Chapter 3 - The Hunted

.3.

The Hunted



         The night was just like any other in the small, quaint town of Hope’s Covenant.  Cold wind passed through the streets, picking up the powdery snow from the pines and rooftops of houses.  A pale, crescent moon loomed high in the starless sky over the Dover Mountains in the north.  Townsfolk scurried from porch to porch, shielding their faces in an attempt to find shelter from the biting wind.  A rickety sign that read: Hope’s Covenant at the east edge of town swayed back and forth in the fierce winds, as if to uproot at any moment.

         The chaotic wind, although unpredictable in its force, seemed to blow in an organized manner.  It blew in from the south, originating over the waves of the ocean, first hitting the lighthouse and small cottages on the beach.  Next, it moved down Cherrybrook Street toward the tavern, mortuary, churches of Lyluss and Symbia, and then made its way to the outskirts where it blew across the complex of merchant shops and homes. Finally it made it to the town limits where it met the dense forest of the Dover Mountains.  Nestled beneath the overhanging rocks and oaks was the decrepit cemetery.                                                  

         Despite all of the turmoil that the weather had been creating for the last couple of weeks, the town still held its composure.  Bad weather wasn’t something out of the ordinary in Hope’s Covenant, especially this time of year, and the locals knew it was to be expected just as the sun would rise in these parts of the world.  People put up shutters, they kept their pets within their homes, and they made every attempt to clear the snow from their doorsteps.  As soon as the sun went down, every window in town held a lantern or candle on its sill. Looking out, Hope’s Covenant resembled an orange, star-filled night.

         The doors to the Light of Day tavern swung open for business and the congregation of townsfolk that were waiting outside on the porch and railing piled in.  Not a table within the massive common room went vacant.  Mugs of ale and wine clashed and the laugher that was soon to be filled with drunken revelry began.  When the Light of Day was open, it left all other places in Hope’s Covenant bleak and empty.  It was the only place in town where everyone wanted to be at night.  Tonight would be just like any other evening in town. 

         This small, inkling of a city on the southern shores of the Sea of Neckhunters was a vicinity that thrived during the night.  Almost all of the townsfolk were nocturnal.  The school, churches and most businesses operated only after midday or dusk.  In the daytime, the streets were as deserted as a ghost town and most shops were closed, except for the temples and the tavern.

         Hope’s Covenant had been constructed upon the folklore and fables of the dark rites and rituals that many believed in.  The majority of people here were quite superstitious and anytime that a rumor of arcane substance began, the whole town went into an uproar.  Most of the fables however were based on unquestionable facts. 

Facts such as vampires.

         Since Hope’s Covenant was the only life-giving oasis around for about three hundred miles, all of the forsaken creatures came to Hope’s Covenant for blood.

         Hope’s Covenant’s origin had been shrouded in mystery.  Details of its start even dabbled in mythology.  In today’s time, the closest town was Pelopha, some three hundred miles to the west.  There was also Brookstone, five hundred miles north of Hope’s Covenant.  All that stood between the three points were plains, forests, and hills.  The land was dry and rocky, making the growth of vegetation scarce–therefore no other cities or towns prospered anywhere close.  From what the locals knew, it began as a mere gypsy camp that grew into the trade capital of South Corscus, and then dwindled again due to the ever-increasing harsh weather.

         One of the reasons the town’s origin pointed to a simple explanation was the fact that a form of government had never been created.  Thus, the luxury of having an army or a watch was nonexistent.  If the good people of Hope’s Covenant were going to survive any attack, be it man or beast, they had to defend themselves. 

         Hope’s Covenant’s strange conditions had been around as long as Tranas Anvaar had known, and the last two weeks that he had spent in town proved it. This was one of the most bizarre and harsh places he had ever seen.

         The dark-skinned man walked down the corridor away from his room and into the bustling foyer of the tavern below. The sounds of fiddle and pipe music bellowed out from beneath him, vibrating the stairs. He couldn’t bring himself to look in the mirror on the wall as he passed by.  He knew how bad he looked.  Constantly moving from town to town had its effects and the worn condition of his person and gear only proved it.

         Tranas made his way through the crowded common room, dodging the trio of singing warriors and stepping past the two lovers sitting on the piano beneath the stairs.  He made his way to the back of the room, finally winning a vacant table, luckily by the rear hearth.  He grabbed his chair and pulled it all the way over to the fireplace and sat down, turning it so he could see the doorway.

         The tavern was full tonight, he noticed.  About ten tables stood between him and the door and every one was occupied.  There were merchants, warriors, a couple of elderly gentlemen and even two priests who wore the sacred red and black robes of Symbia, Goddess of Magic.  This town has quite an assorted lot, he thought.

         The bar to the right was completely full, hiding whoever was serving in a mass of half-drunken men.  A group of three warriors sat near the edge, by the door, oblivious to the chaos and rambling around them. Two were men, and one woman.  One very attractive woman, Tranas noted.  These three had been in town for about two days now and were staying just down the hall from his room.

         All three of the warriors wore the same silver armor and carried the same golden-hilted broadswords.  They drank in moderation and seemed to be engaged in quite an interesting conversation.  Tranas noticed a small, stringy man at the end, staring wide-eyed at their tale.

         The night before, Tranas had been lucky enough to sit at the bar–before it had become crowded–and was able to overhear some of their conversations.  It appeared that the group had been with a larger company while traveling through Krilborn Forest.  Apparently they were headed to Sunveil when the giant spiders that lived in the trees attacked them.  Several of the army were killed but many were simply split up.  That was when the large snowstorm hit and drove the three sitting at the bar toward Hope’s Covenant.  Maybe it was a good thing they were here.  This town had no protection at all.  The owner of the tavern didn’t even have a bouncer in case a drunken hooligan became unruly. 

         A few of the tavern’s patrons had already become intoxicated and were staggering around the doorway, blocking Tranas’s view.  He moved side to side, trying to get a better look out, as if the one he was waiting for would suddenly appear.  Agitated that he couldn’t see through the dancing, drunk merchant, Tranas started to get up, but was greeted with the large shape of a man holding a glass of yellow ale.  He looked up into the stern face of Ben, the owner of the Light of Day tavern.

         Tranas plopped back down and offered him a seat.  The large man smelled of grease and sweat.  It had to be hard running a tavern alone.  His only help was a serving girl and his son, Vernon, but he was young and thus limited to working in the kitchen.

         Ben ran his fingers through his long, white hair.  He was sweating hard and kept looking over his shoulder, toward the door.  Tranas took a sip from his spicy ale and looked down, calm and collected.  He twisted his wedding band, lost in thought. His wife Anaquest gave him the ring long ago.  Its sparkling gold band, its cluster of sapphires–was all he had of her.

         “Do you think you can do this silently?”  Ben asked, keeping Tranas from drawing painful memories.  “Last time I dealt with these things the whole tavern heard about it and folks didn’t come around for weeks.”  He took the cloth resting on his shoulder and wiped the table as he talked.

         Tranas looked at him and saw just how nervous he was.  The stress of running the tavern, the kitchen, and the bar were probably enough to make anyone go mad.  But to have to deal with the prospect of vampires feeding on your customers, well, that had to be a much greater burden.

         “If they go silently, it will be done silently,” the hunter offered, taking another drink of the ale that he’d lived off of for the past week.  “One can never tell such things.”

         Ben shook his head.  He wasn’t pleased with that answer.  “I surely hope they don’t come tonight.  This is the busiest I’ve been all week.  It wouldn’t do for this many to see or hear something dreadful.”  Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, copper watch.  He opened it, sighed in frustration and then started to rap it gently against the table.

         “He’ll be here,” Tranas said confidently.  He reached out and plucked the watch from Ben’s hand and started fishing for something in his own pocket.  “He’s the Purg.”

         Tranas produced a small cloth bundle from his pocket and unrolled it on the table, displaying numerous small tools and picks, as well as a small vial of thick grease.

         “Purg?”  Ben was clearly confused.  By now, Tranas had popped the back off the watch and was wiggling a long, slender tool inside.

         “Yes, a form of vampire that’s cursed to have to drink blood at least every four hours.  They’re damned even to the damned–they can’t even grow fangs to feed.  It makes them easy to catch since they leave such a mess.”  Tranas smiled.  Ben seemed to be quite taken back by the way his employed helper casually talked of the monstrosities.  He didn’t know that Tranas had been hunting such forsaken creatures for over four years now.

         His mind suddenly filled with horrid images–his wife–his daughter, a burning mansion in the heart of Kurtz.  With all the terrible thoughts and images that were permanently burned into his mind, the one thing that always stood out was the one thing that caused it all.  The one person–creature that made it all happen.  Her name was Emba Atlin and it was a name that made Tranas shutter as it passed through his head.  He put the thoughts away and concentrated on what he was needed to do here–tonight.

         In his searches for the vixen, he had followed two vampires from Edgemount, down to Brookstone, and finally into Hope’s Covenant.  He had been on their trail for almost a month now.  They were brothers and it seemed as though they had been looking for something.  In each city they left behind at least one disarrayed library, study, or antique shop.  Tranas had been chasing another vampire that he managed to kill just outside of Brookstone when he learned of the havoc the brothers were causing.  He had no idea what they were after, but he did learn that they worked for the very vampire that ruined his life.  They would put him back on track of finding Emba, or whatever name she went by these days.

         Both brothers arrived in Hope’s Covenant about three days before he had, escorting a pair of meek, pale women.  The Purg and his brother picked up the women at a small village just outside of Brookstone where Tranas had made his last kill.  Apparently they knew how long the trip to Hope’s Covenant would be.  They knew that the Purg would never survive the trip without a snack along the way.

         Both checked into Ben’s tavern, had a few drinks, and then slaughtered the remaining girl up in their room.  Luckily, they didn’t make much noise and chose to feed late in the evening, so Ben was able to clean up the mess without arousing his other guests’ suspicions.  Tranas concluded that the brothers had to have some other place of hiding within the town.  He knew for a fact they didn’t stay at the tavern every night.  If that were the case, they would both be dead by now.

         It was not until yesterday morning when Tranas visited the old cemetery at the north end of town for the first time.  He found several mausoleums that had been tampered with.  Apparently the brothers wanted a secret hiding place, but couldn’t find a tomb to their liking. Inside, the Blood Revenant–the breed name given to the common of the two vampires, slept upon an unmarked tomb.  Tranas drew his swords, ready to rid the world of another creature’s filth, when suddenly he decided against it.  If this one lived, he would eventually reunite with the other.  If Tranas killed it here, the weak Purg may flee, even if it couldn’t live without the care of his brother.

         The only other option was to catch the two vampires together.  They had to wait until they came to feed at the tavern again.          

         Ben continued to keep a watchful eye on the door, but only saw more patrons coming in.  He slung the rag over his shoulder again and rose.  Tranas rose with him, handing him the watch.  Ben didn’t seem to realize that throughout their whole exchange, Tranas had replaced two gears inside. Tranas fixed the watch the same way he fixed all the clocks in his father’s shop back in Kurtz. 

         “I have to tend to my customers,” Ben said, nodding to a man at the bar.  “Let me know if you see or need anything.”  With that, he was gone, rushing to the bar and pouring a pair of men tall glasses of Corscun Ale.

         Tranas stuffed his bundle of tools in his pocket and squeezed his way through the crowded common room once again.  He thought about going upstairs to get more of his gear–mainly one specific piece, then decided not against it.  It wasn’t worth fighting his way over to the staircase just yet.  Instead, he buttoned his long coat and headed to the door, still carrying his glass of ale.

         A surge of icy air hit him in the face as soon as he stepped onto the porch.  Despite the frigid weather, there were still many people sitting against the wall and on the railing that wrapped around the tavern. These few seemed to be the lower class of Hope’s Covenant.  Probably even homeless, Tranas realized.  They came to the door, hoping to get warm, but obviously Ben wouldn’t give up his table space in the common room for folks who didn’t stay at the tavern or buy provisions.

         Parting through a few older men who were talking about how good the weather was in Boudia, Tranas found a spot on the railing to lean against and looked out onto Cherrybrook, sipping his ale.

         Hope’s Covenant had many back-ways and alleys, but Cherrybrook Street was always well illuminated by large lanterns hanging from low posts alongside the cobblestone road. Far off in the distance the steeples of the Lylussian Church and the Church of Symbia could be seen, directly across the street from each other.  There were lights on in the mortuary next to the Church of Lyluss.  On down the street was the cemetery, but it couldn’t be seen in the darkness and snow.  If the Blood-Revenant came for his Purg brother tonight, he would come right up Cherrybrook, the main street of town.

         About a hundred yards from the tavern, the cobblestone street branched off and gave way to a rounded plaza.  A few snow-covered benches and awnings marked its outer ring.  Tranas assumed during the warmer months, this area would serve as a market.  In the center stood the decrepit remains of a statue–a female dressed in some sort of holy garb.  She stood about ten feet tall and faced the tavern.  A priestess with the blue and white robes of Lyluss stood in the doorway of the temple, playing with the holy medallion around her neck.

         “You never know what the wind will blow into town,” a feminine voice purred from Tranas’s left.  He rolled his eyes and turned around, first noticing three women sitting on the railing.  Standing just in front of him was a woman with short brown hair and a wide grin on her face.

         All of the women wore very little clothing and despite their shivering and blue lips, they appeared to be quite relaxed.  Tranas had already encountered one of the three in the back.  Their wenching lifestyle may have paid well, but their moral status in town couldn’t be worse.  If Ben had known they were on his porch he would have been out here with his crossbow.

         Tranas rolled his eyes again at the approach of the brown haired woman and she scowled, cheeks turning even rosier.  She let her obviously offended look drop and smiled once more.  “I can make your gold go very far.”  She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.  Although Tranas was only twenty-eight, he still had self-respect, and he knew this girl would regret her choices one day.

         The hunter smiled and tried to work his way back toward the tavern door.  “No thanks.  It’s much too cold for such . . . strenuous activity.”

         He started to walk off and the woman placed her hand on his shoulder and turned him back around.  When he looked into her eyes, he saw yet another offended look–a look he thought might yield a strike across the face.  “What’s wrong?”  she asked.  “Afraid I’m going to steal your money while you’re asleep?”  The whore put her hand on her hip and stood her ground waiting for a response.

         Tranas pulled the flap of his coat back, revealing the two short swords that hung from his belt, their magnificent blades gleaming in the soft light.  One sword sprouted into a double edge–one side with a straight blade, one side ending in a hook.  He let the flap go and returned the harlot’s stare.  “Do you think I’m afraid?”  He smiled as she bitterly walked off, more out of offense than the revealing of his blades.

         Tranas smirked, happy that he kept the harlots at bay for one more night.  His face and hands were already going numb, so he decided he finally had taken enough abuse from the harsh wind and snow.  He started to turn to go inside the tavern–

         –when he glanced back out and saw a figure walking up Cherrybrook.  It was still quite a distance from the tavern, but Tranas moved into the shadows, not wanting to be seen.  The vampire approaching didn’t want to be seen either. 

         Peering out from behind a couple talking about the lack of crime in town, Tranas could see him quite clearly.  It kept its head down toward the ground, fighting off the cold wind.  With one hand, it held its hooded cloak tightly about and in the other it held something large and round that dangled, yet it was still too far off to tell.  The creature let go of its hood to shield his face when he walked by the Lylussian Temple, then once again held it tight.  Staring at the ground, the vampire pressed on, headed for the tavern.  He would be on the porch in less than a minute.

         Quickly, the hunter tossed what remained of his ale into the snow over the banister and hurried back in the Light of Day, pushing anyone in his way aside.  He slammed his glass on the counter and motioned for Ben to come over. 

         The burly bartender jogged to the edge, already in a pant.  “What is it?”  he asked, concern rising in his voice.  His eyes nervously shifted to the doorway.

         “The other one is coming now,” he said, watching the open door out of the corner of his eye.

         Ben started to say something–perhaps to once again plea to get the job done quietly, when two figures stepped into the tavern.  Neither was out of the ordinary and otherwise wouldn’t have drawn anyone’s attention, however one of them carried a large, round cage, holding two rabbits inside.

         The vampire, still completely covered in his long coat and hood, escorted one of the harlots through the busy common room.  His pale hand tightly held hers.  The harlot smiled with blue lips at the handful of coins she had just been handed.  She had no idea what she was about to give up for a few pieces of silver.

         Both of them climbed the stairs then turned to go down the east hall.  It was the direction of their room–as well as Tranas’s.  In the vampires’ room, the harlot would find them both. She would be fed from, and if she didn’t die tonight, she would days later when the Purg couldn’t sustain himself from her any longer.  Then he would have to rely on the rabbits and vampires hated inhuman blood more than anything.

         “I’m going after him.” Tranas rose and pulled his long coat off, revealing his tattered jerkin and dirty slacks.  He laid the garment across the bar and added, “please don’t check out any rooms for the next five minutes or so.”  The tavern owner smiled at the sarcasm, but nodded just the same.

         Tranas padded his way up the stairs as quietly as he could, resting his hand on the hilt of his hook-bladed sword.  Luckily, the common room had grown stale and hot, so many of the patrons retreated to the porch for fresh air.  There were quite a few people upstairs, some sitting on the railing, some sitting on the floor against the walls, eating, drinking or just talking.  An elderly couple sat inside the first room, eating on the bed with the door open.  Both gave Tranas a questioning glare when they saw his battle-ready stance as he walked down the hall past them.  He relaxed a bit and looked back toward the bar.  Ben put his finger to his mouth, motioning for Tranas to be quiet.

         With the windowless hallway and the common room far behind, the hall ahead was now dark and eerily quiet.  The room next to Tranas’s was empty, as well as the ones on the opposite side of the hall.  This would work out quite well, he thought.  He would go in, slay the creatures, rescue the girl, and be done with the job before anyone in the tavern knew what was happening.

         By now, he was surely out of earshot from everyone, so he quickly drew his hooked blade, not caring to make a sound now.  He tightened his grip on the handle, but kept the blade low—ready to stab anything that came at him.  Vampires were quiet creatures–very quiet, and they had highly acute senses, so Tranas remained as alert as he could manage.  It was entirely possible they knew he was coming for them.

         The last door, the vampires’ door, was slightly ajar.  From here he could see soft candlelight dancing on the floor in front of it.  Luckily the doors in this tavern swung inward to the left, so he would be able to see the contents of the room when he got a bit closer. 

         Just then, a shadow moved within and Tranas pressed himself against the wall, holding his sword down beside him, careful not to cast a glimmer across the hallway.  He held his breath and bit his lip. The shadow stayed in front of the door for a moment, as if contemplating whether to leave.

         Great, one of them decided to run to the bar for drinks, Tranas thought.  So much for a quiet dispatch. 

         Just when he had decided to rush the door, thus gaining the pre-emptive attack on the vampires, the shadow parted from the light, replacing the hallway with the unbroken golden glow once more. 

         Tranas relaxed and let his sword arm drop a little.  He breathed a sigh of relief, and just before he started toward the room again, something grabbed his shoulder from behind.

         The hunter whirled around, ready to show whatever had touched him the hooked side of his sword, when he saw whom it was.  Immediately his rigid body loosened up and he gave a scolding look to the pale-skinned man before him.

         “Damn it, Sig!”  he cursed, just above a whisper.  “You have to stop sneaking up on me that way!”

         The placid man, as relaxed and calm as he always was, said, “I’m just trying to get your adrenaline flowing before your heart bursts from anxiety.”  He smiled and walked a little past Tranas, trying to get a view into the room.

         Sigmon Valklyn was Tranas’s companion for nearly three years. He was a man almost as tall as Tranas, having long blond hair that he kept pulled back.  His skin was pale and his eyes were an icy blue, at some point in time at least.  All Tranas had ever been able to see were the large black pupils in their center.  To the trained and expecting eye, such as Tranas’s, all of these features described what Sigmon truly was.

          A vampire.

         He was the only vampire that the hunter didn’t kill the instant they met.  Instead, when Tranas discovered him, he knew that he wasn’t like the other creatures, but still had a soul; a soul that was preserved as it was when he was among the living.  This being the only attribute that separated him from the rest of the loathsome creatures, Tranas felt empathy for him.  Seeing as how vampires had wronged them both, a friendship ensued and the two came to count on each other through many hard times.

         “Just wait here,” Tranas said, closing the distance to the vampires’ room.  “There’s a girl inside.  I need to get her out before-”

         The rest of his sentence went unheard.  It was cut off by the sudden scream of the woman within the vampires’ room.  Her short-lived cry of pain stifled and Tranas could hear her try another, but only a wet gurgle escaped her throat.

         Quickly, the hunter peered inside the room and saw a figure on the bed with its back to him, straddling its kill.  Beneath it, he could see the unmoving legs of the harlot.  The vampire’s head was down, no doubt with its fangs pricked in the side of her neck.

         Tranas pushed the door the rest of the way open, thankful that it didn’t squeak, and quietly walked inside.  From here he could see the entire contents of the room–the messy furniture, the cage of rabbits in the corner, the opened windows letting frigid air in.  The only thing missing was the second vampire.  The Purg.

         The hunter lowered his sword and peered back out toward Sigmon who was still standing in the hall.  “Where the hell’s the other vam-”

         Once again, his sentence was cut short, but this time it was by a loud, inhuman screech from above him.  Tranas backed up and looked to the ceiling only to see the Purg hanging from the chandelier, blood pouring from his dull teeth.  His eyes narrowed into slits and he simply let go of his perch, free-falling toward the one who dared disturb his feast.

         Even though he was a large man, Tranas deftly leapt to the side, crashing into a small table and sending empty bottles of ale and wine to the floor.  He landed solidly on the ground, covered in water and beer.  Quickly flipping himself over, he watched as Sigmon rushed in, grabbing the vampire around the waist and thrusting him against the wall.  A large picture of a young girl and boy fell to the floor, shattering on impact.

         By now the other vampire–the stronger of the two, finished his meal and became aware of the mayhem that was unfolding behind him.  He slowly stood and turned around, his eyes giving off the slightest red glow.  It was a look of anger–a look of delight at finding another meal.  As the blood dripped from his chin and splattered to the floor, it approached Tranas.

         To a commoner–a person who had never encountered a vampire, the predicament Tranas faced would have been terrifying.  Luckily he had killed score upon score of Blood-Revenants such as the one before him, so no matter how they acted, or how terrifying they looked after feasting, Tranas was never afraid.  There were stronger vampires than this.

         With the creature standing just over him, licking the last of the blood from his lips, it no doubt thought it had the upper hand.  It no doubt mistakenly thought a simple man had entered the room, worried about the noise.  It had no idea that it had been marked for death weeks ago.  And it had no clue the expertise of the hunter it was attempting to feed upon. 

         Tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword, Tranas brought the blade down hard toward the ground, hooked end first.  The point stabbed through the leather boot of the vampire, ripping through flesh and bone until it hit solidly on the floor beneath.  An ear-piercing wail erupted from the creature as it jerked backwards, causing Tranas to lose his grip on the blade.  The vampire staggered and fell against the bed, carving a wide gash in the floorboards as it dragged the sword along.

         On the other side of the room, Sigmon pummeled the Purg repeatedly against the wall.  Despite the blood gushing from his mouth, the creature seemed resilient to each blow.  Finally, the good vampire grabbed him as tightly as he could and shoved him once more, this time caving in the wall and passing into Tranas’s room.  Both men ended up on the floor, dust and debris lingering in the air.  It seemed the Purg was quite shocked that it couldn’t overpower the man who opposed him.  Among the long list of things the Purg breed of vampires couldn’t do, the innate ability to recognize one of their own kind was among it.          

         The Purg kicked–a lucky kick, hitting Sigmon in the mid-section.  Painless as it was, it was still enough to topple him over, letting the foul creature on top.  It wrapped bloody fingers around Sigmon’s throat and squeezed, a painful grimace crossing its face.  Sigmon’s hand found the small dagger from his belt.  He drew it, twirled it in his fingers so the point faced down and jammed it into the creature’s neck, sending it across the room howling.  Purgs had a low threshold of pain.

         By now, enough noise had been drawn up from the quarrel to arouse the tavern’s suspicion.  Out in the hall, Tranas heard footsteps and voices.  There were a few people headed for the room to see what was going on.  Ben would be in tears by now, Tranas thought.

         Quickly he bounced up and ran for the door, kicking it shut.  After that, he bolted the two latches and breathed a bit easier.  At least now they could finish this in private.

         Tranas grabbed for his other sword, but just when his hand graced the hilt, he felt himself being lifted, then without warning he was across the room, thrown by the Revenant.  His hand never left his sword, even when he hit the wall, just above the bed’s headboard.  He felt the wall sink under his weight and then he fell, landing on the dead harlot.  Her eyes bulged from her head as she kept a constant stare to the ceiling.  Blood caked her entire body from the neck down.

         The Blood-Revenant hissed another cry, thick with anger this time, and lunged at the temporarily stunned man.  It leapt into the air, trying to get on top of Tranas to pin him down when suddenly it stopped, not realizing how quickly the hunter pulled his sword out and aimed it for his mid-section.  Enough blade passed through his torso so that the cross-guard touched its chest–sending the creature reeling back in pain.  Tranas advanced on the abomination, ready to finish it off, when suddenly it lashed out, striking him hard across the jaw.

         Again, Tranas flew across the room and landed near the newly created passage to his own room.  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Sigmon with the Purg pinned against the wall, ready to finish him.  All the strength seemed to have faded from the doomed creature.

         Back in the vampires’ room, the stronger creature, although more fatality wounded, pulled the sword from his chest, letting out another cry of pain and spraying blood across the bed.  He shot Tranas a look that brimmed with pure evil and hatred–a look that sought retaliation but couldn’t deliver it. 

         Instead, the vampire twirled Tranas’ sword around in the air, then stabbed downward, letting the blade sink into the floor.  The weapon rocked back and forth like a pendulum awaiting the killing swipe.  Once again, it screeched, but this time, the cry seemed less vampiric and more like some sort of animal.

         Tranas watched as the creature’s eyes turned completely black and then suddenly his face and skin started to change–darken, and thicken in texture.  His body seemed to convulse and move in an eerily, unnatural way, contracting in some places, expanding in others, all the while moving toward the back of the room.

         Suddenly aware of what he was trying to do, Tranas reached for his only weapon left–the dagger from his boot and hurled it toward the vampire-who had now managed to transform into a large crow.  The dagger missed its mark by inches as it flew out the opened window.  Cursing, he raced to the sill and looked out, but saw nothing in the haze of falling snow.  The street lamps below illuminated the ground quite well, but the vampire would be smart enough to fly high.  A few people were in the streets, heading to the tavern, but they all seemed oblivious to anything flying over.  There was only one place it could be going.

         The hunter quickly gathered his swords and joined Sigmon who still held the Purg against the wall.  Tranas sank his straight-edged sword into the creature’s stomach to hold it in place.  Its cry was short-lived when his curved one severed its heart.

         Before the Purg even hit the ground, its entire body was enveloped by white fire, casting a brilliant light in the room.  The heat was intense, but the fire, completely magic, caught nothing in its blaze.  After a few seconds of burning, the creature was reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash.  This was the way vampires died.  They never left bodies, but instead burnt with magical fire that was the cleansing of their soul.

         “The Revenant is heading to the cemetery,” Tranas said, wiping his blades clean on his bed sheets.  “We’ll end this tonight,” he added confidently, sheathing his swords.

         “I’ll go after him. I’ll meet you there,” Sigmon said, already starting to change shape and size.  Unlike the dark, eerie form of a crow that the Blood-Revenant chose, Sigmon turned into a beautiful white owl.  Luckily in this case, he would not be an easy target to see amid the snowy haze.

         Tranas found the key to the vampires’ room on the nightstand next to the bed and placed it in his slack’s pocket.  Back in his room he began rummaging through a pile of clothing he had created during his stay at the tavern.  He wrapped his hands around the cool metal of what he was looking for and pulled it out.

         In his hands he held his most prized possession–a creation of his own design and work, and a devastating weapon for executing the vile creatures he sought out.  The first thing one would notice when they laid eyes upon the contraption was the ten-inch metal stake that jutted out of the end.  Connected to it was a chain that ran the entire length of the metal device and ended with a pulley at the rear.

         Beneath the contraption was a handle, so it could be held and pointed, stake out.  On the left side was another handle with a trigger mechanism attached.  With one tug of this lever, the stake would discharge fast as an arrow, up to twenty feet that the chain allowed, and then retract back inside a hidden storage area within the weapon.

         The result was a very useful weapon for impaling vampires at distance and then pulling them toward Tranas so he could finish them off.  Many vampires had fallen to this weapon, and even in some parts of Mystyria, it had given Tranas the reputation of a feared hunter.  In Bartly there had even been tales that the weapon had a name.  They called it the, Spira Sian, which meant ‘vampire slayer’ in the vampire tongue of Minlor. 

         This weapon was one of the first things he created in his quest for destroying vampires.  With all the skills the hunter had in machinery–clocks and gears to be exact, he never thought those mechanics would be put to such use.

         Holding the weapon down to his side, Tranas went out into the hall, carefully locking the door behind him.  The congregation of nosy patrons was gathered around the vampires’ door, so Tranas kept his back to them and headed down the hall as quickly and quietly as he could, careful not to arouse their suspicions.

          On his way down the stairs, he passed Ben, who was obviously very distressed but managed a smile nevertheless.  Tranas handed him the key to the vampire’s room upstairs.  No one would be able to enter it and hopefully they would soon lose interest.  He snatched his coat from the counter and just before walking out the door, turned back around and said, “one down and one to go.”



         Out in the streets, Tranas looked above to see if he could spot Sigmon among the fury of the snow.  No doubt both winged beasts were already at the cemetery and even if they weren’t, the heavy winds and array of snow would prevent him from seeing anything more than a few feet above him.

         The Light of Day faded to a snowy backdrop behind Tranas and all that he could see through the growing winds was the temple of Symbia and the statue in the center of the street.  The alleys and sidewalks were barren, save for two stray dogs that diligently walked the under-ducts in an attempt to find refuge from the wind.

The hunter passed the mortuary that was cropped closely to the temple of Symbia. Atop the apex of the steeple on the Symbian temple was a globe that pulsed with a fierce, blue light.  This small, magical charm illuminated the entire inner courtyard of the establishment, giving it an eerie look that the temple’s wizards and priests probably didn’t intend.

         The mortuary, though less noticeable, was just as beautiful. Carvings of roses and small forest creatures adorned the short building’s doorways and windowsills.  A domed, glass ceiling marked the roof in the center of the quaint building.  To the side was a stable, which held the corpse wagon and horses.

         Through one of the unveiled windows, he could see a shadowed figure moving around inside. But a mortuary would be the last place a vampire would go, Tranas thought.  His years of hunting vampires had taught him that drinking the stagnant blood of the dead could be fatal. 

         He thought back about a year ago when he and Sigmon had hunted one particular vampire in the city of Sorcea.  The creature had apparently posed as a royal guard in a local kingdom and suddenly the nobles began to vanish.  Tranas knew what had happened and sought the creature out.

         He found a pile of ash on the floor in a young prince’s bedroom.  Atop the bed, the unmoving figure of a nobleman, blood pouring from his neck.  Tranas discovered later on that the young man had died during the night and the vampire, assuming its victim was merely sleeping, indulged.  It hadn’t gotten very far before it discovered that the blood tasted foul and had been stagnant for about two hours.  The creature’s blood was infected by the deadly poison and died on the spot.  This and other reasons for the strange vampiric rules had never been proven by anyone, but Tranas believed that the dead blood from a deceased mortal held certain pathogens that the undead blood in the vampire’s body responded by allergic reaction.  Many hypotheses surrounded the mass assumptions about vampires but they were simply too rare to study.  Living vampires proved to be very unwilling subjects and not much could be studied from a pile of ash.

         Tranas held Spira Sian up as he walked to the sill and peered into the darkened room. Two rows of pews, tall candelabras holding thick, burning candles, and most definitely a closed oak coffin in the front, marked the usual contents of the mortuary.

         The figure he had seen from across the street suddenly emerged from a now visible door to the side and walked down between the rows of pews toward the entrance.  Tranas heard a click and then saw the short man who clearly wasn’t the vampire he was looking for return to the doorway, twirling a ring of large, brass keys.

         He started back toward the cemetery, drawing his hood to protect his face from the increasing winds and snow.  He held his weapon out before him, aiming it at every little thing that moved against the wind’s fury.  No one would be out at this time at night, and if they were, they certainly wouldn’t be in the northern part of town. This was the farthest place from the tavern and it was the closest place to the graveyard.  From where he stood, Tranas guessed he was about a fourth of a mile from the Light of Day.

         The cemetery marked the center of the north side of town.  A low metal fence surrounded it and wobbled noisily back and forth in the wind. The few tall pines that adorned the inner court squeaked as they swayed.  In the front rows were many headstones, marking the grave plots the poorer folk.  The uneven ground made each tombstone slope or slant its own way. Farther back loomed the aging crypts that were the final home to the nobles and the wealthy of South Corscus.  Rising high above them were the jagged, uneven edges of the Dover mountain cliffs. 

         Far off in the distance to Tranas’s left was a small bridge.  Beneath it, he could hear the gentle sounds of a stream beating against rocks.  Beyond that there appeared to be another path out of town.  Apparently it was a vein to one of the more frequently traveled routes that led to the north. Shrugging to himself, he paid it no further heed and continued into the cemetery.

         The snow-moistened ground shifted and sank with each step he took, burying his boots in mud and grime.  Tall pines next to him swayed fiercely, knocking snow off right into his face.

         When the swirling mass of white cleared, he could see a figure standing by one of the crypts to the back of the cemetery.  He knew this had to be the one he was looking for.  No one else in this entire city would be anywhere but at a temple or at Ben’s place. Tranas held Spira Sian out and walked straight toward the figure.  He looked around to see if he could find Sigmon amid the snowdrifts.

         “Come out of the shadows,” he called, never letting his weapon drop.  The figure obeyed.

         “Relax,” came the calm voice of his companion.  Sigmon emerged from the shadows of the tall pines, a smile splayed across his face.

         “Where’s the Revenant?”  he asked, letting his weapon drop a little.

         “I killed it,” he said proudly.  Tranas looked to his friend in slight bewilderment, but didn’t allow it to show on his face.  Sigmon was never proud about killing.

         “Where’s the ash?”  he asked, looking his friend in the eye.  Sigmon avoided his gaze and walked back toward the larger crypts.  Tranas pulled a small object from his pocket and followed.

         “It’s over here, behind this crypt,” called the voice of his friend, who deftly disappeared behind the large sarcophagus. 

         Tranas smiled and just before turning the same corner said, “You know, Sig, one of the greatest things that separates you from the rest of these damned creatures-”          

         A version of Sigmon sprung on Tranas, ready to sink its fangs in him when suddenly it looked upon the small medallion the hunter held.

            “–is the ability to look upon Lyluss’s trinkets of faith.” 

He held the medallion out, watching as the Sigmon facade melted from the Blood-Revenant. The creature fell to the ground, blood gurgling in its throat and smoke wafting from its eyes.

         The real Sigmon appeared behind the creature and picked it up, hefting it across the cemetery.  A small tombstone shattered under the impact of its weight.  Blind, nearly dead and confused, the creature stood and attempted to run.

         Tranas held out Spira Sian and pulled the trigger.  A loud ‘whoosh’ ensued as the stake shot out, hitting the creature solidly in the back, sending another howl of pain that echoed in the night.  Futilely it tried to escape the clutches of the metal spike, but no longer did it have the strength to fight.  It simply went limp, letting the chain drag it back to certain death.

         Standing just over the abomination–the creature that had endured for decades, feeding upon hundreds of innocents in an attempt to keep itself alive, Tranas grimaced.  He impaled it with the hooked blade and then twisted it to be certain the heart was severed from the body.  That was the only way a vampire could truly be killed.  With one last wail of pain, the beast disappeared in a blaze of vivid, white fire and then was gone, leaving the night as black as before.

         “What took you so long?”  Tranas asked, wiping his blade in the snow.

         “I actually arrived here before he did.  I was just waiting to see if he would enter his tomb to regenerate.” He smiled.  “It would have been much easier that way.”

         “It’s never that easy, Sig, you know that.”

         “Maybe now we can get paid and get out of this town. I don’t like this place,” the vampire said, kicking the small pile of ash the creature left behind.  Most of it had already been picked up by the wind.

         Tranas started out of the graveyard.  “This place isn’t exactly on my favorites list, either, but I need my sleep.  We’ve been chasing these two things for almost a month and it’s been hard working your schedule.  Also, I want to check their room before we leave.”  He waited for Sigmon to catch up and then started wiping the gore from his hands on his coat.

         “We’d better be getting back,” Sigmon said.  “It’s only a couple of hours until sunrise and it would be best if we were paid before Ben gets off to bed.”

         Before Tranas had a chance to agree, a horse neighed from their right.  Both men turned in unison and tried to place where the sound came from, but Sigmon was the first to see it, having a natural ability to hone on to a living creature’s heat.

         Standing on the bridge that Tranas noticed earlier was a large black mare.  Sitting on top was a man–a small man, wearing darkened leather that had to be extremely cold in the biting wind.  He held something across his lap that was blocked by the horse’s head. 

         “He isn’t giving off heat,” Sigmon said and drew the small dagger from his boot.  From here, Tranas had no way of knowing that the figure was a vampire.  Sigmon’s acute sight and heat-intensive vision made it clear to see that the one on the horse was cold as ice, meaning it wasn’t a living being.

         “Do you recognize him?”  Tranas asked, wishing he could see as good as his ally.  He held his hand tightly on the hilt of his sword.

         Sigmon thought for a moment, considering the face.  “He looks familiar, and I think he’s wondering the same about us.”

         For a moment, the two simply stood their ground, locked in a constant stare with the vampire.  The cold wind blew while he returned their questioning gaze.  Both parties seemed just as curious as the other.

         As if the vampire on horseback grew tired of the game, he pulled the reins of his horse, setting his mare on its haunches and releasing a drawn-out neigh.  The creature outstretched his arm and a loud ‘whoosh’ erupted.  Tranas could only make out a darkened shape, but he didn’t need to see what was happening to know a crossbow had been fired.  A loud hiss, far from both men whipped past them, landing solidly in a tree in the inner court of the graveyard.  Neither was in harm’s way of being hit.  Whoever the vampire was, he only wanted to scare them.  With a quick turn, the horse broke into a gallop along the path and disappeared in the darkness.

         “Who the in hells was that?”  Tranas asked, making his way toward the path.  It was pitch dark, but he could tell the narrow road turned to the right a few yards out.

         “I have no idea.”  Sigmon joined him and Tranas realized he couldn’t see the path any better than he could.  “A courier for Emba, perhaps?”

         “Maybe,” was Tranas’s only comment.  “Let’s get out of this cold,” he said, wrapping his coat tighter.

         Whoever the vampire was, he was probably long gone by now, most likely having a hole dug somewhere in the woods in which to rest through the day.  There was no sense in chasing him tonight.  Hopefully if the two went looking for him tomorrow, he wouldn’t be too far off.

         The two men walked the path by the temple of Lyluss back to the Light of Day.  Sigmon looked around toward the buildings and the dusty snow-lined streets.

“The snow and wind have really been picking up the past few days,” Sigmon noted.  “Do you think the storm up north is approaching?”

“It wouldn’t come as a surprise,” Tranas offered, “this place is very unpredictable.”

“It is very fascinating in a solemn kind of way.  Do you think more vampires will flock to its cover?”

         Tranas looked on gravely, his eyes both anticipating, yet dreadful.  “Absolutely.”



         By the time the duo made it back to the tavern, the patrons had considerably cleared out.  The musicians had made their way to bed, the drunken lot who were dancing earlier were either asleep in their rooms or against a table.  Many had even ventured back home, no longer concerned with being fed upon by a blood-sucking creature. 

         There were only about ten people left in the common room when Tranas and Ben carried out the enshrouded figure of the harlot.  Luckily those ten were either too engaged in conversation to care or too drunk to notice, so they easily managed her to the stables behind the tavern.  Ben would have his son Vernon bury the girl in the morning.  Neither Ben nor Vernon recognized the girl, so the chances of her being identified were slim.

         A mighty fire burned in the hearth, casting the rear of the tavern in golden light. The front door was propped open by an urn full to the brim with coal.  Tranas could see that the snow had stopped falling and that the wind had died down quite a bit.  It seemed that when he destroyed the chaos in the town, the elements stopped fighting him.

         Spira Sian rested on the counter to his side and a small backpack full of documents and papers set in front of him.  A bottle of ale and a full glass were on the other side.  One good thing about being employed by the tavern owner was the unlimited provision that he and Sigmon were served.  Ben took good care of them and brought them anything they wished to eat or drink with no complaint.  He was a good man; probably the best Tranas had come to know in years.

         “I guess quietly was out of the question to begin with, eh?” Ben laughed at his own humor.  The burly man stepped out from behind the counter, sweeping the scraps of food and litter out the door.  “At least only my customers’ confusion was stirred and not their fears.”

         Tranas smiled and then glanced to Sigmon who was sitting in a shadowed booth next to the far-side wall.  “At least they’re gone now.”  He smiled again.  “Quiet or not, no more of your patrons are going to start popping up missing.”

         “I suppose you’re right,” Ben accepted, dropping a large sack of coins in Tranas’s lap.  “It’s okay, though.  My customers actually thought that it was the girl’s show going on upstairs, so I’m not worried about this affecting business any.”

         Ben allowed the remaining three customers to leave the tavern and then turned the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’.  He moved the urn of coal and shut the door, but left it unlocked.  “I’ll be in the back stacking this eve’s shipment of flour and sugar if you need me.”  With that, he picked up his broom and disappeared through the door behind the counter.

         Tranas took a sip of ale and started rummaging through the backpack of papers.  This was the only item he found of interest in the brothers’ room, other than the cage of rabbits, which he fed a few shreds of cabbage and then had taken to the cellar below.  It was much too cold out to let the poor creatures free, and besides, they would have a more practical use anyway, Tranas thought.

         Most of the papers in the backpack were maps, mainly outlining several locations in Southern Corscus and a few in Middle.  In bold, red circles were marks around Edgemount, Brookstone, and also Hope’s Covenant.  These were the very cities that Tranas and Sigmon had pursued the brothers.

         Tranas dug deeper into the creature’s pack, sifting through empty wine bottles and bags of cigars until he found a rolled up piece of parchment and a notarized letter.  Unrolling the parchment, he noticed that it was quite old and had faded considerably over the years.  On the upper left part of the page the city name of  ‘Edgemount’ was written in bold letters and circled many times so it was very noticeable.  At one time this was a long list of names in bright black ink, but now it was but half a page with barely readable markings. 

         These were names of people, Tranas noticed, reading them silently to himself.  Across the page from each name was a four-digit number.  What could this be? he wondered.  The names weren’t in alphabetical order, nor were the numbers sequential.  One name in particular, Arac Seril was circled in bright, red ink.  The number four thousand and eighteen across from the name was also circled.  Halfway down the list, he noticed that four names, Gaelib, Haley, Helith, and Rin, all sharing the last name of Birchlock, had only a blank where there should have been a number. 

         A family perhaps?  But what could this be?  Maybe these are graveyard plots, he thought.  But even if that were true, it still didn’t explain the brothers’ interest with it, or the reason why they would have brought it here.

         Finally he opened the notarized letter and found that unlike the parchment, this one had been written only a few days ago.  It was written in beautiful Dorias Script, which was hardly used by anyone these days.  This was the writing that was found in ancient tomes, upon decayed headstones, and occasionally letters written by aged vampires.  Tranas began reading silently to himself:

         

Mistress,

         In our searches we have found but one thing that you may find useful.  It has been marked on the document so you should have no trouble understanding what it means.  As for the further information you requested, I regret to inform you that the library in Brookstone had been reached before we made it there.  It would appear that someone sought the same thing we did, since it was the only thing missing.  I apologize for our lack of help in this matter, but should you ever need our services again, do not hesitate to contact us.



                                                                     Immortally Yours,

                                                                               Docklin



         Tranas had followed the brothers long enough to know their names were Docklin and Ulyn.  And he had known all along they worked for Emba, who they had referred to as Mistress in the letter.  She even used the names Dyne or Cyria every now and then since there so many people ho would see her dead.  What he didn’t know was why they ransacked a library in Brookstone. 

         Why did they completely destroy a museum in Edgemount?  Tranas was well aware of what Emba sought, but he had no clue what these small bits of information meant.  And why here?  Why was this all happening in a small town that was next to nothing?  Where could Emba be?  This place was little more than a village. Surely she would have contacted them at the tavern by now.  For these questions, Tranas had no answer. Once again, his lead left him in the middle of nowhere, without a direction to go.  Tranas put the thoughts away and decided to deal with it tomorrow, after sleeping on it.

         “Nearly an hour ‘til sunlight,” he warned, talking to Sigmon.  Tranas rose, carrying the bottle of ale, and refilled his friend’s goblet, then returned to the bar.  The pale-faced vampire looked up from his drink and offered a weak nod and smile, then lowered his head back down.  He always looked so sad, even though that wasn’t always the case.  It couldn’t be a happy life having to live the way he lived.

         “Stop thinking about it,” Sigmon offered, standing up.  He walked over to Tranas and plopped down next to him, smiling gently.

         “Well if you weren’t probing my thoughts, you wouldn’t know what I was thinking,” Tranas objected, stowing away all the documents in the backpack.  “Care to talk about it?”  he asked, but already knew the answer.

         “Sorry, it’s bad enough having to relive it in dreams day after day, so I’d rather not.”  Sigmon seemed angered by the subject, but Tranas knew better.  He just wanted to get his point across.

         It was only three years ago when the two met.  Tranas had pursued Emba to a small town called Lorinstag.  There in a ruined temple of Lyluss, she had ordered mortals to search for something.  He assumed her search turned up empty, as it always had.  Beneath the rubble was a cellar where Tranas found a figure lying on the ground with a prayer cloth wrapped tightly around his head.          

         After removing it and carefully inspecting him, he discovered a comatose man with fangs.  His first impulse was to cut out his heart, but then realized they were both on holy ground.  In addition to that, the man was wrapped in a blessed cloth of Lyluss, which literally would have dissolved a normal vampire’s head.  It became clear that this creature had rendered itself dormant, which vampires usually did when blood was scarce.  Tranas quickly pricked his finger and gave the man a small droplet of blood, which was all that was needed to revitalize a vampire from dormancy. 

         Sigmon was a type of vampire known as a ‘Soul-Embracer’.  These vampires were perhaps the luckiest of all the doomed creatures because they had a chance to reconcile what their more sadistic brethren wreaked on society.  A Soul-Embracer could only be created one way–which was to be spawned on Lyluss’s holy ground.  This method was ultimately unheard of and nearly impossible since the one that did the spawning couldn’t come on sacred ground unless they wished to die within a matter of seconds.  Even if that were the case, the pain of Lyluss’s holy might was so great that most vampires couldn’t manage to feed upon another without doubling over and letting the pain take them under.  Another reason this type of vampire was rare was because, contrary to popular belief, not all vampires could spawn mortals into their own kind.  Only a handful–the more powerful, and sometimes the more hindered, were able to invoke spawns.

           But if successful in spawning on holy ground, the result was a vampire who still had the morals, memory and beliefs that they had in their mortal lives.  In short, they were a good vampire.

         Beyond those simple facts, Tranas had no idea how Sigmon became a vampire.  He had no idea what provoked him into a dormant stage.  He did often wonder about Sigmon’s spawning.  His bite marks were on the back of his neck, which was very odd.  The only thing Tranas knew was that Sigmon hated vampires as much as he did, and that was good enough for him. 

Sigmon would have probably followed his new friend to the end of the world, mainly because he valued the companionship the two had created, but also because Tranas was all that he had left in the world.  There was no way of telling, and Tranas had never asked, but judging from the style of the temple and Sigmon’s clothes, it was very likely he’d been dormant for over seventy-five years when Tranas found him.

         The large grandfather clock that stood by the door had stopped working and Tranas had been eyeing it the whole night to see if it would start back up.  Realizing it wasn’t going to mend itself, he pulled his roll of tools out and approached it.  He spread them out across the edge of the bar, chose one small, prying pick, and removed the clock’s face.  The gears inside had stopped moving.

         “Do any of your clocks work around here, Ben?”  he called in a loud voice.  The burly man emerged from the doorway, smiling and covered in flour.

         “Apparently not.” He laughed a bit.  “Where did you learn to fix clocks anyway?”  he asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

         “I come from a long line of honorable clockmakers,” Tranas smirked, removing a large metal rod from the cluster of gears.  “My father was a clockmaker, and his father before him, and his father, and so on.” 

         “Sounds like you have been left a legacy,” Ben offered, taking a seat behind the bar.  “So how did you two get into the business of hunting vampires?”  The tavern owner gave a quick nod toward Sigmon.

         The vampire in the booth sat quiet and Tranas paused before answering.  “I guess you could say I was forced into it.”  He left it at that and then tightened one last gear in place, then closed the face of the clock.  The hands steadily moved along.  “At least it puts all of my years of training in the militia to good use.  Now, I guess you could say I only continue out of sheer revenge.”  He pulled the minute hand around to catch up with the current time.

         “Well, that’s good enough for me.  I hate the damned creatures.  They should all be killed in my opini–” Ben stopped in mid-sentence, his face turning red as he threw Sigmon an uncomfortable glance. 

         The pale-faced vampire simply raised his hand up to hush the imminent apology.  “Don’t worry, it happens more than you would believe.”

         Ben started wiping the counter with his head down, perhaps to elude the unpleasant silence. Tranas finished setting the clock, then walked over and peered out the window.  Finally Ben spoke up.

         “That’s quite an impressive weapon you have there, Tranas.”  He stopped cleaning for a moment and nodded to Spira Sian just as the hunter turned around.  He added, “so where are you from?”  It was a good change of subject, and Ben seemed content with it.

         “Kurtz, in Middle Corscus,” he offered.

         “Ah, Kurtz, a lovely city,” Ben offered, smiling broadly.  “Before my wife passed we visited there on occasion.  It’s the most beautiful landscape around.  The buildings and architecture is unbelievable.”

         “And you can’t forget about the churches of Centarus and Ebend,” Tranas added, smiling a little himself, recollecting a few good memories.

         “Oh yes, and a great temple of Symbia.”  Ben smiled again, but it faded when he noticed Tranass’ face weaken a bit.

         “My wife was the curator at the temple of Symbia.”  He looked down into his glass and then finished it off.  “But that was a long time ago.  It’s been years since I’ve been to Kurtz, I’m sure it’s a whole other city now.”  His forced smile was still weak.

         Ben began stacking beer glasses in the sink behind the counter.  “You’re probably right.  No since in reminiscing about it now.”  He chuckled a little.  Apparently he had learned where Tranas’s ‘sheer revenge’ came from.

         The hunter rolled his collection of tools and pocketed them.  Back at the window, he tried to remember exactly what he saw on the road next to the cemetery. He thought of the vampire who fired upon them and the path leading north.  Where did it go? 

         “We saw a path leading north from the cemetery,” Tranas said, taking a seat next to Sigmon.  “Where does it go, Ben?”

         The burly innkeeper walked around the bar and to the window.  All that could be seen were the dying lights of the lanterns. Cherrybrook was still. Ben squinted his eyes, as if trying to see the path that was impossibly far away.

         “There’s a mansion up there,” he said, returning to his spot behind the bar.  “About a mile out from here.”

         “Does anyone live there?”  Sigmon asked, his own curiosity rising. 

         “Oh yeah,” Ben said.  “A wealthy mining family, I believe.  Quite a partying bunch if I might add.  It’s been many nights that their shipments of ale are mixed up with the tavern here.” Ben tapped the bar. 

         “That crossbow-toting vampire didn’t look to be the wealthy sort,” Sigmon whispered to his partner.

         Tranas agreed.  “Maybe we should tell them their family may be in danger,” he offered.  “We could visit them tomorrow night.  It’s nearly dawn, so I don’t think they’ll have a problem until then.”

         “Unless they already have a problem,” Ben interjected.

         “You may be right,” Sigmon agreed, rising.  “But at any rate, it will have to wait. I have to get below.”  By below, he meant Ben’s vast cellar.  Prior to being hired, Tranas informed the innkeeper of his ally’s condition and the tavern owner had no problems letting Sigmon sleep in the windowless basement.  Sigmon made his home on the floor, in the complete darkness where he would be safe from the curse of sunlight.  Tranas stood and walked Sigmon to the door. 

         “I left the cage of rabbits in the cellar.”  He looked to the floor.  Sigmon hated to kill anything–other than vampires at least. 

         It was vital that he had blood, but luckily he was a strong enough vampire that he could go about four days without feeding.  Never did he kill an innocent person to feed himself.  Most of the time he drank the blood of small animals he could muster–squirrels, cats, dogs, and occasionally, rabbits.  The blood tasted foul–almost tainted, but it kept him alive and it kept him from feeding from a human.  But there came instances when no animals were available.  Sometimes his only option was taking the blood from humans.  Sigmon would sink his teeth into them while they slept, but only drank enough to sustain him.  Then he left, veins throbbing and a deep guilt in his heart.

         Sigmon said his thanks to Tranas and walked out, pulling the hood of his coat tight for the short walk around the side of the building.  Inside, Tranas locked the door, then headed upstairs after gathering his things and offering a goodnight to Ben.  The bartender threw his hand up from within the pantry.

         Outside, Sigmon entered the side door to the cellar and firmly latched it from inside. Ben had access to it from behind the bar, but Sigmon was asked to never enter that way for fear of alarming guests.  He spread out the two blankets he had been given by the innkeeper and lay down, closing his eyes for his deep, regenerative sleep.

         Up two floors, Tranas was pulling the window in the brothers’ room closed.  Since his room was now connected to theirs through the large hole in the wall, the cold air was shared as well.  He gave the snow covered town one last look before settling into bed.  He never saw the rider with the crossbow smile, then ride off in a gallop.