by Jack Conner
“A Grife?”
“It conceals itself against a cave wall, appearing to most to be a cave itself, and when prey falls for the trap ...” The bat-man gestured to Jean-Pierre’s wounds. “I’m just surprised you survived it. Most of us know how to look out for them, but obviously you’re not from down here. It follows that you came up from the water. You’re an … outsider.” The bat-man paused. “Please, tell me who you are and how you came to be here.”
“I’m Jean-Pierre, werewolf. I came here hoping to find a way into the Castle.”
That hideous bat-mouth smiled. Jean-Pierre tried to resist a shudder.
“Well, wouldn’t we all like to go up to the castle, but we can’t,” said the creature. “Neither can we swim through those waters to freedom, unless we have the consent of the Dark Lord, his Ambassador, or another trusted one.”
“I know both the Dark Lord and the Ambassador, and many of their trusted ones, most notably Lord Kharker. I hereby give you permission to leave.”
The creature seemed taken aback. “You know Lord Kharker?”
“Yes. Now you can go.”
“It’s not that simple. You’re not one of those chosen that can release us. Lord Kharker, however, with the consent of the Dark Lord, can. Hell, they’re the reason why we’re all down here in the first place, not that I hold a grudge. No, I take that back. I do hold a grudge. Unlike most of the others down here, I could survive quite well on my own, instead of being reduced to one of the last lines of defense in the Refuge.”
“Refuge? What are you talking about? What is this place? Where the hell did the dragons come from—?”
“Dragons? You saw dragons?”
“Well ... only one.”
“He left by the waters?”
“Before you get your hopes up, the Ambassador was with him; the dragon had his consent to leave.”
Whatever expression there was on the bat-man’s face did not look happy. “So, Jean-Pierre, you think you’ve got what it takes to survive the rigors of the Refuge in order to make it back up to the castle?”
“So there is a way.”
“Oh, yes. We’re not allowed to enter the castle, but you are obviously not bound by our rules, the rules the sorcerers placed on us. Maybe, if you can survive long enough, you can make it inside the castle.”
“There are sorcerers down here?”
The bat-man gave a sad snort. “Would that there were, my beleaguered werewolf. Would that there were. Had we been lent a sorcerer, I’m sure we could’ve forced him to lift the spells and get us out of here. Of course, that wouldn’t work well for most of us. Dragons, sygots, the Meadow Demons ... most would be hunted down and killed by humans, I think. Me and the Grifes, though. I think we could survive. He and his kin could pretend to be caves, and I could pretend to be bats.”
“Just what the hell are you?”
A small laugh escaped the bat lips. “A damned thing, Jean-Pierre. Once, I was a vampire. By the name of Ladrido. I had the misfortune of feeding off a sorcerer’s niece. Trust me, had I known her lineage, I would’ve gladly let her be, but ... well, the sorcerer found out, caught and trapped me. He held me for many days, thinking up a proper punishment. Then one night he came to me and told me that, being a vampire, I was little better than a bat myself, a disease-ridden rodent with blind eyes and wings. He said that since that was my true essence he’d turn me into not just one bat, but many. Only one would be large enough to act as my mouth. He permitted me to speak, kind of him, so that I could voice my pains. He turned me into what you see now: a cloud of bats sewn together by my will. They are what my body used to be. My sense of self longs for a true form of its own—this is part of the curse the sorcerer damned me with—so that I would constantly seek human shape in a man’s body. Having not the power to resist the sorcerer’s spell, I continually seek to merge myself into human flesh and become man-shaped once more.”
“Jesus. The sorcerer did that to you, and let you go, knowing you’d go about killing other innocent people?”
Ladrido gave him an odd look from eyes that should’ve been blind but somehow seemed able to see all too well. “You know nothing of sorcerers?”
“They all died out many centuries ago, and the art of their craft with them.”
That appeared to disturb Ladrido. “All the sorcerers? Dead?”
“As far as I know.”
“That’s very bad, Jean-Pierre. It means all of us down here in the Refuge could be trapped here forever, until the spells run out ... Look, I know you don’t understand, but many of us are kept alive by spells that sorcerers cast a long time ago. There are time limits to the spells. When they run out, all the creatures that depend on them will die ...”
Jean-Pierre didn’t know what to make of this, but he realized that Ladrido hadn’t answered his question. “Would you please tell me why it was that a sorcerer cursed you like this and let you loose to kill again—even though it was his own niece you killed, which means he knows what it’s like to lose a loved one.”
“Obviously you’re young, Jean-Pierre. If you were old like I am, then you’d know that sorcerers are not always the kindest of folks. Some are decent, some aren’t. They’re humans, just like any others. I had the bad luck to kill the niece of a sorcerer who didn’t care whether I lived to kill again; he only cared that I was punished. And that I am.
“Sometimes, if I go for too long without possessing a human, my mind drifts, starts to break apart.” He contrived to grin. “I guess I go a little batty. It was my own fault, though. I should not have fed upon the niece of a sorcerer. When Roche Sarnova was banding up all the endangered immortal creatures in the world, he found me out and said that, since I was the only one of my kind, I should come and live in the Refuge. He was my king. I obeyed, and have been here ever since. A long time, I think. But then time seems strange here.”
“So the corpse I found, before I stumbled into the Grife ... that was your work?”
Ladrido shrugged unhappily. “I cannot resist the curse, Jean-Pierre, just as you cannot resist yours. Both of us need human flesh to survive.”
“Where do these humans come from?”
“The castle, where else?”
“I don’t understand. How can humans come from the Castle?”
“I’m not going to stand here lecturing you about the dynamics of the Refuge, Jean-Pierre, but humans do come, rest assured. Most are killed in the first chamber, the Cavern of the Green Lake ... but those that survive meander down into the Refuge and are picked off, one by one ... by us. I, and the old Grife back there, are the last lines of defense. You see, no mortals can escape, or else they’d give us away—so we’re charged with making sure that doesn’t happen. Few mortals make it this far down, so our job is fairly simple, but that just makes my life more difficult. I need a human shape to sustain my consciousness.”
“You have a human shape now.”
“Only a poor imitation, and one I can’t hold for long. Even now, I feel my power draining.”
“How long has it been since you’ve ... possessed?”
“That mortal, the one you found. How old was the body?”
“About a week, I believe.”
“Then it’s been a week. As I said, time down here is strange. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. A hundred thousand years, it seems like sometimes. Sometimes just a month or two.”
“Look, Ladrido. I need to feed. If I don’t, I’ll die.”
“I, too, need sustenance. What say we strike a partnership and venture up into the main part of the Refuge. Perhaps there we can find a human—and share one.”
Jean-Pierre didn’t like the sound of that. True, he needed to feed, but he didn’t want to feed wantonly. Sophia had taught him better than that. Of course, in the state he was in, would she hold it against him that he’d killed an innocent human simply to survive, so that he could see her again?
Yes, she probably would. And, somewhere down deep in him, he didn’t actuall
y want to kill innocents anymore, whatever the case may be. In this case, though, the matter was survival ...
“Well?” asked Ladrido. “Are we a team?”
After a long moment, Jean-Pierre said, “Yes.”
They set off.
* * *
“So how are you going to save my life?” asked Ruegger.
Speaking around his cigar, Kharker said, “Actually, I’m just going to teach you how to save your own, but it amounts to the same thing.” He looked down at the harem girl. “Thanks, honey, but that’s about all my poor feet can take. Any more rubbing and they’d turn to jelly.”
“Would you like anything else, my lord?”
Kharker grinned. “I don’t think my friend here would find any other requests I made of you amusing.”
“Would you like some head?”
The Hunter laughed. “As I said.”
“He can get some, too.”
“You just go get some sleep now. And thanks for the massage. You know, with skills like yours ... I might just get you made into a shade, yet.”
Her eyes widened at this, and Ruegger hated to see the glimmer of hope there. It was the common dream of every slave in the Castle that one day, if they did their duties above and beyond expectation, they would be spared from feeding and would be either released completely—which rarely happened—or would be turned. The only thing that turned that day was Ruegger’s stomach. The girl left the room, and the Darkling and the Darkling’s Keeper were alone.
“Fine lass,” said the Hunter.
“For a moment there, I thought you really might take her up on the offer.”
“Ruegger, I am an old fool, I’ll admit, but I’m not a delinquent host.”
The Hunter rose and moved to a large oak cabinet. When he opened it, Ruegger saw a king’s ransom of fine weapons, from daggers and antique guns to swords so large a mortal would not have been able to hold them. Every item gleamed and sparkled: as well-maintained a cabinet of death as the vampire had ever seen.
“Come,” said Kharker, the word a little muffled around his cigar.
Ruegger moved beside his old mentor. “It’s quite a collection.”
“Hmmm, yes, it is. Other than hunting and collecting fine wines, I’ve always had an interest in valuable weapons. Let’s see, now. You’ve been trained to fight with swords before, haven’t you?”
“You know I have. Learned it as a boy, a mortal. Learned more of it as I grew older. Then you taught me still more. I’ve never had much use for swords, though.”
“I remember. Too straight, you said. Not very poetic. Just a metal stick with a sharp point. No, I remember you always preferred scimitars, and you could use them well—a scimitar in one hand and a dagger in the other. But I notice you no longer carry anything other than that big knife of yours—and your guns, of course.” He smiled. “Walking around on a normal night, how many guns do you usually have strapped to you?”
“As many as the occasion calls for. It depends on who Danielle and I are after at the moment—or if we’re expecting retaliation afterward.” Ruegger was pretty sure where this discussion was going and found to his surprise that he liked it. On the other hand, he was tired and wanted to return to that nice warm bed with Danielle.
Grinning around his cigar, the old werewolf closed the cabinet and turned to Ruegger. “That was just a teaser, my friend. What I brought you here for ...” He sprang to another cabinet and flung open its doors, revealing a box of expensive cigars, some tobacco and rolling paper, odds and ends, a few old blades Khark carried with him on occasion ... and, hanging up on the back wall, a gleaming silver scimitar side by side with an equally resplendent dagger, their blades engraved in elegant artistry. Instantly, Ruegger found himself at the Hunter’s side, appraising the weapons.
“They’re yours, if you want them,” Kharker said. “Just pick them up, feel their weight. Give ‘em a whirl. I promise, they won’t bite.”
Almost reverentially, Ruegger removed the blades and admired them. They were as fine as weapons got. Kharker had chosen well. Their hilts were black, sculpted just a little to give them some flair, but not much. Kharker had purchased them for Ruegger, and for Ruegger’s tastes. The Darkling didn’t like audacious weapons; just as he preferred silver over gold, he liked his weapons quiet, graceful, and deadly. The scimitar and dagger were certainly all of those.
Experimentally, Ruegger twirled them around a few times, thrust and parried and pirouetted about the room, slicing his blades into a swarm of invisible opponents. When he turned back to the Hunter, Kharker was regarding him with a friendly smile. He did not ask for thanks, nor did he seem to want any. He just wanted the pleasure of watching his gifts so well received.
Ruegger tossed the blades lightly in the air and hung them, suspended with his mindthrust as he marched over to his old friend and hugged him.
“Thank you,” he said. “They’re perfect.”
Kharker beamed. “You’re welcome. I just hope they do you some good. Hard times are coming, and soon, but I’ll explain about all that later. Right now I’ve got to show you how to use those blades in conjunction with your telekinesis.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re suspended in midair right now, aren’t they?”
Ruegger had hardly given it a second thought. “What of it?”
“That’s just the point. These gifts I give to you are not to be worn in scabbards about your waist. These are weapons to be used in case of a surprise attack. You, and only you, should know where they are.”
Suddenly, Ruegger realized why he had been told to wear his jacket. “You want me to stick these things up my sleeves, don’t you?”
“Yes, and suspend them there, like you have out here. Also, I must teach you how to bend them so that you can move your arms about normally. Most shades could never pull this off in a million years ... Well, maybe in a million. But you’re just two hundred and already I think you can do it. No, I know you can. You may have angels on your shoulders, but you’re a warrior just the same, and I want to see you live through the next few days. Guns and knives are fine when going after a particular target, I suppose, but when you could be ambushed by multiple enemies at a moment’s notice, it’s nice to be able to take off a head. Not only that, but you’re well known for your use of your usual weapons. Your enemies will be expecting them ... but they won’t be expecting this. Are you game?”
Ruegger hesitated, then plucked the blades out of the air and stared at their understated elegance.
“Yes,” he said. He met the Hunter’s warm brown eyes. “Let’s get started.”
* * *
As Ladrido led Jean-Pierre up through the rocky tunnels, into the main part of the underworld, Jean-Pierre spied a great waterfall in a cavern so large the entire Lodge could fit in here twice. Beautiful white-winged creatures flew gracefully just beyond the lip of the waterfall, catching fish out of the waters and eating them raw. They circled around in the air, very feminine and very naked, giggling and playing games with each other.
“Are they angels?” asked Jean-Pierre, who found himself in awe despite himself. And somewhat randy.
“Hardly,” snorted his companion. “They are a good fuck, though, from time to time. They’re nymphs, more than anything else. That’s one of the reasons I’m anxious to get back in a human body.” He paused, staring greedily at the beautiful females. Little doubt as to what he was thinking. Jean-Pierre was thinking it, too. “Come, let’s stop wasting time.”
Jean-Pierre just stood there, watching the angelic creatures swoop and dive and laugh and snatch fish out of the water.
“Why are they down here?” he asked. “There are winged shades that roam the surface, just like I do. Why must these be imprisoned here?”
As he watched, one of the sprites began to turn translucent, then disappeared altogether, though her laughing could still be heard.
“That’s why,” Ladrido said. “They’re creatures of magic, but they ca
n’t control the magic. They were never taught how, because the ones that could teach them were killed off by humans.”
“Why?”
“Because certain people would pay high prices to have one of them hung on a wall or made slave out of. Also, the Church took a great disliking to them.”
“The Church?”
When Ladrido didn’t explain, Jean-Pierre asked, “What do they feed off of? Blood, flesh, semen, fear, brain fluid, what?”
Ladrido smiled. “Sweat. They’ll fuck you till you’re soaked with it, then they’ll lick you down, head to foot. As I said before, I’m very anxious to get back into a human body. And I guess that answers your question about the Church. So can we go now?”
Jean-Pierre would’ve rather just stood there watching the angels playing. It seemed a happy life, a simple one. On some level, he actually envied them.
On another, he was grievously wounded. I need to feed.
Ladrido led him down tunnel after tunnel, through strange cavern after strange cavern. Jean-Pierre saw all sorts of exotic immortal creatures, some terrible, some beautiful. At one point, the companions passed a particular short tunnel that led into a large dark chamber. Ladrido said that they should pass, but the noises from within drew the albino’s curiosity. Reluctantly, Ladrido allowed him to go inside.
In the middle of the cavern, a large bubbling cauldron of a lake—maybe the outlet of a hot spring—boiled and steamed. So much steam rose from it that on first glance Jean-Pierre thought it to be on fire; it wasn’t, of course, but the vapor did rise to form an acrid, blood-red cloud on the cavern’s ceiling. More puzzling, the waters of the boiling pool were red, as well—a fact highlighted by the torches that blazed along the cold stone walls and threw their own light upon this little spot of hell.
Skinless humanoids, wide eyes blazing hate, some with tails and wings and other odd appendages and all with great fangs and claws, hopped about the room, howling and wrestling with each other. Some frothed at the mouth as they fought. Sometimes their quarrels would take them into the boiling water; the intense heat didn’t seem to faze them. Blood was splashed all over the chamber’s walls and floor, as the beings had no skin to keep their juices inside. A pile of dead human bodies, or at least their remains, rotted in one corner. Some had been skinned, while some seemed to have never had skin to begin with.