Page 60 of Captive
The improvement chambers lay ahead, marked by ornate brassdoors carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. Boarstaff pressed Sebastian's blood vial against the center panel. It clicked and released, but not before he felt something, a presence, ancient and aware, tasting the blood, considering, then allowing passage.
They burst inside as alarms blared. The artificers hadn't expected an attack. They scrambled like insects when a rock is overturned. Some reached for alarm systems. Others grabbed surgical tools as makeshift weapons. Boarstaff's warriors cut them down without mercy. Blood, red and too thick, modified by their work, splashed across polished brass. One artificer's head split open, revealing brass components where brain tissue should be.
"The preparation room!" Boarstaff shouted, pointing to glass partitions stained with old blood.
Three guards moved to intercept, not regular guards, but specialized units with weapons designed for the chamber. Thornmaker's spear took the first through the throat, but the guard kept coming, brass components compensating for the mortal wound. It took three more strikes before he finally fell, sparking and twitching.
Oakspear slammed into the second, driving his blade upward through the jaw into the brain. As the guard fell, his brass-tipped weapon, a cruel implement designed to fragment on impact, plunged deep into Oakspear's side. The blade broke off inside the wound with a wet snap. Oakspear grimaced, yanking out what he could, but Boarstaff could see fragments still embedded, blood already darkening around them.
The third guard fell with Boarstaff's knife in his eye, but not before his clawed hand raked across another warrior's face, taking most of the flesh with it.
They smashed through the preparation room door. The smell hit them first, fear-sweat, urine, blood, and that horrible sweet scent of vampire chemicals.
For a moment, they all froze.
A small child lay strapped to an examination table; brass sensors attached to her arms monitoring vital signs. She was so still, so pale, that Boarstaff thought they were too late. Then her chest rose, shallow, but alive. Her wooden doll was cradled against her chest, the only clean thing in a room splattered with the remains of previous procedures.
The restraints had cut deep into her thin wrists, infected wounds weeping pus. Her eyes, when they opened, were glazed with drugs but still aware. Too aware.
Boarstaff moved first, severing her bonds with two brutal cuts. She made no sound, just watched him with those too-knowing eyes.
"Sebastian," she whispered, the name barely audible over the grinding machinery.
"We're here," Boarstaff confirmed, gathering her into his arms. She weighed almost nothing, bones sharp through papery skin. The wooden doll pressed between them, and he felt her grip it with desperate strength.
She said nothing more, just pressed her face against his neck and held on.
The alarm's volume doubled, voices echoing throughout the chamber: "INTRUDERS IN SECTOR SEVEN. ALL GUARDS CONVERGE."
"Exit route compromised," Thornmaker reported from the doorway, blood, his own and others', splattered across his chest. "They're flooding the corridors."
"Feeding chambers," Boarstaff commanded, shifting the child to his back. Her small arms wrapped around his neck with surprising strength. "The maintenance tunnels offer clear passage."
They fought back through the main chamber. More guards poured through the entrance, dozens their brass enhancements gleaming in the harsh light. The battle became a blur of blood and metal. Boarstaff's warriors fought with desperate efficiency, each one covering another. A guard's blade caught Grayfang across the chest, opening his armor, but Thornmaker pulled him back before the killing blow could land.
The child pressed her face against Boarstaff's neck, but he felt her watching through her fingers, taking in every death, though all the bodies falling were vampires and their artificers.
"They're dying because of me," she whispered, guilt heavy in her small voice.
"They're dying because they chose to hurt children," Boarstaff corrected firmly, even as his spear pierced another guard's heart. The man fell, but his mechanical parts kept him moving, crawling towardthem with intestines dragging behind. Thornmaker's boot crushed his skull with a wet crunch. "This isn't your fault."
She clutched her wooden doll tighter. "My papa made this," she said, as if the words might protect her from the violence around them. "Before they took me. He got food for three months."
Boarstaff's jaw tightened. The child had been sold. Traded for food.
Another guard lunged at Ashscar, mechanical claws extended, but the warrior dodged aside at the last moment, the claws merely scraping across his armor with a shriek of metal on metal.
Oakspear fought beside Boarstaff with desperate grace, but the wound was taking its toll. His skin had gone gray-pale, sweat mixing with blood, each movement slightly slower than the last. The fragments still embedded in his side were working deeper with every twist and turn.
They burst into the corridor, leaving corpses behind, both their own and the enemy's. The hallway was painted with blood, the walls streaked with arterial spray. They sprinted toward the feeding chambers, boots slipping on the gore-slicked floor.
The corridor curved sharply, and they skidded to a halt.
A vampire noble blocked their path, his components far more extensive than any they'd encountered. His entire jaw had been replaced with articulated brass, pale skin rippling with visible circuitry beneath. But it was his eyes that made Boarstaff's blood freeze, completely black, like pools of oil, reflecting nothing.
"Zarek," Boarstaff breathed. His hand moved instinctively to the battle scar curving from his left shoulder to his heart, a mark from when he'd faced this monster three years earlier. Oakspear had saved him that day, deflecting what would have been a killing blow.
"We meet again, warchief," Zarek's voice distorted through his mechanical jaw, the words accompanied by the grinding of gears. "This time I'll finish what I started. Your head will decorate my father's hall."
