Whispers Of TheEastern Nights
Anaissus Legend2
By Markus Vasily Vikander
©2025 MarkusVasily Vikander
All rights reserved.
No part of this book maybereproduced,stored in aretrieval system, or transmittedinany formorbyany means:electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording, or otherwise.without prior writtenpermissionof the author,exceptinthe caseofbrief quotations embodied in reviews or articles.
This is aworkoffiction. Names, characters,places, and incidents areeither products of the author’simagination or used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events,locales, or persons,livingordead, is purelycoincidental
ISBN: 978-91-8097-768-5
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PrintedinSwedenbyBoD
First Edition, 2025
Publish: BoD ∙ BooksonDemand, Östermalmstorg1, 114 42 Stockholm, Sweden,bod@bod.se
Print: LibriPlureos GmbH, Friedensallee273, 22763 Hamburg, Germany
Pawel- TheRed Baroness
Themistlay over theborderriver like washed-out wool.
Paweldrewa steady breath as thebanners of Eastern Gate came into view.Uponthe clothburnedthe golden twelve-pointedstar, wreathed in tonguesofflame, andat itsfoot an eagleknelt in prayer.Older than thefortress itself,the emblem spoke of Orion’s lightand the vigilanceofHouse Jaroslaw.ToPawel it was no mere heraldry…itwas proof that here themantleofthe Hussars stillcommanded respect.Withinthese walls, their cloaks were greeted as shields of order, andthe Order’shousesroselikewatchful sentinelsalong the roads. Yetevenasrelief settled in hischest,the memory of Volchy Gorodclung to him: alandwithout asingle station of theOrder,where theHouse of Volkov called themselves servants of Orion butintruth stillbowed only to their oldgods.
Each of thetwelvetribesofNaissus hadoncewalked their ownpath, with their owntongue, their ownrites, their ownnames forpower.Intime, most hadblended
together,their customssoftenedand reshaped into the shared mold of theDuchies.But notVolchy. Their language stillcarried theweight of theold world, and their lordswerenot calledbaronsbut boyars.Alone amongthe twelve,theyclung fiercelytotheir heritage, holdingfasttothe ways their forefathershad carvedin wolf-song, forest,and fire.
There, thepeople whisperedtoforests andrivers, leaving their offeringstobeastsand spirits of theold blood. Wolves were prayed to more than saints,and theair itself seemed to breathesuspicion.Here, in theDuchy of Eastgate thepresenceofHussars meantlaw and belonging… Forthe first time in weeks, he felt theweight of exileeasefromhis shoulders.
To reachEastgatefromLublin, Pawelhad no choicebut to ride throughVolchyGorod.The land laylikea shadow between thetwo Duchies,and though everymile left himuneasy, to circle around wouldhavecostweeks. Dalibor’scommand hadbeen clear: hasteabove all. So he endured thebarrenroads,the silent stares of villagers whostill prayed to wolf andriver rather than Orion,and theabsenceofany brother’scloak to greethim.Only
when theborderstonesgaveway to thebanners of Eastgate didheallow himselftobreathe as though he hadlefta forest of unseen eyes behind.
Thebridgewas anarrowspine of oaklogsand iron, strung between theDuchy of theEastgateand Volchiy
Gorodtothe north. When Pawelrodeupthe cobbled ramp toward thecustomshouse,the iron shoes rang drylyagainst thestone.The watercarried thescent of iron andpeat… alongwithsomething sharpthatdid not belong to theseason.
He slid theletterforward before theguard hadtimeto ask. Thewax wascracked with road dust,but theseal stillstood clear:a twelve-pointedstarinblue. Thecolor caught in thesoldiers’ eyes.Itwas enough;theyknew what it meant.
“You were expected yesterday,”saidthe customs inspector…gaunt,paper-thinatthe mouth, eyes that weighedmen insteadofmeasures.
“The windswereagainst me,” Pawelreplied.“Andthe roads.”
”And thebarbariansinVolchyI suppose.” Theguard muttered.
Paweldid notanswerthe mans verbal jabagainst his northern neighbor,instead he enteredthe customs house.
Thebuildingwas agranite boxwithlow windowsand hinges olderthanthe planks themselves.Inside, it smelledofdampwool andtar.The border soldier’s wet coatsdrippedontothe floor…
Dropstappedagainst thestone sill.A youngscribe pushed beadsacrosshis counting frame, pausingwhen Pawelpassed.
“Captain Zorić,” introduced alow,broad manina sunfastened cloak.His gaze slid over thesealand further to Pawel’smedallion,where thetwelve-pointedstar returned in metal. “SoDalibor sends… aHussar knight, now. ”
“Hesends me,” Pawelreplied.Nothing more was needed.
Theinspector loosened theribbononthe letter.
“BaronessCarmillaofVespernesshas been held under house arrest sincethe twenty-secondoflastmonth.
Formal accusationsfromBaron Velemir of Slanec: witchcraft,seduction,blood.His sonMarko vanished aftera visittothe estate.The Baroness is permittedpriest andphysician.Noothers.”
“I am not‘others,’” said Pawel. “I am Dalibor’sHussar.”
Thecaptain noddedtowardthe iron ring where complaints hung.Pawel read.The wordswereheavy in accusation,light in detail…asitalwayswas when judgment hadalready been made in people’s mouths.
“The rumors?” he askedwithout liftinghis eyes.
“Vespernessholds mass withoutlight,” pipeda scribe in theroomscorner, quicker than hiscaptain.“That she drinks thenight airuntil sheturns whiteaschalk.”
“Child’s talk,” said Zorić.“Darkness breeds wandering voices.”
Pawellookedout throughthe milky window.“Hownear does Vespernesslie to thecursedforest’sedge?”
“Farthestwestofour lands,”the captainreplied.
“Where Vespermark pressesits brow againstthe Darkness… Thebaronessmanor of Vesperness is the seat of Vespermark. ”
He measured Pawelonce, as if to gaugehow many wordshecould bear.
“The Darkness is notonlya cursed forest,” he continued. “Itisanold woundwhere theworld bleedsfaintly.Days grow thinnerthere;soundslosetheir way. Compasses turn slow withouthand. Animalslosewarmthfirst… then more.The priests saythatinthe oldest wars men prayed wrongatthe border…orright,depending on whocounts. Trees rose over theprayerlikea lid. Since then it is nightthere,evenwhenthe sun lingers. We say theDarknessremembers when menforget.”
“You believeinsuchthings?” Pawelaskedmildly.
“I believeinaccounts,” said theinspector dryly. “And I seehow oftenwereplace thosewho vanish on thesame shortstretch.” He noddedtowardlists of names. “The house of Vesperness once vowedthatdaughters of there line wouldkeepwatch wheresonsrideon. That is whya
womanalwaysinherits.Thatiswhy theBaronessrarely leaves herhome.”
Zorić clappedhis palmstogether. “You aregranted entry… undermyresponsibility. Youspeak with herin thepresenceofmysoldiers. Youdonot remove her. You do notsummonyourown men. Clear?”
“Asthe river.”saidPawel.
Theinspector added: “Itwas Coachman Hankowho droveyoung Markoup. Before thecoldtook hislungs he said that awoman in redcameout andtoldhim to ride home;‘it will take time.’ He rode.The horsereturned withouthim.”
“Was it Carmilla?”Pawel asked.
“Ask her,”the captainsaid, sharply.
Outside, themistbrightenedlikemilkthinned with water. Theriver bore afox,red as athought;its belly strangelyhollow. Twodarkeaglescircled butdared not land.The foxcaughtina whirlbythe pilingsand vanished.
“Anomen, they sayinVolchiy,” avoicesaid. “Foxes die when theborderchanges itsmood.And to eagles soaring… Ourduke have twosons, Yuri andVitaly.”
Pawelturned. Thewoman in thedoorwayworethe Duke’s gray cloak with newly grantedcertainty.An ordinary face…neitherfairnor plain… buther eyes burned with restless eagerness. Herhands foundtasks wherenoneexisted.
“Yourname?”Pawel asked.
“Vavra,” shesaid. “I am to guideyou to Vesperness.I know theway…” shecorrected herselfquickly,“…I have riddenitonlythree times. ButIlearn quickly.”
Pawellet hisgazerestonher abreathtoo long.A womanina soldier’scloak.Uncommoninthe Duchies. He folded theletteraway, like apaper tucked into an innerpocket.
Captain Zorić held alantern as if it needed himmore than he needed it.“Shewillaccompanyyou,the twoof youwillrideatdawn”
“I canridebeforedawnaswell,”Vavra said tooquickly.
“Orafter.Wheneveryou wish.” Thesmile came, faltered,and founditselfagain.
“Dawnwillsuffice,”Pawel said.
He studied themap:a blotched scrapofparchment whereVespermarkwas drawnasa wedgepressing againstthe blacklinethatmarkedthe Darkness.The name Vespernessstood as if thehandhad hesitated… a rise abovea hollow, thehouse facing theforestlikea watchman that does notblink.
“Thatapprentice whoclaimed to seeMarko at the forest’s edge…” Pawelbegan.
“Dreamed,” thecaptain said.“Apprenticesoften do that.”
“Sometimes dreams remember better than records,” Pawelanswered, foldingthe mapand tuckingitinsidehis coat whereheusually kept hispapers, as though words couldgivewarmth.
They rode outfromthe customshouse into awindthat combed thegrass dark andwet across thehills.The road westward ranlikea pale vein throughthe slopes,broken nowand then by cairns andold milestones paintedwith Orion’s star.Far aheadthe forest arched…not just any forest,but theone whoseverynameturnedtoa warning on thetongue: theDarkness.
Pawellet thehorse keep itsown pace.Vavra rode half a length ahead, questionsspilling from herlikerain, twisting in thesaddletocatch hisexpression,laughingat herown stumbles againsthis silence. Shewas no beauty, butnot plaineither… herfaceordinary, almost boyish at certainangles… andher eyes shonewithsomething that couldnever be taught.Enthusiasm. Hunger forlife.
He notedthe shortsword-beltacrossher shoulder,worn in like agrandfather’s coat.Unusual, he thought. Womenseldomborea bladeinthe Duchies,and rarer stillinthe Duke’s colors. It told himsomething about her… andabout someonewho hadgiven herleave…
buthelet thethought pass.Itwas enough that he had seen it.
“How fartoVesperness?” he asked, mostly just to speak.
“A day’sride, if theroadholds.” shenoddedwestward.
“Whenthe forest trulybeginstodarken, we arenear. ”
Shesmiledasifshe hadshareda secret.“They saythe Baroness’smanor canbeseen before thescent of pine reachesyou.Thather walls make theevening lightlook older.”She bither lip, almost daring.“It is beautiful,that somethingcan make lightitselfseem old.”
“Indeed”hesaid.
They rode on awhile longer,inthatlight that makesthe land thin as parchment. Meadowsbrushed up against lowridges; smallfarms clungtothe hillswithbarn, well, andgraystone walls. Sheephuddled in flocks, wide eyes steaming breath from their muzzles.Atevery crossroads stood asmall roadside shrine.Someborefresh heather andthe stubs of waxcandles.
“It’strue, what people say,”Vavra murmured,nodding toward aniche wherea twelve-pointedstarwas carved.
“The Eastgate is thestrictest Duchy. TheChurch… it livesinthe very wallshere.”She loweredher voice, almost reverently.“In theCathedral of Orion they crowndukes, andtheyhaveburnedhereticsthere.No othercityI’veseen feelsso… ruledbythe eyes of priests.”
Pawelsmiledfaintly.“Church does nothavetomean faith.”
Sheglanced back at him. “And faithdoesnot have to mean goodness.”
Theroadcut througha heathwhere thewindran free.
Beyond theheath theDarknessspreadlikea cloak drawn over theworld.The trunks stood closer,their bark darker,their crowns thickening thesky into adullgreenblack.
“I grew up in avillage wheretheysaidyou should never go past thethird birch,”Vavra said suddenly. “Beyond that…the forest listened.And if youansweredwhen someonecalledyournameinside, younever came home.” Shesaiditasone speaksofweather,not as a tale.
“Yet youchose thesword,” Pawelsaid.
“I chose‘nottoweave,’” shecorrected,but without sharpness. “MymothersaidI wastoo loud forchurch pews andtoo stubborn forthe market.SoI enlisted when thefieldsergeantcameby. They laughed.”She laughedatherself,thinkingofthe memory,short and clear.“Not loud, notcruel.Morelikemen laughing at an omen:‘That will neverwork.’I thought… then I’dbetter learnwhat‘never’ lookslike.”
Shejoltedwiththe saddleasthe horsestumbledthrough aruttedditch,breathleaving herina sharphuff. Her handstightened briefly on thereinsbeforeshe letthem fall slackagain,voicerushingout before he could answer:“Ithink thesergeantonlylet me join as ajoke… certainI’d quitand runbacktothe othergirls before the first daywas done.And truthbetold, Inearlydid…I wasthe worstthatmorning.I couldbarelylifta sword, andthe bruises… gods,I hadtheminplacesnoone should.”
Shelaughed,but thesound cracked, half-bitter, halfproud. Herfreehandpressed againsther thighasif rememberingthe pain,thenclenchedintoa fist. “By
evening, though,I put oneofthe boys on thegroundin abrawl. Not to impressanyone… Iwas just so damned angry. Angryathim,atmyself,atthe waytheyall looked at me.” Shestraightenedinthe saddle, chestheaving as if shestill felt theweight of thoseeyesonher.“Andwhen Istood up that time…blood runningfrommylip,dirtin my teeth… they stoppedlaughing.”
Hergazedrifted across thefields,but herjaw stayed tight, knuckles pale on thereins. “And when thecaptain askedwhy,I told him, ‘Because no oneelsecarried my name forme.’” Thewords left herlow andfierce,asif shewas stillspeakingthemtothe wholeyardofmocking faces.
“Thatisenough,”Pawel said.
“Enoughfor what?”
“Tostart thewalkofbelonging.”
They left theheath fora stretchoflandwhere thesoil grew darker,wetter; ditcheslined with sedge, peat glistening like oil.A flockofcranesstood like runesin themirroredwater.Inthe distance theruinofa
