Charles sent the fire of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s face. Hair singed, Lazarus roared like a lion caught in a grassfire. He tried to flee. The knight did not allow it. He tripped the vampire with hastily drawn magical tethers, sending the other sprawling to stone. Charles was on him in a second. He slammed the cudgel of the Dark Thorn into the vampire’s jaw, a strike that did nothing but anger the vampire more, and pressed the head of the staff into the other’s chest, to pin the night creature against rock.
“This does not concern you, Heliwr!” Lazarus said, unfazed. He held the Holy Lance at his side but did not use it to attack. “I go to my death!”
“I no longer believe your lies!”
“I have not lied,” Lazarus growled lowly, fangs fully extended. Charles could see in the other’s eyes a desire to kill the knight, to rend him from limb to limb—that need eroding the creature’s control and only a moment away from reality.
Charles realized this was the moment Merle had portended.
“You stole the spear, Lazarus,” the Heliwr argued more calmly.
“I did,” the vampire admitted, the fire in his eyes banking a bit. “But I promised I did not intend to kill anyone. I still do not. You are safe and I have killed no one. I did purchase a service though. And that service must be paid in full.”
Charles kept the magical pressure on his opponent. “Not today. I will fight you to the end. Do the right thing. Give up the Holy Lance.”
“I smell your wife on you,” Lazarus growled. “Your soon-to-be son! I sense you are worried you will die fulfilling your knightly duty. Do not. Not this day. But neither should you devastate their lives with your loss by pressing me, Heliwr! You have greater deeds to fulfill! And I will not take another life!”
At that, he heaved Charles backward, sending him flying.
He slammed against the wall with such force it would have killed a normal man. The Dark Thorn saved him though, softening the powerful brunt of the assault, though his magic could not prevent it entirety. His head hit the wall hard, the breath in his lungs left like a gale, and all went dark as he slid down to the ground against his will, struggling against unconsciousness.
He had no idea how much time had passed when a shrill voice filled his ear.
“Where’d he go?!” Berrytrill screamed.
“The portal,” Charles mumbled, shaking his head. “Follow him!”
The fairy guide did, leaving the Heliwr behind. Sweat pouring freely, Charles regained his feet, battling the wave of nausea and weakness that threatened to overcome him. He fought both and won. Soon rage took over—at what had been done to him and how the situation had unfolded—strengthening his resolve.
Stumbling a bit at the start, he went after his guide. The catacombs took him back to where it all had begun. As he followed the fairy’s trail, a cacophony of broken sounds rolled through the underground tunnels, getting louder with every step. Then he realized what it was.
It was the sound of echoing gunfire.
Another battle raged. Had the portal been compromised again? Or did the Swiss Guards fight only against Lazarus? When Charles finally burst into the portal cavern, he was not prepared for what he saw.
A new threat had not entered Rome.
A dead threat had.
The vampire corpses that had littered the cavern were now reanimated through dark arts, attacking dozens of Swiss Guards, trying to break through to the entrance where Charles now stood. In front of him, Bruno Ricci fought, arm slung, looking every bit as dead as those he faced. But Carnwennan was blinding white-hot power, the magic of the Arthurian knife bolstering its bearer’s strength and resolve. The portal knight sent swaths of lightning deep into the zombie midst, keeping them at bay long enough for the Swiss Guard to form a counterattack.
The vampiric zombies came on, an unending torrent that felt no pain. Charles hadn’t seen it in time. The runes tattooed on their skin.
Life after life’s death.
“Are these vambies?” Berrytrill mused. “Or are they Zompires?”
“Be careful,” Charles growled, ignoring his guide’s poor attempt at humor. “To get caught by one would be your certain death.”
“Look to the portal!”
Charles did so. Lazarus stood before the Annwn gateway, calmly, still holding the Holy Lance. He had either made his way through the melee or enacted the rune magic after he had gained the portal, creating a zombie diversion while he waited. But for what?
Or whom?
Then Charles saw movement within the shimmering portal.
An old woman stepped free of the void, ratty gray hair hanging limply about a pinched, wrinkled face. Her clothing was destitute like a beggar’s but rings with various priceless gems that would have made the greediest coblynau miner envious sat upon every finger of her hands, verifying her identity.
The witch Lazarus had made his bargain with.
Charles suddenly understood.
“Don’t do this, Lazarus!” he roared.
The vampire ignored him. He handed the Holy Lance to the witch and knelt. Raising it and wasting no time, the old crone struck. Lazarus met the thrust with his entire being as if offering himself in sacrifice to the witch. When the metal pierced his heart, every muscle in his body snapped taut. He leaned back and, coughing crimson into the air twice, gasped several unintelligible words before going limp.
He then slowly slid off the spear to the cold stone floor as the witch wrenched the weapon free.