The second chapter. I'm already noticing this story is going to be much longer than Blood of the Damned. Wheras that was about 600-800 words per chapter, Chapter 1 of war was 1000 words, whilst this chapter is 2200 words long. Anyways... enjoy.
Oh, and for those wondering, Caledfwlch is Welsh for Excalibur.

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Chapter 2: The Clan of the Rose

A noise pierced the darkness of sleep, and Gwenhwyfar's eyes snapped open. As awareness came over her mind, she noted the daylight struggling and failing to get through the curtains, meaning whoever was making the noise downstairs was not supposed to be there.

Katelyn shifted, pulling herself into wakefulness, and Gwen placed a gentle finger against her lips warning her to be quiet. With a nod for an answer, the vampire crawled out of bed, and quickly pulled on a simple white dress from her chest. Making not a sound, and ignoring the wide eyed fear in her lover's face, she moved to the stand of armour, and pulled the sword free of its scabbard on the stand.

Caledfwlch, the ancient sword wielded by Arthur. The leather Gwenhwyfar had wrapped around the hilt had been replaced many times over the centuries, but the blade, so keen and bright when Arthur lived, had not been tampered with and still it gleamed in the dim light of the room. Grasping it firmly, Gwen looked over her shoulder to where Katelyn was holding the sheets of the bed over her breasts in a moment of modesty. There were no words shared between them as Gwenhwyfar moved to the stairs.

Descending into the hall, feet making not a sound with each step on the old stairs, Gwen could hear the sounds of a crackling fire. The glow reached up the walls, and Gwen felt exposed in the light. The fire pits hadn't been used for some time. Who was here? Villagers finally thinking the price of protection was not worth their freedom? Or perhaps a vampire hunter had finally found Gwen's home. Whatever the case, Caledfwlch was ready to spill blood this day, and Gwenhwyfar was more than ready to quench the steel's thirst.

Reaching the foot of the stairs her eyes flicked into the shadows first, looking for hidden attackers; there were none. With gaze flicking towards the source of light, she saw a cloaked figure sitting at one of the tables, looking into the orange and yellow flames, sparks popping into the air and floating about them. Gwenhwyfar raised Caledfwlch, poised to strike down the invader.

"I do not remember your manners being so horrible as this Gwen," a familiar voice said, thick with an accent from the east.

"Elishka?" Gwen asked, lowering the sword so the point touched the ground.

The woman turned and pulled back the hood of her cloak, black hair spilling free. Brown eyes holding a smile still concealed by the cloth wrapped around her face, and her hands resting comfortably on her knees.

"Indeed. The road here is rather long and I needed to sit for awhile. Besides, I did not want to wake you. It is day after all," Elishka said, untying the mask she wore and slipping it into her pocket. Her skin was still a gentle bronze hue, despite the state of undeath she was in. It seemed the touch of being born in the Holy Lands would not leave, even beyond death.

"Wake me you did. Now tell me why you have come courier. I do not recall you ever having made a social visit," Gwenhwyfar said, setting Caledfwlch on the table opposite Elishka, before seating herself on the bench.

"Never in this part of the world. The council is sending out a call for the Clan's Knights. You are one of those knights Gwen, unless you've forgotten in your loneliness. Even if you have, you made the vows, and the council remembers," Elishka said, forming a steeple before her with her fingers.

Gwenhwyfar snorted; she had broken many vows in her days amongst the living. Elishka had only brought up her more recent ones as a sting, and though she didn't let it show, it had hurt.

"I remember. Why are we being summoned?"

"I'm not fully sure myself. The Clan of the Rose is rising in power once more, and are trying to make a claim for land. They are breaking the secret of the Clans. We are already seeing the result, hunters are growing in number and strength. Not to mention that the Church is starting to fund some of these hunters themselves. Vampires everywhere are in danger, and the council is amassing an army to remove the threat of the Rose," Elishka explained carefully, slowly, as if trying to remember all the details. Gwenhwyfar frowned, if the council had not told one of their best couriers the full message, then the need for secrecy must be dire indeed.

Gwenhwyfar knew though, that secrets caused only trouble, and violence.

"Hopefully we can defeat them for good this time," she said after a moment of silence. Despite her words, she knew it would be difficult. She had been reborn into undeath as a member of the Clan of the Rose, as a princess even. As she journeyed through their political world, she discovered horrors and evil. Joining the Clan of the Wolf was the second set of vows she had broken.

"Hopefully. You have two weeks to get to Narvik. I shall see you there... or perhaps not," Elishka said, and with said, donned her cloth covering, and pulled up her hood. With a bow to Gwenhwyfar, she left, walking out into the sunlight. Gwen watched her go with a frown, before looking back at the sword sitting on the table.

Perhaps it would get its blood after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Hook let out a long breath and closed his eyes for a moment. The chill wind blowing across the sands caressed his skin, almost frigid against the sweat on his face. Pulling at the chainmail around his neck, and would have sighed in pleasure at the cool air washing across his chest, if it weren't for the reek that coiled out from under his armour links and white hauberk.

Still, Peter loved the desert nights; the heat was cut away as the sun hid, and it reminded him of his home in Europe. The wide green fields, and the almost mystical forests. He missed it, mostly because it wasn't so fucking hot there.

Turning his head to look along the lines of Christian Crusaders, all dressed in the same white hauberk with the red cross imprinted on the front, chainmail hoods covering their heads for those who could not afford helmets. They hid behind a sand dune, while a few men peaked over top to watch the Saracens in their encampment. The only one in full armour, was Lord du Lac, who stood just beneath the lip of the dune, visor of his helmet pulled down to hide his face. With one hand he leaned on his sword, while the other held a rose before his face. Peter could only assume that the nobleman was looking at it, examining it. After a moment, he wrapped the plant in a cloth and shoved it beneath his breast plate, even as one of the scouts slid down the dune.

"The commanders have all entered the central tend my lord. They have only a handful of sentries," the man said, his face twisting weirdly with each word due to the scar that had ruined most of his mouth.

Du Lac lifted his sword into the air, the moonlight glinted off the steel, and he began to climb over the dune. Silently, the Crusaders followed him, and Peter went with them. His sword tapped against his leg with each step up the dune, fingers of his right hand gripping his spear tightly, knuckles going white beneath the leather of his gauntlet. The straps of his shield were firm around his forearm, hand open to paw at the sand as he moved over the dune.

There was still no war cry, no challenges, just simple movement. Metal scratching against metal, hundreds of feet shifting through the sand. Moonlight glinting off spear tips and helmets. Peter was looking straight at one of the sentries, not so far away. Was the man blind, or simply dumbfounded at the sight of this raiding party.

Then a yell burst out into the night in the Saracen tongue. A sense of alarm spread through the camp as tired soldiers were awakened from their slumber. This was when the Crusaders charged. Peter yelled as loud as he could, kicking up sand behind him as he lowered his spear and ran towards the heathen bastards.

Archers armed with longbows stood atop the dune and lit their arrows with fire. Their first volley soared through the air, raining fiery death upon the confused Saracens. Fabrics caught alight, horses panicked and struggled against the binds that kept them in place. A few men ran screaming from one tent, their clothing blazing before they jumped into the sand.

Still, soldiers managed to get weapons, and some armour on, moving to defend the encampment. Archers fired quick shots back, but without organization, lacked the lethal effectiveness of the Welsh longbows.

A man beside people let out a choking gurgle, grasping the projectile in his throat and trying to stop the blood spurting around the wooden shaft, but collapsing to the desert sands instead. Peter rushed on, there was nothing that could be done for the man.

The Saracens came at them with spears and those wicked curved swords. They shouted something in their foreign tongue, and it sounded like a heathen prayer. The words only stirred the anger in Peter's soul as the two forces clashed. His spear sank into a man's belly, the crimson blood running down the haft looked black as pitch under the night sky.

Peter pushed the man to the ground, watching him cough up his own life essence as he crashed his booted foot into the man's throat, whilst the spear passed through flesh and into the ground beneath. Pushing down with his foot, he pulled on the spear, opening the man's stomach further, spilling entrails across the ground.

Around him, Crusaders slaughtered the unprepared Saracen soldiers. Blood flowed from corpses left in their wake as they moved through the camp, killing everyone who didn't wear the red cross. Servants and serving women were laid low in a splash of gore by Crusader spears and swords.

Peter ducked a high thrust from a spear, battering it aside with his shield, and stabbing upwards into the attacker's chest. The man screamed, and with a crack the spear broke in Peter's hand, another body falling to the blood stained sands. Pulling his sword free he moved on, grabbing a servant girl as she tried to free. His hand had grasped her breast, and he snickered, squeezing. The girl screamed, and scratched at his bared face. Peter screamed as a fingernail raked his eyeball. Half the world seemed to go dark, and his sword plunged through her flesh.

"Rot in Hell heathen bitch," he screamed, kicking her lifeless corpse to the ground. He brought a hand to his face, feeling the blood there, not all of it his. Pain throbbed in his head, like a dull hammer, and all around him, men died.

"Peter... you've looked better," a soldier said with a hoarse voice. All around him the battle had ended, and the Crusaders moved amongst the dead, looting, finishing off the wounded.

"I suppose I have," Peter said, looking up to see his friend Davis.

That wasn't possible, Davis had been killed two weeks ago. Gaze moving all around him, Davis saw Crusader soldiers bending down to feed from the blood of the dead, drinking deep. They were all scarred, and battered, hauberks stained in the blood. Peter recognized some of the faces, men who were all supposed to be dead.

Davis laughed, and Peter backed away, before the sound of clashing steel distracted him. One Crusader was defending himself against one of the dead ones.

"Back devil. Back to Hell where you belong," he yelled, before another came up behind with a mace, and hit the back of the man's skull. Blood and gore burst out everywhere, and the mockeries of Crusader soldiers descended upon him.

"You'll be amongst us soon Peter," Davis growled, and Peter turned to run.

Pain knifed his brain, fear grasped his guts, but he still ran, pulling his sword free. A damned thing jumped from a tent, face smeared with the blood it had been drinking, and growled angrily as Peter, who simply swung his sword at its neck, severing its head clean from its shoulders. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, but Peter kept running, back from where had come.

A vicious fist hit him in the chest, the force knocking him onto his back, sword flying from his grasp. Laying in the sand, looking up at the stars and moon glaring brightly in the sky, Peter gasped for breath, as Lord du Lac stepped above him, visor raised.

Cold eyes stared down from that pale face, and he wore a smile that revealed fangs not unlike that of a serpent. The demon who had tricked all these men here, who had led them all into bloodshed raised his sword.

"May God strike you down demon," Peter said, coughing as breath came back into his lungs.

Du Lac looked into the sky, as if waiting, before he shrugged, and brought his sword down.

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