PRIVATE Credit Due

[Andrei Albescu]

Rusu​

Winter was a season of waiting. The fields, dormant under a blanket of frost, awaited the spring thaw to loosen the earth and bring the promise of renewal. Those who worked the land waited too, their bodies still marked by the grueling labor of summer, new aches and old wounds gathered like the season's last, stubborn harvest.

The soil here, near the banks of the river, was fertile but demanding. Sheltered from harsh crosswinds by distant mountain peaks that loomed on the western horizon, the land offered its gifts only to those willing to master its challenges. For over four generations, nearly one hundred and thirty souls had made their lives in this small settlement within the demesne of the Albescu boyars, stewards of the region.

It was a near-perfect location, chosen with care. The clay-rich soil was hard to manage, but the sun shone generously, rewarding those who coaxed life from the earth. Under the Albescus' steady guidance, the farmers had perfected the art of mouldboard ploughing, a method that transformed the stubborn clay into arable land. High-backed furrows, drawn in long, narrow strips, traced the contours of the landscape, channeling spring's meltwater away from fragile seedlings. In the wettest years, wheat flourished along the ridges; in drier seasons, barley thrived in the lower furrows. The delicate balance between soil and water had been hard-won, a triumph born of trial and error across generations.

Here, in the rolling fields near Suceava, life was a rhythm of toil and reward, a harmony forged between human hands and the earth itself. It was a hard life, but not an unkind one—a song sung in the language of persistence and plenty. The short, bitter days pressed hard against the settlement, while the long nights whispered with the howling of wolves and other, less familiar sounds that crept into the dreams of even the most devout.

The murky glow of the morning sun began to stream through the bedroom window, gently warming the areas it touched, inviting the house to stir. The household had been awake a little before the sun, quietly victorious and coldly efficient. The main hearth was lit, furnished with water-laden iron cauldrons, their contents stewing and bubbling with a giddy delight. The day's meat was roasted, the fatty scent wafting down the corridors of the estate as if beckoning all those within to attend it.

The clatter of kindling and logs on the stones of the hall increased, staccato interjections made even more strident aside a background of swishing reeds. The stone floors swelled, and new rushes were placed down, keeping dirt and mud at bay. The hounds of the estate were kept in their kennels, well-fed and exercised daily. Their barking could be heard on the wind from several miles away on a particularly calm day when the river was at its most serene. But Lilika, Andrei's aging greyhound, slept wherever she pleased, often by the hearth's dying embers. The steward would sometimes add a log to ensure her comfort, her quiet presence a simple joy to the household.

The cockerel bade Andrei to open his eyes, its guttural cry a stark reminder that the day had begun and he was perilously close to being late. He obliged, staring at the ceiling for a few moments as he took in the crisp morning air. The thick furs and blankets that pinned him to the straw-filled mattress felt good against his skin, the dewy clamminess that so often cloyed at his skin yet another confirmation that it was time to wash his face.

He sat up, his thin linen nightshirt loose fitting and hanging off his frame. He looked over at the empty portion of the large bed and grimaced a little, remembering all too sullenly that his wife and two children were away, visiting their extended kin. It had been three weeks since he had kissed each of their foreheads, and he missed them so.

Andrei finally rose, crossing the cold stone floor to splash his face with water from a bowl. The coolness shocked his skin, though he had grown used to such mornings. He washed away the night's sweat, dried his hands on linen cloth, and tended to his other natural needs in the corner of the room, mindful of the belief that such waste, if left too close, could disturb the spirit and soul in sleep. The rituals of the morning were simple, practical—a grounding start to another long day.

He pulled a thick padded shirt over his undershirt, muttering the familiar prayers of his childhood. Each word, recited daily, was a call for God's protection—for himself, his family, and the people of Rusu. His father, the Lord of Rusu proper, would expect to see him soon. Andrei's holding lay south of the main village, a brisk twenty-minute walk from his father's house. Unlike Andrei's more modest dwelling, his father's home was a towering structure of stone and timber, built to project status and power—a symbol of the wealth and authority the Albescu family had wielded for generations.

Yet his homestead provided all the comforts his rank afforded. As a Boyar, he lived within the natural order, or so Father Nicholas often preached. Christ, the Prince of Heaven, was a model of princeliness, and to emulate such status was not sinful.

Andrei had once considered challenging this doctrine, suspecting it served more to justify the church's rising tithes than to guide the faithful. But he held his tongue, wary of provoking God—or Father Nicholas. The weight of divine and earthly authority was not so easily opposed, even in the quiet chambers of his thoughts.

He thought of his dreams, now fading with the morning light. The grim visage of the Strigoi, stalking victims through fields of impossibly tall barley, lingered like a shadow at the edge of memory. These were the stories of childhood—dark fables told to keep village children from straying too far or defying their elders. Yet Andrei knew all too well that the world held dangers far more real than these myths, dangers that did not require invention to claim a life.

He sighed loudly, looking at his face in the now still water. He pushed aside a loose tuft of thick dark hair, matching that of the beard on his chin and cheeks. His baritone broke the relative silence that had endured since his waking.

"Miklós!" Andrei called out, his hands twisting together, more from nervous energy than the need to further dry his already clean palms. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond, growing louder with each passing moment. Privacy was precious here—his and that of his family—and this door was one of the few barriers the residence maintained.

The door creaked open, revealing the face of a man just a few years Andrei's junior. Miklós stepped inside, his sharp gaze meeting the lord's. Handsome, perhaps, to those with an eye for such things, his strong jaw and aquiline nose lent him an air of precision, complemented by a mop of neatly coiffed, mousy blond hair.

Miklós was the Chamberlain, charged with overseeing the smooth operation of Andrei's quarters and the household as a whole. His efficiency was unmatched, his movements sharp and deliberate, his every task executed with a vigor that Andrei imagined would exhaust most men.

"Yes, my lord?" Miklós asked, his voice crisp, each word precise and brisk, perfectly matching his polished demeanor.

Andrei turned with deliberate flair, his arms extended slightly, as if presenting himself for inspection. The Chamberlain's lips curved into a warm, genuine smile, followed by a soft chortle.

"You look well, my lord. And you've even managed to fasten the brooch yourself," Miklós teased, the faintest glint of mischief in his eye.

Andrei's gaze dropped momentarily to the sturdy pin securing his mantle, its angled placement reflecting the latest trend in King Emeric's court. He glanced back up, a playful challenge lighting his face.

"You humor me, Miklós, but with a touch too much bite, I think!" He reached for his leather gloves, deftly sliding his hands into each with the confidence of routine.

"Forgive me, my lord. I meant no-"

Andrei's gloved hand lifted, cutting the chamberlain off mid-apology with a gesture as smooth as it was commanding. The interruption came not in chastisement, but with a grin that erased any notion of true offense.

"I jest, Miklós. My spirits are high today. The humours are balanced at last, or so I'm told!"

A second knock at the door prompted Miklós to step further into the room, nodding his head in gentle deference to the figure that replaced him. This was István, Steward of the Estate—Andrei's right-hand man and the singular person he trusted, outside of his wife, to maintain order.

István was older, some forty years, and wore his experience like a badge of honor. A touch of salt-and-pepper grey streaked through his short hair, and a lifetime of toil was etched into the lines of his face. His sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes revealed little, other than a faint irritation for the younger, more impetuous Miklós.

"I heard a disturbance and thought the noble family might have returned early. I am proved wrong, I fear," István said, his voice measured and calm, delivering the statement with an air of monotony. He cast a withering glance at Miklós, whose eager energy seemed to grate against the steward's deliberate nature. The look was enough to convey dismissal, and Miklós, taking the hint, nodded to Andrei before quietly making his way out into the wider house.

Andrei's demeanor softened in István's presence. The steward had been assigned to him by his father when Andrei first established his own household, and he had served with unwavering loyalty and competence ever since. A bond of trust had grown between them, and Andrei valued him as both an advisor and confidant.

"You bark a little too keenly at the boy, István," Andrei said as he began walking, taking a route through the house toward the main hall. "Remember, you served my father at a younger age yourself!"

István fell into step beside him, his expression unchanging. "I will take that on, my lord," he replied, his tone carefully neutral. Somehow, it carried the unspoken implication that he would do nothing of the sort—without directly betraying the sentiment.

The small hall of Andrei's estate was not grand by the standards of his father's towering home, but it carried its own quiet dignity. It was a long room of smooth, unadorned stone walls, their cool surface broken only by a series of arched windows that let in the diffuse morning light. The beams above were heavy oak, their dark, polished grain gleaming faintly in the warmth of the hearthfire that crackled in the wide stone fireplace at the far end of the room.

Rushes had been freshly laid on the floor, their earthy scent mingling with the aroma of roasted meat that lingered from the earlier meal preparations. The centerpiece of the room was a stout wooden table, worn smooth by years of use and surrounded by a mismatched collection of high-backed chairs, each bearing the marks of craftsmen from different generations. Along the walls, rudimentary tapestries depicting scenes of rural toil softened the starkness of the stone, though they were far simpler than the elaborate hangings found in his father's house.

Andrei stepped into the hall with István following at his side, their boots softly crunching against the new rushes. A servant was already at work rekindling the fire in the hearth, adding a fresh log that sent up a flurry of sparks. The steward paused near the table, his hands clasped behind his back as Andrei moved toward the fire, basking in its warmth for a moment before turning to face him.

"Tell me, what news from the village?"

István straightened, his expression returning to its customary gravity. "The sowers came by early this morning, asking after the seed stores. They are concerned that the stores may fall short if the spring is early."

Andrei sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "And the truth of it?"

István hesitated for only a moment before responding. "There is enough, provided no early calamities befall us. But the stores are not so full as they once were. You know as well as I do that your father's demands are not easily met."

The mention of his father drew a frown to Andrei's face, but he said nothing at first, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "We'll see to it. Let the sowers know they are to be prudent, but not to despair. I'll not have the fields go barren because of rumors."

István inclined his head. "As you wish, my lord."

Andrei took a seat at the head of the table, gesturing for István to sit as well. The steward hesitated, then chose a chair to Andrei's right, sitting stiffly as though expecting to be reprimanded for the informality. Andrei noticed, of course, but said nothing, choosing instead to shift the conversation.

"And what of the villagers' spirits? The winter is always hard on them."

István's brow furrowed slightly. "They are weary, as one might expect, but they endure. The river's fish have kept the worst of hunger at bay, and the woods have offered enough game for those willing to risk the cold. Still, I hear grumbles—about the tithes, about the wolves that have crept closer of late."

Andrei nodded, absorbing the report in silence for a moment. He leaned forward, his fingers lacing together atop the table. "What of these wolves? Has anyone gone missing?"

"Not yet," István said, "but two sheep were taken last week, and some swear they've heard howling closer to the village than ever before."

Andrei's jaw tightened. Wolves were a constant menace in these parts, especially in winter when food grew scarce, but they had grown bolder of late. He would have to address it soon, perhaps send a few hunters out to thin their numbers.

"Send word to the hunters," he said finally. "Have them form a party and deal with the beasts before they decide to take more than sheep."

István inclined his head again, his calm professionalism never wavering. "It will be done."

Andrei rose from his seat, taking his gloves once more in hand. The steward followed suit, waiting for his lord to speak again. Andrei looked around the hall, at the tapestries, the fire, the sturdy beams that framed his modest estate, and then back to István.

"We do what we must, István. But remind me of this: a house, no matter its size, is built not on stone or timber but on the shoulders of those who labour for it. Ensure they know they are valued."

István's expression softened, the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. "A wise sentiment, my lord."

Andrei nodded and strode toward the door, his steward trailing close behind. There was much to do, but for now, the wolves would have to wait—the land, as ever, demanded his attention.


@The Storyteller

 

[The Storyteller]

The faint, acrid scent lingering in the hall was not imagined. As the flames in the hearth danced with a curious intensity, a sudden snap of embers erupted, sending a plume of smoke curling unnaturally toward the ceiling. The servant tending the fire froze mid-motion, their hand clutching a poker. For a moment, the fire cast shadows that stretched far too long and sharp against the cold stone walls. Outside, the wolves' howls grew closer, their mournful cries twisting into a strange, dissonant chorus. The village dogs answered from their kennels, barking wildly, their usual bravado carrying a note of panic. Even the aging greyhound Lilika, known for her unflappable demeanor, rose from her place near the embers, her ears perked, a low growl rumbling deep in her throat.

The door to the hall creaked open, and one of the field hands stumbled inside, his face pale as the frost that clung to the windows. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his breath ragged and visible in the chill air. "My lords—" he began, though there were no lords present to address, only servants and retainers. "The forest... there's something in the forest." The air in the room seemed to grow heavier as the man struggled to find his words. "Not wolves, not men. A beast. A monstrous beast!"

A hush fell over the room, broken only by the sputtering of the fire. The gathered staff exchanged uneasy glances. Stories of wolves emboldened by hunger were one thing—wild animals could be hunted, their threat contained. But this? This was something older, something far less easily named. The steward's second, a stocky man with a grizzled beard, approached the field hand. His weathered face was stern, though his voice betrayed his concern. "Where was this? Near the river?"

The man nodded frantically. "Aye, just past the bend. We went to check the traps... but we left them behind when we saw. It—" He paused, shivering as though the memory itself froze his blood. From beyond the hall, the wolves howled again, closer now, their voices rising in a bone-chilling harmony. Whatever haunted the woods seemed to be driving them from their sanctuary, forcing them toward the edges of human habitation. The bearded foreman looked toward the worker and then to the chamberlain, his jaw set grimly. "We need the hunters ready now. And someone should light the warding torches. It may be day but that will swiftly change, fire will be our greatest ally." The field hand looked as though he might collapse where he stood, his trembling hands gripping the edge of a chair for support. His wide eyes darted toward the fire, then to the shadows it cast on the walls. "We should stay away from the woods," he muttered, half to himself. "Nothing good comes from the woods at night."

"It's not night yet."


@Andrei Albescu

 

[Andrei Albescu]

Miklós, known for his composure and devout Orthodox faith, lingered in the hall for a moment after the field hand's outburst. The strange, unnatural chill in the air seemed to mock his belief in the sanctity of their domain. His lips moved silently in prayer as his eyes darted toward the fire and its sinister shadows. For all his faith, unease gnawed at his heart. He gripped the carved wood of his rosary, the beads smooth from years of use, before turning sharply to the steward's second.

"I will fetch the lord myself," he announced, his voice firm despite the unease in his chest. "Gather the men, arm them, and have the torches lit at the edge of the village. This thing will not be faced with empty hands or faith alone."

As he stepped into the bitter air of the courtyard, Miklós pulled his cloak tighter around him, the fur lining doing little to stave off the cold that seemed to seep from the forest itself. The howls of wolves echoed closer now, sending the scant few watchmen about, muttering hurried prayers as they gazed toward the dark tree line. Miklós quickened his pace, his boots crunching over the frost-crusted earth, heading toward the village. Andrei and István had gone to the granary to inspect the provisions for winter—a practical task that now seemed almost laughably mundane in the face of what loomed in the woods.

As he reached the granary, Miklós spotted the two men in conversation near a cart laden with sacks of grain. Andrei stood tall, his posture reflecting his noble lineage even in this modest setting, his fur-lined cloak and riding gloves a stark contrast to István's simpler attire. István, a grizzled soldier turned retainer, gestured toward the cart, his broad shoulders tensed as if sensing the approach of bad news.

"My lord," Miklós called out, his voice carrying urgency as he approached, his breath misting in the cold air. Both men turned to him, Andrei's brow furrowing at the sight of the chamberlain's uncharacteristically haggard expression.

"Miklós," Andrei said, his voice steady. "What has happened?"

Miklós bowed his head briefly before speaking, his words measured but laced with tension. "There is news from the forest, my lord. One of the hands came to the hall, pale and trembling. He claims to have seen a beast near the river, one that sent the wolves fleeing and left the men too frightened to recover their traps. He spoke of a monstrous thing, neither wolf nor man."

István muttered a curse under his breath, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his short sword. "Superstition," he said gruffly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. "People see a shadow and imagine a demon."

But Andrei's gaze lingered on Miklós, searching for more. "What do you think, Miklós? You are not a man given to panic."

The chamberlain hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I think the forest holds something that has shaken even the wolves. The howls grow closer, my lord, and their cries are not of hunger but of fear. Petru believes it to be a strigoi." He paused, swallowing hard. "I do not entertain such thoughts lightly. Such a creature is an affront to God, an impossibility in the light of our faith. But..."

A silence fell between them, broken only by the distant cries of the wolves and the restless stamping of the horses in their stalls. István's jaw tightened, and he spat on the ground. "Strigoi," he muttered. "Old wives' tales. Stories to keep children from wandering too deep into the woods. I'd sooner fear the Rus marauders, for they are more real than this stuff of nightmarish heresy. You keep the old tales too close to your heart, Mik."

"Perhaps," Miklós replied, his voice low. "But the tales of the strigoi, the restless dead who drink the blood of the living, are not born of nothing. And there are other whispers—the pricolici, men cursed to walk as wolves, or the vârcolac, a creature said to devour the moon itself. These legends hold warnings, even if their forms are fanciful."

Andrei's expression darkened as he considered Miklós's words. "And you believe this beast to be one of these... things?"

Miklós hesitated, his faith warring with his fear. "I believe," he said finally, "that something has driven the wolves to our doorstep. Something beyond the natural order. And whatever it is, it must be dealt with swiftly and decisively, lest it bring ruin upon us."

Andrei nodded, his decision made. "We will not cower in fear. If this thing exists, it will fall to steel and fire." He turned to István. "Go to the hunters. Gather every man strong enough to wield a bow or blade. We will light torches and make for the river."

István nodded grimly, already moving to obey. Miklós bowed his head, a mixture of relief and dread washing over him. As Andrei began giving orders to the villagers, Miklós whispered another prayer, clutching his rosary tightly. God was on their side, he told himself. He had to believe it. Yet as he glanced toward the dark, brooding line of the forest, he could not shake the feeling that they were about to face something far older and far less forgiving than any wolf.

*****​

As Andrei led the assembled villager militia toward the treeline near the river's edge, the weight of their collective unease pressed down like a heavy fog. The air was damp, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of the river mixed with the earthy musk of decaying leaves. Each step stirred the undergrowth, releasing the sharp, bitter scent of crushed nettles and moss.

The sounds of the river's flow echoed faintly, but the forest itself was unnervingly quiet. No birds sang, no insects buzzed. The oppressive silence seemed to amplify every creak of leather armour, every faint metallic clink of tools repurposed as weapons. A faint breeze rustled the high branches, whispering a sound like far-off voices, though none dared speak.

The villagers, armed with pitchforks, scythes, and a few rusted swords, clustered close to one another. Andrei kept his gaze forward, but even his steady presence couldn't quell the occasional murmur from the men and women behind him.

"Something's out there," whispered an older man, his voice cracking with the strain of fear.

As they neared the treeline, the air seemed colder, sharper, carrying a faint sour odour none could place. A young boy, barely old enough to wield the axe in his hands, froze. His wide eyes locked onto a shadow at the edge of the brush. "I see it," he hissed, his voice trembling. "There! Between those two trees—it's watching us."

The militia halted, every eye turning toward the patch of shadow. Breath caught in throats as the imagined shape seemed to shift, branches swaying unnaturally. The silence was deafening now, save for the dull roar of blood in their ears. Someone whispered a prayer under their breath.

Then, without warning, a deer burst from the brush, crashing through the undergrowth in a panicked sprint. Its eyes were wide, its chest heaving, as it bounded directly toward the group. Startled cries and curses rang out as weapons were raised reflexively, only for the creature to veer away at the last moment, disappearing into the safety of the field.

The tension released in a sharp exhale from many of the villagers, nervous chuckles rippling through the group. "Just a deer," someone muttered, their voice shaky with relief.

But as the chuckles faded, the oppressive quiet returned. This time, it was even heavier, as though the forest itself had taken a collective breath and was holding it. The absence of birdsong was suddenly more noticeable, and the air felt thick, almost suffocating. Andrei's hand tightened on his sword hilt.

"Why aren't the birds singing?" a woman asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

No one answered. Instead, all eyes turned again toward the treeline, where the shadows seemed darker, deeper. Andrei swallowed hard, his pulse quickening despite his best efforts to appear calm. Whatever they had come to face, it was close. Too close.


@The Storyteller