VII - Her Training Begins

  Her training began the next morning, shortly after dawn.

  Sybil did not sleep for the rest of that night, and instead existed in a state of restless half-consciousness until sunrise. When she rose with the day, she found that Vlad had already set up three crude wooden dummies in their clearing; all of them had nicks and gouges in them that suggested both age and heavy use.

  Vlad was preparing breakfast over the campfire. She smelled meat cooking, and immediately felt her stomach turn. When Vlad saw her, he smiled. “Ah. Good morning, Night Owl. Sleep well?”

  Sybil shook her head, answering honestly. “No.”

  “I assumed as much,” he said. “In fact, I would have been quite concerned had you managed to sleep soundly after what you endured yesterday.” He offered her some food, which she declined with as much courtesy as she could muster. Vlad shrugged and began eating his breakfast concoction. “Very well. But you will need to eat soon if you wish to have proper energy for your training.”

  Sybil frowned. “My training? Is that what those are for?” She gestured to the dummies.

  Vlad nodded. “Indeed. If you are to be my apprentice, you shall need to learn how to do battle. But more than that, you shall need to learn how to battle against vampyres.”

  “Is the difference truly so great?”

  “It is,” he said, “but I suppose I needn’t waste words by telling you as much. You will certainly see for yourself, in due time.”

  When his meal was finished, Vlad led her to the dummies and presented her with a sheathed dagger, which she accepted with moderate caution. The little weapon felt heavy in her hand, despite weighing significantly less than her crossbow. Vlad offered her an encouraging nod, and Sybil pulled the blade from its sheath; it came free with an almost musical sound and sparkled brilliantly in the early morning sun.

  “That blade’s outermost layer is forged of silver,” Vlad said, “which is a major weakness of the strigoi. We must get you properly fitted with new weapons of the same material, but for now, this alone will have to suffice.”

  She looked down at the glistening weapon. “Can vampyres not be slain by any other means?”

  “They can,” Vlad said, “but silver works best. With any other metal, you must aim to kill with a direct blow to the heart, otherwise the strigoi will recover quickly. Silver leaves lasting wounds, even if they are only glancing ones.” He paused, allowing her to inspect the blade. “Now, I would have you demonstrate your level of skill with such a dagger. Based on the healing wounds that I found on the strigoi last night, I would say you have at least some experience with handling a weapon of this type.”

  “Years of chopping wood with my father have developed my swing, I suppose,” she said. “But that was with a hatchet, not a dagger.”

  “Even so, I would observe your technique ere making any attempt to train you. So please, Night Owl, begin at your leisure.”

  Sybil looked down at the shimmering blade another time, then turned her attention to the dummies. They stood in a semi-triangular formation, with room in the center from which one would be able to strike all three of them without having to move their feet. Sybil stepped into this center, looked over one of the dummies, and unleashed her first blow upon it.

  Her training as a Plague doctor’s apprentice had begun.

  ___

  Sybil spent most of that day in the center of the three dummies, striking her immobile foes again and again and again, until her shaking, exhausted body felt ready to collapse. She improved with each blow as she listened to and adapted to her mentor’s advice, who watched her technique carefully while she trained. Eventually, when he was seemingly satisfied with her ability to properly swing the blade without his guidance, he switched to discussing proper techniques and considerations when battling the undead.

  “Never assume that you will fight nosferatu on your own terms,” Vlad said as Sybil sliced into the dummy directly in front of her. “They will come for you when you least expect them, and when you are least prepared for their arrival. You will have to respond accordingly if you wish to survive. Oftentimes you will be forced to do battle with your silver dagger and your silver dagger alone. In these situations, your skills with the blade must suffice—and suffice they shall.”

  Another blow, this one to the dummy on her left. “A common myth might have you believe that the sun destroys vampyres. This is false. Sunlight is not fatal to strigoi. It weakens them significantly, but it does not prevent them from walking among us during the day. They are not to be underestimated under any circumstances, but especially not during the daylight hours. A vampyre weakened by sunlight is still a significant threat, and will easily tear you to pieces if you allow it to. Likewise, being creatures of darkness, they are also discomforted by any form of light, but do not assume that the mere presence of a candle or lantern will make them any less dangerous.”

  Sybil nodded between attacks without looking at the Plague doctor. “Yes, I believe I have already learned that much on my own.”

  “Indeed I am certain that you have,” he said. Her dance continued, and Vlad went on. “Holy objects, silver, running water, and fire are the greatest banes of the vampyre. The presence of the Goddess weakens and repels them, but this aversion to all things holy seems to lessen as a vampyre ages and grows more powerful, so it cannot be properly relied upon as our primary defense against our undead foes. As explained previously, weapons of silver cut through them like a scythe through grain—and leave them with damage that will last. Like with holy objects, a nosferatu may develop a moderate resistance to the mere touch of silver, but will never become strong enough to overpower its vanquishing properties entirely. A swift current rends them to pieces, and fire purges their evil from this world. No level of power will ever protect them from the sheer force of a mighty torrent, nor from the merciless rage of an angry flame. Subdue the vampyre by whatever means are available, of course, but utilize these weaknesses whenever you can. In the battle against our great enemy, no advantage should be overlooked.

  “Once a vampyre has been subdued, you must be sure to always impale the heart or sever the head—preferably both, and preferably with silver. Whenever possible, burn them with fire until they have been reduced to ash. By doing this, not only are we ensuring that we slay them, we are also ensuring that they remain slain. All undead, vampyres or otherwise, are frustratingly persistent creatures, and it is always wise that you leave no avenue for them to once again return to the land of the living.”

  Sybil stopped her dance. She turned to look at Vlad. “‘Vampyres or otherwise’? You mean to say there are more undead creatures than just vampyres?”

  The Plague doctor nodded. “But of course. And there are monsters that are far more terrible than the undead. We may specialize in slaying vampyres, but in our profession, we must always be prepared for whatever comes our way.” He paused, offering her a sardonic smile. “You did not assume vampyres to be the only unholy threat in this world, did you?”

  Sybil paused to think about that. She felt oddly embarrassed at the query. “I suppose I had not thought about it yet. Learning of one such creature has already been quite the burden on my mind.”

  “Certainly,” Vlad said with another nod. “Entering a world such as ours never comes easily to anybody. It will take you time to fully come to terms with your new reality.”

  Sybil, feeling freshly ill at ease about the task ahead of her, resumed her training. After another few moments, Vlad continued to speak. “The most important thing to remember with vampyres is that you must keep your wits about you when facing them. Beyond their inhuman strength and terrible abilities, they also possess a devilish cunning. They will do whatever it takes to sink their fangs into you, including trying to convince you that they are not the vile abominations that they truly are. You must never let them deceive you. Strigoi are evil incarnate, and will never be anything but.”

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  Sybil’s movements slowed as she remembered the horrors of the previous night. It took great effort for her to not break down in tears. “They said… such cruel things to me. My… my own parents.”

  “I remind you again that they were not your parents, Night Owl,” he said. “Your parents were no longer in control of their bodies. Not a piece of them remained in that consciousness, save for the ability to suffer in torment until the moment they were finally set free.”

  “But how can you know?” she said, turning around to face him. “How can you know that there was no way to bring them back, to reach some last vestige of them that remained?”

  “Believe me, Night Owl,” he said, his face turning grim. “If such a miracle were possible, I would do whatever it takes to achieve it. But alas, it is not. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  When it was obvious that her mentor would not be elaborating further, Sybil returned to her task. Her heart grew heavy with the memory of the previous night, its particulars still so fresh and devastating in her mind. She was able to redirect some of that bottled negativity into her strikes, but no amount of slashing away at wooden dummies would ever fully relieve her of her pain.

  She knew that true peace would only come to her through the opening of undead flesh.

  Their training went on well into the evening. Later in the afternoon, she took a much needed reprieve from using her dagger, and switched to firing her crossbow for the remainder of the day. She never missed a single shot. When Vlad finally brought her exercise to an end, she nearly tumbled to the cold ground with the day’s exhaustion. That night she greedily accepted her supper, and as she started to eat, she realized that she actually had an appetite for the first time in what felt like weeks.

  “You did well today, Night Owl,” Vlad said as they ate. “It was an excellent start to your training.”

  “Thank you,” Sybil said awkwardly.

  “You did especially well with that crossbow,” he said. “You will need silver-tipped quarrels, though, in order for it to be effective for use against nosferatu. There is a village perhaps a month’s ride from here known as Fenwick, which is home to a particular blacksmith that I am quite familiar with. She will outfit us with all of the equipment that will be essential you, including your new quarrels.”

  “That would only be a waste of silver,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m quite useless with that weapon.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Vlad said. “I’ve seen your ability for myself. You have clearly spent quite a lot of time honing your skill as an arbalist.”

  “My father trained me with the crossbow for most of my life,” the girl explained. “He said I was a better shot than he was at my age, but I think he was just trying to encourage me. I may be proficient enough during practice, but I’ve never managed to shoot a living target before.”

  Vlad smiled. “Then it is a good thing that vampyres are already dead, no?” When she did not return his smile, he went on. “Do not mistake your aversion to taking life as lacking the ability to do, Night Owl. Nor should you look at it as a weakness. Such sparks of humanity are exactly what separate us from the beings of pure evil that we destroy. You would do well to remember that in moments of doubt.”

  She sighed. “That is certainly easier said than done.”

  “One day it will be easier done,” he said. “And on that day you will overcome this part of your humanity which still burns so brightly within you. You will cast it away in order to protect someone or something that you hold dear. And when that time comes, you will mourn what you have lost. Which is why you should cherish that humanity now, Night Owl, while you still possess it.” He gave her a familiar, stern look. “Because once that part of you is gone, you will never get it back.”

  They finished the rest of their meal in silence. Sybil went to bed early, not long after dark. Her exhaustion readily overtook her, and she was thankful when she felt herself drifting off to sleep. The world was quickly swallowed up by the surrounding night, and she felt herself go with it.

  Which is when the nightmares began.

  ___

  In her dream it was dusk.

  She walked through the shadow-drenched forest, which grew darker with each passing moment as the sun continued its steady retreat from the sky. Large, silhouetted trees loomed on either side of her. She had her crossbow slung over her shoulder while she dragged the slain carcass of a young stag by its legs through the trees. The beast looked like it should have been far too heavy for her to carry on her own, but somehow she managed to tug it through the gloom with ease.

  By the time her cottage loomed ahead, dusk had turned to night. She could see light flickering in a window, and smoke billowing from the chimney told her that her mother was already hard at work preparing supper. She eagerly dragged the stag the rest of the way into the clearing, then left it near Misty’s hovel and made for the front door of her home. She hardly noticed that the old packhorse was nowhere to be seen.

  Light trickled out from beneath the door. When she opened it, she saw a warm, glowing fire in the hearth, over which boiled a delicious-smelling stew. She smiled and stepped inside, eager to get started on supper and to tell her parents all about her successful hunt.

  But something changed when she crossed over the threshold. The fire in the hearth was gone, and the entire cottage was swallowed by a deep darkness. The boiling pot had disappeared. She frowned, not understanding what could possibly have happened. She took a few more cautious steps into the cottage, looking around for any sign of life. That was when she saw the silhouette standing in the doorway to her parents’ quarters.

  The sight of the figure caused Sybil to hesitate for a moment, but that apprehension vanished almost as quickly as it had come, and she soon realized that she was slowly approaching the waiting shadow. A cloud must have vanished overhead as she drew nearer, because a beam of shimmering moonlight suddenly swept in through the nearby window and illuminated the form that stood before her. It possessed the shape of her mother. The older woman faced away from her daughter, her countenance turned toward the darkened room. Sybil called out to her, but the woman did not respond. It was only when Sybil reached out and almost touched the woman’s shoulder that she unleashed that terrible, familiar chuckle.

  The woman turned around, revealing her horrible, nightmarish visage. Thick, obsidian blood dripped from the woman’s sharp fangs and caked her pale, deathly face. The woman took a step closer and Sybil turned to run, but she did not make it far. Her leg snagged on something solid and fleshy, causing her to fall to the floor. Once she had regained her bearings, she managed a quick glance at the object that had tripped her; she realized that she had fallen over the stag that she had been dragging earlier, which now lay in the middle of the cottage. Its throat had been completely torn out, its neck spewing dark liquid and staining the wooden floor beneath its ruinous body.

  Sybil returned her attention to her mother just in time to watch the older woman descend upon her. She never even had a chance to scream.

  ___

  Sybil awakened in a familiar cold sweat. Her lungs slammed in her chest with the same rapid beat that they had on the previous two mornings. It had been her third proper night’s sleep since leaving her village, and the third one to feature such a horrible nightmare. At least this time she had not come awake with a terrible, thrashing panic, but she still jolted into consciousness violently, as if her mind was trying to escape from the dream as quickly as it possibly could.

  She sat up in her bedroll. Her nose filled with the smell of cooking meat, and she turned to see Vlad already preparing their breakfast over the sputtering fire. It was still largely dark beyond their camp’s gentle glow, but the beginnings of a deep orange on the horizon told that dawn was making a hasty approach.

  Vlad looked at her and smiled. “Ah, you’re awake. Just in time for breakfast.” When he saw her pale, sweat-soaked face, he went on, his smile only slightly diminished. “Another one, hm?”

  Syble nodded. “Yes.”

  “Which one of them was it this time?”

  “My mother.”

  “Ah.” He looked away from her and continued to prod at their sizzling breakfast with a slender stick that he had taken from the nearby forest. “That makes two for her, then, and only one for him. Your father shall have some ground to cover tonight if he wishes to catch up.”

  “I don’t want to have another nightmare tonight,” she huffed, frustrated.

  “No,” he said, “I am certain you do not. But I am also certain that you very likely will. And you will likely continue having them most every night for a rather long while yet.”

  She frowned. “Will they ever go away?”

  “Lessen in frequency? Of course. Go away entirely? Very doubtful. And you should hope that they do not.”

  “Why would I hope for such a thing?”

  “Because they serve as a reminder to you, Night Owl,” the Plague doctor said. “They remind you of what you fight for—of what you thrust yourself into the dangers of this life for.”

  “I think I could remember well enough on my own without them,” she said.

  “Certainly,” he said, “but they help to keep it fresh. Each new nightmare brings you back to that moment where it all began. That is a valuable asset, despite what you may believe. Without your nightmares, you flirt with the dangers of complacency.” He paused. “I suppose, by my own logic, I am certainly due for a nightmare or two myself, aren’t I?”

  Sybil did not respond, and their conversation came to an end until they were almost done with their breakfast. Between bites, she spoke. “Shall I start with crossbow or dagger today?”

  “Neither, Night Owl,” he said. “Today we begin our journey to Fenwick.”

  “Where the blacksmith lives?”

  Vlad nodded. “Aye. Her name is Avice, and I trust her more than any other blacksmith in the entire Dominion. She works specifically with Plague doctors and other slayers of abominations, and will be able to outfit you accordingly.”

  “Will I get a Plague mask like yours?”

  “You will,” he said, “among several other things. In the meantime, I shall provide you with a cloth to cover your face for when we find ourselves amongst the Plague-afflicted public.”

  Sybil nodded her understanding. “When did you last see this Avice?”

  “It has been… some time,” he admitted. “It will be pleasant to see an old friend again. One does not acquire many of those in this profession, and as such, one tends to cherish them when they come along.” He paused. “In the meantime, you will continue your training in the evenings before bed. This may impede our progress some, but it is imperative that we keep your new skills honed, while continuing to sharpen others. You may not be properly outfitted yet, but you are still my apprentice, and no vampyre or other beast that we come across will wait until you have the appropriate weapons to face them before they attack you. Should we encounter a strigoi on our journey, I want you to be able to slay it as you are now.”

  Sybil shuddered at the thought. Her mind drifted back to her nightmare, and she suddenly felt very cold.