04 - Rise of the Lycans (6 page)

Studded leather harnesses were strapped to the slaves’ hairy chests, while
fraying wool trousers satisfied the demands of decency. Moon shackles pricked
their necks, keeping their inner wolves safely caged. The brands upon their arms
bore the initials of one of the three vampire Elders; Marcus and Amelia had
embraced with enthusiasm Viktor’s idea of turning the lycans into slaves, so
that each of them now claimed equal portions of the breed as their personal
property. The slaves’ eyes bore the numbed, hopeless look of men whose futures
held nothing but an eternity of endless toil. Immortality for such as these was
not a blessing but a curse.

A shaggy blue-eyed laborer, who had been christened Xristo by his masters,
looked near the limits of his endurance. Gasping in exhaustion, he chipped away
at a crumbling wall with a pickax in order to clear a space for the replacement
stones. Perspiration dripped from his light brown bangs and he lowered his pick
long enough to wipe the sweat from his eyes. He leaned his muscular frame up
against a wooden ramp as he paused to catch his breath.

This did not sit well with Kosta, the sadistic overseer in charge of the project. Unforgiving gray eyes glared at Xristo from
beneath heavy black brows. A long white scar, left over from his mortal days,
ran down one side of his grizzled face, which gave him the look of a mortal in
his late fifties. His stiff gray hair was cropped close to his skull. Jet-black
plate armor added to his intimidating aspect. Frown lines were etched deeply
into his saturnine countenance. The sneer on his lips made it clear that he
despised his lycan charges nearly as much as they hated and feared him.

His fist tightened on the grip of a thick leather whip. Silver glinted at the
tip of the whip as he cracked it loudly against Xristo’s face. The lash opened a
deep cut in the lycan’s cheek. The pickax crashed against the rubble as Xristo
cried out in pain and clutched his face. Blood seeped through his dirty fingers.

Lucian winced in sympathy. He knew Xristo casually, as he knew most of the
lycans in the castle.
He didn’t deserve that,
he thought angrily.

The other lycans backed away from their bleeding comrade, averting their eyes
from the ugly spectacle. Kosta was infamous for his harsh ways and short temper;
rumor had it his only son had been killed by a werewolf centuries ago and he had
been taking out his grief and bitterness on the lycans ever since. None wanted
to share Xristo’s punishment.

Lucian couldn’t blame the other slaves. If he was smart, he would follow
their example.
Stay out of this,
he cautioned himself.
It’s none of
your affair.

“Lazy mongrel!” Kosta snarled. “You’ll rest when I tell you to… and not
before!”

He raised the lash to administer another vicious blow. Before he could crack
the whip again, however, a strong arm seized hold of his wrist.

“That’s enough,” Lucian said.

Kosta erupted in fury. Spittle sprayed from his lips as he yanked his hand
free from Lucian’s grip. “You dare raise your hand to me?”

He drew his sword.

Lucian refused to back down. He realized he was taking his life in his hands,
but he wasn’t about to let this brute flay Xristo to the bone for no reason. His
dark eyes burned as hot as his forge. “I said, that’s enough.”

Kosta swung his sword at Lucian’s neck, and for an instant, the blacksmith
expected his head to go flying across the courtyard. He had heard tales of
severed heads that had lived for a heartbeat or two after being chopped off.
Would he survive long enough to see his own decapitated body crumple to the
ground?

The sword halted at the last moment, coming to rest against Lucian’s jugular.
The edge of the blade pressed against his skin, just above his leather collar.
The touch of the sword reminded him of the silver spikes forever pressing
against his throat, but the threat it posed was far more immediate. Lucian was
only too aware that Kosta could end his life with just a flick of his wrist. He
thought briefly of the knife in his belt but knew better than to draw it.
Pulling a knife on a vampire was a sure invitation to death by torture.

The sneering vampire searched Lucian’s face for the fear he expected, but the
blacksmith refused to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t even flinch. Groveling for mercy would do
nothing to soften the heart of a heartless bastard like Kosta, so why bother? If
he was to die this night, Lucian resolved, he would at least do so with some
vestige of his pride intact.

Like a man, not an animal.

Disappointment flickered across Kosta’s face. Snorting in disgust, he drew
the sword away and returned it to his hip. “The master’s dog,” he growled at
Lucian.

Apparently, he didn’t think killing Lucian was worth risking Viktor’s
displeasure. Lucian wasn’t quite sure that Viktor would truly be that unhappy if
he perished, especially after what had happened earlier this evening, but he
chose not to contradict Kosta.

“You will not always be his favorite,” the overseer warned. “And when you
fall, I will be there.”

“Let us hope so,” Lucian murmured under his breath. Peering past Kosta, he
was glad to see that Xristo had made himself scarce. With luck, the overseer’s
ire was now directed at Lucian alone, so that the other lycan would not receive
any more lashings tonight. Lucian could only hope that his foolish bravado had
done one poor soul some good, even as he suspected that he had just made a
lasting enemy of the brutal slavemaster.

At this rate, I’ll have offended the entire coven before the sun rises.

Kosta glared at Lucian, trying to read some hidden message of defiance in the
lycan’s words, then wheeled about and stormed away in high dudgeon. He barked
furiously at the milling slaves, who were doing their best to keep to the
shadows. Lucian wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught a few furtive looks of admiration from his fellow lycans.

“What are you looking at, you worthless curs!” Kosta raged. He cracked his
whip above their heads. “Back to work!”

As was tradition, the High Council had convened in the crypt of the Elders,
above the buried tombs of Marcus and Amelia. Viktor presided over the session
from an imposing granite throne. An ornate capital
V
was inscribed on the high
stone back of the throne. Stone-faced Death Dealers, as well as lycan sentries
in leather armor, stood stiffly around the perimeter of the mausoleum, as
immobile as the marble columns supporting the domed ceiling. The highborn lords
and ladies of the Council were seated facing the throne in two rows of six
chairs each. Embroidered pillows cushioned their high-backed seats. Burning
torches and braziers cast dancing shadows upon the somber gray walls. Mosaic
tiles, running around the base of the dome, depicted the history of the coven.
Capering skeletons symbolized the fearsome plague that had given birth to the immortals, while
subsequent panels celebrated the rise of the vampires, the capture of William,
and the ongoing war against the werewolves. Tanis stood beside Viktor,
transcribing the proceedings for posterity. His quill pen scratched against an
unrolled parchment. Looking out over the crypt, Viktor was irked to see that one
of the council members’ seats was conspicuously empty.

Damn that girl,
he thought impatiently.
Where in perdition is she now?

To add to his displeasure, Coloman had the floor:

“The matter before the Council is simple,” the troublesome boyar declared
from the center of the mausoleum. “We are under attack. Six times in half as
many weeks, William’s kind have reached our very walls.” He paused to let that
ominous figure sink into the minds of his peers. “What mayhem would follow if
just one of them got past our defenses?”

Hushed gasps and murmurs emerged from the Council as they envisioned that
appalling prospect. Not all of the castle’s diverse inhabitants were seasoned
warriors, after all; many of the more refined council members and their families
would stand no chance against an invading werewolf. Coloman smirked in
satisfaction at the audience’s response. He clearly felt that he had made his
point.

Viktor was not amused.

“Your…
fear…
is misplaced.” His acerbic tone called Coloman’s
courage into question. Viktor gestured at the lycan guards posted around the
chamber. Handpicked for their loyalty and intimidating stature, the sentries had been armed with swords and lances. “Are we not protected,
even during the daylight hours, by an army of immortals?”

Coloman bristled at the implication that he was a coward. “Superbly, milord.
However, the nobles of this region are not. And, as I have often pointed out,
they are the grass on which we graze.”

A well-preserved vampire lady, Orsova by name, rose from her seat to join
Coloman before the throne. Her silver hair was bound up in a bun. A black satin
corset cinched her waist. A diamond choker adorned her swanlike neck, while her
jeweled bracelets were fashioned in the shape of glittering cobwebs. “If we
cannot protect our human vassals, it makes us look weak.”

Viktor’s eyes flared dangerously. Orsova was also one of Marcus’ creatures,
so there was little love lost between her and Viktor. Rumor had it that,
perversely, she enjoyed the taste of her own blood as it circulated through the
veins of her various nubile maidservants. Viktor’s sharpened nails scraped
against the carved stone armrests of his throne. “And how exactly would you
project strength?”

“As our Death Dealers patrol the countryside by night,” Coloman proposed,
having plainly anticipated Viktor’s challenge, “so our lycan guards can patrol
by day.”

Viktor could not believe his ears. Incensed, he lurched to his feet. “Lycans
patrol beyond the walls of this castle? Unsupervised by their vampire masters?
Have you lost your mind?” He found it difficult to grasp how even Coloman could
not see the manifest insanity of such a proposal. “They are mere beasts, and the savagery of this
despicable fact cannot be bred away.”

As useful as their lycan slaves had proved to be, Viktor had no doubt that
even the most docile lycan would revert to barbarism if given half a chance.
Only strict control and constant discipline kept them in line. Coloman was a
naive fool if he thought otherwise.

“I think your
fear
of this idea is misplaced,” the boyar insisted. “We
can create a privileged class of lycans—greater rations, finer quarters, better
mating opportunities—and put them under the hand of a lycan we know we can
trust. Perhaps your pet, Lucian, the one who saved your daughter’s life earlier
tonight.” A sly smile lifted the corners of his thin lips. “In fact, I think we
should hear her thoughts in this matter.”

He made a production of turning dramatically toward Sonja’s empty seat. As
usual, the impetuous heir was nowhere to be seen.

Fuming, Viktor leaned over to whisper to Tanis.
“Find her.”

Coloman feigned surprise at Sonja’s absence. “Mmm. She seems to be needed
elsewhere.”

“I will… take your suggestion under advisement,” Viktor said icily. He
considered explaining away Sonja’s lack of attendance by citing her narrow
escape earlier that evening, but decided against it. That would simply provide
Coloman and his lackeys with an opportunity to remind the Council of Sonja’s
many previous absences. Better to offer no excuse or apology, lest that be taken
as a sign of weakness. Viktor maintained a stoic facade as Tanis quietly exited
the crypt in search of the missing heir. The Elder wondered what exactly his errant daughter was doing
right now.
She had best have a very good reason for embarrassing me like
this!

“Thank you, milord,” Coloman said, enjoying his victory. “It would be
gratifying to be able to reassure the nobles when they arrive tomorrow that we
have their best interests at heart.”

Viktor recalled that a delegation of wealthy human vassals was expected at
the castle one night hence, to pay tribute to their lords and masters. Frankly,
the best interests of insignificant mortals were of little concern to him, but
he conceded reluctantly that such rituals helped preserve the social order. He
would have to make certain that Sonja was on hand to welcome their guests—even
if he had to drag her physically from her room.

Dawn was only a few hours away when Lucian put down his hammer and tongs.
Steam rose from the slack tub as the brine cooled a red-hot sword blade that he
had just pounded into shape. The night was winding down and the castle was
already settling in to sleep the day away. Silence fell over the courtyard
outside as the construction efforts ceased for the evening; without any vampires
to oversee their labors, the exhausted lycan slaves were allowed a brief respite
until sunset the next day. Heavy drapes and shutters were drawn over the
castle’s windows, to protect the slumbering vampires from the burning rays of
the sun. Lycan sentries, often referred to as “daylight guardians”, would soon
replace the Death Dealers stationed upon the castle’s outer walls and watchtowers. If past history was any guide, most of
the vampire lords and ladies were even now retiring for the evening.

Finally!
Lucian thought. He wiped the soot and sweat from his face with a
tattered rag. The last few hours had dragged on interminably while he had waited
impatiently for this very moment. Drawing aside one of the heavy leather
curtains enclosing his smithy, he peeked out into the courtyard to see if anyone
was coming. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw that the courtyard was just as
quiet and deserted as he had hoped. The only sign of life was a scrawny kitchen
scullion darting back from the well with a fresh bucket of water. Lucian watched
as the boy disappeared back into the keep, leaving the inner bailey all but
deserted. No one would be coming in search of a blacksmith anytime soon.