Blood Harvest

by James Axler

  He prayed his friends were alive and inflicting confusion upon the enemy. For himself he prayed for strength to withstand what was to come. He knew Baron Barat would not be gentle. He was surprised when he felt someone sit on the bed. He smelled the scent of crocus flowers for the first time in centuries. A hand as soft as silk touched his cheek.

  Doc opened his eyes and beheld an angel.

  A single candle lit the room, and in its light the woman’s skin was even whiter than the cotton nightslip she wore. The thin garment did more to accentuate than hide the lush, pale curves beneath. In startling contrast her eyes were of deepest black and her hair was so black it seemed almost blue in the soft glow. She might well have been the ghost of some beauty in a Gothic romance, except that her lips were as red as blood. She smiled at Doc, and when she did her scarlet lips and long canine teeth conspired to turn her from ethereal beauty to succubus.

  Her voice was dulcet as she spoke his name. “Dr. Tanner?”

  Despite the narcotic Doc was well aware of the family resemblance.

  “I am the daughter of Baron Barat. My name is Zorime.”

  “A pleasure, I am sure. I had feared you were the baron come to coerce my cooperation. I see instead he has sent a more gentle form of persuasion.”

  “The men my father would use to break you are occupied elsewhere at the moment.”

  “I see.” Doc sighed.

  “As you may surmise the attempt to rescue you met with failure.”

  “May I ask of my companions?”

  “No, you may not.”

  Doc took that to mean they were still alive and at large. If any of them had been captured or killed he suspected Zorime would have told him. Doc tried to laugh carelessly. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I am drugged, bound and bespelled by you.”

  The huge dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not treat me like a foolish girl, Doctor. I am aware you made every attempt to kill my father and brother.”

  “I protest, my lady. I engaged both your kinsmen in honorable single combat, and offered quarter and succor in exchange for parley and the safety of my companions.”

  Zorime’s black eyes stared luminously into his own. “This is known to me. It took Herculean efforts to staunch my brother’s wounds, yet still he speaks highly of you.”

  Doc went to the point. “What is it you wish of me, Lady Zorime?”

  “Nothing less than your utter cooperation, Dr. Tanner.”

  Doc swiftly retreated from the point. “You speak in a most courtly fashion.”

  Zorime blushed once again. “My father the baron insisted that I learn English that I might read Shakespeare in its original language.”

  “Then I pray you, my lady, tell me the tale of your islands, in both tragedy and triumph I am sure they rival the Bard.”

  Zorime regarded Doc for long moments. “As you have seen, Doctor, we often rely upon steel on this island. My brother speaks for you in this regard. Peradventure my father has a number of books in Latin that require translation, and we always seek to improve our education on the isle in every area we can. There is a comfortable life here for you as a master should you wish it.”

  “So your noble father has intimated. Yet I beg my lady’s favor for the tale again.”

  Zorime’s pale cheek quirked delightfully. “I am not sure my father would completely approve, but I will tell you a story, Dr. Tanner.”

  “I am your rapt and undivided audience.”

  Zorime gave him a dark-eyed look of wariness, but Doc knew he had hit a vein of gold. Baron Barat’s daughter wanted to talk. “Our isle survived skydark. No fire fell upon us, and while the earthshaker weapons dropped some islands and raised new ones in the Atlantic, our island chain remained relatively untouched.” Zorime examined her ghostly hand. “However, we did not remain untouched by the black rains nor the chemical storms.”

  Doc knew the story all too well. “Many of your people became sterile.”

  Zorime dropped her gaze. “Yes, and inbreeding became both endemic and unavoidable unless we were to become a zero point population.”

  “And porphyria, a recessive gene in your already somewhat isolated population, became dominant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Many in my time claimed the legend of vampirism came from the victims of porphyria.” Doc scowled. “However, even in my time it was medically accepted that the ingestion of blood gave no relief to its symptoms.”

  “The recessive porphyria gene became dominant on our small island, as you suggested Dr. Tanner.” Zorime’s huge dark eyes stared at him steadily. “And it mutated.”

  “I see.”

  “Frequent transfusions of untainted blood, along with infusions made from the local narcotic do ease the symptoms, which other than the need to protect our flesh from direct sunlight allow us to lead relatively normal lives.”

  Doc tried to rein in his scorn. “Except that it has also left you not only with blood upon your hands but upon your lips, as well.”

  “There is a taste for it. A…craving.” Doc was horrified as Zorime unconsciously licked her lips. “I admit I am not immune to it.”

  “And what of the people on the other island? How have they remained immune?”

  “This island is dependent upon the lakes up in the hills for water. Come skydark fallout settled in it. We catch rainwater in cisterns, but in dry years we must draw upon the lake. We filter the water through charcoal, but though diminished the taint is still there.”

  “And the other island gets its water from natural springs, where the bedrock of the isle forms its own natural filter,” Doc guessed.

  “Yes, we import their water in some years of great need. However its levels are variable, and its ability to sustain Sister Isle is always near the brink.”

  “Thus you seeded the isle with millet, which requires little or no irrigation, and goats, which can subsist on forage rather than fodder.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you seed Sister Isle with such willing blood donors?” Doc gave Zorime a shrewd look. “Surely they are outlanders.”

  “According to our history, a refugee fleet came out of the west.”

  “From Brazil? Or Amazonia, as it is now known?”

  “No, they came from your United States, the Deathlands. They had been badly mauled fleeing whatever it was they sought to escape, and had been forced to battle pirates on their voyage, as well. Many of the adult men and women had been killed or wounded in the fleet’s defense. Nonetheless they still had close to a thousand souls under sail.”

  “They made landfall on your island.”

  “Yes.”

  “And so?”

  “At first they were grateful. Relieved to find a sanctuary.”

  “I assume friction soon developed?”

  “Our ways, our language and our…condition were alien to them. They knew little about fishing and less about farming. Their men expressed interest in our women, but their women considered our men repulsive. They considered us a damaged and diseased population. More of us spoke more English than they knew. We knew that some of them spoke of taking whatever they wanted and sailing on. We outnumbered them, but they were much more heavily armed and others among them spoke of simply taking over. My forefathers decided they had to act.”

  Doc shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. “Act?”

  “A feast was held. The Blood of the Lotus was introduced into the food.”

  “There was…” Doc felt sick as the word passed his lips. “A culling?”

  Zorime could not meet Doc’s gaze. “Every male over the age of nine was killed.”

  Doc closed his eyes.

  “Every woman of child-bearing age was…distributed. The women who were too old were hobbled, put to work as slaves, and bled.”

  “And you set the orphaned children upon Sister Isle. Whereupon you gave them a new language, a new occupation and a new religion.”

  “It takes but one generation to cut the cord of cult
ure, Dr. Tanner, and children are easily molded, particularly when they are utterly dependent. English was forbidden. Though we took it on as a second language here. A simple mythos of the island across the strait was devised that our priests promulgated with weekly sermons. The gifts of wine and the narcotic gave the religious rites power.”

  “The narcotic, you call it the Blood of the Lotus?”

  “There is a plant on this island that has been used for medicinal purposes since time out of mind. It is believed to be related to the mainland nettle. Its leaves, fruit and ‘milk’ were long used by our local midwives and herbalists. Scientists from the mainland were actually studying its properties just before skydark. Afterward the efficacy and potency of it grew and we learned methods to distill it to even greater power. Every man, woman and child of my people is addicted to it.”

  “I see. Might I ask whom these nightwalkers your father spoke of may be?”

  What little color Zorime’s face had, drained away. “You may have noticed that after skydark many women give birth to horrors.”

  Doc had seen mutations that spanned the gamut from the pathetic to the horrific. “Yes. The Deathlands have their share, I assure you.”

  “You have seen some of the mutations our population faces. Sometimes among us, even if the child seems utterly normal and healthy by our standards, at the onset of puberty, a…change comes upon them. Among some it is subtle, among some it stabilizes and stops, and for some…”

  “Horror,” Doc whispered.

  “Yes, Doctor.” Some of her father’s coldness entered Zorime’s black eyes. “Gigantism, sociopathy and a greater intensity in the craving for blood…and flesh.”

  “Your people let this happen?”

  “Given the times we live in, it is easy for most to kill an infant who is clearly deformed, but when the change starts during the flowering of adulthood, in a child you have raised and loved all its life, it is far more difficult.”

  “I understand.”

  “You understand nothing!” Tears spilled down Zorime’s flawless cheekbones.

  Doc’s heart broke at the sight, and at what he intuited. “You fear for yourself.”

  Zorime gazed upon her reflection in the mirror over the dresser for long moments. “You find me beautiful?”

  “It is no exaggeration to say that you are without doubt one of the most beautiful women I have ever been privileged to look upon.”

  “You sink to flattery, Dr. Tanner.”

  Tears stung Doc’s eyes as memories rose unbidden. “Only my wife was more beautiful.” Doc’s throat tightened. “And my daughter, who had the good sense to take after her mother.”

  Doc’s emotions were plain to see. Zorime gazed upon him intently. “I will tell you, Dr. Tanner. But a few years ago I was a fat, happy little girl. The runt of the Barat litter. Now I grow taller. The chubby little hands my father so loved?” Zorime held up a hand as graceful as any concert pianist’s. “Grow longer.”

  “Mayhap my lady is simply flowering into womanhood.”

  “So my father and Dr. Goncalves say, and so I pray.” Zorime closed her hand. “For if not, my fate is to be driven from the ville, to live in the caves with the other nightwalkers, brooding more abominations like myself.” The beauty shuddered. “I am sure as the night baron, my uncle Raul will take me first.”

  “Your uncle Raul, he…changed?”

  “Yes. It had never happened before among the baronial line, but the change came upon my uncle Raul, and my father became first in line for the barony, and first for my mother’s hand. My uncle did not take it well. He found a way through the caverns into the catacombs, and then into the manse. He took my mother and killed her.”

  “And after such an action why did your father not rid the isle of the nightwalkers once and for all?”

  “My father was about to purge the caverns with fire and sword, but then the island was invaded by raiders from the continent. It went ill for my father and his forces, but come nightfall my uncle Raul and his brethren rose from their lairs and fell upon the pirates. Between my father and my uncle the pirates were annihilated, and despite the terrible blood between them, an accommodation was reached. The nightwalkers are a form of insurance. Three times since, the island has been attacked and twice it was the terror that my uncle and his people wreaked in the night that told the tale.”

  “Yet your uncle and his brethren, the nightwalkers, they seek blood and flesh in the night?”

  “Sooner or later they must. We put food, wine and the Blood of the Lotus by the cave mouths, but the craving for blood and flesh is too strong to resist indefinitely.”

  Doc felt the sting of his wounds. “Thus at any given time most of your weapons are loaded with rock salt.”

  “Sufferers of porphyria fear wounds, Doctor. We bleed. Yet the rock salt does not wound deeply. It is usually enough to drive them away if they are driven to attack the ville or the outlying farmhouses.”

  “So—” Doc shuddered “—they slake their lust among the slaves.”

  “They are allowed a certain amount of…depredation,” Zorime admitted.

  Doc could no longer look upon the beauty in front of him.

  Zorime lifted her chin in challenge. “You are appalled.”

  “I have seen far worse things in the Deathlands, but you cannot ask me to approve.”

  “Your approval is neither here nor there, Doctor. What is required is your cooperation.”

  Doc sought to steer the conversation away from that dreaded topic. “Your brother, Sylvano, he suffers the change?”

  “He takes after his grandfather, who was a very large man. Sylvano is also an active physical culturalist and engages in lifting grotesque amounts of weight when he is not practicing his sword mastery and marksmanship. In some ways it is almost like he has made himself in the image of the nightwalkers. I was too young, but Sylvano remembers our mother. I fear when he becomes baron he intends a reckoning.”

  “And so—”

  “And so you will give my father your cooperation?”

  “I fear I must resist the baron with all my might.”

  “Then I fear tomorrow you will be broken.” Zorime rose from the bed. “I have a blaster of my own, Dr. Tanner. Your cooperation is necessary for the safety of my people, I will not impede your interrogation, but once my father has what he wants of you, I fear you will be the subject of low sport, blood and finally food come the night. I tell you now, when you have given up your last secret, look for me in the crowd, and I will end your suffering.”

  Doc took a long breath. “I thank you, my lady.”

  Fresh tears spilled from Zorime’s eyes as she turned away. “I will pray that you see reason come the dawn.”

  “May the condemned make a last request?”

  Zorime stopped at the door. “He may ask.”

  “You can read Shakespeare in the original language?”

  A hint of a smile crossed the young woman’s face. “I can.”

  “Then the condemned asks to spend his last night beholding beauty, with his ears caressed by the verbiage of the Bard.”

  “I am currently reading Much Ado About Nothing.” Doc glanced helplessly at his bonds. “As ever I am your undivided audience.”

  “Then let the request be granted.” Zorime smiled. “I shall fetch the book and a carafe.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ryan stood bare-chested in the rain. He would have given almost anything for Vava and Eva’s poultices and salves, a hot fire and a bowl of gruel. He would have sold his soul to feel Krysty’s healing hands upon him. Instead he let the downpour dissolve the chunks and crystals of rock salt crusting the wounds all over his body. Ryan lifted his head into the deluge and let the cold water sluice across his burning, ravaged face. Thoughts of Krysty focused him despite his pain and exhaustion. Ryan examined his liabilities. He was lost, the road had dead-ended and he could see the lanterns and torches of searchers behind him. He was busted up pretty bad. Doc was drugge
d and tied to a bed in the baron’s manse. He had to assume Mildred was a prisoner. Krysty and J.B. were going to mat-trans into an ambush. The cave chiller and the baron’s brother were out and about; and Ryan had a bad feeling they were one and the same. From the baron’s talk, the cave-chiller had friends. Ryan was pretty sure he had run one of them over.

  Ryan examined his assets.

  He hefted his sword. It was on the short side with a brutal, diamond-shaped point for thrusting and two good edges that could lop off a limb if the wielder was strong and went for the joints. It was the weapon of a warrior rather than a duelist, and that was just Ryan’s game. He had Mildred’s target blaster with six rounds in the chamber. It bothered Ryan that she hadn’t gotten off a shot. The starting blasters were single-shot muzzleloaders but like just about everything in the Deathlands they were multitaskers. He had found a small leather sack of .410 gauge lead balls in the glove box. They weren’t ideal, but at spitting distance they would put a .40-caliber hole in both man and mutie where their life had resided. He had three of them. He had his panga, and he had a wag.

  Ryan slid back into the vehicle. He turned on the heater and was pleased as warmth from the alcohol-burning engine washed out of the vents. He loaded the starting blasters with lead as the heat washed across his cold, bleeding flesh, while keeping an eye on the lanterns in the distance. Ryan put the wag into Reverse and took it off the road into a stand of trees. The idea of leaving the warmth of the car was ugly but there was no other choice.

  Ryan drew his sword and went for a walk.

  Evading the search parties in the rolling, wooded, rain-washed hills wasn’t hard, but a half mile into his hike wounds, exhaustion and cold reasserted themselves. Ryan knew he was going to have to take a risk. He descended into a valley, which was dominated by a fortified farmhouse. Ryan ignored it and made his way through the fields of grain toward the slave quarters. The people of the other island had been hospitable and willing to help. Ryan had to hope that subsequent enslavement hadn’t ruined that attitude. Ryan approached the long building and listened at the door. People inside were talking. Ryan knocked on the door. “Olá!”