by Garon Whited
I sighed. “I’m the victim of a long campaign of propaganda.”
“Funny. A nightlord bein’ a victim an’ all.”
“Hilarious,” I agreed, trying to keep a light attitude. “Here’s the scoop…” I went on to explain how a typical vampire fed, emphasizing how it wasn’t necessary to harm anyone in the process. Everything taken would get better in a while, except…
“But there comes a time when a nightlord has to really eat someone, not just nibble at them. Then that person is going to die. Doesn’t happen every night, of course, but it does happen. And a nightlord is supposed to hunt down someone who wants to die. I’m sure some of you have seen people on a battlefield who didn’t die quickly.”
Lots of nods, and a lot of distant looks.
“Times like that, finding food isn’t hard,” I went on. “It’s quick, it’s painless, and it’s a lot better than watching your entrails sink into bloody mud. And then there are times when you find someone who doesn’t want to die—but deserves to.” I glanced at the door. “Anybody want to argue that point?”
“No.” “Not me.” “No argument here.” “Well… no, I guess not.” “Nuh-uh!”
“So what yer sayin’,” Leary said, “is that nightlords is supposed to just pick off the bad and the dyin’?”
“Wolves do the same thing to deer,” I pointed out. “They catch the old and the sick. Nightlords are just smarter wolves—and, hopefully, more moral. Sure, it isn’t right to kill someone; it’s taking their life and you’ll never know what might have happened with them. But a nightlord can see your soul; if you’re scum, you’re scum, and I’ll know it. Maybe I’ll wind up in some hell with all the other evils, but I for one don’t feel bad about cleaning out the bottom of the humankind barrel.” I shrugged. “But then, I’m still young; I may feel differently in a thousand years.”
“How many have you killed?” Farqh asked.
“Around here? Let me think. There were some guys who murdered a man and were raping his sister…” I began, and started to list off the people I’d actually killed. Before too long, I found I was telling my story to them, occasionally prompted by questions. I realized what was happening when we were interrupted for lunch.
Our jailer came in with his trolley and started handing out a chunk of meat and a small wedge of cheese to each man; these weren’t large, barely enough for a burger back home, but it was better than nothing. As he passed me, I called out to him.
“Hey! Aren’t I supposed to be fed, too?”
He looked at me, thought for a second, and then tossed in a piece. I caught it and wolfed it down. It was too salty, but it went a long way toward quieting down my stomach. It also made me realize I was thirsty.
“How do we get a drink?” I asked, while the cart was making the far turn. Leary nodded at the jailer.
“He brings in a couple pitchers every night and y’drink all y’can hold.”
“That’s not going to do me much good,” I observed. “I don’t think he’ll toss one in to me.”
“I dunno,” he admitted.
“Hey! Jailer!” I called. He was passing by on the other side, headed down that wall of prisoners and back toward the door.
“What?” he asked, not bothering to turn to look.
“How am I going to get water?”
“Not my problem,” he instantly replied.
“You’re supposed to feed and water the prisoners, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“Then it is your problem.”
That seemed to give him a bad moment. He turned and looked at me, then at the floor, then he caught his lip between the worst set of teeth I’ve ever seen. He finished handing out lunch in a hurry, then rushed out, presumably to go ask someone in authority.
“Didn’t think they’d be feedin’ ye durin’ the day,” Tibal noted, snickering.
“Looks like. Let me guess—I’m supposed to just be lying here like a dead man, right?”
“Yup.”
“Tough break for them.” Then I had an idea. I stood and stretched and attempted to put my foot beyond the edge of the circle. No dice; I hit that same not-quite-there wall as before. I was alive during the day, no question, but the circle had been told to keep me in, and it was doing a splendid job. They’d been careful, and I could almost respect them for it.
I sat down again and started thinking about containment circles. Well, circles in general; they could be used to keep things out as well as in. This one was designed to keep me in, obviously. And, since I had sensed the magic being aimed at me by the brunette, it wasn’t designed to keep anything out.
So, the problem: How to break a circle from the inside.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
There are two main ways to break a circle. The first could be done only from the outside. A magician could lay something across the diagram, ritually opening the circle, then remove it again to close it. Or anyone could mar the design, wipe out a character or such, and the whole thing would vanish like a soap bubble in a thumbtack factory—again, opening it from the outside.
The second way was to just shatter it. Overwhelm the magic of the circle with superior force. Which, unless someone ran a lot of livestock right through where I was sitting, wasn’t going to happen; there was no way I could generate a magical burst powerful enough to shatter the wards around me.
Then again… it wasn’t going anywhere. I could keep building up a magical pressure on the inside all day long—no, that would just fry me in the magical energy buildup. I would effectively “crush” my own life essence under the pressure, like a diver going too far down and being squished by the depths.
Unless I made my own circle… build a bathysphere inside my own personal goldfish bowl…
That could work.
The more I think about it, the more I like it.
Draw a circle inside theirs to protect me, to hedge out incoming forces. Trap power between the circles until the pressure ruins one of them. Hope like hell it’s theirs.
Good idea, provided I can find something to draw with.
The meddle of mages trooped back into the room in what was probably the late afternoon. I didn’t rise to greet them, and they didn’t offer me any hellos. I tried to pick out my two previous visitors, but my daytime eyes aren’t as good as my night-eyes; I spotted the three women, but had no way of knowing which was which under those heavy robes and hoods.
I wondered idly whether that was a normal distribution of men to women in magical society. Women seemed to be largely second-class citizens or borderline property; I doubted one with power would be considered a good thing in general. Maybe magic was even between men and women—and men just got all the training. Or maybe magic was more common among men, while women had the potential to be fire-witches. More mental notes… I’ll have a notebook of stuff to research if I ever get around to it.
They spread out around me in a circle and joined hands. I got nervous; I could sense a spell building up.
It hit me. Hard. Like I’d been jogging along and discovered the joys of traffic.
Then they did it again.
And again.
Horribly, I felt myself clinging to consciousness. The hammering went on for a while before I finally had my nap.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 11TH
I came to with a throbbing pain everywhere and a bunch of red-hot bugs crawling all over me. Eventually, the bugs went away—the sun finished setting—and the more generalized pain started to fade. I started the evening with a few cracked ribs, a fractured wrist, probably a concussion, and I distinctly remember one impact breaking an arm. A lot to put back together.
I realized I was hungry.
I sat up carefully and looked around. Nothing seemed changed.
“Glad t’see you up again,” Leary offered. “Y’ve been out for th’day.”
I lifted my hands; I was still manacled.
“What did they want?” I groaned. “Just to flatten me?”
; “Newp. They cut y’ankles and bled y’inta bowls. Took away y’blood and did somethin’ to stop the bleedin’.”
I examined my ankles. They seemed okay, but there was a fading itch, as though they were finishing up a job of healing. All this regenerating was going to see me pretty hungry pretty quickly. That’s not a good idea for anybody.
“So what else did I miss?” I asked.
“S’all. Seemed awful eager t’get y’bled and then get gone.”
“Wise,” I replied. “I feel like having them as a thirteen-course meal.”
It’s one thing to be a vampire—vampires look mostly human, after all—but another thing entirely to talk about eating someone. It makes the locals nervous.
“Uh… you wouldn’t… uh… ?”
“Not if I can help it,” I assured them. They seemed to take considerable comfort from that, even if it did put kind of a damper on the conversation for the evening. That suited me fine; I didn’t need distractions.
I worked on the rings in the stonework, back and forth, until they broke. Just to make sure, I swung one of my chains toward the edge of the circle; it bounced, as from a wall of glass. Ah, well; I knew they were thorough. But the broken rings gave me tools to use for scratching on the stone. While that might have been enough, I wanted to make my circle as powerful as possible—if mine broke before theirs, I’d fry under the power load.
I extended fangs, bit my finger, and sketched with my own blood.
By morning I had, in all modesty, one heck of a powerful circle drawn inside the lines they had drawn. Mine was a sphere—a stronger shape than the bullet-shape of theirs—and was as magically mirror-like to esoteric energies as my Art could make it. Physically, it was an invisible sphere bordered by scratches and dried blood on a stone floor. Magically, it was a bank vault on steroids.
The circle wasn’t noticed by the jailer, but when he came through to feed the prisoners, I caught the block of cheese he lobbed in to me—my hands were now free. That he noticed and did not like. Feeding time was cut short while he informed his masters; apparently, they didn’t care. He came back soon enough to finish his rounds. Still nothing to drink for me, though. Pity.
It was getting on toward evening when the meddle of mages trooped back in. I sat there in lotus and waited, giving them my glare. I had expected someone to drop by during the day to try and swing a private deal, but I was disappointed.
Once again, they circled me without a word. Hands were joined, and the hammer of their spell fell more like an anvil. It bounced, ricocheted back and forth between the two magical barriers until it disintegrated, and became a cloud of magical force hemmed and hedged by the boundaries of the two wards.
“You know, if you expected to get more blood out of me, you should have fed me,” I noted. “You can only get out what you put in, you know. Letting me get hungry doesn’t earn you any kudos.”
They hammered at me again, harder. That spell, too, shattered on my shield and just added to the ambient magical force in the narrow confines between the opposed circles.
They withdrew to a huddle. It was a lengthy huddle. It got louder, too, until it seemed almost a full-blown argument. At last, they all glared at me—some angry, some scared, none of them happy—and trooped off to consult their references or plan their offensive, or whatever it is a bunch of magic-workers do when confronted by a conundrum.
I, meanwhile, sat there as smug as the Buddha—a very thin Buddha, maybe, but that can still be pretty darn smug.
That lasted maybe an hour. Then they took all the guys out of our communal dungeon and left me alone.
WEDNESDAY,
OCTOBER 12TH
Nothing new, aside from more pronounced hunger pangs. I haven’t seen anyone; the door hasn’t opened once since they took everyone away.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13TH
This does not bode well. I think they’re just letting me starve. Not that this happens quickly—I’m thirstier during the day than I am hungry—but at night! Right now, I understand the idea of a junkie needing a fix. They don’t need to torture me; hunger is doing that. I wouldn’t normally have a problem this soon, but…
Maybe they’re just letting hunger soften me up for negotiations? I’m hungrier than I thought I could become. It feels like I’ve swallowed an empty barrel. One wrapped in barbed wire. And it’s spinning slowly in my stomach, trying to grind its way out. My blood… I can feel my blood. It’s cold and thick and somehow it feels crackly—I don’t know how else to describe it. Moving makes every muscle feel like it’s made out of lead—warm lead, and it takes about as much effort to move as it would to mold the metal. Even my bones are hurting, like they’re all a little too large.
There isn’t even anyone to bargain with.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 14TH
Someone once told me civilization is two meals and twenty-four hours away from total collapse. I believe it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had someone to eat. I can feel myself slipping… it’s like I’m not completely me anymore. I need to feed. I need to. I can’t describe it; it’s deep. It’s hunger that hurts. And it won’t go away. I can’t even ignore it; it’s too intense. It’s all I can think about.
I burned my hands a moment ago. I tried to reach out and claw at the outer circle; the power there singed me and brought me back to myself for the moment.
Would I be this hungry so soon if I hadn’t been beaten and bled so much? No, certainly not. Sasha once said something about some kinds of vampires lasting weeks between major feedings. But what about the power I put into my protective circle? Did that have anything to do with my current hunger? I doubt it; that’s a more a function of the spirit than the flesh.
I’m hungry.
I have to get out of here. I have to. I have to have blood.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 15TH
I’m… not entirely sure I’m really writing this down. It’s hard to think, to focus. It’s easier in here, in the depths of my mental study; I’m distanced from my body. If I am in here. If I’m not imagining I’m in here. All I can think about is the taste of blood. I have to feed. I can’t stand it. Something is throbbing, like a heartbeat. I can feel it in every line of my body, like rage. It’s like every organ, every muscle, every fiber is pulsing with the need for nourishment. It’s getting stronger every minute.
Tomorrow will be worse.
SOMETIME LATER,
DATE UNKNOWN.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 19TH
The sun has just come up, and I’ve come back to what passes for sanity. I’m in a cave, that’s all I know. Somehow, I’m out of their circle. I feel fine, though—not even hungry or thirsty. I think that means someone is a rattling husk. If I’m lucky, I found a flock of sheep. I’m going to hope that’s the case while I try and find my way back to the surface.
WEDNESDAY,
OCTOBER 19TH
All right, same day, later. I’ve found out a lot. Here’s what I’ve done so far.
First thing I did was conjure up a light and start heading upward. When I did so, I discovered there were a bunch of holes in my clothes—judging by the cuts, I guessed they were from swords and either arrows or crossbow bolts. Most of the holes were punctures, which made my rags—sorry, “clothes”—look like something from Goodwill’s garbage. Bad sign, that. It meant a lot of people tried to kill me.
Ironically, I felt absolutely wonderful, in tip-top condition. That spoke of a lot of blood. Other people’s blood.
The surface wasn’t all that far away; I could smell fresh air and headed for it. Apparently, I’m somewhere along the Eastrange. At least, I think I am; it looks high and rugged. The cave opening was small, or used to be; I apparently widened it forcefully on my way in. There were handprints on some of the rubble.
Outside, Bronze was waiting for me. She had a few scars—melted places, I guess, where bolts of fire or lightning must have hit—and was scratched, dented, and scuffed in general. She seemed pleased to see me and otherwise healthy enough. For a metal h
orse, I mean. She was still hot to the touch, too.
I don’t know how she found me. I don’t know how she even knew I was gone, for that matter. But Bronze isn’t an ordinary horse—or even an ordinary golem. I think. She’s certainly very special to me. She had with her the saddle I’d left on her, but there was no sign of Firebrand, and the saddlebags were rags. I’d bet something cooked off the remains of my ammunition; a melted scar ran along her flank right where one of the bags used to be. The saddle was mostly okay despite some scorching.
“I don’t suppose you saw what happened?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. She surprised me by nodding.
“Can you tell me about it?”
She shook her head.
“I wish you could talk.”
She flicked an ear at me and turned so I could mount. I took the hint and did so. Ten minutes later, I had a good view of a pile of rubble with bits of wall standing in it. Around it was the smoking remains of a sizable village.
Scattered hither and yon were bodies. Men, women, and children. Dogs, sheep, cattle, pigs, chickens—everything. If it walked, flew, or crawled, it was lying in the sun, thin and wasted-seeming. Dry.
Bronze went down into the village at a walk while I stared, dumbfounded. I counted bodies, more out of shock and morbid fascination than anything else. I think there were about sixty people of all ages, and even more livestock.
Corpses look slightly thinner when they’re sucked dry. Mummified, almost. The most striking thing about them was the sheer whiteness of them. Pale as milk or chalk. Lips without the faintest trace of pink. White fingernails, even at the quick.
The buildings were the usual huts, sod houses, and occasional cabin; several had burned or were still smoldering. From the postures of the dead, I concluded they had fought in desperation or tried to flee—and it hadn’t made any difference.