“What?” he asked quietly.
Liz pulled the trigger. The dry click of an empty pistol could barely be heard over the scream, and she was fairly certain he jerked violently enough to pull free from a few of the stakes. Without a word she holstered the pistol and pulled another. His head was still turned sideways, so she put the barrel against his forehead.
“So, if your head is pinned this way, what happens if I shoot you like this? Does the first bullet just cancel it out, or does it rip the side of your head off?”
Tears joined the sweat on his face as he answered, “I don’t-.”
Liz pulled the trigger again. The scream drowned out the click again, but the twitch was much less pronounced.
“These are not difficult questions,” Liz said as she swapped out pistols. “But if you don’t give me some answers,” she cocked the gun, “then I’m going to have to find out some other way.” He opened his mouth, but she stopped him. “I promise you, this one is loaded.”
He stared into her eyes, shaking his head, and his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know.”
Maybe he was telling the truth. Would she be able to tell? She just wasn’t sure. Frustrated, she holstered the gun and paced off a small circle. She ran a hand through her hair, her eyes roaming the room, pausing when they lit upon the spot Malock had exited, and presumably Braughton had followed. Maybe she was just asking the wrong question.
She grabbed the vamp’s chin and jerked his head towards the exit. “Over there,” she directed, “where does that go?”
He was silent for a moment and she wondered if he might need some encouragement from her pistol. She released his chin and put a hand on the pistol grip, but he spoke before she pulled it.
“Just storage,” he said.
“What else?” she pushed. “Malock isn’t performing a summoning in a broom closet.”
The vampire looked at her, glanced at the pistol, then lowered his head. “The caverns,” he mumbled. “If he’s performing a ritual, that’s where he’ll be.”
Liz lifted his chin with the barrel of her pistol until he was looking at her again. “Caverns, eh? Now how exactly do I get there from here?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
The room behind the door Malock exited through had rough stone walls and a low ceiling, but Braughton only noticed the books. Thoughts of pursuing Malock moved to the back of his mind as his eyes scanned the small shelves containing a few dozen books. They were definitely old, and his feet moved towards them of their own accord. That was when he first felt the pull, but it wasn’t towards the books.
The tiny tug in his chest was alarming at first, considering Malock’s words about pulling Helsig from his body, until he realized from where it was coming. Braughton lifted the chain around his neck, placing the bone on the end in his hand. It didn’t move, but he could feel the pull, almost like he was holding a magnet. He looked at the books, then back at the bone. Malock had started, and this little piece was anxious to join the rest. The books would have to wait.
The bone led him to another door in the room, which opened into something more akin to a tunnel than a hallway. Walls and ceiling blended into one another, and a cool breeze disturbed the gas torches lighting the path. Stepping through the doorway seemed to appease the bone, as the pull lessened to practically nothing, and Braughton slipped it back under his shirt. He had nearly dismissed the feeling, until the sound made him stop.
It was faint, but it was definitely gunshots. And then screaming. Had he made the right decision? Unsure, he glanced back down the tunnel towards Elizabeth, and that’s when the pull returned.
He had to make another decision. He shook his head. Second guessing himself would accomplish nothing. There was no right or wrong, good or bad, he could only choose from the choices he had. Besides, if something happened to Elizabeth, he would know. He followed the pull.
Braughton expected the force to lessen again as he followed its lead, but it seemed insistent there be no more stops. Even though it seemed to rest against his chest, he could feel his entire body being towed forward. He must be getting close.
After a few turns, and no more sounds drifting down from behind, the tunnel opened into a small chamber. He tried to stop in the open archway, just to look around, but the bone was already directing him towards the most prominent feature in the room: a round pit in the middle. Peering inside, Braughton saw a stone staircase wound around the wall of the shaft. It was deep, but he could see the bottom, and there was no doubt he was being dragged there next.
His footsteps echoed around him as he descended, and he could only hope the sound wasn’t spilling out any further. At the bottom of the stairwell he was faced with another stone archway, which he was determined not to be forced through. Instead, he approached it slowly, resisting the urge to stride blindly into whatever lay on the other side.
It was a cavern. The far side and roof were lost in a darkness even his eyes couldn’t penetrate, but the center was illuminated with more gas torches. What he spied there lost him the war against the pull. His eyes fixed, his feet carried him into what his mind could only perceive as another childhood vision.
The last time he saw the ring of stones he was failing at trying to outrun a sheet of pouring rain, but that was the only difference he could see. He even spotted the large stone table he and Samuel had taken refuge under. So entranced by the memory, he didn’t notice what lay on top of the table, and if not for the smell, he might have crawled under to look for the secret switch that dumped them into the tunnels.
Blood. The thick scent of it stopped him dead in his tracks, breaking the spell. It took only a second to find the source. A smaller stone table he’d overlooked just outside the circle. Blood dripped from its sides and atop it was the mutilated remains of a human body. It was the smell that told him it was human, not the remains. At the foot of the table was a robed figure, removing a large bowl inset within the table to collect the red liquid.
Braughton had no idea if he’d been spotted during his stroll down memory lane, but he had no desire to remain in the open. He ducked behind a large stalagmite and listened. The silence of the place pressed against his ears, broken only by the occasional drip of water. Then he realized it wasn’t silent at all, and instead the entire cavern was blanketed by a low hum.
Moving to one side of the stone column afforded Braughton a view of the small stone table. The figure still stood at the table, but now held the blood-filled bowl in his hands. It was Malock, of course, but what Braughton noticed was his lips. They were in constant motion, repeating the same hypnotic pattern over and over. This was the hum he was hearing. It was a chant, repeated and reverberated throughout the cavern, turning one voice into a chorus. The summoning was underway.
Malock disappeared from his view, forcing Braughton to shift to the other side of his hiding spot. Peering from behind the rock, he was directly in line with the large stone table, which he now noticed wasn’t empty. There was no doubt it was a skeleton resting on the table, and while it bore some resemblance to a large humanoid, the skull with elongated jaws and canine teeth told a different story. Coupled with the pull he felt around the middle of his chest, Braughton knew these to be the remains of Helsig.
Now what?
Part of him wanted to rush forward, eager to capitalize on the element of surprise he may have paid for with Elizabeth’s life. Another part urged restraint, giving Malock more time to become fully immersed in the ritual while sneaking closer to maximize the surprise. Both were sound arguments, but they also meant bringing the piece he carried closer to the nearly complete remains. It was an action the bone clearly desired, but which he was reluctant to indulge, especially since he still had no idea what would happen to him if the ritual were completed. When Malock walked into view and stopped beside the bones, Braughton couldn’t do anything but watch.
Malock placed the bowl on the table, dipped his hands in, and pulled out a crimso
n colored mass. Blood trailed off, draining back into the bowl, leaving behind curves coiling back on themselves. It was a brain, which Malock placed in the empty skull of the skeletal remains.
He reached in again, this time pulling out a smaller blood-soaked mass. As the blood dripped from it, Braughton recognized it as a human heart. His constant chant still echoing all around, Malock placed the heart into the chest of the beast.
With hands covered in gloves of blood, Malock picked up the bowl, and walked to the end of the table. His lips finally stopped moving, but the constant humming chant continued to circle around the cavern. Malock raised the bowl to his lips and took a long draught of its contents. Braughton pushed the ancient bone against his chest as Malock finished his drink and flung the remainder across the table.
The blood landed with a wet splat, covering skeleton and table alike, and the chanting died. “Adsurgo!” Malock called out, arms raised over his head. Braughton held his breath.
The echo died, and nothing moved. Malock tried again, the command much less forceful, but he pumped his arms for emphasis. Still nothing. Braughton released his grip on the beast’s finger, and felt his entire body relax the tiniest bit.
Malock slowly lowered his arms, then idly wiped his hands on his robes. “Finally, a use for these dreadful things,” he mumbled to himself. With most of the blood gone, he reached deep into the side of his robe and withdrew a very old, very thick book. Braughton leaned forward, stretching his neck for a closer look as Malock began thumbing through the pages. Once he found the page he wanted, Malock’s eyes began to move back and forth between the page and the table. Each glance was accompanied by a small head nod as he mentally checked off the requirements.
This was it. This was the distraction Braughton had been waiting for, and the longer he waited to act, the more likely Malock was going to give up and try something else. It was now or never.
Braughton moved silently behind another rock, found Malock still consulting the manual, and moved to another. Within just a few moves he was behind Malock and close enough to strike. Hand on his sword, Braughton prepared his attack.
“You know,” Malock suddenly said without turning around, causing Braughton to nearly stumble as he stopped. “These are the very same stones, arranged in precisely the same way as they sat in that field for centuries.” He put his hand on the stone table. “And this is where your whore of a mother seduced my master, and then the rest of the council.” He turned to face Braughton, a small smile on his face. “The very spot where you were conceived.”
“I never knew my mother,” Braughton replied through clenched teeth.
“That’s right! You were raised by the witch.”
“Grandmother. She was my grandmother.”
Malock waved his hand, dismissing the correction. “Still. Kind of makes us brothers, I suppose, in a way.” Braughton could feel the heat of anger flushing his cheeks, but he remained silent, hand firmly on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Malock seemed not to notice as he continued, “I really didn’t expect you here so soon.”
“It appears as though I’m not the only thing that didn’t meet your expectations,” Braughton replied with a nod towards the table behind Malock.
“No, I suppose not,” The book snapped shut, and a look of annoyance passed across Malock’s face almost long enough for Braughton to enjoy it. Almost.
“Since you’re here, I assume Samuel is dead,” Malock noted as he slid the book back into his robe. “Did you really find it so easy to kill him? I mean, I don’t doubt you have the skill to do it, but I wasn’t sure you would be able to bring yourself to kill him … again.”
“I didn’t kill Samuel,” Braughton said, to which Malock raised an eyebrow. “But I assure you, he has been taken care of.”
The smile returned to Malock’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re relying on sweet little Elizabeth to deal with him,” he said through a small outburst of laughter. Braughton remained silent, unamused. “You do realize the only reason she’s still alive is because I ordered him not to kill her. Honestly though, once he discovers you’re gone, I don’t know if even that will be enough to save her for long.” Braughton restlessly flexed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me. I’m not the one who left her to die at the hands of a revenge-crazed lunatic.” He paused a moment, then added, “On the bright side, he might just torture her, kind of a warm-up before the main event.”
Malock was right. Leaving Elizabeth had been his idea, pushing it on her even as she argued against it. He knew she wasn’t dead, but he’d never considered she might be tortured. Did he really believe she was ready to face Samuel, or had he just lied to her and himself?
“I must admit, I’m a little flattered,” Malock said. “That you sacrificed her to chase after me. It means a lot.”
Braughton’s hand slipped from the sword hilt completely, and hung loose at his side. It was true. He had sacrificed her, and for what? A chance at catching Malock off guard? The idea of it was ridiculous. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his own foolishness.
“And there it is,” Malock said. “The fear, the doubt, the guilt – all the things that reek of your humanity. All the things for which I have no use.” He glanced back at the skeleton, then added, “And neither does Helsig.” He took a few steps towards Braughton, peering closely at him, into him almost. “I truly don’t understand how they can see you as anything other than a vessel. A misshapen, and fragile container.” He contemplated Braughton for another moment, then shrugged. “He must be buried deeper inside there than I thought.” He reached into his robe. “No matter,” he said, pulling a dagger from the folds.
Malock lunged at Braughton, who moved just in time to get stabbed in the shoulder instead of the heart. Malock released the blade and stepped back. He removed the robe, drew his sword, and pointed it at Braughton. “If I have to, I will turn you inside out to release him.”
Braughton pulled the dagger from his shoulder and hurled it at Malock. The move was unexpected, but Malock batted it aside with his sword. Braughton used the distraction to draw his own sword. The wound was deep, but he could still move his arm, and it had already stopped bleeding.
He was easily three centuries older than any vampire Braughton had faced before, and the extra experience was evident in the first flourish. Malock rushed forward, sword swinging, pushing Braughton back before even the first strike. When Braughton saw his opening, he swung hard and held his ground.
Attack after attack, the two swords crashed against each other, their collisions creating the ringing echo of a dozen simultaneous sword fights. Braughton blocked every swing, and even managed to counter a few times, but he was slowly being pushed back. First it was just one step, but then there was another, and he couldn’t find a way to push back. Maybe his humanity was a weakness.
On his next step, Braughton’s foot pushed against something hard. Most likely a rock, but he had no idea how to move around it. He chanced a quick glance down, but it wasn’t quick enough. Malock’s sword sliced across his chest, and Braughton stumbled backwards over the pile of loose stone. He landed on his back, his sword fell from his hand, and Malock was on him before he could blink.
The point of Malock’s sword wavered over Braughton’s chest, tracing the path of his cut. “I guess I didn’t cut deep enough,” Malock said. “But I know Helsig is trapped in there somewhere,” he added as he moved the sword to Braughton’s neck. “I just need to let him out.”
“I thought killing me was going to cause problems,” Braughton stalled.
“Look around. We’re not exactly on Plan A here.”
Braughton swallowed hard, though careful to avoid the blade at his throat, and glanced over at his sword. With a little bit of a stretch he could actually reach it. He just had to do it before Malock cut his head off.
Malock saw the look and smiled down at Braughton. “I must admit, I do admire your optimism,” he sai
d with a toothy grin. “Again though, it’s more of a human trait.”
His smile faded as he stared at Braughton for a moment. “I’m afraid that humanity may be stronger than I imagined. And no matter how many times I cut,” his sword sliced a new path across Braughton’s chest. “Or hack.” He opened another wound. “Or even stab.” He put just enough pressure behind the point of his sword to make Braughton groan. “I just don’t think I’m going to get him out of you. No, this is going to require more drastic measures.”
Malock moved his sword back under Braughton’s chin. “It’s funny, all that time I spent planting and nurturing those seeds of hate in Samuel, I believe I’ve come to despise you as well. It’s really too bad I can’t spare the time to torture you, I feel like I would thoroughly enjoy it.”
“What about Samuel?” Braughton asked. “Won’t he be disappointed?” It was a long shot, but Braughton hoped it might give him a stay of execution.
Malock chuckled and shook his head. “The only thing I spent more time developing than his hatred of you was his fear of me. So, while I appreciate your concern, there’s no need to worry.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Although, I do hope he doesn’t kill Elizabeth, because I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of you for him. She might make a nice consolation prize.” Malock put both hands on the hilt of his sword. “Goodbye, Braughton.”
Malock raised the sword. This was it, Braughton’s chance. Ignoring the searing complaint from the wounds on his chest, Braughton kicked his legs up, hit Malock’s hands, and then rolled towards his own lost sword. He picked it up, and rose to his feet with only the slightest wince of pain, sword ready. The two moved in a slow circle, Malock with sword held in both hands, Braughton slightly hunched with one hand across his chest.
“I thought I made myself clear,” Malock said, adjusting his grip on his sword. “I don’t have time for torture. But, if it’s pain you desire, I’m more than willing to accommodate.” Sword raised, he sprinted towards Braughton. Expecting a blow to inflict pain, Braughton kept his sword low, ready to block. It wasn’t until the last moment he realized Malock was going for his throat. He did the only thing he could, leaned back, and hoped it was far enough to keep from losing his head.
Shackles of Sunlight Page 26