by Toby Bennett
“What do you think has happened to Sam?” Lillian asks her voice betraying worry, “He’s been gone more than an hour.”
“There hasn’t been any shooting, so I think it’s safe to assume he’s still alive.” Aden says not bothering to mention that if Sam had fallen foul of the unfortunates he had chosen to ‘hunt’ then he had only got what he had asked for. Instead he pulls himself closer to the fire, laying out as flat as the hole in his side will allow and using a fallen log to prop up his head. Lillian does not bother to say anything else and returns her attention to the fire, perhaps she can sense his disbelief; it hardly matters, let the madman hunt and the girl fret; it would have been a long day without having been shot. As it is he is too exhausted to even show an interest when the girl begins to cook something over the low fire. The scent of cooking meat is pleasant enough though and soon Aden’s eyelids are drooping, the weak pulse of the flames sends the shadows dancing rhythmically over the thick tree trunks. Aden can tell without looking that the girl is frightened by this but then it is clear that she has not known many nights outside of a comfortable room without servants. Whatever his companions may claim Aden knows there are no monsters stalking the wood, he has been called a monster too often himself to put much stock in such superstitions. The noises that make Lillian start are just the quiet rhythms of the night; they have lulled him to sleep a thousand times and now is no different.
Aden’s eyes jerk open at this thought, as he comes to the realization that, apart from the soft hissing of the pine needles on the branches above him, gently stirring in the wind, there is no sound to be heard. No night birds, no insects, not even the sounds of music or laughter one might expect from people deeper in the wood, which might have explained the sudden, noticeable absence of wild life. Then, just on the edge of his strained hearing, he registers the snap of a branch. All at once sound comes rushing in and it is not the natural cadence he had hoped for but the sound of many churning feet, thrashing and pounding their way through the wild growth and decay of the darkened wood. At some unspoken signal, figures burst from the trees, little more than shadows in the weak light of the fire. Cold predatory eyes flash red with malice or the reflection of the ruddy flame. Aden’s two normal eyes can make out few details but his third eye is not so limited, though it has never been able to perceive colour, his third eye has always served him well in the dark, when following movement and detecting contrasts becomes more important than fine detail and hue.
The creatures which face him, now chill him more than the white eyes of the possessed man in Silverstop or anything that he has ever seen in his waking life for that matter! The attackers seem human but their mouths are open in terrible grins, almost grimaces that are necessary to accommodate the sharp fangs that protrude unnaturally below their bottom lips, like the canines of some animal. Their hands too are twisted, ending in hooked claws that reach hungrily into the false, flimsy protection of the firelight. Stifling a cry of mingled shock and pain, Aden scrabbles back over the debris strewn forest floor. The scent of earth and rotting pine mixes with the acrid smoke of the fire torturing his overtaxed senses. Panic stricken as he is, his gun is in his hand almost as fast as he can think of it.
Lillian’s pistol spits bright flame at almost the same moment as the mutant begins to fire and two figures topple from the tightening noose of undead flesh. Aden fires again, using his incredible speed and accuracy to lay waste to the advancing creatures, his elation at his success is engulfed by a terror close to madness, when all but one of the attackers simply pick themselves up and continue to advance, emitting the unmistakable sound of human laughter. Aden’s fingers blur, as he forces more cartridges into his pistol, even if it is only delaying the inevitable, the mutant refuses to simply give up, despite the apparent ineffectiveness of his weapon. He hears a cry of surprise from the rear of the enemy’s ranks, Aden cannot have looked away for more than a fraction of a second but when he looks back, Samuel Blake is amongst them; a heavy knife, stained coal black, apart from a silver sharp edge, in either hand and his eyes gleaming, bright as blood stained stars. In a single catlike bound, he brings down two vampires beneath him, tearing at their throats with his teeth even as they fall and summoning forth the vitality of their slow flowing blood.
Presented with this new threat, the Strigoi turn their attention from their prey and try to bear down the thrashing Pilgrim through pure weight of numbers but try as they might, they cannot prevent the thick steal blades from scoring numerous deadly hits and as the blood flows, the Pilgrim only grows stronger and more voracious. Still laid out on the forest floor, Aden sends round after round into the twirling melee, adding his skill to the Pilgrim’s frenzy. Tooth and claw scrape and gouge against cloth, leather and mail but none find purchase in flesh and it quickly becomes clear that the hunters have become the hunted.
The vampires are unused to such a spirited, let alone successful, defense and when six of their number have fallen, the last three break from the defeated pack in different directions, their thirst overridden by their instinct for survival. Even moving with their unnatural, tireless speed, none of them have taken any more than a few paces beyond the firelight before they are brought down. Blake tears into two of them and Lillian takes the legs out from under a third; before this last unfortunate can rise Blake is crouched over him leeching every drop of the vampire’s unholy vitality. Aden stares on in disbelief, glad that Lillian cannot see the awful bloodlust on the Pilgrim’s face. At last he understands what Lillian had told him, Samuel Blake, Pilgrim, Crusader, mad man, is a creature truly damned.
“We must move,” the mutant says, rising quickly and ignoring the pain and fresh blood flowing from his newly opened wound, “there could be more of these things along at any moment.”
“There are no more,” Blake says, coughing to clear his throat, “there are a few pretenders and retainers still waiting at the cabin above us but they will scatter when we arrive and their masters do not return. The mortals who follow such creatures are weak more often than not; I doubt they will even be there if we make our approach obvious.”
“How can you be so sure these are all we have to reckon with?”
“How did I know to lead us here?” Sam asks, his voice softening as the hunger abates.
“But how can you know for sure?” Aden insists, unable to conceal his growing suspicion.
“Because I have watched them since sunset, all of them wanted to feed, there was no reason to keep anyone in reserve.”
“So you used us as bait.” Aden states accusingly.
“As you say, how else could I be sure that I drew them all?” Sam steps into the firelight, a figure made all the more ominous by the fact that, while his great coat is dark with the stains of recent battles, his skin is untouched by even a drop of blood, as if he had absorbed his dreadful harvest even through his pores.
“If I had simply attacked them, some would have escaped, by drawing them to you I was able to ensure that none were missed.”
“And what about the danger to us?” Aden snaps angrily, “did you not think of that?”
“Of course I did, but they brought no weapons, they thought to toy with you as they had so many other travellers. With the element of surprise and a bit of help from the two of you the outcome was almost certain.”
“Certain!” the mutant spits the word. “You didn’t even warn us!”
“And would you have heeded my warning? From what I could tell, you hold little respect for my beliefs. Had you not seen them for yourself, no doubt you would still be claiming that the Strigoi are only inventions of the Church.”
“I don’t know what those things were or for that matter what you are,” Aden says, his hand hovering over his pistol, “you’re the only one I’ve actually seen drinking blood around here.”
Anger flashes over Sam’s face, twisting it in a terrible echo of the feral Strigoi faces that had surrounded them little more than a minute ago; then the Pilgrim relaxes and stares at
the mutant with sorrowful eyes.
“Forgive me, I am not myself when the hunger is upon me. I would have warned you if I thought it would do any good but when I left only the need for blood drove me. You are right to say that I am no different to them, the truth is I am not, I walk in the sunlight and my heart yet beats but God’s judgement is on me, as it is on them. Should I fail in my quest, should I die, I will be one more killer in the night. Now though and this is my only hope to mitigate the things I have done, now I live and may yet hope to be forgiven… I do not wish to be as I am but I can see no choice if I am to beat the devil.”
“That’s if there is a devil,” Aden says, slightly mollified but still shaken.
“Can you doubt it once you have seen his children?”
“I have seen monsters I never thought to see tonight, it is true,” the mutant speaks slowly, “but I have seen no proof of angels or devils.”
“You may yet,” the Pilgrim answers with equal solemnity “for we go to find the very Gates of Heaven.”
“I never said that I would join you,” Aden protests. “If anything this,” he gestures at the fallen bodies, “tells me I should start walking in the opposite direction to wherever you are headed.”
“Then why aren’t you already walking?”
“If I had any sense I would be but I don’t much like the idea of going back the way we just came. I’m heading west and so are you, it makes sense to travel together, at least until I heal up a bit and can replace my horse. I know you saved my life in town but don’t imagine that’s enough to make me a part of any of this.”
“I didn’t save your life in order for you to come with us, whatever you may think.” Sam answers firmly, “and I do not want to make you a part of this, someone else already has.”
“Who would that be then?”
“Yorick.”
“Did you overhear that too? Or are you also labouring under the delusion that I know this man?”
“Yorick is not a man, Aden, he is one of these, only far older and more powerful and he wants you to accompany us. I am sure he will be less than pleased if you decline.” Sam stops to let the weight of his words sink in.
“Did he send you then? How do you know all this?”
“I am not Yorick’s creature, Aden,” Sam answers, “but even so I would like you to come with us. You will understand when I explain what Yorick actually is, he is unique even among the Strigoi in that he bears the Devil’s most wretched blessing.”
“And what is that? Why get so mysterious about it all now?” Aden asks stubbornly, refusing to be drawn by the Pilgrim’s ominous statements. “All my life I’ve heard priests and Inquisitors talk like this, about this or that evil, none of you can ever seem to just come out with it and say what you are trying to say. It’s all veiled threats and promises, if there is something I should know about this Yorick that will change my mind, then let’s have it, otherwise I’m taking my own advice and walking out of here. It will take more than a few vampires to make me just accept all this madness. Besides why would I want to find a gate to heaven?” Aden asks, the eye in his forehead widening to make his point, “did it ever occur to you that if there is a god, he allowed me to be born like this into a world where they will rip even your sex from you, rather than risk their daughters bearing your corruption.” Aden stops, brought up by the leash he had long ago put on his own emotions.
“I am only reluctant to discuss these matters in the woods, in the dark; there are many things you need to know and this is not the place to tell you. Come with us to the cabin and get some sleep and I shall explain things in the morning, when we are less likely to be overheard.”
Aden glances around sharply. “I thought you said that there were no more of these things around.”
“Those who oppose us do not necessarily need to be close to hear us, but they will be weakened by morning, when I will explain what I can. Please, what harm will it do you to sleep under a roof for a night?”
As Sam predicted the cabins are empty of the vampire’s human retainers by the time they reach them. A fire still burns in the hearth set in the largest cabin’s one stone wall, both Lillian and Aden make for its warmth almost immediately, leaving Sam to stable the horses. In spite of Aden’s misgivings Sam is not afraid of their mounts being attacked by vengeful servants in the night, his senses tell him that the vampire’s retainers are nowhere near and it is unlikely that they would think of turning round to confront their master’s slayers anytime soon. Sam knows from bitter experience what it is to lose a vampiric patron, how the years that passed like a vague dream slowly crystallize into an unfamiliar reality and then the terrible price of stolen seasons must be paid. The servants were running scared and by the time they found courage to consider doing anything else they would be scattered and no more capable of action than a skorn addict deprived of his pipe for too long.
Lillian watches the Pilgrim at his task through the window until her eyes begin to ache with fatigue. She keeps expecting Sam to join them but whether it is the accusing eyes of the mutant in his seat by the fire or just the manic energy that seems to fill him, he does not join them in the cabin.
At last she looks back at Aden and says, gently “Go to sleep. He said he would explain in the morning.”
The mutant turns tired eyes on her.
“How can you be so calm? You didn’t even seem angry that he risked us like that.”
“He did not see it as a real risk or he would not have done it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because, for all you think he’s mad and perhaps he is, he would never willingly put my life in danger.”
“Why? You said you were not friends, what are you to him? He’s just like any other Crusader, he’d watch you die in his cause and call it God’s will.”
“It’s simple really,” Lillian answers in a voice that sounds distant, even to her, “he cannot afford to risk me, I am the key to his Gate.”
Chapter 12:
“Of Yorick and Time”
The sun is well up when Aden drags open his eyelids; pain and stiffness slowly suffuse his body as he returns to full consciousness and realizes that he has made the mistake of spending the night in a hard wooden chair.
“I thought you might feel out of sorts this morning,” Sam responds to the mutant’s groan, “I would have tried to move you from the chair, but I didn’t want to disturb your sleep; ‘sides the mood you were in last night I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t get a bullet in the gut for my trouble.”
“And you would have deserved it too!” Aden growls, enough of the shock of last night’s attack has warn off, so that he is not entirely serious when he says it.
“There’s something warm in the kettle if you feel up to it,” Sam indicates the battered tin jug placed to one side of the low fire to keep its contents warm.
“Not yet,” Aden eases himself into a more comfortable position and meets the Pilgrim’s unblinking eyes, “it’s morning and you promised to give me some good reasons for me not walking out of here and never looking back.”
“You want to know about Yorick?”
“That’s an understatement!” Lillian abandons her pretence of sleep. “I’ve been trying to work out who he is and how he got involved in this, all night. I know you said he is a Strigoi but it still doesn’t explain how he knew where the book was, that we would be back or for that matter how did he know that Aden would be there? Or that he would get hurt?
“To know the answer to your question, you must first know something more of the Strigoi. Don’t worry, Aden this will not be a theological lecture,” Sam adds hastily, “it is simply important that you understand that not all vampires are cut from the same cloth. Each unfortunate who succumbs to the curse of vampirism, and curse it is make no mistake, is given greater or lesser abilities by the dark powers they serve. The ones you saw last night, for instance, were feral creatures, perfectly suited to their existence here in the woods. They had speed and s
enses to match any predatory animal, some of them might even have been able to take the shape of such animals.”
“Like Dale,” Lillian murmurs with disgust, struggling to suppress the memory of the undead flesh forcing its way down her throat.
“No, Dale was something different. His sire’s reaction to the rebirth was an abomination and regarded by his fellows as something like a disease, though the extent to which Dale Sipher controlled it made it more than that. The hunters you encountered last night would have only been able to shift their form to one other shape, if that, though they were all capable of producing those sharp claws you both saw.”
“And Yorick? How does this answer the questions about him? And why is he interested in me?” Aden asks, steering them back to the object of their discussion.
“I can answer the first part of that. As I already said Yorick has been given one of the strangest and most terrible gifts of all his brethren; Yorick is a time traveller or rather he is one who travels in time better than the rest of us and there is a difference. For most of us existence extends in a simple line of cause and effect, with many unforeseen outcomes for each decision. Some have even said that when we make a decision we are moving from one possible universe to another and that there are new universes born out of almost every decision. Whether this is true or not, that is the best way of seeing what Yorick does; he sees myriad possibilities in the future, more than any human mind could follow and then he chooses where he wishes to be; you might even say which universe he chooses to exist in.”
“But don’t we all?” Lillian protests, “I mean we all make decisions that take us from one state of affairs to another… those other universes might as well not exist for all they affect us, so how is Yorick a time traveller anymore than the rest of us?”