It rains in sheets, in torrential waves, as if the sea has accidentally found itself in the sky and is trying to get back down. Water runs in muddy rivers through the streets of the old ghost town of Tottery. The cottages and farms are dilapidated, disused. Walls have fallen down, the roofs that have not given way to the elements completely are leaking. An old steel plow groans under the atmospheric violence. The pool surrounding its dulled blades is the colour of rust.

In the window of one of the few houses that still has a roof, there is a man, staring out at the edge of the village. He looks young, just into the years of manhood, but his eyes betray his true age. They are cold and weary eyes, eyes that have seen too much rain, for far too long. Inside the house there is angry grumbling, but he ignores it. He watches, and listens. The raindrops explode on the windowsill and disperse into a fine mist, but although his skin itches, he holds his post.

"Why so nervous, sir?" a young, female voice within asks.

"Because, my dear Inge, if they have half a brain between them, they will attack us now." This seems to stem the flood of cursing and swearing that has been pouring from the assembled warriors within, some twenty men, packed closely together under the occasionally dripping roof. "They know we are here, caught out, stranded by the storm."

"Anders!" The voice from the rickety attic is the kind that demands attention. It belongs to a sinewy figure with long dark hair, dirty and spiked like wet animal fur, and features sharp as razors.

"What?" the man at the window asks.

"They have half a brain between them."

"How many?"

The vampire's eyes track to the side, as though he is remembering something. Lightning lights up his face momentarily, and immediately afterwards, a loud crack of thunder shakes the little house to its foundations.

"All of them," Horsa answers when the noise dies down.

Anders turns away from the window brusquely. "The village square, backs together, and don't let anyone break formation!" he roars over the thunderous sound of the rain, and turns up the hood on his cloak made of oiled leather, designed to protect against the worst of the rain. He leads his men out, shouting to the other sagging buildings that house his troops. "Backs together! Backs together and stay together!"

But disaster strikes before they have even completed their out-turned circle. A muscular figure with short white hair turns into the main road and comes running at them at full pelt, the hordes of raging, dripping mortal dogs at his heels. He was the one on lookout, he spotted them and warned his brother, whose thoughts he shares. He could have outrun them, but he slips in the slick, streaming mud of the main village road and falls.

"Hengest!" His name pierces the dark, wet air as the tide of frenzied mortal men washes over him, beating him down, stabbing him with their primitive weapons. Horsa charges them, careless of danger, careless of strategy.

"Horsa! No!" Anders wants to dash after him, but is grabbed by the man next to him.

"Not you too," he says, and Anders is forced to watch, powerless, as Horsa takes on the mortal army by himself, cutting a swath to where his brother is being trampled into the mud. A deafening clap of thunder drowns out the noise as the two sides meet in blood. The human army surrounds the wide circle of vampires and hack away at them with the abandonment of rabid wolves.

The vampires defend themselves, cutting down their opponents when they can. All they have to do is hold position. They are vastly outnumbered, but they cannot fall  not as long as they have their companions to pick them back up. They struggle against their instincts, and hold each other back when necessary. The circle ripples, but remains intact. As long as there is enough blood flowing, the rain and the wounds they receive are little more than an annoyance.

And the blood flows like water.

The ground around the vampire's circle is littered with bodies. Inside the circle are but two vampires who are not getting up soon: one has lost an arm, the other is impaled by a vicious, barbed spear that has lodged itself into his heart. They are the only casualties, the rest is still standing, and fighting with unabated mettle. It is not long now before the eagerly awaited cry rings out in the village square.

"Bak! Bak!" The humans retreat, slowly, still fighting savagely.

"Get them!" Anders roars as they start to run, and the vampires pursue them through the streets, hacking them down whenever they can, following them out into the fields, to the Aht, the shallow river that borders the human territory. The humans plunge into the water and wade to the other side. Soon, they are gone. The forest swallows them: a roiling mass of dark green leaves and branches, shaken by the storm and battered by the torrential downpour.

Anders stands at the edge of the ford, staring into the boiling wood, softly cursing the stars and their ill-advised meddling. Fate has been cruel to him today.

Hengest and Horsa are gone.