They had ridden for nearly a fortnight, moving north by northwest, following the Danube into Germany. In the early morning light the two riders passed into the wooded hills of northern Bavaria, where the only sound was the clatter of hooves on the causeway and the muted rush of the river. With the first chill of autumn, herons glided overhead, flying south to Africa, abandoning their nests of reed and thatch.
By midday Kael could feel his steed weakening under the tack as they reached the outskirts of Ratisbon. There he and Dennis dismounted, leading their horses down a sunken lane that ran into town. To their left was the grazing commons, where a monk led a calf towards the tithe barn, a peasant’s offering to the mother church.
“We’re still a day’s ride from Arnost,” Kael said but Dennis didn’t answer. As they entered the crowded marketplace, the smell of smoke and dung lingered in the air, and blowing dust left a fine layer of silt over the town square. Craftsmen and merchants manned their stalls, haggling and trading with tenant farmers; a pair of lovers walked hand-in-hand, and from somewhere unseen came the jangle of a tambourine.
“LeGrande should be here,” Dennis said, glancing at the crowd as they walked towards the church. They passed a trestle table where a cobbler sat with his wife. At the next stall Dennis stopped to purchase cheese and bread.
“Crusaders,” whispered the cobbler, nodding towards Dennis and Kael. “Mark their swords--and the bow the young one has--now that’s an expensive weapon.”
“They look more like bandits,” the cobbler’s wife said while running her finger along the neckline of her smock. “The young one looks like a Gypsy.”
Kael said nothing, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
“Not bandits,” replied the cobbler, shielding his eyes from the noonday sun. “The older man--I’ve seen him before.”
Dennis turned suddenly and the cobbler blanched, yet Dennis looked past him, back to the eastern edge of town and his gaze hardened. Kael turned, and there was LeGrande, wearing a silk white shirt under a red doublet, strolling through the marketplace with a beautiful young woman.
“What’s he doing?” Dennis said.
LeGrande seemed to be in deep conversation with the woman, patting her arm as if to console her. She suddenly left him, her lovely face now pinched, as if she were about to cry. LeGrande turned and walked towards them.
“Bonjour, Dennis--and young Kael, I haven’t seen you for an age,” said LeGrande, squeezing Kael’s arm.
“How long have you been here, LeGrande?” Dennis asked.
“Since yesterday. You’re late, brother.”
“You seem to have found a way to occupy your time,” Dennis said.
Kael was still watching LeGrande’s beautiful companion as she swept across the square. There was an old joke within the Malachi: the order had been celibate for fifty years, but no one had bothered to tell LeGrande.
A ghost of a smile passed LeGrande’s lips. “This is a lovely town,” he said with a wave of his hand. “It seems more like French village than a German city.”
“You’re not on holiday, brother,” Dennis said. “I want to get to Arnost by tomorrow.”
“Then we better leave now,” LeGrande replied. “My horse is stabled at the rectory.”
Half an hour later, as the Malachi crossed the Ratisbon Bridge, Kael looked down at the glittering Danube and recalled the terrible winter of ‘82, when the river froze. Wolves from the northern hinterlands, half-starved and fearless, had crossed the Danube. Ratisbon faced starvation that winter after a poor harvest; almost all the cattle had been slaughtered and hung in the curing barns. Kael remembered riding into town with Dennis that awful winter day; a light snow had fallen, and the north end of town was strewn with dead wolves and spent arrows. Dead Malachi lay there as well, their blood staining the pristine snow as the trail of the dead led to the curing barns. It had come down to that--man and wolf fighting over food to survive. Near the curing barns they had found Bernard of Tours, babbling and nearly frozen while holding a half-dead LeGrande across his lap. Around them was a ring of slaughtered wolves.
Kael now felt the warmth of the sun on his face and was glad for it, as he followed Dennis and LeGrande to the north bank and into open country. Here the river’s main channel turned southwest, bending back to its source within the Black Forest. It was late afternoon when they finally turned away from the Danube, following a ruined path that ran alongside a northern waterway. They set camp five miles downstream where the waterway forked and twin rivulets surged into the shadows of the forest.
While Dennis and LeGrande unpacked the horses, Kael unslung his bow and followed the stream into the forest, his legs still wobbly from a full day’s ride. He soon passed into the darkness of the wood, where shafts of sunlight slipped through the leafed canopy, casting a golden hue upon the forest floor.
Kael returned to camp an hour later with two large rabbits, which drew lavish praise from LeGrande and even a murmur of gratitude from Dennis. “I found a curious thing in the forest,” Kael said, reaching into his pocket. “About a mile east there’s a clearing within a oak grove, where I found this.” Kael opened his hand, revealing a jeweled medallion in the shape of a five-pointed star.
“What else did you find there?” Dennis asked while LeGrande examined the medallion.
“Ashes from a large bonfire,” Kael replied. “It wasn’t clear to me if it was a place of worship or sacrifice.”
“Probably both,” said LeGrande as he dangled the medallion between his fingers. Dying sunlight glinted off the sparkling jewels.
“You shouldn’t have disturbed the grove,” Dennis said. “And you’ve announced our presence by taking that trinket, brother. You will return it at first light.”
Kael said nothing and LeGrande winked at him. “We shouldn’t fear the unknown, Brother Dennis,” LeGrande said. “I’m not afraid of any pagan that moves in this forest.”
“Perhaps you should be,” Dennis answered, meeting LeGrande’s gaze. “And put away that medallion--you should know better, brother. Kael may be young but you’re not. Mark the shape of that star--two points up instead of one. What does that tell you?”
“It’s a reverse pentagram,” LeGrande said as he handed the medallion back to Kael. “Two points up--goat horns, the Witches’ Sabbath.”
“I know that, brothers,” said Kael as he slid the medallion back into his pocket. “I’m not a complete imbecile--I just thought you would like to see it, that’s all. I’ll return it now.”
“I said tomorrow--that’s soon enough,” Dennis said while crouching beside a triangle of firewood. He pulled a tinderbox out of his cloak and then looked up at Kael. “Nightfall approaches--don’t wander about, brother. You can gather some more wood while our dear LeGrande skins these rabbits for us.”
Less than an hour later darkness descended over the woodlands, and the three men huddled close to the campfire where they enjoyed a veritable feast of rabbit, cheese and bread. As Dennis tossed another log onto the blaze, embers sparked into the night.
“The Magi of the East believe that fire is a manifestation of the divine,” Dennis said. “Indeed, it’s a living thing--feed it and watch it grow.” As if in answer, the blaze now rose before them, a tongue of flame reaching into darkness. “A girl from my village once told me that, and I think she was right. I watched her burn on a warm summer’s day, and will never forget that hungering, devouring, insatiable flame.”
A long silence followed. Kael sensed inner conflict in Dennis; LeGrande seemed to detect it as well, and they finished their dinner without speaking. Afterwards, LeGrande took up his lute and strummed softly.
“I apologize for my queer mood, brothers,” Dennis finally said. “But I know this wood--I traveled it many years ago, as an apprentice of the Malachi. I was a little younger than Kael is now. The memory is a bitter one.”
“This wood is known to the order,” LeGrande said. “Its German name is ‘Heidenwald’, which means ‘Gypsy Wood’ or ‘Heathen Wood’, but commonly known as ‘Heiden Wood’. It’s an ancient forest, noted by the Romans who built a settlement near Arnost, and has a peculiar reputation--knowing travelers avoid it; the unknowing who venture within often regret it. There’s an old story about the Emperor Julian visiting these woods. And one morning while on a hunt, he heard the most beautiful sound imaginable, of a maiden singing, and followed her lovely voice into Heiden Wood, accompanied only by his scout. The two men were soon lost, and weren’t found till the following day; but by that time poor Julian had gone insane.” LeGrande rubbed his hands over the fire, then took a long pull on his wineskin. “I’ll take first watch, brothers.”
“I won’t sleep in this wood, LeGrande,” Dennis replied. “I’ll keep watch--why don’t you and Kael get some rest.”
LeGrande began strumming again while Kael threw down his blankets and lay back on a cushion of soft grass. His back ached from two weeks on horseback, but they would reach Arnost tomorrow--hopefully to a rectory with a soft bed. With the warmth of the fire and the soft play of the lute, Kael soon fell asleep under the stars.
At various times during the night, Kael would wake to see Dennis sitting perfectly still near the campfire, his gaze cast on the murmuring woodlands, and Kael was left with a peculiar impression; for it seemed that Dennis was listening intently in that hushed darkness, as if the wood spoke to him, in the whisper of an old lover.
By dawn, Dennis was already packing the horses and LeGrande was dousing the campfire when Kael awoke. Feeling a bit guilty for sleeping late, Kael nodded to his companions and left camp, following the twin streams back into the forest.
It took him longer than expected to find the oak grove again; there he tossed the medallion near the charred remains of the bonfire. Kael was about to leave when something caught his eye, and a shiver ran down his spine; turning slowly, he crouched near the ashes. There was a set of footprints, moving left to right around the ashen circle. Surely these prints were here yesterday, and he had just missed them. No, they weren’t.
Kael glanced up at the towering oaks that encircled the meadow, as leaves of scarlet and gold floated down to the forest floor. He tried to imagine the midnight ritual: the dancing around the raging bonfire, the chanting and the singing; the summoning and the sacrifice. He walked carefully around the grove and noticed a cluster of white flowers strewn around the largest oak. He tore off one of the petals and could smell the tell-tale sweetness of black hellebore, a deforming poison.
Kael lingered in the hidden grove as a soft breeze moaned through the oaks, scattering leaves about his feet. And he thought that he could hear his name on the wind as it whispered to him, beckoning and seductive. Stay, stay here and rest and sleep and never wake again. The rustle of leaves, the scent of the forest, the soft half-light that fell through the canopy gave the effect of a dream. Why not stay here, Kael thought, where everything was quiet and peaceful and time passed slowly. Then his fingers touched the crucifix that swung from his neck and a prayer passed his lips. Be with me always, my Lord and Savior. Release me from this evil spell.
When Kael returned to camp he said nothing about the footprints, for Dennis was already on edge. “What took you so long, brother?” Dennis asked. “I nearly sent LeGrande out to find you.” Kael apologized but didn’t explain, and a few minutes later the Malachi were riding north into the uplands with the wind at their backs.
It was late afternoon before they reached Arnost, a small hamlet which seemed to be carved out of the Bavarian wilderness. Crude wicker men were hung in the town square, which was otherwise deserted. And as the October wind blew through the town, the wicker men danced and pitched, casting grotesque shadows across the square. As the Malachi rode past, a cottage door flew open and a woman shouted after them. “Hurry indoors,” she scolded, “for night is falling, and it’s not safe to be out.”
In the drawing room of the rectory, Kael studied the old priest before him. Brother Jorski was nearly seventy, he guessed. Jorski’s hands shook as he spoke, his eyes shifting nervously from Kael, to Dennis, then LeGrande. He looked like a man at the end of his tether. “It’s a Godsend that you brothers are here,” Jorski said at last.
“We’re glad to be of service, Monsignor,” LeGrande replied while sniffing the brandy that Jorski had poured for him. LeGrande seemed at home in the cozy drawing room-- drinks, a crackling fire--the only thing missing were a few beautiful women, who always fell under his spell. Kael sat near the fireplace, across from Jorski, and his eye was drawn to a remarkable silver plate upon the mantel. Engraved on it were the Forty Martyrs, standing hand-in-hand upon the frozen shore of Sebaste, their countenance stern, their destiny sealed.
“Calm yourself, Brother Jorski,” Dennis said, stoking the fire. “You’re with friends now.”
“Yes, thank you, brother,” Jorski said. “I should begin by telling you that the Lady Gravis is a great patron of our church, and spends countless hours in parish service. But last month brought her a terrible shock--indeed it was a devastating blow to us all when...her daughter Eleanor was brutally murdered. Two schoolboys found her face down in a culvert just south of Landern Hill. It was strange to find her there, for Eleanor had been bed-ridden for several weeks with fever. When Doctor Hueber brought Eleanor to the rectory, I could see that her throat had been ripped out, as if by a wild animal.
“Local hunters searched the forest for signs of a wolf, without success. I buried Eleanor the next day. Nothing, my brothers, is as sorrowful as burying the young. And the poor Lady--already a widow and now this. As I mentioned in my letter, it was three nights later when Lady Gravis reported the first visitation. I must admit that I lack experience in...”
“In dealing with a Nosferatu?” LeGrande said, pulling Jorski’s letter out of his pocket. Jorski glanced at LeGrande and shifted in his chair, as if expecting sarcasm or rebuke. LeGrande smiled kindly instead, nodding for him to continue.
“I refused to believe it at first,” Jorski said. “The Lady Gravis begged me to stay at her estate for the next few nights, and I felt obligated to do so, if only to reassure her. It was on the second night when the Lady roused me from my sleep and whispered in my ear:
“‘She walks in the garden, Father. Eleanor has come home.’”
“Suspecting that someone was playing a cruel hoax on the Lady, I snatched my walking stick and ran down the hallway, throwing open the front doors,” Jorski added. “The night was moonlit, so it wasn’t difficult to see, but as I came to the side of the garden wall outside the Lady’s bedroom, I saw nothing. I slowly retraced my steps, my rage turning to confusion. Then my senses sharpened, and my soul screamed with alarm; by some intuition--no, it was more like instinct--I knew that I was being stalked in the darkness. And I knew, my brothers, without even turning around, that she was there.
“She stood perfectly still, as if studying me. Her white burial gown shimmered in the moonlight, and I stepped back, putting space between us. Then she grinned, and I saw that she was no longer human. As I reached for my crucifix, she laughed with a high, quivering bark. That sound--it was not of this earth. Yet despite my terror, a part of me wanted to submit, to surrender to this creature. This demoness exuded an evil so pure, so malevolent, that I stood torn between desire and repulsion. It was the stable hand Viktor who saved me. He ran to my side with a torch in hand, and this creature--I dare not call it Eleanor--fled into the woods, and Viktor gave chase till I called him back.
“The next morning I confided all to my colleague, Brother Mundt, and told him of my intention to contact our bishop. Mundt warned against it, arguing that it was probably a Gypsy girl coming out of the woods to steal under the cover of darkness. However, there was no uncertainty in my mind as to the nature of this spirit, which I explained in a letter to his Eminence. Last week I received a reply from the diocese stating that you were coming to question me, and that I was to remain silent on the issue until your arrival.” Jorski lifted his glass but did not drink. “I have considered the possibility that I’ve gone insane.”
LeGrande was now up, pacing the room. “God was with you that night, brother,” he said, patting Jorski on the shoulder. “You lived to tell about it, over a glass of brandy. This Nosferatu--she was alone? You didn’t see any other creatures stirring about?”
“No, brother. In sixty-eight years I have never seen a creature like this. Seeing two in one night would have been remarkable indeed.”
LeGrande laughed heartily. “Quite so, my friend--the vampire is a solitary predator.”
“You are familiar with these creatures, LeGrande?” replied an astonished Jorski. “I used to consider their existence to be mere legend and no more.”
“Not legend,” LeGrande said. “They exist, as you discovered at your own peril. The Nosferatu is an inhabiting demon, taking possession of the soul at the moment of death. The vampire will rise after the host has been dead for three days, mocking the resurrection of Christ. They are satanic, evil, a dark miracle, nést-ce pas?”
“The church knows about these creatures?” asked Jorski with a hint of panic.
“Of course--it’s a form of possession, demonic possession--yet the church is highly secretive in such matters,” explained LeGrande. “It is quite common for a vampire to visit family--they seem to be drawn to familiar places, which makes them vulnerable. A former spouse or lover is almost certain to receive a visit. Perhaps the Lady Gravis would extend her invitation to the three of us. We have a professional interest in her nocturnal visitor.”
“I’m sure the Lady would be comforted by your presence,” Jorski said.
“Have there been any other sightings of this Nosferatu?” Kael asked, and Jorski’s face drained of color. A true witness to the supernatural was often jarred by an interview with the Malachi, who spoke of the paranormal with detachment. To Kael, Jorski’s obvious discomfort lent authenticity to his account.
“No,” answered Jorski evenly, “we haven’t seen her since the night I just described to you. I’ve set a guard on Gravis manor, hiring several local hunters with church funds. There are at least two at the estate after nightfall. Over the Lady’s objections, I insisted that Viktor sit at the Lady’s bedside throughout the night, and I have been spending my nights at the manor as well. However, the men do not leave the estate after sundown. The surrounding forest has an evil reputation--even the bravest hunters shun that wood at night.”
“Excellent, Brother Jorski,” Dennis said. “To your credit, you risked your reputation to protect this woman.”
“Thank you,” answered Jorski, “but I believe the Lady is still in danger. The local Gypsies have begun to speak of a 'Lady of the Wood’ that haunts the forest. This dark spirit stalks their people, and in the last fortnight they have lost two of their own. The title they give this spirit is derivative of a local legend,” Jorski added. “The pagans who live in these parts gather at night for ceremonies in the forest, and worship a ‘Lord of the Wood’. By chance, hunters will occasionally discover the remnants of what appears to be a sacrificial grove, where these ceremonies take place. These are ancient practices, some of which pre-date Christianity. The Lord of the Wood is a powerful deity, to whom the pagans offer a periodic blood sacrifice to ensure fertility and wealth. But it’s getting late, my brothers--I would be grateful if you would accompany me to the Gravis Estate.”
* * *
It was near dusk when they arrived at Gravis manor. There they were received by the Lady, who despite being a widow still covered her hair in a brown wimple. She dressed with simple elegance, her green kirtle cinched by a brown leather belt, from which hung a set of prayer beads. Jorski introduced the Malachi, then added, “Lady Gravis, these brothers are here to help us resolve this mystery.”
“I am most grateful,” said the Lady as she led them into the parlor. Kael guessed that she had once been a dancer, for she moved with fluid grace, her step almost a glissade as she gestured with a sweep of her hand. “Please sit down,” she said. She then offered a late dinner for her new guests, who politely declined.
“Lady Gravis, may we offer our condolences on the loss of your daughter,” Dennis said. “Brother Jorski told us what happened. Can you describe, as best as you can, the events after the funeral?”
Lady Gravis rocked in her chair, momentarily silent as she glanced at the window that opened into the garden. “It was less than a week after the funeral,” she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper, “when I woke late one night to the sound of Eleanor’s harp.” She nodded to the corner where Kael sat. Behind him stood the instrument, half-covered in a white linen sheet. “I recognized her playing immediately, and my heart leapt with joy, and I was halfway down the staircase before I realized the impossibility, and thought that I must be dreaming. But Eleanor sat right where that young man is sitting now. And when she turned, I screamed and ran back to my room, locking the door behind me.”
“Why did you scream--what exactly did you see?” Dennis asked.
“I saw Eleanor’s ghost,” Lady Gravis replied. “She was pale, her eyes gleaming yet lifeless, and I knew that she was dead. A few moments later, Stana, my housemaid, rapped on my door to check on me. I was too horrified to let her in. Since no one had seen Eleanor, nor heard the music of the harp, I convinced myself that I had fallen into the thrall of a most vivid nightmare. But you cannot imagine my terror, Brother Dennis, when on the following night the harp rang out again. Only this time a rude hand flailed on the strings, the player’s intent no more than a total corruption of music. Then all became quiet, until I heard a footfall on the stairs. From the hallway I heard Viktor shout and then there was a scream. I cowered in my room till dawn, then went to see Father Jorski.” At this point Lady Gravis hesitated, then added, “Father stayed with me for the next two nights, and we both saw Eleanor in the garden.” The Lady looked to the window again as faded light spilled into the parlor.
“How long has Stana been with you, my Lady?” Dennis asked.
“Stana? Why nearly forty years--my mother hired her, and she came with me to this house when I married my husband.”
“And this man Viktor?”
“Viktor is Stana’s son, born and raised in our household,” answered Lady Gravis.
“We would like to interview all of your servants, my lady,” LeGrande said. “Now if I can impose on you, please show us your bedroom.”
Lady Gravis led them up the stairs, where on the landing stood a gold-framed looking glass, and Kael was stopped short by his own image. The double reality of reflective glass always amazed him, and as he lingered there Dennis brushed by, whispering, “Vanity, brother--take care.”
LeGrande entered the master bedroom and removed several garlic wreaths that hung near the bed. “Do you like the smell of garlic?” LeGrande asked. The Lady sat on the edge of the bed and pinched her nose with comic flair. LeGrande handed the wreaths to the housemaid. “Take these down to the kitchen, please. It doesn’t help--although a little garlic sauce over pheasant is always delightful.”
“What about the crosses, LeGrande?” Jorski asked. Several were placed around the room, and a large crucifix hung near the Lady’s headboard. LeGrande moved across the chamber, his back to Jorski as he opened the windows that looked out over the garden. In the distance ran the wooded hills, tranquil in the orange dusk.
“Perhaps we should excuse ourselves from the Lady’s presence,” LeGrande said, “before we discuss this any further.”
“If this pertains to my daughter, I want to hear what is said,” replied the Lady. LeGrande then turned and took her hands in his, and sat with her on the bed.
“My dear Lady, Eleanor is dead,” LeGrande said. “You know that, don’t you?” Lady Gravis looked down and said nothing. “Her soul is possessed, her body perverted by an evil agency,” added LeGrande. “We must find her body and destroy it--that is Eleanor’s only hope of salvation. Without the body, the demon has no vessel to do harm. We will protect you and those around you, and do what is best for Eleanor. Do you trust me and my brothers?”
The Lady nodded, her lips trembling, and then she resisted no more, burying her face in LeGrande’s doublet, and wept with heaving sobs as LeGrande held her. “In a just world, a mother would never have to bury her daughter,” LeGrande said. “Soon Eleanor will be at peace, and so will you.”
After Lady Gravis excused herself, LeGrande turned to Jorski. “As you know from first-hand experience, a cross will not stop a Nosferatu. Remember it was Viktor’s torch that saved you, not the cross. Don’t be confused about what we’re dealing with here. Think of a wolf, or better yet, a rabid lunatic. Most vampire lore is nonsense. The Nosferatu cannot disappear, nor fly, and hanging garlic is a pagan remedy. Unfortunately, crosses are just as useless. The simple facts are these: the Nosferatu must feed, so it hunts, and we are their prey.”
“I can take you to the mausoleum where Eleanor rests,” Jorski said. “The family crypt is less than a mile from here.”
“She’s not there,” LeGrande said, “but let us go, just to be sure.”
“LeGrande, why don’t you stay here with Lady Gravis,” Dennis said. “I want at least one Malachi with her at all times. Kael and I will go with Brother Jorski to the mausoleum.”
* * *
The sun was sinking into the west as Jorski led Dennis and Kael to the Gravis mausoleum. The structure was made of gray stone, unadorned except for a bas-relief of an angel on the door, her hands extended in supplication to heaven. Jorski fumbled with the key ring.
“We don’t need a key,” Dennis said, pushing open the mausoleum door. “The lock is broken.” Kael unsheathed his sword and followed Dennis inside the crypt. In the back of the mausoleum sat three tombs, and as Kael drew near, he could see the lid on the tomb to his left had been slid back. Jorski walked up behind him.
“This is where Lady Eleanor was laid to rest,” Jorski said, looking into the empty tomb, and for a moment the three men stood in silence.
Kael could never get used to that peculiar horror of the empty casket. LeGrande had said it best: it was a corruption of the Christian promise of everlasting life.
Darkness had already fallen by the time they returned to the manor, where LeGrande was interviewing the servants in the dining hall. Dennis and Kael agreed to keep watch outside the house, while LeGrande would remain within. Less than an hour later Dennis was on the roof of the manor, his hunting bow slung over his back, while Kael moved into the western forest, where Eleanor had fled after her encounter with Jorski. Kael climbed an old elm which stood just southwest of the estate.
The first two nights passed without event, and the Malachi enjoyed the Lady's hospitality. She kept a wonderful table, and with a dairy on the grounds, the brothers were plied daily with fresh milk and cheese, which Dennis referred to as ‘white meat’, to the consternation of LeGrande.
On the third night, Kael moved deeper into the woods, where he climbed a twisted birch and resigned himself to another long watch. He had slept intermittently that morning, and took a short nap after dinner, yet he still felt tired, and his entire body seemed heavy and dull. Night was falling, the western horizon coloring violet, and Kael gazed at Gravis Manor, the parlor window revealing the faint glow of the fireplace. An autumn chill was in the air, and Kael shifted his crossbow and tightened his cloak. The light failed and the forest darkened, and Kael rested on a forked limb, gazing into the woods and marking every sound, trying to identify its source--a rabbit scurrying through the underbrush, a nightingale’s call.
To fight boredom he tried to identify all of the outbuildings that lay upon the grounds. He marked the shadowy outline of the dovecote, and just east of it stood the stone dairy. There someone, perhaps Viktor, exited with an oil lamp swinging from his hand, throwing a pendulum of light into the gloom, and Kael stared in quiet fascination--it was like this on a watch, where the mundane often became extraordinary.
The hours of early evening passed, the forest silent. Kael shifted in the tree and gazed up at a brilliant cluster of stars. Directly overhead was Cassiopeia, queen of the autumn sky, glittering in the heavens; her open arms yearned for Perseus, now rising in the east.
Kael’s mind began to wander, and he tried to picture the young Eleanor Gravis--had she been beautiful, like her mother? He imagined her so. He had a mental image of the two of them living gracefully within the stone mansion. What had happened to the Lord Gravis? He wanted to ask the Lady at breakfast, but found it impossible without sounding intrusive. LeGrande would surely find out.
The moon rose, waxing nearly full when an owl screeched and took flight. The sound momentarily unnerved Kael, and he thought of his Gypsy grandmother, who possessed the dark gift of clairvoyance. “Where owls cry, sorrow follows,” she used to say. He tried to track the owl, watching the trees around him while waiting for its second call. As he turned towards the depths of the forest, he froze, sensing movement on the ground.
Curls of fog rose from the forest floor, from which emerged a woman in white. She moved without effort, as if floating over a vast ocean. Her gown was easy to mark in the gloom, for she was less than a hundred feet away, and Kael slowly raised his crossbow, centering it on her breast. He then realized, to his astonishment, that he had failed to load a bolt. He now stared at his weapon, dumbfounded--the crossbow wasn’t an easy weapon to load, more difficult in a tree.
Suppressing a rising tide of panic, he pointed the weapon down, bracing his foot against the bow to gain leverage. He snapped off his belt hook, crouching low as he slipped the hook over the bowstring. The Nosferatu was now down on all fours, sniffing the air, her head turning from side to side. She’s picking up my scent. His blood ran cold--she was forty feet away and closing.
He leaned back slowly, pulling the bowstring taut, waiting for the string to catch. He could sense her approach, and dared not look at her. As he struggled against the pressure of the bowstring, he felt her eyes upon him, and would not meet her gaze, for he knew how her eyes would burn in that dark wood, mesmerizing and seductive, filled with malice and bloodlust. He could hear her now, panting under his tree as she began to climb, her nails digging into the bark of the trunk. She was mewling, smelling his blood as she climbed, and he could smell her now, the reek of the dead, the stench of the grave. Leaning back, he felt the bowstring catch the load point. Dear God, steady my hand.
She pulled herself up, even with him, eyes wide and grinning. He squeezed the trigger as she lunged to embrace him, and the bolt ripped through her chest, throwing her from the tree, sending her airborne into darkness.
She was falling, and at first she thought she was flying. Leaves swirled around her and birds flew from silent perches. She hit the forest floor with a sudden shock, and everything was still. She drew in a breath and the pain nearly blinded her. She dared not move, lying on her back, shuddering in pain and fear. She lost consciousness for a moment, then woke to a dreadful sound--a footstep in the darkness, then another. She sensed a shadow in the forest, closing on her, and looked up with hate and terror. It was a young Gypsy priest, sword in hand, and she watched him kiss the vile thing, the crucifix that swung from his neck. She understood, at her moment of death, that this warrior priest had set a trap for her.
He stood over her, his dark eyes merciless, the eyes of a soldier, the eyes of a killer. She tried to scream but could not. He pulled her up by the hair into a sitting position, and another silent scream passed her lips. She saw the treetops above her, the moon and the stars. She felt cold steel on her throat, and then she was no more.
LeGrande drained his wine glass and looked at Kael, who had barely touched his dinner. “You’ve been very quiet, brother,” LeGrande said, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Kael replied, not looking up. He had dreamed of Eleanor Gravis again last night.
Then Jorski said, “I want you to know, Kael, that I’ve written a letter to Cologne about your heroism two nights ago.”
“Thank you, brother,” Kael said, choking back a wave of nausea.
“Brother Jorski, a few nights ago you mentioned pagan rituals in the forest,” LeGrande said. “Could you elaborate on these practices?”
Jorski looked startled and glanced nervously at Mundt, who was seated at the head of the table. “I don’t know that much about these rituals,” answered Jorski. “Brother Mundt has more experience in that area.”
“Thank you, brother,” replied Mundt, who looked less than pleased. “The rituals you refer to, LeGrande, are practiced by many of the heathens. We tried to convert some of them. A local witch coven led many of these ceremonies. We burned three of these hags, two others escaped. Nevertheless, the heathens persist in these practices.”
Dennis turned to Jorski. “Last week you referred to the old woodland myth--the ‘Lord of the Wood’. I remember a similar mythos in this land many years ago.”
“It’s an enduring myth,” Jorski said, now emboldened. “I remember the same legend as a boy in the Rhineland. The Lord of the Wood is a Dionysian character--a deity of the woodlands--and potentially destructive. The pagans celebrate dark rituals in the forest, paying homage to this god with animal sacrifices. I suspect they may even offer human sacrifices on occasion.”
“Have either of you ever witnessed one of these ceremonies?” LeGrande asked, gesturing with his empty wineglass. Both Jorski and Mundt shook their heads but said nothing, and a silent tension crept into the room. “It might be instructive,” mused LeGrande as Jorski refilled his glass, “to observe the pagans at worship.”
Mundt stared evenly at LeGrande. “My brother, why would you participate in such an abomination?”
“I don’t mean to be an active participant, Brother Mundt,” replied LeGrande. “But before you burn another hag, you might discover why you are burning them. The answer lies in the forest.”
Mundt reddened. “I wonder, Bruder LeGrande, if you take me for a murderer.”
LeGrande stood and bowed low. “Forgive me, brother--I’ve insulted you. But my motive here is to understand these rituals. It is the old religion, no? The worship of nature, as practiced by the ancients. I agree with Dennis--evil inhabits this forest. The rituals practiced by the pagans may be the key to unlock the mystery of the Heiden Wood.”
“The moon will be full in two days,” answered Mundt. “If you must bear witness, I know where the pagans will gather.”
* * *
Two nights later, as the moon rose over Arnost, Mundt led the Malachi deep into the woods. Cresting a hillock, they could see a copse of trees illumined by firelight, and Mundt nodded towards the eerie glow. “I beg your leave, my brothers--I shall turn back here.”
“Merci, brother,” murmured LeGrande.
As Mundt left them, Dennis whispered “We must be careful, LeGrande--it seems the King of the Wood has a number of disciples.”
People were now stirring among the trees within the flicker of the torchlit grove. The pagans eventually sat in a circle with torches spiked around a ring of trees. As the Malachi approached the grove, Kael glanced at the crowd, counting by tens. There were over a hundred people gathered, and he recognized a few that he had seen in town. The Malachi quietly took their place within the grove, with LeGrande and Kael sitting on one side of the circle, while Dennis moved to the opposite side.
Within the center of the grove was a young girl of about sixteen, blonde and fair. She wore a plain white robe, and was crowned with a wreath of peach blossoms. To Kael, the girl seemed to be in a waking dream, unsure of her surroundings. Beside her stood a man dressed in a bison skin, and Kael could see that he was concealing a knife, which he kept partially hidden within the animal skin. The men around the circle murmured among themselves, many appraising the girl that stood before them. LeGrande was as quiet as a grave. Kael sat in the darkness, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees.
An hour passed, and Kael spent much of that time studying the girl, as the breeze played upon her hair and snapped her robe against her body. She’s a virgin, thought Kael, and her life will end here. The man in the bison skin now knelt before her, muttering a dark prayer to some woodland god. A few minutes later Kael felt a stir in the night air, and across the grove he could see Dennis gazing east, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. The man in the bison skin now rose and gazed into the darkness; from his belt he withdrew a great hunting horn of brass and leather, and then blew a tremendous blast of primal force which echoed through the dark forest.
The call of the horn brought immediate silence to the gathering, and Kael felt a deep disquiet within his soul. He now stared at the girl, his desire burning. He wanted to rape her inside the flaming grove, burying his seed deep within, giving up his celibacy, his salvation, if only to possess her. The man in the bison skin now took the girl by the wrist, and with a quick jab sliced open her palm. She flinched slightly, making no sound as he bled her hand into a wooden bowl. He then poured wine into the bowl, mixing it with the girl’s blood. After this was done, he lifted the bowl and cried out with reverence: “Welcome, my Lord.”
Out from the darkness of the trees he came, his shadow preceding him into the grove. Tall he was, well over six feet. Emerging under the torchlight, he was cloaked in wolf skin, his own flesh gleaming white underneath, and as he strode to the center of the circle, Kael could see his vulpine expression, his cruel mouth, his dark eyes that never blinked. Kael noticed LeGrande making a subtle hand gesture to Dennis, yet he was transfixed by the appearance of the man before him. He was clearly Nosferatu, a terrible lord and master over these people. Who among them could deny him? The Nosferatu accepted the bowl from the man in the bison skin, who cowered before him. The Nosferatu drank, and the girl began to tremble. He then lowered the bowl, and with blood-stained lips shouted in mockery: “Who shall challenge the Lord of the Wood?”
LeGrande gripped Kael’s forearm, keeping him close. The Nosferatu glanced at Kael and smiled. Across the grove, close to where Dennis sat, a young man in a leather jerkin rose, drawing his blade.
“I will challenge the King of the Wood,” the young man said. He was ruddy-faced with a sturdy build, yet the shakiness of his voice belied the threat of his reply. He looked no more than eighteen. Not a challenge, thought Kael--it is mere ritual. The young man is a sacrifice, like the girl. The Nosferatu nodded to the young challenger and passed the bowl back to the man in the bison skin. The challenger then took the bowl, and staring at the girl, drank the blood of the virgin. Then the Nosferatu drew his sword, a large and heavy blade. The two combatants moved closer.
“It is murder, LeGrande, to allow this,” whispered Kael.
“Perhaps,” answered LeGrande, “yet we may learn from it.”
The challenger was quick to charge the Nosferatu. He was strong and agile, but unrefined in swordsmanship, leading with his shoulder, clumsily shifting his weight before every sword thrust. The Nosferatu easily anticipated these attacks and seemed content to parry with the boy, biding his time. After a quick exchange, the Nosferatu ripped an expulsion attack against the boy’s blade, knocking his sword to the ground. Then, with gentlemanly aplomb, the Lord of the Wood retreated a few steps and motioned for his opponent to pick up his weapon. After several more passes, the Nosferatu’s interest seemed to wane, and as the young man attacked with a forward lunge, the Nosferatu countered with a stop thrust at the high line, impaling the boy’s sword arm. The boy staggered back, dropping his sword, and the Lord of the Wood grabbed him by the neck and spun him around.
Kael sensed the thrill of expectation in the crowd, the yearning for the kill. Their lord would not disappoint them. With a fistful of hair, the Nosferatu ripped the boy’s head back, exposing the throat.
“Mercy, my lord, I’m your devout servant,” cried the boy. The Nosferatu smiled and whispered in his ear, sword pressed against the boy’s jugular. Then a geyser of blood exploded from the boy’s throat, and in that instant the boy seemed genuinely surprised as he choked on his last breath. The Nosferatu then held him, almost lovingly, as the boy’s lifeblood sprayed the grove. Murmuring approval arose from the crowd as the Nosferatu swayed with the dying boy.
A dark ballet, this ritual, thought Kael. Spilling blood in this hidden grove was a catharsis, a communion between nature and these pagans who worshipped her. The Nosferatu moved towards the girl, and she opened her arms to welcome him. The King of the Wood smiled as he stepped behind her, running his long fingers over her shoulders, then ripped the white gown from her body.
The girl now stood naked before them, her body soft and supple under the torchlight. Her mound of pubic hair was sparse and soft, and she arched her back into the embrace of her lord. He kissed her neck and cupped his hands around the fullness of her breasts. She looked younger than Kael had first thought--perhaps only thirteen or fourteen, and his lust for the girl turned to deep pity. She was pure and beautiful, an offering of youth and splendor to this dark lord.
LeGrande recited a silent prayer, then rose to his feet. “Congratulations my lord, you have killed a mere boy.” The Nosferatu whirled to face LeGrande, who was now moving in an arc around him. Kael knew that LeGrande was mentally mapping out the width of the grove. “What a delightful performance,” added LeGrande, still moving. “But as I watched this exhibition, I thought--Lord of the Wood is a rather fanciful title--isn’t it? I began to think of a more appropriate title, one more fitting a nobleman like yourself. King of Rabbits? King of Cats? No...King of Rodents--that’s it.” Turning to the man in the bison skin, who looked at LeGrande with disbelief, LeGrande announced, “I will challenge the Rodent King.”
Kael thought that LeGrande was playing a very dangerous game. LeGrande was a remarkable swordsman, no doubt, trained and blooded in the court of Avignon. But challenging the Nosferatu in this place was dangerous enough; to mock him and his cult in the middle of their blood ritual was fraught with peril.
With a penetrating gaze, the Nosferatu grinned at LeGrande. “Have you brought some holy water, Father?”
LeGrande drew his sword, the cold steel reflecting the torchlight. “I have brought this, my lord.”
The Nosferatu pushed the girl away and drew his weapon, while LeGrande kept moving in a tight arc, making a complete sweep around the Nosferatu. The Nosferatu stood perfectly still and beckoned with his free hand, inviting a charge. LeGrande then reversed his steps, traveling in a reverse arc, drawing closer to the Nosferatu. As the Nosferatu began to speak, LeGrande attacked with sudden speed, and the clash of swords rang out as the Nosferatu met LeGrande’s attack. A fierce parry of ringing steel echoed through the grove, then LeGrande withdrew, moving in his arc again, and with a slight flourish swung his blade overhead. This was a French custom, indicating a hit, and Kael looked closely at the Nosferatu. Slow, thick blood began to ooze from his pale chest.
The crowd now saw the injury, and there was an undercurrent of fear and wonder among the people in the grove. The Nosferatu, injured and insulted, now glared at LeGrande, who mimicked the hand gesture of his opponent, inviting a charge. The Nosferatu attacked with blood fury, his incisors bared in a murderous snarl. LeGrande, aware of his opponent’s superior strength, parried laterally to control his blade. The crowd was now moving around the circle, collectively gasping and cheering with each exchange. LeGrande repelled and executed a lightning riposte, his blade a silver blur in the darkness, and the Nosferatu was now backpedaling, parrying desperately, his wolfskin being torn to shreds. After a brutal exchange, the two combatants broke off.
The Nosferatu now stood in his sacrificial grove, his chest heaving and bleeding. He glared at the man who opposed him, and Kael thought that the Nosferatu’s expression bore a hint of finality, as if a decision had been made. The Lord of the Wood now risked all, charging with a wild advance lunge. It was a tactical error, anticipated by LeGrande, who sidestepped the charge and whipped his blade over as the Nosferatu rushed past, ripping a huge chunk of flesh off the shoulder. The Nosferatu staggered, his blade arm now limp, and LeGrande backhanded him savagely with his free hand.
Down fell the Nosferatu, and a scream punctuated his fall. LeGrande leaped quickly over him, sword high for a killing stroke. As the Nosferatu scrambled from the ground, LeGrande landed a crushing blow to the back of the neck, driving him back down. The Nosferatu screamed as LeGrande’s sword bit into him, and that scream was dreadful to hear. The Nosferatu now staggered away, abandoning the battle, his hand on his neck, his wolfskin staining red as blood pumped out of the wound, and LeGrande was merciless in his pursuit.
“Where are you going, lord?” shouted LeGrande, impaling the Nosferatu’s right thigh.
The Nosferatu screamed again, dropping his sword and falling to his knees. “On your belly, Lord of Vipers,” LeGrande said, ripping open his left thigh. Crawling now, the Nosferatu made for the edge of the grove, and LeGrande walked behind him, swinging his blade triumphantly overhead. “Lord of Vermin, Lord of Worms, Lord of Carrion.”
The Nosferatu finally reached an ancient oak, where he turned and sat to face his tormentor. The Lord of the Wood was now a bloody mess, crippled and defeated, yet the light of defiance was in his gaze. “I will die now,” the Nosferatu said, “but I foresee that death is near to you, priest. Your days are short.” The Nosferatu then laughed, his teeth smeared with blood. LeGrande smiled in return, a cold smile, his eyes narrowing like twin diamonds, then drove a two-handed thrust into the heart of the Nosferatu, impaling him to the tree. The Nosferatu screamed again, a death roar that sounded more like a lion than anything human.
The crowd began to panic, as people began running blindly into the woods. Kael heard the girl wail, and as he turned he saw her pick up the sacrificial knife. Naked and feral, she bolted towards LeGrande with knife in hand. “LeGrande, the girl!” Kael yelled, chasing her.
“LeGrande, behind you!” shouted Dennis, as he ran to intercept the girl.
With deep horror, Kael saw that the girl would get to LeGrande first. He rushed an arrow into his hunting bow and aimed wildly, missing the girl and striking a pagan crossing the glade. LeGrande turned as the girl pounced, and falling backward he caught the girl’s forearm, twisting it down and away, breaking the bone as the knife fell away. LeGrande flipped her over on her back as he ripped his sword from the Nosferatu, and now his blade was on her, poised for another deathblow, and the girl shrieked.
“LeGrande, No!” yelled Dennis, grabbing LeGrande’s sword arm and throwing him to the ground. Landing like a cat on all fours, LeGrande sprang back to his feet, and Kael saw that LeGrande’s hand was badly blooded.
“Move away from her, Dennis,” LeGrande said, brandishing his sword.
Dennis stood over the girl and drew his blade. “I will defend the girl, LeGrande.”
“Don’t draw your sword on me, old man,” LeGrande said, moving in his deadly arc again, this time around Dennis.
“Drop your weapon, LeGrande,” shouted Kael, raising his bow. “Evil has fallen upon you, brother.”
LeGrande turned towards Kael, then back to Dennis, as if trying to remember who they were. He then fell to his knees and dropped his sword. “Peace, my brothers,” LeGrande said, raising his blooded hand. “My rage has overthrown me.”
Dennis lowered his blade. “It is an evil place, LeGrande. Look at us, weapons drawn against each other.”
Kael turned to the girl, who was whimpering near the Nosferatu as his black blood boiled on the ground. Kael wrapped his cloak around the girl and led her back across the grove. “Her arm is broken,” Kael announced in a shaky voice. “We should bring her back to town--perhaps Jorski knows where she lives.” Just then the girl broke and ran, and Kael started to give chase.
“Let her go,” LeGrande said.
In the few hours before dawn, the Malachi buried the young challenger, as Dennis prayed for the soul of the pagan. Kael beheaded the Nosferatu. Then they built a small pyre of dead limbs and leaves in the middle of the grove. With the rising of the sun, Dennis performed the Rite of Exorcism as the Malachi burned the body of the Lord of the Wood.
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