by Greg Cox
Moving quickly yet stealthily, she made her way through the dimly lit dungeons. Downtrodden lycans averted their eyes as she passed, although she thought she heard a few muted snarls and curses as well. Her status as Viktor’s daughter, and a Death Dealer to boot, clearly earned her few friends in these wretched quarters. And small wonder; decades had passed since she had last ventured into the dungeons, which the elite of the castle seldom had occasion to visit, but she found herself troubled by the squalid sights and sounds and smells all around her. The rank odor of piss, feces, and unwashed bodies offended her nostrils. Fungus infested the damp stone walls. She gagged at the stench. Regurgitated blood climbed up her throat. The conditions in which the lycans were kept were enough to appall anyone whose eyes had been opened to the injustice of their sorry lot. Here was the ugly underside of life at Castle Corvinus, far removed from the decadent luxury of her father’s court.
How have I never noticed this before?
As though drawn by an invisible cord linking their souls, she swiftly discovered Lucian slumped against the wall of a malodorous cell. Although dismayed to find him locked away in so dismal a setting, she was relieved to see, at least at first glance, that his horrific ordeal had not left him dead or crippled. Although pale and drawn, his noble face shone like a beacon in the harsh confines of the dungeon. Love brought a lump to her throat.
His bloodshot eyes bulged at the sight of her. He staggered to his feet, wincing only slightly as he did so, and grabbed onto the slime-encrusted bars between them. The other lycans retreated into the gloomy corners of the cell, evidently wanting nothing to do with this unlikely meeting. Her father’s “cautionary tale” had clearly been absorbed by the cowed slaves, just as he had intended. None of them wanted the same brutal treatment Lucian had received.
And who can blame them?
Worry showed on Lucian’s face. “You should not be here.”
“I had to.” Her throat tightened. Guilt stabbed her heart. “I am sorry, Lucian.” She tried to peer around him to get a glimpse of his injuries. He looked unscathed, but the tenebrous gloom made it difficult to see for certain. “Your back… Are you…?”
He turned around to show her a bare back marred by only a few faint red marks. “I am all right.”
Praise the House of Corvinus, she thought, grateful for the immortal bloodline that granted both lycans and vampires the ability to heal from almost any injury. Never before had she realized just how great an ability this was. Perhaps because she had never come this close to losing someone she loved.
“But your key… This is all my fault.” She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. “If I had not gone out…”
“Then you would not be who you are.” His loving voice held no hint of anger or recrimination. “Look at me.”
Relief flooded her heart. Could it truly be that he did not blame her for all that had befallen him? Lifting her gaze from the floor, she found only warmth and understanding in his intense brown eyes.
“It was knowing that I would see your lovely face again, when it was over, that gave me the strength to endure my punishment. This is not your fault,” he insisted. His expression darkened, however, and his voice grew more somber. “But… I cannot remain here.” He glanced around at the moldy walls hemming him in. Dangling chains and manacles spoke of centuries of torture and subjugation. He tugged at the moon shackle around his neck. “I have to leave this place.”
Sonja swallowed hard, feeling more conflicted than ever. She understood now why Lucian desired so passionately to escape from captivity. Indeed, if her father had his way, Lucian would never again set foot outside this dungeon. He would be entombed forever, just like William himself. And yet the prospect of such a drastic ploy still filled her with dread.
“My father,” she warned him. “He will be watching you now more than ever.”
Lucian nodded solemnly. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What about your Death Dealers? Are there none you trust?”
She shook her head. The best and most faithful of her soldiers had died in the werewolves’ ambush, and for the rest… “Their fear of Viktor is greater than their loyalty to me, unfortunately.”
Lucian took her at her word, accepting that she knew the ins and outs of the soldiery better than he. He massaged his furrowed brow as he racked his brains for another solution. Sonja could also think of no other recourse. There was always Luka, of course, but Sonja was uncertain how far she could push the other woman’s loyalty. Abetting a clandestine visit to the dungeons was one thing; defying an Elder’s decree to liberate a condemned lycan was something else altogether. She could hardly ask Luka to commit treason on her behalf.
Could she?
A sudden inspiration struck Lucian. “Tanis!”
What? Sonja thought, startled by the suggestion. That scheming toady? For a moment, she feared that Lucian had taken leave of his senses. Tanis was the very last person she would have thought of as a potential ally. “He cannot be trusted.”
“No,” he agreed readily. “But Tanis knows about us.”
By the dark gods, no! The shocking revelation hit her with the force of a battering ram. She gasped out loud as a profound chill raced down her spine. Her ivory face grew whiter still. Her jaw dropped and she struggled to catch her breath. Her hand went to her chest, where her undead heart skipped a beat. This was a disaster beyond reckoning. Lucian might as well have foretold the end of the world. She whispered hoarsely.
“How?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But if he still has not told your father, then it means he wants something. Find out what it is.”
Sonja nodded gravely. There was something to what Lucian said. Tanis cannot possibly have informed on us yet, or Lucian would not still be alive. Nor would she have escaped her father’s wrath either; Sonja was unsure just how severely she would be punished for her transgression, but surely her father would not be able to overlook so grievous a violation of the Covenant. That she was still free to move about the castle of her own volition, and not awaiting the judgment of the Council, suggested that Tanis was indeed keeping his secrets to himself. But what sort of game was the ambitious scribe playing?
And for what stakes?
Chapter Eleven
The Great Hall awaited the arrival of the human nobles. Vampires, resplendent in fine black silks and satins, lined the walls of the vast chamber and loitered alongside the towering stone archways and pillars. Viktor sat proudly atop his throne, while the High Council was seated to either side of the throne in two rows of six chairs each. As ever, Tanis stood at the Elder’s left hand, his quill poised to record the events for posterity. Flames crackled atop the chandeliers and within wrought-iron braziers. Death Dealers were stationed at every entrance. No lycans were in attendance; these festivities were not for their eyes. A pair of large double doors barred the far end of the hall.
Viktor’s nails drummed impatiently upon the arm of his throne. Although the rest of the Council was already in attendance, Sonja was missing as usual. Damn that girl! he fumed. Did I not expressly inform her that her presence was expected here?
He was about to send Tanis in search of her once more, when a rustle of fabric heralded her tardy arrival. Sonja hastily took her place among the other council members, to the right of the throne, as Viktor suppressed a sigh of relief. Though she had tested his patience somewhat, he chose to take her last-minute appearance as progress of a sort; that she had shown up at all was a definite improvement over her recent acts of disobedience. Perhaps she had finally taken his fatherly advice to heart?
A pity that I had to make an example of Lucian to remind her of her duty.
Furthermore, he was pleased to see that she had dressed appropriately. A rich burgundy surcoat, draped over a gown of shimmering metallic mail, befitted her regal status. A golden chain girded her slender waist. The crescent-shaped pendant upon her bosom looked freshly polished. Viktor enjoyed a private joke as he recalled the true significanc
e of the pendant, which only a handful of living souls suspected. Little did his daughter know that she wore the key to William’s hidden prison around her neck. Nor shall she ever know. Not even when she becomes an Elder.
That secret belonged to Viktor alone.
Watching his daughter, he saw her glance across the room at Tanis. Preoccupied with his clerical duties, the scribe failed to notice Sonja’s interest and she quickly looked away. Curious, Viktor thought. What business could Sonja have with Tanis? I thought she despised him.
A bell tolled midnight, distracting Viktor from this latest mystery. He decided that he had kept the mortals waiting long enough.
“Bring them in,” he commanded.
The ponderous doors creaked open and a fanfare of trumpets announced the arrival of the delegation. A procession of middle-aged mortals entered the hall. Unlike the vampires, who preferred garments of darker hue, the nobles were bedecked in costly robes dyed in a variety of richly extravagant colors. Voluminous quantities of fabric with fur trimmings attested to their prosperity. Burnished metal badges proclaimed their rank and honors. They marched forward two by two, carrying several heavy wooden chests between them. Acutely conscious of their dignity, they struggled not to let their exertions show upon their faces, even though many of them were visibly straining to support the caskets, any one of which a vampire or lycan could have lifted with ease. Their heavy tread echoed off the imposing stone walls. A few of the men glanced nervously at the throng of vampires observing their entrance.
Good, Viktor thought, pleased by the apparent weight of the chests. That bodes well for the size of the tribute.
The nobles laid the cases before his throne. Once unlocked, their lids opened to reveal an impressive accumulation of gleaming silver coins that shone like moonlight. Each noble stood behind his own gift to his liege, save for one of their number who appeared to have come empty-handed. Casmir Janosh, perhaps the wealthiest of Viktor’s vassals, posed beside his fellow mortals, yet no treasure chest rested before him. A portly man with a balding pate, he wore an olive-green robe over a white linen tunic. His rotund proportions hardly bespoke poverty; he did not seem to have missed any meals.
Viktor leaned forward in his throne. He gestured at the empty space at the mortal’s feet. “Dear Janosh, do you not own the largest silver mine in these lands?”
“It has been overrun, milord.” The negligent mortal stepped forward to explain. Beads of perspiration dotted his brow and he tugged nervously on the fur-lined collar of his robe. “Our workers… infected, turned to beasts!”
Viktor scowled at the news. William’s accursed spawn were growing bolder if they dared to raid a silver mine. Or were they simply too crazed by bloodlust to consider the threat posed by such a location? None of which excused Janosh’s temerity in trying to shirk his feudal duties. How dare the man think he could cheat the coven of its rightful due?
“Most unfortunate,” the Elder observed, “and costly.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully before rendering a decision. “I think that half the rights to your mine should cover the expense of our assistance.”
Janosh flushed with anger. Greed overcame his good sense. “Your assistance? We all saw the funeral pyres on our way here. And where is our good friend, Baron Covasha, and his family? Did you truly think that you could hide his ghastly fate from us? The wolves are at your door as well!” Caught up in the heat of the moment, he brazenly challenged Viktor in front of the other nobles. “Why should I pay tribute when you cannot so much as protect your own house? You have bled me dry already!”
Assorted vampires snickered at the mortal’s unfortunate turn of phrase.
“Hardly,” Viktor replied.
Janosh blanched but declined to beg for the Elder’s mercy. No doubt he realized that he had already gone too far to turn back now. He turned to his fellow nobles for support.
“We have all heard the stories.” He pointed an accusing finger at Viktor. His voice took on a more strident tone. “Look into his eyes. Cannot you see the evil in them? The tales are true, this place is cursed!” His frantic gaze swept over the entire coven. “They are no more human than the devils that invade our lands!”
Many of the council members smirked in amusement, although Coloman and Sonja, among others, did not seem to approve of the way this unfortunate drama was playing out. The other humans looked increasingly uncomfortable. They averted their eyes from the ranting nobleman and backed away from him as though he carried the plague. The more devout of them fingered jeweled crosses and crucifixes, clearly laboring under the mistaken belief that such superstitious talismans could defend them against the undead. None spoke up in Janosh’s defense.
He blanched as he saw that he was alone in his rebellion.
Viktor savored the man’s desperation. It seemed that Lucian was not the only upstart who needed to be made an example of tonight. He rose from his throne and descended a short flight of steps to the floor of the hall. A sinister smile slid across his face as he strode up to Janosh. The nobleman’s eyes darted back and forth, as though searching for a way out, but there would be no escape for him. No strategist, he had chosen his battleground poorly, and would now pay the price for that fatal error in judgment.
“If devils you call us, rest assured…” Viktor seized the man’s neck with one hand and physically lifted him from the floor. Janosh’s plump legs dangled in the air. He choked as Viktor’s fist tightly squeezed his throat. Blood seeped from beneath the Elder’s sharpened nails. Viktor mocked the thrashing nobleman in his grip. “Better the devil you know.”
Janosh’s bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets. His ruddy face turned an ugly shade of purple. He grabbed Viktor’s wrist with both hands but was unable to pry the Elder’s powerful fingers from his throat. Fear showed in his eyes, yet he strove to hide it still. Viktor almost admired his stubborn belligerence.
“U-unhand me!” he blustered.
“Certainly,” Viktor said.
With a sweep of his arm, he flung Janosh across the chamber. The noble’s overfed body smacked into a granite column as though hurled by a catapult. His bald pate cracked open like an egg. Chips of stone flew from the pillar. The noble’s lifeless body crumpled to the floor with a satisfying thud. A crimson trail streaked the damaged stone column, where a newly formed crater testified to the force of the collision. Viktor’s mouth watered at the scent of freshly spilled human blood. Excited vampires, their eyes aglow, licked their lips.
Some night soon, Viktor thought, when these present crises no longer require my immediate attention, perhaps I will reward myself with a visit to one of the neighboring villages. Although the Covenant expressly forbade preying on unwilling mortals, for fear of inciting a witchhunt that might consume them all, Viktor had been known to quietly break this rule on occasion. Rank had its privileges, after all, and Janosh’s demise had whetted his appetite for human prey. One cannot live on steer’s blood alone….
But first there was an important lesson to be taught, to any foolish mortal who might also be contemplating a change in the social order. Viktor raised his arms to address the remaining human nobles.
“Now… does anyone else wish to be heard?”
The trembling men could not bow their heads fast enough.
Janosh’s broken body left a crimson trail in its wake as a pair of Death Dealers dragged it out of the great hall. Viktor had left the corpse lying on the floor for the remainder of the nobles’ visit, as an object lesson to his fellow mortals, but now it was nothing more than carrion. The humans had hastily departed Castle Corvinus following their audience with Viktor, choosing to brave the perilous roads and wilderness rather than spend another hour enjoying the “hospitality” of the coven. Disappointed vampires and council members had trickled out of the chamber as well, seeking their own private diversions, so that the hall was now all but empty. Janosh’s blood still stained the floor and column, however, and the reek of mortality lingered in the air.
First Luci
an, now that unfortunate mortal, Sonja thought. Will this ghastly night never end?
Standing by the throne, she contemplated the gory streaks left behind by Janosh’s remains. The abrupt slaying of the recalcitrant noble troubled her. Janosh had been foolish to defy her father, but surely there could have been a less drastic way to discipline him? Tonight’s ugly events had shown her a ruthless side of her father that she had always overlooked before. When did he become so cruel, so callous?
Or had he always been thus, and she had simply been too blind to notice?
She and her father had the great hall to themselves. At his request, she had stayed behind when the other council members had retired for the evening. Now he came up behind her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. For the first time in her life, she flinched at his touch.
“Morning is upon us, my child,” Viktor said in a conciliatory tone. “It is time we left this wretched night behind.”
On that at least they were in agreement. “Gladly.”
He turned her around to face him. His azure eyes examined her fondly.
“You are the most fearless warrior I have ever seen. And you make me proud. But you were born into your elevated position. You have no idea what it means to earn it.” He fingered the golden pendant about her neck. “There are difficult decisions ahead of us. I would like your help with one of them.”
She supposed that, in his own way, he was reaching out to her. Despite the atrocities she had witnessed tonight, she could not help feeling slightly touched by his obvious desire to mend the rift between them. “Of course, Father.”
“With Lucian gone,” Viktor declared, “we need to promote another lycan in his place.”
