Chapter 32: Restbringer

“Master Time, protect the living and protect the dead. Master Time, give us long lives and quick deaths. Master Time, keep our souls and judge them truly. Tenth God, Last Judge, First Cold, He-Who-Ends, we ask you to stand with us from our first to our last.” - Battle Prayer of the Rest-Bringers

With an annoyed sigh, Cole willed his halberd to shrink into a pole axe. He threw the weapon into the ground so its blade stuck into the soil and its handle was easy to reach. The Guards were slow, slower than even mortals in full plate. So Cole had a few seconds to flex his fingers and try and get the blood flowing in them again. He was protected from the worst of the Cold. But what bled through to him was more than enough to cause frostbite. With his fingers showing signs of recovering, Cole fumbled with a pouch he’d fastened to his belt. It was tricky with numb fingers, but he managed to grab the powder-filled sack. He’d given Natalie his stash of silver and salt. But he still had his pure salt. Not as effective against more powerful Undead, but still useful for situations like these.

With shaky fingers, Cole grabbed handfuls of the powder and tossed it in front of him in loose arcs. The Castle Guards hesitated when they approached the salted ground. Despite being difuse and poorly laid, the salt could still disrupt weaker Necromantic bindings. The primitive magic that directed the Guards knew of this and tried to move around the salt. Cole hampered their efforts by spreading more of the salt in all different directions. This confounded the Guards, and they stopped their advance. Normally an officer; mortal, vampire, or higher undead, would command the Guards to simply pass through the salt, trusting the bindings to hold. Without a commander, the Guards could not take the initiative. For now the Guards were stymied, but eventually, someone inside the Castle would notice and direct them.

Putting away his salt, Cole picked up his pole-axe. The haft was too small to strictly be a pole-axe, with the weapon roughly a hundred and twenty centimeters long. But its sharp beak on the reverse of its head would work well for piercing plate mail. Still incredibly cold but no longer imbued with the supernatural Cold of Entropy. Cole grimiced with pain touching the metal as he moved into the fight.

The first Castle Guard was easy enough to destroy. Cole brought the beak of his weapon down onto the top of its breastplate. Punching a hole in the metal and hooking his weapon into the armor. Cole yanked it forward, pulling on the piece of armor and knocking the Guard to the ground. All while unhooking his weapon in one smooth motion. Before it could try and stand, Cole brought his pole axe down on the nape of its neck. The blow tore through metal and cracked bone. The skeleton's spine was ruined, and the magical “threads” animating it were severed. The skull itself could still snap and bite, but without a body, it was of little danger.

Normally in the time it took Cole to dispatch one of the Legionaries, the others would have set upon him. After all, a complete disregard for their own casualties was one of Dead Armies strengths. The messily strewn lines of salt made them stop and start over and over. Uncertain of their orders, they would take a step towards Cole and ponder their next movements for a few moments. With the first one dispatched, Cole moved to the next closest and dealt with it in a similar fashion. He kept his senses peeled for any abrupt changes from the Legionaries, but so far, his plan was working.

Unless he wanted to tap into more of his divinely ordained power, Cole lacked any method of facing an entire squad of soldiers by himself. Without magical intervention, numbers would always triumph. A simple truth of the battlefield that the Bards never seemed to include in their stories. The only way to cheat this rule of war was if you could get your enemies to wait their turn. This could be done, in a way, by the use of chokepoints. A sufficiently talented warrior could hold a small bridge or cave entrance against huge numbers for a shocking length of time. Cole didn’t have a bridge or crevasse to aid him, but he did know how Undead behaved. The random pattern of salt stalled the Legionaries and acted as an unusual if effective chokepoint.

Still, this left Cole facing a single unfeeling, untiring undead soldier in full plate armor instead of a whole group. He took some light wounds in the exchange, and Cole was forced to admit his fight with Horst had been more draining than he’d hoped. Using his abilities as a Paladin was exhausting. He was essentially ripping a piece of his soul off and using it to freeze himself and his enemy to death. Cole loathed to use them but had seen no other option. He’d never fought a Vampire in clean single combat and won without using the Cold of Entropy or another gift. Doing something like that was only possible for true masters of the blade, which despite his acceptable skill, Cole was not.

When the last of the Guards lay destroyed, Cole pushed past them, ignoring the stinging of his wounds and the cold weight in his chest. The town of Glockmire seemed utterly abandoned. Doors and windows were shut and covered. No one was on the roads, and there was an eerie stillness to the place. It sent a shiver up Cole’s spine. Some part of him worried the entire town had been killed in his absence. A few flickers of movement from behind drawn shades soothed those worries. The people of Glockmire were still here, even more afraid and confused than normal, but still here. Well, almost all of them.

Moving deeper into the town, Cole moved towards the Castle, but his route took him by the Silly Goat. Cole had considered avoiding the building but decided now was not the time for weakness. He needed to confront his failures. The inn’s door was wide open, and Cole knew what he’d find inside. The warmth and homey feeling of the inn was gone. In its place was the stink of blood and offal. The body of Wilhelm lay on the floor, surrounded by dried blood and the sight made Cole flinch. He’d seen an incalculable amount of death but still seeing someone he’d known could always punch through his defenses. Someone had taken the time to shut Wilhelms's eyes and place his hands on his chest. Probably, Barnabas trying to give his friend a last bit of dignity.

Softly, so softly it was barely audible, Cole addressed the ruined corpse before him. “I’m sorry I failed you. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, just that you might understand why I failed you.”

After another moment of hesitation, Cole shook his head, trying to shoo away guilt like a Horse might flies. Turning from the dead body, Cole murmured, “I won’t fail her or anyone else. I promise.”

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Cole left the once-cozy Inn, now a place of death and bloodshed. Desecrated by a monster who could never understand the simple joy of a warm hearth, good food, and better company. Gripping his weapon tight enough to hurt, Cole prepared to give the Innkeeper’s memory what little justice available.

Getting Natalie back was the priority, but Cole couldn’t forget his other duties. Something strange was happening here, and his encounter with the creature Horst had only confirmed it. Horst had demonstrated all the raw power of an elder Strigoi but none of the wisdom or skill expected from a monster like that. On top of that, Horst seemed unusually cavalier about the threat of sunlight. Cole was starting to better understand why he had been sent to Glockmire, and that understanding brought only trepidation.

The streets were utterly deserted, and Cole had no problem making his way to the switchback leading to the Castle. No guards, minions, living or dead, stopped him. There was nothing but the growing shadows of night to accompany Cole. The last glimmers of sunlight were gone, and darkness covered the town like a pall. The only light came from the bright moon rising in the distance and the Castle itself. Its windows were aglow with flickering light. Towers sticking up like spear tips coated in embers. Previously a few lights had shone in the Castle at night, but nothing like this. The shifting of the light as figures moved in front of windows gave Cole an idea of what was happening. He was being watched; the denizens of the Castle were all observing his arrival. For a moment, Cole considered flashing a rude gesture at his audience but decided against it. He wouldn’t patronize them with even that reaction.

A faint green glow caught Cole's eye as he reached the top of the switchback. A lantern nearby had come alight with witch-light. Another lantern a little farther away also lit up, then another and another. Forming a trail for Cole to follow. Looking at the flickering flames and up at the Castle, Cole grimaced and followed the witch-light. He didn’t know what the Vampires were playing at but decided playing along might provide opportunities.

The trail of lanterns led him along a clifftop path. Taking Cole around the Castle and towards another gate. This gate was a larger, a more robust thing of steel and chains. It faced a mountain road leading away from the Castle. The smaller entrance Cole had used on his previous visit, led directly into the Castle but was also protected by the town itself. This larger gate instead presented itself against invaders and visiting Nobles.. A true Castle Gate, compared to the Stronghold door of the other.

The stone here was weathered and resembled the rougher parts of the town’s walls. In contrast cleaner, sharper rock of the Castle presented to the town. If Cole had to guess, this side of the Castle was older and had been constructed as a true Fastness. Its other half, the opulent morass of towers that faced Glockmire, was more like a palace and constructed later. A very physical representation of the Vampire’s occupation and how they’d become comfortable in ruling this part of the world.

As soon as he was close to the Road Gate, it started to open. Great chains clanked, and a mechanism ratched the portcullis up while some invisible force swung the doors open. Beyond was a courtyard, the type common for more traditional Fortresses, where defenders could muster and line the walls. The courtyard was dark, no lanterns illuminated it, and the Castles’ bulk blocked out the moon’s pale light. Taking a deep breath, Cole did a few last-minute checks of his equipment and entered the belly of the beast.

Calmly, Cole strode into the center of the courtyard, his halberd in one hand, his spark-stone fastened to the other. With a groaning series of clanks, the gates shut behind him, trapping Cole in the dark Courtyard, his only company the shifting shadows and wretched smell that permeated the air around him. It was the smell of wet dog and rotting flesh.

Running a bleeding finger along the spark-stone, Cole called out to the shadows around him. “I’ve come for Natalie Striga; return her to me, and no more blood need be shed this night.”

There was no response, so Cole swung his right arm in a great arc in front of him, conjuring up a wave of flames out in front. The fire illuminated the courtyard for a split second, and Cole saw what he’d expected. Not a dozen paces away sat the Varcolac, the colossal were-beast sitting on its haunches like a trained guard hound. It was not alone; nearly a hundred Castle Guards stood at attention at the courtyard's edges. Other forms also became visible at that moment. Nearly a dozen humanoid figures skulked above him on the Castle walls, radiating the casual arrogance of Vampirekind. And perhaps five or so varying Undead horrors accompanied the Castle Guards at their positions. Cole recognized a Headless Knight, a Corpse Priest, and a Bear Ghoul. Members of the Feeders army who’d been summoned to the Castle.

“So Horst wasn’t up to the task I take it?” said a painfully dry voice from atop the Castle walls. A dozen or so witch-light lanterns ignited then, illuminating the courtyard on the speaker's cue.

Cole was torn between the different threats around him, he didn’t want to turn his back on any of the monsters, but he was utterly surrounded. Ultimately he decided the Vampires were the greatest threat, so he kept his eyes on them. A cadre of beautiful youths in expensive clothing, all looking down at him from their perches atop the walls. There was one exception, the speaker. An old and ragged-looking Vampire standing on the Gate’s battlements. While his clothes were more than a match for his fellows, the speaker lacked the near-supernatural beauty of his cohort. His eyes were waxy and unblinking, with thin skin mottled like old parchment. Long stringy white hair coming down from a balding head completed the grotesque image. The image of a body that had suffered an unpleasant life and unpleasant occupant, now animated into Undeath.

None of the other Vampires stood close to the speaker, as if shying away from him. There was an element of deference and subservience in the Vampire’s body language, all directed at the haughty speaker. The statement was subtle and conveyed only through the curious nonverbal cues of Vampires. A strange form of body language Cole had learned from Isabelle years ago.

Gesturing up at the lead Vampire with his weapon, Cole reiterated his demand. “I drove my blade into Horst’s body and left his ashes for the Sun. Return Natalie to me, or you will meet the same fate.”

That actually got a laugh from the Vampire, one that was echoed by his fellows. To Cole’s surprise, the lead Vampire leaped down from the battlements. Landing on the ground without any sound or care of the two-story drop.

“The girl is no longer your concern Rest-Bringer.” said the Monster before Cole. “She is subject to my hospitality, and I will not have a suspected criminal and known Zealot endanger her.”

It took a considerable amount of effort to not charge the Vampire right then. Only a slight twitch of Cole’s face revealed his controlled rage. The Vampire did not notice or ignored Cole’s agitation and continued speaking. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for a while now Rest-Bringer. Killing my pets, alerting dour old Dietrich to my plans, and generally being a nuisance. Then managing to run off the night I made my move, only after killing poor Lorena.”

“Feeder” growled Cole, now having a face to go with the name. The Feeder raised his eyebrows at that and smiled, showing yellowed, but wickedly sharp fangs. “Oh, I like that, yes, that is an interesting pseudonym. But I prefer my title, it took much effort to get after all. I am Lord Petar Johanscion, Ruler of this Town, Keeper of the Ancient Blood, and rightful usurper of Johan Glockmire.”

Cole’s mind raced as he tried to sort through the facts. It seemed a Coup had happened, with the Feeder taking control of Glockmire. And in a stroke of terrible luck, this Coup and the chaos surrounding it had happened the night Cole left town. Lorena had probably been dispatched to eliminate him on Petar’s orders, ensuring he didn’t interfere. When that hadn’t worked they’d taken Natalie to lure him back, trying to tie up all loose ends in a neat bow. There were other details he needed to sort out, like what was the Ancient Blood and if Dietrich was still active. They could wait for later; for now, Cole needed to rescue Natalie and preferably survive the effort.

Negotiations had proved fruitless, so now was the time for violence. Cole swung his halberd at Petar; the Vampire easily dodged the blow and leaped back onto the battlements with a single graceful motion. Tutting his tongue like a disappointed School Master, Petar chided Cole.

“Temper, Temper, Rest-Bringer. In killing Lorena and Horst, you caught my attention, not my patience. So now let us get on with what’s been delayed since you first destroyed my Vryko-Ghouls.”

A wet, bubbling growl rose up from behind Cole. He barely had time to turn and raise his halberd when hundreds of kilos of undead Werewolf slammed into him. Cole caught most of the impact on the haft of his weapon, but the sheer force buckled his arms and sent him sprawling. In a moment, Cole found himself pinned under a hulking mass of rotting muscle. Hungry jaws snapped at him, and Cole just managed to put his weapon between himself and the Varcolac’s teeth. Lying on his back, the monster above him, Cole held his halberd across his chest, the shaft catching the monster's maw. It snapped and pushed, desperate to get at Cole’s flesh. Even the magically enhanced metal of the Halberd started to bend under the pressure, and Cole could feel his arm and chest muscles tear with the strain.

Recovering some sense to focus on more than simple survival, Cole shot a small gout of flame from his right palm. The affixed spark-stone spat fire and seared matted fur and necrotic hide. The Varcolac ignored the flames, uncaring of the fire cooking the left side of its head. It kept pushing forward; it didn’t feel pain, just ravenous, inhuman hunger. Cole poured more of his focus into the spark-stone. Creating a steady jet of fire that burned his enemy. The flames were unfortunately a double-edged sword for Cole. He needed both hands to hold the Varcolac off, so the spark-stone did more than shoot flame; it heated up the halberd pressed against it. Sheer pressure shoved the metal bar into Cole’s left hand hard enough to draw blood. While searing heat burned the skin of his right. Grinding his teeth in agony, Cole tried to hold on for as long as he could. Every second Cole bought increased the odds of success.

A slight shift in the bone-crushing pressure baring down on Cole told him it was time. Ending the stream of fire, Cole pushed up with his right arm with all the strength he had. Bone popped and charred flesh cracked. The left part of the Varcolac’s jaw had been seared to the bone, and Cole dislodged it mandible with his push. Pulled half free, the crushing bite of the Varcolac’s jaw failed. The monster’s jaw slid along Cole’s halberd, its force redirected away from Cole’s body.

Pulling himself free, Cole rolled away from the Varcolac as it slammed into the ground. Getting to his feet, Cole held out his Halberd and pointed at the monster. A jolt of pain, forced Cole to look down at his right hand. Part of his palm had melted to the metal and changing his grip had torn the ruined skin. Trying to ignore the pain, Cole charged forward, jabbing the spear-tip of his halberd into the Varcolac’s flank. In response, the monster swiped out with a mammoth paw, dislodging the weapon and forcing Cole to step back.

The Varcolac turned towards Cole, its rotted nose twitching and sniffling as it looked around the Courtyard. It was then Cole noticed the creature was blind. Its eyes were milky spheres that starred out unblinking. The Varcolac was relying on smell and sound. Filing that information for later use, Cole watched the Varcolac stand up. It had been on all fours before, but now it had reared onto its hind legs. The werewolf towered over Cole, three meters tall. It was a wall of muscle and fur. Its jaw hung loosely, connected only on the right side, and that same ugly growl echoed out of its cavernous chest. The Varcolac stretched its hands beside it, revealing dagger-long claws capping each digit.

A voice atop the wall, Petars’s, interrupted the standoff between Cole and the monster. “Good show so far, Rest-Bringer. But my wolf is the prize of my collection. It’s going to eat you alive, and we are all going to watch,”

The Varcolac reached up to its jaw with a fumbling paw-hand. It shoved the jaw back into place, and Cole could physically see muscle regenerate and reattach the jaw. Neither skin nor fur returned, just cords of fresh pink muscle restoring the jaw to working order.

The sight was not unexpected for Cole but not a welcome one. Part of what made Varcolac’s so dangerous was the fact they kept some of the regenerative ability they had in life. Wear and Tear spelled the end for most Ghouls, but Varcolacs could go years or even decades at peak functionality. Still, this monster’s healing rate was astonishing, and Cole grimly noted Petar had probably found a way to enhance its regeneration.

Calling up to Petar, Cole tried to give himself more options. “Feeder, you say this is your favored thrall? I’ve already cut my way through your other thralls and vassals. When I destroy this thing, it will prove the threat I represent. Then will you parly? Let me see Natalie and take her from here?”

To Cole’s surprise, Petar actually seemed to consider his words. In truth, he’d only spoken them to buy a little time for the pain in his hands to fade. A truly wicked smile spread across Petar’s face as he came to a conclusion.

“Yes, you are providing entertainment for myself and my court. If you succeed, I will let you see the girl.”

The sly sadism dripping from the Feeder’s words unnerved Cole. It made him consider a dreadful possibility. Did Petar mean to reunite him with Natalie by… killing him? That idea sent a flood of despair through Cole, which quickly ignited into pure hatred. Refocusing on the Varcolac that was slowly circling him. Cole decided he would not leave a single one of these monsters in existence. Even if doing so cost him his life a thousand times over.