When the three settled in the library, Johan began his teachings. He explained that vampires absorb light waves as a form of radiant heat. “This is why they cast no shadow or reflection,” he said. “You see, their skin absorbs the light and prevents refraction.”
“I understand why they would cast no reflection, but why no shadow?” Viktor asked.
“It’s the absorption of light that makes them visible; in actuality, they are little more than mist, although a deadly mist to be sure.”
Viktor opened his shirt, ran his finger along the slash left by Caspian. He showed Johan the wound, “Johan, I’ve battled with these horrors, I can assure you they are not mist.”
Johan nodded, closed the reference book, walked toward the table at the back of the library and collected three of the prepared cloth satchels. “True, they are skin, muscle, and bones, but their souls are mist. We’re not sure why they cast no reflection or no shadow. I contend it’s because they have no soul, but it’s only my opinion.”
Johan handed each man a satchel that contained six branches of wild rose, a string of garlic, and a vial of salt.
“Place the branch of wild rose over the grave of a horror and he will not be able to cross it. The use of garlic has been practiced of years. It cleans the blood and for some reason, vampires, prefer murky blood. Crush the garlic into your drinks and food daily. Some say the smell of garlic wards off vampires. I say don’t let them get that close. Follow me,” he ordered.
He then led the men outside. They crossed the drill field that made up the interior of the small town. Pikemen practiced by lunging at straw enemies and dripped of sweat in the cool winter air. Behind a row of buildings used for instruction training, they came upon a metal cage that contained a captured vampire. “This is Vance,” Johan said. “He’s been used as a training tool for years, isn’t that right, Vance?”
Vance grabbed the bars and shook the cage violently. “Let me go, old man.”
“Certainly.” Johan placed a line of salt across the threshold of the cage and opened the door. “You’re free to leave, Vance. Do tell the others I send my love.”
Vance hissed and sought shelter at the back of the cage.
“They can’t cross a line of salt,” Johan noted as he closed the door and secured the lock back in place. “When you sleep during your travels, you could use the salt to protect your parameter. But remember, it’s expensive and you will not receive additional supplies, so use it sparingly. However, know that many castles keep an abundance of salt on hand.”
Johan tapped on the metal of the cage. “I have a treat for you, Vance, a nice, fat muskrat. I’ll give it to you if you tell my companions why you fear the silver cross.”
Vance was starving and answered immediately, “it only works on us if we were religious before the turn. Those that were religious feel that they are cursed, that they are being punished.”
“Why not just revoke your religious belief?” Viktor asked.
Vance inched toward Viktor. “We are reborn the moment of the turn. If, at that time, we seek the help of religion, call out for God to save us, then we are tarnished against the view of a cross.”
“So did you call out to God?” Viktor asked.
Vance didn’t respond.
“So not all of you would be repelled by the cross?” Viktor pressed.
“Open the door and test me,” Vance mocked as he eyed Viktor. The hair on the back of Viktor’s neck stiffened and he inched away from the cage.
“This brings us to our final instruction. Follow me, gentlemen,” Johan said, “On how to kill a vampire.”
“Wait, so it’s true that not all vampires are repelled by the cross?” Viktor asked.
Johan watched Vance retreat to the back of the cage. Watched him curl up in the corner, his long fingernails scraped the shape of a cross in the ground. “We’re just not sure. How could we be? Be safe and assume not,” Johan responded.
“What of my rat?” Vance shouted as he watched them walk away. “What of my rat!”
Johan led them back across the drill field.
“Was Vance one of us?” the younger soldier in the group asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Johan responded, “he’s not very talkative and most of them don’t appear to remember much of their previous lives. I suspect he was, at one time, an Englishman. We should head back to the library.”
In the library, Johan opened an old book that had been used so often its pages were loose from the binding glue. He read from the king’s decree. “The only acceptable way to kill a vampire is to pierce its heart with a wooden stake. Although exposure to sunlight may work, the king feels this is unjustly cruel. Remember, men, these horrors were once as human as you and I. Some are even our brethren. Death must find them, but it must be respectful and quick.”
Johan selected three silver crosses from a purple pall and approached the men. He placed a cross in Viktor’s hand and recited, “With the blessing of the king, may you be protected.” He did the same for Viktor’s guardians.
Viktor placed the cross around his neck. “Thank you, Johan. We shall test these methods tonight, for we will ride this afternoon, after proper preparations for our horses and ourselves.”
The guards placed the crosses around their necks and looked at each other. As they approached the stables, they were exhausted and begged Viktor to stay in the village this night, and travel tomorrow morning.
He looked at the men without pity. “Prepare yourselves, we will ride through the night on our way to Riga.”
* * * *
Sierida, Princess’s Sophia’s personal scribe, and Sophia’s guardian, had to travel two more days than they had anticipated. Their trek was slowed by a violent that made its way throughout the Gulf of Finland. The blizzard whipped the seas into a state of fury and forced their boat to land in Riga rather than Parnu to the north as planned. When they finally landed in Finland, the storm didn’t let up and buried the port city of Riga in snow. Everything and everyone was at a standstill. At times, the snow seemed to dump from the sky in solid sheets and then the wind piled any loose snow into colossal snowy dunes as high as the quarters of their horses. Sierida expected to find the king, his generals, and statesmen headquartered in Riga with the battlefront at Parnu, but learned Russia had surrendered Narva to the northeast in a spectacular and quick battle. Sierida and her travelling guard were bombarded with tales of the great battle as they made their way northeast along the snowy military trail.
The second day the blizzard’s winds from the north were strong and chilling, it seemed to find and exploit any opening in their clothes. Sierida was thankful that very little snow fell and they were finally making good time. Then the snow came for a solid hour, so much so that they rode in complete whiteout at times, barely able to see the snow covered pines and spruce before them. They stopped often to get out of the wind, warm up, and push past the desire to turn back to the safe harbor of Riga.
After almost three full days of travel over land, the sun came out. Winter had not yet bound the land in its grip and they made it to the newly occupied Swedish fortified camp outside of Narva. The Russian surrender was a decisive victory for the king and Sweden. All of Tsar Peter’s cannons, muskets, and military supplies were now the property of Sweden. The scribe wasn’t a warrior, but even she felt a warrior’s pride in the success of her king and her countrymen. Russia was a formidable opponent and Sweden had easily won.
The camp’s walls were nine feet high, backed to a six foot wide ditch, and practically impenetrable. The scribe made her way to the entrance and attempted to push her away past the king’s Drabants, but they halted her.
“I must speak with King Charles,” she stated.
“And you are?” questioned an older gentleman sporting a blue coat with yellow cuffs. His large brass buttons showed little tarnish and he was far too clean to be on the frontline. His black and gray beard was long, unkempt, and he constantly tugged the stray ends of it, trying to c
orral them into place.
“I, sir, if you must know, am Sierida, the scribe of Princess Sophia. I have an urgent message for the king and time is of the essence. The king’s great victory, while impressive and pleasing to me, required that I travel several more days than expected and I’m afraid that I am late.”
He looked in the direction of the king and began shaking his head back and forth. “My lady, nations are at war. A message from the princess cannot be of importance.” He grabbed her by the elbow and said aloud so others nearby could hear, “What? Is the princess out of tea?”
The nearby Drabants laughed and jeered at her as the elder commander escorted Sierida toward the outer wall of the camp.
Sierida pulled away from his grasp and deftly pinned his thumbs to his wrists. The old statesman fell to his knees, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He quietly begged for mercy under his breath. She said loudly in return so that the others could hear, “I assure you, this is not about tea! But that, sir, is not your concern. All of you men are the same,” she said as she eyed the growing crowd and let the old man twist at her feet. “If it weren’t for women, none …! None of you would be here seeking glory! None of you would have any enlightenment at all. You’d be drunks and rapists instead of using your brains and hearts to win your love, to find purpose. You’d still be barbarians. I’m afraid that you all suffer from some form of self-statutory. But so be it and it does serve a purpose for our homeland. But understand this. I will conduct my business!”
She released his thumbs, took the scroll from her pack and placed it under the old man’s chin. “I suspect you, sir, haven’t been on your knees in front of a woman for quite some time. What is your name?”
“Karl Rehnschiöld, my lady,” he answered as he squirmed in the knee-deep snow. His thumbs were on fire from having been pinned.
She crouched down so they were face to face, so close that their noses almost touched, “Mr. Rehnschiöld, I must speak with the king. Am I understood?”
“Yes, my lady,” Karl whimpered.
“Very well, my apologies for my crudeness, sir. The king, please.”
Karl stood, inspected his thumbs and brushed the snow from his knees. “The king is busy at the moment. We’re about to advance on Russia to the east and he is speaking with his generals.”
Sierida sighed deeply with frustration. “The king will want to speak to me.”
“Wait here.” Karl approached the king after chastising the crowd of men and ordering them back to work. He pulled the king to the side.
Sierida watched the conversation and marveled at the king. He was as the rumors suggested, a reincarnation of Alexander. The king had grown older since she saw him last. He was a bit taller, his nose was longer and thinner, his hair had started to recede, but she could tell he was a master on this occasion. It was obvious that he was a man with a purpose. Everything about him exuded confidence. She had kissed him once, back before the war and still blushed when she saw him.
“My king, Sierida, the scribe of Princess Sophia, seeks a moment of your time,” Karl said as he grabbed the king’s arm.
“I haven’t the time, Karl. Send her away.”
“Sir,” Karl pleaded, trembling at the thought of delivering bad news to the scribe, “she’s rather insistent. Said she traveled many days and the news is from Princess Sophia.”
The king pushed a bundle of maps into Karl’s chest. “My sister? Very well, confirm our plans for our advancement.” The king waved her over. “Quickly scribe, what news do you have from my sister?”
Sierida didn’t speak, instead she handed him the scroll.
The king broke the wax seal and unrolled the document. After reading it, he pulled Sierida close to him, which caught her off guard and she fell into him. He whispered, “Is this true?”
Sierida blushed and stammered unintentionally, “Sir, I, I haven’t read the document.”
“You are in the inner court of the princess, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And we both know there are no such things as secrets in her court. I will ask you once more and I expect an honest answer. Is Crimson my sister, and has she been kidnapped by the horrors as this document suggests?”
“Yes, my king. I believe that to be the case.”
The king mulled over the news, trying to picture Crimson, the little girl that was always underfoot and always showing up at parties in the palace. The little girl, who shadowed Sophia everywhere. She was his sister. He wondered how long Sophia knew this secret. “And of Princess Sophia? What is your impression?”
Sierida grasped the king’s arm and leaned in to whisper. “Sir, she has sanctioned the young man of your court, Viktor. She assigned two guards, funded and blessed his quest. He is heading toward Pinsk after several days training near Nyberg. We, the princess, fear there will be retaliation if the young man succeeds in making it to Pinsk.”
A deep scowl furrowed the king’s forehead. “What? Three men in hostile Polish territory. He’ll never make it. Where is Viktor now?”
“I suspect he and his guards are crossing the Baltic, that is, if a boat dare leave Stockholm in this weather.”
The king stared at the scroll, contemplating. “Wait here scribe.”
The king called his inner men to his side and they huddled into a tight circle around him. “Men, I shall head into Poland.”
His generals immediately balked at the king’s statement and one spoke up. “Sir, Russia is wide open. She lays before us a land to be conquered and captured. The Poles should not be our objective.”
The eyes pierced into the souls of his men. He knew his generals were correct. Russia was for the taking and the capture of Narva was only the beginning. Snow flurries again and everyone knew another blizzard would eventually come. This was perfect weather to continue east into Russia while the Russians were on their heels.
The king tapped the scroll in his left hand for several minutes while considering his choices. Finally, he made his decision. “My generals, you fight for honor of country. I must fight for honor of country and family. How many men do we have here?”
“Sir, ten thousand strong, but I must contend the gods were on our side today. The blizzard was as much a force as our men. On the other side of Narva lie forty thousand Russians and they are waiting. They are preparing. To move south would leave this front and Sweden wide open.”
“I shall only take one hundred, then. You shall continue east with the remaining force.”
The generals were concerned, fearing the king wasn’t thinking clearly. They knew their king was too offensive minded and now he was splitting his army into two directions, two battle fronts. “Sir, you mean to attack the Poles, to go on the offensive with one hundred men?”
The king placed his hands on the shoulder of the man to his left and right. “No. I mean to rescue my sister, Crimson.”
Chapter II
~ Punishment ~
The patter of leather on the marble floor of the palace announced the two guards’ arrival. They stopped in unison at the doorway and awaited the countess’s orders.
Darya was insistent that nothing happen to Sergen. She stepped between the guards and Sergen, trying her best to protect him. “It’s not his fault, Mother. I ordered him and Uric! I made them do it! Sergen is not to blame. Blame me … blame me.”
The countess nodded. The guards pushed Darya aside and each took one of Sergen’s arms at the bicep. They forcefully escorted him from Darya’s room. Darya stomped away from her mother and went to the far window where she showed her disapproval by yelling and pleading as Sergen was taken away, “You won’t harm him, will you? You had better not! You had better not cut him!”
The countess refused to answer her daughter. She was too angry for the ceremonious observances of which she normally spoiled her. It took everything she had to not lash out and berate her daughter’s actions in front of the palace servants.
Uric didn’t say a word. He backed himself to the far wa
ll and silently watched as Darya screamed and pleaded with her mother. He busied himself with a bathing gown that he found. He covered himself with the gown, refused to make eye contact with the countess or Draya, and wondered if he could sneak out without being noticed. Darya’s pitch seemed to grow with each plea, and he was sure she was about to lose control. All the while, he hoped Darya wouldn’t mention his name.
Sergen heard Darya arguing from the hallway. Her shouts leapt down the long corridor and swallowed the distance between them. He trusted Darya would be able to convince her mother to spare him. He didn’t want to go under the knife. But he also knew something else, something that wasn’t spoken. He was enamored with Darya. She was not like the others. The others wanted him for pleasure. Darya wanted him for pleasure, as well, but she had whispered to him—she had said she loved him. She was the first to ever say it, and after all this time as a stud, after pleasing woman after woman, after making them orgasm to the point of almost vanishing from this world, after following carnal orders until he exhausted himself without any real connection. He finally knew why he was always left without hope. It was nice to hear that he was loved. Even if Darya was young and didn’t understand what she had said, he knew she felt it. Darya was sincere and it sparked a new revelation in him, a new purpose, and for the first time he felt in union with hope and his own body.
Sergen heard the door slam shut and the mother scream back at Darya from the hallway. Her tone was full of anger, “Darya! You are not to tell me my business! I run this palace.” She spotted Sergen. “Guards, oil him and prepare him for a lashing! And then take the other one back to his quarters.” Sergen was far bigger and stronger than the guards. He easily pulled away from them and knocked them to the ground. He rushed toward the countess. The countess yelped, ran into Darya’s room and slammed the door behind her. She leaned her weight against the door and shouted, “You had better behave, Sergen! I warn you, my patience is already thin!”
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