by Greg Cox
“Yes, milady,” he answered. Bowing low, he turned and walked back down the aisle toward the other servants. Soren glowered at him as he passed, but Lucian barely noticed the overseer’s baleful glare; his heart and mind were still reeling from his brief communion with Sonja. Not even in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined sharing such a moment with the sublime vampiress, let alone basking so in the warmth of her regard. Is this just a wild fancy, he asked himself uncertainly, or did something profound transpire between us?
A sort of euphoria enveloped him as he returned to his place at the back of the throne room. His lycan brothers and sisters congratulated him heartily, slapping his back and oohing over the ornate knife in his hand, but Lucian accepted the accolades as though in a daze. In his mind, he was still back before the throne, hearing Sonja praise his courage and devotion, lost in the depths of her bottomless brown eyes.
“This concludes tonight’s ceremonies,” Lady Ilona announced from the dais. “So let the festivities begin. There is wine and freshly decanted steer blood in the great hall, as well as ale and raw venison for the servants. Let all make merry until the dawn!”
The other lycans howled in anticipation of the feast. Although eager to get to the banquet, the servants nonetheless stepped aside to let the vampires exit the throne room first. Not until the lowest-ranking of the undead filed out of the chamber did the excited lycans pour into the corridor outside, jostling one another in their haste to get to the great hall. Fresh meat was a rare treat for their kind, and they were already drooling at the prospect.
Lucian did not join the rush. In no hurry to witness his peers’ uncouth table manners, he lingered in the throne room, clinging to the memory of Sonja’s smile. His fingers toyed with the ebony-handled dagger, which only recently had rested within Sonja’s tender grip. He envied the blade that it had known the princess’ touch. That it came from her own hand only made the trophy all the more precious to him.
A throaty voice disturbed his reverie. “You must be very proud, Lucian, to be honored so!”
Lucian looked up to discover that he was not quite alone in the empty chamber. Leyba, a lycan scullery maid, had apparently stayed behind as well. Naturally, he thought, thrusting the dagger into his belt. I should have seen this coming.
Of Gypsy stock, Leyba was as dark as Sonja was light. Inky black hair tumbled past her shoulders, and her exotic features were not unattractive, in a crude and slatternly fashion. A coarse wool kirtle, rather tighter than modesty dictated, struggled to contain her voluptuous figure. Saucy black eyes examined Lucian with obvious interest.
In the past, if the truth be known, he had occasionally allowed himself to succumb to Leyba’s seductive wiles. He had always rather suspected, however, that it was his elevated status that attracted the lowly servant wench, rather than any uniquely personal qualities of his own. It is the reeve she craves, not Lucian.
“Thank you,” he said coolly. He had no intention of sullying tonight’s transcendent events by rutting mindlessly with this lycan trollop. “I am quite unworthy, of course.”
“You mustn’t be so humble,” Leyba insisted. She stepped closer to him, so that their bodies were less than a hand’s breadth apart. Beneath the smoky kitchen odor clinging to her garment, Lucian scented a muskier aroma. “Everyone knows how bright and talented you are, even the vampires. Why, they practically treat you like one of their own.”
Would that it were so! Lucian thought. His hopeless yearning for Sonja made it easier to ignore Leyba’s all too obvious advances. “Shouldn’t you be joining the others in the great hall?” he suggested. “Best to take full advantage of the lady’s generosity.”
Leyba declined to take the hint. “Maybe venison isn’t the kind of meat I’m interested in tonight.” Her fingers suggestively stroked the hilt of his dagger. “I was thinking that perhaps you and I could slip away for a little celebration of our own, just like we used to.”
For a moment, Lucian was tempted. His blood was wolfen, after all. Why shouldn’t he couple the night away with this lusty bitch?
Then Sonja’s radiant visage bloomed in his memory, shining down on him once more, and he felt shame at the weakness of his base lycan flesh. I love Sonja, he thought, if only from afar, and I will not betray that love by behaving like an animal.
“No,” he said firmly, removing Leyba’s hand from his person. His tone was as adamant and unbending as any vampire’s. He stepped away from her, placing three or four paces between them. “Leave me now. I would rather be alone with my thoughts.”
Surprise, followed by a look of extreme vexation, contorted the spurned female’s face. Her cheeks flushed crimson. “You don’t know what you’re missing!” she spat angrily as she stormed out of the throne room.
Yes, I do, Lucian lamented, thinking of Sonja.
He wanted to howl mournfully at the night sky, even though the full moon was still some fourteen nights away.
Chapter Five
CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS
“How much farther to the keep?” Lady Ilona asked Soren impatiently. Astride Lucifer, she rode at the head of the procession as the caravan made its way through the wilderness along a bumpy dirt road. Her silver chain mail glittered in the moonlight, and the legs of her leather armor were splattered with mud from the journey. A worried frown marred her elegant features as she glanced upward at the night sky where a gibbous moon shone amid the starry vault. “Dawn will be upon us soon.”
“Not far, milady,” Soren assured her from atop his own steed. A dozen mounted vampires, plus half as many lycan servants on foot, trailed behind him. Arriving at a crossroads, which was marked by a weathered roadside shrine, he pointed to the right. “That road leads to the monastery of Saint Walpurga, which means that the keep is straight ahead of us, only a short distance away. We should spy the tower anon.”
Let us hope so, Lucian thought, eavesdropping on the conversation. The procession had been traveling since sunset, en route to Ordoghaz, Viktor’s estate outside Buda, and his legs were weary from trying to keep up with the vampires’ horses. Along with the other lycans, he plodded along at the rear of the procession, stepping carefully to avoid the steaming piles of dung left behind by the vampires’ mounts. A rolled-up tapestry, intended as an Awakening gift for Viktor, was slung over his shoulder, and his back ached from toting the heavy fabric for mile after mile. He was more than ready to shed his burden and rest for a spell.
There was good reason for the vampires’ haste, however. In less than three nights, with the coming of the new year, Viktor would be Awakened from two centuries of hibernation, and Lady Ilona was determined to attend the ceremony along with her daughter. A company of Death Dealers rode to protect the two noblewomen until they reached Viktor’s estate, where Marcus, the reigning Elder, currently made ready to take Viktor’s place beneath the earth, in accordance with the hallowed tradition of the coven, which dictated that only one Elder ruled over the other immortals during any given century.
Lucian could not blame the lady for her eagerness to be reunited with her husband. He tried to imagine what it would be like not to lay eyes on Sonja for two full centuries.
That would be purgatory itself, he mused.
Despite his fatigue, Lucian was unable to keep from gazing furtively at the unknowing object of his affections. Sonja rode behind her mother and Soren on a roan-colored palfrey named Clio. A fur-trimmed indigo riding cloak concealed the princess’ beauty, yet Lucian occasionally caught a glimpse of blowing blond tresses or a delicate ankle. He fantasized about walking alongside her horse, perhaps engaging Sonja in conversation, but, alas, he knew that to do so would be the height of impertinence. Besides, he rebuked himself, what could such as I have to say to so cultured and highborn a maiden?
When not staring longingly at the back of Sonja’s cloak, Lucian’s eyes searched the night-shrouded woods lining the road, on guard against any hate-crazed humans who might want to waylay the procession now that Lady Ilona and others had
left the safety of the castle. Unlike Soren, he was not at all certain that the caravan was not in jeopardy. He could not help thinking that the procession of immortals presented an all too tempting target to the likes of Brother Ambrose and his followers.
So far, though, he had yet to detect any lurking peril. The winter night was broken only by the steady clip-clop of the horses and the usual forest noises: the hoot of an owl, the rustling of branches in the wind, the distant howl of a very ordinary wolf.
The rogue lycans are in custody, he reminded himself hopefully. Perhaps, now that the massacres had ceased, the murderous hatred fueled by the brigands’ depredations had cooled somewhat, so that the frightened mortals were no longer quite so ready to take up arms against the “demons” of the castle. It would be comforting to think so, he thought. Still, I will feel better when we have safely arrived at our final destination one night hence.
Lucian had another reason for wishing the pilgrimage completed. He glanced upward at the gibbous moon; only a sliver of shadow kept the radiant lunar orb from waxing entirely full. Already, Lucian could feel the tidal pull of the moon on the beast within him. His blood surged through his veins, while his teeth and nails tugged on their roots, eager to extend outward until they were as long and as sharp as knives. The hair on his scalp and skin stood on end, thicker and coarser than before. Blue haloes outlined the dark brown irises of his eyes. Lucian knew he could not resist the Change for long, not once the full moon rose tomorrow night.
Please, he prayed, do not let me transform in front of Sonja! He could not bear the thought of her seeing him reduced to a slavering beast. Give me the strength to hold back the Change until we reach Ordoghaz and can go our separate ways!
“Behold!” Soren called out as the outline of a dark stone tower could be glimpsed through the overhanging tree branches ahead. The entire procession quickened the pace as they spied the keep: a single imposing tower surrounded by a high wooden palisade. Crimson pennants waved in the wind atop the tower. “As you see, I spoke truly.”
Not nearly so grand as Castle Corvinus, the keep was a welcome sight nonetheless. As it was impossible to journey all the way to Ordoghaz in a single night, the tower had been erected centuries ago to provide a safe haven for the vampires during the day. This particular keep was just one of several such way stations established across the continent.
“At last,” Lady Ilona declared. “And none too soon.”
The sky was already growing noticeably lighter in the east by the time the procession arrived at the gates of the palisade. Vertical timbers, sharply pointed at their tops, loomed before them.
“Open up!” Soren bellowed at the heavy wooden doors. “The Lady Ilona and her party desire admittance.”
Lucian knew that a small complement of lycans manned the keep at all times; it was a thankless and monotonous posting, often employed as a punishment. I would not want to be banished to this place, far from the comforts and camaraderie of the castle.
Not to mention Sonja.
The oaken doors swung inward, allowing the procession to pass through the gate into the bailey, a ring of cleared earth surrounding the tower. A fire pit burned inside the yard, filling the air with a smoky aroma.
Primitive, compared with the castle, Lucian judged, assessing their accommodations, but serviceable enough. Within the impervious walls of the tower, Lady Ilona, Sonja, and their vampiric entourage could rest securely until the sun set once more.
Or could they?
The bailey seemed strangely quiet and abandoned. No lycan retainers hurried to greet the new arrivals. A sense of unease came over Lucian, and he sniffed the air warily. Beneath the pervasive smell of the smoke, he scented something else, something that sent an unaccountable chill down his spine. At first, he couldn’t place the troubling odor, but then it hit him.
Garlic.
What the devil? he thought. It was a myth that garlic repelled vampires, but foolish mortals still relied on the pungent herb to shield them from the immortals they so feared. Why would the bailey reek of garlic, unless…?
“Beware!” Lucian called out in alarm. Hurling the furled tapestry to the ground, he drew his wolf’s-head dagger. “It’s a trap!”
His warning came seconds too late. The oaken doors slammed shut, trapping the party inside the bailey. Lucian heard the sound of rushing feet beyond the wooden fence and visualized scores of humans running out of the forest to barricade the gates from the outside.
“By the Elders!” Lady Ilona exclaimed. Lucifer reared up in surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”
A barrage of flaming arrows rained down on the yard from the walkway atop the palisade, where dozens of mortal longbowmen suddenly revealed themselves. At least five blazing shafts struck the lady, knocking her off her horse even as yet more humans came pouring out of the tower itself. Strings of garlic were draped around the attackers’ necks, along with numerous rosaries and crucifixes. Burly peasants and villagers, armed with pitchforks, axes, and other weapons, charged the caravan, screaming in rage.
“Death to the demons!”
Flaming arrows jutted from the flailing bodies of vampires and lycans alike. Steam rose from the latters’ wounds, proclaiming that the mortal horde had added silver to their arsenal as well. Outnumbered and caught unaware, the skewered Death Dealers tumbled from their horses in disarray. Soren’s steed landed on top of him, trapping the overseer beneath the weight of the husky charger. Lucian felt a searing pain in his side, where a burning shaft jabbed between his ribs.
“Well done, lads!” a familiar voice called out from high above the bailey. Lucian looked up to see a black-robed figure standing on the roof of the tower. “You have my blessing—and the Church’s holy silver. Suffer not a single demon to live!”
It is just as I feared! Lucian thought. He wished that his suspicions had not proven quite so well founded. Apparently, Brother Ambrose has not fled the Continent after all…
Fire scorched his palm as Lucian grabbed on to the arrow, breaking the shaft and hurling it away from him. The flames continued to lick at his clothing, however, and he tore off his jacket in a rush. Steam rose from the silver arrowhead lodged in his flesh, but Lucian ignored the pain. Looking for Sonja, he saw her struggle to control her frightened mount while calling out in fear.
“Mother, beware!”
The mob descended on Lady Ilona almost as soon as she hit the ground. A sharpened ashwood lance pinned the fallen noblewoman to the earth. A gleaming sickle flashed in the moonlight.
The lady’s severed head rolled across the yard. Cold vampiric blood gushed from the stump between her shoulders, while her leather-clad arms and legs twitched spasmodically.
“Mother!” Sonja cried out. The hood of her cloak fell away from her face, exposing her horrified visage.
“Success!” Brother Ambrose crowed. “The she-devil is no more!”
An arrow pierced one of Clio’s forelegs, and the horse collapsed to the ground. Sonja was thrown from her saddle, landing in the yard not far from her mother’s decapitated corpse. She lay sprawled in the dirt, while Lady Ilona’s blood turned the packed earth to mud beneath her. A piteous moan escaped Sonja’s lips as she stared in shock at her mother’s head, which lay face-up in the gory muck, only a few feet away.
“Get the stregoica!” a human ruffian snarled, using a crude mortal term for a vampiress. Rough hands seized hold of Sonja, who seemed too stunned by her mother’s grisly demise to fight back. Blood-spattered peasants threw her onto her back, holding her spread-eagled upon the ground. Her cloak fanned out beneath her like the wings of a fallen angel. “Chop off her head!”
“No!” Lucian shouted from across the bailey. To his dismay, he saw that all of Sonja’s Death Dealer bodyguards were either fallen or caught up in battle against multiple foes. Slashing madly with his dagger, he fought his way through the chaos toward Sonja, stepping over the bodies of wounded lycans and Death Dealers while tossing mortals aside in his frantic attempt t
o get to Sonja in time. Even in his human form, he still possessed the strength and speed of several mortals, but for one of the few times in his immortal existence, he wished that he could transform into a werewolf at will, if only to be able to defend Sonja with bestial fangs and claws.
“You are all God’s soldiers!” Brother Ambrose cried from the tower, egging the butchers on. “Send the wanton succubus to hell where she belongs!”
The deadly sickle was raised once more, ready to commence its fatal descent. Lucian threw himself at the would-be executioner, slamming into the human with the force of a battering ram. Landing atop the dazed peasant, Lucian tore out the man’s throat with his teeth, then leaped to his feet, brandishing the sickle in one hand and his dagger in the other. A vicious growl emerged from his throat as he glared at the men holding Sonja down. His eyes blazed with cobalt fury. Blood dripped from his chin.
“Who’s next?” he snarled.
All but one of the mortals fled before him, abandoning their grip on Sonja. The remaining villager was a hulking brute wearing a blacksmith’s leather apron, now liberally bedecked with gore. Placing his foot on Sonja’s throat, he raised an iron hammer above his head. “Get back,” he warned Lucian, “or I’ll smash her skull in!”
Lucian hesitated. The silver in his side burned like acid, slowing him down. Could he get to the blacksmith before the man could carry out his threat?
Maybe not.
His abrupt appearance, however, roused Sonja from her state of shock. “Murderer!” she gasped at the mortal standing over her. Chestnut eyes turned icy blue, and her hands grabbed the blacksmith’s leg. “Get away from me!”
Bones shattered audibly as Sonja tossed the man into the air with all the unearthly power of a pure-blooded vampire. His hammer went flying from his grip, landing harmlessly in the mud several feet away while the blacksmith himself rose nearly ten yards above the ground before crashing to earth at Lucian’s feet.