Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  Merrydale had been ravaged by a pack of malicious, clever vampires who had deliberately capitalized on the dale’s reputation. The folk never recovered from it. They built a huge wall around the town, and Jander later learned that every inn was symbolically burned. Their habit of constantly wearing daggers was remarked upon and became a standing joke in other lands. Thus Merrydale, the most welcoming community in Faerûn, had become the most aloof and hostile: it became known as Daggerdale.

  DESPITE HIS TREPIDATION KOLYA HAD FALLEN ASLEEP and was snoring loudly. Sasha’s eyelids, too, were growing heavy, but he was firmly determined to keep watch all night long. There’d be plenty of time to sleep after the sun rose. He hadn’t seen anything even remotely exciting tonight, and he was cursed if—the boy frowned. The ring of stones was set atop a small hill. It was enough of a vantage point that Sasha was able to see a light over in the village where there shouldn’t be any.

  Curiosity chased away the ghosts of sleep, and Sasha got to his feet for a better look. He still couldn’t see clearly, so he clambered atop the nearest large stone. Trying to keep his balance, he eased himself up, arms extended, and peered at the village. Yes, there was definitely a light—and a lot of people were awake.

  “Hey, Kolya, wake up!”

  “Huh?” the other boy muttered.

  Sasha didn’t spare him a glance, but kept his eyes fastened on the commotion in town. “Something’s going on. Let’s find out.”

  “Oh, no.” Wide awake and remembering where they were, Kolya wasn’t about to budge. “I’m not leaving here till morning.”

  His friend glared at him. “Fine. I’m going. You can stay here all by yourself for the rest of the night, Cowardly Kolya.” Sasha jumped off the stone and began to pile his belongings back into the sack. Muttering under his breath, Kolya followed suit, and the two boys tramped to the village. The night seemed somehow less hostile than it had before, now that curiosity about what had happened in town pushed to the forefront of Sasha’s mind.

  When they got to Market Street, lights were on in the houses, and people still clad in their nightclothes were milling about. Several were carrying buckets. Sasha saw the town seamstress, Cristina, throw open the shutters and yell something to someone across the street. Cristina’s brown hair, normally fastidiously pinned back, tumbled wildly about her shoulders, and her sharp face was filled with worry. Something was definitely wrong, and the two boys followed the scurrying villagers.

  “Burgomaster’s Way!” Sasha cried and took off at a dead run down the street that led to his home. Kolya followed laboriously.

  It was the longest distance that the half-gypsy boy had ever traveled in his short life, those four hundred yards from the square to the flaming house. The image loomed ahead of him like a bad dream, the orange-red flames licking the sides of the two-story mansion like a dog slobbering over a bone. His legs were like rubber, and his throat was raw from calling “Mama! Mama!” as he ran, praying for speed when he knew there was no way he could get there in time.

  Rastolnikov grabbed him by the arm. “Easy, lad, easy,” he bellowed in what was meant to be a gentle tone. Sasha was crying, from fear and from the acrid black smoke that filled his eyes and lungs. He coughed, feeling as though his lungs would be expelled with each wracking heave. Rastolnikov placed a cloth about Sasha’s mouth. “That’ll filter out some of the ash,” he told the boy.

  Sasha rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to clear them so he could see what had happened. The fire had been put out, but part of the house had been destroyed.

  “Where’s my family?” he demanded, trying to sound commanding and succeeding only in sounding very young and frightened. Rastolnikov didn’t answer at once.

  “We’ll … tend to them in the morning, son. There’s bad magic in there, too powerful for any of us to challenge tonight,” the baker said cryptically.

  “Is that the boy?” came a hard, angry voice. Rough hands grabbed Sasha, and pulled him away from the baker. “It’s him!” Sasha found himself looking up at Andrei the butcher, who fixed him with a hateful gaze. “This is all your fault!”

  The stunned boy couldn’t even form a reply. “Vistani vengeance!” came another voice, shrill and female. “That gypsy—the boy’s father. Kartov beat him, and look! Remember, the gypsy cursed Kartov? Remember? And did you see what happened to them? Dear gods, their throats …” The woman who had spoken began to sob. The people around Sasha drew back, murmuring prayers and making signs against the Evil Eye.

  Sasha looked again at the charred house. He stood up a little straighter. “I’m going inside,” he said to anyone who would listen. He turned to Kolya, who had finally caught up with him. “Are you coming?”

  Kolya looked up at Rastolnikov, who shook his head. The boy glanced back at his playmate, then averted his eyes. “No, Sasha. Guess I am a coward.”

  Sasha stared at his friend. “I guess you are, Kolya,” he said slowly, not wanting to believe it. He tied the handkerchief about his face to screen out what smoke he could and leave his hands free.

  Alone, Sasha walked to what had once been his home. The angry, frightened crowd parted for him, muttering as they did so. The boy moved through the open wrought iron gates, across the now-wet cobblestone courtyard, and up to the door. The bucket brigade had broken it open in order to get inside, and the flames had blackened the thick wood. Gingerly the boy stepped through the jagged hole they had made, ducking his head to avoid the sharp edges. The wood was wet, but Sasha could still feel the heat.

  He looked down as he entered, and it was then that he noticed the crimson footprints.

  They appeared and disappeared through the still-thick, black smoke that swirled sluggishly throughout the room. Made by a pair of boots, the footprints descended the stairs and continued on out the door. Red blood stained the carpeting that Grandmama so prized. Sasha’s heart began to thump erratically, filling his chest so that he could hardly breathe.

  More than anything at that moment, as Sasha stared at the bloody footprints, he wanted his mother. He wanted to hug her, feel her hands smoothing his hair. Sasha took a deep breath, straightened up, and looked around.

  A whimper began in his throat. His mother was there, all right, and so were his grandparents. They were half-charred bodies on a pile of lumber, still smoking and giving off a terrible burned-meat stench. Sasha’s knees gave way. He barely had time to tear off the handkerchief before he threw up violently. He cried, and he gasped, then he managed some semblance of self-control.

  The boy took a few more gulps of the comparatively cool air that circulated near the floor, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and retied the handkerchief around his face. Something his mother had once said returned like a prayer to comfort him: You are from a proud line. You are the grandson of the leader of your village on one side, and the child of a strong, free, magical people on the other. When the children tease you about the legitimacy of your birth, smile to yourself and remember what I have said.

  Sasha got to his feet. He didn’t want to, but he took a few steps toward the smoking bodies as if drawn. His family had been murdered, that much was clear, but how? And by whom? Sasha identified only three corpses—his grandparents and his mother. He felt bile rise in his throat again when he saw that their throats had been savaged, but he swallowed hard.

  The manner of their deaths raised more questions. If they had been killed by wolves, as seemed apparent, who had tried to burn the corpses? Surely not the villagers. And where was the rest of the household?

  Still feeling weak from nausea and the smoke, Sasha opened the side door which led into the servant’s quarters. He moaned and leaned against the door for support. The torches flickering in their sconces provided ample if eerily distorted illumination. Here, too, were signs of slaughter. Ivan, the burgomaster’s valet, lay sprawled on the stone floor. He somehow managed to still look dignified and imposing even though a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his throat.

  There was very little bl
ood.

  Sasha dragged his eyes from the floor and quickly noticed that the maids, cook, grooms, and stable boys had also had their throats mangled. Part of Sasha’s brain shrieked for him to panic, to mourn; he had known these people very well, after all. Another part of him, however, seemed frozen and calculating, and it was to that part that Sasha clung as he finished his grisly tour.

  The half-gypsy boy left the servant’s quarters shaken, but determined to continue with his investigation. Only one person remained unaccounted for: his aunt, Ludmilla. He walked past the piled bodies, keeping his head turned away from the sight, and stopped before the wide staircase. A torch burned steadily on the wall beside the steps. Sasha gently lifted it from its sconce and gripped it hard. He paused a moment, steadied himself, and began to ascend.

  The firelight cast strange shadows that appeared and disappeared as he climbed. His heart beat even faster, and Sasha wiped suddenly-damp palms on his breeches. The cold part of him was starting to melt, and the boy could sense the panic huddled at the back of his wounded soul waiting to burst forth.

  He reached the top of the stairs and stopped, looking down the dark hall. The smoke was thicker up here than it had been on the floor below, and it moved in languid gray and black swirls, obscuring his vision and making his eyes water. Sasha could picture things hiding behind that protective shield of smoke.… Angrily he stilled his imagination and almost defiantly stepped into his room, thrusting the torch before him.

  Nothing had been touched in the boy’s room. His small bed was still neatly made, his toys and clothes remained out of sight in the large trunk. Yet everything had changed in the last few hours for the room’s inhabitant. Sasha closed the door as he stepped back into the hallway.

  The next room was where his Aunt Ludmilla and his mother slept. Sasha knew what had happened to Anastasia, and for an instant the panic got a foothold in his brain. Again, Sasha forced the fear down. He stood before the door for a long moment, trembling, wondering what was on the other side. Then he grasped the doorknob in his small hand, turned it as quietly as he could, and gently pushed the door open.

  Moonlight streamed in through the opened window, silvering the room. There was a shape in Aunt Ludmilla’s bed. As Sasha stood by the door, staring at the lump, it moved slightly.

  Sasha almost lost control. What was in that bed?

  A little whimper escaped him, and he bit his lip hard, tensing. The shape in his aunt’s bed didn’t move again. Shakily Sasha moved toward the form, his trembling hands making the torch dance crazily. He stood beside the bed. The shape had covered itself with the blanket. Before he could change his mind, the boy leaped forward, pulled the bedding down, then jumped out of range.

  Aunt Ludmilla slept quietly. Sasha could see her rhythmic breathing. The boy let out the breath he had been holding.

  “Aunt Milla!” he cried, reaching to shake her. It was then that he noticed how pale she was, whiter almost than the sheets upon which she lay. As he shook her, frantically trying to wake her, her head lolled to the side and her dark hair fell away from her throat.

  Two holes, small and cleanly made, were visible in her neck.

  He was a tall, pale man, with sharp teeth and claws. ‘Stop!’ said Nosferatu, for so Pavel knew it to be. ‘Stop, that I may drink your blood and live upon your death.’

  Nosferatu, Sasha thought, horror rushing through him. The First Guardian of Darkness.

  Vampire.

  This time, the panic broke through. A cry welled in his throat, but somehow remained there. By some miracle, Sasha kept hold of the torch. He stumbled backward against the door, closing it. For a mindless instant Sasha pounded on the door before his reason reminded him that there was a knob. He turned it and sped out into the corridor. Luck alone saved him from a tumble down the blood-marked stairs.

  “Help!” he shrieked, finally getting a sound past the block in his throat as he dived for the damaged door and the sweet air outside. Rastolnikov had been waiting for him and helped him outside. Sasha clung to the baker, jabbering incoherently.

  “Calm down, lad. Calm down and speak clearly,” Rastolnikov boomed.

  “Nosferatu!” Sasha gasped. “They were all killed by nosferatu! Come on, we’ve got to, got to …” He couldn’t remember the legends, something about stakes in their hearts and cutting off their heads.

  He swayed and his knees gave way. The baker, with a gentleness that belied his build, carefully picked him up.

  “Not nosferatu,” came a hostile voice from the crowd. “Vistani vengeance! Leave the boy to whatever horrors his people have brought here!”

  “Vladimir,” the baker’s wife said, “you cannot take the boy in.”

  “He has no family!” Rastolnikov retorted.

  “Then let him wander as the Lost Ones do, or else let the Vistani take him back,” his wife replied, meaty hands on her sizable hips. “No one in the village will buy our bread if you shelter this bad luck boy in our home!”

  The big baker ran a tongue around his lips. His wife was right. No good could come from a half-gypsy mongrel. Rastolnikov’s wife had always been of the opinion that Burgomaster Kartov ought to have disowned Sasha, or at least made Anastasia turn her pup over to the Vistani. Rastolnikov was well aware that Sasha had caused more mischief in the village than any three other boys put together. Yet there was something quite pathetic about the child lying unconscious in his arms. Without the fire of his personality, the ten-year-old seemed almost birdlike in his delicacy, the bones underneath the dark skin fragile and easily breakable.

  With a sigh, Rastolnikov placed Sasha back on the ground. The boy’s eyelids fluttered and opened. Black eyes fastened on the baker’s face.

  “You’re not going to help me, are you?”

  Rastolnikov’s wife coughed. “No, lad, I can’t,” the baker said, genuine regret in his voice.

  The boy’s lower lip quivered, and tears began to pour down his face. Sasha could have sworn that he had exhausted his supply of tears, but somehow the droplets kept coming.

  “P-please,” he begged, his voice low and trembling, “if you don’t help me, they’re going to come get me too!”

  “Aye, and so they should, gypsy’s bastard!” Someone cried. A gobbet of spit landed on Sasha’s face. With the dignity of one much older, the boy wiped away the offensive matter and stood unsteadily. “Go back to your own kind!”

  Other curses were shouted, but Sasha ignored them. He walked stiffly to where he had dropped his sack and rummaged through it. He took his time, and some of the people watching him spitefully lost interest and returned to the safety of their homes. Still more left when a stinging, needling summer rain began to fall. Finally, Sasha was alone with his preparations.

  A half-hour later, the boy stood in front of the broken door to his home, looking like some childish caricature of a vampire hunter. He was soaked to the skin, his silky hair plastered to his skull. He had taken both his and Kolya’s garlic wreaths and draped them around his neck. All the wooden disks adorned his neck, as well. Corked bottles of holy water were in his pants’ pocket, within easy reach. One of his small hands clutched a clumsily sharpened stake; the other held a hammer that was almost too heavy for him to carry.

  “Are you sure you know what to do?”

  Sasha looked around, surprised, and saw the tall, thin figure of Brother Martyn standing beside him. The cleric’s pink and gold robes hung loosely about his slight frame, and his eyes were on fire with zeal. But his smile, as he looked down at the boy, was kind. Martyn, too, wore a variety of holy symbols and carried a bag that rattled woodenly when he moved.

  “Why don’t you let me take that hammer,” the priest offered. Sasha stared, unable to believe that anyone had taken his side in the nightmare.

  Sasha’s family hadn’t been particularly religious. No one in Barovia was; with all the dreadful things that happened in the haunted land, few believed in the old gods anymore. When Brother Martyn had appeared from the Svalich Woods se
veral years before, babbling about the Morninglord, no one had believed him, but he had been permitted to live in the abandoned church as long as he didn’t violate any of the town’s laws. Sasha had always thought that Martyn was a little crazed. That didn’t seem to matter now. Sasha burst into fresh tears of hope and hugged the cleric tightly. Martyn hesitated, then tentatively stroked Sasha’s dark head.

  “Lathander is with us,” he murmured to the child. “He will help us destroy our foes.”

  As he steeled himself to re-enter the charnel house that had been his home, Sasha Petrovich prayed fervently.

  They stepped inside. Nothing had changed. The sinister scarlet footprints still descended the stairs. The oppressive, expectant silence still filled the air. Brusquely, unaffected by the sight, Martyn examined the bodies. “They have been drained of blood,” he said coldly. “If they are buried, they will rise again as undead themselves. Hand me a stake and some garlic.”

  The cleric pulled the first body off of the blackened wood, tugging it free. Sasha turned away, his stomach roiling. The corpse was his mother. Her right arm had been charred and her clothes almost burned away. The right side of her face was also seared, and her hair had been scorched. Swiftly and efficiently Martyn laid her out on the carpeted floor. He glanced at Sasha, who had sat down with his knees pulled up to his chest.

  “You do this one.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with revulsion. “No!”

  “Yes,” Martyn insisted, going to the boy and kneeling beside him. “She’s your mother. The hand of the one who loved her best should strike the blow that sets her free.”

  “But she’s … No. Martyn, no. I can’t!”