Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Matthew McFarland

  The torch he had thrown into the room before had ignited some of the clothes. Jürgen strode forward and cleared a furrow in the dust so as not to burn the entire room.

  “My lord?” Václav’s whisper was enough to bring the point home—why not burn the room? Jürgen did not have a chance to answer his childe, however, before another voice filled the chamber.

  “My lord, the wall—” Sir Thomas’s voice echoed against the stone walls, and Jürgen turned to see that the wall to his left was covered in blood. A long tentacle lashed out from this obscene tapestry and splashed against Thomas’s face.

  Thomas didn’t even have time to scream. His entire head liquefied. His mantle turned a deep crimson, and his body collapsed to the ground, twitching. The blood-tentacle receded into the wall, and the sheet of blood did not move.

  Václav gaped. Jürgen ground his teeth and glanced towards the aperture in the wall. “No mortal steps through that opening!” he shouted, and stepped towards the pile of burning rags.

  Václav looked at Jürgen. “My lord, what now?”

  Jürgen picked up a burning length of cloth, possibly a stole or sash of some kind. He flung it at the wall. The cloth hit the blood-sheet and sizzled a bit, but the blood pulled away from the fire, leaving a section of clean stone behind.

  Jürgen smiled. “If you won’t fight, Nikita, then burn.” He nodded to Václav, who gingerly picked up a burning rag with his sword and flung it at the wall. Again, the blood receded, but no other reaction was evident.

  Jürgen and his childe continued their assault, but the Sword-Bearer was growing concerned. They didn’t seem to be doing any real damage to the blood. While Jürgen assumed this unsightly mass to be Nikita, he had never heard of any first-cursed vampire being able to transform himself so. The low-blooded were typically more apt towards this kind of metamorphosis, but then, the Tzimisce’s horrid power seemed unbound by such limitations.

  Jürgen stopped and stared at the blood, trying to find a mind within it. He had never tried to read the mind of a Cainite he couldn’t see, but since he could read the memories of base objects and the Earth itself, he did not think it would be difficult, provided there was anything at all to be found. He stared at the blood, gazing at the way it flowed away from fire, from pain, at the way it roiled when it moved….

  He saw into it, saw nothing but red. He saw fire and soot… a city burning? He saw time.

  Time. Endless, black nothing, followed by fire, water, pain, mud, trees, metal, men, beasts… blood. Then nothing again, for a thousand ebon eternities. And on the heels of that pain came something else, but not from Nikita’s—the blood’s—mind.

  Jürgen heard a sound, a crisp, dry crack, as though something had broken—a bone, a branch… or an oath. Somewhere, someone who had sworn an oath to Jürgen had violated that oath.

  Jürgen felt a surge of anger, and that anger met with the grief and hate he saw in Nikita’s mind and plunged him into fire and blood again.

  Jürgen backed away, shaking his head and grunting in pain. Václav turned his attention from the wall to aid his sire. Jürgen tried to cry out, but couldn’t find his voice.

  The blood on the wall gushed outward like a geyser, but stopped in the middle of the room and coalesced into a man. The firelight dimmed, and Jürgen felt the heat from the flames die down. Even with his acute senses, he couldn’t see the man well. He had seen this sort of thing before around Gotzon; lights seemed to dim and shadows darken to keep his confessor hidden. This seemed different, somehow. The shadows didn’t lengthen, rather, the light seemed to die. The man stepped forward, and Jürgen noticed that the ring he had seen earlier was gone, and he was dressed in dark, almost blood-colored robes.

  “Surrender,” said Jürgen. He expected a laugh or a flippant remark, a challenge, something. He did not expect the response Nikita gave. The archbishop’s face grew sad, as if in mourning. Jürgen took a step towards him, brandishing his sword. Václav wavered a bit, sleep eating at his mind, and then followed.

  Nikita’s eyes were half-shut. Jürgen could sense the power coming from this Cainite, but could also sense that he was weak, the Beast pulling his heart to the temporary death of the day. He lashed out in a feint, testing his opponent’s reactions.

  Nikita did not move. The sword slashed at his robe, but it mended itself immediately. Jürgen stared at the cut, and realized that the archbishop’s “robes” were actually folds of skin.

  In disgust, Jürgen thrust his sword forward, intending to impale the Tzimisce. This time Nikita did react. He grabbed the sword from Jürgen’s hand and flung it out of the room. A cry of pain told Jürgen that it had not landed harmlessly. Jürgen tensed himself to tackle the archbishop, but stopped and circled. The Tzimisce had wrenched the sword out of his hand with more strength than Jürgen could ever muster. He couldn’t grapple with this foe; doing so with Masha had been dangerous enough. He would have to outlast him. Jürgen smirked; he had no fear that he would fall asleep before Nikita would. Jürgen stood firmly on his feet, while Nikita swayed uneasily. The room brightened every time Nikita leaned too precariously to one side.

  The archbishop seemed to realize his predicament, and launched himself at Jürgen. His speed, however, did not match his strength, and Jürgen leaped to one side and grabbed a double handful of the skin-folds on the Tzimisce’s back. He tore upwards, showering himself in blood and flesh, and realized that the skin that Nikita wore was still alive somehow. He was wiping the blood from his eyes when the fiend wrapped his hands around Jürgen’s throat and began to squeeze.

  A mortal would have been dead instantly. Jürgen felt his windpipe collapse, his skin split and his neck begin to crack. He willed the wounds to heal, but the archbishop only pressed harder. Jürgen grabbed the Tzimisce’s wrists and tried to pull them free, but they felt like two iron bars in his grip. How many years my senior can this Cainite possibly be? Jürgen thought desperately. I never heard of Nikita of Sredetz being so powerful…. His hands released Nikita’s wrists; he was losing feeling in his limbs.

  Jürgen heard what sounded like a sword hitting a tree trunk. He cast his eyes up—for he could no longer move anything below his jaw—and saw Václav standing behind Nikita. His childe drew back his sword for another strike, but this time stabbed rather than slashing. Jürgen saw Václav’s arms and the hilt of his sword, and then the look of rage on his face as he thrust it forward. Václav, while not nearly so old and powerful as his sire, was a warrior and a Cainite trained and Embraced for the purposes of fighting. Jürgen had seen him swing his sword through men wearing the finest armor, behead horses to bring their riders down, and crush men’s skulls with his fists. A strike with all of his strength behind it should have driven the sword through its target and very likely into Jürgen’s gut as well.

  Nikita, however, barely budged. He did not remove his hands from Jürgen or even acknowledge that he was being attacked. He simply squeezed harder.

  Jürgen’s Beast rose up, the red fear blotting out the pain and the rage of the assault. Honor and courage, the nobility of the battle and the cunning of attacking by day… what were these if all that was left of them at the next sunset was dust and memories? What was the noblest of plans if it didn’t work? Jürgen began to thrash, kicking his legs out at his assailant, but couldn’t tell if he was connecting or not. Somewhere, the still lucid part of his mind realized that he was being held off the ground.

  He thought back to the monk he had questioned, and how easily he had broken that man. He thought back to Albin the Ghost, and how quick he had been to dominate the Caitiff’s mind. He knew that Nikita must have those same gifts of command, and was surely close enough to Caine that he could break Jürgen just as easily.

  Jürgen’s Beast howled in rage and frustration, screaming that it would not be caged, would not be held down, would not be commanded. It demanded release, demanded that Jürgen allow it out to fight, demanded to tear Nikita limb from limb before he tore Jürgen’s head cleanly from
his body.

  Jürgen refused.

  A sickening cracking sound issued forth from Jürgen’s breast. From outside, he heard the knights gasp, and heard a scuffle as one of them tried to rush in and was held back by the others. Jürgen’s Beast whimpered petulantly to Jürgen that frenzy was the only chance for survival.

  Jürgen disagreed. He forced every drop of blood possible to his neck and chest, strengthening them, forcing the bones to knit and the flesh to mend. Feeling began to return to his arms. The Beast howled for more blood; Jürgen felt himself growing hungry, and yet he pressed on.

  Nikita squeezed harder. Václav struck again, this time stabbing the archbishop in the back of the neck. Nikita’s head bobbed forward a bit, but he still didn’t turn.

  Jürgen grew stronger still, the blood of the Obertus monks infusing his arms until he could lift them again. He grabbed Nikita’s wrists and pulled, and felt the fingers budge a little. Concentrating every bit of will that he had, he stared past Nikita and looked into Václav’s mind, sending him one very specific thought.

  Václav blinked, as his half-unconscious mind tried to comprehend what Jürgen was telling him. Then he moved to Nikita’s side, raised his sword, and brought it down squarely on the archbishop’s outstretched arms at the elbows. At that precise moment, Jürgen pulled against the Tzimisce’s wrists and kicked him in the chest. The two Cainites broke apart, Jürgen landing on his back near the entrance to the room and Nikita staggering backwards towards the fire.

  Jürgen picked himself up and stretched his neck. Most of the flesh there was mended, but he could still feel prickles of pain where his collarbones were broken. More importantly, though, the blood in his limbs hadn’t abated—and he was still as strong as the archbishop. He glanced down and saw Sir Thomas’s headless body, blood seeping from his neck. He imagined Rosamund’s face when she heard the news—she had lost another servant to an enemy she had no claim to.

  Jürgen reached down and picked up Thomas’s sword. It was nothing near the quality of his own, but it would do. He stepped forward to Václav’s side. Nikita had recoiled from the fire and was now staring at the two Ventrue dully, as though trying to remember where he was.

  “Hungry, Nikita?” Jürgen asked, smiling. “The blood of mortals no longer sustains you? Why is that? Too many years supping on your own deformed childer?”

  The archbishop, if he understood, did not respond. Jürgen advanced, circling around to Nikita’s right, while Václav moved to his left.

  “A vow, perhaps? I understand your clan harbors notions of honor.”

  Still, Nikita did not answer, but he turned his back on Václav to watch Jürgen. The Sword-Bearer thought he saw something like anger in the archbishop’s eyes.

  “A curse, then? A further curse from the Almighty for your further perversion of His—”

  Jürgen broke off his taunt as Nikita lunged forward, fangs bared, the flesh on his fingers peeling back to reveal sharp bone. Jürgen’s eyes glinted—he had seen this tactic before. He swung his sword downward, aiming not for Nikita’s steely arms but his fingertips. He knocked the Tzimisce’s hands aside, spun the sword, and stabbed it into Nikita’s back. He intended to sever the spine, and indeed managed to penetrate his foe’s disgusting clothing and the flesh on his back. The force the blow knocked Nikita forward onto his face, but he lashed out with a foot and knocked Jürgen towards the fire.

  Jürgen wrenched his sword from the Tzimisce’s back and planted it in the burning clothing to steady himself. The point of the blade slid against the stone floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Jürgen saw Nikita standing. If Nikita pushed him now, while he was off balance, he would fly into the flame. Jürgen’s Beast hissed in fear, but Jürgen could do little to right himself.

  Václav grabbed Jürgen by the back of his shirt and pulled him up, the knight swinging his sword wildly at the archbishop. Nikita didn’t acknowledge Jürgen’s childe, but leapt at Jürgen himself. Jürgen raised his sword; Nikita caught Jürgen by the wrists but did not push. He merely held Jürgen’s arms in place. Jürgen felt the Tzimisce’s finger move, caressing his skin….

  Jürgen’s Beast screamed in panic as the flesh peeled away from his wrists. The bones beneath began to weaken, and Jürgen realized with horror that Nikita, while no longer strong enough simply to tear Jürgen to pieces by brute force, could certainly sever his hands this way. Jürgen glanced at Václav. His childe chopped at the Tzimisce’s wrists with the sword, but couldn’t gain a strong enough arc to do any real damage without hitting his sire. Jürgen felt his hands begin to weaken as the bone rotted. He kicked at Nikita’s knees, trying to knock him down, but he might as well have been trying to kick down a castle wall.

  Václav dropped his sword, grabbed Nikita by the hair and bit him in the shoulder, tearing off a hunk of his fleshy clothing and exposing the skin beneath. Nikita dropped Jürgen’s wrists and staggered backwards. Jürgen looked down at his hands—they were intact but for the skin; he could see the bones and sinew clearly. He willed himself to heal and saw the blood welling up at the edge of the wound. The skin and muscle should have replaced itself in seconds, but the flaps of skin hanging on his arms moved at a snail’s crawl. Jürgen glanced up at his foe and saw him standing calmly as Václav, on the verge of frenzy, sank his fangs into Nikita’s shoulder again.

  Suddenly Jürgen smelled sulfur and burning blood. Smoke rose up from his childe’s mouth. Václav staggered backwards and doubled over as if to retch.

  Nikita stepped towards Václav, now with a ravenous scowl on his face. Václav stood up and Jürgen watched in horror as his childe’s jaw melted. Blood cascaded down his chest, smoldering, and caught fire as it reached his shirt. Václav fell to his knees, burning.

  Nikita grabbed him by the hair and opened his mouth, revealing three rows of wicked fangs. A six-inch black tongue lolled about the maw for a moment, and then he lunged downward towards Václav’s exposed neck.

  Jürgen charged forward, drew back his sword, and swung. The blade sliced cleanly through his childe’s neck and came to rest in the fleshy folds of Nikita’s robes. Jürgen dropped the sword and shoved the archbishop back against the wall, and then hazarded a glance down.

  Václav’s body was already decaying. The fire consumed him all the more quickly now. His head rolled off towards the burning clothing, crumbling to ash. Jürgen’s Beast howled for retribution. Jürgen promised that it would have it.

  Nikita stood and stepped towards Jürgen. The ravenous look on his face had intensified, and Jürgen realized that destroying his childe had probably cost Nikita the vitae in Václav’s veins. Jürgen shifted the sword in his hands and braced himself. A Cainite in the throes of a hunger-born frenzy could not plan or fight with intelligence, but was in some ways more dangerous for it. He had no intention of giving up his blood to this monster.

  Nikita sprang at him. Jürgen struck with his sword, but failed even to break the archbishop’s skin. Nikita swung a fist downwards and knocked the sword from his hand, then lashed out with his other hand and sent Jürgen sprawling.

  From outside the room, Jürgen heard a commotion. His knights were, perhaps, making ready to rush in. If they all give their lives to help me defeat this fiend, he thought, how will I take and hold the territory? But it won’t matter if I don’t win here. His Beast seized the opportunity and forced him to his feet just as Nikita landed on him. The Tzimisce opened his maw and lunged downward; Jürgen’s fist shot upward and into his mouth. Nikita’s jaws closed… but on the bone that he had exposed earlier. No blood flowed there without Jürgen’s will, and so Nikita could take no sustenance from this attack. Jürgen grabbed the knife from his belt and stabbed it under Nikita’s chin, pushing into his flesh until he felt its point tickling his palm. Nikita grabbed at Jürgen’s arm, but Jürgen pushed harder, trying to force the whole of the knife into Nikita’s mouth.

  The Tzimisce let go and backed off, pain apparently overriding hunger. He spit out the knife and crouched like a s
pider. Jürgen stood and glanced about the room for a weapon. His sword was somewhere outside the room, Václav’s was near his body, Thomas’s was in a corner. All were out of reach.

  A pair of footsteps echoed, and the back of room darkened, as though the shadows were fleeing from something. Nikita’s head snapped around to face this new threat, but Jürgen didn’t bother.

  “Gotzon.”

  The Lasombra did not respond, merely tossed Jürgen his sword. The blade still glistened with blood from whatever unfortunate knight it had struck when Nikita threw it from the room. Jürgen’s Beast smelled the blood and demanded that he lick it from the blade. He refused, instead lowering the blade and staring at Nikita.

  Nikita leapt towards Gotzon, but the ashen priest simply sidestepped and brought his sword down on Nikita’s back. Jürgen didn’t waste the opportunity, he cleaved away a large hunk of the Tzimisce’s flesh-robes, exposing skin that was as smooth and white as a child’s. Nikita reared up and lashed out at both foes. Gotzon parried the fist with his blade; Jürgen allowed Nikita to hit his shoulder and sliced a red furrow down his foe’s back as he fell to the ground.

  Gotzon slashed at Nikita’s stomach, trying to keep clear of the archbishop’s talons. Jürgen stood. “He’s weakening.” Gotzon didn’t respond, but nodded towards the fire. Jürgen saw that his confessor meant to force Nikita back to the dying flame, to burn him to ash as Nikita had Václav.

  No, thought Jürgen. I cannot allow that. He does not deserve so quick a fate. He moved behind Nikita and slashed at the back of his knees, trying to knock him forward. Gotzon, confused, stepped back and Nikita followed the obvious foe, lurching out at the Lasombra’s throat. Jürgen raised his sword again, and brought the hilt down on Nikita’s back, splintering several ribs.