DARK HEART
By Jonathan Green


THE WOLVES ARE running again. I can hear them panting in the darkness. I race through the forest and the night, trying to outpace them. The trees seem to throw themselves in front of me to slow my progress. Leafless branches reach for me as I crash on.
Behind the wolves I sense another presence, something evil. It follows my flight with menacing eyes. I feel a cold chill take hold of my heart. With every heartbeat the wolves are getting closer. There is nothing I can do to escape.
And then, in time with my pounding pulse, I hear the beating of wings. Strong, slow gusts of frigid air caress my body. With every beat I feel their power increasing. Great black wings close around me, their leathery warmth shrouding me from the numbing darkness. The sickly sweet smell of blood fills my nostrils. I cannot help but breathe in great lungfuls of the rank air. The wings enclose me totally, suffocating me. Even through the darkness I can see the red veins pulsing.
Blood flows in the endless night. It surrounds me, rising ever higher. Or is it I who is sinking deeper?
Then I am drowning. I gasp for air but instead the hot life-fluid pours into my parched throat. Its viscous sweetness cloys in my mouth. I cannot help but swallow. As I do so my senses are flooded with feelings of darkest ecstasy.
I am in the place of blood again.

'AND I SAY we stick to the plan, just for once, and keep on to Ostermark!' The slim man's sharp eyes glared at the rest of the band from under a fringe of unkempt black hair.
Torben Badenov scratched his neatly-trimmed black beard. The tallest of the mercenaries, his hefty frame making him an imposing figure, could see that the disgruntled Yuri was in one of his stubborn moods.
Oran Scarfen looked up from polishing a dagger. 'Oh you do, do you?' he retorted.
The mercenary band was gathered before a signpost at a T-junction in the road over the moors. Shivering, they pulled their furs tighter around them against the chill of approaching night. They were all dressed in a similar fashion with tough, leather boots and they still wore their thick winter cloaks. With their assortment of swords and axes they were the very picture of hard-bitten fighting men.
'It's almost dusk,' Alexi, the leather-armoured old soldier from Nuln pointed out as he finished rearranging his backpack. 'We ought to start looking for somewhere to stay for the night.'
Yuri pointed an accusing finger at a smartly dressed, black-robed Kislevite. The man's left eye was covered by a patch that made him look both distinguished and mysterious. 'Well if Krakov here hadn't've got falling-down drunk-'
'As usual!' snorted the weaselly Oran.
'-and let the damn horses wander off, we wouldn't be in this mess.'
'That's right. We would've been in Ostermark by now,' agreed Stanislav, a heavily-built mercenary, his ham-sized hands resting firmly on his hips.
Torben paused in cleaning his blade and turned his gaze on the cringing Kislevite. Krakov's face was scarlet, and he was staring at the ground with embarrassment as he shifted guiltily from one foot to the other.
'We could've been enjoying the hospitality of the Slaughtered Troll by now,' Stanislav, the great bear of a man continued, a dreamy look in his eyes. 'I would've drunk old Alexi under the table-'
'As usual,' Oran muttered.
'- and Serena would be sitting on my lap right now, saying how much she loves me.'
'Like she does any fool who's more generous than he is sober,' Torben laughed.
Stanislav scowled at the band's raven-haired leader, but not for long. His broad face broke into a grin. 'That's my Serena, and it does a man's heart good to hear it.'
'But we're not in Ostermark!' Yuri sulked.
'We should head for this place, Ostenwald,' Alexi suggested. 'It's only five miles away.'
'I agree,' Oran stated firmly.
Torben looked up at the signpost again. It was the only man-made object in sight on the blasted heath. The main body of the sign was a sturdy stake hammered firmly into the ground with an arrowed board pointing towards the east, carved with the name ''Ostermark''. The letters had then been picked out in red to make them stand out further. Pointing in the opposite direction was a much smaller, age-weathered sign, no doubt a remnant of a previous signpost. The faded lettering, once painted with an unsteady hand, read ''OSTHNWALD, 5 MILES''.
'I thought we were looking for work, especially since Krakov lost our horses,' Yuri complained. 'We should head for Ostermark!'
'Yuri's right,' Torben declared, sheathing his sword. 'The village may be closer but look at the sign: it's tiny. I've seen bigger signs on privy doors. I bet this Ostenwald isn't much more than a few hovels and a hen house. There probably isn't even a tavern!' He was in full flow now, gesticulating expansively. 'No, there won't be any work for us there. Ostermark it is. We'll press on for a couple of hours, camp by the roadside for the night, and be there in the morning.'
Dusk was drawing on, the last lingering rays of the sun giving way to twilight, as the party set off along the eastern road.

THEY HAD BARELY been on the road for ten minutes when the thunder of hooves approached on the road behind him. Torben turned, along with the rest of the band, and at once saw the carriage speeding through the grey twilight towards them. As one, the mercenaries threw themselves out of the way, landing in the dirt at the side of the road.
Torben looked over his shoulder as the vehicle bumped past them. Plush red velvet drapes flapped from the windows of the black carriage. A family crest picked out in gold on its side also attested to the fact that its owner was someone of noble background and with, no doubt, the riches to match.
The silhouettes of two figures could be seen in the driver's seat at the front of the careering vehicle. The coachman lay slumped at the reins: Torben assumed he was dead. Next to the body, a young woman was struggling to control the racing horses but without success. The carriage was out of control.
In seconds Torben was up and running after the carriage. As he drew level with the vehicle, Torben grabbed hold, leaped and swung himself up into the driver's seat next to the young woman. Gasping with her exertions, she shot him a wild-eyed look.
'If you'll allow me, my lady,' the mercenary said, flashing the terrified woman a smile, and gently took the reins from her. Coaxing words to the horses from the mercenary captain were accompanied by a firm hand on the reins.
By now Stanislav and Yuri were running alongside the horses, the creatures' bridles in their hands. In only a few moments the frightened animals had slowed to a trot, and then came to a halt. The carriage came to rest behind them.
Torben turned again towards the young woman. His eyes widened as his gaze progressed upwards from her delicate ankles and the gold-braided hem of her blue velvet dress. Her features were delicately set within the slender frame of her face. A stray tress of auburn hair caressed a pale cheek. Anxious emerald green eyes peered back at him from beneath the hood of her travelling cloak.
Her dress was of the latest cut and made from the finest materials. A silver brooch, inlaid with gemstones, held her cloak in place. All these things, along with the opulence of the carriage and the quality of the horses, no farmyard nags, spoke to Torben with money's voice.
'They killed my driver!' she blurted out, having recovered her breath.
'Who did?' asked Torben, startled by her outburst.
'The villagers. Oh, please help me!' she gasped.
'You are safe now,' Stanislav said, trying to reassure the girl.
'I- I wish it were that simple,' she said with unashamed despair.
'What is it? What's the matter?' Torben pressed.
'I must get to Ostermark! I must petition Lord Gunther for his help!' Her voice carried a vehemence Torben would not have expected from this waif-like girl. 'A terrible evil has arisen in my village.'
'Ostenwald, you mean?' Krakov asked.
'The same,' she nodded. 'I know you will probably find this hard to believe... but the dead have risen from their graves!'
'Oh, I don't know. We've seen a few strange things ourselves,' Torben said by way of encouragement.
'Those who have not already fled are now under a foul curse! I flee for my life, for they chase me even now!' The young woman peered anxiously back over her shoulder, before continuing. 'I must get help! I just hope that the fortune my late father left will be enough to persuade Lord Gunther to put an end to this evil. As commander of the militia he will be able to send armed men to stop them. He will surely help after all the years he served with my father in the Elector Count's cavalry!'
The girl looked exhausted through fear and anxiety. Torben took her cold, trembling hands in his. 'Do not worry,' he said, reassuringly. 'We will help you on your way.' The mercenary jumped down from the carriage, pushing the coachman's body before him, and placed a firm hand on the black-robed Kislevite's shoulder. 'Krakov, make up for losing our mounts by driving... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name,' he said, looking up at the woman with a smile.
She looked down shyly. 'I am the Lady Isolde.'
'By driving the Lady Isolde to the city.'
The one-eyed Krakov needed no more encouragement and clambered up into the driver's seat. Torben supposed that he was pleased to be getting a lift to Ostermark ahead of the rest of them; no doubt the thought of a rest from the endless ribbing had also entered his mind.
'Let's see if you can keep hold of these horses: after all, at least these are tied to the carriage. We'll see you in the Slaughtered Troll tomorrow, at noon.'
The mercenary captain was suddenly aware of shouts in the distance. Peering through the dusky gloom, Torben could make out a crowd of peasants charging towards them from the direction of Ostenwald. Their hair was lank and matted, while their clothes were caked with mud. The crazed mob was howling rabidly and the mercenary could just make out gruff shouts of, 'Stop her! She has to die!' They were waving an assortment of axes, clubs and farm implements above their heads; others carried blazing torches.
'It's them!' the Lady Isolde screamed, looking back in horror at the approaching crowd. 'You must kill them!'
Having caught sight of the mercenaries, the villagers appeared to become even more enraged, the front-runners putting on a burst of speed.
'Don't worry, we'll deal with them,' Torben said coolly. 'Go - now!'
With a loud cry, Krakov whipped the horses into a gallop and without another word the carriage sped away towards Ostermark.
'I don't think they're going to be open to the idea of civilised discussion,' Alexi said, unslinging his bow from his shoulder as he eyed the dishevelled villagers.
'Well there's five of us,' Yuri said, notching an arrow to his own bow, 'and-'
'-lots of them,' Stanislav finished.
'So let's even up the odds,' Torben smiled, taking aim along a flighted shaft.
'When you're ready, lads!'
Five black shafts shot across the dimming sky. Four of the mob's leaders stumbled and fell, and remained still.
'Never mind, Oran,' Torben chuckled as the fifth arrow embedded itself in the road. 'Better luck next time, eh?'
The rat-faced man cursed under his breath. 'Never did like long-ranged weapons,' he muttered. 'A dagger, up close. That's more my style.'
The deaths of their fellows did nothing to halt the rampaging crowd but merely seemed to spur the men on, if men they were. From their bedraggled appearance Torben could almost believe that they were nothing more than the dead risen from their graves!
'And again!' Torben called over the furious shouts of the lynch-mob. A second volley of arrows soared through the air and found their mark in the seething crowd.
Then the villagers were upon them. The mercenary band just had time to drop their bows and unsheathe their weapons. The battle lasted only a few minutes. In a series of well-practised strokes, the trained soldiers despatched the crazed thugs. Placing a foot against a man's chest, Torben pulled his sword free of his last opponent's body. The man fell spread-eagled onto the road, the sharpened fence-post he was using as a club rolling from his hand. The mercenary looked around for another opponent but there was none.
'Well, that was kind of easy,' Stanislav stated.
'Nothing to it for fighting men like us,' Torben boasted.
'So maybe there was something to her ladyship's story after all,' Yuri pondered.
'Maybe there was,' Torben agreed. And yet at the back of his mind he couldn't help thinking that the villagers hadn't really behaved as if driven by dark sorcery. They had still cried out in pain like the living.
'She said she needed help,' Yuri reminded his companions.
'And she mentioned a family fortune!' Stanislav added.
Torben stroked his beard with a large, rough hand for a moment. 'Tell you what,' he said, finally, 'why don't we go and sort out whatever's going on in Ostenwald. Then Lady Isolde will reward us, instead of this lord that she's gone to petition.'
All but one of the others smiled and nodded in agreement. Torben looked at them, grinning broadly at his own cunning suggestion.
'I told you we should've headed for the village,' Oran muttered under his breath.

I AM RUNNING again. Branches whip across my face. Sharp twigs, like a crone's fingernails, tear my skin. I can no longer hear the wolves behind me.
I burst free of the tangled wood and stop. A menacing shadow looms up tall out of the darkness. I am standing at the foot of a grey, stone tower. Against the pall of night, small black shapes flit around its ruined turrets.
And then I am flying with the bats. My wings beat against the night as I circle the tower in a jerky spiral. Beneath me the crumbling walls taper as they stretch towards the ground. The moon hangs waning in the sky, seemingly only wing-beats away. Its chill light illuminates an arched window near the top of the tower, and from within the opening a figure watches me. Cruel eyes stare out of a face as cold and white as the moon. Their gaze pierces my soul. I recognise the face. It is a face that has haunted my dreams for an eternity. It is my own.

THE WHETSTONE SCRAPED along the edge of the blade, and off the end with a deep ringing sound. The flickering firelight picked out the noble, yet haggard, features that gave the young man an appearance beyond his years. He paused in his preparations and looked up at the moon. 'It is almost time, Walter,' he stated with finality.
'Aye,' the ageing manservant replied. 'Tonight the beast will finally die.'
Pieter's eyes glazed over as he remembered for the hundredth time the events of the last seven days.
A week ago he had been a different man, care-free and full of youthful optimism, firm in the knowledge that he loved another with a passion and was loved in return in equal measure. Now he was a shell of his former self, dedicated to one purpose only and his actions fuelled by his desire for vengeance. How he longed for those carefree days of youth that now seemed years ago.
But it had been only seven nights since Pieter Valburg, only son of the Mayor of Schwertdorf, had returned from the wars to find his beloved Rosamund on her death-bed. They had known each other since childhood, Rosamund's father being the Lord of Grunwald, only ten miles from Pieter's own home. It was no secret that their families had always planned that they should marry but over the years a youthful friendship had grown into deeply-felt love. The union of the houses of Valburg and Reichter would go ahead to the delight of all, founded on true love and with no sham of affection.
But then the Elector of Ostermark had called on the services of brave young men throughout the province to defend against the incursions of Orcs and Goblins from within the Great Forest. Pieter himself was called up and he rode away to war with equal measures of anticipation, for what was to come, and sorrow, at having to leave his dear Rosamund. But he knew that he would eventually return bringing glory and honour to his family.
Indeed, in time, the Battle of Riesenbad was won. Pieter returned home at a gallop and made straight for Grunwald. The first signs of Spring were visible in the land and the sun was shining. However, upon his triumphant arrival at Lord Reichter's house Pieter was greeted with the most tragic news. While he had been away fighting, his betrothed had been taken seriously ill by what the family physician described as a ''disease of the blood''. Rushing to her chamber he had found Rosamund a pale, wasted shell of the woman he had left only a few months before. That night he kept vigil by her bedside, but overcome by tiredness after his long journey he finally, if unwillingly, gave in to sleep.
He had been woken as the clocks chimed midnight to see a shadow slip from the room through the open window. He looked immediately to his betrothed only to find her already dead.
The black veil of mourning was drawn over the household and at the physician's urging Rosamund was buried the very next day. But during the very next night her grave had been disturbed, by wolves the gravedigger had said, and her body taken. For most that was the end of it, but Pieter knew better. On his return to his family home, Walter, his family's oldest and most loyal retainer had taken him aside and told him the legend of Count Morderischen.
It was said that during his evil lifetime there were no depths of depravity to which the lord of Ostenwald Tower would not sink. He was even accused of stealing and eating babies from the local villages. A hundred years ago the bloodthirsty count had been put to death by the enraged peasants and imprisoned inside the Morderischen family tomb. The village of Ostenwald lay only a league away and to Walter it was clear what had happened. Somehow the monster had returned from the dead and taken Rosamund.
Other people told Pieter not to listen, dismissing Walter as a superstitious old fool. But in his grief Pieter was prepared to accept any story, no matter how outlandish. He had always thought himself a rational man but his anguish needed an outlet. If there was any chance that what Walter told him was true he had to follow it up - he had to go to Ostenwald.
'All is ready,' Walter said, carefully placing another sharpened whitethorn stake on the ground next to the fire.
'Tonight my love will be avenged,' Pieter said. It was not a point to be debated. Placing the whetstone against the gleaming edge of his grandfather's sword he resumed sharpening.

TORBEN STOPPED AT the cross-roads around which Ostenwald huddled and looked around. Before him was a patch of dying grass that he assumed was the village green. The eaves of the low buildings were picked out by the silvery light of the rising moon. A number of miserable-looking women and children returned his gaze before doors and shutters daubed with sacred symbols were slammed shut and locked.
'Friendly lot round here, aren't they?' Oran said sullenly.
'We should pity these people, not mock them,' Alexi said and Stanislav grunted his own disapproval.
Torben had seen places like this on many occasions. They were in a run-down village inhabited by a fearful populace, who dared not venture out after dark.
'There's something wrong here,' Yuri said quietly.
'Oh, you noticed,' Oran sneered.
Ignoring the bickering of the others Torben continued his survey of the village. Overlooking it, atop a wooded hill, the pinnacle of a ruined and overgrown tower pointed into the night's sky like a twisted finger. Torben looked from one mercenary to the next.
'Come on, let's not waste any time where we're not welcome,' he said gruffly. 'Her ladyship said the dead have risen. To the cemetery!'

THE MOON'S COLD, unwelcoming light cast eerie shadows among the tombs and gravestones as the mercenary band advanced through the cemetery. 'I don't mind telling you, I do not like this,' Oran carped to anyone who might be listening. Yuri froze. 'What was that?' he hissed.
'What was what?' asked Stanislav. 'I heard something. A skittering sound, like the shifting of loose soil.' His words slowed as he realised what he was saying.
Torben turned. 'Hush, you fools!' he hissed. 'There's nothing th-'
The mercenary captain heard the snap of a twig behind him and spun round, half expecting to come face-to-face with the living dead. But looking back at him were the steely eyes of a stern-faced, smartly-dressed young man, almost a head shorter than Torben and still very much alive. He had a finely-honed sword gripped in one hand, pointing at Torben chest. Behind him stood a hunched and balding old man, stiff in his formal servant's attire.
'Who are you and what are you doing here?' the young man hissed.
Torben smiled broadly, keeping a close eye on the gleaming blade. 'My name is Torben Badenov and these are my companions. Our business is our affair. I could ask the same of you.'
'I am Pieter Valburg. My reason for being here is an honourable one.' Torben raised an eyebrow. 'I have come to avenge the death of my beloved.'
'In a graveyard?' Oran burst out incredulously. 'Who killed your sweetheart?'
'The Vampire who is buried here,' the old man stated coldly.
'A Vampire? What makes you so sure?' Torben said.
Pieter began to explain: 'Walter, my retainer, says-'
'This old man? What does he know?' Torben declaimed, gently lowering Pieter's blade with his hand. 'We too have come to sort out what's going on here but I'm sure it has nothing to do with the living dead! We should talk.'

'THIS IS IT: the Morderischen family tomb,' Walter said sombrely, nodding at the grim edifice before which the seven of them now stood. Grotesque gargoyles leered down from the edge of the circle of light cast by the old manservant's lantern. Beyond the rusted railings and chained iron gates, stone steps led downwards into darkness.
'So this is where your Vampire is supposed to reside.' Torben took in the carved skulls that reminded the observer of the ever-present certainty of death.
'Homely, isn't it.' A hint of uncertainty tinged Oran's usual sarcastic tone.
'The legend goes that one hundred years ago a priest of Sigmar, assisted by a band of noble adventurers, defeated the evil creature who dwelt in that tower over there on the hill,' Walter explained.
Torben again looked towards the grim structure, now overgrown with thorns. Its silhouette stood black against the deep blue of night.
'The victorious priest imprisoned the count in the tomb of his forefathers here,' the old man continued. 'The villagers, in revenge for the murders the monster had perpetrated, wrecked the tower.'
'So why all the trouble now?' Alexi asked.
'It would appear that, after a century, the power of the wardings used to seal the tomb have faded and the horror inside has reawakened.'
'Look at this place!' Yuri exclaimed. 'The gates are locked and rusted up. No one's been in or out of here for years. You're wrong, old man.'
'No, it is here,' the retainer insisted. 'Its kind are not stopped by locks!'
The moon was high in the night's sky and Torben was aware of a disconcerting howling coming from the direction of the wood.
'We cannot delay,' Pieter pressed, anxiously. 'We must enter the tomb.'
Torben tested the chain securing the gates. 'Come on, lads,' he managed to say with forced levity. 'We might as well take a look now we're here. Stanislav, if you would be so kind...'
The bear-like ex-soldier stepped up to the gates, lifting the double-headed axe from his belt. With one effortless swipe the chain was shattered, the sound of the broken links rattling onto cracked flagstones echoing around the silent cemetery. Taking hold of the rusted iron bars Torben tugged on the gates. Metal grated on stone as corroded hinges screeched in protest at being forced to open once more.
The party paused, listening to the echo fade between the gravestones.
'Remember, it shall be I who lands the killing blow,' Pieter insisted, 'I owe it to my Rosamund.'
Torben nodded. Taking a step forward, he peered into the darkness of the crypt.
An angry hiss from behind them made the whole party turn round sharply. By the moon's cold light they could see a figure crouched, cat-like, on the bough of a tree, the wind whistling mournfully through the branches. The man's lank hair waved behind him in the breeze and he appeared to be wearing the ragged clothes of a nobleman. More figures moved among the shadows of the cemetery, emerging from behind gravestones and tombs. Their various forms of dress revealed them to be men and women from all parts of society.
'What do you want?' Pieter challenged the advancing figures, unable to hide his nervousness.
'We want you,' the nobleman in the tree hissed.
'Our lord must feed,' a young peasant woman hissed. 'He will feast on your life energies.' The girl smiled and Torben saw the first glistening points of fangs breaking through bleeding gums.
'By Sigmar!' Alexi gasped.
At that moment the Vampires attacked. The creatures sprang at the mortals, fingernails raking the air as they tried to tear at the adventurers' throats. Swords were yanked from scabbards and battle was joined.
'Take them while they are still weak!' Walter commanded.
'Weak?' Oran gasped, deflecting a taloned fist with his sword. 'I'd hate to see them when they're feeling stronger!'
Torben counted half a dozen or so among the brood. All had obviously still been young when they died, just as they were young in undeath. Despite that, the Vampires fought with agility and strength increased by a supernatural vitality.
Torben swung his sword at the inhuman noble. The stroke opened a great gash across the Vampire's chest through his shirt. The man stumbled backwards at the blow and collapsed over a gravestone.
'One down,' the mercenary said to himself with a grin, and span to face the other creatures.
Torben suddenly found himself hurled bodily to the ground with the hissing nobleman furiously tearing at the mail armour over his jerkin with its talons. Twisting to one side, the warrior used his bulk to throw the clawing Vampire from him. Quickly getting to his feet, he watched open mouthed as the wound he had dealt the man closed bloodlessly before his very eyes.
'By Queen Katarin's sword!' he exclaimed. 'What does it take to stop these things?''
It was all the mercenaries could do to fend off the Vampires' slashing claws. Torben was horrified at how the creatures caught their blades with bare hands, showing no discomfort whatsoever. And all the while their assailants cursed them.
'The coming of our master is at hand!' a Vampire proclaimed. 'Can you not feel it?'
Torben could almost believe that the wind rose as the words were spoken.
'You will all fall before him,' the peasant girl snarled, 'and he will drain your very lives from you!'
Out of the corner of his eye Torben saw Oran duck as another undead youth launched himself insect-like from a gravestone. Oran sent the Vampire sprawling onto the ground with an up thrust punch from a bony fist. But as soon as the rat-faced mercenary was crouched, with his dagger drawn, the Vampire was also on its feet again, ready to attack.
Stanislav was backed up against the tomb, struggling to fend off a vehement attack from a fanged maiden. Yuri looked up panting, his fringe flopping in front of his eyes. He had blood on his face, although it was not clear whether it was his own or his attacker's.
The peasant girl leapt at Torben. Without hesitation, he parried her outstretched claws with his sword but even this did not stop her. The girl continued to advance, even as her left hand flopped uselessly at her side.
'They won't die!' Yuri yelled as a farmhand, his body a mass of open wounds, picked himself up once more and continued his assault.
'The beast must be killed!' Walter shouted over the clamour of battle. 'It is the unholy energies which he draws to this place that keeps them alive! If he dies, so will they! Hurry!'
The old manservant darted off, his lantern a bobbing sphere of light vanishing down the steps into the tomb.
'Where does the old fool think he's going?' Torben exclaimed in disbelief.
'We cannot let him go alone!' Pieter shouted back. Evading a blow from his attacker, Pieter followed.
'You go. We'll deal with these,' Oran said, sinking his blade deep into a Vampire's side.
Torben looked towards the tomb. If this was the sort of opposition they could expect to find out here, then down those stone steps was the last place he wanted to go.

LEAPING DOWN THE steps two at a time, Pieter stumbled to a halt at the bottom, just ahead of the puffing Walter. Pieter took in every detail in the crypt as he realised abruptly that he had at last reached his goal.
They were standing at the edge of a long rectangular chamber which continued beyond stone archways to both left and right. Burnt-out torches rested in sconces around the walls. The reassuring orange glow cast by the lantern illuminated the vaulted ceiling of the crypt, but picking out glowering gargoyles much like those that adorned its exterior. A number of stone coffins lay within the tomb. Several had been smashed open, their lids now so much broken masonry scattering the cracked flag-stoned floor. In the centre of the chamber stood two tombs, grander than the rest. Only one still remained intact. Standing before it was a young woman, beautiful in death as she had been in life, still wearing the white shift in which she had been buried.
'Hello, Pieter.' Her voice was richly seductive.
Pieter stared back at her, open-mouthed. 'Rosamund!'
'I don't believe it, young master,' Walter gasped.
Rosamund's long black hair cascaded down over her shoulders, as luxurious as Pieter had ever seen it. Her ivory skin glowed with an inner vitality and her captivating blue eyes looked back at him longingly. To see his Rosamund alive again, when he had held her cold, frail body against his after her heart had stopped beating, was beyond rational comprehension.
'I've missed you, Pieter. Have you missed me?' Her voice was soft as velvet.
'But... you're dead,' was all he could manage.
'I was dead, Pieter, but now I am truly alive,' she said.
'This can't be real,' he spluttered, raising his sword.
'But it is, Pieter. Join me and nothing will ever separate us again.'
'She's no longer your sweetheart, master!' Walter insisted but Pieter only half-heard him. He was gripped by terrified indecision. He could still hardly believe what he was witnessing. The only rational explanation for Rosamund being here now was that she had become like those creatures he had just encountered and yet that in itself was irrational!
'It only takes a kiss,' Rosamund said. 'One kiss and we can be together, forever.'
He began to lower his sword. To be together, that was all he had ever wanted. Pieter stepped slowly forward, gazing into Rosamund's sparkling blue eyes as tears ran from his own. At the edge of his consciousness, he could hear Walter's desperate voice. But with every step the voice became quieter and quieter until he did not notice it at all. All he heard was the soothing voice of his beloved and all he saw was her radiant smile, welcoming him back into her embrace.
And then his mind was awash with a series of confusing images. Walter was between them, a sharpened stake in his hand. And Rosamund no longer had her arms outstretched to embrace him. Instead taloned hands were raised, ready to tear out his throat, while ugly fangs protruded over her sweet cherry lips.
There was a flash of lantern-light and Walter's arm bent down at the elbow at an awkward angle. The old man cried out in pain but his screams became a horrible gurgling as Rosamund's head darted snake-like towards his neck. Walter's body went limp and was flung aside like a rag-doll, landing heavily on top of the unopened coffin. Hissing and spitting the Vampire that had once been his sweet Rosamund moved towards Pieter. Horrified, he looked on, stunned into inaction.
'Wh- what have you done?' he spluttered, aghast. 'Rosamund would never have harmed another creature!'
'That was the old Rosamund,' the creature hissed.
'And you are not her!' Pieter roared, raising his sword.
Rosamund's eyes were suddenly wide open in shock. The Vampire let out a blood-chilling scream as a rusted spear tip burst through her chest, sullying the white shift with black, half-congealed blood. The broken shaft of the railing had pierced her dead heart. When she stopped twitching, her talons dropped to her side and her eyes closed for the last time. The girl's body slumped to the floor and lay motionless. Torben let go of the broken railing and span about, panting for breath. Pieter was standing completely still, staring fixedly at the corpse of his beloved.
'She was no longer human,' Torben said, his voice full of regret, 'she was a thing. She is at rest now.'
The young man said nothing.
Looking back to the girl's body, Torben saw that she had indeed found the true peace of death at last.
The body of the old retainer lay slumped face-down over the lid of the unopened sarcophagus. A trickle of blood from the dead man's torn throat glinted darkly in the flickering lantern-light. Only half aware of what was happening, Torben watched as the precious, life-giving fluid collected in a small fissure in the coffin lid, then trickled through a crack into the sarcophagus.

SOMETHING STIRS ME, like a voice calling me back to somewhere I once knew. In the all-encompassing darkness I feel myself floating upwards. It is as if I am rising from the dark scarlet depths of an ocean. Above me lapping crimson light beckons.
I can see things beyond the surface. It is as cold as the grave but I can feel the warmth of living bodies close by. I can hear the beating of their warm hearts. I can smell the sweet blood in their veins, hear it pumping through their arteries, taste it in my mouth.
And I know what it is to hunger again.

PIETER WAS SUDDENLY aware of a cold wind blowing through the crypt. Leaves from outside were lifted in spiralling eddies that danced among the tombs. 'We have to finish it,' the young man stated with grim resolution, taking a whitethorn stake from his pack. Torben Badenov nodded.
Bracing themselves against the lid of the coffin, they pushed with all that remained of their strength. With a hollow grating noise, the stone lid slid slowly across the top of the granite sarcophagus. Pieter winced and turned away gasping as stale air, heavy with the stench of decay, escaped from the coffin along with a wisp of red mist. Opening his eyes, he peered cautiously into the sarcophagus.
Inside the stone coffin lay a skeleton, the skull thrown back as if the occupant had died in tortured agony. To all intents and purposes the skeleton appeared to be human, apart from the extended fangs that forced the jaws open in a rictus grin. Finger bones ended in long talons while a portion of the ribcage was shattered.
The wind was rising rapidly and Pieter could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. A miasma of dark energy crackled around the edge of the coffin. Pieter could feel its it tingle in his fingertips. His pulse quickened.
Walter's blood had collected in a small pool beneath the remains, where it had begun to bubble and hiss strangely, evaporating to become a cloud of red steam. Pieter was unable to tear his gaze from the skeleton, as through the mist he witnessed a terrible transformation. Flesh was coalescing out of the red cloud and attaching itself to the bones. Cords of sinew stretched over the skeleton, pulling the joints into position and binding them together. At the same time tendrils of muscle lashed around the calcified remains, swelling and twitching with new life. Despite his panic, Pieter found himself thinking that the effect was not unlike watching a wax candle melting in a fire, only rapidly in reverse.
As the musculature crawled over the Vampire's chest, the broken ribs were pulled back into place and knitted together. Pieter could see a leathery black organ swelling inside the ribcage with every bellows-like convulsion. Uncurling ears peeled away from the skull and stretched into bat-like points. Balls of yellow fat condensed in the eye sockets as the corpse continued to re-flesh under Pieter's own horrified gaze. New, red-raw eyelids flicked open and the men looked into the night-black pupils of an evil creature who had been born of darkness centuries before.
With a roar, the dead torches around the walls burst into flame. The wind had risen to a gale. Glancing at Torben, Pieter could see that the mercenary's hair was standing on end - as, he could feel, was his own.
'Quickly! Do it now!' Torben yelled over the howling gale.
Pieter raised the stake over the Vampire's regenerating body. With a shout born of fury, frustration and despair he plunged the whitethorn down towards the creature's black, pumping heart.
His hand was suddenly halted as, with lightning speed, the Vampire's own skeletal hand seized his wrist in a grip of iron. Pieter watched helplessly as the skinless horror sat up in the coffin, meat still solidifying on its bones. An unnerving hiss escaped from between the Vampire's fattening lips and a pointed tongue darted from between its bestial fangs.
Then the mercenary was between them, the rusted railing in his hands once more. With one vicious thrust, the spear-like tip passed easily through the creature's ribs and punctured the black bag of muscle that was the Vampire's heart. The half-formed, undead creature opened its mouth to scream, jaw ligaments tearing, but its useless lungs had already begun to collapse. All that issued from the dying Vampire's throat was a rasping breath that stank of death and decay.
The crypt was suddenly a hive of activity. Somehow free of the Vampire brood, the rest of the party burst into the tomb. The hulking Stanislav ran forward, a sexton's spade gripped in his hands. With one swing, the blunt edge of the spade separated the Vampire's head from its shoulders and sent it sailing across the crypt. Its corpse began to decompose at once. New-formed flesh shrivelled and turned to dust, swirling around the coffin in tiny eddies. In seconds all that remained of the Vampire were a few crumbling bones. Stanislav strode over to the corner of the crypt where the creature's head had landed. With one stamp of his boot, the deformed skull was shattered against the flag-stoned floor.
The mercenary leader looked down at the contents of the coffin and ran a hand through his thick black hair. 'I told you we should have gone to Ostermark,' he said.

THE GREAT BONFIRE hissed and crackled as the bodies of the Vampires were burnt to ash. The funeral pyre bathed the graveyard and particularly the Morderischen family tomb in flickering orange light. Yet despite the eerily-moving shadows the carved gargoyles did not seem quite so menacing anymore. Pieter sat staring disconsolately into the flames, looking at something in another time and place. His eyes were dry. He would shed no more tears.
He had been wracked all night with conflicting feelings of grief, unfairness and anger. Rosamund was gone. Walter was dead. In one night he had seen what cruelties the world had to offer. Pieter looked down at the slab of stone covering Walter's grave, on which he sat. The wolves would not have him.
It was less than an hour from dawn and the moon was beginning to set. Although none of them had slept, Torben and his companions were preparing to leave.
'How's your arm?' Torben asked Yuri.
'Better now it's bandaged,' Yuri said.
'Thank Sigmar the creatures out here dropped dead when you killed that monster in the crypt,' Stanislav said.
'We'd all have been dead men otherwise,' Alexi agreed, hitching up his sling.
'We'd better be off.' The mercenary captain was in good humour after the night's events. 'We've got to meet up with Krakov and the lovely Lady Isolde,' he said with a grin. 'Come one, lads. We'll be in Ostermark by noon.' He turned to Pieter. 'What will you do now?'
The young man shrugged.
'You could come with us,' Torben suggested almost casually. 'Besides, we need you as a witness to what happened here last night.'
'That's right. The Lady Isolde will believe a man of your breeding,' Yuri said.
'Why not?' Pieter said with a shrug.
'Oh fine,' Oran muttered quietly. 'Another pocket to split the gold with. Just what we need.'
'That's settled then,' Torben said with a smile. Adjusting his pack, he turned towards the lightening sky to the east. 'I hope Krakov's got the first round in.'

FROM THE BASE of the tower on the hill overlooking Ostenwald, the Lady Isolde watched the funeral pyre burn with piercing green eyes. She inhaled deeply, savouring the smell of the roasting corpses carried on the breeze. The mercenary band had been a good choice and the girl's distraught sweetheart an unexpected bonus.
She turned her gaze from the cemetery and patted the head of her newest servant almost affectionately. The shrivelled one-eyed thing dressed in black, ill-fitting clothes at her side grunted in response as a cat might purr at being stroked. 'Good boy, Krakov,' she breathed. She had never had a Kislevite in her thrall before.
Those fool priests a century ago had underestimated her. They had thought that her brother was the stronger of the siblings and so had spent longer binding him inside his coffin. That had been the advantage she needed as over time the charms sealing her own tomb had lost their potency.
Now her cruel brother would never control her again. She would become the Mistress of Ostenwald Tower and the surrounding countryside. The peasantry would be as cattle to her, there merely as a source of sustenance or assistance as she saw fit.
'Sleep well, brother,' the Lady Isolde purred and a smile parted her full red lips. As she smiled, the last rays of moonlight caught the glistening point of an elongated incisor.