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Chapter 1: A Hunter
🕑 Added 2021-01-19 16:29:37 +0000 UTCIt was raining. That wasn’t surprising. It was Glasgow after all.
It made fighting harder, though; Kristoff trying not to slip as he dodged the charging werewolf. He just barely escaped his foe’s slashing claws, countering with a swing of his own silvered blade. Kristoff’s slash drew little blood, but the silver got a roar of pain from the werewolf.
The werewolf lunged again, Kristoff jumping above it, spinning as he did to slice a long slash down it’s back. This time there was more blood, more dark than red in the poor lighting of the rainy Scottish night. The werewolf howled in pain and stumbled forward.
The smell of its blood was nearly intoxicating, and would have likely driven a younger or hungrier vampire into a hunger induced haze. Kristoff was neither, however. Two hundred years seeking vengeance against the werewolves of the British Isles for what they’d done... he’d learned to control himself.
He took the initiative now, sliding in with a chopping motion, rendering the werewolf’s right arm useless. He spun with that strike, drawing open the carotid artery on the left side of the beast. He then ducked under the left arm, swinging around onto the werewolf’s back. Kristoff sank his fangs into the wound, tasting the sweet and hot blood of the beast.
A vampire’s fangs normally could not pierce a werewolf’s skin, especially not when one had to work through all that fur, but Kristoff had learned how to feed off them. Having become a hunter of his colony’s enemies, he learned how to feed in battle. The creature buckled as it’s blood was drained, falling on its knees, then forward onto the asphalt.
Once he’d finished feeding the werewolf lay slain. It’s body slowly shifted back to human form, though he didn’t care what that form looked like. He’d set off down the grey and decaying streets of the city before it had finished shedding its fur.
Kristoff was tasked with keeping the current gathering hidden from any werewolves. They’d called any vampire able to travel up to Scotland, after finding the home den of the Wulver Pack. Victory here would give the vampires safety from Werewolves in Scotland. After two hundred years there would finally be somewhere to live in peace, away from the patrolling packs. A point from which to launch raids down into England.
The rest of his patrol that night was quiet, and he ducked into the large abandoned tenement block that the others were camped in before dawn broke, finding safety from the sun behind the boarded up windows.. The other vampires generally gave him space. Those that had gathered were generally young, at least compared to him. Almost all were British at this point, too. Few of his generation remained. Attrition in the centuries long war with the Werewolves had made sure of that. There’d been few survivors of their arrival in London to begin with...
He made his way down to the basement, one of the few parts of the local base of operations that was actually furnished and finished. A pair of plush coffins sat open in the middle of the room. He’d never cared for the effort that went into it, but Fia liked it that way and so he said nothing.
Kristoff quietly removed the outer layers of his clothing, meant to hold off the cold and damp Scottish autumn. He made little response to the sound of the door opening.
“Now there’s a site for sore eyes,” Fia said, walking it with the soft click of the hooves so signature to a baobhan sith. “Last minute strategy discussions are so tiring. Some of the older English boys are far too risk averse.”
She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso. “I’m glad we’re together, though.”
“We have to rest for tonight,” Kristoff replied, his voice flat.
“It’s a shame a man as beautiful as you is always so cold,” Fia said, leaning her chin on his shoulder.
“Tonight is one of the most important battles we’ve had in centuries. We’ve finally found the head den of a major werewolf pack,” Kristoff replied. “I want to be well rested for that.”
“No fun,” Fia muttered, pouting up at him.
“Fun can come after victory,” he replied, slipping away from her and towards his coffin.
“Aye, aye... very well,” Fia grumbled, heading towards her own side of the room.
He laid down, closing his eyes. He vaguely remembered that he used to dream, when he was human, but that was something that had long since left him. Instead, rest was simply a period where his eyes were closed and then the next nightfall arrived.
Today had been no different, the sound of the gathered colony preparing for the night waking him. Fia had already left, having rarely been one to sleep well when excited. He donned his out clothing and reattached the silvered cavalry sabre to his belt before heading up. Most of the younger vampires had daggers and switchblades as their silvered weapons. A few were happy to go with more mundane: objects, cricket bats and pipes and other tools that would not kill a werewolf, but could help take one down so that another vampire might go in for the kill. Normally that would go poorly, but, on a moonless night... numbers would tell before the sun rose.
He found his way to Fia and the other elders soon enough. He’d not been in a rush, the overall strategy mattered little to him as long as he knew where the fight was. They’d still have somewhere they wanted him, though, and he was willing to cooperate. They usually sent him where the best fights were.
Also present was the brownie they’d captured, the small noseless creature squirming as it was poked with iron. It had been the source of their information regarding where the Wulver Pack would hide this new moon.
“And where is the master of the pack going to hide?” one of them was asking.
“He is brave! He would head to the heat of battle!” the brownie squealed.
“Enough, Gregory,” Fia said. “We know everything this creature can tell us. Anything further is wasting our time.”
The English vampire snarled, but backed away from the brownie.
“Does that mean I have my orders, then?” Kristoff asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Kristoff, there yeh are,” Fia said, smiling at him. “I’d like yeh to go in by the kitchen. The bulk of us will be going in the front, and we’d like you to keep the defending forces divided.”
Kristoff nodded.
“Gregory will be going with yeh, though he and his boys have a specific target up on the first floor. I’d like yeh to stay on the ground level. You’ll be able to draw more defenders that way,” Fia continued.
“Understood,” Kristoff replied.
Gregory narrowed his eyes, while Kristoff ignored him.
-b-
Kristoff adjusted his gas mask as he and Gregory’s men rode towards the Wulver estate in the back of a van. Because they were going in through the kitchen, the risk of garlic being used was high. It was one of the more humiliating weaknesses of Balkan Vampires. Baobhan sid lacked that weakness, but they remained rare. There were fewer young women willing to join the endless war that vampires fought then young men, and fewer baobhan sid on the front lines where recruiting happened when a woman did want to join. Kristoff continued to consider it poor planning, but had other worries most days.
“Quiet guy, isn’t he?” the one skinny and blonde vampire said to Gregory.
“I don’t mind it. He’s a jerk when he does talk, afterall,” Gregory replied.
“I’m honest. It’s not my fault the truth makes you look bad,” Kristoff muttered.
He heard a quiet hiss from Gregory.
“We’re almost there,” the driver called out.
Kristoff rolled his shoulders and slipped up to the front of the van. As they split off to the side road, leaving the rest of the caravan of vehicles full of the rest of the assault, he slipped the door open. He leapt out before the van finished coming to a halt and kept low as he ran across the field to the outer wall of the estate. Peeking over the stone wall, he waited for the main assault force to hit the front gate. As that assortment of vehicles crashed through the low gate and spread out across the large lawn of the old estate, a few windows opened on the greystone estate building. Rifle barrels emerged from them, the werewolf defenders opening fire. Bullets wouldn’t kill vampires, but they certainly hurt and would slow down whoever they hit.
There were fewer than Kristoff had feared, though. He slipped over the stone wall and hurried across the yard, keeping low. While it was unlikely much attention would be being paid to the back of the estate, there was no point in being careless. Relying on the moonless night to make up for his lack of cover, he made it to the kitchen door a few seconds later.
He glanced back, and saw Gregory and his men still at the perimeter wall, finally putting on their own gasmasks. Rolling his eyes slightly at their cowardice, he stood up, drew his sword, and kicked the door in. As expected, the first thing to hit him was several containers of garlic powder and garlic salt. While the old WWII gas mask kept out the worst of it, his skin did sting where it was exposed.
A large man charged his way, swinging a claymore at him. He parried with his sabre, spinning out of the way. While even a vampire as old as himself could never match the strength of all but the youngest werewolves in their beast form, their human forms were... human. The roles were quite reversed, to the point that Kristoff felt in nearly dishonourable.
Nearly.
The man still had a sword and a determination to kill, even if he was doomed. A second swing of Kristoff’s sabre brough the man down. A feminine voice screamed, prompting Kristoff to turn, silently cursing the limited vision offered by the gas mask.
A gasp of pain escaped him as the jaws of a wolf clamped onto his left arm.
While they lacked their hybrid beast forms during a new moon, the werewolves could still turn to full wolves. He’d never understood why, but he’d never researched it either.
He considered it a foolish choice, however. There was a reason humans dominated the planet, instead of wolves. Weapons were better than teeth.
Kristoff’s sword drove that point home to the wolf clamped onto his arm, getting a whimper of pain before it lost its grip and fell to the side.
Another man charged his way, this one wielding a Scottish broadsword. Kristoff parried, but the man was clearly a better fighter and swerved out of the way of Kristoff’s counter swing. The man swung again, which Kristoff blocked easily enough. The man was experienced, probably older than any human could hope to live. A few more swings and counters brought a smile to Kristoff’s face. There’d be some honour in this night still, just a little challenge.
A second man tried to join the clash, an ax in hand and clearly hoping to take advantage of Kristoff being busy with the swordsman. That second man proved much less experienced, and Kristoff downed him while barely breaking focus from his main opponent.
The elder werewolf hissed something Kristoff was sure was an insult in Galic before charging. The pair had clashed, eventually locking swords and glaring at each other, when the man let out a ‘herk’, and his eyes went empty. He fell, and revealed Gregory with a large dagger in hand. His men were also filing into the room, weapons ready.
“That was my kill,” Kristoff muttered.
“Fia gave me and my men a job to do upstairs. We can only wait so long,” Gregory replied sharply.
“Feh,” Kristoff grumbled, while stepping out of the way of the dozen or so men Gregory had brought with him.
The group hurried up the servant’s stairwell as Kristoff moved towards the main door of the kitchen. He grabbed a pan and threw it down the hallway. The noise drew a pair of defenders. The man and woman charged his way, the man armed with a woodcutting ax and the woman a polearm.
The duo kept Kristoff busy for a couple of minutes, mostly because the woman was quite intelligent with using the reach of her weapon. His experience advantage told in the end, though, and he was left alone in the kitchen.
He removed the gasmask, testing to find the garlic fumes had generally been overpowered by blood. Kristoff took a moment to debate his options. Holding the kitchen to prevent any escapees out that back door was probably the most tactically sound option, even if it did seem boring and a waste of his abilities. Fia would complain if he disobeyed orders, and her anger was something he prefered to avoid. Even as her ‘favourite’.
He paced back and forth, waiting for an opponent. He’d begun to second guess his choice when the door to the staircase opened. It closed a moment later, and, for a moment, he thought it had been the wind. Or a brownie. Then his eyes caught motion near the ground.
Looking down he saw a... a child.
What was a child doing here?
