by James McCann
Rancor Chronicles Book One
by James McCann
Rancor: Vampyre Hunter
First and Second Publication by Be Read Books, an imprint of Simply Read Books, in 2005 and 2011 respectively.
Third Publication by Iron Mask Press in 2014.
Text © 2014 by James McCann.
Cover © 2014 by Jeff Porter.
Paperback edition ISBN 978-09937486-0-8
Ebook edition ISBN 978-09937486-1-5
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the author.
Edited by Melanie Jackson.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McCann, J. Alfred (James Alfred), author
Rancor : vampyre hunter / James McCann. -- Third edition.
(Rancour chronicles)
Previous title: Rancour.
ISBN 978-0-9937486-0-8 (pbk.)
I. McCann, J. Alfred (James Alfred). Rancour. II. Title.
III. Series: McCann, J. Alfred (James Alfred). Rancour chronicles.
PS8575.C387R35 2014 jC813’.54 C2014-902088-0
For more information
www.jamesmccann.info
Printed in U.S.A
Dedicated to my Scooby-gang.
The best friends a guy could hope to have.
When the zombie apocalypse happens,
I’ll be glad to know you all have my back.
And a special thanks to my proof readers Rob Stocks, Katrina Archer and Aaron Dewitt.
Would also like to acknowledge Lee Edward Fodi not only for all his help, but also just for being a good friend.
PROLOGUE
“The spikes are inside the coffin, so when the door is shut they pierce the body enough to harm–but not to kill,” Andrew said, as he gave a grunt and lifted his end of the iron maiden.
Jeremy grimaced as he grabbed his end. “And the humans torture each other . . . why?”
Andrew slowed his pace so another group of men could move a rack, used to pull the arms and legs off men, out of the arena. He didn’t feel the need to answer Jeremy. After all, vampyres tortured one another for the same reason. Power.
The stars shone through an open ceiling, casting a glow over the blood-soaked floor. Some of the blood soaked into this dirt was his own. Andrew recalled the first time he had been punished in this room, for of all things that he had questioned the role of vampyre superiority over humans.
He glanced into the audience that had been invited to watch the upcoming fight–but only for a second. These were the high-ranking vampyres from around the globe, all come to see if a bargain could be made between the man who ultimately ruled them and the one whom Andrew wished to follow. After today, there would be hope that the days of torture might come to an end.
A throaty voice from among the high-ranking vampyres spoke, “How you will keep your subjects in line without fear is an amusement to me.”
The man to whom those words were spoken cringed, as he knew why he was addressed with such disdain. He ignored the man, Naztar, and vowed once more that he would return to dust before ever calling him master again. Instead, he looked out upon the gymnasium, its bleachers filled with knights of the Dark and also of the Renegades. All had come to witness what would be recorded in their history as a day that had changed the world forever.
“Naztar, once this night is over, this room will become a place where my people can come and learn. The walls will be lined with books, the floor filled with tables and chairs.”
Naztar showed no emotion, nor did he look away from the gymnasium floor. Was he imagining the room as it once was? Could he ever see this place as anything but a place for torture, where his reign could be total? No, he could not. And this is why they must now do what they must do.
Directly beneath them, the sound of metal slowly scraping against rock stole their attention. Rafgard knew that one of the gates was being opened. Half of the room cheered as a tall, broad and muscular man stepped out onto the gymnasium floor. He was dressed only in a metal breastplate and pumpkin slops. In one hand he carried a battle-ax, and in the other a long iron spike.
“My champion is called Umbra. When he wins, you will pledge your allegiance to me. This war will be over.” Naztar said this matter-of-factly, as though it were already true.
A metal gate on the other side of the gymnasium opened, and another man stepped out. Though not nearly as tall as his opponent, he was far more muscular and every bit as broad. He wore a cotton tunic and pants tucked inside low boots done up by drawstrings. In one hand he grasped a Claymore nearly as long as he was tall. His long, black hair hung loose over his shoulders, and his emerald gaze locked on the warrior before him from beneath his furrowed brow.
“If my champion wins,” Rafgard said confidently, “my people go free.”
“And what is this corpse’s name?”
Rafgard did not turn his attention from the two men squaring off when he said, “Rancor. For that is what he brings.”
Down below, Rancor and Umbra circled one another, their gazes locked.
“You are not one of us,” Umbra said, as he sniffed the air.
Rancor continued to circle. He studied his opponent–the way he took steps, gripped his ax, and where his eyes wandered. A man who has grown up with the ax as a way of life keeps his grip loose on the butt, yet this man held his weapon tightly as though afraid he might drop it. The stake that he carried in his other hand was held tip pointed up, which was another mistake that only a man poorly trained would make.
“If you are not one of us,” Umbra asked, “why do you protect vamps?”
Rancor swung his sword over his head and brought it down on an angle. Umbra raised his ax to block. At the same time he lunged with the stake. When the sword clashed with the ax, it did so hard enough that it was knocked from Umbra’s grasp. Rancor was able to grab his wrist and yank him off balance. This left Umbra’s back exposed. Moments before Rancor could plunge a stake into it, Umbra changed to fog and freed himself from Rancor.
“Why do I protect the vamps?” Rancor repeated the question. He kept his back to Umbra, his ears perked to hear every sound that the vampyre made. “Because they teach me your weaknesses.”
Umbra stayed as fog and encircled Rancor. Rancor stayed perfectly still, and the audience roared in delight as Rancor disappeared. Suddenly, part of the fog transformed into claws and lashed out. Rancor, waiting for just such a thing, leaped high out of the fog–but not before grabbing the claws. He dragged the claws, and the fog with them, so that they slammed hard into the sod. As the fog did so, it once again turned vampyre.
“Why do you fight us?” Umbra asked, as Rancor plunged downwards with a wooden stake.
“Because one of you killed the only woman I ever loved,” Rancor whispered in Umbra’s ear, as he drove the stake deep into his heart.
“Man has tried to define good and evil since the dawn of his first sin. It seems to me that, with every definition, mankind only succeeds in furthering himself from the truth. Even after an eternity of debate the question still remains: Are good and evil a perception of the mind, the result of a single action, or a combination of the two?
“From my experience, this is what I have learned: Mankind spends far too much time philosophizing what evil is, and far too little ending what is corrupted in himself.”
-Wulfsign
CHAPTER ONE
A wind ripped through the town, swirling clouds of dust nearly as high as the lonely café. A bright red neon sign burned through the blustery night, adding a man-made buzz
to Nature’s howl. Inside the café, Tara slaved to clean and organize in the wake of the last wave of hungry truckers. Tall, lean and not nearly as athletic as she looked, Tara bumped a table. A sugar jar knocked onto its side and rolled, making that sound, the one equal to $1.95 off her paycheck.
But when the roll ended there was no crash. Tara glanced over her shoulder and saw a teenaged boy standing behind her. She gasped and jumped, as though the soles of her shoes had suddenly turned to hot coals. The tub of dishes she carried dropped to the floor, everything within it smashing to pieces.
“At least I was able to save one,” the teen said, with a voice that rasped, holding out the sugar jar he had caught.
Tara was speechless. She stared at him, looking over his short, broad-shouldered and well-muscled frame. His brow sat low over his eyes, his mouth wrinkled from what must have been a lifetime of frowns. He had high cheekbones and stubbled cheeks. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, and when he removed them his bright emerald gaze was like casting a hot iron rod into cold water.
She forced herself to laugh in hopes of hiding her nervousness.
“I am so sorry.” Tara kneeled to clean up the mess.
“I startled you. It is I who should apologize.”
Tara shifted as she carefully picked up the shards of glass. “Can I get you anything?”
He was silent. All was silent. Even the pieces of plate that Tara moved from the floor to the tub made no noise against each other. She stared at a long, narrow shard, grabbed it like a knife, and shivered as though the room temperature had dropped twenty degrees.
“Is there a back door?” he asked.
Tara tried to stand but could not. She tried to raise her weapon but could not. She could only whisper, “Uh, yeah.”
“Then leave everything behind and follow me. Or tonight you die.”
Thoughts of the emergency buzzer flooded her mind. The fact they’d placed it behind the cash register never seemed absurd until now.
“You can take whatever you want. Please don’t hurt me,” she said.
The stranger moved with a fluidity that appeared as if he’d materialized before her. Grabbing her shoulders, he lifted her, and stared into her teary eyes.
“Please. I beg of you, follow me or tonight you will die.”
Tara stood to her full height and shook off his grasp. Throwing the tub at him, she ran for it, never looking back, not stopping to grab her purse or her jacket. She burst through the back door, leaving it helpless against the strong winds, hearing it bang against its frame. She ran into the pitch-black night, into Cotter’s field, engulfed in stalks of corn.
Never before now did it seem so hard a task to avoid tall plants and furrowed mud. She tripped, fell against several cornstalks, and landed face first in the mud. When she lifted her head, there was a tall, thin man clad in beggar’s clothes before her. Tara screamed and jumped, slipping and landing hard on her back. It had been ten degrees that day and not much less this night, yet her breath still formed tiny puffs of frozen air. She shivered, her heart beat fast, and her tears continued to flow. Muscles ached and seized.
This time it was only a scarecrow. But whoever was out there was making a noise, crashing through the crops, straight for her.
Stars and a full moon lit the sky. The wind howled. For a brief moment the bay of a wolf, carried by the cry of a man, echoed in the cornfield. Not as two cries but as one.
Tara closed her eyes and buried her face in her palms. Her body shook. Her world collapsed. If the sanctity of a manmade environment, with all its electronic surveillance, could not protect her, then how safe was she surrounded by a farmer’s crop? She had to keep moving until she found safety!
She rose. But a hand from behind thrust her back to the ground.
Tara screamed.
“I am prayer answered. I am salvation!” a man proclaimed, as he stepped in front of her and opened his arms wide.
He stood tall and displayed a bodybuilder’s physique. Wearing a Vietnam vet’s wardrobe, he had a halberd strapped on his back, and a crossbow hooked on his belt. He looked as though he were a cross between an ancient barbarian and a modern-day army brat.
Tara didn’t care. This man, whoever he might be, was her only escape from whatever was hunting her. She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. As she sobbed into his chest she heard a clickety-click. But she did not realize what had happened until it was too late.
“What–what are you doing?”
As he handcuffed her to the scarecrow she struggled against him. He did not even seem aware of her fight as he asked, “Have you ever wished it in your power to act for the greater good?”
“What?”
“Have you ever felt powerless against evil, and wished there was something you could do?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Your sacrifice will save hundreds.”
He cupped her chin in his palm and directed her teary gaze into his. Pulling free his survival knife, he sliced her arm, elbow to shoulder. Tara screamed. The man disappeared into the field. The wind calmed. Silence rose. The stars shone so bright it seemed they might set the world on fire. The moon glared like an ethereal Cyclops.
A wolf howled.
Tara stifled another scream. She yanked at the cuffs, then on the beam to which she was bound. Neither would give. Warm blood poured from the gash in her arm and formed a pool on the dry sod. It filled in cracks and ran towards the café. Tears fell from her chin and mixed with the crimson stream.
Heavy breathing nearby. Panting. Behind her. A man? Animal? Advancing–on her! Paws! Hands! Teeth!
Tara closed her eyes as the beast wrapped its jaw around her neck. She did not look to see what it was that pushed two teeth, like tiny needles, through her neck and into her flesh.
Suddenly the creature slammed its entire body into her, knocking what wind she had left from her lungs. It was the barbarian who had drop-kicked the beast with no regard for her safety. Tara struggled to get on the opposite side of the beam as the barbarian grappled with the–man? It looked human!
It stood tall and lean, with short, blond hair. It wore a long, black coat but had mist for legs.
Tara did not understand what was happening. She wondered what had become of the man in the café.
That’s when she saw it. A small, metal key reflected in the mud by the moonlight. The barbarian must have dropped it! Lying as flat as she could, Tara stretched her long legs, just managing to pull the key through the sod. When it was close enough to grab, she did. She fit it into the handcuff’s lock. The brace opened. Tara was free!
She stood. She ran like never before. Even when Tara tripped, even when her head spun from loss of blood, she continued to run. She crashed through the field. Scrambled out the other side onto the empty dirt road. And once there, she stopped, breathless and panicked.
Far off to the north, lights glowed from the small town. Tara stared at them, falling on her knees, sobbing and shivering. She could not rise, though the full extent of terror did not come to her at that moment.
But when it did, she understood, for the last few seconds of her life, what true horror was.
CHAPTER TWO
“Alix is a boy’s name,” Simon said, again, but this time a little louder.
Alix considered kicking him under the table and blaming Betty for it. Instead, she gave him a sideways glare and tight smile before saying, “It’s unisex, kind of like you.”
Carl and Betty laughed. Simon sat back with his hand over his heart, mocking that she’d wounded him. Betty reached across the table and started eating Simon’s fries.
Earlier in the evening, when Alix had agreed to come out to Mr. Chips–and what was this, anyway, a double date?–she hadn’t counted on Simon being such an idiot.
“Okay, I like her,” Simon said to Betty. “She’s a good choice for cheerleader.”
“Thanks,” Alix muttered–but was cut short by Betty.
“I told you guys. She’s going to
fit right in with our group.”
Carl picked up his burger and took a big bite. Between his chews, he smiled and winked at Alix. This made her blush, even if it was a little gross the way he was eating.
Just then, the door chimed and a burst of cold air accompanied Derrick and his friends in.
“I hate this town,” Carl said as he glared at the group of Native teens who had entered the burger joint.
“Want to leave? We could take the girls to Sunset Park,” Simon said, stretching his arm around Betty. She snuggled close to her protector.
“No way. This is our booth, our joint, and our town. I ain’t leaving just ’cause that dick is here.”
Carl’s glare never left the bigger of the Native teens, nor did he back off from the glare returned to him. Alix had a flashback to when they were all in Grade Five and Carl played softball with Derrick. They’d been best friends then, and she wondered what had happened to change everything. But then, she’d been best friends with Betty until a few years ago, when Betty’s new high school friends decided they didn’t want the town drunk’s daughter around them. If she and Betty could work things out, why couldn’t the guys?
“What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing the bottom of her nose with her left index finger out of nervous habit.
“Nothing. Relax, there’s only three of them.”
“There’s six, genius.”
“But three are girls.” The tone in Carl’s voice told her that he no longer found her smart tongue endearing.
“That means they still outnumber you by one,” Alix muttered, wishing she’d just stayed home tonight.
“So, the odds are even.”
Then he said to the one he was staring at: “Got a problem, Indian?”
The teen moved toward Carl, but Kim, Derrick’s sister, stopped him.
“Don’t, Derrick! It’s what he wants.”
