Crimson's Captivation (18 page)

Then the yelling of orders ceased. A silence
grew and was only interrupted by ship’s sails heavy with air,
flapping toward the boundless sea.

Viktor peered toward the red clouds on the
horizon. The color reminded him of the goblets that spilled over
with the sweet red wine the king and queen presented when the king
threw wasteful parties in Karlberg Palace. The red hues reminded
him of Crimson, too, and he let out a deep thankful exhale--he was
finally on his way toward her. He let the worry of his past journey
slip away. He and his men were trained, they were motivated, and
soon he and his love would be on the same terra firma, and he
thought: the day couldn’t be more beautiful.

A man about Viktor’s age approached from
behind, “Inspector?”

“Yes?” Viktor answered without turning
around.

“It wasn’t a greeting. It was a question.
Since when did you become an inspector, Viktor?”

Viktor turned around to see Erik, the nephew
of Count Hans Wachtmeister of Johannishus. Viktor took Eric’s hand
in a firm grip. “Erik, my old friend, is this your ship?”

“No, you know I’ve never had a taste for
blood, I’m far too fond of political service. Public service is far
safer, as you know your enemies—your enemies come as friends. And,
as such, I’m the purser of this cargo ship.” He smiled. “I control
the money. But what of you? Why lie and tell my loadmaster he’ll
get twice pay? Just know if I hadn’t backed up your story, your
throat would’ve been slit this night. Bad luck to have a murder on
the first night of sail—bad luck for you, anyway.”

Viktor let out a sly laugh. “Had to, Erik. I
had to be on this ship and couldn’t afford any further delay.”

“Aye,” Erik replied, “in a rush to make a
name for yourself, are you, Viktor?”

“No, Erik. My name can be forgotten by all
but one. I want her to remember it forever.”

“Sounds like your heart beats for another,
young Viktor?”

“It does my friend, it does. She courses
through my veins, an elixir that makes me alive.”

“Who is she?”

“Crimson,” Viktor answered.

“And your bravery is for one at home?”

“No. She’s been kidnapped and is in
Poland.”

“Kidnapped, you say? By whom?” Erik asked as
he walked toward the bow of the ship.

“Horrors, Erik. Revulsions that lay deep in
Poland.”

“Aye, deeper still my friend is your fool
heartedness.”

“Yes, that is deep, as well, as deep as the
Baltic and as high as this wintery sky,” Viktor stated, as he
opened his shirt and pointed to his heart. “As deep as liberty and
love can be. Doubt there is anything deeper.”

“I suppose you’re right, Viktor. But only
about the passion you feel. There is much that is deeper. The
deadly weapon that takes your final breath, for example.”

“Yes, Erik,” Viktor agreed as he looked out
over the Baltic. “Crimson is both.”

* * * *

King Charles woke the next morning to find
that none of his men had deserted him. He wanted to think it was
bravery, but he knew it was fear and nothing more. None had snuck
from the camp in the night for fear of the horrors in the woods.
Simply put, there was safety in numbers and it was far safer to
stay in camp than be caught alone in the woods. The king knew fear
and bravery are not as communally selective as one thought, and as
he walked the edge of the camp, he couldn’t help but feel both
battles inside him. He set the internal clash aside, having won
this battle before. He knew it didn’t matter if he conquered fear,
only that he face it.

He found a lone soldier on the perimeter. “No
alarms through the night?”

“None, my king, and we have the pikes dipped
in silver and polished as ordered.”

“Good. Excellent work.”

The king walked back to the center of the
camp and found the oldest soldier left. He had red hair and you
couldn’t miss it. It was the color of a summer sunset. “You will be
my field commander as we head south.”

“Yes, sir,” the young soldier replied as he
stood at attention.

“Have someone stoke the fire and prepare
breakfast. We should move as soon as possible.”

A moment later, the new commander approached
the king who was rolling up his sleeping articles. “Sir, the men
are not hungry. It seems the smell of burning flesh of their
comrades … well, my king, they just aren’t hungry.”

The king nodded in agreement. “Yes, my
appetite has waned, as well. Sound the horns then. We shall move
out.” He grabbed the young commander by the shoulder before he left
his company. “Make sure each man has his pike pointed to the
heavens. I want the polished silver to catch and scatter the sun
deep into these dark woods.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And dig through the ashes. Find me a piece
of that one horror I killed.”

“A piece, sir?”

“Yes, preferably the jawbone.”

As the small troop of twenty men mounted
their horses, the king ordered them to ride two file. “Men,” he
yelled, holding the jaw bone of the horror above his head, “today
we ride into Poland. If any have fear, then take pity on it because
it will be left in these woods to battle those wolves. We leave
this place today and shall never return. If this jaw bone could
speak, it would tell of our conquest, as I shall hang my shield on
the gate of the one who abducted my sister, Crimson.” The king
nodded to the commander and a horn blew.

The formation moved quickly through the woods
and soon they came upon a landmark the king recognized, the Daugava
River. He had read about this river in the
Chronicles of
Nestor
and had studied its path on his generals’ military maps.
He also heard about this river through family lore. The Daugava had
special meaning. He had a good sense of where they were. To his
northwest lay Riga, to his south the city of Minsk, and they were
on schedule. Word sent to Riga instructed Viktor to join them on
the outskirts of Minsk.

The troop halted and the king looked behind
them. He eyed the forest where they had almost died.

“One should never look back,” the red-headed
commander suggested.

“It’s okay to look,” the king replied, “you
should just never go back. My hope now is that Poseidon has
consecrated the fresh water river, for I have very few men
left.”

Chapter II

~ The Dread of Change ~

Behind the closed doors of his bedroom, Tor
rubbed the knot on his head as he argued with his wife. “Why did
you hit me, my love?” He slouched in the chair, his elbows on his
knees. “When you and I agreed …” he continued, “… that I would
attend the auction and obtain our servants … you knew this was
their purpose. We agreed to it beforehand, and now you hit me? Why?
Jealousy?”

The countess flopped the full weight of her
burden in the chair across from him. The entire matter exhausted
her and left her drained. The man across from her was an
overweight, indulgent child who didn’t think he had done wrong.

“‘
My love,’ Tor? You seriously start
this conversation with a term of endearment?” She shook her head in
disbelief. “Their purpose is not singular, Tor,” she replied, “It
was not meant to be coercion. Sneaking around like some horny
chambermaid. We were to share them together, use them for our
mutual pleasure. Darya, and now you, seem to have forgotten that I
run this palace. What you do when you’re out and about in the
countryside is your own business, but not here, Tor. Not here!” she
shouted. “This is my domain. This is my palace and will be run it
according to my rules. You know my jealous streak. You know that
I’m not a stranger to doubt. You, Tor, exhaust me.”

“Still, no reason to hit me,” Tor said
rubbing the knot on his head.

In the courtyard, guards trumpeted the day’s
start and bells rang throughout the palace. Servants and maids
began their daily chores. They swept, added wood to the fires, and
began making breakfast. A chambermaid entered the countess’s
bedroom, refilled the washbasin and emptied chamber pots. All the
while, the countess and Tor debated.

The countess began dressing. “I can’t think
of a better reason to hit you. Maybe the vase was the wrong choice,
but I doubt you’ll forget. Now what to do with you? What to do with
that little cute one you can’t seem to neglect, Crimson? My palace
reeks of the sulfur of your desire, Tor!”

The countess took a deep breath, approached
Tor, and fell deep into her chair once more. “Doesn’t matter, we
have another issue. Sena, the dark one is sick.”

“Sick? What’s wrong with her,” Tor asked. He
grimaced as he rubbed the knot on his head that had now become
tender to the touch.

“Who knows?” The countess pined, “she could
be pregnant. I’m heading to the servant chambers now. Can I trust
that you’ll behave?”

Tor purposely didn’t answer. He knew what he
had to do.

* * * *

The countess entered the hallway that led to
the servant quarters to find Sergen, Crimson, and Uric standing in
the hallway.

“Have you eaten this morning?” the countess
asked.

“Yes,” Uric answered.

“And why are you in the hallway?”

“It’s Sena,” Crimson said as she pointed to
the open door.

“Yes, she’s sick,” the countess acknowledged.
“There’s no need for a crowd, be about your chores. And you,
Crimson, I’ll be watching you closely,” the countess barked, but no
one moved.

“But, countess, look …” Crimson insisted.

The countesses peered through the door to see
two servants attending to Sena; one held a wet cloth to Sena’s
forehead while the other held Sena’s hand, trying to calm her. The
normal tanned skin of Sena had turned a ghostly white. Sena’s
eyelids were closed and her body gyrated as if she were in
pain.

“What’s wrong with her?” the countess
asked.

“My lady, she lives beyond the charm of God,”
the servant holding Sena’s hand answered.

Then the countess could see it. They all
could see it.

Sena was visibly mutating. Her face distorted
as if the underlying bones were alive. Her cheekbones seemed to
crawl underneath her skin. The structure under her eyebrows seemed
to boil and her nose appeared to extend. Her ears moved higher on
the skull, her mouth widened, and then her forearms lengthened. It
appeared that Sena’s body was being tortured from the inside out
and she thrashed about in the small room, so violently at times
that she lifted the servants attending her from their kneeling
position. The servants fought hard to keep her pinned, so hard that
they sweated profusely and began to pray aloud.

The countess stumbled back and nearly tripped
over Crimson. They all watched as Sena’s fingernails curved into
claws, then, suddenly, everything was still. So still that they all
wondered if they had just seen what they were sure they just saw.
The countess called out for the guards, but her voice was weak and
the sound barely audible. None of the others said anything. Their
jaws lay wide open as they watched the transformation.

Unexpectedly, Sena took in a lungful of air,
sat up, opened her eyes, and everyone backed away.

Crimson screamed when she noticed the caramel
color of Sena’s irises were now a solid black, a black that she had
never seen, and the whites of Sena’s eyes, they were now a blood
red. Black irises, red eyes, and chalky skin--except for the silky
black hair that seemed to tuft upon her scalp it would be difficult
to know this was Sena blankly staring at them. Then Sena went limp
and fell back into the makeshift bed, and the transformation
quickly reversed.

The room, the hallway, the palace went silent
for a long time; long enough for everyone to digest and realize
they had just witnessed a turning and had forgotten to breathe.
Sena lay there, motionless, and the countess for a moment thought
she was dead. The countess inched toward the door. “Is she
alive?”

“I think so, my lady,” the caretaker replied
with dread.

“Leave,” the countess whispered to the two
servants in the room.

When everyone was in the hallway, the
countess closed the door and screamed for the guards, and ordered
Sergen to hold the door shut.

Sergen looked to his left and right. “Who,
me?”

“Yes, hold the door shut until the guards
arrive.”

“No. No, no, no,” Sergen answered while
shaking his head back and forth and backing up to the far wall.
Uric instinctively followed him.

Crimson stood alone, and approached the
countess and pushed her aside. Crimson locked the door and fixed
her own back against it. “Cowards,” she said, as she looked at
them. “That’s Sena and no one else.”

The guards arrived and took charge of the
prisoner.

“What will you do with her?” Crimson asked
the countess.

“I don’t know. I’ve never trapped a horror
before. I’ll keep her locked up until I can find someone with
knowledge of these matters. I’m not certain what to do.”

Then came sounds from the locked room—they
could hear Sena, or whatever it was, moving around in the dark. A
loud thud from the other side of the door echoed down the hallway,
then another as Sena slammed her body against the locked door.

Boom! Boom!

Everyone inched back and found the wall
behind them.

The guards turned toward the door and stepped
to the side.

“What is she doing?” the countess asked
aloud.

The answer came with an explosion of
splintered wood. It happened so fast that none could react. They
just stood and watched Sena tear her way through the wooden door.
The guards rushed her and she threw both of them down the hallway
and then stopped, staring at all of them. The countess, Sergen, and
Uric tried their best to hide behind each other, each fitting their
bodies into the smallest real estate possible, as long as it was
behind someone else.