auction story snippets

[maderr]

mwahahaha. spurious_sanity is made of awesome. She requested draugr, simply put. I have never slashed a zombie before. This will prove interesting.

the first couple sections, the whole of it will not be seen until I have completed it and spurious has approved.

I always work best when I write for a particular person(s). Certainly this story has blocked out everything else ^__^

Midnight

I. The Mad Duke

I.I Rain

All adventures began with rain, it seemed.

The time of day varied, of course, but there was always rain.

It fell relentlessly across the city, today, turning midday into early evening. The window was spattered with raindrops and bits of muck washed free of the crevices by the downpour. The street looked more like a river, and the people rushing about like drowning rats.

He was glad to be inside, even if he was only going to be so for a few more minutes.

A glance at the clock showed it to be just a minute or so past noon.

It was not a propitious hour for beginning his sorts of adventures. He was a nightwalker – better to begin at noon's opposite, but no one ever bothered him at his club or knocked upon his door at the stroke of twelve.

No, they bothered him at twelve while the sun was still high.

Stifling a sigh, Devlin sat up straighter in his chair and gave one last look at the rain and frantic people outside. He signaled the steward to bring him a brandy, for to judge by the expression on Crochton's face he was going to need it.

Crochton made his way slowly across the parlor room of the fashionably shabby club that was Devlin's second-best sanctuary. He preferred his home, but even a hermit needed a change of pace once in awhile.

Especially when said hermit kept finding himself besieged by social obligations and nightmarish adventures despite all efforts to be a boring hermit.

The club was simply done up, leather and velvet and dark woods, made to look worn and aged and comfortable at great expense. Men quietly played cards in one corner, while others argued over some article in the rags at another, other scattered about in ones and twos to read or talk or simply sit in peace and cozy company.

As Crochton crossed the room, every man to the last looked up to watch his progress with not nearly as much subtlety as they liked to believe. Furtive whispers started up the moment he'd passed the first table, eyes shifting from Crochton to Devlin and back again.

Crochton was old, but not yet decrepit. At seventy three, given the life he had led, he looked better than could be expected. He'd lost one eye to a nasty bit of magic at the age of forty. It was completely black, mostly useless now, a stark contrast to the emerald green of the remaining good eye. His hair had been white since he was twenty, or so he'd once told Devlin. Very little of it remained now. The lines and scars and wrinkles carved into his skin told stories no man should have had to live through. He limped, favoring his right leg, a legacy leftover from besting four hungry goblins.

If he looked half so good when he was Crochton's age, Devlin often thought, he would count himself most fortunate.

He doubted he would live that long, however.

Someone whispered 'the mad duke' a trifle too loudly. Devlin simply look at him, and his table of cohorts, until they all paled and found something else to look at.

All the whispers, all the rumors, and a new one cropped up every time Crochton visited him.

If the bloody fools knew the reality, they would be too terrified to speak. They would likely never know how much of what they said was true.

Except, of course, for the vampire in the far corner. He lifted his glass of seeming wine in greeting as they briefly locked gazes. Devlin nodded, then returned his attention to Crochton, who slowly lowered himself into the nearest armchair.

"Croc," Devlin greeted. "What in the bloody hell are you doing out in this rain?"

"White," Crochton said in reply. "Finding you, you bloody fool. Why can't you ever be at home when I go to find you?"

Devlin shrugged. "Why do you always try there first? Learn from your errors, Crochton. I am home at night, when not being made to work. Otherwise, I like to keep the natives restless." He flicked a taunting smirk at a table of whisperers.

Crochton snorted. "Your lot never could behave worth a damn."

"Now, that's certainly not true," Devlin said idly, sipping his brandy. "Most of my family just departed for the new world. Some rot about starting a new, clean coven." He sneered in contempt. "Purists afraid of the dark. Only my sister and I remain now, should anyone decided to accuse us of being witches and start the bonfires."

"You are witches."

"That does not mean they have to start burning us over it," Devlin said. "Burning just gets our blood up, and then we're obliged to bear grudges."

"As I said," Crochton said dryly, "the Whites never could behave worth a damn."

Devlin shrugged again. "Misbehavior suits me ever so much better."

Crochton shook his head, but his one good eye sparkled with mirth.

Finishing his brandy, Devlin motioned. "So tell me what I'm about the disaster in which I am shortly to become embroiled."

"Draugr, we think," Crochton said, levity fading, green eye sharpening to a hawk like focus. "It's not been confirmed yet, but that is my conclusion from what we do know."

"Your conclusion is worth much," Devlin murmured, a knot forming in his gut.

Draugr…

He called for another brandy, and glanced idly at the scars on the back of his hand.

When the normal people of the world were bold enough to ask, he told them a wild animal had bitten him.

If on occasion one of them knew enough to know it was no animal which put the marks on his hand, they were at least smart enough not to press further questions.

Fellow nightwalkers knew better than to ask.

"Hmm," he said at last, frowning. "How is that possible? One or two would not require my presence. They are annoying, but a trifling. Many of the nightwalkers could deal with a walking dead without much trouble. The goblins would simply make a stew of the bloody things. To seek me out, the problem must be far more than it seems."

Crochton nodded.

"Why isn't Lord Tamor handling the affair himself? Is it not his territory?"

"Outside his territory, actually. It is, in fact, at the far north edge of the vampire territory…"

Devlin swore. "Bloody hell. That's dragon country."

"Not close enough for them to trouble themselves," Crochton said, the slightest hint of bitterness in his old, cracking voice. "The vampires refuse to tolerate demon interference, after the last debacle. Not even Lady Violet was permitted to tend the matter. You were the compromise."

"Always happy to be of service," Devlin murmured, feeling anything but.

"I do not see why you are being petulant about this," Crochton said. "Draugr are a simple enough matter for you, especially if you take—"

"I am not taking him," Devlin said sharply, giving Crochton a look that brooked no argument.

Crochton harrumphed, but did not press the point.

"So give me the whole of it," Devlin continued.

"Thirteen have appeared so far, at least that is all that we have been told. More likely have risen since our last missive, and those have been few and far between – purely by average means, rather than magical."

Devlin shrugged. "That is not necessarily a cause for alarm."

"I know it," Crochton said irritably. "One never knows. Do not get cocky around me, boy."

"I am no boy," Devlin replied coolly. "Thirty three puts me a bit beyond that particular epithet."

"Hmph!" Crochton said, thumping the arm of his chair. "You are forty years younger than I, that makes you a boy in my book."

"Thirteen so far," Devlin pressed.

"Yes," Crochton said, still glaring. "Seven from a graveyard, six unknown. Two reached enormous size, and three were far too close to becoming proper beasts." He looked grimly at Devlin. "Five were most definitely from the sea."

Devlin made a face and drank his brandy. Finishing it, he set the glass down sharply and called the steward. "Pen and paper, now."

"Yes, your grace."

"Thirteen," Devlin said. "Likely more. What on earth connects them?"

"Nothing," Crochton said tersely. "The graveyard ones were from seven separate, completely unrelated families. Not even third cousins in common. The rest are anyone's guess, though five being from the sea, they are most likely sailors, of course."

Devlin nodded. Sea Daugr had only seaweed for heads – to be strictly accurate, it was seaweed wrapped round and round a skull, but all anyone ever saw was the seaweed. There was no chance of identifying who the draugr might have been while alive, but most often they were lost sailors anyway, so the point was moot.

"Tomorrow is the full moon."

"I know," Devlin said. "I am sending word to my home, then I will leave immediately. Do I need to keep Lord Tamor apprised? I do hope you brought me directions, instructions, whatever all else I may need."

Crochton did not dignify the latter half of his statement with an answer, merely handed over a packet of papers. "He did not explicitly say so," he said.

Devlin nodded, and tucked the papers inside his own jacket, smoothing the deep blue velvet as he withdrew his hand. "Then tell him he will have the full of the tale when I have reached its end."

The steward chose that moment to arrive with the requested pen and paper.

Taking them, Devlin wrote swiftly, waiting impatiently for the ink to dry. When it had, he closed the letter and dripped wax upon it, then sealed it with his signet ring. It bore his family crest, a single, intricate snowflake.

A footman stood waiting in the entryway with his greatcoat. Devlin accepted it with a murmured thanks, allowing the footman to help him into it. Accepting his hat and gloves, he grimaced and finally threw himself out into the rain.

It did not take but a moment to slide into his waiting carriage, but long enough for the water to slap his face and muck to find its way to his boots.

Still, the inside of the carriage was warm and dry, and he hopefully would not have too long a journey.

Pulling out the packet of papers, he smoothed them out and began to read.

Well, so much for a short journey. The city marked was at least three hours away, and in this weather he would be lucky if the carriage did not wind up mired in some wretched mudhole.

Pulling back the curtain, he leaned out just long enough to bellow instructions to the driver, smirking in amusement at the squawk of outrage that brought.

Settling back, he continued to read over the papers.

The sound of movement, and the scent of amaranth, drew his head up.

On the opposite bench sat a beautiful woman. In the dark of the carriage, her features were not clear, but he knew them anyway. Her skin was fashionably pale, hair as black as pitch, with eyes of deepest blue. She was unfashionably tall and imposing for a woman, but a diamond of the first water in appearance, and the envy of thousands for it. Witty, charming, and too clever by far for anyone's peace of mind.

Though she looked not a day over twenty, she was nearly five hundred years old.

She held out her hand, and Devlin accepted it, dropping a brief kiss on the back. "Consort," he greeted. "As perfect as ever."

Lady Violet laughed. "Lord White, I came to thank for agreeing to lend us your services. I am certain you and Midnight—"

"Midnight is not coming," Devlin said coolly. "I am being sent to rid a village of draugr."

"Which is why he would be most useful," Lady Violet said with a faint frown. "I do not understand."

Devlin shook his head. "I will not force him to kill his own kind."

"Midnight is wholly unique."

"I cannot be certain how seeing them will affect him," Devlin said. "That is the end of the matter."

Lady Violet bowed her head in a graceful nod. "Of course. I will leave you to it then, Lord White, and hope that all goes well. Call me if you are in need of assistance. The vampires snarl, but they will not go too far."

"I am certain I can manage a few draugr," Devlin said calmly. "My best to you and our estimable demon lord."

"Ta," Lady Violet said, and vanished as quietly as she had appeared.

Devlin shook his head, and glanced out at the rain again. It was growing worse with no sign an improvement was on the horizon. He felt a pang of guilt for the coachman, who must endure the foul weather directly for the next three hours.

Reaching into his jacket, into the special pockets he had put into each one he owned, he withdrew a small drawstring bag of black crushed velvet. Pulling it open, he then paused.

Closing his eyes, he focused – on the driver, the carriage, the weather, the journey's start, and its end. He focused on the cold, the wet, the misery and illness both could bring. Then he focused on driving those negativities back, imagining a wall between them and his driver and carriage so long as the journey continued.

Eyes still closed, he reached into the crushed velvet bag and extracted the three objects which felt warmest to his touch, and came immediately to his fingers.

Pulling them out, he opened his eyes and let out a soft sigh of satisfaction – the runes had drawn true.

"Let it be," he said softly, and cast the runes on the floor of the carriage.

Light shimmered and spread along the carriage, radiating from the runes in a pattern that almost resembled a spider's web, fading away gradually as the spell sank in.

Bending, Devlin retrieved his runes. His sister, the one remaining on this side of the world anyway, preferred to work in the more modern spell circles. They were more reliable, but also more difficult and dangerous.

They also required space, time, and greater privacy, since any normal person who caught her drawing spell circles would start the bonfire straight away.

Not to say rune casting was any safer. Runes were capricious, too often unpredictable – rune casting required trusting that sometimes the runes knew better than the caster, but also accepting that sometimes the caster was not casting properly. Knowing how to tell the difference was what made it dangerous.

He rubbed a thumb over the runes still gripped lightly in his hand.

As always, they made him think of Midnight. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the driver to turn back, take him home first.

Dark, however, was hours away yet. Midnight was still sleeping. That aside, to alter the journey in such fashion would break the spell he had just cast.

He'd meant what he said, anyway. He did not want Midnight brought in to this affair.

Since coming into his care almost fifteen years ago, and after he had come of age, Midnight had proven an invaluable assistant. But no matter the spells, Midnight was still a walking dead. There was no telling how being around other draugr would affect him.

Devlin did not want either of them to wind up regretting what might come to pass.

He did, however, sorely miss Midnight's gentle presence. Having him along always made these outings more adventure and less nightmare.

For more reasons that he was comfortable contemplating.

He looked again at his runes.

They were simple, plain, as all true and proper runes were. Carved from bone, the marks carved deep, they were always warm to his touch, and grew warmer still when employed.

This set had been made for him the day of his birth, crafted by his father, who had also been a runemaster.

Returning two to the bag, he held the remaining to his lips and kissed it softly, whispering a soft prayer. Then he returned it as well, and replaced the bag in his jacket.

Settling back until he was as comfortable as it was possible to be in a carriage, Devlin closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. He did not doubt he would require all his energy and alertness upon his arrival. Experience had taught him that adventures never waited for him to be ready.


I.II Moonlight

"What have we here now?" A woman's voice demanded, slicing through the carriage, loud and sharp and grating, reminding Devlin unpleasantly of his nanny.

Fighting the last dregs of sleep and straightening his clothes and hair, sensing they were a lost cause for the moment, he threw open the carriage door and stumbled his way out. He managed to gain his feet and balance, and stand up straight and tall, just as his driver answered the shrew's demands.

"His grace the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne," the driver announced imperiously. "He has arrived on a matter most urgent and does not care to be impeded. I trust, madam, that you will inform your master straight away."

The woman nodded, but made no move to obey, too busy gawking openly at Devlin.

He resumed the battle with his clothing and hair, giving her a moment to stare and – hopefully – overcome it.

He was not especially handsome, at least he had never thought so. Certainly he was not ugly. Bright blonde hair, well trimmed and generally neat, not quite perfectly straight. Blue eyes, as most of his family bore. Tall and slender of build, but not overly skinny. Some might say he was striking, and his features were attractive enough, but hardly remarkable.

If only it was his appearance that caused the gawking. Suffering from an excess of vanity would be far preferable to the reality.

No, they all gawked because there was not a bloody fool alive who did not seem to know the name Winterbourne.

The Mad Dukes, the Satan lovers, the witches, they who consorted with devils – a family of darkness, who mockingly bore the surname of White.

"Madam," he said finally, when she showed no intention of moving any time soon. "I trust you have lodgings available? Also, my man requires a fire and good, hot food, as well as a good bed."

"Y-yes, my lord. Your grace! Yes, your grace," the woman said, tripping over the words and nearly her own skirts as she came to her senses and hastened to obey, shoving back a messy mop of gray-streaked brown curls, resettling the cap upon her head. "Yes, your grace," she repeated. "At once. Right this way. Your man can go to the kitchens, the cook will fix him up right and proper."

Signaling to his driver that he was free to go, and would not be needed further for some time, he followed the woman into the lodge proper and up to a room on the second floor that proved to be a suite of respectable quality, if not quite up to city standards.

He had, in the course of his adventure, endured far worse than respectable.

"Thank you, madam," he said, and nodded to her. "Food and a hot bath would be wonderful, if you would be so good as to arrange it. Also, a servant of mine should be arriving within the next hour or so. Show him up straight away, if you please, and see he is given all he requests."

"Yes, your grace," the woman replied, and bobbed a curtsy before shuffling out of the room as quickly as she could, no doubt to tell the whole of the village who was staying in her lodge.

Sighing softly, he began to strip out of his greatcoat, gloves, realizing belatedly that he had completely forgotten his hat in the carriage. Shrugging, he tossed the discarded clothes into an armchair and began to go to work on the rest.

A small glass dish rest on top of a bureau in the bedroom, and into this he cast his diamond cravat pin and matching cufflinks. He stripped off his neck cloth with a grunt of satisfaction, then sat down to remove his boots, setting them where they could be taken away for cleaning and polishing. Stripping off his deep blue velvet afternoon jacket, he retrieved his runes and then tossed it in the armchair with the rest of his clothing, and sat back in just his breeches and shirtsleeves.

Taking the runes, he placed them beneath a pillow on the bed, then moved to sit in an armchair with a glass of whiskey.

Several minutes later, the silence was broken by a rap on the door. The woman bustled in bearing a tray heavily laden with food, tea, and what looked like whiskey. She was followed by two large men in livery bearing a massive silver tub.

Behind them came still more servants with the first buckets of hot water.

Devlin sat in silence as they worked to fill it, thanking the woman for the food and what proved to be remarkably good whiskey.

When at last it was filled, he refused an offer of assistance and dismissed them with another word of thanks.

Alone again, he stood and finished stripping. Purely by habit he noted the scars that decorated his body – a long gash up his right thigh, so deep he had feared he would not be able to use it again. If not for his sister, that likely would have been the case.

Knife wounds, bullet wounds, teeth and claw marks, all ran the length of his torso and back, his legs and arms. He was not a pretty sight, at least according to his few foolish attempts at taking any manner of lover.

He looked in the full-length mirror tucked into one corner of the room, near the bureau, hand moving to the only mark which mattered to him – a set of three runes, marked into his skin forever, shimmering occasionally with ripples of magic.

My heartbeat is your heartbeat, my breath is your breath, my soul is your soul, until my heart ceases to beat, and my breath at last runs out, and my soul passes on.

Turning away, he cast the last of his clothes into the armchair pile, and slid into the steaming water with a deep, satisfied groan.

A small table had been set nearby, holding a tray with an assortment of soaps and oils. He picked one at random, more interested in feeling clean than whether he smelled like roses or sandalwood, and quickly set to work, starting with his hair and working from there.

It was only as he was rinsing the soap away that he finally registered the almost sickly sweet scents of vanilla mingled with honeysuckle. Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head and made a note to pay a tad bit more attention next time.

Shaking his head, he rest his head against the back of the tub and simply sat in the warm water, enjoying the heat of the nearby fire, more than content to avoid any thought of draugr for a little while longer.

He stirred only when the water began to turn unbearably cool, and stood up, water splashing all about as he climbed from the tub.

Someone had considerately left a robe for him, the woman obviously having noted he had brought no luggage with him. It was, oddly enough, a trifle too large. Crossing the room, he poured a fresh glass of whiskey and then returned to lounge by the fire until he had suitably dried and warmed.

By the time he had finished the whiskey, he was warm inside and out, and more than happy to continue the nap interrupted by his arrival here. Moving to the large, canopied bed, he shucked his robe and slid beneath the blankets. Pulling them up to rest securely and comfortably about him, he fell into sleep.

He woke with a jerk, gasping as dreams warred with reality, memories and nightmares fading away only slowly as the glow of the fire and the sounds of someone moving about the room slowly registered.

"Sorry, your grace," said a soft, rumbling voice with a trace of Irish accent. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"No," Devlin said groggily, scrubbing at his face, raking his loose hair back. "I should have woken some time ago, if it's as late as I suspect."

"Just on nine o'clock, your grace."

"Thank you, Barra. Your journey went well?"

"Aye, your grace. Well enough. Your lad weren't happy to be left at home. Said to tell you that you will be suffering mightily for it upon your return, but he'll stay home as you bid."

Devlin let out the breath he had been holding since first learning he would be facing Draugr. "Good. Have you clothes set out?"

Barra just glared at him.

Laughing, Devlin threw back his blankets and climbed out of bed, crossing to where his fresh clothes were neatly set out on a small sofa. Barra moved to help him, and Devlin permitted it like always, because Barra was happiest when helping and fussing.

When at last finished, he was dressed head to foot in black and dark, smoky grey, black opals gleaming at his throat and in his cuff links, gleaming ebony for the buttons of his jacket.

"I'm going to hunt for draugr, Barra," Devlin said in amusement, "not attending a ball."

Barra sniffed. "No sense in looking like a heathen, your grace. They're sturdy enough, for all they look like ballroom frippery."

"Of course," Devlin said, checking himself in the mirror and fussing briefly with the knot of his neck cloth. Holding out his hand, he accepted the rings that Barra set in his palm, sliding them onto his fingers – the snowflake signet, a blood red ruby set in gold, an amethyst set in silver, and a plain band of braided silver and gold. That done, he permitted Barra to place opal studs in his ears.

"Am I suitable?" he asked at last.

Barra looked at him critically. "Yes, your grace," he said at last. "Do try not to ruin the clothes your first night out, the grey coat just arrived yesterday and you did pay handsomely for it."

"Yes, Barra." Devlin moved away from Barra and the mirror and returned to the bed, reaching beneath his pillow to extract his runes. Striding back across the room, he knelt before the fireplace and closed his eyes. "What have you heard since your arrival?"

"Whole place is warded, your grace. People have protections up thick enough to make me sneeze. Once it began to grow even a bit dark, they took to their houses. There's definitely draugr about, I can smell their traces. I don't envy you having to deal with them, your grace."

Devlin snorted. "I certainly would rather give the task to someone else." No man should have to deal with such a dire case of draugr twice in his life.

Eyes still closed, he focused on the draugr, on the village, on finding and fighting, but also on the safety of the townspeople. Bringing the thoughts together as one wish, one spell, he reached into his bag of runes and withdrew those warmest to his touch.

He did not look at them, but cast them before the fire. The bone seemed to absorb the firelight and flicker with it. He studied the runes in silence for a moment. "Moonlight on water," he s aid at last. "High land – hills, most likely. The mountains, I think, are too far off and not what the runes intend."

"The pond, your grace?" Barra said. "I heard mention of it, from a woman shrieking at her husband for going out that way when he knows there are demons about."

Devlin rolled his eyes. "Demons. No demon would bother to cause such trouble in vampire territory, especially when it is so close to dragon country."

"Aye, your grace, but you know how the normal folk are," Barra said, and held out his greatcoat as Devlin stood and returned all but one rune to his bag. The last he kissed softly, whispering a prayer, before returning it to its brothers, and the bag to his jacket."

"It would seem I'm going fishing, Barra. Do not wait up for me."

Barra nodded. "Aye, your grace. I'll have breakfast ready?"

"That would be wonderful. Good night, Barra."

"G'night, your grace."

Nodding in reply, Devlin departed.

He did not bother to take a hat, propriety in this case overruled by the fact that he had lost nearly three dozen hats in the course of his eccentric occupation.

Outside, the village was quiet, empty. Even a remote village such as this should not be quite so still at this hour. The pub, at the very least, should have a bit of life to it.

It was not odd the normal folk were tucked safely away in their hoe – they always panicked far sooner than the nightwalkers.

That the nightwalkers too were unwilling to brave their own hours…

Frown deepening, Devlin continued on his way along the cobblestone streets, headed north as his runes had bid.

In the distance, he could see the jagged shadow of the mountains that marked the end of vampire territory and the beginning of dragon country.

Strange that the vampires did not simply tend to the matter of the draugr themselves. Walking dead should not pose a real difficulty to vampires.

Then again, this was the very edge of their territory; he had not seen a single one since his arrival, and Barra had not mentioned any. Likely they feared adding to the problem with their own presence. Of all the nightwalkers, vampires were most talked about and feared – after witches, of course. Normals were wrong about nearly everything they said, but ignorance often caused more harm than truth.

The vampires might also be afraid the dragons would become tangled up in the affair at some point, in which case a third party was indeed the best option. The dragon clans were nothing if not an entirely too traditional lot.

Faint threads of mist had curled lazily about in the village. Here, just outside it, the mist was swiftly turning into a proper fog. It reflected and obscured the light of the near-full moon.

It also distorted sound, but he had not survived nearly twenty years as a nightwalker by falling prety to the deceitful ways of mist.

His power would be strongest on the morrow, when the moon was full, for the moonlight had ever been the truest friend of nightwalkers. Not that he was anyone to be trifle with even on a moonless night, but the addition of the full moon made everything so much the sweeter.

Unfortunately, it also meant the draugr would be stronger – significantly.

Best to conclude matters as quickly as possible, before the full moon granted powers to the walking dead that would make them ever so much harder to destroy.

This time he did not close his eyes, simply focused on what he desired, needed – moonlight and clarity, to hear and see those he hunted, who would be hunting him shortly if they were not already.

Reaching into his jacket, he did not take out the bag but simply opened it where it rest, reaching into it and extracting three runes that were nearly too hot to hold.

Not looking at them, he cast them into the thick fog. "As you will it," he said softly, bidding the runes to do as they saw fit.

At first, nothing seemed to happen – but Devlin knew patience.

Only a moment later, and the fog shimmered, pulsed, and began to thin once more into a half-hearted mist.

The draugr were strong, but not yet strong enough their magic was superior to his own.

"Bones of my father's father," he murmured, stretching out his right hand, palm up, "return to my hand."

He'd barely finished the words when the runes he'd cast landed softly in his palm. Closing his hand around them, he returned two to the bag, and kissed the last before it joined its fellows.

Mist more or less negated as a threat, he looked around what remained. Dark fields, dotted with stone and shrubs.

The pond was not far ahead, and he did not doubt he would soon be greeting company. The runes had said the safest place to encounter them – both for himself, and to keep the villagers from harm – would be here.

It glistened in the dark, moonlight rippling, like quicksilver over black ink.

The smell struck him before anything else, for draugr were nearly always a pungent lot. He turned slowly, not eager to draw attention if they had not yet spotted him, and waited for the approaching shadows to draw near.