Dhampir

by J. C.

  Dhampir

  The Noble Dead

  Book I

  J.C. & Barb

  Hendee

  For Jaclyn,

  our little starving artist

  raised by two starving

  artists

  CONTENT

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The village appeared deserted but for thin trails of smoke escaping clay chimneys to drift up and dissolve in the darkness. All doors were barred, all window shutters latched tight until only the barest wisps of light from candles or lamps seeped between their cracks. There was no one in the village's muddy center path to see the night-shadowed object flitter toward a cottage near the tree line.

  The shadow stopped, hesitating next to the cottage. Slowly, its form shifted and expanded as it ceased to consciously hide itself. Nothingness became booted feet and reaching arms, a tall and slim torso, and a head with two pinprick glimmers for eyes. It scaled a tree rapidly and jumped onto its goal.

  Settling upon the thatched roof, it slid on its belly to crawl headfirst down one wall. Then it stopped, poised at the top of a shuttered window. One finger extended to slip a clawlike fingernail between the shutters. Prying and pulling, it worked at the shutter until the latch finally gave with a sharp snap. The figure paused, waiting, listening for any answering sound from within the room. When none came, it pulled the shutters open.

  On a bed inside lay a small, old woman. Long silver hair, tied in a braid, rested next to her head across a yellowed linen pillow. A faded patchwork quilt of carmine and teal squares covered her.

  The creature hung its head down through the window. Its voice sounded like an echo across a vast plain as it whispered, "May I come in?"

  The old woman moved slightly in her sleep.

  Again the voice asked with a touch of yearning, "Please, old mother, may I come in?"

  She moaned and rolled, her face turning to the window. On her wrinkled brow was a small, white scar half smothered by the creases of aged skin. Her eyes remained closed in sleep as she murmured in reply. "Yes… yes, come in."

  The visitor reached one arm through the opening and upward to set its fingernails in the wall. It crawled over the upper edge of the window, letting its feet swing inward, then dropped soundlessly to the bedroom floor. Crossing to the bed, it quickly reached out with one hand and clamped it down over the old woman's mouth.

  She woke, eyes wide and frightened, but only for a brief moment. Then she stared with an empty gaze into the eyes above her. The night visitor relaxed its grip, lowering its head to her throat. All in the room became still and quiet and timeless.

  Then its head swung up to stare at the open window. A dark stain covered the side of the old woman's throat. The visitor began to lower its head again to the old woman, but paused. With an owl-tilt of its head, its gaze returned to the window as it listened.

  Outside, someone was walking the village path. The visitor moved to the window.

  Strolling along the village path was a young woman wearing studded leather armor and high, soft boots pulled over earth-colored breeches. In one hand she held a short pole, and in the other a long knife with which she worked at sharpening the pole's end into a crude point. At her side hung a short falchion in its worn leather scabbard. The night was too dark for most eyes, but as the woman passed between moon-shadows of cottages and nearby trees, the visitor saw her dark hair with hidden shimmers of red that offset smooth, young skin little more than two decades of age. No true fear or wariness showed in the woman's posture as she moved through the village, fashioning the wooden short-spear.

  "Hunter," it whispered to itself with amusement.

  The pathetic humor of what it saw was too much to hold in, and it laughed under its breath as it leaped out the window to spider-walk up the cottage wall onto the roof. The dark form shrank and vanished into the night forest.

  Chapter One

  Long past sundown, Magiere walked into another shabby Stravinan village without really seeing it. Peasants lived the same way everywhere. All their bleak, shapeless huts began to blur together after six years, and Magiere only noted their number as a gauge of population. No more than a hundred people lived here, and perhaps as few as fifty. None showed themselves this late in the night, though she heard the creak of a door or window shutter as she passed by, someone peeking out when she wasn't looking. The only other sound was the scrape of her hunting knife on hard wood as she sharpened the end of the short wooden pole no longer than her arm.

  Darkness didn't frighten her. It suggested to her none of the fear-conjured threats that made these peasants shudder behind their barred doors. She checked her falchion in its sheath, making sure she could draw it out easily if needed, and continued her stroll toward the far end of the village. A drizzle of rain began, which soon matted down her black hair, smothering any crimson tint it might have shown in the light. With her pale skin, she must look as baneful to the villagers as their visions of the creature they'd hired her to eliminate.

  Not far outside the village she stopped at the communal graveyard to survey the fresh mounds of earth, each surrounded by tin lanterns put there to keep evil spirits from seizing the bodies of the dead. There were no headstones or markers as yet on these new graves—they had been buried in haste before such could be prepared. She turned back through the village again, studying the buildings more closely this time as she looked for the one most likely to be the common house.

  Most of the peasants would be gathered in some communal building, seeking safety in numbers. She glanced around for anything large enough, but all the huts looked the same—drab, weatherworn timbers with thatch roofs and clay pot-chimneys. They were dismal and silent, like everything else in this hope-abandoned land. Garlands of dried garlic bulbs hung across the few windows. The only signs of life were the few streams of smoke rising into the night sky. Slight tinges of iron and char scented the wet air. An unattended forge must be smoldering somewhere nearby. People dropped everything at dusk in times like these.

  Movement caught Magiere's eye. Two shivering figures ran across the muddy road. Their tattered rags exposed filthy skin. Magiere absently slipped her knife into its sheath, then gathered her own warm cloak a bit tighter. The figures scurried toward the graveyard, trying to keep the gusting breeze and rain from snuffing out their lanterns.

  "Hello," Magiere called out softly. They both jumped and whirled toward the sound.

  Thin, wretched faces twisted in alarm. One of them backed away, and the other jerked up the wooden pitchfork he was carrying. Magiere remained still and let them see what she was, but she gripped the wooden pole a little tighter. Understanding the mentality of these people was a large part of her job. Very slowly, beneath her cloak, her free hand settled on the falchion's hilt, ready to draw. It paid to take care around panic-stricken peasants.

  The man holding the pitchfork peered uncertainly through the rain at her studded leather armor and pole. The fear on his face changed into a vague semblance of hope.

  "You are the hunter?" he asked.

  She gave a
slight nod. "Have you more dead?"

  Both men let out a slow breath of relief and stumbled forward.

  "No… no more dead, but the zupan's son is close." The second man gasped, then beckoned with his hand. "Come quickly." The peasants turned and fled back up the muddy center path.

  She followed, stopping when they did at a door with a small sign above that had been worn unreadable long ago. This rough building had to be their common house, since the village was far too remote to have an inn catering to travelers. "Zupan" was their name for a village chief. He, along with some of the villagers, would be waiting inside for her.

  An expectant sigh slipped through her lips as she wondered what this zupan would be like—a cold, hard sell she hoped. The ones who fawned over her, in hope that she wouldn't suck the village dry, were the most repulsive. It was easier when they resisted, until she made them realize there was no other reasonable prospect than to pay her price or wait to die. The quietly agreeable ones were the most dangerous. Once the job was finished, she would have to watch for unexpected company in the shadows on her way out of town, ready to reclaim their payment with a harvest blade or shearing knife through her back.

  "Open up!" one of her escorts shouted. "We have the hunter with us."

  The door creaked inward. The orange-red glow of firelight spilled out, along with an overwhelming stench of garlic and sweat. Magiere glanced down into the eyes of an age-stunted woman clutching a stained shawl, face drawn and sallow as though she hadn't slept in days. At the sight of Magiere, the woman's expression altered to one of desperate hope. Magiere had seen it too many times.

  "Thank the guardian spirits!" the woman whispered. "We heard you would come, but I didn't…" She trailed off. "Please come in. I'll get you a hot drink?"

  Magiere stepped into the thick heat of the small common house. One thing she hated most about her vocation was all of the traveling in the cold. Eight men and three women were crowded into the tiny room. On a table to one side lay an unconscious boy. At least two people at any given moment hovered close to the boy in case he died.

  A superstitious lot, these peasants believed that evil spirits sought out the bodies of the newly dead, using the corpses to prey upon and feed off the blood of the living. The first thirty-six hours were the most critical for a malevolent spirit to enter a corpse. Magiere had heard all the other legends and folk stories; this was just one of the more popular. Some thought vampirism spread like a disease, or that such creatures were simply evil people cursed by fate to an undead existence. The details varied; the results were the same—long nights spent shivering from fear more than the cold as they waited for a champion to save them.

  A huge, dark-haired man, like an ancient grizzly with a gray-stubble beard, stood at the table's head, watching the boy's closed eyes. It was a long moment before he lifted his gaze to Magiere and acknowledged her presence. His clothing looked similar to everyone else's, perhaps with one or two less layers of grime, but his bearing marked him as the zupan. He pushed through the overcrowded room to face her.

  "I'm Petre Evanko," he said in a surprisingly soft voice. He motioned to the woman who had greeted Magiere. "My wife, Anna."

  Magiere politely nodded, but didn't introduce herself. Mystery was part of the game.

  Zupan Petre stood for a moment, taking in her appearance, one that Magiere had carefully tailored long ago for her work.

  Studded-leather armor marked her as warrior too much on the move for anything heavier or bulkier. The volume of her cloak made it uncertain what might be hiding beneath.

  Her thick black hair with its red accents was bound in a long, plain braid, sensible and efficient. Around her neck hung two strange amulets no one would be able to identify, and which she only left in view when working a village. She carried a short, pointed pole made of wood, with a leather-covered handle.

  Magiere swung the pack off her shoulder, its top flap swinging open as it settled at her feet. Zupan Petre looked down at the mixed contents of unlabeled jars, urns, and pouches, some of which were filled with strange herbs and powders. These were all the accoutrements expected for someone who battled the undead.

  "I'm honored, Zupan Petre," Magiere said. "Your message reached me two weeks ago. I regret my delay, but there are so few hunters and so great a demand."

  His expression changed to gratitude. "Don't apologize. Come and see my son. He's dying."

  "I'm not a healer," Magiere quickly interjected. "I can remove your undead, but I can't cure the damage already done."

  Anna reached out to touch her cloak. "Please just look at him. You may see something we cannot."

  Magiere glanced at the boy, and then moved closer. The other villagers shuffled out of her way. She was always careful to explain her limitations and give no one open cause to accuse her of making false promises. The boy was pale and barely breathing, but Magiere grew puzzled. There were no sores or fever, no sign of injury or illness.

  "How long has he been like this?"

  "Two days now," Anna whispered. "Just like the others."

  "Were they all young boys?"

  "No, one older man and two young women."

  No pattern. Magiere stared intently at the sleeping boy and then turned to Anna. "Take off his shirt."

  She waited quietly for Anna to finish before examining the boy's arms and chest. Then she inspected the joints of his limbs. His flesh was intact but so pale it seemed almost blue, even in the amber firelight from the hearth. She lifted his head. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of two oozing holes under his left ear, but she kept her expression guarded.

  Her gaze shifted quickly to Zupan Petre's face. "Have you seen these?"

  The zupan's bristly brows wrinkled in a frown. "Of course. Is that not the way of a vampire, to bleed its victim through the throat?"

  Magiere looked back at the holes. "Yes, but…"

  The holes were large, but perhaps it had been a large snake or some kind of serpent. Powerful venom could account for the pallored skin and shallow breathing.

  "Has someone been with him all the time?" she asked.

  Petre crossed his arms. "Anna or myself. We would never leave him like this."

  Magiere nodded. "Anyone else?"

  "No," Anna whispered. "Why are you asking such questions?"

  Magiere checked herself and quickly salved their uncertainty. "No two undeads kill in exactly the same way. Knowing the details will help me prepare."

  The old woman relaxed visibly, looking almost sheepish, and her husband nodded in approval.

  Magiere returned to her pack by the door. Two villagers, who'd been carefully peering over its contents, quickly stepped back. She laid down her pole and from out of her pack pulled a large brass container, its shape somewhere between a bowl and an urn, with a fitted hard-leather lid. All over the lid and bowl were scratches and scribbles of unintelligible symbols.

  "I need this to catch the vampire's spirit. Many undeads are spirit creatures."

  Everyone watched in rapt interest, and when she knew she had their complete attention, she changed the subject. It was time to talk about price.

  "I know your village is suffering, Zupan, but the costs of my materials are high."

  Petre was ready and motioned her to a back room. "My family went door-to-door last week for donations. We are not rich, but all have helped by giving something."

  He opened the door, and she glanced inside at goods piled upon a canvas quilt spread over the dirt floor. There were two full slabs of smoke-cured pork, four blocks of white cheese, about twenty eggs, three wolf pelts, and two small silver symbols—perhaps for some deity who had not answered their prayers. All in all, it was a very typical first offer.

  "I'm sorry," Magiere said. "You don't understand. Food is welcome, but the quilt is of no use to me, and the rest won't cover my costs. I often work and gain no profit, but I can't work at a loss. Without enough coin, I at least need goods I can sell to cover what I spend to make ready for battle. Mo
st of my materials are rare and costly to acquire and prepare."

  Petre turned white, genuinely shocked. He apparently had thought the offer quite generous. "This is all we have. I sent my family out begging. You cannot let us die. Or are we now to bargain for our lives?"

  "And what good would it do the next village if I left here unable to prepare for their defense?" she returned.

  This exchange was customary for Magiere, though Zupan Petre appeared to be more intelligent than other village leaders she'd dealt with in the past. She kept her expression sympathetic but firm. Villagers almost always had some little treasure hidden away where tax collectors couldn't find it. It might be a family heirloom, possibly a small gem or some silver taken off a dead mercenary, but it was here.

  "You've come all this way, and you'll do nothing?" The flesh beneath his eyes was turning gray.

  Anna reached out and touched her husband's shirt. "Give her the seed money, Petre." Her voice was quiet, but quivered with fear.

  "No," he answered sharply.

  Anna turned to the others, who so far had watched in silence. "What good is seed if we are all dead before spring?"

  Petre breathed in sharply. "How long will we live with nothing to eat next year? How long will we live in the lord's dungeons when we cannot pay the tax?"

  Magiere stayed out of this predictable bickering. They would go back and forth, for and against, until their fears began to win over. Then would follow the hope that if they could just overcome this terror, something would come later to see them through the next year. She knew these peasants too well. They were all the same.

  A short flurry of arguments ensued, but Magiere busied herself inspecting the contents of her pack and ignored the discussion, as if the outcome was obvious. Those in favor of keeping the seed coins and taking a chance with the vampire were soon squelched. The argument faded so quickly it would have been startling, had Magiere not heard it so many times before.

  At first no one spoke. Then a lanky, middle-aged man stepped from the corner of the room to face the zupan squarely. From the char smudges on his leather apron, he was likely what passed for a blacksmith in a village of this size.