Blood and Honor

Decker hummed to himself as he tinkered with the boat’s inner workings. All around him were strewn cogs, pistons, springs and other things; he had taken off one of his hands and replaced it with a long, thin metal probe, which was currently thrust deep into the bowels of the mechanism. A greenish-yellow light flared from within the apparatus, keeping time to his tune. It wasn’t anything a human would have recognized as music, but he liked it.

There was a sudden thump up on deck, and he heard the scrabble of Fang’s metal claws. Sticking his head up through the hatch, he saw the iron defender facing down a pale, humanoid-looking figure dressed in a worn and ragged uniform. Fang leaped, and was swatted aside like a toy, skidding across the deck and crashing against the base of the mast.

“What’s this?” Decker shouted, hauling himself up through the hatch. The figure froze, turning to look at him with burning eyes. Fang clattered to its feet, hissing in rage, and stood at Decker’s side. The figure tensed to spring, but relaxed as Decker raised the probe attached to his arm and let off a warning jet of fire.

For a long moment, the two looked at each other in silence. Then the creature spoke.

“Vampire,” it croaked. “Where is the vampire?”

“They’ve gone,” Decker replied, keeping the torch in front of him.

“Where?”

Decker jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the Mournland.

“There,” he said. The creature glanced briefly at the dead-gray mist across the river.

“Take me,” it demanded.

“No,” replied Decker, as still as a metal statue.

The creature appeared to think. It gave Decker one more long, appraising look, and suddenly dashed to one side. A couple of steps took it to the boat’s rail, and it dove overboard without breaking its stride. Fang arrived at the rail too late, and stood hissing, glaring at the widening ripples where the creature had entered the water.

Decker called the iron defender back and cast a professional eye over it. A couple of plates were bent, but there was no serious damage. He detached the probe from his wrist and re-attached the hand. Then he knelt beside the metal hound, with one hand resting lightly on either side of its body, and muttered a brief incantation. When he straightened up again, the construct was as good as new.

“Patrol,” he said, and Fang trotted off to resume its circuit of the deck. Decker went below again.

Dravuliel unrolled the note and read it slowly, an unpleasant smile spreading across his thin, pale face.

“Show me,” he said, and the cadaverous elf reached into the bag, bringing out Hintram’s severed head by the hair. Dravuliel looked at the dead features for a moment. “Ah, yes,” he said at last. “I remember this one. A member of our esteemed Karrnathi lancers, was he not? Bring him closer.”

The elf approached Dravuliel’s throne, and he reached out a bony hand to touch the dead man’s forehead. He murmured briefly in a strange, sibilant language, and after a second or two the dead eyes flickered open.

“What was your name?” Dravuliel demanded. Stiffly, the jaws of the severed head began to move.

“Berend Hintram.” Its voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

“You were a lancer, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you leave us?”

“After the ritual—the Mabar ritual.”

“Ah, yes,” Dravuliel said. “That was most unfortunate. Where did you go?”

“To the Crimson Monastery.”

Dravuliel raised an eyebrow. “So you were the one reporting on our activities?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the head.

“I see,” he said, waving his assistant away. The elf replaced the head in the bag.

“You also recovered Aeren’s body?” Dravuliel asked. His acolyte nodded.

“Good.” Dravuliel sat back in his throne and steepled his long fingers in thought.

“Revive Aeren,” he said at last, “and prepare the wheel of pain. I wish to discuss his disappointing performance with him.”

The elf bowed.

“Yes, master,” he said. “And this?” He held up the bag containing the head.

“Keep it,” Dravuliel answered. “I may have more questions later. Oh, and assemble his fellow lancers. I am sure they will be eager for news of their erstwhile comrade.”

He chuckled, a sound like the scratching of wind-blown twigs against a tomb door.

Sergeant Kraal stood rigidly at attention, staring at the wall behind the desk. On the wall was a map of Karrlakton, and beside it a smaller-scale map of the whole of Karrnath. Colored pins dotted each map. He fixed his gaze on one of them.

In front of him—and below his line of sight—stood a richly-carved desk on a wooden dais. Behind the desk sat a gnome; his mouth was smiling, but his watery blue eyes were not.

“You found none of them?” the gnome asked, in a slightly wheezy voice. His tone was one of casual enquiry, but Kraal knew he was deadly serious.

“One headless body, human, male,” said the officer. “Another body, human, male, intact, cause of death uncertain. Neither one matching the description of the fugitives.”

The gnome picked up a brass letter-opener and began casually cleaning under his nails.