The Homunculus Knight

Prologue: Coming to a Boil.

“Thank you, my liege; your notes from the Silva collection have proven most useful. Despite the destruction of the section dealing with Homunculi, the remaining material has helped us make numerous breakthroughs in concocting the new plague strain. We might not be able to grow corpses as we desired, but we can quickly and effectively claim entire mortal populations for the same purpose.” - Letter from Lord Aloysius Wolfgang to Voivode Igori Gens Suillia.

- Four Months after the Solstice Ball -

:: Fort Carnun, the border between Norica and the Southern Marches ::

Sergeant Varga was not enjoying his promotion. He’d been elevated from a mere infantryman by merit of his experience and nothing else. Recently forced into commanding a troop of foot soldiers, Varga was among the dozens of new officers in the ‘Stew Legion.’ Composed of fresh greens and old meat, the Stew Legion was something of a joke in the Vindabon army. Being a mix of career garrisons and barely trained recruits, now put together and served up wherever the war needed more bodies.

Currently, the Stew was poured into Fort Carnun, once a mighty fortress of the old empire, now reduced to a pile of crumbling stones. The fortress watched over the imperial road and the Alidon River. Its moss-stained walls marked the boundary between Norica and the Marches. As the War raged in the south, the venerable castrum found new life holding the Stew, now assigned as border guards and garrison to the surrounding Marovian plain.

Despite Captain One-Fist’s best efforts to fix up the old fortress, it didn’t look much better than when the Legion first arrived. The south and east walls had major breaches, barely filled by wooden palisades. The defensive ditches were little more than marshland, filled with spring rains and the season's first crop of mosquitos. As for the actual buildings, not much was better. Fort Carnun had seen other garrisons come and go since the Day of the Black Sun, and many had tried to keep parts of the structure intact. But time, war, and the weather left their mark.

Varga knew this truth intimately as he walked along the south wall, trying to avoid unstable stone and slick patches while making his rounds. His troop of twenty soldiers was assigned to the south wall this evening, and he did consistent laps along the crumbling battlement. If any of the green boys or grey men assigned to him screwed up, that would fall on him. So Varga was making damn well sure they were as awake and alert as possible.

Stepping into one of the corner watch towers, Varga climbed the ladder, ignoring his knees protest as he did. Reaching the top, he found Aquo standing at attention, looking out across the nearby fields with the bored disinterest of any good soldier. Aquo had good eyes and a decent head on her shoulders. Attributes enough for Varga to assign her to the southeast tower. She would probably become a scout once the Stew’s greens were dolled out to other legions and cohorts, but for now, Aquo was Varga’s best lookout.

“See anything, soldier?” he growled after returning the watchwoman’s quick salute.

Aquo shrugged. “A strange bird while back, but that's about it.”

Nodding, Varga peered out across the plains and asked. “Why was it strange?”

Shrugging again, Aquo said. “Didn’t fly right, flapped its wings jerkily, and had trouble catching thermals. It was probably sick; I’ll try and shoot it down for you if I see it again.”

Varga grunted his agreement. “See that you do; keep up the good work, soldier.”

Sliding down the ladder and continuing his patrol, Varga watched the sky for strange birds. He didn’t think animals could catch the plague, but he also never thought he’d end up a sergeant either. It was best to be cautious and expect luck to bugger him. That philosophy had kept Varga alive through everything and might keep him that way till retirement.

Balancing across the replacement palisade’s thin wooden battlement, Varga wondered at the solid stone of the surviving fort. It had to be more than a thousand years old, and despite everything, much of the wall was intact. Not well-kept by any stretch of the imagination, but intact. Wide enough for four soldiers to march abreast, the wall always made Varga wonder about the empire and its secrets. The nearest decent quarry was a few days' ride; moving so much good stone here must have taken a brutal amount of work.

Pausing outside the gatehouse, Varga slid a hand along the crenellations and wondered how many generations of poor dumb infantry had done the same as him. Shaking his head, Varga checked on the soldiers manning the gatehouse and laughed at his own musings. He must be getting melancholic in his ‘old’ age. Despite not even being forty, he was one of the eldest people in the fortress. Something his spry greens never failed to remind him with their working knees and flexible backs.

Out of the gatehouse, Varga stopped to look over the wall and to the defensive ponds. A crew of unlucky bastards who’d been caught in some fuck up were busy digging drainage ditches, hoping to turn the ponds back into proper obstacles, not mosquito hatcheries. Part of One-fist’s attempts to keep the garrison busy and fix up the fort. Seeing the poor jaggers fight muddy soil and biting insects, Varga went back to ensuring his own soldiers weren’t in the middle of fucking up.

A sharp whistle from the southeast tower cut through the spring twilight then, and Varga frowned. Jogging back along the path he’d just taken, Varga reached the tower and found a nervous-looking Aquo staring out at the plains.

Well-tested instincts put Varga instantly on edge. “You shoot the bird down?”

Shaking her head, Aquo spat. “It wasn’t no bird, it got closer, and I saw its wings. It was a bat, a big jagging bat.”

Aquo was a good kid who’d spent her childhood hunting small game in the woods near her village. If she said it was a bat, then it was a bat. Cursing under his breath, Varga said. “Keep an eye out; if you see anything more, whistle again. “

Leaving the tower, Varga found the nearest watchman and sent him to the Captain with this news. Trying to sound unbothered as he did. “It’s probably nothing, but paranoia never killed anyone.”

The watchman didn’t believe Varga’s words, which the Sergeant couldn’t blame; he didn’t believe them either. As the green boy ran towards the nearest staircase, Varga looked across the wall and fingered the whistle hanging from his neck. Direbats during the day meant one thing, something was scouting them. Of course, the accursed thing could be actually sick or gone mad after its master died. Varga had heard stories of the like, but the Sergeant knew that wouldn’t be the case; fortune just wasn’t that nice.

Peering out across the fields, willing for any sign of the enemy, Varga almost welcomed the screams when they came. Reflex carried Varga’s whistle to his mouth, and three short shrieks came from the carved wood. In a heartbeat, the call was repeated all across the fort as the message of danger traveled. Before his whistle had finished echoing off the walls, Varga ran for the gatehouse. He found two nervous-looking soldiers ready to drop the gate.

“STOP! We still have people out there; we need to let them get inside before we lock down!”

The soldiers stepped away from the latch that would have let the portcullis slam down and looked to Varga for orders. “Prepare to drop it when I give the signal, but not before.”

Striding past them, Varga looked out through the arrow slits and watched with relief as the ditch diggers hurried for the gate. More screams cut through the twilight, and Varga felt his stomach drop as shapes crested the nearest rise and came into view. A crowd of people was running towards the fortress. Moving with jerky frantic movements, a near-constant chorus of screams came from them.

Letting out a breath, Varga cursed. “Jagged heart and crooked cock….”

They were under attack; a herd of Screamers was headed their way. Turning to the two gate guards, Varga barked. “Rosen, you find the captain and tell him we have at least a hundred Screamers headed our way, and that's just the enemy vanguard. Klement, you run the wall and make sure everyone knows we are under attack and they are prepared to fight. NOW GO!”

The two gate guards reacted quickly and left Varga alone. Grinding his teeth, Varga watched as the ditch diggers ran full force towards the open gate. The crews working the first and second ditches made it in, but the third group was slowed down. Squinting, Varga tried to figure out why. Someone must have tripped and been injured, with his fellows now carrying him. The fact they hadn’t left the dumb fuck made Varga proud of the greens. He silently urged them on as the group pushed forward as fast as possible. It was ten soldiers, four of them helping the injured man, the other six forming a rear guard. Armed with shovels and axes, they weren’t equipped for a fight but were still (reasonably) well-trained soldiers.

The Screamers were closing in fast, loping along the ground like rabid dogs scenting blood. One of the monsters was pulling ahead of the pack, its arms flailing and legs pumping in a display almost comical. An arrow whistled from the wall and struck the faster Screamer. Fresh red blood sprayed out of the monster’s chest, and it stumbled. Varga watched as squirts of crimson pumped out of the thing as it tried to keep moving. Its over-active heart spewing life like some morbid fountain. The struck Screamer was quickly trampled by the rest of its pack, and more arrows flew into the swarm. Whoever was shooting was skilled, but the arrows were like pissing on a house fire.

The final group of ditch diggers was hurrying at fast as they could, they were a few seconds from the gate, but another of them tripped and twisted his ankle on the uneven, muddy ground. The unlucky fuck was part of the rearguard, and his comrades didn’t notice until they were half a dozen steps closer to the gate. They hesitated, and Varga did something he’d think about for the rest of his life.

“KEEP MOVING! YOU ARE ALMOST SAFE!”

With the tacit consent of a superior officer, they abandoned the fallen soldier and bolted for the gate. From his vantage spot, Varga could see a few of them hesitate for a moment longer but fear won the day. Varga couldn’t blame them; the chorus of screams had grown into a solid roar. Even if they couldn’t see what Varga could, the ditch diggers knew what was coming. The hundred Screamers Varga first saw had grown closer to a thousand. A tide of bodies would soon crash against the walls like a flood.

The ditch diggers made it inside, and Varga yanked on the latch, sending the steel portcullis slamming down behind them. Returning to the window, Varga forced himself to watch what was about to happen. The screams of the tripped soldier were buried beneath the monster’s chorus, but Varga could see the green soldier try to drag himself towards the already shut gate. Four arrows flew through the air and struck the fallen man. Shutting his eyes in relief, Varga locked the gate winch and went to the weapons rack in the gatehouse. Picking out a long two-pronged pike, Varga went to lead his soldiers.

The walls were packed with soldiers, many carried long pikes like Varga, but others held maces, swords, war hammers, and bows. Looking over the battlement, Varga watched as the Screamers slammed into the portcullis. He’d hoped the solid silver studs built into the gate would deter them, but the Screamers weren’t true monsters. That was part of what made them so damned horrible; they weren’t undead or some breed of magical mutant. Screamers were people infected by the plague. Varga didn’t know the details; just if a Priest didn’t intervene fast enough, anyone touched by the Screamers became a Screamer.

A roar and flash caught Varga’s attention. Looking towards the gate, he saw scorched bodies tumble back and a plume of smoke billow out from the portcullis. One of the Battlemages had been roused and spewed fire into the horde. Pushed away by the Magi’s efforts, the Screamers moved to the next path of least resistance, the breached wall and its wooden palisade. Cursing, Varga barked orders and collected a squad to hold the makeshift fortification.

The solid wood filling the gap creaked as a mass of bodies slammed into it and tried to climb up it. Unlike Ghouls, the Screamers were reasonably agile, even more so than fucking Grinners. But as they tried to scrabble up the chipped wood, they found Vindabonian steel waiting for them. Pikes pushed against the Screamers, dislodging them from the walls and stopping them from forming a flesh ramp. While swords, axes, and hammers hacked away at any who slipped past the long pikes. It was cold, methodical work, closer to butchering animals than actual combat. Except these animals were people who screamed and cried as they died.

More than once, one of the defenders hesitated or shied away from the Screamers. Varga could understand it but couldn’t tolerate it. Whenever a weak link formed, he would grab the soldier and shove them back, ordering another to take their place. At least a thousand Screamers assaulted the wall, but they would hold as long as they could defend the palisade. Severely undermanned, the Stew Legion was a little more than two thousand sword arms. Combine that with the advantage of walls and magic; they could easily win this.

The butchery went on for over an hour, the tide of Screamers bashing themselves against the wall like storm winds against the coast. Even Varga was starting to be worn down by it. He knew never to let his eyes rest on an enemy for long. But after an hour of heavy fighting, with only breaks to drink water and receive a Priestly blessing against the plague, Varga found himself remembering flickers of his foe. Desperate screaming faces, with bloodshot eyes, foaming mouths, and wasted bodies marked with black sores. The Screamers were twisted just enough to be disturbing but not enough to be unrecognizable. They were sick people, reduced to attack animals by the true enemy.

Down off the wall, sitting on a bench, Varga sharpened his sword and tried not to think about how many people he’d killed today. His pike had snapped off inside a Screamer, and he’d been forced to use his blade. The screams of the monsters were loud enough to make thinking difficult, and Varga was almost thankful for that. Looking around the camp, he saw injured soldiers being bandaged and blessed, one of the battlemages splayed out on the ground, snoring heavily, and an ever-rotating line of warriors manning the walls.

A shout, barely audible from nearby, caught Varga’s attention. Captain One-fist had joined him. The old soldier was smiling up at the walls, no, not smiling, bearing his teeth. Yelling to be heard over the screams, One-fist said. “The greens are growing nicely, aren’t they? A regular bumper crop of soldiers, this lot!”

Varga understood the words weren’t truly meant for him. Morale was teetering even though they were winning. The public approval of two old veterans, both known to be hardasses, would tip the balance. “Aye, they are, sir. They aren’t little sprigs anymore. I think we got a buncha of green oaks growing.”

Raising up his remaining hand, One-fist roared, “WELL SAID! Let’s finish this with strong arms and strong steel!”

No cheer went up from the soldiers, but they held themselves a little higher. One-fist and Varga exchanged nods, and the captain continued his rounds. After he left, Varga pulled himself up and headed for the wall. Grabbing a fresh pike, he joined the soldiers on the stone part of the wall and continued the grim work of butchering Screamers.

The number of attackers hadn’t decreased as much as Varga had hoped. They’d cut through most of the actual Screamers, but by now, the secondary horror of the new plague was becoming apparent. Maybe half of the Screamers they killed rose again as Ghouls, whatever dark power influencing the plague speeding up their reanimation. So even as the screams faded, they were replaced by hungry, gurgling groans.

Varga stabbed his new pike into a Screamer, puncturing its lungs and yanking it close enough for one of his fellows to decapitate it. The soldiers on the walls were quickly adapting to this methodical combat style, and the number of injuries steadily decreased. Only three soldiers had been pulled over the wall to their deaths, but nearly a hundred had bites, scratches, and nicks from leaping Screamers. The Priests seemed confident quick healing would prevent people from becoming Screamers. Varga bloody hoped so, because he’d been splattered with Screamer blood and had his forearm raked by one pulling itself along his pike.

As twilight finally settled into night, torches were lit along the wall, and one of the Battlemages got some of the fort’s old glowstones working. Great beacons of warm amber light capped each of the watch towers and gatehouses. Giving the defenders enough illumination to keep up their grim work.

By now, the screams of the infected were fading as the enemy was reduced to ghouls and corpses. Varga’s ears were no longer filled with terrible wails, just his labored breathing and thundering heart. Pausing to wipe sweat from his brow, Varga realized something was wrong. He could hear a second drum beat matching his heart. Looking around, Varga tried to figure out if someone was setting a marching beat, then it dawned on him.

Cursing, he handed his pike to the next soldier in line and hurried to find the nearest battlemage. Benj, the young pyromancer who’d defended the gate, had woken from his earlier nap and seemed to be debating what to do. Reaching him, Varga gripped the boy and asked. “Can you create a flare? Something to help us see something in the distance?”

Confused, Benj nodded and was practically dragged toward the wall by Varga. Once there, the Sergeant noticed he wasn’t the only one who’d heard the new drum beat. Pointing in the direction of the noise, Varga asked. “Give me light as far into that dark as you can.”

Twiddling his fingers, Benj made a series of complicated gestures and picked up one of the wall-mounted torches. He blew on the flame with an exaggerated motion and whispered some arcane secret. The torch’s fire detached from the smoldering wood and grew into a head-sized sphere of incredible radiance. Benj reached out and flicked the globe, sending it hurtling into the night with incredible speed. As it flew, it only grew brighter and brighter, while the original wooded torch crumbled into ash as its flame became massive.

The light passed beyond the edge of the glowstone beacons and through the dark until the glint of metal showed. Benj stopped the sphere and swore at what it revealed. An army of plate-armored soldiers marched towards them in perfect lockstep. Varga let out a tired breath as the situation became clear. No soldier could march with parade perfection in the pitch black, or at least no living soldier.

At the edge of the light, something huge moved. Varga flinched back as a tree-trunk-sized limb swatted the fire out of existence, shrouding the advancing army in darkness once again. A curse escaped Varga, and he started giving orders.

“Sky’s balls… Alright! I want archers ready to loose.”

No one moved; Varga looked around to see the nerve of his soldiers reaching its limit. This was an army of Eternal Legionnaires, and everyone knew what commanded that kind of army. Just as Varga prepared to bellow more orders and try to get people moving, the stamping of armored feet and final cries of screamers were blotted out by another sound. Wings, countless wings flapping through the night air.

Drawing his sword, Varga cursed again and roared. “THEY ARE ATTACKING FROM ABOVE!”

No sooner had those words left his lips than the first dire bat struck. A rain of leather wings and needle fangs fell upon the soldiers, and with it came new chaos. Soldiers flailed against the bats, trying to knock away the mutant creatures with their weapons or hands. More screams erupted as comrades hit each other by accident. Varga screamed orders and tried to force some kind of order to avail. He watched as one soldier was knocked by another right off the wall and into the hungering Ghouls. Varga lunged forward, trying to catch the falling soldier but missed his hand, instead seeing the screaming man disappear beneath a carpet of dead flesh.

A brutal flash of light and searing heat exploded around them, making Varga and the other soldiers flinch; Benj had hucked a fireball straight into the swarm of dire bats, scattering them and forcing all the soldiers to stop whatever they were doing. The fire wasn’t particularly hot, and it faded fast, doing more to scorch eyebrows and dry skin than anything too dangerous. At least, that's what it did to the armored soldiers; wings and pelts didn’t react well to fire. Soon burning rodents rained down around them.

In the chaos of the bat attack, some of the ghouls and screamers started to climb the wall, using their bodies and those of the truly dead like a ramp. Clapping Benj on the back for his quick thinking, Varga managed to force some level of discipline back into the soldiers. With barked orders and putrid curses, he got one team working the wall and another covering them. The situation on the battlements was improving, but Varga feared the soldiers would break when the Rattlers came back into sight.

A deep rumbling bellow cut through the night and shook the fortress. The combat slowed as every soldier on the wall froze at the sound. The acrid smell of urine caught Varga’s attention, and he looked to see the soldier next to him had wet his breeches. It was a boy named Iskie, a tough kid from a mountain village, not someone you’d expect to lose their nerve.

But as Iskie’s lips trembled, words bubbled up from him, and Varga understood the boy's reaction. “D-D-Dire Bear!”

Great thundering steps drowned out everything as another bellow filled the night. Varga watched in mounting horror as a monster exploded out of the dark. Iskie was right; it was a Dire Bear, and the boy’s reaction was warranted. It was the size of a house, a solid wall of brown fur and muscle bounding forwards like an avalanche. But some twisted mind had decided a great beast of the forest wasn’t dangerous enough. The Dire Bear was dead, raised up as a ghoul, and armored in thick metal slabs. Finger-width thick steel plates were bolted to the Bear Ghoul’s flesh, while rune-carved metal encased its fangs and claws. At least its remaining fangs, the bear’s lower jaw had been ripped off by something Varga didn’t want to even imagine.

These details filled Sergent’s mind as he failed to grasp the enormity of the beast and its intentions. Shock, fear, and bewilderment pushed him to look at features, not comprehend what was about to happen. But Varga was a veteran; he’d seen a Giant die; he recovered quickly and realized what was about to happen.

“THE PALLISADE! GET OFF THE PALLISADE!”

A few soldiers looked at him, well-trained obedience winning over fear. But none reacted fast enough to stop what happened next. Varga watched, mouth open in horror as the Ghoul Bear smashed into the breached wall, splintering the wooden palisade and sending a dozen soldiers flying. Dozens more were at the base of the wall and turned into red smears by the attacking monster.

Before the last body could return to Vardis, the Ghoul Bear reared up onto its hind legs and let out a deafening roar; patches of its fur were missing, and black rotting blood poured down from its ruined mouth in a waterful of gore. Combing back down with an earth-shaking slam, it splattered more soldiers and started swiping out with wagon-sized paws. Arrows bounced off its armor, and the few that hit gaps went unnoticed. Nothing could stop it; the bear was a destroying devil sent to break the Stew Legion.

The clatter of armor and bones signaled the dead army's approach, and Varga spared the newly created gap a look. Just in time to see a shield wall of Legionnaires charge through the breach and spread out in the monster’s wake. Soldiers tried to group up and defend themselves, but any concentration of force caught the Ghoul Bear’s attention and died. Then as a final nail in the Stew Legion’s coffin, the bats returned, and wolves started to howl.

Hacking through the swarming dire-bats, Varga led the soldiers off the wall, it was breached, and there was no point in trying to hold it. Pointing at the rampaging monster, Varga asked Benj the Battlemage. “Can you do anything to stop that?”

A shrill laugh escaped the Battlemage, and he said. “Nope, but I can give us a better chance against the Rattlers.”

Arcane words and gestures spilled out of Benj. With a breath, he exhaled a stream of fire that split into countless crimson ribbons. Each ribbon went to a nearby soldier and wrapped around their weapon, cloaking swords, axes, pikes, and more in crackling flames.

Panting heavily, Benj said. “I can probably scare the bats away again, but that's about it.”

Nodding, Varga said. “Do it, then go find somewhere to… not die.”

Another flash of sparks exploded out from Benj, and the bats recoiled. Looking to the Ghoul-Bear, Varga saw the Legion Priests, Captain One-fist, and the other Battlemage trying to keep the monster occupied. Even with one arm, the Captain was an axe paragon and a tough old bastard to boot. Varga didn’t know if the Captain and his magical support could win against the monster, but he was their best option.

Pointing at the gap and the stream of Rattlers pushing in through it, Varga addressed his troops. “Alright, listen up; we need to take back the breach. We’ve got the enchanted weapons and good armor; we stand the best chance of plugging that hole. If we can, then our comrades can deal with the other undead and help the Captain kill that fucking bear. Some of us will die; that's just the fact of it, but if we don’t do this, all of us will die.”

The Stew Soldiers looked at each other and then at their flaming weapons. As one, they marched to hold the line and buy their fellows a little more time. Charging as one body, the troop smashed into the Rattlers and brought flaming steel against the undead. The Eternal Legionaries were strong, tough, and heavily armored but also slow in movement and reaction. They didn’t fight like warriors but like machines, clockwork soldiers who repeated the same strikes and blows with little variation and no creativity. Still, men and women of the Stew died to them, hacked apart by desecrated corpses clad in solid plate.

Roaring his fury, Varga brought his sword down on a Rattler’s neck and punched through the damaged armor there. The undead’s head sailed away, and Benj’s fire burnt the animating magic. As he fought, Varga realized many of the Legionnaires were badly damaged; their armor cracked or split, and some even lacked a limb.

Varga didn’t think about the deeper implications. He just relayed this to his comrades. “Hit them where the armor is damaged!”

A seemingly obvious suggestion but an important bit of information for scared soldiers way in over their heads. More rattlers started to fall, and the soldiers reached the breech. Picking up a dropped shield, Varga shoved the undead back and fought to keep the pressing tide of armored bodies away. Others joined him, and the Stew filled the gap the best they could. Thankfully, the rattlers inside the fortress were occupied and not trying to help their comrades. Letting the defenders focus on just holding the breech, using steel and muscle to defend what wood and rope once did.

The howling of wolves before them and the roaring of the Ghoul Bear behind them filled the defender’s ears as they clashed with the rattlers. Slowly it seemed they were somehow pushing the undead back. They’d started at the inside edge of the wall and were getting close to the outside edge. Varga knew this had to be too good to be true, and when the rattlers started to step back, forming into clear lines, he stopped his own soldiers from advancing. At first, he thought it was a feigned retreat meant to expose their flanks, but as the rattlers parted, the truth became clear.

Something else was coming out of the dark, a knight in black armor charging them, ghostly wolves following behind him. The knight didn’t wear a helmet, revealing his white hair and red eyes. Loping along the ground, holding a huge spear, the knight charged them impossibly fast, baying wolves at his heels. It was then Varga knew they’d lost, he could do a lot, but he couldn’t fight a Vampire.

Squeezing his sword so tight his knuckles creaked, Varga decided if he were to die, doing so, facing a vampire while holding a crucial gap was not a terrible way to go. It was so sickeningly heroic if anyone survived, they'd write songs about him. The other soldiers with him quailed at the coming monster, but they didn’t run. Varga had never been more proud of his greens than at that moment.

As the vampire closed, Varga saw the whites of its eyes and more than that. He thought, at first, the monster was snarling in blood-hungry rage, but now that it was closer, he saw the truth. It was afraid, utterly out of its mind with fear. One of the wolves pounced then, ghostly fangs sinking into the vampire’s calf and making it stumble. The other wraith wolves didn’t hesitate; they fell upon the vampire, snapping, tearing, and biting with all the vicious hunger a predator could muster.

The rattlers moved to help their master, and the wolves ceased their attack, instead falling upon the armored skeletons, ripping open metal joints and snapping bones with spectral jaws. The vampire crawled towards Varga for a few steps and then stopped. It turned to face the darkness and started pleading with something Varga couldn’t see.

“Please! Please! I surrender! I request a parlay! Take me hostage. I’m va-”

Part of the darkness detached from the night and struck the vampire. The monster let out a pained shriek as the shadow drained its life away. Varga could watch as the vampires shriveled up into naught but ash and bones. The shadow stepped over the dead vampire, and Varga couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a woman, a very pretty woman with long black hair and glowing red eyes.

The new vampire walked through the unmoving ranks of rattlers, letting the wolves tear them apart. Varga kept his weapon leveled at her, but the Vampire didn’t seem to notice him. She was busy looking past him towards the inside of the fort.

In a tired breathy voice, the new vampire cursed. “Jagged hearts, we are too late.”

At first, Varga thought he was speaking to her, but as another figure emerged out of the dark, he realized she had a companion. A fucking huge companion at that, an armored warrior clad in a black cloak holding a halberd.

The new figure walked up next to the vampire and pulled down his hood, revealing a horrifically scarred face. Something about the pair tickled a memory in Varga, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. Reaching to his neck, the huge man pulled at an amulet that shone with silver-blue light. The spectral wolves shied away from the illumination, and some of the closer Rattlers slumped slightly.

In a rumbling voice, the scarred warrior proclaimed. “I am Paladin Cole, servant of Master Time. Please let me pass so I can deal with the threat.”

Some of the soldiers let out relieved breaths, and more than a few muttered prayers to the gods as thanks for their aid. Varga wasn’t so convinced; something about the vampire and the paladin made him uneasy. Pointing his sword at the vampire, he asked. “What about her?”

The vampire reached down to pick up the skull of the other vampire she’d cannibalized. “I’m Natalie, and I fight for the living. We can talk later, but I think Cole needs to deal with that jagging bear before it kills more people.”

A scream and crunch from inside the fort punctuated her comment, and with a curse, Varga nodded. “Do what you can; just don’t leave our sight, vampire.”

Natalie rolled her eyes and whistled, calling up her pack of phantom wolves. The spectral creatures surrounded her, and with a gesture, she sent them loping out into the dark, questing after any stragglers. As they went, Varga blinked in surprise; one of the wolves wasn’t a wolf at all; it was a large farm dog.

Cole approached then, moving between the nervous soldiers and taking deep breaths as he did. Varga shivered at the Paladin’s passing and realized his breath was fogging. He wasn’t the only one either; wherever the Paladin walked, breath steamed, blood cooled, and sweat chilled. Varga watched as cold vapor streamed off the Paladin’s cloak and swirled over his armored body, layering him in icy fog. Cole’s halberd started to glow with cold silver-blue light, and he started to run towards the rampaging Ghoul-Bear.

Paladin Cole proclaimed in a voice like thunder, loud enough to drown out even the sounds of battle. “MAGNI! MORTAE! MUNDUS!”