Chapter I : The Roguish Seer
2001 A.D.
Hamburg, Germany
Time: 11:48 pm
Walls covered in newspaper and grime, the unwashed air smelling of blood, skin, flame and tallow drippings. The sickly-sweet aroma of candlewax and bile spreading across the floor, making strange and unforgiving shapes upon the wood. The windows had been boarded up...and the room was dank. From the darkness, a harsh, crooning chant emerged. A woman's voice, broken and catching as a tuneless record scratching its way through silence...
"Fluorescent lights flickering on, off, on, off," she muttered, fingers weaving through air. Barely able to complete a word before moving onto the next. "B-b-blood stains, broken glass, old bottles, brown suitcase, straight-back chair by the window ledge. Tracks on the ground. Empty birdcage. Line of ants b-by the hallway. The door s-stands open." Her tone quickened abruptly, the dips and stutters absent as she found her voice finally. "Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes off." As if the record had ceased, the woman's hand collapsed...the hand faltering against her chest, her limbs no longer able to sustain the silent movement.
"When?" he whispered coldly. Calm and calculating with his eyes to the door. A tune with purpose…sharp and precise, even when leaning over the blood and filth spattered across the bed.
"Two days," she said, her fingers now languidly tracing a path along his neck.
"His name?"
"His name is…n-no…between his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes—shhh…" She cut off with a shudder, blind and caught in the trappings of her own mind. The scrawny legs kicking and flailing as she suddenly tried to claw his eyes out. Impatient, he snatched her hand, forcing the trembling fingers still. Watching the burnt features of her face calm as he repeated the question, keeping her wrist trapped.
She would be dead within a month, he knew. Two at the most. A year ago he might have cared, but no longer. The damage had been done, and the woman robbed of her strength. Even her talons remained stunted…nibbled and gnawed to the skin. She vaguely pulled at his arm, but soon, losing interest, began muttering again…"Smashed linoleum, crumbling walls, newspapers covered in grime…fluorescent lights, flickering on, off, on, off, on, off…broken glass, old bottles, brown suitcase…"
Exasperated, he moved on to other concerns…
"Where then?"
"…rot and mold, bathroom tiles need scrubbing…blood on the m-m-marketplace floor…North."
The battle raged on. Caught in another vision, she shook her head violently against the bed, struggling against her captor. The right arm dead against her side. Ignoring the filth, he leaned forward, hissing the next question into her ear, pulling the dying creature closer and almost cradling her unsteady form. Gripping her arm as he steered her closer to the answer he sought…
"His blood is pure?"
"He hits you…"
"Tell me his name…"
"Who?" she whispered, finally hearing his voice again.
"The man!"
Her eyes opened. Blue, violent and deadly. The last vestiges of her beauty twisted by the touch of a true nightrunner's tail. Almost sane for a moment, she wrenched herself from his grasp and crawled from the bed, her sudden speed uncanny in the face of her wounds as he jerked back, wary of sharp teeth and blunt nails. She crossed the room in a millisecond and crouched lazily by the window, hazily whispering, holding onto her secrets and yet pointing the scarred fingers towards him who stood by the bed…
"His name is…"
And suddenly, hushing her own lips, she began to snicker, mad and smiling with the answer before she spoke it. Wrapped in her mirth, she slid to the floor, taking care to push her head firmly against the window ledge…licking her dried lips and rubbing her hand back and forth, back and forth upon the wooden floor. Quieting down, the burnt seer raised her arm again, pointing her finger once more at him before softly whispering…
"…You."
Sccreeeechh…
The sound of a passing train destroyed her mind in the few minutes he had left. Iron screeching, lights flashing on, off, on, off as the nightrunner tore past the hunter's window. Shattered and skewed as a rusty track rising on a broken crescendo. An echo in the distance to most humans, but deafening to the trained ears of immortals. He frowned into the chaos, ignoring the sound of her screams in such close proximity to the train, scowling as he watched the vampire dissolve further into her madness. By the time she finished venting her terror, the borrowed blood would wear off…and he would receive no more answers…
Calling the nurse, he turned and left, his thoughts running before him as he memorized everything he'd heard…
Fluorescent lights flickering…Blood stains, broken glass, old bottles, a brown suitcase, a straight-back chair by the window ledge. Tracks on the ground. An empty birdcage. A line of ants by the doorway. The door stands open. Outside the door stands a man. Between his fingers lies a gun. The trigger goes off. Smashed linoleum, crumbling walls, newspapers covered in grime, rot and mold, the bathroom tiles need scrubbing…
Blood on the marketplace floor…
North, she said…which meant Norway.
Trondheim, Norway… or Kaupangan as it was once called...the "marketplace." Of all the vampire-infested territories to go gallivanting during winter, it had to be Trondheim…
But so the lycans run… he thought bitterly, stalking from the broken-down building as he went over the rest of her words. Keeping to the shadows and masking his trail. Ever on his guard as he loped towards a dark limousine waiting beneath a bridge several hundred yards away…
…o…o…o…
Hamburg Harbour.
Time: 12:09 am
A tall, tremendous man of dark skin stood leaning against a shadowy underpass overlooking the harbour-front. Dropping a cigarette on the ground, he inhaled deeply, tasting ash on his breath and curling further into his jacket. The dangerous warmth marred by silver on the previous night and the culprit dead. Save for the vehicle running idly behind him, the grounds were deserted. Smoke rising from a distant fire, the air mingling with ice. The wet sound of water lapping against boat horns in the distance. It was full moon, and most thought it wise to avoid the oldest lycan left alive in this war. The most powerful werewolf of the past six-centuries, or so the vampires thought. Raze, they called him. One whose name meant destruction. Even his lycan comrades had bought into the legend, his carnage and brutality only fuelling the flames. His eyes trained on the far-off blaze in the distance, he suddenly bowed his head in submission, knowing he was no longer alone. Facing downwind, he'd not even sensed the other presence until it was a mere two feet away.
The tell-tale scent of oak, leather, blood...and gun oil.
...Lucian had returned.
Materializing from shadows, the hardened leader stepped forward, folding his arms sternly in front of him and joining Raze at his post. Seemingly ignoring the blaze across the harbour. Blood smudged across his neck, his once-handsome features now harsh in the moonlight, grey-eyed and pale of skin. He leaned against the tall pillar, his black fur-lined coat hanging open to the wind. The shock of so much dark hair fleeing past his shoulders, unruly locks almost tame. A beard so neatly trimmed in the wake of all this hunted abandonment...
Raze shifted his obeisance forward and fixed his eyes on his leader. "I heard a train…" he began, the growling tone of his voice rumbling in the depths of stone.
"And what of it?" replied the lycan master, cold and aloof as he turned from the colossal industry of Hamburg harbour to stare evenly at his second-in-command. His voice, miles from the grit of Raze's throat. His words, rich and soothing…every sentence exuding a deep, unnatural calm which oftentimes hid the tremendous anger raging berneath…
"Given her past, I assumed that she might find it...uncomfortable." Cautiously, Raze held his breath as soon as the last word escaped his tongue. Six hundred years and still he could not gauge the lycan master's reactions to save his life. Uncomfortable had been a diplomatic way of saying torturous.
Lucian shrugged coldly, the light not quite touching his eyes. "She's fine." Though his words were quiet, his expression had become increasingly penetrating, the dark pupils narrowing in the moonlight. He did not turn back to the harbour, and relentlessly, his grey-eyes continued to scrutinize Raze. Unswerving, bold and without qualm...as if to pry out any secrets that might be lurking...
Secrets...
Quickly, Raze focused his attention on the ground instead. The sight of cigarette butts. The cold scent of a chain-smoker. It was not wise to stare the lycan master in the eye. The man had grown paranoid of late, tense whenever returning from his sojourns to the Nightrunner's abode. The abandoned building where she lurked. The strange and fleeting scenes she saw in lycan blood...but Lucian would no longer talk of visions to him. From what he knew, there was nothing to speak of regardless. The blood no longer stayed down...the visions were broken. Disconnected. She couldn't discern truth from lies and spoke without ceasing, grossly unaware of those around her. He could feel Lucian's eyes boring into the side of his head. The last time he'd been allowed to accompany the lycan master, the woman had begun screaming the moment she saw him lurking by the door. The cruel sound of Lucian laughing in bitter appreciation as Raze left the room, unnerved by the blood-seer's presence. The changes that the sun had wrought upon her mind as well as her body.
She was much changed from the woman she had once been...
…an exile from the vampire side. A visionary of the blood. Strange creature, some would call beautiful, brought to them by Tanis as pawn of payment. Many had objected at the time, but within a century, she had taken to her lycan jailers as if they were her own kind, adopting their ways and fighting their war...eventually bedding their leader. Two years ago, it all ended. A scouting party found her burned and crushed beside the tracks…still breathing. Trapped by the sun's rays and cowering beneath a shadowy nook. The seer struck down by the very trains she used to frequent…
It was almost fitting…
…though Lucian had not taken the news well.
As if eavesdropping on that very thought, the leader abruptly moved from the pillars, yanking the dark limousine open and slamming the door shut behind him, obviously eager to be gone. Nodding at the unspoken order and striding swiftly round to the other side, Raze entered the car as well and signalled the driver to move on. The icy wind followed their trail, and in moments, the scent of gun oil and cigarette smoke was gone from the air. As if it had never been.
…o…o…o…
Streets of Hamburg.
Time: 12:20 am
The light of full moon stretched across tinted windows as they pulled out from beneath the bridge. Tensing slightly, Raze curved himself further into the seat, feeling the bones creak beneath his skin while keeping his lycan form at bay. He allowed the Change to continue in his mind. His head lengthening…the spinal cord warped and twisting as his bones cracked. All in his mind, as Lucian had taught. Watching from the corner of his eye, he observed how the alpha himself had not moved a single muscle. In truth, it had been years since anyone had seen him change his form completely, and oftentimes, Raze wondered how a lycan could willingly remain trapped in human form when he stood as alpha over all twelve packs of the horde. Recently, he'd even begun to suspect the lycan master of buried reasoning. Secret thoughts that Lucian would by no means entrust to his second-in-command, let alone a friend…
…but Raze suspected.
Shame…
Lucian was ashamed of his lycan form…
But it had never been a source of shame to Raze...and inwardly, the trapped lycan began to howl silently, proud of his stature and might…where the master was born and raised beneath the condescending rule of vampiric authority, Raze had lived freely since the day of Change. Since the night he had killed his own patriarch…tearing the throat of the lycan who stole his mortality. Fleeing his people and fighting stalwartly, keeping his hide as he evaded mortals, vampires, and lycans alike across the Moorish nights. Lord of his own destiny until the hour Lucian forced him to his knees, garnering the undying respect and faithfulness of ages…
Hear how my soul howls and roars from the ramparts! I am Raze, both power and strength incarnate! First lycan to the alpha himself! Who would dare attack our forces when such a vengeful warrior holds sway over the…
His flesh body flinched as he realized he had been spoken to. Twice.
"What?" Raze asked dimly, having heard not a single word. The lycan master had turned from the dark window, and was now staring coldly at his second-in-command, his patience obviously hanging by an extremely thin thread.
"I said…" a mild gritting of teeth as Lucian repeated his words a second time. "…what news from the North?"
The North? Was this a test?
Coughing his confusion away, Raze frowned, regaining his throat, swallowing his unheard howls and answering swiftly, relieved that for once, he held up-to-date knowledge of the northern outskirts of lycan territory…
"Their pack remains split along two supply lines, restricted with the darkness. Less than six hours of daylight. Deathdealers sighted in main cities, but no attacks yet. Magnus keeps the road clear."
Lucian nodded thoughtfully, his eyes drawn to the window again, watching the close-knit walls of Hamburg and tapping his fingers edgily along the ledge. Following the man's gaze, Raze stared through the glass as well, gathering that a change had come over the lycan master's mood.
The man was planning something…a change of base perhaps? A restructuring of forces? It had been a decade since the horde established itself in Hamburg, the last few years spent holing up in the abandoned sectors, the majority of the pack moving among sewers. Their leader lived the life of a dead-man. Perhaps a decade too long considering his growing edginess of late.
"And the den?"
Once again, Raze answered quickly, unwilling to betray any misunderstanding or doubt. "Conditions are stable. Two dozen souls kept on reserve." His mouth closed on the last word, his mind thinking swiftly as he entertained the possibilities. Aware that there must be some line of reason behind this inquiry.
A raid then? Orders to be sent north? In winter? Only a fool waged war in winter. The vampires had extra hours of pitiless night, while lycans froze their skin off in the snow. They were just as susceptible to cold in human form as regular mortals, and by now, even the most renegade of their forces had realized that guns and ultraviolet bullets required fingers rather than claws. No…not a raid. Lucian is no fool, reasoned the dark lycan fiercely to himself, unwilling to think ill of the lycan master's plans even as he considered the best approach for questioning him. Unfortunately, his chance was lost…
"Excellent." Lucian murmured softly, staring straight ahead as he fished out a cell-phone and began dialing. His next words dropping like a quiet wind using a bombshell to shake the barley. "Consider yourself in charge for the next three days."
Barely controlling the urge to spit blood from his bitten tongue, Raze twisted to stare at the dispassionate man on his right, his heart sinking, questions running through his head as he tried to grasp onto what had occurred...
It was absurd!
The man had no right to place him in charge. Always, if a secondary alpha was to be chosen, even for a few days, the twelve pack-leaders were to choose among themselves. Such a thing had happened only twice in the past half century, and both times, Briceus had been the first choice. Raze was just the decoy. The visual head of the horde, closest to the alpha in terms of proximity...but he was no pack-leader. If the twelve even suspected Lucian was running another expedition, they might find themselves facing a confrontation. As if the incident last time wasn't enough!
Rapidly starting to resemble a thunder-cloud, Raze finally grunted in frustration, stretching his jaws around a heated argument on the imprudence of…
…but Lucian's hand had already waved him into silence, the man's tongue switching easily into unaccented German as he began speaking on the phone, his fingers absently playing with a leather cord tied around his neck and no longer tapping edgily along the window ledge. The occasional word in English betraying an absence of wording for a few of the more recent technological advances…
Pretending to be grimly interested in the brown stitching of his coat, Raze listened intently, harbouring his questions as he waited for his chance to speak…
Arrangements. Travel excursions. Something about…
…Norway?
What reason would Lucian have to visit the northern front?
…o…o…o…
Five minutes later.
Flipping his Nokia shut, Lucian stowed the miniature mobile in his trench-coat and nestled himself further against the leather lining of his seat. Eyes starting to close as he contemplated the possibility of moving beyond this hellish existence. He was weary…tense, but weary above all. The exhaustion etched into his bones, sinking even further through the marrow. Still stroking the cord around his neck, he bit back a desultory yawn, barely noticing the tautness of form keeping him from making the Change. All in the mind, he thought, stretching his jaws around a second yawn, barely covering his mouth in time. Banishing the burnt seer's face from his mind and perfectly aware of the dire mountain of anger grinding its teeth on his left. He still had a good twenty minutes to go before they reached the home district and already, he was on the verge of falling asleep. Unless death-dealers dropped out of the seams, a limo was the perfect setting for a short wintry nap.
Dark interior. Sound-proof. Pleasantly upholstered seats. Smooth shock-absorbers.
The only thing missing was the insufferably loud voice of…
...Raze.
As if on cue, the dark lycan to his left suddenly rumbled deeply, the words seeming to rise from some stony reservoir stored in the man's throat. "Norway, Lucian? Trondheim? Every communication we've had suggests quiet reserve, but even Magnus would balk at sending himself into the heart of…of that. Forgive me, but how is this action prudent for the good of the horde? The Nightrunner seldom speaks truth anymore. If you are caught, not only will our truce be compromised…but centuries of secrecy gone through a simple sighting." Obviously frustrated, the man's fist pumped against the seat. "One sighting, Lucian, and we are ruined."
Ruined?
How dramatic Raze had become in recent years...
Though in one resepct, the man was right. Most soldiers assumed Budapest was the worst place to get killed by a vampire. The older lycans knew better. In Budapest, they caught you, tortured you, and killed you. In Trondheim, they caught you, tortured you, tortured you, tortured you, and then several months later, you began to wonder why your skin was missing and you had no teeth. The coven in those parts was one of the most unpredictable wildcards in Europe, making contact with Budapest about once every quarter century. Even Kraven preferred to remain south of their border…
Already feeling a headache coming, Lucian calmly pressed his right index finger against his temple, massaging the trouble spot...trying fruitlessly to regain that one moment of relaxation. Lying in the dark, he'd been able to ignore that which could not be ignored. To forget things he could not forget. But he'd be damned if he was going to argue with Raze on this matter. If the home den couldn't survive for three days on its own, then their cause was indeed in a sorry state of affairs.
"Two days," the Nightrunner had said.
Two days until Corvinus' blood could be in his grasp...the mutual ancestor of vampires and lycans used for the good of the horde. The start of a new era when lycans could become hybrids...half vampire, half lycan. He could only surmise on the power of such a creature. Fleeting and haphazard as it was, the seer's blood-sight had worked once...
Fate be with him, let it work again...
"Lucian, I must be allowed to accompany you in this…"
"Enough," Lucian hissed, quieting his subordinate with a brutal glare, and prepared himself to…share…some of his reasoning. Share his thoughts. He hated having to explain every step to a process, but at the very least, he knew he could easily sway Raze towards his final decision.
He'd even be civil about it.
Adopting a well-mannered smile, Lucian forced himself to speak, already feeling the iciness of calm tracking its way across his skin…
"Think of it as a holiday, oh Anxious One…" he murmured. Still smiling, he could feel the prickle of Change calling to him, vaguely aware that his teeth were already a fraction of an inch longer than a moment before. He fought it. All lycans lived by the dredges of discipline he'd taught them, but an iron hand required decorum in its application. "I am the one lycan the vampires are no longer looking for, and as such, I am the most likely candidate for this trip. If the Nightrunner speaks truth, our entire war will come to a head in two days…and if not, we are at an impasse regardless. But do not think, Raze, that I have lost sight of the fact that we are on a battlefield. I can only trust that you remember risks are required for the greater good. A risk that I am willing to take."
Watching Raze from the corner of his eye, he paused to let the effect of his words settle...and then resumed in a tone that brooked no argument. "As for yourself, do not set foot outside of Hamburg. Keep to the shadows, check with Singe daily and rule the home pack. If I catch wind of a single skirmish or even suspect that you've informed the Twelve of my actions...then I suggest you find Ordoghaz and beg them for sanctuary. No doubt Kraven can find you a place on his wall."
Unfortunately, his last sentence was spoken through a grit of teeth rather than a smile…
…but he was a tyrant, not a miracle-worker.
Assuming the conversation was over and finding his phone again, Lucian flung his grumbling subordinate from his mind and began searching for the games features. Ten more minutes, and 'Anxiety' plus 'Raze' did not make a good combination.
The man was grasping at straws if he thought to sway his decision. The benefits of the venture outweighed any loss they might suffer, and if indeed he fell in battle, there were policies in place that made sure the war would carry on without his leadership.
Squinting slightly, Lucian frowned at the tiny screen as he admitted the secondary, less obvious reason for his sudden inclination towards leaving Hamburg for three days…one locked deep within his subconscious. One that generally wasn't approved of when factoring in the heavy price of war. Ten years he had lived in Hamburg, lying low…keeping his identity under wraps. Devoting his every waking moment to the cause. Of course, his main concern was the capture of this…this man…in Trondheim…of course, it might lead to the blending of species he had worked so diligently towards for almost a half century…
…but for the love of blood, he was feeling restless as a pup on crack.
He hated the city. He hated his pack. He hated his quarters.
Excuse enough to go north…
"But why now?" Raze growled abruptly again, breaking the silence and causing Lucian to wince faintly as a tiny little buzz signified the death of a virtual battleship. "All she has done is lie since the accident. Her mind is gone. Her gift is gone…" The words sounded like a curse. "Two years she has spoken in tainted visions, Lucian, and not once have you acted since the death of Liam. If the Twelve even knew you were still seeking her counsel, you could be challenged on it. Two false leads and a dead lycan later, you know this seer speaks no sense..."
"Perhaps," Lucian replied absently, still intent on fiddling with his mechanical toy. Unlike many of the older lycans, he had embraced the modern century. Technology was the weapon of war, and cell-phones were a godsend. "Considering that she heard my voice this time, I can only assume that our chances may have increased by a slight percentage." He couldn't mask the irritation in his voice at being argued with. "In any event, the territory hasn't been inspected in years. Lest we become like our enemies, I'd rather keep the northern forces allied with my own." Still attempting to ignore Raze while having a conversation with him, he stabbed the key pad, squinting at the likelihood of a battleship on the right-hand corner of the screen…
To think, only a century ago, they would have needed couriers to plan this journey…and now, a few words spoken into an encrypted metal box and he was on his way. Fascinating…
"Inspection?" Raze muttered, shaking his head and staring again out the window. "There is no need for inspection in a place that dark. The northern lycans are loyal to a man. Magnus holds the road, and you…you wrestle your fate for the sake of a whim, Lucian. All for a burned carcass of a…"
Something snapped abruptly. Bones tensing as the white light of terrifying silver glazed over narrowed eyes, talons only a fraction from ripping into Raze's throat, the other man's head caught in a vicelike grip that made it simple for Lucian to speak quietly into the other lycan's ear, "I am finished arguing over this matter, Raze. The date is set, and tomorrow I leave with dawn. If you wish to serve me well…" He growled forebodingly, hissing the last words. "…hold the damned reins while I go north."
Drawing ferociously back as he released his grip, Lucian tossed the crumpled phone on the seat between them, focusing his sight instead on the tightly packed city surrounding him on all sides. Trying not to think about how close he had just come to losing control over his bodily form. He paid no heed the sound of Raze coughing and spluttering on the other side of car. No heed to the tension that gripped him to Change or the knowledge that what bruises he'd left on Raze were already healing.
He ignored everything.
Ten years of life in this damned city…
The walls closing in. Trains surging across the underground. Bridges, towers and street vagrants trapped along the alleyways. The city lights reflected along the water. Unknowing mortals laughing in their windows, dining along the Alster. Greeting one another in passing. Always the damned trains...
...but he caught himself, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. The trains did not matter...the past did not matter. Only the war. Only the pack. Only the carrier...and yet, how strange it was that the dying Nightrunner would answer his questions two days before the carrier might be found. Strange she would have him go up North. Norway... Trondheim...the blood-soaked city. It had been years since he'd travelled up that far. Three decades at the least…
Three decades since a dim memory of a night long ago.
He'd taken her there once before, he mused, allowing the calm of great age to descend over his mood. With the memory of that night long past, the thought again unwittingly crept upon his conscience. The hair on his neck rising as he tensed, cold and chary, whenever nursing his grievances…
Always that knowledge…
How strange it was that the Nightrunner ended up crushed and bleeding ten yards from where Raze and his damned scouting party crossed the line. A place where neither of them had any business. He began to tap the window ledge again, the bitterness seeping into his conscience as he bit back the vicious lycan trapped within. The creature he held back by the skin of his teeth...the one who at times, longed to tear the throat from his second-in-command. He knew Raze had never trusted the touched outcast who sought to run with the wolves. She who had been with them for a century after Tanis found her banished by the pier. The nameless one. The roguish seer who once ran Night below the streets of Buda…
The Nightrunner.
His…Nightrunner…
No, he had not taken the news well at all when the train mysteriously caught his blue-eyed mistress of visions in her path. When Raze brought him the news two years ago...how she lived, and yet...the burns. The madness. Watching coldly for two long years as she lay dying...slowly. Slowly. At times, thinking to murder her in sleep. Finish the job. Having to suffer the presence of this dog when he knew... Bloods, he knew whose talons were stained red by this "mishap." It was his business to know. But alpha to the damned pack of twelve, his duties came first. His thoughts of guilt and murder…second.
And yet, how does one punish those who murder unseen? Those who follow a cause, and yet see no difference between friend and foe... Only "bloods." "Wolfkillers." Vampires...had he himself not taught his followers so? Had he not created this hell? Had he not...
...but no.
Like a mantra, familiar words draped themselves upon his conscience, allowing him to blanket the pain which lay beneath. Only the war. Only the pack. Only the carrier…
The Nightrunner was not his war…the dark-haired mistress left to burn in the heat of day. His companion. His woman tied to tracks of iron by the very pack of wolves that so willfully served him...
She did not matter.
She could not matter in this war.
The rest of the journey passed in silence
Official Disclaimer: Underworld and all its characters belong to Kevin Grevioux (a.k.a. Raze), Len Wiseman, and Danny McBride. However, the Nightrunner and several other characters in this particular story were entirely made up by me. Don't sue, etc.
Additional References:
For all you geography majors,
Trondheim is in Norway, and one of its original names was indeed Kaupangen, meaning "the marketplace." (Named in 997 A.D. by Olav Tryggvason.)