04 - Rise of the Lycans (5 page)

Lucian doubted it.

Careful,
he cautioned himself as he took aim with the crossbow. The rear
of the stock pressed against his cheek. He squinted down the length of the
weapon as he tried to catch a wolf in his sights. The last thing he wanted to do
was hit Sonja by mistake; Viktor would not be amused if someone slew his
daughter while trying to save her. There was little room for error here….

He clicked the trigger twice and the top two bolts shot from the crossbow.
The missiles whistled past Sonja, barely missing her head, to strike the first two werewolves in the
throats even as they sprang at the imperiled noblewoman. They tumbled head over
heels across the rocky soil while Sonja raced her gasping steed up the steep
path leading to the castle’s front gate.

She was almost there, but there was still one more werewolf hot on her heels.

“The gates!” an imperious voice cried out. Lucian glanced behind him to see
Viktor standing upon a balcony overlooking the castle’s walls. Tanis, his
ubiquitous scribe, lurked behind him, clinging to the shelter of a carved stone
archway. The Elder’s voice held equal quantities of fear and anger. “Open the
gates, you fools!”

Lucian silently cursed the idiots who had not yet hastened to clear the way
for Sonja. Had they been willing to risk the Elder’s only heir just to keep the
doors barred against the werewolves without? Chains clanked loudly as the
drawbridge began to be hastily lowered into place. Creaking gears inside the
gatehouse turned to raise the iron-studded portcullis guarding the gate. Tardy
Death Dealers rushed to draw back the large steel bolt securing the final pair
of heavy oaken portals. Mist infiltrated the courtyard as a narrow crack opened
between the ponderous doors.

Finally!
Lucian thought.

But could Sonja make it to the gateway before the final werewolf ripped her
to shreds?

Lucian strained to get the remaining beast in his sights, but the crafty wolf
zigzagged back and forth behind Hecate, making a clean shot difficult. Lucian’s mouth went dry as he
waited anxiously for his shot. He had only one bolt left. If he missed, there
would no time to reload. And if he hit Sonja or her horse by accident…

He didn’t even want to think about that.

Light spilled from the open gate onto the drawbridge. Hecate’s hooves tore up
the gravelly road, spewing a cloud of dust in her wake. Her face hidden behind
her crested metal helmet, Sonja spurred the horse toward sanctuary. Her midnight
cloak hung in shreds from her steel-plated shoulders. The bloody sword was
poised and ready. Sensing that its prey was on the verge of escape, the final
werewolf let out a deafening roar and leapt through the air at the endangered
horsewoman. Serrated fangs gleamed within its gaping jaws.

Lucian squeezed the trigger.

Cheers erupted from the ramparts and balconies as Sonja galloped through the
half-open gates. Right behind her, the airborne wolf took a silver bolt to the
skull. It slammed headfirst into drawbridge and skidded through the gate before
coming to a rest inside the courtyard. Alarmed Death Dealers charged toward the
felled beast, their swords and battle-axes raised high, but there was no need.
Canine fur and muscle melted away as the lifeless carcass reverted to human
form.

Yes!
Lucian rejoiced.
I killed the monster just in time!

His crude leather boots touched down onto the courtyard as he dropped fifty
feet to land before the open gate. He looked quickly to see if any more beasts
were coming, but it appeared that he had indeed slain the last of the pack. Guards hurried to close the doors and bolt them
securely once more. He heard the portcullis being lowered back into place. A
horn informed all within earshot that Castle Corvinus was secure once more.

The crisis was over.

Sonja pulled back on her reins, bringing Hecate to a halt only a few feet
away from Lucian. He stared up at the imposing armored warrior upon the black
steed. Her blade and plate armor were splattered with crimson, but she appeared
personally unharmed. A molded steel breastplate fit her shapely torso to
perfection. A diagonal sash stretched across her chest, holding onto the
tattered remains of her cloak. Fierce azure eyes peered out from behind her
masklike helmet. He heard her breathing hard.

She reached up and removed the helmet, exposing a face of exquisite beauty.
Lustrous dark brown hair, the color of stained walnut, framed her elegant
features. Her pale white skin was as smooth and flawless as polished alabaster.
Her fiery eyes burned like sapphires. The delicate points of her incisors peeked
out from beneath her ruby lips. The excitement of her close brush with death
added a rosy flush to her cheeks as she gazed down at Lucian with icy disdain. A
crowd of soldiers, servants, and courtiers gathered around them, murmuring
excitedly amongst themselves.

“Have you nothing better to do, blacksmith,” she asked coolly, “than play
with weapons of war?” She casually lobbed the gore-smeared sword at him, much to
the amusement of the vampires in the vicinity, who chuckled at her quip. Her azure eyes gradually faded back to their customary
shade of chestnut brown. “At least make yourself useful.”

He plucked the blade from the air, holding her look as long as he dared. The
hubbub of voices muted as the crowd parted to admit Viktor and his retinue. A
phalanx of Death Dealers followed after the lord of the castle. Lucian was
careful to stay out of their way.

“A little gratitude,” Viktor chided his daughter, “to the one who saved your
life.”

She burned him with a look. “I needed no saving.”

Viktor took her defiance in stride, perhaps attributing her attitude to
wounded pride. He was known to be indulgent of his headstrong daughter, at least
to a degree. Letting the matter drop, he turned his attention to the slain
werewolf instead. Striding over to the corpse, he yanked the crossbow bolt from
its deceptively human-looking skull. Bits of bloody brain tissue clung to the
quarrel’s silver point. He toyed with the missile as he turned toward Lucian. His
face bore a quizzical expression.

“Tell me, Lucian,” he asked benignly. “Does it burden your heart to kill your
own kind?”

“Not at all,” the blacksmith insisted. In truth, he resented being compared
to such a creature, but, in deference to the Elder’s rank, he kept his tone
suitably respectful. “They’re mindless beasts, milord. No brethren of mine.”

He spoke sincerely and from the heart. As a blacksmith, rather than a
warrior, he had never had occasion to slay a werewolf before, but now that he
had done so, he felt not a twinge of remorse. Indeed, he had spent his entire life trying
to kill the wolf inside him—and to put his shameful ancestry behind him. That he
had now literally taken arms against his loathsome cousins struck him as both
fitting and something to be proud of, especially under the circumstances. As far
as Lucian was concerned, Sonja’s life was immeasurably more valuable than that
of any mangy animal.

“Really?” Viktor stepped closer. He sounded intrigued by Lucian’s answer—and
perhaps a trifle suspicious. Narrow eyes searched the lycan’s face for any hint
of deception, but Lucian stood his ground. His bearded face gave nothing away.

Sonja observed the exchange for a moment, then seemed to lose interest.
“Father,” she addressed her sire, before spurring her weary mount toward the
stables at the rear of the bailey. Lucian watched her regal form depart, with
perhaps more appreciation than was prudent for one of his station. Belatedly
realizing his mistake, he looked away from the retreating noblewoman, only to
find Viktor scowling at him. Clearly, the blacksmith’s attentions had not
escaped the Elder’s notice.

Fool!
Lucian castigated himself.
What were you thinking?

“You are a credit to your race,” Viktor said frostily. “Do you know how to
remain so? Keep your eyes to the ground.” He gestured at the dead werewolf with
the bloody arrow. “Get rid of this carrion.”

Lowering his eyes, Lucian knelt to carry out the Elder’s command. The
lifeless carcass did not feel half as heavy as the terrible weight of Viktor’s
eyes upon him. Lucian prayed that he had not placed his very position in the
castle in jeopardy. As every lycan knew, a vampire’s memory could be both long
and unforgiving.

I must be more careful in the future,
he vowed.
Or risk losing
everything.

The great hall of the keep dwarfed any other chamber in the castle. Ponderous
granite pillars supported the high vaulted ceiling, while arched doorways led
off to murky passageways lit by racks of torches. Dried rushes carpeted the
floor. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, holding arrays of beeswax
candles. Rusty chains and manacles dangled from the pillars, as a reminder that
all who prospered within the keep did so only by the sufferance of the Elders.
The somber stone walls had witnessed bloody executions as well as courtly
celebrations.

Sonja paid little attention to the familiar surroundings, which had been her
only home for more than two centuries now. She strode briskly through the hall
after leaving Hecate in the care of her grooms; to her relief, the horse’s wounds did not appear life-threatening. Still encased in her
gore-splattered armor, Sonja hoped to make it to the privacy of her own chambers
without further incident. She wanted nothing more than to shed her metal
carapace and perhaps indulge in a soothing tub. Alas, her father intercepted her
before she reached the spiral staircase leading up to her bedchamber on the
topmost floor of the keep.

“You were sorely missed at Council,” he reproached her.

She was in no mood for another one of his lectures. “There are other demands
on my time, you know.”

“Yes, I see.” He swept a withering gaze over her battle gear. He had never
approved of her dressing like a Death Dealer. “I do hope then that you enjoyed
your little moonlight ride.”

“I was
patrolling
,” she said indignantly. As always, she chafed at her
father’s overprotective ways. Why shouldn’t she be a warrior like Amelia or her
mother? Other female vampires served among the Death Dealers. Why was her father
so determined to mold her into some pampered aristocratic lady instead? She
couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime as a dainty creature of the court, let
alone eternity.

“You were
disobeying
,” he shot back. He came up beside her. “Time and
again, I’ve told you to stay within these walls. You risk too much for a father
to ignore. You will leave the wolves to the Death Dealers.”

She turned to confront him. “Why should my risk be less than theirs?”

“They are not my daughters!” His voice quaked with emotion, betraying the deep love he felt for her. The outburst caught them
both by surprise, and he needed a moment to compose himself. “And they are not
council members. You are. And one night you will become an Elder, your
birthright should you endure long enough.” He leaned toward her, intent on
making her understand. “Sonja, you are well thought of at Council, but that is a
precarious thing. They grow tired of your games, your perpetual absences. The
dangers of the forest are no greater than those of the council chamber. You must
learn the dance of politics, to be ruthless and cunning. And, above all else,
you must be loyal to your family. To me.”

Sonja held her tongue. She had not been unmoved by her father’s spontaneous
display of emotion; despite their frequent quarrels, she never doubted that he
cared for her profoundly. And yet his talk of duty and politics bored her to
tears, and sometimes made her feel like one of the caged werewolves in the
dungeon. Palace intrigues and diplomatic maneuvers held no attraction for her.
Where was the life, the passion, in such bloodless games? The prospect of
wasting her precious immortality thus filled her soul with dread. She’d sooner be
chased through the forest by a dozen werewolves than suffer through another
interminable council meeting….

Why couldn’t her father understand that?

Instead he stepped forward and cupped her chin in his hand. A little more
warmth crept into his stern voice and gaze.

“After all,” he reminded her, “without the bonds between us, we are no better
than the beasts at our door.”

Viktor’s ominous warning echoed in Lucian’s mind as he returned to his smithy.
The naked body of the dead werewolf was slung over his shoulder. He was anxious
to dispose of the corpse, if only to remove any reminders of the incident from
the Elder’s sight. Lucian continued to lament his own stupidity; whatever
goodwill he had incurred by coming to Sonja’s rescue had been lost by his
careless behavior in the aftermath of that event. He wondered whether Viktor
would ever truly trust him again.

I might as well have shot that silver quarrel through my own brow.

He flung the carcass into the smoldering bed of his forge, then pumped the
bellows to stoke the flames to a roaring blaze. As he somberly watched the
bright orange fire consume the corpse, he had to admit that the burning body
looked disturbingly human. Was it possible that some trace of a soul still
lurked within the savage hearts of the werewolves? Lucian didn’t want to think
so and yet… where did his own mind and spirit come from if not from the
blood and loins of a creature such as this?

The stench of charred flesh, as well as his own unwanted doubts, drove him to
seek the fresher air of the courtyard outside his smithy. Glancing around, he
saw that, despite the excitement earlier, the castle had fallen back into its
usual nightly routines. Lycan slaves labored to rebuild a watchtower that had
fallen into grievous disrepair. Their dirty bodies drenched in sweat, the men dragged and
pushed massive slabs of granite up steep wooden ramps and ladders. Other slaves
mixed enormous quantities of mortar, which were hauled up onto the scaffolding.
Cranes and pulleys lifted the larger blocks, which dangled ominously over the
courtyard below. Grunting workers manned the ropes and tread wheels.