Scott Mariani - Uprising

Moonlight glittered off the barrel of the rifle as the guard stepped out of the shadows.

Joel backed off, raising his hands, and he saw that it was just a young guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, smooth-featured and missing the heavy moustache of the older men. There was as much fear as aggression in his eyes.

‘Wait,’ Joel said. ‘Hold on. There are worse things than me in this place. Let’s talk about this.’

The young guy narrowed his eyes, seemed to hesitate for a second, and then opened his mouth to call the others.

Joel moved faster than he’d ever moved in his life. Twisting out of the line of fire, he grabbed the end of the rifle barrel, yanked it hard towards him and then shoved it back towards the guard with all his strength. The gun was an obsolete military rifle, an old Lee Enfield.303. Joel had shot one, once, on the thousand-metre firing range at Bisley while there to compete in a police pistol competition. Even more than the harsh recoil of the weapon, he remembered the solid steel butt plate that had left a painful weal on his shoulder for hours afterwards. It was that same metal plate that he rammed into the young guy’s face now. It caught him across the bridge of his nose and silenced the shout that had been on his lips. Blood hit the snow.

Joel didn’t want to hurt him any more. ‘Listen to me,’ he pleaded, letting the rifle drop to the ground. ‘Try to understand.’

The young guy was bent over, whimpering in pain from his broken nose. His hand flashed down to his boot and, before Joel could register what was happening, the knife was punching out towards him in the dark. There was nothing he could do to stop the blade from sinking deep into his stomach.

But the cross in his belt saved him from a fatal wound. The point of the knife glanced off the hard stone and Joel felt the cold steel slice into the soft flesh of his side, above the left hip.

The young guy started yelling loudly for the others. His head bursting with pain, Joel hit him hard in the face and he went sprawling in the snow.

Joel staggered back a step with the knife still lodged in his side. He gritted his teeth, took hold of the slim wooden hilt and cried out in agony as he drew it out of the bloody wound. The young guy was trying to get to his feet. Joel knocked him back down with a kick to the face. He threw away the red-smeared knife, spotted the fallen Lee Enfield lying in the snow and snatched it up. Footsteps and voices were approaching fast from around the corner. The rest of the guards had been alerted.

Joel ran like crazy, slipping in the snow and trying to fight the pain in his side. He willed himself to go on. He had to get to the upper levels of the castle.

Goldmund’s headless body was thrown on top of Hassan’s as Lillith drop-kicked the head over the edge of the battlements with a whoop. Next up was Korentayer, who showed much less grit than his two predecessors and had to be dragged on his knees to the guillotine.

As Alex watched the unfolding horror, her mind was racing through a thousand ways she could get out of this.

None of them were possible.

Korentayer’s head became the next addition to the basket, then Borowczyk’s.

Lillith was bored with disposing of the heads by now, and let the guards take it away to be added to the pile along with his body. Zachary hauled on the rope and the bloody blade climbed back up to the top of the frame. Last to go of the male Supremos was Mushkavanhu. He shook off the guards’ hands and walked with dignity to the guillotine.

The final look he shot at Gabriel Stone before they strapped him down would have shaken any mortal man and most vampires to the core — but Stone only smiled.

Zachary pulled the lever.

Chop.

‘Now that one,’ Stone said, pointing at Harry Rumble. The guards were well into the routine now, and had grabbed Rumble’s arms almost before their master had given the order.

Rumble turned towards Stone as they led him to the blood-soaked machine. ‘You may think you’ve won, Stone. You’re wrong.’

‘You should study history, my friend. You’d know that the finest speeches are often the most misguided. Take his head off.’

Zachary brought the blade back up as Rumble was secured to the plank. Alex was frantically trying to think of a way she could stop this, but there were just too many of them — and she knew that if she tried something and was caught, Stone’s threat of exposure to the dawn sun hadn’t been a joke. She thought of poor Greg, and her heart pounded.

Anastasia was standing a few yards away, watching with a smile. Just at that moment, her knees seemed to buckle and she gave a violent shudder.

Stone looked at her sharply. ‘Anastasia? What is it?’

She staggered forward a step, clutching her head between her hands. ‘I…felt something. It’s…Gabriel, something’s wrong. I don’t feel well.’

‘Me neither,’ Zachary muttered, swaying on his feet beside the guillotine.

Suddenly, moans and cries were erupting from the whole assembly of vampires.

Alex could feel it too, and it was a sensation she remembered experiencing not so long ago.

Then the sound of gunshots cracked out from nearby.

Joel was running as fast as he could, but the knife wound in his side was slowing him badly. Just a few dozen yards to go and he’d have made it to the upper courtyard.

He was sure he could see figures up there, silhouetted against the light from the buildings beyond, and a strange rectangular object that he couldn’t make out properly in the gloom. Something was happening.

He glanced behind him and swore. He was leaving a blood trail over the snow that a blind man could follow. His trousers were slick with it, and the nausea was making him light-headed. But he could tell from the shouts and running footsteps behind him that his pursuers weren’t far behind. He had to keep moving.

A splintering explosion as a bullet smashed into the masonry a foot from his head; a millisecond later, the crash of a rifle shot reverberated over the castle grounds and the boom echoed around the mountains. He ducked down and ran harder into the blinding snow, grinding his teeth, limping badly. There was a bend up ahead, and just below it was a ruined low wall. He dived under cover, threw the rifle out over the craggy stonework and pressed his cheek to the stock. An instant later the racing figures of the three guards he’d seen earlier appeared around the corner and ran right into the Lee Enfield’s sights. He squeezed the trigger. The massive detonation filled his ears and the rifle kicked back viciously against his injured shoulder. He saw one of the men clutch his chest and go down with a cry.

Joel worked the bolt, fired again, and saw a second gypsy pitch sideways into the snow, dropping his weapon. The third man had fallen into a crouch behind a pile of rocks. The gun in his hands was shorter and stubbier than the big bolt-action rifles, with a long stick magazine. In the quarter-second it took for Joel to duck down behind the wall, a roaring blast of submachine-gun fire raked the masonry and showered him with dust and stone fragments. Keeping him pinned down with steady bursts, the guard got to his feet, leapt over the bodies of his comrades and came running at the low wall.

In two seconds he’d have jumped up onto it and his bullets would be raking the ground where Joel lay huddled under cover.

Joel rolled out from behind the wall, frantically working the bolt of the Lee Enfield. Lying on his back, he thrust the rifle up into the air at the same instant that the gypsy appeared on top of the wall. Their gun muzzles were just three feet apart.

In the same split second that Joel felt the Lee Enfield recoil in his hands, the gypsy’s submachine gun spat flame. The.303 tapered round from the rifle caught the man under the chin and he fell soundlessly back over the wall with most of his head blown away.