Victor patted Guapo’s shoulder as he approached the big curtain wall. He wasn’t trying to hide or sneak into the keep this second time. He’d killed anything in there that was a threat to him, and he was tired of skulking around in shadows. He’d cast Iron Berserk, summoned his banner, and now he sat atop a glory-attuned Mustang, the center of a blazing circle of daylight in the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he first entered the keep with Kethelket and Victoria. It felt like a dozen hours to him, but it could have been longer—he’d lost track of time when in his Aspect of Terror and also when he ate the wampyr’s heart.

The strange thing was that he didn’t see any defenders atop the wall, nor were there any lights to speak of. Hadn’t he noticed lamps when they’d snuck in? Dunstan’s non-monstrous followers seemed to require illumination to see. This time, the keep was dark, quiet, and felt utterly deserted. Victor rode straight up to the gate, and when no challenge, no arrows, no magical bolts came his way, he sat there for a moment and watched. The gate was impressive—thirty feet high and twenty wide, constructed of massive, thick planks of some kind of hardwood. He could see the bolts in the wood that must hold the crossbeams on the other side in place.

Given time, Victor figured he could break through that gate, but he wouldn’t waste the effort. If he had to force his way into the keep, he’d just leap up to the parapets. After studying the weathered stone of the wall for a while, hoping to catch sight of any movement within, he grew impatient and shouted, “Open the gate!” It was a longshot, he knew, but still, he figured if they weren’t actively trying to defend, maybe the soldiers within were broken or fled, and some forgotten servant or thrall might do as he asked. He was just getting ready to dismount and leap up to the ramparts when he heard clacking and creaking as someone turned a windlass in the gatehouse.

The gates shuddered and shook as the bar was slowly lifted. “¿Interesante, verdad, chico?” Victor patted Guapo again as he waited and watched the left-hand gate haltingly swing open. He could hear grunting and muffled curses, and he saw a pale hand gripping the wooden edge, so he knew someone was there, working to grant him entrance. He still didn’t feel any threat, so he sat, relaxed, Lifedrinker still in her harness, and waited until the gate was pulled wide and a man stepped out from behind it into the light of his banner. He squinted and shielded his eyes, but his pale flesh didn’t burn or smoke.

He wore a black tunic over black leggings and carried a sword sheathed at his waist. When he slowly lowered his hand, exposing his face, Victor was surprised to see a very normal, if pale, human man looking up at him. “Hail, Lord. We beg your mercy.”

“We?”

“Us that survived the death of Lord Dunstan.”

“Explain.” Victor nudged Guapo forward, and the massive Mustang’s hooves danced with sparks as he pranced toward the gate, each step a bass drumbeat on the gravel roadway. The man stumbled back but caught himself as Victor slowed, stopping inside the entrance, making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Some of us were newly taken by Lord . . .” he shook his head, and Victor saw him grimace. “By Dunstan. We hadn’t taken much of the wampyr nature from him yet, and so when he died, we reverted to our old selves. Well, our old selves, in addition to memories of a waking nightmare. Most of Dunstan’s people burned to ash when he died. There’s just a hundred or so of us inside.”

“Gather everyone. Bring them to the courtyard. If you deal with me honestly, there will be mercy.”

“Thank you, Lord!” The man bowed and turned to hurry through the gate tunnel, but he stopped and turned. “Lord, do you mean the inner courtyard or the baily here between the walls?”

“Inner.”

Victor watched him hurry away, running up the slightly sloping cobbled roadway that led from the curtain wall to the inner keep gates. He took his time following, contemplating the man’s words. Dunstan’s grip on the wampyrs had been so thorough that when he died, so did they? What did they get in that bargain? Eternal “life?” A faster route to power than gaining their own levels and skills? Perhaps it wasn’t a gift. If he believed the man who’d just spoken to him, it was more of a curse. It sounded like he hadn’t come into Dunstan’s service willingly. Whatever the case, it highlighted another difference between the wampyr and vampyr factions of the invading army.

As he allowed Guapo to walk toward the open inner gateway, he looked left and right, taking in the bailey grounds. The whole space between the walls was cobbled, and he saw ballistae and barrels lining the inner parapets. Barricades stood on the bailey ground, and he could imagine archers using them to slow attackers who’d breached the curtain wall. It was a strong keep, and he figured the right defenders could hold off quite an army from within. Scanning around, he tried to see remnants of the defenders who’d supposedly spontaneously combusted at Dunstan’s death, but the air was damp with mist, and he could smell rain. So close to the sea, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been washed away.

Even taking his time, Guapo’s steps were huge, and soon he clip-clopped his way through the inner gatehouse and came into the courtyard where, in rows of twenty, more than a hundred men and women, dressed much like the first man he’d seen, knelt on the hard cobbles, heads down, waiting for him. He sat atop Guapo, looking down at them, running his eyes over the rows, staring at each of them for a second or two, wondering what he might see. None looked up to meet his gaze. None gave off any whiff of power or Energy use. He thought he saw several of them trembling; from fear or weakness, he didn’t know.

“Who spoke to me at the gate?”

A figure in the front row straightened and looked up, meeting his gaze. “I did, Lord.”

“Your name?”

“Smythe, Lord, Perry Smythe.” His voice was steady, and he looked earnest, his brown eyes unflinching when Victor gazed into them.

“Perry, what would you have me do with a bunch of one-time enemies? Undead creatures who sought to slay me and mine?”

“Lord, we aren’t undead. If we were, well, it’s ‘cause that bastard took us from the villages on his lands and made us so.”

“On Dark Ember?”

“Aye. We were serfs on his lands; the vampiric lords and ladies keep us for food and to fill their armies.”

“And entertainment,” a woman said from somewhere in the middle of the group.

Victor frowned and contemplated the group. He believed them, but could he trust them? “What happened to the belongings of the ones who burned up?”

“Most of their things burned with ‘em, Lord, but we found some weapons and jewels in the ashes.”

Victor took a deep breath through his nose and sighed heavily. “Listen. I’ll give you all a chance to earn some trust. Bring everything you looted from the dead and from this place and pile it before my horse. Let’s keep this orderly—one by one, left to right, row by row.” Victor watched as they did just as he’d commanded. The one-time wampyr thralls stood and began to deposit knives, swords, maces, axes, spears, and jewelry of all sorts, but mostly rings, in neat piles in front of Guapo. He maintained his banner and watched them as they approached, looking into their eyes, trying to read if any were harboring hidden animosity or faking their tolerance of the fiery sun hanging behind him.

In the end, all he felt was pity for the wan, thin, desperate men and women. The piles of jewelry were impressive, and Victor wondered if these poor survivors had thought themselves rich and free until he’d shown up. When they finished, he asked Perry, “Did you loot the dead in the tunnels beneath the keep?”

“Aye, Lord.”

Victor pulled out the huge silver key from storage and held it up by its chain. “Do you know what this opens?”

“Aye, Lord,” he said again, “that’s the key to the silver door atop yonder tower.” He pointed to the big round tower that rose near the rear of the keep. There weren’t any windows near the top, and its roof was made of some kind of dark, unreflective metal. Lead?

“Okay, Perry, let me ask you again: What would you have me do with you all, undead or not?”

Again, a woman spoke up before Perry could answer, “We want freedom!” Murmurs of agreement vied with shushes and pleas for mercy from the kneeling crowd. Victor frowned and contemplated the people. If what they claimed was true, then they certainly deserved pity and probably the mercy they asked for. They’d taken up arms for Dunstan but hadn’t been part of the winged wampyr horde that had kidnapped Kethelket’s people. Could he blame them, anyway? Apparently, Dunstan had taken them and infected them with his brand of vampirism against their will, and somewhat recently, if he were understanding things correctly. That was why they hadn’t burned to ash.

Even taking all that at face value, their demands for freedom were a bit much. All the men and women in the legion and supporting it were here, fighting for their own lands, their own freedom. Should it just be given to these people? Shouldn’t they help? He thought about it some more, watching the crowd, knowing he held their lives in his hands. “I’ll grant you the mercy of not holding you responsible for the actions of Dunstan and his wampyrs. I’ll also grant you your freedom, but if you’re hoping to settle in these lands, you’ll need to aid our cause. If you don’t want to do that, if you don’t want to fight against Hector’s undead invasion, then you’ll need to march your asses north through the pass, and you can try to find your freedom in the Ridonne Empire.”

As he spoke, many of the kneeling, black-clad former wampyr thralls looked up, their pale faces staring toward him atop his gigantic steed, and Victor saw hope and relief in their eyes. He knew what they were feeling; he’d felt it too when the nobility of Fanwath had enslaved him, sent him into the mines, and then he’d had a glimmer of hope sparked to life in his heart with just a touch of kindness from Captain Lam. “Stand up,” he growled. As they complied, rising to stand in ranks before him, he continued, “If you mean to stick with me and put the undead assholes invading this land to the torch, then stay put. If you want to head out and try to make your fortune beyond the mountains to the north, then walk out this gate and wait for me. I’ll write you a letter so the people guarding the pass will let you through.”

He watched as the people slowly looked around at each other, none speaking, none moving. After a few minutes, when they’d ceased their looking around, and every one of them still stood before him, he said, “You’re sure? None of you want to leave?”

The same woman spoke up again, her voice strident, “Lord, there are different kinds of freedom, and my heart won’t feel truly free ‘til I’ve seen that green star extinguished and know the portal to Dark Ember is closed.” The crowd shouted their agreement, some of them raising fists in the air, and for the first time, Victor saw fire in their eyes, perhaps fanned to life from the hope he’d given them.

“That’s how you all feel?” Victor slid off Guapo’s back and, with a firm pat to his haunch, sent the mount back to the Spirit Plane. He stood before the assembled defectors, towering over them in his titanic form, his banner blazing behind him. When none of them objected to the woman’s words, Victor nodded, loosening Lifedrinker from her harness and holding her before him. “If you want to stay with me, you’ll need to swear an oath. I want each of you to stand before me, tell me your name, and swear that you’ll stay loyal to our cause. Swear that you’ll fight against the invaders from Dark Ember. More, I want you to swear to learn about the customs of this world and work to fit in.”

The woman was the first to step to the front, and the man who’d first spoken to him, Perry Smythe, lined up behind her, then everyone else jostled to get into line. The woman was slender but tall, and her long, wavy red hair was pulled back and tied into braids with leather cords. She took a knee before him and looked up, tiny next to his bulk but pale eyes fierce as she said, “Lord, I am Agnes, and I swear to help you and your army to push the invaders out. I swear, on the bones of my mother, Sigrid, that I’ll stay loyal to you and learn the ways of this new world.”

“Well said, Agnes. I accept you and swear to treat you fairly and fight with you against our mutual enemies.” Victor saw tears spring into the woman’s eyes as he said the words, and when she stood and moved back into line, they were streaming freely down her cheeks. So began a very emotional experience for Victor and the survivors of Dunstan’s vampirism. One after another, the former thralls knelt before him, swore their loyalty, and heard his pledge in return. Many of them wept openly, and Victor struggled to keep his own eyes dry, imagining the roller coaster of emotions these people were feeling, the struggles they’d gone through.

As he’d thought earlier, he had some common ground with them, had known the feeling of a yoke around his neck. He also knew what it felt like to be free and to feel the bond of loyalty when he’d thought he was alone. He didn’t know what these people had planned when their lord died, didn’t know if they were expecting to be recaptured, killed, or if they had some hope that they might break free and find a way to live with their newfound freedom. He hoped they didn’t see his arrival as that of simply a new lord they had to serve. That was why he’d offered them the chance to leave, to find their way outside these lands. To him, their unanimous decision to stay meant a lot; they could have, just as easily, all decided to leave.

When the last one swore to him, Victor nodded to his newly assembled allies and severed the connection to his Iron Berserk spell, reducing himself down from mythic proportions. “Thank you, everyone. One thing you’ll need to know, though, is that I value your word, and I consider you my brothers and sisters in battle now, but the people of Fanwath aren’t so quick to trust. They have customs that are hard to shake. Everyone in our army has bound themselves with a System contract, agreeing to pretty much the same thing you all just swore to me. When I assign you to a new captain, you’ll need to do the same.”

“How long will we be so bound to the captain, Lord?”

“Only until this campaign ends. Once we’ve driven the invaders out, the contract expires, but I’ll always hold you to the oath we just swore to each other. Does anyone have an objection?” Silence met his question, so Victor nodded, swinging Lifedrinker back up and into her harness. “Someone show me the System stone in this keep. I mean to claim it.”

Agnes pointed to the keep's open, darkly stained wooden doors and said, “In the great hall, just past those doors and through the next.”

Victor strode forward, down the ranks of his new soldiers, and heard them fall into line behind him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw two single-file lines, remarkable in their orderly formation. He climbed the steps, passed through the door, and saw a faintly illuminated pair of doors straight ahead in the dim, unlit shadows of the grand foyer. He walked toward them and pulled the handle of the one on the right. It swung open with a squeak of unoiled hinges, and then he saw Dunstan’s former great hall, or, at least, the one he hadn’t used, the one not buried in twisting catacombs full of ugly vampiric monsters.

The hall of the Sea Keep, as Victor was starting to call the place mentally, was vast. It wasn’t remarkable for much more than that, however. The ceilings were massively vaulted with at least twenty, two-hundred-foot beams spanning the length of it, holding up the great weight of the stones above. It spread out from left to right, rectangular in shape, with a grand stone fireplace at either end. No furniture adorned the ample space, but floating at the center, directly in front of the door where Victor stood, was another System stone, just like the ones he’d seen in the other keeps.

Victor walked forward, the former thralls at his heels, and placed his hand on the slowly rotating stone. It stopped its movement immediately, and he saw a familiar message before his eyes:

***This stone is undefended, and you have sufficient forces in the vicinity to claim this outpost. Do you wish to do so?***

“Good,” Victor muttered, glad to see the System had recognized these people as his “forces.” He mentally affirmed his decision to claim the outpost, and, just as before, an Energy-rich breeze began to blow through the keep, seemingly coming out of nowhere or perhaps from the stone itself. It gently blew over his flesh, tickling it with an electric touch, and he heard the people around him sighing and laughing, perhaps feeling Energy untainted by a death affinity for the first time.

Though no lights came to life in the hall, his banner brilliantly lit it, and the stones, the wood, and the very air seemed to feel lighter, less oppressive. He knew that if he went outside, the darkness wouldn’t be so dark, the mist and fog in the air would be gone, and he and his new followers would be able to breathe easier.

***Congratulations! Your forces have claimed this outpost and its surrounding lands. Defend it from your enemies and continue your conquest! For your victory, your faction will be rewarded a Chest of Conquest—this only occurs the first time you claim any given territory.***

Cheers broke out around him as the System’s message appeared, and Victor smiled, glad his new allies were sharing in the victory. His hand suddenly fell away from the stone, released as the process of claiming the outpost ended. Smoke began to gather at his feet, and he knew what it was: The chest of conquest was about to take form. Something was different, however. He remembered blue smoke at Old Keep, but this smoke was purple and sparkled with silvery lights.