by Ricky Fry
The rules of the game were as foreign to Bogdan as the language the men spoke. Svyatoslav appeared unbothered, communicating in grunts and whoops and a great variety of hand gestures. It was fun, watching the big man roll the dice, though Bogdan couldn’t be sure who was winning and who was losing. It wasn’t until Svyatoslav passed a coin to a girl in a smock, who returned some minutes later with two wooden cups filled with beer, that he knew fortune was in their favor.
The beer was sour, but it felt good passing between his cracked and broken lips. It had been a month since they’d left the village. The journey through the mountains had taken a heavy toll on their tired bodies, and it would be in their best interests, he thought, to recover some of their strength before searching for the source of the evil spirit.
In another hour, Svyatoslav had earned enough coins to send Vladislav upstairs with one of the tavern maids, a pretty girl who spoke a few words of their language.
“Mind your hands,” he said. “I’ve only paid for the hot bath.”
Bogdan sipped his beer and canvassed the tavern’s common room. It was a dingy place, perfect for a seedy game of dice, with low-hanging rafters that sagged beneath the weight of the floors above. Young girls in smocks moved from table to table, dodging the wandering hands of ragged men whose wives, he imagined, might be relieved they were not at home.
Svyatoslav carried on well into the night. Several hours had passed when he finally gave up the dice and joined Bogdan. “My friend,” he said, tossing a bag heavy with coins on the rough planks of the table, “we’ve enough there for a warm meal and a soft bed.”
“You’ve been lucky, though was it wise to gamble your wedding ring?”
The big man snorted. “It’s not gambling when you know you’re going to win.”
Once again, Bogdan found himself glad for the able company of his friend. “Where’d you learn to play dice like that?”
“When I was a young man, not much older than you are now, I joined a company of soldiers on an expedition to a place called Prussia, far to the north.” He signaled one of the tavern maids for another beer. “It was a long and brutal winter. Many perished in the snow, but my unit took shelter in an old barn. There was nothing to do for months but shiver and roll the dice. By the time spring finally arrived I was a rich man.”
“But why did you leave the village? The life of a soldier is hardly easy.”
The maid returned with the beer. Svyatoslav took a long sip before dabbing the brown liquid from his beard with the sleeve of his shirt. “I was a restless young man,” he said. “Restless and very angry.”
It was difficult for Bogdan to imagine his friend as anything but the patient and humorous man he had always known. “Angry?”
Svyatoslav took another sip of his beer. “Two years before I left, it fell on my family to make the sacrifice. I watched as they cut my brother down from the tree and burned his body on the pyre.”
Bogdan was surprised by the revelation. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”
The big man waved it off. “I’ve long since made peace with it, but not before sending many young and ambitious men to an early death with the blade of my axe. My only wish now is that God might forgive me.”
This time it was Bogdan who signaled for another beer. He remembered the night he’d sacrificed himself for the second time. It was Svyatoslav who’d insisted on tying him to the tree. “It must have been hard, sending me to die with the memory of your brother still lingering in the past.”
“You’re wrong,” he said. “I wasn’t sending you to your death. I knew you would live.”
“How?”
“Because you didn’t die the first time.”
What his friend had said made sense. Even Bogdan, willing as he’d been to give his life to save the village, had expected he might survive his second brush with the evil spirit. “But could you be sure?”
Svyatoslav drew his eyebrows together as he loaded more of his precious dried herbs into his pipe. “How can anyone be sure of anything? These are strange times, and there is more to the world than we might ever hope to understand.
“But one thing is certain. Hundreds of boys were tied to that tree, and hundreds of boys met their end. I knew, from the very moment we cut you down, that my fate, and the fate of our village, was wrapped up with yours. I would follow you to the Gates of Hell and beyond, Bogdan the Great. I would follow you with a smile on my ugly old face.”
Bogdan was considering the words of his wise old friend when a commotion at the far end of the tavern grabbed his attention.
It was Vladislav, naked as the day he was born, tearing down the stairs with his clothes in one hand and his boots in the other. A fat man with a large knife chased after him, shouting words Bogdan couldn’t understand.
Vladislav wasn’t taking any chances with the knife. He leapt from the staircase before reaching the bottom, crashing into a table and sending cups of beer flying in all directions. Bogdan thought he might be hurt, but the boy leapt to his bare feet and scurried out the tavern door as a chorus of boos and cheers erupted.
“I told him to mind his hands,” said Svyatoslav, as he started for the door. “I’ll kill him myself if the tavern keeper doesn’t get to him first.”
They found him around the corner, bent over against a wall and catching his breath after his hasty flight down the stairs. He stood up when he saw them approaching, and raised his hands in front of him in a gesture of innocence—the same gesture all those who are guilty make—as if to say he’d done nothing wrong.
Svyatoslav took him by the upper arm, his meaty fingers burying themselves into the skinny boy’s wiry muscles. “What did you do?”
“Let go,” he said. He tried pulling his arm away, but Svyatoslav’s firm grip was too much for him. “She said it was on the house—said she took a liking to me.”
Bogdan had no idea what Vladislav was talking about, though he guessed it might have something to do with the pretty girl who’d taken him upstairs for a bath.
“They always say that.” Svyatoslav was still jerking the boy around by his arm. “First they bed you, and then they demand your money. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You’re lucky that fat man with the knife didn’t slice your little pecker off.”
Vladislav made an unsuccessful attempt to cover himself with his free hand, as if he’d only just become aware of his nakedness. “That’s not fair!”
“That’s the city,” said the big man. He released his grip on the boy’s arm and raised an eyebrow. “Was it your first time?”
Vladislav grinned from ear to ear, then dropped to the ground and fumbled around for his clothes.
They had just untied the horses, intent on finding another place in which to rest up, when a strange voice called out from behind. “Hello,” it said. “Hello, my friends. Hello.”
Bogdan turned to see a man shuffling toward them from the direction of the tavern. He thought it might have been the tavern keeper, but as the man grew closer he recognized him from one of the tables near where he and Svyatoslav had been drinking beer.
“Hello,” the man said again. He spoke in their language, but with an accent unlike their own. “I mean you no harm.”
Svyatoslav spoke first. “What do you want?”
“I wouldn’t normally follow you out into the night, but it’s clear you’re not from these parts and you might require some kind of assistance.” He held out his hands, palms open—a symbol of peace. “My name is Ion.”
“That’s very kind,” said the big man. “But we don’t need any help.”
“Oh, really?”
There was something curious about the man’s voice. Bogdan couldn’t be sure whether it was just his accent, or if some sinister thought swirled behind those eyes—black as coal. “Why have you followed us? The last man who followed us is dead.”
“Please, forgive me.” Ion brought his open hands together as if to plead for mercy. “My mother always said it was rude to eave
sdrop on other people’s conversations, but I couldn’t help hearing something about an evil spirit. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard such things.”
Bogdan looked around, unsure of what to say next or whether he could trust him. But if Ion knew something about the evil spirit, he wanted to find out. It was, after all, why they’d come to the city. He decided it would be necessary to take the risk. “Do your people make the sacrifice?”
Svyatoslav tried to stop him, but it was too late. The words had already come.
“Sacrifice?” Ion rubbed his chin and fixed his black eyes on a single point somewhere in the distance. “I thought that was only a myth. I’ve heard the stories, of course, on my trade runs up north, but I never imagined they might be true.”
Vladislav had tugged his pants on and was working on his boots. “It’s true! Bogdan—”
Svyatoslav gripped the boy’s arm again to silence him. “Quiet,” he said. “We’re in the company of strangers.”
“Strangers—yes,” said Ion. “That’s something we shall have to remedy over a round of beer. I know a place not far from here.”
Bogdan looked to Svyatoslav the way a child might look to a parent for permission. The big man shrugged his wide shoulders. “Why not? We’re in need of another tavern.”
“And this happens every year—a new boy is sent to die?” Ion wiped beer from his thick lips. He’d brought them to another tavern, this place even more cramped and dirty than the first. They’d found a suitable table in the corner, and Bogdan told him the story of their village and the sacrifice and the spirit who wouldn’t rest until he’d had his revenge.
“Yes,” he said. “It happens every year, at least it did until I broke the tradition. But what of the city? Are you not haunted by the spirit of the evil prince?”
“Vlad,” said Ion. “You mean Vlad Țepeș—they called him Vlad the Impaler, and come morning, you’ll see his ruinous old castle on the hill.” A tavern maid sided up to the table with five sloppy mugs of beer, and Ion waited until she was clear before continuing. “His thirst for blood was the stuff of legends. The old folks tell a story not unlike your own, that exactly one month after he was hanged from the castle walls, the people of this city began to die mysterious deaths. Young folks, strong and healthy, went to bed and never woke up. But that was a long time ago. No one gives much thought to Vlad these days.”
“What changed?” Bogdan had little doubt about the story. But if what Ion said was true—the spirit of the evil prince no longer troubled them—perhaps there was a way to lift the curse upon his village.
“They dug him up,” said Ion, “and drove a silver stake into his heart.”
“And it worked?”
Ion nodded. “So they say. If I might speak plainly, the only evil in this city is the greed and treachery of its living, breathing residents. Of course, there are those in the villages, peasants with their superstitions and old wives’ tales, who still speak of strigoi and the dead who come out at night to wander.”
“Strigoi?”
The man with the black eyes smiled. “I believe the word in your language is vampire—only instead of drinking blood they steal your soul.”
It was the last words he said that gave Bogdan pause to think. He wondered if the souls of those who had died in his village had made their way to heaven.
Svyatoslav’s son, who had remained so silent since their arrival in the city that Bogdan almost forgot his presence, cleared his throat and spoke. “There’s only one thing that doesn’t make sense. If it’s as you say, and the evil prince was finally sent to Hell with a silver stake in his heart, then why does he continue to plague our poor village?”
“Ah, the silent one has spoken.” Ion waved an index finger in the air. “My friend, I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to your question. But perhaps I might be able to help in some small way.”
“How?” While Ion’s story had given them a name—Vlad Țepeș, the one they called the Impaler—Bogdan was beginning to suspect their grueling journey to the city was nothing more than a dead end. He tried not to think too much about the long trip back home, and the disappointment that might await him there.
“Perhaps,” said the man with black eyes, “you’d like to see the evil prince for yourself.”
I have seen him, he thought, many times. Those red eyes were not so easy to forget. “What do you mean?”
Ion finished the last of his beer and placed the empty mug on the table. “I haven’t told you how the story ends. It’s difficult to imagine, really, but when they dug up our old friend Vlad, he was as fresh as the day he died, minus the head, which they’d mounted on a pike until his skull was picked clean by the birds. Some say his heart was still beating in his chest, that is, until they drove the stake through it. But these details are insignificant. What matters is what they did next, for the body was not returned to its original grave. They carried him, under cover of darkness and sworn to secrecy, to an unmarked grave far beyond the city gates. It’s there he remains to this day.”
“I don’t suppose you know the location of this unmarked grave.”
Ion’s face twisted into a wide, toothy grin. “It’s the worst kept secret in the city.”
Maybe it was only the dank, dark space of the tavern, or the way the deep lines of the man’s face filled with shadow, but something about Ion’s smile said he was enjoying himself. Bogdan wondered if it was all a game, just another story he would tell his friends about the dimwitted peasants from up north. Still, what choice did he have but to trust the man? “You say it’s far beyond the gates. How far?”
“On horseback? Maybe one hour. If you’d like I can take you there—give myself a good reason to escape the cramped confines of the city—and still make it back in time for dinner.” He grinned again. “My wife makes the best sarmale this side of the river.”
Bogdan was about to reply when Svyatoslav interrupted. “And how much will your expert assistance cost us?”
Ion’s grin shifted into a frown. “My friend, I’m hurt by your presumption. I know how hard it can be to find your way in a strange and unfamiliar land. I ask not for money, but for a few stories and laughs shared among good company. It would seem your village is in dire need of a helping hand, and I offer mine freely.”
“When?” Bogdan’s skin tingled as he imagined himself standing above the evil spirit’s grave. “When can you take us?”
Ion took his time, as though he was considering practical matters. “I have some business to attend to tomorrow—a new shipment of goods up from Bucharest. How about the day after?”
Two days. He’d come this far, he could wait another two days. “Perfect.”
“I don’t like it,” said Svyatoslav. It was the fifth time he’d said as much since Bogdan had first accepted Ion’s offer. “I don’t like it, but I’ll go along with it. Somebody has to keep you safe.”
Bogdan had grown accustomed to his regular protests. The big man was careful, never one for unnecessary risk. It was a trait that had served him well in his many years of fighting in foreign wars.
They’d passed the day sleeping in a rented room above the tavern. There was only one bed, which Svyatoslav had insisted Bogdan share with young Vladislav. He and his son would be fine, he’d said, on the floor. But the comforts of a bed had done Bogdan little good. He’d spent most of the day awake, fractured thoughts spinning through his head, as Vladislav slept snuggled up peacefully beside him. He felt something like relief when the sky beyond the window finally darkened and his friends stirred themselves back to life. Only Vladislav required extra nudging.
“Let’s be smart about this,” said Svyatoslav, as they prepared to head back down to the common room in search of dinner. “I won’t have us walking into some kind of trap.”
Bogdan wanted to tell him he was being silly. Ion was just an old merchant trader, probably bored and eager for a day away from his wife. But he’d seen enough in the last year to convince him anything was possible.
“What would you suggest?”
“Any general worth his weight in salt knows you should never leave yourself with a single option. Things can change quickly in the heat of battle. If we were an army, and I was the general, I’d want the element of surprise.”
Bogdan didn’t know anything about armies. The only thing he knew in that moment was the hunger growing in his belly. “How do we surprise someone who knows we’re coming?”
“We split up,” said the big man. “My son can follow behind and remain out of sight. If all goes well we won’t have need of him. But if it’s a trap, or things go bad, we’ll be glad he has our backs.”
“Very well.”
“One last thing—the boy stays here in the room. I’ll pay for another night.”
“No!” Vladislav had been preoccupied with lacing up his boots, but at the mention of his name he jumped to his feet. “Please, Bogdan! You can’t make me stay.”
“It’s only right,” said the big man. “You’re too young, and someone has to watch our things.”
“Was I too young to be eaten by wild cannibals? If I hadn’t fed them a line about Bogdan’s magic, we might all be dead.”
“It was quick thinking,” said Bogdan. “You’ve proven your worth. But Svyatoslav is right. Someone needs to stay put and watch our things.”
He’d expected Vladislav to argue, but the boy dropped his gaze down to his untied boots. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what I’ll do.”
Just maybe, thought Bogdan, Vladislav is learning what it means to be a man.
They passed most of the night in the common room, Svyatoslav racking up more coins at the dice table and Vladislav sulking with a beer. The tavern—which had been busy well past midnight—was nearly empty when dawn finally broke.
The plan was simple. Bogdan and Svyatoslav would ride out to the place where Ion had promised to meet them. Svyatoslav’s son would follow well behind on foot. Vladislav had only to stay out of trouble, and was forbidden from socializing with tavern maids. “Flash them so much as a smile,” Svyatoslav had said, “and I’ll cut off your pecker myself.”
