VC - Detlev von Ravensgard

[Dirkhrod]

The room was silent save for the moaning of the man on the bed. It was sparsely furnished and apart from the bed it contained a table, a chair and a big chest, against the wall opposite to the bed. A single candle lit the room, set near the dying man’s head, throwing a faint orange glow on the man’s pale face. The face had been handsome, but the suffering in the man’s eyes had taken any trace of beauty from it. It was a mask of pain as it contorted with every taken breath. The man was tall and had the body of a warrior. His hair was sandy yellow and his now clouded eyes had been of a pale blue. He was obviously a man from the North of the Empire. He had been stripped off his armour, but a coat of arms addorned his tunic: a leaping white wolf on a red field.
The man moaned again and reached for a tankard of water that the house’s owner had left at his bedside. It spilled, and the man cursed viciously, causing himself even more pain. His wound was festering and he had begun to feel the stench. The marauder’s flail had battered his armour and when the hammer blow came from the Chaos Warrior, it had crushed the already dented plate, sending pieces of it through chainmail and tunic into the knight’s flesh, crushing his ribs along. He had managed to stay on his horse and spur it away from the site where the other four White Wolves had fallen, the only one that could warn the men of Middenland that a horde of Chaos had just landed on their shores and was making its way south. South where the villages lay, where the towns lay, where they could rape and pillage and take their share of slaves.
So he had ridden in spite of the excruciating pain, he had ridden for two full days until he reached the lonely farm. His horse collapsed, foaming at the mouth. A man came out of the house, an axe in his hands. With one well-aimed blow, he cut the animal’s neck and put it out of its misery. He took the knight and half-carried him into the house, laying him on the bed and taking his armour off. The wound was already black. He had known at once there was nothing to be done, but the man was a White Wolf and when a White Wolf died in your house you better knew why. So the knight told the farmer about the Chaos horde, about the fight, about the death of the other White Wolves. He told the man their names and his and to ride at once and spread the news. The Count in Middenheim and the Grand Master and the Ar-Ulric had to know, to come and drive the Chaos horde back into the sea. So the man tended to the wound as best he could, washed it and bandaged it, lit a candle and left a tankard of water at the dying knight’s side, mounted his horse and rode south to spread the word. One thing he could not do. He could not kill the White Wolf as the knight had asked. That would be murder, he had said, and he was no murderer of good men.
Alone. He would die alone in an abandoned farm, from a festering wound, delirious with fever and thirst. Hardly the death of a hero. He saw the Chaos Warrior’s face again, as he had delivered that vicious hammer blow. It was the face of a normal man, like hundreds he had seen on battlefields. But the eyes were constantly shifting colour. They compelled you to look into them and once you did you got lost in that flow of blues and reds and violets and yellows and the next moment the hammer blow came and you were dead. If you were lucky. If not, it would take a few days and you would die in horrible pain from a grievious wound. He saw his father’s proud face when he was admitted in the Order of the White Wolf. Defender of the Empire, protector of the weak, hero of Middenheim. It was just three years ago.What a cruel joke… A nameless body in a nameless house on a nameless hill. If he was lucky the farmer would get news of his fate to his brothers, but that was hardly a priority for the man who had to prevent a Chaos invasion.
Birker von Sverkow would be the last of his line, dead before having the chance to make a name. Dead before siring a son. Dead before leading men into battle. All his dreams destroyed by a pair of liquid eyes and the blow of a hammer. There would be no glory, no statues, no sons. There would be no revenge.
“It doesn’t have to end like this”.
The candle went out. The room was cold and Birker knew that death had come to claim him. He gripped the handle of his axe, which the farmer had reverently placed at his side. He was ready.
“It does not have to end at all”.
The voice was cold and confident. It was compelling. A shadow moved and leaned over the dying man. A pair of steely-grey eyes looked at him. They too were cold, the coldest Birker had ever seen.
“You can have your revenge. You can have your glory. You can have your name”.
The weakened man was surprised that he could realise he was hallucinating. He had never thought you could actually realise you were raving.
“Would you like that ?”
A sepulchral silence had descended over the place, broken only by the voice. Which sounded quite real. As his tired eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Birker made out a face as well. It was pale, square-jawed and strong. It was clean-shaven, just as the head itself.
“The choice is yours, of course”.
“Who are you ?” asked Birker in a shaky voice. Pain was throbbing in his left side and sweat was dripping off his face.
“Think of me as a messenger. I am offering you a new chance, eternal life and the way to fulfill that of which you now feel robbed. There is a price of course, but there always is one.”
“Eternal life ?” moaned Birker, a sinister realisation starting to dawn on him. “What are you ?”
“I am your second chance. You can die now and what exactly will happen to you I cannot tell you. I am no priest. You can also chose to live on and do what you did not have the chance to do.”
“You are an abomination” was all that Birker could mutter.
“Perhaps, but that is a matter of perspective. We are what we make of ourselves. I have seen living men eating their children. I am here to offer you a choice. What you make of it is yours to decide. You can become a beast or a hero. You can use this second chance to do what you want. To fight for whatever you want.”
“Your kind is a curse on mankind. You feed on people. You are all I have sworn to protect my land and fellow men from”. The presence of an enemy had given new strangth to the dying White Wolf .
“So is Chaos. But unlike Chaos, I do not dream of destroying the world, I fight to preserve it. I do not strive on destruction and change and perversion and disease. I was like you once, there was a time I was proudly wearing the wolf on my shield. I fought for what I believed in and I fought against the enemies of my land and kin. And then I became this, but I still fought for the same things. And now that the might of Chaos is stirring again I will fight once more. For this land, for these people and for Ulrik. As for you, you can join me and do what you were born to do, or you can refuse this gift of mine and die. Your choice.”
“And spoilt for choice I am…” Birker said bitterly.
“Most have none” the dry answer came. “I’d say you still have another hour, maybe two left. I will wait, you’d be surprised how much patience comes with eternal life. Choose wisely.”
The apparition backed away from the bed and sat on the chair. It stretched its legs and sat there, looking into the void.
Birker gripped the handle of the axe. “Ulrik, give me strength” he prayed.
“There is no weakness in choosing to fulfill your purpose in life” the voice said.
Birker von Sverkow was crying. He had not cried eversince he was a child. He did not realise it at the time, but those would be the last tears he had ever shed. “Do it…” he whispered. “DO IT!”.
“We all come crying into a new life” the voice said in a tone that almost betrayed kindness.
The vampire leaned over the dying man and sank his fangs into Birker von Sverkow’s jugular, drinking deeply. He then punctured his own vein and held it over the man’s mouth, so his blood could slowly spill into it. Birker von Sverkow died.





The riders stopped in front of the lonely house. The carcass of a horse lay sprawled in front of the gate, its head cut. The hounds were already feasting on the horse’s entrails when the leader of the band dismounted and drew his weapon, a mighty warhammer. He was wearing ornate armour of blue and gold and had the symbol of an eye carved on it. He wore no helmet and his face was common, looking almost friendly. His eyes were constantly changing colour.
He walked slowly to the house and opened the door, followed by six marauders. They all went in, leaving another ten men outside with the horses and hounds.
“You should wear a helm” were the last words the Chaos Knight heard before his throat was ripped open.
“Not on him” said another voice, more commanding. “Do not feast on him, his blood is tainted. Feast on the marauders”. Six other bodies were lying on the floor. Their tendons of two of them had been cut clean with surgical precision by an axe. The other four had had their spine broken. They were all still alive, yet unable to move. They were Birker von Sverkow’s first meal.
Ten minutes later, ten other bodies lay drained at the side of the road. “Newborns are always so hungry” thought Detlev von Ravensgard. “Come, Birker, let us leave this place. We have an invasion to stop. With any luck, soon we will be gorging ourselves on Kurgan blood”.