"To fight fire with fire is to light your own pyre." - attributed to Witch Hunter Helmut Wiederman

Zeindorf, Ostermark

Falk

Just over the River Blut from accursed Sylvania, Zeindorf was as much a fortress as it was a town. State Troops in Ostermark's violet and yellow patrolled walls that were taller and thicker than a town of its size would have in a less dangerous area. Cannons stuck out from the wall like accusing fingers. It wasn't just the undead minions of the Vampire Counts of Sylvania they had to worry about, but Chaos marauders coming down through Kislev to the north, as well as greenskins and ogres raiding from the World's Edge Mountains to the east.

Falk and Draga rode through the northwestern gate of Zeindorf into a dense settlement of odd acoustics and bright windows. Everything was more quiet than one might expect, like an entire town was trying to avoid the notice of the undead just over the river. Architecture was somewhat dour, and every building seemed to have been built under the assumption that it might need to be a strongpoint against invaders. All but the most lowly of hovels were made from stone on at least the first floor. Rooftops were flat, and most had long planks lying at the ready to be laid across gaps and make lanes for moving defenders.

Falk and Draga were eyed with suspicion, the latter especially. Perhaps only Stirland suffered more from the attentions of the Vampire Counts when compared to Ostermark. The hatred of vampires and those that served them ran deep in Ostermark, and Falk didn't allow his guard to drop while they rode.

"Probably shouldn't sit down for a pint anywhere." Draga said over the sound their horses' hooves.

Falk wanted to say they should do whatever they wanted and he'd beat the shit out of anyone who said otherwise. He wanted to tell her that she should wear her official seal around her neck so no one would dare harm her. But he knew those weren't the things his friend wanted to hear.

"Room service definitely has its charms." Falk replied.

Draga's smile was grateful, sad, and guilty in equal measure. "Maybe you can pay them extra to feed you, too, so you don't have to haul your ass out of bed."

"Lady of Wisdom, that sounds like the good life." Falk said wistfully. "Sitting around, getting fat, other people doing all the work."

"You'd go insane in a month." Draga conjectured.

"A month? Two weeks, tops." Falk said with a chuckle.

They reached a walled compound within the city. Over the gates hung an iron emblem of a pair of scales. One side of the scale held a sword, the other a large-eyed owl. The fact they were balanced on the scale wasn't meant to be a realistic portrayal, but a symbolic one. On the scales of justice, wisdom and strength must be held in balance. Only then can the guilty get what they deserve and the innocent receive their exoneration.

The Abbey of Our Lady's Forbearance was primarily centered around the slope-roofed, buttressed Temple of Verena. A small garrison of the Knights of Everlasting Light guarded the temple alongside their squires. Thus, there was a smithy to maintain their arms and armor, as well as shoe their horses. There was a small practice field, which was currently empty, and a barracks.

The Knights of Everlasting Light were the only major Templar Order dedicated to Verena. They were famous for their self-sacrificing courage that bordered on suicidal in some of them. This came from the fact that the Order was cursed. Knights of Everlasting Light had a tendency to die in undignified ways; falling down stairs, bouts of food poisoning, being struck by refuse carelessly tossed from windows. Due to this, many of them held the belief that they wouldn't die a valiant death in battle, thus had no reason for self-preservation. Falk held them in high regard, curse or no curse.

At ground level, the gates were manned by several squires in chain armor, wearing tabards of white and blue over the mail, as well as a single fully armored knight. His armor was spotless and seemed to catch every fleck of light from the setting sun. The knight was unhelmed, revealing he was in his late thirties, the dark blonde of his beard and mustaches all trimmed to mathematical perfection.

"I greet you, sir, madam. What business have you in the Abbey of Our Lady's Forbearance?" The knight asked.

Falk showed his seal. "Falkenwulf Daur. I'm about Verena's business, Brother in Her Wisdom. This is my partner, Sister Dragamina of the Blackbows."

The knight opened his mouth in a silent "ah" and motioned for the squires to clear the path. "I welcome you both. Squire Jan, take their horses."

Falk and Draga dismounted, the former saying, "Thank you, sir knight. Speak Truth."

"Be Truth, Brother." The knight replied with a respectful dip of his head.

The squire took their horses as Truthblade and Blackbow made their way across the open courtyard of the abbey. They entered the temple, but it was not a place for the laypeople to worship. Instead, it was centered upon a large library, with rooms for studying and copying. There were also spaces for people seeking legal help to meet with the abbey's monks. In the basement beneath the temple were holding cells. The monks of Verena wore robes of deep blue, though contrary to the popular depiction of the average monk, they did not tonsure their hair.

Falk and Draga made their way through the abbey and entered an office that was largely unadorned, unless one counted walls full of shelves that sagged under the weight of dozens of volumes. An older woman was seated at a desk within, leaning over a page, peering at it through a magnifying glass and mouthing the words she was reading. She was heavyset, small nose twitching with a few idle sniffs. A conservative bun of iron gray hair was gathered on her head.

"Mother Superior Michaela?" Falk asked.

"Mmm, just a moment, dear." Michaela replied in a voice grown shaky with age.

Falk thought about speaking up again, but decided not to and simply waited as asked.

In less than a minute, Michaela set down her glass and looked up at the two of them. She placed round-rimmed spectacles over her eyes and squinted.

"I'm certain I don't know either of you, but my eyes aren't what they once were." Michaela said.

"Brother Falkenwulf, Order of Truthblades. You sent for one of us. This is Sister Dragamina of Taal's Blackbows." Falk said. "We happened to be finishing up on a case in Bechafen when your message reached the Church of Verena there."

"Oh, excellent. Very good. Please, sit, both of you." Michaela bade them.

They did so.

The Mother Superior steepled her fingers. "The guards of Zeindorf have been finding bodies. Three of them now in the past month. They've been drained of blood and have obvious wounds in their necks from a vampire's fangs."

"Uhm…no offense, Mother Superior, but this sounds more like something for the Witch Hunters." Falk said.

Michaela held up an arthritic hand. "All three victims were discovered to be in the service of a vampire, or vampires. The evidence was laid out beside their bodies; correspondence, proscribed texts, minor relics of Old Night."

"...huh." Falk exhaled. It was a given that every major settlement in the Empire had collaborators and traitors of various kinds within their walls. That there were servants to the bloodsuckers of Sylvania in Zeindorf was just about the least shocking revelation possible. But the fact that a vampire was hunting them down? That was a new angle Falk wasn't expecting.

"Verena knows that Sigmar's Witch Hunters are effective, and they have burned cancers beyond counting out of the heart of the Empire. But I suspect this case will require more subtlety than they usually bring to the table." Michaela said. "My fear is Zeindorf is about to find itself caught in the middle of a power struggle between two Vampire Counts, and clearly, one of them is confident enough go beyond not bothering to conceal their killings, but actively advertise the presence of our undead foes here in town. I need someone to figure out why this is going on, Brother Falkenwulf, Sister Dragamina. And I need it stopped."

Michaela's direct tone and sure words belied her aged frame. Her mind was still as sharp as Verena's own sword.

"We'll see it done." Falkenwulf asserted.

"Very good. See Brother Gottwein before you leave. I put him in charge of collating all of the information we have on the case. I've also had a room set aside for you on the second floor. Good luck to you both. Speak Truth." Michaela said.

"Know Truth." Falkenwulf said.

The room Falk shared with Draga was comfortable enough, if austere. There was only one bed, but that didn't bother either of them. It had been uncomfortable when they'd first encountered that scenario at the beginning of their partnership, but in the present, each was comfortable enough with the other to sleep in the same bed. At that point, however, Draga was the only one in it, curled up on her side as she tended to sleep.

Falk sat at table against one wall, papers spread out across it, occasionally puffing at the lit pipe he held in one hand. By the light of two candles he shuffled the papers around, making notes, cross referencing data. When attacking a problem like this, Falk's first step was always to glean what he could from the materials on hand, noting things he needed to look into more from other sources later. Chasing down every lead without exploring the rest had a tendency to give tunnel vision in his experience.

The Truthblade leaned back in his chair, idly scratching at the thing pink scar that ran across his face. Every breath through his nose still felt wrong, like he was holding one nostril open with a finger. For the most part, he didn't mind how it looked. His job wasn't to look pretty. Yet, a small voice in the back of his mind foolishly wondered how Bianca would react if and when she saw it. His mind had drifted to the brash Myrmidian warrior-priestess more than he'd dare admit to Draga. The Strigany's ease with Rikter had made Falk a little envious. But surely Bianca had suitors of all sorts in Marienburg. It was a pointless line of thought. Falk refocused, going back over the actually important matter at hand.

The three victims were all men; Kurt Kober, Arwin Blach, and Berthold Simon. Kober and Blach shared an employer, a wealthy burgher who was part of the Zeindorf River Merchants Guild, which was one of two local merchant guilds. Simon had been, it turned out, on the board of directors of the competition, the Mid-Blut Trade Union. Blach and Simon both lived alone, Kober had been in a marriage for seven years that had produced two children.

The fact that vampires would have agents in the trade guilds was unsurprising. Wealth was a lodestone for corruption at every level of society. Had all the victims been from one guild, it would have made things more obvious. Was the killer trying to incite a street war between the two sides, weaken Zeindorf from within? Why only target collaborators, then? Perhaps a twofold agenda; interrupt a rival's schemes while also causing unrest?

A sigh escaped his nose. Falk had a shortlist of people to interview the next day. He didn't expect they'd give him much. The crime scenes would require investigation, too, but again, Falk wasn't hopeful. If the person responsible was themselves a Vampire Count or one of their trusted agents, they might not even be in Zeindorf, and trying to track them down in Sylvania with anything short of a few regiments of State Troops was a great way to get killed.

Except…what if Falk didn't need to find the killer? What if he could get the killer to come to him? Falk looked at the correspondence and evidence that had been neatly bundled beside each victim. They were obviously written in cipher, but Falk parsed out the hidden meanings with practiced skill. It took him a couple of hours of cross referencing, but Falk figured it out.

It seemed that the vampire in question was something of an egalitarian with their agents. A mortal's social rank only partly played into their importance within the stable of collaborators. Usefulness was the main thing that got one high marks with the boss, which was why an individual variably referred to as Gotho, Cirrus, and Cobbler was both a lowborn smuggler and the spider in the center of the web of collaborators. Falk didn't have an actual name for the smuggler, but it was obvious they had some power in the local black market operations. From what Falk was reading, Cobbler was almost certainly the one in charge of Zeindorf's smuggling.

Falk's fingers rasped thoughtfully against his stubbled chin and he looked down into his pipe's bowl. It had been cold ash for a while now. There was a chance Cobbler was gone from Zeindorf. They had certainly gone to ground by now. Had they left Zeindorf? It was possible. In Falk's experience, criminals who had managed to grab onto power tended not to flee, but instead increase security, too afraid of losing what they had built up through clawing and scraping. A vampiric master who would be displeased by a sudden departure also factored in.

It was decided. Tracking down Cobbler was the primary objective now. They just had to do it before the killer did.

Falk blew out the candles and climbed into bed. As he did, Draga did as she tended to do while asleep and rolled over to curl against him. That contact had been awkward and kept him up at first. Now, it was reassuring. Before he knew it, Falk was out like a light.

Figuring out who was involved in smuggling in a trade town like Zeindorf was akin to finding a needle in a stack of needles. They were everywhere, from crime bosses operating illegal warehouses to simple dockworkers getting a few extra shillings to turn a blind eye to something or another. The irony was that if the Empire ever fully cracked down and managed to drive every smuggler out of business, its economy would probably collapse overnight. That was an issue for another day. Small fish. Falk didn't give a damn about smuggling when the very souls of Imperial citizens were on the line.

Falk's questions began with Kober and Blach's coworkers. One of them led to a foreman who was taking bribes to conveniently forget to label certain crates correctly, who, in turn, directed Falk and Draga to an assistant harbormaster secretary. This gentleman showed a little spine at first, but the moment Falk mentioned how bored the torturers employed by the Abbey of Our Lady's Forbearance were getting, he caved. The fulcrum upon which most of the smuggling taking place in Zeindorf turned was an individual known as Rasp.

The initial lines of questioning took up the morning. Falk and Draga went back to the abbey to eat a late lunch before their pursuit of Rasp. Falk waited just outside the abbey's main building for Draga, who emerged with a letter in her hands. A single glance told Falk that it was expensive stationary.

"From Rikter?" Falk asked.

Draga nodded. "He's back in Altdorf now and gives you his best regards."

"Send mine to him when you write your reply. Any news on Strand?" Falk asked further.

"Yeah." Draga said. She didn't elaborate further.

She didn't need to.

"Has he started torturing you with poetry yet?" Falk asked.

Draga scoffed. "Is that envy I hear? You know the Temple of Myrmidia in Marienburg isn't moving anytime soon…"

"Let's get going." Falk said. He should have known Draga was going to go there.

"Sure." Draga said, folding up the letter and tucking it away. "For the record, no, no poetry yet."

Falk grunted wordlessly in response.

The assistant harbormaster's secretary had directed them to one of the riverboat captains that were Rasp's primary movers of goods. Falk and Draga were forced to tail this captain to a meeting with one of Rasp's top underlings. They eavesdropped on the meeting, learning nothing about Rasp from it, then followed the underling, a woman who went by Eights for some reason. The two warrior-priests were then forced to tail Eights. The smuggler stopped at a tavern for what felt like an eternity, but in truth was only a couple of hours. This was a part of the job Falk didn't have to do often. Draga was better at it. She'd once remained in the same place for three days, waiting for a shot at a nascent Beastlord about to bring together a brayherd. The Blackbow had killed her target with a single arrow in the throat. Falk, on the other hand, just wanted something to happen. Even a fight to the death was better than sitting and waiting.

Eventually, Eights left the tavern at a somewhat unsteady walk. Night was falling as the smuggler slowly made her way through Zeindorf's streets. She paused when something howled in the distance, a baleful sound that could not have come from any creature born of nature. It wasn't a long pause. Such things must have been something approaching the mundane. Still, the average person stopped and looked at the sky when a particularly loud peal of thunder heralded a storm.

Eights' path through Zeindorf led to another tavern, and at first Falk was prepared to groan that they were just following someone on their personal pub crawl. There was something different about this tavern, though. First off, two bouncers were outside the front door, which itself was unusual. Normally, there would be only one for outside. Two, they were deferential in their replied to Eights' greeting, indicating respect approaching subordination. Finally, in spite of being in prime tavern hours, the building was relatively quiet. There was conversation and laughter, but it wasn't what one would expect from a full house.

Falk and Draga were in an alley across the street, hiding in the growing darkness.

"I think we've found Rasp's home base." Falk said.

"I'd complain about a lack of originality, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt." Draga said.

"You're planning on looting booze from behind the bar if we have to clear the place out." Falk said, glancing over at her.

Draga smirked. "Obviously."

Falk laughed softly, then said, "what do you think? You go in through the back, I hold their attention up front?"

"Ol' reliable." Draga said, nodding her agreement.

The tavern across the street went quiet.

Screams. A wave of magic swept through the place, forcing the shutters to break their latches and slam open. A mangled corpse was thrown through one window. People were fighting but the sounds of struggle didn't last long. The bouncers looked at the door they stood on either side of, then at the corpse that had been thrown outside. They dropped their weapons and sprinted away with all speed.

By that point, Falk and Draga were already rushing across the street. The sounds of fighting lulled as they reached the front door, weapons in hand. They entered the common room to find a slaughterhouse awaited them. Bodies and pieces of bodies were scattered. Blood pooled on the floor. A dozen bodies looked like every vein in their body had gone dry, their corpses withered by necromantic magic.

Falk met Draga's eyes. She saw in them what he felt himself. This foe was more powerful than what those they typically faced. They were walking into exceptional danger. Falk put his flamberge across his back and drew his grudge-raker, which was loaded with two shells of silver buckshot.

They heard more fighting above them, so hurried through the abattoir of a tavern until they found some stairs. Together, they crept up the roughly hewn, creaking stairway. A vampire would smell their coming, let alone hear them. This was going to be all about the first moments of combat. If Falk could put some silver into the monster, or Draga could land a shot from her blessed bow, it would slow their enemy down and give the two warrior-priests as chance. If they both missed, which was likely given the incredible speed of vampires, then it was probably going to be a very short fight.

Falk heard someone speaking. It was a smooth baritone voice, cold and merciless, coming from a door that was directly to the right of the landing at the top of the stairs.

"...this hunt. Your people are destroyed, your operation undone. Tell me where to find your mistress. I smell her Lamian stench upon you." The voice said. It was calculating. Clinical.

"I…can't tell you…she'll…do worse…than kill me…", someone replied in a tight, strangled voice.

"I want you to understand that if you don't tell me what I want to know, I can simply kill you and force your corpse to tell me, which I am led to believe is exceptionally unpleasant for the soul that goes through it. Now. Your mistress. Where can I find her?" The first speaker asked again.

A pause.

"My patience wears thin, Rasp." The first speaker said.

Falk and Draga stopped on the stairs outside the room. This was information they needed, as well. As much as Falk wanted to think they could attack while the vampire was distracted, he certainly knew they were there.

Rasp's croaked reply was inaudible to Falk.

Another pause.

"It seems you are telling the truth. Wise of you. Your services are no longer required." The vampire said.

Meat tore. Rasp let out a choked gasp. A few moments later, a body fell heavily to the floor.

"You can come out now, warrior-priests. I mean you no harm. I know you've been on my trail. We have much to discuss."

For an instant Falk thought about running. They could go back to the abbey, return with the Knights of Everlasting Light. It wouldn't work, of course. If Falk and Draga weren't run down by the vampire in the streets, their enemy would be long gone by the time they returned. So, his pistol in hand, Falk stepped through the door, motioning for Draga to remain out of sight. The vampire could know she was there, but didn't need to see exactly what she was doing.

Falk stepped into an office that was just as awash with blood and viscera as the bar below his feet. A small table that had held a card game was overturned just to Falk's left. A corpse was cooling on a desk in the center of the room, blood and bile causing freshly inked papers to run. A corpse with its throat bitten out lay at the feet of the one responsible for it all.

The vampire was lean to the point of being skeletal. He was a little shorter than Falk, clad in dark garments beneath a long, leather coat. The vampire was bald, pale as ash, his too-big eyes red as a drop of blood. But worst of all was the blasphemy that hung from his neck. It was a heavy steel medallion that bore the image of a twin-tailed comet, a holy symbol of Sigmar.

It did not shock Falk that the vampire could stand the touch of the medallion. As centuries had gone by and the vampiric bloodlines developed, they had become malleable in some ways. New weaknesses emerged. Some vampires found dwarven gromril or elven ithilmar to be just as anathema as silver. Garlic or wolfsbane drove some vampires back. But there was a flip side. Not all vampires needed to fear the light of the sun, able to walk beneath it if they were shaded by a parasol or wide-brimmed hat. And as for holy symbols, as evidenced by this particular creature, they did not always serve to abjure a vampire. Each one was a different beast, and this one was openly displaying one way in which it was different from the common perception.

"I must commend your investigative abilities, Truthblade. You're worthy of the role, I think." The vampire said. "You can tell your Blackbow companion to come out."

"She's fine where she is." Falk pointed his gun at the creature. The temptation to pull the trigger was almost overwhelming. "Name yourself."

"Alaric von Gessler, Witch Hunter of the Ancient Initiatic and Holy Order of Sigmar." The vampire replied.

"Something tells me the Witch Hunters wouldn't be happy to hear a bloodsucker claiming to be one of them." Falk said.

"No. They aren't. But it doesn't matter. I still do my duty, even if I have to do so alone and hunted by the very same Empire I protect with my unlife." Alaric said.

Falk scowled. "You actually expect me to believe you still fight for the Empire?"

"What you believe, Brother Falkenwulf, is irrelevant. I fight for Sigmar, and the Empire, and will continue to do so until I am finally destroyed. You can either attempt to be the one that destroys me, or help me finish my current hunt." Alaric raised his hands in turn, as if holding the options in each palm. They dripped blood onto the floor.

"The vampire's arrogance was appalling. Of course Alaric thought that he, unlike every other vampire, could somehow stave off the inevitable results of receiving the Blood Kiss. Of course he could somehow keep the necromantic magic that sustained him from slowly twisting his mind and perceptions until he was everything he hated and more.

"I've been hunting this vampire for years now, and if I act now, I'll have her cornered. She is too powerful for you two to handle on your own. If you get in my way, I will be forced to kill you. But if you help me, you can destroy an actual threat to the Empire." Alaric went on.

Falk pursed his lips, grip tightening on his gun. This was wrong. It felt wrong in every respect.

"Draga? What do you think?" Falk asked with a raised voice.

"I think you know my opinion on vampires pretty damn well." Draga replied.

"But?" Falk prompted.

"But I don't think we have much of a choice. It's your call, partner." Draga said.

A breath rushed out of Falk's nostrils. He looked down the barrel of his gun at Alaric. The vampire was unmoving. It was eerie, not seeing the subtle motions caused by breathing or blinking. It was like looking at a statue.

"Where is this vampire, then?" Falk asked. He lowered his gun but still held it.

"I'll have your word we'll work together, Truthblade." Alaric said. "Give it, and you'll have mine."

"I swear we'll help you destroy this vampire you're after." Falk forced the words out like they were molten on his tongue.

"Starkschloss." Alaric said. "A castle outside the city, on the Ostermark side. The lady of the castle, it turns out, is a vampire of the Lamian bloodline, known to the world as Margravine Sabine von Voss, a thrice-widowed heiress of considerable wealth." A few moments of silence, then, "I am a Blood Dragon, for what that's worth."

Falk gave a curt nod. Lamians were masters of deception, seduction, and infiltration. It was not a surprise that one held this position. The Blood Dragons were the opposite. They used magic as all vampires did, but they were fighters first and foremost, driven by a warped sense of martial honor that was bereft of mercy.

The Truthblade wanted to ask how Alaric had missed such a vampire in such a high seat of power, but he knew the answer. That was the nature of the Lamians. They used charisma, magical glamors, deceit, pre-existing rivalries, and slithered through them like vipers in their nests. It was not the first time a creature from the Midnight Courts had infiltrated Imperial society to that level.

"You have a plan for getting into a castle that, to everyone else, is the home of an Imperial noble in good standing?" Falk asked bluntly.

"You and the Blackbow are warrior-priests. You will use your authority to gain entrance and audience with the Margravine. I will use that distraction to infiltrate the grounds." Alaric said, his tone indicating Falk and Draga's cooperation was a foregone conclusion. Much to Falk's chagrin, it was. It was a decent plan. Sabine would be on guard already, but the death of her chief servant in Zeindorf would likely be what drove her to ground. After all, what was a failed plan to an immortal that could just start again somewhere else?

"Proceed to Starkschloss at once. I will already be in position." Alaric said.

His body suddenly broke apart, becoming a cloud of fluttering bats that fled out of an open window on the far side of the room. When the last bat was out, Falk safetied and holstered his pistol. He felt unclean, like he'd just waded neck-deep through a swamp.

"He's gone, Draga." Falk said.

The Blackbow emerged, her bow still in hand.

"This plan fucking stinks like week old tripe." Draga said.

"Yeah. It does." Falk said. "But I think you went along with it for the same reason I did."

"Is it the fact that, if we play our cards right, we'll bag two vampires instead of one?" Draga asked.

In spite of himself, Falk managed a half-grin.

"And this is why we work so well together." The Truthblade said.

Draga scoffed and clanked his breastplate with a fist. "More like I keep you around because I don't feel like carrying a shield."

"I'll take what I can get." Falk replied.

The two of them left the trashed tavern. Falk doubted anyone would know a massacre had occurred there until the next morning. Hopefully, by then, the culprit would be nothing more than a pile of ashes in the rising sun.

Before leaving Zeindorf, Falk had left a sealed bundle of notes at the abbey with instructions to Mother Superior Michaela not to open it until after dawn, if she happened to wake up before then.

Starkschloss was of a newer design than many castles in the Empire. The exterior walls were rounded or angled where it could be helped, making it more likely for incoming cannonballs to deflect off rather than hit dead on. Furthermore, it sat on a cliff overlooking the River Blut. Were it not for the circumstances of their arriving there, Falk would have been impressed. Instead, he only felt unease. They were going into the belly of the beast. The brooding structure's windows were lit up, yet found a way to pull in shadows to its exterior walls, giving the illusion of stars against a dark sky.

"There's no way she'll buy our story." Draga said.

"No. She won't." Falk agreed. "But two dead warrior-priests on her doorstep will bring prying eyes. Our Lamian will know this."

"I know. Still, I think this might be the dumbest idea we've evet agreed to." Draga sighed.

"Won't argue that." Falk concurred.

They rode up the slope that led to Starkschloss. Falk could see shadows atop the wall, night watchmen wondering who was calling at this hour. Were they innocent, Falk wondered? Deceived? Or were they willing thralls?

One of the guards called down, demanding Falk and Draga identify themselves. Falk replied, saying who they were and that an ongoing investigation brought them here, and they needed to speak with Margravine von Voss. The pair waited on their horses for a solid ten minutes before the gates were opened to them.

They rode their horses through the gate and handed them off to a sleepy looking guard in what must have been the Margravine's personal livery of rose red and silver. The courtyard around them was well maintained, nothing about it to indicate a vampiress was in control of the castle, not even an eerie "too well maintained" feeling.

Another guard led the warrior-priests to the front steps of the keep. Falk's eyes scanned across perched gargoyles, expecting one of the stone embellishments to spring to life and attack. There was little enough to say about the keep, though. It shared the rounded nature of the exterior walls, standing four or five stories over their heads. The guard opened the double doors at the top of the stairs.

"Her Ladyship will meet you in the foyer." The guard said with a slight bow.

Neither Falk nor Draga replied to that, merely stepping inside.

Starkschloss's interior was as made for defense as its exterior. The Foyer was not large, and though it was richly appointed with thick carpets and taxidermied animals, Falk noted there were clear lines of fire on the entrance to a great hall directly across the room, as well as from a stairwell to the left of the great hall, and two more servants' doors.

Falk approached one of the taxidermied beasts. To his surprise, it was a demigryph. It had the body of a lion with an eagle's head, standing a full five hands taller than even the mightiest warhorse. It awed him that the vaunted Demigryph Knights of the Empire actually went out into the Reikwald and captured these creatures as a rite of passage.

"You ever taken on one of these?" Falk asked Draga.

"Fuck no." Draga replied, but it was an absent curse. She was standing before a tapestry on the wall behind one of the rows of stuffed beasts.

Most of the tapestries were what one would expect; Magnus the Pious triumphing over Everchosen Asavar Kul, Sigmar crushing the orcs at Blackfire Pass, Teclis the elf instructing the first magisters of the Colleges of Magic. Fictional events were present as well; the criminal turned Knight of the Broken Sword Sir Marcellus declaring his love to Lady Tremaire, the fatal joust of Sir Becker and Sir Torvald that would claim the lives of the former best friends turned bitter enemies by jealousy. There was one that was somewhat out of place, and it was by this one Draga was transfixed.

It depicted a colorful scene of wagons in a green field linked into a circle, wherein a group of people were dancing in a ring. The focus of the piece were two individuals dancing together within the ring, both women, one wearing a noble's finery, the other in a representation of traditional Strigany garb that was, surprisingly, without caricature.

Falk came to stand beside her.

"We aren't normally on display like this unless it's showing us burning at the stake or getting run out of a town alongside rats and snakes." Draga said. Her brow was furrowed. She looked perplexed.

"This a story you know, by chance?" Falk asked.

"Yeah. It's…." Draga started to say softly.

"'The Lay of Hildegard and Sofia'", a new voice cut in, sultry and low.

Falk and Draga both looked towards the stairwell, where the voice had come from.

Margravine Sabine von Voss was a woman of middling height and curvaceous build. In almost every respect, she gave off an aura of softness. Her platinum blonde hair spilled down her shoulders and back in luxurious, shining curls that made one think of clouds. Sabine's face was pleasantly rounded, seemingly built to hold up the winning smile that graced her ruby lips. The dress of burgundy and teal lace she wore had puffy, slit sleeves, a flared waist, and a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination.

Had he not already known what to look for, Falk would have been fooled. Sabine was a master of passing as human, this was certain, but going into it aware, Falk saw the signs. Her false breathing wasn't quite natural. The subtly odd glow of her skin spoke of a magic glamor hiding a deathly complexion. The space between her eyes blinking was just barely too long.

Falk stepped back to give Draga a clear line of fire on the vampire. He saw Sabine's expression falter for a split second as she looked at Draga. The Margravine's recovery was flawless. She came to stand beside the two warrior-priests, looking up at the tapestry.

"The story says that Hildegard was the daughter of the Elector Count of Hochland." Sabine said, indicating the tapestry with a delicate hand. "She had a habit of sneaking out to spend time among the people, you see, and one day, a Strigany caravan had been hired to help build the new fortifications of Hergig. Hildegard met the daughter of that caravan's elder, Sofia, and they fell in love."

"A forbidden love in more ways than one." Draga said with a frown.

"Yes." Sabine said.

"What, uh…what happened next?" Falk asked.

Sabine turned to him, slow and deliberate. He saw the pain of ages in green eyes that would have been crimson if not for the glamor.

"They died." She said. "Brother Falkenwulf. Sister Dragamina. Please, come with me. We'll talk in my sitting room."

Falk nodded silently, gesturing for Sabine to lead the way. Of all the suspicious things he noticed, Sabine being up and ready so late at night was actually not among them. It was fashionable among the Empire's wealthy elite to rise somewhere around early afternoon and sleep…whenever. It set them apart from the drudges that labored from sunrise to sunset.

Sabine led them up the stairs she had emerged from to the third floor of the castle, down a narrow hallway with arrow slit windows to a room that was larger than every house Falk had seen back in Strand. This one had much larger windows that were open, letting a pleasant breeze through. Heavily cushioned chairs and chaises were gathered around small tables that were likely laden with pastries and tea when this room was actually fulfilling its intended purpose.

Sabine didn't sit. She went to one of the open windows. Falk and Draga followed at a distance.

"Thank you for giving us your time, Lady von Voss…" Falk began.

"You're here because Alaric sent you." Sabine cut him off.

Falk and Draga paused in their approach.

Sabine's laugh was bitter and humorless. "Yes, obviously I know why you're here. Do you think I've survived a century of unlife by being stupid?"

She turned from the window. Her glamor was gone. The round face was gaunt now, the fine dress hanging oddly from a withered body. What little color was left in the blonde hair was gone, leaving snowy white behind. The red eyes that appraised the warrior-priests were unreadable.

"If you know why we're here, why have you let yourself get isolated and outnumbered?" Draga asked.

Sabine revealed her fanged canines with her smile. "You two aren't a threat."

"Wanna bet?" Falk asked, hand drifting towards his grudge-raker.

"Oh, please. Spare me the chest beating." Sabine said, rolling her eyes. "I know you two are dangerous individuals. I mean you're not a threat because you aren't going to try to destroy me. Alaric has deceived you. I'm the one who is still loyal to the Empire of Man, not him. He's just a sad little man desperately clinging to what he was in life."

Falk squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, which was probably a bad idea around a vampire that could close the distance between them in a heartbeat.

"Your people had infiltrated Zeindorf's society at every level. Hell, you had hooks in both legit and illegal trade." Draga pointed out.

"I had contacts and people passing me information, yes. Was I interfering with Imperial commerce? Giving information to the Midnight Aristocracy of Sylvania? No. You have no proof of that, and if you searched for it, you would not find it." Sabine said with certainty. "The black market and smuggling operations that are already working out of sight from Imperial authorities are one of the first places any infiltrators strike, no matter who they serve. That is why I built the base of my influence in Zeindorf around them."

Falk opened his mouth to retort that point, but unfortunately, he realized she was right. None of the information left for him by Alaric, or that he'd gathered for himself, indicated any actual evidence of malevolent action against the Empire. It had proven there were infiltrators taking orders from and passing information to someone, a someone that ended up being the Margravine, but that was the extent of it.

"Why would you be loyal to the Empire?" Falk challenged her.

Sabine did not look at him, but instead, at Draga.

"Tell me, Sister Dragamina; do the circumstances of one's creation decide if they're good or evil?" She asked.

If looks could kill, Sabine would no longer have a head. Falk could tell Draga was calling upon her entire will to not start turning the vampire into a pincushion with arrows.

"It's not the same and you fucking know it." Draga snapped. "I was born Strigany. I'm still human. Everything I do is my choice, my will. You have to feed on blood, on people, to stay alive. Necromancy corrupts everything, everything, it touches. A day's going to come when you're deciding entire villages can die for one reason or another and you won't even realize there was a time you thought you it was ok to do it."

Falk expected Sabine to react with violence or anger to the rebuke. Instead, the pain he'd seen in the foyer returned, this time more intense thanks to the vampire's sunken features.

"Both you and Alaric claim to be helping the Empire." Falk said. "And I can see where both of you honestly believe that. But where exactly do you think that leaves my partner and I?" In truth, Falk was stalling for time. If this case had anymore twists thrown into it, he was going to suddenly realize he'd been the actual evil vampire all along or some shit.

Sabine opened her mouth to reply, but cocked her head to the side as if listening to something in the distance. A rueful smile crossed her lips.

"You had best decide that quickly, Brother Falkenwulf." The Margravine said.

"Why?" Falk asked.

"Because your time for thinking on it is just about to run out."

A swarm of bats flew through the open window that Sabine stood beside. Alaric coalesced from them across the room. He carried one of the one-handed axes many Witch Hunters preferred, the symbol of the twin-tailed comet stamped out of the blade.

"Thank you for joining us, Herr von Gessler. You'll forgive me for not having any refreshments prepared for you." Sabine said, affecting a carefree attitude.

"Your machinations are at an end, beast." Alaric growled, brandishing the axe. "Brother Falkenwulf. Sister Dragamina. Destroy this creature."

"Ask yourselves who can do more good for the Empire; a noble who managed to establish an entire network of informants, or a single rabid dog?" Sabine asked them.

"You gave me your word, Brother Falkenwulf. Are you going to go back on it now, making yourself a speaker of falsehoods in the sight of the Lady of Truth?" Alaric countered Sabine.

Falk looked between the two vampires. They both continued trying to convince the warrior-priests to aid them as Falk and Draga drew pistol and longbow, respectively.

"Draga?" Falk said.

"Yeah?" Draga said.

"Time to play our cards." The Truthblade said.

They acted as one. Falk turned his pistol on Alaric as the head of Draga's arrow found itself pointed at Sabine. They both fired.

Distracted as they were trying to turn the warrior-priests to their particular sides, the vampires weren't suddenly slow and dull. Alaric moved, only getting winged by a couple of pellets, while Draga's arrow stuck through the flesh of Sabine's hip. The Lamian pitched herself out the window she was standing beside. Alaric, with a wide-fanged snarl, hurled himself after the Margravine.

Falk and Draga watched the two vampires go out the window.

"We need to move. Can't let either of them get away." Falk said as he went to the window and looked out into the darkness. He couldn't see anything that would tell him where the vampires had gone or what they were doing.

"Let's worry about getting down to the first floor, first." Draga suggested. "If two vampires are going head to head, something tells me we'll hear it."

"Good point. Let's get moving." Falk said, trading his pistol for his flamberge and running for the exit.

Starkschloss, Ostermark

Draga

It had been difficult to miss the look of betrayal in Sabine's eyes. It hadn't been directed at both of them. Just Draga. And the Blackbow was beginning to think she knew why.

Now wasn't the time for it. Draga and Falk swiftly left the room, going out into the hall to retrace their steps back down to the first floor. Gunshots were beginning to echo through the castle. Were the guards fighting Alaric? Turning on Sabine now that her secret was revealed? Both? The soldiers stood little chance if so. There wasn't much a mortal with plain steel or lead could hope to do against a vampire, save through crushing numbers or the blast of a cannon.

But as Draga and Falk emerged into the foyer once again, they left the stairs just in time to see a half-dozen guards from the walls coming through the front door.

"What's happening? What's going on?" Falk questioned them.

"Undead! They're rising from the crypts under the castle!" One of the guards replied.

"I seen them coming out of the servants' graves in the west courtyard, too." Another guard bemoaned.

"Please, help us drive them back!" The first one entreated the warrior-priests.

"Show us the way, soldier. The gods fight with us." Falk said in the confident tone he usually used with those unused to facing the same threats that were part of the warrior-priests' daily life.

The soldiers led them deeper into Starkschloss. These men likely had no idea the true nature of their predicament. Sabine was raising the dead in the hopes of evening the odds against Alaric. The soldiers probably just thought the castle was under attack from some vampiric plot, which, in a way, it was.

Their first encounter with the undead was in a small training yard. A handful of zombies were pressing a group of three soldiers, but most worrying was the translucent, green-blue wraith that was rising up from the ground behind the guards. Draga nocked an arrow and fired. The missile flew from the blessed bow and went through the wraith's head, causing it to let out an ear-piercing shriek as a trail of white fire was left behind in its incorporeal form. From its head down, the wraith dissipated. One of the soldiers was brained by a rusty mace in the meantime. Draga wondered where the zombies had gotten the weapons, then realized Sabine must have ensured they were with the corpses in the crypts for precisely this eventuality.

Falk reached the zombies as Draga was drawing another shot. His flamberge swept out, small flares of golden light springing from it where the blade struck undead flesh. Two heads and the top half of a third head hit the ground, followed by three motionless zombies. The soldiers from the wall filled in, reinforcing their comrades, and the remaining zombies were put down without more losses.

Years of hunting in dense forests had given Draga a strong sense of direction. She pointed towards where the open window in the sitting room had been facing.

"What's in that direction." She demanded more than asked of the house soldiers.

The Starkschloss guards were milling, waiting for direction. One bent down to close the eyes of their comrade with the caved in skull. Another, a middle-aged guard who was beginning to lose his warrior's build thanks to age, replied, "the main courtyard, ma'am. Gardens and such."

"Get us there. Now!" Draga ordered.

"Ma'am!" The guard replied, saluted, and began jogging that way.

Don't mind taking orders from a Strigany when the blood starts flowing. Draga thought to herself.

The small group ran through a few halls, the sounds of gunshots, screams, and combat growing louder as they went. Draga already had the plan forming in her mind.

"Falk. We need to hit them both while they're distracted." She said aside to her partner.

"Already ahead of you." Falk said. He had put another silver shell into his grudge raker on the run.

Neither of them mentioned the alternative. If they killed one vampire but the other still lived, it could use the chaos of combat against the risen dead to escape, or to tear apart the living fighters while they were contending with the other undead. In her mind, though, Draga knew the truth of things. Coordinating perfect killing shots on two vampires in the middle of combat was going to be next to impossible. Still, they had to try.

The main courtyard of Starkschloss was conservative compared to what one would find in a noble's estate, but it still contained fanciful gardens with cobbled paths, more than one decorative fountain, and an open space of grass where duels could be fought between visiting nobles. At present, it was a confusing mess of small knots of combat scattered across it. Guards from the outer walls were trickling in, as were those who had been off-duty. Zombies and animated skeletons fought with rusted weapons, some were corroded armor, these smaller conflicts orbiting the main event like the spheres of an orrery.

When a necromancer or vampire invested a greater deal of power into a corpse, or resurrected a particularly mighty soul, they became wights. Groups of wights were often formed into units known as Grave Guards, and as Draga watched, Alaric fended off attacks from a dozen of the heavily armored, uncannily skillful undead. Even as Draga watched, his axe, which was wreathed in black fire, beheaded one wight, severed the sword arm of another, and cut the legs out from a third. While this happened, Sabine seemed to emerge from the shadows, her claws striking at Alaric's back. The Blood Dragon hissed with fury and slashed behind himself, but Sabine slid back, one of her wights taking the blow for her.

"Face me!" Alaric roared.

Sabine did not give him a reply.

Draga turned to the soldiers with them, speaking to the older one that was leading the way. "We destroy those vampires, the rest of these undead with crumble. You need to provide cover while Brother Falkenwulf and I get into position. Can you do that?"

"A true man of Ostermark thanks Sigmar for a target rich environment, ma'am." The guard replied. It was a common aphorism among soldiers and mercs in the province.

"And by Taal's grace you're about to get one, now move!" Draga shouted.

They plowed ahead. The fighting was brutal, zombies and skeletons with no finesse and blunt weapons or broken teeth causing ghastly wounds, humans fighting back at them with desperate strikes that mangled rotting limbs and shattered bones apart. Draga needed to conserve arrows, fighting through the press with her messers. Falk was the tip of the spear, his blessed flamberge reaving great arcs through the undead. This was his element. Draga may have been able to fight in the cut and thrust of combat, but at the end of the day, she was a hunter. Falk was a soldier, and though the numbers involved made it little more than a skirmish, this was simply one battle among countless in the Empire's unending war for survival.

There was little else to say about the slog through the courtyard to the fight between Alaric and Sabine. A few of the von Voss guards fell along the way. A trail of smited undead were left in their wake.

Most of the wights were dead. Alaric had been sliced up, but he had managed to score some retaliatory hits on Sabine. Draga couldn't guess who would win. It was likely going to come down to a lucky blow from one or the other.

"On second thought…initial plan…unrealistic." Draga went ahead and said it.

Between deep breaths, Falk asked, "better idea?"

"Yeah. Just kill Alaric." Draga said.

"On it." Falk said, simple as that.

As Alaric's axe cleft the skull of the last Grave Guard, Falk drove in, his flamberge sweeping out and evening managing to slice some of the leather of Alaric's coat. The Blood Dragon avoided the attack, though, and harried Falk with a series of lighting fast strikes with his axe. Draga watched Falk fall into his defensive dueling stance, Bittner, but even then he was barely able to keep up, black-fired steel ringing again and again against the greatsword.

Alaric's assault was stymied as a holy arrow sank into the vampire's abdomen. Draga allowed herself a quiet exclamation of triumph. White fire washed across his torso from the impact.

"Sword of Justice! Lady Verena, fight with your servant!" Falk roared the battle prayer. Golden light shrouded his blessed sword and he switched to Metzger stance, harrying Alaric. All it did was even the odds, for the vampire was still able to hold Falk off.

Then Sabine appeared once more, coalescing from a cloud of mist. This was no hit and run strike now. She fell upon Alaric from behind, her taloned hands raking across the former Witch Hunter's back over and over again. The Blood Dragon screamed in bestial fury, the beast within overcoming him as he turned to face down the Lamian that was flensing him to pieces.

Which gave Falk the opportunity he needed to run Alaric through from behind, his flamberge burst forth from the vampire's chest. Alaric dropped his axe, his mouth opening in a cry of dismay and agony. Golden light spilled from his mouth as it spread from the blade that impaled him, the vampire's body flaking into gilded cinders.

Falk ripped his sword from the dying vampire's cadaver. Sabine preempted him with the swiftness of a lightning bolt, her claws striking the Truthblade's flamberge in such a forceful parry that the blade was launched from Falk's hands. He tried to fall back but stumbled over a fallen wight, spilling backwards to the ground. Sabine prepared to finish him off.

"Hildegard! Run away with me!" Draga called out, not in Reikspiel, but in the language of the Strigany.

Sabine stopped, her crimson eyes going wide with shock. She looked at Draga with utter disbelief, her gaze not in the moment, but someplace else, in some other time.

The Lamian didn't even try to dodge the arrow the pierce her heart.

Sabine fell. Draga nocked another arrow, advancing on the downed Lamian, prepared to deliver a coup de grace. Even as the Blackbow approached, she saw that Sabine was turning to ash, consumed by white fire before Draga's very eyes.

The vampire looked up at her as the flesh of her face began to blacken and char.

"I think you were right, my love." Sabine rasped, a tremulous hand reaching up towards Draga. "The gods would have been kinder had they never let us meet."

The holy fire consumed her. The ashes of both Alaric and Sabine drifted on the breeze as the remaining undead around the courtyard crumbled to the ground.

Draga watched Sabine disintegrate with a deep frown. Nearby, Falk picked himself and collected his sword.

"How'd you know that was going to work?" The Truthblade asked.

Draga thought back to the tapestry in the foyer, and of the two young women it was centered upon, one with platinum blonde hair, the other a Strigany whose long braids were coppery auburn.

"Lucky guess." Draga said, running a hand through her own hair without meaning to. "C'mon. Let's make sure the grounds are secure."

"Draga." Falk was earnest in his painfully insistent way.

The Blackbow closed her eyes, sucking her teeth as she turned to face him. Didn't matter if it was a vampire or not, how could she explain the depths of deception and manipulation of the most earnest parts of the heart she had just stooped to?

"I don't want to talk about it right now, Falk. Later. But not right now. Ok?" She said.

Falk blinked a couple times. Why wouldn't he? Draga had just helped destroy two vampires, the creatures she hated more than any other in this world, and she wasn't jumping for joy and offering to buy drinks for everyone involved. To Falk, this must have been stranger than seeing an ogre pass up a free meal.

"Of course." Falk said. He didn't add, I'm here for you when you need it, but Draga heard it in his voice, and she was grateful.

They spent the rest of the night clearing the castle. The fight was over, though. Starkschloss was secure.

Zeindorf, Ostermark

Falk

Life in Zeindorf went on as it had the previous day, with no one the wiser of the twin horrors that had been removed from their midst. That was the preferred outcome. Let them live and work in blissful ignorance. They all already knew they were on danger's doorstep along the River Blut. Let the people have whatever thin veneer of security they could build up around themselves.

Draga had stayed up late, drinking deeply from stocks she pillaged out of the wine cellar of Starkschloss. She was sleeping off the hangover back at the Abbey of Our Lady's Forbearance. Falk had no intention of waking her early. She needed rest and, Falk suspected, time alone. So, Falk walked Zeindorf's streets. He ate breakfast and eventually lunch at two randomly chosen establishments. He purchased new feathers for his hat to replace the current, sadly sagging ones it held.

As Falk was beginning to consider heading back to the abbey to check on Draga, he found himself passing by a jeweler's shop. He paused as he looked in the window, puffing on his pipe as he did. Where some of the trade may have only displayed their most expensive and extravagant works in hopes of catching a wealthy eye, this shop had an assortment of pins, circlets, rings, bracelets, and the like. On one end of the window they were, indeed, costly pieces of gold and silver, set with gleaming diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and other rarer stones.

The end of the window Falk was on showed things even a common laborer could afford with a little saving. Common quartzes and semi-precious crystals polished to a sheen, set in brass or steel. What caught Falk's eye was one piece in particular. The necklace he noticed was centered on a circular piece of yellow citrine that was three or so inches across, flanked on either side by rectangles that were half its size. All the stones were set in bronze.

The price was below the necklace. Not a princely sum, by any means, but it was still probably more than Falk should spend on a gesture. Still, he looked at the piece and couldn't help but immediately think it would look perfect on Bianca. It was a bold idea for a gift, and probably a little presumptive. From what he had gathered of Bianca's personality, bold was about the only way she knew how to live.

And gods know we could both die any day in our line of work. Falk thought. Bold might be all I have time for.

With a deep sigh, Falk tamped his pipe out over the cobbles, put it away, and went inside. Maybe they'd knock a few marks off the price for a warrior-priest.