by Adam Golden
—
Nicholas of Myra strode from the abbey sickroom with all of his usual purpose and vigor, but once he’d rounded the corner into the corridor he sagged against the wall and let out the ragged breath he’d been holding. Colors danced before his eyes.
In a flash, Tulio was there, the squat, solid little man holding him up as unobtrusively as possible until his master regained himself. After a moment, Nicholas recovered himself enough to stand and patted his oldest friend’s hand gratefully before making for the carriage.
Once he was ensconced on the plushly padded bench of his private carriage, Nicholas let out an exhausted sigh. The previous night had drained him dangerously. That old man was strong. He hadn’t even felt the first twinges of pain until he was well inside the villa! Most men never would have made it over the wall. The spells worked around the villa should have left him a mewling heap before he’d crossed the gardens. Nicholas had checked and rechecked the incantations set on the lamps, they were sound. He was sure the old man wasn’t a practitioner, he would have felt that, he knew he would.
Obviously, this Father Arius was a powerful soul. Nicholas should never have allowed the old man to come so close. He’d known about the wandering priest for more than a decade, the man used a veritable army of informants in his quest. Informants lived to sell information and were rarely concerned with whom they sold it to. Buying periodic updates on the priest had seemed only prudent.
Nicholas drew the little dagger from his waist and held it between his palms. The incantation he muttered was Assyrian, a simple Finding meant to keep a watch on the owner. The power crackled and sparked and then faded impotently. Nothing. Too weak. He needed rest. He needed food. No, it would take weeks to restore himself that way. He needed power, he needed blood.
Back at the villa, safely secluded in his private work room, incense swirled around Nicholas, as blood flowed and he spoke the words.
“Rise hunter, to your hunt.” A handful of incense went onto the burning brazer beside his work table. “Come, stalker, and seek your prey.” Another cloud rose off the coals. “Feast, gnasher, let the blood flow.” Nicholas called in the harsh, guttural tongue of the forests of the Rhineland as he dug into the scarred flesh of his forearm with his cruelly curved ritual blade. A thin rivulet of blood spattered, hissing on the hot coals. “I bid you, pass the veil. I bid you, take your fill! I bid you, share your strength. Come, Krampus, come and hunt!”
The cloudy face of the silver mirror on the work table writhed like storm clouds. Slowly an image took shape. The hideously furred and horned visage of the hunter, the demon the ancient Germanic tribes had called the Krampus, took shape, and a booming, cruel laugh sounded throughout the small room.
“Weak blood.” The voice of the monster was like stone grating on stone, like bone being pulped beneath a heavy weight. Even after all these years Nicholas shuddered. “Weak spirit. Unworthy!” That same blood-chilling laugh echoed again, and the image began to fade as the rift in the veil was sealed.
Nicholas pounded his fist down on the silver mirror in frustration and anger. The blow was weak, the objects on the work table barely jumped at all, and when he looked, he found his hand shaking. He needed strength and power. He needed blood . . . and he’d have to get it himself.
—
Dawn was still an hour away, the land was cloaked in darkness, but the cottage was already alight as the family inside prepared for the day. The father was a local farmer named Alexandros, the mother a devout churchgoer named Milasa. Their children . . . he tried not to think of the children’s names, of their faces, or the times he’d blessed them with his own hands.
Crouched behind the well on the edge of their land, he watched as the door to the cottage opened and the twins, a boy and a girl, skipped out, the boy pushing at his sister playfully.
The girl let out a squeal and their mother appeared, chiding them and gesturing to the paper the boy held.
A shopping list?
Both children nodded dutifully, and the mother graced them with a loving smile that twisted in Nicholas’ gut. After an age, the door closed. The semi-dark returned and the children skittered off toward the town. The market would be open soon.
He checked his deep red cowl one more time, took a deep breath and then another, steeling himself. He jerked the vicious ritual knife from its sheath and sprang after his prey.
Those Truths Which Light Obscures
“Stop!”
Probus Acindynus barely took time to sight before he let another shaft fly at the monster fleeing into the trees. The arrow sailed wide, and the hunter spat an ugly curse before he was off again. He was barely keeping in sight of the murderer. ‘Far too old for this foolishness!’ he thought. Not that there was a good age to be bounding through the woods after a killer, but what else could he do? Those children . . . so much blood, and that red cloaked fiend hunched over them. Probus would have crossed himself if he wasn’t intent on moving as quickly as he could over the uneven ground.
He’d been out most of the night tracking wolves in the deep woods. Trade for his other pelts was down, but people always wanted wolf. If he could bring down a few before the first chill it would help get him through the winter. The pack he was tracking was quick and canny though, he’d lost the trail about two hours before dawn and had decided to head back toward town. He was almost back when he heard the first scream.
The clearing was less than a mile outside of town. They were right there on the road. He saw the killer first. In the moonlight, he’d looked like something otherworldly. There seemed to be a dark presence, an energy about him. Any man who’d hunted the woods at night learned quickly that the moon played tricks. Under that pale white light, the man had seemed tall and strong, a powerful figure swathed in a cloak of rich, lustrous crimson.
The priests had a saying that Probus had taken to heart as a boy. “Everything the light shines upon can be seen. Light makes everything clear.”
This day’s dawn had surely revealed this creature. Not some demon, just a man. Not even an especially large or powerful man in the light of day. Actually, what Probus could discern of the criminal seemed somewhat under average, a little man, a running coward who preyed on children and hid himself in a poorly dyed cape of red wool, no different than a hundred others in the province.
He must have been waiting in the trees for whomever might pass. The children were probably just unlucky, on their way to Myra from one of the outlying farms. Their clothing was the local kind, but without the heads . . . The hunter felt his gorge rising as he recalled the scene. He’d never married and had no children. He couldn’t decide what would be worse for the parents of those poor tads, knowing or not knowing.
Anger flared in Probus, he forced a touch more speed out of his flagging legs and nocked an arrow on the fly. Shooting while moving was almost always a stupid waste of an arrow, but he knew that if he so much as paused, the butcher would be gone before he could get moving again.
The shaft was straight and well-fletched, the head a well-forged iron broadhead. He’d crafted each of his arrows with his own hands. The shot was shockingly good, maybe the best of his life. It flew straight and true, and his heart leapt in his breast.
He was going to get the bastard!
At the last second the shaft skipped down and left. It struck but barely grazed the killer’s left calf. The man stumbled for an instant and nearly fell, but recovered and kept on.
Probus was stunned, the shot was good. He knew it was! It was as though the arrow had been batted away by some invisible hand. Witchcraft? Could this man actually be more than the perverse coward he seemed? Probus’ mind was so tangled with questions and stunned disappointment that he never saw the gnarled loop of root that snared his foot. He went down with a strangled yelp and struck his head hard on the rocky ground.
—
The words tumbled from Nicholas’ lips without consideration. Years of long study and memorization made the archaic tongue as c
omfortable in his mouth as common Latin or Greek, and with his newly replenished strength, the spell wasn’t a difficult one. Before him the hunter twitched and grumbled as he reacted to the scene that Nicholas pushed into his mind: a harrowing chase through the early morning woods, a heroic struggle to bring down a vicious fiend. It was a good story. The hunter would be hailed as a hero, and perhaps he would draw some comfort from having done all he could for those poor children.
Nicholas bit down on the grief. He did what he had to, but he didn’t relish killing. He was glad it had occurred to him, in the heat of the moment, not to kill the hunter. This was a much preferable course, and much more useful. If the plot Nicholas was slowly weaving together as he worked the incantation were to succeed, he’d need a witness.
The midnight fiend was banished, it’s fine red skin and keen dark claw buried beneath the plush bench of Nicholas’ carriage back on the road, nearly a half mile away. Now there was only Nicholas, the simple earnest servant, and beloved Bishop of Myra.
He rose and brushed the clinging dirt from the knee of his dark britches as Tulio appeared from the trees. His devoted friend looked decidedly grim as he returned from the task he’d been given.
“All is as instructed?” Nicholas asked, knowing it would be.
His stalwart manservant nodded once. His lips tight, a thin line of distaste. “Of course, Dominus.”
Nicholas nodded to himself and waved a hand before his old friend, with a few words in the language of a tribe of the Africa Province, a tribe now extinct for centuries. Before his eyes, Tulio’s colour and stoic good nature were renewed as the memories for the last two hours vanished from his mind. A perplexed look passed on the man’s sun-darkened and well-lined face, and then Nicholas saw understanding dawn, and Tulio offered him a small nod of gratitude. The price of Nicholas’ calling was one both men accepted, but the burden was his alone to bare. He could hardly ask his old friend to carry such a cross.
“He will sleep for another quarter of an hour,” Nicholas said, indicating the hunter. “We should make for the coach.”
Tulio said nothing, simply took the lead with one meaty fist on the heavy knife at his side, and led the way.
—
Probus stumbled out the trees and onto the road, clutching a rag torn from his tunic to the bloody gash on his forehead. As soon as he made the road, the hunter dropped to his knees. The dizziness was bad, but he hadn’t wanted to stop in the trees lest he lose his direction. The hunter pitched forward and emptied his stomach onto the road. He’d failed, those children’s killer had gotten away. He had to get back to Myra! Or maybe to Petara, to the Governor.
His mind was so hazed he didn’t hear the clomping of hooves or the various creaks, groans, and jingles until the carriage and paired white horses responsible were all but on top of him.
“Whoa there!” the driver, a squat dark-skinned Greek, called to the team. “Are you well, friend?” he said next, jumping down and moving toward Probus.
” No . . . murderer . . . I chased him, but . . .” Probus cut off. The words wouldn’t come out straight.
The driver took a knee in front of him and offered a water skin.
Probus took a long drink and let out a sharp gasp as the need for air cut it shorter than he would have liked. When he looked up he nearly jumped backward. Standing there, as if by magic, was the tall elegant form of a man all of Lycia knew. It was Bishop Nicholas, the Wonderworker himself. “Excellency,” Probus said with a deep bow of his head.
Nicholas waved away the honorific and knelt before the hunter as his man made way. “What is this about murder?” the Bishop asked urgently. “Are you well enough to speak on?”
Probus gulped and let out a long breath to steady himself. He started to nod, but the movement threatened another dizzy spell. “I am well, Excellency. I happened upon a scene of horror in the early twilight before dawn. On the road, a mile or two ahead, I found a cloaked and hooded man over the dead and mutilated corpses of two young children.”
He looked up and saw such a look of heartrending despair on the Bishop’s handsome patrician face, that he thought he might break down himself. The Bishop seemed to crumple before him for a moment. At first, Probus thought the man was weeping, but after a moment he came to realize it was murmuring.
Prayers for the dead, perhaps? The hunter couldn’t tell, but he bent his head anyway.
After a moment, the Bishop’s voice boomed strong and rich, the grief on his face twisted to fury. “O’ God who avenges shine forth!” he said. “Open your armory and bring forth the weapons of your indignation!” These last words shot forth with force from a face red with anger.
Probus was stunned. He’d seen the Bishop before, everyone in Myra had—a kindly, smiling presence, always with a kind word, a helping hand or a gift. This was something else, the righteous avenger, the protecting shepherd. There was a sort of . . . menace to the man that was both awe-inspiring and vaguely disconcerting.
“Come,” the Bishop said. “I must see, and you cannot be left in this state.”
The Bishop’s man helped Probus into the carriage and, as they rode, Nicholas questioned him about what he’d seen and done, extracting every detail of the chase gently but thoroughly. Probus recounted the tale in full three times before the carriage came to a halt.
“Excellency . . .” came the call from the driver, his voice strange and troubled.
Nicholas motioned for Probus to keep his seat, and the woodsman was glad.
He had no wish to see the carnage again, especially after hours in the open air. He had no idea how long the Bishop was gone, he might have dozed on the comfortable padded bench, but suddenly Nicholas was back, his earnest face drawn and those intense eyes boring into the simple woodsman.
“You said you hit this fiend, cut him?” the cleric asked urgently.
“Yes, lord, with an arrow. Tore open his left calf. I’m sure of it,” Probus said with a touch of defensiveness, still irked that he’d been denied the killing blow somehow.
“Very well, we’ll go to the mayor. He’ll send to the Governor, but in the meantime he’ll raise the militia and we’ll search the town. You will serve as witness.” It was not a question, but Probus nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll find this monster, even if I have to tear Myra to the ground and rebuild it with my own hands.”
Looking at the steel hard expression on the Bishop’s face, Probus believed he’d do just that.
—
Inspecting the twelve hundred men of Myra’s militia was the work of a long boring hour. Each man bared his left calf, was cleared of suspicion, and given search orders. Each building was to be searched and, since Probus could not say with certainty that the murder was definitely male, every citizen over the age of ten was to be inspected.
By midday the quiet town was a kicked anthill of rumor, innuendo, and accusation. Citizen soldiers in half-rusted mail and ill-fitting helms, some armed with no more than the long knives and hand scythes they used in their fields, banged on the doors of their friends and neighbors, compelling them to submit to bodily inspection. Through it all Nicholas of Myra walked the streets, consoling and calming, chiding and soothing the ebbing and surging tides of anger and emotion of his people. All the while trying to contain his frustration at the snail’s pace of the search.
It was well after twilight when a pair of burly militiamen, without a complete kit of armor between them, dragged the limp form of an unconscious man before Nicholas, where he paced the town forum in the company of Probus the hunter. Mayor Gratius, overcome by the stress of the day’s events, and likely by his own nervousness in the exalted Bishop’s presence, retired to his villa to climb inside his wine flagon, leaving Nicholas the highest authority in town.
“His name is Pair Fouettard, a Frankish butcher in the eastern quarter,” one of the Militiamen reported. “He refused to be searched. When we insisted, he and his wife attacked us.” He paused and ran a meaty hand over the quickly purpling bruise at
his jaw.
“Nasty buggers, m’lord,” the other guard said with a sharp toe in the ribs for his prisoner. “This one bit me, s’got jaws like a hunting hound. Anyways, once we had ‘em both more peaceful like, we found this.” The man’s partner produced a bundle from under his arm, knelt, and set about opening it up.
It was a poorly dyed and faded red cloak tied around a heavy and sharply curved boning knife the length of Nicholas’ forearm and thick with sticky gore. The Bishop waved Probus near to witness, and the hunter blanched as he noticed the fine blonde hairs matted into the congealed blood.
“Was that all you found?” Nicholas asked.
“No, Excellency,” the guard who’d produced the bundle said, shaking his head sadly. Both men’s shoulders slumped, and each looked decidedly grey, a near identical haunted look on their faces. “In the rear of the shop there are several large barrels of brine. I guess for pickling meat . . . most had beef or pork, one was full up with hooves, but one of the last, hidden behind the others . . . it was . . .” the man faltered, his voice cracked as though he were holding back tears.
“Heads,” the other man said, “lord, it was heads. Two of ‘em. Two little blonde kids . . . just bobbin’ there, starin’ at us. They looked so scared, m’lord.”
“Enough!” Nicholas said, more roughly than he meant. The eyes had begun to float to the front of his mind and he pushed them back with great effort. “Put him in the cell. I’ll advise the mayor. When he’s secure, go and call back the militia. We have our killer.”
The two men gave the sloppy salutes of civilians unused to the action, wrestled their distasteful load into a manageable position, and dragged him off to the bowels of the town’s armoury.
—
Myra’s only jail cell was nothing of the sort, in truth, it was a dead-ended section of the sewers that ran beneath the town. No one remembered when the little space had been closed off with the heavily rusted, iron-grated door, but all agreed it must have been in a far crueler time. The space was more hole than room, it was lightless, constantly wet where water and less wholesome substances leaked through cracked and broken sections of the walls, and rank with mildew and filth. The cell was just large enough for an average man to lie down, though one would have to be mad, dead, or desperate to consider lying in the ankle-deep sludge that filled the place. Most years the cell was populated exclusively by legions of lice, rats, and things far less pleasant. No Mayor in decades had used the hellish little hole, but not many had Nicholas’ resolve.
