The Scarlet Trip - Darknight

The Travellers’ Rest inn in Talabheim was used to strange visitors, perhaps, but the arrival of the tall black-clad knight and what was obviously either his lady or his patron caused a moment of silence.

The woman was in her late teens and quite stunningly beautiful. Across shoulders that were broad for a girl of her age a magnificent fur and velvet cloak was lain. She took the ermine collar in leather gloved hands and shook snow from her shoulders, revealing her trim figure beneath to be tastefully dressed in faux-huntsman’s gear in reddish buckskin. A small dagger – probably only for show – hung on her hip and was the only arm she carried. Her riding boots – knee-high and expensive – were obviously new and unscuffed.

The knight was obviously a member of one of the Orders of the Empire, or a rich nobleman’s son, for that suit of black-lacquered full-plate armour fitting perfectly around his massive frame could not have come cheap. He was armed only with an ornate longsword – its hilt fashioned like a dragon’s snout – girt at his side. His left arm bore shield clips, but his shield had obviously been left on his horse, almost certainly tethered outside. He wore no cloak or tabard, and the cold of the evening still clung to his armour in a thick sheet of condensation. Despite the heavy steel which would leech any heat from his body he showed no signs of feeling the cold.

"Ulrik’s biting hard tonight," the woman said into the silence. Patrons did not immediately stop starring at them, but attention was diverted to her companion – and the full-face helm he was still wearing. Perhaps feeling the weight of those stares, he slowly reached up and removed the helm, revealing a blandly handsome pale face made all the more stark by the darkness of his hair and eyes. Perhaps he did feel the chill of the evening – certainly, the blood had fled from his face.

"Come and sit by the fire, master," said the landlord’s wife, approaching the two of them with an oily smile on her face. The fat, ugly woman – her face pockmarked by smallpox – chivvied two drunks away from the best seats by the fire. The knight and the lady moved smoothly through the inn and sat in the high-backed chairs. The lady stretched out, eagerly embracing the warmth, but the knight seemed to ignore the fire and sat at ease as if the temperature of the room was of no concern to him.

"Can we have something to eat, please?" asked the lady, "And some mulled wine – not the local peasant stuff, but the best you have?" The landlady, glad of the sight of rich customers, smiled – revealing blackened teeth – and moved to obey.

The Travellers’ Rest was a solid coaching inn, built of rough-hewn granite blocks and timbers black with age. It stood on the main road leading into the city, built on top of two arches spanning the road so that the leaded windows of the upper guest rooms overlooked the thoroughfare. Siegfried and Kristina had arrived at the formidable natural defences of Talabheim – the wall surrounding the rocky bowl in which Talabheim sat; the stone lashes of the eye of the forest – an hour after sundown. At the tollgate beneath the fortress on the outer edge of the Wizards’ Way – the half-mile tunnel cut through the rock wall, as smooth and impressive as anything cut by Dwarfs – the two of them had paid the handful of silver for two horses and riders and had ridden into the city proper.

Talabheim was a magnificent city, with beautiful buildings built more for aesthetic considerations that for defence – the natural fortifications allowed Talabheim this luxury – and Kristina hoped she never stopped being awed by the sheer beauty of this place. The two of them had chosen the first coaching inn they had seen as a base of operations, and now found themselves in the taproom of The Travellers’ Rest.

The landlady was approaching with a pair of wooden bowls filled with a thick stew, a tall white cheese and a still-warm loaf. In her considerable wake followed one of the serving girls – a robustly handsome wench already showing the potential for massive growth – carrying a tall pewter jug and two wooden cups. A spicy, aromatic steam rose from the mouth of the jug. The landlady placed her offerings on a low table between them, dropped a bad curtsey, and then gestured impatiently for the serving wench to pour the mulled wine.

"Thank you," smiled Kristina, reaching for her purse and removing a gold crown and pressing it into the woman’s arthritic hand. "We will require a room for the night, and stabling for two horses." The landlady nodded.

"Of course, milady," she said, "I’ll see to it." She and the wench curtseyed again and moved away.

Alone again, Kristina and Siegfried felt more comfortable, having got used to the silence and solitude of the long journey to Talabheim. Kristina, after munching her way through a few pieces of stringy meat and a mouthful of ripe cheese and crusty bread, swallowed a little of the mulled wine and coughed as the spices caught in her throat. Finally, she broke the silence.

"Amazing how well you can be treated for a little money," she said, "Normally, city-folk wouldn’t give a peasant girl like me the time of day."

Siegfried’s dark eyes swept her face. "I don’t see any difference between a peasant girl and a noblewoman aside from money," he said. He considered adding, "You all taste the same," but he had learned – or maybe recalled – that such things were considered rude in human company. Strange how this woman makes me care about being rude, he wondered. "I suppose you could get a miller’s daughter to masquerade as a duchess," he said instead, "if you dressed her right."

Kristina swallowed again. "Isn’t that what we’re going?" she asked. "Pretending I’m something I’m not? Pretending we’re something we’re not?" The Vampyre’s brow furrowed.

"You look like a human woman with money, I look like a knight," he said, puzzled, "You are a human woman with money, and I am a knight."

Kristina leaned closer to Siegfried, welcoming as she always did the cold scentless air that seemed to surround him. "You’re pretending to be human," she whispered, "and I am pretending to be some sort of noblewoman."

He shook his head. "No, they assume I’m human and they assume you are a noblewoman. If we choose not to correct them, then whose fault is that? And you might as well be a noblewoman – titles and rank change so quickly and ephemerally with you people – a little war and there’s a new family on the Griffon Throne."

Kristina smiled at Siegfried describing the civil strife that had rocked the Empire as "little wars", and turned her agile mind to their immediate problems. "Are we planning to spend time in Talabheim?" Her voice made it clear she would like to and – when she remembered she could make her own decisions – continued. "We could do with some more permanent lodgings – people might eventually become suspicious about your not eating. And somewhere for you to sleep out the days would be good." The sunlight did not hurt Siegfried, but it troubled him and weakened his powers, sapping his strength. He moved slowly during the daylight hours, taking a few moments to assimilate information. But he had still been fast and powerful enough to slay five highwaymen who had waylaid them on the road to Talabheim without worrying unduly. "Would you like me to find us somewhere?" she asked. Siegfried nodded.

"One of the merchants should have a house we can rent," he suggested. He was about to continue when one of the conversations at a neighbouring table caught his ear. With preternatural hearing sharper than a bat’s he filtered out the hubbub of the bar and listened.

"Aye," the greybearded old man was saying as he drained his tankard and wiped the form from his beard, "’tis certain young Leopold is the greatest fencer in the Old World, now."

"He won his bout against the Bretonnian, then?" one of his companions asked, "And won the tournament in Altdorf?" The old man nodded.

"Aye, with scarce a scratch on him – ‘tis a shame he has no stomach for a real fight." The man’s eyes lit with the prospect of telling his favourite story. "Did I tell you about the time he lead the Talabecland army against the Greenskins?"

Siegfried coming over to the table saved the men from another recitation. "Excuse me, sirrah," asked the knight, his armour silently-shifting amid the coiling columns of smoke from the fire and candles, "but who is this duellist of whom you speak?"

The men moved slightly further away than was necessary, a vestigial sixth-sense ignored by civilised humans telling them this creature was dangerous, and then the old man spoke. "Why, the Count’s son, Leopold, sir. Do you not know of his exploits?"

"I am newly arrived in Talabheim, sirrah – and have heard little of this young lord’s skill. Tell me more of his victories."

The old man was only too happy to oblige, and so – after he bought a round of ale for the men at the table – Siegfried learned that young Leopold was a foppish and effeminate coward with no real courage or military skill, but his abilities with a rapier were beyond question. He had beaten his tutors at eleven and regularly defeated all comers in open tournaments held as sport for the people of Talabheim. A Bretonnian nobleman – the King’s duellist – had come to Talabheim to challenge Leopold and the Count’s son had defeated him in three passes. At the recent tournament in Altdorf, organised by the Emperor Karl Franz himself find the greatest fencer in the Empire, Leopold had won resoundingly, only being cut five times.

The Blood Dragon, having learned what he wanted, moved back to his table where Kristina greeted him with raised eyebrows.

"Apparently the Count’s son is the greatest fencer in the Old World," Siegfried said casually, flexing the fingers of his right hand. Kristina locked eyes with him, considered telling him what to do and then decided against it. But she reasoned some advice would be acceptable.

"Leave him alive, Siegfried, or at least in one piece."

*

The Elector Count of Talebheim held court and lived and worked – when not dressed in red and white steel and leading an army dressed in red and white bandages – in an enormous fortified mansion in the centre of the city. Built in the grand Imperial style, it was a masterpiece of the fusion of aesthetics and practicality. Siegfried – a veteran of more wars than most historians of the Empire knew existed, and a creature to whom the term "impregnable" was never, ever true – was impressed by the elegant defensibility of the building. Naturally, it would not stand against a concerted attack from a serious force. But it could hold out for enough time for the inhabitants to flee, or for an offence to be prepared. And all that without looking ugly or obviously military. How quickly these humans learned!

It was nearing midnight when Siegfried knocked on the massive fortified gate of the mansion. After a second, a grille slid open in the postern gate and the guard’s eyes gazed through. Seeing Siegfried to be a knight and alone he opened the door and bade him good evening.

"What service can I be to you, sir?" he asked, trying to discern to which Order Siegfried belonged, "And pray come inside the gate – the wind is chill tonight."

The ancient warrior did not waste time on pleasantries – now the human had invited him in he had no need to do so. "Tell the Count’s son Leopold that Sir Siegfried of the Order of the Blood Dragon wishes to duel." He paused, recalling the various duelling conventions that had sprung up since his time, "The scarlet trip, three hits only."

The guard felt that he should recognise the name of the Order of the Blood Dragon, and racked his brains to remember where their fortress was and to which god they owed allegiance.

And then he remembered.

Horror and amazement swept the man’s face and he leapt back inside the mansion, grabbing at the alarm bell just inside the postern gate. "Fear, fire, foes, awake!" he screamed, "A Vampyre is come! Awake!" He slammed the postern gate shut in Siegfried’s face.

As the alarm bell clanged and echoed around the mansion, the Vampyre stiff-armed the door off its hinges with a terrible rending of steel and wood and strode into the courtyard. He caught the guard around the throat with one massive fist and lifted him – the livery of his breeches darkening as he wet himself – into the air.

"I have no desire to kill you – all I wish to do is duel," he snarled, his fangs flashing in the greasy light from the oil lamps dotted around the courtyard. "Wake your master, let him prepare, and then he can meet me on the piste. I wish to test his claims."

There was a pounding in the courtyard now as the night-watch of the household guard – the Talabheim Greatswords – ran from their barracks and watch-posts. Full-plate armour jangled and clinked as they jogged into position, forming a half-circle of twenty men around Siegfried. Their Captain pulled his sword from its scabbard and pointed its heavy steel blade at Siegfried.

"Unhand him, Vampyre," he said slowly. Siegfried dropped the now-unconscious guard and turned smoothly to face the Count’s Champion, a scarred veteran of many battles.

"I have no quarrel with you, sirrah," the Blood Dragon said, standing casually at ease, "All I wish if for a few passes of the rapier with the young lord – allow me this and I will leave you alive. Oppose me and die."

Greatswords are a stubborn breed of soldier, and it did not occur to them that there might be powers in the world against which they were nothing and less than nothing. Certainly, against twenty of their number they felt nothing could stand. The Count’s Champion stepped forward, blade held ready, eager to fulfil his ancient and noble office; single combat in the Elector Count’s name. "Defend yourself, Daemon," he roared, swinging the blade.

The Count’s Champion simply exploded in a spray of blood and entrails at the midriff as Siegfried’s sword left its scabbard, hacked through armour and flesh in one shockingly-swift strike and was re-sheathed faster than an eyeblink. It was as if he had never moved, his magical sword savouring the fine sheen of blood on its blade – the only evidence for the Vampyre’s actions was the bisected cooling corpse on the floor.

"Get me your master," said Siegfried, "I wish to duel. The scarlet trip only – three hits."

The death of their leader had cowed the Greatswords slightly, and if they had been more intelligent or less indoctrinated then they might have fled. But these soldiers had been trained to defend their master to the death – even if no danger threatened. With a collective and inarticulate roar, they charged Siegfried en masse.

He stepped into the charge, his blade swinging upwards, taking the first of the Greatswords through the groin and halfway into the chest. He jerked the blade free and twisted it sideways, smashing the head from another’s shoulders. He parried twice, knocking Talabheim steel aside, and then reposted, hacking limbs from torsos with terrible efficiency.

Blood gouted. Flesh tore. Those few blows that penetrated Siegfried’s defence glanced from his armour. Greatswords died, hurled backwards by the force of the blows, their eyes haemorrhaging with the pressure wave set up in their vascular systems by the speed and weight of the sword.

The remaining seven Greatswords fell back, regrouping. Siegfried stood at ease, the tip of his blade resting in the chest of a dying warrior. He jerked and writhed as his lifeblood was drawn into the Vampyre, the sword seeming to pulse with unholy power. "You cannot win this fight," Siegfried said calmly, "You only waste your lives. Now, fetch your master and no-one else will die."

The seven remaining warriors had seen the Vampyre fight, and so would probably have done as he asked. But the rest of the household troops – the other eighty Greatswords, awoken from sleep and hastily armed and armoured – did not have this advantage and as they gathered in the courtyard, a challenge rang out from one of the lieutenants;

"Face me, butcher!" he roared, running full-tilt towards Siegfried. Something in the Vampyre finally snapped.

"So be it," he snarled, and gestured at the lieutenant, his gauntleted fingers describing dark runes in the air. The human’s flesh sloughed from his skeleton in a stinking black tide, his armour, weapons and bones clattering amid the putrescent slurry.

And then the Vampyre charged.

Armed and armoured as they were, elite and trained, young and strong, they never really had a chance. Siegfried was never even hard-pressed; his armour protected him from all but two blows, and those shallow cuts were almost instantly healed by the blood gushing into his frame through the sword.

It took him maybe three minutes to slay them all. A fine mist of blood rain fell as he felt his barely-controlled rage ebb away.

"Leopold!" he thundered, "One hundred men have died to save you! Face me!"

He received no answer save his ancient voice echoing off the high walls of the courtyard. He sheathed his sword and began to walk purposefully towards the main door of the mansion. He was stopped with his hand on the wrought-iron handle by a commotion from a barracks off to his left. He turned, to see twenty handgunners – most of them still dressed in night-clothes – loading hurriedly and forming into two ranks.

"Steady, men," said the marksman leading them, a huntsman’s hat perched incongruously on his head atop a portly frame clad in a night-shirt, "Ready! Aim! Fire!"

There was an awful explosion, a great cloud of gunsmoke and a tulmit of noise. A score of lead spheres roared towards Siegfried. About half missed him as he dived through the door in a shattering crescendo of splintering wood, but several hit, rattling off his armour like coins in a beggar’s tin cup. But enough penetrated his armour and preternatural flesh to send him crashing to his knees as the door gave way. Bloody Dwarfs! he thought bitterly, Why’d they have to teach Men about gunpowder?

A servant was backing away in horror from the blood-splattered figure that had burst through the door and landed on the expensive carpet. He turned to run as it began to struggle to its feet, but not quickly enough as the tip of the longsword’s broad blade buried itself in his spine. The unfortunate man screamed dustily and his skin turned to brittle parchment as every last drop of his blood was sucked through the blade into the Vampyre’s thirsting veins.

"Ahh!" Siegfried snarled with satisfaction, twisting the blade savagely free. He felt no guilt over this human’s death – he had needed to feed – although he would have felt guilty had he been forced to slay this unworthy opponent while sated. The morality of the Blood Dragons is strange and perhaps beyond the ability of humans to understand.

His flesh shivering and shuddering as ancient magics knitted the tissues back together and expelled the lead shots from his body, the Vampyre moved into the mansion, metal balls dropping to the ground around his first few steps like hailstones.

*

Kristina finished her second mug of wine, considered pouring herself a third and then decided against it. Although she was used to far stronger liquor – the ice-distilled applejack of her home village, for one – she disliked the fogging of her perceptions when she drank too much. Things swam at the edge of her vision, long before they should have done. She was intelligent enough to realise that these apparitions were not hallucinations, but rather glimpses of the world she had the power to touch, glimpses she was afforded when the alcohol melted the barrier between worlds. And she was also intelligent enough to realise that she – as a single, young woman with obvious wealth and, she had to admit it, beauty – might need all her wits and guile in this tavern at night.

She had enjoyed the deference and respect that was given to nobles in the Empire while she had lounged next to the hearth and pushed her booted heels towards the fire. Hoary-headed elders had tugged their forelocks at her as they passed, and women had curtseyed. A few of the young men had made earnest – if drunken and comical – attempts at straightening their clothes and had given truly awful versions of courtly bows; Kristina knew what a true courtly bow looked like – she had been well-used to them from those Talabheim nobles who had come to the Temple praying for deliverance from the scourges that were the products of their venality and gluttony.

Well, Ranald’s teeth, she thought slightly drunkenly to herself, I seem to be developing a social conscience.

Why was it that the people of this tavern – who, in truth, were merely the urban equivalent of yeoman farmers – treated her with this deference and respect when they would have looked-down on her as a dung-heeled peasant had they known the truth? Did a little handful of gold make all that difference? Part of her wanted to stand up and scream the truth at them, rip the veil of hypocrisy from their eyes and tell them that she and her noble knight were the things that they were afraid off. That the money he and she had spent so freely had been taken from those slain by Siegfried in bloody conflicts for no reason any sane human could fathom.

She did not – but the only reason she did not was because she thought they would not understand her. She suspected that the concept that nobles and peasants were much the same under all the finery or mud was one of those that the citizens of the Empire – long indoctrinated by years of social-immobility – would never grasp. So, she stretched out further and closed her eyes, letting the warmth and the alcohol lull her into a half-sleep.

She was awoken by what Siegfried had termed her nearsight, but what she had always simply accepted as normal. In recent weeks, however, her talks with the ancient Vampyre had convinced her that the things about her that she had always thought were natural – the fact she was rarely surprised, the way she always rolled well at games of chance, her quick healing – were merely subconscious uses of her witchling power. Merely, she half-grinned to herself, as she concentrated and – behind her closed lids – she didn’t quite see but rather sensed the hand with the cutpurse knife hidden in it descending towards her money pouch.

She sketched the profile of the rest of the man with a bit more concentration – now she was using her powers more and more often she was refining and improving them. He was knelt next to her, watching her face intently for any sign of her waking. What he did not know, of course, was that she was awake and that she knew more of him that he did of her.

She concentrated again, sketching new lines onto her mannequin figure. There were the meridian lines of his life force, running through him like ley lines through the land, converging at a few points like stone circles and sacred groves. Siegfried had given her a most interesting discussion around the fire one night just before dawn about what he called chakra combat, and how even powerful men could be immobilised or killed by a sharp blow to one of these nodes of life-force. Kristina noticed with satisfaction that one of those junctions was perfectly exposed in the man’s neck and so she moved, swift and sure, and drove her extended, locked fingers into it.

There was a swiftly cut-off grunt of pain as the cutpurse crashed to the flags, the impact of his body masked by the hubbub of the barroom. She began to roll out of the chair, when a long, thin flensing knife was held at the base of her throat. She froze, her hands innocently open, and looked up at her attacker.

"’Old, my pretty, ‘old," said a thin, weasel-faced man dressed in stained and patched leathers. A scar ran down his face from his brow to his unshaven chin, stark white against the dirty brown of his skin, "Temper, temper, my pretty. We’ll be ‘avin’ your purse, an’ no unpleasantness, see?"

Kristina saw out of the corner of her eye the man she had punched getting groggily to his feet, rubbing his bruised neck. Obviously my skill needs to catch up with my knowledge, she reflected ruefully to herself. She half-closed her eyes and concentrated, seeing the flow of magical force that whirled and eddied around like gold dust in the ocean. Ah, yes, she thought, work for me, little magical motes. Work for me!

In her mind’s eye, those shining flecks coalesced into strings of golden thread which wove themselves into ribbons of brass and then fastened themselves, thickening as they did so, as manacles around weasel-face’s knife arm and ankles. She moved the fingers of her right hand in a swift clockwise motion, and his hand and feet went sweeping in that direction, sending him clattering to the ground with the painful sound of bruising flesh. She turned her gaze onto the other man, now bearing down on her with a short dagger.

Before she could even think of doing anything, a heavy velvet cloak was thrown over his head from behind and a pair of strong, elegant hands grabbed him by the shoulders and span him around. The hands grabbed the cloak again and drove his head down onto a swiftly raised knee. There was an ugly thudding sound as bone hit bone, and the cutpurse flew back as the other man whipped his cloak off and span it back onto his shoulders. The thief hit the wall and slid down, nearly unconscious.

Kristina watched a hand heavy with chunky rings settle confidently onto the gold and gemstone hilt of a long rapier. "Run along boys, I don’t think the lady’s interested," said a very calm, assured voice with the unmistakable accent of a Talabheim noble. The two thieves got unsteadily to their feet and fairly ran out of the inn, as Kristina took in the figure who had come to her aid.

He was a few inches taller than her with an athletic, broad-shouldered frame dressed in expensive red velvet with white silk trimmings – the State colours of Talabheim. His face was handsome and animated, with a neatly trimmed goatee beard and moustache and tightly curled black hair that reached to his collar. Gold and jewels winked in his ears and on his fingers, and the sword that hung at his side was clearly heavy enough to be other than ornament.

"Are you unharmed, my dear?" The noble – for there was no mistaking himself for anything else – looked at Kristina with concern. "Such ruffians in this part of town, I am surprised that a woman of your obvious breeding and refinement would stay in such an establishment." He raised a silk handkerchief to his nose as if to ward off the stench of the lower classes.

Something about this man did not sit right with Kristina, she initially put it down to her hatred of the hypocrisy which this noble was clearly showing, but, as he held out his hand to her, she realised it was something else.

"Graf Johannes von Wolfe," he introduced himself. She held out her hand, and he stooped and raised it to his lips. She felt his warm breath on her knuckles and something made her skin crawl.

"Kristina of Wolfsbad," she said, narrowing her eyes. And what is a man of your obvious breeding and refinement doing in such an establishment, Graf von Wolfe? she wondered, And why do I think you are not all you seem? There was an obvious answer to that, of course, she reflected – her magical sense was helping her again. She was getting better at interpreting these ephemeral feelings, although she did not feel she could rely on them totally yet. "My travelling companion, Sir Siegfried, and I are recently arrived in Talabheim," she said, "We chose this inn as it was the first we came to." Well, that is true enough, she reflected.

"Ah," said the Graf, twirling his moustache, "such things are not advisable in Talabheim – it can be a rough city. And your noble companion, where is he now?" There was a nervous element in von Wolfe’s voice, as well there might be, thought Kristina.

"Sir Siegfried is pursuing his own . . . interests at the moment," she said slowly. Part of her wanted to get rid of von Wolfe, and she thought he was there as a result of her beauty. The presence of an armoured champion might scare him off. "As a Templar, he has many demands on his time which he must meet." She paused, "Although I have always found him to respond to my needs swiftly enough."

"Ah-ha! The noble Templars!" The Graf puffed out his chest, "Such devoted men! What would the Empire do without them? Keeping the Vampyres and wolves from our doors!" Kristina raised her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Von Wolfe continued, "But such men can be dour and cheerless, devoted as they are to their martial and spiritual pursuits. Perhaps you would care to pass an evening in more . . . animated company?" His elegant hand described a smooth curve toward the square outside The Travellers’ Rest.

She smiled politely, so that was the gambit, was it? She’d heard better when she was a Sister. "I am afraid that Sir Siegfried will await me here, and that I must engage lodgings for he and I in a more . . . suitable location."

Von Wolfe did not seem fazed by this. "Ah, I have a fine house on the northern side of the Guildenplatz which has only just recently been vacated – I was renting it to a . . . ah, business associate. I am sure that it would be more than appropriate for the needs of yourself and Sir Siegfried. Perhaps you would care to view it?"

Kristina weighed the possibilities in her mind, but above them all was her fatigue – the fight and drink had taken it out of her. A simple solution, even from a nobleman who clearly just wanted to get into her breeches, was just what her tired body wanted now. She’d leave word for Siegfried, see the house and then tell von Wolfe clearly, decisively no.

*

Leopold had been woken, as had his father, by the majordomo of the Elector’s Mansion. The chief butler was showing that he was worried with the usual restraint of the good Imperial servant – to anyone who had not been cared for by him for years, he would have appeared completely unconcerned.

"He appears to be a Vampyre, milord," the seneschal was explaining, "The Greatswords have been slain and he is inside the house."

Leopold had, like the butler, his own methods of dealing with apprehension, or – in his case – abject terror. For him, it was to become even more high-handed and abrupt than usual. "Then send the rest of the Greatswords to kill him," he sniffed, turning to go back to his room. He was certain that nothing could stand before a full company of fighters – to him, they were pieces on a chessboard and – as he did not have to save his army for an endgame – he was unconcerned with the fact he was wasting valuable pawns to capture a single knight.

The majordomo realised he had not explained himself fully to the young master, or that the young master did not want to face the awful truth. He decided, for whatever reason, to really hammer the point home. "All the Greatswords are slain, master Leopold – the entire company."

Leopold turned back with a terrible rage on his face, trying to hide his fear. "Then get out there and find some more troops to defend me!" he snarled, "I don’t want that Undead thing getting in here!"

"No," said the Elector Count quietly, silencing his son, "You do not use my household troops as shields, Leopold. This is one man – I will meet him in honourable combat." He looked at his son, giving him chance to offer to take his father’s place. Leopold blushed and looked away, green beginning to show beneath the embarrassed flush – he told himself his father was stupid, but he knew that it was bravery that made the Count take the decision he did. "Gustav, bring me my armour and my Runefang."

The butler bowed low, but seemed to be reluctant to leave without imparting further information. "Begging your pardon, sir, but it appears he wants to fight young master Leopold." The look of puzzlement that swept the face of the Elector Count prompted the butler to explain further. "He has shouted something about a ‘scarlet trip’ – I believe that is a term used in young master Leopold’s fencing, is it not, sir?" He turned to Leopold, eyebrows raised in a polite question.

Leopold was backing away, as if he could escape the terrible doom he thought he could see coming towards him. "I’m not fighting a Vampyre! He’ll kill me!" he screamed. He turned to the Elector Count, "Father, you have to protect me! I’m your heir!"

The Count’s brow darkened. "You are a coward, Leopold," he snarled, "I thought that the scarlet trip was a non-deadly duel? I thought you would face any fencer?" His eyes swept his son’s pasty face. "Are we afraid of death, or merely of loosing?" Before his son could answer, the Count turned back to Gustav. "No matter – I cannot allow this thing to predate on my people. Bring me my armour and my Runefang. If he will not challenge me, I will challenge him." Gustav bowed low and hastened to obey.

"Get dressed," the Count said sharply, "I expect you to make me proud."

Leopold shivered and scurried to his room.

*

The walk through the streets of frosty streets of Talabheim – why doesn’t he have a carriage? she wondered – woke and invigorated Kristina, although von Wolfe’s constant stream of courtly flirting tired her. She was unused to this sort of attention – most of her previous "suitors" had merely tried to get her drunk, failed and then made intoxicated lunges at her. Nobles acted in a different manner to the lads in her village, although she was not sure which one she liked more. He had taken her arm after she had stumbled, tired, on a loose cobble, and was standing slightly too-close for comfort. But she could not find the willingness to complain or move away.

She had kept her eye on where they were walking, and found that they were walking towards the Guildenplatz. At least von Wolfe showed some sense and did not try to lead her away to some seedy back alley or gin-den. This was a sophisticated assault on her virginity.

A few minutes later the two of them entered the silent square and crossed its moonwashed stones in a couple of dozen strides, like monochrome shadows in the moonlight. A black-and-white timbered house with windows dark and shuttered loomed before them, and von Wolfe moved in front of her to open the door.

"Here we are, here we are," he said, busying himself with the door. It seemed to take him a few moments to unlock it, and when he did get it open and walked inside, he tripped on the matting lain on the floor. Kristina followed him into the dark hallway, her eyes adjusting quickly to the lack of light – a legacy of her semi-nocturnal existence as a Vampyre’s companion over the last few weeks.

Von Wolfe was groping for a lantern, which he eventually found and proceeded to light. A pale flame sprung up and illuminated a comfortably furnished but slightly dusty hallway. Von Wolfe lead the way through to a sitting room, seeming unsure of exactly where he was going.

"Well, here is the house. Is it suitable for your needs?" asked the Graf. Kristina looked around – the dust was thick on the floor.

"When did you say this house was vacated, Graf von Wolfe?" she asked conversationally, beginning to sharpen her wits and wishing she had thought before coming here.

"Oh please, call me Johannes . . ." began von Wolfe, but stopped when he saw Kristina was not interested in such personal details, "Oh, about a week ago, my dear." He licked his lips nervously, "Look, you must be tired, perhaps if you were to go to bed? You can make up your mind whether to take the house or not in the morning. I’ll leave you alone."

"To bed?" Kristina asked silverly, her nearsight filling in more than the rest of her senses, "And where are the bedrooms?"

Johannes looked taken aback. "Why, upstairs, of course!" he said, "This isn’t some fancy Bretonnian house, you know! Just good old Empire building."

"Where exactly? Do I turn left, or right when I get to the top of the stairs?" Kristina fixed him with a gimlet stare.

Von Wolfe looked flustered now. "Well, you know, it’s been so long since I’ve been here that I’m dashed if I can remember . . ." Kristina stopped him with a hiss of air between her teeth.

"This isn’t your house at all, is it?" she snapped, taking a step forward, "It’s a house you knew was deserted. You took me here, broke in and what? Thought you could seduce the poor country girl and romp with her in an empty house?" Her voice was raised to a half-shout, not wishing to attract attention from the neighbouts and alert the watch to what was – after all – the presence of two burglars.

"Poor country girl?" Johannes looked offended and backed away, "Seduce?" He looked utterly hurt and – somehow – far more genuine than he had so far. "I thought you were a noblewoman . . . and I swear by Ranald that I never intended anythin’ like that to you – that wouldn’t be proper."

Kristina heard his words, but let her subconscious digest them. She was more concerned with something more obvious; the way his Talabheim accent had dropped several social classes and hopped west to Altdorf. "What in the name of Sigmar has happened to your accent?" she asked, her hands falling to her hips. One rested on the pommel of her dagger and the other failed to rest on the mouth of her money bag. "And what in the name of Khaine happened to my purse?" she asked, as she finally realised what was going on. Shallya’s mercy! she chided herself, But I am a country bumpkin today!

"Er, I’ll be leavin’ now, ma’am," Johannes grinned sheepishly, and made a dive for the door. Kristina swept her hand though the air, sending all the little motes of golden magic whirling into a wave which crashed into the door before he could get through it. The door slammed shut and he crashed into it, bouncing swiftly off and turning to face her. His hand fell uncertainly to his rapier. Slowly and with a shaking hand he drew it; she got the impression he didn’t actually know how to use it and all he knew of fighting was street brawling and a lot of bravado – exactly the sort he’d used on those two cutpurses, in fact. Well, it worked there but it’s not going to work here.

"Don’t make me use this, ma’am," he said, "Ranald wouldn’t like it, and neither would I. I nicked your purse fair and square, now just let me go and we’ll say no more about it." He nodded, as if he had made a worthwhile point.

Kristina didn’t even waste time on words – in her mind she was concentrating on the metal of the sword, and peeling back the time that had fallen on it since its manufacture. There you are, her mind whispered to it, you remember what it was like when you were made? How nice and warm you were? Wasn’t it lovely? You remember, don’t you? Come on, I’ll help you!

Kristina looked up from the sword as Johannes’ face assumed a pained and shocked expression and – with a yelp – he dropped the sword and whisked his hand to his mouth where he frantically blew on it. Before he could recover his wits, Kristina’s dagger was out of its scabbard and its point was at his throat. Her eyes crackled with barely-suppressed energy – something in her wanted to burn this man like she had Heinrich or the brigand. With an effort, she mastered it.

"Awright," gasped Johannes, trying to keep his Adam’s apple from the point of the unwavering blade, "I’m a thief and you’re a wizardress. Fair’s fair and all that, and I don’t have a problem with it. Very sorry I tried to rob your worship, but you gotta understand that I’m just makin’ a livin’ ‘ere. I’ll give you your purse back and I’ll be on my way, and we’ll say no more about it." He smiled; a nervous, lopsided smile – somehow more attractive than the confident beaming of the Graf.

Kristina laughed. "Oh, I’m sure you’d like that." She reached into the folds of his cloak and grabbed out her purse. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t run you through."

The thief swallowed nervously. "Ranald wouldn’t like it, your highness," he gasped, making the god’s sign as best he could over his chest, "’E’d be mighty angry, would Mister Ranald. ‘E don’t like his worshipers bein’ killed, no ma’am. An’ ‘e’s goin’ to punish me enough for messin’ up a job as bad as this, no doubt about it." A look of pained worry passed over the thief’s face, and then Kristina noticed that he was not much older than her – if indeed he was at all. This was no gentleman thief; this was an urban yeoman pretending to be something he was not. She laughed heartily and sheathed her dagger.

"Well, my luck has been good recently," she smiled, "and so as a measure of respect for the god of luck I will spare the life of his incompetent follower and not gut him like a fish." A look of palpable relief washed over the thief’s face, and Kristina realised that he was actually quite handsome and – she had to admit, if only now and only to herself – that that might have been what made her so willing to listen to him. "What’s your name?" she asked.

"Jaxter," he said proudly, "Jaxter of Altdorf. Although I s’pose you could guess that from the accent," he added. Something seemed to cross his mind, and he looked worried again. "Er, your worship?"

Kristina’s smile widened, making her even more beautiful than normal. The rage that had transfigured her features had gone and the crackling light in her eyes had long died, replaced by her brilliant green. "My name is Kristina, Jaxter – I’m not a ‘worship’ or ‘highness’. I’m not even a wizardress – I’m a girl with a few gifts."

And not all of them well-hidden in that nice suit of leather, Jaxter thought. But his self-preservation swiftly got the better of his self-interest and he asked, "Er, Kristina, you’re not going to tell your Templar friend about me, are you? Most of the other gods, well, their Templars don’t like us followers of Ranald." He smiled nervously.

Kristina pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I somehow doubt that Siegfried would care a hang about you or your thievery, Jaxter," she said, "He’s really not that kind of . . . what was that?"

The question was somewhat rhetorical, but both of them could have only answered it facetiously – for the air had been split by what was, quite categorically, a child’s scream.

*

The Vampyre walked on silent steel-shot feet into the vast, echoing banqueting hall of the Elector Count’s mansion. A single servant, dusting the impressive hunting bronzes resting on the columns by the far wall, saw it, gasped in terror at the fangs winking in the lamplight and ran from the room. The Undead walked to the centre of the room and sheathed its sword.

"I can smell you and hear your heartbeat and the bellows sound of your breathing," it said softly without turning around, its dark voice carrying well to the smoke-blackened eaves of the roof high above. "Will you come down and face me or must I come up there?" It turned, from its head downward, each part of its body moving in ways no human could. Despite himself, the human shivered in fear.

The Elector Count of Talabecland – resplendent in red and white lacquered armour and carrying the bronze-gold elegance of one of the dozen Runefangs – looked down from the minstrels’ balcony on a creature older than his name, household and line and felt nothing but a cold revulsion. "I give you leave to go, Sir," he said silverly, "Leave and I will not slay you for your transgressions against my people. You will have as much head start as you can gain in a night of running from the hounds of the Witch Hunters."

The Vampyre’s oil-smooth, alabaster-white, marble-hard brows drew together slightly. "You are not Leopold, are you? He was said to be a coward, and no coward would dare make such an offer to me." It ran ancient eyes over the liveried armour and sword, an elegant destiny that might have been its own. "Although no sensible man would make such an offer either," it smiled, "You are the Count, aren’t you?" The human nodded. "I have no quarrel with you, Sir," the Vampyre continued, "Pray leave me about my business and no-one else need die. I merely wish to duel with your son."

The Count’s massive hands clenched and unclenched nervously on the sword hilt. "You have slain my subjects, monster," he snarled, "I will not allow you to take one further step into this house while I can still hold a blade."

The Vampire turned and picked up a heavy bronze lightly with one hand, as if it were nothing but a hollow plaster replica. It examined it with a bored air for a second or two, and then placed it back on its plinth. "Your subjects attacked me, Count," it said reasonably, "I responded with the lethal force a Knight of the Empire is permitted to use in the event of that terrible treason."

"If you ever were a Knight of the Empire, you gave up all privileges of that position long ago, Daemon!" snarled the Count, "Now, if you wish to continue, face me!" He pointed the Runefang at the Vampyre to emphasise his point.

And the creature moved.

It moved faster than the Count would have thought possible, even with his experiences of fighting Elves. One moment it was half-turned to him, the next there was the suggestion of it crouched to spring and then suddenly it was before him, perched on the rail of the balcony, inside the arc of the Runefang. Its left hand was suddenly gripping his sword arm – although he had not seen it move – and exerting a swift pressure. His armour curved inwards like ripe fruit, the steel pressing on a nerve junction in his elbow he did not know he had, causing the ancient blade to drop from nerveless fingers. There was no pain, but neither was there any feeling in his right arm below the elbow.

The Vampyre must have struck him on the chest, for he went skittering backwards, crashing through stools and mandolins, to slam against the wall and half slide down before he regained his feet and his wits.

Like a raven moving off a perch towards a tasty worm, the Vampyre stepped lightly from the balcony rail and walked towards him, the Runefang dangling from its left hand. Slowly, it raised the blade and lowered its head to examine the sword. Part of the Vampyre wanted to claim the blade as its own – but, with an effort, it mastered it. The human was right – it had discarded that right and privilege long ago.

"Such beautiful things, these," it purred slowly, as the Count scrabbled feverishly at his armour in an attempt to free his sword arm from the numbing paralysis it had suffered, "When Alaric promised Sigmar them we knew he would deliver, although of course I never thought I’d live to see them." It raised its head and looked at the Count, calm meeting defiance, "Strange how Fate deals her hands, isn’t it, Elector?" It threw the sword casually to one side. It clattered against the rail, sliced through the wooden supports like a butcher’s knife through fat and fell ringing on the flagstones of the hall below.

And then, paying the disarmed and incapacitated man no more heed, the Vampyre sniffed and followed the scent trail of the human to where he had come from. After only a couple of rooms, it found one similar yet younger – almost obscured by expensive perfume – and began to follow that.

*

Kristina and Jaxter stood still, listening to see if the scream would come again. It did not, but a whimpering did. The walls of the house muffled the sound, but the direction it came from was clear.

"Downstairs," said Kristina, "The cellar?"

Jaxter nodded, and pointed. "Prob’ly that door there." Kristina moved purposefully over towards it, her knife drawn again, wishing she had Siegfried by her side and not this thief. Then she brushed that aside – she had to acquit herself without his aid one of these days.

"Kristina!" Jaxter hissed, "what you doin’?"

She pointed at the door and whispered back. "I’m going to help the child, what does it look like?" Jaxter looked terrified.

"But ‘adn’t we better get the Watch?" he stammered, "I mean, it is their job, an’ all."

Kristina turned to face him. "They could be dead by the time we get the Watch, it’s down to us." She noticed the fear on Jaxter’s face, and realised that this sort of thing was well beyond the thief’s ken – his whole modus operandi was to pretend to be something else; a Graf, a shadow, a priest, and none of his – admittedly brilliant – acting skills would be useful here. "Go get the Watch if you must, I’ll deal with this." Her voice exuded a confidence she didn’t feel.

Jaxter nodded and began to move towards the door. And then stopped. He looked back at Kristina, gently trying the door to the cellar, and realised that there could be many dangers down those stairs. And, while he did not particularly want to face them, he did not want her to face them alone. He moved silently to her side and slid his lockpicking jemmy from his sleeve.

"’Ere," he said, "stand aside and let a professional work." Kristina moved gratefully aside and stopped her ineffectual and hopeful jiggling of her knife in the lock. Jaxter slid the slim tool into the keyhole and manipulated it for a few seconds. With a quiet click the door opened. Jaxter pushed it and it swung open onto a dark stairway. From an open doorway at the foot of the stairs a dim, flickering glow – as of candles – came. Heavy and pungent smoke drifted slowly from the door and up the stairs, filling the stairway with an aromatic haze of incense.

But it was the noise that caught their attention; the screaming had stopped, to be replaced by a pitiful whimpering and a heavy, sonorous chanting. Neither Kristina nor Jaxter could tell what was being said, but both could recognise the language as a language of sorcery; Jaxter could feel his guts crawling and skin tingling, while Kristina could see the little whirling motes of gold in the magical air moving in ordered and disturbing patterns. She felt her mouth dry and her heart beat hollow as she clearly saw the movement was far more organised than anything she had ever seen – certainly more controlled than anything she had been responsible for.

Kristina and Jaxter looked at each other – neither really wanted to go on, and each felt the lightness of their youth. Still, something in each of them made them continue and so they gingerly walked down the stairs, Jaxter gesturing for Kristina to walk on the edges of the treads where they would be less likely to creak. As they descended the smell of incense grew stronger, thick with herbs neither could recognise, but which lingered in the throat and nose and made them sick and nauseous. Kristina could feel the blood vessels in her sinuses opening with the dull throb of something that could only be evil-magic. She shook her head and tried to concentrate, tried to push the tiny pieces of magic, but they didn’t move as far or as fast as usual and soon went back to their ordered patterns. Something – or someone more likely – was dragging all the magic in the area into some sort of ordered effect. A word from tales she’d heard at old Elsa’s knee came to Kristina.

A ritual.

She struggled to recall what she had heard of rituals – they were invariably evil magics. Although, she considered, all magic was said to be evil in the tales of her village. And she, as a practitioner of magic, knew this was not the case.

Well, hoped it was not the case.

And a practitioner of magic? Who was she trying to fool? Whoever was down there was a practitioner of magic – he was controlling all the magic in the area in a way she could not hope to. He was a true sorcerer. She was a girl playing games – a country girl who couldn’t even sneak down cellar stairs without help.

The whimpering came again, more pathetic now.

Something in Kristina hardened – yes, she was a girl playing games, and perhaps Jaxter was a youthful thief whom even she had caught out. Perhaps Siegfried would have walked through whatever was down there as if it was nothing. But Siegfried was not here, and no-one was here except her and Jaxter. They had to deal with it, or no-one would.

But this was certainly a ritual and – as she recalled – one of the defining qualities of a ritual in all the tales was that it could be stopped.

She and Jaxter reached the bottom of the stairs and peered around the doorjamb. Their eyes took in a scene as bizarre as it was macabre.

On a stone altar carved with blasphemous symbols standing in the middle of a nine-pointed star drawn on the floor in what looked damnably like blood lay a middle-aged man, his hair and beard iron-grey. He was dressed in clothes reminiscent of Jaxter’s; red velvet and white silk. He was not bound, and – like the thief – he wore a heavy rapier on his left hip.

At each point of the star, a small golden cage stood, each crammed with a young child, whimpering piteously. Tall candles stood on the top of each cage and these and the coke-burning incense-braziers in the corners of the stone-walled room provided the only light. Every so often a drop of hot wax would fall onto the child below, causing a louder whimper and tears.

Standing in front of the altar and facing a large eight-pointed star on the wall was a tall, cadaverous man, naked except for the long robe of iridescent rainbow colours he wore. He carried a tall staff surmounted with a bird’s skull and a few gaudily-coloured feathers. A crackling glow came from the staff and – as he chanted – the bird’s foot his right leg ended in clenched and unclenched reflexively.

Both of them took all this in in a second, and then each of them noticed something else. Jaxter’s eyes were drawn to the riches in the room – the golden candlesticks, the pile of jewellery in the corner, the small strongbox. Kristina saw that one of the cages contained nothing but a skeleton, and that the little motes of magic were collecting in a golden bubble around another of the children.

Suddenly, the child screamed and burst into ice-blue spectral fire, its flesh burning to nothing but azure smoke in seconds. The smoke rose swiftly and formed itself into an evil rune which hung in the air for a second then, with a convulsive intake of breath, the nobleman sucked it into his lungs. Kristina watched in fascination and horror as his wrinkles lessened and sable crept back into his beard.

Rejuvination ritual.

Without waiting for the other, Kristina and Jaxter stepped forward into the room. Jaxter had drawn his sword and pointed it at the sorcerer.

"Alright, old chap," said the Graf von Wolfe, as Kristina inwardly winced, "let’s be stopping these here shenanigans right now!" His entire manner had shifted back into the confident Graf; his whole manner and posture altered – the change was quite startling. However, Kristina was quite sure that no amount of confident bluffing would work here. She was swiftly proved right.

The sorcerer turned and fixed Jaxter with a beady, black-eyed, birdlike stare, his scrawny body under the robe reminding Kristina of nothing so much as a plucked chicken with a brand burned onto the left breast. Then he raised his staff and the thief flew backwards as if he’d been hit in the chest by a cavalry hammer. He hit the wall with a sickening crunch and slid down.

But the ritual had been broken. The little flecks of magic in the air burst from their ordered paths and trails so quickly that Kristina could have sworn she felt her hair whip around in a magical gale, a chaotic turmoil of disorder and random movement as the magic broke free. As Jaxter’s head lolled, half-unconscious, she turned to face the sorcerer and lashed out with a powerful bolt of pure magical force, raw and uncontrolled, which struck his aura dead on and sent him flying back, knocking over one of the braziers as he did so. Glowing coals scattered all over the floor, sending sparks skittering like fragments of lightning.

The noble was leaping to his feet, and whipping the sword from his scabbard with the fluid, practised grace of a natural and expert swordsman. But she paid him no heed, instead raising her hand and summoning the little motes of magic again, forging them into an ugly, rough bolt of power. She realised with dismay just how unfocused her powers were compared to the sorcerer’s, just how untutored and inexpert. She brushed such worries aside and hurled the bolt of power at the sorcerer. It smacked into his aura with a shower of magical sparks.

It broke like a wave against his enchanted shields, and he barely twitched. He rose slowly to his feet, lashing out as he did so with a tightly focused blade of force. Kristina tried to erect magical defences, but it bypassed them as easily as a fox through a snare. It struck her aura – far weaker than any of her blows had been, but utterly accurate and utterly devastating as it impacted on one of her magical chakras. She was lifted from her feet, spun in the air and sent crashing down onto the flagstones of the cellar with a painful crunch. Her limbs didn’t work and her mouth was full of blood, her nose haemorrhaging and her vision blurring. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and looked up. The sorcerer was raising the staff again, all the magic in the room sucking toward the bird-skull on the top while the nobleman lunged at her with a perfect stop-hit directed at her heart.

It was at that point that she knew, with complete and utter certainty, that she was going to die.

*

Siegfried walked, swift and sure as a bloodhound on the scent of its prey, along an oak panelled corridor lain with expensive carpet and hung with well-executed paintings. He reached a heavy oak door, carved with a relief of leaves and woodland creatures – a beautiful example of the wood-carver’s art, ancient as the castle itself and evocative of Talabheim’s symbolic role as the protector of the great forest.

The Vampyre kicked it in half and strode through the wreckage.

He found himself in a large sitting room, hung with red and white drapes and paintings showing various duels; rapier and main gauche mostly. Couches, armchairs and a chaise lounge in leather made up most of the furniture. There was a dying fire in the grate and none of the lamps were lit. A door in the east wall was half ajar, and from it Siegfried could hear the unmistakable sound of a panicked heartbeat, muffled as if by thick cloth. The Vampyre walked towards it, snatching as he did so a brace of matched rapiers from a rack on the wall.

He entered a darkened bedroom – no fire glowed here and the windows were tightly shuttered. The room stank with the sweat of fear, and huddled under the bedclothes was a quivering shape.

It is a commonly-held belief – a fallacy, though – that Blood Dragons respect courage and despise cowardice. This is simply not the case. Blood Dragons respect combat prowess, and nothing else. Although they speak of honour, it is the kind of honour that comes with victory. No Blood Dragon worth the name would slay an unworthy and unwilling foe, but neither would a Blood Dragon speak ill of a coward. If a foe flees and quakes, if a foe fights with his breeches soiled and tears in his eyes, but still fights well, then the Blood Dragon accords him respect. Brave incompetence earns you nothing but contempt and death – if you’d run, the Vampyre would have let you live.

So Siegfried felt no contempt or hatred for Leopold – for it was clearly he cowering under the bedclothes – and simply stuck the pair of rapiers into the floor by their points and reached for the straps of his arm and torso armour. He pulled pins clear of buckles and shrugged himself out of the black-lacquered steel like a man shedding a cotton tunic; that armour was the product of a mad yet genius Dwarf mind centuries before and had been designed to be taken off and put on by one man – supremely useful for the solitary Vampyre.

"Leopold," he said quietly, as he pulled the chainmail shirt over his head and lay it neatly on the pile of glittering armour, "I am Siegfried of the Order of the Blood Dragon. I am here to duel."

The whimpering became all the more frantic and an acrid smell – of urine – filled the bedchamer. "Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!" came a voice from under the bedclothes, "You can have anything you like! Please! Just don’t hurt me!" There was a pause, as Siegfried unbuttoned his leather jack and stripped it off his alabaster flesh. "One of my serving wenches is still a virgin – you can have her if you like!"

Siegfried snatched up the two rapiers in his left hand and strode to the bed, whisking the sheets off with his right. "I am Siegfried of the Order of the Blood Dragon," he said, an edge of impatience in his voice, "not some Lahmian sensation-drunk bitch! I came here to duel – what are you here to do?"

Leopold – dressed in hastily-donned black velvet and silk – was a quivering and quaking mess on the bed, tears pouring down his face and skin white with terror. "I don’t want to die! Please, I’ll do anything! Just don’t kill me!" Siegfried picked him up by one shoulder and stood him on the carpet. Leopold averted his eyes with terror, a sobbing, snotty-nosed child standing in front of a fanged giant. Siegfried let go of his shoulder, expecting him to stand on his own. The human began to crumple to the floor – the Vampyre caught him before he’d fell six inches and hauled him back to his feet.

"If you wish to live, duel – the scarlet trip, three hits only." Something in those words finally penetrated through to Leopold’s brain, and his muscles took over. He stood straighter and raised his head. Siegfried took a step back, standing sword’s length apart.

"The, the sc-sc-scarlet t-trip?" stammered Leopold, his face blanching and his eyes avoiding the Vampyre’s as he wiped his snivelling nose with the back of his hand, "You want to fight?" Siegfried nodded. Leopold raised his hand to receive the hilt of the blade. Siegfried offered him his choice, and – after a moment – Leopold took one. "And you won’t kill me?"

"I will if you do not duel."

Leopold blanched still further, almost rivalling the Vampyre’s palor. He nodded, recovering his wits and a degree of arrogance and pride entering his gaze. He reached for the bow of his tunic and undid it, slowly sliding his shirt and jacket off, baring his chest to the Vampyre.

Had Siegfried been less experienced, he might have thought that Leopold could not possibly be a skilled fighter in any discipline – for the creature before him was scrawny, weak and pathetic-looking, with a hairless pigeon-chest branded on the left side, a neck like a chicken’s and shoulders narrower than Kristina’s. But the expert fighter in Siegfried saw the speed and sinewy strength in those thin arms, and the relaxed and practised fencing stance and grip the human assumed instinctively. Siegfried took another step backwards and raised his rapier in salute.

Leopold took in the measure of his adversary – Siegfried was nearly a full foot taller than he, and certainly twice or more as broad across the shoulders. His chest seemed as wide as a barrel, with great sculpted slabs of pectorals, a vast mantle of trapezius and great pauldrons of deltoids. Biceps and triceps were wider than the human’s thighs, and the neck wider than his waist. The muscles that bulged in the jaw looked capable of chewing through ship’s tow cables and the hand that dwarfed the fencing sword’s hilt could have comfortably enfolded and crushed Leopold’s skull. The legs – encased as they were in black steel armour – stood immobile and inflexible as tree-trunks and the contrast of coal-black hair, eyes and armour and snow-white skin was striking. The Vampyre looked like nothing so much as a heroic statue that some wag had half-clad in outsize armour – the musculature too sharp and well defined to be natural, and the flesh too hard and unbreathing.

Leopold did not know enough of Vampyres to understand what he faced. He’s too heavy, he thought, he’s got too much muscle. He’ll never be able to move fast enough in that armour. Against another muscle-bound oaf, he’d do well. Against me – I’ll take him apart. I’ll cut his tendons and hammer a stake through his heart. Then my father can stop mocking me and treat me as a hero! The human raised his rapier in counter-salute, and lunged.

Siegfried turned his body sideways, deflecting the thrust of the rapier with an economical parry, forcing the human’s blade down and to the left. He snapped his wrist around, changing the blades’ point of engagement and trapping Leopold’s blade. As the human struggled to free it, he thrust out with a counter-attack. Leopold leapt backwards, the rapier razoring the air fractions of an inch from his chest, and drew his sword back, launching another attack. Siegfried parried that, catching the point and sending the force of the blow over his right shoulder while he stabbed out with a riposte. The point of the blade caught Leopold on the right breast, slicing the skin and drawing blood.

"A hit," came Siegfried’s calm voice, pulling up his sword and stepping backward. Leopold snarled, nodded, and assumed an en garde position. Okay, so you’re quick as well as strong. But now I’ve seen you fight, you don’t stand a chance – I’m a master of every style the Old World has to offer.

Leopold swung with a high strike, designed to come down onto his opponent’s shoulder. Siegfried simply ducked out of the way and thrust again – the human was forced to bring the blade down and across to frantically parry, but managed to deflect the blade and turn it into a riposte. The point of the blade was a handsbreadth from Siegfried’s stomach when the sword was knocked aside by a whirling parry and the edge of the sword came around and rapped Leopold squarely on the temple. Blood trickled down the side of the human’s face, mingling with the sweat of exertion and fear.

"A hi . . ." began Siegfried, but Leopold was launching another furious attack, the sword moving so fast it could barely be seen. The flurry of blows drove Siegfried back – it was either that or be hit. The Vampyre struggled to counter the dozens of thrusts, lunges and strikes that were directed at him in a few short seconds. The Vampyre had to give the human his due – he was an accomplished fencer and a capable fighter. Perhaps this one should have the Blood Kiss . . . ?

The human lunged at him again, in desperation now – all his attacks had been foiled by the Vampire’s brilliant defence. He was tiring – he’s gone all out on the frenzied attack. Sweat burned his eyes and his breath rasped in his chest.

No, thought Siegfried, this one is too flightly. Too immature. No idea of conservation of energy. Maybe in a few years . . .

The human had left himself wide open, his fatigue too great for anything else. Siegfried brought his sword up sharply, pointing at the human’s nose, the point of the blade a fraction of an inch away. Dead steady, he held it there for a few seconds, letting the human realise what had happened.

Then he flicked his wrist and grazed the tip – a tiny drop of blood welled.

"Hit and match," said Siegfried, turning to go and chucking the sword onto the rumpled bed. Leopold screamed in frustration and anger, and launched himself at Siegfried. The Vampyre caught him by the wrist and throat, stopping him dead in mid-air. Suddenly, Leopold realised what it was he faced – the grip of those hands was cold as marble, and about as strong. Siegfried’s face did not register any emotion except mild surprise, then he flung Leopold back onto the bed and stooped to gather up his armour. "Do not feel too bad," the Vampyre said sympathetically, "I have had centuries to practice my art."

"It’s not fair!" screamed Leopold, "You cheated! You’re not even human! You’re supernaturally fast!"

Siegfried’s face hardened. "Do not claim you are the greatest fencer in the Old World unless you are prepared to defend your title. I beat you fair and square – accept it."

Leopold jumped back to his feet. "I am the best! I am! I demand a rematch! I demand . . ." He got no further as Siegfried smacked him with a backhand blow that sent him crashing into the wall.

"Do not try my patience, human!" snarled the Vampyre, his fangs winking in the dim light and his eyes burning red like coals, "Considering the ease with which I beat you, a rematch would be all but pointless. Accept your inferiority." Siegfried finished buckling the last strap of his suit of armour and turned to leave the room. As Leopold struggled to his feet, the Vampyre could hear the movement of troops in the castle – the State troops of Talabheim coming to their master’s aid. Siegfried turned to Leopold and smiled, showing his magnificent fangs.

"If you continue to improve – and become less of a whinging brat – I might return one day and give you the Blood Kiss."

Leopold fainted as three swordsmen burst through the door and the Vampyre casually drew his enormous longsword and faced off against them.

*

The sword was inches from her inert and helpless body, the sorcerer’s spell seconds from being cast, herself moments from Morr’s kingdom when Jaxter’s rapier interposed itself between her ribs and the nobleman’s blade and twisted savagely. The sword tore a ragged track along her shoulder, ripping her leather tunic and cutting the flesh. The pain brought her back to her senses and she rolled groggily back to her feet.

The nobleman, angered that this whelp was in his way, launched a furious attack at Jaxter, driving the less-competent swordsman back. After a few blows – delivered in less than a second – he realised that Jaxter was no match at all for him, and started to play. Shallow cuts appeared on Jaxter’s arms and chest, one sliced open his cheek and another scratched his forehead, sending blood tricking down his brow.

"For Sigmar’s sake, Kristina!" screamed Jaxter, "I can’t do this alone!"

Kristina turned back to the sorcerer, her body a mass of pain and her brain pounding in her skull. She concentrated, seeing the little fragments of magic wheeling towards the staff of the sorcerer as he summoned the power to crush her. It was as if he had read her mind. "Playing games with magic, are you, girl?" he twittered, his voice disturbingly like the piping of birdcalls, "I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll forget all too soon when your mind fries!"

She didn’t stand a chance; he’d smash her body and soul into flinders without even trying. His skill and training were incredible – she could not take more than a couple more blows like the last . . .

That was it.

That last spell was perfectly focussed, her dazed mind thought, but not as strong as mine. This man is supremely skilled, to be sure. Certainly better than me. But his blows lack my strength. I have something he does not – raw magical power. He was like a master fencer and she was a man in full-plate armour wielding a warhammer. She had one chance to smash him before his little blows found the chinks in her immobile defence and took her apart.

She concentrated, forging her way past the pain in her mind and the aches in her body. She opened her mind, body and soul to those arcane powers, feeling them flood into her. She saw the air of the room become dim and lifeless as she drew all the magic in it into her at a rate the sorcerer could not hope to match, her natural ability to channel magic sucking it all away like water into parched earth. She saw his bird-like eyes widen with surprise as his spell guttered and died like a candle in a bell jar.

Her nerves and veins burned with the raw magic she was holding – she tried to shape it, to give it some form and direction, but it was nearly impossible; she lacked the training to deal with that level of power. At the end, as her mind screamed in agony and she felt her very soul melting, she pointed it at the sorcerer and unleashed it. With a scream, the power left her in a barely focused bolt of power and impacted on the sorcerer’s magical defences.

His defence was perfect, an elegant construct of gates, blind alleys, walls and draining whirlpools. But it was built of fired clay – and the bolt that hit was like a boulder from a ballista. Inelegant, imprecise, and with no real skill – but hideously powerful. That defence would have deflected almost any spell fuelled by skill; like the dancing web of steel of a master fencer it could keep any other rapier out. But when Kristina’s warhammer of a spell swung at it, it was just not up to the task. It shattered like a goblet hit by a battering ram, as did all of the sorcerer’s bones. He was utterly destroyed – reduced to a handful of ash in less than an eyeblink.

As Kristina blacked out – the energies she had realised too much for her already-weakened body and soul - Jaxter was being forced back towards the stairs, and realised that he had nowhere to go. The room was burning after Kristina’s terrible spell – which had taken the form of a destructive wave of fire, lightning and thunder – burning into smoke and ash in a matter of seconds. So far the only things that were burning were the walls – the stone walls – but it was only a matter of time before the heat, flame and smoke killed him, Kristina and the children.

The nobleman realised that he didn’t have much time, and so decided to stop messing about. He lunged at Jaxter, just as the thief tripped and fell. That saved his life, at least for a second, as the thin blade passed through the muscle of his trapezius and got caught. Jaxter cried out in pain as the nobleman laughed.

"Hurts does it, lowlife?" he snarled, "Well, it’s going to get a lot . . ." He got no further as something stabbed into his body just under the ribcage, its point just piercing his heart. With disbelief, he looked down, to see the hilt of his own dagger protruding from his flesh.

"Oh, sorry mate," said Jazter through gritted teeth, "is that yours? S’pose you should keep an eye on your gear." The thief pushed the nobleman away and he slid back, off the dagger, and pulling the sword painfully from Jaxter’s shoulder as he did so.

Jaxter looked back into the inferno that was the cellar and decided it was time to go. But first, he just needed to grab a few things from there. Valuable things.

*

"Run and you remain alive," said Siegfried simply. The three warriors ignored him and charged. Siegfried parried one sword with his own, dodged under the sweep of another and caught the thrust of the final one in a gauntleted fist. He twisted savagely, fragments of steel splitting from the edges of the blade, wrenched it from the hand of the swordsman and then drove the pommel into its owner’s guts. As the man keeled over, Siegfried snapped the hilt upward, whacking the human in the jaw and sending his head snapping back. The swordsman slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The Vampyre tossed the blade into the air, spinning in the light spilling from the sitting room, and smashed the flat of the Bloodrinker into the body of the second swordsman. A muffled crack and a scream of pain showed where ribs had broken, and the mortal crashed unconscious into the wall. The third man swung again – Siegfried ducked under the blow one more.

The hilt of the sword fell into the Vampyre’s hand, and he whirled the two blades around in a deadly web of steel and advanced. The human had no choice but to give ground or die – he took a few steps backwards, trying to get a thrust through the glittering net of blades. He tripped over the expensive carpet of the sitting room and fell over, landing ungainly on the floor, his sword sliding from his hand. Siegfried stepped over him and sprinted towards the door.

Behind him, the swordsman leapt to his feet and retrieved his sword. As further troops charged down the corridor towards the Vampyre – including the Elector himself, his right arm now stripped of armour and his Runefang glittering in his hand – Siegfried turned and threw the Talabheim sword towards the swordsman. It took him through the quilted livery on his right arm and pinned him to the wall. As he struggled to free himself, the Vampyre ran down the corridor.

A halberdier was lunging with his polearm – Siegfried sprang forward, somersaulting over the warrior and lashing out with his blade. The shaft of the polearm splintered and snapped, and Siegfried landed in front of a burly warrior wielding a warhammer. As the heavy steel head swing towards the Vampyre, he raised his sword and deflected the blow. Spinning the blade, he drove the force of the strike slamming into the wall of the mansion and snapped out a punch which connected with the human’s jaw and sent him crashing to the ground.

A Runefang was swinging towards his head now.

He turned, caught the wrist that held it with his left hand and continued the spin, driving his elbow into the jaw of the Elector Count. The tall human span back, trying to roll with the blow and get clear. But the Vampyre kept hold of his wrist and simply pulled back sharply, driving the human onto his raised knee. The Count’s stomach and the Vampyre’s shin guard connected with a sickening thud, and the man passed out with a groan. Siegfried’s hand opened, letting the human fall, and formed into a fist again – lashing out with a blow that sent another warrior spiralling away with glazing eyes. Without even looking, he swung his sword, shattering leaded glass and splintering wood, and jumped backwards through the window.

The humans hurried to the windowsill and looked down into the moonlight garden. There was a ten-foot drop onto an open lawn, and the nearest cover was thirty yards away.

The Vampyre was nowhere to be seen.

*

Kristina awoke with a cough and a splutter as someone poured brandy down her throat. It burned like fire on her lacerated and scorched innards, but at least it woke her up. She choked and spat out a mouthful of liquor. In the light of the moon and the flickering light of the flames, she could see it was laced with her blood.

Her body ached and throbbed, her head pounding and her nerves dull and burned-out. She could feel crusted blood on her upper lip that had trickled from her nose and the stinging pain of fresh burns.

She looked around – she was lying on the roof of a building not far from the house she and Jaxter had broken into, wrapped in her velvet and silk cloak. She slowly sat up, looking with wonder at the fact that it was not even singed or scuffed when her leather jerkin was reduced to scorched tatters.

Jaxter squatted down in front of her, a bandage wrapped around one shoulder and his body a mass of cuts and scratches. His face was grimed with soot and blood and his fine clothes were in a terrible mess. "’Ow you feelin’?" he asked.

Kristina explored her body before answering – pain answered her. She tried to access her powers, using her gifts to heal herself, but the agony in her mind rose like a wave and overwhelmed her. It was as if the wholesale use of her gifts had left them aching and utterly spent. Like the time she had run for four hours from her village because she thought her mother would be angry after she broke the milk-jug, and her father had caught up with her on horseback. She had been taken back to Wolfsbad, tired beyond reckoning, and put into bed. When she woke the next day, her legs would simply not obey her commands and had only answered her with aches and pain. She had had no sympathy that time, but here Jaxter put out a strong hand to steady her.

"I’ll be fine," she croaked, her throat raw. She couldn’t tell if it was from the smoke she had inhaled or the magical power that had burned through her. Probably both. "I’ll recover." Even as she said it, she realised it was not just a guess – she knew her magical ability would return. Just like her legs had recovered after a few days – and had actually been stronger for it. "Did we kill them? Did we save the children?" Jaxter nodded.

"I bust the locks on the cages and the kids scampered free – like little mice. Scared as anything, they were. Didn’t ‘ang around or nothin’." He took a swig from the brandy bottle and offered her a helping hand as she tried to get up. She accepted it and drew her miraculously unscathed cloak back onto her shoulders.

"The sorcerer and the noble dead?" she asked. Jaxter nodded again.

"You saw to bird-boy, and I managed to stab mister fancy-sword-work." He winced, putting his hand on his bloodstained shoulder. Concern showed on Kristina’s face, but he brushed it aside. "Aw, don’t worry," he said, "I’ve ‘ad worse." His soot-grimed face assumed a disappointed look. "Shame I didn’t ‘ave time to grab any of that loot I saw there," he muttered.

"You didn’t?" asked Kristina, amazed. She had expected the thief to go for the gold first and foremost – it had certainly been the thing he’d noticed. He shook his head.

"Naw, I was carryin’ you out. You’re ‘eavier than you look, you know," he smiled, "especially with one of me shoulders ‘urt."

Kristina folded her arms. "You’re telling me that a follower of Ranald chose saving a witch’s life over getting hold of some jewels? You could have left me to the flames."

Jaxter looked utterly hurt. "Ranald wouldn’t like that – you ‘elped me get ‘old of them. Honour among thieves, an’ all that." He nodded, as if it made some kind of sense, and as if there were no other reason behind his altruism. He pursed his lips, "Still, I reckon ‘e’s not goin’ to be too pleased with this evenin’s work – he doesn’t like ‘is followers’ ‘andiwork to be so obvious. An’ I ‘aven’t made no money this evenin’, neither."

Kristina smiled at him, an unhappy boy standing on the tiles, and then cast her gaze over the rooftops of Talabheim. The city was bathed in moonlight and the red terracotta and black slate roofs shone as if they were oiled. Little lamps burned here and there, and the occasional white or grey stone tower rose like a stately lily over the earth of the smaller buildings. Looking further afield she could see the green sea of the forest that surrounded the city, waving silently in the breeze, as it rose up around the city like a tall verdant wave. She sighed, and turned back to Jaxter. She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging soot and dirt.

"Distract me, Jaxter," she said simply, "and steal my purse."

He looked confused and nonplussed for a second, and then he pointed southwards and half-heartedly said, "Look, you can see the Guildhall from . . ."

He got no further as Kristina grabbed him by the front of the jerkin. "I meant like this," she said, pulling him towards her and kissing him roughly on the lips. Slowly, their bruised arms encircled each other as he returned the embrace, his hand sliding to her waist – although whether primarily to caress or to steal not even he could tell.

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