The Hunters

                                                                        The Hunters
                                                                              By
                                                                            C.J.

From the journal of Thomas Myrvyn, Son of William the Baker.

         The year of Our Lord 1348.  18th of August.  A wet summer as ever there was one.  My new position as vermin dasher at the King’s Shipyard is not as glamorous as I would have hoped.  It seems that with each ship that comes into port, a hundred rats climb onto the wharf.  Even with the help from my dearest friend Busby, the workload remains overwhelming.  In the beginning we snatched them by the tail and threw whatever foul rodent we captured into a fire pit at the Smith’s shoppe, but as their numbers increase, we have been forced to dispatch the black beasts with iron rods and throw them hastily into the river.  I’m afraid the job has given us both a very bad case of fleas.  Not really worth the groat Master Tuckweather throws my way each fortnight.  Two pence to share between me and Busby hardly buys a stale loaf of bread or a rotted turnip.  I wish father would have kept his Baker’s post, rather than joining the Duke of Bristol’s Lower Guard, his pay is only three pence more than my own, but he says the work is more enlightening - whatever that means.  Mother says she’s going to give me a lye bath this night, it should calm the fleas, I just hope that I don’t go blind like poor Aden down the road. (She may forget about it, she’s been sick with a horrible cough for a week or so.)  Busby says the fleas keep him company in the goat shed he sleeps in. 
         Something interesting to note:  A grande black ship moored itself this very evening.  A fog, cold and sticky, followed it.  I watched from my hiding spot behind barrels of Greek ale as two of the tallest gentlemen I had ever laid my eyes on practically floated down the gangplank.  Must have been royalty from the looks of them.  Their robes were gilded and of the deepest red I had ever seen in my short life.  I never did see their faces, had them covered with ornately decorated hoods, I can only suppose they were from the Orient or perhaps of Turkish origin. The rats that followed these stately men off were the largest I’ve ever seen, I dared not take my rod to them, for fear of being overtaken and eaten on the spot.  More amazing was that these monstrous rodents climbed up and into the satin capes these persons were wearing.  The creatures disappeared without a sound and the Nobles floated off towards towne, the fog they had brought with them swallowing them up.

         Viscount Shir Kuna, a statuesque man with porcelain skin and haunting gray eyes, and his shadowy companion Deggo brought with them the hope of a thousand cursed souls.  The local countries surrounding their homeland of Romania had become adept at foiling the hunts, the vast farms of garlique and bludbane hampered their troops too well.  Starvation, or worse, incestual mutation was a fear rapidly approaching reality.  No longer were their kind believed unkillable, the pyres left at the borderlands were a testament to that.  A new land was needed, a new harvest to feast upon was indeed necessary, lest their be the destruction of a great many bloodthirsty peoples.  The common belief of their Supreme Lord Vlad Tepes (also known as Drakulya or The Impaler) was that the island nation of Britain was an acceptable choice for a new lair.  The stories he recounted were of an ignorant land teeming with fresh and innocent food. So His Lordship sent their best warrior (with his blood beast) to scout Britannia and bring back news of their defenses with a sampling of the flesh that was available.
         Shir Kuna, no matter how loyal he was (and indeed he was), despised being set on this task.  Never mind that he never was one to be on the sea, the waves easily vexed his temperamental gut, and it was simple to pretend he did not miss his seven wives.  What filled him with loathing was that fact that he had to step among these filthy cattle and blend in with their stupid lot.  With each simple mind he crossed he had to fight the desire to rip out their soft throats and be done with them.  The Romanian Lord was contented to find a simple inn (The Rider’s Rest) to shelter himself and his familiar from these absentminded humans.  It was also necessary to find a place to lay his ancient bones, as he could feel the dreaded dawn approaching.
  The innkeeper, a fat and sweaty man named Boltock, was only allowed to live because of his insistent groveling at Shir Kuna’s and Deggo’s feet.  Truly this one was a toad to be kept (for a short time) as a pet. 
         “Anything you gentle Lords need, just pound on the floorboards and I’ll rush right up to see to you, “ the dirty pig said, bowing absurdly.
         “Just leave us,” Deggo commanded.  Standing close to seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and massive neck muscles, he was not a man to be denied.
         “Of course, your Lordship.”  He backed out hunched over his bulk, it was all Shir Kuna could do not to reach through the fat and separated the man’s heart from it’s cage of ribs.
         The door squeaked closed and Deggo quickly locked it.  He was pleased that the Fat One gave them a room with no windows, which he was told by the bowing worm was only reserved for the visiting Lordship.  How quickly these cattle assume our lineage, Deggo thought, just because we don’t have dirt on our pantaloons.
         “This place is made of dirt, I believe,” the familiar stated.  It was his calling to be at Shir Kuna’s side, but he had a mind of his own, and that mind despised an unclean world.
         “I sleep in dirt.  It is not such a bad thing.”
         “You lie in the soil of the homeland, Master, not in the dirt of pigs.”  Deggo ran his long gloved finger over the timbers at the doorway.  The black silk was smudged which made him grimace.  “You see, dirt.  What pigs, let us kill them all and be done with it.”
         “Now now, Deggo, that is not our task.  We are to capture, not kill.  Well at least not kill all of them, if some were to perish, so be it.”  The undead lord released his silken cape and it fell to the wooden floor as a heap of rich, dark soil.  “I must rest, dawn approaches.”
         “Yes Master, I will walk their streets this day and tell you of the sights I have seen.”
         “Very good then, on the evening we shall go on our hunt.  The sooner to be rid of this place the better.” Shir Kuna settled himself onto the dark earthen pile, shut his eyes, crossed his arms and vanished, leaving only Romanian silt.
         Deggo also removed his cape and placed it over the floor, both the silk and his Master’s soil was rendered invisible.  Then, the familiar looked at his own fancy crimson garb, knowing it wouldn’t blend in among this town of dirt.  He removed his satin gloves, and closing his dark eyes, ran his thin, white hands over his entire form.  When he opened them back up, his shirt, pants and boots were the color of mottled sand.
         At the rise of the sun, Deggo of Romany trekked the cobblestone paths of this village of Bristol.  The bright orange sun was quickly blotted out by thunderheads and Deggo soon found himself dripping wet with cold drizzle.
Deggo also had no taste for traveling too far from the homeland, but he had been at his Master’s side ever since he was pup.  He had learned the art of shape-changing from his Lord and grew strong and very deadly under His guidance.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Shir Kuna, even if it meant traveling around the world to hunt new game.
         These Britains, he noted, were at least hardworking: up at dawn doing this and that, smithing, baking, cleaning.  Although, he chuckled to himself, no matter how much you clean, there will still be dirt.  Deggo also wondered what kind of defenses these cattle had, so far there was no more than the occasional axe or hammer, much of them were muscled but showed no knowledge of melee defense.  It seemed that these people were more interested in their god; Deggo passed no less than a dozen churches during his scouting walk on the main roads.  If they only used the magician Christos as their guardian, he surmised it would be all too easy to take this land.
         Deggo thought of suggesting that he and his Lord Master do just that.  The two of them were more than a match for this feeble and pious lot.  Imagining a towne where the streets ran with mortal blood, he topped the last hill just as the rains let up.
         Before him, standing tall and regal against green hills and grey skies, was a monumental castle.  Great stone towers looked down on the land with thickly built walls between them.  On each rampart a dozen or so heavily armored guards stood, staves in hand.  On each parapet, Deggo could see an armed ballista, ready to spear any offender who dared assault the castle and its inhabitants.  Before the main entrance stood a swollen gatehouse, no doubt housing the Chief of Guards.  Acting as a mindless worker, Deggo stole a small wooden barrow full of hay and followed the road as it led around the southern face of the castle grounds.  He glanced in past the wrought iron bars of the gate and saw a multitude of armed sentries.  The familiar watched as the gatekeeper stopped a horse drawn wagon and six of his comrades in plate mail examined the barrels within it, asking the driver in a very loud voice what his purpose was.  Deggo also noticed that soldiers at the top of the keep looked down, bows drawn as they watched from the loopholes.
         He moved on, looking one more time past the iron gate, surveying the inner entrance.  The portcullis within was heavy and closed securely with four more guards in chain mail watching from white steeds in front of it all.  The day was ending; time to get back to his Master.  He tossed the barrow into the diverted river that encircled the castle’s western edge and strode slowly back to the inn.  As night fell he became a mist and floated unnoticed back to the Vampire Lord’s room.
         He reformed to find his Master’s claws at his throat.
         “Deggo!”  Shir Kuna released his man, “You startled me.  I hardly recognized you in that garb, if I hadn’t known that beautiful face of yours, you would now be headless.”
         “Yes Master.  I guess I should have knocked,” he grinned.
         “Well, what of this sty-town?”
         “It is simple and very full of ripe food.  Unfortunately, it is somewhat defended by a castle, no doubt the home of their royalty.”
         “Hmm, no doubt.  Then that is where we shall get our prey.”
         “They are heavily armed and armored, Lord.”
         “Not to worry, Deggo.  Not only am I sure they would be no match for us, but they will not even know were there.  Besides, what better trophy than a Duke or his succulent daughter?” 
         Deggo nodded and lifted his cape, his satin clothes returned as they were.  Shir Kuna willed his own cloak from soil to cloth and raised it.  His rat-guards spilled out, gnashing their teeth at their Master and his familiar.  Their beady blood red eyes full of hatred and fear.
         “What is wrong with them?”  Deggo bared his own sharp fangs.
         Shir Kuna looked at his cape, it was crawling with black fleas.  “They have been sickened.”  The Vampire Lord shook his cloak as he released a foul green breath; the small insects fell to the floor dead. 
         Deggo became mist again and surrounded the sick rats, dispatching the snarling beasts with his lightning-fast claws.  Their bloody bodies turned to ash as Deggo solidified at his Master’s side.
         “What sort of sickness turns guardians into bloodthirsty assailants?”  Deggo wiped his razor-sharp nails on the sheet of the room’s only bed. 
         “I know not, but let’s hope you don’t catch it,” Shir Kuna smiled, fully revealing his gleaming fangs.
         “I am not a rat, Master,” Deggo smiled back.
         Pondering what just happened only for a moment more, Shir Kuna left the simple room with his shape shifting companion closely behind.
         At innkeeper’s station, Deggo threw a copper piece in Boltock’s direction.  “Have the room cleaned bottom to top, there is an infestation of fleas, probably from your Mother.”
         Either not hearing the insult or pleasurably ignoring it, Boltock (already in a bow) happily agreed and went about gathering his maidservants.
         Shir Kuna stepped out into the cool moonlit air.  Looking up, the dark and baleful warrior admired the glowing full moon and the silver clouds that surrounded it.  The inn door closed behind him and he glanced down to see Deggo, in full wolf form, heeling to his side.  The lunar light danced in the familiar’s amber eyes, his white coat bright in the surrounding darkness.
         “Deggo, try a different colour.”  He figured that a darker dog-creature might not be as alarming as a fully white wolf-beast.  The Viscount planned on just being seen as man and his pet out for a walk.
         The familiar shook as if wet and his fur settled down to an almost black sheen.  Deggo also tucked his tail and slumped his canine head below his muscular shoulders, so not to appear as massive as he was.
         “Very good.  Let us go on a hunt, shall we?”
         
         Archduke William of Bristol, high above his village in the castle keep, had just dismissed his Council of Elders.  Word had arrived from the nearby towne of Bath.  An illness not seen heretofore had stricken a great majority of their population leaving many inhabitants dead or dying. The Elders were concerned as was William.  There had been much debate among the royal men, many suggestions were made, much shouting took place.  In the end, the Archduke said he would get a good night’s sleep, as should his Council, before a decision was made.  Later, he called his Chief of Guards, Paul of the Glimmering, into his private library. 
         Awaiting his Guard Captain’s arrival, William of Bristol sat at his oaken desk, looking over recently delivered scrolls.  One told of women and children coughing themselves to death.  Another (spattered with dark matter, no less) told of seeping boils appearing at random throughout the farming population.  What could this be? William wondered, a pox, or even more archaic, a curse?  Many things to ponder with a fortnight before word from the King came by courier.  The duke scratched his peppered beard, to him this seemed to be the most difficult conundrum he’s faces in all his years.  His green eyes scanned the literature before him when a strong knock came at his study door.
         “Enter in peace,” he called.
         An armoured man in a red tunic strode in, kneeling at his last step.  “You called, my Lordship.”
         “Stand, Paul, I need your services.”  William had seen Paul (called Holy Paul behind his back, for his rants on Catholicism and the Church) in action and had fought beside him in The Crusades.  He was a strong man with strong beliefs, which is why he was chosen as Chief of the Guard.  Secretly the Duke of Bristol wondered if the man slept in his plate mail, for he seemed to be always in it.
         “Anything, Sire.”
         “I need you to ask your guards to be on the lookout for signs of illness.”
         “What sort of signs, Sire?” Paul stood tall even though he was only a little over five feet.  His armour was shined to a mirror finish and his swords, axe and dagger were sharpened to a razor’s edge.  He took his job as Protector of Bristol Castle very seriously and would do anything to please the Archduke.
         “There may be those among us, especially in the towne, that may have either a ragged cough with bleeding about the mouth and nose, or have whitish boils which ooze when touched.”
         “A pox?”  He asked, startled.
         “We know not yet what this sickness may be, it is only little more than a rumour at the moment.  Just keep your eye out and report anything suspicious only directly to me.” 
         “Yes Lord.  When my Elite get back from investigating the black ship in the harbour, I will set them on this task.”  Paul bowed, his armour clanking.
         “What ship?”
         Before the Chief of Guards could answer, a raucous scream came from down the hallway.  Immediately, one of the Royal Guards burst into the room.
         “Intruders!  They’ve taken your daughter, Sire!”
         “Sound the alarm!  Alert the Bowmen!” Paul ordered loudly.
         William grabbed his silver sword from the mantle and followed the guards out of the room, all of whom began running down the corridor toward his family’s chambers.
         The torches with the bedding antechamber had been snuffed.  Only darkness greeted the Archduke and the eight guards that had surrounded him.  Paul stepped into the shadows, axe and dagger drawn.  Four of the guards followed him, while three stayed with William, and one attempted to reignite the fire-lights. 
         A pair of glowing orbs caught Paul’s attention in the gloom.  He threw his dagger without hesitation.  The orbs disappeared and the dagger hit the stone flooring with a series of clinks.
         One torch behind the group of guards caught alight and the sleeping room was rendered visible again.  Two of the Duchess’s personal guards lay before them, their throats ripped open, dark blood pooled around them.  William joined his guard captain and scanned the room feverishly, pointing his sword wherever he looked.
         “Where is the Duchess?  Where are my Bethany and my dear sweet Charlotte?”  He searched desperately for his wife and daughter; they were nowhere to be seen.  The Archduke tried to fight the panic that was swelling inside him.
         “Find them!  Let no man escape these castle walls!”  Archduke William’s voice boomed the order and all those around fled, joining an already desperate and unorganized castle-wide search.  Whoever these shady intruders were, they had succeeded in throwing the Keep and all its occupants in turmoil. 
         
         “This way ladies,” Shir Kuna coaxed.  He lead the entranced Lady Bethany and her bony daughter, sweet Charlotte, up the stony stairs of the keep’s high central tower.  He watched over their shoulders, keeping his cold eyes open for either armed guards or his absent familiar.  Deggo disappeared as a party of sentries interrupted their initial meeting with The Ladies of Bristol.  He stayed back to provide a diversion while his Master brought the mesmerized maidens away from their beds.  Now, he was probably still fighting his way through armored humans.  No time to wait, Shir Kuna thought, we must get these pretty packages up and away from the castle.
         
         Deggo shook off his black fur and stood bristling bright white before another set of swordsmen.  At his paws lay their twitching and bleeding comrades; they were unprepared to face an undead wolf beast.  The newly arrived guards in front of him stood, blades at the ready, before the only exit he had left.  The beastly hunter cursed himself for his inability to become mist in wolf form.   
         William and Captain Paul ran up behind the Lower Guards as they attempted to defend themselves against a massive dog.  The swordsmen missed their target, swatting at the air in fear.  The beast took advantage of their  inept assault, clawing and biting at them, ripping flesh and disarming them easily.  The white wolf easily overpowered the lesser sentinels and jumped to meet the Archduke of Bristol with his sturdy Chief Guard.
         Not willing to risk yet another encounter with blades (these two indeed looked more of a match), Deggo made one more powerful leap, using the chest plate of the shorter Captain of the Guard to bounce away.  Unfortunately, the Duke was swift with his gleaming sword and sliced into the wolf’s meaty shoulder as he passed.  With a yelp Deggo bolted down the corridor after his Master’s scent, dripping blood along the way.  The armored humans followed close behind.
         
         Deggo met his Master at the top of the tower, two more guards were laying headless at his feet.  The Lady of Bristol and her young daughter stood enthralled, swaying lustfully as Shir Kuna whispered to them.
         “Good of you to join us, Deggo.  I will take the Ladies by my wing and call on the legion of the night to bear you up and away.  We shall meet at the ship.”  With that said, Shir Kuna raised his arms and screeched a high pitch call to the night, then he spread his hands.  His fingers elongated and webbed folds of dark brown skin grew between each one.  His body swelled and his regal clothing vanished as his body distorted and became covered with black fur.  Finally the Romanian Lord’s face became that of a bat, with flattened black nose and massive wrinkled ears, as his wings formed fully twenty foot in length.  He flapped and left the stone tower flying once around the edge then returning to lift the Duchess Bethany in one claw and the Lady Charlotte in the other. 
         As Deggo watched his Master sail away, he heard the familiar cacophony of numerous sinewy wings.  A great black cloud of night flyers floated in from the east.  As they reached Deggo at the tower, William and Paul bounded to the top of the stairs. 
         The bats encircled the wolf Deggo and gently lifted him from the tower.  Releasing a battle cry, the Chief Guard charged with his gleaming axe into the swarm of flying rats.  The wolf-beast had already been lifted up to safety and was already on his way back to his Master’s ship when Holy Paul, Protector of Bristol, lost his footing and plummeted over the parapet.  He only let out a small prayer as he fell and then smashed wetly into the cobblestones one hundred feet below.
         Deggo could hear the scream of rage the Archduke let out, even over the flapping of thousands of leathery wings.

         A season after their escape, Shir Kuna’s ebony ship, The Draco, entered the Euxine Sea (called the Black Sea by the savage Bulgarians) after passing smoothly through the Sea of Marmora.  No traveling Turkish ships dare encounter the undead lord’s own vessel, even though they could hear the sorrowful wails of women somewhere in the distance.  Eventually, the British Ladies stopped their irritating sobs, but only after Deggo threatened to remove their pretty heads from their elegant shoulders.
         The vampir Viscount and his familiar found an extra week’s worth of rations when, as they made way from Bristol, they discovered two Elite guards stowed away in the lower holds.  They were kept alive for a short time only because Deggo so enjoyed fresh meat.
         Upon reaching familiar waters, Shir Kuna set his favourite bat to the winds with a message strapped to its tiny ankle.  Soon Vlad the Impaler will learn of their triumphant return.
         
         Fifteen days more passed, Deggo seemed to fall ill, he complained incessantly about fleas on the ship.  He began to cough raggedly and occasionally spit forth wads of bright red phlegm.  The Lady Charlotte, too, showed signs of infirmity as her face and arms became covered in swollen boils which oozed yellow pus as they expanded and burst. 
         The following evening, Shir Kuna awoke to what sounded like the horn calls of Supreme Lord Draculya’s flagship, The Sea Devil.  Thinking that his Lord had sent an escort party, the vampir stepped up on deck.  What he saw made his black heart sink.
         Deggo lay bleeding on the aft deck boards, six or seven arrows protruding from his chest.  At the mainmast, where the Ladies of Bristol were recently tied, arrows also pierced flesh.  His trophies were very dead, an archer had driven his quills into their once beautiful eyes.  Without thinking, Shir Kuna quickly went to his familiar’s side. 
         “Tra…” Deggo gurgled.
         “What is it, my friend, who did this?  Hungars?”  He tried to grasp an arrow to pull it free from his ribcage, but it coated in some kind of oil, which burned his palm as he touched it.  The vampir looked at his hand and immediately smelled the stench of garlique.
         Then, through the fog at the port side, The Sea Devil           slid into view.
         A sharp pain struck Shir Kuna’s side under his arm, he looked down to see an arrow sticking out him, burning with garlic.  A second and third arrow struck him in his neck, he could taste their silver tips in his throat.  Quickly he felt the energy flee from his once powerful body.  Another arrow hit his lower leg, piercing his calf and pinning him to the wooden flooring.
         “Enough!”  an all too familiar voice commanded.
         Looking up, Shir Kuna could see his Lord and Master, Vlad Tepes, standing on The Sea Devil’s grand bow.  The Impaler was wearing full battle armour which was golden and armed with jagged horns.
         “Shir Kuna!”  the Vampir King called, “You have served me well!  By my side you have aided me in the conquering of many peoples!”
         The wounded and bleeding manhunter  tried to plead with his Lord, but an arrowhead held his voice box silent.
         “I am truly sorry to do this, my son!  You see, word has come from Britain-land! There is a pestilence, disease!  It destroys flesh and blood!”  Vlad continued to talk at the top of his voice, to emphasize the importance of what was told.  “I fear that you may carry this disease, Shir Kuna, and I cannot allow you safe passage!”
         “ You and your cargo must be destroyed!”
         With that said, The Impaler made a wave of his hand and his league of archers lit their arrows, raising them to the ready.
         “Good journey, Shir Kuna!”
         The undead bowmen took their aim and released the flaming missiles.  One struck Deggo in the skull, ending his pain, two sank into the dead Ladies, one sailed and met its mark in Shir Kuna’s shoulder.  The remaining arrows struck the ship’s walkways igniting the wood. 
         Very quickly the entire deck and the beings left behind were burning brightly with dancing orange flames.  Shir Kuna fought as long as he could, ripping arrows from his body as fire consumed him.  He shape-shifted into a manbat but he was too engulfed by the conflagration to take flight and quickly dropped onto the burning deck boards.  The last thing he saw was The Sea Devil sailing away into the fog.  His mind cursed his Master as his undead body gave in to the fire and disintegrated to smoldering ash. 
         There was nothing remaining Shir Kuna or his familiar Deggo, as the burnt shell of The Draco fell to the bottom of the sea. 
         
         A month later, it was discovered too late that Shir Kuna’s favourite messenger bat also carried the sickness, after it had joined the ranks of Vlad Drakulya’s night warriors.

Author’s Research Note:  The Bubonic Plague, also called The Black Death, struck Europe including the British Isles from 1347 to 1350  AD.  The port city of Bristol had recorded the first English deaths in the summer of 1348.  Symptoms usually were enlarged lymph nodes, nausea, fever, cough with blood-tinted phlegm, and even rarely the skin turned deep shades of purple.  An estimated 34 million people died during this plague.