by Greg Cox
Damn that girl, he thought impatiently. Where in perdition is she now?
To add to his displeasure, Coloman had the floor:
“The matter before the Council is simple,” the troublesome boyar declared from the center of the mausoleum. “We are under attack. Six times in half as many weeks, William’s kind have reached our very walls.” He paused to let that ominous figure sink into the minds of his peers. “What mayhem would follow if just one of them got past our defenses?”
Hushed gasps and murmurs emerged from the Council as they envisioned that appalling prospect. Not all of the castle’s diverse inhabitants were seasoned warriors, after all; many of the more refined council members and their families would stand no chance against an invading werewolf. Coloman smirked in satisfaction at the audience’s response. He clearly felt that he had made his point.
Viktor was not amused.
“Your… fear… is misplaced.” His acerbic tone called Coloman’s courage into question. Viktor gestured at the lycan guards posted around the chamber. Handpicked for their loyalty and intimidating stature, the sentries had been armed with swords and lances. “Are we not protected, even during the daylight hours, by an army of immortals?”
Coloman bristled at the implication that he was a coward. “Superbly, milord. However, the nobles of this region are not. And, as I have often pointed out, they are the grass on which we graze.”
A well-preserved vampire lady, Orsova by name, rose from her seat to join Coloman before the throne. Her silver hair was bound up in a bun. A black satin corset cinched her waist. A diamond choker adorned her swanlike neck, while her jeweled bracelets were fashioned in the shape of glittering cobwebs. “If we cannot protect our human vassals, it makes us look weak.”
Viktor’s eyes flared dangerously. Orsova was also one of Marcus’ creatures, so there was little love lost between her and Viktor. Rumor had it that, perversely, she enjoyed the taste of her own blood as it circulated through the veins of her various nubile maidservants. Viktor’s sharpened nails scraped against the carved stone armrests of his throne. “And how exactly would you project strength?”
“As our Death Dealers patrol the countryside by night,” Coloman proposed, having plainly anticipated Viktor’s challenge, “so our lycan guards can patrol by day.”
Viktor could not believe his ears. Incensed, he lurched to his feet. “Lycans patrol beyond the walls of this castle? Unsupervised by their vampire masters? Have you lost your mind?” He found it difficult to grasp how even Coloman could not see the manifest insanity of such a proposal. “They are mere beasts, and the savagery of this despicable fact cannot be bred away.”
As useful as their lycan slaves had proved to be, Viktor had no doubt that even the most docile lycan would revert to barbarism if given half a chance. Only strict control and constant discipline kept them in line. Coloman was a naive fool if he thought otherwise.
“I think your fear of this idea is misplaced,” the boyar insisted. “We can create a privileged class of lycans—greater rations, finer quarters, better mating opportunities—and put them under the hand of a lycan we know we can trust. Perhaps your pet, Lucian, the one who saved your daughter’s life earlier tonight.” A sly smile lifted the corners of his thin lips. “In fact, I think we should hear her thoughts in this matter.”
He made a production of turning dramatically toward Sonja’s empty seat. As usual, the impetuous heir was nowhere to be seen.
Fuming, Viktor leaned over to whisper to Tanis. “Find her.”
Coloman feigned surprise at Sonja’s absence. “Mmm. She seems to be needed elsewhere.”
“I will… take your suggestion under advisement,” Viktor said icily. He considered explaining away Sonja’s lack of attendance by citing her narrow escape earlier that evening, but decided against it. That would simply provide Coloman and his lackeys with an opportunity to remind the Council of Sonja’s many previous absences. Better to offer no excuse or apology, lest that be taken as a sign of weakness. Viktor maintained a stoic facade as Tanis quietly exited the crypt in search of the missing heir. The Elder wondered what exactly his errant daughter was doing right now. She had best have a very good reason for embarrassing me like this!
“Thank you, milord,” Coloman said, enjoying his victory. “It would be gratifying to be able to reassure the nobles when they arrive tomorrow that we have their best interests at heart.”
Viktor recalled that a delegation of wealthy human vassals was expected at the castle one night hence, to pay tribute to their lords and masters. Frankly, the best interests of insignificant mortals were of little concern to him, but he conceded reluctantly that such rituals helped preserve the social order. He would have to make certain that Sonja was on hand to welcome their guests—even if he had to drag her physically from her room.
Dawn was only a few hours away when Lucian put down his hammer and tongs. Steam rose from the slack tub as the brine cooled a red-hot sword blade that he had just pounded into shape. The night was winding down and the castle was already settling in to sleep the day away. Silence fell over the courtyard outside as the construction efforts ceased for the evening; without any vampires to oversee their labors, the exhausted lycan slaves were allowed a brief respite until sunset the next day. Heavy drapes and shutters were drawn over the castle’s windows, to protect the slumbering vampires from the burning rays of the sun. Lycan sentries, often referred to as “daylight guardians”, would soon replace the Death Dealers stationed upon the castle’s outer walls and watchtowers. If past history was any guide, most of the vampire lords and ladies were even now retiring for the evening.
Finally! Lucian thought. He wiped the soot and sweat from his face with a tattered rag. The last few hours had dragged on interminably while he had waited impatiently for this very moment. Drawing aside one of the heavy leather curtains enclosing his smithy, he peeked out into the courtyard to see if anyone was coming. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw that the courtyard was just as quiet and deserted as he had hoped. The only sign of life was a scrawny kitchen scullion darting back from the well with a fresh bucket of water. Lucian watched as the boy disappeared back into the keep, leaving the inner bailey all but deserted. No one would be coming in search of a blacksmith anytime soon.
Or so he prayed.
He looked about one last time, just to be certain that no one was watching, then retreated to the rear of the smithy. The fire was dying in his furnace as he crept around the back of the forge to where a scorched hide hung against the eastern wall of the castle. A rusty metal grate was embedded in the floor. Taking no chances, Lucian glanced back over his shoulder before kneeling beside the grate. His fingers dug into the edge of the grille and pried it from the floor, revealing the open mouth of a narrow drain. The malodorous reek of a cesspit wafted up from below. He placed the grate aside, taking care not to bang it against the wall or floor.
Lucian recalled an Arabian folk tale he had once heard from a Saracen trader.
Open sesame, he thought.
The drain was intended to carry away the water Lucian used to douse his forge at the end of the night, but Lucian had furtively worked the metal grate loose some time ago. The chute beneath was barely wide enough to accommodate a grown man, yet he managed to squeeze through the gap and slide down the sloping passageway, which led to a maze of fetid drainage tunnels winding far beneath the castle. Slime coated the clammy stone walls, which hemmed Lucian in as he navigated the tight, constricting sewers. His lycan eyes needed a moment or two to adjust to the near-total darkness, yet he did not hesitate. It would be easy to get lost in this subterranean labyrinth, perhaps never to taste the open air again, but Lucian had groped his way through these tunnels before; by now he knew the route by heart. He waded confidently through the raw sewage, which lapped sickeningly at his ankles. Algae floated atop the stagnant waters, whose polluted contents did not bear thinking about. Heaps of human skulls and scattered bones, tucked away in carved stone niches, reveale
d that these catacombs had once been used to bury the castle’s dead; now that the immortals resided within its walls, however, such funereal practices had long since been discarded. Lucian suspected that he was the first person to explore these depths in countless generations.
Rats scurried away from his approach. Something slithered past his leg. Lucian kept his jaws tightly clenched, to try to keep from inhaling too much of the foul miasma filling the air, but the reek of the sewers was inescapable. Not for the first time, he wished there was a cleaner, less revolting way to get where he wished to go; no civilized being would take this path unless he or she had a very compelling reason to do so—which is exactly what Lucian had. His pace quickened at the thought of what lay ahead. He would have gladly walked through hell itself if need be.
Certain things were worth any risk.
Starlight filtered through a vertical crack in the wall ahead. The narrow gap was barely wide enough to squeeze through sideways, and the rugged masonry scraped across his back as he did so, but Lucian emerged from the drains to find himself outside the castle walls. Peering upward, he saw the forbidding exterior of the fortress looming above him. A cold winter breeze came as blissful relief after the suffocating stench of the sewers. He filled his lungs with the crisp mountain air. His hot breath frosted before his lips.
He was free—at least for the moment.
The open spaces, as well as the sight of the moonlit forest in the distance, stirred something deep in his soul. His fingers tugged at the stinging collar around his neck, which he had worn for two centuries now. Part of him was sorely tempted to turn his back on the castle forever and seek out a new life in the great wide world, far from the capricious whims of Viktor and his ilk. He could be the captain of his own destiny. The master of his fate. But, no, that was not the purpose of tonight’s outing. Instead he looked to the west where an abandoned watchtower clung to a sheer cliff more than a hundred feet above the castle. The ruins dated back centuries, to when the castle’s own walls and spires had not yet risen to their present heights. A fire several generations later had gutted much of the tower’s interior, and the Elders, by then securely ensconced in their newly fortified stronghold, had not seen fit to repair it. No light shown from the tower’s thin loop windows, or “murder holes”. The worm-eaten remnants of a rickety wooden stairway led up a steep incline to the base of the tower. Like the drainage tunnels, the stairway showed no sign of having been used in ages.
At least not by the vampires…
Lucian advanced cautiously toward the stairs. He hugged the walls, keeping to the shadows to avoid being spotted by the lookouts upon the ramparts. Neither he nor any other lycan could expect any mercy should he be caught venturing outside the castle walls; he would be lucky to avoid being skewered on the spot by a harpoon fired by one of the siege crossbows above him. He knew that he was taking a tremendous risk with every step he took.
But no power on earth could make him turn back now.
A wolf howled in the distance. Lucian froze. He swallowed hard. His hand went to the knife at his belt. Had he worshipped the Nailed God, as the mortals did, he would have been tempted to cross himself, but the denizens of Castle Corvinus had long ago shed their faith along with their mortality. More wolves joined in the howl. The atavistic baying reminded him that the Death Dealers were not the only the danger he tempted tonight. Should he be caught outdoors by a pack of hungry werewolves, he doubted that the castle’s guards would come to his rescue. In fact, they would be happy to see him torn apart.
Thankfully, the howling sounded as though it was coming from many miles away. Still, he remained frozen in place, barely breathing, until the baying finally faded away. Only then did he venture up the trail leading to the old tower. Shunning the dilapidated stairway, with its rotting wooden planks, he silently scaled the rocky cliff face. His hands and feet found purchase in minute cracks and outcroppings in a way that few mortals could have emulated. Gravity held no terror for him, yet he lived in fear that at any moment a castle guard would notice his ascent. Cold sweat glued his vest to his back. His ears waited anxiously for an angry shout of alarm.
The climb lasted only moments but felt like an eternity. He bit back a sigh of relief as he spied the entrance to the tower only a few yards away. A moldering oaken door hung ajar, supported by only a single rusty hinge. Just then, alas, a gust of wind blew away the clouds overhead. Moonlight flooded the weathered stretch of cliff lying between him and the doorway, exposing it to the clear view of the castle guards.
Lucian’s heart sank. He looked about anxiously for an alternative route into the tower, but none presented itself. His eyes searched the skies for another cloud, only to see nothing but the unforgiving glare of the moon. His fingers ached from clinging to a shallow depression in the cliff as he realized he had only two choices. He would have to abandon the shadows or turn back for the night.
Never! he thought vehemently. Not when I’m so close!
Mustering up his courage, he grabbed for the next handhold and scrambled across the light as fast as inhumanly possible. If he moved quickly, perhaps none of the sentries would notice him. The silvery lunar radiance seemed impossibly bright. His mouth felt as dry as a desiccated corpse. In his haste, he missed a hold and slid several inches down the face of the cliff before grabbing onto a jutting stone bulge. For the moment, he dangled precariously over the barren plain hundreds of feet blow, hanging onto the cliff by naught but a finger or two, but he quickly regained his footing and scampered up the side of the precipice until he finally reached the inviting black shadows of the breached archway. He heaved himself past the askew door into the murky confines of the gutted tower. Only once he was safely out of sight of the soldiers did he breathe again. He panted in relief.
I made it!
The Lady Sonja’s personal quarters were located on the top floor of the keep, only a few doors away from her father’s chambers. Tanis hurried down a drafty corridor until he reached the thick oak door defending Sonja’s privacy. Faded tapestries hung upon the hallway walls in hopes of keeping out the chill of the night. Decorative suits of armors stood silent vigil. Mounted torches were sputtering out as dawn approached.
He knocked hesitantly upon Sonja’s door, wishing Viktor had chosen someone else—anyone else—for this particular errand. The nervous scribe had no illusions concerning Sonja’s opinion of him; he was well aware that Viktor’s adventurous daughter regarded him with contempt. A warrior woman like her late mother, she valued strength and courage, not guile and erudition. Tanis had no wish to fall even further out of her favor by disturbing her thus, especially since she was destined to become an Elder someday. Still, her father’s wishes could not be denied.
His knock received no answer.
“Milady?”
He flirted with the idea of reporting back to Viktor empty-handed, yet that prospect held little appeal. The ruthless Elder was not known for his patience when it came to the bearers of bad news. Even as a mortal warlord, Viktor had been infamous for his harsh treatment of those whom had displeased him; the scribe had seen ancient woodcuts of Viktor dining amidst a field of gallows and impaled prisoners. Tanis pressed his ear to the door, but heard nothing stirring inside. A second knock was also greeted with silence.
“Lady Sonja?”
He tentatively tried the door and found it unlocked. Curiosity won over caution and he gently pushed the door open, ready to retreat at the first indignant protest from the Elder’s daughter. But no objection came from the opulent suite beyond the door. A canopied four-poster bed, much grander than the scribe’s own modest pallet, was piled high with pillows and fine linens. A hand basin, jewelry box, and other feminine trinkets littered the top of a mahogany dressing table. Moonlight filtered through stained-glass windows. Lavender and tansy freshened the air. A large framed mirror, mounted on the wall above the vanity, gave lie to the myth that vampires cast no reflections. A discarded suit of armor was mounted upon a rack. Unlit kindling was pil
ed in the fireplace. A Persian carpet, imported from the Holy Land, covered the cold stone floor. An antique wooden armoire doubtless held Sonja’s extensive wardrobe. Standing in the doorway, Tanis’ crafty eyes meticulously scoured Sonja’s private domain.
Only one thing was missing.
The lady herself.
Now nothing stood between Lucian and his goal but a winding spiral staircase leading up to the top of the tower. Throwing caution to the wind, he raced up the crumbling stone steps, taking them two at a time. Cobwebs hung like filmy curtains in his path and he tore through them without hesitation. The sticky strands adhered to his skin, but he paid them no heed. He had more important things on his mind at the moment. He couldn’t climb the stairs fast enough.
At last he arrived at the top of the steps. The upper turret of the tower was cloaked in darkness. Only a sliver of moonlight entered through the arrow loops, which were narrow enough to shield the tower’s bygone defenders from flaming arrows and other missiles from below. Cramped embrasures offered archers further shelter from their foes without. Decades of dust and grit coated the charred remains of a ruined wooden bench. A moldy leather tankard, which looked as though it had been partially devoured by rats, had been left behind on the floor, along with the broken shards of a shattered chamber pot. A spider scuttled across the floor. Bats hung from the rafters.