Heaven's Gate (24 page)

“The blood suckers?”

“The Strigoi, yes, I’ve seen them.”

“But that’s just it, how can you be sure? They say that they look like anyone else, they are not the mindless undead or the shells of mad prospectors who come into town raving and murderously jealous of the living, they are insidious; if the Crusaders are to be believed, undying predators; corpses animated by the devil himself, sent amongst us to do his will.”
Aden
trails off. Years of persecution by the Inquisition and their like had left him with a large degree of cynicism for anything involving the Church. Far from laughing at his exaggerated prose Lillian seems to be taking every word as true and her jaw is tight with tension.

“You can’t tell me you believe all this, it’s just what the Church tells us to keep everyone in line. The Christ man! Satan! It’s all made up.”

“Perhaps,” Lillian answers somberly. “I have never seen Jesus or Satan but I have seen a Strigoi and he only looked like everyone else when he wanted to.”

Aden
simply nods, there is no point in arguing, the girl is clearly as mad as her companion. No need to antagonize them until he is fit enough to strike out on his own again.

“As you say, there are many strange things to be found in the Bowl and who am I to say what is there and what is not? I take it from what he was saying, that despite having left the Crusade, Sam has not abandoned his faith in God and the existence of the Devil?”

“It is not faith, not like the priests I have known anyway. It is certainty, even though I have only known him for a few days I can tell that.” Lillian pauses at the edge of the
treeline
, unwilling to talk about the Pilgrim in the shadows between the thick pine trunks. “He is sure he is damned for everything he has done and worse, he thinks he damns himself further by unnaturally prolonging his life.”

“Unnaturally prolonging his life by taking the souls of the undead?”

“The blood.”

“He seemed to think it was more than that when he left, but I understand, I think, I’ve run from enough magistrates to know the irony of having to break the law further to avoid its
judgement
.”

They pass into the trees in silence.

“Are you sure you don’t know any one called Yorick?” Lillian asks at last.

“No and I have no idea why someone I have never heard of would refer to me by name.”

“Who was it who offered you the money to come to
Olstop
?”

“I don’t know. It was all arranged through an associate of mine and I was on my way to meet the parties involved when the Pardoners stopped me.”

“So, for all you know, this Yorick could have been the one who brought you to
Olstop
?”

“For all I know, yes.”
Aden
answers, settling himself so that his uninjured side is resting against a tree, “but then for all I know, it was the Chief Pardoner himself!” He adds ruefully.

As it gets darker and Sam shows no signs of returning, Lillian follows Sam’s suggestion and makes a small fire.

“You’re sure it won’t be seen from the road?”

“We should keep it low.”
Aden
warns half heartedly but his need for warmth has already overcome his natural caution and he throws another branch on the growing fire even as he says it.

“Even if we aren’t directly visible from the road, surely the glow will be noticeable?”

“We’ve got the trees to give us extra shelter, besides if they had decided to give chase immediately the Inquisitors would have ridden past us by now. More likely they’ll be taking their time, making sure we haven’t pulled a fast one.”

“So doesn’t that mean they might be coming along the road later?”

“If they are going more slowly they’ll hardly be tracking us in the dark. I’m more worried about Sam’s friends up the hill… I don’t imagine he is making us any friends.”

“What do you think has happened to Sam?” Lillian asks her voice betraying worry, “He’s been gone more than an hour.”

“There hasn’t been any shooting, so I think it’s safe to assume he’s still alive.”
Aden
says not bothering to mention that if Sam had fallen foul of the unfortunates he had chosen to ‘hunt’ then he had only got what he had asked for.
 
Instead he pulls himself closer to the fire, laying out as flat as the hole in his side will allow and using a fallen log to prop up his head. Lillian does not bother to say anything else and returns her attention to the fire, perhaps she can sense his disbelief; it hardly matters, let the madman hunt and the girl fret; it would have been a long day without having been shot. As it is he is too exhausted to even show an interest when the girl begins to cook something over the low fire. The scent of cooking meat is pleasant enough though and soon
Aden
’s eyelids are drooping, the weak pulse of the flames sends the shadows dancing rhythmically over the thick tree trunks.
Aden
can tell without looking that the girl is frightened by this but then it is clear that she has not known many nights outside of a comfortable room without servants. Whatever his companions may claim
Aden
knows there are no monsters stalking the wood, he has been called a monster too often himself to put much stock in such superstitions. The noises that make Lillian start are just the quiet rhythms of the night; they have lulled him to sleep a thousand times and now is no different.

Aden
’s eyes jerk open at this thought, as he comes to the realization that, apart from the soft hissing of the pine needles on the branches above him, gently stirring in the wind, there is no sound to be heard. No night birds, no insects, not even the sounds of music or laughter one might expect from people deeper in the wood, which might have explained the sudden, noticeable absence of wild life. Then, just on the edge of his strained hearing, he registers the snap of a branch. All at once sound comes rushing in and it is not the natural cadence he had hoped for but the sound of many churning feet, thrashing and pounding their way through the wild growth and decay of the darkened wood. At some unspoken signal, figures burst from the trees, little more than shadows in the weak light of the fire. Cold predatory eyes flash red with malice or the reflection of the ruddy flame. Aden’s two normal eyes can make out few details but his third eye is not so limited, though it has never been able to perceive
colour
, his third eye has always served him well in the dark, when following movement and detecting contrasts becomes more important than fine detail and hue.

The creatures which face him, now chill him more than the white eyes of the possessed man in Silverstop or anything that he has ever seen in his waking life for that matter! The attackers seem human but their mouths are open in terrible grins, almost grimaces that are necessary to accommodate the sharp fangs that protrude unnaturally below their bottom lips, like the canines of some animal. Their hands too are twisted, ending in hooked claws that reach hungrily into the false, flimsy protection of the firelight. Stifling a cry of mingled shock and pain,
Aden
scrabbles back over the debris strewn forest floor. The scent of earth and rotting pine mixes with the acrid smoke of the fire torturing his overtaxed senses. Panic stricken as he is, his gun is in his hand almost as fast as he can think of it.

Lillian’s pistol spits bright flame at almost the same moment as the mutant begins to fire and two figures topple from the tightening noose of undead flesh.
Aden
fires again, using his incredible speed and accuracy to lay waste to the advancing creatures, his elation at his success is engulfed by a terror close to madness, when all but one of the attackers simply pick themselves up and continue to advance, emitting the unmistakable sound of human laughter.
Aden
’s fingers blur, as he forces more cartridges into his pistol, even if it is only delaying the inevitable, the mutant refuses to simply give up, despite the apparent ineffectiveness of his weapon. He hears a cry of surprise from the rear of the enemy’s ranks, Aden cannot have looked away for more than a fraction of a second but when he looks back, Samuel Blake is amongst them; a heavy knife, stained coal black, apart from a silver sharp edge, in either hand and his eyes gleaming, bright as blood stained stars. In a single catlike bound, he brings down two vampires beneath him, tearing at their throats with his teeth even as they fall and summoning forth the vitality of their slow flowing blood.

Presented with this new threat, the Strigoi turn their attention from their prey and try to bear down the thrashing Pilgrim through pure weight of numbers but try as they might, they cannot prevent the thick steal blades from scoring numerous deadly hits and as the blood flows, the Pilgrim only grows stronger and more voracious. Still laid out on the forest floor,
Aden
sends round after round into the twirling melee, adding his skill to the Pilgrim’s frenzy. Tooth and claw scrape and gouge against cloth, leather and mail but none find purchase in flesh and it quickly becomes clear that the hunters have become the hunted.

The vampires are unused to such a spirited, let alone successful, defense and when six of their number have fallen, the last three break from the defeated pack in different directions, their thirst overridden by their instinct for survival. Even moving with their unnatural, tireless speed, none of them have taken any more than a few paces beyond the firelight before they are brought down. Blake tears into two of them and Lillian takes the legs out from under a third; before this last unfortunate can rise Blake is crouched over him leeching every drop of the vampire’s unholy vitality.
Aden
stares on in disbelief, glad that Lillian cannot see the awful bloodlust on the Pilgrim’s face. At last he understands what Lillian had told him, Samuel Blake, Pilgrim, Crusader, mad man, is a creature truly damned.

“We must move,” the mutant says, rising quickly and ignoring the pain and fresh blood flowing from his newly opened wound, “there could be more of these things along at any moment.”

“There are no more,” Blake says, coughing to clear his throat, “there are a few pretenders and retainers still waiting at the cabin above us
 
but they will scatter when we arrive and their masters do not return. The mortals who follow such creatures are weak more often than not; I doubt they will even be there if we make our approach obvious.”

“How can you be so sure these are all we have to reckon with?”

“How did I know to lead us here?” Sam asks, his voice softening as the hunger abates.

“But how can you know for sure?”
Aden
insists, unable to conceal his growing suspicion.

“Because I have watched them since sunset, all of them wanted to feed, there was no reason to keep anyone in reserve.”

“So you used us as bait.”
Aden
states accusingly.

“As you say, how else could I be sure that I drew them all?” Sam steps into the firelight, a figure made all the more ominous by the fact that, while his great coat is dark with the stains of recent battles, his skin is untouched by even a drop of blood, as if he had absorbed his dreadful harvest even through his pores.

“If I had simply attacked them, some would have escaped, by drawing them to you I was able to ensure that none were missed.”

“And what about the danger to us?”
Aden
snaps angrily, “did you not think of that?”

“Of course I did, but they brought no weapons, they thought to toy with you as they had so many other
travellers
. With the element of surprise and a bit of help from the two of you the outcome was almost certain.”

“Certain!” the mutant spits the word. “You didn’t even warn us!”

“And would you have heeded my warning? From what I could tell, you hold little respect for my beliefs. Had you not seen them for yourself, no doubt you would still be claiming that the Strigoi are only inventions of the Church.”

“I don’t know what those things were or for that matter what you are,”
Aden
says, his hand hovering over his pistol, “you’re the only one I’ve actually seen drinking blood around here.”

Anger flashes over Sam’s face, twisting it in a terrible echo of the feral Strigoi faces that had surrounded them little more than a minute ago; then the Pilgrim relaxes and stares at the mutant with sorrowful eyes.

“Forgive me, I am not myself when the hunger is upon me. I would have warned you if I thought it would do any good but when I left only the need for blood drove me. You are right to say that I am no different to
them,
the truth is I am not, I walk in the sunlight and my heart yet beats but God’s
judgement
is on me, as it is on them. Should I fail in my quest, should I die, I will be one more killer in the night. Now though and this is my only hope to mitigate the things I have done, now I live
 
and may yet hope to be forgiven… I do not wish to be as I am but I can see no choice if I am to beat the devil.”