The iron mine was haunted. Drusilla had never quite understood the why of it, but the Cult of the Damned had done quite the stellar job at turning the once-prosperous facility into a nightmare of cramped tunnels full of ghastly fire and overrun by the undead. Perhaps there had never been a proper reason for it. Perhaps the cult had simply done it because they could. Whatever the reason, Augustian had prospered from it. He had ties to the cult, and even now his forges were supplied by clandestine deliveries of corrupted iron, delivered by skeletal hands. It was time someone severed that particular connection.

  From a forested hill overlooking the mine entrance, Drusilla awaited the arrival of her servants. Sharp eyes scanned the militia encampment, separated from the mines by a stretch of muddy ground; the no man’s land in this conflict. Men and women manned the barricades at all times, torches and braziers scattered along their lines to light the dark of night. Every so often a handful of skeletons would emerge from the yawning mouth of the mines, easily dispatched by crossbows. Drusilla knew the insides of the mine were worse, but that was where she had to go if she were to throttle Augustian’s supply of iron. She would like to see his fabled ‘Reconquest’ try to continue apace without it.

  Drusilla’s horse nickered below her, and she reached down to absently pat her neck. Mallard was a mighty warhorse, fit for a vampire; black as night and taller than a man, with eyes that gleamed crimson. They could both tell that people were approaching, a gentle scent carried by the wind; before long, Lenora arrived, pushing a gaggle of branches aside with her tower shield so that Vitrisa could walk past unbothered. The two were Drusilla’s oldest servants, second in seniority only to Beatrice. Unlike Beatrice, however, they still remained as youthful as the day Drusilla had met them. Lenora was clad in half-plate over chainmail, the armour lacquered black and red, while Vitrisa wore simple civilian clothes in the latest of Brighthaven fashion; high-waisted trousers in navy blue, a matching double-breasted waistcoat, and a mutton-sleeved white blouse. Unlike Lenora, who still carried the holy weapons she had once used as a cleric, Vitrisa had a pistol infused with vampiric magic holstered horizontally on her lower back.

  “My Lady!” Lenora snapped to attention, her voice crisp and clear. Vitrisa ignored her, and simply walked over to rub Mallard’s muzzle. The horse whinnied happily, tip-tapping on the spot.

  “Nothing new in the gardens,” Vitrisa simply reported, glancing up at Drusilla. She was soft-spoken, with a lyrical twang to her words. “Only cultists. They seem to be ramping up whatever it is they are doing, though. It was hard to stay unnoticed.”

  “Mortium grows more populated by the day,” Lenora agreed. “Plenty of cultists, of course, but also… strange creatures. I haven’t seen anything like them before.”

  “Oh?” Drusilla raised an eyebrow. “How curious. And vampires…?”

  “No, my Lady,” Lenora shook her head. “We saw no vampires.”

  “Sorry,” Vitrisa added.

  “I see,” Drusilla sighed. Perhaps it had been too much to hope for after all. “Let us put the gardens aside for now. Vitrisa, I trust Lenora told you?”

  “Mhm. We both knew Harlan was scum. Never doubted you, though,” the girl responded, languidly scritching Mallard between her eyes.

  “Thank you, Vitrisa. As for why we are here… Augustian’s little war with the militia requires a steady supply of resources.”

  “And you plan to disrupt this supply?” Lenora guessed. “It is a good plan, but…”

  She glanced over at the mine entrance, where a couple of skeletons had wandered out. Slow and confused, they were quickly picked off by the militia’s crossbowmen, adding more bones to the mud of the no man’s land.

  “But how are we to do so?” Drusilla asked, and Lenora nodded. Vitrisa looked up at her mistress, understanding sparking in those half-lidded red eyes.

  “You plan to find whoever is sending out the shipments,” Vitrisa guessed. “The undead are too mindless to do it themselves.”

  “Correct,” Drusilla nodded. She pointed over at the mines, where the militia stood ready with loaded crossbows and the archers prepared fire arrows. “However, it must be a swift strike, lest the overseer escape; I cannot be bogged down dealing with the militia.”

  “So we’re gonna create a diversion,” Lenora said, smiling. “Simple. Audacious. A good plan, my Lady.”

  “Mmh. It is risky,” Vitrisa noted. “You’ll be alone in there, and who knows what the tunnels look like. Limited lines of sight, plenty of undead. Probably only one or two exits.”

  “You are correct, of course. It is a risk. Unfortunately, Augustian outnumbers us quite severely; if we are to hold, much less triumph, we need to even the playing field. Losing his source of iron will force his hand, in one way or another.”

  “...And give us time to regroup and prepare. I still think it’s hasty, but, hey, you’re the boss,” Vitrisa shrugged. She drew her pistol, checked the firing mechanism, and looked up at Drusilla. “I’ll take Lenora and set something up. Can’t promise how long your window will be, though, so you better be ready; this kinda place is too heavily guarded to give us a second chance.”

  Drusilla nodded, and the servants vanished into the night. She knew the risks, of course. Part of her was even afraid of them, but she tried not to dwell on it. Mallard, sensing Drusilla’s mood, shook her head and snorted; the vampire bent down and patted the horse’s neck, ruffling the mane.

  “There there, Mallard,” Drusilla muttered. “It will all be alright.”

  Mallard turned her head around to peer up at Drusilla with one ruby eye, as if wanting to say how silly the woman was being. Mallard was Drusilla’s servant. Mallard responded to her emotions. Mallard didn’t worry; Drusilla worried, and Mallard expressed it. Or, at least, that’s what Drusilla imagined that look had said.

  “Do not act all smart now, girl,” Drusilla smiled, and sat up a bit straighter in her saddle. “Still, willful though you are, I am glad you will be with me in the mines. I will be relying on your strength and speed.”

  The next ten or so minutes passed in silence. Drusilla worked the militia encampment into a little map in her mind, committing it all to memory; where the barricades ran, where the tents were, where the old stone walls of the outer perimeter had been reinforced with palisades and where they had not. Truth be told, she didn’t need it. The first time her eyes had swept across the place, it had been ingrained into her memory. But the act of doing it, of consciously working every detail into her mind… it soothed her. It helped her feel prepared. And besides, it meant she kept a close watch, ready to act when-

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  On the far side, one of the militiamen vanished from the gate. His companion started, but before he could investigate, Lenora slammed her shield into him. He stumbled back, screaming, and then she brought her mace down. Drusilla heard how someone, somewhere, started to ring a bell. Lenora slipped away behind the wall, but the militia swiftly organised a hunting party, drawing on those who guarded the mine. It was time to act.

  Mallard burst into movement, galloping down the hillside. Drusilla burst out through the woods and across the road, riding through the gateway before its guards could do more than shout. Already under alert, the remaining militia were swift to respond; as Drusilla made her way between tents a man rushed to grab her, but she simply slammed her boot into his face and kept riding. The soldiers by the barricades whirled around to shoot at her, but Mallard was too fast; quarrels and arrows whistled harmlessly past - at least to her. Somewhere behind, she heard the familiar whoosh of a fire arrow erupting, and the shouted warnings to go along with it. She made it to the wooden barricades and cavalry spikes, followed by pikemen hoping to rein her in, but she simply urged Mallard on harder. The horse put in a final burst of speed and leapt, crossing the militia’s defences and deftly landing in no-man’s land.

  Onward Drusilla rode, using the old, torn tents that scattered no man’s land for cover. She knew the militia was following. The land blurred as she followed a rocky outcropping towards the mine, narrowly avoiding a smattering of crossbow bolts. Into the dark she rode, Mallard’s hooves striking up sparks against the iron-rich rock, and it wasn’t long before the first undead appeared: skeletons in various states of armament. Drusilla unsheathed her sword and Mallard charged, her speed and strength easily barging through the weaker skeletons while Drusilla cut her way through the rest.

  They pushed through the undead and entered a large open cave, a remnant from the mining days; Drusilla saw a tiered pit dug into the ground, wooden walkways and stone tunnels leading out into the dark. Here and there rifts had formed in the very rock itself, crackling with a cold, green flame. With the skeletons still chasing them, Drusilla didn’t have the luxury to stop. She galloped around the outside of the great pit, Mallard’s hooves tearing splinters from the decrepit wooden walkways, the great warhorse easily barging through the small, disorganised bands of undead that roamed the mine. The ground rumbled and roared, as if in pain, and suddenly the flaming rifts exploded; ghostly green flames shot out in great gouts, setting the very stone on fire in front of Drusilla. Mallard jumped, narrowly avoiding one patch of flames, but more were ahead. Without thinking, Drusilla steered them into one of the nearby mineshafts.

  Here they found more skeletons, eye-less skulls turning to stare at the rapidly approaching vampire. Drusilla’s sword gleamed in the sickly green light cast by the rifts, cutting through bone like wheat before the scythe; one of the skeletons raised its hand, building a magic flame to throw her way, but it was too slow. Drusilla severed its hand as she thundered past, and then the built-up magic erupted into a ball of flames that took out the surrounding undead. Mallard continued through the tunnel, unperturbed by the flames and the undead, and soon they burst out into another cavern. Here Drusilla steered Mallard to the right, up onto a small ledge that ran up to about half the cavern’s height, mostly hidden behind wooden support beams and stalagmites. Mallard slowly came to a halt, and Drusilla slid down from the saddle. She gently rubbed Mallard's shoulder, even as she peered out through their cover.

  Skeletons shambled into view, having chased them through the tunnel. Several were wounded, with bones cracked or even missing, and others were burned and limping. The undead didn’t pause, but continued on to the other tunnel that led into the cavern, leaving Drusilla and Mallard behind. The vampire took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then slowly let it out. It calmed her somewhat.

  “I wish Stella was here,” Drusilla sighed, and turned around to lean against one of the stalagmites. Mallard walked over and nudged her with her nose, which brought a tiny little smile from Drusilla. “Yes, you are here for me, Mallard. But surely you miss Stella too?”

  If Mallard did, she didn’t show it; she simply kept enjoying Drusilla’s attention. For her part, the vampire was planning. She had infiltrated the mines, but that was the easy part. Her target was somewhere in this great mountain, and Drusilla hardly had the time to scour every shaft and pit. No, she had to be smarter. She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to Mallard’s, trying to remember the last time she’d been here, dozens of years ago. Back then, it hadn’t been quite so haunted. Drusilla remembered the workers mining away. She remembered long tracks of rail for the mine carts. She remembered a sealed chamber, and a draft… the draft!

  Drusilla opened her eyes with a smile. Yes, she knew where she’d find Augustian’s contact. She swung herself back into the saddle, and without command, Mallard burst into speed. They continued along the edge until there was a spot for Mallard to leap down, then they hurried down the tunnel that the skeletons had taken. Drusilla followed half-remembered paths, directing Mallard with her knees; they encountered more than one patrol of skeletons, but none that proved hard to dispatch, be it by hoof or by blade. Deep into the mine they went, sometimes galloping along cart tracks, sometimes hurrying along snaking corridors of natural rock, until finally they reached the cavern Drusilla had remembered. Here there were old barrels and crates, remnants from before the haunting, but also a collapsed back wall that a rider could easily fit through. Drusilla dismounted and turned to Mallard.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed Mallard’s forehead; the horse dissolved into smoke, gathering into a thick stream that flowed around her hand and coalesced into an iron ring. Drusilla rubbed that ring, and walked over to the old supply storage. The barrels were more than enough to hide her, and so there she waited, blade in hand. The minutes ticked by, but just as she was starting to fear she had made a mistake, her keen ears picked up the sound of bone scraping against rock.

  Peering through her cover, Drusilla saw a thin, gangly figure swathed in black robes, a shawl of the same colour covering their head and a crooked staff clutched in one pale, bony arm. Alongside it came two skeletal guards in ancient armour, rusted and pitted, as well as several less imposing skeletal minions. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade. This had to be it; who else would try to escape the mines rather than hunt down an intruder? But even so… it was an imposing group. Drusilla really wished Anastella could have been here. She would have handled them in a few seconds. Alas, Anastella had been gone for centuries. Drusilla would simply have to do this herself.

  She leapt up on top of the stacked barrels and then kicked off, soaring through the air with blade in hand. Crashing into the cowled figure feet-first, she sent it tumbling across the cave floor even as she adjusted her own momentum into a forward spin, slashing through the legs of two crossbow-wielding skeletons. Their bones clattered to the floor, but unlike the other undead in the cave, the two plate-clad skeletons reacted swiftly; axes raised, they closed in from both sides to trap her against the cave wall. Drusilla dashed forward, leaving an illusionary copy of herself behind - when the first skeleton brought his axe down on it the illusion exploded into purple-pink flames, catching both of the bodyguards. Now covered in smoking embers and fire, they whirled around to come after her.

  Drusilla pushed magic through her veins, flames forming in her hand; she thrust it forward, sending a spiralling glob of fire out to strike the lead bodyguard. Its cuirass buckled and melted, and then Drusilla did it again; the skeleton fell back, its bones collapsing as it died. The second bodyguard charged her, shoulder lowered, and she was too slow to get out of the way of the tackle. She staggered back, clutching her stomach, and it raised its axe for a great hew; Drusilla thrust her hand forward and formed a shield of roiling purple-pink fire, catching the axe with a shower of pink sparks. The bodyguard recoiled, and Drusilla turned the energy of her shield into a stabbing beam that obliterated the skeleton’s head. Stumbling back to her feet, she looked around for the cowled figure only to see it dash through the collapsed wall.

  She followed, moving with speed few humans could match, and yet when Drusilla stepped outside of the mine, the figure was gone. The cliff Drusilla found herself on was empty, and below was nothing but a thin stretch of land between the mountain and a lake. She slid down the cliffside, but no - nothing. Just as she was about to give up, she caught a whiff of fear on the wind; Drusilla ran down to the beach, where she felt it even stronger. She continued to her right, following the scent of fear, until she came across a small campsite where a woman sat shivering, crying into her hands.

  “T-That way!” the woman said, pointing into the woods, and Drusilla hurried on. Through the underbrush she went, until she found a road - and, glancing down the road, she found her target. Unwilling to lose the figure once again, Drusilla channeled the power of her blood, building up chaotic energy; with a sudden burst of speed she flew forward, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. She grabbed the figure’s robes and slammed it to the ground, roiling purple fire flaring up in its clothes. The figure - a whisper-thin woman of skeletal appearance - wriggled and wormed, trying to get free, but Drusilla simply slammed her back down again. It took a third and final slam for her to stop struggling.

  “D-Don’t kill me, please,” the woman gasped, panting and coughing. “Please, you can’t -”

  “Be quiet,” Drusilla hissed, and with wide eyes the woman complied. “You serve Augustian, do you not?”

  “I am an acolyte of the Cult of the Damned!” the woman exclaimed. “I- I don’t know of any Augustians.”

  “You sent him iron,” Drusilla said, and at that the woman, somehow, turned even whiter.

  “You… You speak of Lord Marrow,” the woman whispered, nervously licking her lips. “We sent him metal every month.”

  “Lord… Marrow?” Drusilla frowned. The name might have been laughable, if the woman hadn’t spoken it with such respect.

  “Yes! Lord Marrow will blight the farmlands, and then you won’t be so high and mighty, vampire!”

  “We’ll see,” Drusilla responded, and then dragged the woman up and sank her teeth into her. Long and deep she drank, until every drop of blood in that gangly old body was spent. With a wet sigh, Drusilla pulled free and tossed the body to the side. She closed her eyes, and let the knowledge of the blood fill her…

  Yes. The woman had been a scholar, a necromancer. It was potent blood, this. More importantly, it carries fragments of memories, whispers of paths and deliveries. Drusilla wasn’t sure how long she spent on that road, shifting through blood-memories next to an exsanguinated corpse, but when she rose again she knew what had to be done. Lenora and Vitrisa would have to find their way home on their own.

  Drusilla took a deep breath, felt the air in her lungs, and called on her blood. She was to become light, as light as air; for a brief moment she felt herself change, and then she burst up into the air in the form of a bat. On whisper-swift wings she went, darting back towards her castle.

  She had an assassination to plan.