Nosferatu a5-8 Page 14

  “And that is?”

  “Kill Artad and his Kortad. You can have their blood.” “By myself?”

  “No, you would need an army to do this. They are asleep, in a mountain tomb called Qian-Ling in the land called China.”

  Nosferatu spread his hands. “I have no army.”

  “Not to worry,” Aspasia’s Shadow said. “I’ve prepared one. And I’ve prepared their leader. He is but a boy now, but eventually, with my help, he will go far. Perhaps he may even reach China.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Alexander, son of Philip, from a small state north of here called Macedonia.”

  Greece: 354 B.C.

  Vampyr wrapped the cloth around his head, covering his skin and eyes. The material was blood-red and he could see through it in daylight, which was less than a half hour away. The effect was terrifying, but it did have its disadvantages. The warrior with the red face had become a legend in the area around Sparta, and sometimes Vampyr had a difficult time finding enemies to engage during battle.

  It had been a long march to Pylos. Wandering the camp at night and listening, Vampyr had learned that this expedition had nothing to do with politics. It was purely for economic reasons. The three lochoi were being rented out to another city-state, Pirgos, in conflict with Pylos.

  Fighting for money.

  Vampyr looked to the right of the three Spartan units. The local militia from Pirgos was forming in uneven ranks to help support what they had paid the Spartans to lead. In reality, Vampyr knew they were there to loot the city once the Spartans defeated their enemy.

  Dawn was not far off and with it death. Vampyr could smell the fear in the air. Even from some of the Spartans, as well trained as they were in the art of logophobia — the discipline of conquering fear and controlling one’s body — were giving off a palpable aura.

  They had reason, of course, to be scared. Every battle hinged on uncertainty. It was also not so much a matter of killing the enemy as breaking their spirit and these foes would be defending their homes and families, a circumstance that made for the most desperate fighting.

  Overall, though, the Spartans were calm. Vampyr had gone through their training as an adult, a most unusual thing, as Spartan boys were sent from their homes to an agoge — training barracks — at age seven. He had been sponsored by one of the leading knights in the city after saving the man’s life in battle and asking only this favor of him. On the first day some of the older boys had made fun of the man among them, but Vampyr had quelled that quickly and brutally by killing the leader of the bullies. In the strange way of the Spartans, he was not punished for doing so, but praised and accepted.

  The training had been worth it. Despite his Airlia blood, Vampyr was still predominantly human and he had realized long ago that that part of his being required discipline and training in order to survive over the years.

  The focus of Spartan training was more than just martial prowess. It encompassed the body and mind, with a specific emphasis on the science of fear. Initially, the trainees were taught to control their muscles when every instinct they had screamed to do other than that which they were ordered to. They participated in exercises where they had to stand perfectly still and blindfolded while instructors walked among the ranks, unexpectedly striking out with a wooden stake. In this manner the muscles were disciplined against their natural fleeing instincts. A man thus trained held a great advantage in combat over one who did not possess this capability.

  Looking out from the plain they were on, Vampyr could see the walled city of Pylos,which was their objective. The ground rose in a gentle slope up to the walls. Not favorable terrain for an assault.

  Muffled orders were being issued and the lines were being formed. The Spartans would be out in front, the local Pirgosian militia sliding over to take a position behind them. Vampyr felt quite ready to spill some blood. He had not fed in over eight weeks while on the march. It was a deprivation he suffered deliberately to build his lust for the coming battle.

  As the main line formed, a skirmish line of Rangers — Skiritai — began to move out on the flanks like the horns of a bull. Vampyr had seen this tactic used again and again, and it rarely failed to work. He knew the Spartan commander did not want to lay siege to the town. It would be time-consuming and difficult, requiring the construction of siege machines followed by a dangerous assault against a fortified position. Spartans fought best in the open ground.

  Vampyr took his place in the center of the Spartan line, directly behind the commander, Acton. It was lighter now, and even the humans around Vampyr could see the city and the men manning the walls. The sun’s light was amplified by a red glow as the Skiritai began to set fire to the homes and businesses that surrounded the walled part of the city. Crops also began to burn. The people might be safe inside, but their homes and livelihoods were mostly outside and being destroyed while they watched.

  It only took fifteen minutes, before the gates of the city swung open and the Pylosian troops poured through. There was no hesitation on Acton’s part. He immediately gave the order to advance and the Spartans moved out into the field toward the city at a quick pace as the Pylosians tried to get into formation.

  The Spartans were in perfect alignment as they moved, their spears held upright. If one stood to the side and looked along the line, it would appear as if there were only one spear at the end in each rank, so perfect was their training. In contrast, the spears of the first rank of Pylosian troops to form trembled and shook as if in a storm.

  Vampyr could hear the Pylosian officers screaming commands, trying to get their men into proper formation. He knew it was already too late. The front rank of enemy troops could see the Spartans coming and began to shift without even realizing it, each man moving slightly to his right, trying to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man on that side. To add to their disarray, the Skiritai began to fire their bows, sending arrows high into the air, coming down in the half-formed enemy ranks.

  Just as intimidating as the sight of the red-cloaked lines approaching was the sound the Spartans made, their oxhide sandals hitting the ground in unison with each step, the ground practically trembling at their approach. The cadence was 120 paces per minute, beaten into each Spartan at the agoge and practiced constantly.

  Less than a quarter mile from the Pylosian lines, Acton yelled the order to change from quick time to charge. Spears snapped in one precise movement from vertical to horizontal and shields jammed tighter together, presenting a solid wall as the Spartans broke into a controlled run at 180 steps per minute. Vampyr adjusted slightly as Acton fell back into position next to him on his right, a position of honor for Vampyr as his shield protected the commander.

  The Pylosian lines had never completely formed, and what little order there was began to break in the face of the bristling juggernaut heading toward them. Some in the rear tried to run and were cut down by officers stationed there specifically for just that event.

  Vampyr felt the bloodlust and had to use all the discipline he had learned in the agoge not to sprint ahead of the rank of Spartans. He gripped his spear shaft tighter as they closed on the enemy line. The Spartans smashed into the Pylosians with a thunderous sound of spearpoint on metal and flesh. This was immediately followed by the screams of dying and wounded.

  With their eight-foot spears, the Spartans were able to use their first three ranks to attack the Pylosians. As soon as a spear became caught in the flesh or shield of an enemy warrior and could not be pulled back, each Spartan would draw his xithos — a short sword designed for jabbing rather than slashing.

  The Pylosian line broke and the slaughter began. Vampyr had run his spear through not only the warrior directly in front of him, but also into the man behind him, spitting the two on its wooden haft, leaving them both writhing on the ground. He drew his sword and leapt forward, giving up his position in the Spartan line. The Pylosians were fleeing and thus making themselves more vulnerable to attack due to
the lack of armor on their backs. Vampyr jabbed once, twice, then a third time and three men went down at his feet. He whirled, and even though the sword was a jabbing weapon, he put such power behind the stroke that his xithos beheaded a fourth Pylosian. For the first time Vampyr halted, watching the blood pulse up from the still-beating heart in the headless torso, which remained upright for several seconds, before slowly tumbling over.

  That man’s blood mixed with that of the other casualties along with urine from bladders emptied from fright and the spasms of death. The ground was turning into a horrible quagmire, but the Spartans relentlessly pressed forward, continuing to slay and advance.

  The Pylosians began to surrender and beg for mercy. Vampyr gave no quarter, slaying those with weapons in their hands and those who held them empty in the air. Those who had hired the Spartans now surged forward, slaying those who surrendered. Vampyr continued his own murderous spree toward the gates of the city. He saw the enemy commander, tears streaming down his face, as he screamed futile orders at the warriors fleeing by him, trying to make a last stand before the open city gates, knowing there would be no safety inside.

  Vampyr was soaked in blood, the cloth wrapped around his face tantalizing him with the taste as the red nectar he craved seeped through. He bounded up to the enemy commander. He parried the other’s thrust, knocking the sword from the defeated leader’s hands. Vampyr dropped his own sword and grabbed the man’s throat with both hands, squeezing until the other passed out. Then he dragged him into the gates of the city and through the door of the nearest building, where he ripped the man’s throat open and drank his fill.

  He was not sated.

  The screams of women and children now filled the air as the Pirgosians moved into the city, raping, killing, and stealing. The Spartans remained outside, content with the gold they had been paid and not wanting to lose any more men to desperate last stands inside the city.

  Vampyr was the exception as he kicked open doors, searching. He found a woman huddled with two young children. He killed the mother quickly by breaking her neck, then drank from the children until their small hearts stopped beating. He emerged from the house, wrapping the cloth around his face. In his engorged pleasure he did not see a shadowy figure in armor watching him.

  He could not wait for the next battle.

  He walked out of the city. He could see that the Spartans had pulled back, tending to their few dead and wounded. He also saw that a man on a horse, a messenger from Sparta, was next to Acton, talking to him. Vampyr made his way over. There was indeed news.

  A council had been held at Corinth. A treaty had been signed by representatives from practically every city-state, including Pylos and Pirgos, to unite under a young warrior-king from the north named Alexander. Sparta had also agreed to the pact and would send four lochoi to support the new king’s proposed assault against the Persians.

  Vampyr wanted to laugh at the folly of humans. Every man who had died that day was one less the Greeks could send against the Persians. And all three forces were now allies.

  A campaign to the east. Vampyr nodded. Something to occupy the next decade or so. He needed to stay busy.

  As Vampyr turned away from Acton and the messenger, he sensed movement behind and whirled, a split second too late, and the flat side of a xithos slammed into his temple, just below the brim of his helmet.

  Vampyr crumpled to the ground unconscious.

  * * *

  It was night when Vampyr awoke. He was on his back and when he tried to move, ropes around his chest, legs, and arms, kept him in place. There were torches flickering all about him and when he turned his head, he could see Acton and the other senior knights of the expedition staring at him. He was on one of the field tables used by the surgeons to work on the wounded.

  “What are you doing?” Vampyr demanded. “I am a warrior of the first rank.”

  Acton stepped forward. “I do not know who — or what — you are. But I saw what you did with those two children in the town. And I — we all — have heard the stories about you. That you do not age. That you never expose yourself to the light of day. That you drink blood, something I now know to be true, having seen it with my own eyes.”

  “So?” Vampyr spit, the glob landing just in front of the Spartan commander. “I am the most feared warrior in all of Sparta, in all of Greece. What does it matter if I drink blood when we spill gallons every day?”

  “There are the matters of honor and the code of a warrior,” Acton said. Vampyr laughed. “Honor? What honor is there in fighting against a city one day, then marching arm in arm with the same people you were just fighting against, to fight against some other city or empire? I have seen nothing of honor among you.”

  “There is the honor of following orders. Of being true to those who are your comrades. You can barely restrain yourself to stay in the shield wall and when we make contact with the enemy line you always break formation and battle on your own. I gave you the position at my side not out of honor, as it should be, but because I did not want to expose anyone else to your recklessness and disregard for your fellow warriors.”

  “I slay more enemy than any five of you combined,” Vampyr boasted, glaring at the knights.

  “If it was just about slaying,” Acton said, “then butchers would reap many honors.”

  Vampyr snarled, trying with all his might to rise, but there were numerous ropes wrapped around his body, and all he could achieve was lifting his head. “You fools. What do you think you’re doing? Are you going to kill me?”

  “There would be no honor in that,” Acton said. “And you have fought for Sparta for as long as any can remember.”

  “You have no idea what I have done for Sparta,” Vampyr shouted. “I was one of the Three Hundred. I stood with Leonidas in the Gates of Fire.”

  Acton took a step back, startled by these words. “That cannot be. That was many lifetimes ago. No man can be alive from then.” Vampyr said nothing.

  “You are not a man, are you?” Acton finally asked. He turned to his left and gestured. A man stepped out of the darkness into the torchlight. An old man with long white hair, leaning heavily on a cane, dressed in a long black robe that was worn and dirty. “It is as you said,” Acton said to the newcomer. “He is not human.”

  “Who is this?” Vampyr demanded.

  “My name is Tyrn,” the old man said, speaking Greek with a strange accent. “I have traveled long and far to come here. I am of the Wedjat.”

  Vampyr was surprised for the first time in many centuries and it showed on his face.

  The old man nodded. “You know the word from the ancient tongue and you know what it means.”

  Vampyr remained silent.

  Tyrn looked at Acton. “He has walked the Earth much longer than Sparta has existed. He is one of the Undead. I have read of his kind in the records of my order. They are a blasphemy of mankind.”

  There was murmuring from the ranks of the knights at these words. “He lies,” Vampyr said.

  “He does not lie,” Acton said simply. “He said you drink blood and that has long been the rumor in the agoge. I followed you into the town and saw you do exactly that with my own eyes. He says you have lived a very long time. And you yourself said you were at the Battle of Thermopylae, something impossible for any man still alive.”

  “He must be killed,” Tyrn said. “He is an affront to mankind.”

  “Easy, old man,” Acton said, putting a hand on Tyrn’s shoulder. “He is a Spartan. He earned that, regardless of where he came from or even what he is.” “Let me go and I will leave Sparta,” Vampyr said. “I am done with people’s petty squabbles anyway.”

  Acton held up his xithos. “As you learned in the agoge, a sword has two edges. Because you earned being a Spartan, I will not kill you. But, I cannot allow you to leave being what you are and having learned what we taught you. If you leave Sparta, you must leave behind what Sparta gave you.”

  “And how do you propose to do that
?” Vampyr demanded.

  Acton walked up to the field table. He slid his xithos into its scabbard, and then held a hand out to his rear. A knight came walking up with a bloodstained axe in his hands.

  “What are you going to do?” Vampyr demanded, straining against the ropes with all his might.

  “I am taking back what Sparta has given you as best as I can,” Acton said. He raised the axe over his head. It came down in a straight and accurate blow, slicing into Vampyr’s right arm midway between wrist and elbow, severing the end of the limb. Vampyr’s right hand flopped off the table, the fingers still twitching.

  Vampyr gritted his teeth and glared at Acton, holding back the scream of pain by virtue of the very training Acton was trying to undo. Blood spurted from the stump, pulsing onto the table and ground. The Spartan commander walked around the surgeon’s table to the other side. Lifted the axe. And swung it down, severing the left hand at exactly the same point.

  Vampyr screamed.

  Two surgeons rushed forth, wearing leather gloves to hold red hot irons they had just pulled from a fire. They pressed the glowing metal against the forearm stumps. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, along with Vampyr’s screams. He didn’t even notice the Watcher Tyrn gingerly gathering his two severed hands and sprinkling them with black powder from a vial. Both appendages withered away at the touch of the mysterious powder.

  The surgeons cauterized the wounds, then bound tight leather strips around the upper arms, further stemming the flow of blood to the severed limbs. All Vampyr knew was pain, radiating up both arms, into his core, then circling, mixing with his hatred into a black cauldron that would never know peace and solace.

  CHAPTER 7

  Greece: 335 B.C.

  For Nosferatu the decision to follow the course of action proposed by Aspasia’s Shadow was not a difficult one to make. If he could somehow find more of the Gods, he might be able to get some of their blood and take it back to Nekhbet. That he was being played by Aspasia’s Shadow he had no doubt, but one could always try to change the rules of the game.