Kandler wanted to smile, but he knew better. “I didn’t hurt that thing. Steel can’t do the job. It’ll be back.” He glanced around the large, high-ceilinged room. The windows were all shuttered. The back door was barred too. “Any idea how they’ll come?” he asked Burch.
The shifter shook his head. “Place is tight.”
Kandler grimaced. “Not airtight. Now that I invited them in, they can just turn to mist again and flow right through the gaps.”
Sallah put up her hand, and the others fell silent. “They’re on the move. Oh!”
“What?” Kandler said as he moved closer to her. He hated relying on someone else like this, especially someone he didn’t really know. And, he had to admit to himself, the fact that she was a paladin, a god’s chosen knight, rubbed him the wrong way too.
The destruction of the Mournland had convinced Kandler that one of two things were true. Either the gods didn’t care what happened to the people of Khorvaire, or the gods were out to get them. Either way, he wanted nothing to do with them.
Sallah pulled back her lips and revealed her gritted teeth. “There are more of them. Many more.”
The banging started on the front door again. Temmah yelped, then slapped a thick hand over his red face and muttered an apology.
“I don’t get it,” said Temmah. “If they can come in, why the knocking?”
Kandler knew the knocking was just a distraction meant to focus their attention on the door while the vampires circled around and came in another way. He started to respond to Temmah, but Sallah cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. She concentrated for a moment then performed a slow pirouette, her empty hand stretched out as if to feel for something. Her eyes flung wide, and she spun about and stabbed her finger at the back door. “There!”
Kandler turned to see a strange clump of mist swirling around the inside of the back door. A moment later, it coalesced into the vampire Kandler had stabbed.
“You are a rotten host,” the vampire said with a grin, swirling his black cloak around him as he spoke. A crimson emblem of a gaping maw filled with fangs was embroidered on the cloak’s left breast. “Do you stab all your guests?”
“What are you doing here?” Kandler said as he hefted the splintered chair leg in his hand.
“Oh!” said the vampire. “She hasn’t told you yet?” The creature licked the blood from his lips. “How… delicious!”
“He’s a Karrn,” Sallah said.
“That’s all I need to know,” Kandler said as he advanced, holding the stake before him. The justicar didn’t care much for people from Karrnath—especially if they were undead bloodsuckers bent on killing him.
Sallah matched Kandler stride for stride. Burch angled off to the right, and Temmah kept pressing his back against the front door as the creatures outside continued to pound on it “He may have weaseled his way in here,” Sallah said, “but he can’t invite others. It’s not his place.”
“Correct, witch-knight,” the vampire said, its eyes glittering red against its eggshell skin, its mouth a savage slash filled with teeth. “But wrong all the same.” With a flick of his wrist, the vampire flung the bar from the town hall’s back door.
Burch’s crossbow twanged, and a wooden bolt pierced the vampire’s heart and jutted from his chest. The undead thing collapsed without a sound, falling on the bolt and driving it further into its chest.
“Secure that door!” Sallah said.
Kandler sprinted over to the door picked up the heavy bar. Before he could drop it into place someone outside of the hall knocked the door inward and clean off its hinges. The justicar had to jump back to keep the slab of wood from falling on him.
Two creatures stomped through the naked portal. They walked like men and bore the arms and armor of great warriors, but their flesh was torn and rotten, hanging from their frames in ragged strips. Their eyes were dark, empty sockets. Their breastplates bore the same crimson symbol that appeared on the vampire’s cloak. They snarled from their desert-dry throats, and they beat their blades on the ground as they stampeded in, daring any to stand before them.
“Zombies!” Burch said as he reloaded his crossbow.
“Karrn shocktroopers,” Kandler said, recognizing the creatures’ rotting uniforms. He raised his sword before him and leveled a swing at the first creature’s head.
The zombie parried the blow easily, but it failed to counter Kandler’s follow-up attack. The justicar’s blade clanged off the creature’s sword, just as he had intended, then slipped under the creature’s blade and breastplate and sliced clean through its backbone. It hesitated for a moment and loosed a dry screech before it fell into two pieces. Its top overbalanced first and hit the ground before its knees, sending up a cloud of dust. Kandler almost choked on the stench.
The other zombie stepped forward, its jagged blade raised high as it aimed a blow at Kandler’s neck. Busy with the first creature, he gritted his teeth and waited for the blade to slash at him. He hoped he’d be able to catch it on his armored shoulder rather than his face.
Sallah stepped between the two, shielding the justicar with her body. A silvery flame flickered along the length of her sword as she shoved it into the zombie’s face. Its light illuminated the empty corners of the zombie’s eye sockets.
“Get back!” Sallah screamed. “Your kind holds no sway here.”
The zombie raised its arm to defend itself, as if the silvery light blinded its long-lost eyes. It let loose a dry, wordless scream as it turned and stomped out of the town hall the way it had come.
Kandler made to follow the creature, but Temmah screamed at the justicar to stop. “You don’t know what’s out there!” he said.
Kandler looked back at the dwarf. Temmah shook so hard that Kandler could hear his armor rattling from it.
“Esprë’s out there,” Kandler said. His voice felt raw with fear, but he hoped the others could not hear it. “That’s all I need to know.”
Chapter
12
A series of three short screams pierced the night. Each began full-throated with mortal fear, and each was cut horribly short. Deothen made the sign of the flame on his chest at the end of each one by drawing his fingertips down the length of his sternum in a wavering line. With the last, he stood and whispered a silent prayer that the Silver Flame would embrace the screamers with its cleansing tongues.
“By the Host!” Mardak said, leaping up from the head of his dining table, at which he had been hosting a meal with all the knights but Sallah.
The repast had been hastily prepared but tasty. Deothen suspected that Priscinta’s pride wouldn’t allow her to serve her guests a bad meal despite the way her husband had treated her earlier today. She had gone about the task of feeding the knights, her husband, and her son, never meeting their eyes, her cheeks burning with anger and shame. When Deothen had offered his thanks for the meal, she had coughed out a weak response and dashed from the room. He hadn’t seen her since.
“What’s happening out there?” Mardak said, panic stabbing through his voice as he stared out into the darkness through the dining room’s large front window.
“Tira’s tongue,” Deothen cursed as he reached for his sword and his staff. “I thought we had more time.” He turned to the three knights sitting around the table and began to bark out orders. They each complied without question or hesitation, their faces masks that concealed the terror Deothen knew stirred in their hearts. “Gweir, secure the back door!”
The blond-haired knight drew his blade and charged out of the room.
“Brendis, take the front!”
The dark-haired knight dashed for the porch.
“Levritt, you’re in charge of Pradak.”
The young knight nodded as he drew his sword and stood next to Mardak’s son, his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The dark-haired Pradak trembled so that it seemed as if Levritt’s hand actually held the boy from falling over.
“What should I do?” Mardak asked. The ma
yor’s blue eyes darted nervously about the room, looking for danger from every quarter.
Deothen glared at the man. “Find your wife.”
Mardak swallowed as he met the eldest knight’s eyes. He reached up and pulled down his sword from where he’d hung it over the entrance to the room. As he’d done that, he’d explained to Deothen that it was a tradition of those who hosted meals in Cyre, designed to show both that the host was skilled in arms but also that he’d put all weapons aside for the meal. Mardak drew the blade from its scabbard slowly, almost ceremonially. Then another scream echoed through the town, and he nearly leaped from his clothes. Without looking back at Deothen, the mayor tossed the sheath and belt to one side and strode from the room.
Deothen closed his eyes and said a quick prayer as he touched the iridescent symbol embroidered across the front of his tabard. “May the power of the Silver Flame protect me against evil in all its forms.” As he spoke, he felt the blessings of his god flow through his hands and throughout his body.
Deothen opened his eyes and listened. More screams sounded in the distance. He hefted his staff, the silver light blazing from its tip and reflecting brilliantly in his icy eyes. Then he drew his sword, which burst into silvery flames as it left its scabbard. “And may we do what we can to protect these innocents,” he said.
The senior knight strode out onto Mardak’s porch. The edges of the crater that cradled the town lay enveloped in darkness. No moonlight broke through the layer of clouds that seemed to always swirl out from the encroaching edges of Mournland.
“The evil that lurks out there is in its element,” Deothen said to Brendis, who stood beside him, peering into the night.
“The light of the Silver Flame will illuminate our path,” the young knight said. Deothen saw the light from his staff glittering in the knight’s eyes.
“Good lad,” Deothen said. He clapped Brendis on his armored shoulder. “You have studied hard and well. Now it is time to put your lessons to the test. Can you feel them out there?”
Brendis concentrated and reached out with his soul. “No,” he shook his head finally.
Deothen nodded. “Sometimes, lad, it’s not a matter of how hard you look.” A scream sounded from the direction of the kitchen behind them, and a shout followed from the backyard. “But where! With me!”
Deothen felt his joints creak as he sprinted into the house. Sometimes it seemed as if they were louder than the jangling of his armor. Brendis followed him into the house, where they bumped into Levritt and Pradak poking their noses out of the dining room. Both young men had their swords at the ready, although neither looked particularly ready to use them.
“Go to the kitchen to support Mardak and Priscinta,” Deothen said to Levritt and his charge. “Brendis and I will lend Gweir our blades out back.”
Deothen and Brendis charged out the rear of the manor.
There they saw Gweir facing off against five of the shambling soldiers from Karrnath. He charged into them, his blade blazing, and the dead things let loose a crackling laugh.
The two knights rushed to join the third, all three swords burning bright in the night, casting strange, silver-edged shadows as their steel lengths danced with those held by long-dead hands. Within moments, the creatures lay in several smoldering piles at the knights’ feet.
Before Deothen could congratulate the younger knights on a battle well fought, another scream pierced the night.
“That came from inside,” said Gweir.
“Priscinta,” Deothen said as he ran back into the house. The high, throaty wail could belong to no one else. The elder knight wound his way through the home into the kitchen, with Gweir and Brendis clanging after him. They found Levritt and Pradak pounding on the kitchen door.
“It’s locked,” Levritt said as Deothen shouldered him aside. Fearful of what he might find inside, Deothen nodded to Gweir and Brendis, and all three lowered their armored shoulders and smashed into the door at once.
The knights stumbled over the threshold, past the splintered latch, and into the dimly lit room. In the red glow of the fire blazing in the fireplace against the far wall, they saw Priscinta brandishing a meat cleaver and a wooden spoon at a tall, pale man dressed in a flowing black cloak. Mardak’s body lay at her feet, gouts of blood spurting from a gash in his neck.
The pale intruder whirled about as the knights burst in, turning his blazing red eyes on them and baring his face full of savage teeth. “Enter, Knights of the Silver Flame,” he said. “I will extinguish your flaming brands with your own blood!”
Priscinta swung her cleaver down and chopped the head off of her wooden spoon, leaving only the pointed remnant of the handle in her hand. She stabbed at the vampire with it as the knights fanned out in the room, but her blow landed wide of its mark, puncturing the creature’s shoulder instead of its heart.
“You’ll pay for that, witch!” the vampire said through its bared fangs as it spun around and backhanded Priscinta away. She crumpled in a heap near the fireplace.
Pradak let loose with a feral howl and dashed past Deothen to hurl himself at the vampire. The creature smirked at the young man’s effort and flung wide its arms to enfold Pradak in his unforgiving embrace.
The vampire cackled as he pulled back Pradak’s head to expose the young man’s unblemished neck. The walls of the kitchen echoed with Priscinta’s horrified scream, a sound so terrible it chilled Deothen’s bones. Before the creature could strike, though, the knight stepped forward and held his burning sword high before him. Its flames licked the ceiling.
“Abomination!” Deothen said to the vampire in a voice that rolled through the room like thunder. “You are an affront to the purity of the Silver Flame, and for that you shall be consumed!”
As Deothen spoke, the vampire froze in place, and his eyes wide in fear. Like a moth to the flame, he seemed unable to wrest his eyes away from the light of the flaming sword before him. He dropped Pradak and unleashed a final, horrifying cry, like metal scraping dry bone. A moment later, it turned into a column of dust that cascaded to the kitchen’s cold stone floor.
Deothen grabbed Pradak by the shoulder and guided him into Levritt’s grasp. “Escort him back to the dining room,” the eldest knight said, “and this time keep him there!”
The young knight jumped to obey.
Deothen glanced around and listened for the sound of further threats. The only sounds were the breathing of the knights and Priscinta whimpering softly near the fire. “We seem to have repulsed the first assault,” he said to Brendis and Gweir. “Resume your posts for the moment and prepare for battle. We will take this fight to them soon.”
As the others left, Deothen knelt down to examine Mardak’s body. The vampire dust coated the mayor’s head and shoulders, the blood and ashen remains mixing into a thick, black paste where they commingled. The knight brushed the mixture aside with his mailed hand.
“I’m impressed that you were able to defend yourself so well,” Deothen remarked to Priscinta as he examined the wound that had laid Mardak low.
“I was once a knight of the Sovereign Host,” said Priscinta through her tears. Her voice was raw with sorrow and, from what Deothen could tell, rage. “I am no stranger to such creatures.”
“It is too bad you couldn’t say the same of your husband.” The knight ran his finger along the length of the wound. The blow had nearly taken off Mardak’s head. The cut was clean. The vampire had carried no weapon. Such creatures usually preferred to kill their prey with their bare hands.
“No,” said Priscinta as she struggled to her knees, the cleaver still clutched in her hand. “He was a creature I knew far too well.”
Deothen nodded and then ducked to the side at the last moment. He knew that Priscinta had seen him examining the wound, that he knew of her guilt. He’d hoped she’d simply confess to him, but she apparently wasn’t going to make it that easy.
The cleaver in Priscinta’s hand glanced off the steel spaulder protecting Deothen’
s right shoulder. Still kneeling next to Mardak’s body, he whipped about and planted the point of his sword against the woman’s chest. She froze.
As the knight stood, his blade’s point still on Priscinta, he gazed at the woman. She had barely come out of the kitchen since the knights had arrived to break bread with Mardak. Her right eye was puffy and bruised from when Mardak had struck her earlier in the day. Her lip was broken and bleeding, but that wound was fresh. Fear warred with righteous anger in her eyes.
“It… it was the vampire,” Priscinta said, stumbling over her words.
Deothen didn’t need the favors of his god to know the words were lies. This had been a good woman, he could tell, and such deceptions did not come naturally to her. He winced to hear her continue on.
“It bent Mardak’s mind to its will,” Priscinta said. “He attacked me.” She fought back a dry sob. Madness danced in her eyes. “I had to defend myself.”
Deothen pulled back his blade but held it at the ready. Priscinta dropped the cleaver and sagged. She looked a great deal older than she had that afternoon.
“Did you fear these dusty remains might have done the same to me?” Deothen whispered.
Priscinta shrugged and looked away. A single tear ran down her bruised and beaten face. “We live in a strange and unknowable world. Who can say what is possible?” Her gaze fell on her husband’s corpse. Deothen could see that Mardak’s eyes were frozen wide in surprise, although they were buried blind under a patina of the vampire’s dust.
“Please don’t tell my son,” Priscinta said as she fell back on her knees, tears streaming down her face. She pleaded madly with the knight. “Isn’t it bad enough he’s lost his father?”
Deothen felt ill.
Chapter
13
A single light burned in the front window of Kandler’s home as he approached it. No sounds came from within.
[Lost Mark 01] - Marked for Death Page 7