Dusk was falling. Erik Lehmann reckoned that night would not be upon him for another hour, but even that was not enough time to reach his intended destination by morning. Not for the first time he cursed the fates that brought him to this God-forsaken province of the empire, where the peasants were more familiar with their own Slavic tongues than the German of the empire’s heart, and where the comforts of the capital were no more than a dream. A light drizzle was falling, too, and Erik was confronted with the thought of riding for at least two hours over bad, unfamiliar roads in pitch blackness, the clouds denying him even the guiding light of the moon.
He had gone by a side track a few hundred yards back which, he knew, led to what passed for a noble’s estate in this district. It was one of the few places he did know of, as the villagers has been very careful to point it out to him at the inn where he had slept the night before. The path lay just past the crossroads, where the hanged body of a thief still twisted on its rope as a lesson to all. A macabre sight, but this was a harsh land with harsh justice, where the armies of Austrians, Russians, and Turks had clashed, and a dozen other races as well, until the blood-soaked ground seemed to breed violence in and of itself. When it was not the conquering foe, it was the iron grip of the boyar, or the taxes of the crown, or the bandits who lurked in the shadows cast by the endless warfare. Or, all else failing, there was the wolf.
The howls always began at twilight, and they were beginning now, the mournful cries of one beast to another. The wolves of this country were not like those of other lands; lack of game had left them half-starved for generations and bred a desperate viciousness deep into their bones. Erik was prepared for a confrontation with man or beast, but the growing nervousness of his horse at the wolf cries might deny him the chance to use the sword that hung at his left hip, or the double-barreled horse pistol in the saddle holster. The concern settled the matter for him; he turned the horse about and headed towards the track leading to the Dmitrovich estate.
It was clearly superstition that led the villagers to warn Erik away from the place and to speak in harsh whispers of its lord, called only the Master of Dmitrovich. A harsh ruler would not have etched fear into the hearts of these phlegmatic people, so that only left the legends of black magic, ghosts, vampires, and werewolves that infested the province. A man with the devil in him might well become truly the Devil in the eyes of the peasants with a coincidence or two combined with a few vicious lies. Erik was not there, though, to criticize the practices of the Master of Dmitrovich in his own home. He merely wanted shelter for the night.
Fortunately, the track was easy to find even going towards the village instead of departing. It wasn’t much of a road, more a stretch of ground where horses and men had passed for decades, perhaps centuries, flattening out the underbrush over and over until it died, leaving only a bare path worn with the ruts of wagon wheels. The ground was even softer than on the main road, and Erik’s roan kicked up clots of muddy earth with every step. The trail wound through a dense knot of trees, and the nobleman thought he saw low, black forms slinking in and out among the trucks. His horse was trembling beneath him, and he closed his hand around the butt of his pistol, ready to draw and use it.
Then, all of a sudden, three forms burst from the trees, three brutes whose hunger had driven them into a frenzy of bloodlust, unconcerned that horse and rider were both healthy and strong. The roan knew that despite its size and strength, its natural place in the world was as prey, and moreover that there was no herd of its kind around to fight alongside, and it bolted, following the trail towards the estate simply because it was the path of least resistance. The wolves followed without thought, consumed only by hunger, the brutal pain that ate at their bellies.
Erik jerked the pistol from its holster and let off a quick shot, but the crazed rush of his horse caused the shot to go wide. The wolves were snapping at the panic-stricken roan’s flanks, and Erik forced his nerves and hand to steady, taking careful aim. His second shot went true, and a wolf dropped out of the chase, stung by the pain of its wound into sense. The Austrian jammed the now-empty pistol back into its holster and drew his sword, lashing at the remaining two brutes as if the blade was a whip. The analogy wasn’t bad, for the narrow smallsword, so excellent at dispatching a man with the latest fencing techniques, could deliver no more than stinging cuts to the wolves who would not stay still to receive a serious thrust.
Then, the trees opened up into a cleared area, and Erik saw ahead of him on an ancient, broken wall pierced by an archway, and beyond it, shrouded in twilight and mist, the stone-walled bulk of the Dmitrovich manor. The horse saw it too, and seemed to take strength from the sight, opening up distance between it and the wolves. Erik made for the arch, and spying a man just inside he shouted, “Close the gate!” as the roan plunged into the courtyard.
The man, a broad-shouldered, black-bearded fellow wearing dull brown huntsman’s leathers, only laughed mockingly. Reining his horse in, Erik could see why. The arch had once contained a latticed iron gate, but sometime in the past half of it had been torn from its hinges and still lay rusting on the broken flagstones of the courtyard. Besides which, there were any number of places where the outer wall had been broken in and would freely admit man or beast alike. Erik was ready for a last stand, and noted with relief that the huntsman had both a heavy iron-studded cudgel and a long knife hanging at his belt, but strangely the wolves had not pursued the rider through the arch. Instead, they slunk back and forth on their bellies outside the wall, whining like whipped curs.
The huntsman laughed again, an arrogant, barking voice.
“Don’t worry, man. We have no trouble with wolves here.” He glanced Erik over, taking in the quality of his clothing, horse, and tack, then said, “My pardon, lord. We don’t get many gentlemen here. If you’ll let me see to your horse, I’m sure the Master will receive you.”
The roan’s flanks were heaving and its lips flecked with foam from the hard ride. Erik nodded his thanks, the put his sword away and dismounted. The huntsman took the reins in a firm grip and pointed towards the manor.
“Just knock at the door, lord, and you’ll be taken care of.”
The incident with the wolves had disturbed the Austrian more than he liked to admit. The risk of death was bad enough, but he had faced it before, in duels and while hunting predatory creatures, and had always kept his nerve as befit a man of his station. The way the wolves had stopped at the estate’s borders, though, had been another thing entirely. Erik would have sworn that nothing short of death or serious injury would have driven off the hunger-maddened brutes, and yet the huntsman had not even had to strike a blow. With incidents such as this, it was not surprising that the locals had let their superstitious beliefs fasten upon the estate and its lord.
Shaking off his lingering doubts, Erik turned his attention to the manor. Unlike the outer wall, the stone keep appeared to be in good repair. The walls were weathered and in many places overgrown with ivy, but seemed sound, as did what he could see of the gabled roofs. The basic design appeared to be of a large, square tower, which past the second or third story divided itself, some parts roofed over while others continued to rise. The right-hand rear quarter was the tallest portion, as well as the only part topped with crenelations rather than a wooden roof. There were few windows, all high up, giving the lower portion of the manor the appearance of a great stone block. Altogether, it was a grim and foreboding place, but to Erik it was much less so than the nighttime woods. He stepped up to the doors and took one of the heavy iron rings mounted in lion’s mouths and loudly knocked four times.
There was a long silence, then the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back, and finally one of the doors creaked open. A servant in gold-embroidered gray livery stood inside. He was an older man, in his mid-fifties perhaps, with hair and beard the color of dull steel, but his build was as powerful as the huntsman’s. The Master of Dmitrovich might not have armies at his beck and call as had his forbears, but he still could call on a strong force if he had need, Erik observed.
“Yes, lord?” asked the majordomo. He had taken in the Austrian’s status at once, but there was no servility in his voice. Erik had learned that a confident servant implied a powerful master, who lent his strength to his underlings.
“I am a traveler, caught between towns. I had hoped to find shelter here at the home of a fellow noble.”
The gray-haired majordomo nodded.
“Of course, lord. The Master always welcomes travelers of rank and good breeding. Please, enter.”
Erik stepped through the door into a towering entry hall, from which two staircases rose to a balustraded landing that ran along the back wall. The floor was a mosaic of colored tiles depicting a lion with a serpent caught in its claws and teeth, likely some kind of armorial bearing. The majordomo led him to a small reception room, where he could await the Master of Dmitrovich’s pleasure.
“The Master will join you for dinner, lord. If I may have your name so I may announce you?”
“Certainly. I am Erik Lehmann.”
The gray-haired man nodded.
“Once more thing, lord.” He reached out a hand. “I will need your sword. In this country, a man does not come armed to his host’s table. It will be returned to you when you depart, of course.”
The Austrian’s eyes narrowed, but he decided that in this war-torn district there might be such a custom, though in truth he had suspected the opposite. This was a nobleman’s home, not a gambling den in the back streets of Paris or Vienna where to go unarmed was to surrender one’s life. He unbuckled the sheath from his belt and handed the blade to the servant. As he did so, a chill seemed to pass through him.
The Austrian was led through the entry hall and upstairs to a cavernous dining room. The place was a virtual armory, with ranks of spears and shields and heavy broadswords on the walls. The massive wooden table stretched nearly the length of the room. At the far end of the table sat a man, but next to him stood a woman in a simple white dress who caught Erik’s attention as he approached. She had chestnut hair that tumbled down her back and glittering green eyes, and was possessed of an extraordinary grace and beauty. The man, though, made a slight gesture and the woman departed at once. Then, the man rose from his seat, and all Erik’s awareness was focused on him.
He was a tall man and broad-shouldered, but without the animal burliness of the servants. In a way, he was a reversed image of his guest, dark-haired and -eyed while Erik was fair with blue eyes, but with the same strong, dextrous body and clean-shaven good looks. His face was perhaps more predatory, his eyes harder, but then he was ruler here and Erik was not. He wore black, set off by a white shirt and cravat, while an emerald ring set in heavy, medieval-looking gold adorned his hand.
This, quite clearly, was the Master of Dmitrovich.
“Good evening, Herr Lehmann,” he greeted Erik in lightly accented German rather than the local tongue spoken by the servants. “I am Pyotr Dmitrovich. Welcome to my home.”
He extended his hand to the Austrian, who took it. Surprisingly, his grip was harder, much more forceful than Erik’s strength could match.
“Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“Not at all. Please, sit.” A place had been laid, the table service of ancient gold. Erik sat, and the host took his place next to him at the head of the table.
“You are not dining?” Erik asked.
“No; we dine early here, and of course had no expectation that I would have a guest for dinner.” He removed the cover from a tray, and the succulent aroma of a beef roast filled the guest’s nostrils. Erik ate heartily, washing it down with a strong red wine.
“So,” the Master inquired, “what brings a gentleman from the capital to this dark corner of the Emporer’s domains? As I am sure my servants have mentioned, it is not often that I have visitors of noble rank; even less often those from as far away as you.”
“My father is Konrad Lehmann, the Baron von Falkenheim. He is afflicted with too many sons, so since my elder brother will inherit the baronial estates, Father chose to settle upon me a small manor and lands in the Balkans that he won at cards. If I administer it well, then not only shall I be spared the rigors of being a poor relation or the uncertain chances of an army career, but I will also have a legacy to leave to my own children, should I be blessed with any.”
The Master’s lip curled scornfully.
“The most valuable of all possessions–land to rule!–and it is just handed to you. A prize won by gambling, nonetheless, rather than being carved out by blood and steel.”
He paused for a moment. Erik drank more of the wine, wishing to keep an even temper while he was enjoying this man’s hospitality. It proved to be the correct decision.
“Forgive me,” the lord said. “You cannot be blamed for your good fortune. In truth, my contempt should be directed to the one who wagered and lost his birthright to your father. An estate is a sacred trust, a responsibility to your ancestors who earned it and to your descendants who will rule it in turn.”
“Have you sons, my lord?”
The dark-haired man’s face grew bleak.
“I have neither wife nor heir,” he said. “My family is many years gone; I am the last of my ancient race.”
“Then, the lady I saw earlier...”
“Tanya? A woman, no more,” the Master replied with a dismissive gesture. The Austrian understood at once; she was undoubtedly the lord’s mistress, likely a village girl claimed by the boyar. “No, all I can do is to preserve this land as best I may, until the day finally comes when time does what Magyar, Turk, Prussian, and a dozen others could not and lays low the Dmitrovich line. I intend,” he added, his eyes blazing, “to make certain Death has a hard fight.”
There was little Erik could say to that. In its way, it was tragic, the end of a once-glorious family. The signs of old wealth he had observed stemmed, he guessed, from the days before the war years, before the province had become so wracked by poverty. The Dmitrovich estates were no longer productive; only brutal discipline and harsh taxes could maintain the keep, let alone improve it or provide for major repairs.
A man forced to such measures could well find himself the focus of superstitious fear. Especially when incidents such as that with the wolves took place around his home. The way the two beasts had given up the pursuit at the gate had been uncanny, defying at least on the surface any logical explanation.
“The village,” Erik asked, “is that yours as well?”
“It is; its citizens are my tenants, and most farm my fields besides. They work well enough, though they let their minds be dulled by foolish beliefs.” He laughed harshly. “For example, do you know they garland their doors with wolfsbane to keep the wolves away?” The Master laughed again. “Imagine, thinking a starving beast would be held off by a few herbs waved under its nose. The only real antidotes are sharp steel and a good firearm, and sometimes not even then. When hunger is in one’s belly, tearing away like a raging demon consuming one from the inside out, not even death is always proof against it.”
He smiled at Erik, looking almost half-wolf himself with his predatory face and fine, sharp white teeth. It almost seemed as if he had read the Austrian’s mind, and brought up that particular superstition because of it. Despite himself, Erik felt a faint chill trickle along his spine.
“No doubt, Herr Lehmann, you will find many similar experiences to be yours when you take possession of your own estate.”
Did he mean the wolf chase? No, Erik thought, that was absurd. Of course his host referred to the superstitions the Austrian’s own tenants would follow, causing amusement and frustration in equal measure for him. Erik could not allow himself to be unnerved by wild stories and the Master’s often off-putting manner.
They talked for perhaps an hour more, with the host ruthlessly dictating the flow of the conversation. He spoke of the wars that had been fought in the district, and how the first Dmitrovich had won a glorious victory over the Turks to bring him his lands and title.
“So you see, we Dmitrovichs were born in bloodshed, from the first to be master here to me, and all that lie in between us.” There was a heavy resonation in his voice, traces of bitter emotion that suggested a double meaning somewhere, though Erik could not discern it.
He rose then from the table, as if embarrassed somehow or aware that he’d said more than he’d intended.
“I have found your company most pleasant, Herr Lehmann, but I must beg your forgiveness once again for keeping you so late when no doubt you are tired from your journey. I will have Ivan show you to your room.” It was clearly a dismissal rather than an offer made from kindness, the lord banishing the now-unwanted presence from his sight.
The servant Ivan proved to be the majordomo, who led Erik through shadowy halls, a silver-chased lantern providing shifting illumination that hinted at phantoms lurking at the corners of Erik’s vision. The guest room proved to be in the tower portion of the manor. Like the other rooms Erik had seen, it bore the unmistakable imprint of faded glory. The furniture was all antique, and had accumulated a number of scuffs and nicks over the years, while the heavy brocade bed-hangings and the Turkish carpet were both worn by time. The bed was made up with fresh linen, though, and there was an ewer of water for washing as well as a carafe of wine set out on a night-table. In addition to these signs of hospitality, Erik’s saddlebags had been brought up by the Master’s servants. He was thankful for that, since his shaving kit and other toilet articles were kept there.
“I trust this will be acceptable, lord?” Ivan asked.
Erik nodded.
“Yes, quite.” In fact, the room was vastly more luxurious than his previous several nights’ lodgings. The only thing lacking that the Austrian could see was that there was no mirror to shave or dress by.
“Good.” Ivan lit Erik’s bedside candle from his lantern. “Sleep well, lord.” The gray-haired servant then departed, closing the door behind him. As massive as all the others in the ancient house, it swung closed like that of a prison cell slamming into place.
Left alone in the nearly dark room, the Austrian found himself growing suddenly tired, as if the events of the day were finally catching up to him all at once. He quickly readied for sleep, not even bothering to remove shirt and breeches, blew out the candle, and fell almost at once into a fitful sleep. Vivid dreams assailed his mind, but did not linger long enough to survive his waking. All he was left with was the sense that they had been pleasant, yet with an underlying bitterness that left him cold, almost repulsed, like the adulterer or drunkard who wallows in fleshly pleasures yet feels the sting of conscience. This emotional impression was all that he was left with, though; all specific details were swept aside as he found himself being shaken awake. Erik’s eyes opened to find himself staring into the green gaze of the chestnut-haired woman he had seen with the Master before dinner.
Tanya, he said her name was, he thought. Not a woman, either, but barely more than a girl, nineteen or twenty at most. There was worry in her eyes and fear etched into her face.
“Oh, please, Herr Lehmann, wake up,” she begged. “You have to help me. I can’t do it alone.”
Erik sat up and removed her hands from his shoulders. He could not help but hold them for a moment longer than necessary; they were soft and delicate, just like she herself was.
“Is your name Tanya?” he asked.
Daylight, the cold, pale illumination of an overcast day, was filtering through the room’s single window.
“Yes, yes, but please, listen to me!”
She looked to be on the verge of hysteria. Erik pitied her, would have pitied anyone reduced to such a state, but felt little interest in her problem.
“Miss, if you have had some quarrel with the Master of Dmitrovich, please leave me out of it. I am a guest here, no more.”
Tanya stared at him, stricken.
“A quarrel? Is that what you think? Herr Lehmann, the Master plans to kill me, to...feast on my blood!”
The girl’s claim stunned Erik. He certainly hadn’t expected accusations of that nature. An appeal to chivalry, perhaps, to take her away from a cruel lover, but not a blatant assertion that her life was threatened. The talk about blood-drinking, too, seemed born of pure insanity.
“Do you mean that he practices some kind of devil worship? That he murders women and uses their blood in perverted rites?” It sounded positively inane as he said it, and he could not but think that kind of idea would have more life in village superstitions than reality. Still, there had been occasions, some proven and even more rumored, of gruesome acts, Black Masses and the like, in Europe’s greatest capitals, let alone this bleak district.
“No, no! Don’t you understand?” Tanya pleaded. “The Master is...is a vampire!”
The Austrian stared at the girl, bewildered. A vampire? A walking corpse that sustained itself by consuming living blood? Did she truly believe it was so? Did she think she could convince him, not raised on local terrors of the Master, that it was true?
And yet, now that the word had been said aloud, Erik could not keep every image, every bogey-story and folktale he’d heard about the unholy things from boiling up in his mind. There were many things said to mark the vampire apart from living men. They were supposed to have supernatural strength; Erik recalled the power of the Master’s grip. Something, too, about mirrors...yes, he remembered, vampires were not supposed to cast a reflection in one. It was a good reason to remove all mirrors from the manor, so one would not inadvertently give himself away. And weren’t the blood-drinking devils supposed to be able to command beasts? Hadn’t he himself been herded to Dmitrovich manor by the wolves?
“You must be insane,” he snapped, and pushed her away from the bed. Yet was she the mad one, or he? He could not shake loose the idea now that it had been planted, as if some devilish power--or a natural instinct for survival–had rooted it there. “If that were true, he’d be off resting in his grave now that it’s daylight.”
“Yes, yes, and I can show you where it is!”
She was offering to show him evidence? If the Master was, in truth, resting in some tomb now it would be proof, if not necessarily of vampirism, then at least of a perverse, probably insane twist of mind. Yet, might it not also be some sort of trap, a lure to get the Austrian to take Tanya’s side against her lover’s? If he accepted her offer, she might lead him to a treasure-vault or other private part of the manor, prompting a challenge between Dmitrovich and Erik. Any explanation Erik tried to give would sound absurd–spying to see if his host was a night-walker?
“Tanya,” he asked suspiciously,” if that is true, then why haven’t you destroyed him yourself while he sleeps? Or better yet, why not simply escape during the day?”
She shook her head sadly.
“I cannot do either, not without help. Since he cannot defend himself during daylight hours, he leaves his men on guard, strong men who would kill for pleasure, let alone for the money he pays them. As for escape, the Master not only has his huntsmen, but also the forest wolves under his command. I once saw a kitchen servant try to flee, and he was torn apart by the beasts while the guards just watched and laughed. I might slip past the men, but never the wolves!”
She was all but hysterical with fear. Had Erik not had his own weird experience with the wolves he might have disbelieved her utterly, and even so suspicions about the girl’s sanity were presenting themselves. Even so, as the Austrian met Tanya’s pleading eyes, he found he did not wish to think of her as either a deceiver or insane.
He leaned forward, intent on taking her hand and saying something soothing, but she gave a little gasp and shied away, pressing the back of her hand to her lips.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Your throat!” she managed to say, pointing.
Dread filled the Austrian as he realized what she must mean. He went to his saddlebags, rummaging through them until he had found his small shaving mirror. Erik examined his neck closely in the glass, looking at the area around his collar that the movement of his head had revealed to the girl. It did not take long to find the two small puncture marks. They were clearly wounds rather than sores or insect bites, and they had not been there, he was sure, the night before. Erik’s knowledge of vampire legends was only casual, from spooky tales told over drinks late at night, but he recognized the signs of an attack.
“He...he must have fed on your blood during the night,” Tanya said, finding her voice.
“I’m lucky to be alive,” Erik murmured.
“No, the Master will take several days, perhaps as long as a week to kill you. As he will no doubt do to me, when he tires of my company.”
“I have to destroy him now, don’t I? With the taint of his bite on me, I’ll become...like him whether he kills me himself or not, whether I die now or later?” There was no question of disbelief now. The new evidence had convinced Erik as soundly as was possible without actually seeing the vampire there before him.
“Yes, yes, that’s true,” Tanya said at once, then after a moment’s bitter silence went on to say, “No, that would be a lie. In truth, I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me such things. I want you to help me, not run, but...I can’t swear that you would take any lasting harm.”
“It’s a lot to gamble over. My life, my immortal soul...I don’t see as how I have any choice but to help you.”
“Thank God for your courage,” she said earnestly.
Erik dressed quickly. Time was of the essence, for only during daylight hours was the vampire vulnerable.
“I wish I had my sword,” he said, feeling as if he were naked, to commence a dangerous mission with no weapon. Ironically, the saddlebags held the powder horn and shot for his pistol, but the gun itself was still in its holster wherever the tack had been stored.
“I tried to get it for you,” Tanya told him, “but I couldn’t get into Ivan’s locked room. I did manage to steal these from the kitchens, though.”
He turned; she was holding two bulbs of garlic in her outstretched hand. Erik remembered that the scent of that plant or its flowers was supposed to be noxious and repulsive to vampires. Indeed, there was supposed to be a whole apparatus of holy and herbal remedies to vampiric evil, few of which he remembered. Who’d have thought he’d be trusting his life to half-remembered folktales and bogey stories? He accepted one bulb, then pressed Tanya to keep the other for herself.
“Keep that; you may need it to protect yourself.” She smiled gratefully at him, and he was struck once more by just how lovely and feminine she appeared. Her full, red lips were slightly parted, and looked as if they would be delightful to kiss. No wonder the Master of Dmitrovich, vampire or no, had been tempted by her; Erik was tempted herself. Anything of that nature, though, would have to wait until more pressing matters were dealt with.
He put the remaining garlic into his belt pouch. He had some vague idea of using it not only for personal protection, but also to close off a room as a trap or something of that nature against the Master.
“I’ll still need a weapon, though,” he said, “especially if I intend to fight my way past any guards.” An idea came to him. “Well, if the Master will take my weapons, then I shall just have to take one of his.” The dining room had any number of perfectly good weapons hanging on its walls. He only hoped that the servants on guard didn’t have firearms.
“Tanya,” he asked, “do you know your way around the castle?”
“I know it fairly well,” she replied. “I’ve been here for almost a month.”
“Then you had best come along and be my guide; I could wander through here for hours and never even find the crypt you mentioned.”
The girl nodded. There was fear in her expression, but also an eagerness to take action, and even a little hope, as if she finally felt that she had a chance to escape the fate that had seemingly been mapped out for her.
“All right, then; let’s go.”
They crept through the castle halls without benefit of candle or lantern, relying only on the illumination of the sun through the few windows and the occasional lamps that were kept burning in the gloomier corridors. A light of their own would mark them, catching the eye of any of the boyar’s men. Twice they were forced to draw back into the shadows and hope when a servant passed nearby. A fight–perhaps a shouted alarm–would doom their chances. Their luck held, though, and they made it to the dining room.
Close examination of the various weapons revealed that they had been meticulously cared for, kept sharpened and rust-free. Erik’s first instinct was to take a sword, but as he started to lift down a heavy twelfth-century blade, he realized that they were designed for a completely different style of fighting than a modern weapon. The massive broadsword was meant to deliver great hacking strokes to slash through an enemy’s armor. Erik had been trained in fencing with a light blade designed to thrust at an unarmored opponent’s vital organs and to make quick parries as his primary defense. The oldest of the swords on display were so dedicated to slashing and cleaving that they were crafted with a blunt tip. Even those with sharp points were much too heavy to wield as he had been taught.
With that in mind, Erik selected a spear instead. He could thrust with it, or use it like a staff and deliver clubbing blows. Besides, he though, if he was going to be using an unfamiliar weapon, he could at least pick one with the longest reach. It was odd how the feel of the heavy wooden pole in his hands lent him confidence, despite his lack of expertise.
“It’s time to go to the crypt,” he told Tanya.
“All right. It’s underneath the castle; the stairs lead down from the old chapel.”
She led the Austrian down to the first floor and into the large room that in past years had been the religious center of the castle. The chapel had long since been abandoned; unlike the rest of the keep there had not even been a pretense of keeping it in good repair. The wooden pews were rotting away; some had already caved in. The crucifix that had once hung over the altar and other signs of faith had been taken away or smashed; whether this was because the Master was a blasphemous man, or because there was truth in the story that holy objects offered protection against vampires Erik did not know.
Tanya pointed out an archway in the wall behind the altar. There was no door, only a faint flicker of light from below.
“The stairs go down to a kind of guard room,” she said. “A man is always there during the daytime, and he’s always armed.”
Erik steeled himself for the battle he knew would come.
“We’ve been lucky so far,” he told the girl. The growing hope in her eyes was like a spur, prodding the Austrian onward. He did not want to see this beauty’s spirit crusted, her blood drained to slake the thirst of the vampire Master. “Let’s hope it continues that way.”
He started down the ancient stone stairs, keeping his steps as light as possible so as not to alert the guard. Tanya followed him, her soft slippers completely silent, only the whisper of her skirts making any sound at all. At the base of the stairs was a small room, with another stairway descending from the left-hand wall. A wooden table bore a brass lantern that flickered dully and a flask which likely contained wine or spirits. The only other item of furniture was a chair, in which sat the guard. It was the huntsman Erik had met outside the castle, still armed with a cudgel and knife.
The guard vaulted to his feet as Erik rushed him; he jumped back from the spear point and clawed the studded club free from his belt. Erik feinted and jabbed at him, trying to keep the huntsman away so he would be unable to use his weapon. It was a good strategy, but the Austrian’s inexperience with his weapon betrayed him. He thrust too far as the huntsman sidestepped. Before Erik could recover, the big man rushed him. Erik dropped the spear just in time, closing both his hands around the wrist that held the cudgel. He twisted savagely, and the strength of his two hands proved enough to force the club out of the huntsman’s grip. The guard’s size and the force of his charge, though, carried them both to the floor.
They rolled over and over, brawling like two drunkards in a bar fight. The huntsman had the advantage in this style of combat, using his greater weight and strength. Unexpectedly, though, Erik managed to thrust his forearm under the guard’s chin against his throat, choking him, and was suddenly able to throw the man onto his back. Then he realized how he had gained his advantage, because the huntsman had dropped his left hand to draw his knife. Erik barely threw himself to his left to avoid the slash of the long blade, the upsweep cutting his coat. The huntsman’s big hand closed on Erik’s shirtfront and slammed him back onto the floor. The knife blade came up, but the Austrian’s flailing hand caught the spear shaft and he rammed the point through leather deep into the guard’s vitals. Mortally wounded, the big man’s strength flowed away like water, and Erik was able to fling him aside, where he died.
Breathing heavily, Erik rose to his feet. Sweat trickled down his brow, and for a moment he had to lean on the spear for support. Had anyone heard the struggle? No, he concluded, the walls and doors of the manor were too thick for that. It was fortunate; Erik doubted that he could survive another fight like the last.
Tanya came forward from where she had been cowering at the base of the stairs.
“Are you all right?” she asked breathlessly.
“A little out of breath and a bruise or two, luckily. He didn’t get the chance to cut me.”
“I’m glad,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Erik smiled at the chestnut-haired girl, then peered down the stairs to the crypt. All was black below, and why not; the dead needed no lights.
“Well, there’s no use in waiting,” he said. “Tanya, have you ever been down there?”
“No; the guard made me go back when I found this place.”
He had thought so.
“All right, then; you stay here while I go down after the Master. Up until now you’ve been my guide and invaluable, but your part is done. If something goes...wrong, you can back up and he’ll never know that you helped me.”
Tanya shuddered, and from the way her green eyes flashed Erik thought that he might have an argument on his hands, but at last she chose to give in.
He bent over and took the dead man’s knife, thrusting it through his belt, then picked up the lantern off the table.
“I’ll need light to see by down there,” he explained. “I think there should be enough light filtering down from the chapel so you aren’t left in the dark, but if not just wait for me upstairs.”
“All right, Erik.”
It was the first time she had called him by his Christian name, and it lent him strength as he took the first few steps down into the crypt. This stairway was much narrower and steeper than the previous one, and seemed to go on much farther. Finally, it opened up into a great vaulted room that was much larger than Erik’s lantern could illuminate.
The crypt was a massive chamber that, if it had been part of the aboveground structure would have occupied half or more of the space of two floors, for the ceiling was at least twenty feet above Erik’s head, supported by massive stone buttresses. In one corner, the wall had cracked, and seepage from belowground water had formed a small pool beneath the jagged break in the stone, but this did not appear to threaten the basic structural integrity of the chamber.
Many stone coffins were inlaid into the floor; the names of Dmitrovich ancestors were carved into the lids of some, while other sarcophagi were left blank, awaiting occupants that had never come. A dank, musty odor filled the air, the dust of centuries mixing with the humidity created by the water seepage. Perspiration stood out on Erik’s face as he slowly moved through the room, his footsteps echoing hollowly from the high ceiling.
As Erik made his way across the room, the lantern’s rays fell upon what he was sure was the vampire’s tomb. It was a wooden coffin, unlike the others in the room, and it was set on a kind of raised dais. The Master’s arrogance, he was certain, would demand this place of honor among the dead. He set the lantern down on one of the nearby tombs so he could use two hands for his work. Erik climbed the dais and threw back the lid.
He had been right. The Master lay inside the coffin, dressed just as he had been at dinner. The vampire’s eyes were open and staring, causing Erik to jump back in shock, but a second look confirmed that despite his gaze the Master was unmoving, trapped in the comatose sleep of the living corpse he was. The bite on the Austrian’s throat seemed to burn like a brand as he stepped up, raised the bloody spear, and plunged the sharp steel point into the monster’s breast.
The Master roared in pain and surprise as the attack shattered his slumber. His hand locked around the wooden shaft and ripped the spear out of his chest. Erik barely retained his grip, but was flung off-balance by the creature’s strength. His weight on the end of the shaft fought against the supernatural power of the Master’s grip, and under the stress of the opposing forces the wood splintered and broke. The vampire was left holding only the last foot or so of the weapon and Erik was sent falling off the edge of the dais and landed heavily on the stone floor.
The vampire rose from his bed and flung the end of the spear aside. Metal screeched as it crashed into stone, reminding Erik of just how desperate his position was. Galvanized, he leapt to his feet despite the pain in his battered body. He reached for the garlic, but found to his horror that his belt pouch was empty, slashed open by the huntsman’s knife. He would have to face the vampire hand-to-hand. The Master did not attack him with a weapon, nor did he even fight as a man would have. Instead, he sprang at Erik like a beast, slashing at him with fingernails that had grown into inch-long claws. His face was twisted with insane fury; his snarling mouth revealed fangs that he had not shown at dinner; the vampire was no longer anything resembling an elegant nobleman, but fully the hideous monster he truly was.
The Austrian flung himself aside to avoid the vampire’s initial charge, then was able to do so again on the second and third attempt. He knew, though, that it could not go on forever like this; the Master’s supernatural strength and quickness would wear down his all-too-human adversary, and not in a long time, either. Had the creature used its intelligence rather than just bestial fury it would be over already; Erik was lucky that, apparently, during the day its intellect seemed to slumber, leaving only animal reflexes to defend itself.
Then, Erik remembered another superstition, one he should have thought of before but which still seemed to offer hope. The Master was crouching for another spring, and Erik could see that his spear had not drawn blood; indeed, though the sharp steel had torn through shirt and waistcoat it had not even left a lasting wound on the undead flesh beneath. He tensed his body, as if to hurl himself aside again like a desperate Spanish matador, but instead, as the vampire launched itself at him, Erik braced the butt of the broken spear on the flagstones. The jagged end met the Master’s charge, and with a titanic effort Erik finished the work, impaling the creature on the wooden pole. Wood. Only a wooden stake thrust through the heart could render a vampire helpless, not weapons of iron or steel, a fact that apparently held true. It worked with the spear as well; the Master at once resumed the semblance of a corpse without even a cry of pain or anger, losing all animation at once.
Erik drew the knife from his belt, not even pausing to reflect. According to that particular superstition, the stake was only half the task. Once the heart was impaled, the head had to be removed to finish the job.
He was white-faced and trembling when at last he emerged from the crypt.
“Is...is he...” the girl asked.
“The Master of Dmitrovich is destroyed,” Erik told her. The memory of the vampire’s body rotting to dust and bone haunted his thoughts, as he supposed it would for a long time to come.
“Oh, thank Heaven!” Tanya cried, and flung herself into his arms, holding him tight. Slowly, his arms came up around her, holding the girl to his chest in a close embrace. He could feel the supple curves of her body through the thin dress and the sensation began to banish the fear of his life-and-death struggles.
He had just decided to kiss her when he felt her fangs pierce the skin of his throat.
* * * * *
Tanya Petrovna Dmitrovich looked down at the sleeping form of her latest conquest. She had carried the Austrian back to his room once she had drunk her fill, an easy task for one with her strength. She had been tiring of her previous toy, and had determined to replace him from the moment Erik had stepped into her courtyard, if the young man could unknowingly win a place at her side. Besides which, it was good planning to get a new Master every few decades; it helped keep the peasants guessing. It was a shame to lose Grigori, though, for the huntsman had been an effective servant–but then again, servants of his kind were all too easily found in this bitter country.
As Tanya always did, she wondered if, this time, she should gift her soon-to-be fledgling with her full range of abilities, rather than burdening him with all of the superstitious weaknesses from folklore. Again as always, though, she decided against it. Not only did it insure her the advantage if he turned rebellious, but it was another line of defense against would-be vampire hunters; they would inevitably dismiss her as an innocent victim when they saw her going about in sunlight, freely handling holy items and garlic. She had actually been forced to use the subterfuge one hundred and thirty years past against a particularly resolute invader. With her decoy in place, she could satiate her own bloodthirst without danger.
After all, what peasant would believe that his cruel tyrant and the devil of his nightmares was nothing but the slave of the Mistress of Dmitrovich?
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