The Price

 

by John E. Rebel

 

The warrior moved swiftly, but the large black wolf not only was quick, it was cunning. It bolted before the spear was in the air, then zigzagged quickly across the gently sloping hill between them. The warrior swung around, lowering his shield, his eyes following the wolf’s every move. Of course, it would lunge at the right moment and he must be ready.

The wolf, meanwhile, took in the strange plumed-helmeted man and carefully evaluated the situation. He knew he was the stronger of the two and the warrior’s armor could be breached, but from where the spear had fallen, he realized the warrior had anticipated his move. The man was skilled and to all appearances not intimidated in the least by the size, speed and boldness of the beast.

Now the warrior picked up his second spear and hefted it as the wolf closed the gap. It had been a long and relentless chase. The wolf, the hunter, had become the hunted. The warrior had tracked him unerringly for miles and here, near the village, would be the reckoning.

For the slightest moment the two opponents locked their gaze, then the wolf ran and leapt. In a flash the second spear tore through the air and caught the beast in the throat. There was a brief, mottled yelp, then the giant form crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

From behind, the warrior could hear the cheers of the handful of townspeople brave enough to watch the confrontation. He strode towards his fallen enemy and put his foot on the beast’s shoulder. Then he yanked his spear free and carefully inspected its shining silver point.

It was time to claim his prize.

 

The smell of smoke filled the farmer’s wood-framed house. The fire in the hearth had taken away the early morning chill and the warrior enjoyed the attention of more than a dozen villagers, all crammed into the small dwelling. The chickens, like most of the livestock, had vanished quickly over the past year since the wolf first appeared. Now there were only the crops. Even the farmer’s wife, Nashda, had fallen victim, her bloodless body found in the fields. She’d waited too long after sunset to return to the house. Masdic and the other villagers had laid traps and some of the hunters had sought the beast. None of the traps had ensnared the wolf and none of the hunters ever returned.

Now Masdic was losing his beautiful daughter, Racha. She was all he had left, but being free of the wolf was worth losing her to the stranger. The warrior was strong and they had made a bargain.

“Take her,” he said to the warrior, clasping the young man’s hands. “She is rightfully yours.”

The warrior smiled. It had been a very long while since he’d held a woman. His first wife, Marcella, had been killed seven years earlier by a pack of wolves in the forests north of Macedonia. He, Antiopus, had been schooled by philosophers and taught the art of war by seasoned warriors. He proved himself in battle time and time again, but when he saw a captured priest in Gaul suddenly change into a snarling wolf before his eyes and kill two of his men before being killed, he returned to Athens and sought out the wise men, obsessed by what he’d witnessed.

It was there he learned of the changelings, the werewolves and the vampires among the barbarians. Men who could change into bats and wolves, who could see in the dark and who preyed on the flesh of their enemies. He also learned of the legends of similar creatures in his native Greece. The world was now ruled by the iron-fisted Romans, for whom he had fought as a mercenary, but even the Romans avoided certain cities in the north — even the Romans traveled in sizable numbers on routine patrols in the snowy forest regions of Germany. Too many had been found dead under trees with their throats torn open and the tracks of large beasts in the snow and mud. Some, he had heard, had gone for miles and either vanished suddenly or, others said, changed into human prints.

Antiopus, in his studies, found that these creatures could be defeated through herbs and that various metals, and that two swords or spears, crossed, deterred them. He found that fear made them stronger and that they were relentless and without mercy. “When people sell their souls for immortality,” his old mentor Thelonius had told him, “they change and are utterly without remorse. They kill and die without regard to themselves or to the gods. Like the cyclops Polyphemus, who was savaged by the wanderer Odysseus, they rail against the heavens themselves. Or worse,” he said, “they will have you join them.”

So Antiopus had warred against them a bloody war. And now he was to be wed to the beauteous Racha as part of an agreement. A dark-haired woman of 23, she had been sought by many suitors from the time she was 16, but she resisted their offers to pursue a solitary existence with her father. Her mother was a vera-tum, taught the ancient rites of her ancestors. Nashda, among all the villagers, should have been the first out of the fields at sunset — should have been the last victim of the beast.

Now Racha was given in marriage, but Antiopus did not find her unenthusiastic. Not educated and erudite like Marcella, Racha was not without her charms. She was wise in the ways of the people she served in the traditions of the vera-tum.

“I was a visionary among my people, like my mother” she told Antiopus in their chambers on the wedding night. “Even though I was judged to be beautiful, men cared more for what I knew. They saw in me power.”

“Power as in knowing what others don’t?” Antiopus said.

“Yes. We who can see behind locked doors and into peoples’ hearts are a unique value. It is said we have great power. As for the women who labor in the fields, look at them! Their beauty fades with the daily kiss of the sun and wind. Their hands and faces grow wrinkled and worn, their bodies sag.”

“But we all grow old,” Antiopus laughed. “Some of my greatest teachers had wisdom borne of decades. It’s a natural part of our lives for mortals.”

“Yes, perhaps in Athens and Rome, where marbled temples rise to the gods and people have time to debate things they can never prove,” she said. “But did the beast you killed today not have a soul? Was he not striving for what he believed was a noble end?”

“That is not for me to say,” Antiopus replied sullenly. “The beast wasn’t just a beast doing what beasts do. It was evil. Once a man, it ruthlessly sold its immortal soul to mock the immortality of the gods. In return for eternal youth, it killed your people, slaughtered your cattle and deprived you of your livelihood. There was nothing noble about it. We Greeks see the evil and goodness that resides in man and worship an ideal. There are no beasts in our worship like the barbarians. The divinity of the gods shines forth in and through us — don’t you see that?” He smiled. “Such is the wonder of you, my love. When I first beheld you, I praised the gods for their handiwork. You are a veritable goddess, not like the women in the village. You’re different. Vera-tum, they said.”

“No,” Racha said, turning and suddenly pulling him to her. “I want you to look at me very closely, Antiopus. Look at my eyes.”

Antiopus looked and saw her dark pupils fairly glittering. Her long dark hair cascaded down her back as she looked up at  him. The smell of the exotic oil she had anointed herself with was intoxicating. Yes, she was beautiful! But there was no spirit of love or adoration staring back at him and her grip had become suddenly strong.

“You see in my beauty and youth perfection — everything you Greeks hold dear,” she said. “And you foolishly think it a gift of the gods.” She paused, still staring that mocking smile. What nonsense! There is a price for beauty and youth, husband, and one must be willing to pay the price.”

She playfully licked his neck and kissed his lips. “Ordinarily I would offer you the gift of immortality, but, you see, there’s the matter of the beast.” Her gaze bore full upon him. “He offered that gift to me and to my mother. My mother refused and paid her own price. I accepted and paid another price altogether.” Her face became intense and her eyes flashed. “He was the only one I ever loved and you killed him.” Then the anger was gone. She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue and kissed him again more sensuously on the lips. Removing his tunic, she licked playfully at his throat, stopping to suck and bruise the tender skin of his neck.

Antiopus shuddered involuntarily when he felt the two sharp dents of her teeth against his throat.

Racha laughed softly, then forcibly pulled him down on the bed and rolled over, straddling him. She whispered in his ear, “You are young, true, and ultimately you will evade old age. But, alas, it will be in death.” Tilting her head, she gave him a final, lingering kiss, then slowly sank her teeth into his neck.

Antiopus gasped and bolted, trying to force her away, but she held him fast. As she bit him, he felt a sudden sense of urgency, but then found he was unable, even unwilling, to resist. Tightening her arms about him, she began, almost leisurely, sucking the wounds on his neck. Antiopus marveled at her strength as she leveraged her own body to maintain her hold. He remembered the legends about the vampires and how he’d been told of the lamias, the most dangerous of all. They were the seducers of men, drinkers of blood. His right hand fumbled for the silver dirk he’d had earlier, but it had tumbled to the floor. Helpless, he embraced the woman and waited. Within moments the ceiling began reeling dizzyingly above and a sense of euphoria engulfed him. His strength fled, his breath became labored as he felt his life slipping inexorably away. The great warrior, in a final effort, struggled listlessly and in the end whimpered like a child. In the last few seconds he remembered dimly what she’d said about the price.

Then the world faded and he was gone.

 

The townspeople found the bloodless, torn body days later by a stream. Racha was never heard from again and was presumed dead. What began as a celebration had ended in tragedy. Masdic was grief stricken. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Wasn’t it Antiopus who had told them the stories of Theseus and Heracles — and how they rid cities of monsters, married and become great heroes? Now Antiopus was dead, his daughter dragged off by a beast as bad as the first.

Tears welled up in his eyes. The sun was setting, they had best take the body back to the village before darkness came. There would be mourning and lamentation.

Masdic turned, then paused. In the distance he heard it and was afraid — the baleful howling of a lone wolf.