~29~ Return of the Night Stalker

Merlin finished changing the sheets of the royal bed, and with them, completed the last of his chores. Hands on hips, he scanned the cushions with satisfaction. He could relax for the rest of the day, if he wished. He could take Rapier out for a ride, or simply lounge in the castle grounds.

He glanced out the window, which was wide open to let in the evening breeze, not that he remembered opening it. It was nice all the same. There were a few hours left before the sun lay to rest, so he decided what he'll do – ride. A nice ride with no destination, no plan, no troubles.

He sighed at the thought. It sounded so beautiful, so blissful, if only it could happen. It would happen, if Vraal hadn't chosen that day to come.

The warlock tried to turn around at the hungry, anticipative hiss that sounded just behind him, but he didn't have time to utter any magic when the vampyre lunged.

Vraal's bared teeth were buried in his throat before the pair had even hit the floor. It hurt, like a score of bees had all chosen to sting Merlin's neck at the same time. The warlock fought silently to no avail; he would have had better luck pushing a mountain onto its side. The vampyre squeezed his upper arms in an iron grasp and pinned his shoulders to the ground. His knee was on the warlock's hip, preventing him from kicking and squirming. Every time Merlin frantically reached for magic, it slipped away like a rebellious eel, leaving him helpless. Caught in the gaze of the snake, just like before.

There was a peculiar sensation in his neck where blood was pulled the wrong way, where Vraal ravenously drained him of life. At first, Merlin panicked, but as nearly a minute passed, he finally stopped struggling, and a soothing tranquillity commandeered his body. His hands, once clawing at Vraal's arms to fight him off, fell limply to the floor. His throat stopped trying to scream for help and his chest relaxed in submission. As though simply falling asleep, his eyes closed, and he yielded to his fate.

Vraal continued to feed, savouring every moment of his long-sought triumph. Cold tingles spread out through Merlin's limbs, leaving him shivering and numb. But he couldn't do anything about it. Not anymore. It was too late for him. Even now, his vision darkened and his heartbeat faded into the netherworld.

Spontaneously, inexplicably, Vraal withdrew, and Merlin was just barely able to see that all of his teeth were over an inch long, needle-like and dripping blood. The assassin's features were no longer human, but more elongated, with pointed ears and scaly skin.

The vampyre shuddered in delight and licked his lips with a dark tongue, smiling demonically at his prey. Merlin still had the strength to groan in disgust as Vraal leaned down and casually lapped up the blood oozing from the punctures in his throat. It felt like a fish tail being pulled across his flesh.

It didn't take the ears of a vampyre to hear the door open and the person step into the room.

"Merlin? You in here?"

Hidden from the door's view by the bed, all Merlin was able to do was give a gurgling cough before Vraal smothered him with a clawed hand. He grunted as the assassin squeezed his jaw cruelly and pushed down, as though trying to shove his head through the floor.

"...Merlin?"

The warlock continued to struggle soundlessly even as Vraal crushed his mouth in warning, too weak to move his arms or legs.

Here, clotpole! Merlin raged inwardly. Here!

The door creaked closed, and the servant moaned pitifully in despair. He was unheard. Arthur was gone.

Vraal hissed, but of relief, victory, or anguished rage, Merlin couldn't tell. He only saw the vampyre lunge to bite him again. It hurt even more than before. As though sating a furious revenge, the assassin sank his needle teeth deeper and deeper into Merlin's neck, hissing like a cat but relishing the gush of hot blood in his gullet.

This time, the warlock was able to scream in agony.

Arthur rushed around the bed.


"No!"

Vraal shrieked as a sword ripped down his back, spattering black blood everywhere. He released the limp servant and stood, clawing uselessly at his spine like he was trying to seal the wound.

Arthur thrust the blade at the vampyre's belly, but Vraal's inhuman reflexes saved him despite his injury. He dodged to the left, spitting angrily at the king and becoming more and more demonic-looking with every moment.

Before Arthur could turn his sword to swing again, Vraal launched forward and knocked the Pendragon off-balance. Then, it was to his utmost surprise when the vampyre grabbed him by the front collar and threw him as though he were not but a bale of hay. Pain exploded across his spine as he crashed onto the dark oak table with all its contents, sliding along it before falling to the floor, stunned.

Vraal came after him, but before he could reach the king, Arthur log-rolled beneath the table and emerged from the other side in a crouch, adrenaline lending him strength. With a gleeful growl, Vraal leaped with both feet onto the table. Arthur's blade flashed, slicing at the creature with the rage of thunderstorms, but he was too slow; the vampyre had already jumped high enough to reach the rafters above. There, he pulled himself up, Arthur watching his every move.

"Guards!" he roared. "Guards!"

Where are they, damn them?

Vraal chose that moment to 'accidentally' knock two red-clothed forms from the rafters. As they fell limply to the floor, Arthur refused to gasp when he realized that they were two twisted corpses of the Royal Guard. Grotesque black and purple bruises splotched their throats. Vraal had snapped their necks.

So they wouldn't bleed and give him away.

Arthur kept his eyes locked on the creature balancing as gracefully as a cat on the wooden beams above. The guttural chuckle sent shivers down the king's spine and up again. His palms sweated, but he dared not release the hilt of his sword for even a second to dry them.

"I'm never sure of how to make of you humans," Vraal snickered, leering down at Arthur, canines pricking his lower lip. His face was human again. The king simply glared, refusing to negotiate. "Sometimes brave and stupid, but mostly cowardly and smart. You should have heard your little friend here. Crying and whimpering like a squabbling brat—"

"Shut up!"

The vampyre's eyebrow twitched. "Ooh, hit a nerve, did I?" His cloak of alien material bellowing around him, Vraal dropped from the rafters and landed smoothly on his feet, looking as though he had merely descended a single step. From his side, he silently drew an elongated S-shaped sword. The blade was faintly blue, with a black hilt and sapphire pommel. Pretty, but could he use it?

Arthur had no doubt that he could. Probably better than he by tenfold.

Taking a deep breath, the king surrendered himself to the calm void he always entered when facing such opponents. He banished all emotion and focused solely on his sword and the vampyre. Because of this, he was able to see the slight shift in Vraal's stance as he went to make the first move, and so lifted his own weapon in anticipation for the strike. Blue and silver blades clashed together in a shower of sparks before dancing away and flying at each other again and again.

Arthur's arm rang with every blow, forcing him to fall back step by step, but he managed to avoid being struck, much to the vampyre's amused surprise. Vraal was as graceful as a dancer, more deadly than a viper. Had he been human, his extravagant flourishes and redundant twists would have slowed him down and gotten him killed; as it was, he had the speed and strength to complete such flamboyant manoeuvres and still put the king on the retreat.

As he took yet another step back, Arthur's ankle brushed against the leg of something, either a table or chair he wasn't sure. He ducked beneath a horizontal swing of the S-shaped blade, reaching behind himself as he did so and grasping something cold and hard. Without pausing to think, he lunged forward and smashed the small vase in Vraal's face. The glass shattered in an explosion of water and flowers, cutting his hand, not to mention the vampyre's cheeks, but Vraal seemed not to be fazed, only annoyed.

Dodging around the next blow, the creature waited a split second for Arthur's blade to reach the opportune place before swinging his own sword, bringing it down on the king's. Arthur realized his mistake too late as his weapon's edge thudded into the side table, now useless because he would have no time to tug it out before being impaled—

He didn't even have the time to release it.

Vraal's free hand chopped down on the king's arm, and his wrist shattered. He opened his mouth to scream but was silenced as the vampyre back-handed him. Arthur's lips sliced open on his teeth, blood spurting from his nose, and he was sent staggering back in blind pain. Before he could recover, Vraal spun, leg coming up in a roundabout kick that landed in the middle of Arthur's chest.

He wasn't sure if the kick or smashing into the wardrobe behind him hurt more. His skull rang as it banged against the wood, and he was having trouble breathing.

Though his vision crossed, he was able to see Vraal approach, his sword raised for a killing stab, and therefore throw himself to the side. The vampyre hissed with frustration as his sword thrust into the wardrobe and stayed there. He tugged on the hilt to free it, but Arthur was already wedging his uninjured hand behind the cabinet and pulling for all he was worth. A deep ache put a strain on his left pectoral, but he laboured on, and in seconds the wardrobe groaned in distress as it toppled forward.

Vraal snarled and jumped clear, having no choice but to abandon his sword. Arthur's victory was short-lived, however, and he had to dodge away from the vampyre's slashing claws before they gutted him like a hare.

There was a chain mace on a table to his left and behind him, Arthur knew, hastily left after the day's training session, and he rushed back towards it, not turning away from Vraal. But his foe was faster, and before he could say ouch, he was grappled and thrown again as easily as a toy. A flurry of papers exploded about the king as he crashed onto the desk near the windows. They fluttered gently to the ground around him, but he just stayed there, too stunned, too pained, to move.

His eyes opened a slit to see Vraal approaching on catlike feet, unnatural in their silence.

"So weak, so pathetic," the vampyre leered, kneeling beside the king. Arthur choked as Vraal latched a clammy, unyielding hand around his throat and started to drag him upright. His left hand brushed against something lean and cold, and his fist automatically curled around it before thrusting it into Vraal's wrist. It was a letter opener. The vampyre shrieked and released him, grasping at the sharp metal rod in his arm that gushed dark blood.

Knees weak, Arthur slumped back to the floor, cradling his shattered wrist to his chest, teeth gritted against the pain. In the three seconds of rest he had, he sat there, propped up on his uninjured arm as he saw Merlin lying motionless near the bed, not four strides away. There was no time to even see if he was breathing before Vraal's fist came down, hard, near his temple. Arthur had to fight to retain consciousness. He feebly attempted to parry the next blow with his left hand, but he mostly succeeded in hitting himself as his strength was insufficient to stop the punch from coming.

Before Vraal could swing again, Arthur threw his weight forward, straight into the vampyre, knocking him off-balance. He scrambled to his feet and rushed for the mace again, lying on a table with his armour. If he could get that, he had a chance.

Vraal hissed in warning just as Arthur's fist closed about the handle and started to swing around. The spiked ball whistled over the ducking vampyre's head, but there was no time for a second attempt before Vraal grappled his wrist and other arm in steel grips. He pushed the king back against the wall, pinning him despite his frantic squirming. Arthur kicked Vraal in the knee, and it would have seriously maimed him had he been human. The vampyre just took it as he would a kick from a child.

There they remained. Arthur glowered into the gleeful, invigorated gaze of his enemy, teeth gritted as he gasped for breath. Vraal simply smiled, demonic fangs stained red with blood.

Merlin's blood, the king thought with despair, but his anger seemed only to amuse the vampyre vaguely, as though Arthur had said something mildly funny.

Vraal chuckled. "Oh, I expected so much more from you," he said with a light shake of his head. "You can defeat an ancient daemon yet you cannot defeat me. How tragic."

Arthur chose that moment to twist his left arm and spring his wrist free, but Vraal merely bunched his fist and drove it into the king's stomach, faster than a striking cobra. Arthur fell to his knees, gasping like a landed fish, his broken, swelling wrist cradled to his belly. Vraal kicked the dropped mace away contemptuously and knelt by the king's side as he battled for air.

"You fight," the vampyre whispered like he would to a sleeping child, "but you will lose. You will always lose. You cannot defeat that which is superior. And I am superior, Arthur Pendragon. You, you are nothing, nothing to me."

"Go to...hell," Arthur gasped, teeth bared. He refused to yield. He shuddered as Vraal snickered again.

"Oh, I won't. I never will. Know why? Because I'm immortal. You know how we remain immortal, yes?" Vraal's fists bunched around Arthur's collar and dragged him upright. He was grinning, all his teeth flashing dangerously. "We take in that which makes us stronger."

Arthur watched in horror as the fangs unsheathed themselves, then as Vraal's jaws opened wide—

"Bastard!"

Vraal threw himself sideways, dragging the king with him and crashing to the floor. Excalibur chopped through the space they no longer occupied, flashing brilliantly in the western sun.

"No, Gwenevere!" Arthur tried to grapple with the vampyre before he made to jump up and lunge for Gwen, but was too slow. Vraal slashed his claws at the queen, and she let loose a small cry. Yet she did not flee. She held Excalibur before her like a shield, knowing how to but was terrified to do so.

"Pretty thing," Vraal praised mockingly, of the sword or of her Arthur wasn't sure. Nor, frankly, did he care.

Despite the pain, he was up and charging the monster from behind before he could attack Gwen again, but Vraal heard him coming. The vampyre spun around just in time to dig his claws into Arthur's arms, his momentum still knocking them both to the floor. Vraal rolled over him and pinned him down on his back.

"I've had enough of you!" the creature snarled, squeezing the king's shoulder with one hand and grasping his hair in the other. He pulled to the sides, baring Arthur's neck.

The king's scream was cut off as terror took hold, terror in the form of a ravenous monster. He could not explain the experience, for his mind could not comprehend it. He vaguely remembered a intolerable pain in his throat where Vraal tore at his flesh greedily, a hot sensation that could only be blood oozing everywhere—down his neck, along his shoulder, across his chest—all pooling on the floor...

Then, the flash of a golden blade.

Vraal shrieked and fell away, squirming, a hand clasping the smoking wound on his shoulder. Instinct would not let Arthur rest and he sat up, hand to his throat, to watch the vampyre retreat backwards on his rear end. He was hissing defensively and glowering at Excalibur, which remained tight in Gwenevere's hands.

"Don't you touch him again!" the queen commanded, her voice deep and intimidating. A fire blazed in her eyes.

Vraal sneered. "You don't have the nerve to kill me, wench."

As lame as the retort sounded, Arthur boiled. This was the creature who had stolen into the castle, attacked Merlin, and kidnapped Gwen's very soul. This was the creature who later held Merlin hostage and nearly killed him in more ways than one. This was the creature who slaughtered innocent people in Riverstone, just for fun.

This was the creature who had endangered the unborn heir to the throne of Camelot.

Arthur stood, balled fists shaking with mounting rage. He glared poisoned daggers when the vampyre straightened as well, and was secretly pleased to see Vraal's eyebrow jerk. The king opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed the smoke steaming gently from the monster's wound. What the hell?

It was Excalibur in Gwen's hands, a sword he had recently found out could do wonders. It had repelled a daemon when nothing else could touch it. Now it was affecting Vraal in a way that was perplexing...but moralizing.

Vraal lunged for Gwenevere, but just as quickly retreated when the queen slashed the legendary blade at him. He was wary, now; he knew he was at the disadvantage at last. He muttered foul language, keeping Gwen and Excalibur at bay, indigo eyes glancing at the sword cautiously. His bloodied canines flashed as he growled.

He knows, Arthur thought. He knows he can't win this now. One more touch of the sword and it could cripple him fatally. He can barely move his arm!

Suddenly, the vampyre tensed, and was flying for the king less than a heartbeat later. "DIE!"

Arthur ducked. Gwen swung. Vraal howled and fell away, pulling himself off of Excalibur's point. He retreated, clutching at a second smouldering wound in his chest.

"This isn't over!" he snarled. "You will not live to see the next moon!" He whirled around and ran for the open window.

"Gwenevere!" Arthur took Excalibur in his left hand, turned, and threw. Time seemed to slow as the blade spun, end over end, out into the open after the leaping vampyre.

There was a single shout of pain and alarm, and then nothing. Both the king and the queen were left staring out into sky.

It took several moments for Arthur's mind to catch up with what his eyes had claimed to see. Breathing heavily, he staggered to the window, having to hike over the ruined desk to do so, and looked down into the courtyard below. A small crowd was gathering around a black-cloaked figure lying face-down on the flagstones, a spatter of dark blood all around it. The golden gleam of Excalibur stuck out of its back like a lonely sentinel.

Vraal was dead.

"A master who boasts...is a master prone to failure," Arthur gasped. He sagged, pulling his head back before the people below could glance up and get a good look at him. All at once, he realized how much pain he was in, and grunted as Gwen rushed over and embraced him, weeping softly.

"It's all right," he whispered, holding her with his uninjured arm. "It's over."

The only sounds to be heard was Arthur's laboured, agonized breathing, Gwen's gentle sobs, and Merlin's choking gurgles.

The king pulled away from his wife and staggered over to the bed. He fell to his knees by the ashen servant in a daze, ignoring his own pain. Merlin was grasping feebly at the torn gash in his neck, an alarming amount of blood seeping from between his fingers. Gently but firmly removing the servant's palm, Arthur felt nausea rise at the sight of the wound. He clasped his own hand over the bite to staunch the flow, already yelling, "Gwenevere, get Gaius! Hurry!"


Sorry. I just had to have this one last cliffie. *Hides*

Seems like Excalibur was a real hero in this one. Yaaay x3