by Sarah Hoyt
It seemed strange to Athos—for they’d stopped at the approach to the city long enough so that someone was bound to have seen them, and, certainly, if something so important were going on, surely the vampires would have no wish of seeing it disturbed—but there was no massed battalion of vampires at the gate. A single sentry stepped toward them, shouting, “Halt in the name of the—”
His fangs, his pallor, his whole demeanor left no doubt of what he was, nor did the stench that poured forth from his severed neck, as Madame Bonacieux swung her sword in a broad arc. They galloped through the gate, coursing through what must once have been a comely and vibrant main street, with sundry establishments on either side, as well as handsome and stately houses now gone to seed. Shutters were closed and fastened on some houses, yet others had the sills thrown up and opened wide. The sound of clashing swords could be faintly heard from somewhere to the north of the town.
Athos thought this explained why the gate had been left nearly unguarded. There was fighting in the city proper, and by the sound of it, a massive force was engaged. .
“This way,” Madame said. When they came within sight of men and horses engaged in open battle, she leapt from her horse with a grace that gave the truth to her assertion of having been raised as a musketeer’s page. “This way, my friends, and let your horses go. They’ll return to the servants, won’t they?”
Athos nodded. Musketeer horses were trained to return to the last stop on the journey. He leapt from Samson. None of the others protested. Instead, they dismounted, slapped the horses on the flank, and briefly watched them go. They all knew when entering a fight of the kind ahead of them that horses were just early casualties and, might take you down with them.
She pointed at a massive stone ahead of them, and the deep dark hole beside it. “There ,” she said. “From Monsieur d’Artagnan’s description, that is the entrance to the underground caves.”
The hole was defended by rank upon rank of vampire, most of them the mindless vampire wraiths. Attacking them was a motley group of men, some looking like noblemen or bourgeois, and some ragged and desperate-looking peasants who had probably, in happier times, been farmers and tenants. The weapons being used against the vampires included—in addition to swords, pikes, scythes, and shovels—some stranger implements that Athos couldn’t even identify, despite a youth spent on a rural demesne.
As he drew his sword, he hesitated. Not all foes were the easily identifiable vampire wraiths and, as ignorant strangers joining this fray—in which foes and friends alike had known each other all their lives—they might inadvertently put those they wished to aid at risk.
Knowing it was foolhardy, but the only sure way to recognize their own side, he shouted, “To me, musketeers! To me, of the king!”
Captive
THE cave was dark, and d’Artagnan did not like being dragged into it. Vampires held him on all sides. His hands were tied again, and his feet hobbled by rope, enough only to allow him to walk.
They pulled him into the passage he’d earlier avoided. Several of the vampire wraiths surrounding him carried torches. As they tugged him deeper into the cave, over a stone bridge spanning an underground river, he noticed that the cavern narrowed into a tunnel, and the tunnel walls were painted. At first he caught sight of trees and animals, and of the hands of men—many hands, drawn with ochre, colored in bright red. Hand upon hand upon hand.
The sense of horror, the sense of being immersed in evil as though it were a liquid, suffocating and inescapable, overcame d’Artagnan,. He wanted to run, to scream, anything but continue to go further into this tunnel and toward the evil he felt.
But he could not resist it. There were hands all around him, and all his struggles did no more than further tighten the hold they had on him.
The vampires didn’t speak, not even Rochefort or the couple of other vampires who still looked like the living. The ancient vampires didn’t even make their clicking sounds.
Animals were portrayed on the walls, caught in the flickering light of the passing torches, animals d’Artagnan knew were not native to this region. There were what looked like the elephants he’d seen in illustrations of books about other lands , as well as lions, and great horned beasts.
As dread filled him, d’Artagnan sweated with the effort not to scream. It was as if he were a cup and fear was a liquid poured into him, a full measure and overflowing his vessel. He felt feverish and trembled, his heart racing. He couldn’t run away, but still tried to hold himself back from the place where they were dragging him. He couldn’t do much more than lean back, nothing, certainly, that would stop their inexorable movement.
Deeper, deeper, deeper. The ground opened like a mineshaft in front of them. Vampires jumped down first, then handed him down like a bound package.
Here the paintings on the torch-lit walls were different—vulvas and erect penises, lewdly painted in extreme realism upon the walls.
D’Artagnan was fairly sure he’d never got this far as a small child. Even as he averted his eyes from the obscenely detailed drawings, he knew he would have remembered this.
He tried to wriggle out of the holding hands, but he didn’t stand a prayer. His attempts drew no more than a laconic, “Hold him,” from Rochefort.
D’Artagnan felt as though the evil in which he’d been submerged was now far above his head. It was as though he were at the bottom of an ocean of evil, only no ocean had ever been like this. Not unless the ocean had a hole at its end, a pit colder and more evil than all the rest surrounding it, pulling everything into its abyss. .
The vampires gazing upon him were very intent now. Even the, pebble-like eyes of the vampire wraiths seemed to shine like polished glass, and their tongues—black and withered—lolled out of their mouths between their fangs.
The corridor was filled with cobwebs, as though no one had come this way in centuries, perhaps in millennia.
Strangely, the drawings in this area looked more accomplished than the ones in the more accessible caves. The others had been exact and realistic, but these looked like paintings he’d seen in the homes of great noblemen, or the walls of undesecrated churches. They looked like living, breathing people, as if they could walk out of the wall.
Their clothing was odd, though, resembling as it did that of the statues of Greece and Rome, the fabric looking almost translucent.
As d’Artagnan watched, the vampires started setting torches down on the floor, in prepared holes in front of painted scenes.
The first torch was set in front of a woman, beautiful and blond, wearing a tunic so diaphanous she might have been dressed in cobwebs. There were flowers in her hair, and were it not for her open mouth, d’Artagnan would have taken her for the representation of a goddess or a saint. But her open mouth fully displayed her bloodstained fangs.
The vampires moved faster, placing torches quickly, first revealing a crowned king, then a man resembling him, both of them hauntingly familiar, in a way that d’Artagnan couldn’t quite pinpoint. Then the woman and the crowned man mating were displayed, in every possible position, and finally the woman alone with hands open, and from her hands flowing a multitude of vampires.
D’Artagnan couldn’t stop the keening of fear from bubbling up from his throat, though he didn’t know why, hated showing that weakness. Fear had filled him and overflowed, and he felt as if every hair on his body were standing on end, and all his skin had turned to gooseflesh. The feeling around him was as strong as the stench of the old vampires.
As each torch fell into place, d’Artagnan saw that Rochefort and the other recent vampires had retreated, and he was now only in the hands of the old ones. His heart surged with hope, but on the other hand he was sure Rochefort would never have left him alone if there was any hope of his escaping.
Down and down the vampires dragged him, ignoring his feeble struggles. But d’Artagnan’s brain worked through all his fear, and he marked that all these vampires wore swords and he would wager all of them knew how
to fight. He swallowed hard and tried to calculate . . . could he grab a sword with his bound hands, or perhaps bring them near the flame of a torch?
He marked where the torches were behind him. First, to bring his wrists near the flame, then to grab a sword. He couldn’t explain it, but he was thought the more recent vampires had left because the sense of evil discomfited them as much as it terrified him.
They passed a giant painting of the crowned man. No, not a man, but a vampire, sucking his double’s blood. Then on the next panel the crowned vampire rose with the sun—d’Artagnan was sure of it—behind him, and commanding what looked like armies of vampires, covering the entire panel.
D’Artagnan, marked just where a torch was, behind and to the right of him, , and swiftly leaned back. The pain flared, excruciatingly, in his bound hands as they touched the flames, and then around his wrists as the rope caught.
The vampire wraiths tried to hold him, but he twisted out of their grasp, breaking his charred bonds and grabbing the torch on the way. As the flames touched the older vampires, they flared up and burned like kindling.
D’Artagnan jumped back from the heat of their conflagration, falling to his knees on the stone floor of the cave, dazed, his feet still bound.
Circling his torch around him, he kept the still intact wraiths that came near him at bay .
By Sword and Blood
THE ranks of the living opened to admit them, to give them passage to the very front, where a foolhardy group of humans spearheaded the penetration into the terrible ranks of the vampire wraiths.
Up and up they swept, cutting a swath through the vampires, continually replenished by others boiling out of the dark hole itself. Athos vaguely remembered something about a secret passage from the house itself, and doubtless vampires were going down into the caves that way, to keep this entrance guarded. But he would guess that the house itself would be teeming with vampires and any attempts to penetrate there would be even more ill-fated.
He cut and parried, stabbed and swung, in the movements he’d practiced every night for years. He tried not to smell the blood of the vampires, like the finest Armagnac brandy, poured onto the cobblestones. Up and up and up, his mouth watering and the horrible and pressing call of something from within those caves shouting at him to come, come, until he found himself, at the very tip of the vanguard, back to back with a young, dark-haired man, who reminded him of d’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” he shouted at the young man. "Is d’Artagnan down there in that cave?”
There was a moment’s hesitation and—either because the young man wasn’t sure whether to trust Athos, or because he was killing a vampire with a broad stroke of the sword—the young man’s back moved against Athos’. Then came the answer, “He is, and we’re trying to rescue him before they turn him!”
Athos bit his tongue, before he could say that he feared what they intended to do to him was far worse than turning. "Athos was unsure just what that might be, but feared it would cost more than a single life. It could cost the them the entire world, he thought. “The sucking dry of all of humanity, the conquest of the world by vampires, once and for all, world without end. The prospect both horrified him and made his pulse quicken in a way that frightened him. He could feel the beast stir and fight, and try to escape.
“I am Pierre d’Astarac,” the young man said. “And I am Monsieur d’Artagnan’s best friend. It falls to me to rescue him!” He didn’t ask who Athos was, but the implied question was clear..
“I am—” Athos started, then knew his assumed name wouldn’t do in this case, not when this might be his last battle. Let disgrace and crime flee because he would die worthily. “I am Raphael, the Comte de la Fère,” he said. “I serve in the king’s musketeers, and I too am Monsieur d’Artagnan’s friend, as are the others with me.” Even as they spoke, they were approaching the entrance to the cave, surrounded by the corpses of vampires, stepping on them, feeling the ancient bones crack beneath their feet, smelling their death-smell all around.
Pierre gave the others a sweeping look. They’d moved up front, displacing Pierre’s own comrades. “It is an honor,” he said “ to fight beside such valiant men.”
“We’ve heard of you,” Athos said. “And it is an honor to fight by your side.”
“You understand the caves within are filled with vampires,” Pierre said. “It is likely we will not escape this.”
“They have toppled the standing stones,” Athos said, somehow feeling as though that act reflected the danger in which they stood.
“It is the end of the world, then.” Pierre said. “Let us prepare to make it end as well as we can.”
Something in his bright exclamation, and the way in which he embraced the idea of his coming death― not with welcome but without fear―, made Athos laugh. “I see you are Monsieur d’Artagnan’s best friend!”
“Like two brothers,” Pierre said,. “from infancy.”
Athos was about to say that Pierre would have made a great musketeer, when he felt Pierre startle, his back tensing on the other side of Athos. Pierre’s voice sounded hollow as it said, “Here comes my unnatural father, Monsieur, whom it is my duty to fight. Continue within, take your friends―rescue d’Artagnan!”
“Foolish boy,” An aged voice sounding like Pierre’s grown old and dry called out. “You’ll go no farther than this, Pierre. You have run your course.”
A clash of swords and Athos dared look over his shoulder, to see the boy fighting a large, muscular vampire. Could Athos still pray, he’d have said a prayer for Pierre d’Astarac.
Fighting Inward
PORTHOS took Pierre’s place, and pressed harder than Pierre had, toward the mouth of the cave, his sword slicing vampires, while he called out rude and amusing taunts. This was one of the few times in which Porthos found his tongue, perhaps because while he was engaged in killing he need not fear offending.
“Ah, Monsieur Bloodsucker, bien, let me see those pretty fangs before I slice your head off your shoulders. And you, Monsieur, don’t be shy. My sword shall pierce your heart.”
They fought with their swords, defended with cloaks rolled around their arms and used as a shield, pressing deeper into the ranks. Soon, the small group from Paris had become separated from the group of locals. As was perhaps understandable, a good number stayed behind, guarding Pierre..
Vampires surrounded them. It was a horrible strategy, Athos thought, but it didn’t matter somehow. All that mattered was to get to the boy on whom the fate of the world seemed to hinge..
Madame Bonacieux defended the rear, her sword as deadly as any of theirs, and the sudden scent of roses spoke of her spreading her blessed petals around. Still, he was not surprised when a scream echoed from her—given her unprotected position. “I am wounded,” her voice said, wavering only a little. I shall defend, but I cannot advance.”
He had no idea what she meant by defending, but assumed she meant to use her arcane arts. A strong smell of roses and a flash of light indicated he’d been right.
Porthos slipped back, still taunting, to guard their unprotected flank, and Aramis pressed his back to Athos. He fought furiously on in silence; his pace, more frantic than that of Athos, took them into the ragged hole in the earth, past the stone opening—irregular and jagged, like an open mouth with bare teeth. Athos felt a shiver run up his spine, and smote the ancient vampire facing him all the harder.
What were they doing, he wondered, fighting their way into this dreadful place, only to be trapped within with vampires all around? But inside him a voice called, strong and loud, Come, my son, come.
The pull was not that of his father’s presence—his upright, elderly father who had always stood by what was morally right, sometimes a little inflexibly― nor was the voice that of the old count’s. Instead, it was something more primal—darker, colder, more seductive— calling with an irresistible allure.
The beast within Athos reared its head and screamed, I come, I come!
A
thos’ sword flashed and cut, smiting, in the almost perfect darkness of the cavern. The vampires screamed, and the smell of Armagnac brandy rose all around. Athos’ mouth was parched, and dry, and he thirsted, thirsted with horrible longing for that liquid that he knew, with absolute certainty, was corruption and horror.
His arms hurt. The warmth of Aramis’ back against him was torture. The beast thirsted and wanted to turn around and pull Aramis into a vise-grip, and feast on his living blood.
The voice in him screamed: Come deeper. Come faster.
Porthos had somehow got detached from the two of them, and was now surrounded by vampires. His voice could be heard merrily calling, “You two go ahead. I’m good enough to defend myself. Come on Monsieur. Ah, you will, will you?”
Athos felt his heart turn within him. Porthos—even Porthos—could not possibly defend himself from the group of vampires that besieged him on every side. Yet he heard the continuous death screams of vampires, and smelled the rising scent of vampire blood, and Porthos’ merry jests continued fast and loud. Athos knew, knew as he had always known, that the end might come thus for any of them, and that this might be the time when none of them would walk out alive.
Not walk out, not walk out, the dark voice, full of authority, called. Come my son, and the world will be ours.
He felt a kiss, a rubbing against him of a dark wind. They had, somehow, without his realizing it, fought their way into a corridor, fighting down steps and into another cavern, and the voice in his head was deafening, demanding, unavoidable.
Come, it called, and Athos came, fighting more strongly, more desperately. It seemed that the vampire wraiths ahead of him gave way, falling easily—as easily as the wheat he’d once scythed, helping his father’s tenants with the harvest after so many of them had been unwillingly turned.
Come, the voice called, and Athos came.
