Chapter 13: Sleeper's Crypt

I entered Santiago’s sanctuary midway through the morning, finding him wiping clean his jaw of the blood of a kill from just moments before. Some chattel bloke whom I had the men collect, someone who wouldn’t be missed, to serve as a temporary blood bank for our ailing companion.

“It gave me a start, having to spill all this life.” He said to me, easing himself onto the edge of his bed with a low, drawn-out groan to make a show of lingering pains. The mark above his eye had all but entirely healed, a mere blemish remained, but I had to brush aside his hair to see it, which had grown considerably since he entered this healing state.

“Are you going to cut all that off? It’s obscuring your natural glamour.” I jested, waving my hands around mysteriously with a smirk prior to joining him on the end edge of his bed.

“Perhaps–in fact, I’m thinking about keeping the hair. I’ll trim it a little, and wrap it up in a tight bun, but the rats-nest beard’s going to go.”

“You’ll look as shining as ever, Santiago.” I felt myself grimacing, and so diverted my gaze to the left wall, where below sat an array of new clothes on a long table, along with an unused tea set.

I’m uncertain as to what, exactly, provided me this sense of relative calm around Santiago–for twas this at which I warped my lips. He was still deserving of ire, if respectfully, as a means of energising his apology to the Mother. However, he’d yet gone unpunished, and struck a blow at not only his own work, but mine too. Yet, really, I don’t think I cared. Not even a bit. For me, at least. For once, I felt unburdened, despite this rebalancing-load that I carried on my shoulders.

Perhaps it was the passing of time, time spent away from someone whose company I enjoy, that aided in my ability to reconcile without speaking, and treat our time together as if we were old friends, seeing one another again for the first time in months. This new crisis made it too poor a time to accost or to demand retribution. A resolution of his personal plight would follow our reclamation of Veha.

“Jack, I… I was meaning to ask.” His tone took on a pleading edge, a spike in pitch like one asking a discomforting, but necessary, thing, “Will there be a place for me at the Guild when I’m fully healed?”

“At this rate…” I began, breaking to cough into a balled fist, “…you’ll rejoin us within a few weeks time, and when you do, you’ll do so through open arms and celebration. We’ll get to your… this… distasteful thing later.”

“Thank you, Jack.” He side-hugged me, and I returned the gesture, lovingly. Then, I stood, and waved as I departed up three flights to the workroom to meet with Lorena.

Whether eager or antsy, Lorena jumped to attention on my entry from a deep lean against the armoire. María Christia was with her, but seated cross-legged on the floor with some papers spread out in front of her. At a glance, it looked like a hand drawn map.

“Well–” Was all I managed to get out before Lorena cut me off, and cheerily said “We might have a solution to our power imbalance!”

“Power imbalance?” I asked.

“Lorena has been scouting around the sewers for us.” María explained, and Lorena picked up from there.

“Adorjan is running a little city down there.” She paused to reassume her lean whilst I sat down across from María.

“I thought María and Lucho ran the underground?”

“They do, in theory.” Lorena explained, continuing, “But there’s a lot to go off of, and room for growth that they cannot capitalise on–or rather, couldn’t, and now can’t. So, in effect, Adorjan swept out swathes of it from under them by abusing his overwhelming manpower.”

“Since when did he grow such an army–and from where, exactly? I understood he left in some show…” I raised an outward hand, as if giving way again to Lorena, to which she returned a nod, and then went on to go on speaking.

“Fantastic question. I don’t know precisely, but judging by how orderly it is down there, I think he’s brought in outside help. What was once, as I understand it, a tent city has grown into a city city, stacked shacks and canals traversed by boat. Watchmen in black metal roam the streets and keep order with clubs and threats.”

“Black metal? That sounds similar to…” She cut me off, with all that same energy as that with which she spoke on my arrival, “The Ducal guard, I know, but they aren’t the same. These folks look like outlanders, like mercenaries. They aren’t Juhaszan.”

“Right.” I hardly muttered, somewhat fed up with her over-enthusiastic overwriting, which María Christina seemed to pick up on, and laughed at, prompting her to take over the explanation.

“In summary, Jack, they’ve got muscle we simply cannot match, and Ascended to lead them. Therefore…” María leaned in to spread her fingers wide and carefully spin the assortment of papers around so I could more easily discern their message. It was indeed a map, of northern Veha, around the keep, and of the sewers and smuggling tunnels.

“…I’ve plotted out a plan to acquire a weapon we can use to even the odds. Here, just here.” She brought my attention to a circled chamber amidst a complicated interweaving of passageways and cisterns, with a guiding line drawn from the city cemetery.

“Why there?” I asked, in reference to the point of origination.

“A rumour.” She admitted, and gave a response to my immediate scepticism, brows lofted and all, “It’s an old one, one I hoped to act on earlier, but as you understand we didn’t have the resources on hand in the recent past. A late Upyr friend of mine, older than you or I, even now, told of one of the founders of our tribe’s presence in the Duchy. That he, upon achieving stability after a long fought war, retreated into the crypt to heal, and simply remained, letting the ages pass around him, ignored.”

“My God, María.” I knitted my already expressive brows, and gazed upon her disapprovingly. “Fucking fairy tales.” She attempted to interrupt, raising her hands in a defensive, conciliatory manner, to which I yielded, but not without a first remark, “This is a serious risk for a rumour.”

“Rumour verified by an old and stalwart friendship.” She replied first, awaiting my obvious relaxation to continue. I figured it better to let her speak her peace, and more importantly, better to let her continue divulging–Upyr, that remark, Upyr… only the council and the Mother call us Upyr. How old is she, really?

“If it’s real, and his loyalties, after all these years of rest, remain firmly fixed with the Mother, we run the possibility of gaining an extremely potent ally. If it’s fake, we’ve merely wasted time exploring some dusty tombs–but there’s more to support the possible reality of this, Jack.” At that she turned to Lorena, who advised me on the furtherance.

“I’ve seen an uptick in activity around the cemetery since you dispatched me to aid Lucho. Adorjan’s grunts have been keeping the mausoleum at the cemetery on lockdown. They’re carting tools and equipment into its depths.”

“And it isn’t a mere connection to their preexisting territory?” I asked.

“No, definitely not. These lines, you see they intersect, but they’re above the crypt… tens of metres above it.” María explained. “It’s possible Adorjan is familiar with the rumour too, or discovered some oddity there that makes him think it’s more than just another burial mound.”

Without moving my head, I locked my eyes on María, spying her for a moment before blinking, slowly, and spying Lorena, and then again, repeating that motion to return to María. They both returned a certain sense of believing impetus–some trust in this affair birthing a readiness, a drive to see this end achieved.

“Right. We’ll go as it gets dark.”

Rapidly, Lorena responded with an ardent “Yes!” and a flexing of arms bent up at the elbows, with clenched fists; a show of fire, a real fire. How reassuring.

#

We rendezvous just as the sun was setting below the horizon on the wall, at a little corner bar called The Stampede. Coffee stained papers plastered and obscured its windows from the inside, advertising support for the Lord and the peers, and more colourfully for the Guard. A sign on the door read: The working class need not enter.

“Such an ill showing of their Humanity.” I outwardly observed, in frank assessment and the issuance of, quite informally, poor marks. I lifted the sign with my index finger, and let it clap against the door, twice.

After the second subtle ‘bang’ the door swung open, and a wide-eyed, wide-bellied woman looked up at me, disconcerted, and without saying a word, slowly closed and latched the door.

I couldn’t help but laugh. She must’ve taken me for a burglar! A bad one at that, all dressed in black fatigues with a scarf obfuscating my mouth and chin. She shouldn’t call the guard… too strange an encounter, to be given up to booze–she certainly reeked of it, as most Humans did once the labours were finished.

“If you’re done…” María Christina broke my air of fun, not so gently ushering me back into reality–that of the matter at hand. I turned to her with a single assertive nod, and proceeded to walk with María to Lorena who awaited us at the threshold of the cemetery.

It stuck out weirdly between rows of tight, tall houses, each with their own miniature impression of the countryside at the front. Tiny, boxy, depressing collections of flora seated comfortably in rows, alternating colours and patterns protected by a short, drab, iron fence. A poor representation of actuality.

The cemetery was protected at the front by a similarly bleak, iron grate, except its was eight feet tall, with a peaked spike protruding out at the apex of every bar. Despite their being hinges on either side of the archway leading inside, no gate impeded us, and a distinct lack of wear on the inside of the hinges suggested there never was one to begin with.

“There, there, and there.” Lorena directed, quietly, pointing out three distinct heaps of boxes, supplies, and tools. Pick axes, hammers, chisels, wedges, shovels, and the like. Yet, in spite of the collection of equipment, no soul guarded them. The cemetery was void of sapient life.

We walked up its centre pathway, which met a dry, crumbling fountain and split off three ways. Two, to the left and right, divided the plots, and a third, straight up, led to a two-story circular mausoleum. Exterior houses checkerboarded its outside walls, all occupied with variably faded inscriptions, names and dates, and naught but supporting columns and the front door violated this perfect pattern.

The front portal had been shattered, and left upon the floor as if it were some carpet, and a creaky, split, soiled, and disruptive one at that. The building’s interior walls mirrored the exterior ones, almost doubling its collection of corpses. Where once seemed to be a short row of benches leading up to a central altar now sat cracked and dirty floors, those benches having been brushed aside and overturned, transformed into makeshift tables.

The central altar was in a state of total disarray. It had been fully, and violently, dismantled, reverted into a U-shaped pile of rubble and dust that opened to reveal a concourse, previously obscured by its simple presence, through the floor.

“So, um…” María retrieved her directions from a satchel on her hip, “This should drop into a tight, natural cave, that should then open into the crypt. It’s about forty metres to the first chamber, and fifty to the second.”

“Our goal is the second?” She nodded, “Right.” and I learned forward, over the lip into the hole. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the pitch darkness therein, and upon doing so I immediately recoiled.

“What–what?!” My companions spat together, Lorena’s hand, in all its martial instinct, grasping the handle of her short-sword.

“The silence, it’s fine… it’s just an answer to the silence.” I directed them to look for themselves. The unexpected eyeing of a fresh cadaver’s squashed skull took me by grotesque alarm.

“Disgusting.” María curtly commented, all the while lowering herself, with Lorena, down into the space.

“Right, again.” I muttered, wiping at my forehead before joining the two of them, making careful movements so as to avoid dirtying my boots with that traitorous creature’s gore.

“Sword out, if you’d please.” I instructed Lorena, who drew her blade and moved ahead of María to lead our trio further in, “Slaughter whatever moves.”

“Very well.” She responded with a hint of apprehension left unaddressed.

The following seven minutes resulted in tightening tensions moving side by side with disgust and regret. The further in that we traversed, the number of bodies increased, with the ground ultimately shifting from dirt and stone to a shallow pool of warm blood through which our boots waded.

Organs, bone, iron, and hope rested over that sanguin basin, and led us to the entryway into the second and final chamber. There, Lorena stopped, and turned to us with a pale ivory complexion, speaking uneasily.

“You know… this doesn’t feel right. This doesn’t feel okay. How can we enter on the heels of death?”

“More than fair. This is an entirely new darkness, María Christina. Even we are civil enough not to torment and dismember our kills, and to leave them so visible is dangerous.”

“Dangerous, yes. Obviously, like Adorjan, but not Adorjan. No, I’m certain now they were here for the same thing as us, Jack.” She answered after a moment’s contemplation spent with orbs peering into the shallow, muddled crimson.

María went on, “You both can see it through the doorway. The sarcophagus is the most blood-coated contraption in this forsaken complex. Look upon it…” She directed, and waited nearly a minute for the two of us to study, from this distance, its surface.

Truly, it was a sight to behold, like the crown of this underground massacre. I felt its goldness, for it held an aura of its own, and felt it experiencing a sensation of unhallowedness. As if the blood touching its surface was a sickening, unwelcome ordeal. Yet, all the same, I felt it knew it was the result of its own discomfort, for it was the necessary result of self-defence.

“…know that we look upon the truth of the rumour. The rumour Jack.” Her application of attempted levity was unwanted, but I smiled nonetheless, if just to get her to get to the point.

“If our enemies’ fools couldn’t open it, I’m confident we’ll be able to. I know you see it too, floating in the blood. They tried to brute force the vault.”

I stepped around Lorena and walked into the conclusory room. It was smaller than the first chamber, which was situated like a praying space, all the while continuing the pattern of slots in the walls, these far more crude than those on the surface, occupied by skeletons and stacks of skulls, tall and deep.

It was at this moment too that I finally realised the sheer weight of the air, as it carried itself painstakingly to such depths as that that we gracefully descended to. “Such craftsmanship.” I thought, pondering the strength of this ages-old chamber–although, it was likely my preoccupation with possible danger that caused our sinking to elude me.

“One more thing… if he isn’t willing to help us… or has shrivelled up to a state of such emaciation as to be useless to us… we can always… you know…” She rolled her wrists, looking for the words, “…drink his vita to empower ourselves.”

At that, that ludicrousness, I hit my limit for the second time today. “Another. Another fucking fairy tale. I concede readily and happily that I was wrong, wrong to distrust your old friend, but María, and Lorena, do not seriously tell me you think that works.”

They peered at each other, and then to me, expecting me to go on. So, I did, “Those same meandering, half-sighted peasants who screamed Vampire at the earliest of us are the same who invented such ridiculousness as drinking blood to absorb power. It’s a fashion. It’s a trick. It’s a show to impress audiences, and sell tall-tales.” I took care to really emphasise those parts I wished to mock the irreality of.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Lorena piped up, sheathing her sword as she entered and stood beside me, “Let’s just get this thing opened up.”

The following hour passed like a fleeting moment, and our combined efforts and… ingenuity? No, intuition. A pattern of unyieldingly geometric progeny had been carved into the face of the sarcophagus, which itself mirrored expertly the chiselled Human form, broken only by a distinct, extraordinarily long set of canines… fangs, really.

It proved to be a matter of tracing, and the lacing of our own vita, interwoven thrice, to prove to the case our worthiness in opening it. We wove this quintessence, these speckles of wipsy grey and white and black, forming, entirely, a painting of perfect geometry of indescribable complexity and beauty, a thing of things beyond this world.

Upon its union and holding for seven firm seconds, a momentary golden glow burst out from the seams of the sarcophagus, and three distinct clicks emanated, muffled, from therein. At that mark we released the braid, and stepped back.

Of its own, mechanical accord, the roof of the vault rose two inches up from the base, and split in half, featly, to slide down and rest at the sides, upon the floor. Therein lie the fated Archon, lying like a king with his hands layered over his heart.

The white-haired and bearded creature wore robes of grey and black sporting woven designs similar to that pattern that vaulted his bed, but without its supernatural complexity, and so without its inhuman beauty. In a sheer break from the relative monochromaticity of his self and uniform, a pair of blood-red slippers rested on his feet, into which, through a set of only now visible drains, blood from the floor seeped.

As it did, ever so slowly, enter those shoes, the complexion of our soon-to-be, Mother willing, ally, became flush with life. In spite of this, and his newfound freedom, he did not stir.