by J. S. Volpe
I understand why the Masters—why we—should find these developments so disturbing: No mortals have dared enter these dangerous lands for well over a century. Who, then, would be so bold as to venture into this brutal land with a rattling cart and whinnying horses? And who could be doughty enough to have penetrated so far into the Wilds without mishap? And was it only a coincidence that his, or her, or their path intersected Spiro’s? Has there been some plot afoot of which the Masters were uncharacteristically ignorant? A chilling thought.
But all will be well, I am sure. The Masters have thrived here for centuries, and will no doubt continue to do so for centuries to come. It will take more than an escaped servant and a fool with a cart to challenge the Masters’ centuries-old dominion in these lands.
* * *
The time has come. At twilight Andilaveris and Larissa, clad in black ceremonial robes, appear at the mouth of the Conduit and lead me into the castle. The other mortals watch from the doorways of their huts as I disappear into the shadows, leaving the village and my mortal life for the final time.
The Masters lead me through a door near the rear of the castle that no human I know has ever been allowed behind. On the other side is a flight of stone stairs descending into the heart of the rocky hill on which the castle stands. After proceeding down what seems like ten thousand steps, we come to a sturdy oaken door. Andilaveris opens it, and we enter a round stone chamber even larger than the Great Hall. The ceiling is invisible in the high shadows, though in the flickering light from the many black candelabra, I dimly perceive a balcony circling the room some twenty feet up. The wall below it is covered with intricate carvings depicting scenes from vampire history. In the center of the room is a circular stone dais, about fifteen feet in diameter and three feet high. Cryptic symbols have been cut into its surface, symbols I recall seeing in a section of The Book of the Lost World, which explained them to be letters from the ancient Kurzok Alphabet—Kurzok being one of the five secret languages of the vampires, languages reserved for the immortal undead, languages never spoken by a living being.
All the Masters are there—all save the four hunting Spiro. Their absence alarms me, as, I see, it alarms all those present. Worry clouds those pale faces.
Noticing my distress, Larissa leans toward me and whispers, “Do not fear. They shall surely arrive soon enough.” But her eyes refuse to meet mine, and I feel a bleak foreboding.
Andilaveris leads me to the dais, and he, Larissa, and another of the oldest Masters, a brawny fellow named Zeren, step onto it. I remain standing before it. The rest of the Masters, all wearing black robes, encircle this tableau.
“A mortal stands before us,” Andilaveris intones, his voice rolling and booming in the vast chamber, “a mortal who seeks to pass the gate of night and hunt beneath the moon. Shall he be permitted entry? Shall a lowly mortal be given the key to immortality? Who vouches for him?”
“I do,” says Larissa. “He is of us. His mortality is but an old skin he is ready to shed.”
All of this is ritual. They are reciting lines that were ancient before any of them were even born, and as I listen I can almost sense great gulfs of time stretching away all around us. I am leaving behind my anonymous existence to join a glorious, eternal lineage, its roots sunk deep in ages I cannot even imagine and its many branches unfurling toward a distant future equally unimaginable. A comforting feeling of fraternity overwhelms me, a feeling far stronger than anything I ever felt among the mortals. I blink back sudden tears.
“How can we be sure?” says Zeren. “How do we know he is not a spy from the sunlit realms seeking the means to our destruction?”
Though I know his words are only part of the ceremony, I suddenly feel a small chill of fear that I shall not be accepted after all, that some last-minute objection shall be raised, and after hearing it, all shall agree that I am unworthy.
But that will not happen. I shall ascend. I know it.
“There is but one way to be certain,” says Andilaveris. “Let the aspirant step forward, for none whose intentions are impure may join us here in the inner circle and survive.” He beckons me.
Without hesitation I step up onto the dais. The final moments of my mortality have come.
Andilaveris nods. “He is fit. But who shall do the deed? Who shall take the responsibility for unlocking the gate of night?”
“I shall,” says Larissa. She places her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. A smile flickers on her lips. “I—”
I hear a whirring sound from somewhere above and behind me, and a streak of silver flashes across my field of vision. It seems to pass through Larissa before striking the floor a dozen feet to my right.
Confused, I glance at the site of the impact and see an elaborate circular blade, a sort of steel ring with curling barbs lining its outer edge. It is embedded an inch in the stone floor and its annular body wobbles faintly, orange torchlight glinting on its surface with the movement.
“Ahhhh…” says Larissa. I look at her. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open. And then before my horrified gaze, her head topples from her neck, thuds heavily to the floor, and rolls a little before coming to rest with her face facing me. Her body crumples to the floor beside her head.
Her eyes dart wildly about before fixing on me. They are large and confused, as if she can’t understand what has happened and why her perspective has changed so drastically so quickly. Then her eyes lose focus, go dim, and cracks fan out across her flesh from the corners of her eyes and mouth. As the cracks spread and branch and intersect, her skin begins to flake, and then her flesh, her eyes, her muscles, all of it crumbles and collapses like ash from the burnt-out end of a log, leaving behind only a skull that has a gray, weathered look, as if it has lain there for centuries.
I sink to my knees before Larissa’s bones, my hands hovering over her skull, wanting to pick it up but not daring to further profane it, while all around me the Masters snarl and howl and prepare for war.
War comes, but I in my grief perceive only fragments of it. More whirrs follow, more silver flashes, and more vampires, including Zeren and Michael, are reduced to bones and a fine coating of dust on the floor. Next come yells and the ring of swords leaving their scabbards and the thump of bodies hitting stone. Shrieks. Screams. At one point I glance up and see Campielos racing toward a door at the south end of the room. Before he can reach it, a hand-ax whirls into view from behind me and decapitates him with uncanny accuracy. His dust joins that of countless others. My heads sinks once more to my lost beloved Larissa, whose beauty the world will never see again. The war rages on. Eventually the noise dies down except for the clang of steel on steel.
What finally detaches my gaze from the skull before me is Andilaveris’s voice off to my left spitting out one name: “Hull.”
I look up. The floor is littered with bones and dust and black cloaks. Mercifully, darkness shrouds much of it from view, for many of the candelabra have fallen and gone out. Aside from myself, only Andilaveris and Hull remain. They battle with swords, each lunging and dodging and parrying with superhuman speed and grace. As I watch them, wonder penetrates my shock and bereavement. How can Hull, who is only a man, move as fast as a Master? No, not as fast: faster. He moves so quickly that before my eyes and brain can process an action he has made, he is already three actions past it.
Whatever his secret, he outmatches Andilaveris, tricking him with a clever feint, then decapitating him with one swift sweep of his blade.
Hull surveys the room, sees me watching, and strides over to me.
He is hardly the tall, muscle-bound warrior I imagined. Instead he is of average height and, though muscular, his muscles are of the wiry sort. His blond hair is cropped short enough for his scalp to gleam beneath it. A jagged scar running down the right side of his face shines like wax in the remaining candlelight.
“You are safe now,” he says. His voice is softer and a touch higher-pitched than one would expect from such a man.
&
nbsp; Rage and hate and bitter amazement at his idiotic words flash into full fury within me, and moving as fast as I can, I spring to my feet and reach for his neck.
The next thing I know I am rebounding off the wall, my cheek flaring with pain from where he has punched me. I did not even see him move.
He walks over and stares down at me. The light is better here, and as I glare up at him from the floor, I see that he has more scars than I thought, though none as large as the one on the side of his face. I am glad that not all of his battles have been so one-sided. I am glad that those he has killed have marred him permanently.
“I know you do not think I am helping you,” he says. “But I am. I am freeing you.”
My rage returns, this time accompanied by a resurgence of grief and despair, and I grab at his legs. He easily sidesteps my clumsy assault. I rise, snarl, and fling myself at him. He bats me aside. Again and again I attack him. I know I cannot defeat him, but some part of me hopes he will kill me so that I might either join Larissa in whatever world exists beyond this one, or, if no such world exists, leave behind my pain and sorrow forever.
But he will not grant me that boon. He simply pushes me aside again and again like a grown man avoiding the blows of a toddler he does not wish to seriously harm. There is no malice in his eyes when he does so. But neither is there sympathy or pity. There is instead, barely discernible behind the controlled business-like blankness, a mild impatience, as if dealing with me, and perhaps with all mortals, is an irksome but necessary task, a dull addendum to his pursuit of vampires.
Finally I collapse to the floor, weeping. My tears moisten the ashes of those I am now forbidden to join.
“You will thank me one day,” he says.
I say nothing.
“Come with me outside,” he says. “I must free the others.”
I make no response. He watches me for a minute, then grunts and departs, leaving me alone to huddle in the dust and bones. Far away I hear doors booming open.
For a long time—I cannot say precisely how long; seconds seem like eons now that I have nothing left to live for—I remain kneeling, my gaze roving over the gray skulls, the gray dust, the gray stones. My tears have long since dried up. Only numbness remains.
Eventually I grow weary of seeing this bloodless abattoir, so I rise and plod up the stairs and out into the village.
Hull stands surrounded by the mortals of the castle. They look shocked, bewildered, overjoyed, wary. None look so miserable as I. I am truly alone here. My Masters are gone. Since I was not one of them, I remain alive. But since I had been marked by them, the other mortals shun me. I belong nowhere anymore.
As I approach the crowd, I spy Spiro standing beside Hull. I am not surprised. It all makes sense. Hull had no doubt been searching the Wilds for the missing vampires when he encountered Spiro, who led him straight here and will surely show him the way to Blackwell Castle and Thule Castle and all the others, and there is nothing I can do about it. If I flee to warn the other Masters, Hull will overtake me. If I kill Spiro to silence him, Hull will extract the same information from one of the other mortals. If I try to kill Hull, I will fail. I can do nothing except watch my world crumble into ruin.
Spiro sees me. Our eyes meet. I see happiness in his, a sort of satisfaction, a sense of purpose. What does he see in mine?
Whatever it is, it compels him to look away quickly. He is Hull’s pet now. Like a faithful hound, he will lead the mighty vampire hunter to the other castles. He has ascended; I have fallen.
* * *
We are leaving Merrimont now—a line of silent refugees trudging toward an unknown future.
Spiro leads us in the wagon. He knows the way to the nearest village and looks immeasurably proud of it. Hull remained behind in the castle, saying that he would catch up us soon.
What is he doing in there? Scouring the books, I suppose, hunting for information that might speed him on his self-appointed task. I imagine his mortal fingers leaving oily smudges on those dry white pages, and anger coils within me like a snake. I fantasize that he missed one of the Masters, that as he peruses one of the books, a shape creeps toward him from behind, unseen by his preoccupied gaze until it is far too late. In my mind’s eye I see him gasping as his blood is drained in greedy gulps, his hands clawing futilely at the marble-hard skin of his attacker…
A cry from Sinead O’Connor rouses me from my daydream. She has stopped walking and turned around, and now gapes stupidly at Merrimont, which is merely a black hulk against the star-thronged night sky.
A new star has joined the throng—red and flickering and impossibly bright. But it is no star. It is a fire in one of the tower windows of the castle. As I watch, transfixed, filled with horror as I now realize Hull’s reasons for remaining behind, more fires flare to life, more and more, until every visible window glows like a furnace. Tongues of flame lap at the edges of the windows. Driven by the wind, sprays of orange embers shoot into the sky like clouds of fireflies.
We stand watching—some, like me, with horror; others, like Spiro, with vindictive glee—until Hull rejoins us. He carries no books or other artifacts from the castle. Those things, like the Masters, like my dreams, are gone.
I think of all those books, all those ancient pages, all that valuable lore, lost forever at this sanctimonious mortal’s hands, and my anger grows too intense to be contained.
“Why?” I shriek at him. “Why couldn’t you leave us alone? What gives you the right?”
He looks startled for the first time since I met him, and that alone gladdens me and makes me feel as if I have struck him a blow, albeit a feeble one.
Hull shakes his head. “I realize that you have come to identify with your captors, that in fact you know no other life, but I assure you that freedom is always better than slavery. Gilded shackles are shackles still. Now march on! March on to freedom! To your new lives!”
Too weary and sickened to formulate a suitable rejoinder, I simply sneer at him and resume the march along with the others.
* * *
Our journey lasts six days, and for the most part we pass unmolested through the Wilds. The great size of our party no doubt dissuades most beasts from approaching us. Also, Hull has already eliminated many potential dangers; several times we pass fly-shrouded corpses sprawled beside the cart-path we follow. Among them are trolls, night-gaunts, giant rats, and even a now-rare velociraptor.
But our passage through the Wilds is not without incident. During the second night of our trek, black wolves with shining silver eyes attack those sleeping on the eastern edge of our camp. And on the afternoon of the fifth day, as we cross a crumbling stone bridge over one of the many streams that feed the mighty Wisting, we are set upon by two dozen amphibious bipeds with bulging eyes and slime-slick green skin that reeks of rotted logs. They wield crude spears and nets and attempt to drag those they have captured or killed down into the shadows beneath the bridge.
In both cases Hull fights the beasts off, though we lose seven of our party, including Buddha IX and Madonna XIX.
Appallingly, Hull forbids us to “waste” our time and energy burying our dead, for, as he puts it, “there is no grave so deep that the beasts of the Wilds will not violate it.” His callousness disgusts me. But what disgusts me more is how so many of my fellow mortals now unquestioningly obey him as if he were some kind of god. And they thank him for saving them from the wolves and the frog-people. They all but kiss his feet. Blind fools every one, they completely fail to grasp that they would not be in danger at all had Hull not driven them from their home.
Saved us? On the contrary, he has damned us all.
* * *
On the morning of the sixth day we see isolated cottages—ramshackle structures with thatched roofs and walls of mossy stone or warped wood. Scrawny chickens and pigs roam the patchy fenced-in fields, while from porches and windows the cottages’ residents, who appear as malnourished and dirty as their livestock, watch us with unconcealed
suspicion and hostility. At one cottage a toothless old woman with an enormous wart on her left cheek croaks at us: “Keep movin’! Keep movin’! There’s no stoppin’ here, ye grimy vagabonds!” The hypocrisy of this dirt-caked harridan calling us grimy would be laughable were it not so infuriating.
Gradually the cottages and their gawking inhabitants become more numerous, and late in the afternoon we arrive at a town. It is at least ten times the size of our village at Merrimont, and many of us ogle it with awe. Not I. I see how much dirtier it is. I see the sullen, beaten-down looks on the faces of its residents. I see the complete absence of any art or culture that is not childishly crude. There are only tottering homes and decrepit mills and shops selling life’s most basic necessities. I see no books or fine clothes or fine craftsmanship anywhere. I see no smiles. I see no joy.
We stop in front of a building larger than the rest, right in the center of town. It is squat and broad and built of poorly made bricks. Though no sign identifies it, I divine immediately that it is the seat of what passes for a local government.
After a short wait the front door opens and a middle-aged man strides out to greet us. Like the building, he is squat and broad, and he sports muttonchop whiskers on his round, ruddy face. He is dressed much more nicely than any other mortal we have seen—the tails of his dark-blue coat are as straight and sharp as pennants, his gray vest fits comfortably over the swell of his belly, his black boots have recently been polished—but even so, his attire looks shabby compared with the Masters’ finery of silk and velvet and leather.
“Good day,” he says to Hull. I see both irritation and fear in the look he gives the vampire slayer. Then, turning his attention to us, he spreads his arms in welcome and puffs out his chest in self-importance.