The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 33: Cruel Hungers

“No, they don’t all ride on steeds. Sure, many are riders; it helps them chase their quarry, but being a headless horseman isn’t what defines a Dullahan. They are hunters, relentless monsters that will track down any burned by their flames. The only way to stop a Dullahan is to destroy it, which isn’t jagging easy, or to return its head, which is pretty much impossible.” - Philip Hardspade

Cole watched as Captain One-fist unfastened a rune-marked scroll tube from the leg of a ragged-looking crow. Perched upon a nervous soldier’s leather bird glove, the crow greedily swallowed offered oats while One-fist fussed with the message. As the crow flapped its wings, indignant at One-fist's clumsy handling, the officer grumbled. “Why can’t she just use pigeons like everyone else?”

Finally freeing the scroll tube, One-fist proved his dexterity and placed his signet ring’s face against the top of the container, a difficult feat with only one hand. The tube clicked, and One-fist removed the tiny scroll, unfurling it and reading the contents. A particularly odious oath escaped the Captain, and he violently shoved the paper towards the crow.

After a moments hesitating, the crow devoured the paper and opened its beak wide. A clear female voice textured by age but still undeniably aristocratic issued from the bird. “Crowbend Castle stands!”

Natalie flinched with surprise, her cold body pressing closer against Cole. Glancing down at his lover, Cole frowned at how skittish she was. Whatever happened inside the brig cell wounded Natalie in ways he could only fathom. Finding some privacy to speak with Natalie about the demons haunting her was important, but so was listening to the arcane message issuing from the bewitched crow.

“I am Lady Barbara Varjulo, master and protector of Crowbend. For ten generations, House Varjulo has defended the Marches of Alidonar against any threat. A tradition I continue with pride and wrath. Like my foremothers before me, I lead the Spirits and soldiers of my holdings against those who’d dare desecrate these lands. An army of corpses and slaves seek to break my fortress and flood across the Holy League in a tide of undeath. They are too weak to triumph by strength alone and have resorted to daggers in the dark. Loyal men and women sworn to my banner turned their steel and spells upon those they call friend. Dark magic planted in them as children by perfidious leeches let our enemy puppeteer these unwilling traitors.”

A ripple of shock and worry spread across Fort Carnum as this news sunk into the soldiers. Cole practically growled on hearing this information. What Lady Barbara described was a prime example of why he hated mental magic. Could anything be more terrible than friends turning on each other because some monster willed it?

Spreading its wings, making itself into a living standard, the crow continued speaking. “I send this messenger and fellows like it to those who might face similar attacks to what me and mine have suffered. The majority of the undead host is bashing itself against my bulwark, but lesser forces have slipped away from the battle. No doubt seeking blood and bodies for the enemy’s war effort. Crowbend Castle will do its duty and stop the wolf at our door, but we cannot stop the fleas jumping from the mangy beast’s back. That task falls to you, who receive this message. Drive the infestation from your lands, and when all that is unholy is cleaned by fire and iron, bring your swords to Crowbend. With the enemy within and without dealt with, the full wrath of our land can fall upon the monster's army!”

Then, as if nothing strange had happened, the bird shut its beak and started pecking at the oats still held in the pigeoneer soldier’s open hand. The words were bombastic and fearsome, forewarning the lands of the Southern Marches, or Alidonar, as those with long memories called the region. But beneath the aristocratic pomp and confidence was a cry for help. Not a loud one, but still noticeable to those Lady Barbara would want answering it. More worrying, at least for Cole, was the no mention of Harmas’s predicament.

Something terrible was happening in the quarantined city, and word wasn’t being spread on sable wings. Perhaps the mistress of Crowbend Castle did not want to cause a panic if the city was indeed breached. In his long experience of calamity and terror, Cole knew full well how the quantity of disaster often affected people more than the severity. A single dread could be withstood, maybe even two or three, under the right circumstances. But once the number of threats and problems reached a breaking point, fear would rule in place of logic.

It didn’t matter if ignorance or caution was why Harmas went unmentioned; the lack of information was just another jagging unknown Cole needed to deal with. As One-fist started barking orders at his subordinates, Cole took advantage of the distraction and gently led Natalie toward the parked wagon. She clung to Cole, slightly clumsy as her flesh thawed out. The contrast between Natalie’s normally superhuman dexterity and her current shambling state distressed Cole. It was a physical testament to how fragile she was right now.

Reaching the relative privacy of the wagon and tents around it, Cole helped Natalie sit on a stump near the fading campfire. Kit, Alia, and Mina were elsewhere, so it was just the pair of Paladin and Vampire. Dipping his finger in ash from the campfire, Cole drew a crude circle around them and capped the ring with a rune of subtlety. Letting a few drops of his blood fall onto the arcane symbol, Cole shrouded them both in a cloak of disinterest.

Putting a hand upon hers, hating how bitterly cold she was, Cole asked Natalie. “What happened?”

Red eyes looked up at Cole, fear and shame welling up in the crimson pools. “I woke up the Rabisu. She’s been sleeping in my blood this entire time, and eating those two leeches roused her.”

Confusion and deep dread spread through Cole like poison, seeping further into him with every word Natalie spoke. In a whisper barely audible above the fort’s turmoil, she relayed her experiences of the bone pine and red rain. Eyes upon the fire, now unwilling to face Cole, Natalie spoke of the creature soaked in ancient sin, how it tore her apart and demanded answers about its dead son. It took a God’s power to free Natalie and rouse her into a scene of horrors she was responsible for. Natalie didn’t know why she attacked Yara or cracked Isabelle's skull. Perhaps the Rabisu took control of her flesh until Master Time intervened? It was another enigma gnawing at Natalie; Cole’s news about Yara and Isabelle barely distracted her from the lurking horror within.

“An ancilla? I guess that makes sense; Hedwig was ready to start experimenting with detoxifying potions and rituals before the Equinox. I’m glad Isabelle is alright, I… I need to apologize to her, Yara, and you.”

Gently squeezing Natalie’s hand, Cole reached up to cup the side of her face when his digits traced something bitterly cold. Peeking out of Natalie’s collar was a line of icy blackness. Pulling her attention to it, Cole watched as Natalie’s twitching fingers pulled at the leather armor, revealing her neck. Deep fear filled Natalie’s voice as she showed the skin to Cole and asked. “What?”

Eyes locked on his lover’s throat, Cole whispered. “The stigma, something is wrong with it.”

The silver lines of Natalie’s mark warred with another pattern, a set of black lines with tiny branches coming off it. The lines ran up and down Natalie’s neck, stretching a few finger widths beyond the Maze of Moments before fading. Anatomical knowledge, both earned and gifted told Cole he was seeing the main blood vessels of Natalie’s neck, now painted in the deepest ebony. Describing what he saw, Cole's heart cracked upon seeing the despair bloom behind Natalie’s eyes.

Collecting a small steel-backed mirror from the wagon, Natalie examined the onyx lines, a shuddering breath escaping her pale lips. “The Rabisu’s skin was like that; I could see every artery, vein, and capillary.”

Staring at the tainted blood vessels and the stigma covering them, Cole said. “I think the Maze of Moments is containing whatever this is.”

Tracing the silver lines of the holy mark, Natalie muttered. “But we don’t know how well or for how long.”

Fixing her collar, ensuring the twin marks were hidden, Natalie looked toward the fort’s infirmary. “Devouring the Baron and Dame is what awoke her. I can’t risk feeding on any more Vampires; I’ll just need to go back to deer and… well, you.”

There was another blood source available, one Natalie was thinking about but unwilling to mention: Yara. Cole could see the concern on her face and didn’t know how to help. Still, as he always did, Cole would try his best. “It will be some time before she wakes up. Let's get you out of your armor and wash the battle off of us both.”

Nodding, Natalie stepped close and put her hands on Cole’s chest, staring up into his blue eyes with funereal solemnity. “Cole, remember what I asked of you before we left Glockmire?”

Cole’s face hardened, and he started to speak, but Natalie cut him off. “I won’t become a monster; I won’t end up like Petar or any other of those evil jaggers. Cole, you promised not just to protect me but to protect everyone from me. Please, if the stigma fails, if she takes control, stop her at any cost!”

Grabbing Cole’s hands and pulling them to her chest, Natalie reiterated her point, a slight tremor to her voice. “At any cost.”

Seeing the desperation and fear in Natalie’s face, Cole let his head dip in ascent. She hugged him fiercely then, her strength returning enough to remind Cole of his damaged ribs. Wincing, he gently peeled Natalie off of him and shushed her apologies. “I’m okay, and you will be as well.”

Cole could tell Natalie didn’t believe his words, but that didn’t stop him from saying them. She might not have any faith in herself or the powers protecting her, but Cole did. If the worst came to pass, he’d stop the monster she might become, but the strength of mortals, immortals and a God stood ready to keep Natalie from falling onto that fell path. Yet, the fact Natalie was scared enough to even ask for Cole’s ‘assurances’ spoke volumes about how wounded she was.

The Rabisu’s awakening and Yara’s near-exsanguination cracked Natalie’s confidence and self-belief. Her fears of becoming a monster, either from slow corruption or violent possession, were much less hypothetical after all this. The woman Cole loved was scared, so utterly frightened of what could be that she’d make contingencies to cut her own future short. Old pains met with new ones, and Cole leaned down, his forehead pressed against Natalie’s. He didn’t know what to say, or at least what words to choose, so Cole let his presence and touch speak for him.

It was the second day after Marcus and his ‘allies’ crossed the Alidon using an abandoned fishing boat. They had floated downstream for a few kilometers before landing, seeking to hide their small band from enemy eyes. Bereft of servants or steeds, the stone hunters traveled light and only stopped when day forced them to. Without Alukah blood, the three Vampires of the coterie needed secure nests to survive the sun. An abandoned hunting lodge in the Alidonian foothills now served that purpose. Surrounded by thick forest and barely connected to civilization by a dirt path, the lodge wasn’t much more than an extravagant cabin, but its deep stone cellar was perfect for hiding leeches.

Standing out front of the lodge, Marcus stared out at the forest, his senses peeled for any possible threat. Of the coterie, Marcus alone didn’t need to sleep, so standing watch fell to him. So, as if reality wished to twist the knife deeper, the former Pankrator found himself guarding not the weak and innocent but the cruel and monstrous. Trying to distract himself from that bitter irony, Marcus let his vision sweep across the nearby trees, looking for his fellow watchmen. The spheres of green fire he called eyes did not see like his true eyes had. They didn’t just drink in light, but the Aether as well, letting Marcus see the flows of magic in a limited form. Looking between the trees, seeing gentle arcane currents trace a path through the forest, Marcus could almost relax and forget why his eyes held this gift. But finally spotting the other watchmen, Marcus was forced to let the delusion fade.

Burning in the Aether with dull predatory intent, an owl flew past the lodge, making another lap of the surrounding forest before resting. Shimmers of simple emotion and animal thought trailed after the bird, like tongues of flame following a shooting star. Marcus could feel his fire reaching out, eager to taste the owl’s Soul. Resisting the urge, Marcus decided it was time to do his own lap around the lodge. Stepping onto mossy soil, hating how he’d never feel the springiness beneath his bare feet again, Marcus circled the cabin, looking for any threat or abnormality.

When Marcus approached the lodge’s main door on his third lap, he found someone waiting for him. Cleanor the Lamia stood in front of the cabin, arms crossed in annoyance. Stopping before her, Marcus stood silently, wondering what the monstrous bitch wanted. Cocking an eyebrow, Cleanor snapped. “Must you go marching about like a military parade? I can’t sleep with the clatter of armor circling me like that.”

Instead of responding, Marcus kept walking, turning his back on the beautiful predator. She hissed in annoyance but didn’t follow, leaving Marcus to continue his laps. A faint weariness and persistent hunger flowed from the Lamia, tainting the Aether around her and taunting Marcus. If he touched her spiritual stain, he could track Cleanor across continents. His flames would lust after her Soul until he consumed the Lamia or Marcus truly died. But as much as Marcus wanted to burn and break the man-eating creature, he wasn’t allowed to harm her or any other member of the coterie without sufficient reason. No, his ability to track and destroy was saved for another quarry, Cole, and his band.

That thought led Marcus to the questions he’d been stewing on whenever prying minds weren’t around. The Vampires seemed obsessed with stopping the Sage Stone from reaching Harmas, which confused Marcus slightly. His decoy fleet was supposed to head towards the lost city and help keep the quarantine, acting as a distraction while the Priestess and Vampire moved the stone down to Fort Erdom. But for some reason, despite tearing through every other facet of the deception, the Leechs continued to believe Harmas was the Stone’s destination. Why weren’t they concerned about the more obvious threat of the plague’s cure reaching Prince Franz’s host?

Then there was the matter of Cole and what the Leechs believed him to be. Marcus had fought Homunculi before, wretched artificial bodies inhabited by conjured Demons. Those malformed flesh puppets weren’t anything like Cole. But, from what he’d seen of Natalie the Alukah, she didn’t much match his experience with Vampires either. Perhaps Master Time collected a pair of abnormal monsters and sought to do good through them? Yes, that seemed the sort of thing the Tenth God would do.

But of all his musings, none brought Marcus as much confusion and trepidation as the matter of Fransesco Scapin. The Leechs seemed to think the Moroi spy was somehow turned by Cole, giving the Paladin much more credit than perhaps he was due. Cole was a good sort, a man or… well, creature Marcus could respect, but not exactly the calculating mastermind the Leechs seemed to think. Perhaps they needed to assume any being capable of besting them multiple times was some scheming devil, not just a hard bastard with a cause worth fighting for.

Argentari hadn’t shared all the details with Marcus, but he was among the collection of Hierophants informed of the possible ‘third party’ involved in events at the Solstice Ball. Marcus knew Scapin was an Ashborn and that he’d escaped Vindabon; both secrets kept hidden by the powers of the city-state. Publicly known information about Scapin’s fate was deliberately sparse; the canny folk of the Fifth Temple did much to ensure details about a literal Demonic incursion didn’t spread. No, it was better to have people focused on Cole’s heroic duel with Dietrich to defend Natalie rather than all the other messier facts. The Vampires probably still heard whispers, and Marcus would bet good coin some of their spies attended the ball, but he’d also wager a greater sum the type of filth who’d betray the living weren’t the type to stay around to watch a disaster unfold. From the limited information he’d gleaned from the Leechs, Marcus was starting to think they didn’t know what Scapin was.

While no spymaster, Marcus knew the value of secrets and how his knowledge might be a poisoned pill for the monsters who enslaved him. But just like most options available to him these days, that weapon was limited and dangerous. The Pankrator-turned-Dullahan needed to find the perfect chance to sow confusion and paranoia.

Approaching the front of the lodge again, Marcus was pulled from his musings by foreign emotions. A plume of controlled fear and deadly focus caught the Dullahan’s attention. Turning to face the copse of trees where something intelligent hid, Marcus slowly walked forward. Emphasizing his heavy footfalls and slowly drawing his sword so its ugly steel shone in the spring sunlight, Marcus offered a silent prayer to a God who couldn’t hear him anymore. Someone found the cabin, and Marcus needed to scare them away before his orders demanded the interloper’s elimination.

Moving so his armored boots made as much noise as possible, Marcus watched the emotional discharge of whoever was unlucky enough to stumble upon the abandoned lodge. As he drew closer, Marcus paused, realizing he’d misjudged. The fear and focus he’d thought coming from a one, came from many. It wasn’t a single nervous Soul hiding in the brush, but half a dozen seasoned killers. As that fact sunk into Marcus, his body responded, not as he wished, but how his masters would.

Surging forward, Marcus roared a battle cry, alerting Cleanor and the other watchers to the assault. A volley of arrows whistled from the forest, and the Dullahan lept behind a tree to dodge them. Loath as he was to admit it, Marcus was faster as a corpse and managed to avoid most of the arrows. Three stuck into his left flank, the sharp bodkin tips sinking into his armor and bringing an itching pain with them. Reaching down, Marcus ripped the shafts free, noting the shining silver of the arrowheads. The silvered steel wasn’t the weapon of bandits or common soldiers; hunters of monsters had come for Marcus.

A surge of hope filled the Dullahan, hope of an honorable end that might leave his fellow horrors exposed. But as much as Marcus wanted to lay down his arms and accept mercy, his cursed bones had other ideas. Warrior skills honed over a lifetime were put to work by the evil fire animating him.

Marcus stepped back from the tree he used as cover and drove his sword into the old elm, hacking halfway through its trunk with a single solid blow. Pulling his weapon up and out, Marcus slammed his full might into the damaged tree. Unliving might clashed with cracked wood and the elm tree toppled in the direction of Marcus’s attackers. As the old tree fell, Marcus watched as his ambushers scattered. Only the tree's highest branches would strike the hunters, but even the maddest woodsmen would balk at standing in a falling tree’s path.

Splitting up, the enemy squad took positions, forming a wide arch around Marcus. He guessed he’d caught them unprepared, probably while discussing what to do about the cabin, but now, after his counter-attack, the enemy spaced themselves correctly. Marcus, the man, just wanted the scouts, or whoever they were, to run, report back to their commanders, and return with a force capable of killing him. Marcus, the monster, wouldn’t give the enemy that opportunity, nor would his ‘ally.’

Cleanor surged through the forest, slithering towards the foe with nightmarish speed. In her wake, Marcus could see a mix of wild, predatory joy, ravenous hunger, and other more disgusting emotions. A cold, terrible realization filled Marcus then; he needed to kill these soldiers, not just because the magic binding him willed it, but to save them from a worse fate than his steel.

Smashing through the undergrowth, Marcus rushed towards the nearest enemy. Knocking an arrow from the air with a quicksilver strike, Marcus saw his foe’s trepidation boil into true fear. This close, Marcus could see his opponent was a ruggedly dressed ranger, his forest-stained clothes hiding him from all but the keenest eyes. Quickly slinging his bow over his shoulder, the Ranger drew a sword and turned away from Marcus, fleeing deeper into the brush.

Pursuing the ranger, Marcus gripped his sword in both hands, hoping his overwhelming strength would give this brave hunter a quick death. Quick as a fleeing doe, the ranger slipped between obstacles that Marcus just plowed through. Eyes fixed on his quarry, Marcus didn’t see the trap until he encountered it.

Ankle catching on a length of sturdy cord running between two trees, Marcus slammed into the damp forest floor. A nearby voice spoke familiar but alien words, and Marcus felt himself sink into the ground. Pushing against the mud-like soil, Marcus managed to flip himself over but quickly lost any traction. Rubbing away the mud covering his helmet, Marcus looked up to see the ranger standing above him, his sword held in a grip of mercy. Lunging down, the ranger drove his silvered blade into Marcus’s neck, punching through the armor and striking empty air.

The ranger had enough time to look shocked before Marcus’s free hand grabbed his sword arm and squeezed. Bones snapped, and the ranger started screaming as Marcus pulled him into the mud. Finally, yanking his other arm free of the bewitched forest floor, Marcus brought his sword up and slammed its pommel into the stunned soldier. Thanks to the poor leverage, it took Marcus three blows to drive the weighted end of his weapon into the ranger’s brain.

Yanking the pommel free of his foe’s skull, Marcus used his sword and the dead weight of his newest victim to pull free of the mud. Screams in the distance prevented Marcus from even offering an apology or prayer for the courageous and clever man he just killed. The magic shackling Marcus forced him towards the screams, his eyes now searching for other snares and traps.

Twenty meters away, Marcus found an ugly melee between men and monster, a fight he had to join on the wrong side. Four rangers surrounded Cleanor, bringing swords and axes against the whirling serpent. Another of the rangers lay on the ground twitching, his guts and lifeblood pooling around him. The Lamia faced a team of skilled swordsmen, and judging by the dying man, she was winning. Taking a moment to end the disemboweled warrior’s suffering, Marcus joined the fight. Coming from behind, he swung his filthy longsword at one of the ranger’s back. With surprising speed, the ranger turned to deflect Marcus’s cut. Cleanor lunged forward to take the distracted soldier’s head, but his comrades covered his distraction. These rangers were used to fighting as a team and would not die easily.

Taking advantage of Marcus’s arrival, Cleanor retreated a little to protect her flanks from encirclement. Reared up on her scaled lower body, Cleanor lashed like a cracking whip. Twin scimitars seeking warm flesh in a storm of lighting cuts. Now divided between two threats, the four surviving soldiers changed tactics. Two continued to keep Cleanor at bay, while the third faced Marcus, and the fourth pulled back slightly. At first, Marcus thought the fourth ranger, a swarthy fellow with heavy eyebrows, was retreating, but as he pulled something from his belt, the Dullahan realized the truth. The fourth ranger brandished a carved piece of antler and shouted arcane words.

“KORKOS! KERWOS KELDO!”

The forest floor at the ranger-shaman’s feet bucked and surged as an animal shape pulled itself from the ground. Mud-covered rock armored with old bark took the form of a large stag, its horns sculpted from curling tree roots. This was a Spirit of the forest, called into physical form to kill Marcus and Cleanor. As much as the former Pankrator would gladly fall to the incarnation, his orders did not allow him. Knocking his ranger opponent back, Marcus charged the stag-spirit. The forest anima responded in kind, its horns growing to larger, more intricate antlers with every moment. As the Spirit bent its head to impale Marcus on its enchanted rack, the Dullahan dived forward onto one knee, going beneath the anima’s head.

Cursed steel and bone met bewitched wood and stone as Marcus let the Spirit drive itself onto his blade. Furious hoofs flailed at Marcus, smashing against his armor and even cracking one of his bone pauldrons. Forcing his fire into his blade and twisting the sword, Marcus pushed upwards, impaling the incarnate Spirit and letting his cursed flames burn through it. Twisting his weight and throwing the stag-spirit to the side and off his blade, Marcus prepared to strike off the incarnation’s head.

A length of silvered steel went through the back of Marcus’s knee, going clean through the joint and kneecap, only stopping at his armored poleyn. Spinning about on his functional leg, hating the feeling of silver against his bones, Marcus swung his longsword in a great diagonal cut, catching the ranger who wounded him. The furious blow cut through the ranger’s light leather armor and split the man in two. As blood and body parts fell to the ground, Marcus tried to turn his attention back to the stag and its summoner.

The Shaman was breathing heavily, a sword gripped in one hand, the carved antler in the other. Dappled sunlight without an apparent source shone along both tools of battle, and Marcus wasn’t eager to taste what that radiance would do to him. At its partner’s side, the stag-spirit looked wretched as green fire burned through its body. Pawing at the ground, antlers aimed at Marcus, the injured anima still wanted a fight. Even damaged, it was still probably the greater threat, so it would die first.

Feeling his flames finish consuming the bisected ranger, Marcus held up his free hand and let fire coalesce into his palm. A spray of sickly emerald death shot forward in waves of crackling hate as Marcus charged the stag. In response, the Spirit put itself between Marcus and its summoner, conjuring a ward to crown its antlers and stop the fire. Dark magic smashed against a spirit's will, and as they clashed, Marcus sprung his own trap, turning back to Cleanor and her opponents.

Coming from the side, Marcus swung his longsword at one of the rangers, taking the man's head from his shoulders, freeing Cleanor’s second scimitar to slash out for the other ranger’s arm. Severed head and limb fell to the ground while blood met soil, creating iron mud. Finishing off the maimed soldier, Cleanor turned on the shaman and his stag. Pointing her blade at the grim-looking survivor, the Lamia said. “He’s mine.”

Shooting forward, Cleanor made a noise between a growl and a giggle. Dodging the flailing stag, she set upon the shaman, leaving Marcus to deal with the dying Spirit. Rushing forward, fearing for the man he hoped to kill, the Dullahan grabbed one of the stag’s antlers as it swung the great rack back and forth to ward him away. Ignoring how the magic coursing through the repurposed roots burned his hand, Marcus drove his longsword into the stag’s throat and up through its skull. Yanking with one hand and cutting with the other, Marcus tore the stag’s head off, then sent another lash of flame to feast upon its decapitated body.

Stepping past the burning stag-spirt, Marcus found what he’d feared. The shaman’s weapons had been knocked away, and he was trapped in Cleanor’s coils. To Marcus’s disgust and horror, the defeated soldier and monster were kissing. Cleanor’s taloned hands held the captured shaman’s head, and they locked lips with terrible passion. Drops of fresh blood dribbled from their mouths, coming from the tiny fang punctures in the shaman’s tongue and lips. Tears streamed down the shaman’s face even as his body was limp, and a rapturous smile crossed his blood-stained face.

Feeling fire ignite along his sword, Marcus growled. “Let him go.”

Turning away from her victim, panting heavily, eyes smoldering, nipples pressing through her sheer top, the Lamia licked the blood from her lips. “No, I’ve not enjoyed myself in far too long, and this proved his merit. Return to the lodge and keep watch; more ambushers might be skulking about.”

Unable to raise his blade against the Lamia, Marcus turned away from the doomed man and walked through the disturbed forest. Finding one of the dead rangers, Marcus dragged the body back with him towards the cabin. As he walked, Marcus tried to focus on the wet dragging sound of a corpse on soil, not what was happening behind him. Sensual moans and gasps floated through the forest, and on hearing them, Marcus wished he could still vomit.

Laying the ranger out, Marcus started to examine the body as the moans grew louder and louder. It didn’t take the former Pankrator long to find the soldier’s badge. A disk of marked steel hung from the corpse’s neck and revealed his identity.

‘Scout Boros Gabor of the Soot Hawks.’

Marcus knew of the order by reputation. Skilled trackers and killers, the Soot Hawks hunted monsters who crossed the border into the Southern Marches from the Duchies. It fell to them to dispatch any rogue or ‘rogue’ Vampires who infiltrated these wilds. While this squad of specialists might have been merely patrolling these lands in search of unliving infiltrators, Marcus somehow doubted that was the full story. His wretched band of monsters just randomly encountering an elite team of monster hunters? No, that smelled of enemy action; Marcus just didn’t know who or what the enemy was.

The distant sounds of pleasure coming from the forest grew into shouts of ecstasy, and Marcus wished he could cover his ears. But without a head, all the Dullahan could do was clean his sword using the dead Soot Hawk’s gear. The noise of whetstone on steel didn’t do much to block out what was about to happen, but the rhythmic familiar action distracted Marcus.

A horrible scream filled the warm spring air, a high, raw-throated wail of terror and pain that carried on for what felt like an eternity. As the scream died, it was replaced with quieter, more frantic howls that steadily weakened with every passing moment. When finally the wails stopped, Marcus looked at the dead soldier's badge and offered a silent prayer. He didn’t pray for mercy or forgiveness; Marcus prayed for better warriors. Warriors who could end him and the monsters he served with, ending the pain their cruel hungers inflicted.

Looking up from the badge, Marcus saw a content-looking Cleanor exit the forest, a sway to her hips and blood all across her front. Seeing how the beautiful predator licked her lips and sighed in half-remembered pleasure, Marcus squeezed the badge till it was scrap. Marcus didn’t want mercy anymore; he didn’t deserve it; he wanted fire and iron to strike down these abominations.