more auction story

[maderr]

Is currently at 43,000 words, and should be about 80,000 when I finish (if all goes according to plan). So, hopefully another week or two and I will be done ^__^



I. III Black Witch

There were three of them, and to judge by the increasingly awful smell, old ones.

Arguments abounded about whether fresh corpses or old corpses made the better draugr. The fresher, the better put together and the longer it would last physically. As they grew in power, the body would weather the changes better. Older corpses, however, took better to the magic. They would grow stronger faster, and be all the better for it – if they survived the rigorous changes required. They'd also had more time to forget any personal elements of what it was like to live – they would not try to find old lovers or family, or their old homes.

It was also a toss up between land draugr and sea draugr, but Devlin had always considered that a pointless argument – one worked with what one had, and if there was no ocean to hand, then land draugr it was to be.

Here, however, both would be available. The three approaching him appeared to be nothing more than low level land draugr – hardly a reason to summon him. They were not even attempting to go on the attack, just heading toward him at a steady gait.

Thinking only of what he faced, what he must do, Devlin reached into jacket and gave his trust to the runes.

Seven were hot to the touch, and came to his hand at once. Holding them loosely, he let his arm rest at his side, and waited.

Their eyes glowed a rich blue that was both dark and bright. These were old corpses, but not terribly old, for significant amounts of flesh remained. The skin was snow white where it still clung to the rotting body, shining in the moonlight where it managed to slip through the mist. The bones, where they peeked through the rotting flesh, looked black.

They were, in fact deepest blue. Corpse blue, some called it. Draugr were a type of walking dead most distinguished by their stark white flesh and dark blue bones.

Now they were moving with a bit more purpose, as the scent of his life fully reached them. They made noises that in a living creature would have been sounds of hunger, hate, even a bit like lust.

Backing up a step as they increased their pace, he threw a single rune at the nearest, calling out as he did so, "As you will it."

He did not wait to see what would happen, merely repeated the gesture at the other two.

As one, they burst into flames that were deep blue and violet, with hints of purest white and dark scarlet. The draugr screamed and snarled as best they were able.

Then they vanished.

Devlin frowned.

Something was wrong. They should have burned to ash, the witch flames shifting from violet and blue to far more common orange and red, as first the curse was burned away, then the remaining magic and corrupted bits of soul used to do the cursing, and finally the body itself.

They should not have simply vanished.

Someone, or something, had called the draugr away before they could be completely destroyed.

Whoever had done it had not only sensed the draugr had come to harm, but had overpowered his rune cast witch fire.

That would require sorcery, or necromancy, at the very least. Surely he would have sensed either, was someone of such magical talent in the vicinity. An alchemist, perhaps, if he was of sufficient skill.

A demon could do it, but this was not a demon's style – they had no need of draugr or other such creatures. Demons had no need of anyone. A sorcerer could be employing a demon, of course, but again there was no need, not if he had a demon at his disposal.

He understood now why Lord Tamor had sent him, and why the vampires had agreed. This clearly ran deeper than simply draugr stirring to protect their possessions. They were not waking, but being woken.

"Bah," Devlin said, and held out his hand, summoning his cast runes.

He did not restore all the runes to his bag, only those he had just used. The others he kept hold of, to use should things shift against him.

It was still far too quiet. Night was never truly silent, when one knew how to listen. A silence this deep was the silence of fear, and it meant that the dead still walked amongst the living.

The runes were hot in his hand, agreeing with his assessment, awaiting their casting.

Nothing stirred. Nothing smelled. Nothing belied its presence.

He did not like it.

Brow furrowed, he turned back to the dark pond, watching the silver ripples as a light breeze stirred the water, upsetting the reflected moon. He looked up. No clouds inhabited the sky, leaving the stars naked and bright, dancing around the queen moon.

He looked back down at the pond, and a sudden burst of heat from the runes made him wince.

That and the splash of water caused him to leap back just in time, as a roaring monstrosity rose from the water, sloshing water all about, spraying him with it, along with what were probably bits of rotted flesh.

Grimacing, Devlin threw three of the remaining four runes he held, calling for the runes to do as they saw fit – the creature burst into witch fire, shrieking in pain, but it did not stop coming toward him.

It was large, easily the size of an ox, here stark white, there dark blue, slimy like the soured meat it was, but with the telltale gleam of scales which said this thing that had once been human was becoming a true monster.

He swore softly and threw his final rune to slow it, reaching to grab more – when bright gold flames joined his dark ones, and the creature was turned to ash.

The presence struck his senses just as he heard a voice, and Devlin whipped around to face it.

"Well, well," said a figure that might have been carved from ice, he seemed so cool and hard. Devlin did not need the light to know he wore the stiff, imposing garb of a priest – and the holy marks of a slayer. "I might have known that if draugr were about, a black witch would be as well."

Devlin smirked, but ignored him for the moment. Turning his back, a tacit insult, he held out his hand. "Bones of my father's father, return to my hand."

Runes back in hand, he deposited all, with a kiss to the last, then finally turned back to the priest. "If I am a witch, you should not suffer me to live, priest. Have you come to kill me?"

"Such a one as you is not worth my time, Duke Winterbourne."

"Hmm," Devlin said. "Here I thought you might be able to do something about the sudden chill I was feeling. I suppose I shall have to light the fire myself."

The priest shifted restlessly – angrily, likely. The bastard had never possessed so much as a scrap of humor. "Why are you summoning more draugr, your grace? Have you grown bored with that abomination you are said to possess?"

"He might be an abomination in the eyes of most," Devlin said coldly, then pointed a finger at the silent, shadowy figure half-hidden behind the priest, "but that, Father Winsted, is cruelty in the eyes of all."

Father Winsted stepped back, chest puffing out with anger and pride. "This? You can only envy the skill."

Devlin stared at the sad, pathetic creature which stood motionless and uncaring as Father Winsted pet it. "That is the saddest excuse for an angel I have ever seen. Your lot never could perform real magic worth a damn."

"I believe it was holy fire which just saved your worthless skin, witch," Father Winsted replied. "It would behoove you to show a bit more gratitude."

"I am the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne," Devlin replied, reaching up to smooth a hand down his jacket in a gesture of bored amusement, flicking back the lace at his sleeves with a practiced motion, making certain the moonlight caught in the various jewels he wore. "Showing gratitude to lowly priests is beneath me. Especially lowly slayers who form weak angels from a weak will and must use holy fire to kill a draugr when basic witch fire is more than sufficient."

"Arrogance will be your downfall, witch," Father Winsted snapped. "No good ever came from choosing the path of the devil."

Devlin shrugged. "The devil always hosts a better fete, and he is by far the better dancer. I do not work well when priests are about, so I shall leave the draugr hunting to you this night, Father. Do indulge me though – who bid you come here?"

"None but the lord."

"I was afraid of that," Devlin replied, and walked past him, headed slowly back toward the village.

Marvelous. Draugr were not enough, now he must contend with a money-hungry slayer. Hadn't they all been killed off and eaten by goblins yet? He had not stumbled across one for so long, he had half-hoped they had finally passed out of existence.

Draugr, slayers, he did not want to know what might cross his path next.

"Your grace!"

He looked up as Barra came loping toward him. "What is it?"

"A priest—oh, never mind. Sorry, your grace. I had hoped to find you before he did. Smelled him right as I was bedding down for the night."

Devlin gripped his valet's shoulder in comfort. "Quite all right, Barra. I should have sensed him before I did, but the draugr rather took all my concentration."

"So you did find them, your grace?"

"Yes," Devlin said. "Something most strange is afoot. Did you bring my books?"

Barra bristled. "Of course I did, your grace, and Master Midnight added a few more to the pile as well. Said you should have thought of them, but probably were too distracted."

Devlin smiled.

"Your grace…what with the draugr, and the priest now…did you see his angel? Terrible shame, that one – do you think it might be prudent, begging my forwardness and all…"

"No," Devlin replied to the question Barra did not quite manage to ask. "Midnight is to remain home, and that is final. The more I see of this mess, the better I feel he did not come."

That was not true. He ached for the soft smile that made eased him no matter what his mood or troubles, the touching words that always discomfited, but warmed nonetheless.

He lightly touched his chest, feeling the warmth of the marks over his heart.

"Look sharp, your grace," Barra said. "That bloody priest is coming 'round again."

"I am overcome with excitement," Devlin murmured, making Barra laugh.

He turned slowly, resisting an impulse simply to walk away – it would just annoy the good Father all the more and compel him to follow Devlin back to his lodgings.

"Father, is it not well past the time when good, god-fearing children should be tucked into their wee beds?"

"Tis my divine duty to slay the heathen creatures infesting the night and drive them back into hell where they belong. Should I start with that filthy mongrel you call a manservant?"

Devlin regarded him coolly, looking down his nose at the supercilious bastard with every scrap of condescension which bred into him. "Strictly speaking, sir, only demons come from hell and they are always summoned by others. It is impossible for them to come if not called. This man is not my manservant, but a trusted and valuable assistant. If you so much as harm a hair upon his head, I will kill you."

"Threatening a man of the cloth, are you?" Father Winsted asked, seeming more amused than angry.

"No," Devlin replied. "It had been my experience that threats are most often empty. I do not make threats. I make promises. Do not hunt those who belong to me, do not even insinuate that you might. I have killed for far less."

Father Winsted glared, his smug amusement gone. "You are the one who requires killing."

"You are welcome to try. Certainly your ancestors put enough of mine to the pyre and listened to their screams. What stays you from doing so now?" He bared his teeth in a smile of mocking cordiality.

In reply, Father Winsted only glared hatefully.

Still all charm and smiles, Devlin asked, "How is your little sister these days, Father?"

"One day, Duke Winterbourne, I will see you put to death," Winsted snarled.

"I do not doubt that one day I will die with your knife in my back," Devlin said. "However, the blood debt you owe me will stay your hand a little while longer, and we both know you are not quite foolish enough to spill the blood of a witch so close to the full moon. Holy man you might be, but fighting with the devil is simply another manner of dance. Ta."

With that, he turned and walked away, Barra close upon his heels, ever watchful.

This time, Father Winsted did not pursue them.

"No mistake, your grace," Barra said a few minutes later. "That one won't be happy 'til bathes in your blood."

"Indeed," Devlin replied. "I expect some day he shall. I do not doubt he helped persuade my brother and sister to depart for the new world to find salvation." He grimaced.

Barra snorted. "Whites have always been black witches, and the very best of the lot. 'Tis a sad day indeed when they begin to follow the path of the so-called righteous."

"All things come to an end, Barra," Devlin said quietly. "Everything which rises must someday fall. The Whites were always bound to decline someday." He smiled faintly. "We shall not fade away entirely, however. Too many fortunetellers have declared we would live forever, one way or another. Perhaps some of that time will be amongst the righteous, but the truth will out. One day we shall all be black once more."

"Aye, your grace."

They lapsed into silence then, content to say so until they reached their lodgings. "My books, Barra," Devlin said as they entered the building. "Perhaps a pot of tea as well, if one can be found about this place at this hour?"

"Of course, your grace. Bite to eat as well, I should think. Back in a blink, and the books will be on your bed," Barra replied, and left him at the foot of the stairs to see to it.

Climbing the stairs, Devlin let himself into his rooms and promptly stripped down to his black waist coast, casting all else aside for Barra to tend. Then he strode across the room to the bed to take up the half dozen volumes sitting upon it.

Three were of a goodly size – one bound in black leather, with archaic symbols written in an ornate script across it. The second was bound in deep blue leather, stamped with silvery runes. The last was bound in red leather, and bore no markings.

Of the remaining three, two were of an average size, both bound in plain brown leather, with only simple runes stamped along the spine, and the snowflake crest on the front. They were spelled so that only those of White blood could open them, or those who had permission freely given.

The last was small enough to tuck into his jacket should he desire. It was a compendium of his encounters with the walking dead. He had started it a little over fourteen years ago, when a night which had started out so simple and calm had turned into a complicated nightmare and thrown him down the path to becoming an expert not simply on nightwalkers, but on the walking dead.

Moving to the fireplace, he set the books on a small table beside one of the deep armchairs there. Settling comfortably into it, he took up the larger black book first. As always, Midnight proved an invaluable assistant – even at a distance, he filled in the holes Devlin left.

The black book was a general history of magic in the area – when the various types of nightwalkers had begun to appear, when the vampires had staked their claim, what little information was available on the reclusive, secretive dragon clans. It was not a book he had thought to request, being far more interest in his family grimoires and two of his more interesting bestiaries.

Ignoring the pang that came with thoughts of Midnight, Devlin settled down to read.



I. IV Tradition

He muttered to himself as he read, a habit of old that had often had his siblings groaning and complaining and throwing things at him until he shut up.

More than once, he found himself starting to speak more loudly and clearly, as though to another person. He also caught himself looking up to catch a patient, gentle smile, or starting to give an order to jot something down.

He scowled every time he did it, growing increasingly aggravated. Honestly, was he so attached?

The answer, he conceded reluctantly, appeared to be yes. It should not come as a surprise, for he had always made a poor hermit. He was the oldest of four, and had ever been surrounded by two boisterous sisters and a reckless brother. His parents had been just as vibrant, perhaps to counter the grim realities of living a nightwalker's life. He was the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne, a position that had more than a few conventional obligations in addition to his decidedly unconventional responsibilities. He had little use for normal companions, but counted several nightwalkers as friends, and dozens more as comrades in arms and associates.

Barra had been with him even longer than Midnight; he was far more friend than manservant.

Despite their profound stupidity, he still loved his siblings who even now were still crossing the sea to find a new home. He treasured his remaining sister all the more for being the only one to stand with him. He still missed his parents something fierce.

He did not deny he loved Midnight. From the very first, Midnight had stirred something protective and fierce. How could he not love Midnight, who shared his heartbeat, breath, and soul.

Still, he should not be…oh, bugger it. He was pining away like a homesick lover, though he certainly did not love Midnight in such fashion.

What was Midnight doing now? At this late hour, with no one else about, he was likely buried in the library. Perhaps stretched out on the long chaise Devlin had put in there solely for Midnight. He had been a voracious reader from the very first, reading faster than Devlin could acquire new volumes.

He might go in search of a bit of fresh blood, a rare indulgence but one Devlin granted him. He did not require it the same way as other living dead, but enjoyed it in much the same fashion Devlin enjoyed his brandy. He certainly drank far less than the peasant vampires wandering about all over the city.

Swearing softly, Devlin slammed his book shut and returned it to the pile on the table. Rubbing his temples, he forced away thoughts of Midnight. He did not need him to do this; it was foolish to feel so out of sorts simply because a trivial pattern was broken. Another day or two and he would be home again, and all would be well.

Nodding, he reached out and picked up the red-bound book.

The pages were hand written in an elegant, spidery script, the writing frequently interspersed with drawings, diagrams, and other useful visuals. It was a bestiary that focused exclusively on the walking dead, and extremely rare. Only three other copies of it remained.

It was only one of many valuable books in his family's collection.

Not a one of them, he could not help thinking with a hint of smugness, contained anything even remotely similar in nature to Midnight.

He sighed as he realized that the very moment he had let his guard down, his thoughts had gone straight back to his absent companion.

When had he become so dependant upon Midnight? How had he never noticed?

Perhaps it was simply because they had never been apart so long, for Midnight had helped him from the very moment he was old enough, strong enough, to do so. Before that, he had taken Midnight along with him anyway, far too worried about what might happen were he to leave his mysterious charge alone.

Too many had wanted Midnight killed once and for all. Still others, when seeing what he had done, had wanted to learn the spell, duplicate it. He had not dared let Midnight out of his sight, in those earliest days.

Now he could not even study without Midnight near to hand, far too used to reading and dictating, while Midnight transcribed his words and bickered over every last one of them.

He rubbed his temples again, chagrined by the depths of a dependence he had never even noticed was there.

The sound of the door opening drew his attention, and he looked up, grateful for any distraction.

"Tea, your grace," Barra called as he came bustling in with a tray that was piled high with a good bit more than tea. "I managed to nick a bit of left over supper, as well. Books proving useful at all, your grace?"

"Yes," Devlin said. "A bit." He accepted the cup of tea Barra held out, taking several sips. Strong and sweet, perfect as always. "Marvelous. Thank you, Barra."

"Aye, your grace," Barra said, then grinned. "You look a bit put out, if you do not mind my saying so, your grace.

Devlin glared at him over the rim of the teacup. "Only if you are about to encourage me to summon Midnight."

"Oh, I would never be as impertinent as that, your grace."

"Indeed," Devlin retorted, "and I am destined for sainthood." He stared into his teacup. "Something is odd, where the draugr are concerned. I also do not like that Father Winsted has shown up; his presence never bodes well. I will not risk Midnight in this venture."

"As you wish, your grace," Barra said peaceably, though it was clear he still disagreed with Devlin's decision. He held out a bowl filled with a thick, warm soup. "Have a bite to eat, then, before you get back to work. That and a bit of rest, and I haven't a doubt you'll solve the mystery before another day has passed."

"Let us hope you are correct," Devlin said, and accepted the fragrant soup.

Several hours later, he felt game enough to begin the next stage of the investigation.

The greatest difficulty in being a nightwalker was the hours – especially when one was a Duke, and had normal matters in addition to duties decidedly abnormal. In his case, there was also Midnight to consider, who could not walk about in sunlight.

It meant his life was composed of snatching sleep where he might, and oft times that meant sleeping through the morning and early afternoon. He was, fortunately, considering an eccentric – peculiar sleeping habits only made him more so.

By the time he was fed, rested, and ready to face the world once more, it was just past two in the afternoon. Beyond the windows of his rooms, the sky was overcast and gloomy. Barra had already warned him it felt far more like winter than autumn, and had dressed him accordingly.

Today he was dressed in black and deepest red – hardly subtle, but as his presence here was already well noted, subtlety was hardly a requirement. He let Barra do as he pleased, only fussing for form's sake.

"Ready, your grace," Barra said from where he stood near the door, dressed himself for the inclement weather.

"Excellent," Devlin replied, and shrugged into his great coat, settling the heavy folds of it into place. Then he took up the gloves Barra had set out, pulling on the supple black leather and flexing his hands to settle them just so. "Lay on," he said at last. "The pond first, I think. Let us see if some manner of clue managed to survive the good Father's holy fire."

"Aye, your grace," Barra said, and opened the door, following behind Devlin and locking it up. "It's doubtful, of course. That angel was poor-made but strong."

Devlin grimaced, balling one leather-clad hand into a fist. "Yes, they dump their will into the power and very little else. A pity. Angels are beautiful when properly made. It is something of a lost art these days, I fear. Neither here nor there, at the moment."

He nodded absently to the people clustered together in the main hall downstairs, ignoring their gawking, and led the way out into the street.

In stark contrast to the previous night, the streets were filled with people rushing about on errands, off to visit friends or family, and nightwalkers here and there doing what could be done during the light of day – savoring it, no doubt, for many nightwalkers simply could not pass for normal in sunlight.

Plenty of staring followed in his wake, but Devlin ignored them all, his attention solely for the pond, the draugr.

Unfortunately, the pond turned up nothing. He found a trace of ashes at the pond's edge, but not even his considerable skill could pull any information worthwhile from it.

When priests destroyed something, they did the job thoroughly. Devlin had to concede that much, if reluctantly.

He frowned in thought, looking out over the pond, the surrounding land – hills and fields, a rolling landscape of dark green, stone walls, rock, and jagged shrubbery. Combined with the dark clouds overhead and the chill in the air, it was both reminiscent of his family home and the stuff of nightmares.

"The first three came from that direction," he said, pointing toward the mountains. "I doubt they came from dragon country, for surely those bloody knights would have bestirred themselves to tend to a few draugr, but there may be something afield we cannot see here."

Barra nodded. "Shall I shift, your grace? I'm picking up smells aplenty, but I could pick up more…"

"Do so, then," Devlin replied.

Nodding again, Barra went perfectly still – then bent over and fell to all fours. By the time he touched the ground, he was no longer a man, but a large wolf with russet fur. His green eyes were all the more vibrant in this form.

He chuffed, and nudged Devlin's hand, then darted off, nose to the ground as he explored.

There was a delicateness to him that no werewolf naturally possessed. A rough lot, werewolves; a nightwalker race more than happy to cling to their savage, wild ways rather than succumb entirely to civilized ways.

If a wolf could be pretty, that was certainly Barra.

Unfortunately, it was a trait held against him. Devlin had, in fact, encountered Barra when he was being attacked by full-blooded wolves. He had sent the wolves fleeing for their lives, then taken Barra home – partly out of concern, but partly out of curiosity.

Someway, somehow, Barra had never left.

Barra let out an excited bark, then bolted.

Devlin chased after him, running fast enough to lose sight, but not foolish enough to try and keep up.

They moved steadily through the countryside, pausing here and there, as Barra turned up burial mound after burial mound, some more obvious than others – far too many of them empty. Still more seemed undisturbed, and Devlin warded them as best he could.

He wished he could say that would be sufficient, especially as it always had been before…but something told him matters would not be so simple this time.

Casting a ward over the last, he recalled his runes and replaced them in his jacket.

Looking around, he saw more time had passed than he had realized – and they were right at the mountains now. Returning to the village would take them hours, likely. Evening was already beginning to encroach.

Damn it. He should have taken more care.

He hoped his wards would hold, because to be out here when the moon rose and the draugr with it…

Shaking his head, he dismissed worries about which he could presently do nothing, and looked around for Barra.

Barra roamed the field, nose still to the ground, pausing every now and then to chuff at Devlin, friendly easy noises that said he was enjoying their work, and felt they were making progress.

Then just as abruptly he whimpered and bolted toward Devlin, tangling in his legs before sinking to lie at his feet, whining softly and plaintively.

Devlin frowned and knelt, stroking and petting. What in the devil would frighten and cow Barra so? Especially to the point he did not shift back into his mostly human form.

The question was answered even as he silently asked it, as two figures slunk out of the scrub of trees lining the mountain side.

One was human, tall and broad and handsome in a fierce way. His hair was dark gold, eyes dark, his features the kind that one associated with ancient portraits of noble kings and lofty lords. He was dressed entirely in black, save for hints of a deep violet waistcoat. His jacket fell to mid-thigh, only half the prominent metal buttons done up, leaving the bottom half open – likely for the man to better access the sword hanging low on his left hip.

He walked with a confidence – an arrogance – that not even Devlin possessed.

Most of it due to the creature which moved with the sinuous grace of a predator alongside him. Despite the fading light, the creature's dark-silver scales gleamed, and its amber eyes glowed. It growled low as they drew near Devlin and Barra, tail lashing back and forth with restless grace.

"Who are you, who dares to trespass upon the land of the Pendragon?" the man demanded coldly.

Devlin stood slowly, careful not to alarm the growling dragon. He met the man's eyes, which this close proved to be dark brown, without flinching. "Who are you, who dares to demand a name without giving your own? I have not trespassed quite yet, and will not tolerate such blatant rudeness."

The man grunted, annoyed but conceding the point. "I am Neirin du Lac, knight of the Clan du Lac, in service to the Holy Pendragon." He dropped one hand to rest it lightly upon the head of the dragon. "This is Troyes. I ask again, witch, who are you?"

Before he could speak, Barra shifted back to his mostly human form. Standing straight, despite the fact he was clearly unsettled by the fearsome dragon. "He is Lord Devlin White, eleventh Duke of Winterbourne."

Neirin's brows went up. "Winterbourne? What brings a rune master of such notoriety this far? Have you business with Pendragon?"

"No," Devlin said. "I was asked by Lord Tamor and Dracula North to investigate a draugr problem in this vicinity. Unless it spills over into dragon country, I cannot think I should need to put your people to any trouble. I drew close only because my assistant followed their scent this far."

The dragon growled again, more loudly, head swinging up to look at the transformed Barra. Neirin did likewise, eyes looking pointedly at the delicately pointed ears. "Yes," he said, voice dripping distaste and disapproval. "What manner of mongrel are you? Obviously wolf, and the ears are decidedly elfin…peculiar indeed."

Barra flinched, as though struck, and recoiled to stand behind Devlin.

Devlin immediately reached for his runes. "Your manners leave much to be desired, knight. Has your lot forgotten kindness, so consumed by being coldly superior? Is chivalry so dead?"

"I do not answer to you, rune master," Neirin replied curtly. "The clans act with a purpose, whether it is understood by outsiders or not. What is this about draugr? No such thing has been seen about here, and Troyes has not smelled them."

The dragon – Troyes, Devlin supposed – made a sharp barking sound. He had never actually seen a dragon before, and had assumed much of what he had heard to be overblown rumor.

It would seem it had all been very much fact. The dragon was large, nearly the size of a small pony, and half as long again. Beautiful as only deadly creatures could be, all teeth and scale and that wicked looking tail.

He startled as the dragon abruptly shifted into the form of a handsome, even pretty, young man with longish black hair and amber eyes, dressed much like Neirin save for a blue waistcoat and no sword, and boots that climbed to his thighs rather than stopping at his knees.

"Lord Neirin," Troyes said in a voice that still held a hint of draconic growl, "I do indeed smell moving death here. I could not before." His nose wrinkled, twitched. "Witch magic." He looked at Barra. "Wolf. Elf. Human."

Barra flinched again.

"Leave him in peace, dragon," Devlin snapped, "or I will show you that even an overgrown snake like you can have cause to fear me."

The sound of a sword being drawn drew his attention back to Neirin, and Devlin was impressed despite himself at the man's movements, his simple presence – arrogant and aggravating, but it would seem he had earned the right to be so, at least to some degree.

"Do not offer a challenge you are not fit to meet, rune master," Neirin said. "I promise you and your mongrel are no match for Troyes."

Devlin smirked. "Do not be so certain, knight. I have fought and survived far worse than you. Do not insult those who fall under my protection. Barra has done you no harm, and he is owed an apology."

"I owe nothing of the kind," Neirin replied. "I speak only the truth – he is a mongrel. My dragon only picked out the individual parts, and named them. There was no insult given, and it your fault for construing one."

"Certainly I can see why no one continues to listen to your great fallen king," Devlin replied curtly. "I guess he has forgotten that once he too was a mongrel. Take yourself off, knight. I do not waste my time by fighting with presumptuous children. My concern is solely for the draugr, and as I doubt you will stay and lend your assistance to the matter, best to take yourself off."

Neirin's eyes flashed with anger. "Now who is casting needless insults? If you insult my liege again, rune master, then you will get the fight you are obviously seeking. My assistance I would have lent, but I will not fight alongside a man so unworthy of it. Do not trespass upon the lands of Pendragon, rune master, for you will find no welcome."

With that, he sheathed his sword and turned sharply around, striding away with all the arrogance he had displayed walking toward them.

Barra spoke when they had finally vanished into the trees from which they had come. "Apologies, your grace. Never met anything like that before – I did not mean to present you so poorly to them."

"I felt no shame by your presence, Barra, and you well know it," Devlin replied, gripping his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He smiled. "They were just angry that we are both prettier by far. Come on, then, let us explore a bit more before we return to the village. A chance, but one we must take, for that damnable knight cost us precious time and we need whatever clues to this affair your nose can find."

"Aye, your grace," Barra said, and shifted back to his wolf form.




I. V Heartbeat

Dark fell hard and fast, and Devlin should have made for the village far sooner than he did.

They travelled swiftly but not, he feared, swiftly enough.

Barra panted close by, though he was not running as fast as he could, because there was strength in numbers and he was too loyal to leave Devlin simply to reach safety sooner.

It was cold now, a bitterness to it that hinted at the coming winter.

"I sense no draugr," he said. "Barra?"

Barra growled, but in a way that indicated all was well for the moment.

Mist was curling all around them, but it did not have the feel of being magically summoned. He hoped it remained that way. They certainly would have to face draugr at some point, but he preferred to do it closer to the village, should matters take a dire turn.

Hopefully it was not much further.

His hopes were dashed by Barra's low, warning growl – followed immediately by a shrill scream.

"Damn it," Devlin swore, and promptly followed when Barra took off running, anxious not to lose him in the dark and mist.

The scream came again, definitely that of a woman, probably young.

They found her in a small house a mile or so from the rough path they had been following – and he thought he glimpsed gravestone through the mist as the shadowy shape of the cottage itself came into view.

She was curled up in the doorway, screaming for dear life and clutching what looked like a rosary as three figures closed in on her.

Two of them were overlarge, the changes occurring too fast for the rotting carcasses, causing the flesh to swell and split, completely burst open in places. The smell would have made him gag, save he was far too used to it.

Barra threw his head back and howled. The sound was high and sharp and piercing, and carried a hint of magic to it, the unique affinity all elves possessed for living things.

The draugr were far from living, but they likely remembered it, and would be drawn to the power and life Barra offered up so prettily.

Turning away from the screaming woman, the draugr began moving toward Barra.

Distracted by the howl, the pretty bait, they forgot to look for a hook.

Devlin cast his runes, one to each creature, three in total, and left four in his hand.

They burned, screams drowning out the woman's – then vanished.

He swore, loudly.

The woman's screams abruptly cut off.

"Barra," he said sharply, sensing more dead, wondering what had become of the woman. "Go find her."

The mist was a proper fog now, thick and dangerous – but he dare not waste his runes at the moment, for in the time it would take him to retrieve them, or simply draw new ones, they would be upon him.

"Safe," Barra called out. "She got inside, and has barricaded it I think."

Devlin nodded, some of his tension easing. At least the woman was safe, and now they could work without having to look out for her as well. "More are coming."

"Aye, your grace," Barra said. "I can smell at least six of them, and two are right bastards."

"Bloody hell," Devlin said, and recalled the runes he had already thrown.

Barra frowned. "I smell the ocean, your grace."

Devlin shook his head. "Impossible. The sea is on the opposite side of the village. There cannot be sea draugr here! It has only been dark a few hours, and it would take them most the night to travel such a distance. Confound it!"

Then the draugr were upon them, and these ones did not move slowly. No, these were more powerful, and six turned to seven, turned to eight, and every time he struck one, two more seemed to take its place.

None of them remaining long enough to burn away. Shortly after the witch fire struck, they simply vanished, and more appeared to take the place of the lost.

Land and sea, precisely as Barra had smelled.

Devlin cast his runes, and realized he was out. He was beginning to tire. Dodging the large, heavy arm of an extremely swollen draugr already beginning to show scales, he knocked hard against the side of the house, and realized abruptly he was far more tired than he had first surmised.

These draugr were not attacking aimlessly – these were no greedy beasts eager for life or desperate to protect their belongings. These were coordinated, and attacking with some greater purpose, being driven or guided.

Being controlled.

He held fast to his runes, depositing most of them back in his velvet bag, keeping seven in hand, lurching to his feet and drawing upon his remaining strength, forcing his mind to work.

One scaled draugr was suddenly two, and Devlin fumbled with his casting, too tired—

Then one gave a garbled, pained cry, and tumbled to the ground.

He did not waste time in wondering, but cast his runes, watching it burst into flame and vanish.

The second did not get a chance to make a sound

Instead, its head was suddenly gone, torn away by a fearsome strength. The body fell to the ground, and lay still.

He cast his runes again, and watched in amazement as this time the body actually burned. The flames shifted steadily from deepest violet slowly down to basic orange, until finally going out, leaving only a pile of ashes.

Barra growled, and he followed the sound, swiftly burning two more decapitated bodies.

When the last was done, he cast out his senses. He could feel no more draugr.

Except…

"I told you no," he said softly, knowing the barely audible words would be heard anyway.

Soft, gentle laughter drifted back toward him.

Then the fog began to clear. Slowly, bit by bit, it faded from the thick soup it had become to a thin mist, to delicate tendrils…and finally vanished altogether.

Without the fog, the night was clear and cold and sharp. High above, the full moon shone bright silver, casting down its light in a dreamlike parody of midday.

Atop a dark horse – a dark brown stallion, Devlin knew, for it was his own favorite horse – sat a figure whose snow-white skin seemed to glow in the moonlight. His hair looked black, but Devlin knew it was a deep, rich blue. It fell just past his shoulders, and had probably been tied back at some point. Unlike Devlin and Barra, he did not wear a heavy coat, merely a black brocade jacket with a subtle skull and crown pattern.

He did not even wear gloves, though they were likely tucked away somewhere. His nails were as dark as his hair, and would be just as blue in full light. Like his eyes, as deep and dark as a sapphire, or the depths of the sea. His face was that of an angel's, but his smile was the devil's as he slid from the horse and swept Devlin a careless bow.

"You should not be here, Midnight," Devlin said. "I gave explicit instructions that you were to remain home this time."

Midnight rose to his full height, jerking his head to sweep his long hair back over his shoulders. He laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. "The pen said one thing, but I heard quite another, heartbeat."

Devlin scowled. "It is not safe for you, not with the draugr acting so oddly. I do not care what you decide to hear."

"I hear only you, heartbeat," Midnight said, and Devlin refused to be soothed by the fond, gentle smile Midnight gave him.

Refused.

Midnight's smile faded as he looked out over the moonlit field. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. "There is a…song, heartbeat. A song for the dead. It is beautiful, enchanting even. Compels the draugr to wake, and walk, and kill, and whatever else the siren song says."

Devlin frowned. "You are not enchanted."

The smile returned, and Midnight moved toward him, reaching out to rest a hand lightly upon Devlin's cheek. "The angelic choir would never sound half so beautiful to me as your voice, heartbeat." Midnight touched his own chest with his free hand. "I hear you, and feel you, to the exclusion of all else."

"Cease," Devlin said, refusing to flush like a schoolboy, feeling a discomfiture that only Midnight could draw from him.

Midnight laughed softly, and let his hand slide away.

"I suppose it would be a waste of time and effort to order you home," Devlin said with a sigh. "Damn it, Midnight."

"You could not expect me to ignore your summons, heartbeat," Midnight said. "Hearing you but being forced to stay home was a cruel thing to ask of me. I had to come."

Devlin sighed again, but let the matter drop. "So what is the point of origin for this siren song?"

Siren song. That was deep magic – a spell, most often in the form of music or song, that compelled those who could hear it to do whatever the spell said, to the point the victim would even kill himself. It took a powerful magic user to cast such an enchantment.

Especially one who managed to cast it over walking dead.

"I cannot tell," Midnight said slowly, frowning pensively. "It comes from nowhere, and everywhere. Peculiar. Impressive. That is sorcery at the very least, or necromancy, yet I sense neither. Only hear the song."

Devlin frowned. "The spell could be distorting your perception of the location, but neither I nor Barra have sensed the presence of a powerful magic user. I am the strongest in the region, at the moment." Which suddenly reminded him he had not collected his runes. Holding out his right hand, palm up, he recalled the runes, kissing the very last one before tucking all away in his jacket.

Midnight watched him go through the ritual, an intensity to his faintly glowing dark blue eyes. "So what shall we do, heartbeat?"

"If you are here, I suppose we can press on with our explorations," Devlin said reluctantly.

He would definitely be an extremely useful addition – Midnight was the penultimate draugr, and more besides. So long as Devlin lived, so too did Midnight, but he was still a draugr, with all their strengths and weaknesses.

Sunlight was his greatest enemy, followed by the holy magic wielded by the likes of Father Winsted. Thanks to the spell that granted him life, he did not crave or need the flesh of the living to maintain a semblance of life – unless he exhausted his strength, in which case he most often drank blood from Devlin or Barra.

Unlike most draugr, he did not grow to enormous proportions as many did before they settled once more into a more human like shape. He could, however, shape shift as only the most powerful draugr could. His alternate shapes were a raven and a cat, both of a blue so deep they could be taken for black except in the sunlight Midnight would never see anyway.

Midnight smiled at him again, reaching up to brush back a long strand of hair. The movement pulled on his sleeves, drawing them back just enough to show a bit of the runes marked into his skin. A ring of runes wrapped around his wrists, ankles, and throat. A cluster of runes rest on his lower back, still more on his abdomen, with the three master runes forming a triangle over his heart. They were twin to the marks over Devlin's own heart.

Heart, breath, and soul.

"Shall we then, heartbeat?" Midnight asked.

"Yes," Devlin said, "but do not think that you are not in trouble for defying me, Midnight."

Midnight grinned. "I will accept whatever punishment I must, so long as I am by your side."

"Oh, do stop it," Devlin said, fighting a smile, refusing to be anything but aggravated Midnight had defied him.

"Yes, heartbeat," Midnight replied. He stretched, and spun around in a circle. "A beautiful night for hunting, hmm? Could the magician we seek be hiding out in dragon country?" His eyes glowed brighter. "Do you suppose we might see a dragon?"

Devlin winced. "We already saw one, earlier."

"Oh," Midnight said, slumping in disappointment. "What was it like? Are they as fierce as everyone says? Do they really have silver scales?"

"More like steel, really," Barra said. "They shone more like metal than scale, for a certainty. Right bastards, if you ask me." More than a trace of bitter unhappiness thickened his voice.

Devlin's mouth tightened. "Yes. They could give me lessons in arrogance."

"That is impressive," Midnight murmured, snickering when Devlin glared at him. He batted his eyelashes. "No one wears arrogance better than you, heartbeat."

"They called Barra a mongrel," Devlin said.

Midnight smiled sweetly. "Then I look forward to meeting them myself, and teaching them some manners. I though knights were supposed to be the very definition of courtly and chivalrous and all that rot."

"Rot, yes," Devlin said. "Come, the night is passing."

They both nodded, Barra shifting back to his wolf form.

"Thank you for the horse," Devlin said.

Midnight nodded, but said nothing, merely stood as though waiting for something.

Devlin conceded defeat after a moment, as undone now as he had been the first time by the dark sapphire eyes. "I am still angry with you, Midnight, but I am happy you are here."

Smiling in that way of his, sweet and gentle and warming, Midnight stepped close and embraced him, burying his face against Devlin's chest.

He smelled like magic, or so Devlin had always secretly thought – bitter and sweet, rich and sharp, like copper and roses tangled together. Though he should be cold to the touch, he was warm in Devlin's arms.

Their hearts, Devlin knew, beat together – literally as one. Sometimes he thought he could feel it, Midnight's heart beating against his own.

"Come," he said, reluctantly loosing his embrace, refusing to think of how much more he would like to do.

Midnight nodded, drawing away slowly, fingers trailing before he finally pulled away entirely. "Shall I take to the sky, since Barra is covering the ground?"

"Have you the strength?" Devlin asked.

"I made certain to draw a bit of blood before I came after you," Midnight said. "A footpad who will remember nothing."

Devlin nodded. "Then take to the sky, Midnight."

"Yes, heartbeat." Midnight stepped back and threw out his arms – and in the next breath, he was a large raven.

He landed lightly upon Devlin's shoulder, a surprisingly heavy weight, and picked at his hair for a moment before cawing and launching into the sky. He flew in circles for a minute, then cawed again and flew off into the night.

Barra howled briefly in greeting, then took off after him.

Devlin laughed softly, and strode to his patiently waiting horse. Few animals could tolerate nightwalkers – even fewer could tolerate Midnight. His horse had always been unflappable, and the only one Devlin knew who would not only tolerate Midnight, but permit Midnight to ride.

Mounting, smiling because suddenly he just could not help it, he settled himself and then gave the horse its head, indicating only that he was to join the chase.

Nickering, the stallion eagerly obeyed, taking off across the night with confidence, chasing easily after Barra, who in turn followed the near-invisible form of Midnight flying high in the sky.

They likely would not find anything tonight, not when it was so late, and their unknown nemesis had most likely retreated…

But it was enough, for now, simply to run with his oldest and dearest friends by the light of the moon.