|
T H E D A R K T
O W E R
by James Pipik and Joseph Vargo
Brom lunged forward, swinging his sword down on the dark form.
Almost too quickly for Brom to see, a pale hand rose to meet
the descending sword. He felt the blade bite hard into something,
but it did not seem that it was flesh. The hand closed around
the blade and wrenched the weapon from his grip. It tossed the
sword aside and it clattered off into the shadows.
Brom tried to back away, but again
the shadow moved with unnatural speed and caught him from behind,
a hand at his throat, another clutched the knight's long mane
and yanked his head back. Brom struggled to escape. The grip
on his throat tightened and Brom relented, gasping for breath.
The pale hand crept from Brom's throat
and sprawled its clawed fingers across the silver crucifix that
hung upon the knight's chest. He felt cold breath on his neck
and a coarse voice whispered, only inches from his ear. "I
see thou wearest the cross of the Christ," it said, lifting
the cross with a taloned finger, "though alas, not the ward
thou hadst hoped." The hand withdrew from sight momentarily.
"For see, I wear my own." The skeletal hand now held
a crucifix just within the edges of Brom's vision. It was chained
to the shadow behind him. Though tarnished almost to black, the
cross was ornate, bearing the crucified likeness of Christ.
As Brom gazed at the crucifix, the thing
behind him drew its head slowly forward over Brom's shoulder
and into the light, revealing the face of the dreaded Baron.
Gaunt and ashen, it looked upon Brom with eyes, lifeless and
black. Its head was completely shaven and its ears were pointed
like those of a bat. The thing drew back its lips to expose a
jagged line of teeth pointed and sharp as daggers. The countenance
resembled that of a grimacing skull.
The low voice whispered, "Thy destiny
is sealed, my son."
V A M P I R E ' S K I S S
by Christine Filipak and Joseph Vargo
Peering out from the cover of twisted bramble, she noticed
a crumbling structure in the midst of the open grounds that lay
between herself and the keep, a series of stone arches which
stood to one side of the path. Spying no signs of life, she ran
to the archway and clung in shadow there. She again looked toward
the castle, now noticing the elaborate detail carved into the
facade. Grim gargoyles peered down from the castle's heights.
Graven images of demons and beasts lined the battlements. Keeping
their vigil over the tower, they sat silent and deathly still.
As Rianna took a step toward the keep, one dark figure raised
its head and turned its ashen face toward her...
M A S Q U E O F S O
R R O W
by Christine Filipak
Mara crept to the grand hall and threw open the doors to behold
a horrific sight. Hundreds of ravens filled the hall. Enormous
birds, black as night, greedily fought for rank amongst the feast.
The guests lay where they fell. Some still bore their hideous
masks while the faces of others had been picked clean to the
bone by the ravenous birds, leaving them eyeless and leering
with cadaverous grins.
Low laughter carried across the grand
hall. Mara slowly advanced toward the dais. There, in the king's
throne, sat the jester... Amidst the
carnage, a tall shadow stood. Leathery wings rose from its back
and, though the form was that of a beast, the thing stood upright
like a man. Its ears were pointed like those of a wolf or a bat.
It turned to face Mara, its eyes aglow like seething embers.
Its claws scraped across the floor as it stepped toward the throne.
"Hail, the Dark Queen." The
creature's voice bellowed through the hall, stilling the raven's
caws.
"What have you done to me?"
Mara asked.
"You shall never again suffer the
pains of human frailty." The thing gestured a clawed hand
toward one of the many corpses at its feet. The stiffened body
lay frozen in the throes of death. The demon's long tail swept
across the carcass, lightly caressing its withered flesh. "These
weak creatures shall grovel beneath your feet. You shall feed
upon them, their fears... and their blood. All I have promised
you shall be fulfilled. Your kingdom shall have no bounds on
this earth."
S H A D O W S
by Joseph Iorillo and James Pipik
Upon the wall, towering above the meager silhouette of his
chair, a shadow stood. Whatever was casting the shadow, whatever
he had seen in the street earlier, was standing directly behind
him.
Nicolai felt as if a frigid winter gale
had enveloped him. His heart pounded at a dangerous pace and
he had to struggle to retain his composure. He sat bolt upright
in the chair, holding rigidly to its arms, his eyes riveted to
the narrow shadow before him.
Slowly, he unclenched his right hand
from the arm of the chair, one flexed finger at a time. He lifted
his hand so carefully that one could scarcely say it moved, then
let it drift inch by agonizing inch to the pocket of his cloak.
He found the reassuring weight of his dagger among its folds.
His fingers deftly unclasped the sheath and drew the blade forth.
He clenched the hilt in a fist damp with perspiration.
His eyes were still transfixed by the
motionless shade. How long had they been locked thus? Minutes?
Hours? Perhaps, Nicolai thought suddenly, it was merely an illusion
of candlelight, a shadow cast by something he had not noticed
upon entering the room, his grandfather's greatcoat or a tall
bureau. Why else would the specter remain so still when it must
know he was aware of its presence?
As if reading Nicolai's thought, the
shadow stirred, lifting morbid, skeletal arms up and outward.
Nicolai sat for an instant that seemed an eternity, unable to
move, enthralled by the long, twisted shadows wavering in the
flickering candlelight like writhing serpents...
S E N T I N E L S
by James Pipik and Joseph Vargo
A host of grotesque stone figures peered down out of the darkness
from the ledge that supported the vaulted ceiling and various
niches set high in the walls. They took on many shapes and forms,
some recognizable as men or beasts, some a combination of both
or a strange distortion of natural forms, the invention of some
mad artist's sacrilegious imagination. Men with the wings of
eagles or bats mounted the ledges as if preparing to spring.
In the flickering candlelight the lifeless beasts seemed to stir
and writhe. Their lidless eyes, chipped and cracked, lined with
dust, followed him as he stepped onto the balcony.
A voice deep and hushed, sepulchral and
cruel, now spoke to him from among the gargoyles. "Abandon
hope all ye who enter here."
N O C T E M A E T E R N U
S
by Robert Michaels
I began to follow her when a chill swept over me. I glanced
back toward the tower and once again felt the strange sensation
of movement in the shadows. Gheorghe must have sensed it too,
for he had begun to stir. He sat up, but before he could get
to his feet, a dark shape descended on him. Gheorghe gave a yelp
and his head snapped back and dangled from his body.
I let out an audible gasp and the blood-gorged
face of the fiend turned to look in my direction. I took a step
back and turned to run. My muscles were tight and I could barely
move, but I scrambled toward the forest path that led to the
village. I could hear the movement behind me, slow, steady, shuffling
strides. I tried to hurry my own pace, but my legs only grew
slower and heavier with each step. I stumbled over a twisted
root and fell forward onto a sharp branch which tore through
my shirt and stabbed into my shoulder. The sudden burst of pain
released me for a moment. The book fell free from inside my shirt.
I snatched it up and started to run again. I felt dampness spreading
on my shoulder and could catch a faint whiff of blood. My eyes
went wide in horror, for I feared what the blood would draw.
A shadow leapt over my head faster than
my eye could follow. The dark shape rose before me and I beheld
a tall man dressed in black robes. Before I could move, he clutched
my neck in a firm grasp. His cold, black eyes latched onto mine
and held my head in place even more firmly than the hand on my
throat...
L I L I T H
by Joseph Vargo
Mara approached him, and placing her
hand below his chin, lifted his head with a single, sharp talon.
Behind her, lustrous black drapes streamed down from the vaulted
heights of the ceiling, giving the illusion of great ebon wings
rising from her back. She smiled wide enough to show her fangs,
then swiped the claw across his throat, tearing it open. Aldis
clutched his neck, but his efforts did little to stop the blood
which began to seep through his fingers.
The Dark Queen turned and let fall her
black shroud to reveal a thin, silken gown, then ascended the
dais to sit upon her throne. "Bring him forth," she
commanded...
|
