The Living Night: Box Set

by Jack Conner

  With a sickening feeling, Ruegger realized where he was. He didn’t know how, or why, but the Balaklava had resurrected the Grife and installed it in the Collage.

  As if the Grife had been waiting for him to discover just what sort of trap he’d fallen into, the cave walls began to constrict and the stalactites and stalagmites shot out from their stone positions like darting tongues. Ruegger reacted, swiftly and ably, but it was not enough. He was trapped and weak, and had just spent about all of the energy he had on tap. He didn’t even scream when one of the stalactites drove itself into his chest, through his heart, and out his back.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to black him out. For the first time in his life, Ruegger cursed his strength and resilience, for he had to be impaled many, many times before his consciousness released him from the pain, and all he saw was darkness.

  THE END

  OF VOLUME THREE

  THE LIVING NIGHT

  VOLUME FOUR

  CASTLE OF BLOOD

  by Jack Conner

  Copyright 2014

  All rights reserved

  Cover image used with permission

  Chapter 1

  It was many hours before Ruegger rose from the darkness, and when he did, it was slowly. His consciousness felt like smoke trying to rise through fissures in an ice ceiling. Beyond that ceiling the smoke would reform and congeal into himself again, but it couldn’t get through. Also, he had a splitting headache.

  Slowly, when his consciousness had collected somewhat, he cracked an eye. Only one eye, he mused. The other had not yet grown back. Neither had his right forearm. The light, though dim, proved too much for him at first and he had to mash his eye against it.

  Swaying.

  He was lying down on rusted metal, and he swayed, ever so slightly. For a time, he wondered whether the perceived motion was real or a trick of his over-taxed mind, but eventually he realized the swaying was real. He almost felt like he was on a boat. He wished he was on a boat.

  No. He knew where he was.

  With a painful sigh, he ran his one hand over his body, poking at the many holes the Grife and the quasi-pterodactyls had dealt him. His wounds would’ve killed forty mortals. There were other, newer wounds not inflicted by the Grife or the parasitic birds. His Achilles’ tendons had been slashed, as well as the major arteries in his legs and arm. He felt at his throat, but that at least had been spared.

  Death. He smelled the stink of it all about him. No, it wasn’t coming from him. He was in far too much pain to be dead.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced his eye open and propped himself into a sitting position. Pain jolted every movement. His vision was hazy, but he squinted hard and eventually could make out his surroundings.

  He wished he’d just kept his damned eye shut.

  He was in a cage, brittle and rusted and domed at the top to give it the appearance of a birdcage. Would that it were. Four human skeletons in various degrees of deterioration shared the cage with him. Except for their evil smiles, they offered little solace. In fact, two of them had lost their lower jaws and could not even offer him that.

  The cage was just barely large enough to accommodate all of them, cramped by so many inhabitants that Ruegger felt a bit claustrophobic.

  The cage dangled by a thick chain from the ceiling of a vast chamber. Ruegger peered out from behind his bars to see similar cages at varying heights throughout the room. Endless chains, rusted and creaking, hung like vines, some almost to the floor of the chamber itself. He strained his eye toward that floor, but all he could make out were a few shadowy shapes, some sitting still, looking up at his position, some moving about restlessly. He was at least two hundred feet off the floor.

  His eye went to the door of the big birdcage—and the lock. The door was closed. There was no lock.

  Struggling against the pain, he heaved himself over to the exit, crushing one of the skeletons’ legs in the process, and pushed against it. The door refused to budge. He hadn’t expected it to; this was where the Sabo quenched its need for fear, and it would brook no escapes. Its magic—yes, Ruegger admitted—its magic kept the cage closed ... or open, if a human came clambering up to find shelter from the parasites here. By the number of human remains, Ruegger had to admit that the Sabo knew its business.

  And now it was possessed by the Balaklava.

  Idly, Ruegger wondered if he’d succeeded in killing Jagoda, but doubted it. Decapitation was probably too little an injury to bother that one. Jagoda had probably stood up shortly afterwards, found his head and placed it on top of his spouting neck. Or perhaps Junger had assisted him. The thought of a friendship between the two assassins was strange to consider. But, as Ruegger had little left to do but consider, he did, and found that their intimacy was not so unlike his and Kharker’s, at one point in time.

  But where did Junger end and Jagoda begin, or vice versa? It was almost as if they were one being, even down to sharing each others’ thoughts. One soul, in two bodies—was it possible? Maybe. Probable? No. So, what then? More than brothers, more than lovers, more than simple kin. Ruegger puzzled over it for some time, but came up with no satisfactory answer.

  He stayed in the cage for a long while; having no watch, he didn’t know how long, but he could sense the sun outside and knew it to be almost noon when, finally, the birdcage buckled suddenly and began to descend.

  How was this possible?

  The chains, he reflected. They probably were very long indeed, and the Sabo could raise them or lower them as it pleased. As it was lowering him now, rather swiftly. Had it come to aid him again, as it had done before?

  With a jolt, the cage struck the ground and the rusted door swung open. Ruegger tried to rise. As he fell in a bloody heap onto another skeleton, pounding a large portion of it to chalky dust, he heard mocking laughter from outside. With a sickening feeling that he was becoming far too familiar with, he recognized that laugh.

  “Kiernevar,” he said. He struggled to free himself from the ensnaring ribcage, then lurched to his feet to confront the lunatic.

  Kiernevar stood just a foot beyond the threshold of the cage, leering and licking his lips.

  Ignoring all pain to his body and the absence of some major tendons, Ruegger lunged clumsily toward the gaunt lunatic only to fall flat on his face. He was simply too weak, and crippled, and that’s all there was to it. Above him, Kiernevar’s laughter swelled.

  “Please,” begged the madman. “Do that again. Give me an excuse to kill you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the other shades that inhabited the great chamber, but no one cared to join or even acknowledge his taunts.

  Wearily, Ruegger rose to his hand and knees and leaned against the deceptively fragile-looking bars of his cage. A part of him wanted to emerge from his cell and attack his jailers, but the larger part urged caution. So, bleary-eyed, he studied his new surroundings, and was shocked at what he saw:

  Kilian! Loirot! Byron!

  A strange surge of hope rose in his hole-ridden chest and was abruptly strangled. True, the three members of the death-squad that so recently had pledged to set him free were there, but they were not the same.

  Kilian appeared as dour as ever, but it was clear from the twitches in his face that he had to constantly fight to maintain his own identity. It was the same for the other two, more or less. Loirot glared at Kiernevar with sincere hatred for a moment, then fell slack and expressionless, only to reform his face into a mask of rage. As for Byron, he seemed the most inwardly drawn, and Ruegger could not tell whether this was from resignation, disgust, or an honest attempt to drive the Balaklava from his mind.

  Nevertheless, Ruegger saw them for what they were: zombies. And obviously not happy about it. Junger and Jagoda had tricked them, then, had killed and resurrected the crew—but for what purpose?

  Time would tell. That is, if Ruegger lived through enough of it to come out the other side of this thing. Right then, he wasn’t at all sure he would.

 
; Kiernevar reached inside Ruegger’s cage. The Darkling snapped his teeth at the hand, but his reflexes were slow and the lunatic easily grabbed him by the collar of what once had been a decent enough shirt and yanked him violently into the main chamber. With nothing to lean against, Ruegger collapsed to the ground and lay there panting and sweating in the dirt.

  “Such a heavy sleeper you are,” Kiernevar said. “I thought we might have to cut you up again while you were still comatose. Rather takes the sport out of it. And look at you! Nothing but a wretch, and a failure even at that.”

  Ruegger rolled an eye up to peer at the lunatic and saw him afresh; Kiernevar was no longer a zombie. The change was obvious in his mannerisms and confidence. Also, he was completely naked, but his body showed no signs of feces or the cross-shaped scars Laslo had forced upon him. He was using the proper pronouns, but even so still seemed unhinged. Whatever bloods had given him back his mind had not given all of it back; or, Ruegger reflected, perhaps this one simply liked being insane.

  “You are a wretch,” continued Kiernevar, not simply addressing Ruegger but the zombies in the chamber as well; he enjoyed an audience. “A wretch, a leech, a thing to be squashed! Oh, all the rest of you used to look down on me, didn’t you, and now who has the power? Who can kill anyone in this room and not suffer a scratch? Me. I am a chalgid.”

  “A poor one,” said Loirot, inciting a quiet riot of laughter from the other shades in the room.

  “Shut up!”

  “Fuck you, Ki,” said Kilian. “We’re not yours to command.”

  “I’m the leader.”

  “No, you’re the supervisor. I am a leader, at least of my men.” He turned to Ruegger. “Sorry about all this, Darkling. We didn’t have much choice.”

  “We had a choice,” Byron said suddenly. “But you were too ambitious to choose it.”

  “Yes, and you too lovesick. And Loirot too open to suggestion. Blame me if you want, Byron. I won’t deny my guilt.”

  “I ... shit.”

  “I know, By.” To Ruegger: “We’re supposed to guard you and to bring you down every hour to cut you up so you can’t regain your strength. We’re to keep you weak until the Castle’s conquered and the Balaklava … my lords ... decide what to do with you.”

  Ruegger accepted this, knowing neither Kilian nor the crew had much choice in the matter. He couldn’t fight them, and they couldn’t fight their condition. They were slaves, no more. And he was a dying vampire, and a prisoner.

  Other zombies milled in the background, but they weren’t as well-preserved as the werewolves seemed to be. Those others, probably servants of Kiernevar and the death-squad, were little more than puppets.

  “So what happens now?” he asked, his voice a croak.

  “As soon as you were to awaken, we’re supposed to inform our new lords,” Kilian said. “If I could resist their commands, I’d leave you be, but I can no more do that than I could sprout wings and fly. I’ve just sent them a message. I don’t know what they’ll do with you, Ruegger. I don’t think you can take much more.”

  Ruegger couldn’t argue. He needed to feed and to be given time to heal. If denied both, it was quite possible he would die.

  Suddenly, Kiernevar stepped on his one hand, crushing the small bones there, and spat on the Darkling’s half-turned face.

  “That’s for the chess game.”

  Despite himself, Ruegger tugged his hand free and, in a movement so fast he surprised even himself, wrapped his arm about the naked lunatic’s heels and pulled.

  Screaming and flailing, Kiernevar toppled, and Ruegger was smart enough to roll out of the way. While the young chalgid was getting to his feet, Ruegger launched a missile from his mouth; the spittle hit Kiernevar square between the eyes.

  Unable to resist, Ruegger laughed and was rewarded by reawaking all his old pains. “And that’s for being you, you stupid prick. Give me back my blood and I’ll show you power, Kiernevar, and I won’t use it to spit on people. That’s a promise.”

  Kiernevar glowered down at him, but made no move to avenge himself.

  Loirot piped up, “Lucky he didn’t kill you while he had you down, Norman. He could’ve, you know.”

  Ruegger just shook his head. “No. He saved Danielle’s life. I could never kill him.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, Kiernevar kicked him so hard in the face that Ruegger nearly blacked out again. Kiernevar kicked him again, breaking his nose and several other facial bones, and Ruegger spun away into darkness.

  When he could see again, he wished he’d stayed in oblivion. Kiernevar was above him, now transformed into a wiry werewolf with great teeth, unkempt claws and impossibly mad eyes. The lunatic, straining against the three crewmates, snarled and drooled and roared as he tried for Ruegger, but the death-squad held him back.

  From a far archway, two tall dark figures emerged that Ruegger knew simply by their outlines. If he could’ve given up anything at that moment, it would’ve been the easy recognition of those two.

  Instantly, Kiernevar stopped his attempted assault on Ruegger and flung himself to the ground, hands pressed to temples and mouth opened in wordless horror.

  So.

  Apparently he was still something of a zombie yet.

  As Junger and Jagoda approached, they released Kiernevar from their psychic torture and allowed him to stand.

  “Don’t do that again,” Junger said. “Ruegger is to be kept alive, at all costs. Besides, what the hell did you think you were doing? Remember, we can see through your eyes and hear through your ears, just as we can everyone else in this room when we choose, save the Dark Lord’s Heir himself, when we choose. So tell us, Kiernevar, what did you hope to gain by killing Ruegger?”

  The lunatic, still recovering, just shook his head mutely.

  Junger shrugged, losing interest in the subject and turning to regard Ruegger, still on the ground, beaten and savaged and weary.

  Jagoda stepped forward, giving Ruegger a good view of the one he’d hoped to kill. Other than cutting a foot off his artfully tangled beard, Ruegger had accomplished little.

  The assassin smiled. “Nice try,” he said.

  “Better luck next time,” groaned Kiernevar, who was quickly thrown to the ground again and began convulsing in seizures that must have been quite painful.

  Gesturing feebly, Ruegger pointed to the floundering madman, now human-shaped once more, and said, “He’s not a chalgid, is he?”

  Jagoda’s smile deepened. “If he was your slave, Darkling, would you let him have full range of his senses? Or would you only restore him to the point where he’s manageable?”

  Darkness swirled about Ruegger’s vision, threatening to send him into limbo again, and he knew he must get this over with quickly.

  “What now?” he said.

  “Well,” said Junger slowly. “Normally we would beat you and slash you to an inch of your life; for your deeds against us a few hours ago, you deserve as much. But we can see you’ve suffered as much as your body can take. More, we’ve come to respect you.”

  Carefully, the assassin stooped down and pulled Ruegger up to lean against the cage. The gesture immediately threw Ruegger off. “So, we won’t be unnecessarily cruel. Yes, we’ll bleed you so you can’t get strong again, and keep you up in the air until we’ve taken the Castle.”

  Quickly, a scimitar—maybe Ruegger’s own—was in Jagoda’s hands. The bearded one slashed at Ruegger, cutting him open and draining what blood he still possessed. He cut the major veins in the vampire’s legs and arms, then withdrew the blade. His motions had been as matter of fact as that of his brother, and Ruegger knew they were making an effort to be as merciful as they could, which confused him more than it relieved him.

  Ruegger managed to keep his one eye open, but for the moment was too stricken to speak. All watched him, waiting.

  What the hell were they waiting for?

  And then, somewhere in his fading mind, he found the question, and with it the voic
e to speak. He looked at the Balaklava, one at a time, and said, “And if you do take the Castle ... what then?”

  Both assassins nodded, as if this had been a good question. “Only time will tell,” answered the tusked one. “But with you safely out of the way, I think things will run as smoothly as we’ve planned them to.”

  “What plans?”

  “No, Ruegger.” Junger shook his head meaningfully. “It’s simply too cliched. A dying hero finds the truth at the last moment, and, armed with it, is able to rally the troops and defeat the villains. No. Even if we told you, you have no way to rally the troops, nor defeat us. That would make our revelations rather anti-climactic, don’t you think?” He smiled. “We’re artists, Ruegger—as you once were. We must think of these things.”

  “Exactly,” concurred the other. “That’s why we can’t leave you now, thinking we’re anything less than villains and doers of evil. We respect you, so we won’t hurt you unless it’s necessary that we do so. Then again, we can’t exactly walk away and leave you feeling good about us.”

  “Trust me,” said Ruegger. “That would never be.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate our next gift all the more.”

  From behind, a zombie tossed a blood-soaked burlap sack into Junger’s hands, and from the sack Junger extracted the head of Laslo, holding it by scraggly salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Jesus,” said Ruegger.

  The Balaklava chuckled. “I’m sure you two will have much to discuss. Kiernevar!”

  Suddenly Kiernevar was up on his feet and dragging Ruegger back into the cage. The rot of death washed over Ruegger and with renewed vigor he longed to be with Danielle. Once the lunatic released him, he fell to the metal floor. With an effort, he managed to turn back around to face the open doorway, and just before the door closed Junger flung Laslo’s head into Ruegger’s lap.