Vampire's Dilemma

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  “A hard thing,” Farmer agreed, rising, his left hand full of stones and others stowed in his pockets. “How was Bitter called in those days?”

  “John. He was called John.”

  Farmer called the vamp to mind—ironic, cheerful sort with a head full of bygone technology none of them would likely ever see again. Built windmills, dowsed for water with his nose and a forked stick for show, kept trying and testing different materials in his dream to build a glider. Human power couldn’t keep a glider aloft. But maybe a vamp could, was John’s theory.

  “He still with you?” Farmer asked, but got no reply, which might mean no and might not. So he went on, “There are other libraries now, built on your example. Three that I know of. You could—”

  “Two,” said Wolf. “Two more to go, then.”

  Farmer bent his head, saddened by the waste. All the waste.

  “They don’t deserve it!” Wolf burst out. “Why should we help them, try to preserve their knowledge? Ignorant they are and ignorant they remain, full of irrational fears and heedless violence. Fit only to be prey!”

  “Some have argued that,” Farmer allowed. “Wilder talk. Killed most of ’em I’ve found…because I don’t hold with that. Living’s hard enough as it is, for them. Vamps taking one or two a night could be all that’s needed to push the whole of humankind off the edge, falling toward extinction. And where will your food come from then? Gonna run with the wolves for real, make fledges of the red deer? They need us now, to preserve them. And because we need them, we’re part of them, it’s up to us to see them through this time. We all survive, or none of us do. You knew it once, Booker. Not too late to remember. Wouldn’t please me to put you down.”

  He didn’t hear the fledges anymore. So that was the shape of it: Wolf herself was the diversion, holding him here while the rest went for the camp.

  Whirling, Farmer hurled a stone at her forehead and started running. He’d taken only two or three strides when he heard the shrill, enraged cry of the dun. He smiled, alert for the fledges he knew would have been set to waylay him, knowing any that got within the dun’s range would have a nasty surprise. It was a wicked beast by nature and his teaching had only made it worse.

  * * * *

  Three fledges had been set to stop him: either Wolf rated him low or hadn’t much of a pack. Fledges were always expendable.

  They came at him in a bunch, to make the best use of their supposed three to one advantage. Two had been lying flat in high grass, and the third dropped out of a tree when the two burst out of cover. Of course Farmer had heard the pair getting ready to lunge and peppered them with hard-flung stones before they were even fully erect. Got one in the brow ridge and the other in the kneecap, then rolled the tree-dropper over his back and stomped her fast a couple of times before running on. Had no particular interest in killing the fledges. The ones he wanted were already at the camp, judging by the dun’s continuing racket.

  There were three vamps he could see, two fledge-awkward; the third, unchanged from memory, was the vamp Bitter, who’d once been named John. He had the pregnant wife, Ariole, down and was draining her. No help for her. The two fledges were engaged with the dun, that seemed to be holding its own just fine with bared teeth and slashing hooves shod with iron laced through with melted down cross silver, that could do good damage against any unnatural creature. One fledge stood and moved crooked, the right shoulder hurt and the arm dangling useless. As he lunged at the dun’s forelegs, trying to hamstring it, the horse reared, shrieking, and brought both forefeet down on his head, crushing the skull, so he was dealt with for the moment.

  Eldest Fanshaw boy, Morton, was sprawled on the ground, dead: throat torn out, drained. Fanshaw was down, too, the corn knife through his chest, a few feet from where Bitter was feeding on the wife. Travois was all overset from the dun’s gyrations, so no telling about Granny, the weaver. No sign of the mule, Dicken, or the girl Marianna.

  To work then, before Wolf and the fledges who’d tried to ambush him could get into it.

  Wary of the enraged dun’s kicking, Farmer hit the remaining fledge from the side, slipped arms into a secure hold, broke his neck, and dropped him. Located old grandma, Lily, a few yards off, wailing and weeping, tangled in the chair. Got her up, then plopped her onto the dun’s surprised back, directing curtly, “Hang on.” Then was surprised in turn when she clapped her heels into the dun’s sides and took off, bowling over Bitter in the process.

  No more harm for a vamp to do here: Farmer cast about, catching the scent, then went after the two Fanshaw children. Blood smell was easy to follow; and it was strong.

  They’d got as far as a stand of scrawny cottonwoods. Vamp had the girl down and was raping and feeding on her, mostly ignoring the boy ineffectively beating on him with a digging stick. Right weapon, wrong hands. Farmer plucked the stick from the boy and hit the right place: under the left shoulderblade, angled up hard. The vamp exploded to dust all over the bleeding girl. Farmer didn’t trust himself to tend to her but did anyway because it was necessary. Held her down, her screaming and thrashing (enough strength for that, good sign), and the boy pummeling at his back, and set his mouth to the bleeding mark, sealing it with a few licks. Then he pushed away fast and shoved the boy at his sister, directing, “Tend to her,” and got himself clear. He was still pretty well fed up, but still. All that bloodsmell would distract anybody.

  After a diet of horse, she tasted very fine.

  Don’t think about that.

  He needed the dun and what was stowed on it. Trueface wasn’t good for whistling so he shed it to blow a long, high note he’d been hopefully training the dun to respond to anytime he had a treat, like a dried apple, as reward. Then he changed aspect again, for the acuity, and listened. Presently heard its clopping approach and was relieved to find Granny Lily still aboard. Popped her off, set her to gathering sticks and branches for a fire, and pulled the two carry-sacks from the dun’s withers. Fire-hardened stakes in one and a sheathed sword in the other: likely older than he was, the blade sharpened down to little more than a finger’s breadth but still sound, fit to cleave through bone or take off a head. He was easier with it in his hand.

  “Dicken. Get a fire laid,” he directed, seeing the old lady, Lily, had left off gathering to try to comfort the wailing girl. To the waiting dark, he said, “You’ve had your tithe. Go your ways now. Leave these be. They’re mine.”

  “Oooh, Master vamp declares his claim,” came Bitter’s voice, just barely loud enough for acute hearing. “I’m all over impressed. And you outnumber us, one to five. Or…no, that’s wrong.” A laugh like a breeze, a whisper of air.

  “Horse counts for two. And I’m not to be had cheap. Take all of you to do me, and I’d do the most of you first. Not worth your time. Old lady, boy, girl. None of a good age for turning. Not enough to be a full feed for your fledges.”

  “Fledges are always hungry,” commented Wolf’s voice from another side, about two o’clock position, remembered from when watches had hands. From when there were watches. “And there are always more fledges.”

  “Some say that,” Farmer allowed. “Some say different. We come from them. When they’re gone, we’re gone. Go your ways.”

  “There’s always more,” said a voice Farmer didn’t know, from about five o’clock position. Nothing yet from the imagined night side of the dial, which likely didn’t mean much. Fledges would come in, regardless. Fledges always came in. Very poor impulse control.

  “That’s what they said about the buffalo,” Farmer replied, which the fledge wouldn’t understand, but the elder vamps might.

  Backing a few steps, Farmer saw that a tidy little fire had been laid. He couldn’t spare the attention, so he called Dicken to him and demonstrated the lighter. After a few tries and a few minutes, the fire caught and the smaller twigs began to crackle. Farmer circled to the trees and cracked down a few larger branches to set with their points into the flames: fire was also a good weapon against vamp
s and might hold them off until the sun’s dim fire took over that duty.

  The scent of the night told him it was close onto midnight. He knew it would be a long while until morning.

  4.

  The girl’s wailing was fraying at his patience, dividing his attention. There were limits, he thought, not for the first time.

  In the abstract, he wanted humans to live and thrive. But he had no regret for the three dead Fanshaws: they were gone, over—only facts to him now. No further concern of his, any more than the hundreds Wolf and Bitter had methodically slaughtered after the torching of the library.

  It was in such moments he knew himself as Other. Come right down to it, he had no commonality with humans. No fellow feeling, assuming he understood the concept. Certainly no human would be contemplating the abused, bereft girl and thinking if she didn’t shut up soon, he’d silence her, never mind how.

  The Granny, she was the valuable one. Had a rare skill and likely time enough to teach it, spread it. Give the boy another ten years, he might have bedded some girl and passed along his bloodline, become a candidate for turning, and would maybe live out long years in a local militia, respected and honored for the protection he gave. But that could be said of any boy. Nothing special about this one.

  And the girl, with her broken airs and her misery, was a pure nuisance. As though death wasn’t supposed to happen in her vicinity, or violence, or loss. Farmer was willing to grant her some slack for ignorance, for the fond protection to which her parents had made her feel entitled. Somewhat more attractive for being broached, no longer an imperious virgin assuming that command of all things male was hers by right, her acceptance or dismissal the sole standard to be considered. She might be worth such attention someday, earn it by learning and kindness and humbling herself to the common good without breaking. But that had yet to be determined. Maybe years ahead…like the boy. Right now, she was pure irritation, wailing on about her complex bereavement, home and family and childhood gone from her in an afternoon and an evening, oblivious that the boy had suffered those same things and was bearing up with much less noise, helpless and frightened yet doing what he could, tending the fire, fending off the dun when it wandered too near. Watching Farmer, knowing that their fates rested in his hands, trying to judge his willingness to go against his own for these strangers.

  Coming cautiously to where Farmer was sitting on his heels, impassively watching the night, sword on the ground in easy reach, the boy asked, “Are we gonna die?”

  “Certain sure,” Farmer replied. “But only because all things do. Maybe not tonight. I’ve claimed you for mine. All of you that’s left. If the Wilders don’t respect that, I’ll put ’em down. As many as I can. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won’t. Find that out presently.” He lifted his head, attending to the cry of a night-hunting bird…that wasn’t. Vamps trading signals beyond human hearing. No other sight or sign of them, though, nor waft of scent he could discern.

  Waiting for something, obviously. Some advantage they expected but didn’t yet have. Or trying to settle the fledges, use them in a coordinated attack rather than let them just burst in and try to feed, the way they undoubtedly wanted to. Not a lot of subtlety or restraint, fledges….

  Attending again to the boy, seeing the tear tracks on his dusty face, hearing the frightened pound of his heart, Farmer said, “Best rest while you can. When they come in, fire’s your best weapon. Get ’em alight, they’ll go up like a torch, go to dust.” Deliberately, he’d spoken loud enough to carry to all three, and when he glanced aside, he found the Granny’s eyes on him. Then she considered the fire, plainly choosing out what branch to grab, that would be within her strength to wield.

  About as much as he could expect them to do in their own defense. Stakes were no good in the hands of the ignorant: if a vamp was near enough to be staked, it was already within striking distance and an accurate blow was unlikely. They’d stay clear of open fire, though. Maybe. A hungry fledge could be remarkably stupid.

  He now regretted not putting the fledges down permanently when he’d had the chance. But that would have made him too late to prevent the vamp finishing with the girl and likely having the boy for afters. Hard to judge, then, what the best course would have been. You made the best choice you could at the time and went on. Farmer wasn’t much for regrets—another part of his Otherness, and one he was grateful for. The alternative was Wolf, eaten up with rage at people dead nearly a century. Seemed a foolish waste to Farmer, but he acknowledged it wasn’t up to him to judge for any but himself. And it wasn’t as though he was inclined to entirely let the past go, either. Old voices, long gone, still came into his dreams; and there was no controlling that.

  He wondered if Bitter, that had been John, still yearned for his workshop and the elusive right balance between strong and light that would send a vamp ascending toward the sheltering clouds on his own strength, his own wings….

  The dun, that had been dozing, hipshot, a few yards off, roused and whuffed, ears alert, nostrils flared. Catching up the sword, Farmer readied himself, but it was only the mule wandering in from the dark, one pole of the travois still strapped to its withers and dragging at an awkward angle, so it made much more noise than it ordinarily would. Got lonesome, likely. Tame beasts did that, sometimes.

  The mule, which had been moving at a tired, ear-flopping gait, suddenly shied toward the fire. Bent low, three running vamps appeared from the same direction as the mule, their salt-white faces and limbs wraithlike as they came into range of the flickering firelight. The dun bellowed and charged, and the mule shied off again, the dragging travois pole whipping around and taking one of the vamps right off his feet in mid-stride. The dun leaped and lunged, both forefeet coming down solidly. It spun on that soft pivot, kicking out with its hindquarters at the other two fledges, who dove and rolled clear.

  The eruption of noise and motion had been enough to rouse the three humans. The boy hurled a brand (missed) at one fledge but had snatched up another before the fledge got within striking distance. The girl was on her feet with a brand in her hands, too, laying about her at anything that moved. Hit the mule in the rump, a burst of sparks, and it squealed and spun, bucking. The swinging travois pole nearly took all three humans down and did slap grandma in the side, made her stumble and fall. Farmer popped the mule in the flank with a quick stone, and it bolted away into the darkness.

  The dun was savaging a second fledge, and boy and girl were at the fledge with flaming brands. As the fledge caught and flared, Farmer backed toward the fire, groping a stake out of the sack slung over his shoulder. Dusted the fledge the dun had stomped: not gonna make that mistake twice, if mistake it’d been.

  Leaving the humans and the dun to deal with the final fledge, he dumped the sack as an encumbrance and drifted downwind: Wolf and Bitter wouldn’t be upwind of him now, to have the breeze carry their known scent to him. He figured they were about all that were left to fight. Unless of course Bitter had lied about their numbers, which was entirely likely, now that he thought about it.

  He stopped, listening and scenting the air, trying to attend in all directions.

  The dun’s racket stopped—not cut off suddenly, just stopped—so nothing new in that direction. A slow, gliding step at a time, sword held behind him to have the whole arc of its swing usable, he went with the breeze at his left shoulder until he caught the scent. He halted, balanced and prepared.

  “What are they to do with you?” Wolf’s voice asked, from somewhere about 11 o’clock position. Not contemptuous, only puzzled: truly asking. “Why risk yourself for such as that? You’re among the eldest left, that I’ve heard about. We’re your people, not them. Kindred ways are your ways, too. They’re gone in a breath—feed for worms if not for us. Only the Kindred endure, and only in company are the long years of the unlife endurable. You must know that, feel that. Why not be free?”

  It would be stupid to answer, give his position away. All the same, Farmer replied, “Just
contrary, maybe. Doing what seems best to me. Don’t object to what you do, so long as it’s away from what I’ve claimed as mine. Go be free someplace else and I’ll have no dispute with you. Still don’t want to end you, if you give me option to do otherwise.”

  It pulled at him, the truth of what she said. He felt the kinship, the sturdy connecting cord of long acquaintance, speaking to her, that he hadn’t felt with the humans.

  Bitter said then, “A different model: cultivation, not hunter-gatherer, O Farmer-that-was-Michael. But the humans tolerate it only because they must: because we’d take them, otherwise. As soon as they’re numerous enough and strong enough to accomplish their own defense, they’ll refuse the tithe and turn on you and all the Kindred, tame or free. Bloodsucker. Vampire. Creature of the feared dark. They always have. They always will.”

  “Likely,” Farmer admitted. “But not for awhile yet, and this is now. Time comes they can manage for themselves, then we’ll see. Now, there’s a truce because I say so. Go your ways and you’ll come to no harm from me.”

  It’d been a mistake to let his own voice blunt his hearing. They were on him suddenly, the pair of them, erupting out of the grass, each as strong and experienced as he; and a fledge that dodged inside the arc of the sword, taking the slice on her upper arm to give the two mature vamps the seconds needed to close with him.

  Then he was down and disarmed and fighting for his unlife.

  5.

  Farmer was surprised to wake to the light. To wake at all, actually.

  His head hurt and his vision swam, giving him only pale blurs of black, brown, and yellow earthtones like an abstract painting of empty ground.

  He pushed up on his elbows, blinking, trying to get his vision clear. Moving made various hurts known to him, particularly a deep ache in his chest. His exploring hand found one of his own stakes stuck into him its full length, except where a hand would have grasped it. They’d been to the fire, then. Whatever was gonna happen to the Fanshaws had already happened. And he left to know it, which puzzled him.