The Dragon Horn

  The Dragon Horn

  (Alternate Europe Series)

  by Vaughn Heppner

  Copyright © 2011 by the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Foreword

  The Dragon Horn is a fantasy novel and is not intended to be historically accurate. However, Great Moravia was indeed a Slavic kingdom in the Dark Ages. It rose to power after Charlemagne crushed the Avars in the Hungarian Plains. Later, it would disappear under the hooves of the invading Magyars.

  In the land of Great Moravia, nestled in the Carpathians, are hidden relics and spirits from the time when the Lords of Darkness walked among men. It were better those things continued to molder in the grave, but ambitious men seeking power seldom counted the cost of their folly.

  Prologue

  “Grovel,” growled the witch.

  The silver-haired knight did, abjectly. Behind him in the darkness voices tittered.

  “Enough,” she said.

  The knight lay still, exhausted.

  “You failed me.” The witch spoke in a whisper because long ago a Hunnish arrow had pierced her throat.

  “Let me repair this failure,” said the knight.

  In the darkness, the evil titters changed to hisses. One zealous servant, his face hidden by a veil, stepped into the candlelight and kicked the knight in the ribs.

  “No,” the witch told him.

  Hands reached out of the darkness and dragged the cringing servant back into the smothering womb of shadows. Fists struck flesh. Soon, the meaty thuds stilled the man’s dismal cries.

  “Feed him to the wolves,” the witch said.

  The knight thought she meant him. Then he heard servitors drag the man from the chamber. The knight’s stomach unclenched. Soon he was alone with the old witch.

  “I see that you are still too arrogant,” she whispered.

  “Forgive me, O Wretched.”

  “Your words lack meaning.”

  Although the knight feared for his soul, he envied the Wretched her power.

  “Yet….” she whispered. “You are cunning, and your form is pleasing to my eye.”

  As he lay before her, the knight grinned secretly. Surely she meant to let him live, to use him once more.

  “After centuries of searching,” she said, “my spies believe they have discovered the crypt of the Lord of Bats.”

  “...it is his resting place?”

  “That is my hope, yes. But our Lord was clever. He might have left an ancient blood-drinker as guard or perhaps the gaunt of an Old One.”

  The knight calculated swiftly. He had heard tales of blood-drinkers. Yet he feared a gaunt more.

  “Would you redeem yourself?” the witch asked.

  He hesitated, wondering if she meant to sacrifice him on the altar of her ambitions. Then he realized that she would try. His opportunity would come in her attempt.

  “Yes, O Wretched,” he said.

  “Then you must go to the crypt.”

  “I will do it.”

  “Yes, you most certainly will do it. Perun and his men will join you. You will go to Great Moravia and speak with the fool there who calls himself king. Only then will you approach the crypt. Fear not, I will teach you how to trick a gaunt. You already know what is needed to defeat a blood-drinker.”

  The knight’s eyes gleamed. This was the chance he had waited years for.

  “Arise, worm, and approach me.”

  The silver-haired knight arose, his flesh crawling. As the candle flickered brighter, he saw a misshapen lump of flesh on an obsidian throne. Then he left the light and stepped into the darkness to embrace her.

  -1-

  The long-legged youth tramped effortlessly through the snow as he shouted for Master Volok’s lost dog. With him were two leashed beasts with dark fur, snuffling at the snow. Everyone called him Ivan. Unlike others at Belgorod Holding, he had only one name. But a single name worked well enough for the holding’s dog trainer, or so Ivan told himself whenever he bothered to think about it. Now was definitely not the time.

  He hefted his club, wondering how useful it would prove if he met the marauding wolf. The club had a gnarly head sprouting nails. Last summer, he’s pulled the nails out of Farmer Lech’s burnt barn. Later, he’d hammered each nail through an oak branch. Then in the fall, he’d borrowed a saw and cut the branch, creating his club.

  As his breath puffed white, Ivan turned uneasily toward the nearby wood. He disliked the moaning wind that knifed through the pines. “Stribog!” he shouted. “Here boy!”

  Ivan listened, but only heard the moaning wind. Then he saw a shadow slink into the pines. That might have been his errant dog. Ivan began to trot as his two leashed beasts whined with delight.

  He grew hot plowing through the drifts. He tore off his woolen hat and stuffed it in his jacket. Dark hair spilled out and fell to the nape of his neck. He was a tall youth, taller than anyone else at Belgorod.

  “Stribog!” he shouted.

  A hundred yards later, he heard a horn. He dug in his heels and shouted, “Whoa! Stop now.” Despite their obvious wish to advance, the two hounds halted.

  Ivan turned and saw a horseman gallop toward him. He recognized Yury’s fluttering red cape. Both Yury Belgorod and he were the same age, and as long as he could remember, they had been best friends. Yury was Master Volok’s son, and therefore by blood he was able to become a knight. Everyone at Belgorod Holding knew Yury’s dream: to become Moravia’s greatest knight, as great as the legendary Bogdan Monomakh.

  Three factors boded against that ever happening. One, Belgorod Holding guarded over only enough farms to field three knights and their squires. Two, three older brothers stood in Yury’s way. Three, a ravaging childhood disease had cursed Yury with a gimpy left leg and a left arm weaker than it should be. The rank of Belgorod knights went from Master Volok, to Petor the oldest son, and then to either Vuk or Andrei. As squires, the last two vied for the final prize in a holding to the west. Soon one of them would be knighted and he would take up his new station on Belgorod territory. Good Master Volok, in his kindness, had temporarily allowed Yury to act as Petor’s squire. Everyone but Yury knew that the act would soon be over.

  Yury rode up smoothly, reining in the packhorse. The old red horse reached back to nip at Yury’s boot as if to ask, Why am I being ridden so hard today?

  “I heard the hounds,” Yury gushed. “Did you spot Stribog?”

  Shorter than Ivan, Yury had the beefy Moravia build. He also had long blond hair, wide-set eyes, although the left drooped slightly, and a quirky mouth that seemed forever twisted to one side. Despite the rich red cloak, something else caught Ivan’s attention.

  “What’s with the sword?” asked Ivan. He’d been on enough wolf-hunts to want spears instead.

  “You mean this?” Yury asked as he proudly slapped the Carolingian longsword strapped to his side.

  Ivan nodded.

  “Now that father’s gone….”

  Master Volok had gone by sleigh to Rudel’s Inn to pick up Nadia. After three years, she finally returned. Instead of tramping near the woods, Ivan would rather have helped bring Nadia back. Wolf-season, however, meant dog-trainer work out here.

  Ivan shrugged. “So your father’s gone. That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “Look a little closer, good sir.”

  Ivan did. His mouth opened as he recognized the waxed leather scabbard. “T
hat’s Petor’s sword,” he said.

  Yury nodded sharply and said in jest, “Very good, milord. Since Petor was bellowing orders at everybody, making sure the party preparations go flawlessly, I figured he wouldn’t need this today.”

  “You’re taking a risk.”

  For a moment, Yury looked sour. “What risk?” he asked. “Father doesn’t think I can ever be a knight. I mean to prove him wrong.”

  Which is where all the trouble had started, Ivan knew. Quarrelsome Farmer Lech had come to the holding late last night to speak with Master Volok. Master Volok had already left, of course, and Petor had been sound asleep. Therefore, as a good squire, Yury had listened to Farmer Lech’s complaint and had assured him that the wolf would be taken care of in the morning.

  Early this morning, Yury had come into the kennel, shaken Ivan awake and bidden him to bring several hounds. “But not too many, mind you. We don’t want to make a fuss.” Ivan had taken two hounds and, at Yury’s insistence, Stribog as well. Two hours ago they’d split up. Against Ivan’s wishes, Yury had taken Stribog and had promptly lost him.

  “I saw something near the edge of the woods,” Ivan now told Yury.

  “A wolf?” Yury asked.

  “I hope not. I’d rather find Stribog. Besides, you know that your father and brothers never hunt wolves alone. They always take along some farmers. Sometimes they even send for Vladimir.” The man was a noted hunter.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Stribog,” Yury said, ignoring Ivan’s blatant advice. “He’ll come home when he’s tired.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that. Besides, you don’t have to brush out his fur later. If he gets lost in the woods, his fur will be full of burrs and last year’s thistles.”

  Yury stood up in the stirrups and shielded his eyes against the sun as he scanned the woods.

  Ivan gazed at the location where he’d spotted the slinking shape. A chill swept over him as the wind moaned. He dug out his woolen hat and put it back on.

  Sitting back in the saddle with a creak of leather, Yury said, “I say we head into the wood and see if we can’t pick up the spoor. Petor once told me that white wolves love to hide at the wood’s edge and come out and raid at night.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  Yury made an impatient gesture. “Come on. I’ve got this.” He patted the sword. “And you’ve got those two hounds.”

  “They’re good at tracking, but for a fight Stribog is another matter entirely. What if the wolf stands and fights?”

  “I hope for nothing less.”

  Ivan knew that his friend desperately wanted to prove old Master Volok wrong. Only a knightly deed could do that. Sometimes, though, Ivan wondered whether knightly concepts of bravery and daring-do weren’t a bit addled.

  “I’m not so sure, Yury. I mean, you’ve got that sword and all, but what we really need are some spears.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ve got your club.”

  Ivan wanted to add that Yury sat high upon his horse in safety. That, however, would only cause Yury to jump down and offer him the spot. Then Yury’s limp would become evident. The cold, or too much exertion, always made it worse. In any case, as the squire and the noble-born between them, Yury had to ride the noble animal. Yury often ignored those rules. A noble-born didn’t walk so a lowborn could ride. It just wasn’t proper.

  “Look!” Yury cried. “The wolf!” He spurred the old packhorse and drew the sword, then galloped off toward the wood.

  “Wait!” Ivan yelled. But Yury was already bent over the horse’s neck, lost to his world of adventure. With a shake of his head, Ivan grunted and ran after him. Yury quickly opened the distance between them. At this rate, he would enter the woods alone.

  Ivan let go of the leashes. “Hunt!” he shouted. “Go get ‘em!” The two hounds whined with delight as they chased after Yury.

  Ivan lowered his head and lifted his knees as high as possible as he floundered through a deep drift. Salty droplets of sweat dripped into his mouth. Suddenly, however, despite his hard running, the cold feeling bit him again. It was a strange feeling, almost eerie. It curdled his stomach.

  “I’m not scared,” he whispered. He swished his nail-studded club back and forth to prove it.

  Up ahead, Yury ducked under a snow-covered branch and vanished into the forest. The two hounds dashed in after him. Ivan plowed on and listened to the dwindling barks.

  By the time Ivan reached the pines, sweat poured down his face. He drew in great, heaving gasps and unbuttoned his jacket. Steam rose. He took out a rag and mopped his face and neck. Then he reached under his tunic and wiped his torso as well. He had to be careful. As he cooled off, the sweat might chill him so he caught a cold.

  A horn blared faintly from within the forest.

  “Yury,” he whispered. Ivan rubbed his face with snow, delighting in the crisp coldness, then tucked his tunic back into his breeches and plunged into the forest. The snow wasn’t as deep here, although it was cold under the pines. The wind moaned, and the heavily laden branches creaked as they swayed. The horn sounded again and the hounds howled. He knew their voices. They’d spotted the wolf. Suddenly, he heard a new howl, heavier, but not as loud.

  “Stribog.” Ivan grinned, now more than ready to face the wolf. The giant dog dwarfed the others in both size and courage. Master Volok loved Stribog for sound reasons. Old branches snapped as Ivan ran with renewed zeal. As he ran, however, the sounds dwindled. Soon, short of breath, he started walking once more. Worry crossed his face. Yury needed help. Against a lone wolf? he asked himself. Stribog’s there remember? He nodded. Yury will be fine as long as he has Stribog.

  As he trudged through the woods an odd feeling stole over Ivan. Someone watched him. He stopped and peered around. The moaning, swaying pines threw their shadows everywhere. He buttoned his coat and put on his woolen hat. Snow fluttered down from the upper branches, but not a rabbit or a rat stirred within the gloomy underbrush.

  Wait! He saw movement atop a pine. He craned his neck and spotted a huge black raven, one with a white mark on its beak. The monstrous raven eyed him. Woodenly, as if his legs moved on their own accord, Ivan walked toward the bird. There was something decidedly strange about the raven, something not quite right.

  Ivan stopped, his heart thumping, and glanced about. He saw a wizened, cloaked person hunched over a tiny fire. The fire crackled as the person fed it twigs. Ivan didn’t recognize the person, and he knew everyone near Belgorod Holding.

  “Hey!” he called. “Who are you?”

  The cloaked person, by their size a small woman or child, turned with startling swiftness. The face remained hidden within the shadow of the hood. For an instant, however, Ivan saw black eyes that glittered like the blade of a falling axe.

  Fear wormed into Ivan’s belly. He took a step backward as he vainly tried to marshal his courage. He could out-wrestle Yury and Feodor, their good friend. Once he’d even ground a spear and faced a charging boar. This...thing, however, was different.

  The huge raven cawed loudly, almost obscenely so. Ivan gave it a quick glance. When he looked back at the fire—

  “Huh?”

  Ivan blinked in confusion. The small cloaked...person had vanished. No, not vanished. Ivan saw tracks leading away from him. He also noticed a wisp of black smoke curl up from the now smothered fire.

  Ivan licked his lips, wanting to examine the tracks. He also wanted to flee from here. Unable to decide, he glanced back up. The raven was gone.

  With a sudden shake of his head, Ivan turned and hurried after Yury. The strange event soon felt unreal. He mocked himself. All I saw was a crone, a terrified old woman. He snorted at his former fear. Some dog trainer I am.

  He found the horse’s tracks and finally heard barking hounds. Seconds later, he came upon a deer run and increased his pace. Up ahead, Yury shouted. Then a wolf snarled and a dog yipped.

  “Hang on!” Ivan shouted.

  Yury yelled with glee.
<
br />   Ivan broke into a clearing just in time to see Yury plunge back into the forest after a large white wolf. Stribog and Vesna followed Yury deeper into the woods.

  Flay stood panting in the middle of the clearing, holding up his right foreleg. Ivan dropped his club and dashed toward the dog, kneeling by its side. Ivan was careful as he touched the leg. These hounds were quick, able to open a man’s skin with a slash of their teeth. Flay’s foreleg was definitely broken.

  Ivan made soothing sounds. Then he retrieved his club. It was good that Yury had the wolf on the run, as Ivan couldn’t keep tracking with a lamed dog on his hands. Going to the nearest tree, Ivan snapped off a branch. He returned and soothed the creature, gingerly using the snow to clean the wound.

  “Good boy,” murmured Ivan. “That’s a good boy.” His ability with hounds awed many of the locals. Few could handle the edgy beasts like him.

  Flay began to pant too fast, a bad sign.

  “Easy now,” said Ivan. “This is going to hurt a little.” Knowing that a pained dog could rip the flesh from his face in two quick slashes, Ivan still dared and grasped the leg, setting the broken bone together. Flay’s teeth clicked together and he shivered. Ivan held his breath and tied the splint into place. Quickly, he slipped off his jacket and put it around Flay.

  Flay licked his face.

  Ivan stood and looked down the path that he’d just come up. He didn’t want to head back that way. So he headed east out of the woods. Flay trotted behind him, carefully keeping his broken leg off the ground, which gave him an uneven gait.

  Ivan trekked for where Yury and he had dropped off their packs this morning. It took longer now because Ivan searched out the easiest paths for Flay, and at times, he made lanes through the deepest drifts for him. It took a full hour to leave the woods, cross the open fields and come upon Yury’s fresh trail. Ivan soon climbed the small hill where they’d stashed their belongings.

  “It’s about time you showed up!” Yury shouted. He warmed his hands over a fire that also cooked a spitted rabbit. Nearby, the old red horse munched contentedly from a feedbag. The two hounds, leashed to stakes, gripped old bones between their paws as they gnawed them.