# The Coven of Malochai du Coudray



## Malochai (May 27, 2012)

*The Coven of Malochai du Coudray*​
_Part One_

The carriage, an extravagant affair of black lacquer and inlaid gold details, trundled along the rough dirt road, trailing smoke from two small holes in the roof, and the snorting of the four jet black geldings drawing it sent plumes of white cloud into the still, frigid night air. Atop the carriage, a tall, slender man, dressed all in black bar a vermillion sash around his waist, shivered and drew his cloak tighter around him, only his right arm out of it as he attempted to keep control of the horses, hand and face a pale white in the dual moonlight. Next to him sat a woman, swaddled in even more clothes than her male companion, but she wore leather armour over a thin chain mail shirt. A group of nine horsemen, led by one and the rest two abreast, rode steadily, sat straight in their saddle and alert despite riding steadily for most of the night, five ahead of the coach, four behind. They all wore fully enclosed armour, bridging all weak spots with with burnished steel over ebony clothes, and gauntleted hands rested easily on sword pommels, all of which had small rubies set into them. Each also sported a shield, which were emblazoned with a vermillion dragon and a black sword, the sigil of Malochai Sword's; those of his get who stood guard over him and his. Only the leader's bore any personalisation, with black trim, intricate golden designs set into them. Each mounts had their own, black armour with the same design as each rider had emblazoned on their shields.

Inside the carriage, however, it was a different story entirely. Three women were in there, dressed in rich, expensive, silken clothing that each cost more than even a merchant could earn in a year, the two young handmaidens giggling immaturely between themselves, their lady reading a book with a small smile slightly curling her lips. They rested on plush cushions made of velvet and dyed in costly purples, pinks and reds. The entire scene was illuminated by four small braziers, one in each corner, which gave off smoke which left via the small holes in the roof. The windows were covered by heavy vermillion drapes, keeping both the night and all that it concealed from the gaze of the opulent trio - not that they feared either.

The troupe continued on through the silent night that encompassed the Border Princes, passing through the petty lands of corrupt barons and robber princes, until the sun peeked his golden head over the peaked heads of the Apuccini Mountains, still far to the east, causing blood-red light to start bleeding across the sky, chasing off the lingering dark of night, creating a vista that artists throughout the Empire would have died to see. But the driver saw not this, but the threats his mistress had impressed upon him should they not have arrived at a suitable inn by daybreak. Approaching the gates, anyone could see this was not the sort of place people went when they had a choice - a pair of downbeat guards, more aptly described as ruffians, stood in the centre of the rutted, dirt path, ancient spears crossed in a facsimile of more ‘civilised’ places. A third, more muscular and sour-looking, stood behind and to the left of them, leaning on one of the gate posts and chewing on something. Inside the rotting wooden barricade, the street was becoming increasingly busy as peasants began to go about their daily business, men and women alike heading to gruelling, back-breaking jobs. When the leader of the knights pulled forward from the rest, removing his helmet to reveal a perfectly sculpted face, topped with perfect golden hair, that could have had many a maiden vying for his attention, and opened his mouth to speak, this third ruffian stepped up so his body took up the space behind the spears. 

“Won’t do ya no good. Ain’t to let no-one in ‘till it’s light,” he muttered, still chewing, but a smug look crossed his dirty, scarred face. It was clear to the nobleman that he felt he had the power, but that idea was about to come crashing about his ears. 

“Well, good sir,” the blonde-haired knight began, a slight sneer marring his face as he said it, “I am escorting Lady Clarisse von Estander to the lands of Lord Malochai du Coudray, of du Coudray Suggero.” When he’d finished, an ominous silence filled the air as the ruffian leader exchanged looks with his comrades before trying to look the mounted man in his perfect sapphire eyes again. 

“Well, then, you ... You can bugger off! Nuthin’ good comes from that place, an’ ... I’m jus’ as certain nuthin’ good goes in!” he finally managed to reply, his voice cracking a bit and his skin took on a slight sheen as sweat began to trickle down his nose and drip off the squat end of it. Nostrils flaring, the knight nudged his horse forward with his feet, drawing his steel blade, engraved with words in a language no peasant would know and raising it for a killing strike. The ruffian-guards stepped backwards slightly, but did hold their ground.

“Stop!” That single word resounded across the open space, drawing the attention of everyone bar the eight knights who still sat at ease around the carriage. The only one of the contingent who turned to it’s source was the blonde-haired knight who still held his sword at the ready. He turned his horse so he could face the woman next to the carriage driver, and when his face couldn’t be seen by the guards at the gate, a shadow crossed his face and he bared his teeth, revealing pearlescent fangs that shimmered slightly. His eyes flashed red and he growled so quietly that only inhuman ears could hear. The woman stared him down, with a look of nonchalance as she raised an eyebrow, challenging him to defy her. The dark brown leather of her armour shone slightly, and when the wind picked up slightly her gleaming brunette hair swirled entrancingly. 

“I said, stop, Orlando,” she murmured, shaking her head sadly. “As much as the imbecile deserves it, we don’t have the time to get into a mess over this. Understood?” Orlando, the blonde haired knight, nodding slightly, and his features becoming completely human once more.

“Yes, Angelique,” he muttered, turning once more to face the humans who had observed the exchange with interest and confusion written upon their faces. “Let us past!” he ordered, anger entering his voice. Angelique sat and made strange movements in the air, as if trying to draw something, and all of a sudden a look of strange contentment washed over the guards expressions, and they moved aside, all with a low bow.

“Welcome to Adelstadt,” the leader declared from his new position, to the left of the road, hand raised in a salute. With a snort, Orlando’s horse started walking and it’s rider cast a dirty look towards him, shaking his head in disgust. 

“Bloody peasants,” he sneered. 

_Part Two_

Adelstadt was just as Orlando had thought it would be from a distance - the outer walls, solid stone, protected a labyrinth of poorly constructed wooden houses and businesses. Peasants flooded the road, dirty water and excrement slowing flowing down runnels on both sides of the path, like a repugnant treacle. His heightened senses were a disadvantage here as the smell almost incapacitated him, but he fought back against the repellent aroma and kept on track. He led the escort towards the only well built structure in the settlement, a keep made of granite at the very heart of the town, using the sheer size of his horse to force scrawny, undernourished commoners out of the way, occasionally using the hilt of his sword on those who weren’t quick enough in scrambling out of the way. 

The keep was a very simple affair, like many scattered throughout the Border Princes - a solid square tower, fifty feet tall with ramparts at the top and rough-looking guards looking over them, welcoming the oncoming dawn like a farmer does the rain. As they approached the solid-looking doors of the bastion, they opened to reveal two more thug-like guards and a tall, thin man in ink-stained robes of dirty white, clutching a scroll of parchment with thin, bony fingers that looked so brittle as to break with a breath of wind. Orlando held up his right hand, gauntlet clenched into a fist, and the other knights and the carriage stopped. He continued onwards, approaching the scribe with a look of noble disdain on his face.

“I speak on behalf of Lady Clarisse, an honoured guest of Lord Malochai du Coudray, who owns the lands beyond those of your own master. I would humbly request sanctuary for the day with the promise of reciprocation should the need ever arise, and that we shall leave with the dusk so that we may reach our destination ere tomorrow morn,” Orlando began, the honeyed words sour in his throat. 

“I am Engelburt Fleich, Herald and Scribe for mine own Lord Gerhart Walden. We would be ... Honoured, to host guests of such a distinguished neighbour,” the thin, gaunt-faced man replied, measuring each word before enunciating it carefully. “However, my Lord is currently indisposed through illness. I’m sure he will be disappointed not to have been able to greet you himself.”

“I’m sure we’ll survive,” Orlando replied, sat high on his horse, gazing lazily down at the scribe. His sword, now sheathed at his waist, glinted as the sun creeped over the surrounding houses, into the square that the keep occupied. “Now, if you don’t object, we must be getting on. Myself, the Lady Clarisse, her handmaidens and Angelique, daughter of Lord du Coudray, shall be staying here. My knights shall find accommodation elsewhere in the town,” the blonde-haired visitor declared, taking charge of the situation. The other riders parted their horses, allowing the carriage to pass through, and the guards of Lord Walden’s fortress moved aside to avoid the ornate wheels as they passed. Nodding, Orlando gestured to the escort, drawing them to him with all the authority of a king. 
“Brothers,” he began, “Myself and Angelique shall look after Lady Clarisse. Take this time to rest and, if necessary, feed. _Be discreet_, we need to leave here come dusk and be home by morning. Understood?” Eight helmeted heads nodded in unison, the first clue that they weren’t just hollow armour. “Very well, begone!” He sat still as a statue as he observed the others ride off down a side street in single file, gently persuading those in their way to move. A slight smile touched his features, and, unseen by those around him, his perfect teeth quickened into fangs and back, sapphire eyes changing between sapphire, jet and back. Turning his horse around, he rode to the carriage and dismounted, before hurriedly following Lady Clarisse’s disappearing form, leaving the poor stable hands to attempt to stable the stallion.

Inside, the keep was poorly maintained; damp pervaded the floors and the muggy smell of damp material assaulted the nose. Orlando looked about in distaste, used to much more opulent surroundings, even in the way-side inns they’d been forced to rest at during their journey from Sylvania. The women thought the same; he could see their faces as they waited for him to join them in the centre of the hall they had entered. A roughly wooden throne, unoccupied, sat opposite them and the scribe, feet clacking loudly on the stone flags of the corridor floor, followed him in, making quick jerking movements as he muttered to the guards, assuming that his lord’s guests couldn’t hear him. With a slight, throaty chuckle, Orlando shook his head and joined his companions, and Angelique linked arms with him before resting her head against his mail-clad arm. 

The scrivener cleared his throat, the sound echoing slightly in the oppressive, depressing room. “If you will follow me, M’lord and ladies, I shall take you to your rooms. If you shall be requiring food and drinks, just ask one of the servants and you shall be waited upon. 

Mere minutes later, and Orlando and Angelique were in their room, arms still linked. They looked at the state of the visitors apartments with obvious revulsion. The damp was even more pronounced here, hanging in the very air. In the darkest corners, rodents scampered, the noises of their passage painfully clear to inhuman ears. The bed, which appeared to be of solid construction, was plain and the covers a faded grey, and the dirty windows let in only a nominal amount of light and the two braziers did little to improve the light or temperature; indeed, neither Orlando nor Angelique felt they needed to draw the heavy, moth-eaten curtains to shut out the light.

“We’ll be home soon,” he murmured, talking as much to himself as Angelique, before turning towards her and pulling her lips against his own, his armour-bound arms wrapping around her back to hold her steady. She melted in his grasp, and sighed gently against his kiss - “I can but hope.”

_Part Three_

Hours later, and the sun was starting to set, leaving vast swathes of the courtyard in grey shadow, roiling clouds overhead throwing the rest of the land into an overcast twilight. Orlando emerged from the door of Adelstadt’s keep, Angelique on his heels. Before him, his knights, his brothers, were assembled in a line, facing him, with the carriage behind them. 

“Brothers,” he nodded, and without another word they parted. From the bastion that loomed behind them, Lady Clarisse and her two handmaidens appeared. With a slight courtesy aimed at Orlando, she continued straight to her carriage, and Angelique clambered aboard, next to the driver. Once she was safely ensconced, the eldest of Lord Malochai du Coudray’s ‘son’s’ gestured to the stable hand who was struggling with his hot-blooded steed. The stallion, seventeen and a half hands tall, was as black as jet and as muscular as any other equine beast to ever live. A smile crossed the blonde-haired knight’s face as he mounted, sword bouncing reassuringly against his hip and helmet under the crook of his left arm. He opened his mouth to order the others to move off, but that was when he, and the others, heard it - the sound of dozens of feet, slapping against the hard dirt of the towns roads. A snarl crossed his face, and then Gerhart Walden let his presence be known ... From atop the tall tower-keep. 

“Do you think we’re stupid, du Coudray? You and yours are not natural, you’re not even _alive_. Your ‘father’ has too long held sway through fear, but no more. You die a permanent death this day!” And with that, he was gone, disappearing inside the stone walls. Militia, drawn from the peasant stock and some of them armed with nothing more substantial than thick branches from the outlying trees of the Kharnos Forest. Finally, Orlando’s facade cracked - he’d been surrounded by humans for hours, and the sound of their blood, roaring through their veins in a red hot, spicy and full of roar emotions, was wearing his resistance down. But this was the final straw. His bloodlust broke through, a red mist descended. 

“GERHART! Show yourself, coward! Would you have your peasants slaughtered like the sheep they are? Believe me, they shall be!” Once again his teeth had quickened into fangs, two inches long and wickedly sharp. His face had transformed as well, the skin becoming pale and eyes ruby red. He drew his sword, the steel rasping evilly on the sheath. 

“Launcelot, Elijah, Viktot, Emónt! Escort the carraige, get Clarisse _out of the town_, OK? Angelique, you will assist them. Once your inside the forest, you know what to do?” His mate nodded grimly, eyes hooded and face white as she, too, took on her vampiric form. The white of her face was cast into shadow as she conjured a magical wind from that which was already starting to stir up. The knights nodded and saluted, before pulling their horses around and aiming them towards the main street, ahead of the carriage. Using sheer force, they battered their way through, causing a break large enough for the carriage. Swords flashed, and crimson blood flew. 

Five knights remained, mounted on destriers with as much bloodlust as their riders. The militia, lead by the few ruffian guards, edged forwards slowly, cautiously, and Orlando caught the tang of fear in the air, mixed with sweat and, from a few of the braver men, excitement. _‘They’ll soon learn that’s not the right thing to fear when facing the soon of Malochai du Coudray!’_ he thought, before roaring, the pure, animalistic sound ripping through the very fabric of the air. It must have seemed to his opponents that the spirits of the dead had come back, to haunt and betray them as this stranger bore down on them, mounted on his huge horse, sword flicking out with expert grace and deadly precision to nick hamstrings and sever jugulars. Having broken through their ranks, Orlando jerked his mounts reins around, turning it so he could face the line again. As he charged, however, the keep doors opened and a man stepped out, causing him to halt, mid-assault. The other undead creatures kept attacking, quickly working their way through the poorly trained and equipped masses Gerhart had sent to his death.

“Orlando! I answer your challenge. Single combat. Here. _Now_,” the Lord called, the sound almost a snarl. Yet the vampire could sense something beneath that - his scribe, Engelburt, had been telling the truth. Lord Walden was ailing, and far past his prime on top of that. 

“That wouldn’t even be a contest, old man,” he replied, knowing full well he must have been almost nine times as old as the foolish human,and he enjoyed the irony. “But, I will enjoy taking your life nonetheless,” he finished, the last word ending in a low growl that no human could have heard over the din of the melee. Dismounting, he sent his mount off with a slap to the rump, and walked to Gerhart, contemptuously flicking his sword from side to side, injuring and killing commoners with each deft movement. Bloodlust filled his mind, and he wasn’t bothered where he sated it, as long as the need to kill was satisfied. No sooner had he got within range of the Lord’s sword was he attacked, the long sword whistling towards him faster than he would have credited Gerhart capable of. Yet that swing didn’t come close to breaking through his defences; he blocked it with contemptuous ease and that was when he saw the light of realisation flicker in his opponents eyes, and the flames of hope sputter. Each successive blow was weaker than the last, more strained and less thought-out, becoming erratic and panicked. 

“Yield, Gerhart, and my father may yet let you live,” Orlando muttered, sword once again locked with the mortal’s. 

“Never,” was the growled response, “Your ‘father’ will kill me for raising a hand against any of his, and we both damned well know it. You’ll have to kill me yourself!” Spinning away with a grace belying his fifty years, and then putting all of his power into one final, desperate thrust. Grasping the sword two-handed, the Lord of the Border Prince town propelled it towards the centre of Orlando’s chest, where his unbeating heart lay encased with armour of the strongest steel. And yet that made no difference, for he was no longer there. His unnatural speed ensured he was far out of the way, and when he moved back in, his hands were free of his ruby-pommeled sword, which swung precariously in it’s sheath. Hands slick with blood that had trickled from his blade, Orlando placed an armoured palm on either side of Gerhart’s face, almost as if he were trying to comfort him. The man’s expression flickered between fear and resolute determination, and the knight respected him for that, but as he’d said, his fate was sealed the moment he’d raised arms in anger against the get of Malochai du Coudray. 

“You were right,” he whispered, and jerked his hands to the right. A horrible amalgamation of the ripping of flesh, the tearing of muscle and the screeching of bone against bone echoed through the open space, and the vampires halted their killing spree to witness Orlando hold high the head of the townships former lord, confident in their armour to protect them from the fruitless attacks of the peasant filth. And even that halted when Orlando roared again, the bestial sound rolling for miles until it reached Kharnos Forest, and the main part of the escort. Lady Clarisse bristled, her handmaidens eyes widened at the noise, giggling stopped, and Angelique smiled, her face a picture of radiant beauty in the now-complete night gloom. 

“It’s done!”

_Part Four_

Orlando lead three of his knights in a thunderous chase after the carriage, through the undergrowth. Behind him, there was a huge group of mounted men - at least one hundred, drawn from townships the length and breadth of the Kharnos Forest and the surrounding areas. He thought back over the last half-hour ...

_Having killed Gerhart, Orlando organised his knights and had the peasantry kneel. They were leaderless, the body floundering without a head, Orlando having just pulled it off - metaphorically and physically. “Albericht, you will stay behind. In the keep. This is a bastion of the Suggero now! No, do not argue!” he ended, voice sharp. “Walden pitched himself against us, and failed. We have a legitimate right to this land. I claim it for myself, and appoint you my steward. Those inside the keep are prisoners, not to be harmed. You can have ten humans, _no more_, and they will not be all the best women. Understood? Now, go! The rest of us shall continue on to Caernabroke. I will return soon!”

With that, he had left with the other three knights, riding out of the gates as casually as they had ridden towards them that dawn. Fifty metres out, a thunder of hooves had erupted from around the walled town, and even in the near-darkness he could see the dust the mounted soldiers were kicking up. Even with their supernatural speed and skill at arms, they couldn’t hope to fight such a group when they were mounted._ ‘At least not alone ...’_ That thought flooded through his mind, and Orlando spurred his mount on. The other three knights did the same, almost a subconscious mirror reaction._

And now that they were in the deep darkness of the forests, he could start to enact his plan. He tapped into the tiny amount of magic he possessed, and used it to send out a howl, louder than any natural wolf could. It would draw the packs of lupine beasts that haunted the forests, and they would do his bidding. Five minutes later, he could hear the carriage ahead, the comfortable rattle of the wheels jarringly slow to his ears in his state of near-bloodlust, once more. 

When he burst onto the track, to find four knights with blades drawn and pointed in his direction, he halted, anger clawing it’s way out of his throat. “Stand down, curs!” he demanded. Without a word, they complied and sheathed their swords, but at the sounds of pursuit they slithered back out into well-skilled hands. “Angelique, send word ahead. We’re being pursued. _‘In the forest,_” which was in itself surprising, he thought. No sane mortal had willingly set foot in the forest for nearly four centuries. Not since Caernabroke was once again inhabited. 

Angelique merely nodded, knowing he’d see, and whistled, piercingly, once. Then they were all silent, the only sound horses hooves and carriage wheels crunching autumnal leaves and dead twigs beneath them. After half a minute, which seemed to drag an inordinate amount of time, a blur of darkness, deeper than the night-darkened forest around them, shot out of a tree overhead and landed beside the vampiress, rubbing a feline cheek against her undead mistress’ palm. The driver nearly jumped out of his skin, and Orlando would not have been surprised to learn he’d soiled himself. _‘Filthy peasants.’_ Whispering quietly, so low as that not anyone could hear her, Angelique spoke to the cat, who then took off again, bounding effortlessly from tree to tree, branch to branch, in the direction that the coach was headed. 

“We need to move faster ...” Orlando stated. The others nodded, and the speed was increased. 

An hour later, they emerged into a clearing, half a mile from side to that, that was almost unnaturally circular. In the centre, a cairn fifteen feet high and made out of loose rocks was surrounded by standing stones. The cat, now clearly discernible, was a metre and a half long, and completely black, apart from golden-yellow eyes, and sat at the top of the cairn, absently grooming it’s right foreleg. The men were catching up to the group, and Lady Clarisse had been growing increasingly agitated - “This is _not_ acceptable! Your father will have your _head_ for this!” she had screamed at one particularly tense moment, just after a wolf had leapt out of the underbrush and forcefully dismounted a human outrider, who had managed to get far too close for comfort. 

Yet the cairn, with the cat, was a clear sign that the trouble was nearly ready to be sorted, and equilibrium restored - the might of the du Coudray clan enforced through power and violence, and death. Loath as he was to split his forces, Orlando realised that Lady Clarisse still needed to read his father’s bastion by dawn, or she would let all hell break loose, so he ordered Emónt and Angelique to switch, so that the coach would continue with at least one armed guard, whilst Angelique still had a mount. 

The woman started murmuring, the words chilling the air and frosting before her they were spoken. Branches all around the evil-feeling glade froze, and the ground became icy. From inside the cairn, unnatural sounds started to reverberate, the cries of the dead and screeching of bone on bone shattering the already unnatural silence of the forest. It was never that quiet. In that moment, the human riders came from the tree line, twenty abreast and five deep. But these were no peasants riding draft horses. It seemed one of the numerous Knightly Orders had sent their own contingent of highly trained, highly skilled soldiers to eliminate the growing vampire threat. The Empire knight with the most ostentatious armour, silver steel plate inlaid with golden depictions of heroic deeds, spurred his mount on a step beyond the others. “You creatures are filth!”

And they charged. Stood at the bottom of the cairn, Orlando watched, calm as no human could possibly be in his position. He had absolute faith in those around him - they wouldn’t be there if he didn’t - and he knew Malochai wouldn’t abandon them. He _couldn’t_. A faint sound in the background drew his attention, and he smiled. They weren’t to be abandoned. As he’d known. 

The knights were halfway across the open space when, seemingly out of nowhere, a huge form, glistening a deep purple in the pure light of Mannslieb dropped between the two opposing sides. Massive wings spread across his view, the thin membrane translucent in the night light. A serpentine neck snaked into the sky and a roar that literally shook the trees and set the stones of the cairn rattling burst into existence, from a mouth lined with fangs at least as long and sharp as daggers. The knights were finally within range; their lances directed at the sinuous yet steel-hard scales of the dragons legs. Little did they know their folly; this was not any dragon, this was Lethyrkul, a Carmine Dragon of great age and size who worked in allegiance with Giselle, the mother of the du Coudray coven. He roared once more, and then breathed at the knights. No flames erupted from his gullet, nor deadly poison. It was so much more effective - he sent out a coruscating cloud of Amethyst magic and, within seconds, his enemies were as dust to be ground into the earth. The fight lasted minutes, with not a single injury to the du Coudrays. Turning from his kills, the might wyrm looked at Orlando with a single, evilly ruby-coloured eye that hinted at anger and hatred beyond even the vampire’s comprehension, but also a loyalty that he too felt burning within his soul. Both would fight and die for Malochai and Giselle, if it were necessary. He’d never seen that before, but his dealings with Lethyrkul were always limited; he spent most of his time in the mountains beyond the castle, hunting and sleeping.

“Little Coudray, your mother warns you - the sun rises, and you must be home before it does. If you’re not ... The consequences will be dire. She refused to say any more.” With that, the dragon flapped his massive wings and pushed off with his four, powerful legs, leaving the vampires alone and anxious to be off.

_Part Five_

As Orlando and the others burst out of the Kharnos Forest and onto the plains surrounding Caernabroke Castle, the seat of du Coudray Suggero and Malochai du Coudray’s power, the sun broke over the tips of the mountains, the feet of which the keep and surrounding township sat at. The golden ball of light hung in the purple-black sky, inching across the star-lit vista of the night sky. The vampire’s eyes teared at the sight of it. He growled, the sound feral and lupine. 

“Ride!” he yelled, as if they weren’t already pushing their horses to breaking. He got nothing from the others; they were concentrating on the repetitive clacking of hooves on the paved road and tracking the sun’s steady, perilous progress. Far above, at the peak of Mont Bonch soared, and even higher, the huge form of Lethyrkul could be seen gliding on the thermals, sunlight glancing off, making his seem like a purple amethyst, lithely flying on extended wings that cast a terrifyingly enormous shadow. 

His very presence caused the members of the coven present some concern, especially Orlando. Lethyrkul did not often associate with the undead masters of the realm, apart from Giselle who often spent days in his lair, deep in the mountain range and inaccessible to those without wings. The plains, three miles at the furthest point from the towns gates, sturdy, iron-bound constructs fifteen feet high, sped beneath the flying hooves of five horses. As the sun hit the highest part of the citadel that was Caernabroke Castle, The Dragon’s Tower, which contained the private apartments of Lord Malochai and his Lady Giselle, they reached the gates to Caernabroke Town, already open so as to admit the peasants to the fields they toiled at day after day. Guards saluted as they saw the designs on the mounts plate armour, steel spear tips glistening in the new-day sun. The streets cleared, peasants pushing to be out of the way, as the horses thundered past, the sound of iron hooves on road clattering around the large streets, bouncing off the solid stone walls of homes and business - inns, smithies, and even an armoury lined the road.

Eventually, however, these all gave way to a huge stone ramp, so wide as to fit fifty men abreast, led up to the huge, ornate gates of wrought black iron and steel of the Outer Gates, barring access to the plateau on which the castle stood. A tower burrowed into the rocky surface at either side, creating an imposing obstacle for anyone. However, they opened as the party approached, Angelique using her arcane powers to ease their passage. Fifty yard beyond them, even more impressive defences stood - Wrought iron gates, again black and silver, but now twenty feet tall, were flanked by immovable, circular towers which reached even higher. Each was topped by a flag, bearing the sigil of vermillion dragon on jet field, and made out of a grey-black granite, the same as the curtain walls which ran from them, twenty five feet in height, connecting a series of six towers which encompassed the keep, forming three sides that could be defended, the mountain creating the fourth, an unscalable slope defending the castle from the east. Once again, these gates opened, admitting the escort to the courtyard, where Lady Clarisse’s coach was already headed towards the stables, against the curtain wall. The keep was, in itself, huge and an intricate piece of architecture. It was larger than nearly all stately homes in the Empire, and managed to convey opulence and comfort, whilst also looking as strong as a dwarven city - there had ever been speculation that dwarves were hired by the original creator to create it. Three towers sprung from the main body, which was four storeys tall and topped with battlements. Two were at the front of the building, one each at the left and right corners of it, and the last was at the centre of the back wall, taller than either - The Dragon’s Tower, a structure nearly as impressive as Lethyrkul himself. 

A balcony, still in shadow, stood above the sturdy main doors to the keep. Upon this balcony appeared a man of indeterminable age, neither old nor young, and a strong physique. His expression was unreadable, until the group passed the fountain and looked up at him. A smile appeared on his face, fangs extended and eyes pure black. 

“Orlando! Sons! Welcome home!”

_Part Six_

Opposite the immense, iron-bound oak doors of the Great Hall of Caernabroke, there was a dais, five steps above the main floor, on which stood two huge, ornate thrones, made of solid onyx with gold and silver designs, depicting the lives of the two people who sat in them - Lord Malochai and Lady Giselle du Coudray. 

The Lord himself was tall, standing at six foot four. His face was classically noble, and had a condescending expression on his face that was at odds with those who knew him. His powerful build, taut muscles hidden beneath ornate silver armour, and the dark aura that literally clung about him. He would have been the most imposing figure in the room, had it not been for his wife, and the first get of his coven. She was a rare beauty from the Empire, her noble face softened by her perfect smile and the long, lustrous golden hair that cascaded over her shoulders like a silken waterfall. They both wore clothes of black and vermillion with gold and silver trimming. She sat serenely, at the centre of a vortex of swirling, amethyst magic.

Orlando, still fully armoured bar his helm, stood behind and slightly to the left of Malochai’s throne, whilst Angelique mirrored his position to the right of Giselle, both with hands clasped behind their backs. The four of them presented a fearsome sight, but the other undead lords and ladies of du Coudray Suggero stood against the walls, eight vampires against the left wall and seven against the right, due to Albericht being left in Adelstadt - the male gets who followed Malochai’s teachings and their wives, all proficient in Giselle’s arcane arts. They stood perfectly still, akin to statues, but ready to act at the slightest provocation. 

It was this sight which Lady Clarisse found herself viewing as she entered the Hall, handmaidens following two steps behind. She marched, back stiff and face blank, to the foot of the steps, where she curtsied deeply. “My Lord and Lady, it is an honour,” she intoned, face still downturned. Her maidens followed suite, demure faces almost as beautiful as Giselle. 

“Lady Clarisse, it is always a pleasure. But now, down to business - I understand you have come into possession of ... Information pertinent to my domain. What is it, and how did you come to gain it?” Malochai replied, his eyes black as goal, and whilst his languid pose may not have given it away, those who knew him well could almost feel the palpable waves of interest he gave off. Giselle moved her right hand and placed it gently on his left, flashing him a slight smile that seemed to light up the room.

“Yes, my Lord Malochai, I do. I ... ” As she started to explain herself, Clarisse was interrupted by the long, deep blaring horn cut her off, reverberating through the hall. Malochai was instantly on his feet, a growl tearing itself through his throat and out of his mouth, whilst Giselle closed her eyes and set out her arcane senses to check for anything out of the ordinary. As she did, a side door was opened and one of the castle messengers, a mortal boy of no more than fifteen years of age, rushed in, moving quickly to Orlando’s side with a look approaching fear written across his face. Scowling slightly, the first of Malochai’s gets took the small scroll of parchment proffered, and dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. He leant forward and himself offered his lord the scroll, who also took it dismissively. Face steely in his anger at the interruption, the lord of du Coudray Suggero unrolled the scroll and read it, twice :-

_‘Large numbers of enemies, five miles from the Plains. Massed attack. Peasant workers have been recalled to the Catacombs. Guards alerted and massing.
-Captain Duvillard’​_
Once more a growl ripped through Malochai’s throat, before he announced to his Coven - “Prepare for battle. The Beggar Lord’s move against us.” Suddenly, the room was a flurry of activity as the knights hurried to the walls to lead the mortal soldiers, whilst their wives disappeared off on errands they had been appointed for just such an occasion, leaving only Giselle and Malochai in the hall, silent and still. “Giselle ... I would ask you to take to the skies. They should have nothing capable of reaching you, and I Lethyrkul will be a valuable ally. Not that we should need more, of course. Now, I must go and prepare!”

Giselle merely nodded, her form totally at odds with the violent situation she was about to be involved in. She was already weaving her webs of magics, bringing together a cloud of arcane energy that would fuel all her attacks and also darken the skies, allowing her husband’s children free reign in what would otherwise be the height of day. _‘The fools,’_ she thought sadly, shaking her head as she stood and moved gracefully towards the doors that would lead her outside, where she was sure Lethyrkul would be waiting, carmine scales glittering like jewels and eyes lit with the deepest intelligence she knew, as well as a wisdom of the ages she could only ever wish to match. 

_Part Seven_

_Giselle passed through the front doorway of the castle at the same time that Lethyrkul finally landed, crouched low with his face flush against the massive, flagged courtyard, between the doors and the fountain at the centre. She glided to his side and ran a hand over the scales of his nose, the warm feeling completely at odds with his appearance. Her spell was taking effect, dark clouds forming and broiling like a sea in the noon sky, casting the caste and then spreading to cover the plains and surrounding woodland.

“Come, Lethyrkul, we have things to do,” she murmured, face pressed against his snout. The dragon, in an uncharacteristic moment of comradeship, snorted slightly, before pulling his head up, and himself talking - “Yes, we do. Now, enough of this. Let us begone.” The vampiress nodded, sighed and then stood a bit straighter, face full of determination. She moved from his snout, looked into the dragon’s left eye and saw _something_ that spurred her into action, as she clambered to sit side-saddle across the ancient dragon’s back, just in front of where the wings, huge, membranous wings, sprouted. “Let us go!”

With that, the dragon stood on his hind legs, roared, and then beat his wings, sending huge, powerful gusts of air flowing throughout the courtyard and then they were airborne, both able to feel the tempestuous magics started to centre over the castle, almost as if it were congealing._

Back on the ground, the vampires had taken their positions, leading off the groups of hundred men they oversaw and trained on a regular basis to their positions on the walls, the courtyard a flurry of activity as messengers rushed about, weapons were dispersed and strategies were enacted. However, this was a drill perfected by long hours of practice, and it was the errands of Giselle’s female disciples which were fraught with tension :-

_Caernabroke Castle sits above numerous levels of tunnels, catacombs and caverns, set deep within the plateau. In the lowest levels of the dungeons, massive chambers, lit by soft flames, contained a mass of men, feral and half-crazed, chained together with leg irons. They were fed with the rough-cut remains of the vampire’s feasting, when they were fed at all. In times of need, Rosalind, the wife of Uriel, who was the second of Malochai’s gets, would make her way down to their prison and perform the rituals of blood and horror that released their true nature - lean, slavering Skin Wolves that had an insatiable appetite for the blood of others, coated in the skin, blood and gristle of their human counterparts. Using one of the revered Scrolls of Binding that the coven has gathered over the years, she bends them to her will and sends them deep into the forests that surround the seat of the Suggero._

The mortal guards and their Undead leaders stood on the ramparts for an hour as they awaited their first sights of the enemy, but all could hear the screams of dying men and the bellowing of orders. The men, under the stern gaze of their leaders, stood their ground despite their obvious fear, but some did start muttering amongst themselves, agitatedly. The vampires let them; they wouldn’t run. They knew it would go badly for them if they did. Atop each of the six towers, a ballista sat, the squat, oaken forms swiveling to target the forms starting to emerge from the forests. 

_Yeltar, a soldier of twenty summers, marched in time with his comrades, each doing their best to stay in formation through the trees. A drum beat their rhythm, with the musician’s deep, bellowing voice aiding in keeping time. He grasped his sword hilt in his sweaty right hand and shifted the shield in his left hand. The tramp of armoured feet on fallen branches filled the air, blocking out all other sounds of the surrounding regiments._ ‘Left, right, left, right,’_ he repeated to himself, and it soon became his main concern - bar not tripping and the enemy he was certain to be fighting soon.

Sunlight began to filter through the thinning trees, dappled gold and green scattering on the ground. The order to stop was given, and out of nowhere more regiments appeared and formed up on either side. The very atmosphere was tense, and a feeling of dread and suspense settled over them. From the north, along the line, a horse and rider trotted, the mounted officer meeting a contingent from the south twenty yards from Yeltar, and a brief, muted conversation took place, before the rider disappeared back to the north and two more dispatched to the south. That left three by Yeltar, who felt a shiver run down his spine. An expectant hush fell, and then the largest rider, on the tallest horse, cleared his throat. Immediately, all attention was on him, and he began to speak.

“This is the day! For centuries, our lands have been terrorised by an undying plague! Our forefathers sat on their haunches, hiding in the shadows of their own keeps, terrified to act, hoping this unnatural brood would move on! I myself have waited too long to act! But no more! We have here the combined forces of_ seven_ Princes and Barons! Ten thousand men! They cannot fight us, they can only die!_ Once and for all!_ My name is Prince Alfredo de Rojas, formerly of Estalia, the Land of the Setting Sun! Well, now the sun sets for the du Coudray Coven!” A huge roar of approval followed this, until the soldier’s throats became hoarse and sore. 

Alfredo raised his sword, turned his horse to face the Plains, and then started off at a slow walk. A collective shiver passed through the ranks as a roiling cloudscape passed overhead, plunging the gold-and-green woodland floor into the blacks, purples and greys of dusk. A howl permeated the distant woodland, and a scream followed. Yeltar swallowed nervously, shifting his hand on sword grip and shield again. He didn’t hear the beat of canine paws on dead bracken and leaves over the roar of blood in his ears and the beat of his heart, louder than any drum. But he saw it - seemingly coalescing out of darkness, a lean, half-crazed creature, nearly eight feet, bearing qualities both wolfen and human, red eyes burning with intense hate and anger, hunger and desire for blood. He absorbed that in a second, but didn’t have the time to yell a warning, nor did anyone else. The skin-wolf’s claws slashed through the flanks of Alfredo’s horse, and dirty fangs clamped around the Princes’ gorget, tearing deep gouges. The horse toppled, but the struggling nobleman remained in the air, held only by the creature’s powerful jaw. More creatures, similar but bearing distinctive differences, followed the first. The last thing Yeltar saw was dark-grey fur, already matted and slick with gore, bearing down on him, fangs glinting evilly, eyes full of rage. A steel determination filled the soldier, and he roared back, his right fist breaking as he slammed it into the creatures ribs, which felt like iron. The last thought to flit through his mind before his head was torn from his body, was, _ ‘They’ve lost...’ 

_Despite the terror being enacted throughout Alfredo’s soldiers, the other lords advances, oblivious to the death of their ally. The first ranks began entering the plains, and were stunned by the town they approached, and the sheer aura of dread that pervaded the air. Thousands of prayers were mumbled to assorted gods and goddesses, begging Myrmydia, Taal, Morr and Shallya to grant them mercy and release, victory and life. Most of them knew it would do them no good. Most knew they were marching to their death.

Part Eight_

Malochai emerged from his stables, astride the back of a truly magnificent, huge pegasus, with hair and feathers of deepest black, twenty hands high at the withers. Large fetlocks played around iron-shod hooves as Abastor, one of the Bretoni pegasi, strode across the courtyard with a majestic elegance that belied his size. The lord of du Coudray Suggero emerged from the gates of Caernabroke Castle, drawing to a halt where the natural stone bridge met the plateau, surveying the scene with a grim satisfaction, and mortal soldiers ran from their positions to close the painfully heavy gates. His armour, a heavy mass of steel, covered in runes of varying uses, was the deep red of dried blood, his shield black with a vermillion dragon emblazoned on it, golden edging studded with precious gems. His sword, the blade five feet long, deadly sharp and forged of black steel, hung sheathed at his hip, lance in hand - the blade, fourteen feet long, looked as if it was attempting to split the broiling clouds overhead with it’s tip, made of the same black steel as the sword blade. 

The pegasus bridled beneath him, biting at the champ. “Woah,” he murmured, patting the beasts neck, ensuring he had taken in all there was to see. He rolled his neck, the cracking deafening to his unnatural hearing. The gates finally shut behind him, the sound resounding over the plains with an unmistakeable finality. The lord of Caernabroke didn’t have much magic at his disposal, but what little he did have, he put to good effect - just then, he caused his speech to carry further, enabling everyone, ally and enemy, to hear him. 

“Men of Caernabroke, men of the Suggero! These men invade your homes, my lands! Repel the fools, repel the invaders! Defend yourselves!” A cheer, tumultuous and cacophonous, greeted his words, and Malochai roared, the sound rising above it all, riding the waves of noise. He thrust his lance into the air, and a peal of lightning rent the sky, like the heavens themselves were tearing themselves apart, the clap of thunder close on it’s heels. The vampire lord saw the destruction caused by the Wolves, and grinned. He nudged Abastor slightly with his heels and the pegasus launched forwards, unfurling his huge wingspan. 

The pegasus climbed a hundred metres above the highest tower, before diving at the troops emerging from the trees. His lance impaled three unfortunate men at the same time, and they added more shrieks and screams to the choir of the dying that filled the air. The scent of blood, tinged with the exotic spices of fear and excitement, mixed with the sight of vibrant blood spilt across the boughs of trees, soaking into the earth and running down the long shaft of the weapons that Malochai wielded, as he now had his sword held in his left hand, the blade flickering out and striking like a snake, slashing stomachs and spilling guts whilst his lance tore out throats and impaled others. He was alive as he hadn’t been in years, the haze of bloodlust obscuring all sensible thought. It was only the natural instincts and the battle training that Malochai had ingrained into Abastor which kept him from launching himself into the centre of the enemy army and slaughtering them single handed. The lord sheathed his sword, and grasped a soldier just as the pegasus climbed again, and ripped out the mans jugular using just his fangs and guzzled the blood like a babe suckle’s at his mother’s breast. He dropped the body from a height that would leave the remains mangled, lost in the countless others that were laying slaughtered on the plains. However, from this height, the smell of blood receding below him, the vampire saw the true state of the battle. He had devastated the remnants of enemy’s centre line, and wreaked a terrible toll, but the flanks of the opposing army still continued. He bellowed his rage at their foolishness as they came into range of the ballistae, and more men were cut down as the huge bolts tore through ranks like a hot butter through cheese. 

Despite the outrageous number of mortal deaths, the enemy still outnumber du Coudray’s forces, and it wouldn’t be long until they reached the gates. _‘That would be an affront against what I have worked towards for the last four and a half centuries! They must_ die!’ he thundered in his mind. A nudge from his feet again, and Abastor dived, but not towards the enemy - he landed two hundred strides away, before calling out.

“I challenge your most able fighter! And once I’ve killed him, the next! Again, and again, until you all lie dead at my feet in a mountain of flesh and blood. _*Who accepts my challenge?*_” Even his own lieutenants flinched, back at the castle walls, at the power and anger that resonated through his voice with those last four words. No-one expected what came next:-

“I do!” 

_Part Nine - Coming Soon_


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## Dave T Hobbit (Dec 3, 2009)

An enjoyable read; I look forward to the next part.


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## Malochai (May 27, 2012)

Thank you :biggrin:


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## Malochai (May 27, 2012)

I have posted up Part 6 into the first post


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## Malochai (May 27, 2012)

Part 7 is up!


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## Malochai (May 27, 2012)

Part 8 is up


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