Incense and Iron

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Upon the keep of Tehmota Castle, gears within the ancient astrological clock ground past each other into an alignment not seen in a millennia. This night would usher forth a new era.

Patience. This is almost over. A miasma of incense hung heavy throughout the corridors. Tehmota’s Castellan Illic felt his weakness within knobby knees not used to descending the dungeon steps. Beside him, their guest slammed his heavy boots against the stone stairs. He could have traversed three in the time it took Illic to do one, and the guest made his displeasure known with each exhale.

“My apologies for what you are about to see. Our…prisoner required barbaric measures of restraint. I am glad our summons were answered so promptly.”

“The full moon rises soon. How did you catch him?”

“A spike trap. I thank the Prelate’s haste. Have you served under him long, Paladin Michael?”

“Sir Michael–not Paladin,” the Knight said brusquely. He kept a gauntleted hand upon his sword. Illic could feel his other, more dangerous weapon hidden within his steel armor. He wiped fatigue from his eyes.

“Sir Michael,” Illic corrected.

“I was elevated to Knight recently after the Battle of Cohac, and will be made Paladin once this affair is over,” Sir Michael said.

“We pray the power of the vampires never return. I have been struggling to get grain after the battle. The fields will need several more seasons to recover, I’m afraid.”

“They’ve lost their thralls and feed upon livestock. Their blood is weak. I fear this captive more. Let us hasten this business, and I will be on my way,” the Knight said, exhausted.

Young and eager, good.

“This way,” Illic wheezed.

Guards lined the dungeon with heavy spears and beaked leather masks. Burners of incense lined the dungeon–the source of the miasma. The smoke burned Illic’s skin and lungs. Not long now.

“Why do you hang incense here?” Sir Michael coughed. His voice warbled as he passed the guards.

“Guards and their provincial beliefs. They think the smoke will keep the disease away…foolish...hck…I…hck…know, but I need them,” Illic hacked through coughs. His chest burned painfully from the smoke.

“Useless and wasteful. It will do nothing against this plague. I recommend lighting these burners at the tops of the towers to ward off both wryens and ravens,” The Knight said.

“Of course,” Illic said. It was all the derision he could muster. Just a few moments more.

Soft moans filled the air as they reached the cell. Sir Michael peered through the iron bars searching for the source. No torches burned within.

“Where is he?”

“As I said, the measures of restraint were…barbaric,” Illic struggled to speak. Close now, so close. His courage and strength were failing.

Withdrawing something from the depths of his white robes, Sir Michael sparked a small torch. Illic fought the urge to recoil at the holy blaze. “Open it.”

Rusted iron gears ground past each other until they found the correct purchase and the gate slid open. Claw marks scared the stone walls and the moans grew more audible as they approached the far wall.

“How long has he been restrained?”

“Since the last full moon.”

Despite the shadows on his face, Illic could see the disgust shared. Silver blood ran down the wall from the iron spikes through his wrists. Bones protruded against taught pale skin, and gray decaying hair littered the floor. “Barbaric indeed, but wise. The blood of werewolves is strong.”

Illic nodded.

“Nothing to be done for him. Let’s get this over with.”

From within his cloak, the Knight produced a silver dagger, careful not to let the prisoner see it. He whispered his holy prayer and prepared for the ritual slaughter.

As he did, Illic stepped into the shadows. The guards moved silently, dousing the incense and removing its power from the dungeon. Illic felt his vigor return as the miasma receded and drew himself up to his full, unhindered height. The prisoner shook as light reflected off Illic’s pointed canines.

No scream left the Knight’s lips as the fangs pierced his neck.

Blood dripped from Illic’s lips as he threw his head back in a blood curdling howl, before turning on the dying werewolf still spiked to the wall.

Satiated, Illic rose and smiled at the assembled guards. Blood dripped from his fangs onto his black robes. He hacked out the last of the hated incense. Dangerous, but it had been essential to mask their stench.

“Our blood was weak, but it is renewed by the blood of our enemy. Come, my friends, and feast. Tonight, our dark crusade begins,” The Master Vampire said.

As the vampire’s of Tehmota Castle feasted, a blood moon rose.

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A/N:

WC: 800. Spooky season is almost upon us, so let the damned creatures come forth! Written for Liam Storm's unofficial challenge (sneaking in at the last moment):

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