"Why not?”
"Downstairs, in one of the rooms, I saw a picture of the battle you just described to me." Smith waited until Michael nodded for him to go on. "The picture showed almost everything that you described. The heads on poles, the land awash with blood and a figure turning his face to hide from the sun’s rays.”
" … and?" Michael was casual but puzzled.
"On the knights' armour there was a symbol. It’s the same symbol used by the French underground, the Cross of Lorraine. It’s also the symbol of the Eastern Orthodox Church. If he was a vampire, how could he be a Christian too? It doesn’t add up." Smith spread his hands to show he didn’t mean to be pedantic but it was a valid point.
"How very astute but I have to disappoint you on this. Although it is very much like the symbol used by the Orthodox Christians, it’s not the same. This symbol was also used in Sumeria where it had the title of 'Kad', a word that meant both king and lord. The soldiers who fought for Szaran painted it on their shields and armour to show that they were fighting for a king, for a mortal and not for the Gods. So you see, it doesn’t mean that Szaran was a Christian. He couldn’t have been, anyway. This all happened thousands of years before people started to believe in the Christian God as we know him. The tablet where I read this was carved about two thousand BC. It was found in the remains of the ruined city of Ur by a knight called Henri of Lyon. He brought it back to the library of our Order and there it has stayed ever since. As I mentioned earlier, we have access to records that no other institution in the world has or ever will have.”
"So you’re saying that my family and its entire heritage are based on legends of vampires, Sumerian vampires to be precise.” He was brisk, challenging.
Michael silently nodded.
"It’s quite a lot to accept, you know that my family were and are all vampires.”
"There’s more. 'The Book of Blood'.” breathed Michael.
"Of course, the bloody Book.”
"Lilith and Szaran were banished, but with them went the followers who had survived Utu’s massacre. They were not many but steadily their number grew. They were people who felt that it was up to mankind to decide its own destiny and not the Gods, people who were in awe of Szaran because he had tamed a demon and those who were in awe of Lilith because she had fooled a king. For whatever reason, they joined the movement. Among them also grew a cult, a cult that worshipped blood and gave human sacrifice to Szaran and Lilith. The Gods were not blind to this and they gave the pair a warning. Still their number grew until they had another army that could face up to the Gods. 'The Book of Blood' came into being at this time. In it were the names of Lilith and Szaran. It also told the legend of the war with the Gods and their story up to that point, albeit a somewhat one-sided account of what had happened.”
"I’d forgotten about the blasted book," Smith acknowledged. "That’s the main reason I’m here, isn’t it?”
"Yes, and it’s the main reason you were sent away. Let me continue and it’ll all become clear.”
Smith nodded and sat back again.
"Szaran and Lilith hadn’t learnt their lesson and they marched against the Gods a second time. This time Utu’s dreadful sun destroyed them all. They attacked at night but that didn’t save them. Utu raised the sun against them and lit the night time heavens as if it were day. So the story goes, Szaran and Lilith fled as soon as they saw the Sun God and that is why they survived. They left Sumeria with the 'Book' and were not seen for a long, long time. Their absence stirred up more rumour than if they had stayed, and soon the 'Book of Blood' had become legend. The 'Book' turned up in ancient Greece where it was called the 'Biblion Haimatos'. The Greek witches that worshipped Hecate held it sacred and protected it. Throughout the ages, misguided cults and secret societies protected it and thus kept Lilith alive. Its very being seemed to feed Lilith and her power grew. Szaran aged, as every mortal does, but Lilith lived on. She made prophesies and had them committed to the book, prophesies that have, up to now, all come true."
Michael finished and sat back. He said nothing and watched Smith for a reaction.
"That’s it? That’s the story up to now or is there more. There must be more, surely. What’s in the book, where is it, what’s it to do with me and…?” he stopped in mid flow as he caught Michael’s knowing smile.
"So you do believe me, then?”
Smith recovered his composure. "Well, you hadn’t finished or had you?” Smith explained, "So you might as well finish so I can make my mind up.”
"Right, but first I need a drink. I’m thirsty.” Michael stood and went to a jug on a shelf. He poured two glasses of water and sat back down. "The first name in the 'Book' is Lilith's. The second is Szaran's, her lover. The third is the name of their son, Pfahl. Pfahl was the first and the last boy child born to a vampire in this bloodline, until you and your brother appeared. Nothing for thousands of years and then two in one go, just as Lilith foretold.”
"My God, she predicted my birth, what does that mean, then?" asked a very dazed Smith.
Michael ignored him and ploughed on. "The other names are Thrace, who started the first vampire plague. Baloch who fought a war against the first Christians and almost won, and Daziel who coordinated the round-up of the Knights Templar under Pope Clement in 1307. Then came your father, Szoltan. Szaran died a natural death but the rest, from Pfahl onwards, are just resting until the next plague. If you give Lilith a child, that is if you sleep with Iullia, you will start the next wave. The curse of Utu will have been broken because the Son of Utu has lain with Lilith and vampires will be free to stalk the day. Make no mistake, James, you are who the Count says you are. You are his twin brother and you are, as was prophesised by Lilith in the 'Book of Blood', the Son of Utu.”
"Why only the Sun God’s curse? I mean, why will they still be vampires who walk the day and not be turned back to humans?”
Michael pondered the question briefly, "Good question. The thing is that the ancient Gods turned them into vampires, dependant on blood, but it was only Utu who cursed them to roam the night. There is no way they could break a curse put on them by the whole pantheon of Gods, but they do have a chance to break just one God’s curse.”
”I see, so why don’t they break one curse at a time?”
"It’s taken nigh on four thousand years to break the one curse. How long do you think it would take to break one made up by all the Gods? Besides, I think they like the idea of being on the top of the food chain. If they succeed, and are able to hunt the day, mankind is lost. We will be cattle to them, to be slaughtered and used as they want. The Dracyl has no interest in becoming human again. He wants to rule over us, not be one of us.”
Smith took it all in as stoically as he could but an edge of panic crept into his voice, "I still don’t understand - why me? I’m not a vampire, I can’t be, I’m British.” He shook his head slowly in disbelief and, after pondering for a second, "I thought you said Maria is Lilith? Where does this Iullia come into all this?”
"She is, but Lilith has split her power between Maria and Iullia. That’s why your brother is in control and not Lilith. Lilith has been weakened by having to control two bodies. I’m not sure why. Perhaps she’s scared that the curse will backfire on her or she’s too vain for pregnancy, or God knows what. However, Iullia will carry the child. After its birth, I suppose she will vacate Iullia and go back to Maria’s body. When Lilith is whole again, she will have unlimited power. Think about it: the Old Gods are all gone, she’s beaten the curse and she has the 'Book'. There will be no stopping her and she’ll rule over the second plague like a Goddess. Your brother will be the eighth name in the 'Book' and your son will be the ninth. You, as the Son of Utu and therefore the medium for the change, will be the tenth. You will either be exalted by the second plague or you will die.”
Smith looked horrified until Michael added, "I don’t know, I’m only guessing the last part and, to be honest, I’m not really sure of the order of names after your brother. It could be y
ou next or it could be your son.”
"What am I meant to do? Sleep with Iullia, have a baby and break a two thousand year curse? Does the 'Book' really say that. I still can’t accept that I’m in some book written by someone I’ve only known for two days.”
"I haven’t read the book - I haven’t even seen it - but I know from other sources that the son of Utu will either be the catalyst for a second plague or the end of the bloodline. I think you were sent away so that, when the time was right, they could send for you and manipulate you to do their bidding. I know they had familiars and servants keep an eye on you the whole time, and I know they picked Britain because the people aren’t as superstitious as on the continent, and I also know that you are not a vampire, not yet, anyway.”
Smith started. "Not yet!” he spluttered, "What the hell does that mean, ‘not yet'?”
"I’m sorry, James, but it’s in your blood. It just hasn’t been aroused yet. At some time or other you will change and I think it will probably be at some sort of initiation ceremony. It’s latent within you but, because you haven’t accepted it yet, it will just lie dormant until it’s called forth.”
"I am not a bloody vampire!”
"Not now, you’re not, but soon it could all change - or it might not. I'm not sure.” He paused and leant forward. "But all is not lost. It doesn’t have to be like that. The onus is on you, English. Do you want to join them or do you wish to fight for humankind?”
There was no question of joining them. Though he wasn’t sure if he believed everything he’d heard, he knew instinctively that he stood on the brink of the void and the hurricane was at his back pushing him over.
"I am not a vampire," was all he said by way of an answer.
"Not yet, not yet.”
"Never! Can we fight this?"
"That’s why I’m here. This has been a fight that has lasted hundreds of years. Up until now, they’ve always won. There is a way but it’s not all that clear what we have to do, and I was hoping that you might have an idea.”
"Me?" Smith exclaimed. "How the hell would I know what to do? I’ve only just found out. I was hoping you’d know what to do.”
"It’s not that easy,” Michael admitted with some embarrassment. “The signs are there and I think the tools, weapons, or whatever you want to call them, are to hand. The trick is knowing how to use it all. I’m pretty sure the tree in the village, as Maria calls it, is involved but otherwise I don’t know. We have to get our hands on the 'Book'. It’s as simple as that.”
"Oh my God" whispered Smith. "What the hell are we going to do? We’ve got to do something now. We haven’t got the time to puzzle it out first. Did you just turn up here hoping to be able to work it all out in time or do you have a definite plan of attack?”
"Look, this is no time for recriminations. We’ve got to work together to try and find out if we can do something. If not now, then we’ll have to leave and come back when we know what to do. My task, first and foremost, was to contact you and inform you of the situation. That I’ve done already. As long as you don’t go hopping into bed with Lilith, which you’ve already halfway done, we’ve got a chance. Luckily we know Iullia is the one to be, er, impregnated. You’ve just got to stay away from her and keep your trousers on. Should be a snap if you’re as British as I think you are.”
Smith remained serious. "I’m glad you find it all so amusing. So what exactly are the signs, tools, weapons?”
A sharp rap on the door startled the pair of them. Without waiting, Maria stormed in. There was a second’s pause and Michael stood up. She barked something at him in Romanian as Smith wordlessly looked on.
Michael nodded and left the room.
"Come, James, we need to talk." Maria's tone accepted no refusal and she was visibly shocked when Smith declined.
"Actually, old girl, I’m whacked, what with hiding from the Germans all night.”
"The Germans are Romania’s allies or don’t you known that?" she countered.
"Don’t give me that. You know exactly what I mean. What is going on here, Maria? Why is it that one day after my arrival a squad of Germans, SS if I’m not mistaken, turn up? If it hadn’t been for Michael, I would have been long gone now.”
"You’re in no danger, James, believe me. You’re under your brother’s protection.”
"Whatever, I’m jiggered, so if you don’t mind, I’ll turn in for the day, which seems to be the done thing in my family."
Smith walked past her and left for his room.
Michael smiled secretly to himself.
Chapter 18
Von Struck’s men spent an easy day cleaning weapons and patching uniforms. They ate in the stables, swapping stories about their individual and shared experiences. From the safety of reflection, events that had been dreadful and grotesque were now vaguely amusing or downright hilarious.
Rohleder, as was his style, had started the ball rolling with an anecdote about the patient in the bed next to him in hospital. He always looked over to Rohleder in pity as he surveyed the Rottenführer's scarred and melted flesh. However, Rohleder had felt even more pity for his neighbour who had been neatly castrated by a stray piece of shrapnel.
Only Henning and Rohleder had been in long enough to remember the advance into Russia that had faltered and then been turned on the banks of the Volga. Henning had taken part in the attempt to seize Stalingrad and Rohleder had lost his brother, the last remaining member of his family, there. The newer recruits listened silently as they heard about the triumphant advances into the Eastern territories and of how entire villages had greeted them in the Ukraine as deliverers from the hated Russian Communists.
In the eyes of the Ukrainians, they had invaded as benevolent liberators. However, the truth of their situation turned out to be as sour as milk left out in the sun. The Germans had come as conquerors and benevolence had no place in their conquest. Henning had seen the look of betrayal in the eyes of the 'delivered' women and children, and had felt ashamed, ashamed at the round-ups of suspected Communists who always turned out to be old men over sixty, ashamed at the naked fear the young women showed when they marched into a village or town, ashamed at the sight of desperately hungry children scrabbling for scraps because the German army had confiscated the village’s food for the Third Reich. It was shame that struck the death knell of his love affair with National Socialism.
He looked around at the young faces of Rohleder’s squad. They were all under twenty and yet had the air of men who knew the world. They squabbled and argued, and yet he knew they would gladly lay down their lives for each other. They were Rohleder’s Boys and they were proud of the fact that they had been taken into his care.
There was also an irony to Rohleder’s situation that was not lost on Henning. Michael Rohleder would, in a National Socialist environment, normally have been an outcast. In a society that hated the ugly, shunned the disrespectful, and locked up the cynical; Rohleder should have been a prime candidate for the camps. And yet, perversely, all these young soldiers would, without question or thought, willingly give their lives for their scarred and sarcastic Rottenführer. They looked at him and saw through the scar tissue. They only saw the experienced veteran who had taken them under his wing and moulded them to be the hardy, battle-tried, professional brotherhood that they were.
Henning examined them one by one as they bantered with each other. He hadn’t known them before but, from the first, he’d felt as at ease with them as had they with him. Rohleder’s recommendation had been enough for them all to know that everyone was of the same mind-set. They were all tall, a pre-requisite for joining the Waffen SS, and gaunt and pale from their exertions in the East. Otherwise they looked like just another rabble of young soldiers.
Nils Muschinski, the Bavarian, was the loudest and the youngest. Fast-tracked for promotion after numerous feats of bravery, he’d been the rising star of the company. However, the jealousy of his comrades caught up with him and he was reported for telling jokes about a cert
ain failed chicken farmer who was now the head of the SS. He had kept the rank of Sturmann in recognition of his bravery, but knew that he had now ceilinged at that grade.
The other Bavarian, Jurgen Muntner, was one of the oldest of the squad. Scornful of officialdom and rank, he had consistently turned down promotions since joining four years before. The only authority he recognised was that of SS Rottenführer, Michael Rohleder, who had more than proven himself worthy to lead. Von Struck and Henning were approved of but, in his eyes, still on probation, not that they knew it.
In direct contrast to the good-natured Paderborner, Andreas Schneiderat, was the dour and serious Leipziger, Bernd Grand. Solid as a rock, and twice as hard to move, SS Oberschütze Grand was the strong silent one in the squad. He was as big as Henning but seldom gave comment and, when he did, it was always measured and mainly negative. He was the best machine gunner in the troop and, if it were not for the persistent questioning of his superiors, he too would have been put on accelerated promotion.
Matheus Nau and Thorsten Gruhn came in a double pack. Rohleder had been given them straight from training and had consequently moulded them to his form. Fearlessly brave but irreverent, corrupt and yet doggedly loyal, they were both brother and competitor to each other. Nau hailed from Soltau and Gruhn from the Baltic island of Fehmarn. They both spoke the Northern German dialect called Platt-Deutsch as their first language and had been warned on many occasions about cursing officers in a foreign tongue.
All looked up to their Rottenführer as their true leader, a man who, had they all been true-to-the-party civilians back in Germany, they would have ignored and even despised.
"Such are the turns of fate,” Henning pondered to himself.
The afternoon dragged on. They slept, ate, washed and generally lounged around until the evening. Henning was just counting his winnings from a game of cards with Rohleder and Muschinski as Von Struck walked in. "Gambling is the Devil’s game, Herr Oberscharführer."
The Division of the Damned Page 9
