Chapter 0 - The Red Tax

The Red Tax
Aranthir II
 
              Night always came unwelcome in the villages near Greykeep. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the villagers ran to their homes and shut the doors. To anyone still in the streets, the sounds of bars dropping into place and shutters slamming would have been a strong warning to follow the lead of the others. So went the end of the day in every village in the fief.
              In the village of Honeyfield, astride the main road through the fief, the owners of the Scarlet Swan Inn took their time as the sun dropped lower. Lying within sight of Castle Greykeep and its bald hilltop, Honeyfield was fortunate enough to still see travellers on occasion, such that its inn remained in operation. 
              The innkeeper swept the threshold clean and looked east towards the castle. Its tall walls were dark against the reddening sky. No lights shone within its halls. The castle’s keep jutted nearly twice as high as its curtain wall, rising like a grasping hand into the sky. Narrow finger-towers stretched even higher, now acting as perches for birds and bats that braved their eaves. 
              Eander put away his broom and went inside his inn. In the empty common room, his wife Margan was polishing the pewterware while their son Torl tended to the fire. Calmly, he joined her at the counter in the polishing. The evening grew darker, the last rays of the run faded over the horizon, the white-walled houses and slate rooves of the village were plunged into night. Eander lit a lamp on the counter to aid in his work.
              Somewhere, far beyond the bounds of their little village, a wolf howled. The family worked steadily, trying to busy themselves with something to take their minds off their dying inn and cursed village. It had been a fortnight or more since they had welcomed a guest and, even though spring had arrived at long last, they could scarcely expect more anytime soon.
              Suddenly, they heard outside a terrible clattering. Eander sprang up and ran to the window. Peering through the shutters, he looked out into the darkened street. Few in the town dared to burn lamps in the night, though more in Honeyfield than the other villages. For a few terrible moments, there was nothing to be seen outside, nothing to explain the clattering that grew steadily louder.
              At last, the source of the noise became visible, and the innkeeper’s breath froze in his lungs. It was a great red carriage, lacquered in the color of blood and drawn by four great stallions, white as death itself. Its iron-shod wheels rattled along the village’s cobbled streets as it bore down them towards the inn. The innkeeper felt a touch on his arm and saw that his wife and son had joined him at the window, all three sharing the same expression of dread. 
              The coach rattled its way down the street until it came to an abrupt halt outside, beneath the sign of the Scarlet Swan. The coachman was a small, hunched figure, dressed in a long black cloak and a hat pulled low. He kept his gaze forward, never turning it to look at the buildings to his side.
The coach door swung open and out stepped a man, tall and pale. He was clothed in rich black velvet, with a white kerchief at his throat, and wore a short cape over his left shoulder and a broad-brimmed hat over his head. Brandishing an ivory walking stick, he strode confidently to the Scarlet Swan’s front door and rapped the stick on it.
              Eander and his family froze in terror. None of them moved, clinging to each other at the window. After a long silence, the man at the door spoke.
              “Hello in there, Master Innkeeper. Might I enter your establishment this night? I have come to discuss your tax.”
              The innkeeper stood as still as he could, his heart pounding in his chest. He could not distinguish its panicked pulse from those of Margan and Torl who clung together with him in fear. A long, terrified silence passed between them.
              “I know you are in there,” the visitor said, this time in a quiet voice that nevertheless slithered its way through the walls and windows and into the ears of the innkeep’s family. “I can smell you,” the visitor hissed through perfect white teeth. 
The innkeeper could bear no more. He disentangled himself from his family’s clutches and went to the door, even as they clutched and grabbed and begged.
              The door swung open, and the innkeeper bowed low in deference. “I am at your service my lord,” he stammered as lowered his face to the floor.”
              Count Omarren Jannus var Imre, Count of Duairen and Bezzaim, Margrave of Stetslika and Baron of Imroth, strode into the Scarlet Swan, swinging his ivory walking stick in front of him. His pallid skin shone in the dim light of the inn’s fireplace. The count swept the hat from his head and held it in front of him as he looked around. He looked from the ceiling’s sturdy timbers to the polished hardwood of the floor. A pot of stew hung over the over flame in the fireplace.
              “What a quaint little place,” the count mused in a voice of slithering silk. 
              “As you say, my lord,” the innkeeper replied, huddling together with his family. 
              “As I said,” the count continued, sweeping off his black gloves, “I have come to discuss your tax. You, and this village as a whole, have slipped my mind these past some years. I realized only recently that it has been far too long since I called upon you to pay the Red Tax.”
              The innkeeper shuddered. He felt his Torl’s grasp on his shoulder tighten. His knees grew weak. The count moved closer.
              “My, my, my…” he whispered, taking Torl by the chin and raising his head to meet his gaze. “This must be your son. A strong and vigorous lad he is. So full of life.” The count bared his teeth, flashing a pair of long, white fangs. His head lunged forward like a viper, and he sank his teeth into Torl’s neck. 
              Eander and Margan screamed. Torl’s eyes went wide with shock and his knees gave out. The count held him up, drinking greedily of the bloody wound. Count Omarren raised his head again, a frenzied look in his eyes. He licked the blood from around his mouth even as droplets fell onto the white kerchief at his throat. 
              “I will take your son as payment,” the count declared.
              “Please, milord, he is my only child. Take me instead! I beg you!” Eander and Margan fell to their knees and raised their hands in prayer. Count Omarren looked into their desperate eyes and scoffed.
              “You? You are nothing. Old, worn-out, sour and nearly lifeless. You have nothing I want. This one, however,” he stared into Torl’s eyes. “This one will prove quite a feast.” He lifted the shocked Torl to his feet and ushered him to the door even as the innkeeper and his wife crawled after him, pleading for their son’s life. The count stuffed the lad into his carriage and laughed at them a final time.
              “Tell your neighbors that I will forget this village no more. I will return next month to collect again. The Red Tax will be paid.”
              He climbed into the coach and shut the door. The coachman cracked his whip and the blood red carriage sped away, back up the bald hill and into Castle Greykeep.
 
              A month’s time later, outside the village, two men rode a horse-drawn cart beneath the leafy boughs of the springtime trees. Driving the cart was a man of about forty, his thick torso wrapped in an old gambeson. He slouched against the seat of the cart, reins and whip in hand as he lazily steered the cart down the road in the waning sunlight of the late afternoon. Chewing seeds in his mouth as they bounced along the dirt path, he occasionally leaned his head to spit the empty shells to the side of the road. 
              His companion in the cart sat facing the rear, for behind them in the road walked a naked girl. Her hands were bound at the wrists, attached to the cart by a rope. The man in the back watched her walk, his eyes lustily wandering up and down her pale, naked form. He also wore a gambeson and kept one hand on an arquebus while using the other to flick seeds at the poor girl who was his captive.
              She was young and pretty, though stained by the dirt of the road. Her slender body was naked but for the cloth wrappings around her feet. Sunlight still streaming through the treetops played across her face, shining in her wide green eyes. Her red lips were pressed against each other in a display of defiance, even as one of her captors flicked empty seeds against her bare breasts. The markings of many earlier hits showed on her supple skin. The man in the back of the cart laughed as one seed struck her between the legs in her shaven sex, causing the girl to visibly wince and break her stride.
              Presently, a rider appeared on the wooded path, moving in the opposite direction. He was tall and thin, covered by a gray cloak. His steed was black and of fine breeding, standing perhaps sixteen hands at the shoulder. From the saddle hung a longsword in its scabbard and two holstered wheellock pistols, as well as many full saddlebags.
              The rider approached at a casual trot, his strange blue eyes hard and searching as they passed over the lazy men in the cart and the naked girl walking behind it. As he neared, he pulled his horse to a stop.
              “Ho there,” the rider demanded, “halt your cart, for I have a few questions.” He swept his cloak from his head, exposing a head of short black hair and two pointed ears. The drover spat. The man in the back looked away from his naked captive for a moment and sneered.
              “Move on, mongrel. I have no patience to waste on your kind.” He looked back to the girl, but his companion halted the cart.
              “Are you coming from Daum Albor, half-blood?” the broad-shouldered drover asked. “We were on our way there to seek employment in the Realmsguard.”
              The stranger nodded. “You would seem the type.”
              “Well, that’s an encouragement. Is the king still hiring?”
              “He is,” the rider pointed to the girl, “Where did you find her?”
              The drover laughed. “Found her naked, doing laundry in a stream about two days back on the road to Fellhaven. Garem there liked the look of her, so we picked her up for the trip. We’ll likely be bored of her by the time we get to the capital, but if you can make an offer, we’ll sell her to you now.”
              He looked back to his companion. “What do you say, Garem? Thirty silver and let the elf take her?”
              Garem scowled. “Nay, the girl is mine. If you want her, look to the brothels in Daum Albor, or to the slave market, but I’ll not tire of her for a while and no elf will take her from me.”
              The rider shrugged. “It’s all the same, I don’t have thirty silvers anyway. Girl,” he called, “Close your eyes.” 
His hands flashed to the saddle, and a knife sped out from it, burying itself in the drover’s throat. His companion started in shock, hefting the arquebus as he stumbled from the cart. He realized the match cord was unlit, but before he could think to lit or abandon it for his sword, the rider spurred his horse toward him, drawing a pistol from the brace at his hip.
              Garem looked up at the elf, staring down the barrel of the pistol even as the elf’s spare hand closed around another such weapon holstered in the saddle. There was a roar of fire and smoke, and the man fell dead in the road. 
              “Ugly business, that,” the man said, dismounting from his steed. He strode past the dead men to the girl and drew a dagger from his belt. “What’s your name, girl?” he asked as he approached.
              She considered him for a moment, chewing her lip in thought. She had not closed her eyes, and relished the image of her captors’ deaths. As the half-elf stood in front of her, knife in hand, she replied “Yrana, master elf.”
              “Not an elf,” he replied, thrusting the knife into the knot that bound her hands, “Just a half-elf.” He sawed through the coarse rope and let the bindings fall into the dirt. “My name is Aranthir. Your village is two days to the north?”
              Yrana nodded, rubbing her newly freed wrists. She was hardly conscious of her nakedness, having grown used to the state as the bandits let her through fields and gardens behind their cart, laughing and jeering as they went. Aranthir went to the dead man in the cart and began pulling off his clothing.
              “This will be a bit big for a slender girl like you, but it will cover you better than what you have now.”
Yrana became modest again all of a sudden. She covered her breasts and sex with her arms as best she could, waiting bashfully in the road while the half-elf stripped off the dead men’s clothes and boots. He tossed an old white shirt, bloodstained around the collar, to her and followed it with a pair of breeches and two worn leather boots. Yrana took them off into the brush to the side of the road and dressed herself.
              It was far from a perfect fit. The wide and low neckline of the dead man’s shirt hung open, exposing her lively, round breasts whenever she moved. The breeches were much too big around the waist as well, but she managed to tie them off into something more fitting. 
              Returning to the road, she found her rescuer rifling through the cart. He pilfered spare shot, rations, and a pair of silver candlesticks, stowing them all in his bulging saddlebags.
              “As it so happens,” he said as he resealed his saddlebags, “I am on the road to Fellhaven. I can take you back to your village, if you wish to travel with me.”
              Yrana nodded eagerly. “Yes, master, I gladly accept. Thank you for your generosity! Oh, thank you!” she fell to her knees and kissed his boots in gratitude.
              “Hush now,” Aranthir comforted, “I do not need such thanks. Come on, get up.” He helped her to her feet. “Here, have a drink while I tend to this cart.” He passed her his waterskin and she drank greedily from it. As she did, Aranthir freed the mule from its harness and let it wander off into the woods. Take some final trinkets from the cart, he swung himself up into the saddle. He extended a hand down to Yrana.
              “Here, I’ll help you up.” She looked at him without understanding. “I only have the one horse,” he explained, “and that mule won’t take any riders. We are going to have to share the saddle.”
              Yrana took his hand and fumbled about with her foot as she tried to emplace herself and swing up into the saddle. Her pilfered shirt fell open, exposing her small, white breasts again. Aranthir conspicuously did not look and instead used his other hand to help her into the saddle, where she settled the shirt about herself. 
              “Apologies, master half-elf. I have never ridden a horse before.” She wrapped her arms about his waist as, linking her hands together just above his belt buckle. Aranthir smiled to himself as he spurred the horse forward. The girl rested her chin on her shoulder as the horse trotted down the shady path, the distant sun dropping lower still toward the horizon and Aranthir restrained a sigh of contentment.
              As the shadows grew longer and the light dimmer, Aranthir turned to his new companion.
              “We will find a place to stay for the night in the village up ahead.”
              “You are a wandering mercenary?” she asked, “I have heard that men such as yourself often sleep in the fields with nothing above their heads but the stars.”
              “Indeed,” Aranthir replied, “but I suspect you have had enough rough nights already. I will find us a place to put a roof over our heads for the night.”
              “We passed a village earlier,” Yrana said, “It shouldn’t be too much further.”
              Aranthir nodded and spurred his horse a little faster. With the day fading fast, he felt his unease growing. 
The girl proved correct, and soon they emerged from the forested path into an expanse of fields and orchards. The spring crop was coming in well and the trees were well tended to. Beyond the fields, they could see a village of white walled buildings and yellow thatched roofs. Some buildings even had shingles of wood or slate. Drawing closer, Aranthir could see that the streets were paved with cobblestones. In the saddle, Yrana was growing more relaxed and her grip around his waist loosened. She rested her chin on his shoulder and seemed to be dozing off as they rode.
For his own part, the sight of the village dampened Aranthir’s unease only for a short time. Passing down the lanes between the fields, he could see few people in them. Faces peered out at them from the windows of the houses, but the streets were quiet and empty. 
              Soon, the footfalls of his horse on the cobblestones were echoing off the painted walls of the village and all the while he had not seen a single soul outside. 
              “There is something strange about this village,” Aranthir whispered to her as the rode down the streets. “What did you see when you came through here earlier?”
              “Nothing,” Yrana replied, returning the stares of three women in the doorway of a farrier’s shop. “Garem and Evrek avoided the village so they would not have to explain about me. I only saw it from a distance and all looked normal.”
              “Keep to yourself here,” Aranthir told her, “We will find a place to stay for the night and be gone soon after dawn. Something evil dwells near.”
              “Evil?” Yrana asked, suddenly straightening in her seat, “What do you mean?” she looked around them, seeing yet more suspicious faces glaring at them from within the houses.
              “I sense something is amiss,” Aranthir said, his eyes narrowing as they approached the central square. The buildings around the square were well kept and well built. A temple dominated the south end, and on the north end was an inn, demarcated by the sign of a scarlet swan, symbol of good luck. Aranthir dismounted in front of the inn before helping Yrana off the horse. Her looted shirt fell open again and she pulled it closed quickly, though not before a man leering from the second floor of a nearby building caught a glimpse of her round little breasts. The man smirked to himself, before catching a glare from Aranthir. He retreated from the window and disappeared into the darkened room.
              Aranthir removed the horse’s saddlebags and threw them over his shoulder. Settling his pistols and longsword at his hip, he handed the reins to Yrana and went to the door of the inn. Keenly aware of the eyes fixed upon him from their hidden vantage points, he banged his fist on the door. No one answered. His half-elven ears, however, alerted him to the presence of people within.
              Hushed voices whispered back and forth from somewhere beyond the door, too indistinct to make out.
              “Aranthir,” Yrana called, backing herself against the unhorse as she cast fearful looks at the houses around the square, “perhaps we should leave and find a place to sleep in the woods.” She met his gaze, and he could see the fear in her eyes, “This village doesn’t want us here.”
              “There is someone within this inn, and I mean to pay, with good silver, for a night,” Aranthir replied firmly. “We will be gone first thing in the morning,” he proclaimed loudly, and banged on the door again.
This time, he heard the voices again, followed by footfalls growing closer. He stepped back from the door as it swung open. At the door was a man, middle-aged but badly worn down by life’s woes. He worn an innkeeper’s apron and a gray tunic, with black shoes that needed to be polished. He attempted a welcoming smile as he gestured for them to enter.
              “Greetings, travellers, and welcome to the Scarlet Swan. My wife Magdan will see to your horse, fine thing it is,” he said as a woman emerged from the darkened inn behind him. She was of a similar age but even more tired of life than her husband. She wore a drab dress of faded blue, covering her head with a mantle of old white cloth. She cast furtive looks at both Aranthir and Yrana as she scurried past them and took the horse’s reins. The woman disappeared around the side of the inn as quickly as she had come.
              “Welcome again,” the innkeeper said, bowing deferentially as he ushered his two guests into the common room. “My name is Eander and I will be your host for the night. We are a humble establishment, so I am afraid we have no private rooms. You will have to sleep before the hearth.”
              “We are humble folk ourselves,” Aranthir replied, looking around for an ambush with one hand on his pistol belt. “We require nothing so grand as a private room.”
              The room was simple, but pleasantly appointed. It seemed to be in a bit of disrepair, like it’s hosts, but not for long. As best Aranthir could guess, the inn had been in good shape until a few months ago, perhaps less. Its proprietors were of a similar state. 
              Satisfied that no trap was forthcoming, he removed his hands from his belt and handed the innkeep a few coins.
              “We would like to eat before we bed down for the night,” he said as the coins clinked in the innkeeper’s hands. The man seemed almost surprised by the payment, but quickly collected himself.
              “Yes, of course,” he said, shoving the money into his belt pouch. “I will get right on that for you. Just go ahead and make yourselves at home while I make the food.” He went off to do his host’s duties while Aranthir and Yrana set their things down by the fire. Aranthir sat down and began sharpening his sword, occasionally throwing glances the innkeeper’s way to see if he was up to anything. 
              Magdan re-emerged from the stables.
              “Your horse is all fed and watered for the night,” she reassured him unprompted, “he’ll be ready to ride tomorrow morning. You two just have a good night’s sleep.”
              Aranthir nodded, Yrana thanked her, and the woman went into the back as her husband delivered their meals for the night. He served up two bowls of stew: onions and carrots, flavored with common garden herbs. Aranthir surreptitiously cast a spell over both bowls to nullify any poisons. He did not seriously suspect that the innkeeper would breach hospitality so, but the whole village made him uneasy. 
              He and Yrana ate hungrily and returned the bowls to their host, who took them into the back before re-emerging to wish them goodnight. Aranthir made his pack into a pillow before the innkeeper returned with blankets for them both. Laying down in front of the hearth, he kept his sword and poignard near, while ensuring his pistols were covered with his cloak, protected from any stray sparks escaping the fireplace.
              The lights in the common room were all doused, leaving the hearth and a single candle in the backroom as the only illumination. Aranthir settled into his makeshift bed, his unease not at all assuaged despite the inn’s hospitality. Twice, he caught the innkeeper or his wife peering at them through the ajar door into the back room. 
Yrana paid them no mind. She stripped off her stolen clothes and settled under her blanket naked. She tossed and turned before the fire for a spell before repositioning herself next to Aranthir. She looked up into his eyes, the firelight playing across her pretty face. Aranthir smiled comfortingly at her. He suspected he was not wrong about this place, but if he was, he did not want to scare her over nothing. The poor girl had been through enough already. 
              She put a hand on his thigh. 
              “I must ask, master half-elf,” she said softly, “why did you rescue me?” Her green eyes met his and Aranthir smiled. He put a comforting hand on her head.
              “I could not bear to see someone suffer in the hands of those brutes. When they said they were off to join the Realmsguard, I knew that they were the very worst sort of men. Not the kind to let wander free, and especially not the kind to permit to keep a girl like you.”
              “Well,” she said, biting her lip. “It has occurred to me that I have not thanked you enough.” She wormed her hand under the covers and into his trousers.
              “There is no need for that girl. I will buy a whore when I reach Fellhaven. Spare yourself the effort. You have endured enough on behalf of strange men.”
              “You would deny me?” she asked, her eyes pleading as she stroked his cock. “I spent the last two nights waiting for a hero to arrive. To save me. When he does, handsome and gentle, you would deny me the chance to thank him as I imagined?”
              Aranthir relented, for the girl was quite pretty. He pulled down his trousers and she promptly wrapped her thin red lips around his cock. He lay his head back as she went to work, sliding a hand down to grope her ass. Yrana’s head went under the blanket and bobbed up and down, accompanied by soft moaning. Aranthir cracked an eye open and trained it on the innkeeper’s perch at the door. For the moment, he was absent. 
              When his cock was hard, Yrana sat up, cast off the blanket and turned over on all fours, facing away from him. Her wet sex glistened welcomingly in the firelight.
              “Turn over, girl,” Aranthir whispered.
              “When the girls in my village bed with the merchants and knights who pass through, this is how they position themselves to be taken,” she explained.
              “Well, I wish to look into your pretty green eyes,” Aranthir replied, “come, sit on my cock so that I might see your face.”
              Yrana bit her lip as she climbed on top of him. She giggled in delight as he slid his cock inside, then busied herself undressing him from his shirt. Aranthir pulled her in close for a kiss as he began to bounce her on his cock. Her little breasts bounced with her, and he could not refrain from putting his mouth on them. The sound of his suckling at her breasts surely drew the innkeeper’s attention, and he again cracked an eye open.
              Sure enough, the man was there, looking on from his perch with delight. When he realized he was spotted, he hastily retreated into the backroom. Aranthir was sure he would emerge again. But he soon became lost in the moment, grabbing two handfuls of Yrana’s tight bottom as the girl rode his cock, her soft moans growing louder each time his cock drove into her. He clapped a hand over her mouth as she began to scream and the girl giggled at him through his makeshift gag. 
              Delight danced in her green eyes as she continued to ride him, her arms wrapped around his neck as she leaned in close. He retracted his hand and shut her up with a kiss, returning his grip to her bottom. Yrana rode harder, grinding her hips against his as she kissed him passionately about his lips and neck. She quivered as she came, her legs twitching violently and her hips spasming atop his cock. Aranthir laid her out on her back and continued to fuck until at last he came too, spurting his load of cum inside her.
              Aranthir lay atop her a moment, exchanging kisses with the girl before the fire. 
              “There,” she whispered in the darkened common room, “I think that will do as an expression my gratitude.”
              “It does indeed,” Aranthir replied, biting her lip as he tweaked a bare nipple between his fingers. “This is what I wander the world for, slaying evil-doers and saving damsels.”
              “Have there been other fair maidens?” she teased with a girlish giggle.
              “Quite a few, though never strictly maidens when I am gone,” he replied, kissing her forehead. He looked to the door again, and found that the innkeeper was still in hiding. His unwelcome observer gone, Aranthir was content to lay naked with the girl in front of the fire for a time.
 
              Sometime later, as Aranthir and Yrana lay nearly asleep before the fire, they were startled awake by the sudden clattering of wheels on cobblestone. Aranthir sprang up and collected his weapons and clothes. Yrana sat before the fire, covering herself with a blanket. The clattering grew louder until it stopped just out front of the Scarlet Swan. Aranthir stood in the middle of the room, half-dressed and with a pistol in one hand and his sword in the other. 
              The innkeeper rushed into the room, heading for the door.
              “What are you doing, man?” Aranthir snapped as he moved to block him.
              “Apologies, master half-elf,” the innkeeper babbled, the fright evident in his eyes, “but it has to be done.” He reached the door before Aranthir caught him, and pried it just open. The half-elf was on him, and slammed the man against the door and the door shut. He put the flat of his blade across the innkeeper’s neck.
              “What is this? What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
              “It’s the lord,” the innkeeper sputtered, “he demands things of us. Took our son last month, he said he’ll be back!”
              “What things? When will your son be back?” Aranthir demanded, but before the innkeeper could respond, they heard a voice from outside. 
              “Hello again, Master Innkeeper,” it said, and the very sound of the voice put Aranthir’s hair on ends. Everything he had felt about the village as they approached he been correct, he knew. Should have kept riding, he thought to himself. We’re not safe here, not at all. “Is something troubling you?” the voice continued.
              “No, my lord,” the innkeeper squeaked in terror, “come on in.”
              “What—” Aranthir began to say, but before he could finish, the door was heaved open with great force, sending him staggering away. The innkeeper spilled to the floor and in the open doorway stood a tall man, pale as the moon. He was clothed in velvet of red and black, sporting a silken cape over one shoulder and leaning casually on an ivory walking stick. He tipped his wide, black hat at the fallen innkeeper.
              Behind him, in the village square, sat a large coach, lacquered in red and drawn by four deathly white stallions. Crouching on the front seat of the coach was a hunched figure in a black cloak and broad-brimmed hat.
The strode forward into the inn, his walking stick tapping on the wooden floor with each step. 
              “My lord,” Magdan cried, emerging from the backroom, “Our tax is paid! Here they are!” she indicated Aranthir and Yrana, and her husband gasped his agreement from the floor.
              The pale man’s eyes danced with amusement. He emplaced the walking stick in front of him and leaned on it with both hands.
              “Surrendering your guests?” he mused, “This inn will not stay open long as this rate.”
              “I will surrender to no one,” Aranthir declared, raising his sword before him. “Who are you and what is the meaning of this?”
              The man laughed. “I am Count Omarren Jannus var Imre, Count of Duairen and Bezzaim, Margrave of Stetslika and Baron of Imroth, and this is my land.” His eyes changed, the pupils narrowing to slits like those of a cat. “I am here to collect the tax that is owed, and it has been so long since I have tasted elfblood.”
              “I am a half-elf,” Aranthir replied, sword still at the ready, but the man shrugged. 
              “It will do,” he said simply before his eyes alit on Yrana, still sitting before the fire, naked under her blanket. “But who is this?” the count mused. “Such a pretty thing has not recently graced my lands. Come to me, my dear,” he commanded, holding out a hand. Yrana hesitated before standing up and letting the blanket fall. 
              The count stood up from his walking stick and licked his lips. Behind him, the innkeeper had at last staggered to his feet and similarly eyed up the naked girl, his hungry eyes running all along her pale body as the firelight flickered across it. Yrana strode across the room to stand next to the count and he wrapped an arm around her waist. Magdan, for her part, scowled at the girl even as she kept her gaze deferentially low in the presence of her lord.
              “Very well,” the count said, “I accept this tax payment.”
              “Two payments, two months,” Magdan proposed. The count looked to Aranthir.
              “Put down your sword.” Aranthir knew better than to meet the gaze of a vampire, and so resisted the creature’s hypnotic charm. “One payment,” the count declared, sliding the cap off his walking stick to reveal a wicked point, “for it seems I will have to do some work to claim this one. Girl, wait in the carriage,” he commanded, raising up his walking stick before him. Yrana obediently left the inn and the coachman scrambled down to open the carriage door for her. He moved awkwardly, shambling under his cloak as he went. As she climbed up the steps into the tall coach, the coachman lifted her in with a hand on her pale, smooth bottom, but the girl hardly noticed.
              Aranthir called out to her, to no avail. She was fully under the count’s spell. The count stepped closer to him, and he was forced to look to his own defense. The vampire lunged, lightning fast, at him, and only Aranthir’s elven reflexes allowed him to dodge to the side. He clove down at the count’s outstretched hand, striking a blow to the wrist with great force. Were he fighting a mortal man, it would have severed his hand entirely. But the vampire was no mortal man. 
              Imbued by the profane power of his condition, his pallid flesh shrugged off the blow as if it were from a willow switch. He laughed, then bared his fangs and crouched low, his walking stick extended like a sword. Aranthir padded slowly around him, looking for an opening. The innkeeper and his wife abandoned the room as fast as their legs would carry them.
              Count Omarren hissed and lunged in again. Aranthir sprang back and to the side, landing a powerful blow against the creature’s back and tearing a great rent in his fine velvet coat. But the flesh underneath was unharmed. The count went crashing into a common room table, spilling it to the floor. He turned to renew his attack, only to catch a stream of sparks in his eyes as Aranthir conjured a new attack. 
              Angry but undettered, the count lunged and stabbed at Aranthir with his walking stick, but the half-elf parried the blow. The count’s free hand then came across, its fingers transformed from the soft digits of an aristocrat into the clawed talons of a great bird of prey. The unexpected attack struck home, tearing a great gash in Aranthir’s shoulder. Crying out in pain, he staggered back against the wall and conjured a shield of flame in front of himself.
              The count’s attack was thwarted by this new barrier, and both combatants paused a moment to catch their breath. Aranthir tried to stanch the wound to his shoulder, but it was no use in the midst of battle. Instead, he looked to the doors. 
              The vampire stood between himself and the front door, but Magdan in her haste had left the door to the backroom and its own door to the exterior wide open. He began to shift from behind his fire shield toward the door. 
              His fangs bared, the count moved with him, ivory walking stick at the ready. The vampire lunged again, and Aranthir parried the walking stick’s deadly thrust, only to become entangled with the count. His longsword fell away as they clutched and grabbed. Aranthir tried to throw his opponent but found himself well overmatched. The count’s immense strength bore him to the floor, walking stick clattering aside as both his clawed hands went for Aranthir’s throat. The half-elf fought him at close quarters, desperately trying to divert those ferocious hands, but the vampire was stronger. As they closed around his throat, Aranthir flailed about for a weapon. 
              His hands closed about the shaft of a silver candlestick he had plundered from the bandits’ cart. He wrenched the candlestick from his pack and swung it in a great arc that connected with the vampire’s head.
              The creature screamed in anguish, flesh sizzled and Aranthir’s neck, mere moments from being crushed between two monstrous, clawed, hands, was freed. The vampire fell away, clutching at its face as the pure silver seared his handsome face and Aranthir seized the moment to flee. He snatched up his fallen sword and, candlestick in hand, bolted out the back of the inn.
              Staggering to his feet, Count Omarren screamed into the night.
              “You won’t get far! I command the creatures of the night! Bats, hounds, wolves; all will chase you down!” he clutched at his still smoking wound. “Damn you, elf! I will taste your blood before the night is through.”
              Aranthir ran for the distant woods around the village, even as the howls of the count’s hounds sounded in his ears.
 
              Yrana sat naked in the coach, feeling the fine leather of the seat against her bare skin. She could not explain why she had obeyed the count’s command, only that she found him at once both incredibly alluring and frightening in the extreme. She shivered in the night air as sounds of battle echoed from within the inn, wishing she had brought even her oversized, stolen clothes with her.
              The sounds of battle gave way to the howling of hounds, and a pack of great black hounds charged into the square from somewhere beyond it. Their eyes burning red, the swarmed into the inn in a great, writhing mass. Above her head, a dark shadow passed between her and the moon. Looking upwards, she could make out the shapes of great bats flying overhead. 
              Count Omarren emerged from the inn, his clothing torn and holding his right temple beneath a silken handkerchief. His mouth twisted in anger and the coachman squeaked with fear as he clambered up the side of the coach to his seat. The count angrily pulled open the door and stopped, his eyes fixating on Yrana. She covered herself as best she could, but the man’s hungry eyes walked all over her in any case. His expression shifted from rage to hunger.
              His battle nearly forgotten, the count swung into the seat beside her, his handkerchief falling away to reveal a patch of seared flesh above his right eye. Yrana shrank against the far side of the carriage as he reached out to touch her.
              “So beautiful,” he whispered, and despite her fear she found herself enthralled by the sound of his voice. He ran his hand, cold and dead, down her naked thigh and licked his lips. “You will please me greatly, I can tell already.” She shivered in her seat, unsure of whether it was the night air or her captor.
              “Coachman!” the count snapped, leaning out the window, “be quick about this! I want to be back in my castle post haste!”
              The coachman cracked his whip and the four stallions started off at a canter. The coach was finely made, and Yrana felt little of the road’s bumps and twists as they headed out of the village and up the hill. Somewhere beyond the village, out in the darkness of the night, the count’s hounds were barking madly.
              “Your companion will be joining us soon,” the count reassured her in his voice that was at once soothing and entirely unnerving. Yrana nodded along with his words and the count continued amiably. “My hounds are the finest hunting dogs in all the kingdom, and the bats are more than any mortal man could handle. It may take some time, he is an exceptional specimen, so I will have time for you.” He ran his hand up her leg and then her torso until he was caressing her bare breasts. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured and Yrana made no reply or motion, letting him have his way. “Come closer.” 
              The count beckoned to her, but she was too nervous to move. Impatient, he pulled her into his lap and grasped both her breasts in his hands. He nuzzled against her neck, gently kissing her shoulder. “Soon, my dear,” he whispered, “soon you will be mine.”
              Yrana said nothing in reply. Despite her fear, her cheeks flushed she felt herself growing wet between her legs. Her captor’s presence was all sorts of confusing, and she vacillated between terror and intense desire. As he caressed her between her legs, she was overcome with desire for him, she wanted him to turn her around to face him, to penetrate her with his cock and fuck her with animalistic fury as they bounced down the road to his grandiose castle. 
              He continued to fondle and kiss her until they arrived before the castle. Its high granite walls loomed above them, grotesque statues leered down at her and somewhere in its upper expanses, an owl hooted. The count lifted her up and over his shoulder as he exited the coach, carrying her like a sack of potatoes. She lifted her gaze from the ground to see the coachman hobbling from his seat, leering up at her with beady black eyes.
              Her captor carried her up the front steps of the castle and into a grand hallway. Torches and candles blazed brightly, lighting up the baroque architecture and glittering glass chandelier over the main stair. The walls were painted red and leafed in gold where they met the ceiling. They passed beneath an oaken arch and then into a bath chamber of stone, where the count set her down on her feet. Before her was a large copper tub, fed by a faucet emerging from the wall. The door behind her opened to admit two serving woman, gray and wrinkled, carrying towels and oils.
              “Bathe my new morsel,” the count commanded them, “and when she is ready, bring her to my chamber.” Then he strode from the room.
              The old serving women turned the faucet’s handle and clear water began to pouring steaming into the bath. They looked at Yrana critically, studying her bare body and the dirt stains on her bare skin. The taller of the two women looked at her with pity, afraid to meet her eyes. Her shorter companion regarded the naked girl only with scorn. She pointed to the bath and commanded Yrana to get in.
              Yrana complied, though the water now only reached up to her ankles. Nevertheless, she welcomed its hot embrace as it slowly crept higher in the tub. The old women poured water from the faucet over her before setting about her with soap and brushes. They scrubbed furiously, washing away the dirt from her skin. Yrana was left no time to luxuriate in the bath, for as soon as they were satisfied with their washing, they pulled her from the tub and toweled her off. The tall woman produced her cosmetics kit and applied blush to Yrana’s cheeks before outlining her eyes in black.
              “Done,” she pronounced at last after applying some finishing touches. 
              “Take her to the count,” the short woman commanded.
              “May I see myself?” Yrana asked. She had never been made up this way before. “Is there a mirror?” she asked.
              The shorter woman slapped her. Yrana saw stars, her head spun.
              “No mirrors!” the woman snapped. “His Lordship is very insistent. No mirrors anywhere in the castle. Now go, he is waiting for you.”
              The tall woman took Yrana by the hand and led her from the bath chamber. They ascended another flight of stairs that creaked with age. Looking out a great glass window between heavy curtains, Yrana saw that she was far above the village fields. Off in the distance burned lights of a village square. She thought she could make out the sign of the Scarlet Swan and wondered where Aranthir had gone to.
              Her chaperone stopped before a tall door of oak and checked her makeup one last time. Nodding, she opened the door into a grand bedroom and pushed Yrana through.
              Tall glass windows looked out over the surrounding countryside, but in the blackness of the night, she could only make out a few lights burning. Oh, to see from here in the day! She though. It must be a magnificent sight indeed. 
              From the high vaulted ceiling hung a small chandelier burning with candles. The count had a writing desk, though it was devoid of letters and the pen sat unused. Dressers and chests stood about the room, polished and some topped with slabs of marble. But her attention was drawn most insistently to the massive bed in the corner of the room.
              It was canopied and draped in dark red silk. Its frame was of white oak, polished and carved with a leafy design. 
              Count Omarren stood on the balcony, looking out over the villages. He had changed his clothes, shedding the torn and rent clothes Aranthir had damaged for new clothes of dark green silk and velvet. By his side stood an old man, bowed by the weight of the ages and wearing a dark cloak. The count’s back was to her, but she could hear his servitor’s report.
              “The hounds are still hunting, my lord. They chased the fugitive to the east, and he slew two of them, but they have now lost the scent.” The count growled in frustration and Yrana smiled to herself. It lightened her heart to know that Aranthir was still out there. He will come for me, she told herself. He saved me before, he will save me again. The gods have sent me a savior.
              Count Omarren turned from the window wearing a look of frustrated impatience. Then he beheld Yrana and his expression changed to one of lust that Yrana was familiar with. The burn mark on his face had changed, now taking the look of an old scar rather than a fresh wound.
              “Here you are, my lord,” the woman announced.
              “Well done, woman. Now go,” he waved her and the old man away. “I have no further need of you.”
              His servants fled from the room and the count closed in on Yrana. She instinctively covered herself from his hungry gaze, but upon reaching her he pulled her hands away and regarded her naked body in the candlelight. She shyly looked away, though she could not deny that she found him handsome, even with the burn scar on his face. He caressed her body from shoulder to thigh, whispering in appreciation to himself. 
              “Yes,” he whispered, “You will do nicely.” He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. She landed facedown among the silken sheets and soft pillows and bounced. Raising her head from its softness, she saw the count undressing. His pallid flesh showed no sign of his earlier battle with Aranthir, other than the burn mark on his temple. He was finely toned, with well-defined muscles and a thick cock that he took in his hands and stroked. 
              “Up on all fours,” he commanded, climbing onto the bed behind her with his cock in his hands. He put a hand on her bare butt, squeezing her tightly between his hard fingers. She whimpered as he slid a finger inside her, caressing her pink flower with the rest of his hand. She could feel herself getting wet again and her cheeks flushed even hotter than in the coach. Yrana turned her head to sneak a look at the count, who knelt behind her stroking his cock. He met her gaze with a mischievous smile and Yrana giggled with nervous excitement.
              Suddenly the count’s gentleness fled, and he mounted her with lust. Yrana squeaked as he sank his cock into her sex up to its full length and began to pound her with vigor. The touch of his dead skin was intoxicating, as if his very presence incited base lusts in her. She bit her lower lip and moaned as she felt every stroke of him in her tender body. The count grasped her by the hips, though his hands wandered up to her breasts and neck, twisting her nipples between his cruel fingers and even sliding two fingers into her mouth. Yrana was balanced on her forearms and shins, her hands grabbing fistfuls of the silken bedding as her pleasure mounted with each stroke inside her. 
              As the count fucked her, she found herself thinking of the bandits, Garem and Evrek, who had held her captive until Aranthir happened upon them. They too had taken her captive for her beauty, but unlike the count, they were rough and boorish, fucking her in the grass or dirt, once in the back of the cart while it rolled down the road. At night, they tied her to the cart as they slept, only to resume their torments in the morning. When she closed her eyes, she could still smell their breath, heavy with the scent of beer.
              She thought then of Aranthir, his tender yet hungry embrace before the inn’s hearth, and the affection in his kisses. She thought of the way she had offered herself to him before the fire, down on all fours the way girls in her village sometimes whored for the merchants and mercenaries passing through. It was the way in which the count took her now, though she imagined Aranthir would have been more gentle but no less hungry. But he had wanted to gaze upon her face, to look into her eyes as they fucked. She found herself longing for him.
              The count wrapped a cold hand around her throat, and she could feel his fingers digging at her skin. Though they looked like the dainty fingers of an aristocrat, she could feel beneath their outer appearance a feral savagery to them. Despite their disguise, they would not be out of place on the foot of a great raptor or terrible monster. 
              The pace of his thrusting increased and Yrana lost her balance, plunging headfirst into the bed. The softness of the bedding welcomed her, and she momentarily forgot the man who was inside her, until his next stroke impacted her again. She shuddered, and he followed suit. He placed a hand on her head, driving her face into the bedding and suddenly she found it hard to breath. Her lover showed no concern, and continued to pound away at her pink flower. Yrana tried to hold her breath, but found herself fading under his grasp. She tried to scream, but the red silken sheets dampened the noise. Flailing about, she raised her head long enough to gulp in fresh air before Omarren drove her head back into the sheets. 
              She could hear him roaring with animal fury and then he thrust into her and stopped. Count Omarren spasmed atop her and she could feel his cum spurt into her. Then he leaned in atop her and she felt a sudden, stabbing pain in her neck. She screamed into the blankets, kicking and thrashing underneath him. She felt her hands strike him, but he had latched onto her like a viper and would not let go. Tears welled up in her eyes and she feared she would be smothered to death in his silken bed. At last, he spasmed atop again her and released his grip. She turned her head to the side and breath free once again.
              The count fell to the bed beside her, staring up to the high vaulted ceiling. He did not breathe hard after fucking, as did the other men she had bedded. There was no sweat on his chest. He simply stared up at the ceiling and said “What a delightful little wench you are.” 
              Then he stood up and pulled her to her feet. “Follow me,” as he pulled her along into the hallway. Dazed, she went along behind him, dabbing at her neck wound as she did. He paid her little mind as they marched naked through the castle’s halls, Yrana often stumbling as she struggled to keep pace with her taller and more insistent companion. Twice they crossed paths with servants, who immediately scurried off in a different direction. Passing through the front hall once again, Yrana spied the coachman waiting near the door. He leered at her from under his cloak and she shivered.
              The count led her down below, and soon she realized that she was in the castle’s dungeon. At the top of a set of stone stairs, she looked down into a room of bare stone, lit only by a few torches along the wall. Cages lined the walls and hung from the ceiling, some with skeletons in them. A stretching rack dominated the center of the room. She quailed at the sight of other implements of torture, and at a chain hanging from the ceiling that had clearly once been used to suspend a prisoner.
              But her captor, for once presented with the sight of his dungeon she could only think of him that way, paid these no mind and instead went to a hanging cage that had been lowered to the ground. She cried out in protest, trying with all her might to fight off the count, but it was no use. He shoved her into the cage and slammed the door on her. Producing a key from one of the benches, the count locked her in and then raised the cage from the floor.
              Looking up at her, naked and holding the key to her freedom, he laughed. 
              “That will keep you until I am hungry again. Tomorrow night I will have you once again, my dear. Until then, sleep and eat what my servants bring you and think of our next time together. Good evening my dear, sleep well.” The count climbed the stairs again and shut the door.
              Yrana crouched in her cage, feeling the cold metal against her naked flesh, and began to cry.
 
              Well past dawn, Farro the blacksmith’s apprentice finally emerged from the bed he had hidden under. The baying of the count’s hounds at ceased around midnight, but still the young man had been too frightened to emerge from hiding. Instead, he had remained sequestered under his bed until at last sleep took him. With the welcome rays of the sun streaming through his window to herald the safety of the day, Farro finally emerged.
              His master Harben had not come looking for him, so Farro suspected that he had done the same. All had been awry in the village ever since the lord had come looking to extract the Red Tax from them after many years of neglect. He still sometimes thought he saw Torl in the streets or the fields of the village. He missed their regular games in the fallow fields by the stream. 
              Farro dressed himself and ate his porridge before going across the house’s courtyard to the forge. It was still quite at this late hour, which struck Farro as odd. But then, everything about the night they had just lived through was odd. Farro still shuddered as he recalled the great bat that had alit outside his window during the hunt.
               Entering the forge, he stopped short when he saw Harben. The man was tied to a workbench with a cloth gag stuffed into his mouth. Before Farro could retreat or even cry out, there was a blade at his neck. He slowly turned his head to meet his attacker.
              The man holding the blade was in fact no man but an elf. He was tall and slender yet strong, with dark hair tied back behind his head. His blue eyes were hard as steel, staring down into Farro’s own. His clothes were matted with mud and dirt, as if he had crawled through a stream. Of course, Farro thought, a stream to wash away the scent and lose the hounds. This was no doubt the cause of last night’s hunt.
              “I have need of your services,” the elf said. He raised his other hand, holding a silver candlestick. “I need this melted down into shot for my pistol.”
              “To kill the count,” Farro guessed, and the elf nodded, “No, I can’t do that.”
              “Your master said the same thing,” the elf replied, “Unless there is a second apprentice, one of you will have to change your stance.”
              “He’s a vampire,” Farro protested, “He’ll kill you and then he’ll come for us.”
              ““I’ve killed vampires before,” the elf said, “I’ll do it again. And he has taken a friend of mine. I won’t leave her behind.”
              “It’s too dangerous,” pleaded Farro, “if he knows we helped you, he could kill the entire village for rebellion!”
              The elf set down his candlestick and snapped his fingers. A blue flame shrouded his hand, burning brightly in the darkness of the smithy. 
              “I can kill him. Once I do, your whole village will be freed.”
              Farro swallowed hard. The bargain was risky, but he after living through a single month of the count’s tax, he was already wishing it was over. What would he feel like a year from now? Ten years from now? He thought of his father and the marriage he was trying to arrange for him. Someday, he would have children. Would he have to give the vampire one of his children some day?
              No, Farro decided. Not if he had anything to say in the matter.
              “I will do it,” he declared. Harben cried out beneath his gag, but both Farro and the elf ignored him. “I will do what I can to help you slay this abomination against Kanaron.”
              The elf nodded and handed over the candlestick.
              Farro fired up the furnace, ignoring his master’s desperate pleas for him to stop until the elf dragged him back into the house. The forge house grew hot as he fed charcoal into the furnace until at last he deemed it hot enough to melt the silver candlestick. 
              The elf provided calipers from his pack for casting the shot, as Farro knew that mercenaries such as he were in the business of casting their own shot, though commonly of lead instead of silver. While a mercenary on the road might devise a way to melt lead, silver was a sturdier metal requiring a proper furnace.
              At last, he was finished and provided to the elf a small sack of freshly cast silver shot. Nodding, the elf stowed the bag among his things and shook Farro’s hand. 
              “I must go now to prepare. Pray to the gods for me success and look for me tomorrow. Gods above, I will bring news of victory.”
              “I will pray for you, master elf,” Farro said as the elf departed the forge and headed off through the fields toward the castle.
 
              Yrana was woken from her fitful sleep by the creaking of metal chains and the cage’s shaking. She opened her eyes to find that her cage was being lowered to the floor once again. Terrified, she looked to the winch but found at the crank not the count but the coachman, the hunched, rat-like man still half hidden under his cloak. He snickered as the cage banged against the floor, rubbing his hands together with key.
              As he shambled toward her, he produced the cage key from the folds of his cloak and smiled at Yrana. 
              “Come to me, little lass,” he croaked as he inserted the key into the hole. The door groaned as he pried it open and Yrana shrank against the far side of the cage. “I know what you gave the count and I want some of that sweetness for myself.” 
              He undid his belt and drew out his short, thick cock. He was already hard. 
              “Come here, girl,” he rasped, reaching out toward her. Yrana screamed, hoping for Aranthir or even Count Omarren to save her, but there was no response. The coachman grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. His breeches fell down around his ankles, exposing legs covered in coarse black hair. 
              He was shorter than her, but stocky and strong. Yrana kicked and fought to no avail. The man grabbed and wrestled her to the floor. Climbing atop her, he spread her legs.
              Yrana seized him by the head and yanked him toward her, driving his head into the stone floor. He struck it with a resounding crack, and she released his head in surprise. The coachman’s eyes rolled around in his head and Yrana seized the opportunity to scramble out from underneath him. she stood for a moment, considering him as he tried to shake off the blow. Collecting her senses, she grabbed a fireplace poker from a nearby workbench and struck him over the head again.
              He groaned in pain and fell down, becoming entangled in his breeches and cloak. Yrana struck him twice more and then cast aside the poker. The coachman was alive but barely conscious. She seized him by the cloak and dragged him into the cage, where she locked him away.
              She stood regarding the cage for a moment, surprised at her own strength and ferocity. She now considered that she should have taken his clothes for herself but had no desire to unlock the cage and chance him escaping. She well thought she was getting used to going naked anyway.
              Clasping the cage key in her hand, she ran from the dungeon. She reached the door at the top of the stairs and peered out into the hall. It was still, quiet, and dark, lit by only a few sparsely placed torches. The floor and walls were stone, with a thick carpet running the length of the hall. The roof was wooden, braced with crossbeams that Yrana feared acted as roosts for the vampire’s terrible bats.
The curtains were drawn, leaving her unsure of whether dawn had come. She wondered how long she had been asleep. Her cage had been most uncomfortable and the bars had left impressions in her skin. Slowly, she padded her way down the hall, trying to remember the way to the front door. The night had been such a whirl she could hardly remember.
              Reaching a door, she slowly pushed it open to find a servants’ quarters. The servants within were sleeping soundly and did not notice her presence. She thought to ask them for help, but the reception she endured from them the night before inspired no confidence in their friendship. She shut the door and continued on down the hall to a curtained window. She slipped behind the curtain and was immediately assailed by the light of day. 
              Her eyes strained against the sudden brightness. When they at last adjusted, she found herself looking out on the main courtyard at high noontime. The courtyard was empty and the main gate closed. She tried to open the window, but found it would not. Retreating into the darkness of the hall, she continued on.
              She padded naked through the castle until she reached the front hall, where she found the door securely barred and locked. There would be no escape here. Castles had other doors, she knew, but not where to find them. She thought to find a door to the outer walls where she could perhaps climb down, though the chances seemed slim. 
              She searched through the upper halls for what seemed like hours until she found a hallway overlooking the place where the parapet joined the keep. For the first time in so long, she heard a noise behind her and froze. To her surprise, there was someone moving behind one of the thick curtains. Slowly, she crept to the side of the hall to hide her nude self among another set of curtains and watch. 
              The curtains bulged and parted and there stood Aranthir, sword in one hand and pistol in the other. Behind him, the window he had climbed through sat open, a cold breeze blowing through it. Yrana gasped in surprise and ran from her hiding place to wrap him in an embrace. 
              “You came!” she cried as loudly as she dared, “Oh, I knew the gods would bring you to me! I am in their favor for sure!”
              Aranthir held her as best he could, his hands full of martial implements, and kissed her red lips with great affection.
              “I could not leave you in the hands of this monstrosity,” he replied, then he saw the wound on her neck. “He will not long survive that.”
              Yrana touched her wound, aware of it for the first time since awakening. 
              “It’s nothing,” she said, eyes downcast suddenly, “It won’t stop me.”
              “It hasn’t already,” Aranthir replied, looking up and down the hall, “How did you get free?”
              “Someone came for me and I broke out,” she replied evasively. “Can we go now? Please, I just want to be gone from this place before the vampire awakes.”
              Aranthir shook his head. “He has many minions, mortal and beast, at his call. If we run, he will be behind us every step of the way. Even the border with Asharas will be of no safety, for men cross it under arms all the time. Besides, I promised the village that I would free them from the clutches of this monster. I must kill him.”
              “How will you do that?” she asked.
              “I brought silver shot, stakes, and sorcery,” he tapped the muzzle of his pistol against four sharpened stakes tied to his belt. “If that fails, I still have a silver candlestick so I might try beating him to death. But first we should get you out of here safely.”
              “No. I’m going where you go. I won’t let us be separated again.”
              “You’re a brave girl, but no warrior,” Aranthir protested, “You would be safer away from the coming battle.”
              Yrana stamped her foot. “I won’t go, I won’t be left alone again. He has servants at his call and who knows what these villagers would do if they found a strange girl wandering their fields naked. I will go with you,” she said firmly. 
              Aranthir sighed. “Very well then, if you are going to accompany me then take these.” He handed over a second pair of pistols and his poignard. 
              “They are loaded with silver, so be careful with them. In these situations, it’s best to keep your eyes open when you shoot. Powder burns will sting, but not as much as the vampire’s fangs. But here, let me dress your wound before we go.”
              The emptiness of the castle’s upper halls afforded them time for Aranthir to wash and dress her wound. He set a fresh white bandage about her neck and pronounced her ready to move.
              “Where is the vampire now?” Aranthir asked. Yrana shook her head. 
              “He left me in his dungeon and went back into the keep. His bedroom is on the uppermost floor, though I have heard that vampires prefer to spend their days underground.”
              “A cellar, perhaps?” Aranthir wondered. “We should go down then.”
              He set off down the hall, his keen elven eyes peering deep into the castle’s gloom. Yrana padded softly behind him, carrying his pistols and dagger awkwardly in her hands. Aranthir paused at the junction of two hallways to listen for a spell. Satisfied that they were alone, he waved her forward and they passed into a spiral stairwell that descended into the keep’s depths.
              At last, they emerged in the castle cellar. Before them stretched row upon row of barrels and crates, stacked carefully but dusted and webbed over with age. The castle’s larder was well-stocked, though clearly unneeded. Aranthir prowled along the walls looking for an entrance to the vampire’s chamber, but found only the door to the kitchens, where a solitary cook was tending to the cookpot. 
              Aranthir signaled to Yrana that she stay put and then crept into the kitchen. The cook was wholly focused on her stew until Aranthir pressed the muzzle of his pistol against her back.
              “Do not move,” he commanded, and the cook froze. Aranthir pushed away knives, ladles, anything that might be used as a weapon and then seated her on a stool near the hearth. She trembled as she gripped the stool in white knuckles. Aranthir looked her over. She was middle-aged, and looked her age unlike the innkeeper, his wife, and most others in the village. She was well fed and clothed in good cloth. 
              “Where does your lord sleep?” he demanded, and the woman tightened her mouth. “I will not harm you,” he promised, though that did nothing to improve her disposition. Aranthir frowned. It was not what he had thought. The servants protected their lord.
              “Your lord is an abomination against Kanaron and all the gods above. I have come to rectify this. Why do you protect him?” he lifted his wheellock pistol again, tapping it against her cheek.
              “He protects us,” she replied at last, “he is our lord and we his servants. Is this not the natural way of things?”
              “Natural?” Aranthir asked, squatting down to look her in the eye. “He is a vampire, an abomination extending his own wretched existence by preying on the living. He steals their lifeforce to replenish his own. Is such a thing natural?”
              “All lords do as such,” the woman answered, her frightened voice barely above a whisper. “They all dwell in their castles and chateaus, high above us regular folk, feasting and scheming and warring with each other, spending the fruits of our labor. Why is my lord so different?”
              “I am no friend to the lords,” Aranthir replied, “but your lord steals the blood of his serfs. Do you not see how that is different? Do you not see that he is more than a leech, he is an affront to the gods as well?”
              “My lords provides,” she said, indicating her dress, then the cookpot. “We eat, we dress ourselves, we are safe.”
              “At what cost? Surely you have seen the serfs he brings in, heard of their fates?”
              The woman averted her gaze, staring at the stone floor.
              “Yrana,” Aranthir called and the girl appeared promptly. The cook cast a disapproving look over Yrana’s naked body and the girl covered herself bashfully.
              “My companion was his latest prisoner,” Aranthir told the woman. “Look at what he did to her.” he stepped to Yrana and pulled back the dressing of her neck wound. Two small holes in her neck stood out among the general redness.
              The woman would not look.
              “Look!” Aranthir commanded, and the cook lifted her gaze from the floor at last, fixing it upon Yrana’s exposed wound. “Would you condemn this girl to die, merely to feed your lord’s thirst for blood? Where does it end? When will he stop going out to the villages to find his prey?”
              “I have no worry about that,” the woman replied firmly.
              “And why is that?” Aranthir inquired, “How does he keep his thirst in check as living, bleeding mortals roam his halls?”
              “Those who serve him, and their families, are exempt from the Red Tax,” the woman explained. “How else could he fill his castle’s halls?”     
              Aranthir smiled and met her gaze. He raised his pistol. “After today, everyone will be exempt from the Red Tax. Now, tell me where your lord sleeps.”
              The woman swallowed hard before she spoke.
              “There is a door beneath the south tower.”
              “Thank you,” Aranthir said, rising to his full height. “Your aid will not go forgotten.”
              “I would rather it did,” the woman replied, “especially if you fail.”
              Aranthir nodded and ushered Yrana from the room.
              “To the south tower, then,” he told her.
              They headed up the stairs from the cellar and soon found their way to a hall leading to the south tower. Aranthir moved with purpose, while keeping his footfalls as quiet as he could. Yrana followed at a safe distance, her bare feet treading the thick carpet that ran down the center of the hall.
              Aranthir’s keen elven ears detected a high-pitched chirping, and he stopped cold in the hall. The chirping grew closer and he spied a small bat flying through the gloom. As it neared, he lashed out at it with longsword and struck it, hoping to cleave off a wing.
              Instead, the bat went tumbling to the floor and dissolved in a cloud of smoke. Aranthir knew what it meant and so, crying for Yrana to flee, attacked with vigor. Exchanging his sword for a stake, he went for the vampire’s heart even as it was transforming from its bat guise.
              But Count Omarren was too fast and Aranthir found himself knocked away before he could close the distance. Falling to his backside, he fired the first of his pistols. The shot struck the vampire in his shoulder and the creature shrieked in pain, louder than he had in the inn. 
              Clutching at his wound, he glared hatred at Aranthir. But Yrana had not fled, and instead leveled her own pistol at the creature than had fed on her blood. Her hands trembled, but she shot true nonetheless, striking the vampire in his hip. The vampire’s howls shook the corridor and rattled the glass in the windows as Yrana fought to still her hands and ready the second pistol. Aranthir drew his own spare pistol and fired again, but the monster evaded the shot by diving to the side. 
              His wounds smoking, the vampire lunged at Aranthir as Yrana nearly dropped her second pistol. The half-elf rolled out of the way of the vampire’s charge and drew his candlestick. The count came on again, shrieking in anguished rage as his claws flashed toward Aranthir’s face. The canny mercenary batted the outstretched hands away with his silver bludgeon, and the vampire retreated in the face of the dreaded metal. 
              Behind them, Yrana laid the spent pistol on the carpet and readied her second shot alongside the poignard, still unsure of what to do. Aranthir squared himself against the vampire, taking care to interpose himself between his companion and their monstrous foe. With his longsword in one hand and the candlestick in the other, he twice blocked the vampire’s attack toward Yrana. 
              The vampire hissed at them, then leaped to the walls and scrambled past Aranthir like some profane mockery of a spider. 
              “Run to me, girl!” Aranthir cried, unable to impede his enemy’s progress. Yrana did as ordered, running to meet Aranthir even as the vampire launched himself off the wall at her. The three of them met at the same place, Yrana desperately running for the safety of Aranthir’s reach, he swinging his own sword to deflect the vampire’s attack and Count Omarren hissing and screeching with voracious rage.
              Aranthir’s sword struck the vampire in the flank, knocking him away. Yrana scrambled past him to safety. The count flopped gracelessly to the floor and quickly righted himself. Aranthir stared him down, blade at the ready. 
              His fangs bared, the count lunged at him again. Aranthir struck with the candlestick, but the vampire caught him by the wrist. He sliced down with his sword, only for the vampire to seize it as well. They struggled over the sword, attempting to wrest it from each other’s grasp, until suddenly the blade cracked and split. Off balance, they went tumbling to the floor, or would have if not for their simultaneous battle over the candlestick.
              Aranthir kicked and fought for his wrist, unable to overcome the unholy strength of the vampire’s grasp. The count seized him by the throat and lifted him from the floor.
              “I did tell you,” he hissed, “That I would drink of your blood.” He bared his fangs once again, their fearsome sharpness plainly evident.
              “Aranthir!” Yrana shouted, and he extended his hand to catch the thrown pistol. The count’s face changed to one of surprised confusion. Confronted with the choice to free his foe’s neck or silver candlestick, he deliberated a moment too long. Aranthir pointed the pistol at the count’s face and fired.
              This close to the blast, his vision was clouded by a burst of white gunsmoke and a gout of flame. Spots danced in his eyes and the thunderous roar echoed painfully off the hall’s stone walls. But the effect on the vampire’s handsome face was far worse. A terrible rent had been carved through his face, leaving one fang shattered and one eye missing. Exposed bone glinted sickeningly in the torchlight and the vampire screamed piteously as it dissolved into smoke. 
              Aranthir fell to the floor and gulped in a breath of fresh air. Yrana was at his side in an instant, lifting him up and showering him with kisses.
              “You did it, oh, but you did it!” she cried, wrapping him in a passionate embrace. She leapt into his arms and wrapped her bare white legs about him.
              “Not just yet,” Aranthir cautioned. “The monster will still have a coffin.” He pointed at the trail of smoke leading from where the creature has dissolved down the hall. 
              “We must kill it permanently else it will reconstitute itself and return,” he continued as a disappointed Yrana set herself back down again. “Come on, girl. We should be quick about this. Then there will be a time for kisses.”
              They hurried down the hall to the south tower’s door. Aranthir kicked it open, only to find that it was unlocked. The faint remnants of the smoke trail led down to a door recessed in its own stairwell below the tower’s floor. The door was made of old oak and bound in iron and it defied Aranthir’s efforts to push it open.
              “Perhaps a servant has a key?” Yrana suggested, but Aranthir impatient. 
              “We’ve not the time to go searching all the servants, especially if they all prove as recalcitrant as the cook. Stand back.” He busied himself with his pack and drew out a small vial of dark blue paste and a brush. With his paste, he quickly painted a series of runes around the door lock.
              Satisfied, he stepped back and shouted a command word. The runes flared red, then white hot. A flash of thunder and lightning filled the room and when it was gone, the blasted door limply swung open on its hinges. 
              Inside, they descended another flight of stairs into a crypt. Beneath the earth, the cold closed in around them, Yrana’s nipples hardened and extended from those luscious white breasts. Aranthir noticed, but by his iron will kept his attention focused on the task at hand. Within the crypt, the ceiling was low, the floor was dusty, and a single torch burned on the bare walls. Recesses along the far wall held urns, though they had been neglected for untold years or decades even and their inscriptions were no longer clearly readable. In the center of the room sat a large stone sarcophagus, covered in ancient runes and banded in bronze.
              Aranthir tried to shove off the lid, but it was no use. The heavy piece of stone would not budge.
              “Should you use your paste again?” Yrana suggested.
              “No use,” Aranthir replied, banging his fist on the bronze bindings, “it’s warded. Find a lever.”
It took them little time to scour the crypt room and the storeroom above, but their search turned up nothing of use. Backtracking into the hall, Yrana discovered an old candelabra. They braced it under the lid of the sarcophagus and heaved with all the might the two of them could summon. The lid lifted enough for them to find further purchase and they set the candelabra once again. 
              From within the sarcophagus, the frenzied whispering of the count was audible. Smoke swirled about the seam between lid and body, while more wisps of the stuff emanated from holes along its base. Aranthir cried out to Arvoran for strength and at last he and Yrana heaved the stone lid off.
              Two stakes in hand, Aranthir sprang up onto the lip of the sarcophagus and looked down into it. The count lay within, his face broken and battered. His whole body was withered, as if left out in the sun. A single bloodshot eye looked up at him and those torn lips fought to form words.
              “Name your price,” it sputtered through the remnants of its face, “gold, power, magic, women! Whatever you want, it’s yours! Just as long as you spare my life. I have lived for so long, it would be a shame for it to end like this.”
              “I think this is a fitting end,” Aranthir replied, and he plunged his stake into the creature’s heart. It howled in defeat, thrashing about in its dying throes. Even in this depleted state, its anger was enough to shake the stone sarcophagus in which it lay. But it died all the same, burning away to a meager pile of ash and torn silks.
              “Well,” Aranthir gasped as he leaned back in the sarcophagus, “That is done at last. We are safe.” Yrana grabbed him by the ears and pulled him in for a deep kiss.
              “My savior,” she beamed at him, and Aranthir could only smile. He climbed out of the sarcophagus with Yrana’s welcome aid. He kissed her again and then found their way out into the south tower and then the hall beyond. Yrana pulled open the curtains, letting sunlight into the hall for the first time in only the gods knew how long.
Outside, the evening sun made long shadows across the fields where a few villagers still worked. Carts and wheelbarrows trundled down the dirt paths back to their houses as villagers sought safety before the dark closed in. Safety from a danger they no longer needed to fear. Aranthir smiled to himself. It had been a good day.
              “It will be nightfall soon,” Aranthir said, “We should tell the villagers the good news before they have to suffer another night of fear and dread.”
              “We will bring good news to the village in time,” Yrana said, suddenly sly in her look, “until then, I want to show you the lord’s bedroom.”
              “Oh?” Aranthir asked, “and what for?”
              “Why, the view of course, and the silken sheets,” Yrana replied, “and because I want to fuck you on the fine silk sheets.”
              Aranthir laughed and grabbed his hardening cock through his trousers. He gave her a playful slap across the bottom. “Lead the way girl, let us celebrate!”
              Laughing, she ran off down the hall naked with Aranthir in pursuit.