Chapter Thirty-Three: Foolish Gigantism (Part One)

"...He always enjoyed unearthing secrets buried deep beneath the earth, but there are some secrets that should never be unearthed..." These were the words of Marquis Menerval upon learning of the death of "Quenched" Robert Wellanster. At the time, his remark seemed laden with meaning, yet I failed to notice it.

Now, I believe I finally understand what he meant by "secrets that should not be unearthed." Once his true identity was revealed, the entire chain of events unfolded before us with utter clarity, like clouds parting in the sky or water lilies swept aside by a breeze.

I am certain that Marquis Menerval’s sponsorship of Robert Wellanster was no mere coincidence. Perhaps he had long known the whereabouts of the sealed soul of the great lich, Mackenscar, and thus deliberately funded the dwarven metallurgist’s mining operations. He understood this master, so devoted to his craft, and knew that Wellanster’s fierce curiosity would leave him powerless to resist any strange phenomena he might discover underground. He would inevitably find the sealed place of the lich—and even if Wellanster failed, the Marquis had ways to guide him there.

In this manner, the Marquis released the great lich from its endless imprisonment, unseen and undetected, forever severed from any suspicion. Had Robert Wellanster not possessed a magical talisman to guard his soul, the event would have gone entirely unnoticed. Even when the truth surfaced, the Marquis remained secure in his manor, orchestrating his grand conspiracy to welcome the apocalypse king, "Heartbreaker" Darrentil.

"Look out, the old pale-face is coming!" Triangle’s startled shout snapped me back to the heart of the battle. He swiftly ducked into the shadows, vanishing from sight in an instant.

Without waiting for instructions, Krado had already planted four totem poles at the corners, their bases thudding into the earth, and stood in the center with his mighty axe, exuding the heroic aura of a lone warrior holding a pass against a thousand foes.

Yet his preparations proved ineffective against the vampire Marquis. Menerval, emerging from the secret chamber, completed a spell and pointed ahead; instantly, two enormous skeletal warriors—each twice the height of a man—rose from the ground. Their bones were thick and sturdy, altogether unlike ordinary skeletons.

Brandishing oversized cleavers, the two skeletons advanced on us step by step. As they approached, their mouths—reduced to two rows of teeth—clicked incessantly, producing a strange "tick-tick" sound, charging straight into the ring of totem poles Krado had set. Seeing the pristine, jade-like bones of these skeletons, Longbow Sundawn, the weapon-smith, was instantly captivated, his mind racing with possibilities.

While fending off the onslaught of the "giant skeleton guardian" before him, he urgently called to the shadowy outline of Triangle: "Fat thief, hurry up, see what's in their pockets..." From the void, Triangle answered, eager as ever, suggesting that the "corpse-poison dagger" had yet to satisfy his greedy half-orc heart. A vague, transparent, burly figure sidled up to one of the skeleton guardians, followed by a peculiar yelp from Triangle. From the sound, it was impossible to tell whether he was thrilled or disappointed.

"Did you find anything?" Longbow Sundawn called repeatedly.

"A medical popular science manual..." Triangle replied, both exasperated and amused. "...On the front page, it says ‘How to distinguish arterial from venous blood,’ and hilariously, the annotation reads ‘Vampire’s Cookbook.’"

"Try the other one..." Longbow Sundawn’s mood darkened visibly. Soon, Triangle’s reply came: "This one’s even better—a medical guide on treating bleeding wounds, titled ‘How Vampires Preserve Their Food.’" Our dwarven priest was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of emotional outrage; with a furious roar, he shifted from a humiliating defensive posture to an all-out assault, his bone nunchaku whirling fiercely, the bones clashing with a xylophone’s rapid, pleasing rhythm.

Since theft had yielded nothing, Triangle entered battle mode at once. He circled behind one of the skeleton guardians and plunged his dagger into its neck—but the anticipated eruption of blood did not occur, and the weapon’s formidable power proved unexpectedly ineffective.

Suddenly, I recalled what the gnome bard had told me deep within the mines: "These are skeleton monsters; stabbing does little damage. Use your hammer!" Just like the vampire Count Berkshire we’d once defeated, these two skeleton guardians, while formidable in attack and defense, lacked any special offensive techniques. Under Triangle’s combined resistance with his comrades, the fight soon devolved into a safe but tedious war of attrition.

Ever since entering the woodland tomb, my luck had been poor. As now, the vampire lord, Marquis Menerval, for reasons unknown, seemed determined to pursue me relentlessly, never letting up.

Unlike the two empty-headed skeletal brutes, Marquis Menerval was adept at choosing the right tactics, making his attacks almost impossible to anticipate. The same "blood extraction" and "blood strike" spells, when cast by him, had a potency utterly unlike that of lesser vampire nobles. If not for Black Aurora’s unwavering support, my steadfast proximity to Krado’s "life totem," and the occasional helping hand from Longbow Sundawn and the others, I would surely have fallen by now.

In addition to the vampires’ characteristic blood magic, Marquis Menerval was, much to our surprise, a master swordsman. The slender, seemingly delicate rapier in his hand became a weapon of unmatched ferocity, each strike whistling with force. His movements were swift and lithe, like a ghost shadow entwined about me, nothing at all like a white-haired, aged noble.

Not only was his agility remarkable; his skin now appeared supple and smooth, completely devoid of wrinkles. Aside from his white hair, there was no sign of age left in him. Stripped of his deceptive disguise, he was, in truth, a purebred, vigorous vampire—eyes scarlet, face deathly pale, teeth sharp, body nimble.

I wore the "Exquisite Chainmail" gifted to me by Marquis Menerval himself, a reward for reporting the death of the dwarven master Robert Wellanster. We all knew chainmail was particularly effective against heavy blows from axes and swords, and it had seen me through many perils. Yet, before the vampire Marquis’s relentless, piercing rapier, this armor woven from metal rings offered only pitifully scant protection.

Each time his blade flashed, my body felt a prickling pain—no, sharper than needles, a torment that only deepened my hatred for this white-haired old fiend. I could not help but suspect he had long foreseen our eventual confrontation, and deliberately gifted me a showy but useless piece of armor.