04 - Rise of the Lycans Read Online Free PDF

Flickering torches
sputtered in their sconces. Green stained-glass windows occupied recessed niches
in the upper tiers of the walls. Granite steps led down to the sunken lower
level, where three burnished bronze disks were embedded in the marble floor. A
concentric pattern of overlapping Celtic runes surrounded the circular hatches,
each of which was engraved with a single letter: A for Amelia, M for Marcus, and V for Viktor.
    Viktor wondered what his fellow Elders were dreaming of as they took their
turns hibernating beneath the earth. Hallowed tradition dictated that only one
Elder ruled over the coven each century, the better to avoid the internecine
power struggles that had threatened to tear them apart in the early history of
the vampire kind. At times Viktor envied Marcus and Amelia as they slumbered
peacefully in their respective sarcophagi, cut off from the petty annoyances
that plagued him these days. He often visited the crypt to be alone with his
thoughts.
    But sometime his troubles found him anyway.
    “The nobles are upset, milord,” Coloman insisted. A member of the high council, the undead boyar had intruded upon the Elder’s
meditations with yet another dreary litany of grievances. The man’s lean face
bore a habitually disapproving expression. His dark brown hair was gray at the
temples. He wore a crisp black leather doublet over a high-necked black satin
robe. Bronze medallions reflected his rank. “Although William himself is locked
away for all eternity his pestilence has not been checked. Marauding packs of
werewolves have killed our vassals’ slaves….”
    “Humans upset,” Viktor said archly. Smirking, he placed a hand over his
heart. “Tanis, please take note of the pain that brings me.”
    The scribe dutifully scribbled the Elder’s remark onto a piece of parchment.
He stood attentively at Viktor’s side, the better to preserve his master’s
thoughts for eternity. So ubiquitous was the scholarly vampire that Viktor often
forgot he was there.
    Coloman ignored Viktor’s sarcastic tone. “Perhaps, milord. Yet their lost
slaves mean our lost silver.”
    “Enough!” Viktor barked. The man’s effrontery bordered on insolence. One of
Marcus’ favorites, Coloman had long been a thorn in Viktor’s side. He would
have banished the man centuries ago had Coloman not enjoyed the other Elder’s
protection. “Have I not increased our holdings tenfold since Marcus and Amelia
took their sleep?” He sat down upon an imposing stone throne overlooking the
crypt. “We will deal with the wolves as we always have.”
    But his confident assertion was belied by a sudden howl that penetrated even
the gloomy recesses of the crypt. Viktor and his minions looked up in alarm. A warning horn sounded from the ramparts many stories above them. A second
howl, even louder than the first, added to the clamor.
    The baying seemed to come from right outside the castle walls.
     
    Sparks flew from the anvil as Lucian hammered out the dents in a damaged iron
breastplate. The white-hot metal, which he had heated to incandescence in the
nearby forge, was molded by his skillful blows. A pair of long metal tongs held
the molten armor in place. Bell-like tones pealed whenever the hammer tapped the
thin steel plate welded to the face of a large wrought-iron anvil, which sat
atop the stump of a hewn elm tree. Lucian held the metal firmly against the
anvil’s horn in order to curve it just so. Singed leather hides enclosed his
smithy, the better to shield the rest of the castle from the sparks thrown off
by his work. A large barrel of brine waited to cool and temper the metal once he
was through pounding it back into shape. Horseshoes were draped over the rim of
the tub. The smell of burning charcoal rose from the glowing forge. Pokers,
rakes, shears, and other tools were scattered haphazardly about the shop.
Droplets of molten slag cooled upon the rough stone floor. Racks of swords,
pikes,