Book 6: Chapter 12: A Waltz of Blood
Victor and Eric circled each other. Victor held Lifedrinker light and ready to strike, crosswise before him, while Eric deftly stroked the air as if testing it with his broad blade of black smoke. Victor definitely had a reach advantage on the smaller man, but he wanted to test him, wanted to see what sort of style he would fight with. Was he about to face another lightning-fast opponent, or was the darkly armored stranger a brawler, a man of brutal strength? His sword was certainly dangerous looking, but could he use it? Were his skills a match for his braggadocious mouth?
Full dark had set in, but plenty of light lit the grassy hilltop. The sisters were bright in the sky, and, in the distance, the southern horizon was limned with sickly green light. “I can see your eyes strain to follow my movements in the dim lighting,” the baron said, though he couldn’t have seen such—Victor’s eyes were good, and he saw him clearly enough. “Karl, a light for my opponent to see by, if you would.”
“I don’t . . .” Victor began to protest but then shook his head, growling; he didn’t need to take the bait, didn’t need to be distracted. Even so, a member of the baron’s retinue summoned a shimmering globe of reddish-yellow Energy, sending it aloft, throwing everyone’s shadows into sudden movement. It was with that unexpected flare and the flicker of shadows that Eric made his first move. He grunted, almost noiselessly, more a heavy breath than a vocalization, and lunged forward, driving the point of his long, broad sword straight at Victor’s belly.
Victor moved with grace and precision, stepping lightly to the right and hacking Lifedrinker down and to the left, sweeping the dark smoke-clad blade to the side with a clang and shower of bright red sparks. “So, there’s metal under all that smoke.” Victor grinned and lunged forward in a follow-up, pressing the attack, sweeping his axe in careful, precise cleaves and jabs, using his long arms and height to keep the baron on his back foot as he struggled to bring his long, apparently heavy, blade between himself and Lifedrinker’s biting edge. Victor was bolstering his agility and strength with Sovereign Will, and he seemed to be more than a match for the red-eyed invader. He danced around him, repeatedly slipping his guard, smashing and dragging Lifedrinker’s edge against that polished, black-enameled armor.
He wasn’t one to show all his cards at the start of a fight, and thus far, he’d done nothing but use his prodigious attributes and skill with an axe to press the baron, pushing him into an increasingly erratic, defensive struggle as he backpedaled. He almost stepped outside the circle of onlookers, but his giant follower, Porter, blocked his path, allowing his shoulder to bump into his chest. As Victor pressed forward, Porter nudged the baron back into the circle and said, “How long will you toy with the man?”
“Toy? He presses me more than you do when we spar!”
“Come, Baron, it’s not kind to play with your food,” the big, red-lipped woman said through the narrow gap in her helm.
Victor heard all of this, of course, but he wasn’t one to let banter distract him in a fight. He was on the verge of sealing the deal, casting Energy Charge or something similar to end this annoying man’s defensive retreat, when the baron began to exude thick, hot, red Energy that was very familiar to Victor. He’d felt something similar when he’d killed ap’Horrin in his secret oubliette and again when he’d fought the Ridonne. He’d come to recognize the heat and taste of it—a blood affinity.
The surge was massive, a level of Energy that Victor had only come to expect from himself or enemies he found too dangerous to tangle with, such as the Warlord or his War Captains back in Coloss. The sensation triggered a burst of adrenaline in him, an instinctual need to act, to interrupt whatever was happening. Without a second thought, he cast Energy Charge, fueling it with rage, and, in a flash of red light, he ripped over the grass, sending dirt and debris into the air in his wake, and smashed into the tall, armored baron.
As always, the impact he delivered was devastating, but it wasn’t exactly the effect he’d hoped for; Victor had planned to smash the baron, send him sprawling, and interrupt whatever he was trying to do. Unfortunately, Eric’s spell was in progress; he was sheathed in his hot, red, hungry, blood-attuned Energy, and the forces generated by Victor’s impact rolled off him, shattering the night with a tremendous boom that shook the ground, spraying grass, soil, and rocks outward in a stinging, tearing shockwave. Everyone save Victor and the baron were knocked back and sent sprawling. For his part, Victor was protected by his spell’s nature; the very Energy that propelled him shielded him from the impact.
When the dust settled and Victor was able to take stock of his situation, he found that he stood in a shallow crater, nothing but dirt under his feet. Before him, the baron loomed, much changed. He glowered down at Victor through red eyes set deep in a twisted, gray, snouted countenance. Enormous fangs hung over thick black lips that twitched into a semblance of a smile that was half snarl due to the very nature of that face.
More shocking than the change in his countenance was the transformation of the baron’s form. His mass had increased by half, though the alterations extended beyond size. The baron’s shoulders in their dark armor were like cast iron stoves; his arms were long, knuckles close to the ground, his once-massive sword like a toy in the grip of his right claw. He leaned forward, lifting that dark, flickering, smoke-bladed sword high, and snarled, “Let’s finish this little dance; me and my kin are thirsty.” Then he brought the blade down like a falling star, straight at Victor’s neck.
Perhaps worse than the baron’s new size, strength, and speed was the dark wave of something Victor felt a kindred connection to that seemed to radiate from the man—terror. If he’d had an ordinary will, something akin to what Valla, Rellia, and others of their tier had built up, Victor would likely have fallen to his knees at the touch of that dark aura. Even with his prodigious will, he might have met his fate in that moment, but another factor came into play. Victor was no stranger to fear, and as the baron’s dark Energy washed over him, it felt almost familiar, almost natural. He didn’t so much as flinch, and he brought Lifedrinker up, catching that falling sword on the top of her axe head.
Despite his quick parry attempt, the baron’s strength felt like it had multiplied tenfold. Victor thought to drive the blade up, step under the arc of the swing, and deliver a terrible hack to the baron’s chest. That idea flew out the window when his opponent exerted his new might, continuing to drive the blade down despite Victor’s efforts to deflect it with his axe. The dark, smoky sword screeched as the edge rubbed against Lifedrinker’s steel, and Victor growled, driving with all his strength. His efforts fell short, though, and the baron relentlessly gained ground. Soon, the edge was touching his shoulder, heating the scales of his vest as it tried to cut through the formidable armor.
They hung there for a moment, Victor and his armor struggling against the baron’s inexorable force, and then the wicked blade parted one of his scales, and the faintest touch of its edge reached Victor’s flesh. Pain erupted in his shoulder, and Victor cried out, kicking reflexively with his right foot at the baron’s knee, breaking free of the contest, launching himself backward to roll over one shoulder and back to his feet, axe ready. The baron hadn’t chased him, though; he stood there, leering, as his long, bright-red tongue slipped out between his lips and tasted Victor’s blood from the edge of his evil sword.
“Pendejo,” Victor growled, reaching up to rub at his shoulder, warily pacing to his left, eyeing the monstrous man for any hint of attack. At the periphery of his vision, he was aware of movement and the sounds accompanying it—his companions and the baron’s retinue had regained their feet and were gathering around the area blasted by Victor’s collision with the baron.
“Rich blood, sirrah,” the baron-creature growled in a hissing, clicking voice that seemed to emanate from somewhere in its throat.
“You like that?” Victor smirked, continuing to circle the creature, contemplating his next move. In a way, it was amusing how his enemy felt entirely at ease in his supremacy. He was clearly stronger and faster than Victor now, and Victor had to admit he was beginning to enjoy the not-so-subtle game he was playing. How long could he fight the monster before he had to play one of his cards? Should he Berserk? Cast Inspiration of the Quinametzin? Summon one of his totems? Conjure his banner? He shook his head at all the ideas—he’d do what felt right in the moment, but for now, he wanted to see if he could cut the bastard as he was.
Victor stalked forward, feinted to his left, and looped Lifedrinker in a downward hack at the monstrous man’s knee. The baron was much faster than before his transformation, though, and he dodged back, returning the blow with one of his own. His blade flicked out and caught Victor just above the ear. He hardly felt it; his juggernaut helm absorbed the impact and sent the weapon skittering along the top of his crown. Meanwhile, the baron was wide open, and Victor used one of the many tricks he’d learned in his sparring sessions to capture his momentum and reverse the trajectory of his cleave. Lifedrinker raked along the dark plate at the baron’s thigh, scraping off a thick pile of enamel and sinking into the joint near his knee.
The baron hiss-screamed as she bit into his flesh and erupted in a frenzy of hacks with his sword. Victor ducked a shoulder, taking the blows on his scale hauberk and helmet as he was pummeled backward, forced to pull Lifedrinker away before she could begin to drink. The baron’s powerful blows smashed into him, crunching against his armor, marring the scales but not quite cutting through. “Fool! Do you not see you are beaten? Relent, and let me finish you with dignity.”
“What are you?” Victor asked, breaking his rule about not talking during a fight. He was curious and couldn’t help himself.
“What am I? A lord of blood, an immortal master of death, a drinker of knaves and weaklings. You impress me with your boldness, however. Perhaps another fate will suit you, hmm? Would you like to join my blood reavers?” At his words, angry snarls and bitter curses erupted from the circle—Victor could see the baron’s lieutenants weren’t keen on sharing their privileged status.
“Perhaps. What would it entail?” While he spoke, Victor let his eyes drift past the baron, searching for his comrades. The “reavers” had survived his explosive impact with the baron just fine, but how about his friends? Some of them were less sturdy. He saw Valla immediately, standing tall in her wyrm-scale armor, Midnight Hope resting, naked, on her shoulder. Next to her was Edeya, and as he circled the Baron, he saw Sarl and Kethelket—all were fine.
“Let me work my blood magic upon you. Let me plant the seed of blood lust in your soul. Let it consume the life in your flesh and replace it with something far more potent!” The baron seemed to believe Victor was interested. Perhaps what he was offering was something appealing to the people of his home world, but Victor wasn’t intrigued. Still, he toyed with the man.
“And my companions?”
“Take them as your first thralls! They will serve well in our army!”
“Lord!” one of his retainers—Victor couldn’t see which—cried, outraged.
“Are you, like, being literal?” Victor asked, half playing around and half curious. “Do you drink blood? I mean, are you a vampire?”
“Vampyr!” the baron crowed, his guttural voice rolling the r and enunciating the second syllable with a distinctive “y” sound. “So, you’ve heard of my kind?”
Victor frowned; this was all starting to feel too weird to him. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised—he’d fought ghouls and zombies, why not vampires of one sort or another? Still, the familiar names and the oddly human-like appearance of the baron before his transformation into a hulking monster were starting to feel like too much. He’d had enough of messing around. “Sure, but I have to ask, why would I want to do what you suggest? What would I get out of it?”
“Are you daft? Perhaps I’ve offered my gift prematurely. Do you not see the power that awaits?” The baron stood tall, spreading his arms wide, demonstrating his immense reach and the robust frame that lurked beneath his thick armor. “In my vampyr form, I am ten times the man I was!”
“Not really a man, though, right?” Victor smirked, carelessly tossing Lifedrinker from one hand to the other and back again. “To be honest, it looks like a bit of a downgrade.”
“Enough! I grow weary of this banter. I shall feast on your blood, and if my rage is sufficiently cooled, I may restrict myself to our earlier bargain and give these morsels a chance to flee.” He ran his long, pointy tongue over his lips, lingering on his left fang, allowing it to curl wetly around the protruding tooth. Then his eyes began to burn more balefully, more brightly in the deep hollows of his protruding brow, and Victor felt another surge of that hot, coppery Energy. This time, he acted even more quickly, but rather than charge the man, he reached into his own Core and pulled forth a torrent of rage-attuned Energy, pushing it into the pattern for Iron Berserk.
As power exploded through his pathways, flooding his every cell, engorging them, expanding them, Victor roared, holding Lifedrinker aloft. His body flared with the potent baleful Energy in his Core, and the ground shifted under his feet, tiny fissures erupting in clouds of freshly exposed soil. Eric, the vampyr, was no longer looming over him. No, it was with wide eyes and a flinching flourish that he finished his spell and sent a spray of hot, needle-shaped, bloody rain from his outstretched hand toward Victor. His attack fell somewhat flat, however. Rather than engulfing a large human, pouring into every crevice and nook of his armor, it splattered against a titan-sized chest, losing its terrible inertia and dribbling ineffectually to the ground.
Victor lunged, suddenly much, much faster and stronger than before. The baron wasn’t ready; perhaps he was still in shock from Victor’s sudden change in stature. Victor smashed a shoulder into the huge, armored man, sending him stumbling, but he wasn’t done. He pressed his advantage and hacked Lifedrinker, one-handed, into the man, smashing against his armored shoulder, his helmet, and into the arm he lifted to defend himself.
Victor felt more potent than ever, hungrier, and more lustful for battle than he could remember, even with the Ridonne. He wanted to see this fool’s insides on the outside, and he wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps it was his pathetic use of terror in an attempt to cow him. Perhaps it was his almost lackadaisical threat against Valla and the others. He didn’t know, but he was seeing red like he hadn’t in a very long time. As he hacked, his grunts of effort became a growl, and Lifedrinker screamed, whistling through the air, her axe head ablaze, throwing black smoke in her wake, sparking with the impacts and throwing hunks of rent armor into the darkness like a smith pounding out an ingot on an anvil.
The vampyr was silent, desperately trying to turn intact pieces of his armor into those blows, swinging his sword in turn, trading blow for blow. Victor felt the sword smash into his armor, slash over his bare arms, slicing like a caustic razor into his flesh, but it only served to anger him further. Each wound the baron inflicted sprayed hot blood, and then it was closed, his flesh knitting together, closing those clean, precise cuts with hardly a scar. Meanwhile, Lifedrinker’s smoldering silver blade grew hotter and brighter with each smashing impact, and Victor could hear her screaming her fury in his mind. A tiny fragment of his consciousness wondered if others could hear her too or if her battle song was for him alone.
One thing was sure, Victor thought, as he and the baron beat on each other—the vampyr was a sturdy, sturdy bastard. Victor was pounding him with such force that the blows rang out like gunshots, boom, boom, boom, and though the baron’s armor was battered, dented, and torn, few of Victor’s blows got through to the flesh. When he did manage to cut his opponent’s gray, thick hide, it, like Victor’s flesh, seemed to have the power to regenerate. This furious, brutal exchange went on for a handful of seconds, and then the baron regained his balance, digging metal spikes protruding from the toes of his boots into the soil and driving forward, shouldering into Victor’s midriff, and careening past him.
Something feral was in his big red eyes, something insane about how he leered as he spun and greedily licked the blade of his sword, “Gods be good, but you’ve a rich taste!” he groaned, a weird orgasmic note in his voice.
“Come,” Victor growled and opened his pathways wide, channeling a thick river of glory-attuned Energy into them, pouring it into his Banner of the Champion. Suddenly, the light cast by the baron’s retainer was banished by his banner's glorious, pulsing sun. Blazing golden light bathed the hilltop, driving back the shadows and exposing every rend, dent, scrape, and muddy smear on the baron’s armor. Eric shrank back from the glow, shielding his eyes, and suddenly Victor understood why his follower had earlier provided the illumination—some quality in it was comfortable for the undead creatures of the night. His golden, bloody sun, though, seemed to offend them on a cellular level. In fact, Victor could swear he saw smoke rising from the seams in the baron’s armor.
“Kill him!” the vampyr shrieked. “Kill them all!”
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