La Fille de la Pierre

La Fille de la Pierre
Chapter 1: The Legend

It is a strange thing, as to how Life’s events grew to be that of extraordinary, becoming not only infamous to the minds of the people, but also to the future generations of mankind. However, gradually, tales of such history grew vaguer; the words the storytellers used distorted and ruined the memory of the event, where it was gradually fabricated to an entirely different story. Just take the myth of Sleeping Beauty for example, for although it is a wonder as to what kind of event could have spawned such a well-known story, for many a child could recite it by heart, it was in no doubt as condensed as many other legends. Perhaps the real story behind this fairy tale is entirely different from what we try to imagine, truly lost forever by the power of time...

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Europe, 1178 A.D.

The world was a cruel, cold place, especially in the lands of Northern France.
Even though the skies were infested with the looming clouds, giving the sky a smoke-like gray color, light has somehow managed to escape and brighten the frost-covered domain, even exposing the smears of crimson that speckled the barren foliage of the woodlands that inhabited in such a place.

Panting with exhilaration, a scruffy peasant dashes through the skeletal remains of the trees, every little muscle of his frail body burning with the need to rest, as his lungs fill with freezing air as he tried to breathe.
He knows that if he stops to fulfill his physical wish, he would soon be dead. He could almost hear the drumming of hooves heading towards him, the sound of a sharp sword sliding out of its leather scabbard, and the whoosh of a battleaxe cutting through the air.

Shaking his head vigorously, he tried to banish these thoughts, for fear that they would come true, become part of a bloodied and hopeless destiny, just as so many of his neighbors and family had back in the village.
It was a settlement when the sun rose; now, all what remains of it were charred and cut bodies, as well as piles of ashes of what remained of the crude buildings, buildings they had called as their homes.
Tears streaming down at his filthy cheeks, he hurried on, weaving through the trees in hopes to throw his predators off. Suddenly, his chest constricted and throbbed with the lack of oxygen, and he reluctantly stopped, trembling with fear.
Stooped over, he gripped at his sides, as if to try to ease the pain by touching it. As he breathed heavily, suddenly something slammed against him.
It was backed with a large amount of force, knocking the wind out of his lungs as it smacked into his back. Cold air seeped into his spine, along with a surge of new pain blossoming within him. Overwhelmed, he stumbled into his knees, his arms now vainly trying to reach at his new misfortune.

In addition to the hundreds of moments he had often lamented about, he finally heard them coming. The gigantic horses had now appeared, bearing their ironclad warriors that were saddled on their sturdy backs. Having been used to seeing so much bloodshed and fearful prey, the beasts trotted calmly towards the area where he now cowered on, looking down on him with indifference.
The riders, meanwhile, were the focus of his attention, especially the smallest of them all. There couldn’t have been, no more than five of them; they are those that had bothered to separate from the pillaging army that had recently ploughed through his home, even though he knew that they didn’t see it as necessary, but entertaining.

Looking up to these ominous riders, their faces covered with bundles of expensive furs and metal helmets, he saw the cruel grin of death, instead, smiling down at him.
They were laughing, sharing some kind of joke that can only be understandable within their own kind, some of them had their weapons poised to strike, as had one of them, cockily brandishing a wooden crossbow.
It was the smallest rider that spoke first, “T’was a good shot, Odoacer, and yet he still lives!”

The rider with the crossbow grunted, “Aye, these little men are so hard to hit at a distance...who’s going to finish him off?”
“Allow me.” The smallest jumped in, already attempting to slide off of the stumpy horse. To the peasant, there was something familiar about this small, obviously younger warrior. Smaller by shape, his soon-to-be slayer had narrow shoulders, yet wide hips for a man.
Loose, ginger hair could be seen peeking through the gaps of chain mail and helmet, which was equipped with an appendage of metal, a flat bar of metal, extending down to the nose and thus protecting it.
Despite of the fact that the peasant was now in grave danger, he couldn’t just help but strain to see his executioner’s features. Although marred by freckles and a spot of acne, the warrior’s face was free from any facial hair, and smoothly oval, right to the point where he looked feminine.
That was when it hit him, exactly like the arrow that struck him. This warrior was none of the ordinary. It was she, Aude de Malvoisin, an enemy to the lord of this domain.
Now, she has come to vent her wrath on him, just as she and her lapdogs had on the villagers of the area.
A small sword was quickly unsheathed, letting out a sharp hiss as it scraped against the ornate metal outlines of the sheath.
The peasant looked back down at the leader’s hands, which were now fastened to the hilt of the sword, the grip steady despite of the temperature of the environment.
As he watched the woman maneuver with the blade, the horses suddenly became restless, stamping their hooves on the frozen earth, causing their riders to curse and pull at their reigns, trying to bring their animals in order.
The warrior stepped closer towards the victim, arms raised to strike a curved arc, diagonally on the peasant. Then, the blow was unleashed, the blade swerving towards the fallen prey, ready to taste blood as it was just about to tear open the clothes and flesh.

But just before the blade can touch him, the peasant ducked, moving sideways as he did so, while the blade only nicked at his coarse clothes.
The warriors looked on, now warily watching the scene before them, as it became something more extraordinary than they had expected. The leading warrior stared at the peasant with renewed interest as well, transfixed as the filthy peasant looked up, with a manic, dog-like grin on his face.

“Your reigns of terror are over...” He said, his voice startlingly formed with perfect French, free from any sort of slang or lowbrow accent.

As he spoke these words clearly, all of the grime on his face cleared away, his skin changing from a ruddy pink into ethereal white.
The warriors stared in a mixture of horror and awe, as their horses trembled in cold sweat, trying to move away from the vision before them. All the while, an element of bright light was blossoming from the skin of the peasant, reaching out towards the terrified warriors, who couldn’t help but stare transfixed as they trembled with fear.
The hunters have become the hunted.
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The elf being stood poised in the forest, looking down on the warriors before him. Tall and lanky, his fair skin was as pale as the frost that clung to the trees around him, his person stronger and superior than the human guise he had previously took.
Startling blue eyes blinked slowly at the scene before him, taking in the sight of his fallen hunters on the cold ground, their bodies moist from the fragile snow that was starting to descend down upon this world.

The horses had already fled as soon as they were freed from the weighty burden of their masters, their bodies having tumbled from their saddles as soon as they grew unconscious, in reaction to the elf’s emergence from his disguise.
As he stood there, contemplating, more beings began to emerge from the shadows of the forest, humanoid in shape, and yet too perfect to qualify as human.
These superior creatures formed a circle around the elf male and his human victims, their eyes locked on the still human bodies. Finally, a female stepped forward, walking to the side of the male, and said, as she looked on.

“It is done, what do you plan to do with the bodies?”

The male sighed, and picked at the scratchy material of his human clothes; uncomfortable at the feeling they had on his smooth body. Stepping forth, he trudged towards the body of Aude de Malvoisin, completely ignoring the male warriors, as he stepped over them, not wanting to touch their inferior bodies.
Squatting down near her body, he pulled at her helmet, exposing her entire face to him. It had been difficult, during all those years of trying to dispose of this tyrannical duchess. Now, she was finally at the mercy of these supernatural beings, finally brought down from her high horse.

Leaving the elves to ponder on what to do with her.

Silence stole into the area; the high sounds of singing birds were only present at the event, as the elves watched the male individual, waiting patiently.
Hesitantly, the male grudgingly forced himself to touch her, cupping her snow-speckled chin on the palm of his slender hand, and lifted her face up towards him, for a better perspective.
Finally, after scrutinizing the situation, he declared, “Leave the men here, the wolves will finally having something to eat. As for this one, I want to use her as an example to her own kind...for those who don’t know what will happen, when they’ve stepped over our threshold.”
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Eastern Europe, 1692 A.D.
“...And that, my child, was how this statue came about!”

The child glanced away from the form of his father, towards the wooden casket that rattled with the rhythm of the shifting caravan. The father that stood in front of him waited expectantly for a reaction of awe, or at least the series of questions that often came from the young and inexperienced boy. His son, Horea, was a quiet child for his age, a sickly boy who seemed to find it unnecessary to speak out in a conversation. Nevertheless, he had carried the common characteristic of restlessness, and having been an easy victim of boredom. During this whole ride, the merchant was forced to spin ways to keeping the child still, distracting him from being a damaging nuisance.
As he stared at the wooden crate, the boy spoke, his voice visibly forced clearly than usual.

“So the wood spirits turned her to stone? Tha’s naught of a bad punishment.”
“But it is, boy!” The merchant argued, as he shifted from his seated position on the wooden surface of the caravan’s floor.
“She was taken away from her seat of power,” He explained, “Losing everything she plotted for, and set as a symbol that no matter what social class you are, your actions shall be judged.”

The merchant shook his head, clucking his tongue at the child; his face was in a sort of disappointed grimace from the boy’s lack of understanding.
However, but Horea wanted to continue the conversation further, have been engrossed in the imaginary world that all children craved for, especially for those raised in the miserable, hard-edged environment of Wallachia.
“Do all bad people become the same as she became?” He asked, his mind reflecting back to all the nobles that prowled in their proclaimed territories, extorting everything they wanted from their underlings, usually without an ounce of mercy.

“Aye!” His merchant replied; his eyes flashing sharply as he glared at him, “It can happen to anyone, especially to you! Now be a good boy and keep quiet! I need to check with the driver...”
With that, the aura within the caravan has changed. What was a mutual bond between father and son, teacher and student, was reverted back to a wall-like separation between an adult and child. Horea was expected to be seen and not heard, and knew better not to argue or ignore the orders given by the man, and so decided to revert his gaze back on the wooden crate. Horea could smell the hay that was stuffed in the wooden box, cushioning the statue as the caravan went through the bumpy dirt trails, that often veined through the rolling green hills, now overshadowed by the canopy of the night.
As soon as his father stepped out to the front of the shaking carriage, Horea immediately got up and toddled towards the crate, trying to glimpse through the permeable wood, hoping to see the features of the accursed woman. Were her features permanently twisted in horror? Or were they softened from unconsciousness, ignorant of what has she become?
Despite of the warnings that rang in his head, Horea couldn’t shake off the desire to investigate. Carefully, the child slid his fingers under the edges of the cover, and was about to lift it open, when something heavy clamped down on his shoulder.
Letting out a gasp from surprise, the child’s head whipped towards what landed on to him, realizing that it was his father’s hand.
Both panic and shame seethed up into his body, reacting like foaming poison, as he stared up at the wild eyes of his parent.

“Father--” Horea began, his mind already began preparing for an apology, anything to avoid another beating.
“Hush!” The man hissed, raising a finger to his bared teeth so quickly, it not only cut off the child in mid-speech, but caused him to flinch as well. Clenching his mouth together, Horea could feel the carriage slowing down suddenly, breaking the usual rhythm he had learned to get used to.
Concerned on what was happening, he was also partially afraid to find out, seeing the fearful expression on the man’s face. It was an expression he had never seen before, having made him pause from pressing on what was the matter. Before, his father was like a god to him, where Horea was inferior by nature compared to the man. Now, it was as if he was at his level after all, able to know fear when it looked at him in the face.
Before he can press further questions on the matter, a wave of hoof beats could be heard rumbling towards the caravan, dogging their wheels, as the caravan slowed unsteadily into a halt.

Outside, the horses moved about restlessly, champing their lips as the caravan driver muttered soft soothing words to them. Horea could practically feel the horses’ restless behavior, as the air was filled with ironclad hooves stomping about on the wet earth.
It didn’t take long until the wave of foreign hoof beats met them, veering towards the front of the caravan, where it came into an abrupt halt.
The merchant meanwhile, stared at the entrance of the caravan, covered with a ratty cloth to offer privacy to those within the mode of transport. His head was cocked to the side, as if trying to listen with care on the goings on outside.

Knowing that he must go forth and expose himself, the merchant glanced down at his child, and brought a finger to his lips once more, this time in complete silence. In quick and fluid movement, he moved away from his son, and picked up a chain of rosaries, where a copper crucifix hung companionably, gleaming like a sliver of fire from the lanterns’ golden light. Pulling it down on his head, the man strode towards the exit, his hands gripping on the necklace as if it was his only savior.
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Stepping out of the caravan, the merchant could see a lone rider stand before them, his appearance far away from the light of the lantern, therefore his face and form was enveloped in a cloak-like shadow.
The faint light was only able to expose the black steed the rider was saddled upon, who seemed much calmer than the horses that were tied to the caravan. The horses’ bodies were slick with sweat, although the night was chilly for a spring evening.

The merchant couldn’t blame them for their reaction, for the air seemed to be thick with the smell of fear, also dominated by the fact that the rider before them was in no doubt, a savage predator to these lone humans.
“Who are you?” The merchant demanded, forcing his voice to be loud and indignant, in order to mask the flustered emotions that fluttered within him. The rider didn’t seem to budge from the voice, let alone move. Instead, a deep, husky voice replied, “My name is of not importance. My master was the one that specifically requested for your goods to be brought to him, and has sent me to guide you.”
The merchant leaned further away from the door, squinting his dark eyes as an attempt to see through the darkness. Not one to be easily convinced, he huffed loudly, making a show out of his skepticism towards the riders’ enigmatic identity.

“Huh! You expect me to believe that you are not just a highway man?” He exclaimed, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest.
“Never fear,” The rider assured, although his voice was still far from soothing as he said so, “For no thieves ever dared to act their foul works in this land, such was the order brought by the lord and my master, the Vladislaus Draculaea.”
The merchant felt a cold sickness sweep down his throat while his brave façade fell to the ground, leaving him bare, exposed and clothed only in naked fear.
With trembling fingers, the merchant clutched at his necklace, seeking for any kind of connection with his god, as the beads rattled from the movement. The touch of the material did little to comfort him though, as he found that the rider was still in front of him, looking as grim as death and waiting patiently for his consent.
“I…I have indeed come for your lord.” He managed to say, his hands twisting the rosary necklace. The name was all too familiar, almost like the cold sliver of fear that dug itself in his heart, the emotion that clung to him perhaps ever since he was born.
Tales of the mysterious lord had managed to sweep through this bleak countryside, for what was whispered amongst the countrymen managed to slip into the mouths of travelers, where it managed to colonize in his home of Tirgoviste.

He was at first, surprised at the arrival of the letter, asking him to send out a cargo full of goods to this territory. Even though he had previously scoffed at the wild stories that surfaced, he had nonetheless prepared all he could to face the strange shadows that enveloped this isolated domain.
The merchant squinted at the strange rider before him, unsure whether he was truly human, or one of the creatures of the night. Deciding against his usual better judgment, the merchant replied, “I believe we’ll trust your word, help us through this strange place then.”

"Very well!” The rider exclaimed, his voice sharp and seemingly irritated, surprising the merchant momentarily. “As we speak, my master may be increasingly getting impatient. Give me your lantern, and please, follow me.”
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The ride was fleeting before the mind’s eye of the merchant, for the land was of no specialty; being shapeless by extraordinary standards, and shrouded by the darkness of the night, as it was outlined by the gray mists, hiding away the secrets that may have prowled behind it.
Sometimes, the twosome sitting in front of the caravan could glimpse a few torch lights out at the distance, not to be mistaken as the malevolent will-o’-wisps, but more like the lights that guarded the meager hamlets and villages of the countryside.
Finally, an imposing figure from a distance appeared, a great contrast to the humble and wild sights previously, for although dark as it was, the moonlight had helped to expose the twisting towers the figure was crowned with, scraping against the clouded skies.

The merchant did not need any sort of explanation to tell him what it was, for as the figure grew into size as they neared it, the more frightened he became.
The figure turned out to be a castle, but it was strangely without the protective moat that often came with such fortresses. Made of crumbling stone, the building looked very old and plain, lacking the design of regal grandeur. Instead, it looked more like a ruin, completely stripped bare of any liveliness, as the walls deteriorated, the moss and plants that clung to its cracks were the only signs of life, like parasites feeding off of a decaying corpse.

Pacing this time slowly, the rider guided his dark steed towards the iron gates, the road strikingly beaten down by many markings of wheels and horses coming this way, revealed by the lights as it seemed very recent.
As the caravan was finally brought to a momentary halt, the careful driver being extra sure not to stray too close towards the mysterious rider, who was now holding onto one lamp before him, as he rode using the other. Thanks to the light of the lamp, the flickering fire revealed a tall and lean figure, clothed completely in black, as he wore a wide-brimmed hat that had still formed a strange shadow over the top half of his face.
Turning towards the men of the caravan, looking over his shoulder with a ghost of a smile, as if checking onto them, and then turned away, as the iron gates screeched open before them.
The merchant strained his eyes towards the gates, trying to see through the shadows for any signs of people, those that could have opened the gates. Finding none, his skin grew cold as he thought more about it, realizing that some invisible force may as well have maneuvered them. Touching the cross that hung around his neck, he made a quick prayer, as the rider passed through the gates, and the trembling horses of the caravan followed suit.
The rider led them into an empty courtyard, where a few stone benches were settled around the area, as silent, lonely beings, almost hidden away by the long grasses and wild foliage that were being nurtured by the dew-moistened earth, holding an unseen orchestra of insects, as they hummed and sang in an imperfect unison.
Stopping, the caravan came into a halt once more, as the rider stopped in front of them, dismounting quickly as he did so.
He almost seemed to slide off of the beast with the grace of running liquid, where he landed on his feet in an inaudible thud, not even making a rustle on the grass.
As if by magic, the silence emitted by the movement of the rider seemed to be contagious, abruptly cutting off the music being made by the insects that surrounded him.
Pulling off his leather gloves, the rider strode towards the caravan, and nodded towards the two men, although he kept his face tilted downwards in discretion.

“Please wait here, I will inform my master that you have arrived.”
Not even waiting for a reply, he swiftly turned away, and trudged towards the large wooden doors of the main building.
Right next to the merchant, the driver shuddered, his pig-like eyes wide with fear and astonishment.
“By the love of God, I have seen a lot of things, but never had I expected…” The driver shook his head, gulping nervously. The merchant could have sensed regret from the man, knowing full well that he also wished to never set his foot away from Tirgoviste.
Sighing, he glanced towards the driver, and said, “Never mind, we have work to do. Help me unload the goods.”
Even though the merchant wanted to hide his child away from the possible treachery of the night’s creatures, he had no choice but to drag the frightened Horea outside, for he needed as much help as he could get in getting the items out.

The two men and child were uneasy with the strange tranquility that seemed to bewitch the place, as they moved each of the wooden crates from the caravan to the ground outside, taking extra care with the fragile and the precious.
As they were tending to their business, the thick doors of the main building suddenly flew open, causing them to look up sharply.

Three pairs of eyes were locked on the figure on the doorway, a man standing straight and tall, draped in a long, extravagant robe of thick furs and gold studs that, due to the firelight being emitted by the lamp he held, twinkled with wealth.
His hair, however, was loose and long, spilling around his shoulders and face without any sort of restraint, and his eyes seemed to glimmer an eerie red from the light.
The merchant knew of many strange maladies that were passed down to the noble, due to their practice of inbreeding, and wondered that hopefully a royal disease was the cause of his strange eye-color, or at least caused by the lighting of the firelight. However, the merchant still couldn’t even shake off the thought that it was possible that the man himself was a demon.
“Good evening…” The stranger uttered, his mouth twisted into a smile. His red eyes flickered at the boxes before him, and added, “I trust all my things are here?”
Hands trembling, the merchant saw that he was no doubt the lord that summoned him. Nodding vigorously, he took off his hat and bowed his head.

“Yes, my lord!” The merchant exclaimed, wishing that he was exactly sure of his words, “I took extra care to follow accordingly the instructions you sent to me.”
The lord nodded, and began to languidly descend down of the stone steps, obviously not in a hurry. Behind him, shadows shifted in the darkness, and the merchant found himself shocked to find more people coming out, the darkness hiding their features as they loped after him, their movements far from alive.
The sight of the people made Horea duck behind his father, already realizing that they were not normal. One of them walked with a gaping mouth, exposing a set of crooked teeth, while one stepped close to the torchlight, his skin found to be deathly gray.

Stepping down onto the earth, the lord raised his eyebrows at his new guests before him, and said benignly, “Do not trouble yourselves, my servants shall do the heavy work. I’m sure the travel was long and hard, and you must rest.” Catching sight of Horea, who was peeking curiously from his father’s back, he grinned at the child, revealing a set of very white, long teeth. Horea couldn’t help but stare at the bestial canines that poked into view from the rest, feeling like a deer witnessing a wolf’s teeth being bared before death.
The merchant himself felt frigid to the bone, and reached behind him to hold onto the boy. The man was the last person on earth that the merchant would ever want to receive hospitality, no matter how polite or benevolent he seemed.
The lord was by now occupying himself, by watching over his servants as they began to unload the rest of the shipments, and opening the wooden crates with sturdy bars of iron.

Out of curiosity, the lord stepped forward and began rummaging through the items, neatly cushioned with hay to preserve them. In one box, were jars and vials of expensive spices, all mostly treasures of Africa and the Islamic east. While others, were cloths of rich colors, weapons and decorative items of unimportance to fill a lord’s home, as well as displaying the lord’s wealth.
So far, no problems arose, as the lord gave no sign of discontentment, or any sort of contentment in particular.

Until he came across the large, casket-like crate; the merchant and his child immediately recognized it as the box containing the statue, and unwittingly held their breaths as his red eyes fell on them once more.
“What is this?” He demanded, pointing at the box with a long finger.
Letting out a faint sigh, the merchant replied, albeit rather hastily, “It was part of the cargo, my lord. It’s...ah...a statue; it came on the same ship when it stopped on a French port...”

The lord’s mouth was immediately set in a grim frown, his red eyes suddenly losing its strange, flame-like spark, but turning frigid.
Looking down on the casket of old and rotting wood, the lord’s mouth suddenly twisted itself into a grimace of disgust, “This is not what I had in mind.” He replied gruffly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “I have no need for such a thing, and will not pay for its expenses.” Snapping his fingers at a servant that was passing by, the lord ordered briskly, “Take it away.”

The merchant squinted at the casket, as it was being lifted from its position on the ground. The count had specifically demanded to receive his orders from a cargo of a ship, and wondered the possibility of it slipping into his collection of new orders. Although it could be that he suddenly changed his mind.
Normally, the merchant would be infuriated by such actions. He had worked long and hard to manage the cargo as it reached the nearby ports, paying for any damages and finally transporting it into this faraway place, however, in cases like these, he found himself forced to bite his tongue.
However, the temptation was too great…

“Are you truly sure, my lord, that you do not want this?” The merchant asked, stepping behind the wooden casket, his palms planted casually on the rough surface of the wood.
The merchant’s spine gave an involuntary shudder as he felt the pair of bright red eyes flash at him. He forced himself to keep still, but he found his legs quivering when he saw that he was under the full observation of the lord.
“You question my commands, merchant?” The man asked, as a corner of his wide mouth raised itself in an amused smirk. The grayish menservants of the count stared at the merchant with soulless black eyes, as if preoccupied with a sudden macabre interest on the stranger before them. The merchant knew better to keep his gaze fixed on the count, despite of the growing urge he had to look away.

“I only mean to know whether you truly made up your mind, my lord.” The merchant admitted, forcing his voice to sound sincere and appealing.
“And not to…” The count paused, waving his hand at casket before him, “try to convince me to pay you more, by buying it...?” He asked; his face set in a mocking form of gullibility.
The merchant swallowed; to be frank, it was an appealing scenario to him, but he forced the thought to the back of his mind, worried that the thought might show on his face.

“W-well, I believed you knew the course the ship would take to here, my lord.” He stated, trying not to make it sound like an accusation, “Unless by accident, I thought this casket was brought here by your choice. Are you sure you don’t want to check to see if it something you didn’t want in the first p-place?” The merchant drew out, suddenly feeling uneasy as the count continued to scrutinize him, as if he were nothing more than just an animal worth to be curious over.
The merchant held on, supporting his weight on top of the casket’s surface, fearing that he would fall over had he not. The count continued to study him, until he pulled his eyebrows together, and flicked a finger to one of his servants.
“Open it.”
Letting out a sigh of relief, the merchant stepped away from the casket, glad to be momentarily away from the lord’s attentions, especially from his hellish servants.
Without a use of any tool, the grey men pried the top of the box off, somehow managing to pry it loose from the iron nails that were hammered against its surface. It was a strange sight, for it was as if the slab of wood gave absolutely no resistance to these servants, as if it was nothing more than a thin sheet of paper.

Shifting away further from the commotion, the merchant watched the count’s face intently, trying to see his reaction to the sight of the statue. He knew that the giant ornament itself was a marvel, and a very expensive one as well, but the pessimist in him doubted that the count would be swayed.
With his arms crossed, the count stared down at the casket before him, as the menservants dug the hay away from the item, as if allowing him to have a better look. The merchant had seen it several times, but he still felt inclined to see it once more. However, the chances of nearing the count and his creatures forced him to stay his ground.

Lying on its back, a statue was nestled within the hay, a lifeless creature of an unusual design. Unlike the flowing bodies of Grecian marble, or the stiff and solemn giants of the north, this one was made to be strikingly realistic.
The figure was almost androgynous, dressed in a heavy tunic of furs, with matching leggings, adding with the chain mail, the belief that the figure was a male was plausible.
However, the body looked slender than that of any normal man, and the face was more youthful. The realistic expression captured on the statue was remarkable; the face was tilted upwards, its eyes shut tightly, as the brow and the area around the eyes wrinkling slightly from the tension. In addition, the mouth, large as it was, was far from being in a graceful pose, slightly open with teeth visibly biting the lower lip. It looked like the stone warrior was in a restless dream, captured in an invisible web of nightmares.
The merchant smiled smugly at the count, although the sides of his mouth twitched with apprehension and fear. The count’s face was unreadable at the merchant’s angle of view, but his quiet demeanor left an impression that he was still not eager to dispose of the statue. The merchant could feel Horea inch towards the casket, his skinny neck stretching to his limits in order to get a better perspective of what had captivated the others. Clenching his jaw, the father forcefully pushed him back to his previous position—away from the eyesight of the count and his minions. Frustrated, Horea made a mewing noise in his mouth, snapping the count’s attention from his own reserved observations. The merchant froze momentarily as the count hesitantly glanced at his direction, but the feeling of victory was blossoming inside of him, for surely, he seemed taken in by the art.

“S-She is beautiful, no?” The merchant inclined, his face set in a triumphant grin, but it faltered when the count raised his face towards him, a mysterious smile planted on his own features.
“She is, indeed, a rare sight.” The count commented coolly, as he bent down further towards the statue. “I heard you muttering about the roots of this thing, that she had come all the way from France?” He asked, as he dipped a long, pale hand into the casket, caressing the porous stone surface of a leg.
The merchant nodded, “At least that was what I had heard, my lord.” He answered, “I think she might have belonged to somebody, once. I assumed you bought her from abroad.”

“But you know nothing else.” The count added, this time it was no question, rather a statement. The merchant watched the count’s actions with curiosity, watching him grabbing a fistful of the hay from the casket. His brow furrowed as the count brought it up to his face, inspecting the silage by sight—and perhaps by smell.
Feeling uncomfortable by the silence between them, the merchant decided to go ahead of the situation, or at least remind the count that he was still here.
Clearing his throat, he took a cautious step towards the wooden box, trying to sound casual as he spoke.

“Well, seeing how you’ve seen the statue itself, do you still want to dismiss it?” He exclaimed, clapping his hands together as he did so.

“Not so fast.” The count declared curtly, cutting the merchant off from his play of role. His sharp words brought his minions from their silent stupor, their heads jerking up all at once, glaring at the merchant once more.
“I have just a few more questions, merchant.” The count exclaimed; his face darkened with a scowl of disapproval, which immediately changed into a sardonic smirk.

“I’m sure you can wait for a moment.” He continued. Letting the hay drop from his grasp, he brushed his hands together, sweeping off any leftover traces of the putrid silage.
After doing this, the count turned away from the casket, giving his full attention to the merchant.

“If I add this to the things I already requested, how much does this add to the overall price?” He asked, interlacing his fingers together.
Swallowing, the merchant did a rapid count in his head, a jumble of numbers that gave him no comfort. Feeling conscious of the awaiting lord, he quickly replied, “I’d request for at least 156 lei, my lord, but the price can be…further arranged.”

“Hmm…” The count smiled thoughtfully at this, and he replied, “In that case, I’m not worried of the costs. Perhaps I should tend to my gardens by making them more interesting.”

He motioned his hand to the courtyard around him, pointing out the lack of care provided to the place. “I suppose the statue will do as a start.” The count said, sighing as he did so, “But for now, I’ll have to take it inside.”
As soon as the count had finished speaking, the casket was already snatched from the ground, and placed on the sloping shoulders of the count’s servants, their strength and expertise stunning the guests once more.
The count stepped aside, allowing the servants to trudge on towards the large open doors of the entrance, disappearing into the dark void of the castle’s insides.

In turn, the count turned towards the merchant, and smiled invitingly, his white teeth gleaming from the firelight.
“Gentlemen, would you care to follow me?”
************************************************************************

It took a lot of nerves for the merchant to allow himself to venture in the castle, with only the mysterious count to guide him and his assistants through the stone building.

The hallway was as cold and clammy as the moist nights of the springtime; however, it was still a sharp contrast from the plain exteriors of the castle.
Brightened by the flickering torches that hung on the walls, it was accompanied by richly embroidered tapestries, their velvet-like material rippling gently by the winds from the thin arrow slits that lined the walls.
It was a very quiet place, almost cloaked by a feeling of peaceful lethargy. Nevertheless, it was too quiet for the mind of the merchant; as he saw that the place looked virtually deserted, save for the count and his companions.
Feeling pressurized to speak, he inquired to the count before him.

“My lord, where exactly are we going?”
“Why, to my treasury, of course.” The count replied, as he eyed at him disdainfully over a broad shoulder. This should have embarrassed the merchant for acting ignorantly when something about to be done was rather palpable. It would be understandable for the men to be taken to the treasury, for the count has yet to pay them for their services. Nevertheless, it still did not free the merchant from any feeling of dread and suspicion. The strange man could so easily lead them to some sort of dungeon or some sort of gruesome trap, as if they themselves were nothing more than unsuspecting lambs heading to the slaughter.

The merchant quickly avoided the crimson gaze, keeping his own gaze down onto his feet. He scrutinized his mud-caked shoes for some time, until the husky voice of the count came into the air.
“Ah, here we are…”
The merchant looked up, just when the count had grasped the iron handle of a tall, wooden door. Leaning forwards, the count pushed the door open, revealing a dazzling world so different than the shadowy and basic environment that shielded it.

It was a large room completely dedicated to the count’s riches, the perfect place to admire and worship the coinage that thrived here. The place was aglow by the many candles that cluttered around the room, clumped together in groups on their perches in the cavities of the walls, even scattered on the large desk in the middle of the room.
By these lights, the room sparkled with fluttering lights of silver and gold, reflected off from the small opened chests, giving it a heavenly feel as one does in a temple.

Stepping into the room, the merchant stared open-mouthed at these freely displayed riches, some which he had recognized to be ancient coins that used to be used so shamelessly by the nobility. He smiled inwardly at the thought of their value, having now been disused for a very long time, feeling a great longing to hold and use them.

“The total price was 156 lei...is that correct, merchant?”
The merchant blinked, suddenly stolen from his own musings. The count had his back turned towards the merchant, his head bowed low as he began rummaging through his boxes of wealth.
“Err...yes.” The merchant replied, his throat feeling dry.
Surely, he thought, feeling that he had accidentally landed in heaven, that this count was paying him the full price now?

Normally, many of the merchant’s customers do not pay their expensive debts so straightforwardly, and thus the merchant lived a life depending on the meager payments they made day by day. However, for tonight, the merchant could truly hope to come home, with his money purses filled to the full with silver and gold.
The count returned his attention to his guests, holding on his cupped hands a small pile of silver.
“This should fit your request, merchant.” The count drawled tiredly, his brow furrowing at the money he was just about to depart. The merchant eagerly let the money drop into his own hands, his spirits immediately lifted as he felt their weight falling into his own possession, all for him. Stepping back, the count straightened and smiled faintly at the guests, watching the merchant in turn, pour his payment into the purse that hung companionably by his belt.
Realizing that this was a cue to take leave, the merchant felt torn at the idea of leaving the place. Even though this was situated in a shadowy, desolate place, with a frighteningly strange ruler, he was all of a sudden overwhelmed with a new desire to obtain this very room. It had just seemed so unfair for someone else to have so much, while he, a workingman with no aristocratic ties, to have so few.

Suddenly, a foreboding growl of thunder hammered in the distance, signaling rough weather to come.
The merchant counted it as a blessing.
“My lord,” He began, looking up at the taller man with pleading eyes, “May we stay the night under your care?”
Another roll of thunder rumbled close by; this time louder than before, causing the count to glance side-ways towards the thin window in the room. Turning back, the count looked at him questionably, and so the merchant continued,
“The ride back is a very long one, and I have a child with me. I feel we will be safer here rather than be at the mercy of the storm...”
“Very well, enough excuses!” The count exclaimed, his voice seemed harsh, stunning the merchant into silence. Yet, as the merchant searched for his face beneath his enveloping hair, he could have sworn he was actually grinning, his eyes crinkled and shining with mirth.
The merchant smiled uneasily with him, and felt a thump of a strong hand on his shoulder. Looking down on it, he noticed that the count had clapped a hand on his shoulder, and then felt something akin to being whirled around, the door suddenly in front of him.
“It is indeed very late in the night,” The count cheerily said, pulling the driver next to him in a similar embrace, “I’ve already have rooms which are suitable for use, all warm and pleasant, I’ll wager! But let me not keep you, instead, let me take you to your lodgings.”
************************************************************************

It was truly a warm and pleasant experience.
Horea snuggled closer into the soft linens and furs that were wrapped around him, unconscious to everything of the world save for the dark, familiar world of his mind.
He felt safe in there, finally truly content in the embrace of the small bed.
However, it was as if he was not destined to linger long in such a state.
Suddenly, the curtains that shielded his four-poster bed were thrown open, and the blankets were pulled down, exposing his body to the suddenly chilly air.
Jerking awake, Horea squinted at the intruder in the darkness, suddenly overtaken by a potent mixture of alarm and rage.
“Who--”
“Shhh!”
The hushing voice was all too familiar to Horea, and after inspection, he realized that the shape of his intruder was in fact, equal to his own father. The stocky man leaned forward and grabbed his shirt collar, and pulled him forcefully off of the bed.
Horea reluctantly complied, pressing his lips together into a tight seam as he slid off the bed. Now closer to his father, the man leaned forward and whispered clearly and urgently.

“Hurry up and get dressed, boy! We don’t have much time!” The merchant exclaimed, as Horea felt a bundle of his own discarded clothing slap against his chest, undoubtedly thrown by his father.
The child nodded dumbly, slightly confused of the situation. Had the count already expected them to be on their way, when he had accepted their presence so warmly? This would be a strange and worrying scenario, but Horea was himself unconvinced of this thought.
Stumbling in the darkness, he was brought to full alert by the cold touch of the stone floor beneath his small and calloused feet. Pulling on his woolen coat and thick boots, he was later pushed out of the room by his father, blundering blindly through the yawning hallways of the castle.
His father was his guide, pushing him forwards and pulling him along when the boy accidentally wandered in the wrong way. The whole path was lost to Horea, who was unable to pay attention with his surroundings as carefully as he wished, for everything looked the same, like a never-ending tunnel of shadows.
Finally, when the boy had been jostled about to the point where his mind and body ached with want to stop, he was finally brought to the lighted hallway near the main exit, although most of the torches were smoldering with dying flames.

“Hurry up, boy!” His father hissed, giving him another shove, into the open door of the treasury. The driver was already there, squatting over the treasure chests and shoving their contents in a sack. The merchant wasted not time in ushering his son into the room, being careful not to make a noisy disturbance as he did so.
“Here, fill it with as much as you can.” His father whispered quickly behind him, pushing a rough sack of woven materials to Horea, who hesitantly took it. It didn’t even take him long to realize that they were robbing again, and knew that they must work quickly, lest they would be caught and face frightening consequences.
The small boy scurried towards a corner, and began scooping handfuls of the coins into his bag, forcing the thought of being discovered in the far back of his mind. The thin coins made a soft whispering sound as they were spilled in the bag, as Horea wiped the tabletops and cupboards clean of any riches. His father was doing the same, opening the small caskets and tipping them over in the small bags that dangled on his broad leather belt, even into his stained shirt and shoes.

They were all doing this desperate deed at the dead of the night, when the moon was hanging high above the sky, compared to the deep blackness that ruled the atmosphere. It was also the time, in which the merchant had planned to exploit, when many human beings were already more accustomed to the imagined safety of their beds, far away from reality in their dream worlds.
However, the merchant was still wary of the possibility of being discovered. As he rummaged through the count’s riches, his eyes often flitted back to the open door, tuning his ears to hearing anything besides the goings-on in the room.

Keeping his face lifted watchfully to the door, he suddenly lost his footing, stumbling on the protrusive leg of the ornate desk. Cursing, he fell, skinning his knees against the old flagstones. Eyes shut and teeth gritting, he was frustrated with himself for his clumsiness, and cursed the damnable desk for his folly. The new element of fear was being pumped into his veins in greater quantities, and he immediately stood up, and looked back at the doorway.
It was no longer as wide open as he had left it. His guts turned cold and churned; as he watched in dismay, as the thick wooden door closed gently and silently.
A potent mixture of fear and confusion belched inside him, as he listened to the loud slide of the wooden bar going through the door’s iron sockets from the outside, trapping them inside the treasury.
Horea’s breath got caught in his throat, when he realized what was happening. Instinctively, he quickly released his grip on the bag, as if he had been burned from touching it, letting the coins cascade as waves on the stone floor.
He found himself with his back pressed against the wall, hands flying wildly for something that may signify security, all the while as the adults paused from their misdeeds.

The merchant shot a glance at the driver, who was looking back at him with a mixture of ire and panic. The merchant found himself at a loss of decision, realizing that they were doomed. It was just as soon as he thought of the consequences, when a dark shadow closed around them.
It dribbled forth through the cracks of the ceiling, oozing downwards on the walls like tar. Horea felt the chill wafting from this phenomenal creation, and shrank away from the wall, his knees wavering as he tried to walk. The shadow continued to surge on the walls, staining it into complete darkness, only penetrated by the feeble candlelights.
Then, as the shadows spilled into the floors, a husky sigh from nowhere wafted into the air, arriving with a gust of wind, immediately extinguishing all the lights of the room.

Thus, panic was unleashed amongst the two men. Letting out a cry, the merchant scrambled forward, to where he had hoped was the way to the door, only to bump in a solid surface. It wasn’t as hard as a wall, and being human, the merchant realized he had bumped into a fellow human being. A fleeting thought came to him that it might be the driver, yet he quickly found that he was nowhere near the squat, bow-legged individual. Pressing a guessing hand onto the body, he felt a flat chest that was just above his eye-level. As soon as he did so, a hand suddenly shot out and grabbed his face, smothering his voice in a firm grip.

On the other side of the room, Horea heard the muffled cry of his father, emitted with the sounds of a body being visibly dragged towards a far corner of the room, the leather-bound heels scraping against the stone floor barely masking the wavering whimpers of the victim.
Finally, the merchant had his back slammed against the wall, the tunic tight against his chest, by the two large fists clenching tightly on the material.
Eyes squinting at the darkness all around him, he could just make out the silhouette of a very tall man. He could see the predator bending over him, feel the hot, foul breath against his face, and could just picture the fiery red eyes burning through him.

“Puh-puh-please…” The merchant sobbed, trembling as he dared to look up on his predatory, “Let me go, for the love of God, just let me go…”
The predator’s breath stopped suddenly, as the merchant whined and whimpered weakly up at him, until he realized the quick change. The grip on his tunic eased a bit, receding the constricting feeling on his chest. Pausing, the merchant’s eyes searched at the darkness in front of him, the curiosity that had gone from him was coming back, wondering whether he had made his mark in getting the sympathy of his attacker.
Craning his neck forward, he opened his mouth to say something, his mind working cautiously on what to say.

“So...that’s what you are.” The predator exclaimed softly. The merchant could see him sneering down at him, his wide mouth twisted into a grimace. The merchant’s insides turned instantaneously cold, and he quieted, finding himself paralyzed to do anything more.
“You’re a worthless, good-for-nothing fool.” The predator observed; drawing out his words slowly and clearly, as if savoring the insults he was throwing at his prey.
“A fool who believes he can get away with thievery using liquid eyes and flowery words. You’re a man with more arrogance than common sense, a hypocrite, and a thief!”
The merchant said nothing, his mouth unconsciously agape. He whimpered as the predator’s hands roved up to the collar of his shirt, and the hands twisted, tightening the cloth into some kind of garroting tool.
As he squirmed and gurgled, the predator leaned closer, his breath hot against the merchant’s face, “Do you think I’m foolish enough to let you go?”
The merchant only babbled unintelligibly in reply, as he felt a burning sensation fogging the insides of his throat. Nevertheless, the predator continued, as if the human hadn’t even spoken.

“I’ll show you why even petty, desperate people don’t even dare to steal from me.”

Nothing more was said, in this small, dark world, save for the sounds of cloth being loudly ripped to shreds, entwined with the uneven cries of pain and desperation. It was a hideous song of death, ringing in the ears of the witnesses in the room. The screams were the choral ode, the sounds of bone and tendons snapping added to the drumming of limbs flailing against the stone floor, and that horrid tearing of unknown material, perhaps of the clothes, flesh or even hair.
Horea’s eyes burned with tears as he slapped his palms hard against his ears, trying to block out the horrendous sounds all around him. He could smell his father, the coppery substance called blood, as all sense of sanity seemed to spiral out of control within his mind. Grief and hopelessness held on to him like a grip clenched into a fist, as he unconsciously held his breath, hoping for everything to disappear, like atrocious nightmares under the gaze of the rising sun.

The sounds elevated for a second, and then came into a sudden hush, stunning the boy as he squirmed in revulsion. It was a terrible signal to him, for as young as he was, he was not a simple-minded child.
He knew what that meant; the monster was coming for him next, because he was there, in that tempting room of treasures, committing the sinful act of stealing.

As if he were an oracle, the silence was broken by the sounds of footsteps coming towards him, the strides seemingly so sinister, approaching him without hesitation or pauses.
Horea trembled, feeling a shrouded figure coming closer to him, tall and lofty, obviously exerting his power over him.

The footsteps stopped, at a mere breadth where Horea could almost reach out and touch him. The terror of the night struck him dumb, suddenly unable to let out a single word. Horea’s trembling hands fell from their clutching at his ears, as he unconsciously crossed them defensively over his stomach. All the while, the cynical part of his mind jeered at his feebleness and hopeful stupidity. Obviously, his father’s begging did not spare his own life, and it is doubtful that he, a human child, can protect himself this way.

But the figure stayed put, as the door’s bar was pulled off from the outside, and the door opened, letting out an angelic glow to shimmer into the darkness. Horea stiffened as the light revealed the figure to be the count, standing there impassively in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he had nothing to do with the abominations that happened here, as not a single spatter of blood could be seen marring the dark brown furs he still donned.
But Horea could smell it; it was so strong now, wafting up to his nostrils like an invisible sheet of fog.

He dared to look away, only to find himself wishing he hadn’t. The light exposed the room of not only its beauty, but its horrors. The floor was splashed with large amounts of blood, as well as the walls, marred by a flurry of red handprints, undoubtedly made with desperation. He could see that the driver and his father were nowhere to be seen, although there were two red paths streaking towards the behind of the desk, shielding the possibly grisly sight to the boy’s eyes.
Horea felt numb of existence, as if the world around him no longer holds a store of sweet and vigorous passion for him, as the menservants entered the room with their torches and lamps, giving the light to the previously shrouded room.

Horea’s attention flitted back to the count before him, and he flinched. The count was balancing on a bent knee, looking down at him with a closer perspective. By god, he hadn’t even seen or sensed him changing his position.
The strangeness of the night was too much to bear, as the feeling of grief flooded upwards within him once more, Horea felt like breaking down and sob away all of his troubles, to wash away whatever the fearsome event had tainted in him.
Falling back on the wall behind him, a faint whimper escaped from his trembling lips, as he weakly tried to set his face into a dignified stone mask. The count sighed, shutting his blood-red eyes tiredly, his frowning face giving away that he may be exhausted.

“Hush.” The man whispered, as he leaned forward, hand outstretched to slowly reach for the boy’s face, the long sleeve coated from the elbow downwards with dark crimson.
And that was when everything in Horea’s sight faded into blackness, but for this time, it was different. For now, a sense of peace invaded into his suddenly solitary world, where no one screams, and no one kills...