Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
We hope you enjoy your visit.


You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.


Join our community!


If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:

Username:   Password:
Tales of the Avenger; Warning: very long!
Topic Started: 26 Mar 2008, 04:39 PM (362 Views)
Deleted User
Deleted User


Avenger I - The Black Knight

This is but the start of a series following the soon-to-be-infamous tales of Coreaux of Mousillon, a knight desperately seeking the grail so he may avenge his land's desecration. The last tale of series I was told in 'Avenger', yet this will start from the beginning of his fame...

Coreaux ruffled his young son's hair as he stared out into the dark woods. His wife walked up from her place near the fireplace and placed a hand on his strong shoulder.
“What do you want, Coreaux? You have everything here. A family, a castle, riches. Why do you concern yourself with your land? It is gone now. Mousillon is past redemption: make the most of your rightful heritage: Bastonne. It is your home, not cursed lands in the South." She turned him around, and looked him seriously in the eyes. "You can't go questing now. Your family needs you." She looked imploringly into his deep eyes, knowing his leaving was inevitable. A slight tear filled her hazel eyes. Coreaux brushed it away, and pulled her into a hug. He knew she was right. But he needed to go. The Lady had called him in his fevered dreams. And he must answer. He must find the grail and drink from it.
But his commitment lay with his family...
"Coreaux," the slender woman whispered, "where do your allegiances lie? With us ... or your country? If you loved me, you would stay." Coreaux pulled away, looking uncomfortable.
"Arie..." he began, but he had no resolve to continue. He knew what she would say. They had had the same argument time and time again, to no avail.
But he had no chance to argue once more. The oak door burst open. Coreaux scowled. A guard had burst in. A knight. Coreaux began to reprimand him in a raised voice, yet Sir Adere interrupted. "My Lord! Sir, your son! in the woods! You must come!" He began to leave, but Coreaux overtook him. His eldest son ... what had happened now? He should never have let him go gallivanting off into the woods ... Arie picked up her long skirts, and ran after him, their younger son following, eyes wide with confusion and fear.

+++++

Athos was lying on a cloth on the table of the great hall, surrounded by curious knights.
"Get out of my way!" Lord Coreaux yelled as he pushed aside servant and knight alike to reach his impetuous son. Aria slowly approached. "By the Lady ..." Coreaux began, and finished in a hushed command, "Get a healer. Now ..."
Athos was completely pale, not a drop of colour in his skin. His head still bore its helmet, so mangled it was still on his head. His chainmail had been torn open, and great gashes and wounds were visible all over the stricken knight. His breathing was rough, and unsteady, his body so covered in blood it was hard to see the heraldry beneath. And as Coreaux lifted his helmet slightly, he saw twin punctures in Athos' neck. Bite-marks.

+++++

The healer addressed Coreaux directly. He knew the lord didn't want formal courtesies. "I'm sorry, my lord. A damsel may have saved him from vampirism, but this was no ordinary vampire. It appears he took an opportunity to feed, not simply make him into a subservient vampire. Your son was brutally murdered by an insane creature of the night desperate for warm blood. Your son, my lord ... is dead, and nothing can bring him back ... "
Coreaux stood, staring blankly at the healer, seemingly not accepting the truth. Then he fell to his knees. he didn't cry out, nor did he scream in anger. The mental pain ... he was half-dead with anguish himself. He knelt there, staring at the floor, mouthing words incomprehensible to man or beast as he stared in horror at the floor. Then he stood. His wife, sobbing quietly, walked over, but he pushed her away. His mind was set. he would cleanse his land. "They will die," he said calmly, drawing his sword ...

+++++

“ You don't have to do this," Aria whispered, her face still contorted with grief.
”Yes, I do," Coreaux replied, saddling his horse. "While there are still beasts out there, my knights will still die. Perhaps you, perhaps my son will die. One of our children already has." He turned, and looked at Aria for the first time since he had regained speech. "Keep them safe."
Coreaux leaped onto his horse's midnight-black back. Before Aria could reply, he was gone ...

+++++

Coreaux slowed his mare (most knights didn't ride mares, mainly due to their tendency to be on heat at inconvenient times, yet Coreaux had owned Harria since his youth). he was entering the forest: where his son had died. The forest was dark: no light penetrated its accursed leaves, save the occasional beam. A wind quietly stirred the branches, sending shivers down Coreaux's spine. he tried to avoid the fear of something terrible happening, yet he felt it inevitable that he would suffer something here. Time and time again fear lanced into him, and time and time again he repelled it. ‘This is ridiculous!’ he thought. He was here to hunt a vampire, and he would act like the hunter he was!
Sighing, he rode further into the woods, marking trees with his sword as an indicator of where he had been …

+++++

It seemed like days before Coreaux found thinning trees. He felt regretful that he had not found his quarry, yet he was also glad to be out of the forest. But as his horse skipped over brambles, and he began to feel a refreshing breeze, a cold emotionless voice struck his ears …
"Drop the weapon, and turn around slowly ..." Coreaux turned ... and charged.

+++++

Arborkh laughed coldly. He still remembered those days when he had been like the knight riding to meet him: young ... foolish. Yet now he was strong and powerful, strengthened by the power of blood. Smiling faintly at the knight's reactions upon seeing him, Arborkh slowly smiled, exposing his teeth. He had spent ages perfecting his image, and the terror on the knight's face was obvious. Just a flicker, but still there. For a knight – an earl – to display terror was remarkable. But he had tried to create a terrifying effect -- while other vampires tended to think it foolish, somehow riding at the opposition without bloodstains and glowing eyes seemed ... wrong. As if it was against some code of honour: the monster always had to look scary.

Coreaux de Albeirt felt a slight jolt as he stared at the monster's white face. The eyes were in pits of shadow, and glowed like a pit of hell. The mouth was covered in blood, and the expression was of pure hatred. why the beast had a reason to hate him, however, was beyond him. But a grail knight could not think about such foolery -- it was his task -- no, his duty -- to defeat evil for the lady. Frowning, he spurred his pale steed towards the foe.
“For Mousillon and the Lady!”

+++++

As the first rays of dawn arose over the forest Coreaux awoke. His head felt like it had been repeatedly slammed into a tree, and his mouth was full of the iron-filled taste of dried blood. Slowly, he stirred, and looked around. He was in the same clearing as he last remembered. His helmet was nearby, and echoed his head's feelings: decidedly ruined. The visor was missing, and the steel head-guard had received a massive blow: no, many blows. It looked exactly like his lead felt. His chainmail armour was torn, his plate armour dented as if from a falling tree. Coreaux was vaguely conscious of the pain all over his body from deep gashes, and bruises, but that was not what concerned him: his body felt ... different, perhaps. As if he was carrying a great weight with him. As if he had aged fifty years in a night. What had happened? The conflict seemed so distant. Yet as he concentrated, memories began to pour into his head like water from a stream ...


"You are defeated, petty mortal." The knight hissed in a cold voice. His laughter shook the evening sky, and magpies scattered away, cawing and mocking harshly. "But I will not kill you. I feel it is unsporting to kill an opponent who fought valiantly, and yet was defeated in such a way by his own impetuousness ... no, I will leave you something to pain you for the rest of your life, which will probably be significantly shorter ..." he chuckled.
Slowly he bent down, and touched Coreaux's head, throwing the helmet away with such force the ground shook. A strange sensation spread over Coreaux. All his body seemed to shake momentarily, and he fell against the tree. As darkness descended, he just made out the dark knight riding away, cackling, into the darkening forest ...

Coreaux's eyes snapped fully open as he awoke, realizing the impact of the vampire's words. Slowly he reached up to touch his head, once covered in wild brown hair. He felt nothing at first, just his skin. His hand moved further back, and felt hair ... wispy, thin hair. He was an old man. What can I do? he thought, but the answer was already forming. Pray for the Lady's forgiveness and blessing.

+++++

The sacred lake was quiet, with many simple shrines set near to it. Whether it was sacred or not, Coreaux had no idea, but in the late afternoon sun it looked wonderful. Small ripples spread over it as small gusts of wind passed by, as if driven by the lady's power.
Sighing, Coreaux knelt on weary limbs and began to pray ...

Hours passed, and Coreaux began to feel a simmering resentment. Why had the Lady abandoned him now? What had he done to deserve this cruel torment? He gritted his teeth. Nothing was happening. He thought a grail knight was 'favoured' of the Lady? Growling with pent-up rage, he seized a small idol from a shrine, and flung it into the misty waters ...

But before he could repent, he noticed a gleam among the water. A steel helm. And armour? Was this a gift from the Lady? Had it been there all the time? Without hesitation, he stripped of his clothes and dived into the icy water.

The armour was a dark steel, covered it ancient rust. But as Coreaux studied its ancient design, he noticed a gleam show again. The rust was falling from it, leaving darkened metal behind. Truly this must be a sign! Then he saw something else. A shield. It had no design, but he slowly traced his finger over it, and where his finger touched, fiery lines appeared.
In awe, Coreaux began to buckle on the breastplate ...

+++++

He felt young ... agile ... in the armour. As if, he had been removed a heavy burden. His sword felt light as a feather, and his horse as easy to control as a royal steed. But something was wrong ... the armour was too easy to use ... almost as if it had a life of its own.

+++++

Yet, as he stood on the bank, and as he turned away to look back into the forest, it seemed a voice spoke into his mind:
"Go forth, Coreaux of Mousillon. Go forth, and avenge those that have died! May the Lady's spirit be carried with you ..." the voice held an ethereal quality. If the Lady had a voice, it would sound like this. Coreaux's mind was filled with a sense of purpose. he was the Avenger, and he would avenge the wrongs done to Bretonnia. As he thought this, he felt something behind him ... was aware that something was there that hadn't been there before. How he knew this, he had no idea, but it felt like a spirit guided him. He turned. Deeply embedded in the shore was a sword that shone like the Midsummer sun upon a blue sea. As his lingers grasped the hilt, which seemed as if moulded for his hand; he felt a new sense of purpose fill him. He would cleanse Bretonnia of evil.

+++++

Arborkh turned to see a figure riding towards him upon a pale charger. He had black, all-enclosing armour, and a red crest that flew in an unearthly breeze.
"Stand and fight!" rang out over the quiet wood, and a flock of birds took off into the sky, crowing in indignation. Who was this knight? But that was for later; the dead could be identified. Laughing, he drew his sword, as the other knight drew from a black sheath a sword that shone as if covered in blue fire that burned like a terrible judgement flame.
"Your end has come, vampire!" sounded across the wood, and the powerful being struck, only for his blow to be parried ... and again, and again. He had the feeling this was only the start, though. He tried vampiric magic, but it faded, as though dissipated by a being of intense power. Desperate, he pressed on, hoping to defeat the enemy with strength, but every blow was met with a parry of perfect skill and force.
What could cause such mastery? Only another, more powerful, vampire could achieve such a level of mastery, yet this was a mortal. Any grail knight would be dead by now. A dragon could have been slain by his attacks, but here he was. He launched another series of attacks. repelled as before. The knight didn't pant, whatsoever, he was completely silent as the vampire backed away. Yet as he reached the tree, and series of blows reached out so fast and sudden that he was powerless to defend. It pierced the vampire’s chest, and his body shook, as if a flaming brand had been pushed into his flesh. With stuttering words, he managed to mutter through cracked lips: "Who ... are ... you?"
The knight slowly lifted off his helmet, revealing a mane of thick brown hair over a pale face. His words would remain with the vampire for the rest of eternity.
"I am the Avenger," the knight calmly stated, and his blue, steel blade swung once more, aimed with perfect precision at the target's neck ...

+++++


Coreaux smiled, and lifted up his foe's helmet, then dragged the head out of it. It had raven hair, and a cold white face similar to Coreaux's own. But an iron hand had gripped his heart. He had defeated evil, perhaps, but something else concerned him... My son. he was my son. The vampire. My son. Coreaux thought numbly. When had he last seen his son? Years ago, when his oldest son had left to go on a crusade to Mousillon ... And since then, it was clear ... ‘Adieu! Adieu, Lucas. Adieu. May you find mercy in the Lady's judgement.’
Coreaux never usually displayed any emotion, but now ... his face was like something from the deepest hell, so twisted. He remembered the sacred lake. The sword. And his son's head, lying carelessly on the cold ground. With a cry of anguish that raised to the sky, he raised his sword, and moved to plunge its fiery blade into his own armoured chest ...
But something resisted. Perhaps the Lady's spirit, perhaps his own will. Yet his sword would not move towards his still beating heart. With a cry of despair, Coreaux numbly wondered why he should be punished so: that he should be denied death. And standing, he stood up, moving his sword away, and pointing it at the sky with a motion worthy of a hero of old.
He was still the Avenger, and he still had a duty to be done. Whether he should turn to evil with anguish or avenge the evil done to him hung in the balance as he stood there, standing against the setting sun. Then he sagged, and sheathed his sword. A mental decision had been reached. Slowly, he strode back into the forest.

+++++

The journey back was absolute hell for Coreaux. On the way there, he had been moving in a stupor-like state, fixated on vengeance ... yet now, he was no longer in that state of reverie. Magic armour could only boost you so much: while it may help fighting, it doesn't help fighting thorns.
His horse stumbled through the dense shrubbery, twigs scarring its legs, but still Coreaux ploughed on: day and knight. he only knew he must return to his family, and tell them he was successful. Sighing, he rode onwards ....

The trees steadily grew thinner, and Coreaux began to see light. Blinking in the sudden brightness, he spurred his horse onwards, hoping he had come out where he intended ... but he hadn't. He recognized where he was. it was around a mile west from his castle, yet ... ‘Aria, oh Aria! Have they got you, too?’ he cried out mentally. The lands were in ruins, crops burnt, buildings knocked apart. Coreaux looked at it for a moment, shocked. Yet then he turned his horse, and galloped east, not stopping to examine the damage, or who the invaders were ... nothing was important, other than reaching his family again, and seeing them safe and well ...
Eyes wide in horror, he rode ever faster towards his destination ...

+++++

Darkness surrounded Coreaux, as though he was swimming in a deep tunnel, a heavy weight pulled on his chest, and he felt as though drowning in a pool of mud ...
Gasping, he pulled open his eyes. But the nightmare was still there. Not gone. it seemed to haunt him yet ... the devastation ... the green light flickering at the windows of his castle ... the shrieking from within ...
Yet it was no castle of his dreams .... it was real ... it stood, in front of him as he walked towards it. A sense of purpose filled his walk, and drew his sword slowly, as he focused on the oaken doors. His family could still live. they could still be in there breathing.
It was possible. It was always possible.
Time seemed to slow in Coreaux's numb mind as he began to run, raising his sword and shrieking to the heavens, a primal battle cry that shook the heavens. He did not pray: that cry in itself was a prayer to any sentient beings out there.
His sword came down upon the aged door. It scarred steel, and cracked the ancient oak. In a burst of inhuman strength he wrenched it out, and struck again ... again, and again. On the fourth stroke, the wood could stand it no more, and gave way to Coreaux. The momentum of the magical carried him forwards ... he charged into the hall ... foul beastly servants burst apart as he hit them ... skeletons fell like rain ... yet there were more ... always more ... and he would kill them. Today he would avenge the wrongs done to him!

The Lahmian turned to hear a primal roar, and saw the castle door shake. Annoyed, he gestured for his servants to surround it, and continued with his chanting.
Then the door burst apart, and an insane figure charged in ....

There were always more, yet against the fury of the berserker, there is no respite. Warrior after warrior was cut down like grass before the glowing blue sword ... but there was something wrong. Coreaux became aware he was slashing at the empty air. The skeletons surrounded him a little way back, in a tight circle that was an easy target. Yet before he could charge, he began to feel a heavy 'thud' noise. And again. the floor shook. And from within the skeletons, black armoured figures emerged ...
"Charge," the leader declared in a voice like rustling parchment. As one, the grave guard unsheathed their glowing swords ...

The dark knights held great swords, as long as Coreaux's body, yet they wielded them with ease. Their dark eyes seemed to drain him of life, and their swords sliced through his armour like a hot knife through butter: there were only a few of these, but these were strong and skilled. Their rasping, steady breath would haunt his dreams for aeons to come as their dark swords battered aside his own. their armour repelled the strongest of his strokes, and where he tried , they did not.
He desperately tried to kill their leader, who seemed to drain his soul with that unblinking stare, yet blows rained down upon him. Even his magical sword could not block every stroke: time and time again he suffered shallow cuts.
Yet he saw his opportunity. He allowed the leader to knock him down, and pretended injury. The captain reached down, and a green light danced on the dagger he drew, as he reared above Coreaux's chest ...
But this was part of his plan. In a sudden movement, he leapt up, knocking aside the strong beast. in one movement, he flung off his helm, and raised his sword., and it seemed a golden light surrounded him as his sword blazed with light, and his hair whipped his face. The leader stepped back, and Coreaux begun his assault anew. And this time, he had the power of the Lady in him. The leader backed away as his strokes smashed shields and battered armour. A dark fire blazed in the earl's black eyes, as he pressed forwards. The leader was forced into a corner. It seemed the fighter was about to leap away, yet Coreaux gave the slow warrior no chance. In one fluid stroke, he knocked aside the warrior's dagger, and drove his sword into the evil creature's chest ...

A thin, keening wail escaped the suit of armour, and the creature collapsed to the ground as a thin mist escaped, leaving an empty suit of black armour. Yet Coreaux had no time to ponder: the grave guard were slowly approaching again. Desperately, he tried to recover his sword from the empty breastplate, yet the harder he struggled, the more it refused to budge ...
He felt a presence behind him, and Earl Coreaux began to turn ...
The last sight he saw before darkness descended was an eyeless warrior raising a black sword above his bared head ...

+++++

Coreaux awoke to the clanging of chains. He opened blood-encrusted eyes, and looked around, his head throbbing. He was in a dungeon ... his dungeon! He was a prisoner in his own castle, a slave in his own fortress. And he knew how strong the walls were -- the cells were set just above the foundations, with walls several metres thick at the thinnest point. The doors were massive steel and wood constructs. As he stared in vain at the hefty locks, it dawned on his he was stuck: he hadn't thought about an escape route. He'd never thought he would need one ...
The door creaked. Coreaux backed against the wall, wishing he had a sword. But he didn't and his chains made it an effort to move.
The locks clicked, and the hefty wood swung aside as though pushed by an incredibly powerful being, and Coreaux was surprised to see a young maiden walk in, in a hypnotic trance. Her bosom was exposed by her thin clinging dress so as to be indecent, yet to Coreaux the woman looked in a trance: there was nothing attractive about some sort of zombie-minion.
She carefully placed a tray on the floor, and left. Coreaux stared in desperation as the door swung shut, but he knew he could not escape. Sighing in resignation, he looked at his food. Dry bread and water. yet he was hungry, and knew it was the only way to regain his strength. Clenching his teeth, he bit into the grainy bread ...


In her coffin, Aluria smiled, a predatory smile. The prisoner had reacted just as she expected, and she knew her mistress would send her to deal with him. She enjoyed that sort of job. She was good at it. She had had a lot of practice ...


Coreaux received no more food for a whole day (as far as he could tell in the dimly-lit prison with no windows), yet next morning, a different servant was carrying the tray. She wore the same dress, yet she seemed more beautiful and less hypnotised, with something in her walk that made Coreaux's eyes follow her around the room.
She smiled and handed him the tray. She said nothing before she left, yet one of her eyes twitched in a slight wink before she left. As soon as she was gone, Coreaux forced his eyes from the door, where he had last seen the pretty girl, and looked and smelt his food. He was starving, and wanted to eat, however many beautiful women he saw. And as he looked down, he could have hugged his imprisoner as he saw the meal.
It was hot stew, and fresh bread.

+++++

The next days seemed longer to Coreaux, and the nights took aeons: though he was steeling himself for years of boredom, he found himself waiting for the girl to return. he told himself it was foolish, yet he still found himself waiting for her return. Why he did not know, yet something about her made him anticipate her return with eagerness.
When she did return, Coreaux's eyes still followed here around the room ... whether they were following her or her cleavage, he didn't know, yet it didn't really matter: whatever the case, it was foolish. He was a knight, and he should behave like one! Yet his eyes still strayed downwards whenever he looked at her, and attached themselves to her.
She was beyond pretty, perhaps past beautiful. She had a rounded body, slim yet with no lack of cleavage. her thin face was neatly framed by raven hair, perhaps dyed, yet natural-seeming. And her body motions were alluring. when she spoke, it was in a quiet, slightly foreign-sounding voice. And she also showed intelligence in the rare times Coreaux started a conversation with her. It mattered not to him who she was, or why she behaved as she did, not hypnotised, yet he had no objection to it: far from it, in fact.

On the third day, she wore a different dress. It had two slits down each side of the legs, and stopped at her knees. It was a nearly transparent green that revealed her whole body. As usual, it covered very little of her body and was far past indecent: it had entered its own category.
For Coreaux, who had never experienced seeing a woman dressed like that, the effect was incredibly alluring. yet for the third time he merely sat and tried his best not to stare. However, his voice was cracked when he spoke, and he had to pause for five minutes before eating after he left.
But the torment of knowing such a person was out of reach was not the worst of his torture. Worse, he had broken his knight's vow. he had stared at a woman who was not his wife in an improper way, and thus failed his vow. he had failed himself, his country, and the Lady ...

+++++

Days passed, and the routine continued for Coreaux, with hours of waiting before his daily meal, and then more hours ... and so on.
But in that time he thought long and hard. He thought about his vow, and his family. His vow he had already broken, he realized. What would be wrong with breaking it a little more. As for his family, it was likely they were dead, and buried. but that put him in a tricky situation: if his wife was dead, he had not failed his vow, if she was alive, he had failed ...
He thought long on this, and decided to ask the serving woman about them, as he could come to no decision.

So the next day, as she walked (a more accurate term would probably be swayed) in, he began to speak, forcing himself to continue despite what his body told him.
"Err ..." he began, voice faltering. Yet he forced it onwards. "My family," came out in a strangled rush. "Where are they? Alive?"
The woman looked sad, and answered in a whispering voice that made parts of Coreaux tingle. "No, I'm sorry. they all died. My cruel mistress ordered them murdered." Her expression changed, like a cloud passing over a blue sky: just momentarily, yet it was there, as though she hated her mistress. She walked over, and set down the hot meal. "Call me Aluria, by the way." With an enchanting smile, she was gone ...

+++++

The next day took aeons, and he received no meal. Coreaux had created a mental clock -- when I see that guard, it's midday, when I see that guard, it's nearly food-time. And he knew when he got food. And he knew that he should have got food by now.
It was hours before the door gave its customary creak, but the servant held no tray. Coreaux began to open his mouth, but shut it as the door closed. She smiled, a predatory smile, and spoke in her voice of velvet. "Hungry? Good. I can help that." She slowly reached downwards, and began undoing her dress' fastenings...

The door slammed shut.

+++++

Eight hours later ...

Coreaux awoke, dreamily, and felt beside him to find only cold floor: Aluria must have slipped away sometime in the night. He considered what had happened. Certainly had been unexpected....


Days passed, and the same old routine continued. Aluria didn't mention what had happened, though she did seem, to Coreaux, to talk more, and be more friendly, often staying for a few minutes to talk while he ate. Once or twice, she remained behind for longer, and the same routine as before took place. And Coreaux was satisfied with his new life: enjoyable, and with blissful periods of relaxation knowing that soon his darkest desires would be fulfilled.

In a few weeks, however, Coreaux grew restless. If this woman professed to -- and indeed showed it -- love him, why did she leave him here? He began to grow uncomfortable, and not react to her lovemaking with his old enthusiasm. he was beginning to feel trapped, and he spoke less, wondering what to do: what if she really would not disobey her mistress? There was one way to find out: to ask her to free him.

+++++

Aluria left the passage on the third week filled with purpose. As usual, she made a show for the knight, teasing him as she left, but as soon as she was out of sight her attitude took on a more businesslike air. She grabbed a think gown from next to the door, and began to walk faster, losing her alluring, enchanting movement. She quickly hurried towards her mistress's room, and knocked three times, with hard blows that belied her fragile and beautiful appearance. She quickly entered as a voice called from within.
"What is it?" the harsh voice from the shadows whispered. Alone of her mistress's servants, Aluria had seen her leader's true, twisted, vampiric form. After all: she was the only one that could be trusted fully.
"The knight. he has asked for me to free him." she said briefly: she knew her mistress did not want lengthy explanations.
"Good. Change into some more decent clothes, and we can talk properly about our next movements ...

+++++

The next day, Coreaux waited in eagerness -- what would happen? Hours passed like decades, minutes like hours. and finally, the door opened. The woman entered, dressed in a decorated green dress that matched her eyes, with the usual low neckline. She glanced around furtively, and hissed to Coreaux: "Hurry! We need to leave ... now ..."
There was no hesitation, and he dragged his chains towards the door. Aluria chuckled at the sight of him, and reached around her neck, pulling out a key that had been hanging between her breasts, and handed it to Coreaux, who hastily unlocked the chains, and dashed to the door.
Aluria began to walk away at speed, and he followed, looking around for any sign of guards: but there were none. The woman led him to a door, and swiftly unlocked it, revealing his weapons. "Take them and hurry!" she demanded, and set of again at lightning speed, up a spiral stairway that Coreaux knew led to the tallest tower.
At the top she paused, and gestured at the marvellous view. Her voice was reverential as she spoke:
"As far as you see belongs to my mistress. No flames ... no army. Undead and humans living in perfect harmony. Those that oppose die, those that don't do so live in peace and prosperity. You have a chance for glory at the joint head of such an empire. Will you join us, in making Bretonnia a safer place for all? Will you help regain Mousillon for the united glory of harmony and protection from invaders: the dead help defend our lands, and the living live peacefully in perfect harmony. Will you join the oncoming power, and see Bretonnia under your rule, my mistress your queen?"
At once Coreaux saw the truth: Aluria's true aim. She snaked an arm around his neck, and he desperately fought for more time, and sighed. "What part will you play? Will you remain her servant, and never my Lady?"
"yes, yet how will that stop the relationship between us? Bretonnian nobles have long had beautiful maids as lovers why should I not play that role?" With those words, her arm turned Coreaux around, and pulled him into the most thorough kiss he had ever experienced, and he complied with enthusiasm: while she was kissing him, at least she wasn’t murdering him ...

+++++

He pulled away, and she looked him in the eyes, appearing slightly concerned. "What, Coreaux, is your decision? Will you reclaim your birthright, or remain a slave to my mistress' every whim?"
Coreaux acted without a single pause. He dived forwards, aiming for Aluria's stomach with his shoulder. As she swiftly dived to the side, she watched him tumble over the edge. "I'll take that as a 'no' ," she said.

As Coreaux fell, he reached out with his gauntleted hands, and grabbed the stone edge of the battlements in desperation.
Aluria, without a pause, turned and brought her hands down hard in a chop that shattered the fingers of his right hand.
As his hand came loose, Aluria prepared for another blow, yet Coreaux was ready. With barely a sound, his sword whipped out of its scabbard towards her throat ... and hit ...
The head plunged towards the ground, sheared hair fanning out behind it, an eerie shriek emitting from the corpse as it began to rot at an astounding rate.
Coreaux looked at the corpse, and something in his face changed as his hand began to lose strength. Slowly, his fingers let go of the rough stone, and he fell from highest peak of his ancestral home, speeding like a rock towards the hard ground ...

+++++

Something was wrong. Coreaux was willing to embrace death, yet somehow he knew he wasn't going to die. It is said that hallucinations can take a man as he stands on the edge of death, and Coreaux was sure it was something similar to that. he felt a great clarity of mind, a clearness of vision: in fact, everything it is said you feel when you are about to die.
But the impact never came. He slowed in midair, and slowly touched the ground lightly with his feet. Coreaux blinked for a moment, then looked up slowly upon seeing a pair of armoured feet ... into the eyes of his rescuer ... his uncle ...

+++++

"You were lucky I was nearby, Coreaux," Arkhor stated, calmly sipping his wine, in the safety of a nearby hovel. "I heard your cry, and came over. My powers were just enough to slow your fall."
"Your ... powers?" Coreaux said, his confusion obvious. Was his Uncle a vampire?
"Yes. I was a questing knight too, once," he said, reminiscence clouding his vision, his black eyes growing unfocused. "I found the grail ... I drunk the elixir ... yet the Lady, she gave me powers of magic ... I know not why. yet I do know that they saved your life," he finished, smiling at Coreaux.
"What is it like ... magic ...?" Coreaux asked, awed.
"Like reaching into a dark pit that feels evil, yet you know cannot be for it was the Lady's gift. It feels ... wonderful. Like you have everything you want, as if you're full of life. I daresay you experienced a similar sensation as I began to use my magic on you."
Coreaux blinked. Magic must truly be a wonderful thing.

But before he could reply, he heard a bang outside. Arkhor froze, and strode outside. "Undead. they know of your 'diversion'. I must go to summon aid ..." he said briefly, and whispered a few sibilant words. Slowly, winds surrounded him as he began to vanish in midair ... Coreaux was left alone. He looked around, saw nothing, and strode outside to meet the oncoming tide ...

There were undead everywhere -- as far as Coreaux could see, even from the top of the hill, there were undead: black stops like a plague covering the land. They began to form a circle around him, and he prepared for death. Yet it did not come. The undead slowly parted to reveal the Grave Guard who had captured him before. They began to form an inner circle, and came in single file. then a small squad emerged, and parted to reveal a woman (Coreaux presumed she was a vampiress). At first he was struck by her incredible beauty, her shapely body, her thin and pretty face, and her raven hair, but after that, he began to see past the low neckline: he realized there were twin bloodstains under her mouth, and that her eyes, which he had previously thought to be black, glittered red in the setting sun. She strode forwards, her pace dictating pure anger.
"Tonight thousands have died because they could not tell me your location: my horde has swelled, yet I am robbed of my prey. I had to catch you, for my own reasons, yet now innocent blood in vast quantities lies on your head!" she hissed, but Coreaux was undaunted.
"Vampire! Your charms do not fool and beguile me, your body does not enchant me; for today you shall die! Thousands have died, and I hold you guilty. Fight me, and regain your lost honour." The Lahmian smiled, and peace replaced anger in her expression.
"Coreaux, son of Carro, I accept your challenge," she answered, puzzling Coreaux. "By tonight your body shall be drained of blood. I will meet you in the castle hall as the sun sets today. Be there, or die."


It was a challenge he could not refuse. He returned to the hovel, yet instead of resting, he paced up and down, watching the sun intently. He realized he would probably die, yet that did not mean he could not try to resist.
He glanced outside: the sun was nearly set, the sky red as blood. He must leave, and now! He bolted outside, to see his steed ready. Hastily he sprung onto its bare back, and squeezed his armoured legs tight, and the horse sprung forwards as though stung, mane fanning out behind him like a flag.

+++++

The gruesome skeletons parted to admit him as he push open the great door. A horrific sight met him: the table where once his son had lain was covered in a vile parody of a feast: blood congealed in flagons, and bodies lay strewn over vast dishes like mountains of slaughter. At the head sat the vampiress, who rose as she saw him, daintily wiping blood from her mouth. "Ah. I was expecting you to arrive. Are you ready to die?" she said, smiling faintly. Coreaux had to admit she made an impressive sight, standing in front of a pile of corpses, but that was not the point. He mastered his horror, and his iron grip tightened on his long, glowing, steel sword.
"I fear you not, monster. You killed my son. My wife. My brother. My family. Those whom I had sworn to protect. Today you shall die!"
"Brave words: so very old-fashioned, you Bretonnians. Still like the idea of a challenge. Can't you get over it and move on? These are modern times: interesting times where man should not walk as petty knights as their world crashes down around them." Her voice was mocking, and that prepared Coreaux for an attack.
He was not disappointed: claws sprouted from fingertips as the undead fiend struck ... but Coreaux was ready. Today she would die.
The creature was fast, yet Coreaux was enthused with the divine power of the Lady. Soon, she bled from multiple wounds ... but Coreaux would strike again and again, only for the beast not to even notice the wounds.
But against the fury of the berserker there is no respite. He pressed on, enraged, until the vampiress was pressed against the wall. Slowly, the red mist cleared as he prepared himself for the blow ...
And he saw his target. An innocent woman ... how could he have blamed such a lovely person for this evil? She was perfect in every way: her form enchanted him, her face made his heart weep that he had ever attacked her. Slowly he reached out, and his fingers brushed her hair, stroking her smooth face. What a beautiful and innocent creature ... how could he ever forgive himself? His face twisted in shame, and he withdrew his hand, and began to collapse ...
But the creature reached forwards and stroked his cheek, moving forwards, her body against his, lips slightly parted ... Coreaux looked up in hope and gladness ...
Only for the creature to reach forwards, and bite into his neck with two perfectly sharp fangs ...
The Earl's eyes widened. His right hand began to reach for a sword, yet it was grabbed by the Vampiress in an iron grip. But she was not entirely aware of what Coreaux was doing: he stabbed hard, with his dagger, into her unprepared chest. With a roar, he smashed her body backwards into the wall, and grabbed his sword, bringing it down upon the creature's exposed neck ...
There were a few seconds, in which time stretched beyond possible imagination, but then, slowly, Coreaux collapsed slowly onto his own victim's corpse ...

+++++

Slowly Coreaux awoke, and looked at the body beneath him. For some reason, it had not decayed as her servant's had done -- presumably she was not fully dead. Her dress was ripped and torn, and but for the dagger in her stomach she could have been sleeping. No bruises were evident, even where he had struck her neck with his sword hilt -- perhaps because in a vampire's body there wasn't enough blood to form bruises.
Her position was not lifelike, her head on its side, her left breast exposed fully and her right half-visible. Half naked on the floor, she looked horrific, a battered corpse of an 'innocent' woman.
Slowly, Coreaux lifted the body, and began to climb the steps to the tallest tower: he had no willpower left to strike the blow himself. He paused, halfway there, noticing a fine dust covering the floor. He was certain there had once been skeletons there: but now there was dust. What sorcery had caused this he did not know, and did not want to know. Exploring further, he saw suits of aged armour, completely empty, and some rusted helmets ... shields ... time had passed so fast when the spell ended that very little had survived.
He sighed. He had to complete his task. Slowly, he dragged the vampire up to the parapet, and lifted her onto the battlements. Then, with a last, sorrowful look at her peaceful face, he pushed it off the tower, and into the moat, never to be seen again for hundreds of years ...
But the effort was too much for him, mentally and physically. He groaned, and collapsed on the wooden floor ...

+++++

In his mind, Coreaux stood on a misty road, where the floor wasn't even visible for white fog. To his left, the road split off, and he could make out little: all was dark. To the right, a great white light emitted, a mystical illumination that reminded him of the kind found at shrines of the Lady.
He knew he had to make a decision: these represented the future: but which dark, and which light? What decision? Where? Why? There was dark, and light, but what dark? What light?
He felt light, feeling free from responsibility. Slowly, he turned to face the light. It had a good feel: he would take the light. Slowly, he stepped forwards, and he began to feel elated ...
Yet the feeling didn't last. He took one step, and he began to feel his feet grow heavy, and an invisible wall seem to block his path. Slowly, his view changed, while his feet did not. It spun, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was only darkness ... as if guided by an inner sense, he took a heavy step forwards and instantly the weight vanished. He tried another step, yet he couldn't manage it. He knew it was not physical but mental, and could be overcome, yet he felt that this was the one time in his life he would not -- could not -- obey his better judgment ...
He took another step forwards, and the darkness engulfed him ...

+++++

Coreaux opened his eyes, and felt The Thirst. It pulled him away from humanity, it made everything distant: and he knew that until it was satisfied, he could never life fully, and truly. He sat up, and sniffed. And again. Nothing. No smell. That was odd -- he had been certain there had been some tang ... of blood, perhaps. Unfortunately not, it seemed. He scowled. He liked blood. It tasted nice ... full of vitamins. Perhaps he'd be able to get some warm, warm, fresh blood ...
Coreaux knew that when he had blood, everything would be all right. he wouldn't need to worry about this stupid vampirism business either.
He licked his teeth, and found fangs -- handy, he thought. Further exploration revealed his skin to be far paler, his hair blacker. But physical changes were not the only ones: not only could he move faster, and was stronger, but he thought differently ... in a more systematic way, he supposed. Yes, systematic. A good word. But he couldn't bother with words. He needed blood.
He slowly looked down, and saw his armour. But for some reason, the sight of it repelled him, as though it was unholy. His fingers brushed it, and pain shot through his arm. He looked at his fingers, and they were blistered. He tried again. No, it definitely was blistering him. Ah well, nothing wrong with another try ... he fell to the floor in agony, and frowned. Still, he could tell why ... when he had blood. He needed blood, and then everything would solve itself.
He staggered towards the dungeons: he smelt life. Was there blood there?

+++++

No. There wasn’t. He felt cheated: why did it smell of life when there was no blood?
Wait … did he smell something … past that door …? Thinking nothing of the action, he smashed his fist into the door, and the hinges smashed and contorted as the heavy oak crashed onto the heads of the prisoners …
Coreaux examined the bodies. He knew them. They were his family … his family. Ah well. Couldn’t be helped. They had warm blood … blood …
Slowly he began to lap up the blood and gore from their smashed skulls …

+++++

Coreaux groaned as he stared at the bodies. He had drunk the blood of his family … he had killed his kindred … he did not deserve to live: he was a monster. He hissed, without thinking about the sound, and silently swore never to harm another of his friends or supporters until Mousillon was his … yes, Mousillon. There was blood there. But for now, he was satisfied. So long as someone gave him troops, he would be happy …

+++++

Arkhor stared at the crystal ball, and looked for his master’s reaction. His eyes gleamed: the closest Mallobaude of Mousillon ever came to a smile. “So, you see, Arkhor, my commands for you were not in vain. Soon he will be in our net …”
 
Deleted User
Deleted User

Avenger II - Mastering the Darkness

In Avenger I Coreaux suffered the curse of vampirism, and became the Black knight. But now he is cursed, what shall happen? And how can he escape fate itself? And as he attempts to master his darker nature, in the forest, creatures from Bretonnian legend emerge to take their part in the upcoming conflict …



Coreaux strode to the top tower as he heard hooves: he knew he would have to leave soon, but for now he had discovered an ample supply of prey, and wanted to practice using his newfound powers. Looking from the tower, he could just make out a figure in black armour. Arkhor. Good. Carelessly, he laughed, and leaped of the tower, lightly landing in front of the vampire as dark wings materialised and kept him aloft. The Banner Bearer was not impressed.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” he hissed, looking carefully around as he handed Coreaux his steed. “The Lady has spies everywhere … birds … beast … too many to count. Be careful. And I presume you are going to invite me inside, you ungrateful wretch.”
Coreaux was taken aback by his uncle’s attitude: obviously he believed there was no need for courtesy now Coreaux was a vampire. Ah, well, he could be ‘tamed’ once he was more powerful. All for the Lady: of course. But for now, he needed his powers.
“I must admit I’m impressed,” said Arkhor, unbuckling his armour – it was easy for a vampire to carry it, but it was uncomfortable. He never usually spoke casually: he must be genuinely surprised. “I always thought you’d never master your powers, but I was wrong. Nature magic, eh? The lands as good as new … apart from the inhabitants.”
“I have spread news about a plague. Now it’s been confirmed safe, more people come each day. It’s not all bad, being a vampire,” he finished, looking at the green grass and restored houses around him. “But I need help. Help how? To train, to master my powers, to keep them undetected from the Lady.”
“I thought it might be something like that, boy. Yes, boy. You are young. I am hundreds of years older than you. Never presume you are the master: for you are not the master. But, yes, I will help you. My master, Mallobaude the Black, wishes to see if you will be any use to him.”
“I am not a tool! I will not be manipulated, by Mallobaude, or any others.”
“Manners. Tread carefully … never insult my master for he has walked the earth many thousands of years, some say since the Breton first came. And you … you wish to be his equal. Careless child.”
“Sorry, uncle. But I wish not to be lectured … will you help me?”
“Why? I am already helping you – you must have modesty before you can have power. You are not powerful, and you never will be I—“
“Uncle, please—“
“‘Uncle’! I am no uncle of yours boy. Arkhor, son of Arborkh, is not your uncle. Did you really believe that? You have more to learn than I thought. Come, you must train yourself, and there’s no point standing here gaping and trying to insult me but failing miserably. Come, I said!”

+++++

In the re-grown forest, a figure leaped lightly from the branches, and dashed away, eager to relate what she had heard …
He who had re-grown the forest, he could be saved. The other must die.

+++++

Inside, Arkhor immediately embraced magic. The feeling of embracing magic may be described as plunging into tainted ice, of burning yourself while grabbing power. And in that detached state, one could embrace magic … power. You could shape the air and your surroundings as you wished, infuse dead with your own power, shred mortality with the dread energy.
But this time he did not do so. He simply threaded strands of pure energy, and lifted Arkhor into the air above the dining hall. When he spoke, his voice was enthused with excitement and joy.
“So I have you here … a vampire whose power is ready to drain, for me … for my master. You are trapped, in my hands. You are weak: you can do nothing. And in this remote corner of the world I shall absorb your essence …” Arkhor smiled, and turned away, releasing the power. Coreaux began to fall, and he yelled out, falling like a stone …
And stopped in midair again. And was lifted. And dropped. And again, he was stopped … raised … dropped … and again. Arkhor turned around and hissed, voice dripping with malice like an ancient beast from times past.
“Fool. Have you learnt nothing? Power must be grasped quickly, and used like lightning … you may understand how to wield it, but at present you are showing the skills of an octopus. Try again …” he hissed, and continued …
But this time, Coreaux did not even start to drop. He stood in midair, smiling smugly.
But Arkhor was not impressed.
“Fool! Do you listen to me? Obviously not! I told you about reflexes, and you spend your time doing that. You are a failure, for now. We will continue this tomorrow.” The vampire swept from the room, Coreaux in his wake …

+++++

It was darkest night when Arkhor awoke. He knew it was advisable only to teach Coreaux during the day (in the night, his powers may be unpredictable due to a slightly greater level of power), but he had an errand.
Slowly he gently pushed aside the coffin lid, and the tip of his forked tongue tasted the air. No tang. Good. Coreaux had not fed.
Carefully, he tiptoed past the coffin, and inched open the door a fraction: just enough for him to go outside.
The night air was still and cold: perfect weather for hunting or necromancy, even though Coreaux was not going to do such a thing. Not a leaf rustled as he stepped into the ‘cursed’ forest. All was silent. His footsteps made barely a sound: he had no boots on, as he had not seen the point: it didn’t exactly hurt, treading on a thorn. But he was not looking for prey as such: he was looking for something he had smelt earlier.
A noise behind him echoed in the silent forest, and he turned, dealing a strong blow to a dark figure, that collapsed to the ground, lifeless. But he was too late. Another elf was already shinning away through the branches: spells were no use in this forest. All it would do would be to attract unwanted visitors. Bending down, he began to drink from the smashed skull of the fallen elf …

+++++

It was late morning when Coreaux awoke: the sun was beaming down on the tops of the trees. Why had Arkhor not awoken him? He looked across to the coffin (for some reason the vampire had preferred a coffin to a soft bed), and saw the lid brushed to one side. Where was the vampire?
Arkhor was not in the great hall either. Coreaux gave in, and began to eat some cold meat from the previous day: not tasty or substantial, but enough, for now. As he finished, he noticed a piece of parchment on the table. As he touched it, it turned to ashes, and a figure awoke: a holographic image of Arkhor. A voice came from the 3D form.
“I have left on important business, boy. Do not leave the castle, do not go out: your life is in danger, and I fear IO must discover how and why. Practise your control, and I will return within a week to continue your lessons. Be ready.”
The image faded slowly, and Coreaux still stared at the point. Where had the vampire lord gone … and why?

+++++

Arkhor dismounted. He was outside a fortress among the woods: ruined, but a known refuge for undead. Living never came here. No one knew if mortals could see it, and they didn’t want to find out. He could rest here. The elves would not dare trouble him until he had consulted his master … no; they were intelligent. They knew the limits and the strength of his powers.
Again, no sound was made by his careful footsteps, no leaf disturbed, no branch snapped. He needed to make sure nothing and no one would interrupt him now …
His quest had begun. If it failed, both he and his master would fall.

+++++

Coreaux carefully stepped into the woods, making sure not to make a sound. He would have a thousand years of practise, yet for now he had no time to learn. He needed to find Arkhor. He needed to ask him about the blood kiss. He needed to do so now. But, perhaps more importantly, he wanted to know about his ‘uncle’s’ business – where had he gone? The earl needed help in controlling his powers.
He was wary. He suspected something in the forest. Something moved … a bird, he thought. He had the senses of a fox, and he needed them. He was straining them … if anyone could find Arkhor, it would be him …
He stepped forwards … to see an arrow pointed straight at his head. A cold voice spoke.
“Do not move, vampire,” it began, as Coreaux began to notice more elves moving towards him, “You will go no further.”

+++++

Coreaux opened one eye, and found himself staring up at the trees. Had it been a dream? No … his head really ached where they had hit him. But what had happened? One moment elves had appeared out of the trees like insects, the next they had hit him on the head and left. Where were they now? Yet more importantly … where was he?

+++++

Arkhor awoke to see robed figures surrounding him: nbut not undead. Their faces were pale yet not pale enough. He could just make out pointed earmarks in the hoods.
“On your feet, vampire.”

+++++

Slowly, Coreaux stood, and looked around. Everything around him looked grey … no colour, except perhaps a hint of green in the surroundings, like a ray of light surrounding him. He was in a forest, he was certain of that. He could make out leaves … but no elves. No birds, either. His sight seemed to focus on something lying on the ground, and colour was restored around that object. One colour: red. Blood.
As his vision focussed, he could make out other objects around it. What seemed to be a corpse of a deer? An arrow? But that was of no significance. He must get to the blood. Some inner urge pulled him forwards, some dark desire …
Saplings fell as the vampire leapt towards the corpse … only to see something already there. He circled the other vampire, licking his claws as though it would sharpen them. Arkhor turned slowly … and Coreaux leapt.
Arkhor was more powerful, yet Arkhor had an inhuman rage as he searched for blood. Spells smashed on an unseen wall as claws tore at Arkhor’s face. The vampire was shocked: the assault was fierce, probably more than he could usually handle.
Coreaux attacked like a feral beast, in a frenzy of desperation: this was his last chance to live, he knew. In a single blow, he knocked down the older vampire, and lapped up the deer’s blood: cold and vile, yet still blood.
Arkhor watched, amused, as his nephew’s eyes crossed, and he held up three fingers.
Coreaux blinked. He hadn’t had eight fingers on one hand last time he looked. The landscape was clearing, but a fuzzy pain in his head seemed to be growing …
Still cross-eyes, he fell to the floor.

++++

Arkhor looked down at his nephew as he yelled at the prostrate figure on the floor.
“How dare you? Forgetting your powers … I save you, and then you first attack me, then get yourself a hangover from some meat! Yes, that’s what it can be reckoned to: a hangover. Fool. Get out of my sight. Later, I will teach you more, but for now, you are a disgrace! Had you forgotten everything I taught you?” He yelled, and strode out.
Coreaux clutched at his mean, and groaned. Two hours of pure shouting did little to help a headache.
Arkhor had lectured him at length about how the elves had tried to restrain his feeding habits, and he had only come in time to save him, having narrowly escaped death. “Save him,” the vampire had said. Ha! It had sounded like he was trying to stop him being saved from the doom of vampirism. Coreaux scowled. He remembered enough to know that he had nearly beaten Arkhor … perhaps in a short time he could truly fight him, when he was fulfilled after a hearty, warm, flowing meal. When he had fed …

+++++

Before the wrath of a vampire, there is no mercy: only death. Villagers fled and died before Arkhor’s hand as he clawed his way through his hunting ground. They were used to his hunting by now: most of Mousillon was. He eyed a young girl: he’d save her until later. Youth was always more pleasurable to prey upon. But for now … he could feed upon the others: those whom were not careful enough.
But he had seen something that distracted him. Another figure in black armour, slowly making its way towards him … it walked in a strangely familiar way. He had a helmet that concealed all his face except the mouth and chin: enough to feed. Even at this distance, it was clear that he was covered in blood from head to toe, his aura projecting thousands of metres.
Arkhor stood his ground. This day, he would not falter. He would not let a competitor enter his hunting grounds. The villagers slowly turned to watch as the Avenger as he charged like a ton of bricks into the chest of the rival vampire: a crude yet effective style that would have left any other creature dead on the floor …
But Arkhor merely grunted, not bothering to dodge. He seized his foe’s head, and with magically enhanced strength rammed it against the brick wall. And again. And again. The figure fell limp, and Arkhor backed off, ready for the counterattack …
But when it came, it was not physical. The figure did not move: he reserved all his energy for magic. The psychic blow knocked Arkhor flying, and his head smashed upon the ground.
The challenger arose, showing his true height: he stood at least a head taller than the tallest mortal, and he looked more bulky even though his armour appeared thin. He strode over to the other vampire, and the crowd held its breath. It was clear one was far stronger in magic.
The bloodstained armour of the Avenger buckled as Arkhor leapt upwards, his sword drawn, and knocked him over. A primal howl emitted from the vampire’s lips as he raised the sword and plunged it into the fallen creature’s shoulder …
But not deeply enough to wound. The Avenger grabbed the blade, and snapped it in two like a matchstick. Through the helmet, his eyes blazed with unholy flame as he drew his own, notched sword. But rather than strike, he suddenly locked into a parry position, as though blocking an attack. Red light streamed past the blade, yet faded as it reached the Avenger, whose face was tight with the tension of blocking the attack. But the attack could not be blocked. A thin strand of light reached and touched his face. Slowly, his body twisted and shook, and the figure fell back against the wall.
But he did not suffer another attack: around him, the ground trembled. Arkhor frowned with exertion as the cobblestones cracked by a great force.
And around the fallen vampire, the dead began to rise …

Coreaux was surprised by his foe’s mastery: he had come out to feed, and then found another vampire stealing his prey. But for now there was a more important matter.
He dropped his sword in resignation as ever more warriors arose from the cracked cobblestones. His opponent smiled, a predatory grin visible through his visor.
But while Coreuax sighed, he smiled inwardly. All was going according to plan. He had been gathering his power for quite a while now …
The skeletons broke into dust, and fell to the re-sealed ground, as Coreaux charged forwards. The ground shook as he met the other vamnpire in midair, and flung him back, clawing at his face, which was now exposed and covered in blood.
The other vampire struck out, and knocked Coreaux far into the air with the force of a giant. But Coreaux did not fall. The villagers covered their faces as a great shadow materialized around him, in the shape of a terrible winged daemon, a true avatar of death. Great wings beat as Coreaux roared, the sky splitting before his cry.
The other vampire cowered, beaten. Coreaux laughed, a deep rumbling growl. Today, he had found victory, and would drink the blood of a vampire.

But Arkhor was not defenceless. He was shocked by this mastery of magic, but quickly regained control. He seized a villager, and drank deep of her blood, the pleasure of the bite temporarily overwhelming him. He knew that the other creature could not drink blood in that form.
The ground shook, lava spouting from the cracks as the dark beast of shadow landed. The villagers, transfixed by horror, remained in place, their faces all mirroring the same horrific terrified expression.
The beast strode forwards, and a sword materialized in its waiting hand. With one sweep, it smashed half the watchers to a bloody mess: it was not sharp, but it was powerful. Arkhor stared in horror, and a sword of red light materialized in his hand.
The beast laughed at such a puny defence, and leaped into the air, coming downwards with a hissing noise as his sword swept downwards …
And lost his avatar. Arkhor laughed as his spell struck home, but soon realized he had no time. He stepped backwards, watching the monster fall onto the tiles.
In a symbolic and impressive gesture, he swept of his remaining helmet, revealing his headband and flowing dark hair. He laughed, and held up his sword, watching as it caught the first rays of morning light …

Coreaux shuddered at the clear light, and leapt at his opponent, his leap half-hearted and faltering. He had finally seen the truth: here was a far more skilled opponent: weaker, yet with a greater mastery.
And he saw his salvation: faith. Muttering a prayer to the Lady, he unsheathed his magic sword, watching as it glowed blue. For once, it did not burn his hand: perhaps it sensed his purpose was pure.
“For the Lady!” he cried, watching his uncle cower before his righteous wrath …

Blows fell, yet Arkhor did not parry. He felt the force shatter his armour, yet he could do nothing. Against the fate of such power, what could he do? What could a vampire do against one who held the power of the pure Lady?
Day had broken: he knew he had no chance of retaliation now. The fight had gone on for too long. Yet he had one final chance: not to win; to escape.
Slowly, he hissed an incantation under his breath, and red rings of fire surrounded him, as his form slowly faded …

Coreaux scowled, as his opponent faded. The remaining villagers began to creep away, as though they had witnessed a nightmare, yet they turned as he sprang onto a rock conveniently placed nearby. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a pure, clean face.
“Villagers of Mousillon: do not fear! For the day of the Lady’s reclamation has come. No longer will you suffer the hunting of such creatures as thus! For I have emerged from the dark, and I shall free my birthright! I have risen out of shadow, and I shall lead this land to freedom and purity! Will you help me? Will you support my crusade?” he orated, and a great roar came from the villagers. He smiled, and raised his sword. “Then to arms, sons of Mousillon! Let the ancient horn calls ring out to far lands, and they shall say ‘hail, for Mousillon shall be free!’ And we shall purge the beast, the vampire and the traitor, for we are the pureblood descendants of Mousillon, and we shall not fail! To arms!”

+++++

Mallobaude scowled at his minion. He was annoyed … that both Arkhor had failed and also lost a fight to a lesser vampire did not improve his temper.
He rose from his carven steel seat, and looked down at the quivering Arkhor. He did not shout, nor did he lose control. He spoke in a sibilant, cutting whisper.
“How dare you … you return here to report your failure? I will not accept failure: you must try again. And harder.” He finished, and looked down at Arkhor, who shuddered under his furious gaze.
“I understand, master …” he stuttered; yet Mallobaude was not satisfied.
“Not good enough,” he hissed, and struck Arkhor across the face, throwing him down to the floor. “When you have recovered, return to his fortress. Investigate the elves, yet the boy must remain a priority. And for your own safety, you had better hope he didn’t identify you …”

+++++

¬Coreaux felt a slight surprise as he stared into Arkhor’s cold face. He must admit he was surprised the other vampire had returned so soon, but Mallobaude had probably healed him. But on the other hand, it was vital he knew nothing of Coreaux’s actions. He placed a hand on his former rival’s shoulder, and turned him around to face the open plains of Mousillon, which were already sprouting with plants and people were gathering for his crusade.
“Arkhor, the world is changing. We vampires are a dying race. Where will we look to in the future? Our powers? No, it is in humanity we must place our hopes. You know this: every dark creature is increasingly aware of this. For every skeleton dead, we lose our power. Already forces are massing around our homeland. And I can seize it back. Will you not join me in my quest, my crusade? Will your banners not fly behind you?”
Arkhor twisted away, to stare into the fire. His voice was a whisper. “You still have no understanding. Our race never does, when you first become one of us. Later you will understand. For a vampire is never free: when he relaxes, he dies. When he acts with caution, he dies. Do you not understand? There is no hope for us. The best possible is to form a horde to defend ourselves. Mousillon is lost.” He paused, and looked Arkhor in his black eyes. “Do not place your hope with Bretonnia, for fate is fickle. One wrong move, and your ‘goddess’ will kill you, reveal you. You stand on the edge of a knife. You can have Mallobaude’s support: yet no more than words, no more than what I can provide. For what honest Bretonnian would fight alongside ghouls?
“And I ask you thus, nephew: why? You know as well as me it is doomed. Maybe you will last a thousand years, maybe a hundred, yet you will die. In your heart of hearts you know this. Politics is a waste. For a thousand years my master tried an approach … he failed.
“Tales are told of a Black knight, like the green knight but dark. And they are correct: for he is the exemplar of Mousillon. My master knows this: he sees there is only darkness. This is why he fights.
“For a vampire, life is short when you relish it, and you will return faster. Life is long with boredom, and then you take time to come back. Submit to your inner urge. Come … have you not bitten a foe? Do you not know the feeling, the pleasure? In royal society, the best you could get is a villager. In my rank, you can get fair maidens as the dark knights in a balcony beneath the stars, with hair flowing, and necks smooth and beautiful …
“You know I speak the truth, and I urge you: do not throw away a thousand years so rashly. Join my master.”
Coreaux took a deep breath. He did, indeed, know what Arkhor said to be true, yet he also knew that if he gave in, he was a traitor. He replied as best he could, though he knew it sounded half-hearted and weary.
“Since childhood a sense of duty has held me to life, kept me alive. Now it is gone. I can do nothing; I am useless. Yet in that moment, I felt alive: truly alive. I can live my life well. I can hunt monsters, be a true Bretonnian. The sun does not hurt: my magic armour does not sting. Why should I once more suffer such pain, when I can experience the thrill of hunting monsters, or drinking the blood of courtly—“
“Fool! These monsters are your kin: some are even vampires. You must understand! I am not your enemy! I will aid you in whatever you do: yet I can tell you that service of the Lady is unfulfilling and hollow. I will aid you; yet do not ask for more. You can be cleansed for a day, maybe a year. But you cannot be cleansed for eternity. Remember this. You re an outcast to Bretonnia while you remain so, not an ally. You will be reviled and killed for your beliefs, your way of living. Yet when you fight, Arkhor of Mousillon, son of Arborkh, will ride by your side …”

+++++

Lethalis sighted down his bow, and gestured for his fellow scouts to move forwards. Their arrows had no heads: they were pure wood, dipped in holy water. The suspicions surrounding such things were mere rumour, yet still a risk worth taking.
Slowly, he raised his hands, watching the two figures, and it fell abruptly.
Five arrows whizzed from their bows, all aimed towards the two figures on the battlements …

+++++

Arkhor yelled, and pulled Coreaux down. The arrows whizzed past his head, and Coreaux began to speak: why could he not keep his fool mouth shut for once?
“What the—“
“Be quiet! Elves. They’re after us. That was where I went last time, but they’re still here: still after us.”
“Elves! Pah! Easy to kill … good to feed on.”
“No, no they’re not … these are elves who have hunted vampires since birth: if any will, these will know how to kill us. We must be cautious.”

+++++

Lethalis cursed as the figures ducked, but was ready, He pulled an arrow from his sheath; but this was no ordinary arrow. It had silver fletchings, and green light danced around the wooden tip. It would not kill, but it would stun.
The figures stood again … Lethalis pointed the bow, aimed … and fired …”
He smiled slightly as a figure fell from the turret and into the moat …

+++++

Arkhor stared down in desperation as more elves appeared from the trees: that would not have killed the boy, yet it would have stunned him. The boy was crucial to his master’s plans. In his head, a voice resounded: “I will not accept failure” … and he would not fail! He must rescue the boy … or die trying …

+++++

Lethalis looked up, and hissed a command to the other scouts, who slowly melded back into the shadows …
He gestured to the other elves, who picked up Coreaux’s limp form, and carried him into the woods. Lethalis glanced around hastily, and followed …

+++++

Arkhor hissed as he looked around. He was a vampire at the peak of his power, and he would not be thwarted by mere elves!
They had not even had time to cover their tracks … it took just a moment before Arkhor was limbering through the trees after them …

+++++

Lethalis paused, and looked around. He paused, and listened to the trees. His expression changed to urgency.
“He’s catching up! We must hurry, brethren!” the elves sped on to the secret grove …

+++++

Arkhor, hanging from an oak tree, listened to the elves’ feet and their speed. He swiftly realised they were gaining speed. He must hurry!
Ever faster, he swung from tree to tree as one born in the forest. This day he would not fail!

+++++

A shimmering essence materialized around the vast oak as the elves reached it. To the normal eye it looked normal, but to the elves’ carefully refined senses it was a magical trick covering a hundred metres square: the angles of the surrounding land were twisted and distorted.
Lethalis did not pause, and dashed into the vast cavernous cave in the oak’s metre-think trunk … the other scouts followed, and the opening closed behind them …

+++++

Arkhor scowled. The elves’ footprints stopped at the oak. No sound could be heard: it was a massive oak tree, with no visible entrance. Yet he could sense elves: the place reeked of their magic. But could he access their hiding place?

+++++

Lethalis sighed in relief as he encountered the refreshing smell of the herbal compounds used by wardancers as he entered. The grove was almost empty, save for a few relaxing elves: all breathing in the fresh air.
The place was a sacred grove, a true place as such: a natural circle of stones where nature had been given free reign. A place that was purely accessible by elves. But he had no time. He grabbed the prisoner, and placed him in the shadow of the central tree …

+++++

Arkhor had seen something: the area was all scrunched up … twisted. This wasn’t a normal oak tree … it looked a hundred metres across with the right state of mind! But he presumed it was only available to elves. How to break the spell?

++++++

From the shadowy trees, dark figures emerged, carrying braziers that burned with a green light. Lethalis stepped back. His work was done. The guardians knew what to do.

+++++

Arkhor aimed his strongest spells at the tree, yet it remained impenetrable. Once or twice he had detected a green magical aura, yet little more. This was hopeless … unless he could find an elf, and force him to open it …

+++++

Mystic chanting filled the air. Lethalis watched as Coreaux groaned, sweat pouring down his brow. Good. The ritual was nearly complete.
He smiled as mist emerged from the sacred tree, and two of the dark figures placed the figure resting against its dark and forbidding boughs …

+++++

The captive struggled, yet she could do nothing against the vampire’s iron grip. The vampire slowly released his grip slightly, and exerted his considerable will. The captive fell dead, and Arkhor dropped the corpse, having absorbed the she-elf’s life essence. They were defenceless.
Slowly, the wood split apart, revealing an entrance for the vampire.

+++++

Lethalis looked around as a figure walked in from among the dark and shadowy trees. She was a scout left behind to watch the castle: something must have happened.
The slender, beautiful elf walked up to Lethalis. “Excuse me highborn, yet I believe the vampire is approaching. Would it not be prudent to deal with him? I fear he has a way of entering.” Her voice sounded normal, yet slightly … different …
But her appearance was normal: her clothes exactly the same. Lethalis frowned, and her bosom heaved up and down in panic. “But he is nearly here. You must go—“
“I must do nothing. My place is here, and nowhere else,” Lethalis replied, turning away. But something made him turn …
A thin scream emitted from the girl’s mouth, and her eyes filled with terror. Lethalis stepped back, and signalled for a volley.
Ten arrows pierced her chest, yet she did not falter: just stood there, eyes wide, screaming in fear and terror.
Lethalis stared on in horror, and watched the guardians. The spell was nearly over. All they needed was time.
But they had little. Lethalis turned to see the body dissipate into dust, leaving a vampire pierced by ten arrows, yet with no serious wounds. But Lethalis had no time to think, before the vampire smashed into his chest, obviously intent on his death.

+++++

This elf was a match even for Arkhor’s warrior skills. Every blow was parried, every stroke replied to. He was aware he was not even facing the elf’s full potential: here he could not use magic and sense such, but he felt as though the elf was playing with him, gaining time.
But if the elf had speed and skill, he did not have strength. It could only be so long before his endurance ran out.
Yet Arkhor had no time to waste.

+++++

The elves could not fire, for fear of hitting their leader. The warriors sparred like ancient creatures of legend: one evil, one fighting for the future of the world. But eventually one had to fail.
Arkhor feinted, and watched Lethalis’ expression. As he had predicted, the elf moved to parry the obvious attack move: one from the bottom right. But Arkhor was not a fair fighter, and certainly he would not take the obvious move. He appreciated martial honour, but for now it was a concept he could not afford to keep to.
His foot kicked upwards, catching him in the groin. As the elf slowly folded over, Arkhor hit him on the head with his sword hilt and blood seeped out of the creature’s cracked skull.
Arkhor did not pause: he knew in a few seconds he would be full of arrows. But for now, he had to kill the other elves. Flames appeared around him as he gathered power from his unholy sword (he could not use magic, but his sword was a different matter), and three elves fell in ashes to the ground.
As seven arrows embedded themselves in his flesh, another elf fell to his blows … and another. More arrows came, but Arkhor knew he had no time to dodge. The sixth and seventh elves fell to sword slashes, the eighth and ninth fell to a swift blow to the head. A magical missile from his sword hit the tenth. Arkhor could now rescue Coreaux. All that remained were the spellcasters standing around the fallen vampire.

+++++

But these were no ordinary guardians, no standard mages. The spell was not yet complete, but it was complete enough for them to turn and stand to face Arkhor, who tried to draw magic and failed. As one, the magicians unleashed flaming missiles that split reality. Arkhor could see the fight was already lost, yet he blocked the attacks, and charged, flames burning his flesh like hot knives through butter.
But he would not fail. He could not let the spell be complete. The first guardian fell to a downward slash, the second to a hack, and the third to a punch in the face.
But there were more. To Arkhor the world around his was a distant land: all he could see was flame. The last guardian fell, and Arkhor quickly ran to see to Coreaux. But he was too late. The spell had nearly been been successful … or had it succeeded?
Arkhor fell to his knees in despair and mental torment, but he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: Coreaux’s eyes were flickering.

+++++

Coreaux felt as though he was back in the dark realm where he had seen light and dark: but this was different. He was aware he was unconscious: aware of his state. He knew … everything that was happening. Yet it seemed natural to him. He could not see, but his imagination provided these images, and for some reason he believed they were accurate.
But he could not move or see: he felt dead, yet … not dead. He could think. Was this what death was like for a vampire?
But something was changing … he felt figures stand over him, saw their movements … and heard their voices. That should not be possible, yet it was happening. Chanting filled his mind, and his vision slowly began to clear, to show a conclave of mages standing over his fallen body. His eyes weren’t open, yet he saw as though it was bright daylight. A voice echoed in his mind, not in the mystic chanting, but as though it were formed of those voices, in his own language: or at least, he could understand it.
“Coreaux … return to the light … do not hunt mortal blood in vain. Do not abandon your soul to the curse of vampirism … return to the light …”
Coreaux’s eyes snapped open, and he saw light.

+++++

The forest burned. Arkhor felt a slight tang of regret: not even a vampire could get out of that, but it was necessary. Whatever state his nephew was in, that was the kindest thing. Besides, it would also kill any elves, which was an added bonus.
As he turned away, he looked one last time at the castle nearby. It would never know the glory he had hoped for.

+++++

Coreaux stood as his vision cleared, and immediately saw his situation: he was stood in a grove amidst a burning wood. He had no chance of escape.
Unless … it was easier than he had imagined: all he had to do was exert his will. It felt little like magic … it just seemed natural: he was not drawing on his power, or trying to use magic. It just happened. He didn’t know what the wood elves had done, but if it was this, he was grateful. Mind you, it was probably just the sacred grove and the build-up of his power.
One by one the surrounding flames vanished, leaving a clear path out of the forest. As he strode through it, he felt as though something was gone, lost. Perhaps leaving the sacred grove, perhaps not.
As he finally exited the forest, he drew more power: for this he needed more than the imminent supply. His expression was sad as he exerted all his will, yet he knew it was necessary.
The flames slowly stopped, yet the forest did not re-grow. That would take time, after such horrific damage. But something had to happen, before this forest was free from taint.
A clear white globe appeared around an area of the forest, white interlacing shell binding it around where the grove had been.
Then, with a sudden snapping noise, it split open, sending a wave of light away that distorted the forest and reality. When the wave was gone, so was the light. Coreaux looked back, and saw he was successful: the grove was gone. With a last regretful look at the forest, he travelled back to his castle. Events had happened there that bound him forever to woods, and to growing things. And it was there his heart would forever reside: not with his home, or even Mousillon, yet with the peace of the woods, and their unspoken voices.

+++++

Mallobaude stared into the crystal ball, and looked at Arkhor. He did not attack him: he understood he had tried as hard as he could. So … the boy lived. Perhaps that was good, perhaps not. Yet first, he must understand what had been done. He had glimpsed a fraction of the magic emitting from the grove, yet very little.
He turned to Arkhor. “What did they do? Give me your mind …” Arkhor opened his thoughts, and Mallobaude directed his own thinking to channel his mind. Arkhor felt a faint shock as his master saw the guardians, and then the presence was gone. He looked at his master, concerned at his shocked expression.
“Master?”
“They … they tried to remove the taint, to make him as good as an elf. But they failed.”
“That is good … it is, isn’t it, my lord?”
“Yes. He will now have the powers of a vampire without our constant thirst, our inhuman failures. But …”
“”My lord?”
“It will return when he least expects it. For now he is a vampire-elf, and is not truly one of them or us. For while he may sense the trees, feel their life, he was not fully cured. No – that cannot be done. Their spell was powerful, yet nothing could cure him fully, save slaying a dragon himself, or so the legends tell.”
“You wish me to return?”
“No. We must watch, and act when our time is ripe …”
 
Deleted User
Deleted User

Avenger III - Gathering the Host

Coreaux has overcome the curse of vampirism, and freed the forest of taint. But even at the peak of his power, can he persuade the king to support him? And will his dark powers finally become revealed? In the darkness of an oncoming storm, Coreaux looks to the North and East for aid …


Coreaux looked out over his lands: they stretched as far as his eye could see; yet he knew his crusade was getting nowhere. Seven years had passed since the mission had started, and since then he had been acclaimed throughout Bretonnia for his astounding military skills and prowess in war. Yet he knew he was getting nowhere.
The only land he had gained was simply wasteland: land that no one else wanted, and that had long held few visitors, and not even skaven infested. His army was too small for anything more. To the north, his lands in Bastonne were flourishing: day-by-day more merchants came, not put off by his proclamations (widely regarded as arrogance: he had received no ‘go ahead’ from the king) that it was now part of Mousillon. But to the south … he held a vast quantity of land, yet for all intents and purposes it was nothing. Geographically his small amount of lands in Bastonne was barely visible on a map, whereas this was a massive proportion of Mousillon: probably about a tenth in total.
But politically, it was nothing. No citizens apart from the odd wanderer. No economy. No enemies, no real conquests.
His army claimed it was the greatest achievement since Gilles le Breton cleansed Bretonnia, but he knew it was not so. Even the few battles he had fought would have failed but for his fighting ability.
To his warriors, it was a mighty conquest. To everyone else it was yet another insignificant attempt to cleanse Mousillon.
In short, the campaign was failing, and he could do nothing. The king had not given his support, choosing to remain neutral, and other dukes had looked the other way when he asked for aid. The duke of Bastonne had nearly started a war over his announcement about his lands now being part of Mousillon.
He smiled ruefully. Landuin had been like him: powerful in person but without the resources to fully cleanse Mousillon.
But, of course, the other dukes regarded that as folly. They scorned him for his love of growing things, rejected him because of his heritage.
He knew he had one solution: to ask for foreign help. Louencour would disapprove of course, but he didn’t care any more. So long as Louencour didn’t attack him, he was fine.
But that caused a bigger problem. To do so, he himself would need to leave as a diplomat … and he had no spare time to waste. He had no one he could trust at the moment: no one he could leave to continue the campaign. Which would mean he needed a trustworthy servant …
It was annoying. It meant he had to find someone trustworthy, deal with Louencour tactically, and then find willing allies. And to do one, he needed to do the other: each was vital, and needed to be done fast. And he had no time.

The door opened, and a guard poked his head through:
“My lord, there’s a messenger here to see you. He says it’s urgent. He’s from the king,” he proclaimed, and Coreaux sighed, and replied in a weary voice.
“Tell him he can see me now, then,” he ordered, and waited. He did not have to wait long: the herald impudently burst through the door, in a state best described as “righteous fury”. He spoke in his arrogant voice as if he owned the castle.
“This is madness! You have no knights! How can you hope to reclaim lands that are not yours with this rabble? This is an out—“ Coreaux stood, dwarfing the fairly short man. His sword eased in its scabbard. He knew it was a declaration of war, yet he did not care: this was his hall, not Louencour’s palace. When he spoke, his voice was quiet yet powerful.
“How dare you? You burst in here like some animal and speak to me like a piece of common filth. You may be allowed to speak so in your lord’s halls, yet never here. Do not presume you are of a greater rank than me: for you are not. What is the message? Speak quickly.”
The messenger swallowed, and looked nervous, but his voice was steady. “His majesty ordered me to persuade you not to continue this madness, and if not, declare your judgement, as he saw fit to entrust to me, and me alone. That was all.”
“My greetings to your master. You speak of matters beyond your reckoning. Political currents are fine, and I do not expect you to understand why I spoke thus. But I am prepared: my forces are ready, and throughout the lands we are proclaimed as heroes equal to those from the days of legend.”
“And the wise call you fools! My lord Coreaux: I would not abandon my king’s aid so rashly. Do not act without thought. I know your host is weary: many have had to eat insects. Illness is rife. You are an extraordinary man, but you cannot contend with the combined might of the enemies of Bretonnia thus! I beg you, lord: do not throw away your life, for you may have a part in the war to come. We have not forsaken Mousillon, and we have not forgotten it. Do not believe otherwise, for you are making a massive mistake! If you go to war, you’re all going to die!”
“I appreciate your concern, yet this is a matter of honour. My family were killed by foulness from this land, as were all my followers. Do you think I will let them die and not avenge their deaths?” Coreaux’s knuckles were white on his sword hilt, his face pained by past memories.
“No! I do not say that … I just believe this is not the best way to have vengeance. Join with us, do not make enemies of us.” The herald swallowed. “You are a remarkable man, Coreaux of Mousillon. I remember you as a child: bright and joyful. Do not throw away that past. I was once your friend: yet I see nothing of that child in you. You are as hard as stone. Do not destroy yourself with a hunger for vengeance.”
Coreaux blinked, and studied the man’s face. It looked so different … worn by care. “Jean?” he asked quietly, and the man nodded. Coreaux looked sad, yet he did not greet him as an old friend: he stood motionless.
“It is good to see you. I could do with a friend in these dark times. Yet I will not abandon my quest: nay, I will continue for the sake of my family and those whom I loved. Instead, I ask you this: join me. Your family was lost too. I can see you have done well in society; will you not support my cause for the sake of an old friend. We will not lose, never, not if I have allies. Can you not persuade Louencour to help me?”
“I can try, but I will fail. I can aid you, but I have a mere hundred knights. Friend: I can do little.”
“One hundred is as good as a million. I would rather have one loyal friend by my side than a thousand knights. Come, Jean: join me.”
Jean hesitated, yet he was already persuaded. His voice held real emotion as it spoke. “For old times sake, I will ride alongside your forces. I would do no less. And by my sword, we shall ride together to free our land.”

+++++

The next days passed like lightning: Jean sent word to the king, and Coreaux bore the long hours without mental pain or hurt, for after seven years, he had a friend fighting alongside him.
But on the third day, bad tidings came: the king had officially declared him and Jean enemies of the crown. On the fourth, their force was more than decimated by a series of sudden skaven ambushes. But through this, Jean remained confident: more knights came day by day, and they steadily hacked a bloody path to Mousillon itself: if they could take the city, the land would be theirs.
On the fifth, Coreaux left to find aid: two of his problems were resolved, yet another presented itself: he had a lack of troops, though more than enough food.

+++++

For three days Coreaux rode: only stopping to eat, and occasionally sleep. He had no time to waste. On the fourth, he reached his destination: the castle of the order of the Bear.

The horse’s hooves were the only sound as Coreaux rode up to the castle entrance. The door slowly opened to admit him, the opener unseen. Coreaux dismounted, and looked around: no one was in sight. Still, it was worth a try.
He knocked on the large door of the keep, and waited. After five minutes a guard opened the large stone door, admitting Coreaux to a large decorative hall.
Coreaux had always thought the Empire a highly advanced civilisation, and past such roaring fires, yet somehow this massive hall with its touch of modernism was more Empire than anything.
A stout, grizzly figure approached him across the rug-covered floor. “Hail, brother knight. It is always good to hear from our Bretonnian brethren. What news from the South?”
Coreaux was surprised by the informality, yet he found it welcoming. “Lord Adreugh of Reikland, I come—“ he began, yet the bearded man butted in.
“We are all knights here. I know from whence you come. What do you want from us?”
“Aid. I am undertaking a mission to cleanse Mousillon, and will not rest until it is pure. I need help, and I thought I would consult my northern brethren.”
“I am sorry, but we have none to give: we are hard pressed, and a small chapter as it is: I cannot help. The best I can give is provisions and a bed for the night.”

That night Coreaux slept well: it had seemed like years since he had slept in a real bed, and suffered no nightmares, no dark horrors.
He was awoken by voices talking loudly: clearly the knights were readying for battle, or war. But against whom?
At the great hall, Adreugh welcomed Coreaux warmly. “Today, we leave for war and death,” he explained. “A great orc horde has come to our lands, and we have not the means to stop them: we are equal in number, but they have great magic, and we do not have the favour of the gods as do you, friend. We will die, yet we will die honourably,” he proclaimed, and the surrounding knights let out a great cheer: obviously they knew their fate, but would fight to the death for their leader.
Coreaux thought for a moment, then said to the grand master: “And if I could save you from death? Would you fight with me?”
The stout man considered, and then answered as though from a deep pit. “Yes, we would. More than that: we would all owe you a life-debt, and would die,” he said, then looked Coreaux in his eyes, and spoke with a bitter tone, a tangible annoyance: “I would be willing to fight alongside you as brother if you could save us … but how? One man … against ten thousand orcs bolstered by their dark gods? That would be madness, had you the whole of the Empire behind you!”
“Madness?” Coreaux said, smiling slightly. “I am a Bretonnian! I will not see my friends die when I can save them.”
“But … how?” Adreugh said, obviously not convinced.
“Come nightfall, you will see. Yes, you will see the true might of the Bretonni.”

+++++

As Coreaux rode through the woods, Adreugh could not help but admire the way he rode: he was aware he was in the presence of a born rider: the horse obeyed the slightest of commands, and every idle flick of the reigns was a command to the stallion.
But one thing hung on his mind. “How?” he asked, the question rising to the forefront of his mind as he looked through the great forest. “How can you defeat a horde?”
“The strength of Bretonnia lies not in its might in arms: nay, that is merely one of its attributes. Our strength lays in our faith … the lady. She is our guardian, our saviour. Yet when she blessed me, she gave me not only protection and great skills, but great magic too: and it is that I will use to destroy them. Nothing can stand against pure magic and faith, save the darkest of evil.”
“Then I wish you luck, friend, for it is a mighty host,” Adreugh said as the forest thinned. Far away Coreaux could hear guttural cries, and roaring voices, chanting to dark gods. The battle had begun.

+++++

The assembled host cried out in hunger and exhilaration as they heard the beat out a steady thud, thud rhythm. This was it: they were finally embarking on their “Waaagh”.
But there was no enemy force. The orcs faltered, about to charge: the drums paused, and started out of timing: there were no enemy soldiers. They had come here for … orcs began to scrap, their pent-up energy resulting in an army-wide brawl.
And then, they paused, often in mid hit or thump: an enemy had been seen. For hundreds of knights had appeared out of the mists: on black chargers and wearing black helmets. As one, the orc mass surged forwards …

Coreaux smiled as he heard the bellows of rage, and spoke quietly to himself as he drew ever more power. “And so it begins.”

Adreugh turned his horse, and waited. The knights did not form up: nor did they speak. They waited for the opportune moment.

The orcs had reached the river, and still Coreaux stood there. Nothing was happening …
But suddenly, a pillar of fire lanced down, incinerating tens of hundreds of orcs: yet then it was gone. In a flash many had died.
Another pillar materialized, and vanished: and another. But this was nothing: the orcs were too many to be bothered by such puny resistance. Ever they surged on.

The knights readied their lances, ready to die …

Coreaux frowned: he had not been ready for so many. But today they would see the true meaning of magic.
For his strength lay not in puny impressive displays: no, it lay in true magic. Dark magic.
He looked back, and could see the knights could not see behind a shimmering wall of mist. Good.
The orcs approached, coming ever nearer: and Coreaux readied himself. This tactic was evil, yet necessary. He hoped the Lady would forgive him for the wrong he would do this day.

The orcs continued their charge: they saw light shining off lances and shields through the mist: they could be no further than two hundred metres away. Their senses of crude cunning made them realize this would be easy: the enemy would lose in seconds.
But something was wrong … the air was growing hotter: it felt like mud. They looked around, moving slowly, confused by this sudden change of atmosphere: their movement was slow and sluggish: the strongest looked as though even they could not move any faster.
A hissing sound began from behind them … the orcs turned. At first there was just a noise … a slight hint of a red light. And then they saw something move: a hand, possibly?
Yes: certainly a hand. For amongst the corpses something was moving … the hand clawed its way out from the bodies … followed by an arm … a body … an orc. It was badly burnt, but it looked as though it was alive …
An orc went over to greet it, yet it grabbed the creature on the neck, and slowly began to strangle the greenskin, the beast choking before a great strength. The eyes snapped open, to show nothing but eyeballs: and the truth dawned. Zombies. Strong zombies.

Coreaux was applying all his strength now: the zombies were beginning to rise faster, and stronger. They would not die.
But he could see the orcs milling around, hacking apart the creatures in groups. It was obvious that was not enough.
He smiled. His next move was cruel, but it was necessary.
As he felt a slight resistance to his magic, he unleashed his full might in rains of fire and death …

An observer would have seen nothing: all light was dimmed, as if the sun was gone. Then the fire hit: great flaming meteors that tore apart the ground with tremendous force; lightning striking with pinpoint accuracy tore through flesh and armour alike.
The shamans on the hill were the main targets: one by one they fell under the onslaught, releasing bursts of energy that only fuelled the spell.
And for every dead orc, there was another undead warrior …
One by one they fell, felled by blows of fire and lightning from above. Soon, all that was left of the battlefield was a horde of charred undead … Coreaux released the magic, and let the warriors crumble, watching them fall like puppets whose strings had been cut.
Adreugh rode up to Coreaux as the darkness cleared. He had seen little, but could now see the battlefield.
“That was quite some slaughter …” he began, but hastily stopped as Coreaux slipped from his saddle. “Are you …?” he asked, yet stopped abruptly: behind the knight, Adreugh could see an orc raising his axe. This seemed to be their warlord: he was far stronger and more powerful than any normal orc.
But Adreugh was a trained knight, and would not let his friend and saviour submit to such a fate. He stepped forwards, taking the blow on his shield, and adopted the attack position.

The orc was a trained warrior from birth, yet Adreugh was a knight who had killed many an orc in his time. The blows he parried were strong, yet he parried them nonetheless: it was that or die at the hands of his opponent. Adrenalin rushed through his veins, as he realized his opponent was more skilled and powerful than him, yet he continued, the adrenalin coursing through him giving him the strength to fight on …

Grockar was annoyed: the magicks of his enemy had ripped apart the sky. He had known fear for the first time in his life then, and hoped he would never do so again. But he had escaped: fought his way past the undead, reached the hill. And there he had seen the puny enemy and the one that had attempted to kill him: a mortal man. A Bretonnian. He had tried to kill him … but now he was being attacked.
The awful ‘gloopiness’ had left him, but now he was denied prey! He wanted to kill this human. His head really gonged from the light and bangs, but he would finish this fight, and win, and then take his revenge …

It seemed the orc’s attacks had increased in power, but Adreugh knew this was but a portion of his adversary’s strength: he felt like a plaything: a mouse in the hands of a cat desperately trying to survive.
But he knew he still had a chance. His armour was dented, yet it would protect him from blows. But he was loath to use its advantage: what if it failed him? But he had one chance … to take the risk … to rely on his steel covering for guardianship …

Grockar spotted the flaw in his foe’s defence and did not falter: he dived forwards, and knocked his foe backwards, caving in his stomach armour, and knocking him aside with all the force of a charging rhinoceros …

Adreugh was prepared for the move, and swung back up lightly, bringing his shield down upon the orc’s head. The sharp metal edge cracked the beast’s forehead, and the next sword blow slashed open his stomach, and innards poured out, half-liquid black blood covering the creature’s armour.
Weary, Adreugh turned away to see to Coreaux, turning his back distastefully on the dying orc. But it seemed the orc warboss was not finished. In a flying leap he landed on Adreugh’s back, knocking him to the ground. The strong hands, bereft of weaponry, slowly began to strangle the armoured knight …
Even as a steel dagger tore through the chest tendons of the beast, the strangling did not stop: even in death his grip was strong.
And staring at the sky above, Adreugh coughed one last time, and fell to the floor, victorious in death …

Coreaux’s eyes slowly opened, and he stood. He felt empty: drained. He had used almost all his power; nearly died. As he looked around, an armoured figure approached, and saluted the Duke.
“The hosts of the order of the Bear are yours to command, lord,” he said, obviously awed at the extent of the destruction. “We owe you a life-debt, and we shall hold true to that. Our knights shall serve you to whatever end.”
“Then ready your steeds. For tomorrow we ride, to Mousillon and victory!”

+++++

“Arborkh, sire of Arkhor, is dead. Ask any scholar: though they will pretend to know little, they whisper of him, and his fatal end.
“Or so it has seemed for countless decades; the king himself is said to flinch before saying his name, and the Fay Enchantress will refuse to speak of him.
“But recently, as rumour spread of lights in Mousillon’s majestic and foreboding castle, it is said he has been seen again. He appears as a shadow, mere mist gained form: fire provided life. They say he is the true Black Knight: that Mallobaude is lost, a mere tool of another, greater power. And they say he has become the Black Knight.
“For while Mousillon exists, there has always been a Black Knight. Some say he is similar to the Green Knight of ancient legends, yet such is mere speculation: no, it is what he represents that is important. In battle he is skilled, yet no more so than any Lord of Bretonnia, but he is the darker side of Mousillon, and appears when its threat grows.
“But he will never leave, this sinister figurehead of blackness. He can be killed, yet it is said that then the slayer must become the Knight, or that another will appear. For he is ever a mortal man, at the fore of the dark forces: a mortal with powers to raise the whole of the dark to arms.
“Even giants and dragons fear him for what he represents, and none who have seen him have ever lived.
“Yet now he has been seen again, in the form of Arborkh: and not skulking in shadow. No … he rides with Coreaux of Mousillon, Lady’s Avenger. What this shows few can say, but they also claim that the only man living who holds the truth about this dark figure is Arkhor of Mousillon, thrice-betrayed scum of darkness …”

The scholar finished talking, and looked up at the King, his eyes questioning. He bowed low as the King gave no reply: clearly reading in those deep eyes that Louencour did not want disturbances.
When the door closed behind the librarian, the assembled dukes closed in, talking at once, a rabble worthy of the streets of Bordeleaux.
“My Lord, I—“
“Foolishness, your majesty, this—“
“How dare—“
But the King was used to this. He raised his hand, and the host fell silent. When he spoke, it was in a thoughtful voice.
“I know what you all would say: most of you. Yet I would be interested to hear your take on the matter, Duc Adalhard,” he stated, his purpose cryptic yet clearly with good reason: the burly duke of Lyonesse had remained silent so far. But now he stood, and looked at the assembled throng of knights, dukes and barons.
“I am as willing as any of you to disregard such claims: more willing, even. Yet I cannot, for in my heart I know it would be a base lie.
“I cannot disguise that I know of this figure: for in my youth I saw him, once or twice. I was brought up to the South of Lyonesse, where dark Mousillon once held claim. When I roamed the fields as a Knight Errant and a questing knight, occasionally I would see a dark figure, a knight stood on the horizon watching the south.
“And it seemed to me he held an aura of power, such as is held by our gracious king,” he said, inclining his head to Louencour. “Throughout my reign such sightings have been reported, becoming ever more frequent, until now I believe they come daily. Always the same: a pale-faced knight with a closed helm and armour so dark it is nearly black.
“And so I accept his existence. Yet why should we concern ourselves with such matters?” he asked, finishing his short speech. The King did not reply, yet let the assorted barons speak one by one.
“That is proof enough. He is evil, perhaps. Yet what can we do? How? How can we stop him, this “Black Knight”?”
“We need to deal with him. How can we let such a creature roam free, unchecked?”
“This is folly … he is no more danger than ever: Mousillon is not on the rise, and I believe he is a minor problem: our main concern is Coreaux.”
“I am given to believe he does exist, this Arborkh. Yet what matter is he of ours? He is evil, sure enough, yet if he helps reclaim Mousillon, then we can deal with him later,” one stated, and looked at Louencour, awaiting a reply. There was a short pause, and then the king spoke:
“Because he is a figurehead of evil. If we could capture him, then it is possible the crusade against Mousillon can be stopped: for we know Coreaux intends to do good, yet he creates evil. Can we let that rest: no, we cannot. And what can we do? Kill him and await another Black Knight to arise among our ranks? No … it seems we must capture him. I have heard your views, and now know all I need to. My mind is set. Leave now, and prepare yourself for a long day tomorrow …”

+++++

Jean, watching from a tower, could see a cloud of dust approaching. Good. That would be Coreaux and his knights. So it had been successful. And they needed new recruits …
Over the last few days, disaster after disaster had struck: food had been run out of; town after town had resisted their approach.
He had conquered a sizeable portion of the map, but that was only recently: a dark knight known as “Mariak” had helped, and as an inspirational leader, he had managed to capture many towns: the crusade had gained momentum.
And with the newfound knights, victory was certain. Except for one thing: the king had declared his mission pending: Louencour claimed he would give support, but only if there was an official inspection of the force first. To Jean, long-standing friend of the king, it sounded like yet another of his old master’s tricks: it was Louencour’s style to perform one action under a false pretence that was part true.
Such deeds were not knightly, yet had helped Bretonnia in the past, and did not actually undermine the code of chivalry.
But what did the detestable man want? Surely he did not think there was a traitor among Coreaux’s ranks? They were all dedicated to the idea of freeing Mousillon, as was Mariak … no … surely Mariak was not a traitor? As Jean called upon his memory, his eyes snapped wide open. He did not pause as he stood and turned to the door: this was urgent.

Jean hurried downstairs quickly. He did not pause for any reason: he needed to talk to Mariak, and urgently.
As he got nearer to the foot of the staircase, he heard voices … raised voices. He gasped, recovering his breath, and hurried on …
Too fast. He slipped and fell, dropping his banner in the process. His armour dug into his body, yet Jean was glad of it: without the armour he would be dead for sure.
As he tumbled in a tight ball down the stairs, he tried to listen to the voices: but to no avail: all he could hear was the noise of his armour smashing against the stone steps. Suddenly he experienced a brief jolt: a longer step … was he near the bottom?
Still falling, he began to unravel himself …
The last he saw before darkness descended was the stone steps coming closer at great speed to his head.

Mariak laughed, a cold heartless cackle. He looked the king’s messenger in the eye, and smiled faintly: he could read fear there.
“So you have found me at last. And … you want me to ‘come quietly’? I think not.”
“My lord Arborkh, this is—“
“From my point of view, this is sense: I am not afraid to kill … you are. No, I do not doubt your skill or resolve. I doubt that a proud warrior will willingly become the Black Knight, a dread figurehead of cursed Mousillon … ah?” The messenger’s expression changed, though it looked more like surprised confusion than anything. He began to speak; yet Arborkh interrupted him again.
“I don’t—“
“Ah … I see. Your dear king has not thought fit to tell a ‘trusted advisor’. Still, perhaps it is for the better.” The knight hissed, and struck with his dark blade. Barin, the messenger, was surprised when his blade parried the thrust: he had expected a vampire, yet this was clearly simply a mortal, and not a particularly skilled one.
The fight, however, was still in favour of the dark knight. The figure rested his blade on Barin’s throat. “You tried to kill me … and for that, you must die …”
The blade flickered towards Barin’s throat, and he tried not to flinch: he would not die a coward.
It was at this moment Jean smashed out from the spiral staircase and into Arborkh’s chest, still unaware of what was happening around him …

The noise stopped: the reverberating sound halted. Jean had reached the bottom. Arborkh was lying on the floor beneath the knight of Mousillon, groaning in agony: would he finally die now, millennia since his birth?
Jean moved slightly, and Mariak tried to escape, yet failed: Jean was crushing him, and preventing movement. He struggled harder, but still failed …
Barin stood from where he had been knocked to the floor, covered in dust. His eyes were filled with an unspoken malice as he headed towards the two fallen knights …
Blood trickled down Jean’s face, forming a dark red streak. The knight flinched as it dripped onto his battered breastplate, and his eyes opened, focusing upon the approaching herald.
Barin struck home, his blade pointing straight at Jean’s chest …

And hit Mariak. The Black Knight shuddered, and fell to the floor, groaning in agony. Barin smiled: this was an easy victory.
But something happened he had not anticipated … Jean awoke. Behind the nobleman, he slowly began to rise like a zombie from a pit, gripping his long sword with bloodstained hands. He staggered towards his foe, eyes gleaming with malice.
“You betrayed me!” he hissed, and stabbed the fallen Arborkh in the chest: clearly he had not fully understood the situation. The next blow removed the cursed warrior’s head, and Jean smiled. A devilish evil light shone in his eyes as he picked up the head, still dripping with dark blood, and turned to face Barin, who cowered.
Jean took a step forwards, smiling as the ambassador’s eyes began to reveal fear.
He felt powerful … filled with purpose. This wretch had betrayed him … betrayed Mousillon. He saw it now. Not one betrayer … two … they must have been working together against him. They deserved death …
But his wounds were too great: he could feel strength leaving him. Cold water seemed to engulf him as he took another step, and Barin’s fearful pleading seemed as though it came from far away. His limbs failed him: he fell to the floor, a rag doll left carelessly on the floor.
Jean had collapsed at the ambassador’s feet. But the herald did not kill him: that would be dishonourable and cowardly. Barin frowned, and spat on Jean’s face. “That was for the king, and Bretonnia,” he hissed, and began to tie up the fallen knight’s limbs.
But paused: he could hear a sound. The clattering of hooves on ground baked hard by the sun. An army. Coreaux had returned …
The ambassador dashed towards the stables in desperation, looking over his shoulder in fear.
His horse stood there peacefully, looking puzzled at his master’s rush. Barin did not hesitate, and leapt onto the beast’s bare back, frowning behind him at his scene of ‘triumph’. He scowled as he saw Jean, who was still lying half-tied up on the rough floor.
“Mousillon will never be yours, Coreaux, for it is not yours to possess …”

+++++

The knight slashed through the brambles, looking behind him in desperation to escape his hunter. The … thing … was gaining on him, he was sure. His crest was ruffled, his armour dented and his helm lost, yet he did not care: it was after him.
He had not even seen what it was yet, but he knew it was bad. He ran on hastily, tripping and stumbling, until he came to a clearing: where now? Every entrance looked just as thorny, except for one …
The entrance shifted, and the knight began to turn, until an aristocratic voice rang out. “Why the rush, master knight?”
A figure stepped into the light. He wore old-fashioned nobleman’s clothes, like those often found in the Empire. His pale face looked arrogant, yet friendly. The knight felt a sudden urge to warn him.
“You must hurry away! A beast! It pursued me! I—“ The man interrupted.
“Yet I have been here days, and seen nothing. Are you sure you are not hallucinating? Come here,” he commanded, and the knight’s legs automatically obeyed. The man looked down at the knight, a strange pity in his eyes, and grabbed his shoulders. The knight felt angry, yet did not resist, even as he was forced to bare his neck. His limbs seemed to have failed him, and he could not move.
He saw a strange hunger in his attacker’s eyes as he prepared to bite. The vampire whispered a word so quietly it could barely be heard. “I’m sorry …” he said, and bit into his victim’s neck …




 
Deleted User
Deleted User

Please give C&C ... ;)

Avenger IV will be posted as soon as it's finished. :)

MM
 
1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Free Forums. Reliable service with over 8 years of experience.
Learn More · Sign-up for Free
« Previous Topic · Warhammer Fantasy · Next Topic »