by Garon Whited
Oh, yes. This was a complete disaster. My disaster.
We went to the ruin of the manor or keep or whatever it was. There was a lot of wood and stone lying in a heap where it had fallen in. I noted the wall of the outer court—more like a six-foot stone fence—was still mostly intact, aside from the obvious lack of a front gate. Well, it was there, but broken inward, lying on the ground. There were hoofprints on it, too.
I pointed at it. “Your work?”
Bronze nodded and kept walking to the rubble. I dismounted at the pile and regarded it. It looked as though most of it had fallen inward. Since I didn’t know anything about the layout of the place beforehand, I couldn’t guess how it had been done.
“Did the magicians survive?” I asked.
Bronze tapped the ground four times, then scratched at the ground twice more.
“Four survivors that you’re sure of, maybe two more?” I guessed.
She nodded. I love my horse.
“Well, that’s something, anyway. Did you get me loose before or after you tried to kill them?”
She looked at me. I played Twenty Questions with her and found out she attacked the building, charged into the place and wreaked havoc, room by room, until she found me and scraped a hoof across a line.
Then everything went to Hell, because a hunger-crazed vampire was on the loose.
It occurred to me I wasn’t wearing the wrist manacles anymore. I wondered if I just snapped them off, or yanked them over my hands and then healed the injury. Somehow, it bothered me to not know.
We had then gone on to kill everything we could find and catch. I gather I rampaged through the house and brought most of it down. Bronze kicked out a few supports as well. I suspect she was being modest; I don’t see why I would attack a wall—they don’t have blood.
I wondered if the elderly young men were in some underground dungeon, or if I’d devoured them. I decided I had to try and find out; if they were trapped in there, they deserved to be loosed.
Bronze and I started shoving the pile around. Horses aren’t made for digging, but she did a fine job of shoving things out of the way that were too big for me to move. I was slightly frightened by the ease with which I hefted stones. Big stones. Things the size of my torso. During the day.
Apparently, diet has a lot to do with the progress of the vampire transformation. Sasha had said something about growing in power as we get older. Maybe it’s also a question of how much we eat, and what. Or who, in the case of magicians and their ilk.
Maybe I’m pumped up from being really well-fed just now. I keep trying not to think about that. It’s obvious to me I must avoid being hungry. Hunger always brings out a bad side of me when I’m alive; it’s much, much worse when I’m dead. So are the consequences. It’s a lot like my temper. I’m not so much different from what I used to be like as I am more intensely so.
There’s something to be said for moderation.
As we shifted through rubble, we found more bodies. Most looked like the house staff—servants and the like. Sure enough, we found six magicians in various states of broken. All six were white as snow and looked like they’d died of extreme old age. Being caught in a collapsing house didn’t do them a bit of good, either. But it was the pale, milk-white skin that clued me into the real cause of death.
I also found a key. It was one of the keys I’d put in a saddlebag—one I stole from the Hand keep in Telen. We shifted more debris around and I found a couple more nearby. I kept an eye out for the rest of them while we cleared cracked stone and broken beams. Whatever destroyed the saddlebag apparently scattered the contents. More evidence my ammunition blew up.
It was almost noon before we cleared away enough debris to find the trapdoor leading down. It was broken by falling rock, but the thick wood wedged a large hunk of masonry on the top step, so it wasn’t filled in. Bronze kicked it once and reduced it to rubble. I tossed out head-sized pieces.
Downstairs, I found cells. They were simple things, just pits about twelve feet deep. There were people in them, or what was left of people. It didn’t look like I’d done it, though; they all looked ninety years older than God. If I had to guess, I’d say killing a youth-stealing wizard is bad for the people he’s stealing youth from. Why that’s the case, I don’t know, but I can’t think of anything else that would explain it.
Indirectly, yes, I guess I killed them, but I didn’t drink them. I feel incredibly relieved about that. I’m not sure why that should be so—if I’d been hungry and thrown into a pit with one of them, would I have felt bad about drinking his blood? Probably. I think it’s the fact I knew their names, talked with them… I knew them and liked them and didn’t have any need to kill them. I also promised I wouldn’t; I’d like to think I keep my word about at least the life-and-death matters.
Strangely, I don’t feel much remorse over a whole village. Is it a bad sign I don’t mind so much the deaths of so many strangers? Or is it just because I don’t remember doing it? It’s like I’m coming across the scene as a tourist. It’s bad, it’s horrible, and I wish it hadn’t happened—but I don’t feel the deaths. If I wanted to have a full course of denial, I could say I didn’t do it; it was the vampire side of me.
But even I don’t delude myself that much. I know I did it. I had to have done it. There’s just no other explanation. I just don’t remember doing it, so it doesn’t bother me as much as it should, I guess.
Once we found the dungeon, we shifted our priority to search for the rest of those keys. They may be the only way I’ll ever get home again, and I wanted to have them. Lucky for me, they’re highly magical; I could sort of feel where they were under the rubble. I put them in a pouch and tied it to my belt.
Afterward, I cleaned the place up and dealt with the dead. I gathered up the bodies, stacked them, layered them—a bed of thatch and logs, a layer of bodies with wood between them, another layer of wood, and so on—until they were all accounted for. I found some oil, and this I sprinkled liberally over the whole arrangement.
Partly, this was out of a sense of obligation, I suppose. Part of it was that burning them was easier than burying them. And little bit was the knowledge there was, in fact, a deity that favored cremation, and I was fond of a priestess thereof.
Standing by the about-to-be-pyre, I looked up and addressed the Sun. I felt stupid. It’s a few million miles away and it’s hydrogen turning into helium. It’s a big fusion bomb that’s continuously going off. Talking to it is silly. Besides, even if a goddess does have it as a symbol, I’m a vampire. My talking to a solar deity is probably silly—or suicidal—no matter how you look at it.
“I’m not a fire-witch,” I said. “I’m a man, I don’t have red hair, and I surely don’t know what sort of prayers You might want to hear. If it matters to You, I’m sorry this happened. I don’t know many of these people, but I liked several of them, had anger at a few others. Maybe some of them deserved to die; others deserved to live. I can only say I wish things were different, and I hope You understand.
“I’m told if someone is alive, then they are part of Your faith; I’m also told You have an aspect as a guide after life. Well, they were alive, and now they may need a guide. I don’t know if You will listen to a prayer from their killer, but I’m offering one anyway. I hate to leave You with a mess like this, but I don’t know of anything more I can do. Please look after them.”
I stepped back, spots dancing in my eyes, raised my hands, and cast a spell above the pyre. A lot like the spell on the Archimedes Ray lens, it shifted some visible light into heat, but it was also refractor, focusing a six-foot circle of sunlight into a dot. It was an easy spell, nowhere near as power-intensive as the actual enchantment had been. It was a great magnifying glass in the air, focusing the sun’s rays to light the pyre.
Shockingly easy. Where I had expected effort on par with pedaling a bicycle up a minor hill, the actual effort was more like keeping a good speed on a level road. It was the magicians I’d devoured, of cou
rse. Several of them. Old and highly proficient in their craft. I made a mental note to watch what I ate.
Flames licked up immediately and I let the spell lapse. I don’t know how much smoke bloodless bodies are supposed to give off, but I suspect that someone—or, rather, Someone—heard me before I lit it. It was a very clean fire, which gave me much to wonder about.
I led Bronze away from the pyre and we started salvaging what we could find: Some clothes, a decent sword, all the money, some food, a set of saddlebags, several blankets. Thus supplied, we headed back toward Eastgate; the sword as a good one, but I wanted Firebrand and the rest of my stuff.
It did occur to me that the escaped magicians might watch my room, use my stuff as a trap, knowing I’d come for it. Considering what I’d been put through, what Bronze had been put through, and—not the least!—what they had driven me to do in hunger… I rather hope so.
Hmm.
On second thought, I hope not. Revenge is not something I find I like. Anger isn’t something I like either. Especially when I have the evidence of a loss of control on my part lying dead in the sun.
Which brings me to think of Sasha.
Do I want to kill someone in the Church for that? I think so. I know that someone—this Tobias person, probably—deserves to die. But I can’t bring back the dead; why should I presume to kill him? I could assume it’s my job to mete out death to the deserving, but who is it that dispenses life? It seems to me that there ought to be a balance to these things.
Or maybe the world just has more live scum than dead nobility?
I must avoid that thought; that way lies cynicism.
Still… some part of me, most of me, doesn’t want to let the issue of the Church and Sasha go. Call it a sense of duty to her memory, rather than a burning need for vengeance. I still want to punish them for what they did—and what they are doing—but I don’t… it isn’t… it’s only a quiet determination, not a raging need. It isn’t the be-all and end-all of my existence. I’m tired of killing, really. And this Tobias—I don’t even know him. He’s just a name, not someone to me. It’s also been a while; I’m not as passionately angry as I was some months ago. I’m still upset about it, probably always will be. But…
Maybe I just don’t have enough capacity for hate.
Let me be honest. Another part of me—a small part, but it’s there—wants to just go home.
Then there’s the smartest part that realizes, here or home, this Church will still come after me. My own sense of self-interest is telling me I can’t leave them alone.
Such are my thoughts on a long ride to Eastgate.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20TH
I am not at all happy with the incompetent boobs. Firebrand was still on the table when I got there. Nothing else was around, but my swordbelt was, with sword and dagger still on it.
Let me back up a second.
We were still on the way to Eastgate at nightfall. I pulled over, rolled up, and waited for it to finish.
The sunset came down like fire in my blood.
I don’t know how to describe it. It was the power of a whole village of people, several professional magicians, and a bunch of livestock. It can’t be described, any more than I can describe the feeling of a sneeze or an orgasm to someone who hasn’t had one. You can get the idea, but until you feel it, you don’t know.
It didn’t fade, but kept on long after the sky turned dark. I felt like I could walk on air or through walls, leap tall buildings or crush through them. I felt powerful. Not just confident or capable—I’ve often felt that way. I can do this, I can do that, I feel certain I can manage that particular deed…
This was a feeling of power.
I understood, instantly, why absolute power corrupts. It was intoxicating and wonderful and I could tell it was very, very dangerous to like it. But I did.
It took me a while to get my whirling head to slow down, but when I felt a little less dizzy, I mounted up on Bronze and discovered that riding a flame-spouting block of living metal is a lot like flying. So I was in a fairly exhilarated, perhaps even intoxicated mood when we did make it into town.
I stopped outside the inn and left Bronze out front. I treated it as a potential trap; Bronze I left outside as a reserve. When the trap sprang, Bronze could break its teeth while I fought it from the inside. She doesn’t like being left outside like that, but she takes it with good grace.
Inside, the innkeeper looked surprised to see me. Turning pale and sweating at the sight of me was not endearing; it implied he was guilty of something. So I marched across the room to him, snatched him close by grabbing the front of his shirt and apron, and demanded what he knew about my kidnapping.
“N-n-nothing!” he sputtered. I lifted, raising him up off the floor. He squeaked. I could see he wasn’t telling the truth; his spirit rippled with a pattern I knew.
“You’re lying,” I stated. “Tell me the truth or I’ll kill you.” I didn’t raise my voice; that made it more frightening. He didn’t know I wouldn’t kill him, so he spilled his guts before I did it for him. A pair of magicians had come in, asked about me, asked if I was alone, all that sort of thing. They had paid gold, too, for the information. Then they had gone upstairs. They didn’t come back down.
“Oh. Then you just sold me out on the spur of the moment? Don’t your patrons have any privacy?”
“Lord! What was I to do?” he begged.
That stopped me, cold. He had a point. I put him down. I couldn’t have really hurt him, anyway; he didn’t do anything worth a pounding. Caught between the proverbial rock and hard place, he’d done the only thing he could. No options.
I can sympathize with that.
“Fine. Consider yourself extremely fortunate I am trying to be a fair and honest man. Where are my things?”
“In your room, lord,” he answered, backing away. “I’ve touched nothing.”
So I got another key from him and went upstairs to find it was already unlocked. Of course, the room had been robbed. I somehow doubted the kidnappers had locked the door when they left. The only thing left was Firebrand, along with a faint smell of burned meat.
I can guess why no one stole my sword.
I belted on Firebrand and hung my mundane sword on the other side. I felt silly wearing two swords, one of which would take two hands for normal people to wield effectively—and sadly naked without my vest and pistol. I like having an edge over people who are trying to kill me. Preferably one that is chopping down at them. I wonder what became of my stuff?
Well, fine. I could find my stuff when I found a spot to sit and quietly toss around a few spells. But I wanted some new magical tools—a small mirror, a glass ball, colored yarn, that sort of thing—before I went hog-wild on it. Especially since my vest and pistol were probably in the hands of an escaped magician or two; Bronze and I didn’t find anything I’d left in the room during our excavation. It could take work to put a locator on either. I feel certain they’ll have shields up. Good ones. Especially after my little fit of temper.
With some luck, maybe someone will look down the barrel and hit the trigger.
I left the inn and I don’t think I’ll ever go back. Not that it’s not a good inn; it’s just not someplace I think I ever want to see again.
We stopped at a couple of shops and I picked up things. I got some crunchy bits for Bronze at the smithy—her scrapes and scuffs were already fading—and I found both Sirs Raeth and Bouger.
“Hey, you made it!” I said, striding in to greet them. I was terribly pleased by this; I guess I was half-suspecting people I met would die just from the association. I also realized I was in something of a foul mood from all the killing and dark thinking. Seeing friendly faces was cheering.
They both broke into smiles and clasped forearms with me, clapped me on the shoulder, greeted me. The journey to Eastgate was not terribly hard, but it was longer than they’d hoped; afoot, weary, and hungry, it had taken them several days to trek the distance. But they did i
t. Not a single goblin, orc, or troll to be seen.
I was again pleased. Maybe I wasn’t a jinx after all.
“So where are you staying?” I asked. “Where are the others? And have you eaten recently?”
“We are staying with Lord Heledon, by his courtesy,” Sir Raeth answered. “Our other companions have scattered throughout the town to find work where they can. We ate this morning, but we would be honored to have you join us for luncheon.”
“My pleasure. But don’t let me take you away from your business here.”
“Indeed. The good smith was just explaining why he is not yet done with the blades we were promised.”
The smith—Larel, I thought, if I recalled his name correctly; I didn’t slip into my inner wizard’s study to look it up—was quietly waiting for us to finish; it’s impolite to hammer metal while your betters are talking. Now he sighed.
“Sirs. I can nae make a sword as quick as a snap o’the fingers. One I have, for I had it near to ready and t’was what ye needed. Another I am making, alike to what ye said. Will ye not return in a fortnight? Or would ye have it shatter or chip at the first blow struck?”
“He has a point,” I offered. “I’d rather wait and have a decent sword than get a worthless one now. Whose is it to be?”
“Mine,” Raeth said, looking unhappy.
“I’ve an extra—not a fine blade, no, but good enough to get by with.” I offered him the one I’d filched from the ruins. “Do me the honor of accepting it as a gift.”
Raeth looked at me as though I’d just asked him to marry my daughter—sight unseen. Both honored and appalled at once. But he took it, drew it a few inches, slid it back home again, and accepted it.
Sir Bouger surprised me. “Have you no other?” he asked.
I noticed he had a sword. I blinked and thought, He’s already got a sword, but he wants one from me? Well… okay…
“If you like, yes.”
“If Sir Raeth will take your sword, then so shall I.”