Now, down by the docks, Wood could hear a riot of activity. Carpenters were sawing and hammering, carving and sculpting, labourers carting huge planks of wood, and ship builders in their hundreds were at work. Wood stood a little, holding onto the chimney, aware that if he slipped and a piece of slate went tumbling to the ground the bastards would be over him like a swarm of insects. He shaded his eyes, trying to see the docks; he could catch glimpses, of bodies hard at work. And of course, their noises echoed through the light mist which had seemed, ridiculously, to have lingered for the past three days now. Or at least, since Bhu Vanesh and his vampire demons had invaded the Port of Gollothrim.
Think. Think. What to do?
Reach Pettrus. But then what?
He shook his head. After all, why were they building ships of all things? Wood moved off across the icy rooftop, lowering himself over a stone lintel and down to another. He eased tenderly across ridge tiles, hunched over and trying not to pose a large target, and below in the streets he caught peripheral glances of the creatures, the vampires, call them what you will, drifting like ghosts, almost regal in their lazy decadent dawdling.
After another few hours of subterfuge, of careful travel, Wood crouched by a stone gargoyle, glancing past ugly twisted features wearing a stubble of moss and haircream of seagull shit. There. He could see Pettrus' house, a narrow terraced stone building on a steep, cobbled road leading down to the southern docks. The door was open. Wood grimaced. That was bad. Even as he watched, he saw two vampires move to the doorway and pause, looking around. There came a subtle crack from inside, and the creatures moved in; vanished from sight.
"Bollocks." Wood leapt down to a lower roof, then scrambled to a pipe, swinging his legs over and dangling precariously for a moment, cold fingers clawing, nails dragging on stone, boots kicking uselessly until they found purchase. Wood half climbed, half slid down the iron water-channel pipework, and landed in a heap on the cobbles. He stood, drew his army-issue iron short sword, and approached the door…
Inside, darkness beckoned like a bad nightmare. Wood glanced behind him, licked his lips, and thought better of calling out for Pettrus. It would bring a city full of blood-sucking vermin to the door, that was for sure! But then, he did not need to call out – he heard Pettrus' voice, as grumpy and scratchy as ever.
"Get out, you filthy bastards!" he was snarling, and Wood heard the rasp of steel.
He ran, into the lower quarters where he'd spent many a happy evening drinking brandy and sherry and port, and recounting endless old war stories, tales of campaigns in Anvaresh and Drennach, Torragon and Ionia. Then Pettrus would break out the black bread and cheese, and they'd wash it down with more fine brandy and watch the sun come up over misty rooftops, hearing the call of gulls and distant cacophony of ships unloading their foreign wares at the docks.
Wood ran for the stairs. There came a thud, and a gurgle, and Wood stopped in his tracks. At the foot of the stairs was a dead vampire, chest awash with a flood of crimson, face a rictus mask, fangs gleaming, eyes blood-red and wide and dead. Through the heart. It had been stabbed straight through the heart.
Wood stepped gingerly over the corpse, and eased up the stairs. He heard Pettrus again.
"Come on, you blood-puking bastards! Let's see what you've got!"
"You will not be underestimated again," came a soft, feminine voice, followed by a crunch of wood, and a growl, and the sound of smashing glass.
Wood ran, reaching the landing and spinning into the modest bedroom. Pettrus' sword was on the floor, stained with blood, and he had been flung across the room, hitting the wall, one arm smashing through the window. Blood trickled over his wrist, and his face was slapped, stunned, dazed. Before him, back to Wood, stood a slim girl, no more than eighteen, with long blonde hair and hands focused into claws. She was hissing, a low oozing sound, and hunched ready to spring. To the right, there was another creature, crumpled in a foetal position, hands clasped to chest, panting fast like a heart-attack victim. Pettrus had not been taken easily. But even now, the slim girl was readying to pounce.
Wood leapt forward, shouting "Hah!" as his sword thrust out, but the girl moved fast, too fast, spinning as the blade struck, aiming for her heart but missing, and it scored a line under her arm, parting her flowered dress and opening a huge wound but she did not scream, did not moan or cry out in pain but simply took the blow, flesh parting like razored fish-flesh and no blood came out, just flapping bulging muscle revealing yellow ribs within. Wood's blade came back, and she leapt at him, and in reflex his sword shot up and she knocked it away, fist slamming out to thump his chest, the impact a crushing blow that threw him back against the wall, his head ramming back, stars fluttering and she leapt again, pursuing him, and Wood's head twitched sideways where the vampire's fist skimmed his cheek, punching a hole clean through the stone wall. Dust rose, Wood choked, the girl struggled for a moment with fist trapped and Wood side-stepped, glared at her in temper, pain pounding through his chest with hammer blows and realisation in his dark eyes that if her punch had connected, she would have crushed his head like a ripe fruit. His blade lifted, and he struck her a savage blow across the skull, which split her open revealing skull and brain within, a cross-section down halfway to her nose. She did not die. Wood stared with his mouth hung open at the large V of wound, the open skull, the struggling creature who should be dead as a corpse, but was still mouthing obscenities, flapping and fighting, and her fist came out of the wall grey with powdered stone and her fingers were twisted and mangled, snapped and bent in order to retrieve her fist and she turned on Wood, face a horrific open V, eyes split wide apart but still staring at him with recognition, understanding, hatred, and Pettrus against the far wall croaked, "Cut off its head!" and Wood's blade lifted wide, and slashed at the girl, and there was a thud as her decapitated split head hit the thick carpet. The headless corpse stood for a moment, and Wood watched it, wondering if the bastard thing would still attack him. What would he do then? Cut off the arms and legs? And what if each body part came after him? He felt an insane giggle welling in his chest and he forced it down with a grunt. Focus! You've seen worse than this! But when? When, really?
The corpse collapsed, and lay still. Wood gave a sigh, and glanced right to the fast-panting vampire. Its eyes were watching him, and blood was pooling under it.
"I winged it," said Pettrus, pushing himself to his feet and brushing broken glass from his dressing-gown sleeve. "Go on. Kill it, lad."
Wood moved to the thing, wary, sword gripped in a heavily sweating palm. He could feel droplets in his moustache, and on his shining pate. Damn his thinning hair! How would he woo the young ladies now?
His sword slammed down, separating the creature from its head, which rolled a short way and stared up at him, tongue protruding and purple like a great bloated worm.
Pettrus moved to Wood, and slapped him on the back. "Thanks, boy. I had it under control, but you arrived just in time, all right." He coughed, and grinned, and bent to retrieve his own sword.
"Why are you wandering around in your dressing gown?"
"I was asleep, wasn't I?"
"What, here? Didn't you have the bloody sense to hide, man?"
"Of course I hid, you buffoon!" chortled Pettrus, and rubbed at his sliced wrist. "I was in the attic! What did you think I'd be doing, painting my arse blue and parading it up and down the docks? I just needed a piss, is all."