by Z.N. Singer
A flicker in his opponents eyes and a tickle in his senses were all Mardon needed to know what was to come. For someone less experienced, it would have been the end.
Mardon was very experienced.
At the last possible instant, he turned his back and plunged directly into the zombies the vampire had been driving him towards. Moving at his top speed they may as well have been statues – they grasped dumbly at air while he wove through them and out the other side. His opponent was less nimble: caught by surprise by his quarries move he instead plowed directly into the first one, and then, momentum lost, found himself pressed in on all sides by lumbering half dead. By the time he tore through – disabling no few of his own troops in the process – Mardon was more than ready.
And now this vampire learned the true limits of a Master of the Discipline.
Mardon began at the minion's comfort level and then slowly, inexorably, moved past them. A vampire's life-fueled speed and strength is suddenly acquired and comes and goes – their control is rough, their understanding limited, their effectiveness sporadic. But the Discipline teaches true mastery. The vampire found himself first stymied, then pressed, then pushed back, lips drawing back in a raging grimace of fear as he nearly ran backwards before the assault. He could barely see his opponents motions anymore – Mardon's face was the steady cold center of a blurring unending series of cuts he couldn't even follow. He defended by sheer instinct, could barely distinguish between block and miss – fire traced itself across his arms again and again, with the occasional gash that tore into his legs or sides or face seemingly of their own accord. He was regenerating, but not nearly fast enough – the silver slowed him and the blows came too fast. And then he stepped back too quickly; he landed wrong, teetered, leaned backwards. His arms flung out to balance himself.
Both Mardon's swords buried their tips in his heart.
For a brief moment, time slowed to a lazy crawl, as blood sailed almost negligibly from the wound.
And then Mardon ripped the swords apart, tearing them sideways through his body, cutting him in two. Only a Vampire Lord could regenerate from that.
Mardon paused for a moment to catch his breath. And then he turned to dispose of the rest of the zombies. It would weaken the Lord, if he could delay the meeting until the rush from the liberated half souls faded.
On the thatch roof of a hut in the middle of the village, the onset of noon stirred Mardon from a meditative half doze. When you needed to remain aware for long periods without true rest, that was what worked best, at least for students of the Discipline, whose mental training derived much from eastern monasteries. Since he had not been aroused before this, the Vampire Lord had clearly chosen to go to ground, instead of pressing the attack while still riding on the surge from the devastation of his minions. While a zombie lived, the other half of its life-essence remained stable within the Lord, a source of vitality like his own. But when the zombie was killed, that essence would be released, to burn fierce and then go out, like an ordinary feeding. He would have been frighteningly strong for the first few hours...but by now, the rush would have long died, and the after-effects of the enormous boost would have set it: shakes, weakness, muscle tremors. Not four hours ago he would have been at his strongest: now he was weakest of all, most likely the weakest he had been since his first few successful zombies.
Now, it was time to end it. But first he would have to find him.
The first thing he did was to test the air, sinking into a different kind of trance to sift all the subtle signs there were to offer. He was able to confirm the most important thing: the Vampire Lord had not yet left the village. From that he could infer enough to make a search. Wherever he was would be underground. Vampires are not exactly afraid of the sun, but it rouses a disturbing mix of emotions in them, remnant memories from the death of the First Vampire, like all their other weaknesses. Stronger Lords had been known to ignore it, but this one had not been a Lord long.
He got up. He doubted the Lord had had time, resources, or motivations to make his own underground lair here: he would be in some sort of cellar, renovated for the purpose. What's more, it would certainly be a large one, not the small root cellars most of the people here might have had. That narrowed it down.
The Lord should have used his high to attack. Going to ground wouldn't save him from Mardon.
He started with the largest building he could find, and worked his way down. None of them were it: the cellar must not be under a building. Some calculated guesses guided by intuition led him to what he sought: a trapdoor in the ground. He knelt and put his ear to it, concentrating. Movement, yes, but further down, not waiting in ambush on the other side. Well, if it were zombies, a surprise attack was near impossible, even on someone un-Empowered, and with the time this vampire had been a Lord, it was unlikely in the extreme he'd acquired more than the two vampire underlings he'd already fought.
He went in.
It had been a small village: the cellar had one room, though it was a decent size. It was lit: vampires had no special ability to see in the dark. It meant that the layout he faced was very simple. No room for maneuvering or fancy placement. The Lord stood waiting in a corner with his remaining zombies massed tightly in front of him, a solid barrier even he would have to cut through. Which would restore the Lord's strength – somewhat. So soon after a terrible high, it was a desperate move sure to damage him, even if he won. Their eyes met.
“So...you've come for me.”
“Did you think I wouldn't?”
“I thought perhaps the Order wouldn't let you.”
“I talked to Argon.”
The vampire smiled. “You never change. This is not the Ritual of Elevation we had planned is it?”
Mardon drew his swords. “This is no ritual of any kind. This is beyond that, straight to the bonds that bind the world. I will let no one else give you freedom from your Thirst. I will put you to rest myself.”
“Then so be it – Father. But I won't let you win. You know that, don't you?”
Mardon looked at his eyes. The eyes of his son, once clear and bright with youth and determination. The eyes that had sworn to master the Way and inherit his swords. Now no one would inherit them. They would have to find new owners on their own.
Those eyes were not clear and bright anymore. They were dark and grim, tinged with the madness that is every vampire's curse. Lord or otherwise, there is something indefinable that never survives. To become something who feeds on life, you must sacrifice some element of your own humanity. By the time a Lord climbs from the eternal mad race of self-preservation, finally frees himself from the dangers of becoming a zombie himself, that something has been lost forever. No one had ever come back.
“I know.” Mardon said.
For a moment – two, three – no one moved. And then Mardon blurred across the remaining distance.
Never again, he knew, would his swords shine like this: never again would he burn with this same mix of emotions as he fought what he intended to be the last battle of his life, whether he survived it or not. Always purpose had infused his movements, but never had so much feeling pervaded his thoughts in combat: his heart turned his movements into a true dance of glittering silver grief as he devastated the small horde between him and his son, deliberately cutting down as many as possible as quickly as he could, immobilizing his true foe with the rapid fire surge of dissolving force that he was already in poor shape to handle. He flashed throughout the room, the zombies almost seeming to collapse of their own volition in a passing wind, his two blades an elegant silver kiss from the Reaper. And then – just for an instant – he came to a full stop directly in front of his true opponent, the Vampire Lord, his son. And it pained him more than he would have ever imagined to see the one he had trained to react in the blink of an eye stare in stunned immobility, too ravaged and battered by the surges of his new nature to counter-attack in time.
Both arms detached in a spray of blood.
The energy that had built was immediately diverted to the regeneration; as he struggled to replace his arms, more of his zombies fell. And then once again Mardon stopped by him: two deep gashes tore into his chest. There were only a few left now. And then there were none. Mardon and the Lord were alone, as the latter struggled to his feet with arms only two thirds remade.
It was all one sided: before he could regain the ability to fight back, Mardon had drained all the energy his zombies deaths had bought him; the vampire staggered almost drunkenly back as the impacts of the blows hit him, tearing him open, leaving him defenseless. A Vampire is by definition a psychic, but the power they gain is vitality, the domain of a mage. They can only use it within the confines of their bodies, and over that they have little control: when injured, all the power necessary to heal the wound is diverted whether they will it or not. And when Mardon finally stopped moving, the battle was already over. The Lord that had been his son stood weary and bedraggled, worn to the bone, exhausted by his own power, that had now run out. He no longer had the strength to sustain blows, to match speed and power in direct combat with Mardon. He had lost.
For the second time they both stood still and looked at each other. Mardon still strong and resolute, his son now bent, weary and blood stained, one arm clutched across himself. There was a kind of lost smile on his face.
“So much power,” he murmured. “So much power I had. And yet it still came to this.”
“A Master's strength is not in power, but in the harmonious inter-working of all his being. Remember?”
The vampire shrugged. “That time is behind me now: it belongs to someone else. The time before I had this Thirst is a dream. This is what I have always been. A killer, a drinker of life, a terror to behold. Master of Man. I am...I am...I am someone...someone powerful, I triumphed over my pathetic master, I took his power and made more, you can't end it now! I am the monster I know but still – but still – still I'll beat you!”
His lunge was only somewhat better than a zombie's, a jerking staggering stride forward as the last desperate light of madness carved a bestial snarl on his face.
Mardon deposited his right sword in his heart, slashed open his right arm with his left, and then...still in the same motion...he dropped his left sword to the ground, and caught his son as he fell.
At first, a vampire fights. Then, he succumbs. If he becomes a Lord, for a while, much of the semblance of his former self emerges. In his last struggle before death, often his madness overcomes him again. And then...in the last moments before passing, when all strength is spent...when self-deception and illusion loses all meaning...for a just a few seconds, some of the old light returned to his son's eyes.
“I'm sorry...” he said, the words breathed on from lungs just barely moving. “I'm sorry I fell. Iwasn't strong enough...I will never hold the swords.”
“If you had attacked together with your second minion, you would have won,” Mardon said quietly. “If you had come after me in the surge after I killed your zombies, you might also have won. Unintentionally you made the choices that led to this. That is the closest to holding on anyone has ever done. You did well, son. As well as anyone can. It's enough.” He kissed his son's forehead. “Go to sleep. Go to sleep...”
He was a Master of the Discipline. He knew the instant life left the body he held.
For a long time, he remained there, cradling his son in his arms. He pulled the sword out of his chest, and threw it aside: it gleamed next to its partner in the golden light of sunset pouring through the open trapdoor. And then he got up, and carried the body into the sunlight. To put his son to bed for the last time.
The swords were left behind.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES
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This is the first completed work of any length based in the alternate fantasy universe that will eventually support my fantasy series to come – presently called The Someday Wars, though this may change before the first novel emerges. Further short stories of varying lengths may be written, both to raise awareness and more fully develop the universe, as the first novel is being born. Said novel will be released in thirty to forty thousand word chunks until completion, when a full version will be made available. The first installment may be looked for in three months or so, but that is a tentative estimate.
In the meantime, you may have found this story a little confusing. I have adapted many fantasy classics so that they seem similar on the surface, but are in fact thoroughly re-imagine, and my vampires are the most extreme example of this. The degree of detail to which I have done this is appropriate for multiple novels, since that it what it was intended for. However, for a short story it may have proved difficult to follow - it was not practically possible to explain everything within the confines of a short story. However, articles on vampires and other aspects of my eventual fantasy epic's world can be found and read easily on my website, www.thewordpile.com. However, because it is more or less a flash fiction piece (a less than 1500 word work) in and of itself, I have included the story of the First Vampire's death, which explains their weaknesses, as a bonus. Enjoy.
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The Death of the First Vampire
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The devastation the emergence of the vampires first wrought can be difficult to comprehend. No one knew what had happened. It took months to begin to understand, even longer to grasp the problem they faced. In that time those weaknesses did not exist, nor any knowledge of their nature: something new and deadly had bloomed all at once in the midst of humanity, and for a terrible time, carnage reined. The people who eventually rallied and began to fight back were grim avengers, united not so much by power as by the will to destroy power. And in time, they were successful. Bit by bit the tide turned, more and more magic users regaining control over their villages. But it was, in truth, a war, and what's more, a war against a king: the Vampire King, the first and only – no Lord since has dominated enough of the vampire race to earn the title. And it took time. But eventually the group that had spearheaded it all achieved the goal they had staked their hopes on: they managed to isolate and capture the Vampire King himself. They knew if they could kill him, the forces they faced would fragment, and the war would fragment as well, into many ongoing skirmishes that were all the same preferable to the organized offensive they faced now. But that was just the trouble – they couldn't kill him. They had managed, by hook, crook, and exhaustive planning, to reduce him to a state they could control, but they could not finish him off: he simply had too much life force. And if they ever let up their assault, he would begin to recover at a rapid pace that frightened them. They needed some way to bind him, some way to hold him while they worked on a solution. And they found one.
First they assaulted him again, reducing him as much as they could. And then they bound him in the most effectively restrictive manner they could manage, with ropes and nails and magic: arms akimbo, flat to a horizontal piece of wood, palms outward, a position almost impossible to exert force from. His body and legs were bound similarly, on a vertical piece of wood that was part of the first, as flat on as they could: the most difficult position to struggle in they could manage.
In short, they crucified him on a cross, over half a millennium before the coming of Rome.
Then they sunk him in a raging torrent, where he would be constantly battered by rocks and the current even as he drowned interminably. And this sufficed to keep him in a state in which he could not break free.
For nine days and nights he was left there. At night everything was equally dark, but all through the daylight hours, as he raged and struggled and was crushed by oncoming debris, he could see the light above him, see the sun glimmering above the surface, taunting him, desired but unreachable. And he hated it.
And then at last, they took him out. They once again attacked with all their strength, reducing him to the weakest form they could take him to, and beheading him for good measure, en
suring he would not recover the strength to fight before they'd finished. And then they brought out a wooden stake. They had labored six days to create a new enchantment with it: cold death would have been overwhelmed by his life force, but the deep steady pulse of a tree, living but oh so very slow, fooled it. Where it pierced, it brought his life cycle to a crawl: when it crushed his heart, the regeneration was too slow to matter, and so he died at last, raging to the end.
The man who pressed it home, the man who had lost all he loved to the vampire race, leaned in and grinned through fierce teeth as he did it. His breath stank of garlic. Even as his vision faded to black, the Vampire King could smell it. And he hated it.
They themselves did not know what they were doing. They still had only a marginal understanding of vampires – the depth of the bond between Lord and minion was still an unknown. The fact that the shared halves of a life did far more than make the lesser will subservient to the other was not yet known. In time, they learned that minions would even take on some of the characteristics of strong Lords – for many of the longer lived, more infamous ones, it became a mark of their followers, the traits they took on. There is a constant pressure of the greater presence on the lesser, and this pressure forms strong impressions over time. But sufficient trauma can sear an experience into the minions connected to the victim – and those minions, in turn, will pass on the effects to any followers of their own that they make. To the very end, there were distinct lines and clans among vampires, formed from such experiences somewhere along the line, creating their own unique set of weaknesses and characteristics.
But it was only then, at the beginning, that it was possible to affect all the vampires in the world at once. Because they all belonged to the First.
The cross, the river, the sun, the smell of garlic – all of these were burned into their minds as synonymous with pain, fear, rage, death. And so they all became things that repulsed them. Strong Lords, with the powerful will that goes with it, could sometimes ignore some, or all of them, but never without conscious effort and practice. And no matter how strong they are, no matter how much life-force they have, no matter how much terrible punishment of any other kind they can take and still recover unharmed, any vampire that feels a wooden stake piercing his heart must die. It is a Law to them, engraved deep and hard where they cannot touch it. It is a part of them forever. And so in killing the First, that early group of hardened survivors made the hunting and slaying of vampires far easier forever after, even arming otherwise power-less people to repel them. The Five Weaknesses were seared into all their race for all of time. And so it has been, ever since. No one has changed it. Most likely, no one can. No one, in fact, has even tried.