Blood and Honor

At last, they came to a heavy wooden door bound in black iron. The elf unlocked it with another of his keys, locking it behind them. On the inside of the door, painted in red and black, was a demonic face, its mouth opened to reveal an array of jagged teeth.

“The Blood of Vol!” she breathed.

The elf smiled again. “Among others. The master has many such arrangements,” he said. “We like to think of ourselves as open-minded in religious matters.”

They came into a high, vaulted chamber, dominated by a huge stone sarcophagus on a stepped plinth. Around the edges of the room were several semi-circular apses, each holding a smaller coffin. Torches flickered in iron wall-sconces, casting fluid shadows on the dark velvet draperies, and on the pale figures that gathered around her. They wore a kind of uniform, but it was made of a nobleman’s silks and brocades rather than the leather and canvas of a soldier. Their eyes had a reddish tinge, matching their mouths, and they looked hungrily at her.

“Stand back!” ordered the elf. “This one is for your captain!” Hissing and cursing softly, the pale figures drew back. Brey could see their fangs clearly.

She jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder. The zombies relinquished their grip, and she found herself staring into a man’s face. It was hard and cruelly handsome, its hair and beard trimmed and oiled, and its eyes—she blinked and shook her head, turning away to avoid further eye contact.

“What have you brought me, Kylaer?” he said. “This one looks tastier than our usual fare.”

“A present from the master,” replied the elf. “A paladin from Thrane.”

The vampire threw back his head and laughed. “You must give him my thanks,” he said, “and my compliments on his wit!”

Brey struggled in vain. Strong hands held her fast as the fangs penetrated her neck. She prayed to the Silver Flame to take her soul.

Brey awoke in a small, dark space, her head throbbing and her whole body burning with a raging thirst. Summoned by her cries, a pale crowd lifted her out of the coffin and carried her gently to a couch where a terrified peasant girl lay trembling in chains. The others whispered that her former life was over, that the Silver Flame had abandoned her because of what she had become, that they were her family now. When she renounced them and reaffirmed her devotion to the Flame, they laughingly sent for her pendant. To her horror, she found she could no longer look at the holy symbol, and when she tried to touch it, it burned her flesh. Brey prayed and prayed, but the hunger was too strong; weeping red tears of shame and revulsion, she fed.

The months that followed were a waking nightmare. As much as she could, she fought the dark impulses that were growing within her, but when the bearded vampire commanded her, she was powerless to resist. She wore the same uniform as the others, with that same badge, and she went out with them by night and did unspeakable things.

They were a military unit in the army of Karrnath, she was told, under the command of the bearded one, whose name was Wultram. The complex where they rested by day—where she and her rangers had been brought as prisoners—was a laboratory, dedicated to the creation of new and more powerful undead troops for the Karrnathi cause. The vampire spawn were but one avenue of research; another had produced the spell-casting zombies that had captured her, and still other projects were under way. Overseeing everything was the one Kylaer had called the master—an elf whose name was Marbulin Dravuliel, a necromancer who had sold his services to King Kaius and his defilers of the grave.

When they were not carrying out their atrocities, the vampire spawn were kept in the vaulted room, which Brey learned was the base of a tower. Above them was a ruined Cyran fortress, now abandoned. Only Wultram habitually left the chamber, apparently to confer with Dravuliel and receive his orders. She tried to sneak out—with the vague idea of escaping, or finding her rangers, or both—but was always stopped by the Blood of Vol symbol on the inside of the main door. Apparently it had the same effect on her new comrades as well, though Wultram seemed immune.

Wultram himself took great delight in tormenting her. He would order her to do the most humiliating and demeaning things, and she was unable to resist his commands. He ordered her to curse the Silver Flame, and her heart rebelled even as her lips spoke the words. But as she came to the name of her deity, she found herself unable to pronounce it, despite repeated orders and a savage beating. She wondered why, as she lay scratched and bloodied in her coffin that day. Was she unable to speak the holy name because of her fallen condition, or was it that, somewhere deep inside her, a spark of devotion had proven stronger than the vampire’s hold on her?