Crusader (MPRD Book 2) Read online

  Crusader

  MINISTRY OF PARANORMAL RESEARCH & DEFENCE

  BOOK 2

  BY ANDREW CHAPMAN

  Crusader

  By Andrew Chapman

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters and events are the products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2011 by Andrew Chapman. All rights reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, except for selected passages for the purpose of critical reviews, without the written permission of the author.

  Cover photograph ©2011 by Andrew Chapman. All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1456412302

  ISBN-10: 1456412302

  facebook.com/chapman.andrew

  twitter.com/AndyOnTheWold

  JAC.143

  To my mother,

  who is not to blame if I can swear like a trooper.

  And to my father,

  who is.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My grateful thanks to everyone who helped in the writing of this book, no matter how small their contribution:

  As ever, the greatest debt of gratitude goes to Judith, my darling wife, who proof-read the original manuscript, pointed out errors, and gave as much support as humanly possible.

  To everyone who bought PAGAN and encouraged, and even yelled at me to write the sequel.

  To the crew at EnragedBibliophiles, for their insight, support and encouragement.

  To everyone who asked me to sign copies of PAGAN. Never underestimate how great that feels for a writer.

  And to Loki. Meow.

  Lexington, KY

  2010

  Crusader

  PROLOGUE

  Wallachia, Romania

  1447 AD

  Many stories have been written about that moment, but almost none managed to capture the reality. There was no storm, no ominous peals of thunder, no sudden crack of lightning, and no deluge of rain. There was no mournful howl of a lone wolf echoing across the forest. The full moon utterly failed to emerge from behind the clouds at the precise moment that a small number of bats fluttered across it.

  There were no bats. The moon wasn’t full. There were very few clouds.

  There wasn’t even night. It was broad daylight.

  The people approaching the castle weren’t disgruntled villagers who had finally managed to build up enough courage to overcome their terror. They were professional soldiers who had finally seen too much, for whom the nightmares had finally overwhelmed their ability to turn a blind eye, for whom the atrocities had become just too heinous.

  Three hundred soldiers had met in secret and planned this day. All had, at the behest of their master and commander, perpetrated horrific acts against innocent men, women and children. There wasn’t a man amongst them who hadn’t participated in the gang rapes and the orgies of blood. Every man had spent hours confessing his sins to a priest. Each had been promised aid in cleansing their soul provided they fulfilled their duty this day.

  Many had vowed that, after this day they would enter a monastery and spend the rest of their life trying to atone for their sins.

  The priests had provided more immediate aid as well, in the form of crucifixes, bibles, holy water and blessings. Even now, the fluttering of brave hearts was bolstered and strengthened by the words—words few of them understood—spoken over them by the priests who made the sign of the cross on their forehead.

  By far the biggest boost, however, was Father Theodore, a massive bear of a man who was leading the soldiers. Disdaining armor he strode at the head of the soldiers in his monk’s habit. In one hand he clutched a heavy flanged mace of solid iron tipped with silver; in the other, a large and battered bible. Hanging from his belt was an intricately engraved bell, a leather muffler silencing the clapper. His tonsured scalp gleamed in the moonlight, his bearded face twisted in a grimace of righteous anger, and his eyes blazed with a pious zeal.

  Ahead stood the infamous castle, guarded by more soldiers. The path to the castle wound up over a thousand steps, but at no point was the alarm raised. The soldiers had managed to ensure that those sympathetic to their cause would be on guard duty this day.

  Father Theodore strode into the courtyard, his dark eyes glittering in the torchlight.

  To his right stood Crissus, the captain of the Master’s personal honor guard. He was wearing chain mail under a brightly polished cuirass and a gold-inlaid gorget protected his shoulders and neck. His chain mail coif had been thrown back to reveal his unruly brown hair and his boyish good looks. Crissus had been taken from his family as a child, turned into a plaything for the Master and his many friends. When he was fully grown the Master had tired of abusing his body and had turned the young man over to the guard. His rise through the ranks had been staggeringly fast and, after he turned twenty, he was rarely more than a few steps from the Master’s side. Many of the Master’s friends complimented him on his choice of bodyguard, but in truth Crissus hated the Master with every bone in his body and had been planning this day for over twenty years. His fingers rhythmically clenched and unclenched on the haft of his war hammer as his blue-green eyes swept the castle.

  The three hundred soldiers were mostly from the Master’s army, with only a few from his personal honor guard, but today all wore the same colors. Each had a red and a white ribbon, twisted together, wound around his upper arm to identify him to his comrades.

  “Ho, Crissus, well met my brother,” boomed a voice from across the courtyard. “What transpires this morn?”

  From out of the shadows stepped Johannes, Crissus’ lieutenant and long time friend. He stopped when he saw the burly priest and the soldiers the captain had at his back.

  “Brother mine?” he said with puzzlement on his face.

  “Johannes, my friend and brother,” said Crissus, stepping forward. “In the name of the love I bear thee, I beg thee to join us. If thee cannot, I beg thee to step aside and hinder us not.”

  “Hinder thee? Reveal thy purpose, brother!”

  “Brother, ‘tis our intent this night to seek out that foul creature that doth reside within, reveling in the title of ‘Master’ and, will ye, nil ye, to end it’s cursed reign o’er this land.”

  Johannes’ eyes narrowed.

  “Traitor,” he hissed. “I had suspected as much, but had hoped different. Thy death shall be thy reward.”

  “So be it, brother mine,” said Crissus sadly. “Defend thyself, my oldest friend.”

  “To arms! To arms! Kill them all!” bellowed Johannes as Crissus raised his war hammer.

  Johannes turned and ran toward the castle with Crissus hot on his heels as soldiers erupted from hiding places around them. These were mostly the Master’s personal honor guard, men chosen for their good looks and uniformity of height than for their abilities. Few of them trained with as much dedication as their captain, and none had taken advantage of their Master’s travels to expand their knowledge of warfare.

  Battle was joined, the two sides clashing noisily. The honor guard held their ground, pushing the soldiers back towards the walls, crying alarms to the loyal soldiers in the castle. But treachery worms deep and the soldiers that poured out of the barracks were wearing the same red-and-white as their brothers. The honor guard found themselves caught between two enemies and, back to back, prepared to sell their lives for the Master who owned their minds.

  Father Theodore waded amongst the guard, his voice raised in righteous prayer, his mace crushing skulls and helmets with equal ease, rending shields and breastplates as he struck out with the wrath of his God.

  Inside the castle Crissus pu
rsued Johannes down the long hall to the throne room, their boots clattering on the polished marble floor, the rattle and clank of their armor echoing in the high ceiling.

  Johannes spun and faced his Captain, placing his back to the huge oak doors that led to the throne room. Crissus understood the symbolism. As the Master’s honor guard, the throne room was their responsibility, and they were sworn to defend it with their lives.

  “Brother mine,” panted Crissus, “in the name of God I pray, step aside and go in peace.”

  “Nay, brother mine,” said Johannes as he drew his sword. “Thy vow might have been made in vain, but mine bindeth me stronger than steel.”

  “So be it,” said Crissus and raised his hammer in salute.

  Johannes returned his gesture, sweeping his sword up until the crosspiece touched his nose.

  The two lunged simultaneously, weapons ringing against each other. Johannes stared in shock. Crissus had blocked his strike, not with shield or hammer, but with a sword-breaker. The foot-long, toothed dagger held his sword fast and, with a well-practiced wrench, Crissus slammed the sword-breaker to the side, tearing the weapon from his friend's grip and sending it spinning into the shadows.

  “Forgive me, brother mine,” said Crissus, genuine regret in his eyes as he dropped the sword-breaker and seized his war hammer in both hands.

  The head whistled through the air and hit Johannes in the temple, crushing his skull and ending his life.

  Crissus stepped over his fallen friend and flung the doors wide.

  The throne room was empty, just as he had expected it to be. The fact that Johannes and the honor guard had been waiting proved that the Master had been aware of their treachery. By his very nature, though, the Master must be still inside the castle. Father Theodore, bleeding from a shallow wound on his cheek, led the soldiers into the throne room.

  “Disperse,” Crissus ordered. “Find the creature.”

  Despite the stories there was no pitched battle, no desperate clash with the Master screaming defiance from the highest tower as the castle burned around him. He was found hiding in the cellar, trying in vain to open the hidden door to his escape passage.

  When Crissus and Father Theodore came down the dank, badly lit stairs the Master was kneeling on the moldy straw that littered the stone floor. His hands were secured behind his back with heavy, thick manacles and blood ran down his face. Someone had stabbed him in both eyes with a short silver spike.

  “Vlad Dracul,” intoned the priest, making the sign of the cross in front of the kneeling vampire. “Thy reign is at an end. In nomine Patris et filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  The vampire moved his head around, as if he could still see.

  “Crissus? I smell thy traitorous stink,” he hissed. “I shall have my revenge on thee, and on thy descendants.”

  The priest stepped forward, his voice climbing to a sonorous chant in resonant Latin.

  “I will have my vengeance!” screamed the vampire.

  The priest’s mace rose.

  “I shall return!”

  The mace came down, once, twice, thrice, spattering blood on the walls, the floor, and the soldiers, each blow given in the name of the father, the son, and the Holy Spirit as the priest invoked the grace of God for the poor, innocent soul trapped within the vampire’s body.

  Sixty miles away, Vlad Dracul’s most prized treasure was being carried by his most trusted servants, to be placed in hiding until it was needed again.

  CHAPTER

  1

  “They’re running!”

  I rose to my feet at Rock Ape’s shout and took off after the three vampires. Somehow the vamps had spotted our ambush and were bolting. The surrounding residents should have hid our specific mental signatures, but somehow the leeches had picked up on us.

  “They’ve got a car?” asked Knuckles from behind me as we ran. “They came south in a fucking car?”

  Ahead, I heard an engine start with a throaty roar.

  “Yeah, you thought they walked?” I yelled. “Get the—“

  I was interrupted by the sound of a second engine coming to life. A Ministry Land Rover pulled alongside me and Marie beckoned me from the driver’s seat.

  “Need a lift?” she said with a smile.

  I jumped into the passenger seat as the vamp’s car shot out of a side street and careered down the road. Marie floored the accelerator and the Land Rover took off after them.

  “You know we’ll never catch them in this, right?” she yelled over the wind, engine and tires.

  “We don’t have to,” I yelled back. “Just keep them in sight.”

  “They’re headed for the motorway, Jack.”

  “I know. Take the next left.”

  “What? That doesn’t lead to the motorway!”

  “I know! Take it anyway!”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw another set of headlights. Knuckles’ team had made it to their own Land Rover and were following closely. I had to hope Knuckles was driving. I’d shown her the trick a few weeks back and she’d know where we were going.

  “Put your foot down!”

  Marie broke into a broad grin and the Land Rover surged forward. Her werewolf reflexes were fast enough—and her night vision sharp enough—that the dark road wasn’t much of a challenge for her. For me it was as scary as a penalty shootout. I had the frame of the windshield in a death grip with my left hand and the frame of my seat similarly gripped in my right. I wanted to yell at her to slow down but I knew we only had seconds if this was to work.

  “Stop on the bridge,” I said as skidded around another corner.

  “Okay. Boss,” she said, frowning. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

  She pulled the Land Rover up on a bridge that crossed a set of railway lines. I jumped up onto the seat and stepped into the back.

  “What do you see over there? I said, pointing.

  Marie stood up and looked in the direction I was pointing as Knuckles’ Land Rover pulled up behind us.

  “I can see the motorway!” said Marie.

  “Yep,” I replied as I swung the pintle-mounted GPMG around. “Want to kill the lights?”

  In the other Land Rover Knuckles was following my lead. Rock Ape and Pogo jumped down, and set up their LSWs on the side of the bridge. Marie joined them, aiming her ‘shorty’ battle rifle towards the strip of motorway visible a little over thirty yards away. The vamp’s car would have to travel about a mile and a half of back roads to get to the motorway and then, assuming they were headed north, they would flash back past us.

  Cally extended the bipod on her AWSM sniper rifle and settled down on the edge of the bridge, peering through the scope.

  With the lights doused we were waiting in almost complete darkness.

  “Where the hell are they?” hissed Knuckles.

  I shushed her and listened. There was an engine in the distance.

  “Here they come,” said Cally calmly.

  We tracked the car’s headlights as they winked through the trees.

  I didn’t have to say anything. As soon as the car broke into view it was greeted by a hail of silver-tipped rounds. I kept the jimpy on the vamp’s car as it swerved and skidded across the road. We kept up the pressure, hammering hundreds of rounds across the short distance. Just when I thought the car would escape it suddenly slewed across the road, slammed into the barrier and skidded to a halt facing us. We kept up the rate of fire for a few seconds, pounding the stationary vehicle.

  “Cease fire!” I yelled.

  The shots immediately stopped, echoes bouncing away into the distance.

  “Any movement?” I said after a moment.

  “No,” said Cally. “Nothing happening. Wait … yes … front passenger seat. Something’s alive.”

  I couldn’t see much, not with the car’s lights still pointed our way, but if Cally said she saw movement, there was something alive. With a jerky movement the passenger door flew open and a vamp tumbled out. The figure sur
ged to his feet and started running. I opened my mouth to give the order but Cally was way ahead of me; a single shot rang out and the vamp hit the tarmac.

  “You kill him?” I asked.

  “Nope, but I wouldn’t hang around if you want to ask him any questions,” she replied.

  “Right,” I said, jumping down into the passenger seat. “Marie, let’s go. Knuckles, you and your team stay here. If he tries to get up, persuade him otherwise.”

  The last was delivered at a yell as the Land Rover roared off into the darkness. Within a few minutes we had driven around to the motorway and were approaching the wrecked car. It was an Escort with an obnoxious body kit and a spoiler you could go surfing on. Marie had been right; any halfway competent driver would have little problem losing the Land Rover driving this thing, even if the upgrades were purely cosmetic.

  I made a mental note; we needed some better vehicles for pursuit if vamps were going to start running around in boy-racermobiles.

  “Check out the car,” I said. “I’ve got the runner.”

  I jumped out of the Land Rover and keyed my radio.

  “Okay, Knuckles. We’ve got it. Get over here.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” came the reply.

  I sauntered over to the prone figure, shining a flashlight ahead of me.

  The vamp had managed to crawl a few feet further, but he wouldn’t be moving fast for a long while. Cally had shot the vamp in the hip, the high-powered round smashing through both joints before exiting, leaving the bloodsucker effectively hobbled. I slung my FAL on my shoulder and pulled out my SIG.

  “Hey buddy,” I said conversationally, using my boot to flip the vamp onto his back. “You’re a long way from home.”