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Matters of the Hart

2022 by Zorha

A long time ago, in the Blackest Forest known to the Queen's Harts, sat a lone cottage of no importance.

The coldest winter in recent memory settled into this land, and most nights, no doe crept from her safe, warm bed. A single, forlorn howl erupted from the snowy night, carrying across the skeletal, black trees to the small cottage. A small trail of smoke drifted up from the decaying chimney, fed by the barest of fires. Near the chipped stone hearth, a Backfisch sat anxiously, her adolescent fingers playing gingerly with an elegant silver locket dangling just above her budding bosom.

"What is it Child?" The old woman in a rocking chair opposite the girl glanced up from the red cap she knitted. Her stern pupils peered just above a set of thick glasses. distorting the disapproving look on her wrinkled face.

"Gram, why does the wolf howl so?" The young girl's curious gaze drifted across the stone mantle above the fireplace. All manner of odd trinkets sat on the dusty shelf. Chief among them was a scorched, leather bound copy of an original Ratio Studiorum.

"Why are you so concerned with the Devil's Hounds, Child?" The wizened woman shook her head at her adopted grand daughter's naivety. She returned to the red wool material, her arthritic digits working skillfully despite the ominous freeze just outside their dirty windows.

"I am not concerned with the Devil, or his Hounds." The young girl shot back, the once porcelain face glowered. Her crystal blue eyes narrowed, colder than the ice that framed their quaint windows. "For I know what they look like ..."

The old woman stopped her knitting, caught off guard by the sudden brashness of this young hart.

"You know nothing Child!" She scolded. The old woman put down her knitting needles and folded her gnarly hands in her lap. "For the Devil and his Hounds come in many different forms ..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part I

Pakt des Wildgrafen

Rijeka, Croatia

June 21st, 1610

Gregor Wagner watched on as distant, white hot spears of lightning stabbed the darkening horizon of the Adriatic sea. The once fierce midsummer sun had slipped down past the edge of the world almost an hour ago. In the twilight sky above, the dark silhouette of a New Moon hung in its place. A salty gale rolled dark waves that crested and broke against the fine sand in a spray of foam. On its shore, torn sails of beached fishing boats fluttered against the black masts their owners had hurriedly strapped them down to. The roar of the sea, the shrieks of gulls, and distant rumble of thunder set Gregor's usually turbulent thoughts at ease.

Down the beach, some townspeople lit bonfires along the shore, keeping the descending night at bay. Some even brought drums and stringed instruments, their simple folk music bringing a festive mood under the twinkling stars that peaked through the dusky twilight. The Austrian sellsword turned merchant leaned back, resting against a burlap sack stacked against his wagon. The Coat of Hapsburg sat on a shield attached to its side. The wind sent its tarp flapping, offering occasional glimpses of swords, axes, and ornate polarms.

The war merchant appeared in his prime. Early thirties no less. Square shoulders. Wide chest. Well groomed beard. Green, sharp eyes. A few faint scars from battles fought decades ago ... or longer, crossed his cheeks and forehead. His skin was otherwise fair, snowkissed even.

As the sea gale ruffed his undershirt, he idly cleaned the underside of his sharp nails with an ornate dagger. Gregor noticed a now familiar Croat saunter up to his meager campfire. He tossed the dagger through the flapping lip of his small white canvas tent as the younger man plopped down on the other side of the fire. The buffeting wind whipped the flame about, embers flying up into the descending night.

"I already told you." Gregor offered in broken Croat. "I have nothing to offer."

Gregor looked at the younger man, dressed in Dinaric finery. He sat a tamburitza on his lap, dexterous fingers grasping the stringed instrument by its neck. He could have easily come from one of the many Baroque buildings closer to the city. His soft brown eyes seemed amused, glinting in the fire, and a wry smile split his olive toned face.

"Have you considered," He offered back in fluent Bohemian, "That I'm not looking to buy?"

He pulled out a small cask of orahovac liqueur from under his cloak and cheekily sat it in the sand between them. The merchant's brow furrowed.

"I had not." Gregor shot back in slightly less mangled Bohemian.

Still, despite whatever reservations the former sellsword held, he knew it was rude to refuse such a generous offer. He sat up and grabbed a nearby leather satchel. After rummaging through it he pulled out two small pewter tankards. Gregor offered each one up as the Croat poured. They raised their full drinks to each other before sipping the strong, walnut flavored alcohol. The Croat fiddled with the tuning of his instrument before plucking the strings, joining the other musicians playing in the background. The two sat there for a while, enjoying each other's unspoken company.

"So what may I call you, besides persistent." Gregor took another sip. The Croat offered him another sly smile. Their banter was playful, flirtatious even. Gregor didn't know what the other man wanted from him, but he couldn't deny his curiosity had now peaked.

"Ivan."

"Well Ivan, tell me, how did you come to speak Bohemian?"

"I could ask the same of a merchant. We both ply a trade." Ivan strummed his tamburitza, the cord carried on the breezy air. He paused long enough to take another drink before continuing to play. "My family used to entertain the court in Prague every winter before the revolt."

The merchant's brow furled again, this time he looked at the coat of arms on his wagon.

"I have no love for Matthias. Everywhere the Hapsburgs go, ruin follows." Gregor seemed to lose himself in dark memories.

"Is that why you peddle their war wares?" Ivan smiled again, teasing. Gregor's eyes focused on him.

For a few moments, there was silence. Then another ominous rumble of thunder broke the placid night. Gregor took another drink, as if to wash away unspoken unpleasantries.

"My family has been fighting for the Hapsburgs for more years than I can count."

"Twelve years, you say?"

Despite whatever dark clouds hung over the merchant, Ivan found a way to eke out a small laugh from his new companion. Down by the crashing shoreline, someone sounded a horn, signaling concerted deep thumps from drummers.

"And what of your family?" Gregor rummaged through his satchel again before producing some spiced jerky. The process took longer than he anticipated. He wasn't expecting the alcohol to hit him so fast, but then again, his caravan had just arrived in Rijeka, and he hadn't managed to cook dinner yet. With the approaching storm, he probably wouldn't have time. He offered Ivan some of the jerky. "Have they always entertained Royalty?"

Ivan graciously accepted, taking a small bite.

"My family has always made a living off opulent Royalty. Clan Ljudislav originally hailed from Dalmatia. Many centuries ago we plundered Venetian salt traders on the Adriatic."

"So your family used to be pirates?" Gregor cocked an eyebrow.

Ivan nodded, matter of factly. He offered more orahovac to the merchant, who held out his tankard under the small cask's open spigot. The ominous clouds above the sea flashed in strobes. The air had an edge of ozone to it now, the once distant storm making its way further inland. They sat there for a while in silence, drinking, enjoying the refreshing night, and the festive atmosphere of Ivanjski kresovi.

Somewhere in his ever growing hazy thoughts, Gregor knew that this was a bad idea. He shouldn't be letting his guard down around strangers, let alone himself. But as he watched the shadows of young couples holding hands and leaping over the bonfires dotting the shore, he felt his inner demon deceptively far away. Flames danced and lapped at the darkness. Approaching peals of thunder punctuated the guttural slavic chants. Between the deep rhythmic drum beats and low pitched scratch of bows on strings, the pagan rites stirred something ... primal inside Gregor.

"Ivan. Do you think ... is the Christian God real?"

"You are asking the wrong person my friend ..." Ivan contemplated this drink, then took another swig, heathen eyes glowing in the light of their quaint campfire. Ivan's fingers returned to the tamburitza, dancing over the strings again. They plucked out a hedonistic tune that kept pace with the almost tribal drum beats in the distance. "The warrior tribes of Pagania rejected baptism. I am no different."

Lulled in by drink and battle chants, the words Ulrich von Kapellen had spoken to Gregor during the Battle of the Marchfeld crept back to him. Haunting him. Despite the empty reassurances, God was not on their side that day. In fact, God had not been with him since the day Gregor made a pact with the Lord of the Forest ...

* * * * *

He thought about the day long ago where he and his half brother Wolrad had run away from their father and into the forests of a nearby Waldgrave. Discovered poaching the Lord's hart, the two brash youths stood brazen and defiant at the sight of the huntsman dressed all in black riding a nightmarish black stallion. He smiled wickedly at their unrepentant hearts, and offered the starving boys all the flesh that they could ever want, but only if they agreed to aid him in his eternal hunts for damned souls.

* * * * *

Gregor downed his tankard. He let it fall out of his slack hand into the sand, the flames of the distant bonfires now leaving wakes in his blurred vision. A now turbulent sky above cracked open with dazzling lightning. The devil's death dealer looked up just in time for a fat drop of rain to pelt him on his scarred brow. How long had he been reminiscing?

More drops fell. And more. Within a few seconds the very sky began to weep. Gregor looked at those down at the beach scramble among the bonfires. He glanced at Ivan, who didn't seem to mind the tears from heaven. The rain drops pelted the sand around them now, the once gentle breeze turning into a torrential gale. The merchant struggled to his wobbly feet even as the downpour started to drench him. Ivan took off his cloak and wrapped his instrument in it before scooting over to steady Gregor, helping him in the direction of his tent.

"Easy my friend." Ivan said, being surprisingly gentle.

Gregor had a hard time hearing him over the strengthening fury of the storm. Ivan eased Gregor to his knees and gently pushed him inside the dry tent. Gregor crawled inside the deer hides he called bedding and was distantly surprised to see Ivan crawl in after him. The Austrian merchant tried to swipe the wet locks out of his eyes but found it surprisingly difficult to. How much alcohol had he consumed?

Instead he found himself numb, fascinated, watching Ivan light his small hurricane lantern. The small tent lit up instantly, shadows swaying as the tempest beat against the waterproof canvas. Ivan turned and tied the tent flap closed before turning back to Gregor. It took far too long for Gregor's sluggish mind to realize that Ivan's arms were encircling his chest, his fingers running themselves through Gregor's dark wet hair.

"Wait ..." Gregor's unsure words came out slurred. " ... are you ... robbing me?"

Ivan's soft, pursed lips stifled a laugh even as they sought Gregor's cheek. His warm hands slid under Gregor's soaked undershirt, peeling it off of the drunken merchant with some difficulty despite practiced grace.

"Yes. You have been besieged by the great Ljudislavs." Ivans hot lips found Gregor's own. The once and great Pirate Lord broke the kiss long enough to parlay. "And in the morning, you will pay fifty Artilucs in return for your clothes."

Gregor's hazy mind held so many questions that his numb lips could not ask. Was Ivan a Galebovi? How did Ivan know he enjoyed the touch of other men? In the end, Gregor found the warmth and touch too pleasant to push away. He had lost count of the endless years since someone was in his bedskins. His lips moved against Ivan's, almost on instinct. Gregor's hand slid up Ivan's back to cradle the strong neck, pulling the Croat deeper into the kiss.

A small part of Gregor wondered if this was wrong. The Hapsburgs were pretty much annexing their nation. He was the invader here. But the native was trying to bed him. Ivan's hand was in his trousers now, the calloused fingertips gripping his half hard member. No ... this was moving too fast ... how many Slavs had he killed across time and battleground?

Something hot, pointed, and metallic dug into the bare skin between his shoulder blades. Was that the silver dagger he had thrown back inside his tent earlier? The world spun around him. Gregor realized that Ivan's bare chest was now pressed against his own. When had the musician taken off his shirt? The Croat's thick tongue invaded his mouth again, but Gregor couldn't deny how good it tasted. He was so ... hungry ...

The light in the tent seemed to dim for a few moments. A while later Gregor realized he had passed out for a few minutes, bleary green eyes darting around the flapping canvas, futility getting his bearings. The tent seemed cramped now, the perspective skewed as he faintly realized Ivan had pushed him on his side. Gregor's body bucked in primal dance as Ivan thrust himself back and forth into his naked flesh.

His inebriated body felt little, and distantly, Gregor felt cheated out of what should have been a memorable rut. He cursed himself for his lack of discipline. Soldiers should know better. His rough hands feebly felt around, trying to regain some sense of orientation in the world that spun and pitched like a ship in rough seas. Ivan's hot breath brushed by his ear, hard grunts and meaty slaps joining the maelstrom beating itself against their little sanctuary.

A distant sensation of warmth filled him. Both halves of his eyelids closed off the world again, and Gregor's rational mind descended back into darkness. The beast within the unconscious, feral mind, however, was just awakening ...

* * * * *

I know that this goes against everything we have instilled in you ... but the Grace of God is on our side ... and he will forgive us for what we are about to do ...

The unexpected sight of tent flaps rippling in a storm gave way to the edge of a dream-like forest shrouded in mist.

Gregor's viewpoint leapt from the top of the hill, the shrubs and trunks of small trees rushing past him on either side. A tangled writhing mass of arms, armor, and bodies filled the battlefield below him. He charged towards the right flank of the army with a lion with a crown and twin tails on its heraldry. The lope of his vision seemed consistent with a quadrupedal gallop, but Gregor was confused at how low he was to the ground. He felt each thundering impact of his extremities into the hard packed earth. Was he the horse? The black, square nose sitting in his field of vision didn't look equine ...

He swung his head to either side of him. The mounted cavalry sweeping in ignoble ambush to flank Otto's forces did not pay him any mind, as if he was simply one of many. His eyes narrowed as he swung his head back to focus on the cacophony of battle. A maddening, disjointed chorus of screams and bangs of arms against armor filled his perked dears. His swift legs catapulted himself towards the carnage with blinding speed. And he was the first upon them.

He lept on instinct. His powerful hind legs vaulted him into the air, far higher than he had seen any horse jump. For a moment Gregor wondered if he had become a hawk, soaring through the air and now crashing down upon a field mouse. His clawed black furred hind feet took a hussar completely off his saddle. Gregor righted himself during the impact, his powerful legs driving the soldier straight into the ground with bone crunching force. The hussar's scream cut off abruptly as the weight of the massive monster crushed his ribs with wet snaps.

The beast hunched, muzzle clamping down upon the dying Slav's clavicle, and with a vicious wrench of muscle from bone, brutally twisted his neck around. It ripped the man's shoulder clean off, limp arm flapping about in a spray of crimson. It coated Gregor's muzzle, the sticky gush finally sating the Austrian's bloodlust and hunger he had tried to suppress over the centuries. The beast shook the grisly prize savagely back and forth, before flinging the arm into the backs of the spearmen trying in vain to hold the front line.

Gregor tipped his black, blood soaked muzzle up to the sky and let out a bestial howl just as Ulrich von Kapellen's own forces smashed past him, decimating the occupied flank of Otto's forces.

Some of the spearmen swung about, screaming in terror. Others tried running over and jabbing the two legged, massive wolf with their pathetic steel tips. They felt cold in his fur, flesh mending with demonic speed. Gregor roared at them, gripping the shafts of their spears and snapping them as if they were mere toothpicks. His razor claws raked their breastplates, sparks flying off from the shallow rents in the steel there. Gregor's massive maw closed around a Slavs' head and it burst like an overripe tomato.

The terrifying scene playing out before the Slavs was too much for some, and Milota of D?dice fled, taking most of his forces with him. Combined with the Austrian surprise attack, the entire right flank of Otto's forces caved. In the midst of the sea of Slavs desperately trying to best the beast with mundane metal, Gregor noticed Ottokar II and his personal detachment of heavy cavalry pulling back to the river Morava.

His yellow eyes narrowed, bloody fangs exposed in a malevolent snarl. The ultimate stain on his honor.

Cut off the head of the snake Gregor whispered to the beast and its blood will poison your home soil no longer

The beast swung at the men who encircled him, beating the tin soldiers away with the back of its furry forearms. They flew up and away as if a cannon ball impacted at their feet, despite this age never seeing the alchemical force of black powder. Gregor smashed his way through waves of infantry, shoulder checking them back to oblivion. None of Ulrich von Kapellen's mounted forces could keep up with him. His claws found the backsides of retreating Bohemian forces, who oddly enough, began to wear more traditional Croat garb.

Lightning stabbed the dark sky as Gregor chased down Bohemian horse riders and screaming Croat alike. Gregor's hind feet sank into mud and sand with each titanic leap and slash. Blood splattered. Bone shattered. The massacre was visceral. Around a bend of a hill and the river Morava appeared, small fires dotting its sandy banks. The tents propped up could only be one thing: Ottokar II main camp.

Gregor barreled towards it, over-running the guards at its edges with impunity. It was only after the third thin body that Gregor ripped in half did the beast realize the commoner held simple iron working tools, not martial weapons. The beast's bloodlust drove him onward, claws and fangs tearing into the flesh and sinew of non-combatants without cease. The slaughter was indiscriminate. He lost track of how many Slavs he feasted upon.

The horrified looks and shrill screams of their one and only battle seared itself into Gregor's mind forever.

Slav blood drenched the beast from head to hind claws. Dismembered limbs and gashed torsos dotted the inner camp. The stench of loose bowels and urine punctuated the otherwise fresh scent of lightning and ozone. Despite all the flesh sitting in his belly, Gregor sensed a different hunger still unsated. Prowling now on all fours, the single tent he approached reeked of orahovac.

No ... no ... the small sliver of Gregor's humanity cried out in vain Otto isn't in there ... he was on a horse ...

The hooves of a black stallion stamped next to him, making the beast turn to his master. The huntsman in black smiled devilishly down at him, growing fangs glinting in the smoldering fires of the camp around them. His slitted eyes were a gut wrenching bright yellow.

You can run from me and our little pact, Young Gregor. But you can't run from who and what you truly are. Come my child ... feast on the Harts of the Godless ...

The huge black wolf leapt into the tent, the sudden rend of flesh and bone made the tent shake back and forth. The meaty slaps of carnal need were unmistakable. The screams inside lingered, escaping the boundaries of dark, passionate dreams ...

* * * * *

Gregor awoke naked to the light of eastern dawn. The salt air did little to mask the scents of death and carnage littering the beach. The excited sheik of gulls over this unexpected banquet was ear splitting. Despite the mid summer season, he felt cold inside, and he pulled his bare limbs closer to himself. The merchant found himself covered in viscera. Somewhere in the remains of his shredded tent, Dinaric finery, and greasy coils of intestines, he clutched something cold and somehow hot to the touch at the same time.

The only thing that survived last night intact was the silver ornate dagger.

He got to his knees and wretched, the flesh of men spilling onto the blood encrusted sand around him. Gregor took one look at the rising sun, said a futile prayer, and rather than honor the Pakt des Wildgrafen, plunged the sacramental dagger into his damned heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wolf lingering somewhere in the depths of the Black Forest howled again. Inside the small cottage, the two looked up from the sordid little yarn as its sad call came down through the chimney.

"Gram." The Backfisch shifted about in her wobbly oak chair. "If the merchant felt so alone ... why did he eat the musician?"

The old woman's cracked lips pursed. The naive hart obviously missed the meaning of her first tale.

"Because dear Child ... sometimes there are flames in our hearts." Her somber brown eyes crept to the scorched remains of the religious manual sitting stoically up on the mantle "And those flames, if left unchecked, can consume everything ..."

~ To Be Continued ~