INTERLUDE 3B: THE VENDETTA APPLIES

“Each form of undeath carries its connotations for the sorcerous adept. Each form is distinct in its dangers and value. As the entities mature, they adopt new powers. From this categorisation we exclude skeletal and zombified revenants, to whom only a meagre fraction of the former will is given, and ghosts, whose transient nature forces them into a special classification. Yet the wraith, the banshee, the spectre. The vampire. The lich. Take, for an example, the infamous deathknight. Only one who lives by the blade may become one. In the fullness of their power, their nethernal weaponry attains a clarity the edge of which few sorcerers’ shields can endure. Take for another the common wight, defined by its formerly innocuous existence, by its purposelessness and the abject state in which it transitioned. To those of this classification who persist into the categorisation of elder, no such barriers even exist!”

– from Mistress Arithos’s Lectures to the Neophyte Assembly

The voices of the gravediggers rattled on and on, coming closer and closer as the hours of the night passed by. He lay there, warm in the soil, listening to them as they approached.

Gradually, the terror of the nightmare receded. Shrill wind cutting across a wasteland of glittering glass. The single, endless scar wending its way through the landscape, the river of blood in which he was reborn.

The memories faded.

By the time the gravediggers’ work was done and the sun was rising he could understand almost one in three of the words they spoke.

It was troubling. He knew he should feel panicked at his current situation. He knew he shouldn’t be under the earth.

Yet he was here, without any idea how or why, and it felt natural. He didn’t need to breathe, didn’t want to breathe. The very idea was a bit sickening – the same as the thought of drinking, or eating. His innards recoiled at the very consideration. They needed nothing from the outside. He didn’t even want to open his eyes, didn’t want to break out of his earthy cocoon. He was fine, as he was. He was perfectly still, perfectly content – in body, at least.

In mind, less so.

What happened to me? Lodus wondered.

He couldn’t remember. He could remember the Infernal Incursion beginning. He could remember helping to barricade the door of the inn with the spare furniture, piling it high to cover the windows. He could remember the way the barkeep and barmaids had joined them at the tables, turning to drink, and letting the patrons help themselves.

He still wore his gear; he could tell from the feel of his clothing. There were eleven blades upon his person – some were plain to see upon his belt or in his boot, while others were concealed, sewn into the soft, inner material of his hardened leather jerkin, accessible to no one but him. Most of them were made for throwing, and he was getting pretty good with them.

But whoever had killed him hadn’t even bothered taking his weapons away.

By the time he’d come to, the Mourning Bells had stopped. At first he’d thought that, perhaps what with being buried and all, he simply couldn’t hear them – but he soon realised that was wrong. He was able to perceive so much more: he knew where the owls were in the trees of the graveyard by the sounds of their wings before they mewled; he knew the number of gravediggers by their footfalls and the patter of their spades, even when they were over fifty yards from him.

But what did it mean that he couldn’t understand people anymore? He could tell he was still in Mund, in Sticktown. The words they’d used were easily comprehensible, when they were comprehensible. The rest of the time it was like squawking coming out of their mouths, but not birdlike – more like the gibbering and hooting of those monkey-things he’d once seen in Firenight Square, yes, that was it…

Day heated the ground, even though it rained heavily. He could smell the corpses of the dead – not dead like him, but really gone. They were rancid bags of gas and rot or charcoaled twigs of bone. He focussed his senses on the scents of peat and clay instead, the patternless patter of the falling rain and worms wriggling, moles tunnelling… He tried to ignore the whispered and wailed words of the grieving.

But something must’ve sunk in. When evening trotted along, Inius and Tall Tarry returned with the rest of their gravedigging crew – Lodus recognised them by their voices, and found he could reliably follow their speech by this point.

“Were another bad ‘un,” Tall Tarry said.

“Never we ‘ad so many Sticktowners perish in a night, I ‘eard Loany Rones say. Is good fer the ol’ coin-purse though, eh?”

“Yer right, Inius. Fink if we ‘ad an Incurvesion every week?”

“We be rollin’ it in!” Inius crowed.

“Though we might as like run outta space too soon. Suppose we could chop down some of the trees…” This was said dubiously.

“Bah! That’er be too much work, even if they let us. Just re-dig a space, shimmy up them ‘eadstones… We could do it ferrever, Tall Tanny, my long-droppin’ man!”

“But what’er we do with them ol’ coffins?”

“Stack ‘em up, like.”

Sticktowners, Lodus grumbled. All the same.

He was from Karamar, but he’d spent half the years of his not-long-enough life in Mund. For most of those – close on ten years – he’d lived in Oldtown, and he was an Oldtowner to the core. But the life of an assassin in a city filled with mages wasn’t a relaxed one, and in order to survive he’d slunk below their attentions, keeping his dirty deeds off-the-books, all payments under-the-table, every meeting ‘clandestine’ – all looked after by the guild.

One of the consequences of being picky about jobs was that he wasn’t rich. But his restraint was more about ensuring he kept his freedom, that he stayed alive, when so many others stepped over the line and got death-warrants put on their heads, got magister-bands hot on their heels in their pursuit of King Money-Bags. Sure, the watch had looked for him a few times, but he barely took enough jobs to pay his way in the guild, give him enough change for bed and beer and brothel. He never killed women or children, never took the big hits with the massive payouts for eliminating Lords of the Arrealbord and such like. Not that he’d have been able to achieve something like that anyway. He only had one magical dagger, and that was on the way out – it only worked half the time these last few months.

It was part of what Dirk Danten always called his ‘cloak of anonymity’. Lodus was average height and build, his hair mud brown and mid-length, and his heritage was mixed-enough that he could pass for a pale member of the dark-skinned human tribes, or a tanned member of the light-skinned ones. His face was blander than a pint of Blackrush – his age was impossible to guess when he was unshaven, despite his youth.

He’d picked the right profession, that was for sure.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

But what had happened? He’d left the guild-hall when someone reported magisters seen in the area… As usual they’d fled, and he’d gone across the bridge, went drinking in Sticktown… None of the others had followed him as he’d hoped…

Then what?

It must’ve had something to do with the Incursion. Something came here from the Twelve Hells that made me into… whatever I am.

Inius and Tall Tarry finished the grave they were digging, moved closer. And finished the next, moved closer still.

He still felt relaxed, even when he realised they were going to be digging him up soon. Unless whoever had buried him had supplied a gravestone…

Should I let it happen? Or should I try to get out of here now?

He didn’t want to get out of there. He wanted to stay.

He didn’t even know if he could get out. What did all the packed soil on top of him weigh?

His hands were clasped on his chest. Experimentally, he tried to move the left hand, the one on top.

His flesh… reacted differently.

Faster. The response-time of the motion was incredible. It was as though he’d spent his whole life swimming in honey, and was only now released to move freely through the air. And he was currently buried in the ground.

Powerful, too. The decision to move his left hand in a small arc, swinging back at the wrist to test the firmness of the earth above him, had resulted in his whole arm moving at least six inches, ripping right through the ground.

That decided it.

He stood up, and sprang clear of his makeshift grave, wet soil and torn-apart sod cascading around him.

The night was clouded – he could sense the moon rather than see it, yet it somehow felt like this was his daytime. Shadow occluded nothing – he saw his surroundings in stark relief. The moonlit clouds welcomed him to his new home: the darkness. But it wasn’t unusual to Lodus. He was used to sleeping the day away.

He was aware of the gravediggers, no farther than thirty feet away.

He was aware that they were aware of the sounds he’d made.

Now that’s weird.

He felt their heads turning his way, felt the way their eyes would soon fall on him.

By the time Tall Tanny and Inius swung their heads around, there was only the earth, showering down – then a rending, cracking noise and the sudden wings of birds filled the air.

Lodus had leapt, shooting up into the branches of a nearby copse of trees.

When he grabbed hold of a solid-looking limb he just tore it from the trunk. He braced himself for impact with the ground, but, although he didn’t noticeably slow, he didn’t speed up either, and he landed light as a leaf.

No, no – that’s weird.

The Sticktowners climbed out of the hollow they were digging, staring up at the trees for a solid thirty seconds before going to investigate his abandoned nest – but they’d find nothing more than a sunken pit.

Lodus had already remastered his rolling gait, and plunged through the shadows of the graveyard’s trees with the absolute silence only an undead assassin could muster.

It must’ve been Thornsday, unless he’d completely lost track of time while he was buried, and by the looks of things it was approaching midnight, going into Fullday. The weekend was here – party time. And he was no longer human. Would that have to interrupt his usual habits?

That probably depends on what I am, exactly.

The wind moaned, and he halted, shivering. He felt a response, something inhuman on the tip of his tongue – he could almost understand the whispering of trees, almost taste the judgement in the very atmosphere. His flesh was cold, and that alone should’ve been enough to confirm that he was cursed. The night welcomed him, but he knew that he was a wrong thing now. The very opposite of what he’d always tried to be. He was going to stand out of the crowd now. He would be a hunted creature, an ‘evil entity’ to be put down like a rabid dog.

But… it suited him. The night had always been his home. He might’ve become a ‘wrong’ thing now, yet it felt so right. He could see and smell and hear everything – beetles and birds, moths and mice, foxes and frogs – they were everywhere, their motions standing out to him like they were waving flags and blaring trumpets.

He was glad he was able to get used to his new senses while he was somewhere relatively quiet. If he’d woken up as a… thing for the first time back in the headquarters, he’d have been driven mad with the noise.

He wandered for a while, studying his surroundings.

There were hundreds of freshly-covered graves in this graveyard – small wonder his had gone unnoticed – but none of the others had burst open to spew up their gods-damned contents…

He crossed through a row of trees, into a more heavily-wooded section of the graveyard. It wasn’t long before he heard another set of spades going into the ground, but these gravediggers were far quieter than he’d have expected, given the crew he’d already run into. It sounded as though they were using their tools carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible.

He emerged from the little dell between two slopes and saw the four gravediggers, then saw –

Sorcerers.

There were three, robed in black, with low cowls hiding the majority of their faces from him despite his perfect night-vision. They were standing under the cover of the trees, a good twenty feet from their four lackeys – these men were dressed in tattered Sticktown clothing, spades in their hands, working under close scrutiny to dig up bodies for their masters.

Lodus skirted them, glad that he’d been able to perceive the magic-users there in the shadows of the branches before they’d perceived him. If he’d gone anywhere near their hired help, they might’ve been able to… do something to him. As far as he knew, anyway.

So I’m not the only one to rise from the grave tonight – but I’m the only one like me.

What am I?

But then it came to him like a realisation:

No.

The memory started coming back, and he halted.

No… no,there could be more like me…

He was in the tavern – it’s called the Lost Albatross, that’s its name – he was there, and he was drunk. Not too drunk, but pretty drunk. There was a cute woman with dimples sitting by the bar for hours with her friends. And a cowled man was in the corner. This stranger hadn’t gotten up to aid the others when the Incursion started and they blockaded the entry-points. He hadn’t partaken in the drinking – in fact, Lodus couldn’t remember seeing him drinking anything at all. Couldn’t remember him entering…

The stranger had waited until they were even more drunk, at least an hour after the demons started their attack on Mund. Then he’d stood, and cast off his cloak. Lodus had been sitting in a chair which faced him, faced the window as it shattered, and the assassin got the full treatment.

The stranger was radiant, even in the gloomy corner.

A snowy ermine cape made it impossible to see where the long, pearly-white hair ended; his brow was clear of age-lines, and his strangely-pursed lips instantly made him alarming to Lodus, who wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t spot danger.

It was the piercing lavender-coloured eyes, only now visible, that had really sealed the deal.

“Undead!” he’d cried, pushing back the table and reaching for his knives as he got to his feet, stepping in front of the young serving-boy –

But that’d been his last free action until he woke up undead.

“Hold, sir,” the white-haired man said in a strange accent, raising a single pale hand, palm-out in warning. “Stay thy blades, ye one and all. We are friends here, and yet more.”

That had been all it’d taken. He remembered loosening his grip on the one dagger-handle he’d managed to get hold of, wondering why he’d ever thought this ally was dangerous.

Everyone in the pub froze, but not in a panic, not out of fear. No, it was curiosity on their faces – curiosity, and a peculiar kind of recognition. The way someone would look when they suddenly realised that a stranger was a long-lost loved one.

He made us his friends.

The vampire had walked amongst them, caressing their faces with long, ponderous fingers, stopping at the assassin’s side.

A cold nail-tip snaked its way from Lodus’s temple to his chin.

“Knowest thou not that we shall be kinsmen?” he whispered. Lodus had felt himself shaking, and the vampire smiled, baring his fangs. “That you are as my get, and I your begetter? From father to son, let my words speak to ye. Let my blood flow in ye, people of Mund. Out of mine eye, to thine; this is the last and first twilight thou shalt e’er see.”

The lavender gaze approached, enticing.

He barely felt the fangs enter his throat, barely felt as the life left his body – the blood was drawn out of every part of his flesh in a single long, luxurious whirlpool draught.

He remembered being tossed aside, thrown to the wooden floor, only a husk of a person remaining.

And that was it – the assassin stood there in the darkness of the graveyard, terror and not an insignificant amount of fascination coming over him all of a sudden.

So it was him. He killed me.

He went to a nearby puddle, staring into its surface, and seeing only the majestic night sky for his reflection.

He touched his face. Tugged his hair across in front of his eyes. Wiped the mud from his hands, inspecting the skin.

The scowling, pouting lips of a vampire extending over the fangs.

The pearly moonlight hair.

The pallor of death eternally imbued in his flesh.

I’m not just some zombie thing. I’m one of them. I’m a vampire.

He clenched his fist and grinned.

This is going to be so gods-damned useful!

* * *