Underworld: Blood Enemy (4 page)

Wooden shields provided no protection against the rain of masonry. Lucian watched with satisfaction as a weighty stone block flattened a cross-waving villager. Blood spurted from beneath the rubble like juice from a winepress.

For a moment, he dared to hope that the devastating bombardment might break the spirit of the attackers, sending them back from whence they came. But an impassioned voice boomed out from the rear of the mob, urging the mortals to press on.

“Do not lose faith!” the zealous voice exhorted. “Remember your wives and children! Do not suffer these spawns of Satan to contaminate our land one day more, endangering the lives and souls of all you hold dear! God commands that we rid the earth of the Devils obscene progeny—and he will lead us to victory in His holy name!”

The incendiary words bolstered the spirits of the teeming mortals, who came at the castle with renewed fervor. A barrage of flaming arrows came soaring over the battlements, driving the lycan defenders back. A blazing shaft struck Imre, the carpenters apprentice, just as he was lifting a ponderous stone fragment above his head. Imre lost his grip on the heavy block, which crashed down on himself, shattering his skull and spine. Hot lycan blood gushed across the wall walk, splashing against Lucian’s boots.

A tremendous crash seized Lucian’s attention, yanking it away from the mangled apprentice to the gatehouse below. To his dismay, he saw that a horde of straining humans, wielding ropes and hooks, had successfully pulled the drawbridge back down over the defensive chasm, despite the best efforts of the lycan guards stationed above the gate, who found themselves sorely beset by an onslaught of spears and flaming arrows.

Now a colossal battering ram came charging at the gate, driven by a gang of sweaty humans.

Dozens of boots pounded over the drawbridge, which groaned beneath the combined weight of the ram and its crew. The mighty timber, which was at least three feet in diameter, slammed into the iron portcullis and the great double doors beyond, producing an earth-shaking clamor loud enough to wake every slumbering vampire in the castle. Lucian imagined Sonja in her bedchamber, trembling beneath the covers at the fearful din, knowing that something was terribly amiss yet unable to venture out into the sunlight to find out what was happening.

No!
Lucian thought, the image fueling his anger against the ruffians.
Nothing ill shall befall you,
my princess,
he vowed passionately.
Not while I live!

He turned toward the vat, whose burnished steel reflected the dancing flames beneath the cauldron. “How fares the pitch?” he demanded impatiently.

“It boils, Lucian!” Nasir called out to him. The Turk stood behind the copper kettle, stirring its contents with a long metal rod. He withdrew the rod; thick black tar dripped from the further end of the stick. Lucian could hear the hot pitch bubbling within the vat. The smell of brimstone filled his nostrils.

Excellent,
he thought.

Peering out over the battlements, he saw the scaling ladders swing back against the castle walls once more. “Hold one minute more,” he instructed Nasir, holding up his hand to forestall the other lycan. Lucian waited until a new wave of besiegers was halfway up the high ladders before stepping safely to one side of the steaming vat. “Now!” he shouted.

Nasir used his metal rod to tip the cauldron toward the battlements. A flood of viscous black pitch poured from the vat onto the floor of the rampart, where it swiftly flowed into the gutters, which led to holes in the protruding stone machicolations, from whence the tar spilled out onto the men below. The boiling goo splattered the unlucky mortals scaling the walls before inundating the shield bearers and ladder holders at the base of the castle. Agonized screams rose toward the sky as the scalding tar clung to the mortals’ bodies. Blackened figures ran about frantically, clawing fruitlessly at the molten pitch, before dropping to the earth, where their tortured forms spasmed briefly before falling still. Tar-coated peasants stumbled headlong into the gaping chasm, impaling themselves on the spikes waiting at the bottom of the abyss. Scaling ladders, abandoned by the men who had held them secure, teetered precariously before toppling over once again. The shrieks of falling men joined the high-pitched wails of those burned by the oozing tar. A sulfurous stench rose from their blistered flesh.

Lucian felt a flicker of pity for the suffering mortals, which was speedily dispelled by the mere thought of his beloved Sonja falling into the hands of these varlets. He imagined brutal hands driving a stake through Sonja’s gentle heart. He saw her lovely head severed from her body, her delicate mouth stuffed with garlic by ignorant humans who had no understanding of how truly precious she was.

Never!
he thought, clenching his fists at his sides. Fury turned his brown eyes an unearthly blue, and a low growl emanated from the back of his throat. He would gladly tear out the throats of the entire mortal world to protect his princess, even though he knew in his heart that she could never truly be his.
I shall not fail you, fair maiden.

“Did it work?” Nasir asked eagerly, his eyes agleam. “Did the tar succeed?” He rushed over to the battlements, keen to witness firsthand the damaged inflicted by the boiling pitch. “Hah!” he laughed, peering through the gap between two merlons. “They look like bacon frying on the hearth!”

An arrow came from out of nowhere, spearing Nasir through the throat. The Saracen clutched at his neck as hot blood sprayed from his jugular. His mouth gaped wide, revealing wolf-like fangs, before he tumbled forward over the battlements. Lucian watched in horror as his fellow servant disappeared into the chasm, joining the bodies of various ill-fated mortals.

Yet there was no time to mourn his fallen comrade, not while the relentless battering ram continued to pound against the castle gates. Again and again, the prodigious timber collided with the portcullis, so that the iron framework resounded like an enormous drum. Each powerful blow reverberated throughout the castle, shaking the entire stone edifice.
How many such strokes,
Lucian wondered,
could the portcullis and the oaken doors withstand?

That same rancorous voice called out again, urging the ramming crew to greater efforts. “That’s the spirit, men! Keep pounding away at the demons’ defenses! The good Lord will grant you the strength to prevail against our Satanic foes!”

Who is that miscreant?
Lucian reacted angrily. Peering out over the battlements, his eyes finally located the source of the hateful rants: a portly monk lurking at the back of the mob. His black robe proclaimed his calling, while his tonsured skull shone like an egg beneath the glaring sun. A gilded crucifix rested on his chest, and his florid complexion grew ever more scarlet as he endlessly spewed his venom.

“Take heart and fear not, brave souls! The foul masters of this palace of sin dare not brave the cleansing light of day. ’Tis only their inhuman vassals that oppose us now. Break down the demons’

door and slay the undead monsters while they lie helplessly within their unhallowed tombs!”

In fact, the castle’s vampiric inhabitants preferred comfortable beds and mattresses to coffins, but the daylight left them vulnerable nonetheless. Determined to silence the rabble-rousing monk, Lucian snatched up a cracked paving stone and flung it with all his strength at the black-robed figure standing at the bottom of the winding road leading up to the castle.

Alas, the deadly missile fell short of its target, striking instead an anonymous peasant, whose skull was instantly pulped by the descending brick. Lucian drew little consolation from this incidental kill; it was clear that the nameless monk was the true provocateur of this dire emergency.

The gates trembled beneath the repeated strokes of the battering ram. Driven by the force of two score men, the wooden juggernaut was dashed against the iron portcullis, which began to buckle before the persistent assault. Oak splintered, and wooden chips flew from the bolted doors behind the portcullis. Mortal varlets cheered in anticipation of the inevitable blow that would reduce the gates to pieces, breaching the fortress’s defenses.

Atop the gatehouse, only partially protected by their own row of battlements, lycan sentries struggled in vain to fend off the besiegers. Lucian watched as his embattled comrades jabbed at the ramming crew with their forked poles, only to be driven back behind the battlements by the never-ending hail of flaming arrows. A club-footed lycan retainer retreated too slowly and was skewered by a blazing shaft that set his coarse garments ablaze. He thrashed wildly, howling in pain, while his brothers in arms batted at the flames with wet blankets.

“Well done, my children!” the red-faced monk crowed. He turned a sizable tree stump into a podium upon which to preach his noxious obloquies. “Give the godless fiends a taste of what awaits them in hell!”

Tortured metal screamed in protest as the portcullis came apart at its hinges. Now only the stout double doors stood between the besiegers and the interior of the castle. Once they were inside, Lucian realized, there would be no stopping the invading horde from setting the keep’s many tapestries and furnishings afire, igniting an unquenchable blaze that would engulf the entire castle, burning the trapped vampires alive or else driving them out into the daylight where the sun’s deadly rays would consume them just as surely as the devouring flames.

By the Elders, no!
Lucian thought vehemently.
Not on my watch!
He could not imagine a greater nightmare than seeing Sonja’s flawless skin reduced to ash before his very eyes.
I will die
before I will permit such an obscenity to occur!

The great doors shuddered before the unceasing battering ram, and the timber walkway beneath Lucian’s feet shook as though rocked by an earthquake. Knowing that time was of the essence, he eschewed the stairs and climbed up between two large gray merlons. Fiery arrows whizzed past his head and shoulders, but Lucian paid them no heed. A full three stories below, the gatehouse projected beyond the castle proper.

Without hesitation, Lucian leaped from the battlements to the roof of the gatehouse. The vertiginous drop, some one hundred feet, would have killed a mortal man, yet he landed as nimbly as a panther on the flat stone roof. The soles of his boots had scarcely touched down before he hurried over to the lower battlements to take charge of the gates’ defense.

“You!” he shouted to one of the lycans still on his feet, a stablehand named Pyotr. “Get down to the courtyard and round up every lycan you can. Pile whatever you can find against the door. Kegs, hogsheads, mattresses, benches . . . the heavier the better! And put your own shoulders to the door as well. We have to keep these murderous varlets out of the castle!”

“Yes, Lucian!” The other lycan hurried to implement Lucian’s instructions, disappearing down a stairway at the back of the roof. Lucian could not help noticing that Pyotr limped as he departed, the result of a bloody puncture wound in one leg.

He was hardly the only casualty; dead and wounded lycans were strewn atop the gatehouse, their maimed bodies riddled with arrows and scarred by burns. Pitiful moans escaped a huddled figure whose body was hidden beneath a heap of soggy blankets. Fresh blood painted the ancient stones.

Lucian snarled at the carnage. “Man the murder holes!” he barked, referring to a number of vertical slits in the rooftop that exposed the paved gateway below to attacks from above. At his command, each surviving lycan positioned himself above a hole, armed with sharpened poles and buckets of boiling water. Once the besiegers breached the doors, as they seemed destined to do, they would find death and injury waiting for them as they passed beneath the gates.

But would that be enough? Lucian feared that such tactics would only delay the mob’s entrance into the castle. The humans were too many, their will to murder stoked to a feverish pitch. Even now, he could hear the crazed monk inciting the ruffians with his bellicose rantings.

“Lay on, men, lay on! Bring down this sanctuary of Satan, and reap your reward in heaven! Yea, even though you may fall in battle against the Evil Ones, know that an eternity of bliss awaits those who do battle in the Lord’s almighty name!”

Lucian had had enough of the monk’s insane jeremiads. Drawing his dagger from his belt, he took aim at the distant cleric and let fly the blade, which went straight and true toward the choleric human.
If I can just slay the monk,
the lycan hoped,
perhaps the other mortals will abandon this
demented crusade!

Avid blue eyes tracked the speeding dagger, which looked to strike the nameless monk squarely in the chest.

Lucian held his breath while fierce glee surged within his heart.
Yes!
he thought expectantly.

Taste my steel, monk!

His only regret was that he couldn’t rip the man to shreds with his own teeth and fangs.

At the last minute, however, an unwary peasant stepped between the monk and the zooming knife. The dagger caught the luckless mortal totally by surprise, sinking deep into his chest. “Brother Ambrose!” the man cried out, perhaps not even realizing that he had just saved the monk’s life.

“Bless my poor soul!”

Lucian roared in frustration as the peasant fell dead at the monk’s sandaled feet. Taken aback by his close brush with death, Brother Ambrose crossed himself hurriedly and hopped off his stump, retreating to a safer distance while continuing to hurl imprecations at the castle and its immortal denizens.

“Fiends! Abominations! You cannot frighten the pure of spirit. The vengeance of heaven is upon you, and all your unholy powers will not save you from the final reckoning. Your dread dominion ends today in righteous fire and blood!”

Lucian looked about for something else to fling at the mad monk, only to feel a sudden searing pain in his left shoulder. His eyes widened at the sight of a smoking arrow jutting from his person.