Echoes of the Lost Voice

by Jon Sorensen

What if the Dragon Crisis never happened? Years after its bloody civil war, the province of Skyrim, ruled by a headstrong High Queen and riddled with widespread lawlesness, is a far cry from harmony. And now a new threat is on the rise—but from where, exactly, is anybody's guess.

36. The Assault

The Assault

Where are you going, Quintus?

It was a damned good question, no matter who was asking. In the freezing night darkness wrapped itself around their augmented convoy like a particularly uncomforting blanket. The wind against the jagged mountain faces surrounding them howled like a pack of starved wolves. Or was it wolves? Probably it was both. At any rate, these were no circumstances for sensible folks to be out and about, but then he was far from the presence of sensible folks. After all, as bad as the situation already was, they were headlong en route to something far worse.

What the hell are you doing here, you foolish old bastard?

Self-derision was not among the Chief Inspector's common traits, but he had to admit that this was one of those rare occasions when it might have actually been warranted. His damned ambition! Were honor and recognition truly of higher value than his life was?

You know the answer to that question too well to even ask it, my friend.

His immediate companions weren't showing much more enthusiasm. Meric by his side had reverted to a taciturn scowl, his strong jaw muscles clenched and his brow creased into a frown. Bull was . . . well, bull-like. And Sergeant Kayd looked the least happy of all. The Nord-Redguard mutt was all but growling at the Vigilants of Stendarr that had joined their ranks, throwing disgruntled glares at the battlemages, particularly their Dunmer leader, Azarseth.

Quintus sniffed softly. This man did not like anyone challenging his authority. A queer attitude for someone so meager in rank, but then the common people were most often endowed with small minds to accompany their small chances of improving their circumstances in life. At times he nearly pitied them.

In addition to Quintus' original entourage of five Imperial soldiers on horseback plus Kayd, Bull, and Meric and the detachment of a half-dozen Battlemages on horseback, the Vigilants had lent them an infantry battalion of ten heads. Their armor resembled the Imperial attire, only in dun colors and with the insignia of the Vigilants—which looked to Quintus like a tipped-over goblet oozing tar—emblazoned on shoulder patches.

"Alright now, listen up," bellowed Azarseth then. He rode a horse as black as the night, his long shadowy robes flowing about him like darkness about to claim back its own. "As we approach the Fellglow Keep, the chance of us running into undesirables will grow. So every man on guard!"

Kayd gave a sour sniff, scowling, and muttered, "Undesirables, he says."

Quintus shook his head. Not that he was happy about the situation, either. But at least he had good reasons other than petty jealousy.

He tried his best to suffocate the image of his political enemies that suddenly threatened to arise.

"What is this place, anyway?" Meric asked the battlemage. Azarseth shot the Sergeant a contemptuous look, as if inconvenienced to find that the blowfly in the room could speak. A different man would have been cowed under that scrutiny. But not Sergeant Meric. "I mean, it would be nice to know where we are going, even if we're just going to go get ourselves killed."

Azarseth snorted, and it sounded as though his horse mirrored the gesture. "We are not going to go get ourselves killed," he sneered. "So long as your men do what they're told and don't get in our way, I can assure you this will barely be harder than swatting down some flies."

"That still didn't answer my question."

The Dunmer rolled his crimson eyes.

"Nope. That doesn't do it, either."

Azarseth sighed. "You folks truly are as children at times." He glanced at his fellows for confirmation, then sighed again. "Very well. The Fellglow Keep is a ruin of a fort in the east of Whiterun Hold. Previously occupied by a host of renegade mages, it is now believed to be squatted by an even more nefarious a group. Of necromancers, Daedra worshipers, and possibly worse. According to our latest intelligence, a most crucial target in our war. Now." He eyed the Imperials along the long bridge of his nose. "Is that enough information for your needs, or do you wish me to recite the close history of the place in question from, say, the last hundred years? Because I could."

Now it was Quintus' turn to roll his eyes.

"No," said Meric, ignoring the Dunmer's sarcasm, "that will be sufficient, thank you. It is simply good to know what we're up against." He was content ignoring Kayd's snorting, but Azarseth's smirk caused him to narrow his eyes. "I said something amusing?"

"Amusing," Azarseth finally replied. "Pathetic. Same thing, really."

Meric's teeth flashed. "Look here, you arrog—"

"What my man here is trying to say," Quintus interjected, "is that we will be more than happy to stay out of your way. The Empire has granted the Vigilants of Stendarr a full mandate to conduct their own operations, and as representatives of the Emperor . . ." He addressed his pointed words straight at his sergeant ". . . we are committed to step aside where our direct interference is not needed. My host is simply to provide backup where required, while their primary objective . . ." Again, directly at Meric ". . . is to keep their chief of command—in this case, me—safe in order for him to conduct his own primary objectives. That is, his research into the single most insolent crime in the Empire's recent history. So." He looked at the sergeant and battlemage in turn. "Are we in full understanding?"

Still smirking, his eye on the solemn Meric, the Dunmer battlemage replied with a nod.

"Good. And Meric?"

"Aye," the man muttered, after a moment of grim-faced glowering at Azarseth.

"Splendid," Quintus said. "That's all I ask. Now, how far are we from our target? I'm sure that I am not the only one eager to get this affair over with."

"It's not far. With no further delay, shouldn't be longer than half an hour."

"Very good." What, exactly, is good about it? "Thank you."

Azarseth sniffed and without further word drove his spurs into his horse's flanks and rode ahead, taking point.

Quintus settled back and saw Kayd grinning. Against his better judgement, he glared at the man. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

"You misread me," the man replied. "I'm in awe!"

"Awe? Of what?" He just barely managed not to embellish that with: you insufferable oaf.

"Why, the Imperial majesty and eminence we humble servants have the privilege of being in the presence of, of course. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm positively shivering!"

Well, at least he wasn't sulking any longer. For better or for worse.

Quintus shared the soldier but a wary glance, yet even without looking could feel Meric bristling beside him.

Kayd took notice of this too and switched his attention to the other man. "Yes? You look like you want me to help you with something."

"If I were you," Meric grated after a short silence, "I'd be more mindful about shooting my mouth like that."

"Truly?" Kayd drawled with one lazy, lifted eyebrow. He grinned. "Wanna be me now? A mighty big pair o' boots you're coveting there, sonny boy!"

"I care nothing for your taunts!" Meric said. "All I'm giving you is a fair warning. You've been testing your limits for quite long enough as it is."

Kayd turned to Bull, nudging him. "Hear that, Bull? The Imperial backscratcher has laid down the law. I'm sure you are as intimidated as I?"

Bull grunted.

Kayd smirked at Meric. "Bull is shaking in his boots," he said. "As, of course, am I."

Quintus could practically hear the creaking of Meric's jawbone as the man regarded the grinning Kayd with eyes of smoldering steel. Yet he said nothing more. And, luckily, the other sergeant kept his silence as well, leaning back with hands clasped behind his head and closing his eyes, a contained little smile about his lips.

Another welcome stretch of silence. Quintus kept resisting the urge to close his eyes. Some sleep would have been most welcome, but then he knew it would take him a while to reorient himself after a nap. He needed his wits about him, and no matter how exhausted he was starting to feel, could not risk sacrificing any acuity of mind. This moment, this thing that was about to happen, whatever it was, was too important. Too much hinged upon it. Far too long had he been waiting for this. At least the cold weather kept him from relaxing overmuch. He did his best to focus on the uninspiring scenery rushing by so as to pass the time, to keep from drifting off. The pace was sure slower now with the inclusion of infantry, no matter how relatively fast the gray-clad men marched.

First Cristus Farseer and now Azarseth had been assuring them that it was not a long way to this Fellglow Keep. Still, to the Chief Inspector's way of looking at it, they could not get there soon enough.

Just as he was about to voice a complaint about their lazy pace—or perhaps about the cold, he wasn't actually entirely sure about it, the main thing was he was feeling the urge to grumble—Azarseth raised a sharp hand, and the convoy came to grinding halt. Cursing, he had to grip the edge of his seat to not fly off. Kayd, on his part, was moved to mutter a snarled speculation about the Dunmer's improper relationship with the female who'd birthed him.

The battlemage, indifferent to, and quite unaware of, the resentment sent his way, waved his up-thrust hand toward a craggy incline to their left. "We continue that way." The hand fell. "Needless to say we will have to leave the transportation behind." He slanted Quintus a look a touch too sardonic for the Chief Inspector's tastes. "I take it that you will not find the prospect of using your feet overtly offensive." He did not pause for a reply before snapping the reins. "Proceed with caution, everyone. We draw near."

With Kayd's incendiary murmuring and the creaks and groans of the carriage, they clambered off. Suddenly Quintus, though certainly not satisfied with the situation, found himself unable to get behind the Sergeant's cantankerous sentiment. If anything, a strange numbness stole upon him, an ambiguous chill settling in the pit of his stomach. It was as though the cold surrounding them had finally seeped through his skin and was deadening him from the inside out.

The effect of alcohol, or lack thereof, he thought, and for the umpteenth time, swore to henceforth avoid sobriety at all costs.

Well, the Emperor's gratitude shall procure you all the brandy in the world, once this is done. Not to speak of—

Scowling, he smacked his dry mouth and tried not to let his mind linger on it. He would need to focus on the present moment, no matter its dissatisfactory quality. Getting ahead of himself could only offer a distraction. The unbeneficial kind.

Forming a line, Azarseth riding foremost with the other battlemages right behind him followed by the small infantry regiment, the original Imperial convoy bringing up the rear, they started up the rise. Quintus, flanked by sergeants Kayd and Meric—the pair shooting disgruntled glares at each other like schoolboys competing for the attention of the same lass—stared up at the back of the cinderblock-like cranium of the hulking Bull ahead, while trying his best to both ignore the two cock-boys' game of loggerheads, and to keep from losing his footing on the rimy, rutted ground. Frigid wind seemed to batter them from all sides at once, and the blankets of snow whipping diagonally down from the slate sky had turned icy wet, soon soaking everything they touched.

Yet it wasn't Mother Nature who worse bore on him.

"Sir," said Meric on his right, in that urgent way of his that so set Quintus' teeth on edge. "It would indeed be wise to take caution and hold our own troop back from the center of the action for as long as we can. These Vigilant folks are sure to know what they're doing. And it will be paramount that you stay safe, sir, lest we jeopardize our chief objectives."

Kayd, predictably, snorted. "Just listen to Captain Courageous here! Say, does everyone have their personal spade so we can each dig a hole to hide in once the bad men start crawling out of the woodwork?"

Meric jaw muscles bunched, still addressing Quintus, "While the run of the mill grunt might be eager to throw their lives away in vain, the Imperial edict decrees that—"

Another snort. "You might as well shove your precious imperial edict right up your dainty little—"

"I shall soon shove my boot up yours," Meric snarled, "so deep as to dislodge that shit for peabrain of yours! I imagine that will only improve on your intelligence."

Where on the other hand Quintus found it refreshing to have the Sergeant break free of his usual squeaky-clean comportment, what with the attitude he'd shown first with Azarseth and now with Kayd, he was simultaneously starting to worry that the pressure was starting to bear unfavorably on the young man's psyche, and that he was in effect slowly cracking. It would have been most decidedly not a good time for such an occurrence.

Kayd shot the younger officer a wolfish grin. "I'd like to see you try."

"Well, just keep running your mouth and—"

"Enough!" Quintus barked. "Won't you two cut it out! Never in my career have I—" He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. "Never mind," he said more composedly. "Meric, I see the merit of your concern. I can assure you it was not my intention to jump right into the fray, and I trust the Imperial Company to ensure my safety in any situation. Kayd,—"

"Aye, boss."

Quintus glared at the man, then sighed again. "You have my order to restrain from any . . . rash actions. Your primary objective is to guard my person, not to engage in any heroics. Do I make myself clear?"

Kayd made a sloppy salute. "Perfectly, sir. The Imperial babysitter squad, at your disposal!"

"Sergeant!"

"I'm only making light of it, sir. Push comes to shove, I will be your man. You can count on that."

Another sigh. "Aye, of course. What else did I imagine?"

"Sir?"

Quintus started, as at first he thought the skies themselves had uttered the rumbled word. Then it realized it had been from Bull, lumbering ahead of him. The man actually talked!" "Yes, uh, Bull. What is it?"

The huge soldier spoke over his shoulder. "Kayd may talk the talk, sir, but come trouble, I ain't ever seen a man do meaner walking. Between the two of us, he and I will make sure no harm be done to you. And them's no empty words. Sir." Then he faced forward once more, silent.

"Yes," Quintus muttered, once recovered from the shock of hearing the man speak. "I appreciate that, Bull. You lads have my full faith, I assure you."

"You have no idea," said Kayd, "how it warms our cockles to hear those words come out of your mouth. Sir."

Quintus glanced at the man from underneath an eyebrow but made no response.

"Sir," Meric started.

Only to be met with Quintus' sharply raised hand. "No more sirs, Meric. I've heard quite enough from you."

The young sergeant snapped his mouth shut, looking struck. Then, facing forward, he looked downright sullen.

Well, let him be bloody sullen then; I'm not his damned nanny for gods' sake! What kind of a military are we running here anyway? Maybe, Akatosh forbid, Kayd has a point after all . . .

Quintus was just about to return to his newest favorite activity, brooding, when something flashed in his peripheral vision, about the central area of their marching company. He reflexively looked over, only to see one of the infantrymen stoop to the ground, clutching his front.

"What . . ."

A crash, then, like a window smashing to pieces. The convoy had come to a dazed halt, heads whirling about, eyes scanning the surrounding sleet-choked darkness. Shouts of alarm.

Then another crash. And another. Another soldier falling, on his face in the ice and muck.

Quintus started, agape. Forgot how to react. Not reacting. Blinking. "Huh?"

"Missiles!" someone screamed. "Take cover, it's an ambush!"

Around him, the soldiers, as if suddenly remembering their training, exploded into motion. Kayd and Bull formed a small barrier in front of him, while Sergeant Meric pulled him down to a crouch. At the moment, there were no natural cover to get behind. The Imperial soldiers scampered off their horses and readied their weapons and shields; and though their steeds seemed to also understand exactly what was expected of them, to Quintus they seemed edgier than normal. As though there was something in the air they took particular exception to. This, to him was hardly a heartening sign.

More objects flashing across the air, finding targets. More fallen soldiers, among them one of the Imperials. Within just few heartbeats, and already too many by far for comfort. Everyone yelling. As though trying to remind each other, or themselves, that this was precisely the reason they'd come. Reassuring themselves, perhaps.

Were they not supposed to have been marching towards a nearly deserted target?

Quintus got a visual, then. Of the objects coursing through the air. Not arrows, but spears of ice.

Magic, then. Yet no sign of those from whom it originated. He squinted ahead, in the direction of the Battlemage detachment. As, he noted, did virtually everyone else. Gauging their reaction as for what to expect, how to respond.

Dismounted, the battlemages had formed a semicircle, an adjoined azure-and-silver wall of magical ward enshrouding them. All of them, except for Azarseth. Their leader still sat upon his night-black beast of a horse, his eye cast, it seemed, up the hill towards which they had been going.

Then, suddenly, the Dunmer spurred his horse and charged up. The other mages shared looks, confounded.

A nasty foreboding started to build within the Chief Inspector. "What is the fool . . . oh. No . . ."

Cresting the rise, Azarseth turned his horse round, gazing down the convoy with eyes flaming in the darkness. He raised his fist high in the air. And he cried out. The foreboding within Quintus blossomed in full, a terrible icy flower of feral horror. With the shock and the noise, he could not register what the battlemage was saying. He did not need to.

And then Azarseth spun once more, riding down the hill and out of sight.

But the emptiness ensuing did not last for long. Soon the crest was awash with shadows. Lots of them. They halted for a while, amassing, looming forms of imminent threat.

Then they let loose a keening, terrifying scream.

And they charged.

The battlemages were the ones to take the first hit, their collective arcane shield deflecting the bulk of the magical assault spearheading the enemy's attack. But the dark wave of the enemy surging down was too wide for them to cut off, spilling over from both sides of them, to shower over the infantrymen, who on the other hand seemed prepared enough to counter the offence.

Metal met metal in a screeching, hammering, clamor; voices raised in bilateral aggression, the surging and churning discordant harmony of violence.

There were more of the enemy, Quintus soon understood, far more than anticipated. For those now engaging the infantry, more bled past and charged at the small Imperial squad.

They were outnumbered. Heavily outnumbered.

And soon, Quintus knew, the assailants would reach to him.

The Imperial soldiers, the maneuverings of which he had observed with some pride earlier that day, took the charging, surmounting enemy with precision and confidence he knew to expect from them, but he knew not how much hope he could put in them. Likely only very little. After all, there was simply something to be said for strength in numbers, or lack thereof. Up ahead, the Vigilant infantry fought with laudable fervor, but they were rapidly being swept with more and more of foes. Further up, the battlemage squad was engulfed in a storm of magic; in addition to spells of fire and ice and lighting cast about, the combatants were surrounded by daedric conjurations. Fire Atronachs, their supple enflamed forms coursing the air and flinging fireballs at each other, a towering Frost Atronach battering away at some poor fool.

It seemed as though the enemy had brought some battlemages of their own. From the eyes glowing like ambers in the dark, it seemed at least some of them were vampires.

Bloody vampires!

Only then, being shocked into place with this sudden conflagration raging all around, by the sight of the abominable creatures suddenly sprung forth from the depths of Oblivion, and with the deeply disquieting presence of the undead, did it occur to take in what it was exactly that they were up against. The aggressors were for the most part garbed in dark, robes casing armor of varying degree, and sure enough some had eyes glowing with unholy lambent light, but most seemed to be human. In addition to the mages up the hill, mostly it seemed they fought with sword and shield like one might expect from a soldier or a highwayman.

This was then the daedric cult that Cristus Farseer had talked about? The one occupying this Fellglow Keep? If so, it seemed as though they had been well aware something was coming. They had, it now seemed, played Farseer as the fool that he surely was. The Vigilants had let themselves be deceived. And, which became increasingly appalling apparent to him by the second, so had Quintus.

This was one oversight that looked to soon prove his very last.

Sergeant Meric, as though himself only now recovering from the sudden shock, grabbed Quintus's arm urgently. "We must fall back!"

Kayd unsheathed his blade with a hiss. "To the Void we will!"

Bull already had his weapon out. He had started to walk slowly but steadily to meet the enemy still trickling down the hill. Kayd, releasing a gut-wrenching scream full of feral bloodlust, showed less restraint and stormed headlong into the fray. Just one more demon to spill blood tonight.

"Sir?" Meric said.

Quintus slowly turned to stare numbly at the young officer. The man's face was drained of all color, a rather obvious upsurge of chagrin stealing any semblance of valor that might have once been there. Quintus could scarcely blame him. Fear made him look younger. Vulnerable.

He looked beautiful.

"Sir, if we go now, we might be able to get back to the carriage and retreat. This was an awful mistake, and I can only blame myself. How could we . . . eh, I have been so foolish. To trust those—"

Quintus surprised himself by reaching out and placing a finger over the rambling man's mouth. "Don't," he said softly.

Meric looked even more stunned now.

What, are you going to kiss him next?

Quintus blinked at the Sergeant's lovely frightened countenance for a heartbeat longer, then switched to observe the doomed battle.

This is it. I am going to die.

Wasn't he supposed to feel at least a little bit more exigent about it? Indeed, he felt surprisingly little. It was as though he was observing the whole affair from somewhere far away. As though he did not have any part of this, nothing at stake. Reduced to but an impartial bystander, a mere observer. An overseer.

An inspector.

Bull and Kayd made a good fight of it, that much had to be handed to them. Even compared with the rest of their original entourage, they handled their respective weapons with clear exactness and skill. Very different styles, the two of them. Bull was like an immovable wall of flesh, yet with an incredibly quick pair of hands, swinging that heavy broadsword so lightly it seemed to defy the laws of physics, felling foes like a farmer cutting the day's swathe into his rye field. Kayd on the other hand was like some Khajiit warrior, felinely nimble and quick, always moving and not where the enemy's blades fell. And with each evaded blow, it seemed, he dealt one of his own, deathly accurate, bringing down a screaming adversary with each precise jab and blow. Truly, together, watching them work was awe-inspiring. Profoundly frightening, had he not known they were on his side. They were damned near indomitable, the pair.

And yet, even that was not enough.

Quintus flinched, nearly feeling the jab in his own gut, as he watched a large bastard with a pair of glowing eyes find a path past Bull's defenses. The demon's short sword thrusted at the giant Imperial's midsection, punching through the leather armor and sinking deep. Bull, growling, rammed a ham-sized fist into the vampire's skull so that Quintus felt the reverberation of the crack. The sword still handing off his side, Bull then sought to deflect the next attack, but even he couldn't hope to remain unaffected by a sword thrust into his belly. Strategically weakened and surrounded by fiends, the man soon became a target of more jabbing steel. And this was the tipping point.

Quintus closed his eyes in frustration. And once he opened them again, Bull was done. On his knees, still seeking to kill his accosters—even still catching one, cutting the man's legs from underneath him—he was stabbed from all sides. Stabbed and stabbed again, until he was down on the ground. And stabbed still. As his last act of defiance, he had somehow managed to catch one more man by the throat, and was throttling him even as he died.

Kayd screamed, "Bull!" pain plain in his voice, yet did not for a split second stop hacking down opponents. In anything, his movements picked up fervor, rage turning him into even deadlier of a killing-machine. Yet there was little hope for him. Even after everything.

Even after everything.

Eyes ahead, old man!

As if by magical pull, Quintus' attention was drawn some hundred paces uphill. As it did, everything seemed to at once grow quiet in his mind, if not outside of it as well. A very tall and broad figure strode slowly but purposefully down the slope, the fiends stepping aside and affording it a wide berth.

Just then, the numbness inside the Chief Inspector shattered. Steadily and inexorably, the dread he had thought gone grew back like a lizard's tail, shortly lashing out wildly and turning his insides over and over.

It wasn't even just the physical threat, undeniable though it might have been, of this shadowy figure treading through the darkness, the foul gleam of that pair of eyes promising untold devastation. There was something else, a profoundly disquieting presence that seemed to have attached itself to the figure. Pure malice, wrath entwined with a lust to inflict harm, defying all comparison.

Frightened, yes, that he was; profoundly so. Yet, Quintus realized right then, that wasn't all. Scared out of his wits . . . and madly aroused.

The enemies assailing Kayd had suddenly dispersed, and the Sergeant stood with his legs set wide apart, heaving thick white billows of heavy breath, his attention now fixed on the nearing figure. As the figure, now apparent as a vampiric Redguard with close cropped salt-and-pepper hair and goatee to match, drew closer, hesitation shone in Kayd's deportment. Yet, that only lasted for a moment. Clearly decided on the appropriate response, Sergeant Kayd hoisted his weapon high in the air, screamed out a most vehement curse, and then stormed to meet this new formidable foe.

The vampire stopped in his tracks at the smaller man's charge, hefted the warhammer that it carried in one hand, pulled it back as though preparing for a wide countering swing. And, far too soon, it seemed, he then swung the hammer forward.

At let it loose.

Taken by total surprise, Kayd tried to readjust his course to avoid the unexpected flying object. It was too late, and so, by sheer reflex, he thrusted his sword arm forward to catch the blow. And so it did, but at a steep price. The Sergeant let out a shattered cry as the heavy weapon struck his arm, knocking his own blade clean off. The impact spun him toward his left and forced him on his knees. The vampire soon closed the gap between them, reached out with both hands and grabbed Kayd by the shoulders. With evident ease, it lifted the man in the air and tossed him straight back like a doll.

The bewildered, howling Kayd summersaulted over the brute's head and described a clear arc across the air, to be caught by the waiting hands of a band of vampires lurking behind their leader. As soon as they got him, each grabbing a limb, they started to convey him up the hill at a run.

Quintus watched in mute horror as the creatures toted the kicking and cursing Kayd away. There are great many uses for people. The Sergeant's own words echoing in his head.

The leader, looking back observing the retreat of its minions, then swung its large head back round. Locked those awful eyes with Quintus'. And it smiled, a horrid rictus grin. Turning the Chief Inspector's insides into liquid.

The vampire continued its unhurried striding. Quintus found that he could not look away from those eyes, as though fasted to them by the sheer power of terror.

Then Meric stepped up, putting some five feet between him and his Charge, sword and shied readied, and cried, "Back!"

The vampire did not even seem to notice him.

This did not dishearten the young sergeant. With a bellow, he sprang forward, going at the vampire with a powerful sideways swing.

Without shedding the attacking man a single glance, the vampire simply raised its unprotected left arm in the way of the sword's trajectory. There was a resounding clang, and Meric's sword arm jolted off to the side with a cry of surprise and evident pain from him. Nothing, however, from the vampire, who wasn't even slowed down by all this. Those loose-sitting long robes must have covered a layer of armor.

But Meric soon recovered. He bolted after the giant, going for a jab right into its exposed flank. The demon swung around preternaturally fast, reached out the selfsame arm and caught the blade of Meric's sword into its gloved hand.

Meric, eyes wide, was stopped short. He gaped dumbfounded at the vampire, even as it pulled violently to wrench the weapon from his hand. Eyes now fixed on the sergeant, the vampire tossed the blade high in the air. Gaping, Meric's eyes followed it spinning over and over above them. The vampire, never removing its eyes from his foe, then reached up as the sword came down, caught it by the hilt, and before the man could even react, plunged it clean through the leather armor protecting Sergeant Meric's gut.

The young man's bulging eyes stared at disbelief the hilt protruding out of his middle. He opened his mouth, but only a feeble, pained squeak escaped, followed then by a gush of blood. His knees buckled from underneath him even as the vampire turned round once more to bear on Quintus.

As the vampire closed in, the Chief Inspector found himself staring no longer at its eyes, but rather at the arm. Where Meric's sword had lacerated the cloth of the robes and the leather of the glove, there was a glimmer of metal.

The vampire, coming to a halt, glanced down at where Quintus' eyes were fastened, and smiled its dreadful, mirthless smile. Then it grabbed the tattered sleeve of the left arm with its right hand, and tore.

Quintus felt his eyes growing wider contemporaneously with his shrinking innards as he stared at the bared arm. No, there was no armor underneath. Nothing of the sort. Instead, the arm itself, the entire arm, was made of metal. Brazen-hued and gleaming dully, with a large spool-like joint at the elbow, it was a sight that had no place being where it was, protruding off the elbow of this tall abomination. And yet, by some atrocious freak of nature, it somehow seemed to belong there. Belong with this horrid creature.

The vampire took one more stride to reach Quintus, thrusted out the metal arm and grabbed the old man by the throat. And lifted.

Airways suddenly barred, Quintus gurgled as his feet were lifted easy off the ground. The demon pulled him right close, stuck its flaming eyes next to his.

And he could not look away. Despite, and because of, what he saw in them.

Afterwards, it would be absolutely impossible for him to describe what happened next, and indeed despite his best efforts, he could not even correctly bring his mind back to it. It was as if the memory was too slippery to get a hold of, or like the aspect of the sun, too blazing bright for eyes to linger on.

What he could feel, though, is that those eyes seemed to contain something, something not simply inherent to this unholy apparition's own soul. And whatever it was, that something seemed to somehow . . . transfer into Quintus. He recoiled, in horror and in something even worse; but there was no more he could do to resist as could a goblet shy away from wine poured into it. At the moment, he was as a vessel. A vessel to this . . . blinding terror.

Yes, that was the word. Pure terror.

And wrath.

Glee.

Power!

The demon's smile was an open wound, a dug-out grave bleeding out resurgent horrors. The creature spoke then, a graveled sound like the heavy lid of a sarcophagus wrested loose. "Do you like . . . what you see . . .," it said, ". . . Quin-tussss?"

The Chief Inspector's mouth was open but only a tortured wheeze came out.

And then he was flying backwards, his stomach turning inside out. He was just about to cry out when the ground rushed up to plummet him, driving the air out of his lungs. His entire body in sudden explosive pain, his vision was flooded with bright flashing stars.

When he came to just enough to open his eyes once more, the battle was over. The vampire, instead of following after him to finish what it had started, had turned about and was returning up the hill, just as unhurriedly as it had arrived. The rest of the fiends scurrying in less good form. All about, the hill was riddled with corpses: legionary, Vigilant, horse, and near the crest, battlemages in a disordered heap. It was dead silent, miscounting the caws and cries of carrion birds that had already started to assemble for their late-night feast.

A tattered sight, almost a sob, forced itself through Quintus, lying on the cold ground propped up by his elbows. Then the shakes started. A heave of the stomach, and he retched convulsively; partly on the ground, but mostly on himself. Feebly, he then crawled to the roadside, leaning against a boulder, breathing heavily and brokenly. Partly afraid someone would still come and finish him off, or worse. Partly worried the carrion birds would take him for dead—or at least dead enough—and make him the appetizer. Partly not even caring.

For certain, there was no trace of arousal left.

Then, as part of him waited for death to descend upon him any minute, the image of the battlemage, Azarseth, returned to him. Turning around at the top of the hill, gazing upon his supposed comrades. At that moment, Quintus had known. They had been foolish to trust one such like him. Such darkness about the fellow. It should have been obvious. Even in his sorry state, he shivered at the memory of that cry. Only now, after the fact, was he able to register some of it. Or did he remember it wrong? Had there been something about, "the queen of the dead"?

Indeed there had, that much was clear. And yet something else. Wrath something?

Exhausted, Quintus pushed the matter aside, and closed his eyes. There was particular coldness about his crotch, he realized. Wetness. He'd pissed himself.

It did not matter now.

Upon shutting his eyes, then, there was flash in his mind, almost too quick to register, of the most brutal imagery. Spilling blood, breaking bone, tearing of flesh. Fire and lighting. Unremitting screams accompanying it all, and underneath, the most wicked sort of elation. There was truth to the vision, he was sure, but knew not what it was; had no idea of what it could have meant. Did not want to.

He was so tired.

Am I . . . ?

Then darkness claimed him.