He lashed out with his left arm, striking it with the stump of his wrist as the dragonmark flared on his shoulder. To his surprise, the creature didn’t even flinch—in fact, he saw some of its wounds close, as if healing. It fixed him with a malicious grin and raised a clawed hand to strike.
Brey struck the wight from behind as Mordan’s rapier pierced its chest. The sword was torn from his grasp, its hilt jutting in the air as the vampire pulled the wight backward. Throwing it on the ground, she dropped heavily onto the creature, slamming her knees into its chest as she reached for the weapon. Mordan heard ribs break with the impact. It was then that he noticed the tattoo on the thing’s shoulder—a skull with the number sixty-one.
With a furious snarl, Brey grabbed the rapier’s hilt and twisted it savagely. The wight screamed in pain. Grabbing her head in both its hands, it butted her in the face, pushing her off it with hands and feet. Mordan threw himself onto the pinned creature, but it threw him off like a rag doll, wrenching the rapier from its chest and throwing it across the room. Then, with a powerful leap, it launched itself through the hole on the roof and was gone.
Brey leaped after it, but recoiled with an agonized cry. As she hit the floor, the side of her face was red and peeling, as if seared by a hot iron. Glancing up, Mordan could see that the sky was turning pale.
“Help Tarrel!” Brey snarled, and then limped into her coffin and slammed the lid down. All was quiet except for the buzzing of the mosquitoes.
“What happened to you?” asked Decker. The handcart with their belongings stood beside the boat, Brey’s coffin obscured by various small crates and packages. Tarrel had dug out a healing potion from somewhere inside his coat but was still pale and unsteady on his feet. Mordan was bruised and scratched, his skin still seeping blood from the mosquito bites. He looked up at the warforged with tired eyes.
“We just got another reason to leave town,” he said. Decker made no reply.
It took only a few minutes to load their baggage onto the boat. Brey’s coffin was the last thing brought aboard. Decker looked at it suspiciously.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
Mordan shrugged. “It looks enough like one.”
Decker gave it an experimental heft. “Occupied?”
Mordan made an apologetic face and nodded.
“Two passengers with luggage, you said. You didn’t mention another passenger being in the luggage.” Decker put the coffin down.
“Friend or foe?” he demanded.
“Friend,” Mordan replied, adding as an afterthought, “a friend of Tarrel’s here.”
Decker looked sharply at the half-elf, who had sat down on a hatch-cover.
Tarrel raised a weary hand in greeting. “Tarrel d’Medani,” he said with a wan smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Decker was in the navy during the War,” said Mordan, trying to change the subject. “He’s the best navigator this side of—”
“Stow it,” the warforged interrupted, “and tell me exactly who—or what—you’ve brought aboard my boat.” He took a step toward Mordan, looming over him.
“A vampire,” said Tarrel. “That’s the short answer.”
Decker made a grinding noise deep in his throat. “And what’s the long answer?”
“A friend,” said Mordan. “At least, she’s looking for the same things we are.”
“A vampire,” said Decker. “You expect me to sail with a vampire?”
“It’s not like you have anything to worry about,” Mordan said. “We’re the ones taking the risk.”
Decker considered this for a moment. “Any sign of trouble,” he said, “and I mean any sign—and it goes into the river.”
Mordan opened his mouth to protest, but Tarrel waved him to silence.
“Agreed,” he said. “Now, it’s been a very rough night, and if nobody minds I’d like to get some sleep.” He got up and walked unsteadily into the cabin as Decker cast off the boat.
Clinging to the shadows, Rolund let the vampire and her friends escape. He had expected this job to be an easy one. Now Aeren was destroyed, Rolund was badly wounded, and he needed time to think. Without the undead wizard he couldn’t contact the master for further instructions, but he knew that failure was not an option—not if he wished to go on existing himself. As silent as a shadow, he followed his quarry to the docks. He watched them board the boat with the big warforged, cast off, and head upriver. Rolund turned back toward the town. He was weakened by his wounds and needed to feed.
The house where the vampire had been hiding was in uproar. People were running to and fro in their nightclothes, putting out the small fires that had been started by the half-elf’s fire spell and asking each other what had just happened. The few surviving bloodmotes had dispersed.
Rolund waited in the shadows, watching until there was only one human in the doorway. Then he struck. Two long strides took him across the street, and his sinewy arms swept up his surprised victim before he had a chance to cry out. A slap to the side of the man’s head left a gray mark on the flesh, and Rolund felt the thrill of life energy flood his body. Another blow rendered the man unconscious, and Rolund dragged him up the stairs to the attic, to feed at leisure. He piled debris over the trapdoor; not enough to stop it being opened, but enough to give him some warning when another soft-bodied meal approached.
When at last he threw the drained husk aside, his eye was caught by another body lying on the floor. It was dead, and therefore no use to him, but the face was familiar. Stepping over to the corpse, he examined it for a while, and then a slow, vicious smile spread over his face. He leaned over the body, and tore the head from the shoulders with a single heave. Wrapping it in a scrap of scorched cloth he found on the floor, he picked up Aeren’s corpse and made his way back to the old mausoleum where they had established their base. He left the head there, with a scribbled note explaining how he had found it. When Aeren failed to report back, the master was sure to send someone after them.
Rolund set out toward the river again, taking care not to be seen. He was somewhat refreshed by his kill, and he could regain his strength by hunting along the way.
It was dusk before Tarrel emerged from the cabin, but when he did so he was looking better. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he looked around at the landscape and then back at the boat’s V-shaped wake. Then he walked over to where Decker was leaning against the sternpost, with Fang curled up at his feet. The iron defender raised his head briefly, then settled back down.
“Nice boat,” Tarrel said. “Elemental?”
“No,” said Decker. “Mechanical, mostly. Built it myself. I won’t enslave an elemental just so I can get around.”
Tarrel raised his eyebrows slightly. Elementals were a major source of power in Eberron, used in everything from airships to armor.
“I know what it’s like, see,” Decker went on. “During the War, I was the property of the Royal Karrnathi Navy, bought and paid for. Instead of enlistment papers, I came with a receipt. Might as well have been a capstan or a catapult. You ever talked to an elemental?”
Tarrel shook his head. It was obviously the answer Decker expected, and Tarrel could tell that the warforged was just hitting his stride.
“No, of course you haven’t,” he continued. “None of you fleshies ever do, except to give ’em orders. Well, I have. After the War, I worked for House Lyrandar for a while. They taught me Aquan so I could help with the elementals. Sometimes, when everyone was asleep, I’d talk to them. They’re smart enough to know what’s happening to them, you know, and smart enough not to have an opinion about it. I made up my mind when they gave me my freedom—I’ll never live at the expense of another thinking creature.”