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[Zh`Azhak Szvoyza]

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A blood-stained scimitar fell on the deck of the ship, plucked out by the cloaked man looming over his near-dead associate. “Go, get the sails up, we are leaving!” barked the captain, coming out of the cabin and closing the door, leaving the bleeding man and the figure accompanying him inside. Within moments, the ship was slowly making its way out of the Papua harbour. Inside the cabin, Golpur groaned as Zh`Azhak moved him to sit against the wall. Blood flowed from Golpur’s chest, staining the mage’s hands and the sleeves of his shirt. “You won’t survive this one, do you realise this?” he said, and Golpur nodded. Blood was beginning to drip from his mouth, as he began to speak. “Everything is arranged. I didn’t anticipate an ambush in Papua, and I never received a warning from Vergal…” he stopped and coughed. Blood was dripping into his lungs. “He headed north in advance, to see if the city was safe to enter. I haven’t heard a word from him.” The youngest Szvoyza held Golpur up, as the ghoul’s muscles started to go limp and looked him right in the eye. “What did you find out about the stalkers?” he asked. Golpur gagged. “They came from the North, or so Vergal told me.” he spat out. “Hunters, woodsmen. Not soldiers, tough…” Zh`Azhak let the dying ghoul go and stood up. Golpur collapsed on the floor and a dark red puddle began to form under him. No matter, Zh`Azhak thought to himself. Vergal would wait for him at the frozen wastes and guide him, as was planned.

The small port settlement proved to be quiet. After so many days spent under the deck on the ship, threading under the evening sky felt amazing. Memories of evenings spent fishing on the bridges of Vesper with his brother stirred up and Zh`Azhak sat down on the edge of the pier he was walking on and looked up to the sky. The sky was clear, but not for him. For his eyes, the sky boiled with black clouds that blocked away all stars. How he missed light; sunlight, candlelight, starlight… but he had been robbed of them all, one at a time. Sunlight when he had swallowed the vile blood offered to him by the Kindred Liche de’Lenfent, candlelight when the Ring of Eternal Night had taken a hold of him. He began to caress the ring around his right middle finger. Now, it seems, even stars refuse to shine down on him. He hung his head down and, had he been able to, he would have cried. The icy water around the pier didn’t reflect his image, not even a silhouette of him…

The pale moon is still my friend, the mage thought, glancing up at the sky again. The moon shone through the mass of black clouds, and for a moment, his face shone with bliss. Someone still loved him, cared for him, even though… Zh`Azhak was torn from his thoughts by a heart-chilling howl. He was on his feet in an instant and ran towards the settlement. Behind the few warehouses of the docks, there was a village of only five dwellings. The largest of them, which he guessed was the town hall, or perhaps a tavern, was located right at the base of the mountain rising near the shore. As he ran between the houses and some carts left lying about, he saw shapes descending the mountain wall, and crawling down the hills surrounding the settlement. The doors of the large building swung open just as the mage was about to grasp the door handle. A storm of different scents drifted outside, as a group of Vistani hunters slowly but steadily strode out to meet the trespasser. Zh`Azhak had ran and leapt over fifty feet away from the door. The tallest of the Vistani, the rest following behind him with grim determination, stopped about twenty feet away from the mage. The Vistani leader addressed Zh`Azhak, his accent barely allowing comprehension. “Greetings to you, who we were told would come here. Now that you are here, you must leave. We were told you would not heed wise words, and insist on staying. If that is how you wish for it to be, we come armed.” The Vistani all reached for their weapons, and Zh`Azhak soon found six or seven spears and arrows aimed at him. For so long he had been secure and content with his position among the Order of the Ebon Skull and the few artefacts of power he possessed that he was stunned that someone would dare to threaten him. And to think that they seemed to know of his intentions, and apparently of his nature. The speartips and arrowheads were inscribed with letters of an alphabet he had never seen before, however, whenever one of the spears was thrust a little closer to him, he felt as if he was drowning, even though he didn’t have to breathe. Fear was slowly taking over the mage, as he backed away from the Vistani through the settlement. He barely recognized the hulking wolf-man figures in the distance or the lone cowled figure standing on the roof of the tavern, as he fell into a crouch with a bestial roar.

For almost half an hour the Vistani and Zh`Azhak swapped the roles of the hunter and the hunted, and three hunters had fallen to the mage. As he tore the throat of the fourth, and last of the group he had preyed upon, he fell to the ground; his cloak torn and two arrows jutting out of his chest. Pulling out the arrows, he snarled and twitched. The frenzy was over, and he felt like he couldn’t move a finger. So this was where I will finally die, he thought. The search for Vladislaus would never be completed, but he would be free from his torment nonetheless, when one of the hunters would strike him down. He saw men running from the cracks on the warehouse wall and focused himself once more, but relaxed after their footsteps could no longer be heard. It was deathly silent, save for a distant rumble that kept coming closer. Zh`Azhak grasped the ring on his finger and tried to pull it out, and smiled slightly; the ring still wouldn’t move. He could hear Konrad’s voice in his head, spewing his prophecies of some vague doom. It didn’t matter anymore, nothing did, except Zahndra.

The spirits of those he had killed came back that night, as Konrad had promised. It seemed as though the battered mage was asleep, but there was a storm of madness inside his mind. All those he had ever helped to an early grave appeared to him and accused him. “Murderer!” they called out. “Fiend! Wretch!” His soul cried. Overwhelmed with guilt and sorrow, he searched the mass of spirits for Zahndra’s face. Dear, beloved Zahndra. He couldn’t have killed her, could he? The growling of wolves came near. He searched.

And there she was, standing tall and imposing as ever. Her eyes were cold. No red on her cheeks, grey hair. She came closer and his mind recoiled. His body went completely limp as he stared at the apparition inside his head. It was all for nothing, now. But when did she die? No memory, no words of hatred he could recall. “Come, master. We have to be on our way!” she said, and extended her transparent hand. “No, go away! Forgive me, let me die!” Zh`Azhak screamed in confusion. Vergal stepped out of the large sled pulled by four great white wolves, and arched his brow as he watched Zh`Azhak writhe on the floor of the messy warehouse. The spirits started to dissipate as the mage regained his grip on reality. Vladislaus or Zahndra must be found, he could not let go yet. He focused on the woman’s apparition and wrapped both of his arms around her. Vergal’s first thought was that the mage was attacking him, but it proved to be a mere embrace. After spending some moments prying Zh`Azhak’s hands off of himself, he carried the unconscious Szvoyza to the sled. He noticed the mage was grasping a silver necklace in his left hand. The chain was barely long enough to reach around the neck of a full grown man, and there was a small square shaped plate hanging from it, depicting a great wolf’s head. Vergal sighed deeply and tore the necklace from Zh`Azhak’s hand. “May you rest peacefully,” he said, tossing the necklace into the snow. With a whistle from Vergal, the wolves’ paws dug into the snow and the heavy sled rushed forward.

They travelled the frozen wastes to the north for two days days. Vergal had explained he had been waylaid by barbarians and wolf-men on his way to the shore, hence he had been late. He had gathered rumours and traded for information when he first arrived there. He knew now, that there was a family of nobles living only a few days north from the port. “Ne’Sveti, that’s what they are called. Old lords of this here land. There are more of them, but I found that a group lives in this castle. They should know how to get to where you want to go, master,” the ghoul said, steering the sled to the right slightly. The wind blew against them and tore the cloak off Vergal and a shiny chain flapped about his neck as he struggled to stay standing. Zh`Azhak lunged forward to help him, and was struck in the face by the dangling chain. They fell down on the sled and the wolves slowed down to a halt. For a moment, the two stared each other in the eye motionless. “You should…” Zh`Azhak began, and sat up, “…get a better clasp for your cloak.” The ghoul caressed his throat slowly. “Yes… master.”

Zh`Azhak stood in the snowy garden around the castle. Vergal had dropped him off there, while he would search for a village where to stock up on supplies for a long trek through the wasteland and the mountains. Frozen rose bushes and trees stood along the paved paths of the castle area, and snow drifted down from the grey skies. Two great statues, carved from ice, stood near the entrance to the main castle hall. He didn’t recognize them, but suspected that they depicted some of the family he was about to encounter. Quite magnificent, very arrogant, too decadent. The castle doors swung open and an imposing man wrapped in the finest black velvet made his way to the courtyard. Zh`Azhak looked like a peasant, compared to the newly arrived man; dirty and blood-stained white shirt, dark cloak that had been torn to shreds, brown leggings smattered with dirt. “What is this,” the man demanded, at the same time disgusted and intrigued. His words were clearer than the Vistani leader’s had been, but still thick with an outlandish accent. “Who comes to my door so ill treated?” Zh`Azhak’s tangled hair was thrown up slightly by a gush of wind as he looked the man up and down. The Ne’Sveti’s skin was like white marble, and his face was like that of a statue – too perfect, too beautiful and lifeless. “I am Count Konstantin Ne’Sveti of ze land of Kos’Heb. Now tell me your name.” An awkward silence filled the courtyard as the two men stared at each other. “Szvoyza,” Zh`Azhak finally uttered. “Does it belong to your habits to give a tired traveller a roof to sleep under?” The count raised a brow, interested at such a direct proposal from this stranger on his territory. “Of course, dear guest. I will summon Anderik at once.” The Ne’Sveti raised his hand, an extravagant ring in each finger, up and a gaunt figure departed from the shadowy entrance to the castle and made its way to the count’s side. Konstantin smiled slightly, took a step to the side and motioned towards the castle. The man the count had called Anderik grabbed Zh`Azhak’s arm and tugged. “Come. We will find you some clothes; those commoner rags won’t do in the presence of one such as master Konstantin here.” After a dozen steps the Szvoyza turned around to thank his sudden benefactor, but the count was nowhere to be seen, just the castle walls and the endless tundra beyond them.

Anderik’s hands looked like two spiders weaving a web, with his long, thin fingers picking the finest garments from the guestroom armoire. “Scarf woven by the mountain dwellers, shirt of the old masters, yes… I think this is all you need.” the skeleton of a man muttered, laying the clothes on the bed, and turning to the door. “The lord expects you to attend the evening meal, be ready as soon as possible. I will send for you when it is time.” Anderik coughed out, and his gasps for air could be heard long after he had left the room. Zh`Azhak sat on the bed next to the dark garments laid out for him to dress in. Why was the count doing this? Konrad never gave off the image of one who could possibly be capable of such hospitality. Subtle, perhaps, but not as subtle. Konrad’s sudden disappearance began to trouble him, but he shoved the thoughts aside. There was information to be gained here, and memories could not come in the way of even the smallest detail, not now. He put on the shirt and tied the scarf around his neck. Not uncomfortable at all, no. One could get used to this, he though. A refreshing alternative to rolling in graveyard earth all day. As he was sliding his belt on, a knock came from the door. “The count calls for thee” a voice croaked. Zh`Azhak quickly grabbed the gloves, deciding the cloak could wait till he would be going outside.

The dining hall was in the eastern wing of the castle, not too far from the guestroom. A long mahogany table dominated the room, with a number of chairs on each side, and one on each head. Enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in soft light… for those who could see it. The Ne’Sveti count sat at the far end of the table, some of who appeared to be servitors on the sides, and the seat at the other end of the table was empty. All present rose as Zh`Azhak walked into the hall, and gave a slight nod. The servitors sat and the count spoke. “Welcome, Szvoyza, into my grand feasting hall. Have a seat at the head of the table, for you are the honoured guest of the evening. Please.” The count waited, draped in his velvet glory, as Zh`Azhak sat down. “I have prepared a feast worthy of you, I hope you appreciate it.” As the Ne’Sveti spoke, the other diners lifted the domes off the service dishes set in front of each of the seats. The mage did the same, only to find the frozen head of Golpur staring at him from the plate with lifeless eyes. Startled, he raised his eyes, and saw a dozen rotting, severed heads currently being devoured by the servants. “Why the appalled face? Have you seen a ghost?” The count grinned, drawing immense satisfaction from the shock he had apparently caused. “Be so polite and eat. The fishers demanded a hefty sum of gold for such a meal, not to mention the caretaker of the cemetery.” Zh`Azhak rose up, toppling the chair as he did. “Who are you? Where is Vladislaus? Tell me!” he screamed. The count laughed. “You surprise me. After all these years, the old clan still lives. Do tell, are there more of you?” Zh`Azhak slid a hand into the pouch on his belt. “You speak of the ones your family butchered? I am not of their blood!” The count seemed to fly from his throne at the other end of the table, all the way to the tense Szvoyza. “Well if you are not of the old clan, who are you? I smell the same stench, I feel the same vile pollution in the air around you.” The mage stepped back and brought his hand up, holding a black pearl on his gauntleted hand. The count laughed again. “The golden decorations on those gloves of yours bind your primitive sorcery. You won’t bewitch me.” “No power holds back the art I learned at the Dark Tower, Morn Cirith!” Zh`Azhak spat out, his words dripping with hate, now that it occurred to him that he had been played for a fool. He opened his fist, revealing the black pearl for the count to see and chanted the profane words etched at his very soul. His clothing shifted as if touched by wind as energy began to gather at his palm. Nothing. The count shrugged. “I had anticipated such, so Anderik swapped your little pearls for a few glass droplets. Now, if you are done with your tricks, I have some questions that you need to answer.”

A crack appeared on the great stone wall of the castle, another one, and then the stone gave in before supernatural strength. Torrent of boulders and shards of stone fell on the ground as Zh`Azhak flew through the wall. Another shower of rocks rained on the area as he rose from the pile. He stared at the count that walked through the hole on the wall. The corners of Zh`Azhak’s mouth started to rip open. Finally, it came back – the battle lust, the will to shred bone and flesh, living or dead. Eyes full of perverse lust for death, he charged at the count.

Taking turns at striking blows and dodging, the two kindred danced like devils on the snow of the courtyard. “Spare yourself this struggle, I have seen the fall of your predecessors and I will see yours as well,” the count mocked, just barely dodging a strike that would have torn his head from his shoulders. “You seek Vladislaus? You are late, he is dead. He fled to the mountains where he met his fate, so you see; your coming here was for nothing. I will benefit, of course. Though, I doubt your usefulness – see, you are already beginning to slow down,” Konstantin said, dodging yet another claw-swipe from Zh`Azhak. “I am not of the old dead, nor am I of your hell-spawned filth! I am the new Lord and Master of your kind, the apotheosis of life! Behold, wretch, the ring of Zemyaza!” Zh`Azhak tore the glove on his right hand off, revealing the simple golden ring on his pallid finger. Maybe it was because of the ring, or perhaps because of the mage’s furious way of presenting the ring, but whatever the reason, the Ne’Sveti ceased to fight and backed off. Zh`Azhak stumbled backwards toward the castle gates, but the count made no attempt to stop him, just adjusted his cloak and vest. “Not bad, not bad at all, stranger,” Konstantin spoke, turning away and heading back to the castle. “We will finish this later. Don’t go dying before we do,” he whispered, running a gloved finger along a silver chain and caressed the wolf’s head attached to it.

Zh`Azhak didn’t have to wait long for Vergal to arrive. The sled carried a few boxes of supplies and some furs for Vergal. “The storekeeper had an interesting tale about this collapsed pass, supposedly leading to the lands of Vladislaus. He told me that some ancient battle here collapsed the pass and forever sealed this tundra off from its ruler. I’ve got the food, enough for me and the wolves, to make it to the pass. “What shall we do, master?” Zh`Azhak took a fur cloak from the sled and wrapped it around himself. Sitting on the edge of the sled, he was consumed by doubt. Who was this man? Was it Konrad’s relative? Was it Konrad himself? If the Ne’Sveti wanted to kill him, no doubt so did everyone else in these cursed, frozen lands. “We go north.” Whatever was working against him, it surely laid further north. It was time to cut off the head of the snake and stop playing with its tail. After Vladislaus would be found, the nights wouldn’t be so cold and dark anymore, the dead wouldn’t gnaw at his sanity and maybe… she would come back. “I will guide the wolves during the night.”

So they travelled, the ghoul awake at day and the kindred sleeping under the furs. When night came, they switched roles. More than once Zh`Azhak caught himself staring at the endless dark before him, as if in a coma. During daylight hours, he was clawing at his face under the furs, trying to focus on pain whenever the spirits let him wake from his nightmares. Then one evening, just as the sun had set down, Vergal spoke, “The pass, master. We have arrived.” After spending a while studying and travelling down the mountain corridor, they faced a giant wall of stone, apparently broken right off the side of the mountain. “They didn’t lie, after all. A damned, impassable wall of rock!” Zh`Azhak yelled in frustration at the wall. The two made a camp there, prepared to tear the wall down with their hands if they had to.

The mage began chanting, and Vergal wandered away from the imposing mountain wall. Small pebbles amidst the rocks began vibrating and few even shattered. Zh`Azhak’s chanting grew louder and some of the larger boulders and blocks of rock cracked and splintered. He chanted throughout the night, and morning was almost there. He had lost track of time, so concentrated and determined he was to reach whatever wonders lay beyond. The twilight moments crept upon the land of Kos’Heb, and brought with them a heavy snowstorm. The howling of wolves ripped through the air, but Zh`Azhak was too drugged by what process his spell was making. The pass was almost clear. He must make it, he must reach Vladislaus! A figure concealed in black overcoat walked behind the chanting mage and began clapping its hands together. Zh`Azhak breathed out the final word of his chant and the last large stone collapsed into rubble. Triumphant, he turned around as fast as he could, his face shining with bliss, to greet whoever had applauded for him. Then it struck. A spear of wood, almost two feet in length, tore through silk, skin, flesh and finally, heart. The colours of the twilight sky blended together with pristine silver and velvety red, and for a moment, the soul once so alive knew life again. Then the world turned grey. A slash, a salvo of red and black, and an eternity of brilliant white. Vergal picked up the hand from the ground, and put it in one of the boxes on his sled. Konstantin smiled with satisfaction. Few more of these new-world kindred, and the pass to his ancient homeland would be open again. He turned around and begun walking away when Vergal called for him. “Shall we leave him here, master?” “Yes. The sun will soon melt away the snow, and he will be a problem no more. In fact, he never was.” Vergal snarled at the four hunching wolf-men and they took the shape of great white wolves once more. The sled sped through the pass and into the open white tundra as the first rays of the morning sun swept over the frozen landscape.