Why do the Gods want me dead? Why didn’t they just let me die at Brangaine in peace? It must be because they want me to suffer for some reason, though I have no idea why they do, or what I have done to deserve such treatment. Well, fuck them, if they want to play games I’ll show them games. And I will pay them in the blood of the people that so want to see me dead. Gatheckians will pay for what they have done to me, as will Herne and his horns.
I will embrace the ocean, and I will not let the betrayer Calcia have me. I have something to do now. I have found my path.
The gods will rue the day they betrayed me.
***
I’m wrong about the cliffs, evidently; the beach sand around my padded feet is testament to that. I have no idea how I’m going to shake off the fliers, but the ground based Hunters shouldn’t follow me. I hope they won’t follow me.
I reach the waves which soak my legs and underbelly immediately. The salty waters are freezing against my sweating form. I thrash into the water, wanting to get to swimming depth as soon as possible.
I have practically no magic left, but I can’t rest, soon I’ll change back, and I’ll have to make it to wherever I’m going on my own, without my magic. The roar of the sea is deafeningly in my ears. I glance up at the circling Hunters. Fortunately they are not closing, and that’s a bonus.
My bones ache, and my muscles tense and spasm, sending me under the surface to get a mouthful of salty water. My body involuntarily reverts to human form in the froth and foam.
I break the waves, gasping for air, struggling to keep myself afloat. I’m so tired I can barely tread water. Fortunately I can swim, I learned in the River Dawn when I was young, though I don’t think I can at the moment. I need to regain some strength; the little I had left is quickly being leeched away by the freezing cold winter waters and my need to stay afloat. I slip back under, taking a lungful of ocean, and surface again, coughing, spitting, and spluttering.
The flying Hunters are casting their magics. I can feel that much just from my senses; I’ve no need to even look.
As they unleash their spell I let myself sink under the waves, turning underwater and swimming down, away from the impact point of the spell. I have no idea where the strength do it comes from. The water glows red and heats up to boiling point. Fortunately I’m not at the point of impact anymore. I swim further, as far as I can on the little breath I have. But I fear it is too little. My brain fuzzes over and I try to breathe in, wreaking my chest to get air that isn’t there. In the cold water blackness comes so swiftly.
- Holste -
“The witch is dead, Holste, we should leave,” Iniar shouts to me.
“We need to find her. I need her body!” I shout back over the buffeting coastal winds.
“No Holste! We need to land, if anyone sees that we’ve developed the aptitude for BodyShifting we’ll be done for. You know, burned for heresy and witchcraft ourselves. The girl is drowned, and I will not let you endanger all of our lives.”
“What do you mean?” I shout, as I turn to look at Iniar. His dark tinted wings are beating rapidly in the ice-cold gusts, keeping him steady. I feel the magic well up around him and throw out my own instinctively. Power clashes with power and whatever he’d cast washes over my shields ineffectively.
I glare at him, pure distaste burning in my eyes. He will pay for his mutiny. My second in command just attacked me, which was not a clever move on his part. Annoyingly though, he does have a point. I signal that we should return to the Lighthouse.
I never take my eyes from Iniar.
89 days until the birth of a god
The 20th day of Winter-Fall, 1537
It is past wanemoon and Iniar is not happy at having been relegated to a regular position within the new Legion. I have removed his rank because of his attack on me. My new second in command is Golthor-Penk, a small weedy man, very nervous, but an excellent caster to compensate. He will not last long in his new position, but he’ll do until I can find a more suitable permanent replacement. I’m thinking Lorien, but he just doesn’t live up to the standards that Iniar has set. Everyone, including Penk, knows that Penk is just a fill-in.
We’re in the catacombs that lurk beneath the Lighthouse at the moment, sat in the mess hall, ‘relaxing’ as it were. Iniar sits away from the rest of us, shooting me vicious glances whenever he can. I am not that bothered by it. He is ambitious and that is a good thing, but he takes chances he should not and those chances have landed him in his current situation. Food should be served in a few moments.
None of us want to mention our failure to capture the last witch we were assigned. I know I’ll have to explain why we had to kill her, and that won’t be fun, mainly because I’ll have to see Legion. So instead, we’ve been talking about our next assignment; capturing a witch from Nuima, a mountainous city north east of here. We’ve been talking for about half a mid-hour, discussing our plans and tactics. Well, I say we, but it is mostly the voices of myself and Lorien, leader and tactician, respectively, that can be heard.
“We have to give careful thought to how we approach the city. If we just march in the locals may well fight back,” Lorien explains.
“Lorien, why would they do that? We’re going in for the witch; the locals will understand that,” Penk asks, furthering lowering my estimation of how long he’ll last.
“No, they won’t. What they’ll see is us marching on their city. They’ll try to stop us. I would in their situation. We all would.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Go in the back way?” Penk asks.
“It would be a push, but I don’t see any other-”
The sound of Sincli giggling manically cuts Lorien off. All eyes turn to him. The middle aged man has a vast smile cracking his features and a warm rose colour tints his skin heavily.
“Sin, what’s the matter with you? What’s so funny?” I ask, already a little irritated. I’m hungry, and not looking forward to having to explain myself to Legion. I don’t need Sincli pissing about.
“Penk said ‘Go in the back way’ and then Lorien said ‘It’ll be a push’!” Sincli explains through his snickers.
And so, with that said, he returns to his giggling, joined now by the rest of us. I can’t help but laugh. Even the moody Iniar lets out a hastily stifled chuckle. Only Sin could find humour in sodomy, but his infectious laughter is truly that. I am glad he is on my team; though his concentration does sometimes lapse which can cause problems for the rest of us from time to time.
After the moment eventually passes, and we all return to some kind of normality, the door opens and three of the kitchen staff walk in, carrying two platters of food, mostly sweet meats, and a tray with five glasses of fine red wine and a full bottle to boot. Food and drink still any further musing on our objective.
The Fifth Chapter
- Angel-Mexis -
89 days until the birth of a god
The 20th day of Winter-Fall, 1537
I’ve been lucky, so very lucky. Bar the betrayal, that was not so lucky. But I’m still alive, and that’s the main thing.
I have no idea where I am, other than on a rocky beach. I have sand plastered to the left side of my face and all down my front.
I’ve been awake some hours now, but I can’t move; I’m far too exhausted. I need to build up some magical power. Then I’ll be able to sort myself out.
I hear noises off in the distance. I ignore them. They can’t possibly be of any interest right now. The sound of a sharp intake of breath falls to my tired ears; it is not my intake of breath. I hear the crunch of running footsteps in snow, which vanish, and then there are hands on my shoulders, turning me onto my back.
I open my eyes as much as I can, which in truth is not much. An old man is looking down at me, balding and growing fat. I close my eyes again. His hands brush the sand from my face, away from my shoulders and from my breasts. His hands continue to rub further down on my body. This is not right. He opens my legs. This is not right. I open my
eyes, he is untying his breeches and pulling them down he exposes his erect, yet small, penis.
He moves forwards, kneeling between my legs. He takes my arms and holds them at the wrists above my head, putting all of his significant weight on them. It hurts. He enters me, thrusting slowly. His hanging stomach rubs against mine. He will not live to regret this.
I draw in every ounce of magic left in me, taking it from my surroundings, every grain of sand, every rock, the ocean, and even from him. I’ll need all the power I can muster to manage this. I cast my magic, but he’s too lost in the moment to realise what’s happening straight away.
My bones crack and reshape, my skin darkens and fur grows to cover my body. My muscles alter and reform and I flex my claws as they slide out from what was once my fingers. The man has stopped now, and adamant fear emanates from him. He has realised his mistake.
Now that I’m stronger than him I rip my front legs free from his grip and rake a set of claws across his chest. He screams and falls back onto the sand, half naked and trying to wriggle away.
I right myself and pad over to him. I lash out again and again, claws cleaving flesh and jaws tearing it free from its moorings to the bone. As I continue to feast on the bastard that thought I was defenceless I notice that people are approaching, very cautiously. I mean them no harm, but they do not know that.
Well within a mid-hour there are at least thirty people stood on the beach watching me pick the flesh from the bones of my rapist. Many of the men watching are brandishing weapons; swords and knives, some wield nothing more than big sticks. I can feel their fear of me. After all, why would a thought to be extinct panther be on their beach? I show them why, letting the magic return me to my natural form, I fall to the ground and retch up my meal; my human stomach is not capable of processing so much raw flesh and blood.
Now they will see me for the victim I am; a victim of rape, a victim of the gods, and a victim of the Calcians. I am just a witch and I pose no threat to them.
That said, I will be a victim no more.
I see the shadow of a person come to stand over me. I look up and pain suddenly spears through my neck and head, and that familiar blackness comes to me again.
***
I come to consciousness with a terrible crash. My head feels like it has split open. My face is painful and heavily swollen, and my arms and legs are bound to a post behind me. I’m upright, above a crowd which is milling, waiting. What is happening? A young and dirty boy in the crowd looks up at me and points a chubby finger in my direction.
“The vampire is awake!”
His call brings the attention of many of the others to me. What does he mean by vampire? What are they talking about? I’m no vampire.
A tubby man wearing relatively fine clothes steps up to the head of the crowd; he’s probably their leader. From my vantage point I can’t help but stare at the bald spot on the top of his head, which he has tried to hide by dragging over the hair from either side. He speaks with an air of importance, obviously imbued by years of esteemed leadership and pampering. I cannot help but feel that he is a weak fool who knows nothing. I will kill him. And I will make it slow and painful. No gods will be able to interfere. They do too much meddling in the affairs of mortals as it is.
“The village has found it to be true that you are the vampire that has been terrorizing our lands. Your demonic ways offend the great goddess Calcia, and you will be burned at the stake for your crimes against her.”
“I’m not a vampire you son of a whore, I’m a witch!” I shout down at the balding fellow, whom just shakes his head, and continues speaking, ignorant of my truth.
“May Calcia have mercy on your soul in Heaven and Samael take your mind to the pits of Abadon, for eternity in Hell. Calcia will see it true.”
A man, dressed all in black amongst the crowd holds aloft a piece of wood, its end wrapped in cloth. Hands come up and tinderboxes reflect the bright winter sun in all directions. The wood is ignited easily and the cloth begins to burn brightly.
The black-clad figure walks forward, moving slowly through the crowd. He bends and puts the light to my pyre. The mass of wood beneath me quickly catches, and the flames begin to rise. I have to think of some way out of this predicament, and I have to think quickly.
Smoke rises up around me, choking me. Already the heat is unbearable. I drag in magic, hoping it will be enough, knowing it needs to be. I spend as long as I can drawing it in. No more time.
The flames lick at my feet. All I can hear is my own screaming. All I can feel is pain. All I can think of is vengeance.
- Holste -
The city of Nuima is surrounded by mountains, so we’ve had to fly above Vadaj’s Pass, which leads directly to the city.
We approach under the cover of darkness and heavy cloud, even though the few lanterns burning in the city’s streets will provide far too little illumination to give us away to the drunken citizens on its meandering roads.
The light spewed forth by the Lighthouse is, rather perversely, our only enemy at the moment; it threatens to expose us while we fly. There are only the five of us going in, the Lead Squad. Iniar has put aside his grievances with me, while we are in the field, at least.
In the distance, dead ahead along our trajectory, I can see the burning bright lights of the western walled city, Enlil. In a few moments we’ll be coming over our drop area, the first risk to the men under my guidance.
We pass quickly over the Macenial House; Hier-Mehhok will be sleeping in his bed, unaware of what’s happening under his very nose. I glance down again and see the market area below me. I sweep my wings back hard, angling myself down, knowing that the other four are doing exactly the same. I’m falling hard, the cobbled ground rushing toward me, dropping like a stone to my death. I only hope that our drop is too quick to have been noticed by the drunken revellers and the night workers.
A little before I need to, I spread my wings, catching the air, and slowing myself dramatically. Penk falls furthest, braking his fall at the last possible moment to avoid impact. I flap lazily and drop to the ground, Sin, Iniar, and Lorien following me.
Penk has already cast a Sanctuary, creating us a magical safe haven from prying eyes, completely unnoticeable to all but the extremely gifted, and then only those extremely well trained.
“Iniar, Lorien,” I have their attention immediately, “I want this area searched. Penk, Sin, I want you two searching the northern residential sector.”
The two men nod and vanish into the night, leaving me alone within the sanctuary. I sit down, taking a thick stick of white chalk, imported from Dawn View, out of my pack, and mark a large Sircless onto the floor around me. I begin to raise power within the circle once it is complete.
Penk or Iniar will send a magical signal to me when either finds the girl, so that I’ll know when to cast. Within the Sircless I draw magical power directly from Calcia, and that power is held within the boundaries of the Sircless, unable to escape, charging the small space around me with phenomenal magical power. I find it constantly amazing how much magic can be manipulated. Never before have Calcians been able to BodyShift, but now we can grow wings, thanks to our observation and study of other magical practices.
Something itches at my senses, something pressing against the edges of the Sircless, trying to get in; it is Penk’s signal. I siphon a small amount of power off to Iniar, letting him know the situation and where he should go to lend support. Gathering all of the power within the Sircless, I cast and my vision shifts until I get a birds-eye view of the residential area, though I am still sat in the market. I focus the magic around me, and the roofing that hides the people of the city shifts slightly and I see hundreds of dots pop into existence. Some are a dull grey misty colour, people that are not adept in magic, and four vibrant white people, Penk, Sin, Lorien and Iniar, and one pulsing green; the witch. There are other colours, but they a few and far between, and we have come for this witch in particular.
I lash out
with the power raised within the Sircless, striking out at the witch. Magic connects with magic, grinding against each other, a test of strength, quantity and skill. I increase the flow of power into the casting and the witch’s shields fail, flushing her with Calcian power designed and shaped to render her a magical void, temporarily, anyway.
Suddenly the view below me changes and a howling black void opens up where I struck at the witch, which is slowly expanding. The white lights of my men are quickly closing on the epicentre of the void. I switch my vision back to my eyes and stand, somewhat shakily, still flushed with more power than I usually can carry within me. Stumbling sideways, I support myself with a weary arm on the wall of a shop, dark to the world and unknowing of what goes on just outside its purview.
My head swims with the magic and a dull thumping begins at the base of my skull, instinctively I know that it’s going to be a very long headache. I close my eyes for a couple of moments until I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.
Straightening, I prepare to cast, hoping it is my squad but fearing it won’t be. Penk rounds the corner followed by Lorien and Sin. The latter man is carrying a body over his shoulder. Iniar is last to arrive. I let out a deep breath, completely unaware I’d been holding it in. I take in Sin and the man at his shoulder.
“New boyfriend?”
“Ha, bloody ha. You’re so funny. I can barely contain my hysterics,” Sin retorts in the most deadpan voice he can muster. The corners of five mouths turn up.
“So I take it this is our witch?” I had assumed it would be a woman, but I know that a man can just as easily be a heathen.
The Vampire's Heart Page 6
