03 - Evolution (3 page)

Hellfire!
Istvan cursed
silently. He backed away, almost bumping into Radu.
We’re too late!

Still wearing the remnants of his shredded nightshirt,
the newborn lycanthrope snarled like a rabid dog. His savage gaze swept
the cramped interior of the cottage, searching for a way out. The two
Death Dealers stood between him and the front door, so his crazed eyes
turned rapidly toward the rear of the chamber. Before the startled
vampires could recover from their shock, the man-beast slammed into the
back door, knocking it off its hinges with a single lunge. The door hit
the ground with a tremendous crash, and the lycan scrambled out of the
murky cottage into the moonlight.

Blast it!
Istvan thought as
the creature escaped. Still holding his useless torch, he knew he had to
warn the others. He shouted at the top of his lungs:

“They’re turning!”

* * *

The frantic cry sent a jolt through every
vampire within earshot. Amelia sat upright in her saddle and saw her
brother Elders do the same. The small complement of Death Dealers who
had remained behind to guard the Elders tensed up within their armor.
They raised their swords high in readiness for the battle to come.
Amelia heard muttered curses among the soldiers.

It’s begun,
she realized.

Resting her hand upon the stock of her crossbow, she
scanned the village for any sign of the enemy. Exquisite blue eyes
spotted a misshapen figure racing into a darkened alley between two
crude peasant hovels. The creature looked to be half-transformed
already.

She was not the only one to spy the wretched beast.
“There!” hollered one of her foot soldiers. He pointed one finger of a
metal gauntlet at the same alley.

Amelia required no further prompting. In a blur of
motion, she drew her crossbow and took aim at the fleeing lycan. A
silver-tipped bolt sprang from the loaded weapon, slicing through the
smoky air and striking its brutish target in the arm. The lycan howled
in pain and glared back at the vampires. Little of humanity remained in
his monstrous features. Cobalt eyes peered out from beneath a sloping
brow. Tufted ears tapered to a point. A fleshy black muzzle grimaced.
Wincing in pain, the creature ducked into the waiting alley. Desperate
to escape the Death Dealers, he paid little heed to the smoldering
corpse lying in the snow outside the alley.

“After him!” Amelia commanded. Although born female, she
had never been one to shrink from battle. To her mind, immortality was
too short to waste it cloistered away like some helpless mortal damsel.
She spurred her horse down the snowy slope into the nameless village. A
pair of mounted Death Dealers rode after her. “Let him not escape!”

In their haste to catch up with their quarry, the
vampires also ignored the charred and smoking corpse upon the ground.
The armored chargers galloped past the dead peasant, barely missing the
body with their hooves. None saw the corpse’s eyes peel open, exposing
bestial cobalt orbs. No one witnessed the still and lifeless body start
to convulse violently. Bones cracked and twisted loudly as the murdered
villager came back to life, caught in the grip of an excruciating
metamorphosis. A tortured groan escaped the lycan’s contorted jaws, but
the pain-wracked utterance went unheard.

By now, Amelia and her men had followed the first lycan
into the alley. She drew back on the reins, slowing her horse, while she
searched the narrow passage for their prey. The stock of her crossbow
rested against the burnished metal protecting her cheek. At first, she
could discern no trace of the creature, but then she spotted the
monster’s shadow upon a moonlit wall deeper within the alley.
Silhouetted against the crude stone wall, the shadow depicted the final
stages of the unfortunate villager’s transformation.

The Change was accelerating at a phenomenal rate. The
shadow expanded in size as the lycan gained weight and stature by the
second. The frenzied lycan tore at his clothing, stripping himself of
any last vestige of civilization. His limbs stretched from their
sockets, as though he were being tortured upon the rack. A human scream
devolved into an anguished howl.

Poor thing,
Amelia thought.
She felt a moment of pity for the ill-fated villager, who had surely not
asked for such a ghastly fate. Compassion would not stay her hand,
however. It was too late for the lycan now. Like the rest of his
abhorrent kind, he needed to be put down like a rabid dog.
Death is the only mercy I can offer.

She used the shadow to gauge the lycan’s position.
Judging from the angle of the moonlight, the creature was directly
ahead, farther down the alley. She led the Death Dealers forward—and
found herself face-to-face with their brutish prey.

The transformation was complete. A full-fledged werewolf
now stood revealed at the far end of the alley. Standing erect upon his
hind legs, the towering beast was over seven feet tall. Coarse black fur
covered his naked body. Foam dripped from his gaping jaws. Maddened by
the Change, he growled at the mounted vampires, exposing a mouthful of
serrated fangs. He slashed madly at the air with claws the size of
daggers. His hot, fetid breath misted in the cold night air.

A stone wall blocked the end of the alley, leaving the
werewolf cornered. His lips peeled back from his incisors as he roared
at the hunters defiantly. He lunged at Amelia, his claws outstretched
before him.

The beast was fast, but her crossbow was faster still. A
speeding bolt struck the werewolf in midair, lodging deep within his
shaggy chest. Two more bolts found their marks as Amelia’s men fired
their own crossbows at the beast. The silver tips pierced the werewolf’s
heart and he dropped like a stone onto the muddy floor of the alley.
Silver was poison to his noxious breed. A vile ichor, infected with the
lycan taint, oozed from the werewolf’s wounds. This time he would not
rise again. His transformed body retained its bestial aspect. Not even
death could restore his humanity.

Another pitiful cur disposed of,
she thought approvingly. She removed her stifling helmet and savored the
invigorating bite of the wind upon her face. Lustrous black hair, now
soaked with sweat, was plastered to an elegant visage worthy of a
Grecian goddess.
By the dark gods, I grow weary of
this butchery.

Shouts, screams, and fierce howls invaded the alley from
all directions. Her charger reared up in alarm. Clearly, the other Death
Dealers were engaged in similar confrontations throughout the village.
Amelia recalled the multitude of bodies the original beast had left
behind and knew that every one of those bodies now represented a
potential menace. For all she knew, she and the other vampires were
already outnumbered.

Not again,
she thought.
Must we fight this same struggle over and over?

She turned her horse about, intent on joining the battle
outside the alley. She thrust another quarrel into her crossbow. The
first of her Death Dealers galloped out of the alley ahead of her, while
the second rode up behind her. “Make haste!” she urged them both. “Our
comrades require our—”

The crash of shattered wood and plaster drowned out her
voice as, without warning, another werewolf smashed through the
crumbling wall of the hut on her left. The noisome beast slammed into
one of the mounted Death Dealers, knocking both man and steed to the
ground. Metal armor thudded against the ground and the frightened horse
whinnied in panic. Wolfen claws slashed at the charger’s exposed
underside. Blood sprayed from deep gashes in the quivering horseflesh.
The destrier’s rider found himself trapped beneath the weight of his own
steed. He struggled to extricate himself, shoving at the armored horse
with both hands. His crossbow lay uselessly upon the snow, out of his
reach. The werewolf snapped at him with hungry jaws.

“Help me!” he cried. “For mercy’s sake!”

Amelia’s own horse reared up in alarm and she had to
fight to regain control of the terrified animal. She almost dropped her
own crossbow, but managed to hold on to the reins and weapon both. The
first rider, already gone from the alley, frantically yanked his horse
around, but was too far away to do any good.

Drawn by the clamor, a vampire foot soldier came running
into the alley. He charged at the werewolf from behind, swinging a
silver-edged battle-axe. The axe sank deep into the monster’s shaggy
back, cleaving its spine. The werewolf died instantly, collapsing
against the bleeding body of the downed horse. The trapped Death Dealer
let out a gasp of relief. His rescuer wrested his axe from the
creature’s body.

Well done,
Amelia thought.
Looking more closely, she recognized the axe-wielding warrior as Drago,
a once-mortal soldier who had only recently been initiated into the
coven. As far as she was concerned, his courageous actions had proven
him more than worthy of the great blessing that had been bestowed upon
him.
I must commend him to his superiors later,
should he survive this.

She opened her mouth to praise the soldier, only to be
interrupted by a ferocious roar. A hideous figure, engulfed in red-hot
flames, rose up behind Drago. Amelia vaguely recognized the blazing
corpse that, only minutes ago, had lain outside the alley. The
resurrected visitor was still caught in the throes of his dreadful
transformation, so that it was hard to say what tormented him most, the
awful agonies of the Change or the searing flames racing over his body.
His limbs jerked spasmodically as he snarled and gnashed his jagged
teeth. The smell of burning flesh and fur assailed Amelia’s nostrils.

Time to put this wretched thing out
of his misery.

She raised her crossbow, but there was no need; Drago
wheeled about and swung his bloody axe at the flaming lycan. The silver
edge of the axe sliced cleanly through the werewolf’s neck. Trailing a
shower of sparks, the monster’s head went flying from his shoulders. The
werewolf’s blazing skull rebounded off a nearby wall, while the headless
body dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from its bisected throat. The
werewolf’s limbs twitched convulsively.

Drago had little time to savor his victory. With a
savage roar, a third werewolf pounced from the roof of a smoldering
cottage. The beast tackled Drago, knocking the startled Death Dealer to
the ground. He landed hard amidst the bloody slush, with the berserk
werewolf right on top of him. The impact drove the breath from Drago’s
lungs. His mighty battle-axe slipped from his fingers.

“Drago!” Amelia cried out. Her finger hesitated upon the
trigger of her crossbow. The Death Dealer and his subhuman attacker were
so close together that she feared she might hit Drago instead. Her horse
backed away from the thrashing figures. She peered anxiously down the
stock of the crossbow, waiting for a clear shot.

But the maniacal werewolf never gave her a chance. A
voracious maw closed on Drago’s face, crushing it between two powerful
jaws. Bone crunched loudly. A geyser of cold vampire blood exploded over
the werewolf’s snout and furry pelt.

No!
Amelia thought, shocked
by Drago’s sudden demise. The death of mortals was bad enough, but the
death of yet another immortal…! The valiant young Death Dealer might
well have lived for centuries if not for the werewolf’s mindless
savagery, yet he had been cut down as readily as any short-lived human.
What an appalling waste!

What pity she had for the transformed villager vanished
in an instant. An icy fury raced through her veins. Her finger squeezed
tightly on the trigger.

A silver-tipped bolt avenged Drago’s murder.

But there were still many more beasts to slay… including
the foul originator of this obscene contagion.

One way or another,
she
vowed,
this plague ends tonight.

Elsewhere in the village, another corpse lurched to life, well on its way toward
joining the pack of freshly created werewolves. The man-beast leapt to
his feet. Yellow fangs gleamed between his jaws as he threw back his
head to keen at the moon… only to have his howl cut short by the
bloodstained silver blade that suddenly erupted from his chest. Eyes
wide, he looked down to find himself impaled upon a vampire’s sword.

Only a death rattle escaped his throat.

One down,
Marcus thought.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he withdrew his blade from between the
dead lycan’s shoulder blades. The werewolf dropped onto the snow like a
marionette whose strings had been cut.
How many
more to go?

His horse pawed at the bloody slush as Marcus sat
astride his steed at the fringe of the conflict. He removed his helmet
to better survey the brutal fray unfolding before him. His hair was
combed back from his high, pale forehead. Reddish brown tresses fell
past his shoulders. Marcus had been called handsome in his time, but
vanity was the least of his concerns at the moment. He frowned at the
riotous melee greeting his eyes.

Their tardy attempt to cleanse the contaminated village
had turned into a debacle. Everywhere he looked, Death Dealers battled
reanimated corpses in various stages of transformation. Driven berserk
by the moon and the vile taint in their blood, the former inhabitants of
the village sought to tear the vampire warriors apart, pitting their
untested claws and fangs against the Death Dealers’ arms and armor.
Fully transformed werewolves towered about their vampiric foes, taking
advantage of their superior size and strength. They sprang from the
rooftops and from beneath heavy snowdrifts. Packs of werewolves attacked
in numbers, converging on the embattled Death Dealers from all
directions.