The Vorbing

by Stewart Stafford

  “When your mind is set,” Adam continued, “you must pierce the veil between the living and the dead. Only a genuine desire to return will succeed.”

  The motley crew then parted to let something through. It was Death itself. The gleaming blade of its scythe first became visible, and then its grinning skeleton face as its enormous black robes scraped along the ground. Death had come for Vlad Ingisbohr. It was an entity far more powerful than Deadulus and his kind. Adam Ingisbohr and the warriors of McLintock’s Spit faded from sight.

  “I cannot help you now, Vlad, think of Ula and your men,” Adam said. “They are your last hope, and you are theirs.”

  Vlad drifted towards the figure of Death. He tried to grip the ground, but nothing stopped him from sliding towards the very emblem of finality. Vlad knew if he left his men alone, they would be massacred. He came to a halt in front of Death, and the rotting stench of decay filled his nostrils. Death gripped Vlad’s throat with its bony fingers. Vlad looked into Death’s lifeless black eye sockets as he felt darkness completely surrounding him. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind and thought only of his love for Ula and his comrades. Then, he heard something.

  “Vlad, are you all right?” Gatov said.

  Although it was muffled, Vlad recognised the words and the familiar voice.

  “I think he’s dead,” Gatov said. “What do we do now?”

  The sound became clearer, as if some blockage in his ear was freed. Hearing they thought he had died made Vlad fight harder to get back and show them all he was not. “I want life,” Vlad said. “Please God, let me live.”

  The noise of battle grew in intensity. When the sounds of battle reached a crescendo, Vlad opened his eyes. A transparent membrane blocked Vlad’s re-entry to the mortal world. Vlad took a deep breath and burst through it. Death screamed and lunged after him, but it was too late. Vlad Ingisbohr was alive again and ready to fight. Consciousness streamed back into his body the moment he burst through.

  Chaos reigned in the trench where Vlad had fallen. As vampires swooped overhead, Vlad’s desperate colleagues peered down at him. Gatov slapped Vlad’s face to rouse him. Vlad opened his eyes.

  “It worked!” Gatov screamed in disbelief. “Did you see what I did? I brought him back!”

  “Stand back,” Vlad said. “Let me breathe.”

  “They’ve taken the knight, de la Costa,” Gatov said. “Shall we retreat to Nocturne?”

  Vlad shook his head to dispel any remaining grogginess and put his hands on his knees. “Where is Pierre?”

  Gatov pointed to the northwest side of the mountain. Vlad got up and saw a vampire in flight with its claws in Pierre’s shoulders as the knight struggled to free himself. Pierre had a burning torch in his hand and tried to burn the vampire with it, but the creature was too strong and knocked it from his hands. Vlad picked up his bow from the ground and took an arrow from his quiver on his back.

  “Hurry, he’s going to clear the mountain!” Gatov said.

  Vlad took aim and fired, but another vampire got in the way and took the hit instead. Vlad took out another arrow. It was his last chance to save Pierre, and it raised the stakes. If he missed, he never would see his friend alive again. Vlad knew the slightest tension in his body would cause him to miss. So, as he took aim, he let all the tension go away from him and absolved himself of responsibility for the outcome. He told himself he would fire the arrow, but where it ended up was in the hands of a higher power. All he had to do was trust that his faith was stronger than the forces of darkness, and he would be successful as he always had.

  The vampire carrying Pierre was a great distance away. Vlad had to extend the bow back as far as it would go to get the maximum thrust to cover the ground between them. The bow shook a little from the pressure his stressed arm and shoulder muscles were exerting on its frame. It was possible the vampire was out of range and that the arrow would not reach it. Vlad was about to release the arrow when movement in his peripheral vision made him stop.

  It was Gatov chattering in his ear again.

  “Quick, Vlad,” Gatov said. “If he disappears into the fog bank on the mountain, you’ll never get him.”

  “I don’t need to see him to hit him,” Vlad said, as he stared with confidence at his target.

  “What?!” Gatov said in disbelief.

  Vlad calmed himself and closed his eyes.

  Gatov’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  “God, guide my hand,” Vlad said as he let the arrow go.

  It shot over the heads of Vlad’s men, most of whom were oblivious to the key moment going on above them. The vampire flew into the fog bank, still gripping Pierre. The arrow gained ground on them and also disappeared into the fog a second later. What happened after that became obscured. Nobody knew if the arrow had struck the vampire or Pierre or missed them altogether. They heard the sound of something massive falling to earth, which could have been anything with the conflict going on around them.

  Even if the noise was the vampire crashing to earth, another problem presented itself. If Vlad’s shot had been deadly accurate, the weight of the dead vampire landing on Pierre might have injured or even killed him. If the fall had killed Pierre, Vlad had weakened his army and lost a good friend and mentor. The fog bank remained as impenetrable as before and refused to yield up its secrets. After an agonising wait, a bloodied figure emerged from the thick fog. The figure had something in its hand and raised it. It was Sir Pierre de la Costa, carrying the head of the vampire that had the temerity to take him. Vlad’s men cheered, and Vlad sighed and smiled.

  Pierre wasted no time, and took an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his bow, and lit it from the torch he had dropped. Vlad wondered what Pierre was aiming at, as he saw no valid target. Pierre then fired his arrow at the centre of Vampire Mountain, and an enormous crucifix that Pierre and the others surreptitiously had formed with pitch earlier ignited. The vampires shrieked and hid their eyes from the blinding light and cruciform shape they despised so much. It deprived the vampires of an area to land on Vampire Mountain and created a safe haven for Vlad and his men. Vlad smiled at the cunning of his friend. Pierre ran back to rejoin the others, hacking and slashing with his sword as he went.

  Gatov blessed himself and fell to his knees with his hands joined. “Oh my God, did you see that?” Gatov asked. “It’s a miracle! Vlad asked God to guide his hand, and he did! Vlad hit the vampire in a fog bank with his eyes closed!” For once, words failed Gatov.

  Vlad turned to Gatov and the others. “When are you people going to believe in me and yourselves?”

  Gatov felt himself being hauled to his feet by Vlad. “Now, come on!” Vlad said. “We have a battle to win!”

  Deadulus hovered at the head of his vampire column. He looked back at them with his muscular arm raised. When it dropped, that was the signal to dive on Vlad’s army and attack. He hesitated when movement caught his eye. A lone figure in white appeared at the top of Vampire Mountain. It surprised Deadulus, but did not frighten him. His reaction was swift, and he sent one of his vampires to investigate. The figure on the mountain was Bishop Hopkins. He stood with his eyes closed due to his fear of heights and vampires, and raised a trembling hand. The vampire sent by Deadulus detected the bishop’s blood and closed in for the kill. Had the bishop’s eyes been open, he would have fled the scene, as the vampire descended at terrifying speed towards him. It had its talons outstretched and its fangs bared. Bishop Hopkins gave his blessing in Latin and made Vampire Mountain consecrated ground. Seeing that, the vampire tried to halt its descent, but it was too late. It landed on Vampire Mountain, burst into flames, and disintegrated. His work done, Bishop Hopkins disappeared around the peak and fled.

  Deadulus, aware he had been tricked by Vlad, let forth a roar of such rabid rage that it burst the eardrums of some of Vlad’s men on the battlefield beneath him. Dark blood streamed down their cheeks and the backs of their necks. Deadulus saw a fireball from one of Vlad’s trebuchets so
aring skywards towards him, and he put himself in the path of it. For a moment, Vlad thought the NightLord was going to allow it to kill him rather than continue on fighting.

  Vlad should have known Deadulus better than that.

  When the fireball was feet from him, Deadulus held out his huge claws, and a blue force field seemed to appear between them. Deadulus trapped the fireball in this force field, and it grew to about ten times its original size. All of Vlad’s men took cover, fearing that Deadulus would launch this massive fireball back at them and cause severe injury and death. Deadulus did not do that. He turned his back on Vlad and his men with the huge fireball still under his control. Vlad wondered what the target was. Deadulus soon revealed it by hurling the fireball at the village of Nocturne, far behind where Vlad and his men were.

  “No!” Vlad cried.

  Despite the wise evacuation of Nocturne, Vlad did not want to see his beloved village damaged or wiped from the map. The fireball entered the ground at incredible speed in Nocturne Village Square, starting minor fires in the surrounding properties. The ground shook, and several of Vlad’s men fell over from the impact. The ground did not stop shaking, and the vibrations grew bigger and more powerful. Vlad was amazed that Deadulus seemed to have the power to cause earthquakes. Just as soon as the eruption started, it subsided. Vlad looked at Deadulus, and the NightLord stared back at him. Vlad had evicted the NightLord from his home. Deadulus was trying to return the compliment, but nothing seemed to happen. Deadulus had missed everything of strategic and sentimental importance to Vlad. All he had done was create a vast crater in Nocturne Village Square. Vlad knew it could be filled in and the scorched buildings repaired.

  Vlad picked up a bloodied, double-edged battleaxe on the ground in front of him. “God, guide my hand,” Vlad said, as he spun around in a circle and hurled the axe with ferocity at Deadulus.

  The axe spun with incredible speed towards Deadulus. Vlad and his men saw it was on target, and they all took steps forward with fevered anticipation.

  “It’s going to hit him!” Gatov said.

  The axe got closer and closer to Deadulus. They were certain it would kill the NightLord as they watched in disbelief.

  “Die, Deadulus, die!” Gatov said.

  The axe was about to strike the object of their ire down for good.

  As if swatting a fly away, Deadulus grabbed the battleaxe and hurled it back at Vlad, twice as fast and twice as strong. Vlad’s men scattered. Although Vlad tried moving out of the path of the incoming weapon, he wasn’t quick enough. He turned his head at the last moment as the blade of the axe grazed his cheek. It churned up huge amounts of earth as it disappeared into the ground behind him. Deadulus roared with defiance, and Vlad roared back wiping blood from his cheek.

  “I’ll kill you!” Vlad said.

  Vlad beat his chest with his fist and made hostile gestures at Deadulus, miming out tearing the NightLord limb from limb. Deadulus felt the new experience of a twinge of fear deep inside him, but hid it well. Vlad’s men let out wild cries of support. At last, they had united against their oppressor and fought back as one under the right leader. All of them felt a charge of excitement go through them at the strength they felt in numbers and the capabilities of the Ingisbohr boy.

  An enraged Deadulus looked around for a revenge weapon, but halted his fiery search with an uncharacteristic smile and calmed himself. Vlad did not like it. Then, it started; it was faint at first but became very noticeable. Lava flowed from the crater in Nocturne Village Square, and something was floating upon it.

  Vlad strained to see what it was. His eyes widened in horror. Demons from Hell of every kind oozed up on the lava; some walked on two legs, others on four, while the rest crawled or slithered. Some had wings and some did not, others had horns and others did not. They were fiends of every description, and it chilled Vlad’s blood to see them walking abroad in his village. Deadulus, Satan himself, had called up reinforcements from the bowels of Hades. He had Vlad surrounded on two sides, trapped between the claws of a scorpion.

  The special arrows Vlad made earlier were meant for entering the flesh of Deadulus. Vlad needed to improvise something that would spread wider to hit more than one to deal with the new threat. Vlad remembered a vial of holy water on his person, and he took it out. He tore a piece of fabric from his tunic and tied the holy water to an arrow with it. Deadulus watched from the skies with increasing interest. His young nemesis already had challenged him in ways he had not expected but the NightLord had responded. Now he was witnessing Vlad adapting his battle plan to changing circumstances. Deadulus knew he was dealing with a worthy opponent, far better than his father ever had been.

  Vlad fitted the arrow to his bow and closed his eyes. “God, guide my hand,” he said, taking aim, the bow and arrow quivering in his hands.

  Deadulus dropped his arm, signalling his vampires to dive in an all-out attack. Vlad fired his arrow towards the crater in Nocturne. It was just past his normal range, but God had not let Vlad down yet. The arrow flew with incredible speed. To Vlad, it was faster than any arrow he ever had fired. He glared at his arrow in flight, silently praying for it to strike the forces of darkness in the pit. The arrow landed to the left of where he intended, but it impacted the crater of demons. The vial of holy water shattered on impact and covered the emerging demons in it. They screamed and moaned in a truly horrific and piteous way. It forced the demons to retreat back into Hell. The lava flow stopped, and the crater sealed shut after them. Vlad’s men cheered, but Vlad’s heart sank when another massive wave of vampires swept out from behind Vampire Mountain.

  “It is over!” Gatov said behind him.

  Vlad thought likewise, but could not let his men see he agreed.

  “We must leave here while we can,” Gatov said, “or it will be McLintock’s Spit all over again.”

  Vlad was on the retching verge of signalling a retreat, when something about his men drew his attention. He noticed how distracted they had become by the incoming vampires. Vlad’s eye flitted to where Deadulus was hovering like a hummingbird. He deliriously welcomed what he saw. Deadulus had become distracted, too. The NightLord had allowed his concentration to lapse for a moment. For all the planning that went into a battle, there was always a turning point, that fleeting moment when one side gained the upper hand, and from then on it was the beginning of the end. It was not always the best or strongest side that gained the upper hand, either, as reputations counted for nothing in the white heat of battle. All that mattered was how an army fought and what happened on the day. The slightest thing could turn a battle: a basic error, good or bad luck, or even the weather. Sometimes, neither side knew a turning point had occurred in all the confusion. It was only peacetime analysis of a battle that yielded up the critical moment. Vlad saw the most golden of opportunities presenting itself to him. He knew he might never get a chance like it again as long as he lived. If Vlad survived the battle, he would tell his grandchildren about the surreal moment his eyes were watching right then. He heard the wings of Deadulus beating along with his own heart. It felt like it would beat its way out of his chest with nervous adrenalin.

  With his wide eyes transfixed on Deadulus, Vlad reached behind his head and took one of his sanctified arrows from its quiver. He fitted it to his bow and drew it back and aimed without a sound. Deadulus was still oblivious that he had gone from being the apex predator to potential prey for the first time. Without thinking, Vlad opened his lips to ask God to guide his hand as usual but choked the words in his throat at the last second. Deadulus would hear him. Vlad was about to find out if he was the prophecy made flesh without divine intervention. It was time to discover the true capability of Vlad Ingisbohr. Vlad took aim and let go of the arrow. It left his bow and shot across the sky.

  Still, Deadulus did not notice, and Vlad felt cold shivers of anticipation running through him. If Vlad could kill Deadulus, it would be the greatest moment of his life, without question. Nobody was watching it happ
en but him, although Vlad knew his father’s restless spirit was with him. He had craved recognition all his life, but all that mattered was killing Deadulus and avenging his father’s murder.

  Vlad willed the arrow onwards with wild eyes. It seemed to take an age to cross the sky to where Deadulus was hovering, but it honed in on its intended target. Deadulus sensed something to his right and turned his head. Vlad feared Deadulus would swat the arrow away as he had the battleaxe. However, the NightLord reacted too late. The arrow slammed into the chest of Deadulus with an audible thump and punctured it. A geyser of dark blood spewed into the air.

  Once again, Deadulus and Vlad roared simultaneously; Vlad roared in triumph, while Deadulus roared in agony. The vampires behind Deadulus backed away from their NightLord, exposing him to more danger. Vlad’s men whirled around at the sudden loud howls behind them. The NightLord stared at Vlad in disbelief and let out an involuntary groan of shock as the blood literally drained from his face. Despite the severity of his wound, Deadulus remained conscious that he would disintegrate if he landed on the new holy ground of Vampire Mountain. Even if he survived that, a hunting party of Vlad and his men would hack him to pieces. Deadulus was too weak to defend himself due to major blood loss.

  The injured NightLord picked a spot in the distance near Nocturne to crash-land. Deadulus figured if he could make that spot, the adjoining column of trees by Nocturne cemetery would afford him some cover behind which he could make his escape. Vlad’s men stared in stunned silence at Deadulus before bursting into cheers. They moved to carry Vlad aloft, but he stopped them dead with a gesture of his hand. His eyes remained fixed on Deadulus. It was not over yet.

  A vampire behind the ailing Deadulus suddenly exploded, and then another. When the new group of vampires came into view, Vlad saw who the leader was. It was a certain pale, little friend of his by the name of Anamis. He had brought dozens of albino vampires like himself to help the attack. The dark vampires advanced towards Anamis and his army to rob the trebuchet operators of a clear target. Anamis launched himself at the closest dark vampire, driving him into the path of the human death machine. The trebuchet operators had increased their rate of fire, and an airborne projectile dispatched the vampire. Anamis’ fellow albino vampires copied his action, and soon the sky was ablaze with flaming dark vampires. The superior speed of Anamis’ supernatural cavalry enabled them to leave the target area before their bigger rivals. Deadulus’ forces were in disarray, surrounded and outnumbered.