Rise of the Lycans

  “What news of my daughter?” he demanded.

  Tanis weighed his options carefully. No, he concluded, this was neither the time nor the place….

  “She is most defiant,” he lied shamelessly. “She refused to see me. Would not even open her door.”

  Viktor scowled. “Why are the young so shortsighted?” he lamented. “She risks her seat on the Council. And for what?”

  Better you should not know that, Tanis mused. At least for the present. It required an effort not to smile slyly as he replied. “I cannot imagine, my lord.” He moved quickly to change the subject. “Now we must prepare. The human nobles will begin arriving as soon as the sun goes down again.”

  With any luck, the upcoming festivities would distract Viktor from his daughter’s alarming doings long enough for Tanis to figure out how best to exploit his newfound knowledge. Patience, he counseled himself. If immortality had taught him one thing, it was that all things came to those who wait. For now, it was enough to know that he held the haughty Sonja’s reputation in his hands.

  A pity she never chose to smile upon me before….

  Chapter Six

  Wagon wheels dug deep trenches in the bumpy dirt road as the armored carriage rattled through the forest. Blue-gray steel plates were riveted to the sides of the coach, which was drawn by a pair of large black horses. Two glowing lanterns, mounted on either side of the driver’s seat, did little to illuminate the dense wilderness through which the carriage traveled. Moonlight leaked through the barren tree branches overhead, casting eerie shadows in the coach’s path. The swirling fog was so thick that the driver could barely see more than a few yards ahead of him. He cracked his whip above the horses, anxious to leave the gloomy forest behind. A pair of Death Dealers rode ahead of the carriage, offering a measure of protection. Crested Corinthian-style helmets concealed their faces. Watchful eyes searched the surrounding woods.

  Denied that luxury were the half-score human slaves chained behind the carriage. Coarse burlap hoods covered their heads so that they were forced to stumble blindly after the rushing coach, fighting to keep their balance lest they fall and be dragged to their death. The prisoners were shackled together in two columns of five slaves each. Their ragged garments were soiled and drenched in sweat. Fresh scars and bruises chronicled their ordeal. They panted hoarsely beneath their hoods as they struggled to keep up with the carriage’s exhausting pace. Iron rings, clamped tightly around their necks, chafed against their flesh. Manacles bound their wrists. Fifteen prisoners had actually set out on this hellish trek, but five had already fallen by the wayside. Their lifeless bodies had been tossed into ditches alongside the road, to be consumed as carrion by whatever beasts chanced upon their remains. The poor souls had been denied even the dignity of a decent burial.

  Now only ten prisoners remained. Raze wondered whether any of them would reach the castle alive.

  A powerfully built man whose dark skin announced that he had been born far from these cold Carpathian Mountains, he towered over the other prisoners like a veritable Goliath. His true name was Razahir, but most called him Raze. A brown leather vest strained to contain his impressive build. Crude boots defended his aching feet from the rocky road. A taut chain tugged mercilessly at his neck, compelling him forward against his will, while a second chain was affixed to his manacles. The suffocating hood made it hard to breathe. His own ragged panting echoed in his ears.

  Will this hellish journey never end? he thought darkly. How much farther must we travel so?

  Raze cursed the malicious fates that had brought him to this sorry pass. Once the son of a mighty sultan in his native Sudan, he had lost his family and his heritage when his land was overrun by Saracen invaders. Only his formidable strength had kept him alive to wander the world as an outcast before ending up a prisoner here in Europe, far from his distant homeland, which he feared he would never see again. Only the gods knew what miserable fate awaited him at Castle Corvinus, which was said to be the domain of ageless demons who fed on the blood of the living. Although their masters denied it, insisting that the castle was merely the home of a powerful warlord and his court, tales were told in the slave quarters of the living dead, vampires. What the shamans back home would have called an obayifo.

  Although brave enough when facing mortal foes, Raze shuddered at the prospect of falling into the hands of unclean spirits. Had he not already suffered enough?

  Inside the carriage, Natalya tried not to let her parents see her fear. Only sixteen years old, she had pleaded with them to let her accompany them to Lord Viktor’s castle for the first time; she didn’t want them to think that she was a timid child, afraid to travel through a scary forest at night. Even if that forest was rumored to be haunted by werewolves….

  She didn’t know whether to be worried or comforted by the fact that her parents seemed equally ill at ease. Although they were also striving to conceal their nerves, Natalya could tell that both her mother and father were obviously concerned for their safety. Seated across from Natalya in an overstuffed padded seat, her father busied himself with a stack of documents, while her mother sat beside her, pretending to concentrate on her embroidery. A pale green wimple, held in place by a brooch beneath her chin, covered Mother’s hair, as was only fitting for a married woman. Her plump cheeks and round face were proof of their prosperity. Father wore a heavy wool cloak over his stocky frame. His bushy brown beard had lately been infiltrated by strands of gray. Natalya’s own flaxen curls hung in ringlets past her ears. Her simple blue kirtle suited the rigors of travel; a more elegant and expensive gown was packed away for her debut at court.

  Assuming they ever made it to the castle alive….

  A locked wooden chest, reinforced with iron straps, rested on the floor between them. Crammed with tribute for Lord Viktor, Father had not allowed the treasure chest out of his sight. It bounced noisily with every bump and rut in the road. A candle flickered inside a mounted iron lantern. Natalya prayed that the candle would not burn out before they reached their destination. The idea of making the rest of the perilous journey in darkness was too dreadful to contemplate.

  She placed a hand to her face, which felt cold to her touch. Did she look as pale and frightened as she felt? She trembled and wrung her hands together, listening in terror to every creak and thump from outside as though they might be the last things she ever heard in this life. The door of the carriage was made of sturdy oak and bolted with iron, but would that be enough to spare them from the monsters stalking the woods?

  Would anything?

  She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was back in her own room in her father’s mansion, safely tucked under the covers. But the rough jolts shaking the carriage made the fantasy impossible to sustain. There was no escaping the fact that she was trapped inside an uncomfortable moving box far from the security of home. That she couldn’t see what was going on outside only made it worse; she felt as helpless as one of the hooded prisoners being dragged behind the carriage. For all she knew, an entire pack of werewolves was running alongside the carriage at this very minute, their feral eyes glowing demonically in the dark.

  A closed metal slit was built into the side of the carriage. Natalya eyed the slit for several moments while she wrestled with the temptation to take just a tiny peek outside. What if she saw something terrible, like a hungry werewolf pouncing right at her? The thought gave her pause, but in the end, her curiosity could not be denied. Over her mother’s protests, she reached over and slid open the seal….

  To her relief, she saw only one of their armored escorts riding beside them. The gallant Death Dealer paid her no heed as he lit a flaming arrow and loaded it into his crossbow. A second later, he fired the burning bolt high into the sky, where it blazed brightly for a moment or two before crashing to earth like a fallen star.

  Natalya realized that the horseman was surely signaling Castle Corvinus of their approach.

  Praise the saints! she thought. We’re almost ther
e!

  Lucian was sorting weapons in his smithy when Sonja entered in full armor. Only her lovely face was bared as she cradled her helmet in the crook of her elbow. Her martial garb made it clear that she was not here for another amorous interlude. Indeed, he had anticipated her arrival upon spotting the signal arrow in the sky a few moments past.

  The first of her father’s guests will be arriving soon.

  Although the mere sight of her made him yearn to kiss those ruby lips, he handed her a freshly polished sword. He had labored all day to repair the damage done to the blade by her battle with the werewolves yesterday. Its keen edge reflected the glow of his forge. The silvery glint hurt his eyes.

  “It is sharp,” he promised her. “No wolf will stand against it.”

  She nodded, artfully concealing her emotions, and turned to her men, who were waiting just outside the smithy. Like her, they were decked out in gleaming black armor, most of which had been forged by Lucian himself. A lycan groom stood by in the courtyard, holding onto Hecate’s reins. “Ready the horses,” she commanded.

  The Death Dealers dispersed, momentarily leaving Lucian and Sonja alone. Their eyes met and a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped her lips. He could tell that she was just as frustrated by hopeless longing as he was. They desperately wanted to make the most of this moment together, to share a touch, a kiss, but the smithy was too exposed, her men too near. They couldn’t risk it.

  “Let someone else go,” he pleaded.

  She shook her head, tossing back her sleek dark hair. “Why?”

  Need I explain? He did not like the idea of Sonja venturing out into the night once more, so soon after her narrow escape from the wolves the night before. He still recalled the agony of suspense he had endured when it had seemed as though he might lose her forever. Plus, there was one thing more.

  “Last night. After we parted… I do not know. Something…” He found it hard to put his apprehensions into words, and yet there had been a moment when, alone in the courtyard after he had watched her disappear into the keep, he’d felt a peculiar chill run down his spine, as though unseen eyes had been spying upon them with malign intent. And then the howling had commenced, sounding far too close to the castle for comfort. “Just let someone else go.”

  Sonja frowned. “In case it has escaped your notice, blacksmith, I can look after myself.”

  I know, he thought. He also knew from experience that few things vexed her more than being treated like a helpless damsel. Nevertheless, he had felt compelled to voice his fears even at the risk of provoking her ire. I would sooner quarrel with you than lose you to some nebulous danger…

  Seeing his chagrin, her voice softened. “And besides, you can always watch over me from the walls.”

  He saw there was no point in attempting to dissuade her. Sonja was nothing if not fearless. When she set her mind to do something, like dare to love a lycan, no power on earth could turn her from her chosen course of action. It was one of the things he loved most about her.

  “But of course,” he said.

  Tanis lurked in the shadow of the gatehouse until he saw Sonja approaching on horseback. Two Death Dealers rode behind her. Together, the trio of mounted warriors presented an intimidating aspect, so it required no little courage to step out in front of them and block their path. He threw up his hands to get their attention.

  “Lady Sonja! Your father has ordered you to stay behind.”

  Irritation flashed across her face as she pulled back on Hecate’s reins. The horse snorted indignantly in the scribe’s face.

  “I intend to see our guests safely through the gates,” Sonja declared. She lowered her helmet over her head, so that its masklike visor concealed all but her eyes. A mane of horsehair crested the helm.

  Tanis stood his ground. “This is not a request. Your father is ruler of this coven.”

  “Yes, he keeps reminding me of that.” She drew her sword from its scabbard and pointed its tip directly at the scribe’s heart. Her cold brown eyes dared him to defy her. Hecate’s hooves pawed impatiently at the paving-stones. “You are in my way.”

  Tanis looked anxiously to the other Death Dealers for support, only to see the armored warriors draw their own swords, as well. Despite her strained relations with Viktor and the High Council, she clearly enjoyed the loyalty of her men. His eyes searched Sonja’s grim, implacable expression, and he came to the unmistakable conclusion that she was not bluffing.

  He got out of the way.

  Dismissing him without another word, Sonja locked eyes with the master of the gate, a burly lycan slave whose bare chest was liberally adorned with battle scars. His valiancy in holding back the werewolf hordes had earned him a privileged status second only to Lucian’s. He stood to one side of a massive steel bolt, shrewdly keeping his silence while his superiors quarreled. He lowered his head before Sonja’s gaze.

  “Gatemaster!” she commanded. “Do your duty!”

  The obedient slave drew back the bolt and pulled open the ponderous double doors that served as the castle’s last line of defense. The portcullis beyond rose slowly until nothing lay between Sonja and the lowered drawbridge beyond. Thick fog hid the winding road leading down the side of the mountain. The untamed wilderness rose to meet the lower slopes of the hill.

  Her sword at the ready, she spurred Hecate onward. The horse’s hooves thundered across the drawbridge, followed by the other two Death Dealers on their steeds. Tanis sullenly watched them depart, his ego still smarting from Sonja’s brusque and insulting treatment.

  She might not be so arrogant, he thought sourly, if she knew that her sordid little secret is mine to expose. He looked forward to flaunting that knowledge in her face someday soon. When the time is right.

  Turning away from the gate, he found Lucian standing only a few feet away. A loaded crossbow, perhaps the same one he had employed to save Sonja the night before, resided in the lycan’s grip. He stared after the galloping horsemen with a look of obvious concern.

  Tanis remembered an old adage. Speak of the wolf and you will see his teeth.

  He could not resist taunting the foolhardy slave a bit. “Careful, blacksmith,” he whispered in an insinuating tone. “Lest your eyes betray your secret.”

  Lucian’s startled expression was a thing of beauty. Tanis savored the worried look that came over the other man’s face as the scribe casually turned his back on Lucian and strolled back toward the keep. Let him wonder what I could possibly know, and whom I might tell. No doubt such questions would prey cruelly on Lucian’s mind. As well they should.

  It was the least the filthy lycan deserved for presuming to dally with one of his betters.

  Sonja heard the carriage trundling through the fog before she caught sight of it. She and her men met the envoy at a crossroads along a lonely forest trail that reminded her of her thrilling adventure the night before. The driver of the coach started in alarm at the sound of their hooves, then relaxed at the sight of the armored trio. He slowed the carriage to a halt, giving his weary horses a much-needed rest. Sonja did not envy the poor animals the task of having to pull the heavy, steel-plated carriage over these bumpy roads.

  She pulled up to the coach and greeted the two Death Dealers escorting the delegation. The was just the first of several caravans expected this evening. “I thought you could use some company.”

  The knights looked grateful for the reinforcements. These woods could be perilous at night, as she knew better than most. A pair of wide green eyes peered from a narrow slit in the side of the carriage; from the look of them, the eyes belonged to a frightened young girl on the cusp of womanhood. Sonja removed her helmet and smiled tightly at the girl, hoping to reassure her, before circling the caravan. The sight of the hooded prisoners chained to the rear of the carriage brought a scowl to her face. The mortals were doubtless intended as gifts for her father, but that hardly excused such reprehensible treatment. Her love for Lucian had opened her eyes to the often cruel inequities of the world th
ey lived in. For all she knew, these unfortunate slaves no more deserved such abuse than Lucian himself.

  When I become an Elder, she resolved, such injustices will not he permitted.

  For now, however, the best she could do was see to it that they reached the castle in one piece. Her eyes scanned the shadowy wilderness surrounding them. A thick gray mist drifted through the underbrush, obscuring her vision. A wind rustled the shrubs and branches. Nothing stirred in the brush. Clouds drifted past the moon and stars. All seemed in order, and yet…

  One of the Death Dealers, a grizzled veteran named Ivan, sat up straight up in his saddle. His head swiveled to the right, as though he had heard something from the encroaching woods. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. A note of alarm crept into his voice.

  “Milady?”

  Sonja peered into the darkness. Lucian’s ominous warning echoed in her memory. Perhaps she should not have dismissed his fears so readily? The shackled slaves grew restive, perhaps sensing a change in the atmosphere. Muffled cries and whimpers escaped their hoods. Fear showed in the bulging eyes of the girl in the carriage. Ardent prayers issued from inside the armored coach.

  I don’t like this, Sonja thought. Her eyes had yet to detect any obvious threat, but she felt a distinct presentiment of impending doom. The sooner they left these accursed woods, the better she would feel. “Get it moving.”

  Before the procession could start rolling again, however, a blood-chilling howl shattered the tranquil stillness of the night. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Her eyes widened. Hellfire, she cursed, experiencing an unwanted sense of what the Franks called déjà vu. Her voice rang out urgently.

  “FORM UP!”

  All five Death Dealers spread out to establish a defensive ring around the carriage, with Sonja taking up a position near the head of the wagon. Hecate whinnied in alarm and Sonja took a moment to try to calm the worried destrier. Inspecting their meager forces, she wished that she had brought a larger complement of soldiers.