More arrows struck him. One after another stuck in his shoulder, side, and chest.
How did they know to use silver? These couldn’t have been the hunters from Istanbul. Tor had killed them all, and they did not know Giovanni or Michael. This couldn’t have been the same group of hunters. Had he been spotted by a merchant who spread rumors to more hunters, just as what happened long ago in Egypt? Did they deal too closely with a trader to make them suspicious of him?
He dragged himself as close as he could get to the hunters, his blood mixing with the sand and dirt beneath him until a thick, muddy trail formed. The silver burned, scorching his flesh from the inside and refused to heal. At this rate, he couldn’t change back and each movement sent waves of agony through his body until he couldn’t even grasp at the arrow shafts to break them.
Tor fell to the ground, arrows quivering as he strained to move and continue to breathe. The men surrounded him, their guns and crossbows trained upon him. He growled and snapped his teeth at them, trying feebly to push himself up.
He had to kill them. He had to protect Jane and Michael. The men, if they had tracked them this far, would surely find Arnathia and he couldn’t allow that. What of the blood servants and Giovanni? They were in danger too.
Tor shakily rose to his feet and stumbled towards one of the men, determination burning in his eyes. The man pulled the trigger and the bullet struck his chest. Tor couldn’t even make a sound; it hurt too much. He simply crumbled back into the dirt as the rest of the men fired their volleys into him.
He kept his eyes open, willing himself to stay alive as the silver poisoned his body and soldered his insides. The voices of the men became hushed and dark, their words barely discernable as his heartbeat roared in his ears.
Once more, he had been struck down by men who knew too much about his weaknesses. This time, he didn’t save the day or rescue anyone. Again, it was his fault that his friends would die. With bullets and silver-tipped arrows slowly stealing his lifeforce, the men walked away back to their camels and continued on, leaving Tor to be taken by death.
Giovanni set his jug of water on the edge of the fountain and stretched his arms over his head. The afternoon wasn’t as hot as it had been in the days before, though the sun was a constant, unrelenting presence. As far as he knew, he was the only one awake.
When he awoke in the apartment he shared with the other blood servants, Marco was the only one present. Francesca and Angelo were nowhere in sight, which wasn’t all too surprising. They made no pretenses about hiding their affair and they could hardly ever be found when they were needed after the vampires took their daily feed just after nightfall.
He took a look over his shoulder to Tor’s lofty apartment that faced the fountain and Lavtio. The werewolf wasn’t lying in the window as he usually did, so Giovanni assumed he must have been out and about around the city, or perhaps hunting in the desert as he sometimes did.
Giovanni was alone at the fountain, but that didn’t last for long. Sucked into his usual anxious thoughts, he hardly heard the men come up behind him.
He turned and nearly dropped his jug when he came face to face with a band of men with murderous intent in their eyes. Their guns and crossbows were already loaded and ready at their sides.
“Giovanni Dinapoli?” the man brandishing two pistols on his hips and another rifle in his hand.
The skin just under the thug’s eyes and around his cheeks looked burnt, accentuating a vicious scar that stretched across the bridge of his nose and down to his jaw. He was slightly taller than the others, with broad shoulders and a pair of dark eyes that seemed to emanate vengeful intent.
He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be himself just then or not. Then, it occurred to him that this must have been the men he had been waiting for.
“Si,” he said with a nod.
“Where are the vampires?” the man asked in perfect Italian, though he knew the hunters to be from farther north in origin. This nomadic band of vampire hunters traveled the world, fulfilling contracts with informants, and when Giovanni got word that they were rumored to be in the east at just the right time, he had jumped on the chance to employ them.
Much had transpired from the time he first contacted them until now. Jane was here. So was Francesca, and Giovanni had been vacillating between the decision to forget about the entire arrangement or carrying it to term. He knew once these men came, none of them would leave Arnathia alive, except for him.
Giovanni took a tighter hold on the jug. “Signori, I hate for you to have come all this way, but – “
The man with the scar charged forward and seized Giovanni by the front of his vest. “Where are they, Giovanni?”
The scholar trembled and felt his arms grow weak as fear swept through him. Surely, they wouldn’t kill him, too, if he didn’t tell them? What if they would? Would their righteous hatred for vampires go so far as to kill anyone who stood in their way?
His voice failed him, so Giovanni jerked his head towards the house where Michael, Jane, and Yaverik were soundly sleeping in the cellar. The brute tossed him aside and Giovanni tripped over his feet as he tried to stabilize himself. The jug sloshed with water and finally fell from his hands, shattering on the ground.
The men spread out around the house with their leader standing off to the side, pulling out smooth clay orbs topped with fuses from the sack that hung across his chest.
“W… Wait,” Giovanni stammered. “What about the blood servants?”
The man didn’t even give the courtesy of a look. “They have been tainted by the vampires and will have to be killed as well.”
Giovanni swallowed hard. “And Tor? The werewolf?”
“He has already been dealt with.”
His blood ran cold as he imagined Tor’s mangled and lifeless body lying somewhere in the desert. What had he done?
“I suggest you get your things together and leave this place, Signore Dinapoli. If things get messy, we wouldn’t want you to be hurt.” The man finally looked over his shoulder. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Giovanni looked between the tiny bombs in the man’s fist to the house where Michael and his family slept. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to do what we do best.”
10
When Tor awoke, he was blinded by a glaring whiteness that seemed to have no source. The void was open around him, with no end and no beginning. There was only the light and he was somewhere in it, alone and confused. There were no scents, no sounds, nothing to orient himself.
All his life, he had memorized the tenets of his faith down to the last word and parable. He knew what to say to each demon he came across in Duat and the path he needed to take to reach the end of his seemingly immortal life. He knew what was expected at the final checkpoint when his heart would be weighed against the feather of Ma’at and with providence on his side. His soul would not be devoured by Ammit, but welcomed into the eternal land of joy and plenty, the Field of Reeds.
This was not what he had been raised to expect. This was nothing. Absolutely nothing. There were no demons, no gods, no line of souls waiting to be weighed, nothing. If this was not the afterlife that he had been raised to believe, then what was this?
“Tor.”
The voice, deep and echoing in the void, called to him from behind. He turned and saw his father, standing proud and tall in the white linen robes of the priesthood. His long dark hair pulled back and dark eyes watching his son with the same stern look that he remembered from childhood.
He wasn’t angry. His father was hardly ever angry. This gaze was a silent command for respect and obedience. As a child, he cowered at his father’s feet and listened to his words. As he grew older, he learned that he could mimic this look and demand the same respect from others. As a man, standing before his father, who appeared just as he was the morning before he died, Tor had to hold firm and meet his father with that same solemnness.
Though, all Tor wanted
to do was grovel at his father’s feet and beg for the forgiveness he had never asked for in the final moments of his life. A silent second went by and Tor wondered why his father would be here in this void that was so unlike the afterlife he had preached. Was this an allusion? Or perhaps this was the Field of Reeds and Tor was privileged to bypass the usual rites and rituals.
“What is this?” Tor asked, his voice far less booming than his father’s, adding to his feelings of insignificance in his presence.
His father did not answer, but only lifted his chin and let his eyes drop to appraise Tor from head to foot. “You have come a long way, son.”
Tor straightened under his father’s praise, his chest aching and heart heavier than it should have been. To see his father in front of him, alive once more, Tor should have been grateful and overjoyed. They arrived to whatever this place was, and it was far from the dangerous and evil hell they had spent their lives trying to avoid.
His thoughts drifted back to Michael and Jane. What had become of them by now? What would those men do? If they knew how to kill a werewolf, then it was likely they knew the weaknesses of a vampire.
He looked down to his bare feet, so dark against the whiteness beneath him. Another thought, far more troubling, entered his mind. If this place, this world that awaited the dead, was not Duat or the Field of Reeds, then what was it? Had his entire life been a lie? Was his religion and worship of Wepwawet as false as the outsiders believed?
If his mighty god was just a man, and this afterlife was not what they had been taught, then what was true anymore? Did it even matter? Tor gritted his teeth, rage and regret boiling over until he could barely contain it anymore. All the years spent in the temple, performing ritual after ritual to a lifeless statue of a werewolf who was nothing more than a historical figure, all of it for nothing?
“Why?” he asked. “Was it all a lie?”
His father stepped forward and placed his hand upon Tor’s shoulder. “My son, look at me.”
Tor did as he said, meeting his father’s hard expression. “There is no time to explain the universe in which we live, though I tried to do so in life. You must return.”
He blinked back his confusion. “Return? How can I return? No one returns from Duat.”
Unexpectedly, one corner of his father’s mouth tilted up in a half smile. “Son, look around. Does this look like Duat to you?”
Tor didn’t need to look into the white void once more. He only shook his head. “So, this is not Duat? Is this – “
“This is not Aaru either. That will come when it is your time. For now, you must go back. Protect the balance of Ma’at and chaos.”
Now, seeing the smile on his father’s face and feeling the warmth of his touch, Tor could not repress the need for absolution. “I have neglected my duties, father. I left the temple to see more of the world outside our country.”
“I know,” he said with a nod. “For now, your duties lie outside of the temple. Protect the balance. I have seen what the future is to be and you cannot let chaos win this day.”
All his life, Tor had tried to appease Wepwawet so the world would not fall into the hands of chaos. As the last in a line of ancient priests, the responsibility rested solely upon his shoulders. Knowing that this place was not clearly associated with his view of what the afterlife should be gave Tor a bit of consolation. Yet how much more of his life had been wasted on things like ceremonies and rituals that weren’t necessary? Who was right in the end?
“You’re asking me to protect Michael and the others?”
His father gripped his shoulder tightly. “Yes. At all costs. They must live.” His hand released and as soon as Tor could no longer feel his father’s hold, he was thrust back into the world of heat and color, full of vibrant smells and sensation.
The white void faded away and once more he looked upon the desert horizon. The pain flooded back over him, but he found the strength to grope and pull at the arrow shafts. With slow, aching movements, he ripped the arrows from his flesh. More blood spilled to the ground, but he healed once the silver was removed.
Protect the balance. Protect the balance. Protect the balance.
He repeated those words over and over in his head with each arrow he dislodged. Even if his religion was a lie, even if his devotion to Wepwawet was unfounded, Tor would obey his father’s request. Still in his wolf form and the image of his father’s face burned in his mind, he rose to his feet and turned to the north, to Arnathia.
Michael first awoke to Francesca’s pleas for mercy. Then, as his senses adjusted, the scene began to take shape behind the stone wall that divided them from the sunlight. He could hear the multitude of feet shuffling in the sand, the clinking of metal and rustle of fabric as a crowd seemed to form around the building.
Marco and Angelo fought back against the intruders and he could smell their blood spilling onto the ground.
“What’s going on?” Jane asked as she rubbed her eyes and sat up on her bedroll.
Yaverik bolted awake and went to the edge of the barrier to try and peak around. As soon as he did, Michael heard the hissing, sizzling noise and a few soft taps against the stone. The scent of gunpowder.
“Yaverik!” he shouted.
It was too late. In a great flash of light and explosion, the wall was nearly reduced to rubble. Yaverik flew back into the room that had once been their shelter. Now it would serve as their prison, lest they venture out to a worse fate.
Michael shielded his daughter from the blast as rock and pebble rained down upon them. The blood servants continued to argue and fight against the men who came for their masters, but they would not be deterred.
This was what he had feared would come to pass, what Giovanni had planned for so long. He had hoped that it wouldn’t have come so soon. They had gone so long without an incident that Michael wondered if the hunters would ever come at all, or if they had gotten lost in the desert. He should have known better than to let his guard down. If he had known, Michael wouldn’t have let his family stay here.
Sunlight poured onto the floor of the room, but they were still safe against the far back wall. When the dust settled, Michael looked toward the gaping hole in the barrier. Two men in desert garb stood just outside the demolished stone wall, with crossbows in hand and aimed straight for Michael and Jane.
Yaverik, half-buried in debris, was now beginning to stir and push away the wreckage. Jane huddled closer into Michael’s embrace and he hissed at the hunters, as if it would do any good. They had the clear advantage as they stood in the bright sunlight. The vampires couldn’t touch them as long as they maintained such a vantage point.
One of the men pulled the trigger on his crossbow and the bolt shot out with a cord attached to its tip. Michael grabbed at the shaft and tossed it to the side, but he couldn’t dodge or deflect the second arrow that was fired in quick succession.
It stuck through his shoulder, shattering bone and splitting muscle. Before he could yank on the cord, the hunter pulled first. Jane held tightly to his hand as the men reeled Michael into the light. Her strength alone held him back just long enough for him to find his footing again.
Michael then took hold of the cord and gave it a quick, firm tug to bring the two hunters to their knees. They called for more men and soon, it was Michael against five men as they continually pulled on the line. He ordered Jane to stay back and she obeyed without question.
The arrow in his shoulder twisted and bent, sending pain shooting through his arm. He felt his grip loosen, but he would not relent. Yaverik joined in and took the line with both hands. The hunters didn’t have a chance.
As soon as one hunter had the misfortune of stumbling into the shadows, Yaverik struck with swift force and brought the hunter deeper into their domain. Michael ignored his apprentice’s bloodlust as he heard the wails and snapping of bones behind him.
Another hunter came behind the four that were left and raised his pistol to shoot Michael.
In th
e time it took for Michael to blink, the gunman vanished. The scent of fur and old blood met his nostrils just before the screams and gunfire erupted in the street.
“Tor!” Jane screamed from behind Michael.
His feet began to slide on the floor. With one more burst of strength, he drew the hunters deeper into the room. Yaverik was still immersed in devouring his previous victim, oblivious to anything else.
A blur of fangs, claws, and dark fur swept into the cellar one more time. Tor in his full werewolf form, grabbed the men and threw them into the street like they weighed nothing at all. The cord, still connected with Michael, pulled him along with the hunters.
He cried out as the sun seared the skin on his face and hands. In the midst of the battle between beast and man, Michael struggled to stand after being knocked off his feet again. The owner of the crossbow that tethered him lay dead in the street, his head and torso ripped apart by Tor’s rage.
Michael scrambled, not knowing which way to go as the bright sun blinded him. Somewhere in the midst of the fray, a pair of hands grabbed him by the back of his vest and hauled him in one direction. His senses debilitated by the pain of having his flesh nearly burned from his bones, Michael kicked and screamed wildly against whoever held him, thinking that it was a hunter ready to finished the job.
Soon he felt the coolness of the shadows surround him. His daughter came to his side and pulled him deeper into the curing darkness. His eyes soon healed and the first sight he was met with was Giovanni, standing in the center of the room, out of arms reach from the vampires.
Michael didn’t have the strength or the will to be furious with him. He only nodded as Jane went to work to break the arrow shaft so they could free him from the tether. Giovanni turned and ran into the street where body parts and blood were flung in seemingly every direction.
The Guide Page 14