XXVII
Telek led Brother Heinrich though the alleys of Gród Narew, toward the stables. As he passed the guards, he shouted orders to alert the Duke, to rouse all the able-bodied men available, and to gather the resident Germans.
In between, he told Heinrich, “You are going to order your men to lead teams to search the fortress and find this thing.”
“You are not one to command me.”
“This is my demesne, and it would do well for you to do as I wish.”
“Must I remind you that the Duke himself has given us let to go abroad and perform our duties as we see fit?”
They reached the stables, where a dozen armed men waited for them. Telek turned to Heinrich and whispered in German that only Heinrich could understand, “The Duke doesn’t know that this beast you hunt is something you brought upon us. Yet.”
“What are you accusing me of?”
“No accusations,” Telek said. “I only point out that our Duke is not yet familiar with the work of Brother Semyon.” Telek felt the satisfaction of seeing Heinrich’s reserve break. Heinrich’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly. Yes, that doesn’t just threaten your mission, does it? If your secrets are made known, you’ll face discipline by your own masters, won’t you?
He allowed Heinrich a moment to fully understand his threat; then he added, “You would do well to understand that I will see my uncle avenged.”
He walked up to the guards in front of the stables and they parted to let him pass. As he moved into the aisleway, the smell of blood caught in his throat. The stable hands had taken the horses out to pasture, so it was silent in here except for the buzzing of flies.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. As Heinrich walked up next to him, Telek began to resolve abstract piles in the sawdust into parts of a human body. The boy had been torn apart—arm here, leg there, head over there. Blood soaked the sawdust in the aisle, turning it black as tar in the dim light.
The two of them stood in silence for a long moment. Above them, the thatch roof began to rattle with rain.
“We will do what we can to assist you,” Heinrich said. “As you ask.”
“Thank you,” Telek said. He walked up to the boy’s remains, and looked into the sawdust. Bloody tracks led away—massive pawprints. “You will advise our men how to fight this thing. How to attack it even if you do not have the boon of a silvered sword.”
Heinrich knelt beside one of the boy’s arms. It had landed next to one of the timbers supporting the roof. Telek saw something clutched in its hand. Heinrich opened the hand and lifted out a silver cross and chain. He held it up and looked at Telek. “Of course we will help you in the hunt for this demon. Perhaps you can help me, and say if you recognize this trinket.”
His name was Oles.
Maria hadn’t known him well, but she’d known him, if only as someone who suffered as much from Lukasz’s arrogance as she did. As the youngest boy working in the stables, he was the one most put upon by men like Lukasz, who could hold their heads up only when pushing someone else’s face into the mud.
But now Oles was dead. She had heard the rycerz’s man reporting that the boy had been torn apart in the stables by some sort of beast.
Maria knew exactly what sort of beast that would be, and the thought of it almost paralyzed her. Why would he hurt Oles? The boy was nothing to Darien. Even had he carried a silver sword, he was less a threat than the elk they had slaughtered in the woods.
She remembered Josef’s words: “Forty men, women, and children left to rot on the steps of their own church.”
Was that truly what Darien was?
And if so, then what of her?
She had seen the look on Josef’s face as he had stared at hers. Rycerz Telek—Wojewoda Telek—and Brother Heinrich had been too preoccupied with the news of Oles to notice her wound healing, but Josef had seen it. He had seen evidence that her ties to the wolf were deeper than any old pagan worship, and infinitely harder to erase.
She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she needed to find Darien before anyone else was hurt. Once they were outside, Maria took a step in the direction of the stables. The guard with her grabbed her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Does he know as well? “I have duties to tend to.” She blushed at the insincerity in her voice.
“Perhaps, but did you not hear? We have a beast running loose within the walls. You should not roam around unescorted.”
She looked at him: a young squire of the szlachta, earnest and brave, without a clue about what he faced. You are in more danger than I, she thought. “I suppose so.”
“Besides, the way to the kitchens is shorter in this direction.”
“Yes,” she said, “it is.”
Rain fell against the fur on Darien’s back as he crawled slowly against the thatch roof of one of the buildings next to the stables. He crouched above his prey, watching the men scurry below him, the smell of their fear growing.
He waited until he saw the old man wearing the black cross of the order enter the aisleway. Then Darien withdrew, crawling silently just below the ridgeline of the roof. His handiwork would be seen by the eyes that needed to see it. Now he had to find his mate.
The rain was cold and misting, and a low fog had begun crawling in from the lowlands around the fortress. He dropped into the gray mist as it gathered between two buildings. He crouched in the narrow space between two windowless walls set barely as far apart as his shoulders.
He saw men run past the mouth of the alley, their smell much stronger than their fuzzy outlines. They yelled at people in the buildings to bar their doors and close up their shutters.
That’s right, he thought. Fear me.
Humans might hunt him down, might slaughter his kind in the name of their God. But in the end, it was they who feared him.
He crept to the end of the alley, sniffing the air for his mate’s scent, and he caught it, stronger in the direction of the main stronghold. He licked his lips and stepped out of the alley.
In moments, a trio of guardsmen turned the corner in front of him. Even smelling of fear as they did, they hadn’t expected to meet the object of their fear quite so soon. When Darien came out of the mist, practically upon them, all three wore an expression of disbelief. The one closest to him never had an opportunity to do anything else. Darien’s clawed hand tore across his throat. The momentum from Darien’s blow sent his bleeding corpse spinning to fall on its back in the road.
Pain flared as one of the men struck at him, cutting a deep wound in his side. But these men weren’t of the Order, and didn’t carry silver weapons. Darien blocked the next blow by grabbing the man’s wrist hard enough that he heard bones break. His prey screamed, but Darien silenced him by biting through his throat.
When the second man dropped at Darien’s feet, the third man had disappeared. However, the smell of his terror lingered, and Darien heard his panicked footsteps running for the main stronghold.
Darien licked fresh blood off his muzzle and followed. The man did not get very far.
Josef followed the paths he thought led to the main stronghold. He suspected that this was where the guardsman would have taken her. His belly ached, and his feet were unsteady from the doctor’s medicine, but he forced himself on. He needed to catch up with Maria. He needed to talk to her. He needed to hear her explanation before Komtur Heinrich—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a dozen marching feet. As if summoned by his fears, he saw Brother Heinrich, Telek, and six other men striding across his path, headed toward the stronghold themselves. No one spared him a glance.
He had no choice but to follow, pushing himself as much as he dared. But he still gradually fell behind. He managed to keep up with them only because the first scream gave them pause, and then Telek and Heinrich carried on a heated discussion in German mostly muffled in the mists.
He heard Telek’s words: “… as I say, or we can discuss Brother Semyon …”
The name gave Josef pause. It belonged to no one in his convent, nor anyone in the Order’s hierarchy that he had heard of. The group moved on quickly after that, and he watched as they slowly faded into the mists ahead of him.
He heard more screams and growls, sourceless in the fog, seeming to come from everywhere at once. His breath burned in his throat as he realized that he didn’t have so much as a dagger. Half naked and wounded, he lurched through the fog, which erased his vision of anything more than ten paces from him. Fear took hold of him, its touch in the clammy grip of fog and rain on his skin. He could feel the specter of death following him more closely now than at any time since he had left plague-ravaged Nürnberg.
The fear was for himself only in small part. Josef had lived on borrowed time for years, his own mortality a familiar companion. The terror in his heart burned for Maria, for what might happen to her. For what she might be. For what she might do. He didn’t fully understand what he hoped to accomplish, but he needed to find her.
The misting rain wrapped Gród Narew in a blanket of gray. It muffled sound and kept everything beyond the closest buildings invisible. The man leading her maintained a confident pose, striding with purpose, leading her by the arm, but Maria could sense his panic swelling. She felt it in the clammy hand on her wrist, saw it in the lack of color in his cheeks, and she realized that she smelled it; the man’s odor made her uncomfortably aware of the monster curled barely dormant within her breast.
“Do you know where—where the attacker went?”
“The pawprints stopped at the entry to the stable.”
“Stopped?”
“We had no trail to follow.”
Maria held out a small hope that Darien had left, that he hadn’t trapped himself behind the walls. But they had just reached the gate of the main stronghold when a scream dashed those hopes—a scream that was ripped short with a horrid liquid gasp.
A low growl followed, and she knew it was Darien’s.
Why are you doing this?
The grip on her arm strengthened, and her would-be protector said, “We must get inside.” He pulled her through the inner gate, through the walls around the main stronghold. These walls were newer brick, rather than the old wood and earth of the outer walls. The way inside hung open, and her guard called up at the men standing in the watchtower overlooking the gate.
“What are you waiting for? Close the gates!”
“Sir,” the voice came down, “unless you bear the authority of the Duke Siemowit or Wojewoda Bol—Telek—”
“You fool! Don’t you hear it out there?”
“—the captain of the watch at least?”
“The captain of the watch is by the stables putting pieces of a sixteen-year-old boy into a basket. Close these thrice-damned gates!” Another grotesque scream punctuated the man’s statement, closer now.
Maria backed toward the stronghold, staring out at the main path toward the gate. The air was a gray mist, so much so that she seemed to look out a portal upon Limbo.
Another scream, a deep throaty growl, and the man above them lost any hesitation. “Close the gates!”
Even as he called out, and men ran to push shut the thick doors, Maria saw a shadow move through the gray mist. The man with her drew his sword and pushed her behind him. “It’s coming.”
“No,” she said. She could hear the sound of many booted feet through the mists. It wasn’t Darien. Not yet.
The man in the tower above called down, “Hold!”
The men on the door stopped moving as the figures of Bolesław’s nephew and Brother Heinrich emerged from the fog, leading a half dozen other men. They filed through the partly open gate, Telek in the lead. Once they were all through, the man above called down, “Do we seal the entrance, Woje—”
“Of course!” Telek bellowed.
The men by the door resumed their work. Maria saw a bit of commotion by the door, but she didn’t see what, because Brother Heinrich had stepped in front of her and her temporary guardian. As Telek shouted something to his men, Heinrich called to Telek in German, gesturing at the man in front of Maria: “You should tell your man to fall back. That steel sword will only annoy our adversaries, unless he has the luck to completely cleave the neck or heart with his first blow.”
“Adversaries?” Telek responded, “There’s more than one now?”
Someone shouted something by the gate, but Maria was focused on the object that dangled from Heinrich’s bloodstained hand.
How could this man have her cross?
The central stronghold of Gród Narew emerged from the fog in front of Josef like a massive pagan cenotaph to hungry gods long dead. The gate hung before him, a half-closed maw. He reached it just as the last of Telek’s men slipped through.
He tried to follow, and one of the men at the gate shouted a challenge at him.
“Let me in,” he shouted back in German, doing his best to repeat it in his limited Polish vocabulary. The men blocked his way as his fellows kept closing the gate.
Of course; these men didn’t know him. Josef had spent nearly his entire stay here bedridden, and his surcote, which identified him as part of the Order, was in shreds.
There wasn’t time to make the point. He dove through the closing gap, only to be grabbed by the man blocking his way. The man shouted something in Polish and Josef heard the slide of steel. Josef struggled until he heard the door shut behind him; then he allowed the men to push him up against the door, a sword at his throat.
Telek saw the struggle from the other side of the crowding Polish armsmen and shouted something that made the sword lower and their grip loosen. Telek turned around as Brother Heinrich called out something. Now that the men had stepped back from him, Josef could see where Heinrich was, and who was with him.
“Maria!” Josef called out.
She wasn’t paying attention to him, or to anyone by the gate. She was staring at Heinrich, eyes wide and mouth half-open.
“Maria,” he said again, his voice now more a plea to God than to anyone here. He’d seen what held Maria’s attention: her silver cross dangled from Heinrich’s hand.