by T. S. Ryder
He could hear their light, high-pitched voices creating a tantalizing music that danced towards him. Closing his eyes for a moment, he just listened. He heard laughter from a group, a tittering that sounded like bells and a deep longing surged to the surface. They were so close.
He gripped his sword, his fingers digging into the supple leather of the handle. The blood lust was coming on. His heart began to pound, adrenaline pumped through his veins.
His pupils dilated and the darkness around him lit up. He could see everything clearly. Every blade of grass stood out in bright detail. The wind picked up making the boughs of the trees shudder. It was as if nature herself knew what was coming.
“On marks,” Alistair ordered. Behind him, fifty men unsheathed their swords and bared their fangs.
“Now!”he said. He took off at a run, racing towards the bright fires of nomad’s camp. He ran across the flat grassland as his men fanning out behind him. The dogs in the human camp began to bark furiously, tugging and straining at their leashes. The sound only made Alistair’s feet go faster. He opened his mouth and let out a screaming war cry echoed by the men around him.
They crashed on the camp the way a wave crashes on the shore. Swords clashed as women screamed. Men leapt up from their chairs and reached for their swords, but they were too slow and their blades dull.
The nomads were not fighters. As the vampires descended on their camp, the men panicked and fled. They abandoned their dull weapons on the ground to speed up their cowardly retreat. The abandoned women began running in all directions clutching at each other and screaming for help. It was chaos and madness. To his left there was a bright burst of flame as one of the elaborately decorated caravans of the nomads caught fire.
He was halfway through the camp before he came upon the first man willing to put up a fight. A fat nomad raced towards Alistair, holding his no doubt stolen sword like a cudgel. Bringing up his own sharp, well-hewn blade, Alastair took a moment to sneer at the nomad before cutting him down with one slice of his blade.
In disgust, Alastair watched as several men threw their women in front of them, attempting to use them as shields. Alastair ignored the women, leaving them weeping on the ground, crying for the men who had left them behind. Racing past them he charged down their weak men. With a fury, his sword raked across their backs and legs sending them screaming to the ground.
Heaving for breath, Alastair looked around the chaotic camp searching for another threat, another enemy. All he could see were women huddled together holding onto each other. Caravans burned, his men emptied the elaborate carts searching for anyone attempting to hide from their fury. He needed a warrior, someone willing to put up a real blade. Was there no one left? Had they really defeated the nomads that easily?
Alastair wasn’t ready to be done yet. Bloodlust pumped through his veins. He wanted a real fight, a real challenge. These weakling nomads had disappointed him. He felt unfulfilled. He spun in a circle his eyes scanning the camp for movement. There must be someone who would give him a proper fight.
He heard a scream from a caravan behind him and he turned around in time to see a woman tumble to the ground. There was a man behind her, holding her by her hair, wrenching and pulling her forward. She screamed and fought against him, her hands trying to pull him off her hair. But he was bigger and anytime the girl managed to get her feet underneath her he would kick them and she would fall again.
Alistair snarled and the man whirled around, bringing the girl with him. Her face was screwed up in pain and wet with tears. The crying had smeared her make-up, leaving tracks of dark tear lines down her pale skin. It did nothing to hide her beauty.
“Take her, not me,” the man screamed throwing the woman on the ground in front of him. She tumbled, falling directly below Alistair. On her hands and knees, she looked up at him beseechingly. Even there, in the hectic chaos of battle, she did not quiver with fear or beg for mercy. He expected to see anger and hatred in her face. Instead, she looked up at Alistair like he was her savior. He stared into her deep grey eyes and the longing in his stomach surged.
By the Gods she was beautiful. Alastair let his sword drop as he took all of her in. She had a full head of thick, dark hair, clear alabaster skin and grey eyes that shone in the moonlight. Through her poor nomad's dress, he could see she had an hourglass figure with full breasts and hips.
A fire surged within him. He wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to push her down into the grass, enter her and bite her, draining the beauty and have her all at the same time. But there was something he needed to do first. He tightened his grip on his sword and moved around the kneeling woman, leaving her be.
Alastair snarled at the sniveling man. The nomad turned and ran, but he was far too slow. Alastair was on him in a moment. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and plunged his sword into his chest. The nomad cried out and went weak. Alistair pulled his sword free and the man fell to a heap at his feet.
“Weak men are not permitted in Varlyn,” he said as he spat on the body. He turned around and saw the beautiful woman was still kneeling. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as her eyes darted between Alastair and the dead man.
Looking down at the corpse he could see the similarities. The nose and the hair color were the same. This must have been her father.
“What is your name, nomad?” the Prince asked her, blood dripping down his sword. Her father’s blood.
She paused for a moment, staring at him in confusion. “Avery Lathe, My Lord,” she finally said.
“Stand,” he ordered.
She rose to her feet and he was able to take her all in. Her thin nomad rags flapped in the wind as her long hair danced on her shoulders. She was like something out a dream, a perfect gift from the Gods left just for him. Caravans burned around him as his men called to each other, but all Alistair could focus on was her.
He took a step towards Avery, expecting her to run away, but she didn’t move. She remained frozen in the spot staring up at him. He took another step. He moved slowly—as if she were a frightened animal that might run at any sudden movement. The moon lit up her soft features and he could not stop staring at the perfect curve of her cheek. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands all over her soft flesh. He needed to feel her in his arms.
“Shall I take her to join the rest of the women, My Lord?” one of his men asked. It was like being awakened from a dream. He had been so focused on the creature in front of him that he had missed the end of the battle.
“No,” he said to his soldier. “She is mine, let no one touch her. Take her to my tent.”
She looked up at him startled. Her eyes went wide and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the soldier took her by the upper arm and pulled her away before she could speak.
Chapter Two
“No,” Avery heard the vampire warrior say. “She is mine. Let no one touch her.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the soldier said as he pulled her away from the blood-stained corpse of her father. She wanted to say something to the vampire warrior but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. She felt numb and empty. Only a few moments prior she had been scrounging together a dinner for her ungrateful father. Now he was gone and she was a captive of this vampire, out of the frying pan and into the fire.
She glanced back to make sure her father was really dead. His corpse offered no resistance as the vampire soldiers grabbed his wrists and ankles and hefted him toward a pile of bodies. He was truly dead. He was gone for good. She had watched the life drain out of him. He would never hit her again.
Feeling numb and confused, she offered no resistance as the soldier led her through the burning remains of her camp. She could hear other women wailing and weeping for their lost husbands and sons. They were loud, tortured sobs carried to her by the wind. Avery imagined the tortured lamentations could be heard for miles.
Avery was grateful she was not with the other women. She didn’t want to have to pretend to
mourn for her father. She felt no sadness at his passing, only relief. If he was gone, that meant he would never raise his hand to her again. She would never have to cook or clean for him again.
I’m glad he’s dead, the thought made her stop in her tracks. The guard prodded her in the back. She stumbled for a moment and then resumed walking. She should have felt afraid. All around her, vampires were ripping apart their caravans. Women were screaming and crying, but she only felt a detached numbness. She had no say in what would happen to her now. She could only march forward and do as she was told.
The chilly night air combed through her hair. The camp was growing quiet and anyone who might have put up a fight was dead or gone. Avery wondered where her brother was at that moment, how long it would take for the news to reach him. He had gone ahead to scout the nomads route to the next town, he was miles away. A dark part of her wished he had been here for the vampire’s slaughter. He was as bad as her father, worse maybe since he was still out there somewhere.
With her vampire guard close, Avery left the burning remnants of her caravan behind and arrived at the small vampire camp. Squires were racing about, setting up tents and building fires. They were orderly and efficient, a far cry from her haphazard nomad life.
Avery was led into the finest tent of them all. It was made of a white canvas material and inside there was a large wooden table covered in scrolls and maps. There was a thick carpet under her feet and several thick blankets piled in the corner for a bed. Candles were lit all around the room casting a soft light. Surrounded by such splendor, she felt dirty and insignificant. This tent was far finer than anything she had ever lived in and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself once she was inside it.
“You will wait here. If you leave this tent you will be found and strung up. Your body left to the crows. Do you understand?” the guard asked in Varlyn.
“Yes, sir,” she answered with a nod. He glanced around the room, as if he were taking note of everything in case anything went missing. He gave her one last glare and then turned on his heel and marched outside. The tent flaps closed behind him, but before they did Avery glimpsed two guards standing at the entrance.
She was trapped. Anything might happen to her now. Her hands shook as she nervously moved around the large tent. On the back wall, painted in a vibrant red was the seal of the King of Varlyn, Granzen Thorne. It made sense, the vampire warriors who had descended on her camp were no amateurs. They were well-trained warriors, sent by the King.
She stared up at the seal, the image of a spike piercing a heart, blood dripping down the side. The Vampire King of Varlyn was the strongest leader and wealthiest Lord in all of the Severed Lands.
Avery traced a finger down her neck. She could feel her own pounding heart. That was what the vampire warrior wanted, no doubt. To drink from her, drain her. But most likely he wouldn’t kill her. The vampires weren’t stupid, if they killed every human they drank from they would quickly kill the entire populace and then starve themselves. It was against the law for a vampire in Varlyn to kill a human by draining their blood.
She heard movement at the door. Spinning around, she saw the vampire who had killed her father. He had just entered the tent. Without being told, she knelt down and lowered her eyes.
He said nothing. She watched his shiny boots as he trod over the carpet and past her. She glanced up at him and then quickly looked away. He was handsome, tall and muscular with a chiseled jaw, strong cheekbones and a pair of large, dark eyes. He was a commanding presence, one that made her feel meek and small merely from being near him. His hair was dark and cut short, his exposed arms were covered in tattoos, spiral designs that moved up and down his arms.
“I am Prince Alastair Thorne,” he began, “Crown Prince and heir to the crown of Varlyn, Commander of the Ten Legions, Knight of the First Order, Lord of the Fire Islands, Protector of the Sands, Grand Master of the Northern Sea.”
Her eyes went wide as she stifled a gasp. Alastair Thorne, the Crown Prince of Varlyn. When old Grazen died, this vampire would be King. Uncontrollably, she began to shake from head to toe. He was so powerful, so strong, she was nothing to him, just a poor nomad who only knew how to hide and steal. She had never been so close to a person of such importance.
“Stand,” he ordered. Avery complied, rising to her feet, but keeping her head down. He reached for her and she forced herself to not pull away. His cold hand caressed her cheek and then reached for her chin, tilting her head up to look at him.
He turned her head this way and that, looking at her in the soft light of the candles. A tingle raced up her back and she shuddered in his grip. His cold hand cupped her cheek and he traced his thumb over her supple lips. His grip was firm but gentle and she couldn’t help the quiet gasp that slid through her lips when he touched them.
She let out a shaky breath and then finally looked him in the eye. He was staring at her intensely, his eyes boring into hers. He moved, leaning down to give her a chaste kiss. She kept her eyes open, unsure of what to do. All she could think about was the fact that this was the Crown Prince of Varlyn. He lived in a castle with hundreds of servants. He was powerful and he had chosen her. A strange feeling bloomed in her chest and it took her a moment to recognize it as pride. Of all the women in the camp, he had wanted her.
While she had been thinking, her body had moved on its own. She leaned closer to him, deepening their kiss as she closed her eyes. She allowed her lips to part and then his tongue was sliding into her mouth, dancing with hers. His arms wrapped around her and pulled her close, holding her tightly against him as he kissed Avery with a passion she had never experienced before. She felt like she was floating, forgetting who he was and where they were. All that was left was his strong hands on her.
He broke the kiss and looked down at her. His hands were clutching her hips, digging into her flesh. Her heart pounded and her mouth was hanging open. Was he going to kiss her again? Did she want him to?
He took her chin in his cold hand and tilted her head to the side. She felt his warm breath on her neck. A quiver went down her spine, all the way from her head to her toes. He must have felt it for he tightened his grip on her, his hand going around her back to pull her even closer.
He kissed her sensitive skin before licking it and then she could feel his fangs as he pierced her flesh. She let out a quiet cry, but it was quickly silenced. He sucked on her neck and she could feel the blood leave her as he began to eagerly drink it down.
Chapter Three
The taste of her skin was tantalizing. She was soft and warm and every time he touched her, he could feel the blood travelling through her veins. It was waiting for him just under her skin. She gasped, her head fell back and her heart rate sped up. Alastair held her even tighter. His hands dug into her hips, he couldn’t hold himself back.
She was falling for him, putting up no fight or resistance whatsoever. Her heart was thundering in her chest. He could feel every beat, every pulse of blood as it coursed the length of her body. He wanted her.
Pulling his lips back Alastair instinctively found the artery in her neck. His fangs bared, he quickly pierced her skin and then the vein. He moaned as the warm, fresh blood poured from her and into him. God, she was delicious. He never tasted anything so sweet.
For a split second after his fangs pierced her, she tensed and then her body went slack and he was supporting her with his strong arms. He knew his saliva would release a numbing agent when he was feeding. It flowed into her, draining her strength and her urge to fight, making her pliable. He bit harder into her and she gave out a long sigh and clutched his arms.
He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t get enough of her. Her pounding heart was pumping blood directly down his throat. Her blood was feeding him and refreshing him as it returned the strength he had lost in the battle. He drank and drank and always there was more. The metal tang of blood in his mouth was intoxicating.
She was weak in his arms, no longer standing on her own two feet,
but instead held up by him. Her heartbeat was slowing. He let out a low growl and pulled her up and closer as the flow of blood began to slow.
He opened his eyes and suddenly pulled away. Removing his fangs from her neck was the hardest thing he had ever done, but he forced himself to stop drinking from her. And he stopped just in the nick of time.
Avery’s face was pale and her eyes were half-open. She was taking haggard gasps and struggling to stay standing. He had been too rough with her, taken too much of her essence. He had lost himself in her, almost killing her in the process.
Alastair cursed his own impatience. He carried her over to the bed in the corner and gently laid her down. Her hair fanned out around her head as she settled for a moment and then quickly slipped into sleep. Brushing the hair from her forehead he felt how cold she was. He brought a blanket up and wrapped it around her, tucking her in.
She appeared to be half-dead. Pale and still, with only the slightest movement in the rising and falling of her chest. He would have to get her some food, soon. Putting two fingers to her neck he felt for her pulse, it was weak but steady. He would need to be more careful in the future. He wasn’t done with this nomad yet. He had barely tasted her and there was still so much for him to discover.
Leaving a guard to watch her, Alistair stepped out into the darkness. A pit had been dug for the male nomads and one by one their bodies were dropped in while their women looked on and wept. He could see bite marks on most of the pale necks of the females, but other than that, they looked well. His men had been more disciplined than he.
Alastair walked towards the women and gestured for his men to join him. The women of the caravan looked at him with disgust through their red eyes. Some spit on the ground in front of him or cursed him in their native tongue. The mourning of woman are the song of victory, his father had once said.
“Your men are gone. Your possessions are mine,” Alastair said. “We keep no slaves in Varlyn, but we are always in need of human servants. Women with skills, those who can sew and cook should say so and you will be put to work. If you choose not to stay with us, then you may leave.”
