We travelled together. I had an excited knot in my stomach. We felt like a team. The way back was no problem, for I knew it. I could lead us to all the right basements and cellars, mostly in abandoned farmsteads, but they included a couple of graveyard crypts. In desperation, I had gotten imaginative. Surprisingly, it was Raymond who was most distasted by sleeping amongst the dead.
We moved as four shadows in the night, dashing across forests and fields, untiring and light-footed. Except for Raymond, who liked to make the land feel his weight, or his strength. He liked to crush wood and break branches, even to catch an unsuspecting rodent only to stare it in the eye, half-the-time giving the small creatures heart-attacks, simply to throw them away with a laugh.
The very first morning, we established our lair for the night and sealed the old, dusty wine cellar shut, adding chains and lock to the solid door. Raymond fell asleep as the first, quite early, sitting in a corner with his arms crossed. Caterina fell asleep with her head on Michael’s shoulder. And then it was just him and I, which I pointed out with a laugh.
He watched me. “Some of us are like that. More tolerant of the light.” There was a longing in his eyes, one I had never been able to relate with. He had been an artisan, in life. Son of a baker, apprenticed to a tanner. Said he had hated the smell and fled the work, joined a trading caravan instead. Which was how he had met Amero. And Caterina and Raymond, actually. She had been the daughter of the tradesman, and with her mother dead, he had taken her everywhere, with heightened protection. The caravan had prospered, and Raymond had joined as a guard. The rest was history.
Michael was fighting the sleep; I could see that in the tightening around his eyes. Pressure was building on his mind. Even he was not as tolerant as I. I assumed he was fighting it to watch over the other two, he was too cautious to trust me completely. So, when I first felt its pull, I gave in immediately. I liked Michael and did not want him to suffer. Plus, I trusted him.
The trust became mutual. The leap of faith made him more relaxed, though he nevertheless fought to stay awake every time, though practically, it mattered little, since I woke before them all anyway. But it made for some interesting moments between he and I.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he confessed to me one evening, contemplating Caterina, stroking her hair.
“So do I,” I said with a grin, but he only raised a brow, indicating that’s not good enough. I shook my head. “Remember, our objective is not to fight them to a man. We need not overextend.” I paused, consideringly, “Michael, how much would the blood give us? I noticed a difference in myself, after having yours, and Fetinja’s most definitely. But one as old as he… do you think we would be Amero’s equal?”
Michael smiled, and for once, I saw the desire in his eyes. He hummed thoughtfully, “Caterina always tells me I worry too much. She’s right. But they don’t. There are perils in every step of ours, and there exist monsters out there, pure walking catastrophes. You don’t know half of it, I suspect. Really, you must meet Amero, one day, I think you two would get along. He has the same thirst you have. I mean, not for blood. For knowledge. He would have answers for you, much more than I could provide, I don’t remember half of it, and the rest is vague. Nothing but impressions left.” His fixed me with hard eyes.
“But my belief is this: If we all four drink the Old One’s blood… I do not count you, for you have your own path, but me and Caterina and Raymond together, we would be truly strong. A force to be reckoned with. No cleric, no Old One, no beast, no witch, no army, could blow our candle out on a whim. We’d put up a fight. We’d have a good, fighting chance.”
A fighting chance. I liked that. “I have my own path,” I admitted, “but after his, I owe you.” I said the words carefully, meaningfully, and Michael smiled and bowed his head graciously. It was a pure, genuine smile. Of those, I had seen very few from him.
We arrived at Boucle d’Or before midnight, nine days after I had left the Viscout. It was a small place, ten houses maybe, of which one seemed abandoned. It was tucked between a small waterway and light woods, with many trees cut, and fields of wheat on the other side which swayed in the wind. Down the waterway, a small army had gathered.
“My word,” Raymond said with his back straightening and his hand on the sword’s hilt, “there must be a thousand of them!”
It was indeed impressive. Fires lit the night up, and figures stood watch everywhere, some had torches, other sat in the darkness, staring into the night, listening. They seemed well-armed, well-fed. I didn’t know if there was a thousand men there, but there were more soldiers than I had seen gathered in my life. And these were not peasants. They were veterans. Hard and tried men, they were sharpening blades, going through the motions, preparing for battle. Our odds suddenly seemed better. If the archbishop had anything less, then we would roll right over him.
We approached leisurely. Two guards halted us, shooting up from the trunk they had been relaxing on, hands finding swords. “Halt!” One exclaimed with a south-German accent, “who goes, and for what purpose?” Their eyes were wide, and they were intimidated, though they showed none of it. And why fault them? Raymond and I carried swords, but it was not that. It was our striking beauty, our unsettling eyes who seemed to catch the fire’s light but were in reality glowing by their own force.
“Please lead me to Viscount William,” I asked gently, smiling, “he is waiting for me.”
The man hesitated, “and who shall I announce?”
“His Sire.” I said, ignoring the amusement rippling through my peers.
The man paled. “I see, I see, Charles, stay, I shall inform the Viscount,” he said quickly before backing away and running off. His friend’s protest died in his throat, and his hand fell down along his side. He glanced back to us, to my smile which found him, and gulped. Poor man. But he was in luck, we had all fed already.
The Viscount arrived not alone. There were at least a dozen men with him, and more that seemed to follow in curiosity, though it was night. It seemed we were no secret, in this camp. There were whispers of old gods and of vengeful spirits, all referring to us.
“Sire,” the Viscount said, eyes widening as he took in me and my three companions, “Lords!” The men with him were similarly struck. They seemed rich, clothed with gold and… silver. A bald, lanky men in a red cape and sharp eyes deep in their sockets had a silver bracelet on his wrist. His mind… was closed. I ignored him. As long as it didn’t touch me, no problem.
“Discard the silver,” Raymond commanded in a repressed, placid tone, which contrasted duly with the dangerous smile on his face. My lips thinned.
Everyone turned to the lanky man, who froze.
“Count Pierre,” the Viscount said slowly and coolly, “you know this displeases our Lords.”
The man retreated back a few steps, “it is a family heirloom, I always wear it. I forgot, my deepest apologies,” he blabbered, his sharpness disappeared like dew under the sun and fear engrained even the deepest reaches of his mind. He disappeared back in the camp, fumbling with the bracelet.
The rest of the men breathed uneasily, but… they were excited. They were admiring us avidly. Raymond lazily let his eyes wander, having made his will felt.
The Viscount eagerly informed of the situation. The archbishop had sent men after us, some six-hundred against our seven-hundred. They were just about two days’ march away and the play was simple, in his opinion. We wanted to fight at night, they at day. So far, they had tried to keep their distance, they scouted only at day and gathered at night behind the camp’s defences.
“Milord, with your arrival, I think we should attack hard and fast. We will approach tomorrow to open the way for reaching them in a single, long and hard march, and we will hit them hard. Very hard.” He smiled.
Another took the word, one eager to stand out from the rest. Brave, and perhaps foolish. He was a tall and ghoulish man, with round, red-rimmed eyes. In my humble opinion, he looked sick. Perhaps also figuratively. “They will flee to the Saint-George Monastery and we will chase them all the way, the worst thing we can do is relent and let them recover.”
The Viscount looked displeased at the interruption. “Yes, yes indeed. That is the idea. What do you think, milords? Does it please you?”
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None of us had experience with military matters. But Michael stepped forward, deep in thought, with a hand on his chin, “they have six hundred facing us… and how many at Saint-George?”
“Three hundred, supposedly,” the Viscount said, shrugging, “their forces are split. It is really to our advantage.”
“Supposedly,” Michael repeated, not satisfied.
I, for one, was distracted. I felt something on the edge of my mind, something subtle yet prodding. It felt familiar, yet it was too faint to know for sure. It made my heart flutter as I tried to focus on the talk.
But Michael continued grilling the Circle, so I gave up and pulled away. I walked through the camp, heeding not one of the many glances the soldiers sneaked, while drawing crosses or muttering under their breath, or praying to old gods and spirits. I was indifferent to their superstition.
Outside of the camp, I followed the river down to a large oak, which loomed over it with a thick, hollow trunk. It was nearly dead, but still holding on to its last breath. And there, like right out of a dream, stood a short woman with golden locks and sparkling, deep blue eyes.
“Fetinja?” I said, full of surprise.
A smile almost took her lips, but she held it back. She wouldn’t give me the satisfaction, not yet. “In the flesh,” she said haughtily, “my sweet fool.”
“You are here,” I remarked stupidly, completely bewildered.
“And you are as sharp as ever,” she slipped in pointedly before I could continue, but the edge was dulled with a small, wistful smile.
“But what… what has possessed you?”
She grunted and threw her hands up. “Surely you can figure that out, my old lover, my little knight, surely you can,” and she walked past me, letting her ravishing scent flow under my nose.
For me. Not for the blood, not for the others, not for the fight either. Not even to love me again, to rebuild what we had torn down. She was here for me. For what we had shared. For the future that we would each build for ourselves.
The others were not as surprised as I at seeing her at my side. The Viscount’s eyes bulged when he saw another one join our number. Five there were of us now. Five otherworldly, powerful creatures walking amongst them, that read their minds and could with bare hands snap their neck.
Michael was done with his questions, and we retreated away to hide for the day. But the following evening, our battalions moved.
And in response, the archbishop’s army pulled back to their camp. The Viscount and his Circle pushed on. They reached the archbishop’s camp only past midnight, after a long and tiring march. It was risen on a soft hill, with their backs to a landscape of plentiful fields, farmsteads, occasional tree clusters and small brooks snaking their way through.
They had dug ditches and raised a small wall that was nothing but a mound of earth around the camp, except for the sharpened sticks and stakes that stuck out of it with regular intervals. And behind it, rows of men stood watch. Maybe a third of the entire camp’s men. They were no fools. Some eight hundred meters away, the Viscount prepared his men.
As for us, the Nightwalkers… we were a bit unsure of how to play this. Raymond was enthusiastic on fighting. His sword was already out and resting on his shoulder. “You can sit back,” he said to the two women, and Michael, “Archibald and I will head the charge,” he took immense delight in pronouncing the words, like he had imagined himself do it a hundred times. “Let the fighters do the fighting.”
“Don’t be hasty,” Michael said flatly, “this was not the plan. The Viscount’s men do the fighting, and we slip in and slip out, to have the Old One’s blood.”
Raymond never talked back to Michael. Not that he always agreed, but he accepted his judgement, his leadership. I believed it was his way of thanking Michael for the Gift. Today, however, he was of another mind. His eyes twinkled. “The Viscount’s men may not even reach the Monastery without us. Are you up for it, Archibald?” He spun his sword and grinned.
“Of course,” I said, feigning tranquillity when my heart was pounding. This was different than anything I had ever done. Attacking head on, with a sword. It made my blood boil and my belly tingle.
“Perhaps we shall let them engage, before chipping in where it is most useful?” Fetinja proposed in a much more diplomatic tone than she had ever used with me. I hadn’t thought her capable of it.
“A brilliant idea,” Raymond complimented wryly, “you do that while we lead the charge. As the menfolk we are.”
Michael stared at him, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Very well,” he said, before looking up consideringly, “the night is long, and we have some six hours left. You know the refuge. The same as last day. Near two hours away. So, four hours for the battle, and two hours for the return. Some of us have less time… let’s protect each other.”
“Hear that,” Raymond said, hailing him excitedly, “hear that!”
Our conference finished, we slipped into the army again and joined the Viscount, who was awaiting us anxiously. “I have arranged for an advance with long-range cover… Milords, what are your thoughts?”
“I and Archibald shall lead the charge,” Raymond said proudly, and I cursed him silently for revealing my name. It removed some of my mystic power. He would laugh in my face if I admonished him for it, so I ate it in stoic silence.
“And we shall follow if needed,” Fetinja added quietly, eyes dark and cold. They made the Viscount’s back crawl in fear, and she enjoyed it. I almost rolled my eyes. The small things.
“Milords shall lead the advance,” the Viscount repeated, with slight correction. He humidified his lip, “glorious, I daresay, glorious!”
“The charge,” Raymond corrected, frowning. The Viscount watched him alarmingly, but he dared not say anything.
“The advance,” I insisted, and he stared at me, “Raymond, the poor soldiers are not as tough as we.”
Raymond snorted, “alright then.”
I smiled at the Viscount, who nodded in relief. “The plan is this. Raymond and I shall hide amongst the advancing party, and when we reach the ditch, we shall spring forward and break their lines, and then we charge into the defences’ opening. Does this make sense?”
“Absolutely, milord, absolutely! It is glorious!” He said hurriedly, and with some enthusiasm, I might add.
“Glorious!” Raymond repeated and laughed.
The advancing party was composed of men with tear-dropped kite shields, nasal helms and hooded hauberks. And in hand they wielded swords, axes, maces. Raymond and I approached the formation, gauging it. We could smell the fear on them, without even preening their minds, and it dissuaded my own intimidation of these men of violence. Not a year ago, I would have pissed my pants at facing such a lot.
Their sergeant stepped forward and ordered two shields to us, but Raymond refused readily. “We take second row,” he said, “and then we’ll spring out and tear them apart.”
I, for one, would have taken that shield.
So, at a hundred meters, everybody crouched and gathered behind shields in tight ranks. Arrows started whistling back and forth. We had maybe fifty bowmen and crossbowmen behind, who were shooting at everything that moved. The camp was a cacophony of shouting and warning, all fires were being put out, soldiers were rushing to the mounds to defend the ditches. There was so much noise I had troubling separating it all, and the Mind’s Eye needed to be closer. Ten, fifteen metres before I could rely on it to tell who was where.
We were getting close, and arrows started to punch through the shields’ wood. I jolted the first time, when the man in front suddenly had a tip of steel staring him down a thumb’s width from his nose. He reeled and cursed but did not even cease his step. “They shoot, the motherfuckers,” he swore angrily.
Yes, either you went angry, or you went scared. Every one of these men had fear in them. Yet they advanced, eyes on the prize, shields in front and weapons firmly in hand. And to my surprise… they counted on me and Raymond. But we were monsters in the night! They had been terrified of us! There was a man tucked between I and Raymond, he had been nearly shitting himself at first, but now, he was concentrated on the enemies, and he couldn’t wait to let the monsters loose on the enemy, he couldn’t wait to see their faces as we sprung forward! He was almost excited.
These men, they were thrilled to have two aces up their sleeves. For once, they wouldn’t have to fight and die their way through. The win was assured. But my stomach was nothing but one big nervous wreck made a tight knot. They all relied on me! I hoped Raymond would carry the day.
We were twenty metres from the ditch now. They began throwing spears. One punched and glanced off a shield, which left it open for an arrow and the man sunk to the ground with a death rattle. The next man stepped forward to take his place, swallowing bile. A spear hit the edge of a shield and smashed it sideways, burying into a man’s side. He screamed and curled together, as if to protect himself. We stepped over him, but it opened up the ranks behind. Finally, we were at the ditch.
I heard water boiling on the other side, and men grunting. Bastards. I felt no priests, but then again, I was very distracted from my Mind’s Eye. “Raymond,” I hissed, and he flashed a toothy, ferocious grin. He howled. Everyone reeled. Effortlessly, he pulled the two men ahead apart and pounced out of the formation, gliding over the ditch and landing supply right next to a shocked older man about to throw a spear. With a brutal swipe of his blade, he ripped the man’s head off in spray of blood and flesh and shattered bone.
I followed, though I was a tad gentler with the men in front, landing next to him and leaning my head away from an arrow. The next one clinked against my blade’s steel, which I moved in its way. My eyes were open and wide.
The camp extended at my feet, following the water way into its half-circle form. A few fires remained in its centre, on which there were pots with boiling water. Just around me, a dozen men clad in steel and leather stared at me, who wore no steel, at my free brown hair which flowed in the wind, and my braising, fierce orbs that took everything in and more. They roared and stuck spears and axes to me. They were slow. I was fast.
My sword flashed in the dim light of the night. In my other hand, each finger had morphed into thick, sharp claws, at first pale as the moon, but soon bathed in blood. Arrows whisked my way. They were fast, zooming past me for I was just quick enough to react. It put me on edge, sharpened my focus.
Raymond screamed. I saw that his face was covered in blood from the nose down, and his mouth was open and thirsting, teeth smeared red. He was delighted, exhilarated, drinking. We flowed into the camp, two blurry storms of violence. The men followed while screaming insanely as they tumbled and crawled through the defences.
The biggest challenge became differentiating the men. Those behind me were allies, those not fighting or fleeing me were allies. But some simply froze. Them I left behind for the others to judge.
I found a priest, but he was fleeing in terror, wailing incoherently. I sensed no power in him. He had abandoned all focus and faith and sought only to flee. I laughed. This was who we had feared? The short moment of inattention had an arrow tear my shoulder’s flesh up. The pain flared and brought me back to the battle, it ignited the thirst.
I drank deep from the next victim.