struggled for a few moments with Langforf hissing and spitting foul stuff into Wood's open maw.
'Get it off, get it off!' he shrieked, but of course there was nobody to help him get it off and he realised he would have to help himself. He got one hand free, and Langforf's fangs brushed his throat making him squirm. His strength was failing, and for an old bowl-cut, Langforf was surprisingly strong. Wood managed to get a dagger free from his belt and he rammed it between Langforf's ribs. No blood came out, and indeed Langforf continued to struggle with the same strength and determination. Again and again Wood plunged the dagger into Langforf's side, until there was a large squelching hole and something round and slick and evil slid out, nestling in a pool of slime in Wood's lap and making his life just that little bit more uncomfortable.
'Aie!' he screamed, and got the dagger high, between him and Langforf at throat level. Then Wood simply let Langforf descend with his fangs, pushing his own throat onto the dagger and cutting his head nearly clean in half.
Wood scrambled out from under the twitching old revenant, and grabbed his short sword – just as the young girl leapt. Wood hit her, hard, breaking her clavicle and shearing his sword down into her lungs – where it wedged under her ribs and was wrenched from his grasp.
Wood stood there, feeling like an idiot, as the girl took a step back and prodded at the sword as if she'd never seen such a weapon before. She tried to tug it free as Wood looked frantically about for another blade, then skipped back, grabbing Pettrus' sword – too long and fanciful for Wood's normal liking – and leaping forward he slammed the blade through her neck. It jarred, cutting through her spine, and her head came away, lolling grotesquely to one side and held in place by skin and tendons. Her red eyes glared at him, accusingly, as she continued to tug at the embedded sword. Wood shuddered, and hacked again, detaching the head. Slowly, a black smoke escaped from her neck as if released from a clockwork pressure valve, and the vampire collapsed.
Wood rubbed his beard with the back of his hand, and crept forward, tugging free his own sword. Then he moved back to Pettrus, who was gradually coming round.
'Got the drop on us, the bastards,' he said, surveying the carnage. 'But you did well, my friend. Very well.'
'I'm getting tired of this,' said Wood, grimacing. 'I just want my old life back.'
Pettrus grabbed him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes. 'You know that's never going to happen. Right?'
'I know. I know. I just wish. In a sane and normal world, beautiful young women shouldn't try to bite your throat. Or at least, not until they've had a few drinks.'
Pettrus chuckled. 'Glad to see you've still got that sense of humour,' he muttered.
'Yeah, me and most of the city. Come on. We're not far now. And it's still safer travelling down here under the rock than across the rooftops.'
'Until you meet bastards in the tunnels.'
'Until you meet bastards in the tunnels,' agreed Wood.
They moved on, warily now for they had grown lax and complacent in the past few hours, coming upon the previous gathering of vampires with their weapons sheathed and minds tired and blank and definitely switched off. It had been a short, hard, savage fight, and Wood and Pettrus both knew they were lucky to be alive. Luck, and combat instinct honed over decades was what saved them. Now, they did not want to run the risk of a second encounter; not when they were so close to the Black Barracks.
It took another hour of careful navigation and creeping through the darkness. Rounding a bend in the rock tunnel, Wood stopped and squinted. He could see a figure at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Black Barracks. To Wood's right, a heavy flow of slow sewage didn't so much move as coagulate. Pettrus squinted over Wood's shoulder.
'That's not a vampire.'
'Why not?'
'It's Fat Bill.'
'Maybe Fat Bill got bit? Maybe Fat Bill is now Fat Bill the vampire scourge?'
'Nah,' said Pettrus, shaking his head. 'He's got his sword drawn. Look. He's guarding the steps.'
' Maybe he's a vampire guarding the steps from people like us?'
'I don't reckon,' said Pettrus. 'Vampires don't use swords.'
'Of course they do! I've seen hundreds!'
'There's only one way to find out.' Raising his voice, Pettrus shouted, 'Hey, Fat Bill! Are you a vampire? Do we have to stick a blade through your heart and skull?'
Fat Bill, who must have weighed the same as three sacks of flower, lumbered around in a slow circle and squinted through the darkness. 'Any man who tries that better be ready to have their own head crushed,' he rumbled, and grinned in the gloom. 'By all the gods, is that you, Pettrus? And who's that with you? That skinny gay goat, Wood? It's bloody good to see you both!'
Pettrus and Wood moved along the walkway, and looked up at Fat Bill. He wasn't just fat, he was tall, broad, and both soldiers knew he packed a punch greater than any kicking shire horse. The men shook hands, chuckling, and Fat Bill led them up the stone steps.
'The lads'll be glad to see you.'
'Who's here?'
Bill stopped, and turned. He grinned, with most of his teeth missing from brawling. His hair, straggly and white, whispered around his head like cotton. 'All of us, Wood. All of us.'
They continued, passing a couple more guards whom Wood only vaguely knew; then they emerged into a long, low-ceilinged barracks room.
The Black Barracks squatted on the outskirts of Port of Gollothrim, in what used to be an old warehouse area used for the loading and unloading of cargo; when an industrial accident had destroyed the nearby quays, the area had been pretty much abandoned and left to rot. It was a quiet place, and more importantly for the old men who ran the Black Barracks, a cheap place. Whoever said growing old made you generous was a lying bastard. The old soldiers who attended the Black Barracks for weekly drinking sessions and to regale one another with exaggerated tales of valour in their youth, well, they were uniformly tighter than any mother-inlaw's hidden purse.
Despite being located in a quiet area of the city, still the barracks had been kitted out as if under siege. All windows had been blacked out and boarded up, and the doors had been reinforced by heavy planks of steel. Lanterns were kept to a lit minimum, and the noise level was a dull mumble as Wood stepped through the door – as opposed to the normal drunken roar that greeted him.
'My God, it's good to see you old boys!' grinned Wood, and for the first time since the vampires had spread through Port of Gollothrim, his heart lifted in joy.
'Wood!' roared a few old soldiers, who stood and smiled in welcome at the two new men. 'Glad to see a few bloodsuckers didn't manage to suck you dry!'
Wood strode forward, and slapped a man on the back. 'Gods, who've we got here? There's Kelv Blades, never been a better man with a battleaxe or I'm not Command Sergeant Wood! And look! Well met, Nicholas. Who'd have thought The Miser would have left his Gold Vaults, even in times of vampire plague?'
'Got most of it stashed,' winked Nicholas the Miser.
'And there's Old Man Connie, Sour Dog, Stickboy Pulp and Bulbo the Dull. Well met! And look, by all the gods, it's Weevil and Bad Socks! I thought you two were dead?'
'It'd take more than a rock on my head to kill me!' rumbled Bad Socks, who climbed ponderously to his feet. He was, as ever, without his boots and his socks did indeed smell bad. He was also nearly seventy years old, one- eyed and his face was so heavily criss-crossed with scars there was little original skin left. He hadn't so much retired from the army, as been forcibly ejected.
Pettrus grinned around as conversation and arguments broke out. 'They're all here,' he said, meeting Wood's gaze. 'What's that? Two hundred of them? Two hundred! That's two hundred blades, Wood. Our own little army.'
'And not a man here under the age of sixty-five, I believe,' said Wood. He was still smiling though. It was good to see so many friendly old faces. Indeed, it was wonderful to realise he wasn't alone and unloved in a hostile world.
'Just think of the experience, though!' said Pettrus.
'Just think of the arthritis!' grinned Wood.
