DEVIL’S ROW

by Serafini, Matt

  “…laughter that surrounded us. A mother. A father. Easing off stone slabs from a fresh night’s sleep. Their teeth were like scythes, they wanted to bite us.” He raised the axe on cue, finishing the story through the silent gesture.

  “Did they?” Garrick asked? “Bite you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Strip then.”

  The men disputed, but Garrick cut through their protests with a flash of his gun. The strangers pulled their shreds away and stood shriveled by cold air.

  Sebastian and Timothy gave them a physician’s attention. Save for a few surface cuts, they were clean. They were then ordered to redress.

  “Is there anything else you would tell us,” Garrick said. “So that we do not befall the…challenges you faced?”

  They shook their heads in unison.

  “And where do you make for now?”

  “Anywhere.” The answer was eager.

  “Away from here,” said the other.

  “Best you hurry then. Follow this road for as long as you can. It is long, but uneventful. You should pass without incident.”

  The men offered their nervous thanks and hurried on their way. Once they were out of earshot Sebastian laid back down, eager to resume his search for Tulcea before he was even conscious of that desire.

  “You know what you’ve just done,” Timothy said, incredulous as always.

  Garrick nestled into his bedroll without an answer, closing the lantern’s airflow once he was settled.

  “You sent those men to their deaths. If she really is tracking us…”

  “Then I bought us some time,” Garrick said and rolled onto his side.

  Sebastian found sleep impossible. The forest’s natural bustle brought no comfort as each noise made him suspicious of varcolac, vampires or thieving killers.

  A series of relaxed breaths brought a thin layer of sleep, but it was eventually severed by the desperate screams of two familiar men in the far off distance.

  Then there was nothing in the night except silence.

  ***

  Fresh blood broke across the wolf’s nose. From the depths, she stirred. She wanted nothing more than to surface. Her human guise wished it too, calling for her even now, as she straddled the twitching corpse, splattered with lifeblood that encouraged the change.

  The wolf’s stomach rumbled; her hunger was great.

  And yet, it wasn’t enough.

  ***

  Sebastian felt like he was in the worst drunken stupor of his life.

  They marched, without food or water to supplement the grueling pace, and his mind grew more fatigued than his body.

  He kept his desire for Tulcea secret in a mixture of selfishness and shame. She had chosen him. And thinking about her made his stomach warmer than all the gin in London.

  Sebastian’s arms swung like logs as he walked, his eyes rolled back in his head as the sun begun falling.

  He needed sleep. Not a few hours of bedroll rest, either. Genuine respite for as long a while as he could afford.

  After this journey, I’ll be able to afford quite a bit, he imagined.

  The day dwindled to a bleak gray sky. Ahead of him, Timothy gasped.

  Sebastian shambled forward and leaned on the kid’s shoulder for support.

  A village sat ensconced by a crescent-circled stonewall. Pointed stakes jutted from the earth around the perimeter, each one capped by a gape-mouthed severed head. The large poles stretched high. Each head blackened by the sun’s errant rays that broke through the trees whenever the wind blew just right.

  A declaration for travelers to stay far, far away.

  Sebastian took a seat in the dirt. His breaths were wheezes now. Garrick eyed the situation.

  “He will not survive without proper rest,” the hunter said and motioned for Timothy to help him up.

  The town’s streets were sparse. A few people shuffled past them on their way in. Faces that were so worn and tired, they continued their dead-eyed business without acknowledging the travelers—an attitude that was to be expected from a place that decorated itself with the decapitated heads of enemies.

  They headed up the hill to the estate grounds. It was set against the furthest part of wall, and fenced off by an iron gate.

  “Stay alert,” Garrick mumbled and then headed for the door.

  He was about to knock when it creaked open. An old woman offered a plump smile. She smelled of a pig’s sty even from across the way.

  “Been some time since we had a visitor.” She spoke another tongue entirely and Timothy translated it to Sebastian in a whisper.

  Garrick returned the language, offering a quick and light response.

  “Considering the decorations outside your walls, it is not hard to understand why.” Timothy’s translation service continued.

  “I am sure you can understand.” A voice behind them spoke in shattered English. A man emerged from an empty stable ornamented in regal riding colors. He was bacon-fed with pink jowls that swayed as he came forward—an incongruity in this part of the world. He glanced at the sky and brushed dirt off his thighs as if newly returned from a ride. “You are well-armed and outfitted. Against the evil in this land, I assume?”

  “Does it pester you?” Timothy said.

  “It terrorizes us.”

  Sebastian shoved off Timothy’s support and squandered what little energy remained by crossing over with his hand outstretched. He wasn’t just hoping for their hospitality, he needed it.

  “Sebastian Miles.”

  “Ion Bey.” The man grinned and took Sebastian’s palm in his gloved hand. “Governor of the quaint village of Rodica.”

  “Does Moldova have a democracy?” Garrick said. “I thought we were in Ottoman territory?”

  “We are,” said Bey. “But their rule is a formality. We bow to the Sultan, but are little more than a tributary to his regime. A check mark on their conquest map.”

  “Is it customary for the Ottomans to cut the heads off their enemies and decorate village walls with them?” Garrick said

  Bey did not seem amused by the question. “Defiance of the creatures that have done this.”

  “What creatures?”

  “Excuse me if your ignorance comes off as disingenuous. I believe you know all too well what besieges us, considering the equipment you carry. Those are silver sabers, yes?”

  “Many things could besiege you,” Garrick said. “Peter the Great and his Russian Empire push in on you from the north. We know that to be true as we have seen his destruction and the resulting scarceness every step of the way.”

  “Peter the Great thinks there is hope of expansion, but he is no threat to us.”

  “So it is not the heads of his men poking up over these walls like curious children?”

  Ion Bey didn’t look amused. If Garrick’s arrogance and belligerence spoiled their chances at asylum, Sebastian was likely to kill him as his last order of business. “You know those are not the heads of soldiers.”

  Garrick went silent and the two leaders stared at one another. Everyone knew what plagued Bey, but they were averse to mentioning it.

  When Garrick had no choice but to test the waters he cleared his throat and spoke with molasses. “Wolves?” he said.

  “And worse,” Bey said.

  “I did not know their rampage extended this far east.”

  “All darkness converges here,” Bey said. “Wolves, yes, but it is the dead that are drawn to us. Our very presence taunts their hunger, and the relentless war between rulers invites them to linger.”

  “We have fought the undead as well,” Sebastian said.

  The possibility of assistance prompted a smile from Bey. “Our requests for support have fallen on deaf ears. My people are not helpless, as the pikes attest. We’ve stopped a share of them and left some on display so that the devils think twice before coming back. You noticed our quiet city streets?”

  “Hard to miss them,” Sebastian said.

  “A
s hard as it is to live when your only thoughts are of demons that sack your livelihood.”

  Bey walked to the edge of the gate and peered out at the desolate street. Rodica resembled a drab oil painting in dusk light. Its charcoal color scheme was a rough sketch of a village; blurred spaces populated with sporadic butter glow from candle-lit windows.

  “We prefer the nights now,” Bey said, dragging fingers across the iron-wrought bars in lament. “It is when they come, and we stand a better chance of being on guard if we sleep the day away.”

  Garrick negotiated for them to stay the night. Bey required very little convincing, even insisting that Rodica prepare a feast in their honor. Before Garrick could so much as accept, Bey added, “and we may ask for your ear in a few matters as well.”

  The hunter had Timothy escort Sebastian to the inn. One of the villagers led the way, asking urgent-paced questions as they shuffled. Timothy answered in native tongue while Sebastian’s eyes drifted and his vision blurred.

  The inn was a two-story building just down the hill from Bey’s estate. The rooms offered nothing beyond marginal luxury, but it was paradise to Sebastian. The beds were stuffed with assorted feathers and they embraced his back as soon as he lay across it.

  Now that he was comfortable, his heart skipped and his blood thinned. In this privacy, he wished for Tulcea. No point in resisting, she’d come whether he looked or not. She was nowhere to be seen, though. He took some breaths, thinking he wasn’t relaxed enough, but disappointment remained as his mistress continued to be nothing more than a wish.

  And then he slipped into unconsciousness.

  The room was pitch-black when he awoke, hearing Garrick and Timothy’s hushed voices shushing through the night.

  Sebastian stumbled into the hall like a last-call pubber, catching himself against the far wall with a propped arm. After all that rest, he felt worse than ever.

  Garrick and Timothy watched him with an air of disgust, but said nothing of it. The hunter informed them that they were to have a late supper in the tavern. And that Ion Bey had arranged the entire village to speak with them.

  “We cannot afford to play hero to these people,” Timothy said. “Sebastian is hurt, our supplies are nearly spent…”

  “If we flat-out refuse, it will be worse,” Garrick said. “Surely, you feel the desperation here? To this town, we are a last chance. In your profession, pup, you must know all too well what happens to men when they find themselves up against death.”

  That halted his protest.

  “Now go down there, have supper, and above all else, understand that you do not have to speak as much as you think.” They objected when Sebastian insisted on going along, suggesting that he get plenty of rest.

  He wouldn’t hear it.

  The village was sprawled in moonlight when they headed down the street. It was almost inviting at this hour. For one thing, the pikes were hardly visible from this side of the wall, and the stone-cobbled street saw shadows prancing around the torchlight that lined every home. From an upstairs window, a beautiful voice sang in a language that Sebastian couldn’t understand.

  When they reached the tavern, they found rows of long and wooden tables. Ion Bey waited for them upon entrance and motioned for them to join him in the corner, their backs against the wall so the entire village could be their audience.

  Garrick came in a few moments behind them and stole some private words with Bey. Then, he took the middle seat so that Timothy and Sebastian were on either side of him. Timothy lit one of the torches behind them so they wouldn’t sup in darkness. The décor was brownstone. That, or it was lined with so much filth that it had adapted that color. Each table was bookended by unlit candles.

  “It seems everyone has a story of woe,” Garrick said, watching scattered villagers enter. His performance feigned interest on all of their behalves, a ruse to keep Rodica’s walls around them.

  Dinner was served, a chintzy offering of potato stew and hardened loaf. The steins housed flat, dry ale, and they sipped it with polite-but-disheartened eyes.

  As they ate, the town’s survivors continued hobbling in and took seats wherever it was darkest. They recounted predictable stories: wolves mauling anyone who ventured beyond the walls, emboldened creatures that soon ventured into Rodica’s outskirts. Monsters were everywhere before long, hiding in the alleyways and preying on the unsuspecting by waiting inside basements. Howls ignited the streets, regardless of dusk or dawn. Rodicans became prisoners for long stretches of daylight. The wolves left only once they had fed, and even then, they were never gone for very long.

  This was Freywald all over again—another vulnerable outpost awaiting a killing bite. Garrick had to know this as well. It was the underlying motivation for his ruse. Sell them one narrative, hope and valor, while carrying out another.

  Spinelessness.

  Sebastian was in the business of helping those who couldn’t help themselves, though never at the expense of his own life. Their ability to wage another war on the scale of Freywald was long dashed. Moving forward was their only hope. Moving fast.

  The room of beaten eyes filled him with insurmountable pressure. His conscience responded with pangs of guilt that forced his eyes to drop into the cloudy soup bowl. He kept his glance there and listened.

  When it wasn’t the wolves, the undead passed through Rodica and demanded attention for their special hungers.

  “We gave them our sick,” a woman said upon entering. She went to the tavern’s farthest table and slipped into shadows before Sebastian could get a look at her. “Thought that would make them go. It only created the expectation of regular feedings.”

  A young child came through the heavy door and sat beside her. His tearful recount was of the night his mother and sister were raped and shredded by a wolf that had hid beneath their bed until transformation.

  The stories swelled as the tavern’s occupancy grew to resemble Sunday mass. Only Rodica’s residents no longer dressed for the Lord, if they ever had. Tattered rags were the village’s official colors now. The low light cast shadows over most faces. The ones Sebastian could see were as dirty as the tavern walls.

  Defeated people, hanging on for dear life.

  For some reason.

  Garrick pushed his empty soup bowl toward the center of the table. He fell back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest as he listened.

  “Ion Bey,” Timothy said when the stories lulled. “Why do you rise in the evening if that is when the creatures are prone to attack?”

  “Nocturnal lifestyle is a necessity. Sleeping at night, we found, led to an unnatural death. So, we maintain our haven then, when we are best alert and can defend against invasion.”

  “It cannot be easy to tend chores in the dark,” Timothy said.

  Ion Bey shrugged. “We make do, because we must.”

  “I only ask because I had looked around earlier. I came across your farmland north of here. It was not entirely fallow, as I had expected in a starving and destitute village. I wonder who in Rodica performs those agricultural responsibilities, and when? If you all rise at night…”

  The governor’s eyes narrowed. He glared at the three men as if Timothy’s interrogative curiosity had somehow insulted his honor.

  Sebastian wanted an answer, too. He leaned forward eagerly awaiting one. Timothy must’ve cased the grounds while he slept. His was a good catch that made his paternal instinct smile.

  Something was wrong. Now that Sebastian was wary, he considered something else: why hadn’t Rodica’s residents eaten so much as a crumb of food in all this time?

  “I am governor here and these times are desperate,” Bey held his hands up in front of them as if surrendering. “My hands wear farmer’s calluses from unrelenting labor. Used to be others, you see, who helped me tend our lands. I do what I can to feed those who’ve survived, and sometimes that is not enough.”

  The village’s meager hospitality came to feel like a standoff. Both sides glare
d at one another as mistrust sprung up between them, filling the tavern to the ceiling.

  Sebastian didn’t like Bey’s answer, and judging from the way Garrick’s body tensed beside him, the hunter was equally nonplussed. If times were so desperate, and if the governor really worked in the fields to serve his people, why did his gut move in ripples ahead of the rest of his body? His nose was as pink as those droopy mandibles dangling off his chin. He held neither the physique nor the attitude of a working man.

  And he’s eating better slop than this shite up at that estate.

  “Good enough,” Garrick said. He eased from his seat. “We should return to the inn and discuss our approach privately. We’ll share our strategy with you tomorrow evening, once you have awakened and we’ve had a chance to strategize.”

  Ion Bey grinned as he rose in time with the hunter.

  The rest of the village followed him.

  The entire tavern was on its feet now.

  Yellow eyes dotted the shadows, a dull, barely there glow that flickered and sputtered with just enough strength for them to reveal their natural forms.

  Hence the trap. One way in and out of here, and a mass of vampires stood between them and it.

  Garrick lifted his sword from its scabbard as he cried, “Cut their heads off!”

  Timothy followed the hunter’s motion without missing a beat as the room descended into chaos. The villagers set on them at once, lumbering forward wearing bladed smiles—the same kind of delight one wore when sitting down to a grilled steak.

  Sebastian drew his gun on the hungry-eyed mob and fired as Garrick leapt to the tabletop, swinging at the nearest vampire before it could ascend to meet him. The blade cracked the neck, sending the vampire’s head spinning through the air.

  Bey slipped into the oncoming crowd, satisfaction etched across his porky features. A sea of killing hands reached for them, and Timothy recoiled. The kid was almost useless without his blunderbuss. Sebastian lost sight of him in the chaos, focusing on a screeching woman launching toward him with outstretched hands that headed straight for his neck.

  They would’ve landed, had a blade not hacked through the air, leaving clean and bloody stumps to push against Sebastian’s chest.