Dark Legacy

	The whelp flung himself at the Sword, razor-sharp claws rending the air.  The 
vampire was young, but fast.  The Sword side-stepped just in time, slashing at his victim 
with the Black Heart, the sword which gave him his name.  He missed, slicing through a 
trashcan instead.  The trash inside immediately began to smoke and burn, from the 
supernatural heat within the blade.  He pulled it out and silently regarded his prey. 
	The vampire was crouched in the corner of the alley between the nightclub the 
Sword has chased him out of and some low-grade housing.  The Sword had tried to 
question him, but the leech wouldn't cooperate.  His long black hair fell over his face, but 
not enough to conceal the burning red eyes and the bared, inch-long fangs.  His hands 
were curled into claws, the fingernails and inch long and sharp as knives.  He made a 
guttural growling sound as he took off the leather jacket he wore to reveal a pallid chest 
laced with lean muscles. 
	"I'll send you to Hell with my bare hands, meat," he growled, and charged again. 
	This time the Sword timed it perfectly.  He leapt out of the way and slashed 
through the young vampire's arm.  He cleaved it off neatly, the stump cauterized instantly 
by the Black Heart.   The young vampire uttered an inhuman scream of pain, holding the 
blackened end of his arm.  His wails of agony were cut off in a sickening gurgle, as the 
Sword rammed his white-hot blade through the vampire's heart. 
	Now that its prey was subdued, the Black Heart lost its fiery glow, returning to 
the black obsidian it was carved from.  Re-sheathing the blade, he crouched at the fallen 
bloodsucker's jacket and began to root through it.  A switchblade … some money … a 
few plastic bags that were apparently full of drugs.  Nothing that would help him find 
their leader.  Cursing, he hurled the jacket into a dumpster, where it lay like the shedded 
skin of some strange beast.  
	Suddenly a woman stumbled out of the door he had chased his prey through.  She 
was followed by a large, drunken man carrying a knife that looked ludicrously small in 
his meaty hand.  The woman hit a trashcan, fell, and began to crawl away from her 
pursuer.  He followed, an obscene smile crossing his face as he licked his lips, like a child 
that has been good and will now receive his favorite ice-cream.  The silly-looking knife 
swished idly through the air, as he waited for her to realize it was a dead end. 
	"Excuse me," said a low, dark voice behind him.   Before he could do more that 
register the words, the Sword grabbed hold of him by the arm and flung him face-first 
into the wall.  There was a rapid-fire crackling as the drunk broke first his nose and then 
most of his front teeth on the brick wall.  He rebounded off the side of the nightclub, 
landing in an unconscious, moaning heap on the ground.  That done, the Sword turned his 
attention to the woman.  
	She was curled into a ball in the corner.  Her outrageously revealing dress was 
ripped, apparently in a struggle with the drunken man.  Her strawberry-blonde hair 
whirled wildly around her head, which had not a few bruises and several cuts across it.  
She whimpered as the black-cloaked stranger with the long, silvery hair approached, and 
appeared to try to sink into the wall. 
	He regarded her silently, scanning to see if there was any permanent damage.  
Nothing seemed to be too bad, but she was bleeding… 
	Suddenly he hunched over with a grunt of pain, hands going to the sides of his 
head.  The Beast was overtaking him.  He did not want to feed from this poor frightened 
sheep, but the Hunger was upon him, and he no longer had a choice in the matter.  The 
woman shrieked in terror as the thing that had once been Stephon Von Turamarth 
drowned in a sea of his own vampiric bloodlust, leaving only the beast from Hell his 
body had become.  His steel-gray eyes shifted to a blazing red, and his canines stretched 
into a pair of wicked fangs two full inches in length.  She tried again to scream, but no 
sound remained save a tiny whimper. 
	The Sword fell upon her, and for a time, knew no more of this world. 

	Before he had met his dark fate at the hands of a vampire known as Damocles, 
Stephon had been a proud and noble knight, devoted to honor and justice.  He had been 
the greatest warrior in all of France; no man could best him in combat.  That was, until he 
was savagely killed and given a horrific rebirth--as a vampire. 
	He remembered little of the Embrace; a gigantic, dark man attacking him; being 
drained of all his blood; having the foul blood of that monster forced down his dying 
throat.  His sire had abandoned him almost immediately, and Stephon, his body wracked 
with pain, stumbled into an abandoned shack, and there prayed for salvation from his 
God.  None came--he was damned from the moment he drank Damocles' tainted blood.  
Weeping tears of blood, he fell into a deep sleep, only to awaken the next night with a 
strange hunger he could not understand.  He stepped out of the old shed, and into a 
nightmare he never could have imagined. 
	The fallen knight sought to find help, but the first person he met he savagely 
attacked and drained of all blood.  Horrified at what he had done, he sought to escape 
temptation by fleeing humanity.  It was to no avail, however, as the Beast could not be 
sated with the blood of animals and soon overtook him, sending him on a bloody 
rampage.  An entire village was slaughtered in their sleep to fill the Beast's hunger.  After 
awakening to find himself covered in the blood of the very innocents he had sought to 
protect, he attempted to commit suicide by exposing himself to the sun.  Alas, selfish 
cowardice overcame him and he fled to safety before he could be harmed.  Realizing 
what had become of him, he accepted his curse as best he could, taking care to feed only 
on the evil, those who preyed on their own kind for money or for sport.  Yet, somehow, 
he never gave up hope, and his search for a cure had led him to make his pact with the 
Dark Lords … 

	"… over your head, now!" bellowed a strange voice.  Bright lights lanced into his 
eyes, making him hiss in pain.  He held a hand up to ward it off, and saw that it was 
covered in blood--innocent blood.  The Sword knew automatically that the woman he'd 
saved was dead, probably drained dry as a bone to sate his cursed Hunger.   For the 
thousandth time he cursed his fate, wishing that there was another … 
	He was brought out of his reverie by a booming gunshot.  Pain lanced through his 
upper arm briefly, and then his vampiric blood was healing him again, sewing together 
severed tendons and ruptured nerves.  More shots followed, catching him in the stomach, 
the chest, and his limbs.  One ripped open a bloodless channel across his forehead. 
	The Sword crouched down, still clutching his blade madly.  His body couldn't 
take much more of this, the Beast was preparing to send him into a frenzy of rage, and he 
had to think fast.  He leapt straight up, catching onto a ledge 50 feet above him, and 
swung himself lithely over the edge.  While the police gawked at his escape, he dashed 
across the roof, the cursed vampire's blood that flowed through him already beginning to 
painfully patch him back together again.  He jumped to the next building, and the next, 
until he was confident he could rest for a while.  He was on the top of an old gothic-style 
church--rather appropriate, he thought to himself as he crouched behind a gargoyle.  The 
Sword closed his eyes, and began to meditate on what had brought him here, as cool rain 
began to fall on his blood-stained face.
	He had come to London on a hint that Damocles was seen somewhere in this 
country a week ago.  Considering his sire's unbelievable age, it made sense that the 
Methuselah would choose such a historical land as his domain.  He had allowed the 
informant, a cold, emotionless member of a mysterious sect known as the Black Hand, to 
live in exchange for the tip.  The Hand most likely had some hidden agenda-it was the 
Sword's knowledge that the Undead almost always did-but Damocles' destruction was far 
more important.  It was far more than mere revenge for the Embrace-Damocles was 
possibly the oldest living vampire on Earth, and the greatest leader the Kindred had 
known since the days of Vlad Dracula.  His destruction would throw the Undead into 
chaos, making it easier to pick off and destroy them, one by one.
	His quest of annihilation was no malicious need of his own--though the majority 
of the vampires he met were evil, depraved shadows of humanity, there were some who 
were kinder to the Kine they hunted than most mortals he knew.  Some of these claimed 
to have reached a Nirvana-like state known as Golconda, where even the Beast held no 
sway within their souls.  There were times when Stephon wished desperately to renege on 
the deal he had made, but he knew that if he tried, only an agonizing death at the hands of 
his Dark masters would follow.
	When he was still young and seeking salvation from his curse, he came upon 
forbidden texts that spoke of the Dark Gods that had set vampires apart from the canaille, 
that they might have their will done on Earth.  The Damned rebelled, these books said, 
and were cursed to shun the fire and sunlight that gave the children of Adam life.  One 
spoke of a possible way to summon these deities, though doing so would almost certainly 
bring about the summoner's destruction.
	Desperate for a way out, Stephon had performed the horrific ritual, in which he 
gave over his Humanity to the blackness inside him.  Even as he felt the beast tearing at 
his mind, he felt his spirit being taken … elsewhere.  There depraved voices spoke in 
soft, velvety voices about revenge, death, destruction.  And … salvation.  The Dark 
Lords, the voices whispered, desired to smite their rebellious creatures on Earth.  They 
promised him a deal he couldn't refuse--in return for the Final Death of every other 
vampire on Earth, he would become a normal human again, no longer needing to sate his 
thirst with human blood.  He had whispered acceptance, and awoke.
	The first thing he'd noticed was bright sunlight hitting his face for the first time in 
years.  Instinctively, he tried to scramble away, before realizing that he wasn't burning the 
way he was supposed to.  Surprised, he looked down at himself.  He was wearing a black 
cloak, an inverted cross drawn upon the chest.  Pinned to his belt was five-foot 
longsword, covered with strange designs and symbols.  Turning himself towards that 
bright, wonderful sun that he had so long taken for granted, he uttered a cry of victory, 
like a tortured and tormented soul that had somehow managed to claw his way right out 
of Hell and was free to again walk the Earth.  Before the scream was long out his throat, 
however, a sinister voice spoke in his mind; "Fulfill your end of the bargain; or you will 
find yourself cursed even worse than before."  His joy abruptly shattered, the vampire 
once known as Stephon Von Turamarth, and from this day forward as the Sword, walked 
off to wait until sunset, when his Hunt would begin.
	He was brought out of his thoughts as he felt the Sun's warm rays beginning to 
creep over the horizon.  A new day had begun, and the creatures of the night returned to 
their holes, to await the return of darkness.  Standing, the Sword quietly departed the old 
church, letting the world of men go about its business, dreaming of a day when he could 
join them.

	Some miles away, in a dark, deserted mountain castle, Lord Damocles pondered 
silently.  A hulking giant cloaked in black robes, long black hair flowing over his 
shoulders, he cast his inhumanly sharp mind out of the shell that he had worn for 
countless millennia.  He held silent watch over the dark Earth.  Here a corrupt politician 
made deadly deals with his country's sworn enemies; there a street gang beat an elderly 
woman to a twitching, broken death; there grim-faced soldiers marched through the 
corpses of women and children, occasionally stopping to shoot one who still showed 
signs of desperate life.  All the darkness and evil in the hearts of the Kine were seen by 
the creature that the ancients had called Baal, Set, the Destroyer, a hundred others.  
Overall, he found it quite boring.
	But what was this?  A vampire who hunted his own kind, not for the power in 
their Blood, but some shadowy quest of redemption?  This intrigues him, and he 
concentrated his magics on this rogue.  What he found surprised and delighted him.  This 
creature somehow claimed powers from the Dark Gods themselves.  He stood in broad 
sunlight, but while he should have been quickly and painfully burned to dust, he stood 
and reveled in the light.  Scanning the infidel's thoughts briefly, he found that this 
specimen his own kind in a quest to become "human" again.  Sitting on its throne, his 
face became a grimace of disgust.  What mad creature was this, who would willingly turn 
his face from the power of the Blood and embrace the frailty of the Kine?  This lion who 
would become a sheep?
	But what he saw next brought a smile to his ancient face.  This odd being was 
coming for him, apparently thinking that he could do what millions of both Kindred and 
Kine had tried and failed to so--to slay him, to spill his ancient vitζ upon these 
cobblestones, to him spiraling into the abyss that was the Final Death.  At last, some 
amusement in his long, long life.  Still smiling his terrible smile, he returned to his body.  
He raised his head to gaze gleefully at the hooded servant that stood beside him.  The 
expression was so hideous it sent the vampire back a step.  "M … master?" he 
stammered, temporarily scared stupid.  
	"We will soon be having company, my dear Mephisto," he said in his somehow 
soothing voice, still grinning that terrible shark's grin.  A bloated Black Widow spider 
skittered across the floor.  It happened to brush Damocles' boot as it passed, and instantly 
fell dead.  The Vampire Lord took no notice.  "I want you to visit this creature who calls 
himself the Sword, and let him know what happens to those who would cross me …" 

In a dark, dusty hay loft in the outskirts of the city, Stephon Von Turamarth lived 
again.	
He had been cursed with nightmares since the first night of his transformation. In 
some he was tortured and consumed by a dark reflection of himself, a demon that would 
not be sated until it had consumed his very soul. In others, he was suspended in the 
infinite blackness of the realm of the Dark Lords, the knifelike winds searing his 
consciousness even as the dark voices taunted him with their silky voices. But the one he 
had most often, especially the last few years, was the where he was forced to relive the 
horror of his Becoming.
He had been travelling the countryside, on the way to deliver a message to a rival 
of his King's. His King wished to make peace with this nobleman, and so had sent 
Stephon, his proudest knight, as a gesture of trust. The sun had barely finished its crawl 
below the horizon, and the first few pinpricks of the stars could be seen. He had decided 
to camp near the edge of a forest, when he had suddenly heard a noise.
Curious, he had searched the nearby trees for what had made the sound, but could 
not find it. Perhaps simply a doe, who had been spooked by this armor-clad intruder into 
her realm. Shrugging, he prepared to dismount, when a blur at the edge of his vision 
caught his eye.
He had turned sharply, beginning to feel uneasy. The world had come upon bad 
times, and bandits were often said to roam even the King's roads. He placed his hand 
upon his sword, and called out. "Who goes there? Show yourself, in the name of the 
King."
There was a harsh, barking laugh from directly behind him. He whirled his horse 
around, and again found nothing. His horse, Paladin, was also beginning to feel uneasy; 
he pawed the ground and snorted. He patted the horse with his hand, and slowly it 
became calm again.
Again he called out, "Who goes there?" This time he was answered; the voice was 
low and somehow crackling with dark power. "Death," it said, and nothing more.
Stephon drew his sword. He dismounted and looked around carefully. There-
standing at the top of a hill by the road. Stephon could only see its outline from the 
moonlight, but two things were immediately evident. One, the apparition was apparently 
male, for the shoulders were broad and heavily muscled. Two, he was huge. Even had the 
man not been standing so far above him, he would have towered over Stephon; he had to 
be at least two and a half meters tall, perhaps more. An equally huge sword hung at his 
side, and tatters of cloth flapped around him, though there was no wind.
"Speak, apparition," he had said, barely able to keep the shakes out of his voice. 
He held his sword with both hands, ready to defend himself if necessary-or so he thought 
then. "What buisness have you with me?"
"Death," it said again in its somehow soothing voice. Then, with no warning at 
all, it disappeared.
Stephon whirled around fearfully. His horse, just a step or two away from a full 
panic now, had retreated down the path. Suddenly it whinnied in pain, a sound terribly 
like a human scream. He turned, and saw the apparition pull its enormous, dripping 
sword from the side of his steed. Paladin dropped to his side, still whinnying and foaming 
at the mouth. The apparition looked at him for a moment-he caught the barest glimpse of 
two gleaming, wickedly sharp fangs and a single blazing eye-and then disappeared again.
He ran to his horse, terrified but also enraged at what had been done to his noble 
steed. Paladin's shining white coat was now stained a sickly pink that could barely be 
seen in the dawning moonlight. His steed was breathing heavily, obviously in terrible 
agony. His legs kicked weakly, and one horribly aware eye rolled up at him.
Tears clouding his vision, he drew his sword over his head and brought it down 
over Paladin's neck, ending his suffering cleanly, Engulfed in a rage he had never felt 
before, he had stood and screamed into the night, "Show yourself, devil! SHOW 
YOURSELF!!!"
"Gladly," the voice had whispered, again from behind him. He whirled, slashing 
wildly with his sword, but slashed through nothing but air. Suddenly the blade was 
knocked from his hand with incredible force-his right hand was rendered instantly numb 
by the sheer force behind the blow. Suddenly the apparition was before him, and he knew 
instantly that this was not a ghost, but nor was it a man. What stood before him was the 
Devil himself, somehow risen from his eternal prison and standing before him, his firey 
eyes burning into his soul, seeking out his sins, his weakness, and soon ...
The thing had suddenly launched itself forth, dropping its own sword as it did so, 
and grabbed him. Ignoring Stephon's frantic blows as though he were a mere child, the 
demon had thrown him to the ground. Ripping off the chain mail that protected his neck, 
it suddenly plunged it head towards his exposed neck, mouth gaping open, incisors 
gleaming like daggers as they ripped into his jugular, exposing his warm blood to the 
cool air of the night.
Stephon's screams and struggles slowly began to ebb. He felt his life slipping 
away, and the already hazy images that the moon provided began to blur. He let out one 
final moan, as the last of his essence was drained from him. He felt no more pain, no 
more suffering. He was at peace.
Then, suddenly, he was ripped from the womb of death back into his body. The 
demon's foul blood was flowing down his throat, setting it aflame. Nerves that had given 
up their final sensations retunred to screaming vitality. Tortured beyond any semblance 
of rational thought, he grasped at the thing's wrist, sucking hot life from its wound. The 
pain slowly turned to a violent ecstasy as he feasted on the source of life that flowed from 
this creature. He was no longer human; he was something darker, something far more 
powerful, and for those first few instants of rebirth, he reveled in it.
Then, suddenly-it was gone. The thing that had drained his life so callously was 
gone, and with it the source of his new existance. he collapsed weakly back to the 
ground, moaning in pain as his muscles were flooded with the birth cramps of his new 
life. Now, and forever after, he was alone.

	The Sword awoke from his sleep with a start.  Someone was in here with him.  He 
instantly grabbed his sword, drawing it from its scabbard.  It glowed with a dull red fire.  
Vampire.
	He stood and looked around the attic he had spent the day waiting in, trained eyes 
searching for even the slightest movement.  Something in the shadows to his left shifted, 
and he whirled, bringing the Black Heart up to a battle-stance.  A large rat scurried away, 
squeaking angrily.  He cursed at it, growing nervous now.  He didn't like this, not 
knowing what he was fighting …
	Suddenly a horrible pain ripped into his back, severing the spinal cord.  At the 
same time, something large knocked him forward onto the floor.  Paralyzed, he gritted his 
teeth against the pain as his assailant pulled the knife out of the Sword's back.  He uttered 
a breathless gasp as the blade again sliced into him, this time pinning his sword hand to 
the ground.  He heard a contemptuous laugh behind him, and then his attacker delivered a 
rib-breaking kick to his side.
	:And you though you could kill Lord Damocles?" asked a male voice, as the 
Sword stared desperately at his blade.  The spine had already healed, the ribs beginning 
to slide back into place, but while the dagger pinned him, he was helpless.  "You can't 
even beat me, you pathetic ingrate.  Now, you shall die for your foolishness."  There was 
the unmistakable steel-against-steel scrape of a sword being drawn.
	Let me do this, the Beast whispered suddenly, not growling this time but soothing.  
You can't hope to defeat him like this.  Release me, and save yourself.  You know I can 
destroy him.  Just ride the wave …
	"NNNNNNNNNEVERRR !!!" he screamed, ripping his hand out of the floor, 
dagger and all.  At the same time he rolled left and kicked upward.  The sword stroke that 
would have neatly decapitated him missed completely as the stranger dodged his wild 
kick.  With one motion, the Sword rose to his feet and pulled the dagger from his hand 
with a grunt of pain.  The next instant he hurled it at his shadowy foe, catching him in the 
shoulder and driving him against the wall.  His sword clanked to the floor, and a moan 
escaped his lips.
	Clumsily, the Sword picked up the Black Heart with his left hand.  The right was 
healing, but for now it was useless.  He held the blazing sword close to the vampire's 
neck, illuminating his face for the first time.  He was an American, with cropped blond 
hair and a soft, unpleasant face.  He hissed from the fiery blade, eyes regarding him 
fearfully.
	"G … Gorthol Castle," the American grunted. "F … fifty … miles … North.  I … 
in the … mountains.  Please … take the … the fire … 'way …"
	"Gladly," he replied.  The Sword reared back, then brought his blade back in a 
clumsy decapitation.  He slipped, and instead lopped off his head from the nose up.  The 
corpse quickly turned to dust, leaving the dagger still imbedded in the wall, black with 
their mixed blood.  He removed it absently and put it into his belt.  He held up his right 
hand, now completely healed.  Only a pair of holes in his glove suggested there had, mere 
seconds ago, been a gory hole in the middle of his hand.  "Damocles," he whispered. 
"Tonight it will end.  One way … or the other."

	At Damocles' castle, the Vampire Lord arose suddenly.  His eyes blazed with 
inhuman fire, and the grin that had so terrified his belated servant had returned.  He 
crossed the room to the wall, where a giant 6-foot-long sword, the Nimrist, the Light- 
Cleaver, was hung.  Damocles removed it from its place, unsheathing the blade.  Its silver 
blade glittered in the torchlight that lit his inner chambers.
	"Indeed it shall, young one," he whispered, still smiling.  "Though I'm afraid, not 
the way you wish it to."

	The Sword cut through the gates of Gorthol Castle like a heated knife through 
flesh.  Legions of vampires stood in his way, carrying swords, axes, and even modern 
weaponry.  One wielded a massive gattling gun, and spewed a flood of bullets 
indiscriminately into the crowd.  No matter.  The Black Heart blazed like a sun, and soon 
the bloodsuckers began to flee in mortal terror of this silver-haired demon.  He let them 
go; they would feel his wrath soon enough.
	After the last of the vampires were fled or dead, another wave came, this one 
composed of demons and beasts beyond imagination.  One such beast, a blind 
monstrosity that seemed to be nothing but maw upon maw of huge, serrated teeth, ripped 
a large chunk of flesh from his thigh.  Screaming in rage and pain, the Sword cleaved the 
demon in half.  It fell in two pieces, and a sudden flood of worms, spiders and maggots 
squirmed out of its steaming entrails.  The Sword crushed them all, then fell to one knee.  
The demons, sensing weakness, began to close in.
	Let me handle this, the Beast whispered in his mind, sounding desperate now.  
You know I know more about these things than you do.  Let me help, before these 
hellspawn rip us BOTH apart!  
	The Sword hacked desperately at the beasts surrounding him, knowing that he had 
no choice.  With a brief prayer, he reneged control.  Almost instantly, the Beast surged 
forward.  He no longer controlled himself, but could only watch, and hope.
	The Sword suddenly let forth a terrifying war-cry, as his eyes suddenly blazed 
with red fire.  His fangs extended to deadly knives, and the fingers on his left hand ripped 
out of his glove as they extended into six-inch-long claws.  The demons retreated a step, 
perplexed at this strange transformation.  That was all the opening the Beast needed.
	He laid into the monstrosities with brutal strength, tearing them apart two at a 
time.  In instants he was covered in their foul, stinking blood.  The Beast plunged 
Stephon's hand into a demon's chest, and tore out its black, still-beating heart.  Still he 
raged, on and on, swallowed completely by his madness.  Some tried to flee.  He pursued 
them and brutally cut them down.  With every stroke, the Black Heart seemed to burn 
hotter, fueled by the incredible power of the Sword's bestial frenzy.  Their inhuman 
screams echoed in the halls of Gorthol, reaching even unto the ears of their master.
	Finally, the last demon was dead.  Its madness sated for the time being, the Beast 
retreated, leaving a blood-soaked Sword to advance into the chamber of his sire, the 
Vampire Lord Damocles.  

	The massive double-doors in Damocles' chamber suddenly blew open, slamming 
against the walls with a brutal crash.   The Sword, Stephon Von Turamarth, the killer of 
killers, stepped forward, coated in black blood, limping from the demon's bite.  He held 
his fiery blade in front of him, ready to face this devil.
	The devil in question sat upon his throne, the Nimrist sitting on his lap.  He gazed 
at the Sword with nothing more than simple interest, like a child who had found some 
nice new toy to play with.
	"Bravo, my friend!" Damocles boomed.  The reverberations made his voice that 
of some horrible God, an evil to end all evils.  The Sword winced, but did not falter.  
"Bravo, indeed.  You have come this long way, slain seas of my loyal followers, and 
covered yourself in blood, and all for me.  Oh, but you have been a fine distraction from 
the boredom of eternal life.  It is a shame that your story must come to its close here."
	"Never," the Sword whispered.  "I've come this far to kill you, and you won't stop 
me now with your parlor tricks."
	"Do it, then!" Damocles said, still laughing.  With a scream of rage, the Sword 
charged, the Black Heart held high for a devastating overhead blow that would slice the 
Ancient's head in half.  Still his laughter boomed, and just as the Sword reached his 
antagonist, his eyes burst forth in a baleful blue light.  Suddenly the Sword was flung 
backwards like a rag doll by some huge, invisible force.  He crashed against the wall and 
hung there, unable to move.  Damocles was still laughing.
	"Do you feel your blood rushing to your head?" he asked.  "Can you feel your 
eyes wanting to burst out of your face?  I can do anything I want with you, my little hero.  
For example … what would it feel like to have your precious blade burning your guts for 
a change?"
	Suddenly, control of his limbs was jerked away from him.  His arm turned the 
blade of his sword inward, and shoved the weapon into his stomach.  He screamed in 
agony as the fire burned him from within.  He could feel his blood churning with its 
hellish fire, threatening to boil him from the inside.  Through it all, Damocles' laughter 
pounded into his brain, making it impossible to even think.
	Then, amazingly, everything became crystal-clear.  The blood still churned inside 
him, but the fires had given it a power all its own.  Suddenly, he could move.  Lightning-
quick, he took the blade from his belt and hurled it at Damocles.  The Vampire Lord, 
thinking he was still incapacitated, was unable to move in time.  The dagger, coated in 
Mephisto's and the Sword's Blood, sailed through the air, and plunged directly into 
Damocles' right eye.
	As effortlessly as one would remove a splinter, the Sword pulled the Black Heart 
from his body.  It no longer glowed, but that was no matter; the fire was inside him, 
flooding him with its power.  The fatal wound closed instantly; he'd barely even felt it.  
Smiling, he charged.
	Damocles screamed in surprise and pain.  He pulled the knife out of his eye, 
paying no heed to the blood that flowed down his face.  He was no longer smiling.  
Lifting his own blade, he too charged forth, parrying the Sword's killing stroke.  They 
began a brutal battle of hate and violence, the halls silent save for the clash of the blades 
as they struck again, and again, and again.
	Finally, the Sword stumbled back, blood gouting from a deep slash across his 
throat.  Sensing the kill, Damocles advanced, stabbing at his childe with inhuman speed.  
With one last, desperate move, the Sword dodged out of the way, and drove his black 
blade through the Vampire Lord's ancient heart.
	Black, foul blood sprayed out in a fan, as Damocles stumbled back, clawing at the 
weapon that pierced his heart.  He staggered to his throne, finally falling  face-down in 
front of it, groaning in pain.
	One hand holding, his wound, the Sword walked slowly towards where his 
ancient nemesis lay.  As he walked, he picked up the Nimrist from its place on the floor.  
He stood over the twitching body of the Elder, and raised the huge blade over his head.
	"No …"  Damocles whispered, desperately clinging to unlife.  "I … cannot die … 
my children … I must not be … extinguished …"
	"Goodbye, sire," the Sword whispered, and brought the massive blade down upon 
his enemy's neck.
	And so it ends … for now …

THE END