“She’s coming around!”
Rangers gathered round as Brey struggled to sit up. Like them, she had been stripped of her armor and weapons. Even her Silver Flame pendant was gone. She and her rangers were crowded together in a small rock-hewn cell, separated from a larger chamber by a wall of stout iron bars. The only light came from a flickering brazier in the outer chamber.
“Egen,” she murmured. Her second-in-command leaned over her.
“Captain,” he said. “Drosin and Neskus are dead, but everyone else is alive. Talandro’s in a bad way, though.”
Brey struggled to her feet. Her neck and shoulders ached where she had been struck from behind. Talandro lay at the back of the cell, pale and scarcely breathing. Focusing her thoughts on a mental image of the Silver Flame, she knelt over him. With one hand on his head and the other on her chest, she began to pray. After a moment, his eyes fluttered, then opened.
“Captain?” he said, weakly. She placed a finger on his lips.
“Save your strength,” she said. He nodded feebly and closed his eyes again, lapsing into a deep and peaceful sleep almost immediately. She turned back to Egen.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“As far as I can tell, we’re still in Cyre,” he replied. “At any rate, we didn’t cross the river. We marched for about three hours—I couldn’t tell the direction because they had us blindfolded—and that’s all I know.”
“So the Karrns have a base in Cyre,” Brey said, half to herself. “Have you seen any troops other than the lancers and those undead?”
Egen shook his head. “What are those things, anyway?” he asked. “Zombies don’t use magic.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Some new Karrnathi abomination.”
A door banged in the outer chamber, and they turned to see a slender, robed elf enter the room, flanked by two zombies. With a shock, they recognized the faces of their dead comrades, Drosin and Neskus. Branded into their flesh was a badge of some kind—a skull with the numbers six and one. They glowered malevolently at their former comrades.
“No!” Brey half-shrieked, gripping the bars. The elf gave her a nasty smile.
Brey glared at him. His skin was pale even for an elf, and his eyes set deep within dark rings. The embroidery on his robes was in the Aerenal style, which surprised her. Elves found in the company of Karrns were usually Valenar mercenaries. He produced a ring of keys.
“You stay where you are,” he ordered Brey. “The rest of you, against the back wall, with your hands on your heads!” At a gesture from him, the zombies drew their swords.
“We are prisoners of war!” shouted Egen. “We have rights!”
The elf chuckled dryly. “We don’t worry much about the Articles of War here,” he said. “And you should know that anyone who fails to comply will be forced to watch their comrades die—very slowly, and very painfully. And then”—he gestured at Drosin and Neskus—“they will rise like these two, and tear you apart.”
Brey held up a hand.
“Do as he says,” she told the rangers. Reluctantly, they backed away from her. The elf unlocked the door and motioned her out of the cell. Drosin and Neskus stood each side of her as the elf turned to lock the door again.
“Flee before the wrath of the Silver Flame!” Brey screamed, throwing her arms in the air. The zombies did not even flinch. Something was very wrong here.
“I’m afraid not,” said the elf. “We have been working on correcting that weakness—among others.” Drosin and Neskus each took hold of one of her arms. She struggled, but their grip was unbreakable. They were much stronger than they had been in life.
As they marched Brey through a succession of stonewalled passages, she saw several other elves, and even a couple of half-elves and humans. They all had the same unhealthy pallor as her captor. Zombies shuffled to and fro, apparently on various errands.
At last, they came to a heavy wooden door bound in black iron. The elf unlocked it with another of his keys, locking it behind them. On the inside of the door, painted in red and black, was a demonic face, its mouth opened to reveal an array of jagged teeth.
“The Blood of Vol!” she breathed.
The elf smiled again. “Among others. The master has many such arrangements,” he said. “We like to think of ourselves as open-minded in religious matters.”
They came into a high, vaulted chamber, dominated by a huge stone sarcophagus on a stepped plinth. Around the edges of the room were several semi-circular apses, each holding a smaller coffin. Torches flickered in iron wall-sconces, casting fluid shadows on the dark velvet draperies, and on the pale figures that gathered around her. They wore a kind of uniform, but it was made of a nobleman’s silks and brocades rather than the leather and canvas of a soldier. Their eyes had a reddish tinge, matching their mouths, and they looked hungrily at her.
“Stand back!” ordered the elf. “This one is for your captain!” Hissing and cursing softly, the pale figures drew back. Brey could see their fangs clearly.
She jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder. The zombies relinquished their grip, and she found herself staring into a man’s face. It was hard and cruelly handsome, its hair and beard trimmed and oiled, and its eyes—she blinked and shook her head, turning away to avoid further eye contact.
“What have you brought me, Kylaer?” he said. “This one looks tastier than our usual fare.”
“A present from the master,” replied the elf. “A paladin from Thrane.”
The vampire threw back his head and laughed. “You must give him my thanks,” he said, “and my compliments on his wit!”
Brey struggled in vain. Strong hands held her fast as the fangs penetrated her neck. She prayed to the Silver Flame to take her soul.
Brey awoke in a small, dark space, her head throbbing and her whole body burning with a raging thirst. Summoned by her cries, a pale crowd lifted her out of the coffin and carried her gently to a couch where a terrified peasant girl lay trembling in chains. The others whispered that her former life was over, that the Silver Flame had abandoned her because of what she had become, that they were her family now. When she renounced them and reaffirmed her devotion to the Flame, they laughingly sent for her pendant. To her horror, she found she could no longer look at the holy symbol, and when she tried to touch it, it burned her flesh. Brey prayed and prayed, but the hunger was too strong; weeping red tears of shame and revulsion, she fed.
The months that followed were a waking nightmare. As much as she could, she fought the dark impulses that were growing within her, but when the bearded vampire commanded her, she was powerless to resist. She wore the same uniform as the others, with that same badge, and she went out with them by night and did unspeakable things.
They were a military unit in the army of Karrnath, she was told, under the command of the bearded one, whose name was Wultram. The complex where they rested by day—where she and her rangers had been brought as prisoners—was a laboratory, dedicated to the creation of new and more powerful undead troops for the Karrnathi cause. The vampire spawn were but one avenue of research; another had produced the spell-casting zombies that had captured her, and still other projects were under way. Overseeing everything was the one Kylaer had called the master—an elf whose name was Marbulin Dravuliel, a necromancer who had sold his services to King Kaius and his defilers of the grave.
When they were not carrying out their atrocities, the vampire spawn were kept in the vaulted room, which Brey learned was the base of a tower. Above them was a ruined Cyran fortress, now abandoned. Only Wultram habitually left the chamber, apparently to confer with Dravuliel and receive his orders. She tried to sneak out—with the vague idea of escaping, or finding her rangers, or both—but was always stopped by the Blood of Vol symbol on the inside of the main door. Apparently it had the same effect on her new comrades as well, though Wultram seemed immune.