Destiny of the Vampire

by P. D. McClafferty

  Max laughed. “There’s always hope, my dear, although it’s not always clear what must be done.”

  Heavy gray clouds appeared to brush the treetops with foggy tendrils the next day when they broke camp, but Shyilia looked refreshed and ready to go. The village of Peapend, she told him, on the banks of the Frasew River, lay ten leagues farther down the rude trail they called a road. In Peapend, they would find an inn where they could sleep in a bed and perhaps, if they were lucky, take a bath. In the morning, they could purchase supplies to see them through the rest of their journey.

  Max almost whistled as they strode down the dusty track but settled on reciting the single verse he remembered from a poem entitled On The Road to Mandalay, written by Rudyard Kipling.

  “Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

  Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;

  For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be

  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;

  On the road to Mandalay,

  Where the old Flotilla lay,

  With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!

  O the road to Mandalay,

  Where the flyin’-fishes play,

  An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!”

  Shy was silent for a long while after that, and finally, she stopped, forcing him to do the same, and gave him a long look. “What are you, Maximilian? Vampires—at least not the vampires I know—don’t walk down the forest path reciting poetry so sweet and sad, it brings tears to my eyes. What are you?”

  Max chuckled. “Just a man, Shy. Just an old man.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Old man?” she asked incredulously. “You can’t be much over thirty years old, if that.”

  Max blinked. “Have you been checked for glasses lately?” he asked dryly. “I’m over seventy Earth years old.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, she turned down the trail. “Elfin vision is the best in the world,” she stated flatly. “When we get to Peapend, I’ll drag you in front of a mirror, and you can see for yourself. Seventy years old!” She began to laugh. “What do you take me for?”

  Max, wisely, didn’t reply.

  Smaller than the town of South Brosthik, Peapend shared the distinctive mushroom-shaped buildings of Aeyaqar and had a neat, almost picturesque appearance. A large sign reading The Sleeping Cat hung on an oversized inn, which listed slightly to starboard, as if its thick blue cap were too large for the circular walls to support. The floors, however, were level, and the warm-bread-scented air was comfortable and pleasant.

  As Max reached for his coin purse, Shyilia beat him to the counter, setting a fat silver denarius down on the worktop, much to the innkeeper’s surprise.

  She gave Max a shy smile. “I never said that I didn’t have my own funds.”

  Once the rooms were arranged, she took Max by the arm and dragged him to a full-length mirror set beside the stone hearth where a low-banked fire warmed the room. She put her hands on her hips as Max stared at the stranger standing before him in the mirror. He was still a tall man, and even leaner than before, bordering on gaunt, but his thinning silver hair was full and dark brown—and in need of a trim. His face, set off by his overly strong aquiline nose, seemed to be longer than before, and with his mustache and unkempt Vandyke, he looked positively diabolical in a vaguely Middle Eastern way. His skin had darkened from days out under a strange sun or, perhaps, from other more esoteric forces, and when he smiled, his overlong canines were clearly evident. His gray eyes, set in deep sockets, seemed somehow colder than they were before he had been turned. It wasn’t a comely look, and it would probably make people vaguely uncomfortable, but he liked his new appearance. Turning, he gave Shy a small bow.

  “It appears that I was wrong. I do look thirty years old.”

  The elfin woman bit her lip. “I watched your face as you studied yourself in the mirror. You didn’t expect what you saw.”

  “I did not. I fully expected to see a seventy-year-old man standing there, and not this be-fanged youth.” He chuckled. “Now, shall we find the baths?”

  Shy’s eyes widened at the word bath, then she was off at a run.

  Max glanced at the furious swearing woman at his side and did his best to suppress his grin. “If you don’t like the bow, then why did you buy it?” he asked in a reasonable voice.

  She turned a glare on him that should have withered stone. “I hate this bow, but it was the best they had. I had to leave my good bow back in South Brosthik, and this piece of yobannoe dno”—although it sounded vaguely Russian, Max’s translation rune refused to convert the last curse into understandable English—“isn’t even in the same league.” She stamped her small foot in the dust.

  “What makes you think we’ll even need a bow and arrows on our way to Sloobork?”

  She gave him a look that said she was speaking with a total idiot. “You saw the map we bought. As we get farther into the Zosk Mountains, the chances of encountering dangerous creatures increase. Why, just last month, travelers in the mountains were attacked by a troll.” She shook her head. “A troll! Can you imagine that?”

  Max shot her a flat look. “I could imagine it a lot better if I knew what the bloody hell a troll was, besides a source of irritation on the Internet.”

  She looked at him with dangerous eyes, opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. Instead, she stormed down the dusty road at a loping jog. Max watched her retreating back for a moment and let her go. He had the only pack and, as such, carried most of the camping gear, including the map. He’d already proven that he could hunt with his knife. He was also eager to try out the new sling he carried folded in his pocket, with four one-hundred-gram stones.

  Two hours later, he found the sullen elf sitting on a large rock beside the road. Looking up as he approached, she fell in at his side, silently matching his steady pace. An hour later, as the two crossed a wide wildflower-filled meadow, Max stopped, staring into the sky at a distant circling dot.

  “What is it?” Shy asked, squinting into the sky.

  “I don’t have any idea,” Max said slowly, looking up at the tiny spot. “It looks to have the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I would kill to see a griffin.” She glared at the dot. “To see one is supposed to bring good luck.”

  Max snorted. “Yeah, well, the woman who taught me showed me a little trick. Place your hands on either side of my head and then shut your eyes. I’ll let you piggyback with me to see what I see.”

  Shy’s eyes widened. “You would do that?”

  “Yeah, but you’d better hurry before it decides to leave the area.” Max felt her small, firm breasts press against his back as her hands gently touched his temples. Her breath was hot on his ear. Swallowing, he concentrated on the flying creature, then Shy gasped in wonder.

  “What a beautiful creature,” she whispered into his ear with breath that smelled of mint, and Max could only agree as he watched the great fifteen-meter wings move fractionally, catching the updrafts from the warm valley far below. The far-off griffin screamed once and turned for the white peaks of the distant purple mountains. Shy held her position for several more seconds before removing her hands and kissing him lightly on the cheek as she stepped away. “Thank you,” she murmured in a subdued voice. “That’s the nicest gift anyone has given me in…”

  Max glanced her way to see tears standing in her green eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m fine. Where I come from, people don’t usually do nice things for me just because…”

  “Just because they care for you?” Max ask
ed.

  “Yes,” she replied, her cheeks reddening. “Just because they care for me. They always want something else.”

  Max began to suspect something about his small companion, but he kept it to himself. He wrapped the edge of his new dark-green traveling cloak over the lower half of his face, and in his best Bella Lugosi voice, he said, “And all I want from you, leetle girl, eezzz your bloood.” He wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  Shy stared at him for a moment before she burst into laughter that lasted, off and on, for the next hour.

  That night over the dinner fire, Shy began to give Max a geography lesson. With their map unrolled on the ground, both travelers kneeled in the dirt and leaves. With her long, thin fingers, she pointed out the six great provinces, each ruled by a provincial governor.

  “Each of the great provinces,” she said in the same tone his fourth-grade teacher had used to put him to sleep, “contains one gateway and is, in turn, divided into three minor provinces, each ruled by an adjutant general. A pure and simple dictatorship, the supreme governor chose all the provincial governors, who, in turn, chose all the adjutant generals. The adjutant general and the provincial governors each have standing armies of no more than five hundred men, with no more than twenty-five battle mages. The supreme governor has no such limitations and rules with the iron fist of his huge standing army. The only exception to this is the elven lands far to the northeast, but since their standing forces number only one thousand knights and archers, the supreme governor considers them of little consequence.” Her jaw was tight with anger.

  After Shy went to sleep, Max withdrew one of the books from his pack and began to read, picking up from where he’d left off the night before. Magik, he’d found, started where Viorela and Ilena had left off, and in the dark of night, with only the softly calling owls and the small stealthy night hunters as his witness, he practiced. Working alone, with nobody to answer his questions, was frustrating, and he stumbled through the often-complex formulas with clenched teeth. The runespells, with their combination of physical and verbal prompts, were very much like programming etheric energy to go where and do what he wanted. Intention determined the pathway the energy took, and the runespell told the energy what to do. Parts of the runes appeared to be “and gates” and “or gates,” just like commands in digital programming of logic gates. It might have been gross oversimplification, but Max believed that, given time, he could figure out how to “program” etheric energy to do simple things like illuminate a light bulb. After that, it was only a matter of adjusting the quantity to get the same energy to power a stove or a starship. When he started to scratch a logic truth table in the dirt at his feet, he knew that it was time to call it quits and find a sheet of paper.

  After only a little coaxing the next day, Max found Shy willing to continue his etheric education, correcting the subtle shape of his runes and the pronunciation of his words. Although only five words were involved, one for each of the etheric elements, there were many different ways and combinations those words could be uttered, yielding different results. A shouted word could cause a blast of fire or a wall of water. A whisper could produce a single flicker of flame or a drop of water. Water, fire, and air combined could provide billowing clouds, fog, or steam. Intonation appeared to control the quality of the result. The complexity of the magic was enough to make Max’s head ache, although the huge changes he could produce versus the relatively small effort involved filled him with apprehension.

  At the sound of the sharp detonation, Shy jumped up from her rude pallet of leaves and pine needles where she had been sleeping, clutching for her belt knife. Frowning, she glanced about the small clearing where their camp was set. Her green eyes stopped at a small tree, only fifteen centimeters in diameter, that had seemingly been blown off at waist height. Smoke still trickled from the ragged stump. Hands on hips, she slowly turned to face Max.

  Max was gently trying to put out the smoldering fire that had singed his beard and eyebrows… and he was grinning like a schoolboy. “I discovered the runespell for fireball!” he declared, before he looked to the ground, blushing furiously. “Sorry I woke you.”

  She glanced at the ruined tree then back at the man. “That’s fairly advanced stuff you’re attempting.” She stressed the word attempting. “I only picked up the fireball runespell last year.”

  Max laughed in his enthusiasm. “I’m only halfway through the second chapter in Magik.”

  The elfin woman shuddered. “Perhaps I should hold onto the books, Max. It might be safer if…”

  “No!” he replied adamantly. “I’ll move my studies farther from camp, but I read every night.” Picking up the book from the ground, he brushed off the dirt then closed it gently. “I’m playing catch-up, Shy. I need to know these things.”

  She sighed as she turned back to her bed.

  Ten more days had passed since the fireball incident, and the two foot-sore travelers had traveled hundreds of kilometers. Their pace was beginning to slow as they entered the foothills of the Zosk Mountains. The trees were mostly pine and cedar, and the calls of the finches and chickadees filled the resin-tainted air.

  Stopping for a drink of water from their waterskin, Shy gave Max a tired smile. “If we keep following this trail, we should come out at Sloobork in three or four more days. It will be good to—” She stopped suddenly, sniffing the air.

  Max had already caught the sour reek of sweat mixed with something less pleasant. “What is it?” he asked, tightening his grip on the staff.

  Shy backed toward him, her pale face toward the concealing trees. “Goblins,” she whispered. “I was afraid of this.” Branches snapped, and there was the sound of something large moving through the underbrush toward them.

  “What the fuck is a goblin?” Max blurted.

  Shy backed away from the sound. “Two and a half meters tall and nearly twice as big as you. Ugly as hell, and mean. They eat you if they catch you and they prefer their meals alive and kicking.”

  “Damn!” Max cursed. “Can we outrun them?”

  Shy nocked an arrow, drawing the fletching back to her ear. “Not a chance. They will run you down on foot and can climb trees faster than a cat.” She let fly with her arrow just as something huge pushed its way out of the brush.

  Max gaped. The goblin stopped in its tracks as an arrow pierced its left eye, then it slowly toppled backward. A second goblin stepped over the twitching body of the first, foam dripping from its heavy underslung jaw, and snarled. The beast’s skin was warty and dark green, and it wore an old conical helmet that it had split up the back to fit its lumpy, oversized skull. Its body was covered with a tunic composed of roughly sewn hides, and Max didn’t study exactly what those hides were made from. The nose of the beast was the size and color of an avocado.

  Max made a quick gesture, raised his right palm toward the creature, and murmured the word he’d been practicing for days. A golf-ball-sized fireball streaked from Max’s palm and struck the goblin in the center of its massive chest—and passed cleanly through. The goblin toppled forward to reveal another goblin following close on its heels. The fireball had passed through the first goblin to strike the second obliquely, burning a deep groove in its chest before striking its left shoulder. The goblin’s left arm hung from his body by a smoldering scrap of tendon and muscle. The goblin sat down abruptly as red blood sprayed the underbrush. A fireball from Shy passed close enough for him to feel the heat before it took the head off another goblin.

  With a roar to shake the surrounding leaves, six more goblins charged as one. Max loosed one last half-hearted fireball, to see it neatly remove the leg from a charging goblin, who stumbled sideways on his remaining leg… right into the path of another goblin. Both fell with a crash of rusty armor and tangled limbs. Max tossed the Saracen blade to Shy as he turned with the staff just in time to block a club strike that would have spl
it his skull.

  Goblins, Max found quickly, were much tougher than humans. Still, goblin bones were as susceptible to whirling titanium as any human’s, if hit enough. Max swung and hit, swung and hit. Block… strike! A club grazed Max’s shoulder, and he spun and fell, sweeping the feet of his attacker out from under it. Slightly faster to recover, Max crushed the beast’s throat with the butt of the staff and moved on to the next, leaving the first to gasp out its life in the dirt. Beside him and slightly behind, Shy whirled the curved sword with amazing dexterity, blocking several strikes that would have killed her outright, but now simply drove her back, foot by foot. Gripping the sword with both of her hands, she blocked a strike to her head, and then with a twist deprived her attacker of both his club and the hand holding it. Unfortunately, her strike carried her a bit too far to block the attack of the goblin’s companion.

  Shy cried out, and Max turned in time to see her fall. The staff, swung at blinding speed, crushed the skull of the goblin raising a club over Shy. A white-hot agony lanced through his left shoulder, and the staff butt shot backward, striking the goblin who had stabbed Max directly in the stomach. The goblin, taller than the rest, woofed, staggering drunkenly and trying to catch its breath. The sword still impaling his shoulder, Max spun, his world turned to a red rage, and jumped for the goblin, seizing its head and wrenching violently. With the crunch of breaking bones, the head came free in a spray of blood. Licking the blood from his lips, he looked up to see the last two goblins, one with a bleeding and crudely bandaged stump, dragging their comrade with the missing leg, backing quickly into the brush. They had pointedly left their clubs on the field of battle with the fallen goblins. Max considered pursuit then turned back to Shy.

  The entire left side of her face was a large purple bruise where a goblin club had struck her, and her right arm was bent at an unnatural angle. While she was still unconscious, Max set her arm, adding a quick and effective field splint, ignoring his own pain, then he held the skin of water to her lips.