A Secret Man of Blood

Chapter Sixteen

*

Tancred feels something cold enter his consciousness and knows it to be death, his hand hanging uselessly by the sword hilt at his side. He sees the face of a man dressed in fierce black robes and is rooted to his stare, his eyes caught in the net of a face only he can see, a hood hanging right across the other man's features.

"I saw you on the battlefield," the man insists, his voice low and commanding as he takes a knee by Tancred's side. The man's attention seems drawn by Tancred's wounds as he speaks, his posture quivering to the blood, bending towards it like a heavy-laden fishing pole towards the water. "You were a force of nature."

"Who are you?" Tancred splutters.

"Your salvation," the man answers, his words burning slowly in Tancred's dying mind. "I'm going to ask you to make a decision."

"Fuck you!" Tancred chokes out his mighty lifeblood.

"Live or die," the man whispers and lowers his hooded head, a surge of pain shooting through Tancred's neck and down his body, quickly replaced as if through injection by a calm, wonderful lightness.

A severed wrist is offered to him, and a voice echoes down.

"Drink my blood and you will live to have revenge, don't and you will die. I offer this to you freely."

He drinks and his body grows firm with strength, life trumpeting through his veins; it is almost too much and yet he could never let it go. The stranger stands and Tancred looks up, body no longer ringing with pain. Somehow, he understands part of the exchange that has taken place, and feels a new knowledge and pride throbbing within him, but also doubt and dependence for the first time.

"Stand up, my son."

New senses and impressions gallop down on him and he rises to meet his maker, who places a hand on his new son's shoulders, but in an instant the father is gone.

Tancred emerges from the chapel to gasps of incredulity and delight, his armour still stained with his own blood and the blood of many others. He points to some of the fallen and dying talent, ordering healthy fighters. "Bring Dymock and Ferguson to the chapel, bring all my wounded knights."

In the quiet of the sanctum, without knowing how he knows it, he drinks from the others and, one by one, offers them his blood. They rise and, looking at them, tears of pride and joy almost appear in Tancred's eyes. Seven are healed but the eighth, and last, is Gavick, who Tancred approaches, but before he can administer his vampire's touch the other seven swoop down on Gavick and drink him dry, sorrow and hunger wrestling deliriously in their eyes as they cover him like rats on a corpse.

Disgusted, Tancred addresses his men tentatively, though his great sword is ready at his side. "Men?" They turn at once and acknowledge his command.

"By Caliban!" one of Tancred's mortal soldiers declares, as the chapel door swings open and the seven knights, plus their leader, emerges.

"It's a miracle!" cries another.

"Open the gates and let the enemy through!" Tancred bellows, the enemy sweeping in and being cut down by the immortal warriors.

Everyone is bathed in blood and Tancred's heart sings with joy, but the song turns to ashes in his chest as he sees the change in his men, who morph from strong and handsome versions of their normal selves to strange, six-clawed creatures taller than men and with skin the colour of tree bark. The creatures descend on soldiers of both sides and tear them apart, devouring whatever they come across. One of them jumps at Tancred, who is frozen with regret and wounded hope.