Hunter's Creed

Chapter 1

July, the 3rd I think; Who has time for calendars?

         It began with a cry for help. It always does. This particular cry arose from the throat of a low-ranking vicar kneeling in desperate supplication before the altar of a wattle-and-daub chapel barely worthy of the name. His plea passed through hands clenched in fervent prayer. Perhaps that's why it, among all the others, was chosen. God is a busy fellow, and rarely replies to individual mortals, but sometimes his minions will . . .

                             From the journal of Darion Valente

*          *          *

         The horse was nearly invisible in the stygian darkness, its long mane flying as its rider urged it to speed. Risky on a night like this, but more risky by far to hold a slow and steady pace. Enough moon rode above the trees to make the track visible as a pale ribbon in the darkness, and rider urged horse to take full advantage. The horse did not disappoint.
         Tipped off by his remarkable companion, the rider had started down the path that connected the little farm villages of the region, slowly at first, then at an increasingly faster pace as he became accustomed to the moonlit landscape. And now he could hear the excited hunting calls of multiple animals. They had something at bay, and the pleading wail of a human voice left no doubt as to what it might be.
         Bringing his mount to a halt, he tilted his head, feeling the air for the sounds of struggle. They came from just to the right. A woman's voice it was, raw from screaming for help she had to know would never come. Pulling the rein to turn the horse in among the scattered trees, he spurred it to speed. Another cry came from much closer, this one more of a sob, and, sword in hand, the rider tensioned the rein slightly left and came on in full charge.
         It was hard to see details in the poor light, but he could see enough. A woman had climbed to the lower branches of a smallish tree, and dancing around her was a pack of huge dogs, mastiffs by the look of them, but mixed with something else that made them the size of ponies and gave them a look that could only be described as satanic. So focused on their quarry were they that they failed to notice his approach, all save one which turned at the last second to face him, and took the man's sword strike across the face with the full weight and speed of the horse behind it. It flew backward through the air, skull split and life extinguished.
         He wheeled the horse, the well-trained animal turning in its own length to face the three remaining hounds. The animal reared up, and the man could feel its fear. Seeing it would be more hindrance than help, he slid from its back, giving it a swat on the rump as he dropped. Realizing it was freed from its obligation, it turned and disappeared into the darkness. Its sudden movement triggered the dogs, one of which charged, followed immediately by the other two.
         The warrior raised his sword, an odd design having a medium blade, but a grip with space for both hands. Held in one hand, close to the guard, it was as balanced as a fencing foil; held with both, it could be swung with the power and ferocity of a battleaxe. Two hands held it now, and its swing disemboweled the second dog with a single slash. Using his momentum to complete a pirouette, he thrust it through the body of the third. The last dog pulled up, studied him, unmistakable intelligence behind those eyes.
         It's evaluating me!
         His arrival had been a surprise, and with its advantage, he had killed most of the pack. A hound of this size should be able to savage any man, but there was more to this man than met the eye. The dog sniffed the air in his direction, ears up, twisting in this direction and that, trying to glean what its nose could not. It eventually made a decision, this dog-thing bred for violence, then turned and ran at a loping pace into the woods.
         The man sheathed his sword, gave a long, shrill whistle, and walked to the base of the tree.
         "You're safe now, Miss. I believe you should come down."
         "I don't feel all that safe. Who're you?"
         "My name is Darion. I've just gone to considerable pains to save your life. If I meant you harm, all I had to do was leave you to your fate. Truly, you are safe, and you should come down."
         He lifted his hand to stroke the horse's face as it walked up beside him.
         "So ye can claim your reward and have your way with me?"
         "I'm not in the business of 'having my way' with desperate women. Are you hurt?"
         "Nae in the least. When I heard the first bay, I was up this tree like a shot."
         "Then you should come down."
         While the woman considered her options, the man's head snapped to the side as though he had seen something in the darkness.
         "You might have helped," he said, his tone a bit harsher than before.
         "Me?" the woman exclaimed. "I'm no warrior!"
         But a second voice, sultry, ethereal, and decidedly feminine answered as well.
         "You were doing all right," it said. "We agreed I shouldn't reveal myself unless the need is truly great."
         "Fair enough," he answered both of them, then lifted his head to address the woman in the tree. "If you aren't coming down, then I have business elsewhere. If that hound comes back, I hope you're near another tree."
         He turned to the horse, checked that his shield was secure where it hung on the saddle, and walked to the other side to mount.
         "Wait," the woman said, beginning to clamber down. "I am properly grateful. Just not as grateful as you might like me to be."
         "You can be as grateful as you like," he said, coming up behind as she slid from the last branch, grasping her around the waist, and standing her on the ground.
         "Hands to yourself," she snarled, turning to face him, a small dagger of no more than three inches in her hand.
         "I've told you, you're safe. Now, put that toy away." He stepped back to look her over. She wore the careworn dress of a peasant, but her face... "Why, you're naught but a girl."
         "A girl!" she mimicked, knife disappearing back into the folds of her dress. "Why, I've got fifteen summers behind me, and a line of suiters as long as your arm!"
         "How wonderful for you. What are you doing out here in the dark?"
         "Running an errand for my ma. I might ask you the same thing."
         "I was sent here by my order."
         "To do what?" she challenged, chin raised.
         "I don't know. We never know. We are dispatched, and we obey. I'll wager it had something to do with those hounds, though. Might I know the name of the girl— the woman I've saved?"
         "I am Klementina of the Sirnik clan."
         "I'll bet they call you Clem for short."
         "Not more than once. But, if you're the benefactor you claim to be, you may call me Tina."
         "All right, Tina. Where were you trying to go when you met these hounds?"
         "Home. To my parents' farm, if you must know."
         "And, where might that be?"
         "She looked at him suspiciously, then cast her eye about the surroundings.
         "That way," she said finally, pointing off into the woods. "Another two miles or so."
         "Perhaps you should ride, then," he said. "I think those spindly legs have done enough work for one night."
         And with that, he scooped her up and sat her on his horse.

*          *          *

         He led the horse through the trees, watching the stars through the gaps to keep his direction true, attention on their surroundings. That other hound had gone somewhere, and might decide to try its luck again at any moment. The girl harbored no such fears, or maybe it was unspent adrenaline that kept her tongue flitting from subject to subject.
         "So, how did you happen by just at the time I needed you?"
         "Got lucky, I guess." His attention remained on the woods.
         "You're not one of the guardsmen," she went on. "You a sellsword?"
         "After a fashion."
         "What fashion? Who do you work for?"
         "Those who need me."
         "Plenty of need around here. We couldn't afford a sellsword, though. Too bad."
         He led on without comment, watching the predawn glow beginning, faint but growing, ahead. No chance of losing his way now.
         "That's some crucifix you have there."
         It was hard to miss, four inches high, forged in gold with a silver wolf's head at the crossbar. He normally wore it inside his tunic, but with his leather armor on, its sharp points dug into his chest, so it hung outside.
         "You religious?" she went on.
         "Not so's you'd notice."
         "What do you wear that for, then? You trying to fool people?"
         "I work for the church."
         "And you're not religious? What are you, then, a cleaning flunky?"
         "Something like that. There's a farmhouse ahead. Is that your home?"
         "Yes," she said. "That's my ma in the doorway. She's probably worried about me."
         "With good reason, it would seem."
         "Why? I'm here, aren't I?"
         "Tina? Tina, is that you?" the woman called, starting toward them tentatively, then starting to run as she recognized the girl.
         Darion was just as happy that he didn't have to answer Tina's question.
         "Tina, I thought the worst had happened," the woman said, running to the horse and laying her face on the girl's leg. "But, who is this?"
         Darion brushed her aside to lift the girl from the horse's back, placing her on the ground before her mother who wrapped her in an embrace that would have made a python proud.
         "He's a sellsword," Tina said, extricating herself from the hug. "He was just about to tell me how he works for the church."
         "The church? A sellsword?" The woman was immediately suspicious, likely considering, as most of the peasants did, a mercenary to be lowest form of soldier. "How can this be?"
         "Well, Ma'am, the priests see to your soul. The lay brothers help as they can with your worldly needs. But when a problem that they can't address crops up, the church finds other ways to address it. Like a girl lost in the woods, for example."
         "I wasn't lost!" Tina snapped.
         "No, of course you weren't. None of my business, Ma'am, but sending her out so late that she'd have to return in the dark could have cost her life."
         "But for you! You must have been sent by God. But, where are my manners? Please, my name is Janka of the Sirnik clan. The man who has saved our daughter must surely join us for breakfast."
         "I am pressed for time. I have business in the village of D'Jeric. I've lost time and my road by coming here. If you can just give me directions, I'll be on my way."
         "D'Jeric is just beyond the woods there. But you must take time to eat. You and your horse. Tina, take his mount to the stable and give him fresh oats and hay. Come, warrior. Our food isn't fancy, but it's fresh and filling, and will take you far down the road."
         Tina was already leading his horse away, and Janka had his arm and was pulling him toward the house in her eagerness to show her gratitude. With a sigh and a smile, he resigned himself to a moment's respite.

*          *          *

         The village of D'Jeric was a collection of squat buildings, their mud-daubed walls making them look like a low hill when he rounded the end of the woods. Their nature became plain soon enough. Poverty lived here. This was where the farmers from the surrounding fields came to trade their wares. July. The fourth, if his reckoning was still accurate. The square should be a madhouse of activity, farmers and traders haggling over price and quality. It was nearly deserted. If the episode with the girl last night hadn't convinced him. he knew now that he was in the right place.
         Darion walked his horse down the main street, if it could even be called a street, a muddy track wide enough for two wagons to pass, not much more. Hollow eyes followed his progress from windows and doorways of shops far too unfrequented. He slowed the horse, looked over to the inn on the corner where another track branched off toward the east. But the farmer's fare, rabbit stew with fresh garden vegetables, still filled his belly, and he decided on business first. Walking the horse up to the rail before a small church that looked as though the first good wind would knock it over, he dismounted and wrapped the rein around the rail.
         "Easy, Midnight. I'll get you stabled before long. And you, you be civil in there."
         He entered the church, standing in the door as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Near the altar, a man in the plain robes of a holy order swept the floor, head down, muttering to himself. A prayer or madness, Darion couldn't tell. He stepped further in between the pews.
         "Excuse me, Father," he addressed the man, "are you the priest here?"
         "Priest," he said with a dismissive snort. "I am the vicar. That's all this village warrants, and this village seems to be all I warrant. But enough about me. How can I serve you, my son?"
         "I was sent to this village because someone here requested aid. I am a hunter." He fished his crucifix out from beneath his tunic and held it up.
         "God be praised," the man breathed, standing up straight and dropping his broom. "Come forward, my son, and let me see you."
         The windows were arranged so that whatever light was available, and there was much on this midsummer morning, always fell on and around the altar. Darion stepped into it.
         "Such a warrior I do not deserve," the vicar said, walking completely around him to take his imposing presence in. "We are oppressed by a great evil here, one that even a hunter may not be able to overcome."
         "Slow down, Father... vicar. What is your name?"
         "Oh, forgive my poor manners. My excitement is great. I am Vicar Samo of Clan Gotovnik, such as is left of it, and this is my parish, such as is left of it. My flock is beset by wolves, and I am a poor excuse for a shepherd."
         "Do these wolves have a leader?"
         "Of a fashion, but we never see him. Or her? Just the pack. They come with the..."
         The vicar's voice trailed off and he staggered back, signing the cross, as he looked over Darion's left shoulder. Darion knew what he would see, but looked anyway. A woman was materializing behind him, an attractive woman of twenty or so summers, her loosely-curled black hair pulled into a pony tail, the skirt of her colorful peasant dress torn into tatters. Not an unpleasant sight, really, except that you could see right through her, the gaps in her skirt making it painfully clear that her body ended somewhere below the waist.
         "Istenem!" the vicar breathed, crossing himself again.
         "I told you to behave yourself in here," Darion snapped at the apparition.
         "What?" it replied. "All I have done is become visible. This man believes in a Holy Ghost. Why should an ordinary one give him such pause?"
         "This is a church, Rosalka."
         "And I will never forget what the church did to me. We have a job to do. We find the head of these wolves and cut it off, no?"
         "This... This is your guide?" the vicar asked. "P-p-pleased to meet you, My Lady."
         He crossed himself again.
         "I am no kind of lady," the ghost assured him.
         "Enough, Rosa. If you can't be civil, then disperse yourself at once."
         The specter crossed her arms over her chest and gave a dismissive snort.
         "My guide, such as she is. The church meted out a harsh punishment for adultery while she was alive. She now travels with me in a quest for absolution. Tell me of these wolves."
         "They come with the darkness. They take everything, leaving the farmers barely enough to live. The food, of course, family heirlooms, anything that looks to be of value. They even take children once they are of a certain age. The rumors say they are sold into slavery, the boys, and the girls meet a far worse fate."
         "Vicar, I don't think you understand. This is a civil matter. You need to petition your local lord or duke for succor. Hunters are dispatched to deal with supernatural evil. Minions of Satan, in simple terms."
         "Then I will put it to you in simple terms, Hunter. If these men are not minions of Satan, then what are they?"
         He held Darion's gaze in a manner he hadn't been able to do before.
         "All right," the hunter said after a moment, "I'll ask around, but I promise nothing."
         "You do not need to. Once you see what is happening here, you will not be able to turn away."

*          *          *

         True to his word, Darion asked around. The smith, the cooper, the carpenter and all were undeniably stricken with poverty, and all told a tale of greedy farmers who had found richer markets in the next town and declined to bring any more than bare sustenance into the village, and that at outrageous prices. This contrasted sharply with the story that Janka and the vicar had told, that of being shorn like sheep at every harvest and left with virtually nothing to sell.
         "There's something going on here," he said to the shadowy entity that floated beside him. "It may not be satanic, but it bears looking into."
         "I agree," the ghost replied. "Something has these people's hearts. I can feel their fear."
         "Yes. Well, let's arrange quarters."
         He crossed the street to the inn, went up three steps to a broad but narrow porch, and checked the sign by the door: The Bleeding Turnip.
         "Now there's a clever name," he muttered. "I wonder if it was recently changed."
         "I doubt it," Rosalka replied. "That sign looks like it's older than I am."
         "I didn't think that was possible," Darion said, opening the door and approaching the bar, a glaring specter in his wake.
         "Good noontide, traveler," the man behind the bar greeted him. "How may I assist you today?"
         "Good day," Darion replied. "Are you the proprietor?"
         "That I am, sir, that I am. Sadri's the name. Sadri of Clan Rak."
         "Darion Valente. I've a bit of business in town that may keep me overnight, so I'd like to arrange a room if one's available."
         "Why, yes, of course. Room four is open. Up the stairs at the end of the hall." He reached beneath the counter and produced an iron passkey attached to a heavy disc by a short length of chain. Laying it on the bar, he said, "the room's ten denars a night."
         "How about a meal? And a drink."
         "We have plenty of fresh meat," Sadri replied. "My boy sets snares every morning. We're short of vegetables, though. The farmers don't sell us much anymore, you see..."
         "Yes, they've all found a better market, I hear."
         "That's right." He leaned across the bar conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "I've heard that they've found a vein over in Veder, and they pay the farmers in pure silver. We hardly see them anymore."
         "Shame. What do you have, then?"
         "We save the vegetables for our stew. That's five denars a bowl. Rabbit haunch, squirrel tail, possum, racoon, those are all three each."
         "Rabbit haunch, then. And an ale."
         "Ale's another denar," the innkeeper said, "so you'll owe me... let's see, ten plus three..."
         Don't trouble yourself," Darion said, laying a silver sovereign on the bar. "I'll be in the corner booth."
         A sovereign was equal to fifty denars, likely more than a day's business for this struggling innkeeper.
         "Thank you, traveler! Just sit anywhere you like. Your food will be right up."
         Darion took the seat with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. Rosalka hovered over the bench opposite, looking for all the world like a young woman sitting across from her beau. Of course, since no one could see her but Darion, the illusion hardly mattered.
         "What do you make of it?" he asked quietly.
         "Fear hangs in the air. It owns this village. I think we will be needed here after all."
         "What about all the lies? Everyone we've talked to has blamed the farmers' greed for the troubles here. What do you make of it?"
         "Fear hangs here like a fog. The farmers and the villagers all feel it, and it is all from the same source. The reasons are different, though."
         "How so?"
         "That I cannot tell, but the villagers may believe what they're telling us."
         The innkeeper approached, plate in one hand, stein in the other. Stopping at the opposite end of the table, he placed the stein then reached to set the plate before Darion. As he did, his arm passed through Rosalka's shoulder, and he dropped it from a couple of inches above the table, causing it to bounce to a halt in front of Darion.
         "That's a good trick," Darion said. "All you all right?"
         "Yes, yes. I'm so sorry. There was a cold spot here, like my arm was suddenly encased in ice. Do you feel it?"
         "Frequently," he replied, receiving a withering glare from his ghost. "No harm done. Perhaps you should hold your arm over the fire for a bit."
         "Yes. I will. Thank you, and I'm so sorry!"
         He took his leave as Rosalka looked down with a snicker.
         "He should watch what he's doing," she said with a playful lilt.
         "Yes. If only they could see you, that would prevent so many misunderstandings."
         "And, where would be the fun in that?"
         "Never mind. When I finish here, we'll talk to some more of the townsfolk. I doubt we'll get anything new out of them, though."
         "I miss eating. The flavors were so stimu... oh, dear!"
         "What is it?"
         "The innkeeper just handed his boy a note, and he slipped out the back door. Would you like me to follow him?"
         "No, relax. I'll want you with me while I'm talking to the marketeers. You're too suspicious, Rosa."
         "Yes. Once upon a time, I wasn't suspicious, and you can see where that got me."
         "Nonetheless, leave him be. He's probably going for a bag of flour. Just relax, won't you?"

*          *          *

         The afternoon went about as he expected, vendor after vendor telling him the same story of the farmers taking their business elsewhere and leaving the town to starve. Darion returned to the inn and chose a wicker divan on the porch to sit on and watch the villagers wind down their day. There were no knots of laughing friends making their way home after a day's work, no children tossing a ball or rolling a hoop, no women exchanging gossip as they passed in the growing darkness. Almost nothing, save a few men and fewer couples, making their way in haste as they watched the shadows.
         "This is a very strange settlement, Rosalka."
         "You are telling me. Once, vampires moved into our town, and the atmosphere was much the same."
         "Vampires, Rosa?"
         "What? You believe in ghosts, don't you?"
         "That's different. It's been a long day, and I'm tired."
         "I'm not."
         "How wonderful for you. I'm going to turn in and sleep on what we've learned today."
         "I'll be right along. I want to check on Midnight."
         "All right. You stay out of trouble, you hear me?"
         "Trouble? Me? I'm insulted."
         With a dismissive wave, Darion rose from the couch and entered the inn. Unbuckling his sword belt, he gave a tired nod to the innkeeper who was wiping the tables prior to closing and ascended the stairs. Following the hall to end, he put the key in the lock of room number four, pushed it open, and stepped inside. He was surprised to see the lamp on the bedside table lit, a surly looking thug reclining on his bed and another sitting backward on the room's chair. A third waiting behind the door pushed him into the room and closed it behind him.
         "I think you gentlemen are in the wrong room," Darion said. "I've paid for this one."
         "No," said bed guy, rolling to the edge and sitting up, "you're in the wrong town, and as a... a committee of concerned citizens, we're here to ask what you think you're doing? You been asking a lot of questions for a simple traveler. Somebody hire you for something?"
         "Not yet. Why, are you looking to?"
         "You got a real smart mouth, don't you?" chair guy asked, standing up, stepping over the chair, and drawing a jagged knife from his belt. "Maybe we need to widen it a little for you. I bet you'll talk then."
         As he raised the knife and took a step forward, the guy behind him at the door made a sickly noise in his chest, like huh-uhhhhhh as Rosalka passed through the door and him on her way into the room, carefully avoiding Darion. Knife man took a step back, then a second, tripped over the chair, and went down hard in the corner.
         She turned her attention to bed guy, floating closer as he scrambled backward until the headboard stopped him. Her face had transformed into that of a demon, fangs growing in her mouth, blood running from her glowing red eyes, her hair a mass of writhing snakes. Placing that terrifying face an inch from his, she loosed a banshee scream that rattled the windows and started dogs barking for a mile in every direction.
         The man at the door shook off his terror and clawed the door open, running down the hall to escape without a care for what might happen to his comrades. Chair guy got up, lunged for the door, tripping over the chair again and barely keeping his balance as he followed his partner into the hall. Bed guy rolled off the far side and scrambled like a man imitating a lizard to get over the chair and around the bed, crawling down the hall nearly as fast as his partners could run.
         Darion closed the door and turned back to see nothing beyond the specter of a lovely young woman hovering over the bed.
         "How rude," she observed petulantly. "They didn't even say goodbye."
         "Indeed. They looked as if they'd seen a ghost!"
         They shared a look of genuine affection, then simultaneously burst out laughing.
         "Shall I keep watch in the hall tonight?" she asked.
         "There isn't enough money in Christendom to get them back up here again. I'll ask you to keep your watch at the stable. They seem just the sort of cowards who might take it out on Midnight."
         "The stables. You are so cruel, Valente! Still, you are right. I so hope they come!"
         "You do love your mischief. Maybe tomorrow you can help me ask this innkeeper who they are and why he sent for them. Good night, Rosalka."