by Adam Thomas
Shonasir exchanged the history for the third book, a much newer one by the looks of the binding. “Ah, this is more like it. Highest Stakes: A Memoir and Manual About My Life as a Vampire Hunter by General Grem Axehaft.”
“Axehaft?” Emric repeated.
“You know him?” Jeral asked.
“No, but I’ve heard of him.”
“So all dwarves don’t know each other?”
Emric gave Jeral an icy look. “He’s a hero of the Three Sisters War. And he lives right here in Torniel-by-the-Sea. I heard the bartender mention him last night. We could go see him!”
“Beats researching,” Alurel said as she slid the cathedral’s tract back to Shonasir.
“Nothing beats researching,” the elf shot back.
Emric said, “It’s research in interview form. If he’s still a general, he probably lives at the S.J.F. garrison in the Pinnacle. Let’s go.”
nine
Axehaft
They made their way back to the Pinnacle, the northerly end of the city that stood beneath the shadow of the many-towered Castle Esris. The Sea of Torn glittered in the bright sunlight away to the west. The companions checked on their horses, who looked to have even better accommodations than they had, and then found the local headquarters of the Sularin Joint Force.
Emric told the receptionist that he was a wandering bard collecting stories from the war and would be ever so grateful to hear the general’s account from the general himself. This was near enough to the truth, as Emric was quite interested in the history of his people. The receptionist smiled and nodded as Emric made his plea.
“You’ve come to the right place,” he said. “General Axehaft loves any opportunity to talk about his exploits, especially to a fellow dwarf. Let me see if he’s in.”
Five minutes later, they heard the general before seeing him.
“...Sitting there with his eyes glazing over reading troop readiness reports. Ever since Lullaby, we need to be better prepared. Just because we’re as far from Ornak as we can get doesn’t mean –”
Grem Axehaft burst into the hall, his impeccable uniform half-covered by a long gray-white beard that ended in a point below his broad chest. His light gray skin was tinged purple with irritation, presumably at whatever officer was ignoring readiness reports. But the purple faded quickly, and his face broke into a wide grin upon seeing Emric.
“Aha, another bard from the old country come to collect my yarns. What’s your name, Son?”
“Emric, Son of Grenda Silvertongue and Barden Hammerheft of Anvilcairn.”
He grabbed Emric by the shoulders. “Let me look at you. A bit scrawny, like my brother Malric. Must be why you went into music.”
Despite the rather insulting assessment, nothing in Grem’s tone spoke of insult. He was all smiles as he led the party to a cafe under the shadow of Castle Esris. Once they had drinks and pastries, the old general rapped on the table like a judge banging his gavel.
“So, you want to know about the war. ‘Twas a terrible business, simply terrible.” The words rolled off his tongue like an actor speaking a monologue. “My brothers, Tirost and Malric, and I, were known as the Sons of Ryor, after our father, the great –”
“Pardon me, General Axehaft, sir,” Emric said. “While I am most earnestly interested in your war stories and would love to record them, we are actually here on another matter, one that is time sensitive.”
“Are you now? And what might that be?”
“We found your book in the Eldasin Library, about vampire hunting...” Emric’s voice trailed off, as Grem’s smile vanished.
“And you’re wanting to go after the fiends, are you?”
“We only need to kill one,” Jeral said, but the general kept his focus on Emric.
“Vampires are dangerous foes. Beyond dangerous, they are the definition of lethal. And ruddy hard to kill, they are. If you’re chasing your honor name, Emric, this is not a good way to earn it.”
“I’m not, I swear,” Emric said.
“Honor names are about relationships, lad, not deeds.”
“We need to collect the vampire’s mist for a spell to renew a friend’s life.” Emric tried to hold Grem’s stare, but he couldn’t. To break the tension, he asked, “How...how did you receive your honor name?”
The smile crept back onto Grem’s stony face. He unslung a snapped axe’s haft from his back and showed it to the table. “Tirost and I were defending Galdor Stonefist, heir to the throne of Anvilcairn, and leader of the dwarven forces. The orcs had us surrounded, and I had just cleaved through the wooden haft of an orc’s great axe.” He hefted the stick and ran his finger along the angled point. “In the heat of battle I had to throw my own axe at a crossbowman who had sunk a shaft into the king-who-was-to-be. Without my own weapon at hand, I wielded the axe haft for the rest of the fight.” A shadow of well-worn grief passed over Grem’s features. “Galdor Stonefist bestowed the honor name Axehaft upon me before he died of his wounds following the battle.”
Silence fell upon the table as they took in the dwarf’s tragic story. At length, Rhys said, “I’m confused. It sounds like a deed to me.”
“Ah, Sonny, you don’t understand dwarves. Galdor died despite our efforts. The deed would have been keeping him alive. But he gave my brother and me our honor names because we stood by him in a truly hopeless situation. Duty, honor, fealty, friendship – these mattered more than our strength of arm.”
Emric brightened at the last attribute Grem listed. “If we slay a vampire, it will be because of friendship. To be honest, I’m terrified of confronting a vampire, but my fear is not as strong as my devotion to this team.”
Grem banged his fist on the table again, startling the cafe’s other patrons. “Now that’s the spirit I want to hear. What do you need to know?”
“Everything,” Alurel said.
“I spent a century hunting vampires before returning to the military as a general in the S.J.F. My last successful vampire hunt brought me to a Joint Force recruiting office, which was a front for a vampire coven. The recruiter was a vampire who killed some recruits and turned others. That was how I discovered there are two types of vampires. The seasoned ones blend into society so perfectly that you would have to know exactly what you are looking for in order to unmask one. Some are reclusive, others desire power and prestige. But each and every one of them is seductive.
“Now, don’t mistake my meaning. Sometimes this seduction is romantic, but most often it manifests in simple charms that are impossible to break until they bite you. If you are charmed by a vampire, you will think the vampire is your best friend in the world, and you would do anything for the undead menace.”
Grem drained his spiced wine and signaled for a second cup. “The seasoned vampire is ageless and patient, and they can glamour their appearance. The kind I met in the Joint Force case were the opposite. Feral and insatiable, these were newly made vampires. Stronger and harder to kill than their sires. The only advantage I had was that the new vampire was single minded, easy to predict. The history books call this stage of vampirism sharirana, but I had never encountered it before then.”
Shonasir said, “Sharirana. It means something like ‘great obsession’ in Elvish, or perhaps ‘lots and lots of blood.’ That’s fairly gross.”
Grem nodded at the elf’s assessment. “The sharirana vampire is concerned about one thing only: feeding. While the seasoned vampire can go weeks, even months, without blood, the new vampire must feed daily or else they will go mad and drink their own blood until they snuff out their own un-life.”
“How do we find one?” Emric asked.
“You need to know what you’re looking for. Unexplained disappearances. Someone never seen during the daylight hours. Someone who always seems to get their way. Someone wealthy for no particular reason. When I retired from vampire hunting, I had s
ome suspicions about a group called the Kindred Society in Thousand Spires, but I could never make any headway there.”
Emric turned to his companions. “Isn’t that the group Lord Sindar mentioned?”
“It is,” Shonasir said.
“It’s as good a lead as any,” Jeral said. “What about how to kill one?”
Grem slapped his axe haft into his meaty palm. “A stake through the heart will incapacitate a vampire. This old stick has helped me there. They don’t like sunlight, of course, or running water. The trouble is, if you manage to slay a vampire, they just turn to mist and rush away, back to their coffin. And then it’s like the fight never happened.”
“What we need is the mist,” Jeral said.
“Then your job is even harder. You need to kill the creature, collect the mist, and then somehow coax the mist into sunlight or running water to end it for good. Once I tracked a vampire pirate for months before confronting her on her ship. I had the upper hand, and I was trying to force her overboard so I could finish her off in the drink, when she up and slew herself in order to mist away. I couldn’t believe it. Only vampire ever to get away from me was that Captain Redtooth.”
“Redtooth,” Jeral repeated. “Subtle.”
“Like I said: some are subtle and some crave notoriety, and some move from one to the other as they age. But mark my words. The older a vampire, the more dangerous they are, even if the brand new ones are physically stronger. Elder vampires are not to be trifled with, even by the likes of me. There are reports of one in the Dasost Forest, a vampire a thousand years old or more. I don’t mind telling you, I wouldn’t go after that one for all the diamonds in the north.”
“Thank you, General. This has been enlightening,” Emric said. “We’ll keep our eyes and ears open for the signs you’ve taught us. Might I visit you again to hear more about the war?”
“I would be delighted,” Grem said. “Just try not to get eaten in the meantime.”
The companions bid farewell to the gregarious old dwarf and went to the stables to retrieve their horses. They rode slowly through the streets of the Cobbles, past the Mouse and Cobbler, past the Phoenix Wing. Emerging from the trade district at the river, they turned west and followed the water to its source at the Sea of Torn. They spent the afternoon aboard the ferry as it crossed the sea, rehearsing what Grem Axehaft had told them and gazing out at the fresh water, which reflected the high blue sky above.
The ferry delivered them to the western shore at a small town called Seamarch. The main street of the town proudly displayed signs declaring itself as the beginning of the Arillon March, which spanned the forests of western Torniel and the vast length of Arillon, and ended at the gates to the Overcity of Anvilcairn. The party purchased rations and supplies for their journey and then pointed their steeds west into the setting sun.
They rode on late into the night before collapsing into bed at a small wayside inn at the center of Fordmarch, the next village along the great East-West road. Knowing the next town along the Arillon March was the distant Crossroads, they took their ease over breakfast in the inn’s common room.
“We’re not going all the way to the Crossroads, are we?” Rhys asked, his mouth full of eggs and sausage.
“No, we’re not going that way at all. We’re turning south here at Fordmarch and following the river,” Alurel said.
“Good. Those burial mounds gave me the creeps. Do you think vampires could live in them?”
“I doubt it,” Emric said. “You heard the general. What would they eat? The Crossroads had, what, two or three hundred residents? I think they’d notice if people started going missing.”
“Maybe they’re all vampires,” Jeral said, putting on his spookiest voice and waving his fingers in Rhys’s direction.
“Very funny,” Rhys said. “But you can’t deny those mounds were eerie.”
They set off again, keeping the River Aril to the left, and soon found themselves under the canopies of an old growth forest. The sunlight filtered green through the year’s new leaves, casting everything in a magical light. Every so often, a shaft of light would penetrate all the way to the forest floor, illuminating the early flowers adorning the thorny bushes. Squirrels and other small animals dashed across last year’s leaves and skittered up the tree trunks when they heard the horses approaching.
Or was it the horses causing them to scatter? The party whipped their heads to the north at the sound of a low, guttural call and a crashing through the underbrush. Shonasir pulled an arrow from their quiver and flung it at the ground. Where it stuck, the storm elemental grew, and the elf jumped inside. The others watched Shonasir soar up into the air.
They returned a minute later and said, “There’s a lizard the size of a boat moving through the forest northeast of us. But it’s on the other side of the river. There might be more of them. Keep your ears and eyes open.”
“Why do you need a horse when you can just fly?” Jeral asked.
“I can only hold the elementals together for a short period of time. Surprise takes less concentration, don’t you, boy?” Shonasir patted Surprise’s flank, and the eager horse leapt forward. “I think he wants to get out of here. Let’s go!”
The forest reached right up to the banks of the river, but the trees were sparser along the shore. The horses picked their way along a deer trail that edged the water. At times, the western bank of the river was flat and generous, giving their mounts ample space to walk unimpeded by roots or bushes. By the end of the day, the Eastern Mountains loomed.
“We’ll camp by the river tonight, and strike out westward tomorrow,” Alurel said. “With luck we can find the moonfoil vines tomorrow night or the night after.”
That night, they slept rough for the first time in more than a week. Jeral grumbled about having gotten used to a bed, but the others ignored him. One by one they dropped off to sleep, all except Shonasir, who sat upright in their elven trance. The soothing susurrus of the swift flowing river, along with the chatter of insects and nocturnal animals, deepened the elf’s trance, and for a brief moment, they found themselves dreaming of Karanathan. The plane of deep magic was the elves’ true home, and it called every elf back to its beauty. Each would return upon death following long, long lives, only to be reborn again into the Material World. But as young elves aged, remembrances of their past lives filtered into their trances, mingling with the dream of Karanathan. Shonasir was approaching the age that such mingling began.
Their hands went to their chest and touched the karest, which rested on its chain against their skin. This was a relic of Karanathan, a physical link to their home plane. What a blessing to wear it. Shonasir opened their eyes and took in the luster of the four other kaerest worn by their companions. And for the first time, a sense of foreboding entered their heart. The kaerest had been hidden in Verinurel’s tomb for thousands of years. What did it mean that they were no longer lost?
two years ago
Rosamund at Play
The bed was normally just for appearances, but it had its uses. Rosamund lay there, her bare legs tangled in the blood red top sheet. She had never understood how she could experience such intense sexual pleasure despite a lack of blood flow to certain regions of her body. But that problem was for scholars of vampiric anatomy to solve, if any such scholar existed. Perish the thought of un-living forever without the healthful benefits of sex.
“So, will you do it?” Rosamund called from the bed to the next room.
“Do what?” Serafina Sindar’s voice drifted back to her, languid, like a high-strung cat who has finally been stroked into a steady purring. But the issue with cats is that they will leap up, spitting mad, and flee at any moment. Rosamund would have to be careful. She could charm Serafina with her vampiric magic, but she was loath to do so. It took concentration to maintain, for one thing, and for another, Rosamund wanted a companion, not a thrall.
> She waited for Serafina to return from the powder room, which she did presently, wearing a silk robe of Rosamund’s that was open at the front, revealing the delicious line of skin running from her neck to her navel. Rosamund sat up in bed and gave Serafina a small “why are you still over there” pout.
Serafina had gone to the vanity to retrieve a brush, which she now ran through her long, dark hair. It had become mussed in their previous activity, and Serafina was the kind of person who could not abide any piece of her personal appearance being out of place. Rosamund watched her brush, and the vampire had to use every last ounce of her willpower not to let her fangs show. She could not allow the pleasure she took in Serafina to include the blood-sucking kind – not if she was right and Serafina was the one.
Next year Rosamund would turn one hundred. Well, in vampire years. She had been thirty-six years old at the time Apranashar sired her, back when she was called Samantha Esris, the name her mother gave her. Thirty-six was a good age to be made a vampire because she was not so youthful that people would wonder why she never seemed to get older, but not too old for people to wonder why certain body parts had yet to succumb to gravity.
Next year she would attain the age that Apranashar had taught her was safe to sire a new vampire. But Rosamund was patient, especially after the debacle on the Islands of Shattered Glass when she was Lorelei Crane. She would wait another year or two beyond one hundred just for good measure – and to be doubly sure Serafina was worthy of forever.
For now Rosamund expected that a good portion of Serafina’s willingness sprang from the thrill of the secret she was keeping from her dotard husband. They slept in separate bedrooms at their small manor in the Emerald Spire, so it was simple for Serafina to sneak out at night to be with Rosamund. She had done so less than a dozen times, but Rosamund was confident Serafina’s midnight jaunts to the Diamond Spire would multiply. Serafina’s response to finding Rosamund’s skin so cold was a desire to warm it up. She had been unsuccessful to date for obvious reasons, but not for lack of trying.