So. Almost two months since the last chapter of this was posted. I'm sorry for those who've been waiting, and now I kind of know what George R.R. Martin felt when 'A Feast of Crows' was published. To a lesser extent by far of course. Still it's a good feeling to return to this little universe of mine.I like writing here and fuly intend to continue the tale. I hope you all enjoy a return to medieval Europe through the eyes of a vampire.

In other news, been doing more judging than entering any contests lately. So it's not just this tale that's suffered, but all my writing. I seem to have found my groove again though. Life is still hectic but I plan on getting the next chapter out in the first half of October.

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Chapter 9: The Gathering Calm

The council had been dismissed, and the knights had left to prepare for their journeys east. Gwenhwyfar and Elishka stayed behind, now kneeling before the elder, who sat in his throne of carved stone, expressionless face looking down at the two knights bowed before him.

"A former queen and an assassin. A traitor and a run away. It is quite the pair that you two make, and now members of the Clan of the Wolf. The task I have given you is of utmost importance, for I believe that an elder of the Rose is assisting Lancelot in the human Holy Lands," he said, voice hardly above a whisper.

"How can just us two defeat an elder my lord?" Elishka asked, head bowed before Asgier.

"Do not think the humans will let the crimes committed against them go unpunished. The greatest armies of the world are already in that desert, waiting to thrust cold steel into flesh. You must bring the reckoning of the Wolf, while the others wage war."

"Then it will be done," Gwenhwyfar said simply, before rising alongside her companion, ready to leave the chamber.

"I have arranged transport for you across the sea, with Amadeo's merchant ships. Leave as soon as you can, and show the Rose the fury of the Wolf."

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Alan lifted his wine skin to his lips, and felt the last drops of water trickle down his throat. With a curse he strapped the leather pouch back to his belt and continued to ride across the sands beneath the glow of the desert moon.

"The camp is not far. You will be free to take whatever provisions you need. Keep in mind however that our resources are finite," Salaam said, riding beside him.

Alan simply nodded, before glancing over his shoulder. Curtis was behind him, his horse trudging through the sand, laden down with the weapons from the battlefield. The scout captain didn't even acknowledge the knight, he simply stared ahead, his back stiff. The other surviving scouts glanced about nervously, their fists tightened around the reins of their mounts, whilst around them the Saracen soldiers tried to march without looking up at their new allies.

It was insane; that was all Alan could think to himself. Two bitter enemies siding with each other to stop an unholy menace stalking Christian and Muslim alike in the holy lands.

The group steered into a narrow canyon, the smooth rock walls on either side blocking out the moonlight. Alan noticed a man with a bow looking down at him from above, face beneath his turban unseen in the darkness.

"The Afghans. They came here searching for the walking dead, after many of their people were killed in the desert," Salaam said, noting where Alan's eyes continued to look.

"Afghans?" Alan asked, watching the shadowy figure vanish from sight.

"Yes. I admit to not knowing much about their homeland myself. But the ones here are simple nomads who have come to aid us. They are good with a bow, and move quiet as shadows."

"Great, heathen ghosts," Curtis muttered from behind the two.

"It is not the spirits of my people you should fear. But the bodies of everyone's dead."

Curtis mumbled something darkly before going quiet once again. They rode and marched in silence save the clink of their armour with each movement, and the soft whiney of the horses. Within a few minutes however, the walls started to spread out, and two flags were stuck in the ground, the fabric as still in this windless night as the guards standing beneath the banners.

"This is our camp," Salaam said.

"Seems small. Reports said Saladin's army was massive," Alan said, glancing back at Curtis who merely nodded.

"We are not part of the army out here. We are on our own. Come I have something to show you," Salaam said as they strode past the guards into the camp.

There were only a few dozen tents about the small clearing, and no one had lit any fires in an attempt to keep their position hidden. It was quiet, and there were very few people about. Alan assumed the rest of the soldiers were sleeping.

Reaching the centre of camp, a few soldiers came to take the horses. Salaam dismounted and said something to them in Arabic, and Alan followed suit. Curtis and the other scouts seemed hesitant, but eventually did the same. The marching soldiers dispersed amongst the camp, but Salaam beckoned for the Christians to follow him to another tent with two guards posted.

"What is it you're showing us?" Alan asked walking alongside the Saracen.

"Our enemy," he said simply pushing aside the flaps and entering the darkness of the tent.

Alan heard something moving against the back wall before it went deathly quiet. The smell of rotting meat filled his nostrils as he heard his new comrade striking flint until a torch flared to life. Flicking light pushed back the shadows, revealing a man in the heraldry of Du Lac chained to two separate posts against the back wall. His tabard was stained with dried blood and his form was slumped in death. A burlap sack had been pulled over the soldier's head.

"What is this?" Alan demanded, reaching for his blade.

"Still your hand," Salaam said reaching out and pulling the bag free.

The man's face had started to rot away, the lips and gums pulled back in decay to reveal broken and yellowed teeth. An eye was torn out and his skin was cracked open, revealing the glimmer of bone beneath. An arrow was still lodged in the man's neck, the shaft broken off near the dried flesh.

Alan was about to pull his blade free, about to scream treachery, when the man's remaining eye opened and the ghoul let out an ear piercing screech.

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The troubadour playing in the corner had a long way to come if he wished to play in any courts. To the drunken patrons of the nameless tavern however, he was more than skilled enough. As his fingers plucked at his lute, struggling to find the right notes, his voice cracking as he tried to sing, those deeper into the cups overpowered his soft voice with lilting and vulgar voices.

Andrzej ignored it, simply content alone at his table to drink his ale and sop up his greasy stew with stale bread. No one bothered him, though he wondered if that had as much to do with the sword and crossbow sitting carefully by his side as their own courtesy.

Pain flared in one of his teeth on the right side of his jaw as he bit into the bread, and he let out a quiet curse drowned out by the noise of the inn. He probed at the pain with his tongue for a moment before letting out another low curse in Polish and dragging the bread through the stew on his plate, picking up thin strings up meat.

When the door opened, letting in the night air, no one took notice. A cloaked man made his way through the crowd, pulling his brown robes tight around his form, before finally making his way to Andrzej's table. One of the two serving girls working, both presumably the thin emaciated inn keeps daughters, came up to the table as the man sat himself opposite Andrzej.

Her young face was scarred from acne and her gray dress was spotted with stains. From what Andrzej could only guess, she did a little work in the rooms for rent above.

"Another mug," he said in broken Italian, and his guest simply shook his head before pulling back his cowl to reveal a closely shaven head. The kind of shave that only the rich or monks had, and this man did not appear to have much gold to his name.

As the girl wandered back to the bar Andrzej turned his attention finally to the bald man, who was now fidgeting with a wooden cross between his fingers.

"Are you Andrzej Mikula?" the stranger asked cautiously.

For a moment there was only the sound of the tavern, as the Polish mercenary watched the man opposite him, trying to get a read on him. He moved the lump of now soggy bread to the other side of his mouth to try and reduce the pain in his tooth.

"I am. What do you need?" he finally said.

"I am Brother Davide. I've been sent here to find you and hire your... services," the monk said, dipping his voice so low at the last word that Andrzej had to strain to hear him.

"I'm very specific about my services these days. Gold up front as well."

"We have reason to believe that there is movement coming down from the north. The undead are on the move."

"And why should I care? I'm in Italy tracking one, and his head is rather important to me."

"We need your help, you can stop the same tragedy that befell you from happening to someone else," the monk pleaded desperately.

Letting out a harsh laugh, Andrzej took a swig of his ale and slammed the empty mug back on the table, looking through the inn for the serving girl.

"Why should I give a shit about anybody else?"

Davide frowned and reached into his robes, pulling free a purse that chinked with a sound very familiar to Andrzej's ears. Picking up the small bag, the mercenary felt the weight, using his thumb to help count the coins within. He had no wish to spill them on the table to reveal any type of wealth to this crowd.

"Now you're speaking my language. So tell me, where do I find these monsters," Andrzej said, leaning back in his chair.

The monk pushed a scroll across the table, nestling it beside the nearly finished plate of food.

"All the details are there. Make sure it is done," the monk said before standing up and leaving the tavern.

Andrzej smirked as he tucked both the purse and the scroll into a small satchel. There was some killing to do.

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