by S Mays
Dark thick blocks of ancient stone comprised the sturdy walls. Varying levels of towers surrounded an immense keep that sat in the middle of a large courtyard. The courtyard was surrounded by an outer wall topped with battlements. Corner towers connected each of the outer walls. A gargantuan drawbridge was embedded in the front outer wall. On the other side of that was a large landing pad. A sleek black helicopter with no visible windows was parked to the side. Men in dark armored suits walked the battlements, rifles and other sophisticated weaponry displayed prominently.
The pilot of Sverre’s craft continued circling, waiting for clearance to land. “Why not just fly right on in? They are expecting us, right?” Sverre asked, watching the castle slowly spiral below them.
“The outer towers have anti-aircraft missiles and anti-missile minigun systems in them. Any attempt to land directly in the courtyard or without clearance activates them,” Janir explained. “You’d be dead before you set foot in the castle.”
Janir’s words stirred up a memory that Sverre had forgotten. “Dead…castle…” Sverre whispered, trying to recall. Then it came to him — the little psychic girl from Xibalba! “Oh, shit,” he moaned.
“Problem, little one?” Varulf asked.
“When I was with Izzy, a young clairvoyant girl told me something would kill me in a castle,” he said, trying to recall the exact words.
“Ah, a seeress. That is unfortunate news. I had grown slightly fond of you,” Varulf remarked with little enthusiasm or interest.
“Gee, don’t be so broken up about it.”
Varulf flexed his muscles, rotating his neck as if he was limbering up. Mighty joints cracked like miniature firecrackers. “What comes will come. If it is your time, it is your time. As I said, I doubt we will leave the castle alive, so this is no surprise. The only question is how many of our enemies we will take with us when we die.”
The drawbridge on the front wall lowered, hanging in midair over the city, held by massive chains. Their aircraft completed its final arc around the perimeter of the castle, homing in on the massive gate. It stopped above the lowered drawbridge, then slowly descended vertically until bouncing slightly on its deployed landing gear. The craft’s wings folded in upon themselves until it fit through the gate. Taxiing forward, it stopped beside the helicopter.
A squad of soldiers met them before the aircraft’s door had fully opened. Their weapons were drawn, covering each occupant of the aircraft. Sverre noticed their armored suits were bulkier than the slim suits he and the werewolves with him wore. Polished black helmets obscured their faces completely.
“Varulf, surrender any weaponry you and your allies are carrying, please,” a tall soldier toward the rear of the group shouted in an amplified voice that boomed from a speaker built into his helmet.
Varulf sneered at the suggestion. “You know my weapons, Commander Swift.”
A small hovering drone entered the aircraft, fully scanning each occupant for several seconds. It lingered near Sverre’s hands for a moment before exiting. Sverre cast a concerned look at Varulf. He wasn’t sure if he could get the God Particles off if they told him to remove them.
“They’re clean,” a technician announced. Varulf returned Sverre’s glance before looking curiously at the symbols lining the young man’s hands. He gave Sverre a knowing nod, apparently willing to keep the secret. Sverre didn’t know why the scan hadn’t registered the gauntlets, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to activate them if he needed to, anyhow.
Commander Swift received an affirmative communication through his helmet. “Gentlemen, please follow us inside. Master Dalca is eager to meet you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
From the air, the castle and its grounds looked immense. On the ground, its size was even more breathtaking. Sverre gawked at the staggering structures looming above them. It was amusing to think that back when buildings like this were more common, they were the skyscrapers of their era. Now this one sat on top of its modern-day equivalent.
“Move along, punk,” one of the guards behind him threatened when Sverre’s pace slowed too much for his liking.
“Is that any way to treat your guests?” Sverre asked, feigning indignation.
“Just keep up and keep your trap shut,” the man ordered, taking a step toward Sverre.
“Is there a reason these helmets are so dark and completely sealed from the sun?” Sverre asked, reaching out to the man’s visor. The guard jerked away, looking toward his fellow guardsmen for guidance.
“Mr. Walker, please continue along with the rest of the group and refrain from touching your escorts. If you are cooperative, we might be able to locate Ms. Luvkrafft for a reunion. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Sverre understood the implied threat, falling in with the group without further incident.
Pausing at the main gate, the group waited for Commander Swift to signal for the portcullis to raise. The deafening screech of metal grinding across metal echoed across the courtyard. Sverre covered his ears, wincing. Varulf’s tall ears twitched slightly in apparent annoyance. The massive metal gate was several feet thick, made of a dull, black metal. It probably weighed twenty tons. Sverre wondered how the skyscraper below them could support such a heavily fortified building. He was sure there was more to the stone walls than simple rock. It was probably reinforced with similar alloys the Order used in their own buildings. The group continued forward through the gate into the main hall.
Luxurious ancient tapestries, banners, paintings, and rugs festooned the massive hallway they traversed. Unlike Drake’s garish decorating, Dragos had good taste. Observing the paintings in passing, Sverre noticed a recurring figure appearing in each of them, a tall, handsome man dressed in lavish finery. The clothing and backdrops changed as they progressed through the hall, matching the time periods the paintings were from. Near the end of the hallway, Dragos wore a purple velvet jumpsuit. Gold chains drooped across his exposed chest. Sverre snickered, holding his hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh, but if anyone else found the painting amusing, they gave no indication. He surmised they had all laughed so much over the years, the humor was stale now. Perhaps Dragos had issued an order of execution for anyone who dared laugh at his disco phase.
The group stopped before two halves of an enormous ornate door. Two massive suits of black medieval armor stood to each side. They were each twelve feet tall — much too tall for any human to wear. The left one rested both hands upon the guard of a massive claymore. The armor on the right held an equally large battle-axe over its right shoulder.
“Commander Swift, accompanying Sverre Walker and Cen’Ful pack leader Varulf and assorted guests,” the squad leader spoke to no one in particular. The visor on each suit of armor rose, revealing an intricate camera and sensor array. The helmets turned simultaneously to face the party.
A cold synthetic voice responded to Swift’s announcement. “Voice recognized. Sensor sweep complete. Please enter.” The visors closed again. A loud clank from the door indicated that whatever mechanism held it closed had released. The doors swung inward.
Sverre’s jaw dropped upon seeing the extravagant throne room. He’d expected a dreary space with very little light, perhaps a few torches, but a vibrant room full of life welcomed them. Colorful tapestries covered every surface. Detailed paintings lined any bare spots on the walls. Craning his neck, he was amazed by the intricate paintings that covered every inch of the ceiling. Each footfall was cushioned by expensive rugs and carpets that covered the main walkways. It was reminiscent of pictures of churches in Europe that he’d seen on the Internet.
“Welcome, my friends!” a voice called from across the room. A lone figure sat on a glistening golden throne atop a dais. Another slightly smaller throne was placed to the right of the one that was occupied. Several massive monitors were in the process of retracting into the floor in front of the man. He rose to his feet, waiting for the group to approach. The soldiers knelt in unison, their heads bowed
.
Commander Swift spoke with reverence. “Lord Master Dalca, I present the ones you requested: Sverre Walker and Varulf, along with three of Varulf’s Cen’Ful pack members.”
“Three? That is curious,” Dragos remarked, looking over Janir, Abraham, and Olavi.
Varulf did not miss the implication. Dragos was involved with the incident with his pack. He started to speak, but Dragos held up a hand.
“One moment, old friend. I know you have many questions, but let me greet Mr. Walker properly.”
Varulf bristled at the term “old friend” but held his tongue. The situation was all too familiar to him. Once again, he was accepting orders from the Master after he had thought himself eternally free. His lips peeled back in a snarl, but he restrained himself.
“Mr. Walker, after all of this time, we finally meet. I know you do not know anything about me, but believe me, I know every marvelous detail about you. From your childhood to your very short stint in college to your fateful meeting with Ms. Luvkrafft, all the way to this very historic moment. I’ve studied every bit of information available on you. I probably know more about you than you do about yourself,” the ancient vampire boasted, sitting back on his throne. He motioned to several well-dressed attendants who brought chairs from the edge of the room to where Sverre’s group stood. Sverre accepted the offer, but Varulf merely stared at one hapless servant until he shuffled off, taking his chair with him. They were the only two offered a seat.
“Now I feel weird,” Sverre stated, looking up at everyone standing around him.
“You could join me on the queen’s throne, if it makes you feel more comfortable,” Dragos offered.
“Er, no, I think I’m good down here, thanks.”
Dragos smiled, leaning back. He crossed his legs, then brought his hands together, tenting his fingers.
“Classic super-villain pose,” Sverre scoffed. The guard standing behind him raised his fist to reprimand the brash young man.
“No! Do not insult my guests!” Dragos shouted, his pleasant demeanor fading into one of rage instantly.
“I-I am sorry, Master Dalca,” the guard said, shrinking away from Sverre.
“Let everyone know. These are my honored guests. They are to be supervised to prevent any mischief or danger, but no one is to harm them. As long as my hospitality is not spurned, you will all be welcome in my home,” Dragos stated to everyone in the room. “Please ready the specified rooms for them.”
“I have many questions —” Sverre started, but he was cut off by Varulf.
“As do I, Dragos,” the large werewolf said with vehemence.
Dragos’ eyebrow rose slightly upon hearing Varulf refer to him by his first name instead of “Master.” “I know you all have many, many questions, but please, allow my servants to tend to your needs and wounds before we continue our discussions. Nothing about the situation will change in the meantime. Why not enjoy a hot bath, breakfast, and a tour of the castle; rest or sleep for a few hours if you need. I invite you all to a grand banquet later in the evening. I am sorry to say, I am weary and must retire for the day.”
Sverre then realized it must be far past the time for the vampire to return to his coffin, or the earth, or wherever it was an elder vampire lord slept. He’d stayed awake just to greet them personally. Sverre looked to the stained-glass windows in confusion, then at the various servants, then back to Dragos. How could the vampires stand the sunlight streaming in?
“They are simulated windows. I may not be able to observe the sun any longer, but that does not mean that I must linger morosely in the shadows, either. This light is very similar to daylight, do you not agree?” Dragos explained. “You’ll find many modern conveniences throughout the castle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will see you this evening. Please behave yourselves in the interim.” The last comment was more of a command than a suggestion. Sverre’s neck hairs stood up for some reason. He’d been running escape and attack scenarios in his mind as they traversed the castle, but now he felt at ease, his plans fading away. Dragos exited the room through a door in the left wall, followed by several retainers.
The guards who had escorted them into the building exited the room through the large doorway that they had entered through. Several servants approached the group, one for each of the new arrivals.
“If you would come with us, we’ll see to your needs,” a handsome young man offered.
A beautiful young woman with pale skin and long dark hair bowed to Sverre. “Mr. Walker, my name is Isabelle. I will be your personal escort for the day,” she said. She took Sverre’s hand, leading him away.
Varulf called out a warning to him. “Be wary, pup. Dragos is adept at bewitching the mind and soul.”
Isabelle led Sverre out of the throne room to the main hall, then turned right at the second door down.
“So, where are we heading? To the nasty, filthy, bedbug-ridden, diseased, slimy, smelly, filthy dungeons?” Sverre asked, attempting to gauge the woman.
“You said ‘filthy’ twice,” she noticed.
“That’s just how filthy they are. One ‘filthy’ isn’t enough,” Sverre responded without a hint that he was joking.
Isabelle chuckled. “We do have dungeons, but they are most likely the cleanest dungeons you’d ever have the pleasure of visiting. If they were located in a hotel, it would probably be a three- or four-star.”
Sverre whistled, trying to sound impressed. “Sounds like a place that I’d be honored to visit. Is that where we are going?”
“No, it’s as Master Dalca said: you are our guests. I have a room prepared for you at the end of this hall. A fair warning, though: he was serious about his hospitality. Please, for your own sake, do not do anything foolish. You seem like the type who would do so.”
“I don’t think anyone has called me foolish for at least twenty minutes. I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch.”
“I’m sorry. I do not mean to offend. I am not used to dealing with people such as yourself. Master Dalca does not suffer… rambunctiousness willingly,” she replied after searching for a suitably inoffensive word.
“Sounds like we are going to hit it off great, then. You know, that’s an interesting accent you have.”
“Yes, my parents were from Montilla. It’s a small town in Spain. I do not know if you are familiar with it,” she replied.
“Spain? No, I’ve never heard of it. It’s this terrible American education system, I’m afraid,” he joked.
“I fear for your safety at the banquet tonight,” she said, making the sign of the cross.
“Are you sure you should be doing that in here, of all places?” he asked.
She paused in the hall, opening a large wooden door to their right. “This is your room. Would you like anything to eat? We usually dine in the grand banquet hall at this hour. You’ll find food served there at most times during the day, even if it’s just wine, cheese, and fruit.”
“If you are doing room service, could I get five scrambled eggs, ten strips of bacon, six pieces of toast, four pieces of sausage, or maybe four or five biscuits with gravy if you don’t have sausage? Oh, and about a half-gallon of chocolate milk?”
“That… I will see what I can do. It may take some time to find some of your requests, but I am confident I can fulfill your requirements.”
Sverre entered the large room. It was indeed impressive. Fine silks, furs, and heavy wooden furniture adorned the space. A spacious simulated wood bathtub sat under another fake window. He really could not tell the difference between the false light and real sunlight. He flopped backward onto the bed, sinking into the feather mattress, letting the stress of the previous day and night seep out of his body.
Isabelle peered into the room. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked. A deep snore was Sverre’s answer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sverre awoke shortly after Isabelle had left. His senses screamed at him that something was amiss. Rolling out of bed, he duc
ked down, using the bed as cover, and surveyed his room. A hand clamped down on his mouth. “Shh, stay calm, Sverre,” a soft voice whispered in his ear. Surprised, he turned to find Jessica behind him.
“J-Jess!” he started to shout, but remembered to whisper at the last instant.
“I’ve disabled the bug in your room, so it’s safe to talk, but keep your voice down,” she warned, crouching down beside him.
“What-what the hell are you doing in here? I thought you’d been kidnapped. Am I still asleep?”
Jessica slapped him across the face with enough force to leave a red handprint on his cheek. “Still think you are sleeping? I need you focused, Sverre.”
“Gee, it’s nice to see you, too,” he responded, rubbing his cheek.
“I escaped my cell a few hours ago and gained marginal access to their systems. After liberating Casca from a laboratory, I’ve been trying to find a way out of this place. I was accessing their flight logs to see if there was a ship available to hijack when, much to my surprise, I noticed your scheduled arrival. Their housekeeping system had you assigned to this room.”
“I can’t believe I came all this way to rescue you, and you’ve already done it yourself,” Sverre griped.
“We are both far from rescued, I can assure you. This place is literally a fortress. From what I can determine, there is a servants’ elevator in the kitchen and a freight elevator in the larder, along with one heavily guarded main elevator. Unfortunately, since they have discovered our escape, those have been locked down. However, I’ve noticed something irregular about the area behind Dragos’ throne. Judging by the schematics of the building, the layout of the room is designed to provide extra space for something rather large. There’s nothing in the general system specifying what it is, but I believe there is perhaps an escape tunnel or something in the wall. If I could get to that area, I might be able to access it. If Casca’s GP weren’t depleted, I could attempt to cut through the floor directly, but she will be useless until I can replenish her.”