The two Blood Drinkers had followed the one hunting them down until a bend in the road. They were irritated, he had known or suspected being followed. When he got a chance, he took it to lose his pursuit. Neither of the cultists were even slightly comfortable outside the town, and had none of the tracking skills they had heard of. So the men cussed each other for a bit at the bend their foe had disappeared at. They felt like fools here, certain the barbarian had not gone far, and his skills would be no challenge to the abilities of their queen.
"You stay here, I will report back." the older one said, finally.
"Yes, you go back and get the glory, I will stay here to be slain when he returns. I am not a fool, old man." The anger of the youth was deep, as if the young man resented the elder for some time before.
"Do as I say, boy, I am in no mood for your rebellions now. I brought you and your sister into the glory of the Blood Drinkers, and unlike you, I have been chosen before to give my own blood to a master." The old man did not wait. for the youth to reply, but turned away, and walked back slowly, checking the edges of the trees around the trail they had followed the hunter along. It had not taken the words of his son to make the man think the hunter had turned to ambush them.
He knew the barbarian had been severely wounded, perhaps enough to die of his wounds, but he had listened many times to the stories told in the tavern of the dwarves in their enclave across the Kasatur stream. There the warriors had spoken harshly of the dangers of hunting various prey, and all had listened the three times that the Kensori Wildman had spoken, once upon the dangers of auroch gone feral and once on hunting the great red furred long nosed tusk beasts of his homeland. But the room went silent when he stated the most dangerous of them all was man, he had gotten everyone's attention. He had told them that when a man was wounded, he was as dangerous as any beast. It was all the hunter had said, but it told them all he was a hunter of men, not beasts now.
And as a man, even one who had drank of the blood in his Mistress' veins, he was scared. Thirty of the cult, about a quarter of the membership, had died in the fire bombings, as had three mistresses, and five recently risen masters and mistresses. The man scratched the spot on his arm, where the nail of silver had entered during the explosiions, as he tried to duck away from the catapult shot.
No, they were hunting a man, a wounded man. And all the hunters had said that the wounded prey was more deadly than a predator. He was just glad it was not a woman they hunted. The hunters said that made it worse.
The hunter was dreaming, but not like his normal dreams. This dream was of the hunt he was on until that morning, he dreamed of the fight in town, how the thug had tried to slay him first, of the vampires on the necropolis, and their foolish attempts at capturing him to feed, of slaying Jenro, and several other guards he knew because they had the long fangs, blood on their jaws, and red eyes of the fiends. Of seeing a child killed by one of the vampires, dragged from its home, screaming for her mother. And how he had slain the little one out of mercy, when he realized the whore from the Inn of the Crimson Tide had indeed done the worst thing he could think of in her last moments, and poured the blood of her wounds into the child's mouth.
He started to struggle to awaken, not wanting to remember, but something forced him to continue on. The nine shot with holly bolts, the six blood drinkers he had found over a pregnant woman, and how in a rage he had flown in like the samurai of the land he lived in now, decapitating them all before they could finish her, only to discover she too was a Blood Drinker, and they were acting out some foul necromancy. The creature in her belly had clawed its way out, half baby, half demon, all evil incarnate on earth. That dance of death, with a beast that was not truly of earth, was horrid, had cost him wounds he had to cauterize briefly to stop the bleeding.
He relived them all, even the joy he had felt when he entered the tomb of the long dead engineer, whose catapult and sapping mines he had used with such luck. A joy not from himself, but that seemed to the hunter to have come from the very walls of that mausoleum. He remembered the young boy, turned vampire, never to grow any further, who he had thought at first was human and a victim, until as he picked the child up to hurry him to a hiding place, the brat had bit at his neck, only to find the thick leather of the arsiniotherium protecting it as a collar.
He relived his walking away, not to surrender in defeat, but to find a place to rest and regroup. How after many hunts in the area, this place had stuck in his mind as safe, pure, and perhaps even blessed. Scorpio was nearly awake, becoming aware his dreams were not at his own mind's bidding, and worried deeply. He began to twist, turn and try to get away from the dreams, and find reality again, his body pressing against unfamiliar things as he did. His mind was in a panic, the vampires had come, and were sucking out his soul to use in some foul necromancy, and would take his heart, thus denying him the walk of the spirit world after death, binding him to the place he died, to haunt it as Hiathuna, his partner and boyhood friend, had been bound to the spot the mage of the dark arts had tied him too until the hunter called Tagrun then and Scorpio now, had returned that heart to his body, freeing him.
He awoke with a start, no longer under the bench, but in the cradling arms of the idol. His first thoughts were the idol was not as safe and peaceful as he thought, until he looked into its face, and saw the once closed eyelids were open, made of rich sapphires worth enough to fire the coin lust of any merchant's soul, but streaming tears of clear moisture onto her white marble cheeks. The expression was no longer one of peace but sorrow. Yet there was some hint, a remembered thing from when his mother was with him, both as a child, and when he faced his cousin in the Dunes and met her again. They were tears of regret and sorrow, not anger or hate.
*peace, be at ease*
The words filled Scorpio's head but did not tickle his ears. He had learned from others of the mind speaking, his uncle had tried to see if the youngster had the talent, but had died before they could determine how much of his maternal line's gifts he had received from her. Strangely, he was alright with hearing this voice, it was calming, soothing the raw edges of his spirit this hunt had created. The Kenrai clansman stopped struggling, and let the solace behind those words wash over him.
It was then he noticed his wounds were healed, as if they had never been there in the first place. He did not know what to think, but looked around himself slowly, taking in the seemingly changed ruined shrine. The ruins were still there, but the vegetation that had grown over the columns was gone, leaving the pitted but still beautiful grey blue granite of their substance shining in the afternoon sun.
*There is no need to worry. The damned may not enter my glade.*
Again the voice in his head. But the phrasing, the healing, it made him realize he had been right all along, this was a place of worship once, and this was the idol of some forgotten goddess. He slowly sat up, noting even the rents in his clothing had been repaired, missing beads replaced, and no sign of battle remained on him. But the pouch hanging from his neck had changed, With the other marks the Uliqua of the Yarocha had set there when he hunted the Leech Witch, there was another mark, one he did not recognize. And it seemed heavier, as if something had been added to the pouch.
*Child of many peoples, you have far to travel yet, before understanding yourself and your true purpose. Let not this part of your life make you bitter and hateful. Learn and grow. But know this, you have chosen the path towards light, and darkness will always assail you along it. Go and end the terrible night these wicked folk bring, and return to me when your journeys say you must.*
The wave of wellness and love that washed over him brought tears to his eyes as Scorpio got to his feet, looking around with the instincts honed by the many hunts, for man and beast both.
There on the column nearest the overgrown trail to this place was an eagle. Not one of the sea eagles common here, but a great golden headed one of his land, staring down at him. At the foot of the column was a wolf, and by a tree nearby was a beaver. An otter came up from the pool between that pillar and the temple's ruins, to dance upon the grass. None of these creatures lived in this land, they did in his home on the prairies east of here, and only a few wolves came across the mountains from time to time, never staying. These were not the real creatures, but aspects of the totems. He had only once seen the eagle, and a few times the otter. But not being of any clan save the Kenrai, he wondered why all these were here.
A skittering on the ground grabbed his attention, and he noted a black scorpion, hunting other bugs on the buckled flagged stones of the floor of the temple. That creature was of this land, and he knew what that totem was telling him. The time to hunt again was upon him. He left not even noticing the eyes of the idol slowly shutting again, as the goddess who was bound in stone returned to sleep, until needed again.
At his belt was his red knife, the badge of his profession, cleaned and ready for use again. He turned to bow to the idol, and then to the totems of his father's peoples. Knowing there would be nothing left to do save the final night of hunting, and the clean up afterwards.
The only problem was, as he saw it, Scorpio was not good at cleaning up messes he made. He tended to leave them for others, to remind them of the price to be paid when a knife was purchased to take a life. Or to end something that no longer lived. The bounty hunter turned assassin gathered his belongings, settled into a gentle pace, and started back to the war he would long have to fight, to let the day come with each rising of the sun.
Tanji Bakin stood on the trail, still waiting for the hunter to come take his life. It had not taken the young boy long to realize he and his sister were mere pawns in their parents' bid for immortality, but still he obeyed, more out of love of his Mistress than filial duty. He was the bait in this trap. More than enough time had passed for his father to reach the necropolis, and gather others not yet dead and risen to the glory of being a nosferatu for the ambush that was to be here. Bakin had no doubts he was meant to die to bring out the hunter, so the other Blood Drinkers could capture him for their Queen to feast on. He only wished his own mistress had survived the night before to drain his blood, refill him with her own blessed ichors, stop his heart and let him rise as a vampire to server her and the queen. But that was not to be, she had burned away to nothingness in the impact of that catapult shot. He cursed the hunter silently, and vowed revenge, hoping as his Mistress' last surviving pawn, the queen would let him destroy the body of the hunter, sealing his soul to her bidding for eternity and beyond.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts, he never noticed the parting of the brush behind him, until the red knife of the assassin was in his throat, giving him a taste of the pain his heroines had done to so many over the last few moons. Unlike the vampires and cultists though, this predator just let his blood flow into the ground he collapsed to, as he tried in vain to stop the gushing flow of his life juice from his nearly severed neck. His last thought was that there was a strong smell, then taste of garlic, as a clove was dropped into his open mouth, as a precaution against his rising as undead.
The Scorpion rose from his kill, and like his namesake, skittered away, to find more prey. It was a good day to die, if you were a vampire or Blood Drinker, he thought. A very good day indeed.
===
Scorpio moved on another trail back to the necropolis, one that paralleled the one he had taken only hours before to the ruined temple of the unknown goddess. He had never been overly religious, despite his upbringing, until today. The sight of the many Totems and the goddess' idol had stirred something in him he had not thought of before, that the gods were real, and personal. He had much to think about when this hunt was over, but until it was, he had the job to do.
Halfway back to the necropolis, he heard voices on the main road his trail echoed. He stopped and listened, smiling when he heard a wagon, and talk of the feast of blood to come once he was dead and all could return to hunting in the town. Those Blood Drinkers thought that the power of a person could be absorbed by all who drank the life giving fluid. It was time to show them a trick he had learned a long time ago. With a silent swiftness, he turned back towards the lowering sun, and found the trees he remembered several li ahead of the fools. The hatchet he had let him finish the job on the westernmost one started by rot and insects quickly. It fell across the road with a loud crash, making the place impassable. Five wagon lengths east was a similar tree, already broken at the base, held up by ropes attached by some concerned caravan master.
He waited ever so patiently for his prey to come to the trap, hatchet in hand to cut the ropes, and his lantern filled with oil and lit, sitting in a low pit he had dug for it. He had the tools of his trade readied, including the old recurve bow he had thought to never use again after getting the hand crossbow the hunter had left behind in the city of the dead that morning. Sure enough the cultists brazenly came down the road, until they encountered the fallen tree. They even obliged him by leaving the wagon placed for something he had never hoped for, lest luck betray the thought. He heard them curse and call for axes and ropes to make a path for the Mistress' chariot.
As most of them were at the forward tree, he rapidly cut the ropes holding up the other dead monster, the thunks blending in with those from the workers at the decayed bulk, until the suspended colossus began its fall. They all stopped, and the hatchet slammed into the skull of the Blood Drinker closest to him after Scorpio cut the last rope. The massive trunk fell across the covered wagon crushing it, and tearing apart the closed over canopy of the still living trees to let in the bright rays of the afternoon sun.
The Kenrai clansman grabbed the lantern and tossed it into the mess of the broken wagon, hearing the glass oil bulb shatter, and the flames grab hold. After that for a few moments he was too busy with the bow, sending arrows into the cultists until they realized where he was and the four remaining charged towards him, swinging their own axes wildly.
Scorpio smiled grimly, drew his short sword, and stepped into the road quickly, intercepting one of the cultists from the side. The fool had been placed off balance and fallen from one of the wild swings, as he got up, his neck was exposed, and a quick thrust severed all his arteries and veins, while the spin the hunter turned out of him in tore out his windpipe. The next one was a simple woman, who had no clue how to use an axe, but was doing so at her Mistress' command. She was lured into exposing her chest with a simple feint, and another stab between the ribs this time ended her life.
The last two were more wary, They knew they faced their death, and did not approach it lightly. These cultists were trained in swordplay, not in axes, and the subtleties of the hew versus stab and slash were lost on them. One fell to the ground after overextending, only to have his hamstrings cut, and the arm with the axe lopped off. The other gave Scorpio no trouble at all, and chopped off his own foot. As he lay screaming on the ground, the hunter walked up slowly, and drew his gutting knife, the wicked hook of it glinting in the sun.
"Today is a good day to die. Be glad, the gods and spirits will grant you mercy, if you die like a man." Scorpio's words were cold, like the wind that brought the snows in the most bitter of winters. This one he knew, and the person had long said the hunter was a drain on the community, who polluted its auras with his cowardice at avoiding fights. So the hunter took time, as he checked to see if the man actually had any guts of his own. And taking the liver and heart out of the chest, to prevent him from rising, as his neck had the tell-tale scars of feeding a vampire before, and thus being infected with their taint.
When he was done with his simple revenge, he stood and looked over at the three still fighting to free the screaming vampire in the ruined wagon. Those fools were so absorbed in saving the former human lady, they never noticed the fight, of the knives stabbing into their backs to end them. Scorpio Kenrai shook off the blood from his sword, and then glanced at the ruined farm wagon, now fully ablaze, igniting slowly the tree that had crippled it. Inside the mess he could hear the whimpers and pleas of the vampire, a voice once loaded with sex appeal and seduction to her ways, now filled with fear and hate. One last scream came, as the wagon sides broke in blaze he had started, allowing the tree to drop into the bed. And silhouetted in the flames was the chest of the vampire, being speared by a burning stub of a branch.
He had only a few more to go. He knew not how many Blood Drinkers, but these fools had spoken of the numbers in terms he could guess. Two of the undead fiends left, and maybe a few dozen cult followers. Already, the hunter had a plan to avoid cleaning the mess he would make up. One the great lady in the castle might not like, but she should have known his reputation. The hunter recovered all his weapons, tossed the bodies and parts into the pyre, and moved on. He had an appointment with death to meet. If not theirs, then his own. That was the code of the Allegiance of the Blades. You take the job, you finish it or die trying.
===
Noro Ishi stepped out from the safety of the tomb as the sun at last went below the horizon. He could see the pall of smoke from a forest fire in the west spreading its orange glow to the sky, and taste the ash of human and vampires both mixed with the soot of burnt vegetation in the air. The samurai had fallen a long time before to the charms of Katlayna, and knew she was his Queen, even before she broke free of the bitch who ran that den of perversions she had been enslaved in. When his lover had left, he had gone to Daimyo Gomi and offered his services to find the rogue vampire. He had never said to the lord he had sworn to that he would slay her, so his honor was still unstained, in his view.
She had been easy to find, only three days after leaving. She had tossed aside all subterfuge, to call the Blood Drinkers to her service. The choice of the necropolis had been obvious, it was where they all seemed to go, the vampires and Blood Drinkers, the Leech Witch and the others over the years. The damned and the undead felt most at home surrounded by the rotting bodies and monuments to those already in hell. They came here like moths to an open flame to die. So he had shown them how to survive dancing with the flames.
When he had come to the archipelago, she had been waiting for him, the lust for his soul in her eyes, which only blazed brighter when he had asked her to make him her servant, so he could protect her from the likes of that which now ravaged their unholy community. Had she known it was not just her will in him, she would never have let him rise from the soil on the third night, to stand by her side and set up her downfall. Always before, save one time, the vampires here had a queen. If they had an emperor, like himself, the whole of the land would be theirs to take. He had been the one to capture the guards, and feed them to the whores, letting them slack their uncontrolled thirsts, while being careful in his own feasts, taking only a few each night, and never raising any servants for himself. He wanted warriors, and one such was coming.
Over the years, Ishi had come to hate the hunter from the prairies, who did the things honor had bound him not to do, or had been unable to achieve by his own skills. Now at last they would get the fight he had wanted all along. The fight of samurai against gaijin, one that could only end, in his opinion, in victory for the more cultured warrior, and the death of the barbarian who could not even read or write his own death poem. But that was fine by Ishi, he would write one for the boy, in his own blood.
The fallen noble of Cosarali settled his swords, thinking not of the fight to come, but of the glories that would be, when he slew that weak willed fool Gomi, and took his women and children as feast or servants. After letting his mind wander, he grabbed a young girl of the Blood Drinkers, and pulled her close to him. She would be his insurance of victory.
"All of you, to the west side, slow him down, while I and this one do the ritual of the sharing of bloods, but do not slay him. He is the queen's to slay, or mine at her bidding." The assembled cultists, their numbers thinned by both the hunter and a daylight raid from the town guard, moved off, hefting weapons like the peasants they were. Fodder for the fight to come, to whet the appetites of the real contestants.
He turned to the girl, and told her to disrobe, and then rutted upon her as he drank her blood, and then as she was dying pierced his own chest with a talon to give the real blood of life, still sating his carnal desires in her dying body.
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