The first Cadre of trained Vampyre killers embark on their maiden hunt. (CAUTION: 1797 bias, perspectives and prejudices are reflected in this article that are not those of the author. Also contains graphic violence.)
April 4, 1792
The schooner, DE TROGEN HUSTRU (The Faithful Wife)
somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean –
en route from New Castle, Delaware, USA, to Stockholm, Sweden
Stateroom of Jarl Arne Hagglof
at the dinner table: Gunnar Ekholm and Gustav Stierneld
The accomodations on board De Trogen Hustru are superb. Gunnar Ekholm has never traveled in such luxury. His military exploits and Indian Wars experiences have inured him to the very harshest conditions when traveling. Rarely has he heard of passengers on a ship having their own staterooms and beds – the privacy of his trip is positively intoxicating. A window portal – and ocean breezes. Having his own bed – in his own room – is outstanding. Jarl Hagglof and “Andreman” Stierneld are good travel companions – they’e not overbearing and intuit that Ekholm is most content when in solitude. They give him a wide berth – and leave him to his own counsel and thoughts. But tonight’s dinner is all about the future. Much is to be decided. Gunnar is ready to hear what they have to say because – dead men have few options……….
By his estimation, he’s been dead and buried for about three weeks. The same day De Trogen Hustru left port in New Castle, Delaware for Stockholm a casket containing rocks from a collapsed field wall was buried at the Methodist Church graveyard in Vineland, New Jersey. Minister Holgar Wetterstedt delivered an empassioned eulogy about a”genuine Revolutionary War Hero who was killed during a hunting accident”. The soapstone grave marker, rushed to completion by stone cutter Brenner Tyborg, bears one name: Gunnar Ekholm. There’s a date of birth, a date of death and a cross.
Gunnar Ekholm is to receive a new identity today – and be reborn anew. The Indian Fighter tonight will be told his name and be awarded his “Rune”.
Jarl Hagglof and Gustav Stierneld greet him warmly as he enters Jarl Hagglof’s stateroom. Food and drink is already on the table. He’s been told there wil be a ceremony. Candles have been lit and lend a comforting ambiance to the room.
“Ah! So!!! Here is our Indian Fighter!!! , announces Hagglof.
“Please let us welcome you into our association – from this night forward you are one of us – a member of De Sverige Broderskap!”
Gunnar takes his seat at the table. It’s all quite surreal. Here he is, a American ex-soldier from the back woods of New Jersey……..sailing for the “Old Country” and taking on the identity of a different type of warrior……..a protector of his Tribe – a killer of Vampyres. Being branded into a brotherhood of fellow Swedes……..
He is proud and humbled at the same time. He reflects on the word – Tribe. He recalls how utterly fearless Iroquois braves would charge into scouting parties of Continental soldiers in the Ohio Valley during the Revolution. They’d battle Americans hand-to-hand without regard for their meager numbers or hungry stomachs, single-mindedly focused on killing as many of their enemies as they could in the moment. They fought for their Tribe – for their way of life. They had no mental picture of a Flag or a country – or a Constitution. All they knew was their brother fighting next to them. Their struggle to preserve their way of life. All else was abstraction……..all else was unimportant. Their families relied on them. The lives of their people hung in the balance.
It was about Blood. That precious something you carry inside you and shed for a cause greater than yourself.
Jarl Arne Hagglof, looking solemn, addresses Gunnar Ekholm.
“You have made a choice. Choices have consequences. You choose to join De Sverige Broderskap. I am an Officer of our Brotherhood; I have authority to identify and recruit new members. My “Andreman” or Second-in-Command, Gustav Stierneld concurs that you are, indeed, the person we are searching for. We both sponsor you into our ranks. We expect great things from you. Please extend your left hand, palm downward, on the table.”
Gunnar does what he asks. Jarl Hagglof rises from his chair and walks over to a small brazier, glowing with charcoal at the far end of his stateroom. He returns holding what looks like a branding-iron, glowing cherry-red in the flickering candlelight of the room.
“Look away, Gunnar” Hagglof says, his voice gentle but firm.
Suddenly, searing heat tears through the top of Gunnar’s left hand. He instinctively looks at his extended, now-wounded limb, mouth open. He makes no sound – but can’t resist his temptation to look.
“This mark is your Rune…………” Hagglof explains. “Most of us in De Broderskap wear a Rune – it is a mark that identifies us in case we fall in battle and a symbol of our fidelity to the great purpose we serve – our Tribe. Your Rune is the ELHAZ.…..it means Protection and Defense.”
Andreman Gustav Stierneld hovers nearby and pours French Brandy over the fresh wound. The sting shocks Gunnar once more into studying the mark on his hand.
It looks like a capital “Y” with an extension up the middle, through the center of the open left and right “Y” arms. A three-armed “Y”, as it were. Or maybe a pitchfork?
“Of course, a Rune is only one part of your new identity” Hagglof continues. “We know that Cumberland Tract Sheriff Gunnar Ekholm was buried a few weeks ago in the small Methodist cemetary in Vineland, New Jersey……….he’d suffered a hunting accident, I believe……
You are a new man – hence require a new identity. We have knowledge of many families in our Country of Sweden, their births, deaths, tragedies…….and we have selected the name of a man who served De Brodenskap on an island of the Netherland Antilles in the Caribbean – in place called Aruba. It is a sugar plantation island that the Dutch seized from Spain in 1636 during the Thirty Years War. The Dutch West India Company sent their favorite functionary, Peter Stuyvesant, to establish commercial sugar plantations there for the production of molasses. Most of these sugar companies were financed by investors in New Amsterdam – later, New York – and Sweden. There is big money in Rum, a popular liquor – as you know – commonly distilled from molasses. It’s a huge market.
Accordingly, De Broderskap assigned their own man – Folke Hakan – to oversee Swedish investments in the sugar trades of Aruba and the Dutch East India Company. He’d recently sailed from Orangestad, Aruba to New York to settle bulk contracts for molasses when his vessel was lost with all hands in a storm off Cape Hatteras in North Carolina. His body was never found – until now….……
Folke Hakan was your age, height and build. He had no wife or family. He was an only child from a well-born, landed family in Ahus, Sweden. His mother and father died years ago. We will arrange for his estates in Ahus to legally pass to you after we complete your Consecration at Upsalla. You will require official documents attesting to your birth, Swedish citizenship and ownership of the Hakan fortune and lands. We will travel to the Hakan Estates in Ahus after Upsalla where you will meet your new overseers and estate-hands. De Sverige Broderskap will take care of all details.
Interestingly, Folke means “of the people”. It describes you perfectly, Gunnar. The name Hakan, however, merits some discussion. In Old Swedish, Hakan means “the noble one”. Those of this blood line have long and established ties to Swedish royalty. A Hakan eldest male is a “Jarl” by virtue of his estates in Ahus. These estates were awarded by Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus to General Bjorn Hakan, who fought with distinction for Sweden during the Thirty Years War in the early 1600s.
Your new personna will require you to make certain changes.
First of all, you’ll have to get used to people addressing you as Jarl.
When we booked your passage on De Trogen Hustru we used an alias – Benjamin Cooper. Once we disembark in Stockholm we will start referring to you as Folke Hakan. You will immediately require a change of clothes….buckskins will be no longer permitted. And you’ll have to trim your magnificent red beard. You are not a Berserker.……you are now a member of the Swedish landed gentry – a brother “Jarl”. A man of Estates and titled prerogatives. You will learn our ways in your own good time; your Swedish must be polished up a bit, however. Swedish tinged with the vernacular of Vineland, New Jersey might give you away in our homeland. Be careful of this.
We will also journey to Eskiltuna in Sodermanland to the Specialitet Svenskt Stalverk. The manager, a fellow Broderskap member named Hjalmar Axelsson, will arrange for the creation of a custom-forged Swedish steel knife – to your specifications, of course – to replace your “Cuttoe”. By the looks of it, your tried and true friend needs to be retired. Swedish steel is the very finest – and the Specialitet Svensk Stalverk is the best forging facility in Europe. I’m sure they have a variety of Viking Seax examples there that will intrigue you and pique your interest.
De Sverige Broderskap will provide you with everything you require to embark upon your new life – to hunt and destroy Satan’s minions on Earth. You will never lack funds. And – you will never hunt alone…….our finest Varangian brothers will be at your side in whatever numbers your require. They are indominable Slavic warriors of unquestionable loyalty who bear their own left hand Rune: an Orthodox Christian Cross.
Welcome to your new family, Jarl Folke Hakan! ”
Romani Festival
Saintes Maries de la Mer,
Bouches-du-Phone Region,
Canton Aries,
France
January, 1797
Folke Hakan and his Varangian sidekicks Janusz Vyshnia and Dmitri Kuleba arrive in Saintes Maries de la Mer, France late on a Monday. They sleep in the back of a farm wagon, taking care to secure their horses at stables used by the Gendarmerie. The fee is steep – but the Constables keep an eye on their mounts. It’s worth it. Why all the caution?
The area is crawling with unsavory Romani Gypsies. Thieves, whores, scoundrels and all manner of reprobates. This scum of Europe comes here for their “Festival” every five years to take a ritual bath (probably their only bath all year) in the ocean waters of Saintes Maries de la Mer in homage to their patron saint: Saint Sara Kali – also known as Saint Marie “the Black”. She’s also known as Saint Sara the Egyptian………or by the name most Christians know her – Mary Magdalene.
Supposedly, Joseph of Arimathea took charge of Mary Magdalene and stowed her on his boat to get her out of Jerusalem following Jesus’ crucifixion. He owned tin mines in England and regularly sailed there to transport tin ore back to the Levant to sell for handsome profits. Somewhere off the coast of Marseille, France, they were beached by a storm. Mary Magdalene thereafter became known as Saint Marie “the Black” (because she was of dark complexion) and a famous church was erected to her memory at the place where she allegedly came ashore.
For reasons not entirely clear, dark Romani Gypsies adopted Saint Marie “the Black” as one of their own and undertake a pilgramage to this location, Saintes Maries de la Mer, to meet up and draw “blessings” from the ocean water that delivered their Saint to them.
Thousands of Romani Gypsies choke the Seaport environs, drinking, swapping wares, renewing contacts and using every opportunity to fleece local French citizens. In the center of it all is a Gypsy “Festival” – a maze of stalls and souks set up to sell typical Gypsy trinkets, fabric, clothes and – for the right price (it is rumored) – children. There are dancing bear demonstrations, erotic Gypsy women writhing and squirming on elevated stages to squealing arabic-sounding music, drinking tents with endless barrels of cheap (and surely watered-down) wine and all manner of wrestling matches, weapons contests and fighting competitions. Dice games, illegal gambling, Tarot cards, Crystal Ball mysticism and Fortune Telling………..Betting odds are intentionally skewed to favor the Gypsy dealers – and any winners who reveal the location of their purse to pay up their losses surely are followed and have their throats cut by nightfall.
Perhaps the most harried section of the festival grounds, however, are the brothel tents where every sexual perversion known to mankind can be purchased, free from the prying, judgmental eyes of police or clergy. Official law enforcement has been duly paid off – and the muddy, makeshift Gypsy bacchanalia is a free-for-all of theft, debauchery and diseased participants. Within days these brothel tents will be folded and disappear into the night……leaving behind a pathetic clientelle who paid silver coins for sexual release – only to discover their bodies covered in pustules and facing the horrific, slow death of venereal disease.
Folke Hakan, Janusz Vyshnia and Dmitri Kuleba wander through the stalls and merchandise tents seemingly brousing for bargains here and there. But “Jarl Hakan” knows exactly who he’s searching for. Although he’s never seen him before – he can scope him out like he would an Indian raiding party in the mountains of Virginia.
The Boderskap “Interrogators” at Mayberry Ironworks in Elizabeth, New Jersey a few years back made Jesuit Priest Jean-Francois Moulin sing like a bird – a bird with a pipe up its feathered ass. They found out the name of ship Alaric boarded, where he was going and who was to take him in and mentor him when he got there. They also found out who his travel companion and bodyguard was.
Alaric was handed over to Jesuits and Alaric’s “security” was entrusted to the Romani. Most people call them Gypsies.
Gypsies are an ancient, break-away people that exists in plain sight of us all. Gypsies have been persecuted and shunned throughout the ages by every country they’ve had contact with. Because of this chilly reception, they’ve long ago cut ties with most “mainstream”, ethnically cognizable cultures. Gypsies are an enimatic polity – a human conundrum to most known geography-defined peoples, like Germans, Belgians or French. Gypsies don’t want to assimilate – they want to infiltrate countries and (it is alleged) parasite off of them. Then move on. Most Europeans consider the Romani a roving blight. A curse. And most Romani hate Europeans in equal, reciprocal measure.
Romani interactions with Europeans are complicated by their dubious hygene, itinerant lifestyle and mysterious, arcane social mores. They are a universe unto themselves. Romani believe that their forebearers pried the nails out of Jesus’s hands and feet while he was on the cross – so Jesus gave Gypsies permission to steal anything they wished from that moment on without sin. The rest of humanity must abide by Ten Commandments. Gypsies only concern themselves with nine – if that. Their views on religion are quite flexible. Some say they are “Christian”. Some say they are “Muslim”. Their culture is a closed one so few truths are known. They are a secret club that most people prefer to ignore.
Before he died screaming, Jean-Francois Moulin identified the man responsible for Alaric’s safety: a Gypsy “Blade” – an assassin-for-hire named Henri Duboc. He is known for outrageous, colorful clothes – such as red, baggy pants – ruffled shirts, bright Spanish head wraps. He has gold teeth and wears earings. The “Poinard” or dagger is his weapon of choice. It is an armament for stabbing, throwing and slashing. Duboc’s reputation for treachery and deceit is without peer.
“We’ll watch all the weapons contests………knife throwing in particular. The Gypsy that is paid to bodyguard
Alaric – his name is Henri Duboc – is a seaport sewer rat known to be handy with a blade. Marseille is an easy coach ride from here. That Gypsy scum Duboc will be at this Festival fleecing contestants with his blade tricks – I’ll bet on it. He’s short, greasy and wears loud clownish outfits. He’s got gold earings and teeth………and wraps his head with a silk bandana in the Spanish fashion”.
Janusz hands Folke a large jug of what is – ostensibly – wine. It’s best they all laugh out loud and act like they’re tipsy so they can attract their pidgeon. He lowers his voice to tell Folke know what he’s up to.
“It’s filled with Pomegranate juice – it’ll stain your mouth like wine. Pass it back and forth and draw some attention to ourselves………..push me and I’ll curse at you while I stagger!”
Janusz’ artifice is brilliant. Folke grabs the jug and bellows, “GIMME SOME WINE, YOU DOG!!!”
Folke takes a long drag on it – and Dmitri rips it out of his hand. “I WANT SOME, TOO!! DON’T BE A PIG!!!
The three hunters start rough-housing, getting comfortable in their roles……. they’re just three, good-natured souls sharing a big jug of wine and taking in the Gypsy sights – sowing some wild oats with their little walk-on-the-wild-side Festival experience. They’re free of their wives – they want to have some fun!!! They talk louder and louder with each pull on their jug. Janusz intentionally slips in the mud – almost falling. They look like easy marks – Rubes – to all the dark eyes that are watching them as they wander and stagger their way through the mayhem.
Folke hears the sounds of metal clanging and scraping.
“Over there – swordplay. Let’s take a look”.
Behind some tents is a roped off ring with two young men inside lunging at each other with rapiers. They’re obviously novices……..farm kids that snuck off from their chores for the day to see some real live Gypsies!
A swarthy, skinny Gypsy with only one front tooth slips under the ropes and broadcasts a challenge to all in the crowd while holding up a small purse………
“LISTEN TO ME!!!! I’VE GOT FIVE PIECES OF EIGHT IN THIS PURSE – REAL SPANISH SILVER – THAT SAYS I CAN BEST BOTH OF THESE MEN AT THE SAME TIME!! JUST USING MY DAGGER!! WHAT SAY YOU ALL??? THERE’S TEN OF YOU WATCHING – -EACH OF YOU THROW TEN LIVRES INTO THE BUCKET HERE AND I’LL FIGHT BOTH OF THESE YOUNG LADS AT ONCE – JUST ME AND MY DAGGER!!!
Folke, Janusz and Dmitri move closer – and throw their money in the bucket. Everybody throws in their share.
The swarthy gypsy challenger grins wide and peels off his shirt – revealing horrific scars on his skinny back – and takes his position inside the enclosure. He’s obviously served time as a galley slave or is an escaped criminal. Unless Folke does something, these boys are going to get flayed…..
“EN GARDE!!!”, the skinny Gypsy blusters.
The boys now look like they’re going to shit themselves. Their rapiers shake as violently as their nerves.
Suddenly there’s an ear-splitting whistling from behind Folke A short, greasy Gypsy with a Spanish head scarf wrapping his head, gold earings and bright red pantaloons swaggers up to the enclosure and barks at the scarred and loud-mouthed Romani challenger inside the ropes.
“HEY, BLUCHA!!! TIME TO CIRCUMSIZE THESE BOYS, EH?? SHAVE THEIR LITTLE PRICKS GOOD, BLUCHA!!! MAKE THEM REMEMBER OUR FESTIVAL FOREVER!!!!
Folke studies this repulsive cretin out of the corner of his eye. He makes a quick facial gesture to Janusz – who is making a big deal out of sucking on the wine jug. He knows what’s coming.
Janusz belches in the greasy Gypsy’s direction and catches himself as he feigns a wobble. He slurs his speech intentionally.
“HEY – HEY YOU….GYPPO………YEAH, YOU!!! TELL YOUR BOYFRIEND INSIDE THE ROPES TO PICK ON SOMEBODY HIS OWN SIZE — YOU GYPSY SCUM ARE ALL THE SAME…..YOU’RE FILTHY TURDS…..MAYBE I’LL CIRCUMSIZE YOU!!! YOU SON OF A WHORE!!”
Dmitri Kuleba now joins the party.
“TURDS YOU SAY?? TURDS??? I PUSHED OUT A BIGGER SHIT THIS MORNING IN THE WOODS THAN THIS LITTLE GREASE SMEAR —- HEY!!! HEY YOU – GREASE SMEAR!!! YOU LIKE TO PICK ON FARM BOYS??? LOOKS LIKE YOU WANT TO BUGGER THEM, TOO!!!! I SEE YOU LICKING YOUR LIPS WHILE YOU STARE AT THEIR ASSES!!!!
The Gypsy is leering at them. His lower lip is quivering. He’s taking the bait and reaches inside his vest for his weapon – but his fellow Romani inside the fight enclosure rebukes him. He’s got two French farm boys – fish on his hook. He wants those French Livres in the bucket………he wants his payday!
“NO DUBOC!!! HOLD OFF!!! LET ME FINSH THESE TWO AND THEN WE BOTH TAKE THOSE ASSHOLES NEXT!!!”
Folke utters under his breath to his friends, “I want Red Pants alive!”
Janusz throws the wine jug at Duboc’s head just as the scum draws a well-worn dagger. It’s a French poinard – a sharp stabbing blade about a foot long. Duboc parries the jug and ducks low to swing his poinard at Janusz’s legs. But Janusz is not as drunk as he lets on. He jumps back and draws his own blade – a Swedish steel work of art about sixteen inches long that’s identical to Folke’s. It’s a what Scandinavian blacksmiths call a “broken back Seax ” – a razor-edged blade with a thick, strengthened spine sloping gently towards a broad clip point. It’s center of gravity makes for unmatched control in close-quarters fixed blade combat. Janusz slashes back and catches Duboc’s sleeve, drawing blood. Duboc is incensed – and comes ahead with anger-fueled intensity, his eyes blazing.
Janusz parries Duboc’s moves again and again. Duboc ducks down and grabs dirt – and throws it in Janusz’s face. Janusz pulls off his belt and uses it as a whip – the heavy buckle bites deep into Duboc’s neck as it finds its mark. Janusz then whips it in a coil around his arm and uses the leather cladding to absorb Duboc’s increasingly random slashes. Redness soon appears from under Janusz’s leather arm wrap, dripping down his arm onto his leggings. The men parry and thrust back and forth, twisting and turning like vipers in a fighting pit.
Finally -seizing his chance at victory, Duboc lunges forward at Janusz – who deftly pivots and slashes left at the precise moment Duboc’s arm is exposed.
Duboc’s screams in pain as Janusz’s heavier blade hits bone. Janusz then spins around in a full kick to Duboc’s skull. The fight is over. Duboc is out cold – probably with a crushed jaw. The Romani inside the fight enclosure squeezes himself through the ropes on the opposite side of the circle and runs away. The two farm boys stand there with their mouths open. They saw more than they bargained for this day.
There’s an old barn across the field from where the fight enclosure is.
Folke yells to his companions.
“DRAG DUBOC TO THAT BARN…..QUICKLY!!!”
Janusz drags the Gypsy by his collar like a sack of potatoes across the field. The barn is broken down, barely standing – and deserted. Perfect for what Folke has in mind. Janusz heaves the groaning, bleeding Gypsy onto some rancid hay and turns his attention to his own wound.
Folke yells some advice Janusz –
“LOOK AROUND FOR A COW – USE ITS URINE TO WASH YOUR WOUND……IT’S AN OLD IROQUOIS REMEDY TO STOP PUS FROM FORMING…..”
He then gets down to business,
“DMITRI – HOLD DUBOC’S HEAD STILL AND OPEN HIS MOUTH…….LET’S WAKE UP THIS SON OF A WHORE!!”
Folke draws his blade and pries out the Gypsy’s gold teeth. Duboc’s eyes open wide in the grip of terror – he instantly knows what is going on. He screams and writhes – but is held fast by Folke and Dmitri..
Within seconds, five gold front teeth are pocketed by Folke. They’ll come in handy convincing Alaric that his bodyguard is never coming back. The Gypsy’s bleeding sockets ooze and leach blood all over his face. Now comes time for some real pursuasion.
Folke saws most of Duboc’s left ear off. He stuffs the ear flap into the Gypsy’s gory mouth and screams at him.
“YOUR BALLS WILL BE NEXT, GYPSY SCUM!!! NOW……EAT YOUR OWN EAR, YOU FILTH!!!! CHEW IT AND SWALLOW IT……..I SAY EAT IT, YOU THIEVING SCUM!!!
The Gypsy is writhing in spasms, his head is wracked in agony. He’s desperately trying to chew the remains of his ear. He’s delerious from fear, gushing blood from ripped, gaping holes in his jaws, caughing and hacking – choking and retching up flesh. He loudly shits himself, making the barn stink even worse.
Unfazed, Folke positions his blade over the Gypsy’s left eye – within a hairs’ breath of the eyeball.
“I HAVE ONE QUESTION……..ANSWER IT AND YOU WILL LIVE : WHERE IS ALARIC?”
Duboc has already swallowed most of his ear – but heaves out the remainder when he hears the question and screams out his answer, spraying his blood and bits of grizzle everywhere.
“GO TO HELL!!! GO WATCH YOUR MOTHER SUCK SATAN’S DICK!!!!”
Folke is in no mood for this. This man is an in-bred idiot. He’s irrational from rage and writhing in his own filth. Folke carves off the Gypsy’s right ear.
More blood. More screams and fecal stench. More writhing in pain. More cursing and eruptions of bloody spray from his foul mouth.
Duboc needs further covincing. Folke gestures to Dmitri and utters a few words.
“TAKE DOWN HIS BAGGY PANTS”….”
In a few seconds it’s over. One swipe of Folke’s own impressive Seax blade and the man’s balls are gone.
Folke stuffs Duboc’s scrotal sack and testicles into the Gypsy’s screaming mouth.
“EAT YOUR OWN BALLS YOU GYPSY SCUM!!!…….EAT THEM!!!!!” Folke screams at him.
Folke moves his blade point back to Duboc’s eyeball and slowly repeats his question while the Gypsy chokes and struggles to breathe.
“ONCE AGAIN – WHERE IS ALARIC? ANSWER MY QUESTION AND I WON’T BLIND YOU!! DON’T MAKE ME BLIND YOU — YOU BASTARD OF A WHORE!!!! WHERE IS ALARIC???”
Duboc knows there’s no way out for him. These men are slicing him apart piece by piece. He’s petrified with fear.
Folke recognizes this moment from his Indian fighting days. It’s the moment you see dread beyong belief in a man’s eyes……..It means the end of an interrogation is near. But one final gesture is needed to pry out the secret.
Folke slashes Duboc’s right Achilles tendon as he screams his final command.
“TELL ME NOW YOU CRIPPLED BASTARD!!!! DON’T MAKE ME CRIPPLE YOUR OTHER LEG!!! WHERE IS ALARIC???”
In one violent, spasmotic wretch Duboc vomits out his own testicles – and gasps the words Folke is waiting for.
“I’LL TELL……I’LL TELL YOU…….PLEASE…..PLEASE……NO MORE!!!!”
His answer confirms Folke’s suspicions. It is as he expected……their Brotherhood mission will be a challenging one. Much planning will be required.
They leave the brutalized, bloody and shit-soaked Gypsy lying in a heap of rancid hay covered in gore and flies.
Folke’s yells his parting words at him.
“HOBBLE BACK……AND SHOW YOUR BUTCHERED BODY TO YOUR PEOPLE…….TELL THEM THAT SUCH IS THEIR DESTINY IF THEY HELP VAMPYRES…….WE – THE BROTHERHOOD – WILL HUNT DOWN, MAIM AND KILL THEM ALL………..BURN IN HELL, DUBOC!”
The three companions make their way back to the Gendarmerie where their horses are stashed and pay their exhorbitant stable fees. The Constables chide them all, good-naturedly.
“Have any money left? You’ll need it for the Doctor when your dicks rot off!!!!!!”
Folke just smiles and waves at them as they ride away. They’re heading to the most revered Jesuit Church in Marseille – Notre Dame de la Garde. Ironically, it means “Our Lady of the Guard” in French.
This is where Alaric is being protected – and educated.
The delicious irony of it all is inescapable to Folke.
“Our Lady of the Guard”, indeed. And who is “Our Lady” actually “guarding”?
A Vampire – named Alaric.
