Heinar’s eye bulged and he gripped Turgo’s arm. “Man, what a story!” His voice was hoarse. “But finish it.”
The other nodded, and continued:
“The lad had been on watch and carried his crossbow with him, loaded. For a moment he’d been paralysed, unmanned; but now he screamed his outrage, let fly, put a bolt through the sod close to his black heart. It would have finished any other man, to be stuck through and through like that with a hardwood bolt, only a hairbreadth from his heart. But not Oulio, not the thing which Oulio had become. With the strength of a maniac, he knocked the husband aside, kicked him in the face, and rushed out of the tent into the sleeping camp. His hissing and howling woke all of us up …
“Well, everything I’ve told so far is the way I heard it and how I remember it. But from here on in it’s the way I saw it. And I’ve no sinister motive for telling this tale, Heinar; no, for I’ve learned my lesson where women are concerned, and I’m not much of a one for subterfuge. But the Szgany Hagi took me in and for that I owe you a favour. So here’s how the rest of it goes:
“Before the camp was fully awake, before anyone could say, ask, or do anything, this young lad—who was now mad as Oulio himself—put another bolt in him, in his spine. Oulio toppled into the campfire, and the lad had him! He grabbed a leg, dragged him screaming out of the cinders, noosed him round the neck and strung him up from a tree there and then! And then he took us to his wife, so that we’d understand.
“We’d understand some of it, anyway …
“And no one cut Oulio down, so that he might well be swinging there yet, except … that wasn’t the end of it. No, not by a long shot.
“For at sunup, Oulio’s coughing and grunting brought us awake again! He was still alive, yes! With a rope round his neck, his face all purple, dangling there in mid-air; one bolt skewering him through the chest, and another deep in his spine. And none of these things had killed him! But something was in the offing which would for sure. It was the sun, coming up over the trees and blazing down into the clearing. And when it lit on Oulio—how he smoked and steamed!
“And then … this awful, impossible commotion: he choked and kicked and danced up there! Until the knot came loose, letting him down. And so he crumpled to the ground and lay there, staring at us with those scarlet eyes of his. And we called for the lad, who’d just finished burying his poor wife, to come and finish it. It seemed only right…
“He brought a machete and went to Oulio where he lay. But before he could take his head … the monster spoke to him! Oh, he didn’t cry out, beg for mercy, plead for his life; none of that. His throat, all puffy and grooved, wouldn’t have allowed for it, and anyway he had no wind. And in a voice no more than a hoarse whisper, he said: ‘I’m sorry! It wasn’t me!’
“The liar! For of course the lad, and everyone else, knew it had been none other! Half crazy, the poor bereaved husband snarled and his machete went up, but before it could fall … Oulio began to choke and flop about, so that we knew it was the end of him. And perhaps the lad thought, “Why should I make it easier for him?” At any rate, he stayed his hand.
“And so Oulio flopped about in his death agonies; his mouth yawned open and his neck grew fat, and his purple face swelled up as if to burst. Until at last… at last something came out of him!”
Heinar half started to his feet. “Something? What sort of something? Was he sick? Did he throw up his guts?”
Turgo shook his head. “His guts, no. He threw up nothing. I saw it and I remember. I remember what I thought: that this thing wanted to be out of him! Because while he was finished, there might be another chance for it. Don’t ask me where the idea came from, but that’s what I thought.”
“But what was it?”
Turgo shrugged, then shuddered, which was something Heinar had never seen him do before. “A huge slug, a leech, a great fat blindworm—don’t ask me, for I don’t know. It was partly black, grey, leprous, ridged, writhing. Big as a boy’s arm, I thought it would split his face! And it dragged itself out of him and wriggled for cover—because just like Oulio it felt the sunlight. Its head was flattened, like a snake’s, but it was blind, eyeless. Yet somehow, it sensed the lad’s machete still raised on high and reared back from it. But too late … he was quick … he struck off its head!
“A moment more and men unfroze, sprang forward, kicked the wriggling pieces into the fire. Then … we all looked at each other—all of us, with faces white as chalk—and we looked at the lad, who used his great knife again. This time he took Oulio’s head: two, three strokes … it was done. And again we tossed both parts into the fire, then stood there till they’d burned to ashes …”
Heinar stared hard at Turgo, who gazed back unblinkingly. And Heinar knew that every word of it had been the truth. For who could embellish a thing like that? Finally he said, This Shaitan’s eyes were red. I thought it was only the firelight, reflected in them. Well, maybe it was—and maybe it wasn’t.”
“We’ll know for sure at sunup,” the other answered. “But do you really want to wait that long? Right now, who or whatever that man is, he’s with Maria Babeni, in her caravan. And maybe he’s with her just like Oulio was with that girl. Also, Heinar, my story still isn’t finished.”
“There’s more? But what else can there be?”
“A plague, I said,” Turgo reminded him, “and a plague’s what I meant. For in the dead of the next night—and after that poor lass’s husband had buried her in the woods—who should come ghosting into camp but the girl herself! Oh, her flesh was pale and her nails broken from the digging, but her appetite was healthy enough, and good long teeth to match it!
“Well, the men around the fire had all taken strong drink; at first they didn’t know her. She went among them like a whore, tempting, stroking, biting their necks. But suddenly her bites were real! Aye, and her eyes were red! Then, they knew her.
“Well, this time we knew better what we were doing. But we had to hold her poor raving husband down while we did it…”
Heinar shook his head in utter bewilderment. Until at last: “A plague, aye,” he said. “But Turgo, what are we talking about here? A creature that lives in a man—or a woman—making him or her crazy enough to live by the blood of other men?”
“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” said the other. “A wampir which makes its host victim strong, lusty, devious, and very hard to kill. Old Oulio lonescu wasn’t a rapist, and he certainly wasn’t a murderer! And what about this girl, who came back from the grave?”
“Isn’t it possible she was buried alive?”
“No,” Turgo shook his head in firm denial. “She was dead for sure. And later—undead!”
Heinar could scarcely take it all in. “What was that word you used? Wampir?”
Turgo nodded. “In certain western regions, that’s what men call the great bats that suck on goats. If they find a crippled goat under the moon, they’ll suck him dry.”
Heinar’s mouth was likewise dry. He looked nervously all about—at the tents, the carts and caravans, and not least the shadows—then licked his lips and finally nodded. “Well, I know about such bats, of course: we Hagis call ‘em ‘vexies’. Catch them at our goats, we sneak up, club them, break their wings. But men with giant leeches in them?” He didn’t try to hide a small shudder. “No, I have to admit, you’re the expert on this one, Turgo Zolte. So what next? How do we handle it?”
“What we don’t do is act too hasty,” Turgo said. “For we’d never live it down if this Shaitan’s innocent—and a hero to boot.”
“Which he could well be,” Heinar let himself down from his branch. “For after all, young Vidra Gogosita reckons he saved his life!”
Turgo’s deep-etched frown showed his dilemma, his uncertainty. “That’s the hell of it,” he nodded. “It’s possible all this talk’s for nothing—indeed I hope it is!—but can we risk it?”
“No,” Heinar gave a short, sharp shake of his head, convinced that he’d be f
ar better safe than sorry. “Vidra’s had his head down for a while now. Perhaps we should go and have a word with him.”
They did. The widow Gogosita heard them coming, met them at the flap of her tent with a finger to her lips. “Shhh! The poor lad’s asleep. And Heinar,” she grasped his arm, “it’s very good of you to show your concern this way. Ah, but it must have been terrible up there! Such nightmares! Vidra rambles as in a fever … he speaks of blood, and murder!”
They went in, all three, to stand quietly beside the youth where he tossed and turned. The night had turned cold, and yet the sweat stood out on Vidra’s brow. He was pale as a ghost, with grey hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes.
Turgo glanced at Heinar, went to shake the lad’s shoulder. His mother got between. “What’s this?” she hissed. “But can’t you see he needs his sleep? Well, whatever, it will have to keep.”
“No, Elana. It can’t keep.” Heinar was familiar with her, but firm. He put her to one side, and …
… And Vidra came breathlessly, babblingly alive!
He was still asleep, but the cold sweat welled up that much faster, and the words jerked out of him in squalls, like sudden bursts of spattering rain. “No, no … keep off … keep away!” He tugged at his blanket until it was a damp knot. “Ah, great ghoul … but do you murder men for their clothes? No, no, for I see it’s more than their clothes you’re after! … Keep off! Go torment Dezmir … not me, not me.” He flopped this way and that. “Ah, but now I know you, fiend! … Your eyes like lamps … they let you find your way in the dark! But not me, not me! Go suck on Dezmir’s neck and let me be!”
And with that last he turned on his side, and his neck was visible where his mother had washed it. Turgo and Heinar looked—and saw.
“Punctures,” Turgo growled. “Tears in the flesh. And the flesh itself inflamed, poisoned!”
Heinar nodded his grim agreement.
The widow’s hand had flown to her mouth. “What did Vidra say? About murdering men for … for their clothes? But now it comes to me. That stranger was wearing Vidra’s long coat. Also Klaus Luncani’s trousers! Much too short for him … they have a patched right thigh. I’d know that patch anywhere, for I put it there. His poor wife is no good … with needle and thread … at all!” Her eyes opened like great mad windows.
And so did Vidra’s as he came awake, sat bolt upright and snarled his terror, then reached out his trembling arms for his mother. “Ma!—Mama!—Ma-aaaaa!” His cry was a gasp, a hiss, not loud, but it penetrated Turgo, Heinar and the widow like a long hot iron sliding into their flesh.
And for all that it was quiet, still its echoes reached out a great deal farther than the tent of the Gogositas …
In Maria Babeni’s caravan, Shaitan came awake!
What was that? A cry in the night? From which quarter?
The night seemed still, quiet, but Shaitan’s vampire intelligence was not. It was unquiet. He sensed movement; men other than the watchkeepers were awake in the camp, stirring furtively.
… And they were with his thrall!
He reached out with his mind—and gasped as the scene in the tent of the widow Gogosita flooded his awareness in all its vivid, telepathic detail. Not a scene from the youth’s dreams, no, but from life. Vidra was awake—and talking his head off!
No! Shaitan sent his command like a flung knife. Oh, you faithless one! Much too Idle now to change sides, Vidra Gogosita …
In the widow’s tent, suddenly Vidra’s terrified eyes went wide where he clasped his mother and babbled the true story to Turgo and Heinar. His words were shut off as Shaitan closed a telepathic fist on his mind; groaning, he slumped to the floor. But the others had heard enough.
“Look after him!” Heinar snapped as the frantic widow got down beside her son. And Turgo thought:
Aye, look after him very, very well!
Then the two men were out of the tent, and Heinar blowing on his alert whistle. From out on the perimeter came answering cries, the strange cough of a wolf, sounds of men hurrying to investigate. “The girl’s caravan is on the other side of the clearing,” Heinar grunted, leading the way. They skirted the campfire, and Heinar blew again.
“He’ll be alerted by now,” Turgo warned.
“Distracted, I hope!” Heinar answered.
Turgo loaded his small crossbow, knocked off the safety. “There are only the two of us.”
“Huh! How many do we need?”
Turgo wasn’t known for his patience. Baring his teeth, he snarled, “More than just the two of us, be sure!” And he grabbed Heinar’s arm to slow him down.
By then they had almost reached Maria Babeni’s small caravan. Heinar shook himself free of the other’s hand, growled, “Yes, I know: he’ll be strong, this creature. But poor Maria, she’s just a weak girl—and me, I’m Szgany!”
“Both of us,” Turgo snapped. “Both fools, too.”
Arriving at the small covered cart, Heinar blew one last blast on his whistle; a glimmer of lamplight shining through the wicker weave of the caravan’s door went out at once; the shadows lengthened as watchmen came loping in starlight. But before they could arrive, the door was flung open!
Shaitan stood there, his face a pallid mask, alert but calm. And no disguising the scarlet fire in his eyes now. He made no attempt to do so but said, simply, “Heinar, my ways will be strange to you at first. But only follow them, and I shall make you the most powerful leader the Szgany ever knew, until the Hagis are feared throughout the length and breadth of Sunside.”
Heinar shook his head. “It wasn’t fear made me a leader,” he answered, “but respect. That … and justice!” And to the man beside him, in a voice which cracked like a whip to activate his trigger finger: “Turgo!”
Turgo’s bolt zipped from the tiller of his weapon. But in the same moment, Shaitan snarled and slammed the door in their faces. Still the heavy hardwood bolt struck through the wickerwork to find its target; most certainly, for Shaitan’s cry of pain sounded from within like the howl of a stricken animal, and the flights of the bolt were sheared from its shaft as it was wrenched through the tough weave and out of sight.
Men arrived on the scene: three of them, one with his wolf to heel. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
Heinar had no time for explanations. “That man in there, the stranger Shaitan. I want him brought down. Maybe even dead. Turgo here has shot him; that might be enough …”
Turgo, fitting another bolt to his crossbow, thought not. And he was right. But before he could say anything:
A mist sprang up; it sprang into being, literally!
One moment, the five men stood at the door of Maria’s small caravan—with lamps in the other tents and carts beginning to flicker into life at the commotion, and grumbling voices raised in inquiry—and the air was dry and sharp. Then, suddenly, as if the earth and the forest had exhaled mightily, a ground mist lapped at their ankles, and the air was damp, even greasy. Time only for one of the watchmen to murmur, “What?”—and another, “Eh?”—before the mist was thickening, writhing in the trees, obscuring the camp’s silhouettes.
Then, from the covered cart, Maria Babeni’s cry rang out!
Galvanized, forgetting for the moment the weirdness of the night, Heinar bounded forward up the single wooden step, charging the door with his shoulder. Simultaneously, there came the sound of ripped leather and the cart rocked a little.
The door burst inwards under Heinar’s weight and a wall of mist greeted him, collapsing around him, issuing outwards from the caravan like water when the dam breaks. Then the Hagi was inside, with Turgo hot on his heels; and Maria, naked and sobbing, collapsing into their arms.
A hole gaped in a side wall. Framed in the ripped hide, briefly, they saw the tall pale figure of Shaitan before he fled outwards to the night. Turgo’s bolt was in his shoulder, blood flowing freely … but not only blood. For when Shaitan breathed, he breathed a billowing mist. And the pores of his body, open like tiny pouting
mouths, secreted milky vapour as a slug issues slime!
Turgo cursed, fought free of Maria’s arms, loosed his second bolt through the hole into Shaitan’s mist, hopefully into Shaitan. But no, there came no answering cry, only a red-eyed shadow loping soundlessly through the mist-damp shrubbery.
“Loose your wolf!” Heinar shouted to the men outside.
With a snarl, the animal went bounding, and the watchmen after it. “Yes, get after him!” Turgo leaned out of the door, urging them on. “And don’t just catch him—kill him on the spot!” If you can …
Heinar had wrapped his coat around the girl. They laid her on her bed, examined her neck. Nothing, just bruises, and more on her body. They were proper about it: they merely glanced at her naked flesh, but that was enough. There were signs which both men knew. And confirming their unspoken thoughts:
“I … had thought I was dreaming,” her voice was tiny, a sob. “But … when I woke up, I … I knew what he had done. Except I … I couldn’t stop him! I swear it! He … he has this power. It’s in his eyes …”
Heinar called for women, left Maria in their care. And a little while later, at the campfire:
“Well?” he asked Turgo. “And what now?”
The mist had thinned out, seeped into the ground, disappeared. The stars were bright again and the hurtling moon just risen. From away in the forest came far, faint shouting. “For now,” Turgo answered, as the distant cries died away, “let’s just wait and see if they get him.”
Heinar grunted, nodded, said, “Well, Turgo Zolte, it seems the Szgany Hagi are firmly in your debt. And me, I’ll not forget it. Hah. Who could forget a night like this? But at least young Vidra and the girl are all right.”
The other made no answer, merely stared into the fire and wondered, All right, are they? Are they really?
Before the dawn two of the three men returned. They had got cut off from the third watchkeeper and hadn’t seen him since. Neither him nor his wolf.