Fan Fiction ❯ Dhampir ❯ chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own the book just my own tweaks and modifications

Chapter 1

Long past sundown, Magiere walked into another shabby Stravinan village without really seeing it. Peasants lived the same everywhere. All their bleak, shapeless huts began to blur together after 6 years, and Magiere only noted their number as a gauge of population. No more than a hundred people lived here, and perhaps as few as fifty. None showed themselves this late in the night, though she heard the creak of a door or window shutter as she passed by, someone peaking out when she wasn't looking. The only other sound was the scrap of her hunting knife on hard wood as she sharpened the end of the short wooden pole no longer than her arm.

Darkness didn't frighten her. It suggested to her none of those fear-conjured threats that made these peasants shudder behind their barred doors. She checked her falchion in its sheath, making sure she could draw it out easily is needed, and continued her stroll towards the far end of the village. A drizzle of rain began, which soon matted down her black hair, smothering any crimson tint it might have shown in the light. With her pale skin, she must look as baneful to the villagers as their visions of the creature they'd hired her to eliminate.

Not far outside the village she stopped at the communal graveyard to survey the fresh mounds of earth, each surrounded by tin lanterns put their to keep evil spirits from seizing the bodies of the dead. There were no headstones or markers as yet on these new graves-they had been buried in haste before such could be prepared. She turned back through the village again, studying the buildings more closely this time as she looked for the most likely to be a common house. The buildings were dismal and silent like everything else in this hope abandoned land. Garlands of dried garlic bulbs hung across a few windows. Slight tinges of iron and char scented the wet air, probably from a unattended forge nearby, everybody dropped what they were doing at dusk at times like these.

Movement caught Magiere eye. Two shivering figures ran across the muddy road. Their tattered rags exposed filthy skin. Magiere absently slipped her knife in its sheath, then gathered her own warm cloak a bit tighter. The figures scurried towards the graveyard, trying to keep the gusting breeze from snuffing out their lanterns.

"Hello" Magiere called out softly. They both jumped and whirled toward the sound.

Thin, wretched faces twisted in alarm. One of them backed away while the other held up a wooden pitchfork. Magiere remained still and let them see what she was, but she gripped the wooden pole a little tighter, very slowly her free hand settled on the falchion's hilt, ready to draw. It paid to take care around panic-stricken peasants.

The man hold the pitchfork peered uncertainly through the rain at her studded leather armor, and her high soft boots, pulled over earth colored breeches. The fear on his face changed into a vague semblance of hope.

"You are the hunter?" he asked

She gave a slight nod. "Have you more dead?"

Both man let out a slow breath of relief and stumbled forward.

"No… no more dead, but the zupan's son is close." The second man gasped, then beckoned with his hand. "Come quickly." The peasants turned and fled back up the muddy center path.

She followed, stopping when they did at a door with a small sign above that had been worn unreadable long ago. This rough building had to be their common house, since the village was for too remote to have an inn catering to travelers. "Zupan" was their name for a village chef. He, along with some of the villagers, would be waiting inside for her.

"Open up!" one of her escorts shouted. "We have the hunter with us."

The door creaked inward. The orange-red glow of firelight spilled out, along with an overwhelming stench of garlic and sweat. Magiere glanced down into the eyes of an age-stunted woman clutching a stained shawl. At the sight of Magiere, the woman's expression altered to one of desperate hope. Magiere had seen it too many times.

"Thank the guardian spirits!" the woman whispered. "We heard you would come, but I didn't…" She trailed off. "Please come in. I'll get you a hot drink."

Magiere stepped into the thick heat of the small common house. One thing she hated most about her job was traveling in the cold. Eight men and three women were crowded in the tiny room. On a table lay an unconscious boy; two people hovered nearby in case he died.

A huge dark-haired man, like an ancient grizzly with a gray-stubble beard, stood at the head of the table, watching the boys closed eyes. It was a moment before he lifted his head to acknowledge her presence. His clothing looked similar to everyone else's, perhaps with one or two less layers of grime, but his bearing marked him as the zupan. He pushed through the overcrowded room to face her.

"I'm Petre Evanko," he said in a surprisingly soft voice. He motioned to the woman who had greeted Magiere. "My wife, Anna."

Magiere politely nodded, but didn't introduce herself. Mystery was part of the game.

Zupan Petre stood for a moment taking in her appearance, one that Magiere had carefully tailored long ago for her work.

Studded-leather armor marked her as a warrior too much on the move for anything heavier or bulkier. The volume of her cloak made it uncertain what might be hiding beneath. Her thick black hair with its red accents was bound in a long, plain braid, sensible and efficient. Around her neck hung two strange amulets no one would be able to identify. She carried a short, pointed pole made of wood, with a leather-covered handle.

Magiere swung the pack off her shoulder, its top flap swinging open as it settled at her feet. Zupan Petre looked down at the mixed contents of unlabeled jars, urns, and pouches, some of which were filled with strange herbs and powders.

"I'm honored, Zupan Petre," Magiere said. "Your message reached me two weeks ago. I regret my delay, but there are so few hunters and so great a demand."

His expression changed to gratitude. "Don't apologize. Come and see my son. He's dying."

"I'm not a healer," Magiere quickly interjected. "I can remove the undead, but I can't do the damage already done."

Zupan Petre looked more forlorn than before and nodded solemnly.

Magiere returned to her pack by the door. Two villagers, who'd been carefully peering over its contents, quickly stepped back. She laid down her pole and from out of her pack pulled a large brass container, its shape was somewhere between a bowl and an urn, with a hard fitted leather lid. All over the lid and bowl were scratches and scribbles of unintelligible symbols.

"I need this to catch the vampire's spirit. Many undeads are spirit creatures."

Everyone watched in rapt interest, and when she knew she had their complete attention, she changed the subject. It was time to talk price.

" I know your village is suffering, Zupan, but the cost of my materials are high."

Petre was ready and motioned her to a back room. "My family went door-to-door last week for donations. We are not rich but we have all helped by giving something."

He opened the door, and she glanced inside at the goods piled upon a canvas quilt spread over the dirt floor. There were two slabs of smoked-cured pork, four blocks of white cheese, about twenty eggs, three wolf pelts, and two small silver symbols-perhaps from some deity who hadn't answered their prayers. All in all, it was a very typical first offer.

"I'm sorry," Magiere said. "You don't understand. Food is welcome, but the quilt is of no use to me, and the rest wont cover my costs. I often work and gain no profit, but I can't work at a loss. Without enough coin, I at least need goods I can sell to cover what I depend to make ready for battle. Most of my materials are rare and are costly to acquire and prepare."

Petre turned white, genuinely shocked. He apparently had thought the offer quite generous. "This is all we have. I sent my family out begging. You can't let us die. Or are we now to bargain with our lives?"

"And what good would it do to the next village if I left here unable to prepare for their defense?" she returned.

This exchange was customary for Magiere, though Zupan Petre appeared to be more intelligent than other village elders she'd dealt with in the past. She kept her expression sympathetic but firm. Villagers almost always had some little treasure hidden away where tax collectors couldn't find it. It might be a family heirloom, possibly a small gem or some silver token taken off a dead mercenary, but it was here.

"You've come all this way, and you'll do nothing?" the flesh beneath his eyes were turning gray.

Anna reached out and touched her husband's shirt. "Give her the seed money, Petre." Her voice was quiet but quivered with fear.

"No." he answered sharply.

Magiere stayed out of this predictable bickering. They would go back and forth, for and against, until their fears began to win them over. She knew these peasants all to well. They were all the same.

The argument faded so quickly it would have been startling, had Magiere not heard it so many times before. At first no one spoke. Then a lanky, middle-aged man stepped from the corner of the room to face the zupan squarely.

"Give her the coins, Petre. We have no choice."

Petre left the hovel and shortly returned, panting. He stared at Magiere with burning eyes, as if she were now the source of their suffering.

"Here is what's left after this years taxes." He threw the bag to her, and she caught it. "Next year there may be no crop."

"You are free to watch," she replied, and several villagers cringed back into the room's shadows. "I will control the undead. Stay in your homes and look through the shutters to see how well your seed coins are spent."

The hatred in Petre's eyes faded to be replaced by defeat. "Yes, we will watch you destroy the monster."