The skaven was almost past them before they had seen it, crossing the junction where they had found the corpses. The youth drew the shorter of his blades, but his companion had drawn a blade and driven it through the creature, high against its collarbone before he had the chance to wield it.

  The skaven remained standing, clutching at its shoulder as the older man twisted his blade and opened the wound, making the ratman shriek and fall.

  ‘You’re right,’ said the youth, ‘they’re fast.’

  ‘Still not fast enough, though, lad.’

  The Count turned as he heard the sudden shriek of a skaven, a ratman under attack. Moments later there was a thud, and the faint sound of words, or perhaps humming. He bent his ear and concentrated on the sounds, but they were not words in any language that he recognised, and nor were they the sudden squeaks and squawks of the skaven. He wondered for a moment if the words might have come from the elf, but dismissed the thought. The sounds came from behind and above him, and the great warrior was surely deep among the ratmen, killing and maiming, and, besides, the elf had been alone, with no one to talk to.

  The next junction was a dog-legged right turn down another slope, a marriage of stone and earth that included several ragged steps. The Count hid himself in the shadows at the bottom of the steps and waited.

  He heard steps, not the scamper of claws, but the definite strides of upright bipeds. The strides seemed long for any but the tallest humans, but light and confident, more like a dance with a regular beat than simple walking. There were, however, two distinct walkers, the rhythms slightly different.

  The strides sounded at first close by, but then deviated before coming back at a right angle to their original position. The corridors were irregular, labyrinthine, and sounds echoed and bounced around in the spaces in a manner that the Count found confusing. He did not trust them.

  He moved away down the sloping tunnel that had begun with the stone steps, and could hear nothing.

  He stopped again, and the footfalls were audible once more.

  He walked back to the steps, and the footfalls stopped.

  The Count was sure, now, that he was being followed. His pursuers stopping to listen for his footfalls, and walking towards him when he moved on.

  He knew that he could not mask the sound of his steps, or the vibrations he made in the tunnels. He was not built for subtlety and his armour would not allow for it, but he was built to fight, and he would be ready and waiting for the battle when it came to him.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ asked the youth. ‘That is not the sound of his stride.’

  ‘Nor that of a ratman,’ said his companion.

  ‘A human, then?’

  ‘A super-human if he was responsible for the killing we’ve seen,’ said the old man. ‘A true warrior. I doubt such a man would exist among the towns and villages, and among the people we have seen here.’

  ‘A traveller, then, a mercenary?’ asked the youth, ‘but then why did the locals tell tales of an elf and not of this mortal?’

  ‘An exceptional man might seem like an elf to some of them, and might easily become an elf in the telling of their tales. The humans call it “hyperbole”, and they’re wondrous accomplished in the use of it.’

  ‘We should leave then?’ asked the youth. ‘We should search for him elsewhere?’

  ‘Where “elsewhere”,’ asked the old man, ‘when there is no word of him anywhere but here. Besides, even the most resourceful human might benefit from our assistance against the skaven.’

  ‘Have we not a purpose of our own?’ asked the youth.

  ‘Our purpose has ever been to serve,’ said the old man, ‘and serve is what we shall ever endeavour to do.’

  A sheen of red light penetrated the air as the Vampire Count blinked. He knew that they were close, and he knew that he had no choice but to confront them. He expanded the muscles in his chest as if breathing deeply into stone-hard lungs, and he felt a calm descend around him. He would fight. He knew that he would fight, but, for the first time since he had been immortal, he also knew that he could fight and lose.

  The youth looked at his companion, his mouth open slightly as if to say something, but his feet stilled against crumbling earth. The passage was to his right, stone steps leading down into it at an angle. He had seen something.

  His old companion looked steadily into the youth’s eyes, forbidding him to move or speak.

  The reddish light shone faintly but steadily to their right, a little below their head height, but the steps surely allowed for that. The old man moved silently against the wall opposite the tunnel mouth and waved a hand for the youth to stand beside, but behind, him.

  They both concentrated hard on the dull light that went out and then returned as if in a blink.

  The two men unsheathed their short blades, swords being too long and unwieldy in the confined space.

  The youth gestured with his head tilted in the direction of the light, as if asking a question.

  His companion shook his head, keeping his eyes on the opening to the tunnel.

  Whatever was waiting in the entrance to the tunnel was not human, and nor was it the elf they sought. Whatever was waiting in the entrance was not skaven. It was assuredly not friend, and so it was almost certainly foe.

  The old man adjusted his grip on his weapon and, as swift and silent as he could be, he flew down the steps, straight at the red light, ready to defend his life and that of his companion.

  A blade came to meet his, mere inches from their faces, as the old man got his first look at his opponent. The youth followed his companion with all haste, but stopped dead in his tracks on the bottom step, stunned by what stood before him.

  The youth thrust haphazardly with his blade, but not before his adversary had unsheathed a second weapon, parrying both blades, before turning both of his opponents’ weapons away.

  The youth looked from his friend to his foe and back again, unsure of his standing. Should he fight alongside his companion, or should he wait to see what transpired between the two combatants? Honour required that only one of them should do battle with their adversary, that he stand down in favour of the older man, and the first to attack, but their assailant looked like a fierce creature, the stuff of legend.

  The old man tossed his short blade to his left hand and drew a second with his right. He did not draw a sword, knowing that it would become an encumbrance in the limited space, and he was not eager to blunt it on steel and stone. The knife he drew from his boot was an all-purpose tool more than it was a weapon, but its long, grooved stiletto blade was honed to an edge for skinning beasts and stripping the bark from saplings, and wielding it would double his chances of striking the Vampire Count a fatal blow.

  The Vampire Count came on fast and sure, and the old man had to duck and parry fast and aggressively to prevent the first three strikes of the Vampire Count’s blade from finding the flaws in his defence. Then he was on the attack, looking always for chinks in the warrior’s armour as his blades flashed left and right, aiming at joints and the soft places under the arms and thighs and in the groin. He did not expect to hit his targets against a swordsman who was clearly more than capable, fast, strong and determined, but he might put the beast on the defensive, and slow down the chances that a counter-attack might prove fatal.

  The youth had never seen the old man sweat before, and was surprised to see it now. He was even more surprised by the Vampire Count’s prowess with a blade, and his confidence, especially when face to face with so masterly an opponent.

  The Vampire Count grunted and feinted, and then came in at an angle across the old man’s body, and the youth finally realised that his companion might be in real trouble. The blade in his hand was ready, and he was as capable as one so young and untried could be. He had certainly proved himself in the training arenas, and had taken more instruction from the old man on their arduous journey to this place. He cut in, instinctively forcing the Vampire Count’s blade wide of his target, slewing the steel across the undead’s body at a clumsy angle, unbalancing him.

  The old man got a blade in low, and felt sure that he had torn into the Vampire Count’s calf, despite there being no blood to show for his effort.

  The Vampire Count didn’t falter, but stepped into the youth’s next lunge, bringing them virtually nose-to-nose with each other.

  The youth breathed in as he prepared to break and thrust, and almost gagged on the rich dry smell of death mixed with the sweet aroma of lapping powders and the musky scent of the fine chamois that the Vampire Count used to polish his armour.

  His old companion came to his rescue, blindsiding the Vampire Count with a sweep and a lurch, bringing the blade in his left hand up clumsily, but effectively, into range of those fierce red eyes.

  The Vampire Count ducked the old man’s strike, and the youth rallied.

  The youth’s next thrust was fierce, but ill-considered. He wanted nothing more than to maim and kill the vile creature, but his disgust had got the better of his fighting prowess, and his desperation to succeed led to a clumsy attack that was easily parried away. The youth found himself without his blade, and had to step back to regroup while the old man held back the Vampire Count as effectively as he could.

  The fight slowed.

  The old man brought both blades to the battle, lunging and crossing, the first blade skidding off the curving steel of a cuisse, the second barely making contact with the inside of the Vampire Count’s left forearm. The undead warrior parried lightly, making no attempt to separate the old man from his weapons, and failing to take advantage and counter-attack.

  The fight slowed further, the old man testing the Vampire Count’s resolve to do him real damage, leaving an opening here, an undefended flank there. He took a tear in his cloak and a nick to an earlobe for his trouble, but no final swing, no fatal blow was struck.

  The youth stood and watched, aghast, before coming back into the fray, at which point, the Vampire Count doubled his efforts to take into account his attack.

  ‘Fight, fiend!’ declared the youth, appalled that such a creature should dare to patronise not only himself, but his revered companion. ‘Attack!’

  The old man simply stepped back, leaving the youth to do his best. His best was fine, good even, but it was not the stuff of great legends.

  ‘Desist,’ said the old man.

  The youth fumbled his parry and was rewarded with a long scratch down the length of his right arm, as he reacted in disbelief to his old friend’s command.

  The red-eyed creature desisted at once, sheathing his weapon and taking a short step backwards.

  The youth attacked once more, a combination of frustration and desperation getting the better of him. He sliced a neat gouge in the Vampire Count’s cheek, and watched, horrified as it failed to fill with blood. A thin trickle of yellowish liquid eventually drizzled out of the curving gash, and the folds of skin separated slightly, but, by that time, the Vampire Count had taken hold of the youth by his shoulders and was holding the stunned boy at arm’s-length. The Vampire Count’s eyes, still red, failed to shine as brightly as they had before, and the youth thought he saw melancholy in them.

  Then the moment has past. He shrugged the Vampire Count’s hands off his shoulders and took a step back to stand next to his companion.

  The Vampire Count began to turn slowly, confident in the knowledge that he would not come under attack a second time. He felt as weary as he had ever felt, his existence perhaps more futile than it had been only an hour or two ago. He had thought to meet his nemesis, and he had found only another enemy, a worthy enemy, who had given him a fair fight, but these two would have to work longer and harder if they were ever to find a way to best him. The old one, perhaps, for he had clearly been a great warrior in his time, but the youth had a very great deal to learn, and the Vampire Count would rather be a part of that education than end the boy’s life before it had begun. Mortality seemed even more precious to him now, when he viewed it in the eager eyes and strong young limbs of the boy.

  If he had been capable of shedding a tear, the Vampire Count might have shed one then, but only for himself, and only because he was thwarted in what might prove his last chance to meet a worthy adversary. Perhaps in another hundred years the boy would be up to the challenge. He did not want to wait another hundred years.

  The Vampire Count had taken two or three steps forward before the old man called out to him.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  The Vampire Count half-turned, but made no move to walk towards his adversary.

  ‘You are not he,’ he said over his shoulder, his voice deep and hollow and his tones heavily accented with a guttural intonation that the boy had not heard before.

  The old man thought for a moment, and the Vampire Count waited for him to formulate his thought, standing in impressive profile before them.

  ‘I am not he,’ he said.

  ‘Nor neither of you be,’ said the Count.

  The boy tried to untangle the oddness of the phrase, which, even by the standards of human language felt like a form of torture to his ears. Then he looked from the Vampire Count to the old man.

  ‘He has seen him,’ he said.

  The Vampire Count, failing to understand the boy’s alien language, made to turn from them again.

  ‘You have seen him, then?’ asked the old man, using the only language the two had in common.

  ‘Him?’ asked the Vampire Count. ‘I sought out the ancient one, sought out his valour and his wondrous swordplay. I sought to expire at his hand. I sought to count him mine liege lord of death.’

  ‘You have fought him, then?’ asked the youth.

  The Vampire Count turned to face them both, intrigued.

  ‘Thou art brethren to the ancient one?’ he asked. ‘Brethren, and yet lesser warriors than thou shouldst be.’

  ‘Older,’ said the old man, ‘or younger.’ He gestured to the youth.

  ‘Cousins,’ said the youth. ‘I believe we call each other cousin. I am his cousin, and my revered companion is his teacher… and mine too, should I impress him.’

  ‘Thou, teacher, hast been bested,’ said the Vampire Count, without irony.

  ‘I was bested a great many years ago,’ said the old man, sheathing his blade and then sitting on the step behind him, stretching his left leg in front of him and pushing his second weapon back into the inside edge of his boot.

  ‘You are alive,’ said the youth. ‘How come you to be alive. Why would he not kill a monster such as you?’

  The old man looked up at the boy.

  ‘A little respect for the warrior,’ he said in their own language. ‘Talk of being bested might give him cause to best you yet, and me too, should it fall to his will.’

  The Vampire Count turned and took a step away from the pair as the youth also made to sheath his blade. Death would not release him from a thousand years of undeath today, and he was tired of talk made so difficult by the version of his language which they spoke, but which he hardly recognised.

  Then came the sound.

  It filled the corridors with a booming rush that resonated at a frequency lower than anyone would expect from a skaven horde. It was, nonetheless, a cacophony of voices baying and calling as one mind with one intention.

  The Vampire Count stood still among the wave of sound as it rolled over him, and then turned to the others. The old man was standing with one hand against the stone wall beside him, and the youth had armed himself and was trying not to cower against the onslaught that was that ferocious cacophony, while clearly intent on getting away from it as fast as he could manage.

  The old man stayed the youth with one hand on his arm, a touch both reassuring and commanding. Then he looked hard into the Vampire Count’s eyes for a moment before asking his question.

  ‘Do they call for him?’ he asked. ‘Is the ancient one still below ground?’

  The Vampire Count had an image in his head of Gilead standing in a broad, dark, stinking space, surrounded by tunnels, cutting down ratmen two, three, even four at a time. He remembered the baleful cries as the ancient one wrought his destruction on the petty vermin. He remembered, for a moment, the dual in the forest, and he knew not how the elf had been taken, but every ounce of magic left in his veins told him that he had, that the ancient one would be found below ground, deep in the heart of the Rat King’s empire.

  The Vampire Count said nothing, he simply turned on his heel and lumbered off down the tunnel towards the deafening roar that once more assailed their senses, beckoning as he went.

  ‘No!’ shouted the old man, behind him. His hand was still against the earth wall, and he let go of the youth’s arm in order to point in a direction at a steep angle to the tunnel they were standing in.

  The Vampire Count knew that the old man was better equipped than he was to judge the distance and direction of the sound, for he knew something of the constitution and skills of the elf-kind.

  The three unlikely companions turned as one, climbed the steps out of the tunnel, and turned into a narrow earthwork, one at a time, descending steeply into they knew not what.

  The old elf, Fithvael thought of Gilead, his companion and friend.

  The boy, Laban te Tuin Tor Mahone, who had attended Baneth’s funeral and been given into Fithvael’s care, thought of the legend that was his great cousin, Gilead, and hoped that he could somehow prove worthy of the trust that had been placed in him by his community, and of the family connection to his hero, however tenuous it might be.

  The Vampire Count thought only of an all-embracing nothingness that would end his misery forever.

  Chapter 7

  Don’t clamour so. I promised to finish my story and finish it I shall. Then I can end this sorry existence and join that great brigade of storytellers that shines so brightly in my memory. I am rested and eager to continue, if you could just remind me where I left the story off. It seems like years since Gilead’s name passed my withered lips, and yet I know it was mere hours ago.