The Vorbing

by Stewart Stafford

  “Vlad, my love,” she said. “I am here for you.”

  It was Ula, but without her usual relaxed warmth. Vlad told himself that relaxation and warmth were non-existent where he was. Ula and Vlad stared at one another. Ula had beautiful eyes, but Vlad found her whirling gaze particularly irresistible at that moment.

  “Come, Vlad,” she whispered. “I know a way out of this place. Deadulus will not see us leave. You must follow me now. Watch my eyes, Vlad. You must keep watching, love. That’s it...watch...watch.”

  She neared the verge of the circle. Vlad almost reached out and touched her. All the others slept, but Anamis vigorously sniffed the air, as he sensed one of his own nearby. Vlad raised his leg to step outside the circle.

  “Yes, my love, yes,” Ula said. “Freedom is a moment away.”

  Vlad let out a yell and jumped backward, falling on top of the woodcutters. Ula hissed at Anamis. “He bit me!” Vlad said to Norvad. “That little thing bit me!”

  “I can see why he did it,” the old man said. “Look!”

  Ula’s vampire features beamed a hideous grin at the groggy woodcutters. “You have no chance against the master,” she sneered. “Every one of you shall die!”

  “Really,” Vlad said, getting to his feet in defiance. “What does your master have to say to this?” Vlad held a cross to the impostor’s forehead. Sparks and steam shot from the thing’s temple. It soared backwards and disappeared. The others got to their feet behind Vlad.

  “They’re getting desperate,” Vlad said. “We’re nearly home. Dawn won’t be long now.”

  Vlad’s words rang true. The sunlight eventually broke through the trees, and the men triumphantly emerged from the circle. They retreated to their hut across the clearing and treated Vlad, Norvad, and Anamis to a sumptuous meal of venison and wild mushrooms. It was the best thing they had eaten in days, and they ate every morsel. Norvad licked his fingers clean, much to the amusement of Vlad and the woodcutters.

  “Country manners,” the chief woodcutter said.

  “Are we so near the city?” Vlad asked.

  “Aye,” the woodcutter replied. “Go now, and you shall be there before the sun is midway through the sky.”

  Vlad smiled and toasted their new allies and recounted the glorious events of the previous evening. Anamis munched obliviously on berries. Vlad yearned to resume his journey to Mortis, but did not want to leave his new friends. He asked them to accompany him to the city. They explained that they had jobs and families, and that they had seen enough excitement for one night. Vlad nodded his head, disappointed but appreciative of their duties. With Norvad and Anamis in tow, Vlad waved goodbye to the woodcutters. He was determined to cut the distance between himself and Mortis as fast as humanly possible. They came to the edge of the forest, and Vlad turned to Norvad and Anamis.

  “Wait here for me at this exact spot until I return,” Vlad said, “and keep out of sight.”

  “Very well,” Norvad said as he shook Vlad’s hand. “I wish you the best of luck, and Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, my friend, take care,” Vlad said.

  Vlad petted Anamis and left them in the clearing.

  Chapter Ten

  Thunder rumbled around the Heavens. Vlad thought he saw lightning crackling in the trees. For a moment, he feared it was another Yara-Ma with that dreadful glowing orb. He dismissed it from his mind as he left the edge of the forest behind him. The walls of the city of Mortis materialised through the fog. They were vast and imposing, just as Vlad had imagined them and more. Flags fluttered on the highest turrets, and soldiers patrolled the battlements on high with crossbows. There were stone gargoyles on every corner of the walled city, and they reminded Vlad of the hideous physiognomy of the vampires. Perhaps they were to ward off evil, a sort of stone scarecrow. The whole thing was a glorious sight. Vlad could not believe he had arrived at his destination. It had seemed impossible so many times on the road from Nocturne.

  Vlad stopped and sighed. It had been a long, dangerous journey to get there. His joy was short-lived. First, he reminded himself he was only halfway through his quest. He would have to return along that treacherous road with or without help to a hostile and murderous Nocturne. Second, he noticed the body of a hanged man, probably a criminal, adorning the gates of the city. Vlad touched his throat with trepidation. He tried to imagine how ghastly that thick, cutting rope felt as the man’s body weight snapped it tight around the tender skin of his neck. The last moments of that person’s life must have been terrifying and excruciating. Vlad had extra sympathy for the hanged man’s plight, as his own people had nearly given him the same treatment just days previous. Seeing the unfortunate corpse reminded him of how close he had come to sharing the same fate. Vlad blessed himself and said a silent prayer for the deceased and to give thanks to whoever had spared him.

  Mortis was a garrison town, though, heavily defended by soldiers, and they would maintain law and order with an iron fist. The authorities most likely had executed the man, but Vlad knew hangings also took place because of vigilante mobs or uprisings. As Vlad warily approached the hanged man, he saw the man’s blackened feet swaying gently in the fog. Birds had pecked out the dead man’s eyes. His yawning, desiccated eye sockets haunted Vlad and appeared to stare at him through the mist as he moved. He averted his eyes. Deadulus denied Adam Ingisbohr the dignity of having earthly remains to bury, but Vlad imagined that the piteous wounds before him were similar. Such a hideous spectacle was an explicit warning to anyone entering Mortis of what they could expect if they misbehaved and broke the law. It gave Vlad the intended jolt of fear. The man’s identity, his crime, and any faction he belonged to remained a mystery. Vlad had to exercise extreme caution in Mortis. He was a stranger alone in the big city with no allies to call on if he got in trouble. Vlad longed for something pleasant to happen to him. The constant, painful struggle his life had become wore him out, but he knew the test he faced was a necessary evil.

  Vlad saw a horse trough up ahead and rushed over to it. He cupped his hand and drank from it when he felt something kick him in the side. Winded, Vlad fell to the ground in a heap with water dripping from his lips. Vlad figured that he had stood too near a horse, but when he looked up to see his attacker, it was all too human.

  “Get away from that water, beggar!” a soldier shouted down at him. “That is for the king’s horses, not filth like you! Do you want to contaminate it?”

  “I meant no harm, I am thirsty,” Vlad said.

  “So are the king’s horses,” the soldier said.

  “I am not a beggar, I am Vlad Ingisbohr,” Vlad said proudly, “and I have travelled a great distance to be here. Do you treat all visitors like this?”

  “Away with you, or you’ll end up like that fellow in the tree,” the soldier threatened, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

  “Is being thirsty a crime here?” Vlad asked.

  “I told you to get away from here, boy,” the soldier said with growing irritation. “Don’t make me repeat myself, or you’ll spend a night in the dungeons and you won’t come out alive.”

  Vlad lurched to a standing position and entered the city of Mortis through the giant gate. What a welcome.

  Mortis was a port town. The peddlers sold spices and silk from faraway lands. The pelts of exotic creatures hung from racks, and locals stared in wonderment at their mysterious appearance and prohibitive cost. Merchants landed daily with produce to barter and sell. Mortis was also a haven for criminals and drunken sailors waiting for their ship to sail. With so much money changing hands all the time, trouble was never far away. It was not a place for the faint of heart. Women with painted faces thrust themselves suggestively at Vlad. It reminded Vlad a little of the lasciviousness of the vampires.

  Vlad entered the town square. It was immense compared to the one in Nocturne. There were people who were just blurs in the distance. Vlad had never seen so many in one place, and it overwhelmed him. Tiredness waylaid Vlad. All he wanted to
do was sleep, but there was no time for that. He had a mission in Mortis, and he had to achieve it. A gallows in the middle of the town square caught Vlad’s eye. It was the highest point around and the best place to be seen by the crowd, so Vlad made his way towards it. He clambered up onto the gallows and cleared his throat. The enormity of what he had to do dawned on him, and he felt a little nauseous. If the load he was bearing was going to pass from him, then the time had come. Vlad cleared his throat. “Citizens of Mortis!” Vlad said, trying to sound dramatic.

  Nobody took any notice of him and resumed what they had been doing. Vlad’s heart sank.

  “CITIZENS OF MORTIS!” Vlad shouted with surprise at the roar that came out of him.

  Some looked at Vlad for a moment and then ignored him again. Vlad only had seconds to keep their attention. “I am Vlad Ingisbohr from the village of Nocturne, and I seek your help,” Vlad said.

  A fat merchant in a turban looked shocked. “NOCTURNE?!” he boomed. “They say that place is under an evil hand. Spirits roam the land drinking the blood of children.”

  There were grunts of agreement from the crowd. A ragged man with one tooth piped up. “What may we do for a yokel such as you?”

  Vlad looked down from the gallows with fear in his eyes. He was careful not to mention the vampires in case it incited the mob to execute him on the very gallows on which he stood. While vampires were not witches, they provoked similar hysteria in those unused to dealing with them, like the pampered Mortisians before him.

  “Nocturne is not cursed,” Vlad bluffed. “We have a problem with another village.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” the ragged man asked.

  The crowd murmured agreement.

  “Yeah, go home!” a buxom woman shouted. “We have our own problems.”

  “There is a reward,” Vlad said.

  “Reward?” the woman asked, her interest and bust perking up considerably. “Oh, tell us about this reward!”

  The crowd got rowdier at the mention of possible remuneration.

  “What is the pay?” the fat merchant asked, sounding interested for the first time.

  “I cannot offer any money, only the reward of defeating evil,” Vlad said.

  The crowd laughed at him and dispersed.

  “Wait!” Vlad implored. “You believe in God, don’t you?”

  The angry soldier Vlad had met earlier reared his ugly head again. “Get down from the king’s gallows at once!” he shouted. “Or you shall die with all the others there.”

  Vlad jumped down from the podium and landed awkwardly. He ended up face down in the mud.

  The soldier laughed at him. “Have you no work to go to?” the soldier asked, mocking him. “This is no holiday.”

  Vlad got to his feet, cleared off the mud, and took strides to walk away when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll fight with you, son,” a man’s voice said.

  Vlad turned around to see an incredibly frail old man standing before him. Vlad smiled and patted the old man on the shoulder. “It says a lot for the people of Mortis that the bravest man here is the local idiot,” Vlad said loudly.

  The passers-by heard Vlad and mumbled with discontent.

  “I’m no idiot,” the man protested. “Infirm of body, maybe, but sound of mind.”

  “I know,” Vlad said. “You are a brave man, and I thank you for your kind offer of help.” Vlad started to walk away.

  “I will fight for food,” the old man said.

  “Here,” Vlad said, taking out his last remaining morsel of mimic fish. “Eat this and enjoy.”

  “Oh, thank you kindly, young sir,” the old man said as he stuffed his mouth with the fish.

  Vlad and the old man got swallowed up by the crowd. A town crier stood upon the gallows, unfurled a proclamation, and read aloud: “HEAR YE, HEAR YE! King Stargard’s archery tournament is about to commence on Saint George’s Common. All men of fighting age are invited to compete, and all are invited to attend.”

  For the first time in Mortis, Vlad knew how to win over the people to his cause. A look of hope and determination spread across his face, and he directed himself towards Saint George’s Common with all haste.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sir Pierre de la Costa stood with poise on Saint George’s Common like the saint who had slain the dragon. Pierre had a majestic air about him. He was clearly a man who had been in battle and had the swagger of a fighter. A knight of the realm, he carried that authority with him in his voice, posture, and body language. His bronze complexion and gleaming armour shone in the sun and complimented his chain mail and flowing red cape. He stroked his black beard and perused the archery target before him. Pierre was the defending champion of the king’s tournament and had won it two years running. He intended to win it for a third time, and no man was going to stop him from being victorious.

  Pierre took an arrow from his quiver, fitted it to his crossbow, and took aim. A hush fell over the crowd. None of them wanted to disturb their champion. They respected him, but also knew of his fearsome temper. It was his third and final attempt at the target. As expected, the knight’s arrow landed right in the middle of the bullseye. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Pierre bowed respectfully to King Stargard and his daughter, Princess Annalise, who sat on her throne with flirtatious admiration on her face. The knight then bowed to the crowd, lapped up their encouragement, and vacated the plinth to allow the next competitor his chance. The judges removed Pierre’s first two arrows and left his best shot in place. That was the one to beat.

  “Surely Sir Pierre will be our champion thrice now,” Princess Annalise said.

  “He is always victorious,” King Stargard said wearily, his red beard twitching. “Be it on the battlefield or in this tournament.”

  The town crier stepped forward with his scroll: “And now we come to our last competitor…Vlad Ingisbohr of Nocturne!”

  The crowd booed the young upstart who dared to challenge their beloved champion de la Costa. Vlad’s muddied, torn clothing did not endear him to them, just as his attempt to win their favour earlier received stony silence and derision. Others would have wilted in the face of such hostility, but Vlad had lived a far tougher life in Nocturne without a father as he endured the savagery of vampirism. In a way, the vampires had prepared him for the immense struggle to end their murderous spree. The Mortisian mob was complex and would need a lot of work to win them over. Words would not help Vlad counter the whirlwind of doubt and scorn that raged around him. Actions spoke louder than words, and he knew it. It was much easier to show the crowd what he stood for than to tell them. Vlad would have to prove himself worthy of their loyalty against the best archers in the kingdom. He needed a miracle.

  A knight handed Vlad three arrows and a longbow. The bow was bigger than Vlad himself, and he looked at it with trepidation. He knew he would have problems with it. Vlad paused for a moment and thought of handing the bow and arrows back and conceding defeat and walking away. Then he thought of his mother, Ula, and the other decent people back in Nocturne. If he conceded, he was condemning them and future generations of Nocturnians to annihilation. Vlad saw himself on the death march back to Nocturne all alone with no help and no hope. Even if he survived the treacherous solo journey back, the promise of execution awaited him in Nocturne. Vlad had nothing to lose and everything to gain by daring to fire that first arrow.

  The knight impatiently gestured for Vlad to take his first shot, and it snapped Vlad back to reality and the task at hand. Vlad gripped the bow and arrow and stared at the target. The crowd grew silent, and it gave Vlad a boost that they were giving him a chance. Vlad nervously took aim with his first arrow and completely missed the target. Gales of mocking laughter came from the crowd in Vlad’s direction. He felt his face burn with embarrassment. He also felt anger at himself and the crowd.

  Vlad took aim for the second time. His body tensed with anger and it made his aim steady. Vlad released the arrow a
nd heard a welcome sound as his arrow lodged in the edge of the target. It was a valid shot if not a great one. The crowd laughed at him again, but not as loud as the first time. Vlad took the third arrow in his hand, and he sensed his destiny at that moment. He was right at the fear barrier. Fail, and there was no way to defeat the vampires, no future for his village, and no life for him. They may as well abandon Nocturne as a ghost town, which it virtually was already. Vlad felt oddly relaxed. It was his father’s steely determination coming through again. For the final shot, he did something differently – he closed his eyes. The crowd gasped in astonishment, and several knights put their shields up to stop themselves from being felled by a blind arrow.

  “God, guide my hand,” Vlad whispered, and released the arrow.

  Vlad kept his eyes shut and heard nothing. There was total silence. Slowly, Vlad opened his eyes. He saw Pierre’s arrow still stuck in the bullseye…but Vlad’s arrow had split the knight’s arrow right down the middle. Vlad was the champion. There was no one else to follow. Vlad wanted to cheer, but no sound came from his mouth and his legs went from under him with exhilaration.

  The town crier stepped forward once again: “YE GODS, VLAD INGISBOHR OF NOCTURNE IS OUR CHAMPION!” he boomed. “HAIL VLAD, HAIL VLAD!”

  The crowd took up the chant. All derision drained from them as quickly as it had appeared. The crowd rapidly stopped cheering. Vlad turned around and saw Sir Pierre de la Costa standing over him with an outraged scowl on his face. The crowd had seen the knight kill a man for less. The mock scowl vanished, and Pierre removed his glove and held out his hand. Vlad took it.

  “Well done, boy,” Pierre said. He raised Vlad’s hand above his head and faced the crowd. “The best man has won!” Pierre said. “All hail the new champion!”

  The crowd cheered even louder at the endorsement of Sir Pierre de la Costa.

  “Pierre!” Princess Annalise called. “Bring this new champion before us so we may meet him and present him with his prize.”