Blood Red (9781101637890) (5 page)

No. Not at all quietly.

That was definitely a hunting howl. The Lord of the Hunt had deliberately aroused all of the beast's bloodlust, without a doubt by flinging her scent in its face and leaving a “hot” trail. A tiny expenditure of magic, for a Great Elemental. She was good at judging distances by sound—with what she did, she had to be. She judged the beast was less than a quarter mile away, and closing fast.

It howled again, and it felt as if every hair on her body stood straight up. From the deep tone of the howl this one was big. The entire forest had fallen silent—and not the silence of awe, but the silence of pure fear.

She had to time this perfectly. She had to stay in “hiding” until the last possible moment. If the creature had already killed and eaten, it wouldn't be so ravenous that all of its ability to think was gone. If it saw her actually standing there, gun at the ready . . .

She needed to step out at exactly the right moment. Soon enough to trigger an attack, not so quickly that it saw the gun and could or would abort the attack.

Another howl, this one sending shivers all down her and making her legs want to run. Close. Very—

So close that now it scented
her,
and not the trail the Lord of the Hunt had left
.
The howl changed; not a howl any longer, but the shorter, harsh bark that signaled it had found its quarry.

She concentrated, stilling her pounding heart. About a thousand feet now. Five hundred. Less than a hundred!

She stepped out from behind the rock, her mage-vision sharpened. The creature stood out against the golden glow of Earth energy as if it was sucking up all available light. As she stepped out, it leapt—

As terror flooded her, she fired both barrels of the coach gun, braced for the kickback.

The gun roared in her hands, and kicked against her hip.

The werewolf dropped dead at her feet.

She staggered back a few paces, and sat down hard, shaking in every limb.

Hans found her at first light, examining the body of the beast carefully. He took care to make plenty of noise approaching her; she looked up as he pushed through some overgrowth on the trail. “Did you find the nest?” she asked, as he grunted with surprise at the werewolf's body.

“Aye.” He knelt beside her. “Two females. When you killed the male they froze up and started shrieking. Took them down in a trice. And yes, I searched the ruins for any new recruits, but he had nothing.” Hans bent his white-blond head over the waist area of the body. He immediately saw what Rosa had found about the body that was interesting. “Huh. Belt?” He indicated a paler stripe of fur that went all the way around the “waist” area of the body.

“Belt,” she confirmed. The presence of a wolfskin belt meant that
this
werewolf had been a magician of some kind, and had deliberately chosen to transform himself in order to kill. Oh, it was possible to transform for other reasons, but every magician she had encountered that had done so had used forbidden blood magic. And had been a murderer in both two- and four-legged form.

There were two kinds of werewolves that Rosa knew of; those that transformed themselves by magic, like this one and the one that had attacked and murdered Grossmutter Helga, and those who had been born with the ability to transform. She had
heard
that, allegedly, there was a third kind, transformed by the bite of another werewolf, whose transformative power was out of his conscious control. She had personally never seen one.

She had also personally never seen a benign werewolf, although her mentor insisted they existed. Then again, she only ever saw the ones she was forced to hunt down and kill, so perhaps her view of the beasts was skewed, and her skepticism that such a thing existed misplaced.

Or perhaps her mentor was wrong, and eventually the beast within overcame every werewolf.

There was more rustling in the undergrowth, and they both looked up to see one of their two hosts come pushing his way onto the path. By this point, the sun was up, mist had gathered down in the bowl of the valley below them, and the morning sunlight just gilded the tops of the trees. Matei looked relieved to see them both—then his eyes widened as they fell on the body of the werewolf.

In full light, it looked nothing at all like the half-beast that had terrorized Rosa and murdered Grossmutter Helga. It looked like an extremely large wolf, and nothing about it was out of the ordinary, until you got to the head.
Then
it was clear this was no common wolf. The head was much bigger than that of a proper wolf—or rather the skull was, which gave it a slightly misshapen look. The silver shot that Rosa had used, created specifically to kill werewolves, had torn its chest apart. Silver was the only metal that prevented the shape-shifters from healing. In fact, they couldn't abide having any of it on their bodies at any time, not even the ones who did their transformations by means of magic.

Which made the glint of metal under the fur around the beast's neck that much more out of the ordinary. As Matei drew closer, Rosa poked at the fur where she thought she had seen something shine with the tip of her dagger. Just as he reached them, the dagger caught on and dislodged a copper chain, with a pendant dangling from it. Somehow not one of the pieces of shot had cut the chain or damaged the little oval pendant. She seized the chain at the ornament, and yanked sharply, breaking it.

“Well, well, look here.” She held out her prize to the others. The pendant was a medal—a saint's medal, that of St. Hubert, who was also the patron saint of the Bruderschaft . . .

Or more to the point, it was a medal showing St. Hubert's
stag,
the vision that allegedly turned the Saint to a life of piety. This was the same medal that the Bruderschaft wore.

With two differences.

The medal was copper, not silver.

And the crucifix between the stag's horns was inverted.

Her companions' eyes bulged as she held it up to the light, examining it critically. There was nothing on the back, which was interesting.

“Is it—” Hans ventured.

She was getting no sickening feeling of evil, nor any tingling of residual magic, and Earth Masters were particularly sensitive to such things. She shook her head. “Nothing. Just ordinary blasphemy, I think. But someone in one of your villages might remember a copper saint's medal, Matei. Such things are far from common.”

She spoke fluent Romanian; languages came easily to Earth Masters, although the intellect tended to be the provenance of Air Masters. But Earth Masters “cheated;” when they arrived in a place, they would call up one of the house Elementals native there, and coax it to give them the local tongue by magical means, overnight, while they slept. It was a useful talent and never more so than when an Earth Master was called upon to be a Hunt Master away from home.

Matei nodded. “Even the poorest hereabouts have their saint's medals and crucifixes of silver. The village of Rosia Montana has much silver, and gold, and many have worked the mines there. Even if the fellow never let anyone near enough to see the blasphemous image, people would remember a copper medal.” He sighed. “If only someone showed it to them.”

Rosa looked the fellow straight in the eyes. Like most of the folk hereabouts, he was dark and wiry, and he contrasted markedly with the two big blond Germans. “Matei,” she said, finally. “This is not my land, and perhaps this is not my place to say these things to you. But I am a Hunt Master, and you called us here, so I am going to say them anyway. It is time you stopped skulking along the paths of the forest and showed those villagers down there just
who
it is that has been protecting them all this time.
Not
those good priests.
You.
You and Gheorghe.”

Matei gasped and paled as Rosa bent and hacked off the wolf's tail, then thrust it, and the copper medal, at him. “You need to go down there to the villages with these,” she said implacably. “You need to claim the ashes of that
vampir
I killed as
your
work. You need to be proud of it! No more skulking, hiding from the witch-hunters! Do you know what our villagers in the Schwarzwald do when the witch-hunters come? They
protect
us! Just as we protect them from what prowls in the night! Make them your friends! Go to church! Take Communion to show that you are no evil thing of the night, but a strong arm to protect them! It is long past time that you claimed your heritage, and gave those with magic in their blood a place to go besides the church or going rogue! Or do you want more like
this
beast to prowl your woods?”

Matei seemed to shrink into himself. “But . . . but . . .” he stammered. Clearly, he not only was not comfortable with the notion of talking up his heritage openly, the mere idea terrified him.

Hans gently cleared his throat, and Rosa looked down at him. “Eh?” she said.

“I was . . . thinking of staying here, and not going back to the Schwarzwald,” he said, a little apologetically. “They clearly need the help. The villagers already know I'm here hunting the uncanny things, and they respect that. I could do it.”

It was Rosa's turn to gape at her friend and colleague. “You—want to stay?”

Hans shrugged, the loden-green wool of his jacket moving only slightly. Hans was a big, well-muscled man, with strong arms from chopping wood, and strong legs from patrolling miles of forest trails. She could well imagine he inspired respect among the villagers. “There are plenty of us in the Schwarzwald. Almost too many, if you ask me. And with you about—truly, Rosamund, you are worth any five of the others, that's why you're the first woman Hunt Master we've ever had. I already had it in mind to look for a place that needed me more than the Schwarzwald, and I can't imagine a place that needs me more than here.”

Rather than being put out, Matei seemed pathetically grateful for Hans's declaration. “We would more than welcome you, Hans Osterwald! Gheorghe and I would be honored if you would stay here! And take over the leadership of our Brotherhood!”

Rosa managed to get her mouth closed again. She had not expected any of this! But the part of her that always stayed calm, no matter how terrified or perplexed she was, nodded in approval.

And she could not help but think of her own situation, when her mentor had made her a Hunt Master, a position she had desired so much she scarcely dared think about it. Many in the Bruderschaft had been against it, even though her performance was impeccable. But he had supported his decision, and her, and now no one even thought twice about a woman being a Hunt Master.

Hans was an Earth Master. He had long ago earned the right to decide where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do. He could breathe new life into this nearly defunct Brotherhood, and bring new protection to these woods. Hadn't she trusted him to hunt the
vampir
nest alone? And hadn't he done well?

She let out the breath she had been holding in a long sigh. “It is your decision, Hans,” she said, handing him the tail and the medal. “But I think it is a good one, and I shall tell the Bruderschaft as much.”

T
HIS
was certainly the longest and most complicated trip Rosa had ever taken. Hans too. Hans had been very intimidated; Rosa refused to let anything like a
trip
intimidate her. People crossed three countries all the time, perfectly ordinary people who had no magic to help them. She reckoned she should be able to do as much without requiring her hand be held.

She
almost
wondered if half the reason that Hans had decided to stay in Romania was because he didn't want to take the trip back.

The trip out had been something of an endurance trial. First, they had been taken by coach and local train to Stuttgart, and then to Munich. Then they had traveled from Munich to Vienna, from Vienna to Budapest, and from Budapest to Bucharest by three separate trains. Then from Bucharest they had taken a series of coaches to get to the village where Matei and Gheorghe had met them with horses. It was rather telling that the journey had probably been more exhausting than the Hunt itself. It had involved learning two new languages as well, Hungarian and Romanian. Hans had been in a state of terror lest they lose their luggage and the special weapons they were bringing with them—not to mention the three sets of special leather gear, one for her, one for Hans, and one in case one of the Romanians would fit it. No matter how many times Rosa had pointed out that they
were
going to another Brotherhood Lodge, and presumably many of the same weapons—or possibly better—would be available to them, he had still fretted through every train change.

To an extent, not having Hans come along for the return trip will be a bit of a relief.

It had not taken her much effort to persuade Hans to go make his dramatic appearance, wolf tail in hand, crossbow and coach gun at his back and belt, just as the villagers were dealing with the hysterical girl and the mystery of the man-shaped burn spot at the mill. Hans had done very well, but then, when he wasn't fretting himself to bits that something would go wrong, he was quite imposing and had a flair for the dramatic. He had stalked into the village as the villagers were gathering around the ominous patch of ground, announced himself as the slayer of the
vampir
that had been stalking their streets that very night, and brandished the wolf tail and unholy medal declaring he had slain the
vampir's
consorts and servant as well.

As luck would have it, someone recognized the medal. There was a rush for the man's house—and lo, beneath the rug in the main room was magic circle painted on the floor, and a search of the place turned up all manner of nasty things and occult instruments.

And when Hans declared himself prepared to remain in the forest and guard the area, the villagers fell all over each other with gratitude.

Rosa had watched all this from a distance, of course. Those selfsame villagers who were lauding Hans, and by extension, Gheorge and Matei, would have instantly branded a woman who dared to dress as a man as a witch. When she was certain that the situation was well in hand, she had returned to the Brotherhood Lodge to pack and wait for the others to return.

They finally turned up just before sundown. She had assumed they would probably return bearing all manner of gifts, and had not troubled to make any supper preparations other than putting out plates and so forth, mending the fire, and making sure everything was as cozy as you could get in a Lodge that was nine-tenths empty.

She certainly hoped Hans would be able to find some new recruits for the Brotherhood soon. The Lodge had been built to hold thirty comfortably. The effect of the huge main hall, with most of the rooms in the wings on either side closed off, was distinctly depressing. The glassy eyes of the heads of trophy stags, bear and wolves looking down from the walls did not aid the oppressive atmosphere.

But when the three men came merrily laughing in through the door, bringing with them the aromas of the many good things to eat that they had been burdened with, the atmosphere lightened considerably.

It wasn't as if the food was
needed.
But it was delightful to have been given it freely, in thanks. And the roast hen, the sausages, and the fresh
cozonac
were all welcome changes to the stews that the Gheorge and Matei seemed to live on. Not that there was anything
wrong
with stew, and they did vary the recipes, but still . . .

For the first time since she and Hans had arrived here, talk around the table was cheerful and full of laughter. It had helped very much that after discovering the identity of the shape-shifting sorcerer, Hans had had a flash of pure genius, and had led Matei and Gheorghe straight to the priest to ask for his blessing.
In
the church itself. All three of them had knelt right at the altar and the priest had outdone himself, making a miniature service out of the rite. That pretty much killed the notion that any of the three could be a witch.

“Make sure you all start going to mass regularly,” Rosa said, waggling a drumstick at the three of them. “More than once a week! The more you are in the church, the better.
We
know, don't we, Hans?”

Hans nodded his blond head solemnly. “Oh yes. Since there are so many of us, it is easier for us, of course. Our hunting gear is a sort of uniform, like a policeman or a soldier. People just look for the row of hunters in the church and know the Bruderschaft is there, as always. They don't even look at our faces anymore, really. But that's why they protect us from the witch-hunters. You see, they've seen us in church, taking Communion, being blessed. We didn't burst into flames or fly out the window. They
know
us. So they protect us so that we can protect them.” His face lit up. “And I know I sensed someone down in that village with Earth powers! So soon, I think, we will have ourselves another new brother!”

Rosa snorted a little. “Oh trust me, that will not be a difficulty when people realize the Brotherhood also lives quite well.”

Gheorge, who tended to be quieter than his friend, blushed. “Well,” he said, slowly. “We
are
Earth Mages, and this
is
country where gold and silver abound. We never saw any reason why we shouldn't ask the dwarves and the treasure guardians if they would share with us.”

“And so you should do,” Rosa assured him. “So long as no one is greedy, we work
hard
to protect both the Elementals and the mortals of our forests. There is no reason why we should not be supported in doing so.” She smiled. “After all, one can grow very tired even of noble venison and boar with wild mushrooms if that is all one sees, day after day.”

Gheorghe nodded solemnly, and passed her the basket of bread. Then he slapped his hand on the table. “Bah. What am I thinking? The least we can do is make your return journey proceed in comfort!”

She was about to remind him that they hadn't exactly come by wagon, but he leapt up from the table and returned with a strongbox. He opened it, and began counting out heavy silver coins. Rosa tried not to let her jaw drop again.

“The dwarves are very good at counterfeiting,” Gheorghe said conversationally. “Of course these are identical in purity to Romanian coins, identical in every way, really. They just never saw the inside of a Romanian mint. There.”

The coins were not small, about the size of a German thaler, and they were marked “20 lei.” There were several of them. She had never seen so much money in her life. “This should be enough to give you first class rail all the way to Munich,” Gheorghe said matter-of-factly. “And make sure you are treated like a noble the entire way.”

“He is, without a doubt, right,” Matei said, as Hans also stared at the money. “He is very good with money.”

“But—” she started to object. Then stopped. That was no small strongbox. And he had hefted it as if it was very heavy. The Schwarzwald did not have the benefit of sitting atop fields of gold and silver, and there were no helpful dwarves among the Earth Elementals there to grant the Bruderschaft gifts of precious metal.

And she had seen for herself the difference between first class rail travel and second class.
Other
people would see to it that her luggage was whisked, guarded, from one train to another.
Other
people would get her taxis to lovely hotels, and get her taxis back to the depot to catch the next train, if she needed to stay overnight. She would have a compartment to herself, with a real bed in it, if the train was a slow one, or if she took a night train.

The thought of sleeping in a
bed
instead of leaning against Hans's shoulder all night long, fitfully dozing, was as intoxicating as the wine the men were drinking.
I may never again get a chance to travel like this,
she thought to herself.

“If we could not easily afford this, I would not offer it,” Gheorghe said simply.

“Then I thank you,” she replied, and pocketed the coins. “Truly thank you.”

There was a night train from Bucharest to Budapest, and Rosa was on it. Most of the cars—second and third class—were full of people who looked resigned to spending a mostly sleepless night. But she was going to be able to sleep!

She settled herself into the private compartment; most of her baggage was in the baggage van, she only needed to keep a portmanteau with her, with the things she needed overnight. She had taken the second special leather gear with the cloth-of-silver inside, the one that they had brought in case one of the Romanians could wear it. And some other gear of Hans' that was duplicated; an extra pistol and silver bullets, an extra silver dagger, the boar spear they could both use. The Bruderschaft could certainly use them.

She was just glad that no one was likely to want to look in those trunks. She'd have some explaining to do if they did.

The private compartment was about the half the size of her little room at the Lodge; it had its own window with red velvet curtains, a banquette sofa, a footstool tucked under a table beneath the window, a luggage rack overhead, and enclosed in a little cabinet was a basin with a ewer cleverly strapped in.

On the journey in, she had been too aware of all the other people she had been crammed in with to take note anything other than relief when the train had gotten far enough into the countryside to lift the pressure of
wrongness
she always felt in a city. Now she settled herself for the hour or so before dinner to examine . . . things . . . a little more closely.

There was a sense of slight disconnection from the Earth, which was to be expected when so much metal separated her from it. She'd expected more, actually, considering how fast they were moving. But if she closed her eyes, it was not that difficult to orient herself, and she got fleeting “glimpses” of the native Earth creatures watching the great iron serpent as it flew along the rails.

She'd expected more anxiety, and more of a sense of being walled away from her Element. But the car, though not
natural,
felt not that much different from a house in a small village. She opened her eyes with a feeling of a tightness inside her being eased. When the gong announced dinner, she was still watching the landscape flow by past her window, marveling at it all. This leg of the journey out had been in daylight, and she and Hans had been crammed in with a family of six that included a toddler who had wailed softly most of the time.

She indulged in a late dinner in a dining car ornamented with sparkling crystal and gilt woodwork, and returned to her private compartment to find a bed where the sofa had been, turned down and waiting, with her nightdress ironed and laid atop the pillow. What a difference money made!

It had been something of a hard journey to get to Bucharest to catch this train in the first place—no amount of money could improve a trip in common coaches. Well, other than being able to sit inside instead of outside. Coaches and horseback were still the most common means of conveyance in most of Romania, and she knew she was lucky to have gotten a coach rather than a seat on someone's farm wagon as early in the journey as she had. As a consequence, a bed had never looked so inviting, and despite the novelty and noise of trying to sleep on a moving train, she was not awake for very long. When she woke, it was to find that a maid had slipped in during the night and taken away her dress to brush, sponge and refresh it until it looked like new, washed her stockings, underthings and petticoat, ironed everything dry, and then returned it all, hanging up and waiting for her.

How the maid had managed that on a moving train without ever waking her seemed more of an act of pure magic than anything
she
could do.

She washed up, brushed out her hair and put it up again—there was a ewer of warm water in the little compartment with the basin, and she managed with a minimum of splashing despite the swaying of the car. Then she donned her sober black gown again, packed up her night things in her portmanteau, and returned to the dining car, which looked just as splendid in the morning light as it had last night. After a hearty breakfast, she returned to her compartment to find the bed made, and a freshly ironed newspaper waiting for her perusal.