She reached the line of trees and stopped, seeing in the starlight that the ground dropped off abruptly. With difficulty, she slid down the steep stream bank. There was a slight shoal consisting of small pebbles between the bank and the water. Ice framed both sides of the flowing water, leaving a free-flowing center channel. The stream was not deep, a few inches at best.
The girl slumped back against the dirt bank, exhausted. Looking up, she could see stars and remembered her grandfather pointing out the various animals formed by the twinkling lights.
She cried out as a place deep inside her mind remembered the touch of six-fingered hands on her body while red cat eyes peered at her. She stopped her mind from going further along that thread of thought.
Pain ran through her body, focusing her brain on the situation at hand. She whimpered as a contraction rippled through her. Despite the cold air, sweat began to run down her face and along her body.
The girl cried out for her mother. The only answer was the howl of the wind. She had witnessed numerous births in the village, but there had always been a midwife present to supervise and assist. Pain consumed her and she pressed back against the bank of the stream, her sweat merging with the dirt into mud.
When the child came it was as if it were ripping its way out of her body with single-minded determination. Her screams echoed up out of the streambed and across the plain to the mound.
After ten minutes the baby was out and she used what little strength she had left to wrap it in the rag that had covered her body. Naked, she instinctively curled her body around the infant to keep it warm.
She gazed at the child her body protected. It was not crying, nor had it made any noise, but its chest rose and fell as it breathed, indicating it was alive. Its eyes met her gaze and she was startled to see a thin sheen of red covering the black pupils. The child leaned into her body, taking her warmth.
She barely noticed when it opened its mouth and tiny teeth tore into her throat.
CHAPTER 6
Africa: 355 B.C.
Nosferatu was better prepared this time, having learned his lesson on the last awakening. Instead of leaving the tube and blundering forth, he left the lid to the tube slightly cracked each night and lay still, conserving energy, until he caught the scent of something alive. He slid out of the tube and found several birds resting on the cliff. He refreshed himself as best he could, experiencing again the nausea from imbibing nonhuman blood.
Strengthened, but hardly satisfied, he made his way north along the coast, knowing he could not attempt the interior of Africa in his present condition. He had barely made it back to the Skeleton Coast alive after leaving Nekhbet in her mountain crypt. Between the mountains and the west coast had been mile after mile of desert, then thick jungle, then, as he neared the coast, desolate, rock-strewn desert once more.
He’d set the tube for approximately one thousand years, yet he noted nothing had changed in the immediate area as he went along the coast. It was the perfect place for him to rest undisturbed, but because of its ruggedness, a hard one in which to find people to feed on.
He saw no ships sailing along the coast. Finally, the land began to turn green and he encountered his first village. He took two that night, a couple who had escaped into the jungle to copulate. Refreshed he moved more quickly and soon reached the point where an enormous river cut the coast, pouring a wide swath of brown, muddy water into the ocean. Nosferatu could barely see to the other side in the moonlight and wasn’t certain whether what he saw was the riverbank or the shore of an island in the river’s mouth.
The Congo made the Nile’s flow look like a trickle. Still, Nosferatu felt a pang of longing for the blue water of the river in Egypt. He had a sudden vision of a dark-haired woman holding him, looking down at him, smiling. He was small, tiny, a baby. But he knew she loved him. But that, like so much of his life, was just a memory now.
Even animals had others like them. Nosferatu was perhaps the most isolated being on the planet. Nekhbet was in the deep sleep in the cave on the mountaintop. Vampyr might be out there somewhere, but Nosferatu didn’t know where the other Undead was.
Nosferatu growled. A bird fluttered out of a nearby tree in fright. All had been stolen from him. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. Blood. Human blood. To his right, upriver. He turned in that direction, moving through the jungle like a ghost, able to see clearly even under the thickest canopy that blocked out all starlight and moonlight.
He came upon a village. A thicket of thorn bushes surrounded the perimeter; a single entrance with only one branch and a youth with a spear barred the way. Nosferatu ran forward, leapt the thicket, and was on the young warrior in a flash. His teeth ripped through the tender flesh, bringing forth a gush of blood. Even as the artery continued to spurt red sustenance, he lifted his face and glared about. Another warrior was coming, spear leveled. Nosferatu jumped up, knocked aside the warrior’s thrust, and jumped on the man’s back, teeth sinking into the throat, ripping and tearing. The warrior screamed, then the sound died as Nosferatu tore in farther, his teeth cutting through the man’s windpipe.
He threw the warrior from him and bellowed out a challenge, his face and chest covered in blood. He could see faces appear in the doorways of huts. Men staring with wide eyes. Women fluttering behind them, yelling at their children to hide from the demon that had invaded their village.
“Come,” he screamed, throwing his arms wide, exposing his chest. “Come and get me.” He didn’t even realize he was speaking in the language of the Gods and that none could understand his words, although his intent was clear.
None rose to the challenge. All remained indoors, weapons at the ready, watching Nosferatu’s rage spill out in screams and curses.
Sanity slowly returned as his throat knotted up in pain from the yelling. Backing up, Nosferatu left the village and disappeared into the darkness. He found a small cave along the riverbank and slid into it, covering himself with leaves and bushes for the coming day.
He lay there as the sun made its way overhead, occasionally slipping into an uneasy sleep. Each time he woke, he was shaking and sweating. As darkness fell, he left the hasty lair and searched for a way to cross the river. When he approached the village he’d attacked the previous evening, he could see numerous warriors manning the perimeter and a large fire stoked up just inside the thorn barrier. He circumambulated the village and came upon several dugout canoes pulled up on the riverbank. He took one and shoved it into the dark brown water. Snatching up the paddle, he began to stroke, blinking sweat out of his eyes.
After several minutes he realized that while he was indeed making it across the river, the strong current was also carrying him from left to right. Nosferatu tried to pull harder but was seized by muscle spasms that almost caused him to drop the paddle. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and his forehead felt as if it were on fire. He feared that one of those he had fed upon had been ill and he had drawn in the sickness. He wiped a shaking hand across his face, trying to clear the sweat pouring into his eyes.
When he could see again, he realized the current would win. He would be swept into the ocean long before he reached the far bank. He looked over his shoulder and realized the bank he had left from was also out of reach. He was too sick to care. He put the paddle down and curled up in a tight ball on the rough wood bottom of the canoe.
* * *
Nosferatu woke in greater pain and discomfort than when he’d passed out. The first rays of the sun were slashing across the edge of the canoe just above him and he couldn’t open his eyes to their brightness. He heard no sound of land — no winds in trees, no cries of bird or animal, just the sound of water against the outside of the canoe.
Nosferatu could feel the heat of the sun closing on him, edging down the inside of the canoe. He knew he had no choice. He grabbed one side of the canoe and rolled, bringing it down over him as he fell into the water.
He popped his head up under the security of the canoe and slow
ly treaded water.
It was a very long day. Several times, Nosferatu felt something brush by his legs and feet; but he kept his eyes shut, for even the sun reflected through the ocean water was too much for his delicate pupils. As soon as the sun set, he righted the canoe and collapsed inside it, his legs quivering from the day. Sitting up, he peered about but saw only ocean in all directions. He had no clue which way to head to try to get back to land.
* * *
Nosferatu lay on his back and watched the stars wheel by overhead, conserving his energy. He realized it was the first time he had ever really looked at the stars — strange, given he was a creature of the night. But then he had spent the time of darkness either hunting or traveling, not contemplating the little points of light overhead. When he had been a child it was whispered the stars were where the Gods came from. And then Donnchadh had told him the same thing. How could that be? he wondered. How could they come from such small places? Of course, if the points of light were far away, then he imagined they might be very large.
Nosferatu cursed both the Gods and the stars as the sky above him began to brighten, indicating another day’s beginning. He waited until the last moment before rolling the canoe over and entering the water.
As the day progressed, he contemplated simply letting go and sinking into the dark depths. All that kept his grip on the edge of the canoe and his legs slowly moving to keep his head above water was the image of Nekhbet.
By the eighth day even that image had faded. He was only aware of exhaustion, wetness, and despair. That night he sat in the canoe and looked about. Stars and sea were the only things visible.
The Gods had given him life for their own selfish purposes. For over three hundred years, they had consumed his life for their pleasure. Since then he had been hiding, running, like a frightened child, for thousands of years.
Why?
What was the overall purpose of life? The goal of the Gods? Why did they treat other living beings as they did?
Nosferatu blinked. There was a glow on the horizon behind him. He stared at it for almost a minute, then picked up the paddle and began to stroke. For a little while he thought his eyes were fooling him as the glow faded, but then it became brighter. Soon he could see flames shooting into the sky, then the shoreline. A fire was raging in the tall grass, coming closer to the shore. Nosferatu could see herds of animals running, trying to escape the flames. And on the shoreline, bands of humans waiting for the kill. Nosferatu felt the pull of the hunger.
* * *
Nosferatu had fed well the previous night. He strode north along the beach, miles flowing past in the darkness. It appeared that he had come back to land farther up the coast from where he’d been pushed out to sea. Instead of jungle, lush grassland stretched out to the interior of the continent. Several times he saw villages ahead and made slight detours to pass around them and their barking dogs unless he had to feed.
He continued up the coast like this for almost a full moon, feeding twice more. The grassland began to give way to rocks and desert, and early one evening, shortly after he set out, he saw a two-story stone tower on a finger of land enclosing a small natural harbor. Several boats were anchored in the cove. They were of a type he had never seen, with an upthrust, curved prow and a tall mast in its center. They were made of wood planks, not reeds, and as large as the barges that hauled stone on the Nile, but sleeker.
There was light in the windows in both levels of the tower and Nosferatu could see a pair of guards with bows on the top. As he got closer he could see that there were several stone-and-wood buildings at the base of the tower. Soon he could hear voices coming from one of the buildings. Nosferatu halted and contemplated the situation. He was hungry, but not desperate. And these men had ships. Pulling his cloak tight around his lean body, he walked forward.
One of the guards spotted him and called out a warning. Nosferatu halted and held up both hands, empty palms out. Several men scrambled out of the building and came up to him, swords drawn. They spoke in a strange tongue, but once again, the universal language worked as Nosferatu drew out several gold pieces from his purse and offered them.
The men took him into the building and offered him food and drink, which he made a pretense of consuming. What did catch his attention, however, was a piece of hide staked to one wall. A map was drawn on it. Seeing his interest, one of the men walked him toward it.
The man pointed at a spot near the bottom of the map, then pointed down at the ground, indicating that was where they were currently located. Nosferatu put his finger on the spot, then ran it up along the coast, around through a narrow strait and into the Middle Sea, along the coast until he reached what he knew was the Nile. Then he pointed at himself.
The man nodded. He pointed to a spot above Egypt along the eastern edge of the Mediterranean, then at himself. “Phoenicia.”
Nosferatu had never heard of the country, but he knew much had changed while he slept. How much, he hoped to find out. Jingling his purse, he indicated himself once more, then Egypt.
The man frowned and called out to one of the others. The man who came over was weathered by the sea and old. He had a scar running down one side of his face, disappearing into the collar of his dirty shirt. The first man pointed at Egypt, then said something as he indicated Nosferatu.
The old man shook his head and spit. He pointed to a land on the north side of the sea, west of Egypt’s location. Apparently that was where he was going, Nosferatu realized, as the two men argued some more. It was closer than he was now. Nosferatu opened his purse and paid the old man.
Greece: 354 B.C.
While the legend was that the Three Hundred had died to the last man in the Gates of Fire at Thermopylae in 480 B.C., the real number was actually 299.
Three hundred Spartans had indeed marched with King Leonidas against King Xerxes and met his massive Persian army of 150,000 men in battle in the narrow pass.
The Spartans had held for four days, allowing the rest of the city-states of Greece to mobilize and eventually defeat the invaders. It was an event celebrated in song and onstage across Greece, no place more so than in Sparta. There was one who knew the truth of the Three Hundred. One who still walked the face of the Earth over 125 years after the famous battle. He was the Three Hundredth, and he was not a man. He stood on the parade field of Sparta, just as he had so many years ago, and watched as the army mustered for battle, just as it had so many years ago, and so many times since.
Vampyr had fought at Thermopylae as long as possible, before slipping away into the night, leaving his comrades to be massacred to the last man. Even now, years later, he saw no point to the famous last stand. Yes, it eventually led to victory for the allied Greek cities, but not long after, those same city-states had fallen once more into battle among themselves in the First and then Second Peloponnesian War. Men who had fought side by side against the Persians were within a few years lining up against each other in mortal combat.
Such was the folly of humans, and such folly was fodder for one who lived on hatred and blood.
Vampyr remained in Sparta because it was the first place he felt at home among the humans. The rest of Greece viewed Sparta as a bizarre enigma. While the arts were celebrated elsewhere, only martial prowess was rewarded in Sparta. The entire city-state was set up to support the army. From 404–371 B.C. Sparta had ruled most of Greece, despite being heavily outnumbered and never being able to field more than ten thousand men. The strain of this rule, though, had taken its toll, and over the past fifteen years, the kingdom had relinquished much territory back to the locals.
Sparta was located in the southwest, connected to the rest of Greece by a narrow isthmus. Vampyr had wandered there after being able to stow away on a ship leaving Crete over a thousand years earlier. He’d hidden his tube in a cave on the southern shore of Peloponnese and gone into the deep sleep for over five hundred years, hoping to have enough time pass for his rule in Crete to be recalled only as legend.
When he awoke he traveled around Greece, taking in the burgeoning civilization, before settling in Sparta. At first he did so out of black humor, as the people there claimed to be descended from Lacedaemon, a son of the god Zeus. Also, he was able to feed with relative impunity because of the way the classes were stratified. There were the Spartiates, who could fight and vote; the Perioikoi, or freemen, who did not have the vote but were graciously allowed to fight and die for the state; and the helots, who — while technically not slaves — were only slighter better off than if they had been, and on whom Vampyr could feed relatively unnoticed.
Three lochoi of Spartan warriors were lined up in formation in front of the Hellenion — the temple — preparing to depart for war against Pylos on the western coast of Peloponnesia. It was just before dawn. Vampyr had fought in so many campaigns he actually had no clue what real or imagined cause was behind the upcoming battle. He had changed his identity six times over the centuries, earning his way each time into the ranks of the knights through feats of arms, rather than by family as most did.
The squires and battle train had departed before dawn, as they rated no fond farewell. The families of the knights who made up the ranks of the lochoi stood in the shadow of the temple, stoically keeping tears at bay. The boys of the agoge — training barracks — not old enough to come on the campaign, stood in their own formation watching their fathers, older brothers, and uncles prepare to leave.
The commander of the expedition, Acton, turned for the road leading west and the women began to sing a hymn to the god of battle. Row after row of Spartans stepped from the grass field onto the dirt road and headed to the west.
Battle. Vampyr had grown to love it over the years. He’d honed his skills until he was the most feared warrior in Sparta, and thus in all of Greece. That combined with his inherent abilities made him practically invincible and his leaders were inclined to grant him latitude regarding his strange behavior. He was never around during the day unless there was to be a battle, and then he was completely garbed in armor from head to toe, with a cloth wrapped across his eyes to guard them from the light. He’d explained that he had a defect which did not allow him to expose any part of his skin or his eyes to the light, and such was his prowess with arms that the other Spartans gladly allowed him this idiosyncrasy.
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