Infernal yowls and blood-curdling war cries burst from the wide-open temple doors, and Adarin allowed himself a brief frown. How the fuck do they always get in there?

  Half a dozen light spells flared out in all directions, casting the battleground in the stark relief of white, burning brilliance. Hundreds of bestial eyes glared from behind the temple doors. White skin glistened in the glare.

  The thralls came first—late-stage infectees whose bodies had twisted into vampiric features. Alabaster flesh, red eyes, naked frames clutching axes, spears, and swords. They howled skyward like wolves.

  Then came the lesser vampires. A parade of grotesque diversity erupted from the center of the formation: brutes sheathed in muscle, horned bone-knights, winged predators, clawed fiends. Some merged into the background, others bounced on their feet, flapping stubby wings in hopping bursts. A dozen. Two dozen. Three dozen.

  Then, in eerie unison and without betraying any leaders, a sharp keening erupted—and they charged the temple doors.

  Adarin wrinkled his nose. They are sending in the thralls first. Well, can’t be Christmas every day.

  The first thrall rushed into the colonnade. Nothing happened. Five more ranks made it outside before one turned, raised a hand, and screamed something in clear alarm.

  Adarin nodded to the mage officer beside him. “Blow it.”

  The old mage grinned viciously, picked up two pebbles with a simple orange rune each from the table in front of him, and clenched them in his fists. Screams erupted as panic rippled through the advancing thralls.

  The heat slammed first. The entrance vanished in flame, and the charge dissolved into a frenzied wave of human torches.

  Adarin allowed himself a smile. Five barrels—one gunpowder, four a mixture of alcohol, oil, and tar—had been placed, hidden behind bags of sharp stone. Such mines had been set at every major entrance to the inner courtyard. Welcome to my world, you stupid beasts.

  The press of vampires forced more into the roaring fire. Flesh charred and melted as a twitching pile of bodies built up. As the flames died down, doused by the sheer volume of bodies, scorched, naked feet trampled forward again. To Adarin’s dismay, the thralls ignored the pain.

  He nodded to the old mage again and he grabbed a different stone, this one shimmering with a pale blue sigil. Half a dozen dull thumps sounded above the temple doors. A strange gray mist drifted into the colonnade.

  The thralls went feral—scratching at their eyes, screaming, coughing up pink foam as the quicklime ate their lungs. The rush faltered. Only a few writhing, charred corpses made it into the inner courtyard.

  Adarin raised his voice. “First round’s on us!”

  A cheer erupted from the concentric rings of fortification: skeletal pikemen on the outer circle, settlers and soldiers on the two inner ones, mages and musketeers manning every level of the pagoda.

  An archaic chant rose from the temple in response. One lesser vampire—a gray-skinned brute with claws the size of a man’s forearm—stepped to the edge of the fire and screeched in time with the song. Half a dozen more presented claws and jaws, promising doom. The dust began settling and the vampires grew ever more eager.

  Adarin snarled. “Levels six and five—musketeers, if you would be so kind.”

  Acknowledgments rang out. The thunder of musketry followed—the classic two-line volley: front rank kneeling, rear rank standing, reserves rotating in. The temple doors were pelted with a hurricane of lead. Dozens of thralls went down.

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  Only one lesser vampire stumbled, falling into the flames, unmoving. Another retreated, nursing its leg.

  “Levels three and four now,” Adarin ordered. Another wave of fire ripped through the enemy. If they want to stand in the optimal range of my muskets, I won’t complain.

  More explosions flared inside the temple. One of Francesco’s subordinates pointed to the map, marking the side entrances to the inner sanctum.

  Adarin smirked. “So they found our remaining welcome presents.” He sent word to the other sections to ready for a charge.

  Musket shots rang from levels two and three. Two more lesser vampires died, five more were injured, dozens of thralls dropped. Finally the survivors retreated into the flame-lit shadows.

  Silence fell over the morning battlefield, broken only by the acrid tang of charred flesh and the disciplined reloading of muskets. Seconds stretched into long minutes.

  Feels different. They used to dominate. Maybe they’re falling into the same trap humans do: if something works, we specialize—never questioning if it’s always optimal. Muskets are new. If these vampires are as old as they claim, this nest might never have faced gunpowder before.

  A tense half hour passed. More explosions rattled the temple. The mages on the wards winced and hissed. After a quick check it was clear: the vampires were building their own magical network, trying to blind scrying and detection wards. Then even the explosions ceased.

  Two hours later, uncertain whispers ran through the camp. Liora walked up.

  “Adarin, what’s happening?” Her fingers twisted, betraying her nerves.

  Adarin tisked. “For the first time they’re fighting on ground that isn’t theirs. Wouldn’t surprise me if their leader doesn’t know what to do. They’re trying to wait us out—psych us out.”

  “And will it work?”

  His jaw tightened. “If they do it correctly, yes. But…” He glanced at the piles of supplies, covered in trenches, guarded by anti-vermin wards and packed in fire-retardant material. “They’d have to get our supplies. And those are well defended.”

  “So what will they do?”

  Adarin was about to answer when the archaic war-song resumed—this time accompanied by rhythmic slapping of bone, flesh, steel, and stone. It reverberated from the temple’s main hall.

  He smiled viciously. “Whatever it is—we’re about to find out.”

  Suddenly they were there. Higher vampires in the lead, charging from every entrance of the colonnade toward the pikemen line.

  Liora’s breath caught. Adarin raised his voice. “Nobody fires. Wait for my signal.”

  They closed—twenty-five meters. Fifteen. Ten.

  The big gray brute took the first step into the next kill zone.

  No more firebombs this time—but Rüdiger’s suggestion about bringing enough nails had been worth gold. The brute’s foot landed in what looked like straw and leaves. Its weight crashed down—and so did it—impaled on dozens of caltrops. Its screams multiplied.

  The charge faltered, but momentum forced the rest forward. Wings flapped, claws scraped, but everything still needed feet—and the feet found the poisoned caltrops, laced with the same neurotoxin Adarin had used at Portguard when they seized the ammo depot.

  Three dozen higher vampires twitched and spasmed on the ground, crawling and screaming in pain.

  Adarin raised his voice for the benefit of the crowd. “Whoopsie! Looks like someone forgot to put up the warning signs.”

  The crowd cheered, the thralls hissing back, nearly a hundred more stepping out, waving weapons in empty bravado. Higher and lesser vampires alike drove them forward into the trap.

  “Level six and five. Level four and three. Level two and one—fire on my mark. One. Two. Three!”

  Volley after volley crashed down. Vampires shrieked; thralls fell in heaps.

  Several of the lesser vampires huddled together in a circle, hissing in a sharp language rich with sibilants.

  “What are they saying?” Liora whispered.

  Adarin shook his head. “I think they’re having a command conference—in perfect musket range. Let’s interrupt, shall we?”

  He slammed his manipulator down. Musket fire erupted from the pagoda’s upper levels. The massed thralls proved easy harvest.

  More soldiers of the night fell. Adarin noted how none helped their wounded, how none flinched. No fear response. He smiled to himself. The naive might think a fearless soldier was an asset. But fearless soldiers were reckless soldiers. And reckless soldiers tended to turn into dead soldiers.

  Three more true vampires fell under the constant volleys. Nearly a hundred naked white bodies decorated the killing ground. Finally, one near-invisible creature flashed blood-red, flapped into the sky on pseudo-wings, and screeched a command. For a split second, Adarin met the monster’s eyes.

  Acknowledging the command, the thralls all turned their heads in eerie unison. Then, as one, they faced Adarin’s lines and began to march forward in determined silence.