Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!

 
As Arkhor the black stared into the East, a chill breeze lifted the hair on the back of his neck. His dark hair whipped around his pale face, hiding the slight marks of blood beneath the vampire's thin-lipped mouth. His black armour bore no heraldry, and the banner he held in my bare hand was furled. He did not flinch, despite the biting cold: with undeath, you are not devoid of emotion and feeling, you just have a lot of years to master them in.
Arkhor examined the view laid before his eyes: burning crops, and blackened land as far as he could see. However, at the foot of the hill, the herald could make out a small village, possibly a camp. Smoke was coming from it: presumably people cooking, yet it could equally likely be the results of the foul skaven.
But, hopefully, it was not. This was the village of Thardak, the meeting point Mallobaude had informed him that Coreaux's messenger would meet him at.
He strained his eyes, as he looked further away. Arkhor could faintly make out lights in a far-off valley ... a town. But it was no town where revellers danced in the streets: it was a town with the chill of a graveyard. That was his destination: the corrupt city of Mousillon. His birthplace. His rightful domain.
Slowly, he began to descend down the rocky slopes, leading his midnight-black stallion down the slope with care: while the vampire may not care about himself falling; he, at least, cared about the state of his steed. The hill was rugged and decorated crudely with small clumps of grass, though most of the greenery was gorse, or at least held thorns. Get used to it, he told himself. He would have to suffer the inconvenience until the end of his undeath, even if his mission succeeded.
As he began to find shelter from the winds at the foot of the hill, he got a better view of the village that lay before me. It was simple: a rustic village, with stone, thatched houses and a small shrine to the lady. The only odd thing was the icons decorating houses ... and the rancid reek that permeated the village. Arkhor sniffed again, uncertain of the cause, and detected the reason. A thin hiss escaped his lips. Skaven. The foul ratmen were all over the land, and even in this sheltered place safety could not be found. This was annoying -- they were easy to kill; even for a minor vampire, yet they may prevent his Nephew's emissary finding the meeting place unharmed.
He carefully padded onwards. His hand fingered his sword, though he hoped he would not need it any time soon. The meeting place was near: an old tavern. As he strode lightly onwards, Arkhor noticed fire had destroyed several buildings, leaving blackened husks, and many paving stones were broken: why? He had thought that this was the last village east of the sea not to suffer …
Ah well. The meeting could not be delayed: Arkhor knew that if he failed he would suffer greatly.
For a vampire, mere suffering was not terrible. What was terrible was that the suffering would be eternal.

+++++

Coreaux smiled. All was going well. Now that he had received a sizeable force of knights, other dukes had pledged forces to his cause: small, but sufficient.
    And now, with the king finally on his side, he was ready to assault Mousillon. It had all happened in a rush.
    Barin had helped, of course: the herald had realized that if he didn’t persuade the king to support Coreaux he would lose his job and probably his life.
    And now he stood outside the walls of Mousillon, looking southwards to the city: the hills he stood upon were supposedly cursed, but no such fear gripped Coreaux’s heart. There was one thing he feared, and that was himself, his dark lust for blood.
    But that was not of his concern at present. What mattered for the moment was capturing Mousillon. It would be a hard task, yet he now had the force and resources …
    All he needed now was the support of Mallobaude.

+++++

Arkhor slunk into the inn, keeping in the shadows: its age did not mean it was not open: far from it. The bouncers looked menacing, and Arkhor wanted to avoid them. It was so difficult explaining away the shape of the wounds.
    The tables were stained but strong oak, and not damaged, though the walls were damaged as though in many a brawl. The barman watched him suspiciously: in such an inn as this, it was best to be careful.
    As Arkhor slipped past the main centre, several drunks watched him from unfocused eyes: luckily, they looked as though they were at the ‘friendly drunk’ stage: violence was not far off, but it wasn’t here yet, either.
    But he was not interested in the drunks: for the most part, they were sitting near the centre of the room laughing and drinking as if there was no tomorrow. For he was being watched: from the corner, a cloaked man was watching him closely. He was smoking a pipe, his head stationary, yet Arkhor could see his dark eyes following the vampire from within a pale face. Arkhor was glad he had left his banner behind: if he needed to fight, it would have hindered him, especially in a closed building.
    Arkhor slunk past the barman, who sniffed and turned away: obviously he disliked such an attitude, and considered Arkhor rude.
    But the vampire did not care: the figure was of more importance. He slowly approached, and examined the fellow’s expression: it did not look hostile, and … he knew that face from his childhood. It had changed, yet it was Jean. Besides, he had a friendly feel … no, more inspirational …
    Arkhor sat, and leant over the table. Nothing flickered in Jean’s face as the vampire quietly hissed, but spoke as soon as he appeared sure Arkhor was ready. His voice was quiet yet seemed full of strength … of power. Surely this was not the same Jean he had once known?
    “I find it strange,” he began, “That you slink about, yet maintain no disguise … discourtesy means the barman will suspect you, and any sober man will have seen your amour. You must be careful: not everyone is as easy to fool as a drunk. I know the barman as a friend, yet … never be off your guard, Arkhor.”
    The vampire hissed. Who was this mortal to presume he could order him around? “I do not take—“ Arkhor began, yet the mortal interrupted him.
    “I believe you may want to know the whereabouts of your father? I regret to tell you Arborkh is dead, and he is no longer Black Knight.”
    “And good riddance. He was no true father … he was not worthy to walk under the sun … Mallobaude has always been his better, whether his son or not.  Wait … if he was indeed Black Knight, who is the herald of the dark now? Tell me, that I may slay them!”
    “Do not speak too rashly, old friend. For it was not by some fanatic’s hand that he died: nay, ‘twas my own hand: do not respond in anger, for is it not said in ancient Mousillon ‘By our own hand, or by none’? At the time, I knew little, yet could see he was about to die at the hand of a king’s dog … so I finished him quickly. Do not respond with anger: I did what was best. Only now do I know what I truly did, who he was.”
    “I do not chafe at such: it is good, for should I be Avenger, I would be an immortal avatar of death and darkness, not Mallobaude’s herald. But this is idle talk, and I can see the barman watching us. Why the location … would a quieter inn not have been more prudent, friend?”
    Jean chuckled quietly. “I see you have lost none of your hate of loudness and disturbance. But you must know as well as I that in a loud pub very few listeners will hear us? It is the safest place, and the barman is friendly to our cause, and sympathetic, for vampires’ needs.”
    “Do not use that word … ‘vampire’ … it makes us alien, and others will fear us. No, it is a tool devised by our own kind, not a name. Useful, but it is not what we are … if you would stereotype us as such, call us ‘The Cursed’.”
    Jean inclined his head, and Arkhor smiled, glad he had not argued. “As you wish. Now … what news from the South?”

+++++

Coreaux smiled. All was going according to plan … the only downside was that Jean had not yet returned, but that was minor: right now, there were more important things.
    A knight entered. He recognised him as Adrukh, a knight from Adreugh’s host. A trustworthy man: loyal. One who could be trusted. The knights of the Bear were mostly like that: dour, stubborn men, yet loyal and valiant.
    Unfortunately his own host did not share this zeal: they would question his every decision, and only obey their own commanders. The peasants moaned; the knights were arrogant. Indeed, it was only in the Knights of the Bear did Coreaux have any trust. And Jean. He would trust Jean to his deathbed.
    “My Lord?” Adrukh asked, puzzled by Coreaux’s silence. “Have we any orders, or do we remain as we are?”
    Coreaux turned. “Has Jean returned?”
    “No, sir; he is still—“
    “We cannot wait any longer. Send out word to your troupe … this night, we ride for Mousillon and victory.”

+++++

“Coreaux is at Mousillon, with a new army. Yet I fear he will fail: over-confidence is his problem, and his army’s discipline is faltering. One … mistake … and all will collapse into anarchy. Only his army size and the discipline of the foreign knights holds them together.
    “Yet Coreaux does not realize this. He ploughs onwards, determined to finish it once and for all. But it is a fool’s hope … he is destroying Mousillon, trying to capture it, commit it to ‘a greater good’. But what he is doing – what he is really doing – is destroying our land. Every step he makes for ‘the greater good’ of Mousillon further destroys the land, plunging it into civil strife where he should unify it. He has no understanding of politics … he believes war is the most persuasive device there is.”
    Arkhor smiled slightly, a cruel, cold expression, yet a smile nevertheless. “When will he attack?”
    “If my experience is anything to go by, he is already besieging the gates”
    The vampire’s expression changed slightly, displaying a mixture of annoyance and satisfaction. “That’s not good … I must react with haste to be there in time; or else we may have to rely on his forces’ discipline failing.
    “But I have an important question for you, Jean: where do your allegiances lie?”

+++++

From far away, the ground would not have been visible beneath the thousands of warriors building machines of war and buckling on armour.
    But from close-up, it was a mess: a rout. Coreaux could see that most of the men were resting, or not even bothering to prepare their war machines. He frowned. Only in the centre of the horde could unity be found … this was a rabble. But hopefully the rabble could breach the walls … even if it was only through a mound of corpses forming a mound as high as the city walls.
    Coreaux scowled: they had no time to waste. If Mousillon was to be his, he needed to attack soon.
    He smiled faintly as he gestured for a marshal to approach.
    “Order the advance.”

+++++

“With Mousillon. With honour,” Jean said calmly, yet for the last his knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword hilt. “With the truth.”

+++++

Coreaux had heard of sieges as glorious events, yet he had never taken part in such an undertaking: mostly towns had surrendered as soon as his army surrounded them.
    But this was different. Whoever it was defending Mousillon, they did not want to give it up: surrender was out of the question. And so his troops had set up. He had thought it would be over soon, yet it was already obvious this would not be the case. Every foot of ground was dangerous: arrows streaked down like lightning, striking men by random, fate-guided shafts striking home with the accuracy of a diving falcon.
    He had ordered war machines to be set up, yet they did little: most of the time they rebounded of the city’s thick walls: it was like throwing pebbles at a boar.
    So it was left to starvation. Men were digging trenches as cover, and preparing ‘tortoises’, overlapping shield formations. The problem was simple: they could not approach the town without a hail of arrows raining down, blocking the sun like a swarm of bats taking flight.
    No food could get in or out, yet a nagging suspicion was overcoming Coreaux’s mind. What if they enemy did not need food … who said the enemy was living, or did not have secret tunnels in and out of the city?
    But this was the only way. What else could he do? Let his men advance, and die? No … he had to rely on starvation. Yet every day, a hunger grew within him; a dark hunger for blood … how long could he control it before he went on a rampage, killing friend and foe alike?

+++++

Arkhor smiled faintly, and replied, his every word a serpent’s hiss. “But does Coreaux follow the truth? Does he serve Mousillon? Does he have honour?”
    Jean clenched his teeth, and responded as best he could through his anger. “My lord follows the truth as best he can. You know as well as me that in these dark times it is hard to follow the truth. He is doing what he thinks is best.”
    Arkhor laughed, a cold harsh sound that made Jean think of a vulture. “Are you sure about that? The last time I saw him he tried to kill me. Is that what he thought was best for Mousillon? No, it is not. You are the Black Knight, Jean! Rise up and follow your destiny!”

+++++

Arrows streamed from the walls like an endless flow of lava spewing from an aged volcano. They hit the ground and buried themselves in the soil. Others bounced off rocks.
    But some few made it into the trenches dug by the Men at Arms. And there they would not just kill one man, but many: packed up like that, every arrow had the same effect as a cannonball. Trebuchets on the walls fired great balls of flint that killed many men a shot.
    Yet to Coreaux, it was not hopeless: he could see his troops forming up. They had finally come to the conclusion it was hopeless. If they were to breach Mousillon’s thick walls, it would be by swimming across a sea of blood, as opposed to damming up their flowing rivers of resources.
    Every Man at arms had a shield over his head in a tortoise formation. Knights had mounted their steeds, ready for a final charge. Bowmen were readying themselves to go over the top. There was a sense of anticipation in the air: reluctance was a thing of the past that had left when they saw their comrades dying to poisoned arrows, collapsing in their arms.
    In Coreaux’s adrenalin-filled mind, he could still hear their vows: “We shall not surrender. We shall not turn back. Only when Mousillon is cleansed shall we stop the fight.”
    And now … it was time. Some were still forming up, learning how to fight in a tortoise formation, picking up ladders. Yet it could not wait. He turned, and looked Adrukh in the eye. His voice was quiet, yet had a hardened steel edge that could re-forge a man’s soul. “Order the advance.”
    It had all built up to this. Everything had come to this: and before the walls of his ancestral home, fate would take its course, for good or ill.

+++++

Arkhor was running now, and Jean was struggling to keep up: the vampire had sensed something … battle, perhaps. They must reach Coreaux, and before he began the advance. If they were too late …
    Jean slowed down, panting, as Arkhor stopped upon a gorse-covered hilltop. From here he could see all the surrounding lands. The wind whipped into his eyes as he stared at the lands laid out before him. He slowly turned his gaze southwards, past the burning fields and homes … to Mousillon itself. There it was, the great city: it stood like a rock among an oncoming wave. For Jean realized that was what it was. A great black tide of ants were scurrying towards the great, towering black walls … could it hold for long enough? Could even the servants of Mallobaude hold back such a tide?
    The wind carried voices in the air … war chants. These were not the mindless, guttural cries of orcs or beasts, however; these were words, praising Coreaux and his campaign. Some even sounded like prayers … what blasphemy was this?
     Hissing, Arkhor leapt off into the night again, Jean behind him … Mousillon must not be allowed to fall.

+++++

Coreaux had heard tales of the battle of “Halidon Hill”, where men had been shot down in their compact formations by a hail of arrows. But compared to this, that was a mere skirmish.
    Arrows fell like rain, and the sheer number of black-fletched shafts covered the sun. Men fell in droves, collapsing at their friends’ feet while the chanting continued to propel the warriors’ minds and bodies onwards.
    Yet even as the pungent tang of blood infiltrated the air, the horde did not pause. Knights fell like skittles, yet against the holy fury of the Avenging Host there is no victory. Onwards they marched, as time itself slowed to meet their rhythmic tramping.
    They were as zombies, oblivious to fate. Arrows streamed down, yet it could not harm them: nay, for their morale was their only weakness, and such remained unbroken while a single warrior stood.
    And so ever forwards they marched, propelled by the will of their lord. Some say they are akin to the undead, yet such would be vile slander: for in these mens’ eyes shone a holy light, for these were truly avatars of truth and loyalty. The Lady’s spirit filled them, and they did not falter. Men died soundlessly, and they did not turn. For in their hearts burned a flame brighter than any other, and in their ears their rang the holy chanting of the Lady. And they were like unto revenants of light, such was their resolution and dignity.
    In future years, bards may describe the advance as rushed, unorganized. Yet while it may have seemed so to the untrained eye, the horde worked as one: the perfect army, responding to commands like a machine, always marching onwards.
    And on that plain hundreds died. Thousands fell wounded. Yet, for every dead man, there was another warrior, another servant of the Lady. Every man was akin to a grail knight, every warrior a holy priest of the lady.
    And it was thus they marched across that long and arrow-strewn plain, oblivious to death or fire. And it was as such that they reached the black gates of Mousillon.

But these were no normal gates; no standard fortress awaited the avenging army. The Black Gates of Mousillon are known throughout Bretonnia for their height and strength, but such descriptions fail to even give the slightest idea of what faced Coreaux and his army: the gates towered above the invasion force like dark giants from some hell, gargantuan sheets of twisted metal that had seen better times.
    Yet though they were damaged, they were still there. Great dents and rifts were visible in their surface, but they still stood. It is said Mallobaude commissioned these gates as a gift for Maldred, and it is easy to imagine thousands of Blacksmiths working on them. The towers that flanked them looked down upon the warriors like scornful titans of an earlier age, vast pillars among a great strong wall.
    In places far to the east and South it is said the walls had been damaged, yet it seemed impossible: what power could cause the slightest damage to such fortifications? The magic-strengthened metal and stone was a pillar of the past. While Louencour’s palace would be eventually cast down, its splendour forgotten, the Black Gates and the City Walls of Mousillon would stand in a later age, remnants of a dead land that refused to accept defeat.
    There is said to be an “evil that does not sleep” among Mousillon’s dark walls, yet Coreaux found that odd; such gates would keep a creature in, not out. Was the town one vast prison?
   
The army faltered: fire died in their eyes, their resolve faltered. Was this where it ended? How could their rams defeat such an impregnable fortress? Arrows were shooting down from above like rain, and the men turned to look up, even as they heard the whistling of a thousand black-feathered shafts.
    Coreaux looked on in dismay, his steed faltering before the gates. But he could not leave this to fail … Mousillon would be his!
    He dismounted, and ran up onto a rock juttying out from the barren wastelands. His voice rang out over the army even as the chanting slowly stopped.
    “Sons of Mousillon do not falter! Hold, men of Bretonnia and the Empire, for this day victory shall be ours!
    “I see the fear in your hearts as plain as I feel my own. Yet, brothers, this day is our! A red dawn awaits our conquest, for victory comes not in slaughter, but in the resolve of your hearts.
    “Noble men of the Empire, do not turn now: have we come so far together, for me to be failed at the very gates of the foe?
    “Past this gate is an army determined to slay us all, to destroy Bretonnia. Brothers, I ask ye come further, to control your hearts!
    “For I feel the same fear that would take you: but I shall not submit. Comrades, will we fail now? My fellow Yeomen … I saved you from the dark, and showed you the light. You vowed to serve to your deaths … and any man that comes between you and the enemy shall feel the cold touch of death. For you are my kindred, as brothers to me. Every death pulls on my mind, a string tightening in my heart.
    “And that is why we must fight. They shall not die in vain. I see you stand, uncertain of destiny, waiting for the reaper to take you. But he shall not … have I not shown you the path?
    “So, once more, brothers; once more! Yet us strike them with the fury of the Lady! Strengthen the mind, let your hate o’ercome you, and release your inner daemon: today we fight, and shall find victory before the plains of Mousillon!”
    Coreaux’s voice became calmer, more controlled. “Prepare for attack. My kindred, show them our righteous fury. Bring forth the siege ladders, and show them the mettle of your pasture. Sons of Mousillon, charge!”
    As one, the host advanced towards the towering gates …

+++++

Arkhor paused, and examined the ground while Jean caught up. “What is it?” the knight asked, panting heavily. He looked at the ground, and then up at Arkhor, who had a strange smile on his face.
    “Skaven tunnels. Long abandoned, of course. Some are still active, yet my master is trying to cleanse them of skaven … they’re very useful. Be on your guard,” he advised, and dashed into the tunnel.
    Jean sighed, and followed.

+++++

But whatever the strength of a man’s mind, it is by the sweat of his brow that he achieves his deeds.
    For attacking the wall was hopeless: even at this distance, their weapons did little other than dent or chip the impenetrable walls: truly this was an impregnable fortress.
    And all the while, men died: hot oil and pitch cascaded down and seared their defenceless flesh, while arrows hit with great accuracy.
    Coreaux could see it was useless. From his vantage point, he could see the damage was minimal. The foundations were deep, and perhaps only blackpowder could breach such a fortress.
    But that did not mean he was without a plan.  He had known this would come for a while: he must challenge whatever it was that dwelt within Mousillon’s dark walls.
    It was time. All the while the thirst within him grew … if he delayed any longer, he would fall into a frenzy of bloodshed.
    His voice was raised above the sound of arrows and screaming as he exerted his formidable will. His voice could crack stone as it boomed throughout the ancient city. “Come out, servant of darkness, that justice may be dealt! I challenge thee, whoever dwells within this dark city … come out and fight me! I am Coreaux, Avenger of the Lady, and this day I shall deal vengeance!”
    With a groan like an ancient titan, the gates began to open …

+++++

The tunnel was dark and dank, yet nothing seemed to dwell in its depths other than spiders and rats. Jean’s torch revealed roughly dug walls, and various side chambers of the same kind. At points he encountered skulls and bones, yet Arkhor assured him it was abandoned.
    And so they went on, hurrying through the long dark …

Hours passed as they continued through: no change happened to the surroundings: the same musty smell remained; the same crudely hewn stone and roughly dug earth.
    However, after a short while, the air became more stifling … Jean’s nose picked up a smell of … fox? No … skaven! He hastily drew his sword, yet felt a fool when Arkhor turned and hissed at him.
    “The tunnels are long abandoned! Fool … do you think my master made a bad job of it? Mallobaude? All  in these tunnels are dead … dead.”
    Jean’s eyes widened, and began to focus on a point past the vampire’s shoulder. The smell seemed to grow stronger. Arkhor turned … and saw a group of skaven, their leader smiling maliciously.
    “Not as dead as you thought, Arkhor, yes-yes!”

+++++

The gates were winched by unseen minions, yet the assembled host saw only a single figure. Behind him lay the Great city … empty. They could see nothing in those damned streets other than dust and bones from previous conflicts.
    And then they saw a man. He stood in the shadows of the gates, a faint smile playing around his lips.
    He wore clothes that seemed like the old-fashioned clothes occasionally found in the Empire: in Bretonnia, money and resources were not wasted on high collars and cloaks lined with red velvet.
    In the silence, the only sound was the man moving forwards, his footsteps echoing in the empty city behind him. No one noticed the arrows had stopped. His voice was exactly as Coreaux had expected: overbearingly arrogant. To the rustic Man at Arms, it was a sliding, evasive (if such a word can be used for a voice … it says more about Bretonnian stereotyping than anything else.) voice. The words befitted such a voice. “Such words … such noble, brave words. And yet: so unfair. I am naught but a simple warrior, a guardian of this cursed city. Vengeance … what has Mousillon done that it demands such a fate: destroyed in the name of petty ‘vengeance’ … and darkness? No. I serve the truth. I am no troglodyte rogue … I am a servant of the truth. My Lord Coreaux, I would rightfully give you what it is you wish, if you will but serve the truth.”
    The Avenger’s face showed disgust at these honeyed words, and his reply was almost spat at the vampire’s (or so it seemed: what else could this man be?) feet.
    “I have not come through fire and death to bandy words with a witless slave to Mallobaude’s every whim, vampire. Your words are poison. So … will you fight, or flee like the fiend you are?”
    The reply was short, and simple. “I will fight,” the vampire proclaimed, drawing a pair of ornate, long daggers from beneath his cloak.

+++++

Arkhor moved faster than any mortal jean had ever seen: it seemed seconds before the skaven chieftain had a blade at his throat. It was too fast to see, like a combat of snakes … Jean could vaguely see strokes he recognized, yet it was nothing even akin to normal fighting: no, the speed made it far more than fighting, more than duelling. It was what you got if you equipped some sort of lesser gods of time with a dagger and told him to fight.
    The skaven had responded with ferocity, yet against Aakhor’s onslaught, little could be done. And when the skaven were in a small group and leaderless, they were a group of headless snakes.
    Unnoticed, Jean slipped past the bemused and scared rabble, and on in the tunnel. As he left, he heard Arkhor’s sibilant voice hiss into the skaven chieftain’s ear: “You are beaten, rat. Go back to your masters … tell them that—“ Jean did not hear the rest of the words: the fury of the rabble drowned it out in a cacophany of disconcerted squeaks and hisses.
    Unseen by the watchful eyes of the night, the Avenger’s one-time friend ran through the tunnel …

++++++

Coreaux had often seen people disregard fighting with daggers, and overlook their danger: he had seen them die.
    And the way this vampire held them … he was clearly an expert with centuries of experience behind him.
    The Avenger knew enough not to ignore them, yet he knew this battle was not about swords or daggers. It would be about the strength of his mind, and the resolve to continue.
    Coreaux un-shouldered the long sword he had picked up before the battle: it was black, and heavy, yet very powerful. He had been required to throw away his shield, but that was a minor fault. He had seen such blades wielded back before he had become a vampire, at his own castle … and he had seen the horrendous damage they could inflict.
    The enemy vampire smiled: it was clear a skilled duellist could get under the attack of such a sword and stab the fool in the chest.
    But Coreaux was not defenceless: the Lady had blessed his armour; he knew that while he wore it, evil creatures’ fell blades could not penetrate it.
    The evil creature slowly advanced, yet his stance showed Coreaux that the beast was gathering power.
    Coreaux had to admit he looked impressive as The Avenger slowly approached, sword held ready.

The first blow was no real blow: indeed, it did little but strike fear into the hearts of Coreaux’s force: the sun turned black, and the sky began to darken, hellish lightning crackling far above like godly wars.
    The Avenger was undaunted however. “Is that the best you can do, monster?” asked Coreaux, and charged. His night vision was excellent: even as a half-vampire, he could see very well in such conditions.
    Yet wherever the black sword struck, the vampire was not. Coreaux got the feeling the beast was toying with him … many times he could have sworn he felt light dagger touches to his skin.
    But the Avenger did not flee … far from it. He had a plan, as always … his body itself was a weapon.
    He dropped his sword with a clang, and his army drew breath, worried. Yet it was merely for easiness: such weapons were no more use. Only through magic would he defeat the fiend.
    A great light blazed from his armour, and it seemed as though unearthy fire lit everything around him. The vampire cowered, and Coreaux seized his chance. He advanced, striking with his arm as if it were a weapon: indeed, against that most unholy of creatures it was akin to a red-hot branding iron.
    The beast hid its face from the light … yet for some reason, it looked more ashamed than anything: was it finally realizing what it had done.
    Yet that was a passing thought. The beast’s next move caused Coreaux to devote all his attention to his mind and magic.

For the vampire could see how the Avenger was reaching his power: through his armour.
    And for one trained in the magical arts, such was no impediment. The spell was simple, yet incredibly useful.
    He chanted quietly under his breath as the Avenger approached: he even felt sorry for the poor fool.
    And then, he struck. A single word of power. And Coreaux’s armour blazed again, yet this time not with arcane power, but heat. The heat increased, and warriors shaded their eyes and Coreaux screamed in agony and tried to stop the pain using magic, a bear encased in a coffin of spikes.
    The vampire smiled. This was too easy. Now for the final blow …
    The light was not white, nor was it red or any other colour. Some describe it as black light; others say they could see the dead in that fateful moment. But what all agree on is that when it went; light had returned. There was no sign of the Avenger, only Coreaux, crouched on the floor, eyes wide. He was no longer screaming in agony: his cries were of wrath, for the holy light had left his armour.
    And thus it was that Coreaux lost his protection from the Lady, his sacred armour … and became a true vampire.

Yet he had no time to waste on considering this; endless tides of the dead were visible beyond the slowly opening gates. And all of them held weapons, and were marching towards the Avenger’s battle lines …

+++++

Jean rose out of the tunnel, finally having found his way out. Hopefully Arkhor would arrive soon. He looked around, out of the cellar he had come out in, and let out a cry of fear.
    For next to him were ten zombies, ready to strike …