72: 71 Battle Blood (3) (AVOT)

71 Battle Blood (3) (AVOT)

Rhain slowly regained consciousness on an unyielding, cold and frigid surface. As he tried to flutter his eyes open, his body protested with a throb of pain. It took him a few tries before his vision finally cleared and the dank surroundings of what appeared to be an ancient dungeon came into view. The oppressive air was thick with the revolting scent of old blood, human waste, and the unmistakable stench of decay.0

His stomach churned with nausea, and a sharp pounding in his head grew more insistent. An attempt to shift his position resulted in the chilling clink of heavy chains. It was as if an unseen weight was pressing down on his every limb, sapping his strength. In defiance, Rhain mustered the will to sit up, disregarding the iron shackles that bound him.

Grogginess consumed him, and his attempts to break free from his chains were feeble at best. The effects of some unknown drug made him feel inebriated, and in this vulnerable state, vivid hallucinations gripped him. 

He was back to his childhood, revliving the harrowing deaths of his parents, watching his ailing brother suffer once again, and enduring the haunting memory of a brutal storm and unrelenting beatings. 

His mind's torment might have elicited screams from him as he felt every biting cold and striking pain from the past, but he couldn't tell. Just as he was about to surrender to the abyss of despair, the sensation of cold water splashed onto him, wrenching him back to reality.

Blinking against the pain, Rhain's gaze darted around, seeking the source of his abrupt awakening. A towering figure stood before him—a man with golden hair tied back neatly and a beard, bearing the rugged look of a warrior with scars adorning his arms.

"Easy, Vampire," he said, his voice dripping with disdain and touched by a foreign accent.

Rhain had heard tales of hunters from the North, descendants of the Vikings. Rumored to be pagans, their reputation was fierce.

The man nonchalantly dragged a rickety chair closer, straddling it with an air of casual dominance. "It seems you've managed to hide the vessel just in time," he remarked.

"Vessel?" Rhain feigned ignorance, trying to stall for time, even if it seemed futile.

The man tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "The woman you wed. An intriguing decision, I must admit. But then again, who can comprehend the twisted games of your kind?"

Rhain's instincts told him this wasn't Slaine, but he couldn't be sure. 

Rhain forced a smirk, his words slurred from whatever drug was in his system. "Indeed, we vampires are fond of games. And we play to win. Perhaps that's why you find yourself with me, rather than with the one you so desperately seek."

The hunter's expression twisted into a knowing grin. "I recall your brother being just as arrogant. Until, of course, one of ours bested him. We may have driven the stake, but only you can complete the act. As it stands, he's trapped in limbo. And it's clear you aim to free him."

Trying to irk his captor, Rhain drawled, "I can't quite hear you. Speak slower, won't you?"

Ignoring the jibe, the hunter pressed, "Where is the vessel?"

A dark chuckle escaped Rhain's lips. "Too late. Why do you think I was weak when you ambushed me?"

Seeing the hunter's confusion, Rhain leaned in, feigning a triumphant tone. "She's already been taken by your enemy. By now, he's likely used her to awaken my brother. And once he does, he'll target the master hunter. Tell me, can he withstand the might of an ancient vampire?"

The words burned as he uttered them. The possibility loomed large in his mind, but he had to appear confident. Daisy was strong-willed; she would survive. She had to. Rhain tugged at his chains, feeling the weight of the drug in his system. Even his telekinesis was suppressed.

The atmosphere in the room grew dense as the hunter's gaze hardened. Before either could speak further, the door to the dungeon swung open with a resounding crash. 

A formidable figure stepped through, clothed in snug black trousers and a brown, sleeveless shirt that showcased his muscular frame. His golden hair, interwoven into intricate braids, cascaded down his back. The beard that framed his chiseled face gave him the rugged appearance of a woodsman. Yet it was his piercing blue eyes, carrying an almost supernatural intensity, that held Rhain's gaze.

Slaine. The legendary hunter.

A torrent of memories and rage surged through Rhain. This was the monster responsible for his brother's torment.

"We finally meet," Slaine intoned, his voice dripping with malevolence.

With considerable effort, Rhain reined in his seething anger. This was not the time for outbursts. "You must be referring to Lysander," he continued. 

The mere mention of the name betrayed a flash of discomfort in the hunter's eyes. He was wary of Lysander. That was a good start. 

"Yes. And you'd best hurry to find him," Rhain taunted. "Lysander is nothing if not persistent. He's been itching to track you down. I do hope, for your sake, you're not too late."

"Where can I find him?" Slaine demanded, his gaze unwavering.

Rhain smirked defiantly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Perhaps I'd be more cooperative without these chains."

Slaine leaned in, the malice in his eyes evident. "You'll rot in those chains, creature. But before that, you'll give me Lysander's location." With a curt gesture, he signaled the men standing ominously behind him.

Rhain tried to size them up, his thoughts racing. Would they employ some kind of drug? He was already dazed from whatever concoction they'd given him earlier. Drugs might only drive him to unconsciousness. 

Seemingly reading his thoughts, and doubting the efficacy of further sedatives, the men chose a more brutal approach. They descended on him, fists and feet flying.

Every blow revived haunting memories from his past — the relentless beatings and cruelty of his youth. With each punch, the memories intensified, forcing him to retreat into himself for solace. The physical torment was becoming a distant sensation when suddenly a cascade of cold water jolted him back to the present, each droplet intensifying his suffering.

The brutes realized that mere beatings wouldn't break him. However, there was one torment that would cripple any vampire: starvation. The insatiable thirst for blood would reduce him to a savage, newly-turned vampire, consumed by bloodlust.

Only when they began to drag his battered form did he grasp their cruel intention. Panic surged through him as they forced his arm onto a rough wooden block. Squinting through hazy vision, the glint of an axe caught his eye. Before he could react, searing pain radiated from his hand.

He unleashed a guttural growl, his entire body convulsing. Instinctively, he reached for the source of the pain, only to find half of his fingers gone, replaced by a gushing, open wound. Blood flowed freely, and as the warmth drained from him, the world blurred, shifting from shadow to absolute darkness.

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