The Huntsman of Corvinus

By Timothy Bryan

An ancient evil descends on the Central European capital city of Budapest. A supernatural killer stalks its timeworn alleyways, provoking terror amongst the distraught population and leaving untraceable and shocking murders in its wake.

An estranged American family finds itself at the center of the unnatural violence. Confronting a vicious predator, they must band together if they are to survive its ageless and malevolent curse. But as they come to grips with their horrid adversary, their time and options for escape dwindle, and they can only hope that overcoming their wicked foe will not cost them everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Bryan
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737907541

Book preview

The Huntsman

of Corvinus

by

Timothy Bryan

THE HUNTSMAN OF CORVINUS

Copyright © 2022 by Timothy Bryan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form whatsoever or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher, except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 or for the inclusion quotations in an acknowledged review.

First published in the United States 2022

Printed in the United States of America

The Huntsman

of Corvinus

by

Timothy Bryan

Graveyards are the place of important and irreplaceable dreams…'Tis better to cherish the mundane moments of our present

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

Chapter One

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The inner city was lit by pale lights illuminating an extended stretch of concrete and brick buildings. Bars covered the lower-level windows facing a busy street, and light bloomed from behind opaque windows in the squat apartment blocks.

It was fully night, and cars zoomed by these series of austere structures making up the middle of Budapest’s Eighth District. Honking horns and squeaking breaks echoed from passing commuters as they drove home to more affluent homes in the suburbs.

The gritty streets they left behind were full of working girls, most of whom were starting their own version of shift work in the urban environment.

Sprinkled throughout the rough area were occasional ambulance sirens, which resounded off age-old buildings as the emergency vehicles twisted through the constricted avenues of the dense central-European metropolis.

This urban location was not a wealthy one, and it was comprised of dirty streets littered with discarded liquor bottles and vague heaps of assorted cardboard. The collected refuse of crowded tenements filled the air with a pungent stench as everyday garbage awaited pickup from rat-infested receptacles and graffitied bins.

Dark shapes of numerous people ambled through the area as it closed down for the day. Urban retirees and blue-collar workers competed for space on sidewalks that offered dog excrement up for the unsuspecting shoes of plodding pedestrians.

At the intersection of a side street, dull light cascaded down from a public light post. To its side stood another broken public lamp, so the illumination below was uneven, casting patchy shadows into the darkness of an alleyway. The barely lit side-street extended back for fifty yards.

Down that alley were sets of more garbage cans and rusted bins, lined up for orderly collection in the squalid environment. Their location made the sheltered space beyond the garbage containers ideal for privacy in the dead-end alley, ensuring it was an oasis of calm tucked away from the prying eyes of the bustling city.

Gabor stood in that fading light of the brick-lined back street. Of considerable height, he was once a strapping man, but a life living on the streets had transformed him into a doddering and unhealthy vagrant. His tawdry clothes were stained with unnamable liquids, and holes in his frayed jacket showed mismatched and layered clothing below. Inside his arrangement of disheveled apparel were multitudes of pockets, with all manner of ketchup packets and seasoning supplies crammed inside for future use.

On his worn and wrinkled face, Gabor wore a toothless grin. Patches of stubble grew across his ruddy cheeks, giving him a merry appearance in the shifting light. Leering ahead, he wiped away snot with a crusted half-glove as he considered his fortunes for the night.

Gabor looked down at his feet with an approving nod. Below him lay his pile of possessions, with various plastic bags holding personal items and stashes of booze. He had even managed to score a cache of expensive hand cream that someone from the local hotel had thrown away. All in all, they were the goods of someone who liked to travel light and self-medicate.

Ha, I knew we would get it tonight, Gabor said, his mood growing ecstatic. Sometimes, you just gotta get here early. It’s never easy to get this spot; you just gotta settle in after the cops come by. They clear out the competition and throw ‘em in the shelters.

Raising his bloodshot eyes, Gabor glanced to the side, where he met Bianka’s gaze. She was also well into mid-life, and addiction issues and poor hygiene likewise marred her blurry vision and swaying physique. With a grimy complexion that complemented her filthy clothing, she clutched a cheap bottle of wine in her palsied fingers. She nodded her head vigorously as she looked around the dirty and cold environment.

Yeah, I’m not giving it up, said Bianka, focusing on Gabor with a confident and dreamy smile. Just let someone try to take this spot from us.

Staggering to the dead-end stone, Bianka set some ratty blankets down in a semblance of order as she prepared for the night ahead. She still grasped the bottle in her tight grip as she moved her gaze around the dirty walls that encircled their precious sleeping spot.

Gabor nodded eagerly, and his eyes caught in sudden remembrance of an important memory. Grunting, he dug into his pockets and pulled out a wad of cash. The brightly colored Hungarian bank notes were crumpled and smeared with dirt, as if they had been dipped in congealed soy sauce.

Counting carefully, he crunched up several bills as he tried to access distant mathematical skills in his frayed memory. Losing his place, he restarted, trying again for an accurate appraisal of the bills’ value.

With a frustrated grimace, Gabor gave up entirely. Stuffing the soiled cash back into his pocket, he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. I told ya, the best way to get donations is to hound the weak ones…and the women. They always give something when they don’t wanna deal with us. It’s just a matter of them understandin’ that we deserve something. They gotta pay the less fortunate.

Bianka smiled at Gabor through her alcohol-dulled senses.

You always right, Gabor, Bianka replied, and she held up her bottle, trying to read the ingredients in the fuzzy light. Nobody smarter than you in the whole city. Don’t know what I’d do…without you.

Gabor beamed in modest appreciation of himself, playing the role of reluctant genius as he considered their fortunate location in the highly prized alleyway. He surveyed his surroundings like a conquering general, making sure everything was in the right place for a night of relaxed drinking and mind-numbing intoxication.

After a moment, Gabor became confused. Fiddling around in his pockets, he began looking for something. After some fruitless searching, he shrugged and leaned down to his possessions.

Pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes from a bag, he withdrew a bent one and expertly popped it into the corner of his mouth. Digging out a book of matches, he was able to light it on only the third try.

Leaning back, he inhaled the precious smoke into his abused lungs, fighting the urge to cough as the toxins flooded his bloodstream. With a contented sigh and gentle exhalation, he relaxed into a standing stupor.

At the entrance of the alley, from the point where it met the street, Gabor noticed something strange. The Huntsman stood in the half-light, focusing down the alleyway at them. Covered in darkness, he was tall, even more so than Gabor, and he was still and silent as he stared at the homeless couple.

Gabor squinted down to the alley’s entrance, trying to make out the odd observer. Raising his voice, his face flushed in anger. Hey, we’re sleeping here tonight. We got here first, so get outta here.

The darkness continued to hide their visitor, and the figure didn’t respond to Gabor’s claim of ownership. The silhouetted Huntsman stood unmoving, making Gabor more nervous with each unresponsive moment.

Scowling, Gabor thought for a moment. After tossing away his cigarette, he grabbed an empty bottle from the ground. Striding to the wall, he smashed it against the cold stone.

Holding up the improvised weapon, Gabor raised his voice higher, motioning to the stranger with his glass shiv. We don’t want any trouble, but we’ll give you plenty if ya fuck with us. You don’t wanna find out the hard way—we ain’t playing with ya.

Such a threat was not idle from Gabor. Using his size and weight to great effect, he had finished many a fight in his life. Anybody who was anyone on the streets knew not to mess with Gabor, and this fucker would be sorry if he tried pushing them around.

The observer said nothing, but his head tilted perceptibly towards Gabor. The features of his face were lost in the cowl of his strange head covering, and its shadowy confines showed no indication of the stranger’s identity or intentions.

Bianka motioned toward the dark figure, sounding worried. Gabor, maybe we can give it up. I don’t like the look of that guy.

Shaking his head, Gabor walked towards the alleyway entrance and their quiet observer. Bianka’s train of thought drifted elsewhere as Gabor moved closer to the stranger.

I said, we… Gabor said, his voice trailing away in worry.

As Gabor got closer, he noticed the Huntsman was large, and his odd cloth hood still covered his face entirely. He was sturdy, and he had a big white beard that puffed from under that odd-looking cowl. The rest of the stranger’s clothes appeared funny, like he was an actor from an ancient play.

He didn’t look anything like a fellow street-dweller.

Gabor stopped, unsure of how or whether to proceed. Shaking his head in defeat, he dropped the bottle and turned back towards Bianka.

As Gabor shuffled back her way, he motioned to the collection of their possessions on the ground. His movements were hurried and his voice was frightened. Get our stuff together. To hell with this.

As Gabor got closer to Bianka, the sounds of scraping feet came from behind him, and his eyes widened with panic as he gestured again to their piled personal things.

Not hearing or understanding what he meant, Bianka appeared confused, and her drunk eyes met Gabor’s in incomprehension. She smacked her lips, about to take another pull on her bottle.

There was a thudding impact in Gabor’s back, and he was propelled toward Bianka. Suddenly, he was looking down at her from only inches away. There was a long, dark shaft protruding from his stomach, and his eyes struggled to understand how this long weapon had found its way out of his abdomen.

The other end stuck through the chest of the shorter Bianka. They were held up and together by a long spear, and its sharp end was embedded in the brick of the back-alley wall. The length of the vicious weapon was as black as night, with its entire length consisting of a dark obsidian-like substance.

Jerking uselessly against the shaft, the skewered Gabor looked down to Bianka. Working her jaw, she coughed spurts of blood up from her deeply wounded lungs. She tried to respond to what was happening, but only strained gurgles escaped her convulsing mouth. Confused, she couldn’t quite grasp her suddenly grave condition.

Looking down at the shaft, Gabor noticed some of his innards were wrapped around it, and great gouts of his blood splashed against the filthy concrete below. His disbelieving eyes stared at the flowing gore as if it belonged to someone else, like he was watching some horridly realistic event from a hideous snuff film.

Looking back to Bianka, she was now focused elsewhere, no longer concerned with the physical world.

Behind him, the sound of striding feet grew closer. A dark hand grabbed his head, yanking it back and exposing his pale neck. An equally black knife began to saw through the soft flesh of his throat, opening more paths of spraying blood as his lifeforce drained away.

Gabor didn’t leave the conscious world until his head was torn completely from his body, leaving his headless torso to slump against his deceased girlfriend in the dark alley.

#

The sun shone on a mass of people and cars moving across the extensive city landscape. Tides of bodies jostled for space amongst buses, cars, and sidewalks beneath the cloudless sky of Central Budapest.

Nearby, more humanity exited from the underground metro, creating a chaotic scene as separate crowds rubbed against one another while moving in opposite directions.

Around a central gathering point for buses and transferring commuters, a series of advertising signs flickered from the tops of buildings, parking garages, and a nearby mall.

The controlled turmoil of the central square throbbed with people, like it was a living arterial delivery system for the city’s functioning body.

Through the busy streets, a tram trundled past crowds of students and workers. Intent on making their way to their morning destinations, few in the bustling population paid attention to their nearby environments. Nobody really talked amongst these individuals going about their mornings, and the only interaction between neighbors was just the universal surfing of mobile phones as they texted and checked social media.

To the side of the thronging commuters sat a few elderly pensioners, as well as occasional clusters of homeless. Perched on scattered benches, both groups watched the morning travel with interest, but for different reasons; the former group stared wistfully for a time long past, while the latter longed for a different outcome in the present. In either circumstance, the mainstream commuters nearby ignored them as they went about their busy lives.

Inside a clattering tram, Monica Varga stood with her hand clasped on a grab handle as the vehicle wound through cramped avenues of the bustling city. The blond twelve-year-old had sharp eyes and a precocious manner as she observed her fellow morning travelers. Dressed in a private school uniform, she stuck out amongst the working-class riders of public transportation.

Bored, Monica moved her gaze around the car, searching for something to occupy her interest. Focusing ahead, her eyes came to rest on the back of a shiny skull. The clean-shaven head belonged to a young woman standing directly in front of her, and on the back of her stubble-free scalp was a bizarre tattoo of a vicious-looking Viking with numerous bright flowers in its raggedy beard.

The strange and colorful body-art represented a cross between a bloodthirsty conqueror and a pacifistic flower child.

Monica stared at the woman for some time, contorting her features at the odd but intriguing artistry. The young woman abruptly turned around, noticing Monica and glaring down in disapproval. Not amused by the child’s attention, she lifted a lip in annoyance.

To the side, Monica’s mother pulled at her daughter’s arm in a plea for manners. In her middle-thirties, Erica Varga’s frown lines had not yet ruined her good looks, but her strained features still showed a woman unhappy with the course of life.

Despite her dour demeanor, Erica’s dark, shoulder-length hair was still without gray, and she kept an attractive figure, one that was still able to battle gravity to a draw.

Erica offered an apology to tattoo woman by way of a nod and a bashful smile. She was not exactly ashamed of Monica, but her daughter’s behavior often caused her to make apologies in order to be polite.

Erica smiled to herself, realizing she wasn’t the only parent having to do so. In fact, she mused that it was often the pastime for many parents in today’s spoiled-child world—having to smooth over hurt feelings from kids who never felt the need to show respect.

Monica relented and moved her gaze away from the stranger. Smirking at her mother, she glanced around the car for other interesting people to watch. Nothing very engaging came to her