Weird Tales, Volume 51

by Ann VanderMeer

  He ran into the darkest part of the forest. The treetops over the creek joined together to form an impenetrable canopy. He could hear the clangor of metal coming from the gloom in front of him. He grit his teeth, threw back his cape, and raised his sword above his shoulders.

  “No!” cried out Bolerad as he grabbed the axe in Vlchan's arm. “We need at least one alive! We'll take her to the fortress as a symbol of our triumph over the heathen devils. We'll burn her at the stake before the eyes of everyone to show the power of Jesus Christ and the determination of us, his servants, to mercilessly root out all satanic weeds from his earthly garden!”

  Vlchan angrily pushed the priest away but lowered his axe. Dark droplets dripped from the bare edge on to the thigh of the last rusalka. She was propped between the roots of an old oak tree, her back supported by the corrugated trunk. Her body was smeared with blood from many wounds and gashes; her hair, caked from sweat and dirt, stuck to her shoulders and breast. She was on her last breath, but still fixed a look full of potent hatred at her enemies. Her mouth and neck were covered with the blood of at least five men whose veins she had bitten through.

  “You're right,” Vlchan spat out. He walked away from the rusalka and ordered four men, the last remaining survivors of the punitive expedition, “Take this bitch away.”

  The furious howl of a wolf suddenly descended upon the forest. The Moravians looked around startled. It came the opposite, though dangerously close side, one bloodcurdling voice answering the other.

  “By Perun, what was that?” cried one of the warriors, forgetting his recent Christian vows.

  Bolerad was the first to see it. A pair of red, demonic eyes glowing in the darkness between the trees.

  “Our father, who art in heaven . . .” whimpered the priest and lifted his hand to his forehead to bless himself.

  It happened so quickly that none of the men had time to move a finger. One of the black forest shadows leaped toward Bolerad. Sharpened steel ominously hissed through the air. The priest's head and an arm flew up through the air, splattering everything around them in their wake. Blood gushed forth from the stump left in the frock and the forearm remained stiff for a second as if unable to comprehend what exactly had happened. The black figure then crumbled to the ground.

  “Amen,” snarled the man with the sword.

  The warriors numbly stared at Rogan. Bolerad's blood was trickling down his narrow, pale face. His eyes shone with a demonic, supernatural glow.

  Vlchan broke the silence.

  “Fucking wizard. I knew we shouldn't trust you.” He waved his axe in the air. “Kill the bastard.”

  They had at it.

  The sorcerer's weapon flared blood-red and struck the first sword. The Moravian's blade shattered into hot, glowing fragments. He quickly ran his sword through the warrior's armor and deep into his gut. There was a burning stench as the shrieking man collapsed to the ground, leaving behind him a wisp of white smoke. The Moravians spread out on all sides in an attempt to surround the attacker. At that moment Rogan changed into a dark, blurry figure hemmed in by fire and blood, beyond the perception of human eyes. The second Moravian flew into the thickets, his throat sliced in two down to the spine, the third fell to the ground with one leg chopped off. The other warrior tried to escape. A second black shadow emerged from the forest and mercilessly cut him down. His horrific scream was silenced after the vertebra in his neck was crushed.

  The destructive whirlwind ceased and once again it was Rogan. The blade of his sword was still clean—he had inflicted the wounds so quickly that not a single drop of blood was able to stick to it. Vlchan staggered backwards. His face was contorted with fear. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed that a man could move so fast. He knew that the wizard was no ordinary mortal, but his transformation into a murderous beast robbed him of all courage.

  “What's the matter, Vlchan?” the sorcerer asked through his clenched teeth. “Lost your taste for killing?”

  “Your name will be cursed forever in the Moravian basin,” hissed Vlchan. “Moymir will hunt you down like a wild animal.”

  Deafened by fear, the warrior didn't hear a figure rise up behind him, the one he had totally forgotten about. At first he didn't understand why Rogan had straightened up and lowered his sword. When he finally realized what was happening, it was too late.

  The queen of the rusalkas flew at him like an enraged fiend, grabbing him by his hair, pulling his head back in a flash and sinking her teeth into his neck. Vlchan shrieked. Diva yanked his head away and ripped out skin and flesh from his neck. Blood jetted from his ripped veins up to the top of the oak tree. He howled and pushed his attacker away, then dropped his axe and placed a hand over his wound. He tried to run away but his legs gave out after a few steps. He rolled along the ground, making a hideous gurgling sound, his legs quivering. Rogan and Goryvlad watched him motionlessly, their eyes cold as ice. It was some time before his spasms stopped and the man became silent.

  The sorcerer turned away from the dead man, put his sword back into its scabbard and walked up to Diva, who was lying on the ground. He could feel a lump in his throat when she looked up at him, her eyes full of pain and sadness. She reached out to him with her arm.

  “Help me, Rogan. My strength is rapidly fading. I want the hand of Morena to carry me back to the same place where Zhiva gave me life.”

  Rogan bent down and took the rusalka in his arms. She feebly put her arms around him and rested her head against his chest.

  “Will you take me to the lake, Gorya?” the sorcerer asked the wolf.

  Follow me, brother.

  They strode through a dark tunnel in the woods, as if the trees had opened up the way for them. The breeze in the treetops sounded like a distant dirge. Soon a flickering blue light appeared in the dusk before them. They stopped at the shore of lake. It still emitted the spectral glow of its magical force.

  Breathing with difficulty, Diva looked into Rogan's eyes and, after some effort, smiled at him.

  “We did it . . . We were victorious . . . Not one of them made it to our sacred lake, did they?”

  The sorcerer shook his head and returned her smile.

  “I still didn't thank you for the night before, O master of fire. We took many a lost mortal into our circle, but none of them gave us as much strength as you did. You are truly a son of the gods. And now . . . now give me back to the sacred water, please.”

  The sorcerer carefully maneuvered along the slippery stones and into the lake. The bottom was steep and after a few steps the water already reached his chest. It seemed as if the liquid were alive and strangely washing up against his body in an inquisitive fashion. Diva stretched out her hand and let the water flow through her fingers. Contentment and composure had returned to her expression.

  “I hear whispers of the goddess of the death,” she said in a feeble voice and looked again at Rogan. “Kiss me before we depart.”

  He silently lowered his head to her bloodied lips. Her strength ebbing, Diva pressed herself against him, ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him with her last breath. Her naked, wounded body became limp in his arms. He looked up. On the shore of the lake he spotted a hazy but familiar figure. A slender, dark-haired being smiling at him with open arms. Dozens of flickering blue lights emerged from the gloomy forest and gathered around her like lost children running to their mother.

  Rogan laid the queen of the rusalkas in the water and watched as it slowly sank to the bottom of the lake, the wavy locks of her hair covering her face. The sorcerer turned around and walked back to the shore. Goryvlad reared his head back and let out his grief in the form of a long howl that carried over long distances.

  Suddenly, the entire lake became dark and dense and Diva disappeared from their eyes. The bluish glow instantly turned into a deep red tone. Startled, Goryvlad swallowed his breath.

  Blood! The water in the lake has changed to blood!

  “The heart of the fores
t is bleeding,” said Rogan in a quiet voice.

  The surrounding streams quickly became red too and blood flowed throughout the channels of all the creeks in the forest as if they were the arteries and veins of a living creature. Prokuy and his companions couldn't believe their own eyes when they saw the creek flowing around the woodcutters' camp suddenly take on the rich, red color. Even the River Morava itself turned to blood and the people living along it dropped to their knees and invoked the names of the old gods. Prince Moymir saw it from the first tower of his new regal court. He was speechless, his mouth closed so tightly that it looked like a slit had been made there from a tiny blade. He knew something bad had happened and had the feeling that it was his work. He turned away, descended the steps and ordered a servant to open up a cask of expensive Greek wine. Several hard nights, catching what sleep he could, were now in store for him.

  Rogan and Goryvlad stood on the shore of the lake for a long time. After the spectacular moment had passed and the water was once again clear, Diva's body was no longer there. And with it, the magic glow of the spring became extinguished. The heart of the forest stopped beating and the magic of the rusalkas was gone forever.

  Juraj Cervenák is a Slovak author best known for his short stories and novels which mix elements of sword and sorcery with historical fantasy and Slavic mythology. Novels include Warlock: The Bloody Fire, Conan And The Twelve Gates Of Hell (as Thorleif Larssen) and most recently Bogatyr: The White Tower. This story is one of many short stories that feature the Slavic warlock Rogan. He also has a set of historical fantasy novels following the adventures of Rogan in the historical setting of the eighth-century Principality of Nitra and neighbouring lands.

  * * *

  Time and the Orpheus

  by chiles samaniego

  In Which a Strange Young Musician Must Take Radical Measures

  Playing trumpet at the Orpheus was practically the only life John Bastion ever knew.

  Certainly it was little different from any other life he'd ever led. The Orpheus had no band, no singer, no piano; not even a turntable or jukebox. All it had was a small dais for John Bastion to stand on when he played, a mic stand with no microphone, and, of course, John Bastion and his trumpet.

  “The reason you're so essential to the Orpheus, Johnny boy, is you provide wossname, ambience. The Orpheus never used to have one before you came along, and these days, you've got to have it to keep what we management types call a competitive edge.”

  That was Barney, a one-armed, one-legged ex-pirate with at least one glass eye, who was both bartender and owner of the Orpheus.

  “All a them new spots on the strip, like, say, the Blue Oyster Wagon and the Sylvian Digs, they charge an arm and a leg off their customers for the dull wall-furnishings they laughably call their ambience; but you Johnny boy, you give our customers something special at no extra cost. We got our arrangement, and thas definitely somethin' of itself worth a jawin' or two, an' it isn't anything these folk have seen 'afore.”

  Barney had first come across John playing on a sidewalk corner, all the way across the City, a battered old hat lying with the wrong side up in front of him. Barney, being congenitally tone deaf, and therefore unable to tell good music from bad, had first noticed the remarkable number and variety of people that had gathered around him; positively magnetized by the gawky, dark, inexplicably odd young lad with the horn, they watched and listened with slack jaws and glazed eyes. The on-lookers would frequently reach into their pockets and flick their wrists with quick, sleight of hand motions, each time drawing a significant clinking sound from the depths of the battered old hat on the ground. This ritual was done, Barney assumed, each time John reached a particularly good bit in his playing.

  That was the second thing Barney noticed: how John Bastion's old hat managed to draw more coinage than any other street performers' particular beat-up head gear. And that, more than the third and final thing Barney noticed watching John Bastion play for the first time in his life, was what made him decide that John Bastion was a gifted chap, and belonged inside the Orpheus.

  “I haven't got nothing to pay you, other than to let you ply your trade as you know it (at just the merest percentage out of your hat, so to speak, for overhead and some such); and if you fancy a good drink, an occasional free meal, and a good solid roof over your head to keep the rain off while you play, you'll leave your spot on that corner there and come work for me at my place.”

  John Bastion had given him a look that told Barney nothing, and Barney thought maybe this bloke was special in other ways as well.

  “'S called the Orpheus,” he added helpfully.

  John looked at him some more. Barney was starting to shift uncomfortably under his gaze, and was considering whether the addition of a bowl of nuts with each drink to his offer was worth the trouble, when John put his trumpet away, poured the change from his hat into an old brown sack, and shoved the hat onto his head, right side up this time. He sealed the sack with fray-ended drawstrings, and threw it over his shoulder, and stood there, trumpet case in one hand, sack in the other, coat on his back, hat on his head. There was something definitely odd about the lad, but when he nodded, Barney forgot all about it and led the way enthusiastically back to the Orpheus.

  Barney was nothing if not true to his word, and he never paid John a single quid or tuppence, but gave him an occasional free meal, and kept a good solid roof over his head that kept the rain off while he played, although it turned out the only drink John would ever have out of the bar was chilled, undiluted tonic water (Barney insisted on this, in lieu of the rain water John initially asked for, with certain vividly portrayed admonitions concerning employee health regulations).

  He even threw in a bowl of nuts.

  John sat at the bar between sets and drank his tonic water, popping the occasional dry roasted peanut into his mouth. He only ate a little when he had to play. Bits would get stuck in his teeth, and, though it's never happened before, he was afraid a particularly capricious crumb would choose a good bit in his playing to dislodge and fly into his mouthpiece. Although John was never someone anybody would have called temperamental, he suspected that any interruption to his playing would displease him immensely.

  It was at those times, as John sat quiescent at the bar, when Barney would speak to him, giving him what Barney referred to as his 'pep talk'.

  “You take 'em places they've never been, John, and could never be; you give 'em a piece o' the street they never woulda seen for themselves. The Artists' Quarter, lovely neighborhood that it is, 's no place for a Citizen Aristocrat to be seen gallivanting about.

  “And your music, John, I've never had an ear for the like, you understand, but it doesn't take half a glass eye to see it moves them. The customers never spend a mite less time than they intend to, and, more often than not, they spend more.”

  He would remember the first time he saw John then, and the third and last thing he noticed about the lad and his audience, and he tried to put good words to what he thought was happening.

  “Your music keeps them, toys with their imaginings of time, I reckon, and while you play, they stay and drink and flirt as though all the time in the world was theirs for the takin'.”

  He would ruminate over those words, pausing to chew on his lip for a moment, but, apparently satisfied with what he'd said, would say no more and walk away and return to work, or to flirting with Constance, the Orpheus' only waitress, and a pretty young thing herself.

  John Bastion never thought about any of it. He just played when he was supposed to, collecting his hat and his coins at the end, usually long past time for the Orpheus to call it a night.

  Then, he'd step out onto the sidewalk, standing beneath the sign of the Orpheus, put his hat in the customary position in front of him, and play some more.

  One night, John ended a set the way he always did: hardly noticing the applause, the ovation, Barney called it, of the audience. He blinked the way he always does after having played a
n entire set, clearing his vision as though having just woken-up from a long, rather pleasant and restful sleep, then stepped-off the dais and moved to the bar.

  He waited for Barney to come over with his tonic water. He didn't usually have to wait too long, but tonight, it seemed Barney was held-up for some reason or another, talking to one of the customers down the other end of the bar. John did the John Bastion equivalent of shrugging his shoulders, which involved no movement at all, and decided to look around.

  He'd never actually seen the Orpheus. Night after night he would come, a quarter of an hour before opening, and a quarter of an hour after closing, and the whole time he would stand on his dais and play, eyes turned inward, lids closed, just him and his trumpet and the music, dancing a slow waltz in a wild, ancient place John could neither remember nor describe when he stopped, but which never failed to fill him with a sense of inviolable peace. He stopped between sets for his glass of tonic water and Barney's pep talk, the occasional peanut and nothing more.

  Barney, as the ex-pirate himself liked to put it, could fill a hole to the center of the earth, through to the other side with talk.

  At first John had trouble making out what he saw. It was like picking out stalking tigers in a dense jungle, if you've never heard of either tigers or jungles; when the tigers did jump at him he was filled not with dread, as you might expect from a surprise tiger attack, but with an inexplicable, indescribable, near-insufferable delight.

  He saw the gentlemen in their suits and tuxedos, trench coats and jerseys and vests and leather jackets. The ladies were even more pleasing to watch, in their gowns and petticoats, their shawls and feather boas, their sweaters and cardigans. A few of them wore trench coats and leather jackets like the gentlemen (and there were some gentlemen in gowns and petticoats, as well), but he found it pleasing how different they all were, regardless of gender. He watched them gesture and gesticulate, hunching forward for a lewd whisper, or leaning back for a hearty laugh. There were little groups of silent people as well, and they sipped at their various beverages sulkily, but John found them no less pleasing to watch.