aronovich was in his tent, examining the region's maps while sipping some of the best vodka in all of Kislev. He was thinking how much he hated having been assigned to such a remote outpost in the foothills. He didn't like this camp in the gloomy woods marking the border between Mother Kislev and the Dwarf kingdoms of the Worlds Edge Mountains. But it was his duty as an Ataman of the Horse Archers to maintain the vigil on the trails coming from the mountain passes.

Suddenly he heard movement outside the tent and two of his men walked in. With them they had a girl, one of the most beautiful young ladies he had ever seen. She was very young and frail, her skin pale and her robe in tatters. An expression of sheer terror was on her fair visage and she was shaking all over.

"Ataman, we found this girl on one of the mountain paths. It looks like she's been attacked, but she hasn't said a word. She's too terrified. She may not even speak our language."

"Interesting. Bring her some hot food and something to wear."

"Yes sir," the two men left and were soon back with what he had asked for.

Saronovich observed the girl and could not avoid feeling affection towards her, for she reminded him of his sixteen year old daughter. He also noticed that she ate and drank very little and without enthusiasm; it was clear that she was still scared. The old soldier tried to calm her, speaking with a soft and warm tone of voice, "Do not be afraid. We are friends. Friends. What is your name?" The girl looked up at him and seemed to understand his words.

"Mara, me Mara." The Ataman was relieved. He couldn't recognise her accent, but at least some communication was possible. "What happened to you?, where is your family? Mother, father?" With her innocent eyes open wide, she answered "Mountain... monster... die, all die. Mara no die." and she started to cry, sobbing violently. Saronovich was moved and decided to leave her alone for some time. He walked out into the red light of the setting sun and called the sergeant. "Yuri, have the men raise a tent for our guest and double the guard tonight. She spoke of a ‘monster' and I'm afraid that one of the evil creatures that inhabit these mountains has attacked the group she was travelling with. It seems she's the only survivor."

"At once sir!"

Then the night came.

Mounted Lahmian Vampire

Saronovich was woken up abruptly by a terrible scream that pierced the darkness. In a moment he was outside the tent, his sword ready. Where were the guards, he thought, and why had they allowed the camp fires to die out? He heard more shouting from the barracks and rushed in that direction. He entered the large tent cautiously and by the dim light of the braziers he could see that it was too late. His warriors were dead. Some bodies were still in their beds, their throats ripped open. Others lay on the floor, their bodies torn apart and dismembered, apparently by the talons of a creature of awesome strength. A Troll! No, impossible. One of those creatures couldn't possibly make its way into the camp stealthily enough to surprise these experienced warriors in their beds. What was it then? How could he fight it? The Ataman's mind was overwhelmed by fear and anger. Then another thought hit him like a warhammer: the girl! He had to protect the girl. He started to run to her tent, but was stopped by a new series of cries, coming from the edge of the wood nearby. Some of the guards were still fighting and one of the voices was clearly female – she was there! He reached the tree line where he could clearly see a torch burning not far ahead. He headed for the light and almost trampled on the lifeless body of a guard. The girl was leaning against a tree, an arrow protruding from her shoulder. Her clothes were covered in blood, but she was still alive, that was the important thing. She looked at Saronovich with hope, but immediately her eyes focused on something over his shoulder and she shouted "Behind you!" The Kislevite turned, ready to fight, prepared to give his life to protect that innocent creature from such a terrible fate. His eyes scanned the darkness for any trace of the monster, when another voice spoke from behind him, sending a shudder down his spine. It was the languid, sensual voice of a full grown woman, with an evil, ironical hint in her tone: "I told you it was behind you..."

Those words, and the feral snarl that followed them, were the last sounds that Ataman Saronovich of Kislev was to hear in his life.

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