Page 13 of Sergi (Of Blood & Dreams #7)
Chapter Twelve
Sergi fell in and out of wakefulness. The last session with Gheata had been brutal, but he’d managed to give him nothing—not even his name. His body was beyond hunger, though they continued to feed him small amounts of blood after each interrogation. The only possible reason was to extend the sessions and prevent the beast from rising to the point where gaining any further information would be useless.
His bones ached. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in such tight constraints. For interrogation, it was critical for the more dangerous vampires, even when a captor thought them too weak. But never had his bones ached so deeply. It only served as validation of a far worse fate. He’d suspected his condition for some time and hoped he’d been wrong. It would be years, possibly decades, before the blood disease that inflicted so many took its toll, but he could no longer deny the evidence.
The only current option was either sleep or force his body into a meditative state. Since he lacked the practice for proper meditation, he focused his mind elsewhere. He was a man of simple tastes with few exceptions—a finely aged Scotch, a sharply honed sword of Damascus steel, and the artifacts he’d collected over the centuries. They were nothing but small souvenirs he’d saved after a battle or raid.
He’d never understood why a warrior like him would save them. Over time, he suspected he would someday want a physical connection to his long memories. Perhaps more endearing for someone who lived as long as a vampire.
He mentally strolled through his storage unit in Santiga Bay. He’d never paid attention to how much he’d stored away until he’d seen Simone’s room in the manor after her brain injury. She also preferred a simple life, but the art she’d collected reminded him of his own stash. And when he considered modifying his bedroom decor, of all his cherished objects, one stood out over all the others—the dented and stained remnants of a shield.
He pictured the leather, wood, and steel armor that saved his life more than he could count, but that hadn’t been why he’d saved it. And it was that image he held onto as the beast let him sleep.
Sergi ignored the group of men as they prepared for another skirmish within the ranks. He was churlish after his meeting with the Captain of the Guard. He’d been doing this for too long—dealing with brash hotheads who thought they knew everything.
Although, to be fair, he’d been that young warrior at one time. After he’d become a rogue, he’d traveled from House to House, picking up work where he could. He’d been brash, daring, and filled with rage. He’d let down those he cared for the most, and though it hadn’t been his fault, the guilt was never far away. And he took it out on the world around him.
Those days had made him a better fighter, had honed his skills as a warrior, and had earned him trust among the men when he’d face the enemy with a fierceness that couldn’t be contained.
Then one day, he found a House that hit a chord deep within him. There were plenty of Houses worth fighting for, and though he didn’t agree with everything his new leader believed, something he couldn’t name made him stay and pledge his loyalty. Yet, that flame of anger held by his beast had never gone out, and it rose that day after meeting with the Captain of the Guard.
He marched back to his unit, irritated as he shucked off his mantle and grumbled. “As if Agar’s orders aren’t enough to contend with, now I’ve been given a new whelp to train.”
The men grunted, but a few glanced around when Sergi mentioned the whelp was the young son of their House leader. A son most had never seen since he’d left for continued education in the Far East. Sergi had seen enough sons of leaders who pranced into battle believing their House name made them resilient—untouchable. He’d seen many of them fall or crawl back to their Father.
He was still complaining about his new assignment as he sharpened his dagger when a stranger walked into the guard’s tent. He wore common battle gear but no insignia. No colors to show who he fought for.
Sergi gave him a quick perusal, then ignored him, returning to his dagger. New warriors were always joining the House.
“You think you can take the Master’s whelp in a fight?” the stranger asked.
“You think anyone in this battalion couldn’t take someone who’s nothing but a pup?” Sergi threw back. He had no time for this. “The only education he should be getting is on the field.”
“Were you calling the Master’s son a dog?”
The men’s eyes shifted as they looked from the stranger to Sergi, and even through his irritation, he took note of it. Sergi might be a warrior at heart, but he played politics better than most, and he tempered his tone.
“I only meant that he’s young. From what I hear, barely over a hundred years.”
“And he’s taken no credit for the battles he’s won.”
Sergi chuckled at that. “So they say.”
“I wager he could take you in a fight.” The stranger picked up a lance, checked its length, then hefted it to test its weight. After giving the tip a closer inspection, he tossed it into a heap on the floor.
“Twenty pieces says you’re wrong.” Sergi stood to his full height, the muscles in his arms and chest pulsing with eagerness to fight.
The stranger dipped his hand into a pocket beneath his armor and pulled out a handful of coins, tossing several on the table and pocketing the rest.
Sergi glanced at them before reassessing the stranger. He wasn’t as large or muscled as Sergi, and though something didn’t feel right, he’d gone too far to back down. Not now.
He pulled coins out of his pocket and tossed them on top of the others. The men murmured, excitement growing at the pending fight.
Sergi led the stranger out of the tent and onto the training field. Though both men wore their weapons, two pages followed closely with training swords. The two vampires took their places on the field, stared at the wooden swords, and then at each other. They ignored the pages and pulled their steel swords as they circled each other.
Warriors began to form a ring around them, and those who’d been training dropped their wooden swords and joined them, their voices rising in cheers of encouragement.
The two males continued to circle each other, each male studying the other. Sergi had to admit, he was impressed by what he saw. The male moved easily, his feet light and not giving away any sign of which foot he would lead with. Sergi grinned. This would be an even match, and his beast rattled its cage, ready for battle.
Tired of the slow dance, Sergi lunged. His challenger didn’t feign as expected but charged. Their swords clashed, echoing through the valley and over the yells of the crowd.
Sergi twisted as he came out of the lunge to find the other male ready with his sword raised as he came at him. Sergi dropped and rolled, coming up fast to block the strike and then delivered one of his own. It was blocked.
The male was quick on his feet, only giving away his direction as he moved to strike. Sergi had to admit his admiration was growing, but he never lessened his blows. When the male came at him before he was ready, he raised his shield and felt the power of the strike but managed to maintain his balance.
He changed tactics and went after the challenger with a continuous series of attacks until the other male was forced to use his own shield. It brought the two of them close, and before Sergi anticipated it, the male kicked Sergi, landing a blow to his stomach that sent him reeling backward.
He landed on his back but immediately rolled as the sword came down where his head had been.
With each blow he landed, the other repaid in kind. The chanting of the men grew as they began to take sides. No doubt the betting was heavy as the two continued to fight, neither giving any quarter.
It wasn’t until Sergi’s blade frayed the leather strap of the male’s armor that he caught sight of the emblem on his tunic. This was no errant warrior testing Agar’s men. This was the whelp he’d so arrogantly called out—the Master’s son.
This fight was no longer a mere challenge, no matter the coins that lay on the table in the war tent. He’d slandered the House leader’s son, and this had become a different fight indeed.
If he was going down, he wouldn’t make it easy. Sergi might have nothing left—the House of his birth gone, his family gone. But he had his honor. And no one could take that away.
The fight continued for another ten minutes until both males were drenched in sweat, and blood marred their bodies. Sergi had taken blood that morning, and his cuts healed quickly, except for one along his left arm that had cut almost to the bone. The deep lash across his thigh ached, but the skin had closed over.
The blood and gashes didn’t bother him, but he’d grown fatigued. His opponent’s movements had also slowed, but Sergi wouldn’t outlast him. And he’d rather take the honorable way out.
He dropped to one knee, laying his sword and shield at the vampire’s feet. He bowed his head, knowing after seeing the blood drip down the male’s arm and left leg that it was his leader’s right to have him put to death for the injury, even in this mock battle.
“I give you my life,” Sergi said.
The male stared down at him for several minutes. “Why do you give me your life?”
He was confused by the question, then shrugged as he looked up into crystal blue eyes. “For the grievous injury I’ve caused the Master’s son.”
He dropped his head. There should be murmuring from the men, but the silence was so complete one could hear a grasshopper move through the grass.
“I’m told you came from House Lennox a few months ago.”
Sergi nodded. “As a rogue.”
“So, you might not have learned that we don’t punish others for simply trying to best those of higher rank.”
“No, Master.”
The male clucked his tongue. “I’m no Master, and you don’t want my Father hearing you saying that.” His tone was one of humor, and Sergi glanced up at the male’s next words.
“You might have heard of the pending House war between Beaumont and Vaughn. My Father has no wish to move his army against Vaughn, yet he understands the consequences should they win. House Beaumont has called for our support, and while our Father won’t risk the House by sending men, he’s given me leave to create my own army.”
When Sergi couldn’t hide his interest or curiosity, the male grinned.
“My Father has also given leave for me to take five members of his army as seed for my own. I want you to be my Captain of the Guard. Will you accept this role and ride into battle at my side?”
Sergi’s blood soared at the thought, but he squinted at the male. “Why would you ask me of all vampires after I challenged you?”
“It’s because you challenged me.” He touched his arm where Sergi’s blade had sliced a long opening. “And you have moves I’ve never seen before.” He stretched out his hand. “Will you join me and fight alongside the son of House Trelane?”
He would never forget that moment, all those centuries ago, when he took Devon’s hand. The warriors who had formed a ring around them to watch the fight had cheered. He smiled and choked out a laugh then grimaced at the pain it created.
When the door to his cell burst open, Sergi lifted his head and stared into Gheata’s victorious eyes that glowed a bright yellow. The interrogator was no longer interested in making Sergi talk.
He’d given his life to Devon that day on the training field, and nothing had changed since that moment. He would still give his life for his House.
Gheata smiled as he lifted a syringe. Sergi wanted to close his eyes against whatever was to come next, but he never wavered as he watched the male stride forward and plunge the needle into his neck.