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Sylas Episode: “Blackhorn”

For sixteen winters, the melodic sound of agony and crunching bone has been my lullaby. I’ve learned to appreciate the earsplitting sound of metal against metal. To distinguish the smell of fear and blood amidst the cacophony of death filling the night, and the battle has only just begun.

As our army descends on Blackhorn’s Soothlund army, my wife’s face is all I can see, and my daughter’s screams in her final moments are all I hear. The scent of their burning bodies fills my nose, and red-hot, all-consuming rage envelops me, enlivening my senses until my entire body is vibrating with unrestrained power.

This is what fuels me, and I welcome nights like this when evil gets retribution and I can bask in the glory of Hel coursing through the runes on my skin. Her essence floods every fiber of my being. Her vengeance hardens my heart. Her endless power fortifies my body, feeding my fury until the monster in me takes control, maiming every enemy in my crosshairs. Even the creatures of the forest, saber tooth and wildfang alike, give us a wide berth.

Bodies collide into bodies as Blackhorn’s soldiers lift their swords across the horde, their reactions sloppy as the night shadows and knowledge that the Darkborn are here play tricks on them.

But try as they might, they will not win. Not this lot, and not tonight. Their poison-tipped arrows and saber tooth spiked axes may slow some of us down, but for every Nordman the southerners have slain, the brotherhood will seek retribution. For the innocent daughters and sons the Soothlunders have taken from us. For the wives and sisters slain—no one with southern blood is safe. Especially not Blackhorn.

“Having fun yet?” Thorne winks at me, blood spattered across his face and matting his red hair into thick ropes that drip crimson. I don’t need the arrow flames to know his eyes are lit with hunger as he lifts his war hammer and cracks it between the eyes of the enemy. “I think Ari has killed more than me.” He grunts with frustration and pulls his hammer back. “But do not fret, brother. I will not let her win. It goes against my every nature.”

Swing. Crack. Grunt. The sound of seeping blood soothes my ears, and the sweat mixing with blood on my skin feels like a homecoming.

“Good,” I say dryly, grunting with another clip of my axe against hardened wildfang hide, nearly thick as steel. “Imagine my concern.” I swing again with a curse, the soldier collapsing to a heap of twitching limbs at my feet.

“Such a waste of warm blood,” Thorne mutters, and I sneer as I continue carving my way through the sea of mindless Torchkeepers who fight for a false, cruel god, toward the General’s circle of defense. Blackhorn swings his battle axe, lodging it between a Nordman’s neck and shoulder, oblivious to his commander’s barking order like frightened pups.

Stay close to the General!

Keep the horde away from the fortress!

Eyes on the heathens!

Through a swing and thwack, I glance in his direction. Blackhorn’s movements are practiced, and each kill is made with a smirk and unnerving ease. And as the breeze carries Blackhorn’s scent to me, I detect no fear.

I growl. Challenge accepted.

The general’s hubris may be the only crack in his armor, but it will be the death of him; tonight, he is my only true target, and he is as human as the rest of them.

Lucian roars a battle cry in the distance.

Moose snarls in the melee behind me as he moves with our northern armies across the snow-covered clearing.

I don’t need to look back to know Moose is no longer a mastiff; the enormous snarling hellhound fights beside the human army, tearing the enemy limb from limb. While Moose was terrifying to the Nordmen at first, his presence gives the warriors courage in battle.

Swing. Crack. Thunk.

Soon, the snow no longer glimmers in the moonlight, stained dark with blood, and while many of our men and women have fallen, Blackhorn’s meager numbers, having gathered at a moment’s notice when we came ashore, litter the ground in masses.

“Tonight, the threads of Fate begin to unravel.” Hel’s words press me faster. Blood rushes through my veins and pounds in my ears, and I swing harder, gaining ground on Blackhorn.

Peering through the flailing limbs and clacking weapons, my gaze sharpens on him. His chest heaves with exhaustion, though his expression gives nothing away. It’s fierce and determined. He stalls where he stands and peers around, his commanders falling back into the cover of the treeline behind them.

As I slay three more of Blackhorn’s men, our eyes connect.

“You!” I roar, pointing my axe at the general. He snarls. I grin. You cannot hide from me, I think as I inhale the night air, stepping closer.

“The General has a hard-on for you,” Thorne jests, and pulls his weapon from a soldier’s side. “I can practically smell it.”

If not for the men calling him to retreat, Blackhorn would meet me here and now. The murderous glint in his eye is bright and eager.

“The diamond! General, think of the north, General!”

Blackhorn’s eyebrow twitches, and grudgingly, he turns for the trees. Yes, yes. Run for your precious treasure.

The instant I feel the vibration of retreating horse hooves over the forest floor, I laugh.

Thorne does the same. “He thinks his horse can outrun us. That he is safe behind his walls.”

“And now we know he plans to claim the north,” I muse. We knew he would come, eventually. But to mention it in the heat of battle means it’s more important to him than I realized. And perhaps closer than I thought.

We glance back at Blackhorn’s decimated army. What’s left of our own warriors catch their breath as the southerners still standing fall back.

“Ari!” I call. “Take the cliffs with Lucian.”

“On it!” she grits out, loosing a flaming arrow. It hisses through the night, lodging into the eye socket of her target, setting his body ablaze.

Thorne and I break into a jog. My body still hums with power, the promise of Blackhorn’s blood fueling my every movement; this is the night I’ve waited four winters for. “Blackhorn would not retreat to the fortress unless he has a plan,” I tell him, barely raising my voice. “Or, he’s desperate.” For the hundredth time, I wonder what treasure he hides behind those walls.

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Thorne replies, and his voice is a familiar rumble to my ears, easily detected despite our chase.

I block out the waning cries of death behind us, ignore the dry blood cracking on my face, and welcome the burn of the runes along my skin, focusing instead on the mare’s heavy breaths in the chilly night air. She senses us, her primal senses know to fear us more than the bite of Blackhorn’s heels in her sides, and the chase only intensifies the bloodlust. Tru’s blood, amplifying my senses, grows faint after hours in battle, and the Darkborn side of me grows thirsty.

Twigs snap under hurried hoofbeats.

Blackhorn’s battle axe clanks against his stirrups and his muffled commands urge the mare onward as the rumble of our army makes its way through the woods behind us. It’s the thrum of frantic bodies within the fortress, however, that makes me smile; my powers may be diminishing, but there will be plenty for us to drink.

“The general!” someone shouts from the turrets.

“Is that . . . Vampires!”

“Over there—the heathen army approaches!”

“The heathens approach! The heathens approach!”

“Ready the battlements!”

“Hold the line!”

Blackhorn barely makes it through the gate before the grate lowers behind him. Thorne and I run harder, my thighs burning as I launch onto the stone wall and scale toward the top.

“Don’t let them reach the top!” An arrow pierces my shoulder, slowing me for a single moment before I gain momentum again. Another lodges in my side, and I hiss in pain as I break it off, but I don’t falter this time.

Despite the arrow in his leg, Thorne grins, as if it is all a game, and our strong, agile fingers and the toes of our boots find purchase in the crevices of the stones visible in the moonlight with ease.

In the distance, the waves crash against the cliff, and I wonder if Arless and Lucian are close. I have little time for that thought and pull an archer on the rampart over the edge the instant he’s within reach, followed by the guard with the long sword who takes his place.

Something . . . foreign catches my nose. Inhaling at the top, I sort through the onslaught of scents within the fortress, searching out my target. Soot tangles with steel and leather, nervous sweat with the coppery tinge of blood. Manure and damp hay. Overly-ripe fruit. And . . . a foreign scent reminiscent of fresh snow or morning dew. Crisp. Pure. It is wholly out of place among the stench of fear and decay.

I shake off the distraction as Thorne vaults over the stone wall, landing catlike on the battlement. He dispatches the guards instantly. They grunt, and their meaty bodies hit the ground with a thud.

I follow a heartbeat later. “Find his diamond,” I tell him. “I’ll hunt for Blackhorn.”

Two more soldiers charge toward us, blades drawn. I surge forward in a blur, dodging their clumsy sword thrusts and swinging axes. My hands latch onto their throats, lifting them off their feet as if they weigh nothing. The guards kick and gurgle, but their struggles are laughably futile. I hand one to Thorne to feed from and when my hand is free, I twist, snapping the neck of the other and tossing his body aside.

Lucian and Ari are here; I feel them like they are my other selves.

A streak of white catches my attention as Lucian moves like lightning, fighting a handful of soldiers below. The creak and groan of the gate opening once more echoes above their cries.

“Could you two be any slower?” Arless drops from the shadows above, landing in a silent crouch, her dark leathers blending with the night. She juts her chin over her shoulder. “The gate is open.”

Lucian lands on the turret beside us with a graceful thud, giant, bloody war axe in hand. His preternatural white hair, though pulled away from his face, is wild and glints in the torchlight. His beard is red, having recently fed, and though we are still stronger than every human here, our strength is dwindling. But I will not feed, not yet.

“Thorne. Lucian. Clear the walls for our army. Leave no one alive. When our warriors arrive, find Blackhorn’s precious diamond.”

Thorne flashes a wolfish grin, teeth gleaming in the torchlight. “With pleasure.”

“Ari,” I say, meeting her gaze. “You’re with me.”

Lucian nods and stalks off without a word, his hulking silhouette vanishing into darkness.

Arless falls into step beside me as we ghost across the ramparts.

Below, soldiers mill about the courtyard in agitated clumps, some armed and armored, others scampering away. They know death has come for them tonight. Fear hangs thick in the air, spiking with each distant scream as Lucian and Thorne butcher their comrades, feeding on those they wish along the way.

“What is that?” Arless asks as that same foreign, somewhat tantalizing scent from before wafts through the miasma of terror, tugging at my senses. It feels like it’s calling to me.

I inhale again, my eyes fluttering shut. Lilacs and honey, new parchment and crisp apples . . .

“Sylas?”

I blink, burying the strange instinct to find the source. When I meet Arless’s gaze, the fire-red shining through her amber irises is all the reminder I need that she feels whatever strange pull the scent has on me. Perhaps on all of us. I clear my throat. “Let’s move.”

We drop into the courtyard, startling a cluster of guards. I draw my axe, winding my wrist as I swing the blade at an advancing soldier. Too close to use her bow, Arless twirls her twin daggers and bares her fangs in a feral smile. We dart between the soldiers like shadows of death. I lose myself to the graceful rhythm of combat, my axe blade flashing crimson as it cleaves through flesh and bone and sinew. Men scream. Blood sprays. Limbs fall like dead leaves in an autumn wind.

And in a few breaths, they are no more.

Our army finally arrives, pouring into the courtyard like a dark tide, consuming everything in its path. Moose lopes in the fortress with them. His eyes find me instantly, and the hellhound trots toward us.

I glimpse Thorne, gore-spattered and grinning, swinging his hammer in mighty arcs. Lucian roars, splitting a man in half from crown to navel with a single blow.

Arless, Moose, and I make our way through the carnage, and I breathe the copper-rich air in deep, searching for Blackhorn. I detect him, but it’s faint compared to the floral yet crisp scent that’s stronger than all the rest. It’s off-putting and intoxicating, and it makes me uneasy when all I want is to find the general.

“He would have retreated to the great hall,” Arless guesses as she cleans her daggers on a dead man’s vest. And that’s when I smell him—putrid and vile and reeking of blood, sweat, and, finally, fear.

“No.” I tilt my head, listening harder. I peer at the cobblestone beneath our feet. “He’s running like a mangy rat.”

“Coward,” Arless spits, eyes narrowed. “Tunnels?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” We stalk toward the scent of old rot and mold, where I assume Blackhorn’s dungeons are located. Into the bowels of the fortress we go, following the growing scent of Blackhorn’s sweat and desperation mixed among that maddening hint of . . .

I growl and stride faster, hyper-focused on Blackhorn’s frantic heartbeat.

Moose lopes beside me, his hellhound form nearly brushing the stone ceiling of the narrow tunnels as we descend.

We emerge into a dimly lit chamber, casks of wine and preserved foodstuffs lining the walls—supplies for a lengthy siege. And there, around the next bend, is Blackhorn. His armor is gore-spattered, his footsteps quick.

“Going somewhere, General?” My voice is deceptively mild, but my body hums at the promise of his blood.

Blackhorn stops in his tracks. He laughs. “You think you have won, heathen?” he seethes, and the general spins, sword rasping from its sheath.

Moose growls. Arless hisses and takes a defensive stance beside me.

In the guttering torchlight, Blackhorn’s eyes are wide and wild above the deep, blood-stained lines in his cheeks and crusted beard. “You have only slowed him down.”

“And killed you,” I reply. “Which was my goal all along.”

“You haven’t killed me yet, heathen.” With a self-satisfied grin, Blackhorn takes a defensive stance, as if he could fend me off.

With a grin of my own, I stalk forward, Moose hanging back with Arless.

Blackhorn swings strong and true despite his exhaustion. I catch his blade with my hand, feeling nothing more than a pinch, and wrench it from his grasp, tossing it aside with a clatter. The general staggers back, pressing himself against the unyielding stone.

“Barron will avenge me,” he gasps out.

“No,” I promise, “he won’t. You’re no more than one of his pawns.” I seize Blackhorn by the throat, lifting him off his feet. “If nothing else, his greatest general’s death will save lives while he regroups.”

Blackhorn’s hands tear ineffectually at my wrist and fingers.

“Tell me about the diamond,” I command, squeezing harder. “The treasure you hold.”

“I’ll tell you . . . nothing, heathen . . . filth.” He bares his teeth in a taunting grin. “And when Barron . . . has it, it will be . . . the end of you.”

My eyes narrow on him.

“Your forces . . . will be nothing to his.”

I tighten my grip, feeling Blackhorn’s throat convulse beneath my fingers. “What is it?” I shake him like a rag doll. “Gold? Weapons?”

Blackhorn, unwaveringly stubborn, tries to laugh. “More valuable . . . ” As he gasps for breath, I know this man would rather die than tell me. So be it, but not before I play with him a bit.

With a roar, I fling him across the room. “Hungy, Ari?” I offer. “I’m happy to share.”

Blackhorn hits the wall, shouting in pain as he crumples to the floor, his limbs askew.

“I thought you’d never a—”

A section of the stone pivots behind Blackhorn’s body with a grinding rasp. A secret door opening. I look at Arless.

“I’ll admit, it’s a good hiding spot,” she says and lifts her shoulder.

Stalking over, I wrench the door fully open, immediately accosted by the unnerving, impossible scent that’s been taunting me since climbing the fortress wall, and I nearly stumble.

Nostrils flaring, I gape into the small chamber. Huddled on a bed in the corner, staring at me with luminous, fearless eyes, is a girl no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

Warmth floods my body, my muscles tightening with need, and my heartbeat quickens. I think of Letty and I stumble back again, terrified and sickened by my body’s reaction to the girl’s scent.

Covering my nose, I look at Arless as she hauls Blackhorn to his feet.

“This is your diamond?” I snap. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.

Blackhorn’s eyes harden on me in warning. “If you take her,” he grits out, wincing as if it hurts to breathe. “Barron will find her. He will tear down the world for her.”

Scowling, my gaze shifts to the girl again. To her braided, light hair pulled away from freckled, sun-kissed cheeks, and her big blue eyes blinking between us. Despite my size and blood-soaked appearance, her gaze betrays no hint of revulsion when she looks at me.

Some long-dormant impulse stirs, fierce and feral, and a maelstrom of confusion, and some unnameable emotion I dare not examine too closely, floods my senses. The need to protect, to possess, to keep this creature safe from Barron. It wars with the ever-present bloodlust and, with my strength waning, there is little I can do to ignore the vile urges pulsing through me.

The monster inside me needs feeding if I’m going to control it.

I wrench my eyes away, fixing Blackhorn with a murderous glare, my restraint tattered.

He laughs. “You’ve already lost, vampire. You just don’t know it yet.”

And with those words, I unleash the monster, practically tearing his windpipe from his throat as I sink my teeth into his neck, reveling in the feel of his viscous blood, fervid against my tongue, and the harmonious sounds of his gargled screams.

There’s more Darkborn coming next week!

Until next week….

xo, Lindsey (and Scarlet)

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