by Greg Cox
His eyes snapped open, revealing a pair of jet-black orbs.
Hybrid eyes.
A.D. 1202
The village lay in ruins. Flames licked the thatch roofs of peasant hovels. Smoke rose from the charred remains of shops and wagons. Prodigious amounts of blood had been splashed upon the snow-covered streets and market square. The wasted blood glistened beneath the light of a full moon, turning the once-white snow into gory slush. The tantalizing smell of so much blood made the vampire’s mouth water, despite the dire matters weighing on his mind.
Oh, my brother, Marcus Corvinus thought mournfully. What have you done?
Bodies were strewn everywhere. Men, women, children… their throats ripped out as though by a savage beast. Entrails spilled from corpses that had been sliced open by powerful claws. Many of the villagers were still in their nightclothes, death having come for them while the tiny hamlet slept. Their lifeless faces were frozen in expressions of utter shock and horror. Despite abundant evidence of an animal attack, too much flesh remained upon their bones for the townspeople to have been killed for food. Instead they had been slaughtered for sport.
The isolated village was located in a shallow valley surrounded by dense woodlands. Snowcapped pines and firs bore mute witness to the grisly scene, while an eerie silence reigned over the valley. There were no whimpers of pain, no desperate cries for succor. No sobbing kinsmen mourned their dead. Marcus heard only the crackling of the flames and the crash of collapsing timbers.
The funereal silence spoke volumes. There were no survivors.
We are too late, Marcus thought.
“Yet again,” Viktor said, “we arrive to witness his aftermath. But the onslaught ends tonight.”
“We must move quickly,” Amelia reminded him. “Or we will be overwhelmed.”
The three Elders surveyed the slaughtered village from atop a slope overlooking the valley. They sat astride their armored warhorses, their faces grave behind their crested helmets. Like their steeds, they were clad in fearsome black plate armor. Intricate runes adorned the finely made armor, which gleamed like polished ebony in the moonlight. Conversing atop their coal-black mounts, they resembled three-quarters of the Four Horsemen, arriving belatedly in the wake of the missing horseman: Death himself.
A company of armored Death Dealers accompanied the Elders. Their weapons drawn, the vampire warriors awaited the Elders’ commands. Azure eyes glowed beneath the flickering light of their upraised torches. The pungent smell of the blood had the soldiers all on edge. They bared their fangs. They licked their lips.
The vampires had not yet fed tonight. This massacre was not their doing.
Viktor turned to Marcus. “Is he still here?”
Marcus nodded reluctantly. His youthful appearance, evident even through his Corinthian-style helmet, belied his true age and immortality. His reddish brown hair, and neatly trimmed mustache and beard, held not a trace of gray. Indeed, he looked several decades younger than Viktor, even though he was actually the older of the two.
“Viktor, he must not be harmed.”
“I gave you my word, did I not?” Viktor turned his horse around to address their troops. He raised his voice. “Burn the bodies. Search the outbuildings.”
The Death Dealers rode forward, spreading out into the ruined village. Their torches added to the glow of the burning carts and buildings. Marcus spurred his own horse onward, anxious to join in the search.
“Marcus!” Viktor called out sharply.
What is it? Marcus wondered. He pulled back on the reins. Steam blasted from the nostrils of his impatient steed. He looked back at Viktor.
“Stay with me,” his fellow Elder instructed.
For a moment, Marcus considered disregarding Viktor’s request. They were equals, after all, even though he and Amelia tended to defer to Viktor on military matters. The other Elder had been an experienced general and warlord even before he’d become immortal. Marcus gazed intently at the burning village before reluctantly turning around his horse and rejoining Viktor and Amelia. He had no wish to provoke Viktor unless it was absolutely necessary.
I may need his goodwill before this terrible night is over, Marcus thought. For my brother’s sake.
The rustic hamlet reminded Istvan of the small Wallachian village in which he had grown up, before he had been granted the boon of immortality and recruited into the service of the Elders. He seldom thought of his mortal days anymore, but the familiar setting stirred long-dormant memories. A cold rage flared within him. These butchered villagers might well have been his own family and neighbors, a couple of mortal lifetimes ago. Lowly and short-lived as they were, they had deserved better than this.
This atrocity cannot go unpunished, he thought vengefully. The Beast must pay.
With his fellow Death Dealers, he dismounted from his horse and stalked the narrow streets. Bloodstained snow muffled the tread of their heavy iron boots. Flaming torches set fire to gutted corpses, creating grisly bonfires throughout the streets and square. The nauseating aroma of burning flesh joined the smoky smell of the doomed buildings. Istvan’s gorge rose.
But it was not enough to merely torch the bodies lying outdoors. Istvan knew they could not afford to leave a single ravaged corpse unburned. They had to search the shops and homes as well—or suffer the consequences.
We don’t need another disaster like last time. We’ve lost too many men already….
A peasant cottage caught his eye, and he gestured to one of his comrades, a Death Dealer named Radu. Istvan had lost his own torch in their breakneck ride to the village, but Radu still had a serviceable brand. The other vampire nodded and they approached the cottage together. A wooden door creaked on its hinges as Istvan kicked it open. Leading with their swords, the two men entered the hovel through a haze of smoke and shadow. Vampiric eyes penetrated the murk, seeing the humble furnishings one would expect to see in such a lowly domicile: wooden stools, a low table, a few straw pallets for beds, and a hearth in the center of the hut, safely distant from the crude wattle-and-daub walls. Dying coals glowed within the hearth.
A mauled corpse lay sprawled upon the packed-earth floor. The body belonged to a full-grown man clad in the torn remains of a linen nightshirt. His face and torso had been shredded by gargantuan claws. Exposed ribs jutted from his open chest. Gobbets of bloody meat still clung to the splintered bones, which were scored by deep claw marks. The man’s heart and guts were missing, no doubt vanished down the Beast’s gullet. Istvan wondered briefly what had become of the man’s wife and children. Were their bodies among the corpses burning in the streets?
He turned toward Radu. “Give me the torch.”
The sooner this disgusting chore was concluded, the better. Then they could move on to the more important task of tracking down the loathsome animal responsible for the carnage.
He shall not escape us again, the Death Dealer vowed.
Radu handed him the burning brand. Istvan turned back toward the corpse.
Before he could ignite the lifeless carcass, however, a bestial roar erupted from the dead man’s throat. The “corpse” sprang to its feet, already in the throes of a grotesque transformation. Glassy mortal eyes turned into feral cobalt orbs. A canine snout protruded from the scarred face, which appeared to be healing itself with preternatural speed. Jagged fangs flashed within the creature’s open jaws. A new heart began to form within the sundered chest cavity. Fresh entrails, writhing like overgrown worms, blossomed beneath the heart, which beat with unnatural life. A hairy hide swiftly spread over the creature’s torso, hiding the pulsating organs from view. Human nails sharpened into vicious-looking talons. Thick, black bristles sprouted from his face and skin.
Hellfire! Istvan cursed silently. He backed away, almost bumping into Radu. We’re too late!
Still wearing the remnants of his shredded nightshirt, the newborn lycanthrope snarled like a rabid dog. His savage gaze swept the cramped interior of the cottage, searching for a way out. The two
Death Dealers stood between him and the front door, so his crazed eyes turned rapidly toward the rear of the chamber. Before the startled vampires could recover from their shock, the man-beast slammed into the back door, knocking it off its hinges with a single lunge. The door hit the ground with a tremendous crash, and the lycan scrambled out of the murky cottage into the moonlight.
Blast it! Istvan thought as the creature escaped. Still holding his useless torch, he knew he had to warn the others. He shouted at the top of his lungs:
“They’re turning!”
* * *
The frantic cry sent a jolt through every vampire within earshot. Amelia sat upright in her saddle and saw her brother Elders do the same. The small complement of Death Dealers who had remained behind to guard the Elders tensed up within their armor. They raised their swords high in readiness for the battle to come. Amelia heard muttered curses among the soldiers.
It’s begun, she realized.
Resting her hand upon the stock of her crossbow, she scanned the village for any sign of the enemy. Exquisite blue eyes spotted a misshapen figure racing into a darkened alley between two crude peasant hovels. The creature looked to be half-transformed already.
She was not the only one to spy the wretched beast. “There!” hollered one of her foot soldiers. He pointed one finger of a metal gauntlet at the same alley.
Amelia required no further prompting. In a blur of motion, she drew her crossbow and took aim at the fleeing lycan. A silver-tipped bolt sprang from the loaded weapon, slicing through the smoky air and striking its brutish target in the arm. The lycan howled in pain and glared back at the vampires. Little of humanity remained in his monstrous features. Cobalt eyes peered out from beneath a sloping brow. Tufted ears tapered to a point. A fleshy black muzzle grimaced. Wincing in pain, the creature ducked into the waiting alley. Desperate to escape the Death Dealers, he paid little heed to the smoldering corpse lying in the snow outside the alley.
“After him!” Amelia commanded. Although born female, she had never been one to shrink from battle. To her mind, immortality was too short to waste it cloistered away like some helpless mortal damsel. She spurred her horse down the snowy slope into the nameless village. A pair of mounted Death Dealers rode after her. “Let him not escape!”
In their haste to catch up with their quarry, the vampires also ignored the charred and smoking corpse upon the ground. The armored chargers galloped past the dead peasant, barely missing the body with their hooves. None saw the corpse’s eyes peel open, exposing bestial cobalt orbs. No one witnessed the still and lifeless body start to convulse violently. Bones cracked and twisted loudly as the murdered villager came back to life, caught in the grip of an excruciating metamorphosis. A tortured groan escaped the lycan’s contorted jaws, but the pain-wracked utterance went unheard.
By now, Amelia and her men had followed the first lycan into the alley. She drew back on the reins, slowing her horse, while she searched the narrow passage for their prey. The stock of her crossbow rested against the burnished metal protecting her cheek. At first, she could discern no trace of the creature, but then she spotted the monster’s shadow upon a moonlit wall deeper within the alley. Silhouetted against the crude stone wall, the shadow depicted the final stages of the unfortunate villager’s transformation.
The Change was accelerating at a phenomenal rate. The shadow expanded in size as the lycan gained weight and stature by the second. The frenzied lycan tore at his clothing, stripping himself of any last vestige of civilization. His limbs stretched from their sockets, as though he were being tortured upon the rack. A human scream devolved into an anguished howl.
Poor thing, Amelia thought. She felt a moment of pity for the ill-fated villager, who had surely not asked for such a ghastly fate. Compassion would not stay her hand, however. It was too late for the lycan now. Like the rest of his abhorrent kind, he needed to be put down like a rabid dog. Death is the only mercy I can offer.
She used the shadow to gauge the lycan’s position. Judging from the angle of the moonlight, the creature was directly ahead, farther down the alley. She led the Death Dealers forward—and found herself face-to-face with their brutish prey.
The transformation was complete. A full-fledged werewolf now stood revealed at the far end of the alley. Standing erect upon his hind legs, the towering beast was over seven feet tall. Coarse black fur covered his naked body. Foam dripped from his gaping jaws. Maddened by the Change, he growled at the mounted vampires, exposing a mouthful of serrated fangs. He slashed madly at the air with claws the size of daggers. His hot, fetid breath misted in the cold night air.
A stone wall blocked the end of the alley, leaving the werewolf cornered. His lips peeled back from his incisors as he roared at the hunters defiantly. He lunged at Amelia, his claws outstretched before him.
The beast was fast, but her crossbow was faster still. A speeding bolt struck the werewolf in midair, lodging deep within his shaggy chest. Two more bolts found their marks as Amelia’s men fired their own crossbows at the beast. The silver tips pierced the werewolf’s heart and he dropped like a stone onto the muddy floor of the alley. Silver was poison to his noxious breed. A vile ichor, infected with the lycan taint, oozed from the werewolf’s wounds. This time he would not rise again. His transformed body retained its bestial aspect. Not even death could restore his humanity.
Another pitiful cur disposed of, she thought approvingly. She removed her stifling helmet and savored the invigorating bite of the wind upon her face. Lustrous black hair, now soaked with sweat, was plastered to an elegant visage worthy of a Grecian goddess. By the dark gods, I grow weary of this butchery.
Shouts, screams, and fierce howls invaded the alley from all directions. Her charger reared up in alarm. Clearly, the other Death Dealers were engaged in similar confrontations throughout the village. Amelia recalled the multitude of bodies the original beast had left behind and knew that every one of those bodies now represented a potential menace. For all she knew, she and the other vampires were already outnumbered.
Not again, she thought. Must we fight this same struggle over and over?
She turned her horse about, intent on joining the battle outside the alley. She thrust another quarrel into her crossbow. The first of her Death Dealers galloped out of the alley ahead of her, while the second rode up behind her. “Make haste!” she urged them both. “Our comrades require our—”
The crash of shattered wood and plaster drowned out her voice as, without warning, another werewolf smashed through the crumbling wall of the hut on her left. The noisome beast slammed into one of the mounted Death Dealers, knocking both man and steed to the ground. Metal armor thudded against the ground and the frightened horse whinnied in panic. Wolfen claws slashed at the charger’s exposed underside. Blood sprayed from deep gashes in the quivering horseflesh. The destrier’s rider found himself trapped beneath the weight of his own steed. He struggled to extricate himself, shoving at the armored horse with both hands. His crossbow lay uselessly upon the snow, out of his reach. The werewolf snapped at him with hungry jaws.
“Help me!” he cried. “For mercy’s sake!”
Amelia’s own horse reared up in alarm and she had to fight to regain control of the terrified animal. She almost dropped her own crossbow, but managed to hold on to the reins and weapon both. The first rider, already gone from the alley, frantically yanked his horse around, but was too far away to do any good.
Drawn by the clamor, a vampire foot soldier came running into the alley. He charged at the werewolf from behind, swinging a silver-edged battle-axe. The axe sank deep into the monster’s shaggy back, cleaving its spine. The werewolf died instantly, collapsing against the bleeding body of the downed horse. The trapped Death Dealer let out a gasp of relief. His rescuer wrested his axe from the creature’s body.
Well done, Amelia thought. Looking more closely, she recognized the axe-wielding warrior as Drago, a once-mortal soldier who had only recently been initiated into the c
oven. As far as she was concerned, his courageous actions had proven him more than worthy of the great blessing that had been bestowed upon him. I must commend him to his superiors later, should he survive this.
She opened her mouth to praise the soldier, only to be interrupted by a ferocious roar. A hideous figure, engulfed in red-hot flames, rose up behind Drago. Amelia vaguely recognized the blazing corpse that, only minutes ago, had lain outside the alley. The resurrected visitor was still caught in the throes of his dreadful transformation, so that it was hard to say what tormented him most, the awful agonies of the Change or the searing flames racing over his body. His limbs jerked spasmodically as he snarled and gnashed his jagged teeth. The smell of burning flesh and fur assailed Amelia’s nostrils.
Time to put this wretched thing out of his misery.
She raised her crossbow, but there was no need; Drago wheeled about and swung his bloody axe at the flaming lycan. The silver edge of the axe sliced cleanly through the werewolf’s neck. Trailing a shower of sparks, the monster’s head went flying from his shoulders. The werewolf’s blazing skull rebounded off a nearby wall, while the headless body dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from its bisected throat. The werewolf’s limbs twitched convulsively.
Drago had little time to savor his victory. With a savage roar, a third werewolf pounced from the roof of a smoldering cottage. The beast tackled Drago, knocking the startled Death Dealer to the ground. He landed hard amidst the bloody slush, with the berserk werewolf right on top of him. The impact drove the breath from Drago’s lungs. His mighty battle-axe slipped from his fingers.
“Drago!” Amelia cried out. Her finger hesitated upon the trigger of her crossbow. The Death Dealer and his subhuman attacker were so close together that she feared she might hit Drago instead. Her horse backed away from the thrashing figures. She peered anxiously down the stock of the crossbow, waiting for a clear shot.