Year of Our Lord, 6th of September, 1058. Bernhard's Castle, City of the Damned. Torture Cellars.
A hollow rattle buzzed in his ears.
Pierre recollected himself despite the monstrous headache that had drilled its way into his skull. That, augh, connard. That wretched, slimy, arrogant assh-
The mage stirred – his hands were tied behind his back. He attempted to loosen the restraints. A grating rasp escaped his mouth. Even the smallest of motions made him feel as if his insides were about to spill from his belly. Pierre tried taking it slow. Something started to leak, and a wave of nausea engulfed him. Outstanding, he thought as he threw up the contents of his stomach. The dirty fils de pute really did a number on his poor ribs. These injuries... How in blazes was he not dead? Pushing the sensation of sickness aside, Pierre focused on his surroundings.
Solid blackness bounced before his eyes, and for an instant the Frenchman panicked. Was he blind? Or could an enchantment cover everything in jet-black darkness? He jolted his head – it was the only muscle he could twist without pain coming back to haunt him. Nothing. No light pierced this shell. Pierre made a face and felt something crumple against his skin. Ah, a blindfold. A simple blindfold. He let out a sigh of relief and coerced his heart to cease racing. He had to keep his head leveled if he were to tackle this new obstacle.
Dry, blistery air surrounded him, making it nigh-impossible to breathe. Elsewhere metal shifted, and the faraway caws of something... alien ricocheted off the walls. Where... where was he? Indoors, that much was certain. But what kind of furnace could produce such heat?
The rattling grew louder, and then something was pressed against his mouth. Water, icy and revitalizing, trickled down his throat. He gulped, dismissing the pain that the cold planted into his brain. A fraction of the discomfort abated. Up until now Pierre hadn't acknowledge just how parched he was. God, it felt as if he had swallowed a pound of sand!
Then, the inhuman squawks drew closer as well. A gust smote Pierre in the face. Was that the... flapping of wings? Something touched down with a thump, and an orotund voice followed, "What is this human dog doing here, Euryale? This is our domain. Take it away or I'm going to tell Stheno!"
"Official business, Aello," someone called Euryale answered, tone brittle. "Keep moving."
"Official business? Ha, I don't see anything 'official' in coddling this whelp!"
"He belongs to the Dark Lord." An impatient hiss. "He issued an order, and I'm carrying it out."
"Oh? Well, if that's the case- You don't mind if I take a closer look at him..." The scrabble of feet, then something sharp jabbed the Frenchman above the collarbone. A finger. "Hmm... not bad." The nail traveled to his cheek, and Pierre went dead still. "Young, good-looking. And I do adore young, good-looking boys. His flesh will do just nicely. Might as well grant me a few years worth of youth."
"He's not to be eaten," Euryale countered throatily. "He is a trophy, reaped during yesterday's raid."
"There was a raid? And me and my sisters weren't invited?"
"Aello," an infuriated, yet familiar grumble sounded. "Get your mitts off of him."
Aello yipped. "I was only pondering, my Prince!" she stammered, and another blast of sweltering heat engulfed the Frenchman. "Euryale says you staged an incursion yesterday. Is that true? Why weren't I, Celaeno, and Ocypete summoned? It's been well over a year since we hunted! Since we feasted on the carcasses of our foes!"
"The castle was breached." Gabriel's voice could solely be described as raw.
"Breached?! And you let this happen-"
Pierre could have sworn he witnessed a red, throbbing tendril lash, aimed at something hovering overhead. A blink, and it was gone, yet instants later, a tortured shriek just about tore open his eardrums. The Maven ground his teeth together in a vain attempt to still the ringing in his ears. The screech faded to a yap, thin and reedy.
Off to the side, Gabriel's voice uttered, "You will learn respect, harpy. Now leave. Before your sisterly trinity is reduced to a pair."
There came a whimper, though it was promptly overshadowed by frenzied flapping of wings. Someone pivoted, booted feet scraping against the earth. "Those witches have to be kept on a tight leash," Gabriel said. "I hope she didn't sidetrack you from your task, Euryale."
"Not at all, my Prince," Euryale returned, a strange crackle to her voice. "The Frenchman regained consciousness, and I gave him water. Just as you instructed. But he appears unwell."
A chortle. "Not unexpected. Remove the blindfold."
Fingers, tipped with long, ghostly claws, curled around the cloth and took it off. Empty, pupil-less eyes gazed into Pierre's own, and he shrank back. This was a demon... wearing the skin of a girl! Furrows webbed her face, scars laced her limbs, and hairlike appendages were whorled about her waist like a girdle. She was barefooted, toes likewise clawed, and wore a threadbare violet frock- Oh, no. Were those growths moving?!
A flare of orange diverted his attention. As though spellbound, Pierre watched gouts of magma shoot out from below, illuminating everything in a passing, warm glow. Monolithic pillars rose from the sea of lava, and giant chains adorned the walls. A sheet of ash covered the ground, though he himself was standing on a patch of stone. The Maven swallowed as his eyes found a skull, half-buried in the residue. It regarded him, teeth bared in a perpetual smile. The mage gandered up, and beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead.
Fetters, ropes, forceps, knives, nails, weights, saws. Cages with charred corpses inside. Iron cabinets lined with spikes from within. Racks with crude rollers on both sides. Tables spattered in dry, brownish blood. And himself shackled to the wall by the wrists and wearing nothing but a pair of tattered pants. Amongst all the devices and puddles of his own vomit. At the mercy of the girl-demon and the vampire.
The fiend perked up. "Permission to be dismissed, my Lord?"
"Permission granted."
Euryale nodded, dropped into a squat, and broke in a furious gallop. Along the sleek, vertical surface of a wall. The Maven bit his lip. What was that thing-
"I congratulate you, Pierre." Gabriel leaned against one of the devices with his hands folded across his chest. At least his eyes were normal this time. Well, as normal as one would come to expect from a vampire. "You're first to visit this special segment of the castle in a long time. Only the worthiest of war prisoners find their way here." His lips twitched into a sympathetic smile. "How do you do? Are women still throwing themselves at your feet?"
The Frenchman's tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. "Mmmmgh."
"Ah, I see. The same hedonistic and self-conceited braggart. With a taste for Shadow Magic, no less." His former acquaintance scowled, and the Maven felt a shiver trickle down his spine. "You've quite the nerve to try and use my son against me, Pierre. Did the Elders of the Brotherhood by any chance make this knowledge public?"
"Ah. Hgn." He tugged at the chain hampering him. "Ser Valeriy told me-"
"That explains it then. Father always hobnobbed with those supercilious dodderers. But he'll learn. You on the other hand..." The vampire collected a serrated knife. "If I remember correctly you prize that face of yours, Pierre."
"Wait!" he exclaimed, voice shrill. "Wait, wait, wait! You needn't do this! I can be helpful! I can spread rumors... I can- I can sow the seed of doubt! Discourage them from deploying any more troops. Imagine what this will net you! The Brotherhood wouldn't dare to interfere! They'll leave you alone! And to attain this, you need only to, eh, let me go."
Gabriel went silent for a moment. Then a throaty chuckle fled his throat. He put aside the tool and inched toward the bound Frenchman. "It is too late for that," he said, an entertained smirk playing in the corners of his mouth. "I already have a courier who will deliver the news. That priestess. The one you've used as your cover. She escaped and is on her way to the Radiant Heart. She's going to do superbly, wouldn't you agree?"
The blistery air swept across the Frenchman's clammy back. He swallowed. That wench... she managed to get out? Jesus Christ. "Um!" He bit down to keep his teeth from chattering. "Ah, well, let's not lose hope! We... we can still reach a compromise."
"I do doubt that," his captor said, a healthy dose of skepticism weighing his voice down.
"No no no no. Listen. We're all rational folk. There's no reason to turn to violence. Violence is never the answer. I mean, look at me. I've been the central piece of many in-Brotherhood controversies over the years, but I'd never wished anyone harm!" Pierre babbled on. It was utter nonsense, but honestly he did not care. He only wanted to buy himself some time. "Look, I can be useful! Really! I can help! You'll see! Si tu me tues maintenant, tu perds un allié potentiel, Belmont!"
The vampire seized his face. Claws dug into the flesh of his cheeks, and Pierre gave a high-pitched squeal. "You shall not snarl that name in my presence, insect." A hiss reached out for the Maven's ears. "I am prepared to turn a deaf ear to Valeriy uttering it, but you... you will address me as Dracul, the Dragon. Your overlord and master. Do you understand the rules?"
He bleated.
"Good." The hand was yanked back.
"If you're going to kill me, make it quick. I deserve as much." Pierre drew a shuddering breath.
"You sought to use my own blood against me," Dracul spoke in a low key. "You deserve every ounce of pain I will exact upon your body. I will whittle your skin away like wood. Layer after layer. And I'm going to enjoy it." His eyes narrowed. "In fact, it would be sensible if I used my blood against you now."
He tipped his head back and laughed. And then... his features melted, thawed like a snowbank in the sun. Pierre gaped, gaped as Dracul's tissue and bone alike dissolved into a puddle of malodorous blood. It squelched, and a dozen of wiry, bifurcated extremities shot up from its depths. The Maven's lips parted in a horrified scream, and it seems, the appendages were waiting for it. They zipped, lapped about his body, and forced themselves down his throat.
Pain.
Pain overran the Frenchman's mind. As though something had ruptured, scattering fragments of white-hot shrapnel all around. It cut, it carved, it diced, it hacked. Silence engulfed him. He could feel his knees folding underneath him. In their cuffs, his hands balled into fists. Drool began to seep past his clenched jaws. Convulsions shook his body. Sweat streamed down his back. He fell forward, and his brow brushed against the powdery ground. A blur skipped in front of his eyes, and, unconsciously, he pulled at the chain...
...and the metal loops groaned. Pierre strained, the soles of his feet scraping against the rock. The iron uttered a screech: his restrains were giving out. With a manic grin spreading across his mouth, he jerked. Scraaaa! The chain snapped like a dry bone, and the unprepared Maven toppled over. Trembling, he picked himself up. His body was racked with spasms, but he could handle it. Nothing, if compared to the excruciating pain that followed his beating.
Pierre hobbled to the adjacent table where various instruments lay. He moved to pick one up, but couldn't. His hands were in fetters. Scoffing to himself, – what bother! – he twisted. A single, displeased rasp, and he wormed free. The pieces of the brittle alloy dropped onto the ground. The man chafed wrists in an effort to push some warmth back into them, then returned to surveying the table. He gathered a scalpel and twiddled it 'tween his fingers. Another wry smile crooked his lips.
"So, Pierre, how would you like to continue with this?" he said... but this wasn't his voice. Much deeper, gruff, and unquestionably familiar. The Frenchman cried out in fear... or so he thought. The same unnerving smile remained plastered across his mouth. Not even a whimper escaped.
He didn't have any command over his own body.
"No comment?" Dracul clicked his – Pierre's! – tongue. "What a shame. In that case-" He raised the knife. "I take matters into my own hands." And stabbed it into the center of the Maven's palm.
A yawl tore open his throat as the weapon nailed his hand to the table. He burst out crying, not so dissimilar to a small child. It hurt. Pierre struggled, trying, trying oh-so-hard to push back the force that controlled him- Only for the demon possessing him twist the knife free – leaving a gory hole in his left palm – and sweep it across his wrist. The cut was shallow, but it stung all the same.
The weapon soared and swiped, soared and swiped, carving gashes into the Frenchman's arm. Deep enough to make him shriek with pain, but shallow enough not to sever any vital blood vessels. Then came the abdomen's turn. The blade dug into his flesh, ripping it open like fabric. Then it sliced at his hamstring tendons.
He screamed. First profanities. Then threats. In the end he caved in. He groveled. He pleaded. He begged. And yet his torturer remained deaf to his laments. His right hand kept swapping tools. After the knife came the forks, came the thumbscrews, came the shears. All while a half of him that was under the vampire's control kept laughing, drinking in his suffering, whilst the other side kept threshing and wailing. The wounds burned as infection began to froth at the edges.
Vaguely, he felt himself throwing up, and the foreign presence inside his mind fading. He tried to crawl away, but then something walloped him on the back. Hundreds of barbs bit at his flesh, sending him spread-eagling across the ground. He curled into a ball, protecting his belly, and for that received another whack. A thorny, pulsating tendril – the same from before – lashed at his back, his sides, his arms and legs. He cried out as he felt his humerus splinter under the heavy clouts. He could see the bone protrude from his welted flesh.
Shadow, the magic that had served him for several years... That soaked his body. Its power was keeping him from passing out. From going into shock. Regardless of the environment. Normally an invaluable tool. Now it became his greatest foe, denying him any reprieve.
The world got reduced to a pain-streaked haze, interrupted only by occasional bouts of deranged laughter. And lashing. Finally, the wallops stopped, and he could feel a boot nudge him in the face. Then the foot shifted and positioned itself on his head. The Maven gasped for air as it pressed down. His bones crunched under the force.
"Are you still alive? And awake?" The words were tinged with unfeigned wonder. "I admire your strength, mage."
"B-brûle en… en enfer," he wheezed in response.
There, a scamper of feet reached for Pierre's ears. Floaty. Frightened even. The weight moved away. He tried to lift his head. His abused muscles quaked, and he fell face downwards once more.
"What are you DOING?!" a new voice bellowed. "Stop!"
A subdued hiss. "Unhand me, August!"
"No!"
"I said. Let. Me. Go."
The sound of a tussle. The thump of a fist colliding with someone's face. A grunt.
"You dare?!" Dracul's rather nasal snarl.
"You goddamned sadist! He done nothing to you!"
"Oh, but he's done plenty! He and his confreres! You were there! Or have you forgotten what they did to you?"
"No, I haven't! The guy might be an asshole, but it ain't right to beat him to a pulp just for that!"
"Pfah! Sympathizer!" The elder vampire spat on the ground. "If you think so highly of this cretin, then save him! Make him your thrall before he dies."
Incensed snuffling. "No, I won't do that."
"Why?"
"Why?!" Augustus's voice grew into a thunderous roar. " 'Cause I know how much it hurts, you fucking son of a bitch!" With this, the fledgling stampeded away.
"Fine!" Dracul shouted in answer. "Be that way! Remain a spineless weakling!" His teeth gnashed in his mouth. "I will deal with that maggot later."
Feet stomped, and Pierre felt cold fingers curl about his neck. He gagged as he was picked up. Through the daze, he watched as the vampire's face twisted into a nigh-feral snarl. "And you," he growled, "you will serve me. You shall be the symbol of what awaits those who cross me." A searing orange fire erupted around his left hand. A fiendish grin curled Dracul's lips... Then he slammed his blazing palm against the Frenchman's face.
Later that night. Bernhard's Castle, Bernhard's Wing. Sitting Room.
Drahoslav rubbed his clawmark-laced hands against each other. A moment, and he recoiled with a curt hiss. His mangled wrists – a reminder of yesterday's thwarted endeavor – had made this uncomplicated task a chore. Gah, it would take weeks before he would regain the ability to write or hold finer objects. Thankfully, the ointment Dracul had supplied him with had erased the redness. A sorcerer he could be, but a healer? Slava could not complain. Indeed, he'd take this mild bother over an excruciating death any day. His hands would heal. Coming back from death, however, required some finagling.
He leaned back in his seat. Even the fire that sat in the heart of a fireplace before him could do little. An aura of desolation had made this wing its home, and even the most hardened of beasts could not ignore its influence. It reflected the sullen mood of the castle's lord impeccably. There must be some sort of link between the two. It all seemed a great deal too contrived otherwise. The diviner stole a quick glance over his shoulder.
Dracul half-lay in the neighboring armchair, tips of his fingers steepled and legs crossed. By the looks of it, he had all but forgotten he had company. Best not to startle him. When someone as ill-famed as Gabriel was in a foul mood, it was advised to keep one's distance. It would be realistic to assume the same applied to his vampire self. The old librarian returned to poring over his injuries. He couldn't blame the man. Many unhappy thoughts burdened his mind, too. Thoughts he couldn't shrug off.
To say that Slava did not expect for the events to unfold in the way they had would be not to say anything. Goosebumps pricked his skin. It was... Pierre's asinine actions would have killed them all! He had to warn the vampires... hadn't he? Drahoslav grimaced. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Not here, not now. What's done is done and he would have to face his demons sooner or later.
By God. Even his rescue was a double-edged blade! The gargoyle wouldn't have fallen if Gabriel hadn't been hurling flames at them. Such irony.
Dracul's form shifted, prompting the diviner to cease his squirming and look up. "You know," he said, a trace of wistfulness in his voice. "I haven't truly thanked you, wizard. If not for your intervention, I... I don't know what would have happened."
"Nothing nice, I'd wager," the elderly librarian replied.
"To use a ten-year-old in his own petty schemes..." The vampire rapped his clawed fingers on the armrest of his chair. "The swine got what he deserved." He stared the diviner in the eye. "You needn't worry, Slava. If he is going to rise ahead of time, I'll make certain he does not vex you."
The implication behind those words did not elude Drahoslav. He squirmed. "What about Trevor?"
A frown creased the former knight's brow. "Let him rest," he spoke. "He's been through much."
"Bineînţeles. Of course. Best not to upset the chap any further."
Eerie silence ruled over the two men, interrupted only by the crackle of burning wood. Suddenly, one of the embers burst into a swarm of sparks, jolting them both. Dracul propped his chin in the palm of his hand.
"What are you going to do now?" he inquired. "The Radiant Heart? If so, I won't hold you back."
"I've given this some thought," the diviner said. "And… There's nothing left for me at the Radiant Heart, Dracul. Not after what happened." Slava pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. Ngh, memo to self: replace that cracked lens soon. "It's... I don't think the Elders are going to greet me with open arms. This was a suicide mission from the beginning. If I re-emerge unscathed, they would assume I am in league with you. And... I know the real identity of their foe. This knowledge won't sit well with Volpe."
The vampire lord hummed. "True. They'd make you vow not to disclose it. Or worse." His frown deepened. "That priestess who fled... She knows who I am just like you."
Drahoslav could but shrug at that. By this point, Ekatherine must have traversed a fair distance. They had left their mounts on the outskirts of Wygol after all. It would be unfeasible trying to catch her now. "Are you concerned with her safety?" he asked, curious.
"The Elders can go to great lengths to protect a secret," Dracul answered.
The elderly wizard chewed on the tip of his tongue. "Taking all that into account, is it alright if I stay? I was Julia's tutor back in the Order. Now that I'm here, we could resume our classes."
"By all means, Slava." A trace of a grin quirked the vampire's mouth. "You saved my life. It's the least I can do."
"Thank you." He returned the smile.
Dracul nodded. "All the same, now you have to satisfy my curiosity, Slava. You have no combat expertise. You've never been to uninhabited wilderness before. Why were you drafted?"
"I wasn't drafted. I volunteered."
Stunned quiet. "Why on Earth would you volunteer?"
"Largely to see what the bustle was all about. To see that dragon everyone keeps prattling about. To be frank, by now, I will not be surprised if it ends being a fraud or a magic trick." He hid his chortle behind a cough.
"A magic trick, you say? And the burned out forest?" A hint of smugness showed through the vampire's voice.
"Says someone who has the power to conjure fireballs." A sly grin crept over Slava's face. "But don't think I did not acknowledge the meaning behind your new identity. It's a very telling one, after all."
There, Dracul dissolved into gleeful laughter. "It is, isn't it?" he snorted after a pause. "I admit, it is flattering to have someone show appreciation for it."
"You asked me not to address you by your birth name. I respect the wants of others."
That coaxed another smile onto the Dragon's features. He slipped his hand behind the embroidered edge of his coat. "Slava, you are the resident, ah, expert on extinct mythological species. What would you make of this?" A curious trinket lay in the center of the former knight's palm. A band of bronze with an emblematic dragon design curled along its circumference.
The librarian collected the object. "Hmmmm." His gray brows furrowed. "This dragon... It is a symbol of one of the Old Gods, that is beyond doubt. Yet which one? Python or Tiamat? Maybe Apothis? Elongated skull. Long, brawny limbs. Sleek body. Too sleek, truth be told. It almost looks humanoid in nature. But none of these primordial gods had walked on two legs. This is odd." He tore his eyes away from the emblem. "Where... Why do you have it? This token is thousands of years old!"
"I was hoping you would answer that question for me." The corner of the vampire's mouth curled. "It is something relevant to my... interests, and I'd love to get some information on the subject."
Drahoslav ran his fingers through his beard. "I see. I would too." He fixed his gaze on the talisman. "This is positively fascinating. Will you show me how it functions?"
"Gladly." Was the prompt response.
Year of Our Lord, 8th of September, 1058. Brotherhood of Light Compound "The Radiant Heart of St. Michael"
Looking down from the casement window of his study, Exarch Clemente Volpe could not help but let his thoughts wander. Day-to-day life was the same as it ever was, despite the recent trials and tribulations. Such was the way of humanity... they carried on, despite even the most unbearable hardships. The good Lord had made them a hearty lot.
Still, while we watched others toil in bliss, Volpe could not help the knot in his stomach. Valeriy and his party had left days ago, and there was still no sign of their fate. He was not so foolish as to think they were merely delayed. No, he had known it was a suicide mission from the moment he had asked the knight-commander to embark upon it. But, in truth, liberating the children had not been the mission's true goal. Getting Valeriy in contact with Gabriel was.
It was a weight on his shoulders, knowing how many innocent souls he'd doomed to death or worse. He was trading away the souls of Valeriy and his party, and even those children that had been abducted. There was no way he could arrange for their rescue without bringing a dragon down on entire cities. And so for the good of all humankind, sacrifices had to be made.
He could only pray that this sacrifice wasn't in vain.
Valeriy was a stalwart soul, morally upright-the man had almost been a Paladin, which wasn't a rank easily obtained. And, before anything else, he was important to Gabriel. Important enough that perhaps he could sway the vampire. Could hold back his rage. Could guide him back to the light. Or at least, keep him from leveling as many settlements as he otherwise would.
A high-risk move. There was no guarantee that enough of Gabriel survived in that monstrosity for Valeriy to have any influence. Yes, the vampire had clearly desired to steal Trevor, but that could just as easily been the act of a dragon reclaiming what it thought was its property as a father attempting to win back his son. If Gabriel was lost, if there was nothing left of God's Champion... then there would be nothing Valeriy could do. Nothing any of them could do.
There was also the possibility that Valeriy would buckle. He'd had no warning of what he would find in those accursed halls, no suspicions of who the monster that ruled there was. If his despair broke his will, or if-God forbid!-he actually chose to join his foster-son in darkness and damnation, then it was only a matter of time before hell on earth came to these halls.
But Volpe had faith. Valeriy was a stalwart soul. There had been nothing but sincerity in the man's oath to stay strong and righteous, and the man had meant every word he'd said when he spoke of saving the lost. Volpe chose to have faith in the old knight-commander, in God, and even Gabriel Belmont.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden explosion of activity from below. People were flocking to the gates, gazing out as if expecting something to enter. That was hardly unusual, as folk tended to welcome runners and military expeditions back in such a manner all the time, but-the only group that had been sent out from this fortress was Valeriy's.
The jerky, distressed motions of the crowd caused dread to settle in his heart. His mouth ran dry, and his hands shook every so slightly. When one of his guards burst through the door, gilded helmet in one hand and the beginnings of fear written on his features, he knew. This was the news he had been waiting for.
He hastened to the gates. Knight and commoner alike parted before his guard's bellowing voice-"Make way for the Exarch!"-but he paid them little heed. His focus was entirely on who had returned from such a harrowing place.
The first thing he noticed was a collapsed horse. The poor beast looked as if it had been run ragged. Lathery foam bubbled in the corners of its mouth, and husky wheezes accompanied its every breath. Had its rider even stopped to let it drink? It did not appear so. That it still clung to life was a miracle all its own. Beside the mount was a pair of figures-one a knight of little note, the other belonged to the cleric that had gone with Valeriy. Ekatherine. She was pale and shaking, and barely seemed able to keep her feet without the soldier's strong arm around her form.
Mutterings spread through the crowd, and Volpe could practically feel their panic beginning to rise. Frowning to himself, he quietly ordered the knight to escort Ekatherine to the healers, that she might be seen to. With that done, he turned and addressed the crowd, calling for them to calm themselves and hold fast to faith in these dark times.
It was moments like these that he was truly thankful that the Lord had gifted him with a silver tongue. Though he did not manage to quell the unease in its entirety, there would be no panicked riots this day, and that was enough for now.
Once the throng had dispersed, returning to their day-to-day activities, he found his own way to the infirmary, intent on learning of the fate that had befallen Valeriy and his team.
The cleric he spoke to informed him that while Ekatherine suffered from nothing more than shallow cuts and the occasional bruise, her demeanor was that of someone that had just escaped from a nightmare. Her mind would take some time to heal, if it ever did at all. With a solemn nod, Volpe thanked the cleric for her work, and moved to sit beside the sole survivor.
She did not acknowledge him at first. He was not bothered by it. He merely wrapped her hands with his own, gently coaxing her to weave her tale. It took some time, but Volpe could be patient. Eventually, she turned to face him, eyes dry and haunted, and began to speak.
The tale, in of itself, was what he had expected. The news that the children were yet human was a small reprieve, though he worried for their safety... and their sanity. That snake pit was no place for children. The revelation of the fate of Augustus Creces was unexpected, but not entirely startling. He and Gabriel had ever been close-it was why Volpe had allowed the man custody of young Trevor. Perhaps this was a sign that some part of Gabriel had endured... That Valeriy would be able to reach the man the vampire had once been.
Volpe prayed it was so. He did not want to think yet another innocent soul had been damned without reason.
When Ekatherine finished, he thanked her, and ordered the clerics to give her the best care they could. She deserved as much, after what she had endured.
He left shortly thereafter, commanding one of his guards to summon the Brotherhood inquisitors to the meeting hall. They had much to discuss, many preparations to see to, and little time with which to work. Without Trevor, attempting to slay Gabriel was a futile endeavor-they would have more success ordering the sun not to rise. Attempting another extraction so soon after the last would be folly. In truth, Volpe doubted any sort of extraction would work at all. Surely Gabriel would guard his son as jealously as the dragon he named himself.
The arch-priest's hand coiled around the bejeweled amulet around his neck. The Philosopher's Stone was lukewarm to touch, yet-thankfully!-its heat was enough to unsnarl the icy grip that grasped at his heart. He would shrug the shackles of age and live on. So he'd have the possibility to right his mistakes.
No, all that they could do now was wait, and prepare for the storm that was to come. It was only a matter of time before the Prince of Darkness and his legions came calling.
Volpe only hoped they would be able to endure.
Year of Our Lord, 10th of September, 1058. Bernhard's Castle, City of the Damned. Holding Cells.
Tearing. A fire foamed inside his lungs. He drew an unsteady breath.
The sulfurous fumes stung his nostrils, and the knight-commander heaved a cough. The rancid odor was enough to startle him awake. Ugh, disgusting.
Shaking from head to toe, Valeriy scrambled to his feet. His overworked joints crunched beneath the weight of his flesh, and a croak parted the crusader's lips. Where was he? For how long has he been unconscious? A few days, that's for sure. In addition, someone had relieved him of his combat cross as well as his armor; the sole article of clothing on his body was the jerkin he had worn beneath said platemail. What happened-
Oh. The corners of Valeriy's mouth crimped. Aye, now he remembered. The unsuccessful rescue operation. The return of his prodigal foster-son. The sickening stench of blood. He saw it all in his mind's eye. Felt it, too. Felt the taste on his tongue. His heart skipped a beat. Wait, could he be-
Valeriy swept his fingers across his teeth. No fangs. He pushed his hand against his neck. Warm skin. Steady pulse. Even the spasms running through his body felt... well, human. The aged knight just about sobbed with relief. He must have passed out from the shock then. That or something – someone! – must have stepped in. Saved him from the eternal damnation.
"Thank you, my God," he gasped, voice barely a whisper.
A faint gritting sound diverted Valeriy's attention away before he could finish his prayer. Another ten seconds, and a column of light flooded his confined cavern. A hatch. A hatch in the wall had swung open. The crusader steadied himself.
...was that the rattle of a serpent? The knight-commander couldn't make out all the details, but he thought he saw the silhouette of a young woman. Then something was dumped in front of him like a sackful of flour.
A girl.
A child, dressed in rags, with scratches and bruises coloring her knees and elbows. She tried to exclaim, but a wallop across her back subdued her snivels. Valeriy shifted to assist the unfortunate, yet when he approached the hissing in his ears grew deafening. The hatch slammed shut, plunging the jail cell into darkness once more.
But, somehow, it did not handicap him.
Without faltering, the knight-commander hotfooted toward the lass and whorled his hands around her forearm. To help her get up. He might not have his Light Magic medallion with him, but he knew a thing or two about first aid. An odor of grease and sweat lingered about her... and metal? An ache scraped against the back of his throat. He faltered.
If he were indeed saved, he wouldn't have awakened, would he? He would have found his eternal rest. Oh no-
Then something stabbed him in the gut. Not physically, but more... A sharp pain. As though a mantle of needles just dug into his flesh and punctured his insides. A feeling of nausea assailed his senses, and Valeriy doubled over with a choke. He ground his teeth together, yet a wheeze escaped his chest all the same. It hurt. Whatever this was, it hurt.
And he knew precisely what was causing this.
"H-help," he heaved, eying the panic-struck girl in front of him. But she shrank back.
Despairing, Valeriy reached out... only to promptly yank his hand back. His fingertips had gone black as soot, heavy with rot. His blunt nails had lengthened, and blotches of chalky-white mottled his arms. Moaning, the crusader tugged at his hair. No. No! The girl... she was an offering. A main course!
But the pain- Christ! Rivulets of sweat flowed down his forehead. It was getting worse. Tears trickled from behind his eyelids. A lump bobbed in his throat. Another second, and his canines pushed out. Valeriy couldn't hold back a scream. He battled for each breath, but panic was suffocating him like a hangman's noose. Through what seemed to be an alcoholic haze, he brought the arm to his mouth and bit down. He'd rather cripple himself than pose a threat to an innocent.
His fangs tore the skin with absurd ease, and blood – thick, foul-smelling blood – oozed down his throat. The taste was revolting. It made bile rise in his mouth. The knight-commander hacked, yet continued to suck on the open wound. He had to. And with each gulp, some other fraction of the pain abated.
...until a shriek startled him.
Drowsily, he pulled away. A flushed face bounced before him. The sound of heartbeat thrashed in the crusader's ears, the skin beneath his fingers burned. The wrist in his hands... In his hands? Smeared with crimson, slender and feminine. Valeriy's grip slackened. No... No! The girl's eyes were squeezed shut, yet he could see the wet lines running down her cheeks. By now, she had ceased her squirming. Did she struggle? He couldn't know. By the time he reined in his shock, she had breathed her last.
He burst into tears.
Year of Our Lord, 17th of September, 1058. Bernhard's Castle, Overlook Towers.
This was without a doubt a scenic lookout, Augustus noted, eyes fleeting from one spire to the next. The splendor, the enormousness. It was beautiful. In a macabre, stab-you-until-you're-dead sort of way, of course. And this was just a bare fraction of what he could observe from this porch. Carmilla's... uh, Dracul's, castle occupied many hectares of land, its twisting tunnels running the whole way into the underground. The underground where- The soldier scratched the nape of his neck. Rough claws grooved his skin, but he didn't flinch. What the hell happened to the world?
After their "disagreement" in the undercroft, August started to avoid his friend. Dracul responded in similar fashion, little surprise there. Rumor had it he was up to his ears in, quote unquote, official business. And that he was solving the bulk of his problems with the extensive use of his whip.
And Pierre... The soldier's stomach churned. A heap of torn flesh and slivered bones. The poor bugger was still awake when Augustus got there, wasn't he. Aye, the Frenchman might had bitten off more than he could chew, but was that enough to justify torture? No, it wasn't.
Augustus's hands soared up to cup his face. The half-healed wound on his chest prickled. The shingled roof beneath his boots scraped. The moth-eaten tapestries fluttered in the wind. Someplace below wings flapped... closer, closer, until the noise came to a climax, and a shadowy figure barreled past him. A sour grimace crooked the soldier's face – if this was Dr- Oh, wait. It was a female, redhead, wielding a lance. Patterns covered her entire upper torso, and a pair of feathery wings jutted out her back. Bandages were wrapped around the harpy's belly, and the tangy scent of blood wafted from under them. The warrior's nostrils twitched.
"Aello," August said, not startled in the slightest. "If Drac sent you, tell him I don' wanna talk, alright? I ain't in the mood."
"No." The cherry-red curls bounced as the harpy shook her head. "I'm here of my own free will."
The fledgling livened up. "Ah, then all's well. What's up with you? Got into another fight with the Gorgons?"
"Uh-uh," she grumbled, "your sire did not take kindly to doubting his command. Pfah! A pack of knights barged in onto our territory almost two weeks ago! While he dozed off in his fancy chambers, no less! What's that buffoon's part if he lets some random misfits intrude into our lives without so much as breaking a sweat? I try to make a point, and he thrashes me with his whip! Is that justice?!"
Well, there's that.
Augustus chuckled – he found the tattooed woman's complaints humorous. "Are you sure it's wise to tell me this, Aello? Of all people? I could as well rat you out."
The harpy made a flippant gesture. "Please do. Everyone in the castle knows that you're not on speaking terms with your sire as of late." Her birdlike talons chinked as she landed on the eaves.
"Aye, that's true." The soldier's mouth twitched. "So if you're not running errands for him... what are you doing here?"
"I listened in on your argument. You know, down in the cellars," she confessed, gaze solemn. "And I wanted to say that I support your point of view on torture. Hunting down the swine that opposes us is one thing, but nobody should twist the life of another for simple pleasure."
"Thanks." His smile grew. "This means a lot to me, Aello."
"Anytime." The redhead plumped down beside him. A hushed gasp fled her throat as she adjusted her bandages. "But- Augustus, listen. You can't just make scenes like that. They aren't depicting you in a good light. You've already earned quite a reputation amongst other inhabitants. 'Feeble', 'pitiful', 'unworthy wretch'... the list goes on. Your bloodline's the one thing that is keeping them from disposing of you. Otherwise they'd have no qualms about rigging it so it'd look like an accident. Or a successful suicide attempt. There is simply so much a pile of ash can say."
"I'm trying, Aello," August replied. "But every time I feel like I'm starting adapt, this existence takes me by surprise. I appear like some lowlife crossbreed? I grew used to that. The blood I down tastes like bile? Figured out how not to concentrate on it. But to learn that my best pal had taken up torture as a hobby?" The soldier's hands balled into fists. "I was... angry. Even more so when he had issued that... that order."
The harpy hummed, a gentle songlike sound. "Well, I admit, Augustus. You've got courage. But your motive confuses me. Taking and giving blood is how your kind multiplies. Why did you defy?"
"I dunno," he spoke up after a brief pause. "Maybe because I, myself, woke up to blanket of pain. Felt every single damn ounce of it. Having two brand-new, goo-covered appendages tear through your skin and dealing with the physical shock were the nastiest parts. I wouldn't want for others to endure this."
"You're not him." Aello cocked her head to the side. "I bet you can do it better than him."
"What makes you say that?" The fledgling sneered. "Why do you care anyway?" A second passed. His eyebrows drooped, and a hoarse bleat escaped him, "S-sorry."
"It's nothing. But I do want to help you. If you don't break the ice, it's going to be even more difficult for you in the long run. I mean, if you pulled off an embrace then not only you'd have a devoted lackey, but you'd also be able to rub your victory into your sire's face."
Augustus' mouth crimped. "And what if I don't want a lackey?"
"Ah, let me paraphrase that. Not a servant, but an... an associate. A companion."
"Why are you so sure I'm competent enough to get something like that done? I wasn't cut out to be a vampire. A witless lesser lycan on the other hand... Bark, growl, obey your superiors. Seems like a dream compared to this."
"The potential that prefers to hide beneath your skin says otherwise."
He squinched his face up. "Are you sure Drac didn't send you?"
A brief yet exasperated sigh followed. "Believe what you will," the harpy said as she rose to her feet. "But you need allies, Augustus. You won't make it far all on your own. Many envy you. You've been given a tool that can bind others! Use it!" With this, she took off and disappeared behind one of the towers with a strident caw. The crows, startled awake by the sound, soon flooded the night.
The fledgling gazed skywards. This whole business was making his poor head ache. Sighing, he lay down and folded his hands beneath his head. Could vampires even have full-on migraines? He pinched the bridge of his nose. Evidently so. Goddammit, the things those nosy street hawkers and bookkeepers were keeping under their hats! This was nothing like that pamphlet on the undead species knight-commander Stannis had pressured him to read.
A tool that can bind others. With the harpy's suggestion echoing in his ears, the soldier rose to his feet. To have a friend- Someone he could have faith in. Someone he could talk to. Someone without any perverted... quirks. He eyeballed his wrist. A tempting offer, that was.
August's shoulders pushed back.
The girl gazed back at him with unseeing eyes. The next moment her grip slackened, and she collapsed in a dead faint. A thin rivulet of blood seeped past her clenched jaws. Her throat – no, too generous; from his standpoint it was a mutilated mess – glistened in the moonlight. It had taken him three solid attempts to find the jugular. Augustus breathed out. He chose to do this. No turning back now. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand and carried on with his scrutiny.
She was a redhead, young and fair-skinned, with freckles sprinkled across her nose. A pristine yet worn hooded cloak was draped around her shoulders. Who was she? Who would traverse a forest in the dead of night? She had a pungent odor about her. A basket lay close to her, filled with vials and bundles of dried herbs. A healer then. Or a traveling potion-maker. Or perhaps a small-time vendor, forced to move from pillar to post year after year to earn a living. She wasn't breathing.
The hoot of an owl made the fledgling flinch, and he swiveled in place, wide-eyed and wary. Nothing. He was alone. Well, excluding the wildlife, that is. August waited it out; if Dracul indeed followed him here, he would most likely choose this moment to reveal himself. The dude liked his flashy entrances, after all.
But no one sprang to spook him, and realization made the vampire relax. He crouched down beside his victim and unstrapped one of his armguards. One swipe across his arm, and blood – dark, tangy, gluey – began to bead the grass. Bracing himself, he brought his wrist to the girl's lips.
And got no response.
With a curse seething in his chest, he pressed his fingers against the unmarred region of her neck. No pulse. Oh no. A copious amount of red pooled underneath her head, soaking hair and the hood of her garment. Of course. The blood loss. Grimacing, Augustus let some of his dribble into her mouth, all the same.
Seconds later, he squeaked with astonishment and fear. It hurt. Giving blood hurt him. A worm of uncertainty threshed about in his brain, and August bit his lip. This pain echoed with foul familiarity. Maybe this- No. The fledgling furrowed his brow. He had to do this. The girl wouldn't rise on that pathetic quantity he's already given. Gnashing his fangs in a snarl, the soldier kept going.
And halted only when his own awareness began to slip. Spots smudged his vision, and Augustus stumbled back. Semi-dry blood caked his wrist, and the skin around the gash had sloughed off, leaving a ugly, rough scab. Lightheaded and out of breath, he slumped against the nearest tree. He gazed at the girl's corpse from under half-lidded eyes; still, with dark purple startling to mottle her skin. No amount of his corrupt blood could reanimate something that has already died. Even August, with his admittedly shallow understanding of how vampirism worked, knew that. He let out a sob and buried his face into his hands.
His respite did not last very long.
The scrape of paws fast approaching caught his attention, and the ringing in his ears could not muffle it. The fledgling bounced to his feet.
A gray-haired lycan galloped in, more or less colliding with the surprised vampire. Blackblood's hide glittered with sweat, and his sides were heaving. Upon sighting — bumping into? — the fledgling, the werewolf came to a dead stop and hauled himself upright. His muzzle was warped in a wry grimace.
"You— blasted half-wit," Blackblood growled after several labored huffs, "you- you made me- chase after you. Why?!" He stabbed his finger at the soldier. "Why did you run away?"
"Run awa-" Augustus sat up. He grabbed his bracer and fastened it round his lacerated wrist. Hopefully the dog didn't see that. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The whole of castle turned to bedlam because of your stunt, idiot," the lycanthrope spat. "When that harpy declared this has been her idea, our Liege-Lord commanded all of us – and I mean all of us! – to hound you down! He himself is up the wall! And-!" The beast's eyes fixated on the girl's corpse within August's spitting distance. "Oh, what's this? A road snack?"
"Shut up, mutt," he returned with a grumble.
"Right. As if I care, really." Blackblood rolled his eyes. "Now, let's go. I am to escort you back. No funny business, you got that, fledgling?"
Augustus scrunched up his nose. "Fine, gimme a minute." He gave the unfortunate girl a cursory glance. "I'd like to bring her with me."
The lycan's lips curled into a disbelieving leer. "You'll be the one hauling her."
The journey took less than an hour, Augustus observed as the castle sinister towers floated into view. That was... weird. He had lain in wait for more than that, hadn't he? Expecting someone like this human girl to pass by to quench his thirst. Death had robbed her of her beauty: lines webbed the corners of her eyes and blue colored most of her skin. The muscles beneath his fingers were stiff and barely warm. The soldier could not explain his reasoning behind his desire to take her with him. He supposed, he didn't want for scavengers to get to her body. Mortals were meant to be viewed as food, but August couldn't stomach the idea of leaving her behind. Not like that.
Figures swarmed the expanse around the castle's drawbridge. The fledgling squinted. Huh, so the lycanthrope was not overstating; Dracul did rally pretty much every menacing minion he had. Off to his side, Blackblood let out a full-throated and resonant howl. The horde ceased its skylarking and glared in their direction. Blackblood howled again. This time a few dozen of rasping cries parroted his. And just as those died down, a shriek tore through the legion and an enormous, red-streaked shadow banked from behind the belfry.
Augustus sighed. Time for a dressing down.
The Dragon touched down thirty-or-so yards away from him and Blackblood, feathery scales on the scruff of his neck bristled. The shadows around the beast bent and stirred, and soon the vampire lord was stumbling toward the pair. His red eyes were aglow with... concern? Not even a hint of ill will remained there.
"August!" Dracul breathed out. "By Christ, I was looking everywhere for you!"
"You were?" The fledgling blinked, then cursed. Duh. "Wait, ain't you supposed to be angry?"
A grin pulled at his sire's lips. "I could never hold a grudge against you, August. It's- well, with the Brotherhood patrols scouring these woods... I thought you might be in trouble. I am relieved to see that you're not."
The lesser vampire didn't know whenever to be glad or even more worried. "What patrols?"
"You haven't heard? There's a detachment skulking somewhere nearby. Their intentions are not quite clear as of yet, though I'm certain these are not Radiant Heart footmen." Dracul clicked his tongue. "I can deal with that later." With a quirked eyebrow, he then regarded the body cradled in August's arms. "Who's this?"
"It's a long story and a dull one at that," August lied, covering his uneasiness with a shrug. "I brought her here to give her a respectable burial."
"I see. 'Tis a commendable idea."
"Thanks. But, ah, I was hoping you'd help me. The sun's gonna rise soon and I'm afraid-"
"Of course. We have to look after the ones that leave for Heaven." Another smile. "Dismissed. Can you lead all of the creatures back to the undercroft?" Dracul tipped his head toward Blackblood. "If you can, do so quietly. A racket is bound to wake the children."
"Your wish is my command, my Liege." The lycan bowed and swaggered off.
The fledgling waited till Blackblood moved out of earshot and muttered, "Look, drop this 'nice guy' act, Drac. I know you're pissed at me." He hung his head. "And even if you ain't, you should be. I fuck up everything." A hiccup echoed in his throat. "Aello said I should make a goddamn move already. Go out and turn someone. Okay, so I lay an ambush. I see this girl, and what do I do? I faff about and let her die! I fed her blood later on, but... It didn't work."
"No, it wouldn't. The body must accept the change. However, you shouldn't be this hard on yourself, Cresces. With failure comes experience." The corners of the vampire lord's mouth twitched. "Some spend lifetimes to understand their powers."
"Uh-huh, says someone who's mastered them."
"August, I've been a vampire for over a decade now. Whether you like it or not, you learn a trick or two." His friend laughed. "Give it time; I'm sure it'll sort itself out. Still, if you find yourself in a bind, ask either me or Drahoslav. Aye, 'that stark raving mad geezer' will be staying with us for the time being." He paused. "Anyhow, you mentioned burying the girl? There's a good spot right there, near that boulder."
"Yes." The soldier uttered a sigh. "Let's hope manual labor will take my mind off my problems."
"People often underestimate its benefits."
Augustus tried to banish the two-week-old memories that kept nagging him.