Bloodforged by Nathan Long

Would she love them, or feed on them?
    With a snort of impatience she picked up her pack and crawled out of the cellar. She had come too far to turn back now.
    It was only a few hours later when Ulrika heard the screams. They drifted to her over a rise in the road, faint upon the wind. She picked up her pace, and as she reached the crest she heard clashes too. There was a battle somewhere ahead of her, hidden by intervening hills. She licked her lips. A battle meant blood, and it would be wise to feed before entering the uncertainty of the city. She hurried on, pack bouncing on her back, and after a long run over the rumpled landscape, came over a hill and saw, in the cup of a valley, a scene of savage slaughter.
    A marauder warband, huge gaunt men, their half-naked bodies painted in purple woad and pierced all over with strange bone fetishes, were swarming a caravan – her caravan, the one she had travelled with since Kislev – while the soldiers and mercenaries who guarded it fought in a swiftly dwindling circle, outnumbered two to one. Mutated war hounds, their hides like armour and their muzzles dripping red, fought beside their barbaric masters, tearing out throats and intestines, while the leader of the band, a scarred bald gargantua on a hellish black horse, dealt death with axes in both hands.
    A blistering rage gripped Ulrika at the sight. She had protected these people since Kislev, picking off the human wolves who would have thinned their ranks, and now, almost within shouting distance of Praag, they were attacked? How dare these northern scum touch her flock! They were hers to cull!
    She whipped her rapier and dagger from their sheaths and sped down the hill, aiming for the giant on the horse. The marauders did not notice her as she charged their backs, and she killed four before they knew she was amongst them. Even when they turned, howling with outrage, they could barely stand against her. Her blades were so swift, and her arms so strong, that she could knock their attacks away and run them through almost at will. What a thrill to fight this way! Her reactions were twice what they had been when she was alive, and her strength even greater. Marauders fell back from her with neat little holes in their tattooed chests, dying with almost no blood spilled. Others lost hands and arms to her questing blades. She was a whirlwind!
    But soon even her inhuman prowess was not enough to counter their numbers. They swarmed in behind her as she pressed forwards, and battered at her from all sides. A sword cut her back. Another sliced her over the eye. A mace stunned her shoulder. She staggered and nearly stepped into the swipe of an axe. This was madness. Had she thought she could fight a hundred men at once? Her bloodlust had caught her once again. She would not be able to reach the leader. She would have to get out.
    She slashed around wildly with her rapier, then drove for the edge of the battle, running one marauder through the neck and opening the lean belly of another with her dagger. A third swung a stone maul at her. She pierced his ribs as it whooshed over her head, then vaulted his toppling body and ran for the brush by the side of the road.
    Four marauders howled after her while the rest turned back towards the beleaguered defenders. Ulrika smiled. Four she could deal with. Four she could make use of.
    The marauders crashed through the low scrub after her as she turned to face them. She killed the first as his feet got tangled in twisting roots, then ran the second through as he leapt over his dying comrade. Unfortunately, he crashed down on top of her and she had to twist aside to avoid being knocked flat. The third took advantage of her awkward position and aimed a slash at her unprotected back. She just blocked it with her dagger, then spun and took his head off with her rapier.
    The last, a towering brute with painted black lips and purple cord sewn through the flesh of his chest like the laces of a corset,