Blade Of The Vampire King (Book 4)

  Nysta #4: Blade of the Vampire King

  For Tuco

  who died of natural causes a rich and happy man in Vegas, 30 years after tracking down and shooting Blondie in the face.

  LATERAL BOOKS

  First Digital Edition

  published in August 2014

  Copyright © Lucas Thorn 2014

  ISBN-13: 9780987342133

  www.lucasthorn.com

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  This book was probably one of the hardest I've written so far. It took so long to write. But not for reasons you might think. I have had a rather tough year of work, and this has meant I had less and less time to work on the book than I wanted.

  It's the harsh reality of an Indie Author, I guess. I don't get a magical advance from a publisher.

  Having said that, these final lines are something of a joy to write. It's with great satisfaction that I write out my usual rounds of thanks.

  Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone who wrote a review of my books, and especially those who've been kind enough to join me on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/swordpunk). Without having the support of a publishing network, I instead rely on the cheery voices of people who liked my books. And those voices have been so generous. In fact, my head seldom fits through my front door nowadays.

  For this book, Nysta's knives were inspired by the works of some other Indie authors I was reading at the time. I'm very fond of this growing genre of Indie fantasy. Especially the Sword and Sorcery kind. It's a love story to a golden age of fantasy.

  I'd also like to talk about the character of Eli from When Goblins Rage. I had obviously been inspired by Eli Wallach's Tuco from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. During the writing of this book, Eli Wallach died. I was saddened to hear that. We lost a lot of good people this year.

  Eli's character of Tuco inspired me a great deal. His character was clownish and had the opportunity to be nothing more than just comic relief. But there was a hardness to him, too. A ruthless cunning that took him beyond a one-dimensional joke machine and turned him into a Man of the west.

  I admired Eli's performance. So much so that I had to steal him for my novels.

  He will, of course, return. Until then, I'd like to thank Eli Wallach for his wonderful and timeless performance. It's pure art. And, of course, I dedicate this book to his memory.

  Again, I'd like to thank Amir Zand for the cover. Have you seen this cover? This is the kind of cover which would make Samuel L. Jackson say “Motherfucker.” A lot.

  I couldn't believe my eyes when he gave this to me. I still can't. I would like to have it painted onto the inside of my eyelids so I can see it when I go to sleep.

  I'm definitely thinking of getting it turned into a shirt.

  Also, my good friend Andrew Hindle has suffered many of my first draft jokes. He's shuddered. He's shouted at me to go away. And he's wept like a babe, begging I don't send him any more.

  Thanks for your continued support, old pal.

  Lastly, and as always, I thank my wife. She is always there for me. Always listening to my rambling theories of what's happening next with Nysta. Always offering suggestions and advice. Steering me in the right direction.

  It's for her that I ask you to please tell your friends to buy this book.

  You see, my wife needs a new pair of shoes...

  the map for this book can be found at:

  http://www.lucasthorn.com/maps/

  Deep within the mountain tall,

  the Dying Tower waits to fall.

  from Poems of the Night Age by Nerruda.

  When I stand on the Wall, I can feel Rule's hatred lash at me on the wind rising from the south. It's only there, in those moments, that I am ever tempted to spit into the wind and damn the consequences.

  from Memories of Doom's Reach by the Imperial Princess Asa.

  And the Mother said to Veil, “What good is a ship with a hole in its keel?”

  from The Lost Legends of the Younger Gods by Sturgis Relli.

  PROLOGUE

  His name was Urak, and he was the King of his kind.

  He stood tall on the highest mountain, eyes burning with determination. Magic crackling and boiling the air. His powerful arms raised to the heavens as he sought to tame a being beyond his understanding.

  It defied him for three nights.

  Its pain brought the fire bubbling from deep beneath the earth. With each thrash of its body, mountains were raised, and mountains were felled.

  The skies above were blackened by smoke. Clouds drooling snow which melted in the heat of the battle.

  Mud was slick beneath his boots and the earth was warm for the first time in millions of years.

  The being bled blood which was thick and black. There was something mysterious about that blood. Something which teased the curiosity of Urak. Something which made his mouth water.

  The being heaved, its monstrous and formless body yearning to escape the magical ties Urak was working to attach.

  If the being had a voice, he knew it would be screaming.

  If it could speak, it would be pleading.

  Because it wanted only one thing in this ice-locked world.

  It wanted to die.

  Its anguish might have moved a man, but Urak was no man. His face was tight, weary from the long battle. A battle he refused to lose. He would not let this being die. Could not. First, he would know its secrets. He would taste its living essence, and he would absorb all it contained.

  Its magic had, at first, frightened him. And Urak was not used to fear. But when he'd seen the terrible wounds, he knew he had to strike first if he was to conquer this being. Knew he had to bind it fast before it submitted to death.

  He watched in awe as the being warped and twisted in front of him.

  Its skin, cracked and blistered by the molten earth spewing from the ground, rippled and changed. Mouthless head raised to stare at Urak, huge round eyes shooting beams of light. Long insectoid appendages erupted from its sides, digging into the ground. Tunnelling. Trying to drag itself into the ground.

  To bury itself like the corpse it wanted to be.

  He couldn't allow that.

  Urak howled words of power and felt his magic wrap around those giant legs. Then snap tight. He grimaced as the legs were shattered. Broken to pieces.

  Torn from its body, the glittering legs toppled into the foaming lava and were consumed with a savage hiss.

  The being squirmed close to the ledge, pushing itself forward through sheer willpower.

  It lunged for the fire.

  But he held it, strangling it with his power. Pulling it from the fire as though dragging a horse from water by its reins. A horse whose strength defied his own.

  “You will serve me,” he hissed, fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

  The being moaned. A sound which rushed along a current of energy beneath the newly-formed mountains.

  Then, with a whimper, it was still.

  Urak turned, motioning quickly for the Dhampirs to descend and scout the shattered ground toward his latest conquest. Exhausted, he knelt and faced the shining moon.

  Smiled.

  The cool icy breeze tasted of smoke and burnt iron.

  He looked down again, feeling the wind tease his sweat-drenched hair.

  Still couldn't believe how massive the being was. Also couldn't believe the shapes it had twisted itself into. The textures its skin had cast. He wondered at its purpose, and how to twist its power to suit his own.

  Weeping blood from wounds both old and fresh, the being lay motionless above a lake of fire. Staring down at its salvation. So close, yet never close enough.

  It had come so far. Seen so much.
/>
  Had almost tasted freedom. Freedom it would now never know, for it was bound to serve the Vampire King for all eternity.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The prisoner could hardly lift his head, but could still hear the two men arguing. Understood enough through the pain of his last beating to know they argued about him.

  About whether Willem should have killed him or not.

  Blood trickled like red tar from the prisoner's nose. A solemn echo of the torrent which had flowed only hours earlier. Ran down the rough bristles above his upper lip and soaked into the sour-tasting rag which served as a gag. He didn't want to think about where it'd been before it was shoved into his mouth and tied roughly into place.

  He tried to remember what had happened.

  How he'd been caught.

  There'd been a Dhampir. He remembered that much. A massive apelike creature with the snout of a wolf. Mottled black fur and drool-drenched fangs. Claws like scythes.

  Stink of rotten meat on its breath.

  He'd fought it. Got the damned creature to the point of dying when he heard a crash of noise from behind.

  Footsteps.

  Turned, too late to do more than blink.

  Remembered a flash of grey. Glint of steel.

  Then nothing except pain. The kind of pain which cut through his body in waves.

  Though he couldn't see his face, he knew it was swollen. Knew from the sharp stabbing pain in his side that something was cracked in his chest. A rib. Maybe two.

  Not that he could move much.

  They'd wrapped him in chains. Their fear of him turning them to excess. A heavy padlock rested against his sternum, pressing inward. Its weight made it harder to breathe than it already was.

  Smell of metal. Was it the iron, or the blood running across his lips?

  The two men kept arguing, their words growing more heated. However, it wouldn't come to blows. He knew they were friends. Had picked that much up from them. They just couldn't seem to stop bickering.

  A cycle of endless snapping which was driving not just the prisoner, but also the other soldiers, mad.

  Which was probably why they'd left the two to guard him while they abandoned the camp in search of the very thing which had drawn him to the shadows of the imposing mountains.

  Before leaving, Willem had beat him more than once.

  Another soldier had kicked him.

  Someone else threatened him.

  Their spit was dry on his face, but he could still feel it there. Sticky with contempt.

  They thought he knew more than he was telling them. He told them he'd seen it. Seen the same thing they had. He knew as much as they did.

  “Just came for the lights,” he'd said through swollen lips. “Just came to see.”

  After a while, they left him alone. Called him pathetic. Called him weak. A coward fleshed in yellow skin.

  But he'd fooled them all. Coward? Yes, he might be. But he was also a liar. Not that they could tell. He'd lied to better men than them. Women, too.

  He would have grinned if the gag had let him.

  “Are you gonna be the one to tell him?” Lopan sneered at his friend. “Tell him to kill the fucker and be done? Maybe you'll go over there now and cut the bastard's scrawny fucking throat before Willem gets back? You think he'll thank you?”

  “I might!”

  “Horseshit.” Lopan spat. A wet globule which hissed as it was consumed in the embers of the small campfire. “You ain't got the guts, Delfar. And I should know. Known you since you were a snot-nosed punk and ain't all that much has changed, I'll tell you.”

  “You calling' me a coward?” Delfar raised a fist, but still kept his distance. “That it? You calling me out?”

  “Keep your fucking pants straight, lad. All I'm saying is you ain't got the guts to tell Willem nothing.” A long pause. Then conceded; “And I ain't saying that's a bad thing, right? He's a mean bastard, he is. You know, for what he is.”

  Delfar grunted, accepting the truth of it. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at the prisoner chained to the tree. “I still reckon we should kill him. Look at him. Sneaky looking fuck. Gives me the creeps just seeing his eyes open. Knowing what he can do? You saw that unholy book he had. You heard what Hyrax said was in it. Rule-blasted son of a bitch don't deserve to live.”

  The prisoner would have laughed if he could.

  They were still afraid of him. Even as helpless as he was. Bound and gagged, they were still afraid of him.

  And so they should be, he thought.

  If only he could work himself loose, he'd show them. Show them all.

  Even the one called Willem.

  The prisoner remembered him clearly enough. It'd been a shock. Not just to see that, beneath the horrendous scars which covered his face, he was an elf. But that he was here, in charge of a small group of soldiers who didn't belong on this side of the Bloods.

  Caspiellans. Fifteen, maybe twenty, of them. Including the cleric, who was a worse bastard than Willem in many ways. Nasty eyes. The kind of eyes which belonged to a torturer.

  From snatches of conversation, he'd discovered the small group had travelled across the Deadlands. Hunting a dangerous mage, they said. For a while, they'd mistaken him for the mage they were looking for. A mage who'd kidnapped a queen.

  Or killed her. They couldn't seem to make up their mind on that.

  They thought they'd found their prey at a fort somewhere south of the Bloods. But then they'd been sent running into the mountains with an army of goblins at their heels. The prisoner wasn't sure what to believe about that.

  He couldn't see why this many soldiers would run from a handful of goblins.

  Stranger than that, they didn't seem to be talking about trying to make their way back to their homes. Seemed to be wanting to keep going north. Beyond the Wall and into the Fnordic Lands if they could.

  He shifted his head a little, trying to get a better look at the two men. His neck shot comets of pain into his skull, but he managed to peer through the morning mist at the glowing promise of warmth.

  He was cold.

  So cold his body had stopped shivering and his limbs felt numb.

  Though the snow had eased in the past week, the pine trees which protected the small clearing from the savage winds were dusted with white. Fragile shards of ice clung to the mountain's splintered flesh. Untidy splotches of snow spattered the ground, raking the dark stone and moist earth.

  He wished he could sit in front of that fire.

  Just for a few minutes.

  Long enough to let his nose thaw. Though, looking at the way the flames coughed and sputtered, he wasn't sure the meagre campfire was giving off much warmth.

  Tilting his head upward, he pressed against the tree's soaked trunk. Eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled awkwardly in their sockets. He tried to focus on the ice-gripped mountains rearing up in front of him.

  Cruel and jagged. Unyielding slopes screaming mute defiance at the bitter onslaught of cold.

  History, soaked in blood. Drowning in it.

  Myth combining with fact to produce wild legends which intertwined with recent events to promise only one thing to anyone foolish enough to venture this close to those treacherous bones of the earth.

  Death.

  Something the prisoner felt wasn't far away.

  Because he knew Willem and his cleric would find what they were seeking. Knew also that Willem would want to head north straight away. He was impatient, that one. He wanted to get to the Wall. Wanted to see Doom's Reach. Wanted to complete a mission known only to him and his god, Rule.

  How an elf could choose to betray his own kind and bend knee to the Lord of Light was a concept so alien the prisoner was still wondering if his eyes and ears had played a cruel trick on him while he was unconscious.

  Unable to keep his head lifted, he was about to let it drop when he saw a flicker of movement in the trees. A sleek shadow which chilled his spine to its marrow.

  Another Dham
pir?

  There were many hunting the northern side. Unlike the southern slopes of the Bloods, the north was lush with life and its forests filled with animals the Dhampirs could prey on.

  Thinking there might be one stalking them right now made him wonder if it would be better to die at the hands of such a creature than the slow and sadistic death the cleric had promised him.

  The bickering men hadn't noticed anything.

  He still hesitated to warn them, unsure if it was worth it.

  Their bickering closed their ears and eyes to the obvious. The prisoner winced. He couldn't decide what to do.

  His decision was made for him with the loud crunch of undergrowth which sent the two guards scrambling to their feet. Lopan tore his sword from its scabbard and aimed it at the hidden source of the sound.

  Delfar struggled with his own weapon. Screamed at the trees; “Who's there? Show yourself!”

  A demand ignored by whatever haunted the forest.

  The prisoner rolled his eyes.

  “We're armed,” Lopan growled. “So best you speak up, stranger. Before we come in there and dig you out. Won't be very fucking friendly about it, neither.”

  “Ain't looking for a fight,” a voice called evenly from the trees. The kind of voice which made the prisoner frown. Something in the tone of the voice defied the truth of these words. “Just looking to share the fire is all. I've been cold for longer than I like.”

  “Fire?” Delfar glanced at his partner for guidance.

  Lopan shrugged, but kept his sword in a tight grip. “Come out slowly, then,” he called. “Maybe we'll talk about it. But we ain't trusting anyone who skulks in the trees like a bandit. Come into the open.”

  Delfar licked his lips, the sword uncertainly held in one hand. “And don't try nothing!”

  The figure in the trees thought about it for a second, but not much more than that. With a shuffle of feet, she broke free from the dark to quest slowly into the light. The glow of the beckoning dawn nudged at her features to highlight long ears jutting from her head like twin spearblades.