Right! Sorry about that. Here we go.
With Stout Hearts
The Archon of the Camarilla known as Iacomo has managed to stay alive, frequently in the face of those who would much rather he died, for - when he comes to think of it - quite a considerable length of time.
And so, as he barrels back down the darkened motorway towards London in the rather pleasant car acquired from Baron Turcov, he instantly takes note of the Range Rover that pulls out of the lay-by, lights dimmed, and begins to tail him at a discreet distance.
In fact, it’s really all too simple to wait until the tail has crept up to him, press his foot against the accelerator, as if spooked by the pursuer, building the car’s speed to eighty, ninety miles an hour, the tall floodlights and fields flashing by, watching the Range Rover accelerate to come level with him, a single figure in the passenger window raising a shotgun, before turning, full-speed, off onto the hidden turning, as his pursuer skids helplessly on down the motorway.
It’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t spot the second car waiting for him in the turning, that pulls out just in time for him to ram into it, ninety miles an hour, sending his car tumbling out over the crash barrier and down into darkness.
Rolling, perilously fast, over and over; hedgerow and scrub thrashes against the windscreen - the glass cracks.
And then the car lands, rocking, once, twice, on its wheels.
Iacomo coughs, and blinks. The airbag, late and useless, explodes in his face and he has to burst it with his nails before he can force his seatbelt loose, scrabble for the handgun in his glove compartment, and, kicking the battered door open, stumbles out.
Ahead, across soggy, darkened fields, ghostly white wind-turbines are spinning.
Iacomo glances once behind him, up to the curve of the road. Headlights; the slam of a car door. Laughter. And, for an instant, a silhouette crosses the dazzling, blinding beam of light.
He aims his handgun up towards the shadow, fires twice, and runs.
Behind him, someone cries out; shots crack out after him.
Iacomo makes it to the hedgerow, plunges through it into the field on the other side, and ducks down to get a better look at his pursuers.
As his eyes accustom themselves to the brightness of the headlights, he begins to make the figures out; one, two, three. One of them, stood on the edge of the road, calls out, hands cupped to their mouth,
‘Camarilla! Hey, Camarilla!’
Iacomo, quite calmly, turns away from the speaker to try and get a better view of his surroundings.
The field’s long, and wide; plenty of open ground to cover. Beyond the tall wind-turbines on the rise of the far slope, there’s a copse of some kind, and a low building that might be a farm or storage facility. It’s a long way to run.
‘Camarilla, c’mon! You know we’ll sniff you out! Come out and talk to us!’
Calling for help from inside London would, Iacomo estimates, be a waste of time; it’d take them far too long to reach him. It might, just might be worth contacting the Prince of Oxford, if only he can make it to the farm and hold them off for long enough...
Iacomo reaches for his phone - the screen is cracked but, miraculously, it still appears to be working - and begins to type with his one free hand.
‘Camar- fuck it. Anton, bring out the Mouth!’
Iacomo stops typing.
The Range Rover boot slams. One of the Sabbat emerges, stumbling, being dragged along behind the leash of something snarling and monstrous.
The enormous Nosferatu pads along on all fours, its face hideously extended and contorted to fit its yawning, colossal maw of fangs. The sinewy muscles of its arms and legs glisten and balloon as it sniffs the air, and tenses.
‘This,’ Iacomo murmurs, to nobody in particular, ‘could complicate matters.’
The Mouth shrieks, to the open air, braying spittle upwards, and darts forward; its handler slips in the mud, its hands caught around the Kindred’s chain, dragged helplessly after it.
Iacomo pushes himself up onto his feet, and dashes onwards across the field. Moments later, a thrash of foliage, patter of legs, and yelp of pain indicates that the Nosferatu and its unwilling passenger have cleared the hedgerow.
The wind-turbines are approaching, fast; their steady hum has become a roar.
The Archon, dropping his phone, reaches inside his pocket for the small flashing device retrieved from the hunters’ treasure trove. It is, he estimates, filled to the brim with shards of mistletoe bark, rose-laurel, and most likely something highly inflammable. What’s inside will have been designed to kill or incapacitate any Kindred, regardless of their powers of fortitude.
Still, he reasons, there’s a time for everything.
The pounding of the Mouth’s feet is almost upon him.
Iacomo turns, throwing his own weight backwards, and tosses the device towards the slavering Nosferatu at the very moment it leaps, tossing its handler high up into the air behind it.
The Archon braces.
And it’s the blast of impossibly bright light, rather than the intense heat of the explosion, or the countless splinters of wood that spear deep into his flesh, his body and blood straining to hold them back, that sends him flying backwards, down into the mud, as the Mouth, howling in agony as the hissing, sizzling-hot liquid ignites against its flesh and fur, goes tumbling over him, crunching into the ground, limbs askew.
Iacomo moans, softly, from the mud. The little Hod splinters are gently popping back out, like rising hairs, from the flesh of his chest, a bubble of precious vitae frothing up behind each one.
'Affanculo...'
A length of broken chain rattles and bounces against the soil somewhere near his left shoulder. It’s followed momentarily by the trailing remains of a former member of the Sabbat, which land with a rather nasty splat of guts.
Iacomo attempts, his fingers straining feebly through the earth, to get to his feet.
Somebody says,
‘Uh-uh-uh.’
The barrel of a shotgun is pressed against the side of his head. He freezes.
‘Fucking hell,’ the Sabbat says, from somewhere above Iacomo’s ear, struggling to make himself heard over the noise of the turbines, ‘Fucking hell, he’s a tough one. What was that? Napalm?’
The second Sabbat, a bearded Brujah clutching what appears to be a flamethrower, steps into view. He gives Iacomo a vaguely frightened look, and shrugs.
‘Charlie,’ the first Sabbat shouts, ‘See if the Mouth’s still with us.’
The Brujah nods, and strolls past Iacomo.
‘Mouth’s gone, Sammy,’ he calls back, after a moment.
‘Fuck’s sake. All right, tell Tara to bring the car down. We’ll stake this cunt and take him back to Connaught.’
There’s strength left in me, Iacomo thinks. A little strength. Let’s hope it’s enough. And I can be damned sure I will not let them take me.
Charlie turns, and waves up towards the distant roadside. The Range Rover flashes its headlights, once, and begins to trundle down the hill towards them.
‘What the hell’s she doing?’ the Sabbat snaps. ‘Fucking idiot, she’s going to go straight through the hedgerow - there’s a gate around to the right, moron!’
The Range Rover’s speed picks up. It’s driving hard now, accelerating directly towards them, and it smashes a path through the hedgerow without so much as a pause.
Charlie’s mouth goes slightly open.
‘I’m not so sure,’ he says, indistinctly, ‘that’s Tara driving after all.’
The jeep careens up the side of the hill, horn blaring, surging up towards Charlie, who lets off a single, terrified blast of flame in its direction for turning and dashing towards the spinning turbines.
‘Wait,’ Sammy’s yelling, ‘hold on, what-’
Iacomo throws his arms up, knocking the shotgun up out of his hands; it goes off, spraying buckshot into the air, and the Archon launches himself at his enemy, thudding punches down on the antitribu’s face, trying to keep him confused, trying to stop him from gaining the advantage, and as the Sabbat begins to panic his mind weakens and the blood loses a little of its power and Iacomo says,
‘Stop.’
Sammy stops, his face filling with sudden confusion, and it’s just long enough for Iacomo to fall back down onto his back in the mud, snatch up the discarded shotgun, and blow his opponent’s head very nearly cleanly off.
Charlie screams; the Range Rover hits him at full-speed, dragging him along beneath its front wheels, and crashes into the nearest turbine. The colossal structure groans, blades spinning slowly to a halt, and begins to creak perilously backwards.
Iacomo watches, rather unsteadily, as a figure steps out from the driver’s seat, crosses to the fallen vampire, who’s trying without success to extricate his mangled leg from beneath the car’s front wheel, and begins to pummel him, repeating enthusiastically, like a sort of grim mantra,
‘Fucking cunt - fucking cunt - fucking cunt-’
Eventually, apparently tiring of this, it removes a wooden stake from beneath its trailing leather jacket and thrusts it deep into Charlie’s chest.
Iacomo, tossing the shotgun to one side, tries to get up, and slips back into the mud. The figure turns; he catches a slight, bleary glimpse of a hideously scarred face and an unpleasant scowl.
‘Fucking alive, are you?’ she asks.
Iacomo manages,
‘Are you...are you...are you with us?’
The vampire shrugs, as if that isn't particular important.
‘I’m with the Gangrel,’ she says. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on these Sabbat cunts for a while now - think they’ve taken in a certain antitribu we’re very interested in getting our hands on. Thought this might be her showing her face tonight, no such luck. Just a sewer rat on steroids and a couple of dumb pricks playing with fire.’
She kicks the unconscious Sabbat hard in the crotch, to no apparent purpose than her own satisfaction.
Iacomo shakes his head, trying to clear it.
‘We need to contact London,’ he murmurs. ‘They’re...the city will be under attack. We have to warn Turcov...or Sommers, or somebody...’
The Gangrel raises her head and gives him what can only be described as a funny look.
‘Sommers?’ she asks, incredulously. ‘That scheming little prick still alive?’
Iacomo begins to laugh. Slowly, the remnants of his life’s vitae screaming at him all the while, he lifts himself to his feet.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘You’ve met him, then.’
*
Cripps is, it’s fair to say, not a conversationalist.
‘Where are you?’
‘Hidden.’
‘Is this line secure?’
‘Mmm.’
‘What can you tell me about the movements of the Sabbat in the city?’
‘Pack near Witanhurst. More underground. Warrens battened down.’ A snort of phlegm. ‘Sorley sent out broadcasts - said Nosferatu should stay off the airwaves.’
‘Sorley thinks the Sabbat are listening in on our official communications,’ Fellowes says, glancing nervously at you. ‘But unless there’s a spy within the Camarilla-’
‘Or more than one,’ you murmur, finger upon your chin. ‘We’re hardly advocates of the free and open society. It’d be damned hard for more than one mole to engineer all of this. Cripps - are you still there? Scout out the Taurien Club, but don’t get too close. They may still be there, and waiting. If there are any survivors...well, do what you can.’
He hangs up, with a grunt of acknowledgement.
*
You contact Grocyn from one of the computers set up in the abandoned air-base; you can be almost sure, at least, that the Sabbat won’t be monitoring you from here.
His response comes back promptly.
Successful contact with Artzi. Lambeth chantry apparently under surveillance, possibly surrounded, not yet assaulted. Claims route underground to Greenwich chantry unmonitored, potential escape route/opportunity for a counter attack. Has heard of attacks on Elysium in Soho, Toreadors pleading for assistance, assistance sensibly not given. No word from other Barons. Will wait to hear more from your end. Malory & Gargoyles of Oxford need time to assemble but we are prepared to give what help we can without leaving our city undefended. G.
‘Right,’ you whisper, chewing nervously at your lip. ‘Right.’
You spread the map out across the table.
‘So,’ you begin, ‘We know the Sabbat have struck in Mayfair - at the Taurien Club - and now we’re hearing they may have targeted The Pleasure ‘N’ Pain. They’re cutting off our communications, attacking our usual meeting places, preventing us from effectively co-ordinating between the clans. Cripps says they’re underground, that they’ve managed to keep the Nosferatu locked down and wary of using their own technology. However, even if the sewer rats can’t talk to us, they’ll still know better than anyone what the Sabbat are up to - they have the surveillance. So perhaps we ought to begin by making our way to them?’
Fellowes shakes his head.
‘Patrician,’ he says, ‘the only absolute certainty we have right now is that the sewers will be swarming with Sabbat. They’ll attack from below, target one institution above-ground, and retreat - it’d take hours to find them again. If we send Wistman underground, their entire advantage will be lost.’
‘And if we send them in to the Pleasure ‘N’ Pain and they find nothing there but a dance-floor filled with innocent Kine and explosives rigged to blow them all to kingdom come,’ you snap back, ‘their advantage will be permanently lost. We need to make an impression, and for that we need to know where the Sabbat are. We need the Nosferatu.’
You glance up.
Captain Kaleni is standing in the doorway, dressed in a kevlar jacket; he stands to attention, and salutes.
‘Ready to go, sir,’ he tells you.
You need a plan of attack.
A) Co-ordinate your team with the Tremere to meet at Greenwich; they’ll have to pass through the entire south of the city, teeming with Sabbat, but if you can reach them, you’ll significantly strengthen your forces.
B) Send the team into the sewers in search of the Nosferatu.
C) Take it slow; establish a base in Wistanhurst/Knightsbridge/delete as appropriate, eradicating any Sabbat presence, and go from there. You'll gain a foothold, but in the meantime the Sabbat will almost certainly gain valuable ground.
D) The Toreador are clearly in trouble, and if the Sabbat can establish a permanent beachhead on the north side of the river in the old Elysium, they’ll be in a far stronger position. Send the team into Soho, quickly.
E) There’s only one way to draw the Sabbat out for certain; make a target of yourself. Head into the city personally and set the team up to ambush the Sabbat who’ll come after you. Like they say, no risk...
F) Why, surely Connaught will keep his promise about giving the Camarilla time to leave the city! Wait it out here for 24 hours to allow the Oxford reinforcements to catch up to you, then choose another option as appropriate.
