The Wild Hunt (Challenge #169) -- PG-13

[librarian_7]

AN: This story was written for Challenge #169, “Trick or Treat.” Many thanks to Allegrita for reading and making (as ever!) excellent suggestions. There are some tricks, but the treats may be a little…darker. I wanted to bring in some old folklore relating to Halloween, and it seemed like a good time to go back to Josef’s early days as a vampire. This is not his finest hour—be warned. And be afraid, lest you are the next target of…

The Wild Hunt

The courtyard of the castle keep was filled with milling, mounted men and women. Horses nickered, stamping their hooves against the stones, and the riders chattered to one another, a current of anticipation running through them that bordered on hunger. In sconces around the walls, torches flared and burned fitfully, casting more shadows than light. Josef’s horse shied when someone crashed against him, trapping Josef’s leg between the hard round rump of another horse and the flank of his own mount. Josef hauled hard on the reins, cursing savagely. He was not used to this horse, and in the crowd he had to pay attention to controlling the dapple gray stallion. That did not keep him so busy, however, that he was unable to glare around and try to spot the one who had been so clumsy as to collide with him.

He saw at once that it was Angelique, her pointed face framed by a white ruff, gracefully seated with a straight spine upon her sidesaddle, looking every inch the noblewoman. He supposed he should not be surprised – large as the castle was, it was almost impossible not to run into Angelique from time to time. She certainly specialized in running into the young vampires of the castle, although last time he had seen her, she had worn considerably less than the heavy black wool riding costume that now graced her frame. Angelique the Unavoidable, Josef thought with a sour grin. He’d lay a heavy wager that her original name had been less sophisticated. Bertha, perhaps, or maybe Maud. But she’d changed, he supposed. They’d all changed. He remembered, a little too well, rolling off of her, the both of them covered in blood and sweat, bites and scratches healing. He wiped his mouth, involuntarily, at the memory, one extended fang catching slightly in the embroidery of his riding gauntlet. What they had done had borne little resemblance to the acts of love he remembered from his mortal days, and he was faintly revulsed. It had been exciting, but violent, and Angelique’s passion seemed made more of anger than of lust. He had not sought her out again.

She smiled at him, showing her own fangs. He thought she said something, but the din of horses and riders made it impossible to hear. He wasn’t much interested in anything she might say, anyway. He turned away, concentrating on the scene before him. He didn’t know how many vampires there were in the castle, not exactly. His sire had many fledglings, and many more—experienced—vampires to command. But they came and went, and a full hall one night might be half-empty the following. He was not inclined to seek friendships, here, in a place filled with competition for favor, a place of killing. Tonight, though, it seemed that all of his sire’s get were gathered, and Josef wondered what was planned. He’d been ordered to report to the courtyard at dusk, dressed for riding. And one thing he’d learned here, was not to question orders, only to obey. His natural impulsiveness remained, but he’d been taught to hold it in abeyance. No disobedience was tolerated, he knew to his sorrow. He was learning, he supposed, to bide his time. It had been explained to him that time was his ally, now. Patience meant survival.

At one end of the courtyard, a broad stone dais stood like a stage, and a horseman urged his mount up the broad steps. He reined the horse to face the crowd, and held both arms up for silence. Stanislaw, the castle’s Master of Horse, was a massive man, clad in black leather, and accustomed to being obeyed. He was not disappointed. Almost at once, all talk stopped, and even the horses quieted. Here, a bit clinked; there, an iron-shod hoof rang against the flagstones, but even that seemed muted.

Stanislaw smiled, the crude length of his fangs glistening in the flickering light of the torches. “Tomorrow,” he said, his deep voice carrying easily to the crowd, “is the Feast of All Hallows.” He made a broad gesture with one arm. “Out there, the peasants are cowering in their little houses, fearful that tonight the spirits walk.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Tonight, they think there are devils loose in the world.” He paused, and smiled again in a way that turned his face into a fearsome mask. “And they shall not be disappointed.”

The crowd roared in approval, and Stanislaw raised his hand again, the other controlling his curvetting black horse with an iron grip.

“Tonight, we ride through field and village, taking what we want.” And as another roar went up, he continued in a howl, “Tonight we are the Wild Hunt!”

A hundred voices, maybe more, took up the chant, “The Wild Hunt! The Wild Hunt!” Josef felt his blood surging, rising, and chanted along. He’d heard stories, in his childhood, of the spectral huntsmen who haunted the hills, carrying unfortunate souls away to dwell in the realms of faerie. It was a bad omen to catch sight of the Wild Hunt, and it was said that those captured to ride along, were doomed to ride forever.

Stanislaw gave a wordless bellow that seemed made of the night wind, the moon, and clouds, all crying out in rage. The great black horse, spurred by his rider, sprang forward off the dais into the thick of the riders below, and raced through the massive open gates of the castle, followed closely by the throng.

Josef had been almost at the back of the courtyard, and he was one of the last of the hunters to pass through the gates. He heard the iron portcullis clang to the ground, and glanced back over his shoulder at the gate, now in shadow below the dark stone towers of the castle. A vampire he didn’t know, riding next to him, laughed.

“Don’t worry, little fledgling. They’ll open the gate when we come home again.”

They rode a while through the cold fall night, the pounding of hooves accompanied by whoops and shrieks of excitement. Josef wondered where they were bound. He had not been allowed to roam the countryside since he had come to the castle, but he had been told that the nearest villages were obedient to the vampires, and thus protected, or at least as protected as any sheep living near a den of ravening wolves. Curious, he gradually worked his way up through the pack until only a few horses separated him from the leader.

Stanislaw never looked back, weaving his way down tracks hacked directly through the forest, across fields, skirting hayricks, plunging through streams. At least twice Josef smelled smoke, and knew that they passed near human habitation, but the Hunt did not turn in that direction. And once, as they passed, a stag, his coat gleaming silver in the moonlight, started from a copse. Some of the hunters turned aside, flanking him until one of them leaned down to seize his antlers, hauling the flailing beast across a saddlebow, to tear out his throat in a gush of black blood. The dying stag was passed from one rider to another, as if he weighed no more than a rabbit. Josef could smell the blood and the stench of fear and violent death. His fangs ran out, and he thirsted. He urged his horse forward, exulting in the night. There would be blood to come, and flesh to tear. He was certain of it. He knew it in the ache of his bones, and savage joy that filled his heart.

Field and forest, brook and lane, the leagues flew by, riders rising and falling in the pack, laughing and calling to one another, their voices eerie in the cold wind. Josef found himself galloping next to Angelique, as her horse began to tire. She cut at it savagely with her crop, but to no avail.

“Allow me,” Josef said. He folded his gauntlet away from his wrist, and sank his teeth through the skin. Before the wound could close, he reached out and nicked Angelique’s mount’s neck with a small knife from his belt, and pressed his bleeding wrist to the horse’s cut. As his blood mingled with the animal’s, the horse threw his head up and whinnied, as though in surprise, before bounding forward with renewed vigor.

“Nice trick,” Angelique called over her shoulder as she sped away. Her laugh hung in the night air like a peal of silver bells. Josef took a moment to wipe the knife on his thigh before seating it back into its sheath and spurring after her.

Miles passed, and Josef, as much is he was enjoying the chance to race unfettered in the night, wondered how long the ride would go on. Then, without warning, the headlong gallop paused, horses drawn up to a sudden halt, stamping and snorting and blowing plumes of steam in the cold night air. Josef looked up, and saw Stanislaw silhouetted against the sky at the top of a ridge, his cloak blowing back around him like the wings of some giant, predatory bird. He raised a hand, pointing toward the sky, and then dropped it as he urged his horse over the crest to disappear into the blackness with a cry that raised the hair on Josef’s neck. The others followed, streaming down the hillside with roars and yells of excitement.

A few hundred yards ahead of them, a village lay dreaming. A sizable village, by the standard of the time and place – almost three dozen wooden dwellings, a stone church, and even an inn. The hour was late; it was well past time for respectable people to be abed. Few windows showed light beyond the faint glow of a banked fireplace. As the Hunt approached, Josef could see the remains of a bonfire in the village square. That was an old custom, perhaps even older than the church. The people knew that on some nights it was best to gather together around a great fire, and keep the spirits at bay. Earlier, there would’ve been dancing, laughter, and stories told. And much beer consumed, maybe even wine for the more prosperous among them. He could make out a few dark and sodden forms stretched before the fire, watching to guard against windborne embers, or perhaps simply overcome with drink.

If they were meant to be watching, though, they were asleep on the job. It was not until the first wave of riders pounded, shrieking, into the main street of the village that anyone stirred. The men by the remains of the fire jumped up, but they were sluggish, slow-moving, and were seized by the vampires before they could even cry out. Inhumanly strong hands caught at hair and clothes, dragging them up across saddlebows, their throats torn out and gouting blood with no chance for escape. The vampires not fortunate enough to fasten on this easy prey screamed in frustration, adding to the commotion.

The attack brought some of the village men out into the night, waving what weapons they could muster. Josef saw the flash of an old sword here, the tines of a pitchfork there. A few carried hastily kindled torches. These proved to be an error – the flaming brands were snatched away and thrown onto the roofs of houses. Soon, ruddy flames danced across the rooftops, and Josef knew that more tender prey would quickly be forced into the street.

He was right. Peasant women, half dressed, with hair streaming and shawls clutched around their shoulders, rushed from danger headlong toward death. The wiser ones tried to break for the sanctuary of the church, but more stopped to wail over the bodies of their fallen men. Many had children by the hand, or clasped in their arms. At the sight of this bounty, some of the vampires abandoned their horses, attacking in a leap. The smell of blood was everywhere, the scent coiling like a serpent through the smoke of burning houses. For the vampires, all rational thought was lost. This was a feast, a terror to be drunk of deeply, without restraint.

The flickering light showed scenes from hell, everywhere Josef looked. He saw Angelique, drinking lustily from the limp body of a child, the white cloth at her neck soaked with blood and indistinguishable from the black of her dress. His own hands were not clean; he looked down at himself with a certain horror, realizing that his clothing was sodden with black blood. Looking away from himself, he heard sharper screams from some of the women, covered in shadow, and realized that not only blood lust was being satisfied.

A movement near him caught his attention, and he moved with preternatural speed to catch a young boy by the arm. He pulled the child to him, and fastened his teeth through the tender skin of the boy’s neck before the child could utter more than one piercing shriek. At the castle, feeding was usually formal, detached. Blood slaves were meant to be bled slowly, savored. This was wild, destructive, and it was all too easy to fall into a spiral of death after death. Josef drank deeply, the blood tasting of fear and dying, and it was sweet in his mouth. He dropped the lifeless body, and cast about for another victim. Another meal.

Eventually, though, Stanislaw signaled a call to horse, and the marauding band gathered and swept away into the night. Josef heard wailing and sobs behind them. So there had been some survivors. He found himself faintly surprised at that.

He had not, he thought, been such a bad person, in his breathing days. A sinner, as all men were sinners, but nothing out of the ordinary. Things had changed—he had changed—and all of a sudden, he was unsure of that. He’d been plucked from death, and had been made Death. If nothing else, the night’s hunt had shown him more of his new nature than he’d seen before. The glory of the blood, and the thrill of untrammeled power were magnificent, but he cared less for the view he’d had of the wreckage his freedom had wrought.

The ride back to the castle was long. A few of the party made halfhearted dashes into the forest in search of unwary game, but most of the animals, alerted by the blood smell, had hidden themselves, or fled. Most of the vampires were so gorged they had lost interest in further games, and even the cold caress of the night, as it descended into frost, could not rouse them much. Josef had found, ever since he had been turned, that he welcomed cold. But tonight, just now, as the eve of All Hallows slouched its way into All Saints Day, he turned up the collar of his cloak, and wrapped it around a chill inside that not even blood could warm.

[MickLifeCrisis]

It is perfectly reasonable to assume that Josef went through a period like this in his early vampire days. Or even much longer. A product of the times. To paraphrase Mick, think of all the history Josef's seen and lived through. Even Mick, having been turned in modern times, went through a phase not unlike Josef's. Well, without the horses.

Well written as always, and it creates quite the visual! Perfect for Halloween!

[darkstarrising]

Wow!! I've read this through a couple of times, Lucky, finding just a bit more to savor each time. There is so much here to discuss, but I'll pick just a few of your passages that caught my eye.

This is Josef not terribly long after his turning. He's still learning and this night ride from the castle is yet another chapter in his violent education. Darkness surrounds him, literally and figuratively and this night, he begins to revel in it.

Josef could smell the blood and the stench of fear and violent death. His fangs ran out, and he thirsted. He urged his horse forward, exulting in the night. There would be blood to come, and flesh to tear. He was certain of it. He knew it in the ache of his bones, and savage joy that filled his heart.

At the castle, feeding was usually formal, detached. Blood slaves were meant to be bled slowly, savored. This was wild, destructive, and it was all too easy to fall into a spiral of death after death. Josef drank deeply, the blood tasting of fear and dying, and it was sweet in his mouth. He dropped the lifeless body, and cast about for another victim. Another meal.

This is the untamed vampire Josef, joining in the frenzy with his brethren.

The smell of blood was everywhere, the scent coiling like a serpent through the smoke of burning houses. For the vampires, all rational thought was lost. This was a feast, a terror to be drunk of deeply, without restraint.

Your words, however, show restraint in describing another type of fiendish activity on the part of the vampire hoard:

Looking away from himself, he heard sharper screams from some of the women, covered in shadow, and realized that not only blood lust was being satisfied.

Yes, this is a dark portrayal of Josef, but considering the times and the point of his life, not an unrealistic one. He's little more than a fledgling and while he partakes in and enjoys the Hunt, there is a bit of human remorse:

If nothing else, the night’s hunt had shown him more of his new nature than he’d seen before. The glory of the blood, and the thrill of untrammeled power were magnificent, but he cared less for the view he’d had of the wreckage his freedom had wrought.

Wonderful, wonderful answer to the challenge, Lucky

[librarian_7]

Thank you so much for the comments! I always love writing historical Josef, partly because I have fun looking up information from whatever time period I'm dealing with. And it's always interesting to me to deal with "developing" Josef. I do sometimes wonder if Mick's angst will subside a bit after he's had a few centuries under his belt...I always find that perspective is a fine thing, and sometimes it only comes with age.

[allegrita]

I love this story. You do such wonderfully atmospheric storytelling, Lucky, I can see and hear and feel the scenes as they unfold. What I like about this one, aside from the obvious, is that it's the perfect illustration of how a person feels after they've done something terrible because while swept up in a mob mentality. As Mick says, vampires aren't the only monsters! Josef's actions are certainly not those of a human, but his reaction to them is very understandable to us mortals.

Josef's very comfortable in his own skin--and not averse to killing, by any means--by the time we meet him on the show, but he's not into mindless slaughter. He governs his instincts ruthlessly, using them as tools rather than being ruled by them. We can see the origins of the modern Josef here. He's young, and he hasn't learned to control himself, but he's already learning to be a consummate vampire.

[francis]

This is a great story, and great storytelling. Visceral, dark and strong. Josef is coming into his own and learning the whole spectre of what a vampire can do and feel. He's not comfortable in all of it, but likes the power he gained. In a world where hardly anyone is independent and free, he has gained a lot, having only his sire to listen to.
When he joked to Mick about the "good times" he sure didn't tell him everything.

[allegrita]

When he joked to Mick about the "good times" he sure didn't tell him everything.

Okay, that made me Brilliant comment!

[librarian_7]

When he joked to Mick about the "good times" he sure didn't tell him everything.

Okay, that made me Brilliant comment!

Pretty sure Josef has had his fair share (and then some!) of good times...the question remains whether this was one of them.