Chapter III

~ Noblemen’s Hope and Honor ~

The trip across the Baltic to Riga is three days, maybe as short as two with a prevailing wind. Viktor was in a hurry and felt it couldn’t hurt to fill the ship’s sails with his hopes and dreams. He leaned against the large mast and watched the largest sail as it filled with the westerly wind, its shape rounded like the potbelly of a man. “Just a little push windward,” he said to himself as he stared off into the eventide horizon. It looked as though the whole fabric of the world was changing and took its sweet time doing so. He hated that he wasn’t on land yet. He had hoped to be in Poland already, tearing across the landscape to find Crimson.

The ship, heavy with war supplies, sat low in the choppy seas and the moon glowed in the sky. Above, a formation of birds flew by chattering with one another. It seemed they were in a hurry, as well. Then Viktor spotted them far off the starboard side, a fleet of masts heading in the opposite direction. For some reason, he ducked on the deck of the ship as if he could disappear and thus make the ship disappear, as well. He inched along the wall of the deck and for hours watched the fleet of ships move further and further away. When the last mast disappeared, he finally breathed.

“That was close,” Erik said as he came up beside Viktor.

“Yes, Russian?”

“Danish, we suspect, but luckily we didn’t find out. If we weren’t heavy they would have probably spotted us and we are without escort.”

“Hmmm. Odd, I was just wishing that we were empty and making better time. Guess one should be careful what he wishes for? Have you been to Riga, Erik?”

“This will be my third trip.”

“Perfect, when we get there will you help me procure provisions?”

“I will assist, but will have very little time. Ships at sea are my quiet time. In port, it’s pure madness. What’s your plan? To invade Poland with two men? Dead men don’t need provisions, Viktor.” Erik let out a hearty laugh and walked below deck. “Dead men don’t need provisions!”

Viktor stayed on the upper deck and looked eastward to the lands of great empires and enemies, where his homeland, the Russians and the Poles were in an all out war because the enemies thought the king was young and vulnerable. Viktor sensed it, now—that tinge of fear. He knew, too, that if he allowed his mind to follow the footpath of reality, if he dared look past the romantic notions of love and rescue that there was no warm welcome waiting for him on dry land, only death. For the first time in his journey, Viktor faced the realization that he may never see Crimson again. It was an eerie feeling, one that he quickly tried to put out of his mind, but it lingered like a dreamy sleep.

On the northern horizon, a storm came in and it’s outer winds thrust the bow of the ship deep into the Baltic. As terrifying as the storm was, Viktor welcomed it. It created a powerful tailwind that propelled the ship through the sea with amazing speed.

* * * *

The king and his men crossed the Daugava River and found an old Teutonic crusader’s castle that sat high on the craggy shoreline. The corner towers of the castle were in severe disrepair, fallen stones lay in heaps around the foundation and were covered with moss, but the castle was nestled in a thicket of trees and seemed as good a spot as any to set up camp and wait.

The king motioned for his commander. “We shall camp here today, then move westward at early light tomorrow to meet up with Viktor in a day or two outside Minsk. Have the men perform a quick inspection of the interior to verify the castle is abandoned.”

“Yes, my king.” The redheaded commander trotted off and barked out the orders. Soon, troubling reports came in.

“Sir, the castle appears deserted, but the men have found markings.”

“Markings?”

“Yes, scrape marks on the stones, especially those stones on the north side. Could be tool marks, but as you can well guess, their concern is that they are scratch marks of the horror’s we left behind in the woods.”

“Their imaginations run wild, commander?”

“I think not, sir.”

“Why?”

“The scrapes are fresh, far more so than any other abrasions we’ve found. And there is fresh blood, sir. And off to the north, near the river’s bank, we found a bone yard.”

“Not unusual to find bone yards, commander. Teutonic knights built these castles centuries ago and had a penchant for order. The markings are probably from adventurous children in a nearby town.”

“Sir, unless these knights gnawed at the bones like wolves, then I don’t think they formed that bone yard and I doubt children could’ve made those scrapes.”

“Gnaw marks? Show me.”

The king and commander rode to the north side of the castle where several streams from the low-lying hills joined the Daugava. At the conflux of two tributaries, the king found the bone yard with thousands of bones loosely piled. He noticed several things at once. He noted that the bone yard was downstream from the castle. He dismounted and examined the bones, many were old, a few were from recent kills, and they did show teeth marks.

“Commander,” the king said as he held a large moose bone in his hand, “this bone yard was made by humans. It’s downstream so that the drinking water isn’t fouled by spoiled flesh. Dogs have gnawed some of the bones; wolves looking for bone marrow, I suspect. And the collection is too neat to be anything wild.”

The king tossed the bone back into the pile. “The men’s imaginations are getting the best of them, commander. They’ll probably see a wolf’s head in the full moon tonight. Prepare the camp and instruct the men to put this foolishness behind them.”

As the sun sat mutely on the horizon, it lit up the castle walls with a golden light. The men sat around a large campfire and watched the full moon inch its way across the sky from the west. The king, to pass time, told tales of the Teutonic knight’s battles against the pagans and nobles that populated this region. They ate and drank while four men posted as sentries at each corner tower watched the dark beyond.

“This land has hosted many wars of love and revenge,” the king started as he ate flesh from the bone of a cooked deer. “Sometime near the year 1500, probably very close to where we are now, a young nobleman fell in love with the lovely Danusia of the court of Duchess Anna. The nobleman was sentenced to death because of a conflict with a delegate of the Teutonic knights, who were prominent in the area. Just before he’s about to hang from the gallows, Danusia rushes onto the platform and declares her love. She promises to marry him and the execution is stayed. But a wrong had been committed against the knights by the nobleman and they held a grudge. They laid in wait for the nobleman. This wouldn’t be a story if something dreadful had not happened, and the Teutonic knights kidnap Danusia. Her father captured! Tortured! Maimed! And the young nobleman set out on a quest to find his love.”

“Did he find her, King?” a nearby soldier asked.

“He did, but it was too late. Danusia was tortured, too, a lengthy torture. You see, her father, weak and old, succumbed quickly at the hands of the knights. Not Danusia, though. She was strong in spirit, so much so that she was driven insane in resistance and she died a gruesome death. She leaped from a castle wall in a failed escape, only breaking her back in the fall. And it was painful death. It took twelve days for her to die. Some say there was a year of war for each day she suffered.”

The king stood and tossed a bone into the campfire. “The circle of revenge, men!” he yelled, “The war to rid this area of the Teutonic knights lasted twelve years. In some ways, it’s never ended. Because here we are, some two hundred years later, rushing to rescue another kidnapped girl. Some say, and this is only rumor, that the horrors that dart about in the shadows in our homeland are descendants of the Teutonic knights. That they made a deal with the devil and their souls forever walk this earth. That our fresh blood is their vengeance.”

“What happened to the nobleman?” the same solder asked know sitting on his hands in anticipation.

To the north, far beyond the river, a howl ventured across the river to the sentries and sent shivers down their spines. The closest sentry scanned to the river’s shore, thought he saw movement and brought the alarm horn to his lips, but he never had a chance to blow. The half wolf, half man creature ran its elongated thin finger across the sentries’ throat like a sadistic murderous violinist. No melody rushed forth, just a gush of blood leapt into the air, and the lone sentry was silently dragged toward the river.

“The nobleman!” the king continued at the campfire unaware that the camp was under attack, “He had lost his love. His serfs abandoned him. On the last day of battle, he drove his sword into the chest of that last known knight, then wiped it clean by dragging it across his own chest. He then traveled to Danusia’s grave site … ”

Another sentry heard a sound—a low growl to his left. He turned and didn’t see anything. When he fell back into his position, he heard another sound to his right and when he turned, it was there. Its bone white fangs glinted the foul moisture of the creatures slaver in the moonlight, mere inches from the sentry’s face. He could smell the creature’s breath. He could feel the heat of it. Before he could grab his pike. Before he could scream. Before he could pray to the gods to save his soul, he heard the growl from behind and felt the searing pain of fangs severing his backbone. It was over in a flash, a murmur.

The king walked around the campfire, drug his feet across the fringe embers so that a small firestorm of embers jutted into the air. “The once nobleman, now a common peasant, but a peasant in love, took the sword that killed the last Teutonic Knight and fell upon it. He lay bleeding on Danusia’s grave. As he laid there, his sword channeling his sincere blood onto the earth, he whispered to the only family he had left, his sister, my great-great grandmother … ”

Equally as quick, the third sentry fell, and then the fourth. There was far more than the hush of death surrounding the remaining men of the king, and the king himself. The leader of the werewolves pressed his furry back into the stone wall and had listened to the entire tale as told by the king from the cover of a pillar. He knew the story well and halted his men before the final breach into the interior of the decrepit castle. He had known all along there was something special about this leader of men, this King Charles. He could smell the history in the king’s blood and the king’s story only confirmed it: the king’s ancestors had killed his ancestors. The wolves that silently lay in wait had blood rushing through their veins, blood from centuries old Teutonic Knights. And their leader was to see it avenged.

The king took his seat and grabbed his pike.

“What was the whisper, King?” the young soldier insisted, barely able to control himself.

The king brought his pike into the air so that it flashed the orange and crimson flames of the campfire. “The WHISPER?” the king yelled.

“Yes, King, what did the nobleman whisper?”

“Ah, yes. He whispered, ‘I’ve died this day because I didn’t any other. I die for you, Danusia. I’ve given my life to a grave and soon will be in one. May God have mercy on my soul.’”

A lingering growl startled the men around the campfire. Three or four, or maybe seven howls echoed and bounced off the interior walls of the crumbling castle in a collection of confusion. It happened so quickly, and with such vociferously that the king’s men were caught off guard, unable to pinpoint the attackers. Several of the king’s men were picked off with ease.

The king focused on the nearest blur and rammed his pike through the creature. It howled a deafening howl and the king watched it scamper off towards the river. He turned to face another, but the creatures were gone, just he and nine of his men remained. The bodies of three creatures lay near the campfire. And between the castle and the river, a lone creature stood, his body backlighted by the moonlight’s rays reflecting off the river’s water.

“Commander!” The king yelled, but there was no response. “These creatures are smart,” the king murmured under his breath. “They always take out my commander.” The king was incensed and tired of these creatures, tired of the ambush attacks. He raised his pike into the air, and roared, “death is here and it waits for you.” He ran toward the creature. The creature stamped on the ground in anticipation. It replied with a snarling decree of its own. “Then death it shall be, KING,” and the fight was on.

The king gripped a nearby soldier’s pike in his left hand and threw it. The creature deftly ducked and sprinted on all fours with the speed of a wolf toward the king. It leapt into the air and effortlessly pushed the king’s pike aside when the king fell on his back, trying to impale it as he had done before in the forest. The king caught the creature’s weight with both feet and used its momentum to toss it over him. Before the king had a chance to get to his feet, the creature was on top of him, its hairy paws pinned the king’s shoulders to the earth.

“Your blood flows, King. It flows with history, but it shall FLOW NO MORE!” the creature shouted. It opened its jaws and as it was about to rip the king’s exposed throat when his commander rushed in and lunged a pike into the creature’s back. The creature stood straight up and let out a howl of pain.

“No!” the king yelled as he rose to his feet. “Do not help me. This fight is between us.”

The king picked up his pike and took a defensive stance, placing the campfire between him and the creature. The creature circled, and then lunged. The king evaded the first attack by using the fire as a barrier. He kneeled, grabbed a handful of hot embers with his bare hands, and threw them at the creature—the stoked embers caught flame and set the hair of the creature’s arms ablaze.

The king’s hands were on fire. He could feel the blisters boiling on his skin, but he grabbed another handful and tossed them above the creature’s head. When the creature looked up to dodge the fireball, the king rushed forward, straight through the flames, and drove his pike deep into the creature’s chest.

The creature fell to his knees with its paws grasping the shaft of the impaled pike. The other creatures howled a woeful cry and then there was silence. Everyone held their ground as if they were solid figurines.

The king walked over to the dying creature, laid his hand on its shoulder and knelt with him. “What is the name of the kidnapper?” the king asked. “And don’t tell me Gaten.”

“Kieran … ” the creature answered just before he fell to the ground and died. The name rang true and the king bowed his head.

“Let that be a lesson …” the young commander began to shout before the king stopped him.

“No, Commander,” hhe king shouted and then lowered his voice to a sense of sorrow. “No lesson here, none could be worse. This creature died for nothing. His men, our comrades, died for nothing.”

The moments of silence were interrupted by the cries of the other creatures, as they retrieved the body of their fallen leader and drug it off towards to forest to the north. Above them, a texture of dark clouds shielded the moon and world was black, mournful.