Open for Business, Chapter IV

 A wagon full of supplies ambled up the lighthouse road, a shipment that those inside would be expecting. What they would not be expecting were the assassins who had snuck along for the ride.

Dragskarr narrowed his eyes and peered out of the tarp. "We approach. Prepare yourselves."

Varlkh nodded. "Right, let's make it quick. Tali, do your thing."

Talianimi's violet eyes glowed as she focused, lashing out at the minds of the two cloaked men guarding the door. She found their thoughts and ripped them to shreds. The two men stumbled back, their faces contorted in silent agony, their hands clutching at their heads, a torrent of psychic fire tearing through their minds. They collapsed to the ground, their bodies twitching in a final, futile dance of death.

Talianimi's goat-like eyes scanned the area. "Guards down. Illastria says there are four inside, two men and the woman. There is a bard there with them, but she cannot tell if it's Ereon."

"Then we go in," Varlikh said, his voice a low growl. "Blaquetail, Wildsong, you take the two men. Illastria, keep the woman busy. Dragskarr and I will secure the bard."

"Understood," a chorus of silent voices replied.

The wagon pulled up to the lighthouse, the driver, a man in a gray cloak, stepped down and headed for the door.

He knocked, a heavy, rhythmic rap on the wood. His mind was controlled by Tali's mental domination, so he did not care about the dead men lying to each side. He would soon join them.

The door creaked open, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness. A man in a gray cloak peered out, his eyes narrowing. "Who is it?"

"A shipment," the driver said, his voice a flat, monotone drone.

The guard nodded, stepping aside. "Bring it in."

As the wagon rolled into the lighthouse courtyard, a blur of motion shot out from the back of it. Blaquetail, a black-furred phantom, was on the guard in a flash, a flicker of black leather and steel. The guard's eyes widened in surprise, a silent gasp escaping his lips as Blaquetail's twin daggers found their home in his throat. He collapsed in a heap, a pool of blood spreading across the stone.

Wildsong was right behind him, her bow drawn, an arrow nocked and loosed in a single, fluid motion. The other guard, who had been standing by the cart, fell to the ground, a black shaft protruding from his eye.

The two remaining cloaked men inside the lighthouse drew their weapons, their faces a mask of fury and surprise.

But it was too late.

Illastria was already in their minds, her illusions a maelstrom of chaos and confusion. Hideous mushrooms with gaping maws of sharp teeth, their caps weeping a black, viscous fluid that sizzled on the stone, sprouted from the floor. The walls seemed to breathe, the stone pulsing with a sickening, organic rhythm. The very air grew thick, heavy with the stench of decay, and the torchlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that twisted and writhed like tortured souls.

One of the men screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound, as he swung his sword at a phantom that only he could see. The other, a more stoic figure, tried to fight through the illusion, his movements slow and clumsy, his mind a battlefield of conflicting realities.

"An illusion," he growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble. "It's just an illusion."

"Is it?" Illastria's voice was a silken whisper in his mind, a blade wrapped in velvet. "Or is this the true face of the world, and your reality the illusion?"

The man stumbled back, his sword clattering to the floor, as the walls of the lighthouse seemed to close in on him, a suffocating tomb of stone and shadow.

Meanwhile, Varlikh and Dragskarr had moved past the chaos, their eyes fixed on the bard, a slender figure chained to a chair in the center of the room. His head was slumped, his body a limp, lifeless doll, but Varlikh could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.

"Ereon," Varlikh said, his voice a low growl.

The gray-eyed woman, her face a mask of fury, stood between them and the bard, a dagger in her hand. "You will not have him," she said, her voice a silken whisper, a blade wrapped in velvet.

"We already do," Varlikh said, his obsidian daggers flashing in the dim light.

Dragskarr, a towering figure of black scales and simmering power, moved to the side, his amber eyes glowing with a faint, internal light. He was a god of war, a force of nature, and he was ready to unleash his fury.

"You are a fool, Varlikh," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "You come here with your band of misfits and freaks, and you think you can stop us? You are nothing. A pest. A nuisance."

"And yet, here we are," Varlikh said, a grim smile playing on his lips. "And you are the one who is cornered."

The woman laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Cornered? You misunderstand the situation, Captain. This is not a trap for you. It is a test for him."

She gestured to the bard, who had begun to stir, his head lifting slowly, his eyes blinking in the dim light.

"Ereon," she said, her voice a soft, seductive purr. "You have a choice. You can join us, or you can die with them."

Ereon looked at the woman, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and confusion. He then looked at Varlikh, his expression a mask of betrayal.

"Varlikh?" he said, his voice a weak, trembling thing. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your ungrateful ass," Varlikh growled. "Again."

"Saving him?" the woman laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You're too late, Captain. He's already one of us."

She raised her dagger, ready to strike, but before she could, a bolt of lightning, crackling with raw power, erupted from Dragskarr's fingertips, striking her in the chest. The woman screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound, as the electricity coursed through her body, cooking her from the inside out. She fell to the floor, a smoking, charred ruin.

Varlikh rushed to Ereon's side, his daggers flashing in the dim light as he sliced through the chains that bound him to the chair.

"Can you walk?" Varlikh asked, his voice a low, gravelly growl.

Ereon nodded, his body trembling. "I... I think so."

"Then let's get the hell out of here," Varlikh said, helping the bard to his feet.

The remaining cloaked men, their minds a battlefield of conflicting realities, were no match for the combined assault of Illastria's illusions, Wildsong's arrows, and Blaquetail's daggers. They fell, one by one, their bodies a testament to the lethality of Varlikh's cadre.

The room was a charnel house, a scene of carnage and chaos. The air was thick with the smell of blood and death, the sounds of screams and dying men a symphony of terror.

Varlikh looked at the carnage, then at Ereon, who was staring at him with a mixture of gratitude and fear.

"What did she mean, 'he's already one of us'?" Varlikh asked, his eyes narrowing.

The illusion around the man pretending to be Ereon faded away, and he laughed, the true vampire underneath revealing himself in a cascade of red lighting and raw power. "She meant that I am the vessel. The Plaguebringer will be reborn in my flesh." He flexed his new, undead fingers. "And your meddling has only accelerated the process."

The vampire was on him in a flash, a blur of motion. Varlikh's daggers flashed in the dim light, but the vampire was faster, his movements a deadly dance of grace and power.

He disarmed Varlikh with a flick of his wrist, the Captain's obsidian daggers clattering to the floor.

"You are a fool, Varlikh," the vampire said, his voice a silken whisper, a blade wrapped in velvet. "You came here to save a friend, but you have only delivered the key to our victory."

He raised his hand, ready to deliver the final blow, but before he could, a spear of pure, radiant light, humming with celestial power, shot across the room and pierced the vampire's chest.

The vampire screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound, as the light coursed through his body, and he slammed into the opposite wall with a thud. The undead lord was injured, but not dead. Not yet.

Across the room stood the Templar Angelaya, her silver shield gleaming, the light of her deity still fading from her fingertips. Behind her stood her sister, Kaliaya, an arrow nocked on her string, her eyes wide with the thrill of the kill. They were not expected, but the scene was far worse than they anticipated. Varlikh knew Lady Alustrae had to be close.

"Get the wounded and get out of here," Angelaya commanded, her voice a beacon of clarity in the chaos. "I'll hold him."

"You're a bit late for the party," Varlikh growled, retrieving his daggers.

"We're here now," Kaliaya said, her eyes fixed on the vampire, her bow drawn. "And we're not leaving until he's dust."

"I thought the same," Varlikh said, looking at the vampire, who was already starting to heal, the spear of light dissolving in a cloud of black smoke. He was wounded, but not defeated. The wound in his chest bubbled with a black, viscous fluid that sealed the wound, leaving a scar that seemed to writhe with a life of its own.

"Then we finish this," Dragskarr rumbled, his amber eyes glowing with a fierce, inner light.

The vampire laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You are all fools. You cannot kill me. I am the harbinger of a new age. I am the vessel of the Plaguebringer."

He lunged at Angelaya, his speed a blur of motion, but the Templar was ready. She raised her shield, the silver surface glowing with a protective light, and the vampire's claws scraped against it, a screech of metal on metal.

Kaliaya loosed an arrow, the black shaft finding its mark in the vampire's shoulder. He howled in pain, a sound of pure fury, and turned to face the ranger, his eyes burning with a malevolent intensity.

A tiny moppet doll lunged at him in a cackle of laughter!

"You have something I want!" Illastria's gleeful shout echoed from the shadows. Her moppet doll, the size of a child's toy yet moving with a sinister life of its own, swelled in the air, its painted smile widening into a grotesque grin. It latched onto the vampire's back, its tiny ceramic fingers digging into the undead flesh like talons. "Let's see what makes you tick!"

The vampire roared, thrashing violently, trying to dislodge the leering doll that was now clawing at the back of his neck.

"You are all insects!" he bellowed, his form wavering, shifting between the handsome bard and a monstrous, bat-like creature.

"Blaquetail," Varlikh commanded, his voice a low growl, "Ereon's not here. He was bait. Get to the docks, find Alustrae. Warn her of what is going on here. Now."

The Ratonga was a phantom, already gone. He moved with an almost unnatural speed, a black blur that vanished through the door, leaving only the scent of blood and ozone in his wake.

Wildsong, from her perch on the stairs, loosed another arrow, this one tipped with a silver barb that glowed with a faint, ethereal light. It struck the vampire in the leg, and he stumbled, a cry of pain escaping his lips.

"Your tricks are useless against me," the vampire snarled, pulling the doll from his back and tossing it to the side. The moppet hit the wall with a crack, its head lolling at an unnatural angle, a giggle still echoing in its broken form.

"Are they?" Illastria's mind-voice was a silken whisper, a blade wrapped in velvet, as she reached out with her power, twisting the vampire's perceptions, turning the floor into a bottomless pit, the walls into grasping claws.

The vampire screamed, a sound of pure agony, as he stumbled back, his mind a battlefield of conflicting realities.

Dragskarr took advantage of the distraction; his staff raised high, a storm of lightning crackling around him. "By the scales of Cazic-Thule, you will fall!"

He slammed the staff down, a torrent of electricity erupting from the crystal and striking the vampire with the force of a thunderbolt. The undead lord convulsed, his body a puppet of the storm, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.

The vampire collapsed to the floor, his body a smoking, charred ruin, but he was not dead. He was getting up, his wounds healing, the charred flesh knitting itself back together with a sickening, wet sound.

"This is impossible," Angelaya said, her eyes wide with disbelief. Kaliaya, the high elf, took a position alongside Wildsong, the dark elf, and the two looked at each other in confusion. The two had never worked together, but in this moment, they were sisters-in-arms, a testament to the strange alliances forged in the crucible of battle. They were a lethal duo, their arrows a storm of death, their aim true.

The vampire laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You cannot kill me. I am immortal. I am the future."

He lunged at Dragskarr, but the Iksar was ready. He summoned a vortex of wind, a swirling maelstrom of debris and energy that tore through the vampire, lifting him into the air and dashing him against the stone wall.

Talianimi stepped forward, her violet eyes glowing with a fierce, inner light. She reached out with her mind, her power a razor-sharp blade, and tore into the vampire's consciousness, ripping and tearing at the very essence of his being.

He screamed, a sound of pure agony, a symphony of terror that echoed through the lighthouse. He clutched at his head, his body convulsing, his mind a shattered ruin.

Varlikh took advantage of the opening, his obsidian daggers flashing in the dim light. He moved with a deadly grace, a blur of motion, a whirlwind of steel and blood. He sliced through the vampire's flesh, his daggers finding their mark with unerring accuracy.

The vampire was immortal.

But he was not invincible.

He stumbled back, his body a charnel house, a scene of carnage and chaos. He looked at the group of heroes, a ragtag band of misfits and freaks, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

"You... you have won this battle," he said, his voice a weak, rasping thing. "But you have lost the war."

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound, a final act of defiance. Then, with a final, heinous effort, he dissolved into a swarm of bats, a chaotic vortex of leathery wings and high-pitched squeaks that swirled around the room for a moment before flying straight up, disappearing into the darkness of the lighthouse's upper chamber.

A heavy silence descended upon the room, broken only by the ragged breaths of the survivors and the faint, skittering sound of Illastria's moppet doll reassembling itself.

"He's getting away," Wildsong said, her eyes fixed on the opening in the ceiling.

"Let him go," Varlikh said, a grim smile playing on his lips. "He's wounded. And he's scared. We'll find him."

"What about the cultists?" Dragskarr rumbled, his amber eyes glowing in the darkness. "They were here for a reason."

"Alustrae will know what to do with them," Talianimi said, her goat-like eyes scanning the room, a faint, crimson light glowing from within. "If there is anything left."

The two high elves, Angelaya and Kaliaya, approached the group.

"Thank you," Angelaya said, her eyes fixed on Varlikh, her face a mask of grim satisfaction.

"We are all on the same side, Templar," Varlikh said, "Even if some of us are more in the shadows than others."

"I will not forget this, Captain," the high elf said, her eyes softening. "Nor will I forgive you for your methods."

"I don't need your forgiveness," Varlikh growled. "I need your results. And we got them."

He turned to the others. "Wildsong, Blaquetail has already left to find Lady Alustrae. Tali, Dragskarr, we are done here." He looked at the two high elves. "You can handle the cleanup. And the report to your superiors."

He turned and walked away, a lone figure of black leather and cold steel, a monster who had, for a moment, been a hero.

Talianimi and Dragskarr followed him, a silent, deadly trio bound for the shadows of Halas.

Illastria, however, lingered, her blue-ash skin shimmering in the dim light. She looked at Angelaya and Kaliaya, a sly smile playing on her lips. "It's not every day you get to see a vampire get a spanking from a shaman, an assassin, and a psychic," she said, her voice a silken whisper.

She then turned to her reassembled doll, patting its head. "Did you have fun, poppet? I know I did."

The doll's painted smile seemed to widen, a silent, malevolent promise of future games.

Kaliaya watched her, a look of disgust on her face. "You are a strange one, illusionist."

"And you are a boring one, ranger," Illastria retorted, a playful glint in her crimson eyes. "But you have good taste in bows."

She then turned and followed Varlikh and the others, her form dissolving into the shadows, a ghost in the machine, a living doll in a world of her own making.

Wildsong caught up with Tali and Varlikh. "What now?"

"Fuckin Ereon was an illusion, a trap to pull us in," Varlikh spat. "They never had him. Nor do I think they even do."

"Then why the charade?" Dragskarr rumbled, "To kill us? To test this... thing?" He gestured toward the ceiling.

"Both," Talianimi's mental voice was a shard of ice. "And to send a message. They wanted us to know what we're up against. They wanted us to be afraid."

Varlikh stopped, turning to face the group. "They wanted us to be afraid," he repeated, a grim smile playing on his lips. "They failed."