finishing the dregs from his fourth tankard of ale two men approached. He didn't register until they were standing directly before him.
'Hello, lads,' smiled Saark, placing his tankard down with a clack. 'What can I do you for?'
'The popinjay asks what he can do for us,' laughed the first man. He was big, with a round head, roughcropped hair, large ears and ruddy cheeks. In his fist, he held a longsword, point lowered. Saark's eyes followed the blade to the ground.
'That's a good question,' replied his companion. 'A very good question indeed. A damn fine question, if I be honest.'
'Listen,' said Saark, leaning forward a little as if sharing a conspiracy, 'much as I'd like to sit here and trade stunning witticisms with two grand but obsequious fellows, who are both obviously the core intellectual firecrackers of this entire inbred ensemble, I really feel I must rise and circulate in order to integrate with the finer female brethren contained within this squalid den of congenital primates.'
'You see,' said the first man. 'There he goes again. Spouting all that crap. Horseshit, I says it is.'
'Aye. And he stinks like horseshit, as well.' Then to Saark. 'You hear that, boy? You stink like horseshit.'
Saark sighed, and there came a little tearing sound. One of the men yelped, and went rigid. Saark's eyes were suddenly dark, and contained less humour, and his face and dandy clothing seemed somehow just that bit less ridiculous. 'That little prick you feel against your leg, my friend – and I can tell you're a man who enjoys feeling little pricks against his leg – well, it's the point of my rapier. Let me assure you, my weapon is tempered from finest Jevaiden steel, and probably cost more than this entire village; indeed, I spend a good half hour a day keeping it sharp ready for the hour I need to teach some uncouth big-eared boy a lesson. Now, I'd advise you not to move quickly because the point is a single twitch from slitting your femoral artery – that's the main one, which runs through your groin and will empty your pathetic body of blood in less than two minutes.' Saark leaned forward. His eyes glittered. 'I've killed thirty eight men with that cut. Not a single man didn't writhe and scream like his intestines were filled with molten lead. You hearing me nice and clear, village idiot?'
Both men nodded, and stepped warily back from the dandy. Their faces had turned pale.
Saark stood, and sheathed his rapier, and turned his back on them with a show of contempt. He glanced once again around the room. His face displayed open disappointment at the sport on offer.
Saark sighed, and strode to the door. The smoke, and perhaps a little too much ale, were making him dizzy, with the added consequence of polluting his new finery with a stink like a tobacconist's smoking shed. He stepped out into the night, pulling his snow-leopard cloak tight around his shoulders and looked up into the falling snow. He leant his back against the wall and took several deep breaths, head spinning a little. Damn the grog! he thought, hand on sword-hilt.
'Hello,' came a voice, a female voice, and Saark found himself staring at a tall, lithe, robed figure. In the darkness the robe seemed to glimmer like velvet, and from the edges of the hood he could see bright blonde hair, a fan of translucence. She was a little taller than Saark, but rather than intimidate, this excited him. She held herself erect with a natural nobility, and her halfshadowed features were finely sculpted, high chiselled cheekbones, flawless skin and dark, half-hidden eyes.
'Well, hello there,' smiled Saark, and stroked his chin, and wondered suddenly at the capriciousness of life, the gods, and most importantly, women. 'What's a pretty thing like you doing out on a cold, dark, snowladen night like this? Surely, you must allow me to escort you somewhere warm where you might partake of drying your fine, moonlit-shadowed hair, and maybe partake of some fine Gollothrim brandy distilled from ripe plums and cherries teased from the superlative orchards of the south.'
'Oh, you speak so fine and handsome, sir. You are not from these parts?'
'Alas, no, simply riding through. But I think you may entice me to return! You live here, no?'
'My parents are dead. I spend some time with my uncle in Jangir, the rest here with my aunt. She has a small farmstead.'
'Wonderful! Is it nearby?'
'A goodly trek, sir. But what of this brandy of which you speak?' She moved closer, and Saark smelt her musk. It infected him, immediately, like a heady liquor injected to his vein, a toxic narcotic injected to his brain. If I die tonight after enjoying this fabulous woman, I would die a happy man, thought Saark, as he moved close to her and her eyes were still hooded and he reached out, stroked away a stray strand of hair and she giggled, and he leant forward, intoxicated by alcohol and her scent and their lips touched, the briefest of intimations, a promise of flesh and excitement to come. The woman turned away, a teasing, calculated movement which was not lost on the dandy. He enjoyed it. It was all part of the game.
Oh, thought Saark, you're good; you're very good.
'My room is this way,' said Saark, gesturing to the tavern.
'It would be unseemly for me to trudge through the tavern common-room. Is there a… more discrete entrance?'
'I'm sure we will find one, my sweet,' purred Saark, and reaching out he took her arm and they moved through the snow, and he said, 'What is your name, my princess?'
'My name is Shanna,' she whispered, voice husky with an anticipation of impending violence.
Saark moved to the bed, and lowered the wick on the lantern. He had taken the woman to Kell's room – after all, the boy Skanda was sleeping deeply in their shared quarters, and Saark knew the old goat wouldn't be needing his bed. Well, not for the intimacies of a lady, at any rate. The ambient air was filled with warmth, and positive energy, and the scent of Shanna which seemed to take Saark and spin him up and around in a frenzy of need and recklessness. He breathed deeply, and Shanna moved to the bed, and lowered her hood, and removed her cloak. She wore a short, white dress, and Saark moved to her and placed his hands on her shoulders and she murmured, a little in pleasure, a little in lust, a little in need, and Saark kissed the pale skin of her neck, kissed through her fine blonde hair and she wriggled in his embrace as if he tickled her, pleasured her, and it was all like a dream seen through a distorted piece of glass. Saark stepped away, panting. 'You are beautiful and luscious indeed,' he said, and kicked off his boots.
Shanna moved to the lantern, and lowered it more. When she looked up at him, her eyes were dark, like pools of liquid ruby. Her face was gaunt, but stunningly beautiful. When she smiled, Saark melted like butter in a pan. He groaned, and moved to her again, and kissed her, and his arms were over her and touching her, and she writhed under his touch in lustful agony and then took his head, suddenly, in a powerful grip and stared deep into his eyes.
'I think I am in heaven,' whispered Saark.
'You soon will be,' promised Shanna, and there came twin crunches as her fangs ejected and her head dropped for his throat and a fist of insanity punched through Saark's mind – but not enough to inhibit twenty-five years of military training and real-world combat. Saark swayed back, twisting fast, stepped back and away in shock; then he leapt at her, both boots slamming Shanna's chest and using the impact to kick himself backwards, through a somersault to land lightly on his feet by the door, facing her.
Shanna's hands had come up to her chest, head tilted, the smile still on her lips. There was no pain. Now, her visage was one of mock disappointment. 'What? You would spurn me so soon, my beautiful and verbally sophisticated lover?'
Saark cast his gaze past Shanna, to where his rapier stood – useless – by the window. He grinned, a nasty sideways grin without humour as his hands levelled before him, and he stared at the vachine and took a step to the left. Shanna followed his direction with intimacy, and eased towards him.
'You would have bitten me,' he said, eyes fixed on her long fangs, and then on her eyes, and he cursed himself. Her eyes were crimson, the red of the albino warriors who hunted them. And yet she had fangs, like the vachine creatures from beyond the mountains. 'What the hell are you?'
'You wouldn't understand, Saark, my sweet,' she said, and lunged at him.
Saark swayed to one side, and cracked a right hook against her cheek, spinning away to the other side of the room. Shanna touched her face, lower lip extending a little. She pouted.
'A little excessive, Saark, don't you think?'
Only then did he realise he had not told her his name. Something chilled inside him. Some primordial instinct told him this woman, or vachine, or whatever the hell she was, was very, very dangerous. And she was looking for him. Hunting him.
