The Cross of Saint Boniface

Robert E Waters

Knight, Death, and the Devil

by Albrecht Durer, 1513

The olive-skinned man in the center of the fighting pit moved like a dervish. He fought Florentine, a Turkish kilij sword in one hand, a Kurdish khanjar dagger in the other. The man facing him was a brutish oaf, big in the chest with thick, black Armenian hair covering his lacerated skin. He hacked and hammered his way forward, trying to catch the more nimble fighter by surprise, but Lux von Junker could see the exhaustion in the man’s eyes, hear the man gasping for air even from his comfortable view from the slavers’ loft. The quicker man stepped aside, paused in mid-motion while the bigger fighter lost his balance. Then he struck, sliding his dagger across the nape of the man’s pale broad neck with one clean stroke. The blade cut straight to the bone. The brute was dead before he hit the bloody cobbles of the fighting pit.

            The crowd roared.

            Lux could hardly hear himself think, let alone speak. He pointed at the victorious fighter, shouted, “Him! That’s the one I want!”

            “Not for sale,” Stas Boyko said with a grunt.

            “It’s not a request, Stas,” Lux said, turning to eye the old man. “You agreed to allow me my choice. I’ve made it. He’s the one.”

            “I’ve changed my mind. He’s far too valuable to free.”

            Lux pulled a jeweled dagger from beneath his brown robe and placed it on the table between them. “More valuable than this?” Then he reached into a loose sleeve and untied a leather bag dangling from his forearm. “Or this?”

            The slaver, his eyes large with surprise, moved cautiously to the items. He ran his dry fingers over the rubies in the dagger’s handle and along the blade’s gold-inlaid blood groove. Then he hefted the bag, letting the enclosed gold coins click together like Spanish castanets. He smiled, forgetting himself for a moment, then grew serious again.

            It was all part of a slaver’s game. And Lux knew how to play that game. 

            “What do you want with a washed-up Tartar soldier?”

            “He’s a soldier?”

            Stas nodded. “Was. . . or so he claims. Though he practically threw himself at me when we found him drunk, destitute, and half dead near the Pregola. He’s unstable, erratic. He’s got dangerous history I’m sure.”

            Who doesn’t? Lux turned toward the pit again and watched as the fight masters opened the gate and another poor sap lurched forward to meet his executioner.

            “Regardless. I want him.”

            “He’s Muslim, too, though I’m not sure how devout.”

            That paused Lux for a moment, and he considered. What would Duke Frederick say about him using a heretic on such a sensitive mission for God? Nothing, most likely, as the Duke was hundreds of miles away in Saxony, and he would never know of this man if all went according to plan. In fact, no one could know why Lux von Junker was here, in Rostenbork heading for Starybogow.

            Stas Boyko huffed as if he were about to say something funny. “Judging by who you are, who you represent, I would think a Muslim in your company would bring unwarranted attention to—”

            Lux brought his fist down onto the table, knocking the dagger to the floor and tossing the coins from the bag. Stas jumped, but Lux reached out fast and grabbed the slaver’s silk shirt and pulled him close. “The dagger and coins are not just for that man’s freedom, Stas. They’re for your silence as well. You will not speak of who I am, or what I represent, or speculate among your slaver friends as to why you think I’ve returned. For if I find out that people are aware that I’m here, I will blame you. And then I will use that man’s dagger to gut you from balls to brains.” He let go of Stas’s shirt. “Now. . . I will ask you once more: do we have a deal?”

            The slaver fixed himself, cleared his throat, adjusted his neck, and tried to keep his anger and fear in check. “Very well. Take him.”

            Lux smiled and nodded politely. “May God show you mercy.”

Lux turned again to the pit and watched as the fast man easily finished off his next opponent with a swift undercut of legs and a sharp jab of steel through the liver.

            Lux nodded. The duke – and even God – might disapprove of his choice of partner on this mission. But the cursed city of Starybogow looming so large down the long road that he yet had to travel, required the best, most savage fighters to survive. Lux allowed himself the small vanity that he was one of those fighters. The man in the pit, holding his bloody weapons aloft to the enraptured glee of the crowd, had already proven that he was one of them as well.

            “One more thing,” Lux said. “What’s his name?”

 

*****

 

            Fymurip Azat sat shackled in the back of his new master’s wagon. It was an uncomfortable ride. It was bumpy, and the dry, cracked planks creaked back and forth as the weak, aged team stammered through the uneven ruts of the path. They were heading east; that much he could tell. And along the narrow bank of the Pregola River as well; he could smell its deep muddy flow. Where were they going? To Swinka, perhaps? Or maybe Kukle, where he had fought in another pit to the satisfaction of a blood-thirsty crowd just a few months ago. What did it matter, really? When he got there, he’d be required to kill again, and again and again, until his master’s coffers swelled with coin. And perhaps this master would be generous enough to throw him a few as appreciation for a job well done. Fymurip huffed at that notion. White masters were never so generous.

            He took a deep breath and laid his head back against the side of the wagon. Amidst the faint light leaking through the tears in the canvas cover, he studied the crates and the few barrels packed around him. There were even a few bags of barley; for the horses no doubt, and sizable too, which meant that the man had travelled far. But there was no distinct smells in the air beyond the barley, no indication that there was anything in the crates or barrels of any merit or substance. He pushed a barrel with his sandaled foot; it moved easily. There was nothing in them. Travelling with empty containers, and east as well, where mercantile activities were scant at best. Fymurip screwed up his brow. Things weren’t making sense. Who is this man, and why is he travelling with empty boxes?

            The wagon stopped, and the driver stepped off. Fymurip waited quietly as his master walked toward the back. The man opened the flaps, motioned with his left hand, and said in broken Turkish, “Come. Come on out.”

            He hesitated at first, his eyes adjusting to the sharp light of the setting sun. Then he crawled to the end of the wagon, letting the chains of his manacles drag along the slats.

            “Please, step out.”

            He did as instructed, though the flay marks on his back from his last beating were growing stiff with scar tissue. He stretched his taut skin as he emerged, then straightened himself as best he could to stare into his new master’s eyes. A sign of defiance; some might say, disobedience. But he was tired of looking away.

            They were big, brown eyes, inset in a long, gaunt face, covered with a thin beard of graying hair. He was older than Fymurip, that was clear, perhaps twenty years or more, but the thick, loose dark robe that covered his tall frame seemed small, draped gently across his broad shoulders. He was wider than he had seemed at first; not fat, really, but big-boned, his hands larger than Fymurip’s but with fingers longer, narrower, pointy like brush needles. His nose was long and thin, and he stared at Fymurip with a wry smile on pale lips.

            He pointed to a rock at their feet. “Lay your chains over rock.”

            Fymurip hesitated again, then knelt and pulled his chains tight until the links were taut and straight.

            Before he could look up into his master’s face, the big man drew a sword and cut the chain in half.

            Fymurip fell backward, his arms splayed out fully to his sides. He lay there like an image of Christ Jesus on the cross, spreading his fingers out, then making a fist, then back again. The only time in the past three years that he had ever felt this free was in the pits, killing. And now here he was, lying in the muck and mud, before a giant of a man whom he thought owned him.

            “I apologize that I remove your shackles cannot,” the man said. “That horrid man of an excuse Boyko refused to give me key. But we’ll find a way to cut them up.”

            Fymurip stood slowly, uncertain that he had heard the man’s words correctly, his Turkish imprecise. Fymurip replied in more correct German. “You are letting me go?”

            “Ah, you speak my language.” The man smiled and chuckled. “And far better than I speak Turkish. Very well, then, German it is.” The man reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out Fymurip’s sword and dagger, cleaned and wrapped in leather. He unwrapped them and held them in the light a moment, admiring the bright glint off their newly sharpened edges, then held them out as if offering them as gifts. “Take them. They’re yours. And yes, I’m letting you go. From this day forward, you are a free man, unless through careless judgment you should find your way back into Boyko’s grubby hands. You may go by God’s grace. But I would like to offer you an alternative path, if I may.”

            He offered his hand. Fymurip neither moved nor took it. The man cleared his throat, then put his hand down. “My name is Lux von Junker. I’ve come a long way on an important mission, and I would like you to help me complete it. Your skills as a fighter are most impressive, and I daresay that a man who can survive Stas Boyko’s pits for more than three years can survive anything.”

            Almost anything. “Where are we going?”

            Lux pointed through a tree line on the east side of the path. “Through those woods, to Starybogow.”

            The very word made Fymurip shudder. “It’s a cursed place.”

            Lux nodded. “Yes, and more dangerous than any other place in the world. Or so they say, though again, I’m sure a man of your talents can survive it.”

            “What is your purpose there?”

            “Treasure. Or, rather, one particular kind of treasure. A goblet, in fact. One that used to belong to my grandfather. He acquired it through distant relatives whose ancestors shared in Marco Polo’s journey to Cathay. I never lived in the Town of the Old Gods myself, you understand, but my father would speak of it often, so much so that I can describe every jewel, every line of gold along its foot, stem, bowl, and rim. It’s a priceless family heirloom. . . and I want it back.”

            “And you believe it has remained in Starybogow?”

            Lux nodded. “When the city was ravaged by earthquakes, my father and his sister and little brother escaped. My grandfather, an old stubborn goat, refused to abandon his home. My father spoke of a tableau where he waved goodbye through gathering grey smoke as his father clutched the goblet to his breast while being consumed by the crumbling spires of St. Adalbert’s Cathedral. If so, then my grandfather is buried there, his white boney hands still clutching the goblet in prayer. I want it back.”

            “This is all for greed.”

            For a moment, Fymurip thought he had erred, that taking such a confrontational tone against a man who had just cut his chains was not his best move. He had no doubt that, in a fight, he could best this tall stranger. But despite his lanky appearance, Lux von Junker was strong, and fast. He had cut those chains straight through with one swift stroke. It was not a move that Fymurip had seen often in his days as a pit fighter.

            But the pale-skinned German merely paused, nodded, then continued. “One would think so, indeed. But I assure you that my reasons are pure. If anything, I wish to recover said goblet to ensure that it does not fall into the hands of a cutthroat who would exploit its value to make other lives unbearable. I do not seek to find then sell the item. I merely wish to find it and take it back home so that my family can enjoy its history.”

            “You have a family?”

            Lux nodded. “Indeed I do. A wife and a young son.”

            “I’m surprised that you are here, then. Risking your life for such a silly thing as a cup.”

            “Silly to you, perhaps. But as I say, it’s a part of the history of my family, and I intend on finding it. So I ask you again. Will you help me find it?”

            Fymurip fixed his sword and dagger to his belt, adjusted them so that they were equidistant from one another, the dagger on his right side, the sword on his left. He fiddled with the angle of the belt so that the sword sat a little lower on his hip. He preferred it that way; it made for a quicker draw.

            He stepped forward and stared up into Lux’s big eyes. “What is in it for me? You get your goblet. What do I get?”

            Lux opened his palms as if in prayer. “I have already given you the greatest gift a man can give: freedom. But, if it makes you happy, you may keep all other riches that we may find among those ruins. As I said, I’m not here for glory, fame, or fortune.”

            It was a tempting offer, indeed. Rolling images of gold coins and jewels swirled through Fymurip’s mind, and it all had a favorable glow. But the man was correct. The greatest gift he had now was freedom. He had the freedom to choose, which was something he had not had for a very long time. And he was not about to let that lay fallow with indentured servitude to a man he didn’t know. For that is certainly what would happen if he agreed to Lux’s terms. Accepting his offer would merely replace one form of slavery with another.

            Fymurip shook his head. “Thank you, sir, for my freedom. But I must decline. You may handle your own affairs as you wish, and I shall handle mine.”

            Lux paused, then stepped aside. He motioned to the woods. “Very well, then you may go. May God keep you safe.”

            Fymurip stepped carefully, afraid that it was some trick, that the man would suddenly produce another set of chains and clap them on his wrists with the same swiftness that he had cut the first set. But he reached the wood line, and nothing happened. He took a step into the wood, nothing happened. Then another and another, and suddenly he was alone. He kept walking, picking up the pace, a newfound energy in his stride. He stepped over fallen trunks, pushed through brambles, ignoring the scratches from thick needles. He brushed aside a rotten limb. He took more steps, and then the old fears returned, through the dark haze of his memory. A pair of eyes stared out at him through that haze; large, uncompromising, savage, and blood, blood red.

            Vucari eyes.

            He paused, right on the lip of a ridge line, right before falling down an eroded escarpment thick with exposed roots and jagged rock. He wavered on the grassy lip, regaining his balance. He stared into the river valley below, and miles away, the ruined spires of Starybogow reached up into the clouds like broken fingers scraping a deep blue sky.

            The City of the Old Gods.

            He didn’t even notice that Lux had come up behind him.

            “She’s a wondrous sight, isn’t she?” Lux asked, moving to stand beside Fymurip. He pushed out a long breath, then continued. “See how the evening fog off the Pregola is drawn over the walls like a man drawing smoke from a Hookah pipe, and even from this distance, you can hear the thousand sounds of those who still walk its streets. The screams, howls of the destitute, the crack of whips, the snarl of savage teeth, the clamor of steel on wood, rock against bone. Light from the setting sun casts its shadows long and deep through the detritus and filth, giving it an almost solemn, thoughtful veneer, but at its center beats a heart that God has forsaken. Scandinavians, Cossacks, Moscovites, Imperial thrill-seekers, Poles, Lithuanians, Romani and, dare I say, Tartars, all come to bask in its danger, its promise of riches and unearthly delights. Worshippers of Perun and Dazbog, Veles and Jarilo walk its cluttered streets, sounding clarion calls for the return of the Old Gods, while Prus pagan tribesmen chitter out their foul incantations in hopes of keeping those Old Gods in dominion over the Eldar Gods. Indeed, it is not a place where humble, spiritual men like us should venture, and yet, there is no other place that I want to be. . . where I must be.”

            Fymurip turned and stared into Lux’s face. “For a man that has never lived there, you sure know a lot about it.”

            Lux ignored the statement, turned and said, “I know I don’t have a right to ask you to help me, given your life these past few years, but I ask once more. Come with me to Starybogow and help me do God’s work.”

            God’s work? I do not worship your Christian God, German. But Fymurip did worship Allah, though he had not been given the honor these past three years of praying each day, bent on his knees to face Mecca. It would be nice to do that again. But there would be little time for that in Starybogow. Every step down its cobbled streets, its darkened alleys, would be a danger. It was madness to go down there, and yet, it was madness to be out here alone.

            The red eyes of the vucari invaded his memories once more.

            He turned to Lux, but instead of accepting, he pulled his kilij and thrust it above the German’s head and into the swollen belly of a dog-sized black-and-gold spider that dangled above, readying its stinger. Lux ducked reflexively and shifted to the right, and lucky he did so, for the spider, pierced straight through, tried spraying its poison. Fymurip pulled his blade free, let the green toxic fluid squirt to the ground, then with one swift stroke, cut the spider’s silk strand and let it fall to the ground. Its wounded belly popped open like a tick, and for good measure, Fymurip hacked the vile creature into three even pieces.

            “God’s grace!” Lux said, recovering. “What a horrid beast!”

            Fymurip wiped his sword clean on nearby weeds, sheathed it, and said, “A Pajaki Death-Spitter. If that poison had hit your face, you would have died instantly.”

            “I owe you my life.”

            “No, sir. On that score, we are even. And yes, I will go with you to Starybogow against my better judgment. Because if I do not,” Fymurip said, staring down at the gurgling pieces of the giant spider, “you will be dead in a day.”

 

 

II

 

            Lux paid a farmer six copper coins. The old man agreed to keep the wagon hidden and the team fed and well-rested. “We’ll be back in a couple days,” Lux said as they readied meager provisions and fastened their blades to their belts. With a few crude chisels and a hack saw that lay in the farmer’s barn, Lux removed Fymurip’s shackles. They then made for the ferry that would take them across the Pregola and up to the Konig Gate, but they would not cross until nightfall, Lux explained to Fymurip. It was a risk to cross the river by day.

            “What does it matter if we wait till dark?” the Tartar asked, as they entered the tree line. “You are taking us through the front door.”

            “By night, there’s little chance of being targeted by snipers or distrustful Romani from the outer wall.”

            “I thought you said you had never visited.”

            Lux shook his head. “I haven’t. I’ve been told of the threats.”

            Another lie. If a cat-o-nine-tails were convenient, Lux would beat his back for the constant lying, but what choice did he have? He could no more tell this Tartar soldier the real reason for their mission any more than he could accomplish it on his own. I lie for God, he kept telling himself, and it helped. I must keep it secret until the mission is complete.

            An hour later, with the sun fully setting in the west, they stood at a guard post on the bank of the Pregola.

            “No, no, no,” a foul-smelling Belarus guard said with his bulky frame blocking their passage. “No one gets into Starybogow. . . especially on the ferry. It only goes north to Wystruc. It never lands on the opposite bank.”

            There were many Lithuanian and Belarus guardsmen strewn about the perimeter of the city with orders to keep out any thrill-seekers, vagabonds, beggars, what have you.

            “But it is such a pleasant night for a river ride,” Lux said, rolling a thick gold coin between the fingers of his right hand. “Be a shame to lose the chance of catching that cool breeze blowing upstream.”

            The guard stared down at the coin, his eyes widening. He remembered himself and cleared his throat. “There are two of you.”

            Lux sighed and fished into his pocket for another. He handed them over with a firm handshake. He squeezed the guard’s hand a little longer, and a little stronger, than normal, making it clear that negotiations were over, and that if they persisted, the next offer would be in blood. The guard understood. He pulled away, massaged the pain out of his hand, and flipped one of the coins to a henchman.

            “That could have gone badly,” Fymurip whispered as they stepped onto the ferry. “You paid them too much. They will never see the likes of that coinage again. That kind of money loosens lips. They are going to talk.”

            Lux said nothing, but perhaps Fymurip was right. Six coppers to keep an old dirt farmer quiet was reasonable. Gold coins for a ferry ride was obscene. But he couldn’t risk not getting to the other bank, couldn’t waste time bargaining with foul, inconsequential guards. Now that he had gotten this far, there could be no interruptions, no further delays. He’d risk the publicity. But Fymurip did have a point.

            He pulled a bag from beneath his robes and handed it over. “You are in charge of negotiations from now on.”

            Fymurip took the bag, stared at it through the ferryman’s torchlight. It was probably more money than the Tartar had ever held in his life. He opened the bag and fished around in it, letting the gold, silver, and copper pieces tumble over each other. “This. . . this is Royal coinage. Where did you get it?”

            The ferryman pushed off from the bank, and Lux shrugged. “A German nobleman travelling to Posen refused to pay my toll. I asked for it politely, but he didn’t agree to terms until I stopped twisting his neck.”

            Fymurip huffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

            Lux pulled his robe tight against the chill off the water. He leaned forward and glared into Fymurip’s eyes. “You doubt me?”

            The Tartar stared for a long while, then blinked, shrugged, and turned away.

            Lux relaxed and straightened, turned his head to the far bank and watched as the tiny sconces along Starybogow’s high walls flicked in the wind. He closed his eyes and prayed that God would forgive him for yet another lie.

 

*****

 

             No one lifts this much Royal coin from a traveler, Fymurip thought as they left the ferry behind and made it quickly up the worn escarpment toward the Konig Gate. It was an absurd statement, and perhaps a mistake by his large companion, who up to this point, had carried himself fairly well. Now, the German seemed nervous, agitated beyond comprehension. But perhaps it was not unusual. If what he said were true, getting this close to Starybogow was a milestone, and cause for concern. So close, yet so much to do to find this goblet Lux spoke of. Was there a goblet? Fymurip did not know, and in their current situation, now was not the time to press him on it.

            They found the gate easy enough. The Konig entrance was a big, double wide iron banded door that, these days, sat askance against the crumbling stone wall. One of the earthquakes that had ravaged the area had nearly torn it off its hinges. Now, it hung there on rusty joints, daring anyone to come and touch it, and risk it falling on them and smearing them into the mud and grime. They did not dare, for again, another set of guards needed tending to. These, however, were more amenable to bribery, and cost a third what Lux had paid the others. They took their money and stepped aside.

            Fymurip had to admit that it was wise to enter the Konig Gate, for it was closest to the Town Hall and Igor Square. That area of the city had been ravaged by earthquakes and years of looters. Even in the poor light of their torches, he could see the detritus and filth that had been strewn along the cobbled streets, the cluttered back alleys, and enclosed neighborhoods that lined their passage. But this part of the city was the most open, and far harder for any wandering brigands or cutthroats to try an ambush. Fymurip pulled both blades and kept them out and visible for anyone, or anything, that dared try a move. Lux did likewise.

            The German pointed down a narrow passage through piles of broken work stones. “This way. The cathedral is near.”

            In its day, Saint Adalbert’s Cathedral was a marvel to behold. Fymurip had never seen it without massive cracks along its base and blood-stained prayer chambers, full of rat dung and the bones of unfortunate thieves, but he had heard of its majesty upon his first arrival. The stories that the old citizenry would tell marveled any tales of Christendom and its glory days here in East Prussia. And then the earthquakes came, and then the Teutonic Knights, who slaughtered most of the citizenry in an attempt to rid the dying city of its sin and its slide back into paganism. Such an attempt had failed, of course, and now the city and its cathedral, whose ruined spires lay before Fymurip as a testament to man’s infinite skullduggery, died a little death every day.

            Fymurip could feel eyes upon them. Every glance left, right, behind, always seemed to flush out a streak of some shadow, some blurry mass that moved from debris pile to debris pile. Off in the distance, he could hear the howls of the ravenous, the screams of victims. There was a flush of balmy wind off the Pregola as fog drifted over the walls and settled around everything like virgin snow, and yet he felt no comfort in it. Not that he should, but behind the grey billows of condensed water, with weapons in his hands, and beside a large man wielding a massive sword of his own, Fymurip felt that he should feel more comfort, more security. He did not. It was true that every man had a destiny out there somewhere, and in this place of Old Gods, that destiny was usually a sword or a steel bolt through the heart. The difference being, most did not know when the end would come. Fymurip, however, did know his fate. My destiny is out here somewhere, he thought as they reached the cathedral entrance, and it’s waiting for me with teeth and claw.

            He made a move to the left toward a pathway along a line of old apartments and ruined single homes. “No,” Lux said, pointing to the right and toward a dark gap between fallen columns. “Through there.”

            “But that will take us below the cathedral,” Fymurip whispered, trying not to arouse the interest of anything watching from a distance. “Surely your grandfather’s home is in this—”

            “It was buried in the earthquake. It will be this way!”

            It did not make any sense to Fymurip, but he let it go. He did recall Lux’s comment about his grandfather being buried by falling debris, but it was very unlikely that his home would be underground. More likely the home’s remains would be under piles of rock, in the direction Fymurip had suggested. Something is not right here.

            They slipped through the gap. The way was pitch black and smelled of moldy dead things. Lux held his torch high to reveal a passage downward. Fymurip followed, keeping tight control of his blades, letting his feet fall in the exact same places as Lux’s. The boards along the ground were spaced as if they were walking down stairs, but Lux’s massive feet took them in stride, two at a time, as if he had been here before and knew the way instinctively. Fymurip kept close behind, letting the tall man clear the path of spider webs and loose debris that Lux kicked out of the way. He looked back over his shoulder constantly, making sure that no one followed.

            He coughed. “Are you sure you know where you are going?”

            “Yes,” Lux said, his voice echoing through the dank tunnel. “Not much further.”

            The passage leveled and became wider, until it opened into a circular chamber, with three exit colonnades before them, just as dark and brooding as the passage they had entered. Lux raised his torch. What the light revealed trapped Fymurip’s breath in his throat.

            Stacked against the far wall were bodies, mangled and contorted into one giant mass. Limbs of half flesh, bone, and rotten wool stuck out everywhere like weeds in a field. The corpses’ heads revealed damp, moldy hair of fair blonde, red, and black. The eyes inside shrunken sockets peered out in long, deadly stares, as if searching for their lost souls.

            Fymurip dared take steps toward the pile, and the closer he drew to it, the more disgusted he became.

            “Children! Every one of them!”

            “God have mercy,” Lux said, nearly dropping the torch. “They must have all died together. In the quake. A nursery, perhaps.”

            Fymurip found the courage to step closer and use his sword blade to push aside strands of dark hair from the sallow face of one of the victims. He leaned in and studied the exposed neck bone.

            “These children did not die in the quake,” he said. “Look at the deep cut on this girl’s neck bone. And this one. . . and this one. No, Lux, they were murdered. Their throats cut. Probably in sacrifice to the Old Gods to keep the quakes from happening.”

            “Monstrous!”

            Fymurip nodded. “We should bury them.”

            Lux shook his head. “I agree, but we don’t have the time or the tools to do so. Perhaps later, when—”

            His next word stuck in his throat as his eyes grew large and fearful in the shadow cast by his torch. The German was staring like a statue past Fymurip and into the pile of dead children. Fymurip dared to turn and see what Lux was staring at.

            A body rose out of the pile, one of the children most certainly, and yet, this one had eyes that could see, hair prim and well-kept, with a clean white dress. It was like a spirit of one of the girls, and yet, its skin was dark and patchy. Then she changed, her dress fouled, her skin paled. From her mouth grew thin roots, from her ears fungus. She smiled a dark set of rotten teeth, opened her mouth wide, and screamed, “Baptize me!”

            The shock of her voice knocked them back. The torch scattered. Fymurip held to his weapons, but tumbled backward, hitting his shoulder hard against the floor. “What is this?” He howled, trying to right himself against the waves of piercing sound flowing out of the dead girl’s mouth.

            “A drekavac!” Lux said, regaining control of his torch and fighting to stand.

            “BAPTIZE US!!”

            The ceiling was beginning to crumble. Dust and small rocks fell like rain from the cracks.

            “Run!” Lux said. “Run—”

            But Fymurip was already up and running, down one of the colonnades, deeper into the catacombs below the cathedral. Lux caught up quickly and they ran, together, not caring where they were headed. Fymurip knew that the only thing that mattered now was escape.

            Escape from the drekavac who continued to scream as it pursued them down the tunnel, followed by an army of dead children.

 

III

 

            Lux gasped for air as the dead children rumbled behind him, screaming their request for baptism and reaching out with boney hands to grasp at his robes. He could not stop running, for the impetus of the unholy shamble behind would plow him asunder, and how would he escape a pile of rotten children intent on tearing him to shreds? The key to this affair was their leader, the drekavac. Lux could not see the evil spirit amidst the undulating pile of bones, but if it could be brought down, then maybe. . .

            “We cannot run forever,” Fymurip said, a mere pace ahead of Lux. “I am tiring.”

            Lux was exhausted as well. The heavy clothing, the armor, the lack of sleep and food, combined with the stale, thick air of the catacombs made his lungs and flesh weaker than he realized. The Tartar was right. They had to stop, turn, and make their stand.

            Lux was first, sliding to a stop across moldy damp cobbles, swinging around with his torch, and letting the flame serve as a sword. And just as he predicted, the bone pile hit them square, knocking them back against the wall of the tunnel. Lux let his torch drop. Its flame set alight several of the children, who did not seem to notice or mind that the dry stitching in their muddled clothing turned scorch black like burning leaves. They poked and scraped and gnawed at Lux’s arms and legs, and the only thing that saved the big man from being eaten alive was his thick robes and armor.

            He tossed them off handfuls at a time, kicking and pushing them away with but a flicker of his wrists. They were paper thin and frail, their dried bones unable to handle any significant pressure. His sword, incapable of being swung in such close quarters, served more as a hammer, and he turned it around to use its hilt as a stabbing tool, knocking child after child away with crushing blows to their ribcages.

            Fymurip was fairing the same, but his superior speed and sword skill allowed him to cleave heads clear off their brittle necks. His dagger was small enough to wave through the thick air and send skull after skull tumbling away.

            Three bone children leaped onto the Tartar’s back and began clawing at his shoulder blades. Blood was drawn, but the swift man plucked them off one by one and ended their assault by dashing them against the rock wall.

            They were destroying scores upon scores of them, yet the pile never seemed to dissipate. Then Lux saw why.

            Near the back of the onslaught, the drekavac waved its corporeal hands over a pile of bones. The pile would shiver and then reanimate into another deadly skeleton. The newly formed shamble would then take its place in the ranks. An endless stream of unbaptized bones to bite and claw through his mortal flesh. Seeing this, Lux realized that there was only one thing to do to put an end to this madness.

            He stood, and punching a hole through the ravenous skeletons, he produced an amulet that hung from a gold chain at his neck. It had been buried beneath his robe and hauberk of chain, but now that it was free, it glowed like the Northern Star.

            He held the amulet aloft as he walked toward the drekavac, and said, “Unholy spirit. . . I cast you down with this amulet of Saint George. Go now. . . and threaten the world of the living no more!”

            The drekavac reared up, letting the tendrils of is undulating form swirl into a funnel. It tried to scream its dissatisfaction, baring a mouth of teeth and flicking its ghastly tongue at Lux as if it were spitting poison. “Baptize us—”

            “I will do no such thing,” Lux replied, holding up the amulet and letting its light bathe the entire corridor. “There are no souls left to cleanse. You have consumed them all and condemned these children to the fires of Hell. And so I say again. Leave this place!”

            The drekavac tried again to resist the powerful light emanating from the amulet. It reached out to try to strike it away from Lux’s hand, but the charm was too powerful, too dipped in the word of God to destroy. It shrieked, then flew through a gap in the ceiling. It was gone, and the remaining child skeletons dropped dead to the floor.

            Lux paused to ensure that the drekavac had really disappeared, sighed, then tucked the amulet away. He turned and there stood Fymurip, blades held forward, ready to strike.

            “You are a Teutonic Cleric.”

            He saw no reason to lie about it now. “Yes, I am.”

            “I should have known. Your Grunwald sword, your robes, your speed and strength. I should have known that you were a warrior from the start. You lied to me.”

            Lux shook his head and sheathed his sword. “I freed you from your bondage. I gave you your freedom, and you made a choice.”

            “I would not have agreed had I known your affiliation. Teutonic Knights killed my father, a loyal servant of the Sultan. They bled him out before my eyes. They raped my mother and left her for dead. You killed my father, raped my mother.”

            “I did these things? Or did dishonorable men, agents of the devil, do so? I cannot speak for every member of the Ordo Teutonicus. I can only speak for myself and for my lord commander, Duke Frederick. We are honorable men with an honorable purpose. I can promise you that before God.”

            Fymurip took a step forward. “Tell me why we are really here, cleric! And don’t lie and say it is to find a golden cup. A man who walks on unholy ground with so much gold in his purse does so under more meaningful reasons. Speak the truth, or you will lose your throat.”

            The Tartar placed his dagger against Lux’s neck. The cleric swallowed. “I doubt you have the stamina to make the slice. Step back a pace, and I will tell you.”

            Fymurip held his blade against Lux’s neck a few seconds more, then stepped back. “Speak!”

            Lux cleared his throat. “Many, many years ago, long before you and I were born, Simon von Drahe, the Grand Commander of my order, had a premonition on the night before battle. That premonition told him that he would fall against a Lithuanian and Polish force arrayed against him near the town of Dragu. So powerful was the premonition that he decided to entrust in his cleric, Gunter Sankt, with the honor of protecting the Cross of Saint Boniface.”

            “The Cross of Saint Boniface is a myth.”

            Lux shook his head. “No, my good man, it exists. Held by Christ himself before the Last Supper, he kissed it, blessed it, and imbued it with all his heavenly goodness. A pure, yet wondrous silver cross that can destroy any evil it encounters, heal even the most egregious wounds. But only in the hands of the righteous. Such a man was Saint Boniface, until he succumbed to his own mortality, where it passed from generation to generation through peace- loving hands, until it reached Commander von Drahe. But he was worried that if he fell in battle, then pagan hands would corrupt and corrode its goodness. So he gave it to Gunter the Good, who vowed upon death to keep it safe.

            “The Grand Commander’s premonition proved true. He fell in battle, hard, his body quartered and catapulted over the Teutonic battlements. My brothers fought bravely to avenge the death of their commander, but it was not meant to be. In the fighting withdrawal that followed, Gunter the Good fell as well, but neither his body nor the cross was ever recovered. Therein lays the legend, as you say, of Saint Boniface’s cross.

            “But most recently, through intelligence obtained by travelers of good character, a man has been seen walking these unholy ruins. The stories claim that he is a cleric of my order, and that he wears a cross of pure silver about his neck. And thus, I have been sent here by Duke Frederick, the lord and Grand Commander of my order, to ascertain if these travelers speak the truth. If so, I am to take this cleric back to Saxony and thus return the cross to its rightful keepers.”

            Fymurip huffed, but he put away his blades. “A foolish, foolish mission. Your cleric is most certainly dead after all these years. And the cross could be anything.”

            Lux nodded. “Indeed, but that is why I’m here. It’s not my place to prejudge the authenticity of the stories. It is my duty to see if the stories are true.”

            “And if they are not?” Fymurip asked, eyeing Lux carefully, searching his face for any sign of waver or doubt. “What then? Will you kill this man whom they claim is a cleric. . . whoever they are. Will you rob him of whatever lies about his neck?” Fymurip opened his hands and swiveled in place, motioning to the naked child bones at his feet. “Look around you, Lux. This is a mere taste of what awaits you in these ruins. You go floundering around here without care or clear purpose, you will wind up dead. And that is not what I signed on to do. To find a Christian relic for an order that has brought so much pain to my people, to my family.”

            Fymurip seemed near tears, but Lux could see that the rage the Tartar felt kept his sorrow in check. “I am well aware of the risks in this place. That is why I asked you to help me. But we have had this conversation already, my friend. The question before you is the same as it was the moment I broke your chains. Now that you know the truth, will you still help me?”

            Lux could see the uncertainty behind the Tartar’s eyes. He could tell that the man wanted to say no, and yet something stayed his hand. But in the end, Fymurip shook his head.

            “No. I say again, this is not what I signed up to do. I will not be party to this mad endeavor. Your mission is your own. I want no part of it.”

            Lux watched as Fymurip walked back down the corridor from where they had entered, picking his way gingerly through the piles of bones and tattered clothing. He wanted to call out, to try once more to convince Fymurip of the value of the mission, the righteousness of it. But he held his tongue and simply watched the man walk away.

 

*****

 

            Fymurip picked a baby tooth from a bite in his forearm and let it drop to the ground. He cursed, rubbed away the pain and blood from the wound, then knelt momentarily behind a pile of stone slabs and discarded wood planks. Ahead a few hundred feet stood a group of men, talking in a circle, one pointing toward the east. Who were they? Where had they come from? What nationality? He could not discern these details through mere moonlight, for that was all he had. He had left the torch behind in the catacombs. He told himself that he had done so out of respect for Lux, despite the man’s deceit. But in truth, he had just forgotten about it, so angry he was at the cleric’s lie. Foolish old goat, Fymurip thought as he waited behind the stones for the men to move on. Floundering around in catacombs looking for a phantom. And they had indeed found one, but not the one Lux was looking for. He’ll never find what he seeks. Of that, Fymurip was certain. So what was the point of helping?

            The men moved on and Fymurip rose carefully and continued toward the Kiev Gate. He would, once and for all, leave this evil place and never return. He would go home, perhaps, or pledge his allegiance to the Sultan, become once again a warrior in the Turkish ranks. Those had been good times, indeed. Why he had ever left the Sultan’s service he did not know. Ancient history. But what mattered now was getting to the gate and leaving Starybogow. Then he would figure out his next move.

            He moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and tight against walls and dilapidated statues that had been pushed out of Igor Square by broken crests of ground. The earthquakes had devastated this area of the city, leaving mighty crags everywhere. It was perfect for hiding, for moving stealthily, but one false step, and a person could be lost forever down one of those crags. He tucked away his sword but kept his dagger in hand. He needed at least one free hand to use for balance as he made his way through the debris piles. A left turn, then a right, another left, and there it lay: the Kiev Gate, its door still intact, but guarded heavily outside. It would be easy to knock on that door and request departure, but difficult to pass through it. The guards were far less accommodating when it came to letting folks out. But if need be, he’d give every coin he had to be free of this place.

            The coins!

            Suddenly, he remembered that he had walked away with the bag still tied to his belt. For a moment, he considered turning around and going back. But no, that would be foolish. He would not go back into those catacombs . . . never again!

Fymurip breathed deeply, stood straight, and took a step toward the Kiev Gate.

            A massive clawed hand came out of the shadow and knocked him aside. Fymurip hit stone hard, cried out in pain, and nearly dropped his dagger. He hit the ground and rolled, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness now formed by a massive creature blocking the moon’s light. He rolled again as a large, clawed foot slammed down an inch from his face. Fymurip gained his feet, slashed out with his dagger, and caught a bit of the beast’s hide. But it did little damage, for an arm, roped with muscle and patches of black fur, grabbed Fymurip’s shirt and hoisted him up into the air. He slashed and slashed with his dagger, but he found no hide, no meat. The beast roared and slammed him into a stone block, then pulled in close to stare into his face with red, furious eyes. The beast’s rancid breath stung his lips.

            “Vasile Lupu!” Fymurip managed to mumble as the vucari’s malformed face snapped with bloody teeth and spit.

            “You remember me,” the beast said, slurring his words in broken Turkish. “I certainly remember you, Fymurip Azat. I have been waiting for you a long, long time. You are the last. You are the one who wielded the blade. You will die.”

            “It was not me, I swear.” Fymurip tried to speak, but the vucari’s hand was pressing hard on his throat. “I was ordered to do it. I. . . did not know. I. . . did not understand.”

            The vucari ignored his pleas and flung him aside. Fymurip soared through the air and broke his fall by stretching out his left arm and plunging into a tuft of weeds, soft mud, and ornate pebbles that lay at the base of a marble statue. The vucari pursued, tried grabbing Fymurip’s leg, but was stopped cold by a bolt that struck him square in the shoulder.

The beast roared, stumbled forward, and Fymurip took this opportunity to lash out with his dagger. He swiped left to right and drove a deep cut across the beast’s chest. The vucari roared again, reached up to his shoulder and broke off the bolt. Another struck him near the first, but only a glancing blow. Fymurip tried to cut the beast again, but the vucari fell back, moving to attack the person who had struck it with crossbow bolts.

That person was Lux, and though he stood on high ground overlooking the square, he could not reload his crossbow fast enough. The vucari was on him. Lux threw the crossbow aside and drew his sword, but was only fast enough to block the beast as it lashed out with both hands, trying to maul the cleric’s throat.

            Fymurip did not hesitate. Though weak and dizzy with pain, he drew his sword and rushed the beast, jumping a small gap in the ground and striking the vucari across the back. It was an ill-timed lunge, however, and the beast easily shrugged him off. Yet the strike distracted the vucari enough for Lux to swing his sword and lop off the left hand.

            The vucari’s agonized screams echoed through the ruins, and Fymurip was sure that everyone within a mile could hear it. He feared the unknown dangers the screams would bring their way. But, one crisis at a time. Lux’s strike ended the fight.

            Clutching the bleeding stump on his arm, the vucari jumped a large gap in the ground, turned and roared his rage. “I will find you again, Fymurip Azat. I will find you again!”

            Then it was gone, and Fymurip fell exhausted to the ground. Lux stood beside him. “That should take care of it.”

            Fymurip shook his head. “No conventional blade or bolt can kill it. When it is in its wolfen form, only the power of a strong talisman, or silver, can break it. I doubt that even the trinket you wear about your neck can drive away the evil in that man’s body. No. Some day he will find me again, and next time, I might not be so lucky.”

            “Hmm!” Lux grunted, taking a seat beside him. “Seems you have been keeping secrets as well. Care to explain what that was all about?”

            Fymurip hesitated, reluctant to divulge the truth. He wiped sweat from his face, stretched his back to massage away the pain running through it, and said, “I came into this area five years ago. A young, immature – dare I say, stupid – kid, fresh out of the Sultan’s service. I left his army because I was tired of killing for scraps, for nothing really, other than the glory of Allah. That in itself was a good reason to fight, but at the end of the day, I was weak and wanted more. Fame, glory, and gold. And Starybogow promised all of that.

            “But I quickly fell in with a band of Muscovites cutthroats. I was quite surprised that they cared not that I was a Tartar of Turkish descent, and that I worshipped Allah, peace be upon Him. Like you, they cared only for my skills as a fighter, and fight I did. But soon I realized that these despicable men were not here for treasure or for glory. They were here for revenge. They just wanted to kill and rape and plunder, until every last person – Lithuanian, Polish, Cossack, you name it – who had wronged them in some way, suffered and died. I justified staying with them because we would, on occasion, enter the city and make war on those evil, horrid denizens that lurk in the shadows. . . like those dead children. That was Allah’s work, I argued to myself, and so I stayed on, participating in all manner of vengeance.

            “One day we were working through the ruins near The Citadel and we caught rumor of a vucari hunting in that area, stealing little gypsy children and eating them whole. We went in and found her. But it was clear that the rumors were false. This wolf creature was just living in the area, you see, trying to survive like the rest of us. When the truth of it came to light, I tried getting them to stand down, to retreat. A vucari is nothing to trifle with, as you have seen. But they had their blood up, and nothing I could say would stay their sport. We tracked her until she was cornered. She managed to slit the throat of one of the Muscovites, but in the end, she lost her strength.

            “By that time, my blood was up as well. Someone thrust a silver dagger into my hand, and I plunged it into her belly, three times. It was over, and she lay there dead. It was only afterward that we realized that she was pregnant, with two pups. We left her there on the cold marble floor and never entered the city again. But shortly thereafter, the vucari’s mate, his name being Vasile Lupu, tracked us down, one by one, and took out his vengeance. I was the sole survivor, and that is when that bastard Boyko found me. I was more than happy to be in his service, even if that meant being a slave. I wanted nothing more than to be rid of that vile creature.

            “So you see, Lux. I cannot travel with you, for my curse will affix itself upon you. Wherever I go, that beast will surely follow. He waited years for me to reemerge. He will not stop this time until I am dead.”

            Lux listened to it all, nodding appropriately at various places. Afterward, he was silent. Then he stood, cleared his threat, and said, “I understand. But we all have our secrets, and there is no shortage of dangers lurking in these ruins. My request still stands. But if you are intent on carrying this burden on your own – a respectful decision – then I will see you to the Kiev Gate and have you on your way.”

            Just like that? Fymurip stared at the Teutonic Knight, not certain what to do. The man hadn’t even asked for his coins back. Is he playing me? Fymurip wondered. When they reached the gate, what then? Would this cleric fall upon his knees and beg him to stay?

            Fymurip looked deeply into Lux’s eyes, trying to divine the truth. There was no malice, no deceit, no deception there. He would see Fymurip to the gate, and then happily bid him farewell.

            “This cross of Saint Boniface. . . how important is it to you?”

            “I have sworn an oath to the Grand Master that I will return with it or not return at all.”

            “And you honestly believe that it resides somewhere within these ruins?”

            Lux nodded.

            Allah, forgive me for what I am about to do.

            “Very well,” Fymurip said, standing and turning toward Igor Square. “Follow me.”

            “Where to?”

            “Lux von Junker,” Fymurip said, not bothering to turn, “you may have Royal coin, but I am not without resources of my own. Come. We will do this my way.”

 

 

IV

 

 

            Just outside the little town of Draguloki, they watched the withered old man fish for carp. He had neither bait, nor pole, nor net, but he thrashed around happily in the knee-high water of the small stream that flowed a few feet from the entrance of his hovel. He would grunt and jab his hands under the water, flail around aggressively, but would always come up empty-handed. The failure didn’t seem to shake his resolve. “I’m gonna get you, fishy. I’m gonna get you.”

            Lux shook his head. “This man is going to help us?”

            “Looks are deceiving,” Fymurip whispered, hoping that he was correct. It had been a long time since he had seen the hermit. He was crazy back then. Hopefully, he wasn’t absolutely senile now.

            Fymurip picked up a small rock and tossed it into the water near the man’s legs. The splash startled the carp, and the old man fell to his knees, cursing. “Damn the gods! I nearly had it!”

            “You haven’t caught one since I’ve known you!” Fymurip said from brush cover. “Nor will you ever.”

            The hermit scrambled backward toward his hut. “Who is it? I warn you. . . I have strong magic.”

            Fymurip emerged from hiding. He smiled and put up his hand in peace. “Would you harm an old friend, Kurkiss Frieze?”

            The hermit pushed strands of greasy grey hair out of his face. He squinted. “Who are you? And who is that with you?”

            Lux emerged then, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Fymurip motioned toward Lux with caution. “Careful, he’s not kidding about the magic.”

            Fymurip took a step into the water. “It is I, Fymurip Azat. Your old Muslim friend.”

            Kurkiss didn’t seem to believe at first. He squinted again, moved forward cautiously, looked Fymurip up and down. “Impossible. He was torn to shreds by a wolf.”

            “Not yet,” Fymurip said, lowering his hand and taking another step forward. “And I won’t be until you can catch a fish with your bare hands.”

            Kurkiss giggled. “It’s good to see you again, old friend. I had written you off.” He motioned to Lux. “Who’s the giant?”

            Lux seemed insulted by the comment, moved his hand again to his sword. “An impatient fellow, for certain,” Fymurip sighed, “and not one who can take a joke, apparently.”

            “No time for jokes, my friend,” Lux said. “Daylight is wasting, and people are dying.”

            “Welcome to Starybogow!” Kurkiss cackled and did a little dance. “Where death is cheap and life. . . well, that’s more complicated.”

            “Agh! We’ll get nothing from this bloviating fool. Let’s be off!”

            Lux turned to leave, but Fymurip grabbed his arm. “Patience, cleric. Kurkiss will give us what we need.”

            “And what is that?” Kurkiss asked, straightening his back, though it seemed as if the weight of the world pushed down on his shoulders. The past few years had been hard on the old man, Fymurip could tell. He seemed more broken, more unsettled. Fymurip could see a tremor in the man’s hand as he spoke, and he appeared to always be on the verge of collapsing. “I don’t treat with Teutonic Knights.”

            “How did you—”

            Fymurip was just as surprised as Lux at Kurkiss’s statement. Nothing in the German’s outward appearance gave away the truth, though the sword might have been a clue, or his height, or his arrogant impatience.

            “He is a knight indeed,” Fymurip said, deciding there was no reason to lie about it, “and he is on a very important mission. We need to find a man, a Teutonic cleric in fact, who has been seen in Starybogow.”

            Kurkiss waved off the request. “I don’t travel in those ruins anymore. Bad for my arthritis.”

            “No, but you still know everything and everyone. Surely that hasn’t changed.”

            Kurkiss paused, stared at them cautiously and rubbed his chin as if he were deciding their fate. Perhaps he was. “Very well. We can talk. But he won’t fit in my house.”

            They followed Kurkiss across the stream and into a small clearing on the left side of his hut. There, a pot of water boiled over a small fire, and dried ash stumps had been set up to use as chairs. Atop the stumps were what looked like black, shrunken heads, but on further scrutiny, were simple macramé balls affixed with button eyes and dried corn husks for hair.         “Meet the family,” Kurkiss said, motioning to each as he lifted them gently and set them on the ground. “Batushka and Matushka. . . oh, and of course, my wife, Helena. They like the cool breeze of a morning and the warm flames of the fire as they await breakfast. But sit, sit. . . they are happy to give you their chairs.”

            Fymurip and Kurkiss sat quickly, but Lux could not find a comfortable stump. He settled on the damp ground next to Matushka.

            “The gods have cursed you with so much girth,” Kurkiss said, giggling at Lux’s misfortune.

            “There is only one God, old man, and my girth, as you call it, has served me well.”

            “Perhaps. But what do you do, I wonder, when hiding from mice, or from roaches, or from—”

            “Kurkiss!” Fymurip snapped. “Focus, please.”

            The hermit shook his head as if to clear away the fog, then nodded. “Of course, of course. So, tell me whom you seek in the old city.”

            Fymurip laid out the mission as best he could. Lux chimed in on occasion to fill in any missing pieces. When they were finished, Kirkiss reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt, dried leaves, and sticks, and tossed them into the boiling pot.

            “An old Bosnian woman taught me this little trick. Then I found out that she was Baba Yaga and had to kill her.” He chirped like a bird. “I do miss her cooking.”

            He swirled the dirt mixture with a wooden spoon, then let the inertia of the stir die down. Fymurip stood and gazed into the pot, watching as the boiling water sizzled and popped around the dirty pebbles. To him, the mixture had no distinctive shape, nor did it suggest anything resembling a location or a direction in which they might go. It looked like nothing more than wet dirt and leaves.

            But Kurkiss gasped, stepped back from the pot, made the sign of divinity over his chest, and fell back onto an ash stump.

            “What is it? What do you see?” Lux asked, rising from the ground.

            “Your deaths,” Kurkiss said. “Both of you. Abandon this mission. Now.”

            “Did you see the cleric?” Fymurip asked.

            The hermit nodded. “Yes.”

            “Where is he?”

            “I don’t know. He was in motion, near The Citadel, I think. The vision was not clear. Romani surrounded him. He is being protected by them. They will kill you if you try to find him. So I say again, abandon this mission. It is not safe.”

            “Why do they protect him?” Lux asked.  “We will do him no harm.”

            Kurkiss shook his head. “It isn’t you that they fear. They are afraid of who else wants the cross.”

            “Who?” Fymurip reached out and put his hand on the hermit’s frail shoulder. “Who wants it?”

            Kurkiss shivered as if cold, but he stood, opened his mouth, and tried to answer. “The Han—”

            Before he could finish, a shaft came out of the thicket behind his hut and struck the hermit in the neck.

            Kurkiss Frieze fell dead at Fymurip’s feet.     

 

*****

 

            Before the hermit’s body hit the ground, Lux was up and setting a bolt in his crossbow. Fymurip had already reached the woods’ edge in pursuit of the assassin. Lux followed closely behind, finding it difficult to negotiate the thick underbrush, the branches and nettles ripping at his clothing and skin. The Tartar moved with ease, but the assassin was fast, agile, and it was clear from Lux’s position that a confrontation had not occurred. Lux burst his way through the wood, crashing and plowing the brambles like a mad boar.

            Finally, the bolt was ready. He raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed as carefully as he could as he stepped out into a small clearing. He pulled the trigger. The bolt found flesh in the assassin’s hip. Lux smiled at his accuracy, until he realized that he had shot a dead man.

            “He’s already dead,” Fymurip said. “He cut his own wrists with a poison blade.”

            Lux clipped the crossbow to his belt and knelt down beside the assassin’s body. The poison had worked fast. Already the corpse’s eyes bulged purple. His throat was puffy and red. His veins ran dark green, giving his face a striped marble appearance. His lips were bloodless.

            “Nasty poison,” Lux said, picking around the body, looking for clues, anything, to indicate who he was, who he worked for.

            “He must have been tracking us from the city,” Fymurip said. “Maybe that is why it was so easy to leave.”

            Lux nodded. “I would say so. And clearly, he didn’t want the old man to tell us why we shouldn’t find Gunter Sankt.”

            “But why?”

            Lux rolled up the corpse’s sleeve, and pointed at a blood-smeared tattoo. “That’s why.”

            Fymurip leaned in and gasped when he saw it. It was a tattoo of two black birds, back to back. Both had red beaks and talons, and in the center of their bodies, lay a plain red-and- white shield. In the corner of the white part of the shield lay the capital letter H.

            “The Hanseatic League.”

            Fymurip whispered the term as if doing so aloud was a curse itself. Lux had to admit some apprehension at uttering the name as well, for the Hanseatic League was nothing if not diabolical. Headquartered in the city of Lübeck, in the German state of Schleswig-Holstein, the League served primarily as a collection of merchant guilds. Though its mission seemed sincere – on the surface, at least – it dominated European trade by any means necessary. But its influence had fallen on tough times in the east, primarily in Poland and Russia. Why had they employed an assassin to work in a ruined city? And why did they care at all for an old cleric with a silver cross? Surely they had no clue as to its power, and even if they did, how would it benefit them?

            Fymurip put words to Lux’s thoughts. “Why is the Hanseatic League here?”

            Lux shook his head. He laid the corpse’s arm across the man’s chest, said a silent prayer for the lost soul despite his anger, and stood. He looked into the woods. Are there others? He wondered. Are they watching us now?

            “I don’t know,” he said. “But I suspect the reason they didn’t want Kurkiss to discourage us from finding Sankt is because they too are looking for him. They haven’t been able to find him, and they must think I can do a better job than they for I am Teutonic.”

            “Can you?”

            “No, it doesn’t work that way, Fymurip. I do not share any kind of spiritual connection with a member of my order simply because we worship and serve the same God. Does it work that way with you and other Muslims? I thought not. No. We have to do the leg work. We have to find Gunter Sankt by searching Starybogow. Brick by brick, building by building, if we must. And at least the old man gave us some clue as to where to start looking.”

            “If we go back in, Lux, we may lead the Hanseatic League right to the very thing they want most.”

            “Yes, and I suspect that’s exactly what they intend. And we should give them what they want. We need to let this play out as it may, if we are to learn who all the principles are in this game. I owe that much to myself, to my order, and most importantly, to Duke Frederick. We need to find Gunter Sankt before the Hanseatic League finds him, or things may escalate beyond our control.”

 

 

V

 

 

            Realizing that they hadn’t eaten in a full day, they chose to stay at Kurkiss’s hut for a few moments longer to find succor and prepare for another foray into the ruins. Lux found the notion a little unsettling: ransacking a dead man’s hovel for food, and over his corpse no less. But it was either that or go back into Starybogow weak of body and spirit. They had already seen what lay waiting for them in those ruins when they were at their best. Lux shuddered to imagine what it might be like if they were fatigued.

            Fymurip dug a small grave for his friend and laid him to rest. Lux had no practical idea how Muslims buried the dead, nor did he particularly care. When the Tartar wasn’t looking, Lux said a small prayer of his own for the old man, and then got back to the matter at hand: finding food and clean water.

            Fymurip took this time to pray to Allah.

            Lux imagined that it was the man’s first chance to do so since his enslavement, and it looked cathartic. Fymurip did not have the traditional Turkish seccade prayer rug, and for a moment, Lux wondered if the Tartar remembered in what direction Mecca lay. Then all fell into place as Fymurip found a dry-rot potato sack and spread it out in compensation, then went to his knees in the center. Lux crawled into the dilapidated hut and gave Fymurip all the time he needed.

            He found a loaf of half-moldy bread, tore off the bad portion and ate half of the good part in one massive bite. After prayers, Fymurip did the same. They also found a wineskin of bitter dark grape, but otherwise, it was drinkable. They also found a store of cured squirrel meat, which they finished off quickly. Then Lux cleaned himself in the creek while Fymurip ran his dagger across his face to eliminate the stubble which had grown there over the past few days.

            Then they let out. The sun was well past its zenith, and they dared not wait any longer. Kurkiss’s hut lay close to Starybogow so their trip back was quick and ueventful. They also had little problem getting back in, the guards at the Konig Gate remembering them and put out their hands for coin the minute they were spotted. Still in charge of their finances, Fymurip dipped into the bag and produced a few silver coins. The guards quickly stepped aside.

            The Citadel lay in the southeast corner of the city. In its day, it had served as a natural defensive position for the citizenry, a stone-fortified keep, with its tall, Constantinople tower looking out for invaders winward. It sat atop an escarpment, and atop that lay a sturdy curtain wall which had faired relatively well in the earthquakes. The main passage up the escarpment, unfortunately, had been devastated by the quakes, and was nothing more than a long, snake-like pile of stone barely navigable by anyone without grapple hook and maddened determination. If one were bold and foolish enough to try climbing those stones, there were entry points through the wall that lay guardless, but Fymurip had a different idea.

            “There’s a staricase that winds up through the eastern battlement, which lies between the tower and the Kiev Gate. Few know of this entrance. The city watch would use it to move quickly from the square to the battlements if the town had ever been breeched.”

            “Seems like a weak point in the defense,” Lux said, but then changed his mind when he actually saw its construction.

            A third of the way up the staircase, Lux noticed that some of the steps were false: strong enough to support a man-sized body, but easily cracked open. Once open, it offered a clear view to the winding stairs below, and thus burning oil or other flamable substances could be tossed in the approach of any invading force. And with the stairs so narrow, once burning bodies began stacking up, it would be near impossible for armed hostiles to get up the staircase in any orderly fashion.

            They reached the top, and it took Lux several minutes of driving his thick shoulder into the splintered wood of the steel-enforced door to knock it open. Too much noise, he had to admit, but Fymurip, with his slender dagger and sword, could not break the locks free. There was no other choice.

            It finally gave, and they paused a moment to let the echo of the cracking door die away. Then, they moved to a small pile of marble near the base of the barracks that lined the eastern wall.

            “The old man didn’t give us a clue as to where in this mess to start looking,” Lux said.

            “He probably didn’t know.”

            Lux nodded. “Well, we’ll have to search stone by stone. Find a door, perhaps, or a passage leading down into the hill where the old structures lay.”

            The Citadel had been built atop centuries of older stone work. Some claimed that the structures below the keep offered miles upon miles of corridors and hidden rooms bereft of life, and yet swarmed with all manner of ghosts and other devilment. That was one of the reasons why it had been left alone by most thrill-seekers, but that was the only logical place for Gunter Sankt to be living, if he was here at all. Lux had no desire to venture into such a dark, musty netherworld. But he saw no other option.

            “We could split up,” Fymurip suggested, pointing across the yard to the other side of the complex. “Sweep the ruins from the ends, inward. That’ll allow us to cover more ground.”

            Lux shook his head. “No, that isn’t a good idea. It’ll be dark soon, and truth be told, I’m not inclined to search these ruins without support.”

            “I’m indespensible now, eh?”

            Lux could see a tiny smirk spreading across the Tartar’s face. He huffed. “I wasn’t the one who stalked off in a fury just a day ago. If you wish to work independently, be my guest. But with this sore shoulder now, I might not be so readily available to provide assistance should your wolf come howling.”

            “Very well,” Fymurip hissed. “Let’s start over there.”

            They searched the ruins, starting with the barracks and working their way into the center of the complex.

            They moved from building to building, many of which lay in overgrown disarray. Lots of crows, ravens, larks, and other fowl had built nests throughout the cracked stonework. Lux shooed away a hawk and snatched her eggs. He tapped one open and ate the yolk right there. Fymurip did the same with a few small sparrow eggs, then snatched a snake from its perch in a stone cruck, not to eat it, but to gather its poison and spread it along the edge of his dagger. He then tossed the snake aside and resumed his search.

            An hour later, as the sun began to set, Lux’s foot broke through a rotten slat.

            Fymurip managed to catch him before he tumbled down the hole that the slat had covered. Lux adjusted himself, knelt down, and pulled away the remaining planks.

            They stared down an old dry well. Someone had placed a ladder in it that disappeared into the darkness. Lux grabbed a torch from his hip, lit it, and set it over the hole.

            “That’s a good thirty feet,” Fymurip said, whispering so as to not allow his words to echo down the well.

            Lux nodded. “I’ll go first.”

            Fymurip held the torch until Lux was settled onto the ladder. Then he handed it down. Lux moved carefully, slowly, so as to test the ladder. But it was relatively new and well- constructed, more than capable of holding the German’s weight. He moved a little faster, which allowed Fymurip to clear the top of the well and pull the slats back over to cover their descent.

            Nausea struck Lux’s stomach like a thunder clap. “I don’t feel well,” he said, pausing to let his stomach adjust.

            “Neither do I,” Fymurip said.

            Lux tried to keep moving, but every step became harder, until his eyes could no longer adjust to the poor light. The stone shaft of the well began to quake and surge, and Lux felt the yolk of the hawk egg lurch into his throat.

            He dropped the torch and barely managed to hang on. “What’s happening to us?”

            But Fymurip clung to the ladder as if he were about to be sick. “I—I don’t—I don’t—”

            The last thing Lux saw before falling to the bottom of the well was the blue-green etheareal face of a blud spirit.

 

*****

 

            Fymurip awoke to a white face. The face smiled as if the man possessing it were a friend, but he didn’t know who it was. Certainly not Lux, for the face was very old, the man’s cheeks a pasty grey with a full white beard down to his chest. Around his neck sat a rusty gorget, and from what Fymurip could discern through the dried crust in his eyes, pieces of chain mail adorned the man’s shoulders and hung loose to his waist. Somehwere below that set of thick steel links lay a white leather shirt that bore a gold cross set in a red field.

            Fymurip reached for his dagger, was surprised to find it still affixed to his belt, but strong hands held him firm on the stone slab.

            The old man raised his hands in peace. “Calm yourself, my Turkish friend. There is no need for violence here. . . not yet anyway.”

            “Who. . . where am I?” Fymurip glanced around the dim room. Torches burned from sconces in the walls. At least ten men—were some women?—stood in the shadows of the torchlight, holding curved blades, long swords, and bows. Lux lay on a wooden table nearby, unconscience.

            “Kebrawlnik does his job well,” the man said.

            “Who?” Fymurip asked.

            “The blud spirit that aggravated your descent down the ladder. His job is to disorient, confuse, and if the moon is right, nauseate. I cannot afford to have the wrong sort enter my home.”

            “Who are you?”

            “The man you’ve been seeking.” He opened his arms and bowed low. “I am Gunter Sankt, knight and cleric of the Ordo Teutonicus. Welcome.”

            On cue, Lux began to stir as if from a deep sleep. The Romani that had held Fymurip down now took their place beside Lux, and when he finally came to, his reaction was the same. He reached for a weapon and struggled under the tight control of the Romani. It was not quite as easy to hold Lux down, his strong arms tossing one of the Romani to the floor. Gunter Sankt moved quickly, despite his age, to calm the younger cleric.

            “Peace, my brother,” he said. “There is no need for that here. I assure you, you are among friends. You have found the man you have sought these past few days.”

            Lux stopped struggling, and his eyes grew large. For a moment, it looked as if he were going to kneel before Gunter Sankt and pay homage, but he paused, collected himself, and said, “The cross. Where is it?”

            “In good hands, under my personal protection.”

            “I must see it. Now!”

            Gunter sighed, shook his head in disgust, then nodded to one of his Romani who quickly left the room. “The impatience of youth. I thank God every day that I am beyond it.”

            “Patience is indeed a virtue, my brother,” Lux said, “but I am on a mission for our Grand Master Duke Frederick, and its mandate takes precedence. Time is not a luxury I have.”

            Gunter did not reply. He waited until the gypsy returned with a small cedar box. He took it and opened it slowly. There, in the center of a small piece of purple felt, lay a silver cross.

            It was smaller than Fymurip had imagined it. He could tell by Lux’s reaction that he too shared that surprise. It was simpler, more workmanlike than he had imagined as well. Not simplistic, not at all, but it could easily be mistaken for any other silver cross worn by clergy or royalty. It could fit in the palm of a hand. It looked as if, over the years, it had been tarnished and cleaned, tarnished and cleaned. In many places, Fymurip could see the markings of polish, and at one point, it had been worn as jewelry around the neck; he could see the small clasp at the top where a chain used to lay. Apparently it had not been worn like that in a long, long time for no chain existed now. And it did not possess fine jewels and gold filigree as the stories told. The only adornment it had was a small, oval-shaped ruby in the center of the crossbar, representing the blood of Christ.

            “That’s it?” Lux asked, letting his voice rise.

            “What were you expecting?” Gunter asked. “One big enough to carry on your back?”

            “Do not blaspheme, Gunter Sankt. You are in no position to make light of this. You are in violation of your oath. Why are you here? Why have you not delivered this cross back to its rightful owner, back to the Order?”

            “Its rightful owner died on his own cross centuries ago. Saint Boniface, God bless his soul, was only its caretaker, until he died in Frisia. You do not know the whole story, my brother.”    

            “Then enlighten me,” Lux said, turning to face Fymurip. “Enlighten us.”

            Gunter closed the box and handed it back to the Romani. Then he began. “At the Last Supper, Jesus did indeed bless this cross with his kiss. But what you do not know is that at his scourging, the whip itself hit the cross and made an indentation that imbued its finery with doubt, with anger, greed, fear, all of the terrible aspects of such a brutal act. Jesus in his final moments tried to reinvigorate the cross with another kiss, but he was too weak, had lost too much blood. And thus, the cross passed from him into the wider world, where it moved from hand to hand, unclean, cursed if you will, until it reached the Ordo Teutonicus, and to Simon von Drahe, my Lord Commander.

            “By sheer will and good conscience, von Drahe almost brought it back from darkness. But his premonition of his own death before the Battle of Dragu stopped the cross’s revival, where it fell into my hands. . . my, unclean, unworthy hands. For years, I tried, as von Drahe had, to bring the cross back to its glory, but I could not do it. What I could do, however, was protect it, and with the help from these fine men and women around me, I have done so. I have kept it out of the hands of sinners and of evil men who would see it used for dark purposes.”

            Fymurip could see that Lux’s head was about to explode. He’d never seen a man’s eyes bulge so red.

            “What are you talking about?” Lux asked, his chest rising angrily with forced breath. “How can you possibly protect it in this godforsaken place? There is evil here.”

            Gunter nodded. “Yes, there is. But I would rather it fall into the hands of those who worship the Old Gods, than to see it back in the hands of the Order, in the hands of your duke.”

            “Duke Frederick is a saintly man, a pious soul! You do not know him.”

            Gunter wagged a finger. “Oh, but I know whom he serves, and I know what they want.”

            “Who?”

            “The Eldar Gods.”

            The old man tensed as if the words themselves struck pain in his heart. Lux wanted to reach out and slap Gunter’s coarse face as if doing so would somehow force the lie back into his throat.

            “That’s a lie! Why would Duke Frederick be in league with the Eldar Gods? That would be an irredeemable sin. I do not believe a word of it.”

            Gunter scoffed. “I can assure you, Lux von Junker, that I haven’t risked life and limb all these years simply to keep a silver bauble out of the hands of a saintly man.”

            “How do you know my name?”

            Gunter chuckled. “Ferrymen have loose lips, my brother. You should not have used Royal coin.”

            Fymurip couldn’t help but smirk as Lux gave him the evil eye. But the big man recovered quickly. “Perhaps I did that on purpose. Perhaps I knew that word would get back to you that a Teutonic Knight was in town.”

            “Perhaps,” Gunter admitted. “But now that you have found me, you refuse to believe what I say.”

            “Because it’s ridiculous. As I’ve said, Duke Frederick wants the cross simply to bring it back to Saxony, so that it may lay in state as a reminder of our charge and duty to fulfill God’s promise. That is all.”

            Gunter shook his head, moved forward. Fymurip reflexively placed his hand on his dagger, then thought better of it. The old man wasn’t moving in anger, or to place hands on Lux. He was simply moving closer to whisper his next words.

            “My young brother, one of the hardest of the deadly sins to avoid is greed. Greed for money, for fame, for women, for power. It could very well have been the duke’s original intention to heap praise and security upon the cross, as you say. But trust me when I tell you, such humility is no longer in his heart. Duke Frederick is in contact with the Eldar Gods, and they seek the cross so that they might use it as a doorway through which to cross from their ethereal realm to ours. Imagine it: What mortal army could withstand a Teutonic Knight battalion with Eldar Gods in its ranks? Why, your Duke Frederick could cut a swath of death and desolation from here to Nippon. Trust me when I tell you that this is our future. . . if we allow this cross to fall into Duke Frederick’s hands.”

            “And what of the Hanseatic League?” Lux asked. “Why do they seek the cross?”

            Gunter shook his head, sighed. “That motive is harder to divine. It’s unlikely that they want it simply for its silver, for its jewel. I daresay that there isn’t enough raw mineral in it to pay for a night’s carnal pleasure. They may or may not know its power. I suspect that they have a buyer for it, someone who knows of its nature and wishes to do the very same thing that Duke Frederick wants. There are necromantic wizards who I’m sure would love to get their boney hands on it. It’s someone who’s willing to pay a God’s bounty, I can tell you that. And from the League’s perspective, it’s simply a business endeavor, one that they’re willing to kill for. It cannot fall into their hands either.”

            Lux jumped off the table and motioned for Fymurip to follow him. They huddled in a corner, out of earshot of the Romani. “What do you think?”

            Fymurip rubbed the growing stubble on his chin, breathed deeply. “I think he’s an old, senile goat. But, he may be right.”

            Lux shook his head. “I can’t believe that Duke Frederick is working with the Eldar Gods, a man I have loved and respected for so long. It’s. . . it’s not possible.”

            Lux turned to Gunter and said, “If what you say is true, then why did you risk exposure by letting us come here? Why not kill us beforehand and keep your location a mystery?”

            “God teaches us that in the midst of life, we are in death. I am in death, Lux von Junker. I am old, tired, enfeebled. My time is over. I have done all that I can do. It is your time now.”

            “Mine? What do you mean?”

            Gunter reached for the cross again, held it up so that the torchlight caught its simple beauty. “I pass the Cross of Saint Boniface to you, to hold and to cherish, to protect, until the end of your days.”

            Lux shook his head, and Fymurip grabbed the man’s arm in order to keep him from moving too swiftly toward Gunter, lest his actions be misinterpreted by the armed guards nearby. “Easy, my friend.”

            “I’m not worthy of such a charge, Gunter Sankt. I cannot—”

            “Any knight, who would take the council of a Muslim Tartar as easily as you, is the right man. You are a brother of God, but you have a practicality of mind and of spirit that is obvious by your demeanor, your carriage. No. You’re the one.”

            Lux dropped slowly to the floor and sat there quietly, perhaps in prayer, for a long time. He never clasped his hands together, and Fymurip could not see his mouth move as if reciting words from scripture. It surprised Fymurip that Gunter Sankt said nothing nor did he move, for the entire time Lux contemplated his situation on that hard, dusty floor. Perhaps they were connected mentally in some way, worshipping together, seeking truths in the ethereal plane, where all truth resided. Fymurip remembered himself having such cathartic moments in the worship of Allah before a battle, setting his mind straight for what he was required to do.

            Fymurip backed away and let his friend have the time he required.

            Then Lux stood, quickly, his eyes fixed on Gunter Sankt. “They’re coming, aren’t they?”

            The old cleric nodded. “All of them, scores, perhaps hundreds. They are gathering now in the city. They will have breached The Citadel wall by morning.”

            “Unless we stop them,” Fymurip said, surprised at his own determination. In truth, this was hardly his fight. This was a Christian battle, between Christian forces. Why not just walk away? But was it really just that? A Christian squabble? If released onto the world, the Eldar Gods would make no distinction between Christians, Muslims, or Pagans. They would kill anything that stood in their way. Fymurip wondered if the Hanseatic League, in their desire to sell the cross for profit (if that was indeed their motive), understood that. Probably not. Men whose minds were clouded with greed were always blind to the truth.

            “Very well,” Lux said. “We’ll face them, and we’ll do what we can to turn them back. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my time as a knight, it’s that sometimes, the best weapon in war is chaos.”

            “What do you have in mind?” Fymurip asked, his interest piqued.

            “They are expecting us, the Romani, the cross.” Lux placed his hand on Fymurip’s shoulder, and winked. “Let’s give them something that they’re not expecting.”

 

 

VI

 

 

            Lux dragged a blade over Fymurip’s exposed arm. Blood spilled from the wound. The Tartar did not wince or howl in pain, but Lux could tell he was unhappy.

            “This is a foolish plan,” he said. “It is madness.”

            Lux shook his head. “Mad times demand mad tactics. It will work. It has to work. Blood of Christ,” he said, patting Saint Boniface’s Cross that now hung from his neck on a cord. “Blood of Fymurip Azat.”

            Lux let droplets of Fymurip’s blood fall on a rag, then he tied the rag around a bolt, notched it in his crossbow, and let it fly over the wall and into the morning darkness of the streets below. He tied similar rags around three other bolts, and let them fly as well, all down the wall, much to the chagrin of Fymurip who walked along with him, wounded arms crossed, eyes filled with rage and fear. Lux ignored the silent protest, though he had to admit at least to himself, that the Tartar was right. It was a risky move, and one that might backfire. But they had no other choice. None that Lux could see, anyway.

            “Gunter refuses your council of safety?”

            Fymurip nodded. “He wishes to go out in a blaze of glory.”

            “Then he shall, praise God. Is he in place? And what about his guard?”

            “They are ready, and waiting for whatever will come.”

            Lux turned and placed his hands on Fymurip’s shoulders. “Then let it come.”

            An hour later, it came.

            An entire Hanseatic army, or so it seemed to Lux. Scores of men, dressed in dark red-and-black cloaks, pouring out of the fog of Igor Square, moving in mob form – though in unison – toward the escarpment of The Citadel. From his perch on the battlements, it was difficult to know what weapons they carried, but he figured the usual swords and bows were present. Perhaps some even had crossbows, but that was unlikely. Lux looked again down the line. Every twenty feet stood a Romani with a bow, an arrow notched, waiting. Fymurip anchored the end of the line, near the door where the spiral staircase lay.

            Lux raised his arm, letting the small red rag in his hand wave in the wind. He waited, waited, until the first line of men reached the wall. Down his arm came, and the Romani pulled their bowstrings back, and let their first volley loose.

            Several Hanseatics fell at the base of the wall. The moving mass paused, took shelter in the rubble, returned fire, but their shafts missed the wall or ricocheted harmlessly away. Another volley followed, continuing to pin the Romani but causing no damage. Lux knew that wouldn’t last for long. Seeing the ocean of men hanging behind their bowmen skirmish line, it wouldn’t be long before men were climbing the escarpment, and there was no value in wasting so many shots at such long distance.

            But Lux gave them the sign to fire again, and again, and again, until their supply of arrows ran low. Many men were falling dead to the ground below them, but not enough.

            “Halt!” he said finally, “And draw swords!”

            They would come now, for Gunter and his Romani did not have enough power or resources to stage a fortified defense.

            Within the hour, the Hanseatic League set grapples, and sticks of ten, twelve men worked their way up the escarpment and The Citadel wall. They were supported by bow fire, which was just frequent enough to keep the Romani hiding. On occasion, Lux would order counter fire, but it did little to stem the rising tide. A Romani even cut one of the grapples, and they watched as the line of men fell screaming into the rocks below. But they couldn’t cut them all, and soon the battlements of The Citadel were swarming with Hanseatic goons.

            Lux tossed aside his crossbow and drew his sword. He swung it against the hasty defense of a man who had just scaled the wall, and sliced through his face with one mighty stroke. He pushed the man over the wall, hitting other men trying to reach the top, sending them falling as well. Then three came at him, swinging maces and what looked like a paddle with iron spikes. Lux let a mace graze his arm in order to find security against a block of stone. He hesitated a second, then thrust his Grunwald into the chest of another man. The blade cut clean through the ribs, getting caught as it exited the back. Lux pulled desperately on the blade as he fended off man two with his arm. The man hammered at Lux with his nail paddle. Lux ducked, placed his boot on the stuck man’s chest, and finally kicked him off. He swung up with his free blade and cleaved the paddle man’s throat in two. The final threat was taken down by Romani blades.

            At least a dozen Hanseatics were racing toward a small clump of men in the center of the complex. Gunter Sankt stood in the middle of that clump, short sword raised in defense. Lux jumped down the battlement and raced to the old cleric’s aide.

            They met in the center with a crash of steel, bone, and flesh. This group of invaders was tough, skilled fighting men, clearly mercenary types employed by the League for nefarious purposes. Lux knew immediately that Gunter had not been kidding. The Hanseatic League was in it to win, to bring them all to heel and steal the cross for themselves. Clearly these men knew that Gunter was their target, but of course he no longer held the cross.

            Gunter was strong, though. He tore into his assailants as if it were his last battle. And of course it might very well be. The man seemed content with that knowledge, letting his now frail body move once more like it most assuredly had when he was young and full of hope and purpose. Lux took down another with a clean hack to the shoulder, pushed the corpse aside before it hit the ground, and then stood back to back with Gunter as the attack continued.

            “Do you miss it?” Lux asked.

            “Miss what?”

            “Being in the field. Marching under the banners of God.”

            Lux could not see the old man shake his head, but he imagined it. “Never. I was never good with a blade.”

            “Don’t take me for a fool,” Lux said, ducking one sword swipe and fending off another in parry. “I know skill when I see it.”

            The old man grunted but said nothing. He swung his sword, and Lux responded in kind by protecting their left flank. On and on it went, until Lux could see that the fight was all but gone from Gunter. The Romani who had protected their charge were dropping one by one. Gaps in the defense became pronounced, and Lux tried plugging the holes as best he could, turning and twisting and carving up assailants as if they were warm bread.

            Fymurip screamed. Lux reflexively took a step toward the shout, then paused.

            “What are you waiting for?” Gunter asked.

            “I—I can’t leave you here. Not alone.”

            “I am not alone.”

            It was true. From behind them, through the shadows of the ruined keep, the blud spirit, Kebrawlnik, reached out like azure fog and enclosed the attacking Hanseatics. The spirit twisted around them like a funnel cloud, working its way through their clothing. All but one hesitated, lowered their weapons, seemingly confused. One even bent over and vomited into the weeds. Gunter Sankt reached down and grabbed up a spear in his free hand. He moved through the confused, lethargic attackers, painting mad throats with crimson stroke after stroke. “Go,” he shouted. “Go and help your friend.”

            Lux nodded and pushed his way through the remaining attackers.

            Halfway to where Fymurip stood, Lux could see the reason for the Tartar’s scream.

 

*****

 

            Fymurip held the gaze of the vucari. It had bounded up the winding stone staircase, killing Hanseatics as it came, tearing them to shreds in fact, and painting the walls with red gore.

            “I could smell your blood for miles,” Vasile Lupu hissed, licking his wet fangs with sharp tongue.

            Lux’s trap had worked. Fymurip really had no doubt that it would, assuming that the vucari was somewhere in Starybogow waiting. But now it was here, and in the light of early day, the beast seemed larger, taller, and more muscular as its violent breathing puffed its rippled chest.

            “I give you one opportunity, Vasile Lupu, to abandon your lust for my death,” Fymurip said, gripping his dripping dagger and sword. “This is not a fair fight. Go, and be gone forever.”

            The Hanseatics turned their attention to the vucari. Since it had killed everything up the staircase, they naturally assumed the beast was working for Gunter Sankt. What fools they were, caught up in the bloodlust themselves, not realizing why the wolf man was here. Fymurip did not divest them of that belief. He stood back and let them tear into one another, but the vucari gave as good as it got. Better even, for its oversized paws hammered and scraped and clawed through the mounds of Hanseatic flesh that stepped in its way. And though it received multiple cuts, and now bled from those cuts, Fymurip knew that no amount of damage to its corrupted, evil flesh could put it down.

            He screamed, like Lux had instructed, then dove into the fight.

            Fymurip slashed and hacked and ducked and dove through the vucari’s huge arms. Now, he was on its back, stabbing down with the khanjar, hoping to slow the beast enough to keep it occupied. It could not die of wounds from normal blades, Fymurip knew, but it could weaken, tire. Just enough for. . .

            He erred and failed to duck. The vucari’s paw struck him in the chest and drove him against the wall. Fymurip dropped his sword, but held firm the dagger which now he used to deflect another paw strike. He could barely breathe, the pain in his back strong as he tried to recover. But the beast was on him again, punching and kicking. Some blows found skin and bone; others were deflected, but over and over the vucari attacked, keeping his focus on Fymurip while fending off Hanseatic men who kept trying to bring their feeble weapons to bear. The chaos of the moment was overwhelming, and Fymurip drifted back and forth between understanding what was happening around him, and feeling the mist of confusion. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blue tint of the blud spirit whisk its way through ranks of attackers, but where was Lux? Was he dead? The blood trickling down his face obscured his vision. Is that him? No, there he is. . .

            Fymurip felt the vucari’s claws wrap around his throat. “I’ll give you one last chance,” he managed to squeal through the pain. “Leave, now, or face certain death.”

            Vasile Lupu snarled a laugh through his fangs. “I don’t think so, Azat. I have waited a long, long time for this, and now I will have my vengeance.”

            Though he was nothing more than a blur, Lux charged forward through the press of Hanseatic men, and shouted, “By the grace of God!”

            Fymurip raised his hand and caught the silver cross that Lux had thrown to him. It felt slick and cold in his hand, but firm and solid. He wrapped his weakening fingers around the crossbar, raised it above his head, then brought it down forcefully into the vucari’s eye.

            Only a tiny spurt of blood followed the thrust, as Vasile Lupu dropped Fymurip and fell back, clutching his wounded face, trying desperately to pull the cross from his eye; it would not budge. Then light glowed from inside the silver, a clean, white blinding light as the vucari fell and howled in agony. Fymurip shuffled backward, but kept his eyes on the tortured wolf man.

            The glow now was blinding, and Fymurip raised his hands to cover his eyes. Then he heard a wet pop. He forced his eyes open and saw that the vucari was no longer fighting, that his face had grown twice its size, and then burst open at the sheer power of the silver glow. It was the most terrifying thing Fymurip had ever seen, and for a brief moment, he felt sorry for the beast.

            The vucari’s thick claws and hide faded away, absorbed by the wan light of the cross. His snout – what was left of it – changed too, reforming into a man’s shattered face. A moment later, its entire body had reshaped itself to a naked man.

            The light of the cross slowly dissipated, and then disappeared.

            Everything was silent. The Hanseatic invaders were gone. The battle was over.

            “Cutting it close, weren’t you?” Fymurip said as Lux offered his hand. He took it and stood on weak legs, wincing at the pain shooting through his back.

            “Sorry. I was otherwise detained,” Lux said, putting his hand on Fymurip’s shoulder. “But you look no worse for wear.”

            Fymurip tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. “Say that to my ribs.”

            They walked over to Vasile Lupu and stared down at his taut, emaciated human form. The wolf curse had ravaged the man, and now he was nothing more than a bleak corpse. “Devilish,” Fymurip said, as he stepped aside to let Lux bend at the knee to retrieve the cross that now lay harmlessly at the corpse’s side. “I wonder who he really was.”

            Lux wiped the blood off the cross and put it back around his neck. “Probably just some farmer, who took the wrong turn one day going home, who never imagined living such a cursed life, and allowing that curse to consume him, body and soul.” The knight reached up and closed the man’s remaining good eye, then mouthed a silent prayer.

            They walked to where Gunter Sankt lay among a pile of bodies. The dead cleric was covered with stab wounds and arrow shafts.

            “The cross is yours, Lux,” Fymurip said. “There is no way to refuse it now.”

            Lux nodded. “Indeed, it is. But we won’t remain here with it. Now that the Hanseatic League knows where it lays, they will never stop until they have it. We must leave at once.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “To Saxony.”

            “So you intend on giving the cross to the Duke?”

            Lux shook his head and walked to the battlement. “No. Though I cannot in my heart believe that Duke Frederick is in favor of the Eldar Gods, it would be too risky to hand it over to him at this time. No, we go there for my family, that I may secure their safe passage to France. And then, we shall go to Constantinople.”

            “Why? What is there?”

            “I know a man, a mystic, who resides in that ancient place. If there is anyone in all the world that can tell us what Saint Boniface’s cross is, and what it is capable of, it is he.”

            Lux turned to Fymurip and offered his hand. “Are you with me?”

            For a moment, it seemed as if the Tartar would decline. Now that the vucari was dead, there was nothing to hold them together. And what purpose would it serve a Muslim anyway to venture further into Germany on a quest to ascertain the nature of an ancient Christian heirloom? But as he had done from their first meeting, Fymurip surprised him.

            They locked hands. “Why not? Besides, someday, we will return to this cursed city, and you’re going to need my protection.”

            Lux smiled. “Very well. Then let’s be off, before Starybogow grows dark and comes at us once more.”

            Together, Lux von Junker and Fymurip Azat made their way out of The Citadel and toward the Konig Gate.