The walls of the town would have held off any normal besieging force which had only scaling ladders, grappling hooks and siege towers to assault it with. The Werewolves however needed no such cumbersome equipment. With their long fingers that ended in digging claws they could scale the walls with relative ease, climbing like a furry tide of voracious ants. The men on the walls of Valeholm clustered tightly together, making a wall with their very bodies to prevent the savage animals from gaining the top. They stabbed down with spears, pikes, sword and axes, any weapon that they could lay their hands on.
The struggle was made even more chaotic by the thickly falling snow. The white fall grew even heavier and soon it was impossible to see even past a few feet. Each struggle that went on was in its own isolated pocket and no one could see how the rest of the desperate fight was progressing. 
For a while it seemed like it would be a prolonged stalemate. However, one man got careless and exposed his neck when he bent over to stab a scaling Werewolf in the face. The animal dodged his crude attack and slashed up, cleaving his neck through all the way to the spinal column. As the man, instantly dead from the awful wound, toppled backwards it created a hole in the defensive line. The Werewolves immediately capitalised on it and swarmed up in one massive surge. They struck that weak point with the might of their concentrated numbers and the men could not hold them back this time.
The wolves gained the top of the wall and within minutes they were dropping down into the town itself, leaping from the wall to the streets and across the rooftops. They were seemingly everywhere at once and many of the town’s populace barricaded themselves in the buildings, fleeing to the dubious safety of locked attics and cellars. The men of the Northern Kingdom continued to fight, struggling for their very lives in the streets themselves. No corner of the town was unmarked by the violent clash and blood ran so thickly that it melted the snow.
-0-
“The township was in utter chaos. The wolves were up and over the walls and blood torn flesh filled the streets. Under any other circumstances I might have found the sight mildly entertaining. But trapped as I was in the midst of the melee I was far from amused.”
-0-
A woman, a native to the eastern region wearing the animal furs common in this region, ran screaming down the main street. Galloping on all fours in pursuit were two Werewolves, each trying to outdo the other and reach their intended prey first.
The woman reached a short flight of stairs, stumbling up it to reach large green door. Briefly she struggled with the handle but it refused to open. Crying in fear and anxiety she pounded both of her small fists against the door.
“For the love of God, let me in!!” She squealed. “You can’t just shut me o...” She never finished her plea. One of the Werewolves grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her back so sharply that she cracked her chin on the stone stairs. She must have bitten off her tongue as when the wolves began tearing her apart, her mouth was too full of blood to utter a scream.
In an adjacent street, several Werewolves had brought down a cavalry man and his horse and were feeding on the steaming flesh of both the rider and mount, entrails slopping everywhere and the rest of the flesh rippling like jelly before it was devoured. A horse would have fed them for a month or more but with such a banquet they were lost in their bloody gluttony.
One of them looked up and sighting a figure at the far end of the street, gave off a snarl. The other three looked up in response. In such chaotic environments, surrounded by death and violence, the urge to kill was often far greater than urge to feed. Despite the fact they had a plentiful meal right before them, the abandoned the meat and charged on all fours through the snow towards the figure.
Only at the last second, their eyes widening in stunned confusion, did they realised that their intended prey was not human.
With a sharp whistle, Malice came around in a sharp blur and slammed into the chest of the first Werewolf. In accompaniment, Malice’s sister Axe; Havoc, arched up and slammed down into the skull of the second. Both wolves crumbled to the floor of the street, almost caving in on themselves.
The remaining two Arctic Werewolves backed off but Vorador did not give them time to counter attack. Arching his body in a side two step, he whirled and brought the two axes around so quickly they blurred and became one perfect cleaving edge. The Werewolves were too slow to react as the axes sliced their heads off in one single stroke. Their decapitated bodies swung backwards before collapsing to the ground.
Now Vorador could keenly feel the blunder he had made for now he was trapped in a besieged city, with savage animals on one side and desperate soldiers on the other. To make matters worse, in such heavy snow he could not simply fly out of Valeholm in the form of a Raven nor translocate himself; as unless he had a secure reference point, he would need line of sight to his intended destination. So now he was trapped in this war torn settlement, with enemies on all sides.
A sharp howl caught his attention and glancing up he saw that one of the Werewolves had scaled a rooftop and was signalling to a pack of its fellows from the vantage point. The feral creatures came galloping around a corner in the form of a snarling pack, perhaps thirty in all and when they saw the Vampire they charged straight for him.
Vorador knew better then to stand firm in the face of that savage charge. Throwing dignity to the winds he turned and ran. The Werewolves snarled as the plunged after him, churning up the blood stained snow as they ran on all fours. Despite this however Vorador was capable of moving a lot quicker than them. The deep snow did not impede him and he quickly manage to outpace them, quickly dodging in and out of streets with tight corners.
The Werewolves could run quickly in a straight line but corners slowed them down. Using that to his advantage, Vorador was able to quickly loose them through the cobble streets of Valeholm. Many of them began climbing up on rooftops to scout around, looking for him and snarling their frustration when they could not sight their prey.
The Vampire knew better by now then to let himself be seen. Slipping from wall of wall, he ensured that at all times he was hidden by the side of a building. In such chaos with the fighting on the walls and in the wider streets they would not be able to follow him by scent either.
Right now Vorador’s priority was finding some way of escape. If perhaps he could fight his way onto the wall he could jump, but with the land outside full of hostile Werewolves that was not a sensible option.
Nor could he simply find some place defensible and wait until the Werewolves were driven away as he had no guarantee the men would win this struggle. He had to find some means of exiting the town covertly.
A nearby snarl alerted him. The Werewolves were close again, prowling through the streets methodically in their search for him. While they had lost sight of him and could not track by smell, he could not hide the tracks he had left in the snow. To the eyes of an unobservant human, they would be disguised by the many other tracks made by the struggling men and beasts but not from the skilled tracking eyes of a Werewolf.
Clearly he needed to get off the streets. Glancing around he saw that he had entered a small square fenced in by several buildings. The nearest was short and squat with several large chimneys erupting out of its roof. A wooden sign with a badly drawn loaf of bread on it was hanging just outside the door and in western style runic letters, the name read; “Johnsson’s Bakery”.
Its door was locked but that was not a problem. Vorador could break such a feeble barrier with one twist of his wrist if he desired. Doing so however would have made a lot of noise and alerted the hunters to his exact position. Instead he used his own measure of telekinesis to quietly force the lock to open. With no noise at all, he opened the door and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and relocking it.
The bakery was not impressive. Vorador in his time had seen grand kitchens fit to prepare feasts for kings. This was a peasant’s poor imitation. Most of the bread on the shelves was old and stale and some of it even green around the edges. The shop was one room with a small narrow flight of stairs which perhaps led up to a sleeping loft above. At the back of the shop was a stone oven, its door wide open and interior dark.
The Vampire stood there for a long moment, his long ears raised and erect on the top of his head as he beheld the silent bakery.
“Come on where I can see you.” He commanded flatly and with a tone of authority that had acquired over centuries of dealing with wilful fledglings and dull minded humans. There was a startled thump as a hidden figure stumbled against a wall just behind a set of shelves housing loaves of month old bread. “I said come out!” Vorador said again, his voice cracking like a whip.
Few lesser beings would refuse when he used that tone. Obediently the figure came forward even with the utmost reluctance.
The terrified man, clearly the baker himself, wore a tanned leather smock that was stained with grease and flour. He had the dumpy sort of round body that came with the sampling of his own produce on a regular basis. In both trembling hands he was holding a wooden Peel as if it were a war axe, although it lost much of its supposed intimidation factor due to the bits of fresh dough hanging from it.
He took one look at Vorador, saw the green skin, talons and other none human features and stumbled back against his own oven, his face going deadly pale.
“Stay back!” He said in a voice that broke into near unintelligible blubbering, holding his wooden implement out before him protectively. Vorador was about to ask something when suddenly the door behind him gave a sudden lurch, rattling against its lock. A feral snarl and scrapping of claws on wood told the Vampire instantly that the Werewolves had tracked him down.
A simply lock would not hold them for more than a few seconds and Vorador did not have time to flee. Quickly he backed off, turning around to face the door. In one swift motion he drew Marrow out from its sheath at his wide. There was not enough soon in here to effectively use the Axes to their best effect.
The baker screamed and ducked down behind his counter. The door shuddered twice from savage impacts before it broke at the hinges and fell inwards. Four Werewolves burst in, one after the other almost clawing over each over to be the first to get at the Vampire.
However they had made a mistake in doing so, for they were just as hampered by the small space as he was. They had longer arms meant for wide sweeps of their claws. They could not use those with the walls and low ceiling hampering them. They were far more accustomed to wide open areas where they could practise their coordinates pack strategies in bringing down their prey. Vorador however knew how to economise his movements for best effect even while hampered by physical hazards.
The first one came at him, thrusting its claws forward as if it meant to impale his chest with them. Vorador slide to the right to avoid the attack and as he danced clear, Marrow came up sharply and severed the beast’s forearms in one stroke. As the Werewolf opened its mouth to let out a bellow of pain, the Vampire spun around and sliced the top half of its head off from just above its jaw.
The body collapsed onto its belly and began to pump thick torrents of blood onto the floor of the bakery. Instantly a second Werewolf came at him in its place, snapping its jaws forward attempting to catch him across the flank with its fangs.
Vorador backhanded the creature with one swipe of the talons of his free hand, cleaving it across the snout. The Werewolf whined in pain, packing off a few steps and holding a hand to the gash. The Vampire’s talons had bit deep, slicing all the way down to show exposed bone.
Enraged at the injury, the beast came at him again, giving in to the instinct of its namesake animal and lunging at his legs in the age old hamstringing tactic. Vorador of course had been expected the creature to do that.
He twisted in a seemingly impossible motion and kicked the Werewolf in the chin with enough force to send its head snapping backwards. There was a loud sickening crunch at the beasts neck was broken in that kick. Its body tumbled head over heels until it crashed into the display of mouldy bread, shattering the shelves on impact and sending loaves well past their prime scattering onto the floor.
The third and fourth wolves decided to come at him together, both attacking from either side. The beast on the left came at him high, lunging forward with jaws agape with its intent to rip out his throat very clear. The one that came in from the right had its claws raised high and coming down in a deadly arch that if un-avoided would cleave a torso in half to the waist.
Vorador ducked swiftly under the lunge of the snapping jaws and as the creature passed overhead, the Vampire neatly disembowelled it with Marrow’s serrated edge. Without pausing he took a hand full of the bloody red boiling intestines and tossed the gutted beast right at its fellow. The two collided and tumbled to the ground, howling with pain and snarling with fury.
Vorador was on them in a moment. His sword descended once, twice and silenced them both.
With the corpses of the wolves lying all around him, the Vampire straightened and quickly glanced back towards the open door. He could near no more Werewolves for the moment but that did not mean that more were not coming. He had to move on and quickly.
He turned to regard the baker, who was still ineffectually hiding behind the counter. With a grunt of annoyance, Vorador walked around the counter and grabbed the man by the front of his smock, hauling him back up to his feet. The man was so terrified that he had wet himself, dripping onto the floor in a stinking puddle.
“Please don’t hurt me!” He blubbered almost incoherently, face gone so white he looked as if he were made out of snow.
“Stay your cowardly tongue, whelp.” Vorador told him in heavy contempt, holding the man steady despite his meagre struggling.  “I require a way to traverse this town without danger.” He continued.
“Don’t hurt me!” The baker simply repeated, clearly not listening. With a snarl Vorador lifted him up higher so that his feet dangled off the ground.
“Tell me what I need to know and I won’t rip out your heart.” He told the man in a disturbingly neutral tone of voice. “Now... answer my question.”
Surrounded by so much death and gore, the baker got the point immediately. With a trembling hand he pointed down to the point where they were standing.
“T...there’s an entrance to an underground passage under the carpet sir.” He stammered with a wheeze. “It links all most of the buildings in town to the cellar of the church.” Vorador glanced down in response. A thin, cheap and shabby red carpet was spread haphazardly across the floor but it did not quite cover the edges of a trap door.
“And from there?” He asked, still holding the baker above the floor.
“T...t...to the mines under the mountains, s...s...sir.” The man replied, still squirming and writhing. In his fright he was stammering even worse. “The p...priests used it as a means of bringing in contraband, like wine and...v...v...voluptuous women.”
Vorador raised an eyebrow and then smiled, letting his fangs show.
“How wonderfully decadent.” He said with a chuckle for such disregard for ecclesiastical law. Priests remained the same the world over and throughout all time; hypocrites who preached humility, subservience and humble living to the common folk while living lives of unmatched luxury and elevation.
Prowling through the dark tunnels of a mine was not exactly what he had intended for in a way to leave this settlement, but given the pressing circumstances it would have to do. Unceremoniously he dropped the baker, who landed on his backside in the puddle of his own piss.
“You have been of service.” The Vampire told him. “Lock yourself in your bread pantry and don’t come out.”
The baker took his advice immediately and slammed the door of the small storage compartment behind him. It was entirely possible that the man would never emerge from his pantry for the rest of his natural life.
The trap door descended into a small one room cellar, mostly full of nailed down barrels which in turn were covered in thick cobwebs. Behind a stack of them was a false wall that opened out into a crudely carved tunnel. As the baker was said, the narrow passage joined up with others to make a crisscrossing web of underground tunnels. There was no illumination in these makeshift tunnels so Vorador had to conjure a small orb of magical light in order to see where he was going. All the tunnels seemed to heading in a westerly direction and from the layout of the town as he had even briefly observed it, the Vampire knew the Church lay in that direction.
From above he could hear the fighting still going on, although now slightly muffled. From the amount of human cries, he judged that surprisingly the soldiers were holding their own against the onslaught of the Werewolves.
Eventually the tunnel he was moving through began to angle up until he came across a set of chiselled stone steps. Ascending these quickly, the Vampire soon found himself against the back of another false wall. The barrier was held in place by a simply brass mechanism operated by a switch. Vorador pushed this down and the false wall rumbled, stone grinding on stone, before it pushed back and then slide into a hidden hole in the wall.
The baker had been quite truthful. The passage did indeed end up at the Church, for Vorador found himself stepping out into a gloomy and dank collection of catacombs. Most temples had at least a small crypt that was kept for the interment of the communities more illustrious deceased. Navigating his way through old stone tombs that smelt of unwholesome fungus, the Vampire crossed the dark chamber to the large iron door baring the exit.
It hadn’t been opened in some time and its latch was nearly rusted shut. Despite this and being quite heavy, one solid kick was enough to force it ajar. It took some effort however to force it open wide enough for Vorador to squeeze past.
The doorway lead up through a stone passageway and up into the cloister of the church itself. It was a fairly typical religious construction for this time period, with the traditional stained glass windows depicting various saints relevant to the local community. The biggest window, right behind the alter itself showed a strange looking woman. She was depicted in very strange leather grab and had a wide rim hat. She was shown reaching up towards the sun, which had an eye in its centre. Beneath her image, the name ‘OPHIEL’ was in large stylised letters. Vorador stared at the image for a moment. He had seen her likeness before, in the temples of the Wheel of Fate that had once stood in the Ancient Vampire Citadel although there depicted in fresco and mural rather than stained glass. This figure was Ophiel-Divus, one of the few humans elevated to that lofty divine rank.
So this temple was consecrated to one of the Divus? Odd, that for such a dogmatic monotheistic religion they had deified the Divus into a pantheon of demi-gods. Such was the way of any religion, each self proclaimed prophet that came along becoming deities, even if they hadn’t intended.
The baker had not said exactly where the entrance to this supposed tunnel to the mines was located in this Church. But it had to be hidden somewhere in this main chamber, perhaps by the alter itself. Suddenly the main doors of the Church flung itself open. Vorador half turned quickly in response, one hand poised to draw Marrow and another going for the handle of Havoc.
But only one figure was staggering into the Church. Vorador instantly recognised the rose red armoured figure of William De’Segnir. He had seen some fierce fighting judging by the dents in his armour and bloody gashes across his cheek. From the way he slightly limped it seemed he may have cracked a few ribs.
The prince staggered up towards the alter, his arm limp and dripping blood leaving a trail of red drops across the stone floor but keeping a firm grip on his sword. When he saw Vorador he came to an abrupt stop. He blinked several times to clear his vision and then managed a lopsided grin.
“So we meet again, Vorador the illustrious Vampire.” He said, panting slightly out of breath. With some effort he managed to pull himself up to sit on one of the pews. “Under less then cordial circumstances though, I fear.”
“Do you always banter so much?” Vorador asked disdainfully, discreetly judging the extent of the young man’s wounds. He was in some pain, that was clear, but none of the injuries he had received was life threatening.
The Prince made a weak laugh and pushed his chainmail hood back off his head, letting his hair hang loose about his face.
“It’s part of my charm.” He replied, wincing slightly. He paused to glance back over his shoulder at the door of the church he had left ajar. The sounds of battle coming from outside echoed through the cavern like temple.  “And frankly, I need all the humour I can get at this present moment.”  
Vorador’s ears flicked to their erect posture and he listened, his face creasing into a frown. If the noise of the carnage outside was any indication, it would not be long before the chaos invaded even this small pocket of calm.
“I just lost my brothers today.” William remarked in a hollow sounding voice, turning away from the door to look up at Ophiel-Divus’ image in the stained glass. “Michael never had much time for me, pompous jackass, but Simon was always there whenever I stumbled as a young child.” He grunted with a rueful expression. “He never listened to my opinions but he was always courteous.” He gave the Vampire a side long look. “Do you have any brothers?”
“Many where given the Dark Gift alongside me, I was just the first.” Vorador replied, keeping his eyes on the door. Slowly his hand drifted to the handles of the two Axes and he hefted them to his side at the ready.
“I mean natural siblings.” William clarified. “You were once human weren’t you?” Vorador was silent for a moment.
“Possibly, I don’t know.” He admitted. “But that was a very long time ago and if I had siblings, their descending bloodlines would acknowledge no kinship with me.”
The Prince let out a breath and shifted his weight on his seat, the armour he wore creaking loudly in response.
“Do Vampire’s put more stock in the families created by their siring then?” He asked. Vorador gave a short nod.
“Who else would accept us but more of our own?” He asked back and then glanced at the young man sceptically. “You’re wasting energy talking.” He added.
“Yes, indeed.” William grunted again and with some effort managed to get back up to his feet. After taking that moment to rest and regain his breath, he seemed to have restored some strength. His youth was an asset. “I’m afraid they’ll be in here after me in another few moments.”
“Yes, they are coming.” Vorador concurred and flexed his wrists, letting the handles of the axes slide down until he was holding them by their ends.
There was a moment of silence and then a lone arctic Werewolf slipped in through the open door, its white fur stained red with shed blood. Sighting the two of them it snarled and began to slowly approach through them down the aisle. Soon it was joined by the second Werewolf, then a third and fourth. More began slipping in until there were no less than twenty Werewolves facing them. Blood and gore dripped from their long black claws over the floor.
William grunted in both frustration and pain and took a moment to push his chainmail hood back over the top of his head.
“What business do you have here, dogs?” Vorador asked flatly as the beasts began to circle around the edges of the Church, all of them moving in unison with his claws at the ready. “Do animals need some meaningless victory over the armies of men?”
One of the Werewolves leaned up on its hind legs and laughed cruelly, the sound very odd coming from its canine mouth. The sound was more of a bark then a laugh.
“You Vampires... so greedy, so self-centred, so...individualistic.” It said, seeming to chew the words. “You understand nothing of the glorious union of the pack, the unison of thought and intent... all guided by the wisdom of the alpha male.”
Strangely William did not seemed surprise to hear them talk but Vorador ignored the human and kept his eyes on the creature in front of him, all the while well aware of the others manoeuvring for position all around them.
“You follow orders just like any subordinate.” Vorador remarked with contempt. “Don’t pretend there’s some grand philosophical truth behind it.”
Another Werewolf leapt up onto a pew, its long bushy tails swinging back and forth behind it.
“We follow the ideal of the alpha male.” It said in a deeper voice than the first speaker. “His vision is a marvellous joy to us all. A new civilisation for the discarded warriors who fought for the liberation of man.”
The Vampire tilted his head to one side with a lopsided, ironic grin parting his lips. He chuckled lightly.
“Liberation?” He repeated, eyes slipping back and forth to mark the positions of the creatures. “You would call tearing down a sophisticated and powerful culture and replacing it with howling barbarous zealots-‘liberation’?” He spat off to one side in contempt. “All you did was help mankind exchange one tyrant for another.”
“You speak as if our forebears had any say in the matter!” Another snarled, slipping around behind them by the alter and up onto it. “They were mere quarrymen, simple toilers of the mountains, before being forced into the forms of animals.”
“But Remus made the best of it!” A fourth added, coming up alongside the first speaker. “His vision for our new home guides us.” It drew back its lips over its long canine fangs. “Our howls will come out of the north like rolling thunder and announce death to all in our path!”
At that signal, the Werewolves all made a collective, snarling and savage lunge. Vorador had seen them tense a moment before that so when they came at him, he met them with Havoc and Malice in full swing. The Axes almost seem to sing as they cleaved through fur, flesh and bone. Two of the beasts were rent from crotch to gizzard and sent flying in pieces across the church to collide with the walls with wet splats.
Another Werewolf tumbled into two pieces, sliced in half horizontally at the waist. Guts and other organs important to the large intestine boiled out everywhere.
A fourth beast leapt over the pews and came at the Vampire from above. Vorador rolled forward out of the axe then arched back in one graceful acrobatic lunge and slammed Malice into the Werewolf’s back. There was a very loud snapping sound as the spine shattered from the massive blow. Paralysed by such an injury, the creature collapsed howling in pain to the floor. Vorador put it out of its misery with one quick swipe across the back of its exposed neck with Havoc.
William himself was only human and as such had neither the enhanced strength nor reflexes of even a fledgling Vampire. His only protective asset was his armour which protected him against the majority of the bites and scraping claws of the few Werewolves that attempted to surround and bring him down. Despite his injuries William also proved to be quite strong, for a human, and was able to knock aside any of the creatures that attempted to claw at his unprotected face. His sword slashed back and forth, drawing blood despite the thick furry hide in its way.
Vorador swung left and then sharply to the right to avoid the frenzied swipes of claws that lunged at him. The Werewolves recognised that he was the greatest threat and many of them were converging on him, circling before darting in as they employed their traditional hunting tactic. Vorador knew better to simply stand still and let them bite off bits and pieces of his defences. It would not be long before they charged together to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
To distract them Vorador feinted forward as if he intended to attack one of them. Predictably they moved as one backwards and out of his reach, as if they were of one mind. While such coordination was indeed an asset to a creature that survived by the hunt, they had carried it too far. When one of them flinched they all flinched. By backing away then had given Vorador the room he needed.
Tilted his body forward and lunged, the Vampire used his own inertia to begin spinning. With both Axes held out to the ends of their handles, he began that deadly swirling technique which had proved so effective before outside the walls of Valeholm.
In a blur he cut through the creatures, Havoc and Malice biting through flesh muscle and bone with ease. Bits and pieces of hacked Werewolves went flying off in all directions, splattering across the floor and walls and coating the inside of the Church with blood and viscera. Spinning around and around in such a deadly whirlwind of axe blades, Vorador moved steadily across the church. Anything caught his path was ripped to shreds, including many of the wooden pews. The seats exploded into shards as the axes crunched through them with no difficulty.
One Werewolf stumbled as such wooden splinters pierced his furry hide. That momentary slip was all it required for the lethal swirling Vampire to catch up with the creature. Over and Over Havoc and Malice slammed into its body, carving like a butchers knife through the flesh. The discarded body parts scattered while hunks of meat and hide clung to the blade edges of the axes.
Meeting such a tough obstruction, Vorador was forced to slow his momentum and almost come to a stop. The Werewolves were not going to let such a moment of laxity go to waste. Five of the creatures made a concerted effort, lunging as one to tackle the Vampire across the midsection. Together they rushed and before Vorador could prevent them shoved him down and pinned him to the floor.
In the tumble the Axes were knocked from his hands and sent spinning across the floor to clatter against the side of the alter, far out of his grasp.
Vorador barley noticed as his attention was currently on the many savage creatures pinning him to the floor. It took all the strength Vorador could muster to keep them from biting out his throat and over vitals with their powerful jaws. His talons clawed back at them but by themselves they could not penetrate their furry hide.
Suddenly William was there. The Prince came rushing forward and with his sword he thrust forward, impaling one of the distracted Werewolves, trying to gut the Vampire, through the head. It stiffened and collapsed instantly. The other Werewolves on him turned to snarl at the interference but Vorador could now reach the sword at his side. The blade Marrow came whistling out of its sheath and sliced through two of the creature’s chest to render their hearts and lungs, causing them to cough up blood through their muzzles.
With a mighty heave he dislodged the other two and got back up to his feet in an instant. The Werewolves was regrouping at the other end of the church. In a moment they would charge as one mass of savage claws and bring them both down.
Cornered and with no other choice, Vorador reinforced his stance and began to raise his free hand towards them.
The Serioli elemental disciplines were not an easy skill to master and using them in combat directly required a great deal of energy. Vorador preferred to employ them only in his forging but when surrounded by so many enemies and with no means of escape, calling upon such a technique in battle was his only alternative. Vorador had been trained in the methods of how to control all the elements but due to his specialisation in blacksmithing he excelled in pyrokinesis.
With a uniform snarl the Werewolves charged, galloping forward in an unstoppable attack of fangs and claws.
A simply spark was all that he needed to ignite a raging inferno. Marrow swept down across the stone floor of the church and the spark from the collision jumped high into the air. It hung there for a moment for blooming like a flower in spring into a rolling wall of flames. The roar it produced as it erupted forth was deafening. All the air in the Church seemed to be sucked into the blossoming fire and in the implosion of force every stained glass window in the building shattered into thousands of multi coloured fragments.
The fire burst forth like a tidal wave and it caught several of the Werewolves at point blank range. They had just enough time to let out either whimpers or howls of alarm before were instantly reduced to blacked wisps that toppled backwards to the floor, twisted and fixed in grotesque parodies of their former visages. The fire continued on until it smashed into the end of the Church, scorching the wall and dissipating over it to leave a trail of complete devastation.
Some of the quicker Werewolves had been able to dodge the full force of the firewall but for their effort had had their fur set ablaze. Howling in pain they scampered across the floor of the church for the open entrance, perhaps trying to find some snow to extinguish themselves with.
Vorador lowered his hand, feeling his muscled strain and his head swim. Unleashing that fire wall had taken a great deal of strength. He would have to feed soon in order to replenish what he had just used up.
“Interesting technique.” William remarked in some healthy respect, looking out from behind the alter where he had quickly jumped behind in order to avoid being roasted alive. The shaken prince paused to survey the flicking embers of the aftermath and the twisted black remains of those creatures which had been caught in its wake. Shaking he edged out, his hand firm around the hilt of his sword. “Is that some dark Vampire magic?” He asked sounding genuinely interested despite his fright.
Vorador tensed, looking around at the remaining Werewolves in the Church. That use of Serioli fire had dramatically reduced their numbers down to less than four and they seemed very unwilling to go anywhere near them.
“Serioli elemental fire, if you must know.” He replied after taking a moment to regain his breath. William also kept his eyes on the creatures, although his expression was painfully awed.
“The legendary weapon forgers?” He asked. In this era, the Serioli would no longer be remembered as the secular Order of Ancient Vampires it had originally been but rather known as a fable of unequalled blacksmiths who could make the finest weapons in all of Nosgoth. Such people calling themselves Serioli in this time would be pale imitations of the original, passing down the traditions of their forbears.  
“I used to be a member.” Vorador said, pausing to wipe sweat away from his forehead.
“Oh, do tell.” William looked eager for the story. The Vampire gestured and using telekinesis he summoned both Havoc and Malice back to his side.
“Perhaps another time.” He replied.
Suddenly the doors of the Church were flung wide open and a dozen armoured men came charging in, most carrying swords but a number with crossbows. At their head was Ser Barentein, his large broadsword in his hand.
“Your Highness!” He called out, still from behind the visor of his helmet.
The remaining Werewolves, seeing they were outnumbered, did not attack but instead turned and ran. One by one they scaled the walls and leap out the shattered windows to safety. The men let them go as under Barentein’s direction they moved quickly up to protect the prince.
“A report, if you please Barentein?” William asked, holding up a hand for forestall him from speaking further.
“The wolves are in retreat, your Highness!” The knight told him with the earnest joy of delivering such good tidings. “They flee from the walls as the cowardly dogs that they are.”
As one the many armed men behind Barentein held up their weapons and in unison they called out: “Huzzah! Huzzah!” The call echoed out of the church and the men outside took up the chant until the defenders were all calling out their jubilation over the lifting of the vicious siege. Barentein glanced up from his Prince and stiffened when he saw Vorador standing a short distance away. Quickly he stepped around William and protectively stood between him and the Vampire.
“And no doubt it was this foul dark abomination that called them down upon us!” He said and the men all looked down, finally seeing Vorador themselves. “Everyone knows Vampires can control beasts and monsters!” The men grimly moved forward in response, the crossbowmen rising up to get clear shots at the Vampire with their bolts.
Vorador knew he would have to move quickly but after expending such energy in one burst he was light headed and sluggish.
“Twaddle, Ser knight!” William stated in a sharp tone of command which did not reflect his youth at all. Barentein flinched back from him. “Pure rubbish and you ought to know better.” The Prince rudely barged past his bodyguard. “Vampire or not, he fought by my side. Without his aid I would not have survived the demonic pack set on me.” Angrily he pushed back his chainmail hood. “I will not repay such courtesy by turning on him the minute our mutual enemy has fled.”
The men all looked startled and confused at this declaration.
“You would trust a blood sucker, milord?” One of them, a squat man with a braided red beard, replied in a thick accent. William turned his head sharply to glare at him.
“More than any of you!” He snapped. He swept them all with an angry glare, his face twisted in savage fury. “You all failed to protect my brothers when it was your sworn duty to do so!” The men recoiled from his accusation and righteous anger and they looked anywhere but at him. “This Vampire protected me on a whim and I’ve more respect for that then I do for your incompetence!”
Barentein glanced quickly between the Prince and the men then stepped forward, putting a restraining hand on William’s shoulder.
“Your Highness, please.” He said in a low but urgent tone of voice. William glared back at him with a flat unfriendly expression. “With thine brothers dead, thou art now the crown prince. Thou hast to keep the respect of the men.”
William simply shrugged out of his grip.
“Why?” He asked flatly. “They failed their duty and I won’t sugar coat it.”
“Thou hast to earn the men’s respect, not the other way around.” His bodyguard reminded him, casting a worried glance back over at the armed soldiers.
“Then I’ll earn it with honesty, not flattery.” The Prince replied. Just then another soldier came running into the church, skidding to a stop a short distance away.
“Your Highness!” He panted, slightly out of breath. “The wolves are retreating to the east.” He reported, gesturing back the way he had come vaguely. “We have horsemen following them.”
“The stinking feral beasts are taking the same route that the King’s column took.” Barentein said in response this intelligence.
“The King is in danger?!” One of the soldiers asked in alarm, the others looking worried. Barentein shook his head.
“The army will protect our sovereign.” He said confidently. William snorted derisively at this unconcern.
“Like my brothers were so valiantly protected by their men?” The Prince asked with heavy ironic scepticism.
“Werewolves are largely ambush predators.” Vorador said unemotionally into the pause that followed. “They will take the army by surprise.” William looked down at the floor for a long moment, his brow furrowed. Then with a nod he looked up again. Decisively he turned to face his men.
“I want any man that can still walk ready to march within the hour!” He commanded, barging past a surprised Barentein. “What town is my Father attempting to siege?” The Prince demanded of the messenger.
“Weirstein, your Highness.” The man replied.
“Send a horseman on ahead, your fastest beast and most competent courier.” William told him with stern authority. “I want my father warned of the danger!” He half turned, looking back over his shoulder. “Well, Vorador perhaps you might...”
But the Vampire was gone.
The snowfall outside had abated and while it was still misty, the weather was sufficient enough to allow for flight. Driven by a sudden need, Vorador flowed into the familiar form of the Raven and soared towards the sky. Within minutes Valeholm was a mere collection of blocks far below and the carnage of such a terrible siege invisible.
-0-
“The name rang like a resounding bell note in my mind. Weirstein. I had heard it before of course but somehow, in this context and this time and place, it seemed to unlock some repressed and submerged part of my mind. The resulting stream of information was like a stabbing needle in the back of my brain that drove me on. Weirstien. I knew the place. I knew my home.”
-0-