by Stuart Hill
“Oh, is that all?” Athena said sarcastically.
“Look, you’ve known all of this for weeks now. Why the sudden worries?”
“Because . . . because I didn’t know you weeks ago!” she exploded. “You were just a name, a legend almost. It doesn’t matter what happens to legends; they live in a world of myth and nightmares, they’re meant to take stupid risks and die heroic deaths. It’s what legends do. But now it’s different . . . I know you now. You’re a real person, someone I speak to, laugh with. Someone I might even . . . care for . . .”
Redrought felt his heart miss several beats. “Care for?”
“As a friend,” Athena said decisively.
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“And it’s natural to worry if a friend is about to take risks.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will you stop saying ‘Yes, of course’?!”
“Fine.”
“Oh . . . ! Come on, I’ll race you back to Bendis. The loser has to be the other’s servant for the rest of the day.”
She leapt into the saddle and her fiery pony was already thundering back to the city before Redrought had even mounted. The cooling wind blasted into her face as she galloped, but she knew that not even the coldest, most blood-freezing of winds that howled over the Hub-of-the-World far to the north could cool the tangle of emotions that she and Redrought were suffering from now.
The next day Saphia was up especially early. The increased levels of training that she and the Hypolitan army had been going through had become almost routine now, and she wanted a little extra time to sharpen her archery skills. She was actually the best in the entire Sacred Regiment, with a shooting rate and accuracy that was almost legendary, but she wanted to be better. In fact, she wanted to be the best there had ever been.
She hadn’t seen Athena for several days and was learning to fill the vacuum with work. Preferably with so much work she’d be too tired to even think by the end of the day. Saphia could envy Redrought for many things, not least his continuing access to Athena, but now as she prepared for another day’s training, she also remembered the stories from Icemark mythology of warriors going Bare-Sark as they fought. As a King of the land, Redrought had at least the possibility of being possessed by the Spirits of Battle, whereas she, as a child of the Hypolitan culture, had no tradition of such a thing. For one who’d dedicated most of her young life to fighting, being possessed by the fighting spirits of Icemark myth seemed like the ultimate accolade. But it wasn’t even known whether any other race could go Bare-Sark.
She opened the shutters of her sparsely furnished room and took a deep breath. The scent of polishing oil and steel that pervaded the small space where she slept was like a perfume to her. This was what she believed she was, purely and completely: a warrior of the Hypolitan. She settled her sword belt, picked up her compound bow and quiver full of bodkin arrows and set out, closing the door on the room that she’d left as tidy and as clean as a piece of polished armour.
She crossed the courtyard of the citadel, aware of the cool bite in the brilliantly clear air as autumn advanced. The sun shone with a clean edge like a sharpened blade, and the scent of frost and wood smoke mingled to give a special odour to the season. On a day such as this, she decided, she could be happy. She headed for the training ground and stables. Her pony would be ready as always for exercise, eager to escape the confines of his stall.
It was then that she felt it. A small touch in her head that was almost physical. She actually stopped and looked around, convinced for a moment that someone had thrown something at her – perhaps a small pebble. But there was no one in sight, and besides, she was always aware of the world around her. It was one of her skills as a warrior. No one would ever – could ever – take her by surprise.
She walked on, puzzled, but soon forgot the small incident when she arrived at the stables. Quickly she saddled her pony and headed out to the training lists. For more than two hours she galloped backwards and forwards, swooping down on the thin posts that served as targets and shooting arrow after arrow into them before swerving aside and turning in her saddle to shoot again as she galloped away. The thin laths of wood were festooned with her arrows so that they bristled like unkempt hedgehogs, but she’d missed more times than she thought acceptable, and forced herself to practise for another hour. It was only consideration for her pony that finally stopped her, and she dismounted, patted the sweating beast and began to lead him back to the stable block where he’d be tended by the grooms.
The touch came again, this time stronger. Saphia stood immobile, waiting. She thought she heard voices on the extreme edge of hearing, and her sight began to shimmer, as though she was watching the world through a heat haze. Impossible on such a crisp day in the early autumn.
“What is this?” she questioned aloud. “Am I ill? Fevered? Going mad?”
She could find no answers and forced herself to wait calmly. Nothing happened, and after a while Saphia continued on her way to the stables. She handed her mount over to a groom, and suddenly had an idea. She hurried to the stall that housed Athena’s pony. It was empty.
“An early morning tryst,” she said to herself. “She and Redrought riding to the Great Forest again, I suppose. You’d think they’d get bored of the same route every day. Dangerous too, everyone knows they go that way. Anyone’d just have to wait long enough . . .”
The touch came again, stronger this time, and the voices were louder. She couldn’t quite understand what they said. The language sounded like that of the Icemark, but thicker somehow, rougher, older. Who would speak like that . . . ?
Suddenly she was running through the stables like the wind. Her pony was still saddled and, brushing aside the groom, she leapt onto the animal’s back, gathered the reins and thundered out into the yard.
The voices were all around her now, filling her head, pouring through her body. Her senses brimmed. Everything was clearer and brighter, louder, more intense. She kicked the pony’s flanks and he charged forward across the yard, through the citadel and down through the city.
People jumped out of the way as the wildly galloping beast rattled through the streets, then at last horse and rider reached the gates and they burst through into the open land that surrounded Bendis. For a moment Saphia drew rein as she stared ahead towards the distant Great Forest, but then the voices swirled around her again, filling her with the same feeling she felt in battle, only more intense, more insistent.
Horse and rider surged to a gallop again, thundering along the road that led to the forest. There was still no sign of either Athena or Redrought. They must have reached the trees already and be riding among them.
Guiding her mount with her knees Saphia unslung her bow and fitted an arrow to the string. The voices were still in her head, rising and falling like wind-tattered war cries, and a sense of terrible danger beat about her like black wings.
She urged the pony to greater speed and the game little beast increased his pace still more, his hooves drumming a rapid tattoo over the stony pathway. The eaves of the forest drew closer and soon they entered the shade of the trees as the early-morning sun sent long shadows across Saphia’s route.
Then at last they burst into the dense stand of oaks, beeches and lindens, their pace hardly slackening as Saphia continued to guide her horse with her knees as though already in battle. Her hearing and sight suddenly burst through the confines of her skull as the Spirits of Battle fully possessed her. Ahead she could sense the nearness of Athena and Redrought, and something else, something evil. She threw back her head and roared like a fighting bear, and her horse responded by leaping to an impossible speed, his nostrils flaring wide and scarlet as he fought to draw in air.
Then the trees thinned and they erupted into a wide clearing. In the centre stood Athena and Redrought, their horses – untrained palfreys – lying in bloody ruin while all around them clattered and battered the huge leathery wings of a full squadron of Vampires. Neither Ki
ng nor Princess had swords or bows, and they swung at the Undead monsters with branches torn from nearby trees. Three Vampires lay dead, but dozens more screeched and screamed as they tumbled through the air around them.
Without pause Saphia stormed into battle. Arrows spat from her bow and Vampires fell from the sky in ruin. Her hands flew in a blur as she shot, fitted arrow, drew and shot again.
Athena stared in amazement as her friend appeared seemingly from nowhere. “It’s Saphia! Redrought, it’s Saphia! How did she know we were in trouble?”
“I don’t know,” the young King replied, driving a large splinter of wood into the chest of a Vampire. “And I don’t care. Just be glad she’s here!” Redrought then smashed his branch into the head of a diving monster, crushing its skull to pulp, and Athena leapt onto the corpse of a giant bat as she drove her splintered club deep into the eye of another.
But more and more dived from the skies, an unstoppable rain of death. Saphia roared once more as the Spirits raged through her frame and she drove forward to shoot and shoot again beneath the black, boiling canopy of Vampires. Soon her arrows were exhausted and, throwing herself from the saddle, she drew her sword and stood with Redrought and Athena as they fought desperately on.
It was impossible. Above them an unbroken ceiling of beating wings descended to the attack. The human warriors couldn’t prevail against such numbers. But then Saphia felt the Spirits filling her body to the very brim, expanding and increasing to a raging turmoil of battle joy.
Her skin felt on fire, and tearing at her clothes she stood naked, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping and saliva pouring down her face as she yelled out her battle cry.
“Bare-Sark, Saphia’s going Bare-Sark!” Redrought shouted above the screeching of the Vampire bats. He was amazed, and even in the heat of battle he found time to wonder how a warrior of the Hypolitan could be possessed by the Spirits of Battle when they had only ever targeted Icemark fighters before. And he wondered even more why they hadn’t possessed him. Was he in some way unworthy?
But none of this meant anything to Saphia. She still held her sword and, as the Vampires swooped down to attack, she powered into the air as though winged, her sword slicing patterns of blood and ruin into the squadron of giant bats. Again and again she jumped, hacking great breaches in the tangle of wings.
Suddenly the Vampires changed tactics. Withdrawing, they gathered in a tumbling knot above the clearing, then stepped out of flight into their human forms. Rank upon rank of Undead warriors now advanced against the three friends, their armour black, their swords deadly and serrated.
Saphia raced to meet them, her own sword a blur as she carved her way deep into their ranks. The destroyed bodies of the Vampires fell in heaps around her and still she fought on.
“Redrought, we must stop her,” Athena shouted. “She can’t fight them all alone! She’s already wounded, but she doesn’t seem to feel it!”
Redrought hefted his branch, and together with Athena he fought his way through the press of Vampires to stand beside Saphia. But how could they stop? If they laid down their weapons they’d die.
On and on they fought in desperation while Saphia raged and howled, her body running with blood from the wounds she didn’t feel. She showed no signs of tiring, but with every Vampire she killed another stepped forward to take its place. Her spirit might rage with the elation of battle, but eventually the last drop of her blood would be spent and she’d fall. Redrought knew this and he looked frantically for some way that they could all escape, but he knew there was none.
Then amazingly the writhing mass of Vampires before them withdrew and a silence fell. “Athena, quickly . . .” Redrought began, but before he could finish his sentence, a familiar figure stepped forward.
General Romanoff smiled, revealing her glittering fangs. Immediately Saphia rushed her, as the Vampire had hoped and expected she would. Expertly she sidestepped the attack, swung around, and with a delicate flick of her sword she severed Saphia’s jugular.
Blood spurted in a crimson arc and Romanoff laughed. “The end of your last hope, I do believe, Lindenshield. Not even a Bare-Sarker can fight on after death,” she said, before casually opening her mouth and allowing the blood to cascade onto her tongue, like a child at a drinking fountain.
Saphia’s legs slowly buckled, and she sank to her knees. Athena screamed in horror and was about to rush forward, but before she could move a long black shape suddenly appeared.
It had taken Cadwalader this long to run all the way from Bendis, but now he’d arrived he hardly seemed to be panting at all, and he sat down and casually washed a paw. Then he looked up and focused his fiery eyes on the Vampire general.
Romanoff hissed and fell back a pace, her head and neck twitching uncontrollably. “The psychopomp? But he was killed in the last battle.”
“No, General,” Redrought said with a smile. “Surely you’ve heard that all cats have nine lives, and Cadwalader’s a witch’s cat, so who knows how many more he has?”
The Vampire turned to scramble away to the safety of her warriors, but before she could reach them, something spoke inside her head. It used human language, but the words were made by no human throat, and were uttered by no human tongue:
“Do you know death, General?”
The sound meandered through a range of levels, from high and nasal to deep and throaty. Exactly the tones a cat uses when fighting.
Romanoff looked wildly about, searching for the source, trying to deny what she already knew. But at last her eyes returned to Cadwalader, who opened his mouth and spat, revealing glittering needle fangs that seemed almost as long as a Vampire’s.
“Do you know death, General?” it spoke again. “Because death knows you.”
Cadwalader spat once more and walked towards her, his eyes wide and unblinking. Romanoff fell back before him, unable to tear herself away from the terrible stare that seemed to eat into the vacuum where once she’d kept a soul.
The Vampire warriors of the squadron knew their general was in trouble and they crowded forward, but when they saw the advancing cat and felt its power as a psychopomp they quickly fell back again.
“Death is waiting for you, General.”
A sudden uproar distracted them all for a moment and Athena rushed forward, untied her cloak and held it against Saphia’s neck in an attempt to stop the haemorrhage.
The unmistakable sound of battle rose into the clearing and the Vampire ranks began to sway as someone or something began to drive through the rear of their phalanx. All was confusion and distraction when suddenly Cadwalader crouched and leapt with a yowl, to land on Romanoff’s face.
The Vampire general reeled and tried to wrench the cat away, but he snarled and drove his claws deep into her flesh. Screeching in pain and rage, Romanoff scrabbled at her belt, drew her dagger and in panic stabbed at Cadwalader. At the last moment the cat dropped to the ground and watched calmly as the Vampire stabbed herself in the eye.
The general screamed, her face pouring blood. For a moment she almost fell to her knees, clutching at her ruined eye, but sensing Cadwalader’s advance she turned and staggered away. Some of her soldiers loyally covered her retreat as the huge cat stalked his prey. Even so, they too slowly backed away from him.
But now Romanoff’s iron self-discipline and strength reasserted themselves and, shaking off the supporting hands of her comrades, she barked out an order and then leapt into the air. She transformed into a bat and flew screeching through the trees, and eventually up into the sky. The rest of the Vampires immediately followed, leaving the three humans and Cadwalader alone in the clearing, which seemed suddenly empty and deathly silent.
For a moment, Redrought thought he saw some strange creatures that looked like soldiers dressed in armour designed like polished leaves, and he remembered the vision he’d had during the battle when he’d killed the werewolf King. But as he stared the strange soldiers melted into the surrounding undergrowth and disappeared. He puzzled about t
his for a moment; perhaps it was they who’d attacked the Vampires and caused the distraction. But before he could speculate any longer about who or what they were, a quiet sob sounded and he turned to see Athena cradling the crumpled form of Saphia.
He hurried over and knelt beside the Princess and her fallen friend. Saphia’s body was covered in an intricate pattern of wounds and blood. Even without the severed jugular, it was doubtful she could have survived; in fact it was something of a miracle she still lived at all. But Redrought could see her chest rising and falling in quick shallow breaths. It could only be the power of the possessing Spirits of Battle that was keeping her alive.
Suddenly her eyes flickered and she reached out, seeking contact. Athena was still cradling her friend, so Redrought took Saphia’s hand. The fallen warrior forced vision back into her eyes and looked at the young King.
“You . . . !” she said in a forceful whisper. “You win this war and break the power of the Vampires.”
“I will,” he answered with quiet determination.
“Good,” she said firmly, accepting the promise, one warrior to another. “And keep her safe.”
Redrought knew she meant Athena and he nodded, squeezing her hand. Then, turning her eyes to look at Athena, Saphia smiled.
Slowly her eyes closed, and as she breathed out, a blue mist rose from her mouth. The Spirits of Battle left her body, and took with them the fighting soul of their mighty comrade.
Their Vampiric Majesties were walking in the gardens of the Blood Palace, enjoying the fine display of black roses and lawns that flowed over the contours of the land like sable pelts, a perfect setting for the contorted topiary of tortured trees and shrubs. The area was laid out in geometrical designs with precise paths and walkways that bordered beds of funereal flowers and beautiful fountains and ponds carved from black marble.
The Vampire Queen paused to enjoy the scent of a particularly fine bloom that breathed the delicate aroma of rotting flesh into the cold night air. “I trust Romanoff is recovering well?”
