by Garon Whited
I jerked on the ropes, snapped them, and set him free.
“Come on upstairs and I’ll give you some clothes and some money. Then you can go away.”
He stared at me, dumbstruck and wondering. Then he jumped me.
Not a good choice; he was slow from the double-knock to the head and off-balance from his torched toe. I hit him once in the gut and once in the side of the neck; he went down, gasping and wheezing. I stood over him and glared.
“Can’t you see I’m going to great lengths not to kill you?” I demanded
I didn’t wait for an answer. I muscled him up the stairs and plopped him in a comfortable chair. Sasha had previously laid out some sweats for him and slip-on shoes. I dug up some cash, about five hundred, and handed it to him. I already had the map for him and I gave him that, too.
“Now,” I said, “there are two things I need to say. First, I’m sorry that I had to hurt you. I believe that we wouldn’t have had our conversation at all if I hadn’t, and I apologize for your toe. I don’t like the idea that I had to do that, and if it makes me sick to think I actually did it. Moreover, it was rude of me. Please forgive me.”
He said nothing, just stared at me some more. I was getting used to it.
“Second,” I went on, “I know you’re still my enemy, and I know you still want to kill me. That’s fine, as long as you can be at least reasonably polite about it. So it’s time for you to go. I see your cab is pulling up out front. You know what a cab is?”
He nodded, still without a word.
“Good. Now,” I finished, softly and with all the menace I could muster, “go away before I kill you.”
And he did.
“My lord?”
I watched from an upstairs window as one very confused fanatic got into the cab. But, being a fanatic, he would probably rationalize—or irrationalize—away this generosity on my part as a ploy, a greater scheme. Well, it was, but he couldn’t know that.
“Yes, my love?”
“I listened, as you wished. I could find nothing relevant to any Cardinal of Telen, or even Telen. But does not a Cardinal imply a Catholic priest?”
“Maybe. Possibly it’s a schismatic sect. I somehow doubt the Catholic church would have anything to do with magic—and that doorway was a product of both my spell and theirs. It can’t be the Catholics, nor any other Christian faith with which I am familiar. They would want to kill us, sure, but they wouldn’t stoop to sorcery for it. I suppose there may be students of Jewish mysticism who would go for it, but I don’t think this is any publicly-recognized Church. I’ll bet it’s some sort of splinter sect off one of the major religions, if it’s not an outright cult.”
Sasha nodded and was silent for a while. She stepped up closer to me and hesitantly took my hand.
“Will you truly challenge them so?” She asked quietly, but she couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. She was afraid. Both for me and about me, and afraid of losing me.
“I’ll challenge, them,” I replied, “but not necessarily in the way they think.”
“You have a devious, underhanded, sneaky plan?”
I grinned. “No, it’s pretty straightforward. It does involve a deception, but after that, it’s pretty up front.”
Sasha took my hands and drew me to her; I went. I held her and she pressed her head to my chest.
“I am afraid.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“May I ask why you did not touch his mind, my lord? Why did you not take from him all he knew?”
“He wouldn’t know the things I need,” I answered, half-truthfully. “I also didn’t want to go in there at all; it’s—and this is going to sound weird coming from me—it’s wrong.”
“Not so very weird, my love. You are a good man. You have ruthlessness only when it is needful. Besides, you are right; he was just a soldier and doubtless knew little of value.”
“Yes. But there is something deeper here. Do you recall the view through the pool?”
“Yes. Quite a nice castle, I thought, until the men came through.”
“Exactly. That’s not normal. That was a portal, not a view—and the men beyond were startled, but not shocked. That was no scrying spell; they were using magic to open a doorway for delivering their soldiers to wherever they want.”
Sasha was silent for a long moment.
“Such is the stuff of legends, my lord.”
“I know. But so are we. I’m forced to accept this is possible.”
She squeezed me, hard, as though reassuring herself I wasn’t an illusion.
“Sasha?” I asked.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You know other vampires, right?”
“A few, of various species. We are not terribly social with each other. We are solitary predators, usually.”
“I would like to meet some.”
She looked up at me, curious. “Why?”
“I may be able to appeal to their self-interest to gain help.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking into mine intently. “You mean to go to war.”
I nodded.
She bit her lip and worried it, thinking.
“It has been tried, my lord.”
“And?”
“Never have their leaders been discovered. Always, they regroup and gain more power to themselves, then kill us.”
“But I intend to go to them—back through their own doorway. Has that ever been done?”
She shook her head. “Never, to my knowledge. I was not even aware they could do such a thing.”
“Wherever they are, the other side of that opening will be a stronghold and will have someone who knows what we must know.”
She hugged me tightly again. “Yes. I agree with your reasoning. But it is dangerous.”
I laughed, probably nervously. “I know! Oh, trust me, I know! But I consider it more dangerous to just let them keep taking potshots at me—and you!”
She cocked her head. “My lord has, of course, included me in this plan?”
“Ummmm…”
“And realizes I am an efficient killer?”
“Ummmm…”
“And knows how much I love him? And knows I will not permit him to go into such a conflict without me?”
“Ummmm… I had really not intended to permit—”
“—me to be placed in danger. I know.”
I nodded.
She smiled and stepped back, then took my hand and pulled me along.
The shrine-like little room was mostly dark, except for a pair of pillar candles—one at either end of the shelf with the sword. Sasha didn’t bother to turn on the lights; candlelight was enough for us to see clearly, even when the sun was up. She moved to the portrait and the shelf beneath it. She hesitated for a moment in reaching for it, then slowly lifted the blade from the shelf.
Now, at night, I can tell you what playing card you drop by the sound of it hitting the floor. Likewise, I’m much more sensitive to magical operations. During the day, my senses are still jacked up all out of normal range—my vision is sharper, my hearing and sense of smell much more sensitive. Likewise, I sometimes feel very psychic; people’s feelings, the oddness about things with spells, and so on. I don’t actually see magical force during the day, but I can sort of feel it, especially when it’s densely packed, as in a spell.
That sword did not like being picked up. Like a man having a bad dream when a robber comes into the room. Or a woman stirring in her sleep at the smell of strange cologne. It grumbled, somewhere below the level of consciousness.
Sasha held it gingerly for a moment, perhaps making peace with it; it did seem to quiet. Like the woman who falls back into full slumber at the sound of her lover’s voice.
Sasha assumed a guard position with it—a very competent-looking stance. I would have thought, long ago, she was too slight to wield that monster of a blade. But with her unexpected mass and amazing strength, it was well within her capacity.
She swung it about, aroun
d, up and over, down, thrust; all of it so fast the fencing coach would have been drooling to have her on the team. I nodded inwardly and admitted anyone within that circle of razored death would be dead, disemboweled, or suffering from an impromptu amputation.
“There’s more to fighting than just strength and speed,” I remarked.
“I have been well-taught, my lord. By you. And if you refer to fighting spirit, let me reassure you I have no qualms about killing. There is nothing in this world or the next that will persuade me to stop when your safety is concerned. If you succeed in this… invasion… you will be in danger as long as even one of them remains alive.”
“The objective, ideally, is to capture the one in charge.”
“Aye,” she said, her emotions mixing older speech with modern. “And all those who wield guns against thee will weaken thee against him. It would be well for others to slay them, leaving you free to find and deal with this leader or leaders.”
I wanted to argue.
I seriously wanted to forbid her to come.
And I thought about it.
“Besides,” she added, “if you go and you fall… then I may carry through for you, rather than joining you in death immediately.” Tears started in her eyes and began to spill. Her voice took on a strange intensity as she finished, “If thou die, then die I must, for I will not wait again!”
That was a stopper.
“All right,” I replied, gruffly. “Come.”
She put the sword back on the shelf and came into my arms again.
It’s not easy, being reviewed on swordsmanship and trying to study magic. One or the other tends to suffer, and my sorcerous studies were the victim—swords require drill, drill, drill.
Sasha turned out to be very skilled. I thought I was pretty good. I was a member of the Society for Creative Anachronism for a few months before starting grad school, and I’d been in the fencing club for two years before that, but Sasha had learned to fight in a harder school. Apparently, “I” had been very serious about her—a woman!—learning to use a sword effectively.
Now she was equally serious. This was a good thing; I had a lot to learn.
We spent the rest of the day drilling. Lots of repetitive motions. She had gotten a couple of old swords from somewhere and we were using those. It made me respectful of even the practice weapons. I kept doing the same thing, over and over—a thrust, twist, and withdraw-and-parry.
“One new maneuver a day. You must be drilled in all the ways the sword can move until your hand and eye learn them, not just your head. One new maneuver a day—for the rest of your life.”
That was a scary thought. If I lived as long as she had… that’s a lot of practice. I was tempted to get wooden swords and spar, but decided against it. This wasn’t a question of who could take whom; this was a matter of who was more skillful—and that was her, without question.
So I practiced.
One advantage I discovered about being a dayblood: once the sun went down, the exhaustion, the blisters, and the sore, sprained, pulled muscles all went away. That was worth it right there.
We went out that evening and snacked around. Nobody died; we were too cheerful at my progress and the idea of actually doing something about what had become a long shadow over the future. Whether we succeeded or not was momentarily immaterial. We were going to do something!
That’s always a good feeling.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 16TH
“Pessimists cannot be disappointed. Optimists cannot be pleasantly surprised.”
Sasha spent a lot of time hunting down old friends—very old friends. She turned up less than a dozen worldwide. They led her to almost a dozen more.
Nobody wanted to come along.
I hadn’t expected a rousing cheer and an army of irate undead lusting for the blood of their killers, but I’d hoped for more than, “Ha. Good luck; you’ll need it.
I could have been irate about it. Sasha just shrugged.
“It is the way of our kind. If it is not bothering you, leave it alone. Don’t attract attention; it only causes trouble. We are immortal. Why make waves and make a very long life a very miserable one?”
It sounded logical. But then, while I often try to be logical, I’m afraid my heart keeps getting in the way. Usually I can ignore it. Usually.
“It shouldn’t be that way,” I muttered.
“But it is that way, dear one. Come. Let us work on a new cut,” she said, beckoning me outside.
“We should enjoy living, or what’s the point?” I asked, following.
“We can live forever. To be too obvious is to cut it short.”
“Maybe so, but who wants to live forever if you don’t enjoy it?”
She smiled, handed me a sword, and said, “I do enjoy it—as long as I am with you.”
Then she showed me a new cut and nearly took my head off. I admit, it is a good way to change the subject—and effective at teaching you to pay attention.
I got tired of it that afternoon; I had worked up a fresh set of blisters and was feeling not just tired but aching and weary. Considering my new endurance and strength, I was highly pleased at my progress. Most students of a physical skill can’t hammer away at it for ten hours at a stretch. I was wondering, however, when Sasha and I would spar; there is a lot more to fighting than waving the blade. Footwork, strategy, use of terrain… I realized that, intellectually, I knew all these things, but nothing beats practice, more practice, and some extra practice on top of that.
I took a break. Let the assassins come. I was beat and needed to relax.
I headed over to the stables; all four horses came over immediately. Even Arabesque. He and I had sorted out our relationship in the past months. He was stud of the stables; I was stud of the whole area. He got the mares, I got Sasha. He didn’t lower his head for me, I didn’t lay spurs into him—and he did his best, regardless. Pride and dignity on both sides.
Well, except when looking for a sugar cube.
I handed out four of them, one to each, then stroked noses and patted necks. The horses loved the attention. Sasha did not ride often, and the care and management of the stables was devoted to a paid groom. In point of fact, most of the house and grounds were maintained by hired help; there was no live-in staff. Once a week the maids descended on the house and the mowers hit the place like a cleansing wind. I almost never saw any of them unless I looked for them.
I didn’t like it. It was a potential security situation. But the staff had been in service for some time—several years, in some cases—well before the troubles started. So I contented myself with being watchful while they were around. Along with wearing a vest, having a concealed weapon on me, and sitting in the security room, watching.
I still don’t like it. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t even keep up with mowing the lawn—it’s big.
Back to what I was saying… I patted all the horses and loved on them for a bit. They were only too happy to crowd me. I eventually pushed Flower Child and Silly Girl away, then sent Ladybird after them. Arabesque I rubbed down and brushed thoroughly, checked his shoes, and combed his mane. He held his head up high, ears perked forward, with the equivalent of a horsey grin on his face. He flicked me in the face with his tail as I was working on one of his rear legs and he looked at me to see how I reacted.
I chuckled and swatted his flank. He nodded and didn’t flick me again.
Eventually I led him farther into the stable and saddled him, bridled him—with some persuasion—and led him outside before mounting. I was wearing boots, knowing I was riding, but I’d left the spurs inside.
I kicked him with my heels and he reared—he always does—and rapidly powered up to a gallop.
If there’s anything I like more than the feeling of a fleet horse under me and the wind in my hair on a nice day, I don’t know what it is. Sex is good. Thunderstorms are good. The taste of blood and a draught of spirits are both delightful. But… well, if I could fly, that might be better
. Hang gliding was a lot of fun, after all. Working with a good horse is a lot better than hanging from a bunch of aluminum, polymers, and fabric.
For the next half-hour, there was only the sound of hoofbeats and the wind.
I made sure that Arabesque had some extra corn and a few more carrots than usual in the bin after I rubbed him down. He seemed very pleased with himself; maybe we need to exercise him more.
“You’d come with me, wouldn’t you?” I asked, stroking his neck. He needed his mane brushed again, so I started on that. “You’d love to ride into a fight, wouldn’t you?”
He twitched an ear at me, listening, possibly in agreement. I could almost feel him wanting to go do more, to be more, to rear up on a hilltop while backlit by the setting sun.
A horse with dreams of glory. How odd. Maybe I was reading too much into my new sensitivity.
I finished brushing him down and took some time with each of the other three, making sure they also got some attention. I’m very attached to them all; I love horses, and these are the first I’ve ever owned.
Back at the house I wandered around, looking for Sasha. I made a mental note to get some small communicators, maybe cell phones. Searching through the house was tedious. I found her in the library. I had thought she would have been online again. She was sitting in front of the stacked folios and volumes my predecessor had written.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She nodded, silent. I moved a chair to sit beside her.
“What is it?”
She shook her head and silently took my hand.
“No, there’s something,” I said. “Please. Tell me.”
She took a deep breath, held it. “I… I am so sorry.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well… can you try to tell me what you’re feeling? I’ll listen.”
She started to weep. “I’m just… It’s so pointless, loving you! But I can’t help it!”
I was seriously startled and not a little apprehensive—to put it mildly.