The Vorbing

by Stewart Stafford

  It was red, blood red, that dark colour that only appeared when someone was in life-threatening danger. Vlad panicked as his body became saturated with the unpleasant substance. He swallowed great mouthfuls of blood as his body tossed and turned around in the spinning torrent like a stick in a river. He felt sick to his stomach from the combined churning effect of the flood and the psychological effect of swallowing copious amounts of blood. The river continued to swell and move forward with increasing ferocity with Vlad as its unwilling passenger. As Vlad held on for dear life, he was on the verge of passing out. He strained to see through the crimson spray, his mind disoriented by the red river’s progress around him. It was then he noticed that he was coming to the verge of a waterfall. Every muscle in his body strained to avert almost certain death and swim safely to the shore. But for all his efforts, he lay motionless as he spun inexorably into the beckoning abyss. It got nearer as Vlad waited to feel his body leave the safety of the river and plummet down. As he reached the edge, Vlad closed his eyes and screamed.

  Down and down he fell, everything a blur, the sound of rushing blood bouncing off the rocks and collecting at the bottom. The blood rushed to Vlad’s head as his lifeless body twisted and fell into a seemingly bottomless pit. Vlad eventually opened his eyes when he realised that death would not be instantaneous. He had little further to fall. As his body hurtled down to the ground beneath, he saw a giant apparition of the head of Deadulus with its mouth open ready to receive some easy prey. Vlad entered the black hole, screamed out, and opened his eyes. To his great relief, he found himself back in his home.

  “Come outside, Vlad,” Ula said as she helped him to his feet. “You need fresh air.”

  The two of them walked outside into a clean, white dawn. A summery haze draped over trees whose branches conducted welcoming birdsong as bees hummed about their business.

  “Let’s go over to the tree, Vlad,” Ula said, taking him by the hand. “I have something to show you.”

  Ula brought Vlad over to a large, twisted tree. Vlad once carved Ula’s name into the trunk of the tree, and he reckoned she would show him something she had carved in reply.

  “Look, Vlad,” Ula said pointing at something high in the tree.

  Vlad raised his head slowly and squinted against the strong sunlight. What he saw made him gasp and step backwards. There was somebody up there, but they were not moving. Upon closer inspection, Vlad ascertained that it was a body hanging from the tree.

  “What’s going on, Ula?” Vlad asked.

  Ula giggled. “You’ll see,” she said as she skipped away.

  Vlad’s gaze returned to the body hanging in the tree. Its eyes opened and stared at Vlad, startling him. He got a second fright when he saw his own eyes staring back at him from the tree.

  “Give up, Ingisbohr,” his evil clone said. “Deadulus is too strong.”

  “No, No, My God NO!” Vlad said as he stepped back.

  The thing in the tree laughed evilly as Vlad retreated back inside the house and bolted the door shut. The laughter outside got louder and louder. Vlad covered his ears and screamed to block it out.

  In an instant, Vlad appeared in an old shack somewhere. It was dark and dusty and smelled of rot. Vlad sat in an old rocking chair with a window behind him. Two dark corners of the room faced him, almost daring him to find their secrets. Vlad stared hard into the corner, but it was too dark to make out anything, although he sensed something there, a presence so powerful it frightened Vlad. He tried and tried to break free of the chair’s grip, but stillness was his only reward. He sat still and tried to breathe. He found it incredibly difficult to get air into his lungs. His heart raced, and Vlad prayed for consciousness to intervene. Movement in the corner brought Vlad’s mind back to the present situation. Two dazzling white lights shone forth from the alcove, like pinpricks in a curtain that blocked out a blinding summer sun. A figure leaned forward, dressed in white robes. Vlad saw a face that was so serene, it put him at ease instantly. Pale eyes met the boy’s stare. They were eyes that conveyed safety.

  “Who are you?” Vlad asked. Somehow, Vlad already knew the answer. “I am the one who died for your sins,” the man replied gently.

  Movement in the other corner drew Vlad’s attention. An insidious atmosphere poured forth from that corner. There was something reptilian about the way the figure moved there. Snorting sounds came at Vlad as sickening moist air smothered his lungs. Every bone in his body alerted him to beware of this figure.

  “What is your name?” Vlad asked.

  “Legion!” the voice boomed, “…for we are many.”

  Two red coals illuminated the darkness around the entity. Vlad recoiled in his seat from the grotesque visage that glared at him with ravenous eyes. The glow faded to reveal two eyes of differing colours, one opaque and one crystal-clear. Staring at those eyes was like looking into the eye of a hurricane. The only information they sought was how much damage they could inflict. The skin was green and cracked. Decay filtered through every pore. Thin, bony fingers with vermicular, floor-length nails gripped the handles of the throne where the being sat.

  Vlad felt the chair levitate beneath him and he drifted across the room. It was movement against his will, but he was grateful to be shifting away from the ambiguous atmosphere that radiated from the two antithetical entities. As he drifted across the darkened room, Vlad felt himself being punched and kicked and bitten. He was unable to look down to see who or what was injuring him, but he heard them cackling and whispering instructions to each other on where to attack him. Excruciating pain rushed through the young man’s body as the vicious attackers continued their relentless assault. The wall of the shack heaved like a membrane holding some demonic embryo. It kicked and slashed through the walls as Vlad passed. Vlad would have fled as fast as possible if he had enjoyed freedom of movement. Instead, Vlad inched past the trickling wall and felt the creature’s claws as it pummelled his body and face. He braced himself for every blow, but it never prepared him for the shocking force of each strike as it landed.

  To divert his mind from his agony, Vlad concentrated on the screams coming from the other rooms. It was the sound of souls in torment and people being tortured. A swarm of flies covered Vlad’s eyes and face. They invaded his mouth and ears. The derisory buzzing became a mocking chant that reverberated in his mind. The evil was everywhere now. He did not have to look, listen, smell, or even think to detect it. It touched him and sang to him. Vlad felt his mind collapsing. Water streamed from his eyes. He was not weeping, as that would suggest emotion. It was just the overflow, like a river bursting its banks. It was his only way of unburdening himself and releasing some of the fear, hate, sadness, and rage that flowed through him. The room revolved with increasing speed. Vlad spun out of control. He was unsure whether it was real or just another hallucination. Whatever Vlad thought, he continued to twist around and around. He only saw blurred images through the cocoon the flies had spun across his face. A cascade of sweat poured down his face. His head throbbed, his mind raced, his heart pounded, and his breathing quickened beyond his control. Down and down he fell into the abyss of evil. When he reached what he thought was the bottom, he saw a door in front of him.

  He opened the door with trepidation and saw a man and woman crouching over a crib. The woman was young, with a veil covering her head. The man had a beard and wore robes. They stood back to allow Vlad to see their child. Vlad strode over to the crib. He smiled with anticipation at the thought of the cherubic face that lay within. The infant lay with its back to Vlad, and when it turned, Vlad got a start. The child had no eyes. Vlad screamed out in terror, but found himself almost magnetically pulled towards the newborn child. It pointed an accusatory finger at Vlad as he drifted into the child’s eyes. The young man roared and covered his eyes.

  When he opened them, another door confronted him. Vlad did not want to go through, but he was in a corridor with only one exit. He had to enter the room. Taking a deep breath, Vlad burst th
rough the door. He wanted to run from the sight that greeted him, but he appeared rooted to the spot by paralysis again. A victim of crucifixion glared at Vlad with the same hollow eyes as the infant. A centurion stabbed the figure in the side with a sharp weapon, and blood dripped onto the floor.

  “No!” Vlad roared.

  The soldier slowly turned his head and sneered. “You think you can save your saviour?’ the soldier asked contemptuously. He then raised his sword and beheaded the man on the cross.

  “No!” Vlad screamed as the neck stem gushed like a blood fountain and coated everything in the room.

  The head rolled along the ground and came to rest at Vlad’s feet. Vlad tried to move again, but was unable. The head opened its feeble eyes and stared at the young man. “Help me,” it whispered before the eyes blinked shut.

  Within the blinking of those eyes, Vlad found a vast corridor of doors goading him to open them. He found fresh horrors waiting for him behind each one: a goat with its stomach slit lurched towards him on its hind legs, serpents infested the branches of an apple tree, and a well where Vlad sought to drink only yielded up shivering entrails, blood, and handfuls of locusts instead of water. As Vlad roared and roared, he feared for his sanity. As soon as it had come, the swirling chaos swiftly departed and disappeared into the distance. Silence soon followed, and Vlad slumped in the chair, drained of all his energy. The only sound to be heard was Vlad trying to catch his breath. He felt as if someone had lifted an enormous weight off his body. Golden shafts of light enveloped him. Vlad strained to see through it. A figure emerged from the glare.

  She was the most beautiful sight in the world to him: sweeter smelling than a summer meadow full of flowers, brighter than a thousand suns, and with softer skin than that of a newborn child. True love masked all flaws. It was Ula, his Ula, looking at him with all the love in her heart flooding through her enormous blue eyes. Vlad loved her more than anyone, including his mother. While it was a great strength to have Ula’s unique love in his life, though it was also a weakness the vampires sensed for potential future exploitation. That worried Vlad, even in his dream. If he lost Ula, he would never find a love that strong again, and he knew it. Only she had the ability to end the darkness around him, and it dispersed. The buzzing flies receded. The screaming, the choking stench, and the malevolent atmosphere all were banished by her virtuous presence. Vlad squinted at the incredible brightness and warmth that surrounded him. He was free again.

  Vlad awoke with a desperate scream and gulped in huge quantities of air. The bedclothes clung to him. He retched so hard it made his chest cavity hurt, and then he vomited. The crimson emission slithered between the floorboards and evaporated. He smiled at the thought of the vampire’s poison leaving his body. Vlad did not know what had happened. He was thankful it was over and that he had survived. Making a deep sighing noise, Vlad stumbled over to the window and opened it. He rested his clammy head against the frame. His mother burst in the door.

  “Vlad, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I had nightmares,” Vlad moaned, “the worst dreams of my life.”

  “Oh, my boy,” Hana said as she hugged him, “I’ve been so worried about you. It’s all over now. Are you hungry?”

  Vlad shook his head. Food was the last thing on Vlad’s mind. Vlad’s sudden aversion to mountains and his mother’s enforced curfew did not last. Within days, Vlad’s fear had subsided. He began planning how to recover his lost pride and to plot the downfall of Deadulus, the Lord of Darkness.

  Chapter Five

  Vlad marched into the village of Nocturne that morning confident of convincing his people it was possible for them to rise up and conclusively defeat the vampires. As he entered the village, people backed away from him. Anyone covered in blood with scratches all over their face and carrying the head of a vampire in a bloodied sack usually had that effect. Vlad strode to the podium in the town square, climbed the steps, and began his oratory. “People of Nocturne!” he shouted.

  Every head in the town square spun around,

  “As you know, I am Vlad Ingisbohr,” he continued, “son of Adam Ingisbohr, killed at McLintock’s Spit three years ago.”

  People congregated in front of the podium where Vlad stood. Old Rupert Haygood was late for the meeting of the council of elders, but he stopped to listen astutely to what Vlad had to say.

  “We know who you are,” said one of the villagers. “We also heard that Deadulus nearly killed you yesterday.”

  “It is true that I was attacked by Deadulus yesterday,” Vlad admitted as he looked down at them. “However, you have the story backwards; it was Deadulus who was lucky to survive.”

  A rising ripple of laughter spread through the mob.

  “Go home, boy,” old Rupert Haygood said.

  “Yeah, go home and count your chickens,” a portly woman sneered.

  Despite the crescendo of scorn from the crowd, Vlad continued. “I am here to persuade you to help me fight the vampires,” Vlad said.

  “Fight them with what?” one man said. “Pitchforks?!”

  “No,” Vlad said. “Fight them with bravery.”

  “What would you know about bravery?” Rupert said. “When they fought at McLintock’s Spit, you were still a boy.”

  “I was fifteen,” said Vlad. “I wanted to fight, but my father would not let me go.”

  “What difference will bravery make if you are dead?” another man said.

  “All the difference in the world,” Vlad replied. “They murder us at night anyway! Why should we wait for them to slaughter our loved ones? Let us take the battle to THEM for a change! Make THEM suffer for once!”

  “Your words are pretty, Ingisbohr,” burly Storm Vidor said, “but I will not place my life in the hands of a farm boy, especially not against those things up in the hills!”

  “We will not listen to another word of this juvenile madness!” Rupert protested as he walked away.

  “What will convince you that I am the one to lead you?” Vlad asked.

  “Bring us the head of Deadulus,” a portly woman said facetiously.

  “If I could kill all the vampires myself, I wouldn’t need any of you,” Vlad said, “but I can’t do it alone. We must unite now, or there won’t be enough of us left to fight them.”

  The crowd murmured and shook their heads in disbelief. There was no support for Vlad or his plans. It was time to play his trump card. He tore open the bloodied sack and held aloft the head of Necromus. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd and then silence. There were not delighted or inspired, as Vlad had hoped; they were even more scared.

  “I bring you the head of Necromus!” Vlad shouted. “Do you see? We CAN beat them! This land CAN be ours once again.”

  “You shandy simpkin!” Rupert Haygood said. “You have killed us all!”

  Old Rupert turned to face the crowd. “See what this foolish boy has done?” he said, pointing at Vlad. “The vampires will annihilate us for this.”

  “I have killed the second most important vampire, next to Deadulus,” Vlad reasoned, “and you are unhappy?”

  “Of course, I’m unhappy,” Rupert replied. “You have infuriated our tormentors. We will all pay dearly for your foolish actions!”

  The mob became agitated and shouted threats at Vlad. They threw anything they saw at him: mud, dung, rotten fruit, and rubbish. Vlad looked quite a sight; he was bloody, muddy, and decorated with stinking detritus.

  “Bring him before the council of elders!” Rupert shouted. “They’ll decide what to do with him.”

  The crowd grabbed hold of Vlad and hustled him into a barn where a meeting of the council of elders was in session. The council’s debate was brought to an unexpected halt by the intrusion. It was the barn of Vrillium Gladwish, and he was also the head elder. Vrillium never tried to hide his disdain for Vlad, and seeing him being dumped before him in such a filthy state by an angry mob did nothing to assuage that. A stunned silence fell as they stared at Vlad
in disgust.

  Vrillium Gladwish had a pompous air about him. He had a long nose that he was content to look down through at everyone, including Vlad. He made anyone before him feel as if they had transgressed merely by being in his presence. Vrillium was an older man, which automatically engendered awe and respect in a land where life was incredibly brief. His long white tendrils of hair drooping down onto the sackcloth he wore were a sign that he was a survivor. The wrinkles in Vrillium’s chapped skin were tributaries leading to the torrent of intensity that were his hooded blue eyes.

  To Vlad, Vrillium was a toad sitting on a lily, watching everything happen in Nocturne, but not doing much. He saw Vrillium as an arrogant man who had nothing to be arrogant about and a symbol of everything wrong with his village. Vlad believed Vrillium kept Nocturne repressed and living in fear. As long as that council was in power with Vrillium Gladwish at its helm, there was no way to challenge the dominance of the vampires. Nocturne’s council did as little as possible, but if anyone else tried to do anything, it sprang into action with animated scaremongering. The council’s duty was to provoke debate and avoid making snap decisions. However, Vlad believed they were encouraging inertia and submission at a time when risking nothing was the greatest risk of all. He reasoned that it was perhaps their advanced age that made them overly cautious, but he still saw it as no excuse for inaction. Vrillium had fiercely resisted Vlad’s father at every turn. When Adam Ingisbohr perished at McLintock’s Spit, it seemed to prove Vrillium Gladwish right, and Nocturnians flocked to him in the power vacuum that followed.