03 - Evolution (4 page)

A female werewolf, still wearing the tattered remains of
a linen nightgown, jabbed her claws into the eyes of an unlucky Death
Dealer whose helmet failed to save him from her attack. Blinded, he
swung out wildly with a mace studded with silver spikes. The mace
smashed in the left side of the she-wolf’s face, knocking her to the
ground. Her agonized yelps steered his hand as, blood streaming from the
slit in his helmet, he hammered her with his mace again and again, until
two more werewolves pounced on him from behind….

It was chaos.

Around the outskirts of the village, a few mutilated
bodies remained inert. These, Marcus guessed, had been the last to die,
their attacker striking them down as the poor mortals had fled for the
dubious shelter of the surrounding woods. He knew it was only a matter
of minutes before they, too, rose as werewolves.

This foul contagion spreads like
the plague.

Viktor rode up beside Marcus. Behind his helmet, his
face was grim. He shouted to be heard above the fray.
“Retreat to the woods!”

“No!” Marcus yelled back. “I will stay and fight.” He
brandished his bloody sword. “You need my help.”

Viktor shook his head. “If you die, we all die. Now go!”

For the second time that night, Marcus contemplated
defying Viktor’s command. It went against his grain to abandon their men
in the heat of battle. But Viktor was correct in one respect; larger
matters were at stake than the outcome of this single skirmish, no
matter how perilous it might be.

William,
he thought.
What of William? Where does my greater duty lie?

Viktor saw the hesitation in his face. “Go!”

Unhappily, Marcus dug his spurs into his horse’s side.
Torn between competing loyalties, he galloped into the woods.

At his back, the battle raged on without him.

Istvan looked about him warily. With a torch in
one hand and a sword in the other, he stood outside a burning cottage.
The heat from the fire was such that he found himself baking within his
metal armor. The snow beneath his boots melted into a frigid puddle. He
stepped away from the blaze, but was grateful for the fire nonetheless.
With any luck, the raging conflagration would consume any infected
mortals that might have lain within.

We’ve got enough of these mangy
bastards to deal with already.

A headless lycan lay at his feet. Istvan braced himself
for the next attack, uncertain whence it would come. Flames, smoke, and
drifting snow obscured his view of the bloody tumult going on all around
him. Screams, growls, and angry shouting added to the confusion. Shadowy
figures contended in the murky haze, stabbing and slashing at each other
without mercy. Blood, both lycan and vampiric, splattered the snowy
landscape. Istvan could practically taste it in the air. Thatch roofs
collapsed as fire devoured the timbers supporting them. The Death
Dealer’s black armor was liberally bedecked with gore.

He glimpsed an indistinct figure coming toward him.
“Radu?” he called out, having lost track of his comrade in the
pandemonium. “Is that you?”

A canine roar suggested otherwise. Moving with
preternatural speed, an immense werewolf came charging out of the snow.
The beast’s body struck Istvan like a battering ram and his boots took
leave of the ground. He crashed through a wall of burning wattles into
the smoky interior of the blazing cottage. The harsh fumes stung his
lungs, throat, and nostrils. Burning embers scattered in his wake.

His collision with the floor left his head ringing.
Nevertheless, he leaped to his feet, sword in hand. And well it was that
he did so, for two more werewolves lunged out of the shadows at him.

Hellfire!
he cursed
inwardly. The odds were two to one against him, leaving a swift response
his only recourse. Thrusting with his arm, he stabbed the first beast so
hard that the tip of his silver blade punched out through the monster’s
back. He hastily tugged on the hilt of the sword, praying that the blade
would not get stuck between the creature’s ribs. To his relief, the
sword came free easily enough, and he swung it around in one smooth,
continuous movement. With lethal precision, the blade sliced through the
second werewolf’s head, cutting the monster’s skull in half. Lycan
brains spilled onto the floor of the hut.

Istvan could not believe his luck. It seemed his
immortality would not end this night after all. “Praise the Elders,” he
murmured.

Holding his sword before him, he groped through the
smoke for a way out of the burning cottage. His overheated armor felt
like an oven.

Despite Viktor’s urgent instructions, Marcus had
not gone far. A stand of snow-covered firs and pines concealed him from
view as he watched the battle from the edge of the woods. His steed
pawed the ground impatiently, eager to leave the blood and chaos behind,
but Marcus compelled the horse to stay where it was. He stroked its mane
to calm it.

William is nearby,
he
thought.
I can feel it in my bones.

Pounding hoofbeats caught his attention. He watched with
interest as a lone rider came galloping out of the forest to the north.
Marcus recognized the rider as yet another Death Dealer engaged in the
hunt. The vampire rode into the village and alongside Viktor. Marcus
strained his ears to hear what the man had to report.

“We found him!” the Death Dealer exclaimed.

Viktor instantly gave the rider his full attention.
“And?”

“We need more men.”

That was all Viktor needed to hear.
“Find Amelia!”

Marcus looked on in secret as the female Elder withdrew
a wet blade from her latest kill. Responding to Viktor’s summons, she
hurried to confer with the other Elder. They spoke in hushed tones too
low for Marcus to make out, but within seconds a decision appeared to
have been reached. Rounding up a half dozen Death Dealers to accompany
her, Amelia galloped off into the very woods from which the rider had
emerged, leaving Viktor and the remainder of their forces behind to
contend with the transformed villagers. Marcus watched as Amelia and her
men disappeared into the forest.

He had no doubt as to whom she sought, or why such
reinforcements were required.

They have found William… at last.

He knew also where he needed to be. Shooting a glance at
Viktor, he saw that the undead warlord was fully engaged in the ongoing
battle against the newborn werewolves. Astride his armored destrier,
Viktor hacked away at his foes with his broadsword, while simultaneously
shouting out commands to his beleaguered troops. “Show no mercy!” he
cried out imperiously. “Let not a single mongrel escape!”

He’s far too busy to look this way,
Marcus realized.

Confident that Viktor was preoccupied with other
matters, Marcus took off after Amelia and the others. He rode briskly
through the nocturnal forest, ducking the branches that threatened to
unhorse him. Small animals scurried away as the charger’s hooves pounded
through the underbrush after the earlier riders. An owl hooted shrilly
overhead.

Broken branches and trampled brush testified to the
Death Dealers’ passage. The trail would have been ridiculously easy to
follow even if the fallen snow had not preserved the overlapping
hoofprints of numerous riders. Marcus knew he was heading in the right
direction.

He only prayed that he could catch up with Amelia and
the others before events passed beyond his control. Much was at stake,
not the least of which was his brother’s ultimate fate.

I’m coming, William,
he
promised silently.
I’m coming!

As if in response to his fevered thoughts, a deafening
roar shook the forest. The roar bore some kinship to the growls of the
werewolves back in the village, but was deeper in timbre and far louder.
Compared to this thundering roar, those earlier growls were like the
yelps of newborn puppies.

The colossal roar brought Marcus to a momentary halt.
Even though he knew full well who—and what—had produced the roar, the
blood-chilling sound was enough to daunt even the most determined
spirit. He paused to steady his nerves, only to feel the ground tremble
beneath his horse’s hooves. The tremor shook accumulations of snow from
the treetops, causing avalanches of white powder to rain down upon the
floor of the forest. He brushed the icy flakes away from his face.

What the devil?

The source of the tremor was revealed as a knot of
riderless horses exploded from the brush. They stampeded past Marcus,
their eyes wide with panic. He held firmly on to the reins of his own
steed, struggling to keep the anxious horse under control, while the
other chargers fled for their lives. The saddles upon the horses’ backs
were ominously empty. Claw marks scarred the thick metal plates
protecting the destriers’ heads, necks, and chests. Steam jetted from
their nostrils. Foam flecked their lips.

Marcus could not help wondering what had become of the
horses’ riders.

Another fearsome growl echoed through the night,
followed by agitated screams and shouts. Heavy chains clattered in the
distance.

It was all too much for Marcus’ frightened steed. He
dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, but the terrified destrier would
go no farther. Marcus could hardly blame the animal, knowing what lay
ahead.

Very well,
he resolved.
Dismounting, he tied the horse’s reins to a nearby tree trunk, then set
off on foot through the wintry woods. His boots sank deep into the
fallen snow.

He did not have far to go. Within minutes, he emerged
from the brush and bracken into a forest clearing deeply buried in snow.
He froze in his tracks, taken aback by the nightmarish spectacle before
him.

Under Amelia’s command, a complement of Death Dealers
vied against a huge albino werewolf, larger and more formidable than any
of the misbegotten beasts back at the village. His thick, matted pelt
was the color of the pristine snow. Rheumy pink eyes glared out from the
creature’s wolfen face. Herculean muscles bulged beneath his milky fur.
His hot breath steamed the air.

William.
Marcus gasped in recognition.
My brother.

If the werewolf noted his sibling’s arrival, he gave no
evidence of it. Instead the titanic beast roared defiantly at the Death
Dealers seeking to bring him down. The undead soldiers were spread out
in a circle around their formidable quarry, blocking his escape in every
direction. Taking care to stay out of reach of William’s claws, they
fired upon the werewolf with iron spears attached to links of heavy
chain.

Crossbows, specially crafted for this purpose, launched
the spears at William with tremendous force. The silver tips of the
spears lodged deep within his flesh. He flailed about wildly as the
chains snapped taut against steel spikes anchored to the ground and
surrounding tree trunks. William howled in pain and fury.

Another archer took aim at the thrashing werewolf. A
vicious-looking spear sprang from a crossbow, striking William just
below his ribs. Dark blood stained the werewolf’s pure white fur.

That the Death Dealers seemed intent on capturing
William, not slaying him, provided Marcus with scant comfort. The sight
of his ill-starred brother being tormented by the soldiers’ lances was
more than he could bear.

“No!” he cried out. “Leave him be!”

Distracted by the Elder’s cry, the archer failed to
unhook the chain from his crossbow quickly enough. William grabbed hold
of the links and jerked them violently, flinging the hapless Death
Dealer into the air. The soldier’s body slammed against a massive tree
trunk with bone-crushing force. He slid down onto the ground beneath the
tree and did not rise up again. Marcus feared that the vampire’s neck
had been shattered beyond repair.

One more life lost to the madness that had consumed his
brother.

William roared in triumph, but his victory was
short-lived. Marcus heard the twang of a crossbow being fired and
watched in horror as a well-aimed spear pierced William’s shoulder,
passing all the way through the bleeding meat and gristle. Vicious
silver hooks sprang to life at the exposed tip of the spear. The second
archer yanked back on the chain and the cruel barbs sank into William’s
leathery hide. The werewolf could not tug the spear free without tearing
his flesh to ribbons.

The crossbow’s chain feeder spun rapidly as William
reared back on his hind legs and let loose an anguished roar. The second
archer hit a switch on his crossbow and the chain came free. Another
Death Dealer grabbed hold of the links and hastily secured them to the
frozen earth. The chain snapped taut as William tried in vain to tug it
loose.

“Stop this!”
Marcus shouted.
He felt his brother’s wounds as though they were his own.
“You’re killing him!”

Standing apart from the battle, Amelia looked at her
fellow Elder. She had removed her helmet, which rested on the snow
beside her feet. Her elegant face held a cold, inscrutable expression.
Snowflakes glistened in her lustrous black hair. Her eyes locked briefly
with Marcus’ before she turned back toward her troops.

“More!”
she commanded.

Ignoring Marcus, the Death Dealers fired spear after
spear at their outnumbered prey. More chains were anchored to the
ground, trapping the werewolf within the clearing. His brawny shoulders
drooped beneath the weight of abundant chains, which hung tangled about
him like a spider’s web. His breaths grew ragged. He whimpered in pain
and exhaustion.

Marcus could stand it no more. Furious, he grabbed one
of the archers and hurled him aside with an Elder’s strength. The
armored soldier landed in a snowdrift over a dozen yards away. Fearful
eyes peered from behind the Death Dealer’s black helmet as he scrambled
toward Amelia, seeking the other Elder’s protection. His petrified
expression betrayed his terror at being caught between two clashing
Elders.