TheCursedChild ANaissusLegend
By Markus Vasily Vikander
©2025 MarkusVasilyVikander
All rightsreserved.
No part of this book maybereproduced,stored in aretrieval system,ortransmittedinany formorbyany means: electronic, mechanical,photocopying,recording,orotherwise.without prior writtenpermission of the author,exceptinthe case of brief quotationsembodied in reviewsorarticles.
This is aworkoffiction. Names, characters,places, and incidents areeitherproducts of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Anyresemblancetoactualevents,locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-91-8097-741-8
Cover design:DebrajDey
Publisher: BoD· BooksonDemand, Östermalmstorg1, 114 42 Stockholm, Sweden,bod@bod.se
Print: LibriPlureos GmbH, Friedensallee273, 22763 Hamburg, Germany
First Edition, 2025
Pawel– Mead andRumors
Therainhad just settledasa thin sheen uponLublin’s cobbled streetswhenPawel rode throughthe city gate. Theguardsrecognizedhim andlet himpasswithout a word;the HussarOrder’s cloak requirednoexplanation here.Itwas thesameinmosttowns he arrivedat… his blue mantle,markedwiththe Order’ssigil,opened nearly everygateinthe Duchies.People gave himspace on theroad. AHussarina blue cloakcould be salvation…orjudgment. Thosewho bowedashepassed didnot always do so outofrespect,but just as oftenout of fear.
Pawelran ahandoverthe stubbleonhis chin andfelt theweariness clingtohis body like rust to ablade. Anotherjourney,another investigation…and once again it hadended as it always did: fear,superstition,and shadowsthatlived only in people’s minds. No demon, no witch, notevena curse. Only people…just as cowardly as they were cruel.
Lublin stretchedout before him. Thecitywallroselikea scar of stonearoundthe houses, itstowersproclaiming powerratherthansafety. He rode past thecramped buildingswhere thesmithskepttheir forges burningday andnight;hammerstrikes fell like heartbeats across the city.The stench of iron andcoalmingled with thereek of slaughterand refuse.
It wasa wealthycity, yes… butnot abeautiful one. In the markets, silk andspicesweresoldsidebysidewith bloodyanimalcarcasses. Church bellsrangfor piety, yet ducatschanged handsfasterthanprayers.Nodreams were builthere; here,power wasboughtand sold.
Pawelshook hisheadand tightenedhis grip on thereins. Lublin mightbehis home,but itsheart beat to the rhythm of theforges’ hammers:cold, hard,and unforgiving. TheHussarOrder hadits hearthere, in Vanbork… thefortressthatroseabove theriver like a blacktoothofstone.Its spirespiercedthe skylikespears, andbeneath them Lublin sprawledbetween itstwo hills.
To thewestlay theharbor, reekingoftar andsaltwater.
To theeastrosethe dark shafts of themines,and the smokefromthe smelters hung like ashroudoverthe city.
Formost, this wasa holy place, whereknights andmonks wagedthe Lord’s waragainst darkness andswore by Orion,the prophetwho hadcalledmankind to battle in eternaldevotion.But forPawel,ithad neverbeenso. He hadseen toomanypeoplebleed in Orion’sname, while thedarknessitselfhad neveronceappeared. He had joined theOrder in hisearly twenties,not outofpiety, butout of hunger.A roof over hishead, afullstomach, andattimes thechancetobring justice… that hadbeen enough forhim.
He remembered thedaysdownatthe harbor,how his father hadtoiled with ropesand cargoamidstthe same stench of tarand rotting nets.Thatwas alifehenever wished to return to.InVanbork he founddiscipline, a placeinthe ranks, anda swordinhis hand.Noone askedwhy he stood there… only that he didhis duty.
Faithhad neverdrivenhim.IfGod existed, He wasas indifferentasthe haze of coal smokeoverLublin. People,onthe otherhand… they lied,hated,killed. And it wastheir trailPawel hadfollowedthrough more than thirty investigationsinthe tenyears he hadservedthe
Order. Always thesameending: no witches, no demons.
Only mankind’sown sins.
Avoicebroke throughhis thoughts.
“Pawel!Isthatreallyyou,old hound?”
Pawelpulledatthe reinsand sawa manstepforward from between themarketstalls. Captain Stanislaw Nowakworethe dark green coat of thecityguard,but over hisshoulders hung acloak worn thin by yearsof service. Hisfacewas lined, hisnoseoncebrokenand neverproperlyhealed, andhis beardwas grayingatthe temples. Yethecarried himselfwithaneasyauthority… theman whohad once been asimplegateguard,but throughstubbornnessand cunning hadrisen allthe way to commandofLublin’swatch.
Pawelsmirked.“Stanislaw. Isee they stillhaven’t managedtomakeyou look like agentleman.”
“And Isee they stillhaven’t managedtomakeyou look happy,”Stanislaw shot back with alaugh that wasmore coarse than merry.Theyclaspedeachother’s forearms in
greeting, like twomen whohad survivedthe same filth buttaken differentroads since.
They hadfirstmet when Pawel, ayoung recruit of the Order, couldbarelyhandlea lance. Back then,Stanislaw hadbeen amerecityguard…grim, butalwaysquick with advice forthe dockworker’s sonwho wanted to become somethingmore. Theyears hadhoned them both:Pawel into acynical Hussarknight, Stanislaw into acaptain whoknewevery alleyofLublin.
“Come,”saidStanislaw,nodding toward anearby tavern.“Youneedmead. I’ve gota feelingit’sgoingtobe alongnight.”
Pawelopenedhis mouthtoprotest,thencloseditagain.
He knew that if he rode straight to Vanbork, GrandmasterDalibor wouldthrow anew assignment at himbeforehe’devenpulledoff hisboots. AndDalibor nevershowedmercy to atired man.
“A cuportwo,then,”Pawel conceded.“Butonly because Idon’t want to seeyourgrinning face outonthe street.”
Stanislaw grinnedwideand clappedhim on thearm.
“Thenwe’ll take twoextrafor good fortune, so you’ll have strength enough to keep lookingsodamnedsour, my nobleknight!”
Together they turned toward thetaverndoor, away from thefortress’sshadowand into thedin of voices,the smell of charredmeat, andthe heavywarmthofale.
Thetavernreeked of burntfat,sourmead, andold smoke. Thebeams abovewereblackened from yearsof soot,and thetableswerelitteredwithscraps of meat and spilleddrink.Inthe corner,a lute player pluckeda mournful tune no onetruly listened to,its notesblending into themurmurofvoices andthe laughter of gamblers hunchedoverdicecups.
Paweland Stanislaw satata heavyoak tablenearthe hearth.Logscracked andspat, castinga warmglow across their faces, whiletwo mugs of mead were set
down with athudbya servinggirltoo wearytoeven feigna smile.
“So,”Stanislaw began, raisinghis mug, “whatmischief have youbeen up to this time,old hound? Iheard the Ordersentyou east,out toward BaronWitoslav’slands.”
Paweldrank deep before answering. He setthe mug down with ahardthump,meadsloshingoverthe rim. “A village on theedgeofthe forest.Someoneclaimed a witchdwelt there. Children sickening, livestockdropping dead…the usualtale.”
“And?” Stanislaw leaned forward, hiseyesglintingwith both curiosityand ahintofamusement.
Pawelgavea crooked smile, though it neverreached his eyes.“No witches, of course.Never anywitches… A widowwho knew more aboutherbs than theother womeninthe village.She hadcured afew fevers with crushed willowbark. When some children died anyway, they cried witchcraft.And whodoyou thinkprofited from it?”
Stanislaw raised hisbrows.“Letmeguess… thevillage elder?”
“Mhm,” Pawelreplied,leaning back.“He wasindebt. Needed somethingtodrawattention away from hisown failings.Sohelet thepeople direct their wrath at the widow. He knew theOrder wouldcomesooner or later, andwhentheydid,he’dstand as therighteousman who had‘exposed’ her.”
Stanislaw shook hisheadand gave adry laugh. “People neverchange. Always readytothrow stones at theone whostandsalone.”
“Exactly.” Paweldrank again, hiseyesfixedonthe flamesinthe hearth.“Superstition is aweapon. And there’salwayssomeone willingtowielditfor their own gain,inthe cold grip of greed.”
Fora momentsilence laybetween them,filledonlyby theclatterofmugsand adrunkard’ssongfromdeeper within thehall.
In theheart of theduchy Lublin,where theHussar Orderrules with swordand scripture, rumors spreadof anoble childbornunder adarkomen. Whispersof deformityand curseignitefearinthe streets, andfearis themostdangerous weapon of all.
BrotherPawel,weary knight of theOrder andveteran of countlessinvestigations, knowstoo well that superstition is rarely thetruth... butitalwaysbleedslike it.Calledtothe Lipski dynastystronghold, he must uncoverwhether thechild’s fate is marked by heaven,or by menwho profit from fear.
What begins as ataleofhushed voices andforged prayerssoon revealsa conspiracy reaching from taverns to altars,fromthe gutter to thehighest hallsofpower. Everycluedrags Paweldeeperintoa webofdeceit wheresilvershinesbrighterthanfaith,and everystep closer to atruth that risksplungingLublinintofire.
Dark,atmospheric,and relentless,The Cursed Childis agothicinvestigation setinthe grim worldofNaissus whereknights hunt notdemons, butthe lies menwield as weapons.
