Blood and Honor

“Again!” screamed Mordan. Tarrel pointed the wand, but nothing happened. Mordan cursed; he knew from experience that magic was unreliable in the Mournland. His rapier was little use against the formless creature. The two looked at each other for a moment, then back at Brey, whose struggles were growing weaker. Tarrel’s magic was their only hope. Tarrel raised the wand again, and this time it loosed another beam of searing light. The air filled with a foul burning smell; the horror stopped, its body wracked by violent ripples, and then it collapsed, splashing the two of them and soaking slowly into the ground.

Mordan leaped forward, reaching out a hand to pull Brey out of the mess. Her hair and clothes were caked with drying blood. To his surprise, she flung him aside with a vicious back-handed blow; her hand was so cold it seemed to burn him. Before he could get to his feet she was on him, kneeling on his chest and pinning his arms to the ground. With a snarl, she bent back his neck—and then stopped.

Tarrel was beside her, holding the silver flame pendant in front of her face.

“Easy now,” he said gently. “He’s a friend. Just try to relax.” Her red eyes lost a little of their fire, and she looked down at Mordan again, as if seeing him for the first time. She relinquished her grip and climbed slowly to her feet, backing off a little way from the holy symbol. Her clawed fingers gradually relaxed, and the lines of her face softened. After a few moments, she held up a hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding tired. “It must have been the smell of the blood.”

Mordan climbed to his feet, and picked up his rapier. Tarrel still held the holy symbol in one hand, and his wand was in the other. For a long moment, the three looked at each other.

Brey wiped a hand across her face, and looked at it for a moment. “I need to clean up,” she announced. Her matted hair swung like a wet mop as she turned around and walked away for a few paces. Then she seemed to dissolve. For a few moments, there was nothing in her place but a smoky cloud, and then the vapors coalesced into her form again, as Mordan had seen them do on the waterfront. That seemed like a long time ago. When she turned back, her hair, skin, and clothing were completely free of the red stain.

“A little trick I picked up,” she said, as the two mortals stared in amazement. “And didn’t your mothers ever tell you it’s rude to stare at a lady when she’s changing?” Neither of them had the strength to laugh.

For Mordan and Tarrel, cleaning up wasn’t so easy. They couldn’t waste the water they had brought with them, and Mordan insisted that any water they found in the Mournland was not to be trusted. So it was a foul and bespattered pair that trudged alongside the vampire woman as they continued on their way.

“What was that thing?” wondered Tarrel.

Mordan shook his head. “Never seen anything like it,” he said.

“I think it was made of blood,” Brey said, without looking back. “It certainly smelled like it.”

They walked a little further in silence, then Tarrel turned to Mordan again.

“So how well do you know Decker?” he asked.

“Well enough,” replied Mordan. “Why?”

“Do you think he’ll wait for us at Fort Zombie like he said?”

Mordan shrugged. “He’ll wait, but I don’t know how long. How long do you think we’ve been traveling?”

“At least a day,” answered Tarrel, “though it’s hard to tell without light and dark.”

“It took me a day and a half to reach the river after I escaped.” said Brey, “so we must be getting close.”

“Assuming it’s still there,” said Mordan, “and not wiped off the map—or moved to a different part of it.”

“I know what I’m doing,” replied Brey. “A lot has changed, but I’ve been recognizing things here and there. I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track.”

Mordan gave a noncommittal grunt. “I just hope you can get us back again,” he muttered.

The ground began to rise gently, and after a while they saw a rounded hilltop ahead, crowned with the ruins of a fort. Brey quickened her pace.

“I think this is it,” she said. Ignoring the protests of her companions, she broke into a run.

They struggled after her, and when they caught up, she was kneeling over a dead body. Many tales are told of the Mournland, mostly by those who have never been there. One of the most common reports is that the bodies of the fallen refuse to decay, and in this case it seemed that the stories were true. Although hideously wounded, the young man’s corpse looked as fresh as if he had died a minute ago.

“There!” cried Brey triumphantly, pointing to the dead man’s shoulder. His arm was almost severed, but there on his tunic, somehow clear of the dried blood, was a shoulder patch bearing the insignia of the Vedykar lancers: two crossed lances beneath a letter V, enclosed in a wreath.

Tarrel reached inside his coat and pulled out a cylindrical bundle wrapped in leather. Unrolling it, he selected a crystal lens from the array of tools inside and started to examine the body carefully.

“Anyone you know?” he asked.