Blood and Honor

“What happened to you?” asked Decker. The handcart with their belongings stood beside the boat, Brey’s coffin obscured by various small crates and packages. Tarrel had dug out a healing potion from somewhere inside his coat but was still pale and unsteady on his feet. Mordan was bruised and scratched, his skin still seeping blood from the mosquito bites. He looked up at the warforged with tired eyes.

“We just got another reason to leave town,” he said. Decker made no reply.

It took only a few minutes to load their baggage onto the boat. Brey’s coffin was the last thing brought aboard. Decker looked at it suspiciously.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

Mordan shrugged. “It looks enough like one.”

Decker gave it an experimental heft. “Occupied?”

Mordan made an apologetic face and nodded.

“Two passengers with luggage, you said. You didn’t mention another passenger being in the luggage.” Decker put the coffin down.

“Friend or foe?” he demanded.

“Friend,” Mordan replied, adding as an afterthought, “a friend of Tarrel’s here.”

Decker looked sharply at the half-elf, who had sat down on a hatch-cover.

Tarrel raised a weary hand in greeting. “Tarrel d’Medani,” he said with a wan smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Decker was in the navy during the War,” said Mordan, trying to change the subject. “He’s the best navigator this side of—”

“Stow it,” the warforged interrupted, “and tell me exactly who—or what—you’ve brought aboard my boat.” He took a step toward Mordan, looming over him.

“A vampire,” said Tarrel. “That’s the short answer.”

Decker made a grinding noise deep in his throat. “And what’s the long answer?”

“A friend,” said Mordan. “At least, she’s looking for the same things we are.”

“A vampire,” said Decker. “You expect me to sail with a vampire?”

“It’s not like you have anything to worry about,” Mordan said. “We’re the ones taking the risk.”

Decker considered this for a moment. “Any sign of trouble,” he said, “and I mean any sign—and it goes into the river.”

Mordan opened his mouth to protest, but Tarrel waved him to silence.

“Agreed,” he said. “Now, it’s been a very rough night, and if nobody minds I’d like to get some sleep.” He got up and walked unsteadily into the cabin as Decker cast off the boat.

Clinging to the shadows, Rolund let the vampire and her friends escape. He had expected this job to be an easy one. Now Aeren was destroyed, Rolund was badly wounded, and he needed time to think. Without the undead wizard he couldn’t contact the master for further instructions, but he knew that failure was not an option—not if he wished to go on existing himself. As silent as a shadow, he followed his quarry to the docks. He watched them board the boat with the big warforged, cast off, and head upriver. Rolund turned back toward the town. He was weakened by his wounds and needed to feed.

The house where the vampire had been hiding was in uproar. People were running to and fro in their nightclothes, putting out the small fires that had been started by the half-elf’s fire spell and asking each other what had just happened. The few surviving bloodmotes had dispersed.

Rolund waited in the shadows, watching until there was only one human in the doorway. Then he struck. Two long strides took him across the street, and his sinewy arms swept up his surprised victim before he had a chance to cry out. A slap to the side of the man’s head left a gray mark on the flesh, and Rolund felt the thrill of life energy flood his body. Another blow rendered the man unconscious, and Rolund dragged him up the stairs to the attic, to feed at leisure. He piled debris over the trapdoor; not enough to stop it being opened, but enough to give him some warning when another soft-bodied meal approached.

When at last he threw the drained husk aside, his eye was caught by another body lying on the floor. It was dead, and therefore no use to him, but the face was familiar. Stepping over to the corpse, he examined it for a while, and then a slow, vicious smile spread over his face. He leaned over the body, and tore the head from the shoulders with a single heave. Wrapping it in a scrap of scorched cloth he found on the floor, he picked up Aeren’s corpse and made his way back to the old mausoleum where they had established their base. He left the head there, with a scribbled note explaining how he had found it. When Aeren failed to report back, the master was sure to send someone after them.

Rolund set out toward the river again, taking care not to be seen. He was somewhat refreshed by his kill, and he could regain his strength by hunting along the way.

It was dusk before Tarrel emerged from the cabin, but when he did so he was looking better. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he looked around at the landscape and then back at the boat’s V-shaped wake. Then he walked over to where Decker was leaning against the sternpost, with Fang curled up at his feet. The iron defender raised his head briefly, then settled back down.

“Nice boat,” Tarrel said. “Elemental?”