04 - Rise of the Lycans

by Greg Cox

  No obvious threat presented itself, and yet…

  A savage howl tore through the night, sending a thrill of terror down her spine. Glancing back over her shoulder, she glimpsed large dark shapes skittering through the canopy behind her, bounding from tree to tree. Flocks of crows, abruptly roused from slumber, flapped noisily as they took to the sky in panic. Hecate reared up onto her hind legs, almost throwing Sonja from the saddle. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly. It whinnied in fright.

  Hellfire! Sonja cursed herself for her recklessness as she struggled to bring the agitated mount under control. Her father had often warned her against riding alone at night, yet the desire to escape the claustrophobic confines of the castle, as well as the stifling proprieties and expectations that came with being an Elder’s daughter, had driven her to ignore his advice on more than one occasion. Tonight, it seemed, she had tempted fate once too often. I’ll not hear the end of this… should I be lucky enough to survive.

  Drawing her sword from its scabbard, she dug her spurs into Hecate’s flanks. The horse sprung forward without hesitation, no doubt as eager to flee as Sonja was. She held on tightly to the reins with one hand as they galloped swiftly through the foggy woods. The silver-plated blade caught the moonlight. Silver stars glinted upon its ornately crafted hilt. Greedy branches grabbed at Sonja, making her grateful for the helm protecting her face. She ducked beneath an overhanging branch only seconds before it took her head off. A fallen log blocked their path, but Hecate vaulted over the obstacle with ease. Sonja’s heart pounded beneath her burnished steel breastplate. Cold vampiric blood raced through her veins.

  A chorus of blood-chilling howls erupted behind her as an entire pack of werewolves dropped from the trees and bounded after her on all fours. Fierce growls echoed through the lonely wilderness. Glancing back again, Sonja was alarmed to see the wolves gaining on her. They tore up the trail at such frightening speed that she doubted that her exhausted steed could long outpace them. Tearing her eyes away from her rabid pursuers, she peered desperately through the fog before her, hoping to catch sight of sanctuary.

  If she could just make it back to the castle!

  They burst from the woods into a rocky canyon. Gravel was heaped at the bottom of steep granite, banks that rose sharply from both sides of the road. Sonja braced herself for an ambush, which came upon her almost at once. A snarling werewolf lunged at her from the right, its dagger-sized fangs and claws extended toward her throat. Foam sprayed from the monster’s lips. Its cobalt eyes blazed with carnivorous fury.

  Not so fast! she thought defiantly. Her own eyes shifted from brown to azure. She slashed out at the beast with her sword, the silver blade cutting a bloody gash across the werewolf’s chest. Roaring in pain, it somersaulted backward, landing hard upon the floor of the canyon. Sonja smiled grimly behind her helmet, but there was little time to savor her victory as a second werewolf leapt at her from the left.

  The creature’s powerful forequarters slammed into Hecate’s side, knocking both horse and rider into the canyon wall. The impact jarred Sonja to her bone and threw Hecate off her stride, but, to her vast relief, the horse recovered from its stumble and kept on running, even as the determined werewolf climbed up its side toward Sonja. Its frothing jaws snapped at her back—until she buried her steel-shod elbow into the beast’s mouth, breaking several of its teeth. The move bought her a precious moment, which was all she needed to flip her sword into a backhanded grip. She drove the blade through the wolf’s skull with all her strength, then yanked it back out again. The slain beast tumbled to the ground, throwing up a plume of pulverized dust and rock. Hot blood streamed from the claw marks upon Hecate’s flanks.

  Sonja didn’t look back. Instead she squinted through the fog to see yet another werewolf racing to intercept her. The monster was several yards away from her but closing fast. It seemed to grow before her eyes as it charged at her like a shaggy black thunderbolt. Sonja realized she had to move fast if she wanted to avoid another battle at close quarters. Despite her thick metal gauntlets, her nimble fingers found a concealed latch on the guard of her sword. She released the latch, freeing the two shining silver stars cradled in the hilt. Steel points radiated from the miniature pentagrams.

  In a practiced motion, she swung the sword at the oncoming werewolf. The stars spun along the edge of the blade before flying past the sword point as though propelled by a slingshot. They whistled through the air to strike the werewolf in its head and shoulders. Their keen edges, which had been honed to razor sharpness, sank deep into the monster’s hide and the beast yelped in agony. Acrid white fumes rose where the toxic silver burned the wolf’s flesh. It crashed to the ground directly in the path of the speeding horse.

  Thank you, Tanis, Sonja thought. Although she had little respect for the sniveling scribe, whom she regarded as both a toady and a lecher, she had to concede that his ingenuity had it uses. The built-in throwing stars had been his idea.

  Proving her valor, Hecate vaulted over the convulsing werewolf, who clutched frantically at the poisonous missiles with its clumsy paws. Sonja left the writhing monster in the dust as the horse’s hooves thundered against the ground. The opaque fog swallowed up the downed creature.

  But not, alas, the rest of the pack, who were in no way ready to abandon the hunt….

  The shadowy crypt was the slowly beating heart of the coven. The cavernous stone mausoleum was built into one side of the castle, buried halfway beneath the ground. Granite ribs supported the high domed ceiling. Flickering torches sputtered in their sconces. Green stained-glass windows occupied recessed niches in the upper tiers of the walls. Granite steps led down to the sunken lower level, where three burnished bronze disks were embedded in the marble floor. A concentric pattern of overlapping Celtic runes surrounded the circular hatches, each of which was engraved with a single letter: A for Amelia, M for Marcus, and V for Viktor.

  Viktor wondered what his fellow Elders were dreaming of as they took their turns hibernating beneath the earth. Hallowed tradition dictated that only one Elder ruled over the coven each century, the better to avoid the internecine power struggles that had threatened to tear them apart in the early history of the vampire kind. At times Viktor envied Marcus and Amelia as they slumbered peacefully in their respective sarcophagi, cut off from the petty annoyances that plagued him these days. He often visited the crypt to be alone with his thoughts.

  But sometime his troubles found him anyway.

  “The nobles are upset, milord,” Coloman insisted. A member of the high council, the undead boyar had intruded upon the Elder’s meditations with yet another dreary litany of grievances. The man’s lean face bore a habitually disapproving expression. His dark brown hair was gray at the temples. He wore a crisp black leather doublet over a high-necked black satin robe. Bronze medallions reflected his rank. “Although William himself is locked away for all eternity his pestilence has not been checked. Marauding packs of werewolves have killed our vassals’ slaves….”

  “Humans upset,” Viktor said archly. Smirking, he placed a hand over his heart. “Tanis, please take note of the pain that brings me.”

  The scribe dutifully scribbled the Elder’s remark onto a piece of parchment. He stood attentively at Viktor’s side, the better to preserve his master’s thoughts for eternity. So ubiquitous was the scholarly vampire that Viktor often forgot he was there.

  Coloman ignored Viktor’s sarcastic tone. “Perhaps, milord. Yet their lost slaves mean our lost silver.”

  “Enough!” Viktor barked. The man’s effrontery bordered on insolence. One of Marcus’ favorites, Coloman had long been a thorn in Viktor’s side. He would have banished the man centuries ago had Coloman not enjoyed the other Elder’s protection. “Have I not increased our holdings tenfold since Marcus and Amelia took their sleep?” He sat down upon an imposing stone throne overlooking the crypt. “We will deal with the wolves as we always have.”

  But his confident assertion was belied by a sudden howl t
hat penetrated even the gloomy recesses of the crypt. Viktor and his minions looked up in alarm. A warning horn sounded from the ramparts many stories above them. A second howl, even louder than the first, added to the clamor.

  The baying seemed to come from right outside the castle walls.

  Sparks flew from the anvil as Lucian hammered out the dents in a damaged iron breastplate. The white-hot metal, which he had heated to incandescence in the nearby forge, was molded by his skillful blows. A pair of long metal tongs held the molten armor in place. Bell-like tones pealed whenever the hammer tapped the thin steel plate welded to the face of a large wrought-iron anvil, which sat atop the stump of a hewn elm tree. Lucian held the metal firmly against the anvil’s horn in order to curve it just so. Singed leather hides enclosed his smithy, the better to shield the rest of the castle from the sparks thrown off by his work. A large barrel of brine waited to cool and temper the metal once he was through pounding it back into shape. Horseshoes were draped over the rim of the tub. The smell of burning charcoal rose from the glowing forge. Pokers, rakes, shears, and other tools were scattered haphazardly about the shop. Droplets of molten slag cooled upon the rough stone floor. Racks of swords, pikes, halberds, and battle-axes lined the walls. Smoke from the forge escaped through a gap in the smithy’s cracked stone roof. A thin layer of soot and ash covered both shop and blacksmith alike.

  He paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow. No longer a youth, Lucian had grown into a strapping adult whose sooty face now sported a scruffy mustache and beard. Disorderly brown hair fell past his shoulders. A leather vest bared his muscular chest and arms. Sweat glistened upon his sinewy thews, which had been strengthened by years of toil as a blacksmith. A moon shackle fit uncomfortably around his neck, but he had worn the collar for so long that he barely noticed the vicious silver barbs pricking his throat. Viktor’s brand remained seared onto his right biceps. Leather trousers protected his lower body from sparks and slag. A crude copper knife was tucked into his belt.

  A tankard of lukewarm water slaked his thirst before he turned back to his labors. The work of a blacksmith was never done. Just keeping Viktor and his Death Dealers armed and armored was a never-ending task in its own right; add to that the necessity of maintaining the castle’s stock of horseshoes, hinges, barrel hoops, stirrups, nails, thimbles, and the like and there were scarcely enough hours in the day to keep up with his work. Still, he couldn’t complain. As a skilled artisan, he enjoyed more freedom than any other lycan servant, most of whom were confined to guard duty or back-breaking manual labor. Given his barbaric origins, he was fortunate to have climbed so high.

  Not that Viktor can’t revoke my privileges at the slightest whim….

  The heated metal was already cooling from white to sunrise red. It was still workable, but he needed to get back to work before it became too brittle to shape. Before he could hammer another blow, however, the unmistakable howl of a werewolf invaded his smithy. Despite himself, the call of the wild stirred something deep and primal within him. Moments later, the clarion call of a blast horn competed with the baying of the wolves. Shouted exclamations and curses sounded from the courtyard outside the smithy. Racing footsteps pounded on weathered brick paving-stones.

  Lucian froze in place, momentarily riveted by the howls and commotion. Was the castle truly under attack? This was not the first time in recent memory that werewolves had come within sight of the fortress’ walls, yet it struck Lucian as extremely unlikely that they actually intended to brave the castle’s defenses; no mere wolf pack, no matter how ferocious, could mount a coordinated assault on so formidable a stronghold. They were nothing but unreasoning animals, after all, who preferred to prey on peasant villages and stray travelers instead. Surely, they posed no threat to anyone safely inside the castle’s walls?

  Then he remembered who was riding abroad this night.

  Lady Sonja!

  His hammer and tongs clattered to the pavement as he tossed them aside. Moving quickly, he snatched a freshly repaired crossbow from the racks. The cunning weapon boasted three separate bow arms, stacked atop each other, so that it could fire thrice without reloading. He hastily loaded three bolts into the grooves and raced out of the covered smithy into the courtyard beyond.

  The inner bailey lay between the outer walls and the looming keep, which had been carved from the very face of the mountain, with many ledges, balconies, and levels hewn from solid granite and limestone. To lessen the risk of a catastrophic fire, Lucian’s smithy abutted the eastern wall of the castle, safely distant from the keep and stables. A nearby well offered him ready access to fresh water. Pigs squealed loudly in their pens. Glancing quickly at the gatehouse, Lucian saw that the huge oak doors defending the gate were securely closed and bolted. Torches flared atop the watchtowers.

  Scores of Death Dealers rushed to the castle’s defense, while courtiers, craftsmen, grooms, laundresses, and scullions retreated to the safety of the keep. Shouts and screams added to the chaos. A vampire lady-in-waiting sought reassurance from a rushing Death Dealer, who impatiently brushed her aside. Lycan slaves cowered in the corners of the courtyard, lest they attract the vindictive attention of the intemperate Death Dealers; two hundred years of bondage had not freed the castle’s lycan servitors from guilty associations with their more savage brethren. More soldiers poured from the gatehouse atop the outer wall of the fortress. Caught unawares by the emergency, many of them scrambled to don their armor and helmets as they took their positions upon the palisade. Frantic chickens flapped and clucked underfoot. A clamor arose from the stables as agitated horses whinnied and stomped their hooves. Captain Sandor barked commands at his troops.

  Frustrated by the disorder blocking his path, Lucian sprang over the heads of startled knights and civilians. Lycan strength and agility propelled him from ledge to ledge as he traversed the crowded courtyard in a matter of moments. A single bound carried him from the floor of the bailey to the roof of the dovecote. A final leap catapulted him onto the ramparts overlooking the rocky plain at the base of the mountain. Unnoticed amidst the tumult, he slid into place at an archer’s port between two dense stone merlons. All around him, zealous Death Dealers manned the massive ballistas deployed atop the battlements. Each siege bow required two soldiers to operate and was mounted upon a swiveling base that could be rotated in any direction. Bolts the size of lances waited to be launched at an enemy to devastating effect. Large mechanical windlasses were employed to draw back the taut cables attached to the bow arms. In times of war, the ballistas could impale dozens of attacking soldiers at once, or perhaps bring down a catapult or siege tower. They’d killed more than a few werewolves, as well.

  Lucian hefted his own crossbow. Although only a fraction of the size of the enormous siege weapons, it might suffice if his aim was true. He held his breath as his keen senses probed the fog-shrouded darkness stretching before him. Was that the thunder of hooves he heard in the distance, above the cacophonous baying of the wolves? He prayed that the racing steed still bore its illustrious rider toward safety. Fighting an urge to leap from the parapet to see for himself, he focused intently on the sound of the oncoming hooves. His finger tightened on the trigger of the crossbow.

  Where are you, milady?

  An endless moment later, his patience was rewarded by the sight of a solitary horsewoman galloping out of the mist. A gasp of relief escaped his lips as he saw that she seemed to be in one piece, at least for the moment. Her steed was obviously straining, though. Lather soaked its quivering flanks and he could hear the horse’s labored breathing even from half a mile away. Steam jetted from the charger’s nostrils. Lucian had shod Hecate himself and he could only hope that the panting horse would not throw a shoe before it reached the castle’s looming gates.

  If it even got that far. Horrified cries came from the knights upon the walls as three snarling werewolves burst from the fog in pursuit of the horsewoman and her faltering steed. Bounding across the plain, their blazing eyes burn
ing through the fog, the hungry beasts quickly ate up the distance separating them from their intended prey. It was obvious to all who watched that they would surely bring down the fleeing rider at any moment. Sonja brandished a crimson sword above her head, suggesting that she had already drawn blood from her voracious foes, but could she stand alone against the entire pack?

  Lucian doubted it.

  Careful, he cautioned himself as he took aim with the crossbow. The rear of the stock pressed against his cheek. He squinted down the length of the weapon as he tried to catch a wolf in his sights. The last thing he wanted to do was hit Sonja by mistake; Viktor would not be amused if someone slew his daughter while trying to save her. There was little room for error here….

  He clicked the trigger twice and the top two bolts shot from the crossbow. The missiles whistled past Sonja, barely missing her head, to strike the first two werewolves in the throats even as they sprang at the imperiled noblewoman. They tumbled head over heels across the rocky soil while Sonja raced her gasping steed up the steep path leading to the castle’s front gate.

  She was almost there, but there was still one more werewolf hot on her heels.

  “The gates!” an imperious voice cried out. Lucian glanced behind him to see Viktor standing upon a balcony overlooking the castle’s walls. Tanis, his ubiquitous scribe, lurked behind him, clinging to the shelter of a carved stone archway. The Elder’s voice held equal quantities of fear and anger. “Open the gates, you fools!”

  Lucian silently cursed the idiots who had not yet hastened to clear the way for Sonja. Had they been willing to risk the Elder’s only heir just to keep the doors barred against the werewolves without? Chains clanked loudly as the drawbridge began to be hastily lowered into place. Creaking gears inside the gatehouse turned to raise the iron-studded portcullis guarding the gate. Tardy Death Dealers rushed to draw back the large steel bolt securing the final pair of heavy oaken portals. Mist infiltrated the courtyard as a narrow crack opened between the ponderous doors.