Rahvin

OK, I've moved this over to this section, as it got a bit too long to be a short story any more...








Varakash Morhkur, Scion of Abhorash, Blood Dragon, held his sword against the Slayer’s neck. Anger and defiance burned in the Slayer’s eyes, but Varakash could taste his underlying fear, the same fear that all mortals shared, no matter how long-lived.

“You are defeated, Slayer,” Varakash said, softly.

The Slayer gritted his teeth. “So be it, Vampire. I go to my death with honour.”

Varakash tilted his head at this. It was rare to find one among the mortal races possessed of such grace in defeat. “You do not beg, nor make pleas for mercy.” It was not a question.

The Dwarf grimaced, his throat working against the cold steel of the Vampire’s sword. “I am a Slayer. I do not fear my death.”

“Interesting…” said Varakash, almost to himself. “You are the first mortal I have yet found who has not begged me to spare his life, Dwarf. And your skills in the arts of combat are prodigious.”

Varakash lifted his sword away from the Dwarf. “You may return to your Hold, Slayer. You have earned your life today. Leave now, and you may keep it.”

The Dwarf rubbed at his throat where the Vampire’s sword had drawn blood. Varakash felt his infernal hunger rise, and crushed it ruthlessly. He would not give in to the thirst that he hated so much, that he had fought against since the day he had been cursed with unlife.

The Slayer spat. “I need no Undead abomination to give me my life, Vampire. All I desire is a warrior’s death.” His fingers twitched as his hand edged towards his broad-bladed axe, lying on the ground beside him.

Varakash turned from the Dwarf, walking slowly down the mountain trail. “Return here in one year, Slayer, and you and I will have our reckoning. There, you may find your death.”

The Dwarf did not reply, and Varakash had taken another half-dozen steps before he heard the whisper of the Dwarf’s axe cutting through the air. The vampire turned with inhuman speed, and his sword flashed out to block the Slayer’s descending axe. Varakash could see the Slayer’s muscles straining as he tried to complete his strike, but the Vampire was by far the stronger of the two, and his sword held the axe immobile.

“I gave you your life, Dwarf,” Varakash said calmly, “do you refuse it?”

The Dwarf spat. “I will not allow you to escape, monster! By Grungni, I swear I will cleanse the world of your filth!”

Varakash lashed out with one silver-armoured boot, a gleaming blur faster than the eye could follow, and kicked the Dwarf in the chest, sending him flying backwards. The Dwarf thudded heavily into the rocks lining the trail.

“You will have your chance, Slayer, one year from now. Such an honour is bestowed only upon my finest opponents, a second chance to earn their lives. Or,” he added, as an afterthought, “their deaths. You cannot defeat me now, Slayer. Spend your year wisely, and hope that you will have improved enough when we next meet.”

The Dwarf raised his head sluggishly, obviously disorientated from the sudden blow. He grasped for his axe, but it lay meters away from him, beside the Vampire’s feet.

By the time he was recovered enough to stand, Varakash Morkhur, Scion of Abhorash, Blood Dragon, was long gone, disappeared into the mist that shrouded the mountains.







“Lord Morkhur,” said the thrall, a powerfully-built warrior in gleaming steel plate, “we must find shelter. Daybreak is only hours away.”

Varakash Morkhur glanced at the thrall. “Daybreak, like fate, is not fixed, Reinholdt. It can be changed, delayed, even halted altogether.”

Reinholdt met the Vampire Lord’s gaze for a second, and then turned away with a nod. “Yes, Lord. I will seek out the others.” Reinholdt left, walking fluidly despite his armour.

Varakash placed a hand on his sword, a rusty, battered length of steel with a bent cross guard. It was a far cry from his old armament, the full raiment of the Queen's Guard, in forgotten Lahmia.

He stood atop a rocky outcrop, staring into the roiling blackness of the thick clouds. The lives of mortals appeared as incomprehensible to him as the darkest depths of the clouds. The Slayer troubled him particularly.

Until now, Varakash had thought it impossible to find a mortal unafraid of death. That he would find one here, in the World’s Edge Mountains, was a likely indicator of their rarity. It seemed suitably fitting, thought Varakash, that this individual would be a Dwarf. Their tenacity and stubbornness were infamous, as was their honour. This combination was almost ideal for evading the shadow of death that had cast its pall over the World.

Varakash turned, dismissing the thought. Almost year ago, barely twenty miles from this spot, he had fought the Slayer. In a month, he would do so once more. For now, though, he had to reach shelter before the sun’s light became too strong for even his dark powers to conceal.

He stepped down from the outcrop, sending his mind down, under the layers upon layers of dirt and stone, deep into the earth, feeling for the dead. His pale lips twisted into a small smile. The dead lay thickly here, victims of countless battles, Orcs, Goblins, Dwarves and Skaven, heaped atop one another over the years. If the Dwarf proved less than honourable, there would be no shortage of bodies.

A faint whisper of leather against rock, the slightest disturbance of the crisp night air, each undetectable to human senses, alerted Varakash to the thrall’s return. Reinholdt stepped from the shadows under a rocky ledge.

“Lord Morkhur, the others are returning. They will be here soon,” said Reinholdt, making a slight bow. Such had never been the custom in Varakash’s time, but he did not discourage the habit. The path of the Blood Dragon was a harsh one, and discipline came in varying forms.

“Very well, Reinholdt. Assemble the others and create a shelter.”

Reinholdt bowed again. “Yes, Lord Morkhur,” he said, and turned sharply on his heel. His boots made a soft whisper-click on the rock as he left to inform the other thralls.

Varakash turned to look once more into the clouds. He had called the towering formations, but he did not control them. So it was with everything. Staring into the clouds, waiting for his thralls to arrive, he went back, back into the tumult of his memories, thousands of years of blood and death.





Lahmia, four and a half thousand years ago…


“What is wrong with our Lord?” asked Varakash quietly. His voice echoed softly from the intricately carved wooden walls of the large sparring hall.

The man opposite him, a tall, powerful man holding a two-handed sword in a guard stance, frowned. “Who knows? He hasn’t been out of his quarters for days.”

Varakash drew his own weapon, a notched broadsword borrowed from the armoury. He settled into a defensive stance, waiting for the other man to move first. “I can’t think what started it, either. One day he was fine, the next he was… well, like this. He won’t eat or drink, and he allows no-one near him except for the Queen.”

The other man grimaced. “What does the Queen hope to do for our Lord? He needs a healer, not royal scrutiny.”

“He and the Queen have been friends since childhood. It does not surprise me that she is the only one he will see. It is also rumoured,” he continued, “that she is a powerful adept of the magical arts.”

The other man snorted. “Pah. Rumours only. The Queen of Lahmia is no witch or sorcerer. They stay were they belong; in Nehekara. We have no need of them here.”

“Walach, you should be more tolerant. Sorcerers have their uses.”

The other man, Walach, laughed. “Yes Varakash, they do. Targets.”

Varakash attacked in a blur of motion, catching Walach off-guard and slicing a fresh cut across his chest. Varakash retreated, putting his weight onto his back foot. Walach gritted his teeth at the wound, and tightened his stance.

“It is you who is the target, Walach,” Varakash taunted.

Walach’s grimace twitched. “That was a dishonourable blow, Varakash. I was not prepared.” He shifted into an aggressive stance, feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor.

Varakash shrugged. “That, my friend, is your problem, not mine.”

Walach did not reply, but instead stepped forwards, swinging a heavy blow for Varakash’s stomach. Varakash stepped into the strike, sliding Walach’s large blade along his own smaller one until the two were face to face.

Walach pushed and stepped back, breaking the lock. He lunged, but checked it at the last moment, swinging in low instead. Varakash only just managed to block the attack, and took a hasty step backwards. Walach followed up immediately with a series of powerful slashes, forcing Varakash back even more.

Varakash blocked a vicious horizontal slash at his neck, and moved forwards with it, twisting to bring his sword to bear. Unable to manoeuvre his larger blade, Walach tried to retreat, but Varakash followed him, striking out with a triplet of blows that Walach barely avoided.

Walach dived to the side, rolling as he landed and coming up in a guard stance, one knee on the floor. Varakash followed, lunging in with a low thrust at Walach’s stomach. Walach smashed Varakash’s sword to the side with a heavy blow and stood, bringing his sword up with him in a deadly slash.

Varakash threw himself desperately backwards, landing in a clumsy roll. He came up, guard raised, and found Walach standing in front of him. The point of Walach’s greatsword was inches from Varakash’s throat.

“I win again,” said Walach. “You need more practise.”

Varaksh sheathed his sword. “That was a good fight; especially that little trick you pulled at the end.”

“Trick?” said Walach. “It was no trick. That was pure skill.”

Varakash snorted. “Right…”

Walach threw his sword into a corner, and Varakash winced as it clanged to the floor. “You could at least put it back,” he said reproachfully.

“Varakash, that’s the cleaner’s job. Do you really think that Captains of the Queen’s Guard are expected to clean the practise rooms like common servants?”

“The rack is right by the door,” protested Varakash. “It’s hardly any effort. This is where you fall down, Walach. Honour and skill is fine, but the discipline extends to everything, not just combat.”

“Maybe so,” said Walach, “but I’ll just stick to beating you every time we fight.”






The World’s Edge Mountains, present day…


“We are ready, Lord Morkhur.”

Varakash turned. Reinholdt was standing behind him. “Very well.”

He stepped into the centre of the trail. His thralls were assembled around the edges of the wide path, ten pale sentinels wrapped in cloaks the colour of dried blood that flickered in the harsh wind.

He swept his eyes slowly over them. Each had been with him for over a thousand years, powerful vampires in their own right, sired from his ancient blood, and Varakash had trained them rigorously in the disciplines of combat.

Varakash spoke, his voice soft, yet cutting through the low howl of the wind. “My Accursed Lords, our destination is near. The Silver Pinnacle lies less than a hundred miles away. Soon we shall enter the Halls of the Night and dine with our Queen. Our journey is nearly at its close.”

Reinholdt stepped from behind Varakash, and addressed the Accursed Lords. “Urgency is not as vital as it once was, my brethren. We no longer have need to travel under this constant veil of darkness that our Lord has summoned. There is time to rest, to recuperate from the rigours of travel. A shelter shall be created.” He turned to face Varakash. “My Lord, do you wish to lead?”

Varakash nodded, and walked past Reinholdt. “My Thralls, a shelter shall be created like no natural formation could mirror. It shall be a shelter of the dead, and it shall be formed from the dead.” He raised his arms, and his long, white hair flew out behind him at the movement. “Release your power, my Thralls. Seek out the dead within these ancient mountains.”

He felt the Vampires extend their magical abilities as one, drawing deep of the billowing winds of magic. He felt the metallic tang within his mind as their power snaked through the rocks and earth, coiling around the long-dead bodies that lay, decomposing, beneath the surface.

A hiss escaped Varakash’s lips as he flexed his own abilities, releasing his power down, into the ground, feeling the multitudinous dead that lay, buried by time and the weather, below the rocks. “Now, my Thralls, raise the dead. All of them.”

As he spoke, Varakash sent his power coursing through the dead, invading their bones and flesh, animating them with dark power. He drew them to the surface, his power cracking the rock around them. Around him, his Thralls did the same, each summoning as many as they could upward, out of the rock.

He gave one last push of ethereal strength, and a decayed, gaunt, hand burst from a widening crack in the rock. The zombie clawed its way out of the ground, followed by a dozen others, each emerging from a different crack. They were pushed out of the way by more zombies emerging from the same cracks.

The zombies summoned by his Thralls surfaced, surrounding those that Varakash had called, a few at first, and then more, until the trail was crowded. Skeletons appeared behind the zombies, older corpses. Dirt fell from aged, cracking bones to lie thick upon the ground.

Varakash stopped summoning, and turned his power fully onto the creatures he had already called. Creaks and groans filled the sharp mountain air as the dead shuffled to line the edges of the trail, forming a wall across the path twenty meters either side of Varakash. More followed, until the wall was ten thick, bodies pressed so close together there were no gaps.

His Thralls ceased summoning, and directed their minions to follow Varakash’s. The dead clambered atop one another, forming an arching wall. The wall stretched high into the air, curving inwards until it seemed that it must fall. Zombies formed pillars around the centre of the wall, supporting the flaking corpses. The last few zombies, Varakash’s remaining creatures, clambered over the outside of the wall, lying flat over the top and sealing the shelter.

Varakash released his hold upon the clouds, and the sun’s light broke through, drawing groans from the corpses. The Vampires withdrew their powers. The corpses fell limp, supported by each other. Silence filled the stale air within the shelter.

“Now we sleep,” Varakash said, softly, his voice echoing strangely around the corpse-shelter.

His Vampires lay in the dirt, settling into the limp sleep of the dead. Stillness stole across their features. They made a circle around him, guarding him even in their sleep. Varakash lay down in the centre of the shelter, and blackness overcame him as his eyes closed and he finally let himself succumb to the darkness that waited at his heart.






Gorthek looked around the Great Hall, his tall, flame-orange hair swaying with the movement. The thanes of Khazad Vulkhrund were assembled around the massive throne that dominated the Hall. The ten thanes were clad in thick leather jerkins, trousers and boots. Each held their weapons, polished steel great axes and hammers, at their waists.

On the central throne sat a thickset Dwarf. He wore a large, horned helm that shone in the flickering torchlight, and a huge, rune-engraved hammer rested across his knees. His long, grey-brown beard was bound with white cord.

He spoke. “What have you to tell us, Slayer Gorthek?”

Gorthek set his jaw. “I bring you word of the Uzkular, King Thorlek. A powerful Vampire lord wanders the mountains to the north.”

Growls sounded from the Thanes. The King leaned forward in his throne. “You have seen this Vampire?”

Gorthek nodded. “I fought him myself; a year ago. It is my shame that I was unable to defeat him.” His fingers traced the chipped blade of his axe unconsciously.

The King raised an eyebrow. “How is it that you are still alive if you could not kill the Vampire?”

“He left me for dead. He gave me his word,” Gorthek spat, “that he would return to that same spot in one year, and we would have a reckoning.” He ran a hand across the ragged scar that the Vampire had given him. It ran from the base of his neck to his armpit, a barely-avoided deathblow.

Thorlek looked hard at Gorthek. The King gripped his axe. “And you wish us to interfere with this?”

Gorthek snarled at the implicit insult. “Never! I will fight the Zangunaz-Rik alone, as honour demands! I come to warn you of this threat, and you insult me?”

King Thorlek held his hands out, his axe forgotten. The tails of his beard swung as he shook his head. “Then what would you have me do?”

“If I should fall at the hands of the Vampire, I would have you know of its threat. If I cannot kill him, and find my death on that day, I would rather go to the Ancestors with the knowledge that the Vampire will not live on.”

Thorlek looked over his Thanes. “You have the assurance of Khazad Vulkhrund, Gorthek. The throng shall be mustered. How long is it until the Vampire returns?”

“Thirty days from now,” said Gorthek. “Up in the high passes of the third mountain. You would do well to warn your rangers.”

The King smiled grimly. “We shall be ready. Will you take shelter in our halls until then?”

Gorthek nodded respectfully. “Aye, King Thorlek, I will. I thank you for the offer.”

“Good,” said the King, “I have to talk with my Thanes, Gorthek, and such a discussion is not the place for a Slayer."

Gorthek grinned as he bowed. “I know when I'm not wanted.” He walked from the Great Hall, his axe swinging in its shoulder clasp. The heavy stone double doors of the Hall groaned shut behind him.

__________________

Rahvin

Part 5


Varakash woke slowly, his unnatural senses stifled with the rotting stench of death emanating from the shelter. The sharp-edged steel plate of his armour, notched and tarnished over many years use, dug into his skin where he lay.

The armour was basic, a simple steel cuirass and leg guards. Its surface was pitted and gouged from years of use, discoloured from exposure to the harsh elements. His sword was barely worthy of the name, a simple length of unadorned, heavy steel, with a bent square cross-guard. His hair, once lustrous and thick, was thin and bedraggled, neglected in his centuries of wandering.

Varakash stood. Soon, he would be returned to his full glory. Soon, he would be reunited once more with his Queen. Soon…

Soon, he would face the Slayer.

Varakash did not know what to do about the Dwarf, and his indecision troubled him. He had been free to do as he wished for centuries, millennia, but now there were bigger concerns.

He closed his eyes slowly as he heard Reinholdt begin to wake. The others would not awaken for another hour. They were not powerful enough to function when the sun was still hovering above the horizon.

“Lord?” Reinholdt’s voice floated through the darkness.

Varakash opened his eyes and looked at Reinholdt. He blinked, once, slowly. His voice was silken when he spoke, yet with a harshness beneath the surface; silk sliding over sandpaper. “Are you prepared to appear before the Queen of the Night, Reinholdt?”

Reinholdt, for the first time in three thousand long years, faltered. The ancient Vampire opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. When he did speak, finally, his voice was low and measured. “I am as ready as I will ever be, Lord.”

“Good,” said Varakash. “The Queen does not suffer overconfident fools easily, especially males.”

Reinholdt studied Varakash for a long moment. “You know the Queen, Lord?”

“Yes. I knew Neferatem,” said Varakash. He closed his eyes. “That was before the Great Burning, when the City of Vampires died. She was my Queen, and I was her guard, serving her in both life and death. Those were glorious times, Reinholdt. Not the petty squabbling nations of today. No, in Lahmia, there was a strong government, led by a strong Queen. The people were safe from their enemies, and we all thought ourselves invulnerable, great lords of the night, preying on the weak and the scum.”

He stood. “Lahmia was the greatest city the world has ever seen, Reinholdt. And it lives on.”

Reinholdt stood up next to him. He nodded in understanding, his brown eyes holding an unnatural gleam. “My Lord, when do you wish to arrive at the Silver Pinnacle?”

Varakash glanced at his ancient thrall. “Tomorrow.”

“My Lord?” said Reinholdt. “I do not know if the other can cover a hundred miles in one night.”

“Then we leave them,” Varakash said simply. “I will arrive at the gates of the Silver Pinnacle by daybreak, with or without my Accursed Lords. They will follow. I will assure that.”

Reinholdt nodded in acceptance. “Very well. When do we set out?”

Varakash gestured at the wall of corpses surrounding them, and drew on his necromantic power. The corpses writhed, contorting in unnatural positions. Slowly, gaps appeared in the wall, faint light filtering through. The gaps widened, forming a narrow arch.

Varakash walked through the arch. He turned in the semi-darkness outside. “Now.”

He walked slowly down the trail, and Reinholdt followed him. The two began a steady, ground-eating jog, moving faster than a sprinting horse. They would keep up the speed all through the night. The Queen of the Night demanded nothing less.


Part 6

Gustav Elesvarn fumbled his tankard back down to the thick wooden table. It was his fifth tonight, and he was feeling pleasantly drunk. The Lusty Maid had the best ale in Morkand. Granted, it was the only ale in Morkand, but it was still good.

He turned to his drinking companion, a thin man with deep bags under his weary-looking eyes. “So,” he said, “tell me some more about these ‘undead’ you seem to know so much about.”

The man looked up at Gustav. He said in a heavy voice, “They dwell everywhere, wherever there are dead buried. Sylvania is home to the greatest of them. The Sylvanian lords are no true lords, but are predators of the night.”

Gustav snorted. “Shut up mate, you’re talking crap.” He took another deep swallow of ale. “Everyone knows that the dead walking is rubbish. Sylvania’s abandoned anyways, or near enough.”

The man shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s true. Sylvania is a province of death, where the dead roam the land, ruled over by Vampiric overlords.”

“Bollocks,” said Gustav. “There’s nothing there.”

“Nothing living,” the man said ominously.

Gustav waved a hand in front of the man’s face. “Nah. You talk rubbish. Barmaid!” he shouted. “Another ale!”

And then the heavy door was thrown open, crashing against the wall. A man stumbled inside, wearing torn clothes that whipped around in the harsh winds entering from outside. He scanned the crowd wildly, and shouted, “The Dead! The dead walk the streets! For the love of Sigmar, get you gone from here! We are all dead! Dead, like them!”

A rusted axe chopped down from outside the door and bit deep into the side of his neck. He collapsed with a grunting cry, and the wielder of the axe was dragged into view.

Gustav cried out in horror as he beheld the thing. It was six feet tall, with grey-green skin that sloughed off its emaciated form. Its face was slack, and a flap of skin hung from the side of its skull down over one eye. It groaned.

Everyone moved at once. Tables were overturned as people frantically tried to escape, climbing over the bar and heading for the back exit. Gustav glanced at the bar. He’d never make it.

He looked around for something, anything, he could get past the zombie with. His eyes fell on a broken chair leg that lay on the floor, and he dived for it, barely avoiding being trampled in the mob. He grabbed the leg tightly, gritted his teeth, and ran at the zombie.

It lurched at him, and he swung the leg as hard as he could for its head. The heavy wooden leg hit home with a sickening wet crunch, and caved in the side of the zombie’s skull. It staggered into the doorframe, and Gustav kicked it in the knee. The floorboards creaked as it fell onto them.

But it was not dead. Gustav watched, horrified, as the zombie tried to claw its way to its feet again. Without thinking, he smashed the chair leg into its head again, and again, wincing each time at the horrible wet smack of the impact. He kept hitting until the zombie’s head was just a mess on the floor.

Gustav looked round, adrenaline pounding in his veins. A half-dozen people were taking cover behind overturned tables and benches. Exultation coursed through him, and he nonchalantly scooped up the zombie’s fallen axe. He brandished it at the hiding citizens.

“Oh, let me do all the work, why don’t you? Come on,” he said, motioning towards the door, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

Still revelling in his victory, Gustav ran through the door and into the street. It was after midnight, and the wind was cold and biting, cutting through his coat. He took off down a narrow street at a run, looking over his shoulder to see the ragged group from the tavern following him, clutching at chair legs and odd bits of wood. One had a pair of broken bottles, and another a large carving knife. All of them looked scared out of their wits. He laughed wildly and came out of the narrow street onto the main road.

And that was when he saw them.

A huge horde of zombies shambled down the street towards Gustav. What must have been well over a hundred animated corpses stumbled and lurched down the cobbled road. Behind them, a black shadow rode slowly on a massive steed.

All the adrenaline left Gustav, replaced instantly by freezing fear. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be within a thousand miles of that black figure. He ran.

His footfalls pounded on the cobbles, a frenetic beat that cut sharply over the low moans and grunts of the zombies behind him. Flames licked at the buildings around him, but he paid them no attention, concentrating on his steps.

He turned a corner at the end of the street, and ran straight into the black figure. He bounced off, and fell to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat with sheer terror. His eyes slowly trailed up the immobile figure in front of him.

Its steed was gone, and it stood in front of him, well over six feet tall, clad in an ancient, ornate suit of black-lacquered armour. Plates overlapped in a complex design, and an emblem was worked into the chest, a rearing dragon, wings outstretched, outlined in blood red. The figure held a large greatsword in one hand, the blade shining in the flickering firelight.

Gustav looked up at its face. It was a man, or at least had the features of one. Dark eyes glared from a narrow face, and his thin-lipped mouth was set in a faintly amused smile. He spoke. “Hello, mortal. I am Walach. I am your death.”

It struck out with the sword, faster than Gustav’s eyes could follow, and severed his head from his shoulder in a blur of steel.



Part 7

Shallaeran led her small band through the trees, in pursuit of those who would defile the boundaries of Athel Loren. The six Glade Guardians each held a powerful longbow, and slender knives hung at their belts, their hilts barely visible under their shifting cloaks.

Shallaeran glanced at Imraes, speaking softly. “We approach the enemy.”

Imraes slowly took a thin arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string of his bow. “We strike from the shadows,” he said.

Shallaeran nodded, and moved off into the trees. Her heart held nothing but grim determination. The foes of Athel Loren must not be allowed to walk under its boughs. She fitted an arrow to her bowstring, scanning the trees.

A flash of darkness between two distant trees caught her eye, and she signalled to the others. Kimric moved forwards, stepping silently through the forest, bow held ready. He reached a position barely a hundred paces from the unseen foe, and settled into a hollow in the base of a tree.

Shallaeran watched, immobile, as Kimric glanced over the lip of the hollow, arrow nocked and ready to loose. Shallaeran shifted sideways slightly, and caught sight of the enemy, readying her own shot.

They were no beastmen, or marauding Orcs, or even misguided humans. They were elves, or at least, they had been. They moved jerkily, shuffling awkwardly down the thin pathways, desiccated limbs creaking and with each movement. Shallaeran’s sharp eyes picked out crawling insects flitting around them, massing around the grievous wounds that each of them possessed. She could see a dozen of the creatures, and more were out of her sight, hidden behind trees and plants.

And then the time for observation was over. Kimric glanced at Shallaeran, a look of silent communication, and loosed his arrow A zombie stumbled backwards, the thin wooden shaft lodged in its skull. Shallaeran suppressed her emotions, and fired. Her arrow streaked between the trees and struck a zombie in the hollow of its throat, snapping its head back and almost throwing it to the floor.

The other Glade Guardians fired, and four more zombies staggered, arrows protruding from their rotting flesh. A ragged chorus of groans echoed hauntingly through the forest. Shallaeran smoothly nocked another arrow, and fired again, in time with Kimric. Two arrows impacted into a zombie’s chest with a single wet thump, knocking the animated corpse to the floor.

Imraes was faster than the others, and his arrow took a zombie in its knee as it turned to face the group of Asrai. The corpse dropped heavily to the ground, still trying to walk. Three more arrows lanced out from the trees, and three more zombies fell.

The zombies turned as one to face the Asrai, and began to shamble stiffly towards them. Their movement made it impossible to accurately count their number, but Shallaeran guessed at somewhere close to twenty.

She fired once more, knocking another zombie to the ground. Imraes was barely a second slower, and his arrow thudded home into a zombie’s horribly exposed heart. Shallaeran motioned for Kimric to move back with one hand, while selecting an arrow with the other.

The young wood elf nodded almost imperceptibly. He loosed a last arrow and turned. Groans rose from the zombies as they saw the nimble elf running through the trees and the walking corpses sped up, moving with purpose.

Shallaeran cursed under her breath. She should have realised that the zombies would use Kimric as a target to home in on. Ceroch and Mercyl shifted position, moving out to the left, flanking the zombies. Imraes and Rhaelyr moved right, leaving Shallaeran and Kimric in the path of the zombies.

She fired, her arrow streaking over Kimric’s shoulder and into a zombie’s empty eye socket. The thing’s head shattered under the force, and it dropped to the floor. The flankers fired together, four deadly arrows scything down another quartet of shambling corpses.

Kimric reached Shallaeran’s position, and whirled, an arrow ready. He fired, and another zombie fell. That left less than a dozen. Shallaeran smiled grimly. The abominations were still twenty paces from the Asrai, and that was more than enough.

The six elves fired as one, and half the zombies fell backwards abruptly. They loosed again, and the remaining corpses were knocked down.

Shallaeran glanced at the others, meeting their eyes, a silent look of acknowledgement passing between them. She turned, and began to walk slowly into the forest, heading for the halls of her Kinband. Lord Helioran would need to be informed of this new threat.

And then Imraes flew backwards into the bole of a tree with a gut-wrenching smack. Blood flew as the Asrai dropped limply to the floor, a massive wound across his chest.

Terror reared its icy head as Shallaeran dived behind a tree, looking around to try to locate whatever it was that had just killed Imraes. She had an arrow readied instinctively, and the others followed her example, scrambling behind whatever cover they could find. Shallaeran scanned the trees, but she could see nothing.

A black shadow darted from nowhere, faster than should have been possible, and eviscerated Rhaelyr where he stood, a huge blade tearing the Asrai in two at the waist. The elf did not have time to scream. Blood arced into the air, as the shadow seemed to vanish, moving with preternatural speed.

Ceroch sighted the enemy, and loosed an arrow. The shaft hit its target, striking home with a sharp snap. Not a sound came from the enemy as it charged at Ceroch, its blade descending upon the elf in a dark blur. The sword cleaved into Ceroch with a sickening crunch, and the Asrai dropped to the floor.

Shallaeran tracked the creature, bowstring pulled back to her ear. Mercyl drew her blade and leapt at the foe, striking sinuously with the long knife. The creature dodged each blow, moving so fast it seemed to blur around the Asrai’s strikes.

Shallaeran loosed her arrow, and the shaft flew through the air to thud into the centre of the creature’s back. The thin arrowhead pierced the armour with a snap, but the creature barely seemed to notice.

Kimric fired straight after, and his arrow took the creature in the side of its head. The thing whirled, lashing out with its weapon and hacking deep into Mercyl’s stomach. She flew backwards, screaming.

The creature looked at Shallaeran and Kimric, rage burning in its eyes. She studied it unwillingly, and the realisation hit her. Vampire! It reached up and swiftly withdrew the arrow from its head, casting the shaft to the floor.

Her arrow smashed into its chest with a smack, staggering the unprepared vampire, and Kimric’s followed, hitting it in the hollow of its throat. She nocked another arrow as it staggered.

The vampire straightened, and then it moved.

It seemed to appear in front of Kimric, crossing the distance in an instant. It lashed out with its blade, and Kimric’s head fell from his shoulders silently. Blood sprayed high into the air, filling the forest with its stench.

Icy terror coursed through Shallaeran’s veins as she faced the vampire. It had once been human, years ago. Now, though, it was an abomination, clad in extravagantly-worked black armour dripping with the blood of her companions.

“Time to die, little elf,” it snarled, and raised its sword.

She closed her eyes and released the arrow she was holding. The twang of the bowstring echoed through the trees, followed immediately by the snap-thud of the arrow hitting home. Silence descended upon the forest.

Tentatively, Shallaeran opened her eyes. The vampire stood transfixed, the wooden shaft of her arrow protruding from its heart. It looked down slowly, in disbelief. The sword dropped from its fingers. Its mouth moved slowly.

“What have you done?” it whispered. “This cannot happen to me. It cannot. I am a servant of the Lord of Blood. I cannot die.”

Blood trickled from the corners of its mouth, and the vampire fell to the floor. It began to shrivel before her eyes, the ravages of time coursing through the creature in moments. Within a minute, all that remained was ashes.

Sorrow filled her heart as Shallaeran looked at the corpses of the Asrai, littered about the forest. She left them untouched as she walked slowly, warily, back to the halls of her kin. Though the threat was vanquished for now, she had no doubts that it would return.

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Rahvin

Shallaeran stood before Lord Helioran, clad in fresh robes. The Asrai highborn, leader of Shallaeran’s kinband, sat on a twisting throne formed out of the living roots of a great tree.

The tree itself made up the towering, arched roof of the hidden hall, and its massive roots spread downwards, forming curving pillars and beams, emerging from the floor of the hall to make benches and tables. The hall was coloured in the vibrant reds and browns of autumn, the floor made of fallen leaves and soft grasses. Illumination shone from a large blazing pile of deadwood in the centre of the hall, casting its flickering light over the assembled Wood Elves.

“What have you to report, Shallaeran Nihsurae?” asked Helioran. His unbound hair fell over his shoulder in a dark wave as he leaned forwards expectantly.

Shallaeran swallowed, trying not to show her sorrow. To do so would be undignified. “A new enemy has turned its attentions upon Athel Loren, Lord Helioran. I and a band of five other Glade Guardians came across this foe scant hours ago, in the forests to the east. I-” She swallowed. “I am the only survivor.”

His eyes were hard as Helioran looked at her. “What was the nature of this foe, Shallaeran Nihsurae?”

“The dead walk the forests once more, Lord.”

A chorus of uneasy murmurs rippled through the Asrai behind Shallaeran. The undead had last been encountered under the dread Lichemaster, Heinrich Kemmler, and had only been fought off at great cost to the forest, and to the Asrai. That they would return once more boded ill for the coming winter.

“Did the Lichemaster accompany them, Shallaeran? Is this blight returned to us again?” asked Helioran. His grip tightened upon the arms of his living throne.

Shallaeran shook her head. “No, Lord. They were led by the infernal revenants, those who would drain all life from the world to feed their immortal hunger.” She shuddered.

“Vampires.” Helioran almost spat the word.

“Yes Lord. The blood hunters enter the forest. I have slain one of their dark brotherhood, but I fear it was only a thrall. It killed my companions before my eyes, and it was only due to a lucky bowshot that I escaped.” She shook, trying to hold in her grief at the memories that flooded her mind.

The blood, the stench of death that chocked her nostrils, assailed her mind. The arcing blade of the creature’s sword cut through her mind, exposing her terror. And through it all, those horrible eyes burning into her as it stared, and then its voice, grating smoothly over her.

“Time to die, little elf.”

She was brought back to reality by the sound of Helioran’s voice. “You have accomplished much, Shallaeran Nihsurae. To slay even a thrall of such beings is no easy feat, for they are possessed of strength and speed beyond that of mortal races, even amongst the Elves.”

She nodded, blinking away the burning in her eyes. “Thank you, Lord Helioran.”

“You may leave now, Shallaeran. You have done well, and a little rest is deserved. Go. You will be summoned if you are needed further.” Helioran’s voice was soft, and he gestured towards the exit of the hall with one hand.

Shallaeran nodded, and made for the exit. The highborn of the kinband would deliberate over the threat, and a solution would be reached. One always was.

Shallaeran had no idea what it could be, though.



Gorthek looked up from his ale as the door of the inn was pushed open. Through it stepped a ranger, clad in a stout leather jerkin and holding a crossbow. His face was flushed, and Gorthek could tell he had been running.

“Is Gorthek the Slayer in this inn?” called the ranger, breathlessly.

Gorthek stood. “Aye, he is. Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

The ranger looked Gorthek over. “You’re summoned before King Thorlek. Something about a Vampire.”

Gorthek drained the last of his ale, cheap stuff at best, nothing like proper Bugmans, and walked over to the ranger. “When and where?” he growled.

“Hold up, Slayer,” said the ranger. “I don’t know. I was just told to summon ya.”

Gorthek just looked at him. “I meant the King, you wazzock.”

“Well ya should have been clearer then! Now, and in the Great Hall. Get moving.”

The ranger broke off into grumbling about ‘bloody slayers’, while Gorthek dashed past him. It wasn’t in his nature to run anywhere, but he thought this occasion warranted a bit of haste.

After a good ten minutes of running, he made it to the Great Hall. He burst through the doors, red-faced, and sketched a quick bow. He wasted no time in addressing the King.

“So what’s this about the Vampire then?”

King Thorlek looked up at the Slayer. “I know you are a Slayer, Gorthek Axehand, but I expect at least a semblance of order in my Hall. You are trying my patience, and since you are presently relying on my hospitality, I would advise against testing me further.”

Gorthek shuffled slightly. “My question stands, King Thorlek.”

The King looked at the Slayer wearily. “Bloody Slayers…” he murmured under his breath, and then raised his voice.

“The Zangunaz has been sighted moving north at incredible speeds. He moves through the mountain passes, covering a mile every score of minutes. It was pure luck that a party of Rangers saw him, and brought the news back here.”

Gorthek set his jaw grimly. “I will pursue the monster, King Thorlek. As much as it pains me to leave Karak Vulkhrund behind me, I cannot let the Vampire escape.”

Thorlek glanced at the thane beside him. Gorthek saw that the thane was outfitted for war, in full leathers, and held a rune-etched hammer at his waist.

“Thane Korgan will accompany you, along with a force of his clansmen.” Thorlek held a hand up as Gorthek started to open his mouth. “Protest all you like, Gorthek, but this is my Hold, and the Vampire is my buisiness. They are going."

Gorthek grumbled under his breath, then said, “Why? I am a Slayer. I fight alone.”

Korgan stepped forwards. “Yes, you do, Slayer. I’m there so that if you mess up in your lone fight, the vampire still dies.”

Gorthek sighed. There was no way of getting rid of the thane. He knew he shouldn’t get himself involved with Kings. Still, he thought, at least the vampire would die.

Thorlek waved a hand towards the doors. “Now go, both of you. Get what you need from the armoury, and don't come back without the head of that vampire."





The twenty robed guards stood immobile, ten either side of the massive, bone-white doors. The sentinels made no sound, and could have been mistaken for statues if not for the grave-stench enshrouding them.

Varakash stood in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, watching the guards. It was almost dawn. Soon, they would enter the Silver Pinnacle, to be replaced by those who would not be harmed by the sun’s harsh glare.

He drew his sword. Reinholdt, crouched beside him, did likewise.

He could simply command the guards to allow him passage, but there was no honour in such an act. Varakash prided himself on his honour, on his unwavering discipline. It was all he had left. Everything else had been stripped away over the centuries of purposeless wandering.

Now, though, now he would have a purpose once more.

The doors groaned open, and Varakash’s head jerked up. The guards walked through the slowly widening passage, their movements stiff and shambling. Varakash’s vampiric eyes caught sight of one of their hands as it fell free of the bulky robes for a second. Grey, decayed skin flaked off the thing, weeping sores and lesions tracing ragged lines across it and disappearing under the heavy folds of its robes.

Varakash moved suddenly, just as the doors clanged fully open. He was among the guards in a second, moving almost too fast for mortal eyes to follow. His sword struck out, snakelike, and a pair of robed figures fell to the floor, headless.

He was a whirlwind of silent death, every touch of his tarnished blade bringing destruction to his foes. His lips drew back, exposing his fangs, and he snarled as he killed. His sword slid effortlessly through a guard’s waist, cleaving the thing in two. A chorus of groans rose from the guards as he followed his strike through, stepping smoothly forward and striking down, steel biting deep into another guard’s shoulder.

It fell silently, and Varakash whipped his sword around. The battered steel met a gleaming halberd mid-strike, stopping the polearm dead. Varakash whirled, ducking low, and cut the legs from the guard.

And then, abruptly, there was only him.

He looked around. The guards lay sprawled on the floor around him, rough, bloodless wounds sliced into them. Limbs lay beside their owners, misshapen hunks of dead flesh, rotting swiftly onto the rock. The stench of old death coiled in the air.

The slaughter had taken barely thirty seconds.

He turned to Rienholdt, who was walking slowly down towards him. “We must go. She will have felt the demise of her minions.”

Rienholdt nodded, glancing at the corpses strewn around. “I do not know the protocol of this court, Lord. We are expected to do this?”

“The Queen of the Night respects only strength, Reinholdt. No male is worthy of her unless proves himself so. That is why we shall fight our way to her side, and that is why she will accept us.”

“But Lord,” began Reinholdt, “did she not call you to her? Why would she not accept you?”

Varakash stepped over a body, and walked through the gates. Reinholdt followed at his side. “She does not know me, Reinholdt. She has called me, for she knows what I was, but now she is wary, for she does not know what I have become.”

Reinholdt bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive my ignorance.”

“It is forgiven, my Thrall,” said Varakash. “But now, focus on the task at hand. This citadel is guarded by more than just zombies and skeletons. Our kind, the Queen’s supplicants, those of the Path of the Lahmian, reside here, and they will undoubtedly endeavour to halt us.”

“Their number?” asked Reinholdt, sliding his broadsword silently from its sheath.

Varakash extended his senses outwards, past the rock and gold, past the dead, past the opulence. It was something that had come to him over the years, an ability perhaps gained from the blood he had consumed, an extension of his vampiric abilities. Wherever its origins, it was a part of him now, a part of his curse.

He felt the dark, tortured souls of his kind, moving closer through broad corridors and down winding stairs. His knuckles tightened upon the hilt of his sword. There were too many for him to count.

Where had Neferatem found all of them? Had she scoured all the world for her kin? Varakash did not know, but by the Gods, he would find out.

“What is it, Lord?” Reinholdt must have seen his expression.

He said heavily, “The Silver Pinnacle shall be stained crimson with blood.”

The pair passed under a magnificent golden archway, twenty metres high and a dozen wide. Beyond the archway stretched a huge chamber, with a score of intricately carved marble columns stretching up to the high, arched ceiling.

A velvet carpet, in the white-bordered dark crimson of ancient Lahmia, ran through the centre of the chamber, a wide strip leading to a pair of immense marble doors. Gilded couches and recliners dotted the chamber, arranged in an elaborate pattern. Silken drapes hung delicately from the grand supporting columns, creating the illusion of rooms within the chamber. Torches dotted the chamber, bathing it in a bright, flickering white-orange light.

When he spoke, Varakash’s voce was a whisper. “These halls mirror those of Lahmia, my birthplace. Over four thousand years have passed since I last saw this. Four thousand long years.”

He looked at Reinholdt. “Can you imagine what it is like to see the greatest city the world has ever seen reborn once more? I have watched everything I knew crumble to dust, and now it is reborn. You have seen your homeland grow stronger and greater, but to see Lahmia again, after witnessing its downfall… that is reward enough for this journey.”

Reinholdt nodded solemnly. “I understand, Lord Morkhur. What is this chamber?” he gestured around.

Varakash saw his gaze sweep over gilded recliners and extravagantly engraved staues. Reinholdt's eyes lingered upon a huge statue of Neferatem that dominated the left wall of the chamber, before moving on to the two marble figures that stood either side of the great door, framing it with their immense size. Varakash recognised them as Abhorash and Ushoran.

He repressed a slight stab of melancholy. So Neferatem, after all these years, still kept to the exact design. Abhorash and Ushoran, protectors of Lahmia, both military and political, guarded the entrance to the Palace once more. He shook it off and turned back to Reinholdt.

“This? This is the Great Reception Hall, an exact copy of that which once existed within the Royal Palace of Lahmia. All visitors to the Palace waited in this Hall, so its opulence was unmatched. And that opulence has been retained in this copy.” He shook his head. “So like Neferatem to retain her rule even here, in the northern depths of the mountains.”

A seductive, feminine voice echoed around the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “As the Queen of Death deserves, Forsaken One.”

Reinholdt glanced around warily. Varakash remained immobile, sword held still by his side. “Though I have been Forsaken for millennia, I return to the Queen once more, to resume my place at her side. Will you attempt to halt me?” announced Varakash.

The voice that answered was subtly different, and Varakash could sense that it came from a different speaker. “Those who are Forsaken have given up their ties to the Queen of Death. Only through testing may you regain them.”

“Then test me. I was centuries old before you existed.” He spread his arms. “I served the Queen at the very beginning of it all. For four thousand long years have I wandered, and now I have been called. I come to answer that call.”

He lowered his arms. “Test me, Handmaidens of the Queen, and you shall see that I am sincere.”

A third voice spoke, from behind Varakash. “And what of your companion?”

Reinholdt drew his sword, dropping into a guard stance. “I am of the blood of Lord Morkhur. For three millennia, I have followed at his side. If I were not worthy, I would not be standing here beside him. Do not expect me to bow down in defeat.”

“You speak the truth, both of you,” the first voice said, “but you must still be tested. None may come before the Queen unknown.”

The second voice emerged once again, closer this time. “You speak truth, and yet truth may hide truth as easily as any falsehood may.”

The third voice spoke as soon as the second had finished. “No lie may escape us. We know the truth of your word, and now we shall find their worth.”

“You speak to me of the worth of words?” interrupted Varakash. “You? You are mere children to me. Do not think that you can teach me. If necessary, I will demonstrate the strength of my conviction to you, but do not presume to judge me. I could crush the three of you together in seconds.”

With a whisper of silk, the owners of the three voices stepped from behind the drapes, emerging at the end of the Hall. They stood before the great doors, bathed in the flickering light of the torches.

Their beauty struck Varakash immediately. Long, flowing hair framed perfect faces, their natural appearance enhanced by carefully chosen makeup. They wore seductive gowns of blood red silk, the fabric clutching at the immaculate contours of their forms. Full, red lips curled upwards in slight smiles.

“Then let us even the odds,” they whispered, their voices caught by the acoustics of the Hall and magnified tenfold, so it seemed as if they spoke into Varakash’s ear.

At their words, lithe shapes emerged from behind the drapes that divided the Hall. Over a score of vampires lined the Hall, silent ghosts with deadly smiles. They closed in a circle around Varakash and Reinholdt.

Varakash glanced at Reinholdt. “Your abilities will be tested, but they cannot hope to defeat us. I am of the second line, brought into undeath by Abhorash himself, and you are of the third. These fledglings are no more than the sixth or seventh. Embrace this as a chance to hone your abilities, but do not kill unless you have to. Neferatem wishes us tested, but not for us to slaughter her carefully gathered Handmaidens.”

Reinholdt nodded silently.

The Lahmian at the centre of the first three stepped forwards. “You come before us as Forsaken Ones. You will leave in Acceptance, or in death. Let the testing begin.”

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Akroma

I LOVE THIS!!!! It's so awesome!! I've only read up to the end of part 6 because I've got a lecture now but everything I've read I've thoroughly enjoyed. Your characters are so well expressed and the plot - I can't wait to see what happens!! Varakash is so cool and I loved Gustav.

Pity he had to die - he was brave and funny. And the way you write is astounding - if you ever published this I would buy a copy without hesitating! Good work, I'll be back to read more later ;-p

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A story that's having a go at being epic fantasy...but with the modern world, vampires and werewolves mixed into the cocktail as well...

Rahvin

Thanks Akroma! Glad you liked it! Updates might be a little slow until I finish fully planning this thing out, but I'll endeavour too kep it going. A few people seem to like Gustav, which is slightly wierd, as I never envisioned him as such a likeable character. But hey, whaddaya know!

There's no chance of it being published, though, as it is written in one of Games Workshop's universes. But meh, I'm not that fussed. This is written purely for pleasure. If I was going to write to be published, I'd be a lot more dilligent, with a schedule and everything...

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DavidGil

Rahvin, I'll be honest and say I haven't given this a look through so I won't comment on the story. (I will see if I can at some point though, I just haven't read anything for the past few days.) But isn't it a possibility to actually send the story into Games Workshop if you finish it?

I thought DnD, GamesWorkshop, Warcraft and Diablo (the novels) would always be willing to look at fan fic and if it's good, might publish it. I mention this because I wonder how they get the novels set in their universes. Unless it's people from within the companies that write them or they actually approach authors?

Anyways, kinda not knowledgeable on the front of fan fic getting published for games etc. So I could be totally wrong but it would make sense to me about people sending in works to the respective companies.

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My Helium portfolio:

http://www.helium.com/users/404647/show_articles

I aim to have a wide selection of articles eventually, covering different topics.

Rahvin

I think, with Games Workshop, they contact authors directly with requests. Fanfics are a good way to get noticed by them, though, as is writing other sci-fi (and getting it published).

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kidstaple

Actually, most publishers such as Games Workshop only look for authors that want to be recongised, once every year or so. I know Wizards of the Coast only looks for people during specific parts of the year. But most of the time, publishers like that, already have a large repritiore of writers at hand that they can choose from... (and most times, the authors don't have a choice, they have to write them).

I hope that helps,

PEACE AND LOVE

Rahvin

Yup, I know about GW's hiring processes. Still, this wan't aimed at being publishable (and with 10,000 words of it posted up on t'interweb, I doubt it will be anyway).

So, back to the story...

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RebelliousFantasyLover

AWESOME I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE IT :5star: :5star:
LOVE LOVE, LOVE IT

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Revenge is coming closer..... RUN

Ilasir Maroa

It's interesting that even in the small part of the story that Akroma is enthusing about in the above quote, there was already something in the story that caught my critiquers eye.

Are you sure that "nonchalantly" is the proper word to fit the tone in the quoted paragraph? Even if it fits the specific action, the previous clause mentions exultation, which is in effect cancelled out far too quickly by the use of "nonchalantly" in the next clause. Can anyone say "flow break?" Of course, I might revise my opinion after I finish reading the whole story. I hope it's as good as it sounds.

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My hopeful book:
Crap! Haven't posted it anywhere yet, darn!
"Only tyranny cloaks itself in shadows. The light of justice can not be hidden."

www.theoddvillepress.com

Rahvin

Thanks Ilasir. I see your point about 'nonchalantly'. This is what I get for just writing things without edits.

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Rahvin

Lahmia, four thousand years ago…

Varakash traced the ragged scar across his chest with a finger, dimpling the soft linen of his tunic. The injury started at his left shoulder with a knotted bump, and ran down to his right hip, his only disfigurement. He paused at his hip, and then removed his finger.

He buckled on the shining steel plates of his leg guards, steel plates thin enough to allow him to move freely, yet tough enough to give him protection in battle. His white linens crinkled under the edges of the plates, and he tied the straps behind his legs.

Next came the ornate breastplate, put on over his white tunic. The bright steel was polished to a shine, with the outline of heroic musculature worked into the chest. That was followed by the backplate, similarly decorated and polished. The two pieces snapped together with four clasps along his sides.

He slipped his arms into the vambraces, buckling them on tightly, and then lifted one ornate shoulder plate. It was worked into a gleaming silver bat wing, curving up and backwards. He lowered it onto his arm, and strapped it down. The wing swept back around his head. He put on the other, and the two wings nearly met, high above and behind his head, framing his face.

His sword lay on the table in front of him. It was a simple blade, far plainer than his armour. Four and a half feet of polished steel, the blade was still deadly sharp, despite its simple workmanship. The guard was shaped like a rearing dragon, spread wings forming the functional part of the guard. The pommel was adorned with a simple metal teardrop. It had been his father’s sword.

Varakash walked from the room, nodding to the two Guards who stood outside. They were from his unit, and nodded back, smiling. Few others would do him the courtesy. Stepping into the street outside, he paused. The fighting at the temple troubled him.

The Queen’s Guard should never have to be used within the walls of Lahmia. Never. Such infighting was utterly alien to him. The lives of Lahmian citizens were inviolable. That something this serious could happen in the temple was beyond belief.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, Varakash motioned for the two Guards to follow him. The three walked down the paved street, towards a large stone building. As they walked past it, a viewing slit was opened, and a cry sounded from within.

Before Varakash had reached the next building, ten fully armoured Guards from his unit rushed out of the large building and fell in behind him. He turned his head to look at them. “There are reports of fighting at the temple. We have been ordered to investigate, and put down any wrongdoers. These orders come from Queen Neferatem herself.”

The Guards nodded in unison. “Yes sir.”

Varakash smiled, and broke into a jog, pushing through the civilians lining the street. The armoured bodies of his Guards clattered as they ran behind him, dirt and dust whirling up into the air behind them.

He rounded a corner, and found himself facing the temple. Flames licked at the base of the temple, from some spilled brazier, Varakash assumed. The clamour of battle echoed from within.

“With me, Guards!” he shouted, and ran for the temple. Pounding up the steps, he broke through the remains of the door.

Chaos reigned inside the temple. Knots of Guards fought with black-robed priests in ones and twos, swords clanging against wickedly curved ceremonial daggers and heavy bronze staffs. And at the centre of it all, atop a broken stone stage, three massive, obsidian Ushabti swung their immense weapons in huge arcs, cutting down the Guards.

Varakash led his Guards forwards into the melee with a roar. He slashed left and sliced open a priest’s face, and then whipped his sword right and across the throat of another. He vaulted the falling corpse and punched a priest in the face, feeling his nose break beneath his fist. The priest fell back, clutching at his face, and Varakash impaled him.

He drew his sword out swiftly, and spun, blocking a heavy staff descending towards his head. He pushed the staff out of the way, and hacked crudely into its owner’s chest. He felt the blade bite into bone, and ripped it free before the priest could carry him to the floor.

It was a massacre. Priests were dying everywhere. It was not all one-sided though. The Ushabti were taking a heavy toll on his Guards, their man-sized weapons killing anything that they hit. A circle of Guards clustered around them, darting in to slice quickly with swords and spears, and then dodging back to avoid the obsidian beast’s response.

He would not be able to kill the Ushabti alone. Varakash knew that. He would do no one any good dead. Casting around, he ran for the steps to the top floor. He dodged around Guards and priests, pushing them from his path. He had to reach whoever was in command of the Guards here.

He reached the top of the stairs, and almost tripped in the blood. It dripped from every surface, a thick, crimson coating. Spatters of it laced the walls. Grimacing, Varakash ran through the blood, towards the faint sounds of combat he heard from further inside the temple.

He pulled open a broken door, and was faced with the sight of a gore-covered Guard Captain. The Captain turned to face Varakash, sword held ready, and then lowered his weapon as he recognised Varakash.

“Merovar,” said Varakash. Merovar was the most bloodthirsty warrior in the Guard, although his combat prowess could not be denied. He also hated Varakash.

“Ah,” said Merovar, as he stepped over the eviscerated corpse of a priest, “look who it is. The ‘white warrior’ come to save the day.”

Varakash grimaced at Merovar’s use of the name. He had earned it out of respect, a sign of appreciation from his warriors, yet his fellow captains, all except for Walach, used it to taunt him. Looks were unimportant, they believed. Skill was all.

“What happened here, Merovar?” Varakash asked.

Merovar looked around. “The Mortuary Priests have rebelled against our Queen, Varakash. They must be destroyed. Rebellion must not be allowed to flourish within Lahmia.”

Varakash could hardly believe that betrayal on such a scale could occur. “No. The Priests have been a part of Lahmia since it was founded. They would not…” he said.

Merovar scowled. “Look around, Varakash. The Ushabti slaughter our warriors even as we speak. Is this not evidence enough?”

Varakash turned and walked from the room. Merovar’s voice came after him.

“Where are you going?”

Varakash looked back. “To kill the Ushabti. Are you coming?” He did not wait for Merovar’s scowl, and started running.

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Cefor