The Kindred surveys the preparations dispassionately, a seasoned warrior
readying himself for what he knows may well be his most difficult battle
ever. He has returned to his Chicago mansion after a long absence just in
time for the Clanless to finally rebel against the oppression of their
Elders. A rebellion in which the Kindred hears the warnings that so few of
the young ones take seriously. He remembers the Book of Nod, the Chronicle
of Shadows with its dire warnings of Gehenna. Only the Nosferatu barely saw
this revolt coming. Only his excellent working relationship with the Hidden
Clan has given him any warning at all. Most of the Kindred in the Americas,
or anywhere else, for that matter, cannot have expected this. Not after the
destruction of the Masquerade forced Princes all over the world to treat
the Clanless at least outwardly as nominal equals. Equally surprising are
their numbers. It appears that the Clanless have been secretly creating
Childer for at least a decade, quietly recruiting those so created for
their war effort. Yet none of that matters. Nor does it matter that he has
always treated the Clanless as he has treated any Kindred not of the
Kingship Clan, that he has done his best to gather up these orphans and
educate them in the ways of the Kindred. There is a reason the term
"Kindred gratitude" is widely held to mean no gratitude at all. The Kindred
knows why they are laying siege to his mansion. He is old, even by the
standards of his race. Having seen more than two millennia, he would be due
considerable respect even in the court of his Grandsire, his Clan's
Progenitor. That, combined with certain details of his history, makes it
imperative for the rebels to see to his elimination as quickly as possible.
As much as he sympathises with the desire of the Clanless to be more than
disposable pawns of their Elders, he cannot allow their rebellion to
succeed. The Clanless know that. They know if they permit his survival, he
will become one of the war leaders of the Clans as they try to put down
their rebellion. He has served in that capacity before, when the Camarilla
has finally put an end to the scourge that was the Sabbat. That fact has
been noted by the rebel leaders. They have to take him out of play early,
before his position can be reinforced by the Camarilla, before his Childer
arrive to help him in the defence of his Haven. They do not, cannot, know
that he has forbidden his Childer to assist him. His youngest daughter
rules as Princess of New York. She needs her siblings' help far more than
he does. He shall make do with the troops he has on hand, until Justicar
Genéviève can send some of her Archons to reinforce him. Or until he finds
some other way to make his position impregnable. He has excellent troops at
his disposal, some of the best in the world. Even more than his Grandsire,
he has always had a keen understanding of the usefulness of controlled
violence. He has always maintained a small cadre of professional soldiers
to assist him in this regard. The two humans stepping up to him now are
prime examples of this. One is his eldest living retainer. Sergey Makarov
was KGB's most renowned assassin before joining the Kindred's employ. The
decades spent in the service of an Elder Kindred have honed him to an
unequalled lethality. Well over sixty years old, but with the body of a man
in the prime of his life, he is a most deadly foe, even though he has never
much cared for the cybernetic augmentations so very obvious in the other
man. Nighthawk is of a certainty a creature of the twenty-first century,
what the Americans like to call a solo these nights, a professional soldier
of fortune. His cybernetics allow him to move faster than any human being
has a right to, as well as see in the dark. They also make him nearly as
deadly as many a Kindred at close quarters. Yet as different as Sergey's
grey eyes are from the night-black orbs that replace Nighthawk's, they both
have the same look. That of predators, of killers. A look the Kindred knows
to be in his own eyes as well. Both are wearing Sceptre's best body armour,
suits that have in essence been copied from the most advanced medieval
designs, the so-called fluted plate armour, but built from the most
advanced materials modern science can produce. The helmets hanging from
their belts are marvels of technology as well, models that include night
vision gear and encrypted tactical communicators, among other things.
"All is ready, my Lord," Sergey tells the Kindred. He turns to face the two.
"Do you believe we can hold them?" he asks.
"Yes, Mr de Richemonte," Nighthawk says. Sergey doesn't disagree, even if he seems less sanguine about the question. That is hardly surprising. Unlike Nighthawk, Sergey has seen Kindred at war before. He is better aware than the young mercenary just how much of a personal advantage even a young Kindred has over any mere human being.
"You may underestimate them, Nighthawk," the Kindred tells the solo. "They may be far less powerful than I am, but I do not doubt they will be numerous."
Nighthawk shrugs. "Maybe. But most of them won't know shit about fighting, and the others probably aren't that good."
De Richemonte nods. Nighthawk has very succinctly summarised their only hope. Chicago is aflame. There will be no help from the Kindred of that city. The ancient Cainite has no illusions about this. Those who have survived the initial onslaught will be busy escaping. To actively seek any such confrontation as they are about to engage in will be alien to their nature. Their own escape is no longer possible; de Richemonte is not willing to condemn his retainers to the lingering death that would await them. Escape by air - the only way in which they all could elude their foes - is already barred; the last of their reinforcements have come under fire from surface-to-air missiles, and have taken losses thereby. He thus has himself and about two hundred warriors, of which only ten are ghouls. He also has the mansion, which has been built as much for defence as for comfort, is as much fortress as it is palace. Its walls are more than four metres high, too high to be jumped easily even by Kindred, crowned both with razor wire and monofilament wire and massive enough to withstand anything this side of a tank's main gun. There are eight remotely controlled chain-guns waiting for anyone foolish - or determined - enough to brave the walls. Claymore mines fused by motion detectors have been liberally placed all over the grounds. The windows have been shuttered with plates of armour steel strong enough to shrug off anything short of an antitank missile, leaving only narrow murder holes open, through which every square centimetre of the estate can be covered with fire. It is a strong fortress, one that has no worries for provisions. The stocks on hand will last a year. The estate also has its own well. Only the fuel for the generators will run out after four months. De Richemonte does not expect the siege to last that long.
He puts on his helmet and removes his cloak. Like his troops, he wears one of Sceptre Military Industries' Mk. XIV battle-suits. His is made of considerably thicker material than the one issued to his mortal retainers. Despite the much greater weight, his inhuman strength allows him to still move as quickly as they do. There is only one piece of modern technology that he does wear inside his helmet. He has no need of night vision devices; his own innate abilities are much more effective than any technological crutch, but tactical communications will be critical throughout the siege. He would be a fool not to avail himself of the ability to speak with his troops at need. He also carries a handgun and will take the same assault shotgun into battle as his human retainers. Yet if the fighting becomes close, if the enemy does manage to breach the fortress, he will draw the two swords he wears on his back. Both are enchanted. The strength and speed of the ancient Cainite is far beyond anything a mortal - or a young Kindred, for that matter - can match. In his hands, they are far more potent than any mere technological tool at close quarters.
The Clanless do not wait long before they begin their assault. Rushing the wall under cover of their disciplines, they set explosive charges powerful enough to bring down an apartment block. The walls have been designed to take a direct hit from a tank gun at close range, but there is a limit even to their structural strength. The charges blast gaps into the walls, wide enough to admit four or five people at a time. De Richemonte suspects that none of the Clanless, who planted the explosives were warned just how powerful the explosions would be. The destruction of these few daring Kindred is scant comfort in the light of the huge number of their fellows now pouring through those gaps. The chain-guns open fire at once, 25mm incendiary rounds blasting the intruders apart with brutal effectiveness. The troops at the windows likewise open fire. Their assault shotguns are loaded with fin-stabilised explosive incendiary rounds, and the men and women firing them are skilled in their use. The first wave never makes it farther than three steps. But the second wave is already on the way, as is the third, and there are only so many guns that can be trained on them, only so many mines to rip holes into their ranks. It is the old story known to many besieged defenders; there are more targets than they can deal with in the time they have. Wave after wave assails the fortress. The fifth wave manages to get as far as the walls of the mansion. Shaped charges are slapped to the walls. When they are set off, man-sized holes are blown open. The attackers charge through these, some firing wildly, some waving swords and axes, a strange dichotomy of the modern and the ancient. The squads on the first floor fight hard to repel them, but they are only human. Though they do exact a toll of blood much greater than the Clanless commanders expected, there are not enough of them to hold back the tide of screeching, enraged Kindred. Still, even the interior of the mansion has been built to be defensible. The loss of a few rooms on ground level does not win the Clanless nearly as much as they hoped. When they try to ascend to the next floor, they come into a killing fire that shocks them in its intensity. They are driven back, badly bloodied, but determined to succeed on their next attempt.
De Richemonte was not terribly worried before. He is now. As nearly as can be determined, the Clanless have lost more than four hundred of their number getting as far as the ground floor of the mansion, and still there are more of them streaming onto the grounds, braving the fire of chain-guns and assault shotguns to reach their comrades and assist them. He reflects that he might yet escape destruction, if at the cost of sacrificing every member of his personal guard. Escape, he knows, might very well be his only chance of survival. It is very definitely his best. But he has only rarely run away from a foe, and no intention to do so now.
Even by the standards of his Grandsire, who has seen the dawn of mankind, he has reached a respectable age. He has survived for more than twenty- three centuries. In that time, he has seen Humanity fall from a semblance of civilisation into a Dark Age, then claw its way back to civilisation again. No matter what some of his kind like to believe, it has most of the time been Humanity's doing alone that made the difference, sometimes, he grants with the support of the Kindred, yet just as often the Kindred were part of the obstacles that needed to be overcome. He has seen legends being made, has seen common mortals rise above themselves to become a legend that would inspire generations to follow. has seen things that most people, humans and Kindred alike, nowadays discount as flights of fancy. He has seen dragons soaring in the sky, has once seen fairies dance in celebration of the spring, and of joy itself. He remembers well standing at the grave of his last surviving descendant, the last of his mortal kin, and the tingle of powerful magic being woven by Philippus, the magus who was his boon companion for a century. He also remembers his Family in Darkness, the nine Childer he has created, of which three are still among the undead, a source of constant pride and occasional aggravation. He has loved, has even found his one true love. He lost her to necessity, has seen no other option than to embrace her. The time he had with her has been the happiest of his unlife or his life. He hopes her love for him has survived the Embrace; the fear that it might not is the greatest terror he has ever known. He still loves Clarissa; she never stopped being the one true love of his existence, and never will, yet he is so tired. After all this time, he has grown weary of the constant struggle, as most of his kind eventually do. Yet he will not run. He will not withdraw into torpor, as most of his peers have done. In his experience, that merely postpones the inevitable. And it would mean that he has given up. He has never done that in all the centuries of his existence. He will not do so now. The coming conflict will be reason enough to give him the energy to overcome the lethargy, but not if he runs. Doing that will deal him a wound that will never heal. Not even if he does reach Golconda, that most elusive of goals, which he despairs of ever finding after all this time. It is only his native stubbornness, his unwillingness to accept defeat that keeps him from abandoning the quest. His estate is settled, his affairs in order; his last wife so far beyond his reach, he cannot even bid her farewell, which is his one real regret. All those moments he has experienced, instances of happiness and of grief, of rage and of bliss, of hate and of love, will be lost in time if he dies. Lost like tears, even tears of blood, in rain. With that realisation, his eyes focus again on the outside world, gleaming the colour of molten steel. He does not even notice the single tear of blood streaking his face.
Considering the situation, it is not likely that they will be able to defeat the Clanless. There is but one thing to do, he knows as he refastens his helmet. To become again, for a few nights, what he has fought for centuries to leave behind. To assume again an identity created for him by his Grandsire. An identity originally intended as an insult, and a punishment among the refined Kindred of his Grandsire's court. An identity that has at one time made him the most feared member of the Kingship Clan.
Atrox.
The Bloody-Handed One.
The Sword of the Kingship Clan.
There are those members of his Clan elder than he, closer to the Wanderer. In the long memory of those who have seen the First City fall, the memories of those who matter, there still has never been another warrior of the Clan of Kings to be his equal, this he knows. Only his Childer come close, and of them, in truth, only one. He has said his farewells to them all. What remains will be an orgy of bloodletting. It cannot be helped. Duty has always driven him. Duty now holds him here, at the side of his retainers, his future limited to two exceedingly simple, mutually exclusive options.
Victory or Death.
The ancient leaves his study. Sergey and Nighthawk are waiting for him with their reports on the status of the battle. He listens closely as he walks down to the defensive positions. There is a lull in the fighting at this time, something he has expected, but does not welcome. He desires this matter to be resolved quickly. His only hope now is that the enemy is lacking in human servants; if they are, his troops will be able to rest the day. The warriors tense as they see movement, fingers tensing on triggers, but the strong, even baritone of their master stops them.
"Hold fire."
"Mr de Richemonte -" Nighthawk begins, but the Kindred stops him with a glance.
"Call me Coriolanus." Every one of his men-at-arms - a misnomer, better than a third of them are female - hears the command. "You few who stand with me this night deserve to know my true name."
Some heads turns to regard him at this pronouncement. All of them have known that he is living under an assumed name, just as they have known what he is. Some of them even know enough to spot the age of origin of this one. Then, a Clanless come into view. She is holding aloft a piece of white cloth, the thing which the modern era has defined as the flag of truce. She comes near to the barricade behind which the defenders crouches, and calls out:
"You humans. Our struggle is not with you. We only want the Vampire you serve. Any of you who want to leave can go."
Coriolanus notes some of his troops shifting. He senses, and long experience dealing with mankind agrees, that quite a few of them are sorely tempted. To be sure, the bonds of loyalty that hold them are strong - he has worked long and diligently to make them so - but to stay promises only death; this offer promises them life at a time when most of them have already resigned themselves to death, and all creatures cling to life with a ferocity undreamed of by those who have never seen such a struggle. Wavering troops will not help him in this battle; that he knows with the certainty of one, who has led men to the slaughter historians call war for many a century. Thus he steps forward into the sight of the Clanless.
"A tempting offer, Caitiff." His voice, schooled to overcome the din of the battlefield, easily carries to most of his troops, and the others will hear him over the radio. "Yet what guarantees do you promise that they will not be slaughtered the moment they step into the open?"
The name of the Clanless is Iliana. She is one of the Elders of the Unbound movement, a natural leader, and brimful of confidence, yet she falters at the sight of their true target. No taller than she, the matte black-and- green body armour and visored close helm he is wearing turn him into something alien, a creature out of myth and legend. A black knight. She sees the molten-steel eyes stare at her, feels his power in some indefinable way. For the first time in her existence of nearly six decades does she truly feel inferior. Lesser. With an angry snarl, she shakes it off. She is not the lesser here! She has a thousand brothers and sisters surrounding the estate, all but howling for this Blue Blood's death, while he probably has less than a hundred humans. Most of the other Clanless don't really understand why the old bastard has to die, but she knows that only the destruction of as many Elders as they can get will make the Camarilla accept them as equals.
"You are mistaken, Iliana." The old one's voice is gentle. "The Clans will never accept you as equals. They will hunt you to extinction. They will do to you what they hesitated to do with the rebel clans during the Anarch Revolt. After all, they need not be afraid of angering an Antediluvian."
Iliana stares at him in shock. Bastard's reading my mind. How dare he? Have concentrate more on keeping him out.
The ancient shakes his head. "Futile effort, Caitiff. As futile as the trap I suspect you have prepared for my troops."
"There is no trap," Iliana snaps, but she can see he has made an impression on the armoured storm-troopers of his. Storm-troopers like the ones who have already bled her brethren so badly on the ground floor. They are settling down behind their barricades again, double-checking their weapons with a grim determination she has never seen before. "If they leave in peace, they won't be harmed."
"Then those who wish to leave have my permission to do so." The ancient turn to regard his men. "Your contracts will be deemed fulfilled; you shall be paid in full. But I recommend you do so only," his head snaps back to regard the Clanless, "if this woman gives me herself and a number of her people to stand in our sights as hostages. If my people are attacked, those hostages will, of course, die."
"Unacceptable," Iliana retorts. "If they stay, their deaths are certain. My offer is their only hope of survival."
Soft laughter answers her. "If you are truly certain of that, you would not be negotiating. You would be attacking." There is amusement in his voice, and a soft reproach.
Red fury rises in her breast. How does the bastard know? He is undoing her efforts with such ease. She has worked so damnably long to make this moment happen, and he and his servants are threatening to cost them more blood than they can afford to spend on short notice. It isn't that hard to recruit new people; immortality is a huge incentive, and -
"Kindred are not immortal, Caitiff." De Richemonte interrupts her thoughts. "They are merely unageing. There is a difference. As I suspect you shall learn shortly."
That does it. "Get out of my head or I'll kill you!" Her voice is a scream, and she couldn't care less as she throws away the white flag and draws her machete.
Slowly, deliberately, Coriolanus steps over the barricade. Everything he has said, everything he has done has been intended to provoke just this reaction. He can sense her building rage, even as he sees the small cluster of Clanless step out from cover to stare at their leader.
"Is that a challenge, Caitiff?" He asks mildly.
"Fucking right it is," she screams back, barely holding on to her self- control.
In this situation, Coriolanus judges, that is a mistake. Her only chance would be an immediate attack, her only hope to catch him off guard, but something - sense of honour, or the need to preserve the respect of her followers - holds her back. Behind his helmet's visor, Coriolanus allows himself a wry smile as he draws one of the enchanted broadswords that have been the gift of Philippus in return for his help.
"I accept."
She charges at him. No surprise there; her weapon has barely half the reach of his. She has to close the range, and swiftly, if she is to survive. Nor is her attack especially skilful. Coriolanus unhurriedly takes a step to the side. Turning to fully face her again, he brings the blade down with practised suddenness. Iliana takes another step before her body separates in two. Without so much as a glance behind him, the ancient undead crosses the barricade once more. One of the troopers looks up from her position behind her assault shotgun.
"We'll not desert you, old man," she tells him.
Accepting his own shotgun from Sergey, he kneels next to her.
"Nor shall I desert you and yours, now and forever."
She merely nods, one warrior trusting the word of another. Yet it is the truth. They and their families will be provided for until the end of days. It is part of his promise. He has never misrepresented the danger they would face; if anything, he has exaggerated it. They have known death is a likely outcome of this battle, yet they have chosen loyalty over survival. Many of them have been in his employ for a decade or more. As soldiers have ever done, they respect a leader, who has been there and takes care of his own. As Coriolanus does. He has carefully built their loyalty, until, even without being bound, they will follow him in an assault on the very gates of Hell. Freely given and returned in equal measure, their loyalty cannot be undermined so easily as that Clanless believed.
Grey was cursing, a long, colourfully multilingual string of expletives. Not one of the old monster's retainers has tried to escape their destruction. His powers of mind control must be unbelievable, he thinks with a chill. But they can't affect hundreds of Kindred at once, and that is what he has ready to send up those stairs. The loss of Iliana is a blow, but she has always been such a hothead, he actually expected to lose her at some point. The stability of the building is another problem. They can blow their way through to the next floor, but only by using so strong a charge as to rip out all of the ground floor. He looks at his lieutenants and nods. They have to take down the Old Prince, as he's been called when he took up residence in Chicago again, because it used to be his city. There aren't many Princes who abdicate their thrones, but this man is one of the few. Grey is the only Unbound in Chicago, who really knows something of the opponent they are facing, the only one who has bothered to learn about their target. He's heard stories of Panders who escaped the Sabbat cataclysm. This Blue Blood isn't one the usual business-suited wimps. He is a stone-cold killer, a fighting machine, who has taken on a dozen enemies at a time and lived. Who has taken on a Tzimisce war ghoul and slain it single-handed. Whose daughter is said to have put paid to Shaitan, the fourth-generation founder of the Baali. If the daughter could do that, what is the Sire be capable of? Grey has seen some of the suppressed footage from the Sabbat mess. It scares him. Elder Kindred are always dangerous, and this one is of the fifth generation to boot. When Grey lived in Chicago, the Old Prince still ruled. Back then, he's heard rumours that he used to be called Atrox, the Bloody-Handed One. That name isn't exactly unknown in the Kindred world. The Sword of the Ventrue, he was called. He's said to have been a major player in the wars that the old-timers used to fight. Grey shudders at the thought of having to fight someone who's survived, who's defeated everything the Fiends and the Keepers, and all the other Clans, have thrown at him for hundreds of years. Supposedly, Atrox was never defeated in battle, a hell of a record. Most likely, the Old Prince is a far better tactician than he. Luckily, tactics aren't much of an issue tonight, and Grey does have overwhelming numbers. It will be bloody as all hell, but he'll be going down.
Thus, the Clanless charge them again. The tactics Coriolanus has forced on them by the design of his mansion are straightforward, and practically non- existent. The frontal assault is their only recourse, and so they attempt it. It relieves Coriolanus of the duties of actual command and leaves him free to lead. Gunfire rips through the charging Clanless horde, the explosive incendiary rounds blasting the first rank apart, flowering into fire to burn and scar the second. But the gunfire does not down enough of them to keep them at bay. Coriolanus rises as the first of them are still three steps away from the barricade, his movements as inhumanly fast as they are sure. He draws his swords and jumps into their midst, trusting in his powers of Presence to make them falter and hesitate. And so, faced with what they perceive to be an enraged god, they do. Within three seconds, nothing lives inside the range of his blades. Surrounded by the enemy throng, he denies them their strongest weapons, for their guns carry the very real risk of harming their own in case of a miss. His blood seethes in fury as he calls upon it to bestow him strength, speed and endurance. That this weakens him matters not; he quickly restores himself by using his thaumaturgical skills to drain one of the howling mongrels. She screams as she feels her strength, her very life drawn from her and falls, her scream cut off by one of his swords. Others of his people join him in the mêlée, wielding swords and axes, or, like Nighthawk and Shadow, relying on implanted weapons and handguns as they cut their way to him. Sergey is the first to reach him, hacking down three of the Clanless before they can close to engage the ancient. Coriolanus moves through the enemy throng with the speed of a demon. His blades are silver blurs as they lash out at his foes, every blow ending an unlife. The rage of battle is on him, such as it is for him, no more than a cold and diamond-hard determination to kill them all. At his side are his retainers, moving as fast as their still-human bodies allow, his Presence reducing them to dull shadows following the wake of red ruin he cuts through the enemy, slaughtering the remnants with clinical precision. Yet being slaughtered as well. Mara, one of the most promising of the new breed, dies first, buried under her enemies, fighting like an enraged lioness, until they tear her apart. Pierre is the second to fall, ripped open by a burst from an assault rifle. Coriolanus can hear the death screams, such as they are, of those he cannot see falling. He mourns them, even as he rends his way through the throng. But they are too numerous to defeat in this way. His sally has been a necessary thing; now it is time to leave well enough alone.
"Fall back," he orders, beginning to move backward himself. This is the most difficult part. Modern generals believe retreat under fire to be a difficult thing, but it is almost childishly easy compared to the attempt of disengaging a force that is blade to blade with the enemy. Coriolanus is the last to withdraw, the closest to the enemy. His swords reap a grisly harvest, yet, sensing their ascendancy, the Clanless press the defenders ever harder. The ancient hears a grunt over the radio, then the words "Sergey, I love -", cut off suddenly by a sound he has come to dread. The ugly crunching noise that heralds a shattered combat helmet, and thus a dead retainer. Sergey screams then. It is a scream of primal rage unfettered, one that the Clanless actually shrink back from for an instant, the scream of a wounded animal that is about to turn on its tormentors, the kind of scream even Coriolanus has heard only rarely, the kind that is like a physical blow. The former KGB assassin stops retreating, then plunges headlong into the enemy. For twenty steps, he advances, his fury more than anything else pushing them back and making them fall before his battle-axe, but they recover eventually. Surrounded by foes on all sides, Sergey fights like a man possessed. A Clanless wielding an axe hacks off his left arm, only to lose his head for it. For a while, the remainder of the defenders can retreat almost unmolested as the enemy throng turns on the madman suddenly loose in their midst. Eventually, they bring him down, but it has bought the others time to withdraw behind the next barricade, from where they open fire again. That is too much for the Clanless horde; they have been reduced by half, and the defenders are standing ready to await them from another position, greeting them with fire. The front rank never has time to make any kind of decision; they die too fast. The others waver and run. When the last of them has disappeared from sight, Coriolanus turns to Nighthawk.
"You and Shadow, get the wounded to the vault and block the lift behind you."
"I'll get the wounded there, but I'm staying," the solo replies. "I'm not running out on you guys."
"Shadow is pregnant." Coriolanus tells him matter-of-factly. "I doubt if she is yet aware of it, but I can sense the new life in her, and the child is yours. Go."
That shocks Nighthawk, Coriolanus senses. He stands there, unable to speak for a minute. Then he opens his visor.
"If that's true . . ."
"It is."
"Then I have no other choice. Sir."
Nighthawk salutes, the first time since leaving the U.S. Army that he does so, and the first time that he truly means it. Coriolanus returns the salute in the Roman fashion. He watches the human leave with a strange mixture of joy and sadness. The man would truly prefer to die with him rather than commit what he will always think of as a desertion, and he has chosen to give his loyalty to Coriolanus. It is good that he will never know how he has been manipulated into doing just that, nor that Coriolanus has advanced Shadow's cycle a few days ago to ensure she will be pregnant and give him this excuse. He needs someone to make sure his Childer will come into what lies below, and Nighthawk is the best man to do this, now that both Sergey and Tatiana are dead. He mourns his retainers as much as the situation allows. It is not enough. For those who stay in the fight, death is certain. The one Nighthawk will take with him will feel relief at their survival, and guilt that their comrades have died. But they will get over it, as humans always do. They will also have their chance at revenge. The second assault comes half an hour later. This time, there will be no retreat. There is now nowhere to retreat to. Enemy after enemy comes at them. Enemy after enemy dies, but so do his people, one by one. He ignores it. They will not break. Those who cannot run never do. Finally, he stands alone, his back to a wall, facing another wall, one made of Clanless fighters. He is still strong, still in the fullness of his power, and they are afraid. As well they should be. Despite their numbers, they have lost many of their comrades. But they are still numerous, especially considering that Coriolanus is alone now. Eventually, their numbers will overcome their fear and they will charge him one last time. Coriolanus acknowledges that he has lost this battle, yet in a curious way, he has also won. Perhaps a third of those, who attacked his mansion still live, and quite a few more of them will die ere he falls. He stands straight, crossing his swords before him flat to flat, then he brings the points to rest between his feet. A male Clanless in an urban camouflage uniform pushes through the mob, stopping short when he reaches the front rank.
Grey cannot believe it. The Unbound have attacked this place with what amounted to almost two full battalions, nearly twelve hundred fighters in all. Now, only three hundred are left, and the Old Prince still isn't dead. His troops are close to mutiny from the beating they've taken. Looking at the Kindred in front of him, standing tall and proud, he can understand why. He swallows back more curses. This man alone has nearly broken the Unbound Revolution in Chicago all by himself. If he escapes now, if he survives, he will next lead a Kindred army against them. Grey shudders to think what would have happened if any of his Childer had been here.
"You're dead meat, Blue Blood," he promises the Old Prince.
"I am Marcus Iulius Coriolanus, Childe of Banbha, who is the Childe of the one you call Ventrue. I was once known as Atrox. I am the Sword of the Kingship Clan." The Old Prince replies with quiet, but absolute pride. "And who might you be, Caitiff?"
"I'm the man who beat you, you bastard. You're as good as dead."
"As are you, Grey of the Clanless." Coriolanus shakes his head. "Do you even know what you have done?"
"We've started to make sure you haughty bastards don't dis us no more," a female Clanless snarls.
"Fools." The Old Prince laughs softly. "Clanless, all, they will wash over our walls; Clanless, all, they will know secret ways; Clanless, all, they are Lilith's foul get; Clanless, all, they are newly Awake; Clanless, all! No family, no sign, no loyalty, no Elder. Beware of those who walk without a Clan, for they will be our undoing. Ten thousand years ago, Saulot prophesied this would happen." He laughed again. "But then, you believe the Book of Nod to be a mere collection of legends."
Half-turning, he lashes out with one of his swords, shattering bullet-proof glass and tearing off the armour steel shutter. Crimson light washes over him, making him seem an obsidian statue standing in a sea of blood. He turns back to the Clanless, who stand dumbfounded.
"When LaSombra's dreams come true, on the day when the moon runs as blood, and the sun rises black in the sky, that is the day of the Damned, when Cain's children will rise again." He raises his swords.
"You have begun this. Gehenna. Is. Now."
His mind reaches out and distorts the emotions of two of them before they can even begin to comprehend what is happening. Nor, if they live, will they ever understand why they suddenly feel such devotion him. All that matters is that they do. They turn on their former comrades with desperate fury. Coriolanus charges the Clanless army before they can recover from the shock of friends turning against them or overcome their sudden attack. Grey is the first to die under the blades of the ancient. He is by no means the last. The Clanless die quickly, but they are hundreds against one. The tight confines of the hallway works against their superior numbers, though for every Clanless he slays, three more stand ready to strike him down. Eventually, it is one of the dying, who falls against the Old Prince's legs. The stumble is small, and immediately controlled. Still, it allows one of the others to punch his stake deep into Coriolanus' body. The pain is exquisite; from fire-hardened wood, it always is. He is familiar with pain, as well as the sensation of a weapon penetrating his body. Twisting, he breaks the stake, taking off the attacker's head in the bargain. The Clanless have quite literally licked blood now. He kills a score, and pays for it with two more wounds, one from an enchanted blade that will not heal completely in the time he has. Another score die. He is beginning to feel weakened by the constant need to heal the wounds they strike him. He takes as much blood from them as his thaumaturgical skills allow. He is still running through it faster than he can replenish himself. Then one of them, lost in the insanity of a frenzy, strikes off his right arm, by which time he has killed another score. He can no longer deny that he is being worn down. That leaves him but one dreaded recourse. His Beast is howling to be let loose, has been howling since battle was first joined. His increasing Hunger has only fed its screams, as has the blood, the rich, sweet Kindred blood, that slicks the floor. And Coriolanus lets go. For the first time in over two millennia, he welcomes the Beast Within and bids it rage. And as it rages, so does he. Yet the Beast is anything but a careful fighter. It cares only for the wounds it causes, nothing for the wounds his body suffers from the relentless assault of the Clanless. He feels those wounds, even though they do not cause him pain. Many wounds. Eventually, one that shatters his knee makes him fall. They are upon him in less than the blink of an eye, futilely scrabbling at his armour for the most part, but inevitably some of them find flesh. His helmet comes free, and the Beast uses his fangs and claws at a range to close even for swords. He drains six to the point of destruction, sometimes using Thaumaturgy, sometimes not. He smashes another eleven to paste with the contemptuous ease of a creature that has long since left behind all human limitations. But all the Beast's fury cannot spare him further injury, cannot keep him as strong as he would need to be. There are three Clanless hanging from his neck now, another two trying to pin his arm - and failing, but that is only a reprieve - and nine more doing their best to hold him down. There are also two, who are snapping at his neck, and even more behind them. The Beast tosses the two aside, reaching up to crush one of the would-be Diabolists' head in his hand, then slashing his claws through the other's throat. He sees one Clanless stand above him, sword raised high over her head. He hears her scream as the Beast uses his Thaumaturgy to boil her blood inside her. He also sees her keep control of herself. Still screaming, burning from within and probably dying, she brings the sword down on his neck with all the force she can muster.
At last, Darkness claims him and he knows no more.
Author's Note: This was actually intended as the swan song of my favourite World Of Darkness character. At the time, he was an NPC in a one-on-one campaign that had progressed into the year 2017. I decided it was time to let Marcus Iulius Coriolanus go to his well- earned rest. The PC in the campaign didn't agree. She overcame all the obstacles I put in her way and managed, quite against the odds, to save her Sire from certain destruction. Still, this is the original story of the end of a life that has lasted long enough none of us mere humans can imagine what it must have been like, to keep going on without reprieve.
"All is ready, my Lord," Sergey tells the Kindred. He turns to face the two.
"Do you believe we can hold them?" he asks.
"Yes, Mr de Richemonte," Nighthawk says. Sergey doesn't disagree, even if he seems less sanguine about the question. That is hardly surprising. Unlike Nighthawk, Sergey has seen Kindred at war before. He is better aware than the young mercenary just how much of a personal advantage even a young Kindred has over any mere human being.
"You may underestimate them, Nighthawk," the Kindred tells the solo. "They may be far less powerful than I am, but I do not doubt they will be numerous."
Nighthawk shrugs. "Maybe. But most of them won't know shit about fighting, and the others probably aren't that good."
De Richemonte nods. Nighthawk has very succinctly summarised their only hope. Chicago is aflame. There will be no help from the Kindred of that city. The ancient Cainite has no illusions about this. Those who have survived the initial onslaught will be busy escaping. To actively seek any such confrontation as they are about to engage in will be alien to their nature. Their own escape is no longer possible; de Richemonte is not willing to condemn his retainers to the lingering death that would await them. Escape by air - the only way in which they all could elude their foes - is already barred; the last of their reinforcements have come under fire from surface-to-air missiles, and have taken losses thereby. He thus has himself and about two hundred warriors, of which only ten are ghouls. He also has the mansion, which has been built as much for defence as for comfort, is as much fortress as it is palace. Its walls are more than four metres high, too high to be jumped easily even by Kindred, crowned both with razor wire and monofilament wire and massive enough to withstand anything this side of a tank's main gun. There are eight remotely controlled chain-guns waiting for anyone foolish - or determined - enough to brave the walls. Claymore mines fused by motion detectors have been liberally placed all over the grounds. The windows have been shuttered with plates of armour steel strong enough to shrug off anything short of an antitank missile, leaving only narrow murder holes open, through which every square centimetre of the estate can be covered with fire. It is a strong fortress, one that has no worries for provisions. The stocks on hand will last a year. The estate also has its own well. Only the fuel for the generators will run out after four months. De Richemonte does not expect the siege to last that long.
He puts on his helmet and removes his cloak. Like his troops, he wears one of Sceptre Military Industries' Mk. XIV battle-suits. His is made of considerably thicker material than the one issued to his mortal retainers. Despite the much greater weight, his inhuman strength allows him to still move as quickly as they do. There is only one piece of modern technology that he does wear inside his helmet. He has no need of night vision devices; his own innate abilities are much more effective than any technological crutch, but tactical communications will be critical throughout the siege. He would be a fool not to avail himself of the ability to speak with his troops at need. He also carries a handgun and will take the same assault shotgun into battle as his human retainers. Yet if the fighting becomes close, if the enemy does manage to breach the fortress, he will draw the two swords he wears on his back. Both are enchanted. The strength and speed of the ancient Cainite is far beyond anything a mortal - or a young Kindred, for that matter - can match. In his hands, they are far more potent than any mere technological tool at close quarters.
The Clanless do not wait long before they begin their assault. Rushing the wall under cover of their disciplines, they set explosive charges powerful enough to bring down an apartment block. The walls have been designed to take a direct hit from a tank gun at close range, but there is a limit even to their structural strength. The charges blast gaps into the walls, wide enough to admit four or five people at a time. De Richemonte suspects that none of the Clanless, who planted the explosives were warned just how powerful the explosions would be. The destruction of these few daring Kindred is scant comfort in the light of the huge number of their fellows now pouring through those gaps. The chain-guns open fire at once, 25mm incendiary rounds blasting the intruders apart with brutal effectiveness. The troops at the windows likewise open fire. Their assault shotguns are loaded with fin-stabilised explosive incendiary rounds, and the men and women firing them are skilled in their use. The first wave never makes it farther than three steps. But the second wave is already on the way, as is the third, and there are only so many guns that can be trained on them, only so many mines to rip holes into their ranks. It is the old story known to many besieged defenders; there are more targets than they can deal with in the time they have. Wave after wave assails the fortress. The fifth wave manages to get as far as the walls of the mansion. Shaped charges are slapped to the walls. When they are set off, man-sized holes are blown open. The attackers charge through these, some firing wildly, some waving swords and axes, a strange dichotomy of the modern and the ancient. The squads on the first floor fight hard to repel them, but they are only human. Though they do exact a toll of blood much greater than the Clanless commanders expected, there are not enough of them to hold back the tide of screeching, enraged Kindred. Still, even the interior of the mansion has been built to be defensible. The loss of a few rooms on ground level does not win the Clanless nearly as much as they hoped. When they try to ascend to the next floor, they come into a killing fire that shocks them in its intensity. They are driven back, badly bloodied, but determined to succeed on their next attempt.
De Richemonte was not terribly worried before. He is now. As nearly as can be determined, the Clanless have lost more than four hundred of their number getting as far as the ground floor of the mansion, and still there are more of them streaming onto the grounds, braving the fire of chain-guns and assault shotguns to reach their comrades and assist them. He reflects that he might yet escape destruction, if at the cost of sacrificing every member of his personal guard. Escape, he knows, might very well be his only chance of survival. It is very definitely his best. But he has only rarely run away from a foe, and no intention to do so now.
Even by the standards of his Grandsire, who has seen the dawn of mankind, he has reached a respectable age. He has survived for more than twenty- three centuries. In that time, he has seen Humanity fall from a semblance of civilisation into a Dark Age, then claw its way back to civilisation again. No matter what some of his kind like to believe, it has most of the time been Humanity's doing alone that made the difference, sometimes, he grants with the support of the Kindred, yet just as often the Kindred were part of the obstacles that needed to be overcome. He has seen legends being made, has seen common mortals rise above themselves to become a legend that would inspire generations to follow. has seen things that most people, humans and Kindred alike, nowadays discount as flights of fancy. He has seen dragons soaring in the sky, has once seen fairies dance in celebration of the spring, and of joy itself. He remembers well standing at the grave of his last surviving descendant, the last of his mortal kin, and the tingle of powerful magic being woven by Philippus, the magus who was his boon companion for a century. He also remembers his Family in Darkness, the nine Childer he has created, of which three are still among the undead, a source of constant pride and occasional aggravation. He has loved, has even found his one true love. He lost her to necessity, has seen no other option than to embrace her. The time he had with her has been the happiest of his unlife or his life. He hopes her love for him has survived the Embrace; the fear that it might not is the greatest terror he has ever known. He still loves Clarissa; she never stopped being the one true love of his existence, and never will, yet he is so tired. After all this time, he has grown weary of the constant struggle, as most of his kind eventually do. Yet he will not run. He will not withdraw into torpor, as most of his peers have done. In his experience, that merely postpones the inevitable. And it would mean that he has given up. He has never done that in all the centuries of his existence. He will not do so now. The coming conflict will be reason enough to give him the energy to overcome the lethargy, but not if he runs. Doing that will deal him a wound that will never heal. Not even if he does reach Golconda, that most elusive of goals, which he despairs of ever finding after all this time. It is only his native stubbornness, his unwillingness to accept defeat that keeps him from abandoning the quest. His estate is settled, his affairs in order; his last wife so far beyond his reach, he cannot even bid her farewell, which is his one real regret. All those moments he has experienced, instances of happiness and of grief, of rage and of bliss, of hate and of love, will be lost in time if he dies. Lost like tears, even tears of blood, in rain. With that realisation, his eyes focus again on the outside world, gleaming the colour of molten steel. He does not even notice the single tear of blood streaking his face.
Considering the situation, it is not likely that they will be able to defeat the Clanless. There is but one thing to do, he knows as he refastens his helmet. To become again, for a few nights, what he has fought for centuries to leave behind. To assume again an identity created for him by his Grandsire. An identity originally intended as an insult, and a punishment among the refined Kindred of his Grandsire's court. An identity that has at one time made him the most feared member of the Kingship Clan.
Atrox.
The Bloody-Handed One.
The Sword of the Kingship Clan.
There are those members of his Clan elder than he, closer to the Wanderer. In the long memory of those who have seen the First City fall, the memories of those who matter, there still has never been another warrior of the Clan of Kings to be his equal, this he knows. Only his Childer come close, and of them, in truth, only one. He has said his farewells to them all. What remains will be an orgy of bloodletting. It cannot be helped. Duty has always driven him. Duty now holds him here, at the side of his retainers, his future limited to two exceedingly simple, mutually exclusive options.
Victory or Death.
The ancient leaves his study. Sergey and Nighthawk are waiting for him with their reports on the status of the battle. He listens closely as he walks down to the defensive positions. There is a lull in the fighting at this time, something he has expected, but does not welcome. He desires this matter to be resolved quickly. His only hope now is that the enemy is lacking in human servants; if they are, his troops will be able to rest the day. The warriors tense as they see movement, fingers tensing on triggers, but the strong, even baritone of their master stops them.
"Hold fire."
"Mr de Richemonte -" Nighthawk begins, but the Kindred stops him with a glance.
"Call me Coriolanus." Every one of his men-at-arms - a misnomer, better than a third of them are female - hears the command. "You few who stand with me this night deserve to know my true name."
Some heads turns to regard him at this pronouncement. All of them have known that he is living under an assumed name, just as they have known what he is. Some of them even know enough to spot the age of origin of this one. Then, a Clanless come into view. She is holding aloft a piece of white cloth, the thing which the modern era has defined as the flag of truce. She comes near to the barricade behind which the defenders crouches, and calls out:
"You humans. Our struggle is not with you. We only want the Vampire you serve. Any of you who want to leave can go."
Coriolanus notes some of his troops shifting. He senses, and long experience dealing with mankind agrees, that quite a few of them are sorely tempted. To be sure, the bonds of loyalty that hold them are strong - he has worked long and diligently to make them so - but to stay promises only death; this offer promises them life at a time when most of them have already resigned themselves to death, and all creatures cling to life with a ferocity undreamed of by those who have never seen such a struggle. Wavering troops will not help him in this battle; that he knows with the certainty of one, who has led men to the slaughter historians call war for many a century. Thus he steps forward into the sight of the Clanless.
"A tempting offer, Caitiff." His voice, schooled to overcome the din of the battlefield, easily carries to most of his troops, and the others will hear him over the radio. "Yet what guarantees do you promise that they will not be slaughtered the moment they step into the open?"
The name of the Clanless is Iliana. She is one of the Elders of the Unbound movement, a natural leader, and brimful of confidence, yet she falters at the sight of their true target. No taller than she, the matte black-and- green body armour and visored close helm he is wearing turn him into something alien, a creature out of myth and legend. A black knight. She sees the molten-steel eyes stare at her, feels his power in some indefinable way. For the first time in her existence of nearly six decades does she truly feel inferior. Lesser. With an angry snarl, she shakes it off. She is not the lesser here! She has a thousand brothers and sisters surrounding the estate, all but howling for this Blue Blood's death, while he probably has less than a hundred humans. Most of the other Clanless don't really understand why the old bastard has to die, but she knows that only the destruction of as many Elders as they can get will make the Camarilla accept them as equals.
"You are mistaken, Iliana." The old one's voice is gentle. "The Clans will never accept you as equals. They will hunt you to extinction. They will do to you what they hesitated to do with the rebel clans during the Anarch Revolt. After all, they need not be afraid of angering an Antediluvian."
Iliana stares at him in shock. Bastard's reading my mind. How dare he? Have concentrate more on keeping him out.
The ancient shakes his head. "Futile effort, Caitiff. As futile as the trap I suspect you have prepared for my troops."
"There is no trap," Iliana snaps, but she can see he has made an impression on the armoured storm-troopers of his. Storm-troopers like the ones who have already bled her brethren so badly on the ground floor. They are settling down behind their barricades again, double-checking their weapons with a grim determination she has never seen before. "If they leave in peace, they won't be harmed."
"Then those who wish to leave have my permission to do so." The ancient turn to regard his men. "Your contracts will be deemed fulfilled; you shall be paid in full. But I recommend you do so only," his head snaps back to regard the Clanless, "if this woman gives me herself and a number of her people to stand in our sights as hostages. If my people are attacked, those hostages will, of course, die."
"Unacceptable," Iliana retorts. "If they stay, their deaths are certain. My offer is their only hope of survival."
Soft laughter answers her. "If you are truly certain of that, you would not be negotiating. You would be attacking." There is amusement in his voice, and a soft reproach.
Red fury rises in her breast. How does the bastard know? He is undoing her efforts with such ease. She has worked so damnably long to make this moment happen, and he and his servants are threatening to cost them more blood than they can afford to spend on short notice. It isn't that hard to recruit new people; immortality is a huge incentive, and -
"Kindred are not immortal, Caitiff." De Richemonte interrupts her thoughts. "They are merely unageing. There is a difference. As I suspect you shall learn shortly."
That does it. "Get out of my head or I'll kill you!" Her voice is a scream, and she couldn't care less as she throws away the white flag and draws her machete.
Slowly, deliberately, Coriolanus steps over the barricade. Everything he has said, everything he has done has been intended to provoke just this reaction. He can sense her building rage, even as he sees the small cluster of Clanless step out from cover to stare at their leader.
"Is that a challenge, Caitiff?" He asks mildly.
"Fucking right it is," she screams back, barely holding on to her self- control.
In this situation, Coriolanus judges, that is a mistake. Her only chance would be an immediate attack, her only hope to catch him off guard, but something - sense of honour, or the need to preserve the respect of her followers - holds her back. Behind his helmet's visor, Coriolanus allows himself a wry smile as he draws one of the enchanted broadswords that have been the gift of Philippus in return for his help.
"I accept."
She charges at him. No surprise there; her weapon has barely half the reach of his. She has to close the range, and swiftly, if she is to survive. Nor is her attack especially skilful. Coriolanus unhurriedly takes a step to the side. Turning to fully face her again, he brings the blade down with practised suddenness. Iliana takes another step before her body separates in two. Without so much as a glance behind him, the ancient undead crosses the barricade once more. One of the troopers looks up from her position behind her assault shotgun.
"We'll not desert you, old man," she tells him.
Accepting his own shotgun from Sergey, he kneels next to her.
"Nor shall I desert you and yours, now and forever."
She merely nods, one warrior trusting the word of another. Yet it is the truth. They and their families will be provided for until the end of days. It is part of his promise. He has never misrepresented the danger they would face; if anything, he has exaggerated it. They have known death is a likely outcome of this battle, yet they have chosen loyalty over survival. Many of them have been in his employ for a decade or more. As soldiers have ever done, they respect a leader, who has been there and takes care of his own. As Coriolanus does. He has carefully built their loyalty, until, even without being bound, they will follow him in an assault on the very gates of Hell. Freely given and returned in equal measure, their loyalty cannot be undermined so easily as that Clanless believed.
Grey was cursing, a long, colourfully multilingual string of expletives. Not one of the old monster's retainers has tried to escape their destruction. His powers of mind control must be unbelievable, he thinks with a chill. But they can't affect hundreds of Kindred at once, and that is what he has ready to send up those stairs. The loss of Iliana is a blow, but she has always been such a hothead, he actually expected to lose her at some point. The stability of the building is another problem. They can blow their way through to the next floor, but only by using so strong a charge as to rip out all of the ground floor. He looks at his lieutenants and nods. They have to take down the Old Prince, as he's been called when he took up residence in Chicago again, because it used to be his city. There aren't many Princes who abdicate their thrones, but this man is one of the few. Grey is the only Unbound in Chicago, who really knows something of the opponent they are facing, the only one who has bothered to learn about their target. He's heard stories of Panders who escaped the Sabbat cataclysm. This Blue Blood isn't one the usual business-suited wimps. He is a stone-cold killer, a fighting machine, who has taken on a dozen enemies at a time and lived. Who has taken on a Tzimisce war ghoul and slain it single-handed. Whose daughter is said to have put paid to Shaitan, the fourth-generation founder of the Baali. If the daughter could do that, what is the Sire be capable of? Grey has seen some of the suppressed footage from the Sabbat mess. It scares him. Elder Kindred are always dangerous, and this one is of the fifth generation to boot. When Grey lived in Chicago, the Old Prince still ruled. Back then, he's heard rumours that he used to be called Atrox, the Bloody-Handed One. That name isn't exactly unknown in the Kindred world. The Sword of the Ventrue, he was called. He's said to have been a major player in the wars that the old-timers used to fight. Grey shudders at the thought of having to fight someone who's survived, who's defeated everything the Fiends and the Keepers, and all the other Clans, have thrown at him for hundreds of years. Supposedly, Atrox was never defeated in battle, a hell of a record. Most likely, the Old Prince is a far better tactician than he. Luckily, tactics aren't much of an issue tonight, and Grey does have overwhelming numbers. It will be bloody as all hell, but he'll be going down.
Thus, the Clanless charge them again. The tactics Coriolanus has forced on them by the design of his mansion are straightforward, and practically non- existent. The frontal assault is their only recourse, and so they attempt it. It relieves Coriolanus of the duties of actual command and leaves him free to lead. Gunfire rips through the charging Clanless horde, the explosive incendiary rounds blasting the first rank apart, flowering into fire to burn and scar the second. But the gunfire does not down enough of them to keep them at bay. Coriolanus rises as the first of them are still three steps away from the barricade, his movements as inhumanly fast as they are sure. He draws his swords and jumps into their midst, trusting in his powers of Presence to make them falter and hesitate. And so, faced with what they perceive to be an enraged god, they do. Within three seconds, nothing lives inside the range of his blades. Surrounded by the enemy throng, he denies them their strongest weapons, for their guns carry the very real risk of harming their own in case of a miss. His blood seethes in fury as he calls upon it to bestow him strength, speed and endurance. That this weakens him matters not; he quickly restores himself by using his thaumaturgical skills to drain one of the howling mongrels. She screams as she feels her strength, her very life drawn from her and falls, her scream cut off by one of his swords. Others of his people join him in the mêlée, wielding swords and axes, or, like Nighthawk and Shadow, relying on implanted weapons and handguns as they cut their way to him. Sergey is the first to reach him, hacking down three of the Clanless before they can close to engage the ancient. Coriolanus moves through the enemy throng with the speed of a demon. His blades are silver blurs as they lash out at his foes, every blow ending an unlife. The rage of battle is on him, such as it is for him, no more than a cold and diamond-hard determination to kill them all. At his side are his retainers, moving as fast as their still-human bodies allow, his Presence reducing them to dull shadows following the wake of red ruin he cuts through the enemy, slaughtering the remnants with clinical precision. Yet being slaughtered as well. Mara, one of the most promising of the new breed, dies first, buried under her enemies, fighting like an enraged lioness, until they tear her apart. Pierre is the second to fall, ripped open by a burst from an assault rifle. Coriolanus can hear the death screams, such as they are, of those he cannot see falling. He mourns them, even as he rends his way through the throng. But they are too numerous to defeat in this way. His sally has been a necessary thing; now it is time to leave well enough alone.
"Fall back," he orders, beginning to move backward himself. This is the most difficult part. Modern generals believe retreat under fire to be a difficult thing, but it is almost childishly easy compared to the attempt of disengaging a force that is blade to blade with the enemy. Coriolanus is the last to withdraw, the closest to the enemy. His swords reap a grisly harvest, yet, sensing their ascendancy, the Clanless press the defenders ever harder. The ancient hears a grunt over the radio, then the words "Sergey, I love -", cut off suddenly by a sound he has come to dread. The ugly crunching noise that heralds a shattered combat helmet, and thus a dead retainer. Sergey screams then. It is a scream of primal rage unfettered, one that the Clanless actually shrink back from for an instant, the scream of a wounded animal that is about to turn on its tormentors, the kind of scream even Coriolanus has heard only rarely, the kind that is like a physical blow. The former KGB assassin stops retreating, then plunges headlong into the enemy. For twenty steps, he advances, his fury more than anything else pushing them back and making them fall before his battle-axe, but they recover eventually. Surrounded by foes on all sides, Sergey fights like a man possessed. A Clanless wielding an axe hacks off his left arm, only to lose his head for it. For a while, the remainder of the defenders can retreat almost unmolested as the enemy throng turns on the madman suddenly loose in their midst. Eventually, they bring him down, but it has bought the others time to withdraw behind the next barricade, from where they open fire again. That is too much for the Clanless horde; they have been reduced by half, and the defenders are standing ready to await them from another position, greeting them with fire. The front rank never has time to make any kind of decision; they die too fast. The others waver and run. When the last of them has disappeared from sight, Coriolanus turns to Nighthawk.
"You and Shadow, get the wounded to the vault and block the lift behind you."
"I'll get the wounded there, but I'm staying," the solo replies. "I'm not running out on you guys."
"Shadow is pregnant." Coriolanus tells him matter-of-factly. "I doubt if she is yet aware of it, but I can sense the new life in her, and the child is yours. Go."
That shocks Nighthawk, Coriolanus senses. He stands there, unable to speak for a minute. Then he opens his visor.
"If that's true . . ."
"It is."
"Then I have no other choice. Sir."
Nighthawk salutes, the first time since leaving the U.S. Army that he does so, and the first time that he truly means it. Coriolanus returns the salute in the Roman fashion. He watches the human leave with a strange mixture of joy and sadness. The man would truly prefer to die with him rather than commit what he will always think of as a desertion, and he has chosen to give his loyalty to Coriolanus. It is good that he will never know how he has been manipulated into doing just that, nor that Coriolanus has advanced Shadow's cycle a few days ago to ensure she will be pregnant and give him this excuse. He needs someone to make sure his Childer will come into what lies below, and Nighthawk is the best man to do this, now that both Sergey and Tatiana are dead. He mourns his retainers as much as the situation allows. It is not enough. For those who stay in the fight, death is certain. The one Nighthawk will take with him will feel relief at their survival, and guilt that their comrades have died. But they will get over it, as humans always do. They will also have their chance at revenge. The second assault comes half an hour later. This time, there will be no retreat. There is now nowhere to retreat to. Enemy after enemy comes at them. Enemy after enemy dies, but so do his people, one by one. He ignores it. They will not break. Those who cannot run never do. Finally, he stands alone, his back to a wall, facing another wall, one made of Clanless fighters. He is still strong, still in the fullness of his power, and they are afraid. As well they should be. Despite their numbers, they have lost many of their comrades. But they are still numerous, especially considering that Coriolanus is alone now. Eventually, their numbers will overcome their fear and they will charge him one last time. Coriolanus acknowledges that he has lost this battle, yet in a curious way, he has also won. Perhaps a third of those, who attacked his mansion still live, and quite a few more of them will die ere he falls. He stands straight, crossing his swords before him flat to flat, then he brings the points to rest between his feet. A male Clanless in an urban camouflage uniform pushes through the mob, stopping short when he reaches the front rank.
Grey cannot believe it. The Unbound have attacked this place with what amounted to almost two full battalions, nearly twelve hundred fighters in all. Now, only three hundred are left, and the Old Prince still isn't dead. His troops are close to mutiny from the beating they've taken. Looking at the Kindred in front of him, standing tall and proud, he can understand why. He swallows back more curses. This man alone has nearly broken the Unbound Revolution in Chicago all by himself. If he escapes now, if he survives, he will next lead a Kindred army against them. Grey shudders to think what would have happened if any of his Childer had been here.
"You're dead meat, Blue Blood," he promises the Old Prince.
"I am Marcus Iulius Coriolanus, Childe of Banbha, who is the Childe of the one you call Ventrue. I was once known as Atrox. I am the Sword of the Kingship Clan." The Old Prince replies with quiet, but absolute pride. "And who might you be, Caitiff?"
"I'm the man who beat you, you bastard. You're as good as dead."
"As are you, Grey of the Clanless." Coriolanus shakes his head. "Do you even know what you have done?"
"We've started to make sure you haughty bastards don't dis us no more," a female Clanless snarls.
"Fools." The Old Prince laughs softly. "Clanless, all, they will wash over our walls; Clanless, all, they will know secret ways; Clanless, all, they are Lilith's foul get; Clanless, all, they are newly Awake; Clanless, all! No family, no sign, no loyalty, no Elder. Beware of those who walk without a Clan, for they will be our undoing. Ten thousand years ago, Saulot prophesied this would happen." He laughed again. "But then, you believe the Book of Nod to be a mere collection of legends."
Half-turning, he lashes out with one of his swords, shattering bullet-proof glass and tearing off the armour steel shutter. Crimson light washes over him, making him seem an obsidian statue standing in a sea of blood. He turns back to the Clanless, who stand dumbfounded.
"When LaSombra's dreams come true, on the day when the moon runs as blood, and the sun rises black in the sky, that is the day of the Damned, when Cain's children will rise again." He raises his swords.
"You have begun this. Gehenna. Is. Now."
His mind reaches out and distorts the emotions of two of them before they can even begin to comprehend what is happening. Nor, if they live, will they ever understand why they suddenly feel such devotion him. All that matters is that they do. They turn on their former comrades with desperate fury. Coriolanus charges the Clanless army before they can recover from the shock of friends turning against them or overcome their sudden attack. Grey is the first to die under the blades of the ancient. He is by no means the last. The Clanless die quickly, but they are hundreds against one. The tight confines of the hallway works against their superior numbers, though for every Clanless he slays, three more stand ready to strike him down. Eventually, it is one of the dying, who falls against the Old Prince's legs. The stumble is small, and immediately controlled. Still, it allows one of the others to punch his stake deep into Coriolanus' body. The pain is exquisite; from fire-hardened wood, it always is. He is familiar with pain, as well as the sensation of a weapon penetrating his body. Twisting, he breaks the stake, taking off the attacker's head in the bargain. The Clanless have quite literally licked blood now. He kills a score, and pays for it with two more wounds, one from an enchanted blade that will not heal completely in the time he has. Another score die. He is beginning to feel weakened by the constant need to heal the wounds they strike him. He takes as much blood from them as his thaumaturgical skills allow. He is still running through it faster than he can replenish himself. Then one of them, lost in the insanity of a frenzy, strikes off his right arm, by which time he has killed another score. He can no longer deny that he is being worn down. That leaves him but one dreaded recourse. His Beast is howling to be let loose, has been howling since battle was first joined. His increasing Hunger has only fed its screams, as has the blood, the rich, sweet Kindred blood, that slicks the floor. And Coriolanus lets go. For the first time in over two millennia, he welcomes the Beast Within and bids it rage. And as it rages, so does he. Yet the Beast is anything but a careful fighter. It cares only for the wounds it causes, nothing for the wounds his body suffers from the relentless assault of the Clanless. He feels those wounds, even though they do not cause him pain. Many wounds. Eventually, one that shatters his knee makes him fall. They are upon him in less than the blink of an eye, futilely scrabbling at his armour for the most part, but inevitably some of them find flesh. His helmet comes free, and the Beast uses his fangs and claws at a range to close even for swords. He drains six to the point of destruction, sometimes using Thaumaturgy, sometimes not. He smashes another eleven to paste with the contemptuous ease of a creature that has long since left behind all human limitations. But all the Beast's fury cannot spare him further injury, cannot keep him as strong as he would need to be. There are three Clanless hanging from his neck now, another two trying to pin his arm - and failing, but that is only a reprieve - and nine more doing their best to hold him down. There are also two, who are snapping at his neck, and even more behind them. The Beast tosses the two aside, reaching up to crush one of the would-be Diabolists' head in his hand, then slashing his claws through the other's throat. He sees one Clanless stand above him, sword raised high over her head. He hears her scream as the Beast uses his Thaumaturgy to boil her blood inside her. He also sees her keep control of herself. Still screaming, burning from within and probably dying, she brings the sword down on his neck with all the force she can muster.
At last, Darkness claims him and he knows no more.
Author's Note: This was actually intended as the swan song of my favourite World Of Darkness character. At the time, he was an NPC in a one-on-one campaign that had progressed into the year 2017. I decided it was time to let Marcus Iulius Coriolanus go to his well- earned rest. The PC in the campaign didn't agree. She overcame all the obstacles I put in her way and managed, quite against the odds, to save her Sire from certain destruction. Still, this is the original story of the end of a life that has lasted long enough none of us mere humans can imagine what it must have been like, to keep going on without reprieve.