“Ah, but there is spirit in you yet. Speak up! Say your name, your heritage.” He leaned forward, as if taunting Vaddi to attack him. “Orien.”
“My father was Anzar Kemmal Orien, but it seems that you know that already.”
“Indeed. Vaddi d’Orien. Son of Anzar and the elf-bitch, Indreen.”
It took all of Vaddi’s self-restraint not to react.
“Well, Vaddi d’Orien, I am Caerzaal, formerly of the city of Shadukar. I grew bored with court life and went in search of far more challenging things.”
“You drank the Blood of Vol,” said Cellester. “You gave up your humanity to become one of these creatures. You have the disease that corrupts all who taste power. And you serve the Claw.”
Caerzaal glared at him as if he would run him through with his blade, but his lips parted in the rictus of a grin. “The Claw is my ally while it suits me, cleric. I serve myself first.”
“Like all slaves of the Emerald Claw,” Cellester said, “you deceive yourself. When the Claw grips, it does not let go. You are not your own man, though you may think it.”
“We shall see,” said Caerzaal. He turned to Vaddi. “As for the youth who places so little value on himself, well, there are others who would make very good use of him.”
“I serve my House,” said Vaddi, “none other.”
The sword tip swung up under Vaddi’s chin. He could feel its coldness, as if it had been forged from a northern iceberg. “That choice is no longer yours.”
Caerzaal stood very close to him. Vaddi could smell something animal about him, something not human, but there was power there, an almost frightening depth to it, as though he was but a vessel, a lens for something infinitely more puissant and evil.
Caerzaal’s sword point dipped, flicking across Vaddi’s chest. As it moved, Caerzaal’s smile became a smirk of satisfaction. He paused, the tip of his weapon caught in the folds of the robe that covered Vaddi’s gift from his father. Vaddi was still gripping it.
“By the way that you are clutching it. I would say you have something of value in your robe,” Caerzaal breathed, almost a whisper.
Vaddi drew out his hand. “My heart,” he said, “since you would threaten it.”
“Must I cut the robe from you to prove you a liar?”
Vaddi sensed that Caerzaal would as easily kill him as look at him. He had little choice but to draw out the talisman. His fingers found again the slender chain. For the first time since putting it away he touched the object itself. It was warm. As he gripped it, he felt its rough contours and then understood what they were. They were embossed runes. The talisman itself was tapered, like a dagger, though its inside was hollow. A horn, though far longer and narrower than a normal drinking horn. Vaddi’s fingers closed around its outer rim and he drew it slowly from his robe.
“A family gift, no more than that,” he said.
As he brought the horn into the light, Caerzaal stepped back, wary of a trick, his sword held as if to make a sudden strike. He grinned as he saw the horn. “A pretty thing. Exquisite workmanship, but then, the elves are masters of such craft.”
Vaddi could feel the horn’s power, as though it were alive, responding to his life. His blood, pulsing through his veins, was suddenly a strong current. He could feel every vein, every artery in his body. The horn was like a part of that network, as if it, too, had its own veins running through it, interwoven with his. He stared at the horn in shocked fascination. It was no longer white. There was a pink tint to it, which deepened. Blood seeped from his fingers, but instead of dripping down the horn, it was absorbed by it, as though by a sponge.
Caerzaal’s face clouded with horror and he made to strike, aiming to cut Vaddi’s hand off at the wrist. As his blade came down, another met it before it could do its butcher’s work and sparks danced in the night. Nyam had been too quick, his blade countering Caerzaal’s. The latter drew back, hissing like a serpent, his tongue flicking out in anger.
“Cover that!” Caerzaal snarled. “Before I have you and your companions ripped to pieces!”
Cellester stepped between Vaddi and the enraged Caerzaal. “I think not,” he said coolly. He seemed unmoved by the appearance of the horn. “It is you who should withdraw, before you tamper with powers beyond your control.”
Vaddi could feel his blood running into the horn, filling it. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of headiness, as if he had taken very strong wine, and the coming of darkness, for all around him the foul company seemed to be receding, shut out by thickening shadow, like a dissipating dream. He sheathed his dirk and with his free hand forced himself to cover it and thrust it back inside his robe. As soon as he did so, everything came back into focus, but he felt numbed by the experience.
“If you are wise, vampire,” said Cellester, “you will let us go on our way.”
Caerzaal laughed. “You, cleric, will crawl at my feet before we are done here.”
He drew back and barked commands at the undead. They surged forward.
Cellester and Nyam hacked at them. Vaddi unsheathed his dirk and did likewise. They smashed back the oncoming mass, laying about them with energy born of desperation, piling up mangled and broken undead in a heap, but even as they resisted the first onslaught, they knew that they would inevitably be overwhelmed.
“Do not despair!” Cellester shouted to Vaddi. “They want you alive. They will not kill you.”
“Scant consolation to me!” yelled Nyam. He fought now with both his blade and a length of burning wood he had dragged from the fire, fanning it into flame and setting alight those who came near.
Caerzaal had drawn back, absorbed into the mass of writhing undead, and Cellester’s white fire shone anew from his amulet, bathing everything in a garish light. The nearest ranks of undead screamed and drew back, their skin smoking.
The vampire, shunning the light as if it held for him all the burning terrors of daylight, lifted an amulet of his own by the chain about his neck and held it up to ward off the cleric’s power. Vaddi gasped as he saw it, for it was the blue stone of Menneath! His friend’s small talisman, carved with its distinctive sigil. Caerzaal could only have taken it from Menneath’s body.
Madness burst within Vaddi, but before it could hurl him forward in all its fury, light from Cellester’s amulet focused on the blue stone and there was a blinding flash and an explosion of light and sound that blasted outward, powerful as a massive wave of water.
Utter confusion followed. The undead fell like brittle sticks, tangled and smashed. Vaddi’s head rang with the echoes of the blast. For a moment stars whirled before him. He felt someone grab his arm and swing him away from the chaos.
“Follow, quickly now!” came the commanding voice of the cleric.
As some semblance of vision returned to Vaddi, he found himself stumbling with Cellester and Nyam out of the circle of ancient stones and back down the hillside, through the edge of the cemetery beyond to the way they had climbed.
“To the boat!” Nyam shouted, though it was hardly necessary.
Vaddi did not look back, but he could hear the cries and shrieks of the undead.
“Caerzaal will not give up so easily,” said Cellester.
Racing through the scrub and jagged rocks as fast as they dared, they heard the renewed cries of pursuit, but soon the narrow cove and its beach spread out below them, the boat moored where they had left it. As they struggled over the sand to it, a group of shapes tried to head them off, but Cellester swept them aside with a scythe of light from his amulet. Vaddi cut down another two of the undead, his blows fuelled with all the bitterness and anger he felt, as Nyam shoved the craft into the black water.
Moments later they were rowing out into the current, Nyam unfurling the sail with practiced skill. The wind filled it instantly and swept them seaward before any of the pursuing hordes had even reached the beach. Vaddi looked back and saw Caerzaal watching, his eyes blazing with anger. Overhead the clouds parted, revealing the jewelled bands of the Ring of Siberys and a procession of small moons. By their glow, Vaddi studied the sea, but it had grown quiescent at last.