04 - Rise of the Lycans (3 page)

Why must I be so cursed? I never asked for this!

But despite his prayers, the moonlight found him out. A beam of cold white light slashed his arm and the slender limb turned
dark and sinewy. His splayed fingers degenerated into claws. His bare skin
thickened, becoming coarse and leathery. Muscles rippled across his back as his
youthful frame seemed to absorb weight and substance from the moonlight, growing
larger and more imposing. Bristling black fur erupted from beneath his febrile
hide. Dark hair spread over his body, hiding his nakedness beneath a thick sable
pelt. Bony talons scraped at the damp stones beneath the straw. His vision
blurred, the color fading from his sight as the dungeon around him dissolved
into fuzzy shades of gray. Tufted ears twitched atop his skull. His nostrils
quivered, suddenly alive to myriad new smells. He choked on the overwhelming
stench of dungeons, even as he bit back the howl forming at the back of his
throat.

No!
He fought against the almost irresistible urge to give voice to the
beast. A canine snout stretched out his face. His clamped his protruding jaws
together.
I’m not an animal! Not inside!

But on the outside, it was a different story. The wrenching pain passed away
as the hellish transformation reached its end. Little trace of the gawky youth
remained; instead a great black werewolf arose from the filthy straw, standing
erect on his hind legs. Moonlight bathed the enormous monster Lucian had become.
He stared in revulsion at his own misshapen paws.

This isn’t me,
he tried to convince himself.
Not truly.

Ordinarily, the worst of Lucian’s ordeal would be over now. In the past,
Viktor had simply kept him securely locked up on the nights of the full moon. But tonight would be
different. Lucian found himself torn between apprehension and a strange,
shameful excitement that he was scarcely willing to acknowledge, even to
himself. His ears perked up at the sound of multiple footsteps plodding toward
his cell. He licked his chops in nervous anticipation as his glowing cobalt eyes
peered through the bars of the cage. Drool dripped from his jaws.

Within minutes, a dismal procession came into view. Flickering torchlight
revealed a row of human serfs being prodded toward the cell by armored Death
Dealers. Iron shackles bound their hands and feet. Filthy rags barely covered
their undernourished bodies, many of which bore the marks of the vampires’
whips. Lice infested their unkempt hair and beards. Heads bowed meekly, more
than a dozen men and boys were herded like cattle through the fetid bowels of
the dungeon. Their bare feet trudged wearily over the uneven stones. Captured in
war, or sold into bondage by their feudal lords, they had no idea of what lay in
store for them… until they glimpsed the fearsome werewolf waiting hungrily
in his cage.

Screams erupted from the prisoners, threatening to unleash pandemonium.
Lashes cracked against mortal skin, flaying flesh from bone, as the vampires
brutally restored order and continued to press the unfortunate mortals toward
Lucian. The helpless serfs whimpered and begged for mercy, but their frantic
pleas fell upon deaf ears. Tears streamed from their eyes, and sobbing fathers
clutched their children, as the lead Death Dealer unlocked Lucian’s cage. The barred door swung open.

Lucian was tempted to make a break for it, to take advantage of his wolfen
strength and speed to flee what was to come, but he knew that the Death Dealers
would strike him down if he made the slightest move to exit his cell. Or was
that just an excuse to remain where he was? As much as he hated to admit it,
part of him didn’t want to go anywhere, not now. The smell of fresh human meat
tantalized his nostrils. His mouth watered at the sight of the savory mortals.

The captain of the Death Dealers, a dark-haired vampire named Sandor, laughed
harshly. “Feeding time, cur!”

A loutish peasant was yanked from the procession and shoved into Lucian’s
cage. Shrieking hysterically, the man fought his captors every inch of the way,
but his mortal thews were no match for the superior strength of the Death
Dealers, who chuckled as they cast him to his fate. The trembling serf found
himself trapped between the merciless vampires behind him and the horrifying
werewolf looming before him. Convinced that his end was upon him, he prayed
fervently to the saints while wringing his hands in despair. He squeezed his
eyes shut, not wanting to look upon his doom. His scarred body shook like a
leaf. He lost control of his bladder. His bowels emptied.

“Mother of God, have mercy upon my poor soul….”

The man’s manifest terror stirred Lucian to pity, but it was not in his power
to spare the stranger this ordeal.

Viktor held the reins of all their destinies and what the Elder had ordained
must now come to pass. Lucian wished he could offer the anguished serf some
words of comfort, yet his hideous new shape denied him the luxury of human
speech. The growl that issued from his muzzle did nothing but make the condemned
prisoner shudder even harder. The only merciful thing, Lucian realized, was to
be quick about it….

He lunged forward and sank his fangs into the peasant’s shoulder. Blood
gushed from the werewolf’s jaws. The prisoner screamed in agony. The
intoxicating flavor of the bloody meat filled Lucian’s mouth as he tasted human
flesh for the first time. His heart pounded in exultation. His mind reeled.

It took all his self-control not to tear the man to pieces….

Viktor observed the grisly spectacle as, one by one, the shackled prisoners
were led forward to receive the werewolf’s bite. He gazed down at the
proceedings through a metal grate covering the top of Lucian’s cage. Death
Dealers dragged the wounded slaves away from the werewolf once they were bitten.
Metal collars, of singular design, were clamped around the victims’ necks.
Silver spikes, each more than an inch long, jutted from the inner lining of the
collars, so that the tips of the spikes almost pricked the prisoners’ skin.
Writhing in pain, the bleeding men and women barely noticed the “moon shackles”
being affixed to their throats. An intricate locking mechanism ensured that they
would wear the collars for the rest of their lives. Branding irons marked their arms
with an ornate capital
V.
The smell of seared flesh wafted upward.

Excellent,
Viktor thought.
All is going just as I decreed.

He was pleased to see that, thus far, Lucian had resisted the temptation to
devour the hapless mortals whole. The orphan’s discipline and willingness to
follow orders boded well for the future of this entire enterprise. Viktor could
only hope that his spawn would prove equally docile.

“Behold,” the Elder said smugly. “The birth of a new race of immortals.
Werewolf, but also human.” No doubt many of the bitten serfs would die from the
infection, but Viktor trusted that enough of them would survive the
transformation to suit his purposes; if not, he would simply have to throw more
humans between Lucian’s gaping maw. “Unlike William’s kind, this new breed can
be harnessed to guard us during the daylight hours.”

It had long been a source of concern to Viktor and the other Elders that the
fortress was vulnerable by day, as not even the fiercest Death Dealer could
withstand the burning rays of the sun. What if their mortal vassals rose up in
insurrection, or a hostile pack of werewolves ventured forth after dawn? The
castle’s remote location and high stone walls provided a degree of security
against such incursions, but he had always feared that these defenses were not
sufficient. Viktor had been a veteran military commander even before Marcus made
him immortal, and he knew full well that no fortress was truly impregnable.
Indeed, he had razed more than few castles himself.

“Or so we hope, milord,” his companion added cautiously. Andreas Tanis, the
coven’s chief scribe and historian, stood beside Viktor upon the grille. He was
a slight man, with the deceptive look of a mortal in his mid-thirties. His mousy
brown hair was slicked back to expose a high forehead. A slightly florid tinge
to his face hinted at an overindulgence in mortal blood. His black brocaded
doublet and satin hose were of lesser quality than Viktor’s own regal attire,
but the rich fabrics and fine tailoring befitted his elevated status in the
coven. No warrior, he was a vampire of scholarly inclinations and distinctly
hedonistic vices. Still, Viktor valued his keen mind and loyalty—to a point.

“You doubt me?” he said crossly, annoyed at the scribe’s apparent lack of
enthusiasm. A scowl crossed his face. “You question my judgment in this matter?”

“Not at all, Lord Viktor.” The chastened scribe hastened to mollify his
liege. “I trust your profound wisdom implicitly.” Backing away from the Elder,
he nodded at the gruesome transactions taking place below them. He raised his
voice to be heard over the screams of the future lycans. “I’m just not certain
that I entirely trust
them
.”

Two hundred years later…

The horsewoman raced through the dark, primeval forest. The hooves of her
ebony steed pounded against a muddy dirt road as she urged it onward. Skeletal
trees, their jagged branches denuded by winter’s chill, snatched at her flapping
black cloak. Moonlight filtered through the dense arboreal canopy overhead.
Swirling mist blanketed the ground. Inky shadows filled the gaps between the
encroaching trees and underbrush. The trail winded through a maze of naked oaks
and beeches. Grayish lichen clung to the mottled bark.

Sonja’s eyes searched the sylvan shadows, fearful of what they might hide.
Polished black armor, handcrafted to fit her svelte figure, gleamed in the
moonlight. Intricate runes and rosettes were embossed upon her ebony cuirass and
gorget, which she wore over a chain mail gusset, skirt, and leggings. Forged
metal plates guarded her shoulders and knees. A menacing steel helmet concealed her
features. A matching shaffron and crinet shielded her horse’s head and neck.
Steam jetted from the steed’s flaring nostrils. Lather dripped from its sides.

“Easy, Hecate,” Sonja whispered to her mount. She drew back on the reins and
the horse skidded to a halt. Trees lined like the narrow road like the columns
of some forgotten temple. The crisp night air smelled of damp wood and loam.
Every sense alert to danger, she looked about her in all directions. She
listened tensely to the nocturnal murmurs of the forest. Unseen animals rustled
through the bush and bracken. An owl hooted in the branches above her. Bats
flapped in the darkness. A cold wind shuffled the fallen leaves hidden beneath
the fog. Sonja held her breath, every muscle in her lithe body primed for
action. Her tongue traced the smooth contours of her fangs.

No obvious threat presented itself, and yet…

A savage howl tore through the night, sending a thrill of terror down her
spine. Glancing back over her shoulder, she glimpsed large dark shapes
skittering through the canopy behind her, bounding from tree to tree. Flocks of
crows, abruptly roused from slumber, flapped noisily as they took to the sky in
panic. Hecate reared up onto her hind legs, almost throwing Sonja from the
saddle. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly. It whinnied in fright.

Hellfire!
Sonja cursed herself for her recklessness as she struggled to
bring the agitated mount under control. Her father had often warned her against
riding alone at night, yet the desire to escape the claustrophobic confines of the
castle, as well as the stifling proprieties and expectations that came with
being an Elder’s daughter, had driven her to ignore his advice on more than one
occasion. Tonight, it seemed, she had tempted fate once too often.
I’ll not
hear the end of this… should I be lucky enough to survive.

Drawing her sword from its scabbard, she dug her spurs into Hecate’s flanks.
The horse sprung forward without hesitation, no doubt as eager to flee as Sonja
was. She held on tightly to the reins with one hand as they galloped swiftly
through the foggy woods. The silver-plated blade caught the moonlight. Silver
stars glinted upon its ornately crafted hilt. Greedy branches grabbed at Sonja,
making her grateful for the helm protecting her face. She ducked beneath an
overhanging branch only seconds before it took her head off. A fallen log
blocked their path, but Hecate vaulted over the obstacle with ease. Sonja’s
heart pounded beneath her burnished steel breastplate. Cold vampiric blood raced
through her veins.

A chorus of blood-chilling howls erupted behind her as an entire pack of
werewolves dropped from the trees and bounded after her on all fours. Fierce
growls echoed through the lonely wilderness. Glancing back again, Sonja was
alarmed to see the wolves gaining on her. They tore up the trail at such
frightening speed that she doubted that her exhausted steed could long outpace
them. Tearing her eyes away from her rabid pursuers, she peered desperately
through the fog before her, hoping to catch sight of sanctuary.

If she could just make it back to the castle!

They burst from the woods into a rocky canyon. Gravel was heaped at the
bottom of steep granite, banks that rose sharply from both sides of the road.
Sonja braced herself for an ambush, which came upon her almost at once. A
snarling werewolf lunged at her from the right, its dagger-sized fangs and claws
extended toward her throat. Foam sprayed from the monster’s lips. Its cobalt
eyes blazed with carnivorous fury.

Not so fast!
she thought defiantly. Her own eyes shifted from brown to
azure. She slashed out at the beast with her sword, the silver blade cutting a
bloody gash across the werewolf’s chest. Roaring in pain, it somersaulted
backward, landing hard upon the floor of the canyon. Sonja smiled grimly behind
her helmet, but there was little time to savor her victory as a second werewolf
leapt at her from the left.