Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4)

by Lucas Thorn

  There was an edge of hysteria to his voice which made her want to hit him.

  Instead, the elf closed her eyes, still submerged in her memories. “What is it you want from me, Chukshene? Just to get your book back? That it?”

  “That's it. You can leave the bastard cleric to me.”

  “Cleric?” She frowned and her eyes snapped open at that.

  Of course he'd have survived. He'd have run like the rabbit he was.

  And of course the two Grey Jackets must have been with him. She should've expected that. If only her brain didn't feel so exhausted, she would have done.

  She remembered what Sharpe had said. That enough of the Grey Jackets fled into the mountains. She'd expected they'd have turned south at some stage and headed back to Leibersland with their tails firm between their legs.

  Never expected them to cross the Bloods.

  Had taken the two guards for deserters, not General Storr's men.

  “Yeah,” the warlock looked down at a fresh tear in his robe and sighed. “A real vicious prick of a man. His name is-”

  “Hyrax,” she said, finishing his sentence and making him blink.

  “Yeah. Hyrax. That's him. How did you know that?”

  “We've met,” she said. Shrugged and turned on him. “Then where is he, Chukshene? Why isn't he here? Camp looks like it used to be bigger. But there were only two men. One tent back there. Two packs. So, where's this cleric now?”

  “He left. With Willem.”

  “Willem?”

  And Chukshene's smile finally appeared between bruised lips. “You saw Hyrax, but not Willem? I guess not. Willem's pretty unforgettable, given the circumstances.”

  “Don't piss me off again by talking in riddles, Chukshene.”

  “Willem's like you, Nysta. In more ways than one. I mean, sure he's mean. Hard. Tough as nails and seems to like using his knives. Hits harder than the others, too.” He licked his lips, thoughtfully. Wondering how much she knew. “But he's an elf. Did you know that? An elf who's not just travelling with them, but leading them.”

  “Leading them? An elf?” She couldn't keep the doubt from her voice, but Pad's words echoed in her head. Can't miss an elf's ears.

  “Surprised the fuck out of me, too. But it's true. Ugly bastard. Got scars all over his face. Looks like he's been chewed on by a troll.” The warlock grinned. “I'll bet the troll choked on him. They're following him, alright. Not that they like it. But I heard them say Rule himself told them to obey him, and you know what Grey Jackets are like. Fucking devoted to Rule. They don't like it, but they're doing it. So far.”

  The elf's eyes thinned.

  She knew Raste had tried defecting to the South. Had stopped him outside Grimwood Creek before he could meet with General Storr. Rumour had been spreading through Lostlight for years of elfs betraying their own. She couldn't understand why. Rule hated elfs. He hadn't ever tried to hide that.

  He wanted them dead. All of them.

  Why would he accept them?

  And what could drive an elf into the arms of their most powerful enemy?

  It didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

  She shook her head. Spat a wet stream at the ground between her feet. “Bullshit,” she said finally. “Has to be bullshit.”

  “Does this look like bullshit to you?” The warlock jabbed a finger at his bruised face. “He did this. Sure, he wanted information from me. At first. Then he did it just for kicks. Beat me like a fucking drum. Look at me, Nysta. It hurts. If you were hit like this, wouldn't you remember the face of the bastard who hit you? Well, I do. I remember it well. And, in the years to come, it's going to make me want to vomit when I'm sitting down to eat leftovers because he was an ugly son of a bitch. Grim's gangrenous asshole, he was ugly. Half his nose is gone. You can see the snot.”

  “How many?”

  “I don't know.” The warlock looked confused. “Snot's sort of a fluid, Nysta. You can't really count it.”

  “The Grey Jackets, you fool. How many does he have?”

  “Oh. I don't know,” he admitted. “Best guess? Twenty. Maybe a couple more than that. They knocked me around a lot. And some of them drifted in and out of camp. They were pretty spooked out here, with the Dhampirs and shit wandering around. Not that I blame them. Have you seen a Dhampir? I have. They're evil. Pure fucking evil. One day, I'm going to come back here and drop a bunch of fucking demons on this place. Big demons. With horns and everything. Wipe those blood-drinking fuckers clean off the face of the world. Yeah. You'll see. Fucking Dhampirs. I hate them. Hate them all. Worse than fucking caterpillars.”

  The elf pressed her fingers to her skull, not sure she wanted to ask. Did anyway. “Caterpillars?”

  “Yeah,” he scowled. Lifted his hand in front of his face and mimed the movements of one with his finger. “Creepy little fuckers. Green and wriggling about like fucking worms. But they're not worms, are they? No. They're grubs. Spiteful little fuckers, eating all the vegetables. Then they curl up and turn into rabid fucking monsters with wings. Sure, they look pretty. But that's just a trick. Because they're not the innocent and lovely little flappy things you think they are. They're vicious hunters, gobbling up other insects. Biting their heads off. Don't laugh! I've read about it. Evil little bastards. Not like moths. Moths are okay. I like moths. Just not in my clothes, of course.”

  Listening to the warlock's rant, she wondered how much was madness, and how much was distraction. She rubbed her cheek, feeling the scar throb warmly beneath her fingers.

  Settled on it mostly being distraction and tried to figure out what he was trying to divert her from. But the more she thought about it, the more irritated she felt. And she didn't want to feel irritated. The fog had begun to leave her mind. Her headaches had faded to a dull throb.

  She wanted to maintain the clarity which had been returning to her brain. A clarity which seemed to slip through her grasp when irritation or rage melted into her veins.

  “You know where they're headed, 'lock? And I ain't interested in your fucking caterpillars. I'm talking about the Grey Jackets.”

  He hesitated.

  Just for a fraction. Then his eyes flicked away before returning quickly to hers. He licked his lips and his mouth bent into a wry grin as he realised he'd already betrayed himself. “Sure do,” he said.

  “Reckon that means I ain't going to like it?”

  “That depends,” the warlock said. “On what you know about the Bloods.”

  “They're a bastard to cross?”

  “I wouldn't know about that,” he said, looking up at the thorny peaks. “But just looking at them gives me the creeps. You wouldn't catch me heading up there, for sure. I'd rather get on a ship. And do you know how much I hate sailing? I vomited my guts up. And my kidneys. It wasn't pleasant.”

  “Are you ever going to get to the point?”

  The smile slipped from his bruised face. “Urak's Keep.” Then, when she cocked her head in query; “Urak was a Vampire King. The last of them. And the most powerful of all. Grim and Rule trapped him in his castle. They managed to hunt him right into the heart of his lair and killed him. Pinned him to a wall, it's said. Like a fly. Or, probably more accurate, like a bat. It was the last time the two gods fought together.”

  “That's where Hyrax is headed?”

  Nodding, the warlock probed his ribs with gentle brushes of his fingertips.

  Winced. “Yeah. I think so. A couple of nights ago, the ship was sailing past the Bay of the Screaming Goddess when there was a bright light in the sky. It was big. I've never seen anything like it. It looked like lightning was shooting up from the peaks toward the moon. Made the Bloods look alive. It reminded me of the story of when Grim and Rule were looking for Urak's Keep. It's said they found it by noticing lightning shooting up from the ground. So I jumped ship. It wasn't easy convincing the Captain to drop me off. He made me swim most of the way. That wasn't nice. I'm sure a few sharks tried to take a bite out of me. I hate sharks. Have I
told you that? Fish shouldn't have teeth that big. Anyway. That's what brought me here. I think it's what kept the Grey Jackets here. Hyrax knows the story, too. So he wants to find the Keep. He's desperate for it. Willem didn't want to poke around, because all he wants is to go north. But Hyrax convinced him it's worth finding, even if no one's found the entrance before.”

  “If no one's found it, how do you know which way to go?”

  “I saw it. It's not far from here.” He sighed. “I was about to go in when I was attacked by a Dhampir. I had to run. I ran for ages with that fucking thing on my heels. After a while, I knew I couldn't get away, so I stopped and fought it. You should've seen it, Nysta. I tore that motherfucker to pieces. I don't think even you could've cut it any smaller. But then a couple of Grey Jackets jumped from the trees. Hit me on the head and dragged me here. I think the cleric knows I saw something, even though I didn't tell him shit. All he needs to do is have a bit of a look around where they found me and he'll find the door, too. We have to get after him. We have to stop him. He can't be allowed to take Sharras Exilium to Rule. And definitely can't be allowed to loot Urak's Keep.”

  “No,” she agreed. “You'd rather that privilege for yourself, I reckon.”

  He spread his arms with an innocent look struggling to form on his face. “You misunderstand me, Nysta. I'm trying to protect the Fnordic Lands. My spellbook is important. With Grim's magic losing its power, we need ancient magics. We need the power we've forgotten. We need it to stand up to Rule.” He managed to look serious. “I'm not joking about this. Not this time. Now, I know you're not into heroic actions and all. I know you don't even believe in a cause. But there are things inside that Keep which we can't allow the Caspiellans to get their hands on, or we're fucked. All of us. Surely even you can see we have got to do something to stop them. We have to at least try.”

  Her expression turned sour as she ran her fingers through her hair. Felt the rough nudge of the many strips of rag and turned away from him. “You find anything to eat in their packs?”

  Chukshene grinned, knowing she would do what was needed.

  Shook his head, voice cheerful. “Not a fucking crumb. They'd been arguing earlier over who was going to try their hand at hunting. Something tells me they weren't going to be good at it.”

  “Great,” she said. Tried to ignore the growing hunger. The fog might have been loosening, and the pain fading. But the hunger was incessant. “Let's get moving then.”

  “But I need to-”

  “Whether you come with me or stay here, Chukshene, I don't much give a shit.” Her lip curled as she spat forcefully onto a tree as she stalked past it. “On account of you not being the waiter I'm looking for.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite Chukshene's descriptions of the entrance to Urak's Keep, the elf had no real expectation of what they'd find. Given his words, it sounded like a hole in the mountain's hide.

  What she hadn't expected was a door.

  “Big,” the warlock breathed. “Isn't it?”

  Looking up at the tremendous door, she could only nod in reply.

  It was massive. At least thirty feet high. Made of solid metal, but not any metal she could name. Its shimmering surface seemed to attract the eye but at the same time repel it. The twisted face was covered in strange archaic runes. Each rune glowed with an electric white glow, but flickered as though expressing the door's pain at being wrenched from its hinges.

  Gathered at the base, clumps of molten metal still smoked in blackened craters. Signs of the destructive force used to break the door open just wide enough for an average human to squeeze through.

  Snapping at the air, arcane energy crackled dangerously and the smell of fresh lightning lingered on the breeze.

  “This is old,” Chukshene was saying as he moved cautiously closer. “So old. Hundreds? No. Maybe thousands of years. Surely it's been here since the Night Age. I can't believe no one knew it was here. Can you? It's amazing it lasted so long. And look at those runes. They're like nothing I've ever seen. It doesn't even look like the language of the Vampire Lords. It's something else. Familiar, maybe. I just can't put my finger on it, though.”

  “You reckon your cleric opened it up?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was like this when I got here. Whatever melted the door, though, it must have been powerful. It hasn't even cooled. Maybe the enchantment's not completely broken. Maybe the energy is still leaking out. That could be why it's still so hot.” He scratched at his stubbled chin. “You know, there's no mention of a door like this in the old stories. You'd think something like this would be talked about.”

  “Maybe that's what the enchantment was for,” she offered. “Could be to hide it from everyone.”

  “Even from the gods?” He suddenly looked intrigued. “Yes. That would be something. You know, Nysta, this is exactly the kind of thing I was hoping to find.”

  The elf pointed at heavy bootprints winding through the smoking debris. “You and some other fellers, 'lock.”

  Craning his neck to peer into the gloom beyond the broken door, the warlock looked more concerned. Wiped a stray streak of blood from his nostril and clenched his fist. “They could be just behind the door. Waiting for us.”

  “Well, I'd hate to disappoint them.” She slid A Flaw in the Glass free and spun Entrance Exam in her other hand. Took a step forward, feeling the anticipation tingle down her spine. “So best we don't keep them waiting.”

  “You're crazy,” he muttered, creeping up behind her. Eyes wide, he flexed his fingers as though missing the feel of his grimoire. All the same, she could feel the magic welling up inside him.

  Could smell its acrid stink.

  Grimacing, but saying nothing, she followed the trail toward the door.

  Snapped her head around as the warlock sucked a quick breath. Saw he'd stopped with his eyes on something in front of him.

  “What is it?”

  He said nothing. Knelt down, brushing frost and ash away to reveal a symbol scorched into the ground beneath. A dull greenish light coughed at its edge, then died.

  “Necromancy,” he said.

  “You think Hyrax did that?”

  “No. Like I said, it was like this before.” Chukshene frowned. “Besides, Rule would rip that bastard cleric's balls off and feed them to him if he even suspected him of dabbling in necromancy. Rule barely tolerates his own mages with the magic he lets them use. No way. No way this was him. Never. Someone else made this.”

  “Then the rabbit might be the least of our worries,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He dusted his fingers and looked more curiously at the shrouded doorway. “You know, I've always wanted to meet someone else who worked with old magic. Provided, of course, we weren't trying to kill each other. That would be a shame.”

  “How powerful do you think he'd be?”

  “Just by looking at this?” He waved his hand at the smeared ritualistic remains. Shook his head. Shrugged. “How the fuck would I know? As I said. I've never met one. But the stories vary. He'd probably be able to raise the dead. Create life. That bastard with the chains was an example of what necromancy can do for you. Other than that? No idea. Probably rip our hearts out and turn us into footstools. Not you, of course. You don't have a heart to rip out. And you'd be too uncomfortable to sit on. No. He'd turn you into a gate to scare the goblins away.”

  Ignoring his attempted humour, the elf inched closer to the door, wary of the energy still crackling around the edge. But she figured if others had managed to enter this way, then it should be fairly safe.

  Still, she worked hard to keep as far from the metal as she could.

  With care, knives still in hand, she slid through the opening. Pressed herself against the rocky wall, flinching at each snap of electricity whipping at the ground like flashing snakes at her feet.

  “Fucking magic,” she growled. Skipped as quickly away from the door as she could. Then caught her breath as she saw what lay within.

&nbs
p; A tunnel. Massive in height. So high its ceiling was shrouded in darkness. Smooth and perfectly drilled into the mountain's granite guts. Pale grey stone streaked with black along deep grooves melted into the rock.

  The charcoal-coloured ground was a flat layer of grit and small blistered pebbles.

  A few puddles of freshly-disturbed black ooze breathed an oily scent into the air.

  What little light speared into the tunnel through the cracked doorway behind only served to illuminate the first mile or so. Beyond that, the promise of void.

  Yet, as her violet eyes adjusted to the eerie murkiness of the tunnel, it was what she couldn't see which bothered her the most.

  Grey Jackets.

  They'd left no trace in the ground. But, with the ground as it was, there was no way they would.

  The silence, too, was almost maddening.

  The warlock pushed inside and nearly bumped into her. Managed to stumble and avoid touching her. Muttered an apology as he took in what kept her riveted in place, and found himself equally awed.

  “If that darkness wasn't so terrifying, it'd be beautiful,” he said. “There's no way this is natural. And it doesn't look like anything the Vampire Lords ever built. Or even the dwarfs. I wonder who could have built this place?”

  She offered no reply and began moving forward. Didn't even try for stealth. With the light at her back, it stood to reason anyone would see them coming anyway. And without even the slightest outcropping along the edge of the tunnel, there was no way to conceal herself in the shadows.

  This reason alone should have made her stop. Back out. To consider waiting at the entrance for the Grey Jackets to return and jump on them as they emerged.

  That would be the more sensible option.

  Not chasing them into the dark.

  As she strode further into the tunnel, she wondered at this sudden recklessness. A recklessness made worse by the thrilling feeling of insects crawling along her flesh. Through her stomach. Into her heart.

  Urging her onward.

  At first, she thought to blame the mist which infected her mind for her last months in the Deadlands. The creeping fog in her mind had left only ethereal traces. But where it'd touched, something else now lay hidden just beneath the surface of her thoughts. Something warm.