The Werewolves surrounding William’s army did not outnumber the boy king’s force, but rather had strategically positioned themselves to leave his army backed up in upon itself with no room to manoeuvre for a charge that would break their blockade. The beasts were launching several flanking attacks now and then, darting in to claw at the sides of the infantry, doing a little damage before backing off to conserve their own. Little by little such cut and run tactics were bleeding out William’s defensive force. Several crumpled bodies of swordsmen lay in the mud, some being dragged by the beasts over to their own line to be torn apart and devoured messily on the spot.
Exactly how these creatures had lured the Human army into such an untenable position, Vorador did not know. What was quite clear to him, however, was that if he desired William’s aid, he would be forced to once more intervene. He disliked having to do so as he was not following his own pathos and belief that the less Vampires had to do politically with Humans the better, but necessity it seemed had the bad habit of forcing its mortal playthings to do that of which they heartily disapproved. Settling down on top of a sheltering outcropping of rock, Vorador paused, still in his secondary feathered form. From this concealed spot he considered the situation.
What the Humans needed was some breathing room and time for their generals to coordinate a counterattack to break the beasts’ advantage of strategic position. This could be achieved by his providing a distraction, an attack on the Werewolf rear. Such an attack, however, against so large a pack of the creatures would result in his immediate evisceration and he did not intend to have his intestines removed by dozens of beastly claws for William’s sake. A far better approach would be to allow something else, much less vital than himself, to make the distraction.
Quickly he took stock of the terrain all around. Just to the northeast there was the massive Lake of Fallen Bones, and its southward travelling river was directly to the east. To the south were the deep patches of swampy water and rising trees. Directly behind him, to the west marking the edge of the mountains, was a relatively short cliff made of granite, entangled thickly in moss and clingy creepers. That seemed most promising.
On closer inspection, he saw that the cliff was quite weathered and in places had crumbled into fragments which the thick vegetation was holding together. The slightest pressure would likely cause pieces of it to fall away, even the larger rocks loose and easily moveable. Atop the cliff rested larger man-sized boulders that were already sinking down onto the loose material. The entire slope was a massive landslide waiting to happen. All it needed was a sufficient enough jolt to make it lose its cohesion and collapse.
Quickly Vorador surveyed the mountains above the cliff. Almost at once he spotted what he was looking for. A higher cliff face loomed out from the mountains above and on the edge of this cliff was a massive rock. Vorador took to the air again, riding the rising air currents up. Within a few minutes he soared high enough to reach that higher cliff and settled down on the top of the boulder he had spotted.
From this high vantage point he could see the battle below and it seemed like two large groups of ants trying to outdo one another. Close up, the boulder was massive, the size of an average house and it was positioned just so to create the effect desired. It would do perfectly.
Quickly he shimmered and flowed back into his regular form and set to work. First with one of the twin axes he chipped away at the stone supports underneath the boulder until they began to wobble. When that was accomplished he took both axes and applied them to the far side of the rock. Using them as a lever he heaved, pushing several times. Inch by inch he pushed and he could feel the rock begin to budge.
Then, some support beneath collapsed with a detonation of dust and fragments and the huge boulder began to ponderously move. The Vampire had to step backwards quickly in order to not be swept along with it. The rock leaned out from the cliff and then when it passed a tipping point its own weight began to tell. The cliff began to give way and the boulder began to topple, falling away with a high pitched whistling. It struck the ground several times on its way down, bouncing like an ordinary throw pebble and gaining speed.
The two armies of men and monsters were too preoccupied with each other to notice the oncoming rock. However, when it smashed into the lower granite cliff the resulting boom was impossible to ignore. They all turned at the sound, even in the midst of killing one another. The rock smashed into the granite cliff like a giant’s fist and the weathered stone broke open, erupting out and down its slope like a tidal wave.
A deadly avalanche of earth and stone boiled up and ran straight down towards the bulk of the Werewolf army. Several of their number had the wit to try to run, but nothing was quick enough to outrun a landslide. The dark wolves were caught up and smashed, the rush of rubble breaking over them. The lucky would have been killed instantly. Those not so fortunate would have been buried alive.
The avalanche continued on for some considerable distance, almost reaching the shores of the large lake. When it finally petered out it had left a wide path of devastation that stretched for a good three miles. Despite himself, Vorador could not help by feel a tinge of pride for having been responsible for such a tremendous upheaval.
For a long moment after the last few rocks bounced down the cliff, there was a powerful and unnatural silence. Then down below one of the generals of William’s army finally gathered his wits enough to realise the strategic gift he had been granted. The Human forces parted and the cavalry burst forth past them in a mighty charge.
The Werewolves, half of their number at least buried by the avalanche, were confused and disorganised. The armoured cavalrymen smashed into them like a second landslide, driving them back or trampling them under their mounts’ hooves. The archers followed this up by raining a sheet of arrows up and over the black furred monsters, forcing them to retreat even more. Sufficient ground had been gained now and once the cavalry pulled back from their charge, the infantry rushed in with a unified battle cry. Amongst their number were several men on horseback, one of which was carrying the royal banner.
Vorador began to swear in several tongues at once. William was riding into battle himself? If that foolish boy king got himself killed then he would lose his only means of locating the artefact Bane needed to access the Lost City. A general and especially a king ought to have better sense than to risk their lives fighting alongside their men. It sounded romantic like some fabled ancient monarch in a saga told by a skald or minstrel, but in reality it was just a way for foolish rulers to get themselves butchered. Right now William was too important to let die.
He was instantly back in the form of a bird, diving down towards the enveloping battle as fast as he could. Before he could reach them, however, the charging army crashed into the Werewolves with William’s royal banner in the forefront. Despite what Vorador might have expected, that the Werewolves would immediately leap upon them and rip them to pieces, William’s charge actually knocked the dark furred beasts aside and pushed them back, the infantry cutting into the beasts now that the monster’s strategic advantage had been ruined.
Vorador levelled out over their heads, a single black bird ignored in favour of a melee of swords, axes, and claws. He flapped his way towards the banner, often having to swiftly circle around to avoid a raised weapon. When he reached the banner he found William on the back of a fine chestnut stallion, chopping with his sword at a Werewolf clawing at his flank. Beside him his armour clad bodyguard Barentein was also mounted, swinging his large broadsword around in wide arcs to guard his king’s back.
Despite the ill advisedness of being in direct combat, they were doing quite well for themselves cutting down the beasts that attacked them left and right.
“Bring in the cavalry to hit them again on the right flank!” The boy king called in a momentary break from the fighting, gesturing with his sword. “Drive them back to the edge of the lake!” His order was relayed in the form of two blasts on a horn blown by one of his retainers. Distantly, the cavalrymen began to circle back and draw into formation for another charge. Another direct attack by the horsemen would route the wolves and drive them away, unable to regain sufficient group to harass the army any further.
That was when the beast appeared. Its colossal form set it apart from the other creatures of its pack immediately as it galloped forward, appearing from out of nowhere and lashing out with a powerful arm. Barentein looked up, seeing the creature almost on top of them.
“Your Majesty, look out!” He cried and threw himself almost out from his saddle to protect William’s back with his own body. For the gesture he was knocked from the back of his horse with one massive blow. He landed with a clatter of armour and lay prone, dead or stunned, it was hard to say.
William wheeled his horse about to face the new threat but the monster served him likewise. The young king was knocked from his horse and smashed up against a rock. He was helpless, too stunned to move more than sluggishly and the beast was coming for him.
Vorador had no choice. Blurring into his regular form in midair, he dropped down towards the oncoming monstrosity. In an instant he drew Marrow, the blade whistling out of its sheath at his side. As the monster reached for the king with one massive, clawed hand Vorador came down right on top of it, savagely stabbing over and over with the sword. The creature snarled and thrashed about, tearing back and forth trying to dislodge him. Vorador clung on with a free hand, stabbing Marrow as deep as he could into its flesh. But the Werewolf’s hide was tough and the muscles tightly compacted, so all he was really doing was irritating the beast.
A massive hand-like paw closed on his leg and before he could dislodge it, he was torn from the monster’s back and thrown away. He righted himself in midair and landed a short distance away, sword in hand and held defensively in front.
The beast turned to face him, one hind leg poised on the still quivering body of William’s horse which was being fed upon by several of its kin. The thing was a true monster of legend. It towered over the rest of its pack like a giant, powerful arms stretching out wide with claws curved like meat hooks. A slender, long, ferret-like tail swept out behind it, lashing back and forth like an angry snake. Its face was compact and even less Human than its fellows and was almost feline, with wide green eyes and a short muzzle. Along with the large, bushy mane around its neck and running down its back, the creature had more the appearance of a lupine lion than a true wolf.
As it moved its body swayed back and forth as if it were swimming almost, parting the ranks of its smaller fellows. As it came nearer Vorador could see that unlike the others its fur was not entirely black. Streaks of grey shot through its coloration in places along the forearms and chest, and the silver touch gave it a definite outline that seemed only to add to its size. There was no mistaking this creature for anything other than the alpha male of their black variety.
Keeping its eyes on him, the giant monstrosity began to stalk, walking around the Vampire in a tight circle. Vorador kept his sword at the ready, Marrow raised up defensively in front of him. The beast’s eyes narrowed and its snout wrinkled as it sniffed the air before it. Then its lips pulled back over serrated teeth and the Vampire saw that the canine fangs at the front were enlarged and curved like those of a snake.
“You bloodsucker!” It growled and the words were barely recognisable. With such large fangs within a short muzzle the voice was so guttural that it sounded almost like it was choking. The anger and rage within the tone, however, was quite clear. The beast tightened its circle around him to almost within grabbing distance for its large arms.
“I smell the cowardly stench of Remus on you!” It continued and confirmed what Vorador had been half suspecting the moment the beast had appeared. Grimly he followed the beast’s progress as it circled around him.
“And I suppose you would be the infamous Romulus I have heard so much about?” He asked rhetorically, keeping his expression as blank as possible. Remus’ brother was a good two feet taller than his sibling and his body seemed to emphasize strength over speed, the muscle so bulky across the chest and shoulders that it would surely hinder fast movements.
“Has my brother recruited Vampires to do his fighting for him now?” The older brother, Romulus barked back with heavy contempt and derision. “No matter.” He stopped circling then and leered forward, pulling his lips back in what might have been intended as a sneer but came across as more of a pained grimace. Vorador glanced quickly off to both sides, taking note of the dozen or more dark furred Werewolves lining up on either side of their alpha male.
“The city is mine!” Romulus spat, still in mid-tirade. “It will stay mine!” Vorador still had trouble following his words but the angry, half crazed tone revealed much. Despite being quick to anger, Remus had been more or less in charge of his facilities. Romulus on the other hand was clearly deranged, a lunatic in wolf skin. “No one has the right to it but me!” He bellowed in a voice that could have rattled window glass. “Not Remus, not his albino defectors, nor even our once and forgotten leader Ewoden!” His claws flexed wide, a telltale sign of impending violence. “Only me!”
Romulus launched himself forward, claws and mouth agape. By now Vorador had fought with his counterpart and brother Remus on two occasions and knew exactly how such a large beast would fight. He sidestepped the lunging wolf and before the creature could turn around to attack again, the Vampire neatly sliced him down his back and across his buttocks and thigh. This time he knew how and where to strike, blade slicing into the weaker flesh between the muscle like a surgeon’s scalpel. Romulus screamed and collapsed forward onto his front paws, his hind leg bleeding so much his fur was matted.
Vorador flicked Marrow to discard the blood from the blade.
“You are slower than your brother.” He remarked flatly. “And far more moronic, as well.” Romulus turned and growled at the Vampire, lips pulled back in a snarl of frustrated hate. Despite his wounded leg spasming violently, he scrambled up and tore at Vorador, the ground churning under his claws. Vorador watched him come and after having dealt with the much faster Remus, it seemed like he was now in the same fight but in a slower motion. He knew what to do and had more than enough time to do it.
Romulus lunged with both arms wide, claws curving inward like the closing doors of a lethal cage. Vorador simply ducked down, rolled forward between his hind legs and in the same motion sliced his belly from naval to crotch. He dived clear as an even louder cry of pain burst from the black creature’s maw. He toppled onto one hand, the other clutching at his stomach to keep the gash that had opened from ripping apart and allowing his intestines to boil out. Vorador ached back before he could recover, leaping into the air and performing an intense backflip, slamming both of his heels into the monster’s back and forcing the Werewolf to collapse face down on the muddy ground.
“Flee, take your stinking host away and save your life.” Vorador told him bluntly, standing back up from the crouch he had landed in. “Persist and I will kill you.”
Predictably Romulus did not listen to a word he said and towered back up. Like Vampires, Werewolves could heal even deadly wounds quickly and already the sliced flesh of his belly was knitting back together under his fur.
Vorador risked a quick glance past the Werewolf to where William had been struck down. The king was trying to rise, struggling to get back up to his feet, groping for a sword lost in the mud somewhere off to his left. Neither Romulus nor any of his black furred kin had noticed this yet. Vorador had to keep their attention on him. Defiantly, he held his sword out in front of him, a deliberate challenge.
Romulus growled and then looked sharply off to each side of himself, barking like a feral animal at the other beasts around him. Like a good obedient pack, they surged around their alpha male to charge the Vampire, perhaps a dozen or more.
Vorador met them head-on without hesitation, dancing through their ranks with Marrow whistling through the air. The serrated edge sliced deep as he passed each one and with his free hand he gestured and summoned from their wounds the blood which had been spilled. The first he had cut did not understand what was happening until it was too late and the beast collapsed to the ground, bled dry. The others yelped and quickly backed off out of range. By then, however, Vorador had replenished much of his lost strength.
With strength and stamina restored, the Vampire did not wait for them to attack. He shot forward at Romulus first, darting in past and around two Werewolves that tried to block his way. Speed was truly his ally here for both Romulus and his kin had sacrificed their agility for power. As long as he kept moving they could not touch him.
Swiftly he slid back and forth, dodging over and around the lashing claws and bites directed at him. He was like a buzzing wasp they could not swat, always avoiding their clumsy paws before darting in to sting a bit more. Watching his pack get slaughtered, Romulus dived in himself again, perhaps hoping to score a wound while Vorador was distracted with the others. Vorador, however, had been expecting him to do that and kicked the beast he had been slicing his sword into aside and spun about to face him.
The alpha male swiped and bit at him in mindless fury but always missed and it was driving him into an even higher towering rage, snapping and biting, clawing and slashing in a manic frenzy that was clearly deranged. Vorador avoided it all with the skill of one well trained in the material arts taught by the Serioli. Romulus did, however, have an advantage of size and strength, meaning that while the Vampire’s speed made it hard for him to inflict harm, any damage Vorador did in return was insubstantial and healed quite quickly.
In truth, however, and despite having said he would, Vorador was not really trying to kill the beast. He had no need to do so. All he was really doing was delaying him. All around them the battle against the wolves was turning and the Human army was pressing forward with grim determination, cutting whatever beast they could to pieces. Somewhere off in the distance there was a rumbling noise which grew louder and louder. At a critical moment, when that rumbling grew to its peak, Romulus looked up to see what was coming.
That was the instant of laxity that cost him. Vorador struck, Marrow sweeping up in a curving arch that bit through the Werewolf’s right arm. The serrated blade parted hide, flesh, and bone as easily as it would carve a fruit. The limb up to the elbow was sent flying, spinning in midair before landing with a wet thud on the ground.
Romulus did not have time to even scream as his front limb was amputated. A second later, the recalled cavalry crashed in for their second attack. They tore in with the bulk of their horses, trampling more of the black Werewolves under their hooves. They thundered by so loudly that the ground trembled. Clutching his spurting stump to his body, Romulus watched as his pack was scattered and driven off. His forces had truly been routed and even he, in his derangement, realised there was no hope of winning now.
He shot Vorador a glare and the hatred in it was palpable. Then he broke off, galloping away swiftly with the rest of his fleeing pack, not even pausing as he scooped up his fallen limb, running off with it towards the north. The cavalry kept going, harrying them and driving them as far away as possible, a rain of arrows fired after to ensure they would not be coming back. As the last of the fleeing pack vanished into the wilderness, the army let out a cheer at the victory.
Vorador did not wait for anyone to notice him once the battle fury died down. He translocated a short distance away at once before anyone could see that amongst them was a clear nonhuman. From a vantage point atop the half shattered cliff, he could see the last few wolves disappear into the wilderness from whence they had come.
-0-
“Just how many contenders for the Lost City were there in this game, and exactly what was the nature of the prize we all sought? I did not know and I had the distinctive impression nobody else did either.”
-0-
Several of the soldiers helped William to his feet. The young king at once pushed back his red chainmail hood, looking around in alarm. When he spotted his fallen bodyguard, he rushed over and quickly began to pry off his dented breastplate. The young man worried feverishly until he pulled it away. Barentein’s chest had been caved in at the centre almost completely, the rib cage collapsed inward. Even from a distance Vorador could see that the injury he had received was fatal.
“Barentein…” William breathed and in his voice was genuine sorrow.
“It is bad, is it not?” Barentein asked chokingly from within his helmet. William slowly turned his head to look at him, then reached out and pushed the man’s visor up.
“Yes, it is, my friend.” He replied as Barentein drew some air painfully into what could only be a collapsed lung. Some soldiers began to gather around, forming a circle although giving them a respectful few dozen feet of privacy.
“Then I have earned a righteous death, Your Majesty.” The dying man said, perhaps trying to sound resigned in the hoarse whisper which was all he could manage, though he sounded more afraid than accepting. “It was an honour to serve thee.” William’s shoulders began to shake.
“Even now, you can’t abandon high style, can you?” The young king asked, placing a hand lightly on the dying man’s shoulder.
“One must follow one’s nature, William.” Barentein replied and judging by the way saying it took far more energy than it should, he was nearing his last moments. The man himself seemed to realise this and with seemingly his last bit of strength, he raised his hand and placed it on the young man’s wrist in a gesture of camaraderie. “Follow thine and be a king worth the adoration of the people.” The gesture became a death grip and it was some time before William removed the dead man’s hand and stood up, the sun beginning to set, casting shimmering orange sparkles on the nearby lake.
The army was too deep into enemy territory to send Barentein’s body back to their homeland to be buried. Instead a cairn, a burial mound in the Northern style, was quickly erected. Those common soldiers killed were placed on the bottom, officers on top of them and Barentein himself was given the place of honour at the very top. By the time they had finished, the burial hill was a colossal mound on the outskirts of the swamp and the stars were beginning to come out.
The army, fatigued after the battle, made camp to rest before they would begin their southward march through the Fens. Tents were erected and the men huddled close to their fires to eat the food they had carried with them. Vorador waited patiently, keeping William in his sight the entire time. The young king mostly stayed within his own pavilion, talking with his generals. But predictably, when the night was fully upon the camp and the men were taking what rest they could, the Vampire watched as William began to edge from the camp.
He took good care not to be noticed going, having removed his telltale red armour and dressed in a common soldier’s chainmail, an ordinary long sword at his side. At a casual glance he would have appeared just like any other soldier in that army and no one even looked in his direction as he casually walked through his own army without being recognised. The young would-be king showed a remarkable talent for disguise.
The young king made his way to the edge of the trees and he did not at all seem surprised to find Vorador there waiting for him. When he saw the Vampire leaning against the trunk of one of the trees, partially hidden in shadow, his expression was filled with grim resignation, so far unlike his usual buoyant manner.
“Why do I keep finding myself in debt to you, Vorador?” He asked and then dismissed his own question with a wave of one hand. “I suppose it’s just fate.”
“Fate is a sadist.” Vorador replied flatly without looking at him. “And never that kind.” William came forward but stopped a prudent distance by a mossy rock, resting one foot on it.
“So it was you, then, who caused that landslide?” He asked but again he ignored his own question, instead asking another one, cutting right to the point. “I suppose, just like last time, this intervention comes at a price?”
Vorador turned his head and looked at him. William was certainly not like many other Humans he had come across; slow witted and dim and obsessed with the tedium of their mundane existence.
“I require information.” The Vampire admitted. The young king’s expression remained grim and there was almost a hint of anger in his eyes.
“And was the information not worth saving Barentein for?” He asked. Vorador fixed him with a level gaze.
“He was your friend.” He said quite firmly. “You ought to have saved him.” William seemed struck by this, his nostrils flaring and shoulders hunching up under the chainmail disguise he wore, face twitching and eyes wide with indignation. After a moment he relaxed again and Vorador, who had been watching his hands, noticed them drop away from the angered movement towards his sword hilt.
“I really shouldn’t be handing out military intelligence just because you see fit to do me the occasional favour.” He remarked, some of his old humorous tone returning. Vorador looked past him to the encampment for a moment.
“This has nothing to do with your war.” He said.
“Didn’t you find the white wolves you seemed so interested in?” William asked, rolling his eyes a tad exasperatedly.
“I did.” The Vampire admitted and actually managed to sound a tad embarrassed in front of the king when he added; “Now I need to find a relic.” William gave him a quizzical sort of look and then sighed but good-naturedly, apparent good temper restored.
“You are the odd one.” He said and in those five words Vorador suddenly gained more respect for Raziel. “What relic?”
“Nothing specific.” The Vampire replied. “I am hunting an artefact made out of a rare metal that is capable of drawing energy from the light of a full moon.” One of William’s eyebrows arched, his face lopsided in an expression of sceptical disbelief.
“A magic metal?” He asked incredulously.
“If you wish to phrase it that way.” Vorador replied. Despite how ludicrously he had put it, William seemed willing to contemplate the idea.
“It seems I know not as much of the world as I thought I did.” He remarked to himself and then lapsed into a long pause, his eyes cast down to the ground. Vorador watched him and saw the intent expression of a man who was rapidly calculating the pros and cons of an idea in his head. He had seen that same expression many times before, often on the sly who wanted to calculate how best to turn a situation to their advantage.
“As it happens, I do know of such a relic.” He began but then predictably added; “And I will tell you where it is, if you do something for me.” Vorador’s flat, expressionless face was impassive for a few moments. Then he leaned off the tree and walked past the young king, over to the edge of a small pond of stagnant water. A frog sat on the bank, its throat expanding with its baritone voice.
“Assisting you in winning the battle isn’t enough in payment?” The Vampire asked, looking up at the moon.
“Not for this.” William replied quickly, spreading his hands. “It is only a small request. You needn’t go anywhere to fulfil it and I doubt it would take you long.” Vorador kept his back to the king so that he would not see the twitch of irritation in his face that he could not suppress.
“And what would you request of me?” He asked, forcing his voice to stay neutral.
“You mentioned once that you were a member of the Serioli forgers.” William started and there was an intense quality to his voice. “How good were you amongst them?” Vorador turned at that, looking at the Human over one shoulder.
“I forged the Soul Reaver blade.” He replied. Even amongst the Humans, the Reaver was legend. Its dark renown had spread far and wide. All knew of the dark, skull hilted, serpentine blade that devoured the souls of any creature it struck. William’s eyes widened in amazement at such a claim. Then a grin spread across his face from ear to ear.
“That’s all the credibility anyone would ever need!” He said boyishly and almost rubbed his hands together in relish. He walked up almost beside Vorador. “Well then, greatest and most ultimate blacksmith to ever walk the face of Nosgoth, I wish for you to forge me a sword.” The Vampire looked at him with an annoyed expression. He had half expected to be asked something like that when the king had inquired about his time with the Serioli.
“You have plenty of those already.” He said with irritation at the suggestion, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the encampment. William shook his hand and made a cutting, negative gesture with one arm.
“No no, I don’t want just any common blade.” He affirmed with confidence. “I want a symbol of my station; regalia to show to the men of my divine right to rule.” William reached up and grasped the air, as though he had grabbed hold of his imagined new toy already. Vorador kept his eyes on him unblinkingly.
“A rule that was hard earned?” He asked. William paused and met his gaze, the two of them standing there silently together. William’s expression was unreadable, but Vorador kept his look direct and steady. He had begun to suspect what he knew was quite certain some time ago, and the lack of puzzlement on William’s face told louder than words that his guess might have been right.
“Indeed so.” The king said and lowered his arm, turning to face him directly. “Make me a sword fit for a mighty king and I will tell you the relic’s exact nature and location.” Vorador tilted his head and managed an ironic smile.
“Or I could just torture you until you tell me where it is.” He counter-proposed factitiously, almost hinting at personal preference. He supposed it would indeed be very satisfying to make this young, arrogant, and self-important upstart squirm on a rack. William burst out laughing at the suggestion and brought a hand to his face to muffle the sound before it could carry back to the encampment.
“Oh, you’d never get me to talk that way.” The king replied and his grin was wolfish, pointing over to the nearby tents. “I have a lot of large, armed men right over there that would be unhappy if anything unpleasant befell their king.” He gave the Vampire an amused look. “You do not strike me as the sort that has that kind of time to waste.” Vorador had to grudgingly concede that was somewhat true. He really did not have the luxury of taking too long. There were too many factions interested in the Lost City. If he wanted to reach the Celestial Arrow he was going to have to beat them to it, even Bane and Remus with whom he had made something of a temporary alliance. He could not afford to get caught up in a vengeful melee with an entire army, especially right now.
“Call it a penalty for not saving Barentein when you could have.” William suggested flippantly. Vorador grunted once.
“Your shrewdness is telling.” He said. William’s smile widened.
“Why, thank you.” He said and gave the Vampire a mocking half bow. Vorador considered the matter only briefly and then, forced to it by necessity once more, he nodded once.
“Very well, then, ‘Your Majesty’.” He said to the young, impudent king in a half mocking tone. “If you want a sword, then I will make you a sword.”