Rise of the Lycans

by Greg Cox

  What a werewolf he had become!

  Armed with stolen swords, axes, and picks, the freed slaves charged into the rear of the Death Dealers, breaking their ranks. Raze lifted a squirming vampire above his head and flung him into the inner wall of the fortress. The impact cratered the granite wall, sending rocky chips flying amidst a cloud of powdered stone and mortar. A crimson stain defaced the masonry as the vampire’s crushed body slid lifelessly on the pavement.

  Viktor whirled in surprise, caught off guard by the second wave of lycans. His blue eyes bulged behind his skull-like mask. He faltered and looked about in confusion, as though realizing for the first time that he might actually lose this conflict. Lucian wondered if the haughty Elder finally knew what fear tasted like.

  If not, Lucian was ready to introduce him to the sensation. Their eyes met across the teeming battlefield. The rest of the war, with all its noise and grisly spectacle, receded from his consciousness as his primal senses locked onto his immortal enemy. All he saw now was Viktor—Sonja’s murderer—caught in his sights. His fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. His unwavering eyes narrowed to vengeful blue slits.

  No one had ever slain an Elder before. Not man, beast, nor vampire.

  There’s a first time for everything, Lucian thought.

  He strode relentlessly toward his prey.

  The hideous tumult of war penetrated even the many subterranean levels separating Tanis from the carnage in the courtyard. Tanis shivered beneath his robe as he stood upon a rickety wooden landing atop a forgotten staircase buried deep within the heart of the mountain. The inky waters of an underground river lapped against a slimy stone dock at the bottom of the steps. Reflected torchlight cast rippling shadows onto the walls of the cavern. Luminous green algae clung to damp limestone walls. Jagged stalactites hung above the nervous scribe’s head like the fabled Sword of Damocles. Roosting bats rustled in shadows. A shame I can’t turn into a bat as the mortals suppose, he lamented, else I’d fly away from here as fast as my leathery wings could carry me.

  Alas, that fanciful notion was nothing but a superstitious myth.

  His sweaty hands tugged on a rusty chain as he struggled with a complex block-and-tackle system hanging from the ceiling. At the other end of the chain, suspended above the murky waters below, was a polished brass sarcophagus engraved with intricate cabalistic runes. An ornate capital A was embossed upon the head of the heavy metal coffin. Tanis strained to hold the sarcophagus steady as he carefully lowered the casket into the ebony skiff waiting many feet below. The boat, cleverly stored beneath the castle for just such an emergency, was moored to the dimly lit pier. Tanis heard it bump gently against the dock.

  The chain slipped through his fingers, causing the hanging sarcophagus to drop precipitously for a few inches before he got it back under control. Straining to support the coffin’s weight, he slowed its descent to a more prudent pace.

  Forgive me for disturbing you, Lady Amelia, he thought. Viktor’s orders.

  Slumbering in their tombs, oblivious to the tempestuous events raging above them, the hibernating Elders were obviously vulnerable to the werewolves’ shocking attack. Tanis well understood why Viktor thought it best to have them moved to a safer location. He just wished that this nerve-wracking responsibility had fallen upon anyone else.

  Remind me never again to make a bargain with a lycan, he thought bitterly. Conspiring to free Lucian from his cell had been the worst mistake Tanis had ever committed in centuries of intricate scheming and politicking. I’ll be lucky I don’t end up exiled for life after this debacle.

  He let out a sigh of relief as Amelia’s coffin came to rest within the skiff. He held onto the chain for a few more moments, just to make sure the boat didn’t capsize, then scuttled down the stairs to where the skiff was waiting. Marcus’ sarcophagus, as well as Viktor’s empty coffin, were already loaded onto the boat. Stylized initials distinguished their coffins from Amelia’s. The skiff rocked unnervingly as Tanis clambered aboard. The sluggish current of the hidden river coursed past its hull. A hanging lantern illuminated the pier as he scrambled to fit a pair of painted black oars into their locks. His trembling fingers required three attempts before he got the oars properly in place. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, then hurried to make certain the sarcophagi were secure.

  After all, he didn’t want their coffins to topple over into the river.

  Despite the mayhem all around him, Lucian kept Viktor in sight as he fought his way toward the Elder. Faceless Death Dealers fell before his sword, but the butchered vampires made no impression on his mind; they were merely inconvenient obstacles between him and his true prey. Lucian trampled over their sundered bodies. If he had his way, Viktor would not long outlive his martyred daughter and grandchild.

  Your bloodline ends tonight, Lucian swore upon Sonja’s memory. By my hand.

  Only yards away from Viktor, however, Captain Sandor leapt into his path. The officer’s determined face made it clear that he intended to defend his lord to the end. Lucian almost admired the indefatigable guardsman’s devotion to his duty, not that this made his intrusion any less infuriating. If Sandor wanted to throw away his immortality for the sake of the Elder, Lucian would be happy to oblige him.

  Eschewing swordplay, Sandor raised a crossbow and fired it directly at the lycan’s face. The bolt leaped from the bow, whistling through the mist like one of Sonja’s silver throwing stars, but Lucian had had enough of being perforated by the Death Dealers’ toxic missiles. Just as he had during Viktor’s test two centuries before, Lucian snatched the quarrel from the air only inches from his face. Two more bolts flew from the weapon’s triple bows, only to be deflected by Lucian’s flashing sword. The misdirected quarrels went flying off to the side, eliciting a gasp of disbelief from Sandor. The horrified vampire gaped at Lucian’s lightning-fast reflexes. Snatching another arrow from his quiver, he hastily tried to reload the crossbow, but Lucian was even faster. Flipping the captured missile in his hand, he flung it back at Sandor with all his strength. The bolt sank deep into the captain’s forehead. Blood flooded his eyes. The crossbow dropped onto the cobblestones. A death rattle gurgled from his throat.

  Lucian did not even wait for Sandor’s body to hit the pavement before shoving it aside. Enough with these petty skirmishes. He wanted Viktor, not his endless myrmidons. But a growl of frustration burst from his lips as he reached the blood-soaked spot where the malevolent Elder had stood only moments before. He looked in vain for the elusive object of his hatred. Show yourself, Viktor! he raved inwardly. Face me like a man! But Sonja’s father was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Coloman and the rest of the coven huddled within the Great Hall, listening anxiously to the cataclysmic battle being waged outside in the courtyard. Ashen-faced courtiers and their ladies cowered around the edges of the spacious chamber. Sobbing courtesans and concubines hid behind the looming marble columns, their filmy black apparel offering little protection against the razor-sharp claws and fangs of the marauding monsters outside. Only the bolted oak doors at the entrance of the hall stood between them and the fearsome reckoning that had descended upon Castle Corvinus.

  The wolves are at our very door, Coloman thought. Just as I warned Viktor!

  He had never been so dismayed to be proven right.

  Along with the remainder of the Council, he stood alongside Viktor’s empty throne. They strove to present an image of strength and confidence to their terrified flock, albeit with mixed results. Orsova chewed nervously on her lacquered nails, until blood dripped from her mangled cuticles. Count Ulrik looked as if he was ready to bolt from the chamber at any moment. As though there was anyplace to hide from the beastly invaders! The very walls that had guarded the keep for so long now trapped the coven inside the fortress with their ancient enemies. And even if they were to escape the castle, where were they to flee? Into the very wilderness that sheltered the werewolves?

  There was no escape for
them. They could only pray that Viktor and his Death Dealers could defend them as they always had before. Alas, the horrific screams and ferocious roars emanating from without did little to suggest that such desperate prayers would be answered; from the ghastly sound of things, the battle was going badly against them. Glancing about the crowded hall, Coloman saw that many vampires, who had long ago discarded their mortal faith, were now feverishly crossing themselves and calling upon the mercy of a God they had not thought of for many human lifetimes. He caught Ulrik doing the same.

  For himself, Coloman fought an irrational urge to rush to the crypt and awaken Marcus. As much as he craved his patron’s protection, however, he realized it was too late to revive the other Elders. Neither Marcus nor Amelia would have time to recover from their long slumber before the wolves were upon them all; newly roused from generations of fasting, they would rise at first as withered mummies, lacking the strength to rescue the coven from the nightmarish calamity that had befallen them. Damn the Chain, he thought. For the first time in his long existence, he questioned the wisdom of having only one Elder above the ground in any given century. Now more than ever we need the oldest and strongest of us all!

  A pounding at the doors caused him to jump backward in fright, bumping into Viktor’s throne. A petrified hush erupted into a cacophony of hysterical shrieks and exclamations. Clinging to an equally distraught maidservant, Luka screamed for Sonja to save her from beyond the grave. Coloman had no sympathy for the fear-crazed lady-in-waiting; it was said that she had conspired with the treacherous noblewoman on more than one occasion. He glared murderously at the flaxen-haired vampires, who had played a fatal role in their undoing. Did she even realize that her misguided loyalty to Sonja might have doomed them all?

  He was tempted to rip her throat out himself.

  The double doors buckled beneath the force of the blows. Blood-chilling roars and howls left no doubt as to the identity of the besiegers. Where are the Death Dealers? Coloman thought truculently. Why aren’t they here to protect us?

  The wooden bolt holding the doors shut snapped in twain. The doors crashed open, revealing a pack of slathering werewolves on the threshold. Pandemonium descended on the hall as the beasts invaded the sanctuary. The elegant vampires ran like frightened rabbits but could not outrace the rampaging creatures, who fell upon the coven with predatory glee. Antique furniture was toppled and reduced to debris in the wolves’ riotous hunt. Refined lords and ladies were ripped to shreds, along with their expensive silk garments. The nubile flesh of the courtesans was strewn across the floor. Werewolves raced on all fours along the walls and ceilings, dropping like avenging angels upon the fleeing vampires. Blood spattered the hanging tapestries. Gobbets of raw meat flew from the roaring jaws of the triumphant monsters.

  What did we ever do to deserve this? Coloman thought. Was there something the Council might have done to avert the catastrophe? Were we too hard on the lycans—or too soft?

  Hiding behind Viktor’s throne, Coloman gazed in fascinated horror at what seemed the end of the world. Hissing like a cat, Luka leapt onto the ceiling and hung there upside-down, clinging to the stoneworks by her claws, while she bared her own fangs at the frenzied pack, even as her abandoned maidservant disappeared down the gullet of a hungry wolf. Luka’s defiance failed to spare her, though, as another werewolf launched itself from the floor and ripped her from her perch with its bloody paws. She crashed screaming to the floor, where a third wolf joined in devouring her. Her perfidy came to an end amidst a fountain of blood and viscera.

  Nor was the Council spared by the conquering wolves. Orsova tore open her own wrists with her teeth, choosing to end her own life rather than fall prey to their enemies. Drawing a dagger from his belt, Ulrik tried to emulate her example by stabbing himself in the heart, but could not bring himself to do more than prick his chest before an attacking wolf ripped his arm from its socket. Bright arterial blood spurted from his shoulder.

  The crimson spray struck Coloman in the face, blinding him. He wiped the blood from his eyes, only to find a ravening werewolf glaring down at him from atop Viktor’s throne. The beast’s cobalt eyes regarded him hungrily. Drool dripped onto Coloman’s upraised face. A length of flaxen hair was caught between its teeth.

  Please, the trembling boyar pleaded silently. You don’t understand. In the Council, I often pleaded for leniency for your kind. I’m on your side….

  The wolf tore his head off.

  Sniffing the air, Lucian followed Viktor’s scent into the keep. Havoc raged all around him as the werewolves and lycans ran amok throughout the venerable structure, exacting bloody retribution for centuries of unjust persecution and subjugation. Now the vampires would know what it was like to be hunted like animals by a bloodthirsty foe. Ignoring the tantalizing smells and sounds of the massacre, Lucian trailed the Elder down into the very bowels of the keep, below even the now empty dungeons. The corpses of axed guards littered the lower stairs and corridors; Raze’s handiwork, no doubt. Lucian raced over the bodies as, sword in hand, he hurried after Viktor. The distressing possibility that the Elder might elude justice added wings to Lucian’s heels. He was not going to let that happen.

  Run all you like, Viktor, he taunted silently. You cannot escape me! I swear it upon Sonja’s soul!

  The Elder’s noxious scent led him to a wooden trapdoor embedded in the floor of a murky underground corridor. A crimson hand print, left behind by a gore-soaked gauntlet, revealed Viktor’s escape route. Lucian yanked open the door and, without hesitation, dropped into a sloping stone tunnel that seemed to lead down into the very heart of the mountain, almost as though Viktor were seeking refuge in the depths of hell. Undaunted, Lucian raced down the tunnel.

  He thought he heard water lapping somewhere ahead.

  Viktor reached the stairs leading down to the dock. Many feet below, his fellow Elders waited with Tanis aboard the loaded skiff. He could sense the muffled heartbeats of Marcus and Amelia as they slumbered within their respective sarcophagi, dreaming of bygone centuries while waiting patiently to rise again, each in their turn. How in Perdition was he going to explain this disaster to Amelia when she awoke at the turn of the century?

  Damn you, Marcus! This is all your subhuman brother’s fault!

  He removed his helmet, the better to breathe in the musty stairwell. It galled his soul to leave the fortress in the hands of the enemy, but a wise commander knew when to execute a judicious retreat. Immortality stretched before him; there would be time enough to retaliate later. For now, it was more important that the Elders of the coven escape to his estate outside Buda. I will return with a fresh army of Death Dealers, he vowed, and make Lucian and his rabble pay for this atrocity, even if I have to burn down every forest in Eastern Europe!

  The block-and-tackle still hung suspended from the ceiling. Viktor took hold of the dangling chain, intending to slide down the cable to the waiting skiff. But before he could dismount from the steps, iron links snapped apart above him—and the chain plummeted down into the abysmal waters far below. He heard Tanis yelp in alarm as the chain splashed beneath the waves. The skiff pulled away from the dock, leaving the Elder behind. Viktor stared in surprise at his empty hands. He looked up the steps.

  What in blazes?

  Lucian pounced from the upper landing, alighting onto the stair only a few steps above Viktor. Pure animal hatred flared in his cobalt eyes. He growled like the wild animal Viktor had always treated him as. He tossed away a broken link of chain.

  I have you now! he gloated. Did you truly think you could escape me?

  Viktor met Lucian’s murderous glare with one of equal loathing. Yanking his sword from its scabbard, he hurled himself up the stairs at his lycan nemesis. Their swords clashed loudly in the flickering torchlight. Frightened bats fled their roosts. Mice scurried away in panic.

  The intensity of the Elder’s attack staggered Lucian, forcing him backward up the steps. Sparks flew as tempered steel blades collided with preternat
ural force. The dueling swords engaged in a heated conversation, exchanging deadly thrusts and ripostes in a blur of motion. This was more than just a battle to the death. Their mutual hatred raised the stake beyond mere survival as each man held the other accountable for their broken hearts.

  “You defiled my daughter,” Viktor hissed.

  Lucian refused to take the blame for Sonja’s death. Parrying an angled cross from Viktor’s broadsword, he launched a furious counterattack that slammed against the Elder’s defenses like a hammer striking an anvil. “She was your daughter!”

  “I did what needed to be done!” Viktor declared without remorse. He sneered at Lucian across their interlocked swords. Bitterness sprayed from his lips. “How did you think this would end?”

  Not like this! Lucian thought. Not for Sonja! A glancing blow from Viktor reopened one of the arrow wounds on his shoulder. Hot blood streamed down his arm, making the grip of his sword wet and sticky. Raw anguish frayed his voice. “I loved her!”

  “You killed her!” Viktor spat.

  The accusation fanned the flames of Lucian’s wrath like the bellows of his forge. The searing memory of Sonja burning alive before his eyes, her charred skin flaking away while she shrieked in agony, stoked his rage into an all-consuming blaze. Abandoning all caution and restraint, he hacked at Viktor like a maniac, driving the Elder back down the stairs. Viktor’s foot slipped upon the mildewed steps. The tip of Lucian’s sword sliced his cheek, drawing blood. Viktor’s hand went to his face as he fought back against Lucian’s feverish assault. A crimson smear glistened upon his metal gauntlet. It was, perhaps, the first time in untold centuries that Viktor had been wounded in battle.

  His face curdled in disgust. He gave Lucian a withering look. “I should have crushed your skull under my heel when you were born.”