Now that they were in the presence of the man they'd come so far to find, the peasants felt a tingle of fear crawl down their spines. Tales of the weird powers of a krsnik filled them with a sense of dread. A krsnik was said to be a sorcerer, able to call upon dark magic and occult energies. Some claimed they entered into pacts with the Devil to learn their arcane secrets, forfeiting their eternal souls to command eldritch forces.
Dobrogost was the first to overcome his unease and walk to the table where Czcibor sat. He was shocked to find that the krsnik wasn't some hoary old wizard but a young man no older than Rafal's son. Czcibor was clean-shaven, his skin possessed of an almost feminine softness. His features were handsome, with a strong chin and wide brow. His hair was a pale blonde, almost snowy in its fairness. His raiment was fine, but not opulent, a crimson doublet with slashed sleeves and an azure lining beneath, little clasps and buttons of silver adorning the breast and cuffs. Only a single ring graced his hands, a simple band of gold on which was set the coat of arms of some noble house. Dobrogost might have found the man unremarkable had he not seen Czcibor's eyes. The steel-gray eyes were as sharp as any sword, possessed of a wariness that belied the ease and welcome of his inviting visage.
“It seems that you are to be spokesman,” Czcibor said, motioning for Dobrogost to seat himself. “Explain your situation. Leave out no detail.” He tapped his finger against the table. “Whether I assist you or not depends on what you tell me now more than the size of the purse you would offer. So choose your words with care.”
Dobrogost looked back at his friends, but the other peasants were still holding their distance, willing to concede the task to him. When Otto brought the beer, he took the stein and drained a third of its volume in a single gulp. Then he set about describing the menace that hung over their village and the death of Zoja.
As he recited his tale, Dobrogost studied Czcibor, noticing things he'd failed to see before. The man did everything with his left hand, from cutting the meat on the trencher sitting before him to drinking from the stein lying beside his meal. His right hand was clothed in a bearskin glove, the symbol of a cross branded into the fur. A little pillow was under the hand, keeping it from resting directly against the table. Words were embroidered into the pillow, but Dobrogost could only guess at their meaning or the strange custom that made Czcibor pamper his hand in so curious a fashion. Had he been injured in his fight with Gornik?
Czcibor noticed the direction of Dobrogost's gaze. He smiled, but waited until the man had finished his story before offering an explanation. “First let me reassure you, friend Dobrogost, that I suffer neither wound nor infirmity.” He raised his gloved hand from the pillow, making a point of clenching his fingers into a fist. “Just as a knight doesn't tire his warhorse with the drudgery of daily toil, so a krsnik must preserve his sword arm for the moment when it is needed in battle.” He set his hand back upon its pillow. “You have heard, no doubt, that a krsnik has special magic all his own? Such power makes its own demands of those who would command it.” He tilted his stein, displaying the milk that filled it. “Neither beer nor wine may pass my lips, only the milk of goats.” He thrust his knife into the meat lying before him. “I may eat only that which Surma kills for me.”
“Surma?” Dobrogost asked.
“My wolf,” Czcibor answered. “Right now he is chained in Otto's yard, but you will meet him if I make the journey to Swinka.”
“If it is money...” Dobrogost began.
Czcibor shook his head. “The Teutonic Knights have given me enough to keep me for some time. It isn't money that makes me hesitate. It is doubt.”
“You are afraid?” Waclaw gasped. “If even a krsnik is afraid, then what hope have we?”
“You mistake me,” Czcibor said. “It isn't fear that makes me hesitate. It is uncertainty. You must understand that just as there are many breeds of pestilence, so too there are many breeds of vampyr. There is the vjesci and the strigoi, the nachzehrer and the wupji. My powers are honed to combat two specific breeds of vampyr, the kudlak and the varcolaci.”He stared into Dobrogost's eyes. “You have told me much, but not enough. I don't know if the fiend that took your daughter is a kudlak or not. I don't know if I will be any help to you.”
Dobrogost shook his head in despair. “If you won't help us, I don't know where we can turn. Perhaps what they say is true, that the ruins of Starybogow are cursed and all who dwell too near it share in that curse.”
The vampyr hunter leaned back, tapping his fingers against the side of his stein. “Starybogow,” he muttered several times, then fixed Dobrogost with a hard look. “You didn't mention that your village was near the city.”
“Is that important?” Rafal asked.
“In my experience every detail is vital, especially the battlefield I am expected to fight upon. Kudlaks prefer places forsaken and abandoned,” Czcibor said, then laughed. “So too do many other breeds of vampir. Still, the lure of the ruins may have drawn all sorts of evil into them that they might prefer to prey upon the blood of men.”
“You will help us?” Dobrogost gasped, clutching desperately at the hope within Czcibor's words.
Czcibor took a last swallow of milk and rose to his feet. “I will go with you back to Swinka. That is all I can promise. It may be that it is some normal adversity that preys upon your community, or it may be that the evil which hangs about your homes is one I cannot overcome. If such is the case, then my services will be to no avail.” He looked at the darkened hall around him. “Of one thing, at least, I am certain. I have been in Wormditt too long. As fear of their vampir fades, the townsfolk come to fear my powers. It may not be too long before the Knights decide they can recover their fee if they declare me a witch and hang me in the town square. Yes, I think if nothing else, a journey to Swinka will give me a needed change of scenery.”
*****
Though there were better homes in Swinka that could have played host to the krsnik, Czcibor chose to stay with the Radzienskis. The loss of his daughter, Czcibor said, would make Dobrogost a more capable host than any burgher or baron. Sincerity, not splendor, was the real measure of gratitude.
Questioning the people of Swinka about the rash of killings and grisly bodies found in the area took up the first days of Czcibor's stay. With the grudging indulgence of the priest, some of the bodies were exhumed for the krsnik's inspection. The priest didn't scoff at the powers Czcibor was said to possess, rather he felt they were unholy magics derived from Satan. The fear that gripped his flock, however, made the priest hesitant to oppose their superstitions with anything more forceful than the occasional disparaging remark.
The next week was spent traveling to nearby villages and towns. Czcibor called upon Dobrogost to handle these inquiries, using his knowledge of the area and familiarity with his neighbors to pose his questions with more discretion than the krsnik would have managed. Czcibor was careful to impress upon the farmer that he must always return to Swinka before nightfall and that, until they knew more, he mustn't stay over in one of the other villages.
After two weeks, Czcibor called Dobrogost to join him at the table in his hut's common room. Spread across the table was a crude map of the area that the krsnik had drawn. The peasant shuddered when he noted all the little crosses drawn upon the map, each marking where the bodies of the monster's victim had been found.
“You were right to believe this fiend is a vampyr,” Czcibor stated. “The bodies from Swinka's own churchyard bore the unmistakable marks of such depredation. Yet none of them bore signs of becoming undead themselves. That is an important thing. Many breeds of vampyr pass their corruption on to those they kill. We can safely dismiss these monsters from our consideration. That leaves far fewer possibilities. Among them is the kudlak. The peasants you spoke with, the ones who claimed to have at times seen a great black wolf and a giant bat haunting the environs of Starybogow, they make me think even more strongly of kudlaks, for among the traits of these monsters is that of changing their sh
ape to assume the guise of birds and beasts – but always of a black and sinister aspect.”
“Then you will be able to destroy this monster?” Dobrogost asked.
“Perhaps,” Czcibor mused, tapping his fingers against the map. “I think the vampir has hidden itself somewhere in the city. Finding its lair will be no easy prospect. It will be better to draw it out, to lure it with bait and kill it on ground of my own choosing.”
“How will you do that?” Dobrogost wondered. “This isn't some simple wolf you can catch with a haunch of meat and chain in your yard.” The peasant thought of Surma, the massive gray wolf Czcibor had brought with him and which must kill any animal before its master could dine upon it. Feeding the krsnik and his beast was an expense the peasants of Swinka hadn't taken into their calculations when agreeing to hire Czcibor.
Czcibor pointed at the map. “The answer is right in front of you.”
Dobrogost leaned over to stare at the markings, but could make no sense of them. “I don't know my letters,” he apologized.
“Then let me explain,” Czcibor said. He tapped at one of the marks. “This is Swinka,” he stated, then indicated the marks that denoted the other villages and the great symbol that indicated Starybogow itself. “You can see that these attacks have claimed travelers and natives alike. All of the bodies have been discovered close to Starybogow, concentrated here on the western side of the city.” He swept his hand across the crosses which indicated where the victims had been found. “There is little to be gained learning where the vampyr’s prey was left once the monster drained them. But,” the krsnik raised a finger to emphasize an important point, “there may be much to be gleaned from where the victims came from... or more precisely, where they didn't come from.”
The peasant peered closely at the map, trying to discover the secret that Czcibor seemed to have found. “I don't understand,” he confessed at last. “The strangers were from everywhere and nowhere. The locals who've been killed were taken from each village.”
Czcibor shook his head. ”There, my friend, you are wrong. Each traveler, be they pilgrim or peddler, was going somewhere. And there is one village which has lost none of its inhabitants.” Like a knife, the krsnik stabbed his finger down at one of the marks on the map. The illiterate Dobrogost understood the significance only when Czcibor gave a name to the place. “Krynka.”
“No,” Dobrogost protested. “You are wrong there. People have been taken from Krynka. My poor Zoja was on her way to visit her aunt when she was...” The peasant broke off, choking back his emotion.
Czcibor gripped the farmer's shoulder, motioning for him again to look at the map. “Many of those who have died were going to or from Krynka. Travelers heading north or south, their path taking them through the village. Locals gathering wood or making charcoal in the vicinity of Krynka. Wherever their bodies were found, it was near Krynka that they were last seen.”
Dobrogost's face became a vision of rage and hate. “Then the vampir is in Krynka!” he snarled.
“The truth is far worse, I fear,” Czcibor explained, drawing Dobrogost down into one of the chairs. “Those who have died were close to the village, but except for a few of the earliest victims, none of them were from Krynka.”
The peasant stared at Czcibor, shaken by the ghastly implication. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing, for the moment,” Czcibor said. “I will need to visit Krynka again, but this time I will announce my purpose in coming to this region. If my suspicions are unfounded, then nothing will come of it.”
“And if your suspicions are right?” Dobrogost asked, his words redolent with an undercurrent of fury.
“If I am not back by nightfall,” Czcibor told the peasant, “then you are to unchain Surma. He will be able to find me, whatever my circumstances.” The krsnik looked down at his gloved right hand. “If I am not back by nightfall, I will need Surma's help.”
*****
The village of Krynka was close upon the crumbling walls of Starybogow. It was much like Swinka in general appearance, a simple collection of half-timbered huts with a barren strip of muddy road winding between them. The only large building in the settlement was a two-story structure that acted as both tavern and meeting hall for the community, Krynka's headman making his residence on the upper floor.
It was to this comparatively opulent building that Czcibor rode. As he passed the collection of huts, he could feel the eyes of the inhabitants watching him from behind cracked doors and shutters. The krsnik could sense the fear emanating from the villagers, detecting the emotion with an arcane talent that had served him well over the years. For Czcibor, knowing when a community was angered or afraid was the first warning that the very people he was trying to help might turn against him. It remained to be seen, however, if the people of Krynka wanted any help.
Czcibor dismounted outside the tavern. It took a few commanding waves of his hand to summon the grimy boy out from the shadow of the building and a few equally imperious words to get the lad to lead his horse to the stables. The krsnik could sense the fear wafting off the peasant, but in the boy's expression there was a sullenness, a resentment that lent that fear a sinister aspect. It was an attitude he'd found often among the abused servants of a cruel lord.
Dismissing the boy from his thoughts, Czcibor stalked into the tavern. The hall was filled with villagers, men and women of every age sitting on the benches nursing leathern jacks of beer. They turned to regard him as he entered and he saw the same glower of resentment on their faces. The taverneer behind the counter made no move to greet him, but kept wiping at a clay stein, trying to remove some imaginary speck from its surface.
Czcibor walked over to the man, careful to keep his gloved hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. “I find Krynka less hospitable than it was on my last visit,” he told the man. One of the peasants sitting on the benches turned and spat into the hearth.
“You were with Dobrogost and Rafal when you came here last, stranger,” the taverneer said.
“Ah, and your hospitality doesn't extend to strangers, I take it?” Czcibor wondered.
One of the old peasants rose to his feet, pointing a gnarled finger at Czcibor. “Not ones who pretend to be something they aren't,” he growled.
Czcibor turned toward the crowd, drumming his fingers upon the hilt of his sword, reminding them of its threat. “If you know who I am and why I've come, then you must know I'm only here to help.”
“We don't need your kind of help,” a plump farmer's wife declared. “We don't want it.”
“And what about the people in Swinka? Or those in the other villages?” Czcibor challenged. “They seem to need my help very much.” He could feel the fear boiling off the peasants, but more he could feel their anger. They'd found a way to protect themselves and they weren't about to let anyone put them at risk by disturbing things.
Czcibor spun around with a speed that would have shamed a viper. The taverneer was caught by complete surprise as he caught the man's descending arm and the heavy clay stein gripped in his hand. The krsnik smashed both stein and hand against the counter, shattering the vessel and driving clay shards into the fingers that gripped it. The bleeding taverneer staggered back, howling in pain, the bones of his wrist cracked by their brutal meeting with the timber counter. Czcibor was already whipping back around, the sword leaping from its sheath. Staring at the vicious length of steel in his gloved hand, the peasants of Krynka abandoned the sudden surge that had threatened to overwhelm him. Glowering at Czcibor, they returned to their seats.
“So, you won't be frightened off.” The statement issued from the shadowed stairway leading up to the headman's residence. Czcibor shifted position so that he could both see his accoster and keep an eye on the villagers. The man on the stairway was older than Dobrogost, with only a few flecks of black left in the grey mane that covered his head, but there was an almost familial similarity about his features. His raiment was slightly more elegant than that of his neighbors,
but the only trace of ostentation about him was the bronze chain he wore about his neck as a badge of office.
Czcibor gestured at the peasants. “There are a lot of frightened people here,” he said. “I am not one of them.”
The man on the stairs nodded his head. “Of course you aren't. I am Lukasz Walczak, headman of Krynka. I must apologize for my people, but we have learned to be wary of strangers. Especially ones who claim they can help us.” Lukasz studied Czcibor a moment. “Perhaps you are different. Come, we will talk and I will decide if it is truly so.” He waved his arms at the villagers gathered in the common room. “Back to your homes. There is nothing for you to do here. What needs doing, I will do. Go.” Turning back to Czcibor, he motioned the krsnik to follow him upstairs.
Lukasz led Czcibor down a narrow hall and into a small room that had the appearance of both study and storeroom. The headman seated himself behind the table that flanked the room's only window. He waved his guest to assume the only other chair. Czcibor ignored the invitation, instead walking about the chamber and exploring the contents of the boxes and sacks piled about the floor. Dust had accumulated on many of the containers and he noted that mice had been gnawing away at some of the grain and furs bundled into the sacks.
“Your people must have missed the last few market days,” Czcibor observed. “Their labors are going to waste.”
Lukasz frowned at the remark. “It has been some time,” he admitted.
“Since Krynka's troubles began?” Czcibor asked, turning over a silver plate he'd withdrawn from one of the chests.
“I've been told that Dobrogost went all the way to Wormditt to find you,” Lukasz stated. “The rumor is that you're a vampir hunter.”
Czcibor set the plate down and faced the headman. “It is more than rumor. That is my profession.”
Lukasz licked his lips anxiously, a desperate light shining in his eyes. “Have you killed many of them?”
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 13
