The Sanguine Dusk

By Martyn C. Miles

"Something unpleasant is brewing, and I cannot shake the feeling it is about to come crashing down on us."

 

When a simple bandit attack leads to suspicion of an invasion, the threat of civil war looms over the land of Vrollstag. It is up to the the leaders of the three major clans - Valacari, Shivnka, and Drakhovi - to find out who is trying to incite a war in their country, and why...before it is too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martyn C. Miles
• Release date: Mar 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224062386

Martyn C. Miles

Martyn Currill is 40 years old, and still hasn't come to terms with that yet. He lives with his fiancée, daughter, and their ever-growing dog in Merseyside, England, where he spends most of his time coming up with entertaining lies. He can be found on Twitter, @MaliceUnchained (don't ask), or by email at [e-mail].

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Two men walked calmly through the halls of an immense, dark castle, lit mainly by the full moon that shone through its ornate windows. One was shorter and more slight of build than his companion, a man of tall and muscular stature, creating an imposing presence wherever he walked.

Neither of them paid any attention to the servants going about their task of lighting the wall sconces, instead focused on their business at hand.

There have been some more attacks, My Lord, the shorter man stated, reading notes from a parchment pinned to a small wooden board.

His companion, Count Grigor Valacari and lord of Dukhalov, emitted a low growl of irritation, not turning to his steward as he replied.

Do we know who is responsible? His voice was deep and aggressive, as if reigning over an entire territory went against a more violent nature.

Yes, My Lord, it was...ah yes, Laverne Ducarre, from-

Eltridge, the taller man answered, pausing at a window and looking out over the courtyard. Damn. That means he is from Drakhovi territory, we cannot simply put him to the sword and be done.

Indeed, My Lord, although a messenger has already been dispatched and Lord Ducarre has been apprehended and placed in confinement until the matter is resolved.

Grigor sighed heavily, leaning against the window frame.

That is something, I suppose. Any other news?

Um...yes, Lord. Scouts have reported bandits amassing near our Northern border, and suggest swift action.

Hm...the Countess is getting lax about maintaining order in her own lands, Grigor mused, then looked to his steward again. Strength?

Uh, roughly a platoon, My Lord, the steward answered after briefly consulting his notes.

Send two platoons to deal with them, Grigor said immediately. After the fiasco with Ducarre, we want our people to see that we are dealing with these matters seriously. And send my daughter with them, she will no doubt be glad of the chance to slake her thirst once more.

As you command, My Lord.

He struck a line through the last item on his list with his quill, and turned to Grigor with a subtle smile.

Well, that is everything for tonight, My Lord, he said hopefully. Have you any other need of me, or-

You are dismissed, Konstantin, Grigor said, with an absent-minded wave. Inform my daughter of her orders, then you are free to take your ease.

Konstantin bowed, hurrying off to fulfill Grigor's command. The Count himself stayed at the window, looking down at the courtyard, then up past the castle walls, out to the valley beyond and the nearby village of Grezht, and on the darkened horizon, the dull lights of Lokavitz could be seen.

It remained a matter of some bemusement to him, that even after forty-three years of ruling the Dukhalov province, he still could not get used to being some sort of...benevolent figure to the people.

People that, despite himself, he had come to care about.

Besides, there were certainly benefits to maintaining a steady position of power, as opposed to the semi-nomadic lifestyle his clan had endured before. Food was easier to come by, for one thing, both the various delicacies they ate for the taste and the blood they needed for sustenance. Another thing was that having a single place to call home, a permanent residence, was oddly gratifying, and although ruling with a sense of honour and benevolence felt slightly uncomfortable at times, there was no doubt it was also the best life he could have wished for.

He just hoped the actions of people like Ducarre, ambassadors from other provinces who held the lives of mortals in lesser regard, would not jeopardise the trust they had so carefully cultivated.

A shout from below preceded the clattering of hooves against flagstones, and Grigor looked down to see his daughter Lahmea, clad in her leather and chainmail armour, guiding her barded steed forwards toward the castle gates. Her four honour guard followed her, their armour heavier and more ornate, and behind them came the carts of foot troops.

Lahmea pulled her horse to a halt, waiting for the gates to be hauled open, then she silently raised her spear and pointed it forwards, leading the force out into the valley, narrowly missing another figure entering the courtyard.

Grigor smiled as he saw the other figure, and began walking to his throne room, knowing his son would insist on greeting him there.

Being merely a count, Grigor's 'throne room' was little more than an enlarged reception room, with room enough for his advisors, a small court, and a handful of petitioners. However, it was the seat from which he ruled Dukhalov, his own little corner of the land of Vrollstag, and so for all intents and purposes it was his throne.

Grigor watched from his ornate chair as his only son strode through the doorway to the room, a courteous nod to the two guards that protected the entrance. That was something he admired in his youngest child – his compassion. Kindness and decency came easier to Duahn than it did to Grigor, a fact some considered a weakness.

But Grigor knew better. There was strength in the boy's compassion, not a physical strength but a moral one, and it had certainly won the Valacari clan more allies than violence and deception ever had.

The slim, immaculately-dressed Duahn reached the middle of the floor, and without looking at his father he dropped to his right knee.

My Lord Grigor, I bid you greeting, he announced, his voice soft but measured. As he spoke he stretched out his arms, opening his hand so that his fingertips brushed the stone floor.

Seeing the cluster of scar tissue at the end of Duahn's left arm always brought up a whole range of emotions for Grigor, but he pushed the matter from his mind as he stood. He had no desire to revisit that unpleasantness.

By the blood, Duahn, stand up, he said as he stood before the younger man, and his son stood at last to meet his father's crimson eyes.

Grigor's expression split into a fanged grin as he embraced Duahn vigorously, and while Duahn's own embrace was more restrained it was no less sincere.

It is good to have you home, my dear boy! Grigor said, clapping Duahn on both shoulders heartily, and Duahn smiled with a bashfulness that was also out of place among their kind, and ran his hand through his long black hair.

Thank you father, it is good to be back home, Duahn answered as Grigor let him go, following his father to a small table with a crystal decanter and several small glasses on it.

Where were you this time? Grigor asked his question as he poured them both a drink. Szarabov? Kilkarozht? He passed one glass to Duahn, taking a sip of his own as he listened to what his son had to say.

Ah, Lokmarizt actually. Duahn paused to sip his own beverage, resting against the wall in a display of idleness he would never show around anyone but his family.

Lokmarizt? Remind me where that is?

Duahn smiled at his father's inability to remember half the towns and villages in his province.

North-East, a small village on the shore of Lake Valost.

Ah yes, I remember now, the lake at the foot of the mountains?

Duahn nodded.

Indeed. Being a lakeside town, they were in no need of fishing knowledge or anything to help them prosper financially. Instead they were in need of knowledge of basic healing techniques, medicinal herbs, and some books of learning to teach their children.

Aah, so that explains your long absence, Grigor said with a knowing smile, and Duahn nodded in reply.

The compassion Grigor admired in his son had manifest in ways he would never have considered. Ever an inquisitive, curious child, Duahn had taken to learning with a passion and tenacity his sister never had. History, medicine, alchemy, politics...Duahn consumed knowledge on every topic imaginable, with a hunger that rivalled his unnatural vampiric one. After they had taken over the castle they now called home, Duahn set upon a project: to bring education to the people they now ruled, that they might better the lives of the populace.

After almost half a century of spreading knowledge, the results were clear – the land thrived, the people were content, and each generation grew up more prosperous than the last.

There is one matter which concerns me, however, Duahn told his father, staring into the bottom of his glass in thought. "I wanted to wait before mentioning it, but now I feel it is a concern – there is another...philosophy, I suppose, beginning to spread."

Grigor frowned.

Oh?

Indeed. The last three journeys I made, I would encounter people clinging to a small, ornate tome, bearing a silver sunburst upon it. This time was no different, except that I was able to look through one of said books.

And?

Duahn looked up at Grigor, his expression confused.

Father, it is most peculiar – it tells the story of some...unknown deity, a God which would hear their prayers and ease their woes.

Surely that is preposterous! Grigor spat. We have given these people nothing but peace and prosperity for almost a century!

I know father, believe me, Duahn said, attempting to placate Grigor. But that does not seem to matter. This...cult, or whatever you wish to call it, it is small at the moment...but I worry that some children may be raised to believe in this deity, as opposed to putting their faith in themselves. Adults will choose what they will, but children...their minds are shaped by the people who raise them, and a generation or two further down the line could lead to them becoming wary of us.

Damn them all! Grigor snapped. After all we have done for them! We should never have-

I pray you do not finish that sentence, father, Duahn said calmly, placing a hand against Grigor's chest. They are misguided for now, but it is not their fault. Obviosuly these books have been brought into our province by some other passing travellers or merchants, but it is not the fault of our people.

Grigor visibly relaxed, his expression softening at his son's gentle explanation.

Aah, you are right, as always, my boy, Grigor said wearily. I was too hasty. But I do think we should keep an eye out for any other travellers or merchants peddling this nonsense, and do our best to dispense with it.

Agreed, Duahn replied, setting his glass back down. Now, if you'll permit me father, I wish to rest, although before I do...where was Lahmea off to in such haste?

Grigor waved a hand dismissively.

Oh, some upset at the northern border, nothing concerning.

The Countess?

No, just some brigands or such, certainly no force capable of giving your sister any trouble. She leads our army for good reason.

That is most certainly true, Duahn answered with a gentle chuckle. Good-night for now, father.

At that, Duahn bowed to Grigor and turned on his heel, striding from the chamber towards his own room.

Grigor embarked on a walk around the castle and its grounds, checking in with various staff, ensuring that the people under his care were looked after, and otherwise savouring the cool Springtime night. At this time of year, the castle windows remained open most of the time, and the winds blowing in from the West carried the scent of the Myriad Suns flowers, blossoming along the clifftops that bracketed the Castle Valacari. They were strange little flowers, Grigor mused, the multiple yellow blooms that were their namesake sprouting from a single shoot, but their scent had swiftly become one of his favourite things about Spring.

With Lahmea away, he made it a point to visit the training grounds, where many of his daughter's vampire officers continued to train themselves, even after their mortal charges had gone to bed. Tonight he found Jorin, a warrior who was fiercely loyal to Lahmea, despite being at least a century her senior.

He was also, if Grigor recalled correctly, what the commonfolk would call 'a pain in the ass.'

My Lord Grigor, Jorin called out as he spotted the patriarch, what a delight to see you visit us once more! Would you care for a sparring session, or has that big chair made you soft?

Grigor glowered at him, his distaste for the man's levity a thing of legend.

Tell me Jorin, do you speak to my daughter like that?

Oh, all the time, Jorin shot back. But she gives as good as she gets, and I know when to stop. Usually when she breaks my nose, but it's all in good faith.

I am not here for pleasantries, Jorin, Grigor told him at last, sighing with exasperation. I just want a report on the readiness of your other troops. Lahmea will want to know when she returns.

Jorin shrugged.

Well then, with the greatest of respect, I'll inform the General myself at that time, since she doesn't need to know if she's not here, right?

Despite the cockiness of his words, Jorin's tone remained respectful, and it was precisely things like that which got on Grigor's nerves.

How my daughter tolerates you, I will never know.

"I'm exceptionally good at my job, Jorin answered, grinning. That and my sparkling wit. Is there anything else you'd like from me, My Lord? A good sparring session perhaps?"

No, Jorin, I am not going to spar with you, nor anyone else, Grigor stated, his patience waning. I merely wanted to see how everyone was doing. Instead I get challenged by some upstart officer of my daughter's. I shall bid you good evening.

Grigor turned and walked away, silently chiding himself for once again allowing Jorin to get under his skin. The man was far too good at that – but luckily for him, he was every bit as good at his job as he believed he was, or else he would have been beheaded years ago.

He continued his rounds of the castle, stopped by the kitchens for something to sate his desire to eat, then returned to his office to see to his own work. There were no doubt plenty of petitons, requests, and grievances that needed his attention.

CHAPTER TWO

H old.

Lahmea raised her hand in a silent repeat of her order, removing her ornate helm as her troops formed up behind her. She inhaled deeply through her nose, crimson eyes searching the sky.

Do you smell that?

One of her honour guard lifted her visor, inhaling as her commander had.

Blood, she stated firmly, her voice a soft rasp, and smoke.

Lahmea nodded.

It seems the bandits have begun their attack already.

No doubt in the belief that our kind only come out at night, her guard added, and Lahmea snorted.

Well then, we will have to enlighten them that only my father keeps to such archaic practices.

Lahmea grinned wolfishly, setting her helm over her head once more.

"Move out, double time! Yah!"

With that shout her horse surged forwards, and the others were quick in following suit, the pounding of hooves blending to a rolling thunder that heralded the bandits' doom.

The sounds of pillaging echoing around the small town of Ebaroszht disguised the sounds of Lahmea's impending approach – the bandits were overjoyed at letting loose, whooping and hollering as they tormented the townsfolk.

But the heavy drumming of hooves could not be drowned out indefinitely, and soon the bandits nearest the town edge stopped what they were doing and looked outwards.

Are we expectin' anyone else? one of them asked his fellows, who followed his gaze.

"Ah, shit! It's the Count's troops! To arms!"

However, his shout came too late.

Lahmea urged her horse faster, and her guards fought to match her speed. Soon, however, the force split, Lahmea's guards going left and right around the town perimeter, two each side. Lahmea herself charged onwards up the centre, the troops carts behind her, smashing through the town's small fence and straight into the first bandit group.

A single swing from her sword sliced a man open from chest to chin, before she lashed out to behead another. Two more were trampled beneath the weight of the heavily armoured warhorse, and Lahmea dispatched another two with quick slashes of her blade. Other bandits scattered, but before Lahmea could give chase arrows began to rain down near her, some bouncing off of her horse's barding. One embedded itself in Lahmea's shoulder guard, but the reinforced leather stopped it breaking skin, and she ignored the projectile as she charged at the small line of archers.

She was surprised that they held their ground, considering they were being charged by a jet-black horse in heavy armour, but she was at the same time thankful for their courage – at the last moment she leaped from the horse's saddle, cleaving her first target in two as she landed. Instantly she was moving again, stopping one of the archers from drawing his sword as she rammed her blade into the soft armour at the pit of his arm. She spun with lightning speed to easily deflect an attack from behind, delivering a fierce kick to his ribs and grinning as she felt bone crack. She finished him by plunging her blade into his throat, and she pulled her helmet free in order to savour the geyser of blood that spurted from his neck.

The last archer made the mistake of bellowing a pointless warcry as she charged at Lahmea's unguarded back, and the general whipped around, caught the woman's arm as it came down, using it to pull her close and sink her fangs into her neck, drinking deeply until she was sated.

Once her thirst was slaked, she dropped the corpse at her feet and looked around the town – the bandits were beginning to rout now, but as her guards closed in from the sides they were left with no avenue to flee to. The rest of her troops were charging in, too, outnumbering the bandits by two to one.

The fighting had been measured in mere heartbeats, so efficient were her troops; with the bandits' escape routes cut off, they were rapidly forced back to the town square where they were summarily cut down.

Lahmea nodded in satisfaction, wiping her sword on a nearby body before wiping her mouth on her vambrace. She reclaimed her helmet, fastening it to her belt, and whistled for her horse which had begun idly grazing.

"Just because I feed in the heat of battle, that doesn't mean you get to, she told the animal calmly, taking its reins. One of us has to be paying attention, at least."

The horse huffed, shaking its head with a rustle of shifting metal.

Don't argue with me, you know what you did, she added, sheathing her sword. Come on, we should find the Head Townsman.

'Head Townsman' was an archaic title, similar