July

Issue 34

     Marian Silverblade knelt in the center of her room. Tendrils of smoke from burning incense curled around her. She inhaled, allowing the scents to calm her mind, to focus her thoughts. At sunrise, the Vangaardians would come across the river, seeking the destruction of their Hamadan enemies.

     “Why do you stay?” asked a voice, deep and melodious, enticing as honey. “The Hamadans are not your people. You owe them nothing.”

     She opened her eyes to see a handsome, pale, dark-haired man dressed in the leather and silk fineries of the noble lords of Ancient Archaia. He lay stretched on her bed, his wiry arms behind his head, his lips curved in a smile. He looked at her with dark red eyes that no longer mirrored the soul that had once inhabited the body.

     Marian looked to the corner where her sword rested, propped against the wall. His voice whispered in her ear, “Why bother? You know that blade can do nothing against me.”

     She had not heard him move, felt no breath when he had spoken. A tendril of fear caressed her heart. She pushed it back, allowing her inner calm to spread. Keeping her eyes on her sword, she said, “If you know what is good for you, vampyr, you will back away now.”

He chuckled. “Vampyr? Maybe once, long ago, but even then I was far more than your average undead. And I am now far more than what I once was then.”

     “Who are you?” she asked; though, she had already guessed.

     “You should know me by now,” said the creature. “After all, you are my last surviving descendant.”

     Dread gnawed at the pit of her stomach.

     “But allow me the pleasure of introducing myself.” Within an eye-blink he now stood in front of her, the billowing of his cape the only hint that he had even moved. He bowed and said, “Lord Calahan Darkblade. I would add ‘at your service’ but we both know that wouldn’t be true.”