As for sunlight, the only reason we shrink from the sun is because it stings our sensitive eyes. We are nocturnal predators, after all, and roving about in daytime is like having two burning sticks shoved into our eyes. Thank the ancestors for Ray-bans!
That is the only reason Ilio and I retired as the first rays of the sun crept across the Pannonian Plains.
Simple comfort.
Ilio continued to talk, as all young men are wont to do, but I was tired. Not so much physically, as vampires have extremely hardy constitutions, but mentally. Like all living things we need to dream.
As Ilio prattled on about the Neirie slave women who had seduced him, asking me rather personal questions about my previous sexual experiences, I answered as briefly as I could, letting my mind drift. The last thing I remember him asking was, “But do they like it as much as we do, Thest? Our things going inside them?”
An instant later, it seemed, my eyes were flashing open in the dark.
5
I could tell by the light glinting through the seams of my cloak that several hours had passed. I don’t normally awaken during the daylight hours unless I am disturbed.
Something was amiss.
It wasn’t Ilio. The boy was sleeping beside me, still as a child’s doll.
We were not in any immediate danger, but I felt a sense of urgency. Something was wrong, but what was it?
I lowered my mental barriers, reaching out with my senses. Almost immediately, a flood of sensory information overwhelmed my thoughts: sounds, smells, even tastes. The denizens of the plains deafened me with their chatter, their calls and yelps and buzzing and croaking. I could hear the wind blowing across the grassy hills. Smell wildflowers and earth, the coppery scent of mortal blood--
There!
Mortal men. Crying out in anger and pain. The whisper of arrows and spears, the clash of clubs and fists. A battle! And not very far away. Well within the range of my preternatural senses.
The Neirie were under attack!
I prodded the boy. “Ilio, wake up!”
“What is it?” he cried, almost throwing the cloak off in his surprise.
Restraining his arms, I spoke quickly. “The Neirie are being attacked. I must go and aid them, but it is still daytime. Your eyes are not yet trained to withstand the light of the sun.”
“You go to make war again?” he said excitedly. “Please, Father, let me fight with you this time!”
“You cannot fight blind, Son,” I said. “Now, cover your eyes. I rise to their defense.”
I didn’t wait for his acquiescence. Ilio cupped his hands over his eyes as I threw aside the cloak. He cried out a little as I rose, but I bent quickly and spread the cloak back over him.
“I will return as soon as I can,” I said, patting him on the head, and then I surveyed the land to the south, the direction the war sounds were coming from.
I shielded my eyes with my hand, but sticky black tears began to dribble down my cheeks anyway. The sky was an open roaring furnace, the world around me baked in its glare.
I scrubbed the black tears from my cheeks, blinking like a mole. I could hear them-- the howls of men fighting, the wails of men dying-- but my eyes were having a hard time adjusting to the light.
Then I saw them, very far away.
“Ancestors punish them!” I cursed.
“What is it, Father? Tell me what is happening!” Ilio called from beneath my cloak.
“The damned Oombai have sent warriors to recapture the Neirie!” I hissed. I looked east, then back to the south. “The Neirie have split into two groups. One half their number has turned back to engage their pursuers while the rest flee southeast in hope of escape.”
“How many Oombai are there? Can you see well enough to help the Neirie fight?” Ilio asked.
“There are a great many Oombai warriors,” I said, “but I will not stand idle while brave men die for their freedom!”
“Then go, Father,” the boy said. “But take care! Don’t make me an orphan again!”
I smiled grimly, eyeing the two armies who waged war in the distance. A moment longer and my eyes would be adapted to the light. Just a moment longer...
Then woe to the Oombai who thought to oppose me again!
6
I was disappointed I couldn’t wear my cloak into the fray. What a frightening figure I would have made, swooping down upon my enemies like a monstrous bird of prey. Alas, Ilio needed the garment more than I! He was still too newly made to endure the glare of the sun.
I swiped at the tacky black tears the sun had squeezed from my eyes. Even for me, the pain was nearly unbearable. It felt like my skull had been cleaved open and filled with molten lava.
Pushing my discomfort aside, I raced forward, pumping my legs faster and faster until the high plains grass hissed past me on both sides. My body cut through the field like the prow of a boat. I took two great leaps, each more powerful than the last, and then I threw my arms to my sides and catapulted my body into the sky.
My garments snapped upon my flesh. The wind whistled in my ears. My shadow leapt across the plains below like a fish breaching the surface of an emerald lake.
Flight… it is one of the few vampiric gifts that I unconditionally enjoy. All the rest of our preternatural abilities have at least one unpleasant drawback. Our penetrating senses often overwhelm. Our superhuman strength and speed can maim, even kill, if we are not careful to govern our movements. But flight… Ah, but I’m sure you’ve dreamed of it yourself! I revel in its sensations: being unanchored from the earth, the wind battering my cheeks, lashing through my hair. Glorious-- even when it carries me to war!
As the battleground swelled quickly beneath me, I surveyed the chaos. Just a few seconds had passed from the time I launched myself from the earth to my descent into their midst, but it was enough to take an accounting of the armies that clashed below. It was enough to see that the Neirie were desperately outnumbered.
I counted twenty-seven Neirie. They were fighting more than sixty Oombai soldiers.
It was easy enough to distinguish between the two groups. The Neirie were dressed in no finer garments than they’d worn in the Oombai slavepens. Frayed rags hung from their wiry limbs, and those were the fortunate ones. Some of the Neirie men were fighting naked. And their weapons were just as poor as their clothing. A few of the Neirie were armed with knives or spears. Most, however, fought with crude clubs or heavy stones—and some even bare fists!
Brave men-- doomed, but brave. Already, many had fallen.
I came hurtling out of the sky from the north, so my shadow did not fall among the combatants. Still, two dozen pairs of eyes watched me descend from the heavens. I saw Neirie and Oombai alike fall back in superstitious awe, their eyes bulging, their jaws dropping to their chests in disbelief. I heard cries of horror. A few men shouted in joy, but only a few. Optimists. Or the pious, thinking their prayers had been answered.
I landed in the midst of them, the blood-speckled grass rippling outwards in an expanding ring. The confused and frightened warriors fell away on both sides. “What is it? Who has joined the fray?” the men in the back shouted as their brothers pressed against them, trying to retreat. Those who had kept their wits replied: “It is the white god from the mountains! The blood god who destroyed the Elders!”
Ah, now you flee, you wicked, wicked Oombai!
I rose slowly from my crouch, displaying my fangs with a fearsome hiss. If they were not already frightened, the sight of my razor-sharp grin must have frozen their hearts with terror. Tall, powerfully muscular, and with a great shaggy mane of dark auburn hair, I can strike an impressive pose when I want to—even without a fancy cloak!
The Oombai warriors on the front line turned immediately and fled, stricken with mortal fear… and rightly so! In their haste to escape, they actually began to trample the men standing behind them.
I couldn’t let them go. I knew I had to break the backbone of the Oombai-- now, this day-- else they’d conti
nue to be a thorn in the side of the Neirie refugees. If I didn’t, they would pursue the bedraggled fugitives until they’d recaptured or killed them all.
The knowledge filled me with sadness for the killing I must do… but I wouldn’t be telling you the truth if I didn’t admit that it was only a little sadness.
Mostly I was pissed, to use the modern vernacular.
With a blood-curdling snarl, I launched myself upon the frightened phalanx of soldiers. I sliced into their ranks, loosing the reins of my careful control. Indeed, I pushed my powers further than I ever had before!
I moved in a blur, flattening skulls with my fists, sending heads, like startled crows, flapping from the shoulders they once had perched upon. I laughed, seeing some of the headless bodies continuing to run, though it was a terrible sight, and my laughter born more of horror than amusement. I tore the heart from the chest of one, and still clutching the bloody organ, punched my fist through the face of another. One Oombai warrior fell, and I seized his ankles and tore his body in half. Ten, I killed, then twenty. I ripped off one warrior’s arm and swung it into the face of another, sending the mutilated man whirling bodily across the field.
In minutes I was covered in their blood, my chest heaving, my mind empty save one thought: Kill!
That single word drummed inside my skull, throbbing like a heart, or a hard cock: Kill! Kill! Kill!
I knocked a man down and stomped his skull flat. I grabbed another by the arm and flung him as high into the air as I could. He sailed into the sky, spinning end over end, as I blurred forward and threw another, and they collided at the apex of their flight.
Forty men I killed. In a whirlwind of bloody fists and feet, that number rose quickly to fifty.
The last few fell to their knees and began to beg for mercy. Crying. Clutching their hands together and shaking them.
“Mercy?” I snarled in disbelief. “I’ll show you mercy! I’ll show you the mercy that the Oombai showed their slaves!” Then I threw myself on them and sent their souls shrieking to whatever deity judged their race in the ghost world.
Dead. All dead, I thought, their blood dripping from my flesh.
And there was so much of it! I looked like I’d bathed in a river of it!
I brought my hands up, watched the blood trickle down my arms. The thirst for all that hot salty blood squeezed my insides, yammered inside my skull to be satisfied. I put my bloody fingers in my mouth and sucked them, my eyes rolling back in ecstasy. I licked it from my forearms. More! I wanted more! Desperate to slake my hunger, I seized the last man by his plated vest and brought his broken neck to my fangs.
That drumbeat of desire--! It pounded inside my skull, driving me to gorge myself. I had to silence it. I had to drown that fire or I’d be goaded to kill them all. I would turn on the Neirie and tear them to pieces just as surely as I’d destroyed their pursuers.
Blood! More blood! Must feed!
I tore the man’s neck open with my teeth.
Oh, ancestors, yes! The blood! Still hot! Drink it all! Suck it out!
The mortal was still twitching. A faint spark of life lingered in his eyes, but I gave no thought to his pain or fear. I drained him, and then I squeezed his body against mine, crushing it to my chest to squeeze out every last drop. His bones crackled inside his flesh. Bloody shit spattered the grass beneath him. I drained the mangled corpse, and then I threw the empty husk aside.
The Neirie stood at a distance, moaning in horror and disbelief. I could hear them behind me. Smell them behind me. There was a part of me that wanted to kill them. Slaughter them like I’d slaughtered their enemies. I wanted to feed upon them until my belly sloshed with their blood--
No, monster! You have sworn to protect them!
I stood with my back to them, trembling, until I’d gotten myself under some semblance of self-control. It was no easy task. I’d never unleashed my lust for violence so completely, and like a ravening beast, the monster didn’t want to go back inside its cage. I ground my teeth together, taking deep breaths like a mortal man would do. I squeezed my fists.
Finally I turned to address the Neirie warriors.
“No!” I cried out, horrified by what I saw.
The Neirie were down on their knees, their faces to the earth. They were worshipping me!
7
“No!” I cried. “Ancestors, no!”
The Neirie men had prostrated themselves. They were pressing their foreheads to the ground with their arms stretched out before them. I could not understand the words they were babbling, but the intent was obvious. They were chanting, praying to me, as if I were some incarnate deity.
I strode toward the emaciated men, shouting, “Stand up! What are you doing? Do you really wish to trade one master for another?”
The men nearest to me moaned, trembling at the fury in my voice, but none rose. I realized that, in my outrage, I had shouted at them in my native tongue, the language of the River People. I switched to the tongue of the Denghoi, the language spoken by Ilio’s tribe, which the slave woman Aioa had known. Surely some of these Neirie must speak Denghoi.
“Stand! Stand! Up on your feet! You are not slaves! You are free men! Do not grovel in the dirt, you fools!”
A few of the men seemed to understand. They raised their foreheads from the ground, blinking at me in fear and confusion.
“Up!” I cried, gesturing with my arms. “I said ‘up’! Would you trade one master for another?”
The few who understood Denghoi rose haltingly. They stared at me in disbelief, then called out to their brothers. I smiled and nodded my head as the rest of the Neirie men clambered one by one to their feet.
I recognized one of the men from the Oombai festival Ilio and I had attended. It was the giant with the curly red hair. The one who had been forced to mate publicly for the entertainment of the Oombai. I could tell from his bold gaze that he was the leader of these men… or would be soon, when they looked for one to command them.
“You there. What is your name?” I asked him.
“Tapas,” he said. His voice was a deep baritone.
He stood two heads taller than I… and I was an unusually tall man. Nearly a head taller than most of my peers.
It was strange looking up at someone rather than down, as I was accustomed to doing. If I were a mortal, I might have been intimidated.
“Tell your men that I am no god, Tapas,” I said.
I consciously softened my voice. I did not want them to worship me, but I did not want to sound as if I were giving orders either. I wanted them to regard me as an equal… or as near to an equal as a mortal can feel standing in the presence of a powerful blood drinker.
Tapas had a long, squarish face with crude, ugly features, his flesh riddled with scars, but his eyes were bright and intelligent. He called out to the others.
They crept forward uncertainly, looking to him for guidance.
Tapas talked to them in a rapid, sharp-sounding tongue. One of the men shouted out a question, and he replied sternly.
The one who had shouted glared at me with hostility, or perhaps it was simply hatred for my kind. He would try to kill me some time later, this man, but he was a stranger to me that day. At the time, I only thought it odd that he should glare at me so venomously, considering I’d most likely saved his life.
Tapas returned his attention to me.
“You are T’sukuru,” he said.
It was the Oombai word for “blood drinker”.
I nodded. “I am called Thest.”
The red-headed giant bowed his head. “I saw you sitting at the festival with Bhulloch and the other Elders.”
“I was not there willingly,” I told him.
“We suspected as much,” Tapas said. “Though I was not there during the battle which ensued, there was much talk among the slave caste concerning the melee. It was said that the Elders slew your companion...?”
“My son yet lives,” I said, and the giant looked surprised.
He absorbed that information for a moment, then leaned toward me with a grin. “I was watching from my pen two nights later when you flew down from the tree and killed the ancient one called Y’vort. It was quite entertaining.”
“The Oombai Elders offended me greatly. I could not let such a transgression go unpunished.”
One of the men standing nearby tapped Tapas on the shoulder. The giant leaned down and the bearded man whispered into his ear. He needn’t have covered his lips with his hand, however. His words were a mystery to me… though his language sounded oddly familiar.
Tapas nodded to the whisperer, then stood straight again.
“This man says the name ‘Thest’ is known to his people,” Tapas said, regarding me with keen interest. “He says it is the name of one of their gods.”
The bearded whisperer ogled me with religious awe.
“A Neirie god?” I asked, confused.
“Do not call us Neirie!” Tapas snapped, anger flushing his cheeks. He wrestled with his temper, then smiled at me contritely. “I apologize, but Neirie is the Oombai word for ‘taken’. I am from a tribe called the Vis’hantu. There are Pruss and Tanti and also Grell among our numbers. We were stolen from our homelands by those Oombai whoremasters, but we are no longer ‘taken’. We are free men!”
“It was not my intent to offend,” I bowed. “I am a stranger to this region. Neirie was the only word I knew to call you.”
Tapas spread his open palms, a gesture of acceptance.
I placed my hands on my hips, looked past Tapas to the wounded and dead lying sprawled across the field. “I can help your fallen, if they are not too badly injured,” I said. “My T’sukuru blood has healing properties.”
The Oldest Living Vampire In Love (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 3) Page 6