Dhampir Page 2

“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. Most 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.

  “Give her the coins, Petre. We have no choice.”

  Petre left the hovel and shortly returned, panting. He stared at Magiere with burning eyes, as if she were now the source of their suffering and not the one summoned to save them.

  “Here is what’s left after this year’s taxes.” He threw the bag to her, and she caught it. “Next year there may be no crop.”

  “You are free to watch,” she replied, and several villagers cringed back into the room’s shadows. “I will control the undead. Stay in your homes and look through the shutters to see how well your seed coins are spent.”

  The hatred in Petre’s eyes faded to be replaced by defeat. “Yes, we will watch you destroy the monster.”

  The rain had subsided slightly. Magiere knelt in the center of the village path, illuminated by two torches, hafts stuck in the ground to either side of the path. She placed the brass urn firmly on the wet soil and twisted it a few times until satisfied it was securely settled and would not tip over. Beside it she set a small wooden mallet.

  Anna and two village men were watching from narrow openings in the common cottage’s shutters. A few other eyes peered from window shutters in hovels and huts around the village. But the zupan would not be satisfied with a voyeur’s view. He stood within shouting distance, just outside the door where he’d surrendered the future of his village to a killer of the undead.

  Magiere took a bottle from her pack and poured a fine white powder into one palm. She then sifted it back and forth between her hands. With a sudden flourish, she threw the handful high in the air and waited. The tiny particles didn’t fall but hung in the air like a vaporous cloud, creating a wondrous glow all around her as the particles caught the torch light. Gasps from the peasants reached her ears.

  From another bottle, she poured red power into her hand and threw that aloft as well, with a wilder flourish of her arm. It danced between the white particles, contrasting and moving like sand-grain fireflies.

  Magiere stood in silence, eyes closed for a moment. She opened them again without looking at anything particular. Amid the hovering powders, her pale skin and dark hair made her seem a wraith of light, unliving, as if she were transformed to something kin to the night creatures she hunted. Each time a swirl of red power in the air drifted by her head, its sparkling reflection of the torchlight echoed in her tresses with streaks of crimson. She reached down and picked up the stake, holding the leather grip tightly.

  “The red calls the beast, like blood,” she shouted. “It can’t resist.” She lowered herself to a crouch, braid falling forward over her left shoulder, and stared up the path where she knew the creature would come.

  A pale flicker darted between the buildings.

  Her finger pointed to a decrepit hovel ten paces down the path ahead of her. “There! See, it comes!”

  With the fingertips of her free hand, she flipped the lid off the brass urn and grabbed another bottle of red powder, flinging the contents into the air around her.

  Without warning, something solid collided with her back, knocking her forward with enough force to daze her. Behind her, Anna screamed. Magiere spit out mud and spun on the ground out of the attacker’s way. She scrambled back to a crouch, turning in all directions to see what had hit her. The path lay empty.

  For long moments she turned from side to side, watching between the huts of the village for any sign of movement. The zupan had backed up against the common cottage door, eyes wide, but he remained outside, watching.

  “What in—”

  It hit again from the side, pitching her back down. Water soaked through her leggings and washed over her armor as she skidded across the mud, until her shoulder struck the haft of one torch stuck in the ground. The torch toppled and sizzled out.

  Magiere was up a
gain, searching. The shadows around her deepened with only one torch still burning.

  She could hear window shutters slamming closed amid shouts and wails as the villagers panicked. A passing glimpse as she spun about showed that even Petre had now stepped inside the door, ready to slam it shut if need be. The zupan shouted, “There, to your left!”

  A blur appeared in the corner of her sight, and she ducked a swinging arm. She made a grab for it as it passed. “No more games,” she hissed under her breath.

  Her hand closed over woolen material, and she jerked back.

  There came a sharp tear as her own force strained against that of her attacker, but the fabric held. Unable to keep her balance, her body twisted to the side as she and her opponent both spun about when she refused to let go of its garment. They hit the ground together, each scrambling in the mud for a foothold. She turned on one knee to face it and readied the stake. Its head lifted in the torchlight.

  Thin and filthy, its flesh glowed as white as the first of her floating powders. Silver-blond hair swung in muddied tendrils around a narrow, dirt-splattered face with slanted amber eyes and slightly pointed ears. The cape she had managed to grasp hung in rotted tatters around its shoulders.

  Magiere scuttled back two steps, still gripping the leather-handled stake, and tried to find better footing without taking her eyes off the white figure.

  It charged again, moving fast. A claw hand slipped inside her guard and snatched the tail of her braid. They were both soaked in rain and mud, making all movements slick and desperate. She fell to the ground, on purpose this time, and rolled. When their tumble finished, Magiere came up on top and rammed downward with her stake, holding it as tightly as possible.

  Blood sprayed upward from its chest as it thrashed on the ground, screaming in a keening wail. Magiere bit down on her own tongue by accident in an effort to hold the thing down, stake securely in its heart.

  The creature thrashed wildly, clawing at the stake. Its torso arched, half lifting Magiere off the ground, and a guttural scream came up from deep in its throat. Then its body went slack and splashed back down in the mud.

  Magiere held on until the creature was completely still, then quickly scrambled to the brass urn. Picking it up, she snatched the mallet and swung it hard against the container’s side.

  A piercing clang reverberated in the air. Magiere dashed around to the far side of the body, striking the container again and again. Standing in the cottage doorway, the zupan clapped his hands over his ears against the painful clamor. As the last clang faded, Magiere slapped the lid tightly over the brass jar, sealing it. She stood there, the village quiet except for her own panting.

  Zupan Petre started to rush forward, perhaps to see the monster close up, or to offer some assistance, but she held out her hand to keep him back.

  “No,” she gasped, weaving back and forth in exhaustion. “Stay where you are. Even slain, they can be dangerous.”

  “Hunter . . .” Petre searched for words, his expression a mix of emotions. “Have you ever seen such a beast?”

  Looking at the blood-soaked form on the muddy ground, Magiere shook her head. “No, Zupan, I have not.”

  As the zupan watched in stunned silence, Magiere pulled a rope and dusty canvas out of her pack. The canvas was mottled with dark stains long dried into the fabric. She wrapped the corpse in it, tying a rope loop around the ankles of the bundled body. Then she quickly gathered her equipment into the pack and slung it over one shoulder. The sealed brass jar was cradled under her arm.

  “It is over then?” asked Petre.

  “No.” Magiere took hold of the rope. “Now I must properly dispose of the remains and send its spirit to final rest. In the morning, you will be free.”

  “Do you need help?” Petre Evanko seemed hesitant to ask, but would not let his fear hold him back.

  “I must be alone for this,” she answered bluntly, making her answer a command to be obeyed. “The spirit will not go willingly. It will fight to live again—fight harder than what you’ve seen here—and should there be another body nearby to take for its own, all of my efforts will be wasted. No one enters the woods until morning, or I won’t be responsible for what happens. If all goes well, we will not see each other again.”

  Petre nodded his understanding. “Our thanks, Hunter.”

  Magiere said nothing more as she headed into the woods, dragging the corpse behind her.

  Mud had seeped into every available opening in Magiere’s armor and clothing. The grit against her skin, combined with the long walk hauling the body and her equipment deep into the woods, put her in an irritable mood. She stepped out of the trees into a small clearing and looked behind herself once more. It would be a shame to have to kill some foolish villager, but she saw no sign of anyone and could hear nothing but the natural speech of the trees in the wind. She dropped her burdens.

  A low rumble of a growl came from the bushes at the clearing’s far side, and Magiere stiffened. Leaves shivered, and a huge dog stepped out into the open. Though he was tall and wolfish in build and color, his grays were a little bluer and his whites a little brighter than any wolf’s. Strange eyes of near silver-blue glittered back at Magiere. With a low grunt, the animal looked toward the bundle on the ground behind her.

  “Oh, be quiet, Chap,” she muttered. “After all this time you ought to know my sound.”

  Magiere’s spine arched suddenly as she felt two feet slam into her back. Her eyelids snapped wide open in cold surprise and she slid across the clearing’s wet mulch floor, thumping up against the base of a maple. She scrambled to her feet. Across the clearing, thrashing its way out of the stained canvas, stood the white figure with the stake through its heart.

  “Damn you, Magiere! That hurt.” He reached down to grip the butt of the stake. “You didn’t oil it properly, did you?”

  Magiere rushed across the clearing and kicked his feet out from under him. The slender figure dropped on his back with a grunt, and she was on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground with her knees. Both her hands wrapped tightly around the butt of the stake.

  Anger swelled up inside her like a fever. Strands of muddy, rain-soaked hair clung to her face as she glared down at the white figure beneath her. She jerked the stake up.

  “You irritating half-wit!” she snapped. “If you’d stuck to the plan and not sent me rolling around in the muck, maybe the sheath wouldn’t have jammed with grit.”

  Where there had once been a point on the stake, there was now nothing. The stake stopped at the bottom edge of the leather-wrapped butt. Magiere gave a quick glance into the hollow bottom of the stake, then banged it against an exposed tree root. There came a sharp snap-knock as the pointed end sprang out of the hollow and back into place.

  “What were you doing back there?” She grabbed the front of his shirt. “You know better than that, Leesil. We do it the same way every time. No changes, no mistakes. Just what is your problem?”

  Leesil’s head dropped back to the ground. He stared up into the canopy of trees with a melancholy sigh that was far too exaggerated for Magiere’s taste.

  “It’s the same thing all the time,” he whined. “I’m bored!”

  “Oh, get up,” she snapped, and rolled off her companion. She tossed the stake down by her things and reached under a bush to pull out a second pack and a tin lantern. The lantern was still lit—by Leesil before he came into the village for their performance. She opened the shutter, turned the knob to extend the wick, and the light increased a small portion.

  Leesil sat up and began opening the front of his ragged shirt. Below the neckline, the true color of his skin showed—not corpse white but a warm tan. He itched at the white powder on his throat. Across his chest was strapped a burst leather bag still dripping with dark red dye. It was caked with a mound of wax that had held the collapsed stake in place on his chest, giving the appearance that he’d been impaled. He winced as he untied the twine holding the assemblage in place.


  “You’re supposed to attack from the front, where I can see you.” Magiere’s voice rose slightly as she rolled up the stained canvas and rope she’d used to drag Leesil out of the village. “And where did you learn to skulk like that? I couldn’t see you at all at first.”

  “Look at this,” Leesil answered in astonished disgust, wiping the dye off himself with one hand. “I’ve got a big, red welt in the middle of my chest.”

  Chap, the large hound, strolled over to sit by Leesil. Sniffing at the white powder on his face, the dog let out a disgruntled whine.

  “Serves you right,” Magiere answered. She stuffed canvas, rope, and brass urn into her pack, then lifted the bundle over her shoulder. “Now pick up the lantern and let’s leave. I want to make the bend in the river before we camp. We’re still too close to the village to stop for the night.”

  Chap barked and began fidgeting on all fours. Leesil patted him briefly.

  “And keep him quiet,” Magiere added, looking at the dog.

  Leesil picked up his pack and the lantern and started off after Magiere, with Chap ranging along beside, weaving his own way amongst the undergrowth.

  It seemed to take them little time to cover the distance, and Magiere was relieved when they approached the bend of the Vudrask River. They were now far enough from the village to safely settle for the night and build a fire. She turned inward, away from the open bank of the river, and picked a clearing in the forest that was still well hidden by brush, out of plain view. Leesil immediately headed back to the river’s edge to wash up, with Chap following along, and Magiere remained to build a small fire. When Leesil returned, he looked more himself, though not exactly normal by most standards. His appearance was something Magiere had grown accustomed to, even before he’d told her of his mother’s heritage.

  His skin was indeed a medium tan, rather than the white of the powder, and made Magiere feel pale by comparison. But his hair was another matter—so blond as to seem pure white in the dark. There was little need to powder it for a village performance. Long tresses with a yellow-white sheen hung to his shoulders. And then there was the slight oblong shape of his ears, not quite pointed at the top, and the narrow suggestion of a slant to his amber-brown eyes beneath high, thin eyebrows the color of his hair.