Underworld: Blood Enemy (7 page)

It was very clear to Lucian. Obviously the humans had seized control of the keep before their arrival, presumably sometime after Marcus and his entourage had passed through. They must have tortured the lycan servants to find out when the next caravan from the castle was expected.

But there was no time to explain. “We must flee this place, milady!” he urged Sonja. He looked about them anxiously; all around the bailey his fellow immortals were fighting for their lives against the mortal mob. Nearby, Soren heaved his dead horse off his body and lumbered to his feet. Throwing back his bearskin cloak, he unwound his silver whips, which he used to keep the bloodthirsty peasants at bay.

Soren looked anxiously to the east, where dawn’s scarlet fingers streaked the sky above the jagged peaks of the palisade. Like Lucian, the overseer plainly understood that their true enemy was time. The sun was rising, bringing death to every vampire still standing.

Including Sonja.

An axe-wielding peasant, possessed of more zeal than sense, charged Soren. The vampire’s whips snaked out with lightning speed, the right lash yanking the man off his feet while the left wrapped itself around the haft of his axe. A second later, Soren retracted the latter whip, taking the axe with it.

“Soren!” Lucian called out. “Over here! The princess requires your aid!”

If the dour overseer heard Lucian’s cry, he gave no sign of it. Wrapping his whips around his beefy shoulders, he took the axe in his hands and ran toward the closed oak gates. The swinging axe cut a gruesome swath through the mob, but Soren was intent more on escape than on inflicting mayhem upon their foes. Reaching the sealed gates, he chopped at the hardened wood with his axe.

Splinters of oak flew with every thunderous blow, until he had hacked out a crack large enough for him to squeeze his meaty frame through.

Lucian watched intently as Soren disappeared through the gap in the wooden door. Taking Sonja by the arm, he moved to follow the escaping vampire, only to be daunted by the sight of yet more mortal berserkers rushing into the bailey through the open crack. The reinforcements came on in a seemingly inexhaustible torrent, cutting off Lucian and Sonja from the gates.

Had Soren been brought down by the forces outside the keep, or had he been able to hack his way clear of the mob? Lucian had no way of knowing and little time in which to care. His eyes searched for another avenue of escape, quickly lighting upon a set of wooden steps leading up to the walkway along the top of the palisade.

That’s our only way out,
he realized.
We have no choice but to risk it.

But the sun’s deadly rays were already beginning to shine down into the blood-soaked bailey.

Agonized screams filled the yard as the sunbeams ignited the flesh of the wounded vampires unlucky enough to be lying in their path. Lucian wrapped Sonja’s heavy cloak about her tightly but knew that the garment would not be enough to protect her for long.

“Lucian?” she asked uncertainly. Her arm trembled. “The sun… I can feel its heat upon me already…”

“Do not fear, milady,” Lucian vowed. He would not see her sublime beauty reduced to ashes by the merciless sun, not while breath remained within his body. An idea occurred to him. “Come with me,” he said, guiding her back to where he had been when the ambush commenced. “There may yet be a way to keep you safe.”

“But what of the others?” she asked.

Lucian shook his head. Even as they spoke, he saw a lycan groomsman cut down by the mob, his body sliced to ribbons by scythes, hatchets, and meat cleavers. Elsewhere, a kneeling Death Dealer dropped her crossbow as a golden sunbeam set her face on fire. The vampire’s skin blackened and crumbled. Her hair burst into flames. Her dying screams tore at Lucian’s heart.

He looked away.
I can do nothing to halt this slaughter,
he thought. The odds against them were too great.
It will be a miracle if Sonja alone survives…

“Kill them all!” Brother Ambrose commanded his rampaging acolytes. “See how the cleansing light destroys night’s unholy creatures. Heaven itself fights at your side!”

The light was indeed the enemy; that much was certain. The rolled-up tapestry was lying right where Lucian had left it. He swiftly unfurled the woven fabric on the ground. Grasping his intention, Sonja lay down upon the tapestry and let Lucian roll it back up with her inside it. With luck, the thick layers of fabric would protect her from the daylight while Lucian tried to get them both to safety.

If safety was to be had.

Heedless of her added weight, he slung the bundle over his shoulder and made for the wooden stairway. Carrying Sonja forced him to discard the sickle, but he held on to his dagger with his free hand.

A homely peasant, a swollen goiter bulging from his throat, attempted to block Lucians path by waving a crucifix in front of the fleeing lycan. “Stand back, ye creature of hell!” the man ranted. “The power of the holy rood defies you!”

Lucian stabbed the fool in the gut, then darted around the peasant while the man was still staring in disbelief at the blood gushing from his torso. The useless cross dropped onto the ground.

“Look sharp, brave souls!” Brother Ambrose shouted, taking notice of Lucian’s flight. “Do not let the dark-haired devil escape! The blood of my martyred brothers cries out for holy vengeance!”

Martyrs? Brothers?

Lucian had no idea what the crazed monk was raving about. He raced up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. A torch-wielding peasant met him midway up the stairs, swinging the blazing brand like a club. Lucian ducked beneath the torch, then rammed his head into the man’s chest, knocking him backward onto the steps. He thrust out the torch in self-defense, but Lucian sliced off the peasants hand with a single swipe of his dagger. Both torch and hand plummeted to the bailey below, trailing sparks like a shooting star. Bright arterial blood spewed from the mans truncated wrist.

“My hand!” the maimed peasant screamed, a moment before Lucian stampeded up the stairs on top of him, trampling the humans body beneath his boots.

“Hark! The beast makes for the fence!” Brother Ambrose shouted, managing to sound both indignant and agitated at the same time. “Someone stop him! Anyone!”

Curse you!
Lucian raged. He wanted to rip out the monk’s tongue with his bare hands.
You
spew venom with every breath!

Lucian bounded onto the upper walkway and peered over the edge of the palisade. A fifty-foot drop separated him and Sonja from the ground below. Nothing to worry about, he thought confidently; any immortal could make such a jump with ease. Before he could leap over the pointed tips of the fence, however, an arrow slammed into his back, barely missing his spine. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the birchwood shaft of a crossbow quarrel and guessed that one of the mortal varlets had claimed the weapon of a fallen Death Dealer, perhaps even Lady Ilona herself.

The silver arrowhead burned like hellfire against his flesh, joining the constant stinging in his side. He grunted out loud, unable to hold the pain in.

No matter, he resolved. There would be time enough to see to his wounds later—if he and Sonja survived. Thrusting his dagger back into his belt, he cradled the swaddled princess in his arms and leaped over the top of the palisade.

The cool morning air rushed against his face as he dropped nimbly to the mossy ground below.

His powerful legs absorbed much of the impact of his landing, cushioning Sonja against the jolt, but the bump still caused the hellish burning in his back and side to reach new peaks in torment. He gnashed his fangs, biting back the pain.

He found himself in an open field, within sight of the surrounding forest. The beckoning shelter of the woods called to him, and he dashed across the field, holding tightly onto the tapestry and its priceless contents.

The blazing sun grew ever higher in the sky. The screams of incinerated Death Dealers followed Lucian across the field, as did the reek of burning flesh. The vampires’ dying screams drowned out even Brother Ambroses rantings.

His boots pounded the forest floor as Lucian plunged into the woods, clinging to the sylvan shadows for Sonja’s sake. Even still, a whimper of pain escaped the tapestry as the sun’s relentless rays penetrated the protective layers of fabric through countless minute gaps in the weaving. Lucian knew he must find sanctuary for Sonja soon.

But where? Castle Corvinus was many miles away, and this foreign countryside was unfamiliar to Lucian. To find an abandoned hut or cave by chance would require more good fortune than fate seemed likely to bestow. Lucian scoured his memory trying to remember a suitable haven they might have passed on their way to the keep.

A crude roadside shrine appeared before his mind’s eye. Had not Soren said something about a monastery in this vicinity, somewhere to the northwest?

We must try for that,
Lucian concluded, even though Brother Ambrose’s hateful jeremiads still rang in his ears. A mortal monastery seemed an unlikely refuge for a fugitive vampire and lycan, but Lucian saw no better alternative. Daylight posed a greater menace to Sonja than any monk.

He heard a band of shouting humans enter the woods behind him. “He went this way!” a fervid voice hollered to his fellows. “Don’t let him get away.”

The daylight makes the mortals bold,
he realized.
Bold enough to pursue us even into the
depths of the forest.
Lucian kept on running, never slowing for a second, even though every step jarred the silver in his flesh, sending spasms of pain through his body He longed to yank the protruding bolt from his back, but there was no time to do so; it was imperative that he stay ahead of the humans, try to lose them in the greenery.

The hunt was on, and he and Sonja were the prey, yet Lucian refused to surrender to the determined demon slayers.

I will find a sanctuary for my love,
he vowed,
even if I have to kill every monk on the
premises!

Chapter Six

CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS

Angry voices echoed through the forest behind Lucian, accompanied by the clamor of heavy boots crashing through the underbrush, as he caught sight of the monastery of Saint Walpurga, an austere brick edifice distinguished by gabled roofs and an adjacent church. Stained-glass windows adorned the upper stories of the abbey while a sculpted representation of the Madonna and Child looked down from a niche above the front entrance of the church. Silence emanated from the bell tower at the rear of the chapel.

Lucian paused to catch his breath. Between the precious burden in his arms and the quarrel jutting from his back, even his immortal stamina was nearing its limits. The silver arrowheads lodged in his flesh felt like hot coals beneath his skin, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. The morning sun beat down on his head and shoulders, drenching him in sweat. Chirping birds, singing sweetly in the branches overhead, mocked his tribulations.

He approached the monastery warily. Tradition held that even a murderer could find sanctuary on holy ground, yet Lucian rather doubted that the Church’s mercy extended to vampires and lycans as well. Still, there seemed no other choice than to take their chances within the abbey, especially with Brother Ambroses minions still hot on their trail.
Better to face a chapel full of unsuspecting
monks,
Lucian reasoned,
than a hate-crazed mob armed with implements of death.

As he approached the wide stone steps leading up to the church, however, he saw at once that something was amiss. The great oak doors guarding the entrance lay in pieces on the floor of the vestibule. Broken hinges dangled where once the doors had been affixed to the archway. Deep gouges showed in the splintered wood of the door, the solid oak scarred by jagged claw marks.

Perhaps,
Lucian thought suspiciously, I
am not the first lycan to come this way….

Rats scurried away as, clutching Sonja’s shrouded form, he passed through the vestibule into the vaulted chapel of the abbey. Evidence of rain and abandonment presented itself wherever he gazed.

Dark brown bloodstains discolored the tiled floor of the church, which smelled of dried blood and piss. The lectern lay on its side before a desecrated altar that some rough beast had clearly marked with its scent. The torn pages of shredded hymnals littered the floor and pews, along with overturned collection plates and reliquaries. Dust and cobwebs testified to weeks, if not months, of neglect. A bloody pawprint, stamped on the floor of the sanctuary, left no doubt in Lucian’s mind about what had occurred here.

The renegades!
he realized as the roots of Brother Ambrose’s murderous crusade became clear. Clearly, the vulnerable monastery had fallen prey to the same marauding pack of werewolves that had been wreaking havoc in this territory for months, explaining the monk’s vengeful invocation of his “martyred brothers.” From the looks of things, Brother Ambrose may well have been the only survivor of this monastic bloodbath.
Small wonder that he craves our death so avidly.

Despite ample evidence of the carnage, no corpses remained for the rats to feast on. No doubt, Brother Ambrose had seen to the proper Christian burial of whatever fleshless bones the ravening werewolves had left behind.

Would that he had ceased his efforts there!
Lucian brooded darkly.
Then Sonja and I would
not be in such grave peril.

Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows depicting the life of the saint. Many of the colored panels were cracked and shattered, but enough glass remained to cast rainbow-hued shadows on the wreckage. The tinted radiance made the church no place for a vampire, so Lucian was compelled to search further for a sunless nook where Sonja could reside in safety.

Perhaps the dormitories or refectory?

To his relief, he found an arched doorway at the far end of the southern transept. Beyond the open portal, granite steps led down into darkness. Lucian gratefully descended the spiral stairs, leaving the light of the day behind. Cobwebs clung to his face and clothing as he pushed his way through a dense accumulation of webbing. Rats and cockroaches skittered at the periphery of his vision.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairwell, the utter blackness challenged even his nocturnal senses. He trod carefully, navigating by smell and sound as much as sight, down a musty tunnel that smelled of damp and decay. His elbow brushed against a niche in the wall, dislodging a pile of dusty bones that clattered noisily onto the floor. A skull rolled against his boots before coming to rest behind him.

His nose identified the skeletal remains as human. He realized then that he had stumbled upon the catacombs in which the brothers of Saint Walpurga buried their dead. Generations of monks surely occupied these subterranean tunnels, carved out of the chalky limestone through decades of hard labor. Lucian nodded in satisfaction; it seemed as safe a place as any to hide from their pursuers.

A muffled noise came from the curled tapestry in his arms. Judging the sunlight sufficiently distant, he laid the bundle gently on the floor and unfurled it as he would a carpet. The bulky tapestry spread out before him, revealing the supine form of Sonja in all her beauty like Cleopatra before Caesar.

Glowing azure eyes shone in the darkness.

He knelt beside her as she sat up on the tapestry, looking about her in confusion. “How fare you, milady?” he inquired anxiously. As his own eyes gradually adjusted to the stygian murk, he saw that Sonja seemed relatively unscathed by her ordeal. A few red patches, no worse than ordinary sunburns, marked her neck and brow, but such blemishes already appeared to be fading away.

Lucian had every hope that these minor burns would heal quickly, provided Sonja had rest and blood enough.

He wished he could offer his own blood to restore her.
I would gladly surrender every drop in
my veins for her sweet sake,
he thought passionately. Alas, such a sacrifice would be in vain; lycan blood was anathema to vampires, and vice versa. His blood would only sicken Sonja, not aid in her recovery.
Yet one more way in which
I
am unworthy of her….

She opened her mouth to reply to his query but before she could utter a word, an alarming clamor came from the chapel above them. Sonja gasped out loud as they heard the boots and voices of at least a dozen men invading the sanctuary over their heads. “Keep your eyes peeled, lads!” one nameless mortal called out to his comrades. “They can’t have gone far!”

Sonja shuddered, realizing that the mob had caught up with them… almost. She reached out for Lucian, who placed a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders. Despite the extreme precariousness of their situation, he could not help feeling a thrill of excitement at this unexpected intimacy. Beneath the blood and dirt soiling her garments, he scented lavender and balsam. Her body was cool against his, not hot and rough like a lycan’s. Hair as soft as gossamer brushed against his cheek. His fingers yearned to caress her silken skin.

Fie on that!
he chided himself. Not only were such desires grossly inappropriate, given their respective stations, but they distracted him from the danger at hand.
I need all my wits about me if
we are to live to see another night.

They huddled in the darkness, afraid to breathe, let alone speak. Above them, only a single flight of steps away, the bloodthirsty humans prowled the ruined church in search of their immortal quarries. Lucian feared it was only a matter of time before one of the braver souls ventured down the stairwell into the catacombs.

He quietly handed his dagger to Sonja, prepared to battle the hunters with tooth and claw if need be.
Here in the dark,
he thought grimly,
Sonja will at least have a chance to defend herself.

“Enough of this!” a voice bellowed from above. “I will tarry no longer in this cursed spot. Let us be clear of this place!”

“But the holy brother urged us to search everywhere for the demons!” another mortal objected.

To Lucian’s dismay, the man sounded as though he was standing at the top of the spiral stairway leading to the catacombs. “Look, I’ve found some steps.”

“That’s the way to the catacombs, you dolt!” the first man mocked. His derisive tone failed to conceal the uneasiness in his voice. “I wouldn’t set foot in those goddamn crypts if my soul’s salvation depended on it!”

A chorus of voices chimed in, expressing the same sentiments. “If Brother Ambrose wants to go looking for vampires among the bones of the dead,” a third voice declared, “let him do so himself.

Me, I’ve got a wife and four small children to think about!”

Lucian listened with excitement, a renewed sense of hope surging within his breast. Apparently, the intrepid demon slayers lacked the courage to enter the gloomy catacombs in search of their prey.

Can it be,
he marveled,
that fate has come to our rescue at last?

Holding a finger to his lips, he waited silently as the voices and footsteps receded into the distance. Not until the last echo of their departure faded did he risk speaking again. “Rejoice, milady,” he whispered. “I daresay the mortal varlets are gone from this place.”

“Thank the Elders!” she said in a hushed tone. “I thought us doomed for certain.”

Free from jeopardy, if only for the nonce, Lucian found himself alone with Sonja in the cramped underground corridor. Under other circumstances, this would have been a dream come true; the freshly spilled blood soaking both their garments, however, served as a pungent reminder that their situation was far from idyllic. The desiccated remains of dead monks, resting in their humble stone niches, added to the macabre atmosphere of the moment.

Reluctantly removing his arm from the princess’s shoulder, he found himself at a loss for words.

“My apologies,” he said finally, “for these morbid accommodations. ’Twas the best I could manage, given our present difficulties.”

A faint smile appeared on Sonja’s face. “You need not apologize for saving my life, Lucian. If not for you, I would be naught but ashes, like the rest of our unfortunate brethren.”

Hearing his name upon her lips was like receiving a benediction from the Elders themselves. “I was but doing my duty, milady.”

“Please, dear friend, call me Sonja.” She laid a cool hand atop his. “I think you have earned that privilege—and more.”

Lucian knew not whether to be delighted or appalled. “I—I am beneath you, good lady,” he stammered. Beneath his sleeve, as he knew too well, his very flesh bore her father’s brand, signifying that he was no more than a vassal.

“Let me be the judge of that,” she stated. Her eyes widened as she spotted the smear of blood on his side. “You’re hurt!”

“It is nothing,” Lucian insisted, but his pained expression belied his words. It felt as though the silver arrowheads were branding his flesh from the inside out. Fresh blood continued to seep from the unhealed cuts. “You need not concern yourself with my injuries.”

“Do not be absurd,” Sonja said. “Let me look at you.” Examining him more closely, she was shocked to discover, besides the grisly wound in his side, the crossbow bolt protruding from his back. “This must come out at once,” she declared.

Lucian could not deny the wisdom of her words. He would be of little use to the princess unless his injuries were treated promptly; the pain and poison were sapping his strength at a steady rate.

Throbbing pangs spread from each wound, pulsing with every beat of his heart. His skin felt hot and feverish, despite the chills that set his body quaking. Cramps and nausea gripped his innards, while his mouth was as dry as the fabled Sahara.

“Turn around,” she instructed. Lucian presented his skewered back to her scrutiny. Blood plastered his linen tunic to his skin, forcing Sonja to peel it away inch by inch. The wolf’s-head dagger cut through the cloth around the exposed crossbow bolt, but, although Sonja worked as gently as she could, he still winced as the shirt came away, exposing his bleeding torso. He knew also that the worst pain was yet to come.

“Take this,” she said, offering him the arm bone of a deceased monk. He took the dusty bone between his jaws, biting down on it in anticipation of the agony ahead. “Are you ready?” she asked, taking firm hold of the feathered quarrel.

He nodded in assent. Sonja pulled on the blood-slick bolt, working it back and forth in order to extricate the silver head without snapping the wooden shaft. Lucian clenched his jaws as tightly as he could, stifling the anguished howl building at the back of his throat. His veins bulged, and his muscles tensed, and it took all his willpower not to turn and snap at Sonja like a maddened hound.

The stubborn arrowhead resisted her efforts, as though unwilling to surrender its purchase within his side. Finally, though, with one last forceful pull on its shaft, the bolt came loose. “There,” Sonja announced. She snapped the quarrel in half and tossed the broken pieces back the way they had come.

Lucians head and shoulders drooped forward. He panted raggedly, letting the arm bone drop from between his jaws.

Toothmarks showed in the surface of the abused humerus. Exhausted, his bare chest heaving, Lucian could not even muster breath enough to thank Sonja for tending to his injuries.

But his ordeal had not concluded; there remained the silver arrowhead buried in his side. Blood yet spilled from the narrow gash, which would not heal as long as the toxic metal stayed within the wound. Looking down, Lucian saw that the flesh around the cut had already begun to fester.

Traceries of silver gray spread beneath the skin, radiating out from the wound like metallic cobwebs.

The skin itself was inflamed and sore to the touch. Sonja’s fingers but grazed the site, and Lucian yelped as though stabbed with a red-hot poker.