04 - Rise of the Lycans (4 page)

The creature’s powerful forequarters slammed into Hecate’s side, knocking
both horse and rider into the canyon wall. The impact jarred Sonja to her bone
and threw Hecate off her stride, but, to her vast relief, the horse recovered
from its stumble and kept on running, even as the determined werewolf climbed up
its side toward Sonja. Its frothing jaws snapped at her back—until she buried
her steel-shod elbow into the beast’s mouth, breaking several of its teeth. The
move bought her a precious moment, which was all she needed to flip her sword
into a backhanded grip. She drove the blade through the wolf’s skull with all
her strength, then yanked it back out again. The slain beast tumbled to the
ground, throwing up a plume of pulverized dust and rock. Hot blood streamed from the claw marks upon Hecate’s flanks.

Sonja didn’t look back. Instead she squinted through the fog to see yet
another werewolf racing to intercept her. The monster was several yards away
from her but closing fast. It seemed to grow before her eyes as it charged at
her like a shaggy black thunderbolt. Sonja realized she had to move fast if she
wanted to avoid another battle at close quarters. Despite her thick metal
gauntlets, her nimble fingers found a concealed latch on the guard of her sword.
She released the latch, freeing the two shining silver stars cradled in the
hilt. Steel points radiated from the miniature pentagrams.

In a practiced motion, she swung the sword at the oncoming werewolf. The
stars spun along the edge of the blade before flying past the sword point as
though propelled by a slingshot. They whistled through the air to strike the
werewolf in its head and shoulders. Their keen edges, which had been honed to
razor sharpness, sank deep into the monster’s hide and the beast yelped in
agony. Acrid white fumes rose where the toxic silver burned the wolf’s flesh. It
crashed to the ground directly in the path of the speeding horse.

Thank you, Tanis,
Sonja thought. Although she had little respect for the
sniveling scribe, whom she regarded as both a toady and a lecher, she had to
concede that his ingenuity had it uses. The built-in throwing stars had been his
idea.

Proving her valor, Hecate vaulted over the convulsing werewolf, who clutched
frantically at the poisonous missiles with its clumsy paws. Sonja left the writhing monster in the dust as the horse’s hooves thundered against the
ground. The opaque fog swallowed up the downed creature.

But not, alas, the rest of the pack, who were in no way ready to abandon the
hunt….

The shadowy crypt was the slowly beating heart of the coven. The cavernous
stone mausoleum was built into one side of the castle, buried halfway beneath
the ground. Granite ribs supported the high domed ceiling. Flickering torches
sputtered in their sconces. Green stained-glass windows occupied recessed niches
in the upper tiers of the walls. Granite steps led down to the sunken lower
level, where three burnished bronze disks were embedded in the marble floor. A
concentric pattern of overlapping Celtic runes surrounded the circular hatches,
each of which was engraved with a single letter:
A
for
Amelia, M
for
Marcus,
and
V
for
Viktor.

Viktor wondered what his fellow Elders were dreaming of as they took their
turns hibernating beneath the earth. Hallowed tradition dictated that only one
Elder ruled over the coven each century, the better to avoid the internecine
power struggles that had threatened to tear them apart in the early history of
the vampire kind. At times Viktor envied Marcus and Amelia as they slumbered
peacefully in their respective sarcophagi, cut off from the petty annoyances
that plagued him these days. He often visited the crypt to be alone with his
thoughts.

But sometime his troubles found him anyway.

“The nobles are upset, milord,” Coloman insisted. A member of the high council, the undead boyar had intruded upon the Elder’s
meditations with yet another dreary litany of grievances. The man’s lean face
bore a habitually disapproving expression. His dark brown hair was gray at the
temples. He wore a crisp black leather doublet over a high-necked black satin
robe. Bronze medallions reflected his rank. “Although William himself is locked
away for all eternity his pestilence has not been checked. Marauding packs of
werewolves have killed our vassals’ slaves….”

“Humans upset,” Viktor said archly. Smirking, he placed a hand over his
heart. “Tanis, please take note of the pain that brings me.”

The scribe dutifully scribbled the Elder’s remark onto a piece of parchment.
He stood attentively at Viktor’s side, the better to preserve his master’s
thoughts for eternity. So ubiquitous was the scholarly vampire that Viktor often
forgot he was there.

Coloman ignored Viktor’s sarcastic tone. “Perhaps, milord. Yet their lost
slaves mean our lost silver.”

“Enough!” Viktor barked. The man’s effrontery bordered on insolence. One of
Marcus’ favorites, Coloman had long been a thorn in Viktor’s side. He would
have banished the man centuries ago had Coloman not enjoyed the other Elder’s
protection. “Have I not increased our holdings tenfold since Marcus and Amelia
took their sleep?” He sat down upon an imposing stone throne overlooking the
crypt. “We will deal with the wolves as we always have.”

But his confident assertion was belied by a sudden howl that penetrated even
the gloomy recesses of the crypt. Viktor and his minions looked up in alarm. A warning horn sounded from the ramparts many stories above them. A second
howl, even louder than the first, added to the clamor.

The baying seemed to come from right outside the castle walls.

Sparks flew from the anvil as Lucian hammered out the dents in a damaged iron
breastplate. The white-hot metal, which he had heated to incandescence in the
nearby forge, was molded by his skillful blows. A pair of long metal tongs held
the molten armor in place. Bell-like tones pealed whenever the hammer tapped the
thin steel plate welded to the face of a large wrought-iron anvil, which sat
atop the stump of a hewn elm tree. Lucian held the metal firmly against the
anvil’s horn in order to curve it just so. Singed leather hides enclosed his
smithy, the better to shield the rest of the castle from the sparks thrown off
by his work. A large barrel of brine waited to cool and temper the metal once he
was through pounding it back into shape. Horseshoes were draped over the rim of
the tub. The smell of burning charcoal rose from the glowing forge. Pokers,
rakes, shears, and other tools were scattered haphazardly about the shop.
Droplets of molten slag cooled upon the rough stone floor. Racks of swords,
pikes, halberds, and battle-axes lined the walls. Smoke from the forge escaped
through a gap in the smithy’s cracked stone roof. A thin layer of soot and ash
covered both shop and blacksmith alike.

He paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow. No longer a youth, Lucian
had grown into a strapping adult whose sooty face now sported a scruffy mustache and beard. Disorderly
brown hair fell past his shoulders. A leather vest bared his muscular chest and
arms. Sweat glistened upon his sinewy thews, which had been strengthened by
years of toil as a blacksmith. A moon shackle fit uncomfortably around his neck,
but he had worn the collar for so long that he barely noticed the vicious silver
barbs pricking his throat. Viktor’s brand remained seared onto his right biceps.
Leather trousers protected his lower body from sparks and slag. A crude copper
knife was tucked into his belt.

A tankard of lukewarm water slaked his thirst before he turned back to his
labors. The work of a blacksmith was never done. Just keeping Viktor and his
Death Dealers armed and armored was a never-ending task in its own right; add to
that the necessity of maintaining the castle’s stock of horseshoes, hinges,
barrel hoops, stirrups, nails, thimbles, and the like and there were scarcely
enough hours in the day to keep up with his work. Still, he couldn’t complain.
As a skilled artisan, he enjoyed more freedom than any other lycan servant, most
of whom were confined to guard duty or back-breaking manual labor. Given his
barbaric origins, he was fortunate to have climbed so high.

Not that Viktor can’t revoke my privileges at the slightest whim….

The heated metal was already cooling from white to sunrise red. It was still
workable, but he needed to get back to work before it became too brittle to
shape. Before he could hammer another blow, however, the unmistakable howl of a werewolf invaded his smithy. Despite himself, the call
of the wild stirred something deep and primal within him. Moments later, the
clarion call of a blast horn competed with the baying of the wolves. Shouted
exclamations and curses sounded from the courtyard outside the smithy. Racing
footsteps pounded on weathered brick paving-stones.

Lucian froze in place, momentarily riveted by the howls and commotion. Was
the castle truly under attack? This was not the first time in recent memory that
werewolves had come within sight of the fortress’ walls, yet it struck Lucian
as extremely unlikely that they actually intended to brave the castle’s
defenses; no mere wolf pack, no matter how ferocious, could mount a coordinated
assault on so formidable a stronghold. They were nothing but unreasoning
animals, after all, who preferred to prey on peasant villages and stray
travelers instead. Surely, they posed no threat to anyone safely inside the
castle’s walls?

Then he remembered who was riding abroad this night.

Lady Sonja!

His hammer and tongs clattered to the pavement as he tossed them aside.
Moving quickly, he snatched a freshly repaired crossbow from the racks. The
cunning weapon boasted three separate bow arms, stacked atop each other, so that
it could fire thrice without reloading. He hastily loaded three bolts into the
grooves and raced out of the covered smithy into the courtyard beyond.

The inner bailey lay between the outer walls and the looming keep, which had
been carved from the very face of the mountain, with many ledges, balconies, and levels hewn from solid
granite and limestone. To lessen the risk of a catastrophic fire, Lucian’s
smithy abutted the eastern wall of the castle, safely distant from the keep and
stables. A nearby well offered him ready access to fresh water. Pigs squealed
loudly in their pens. Glancing quickly at the gatehouse, Lucian saw that the
huge oak doors defending the gate were securely closed and bolted. Torches
flared atop the watchtowers.

Scores of Death Dealers rushed to the castle’s defense, while courtiers,
craftsmen, grooms, laundresses, and scullions retreated to the safety of the
keep. Shouts and screams added to the chaos. A vampire lady-in-waiting sought
reassurance from a rushing Death Dealer, who impatiently brushed her aside.
Lycan slaves cowered in the corners of the courtyard, lest they attract the
vindictive attention of the intemperate Death Dealers; two hundred years of
bondage had not freed the castle’s lycan servitors from guilty associations with
their more savage brethren. More soldiers poured from the gatehouse atop the
outer wall of the fortress. Caught unawares by the emergency, many of them
scrambled to don their armor and helmets as they took their positions upon the
palisade. Frantic chickens flapped and clucked underfoot. A clamor arose from
the stables as agitated horses whinnied and stomped their hooves. Captain Sandor
barked commands at his troops.

Frustrated by the disorder blocking his path, Lucian sprang over the heads of
startled knights and civilians. Lycan strength and agility propelled him from
ledge to ledge as he traversed the crowded courtyard in a matter of moments. A
single bound carried him from the floor of the bailey to the roof of the dovecote. A final leap catapulted him
onto the ramparts overlooking the rocky plain at the base of the mountain.
Unnoticed amidst the tumult, he slid into place at an archer’s port between two
dense stone merlons. All around him, zealous Death Dealers manned the massive
ballistas deployed atop the battlements. Each siege bow required two soldiers to
operate and was mounted upon a swiveling base that could be rotated in any
direction. Bolts the size of lances waited to be launched at an enemy to
devastating effect. Large mechanical windlasses were employed to draw back the
taut cables attached to the bow arms. In times of war, the ballistas could
impale dozens of attacking soldiers at once, or perhaps bring down a catapult or
siege tower. They’d killed more than a few werewolves, as well.

Lucian hefted his own crossbow. Although only a fraction of the size of the
enormous siege weapons, it might suffice if his aim was true. He held his breath
as his keen senses probed the fog-shrouded darkness stretching before him. Was
that the thunder of hooves he heard in the distance, above the cacophonous
baying of the wolves? He prayed that the racing steed still bore its illustrious
rider toward safety. Fighting an urge to leap from the parapet to see for
himself, he focused intently on the sound of the oncoming hooves. His finger
tightened on the trigger of the crossbow.

Where are you, milady?

An endless moment later, his patience was rewarded by the sight of a solitary
horsewoman galloping out of the mist. A gasp of relief escaped his lips as he
saw that she seemed to be in one piece, at least for the moment. Her steed was
obviously straining, though. Lather soaked its quivering flanks and he could
hear the horse’s labored breathing even from half a mile away. Steam jetted from
the charger’s nostrils. Lucian had shod Hecate himself and he could only hope
that the panting horse would not throw a shoe before it reached the castle’s
looming gates.

If
it even got that far. Horrified cries came from the knights upon the
walls as three snarling werewolves burst from the fog in pursuit of the
horsewoman and her faltering steed. Bounding across the plain, their blazing
eyes burning through the fog, the hungry beasts quickly ate up the distance
separating them from their intended prey. It was obvious to all who watched that
they would surely bring down the fleeing rider at any moment. Sonja brandished a
crimson sword above her head, suggesting that she had already drawn blood from
her voracious foes, but could she stand alone against the entire pack?