Wolves of Dacia – Chapter Eleven – The Dark Host

[Miki Yamuri]

Chapter Eleven – The Dark Host

(Wolves of Dacia – Anthony Burns, all rights reserved)

Commander Navarro’s report of a ‘massacre’ in the Romani camp had been somewhat exaggerated down the channels of communication, though its origin was grim enough. Having set up their camp in the glade, at a comfortable distance from both the sinister forest and the sepulchral ruins, the Roma had striven to make the best of a bad lot. As many of them were vehemently opposed to the notion of consuming the supplies that had been mysteriously left for them by the ‘resistance’, reasoning that they were almost certainly marimé and possibly even poisoned, Dorin assigned some skilled hunters, including Stefan and his apprentice Georgy, to forage in the nearby woodland. The harsh terrain and high altitude did not encourage a very diverse or edible range of flora, but there were birds, rabbits, deer, and the occasional wild boar to challenge the more intrepid marksman.
Not answering to this description, and also reasoning that anyone carrying a rifle was more likely to draw unwelcome attention to himself than someone merely setting a few snares, Stefan set to work on the latter task, assisted by Georgy. Small tracks led them to a dense thicket, and they had just set the first of their traps across the opening of a burrow, when shots rang out. Georgy fell at once, his silence in death compensated for by Stefan’s highly expressive panic as he fled the scene, alerting his fellow hunters before a second volley erupted from the murky depths, terminally silencing him. The surviving hunters fired a few haphazard shots into the impenetrable scenery, but did not hang around to ascertain their effectiveness. Keeping their heads as low as a hasty retreat would permit, they bolted back to camp and reported their news to the Rom Baro. Although they did not stop to account for their behaviour or their missing colleagues to any of the curious onlookers they encountered, that did not prevent them from leaving a great deal of rumour and anxiety in their wake.
************
“Didn’t I say?” asked Mihai, rhetorically but passionately, to the hasty assembly of elders. They had gathered for protection and discretion in the largest of the square, sloped-roofed military tents with which they had been supplied, though there had been no new enemy fire since the hunters had returned. Nobody, however, was in the mood for taking this as a good omen. “No good would come of setting up camp in this hellhole, I said. If you’d have listened to me in the first-”
“Then we’d have scattered like frightened sheep and the SS would be picking us off at their leisure, rather than trying to pin us down here,” interrupted Dorin, firmly, “assuming these are the SS. No one actually saw them.”
“They killed two of us. If that isn’t proof enough for you-”
“Maybe it isn’t,” said one of the elders, striving to sound diplomatic in spite of the tension which seemed to rise as the sun set, like a cold, leaden counterweight. “Dorin’s got a point, you know. There ain’t no shortage of folk round these parts who’d as gladly shoot a Rom as a rabbit.”
“Well it’s the same effing difference, isn’t it, if they’ve got guns and don’t mind using them?”
“We also have guns, though, and that might have given them second thoughts,” said Dorin, a shade more resolutely than he actually felt. “Now, if we only knew how many of them are out there … though I grant you it’s not going to be a safe job scouting out their positions-”
“And while you’re off playing boy scouts, like as not they’ll come down here in droves, killing everyone in sight, my daughter included, or do worse to her besides … except they won’t, as I’m taking her out of this so-called refugee camp, and I only hope the rest of you suicidal idiots follow suit,” announced Mihai, storming from the tent to such muted exclamations of protest as the assembly felt wise to make, bearing in mind they were eager to avoid panicking the rest of the camp. Even these became a little too loud for safety, and Dorin urged them all to silence.
“We can’t just let him go,” objected Serghei.
“If he’s determined, we’ll have our work cut out trying to stop him,” said Dorin, gravely. “Anyway, he’s liable to raise such a ruckus that we’ll end up with the whole camp in a rout, then we’ll be easy pickings for all and sundry.”
“You’re not just letting him run off into the forest with Nicoleta? It’s bad enough that my own daughter’s being held God knows where.”
“Follow him, Petre,” ordered Dorin, to one of the hunters who had reported the attack, “and if he protests, just trail him as discreetly as possible until he and Nicoleta are well clear of this place. Then return.”
“Right you are, Rom Baro. Just for curiosity’s sake, like … what do I do if I get back and I find everyone’s been … ?”
“Massacred? Thank the Lord you were elsewhere, and make the best of a lucky escape. I have better hopes … but get to it, anyway. If you should pass by one of the watch stations, radio this so-called ‘resistance unit’ and let them know there’s been an attack on us. I guess it can’t hurt now to risk meeting our ‘hosts’. As for the rest of you: I suppose you’ll not be much keener than Mihai on following my orders, now I’ve led you into this wretched predicament. I only ask that you hear me out before following his example.”
“We’re with you, Dorin,” answered Serghei, to some faintly sceptical murmurs of assent from the assembly. “I’m damned if I’m leaving this hellhole while that slippery old creep of a colonel’s still got my Andreea.”
“What’s to discuss, though?” asked one of the elders, not warming to Serghei’s martial tone. “You can’t be thinking of taking the fight to them,” he added, with dying hope.
“Apart from some cowardly sniping from deep cover, they’ve kept their distance,” pointed out Dorin. “We fired back. Perhaps that was more than they were prepared for. Facing armed opponents must be a novelty to those spineless butchers, or maybe they were just poachers or some fellow outlaws, and we strayed into what they thought was their territory. If so, they may well have retreated by now. If not, they must be planning their next move from a safe position.”
“If that’s the way of it, I’m all for blowing them out of it,” declared a second elder, with a hearty note of gratified vengeance. “Just pass me a rifle and point me in the right direction, and-”
“First things first, Jozsef, though I get where you’re coming from. We must protect our families, though. We’ll send out scouts – volunteers, I hope – and find out where those murderers are lying low. When we know their strongest and weakest points, we can organise an escape-route for our women and children – into the mountains, if need be – then anyone willing to fight can join me and strike them right where it will hurt the most. Since they’ve been stupid enough to squander the element of surprise, let’s not kick a gift horse in the teeth.”
************
“I’d call that a pathetic shambles, Sergeant, only I credit you with the keenness to have noticed that for yourself,” said Captain Meinert, ill-humouredly. They were crouching in deep undergrowth at the edge of the glade, overlooking the ominously still, silent Romani encampment. “I’d like to believe it wasn’t you who ordered that worthless peasant to start blazing away before we’d even scouted their numbers and positions.”
“Weren’t no order of mine, sir,” replied Lang, deferentially though with a hint of resentment that he would be suspected of such incompetence. “These local lads have been hitting the plum brandy and schnapps ever since we set out. Law unto themselves, though I’m amazed some of ‘em can still stand up, never mind shoot straight.”
“All too accustomed to the stuff, I daresay. It does seem to be a favourite pastime around these parts,” said Meinert, with a sneering glance at Brother Shandor, whom he had more than once seen resorting to such liquid solace during this expedition.
“Damn straight it is,” said Shandor, in a tone of grimmest sobriety, without returning the look. “If only your troops knew what it is you’re leading them into, they’d follow the example.”
Suppressing the pointless urge to further intimidate the already terrified monk, Meinert left him to his morbid reflections and turned back to Lang.
“Well, at least we now know that they have guns, Sergeant. Not that it makes our job any the easier, but we could have discovered that fact in worse ways.”
“True, sir. We’ve got them pinned down, if nothing else.”
“I should be deeply pissed-off if we are to settle for ‘nothing else’, though as they almost certainly outnumber us, I do take the point.”
“So what do you reckon, sir? We could radio the Luftwaffe for an air strike. A nice sprinkling of butterfly bombs ought to help even things out, and we can easily pick off any survivors who make a break from that camp.”
“I appreciate your diligence, but the gypsy scum are a side issue,” replied Meinert, much to Lang’s bewilderment, though he respectfully concealed it. “Our primary objective is to secure those ruins. Not to bomb the guts out of them. Truth be told, I’d have been happier if those vermin had all taken flight at the first shot rather than holding their ground, but I see no evidence of it, damn them.”
“Right you are, sir. What about poison gas bombs?”
“Better, Sergeant, but it still won’t do much for our military reputations to go whining to Cluj Airbase on account of a rabble of bothersome gypsies,” not to mention, he mentally added, that I would vastly prefer it if I did not have to disclose this location to High Command, and end up with someone else taking the credit for my discoveries. “In any case, I don’t see why we can’t manage a spot of Blitzkrieg ourselves, without calling on the fly-boys. What explosives do we have, Sergeant?”
“Four hand grenades apiece, and a couple of demolition blocks, sir.”
“We’ll keep the high explosives for later. We may have to clear a path through those tunnels, worse luck. As for the grenades, issue half of them to the auxiliaries. We’ll let those drunken hounds go in ahead of us. Let them go as wild as they please.”
“The state they’re in, sir, I don’t reckon as some of ‘em could chuck a grenade further than they could puke. They’re as likely to blow themselves to kingdom come as they are to kill any gyppoes.”
“As long as they can turn that camp into a complete rout, I don’t much care how they achieve it. They’ve made themselves useless for a well-planned assault, so they can damn well make themselves useful as ‘berserkers’. In the very likely event that they get themselves slaughtered, at least they’ll have softened up the opposition. Besides which, the fewer of these wretched half-caste mercenaries survive to collect their Reichsmarks, the better for our war effort.”
“You reckon they’ll be up for it, sir? They may all be rat-arsed, but I don’t know as they’re completely stupid.”
“Probably not if you or I give the order, but perhaps if it came from our monastic friend here, along with the assurance that we would be advancing right behind them.”
“If you think I’m ordering those men to their deaths-” Shandor attempted to protest, with more disgust than optimism.
“The alternative, Padre, is that we abort this mission and I book you a ticket on the next train to Dachau,” hissed Meinert, calmly but chillingly. “I’m sure the medical research unit there can find other ways in which you may be of service to the Reich … or parts of you, at any rate. I do hope that settles the matter.” Shandor’s silence, and the sickly look on his face seemed to confirm that it did. “In that case, be so good as to pass along the message. Sergeant Lang: arrange for the grenades to be distributed. God willing, I want this rat-hole purged within the hour.”
************
The following hour was marked by a deceitful tranquillity hanging over the dell and its environs like a shroud, while under the cover of tents, trees, and bracken the preparations for battle escalated. In spite of the circumstances being to neither of their liking, Dorin and Meinert had, in their ways, kept enough respect among their followers to keep the desertion rate at a minimal level, though not without exceptions.
“Stuck-up Saxon prick,” opined Grigore to his companion in flight, as they trudged back through the woods. “He wants to get all his boys slaughtered, fine by me, but I’m buggered if I’m getting my veins sucked dry for the likes of him. Speed it up, Markus, for pity’s sake. There ain’t no hope of us getting back to Brasov before nightfall, but I want to put as much ground between those Satanic ruins and ourselves as possible. The gyppoes are welcome to ‘em.”
“That lot are mad for black magic themselves,” replied Markus, with the unassailable air of authority of a man well versed in the fields of old wives’ tales and pub talk. “I reckon as they’re more than happy to be sharing a hideout with strigoi. Not that I’ve ever seen a strigoi, mind you. Have you?”
“No, and that’s a habit I don’t plan on breaking. If you don’t believe in ‘em, you be my guest and stick around.”
“I never said that,” protested Markus, firmly back among the ranks of the faithful. “I just said I ain’t never seen one, but I’ve known enough folks who say they have, or who’ve woken up to find their livestock half-dead with bites in the jugular, or who’ve up been in these woods and never been seen again, God rest ‘em. Damned if I want to find out what became of ‘em, though. Ignorance is bliss, as they-”
Whereupon any semblance of bliss was shattered by sudden noises from the undergrowth, although the first rush of icy, heart-gripping, bladder-loosening fear was brief for both of the veteran Iron Guard legionnaires. Though neither of them had any first-hand experience with vampires, they had enough preconceptions to imagine them as rather ethereal monsters, with impeccable stealth hunting abilities and solitary inclinations. None of these points squared particularly well with the incessant bickering which now approached them from the south, along with hoofbeats. Much as this was a reassuring turn of events, they were not in the mood for taking chances, and so they crouched in the shadows of a rock face that was pitted with many deep crevices, their shotguns at the ready, as the argumentative voices drew near.
“... give a toss what Dorin said. The lad’s gone soft in the head,” declared one particularly gruff and ill-tempered voice. “They all know it, but they’re too damn scared to think for themselves. Like bloody sheep they are, lining up for the abattoir. But if you think anyone’s dragging Nicoleta and me back there to get butchered, least of all a stripling like you, you’re in for a sore disappointment, Petre, so do us a favour and sod off before I have to knock you cold. Truth be told, I could do without the inconvenience of heaving your unconscious body up a tree to be safe from the wolves, so be sensible and don’t force me to it.”
“I wasn’t sent to bring you back, Mihai,” answered a second, younger, understandably nervous voice. “The Rom Baro just wanted me to tail the pair of you until you’d made it safely out of these woods.”
“That would be ‘tail’ as in ‘follow stealthily’, like? Well you’ll pardon me for mentioning you’ve made a right hash of that, boy. Having you along for the trip, we might as well hang bells from the horse and have done with it. Thanks for the thought, and all, but I’ve already got Nicoleta to worry about, so if you’ll oblige me by disappearing-”
The approaching party was now close enough to Grigore and Markus’ dark crevice for them to see that it consisted merely of three: a teenage Romani girl, on horseback, and two men. One was middle-aged and bearded, with a tough, wiry look, but barely armed, with only a knife in his belt. The second, younger, slighter man had a rifle, though he did not exude much in the way of warrior spirit. Nevertheless, that weapon definitely marked him out as the most serious threat, and with silent but well understood accord, both mercenaries fired their shotguns. From Petre’s perspective, the best that may be said of the situation was that he did not suffer, or if he did then it was only for the millisecond it took for the swarm of hot lead pellets to cover the distance from his skin to his vital organs. At all events, he did not have the opportunity to share in the nerve-shredding panic that Mihai and Nicoleta experienced, as they cast desperate glances all around, trying to ascertain from where the attack had come. Only a couple of seconds later, after the mercenaries had reloaded their shotguns, that question was answered as they stepped out of their hiding place and advanced upon the terrified Roma. Mihai’s hand leapt instinctively, and ill-advisedly, for his knife, but Grigore’s reaction was no less swift, and a third blast sent Mihai sprawling upon the forest floor, his still, shocked face rapidly losing colour while his loose white shirt, by contrast, grew increasingly redder.
“That’s two of these stinking pikeys down,” declared Grigore, as he pulled the cocking lever of his shotgun, with grim satisfaction. “What d’you reckon about her?” he asked, pointing his barrel in the direction of Nicoleta who stared down it, mute and trembling. “Think she might be nice to us … if she wants to see tomorrow, that is?”
“Maybe, mate, but I don’t know as I fancy chancing my arm … or any other part of me with some gypsy whore,” answered Markus, with a sneering effort at humour. “God alone what you might catch. Maybe we’d be safer off just tying her up naked, poking a few holes in her, and leaving her for the wolves to divvy up between ‘em. I don’t suppose they’d be choosy enough to- arrrgh!” he added, out of consideration for the fact that during their banter, Nicoleta had quietly extracted a sawed-off rifle from the saddle-bag and discharged it into him. It was no great feat of marksmanship, but at point-blank range it served its purpose, rupturing his intestines far too comprehensively to leave any hope that emergency first aid would be anything other than a wasted effort. “Little bitch effing killed me!” were Markus’ last, accurate words, before shock and internal bleeding brought about a merciful faint. Nicoleta tried to reload, but her trembling fingers were too clumsy to work the bolt before Grigore had covered the last few steps between them, swung his gun barrel like a club, caught her a crippling blow upon the left arm, and knocked her from the saddle.
“That’s done it for your chances, love,” hissed Grigore, as he moved to stand over his fallen victim. He kicked the sawed-off rifle out of her arm’s reach, not that she was likely to take that chance while clutching her badly bruised arm with the other, and with the muzzle of his shotgun inches from her face. “My mate, killed by some dirty gypsy trollop … Don’t think I’m leaving without taking proper dues for that. Get your clothes off, you slut, and quick about it. Quicker than that,” he added, as the trembling fingers of her still-mobile hand fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. “Think I give a shit about your arm? I’ll smash the other one for you, if you take much longer. Or maybe I’ll break all your limbs and strip you down myself. Serve you right, it would, and it’d be all the quick-”
The interruption that suddenly commanded his attention was no more dramatic than a subtle mechanical clinking sound, but one he was familiar with. His bladder loosening somewhat again, he slowly turned, and found himself looking down the spindly barrel of a Mauser pistol. For a fraction of a second the pistol seemed to be floating in mid-air, until his brain managed to discriminate between the deeply shadowed surroundings and the still darker shape that held it: a slender female shape, entirely clad in close-fitting garments of matt black, including gloves and a balaclava that left only her eyes visible. The fact that these were a deep, luminous shade of red might have unsettled him under other circumstances, but at present he had little attention to spare on anything other than her gun, steadily levelled at his cranium.
“Fair do’s, miss,” ventured Grigore, tremulously, as he dropped his weapon and raised his arms in a hopeful gesture of surrender. “I ain’t got no quarrel with the resistance, me. Me and my mate, see, we were having no part of that Hun captain’s doings, but I can tell you where him and his soldier boys are holed up. Always more’n happy to be doing my patriotic dut-”
The red eyes narrowed, an elegant, black-sheathed finger tightened on the Mauser’s trigger; and the sentence was left eternally unfinished. As Grigore slumped to the ground to take up his new career as compost, other black-clad figures emerged from one of the deepest crevices in the rock face, until Nicoleta was confronted by a platoon of about two dozen lithe, eerie figures, all carrying slightly out-of-date weapons and all with the same softly glowing red eyes. It was only the extremity of the fear and despair to which she had just been pushed, leaving her strangely apathetic to the prospect of being shot, which led her to the conclusion that their was nothing to be lost from appealing to the mercy of these guerillas, though it had not been very conspicuous in Grigore’s case.
“Please,” she began, whereupon fifty-odd red eyes swivelled upon her in perfect synchronisation. She continued, though even more disconcertedly. “My father … shot … Can you- ?”
“Get your arse over here, Corrigan,” interrupted the woman with the Mauser, “and check out the old hombre. The young one’s dead, all right – you can smell it a mile – but I can hear two heartbeats, and I’d say those hijos de putas were more likely to screw up a kill shot than I ever would be.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Commander,” said another of the shrouded figures, whom Nicoleta was only confident was a man from the deeper, reproachful tone of his Irish-accented voice, “but if you wanted to make things all that obvious to these tinkers, I don’t know why we had to bother with this damn silly get-up.” He said this in consideration of the fact that Nicoleta, having considered the commander’s curious remarks about being able to smell death and hear heartbeats; and having made the link between them, the guerillas’ red eyes, and their inhumanly silent approach; was now crossing herself frantically with her able hand. Giving her a wide berth, Corrigan walked over to Mihai, knelt beside him, and began extracting medical instruments and bottles from his black shoulder-bag, while adding, “This gear isn’t all that great for delicate work, you know. If we’re going to be carelessly forthright, can’t we at least be comfortable while we’re about it?”
“With all due respect to your jumpiness, I don’t think she’s likely to betray us,” replied Commander Navarro. Toning down her acerbic voice, she addressed Nicoleta. “How’s the arm, kid? Broken?” A nervous, weak shake of her head was all the answer that Nicoleta felt up to giving. “You sure? You want maybe our field medic can take a look at- ? Qué demonios!” she exclaimed, exasperatedly, as Corrigan cried out in pain, starting back from his patient. “What’s the matter with you now?”
“Fecking bread-crust in his pocket!” snapped Corrigan, reaching into Mihai’s jacket with a stick, impaling the offending talisman, and casting it far into the undergrowth before resuming his examination. “Damn superstitious peasants, don’t know what’s good for them ...” he continued to grumble, tailing off gradually as he undid Mihai’s shirt and set to work treating what proved to be a nasty but non-mortal shoulder wound. Nicoleta watched this whole scene intently, had her suspicions confirmed, and decided that now was as good a time as any to raise the point that was preying on her mind, even through her recent trauma and ongoing pain.
“You’re mulos … aren’t you? Vampires,” she added, instantly dispelling the uncomprehending looks most of the red eyes had returned her. “I don’t get it. Why are you helping us?”
“Does it matter?” asked Navarro, dispassionately. “I’d say all that matters for now is that we’re here to slaughter the SS and their amigos. If you’ll show us the quickest route to your encampment-”
“Yes … if you’ll take me back there with you,” declared Nicoleta, with a hard note of resolve that marginally impressed the commander. “I can hel-” she began, as she reached for the sawed-off rifle, but a fresh stab of pain in her crippled arm caused her to leave the statement as unfinished as it was unconvincing.
“No chance, kid, but you’ve done well,” said Navarro, approvingly, as she glanced at Markus’ body. “Your work? Wish I’d had the chance to do as much for those Franco-loving bastardos who murdered my folks. Stay here, and let Corrigan check that arm of yours, when he’s got a moment. The rest of you,” she said, more authoritatively, as she turned to face the assembly of red-eyed shadows, “check your weapons are primed and loaded, and get ready to move out.”
“Why even bother with guns?” spoke up one of the guerillas – another woman – in a French-accented and dangerously exultant tone. “It’s going to be full night soon, then we can take the mortal trash any way we like: with fang and claw, or even fly in from above and scratch their eyes out. Immeasurably more satisfying … I’ve been practising-”
“Good for you,” interrupted Navarro, stonily, “and for anyone else who’s been boning up on the director’s fancy-pants techniques, but if I catch anyone playing silly buggers out there tonight, I may have to shoot them myself. This is to be a quick and efficient operation: no nonsense, no prisoners, and no ‘feeding breaks’. That understood?” The replies were all affirmative, though some were mere grumbling murmurs of assent. “Fair enough, then. Let’s move out.”
************
“Like rotten fish in a barrel, they are,” whispered Jozsef, his advanced years of little hindrance either to his wilderness skills or to his lust for Nazi blood. From the cover of a thorn-choked thicket that no novice tracker would have believed a human being could have made a sanctuary of, the small party of Romani scouts observed the German positions. “I reckon I could get a clear shot at the sergeant from here, Dorin,” he added, passing an old, cracked pair of field-glasses to the Rom Baro. “What do you think? There ain’t that many of them, or not that I can see. We could do in most of the swine before they even worked out where the shots were comin’ from.”
“I pity us if they do,” said Dorin, sceptically, as he surveyed the sleek, black MP40s in the stormtroopers’ hands. “In case you hadn’t noticed, those are machine guns. If they just spray the forest with those, they need hardly bother aiming. I suspect it will feel a bit like being trapped in a woodchipper with a lot of red-hot ball bearings. In any case, we need to give the women and children plenty of time to evacuate before we even think about starting a massacre.”
“Show some spirit, Dorin,” urged Jozsef, quietly lining up his rifle. “It’s not as if it’s just us they’ll have to worry about. There’s Milosh and his group comin’ round from the other side. Soon as they give us the signal, we can all open fire at once, then they’ll find out just how much good their precious machine guns are to- What in God’s name?” he concluded, as the sound of an explosion cut short the conversation, and was soon succeeded by others, along with the distant but hideously unmistakeable sound of screaming. “They’re bombing the camp, the sneaking bastard Huns!” declared Jozsef, with heartfelt dismay and ill-advised volume, but Dorin’s hushed efforts at calming him proved unavailing. “My wife, sons … no time to get clear … Filthy murdering gadje! If it’s a slaughterhouse they want, I’ll give ‘em-”
The interruption this time was much closer, as Jozsef’s mounting fury reached the ears of the distant stormtroopers. They responded by unleashing a barrage of uncoordinated, but nonetheless deadly machine gun fire into the forest, splintering the trees of the thicket and ably fulfilling Dorin’s prediction about the woodchipper. Panicked by the outburst of gunfire and the excruciating tempest of wooden shrapnel in their confined hiding place, one of the younger scouts tried to make a break for it, and was almost immediately mown down. Doing their best to ignore his death-cry, amongst all the other painful distractions, the survivors pressed themselves closer to the ground, and those at the front of the group returned fire, their aim guided in the increasing darkness by the fireworks display of muzzle-flashes from the German positions. A gratifying scream rewarded their efforts, but the chaos persisted, and the continuing sounds of distant explosions from the camp gave their imaginations ample scope for horrific images. They continued firing, but to little avail. The flashes had now ceased, suggesting the stormtroopers had either scattered or taken cover, very likely needing to reload and reassess their tactics.
Deciding there was little to be gained by holding their ground, as the Germans might very well have marked their hiding place by the flashes of their own rifles, Dorin prepared to whisper the order for a slow, stealthy, crawling retreat, when the chaos reached a new and inexplicable level. Sounds of gunfire from the woods, and some unmistakably German expletives gave the distinct impression that the battle was continuing to rage, yet none of their party were firing.
“Must be Milosh’s lads,” declared Jozsef, jubilantly. “They’ve come through for us, jus’ like I said!”
“You can’t know that,” hissed Dorin, without much hope of instilling caution, though even he was shocked as Jozsef began to crawl forwards, emerging from their covert, then got to his feet. “What the hell do you think- ?”
“I’m through with all this skulking, Dorin. We should get out there and help our mates,” said Jozsef, firmly, as he fed a fresh clip into his rifle. Sensing that it would take more far time to reason with him than they had to spare, Dorin ordered the rest of the group to withdraw as planned, to trail the Germans stealthily, and to find new places of concealment from which to attack them. While the others retraced their steps, Dorin followed Jozsef out of the thicket and on his dangerously determined route straight towards the sounds of battle. They proceeded together in silence, more out of awkwardness than caution, as Jozsef was fixed in believing that the latter had outlived its usefulness. The howl of a nearby but unseen wolf – strangely hollow and resonant – gave them both a moment of intense uneasiness, but Jozsef quickly rallied himself upon hearing a voice up ahead, in much less eerie but far more detestable tones.
“Feuer frei, männer! Tötet sie alle!”
With a somewhat stealthier though still determined tread, and his rifle raised for imminent action, Jozsef edged his way forwards, slowly moving his aim left and right. Less enthusiastic but no less wary, Dorin followed suit, hoping at least to provide his old friend with enough covering fire to make a getaway, should they blunder right into an ambush. Suddenly, there was a soft, indistinct thud, and something rolled up against Dorin’s foot. Looking down, he was briefly relieved to see what appeared to be only a rock, but in the next second he discerned that the round, grey object was in fact a small metal canister. His bewilderment only lasted a further half-second, but upon recognising the object as the explosive head of a stick grenade, it seemed as if that one and a half seconds were the most atrociously misspent period of time in his entire life.
“Down, Jozsef!” he shouted, hurling himself forwards at the same time: an athletic manoeuvre that carried him several feet from the live bomb, but not far enough. The sound of the explosion directly behind him was excruciating, though mercifully short, as the pressure ruptured his eardrums in an instant. The searing heat and supersonic impact of the TNT blast were not so merciful, and by the time he hit the ground, Dorin was still alive, but a burned, beaten, tortured, and immobile wreck of a human form. Feeble but agonising stirrings failed to move him even inches from where he had fallen, or turn him upon his back, that he might at least have a clearer view of his surroundings and predicament. Looking out of the corner of his left eye, he caught the dull reflection of moonlight on black leather, which turned out to be a pair of jackboots advancing upon him, topped by a pair of loose, camouflage-patterned trousers. He could see no more, but the taunting accent of the man now standing over him, though only faintly heard through his perforated eardrums, was all he needed to confirm his hateful suspicions.
“Stirb, du zigeunergeschmeiß!”
Just get it over and done with, you son of a- thought Dorin, contemptuously, as the stormtrooper cocked his MP40, but the thought was interrupted by a bizarre act of salvation, though not an especially reassuring one. Just as he was aiming his weapon, the stormtrooper was bowled off his feet by a huge, sleek, grey shape that bore him to the ground, snarling. It carried him out of Dorin’s field of vision, not that he regretted being deprived the sight of what followed. The growls, the tearing, the rending, and the cries of agony went on for nearly a minute, before the victim might be confidently said to be dead. The cessation of these gruesome sounds was of no reassurance to Dorin, as it suggested the possibility that the wolf, having made short work of one meal, might presently be moving on to the next. Though Dorin had little hope of survival, he definitely preferred the options of a bullet through the skull or internal bleeding to being shredded apart, one morsel at a time. He was thus extremely surprised, though relieved when another pair of jackbooted feet walked into his sight, with a calm, measured stride. Perhaps the wolf had sated its appetite and gone, or perhaps this new soldier had shot it before coming to put Dorin out of his misery. As the figure knelt down on one knee beside him, however, his guesses and his grim sense of relief were both usurped by a chilling clarity.
An SS butcher would have been a blessed sight compared to the strange, slender figure that loomed over him. Her white face, red eyes, and pale blonde hair shone unnaturally, lending her, along with her night camouflage clothing, the look of a spectral, disembodied head, which would have been quite demoralising enough even without the embellishment of fresh blood all around her lips; over her bared, wolf-like teeth; and tricking down her chin. Her expression, such as it was, was very hard to read beyond the blood and fangs, save for a powerful impression of predatory craving. Dorin strained his injured limbs beyond endurance to crawl away from the mulo, and managed to cover a few hellishly painful inches before she reached out a hand and seized him by the arm. Her touch was, in the first moment, excruciatingly cold and constricting, but that moment passed quickly, as a soothing, tingling sensation spread out from the area of her grip, anaesthetising not only the pain she was causing him but also that of his extensive wounds, as it travelled through his whole body. That was of strictly limited encouragement to him, as it did not seem to actually heal any of the damage, and it also completely numbed what weak powers of motion he still possessed. Apparently satisfied at this result, the mulo cradled his body in her arms – a humiliating posture that forced him to look her full in her demonic, lustful face – and she spoke to him in what she might have supposed to be a compassionate tone. In spite of the ringing in his ears, he heard her voice with absolute clarity.
“You’re dying. I can sense it. Corrigan couldn’t save you, and we’re not permitted to convert without orders from the director. I can hardly apply for those, now,” she rationalised, with irrepressible desire. “So … it would not be merciful of me to leave you here to linger away in pain, would it? Don’t worry. I shall make this very easy for you, just like drifting into a nice, pleasant sleep. So pleasant,” she whispered, while laying a hand upon his head. The warm tingling in his head increased while his consciousness began to fail, which was by no means an unwelcome development. He did wish, however, that she might have waited until he was fully comatose before her face, fading into darkness, descended upon him, her bloodstained mouth opening wide in an expression of psychopathic exultation, prior to clamping around his neck. True to her word, the experience was painless, but thoroughly loathsome, and he might have died in absolute despair but for the sheer bewilderment he derived from the last words he heard, shouted in a furious Spanish accent, as his physical senses finally shut up shop.
“Claudette, you stupid, greedy little maquisard bitch! What did I say, and what do you think they’ll do if they find him like that? If you don’t help me hide this corpse good and proper, I swear I’ll ...”