04 - Rise of the Lycans (7 page)

Or so he prayed.

He looked about one last time, just to be certain that no one was watching,
then retreated to the rear of the smithy. The fire was dying in his furnace as
he crept around the back of the forge to where a scorched hide hung against the
eastern wall of the castle. A rusty metal grate was embedded in the floor.
Taking no chances, Lucian glanced back over his shoulder before kneeling beside
the grate. His fingers dug into the edge of the grille and pried it from the
floor, revealing the open mouth of a narrow drain. The malodorous reek of a
cesspit wafted up from below. He placed the grate aside, taking care not to bang
it against the wall or floor.

Lucian recalled an Arabian folk tale he had once heard from a Saracen trader.

Open sesame,
he thought.

The drain was intended to carry away the water Lucian used to douse his forge
at the end of the night, but Lucian had furtively worked the metal grate loose
some time ago. The chute beneath was barely wide enough to accommodate a grown
man, yet he managed to squeeze through the gap and slide down the sloping
passageway, which led to a maze of fetid drainage tunnels winding far beneath
the castle. Slime coated the clammy stone walls, which hemmed Lucian in as he
navigated the tight, constricting sewers. His lycan eyes needed a moment or two
to adjust to the near-total darkness, yet he did not hesitate. It would be easy
to get lost in this subterranean labyrinth, perhaps never to taste the open air
again, but Lucian had groped his way through these tunnels before; by now he
knew the route by heart. He waded confidently through the raw sewage, which
lapped sickeningly at his ankles. Algae floated atop the stagnant waters, whose
polluted contents did not bear thinking about. Heaps of human skulls and
scattered bones, tucked away in carved stone niches, revealed that these
catacombs had once been used to bury the castle’s dead; now that the immortals
resided within its walls, however, such funereal practices had long since been
discarded. Lucian suspected that he was the first person to explore these depths
in countless generations.

Rats scurried away from his approach. Something slithered past his leg.
Lucian kept his jaws tightly clenched, to try to keep from inhaling too much of the foul miasma filling
the air, but the reek of the sewers was inescapable. Not for the first time, he
wished there was a cleaner, less revolting way to get where he wished to go; no
civilized being would take this path unless he or she had a very compelling
reason to do so—which is exactly what Lucian had. His pace quickened at the
thought of what lay ahead. He would have gladly walked through hell itself if
need be.

Certain things were worth any risk.

Starlight filtered through a vertical crack in the wall ahead. The narrow gap
was barely wide enough to squeeze through sideways, and the rugged masonry
scraped across his back as he did so, but Lucian emerged from the drains to find
himself outside the castle walls. Peering upward, he saw the forbidding exterior
of the fortress looming above him. A cold winter breeze came as blissful relief
after the suffocating stench of the sewers. He filled his lungs with the crisp
mountain air. His hot breath frosted before his lips.

He was free—at least for the moment.

The open spaces, as well as the sight of the moonlit forest in the distance,
stirred something deep in his soul. His fingers tugged at the stinging collar
around his neck, which he had worn for two centuries now. Part of him was sorely
tempted to turn his back on the castle forever and seek out a new life in the
great wide world, far from the capricious whims of Viktor and his ilk. He could
be the captain of his own destiny. The master of his fate. But, no, that was
not the purpose of tonight’s outing. Instead he looked to the west where an
abandoned watchtower clung to a sheer cliff more than a hundred feet above the castle.
The ruins dated back centuries, to when the castle’s own walls and spires had
not yet risen to their present heights. A fire several generations later had
gutted much of the tower’s interior, and the Elders, by then securely ensconced
in their newly fortified stronghold, had not seen fit to repair it. No light
shown from the tower’s thin loop windows, or “murder holes”. The worm-eaten
remnants of a rickety wooden stairway led up a steep incline to the base of the
tower. Like the drainage tunnels, the stairway showed no sign of having been
used in ages.

At least not by the vampires…

Lucian advanced cautiously toward the stairs. He hugged the walls, keeping to
the shadows to avoid being spotted by the lookouts upon the ramparts. Neither he
nor any other lycan could expect any mercy should he be caught venturing outside
the castle walls; he would be lucky to avoid being skewered on the spot by a
harpoon fired by one of the siege crossbows above him. He knew that he was
taking a tremendous risk with every step he took.

But no power on earth could make him turn back now.

A wolf howled in the distance. Lucian froze. He swallowed hard. His hand went
to the knife at his belt. Had he worshipped the Nailed God, as the mortals did,
he would have been tempted to cross himself, but the denizens of Castle Corvinus
had long ago shed their faith along with their mortality. More wolves joined in
the howl. The atavistic baying reminded him that the Death Dealers were not the
only the danger he tempted tonight. Should he be caught outdoors by a pack of hungry werewolves, he
doubted that the castle’s guards would come to his rescue. In fact, they would
be happy to see him torn apart.

Thankfully, the howling sounded as though it was coming from many miles away.
Still, he remained frozen in place, barely breathing, until the baying finally
faded away. Only then did he venture up the trail leading to the old tower.
Shunning the dilapidated stairway, with its rotting wooden planks, he silently
scaled the rocky cliff face. His hands and feet found purchase in minute cracks
and outcroppings in a way that few mortals could have emulated. Gravity held no
terror for him, yet he lived in fear that at any moment a castle guard would
notice his ascent. Cold sweat glued his vest to his back. His ears waited
anxiously for an angry shout of alarm.

The climb lasted only moments but felt like an eternity. He bit back a sigh
of relief as he spied the entrance to the tower only a few yards away. A
moldering oaken door hung ajar, supported by only a single rusty hinge. Just
then, alas, a gust of wind blew away the clouds overhead. Moonlight flooded the
weathered stretch of cliff lying between him and the doorway, exposing it to the
clear view of the castle guards.

Lucian’s heart sank. He looked about anxiously for an alternative route into
the tower, but none presented itself. His eyes searched the skies for another
cloud, only to see nothing but the unforgiving glare of the moon. His fingers
ached from clinging to a shallow depression in the cliff as he realized he had
only two choices. He would have to abandon the shadows or turn back for the night.

Never!
he thought vehemently.
Not when I’m so close!

Mustering up his courage, he grabbed for the next handhold and scrambled
across the light as fast as inhumanly possible. If he moved quickly, perhaps
none of the sentries would notice him. The silvery lunar radiance seemed
impossibly bright. His mouth felt as dry as a desiccated corpse. In his haste,
he missed a hold and slid several inches down the face of the cliff before
grabbing onto a jutting stone bulge. For the moment, he dangled precariously
over the barren plain hundreds of feet blow, hanging onto the cliff by naught
but a finger or two, but he quickly regained his footing and scampered up the
side of the precipice until he finally reached the inviting black shadows of the
breached archway. He heaved himself past the askew door into the murky confines
of the gutted tower. Only once he was safely out of sight of the soldiers did he
breathe again. He panted in relief.

I made it!

The Lady Sonja’s personal quarters were located on the top floor of the keep,
only a few doors away from her father’s chambers. Tanis hurried down a drafty
corridor until he reached the thick oak door defending Sonja’s privacy. Faded
tapestries hung upon the hallway walls in hopes of keeping out the chill of the
night. Decorative suits of armors stood silent vigil. Mounted torches were
sputtering out as dawn approached.

He knocked hesitantly upon Sonja’s door, wishing Viktor had chosen someone else—anyone else—for this particular errand. The
nervous scribe had no illusions concerning Sonja’s opinion of him; he was well
aware that Viktor’s adventurous daughter regarded him with contempt. A warrior
woman like her late mother, she valued strength and courage, not guile and
erudition. Tanis had no wish to fall even further out of her favor by disturbing
her thus, especially since she was destined to become an Elder someday. Still,
her father’s wishes could not be denied.

His knock received no answer.

“Milady?”

He flirted with the idea of reporting back to Viktor empty-handed, yet that
prospect held little appeal. The ruthless Elder was not known for his patience
when it came to the bearers of bad news. Even as a mortal warlord, Viktor had
been infamous for his harsh treatment of those whom had displeased him; the
scribe had seen ancient woodcuts of Viktor dining amidst a field of gallows and
impaled prisoners. Tanis pressed his ear to the door, but heard nothing stirring
inside. A second knock was also greeted with silence.

“Lady Sonja?”

He tentatively tried the door and found it unlocked. Curiosity won over
caution and he gently pushed the door open, ready to retreat at the first
indignant protest from the Elder’s daughter. But no objection came from the
opulent suite beyond the door. A canopied four-poster bed, much grander than the
scribe’s own modest pallet, was piled high with pillows and fine linens. A hand
basin, jewelry box, and other feminine trinkets littered the top of a mahogany
dressing table. Moonlight filtered through stained-glass windows. Lavender and tansy freshened
the air. A large framed mirror, mounted on the wall above the vanity, gave lie
to the myth that vampires cast no reflections. A discarded suit of armor was
mounted upon a rack. Unlit kindling was piled in the fireplace. A Persian
carpet, imported from the Holy Land, covered the cold stone floor. An antique
wooden armoire doubtless held Sonja’s extensive wardrobe. Standing in the
doorway, Tanis’ crafty eyes meticulously scoured Sonja’s private domain.

Only one thing was missing.

The lady herself.

Now nothing stood between Lucian and his goal but a winding spiral staircase
leading up to the top of the tower. Throwing caution to the wind, he raced up
the crumbling stone steps, taking them two at a time. Cobwebs hung like filmy
curtains in his path and he tore through them without hesitation. The sticky
strands adhered to his skin, but he paid them no heed. He had more important
things on his mind at the moment. He couldn’t climb the stairs fast enough.

At last he arrived at the top of the steps. The upper turret of the tower was
cloaked in darkness. Only a sliver of moonlight entered through the arrow loops,
which were narrow enough to shield the tower’s bygone defenders from flaming
arrows and other missiles from below. Cramped embrasures offered archers further
shelter from their foes without. Decades of dust and grit coated the charred
remains of a ruined wooden bench. A moldy leather tankard, which looked as
though it had been partially devoured by rats, had been left behind on the floor, along with the broken shards of a shattered chamber
pot. A spider scuttled across the floor. Bats hung from the rafters.

Lucian looked around anxiously. He had come here for a reason, yet there was
always the possibility that, despite his stealth, his plans had been discovered
and vengeful enemies waited to catch him in the act. What if Viktor or his Death
Dealers were lurking in the shadows? Or a stray werewolf had chosen to make the
tower his lair?

He heard something brush softly across the floor behind him. Spinning around,
he reached again for the knife at his belt. A silent figure emerged from an
embrasure. His eyes widened as she stepped into the moonlight.

“Blacksmith,” Sonja said.

The beautiful immortal had changed out of her armor into a shimmering gown of
scarlet samite. A crescent-shaped pendant, which she had worn since childhood,
rested upon the ivory slopes of her bosom. Moonbeams accented her regal
cheekbones and elegant features. Her white skin gleamed like fine china.
Lustrous dark brown hair framed a face worthy of some pagan goddess. Chestnut
eyes gazed boldly into his. Her voice was deep and husky.

“Milady,” Lucian replied. All thought of hidden ruses and ambushes fled his
mind. He could see only the highborn vampire before him. His pulse quickened.

“This is madness,” she declared.

“Yes.”

Unable to hold back any longer, he crossed the floor in an instant. He
crushed her against him in a passionate embrace. Their mouths met hungrily, her ardor fully the equal of his own.
His senses swam as he lost himself in the unimaginable rapture of her kiss. The
intoxicating scent of her lavender perfume went straight to his head. Honey and
coriander sweetened her breath. He caressed the graceful contours of her back
through the thin fabric. Her mere presence, wrapped tightly in his arms,
affected him as powerfully as the full moon, unleashing emotions and impulses
beyond his control. His manhood instantly grew as hard as tempered steel. She
buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head ever closer.

Sonja,
he thought.
My love.

His eager fingers fumbled with the solitary strap over her shoulder, then
impatiently tore it apart. Succumbing to gravity the loose gown slithered to the
floor with agonizing slowness, revealing that she wore nothing underneath but
her own flawless white skin. Only the golden pendent about her neck adorned the
naked splendor of her body. Her breasts were full and inviting. Blood-red
nipples aimed like spear points at his heart. Smooth legs parted beneath his
touch.