men in the center of the complex. Gunter Sankt stood in the middle of that clump, short sword raised in defense. Lux jumped down the battlement and raced to the old cleric’s aide.
They met in the center with a crash of steel, bone, and flesh. This group of invaders was tough, skilled fighting men, clearly mercenary types employed by the League for nefarious purposes. Lux knew immediately that Gunter had not been kidding. The Hanseatic League was in it to win, to bring them all to heel and steal the cross for themselves. Clearly these men knew that Gunter was their target, but of course he no longer held the cross.
Gunter was strong, though. He tore into his assailants as if it were his last battle. And of course it might very well be. The man seemed content with that knowledge, letting his now frail body move once more like it most assuredly had when he was young and full of hope and purpose. Lux took down another with a clean hack to the shoulder, pushed the corpse aside before it hit the ground, and then stood back to back with Gunter as the attack continued.
“Do you miss it?” Lux asked.
“Miss what?”
“Being in the field. Marching under the banners of God.”
Lux could not see the old man shake his head, but he imagined it. “Never. I was never good with a blade.”
“Don’t take me for a fool,” Lux said, ducking one sword swipe and fending off another in parry. “I know skill when I see it.”
The old man grunted but said nothing. He swung his sword, and Lux responded in kind by protecting their left flank. On and on it went, until Lux could see that the fight was all but gone from Gunter. The Romani who had protected their charge were dropping one by one. Gaps in the defense became pronounced, and Lux tried plugging the holes as best he could, turning and twisting and carving up assailants as if they were warm bread.
Fymurip screamed. Lux reflexively took a step toward the shout, then paused.
“What are you waiting for?” Gunter asked.
“I—I can’t leave you here. Not alone.”
“I am not alone.”
It was true. From behind them, through the shadows of the ruined keep, the blud spirit, Kebrawlnik, reached out like azure fog and enclosed the attacking Hanseatics. The spirit twisted around them like a funnel cloud, working its way through their clothing. All but one hesitated, lowered their weapons, seemingly confused. One even bent over and vomited into the weeds. Gunter Sankt reached down and grabbed up a spear in his free hand. He moved through the confused, lethargic attackers, painting mad throats with crimson stroke after stroke. “Go,” he shouted. “Go and help your friend.”
Lux nodded and pushed his way through the remaining attackers.
Halfway to where Fymurip stood, Lux could see the reason for the Tartar’s scream.
*****
Fymurip held the gaze of the vucari. It had bounded up the winding stone staircase, killing Hanseatics as it came, tearing them to shreds in fact, and painting the walls with red gore.
“I could smell your blood for miles,” Vasile Lupu hissed, licking his wet fangs with sharp tongue.
Lux’s trap had worked. Fymurip really had no doubt that it would, assuming that the vucari was somewhere in Starybogow waiting. But now it was here, and in the light of early day, the beast seemed larger, taller, and more muscular as its violent breathing puffed its rippled chest.
“I give you one opportunity, Vasile Lupu, to abandon your lust for my death,” Fymurip said, gripping his dripping dagger and sword. “This is not a fair fight. Go, and be gone forever.”
The Hanseatics turned their attention to the vucari. Since it had killed everything up the staircase, they naturally assumed the beast was working for Gunter Sankt. What fools they were, caught up in the bloodlust themselves, not realizing why the wolf man was here. Fymurip did not divest them of that belief. He stood back and let them tear into one another, but the vucari gave as good as it got. Better even, for its oversized paws hammered and scraped and clawed through the mounds of Hanseatic flesh that stepped in its way. And though it received multiple cuts, and now bled from those cuts, Fymurip knew that no amount of damage to its corrupted, evil flesh could put it down.
He screamed, like Lux had instructed, then dove into the fight.
Fymurip slashed and hacked and ducked and dove through the vucari’s huge arms. Now, he was on its back, stabbing down with the khanjar, hoping to slow the beast enough to keep it occupied. It could not die of wounds from normal blades, Fymurip knew, but it could weaken, tire. Just enough for. . .
He erred and failed to duck. The vucari’s paw struck
him in the chest and drove him against the wall. Fymurip dropped his sword, but held firm the dagger which now he used to deflect another paw strike. He could barely breathe, the pain in his back strong as he tried to recover. But the beast was on him again, punching and kicking. Some blows found skin and bone; others were deflected, but over and over the vucari attacked, keeping his focus on Fymurip while fending off Hanseatic men who kept trying to bring their feeble weapons to bear. The chaos of the moment was overwhelming, and Fymurip drifted back and forth between understanding what was happening around him, and feeling the mist of confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blue tint of the blud spirit whisk its way through ranks of attackers, but where was Lux? Was he dead? The blood trickling down his face obscured his vision. Is that him? No, there he is. . .
Fymurip felt the vucari’s claws wrap around his throat. “I’ll give you one last chance,” he managed to squeal through the pain. “Leave, now, or face certain death.”
Vasile Lupu snarled a laugh through his fangs. “I don’t think so, Azat. I have waited a long, long time for this, and now I will have my vengeance.”
Though he was nothing more than a blur, Lux charged forward through the press of Hanseatic men, and shouted, “By the grace of God!”
Fymurip raised his hand and caught the silver cross that Lux had thrown to him. It felt slick and cold in his hand, but firm and solid. He wrapped his weakening fingers around the crossbar, raised it above his head, then brought it down forcefully into the vucari’s eye.
Only a tiny spurt of blood followed the thrust, as Vasile Lupu dropped Fymurip and fell back, clutching his wounded face, trying desperately to pull the cross from his eye; it would not budge. Then light glowed from inside the silver, a clean, white blinding light as the vucari fell and howled in agony. Fymurip shuffled backward, but kept his eyes on the tortured wolf man.
The glow now was blinding, and Fymurip raised his hands to cover his eyes. Then he heard a wet pop. He forced his eyes open and saw that the vucari was no longer fighting, that his face had grown twice its size, and then burst open at the sheer power of the silver glow. It was the most terrifying thing Fymurip had ever seen, and for a brief moment, he felt sorry for the beast.
The vucari’s thick claws and hide faded away, absorbed by the wan light of the cross. His snout – what was left of it – changed too, reforming into a man’s shattered face. A moment later, its entire body had reshaped itself to a naked man.
The light of the cross slowly dissipated, and then disappeared.
Everything was silent. The Hanseatic invaders were gone. The battle was over.
“Cutting it close, weren’t you?” Fymurip said as Lux offered his hand. He took it and stood on weak legs, wincing at the pain shooting through his back.
“Sorry. I was otherwise detained,” Lux said, putting his hand on Fymurip’s shoulder. “But you look no worse for wear.”
Fymurip tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. “Say that to my ribs.”
They walked over to Vasile Lupu and stared down at his taut, emaciated human form. The wolf curse had ravaged the man, and now he was nothing more than a bleak corpse. “Devilish,” Fymurip said, as he stepped aside to let Lux bend at the knee to retrieve the cross that now lay harmlessly at the corpse’s side. “I wonder who he really was.”
Lux wiped the blood off the cross and put it back around his neck. “Probably just some farmer, who took the wrong turn one day going home, who never imagined living such a cursed life, and allowing that curse to consume him, body and soul.” The knight reached up and closed the man’s remaining good eye, then mouthed a silent prayer.
They walked to where Gunter Sankt lay among a pile of bodies. The dead cleric was covered with stab wounds and arrow shafts.
“The cross is yours, Lux,” Fymurip said. “There is no way to refuse it now.”
Lux nodded. “Indeed, it is. But we won’t remain here with it. Now that the Hanseatic League knows where it lays, they will never stop until they have it. We must leave at once.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Saxony.”
“So you intend on giving the cross to the Duke?”
Lux shook his head and walked to the battlement. “No. Though I cannot in my heart believe that Duke Frederick is in favor of the Eldar Gods, it would be too risky to hand it over to him at this time. No, we go there for my family, that I may secure their safe passage to France. And then, we shall go to Constantinople.”
“Why? What is there?”
“I know a man, a mystic, who resides in that ancient place. If there is anyone in all the world that can tell us what Saint Boniface’s cross is, and what it is capable of, it is he.”
Lux turned to Fymurip and offered his hand. “Are you with me?”
For a moment, it seemed as if the Tartar would decline. Now that the vucari was dead, there was nothing to hold them together. And what purpose would it serve a Muslim anyway to venture further into Germany on a quest to ascertain the nature of an ancient Christian heirloom? But as he had done from their first meeting, Fymurip surprised him.
They locked hands. “Why not? Besides, someday, we will return to this cursed city, and you’re going to need my protection.”
Lux smiled. “Very well. Then let’s be off, before Starybogow grows dark and comes at us once more.”
Together, Lux von Junker and Fymurip Azat made their way out of The Citadel and toward the Konig Gate.
Torn Asunder
Brandon Rospond
A Statue of Triglav, circa 1500
This infernal prison had held him for so long that the melody of battle and the rush of blood felt like some sweet summer dream. Damn Perun for sealing them in a void. There was no gauge of time passing; the moments seemed to stretch endlessly, and for all he knew he could have been trapped here a day or a millennium. It all felt the same. He longed for the thrill of battle, the rush of adrenaline, and yet here in this accursed void, there was nothing. He clung to the memory of when he was first sealed away, for it was one of the only things of note to happen here. He thrashed like never before in his life, swinging and clawing at the blackness that surrounded with uncontrollable rage, every bulging muscle threatening to burst.
After the voices of all three of his heads burned raw and his limbs felt like jelly, he finally listened to his brethren that told him his fits were for naught. For once in his existence as the god known as Triglav, he felt powerless. He fought tirelessly with Perun, scolding him for his stupidity; they could have fought the Eldar Gods and eventually prevailed in the human world. But here? There was nothing for any of them – Old God or Eldar alike. This was not life.
Triglav learned to channel that burning madness into his bulging muscles as he floated in the emptiness, his eyes shut as he focused his efforts on the immortal enemy. His breathing would speed when his thoughts got the best of him, but after days, months, years, however long he spent in this torturous existence, he learned how to calm himself and focus.
All six of his eyes shot open. Even though he could not see anything but blackness, his instincts were as keen as ever. He could feel it – there was a stirring in the void. At first, it was just a pulse of energy; such a light throbbing that he almost missed it. But then, the sensation grew past a heartbeat and into a surge of power – the first of which he felt all the while having been trapped! It was a rush of emotions; joy and excitement at being set free, but then anger and rage as he planned his revenge!
A bright light blasted his vision, threatening to set his eyes on fire with how bright the flash was. He thrust his arms out to his side, welcoming the release from his prison, and then when he thought he would be finally setting foot on solid ground once more, all went black.
*****
The light was blindingly bright. He raised a hand to block out the giant white orb in the sky as he groaned. He turned his head and blades of grass rose up to kiss his cheeks with dew. Strange strands of red fell down across h
is vision and he brought his hand to pull at them. He winced when he found out they were connected. Was it… his hair? He had red hair?
He thrust his body up, pushing stray hairs out of his face. Where was he? There was nothing but open stretch of field around him in every direction; strange structures stood on the edge of the grassland, but they did not move. They must have been dwellings of some sort.
He looked down at his hands. The bare skin was lightly tanned on the long fingers. He held up his arms; bare as well. He was not sure what he expected to be there, but when he looked down at his legs, some sort of material, the word ‘cloth’ resonated somewhere in his mind, covered his lower half, and yet his feet were bare.
He put both his hands to his face, touching his features; his strong jawline, his stout nose, high cheekbones. His hands dropped off his cheeks, feeling the broad blades of his shoulders, as if expecting something to be above each that was not there. Then the most prevalent question hit him.
Who was he?
He backed up and his back touched something cold and hard. He spun around, his fists coming up, even though he could not say why. He stood back, staring at the statue that he had not realized was behind him. The metal creature had three heads that each stared down at him, judging him, with all six of its eyes. The middle head was that of a lion’s, while its left was a ram’s, and the right a dragon’s. He could not say how he knew the names of these creatures; he just knew the right words.
He turned back to those – the word came to him – huts on the far end and noticed there were shapes moving toward him quickly in quite a commotion. He was not sure what to do, but he backed himself up against the three-headed statue, holding his hands up in what he somehow knew was a defensive way. The strange people, clad in even stranger garb, encircled him, staring with wide eyes.
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