The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 46: Red Right Hand

“It's silver that falls from the stars; hence ‘stargent.’ The ancients were never particularly creative in their naming schemes, but it's sufficient. As an alchemist, you will become very familiar with this substance. You will learn to love and hate it in equal measure. Its presence in even the most minute amounts will ruin rituals and disrupt experiments. Which depending on the situation could save or end your life. It's for this very reason knowing how to identify and remove stargent impurities is crucial to your education.” - Professor Victoria Proust, alchemist preceptor of Andeca’s Ivory Tower.

The two things Wolfgang hated more than anything else in the world were being confused and frightened. In his estimate, those emotions were the ultimate markers of failure. They signaled a loss of control, both internal and external; they were signs of ignorance and impotence. Wolfgang had worked hard over his relatively short span as a vampire to protect himself from those emotions and what they meant. Now, at what should be his moment of triumph, he was well within the grasp of confusion and fear. A monster was hunting him, a primordial terror beyond his strength and previously hidden right under his nose.

Natalie, his grandniece, was painfully correct; he’d failed to see the obvious, and now faced a threat he’d already discounted. The part of Wolfgang still clutching to denial like a life raft couldn’t believe the Tenth God would let something like the Alukah roam free. But as much as he wanted to hold on to that raft and buoy himself with logical assumptions, Wolfgang couldn’t ignore what his very eyes were seeing. With his spectacles back on, Wolfgang saw into the Aether and witnessed the truth he so wanted to disbelieve.

Before, when the ambush was sprung, he’d barely noticed the ink-stain of Natalie’s metaphysical aura. Her mark upon the Aether was almost lost among the holy powers Wolfgang calibrated his glasses to find. Now, free of the icy chains the priestess bound her in, Natalie’s true nature was on full display. His grandniece was a miniature typhoon of roiling blood and hungry shadows. Faces, both human and animal, some screaming, some snarling, appeared in the metaphysical storm front for the barest moment before disappearing into the red tempest. Wolfgang was facing an unliving nightmare, a horror from ages past now resurrected in the skin of his kin. That the Pantheon would allow this creature to walk free, even with a Paladin as its gaoler defied reason. But as Wolfgang had often bitterly noticed, just because something was insane didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

Moving fast as he could, Wolfgang tried to avoid the snapping pack of phantom wolves chasing him. He’d turned and ran from Natalie the moment he realized the full extent of her threat, trying to reach Cleanor. But as a strix, Wolfgang lacked the raw physical power of most breeds of vampires and couldn’t escape the spectral lupines. The modified gashadokuro Wolfgang spent so much time on was proving inadequate for this threat. He could only summon one part of the invisible Rattler at a time, and devastating as a blow from it was, the wolves barely seemed to notice. A giant unseen hand would crush two or three wolves to vapor and give the rest an opportunity to get closer to Wolfgang. Still, despite his relative fragility Wolfgang wasn’t helpless, he unleashed a staccato of spells upon the wolves, keeping their jaws from his flesh.

Something whistled past Wolfgang’s ear, and a chunk of gravel smashed against a nearby boulder with horrible force. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, Wolfgang saw Natalie preparing another improvised barrage. Clutching the gashadokuro dagger, Wolfgang summoned up the monster’s ribcage as an invisible shield around him. Most of the thrown rocks clattered against the plank-sized ribs but Wolfgang hissed in pain as sharp stone cut into his back and side. Dodging a lunging wolf, the Black Fly tried again to understand why his grandniece hadn’t killed him already. She should have been able to run him down and tear him apart with ease. While it was obvious she didn’t have full access to the Alukah’s power, from what he’d seen Natalie was easily his physical superior; so why hadn’t she killed him?

Wolfgang could only imagine Natalie was hesitating out of caution, curiosity, or cruelty. Whatever her reasoning, Wolfgang would not let this opportunity slip by. If he could reach Cleanor, then they could hold the priestess and catblood hostage. Pushing more blood into his legs, Wolfgang managed to finally put some distance between himself and the wolves. It wasn’t far now, he just needed to follow the trail of blood the injured werekin left behind. Taking a sharp turn around a large boulder, Wolfgang’s panicked mind latched onto two details he’d almost missed. Upon finding the smears of red left on the stone, Wolfgang assumed Cleanor dragged her other meal away with the priestess. But now he realized the bloody smears weren’t right. They were too haphazard and pooled to result from someone being pulled. As that realization crashed into Wolfgang, the second detail struck him. Mixed in with the stink of beast blood was another flavor of ichor. Wolfgang smelled lamia blood, and lots of it.

He found the remains of his bodyguard stretched out across the cold stone, a lake of red spreading out from her neck and serpentine body. Wolfgang was stunned. How could Cleanor be dead? Could the priestess have done this? Was that how Natalie escaped the spell binding her? No, that didn’t make sense, Cleanor knew how to kill godpawns. She’d not have given Mina the breath or time to counter-attack. Had the catblood managed this? That seemed even less likely, considering the dark-skinned woman’s skull was cracked open by a treacherous blow. But… judging by the blood trail, the werekin managed to crawl here. Wolfgang realized he might have grossly underestimated both women. Which was an already worrying prospect without considering there wasn’t hide nor hair of either priestess or wereblood. Wolfgang’s old enemies, fear and confusion, grew stronger, gnawing at his mind as he tried to find answers and options.

A tiny noise caught Wolfgang’s blood-honed senses then, something was moving through the air towards him. Leaping towards Cleanor, he snatched the projectile from the air. Cursing himself internally, Wolfgang knew he’d wasted what little time he had by being shocked at Cleanor’s death. Landing next to the cooling lamia corpse, Wolfgang’s thoughts about how he might repurpose his dead bodyguard were interrupted by an abnormality. The object he’d caught wasn’t a hunk of gravel, but a tiny rod of metal. Looking at the thin almost stiletto-like projectile, Wolfgang’s eyes widened as his glasses revealed the truth. A spell was anchored to the metal length, and it had just activated.

Before Wolfgang could drop the enchanted metal, a sudden impossible weight slammed into his shoulders. Wolfgang’s knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, crashing into the ground with a loud crunch. He struck face first, his nose shattering and body laying flat upon the ground. It felt like an aurochs was sitting on him… or more like he’d suddenly become heavy as an aurochs.

Gravity magic, that had to be what this was. Wolfgang wasn’t an expert, or even familiar with the esoteric branch of magecraft, and held only the vaguest ideas of what it involved. But among those vague ideas were notions of crushing people beneath their own bodyweight or sending them drifting into the sky like a dandelion seed. Yet again Wolfgang was forced to reckon with something that made no sense. Where did a Magi talented in graviturgy come from? Was this some skill of the Alukah’s not in the records or had reinforcements arrived, bypassing his detector spells?

Frantically reaching out with his mind, Wolfgang groped at the crude runic marks decorating the entrances to the cave and tower. Two of his alarms were tripped, one from when the Paladin’s caravan entered the cavern the other though… Someone he didn’t know had entered the central tower, and sloppily altered his detector spell in the process. Instead of bypassing or destroying the spell, whoever altered it simply stopped the magic from alerting Wolfgang directly. He could still reach out and check it as he did now, but the spell wouldn’t call to him as it should. That settled it, there was a Magi of some skill among the enemy, but HOW? How had someone like that slipped through the ambush undetected, only now striking at such a bizarre moment?

Another emotion joined the confusion and fear boiling inside Wolfgang: outrage. How was all of this happening? The ambush, the perfect brutal ambush, prepared by him and his allies, was collapsing around Wolfgang. Feeling the cold metal of the spell anchor still clutched in his hand, Wolfgang let out a hissing growl as he fought to let go of the accursed trinket. Slowly, oh so painfully, slowly his creaking joints opened, fighting against gravity that would probably kill a mortal person.

Then, as a perfect metaphor for his current situation, a boot stomped down on Wolfgang’ hand, crushing his fingers and pressing the metal into his palm. Slowly turning his head, afraid of breaking his spine, Wolfgang looked up at the monster staring down at him. Natalie loomed over Wolfgang, a shortsword in one hand, her wolves circling about. But his grandniece wasn’t alone; someone stood in her shadow, a figure Wolfgang’s eyes couldn’t focus on. The slight Aetheric bloom of the stranger’s emotions the only thing proving he wasn’t seeing things. This must be the Magi then, come cloaked in a spell to help Natalie end him.

Boot still crushing his hand, Natalie turned to her accomplice. “I’m glad you are alright. Thank you for helping me.”

Whatever the stranger said in response, Wolfgang’s mind struggled with the words, their meaning leaking from him like soapy water. Still, Natalie’s part of the conversation was not shrouded. “No, sparing Mina was the right choice. Whatever happened to her, we’ll figure it out, and he’ll help us.”

Wolfgang watched his grandniece’s shortsword being pointed at him for emphasis. “Lets get that dagger from his other hand and then stake him. I’ve got a lot to ask my Uncle Wolfgang after we rescue Cole.”

The silhouette Wolfang couldn’t quite track moved, and his eyes widened upon seeing the look on Natalie’s face. “No! I meant-”

Cold steel sank into Wolfgang’s wrist, driving into the muscle and bone with shocking force. A muffled scream forced its way from Wolfgang’s mouth, his crushed lungs trying their best to express his agony. Natalie stared at Wolfgang for a second and took a breath as if to mock him. Her red eyes met his own, and she said. “Part of me is sorry for that, uncle, but not enough. Just… just consider yourself lucky I’m not acting on my worst instincts.”

How was she this in control? Wolfgang saw the hunger in Natalie, the cannibalistic desires at work, when she nearly ripped his throat out. Then, during his escape, he’d experienced moments of raw animal panic as the maelstrom of bloodlust emanating off Natalie licked at his soul. But now… now she seemed almost normal, her presence in the Aether showing barely a sign of what he knew slept beneath the surface. Was this why the Tenth God let this monster out of its cage? Had the Pantheon trained one of the first vampires like a dog? The strange connection between Natalie and the homunculus now made a little more sense. He was the leash upon the tamed wolf’s neck, a fetter that could survive any lapse in the beast's training.

These thoughts helped distract Wolfgang while the invisible Magi sawed at his hand. Crushed beneath the gravity magic, Wolfgang couldn’t call upon the gashadokuro. Even if he could muster the arcane focus to use the enchanted dagger, he feared what the spell imprisoning him might do to the invisible rattler. Wolfgang’s modifications were untested and crude, it was very much possible the phantom bone he summoned would splinter under the gravity and crush him. Bitterly, Wolfgang realized he’d exchanged a little bit of his ignorance for a great sum of impotence.

In a horrible final note to his song of agony, Wolfgang’s hand was cut from him. Robbed of the ability to even properly scream, Wolfgang just hissed in pain. Looking at Natalie’s boot, keeping his remaining hand firmly attached to the enchanted spike, the irony of Wolfgang’s situation was not lost upon him. Everything had been reversed so quickly and his only salvation lay in humiliation. If the Tall and Short could triumph over the homunculus and save him, then Wolfgang would be marked a failure. But Wolfgang wasn’t a fool. Better to survive and lose standing than become ash.

Still, Wolfgang had one last move to make before the game was decided. He’d never been one for most of the traditional vampire powers but that didn’t mean he was completely negligent in that aspect. Shutting his eyes, Wolfgang focused on his blood and the secrets contained within. This was easier than normal magic, and might be possible even with the gravity hex crushing him. Slowly, the Black Fly felt himself soften, his flesh and bones gaining an almost clay-like consistency. While the strigoi were the undisputed masters of turning into animals, the strix had their own favored transformations. Wolfgang struggled to become a pool of blood or cloud of fog, but he could turn into a sludge.

This wouldn’t be easy, even with the drops of blood he’d smeared on all his clothes and equipment upon first gaining them, taking so much matter with him wasn’t simple. Especially considering the enchanted daggers strapped to his chest. Wolfgang didn’t want to test what a thread-cutter knife or stargent stiletto would do to his amorphous flesh, so keeping them in their scabbards and carrying them with him like an amoeba’s meal was his best option. The Aisan thread-cutter worried Wolfgang especially. It was old magic, first crafted by Aisa herself, one of the original Strix. Spells and souls parted under the enchanted knife’s edge just as easily as flesh and bone might.

A massive crash caused Wolfgang’s eyes to snap open. The sound of breaking stone and falling debris came from the tower. Before Wolfgang could wonder at the disturbance’s source, reality shifted. The crippling weight crushing him disappeared as if it had never been. Carefully turning his head, Wolfgang realized his captors weren’t looking at him, they were busy staring at the central tower and the hulking shape leaping down from its outer rampart. Tallclaw in his humanoid form sailed through the air, a limp person gripped in one hand trailing after him.

Both Natalie and the enchanted silhouette spoke, voices unified in shock and horror. “KIT!”

Wolfgang didn’t know how he heard the silhouette’s words now, or who Kit was, but he didn’t care. With an effort of will, Wolfgang dissolved into a reddish-black sludge, flowing out from beneath Natalie’s foot and away from his grandniece. Distracted by whatever Tallclaw had done, Natalie noticed what happened a moment too late. The Black Fly slithered along the ground and into a crack in the rock, his two sheathed knives carried comfortably within him.

Marcus looked down at his shattered blade. Green fire danced along the ruined longsword, flaring from the splintered metal in a shower of emerald sparks. For the first time in his existence, Marcus was thankful he’d never been good with a dagger. Clenching the shortened blade’s hilt with his remaining hand, Marcus looked at his foe. Cole still stood, frost swirling about him, his halberd glowing silver. All around Marcus, the rat swarm teemed and chittered, awaiting the disgusting strigoi’s commands. Shorttooth had clearly caught onto Marcus’s tiny acts of disobedience, and reigned him in from burning the vermin in an effort to injure Cole. Still, Marcus wasn’t completely helpless in arranging his death. It hadn’t been easy to mistime his sword stroke, so when he pulled his blade from Cole it would catch on armor and rock.

Holding up his impromptu dagger, Marcus hoped he’d evened the odds. Cole’s right hand was crippled, but somehow the Paladin kept a grip on his halberd. Glancing at the hollow stump where his own hand was cut away during that strange bit of magic, Marcus wondered if this was enough.

Pushing off the cracked stone, uncaring of the rats dying beneath his heavy footfalls, Marcus exploded forward, ready to finally meet his end. Cole didn’t let the former pankrator close the distance, using his halberd's reach to keep Marcus at bay. Unfortunately, while the enchanted steel was enough to stop Marcus, the rats had no such compunctions. The river of black fur that parted around Marcus now came together and crashed into Cole. Even as the paladin’s halberd reaped scores of the rats, the vermin swarmed over their kin and clambered onto Cole’s legs.

The rodents froze in seconds but it didn’t matter; they swarmed up the paladin’s armored shins, climbing over each other's corpses. Marcus saw the opportunity Thorm’s minions created and the magic binding him forced the Dullahan to exploit the opening. Lunging forward, Marcus tried to bury his dagger in Cole’s armpit. Despite being eaten alive by the teeming rats, Cole parried the strike and stepped in close to Marcus. Swinging his stump in a haymaker, Marcus’s blow was knocked aside by Cole as the paladin shrunk his halberd into a pole-axe.

Barely catching Cole’s counterstroke with his fractured sword, Marcus spread his stance to avoid another trip or grapple. As he did, Marcus realized the reason for Cole giving up the reach advantage. Rats sizzled and popped as the green fire dripping from Marcus burned them. Caught between holy cold and cursed flames, the vermin struggled to continue their assault on Cole. Forced to follow Thorm’s orders, Marcus smothered his witchfire. Which, it seemed, was exactly what Cole expected.

Marcus could see the rising tide of divine power emanating from Cole. The paladin was preparing another spell, probably the ice breath he’d used earlier. Compelled by the magic binding him, Marcus tried to disrupt the gathering power, but with his flames diminished, so was he. Unable to lash out with gouts of witchfire, Marcus could only use his shattered blade, and that was woefully insufficient to stop Cole. The paladin sidestepped, or more accurately, sidestumbeled away from Marcus, forcing his way through the teeming rats, leaving piles of frozen rodent behind him.

Well outside Marcus’s reach, Cole did something the Dullahan hadn’t expected. He brought his pole-axe’s head to his mouth and seemed to kiss it. As Cole pulled the weapon from his lips, icy vapor trailed after it. A corona of swirling frost built up around the axehead, refracting the silver light of the power Cole channeled into his weapon. The twisting mass of super-cooled air grew, fed by Cole’s breath in a display that reminded Marcus of a confectioner spinning up sugar cotton. As the final wisps of magic left Cole’s mouth, he whispered words filled with arcane intent. “Blessed breath, bring rest and death.”

Then Cole swung his weapon, and the magic was unleashed. A wave of frost flowed from the pole-axe’s head, freezing scores of rats solid and smashing into Marcus. For the second time since his death, the Dullahan felt cold, not the horrible freezing burn of undeath but truly cold. Stunned by the sudden onslaught of sensation, Marcus looked at himself and realized layers of hoary rime covered his armor. Faint emerald embers shone through the cracks and joints in Marcus’s plate, but they were guttering candles accosted by a winter storm.

Stepping over frozen rat bodies, crushing them into ash and slime, Cole moved forward, continuing his scything strikes. The enchanted frost swirled around the pole-axe, lashing out in a whip-wave that followed Cole’s will. Overcome by the numbing chill, Marcus struggled to move, barely avoiding the paladin’s wrath. Marcus smiled as he fought the killing cold; he recognized what Cole was doing, or at least part of it.

Using magical power to reinforce one's weapons, armor and flesh was the bedrock of a warrior-mages talents. The techniques and minutia of this practice varied across its practitioners, be they priest, magi, shaman or paladin; but the results were all similar. In life, Marcus was a master of letting the red-bronze potency of his god flow through him. But that foundational skill wasn’t where the magical art ended, something Cole clearly understood. Before, Cole merely let the power of his mantle infuse him or expelled it in a spell; now the paladin was doing both. Instead of simply unleashing his frozen breath, Cole anchored the magic to his weapon, enchanting it with a more complex working than mere infusion.

Wherever the pole-axe moved, it left a trail of billowing frost that spread out in a cloud of death. With each strike and stroke, Cole not only attacked with steel and ice, but defended himself with his weapon’s wake. Oddly, the technique almost reminded Marcus of something he’d seen pyromancers use, except instead of lashing flames, it was creeping cold. Still, there was no denying its efficacy. Cole had killed an aardig worth of the rats and Marcus didn’t like his odds of surviving much more of the ice magic. So naturally, the Dullahan charged ahead, ready to see if his flame could be snuffed.

Ankle deep in dying rats and ashen slurry, Cole met Marcus’s attack, knocking the Dullahan’s shattered sword aside and landing a clean blow on his upper thigh. Sluggish and clumsy thanks to the magic, Marcus took the strike, feeling it part stressed bone. Unfortunately, the bone in question was only his armor. The strike cut through Marcus’s tasset and notched his femur but didn’t break it. Still, Marcus felt his leg go numb, the fire animating it struggling against the holy cold. As Cole pulled his weapon free and struck up towards Marcus’s breastplate, the Dullahan staggered back. With monumental effort, Marcus slowed the fire’s growth, trying to give Cole a larger opportunity to finish the fight.

It was a fantastically strange thing, to have one's body fighting with all your skill and potency, while your mind could only watch and try to disrupt things. Marcus had found more success in ‘aiming’ himself in suboptimal ways than in active sabotage. But right now, as his leg remained numb and clumsy, Marcus thought he’d found his opportunity worth fighting for. So much of martial arts came down to stance and footing after all. Failing to dodge another strike, Marcus spun backward as his breastplate sported a new fissure. Barely able to stay standing, let alone counter attack, Marcus wanted to smile at the sharp steel coming his way. Finally, finally, he’d be free. But then the giant rat attacked.

Cole had left a path of ashen slush in his wake, the crumbling remains of hundreds of rats reduced to slime and soot. Out of that filth now erupted a snarling horror of oily fur and jagged teeth. No… it didn’t emerge from the ash but was made from it, a magical construct using the dead vermin as building material. The size of a lion, the rat was exaggerated, its features distorted and more akin to murophobe’s nightmare than any real rodent. Cole barely spun in time as the creature pounced. The paladin’s pole-axe struck the giant rat’s skull cleaving through muscle and bone but it wasn’t enough to stop the construct’s momentum. The already dissolving giant rat slammed into Cole, knocking him back and leaving him open to the second and third oversized rodent.

Marcus’s concentration wavered, and he felt the flame coursing through his leg, burning away the cold infecting it and restoring him. A surge of anger boiled up in Marcus and with it his fire was roused. He’d been so close to being free! But yet again he’d been robbed, and by a lord of vermin no less! Driven by the bindings, Marcus joined the frantic melee surrounding Cole. Rats both large and small attacked the Paladin while Marcus waded into the fray, adding his splintered blade to the fight. Even with his formidable ice magic, this was too much for Cole; he was quickly becoming overwhelmed.

Cole’s bag of tricks was just about completely spent. He’d known another breath of frost might get most of the rats but not all of them. So in a moment, in inspiration, Cole tried to modify the spell he’d used in Barlstine, and managed to wreath Requiem in killing cold. The technique was less powerful and more mentally demanding than a simple breath, but its longevity and adaptability made it near-perfect for fighting the rat swarm. Things had been going well for a time, but then as ever, the paradigm shifted and now Cole was struggling to stay alive.

Vermin of all different sizes and shapes struck from every angle. Sculpted from rotten tissue and ash, the malformed rats were shockingly fragile, each coming apart easily; but they still kept attacking. Cole would tear a wolf-sized rat apart just to have its scattering body parts reform into gnashing rodents who’d fall to his frost. It was like fighting the ocean surf, every strike sent ripples through the rats but soon enough another furry wave or toothed undertow would strike. Cole didn’t want to think what his legs looked like; even with the numbing cold he could feel the hundreds of tiny bites from those rats lucky enough to reach his flesh. But, however gruesome the damage was, Cole was still standing and fighting.

Cole knew Thorm must be exhausting himself keeping this complicated magic working, and that was the only thing that gave him hope. Shorttooth had killed the aardigs and converted their mass into rats, who were then controlled and warped as the strigoi pleased. That sort of working was grotesquely difficult, and expensive; it wasn’t a coincidence the giant malformed rats started attacking when Cole’s victory over Marcus was almost secured. If Cole could hold out just a minute or two longer, then he might be able to win.

A massive crack and crash caught Cole’s attention and despite himself, he found his attention split. Someone had smashed a hole in the central tower’s upper floor and knocked most of a rampart loose in the process. To Cole’s shock, Tallclaw leapt from the hole, sailing through the air, a limp Kit dangling from his grip. Frantically looking at where he’d left the frozen strigoi, Cole felt his heart sink. The strigoi’s warform was still there, but a rupture ran along its chest. While Cole was fighting Marcus and Shorttooth, the other vampire knight broke free of his frozen flesh and snuck away from the fight. Cole had no idea why Kit had been in the tower or how Tallclaw found him, but that mattered little now.

The hulking strigoi landed with a crunch, the rat swarm parting for him. He held Kit up like a plucked chicken, his huge hand wrapped around both of Kit’s. Tallclaw’s arrival put a pause to the frantic melee, even the rats stopped their incessant assault. In a deep growl, the strigoi said. “Smelled fresh blood from the tower. Found this one. Surrender homunculus or I rip his head off.”

Blood dribbled from Kit’s lip and he seemed concussed. Glancing up at the sphere of light the magi summoned earlier, Cole guessed it would fade after some time no matter its creator’s state. Looking back at Kit, Cole weighed his options. “Let my companions leave unmolested, and I will surrender.”

At best, Cole was playing for time, at worst… well, Natalie and Isabelle would rescue him… eventually. Besides, Kit’s survival was important for purely pragmatic reasons. Even if the plague was being treated, the faerie used in its creation was still out there. The Lych himself seemed to think Kit would be key in banishing the Gallarwyll Queen. Cole couldn’t risk upsetting whatever plans were being laid to stop a powerful faerie from calling more attention to the world. So… as ever was his fate and purpose, Cole prepared to sacrifice himself.

But inside that already risky gamble was another wager. If the vampires guessed what Natalie was, they’d never leave without her. From what Cole had seen of Natalie and other vampires, they had a hard time deciphering her identity. Maybe, just maybe in all the chaos surrounding him and his own identity, she and Isabelle could slip through the cracks. It was probably a vain hope, but was better than letting Kit die and then being torn apart by the three monsters he faced. Also, the fact no one else had been taken hostage, seemed a good sign. Cole did not know what was happening with the rest of the convoy and hoped it was better than his situation.

Pointing his pole-axe at Tallclaw, Cole repeated his demands. “Swear you will let my companions leave safely and I will surrender peacefully. If you don’t, I will be forced to use up what remains of my soul in a final miracle. None of you will survive it.”

Before negotiations could proceed, an unfamiliar figure clambered out of a crevice near Tallclaw. Wiry and wild-eyed this new vampire fumbled with his clothes that seemed to be slightly damp and not quite on correctly. Stumbling forward the vampire put on a pair of spectacles using his only hand, the other being severed at the wrist. Drawing a long silver knife, the newcomer shouted. “The Alukah is here! They’ve brought the Alukah with them!”

Cole reacted quickly, he surged towards Tallclaw, hoping to end him while the shock of the new vampire’s pronouncement was still fresh. But the battle hardened strigoi reacted quickly and violently tossed Kit to the side, revealing the horrible damage inflicted on the magi’s hands and forearms. Drawing a cleaver from his belt with one hand, and turning the other into a massive chimeric claw, the strigoi met Cole’s pole-axe. The frost spell woven into Cole’s weapon had faded and he could only rely on the normal magic infusing Requiem. Desperately, Cole attacked, putting all his remaining strength into a series of brutal strikes.

Tallclaw dodged the blows easily, as exhaustion, and hungry rats gnawed at Cole. Bringing his pole axe down in a final blow, Cole felt his hopes die as the strigoi caught the weapon in his clawed hand. Thick armored scales covered Tallclaw’s palm and Requiem only sank a few centimeters into the vampire’s flesh. Before Cole could pull his weapon free, Tallclaw shut his grip around the pole-axe’s head and yanked. Cole didn’t let go of the weapon and was pulled forward right into Tallclaw’s cleaver.

After an incredible amount of abuse Emma of Stonebone’s suit of plate broke. The cleaver tore through already mauled hakon steel and buried itself in Cole’s guts. Finally, Cole let go of Requiem and stumbled back, the cleaver leaving his flesh with a wet squelch. Warm blood flowed over cold flesh and Cole clutched at his belly, desperate to keep anything from spilling out. With a wet crunch, Tallclaw let his clawed hand fall from his wrist, the rapidly freezing tissue clamped around Requiem. As he grew, a new hand, Tallclaw came over towards Cole and raised his cleaver.

Collapsing to the ground, Cole eyed the surrounding rats, he’d die before letting them get to him. Sucking in a deep breath, Cole prepared one final miracle, but before he could the vampire with glasses spoke. “Wait!”

Rushing forward, the gaunt vampire approached Cole, and the paladin almost smiled. Ensuring the newcomer burned might help Natalie stay hidden. Calling on his power, Cole let the leech get closer and closer, preparing to die and take someone a less amenable to the condition with him. The leech with spectacles kneeled down and looked at Cole, and right as the paladin was about to cast his spell, the vampire sunk his stiletto into the paladin’s gut. Like a candle doused by a washbasin, the magic fled Cole, leaving him with nothing but pain.

A horrible scream built in his throat and escaped as the truth of all his injuries announced itself. Forcing the blade deeper, the vampire spoke. “My name is Wolfgang, and I have some questions for you, homunculus.”

Stargent, the blade was coated in stargent, the celestial metal had ripped away Cole’s magic and left him powerless. Staring down at the blade in his gut, Cole tried to push Wolfgang away, but he was too weak. The vampire twisted the blade and forced another scream from Cole. “I know this will stop you from resurrecting, and I know you hold Isabelle Gens Silva’s secrets. You’ve lost homunculus, the Tall and the Short will capture the Alukah and this horrid little affair will finally be over.”

A familiar voice cut through Cole’s pain and he felt his heart drop. “Leave him alone!”

Wolfgang turned about, leaving the dagger in Cole and gesturing for Marcus to ensure the blade stayed where he left it. Natalie stood nearby, standing atop a boulder and looking down at everyone. She was clutching something in both hands, and her wolves skulked about, growls bubbling from them.

Glaring up at Natalie, Wolfgang said. “I don’t know what your leash has told you, but I know how to truly kill him. I’ve got a blade of stargent in his gut, and it's one good push away from his largest artery.”

Cole had wondered in his darkest moments if telling Natalie of his weakness was a mistake. But right then, he knew without a doubt he’d made the right choice. “You’re bluffing. I’ll pull the stargent out of him and he’ll be fine. Now, I’ve got someone who's very interested in meeting you, uncle.”

Blinking slowly, Cole tried to understand Natalie’s meaning and if shock had made him mishear something. But before he could dwell on Natalie’s words, Cole finally realized what his lover was carrying. It was a skull, a fanged skull.