XXVII - Plague Doctor vs Werewolf Hunter

  The icy, howling wind tossed Vlad’s hair with each fresh gust. He hardly felt its frigid sting.

  Gaston stared at the Plague doctor. He wore a playful smirk beneath his moustache, which also danced with the boisterous winter squalls. After what felt like ages, he spoke. “Very well, then.” He drew his slender rapier; its steel hissed against the leather of its sheath as it came free. “If it is a duel you are after, Plague doctor, then I am all too happy to oblige.”

  Poniard, sensing her master’s fresh danger, stepped forward and snarled at Vlad. Gaston placed a gentle hand on the canine’s head, immediately calming her. “Fret not, my loyal pet. I shall handle this rapscallion on my own.” He pulled his musket free from his back and handed it to the waiting dog, who took its barrel in her mouth. “Hold this for me until the battle is won.”

  Sybil looked at Gaston, then back at her mentor. “Are you certain a duel is the only way to resolve this, Mr. Albescu?”

  Vlad glanced at her. “I would not resort to this unless I deemed it absolutely necessary, Night Owl. Mr. Dupont has made it quite clear that words alone will not sway him. But worry not. I do not intend to kill this fool—I merely wish to slay his reputation in this village. Once he is properly humiliated and his spectacle is put to an end, the villagers will lose faith in him and we should have an easier time of convincing them to take shelter before the lycanthrope arrives.”

  “Alright. But be careful, and do not underestimate him.”

  Vlad turned away from her and once again faced his foe. “Naturally, my apprentice. This man may not be a strigoi, but that does not mean he lacks any and all talent with a sword. I will not consider the fight finished until it is properly won.”

  With that he left her side and approached the center of the square. Gaston did the same; Poniard looked unhappy to see him go, but she dutifully stayed back with Arne and Fiora.

  “Teach this old fool what happens when you cross Gaston Armond Dupont!” Fiora said.

  “Aye,” Arne agreed. “Show him no mercy, Gaston. Make him regret the moment he turned that glittering sword of his in your direction.”

  Gaston turned and offered his companions a reassuring grin but said nothing. He faced his opponent once more and continued his walk toward where the two of them would meet.

  And meet they did.

  They stood with barely a meter between them. After glaring at each other for what felt like several more minutes, they both took their preferred stance: Gaston readied his rapier into a one-handed thrusting position, while Vlad held his longsword in front of his chest with both hands gripped tightly around its hilt.

  “If you are properly ready, Plague doctor, then I would like to get this opening act of ours underway.”

  Vlad nodded. “I hope you are alright with it being a rather quick performance.”

  “Quicker than you may even realize.” Gaston brushed a stray length of hair away from his face. “En garde!”

  And so their clash began.

  Vlad, hoping to end the duel as quickly as possible, launched forward with a swift, powerful two-handed strike. Gaston raised his rapier in order to block Vlad’s attack—which was precisely as the Plague doctor intended for him to do. With any luck, his opponent’s slender blade, which was not meant to stand up to a sturdy longsword like Vlad’s, would buckle under the impact of his blow. Their swords connected with a shrill ring; to Vlad’s dismay, Gaston’s blade held firm. Both men dug their feet into the cobblestone ground and pressed against the junction of their weapons with all of their strength, neither one of them giving any ground.

  Gaston smirked from the other side of the locked blades. “Did you truly believe that your victory would be so easy as to charge me and snap my blade in twain, Mr. Plague doctor?” he said. “If so, I hate to be the bearer of ill news. For you see, this sword was forged in the very heart of the Mines of Minerai, and is practically indestructible. It is more than capable of resisting the might of your own weapon.”

  They remained with their blades locked for another few moments before Vlad pulled away from the encounter. He twisted out of reach of his opponent’s sword, then turned to face the younger man with his own weapon held firmly in both of his hands. “So your blade is capable of matching my own,” he said. “Let us see if the same cannot be said about its wielder.”

  Vlad slashed at his opponent once more. Their blades met between them three more times before Gaston swiftly dodged a fourth blow; he retaliated with a lunge at Vlad’s chest, which the Plague doctor handily parried.

  “I am no fool, Mr. Dupont,” Vlad said as they both stood on guard, swords at the ready. “I know why you chose to draw a crowd to this square, and it is not merely for your love of a spectacle. If you are not in league with the lycanthrope, then you brought them here so that you could lure the creature out—you knew that a large gathering such as this would attract the beast, and you intended to use these innocent onlookers as bait in order to feed your egotistical hunt.”

  “And if I did?” Gaston said. “You fail to recognize one simple fact, Mr. Plague Doctor, which is that I am Gaston Armond Dupont. As long as I am here to defend these good people from the beast, then there is no danger—for not a single drop of their blood shall be spilled while I am present!”

  “If you truly believe such a fallacy, then you are an even greater fool than I first suspected!”

  Vlad sliced at Gaston with an overhead chop. The swashbuckler blocked the incoming blow, as well as two more. He quickly loosed an attack, but Vlad parried his lunge once again and retaliated with a stab of his own. Gaston avoided the blade, but his dodge forced him to step backward; Vlad seized the opportunity to take Gaston’s forfeited ground, and launched into a series of one-handed slashes and swipes that the swashbuckler, despite his younger body, struggled to keep up with. Soon Vlad was pushing his foe back several steps with every blow, and it only took them a short while before both of them made their way out of the square and down a nearby alleyway. Vlad’s sword arm began to burn with the exertion, but he refused to allow the discomfort to hinder his assault; he pressed his advantage, continuing to rain down the flurry of blows onto the swashbuckler, who was also panting wildly with the effort. Their icy breaths existed as a collective cloud between them, giving off the illusion of a light mist that enveloped their battle.

  Gaston grew sloppy with his swordplay; his footwork became lazy and sluggish. Vlad knew that his foe, likely not accustomed to such lengthy bouts with skilled opponents, would soon be out of energy. The Plague doctor only hoped that he could hold out for long enough to watch the younger man finally fall.

  The street around them grew more narrow the deeper into its bowels that they went. Without realizing it, Gaston led them onto an arched cobblestone bridge that spanned the river winding its way through the heart of the village. Beneath them surged an icy torrent of water that sent a chill racing upwards into the air. Vlad’s exertion was too great for him to feel this fresh cold, and he was sure that his opponent felt the same way. Gaston’s energy looked to be nearly depleted. He huffed violently with every new meeting of their blades; his sword arm flailed with each fresh impact. Either he would soon fall, or knowing that his defeat was imminent, he would grow desperate. Vlad was prepared for either outcome. He understood already that the battle was his.

  Gaston planted his feet and rushed forward, attempting one final lunge at his foe before his tired legs finally gave out beneath him. Vlad parried this blow like so many before it, and this time the rapier escaped from Gaston’s hand; it clattered to the stone surface of the bridge just as his knee fell to meet it there.

  The swashbuckler panted wildly as he desperately tried to regain his breath. His face was red with both the cold and the effort of their duel, his hair slick with sweat and hanging down into his face in many long, wet strands. Vlad, himself tired but with enough strength left to remain standing, thrust the tip of his sword toward Gaston’s dampened neck, stopping just before it came in contact with his clammy flesh. Gaston looked up at him with pained, pleading eyes—if he held any anger at his defeat, it was masked by the exhaustion and humiliation that he most certainly felt.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “There,” Vlad said between pants of his own as he pulled his blade away and returned it to its scabbard. “It is over, werewolf hunter.”

  A sudden, ear-splitting howl cut through the surrounding air like the many gusts of screaming winter wind. Vlad and Gaston both looked around frantically, each of them searching for the source of the sound. Due to the Celestial Curtain, it was brighter outside than it normally would have been at that hour; the Plague doctor only just noticed that the sun was now entirely gone from the sky, having been replaced by the fresh moon during the course of their battle.

  “It is time,” Gaston said.

  Rising to his feet, he mustered what strength he had regained during his brief respite and rushed at the unsuspecting Vlad. The swashbuckler shoved the Plague doctor in his chest, forcing the older man to stumble backwards and lose his footing against the low wall of the bridge.

  “You fool!” Vlad yelled as his body toppled over the wall. He never had a chance to reach for the ledge of the bridge before he was falling toward the icy water below.

  Gaston, smirking triumphantly, watched as the older man fell. “My apologies, Plague doctor. Such tactics are usually beneath me, but desperate circumstances call for uncouth actions. Now if you will excuse me, I have a village to rescue.”

  Vlad hit the frigid deluge below the bridge while Gaston spoke his second sentence. The last thing he saw before being swallowed by the rushing water was the werewolf hunter picking up his rapier and turning to walk away. Vlad’s vision grew blurry as his head sank below the frigid river, the water enveloping his eyes and face and body.

  And then his world was cold.

  ___

  The harsh sound of the howl echoed off of the surrounding buildings and made the frigidity of that dark winter evening feel even more terrible than it already was. Everybody in the square glanced around as quickly as they could, frantically searching for the source of that nightmarish voice. They could not yet see its source, but they all understood that the beast was close—and from the sound of its ravenous scream, it was clearly primed to kill.

  Another howl rushed through the square. The monster had gotten closer. It had certainly detected the gathering of warm bodies in that little plaza, and it was intent on reaching them so that it could sate its growing bloodlust. The thing either had no control over its own voice, or it was so excited by the large gathering of prey that it did not think about or care if its vocalizations frightened away its potential quarry.

  “Oho!” came the familiar voice of Gaston. “It would appear that I have arrived just in time.”

  Sybil, as focused on searching for the beast as she was, managed a quick glance in the direction of the approaching swashbuckler. When she saw the man, sweaty, smirking, and very much alone, she was nearly seized with panic.

  “Where is Mr. Albescu?”

  “I am afraid the good Plague doctor is currently indisposed. And perhaps a bit more wet than he would like.” Gaston reached his companions and collected his musket from Poniard, who stood on edge, her throat kept busy by a persistent growl. “Thank you, my pet.” He turned and looked at Sybil as he slung the firearm over his back. “Your mentor will have to miss the ensuing festivities.”

  Sybil wanted to press the matter further, but she would not have a chance. Another howl, this one so loud that it nearly shook the very ground beneath her feet, resonated through the square. The creature was closer than ever. Her body began to ache and itch, as if the beast’s gaze was currently locked onto her and was crawling all over her flesh like a swarm of large, hungry bugs.

  Besides Poniard, who Sybil soon realized had been glaring at the beast for some time, Fiora was the first of them to finally spot it. She pointed toward a building on the far side of the square, almost directly opposite from the church where she and her companions stood. “There!”

  Everybody followed her finger to where the large, imposing silhouette loomed atop the building’s slate roof. It stood upright, though slightly hunched, and looked mostly humanoid in its form, albeit much larger than any person could ever hope to grow. Its long, thick arms almost reached down past its knees, and even though it was presently nothing more than a hulking shadow, Sybil could tell that the thing was covered head-to-toe in thick, wild fur. She had no doubt that the shape on the rooftop was the thing that had produced the earlier howl, and anybody who held any doubts about that fact quickly had them crushed when the thing tilted its snout toward the firmament and released another shrill, heart-piercing screech. Sybil felt as if she had been frozen solid by the sound, and when the beast leapt from the rooftop and landed on the ground below, she fully expected the force of its impact to shatter her into thousands of tiny, icy pieces.

  She did not turn into frigid dust as the thing hit the cobblestone ground, landing on all fours. Part of her wished that she had.

  The beast rose back onto its two massive feet and took a handful of sinister, lumbering stomps toward the center of the square. Villagers who had been standing near the building that it had descended from stood petrified in absolute, overwhelming fear. Their terror may have saved their lives, as their lack of movement allowed them to go undetected by the beast, which never looked back at them as it approached the heart of the plaza. It was in that moment that Sybil realized something that sucked the air from her lungs: she stood alone in the center of the square, directly in the creature’s chosen path.

  It was coming right for her.

  Burning torches rested in tall sconces throughout the square, but the powerful light of the young moon was all that was needed to chase away the blackness from the creature’s form as it approached. Its milky, vacant white eyes, sick with fury and hunger, were the first part of it to be exposed as they absorbed the moonlight and cast it back into the nighttime gloom with cutting, malicious intent. Dark shadow gave way to thick, brown fur and revealed a set of long, sharp teeth that protruded from either end of its vicious maw; unlike a strigoi, the werewolf was not limited to two distinct fangs, but instead boasted a mouth full of powerful stilettos ready to and intent on ripping its chosen victim limb from limb, assisted by the equally deadly claws that protruded from either of its hairy manuses.

  It took another step toward her; then another. Sybil was surprised that the thing did not rush forward in a blind fury. She quickly figured that it was exercising a rare display of caution due to the situation it found itself in: it had likely never seen so many people gathered in one location before, and while it was excited, its canine senses had also become temporarily overwhelmed by all of these new sights, sounds, and smells. Wanting to take advantage of this moment of confusion, Sybil drew her crossbow from her back and took aim, a silver bolt already loaded and ready to fire. But her hands were quivering too rapidly for her to properly target the beast, and even if she could, she doubted she would find the strength to let her quarrel fly.

  Never in her life had she been so desperate for Mr. Albescu’s presence. It was her first time facing a creature of this sort without him there to guide her, and his absence had her feeling completely numb. Her month’s worth of training suddenly vanished from her, her honed skills and sharpened body abandoning her when she needed them the most. Despite all that she had been through, all that she had learned, she was mere moments away from becoming the werewolf’s next victim in what was likely a string of many more to come. She supposed she should have been happy that, at the very least, she would not live to see the coming slaughter.

  Sybil suddenly felt a presence next to her. She turned her head, half-expecting to see Vlad squared up beside her, but instead was greeted by the visage of Gaston Dupont. He wore a broad grin and held his rapier in his hand while he used his other to brush his sweaty auburn hair from his face.

  He was only next to Sybil for a brief moment. Gaston passed by her at a brisk pace, making his way toward the approaching beast, which still lumbered forward slowly and with an excess of caution.

  “What are you doing?!” Sybil called to him. He did not respond.

  Gaston came to a stop less than a meter in front of the lycanthrope, which also halted its approach. The beast towered over the man and looked down at him with its pair of hungry, hateful white eyes, its nostrils flaring up and down above its exposed, drool-drenched fangs. Sybil doubted that the brutish thing had ever been so brazenly approached by a creature that it would normally perceive as prey; for a long time it could only stare at him as it tried to assess the situation and determine how it wanted to proceed.

  “I must admit that I have never seen a werewolf quite as large and fearsome as you,” Gaston said. “You are certainly a terror—truly an impressive beast. But a beast is all that you are, and like all beasts, you can be slain. And slain you shall be.” He reared back his sword and aimed its tip at the lycanthrope, preparing to thrust. “Slain by the mighty Gaston Armond Dupont, and his indestructible—”

  The werewolf launched one of its massive arms at Gaston’s sword and severed the blade with its mighty claw, slicing it clean from its hilt. The useless blade clattered to the ground as all onlookers watched the scene unfold in stunned silence, none of them able to move or think or even gasp in terror.

  Gaston did not have a chance to react. He could only stare at his bladeless sword for a fraction of a moment before the beast struck again. This time its clawed manus caught him in his torso and cleaved through his heavy winter garments as if they were thin layers of parchment. The force of the blow knocked him from his feet and sent him twisting through the air, a stream of crimson blood splashing to the ground behind him as he went. Gaston landed on the ground with a violent crush several meters away and tumbled a few more feet as the momentum left his ruinous body. If he screamed from the agony of the blow, Sybil never heard it; her mind was too clouded by her own terror to have noticed such a thing.

  Everybody in the plaza could only stare on in shocked horror at the scene that had just unfolded before them. None of them moved. None of them even so much as breathed.

  And then the panic began.