Chapter 33 | Garroway #2
In all, the district is in rough shape. Upkeep is rarely done, the zealots deciding to live in squalor rather than splendor like the Commerce Ward, or secrecy like the Intelligence Ward.
No one ever comes here, because why would they?
The zealots are mad, warped by the Damned, if it’s to be believed.
“We’ve been killing our own kind for generations, cub,” Vallan says from the carriage bench. “Only difference this time, is we actually have a reason for the violence.”
“Fair point.”
With a snap of his wrist on the reins, our wheels turn and roll us into the district.
It doesn’t take us long to meet our first resistance. Three slumped zealots appear from the shadows of a crumbled building with vines growing around it and through the windows.
When they approach, the front-most vampire speaks in a wheeze. “Who dares approach the enclave of the Damned Sister? You outsiders are unwelcome here.”
Vallan frowns and hops off the bench. “We’re all Olhavians, are we not, brother?” He towers over these three wretches, their hoods and forest green robes hiding gaunt, skeletal bodies.
It seems these three have not been eating well.
“Nay,” says the vampire. “We are warriors of the Damned, blessed for eternity. You are warriors of nothing, doomed for your ambition and negligence to the deities and spirits.”
I catch a hint of moonlight on his pale, weathered face, and notice the stark whites of his eyes. The emblem of Valenthia Yurlyth is tattooed directly in the center of his forehead. It’s an ugly mark, something akin to a wheel and an X within it.
Vallan sighs. “Warriors of nothing? My axe would disagree.”
“What?”
In one swift motion belying his size, Vallan wrenches his war-axe off his back, swings it wide, and splits the vampire through the middle in an arc that sprays black blood across the cobblestones.
The vampire’s head and torso fly to the left, his legs fly to the right, and his robe is caught somewhere in the middle.
My eyes widen.
The other two vampires screech and turn to flee.
Vallan launches his axe into the back of the one on the left—a maneuver he’s become quite accustomed to in recent months, I’ve noticed.
When the huge blade plants itself in the vampire’s spine, he pinwheels forward and somersaults to a halt.
I crouch and dash toward the limping zealot on the right, drawing two daggers. The creature moves slowly and I’m on him in seconds, stabbing into both palms as he spins and lifts them heavenward to try and ward my attack.
Bringing my blades down, I pin the zealot’s hands to his own head, stabbing into his brain. The vampire seizes, screeches, and topples over. His hands flutter like tiny wings against his face.
I draw my sword and lift it to stab into his heart.
“Wait,” Vallan says.
I stab down anyway, ending the wretch’s cries. Then I wipe the blood off my blade. “Sorry. Couldn’t hear you over all his screaming.”
Vallan frowns, standing over the vampire with the axe in his back.
The wretch tries to crawl away, spine severed by the blade but still using his arms to dig.
“At least we have this one to question,” he says, crouching and wrenching the axe from the zealot’s back.
He kicks the wailing monster over, now pooled by its own blood.
I grab my two daggers from the dead bloody at my feet, sheathe my sword, and walk over while unfurling Cyprilis’ list from my tunic.
“We’re looking for these four zealots,” Vallan says, holding the page in front of the creature’s face. “Tell us where to find them, and I promise to send you to meet your Damned expeditiously.”
The creature spits on the page.
“Wrong answer,” Vallan sighs.
“Wait,” I say, holding a hand up before he can finish his grisly work.
“Tell us, beast, or we will raze this overturned, vine-wrapped shithole you were trying to flee to.” I motion toward the wrecked building.
Clearly, it holds some sort of importance to these three—maybe a praying grounds of sorts.
That gets the vampire sputtering. “N-No . . . do not desecrate the Tower of Lesions!”
“Then talk,” I reply.
He inspects the page with rasping breaths, his eyes fluttering. The tattoo on his forehead seems to burn, and he hisses. “I recognize this one.” He points to the picture of the master vampire Cyprilis called Origin. “Find him, find the others.”
“Where do we find him?”
“Tower of Blisters. Southern sect, past the statue of Borgoleth.”
I blink. These words mean nothing to me. For once, I’m ashamed not to know more about my own home. I assume Borgoleth is a deity these wretches pray to.
“Good enough for me,” Vallan says.
“It—”
He beheads the vampire without another word.
“—is?”
Standing, I tuck the list away and rub the back of my neck. “So swift to violence tonight, Vall.”
“I’m hungry. And there’s nothing here worth feeding on, so I’d rather get out of here as quickly as we can, cub.”
I nod slowly, heading back to the carriage.
“And besides,” Vallan adds, motioning to the corpses. “We have disguises now.”
“True. Good thing there were three,” I quip, “because you cut that first bastard in half, and his robe with him.”
Vallan chuckles darkly as we begin to disrobe the disgusting vampires of their robes.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard Vallan laugh, and it’s oddly satisfying and mortifying at the same time.
The statue of Borgoleth is not hard to find: It’s an oversized gargoyle with four wings set in the middle of a town bazaar in this gods-forsaken, abandoned district.
We ran across three other small groups of zealots around campfires while heading here, but they ignored us, so we ignored them. It seemed only the first three were “watchguards” of any sort, though they didn’t put up much of a fight.
I have to wonder if the zealots of Valenthia Yurlyth are even allowed weapons in this enclave. If not, it will surely make our mission easier.
Beyond the hunchbacked statue sits a tall tower leaning precariously against another building. It looks like one well-placed kick would topple the five-story structure to the ground.
Vallan and I share a shrug and approach, dressed in our disgusting robes. My hands itch beneath the fabric, hidden near my weapons. It’s comical looking at Vallan struggle in his ceremonial garb with how tight the damned thing is on his huge frame. Mine fits me much better.
We stand across the street from the building, not bothering to hide ourselves.
No one here has posed a threat yet, and I feel infinitely more powerful and safe with Vallan Stellos by my side.
Another reason it will hurt so badly if he turns out to be a turncoat.
The Damned knows I don’t want him as an enemy.
We survey the scene for half an hour, our eyes moving, our arms folded. We stay hunched over with our hoods drawn, so any rare zealot passing by doesn’t get the itch to inspect us. We don’t want them noticing we don’t share the same burn-tattoo on our foreheads they all seem to.
“If it were up to me, I’d say burn this whole fucking district and start anew,” I mutter, glancing around at the sickly green tint on everything. An eerie fog rolls through the deserted streets. I’m a fucking dhampir, and even I don’t want to be here for long.
“Or just make it the Four Ministries and be done with it,” Vallan adds.
I chuckle, elbowing him. “Maybe it’ll be the first area Master Skar ‘fixes’ once he lords over everyone in Olhav.” When I glance up at the massive vampire to gauge his reaction, I notice the corner of his lip curling in a smirk.
If there’s nothing else we can get along doing, it’s jabbing at Skartovius Ashfen. The arrogant lord deserves it, even if we both appreciate him in our own way.
And by all that’s unholy, it’s working. He’s now laughed and smiled since joining forces with me to kill Cyprilis’ slavers. The bastard truly does heal from murder!
I vow then and there to study the revolutions of Vallan Stellos’ mind if he ever ends up dead, to see what crazy shit I might find.
After thirty minutes of beast-charmed scouting—plenty of fodder for me to use here—I learn there are no less than fifteen zealots walking among the five stories, mostly confined to the lower two levels.
Only three vampires walk the stairs to the upper levels, a fact we can see through the busted-out windows and winding staircases evident through said windows.
“Those must be the petty lords.” I nudge my chin to the top level where one of the vampires sits in prayer.
“We don’t have time for this,” Vallan says. “I thought I recognized one of the faces on the page through that first-level window. Did you catch a glimpse, cub?”
I shake my head, hoping he’s right. “I take it your idea is to barge in and just start swinging?”
“Not quite.”
“Good. Because I don’t particularly want to start a war with Overlady Valenthia right now, when we’re focused on Overlady Alacine. What do you have in mind?”
“This,” Vallan grunts, hoisting out a large clay pot from inside his tunic. Where he had it hidden, I have no idea. “Should get the ball rolling adequately enough.”
I blink wide-eyed at him. He’s holding one of his homemade explosives. “I was jesting when I said we should burn the whole fucking place down!”
“I wasn’t.” Vallan trots three steps across the street, lifting his arms back—
“Wait, brother!”
—and he heaves the fucking pot into the sky.
I watch in horrified silence as is arcs and then sinks, cascading, drifting—
Crashing through the blown-out second story window.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Pin-drop silence, and—
The explosion blasts a wall of wind toward us so powerful it sweeps me off my feet onto my back. Vallan stays standing by virtue of his size. He casually lifts an arm to block his face once the next maelstrom of dirt and debris rains on us.
My eyebrows jump to my forehead as the screams from the interior of the Tower of Blisters reach the night sky. I lower my arm and see the entire leaning tower has been obliterated, crushed into sheet rock and gravel.
Limbs are everywhere. Blood coats the streets. An armless vampire walks aimlessly down the road, lost and partly on fire.
Vallan comes to me, pulls me onto my feet by my collar, and grabs the list. He checks the pictures, frowns, and glances over at the wandering, dismembered vampire.
“There we are.” He casually jogs to the vampire, brings his axe out, and crunches into his heart from behind.
When the vampire topples, Vallan calls across the street: “You can strike Pine off the list! Or was it Boulder? Didn’t smell much like a pine forest to me. Just like shit, piss, and blood.” The wicked bastard smiles humorlessly as he meanders toward the destroyed tower.
From the corners of the bazaar, an army of zealots begins to wander cautiously toward the area, through the green light and fog. They’re far still, and they walk slowly, but they won’t be far for long.
Vallan has created the exact kind of spectacle we were trying to avoid.
Unsure what else to do, I draw my swords, say a prayer to the Damned, and rush after him.
We pick off vampires emerging from the cloud of dust, hacking into them, killing them, and storing their decapitated heads in a torn hood we’ve found and started using as a bag.
Quickly, Vallan slays Pine and Boulder.
I find the zealot named Silence on another street, packed together with two others. “Silence!” I shout into the darkness.
His shoulders tense as his two allies shuffle off. Slowly, he turns. “Wh-Who are you devils?”
“Guardians sent from Sister Cyprilis of the Chained Sisters. Remember her?”
He guffaws. Blood coats his dirt-ridden face, and he rubs muck from his white eyes. “You lie. The Whore of Bedburrow is dead. I killed her myself.”
“Then your friend Origin must have lied to you. Because she’s a vampiress, just like us.” I smile at the creature, standing fifteen feet from me across the road. He opens his mouth—
My daggers fly through the air and fog and plant between his opened jaw, spearing the back of his neck. My second one finds his chest, piercing his heart, and he collapses before uttering another word.
When I go over to retrieve my daggers—not before sawing off the vampire’s head, of course—I stare down at him with a frown. “Not very silent after all, were you?”
I return to the front of the wreckage, noticing the wave of zealots getting closer. An entire congregation of them shuffles forward as one mass. Pointing behind Vallan, I gulp. “Uh, time to go, brother. Our friends don’t look too happy, and they’re close.”
“Perfect timing, cub,” Vallan answers cheerily. He grunts, rips something off the ground with a sickening rasp of blood and bone, and then wags the slack face of someone’s head by the hair. “Look who I found.”
I wince. “Origin, I take it?”
Vallan tosses the head in the bag. I throw in Silent’s head, and suddenly realize that we’re no better than someone like Overlord Barnabac Craxon, who lined his entire district with impaled bodies and skulls after the Trithea Plaza incident.
But those people he killed were innocent. These four were anything but innocent.
So I suppose we’re different after all.
Vallan and I stare at the wave of croaking vampires headed toward us, now less than a hundred paces yet moving no faster than before. They’re like slugs, infesting every inch of ground they cover.
I share a look with Vall. “To the carriage, brother?”
He nods curtly, swinging the bag of heads over his shoulder with a satisfied grunt. “Posthaste, cub.”