It hurtled downwards, like a monstrous bird of prey dropping on its quarry, and shouts and screams
erupted across the chamber. Calard heard the sound of weapons clashing along with cries of shock and
pain, and through the dense crowd he spied the filth-encrusted forms of Grandfather Mortis’s children,
leaping and howling as they attacked. Like a frenzied pack, they descended on the crowded chamber,
and chaos erupted.
Duke Merovech hurled himself to one side as the monster struck. It slammed down into the floor
with titanic force, sending cracks shooting out across the surface of the marble from the impact.
Merovech rolled neatly to his feet, a sword in each hand.
People were running across the killing circle in panic, separating Calard and Bertelis. He saw his
brother fighting his way through the crowd towards him, his face a mask of fury. A knight slammed into
Calard, knocking him back a step, and a heavy blow to his arm knocked the Sword of Garamont from
his grasp. The ancient heirloom clattered to the ground and was kicked away, spinning just out of reach.
Calard swore and dived after it. Someone tripped over him and fell sprawling, and he grunted as he
was kicked and trampled, but he ensured that he kept his eyes locked on the holy sword. He reached for
it, and his fingers grazed its hilt tantalisingly, but then it was kicked away again, this time disappearing into
the crowd. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bertelis storming towards him, hacking down knights,
ladies and feral peasants alike, and he swore again.
Fighting back to his feet, he tore the shield from his arm and hurled it aside. He reached up over his
back and yanked his hand-and-a-half sword from its scabbard as Bertelis drew close.
Had he been a fraction slower he would have been dead, and he only barely managed to block
Bertelis’s blow slicing in at his neck. He was knocked back a step and Bertelis came after him, getting
inside the reach of his longer blade.
He was completely outclassed, and they both knew it. Confident that Calard could not match him,
Bertelis was now fighting well within his own limits, and his form was slipping. Calard’s anger swelled; he
was determined to punish Bertelis for such arrogance, but knew he might only get one chance.
After a few more passes, Bertelis lunged. Calard sidestepped neatly, turning side-on to let Bertelis’s
momentum take him past him. His brother’s blade slid by him, a hair’s-breadth from his throat. With a
grunt of exertion, he rammed his sword’s heavy pommel into the side of Bertelis’s head, putting his whole
armoured weight behind it.
The move was expertly delivered, his timing perfect, and it should have caved Bertelis’s skull in. His
brother’s head snapped back, but he did not fall. Calard used the moment to step back, adopting a
ready stance with his blade held high, its point levelled at Bertelis.
A trickle of blood ran from Bertelis’s temple, but he appeared otherwise unaffected by the blow. He
reached up to the wound, and then licked the blood from his finger tips.
‘For that, I’m going to make this really hurt,’ said Bertelis.
Calard lunged at him and Bertelis danced out of the way. Calard turned, sweeping his blade
overhead and bringing it crashing down in a heavy, diagonal strike. Bertelis parried it early and leapt in
under the blade to grab Calard by the throat. He moved so fast, he was little more than a blur. His grip
was like iron, and his snarling face was close. Up close, he looked barely human at all, his eyes glinting
with fathomless hunger and madness, his skin almost translucent, and his expression twisted and bestial.
‘Orlando’s blood was so sweet, so innocent,’ he hissed. ‘It was like nectar on my lips, sweeter than
the finest wine.’
Bertelis lifted Calard off his feet, holding him aloft with one hand before tossing him aside like a child.
Calard slammed into one of Merovech’s knights, bowling him over, and they fell in a tangled heap.
Calard was up first, and as the knight grappled with him, he pummelled his elbow into the man’s face,
dropping him instantly.
Calard staggered to his feet, dragging his sword up. Bertelis’s boot slammed down on it hard,
snapping the blade halfway up its length, and Calard reeled back.
A knight lunged at him with a drawn sword, and Calard swayed to the side, avoiding the killing
thrust. He stabbed the jagged end of his shattered sword into the man’s face, and he fell away with a
strangled cry. Another knight swung at him from behind, but Calard sidestepped neatly. Grabbing the
man’s arm as he came around, he pulled him off-balance, shoving him into Bertelis’s path.
Without blinking, Bertelis ran the knight through, and the tip of Bertelis’s blade burst from his back.
He dragged his sword clear, and hurled the man aside.
Calard took a moment to survey his surroundings. The attack by Mortis’s feral brood had taken the
knights by surprise, but they were fighting back now, gathering into tight huddles to support each other,
and both sides were taking heavy casualties. Bodies were strewn across the chamber floor, and more
than a few of the hunched peasants had dropped to the ground to feed, unable to restrain their hunger
amid the sight and smell of so much blood.
He saw Mortis standing alone, up on the balcony where the monster had appeared, watching the
mayhem unfold.
The immense beast and Duke Merovech had taken their fight up onto the raised dais where the five
statues sat enthroned, separating themselves from the chaotic melee below.
The creature was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but it did not appear to be slowing. Merovech
danced and weaved like a dervish, ducking under blows that would have torn him in half, twin blades
flashing. He moved with preternatural speed, but the monster he fought was almost as quick, despite its
bulk. As he watched, he saw the beast catch Merovech a glancing blow that sent the duke skittering
across the dais like a rag doll, crashing into the central altar holding the huge, dark chalice with
bone-jarring force.
The beast roared in victory and leapt after him but Merovech recovered quickly, and rolled under the
blade-like talons that hammered down towards him. As he came to his feet, both blades carved bloody
furrows across the monster’s chest, and it hissed in pain.
Using the immense beast’s arm like a ladder, Merovech turned and leapt lightly up his enemy’s body,
spinning both swords around in his hands so that they were pointed downwards, like daggers. Kicking
off the beast’s chest, he turned in mid-air and plunged both swords into its neck.
The monster bellowed. Both swords were embedded to the hilt, and Calard could see their tips
protruding from the back of its neck as it thrashed around in pain. It reached up and ripped both
weapons free, hurling them away from it, and blood gushed from the wounds. Such a blow ought to have
been fatal, but the beast merely shook its head and dropped to all fours, and began stalking towards the
now unarmed Duke Merovech.
‘Your master’s going to die,’ said Calard as Bertelis closed the distance between them.
‘I think not,’ said his brother. ‘No devolved varghulf is a match for him.’
Bertelis lunged, feinting high and coming in low with a brutal attack intended to disembowel him.
Calard saw it coming, and dropped his guard to block the vicious attack, but Bertelis had already shifted
the angle of his attack once more.
Spinning on his heel, Bertelis turned quickly, his head whipping around and his body following. His
sword slashed across Calard’s shoulder, striking just under his pauldron. The blow hacked through his
chainmail and padding, and bit deep into flesh before striking bone.
Before Calard could even cry out, Bertelis spun back around the way he had come and rammed his
blade into Calard’s body. The tip penetrated just inside his hip, slipping through the slender gap under his
breastplate.
Calard gasped, and his shattered sword-blade dropped from his hands. He fell to one knee, and
Bertelis loomed above him, his blade slick with blood.
‘Goodbye, brother,’ said Bertelis, drawing his sword back for the killing thrust.
A knight burst from the crowd nearby. He had a sword in each hand, and he shouted at the top of his
lungs as he charged.
‘Calard!’ Raben cried, tossing one of the blades towards him.
Calard caught the sword, his fingers closing around the familiar hilt.
Raben swung a two-handed blow at Bertelis, who turned and blocked the attack with one of his
own. Dropping to one knee, Bertelis slashed from right to left across Raben’s stomach, carving through
his chain hauberk and the muscle beneath, then rose and kicked the outcast away.
With a snarl, Bertelis rounded on Calard, but his eyes went wide as the Sword of Garamont impaled
him.
Calard was on his feet now, and he grunted with effort as gave his sword another shove, ramming it
up into Bertelis’s body.
Blood gushed from the fatal wound, and Bertelis’s face became increasingly gaunt, as if all the
moisture in his body was being sucked out of him. His features became ever more skeletal and inhuman
as his translucent flesh withered, his lips drawing back to expose his savage fangs. Calard stepped back,
a look of disgust on his face, and slid his blade free.
The Sword of Garamont was glowing with an aura of white light, and Calard looked upon it in
wonder. Bertelis’s blood spattered off it, leaving the blade spotless. The shimmering radiance felt like
sunlight on Calard’s face, and despite the mayhem surrounding him, he felt a sense of calm and assurance
envelop him.
Bertelis fell to his knees, blood pooling beneath him. His flesh continued to shrink upon his skull, until
he looked barely human at all. His hands had withered to little more than talons, and their veins, purple
and blue, stood out sharply. He glared up at Calard then. Hatred and fury burnt in his eyes, but also fear.
He hissed like a cornered animal, teeth bared, as if he were devolving before Calard’s eyes.
The luminosity of the sword in Calard’s hands intensified, glowing hot and pure, and Bertelis’s skin
began to blacken and blister beneath its glare. He held his hands up, shielding his eyes, and they too
began to burn. A pitiful wail emitted from his throat.
‘Lady, give him peace,’ murmured Calard, clasping his sword in both hands. Without pause, he
stepped forwards and beheaded the creature that had once been Bertelis.
Raben was lying on the ground nearby, clutching at his stomach, and he smiled wryly as his gaze met
Calard’s.
‘Thank you,’ said Calard.
Raben grunted. ‘That was your brother?’ he said, indicating towards Bertelis’s corpse with his chin.
‘No,’ said Calard. ‘My brother died a long time ago.’
A roar of pain and fury dragged Calard’s attention up towards the raised dais. The immense,
loathsome beast that Bertelis had called a varghulf was down, blood pooling beneath it. Its flesh was
slashed and torn, hanging from it in bloody tatters.
Duke Merovech stood before it, sword in hand. He too was injured. One of his pauldrons had been
ripped away, exposing his shoulder, which was covered in blood. Four bloody rents were carved
through his breastplate. Nevertheless, Duke Merovech stood victorious, and Calard shook his head in
wonderment. Could nothing kill him?
The varghulf’s powerful legs bunched for one final spring, but it was never given the chance. Duke
Merovech hurled his sword aside and leapt towards his enemy with a blood-curdling battle cry, hands
extended like claws. He grabbed the immense creature by the head, grappling with it, and with a roar of
effort, he wrenched it upwards, exposing its neck.
Merovech’s fangs flashed, and he tore into the varghulf’s neck. The creature fought against him, but
its strength was gone. For long moments Merovech drank, glutting himself before pulling away. His
mouth and chin were caked in blood.
Duke Merovech dragged the immense weight of the varghulf across the dais floor, until he reached
the altar. With one hand, he grabbed the chalice from altar’s tabernacle. He glanced heavenward. The
green moon of Morrslieb was eclipsing Mannslieb now, like a repulsive, burning pupil in a silver iris.
Apparently satisfied, Merovech forced the varghulf’s neck back, and lowered his mouth to its neck once
more. This time he did not feed, but rather tore. He ripped open its throat, and the last of its blood began
to gush forth.
GRANDFATHER MORTIS CLUTCHED unsteadily at the railing of the balcony as he watched his beloved
lord and master slain. His children were being butchered down below, their will to fight evaporating as
they too registered that their master was no more.
He staggered back, casting his eyes from the sickening sight of his master’s body defiled. A took a
deep, shuddering breath, and turned away.
A heavy spiked cudgel smashed one of his kneecaps to splinters, and he fell to the ground with a cry
of pain and shock.
Chlod stood over him, and the old man gaped up at him.
‘Fifteen years I was your slave, one of your cursed children,’ said Chlod. ‘I’ll not be that again.’
The hunchbacked peasant spat in Mortis’s face, making the old man flinch. That merely enraged
Chlod more, and he slammed his spiked cudgel into Mortis’s side. Ribs snapped like dry twigs.
‘Fifteen years I stole and murdered for you, you old bastard,’ said Chlod. ‘Fifteen years you starved
me. How many times did I feel the touch of your switch, hmm? How many bones did you break? How
many scars did you leave?’
He made to strike Mortis again, and the old man recoiled, his face twisted in agony.
‘Who has the power now?’ said Chlod.
‘I took you in, you wretched ingrate,’ hissed Mortis between clenched teeth. ‘I fed you! I clothed
you! I! Without me you’d be dead! You’d be nothing! I made you what you are!’
‘You did at that,’ said Chlod. ‘Do you like what you see?’
Chlod brought his spiked cudgel down again and again, and as loud as Mortis’s screams were, no
one came to his aid. He continued his brutal attack even after Mortis had ceased screaming, even after he
was far beyond recognisable.
Finally, Chlod stopped his relentless assault. He was breathing heavily, and tears were running down
his face. He was completely covered in blood, and chunks of skin and hair clung to the spikes of his club.
He spat down on the thing that had once been Grandfather Mortis, and then turned away.
CALARD KNELT BY Raben, and gently drew back the outcast’s arm to see the extent of his injuries.
