Chapter two: In the Halls of Night

Part 1

The twenty robed guards stood immobile, ten either side of the massive, bone-white doors. The sentinels made no sound, and could have been mistaken for statues of not for the grave-stench enshrouding them.

Varakash stood in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, watching the guards. It was almost dawn. Soon, they would enter the Silver Pinnacle, to be replaced by those who would not be harmed by the sun's harsh glare.

He drew his sword. Reinholdt, crouched beside him, did likewise.

He could simply command the guards to allow him passage, but there was no honour in such an act. Varakash prided himself on his honour, on his unwavering discipline. It was all he had left to him. Everything else had been stripped away over the centuries of purposeless wandering.

Now, though, now he would have a purpose once more.

The doors groaned open, and Varakash's head jerked up. The guards walked through the slowly widening passage, their movements stiff and shambling. Varakash's vampiric eyes caught sight of one of their hands as it fell free of the bulky robes for a second. Grey, decayed skin flaked off the thing, weeping sores and lesions tracing ragged lines across it and disappearing under the heavy folds of its robes.

Varakash moved suddenly, just as the doors clanged fully open. He was among the guards in a second, moving almost too fast for mortal eyes to follow. His sword struck out, snakelike, and a pair of robed figures fell to the floor, headless.

He was a whirlwind of silent death, every touch of his sword bringing swift doom to his foes. His lips drew back, exposing his fangs, and he snarled as he killed. His sword slid effortlessly through a guard's waist, cleaving the thing in two. A chorus of groans rose from the guards as he followed his strike through, stepping smoothly forward and bringing his sword down to bite deep into another guard's shoulder.

It fell silently, and Varakash whipped his sword around. The battered steel met a gleaming halberd mid-strike, stopping the polearm dead. Varakash whirled, ducking low, and his sword cut the legs from the guard.

And then, abruptly, there was only him.

He looked around. The guards lay sprawled on the floor around him, rough, bloodless wounds sliced into them. Limbs lay beside their owners, misshapen hunks of dead flesh, rotting swiftly onto the rock. The stench of old death coiled in the air.

The slaughter had taken barely thirty seconds.

He turned to Rienholdt, who was walking slowly down towards him. "We must go. She will have felt the demise of her minions."

Rienholdt nodded, glancing at the corpses strewn around. "I do not know the protocol of this court, Lord. We are expected to do this?"

"The Queen of the Night respects only strength, Reinholdt. No male is worthy of her unless proves himself so. That is why we shall fight our way to her side, and that is why she will accept us."

"But Lord," began Reinholdt, "did she not call you to her? Why would she not accept you?"

Varakash stepped over a body, and walked through the gates. Reinholdt followed at his side. "She does not know me, and she is aware of this. She has called me, for she knows what I was, but now she will test me, for she does not know what I have become."

Reinholdt bowed his head. "Of course. Forgive my ignorance."

"It is forgiven, my Thrall," said Varakash. "But now, focus on the task at hand. This citadel is guarded by more than just zombies and skeletons. Our kind, the Queen's supplicants, those of the Path of the Lahmian, reside here, and they will undoubtedly endeavour to halt us."

"Their number?" asked Reinholdt, sliding his broadsword silently from its sheath.

Varakash extended his senses outwards, past the rock and gold, past the dead, past the opulence. It was something that had come to him over the years, an ability perhaps gained from the blood he had consumed, an extension of his vampiric abilities. Wherever its origins, it was a part of him now, a part of his curse.

He felt the dark, tortured souls of his kind, moving closer through broad corridors and down winding stairs. His knuckles tightened upon the hilt of his sword. There were too many for him to count.

Where had Neferata found all of them? Had she scoured all the world for her kin? Varakash did not know, but by the Gods, he would find out.

"What is it, Lord?" Reinholdt must have seen his expression.

He said heavily, "The Silver Pinnacle shall be stained crimson with blood."

The pair passed under a magnificent golden archway, twenty metres high and a dozen wide. Beyond the archway stretched a huge chamber, with a score of intricately carved marble columns stretching up to the high, arched ceiling.

A velvet carpet, in the white-bordered dark crimson of ancient Lahmia, ran through the centre of the chamber, a wide strip leading to a pair of immense marble doors. Gilded couches and recliners dotted the chamber, arranged in an elaborate pattern. Silken drapes hung delicately from the grand supporting columns, creating the illusion of rooms within the chamber. Torches dotted the chamber, bathing it in a bright, flickering white-orange light.

When he spoke, Varakash's voce was a whisper. "These halls mirror those of Lahmia, my birthplace. Over four thousand years have passed since I last saw this. Four thousand long years."

He looked at Reinholdt. "Can you imagine what it is like to see the greatest city the world has ever seen reborn once more? I have watched everything I knew crumble to dust, and now it is reborn. You have seen your homeland grow stronger and greater, but to see Lahmia again, after witnessing its downfall… that is reward enough for this journey."

Reinholdt nodded solemnly. "I understand, Lord Morkhur. What is this chamber?"

"This? This is the Great Reception Hall, an exact copy of that which once existed within the Royal Palace of Lahmia. All visitors to the Palace waited in this Hall, so its opulence was unmatched. And that opulence has been retained in this copy." He shook his head. "So like Neferatem to retain her rule even here, in the northern depths of the mountains."

A seductive, feminine voice echoed around the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "As the Queen of Death deserves, Forsaken One."

Reinholdt glanced around warily. Varakash remained immobile, sword held still by his side. "Though I have been Forsaken for millennia, I return to the Queen once more, to resume my place at her side. Will you attempt to halt me?" announced Varakash.

The voice that answered was subtly different, and Varakash could sense that it came from a different speaker. "Those who are Forsaken have given up their ties to the Queen of Death. Only through testing may you regain them."

"Then test me. I was centuries old before you existed." He spread his arms. "I served the Queen at the very beginning of it all. For four thousand long years have I wandered, and now I have been called. I come to answer that call."

He lowered his arms. "Test me, Handmaidens of the Queen, and you shall see that I am sincere."

A third voice spoke, from behind Varakash. "And what of your companion?"

Reinholdt drew his sword, dropping into a guard stance. "I am of the blood of Lord Morkhur. For three millennia, I have followed at his side. If I were not worthy, I would not be standing here beside him. Test me if you will, but do not expect me to bow down in defeat."

"You speak the truth, both of you," the first voice said, "but you must still be tested. None may come before the Queen untested."

The second voice emerged once again, closer this time. "You speak truth, and yet truth may hide truth as easily as any falsehood may."

The third voice spoke as soon as the second had finished. "No lie may escape the testing. We know the truth of your word, but the testing shall find their worth."

"You speak to me of the worth of words?" interrupted Varakash. "You? You are mere children to me. Do not think that you can teach me. If necessary, I will demonstrate the strength of my conviction to you, but do not presume to judge me. I could crush the three of you together in seconds."

With a whisper of silk, the owners of the three voices stepped from behind the drapes, emerging at the end of the Hall. They stood before the great doors, bathed in the flickering light of the torches.

Their beauty struck Varakash immediately. Long, flowing hair framed perfect faces, their natural appearance enhanced by carefully chosen makeup. They wore seductive gowns of blood red silk, the fabric clutching at the immaculate contours of their forms. Full, red lips curled upwards in slight smiles.

"Then let us make the testing fair," they whispered, their voices caught by the acoustics of the Hall and magnified tenfold, so it seemed as if they spoke into Varakash's ear.

At their words, lithe shapes emerged from behind the drapes that divided the Hall. Over a score of vampires lined the Hall, silent ghosts with deadly smiles. They closed in a circle around Varakash and Reinholdt.

Varakash glanced at Reinholdt. "Your abilities will be tested, but they cannot hope to defeat us. I am of the second line, brought into undeath by Abhorash himself, and you are of the third. These fledglings are no more than the sixth or seventh. Embrace this as a chance to hone your abilities, but do not kill unless you have to. Neferatem wishes us tested, but not for us to slaughter her carefully gathered Handmaidens."

Reinholdt nodded silently.

The Lahmian at the centre of the first three stepped forwards. "You come before us as Forsaken Ones. You will leave in Acceptance, or in death. Let the testing begin."

Part 2

Lahmia, four thousand years ago…

Varakash Morkhur traced the ragged scar across his chest with a finger, dimpling the soft linen of his tunic. The injury started at his left shoulder with a knotted bump, and ran down to his right hip, his only disfigurement. He paused at his hip, and then removed his finger.

He buckled on the shining steel plates of his leg guards, steel plates thin enough to allow him to move freely, yet tough enough to give him protection in battle. His white linens crinkled under the edges of the plates, and he tied the straps behind his legs.

Next came the ornate breastplate, put on over his white tunic. The bright steel was polished to a shine, with the outline of heroic musculature worked into the chest. That was followed by the backplate, similarly decorated and polished. The two pieces snapped together with four clasps along his sides.

He slipped his arms into the vambraces, buckling them on tightly, and then lifted one ornate shoulder plate. It was worked into a gleaming silver bat wing, curving up and backwards. He lowered it onto his arm, and strapped it down. The wing swept back around his head. He put on the other, and the two wings nearly met, high above and behind his head, framing his face.

His sword lay on the table in front of him. It was a simple blade, far plainer than his armour. Four and a half feet of polished steel, the blade was still deadly sharp, despite its simple workmanship. The guard was shaped like a rearing dragon, spread wings forming the functional part of the guard. The pommel was adorned with a simple metal teardrop. It had been his father's sword.

Varakash walked from the room, nodding to the two Guards who stood outside. They were from his unit, and nodded back, smiling. Few others would do him the courtesy. Stepping into the street outside, he paused. The fighting at the temple troubled him.

The Queen's Guard should never have to be used within the walls of Lahmia. Never. Such infighting was utterly alien to him. The lives of Lahmian citizens were inviolable. That something this serious could happen in the temple was beyond belief.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, Varakash motioned for the two Guards to follow him. The three walked down the paved street, towards a large stone building. As they walked past it, a viewing slit was opened, and a cry sounded from within.

Before Varakash had reached the next building, ten fully armoured Guards from his unit rushed out of the large building and fell in behind him. He turned his head to look at them. "There are reports of fighting at the temple. We have been ordered to investigate, and put down any wrongdoers. These orders come from Queen Neferatem himself."

The Guards nodded in unison. "Yes sir."

Varakash smiled, and broke into a jog, pushing through the civilians lining the street. The armoured bodies of his Guards clattered as they ran behind him, dirt and dust whirling up into the air behind them.

He rounded a corner, and found himself facing the temple. Flames licked at the base of the temple, from some spilled brazier, Varakash assumed. The clamour of battle echoed from within.

"With me, Guards!" he shouted, and ran for the temple. Pounding up the steps, he broke through the remains of the door.

Chaos reigned inside the temple. Knots of Guards fought with black-robed priests in ones and twos, swords clanging against wickedly curved ceremonial daggers and heavy bronze staffs. And at the centre of it all, atop a broken stone stage, three massive, obsidian Ushabti swung their immense weapons in huge arcs, cutting down the Guards.

Varakash led his Guards forwards into the melee with a roar. He slashed left and sliced open a priest's face, and then whipped his sword right and across the throat of another. He vaulted the falling corpse and punched a priest in the face, feeling his nose break beneath his fist. The priest fell back, clutching at his face, and Varakash impaled him.

He drew his sword out swiftly, and spun, his sword flashing out and blocking a heavy staff descending towards his head. He pushed the staff out of the way, and hacked his sword crudely into its owner's chest. He felt the blade bite into bone, and ripped it free before the priest could carry him to the floor.

It was a massacre. Priests were dying everywhere. It was not all one-sided though. The Ushabti were taking a heavy toll on his Guards, their man-sized weapons killing anything that they hit. A circle of Guards clustered around them, darting in to slice quickly with swords and spears, and then dodging back to avoid the obsidian beast's response.

He would not be able to kill the Ushabti alone. Varakash knew that. He would do no one any good dead. Casting around, he ran for the steps to the top floor. He dodged around Guards and priests, pushing them from his path. He had to reach whoever was in command of the Guards here.

He reached the top of the stairs, and almost tripped in the blood. It dripped from every surface, a thick, crimson coating. Spatters of it laced the walls. Grimacing, Varakash ran through the blood, towards the faint sounds of combat he heard from further inside the temple.

He pulled open a broken door, and was faced with the sight of a gore-covered Guard Captain. The Captain turned to face Varakash, sword held ready, and then lowered his weapon as he recognised Varakash.

"Merovar," said Varakash. Merovar was the most bloodthirsty warrior in the Guard, although his combat prowess could not be denied. He also hated Varakash.

"Ah," said Merovar, as he stepped over the eviscerated corpse of a priest, "look who it is. The 'white warrior' come to save the day."

Varakash grimaced at Merovar's use of the name. He had earned it out of respect, a sign of appreciation from his warriors, yet his fellow captains, all except for Walach, used it to taunt him. Looks were unimportant, they believed. Skill wall all.

"What happened here, Merovar?" Varakash asked.

Merovar looked around. "The Mortuary Priests have rebelled against our Queen, Varakash. They must be destroyed. Rebellion must not be allowed to flourish within Lahmia."

Varakash could hardly believe that betrayal on such a scale could occur. "No. The Priests have been a part of Lahmia since it was founded. They would not…" he said.

Merovar scowled. "Look around, Varakash. The Ushabti slaughter our warriors even as we speak. Is this not evidence enough?"

Varakash turned and walked from the room. Merovar's voice came after him.

"Where are you going?"

Varakash looked back. "To kill the Ushabti. Are you coming?" He did not wait for Merovar's scowl, and started running.