VIII - Her Old Life Ends

  Vlad approached Sybil, who stood in the glade watching the treeline that stared back at her from several meters away. When she heard his approach she turned and looked at him, but didn’t speak.

  “Elpis is mounted and we are prepared to depart,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.” She turned back to look at the treeline. Vlad realized that she was staring in the direction that they had come from—in the direction of her village. “It is as you said before. Once we depart for Fenwick, we will likely never come back here, will we?”

  “Most likely not, unless our pursuit of Three-Fang brings us this way.”

  “And so I won’t ever see my village again.”

  Vlad offered a sympathetic frown, even if she did not see it. “Aye, I would say that is even less likely. Even if our search does bring us back to this region, you would do best to not return to your old home. The villagers will believe you to have perished in the flames with your kin. You will all have been mourned, if there is anybody there who would mourn you. To return would do neither you nor them any good.” He paused. “When we leave this region behind, you will also be leaving your old life behind. Are you prepared to do this?”

  She stood contemplating this for several long seconds. The cold morning breeze drifted its way through the weald and gently played with her hair. “Yes,” she finally said. “I am.”

  “Very well.” He turned toward his waiting horse and coach. “Let us be off, then. We’ve a decent journey ahead of us before we reach Fenwick, and we would do well to get it underway.”

  He approached the coach, stopped, and turned to look at her. Sybil stood with her back to him for a short while longer as she watched the treeline. He wondered if she half-expected somebody from her village to come rescue her from the nightmare that was her new life, and he feared for a moment that she might run off, sprinting desperately toward a home that was no longer hers.

  Instead she turned around and followed after him.

  ___

  Days passed. They spent most daylight hours on the road, and, as Vlad had said, Sybil resumed her training each evening when they allowed for a break in their journey. When night came, Sybil often drifted off to sleep quickly, exhausted by the late training. Her rest was fitful; Vlad knew that her sleep was poor, and it always ended abruptly, usually culminating with the sudden, startling finales of her consistent nightmares. As their journey went on, Vlad noticed that Sybil’s awakenings began to grow less and less violent, until what had once been a bombastic convulsion forcing her into consciousness had weakened to barely more than a slight start, almost imperceptible by anybody not watching for it. He suspected that by the time they reached Fenwick, her nightmares would become far less obvious—but that did not mean that they would become any less horrific to her sleeping mind.

  Vlad spent the afternoon of the tenth day teaching Sybil how to steer the coach. They were traveling along a river through a valley, and he saw the open grassland as a good space for her to learn without the hazards of tightly spaced trees or other natural obstacles. She was doing an impressive job of it; Vlad wound up having to give her very little instruction. If anything, the Plague doctor supposed that it would be convenient to have her share the burden of directing Elpis now and again during their travels, even if the horse actually needed remarkably little in the way of guidance.

  “Well done, Night Owl,” he said cheerfully. “If the path of a Plague doctor turns out not to be to your liking, you could always try your hand as a coachwoman.”

  “I grew up directing our packhorse around the forest when out hunting with my father,” she said. “It was a different sort of maneuvering, but I’m certain my experience working with Misty for all those years is helping me now.”

  Syble’s smile disappeared at the mention of the packhorse’s name. Her gaze shifted, focusing on something very far away, beyond even the expanse of the valley. For a long time they both remained silent, only listening to the sound of Elpis’ hooves clopping through the low grass and the gentle suggestion of the lazy afternoon breeze. At length, Sybil spoke again. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Albescu?”

  He looked at her again. “Of course, Night Owl. What is on your mind?”

  She allowed a brief pause before speaking next, as if formulating the proper way to present her query. “You said before that you believe some part of the victims remain in the bodies of the vampyres after turning, correct?”

  Vlad nodded. “Indeed I did, and I meant it. I’ve seen many vampyres draw on the memories and experiences of their hosts’ past lives, which means they must recollect those lives to some degree. This, to me, means that some part of the soul must still remain post-turning. How much of the soul remains is up to speculation, but it is clear that it does not have any control of its old body. The vampyre holds complete dominion there, and is itself nothing more than a being of pure evil, remaining separate from any humanity that might still remain inside. It keeps that fragment of a soul trapped on this mortal coil until the time comes that it can finally be set free.”

  “You also said you believe those trapped souls suffer while under the influence of the vampyre.”

  “You are again correct,” he said. “I believe that the evil that keeps them contained also torments them greatly, and that they cannot know peace until we deliver it upon them.”

  “What do… What do you suppose that feels like? To be confined inside of a body that is no longer yours, that will never be yours again, that has been stolen from you by a creature of such terrible malevolence?"

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  The Plague doctor frowned. He contemplated this for a few moments before responding. “Now that much I cannot say. Any suggestion I’d make would be pure conjecture. But I’m certain it does not feel pleasant, to say the least. I imagine it is akin to being lost in a nightmare that you are unable to awaken from.”

  “Some vampyres live for centuries before they are slain,” she said. “Some maybe even for millenia. Does that mean their souls are suffering for that entire time?”

  “I suppose it does,” he admitted.

  “And you said it is likely that the torment seems to go on for much longer than the actual length of time the soul spends trapped.”

  “Now that piece, I must admit, is far more of a presumption than anything else. But it’s a rather sound one, I’d say, seeing as most suffering seems to prolong time for the sufferer, does it not?”

  “I suppose it does.” She paused. “I can’t help but think about the endless torment that my parents would have endured, had you not slain them when you did. And I suppose I should… I should thank you for ending their misery, even if it pains me greatly to do so.”

  “I do not expect you to ever thank me for slaying your parents, Night Owl,” he said, looking at her somberly now. “It remains a terrible thing for you to endure, and I regret that you must endure it. But at the same time, I will not apologize to you for doing what needed to be done. Apologizing opens room for doubt, and we cannot allow any doubt to creep into our hearts if we are to find success in this life we live.”

  “I understand that,” she said, “and I understand that you have grown accustomed to not accepting thanks. But still, I would like to extend some. You saved my parents from an eternity of suffering, and that means very much to me.”

  “Think nothing of it, Night Owl. Were that I could end the suffering of every strigoi in an instant, I would. Even Three-Fang. For even though that being is one of pure evil now, it was still once a mortal like you or me—and I believe that a part of that mortality, of that soul, is still trapped somewhere within every vampyre, even in a monster as vile and as unforgivable as Three-Fang. So by finally slaying that fiend, we are also providing it with the ultimate service of setting free its long-tormented soul.”

  Sybil considered his words for a long time. At first he thought that the conversation was finished, but this was proven incorrect when Sybil finally spoke again. “Why is it that you pursue Three-Fang so relentlessly, Mr. Albescu? What has it done to elicit so much hatred from you?”

  He looked at her again, feigning surprise at the question despite having anticipated its arrival. “Do I need a reason to pursue such a vile creature? To do so comes with my chosen profession, after all.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she said, “but you seem to have more… personal reasons for chasing after this particular vampyre.”

  “A rather shrewd observation that is, Night Owl,” Vlad said. His mind flashed back to that terrible memory, and for a moment, he thought that maybe it was time for them to have that much-dreaded conversation. This moment was quickly swept away on the cool afternoon wind. “Yes, you’ve seen through me, I am afraid. I have my reasons for hunting Three-Fang that extend beyond my oath as a Plague doctor—reasons that I do not yet think appropriate to share with you. You will forgive me, but I would rather not discuss such a thing with you yet.”

  Sybil appeared disappointed, but she nodded her reluctant acceptance. “Very well, Mr. Albescu. I will not pry. I’ve my own reason for going after Three-Fang, and I suppose that reason is enough for now.” She offered him a grim smile. “But I hope to learn yours some day, so that I can add it to my list of grievances against that terrible creature.”

  He shared her smile. “Thank you, Night Owl. Your concern for my wellbeing is noted, and much appreciated.”

  This time their conversation did come to an end. Sybil, seemingly satisfied with her inquiries, did not submit any further, and instead allowed a fresh silence to fill the space between them as she concentrated on directing their path ahead.

  Vlad used this silence to remember that day—a day that he had not forgotten once in the many that had come after it.

  ___

  It was on the morning of the eleventh day that they came across the caravan.

  A vast forest had once again closed around them, its many trees squeezing tightly around their coach. Vlad held the reins as they continued to move along the quickly flowing river that they had ridden beside for multiple days now. It had grown much larger during their travels, its width now reaching close to one hundred feet across. He explained that the river would lead them most of the way to Fenwick, and that they would be spending a lot of time along its bank.

  “The Ardventi River winds all throughout this region,” the Plague doctor explained as they went along. “It leads all the way to the ocean, but we shall not be following it that far. One of its tributaries passes straight through Fenwick, though, so even when we depart from this river, we shall still be following along a river.”

  “There is a river near my village that must also be a tributary,” Sybil said. “Strange. I knew nothing of this larger river, despite living near the smaller one for my entire life. And to think it was so relatively close to my home, as well.”

  “You never had a need to come this far from your village until now,” he said. “It stands to reason that you would not see so far beyond it. But that changes now, Night Owl—for the life of a Plague doctor is far from a sedentary one.”

  Sybil contemplated his words in silence for some time. It was during this lull in their conversation that they rounded a sharp bend in the river, and the first halted carriage came into view. It quickly became clear that there were more carriages and other vehicles stopped ahead of it, all of them largely blocking the way ahead. Sybil and Vlad shared an uncertain glance.

  “Why do you suppose they’ve stopped, Mr. Albescu?” she asked. “Do they need help?”

  “We’d best find out, should we not?”

  Vlad cautiously willed Elpis forward, which allowed them to approach the many sedentary vehicles. As they neared the back of the rearmost carriage, Vlad brought the coach to a halt. A group of three sentries, each wielding muskets and clad in hard leather armor, took notice of the stopped coach and approached the rear of the caravan while Vlad and Sybil dismounted from their vehicle.

  The Plague doctor raised a jovial hand at the sentries. He took a few short steps forward to meet them. “Greetings, friends. We were just passing through and could not help but notice your caravan frozen in its place, despite the lack of ice. We hope all is well.”

  One of the sentries, a gruff man with cropped, grey hair that matched the color of his beard, stepped forward. He appeared to be around Vlad’s age, but was aging slightly faster than the Plague doctor. The sentry had a patch over his right eye, which made Vlad silently wonder as to his effectiveness with the musket that he held.

  “You would be better off passing us by than offering us your greetings, stranger,” the sentry said. “We have simply stopped to bury our dead. The task may take some time, for there are many corpses that we must lay to rest.”

  Vlad frowned. “What misfortune has stricken your caravan that you should have so many corpses to bury? Were you perhaps attacked by bandits?”

  “If only,” the gruff sentry replied. “Were it bandits that afflicted us, we would be far more fortunate. No, stranger, it is Plague that ravages us—another reason you would do well to move on.” Vlad heard Elpis snort behind him. “Because it is spreading through this caravan like wildfire.”