Part 4

Gorthek looked around the Great Hall, his tall, flame-orange hair swaying with the movement. The thanes of Khazad Vulkhrund were assembled around the massive throne that dominated the Hall. The ten thanes were clad in thick leather jerkins, trousers and boots. Each held their weapons, polished steel great axes and hammers, at their waists.

On the central throne sat a thickset Dwarf. He wore a large, horned helm that shone in the flickering torchlight, and a huge, rune-engraved hammer rested across his knees. His long, grey-brown beard was bound with white cord.

He spoke. "What have you to tell us, Slayer Gorthek?"

Gorthek set his jaw. "I bring you word of the Uzkular, King Thorlek. A powerful Vampire lord wanders the mountains to the north."

Growls sounded from the Thanes. The King leaned forward in his throne. "You have seen this Vampire?"

Gorthek nodded. "I fought him myself; a year ago. It is my shame that I was unable to defeat him." His fingers traced the chipped blade of his axe unconsciously.

The King raised an eyebrow. "How is it that you are still alive if you could not kill the Vampire?"

"He left me for dead. He gave me his word," Gorthek spat, "that he would return to that same spot in one year, and we would have a reckoning." He ran a hand across the ragged scar that the Vampire had given him. It ran from the base of his neck to his armpit, a barely-avoided deathblow.

Thorlek looked hard at Gorthek. The King gripped his axe. "And you wish us to interfere with this?"

Gorthek snarled at the implicit insult. "Never! I will fight the Zangunaz-Rik alone, as honour demands! I come to warn you of this threat, and you insult me?"

King Thorlek held his hands out, his axe forgotten. The tails of his beard swung as he shook his head. "Then what would you have me do?"

"If I should fall at the hands of the Vampire, I would have you know of its threat. If I cannot kill him, and find my death on that day, I would rather go to the Ancestors with the knowledge that the Vampire will not live on."

Thorlek looked over his Thanes. "You have the assurance of Khazad Vulkhrund, Gorthek. The throng shall be mustered. How long is it until the Vampire returns?"

"Thirty days from now," said Gorthek. "Up in the high passes of the third mountain. You would do well to warn your rangers."

The King smiled grimly. "We shall be ready. Will you take shelter in our halls until then?"

Gorthek nodded respectfully. "Aye, King Thorlek, I will. I thank you for the offer."

"Good," said the King, "now go and get some ale down you, Slayer. You look in dire need of refreshment, and I think there's some Bugmans left, if the beardlings haven't guzzled it all already. I have to talk with my Thanes."

Gorthek grinned as he bowed. "I'll be sure to check. Such quality ale shouldn't be wasted on beardlings." He walked from the Great Hall, his axe swinging in its shoulder clasp. The heavy stone double doors of the Hall groaned shut behind him.

Part 5

Varakash woke slowly, his unnatural senses stifled with the rotting stench of death emanating from the shelter. The sharp-edged steel plate of his armour, notched and tarnished over many years use, dug into his skin where he lay.

The armour was basic, a simple steel cuirass and leg guards. Its surface was pitted and gouged from years of use, discoloured from exposure to the harsh elements. His sword was barely worthy of the name, a simple length of unadorned, heavy steel, with a bent square cross-guard. His hair, once lustrous and thick, was thin and bedraggled, neglected in his centuries of wandering.

Varakash stood. Soon, he would be returned to his full glory. Soon, he would be reunited once more with his Queen. Soon…

Soon, he would face the Slayer.

Varakash did not know what to do about the Dwarf, and his indecision troubled him. He had been free to do as he wished for centuries, millennia, but now there were bigger concerns.

He closed his eyes slowly as he heard Reinholdt begin to wake. The others would not awaken for another hour. They were not powerful enough to function when the sun was still hovering above the horizon.

"Lord?" Reinholdt's voice floated through the darkness.

Varakash opened his eyes and looked at Reinholdt. He blinked, once, slowly. His voice was silken when he spoke, yet with a harshness beneath the surface; silk sliding over sandpaper. "Are you prepared to appear before the Queen of the Night, Reinholdt?"

Reinholdt, for the first time in three thousand long years, faltered. The ancient Vampire opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. When he did speak, finally, his voice was low and measured. "I am as ready as I will ever be, Lord."

"Good," said Varakash. "The Queen does not suffer overconfident fools easily, especially males."

Reinholdt studied Varakash for a long moment. "You know the Queen, Lord?"

"Yes. I knew Neferatem," said Varakash. He closed his eyes. "That was before the Great Burning, when the City of Vampires died. She was my Queen, and I was her guard, serving her in both life and death. Those were glorious times, Reinholdt. Not the petty squabbling nations of today. No, in Lahmia, there was a strong government, led by a strong Queen. The people were safe from their enemies, and we all thought ourselves invulnerable, great lords of the night, preying on the weak and the scum."

He stood. "Lahmia was the greatest city the world has ever seen, Reinholdt. And it lives on."

Reinholdt stood up next to him. He nodded in understanding, his brown eyes holding an unnatural gleam. "My Lord, when do you wish to arrive at the Silver Pinnacle?"

Varakash glanced at his ancient thrall. "Tomorrow."

"My Lord?" said Reinholdt. "I do not know if the other can cover a hundred miles in one night."

"Then we leave them," Varakash said simply. "I will arrive at the gates of the Silver Pinnacle by daybreak, with or without my Accursed Lords. They will follow. I will assure that."

Reinholdt nodded in acceptance. "Very well. When do we set out?"

Varakash gestured at the wall of corpses surrounding them, and drew on his necromantic power. The corpses writhed, contorting in unnatural positions. Slowly, gaps appeared in the wall, faint light filtering through. The gaps widened, forming a narrow arch.

Varakash walked through the arch. He turned in the semi-darkness outside. "Now."

He walked slowly down the trail, and Reinholdt followed him. The two began a steady, ground-eating jog, moving faster than a sprinting horse. They would keep up the speed all through the night. The Queen of the Night demanded nothing less.

Part 6

Gustav Elesvarn fumbled his tankard back down to the thick wooden table. It was his fifth tonight, and he was feeling pleasantly drunk. The Lusty Maid had the best ale in Morkand. Granted, it was the only ale in Morkand, but it was still good.

He turned to his drinking companion, a thin man with deep bags under his weary-looking eyes. "So," he said, "tell me some more about these 'undead' you seem to know so much about."

The man looked up at Gustav. He said in a heavy voice, "They dwell everywhere, wherever there are dead buried. Sylvania is home to the greatest of them. The Sylvanian lords are no true lords, but are predators of the night."

Gustav snorted. "Shut up mate, you're talking crap." He took another deep swallow of ale. "Everyone knows that the dead walking is rubbish. Sylvania's abandoned anyways, or near enough."

The man shook his head. "I'm telling you, it's true. Sylvania is a province of death, where the dead roam the land, ruled over by Vampiric overlords."

"Bollocks," said Gustav. "There's nothing there."

"Nothing living," the man said ominously.

Gustav waved a hand in front of the man's face. "Nah. You talk rubbish. Barmaid!" he shouted. "Another ale!"

The man looked like he was about to leave, but before he could rise, his eyes snapped wide open and all his limbs flew out straight. His mouth was frozen in a tight-lipped scream, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the table.

Gustav leaned over to him. "What's up mate? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The man began to speak, words falling haltingly from his mouth, as though dragged out by some unseen force. "The night strides the land once more, the dragon and the queen together! Blood and fire will rend the world! All the world will be covered in darkness once more, and there will be no land to stop it-" He cut off abruptly, a strangled sound coming from his throat. His face turned red, then purple, and he fell from his chair. Thin trickles of blood ran from the corners of his eyes.

Gustav stared at the dead man in mute horror. A stray thought – Witch! – ran through his head, drifting through the indecision that held him immobile. Shocked silence descended on the tavern.

And then the heavy door was thrown open, crashing against the wall. A man stumbled inside, wearing torn clothes that whipped around in the harsh winds entering from outside. He scanned the crowd wildly, and shouted, "Attack! We're under attack! Get out before you all die!"

He turned to leave, but a rusted axe chopped down from outside the door and bit deep into the side of his neck. He collapsed with a grunting cry, and the wielder of the axe was dragged into view.

Gustav cried out in horror as he beheld the thing. It was six feet tall, with grey-green skin that sloughed off its emaciated form. Its face was slack, and a flap of skin hung from the side of its skull down over one eye. It groaned.

Everyone moved at once. Tables were overturned as people frantically tried to escape, climbing over the bar and heading for the back exit. Gustav glanced at the bar. He'd never make it.

He looked around for something, anything, he could get past the zombie with. His eyes fell on a broken chair leg that lay on the floor, and he dived for it, barely avoiding being trampled in the mob. He grabbed the leg tightly, gritted his teeth, and ran at the zombie.

It lurched at him, and he swung the leg as hard as he could for its head. The heavy wooden leg hit home with a sickening wet crunch, and caved in the side of the zombie's skull. It staggered into the doorframe, and Gustav kicked it in the knee. The floorboards creaked as it fell onto them.

But it was not dead. Gustav watched, horrified, as the zombie tried to claw its way to its feet again. Without thinking, he smashed the chair leg into its head again, and again, wincing each time at the horrible wet smack of the impact. He kept hitting until the zombie's head was just a mess on the floor.

Gustav looked round, adrenaline pounding in his veins. A half-dozen people were taking cover behind overturned tables and benches. Exultation coursed through him, and he nonchalantly scooped up the zombie's fallen axe. He brandished it at the hiding citizens.

"Oh, let me do all the work, why don't you? Come on," he said, motioning towards the door, "we've got to get out of here."

Still revelling in his victory, Gustav ran through the door and into the street. It was after midnight, and the wind was cold and biting, cutting through his coat. He took off down a narrow street at a run, looking over his shoulder to see the ragged group from the tavern following him, clutching at chair legs and odd bits of wood. One had a pair of broken bottles, and another a large carving knife. All of them looked scared out of their wits. He laughed wildly and came out of the narrow street onto the main road.

And that was when he saw them.

A huge horde of zombies shambled down the street towards Gustav. What must have been well over a hundred animated corpses stumbled and lurched down the cobbled road. Behind them, a black shadow rode slowly on a massive steed.

All the adrenaline left Gustav, replaced instantly by freezing fear. All he knew was that he didn't want to be within a thousand miles of that black figure. He ran.

His footfalls pounded on the cobbles, a frenetic beat that cut sharply over the low moans and grunts of the zombies behind him. Flames licked at the buildings around him, but he paid them no attention, concentrating on his steps.

He turned a corner at the end of the street, and ran straight into the black figure. He bounced off, and fell to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat with sheer terror. His eyes slowly trailed up the immobile figure in front of him.

Its steed was gone, and it stood in front of him, well over six feet tall, clad in an ancient, ornate suit of black-lacquered armour. Plates overlapped in a complex design, and an emblem was worked into the chest, a rearing dragon, wings outstretched, outlined in blood red. The figure held a large greatsword in one hand, the blade shining in the flickering firelight.

Gustav looked up at its face. It was a man, or at least had the features of one. Dark eyes glared from a narrow face, and his thin-lipped mouth was set in a faintly amused smile. He spoke. "Hello, mortal. I am Walach. I am your death."

It struck out with the sword, faster than Gustav's eyes could follow, and severed his head from his shoulder in a blur of steel.