Bloodborn

by Nathan Long

  She shrugged and the smile faded. ‘I bear her no ill-will for that. Krieger was indeed my fault, and I accepted my punishment. And the post was an important one. I have kept more than just Krieger from achieving their mad goals in my time there. But Hermione reflects everyone through the mirror of her own jealous mind, and so will not be happy to see me. She will think that I manipulated the queen somehow, in order to get her to send me to Nuln. She will think I have returned for revenge. She will think I want her position, or mean to destroy her in some way.’

  ‘And do you, mistress?’

  The countess lowered her eyelids and stared coolly out of the dark window. ‘Not unless she tries to destroy me first.’

  The countess did not let Ulrika feed that day, saying it was too soon after Johannes, but the next morning, when they had stopped at a second coaching inn, she brought Quentin, the youngest and fairest of her knights, to Ulrika’s room. She also brought the hourglass.,

  ‘We will try again,’ she said as Ulrika stood before her in one of her new dresses. ‘Again, you will wait the length of the glass, and then feed with restraint and delicacy. Am I understood?’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ said Ulrika, attempting a curtsey. But she was far from sure if it would matter if she understood or not. She was famished. Though she had drunk Johannes dry two nights previously, she had vomited up most of his blood along with the inedible meat she had eaten, and this past day had been an aching misery of need. She was trembling with hunger now, and could hardly keep her eyes off Quentin’s throat, which pulsed rapidly above the rich blue broadcloth of his collar.

  Rodrik, hovering at the door, was also uneasy. ‘Is this wise, m’lady?’ he asked. ‘Quentin is a seasoned man, not some pot-boy like the last. Let her take one of the grooms.’

  ‘The grooms have not been blooded,’ said Gabriella. ‘Quentin knows what to expect.’

  ‘But we are at an inn, m’lady,’ said Rodrik, trying another tack. ‘If she makes a repeat of–’

  ‘She will not!’ snapped the countess. ‘She will succeed in controlling herself, or perhaps it will be time for us to part company. I will not be embarrassed in Nuln.’

  Ulrika’s eyes widened at this. ‘You would leave me behind, mistress?’

  Gabriella raised hard eyes to her, and it was a moment before she spoke. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I would not. I made that mistake with Krieger. I dismissed him when he displeased me, and you see what occurred. This time, I will leave no loose ends.’

  Fear constricted Ulrika’s chest. Did the countess mean she would kill her rather than abandon her? Did her life depend on how well she controlled herself with Quentin?

  Before she could ask the questions, Gabriella turned the hourglass and set it down sharply on a table by the bed, then turned and strode out the door without a backwards glance. Rodrik stepped aside to let her pass, then looked back in and gave Ulrika a black look. She glared back sullenly, but he turned his gaze to Quentin, who stood at attention in the centre of the room.

  ‘Courage, lad,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Quentin, his voice shaking.

  Rodrik closed the door. Ulrika could smell the boy’s terror. It was nothing compared to her own.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE LAHMIAN WAY

  Ulrika pressed her extended claws into the palms of her hands, fighting down with difficulty the urge to leap on the young knight then and there. She could not fail this time. She must not!

  When she had regained some measure of control, she turned from him and stepped to the table with the hourglass.

  ‘Stand away from me,’ she said. ‘As far as you can. By the fire.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ said the knight.

  ‘And don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. I want to forget you’re here.’

  ‘May… may I sit?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Ulrika. ‘Just be silent.’

  She heard him draw up a stool beside the fire as she took a chair at the table facing away from him. She picked up the book Gabriella had given her, The Nehekharan Diaspora, a vampire-written history of the times of Neferata and Nagash, opened it to the place where she had left off and tried to read.

  It was no use, of course, the strange foreign names – W’soran, Abhorash, Ushoran – jumbled senselessly in her head, and she found she was reading the same sentence over and over again. And it made no difference how silent Quentin was. She could still smell him, and hear his blood beating in his veins like a hawk’s wings. Her eyes continued looking blankly at the pages of the book, but all her other senses were focused behind her, noting every change in the youth’s breathing or the tempo of his pulse.

  How was she going to resist as she must? She had no illusion that the countess would not follow through on her threat to destroy her if she failed. Gabriella seemed to have some affection for her, but she had seemed to have some affection for Johannes as well, and she had left him to be torn to pieces without a second thought. Ulrika was certain that if she disappointed her here, the countess would have no compunction about ‘taking care of loose ends’. She even understood the necessity of it. If all one’s children had the potential to become Kriegers, abandoning them to their own devices was foolishness. They would have to be controlled or killed.

  This put Ulrika very close to death. If she failed to control herself with Quentin, she was finished. Of course, there was another option. The windows of the room were not locked or barred. She could run again, and this time she could hide, find shelter in the forests and never have to worry about control again.

  Her eyes slid to the windows. The thought was terrifyingly appealing. What a glorious feeling to just let herself go, to surrender completely to the animal within her and hunt like a wolf in the night. What a joy to run and howl, to bring down her prey at a sprint and drink it dry as it thrashed beneath her.

  But there was another side to that savage freedom – the hunters, the men with torches. Ulrika remembered a time from her youth when her father had roused his lancers and they had gone in search of something in the woods, something that had been dragging off the peasants in the night. She hadn’t known what it was then, and he had never said, but she knew now. That was what she could expect if she lived like an animal – to die like an animal, to be hounded at every turn, to hide and starve and never know peace.

  And there was another thing, perhaps more important than all that. A wolf had its pack. A fox had its mate. Would there be others of her kind to run with out in the wild? Ulrika had never been entirely comfortable alone. At home she had enjoyed the company of her father’s men and the camaraderie of patrol and watch. Even when she had left for the south as her father’s envoy she had always found someone to travel with – Felix, Max and others before them. And now, in this new existence, where nothing was familiar, and she knew none of the rules, she felt even more unwilling to be alone. She hardly knew the countess – Gabriella had plucked her from the haunted ruins of Drakenhof little more than two weeks before – but the thought of leaving her, of being without her guidance and wisdom, was paralysing. She would be lost without it. She might have her wild run in the night, but it would be short. Too soon the hunters would come, and she would die alone – alone and damned.

  Quentin shifted on his stool behind her. Ulrika glanced at the hourglass. The bottom chamber was a quarter full. Her heart leapt. She was doing better. Johannes had already been dead by this time. Not that bettering a complete failure was anything to crow about.

  She cursed as a fresh wave of hunger rolled over her. She had distracted herself with her thoughts for a few moments, but now the craving had returned, stronger than ever. The room was perfumed with the scent of the young knight’s blood. It throbbed with it. Red visions of carnage shot through Ulrika’s mind as she inhaled it. She saw herself in mid-leap, she saw Quentin’s stool smashing to kindling, the youth slamming to the floo
r, her claws tearing his doublet, her fangs sinking into his neck.

  With a hiss of effort she forced herself to remain in her chair, closing her eyes and clamping her hands around the armrests until they creaked. Frozen there, as flexed as a drawn bow, she let her mind play out the rest of the scene – the guzzling, the rending, the gorging, the bloated stomach, the pounding head, the nausea, the puking, the shivering in the puddle of red vomit and undigested meat – the shame.

  The shame. That was the most painful part – worse than all the physical agony. How could she, the daughter of a boyar, with all the strength of a Kislev winter bred into her bones, with the iron will of a warrior of the marches – how could a woman with such a heritage have let herself become a mindless beast, a thing that rolled in its own sick, a monster with no control over its hungers and urges? It was beneath her. It was beneath her dignity and her heritage.

  Had not her father and all his march warden forbearers stood for ten generations at the very edge of the Chaos Wastes, that desert of madness and mutation, and remained untouched by it? Had they not kept their sanity and humanity when all else around them had surrendered to the siren call of carnage and corruption? Could she allow herself to dishonour their memory? Could she allow herself to give in to savagery and slaughter when they had not?

  Ulrika knew then that she would be able to last the rest of the hour, or two hours if that was what the countess wished. She had found the key that would give her the will to maintain control, a key more powerful even than Gabriella’s threat of death if she failed. All she had to do was call up the image of herself naked and quaking on all fours, heaving out her guts, and her veins filled with cold Kislev ice. She would never let that happen again.

  When the last grains of sand trickled through the neck of the glass, Ulrika stood and turned to Quentin, perfectly composed.

  ‘It is time,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.’ The knight stood and undid the points of his collar, then bared his oft-scarred neck and tipped his head as she crossed to him. He showed no fear now, only arousal – his breathing quick and sweat on his lip. It was clear he had done this many times before, and relished it. He stretched out his arms to her, hands trembling. ‘Please, mistress.’

  She stepped into his embrace and pulled him close, lowering her head to his neck to inhale him. Now it was her turn to tremble. The blood was so close, and she was so hungry. She would wait no more. With a snort she shot out her fangs. Quentin flinched, frightened again. She snarled and clamped her hands tight around his arms. He shoved away from her, panic giving him strength, and stumbled back.

  ‘Please, mistress!’

  She leapt on him with a growl and slammed him down onto the bed. He thrashed under her.

  ‘Please, mistress, don’t kill me!’

  Ulrika twisted his head aside and opened her mouth, then froze as thought finally caught up with instinct. She cursed. After just promising herself that she would not give in to the beast, she had nearly done it again at the smallest of provocations. A single frightened flinch had roused the animal within her, and drove her to an inch of tearing Quentin’s throat out.

  She sighed and relaxed her grip on him. ‘I am sorry, Quentin. Here, I will do it properly. Only, lie still. It is difficult to resist playing cat if you act like a mouse.’

  The young knight nodded. ‘Yes, mistress.’ And he lay still, arms at his sides, as rigid as a corpse. She lay down beside him, draping an arm across his heaving chest, and nestled against his neck. The urge to rend and tear was still there, but she forced it back and let out her fangs slowly, then kissed his neck. It was salty with panic sweat. She bared her teeth, bit gently, not yet piercing the skin.

  Quentin groaned and some of the tension went out of him. She found the vein in his neck and bit harder. Her knife-sharp fangs pierced it smoothly as Quentin gasped, and rich red blood welled up into her mouth. A shiver of pleasure went through her, and with it another surge of bestial frenzy. She had to force herself not to bite and pull, not to dig her claws into his chest. Instead she only pulled him tighter and drank deeper, letting the warmth of his heart-fire spill down her throat and spread from her stomach through her aching empty veins. The feeling was delicious, intoxicating, stronger than kvas, sweeter than brandy, more comforting than hot broth on a cold Kislev night.

  Quentin moaned beneath her and she caressed him absently as she closed her eyes and lost herself in a salty sea of sensation, a soft pulsing susurrus of sound and rapturous fulfilment.

  ‘Mistress,’ murmured Quentin. ‘Mistress, stop.’

  She didn’t understand the words – hardly heard them. They were only faint discordant notes hidden behind a soaring crimson melody.

  ‘Mistress…’

  A loud noise behind her brought Ulrika’s head up with a snarl. She looked around. Countess Gabriella stood in the door, Rodrik at her shoulder.

  ‘That is enough,’ she said.

  Ulrika stifled a growl and looked down at Quentin. He was deathly pale, except for a stain of red at his neck, and glazed with sweat. He barely had the strength to open his eyes.

  ‘You did well restraining your more savage instincts,’ said the countess as she entered the room. ‘And I applaud you for it. Now you must learn moderation.’

  Rodrik crossed to the bed and swore under his breath as he looked down at the boy. ‘Blast her, he won’t recover for days!’

  Gabriella ignored him and held out a hand to Ulrika, then raised her from the bed. ‘Congratulations, child. You are well on your way.’

  Ulrika swayed slightly, drunk from the blood, then curtseyed. ‘Thank you, mistress. Though I fear I nearly failed again.’

  ‘You are learning,’ said Gabriella. ‘I am proud of you.’

  Ulrika’s chest swelled. She was proud of herself too. Though it had been strong, she had conquered the beast within her. She had proven that her will was stronger than her nature. But another glance at Quentin twisted her stomach and made her feel unclean. Was it right to be proud of doing that to a man?

  His eyes fluttered and he reached up to clutch at her hand with weak fingers. ‘Mistress,’ he whispered. ‘I am yours, always.’

  She turned away, sickened, and withdrew her hand. It was offensive to her to see a strong man so weakened and enthralled – and she had done it to him. She suddenly felt nothing but contempt for him, and for herself. Or perhaps she had only drunk too much blood.

  ‘And if this same duke were to grab your bosom?’ asked Countess Gabriella. ‘Or pinch your behind?’

  ‘I would slap his face,’ said Ulrika. ‘If he did it again I would challenge him to a duel.’

  The countess sighed. ‘No, my dear. You would not. You would at most slap his hand with your fan, but you would do it while smiling and looking at him from beneath lowered lashes.’

  ‘Ursun’s teeth, I’ll be damned if I would!’ said Ulrika. ‘I don’t even have a fan.’

  She and the countess were again travelling in the shuttered coach as it raced through the snow-covered countryside. They sat together on one bench while Lotte tended to the prostrate Quentin on the opposite bench and fed him hearty soup. It was the night after their daylight stay at the inn. They were to pass out of Sylvania and into Stirland sometime after moonrise, then continue on their way to Eicheshatten to meet the riverboat that would carry them down the Aver to Nuln.

  ‘Then you must learn to wield one,’ said the countess, ‘and as deftly as ever you wielded a sword.’ She snapped open her own fan as if to illustrate her point, and fluttered it before her. ‘A noblewoman you may be, but the manners of a daughter of a Troll Country boyar are a far cry from those of a courtier at the court of Countess Emanuelle von Liebwitz, the ruler of Nuln. You must learn to flirt and flatter, to listen while making small talk, to kill with a compliment, and to earn trust while trusting no one. In short, you must learn to
be a woman.’

  Ulrika made a face. ‘I despise all that nonsense.’

  Gabriella pursed her lips. ‘That is unfortunate, for such nonsense is the way of the Lahmians. Our strength lies in appearing to be weak. We get our way by appearing to acquiesce, and win with a smile what cannot be won with a sword.’

  Ulrika sighed and looked away. ‘Then perhaps I’m not a Lahmian.’

  The countess was silent at that for a long moment, and Ulrika was afraid she had said something to anger her, but when she looked up, Gabriella’s eyes were faraway.

  ‘You are not,’ she said at last. ‘Not entirely. None of us are, really, except the very first.’

  Ulrika frowned at that. ‘I don’t understand. The book you gave me explained how the five branches of vampire-kind descended from the court of Neferata and–’

  Gabriella waved her silent. ‘The book is useful as a history, but many of the things it says about the bloodlines, and what they mean… Well, let us just say that the vampire who wrote it had his own reasons for wanting the rest of us to believe that his blood was pure and his claim to rulership unimpeachable. The truth is… cloudier – like our blood.’

  ‘What do you mean, mistress?’

  Gabriella leaned back against the padded bench, folding her hands across her torso. ‘It is the common conception, even among our own kind, that the founders of the five bloodlines somehow left their stamp upon their blood, and that any who receive it will share their personalities and predilections – they of the blood of Abhorash will become mighty warriors, the daughters of Neferata will be seductresses, the descendants of W’soran will wield powerful sorcery, the get of Ushoran will be mindless beasts and the sons of Vashanesh will burn with unbridled ambition – and to a certain extent, this is true. But it is not that simple.’