From: ses52823@uxa.cso.uiuc.edu (Marius)
Subject: Magyar's Tale
Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana
Date: Thu, 17 Dec 1992 05:47:31 GMT
Keywords: Vampire story


Northern Siberia
Winter 1944

Dusk.

The evening had fallen upon the village like so many velveted
curtains of deepest ebon.  Ice-limned hovels, drawn in stark
contrast against the bleak greys and browns which in the
wasteland served as the peoples familiar landscape, could
scarcely ward off such biting cold as the night offered.  Yet the
night kept its secrets here, and none came in search of them.
None would cross that grim frontier.

All this seemed just to the man.  He would not have had it any
other way.

The largest of the thatched constructions housed several herd
animals, sparse sacks of painstakingly gathered grains, and a
sizeable pickup truck. of dubious functionality.  It was here that
the visitor paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.  A
brief hiss and the clumsily barred doors leading into the barn
flew asunder, flung agape as if by some gargantuan unseen
shoulder.  The figure, clad in furs which less than adequately
concealed a distinctly military-style parka, entered the would-
be barn and, casually shaking the snow from his hood and
garments, gazed about himself longingly.

Here he would have time.  Time enough.

* * * * * *

Anon.
A darkened chamber.  Voices heard not so much in the air as in
the mind.

--The upstart has gained surcease beyond the mountains.--
--There, no doubt, to seek refuge from himself.--
--Such transgression cannot go unanswered.--
--And so it shall not.--

* * * * * *
 
 Siberia

 Sunset, and the nomads once again brought their animals to
 ground.  It had been an unusually cruel season -- even for the
 winter-hardened folk of the gulag -- but the spring had now
 come, revealing the stark, spartan beauty possessed by such
 blasted land as the tundra.

 Two not-quite disfunctional automobiles now stood, silent
 chromed goliaths, amidst the partially depleted stores of grain
 and foodstuffs the villagers so desperately hoarded to contest
 the famine.  Now and again, silver rocket-streams darkened the
 sky and lit the night with low shrieks, rumblings of near-divine
 thunder;  the stranger spoke little of these happenings when he
 was seen in the village at all.  Such things, he contended, were
 part of the world of men.  He himself had cut his ties with the
 world and made his living elsewhere, in the mountains.  And
 when the others wearing the heavy woolen coats, bonded
 leather boots, silver skull buttons, and bearing the arms of the
 Fuhrer entered the village, all was silence and hatred.

 One of the soldiers, a magnificent broadchested Aryan
 specimen, stepped forward and grimly surveyed the
 surroundings, using his impressive stature for telling effect.  His
 harsh demeanor failed to disguise the haggard undertones of
 desolation which so clearly stood out upon the faces of his
 company.  This troupe had seen combat recently, and it had not
 been kind to them.  No more than eight men stood before the
 village, and two of those bore grievous injuries.  The leader
 spoke, barking harsh Russian syllables which left their sting
 emblazoned upon the frost-instilled sky scant degrees colder
 than the words themselves.

 "I am Sergeant Hans Kramer.  My men and I are 2 weeks out of
 Vladisvostok.  In the name of the Third Reich, I claim this
 settlement for the quartering and provisioning of my troops."

 The crowd parted and an older man spoke in heavily accented
 tones, his eyes steadfastly averted from the military display
 before him.

 "You cannot take from us.  We have barely enough to survive as
 we are now.  What you see before you is all that we own.  It is
 our only life."

 The man was struck down by an overzealous soldier almost
 before he finished speaking.  He buckled under the blow to his
 skull, and was subsequently borne to the ground by two of the
 younger men under Kramer's command.  One of the men drew
 forth a wicked-looking stiletto from his belt, waving it under
 the man's nose, while the other searched his person for
 valuables.  

 "Achtung!"

 The men fell back into place behind their commander, who
 turned abruptly and, in a tone of dismissal, added, 

 "There shall be no further resistance... or you will all die."

 * * * * * *

 Darkness.  Absolute, impenetrable.

 Then, a stir.  And from the distance of oblivion, awakening.

 There were strangers in the village.  He could just make out the
 muffled snatches of muttered speech, the sickly-sweet aromas
 of perspiration, Schnapps, gunmetal.  The Germans, then.  As
 before, in the relative haven of Poland, they were reaching
 forth their foul tendrils in a perpetually unsated hunger for
 power.  Power over life and death.

 A hunger, he mused, not so dissimilar from his own.  Leonov
 had not come by after dark as was his wont;  even the few
 rubles he garnered for such small favors as he sometimes
 performed for his 'friend' represented treasure unmatched in
 these impoverished Cossack lands.  The peasant should not have
 broken his customary visit last night for any reason, let alone
 selfishness.

 "They have taken the village, then," whispered the stranger.  A
 stronger, richer scent filled the void of his senses;  this was the
 blood he so badly craved each night.  This blood, however, was
 known to him.  All blood in the village was known to him.  And
 he had just drunk of this one's three nights past.  The stranger
 leapt from his resting place, clad in his ankle-length grey
 woolen coat, and sped off into the night.  His feet, unshod and
 pallid, left almost no tracks in his wake as he bolted from the
 cabin to the forest edge.

 It was there that he found Pyotr Iliyanovich, one of the village
 elders, a quivering collapsed heap of human flesh among the
 first outbreaks of the timber line.  The wolves had not yet come,
 but a swift inspection of the old man's form revealed that he
 had not long since succumbed to the chill of the mountains.
 "Cast out from your home," the stranger hissed, "and left to die
 like a dog."  It was Pyotr who had first welcomed him when the
 man had stumbled into the village so many months ago.  In
 these cold, lonely months amidst the unforgiving silence and
 harsh beauty of nature, Pyotr had been the closest thing to a
 friend he had encountered in the wilderness.  The man
 mourned the loss of his friend, Iliyanovich, and silently raged
 that he had no tears to spare for the elder.  

 "I grieve, Pyotr, but I must revenge myself on these chattel.  I
 will have need of your strength and wisdom in the days to
 come."

 And with that, Stefan Magyar bent to feast from the rapidly
 cooling corpse.

 * * * * * *

 The village was astir with shock and horror by daybreak.

 "One of our men, Hoffmann, has been found..." and here even
 the bestial Kramer had to pause, "...savaged in the barn.  This
 occurred last night during his watch."  He chose, of course, not to
 fully enlighten the unaware as to the condition of Hoffmann's
 body;  how the entrails had been smeared across the walls of
 the hovel, along with various portions of his anatomy.  Such
 things were for the weak-hearted.  The two trucks housed in
 the shack had been irreparably damaged;  not that they would
 be of any use until the mountain roads thawed.  Kramer
 realized that his command, and possibly his very life, depended
 on the suppression of peasant rebellion as soon as possible.  So,
 as he had done so many other times at so many other locales,
 the sergeant arranged a demonstration.  

 Several orders were shouted in German, and before long the
 soldiers had forced two young women, little more than girls,
 from the crowd and into the center of the village square.
 Kramer turned and, with a nonchalant wave of his hand,
 signalled his men to carry out his wishes.

 It became unspeakable.  Twenty minutes later, two reports
 from a Luger automatic pistol ended the debacle with grim
 finality.  The men quickly scrambled to move the bodies to the
 mass grave.  Kramer straightened his shoulders and turned to
 face the villagers again.  His flat, emotionless gaze touched
 every man, woman, and child;  marked every glare, every tear,
 every thought.  His voice betrayed a twinge of emotion as he
 cleared his throat to speak again.

 "These measures," he screamed, "will be repeated every sunrise
 until the murderer is found!"

 And, deep within his self-imposed entombment under the barn,
 Stefan's dark voided eyes slitted momentarily.

 The sun's fierce arc carried it over the grey skies of January,
 into the mountains and horizon which awaited its lover's
 embrace each evening.  Every passing hour felt the building
 sensation of horror in soldiers and villagers alike, which was
 only to multiply tenfold in days - and nights - to come.

 * * * * * * 

 Two days and nights later the village was empty - testament to
 a loss which would never be recorded or remarked upon.  And
 the demon whose countenance had expunged all life from the
 place was bound for the mountains.  

 His passage through the Ural mountains and much of Nazi
 Germany was assured by his companion, the mindless servant
 who had once been Kramer.  The once-proud sergeant, now a
 withered husk of a man whose haunted, slackened gaze alone
 bore witness to the horrors which only nightmares can hold,
 required sustenance far greater than meat and drink;  his
 nourishment came from the veins of his master.  They
 wandered through city and wilderness alike, never speaking,
 only continuing the journey.  They stopped only when
 unavoidable, or when delayed by the tides of battle.  The
 uniform and what currency the two could scavenge between
 themselves never failed to allay suspicion.  They continued at
 an incredible, inhuman pace;  neither could fatigue;  neither felt
 the biting cold which encroached at night and only mirrored the
 cold within.  

 Perhaps Kramer saw that infernal existence, devoid of all but
 the merest semblance of humanity, before him in the monster
 he now followed against his will;  perhaps, deep within himself,
 beneath that once-indomitable will and confidence which had
 challenged the world, a bit of his soul, engulfed by the
 blackness of what he had become, screamed for release.  And
 kept screaming.  Perhaps that is why, months later, when the
 two stood upon Allied soil, the humbled member of the master
 race begged for death - and was granted his request.

 Magyar burned the corpse, in flawless Wagnerian epic tradition.
 Were they not, in truth, both monsters?

 * * * * * *

 Istanbul
 1976

 He dreamed in darkness, then, for a time;  the fists of the black
 assassins were still livid in his memory, along with their pain.
 He had fallen prey to the tender mercies of such devils when
 travelling through the lands of the Suez.  Three of the dark
 Assamites were upon him, eager to test themselves against so
 naive a wanderer as to have trespassed into their territory.  He
 had proved an easy mark, prey to their inhuman strength and
 speed -- indeed, he had only bested one of them at great cost to
 his person.  It was here that Stefan had witnessed, firsthand,
 the deathlike stillness imposed by the stake;  the surviving two
 Kindred had bled him dry, and left him for dead, unable to
 forage or move from the sun's cruel wrath.  They had even
 removed the splintered railing from his body, laughing and
 spitting in his face.

 Stefan, savaged and mutilated beyond recognition, had
 summoned what resolve he had to crawl into the recesses of the
 hated sewers.  He sought rest there, in the murky squalor of
 Istanbul's filth;  the healing sleep overcame him before long. 
 Then, years later, awakening, and the hurried secretive flight to
 Czechoslovakia, and safety.

 The two Assamites, grown lazy in the absence of challenge,
 were never heard from again.  The fire was attributed to a
 fanatic riot -- the poverty-infested region housing their haven
 of the time fell victim to a curiously overzealous group of
 youths bearing torches and tanks of petrol.  One of the
 rebellious youths, who would go on to make his way out of the
 hovels of his childhood, become educated, and proceed into
 government to become the Saudi Arabian ambassador to the
 United States, never forgot the tall, pale stranger, whose
 clothing and accent smacked of the lands of Germany and
 Britain.  It was this stranger who had depleted his coffers of
 wealth on that night, leaving instructions for his hirelings of a
 dark and secretive nature, and who had inspired the boy to
 better himself so that he might one day play in the Great Game
 of money and power like the foreigner.

 Perhaps, in his suffering and retribution of those painful years,
 Magyar unwittingly mustered the strength within himself to
 convey salvation to those in need.  He would never know of this
 boy-turned-diplomat, sired from his extravagant briberies of so
 many years ago;  in all likelihood, however, the unfolding of his
 tale would have secretly pleased the vampire to no end.

 * * * * * *

 The Ural Mountains
 1984

 Another place.  
 Another time.
 Color.  Warmth.  The cool ebon tenderness of night.
 A face, warm, soft, from memory's time-dulled landscapes.  
 --Katrina.--
 And, on the heels of that,
 --My love.--
 Harsh words;  stammered excuses;  shrieks, hideous beyond
 human comprehension but only too familiar to those wearied
 senses.  

 The fire, now years past, had taken Katrina, and what little
 solace Magyar had found in his manor of solitude.  Gone were
 those times.  It was time, then, for his departure.

 * * * * * *

 Miami, Florida
 1986

 --Who are you?--

 For all his bravado, Magyar knew the answer before it came.

 --He from whence you were made.--

 The stranger was tall, though not quite Stefan's height.  He was,
 however, more thickly and powerfully built, and emanated an
 almost fierce aura of power about himself.  Indeed, Magyar
 found it difficult to do anything but look into his Sire's face,
 drawn by the sweet, silver edges of his cavernous eyes...

 It took all his strength to focus and look away.

 --Why have you come here?--

 --We have watched you for some time.  Your past is no mystery
 to us.--

 --So you say.--

 Stefan cringed, despite his fearless returns.  This Kindred, then,
 was his Sire, sent from the Elders from those days of terror.
 Representative of the only ones who had held reign over him in
 his existence.  Horror and fear widened his eyes for a moment as
 he strove to divine the visitor's true purpose.

 --I will never go back.  Not for you, or any other.--

 The Elder smiled patronisingly.

 Magyar sensed the coming attack not seconds before it came, but
 was too slow to do anything about it.  He was lifted off his feet
 by an unseen force, and driven through the wall of the nearby
 warehouse.  In an instant, he was back upon his feet, already
 flushing a deep scarlet as he suffused himself with the power of
 his own Vitae.

 He whirled.  The other was behind him!

 Too late, his response came.  He had barely enough time to
 glimpse the grey-streaked, jet black hair of his maker, and
 discern a glint of the lighthouse's glare reflected off his
 hideously extended fangs before the next blow, physical this
 time, sent him sprawling amidst the remnants of a nearby, now-
 broken crate of woolens.

 This time the attack was evident;  the Elder took no precaution
 in his gloating approach.

 An approach which was halted when he received Magyar's
 switchblade in his abdomen.

 The Kindred grimaced in pain for a moment, then straightened,
 in obvious anger, and dealt his Childe an open-handed blow
 which sent him to the ground again.  Before the stunned Magyar
 could collect himself, his Sire was upon him, lifting him almost
 effortlessly from the floor and pinning him in agony on the
 nearby boathook assembly.

 --A Childe who rebels against his brethren must be put down.
 Thus is it written in the Book of Nod.--

 The Elder's statement was punctuated by the crimson globule of
 Magyar's spittle striking him squarely in the face.

 For a moment, the Kindred's face was terrible to behold, a
 twisted mask of fury darkened with the blood which would give
 him strength for the inevitable killing blow.

 But then he paused.  And exhaled sharply, breath hissing
 between his clenched teeth.  He turned slightly and emitted an
 almost inaudible chuckle.  His next words were spoken, unlike
 his previous communications of disdain.

 "I hold you on the very threshold of the Final Death, and you spit
 on me.  I, who brought you into this realm of power..."  More
 quiet laughter.  

 "There is strength within you yet, if I am not mistaken;  such as
 there was when I chose you scant decades ago.  And you were
 mortal then."

 The Elder paused, lost in thought for a moment, then backed
 away in a single, fluid motion.

 "You shall not see me again."

 And then, before he disappeared into the shadows of the sultry
 sweetness of the summer Florida night,

 "Strength to you, my Childe."

 Stefan painfully extricated himself from the impaling tool and
 pondered wordlessly the happenings of the previous moments
 before leaving the confines of the boathouse.

 He never saw his Sire again.

 * * * * * *

 From:	Stefan Magyar
 To:		Ian Rothchilde, Partner, Rothchilde & Banks, Inc.
 Re:		Deed AY31-1351 (Magyar), signed 11 Jun 1992

 Dear Mr. Rothchilde:

 I write this to append my original plans regarding the
 disposition of the Magyar estate, formerly property of Vaughn
 Magyar, on lot D36 of the Ronskaar division of the Ural
 Mountains.  You may recall our previous discussion of this affair.

 I have reconsidered the previous agent's proposal and at this
 time wish to render said property available for sale to his
 represented interest.  As you may recall, Mr. Brooks was only
 too eager to buy at the aforementioned sum at our last meeting.
 As eighteen months have passed, however, I would be most
 appreciative if you would contact Mr. Brooks regarding the
 reavailability of the grounds.  Please inform him, additionally,
 that I am willing to take him up on his previous offer, less ten
 thousand pounds, as a gesture of good faith on our part.  As
 before, conduct all affairs through the Zurich accounts under
 <<William Bloch>>.

 I will be contacting you in the near future regarding the wisdom
 of acquiring our previously viewed properties in the Manchester
 area as opposed to the Birmingham manor.  My decision will
 come no later than February of the coming year.

 Thank you for your time and consideration in this matter.

							Magyar

 * * * * * *

 From:  Stefan Magyar
 To:    Ian Rothchilde
 Re:    Travel Arrangements this 2 Dec 1992
 Dear Sir:

 Matters have arisen which require my immediate attention and
 presence in London two days hence.  Kindly arrange the 
 following accommodations for me under the name Magyar:

      Passage via British Airways (Imperial Class) from Geneva
	   to London, preferably nonstop service;
      Reservations for two weeks at the Copthorne Tara or
	   Auberge Manor, at your discretion (Corner Penthouse)
      An automobile and two female escorts befitting a formal
	   service which I must attend upon my arrival.
                     
 I will contact you upon my arrival in London via telephone,
 there to discuss our meeting and subsequent arrangements.

 Your expedience in this matter is required.

 We will speak further when I reach England.
  
					    Magyar

* * * * * *

The Ural Mountains.
December 1992.

Magyar stood, surveying the beauty of the surrounding
wilderness, savage and yet peaceful in its own way, which he
would not have occasion to look on again for a long while.

The driver waited patiently at the foot of the long drive, which
now led to the ruin of a once great manor.

And, alongside the burnt-out foundation, a beautifully ornate yet
desperately lonely gravestone, standing against the centuries to
come.
Stefan looked down upon the engraved obsidian, waters of deepest
rouge welling from within his eyes.  He had made his preparations,
and the journey ahead lay before him.  Only this final farewell
was left.

His tears fell, adorning the snow beneath his feet with minute
reddened droplets which formed their own alien designs.

He paused for a moment, and then uttered his solemn statement
in a harsh, barely audible whisper before returning to the
automobile, bound for the train station and Switzerland.
																				"God help me, Katrina...  I'm going back."
																				And Magyar raised a grimly defiant fist towards the West.

																				* * * * * *

																				Finis


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