Chapter Seventeen
Somehow, Vlad found sleep, and in his dreams, the vampires found him. Vlad saw the Battle of McLintock’s Spit before him. His eyes darted around behind his closed eyelids. Vlad witnessed a key moment in his life hitherto denied to him. Chaos reigned on Vampire Mountain. Before the Battle of McLintock’s Spit, the old people in the village called it Mount Vimana. Nocturnians had renamed the looming horror Vampire Mountain. Forever it would chill the blood of anyone in the village of Nocturne that heard its name. In the darkness, the screams of dying men mixed with the grunts of vorbing vampires. Adam Ingisbohr stood tall in the middle of the confusion. The mud on his face and blood on his makeshift armour did not detract from his commanding presence in the thick of battle. His fair hair flapped in the gentle night air. It was a night of dread and disappointment for his people, doomed to deteriorate. Vlad tried to call out to his father, but an indistinct moan emerged.
“McLintock is dead,” a man said. “You are in command now, Ingisbohr.”
At any other time, Adam Ingisbohr would have been excited to be their leader, but not then. “I’m in command of what?” Adam said, dropping his shield and sword to the ground, “our army is a rabble. We are finished.”
A vampire soaring above the battlefield saw Adam Ingisbohr. It judged from the expectant gazes and deferential behaviour of those around him that he was the one in charge. Adam became the vampire’s target, and it swooped down behind him like an eagle after its prey. Vlad started sweating with anxiety. He again tried calling his father to warn him, but he still was unable to hear Vlad.
“The poisoned chalice passes to me,” Adam Ingisbohr said with a sigh, “Heaven help me.”
They were his last words. The vampire’s talons dug into Adam’s shoulder blades and heaved him off the ground and into the air. Adam screamed in pain and fear. His cries for help echoed into the distance of the black night and he disappeared. There was no hope for the men battling on Vampire Mountain after that. The man who spoke with Adam took his sword and committed suicide. His compatriots soon would follow him into the afterlife.
The vampires dumped Adam Ingisbohr like putrid offal at the summit of Vampire Mountain. The alien forms of the vampires surrounded him to block his escape. Their eyes were blood-red from feasting all day and their ravenous mouths salivated at the thought of vorbing on the leader of the humans. In the iridescent light of their fire, they looked even more terrifying. Then Adam noticed what was cooking on the fire. It was a human being roasting on a spit. As Adam backed away, he recognised the ring on the finger of the body on the fire. It was McLintock. Adam gasped and kept moving back until he felt something inhuman behind him.
He spun around, and there stood the supreme vampire Deadulus on the edge of total darkness. The gloom obscured the NightLord’s darkened features, but the aura of glowering malevolence from him was tangible and overpowering. All Adam saw were the vampire’s huge jagged wings splayed backwards while his hulking frame hovered above him. The stench of death emanated from behind the creature’s curved fangs, and Adam knew he had a short time left to live. He accepted his fate, but he also believed in sacrifice and that death could sometimes be a triumph. Despite being terrified inside, Adam knew if he died a brave death, it could inspire others to take up the sword against the vampires after his passing. Even at the end, he still was leading by example. Deadulus snorted like a bull in Adam’s face with all-consuming wrath.
“You and your kind have troubled me for the last time, Ingisbohr,” Deadulus said, jabbing his jagged claw into Adam’s chest.
The huge red veins on the NightLord’s chest pulsated with bloodlust. Adam closed his eyes and joined his hands in silent prayer. Deadulus grabbed Adam Ingisbohr’s head on both sides with his claws and strained his forearms with the force he began to exert. Adam’s head started to come away from his body. The screams coming from his mouth were so loud that they echoed across the whole mountain and down into his home village of Nocturne. Adam’s army blessed themselves when they heard it in the vain hope they could avoid such a death.
Deadulus lifted Adam’s severed head above him to a crescendo of approval from the vampires. They clapped, shrieked and hooted in the firelight. Deadulus then used the head of Adam Ingisbohr like a cup and drank his blood. Deadulus discarded the head with contempt and bellowed his supremacy with his massive wings outstretched. The lesser vampires scrambled to glean the last drops of blood from the prized head of their vanquished enemy Adam Ingisbohr. The others screeched deafening approval of Deadulus. He had led his kind to another crushing victory and regained total control.
Vlad Ingisbohr twitched in his sleep, and the involuntary spasm woke him from his dream. Perspiration soaked his body, and he had heartburn in his chest. His bed was an unkempt mess from his restless sleep. Despite his youth, in the moonlight Vlad bore an uncanny resemblance to his late father. He was aware that in a few hours he could share his father’s terrible fate. The surreal recap made Vlad marvel that three years had passed since his father’s death. Had it been that long? It never seemed real or right or fair to Vlad how it ended. Neither of his parents deserved to die like animals at the slaughter. None of the men on Vampire Mountain that night did either. Vlad already knew from his own recent experiences that life was not always fair. Sometimes awful things happened to good people, and the way to madness lay in the search for a meaning. Acceptance meant relinquishing burning questions and leaving them unanswered. Peace of mind would follow. His father’s cynicism grew stronger in him daily. Seeing his father getting torn apart in his dream gave greater meaning to the headstone in the grounds of the family farm. Vlad saw it and touched it every day. The vampires never would leave him alone. It was the one night when he could relax, knowing that the vampires were not out hunting. Vlad blessed himself and tried to return to sleep.
A stillborn dawn greeted Vlad Ingisbohr. He knew it might be the last sunrise he ever experienced, and his eyes took in every opalescent detail. The remnants of a grudge against his fellow Nocturnians still festered in Vlad. As did the urge to cut his losses and run, but that was the greatest wish of Deadulus. Vlad would never satisfy his archenemy. Vlad’s gargantuan task was about to reach its critical moment. The day would end with either the vampires being driven from Nocturne for good, or a scene of carnage even worse than McLintock’s Spit. That realisation made Vlad’s chest tighten and gave him butterflies in his stomach. He did not want to die, but he had to complete what he started, whatever the outcome. It was his destiny. He had to know if the prophecy was true. If the worst happened and he died, he told himself he would be reunited with his parents in Heaven. That made a momentary smile cross his lips. It faded with the thought that his death would condemn Ula to going on alone in a decimated Nocturne suffering an even greater reign of terror from the victorious, unchallenged vampires. That was the nightmare scenario he did not want to think about. It was a waste of time and energy. He struck his leg with his fist and told himself to concentrate.
Early that morning, Vlad set to work on his ultimate weapon against Deadulus. First, he melted down the metal of a crucifix and made an arrowhead with it. He dipped the tip in holy water to make sure it set and to provide an additional sting for the NightLord. From a piece of whitethorn wood, Vlad fashioned the shaft of the arrow. Whitethorn stakes were the most effective against vampires and a flying stake with the head of a crucifix dipped in holy water would be three times as effective. To cap it all, Vlad rubbed the arrows down with garlic as a further deterrent against the vampires. It was another vital part of Vlad’s super weapon. He smiled to himself at the thought of what his wonder weapon would do to Deadulus.
‘Your time has come, Evil One,’ Vlad said to himself, ‘You shall not survive this day.’
Vlad made the decision to test his new weapons. He put sacks of grain against the barn door. On his second attempt, he punctured one of the bags. Second and third hits gave Vlad confidence that he was mastering the weapon. Grain spilled i
nto the dirt. At any other time, that was a terrible waste that Vlad could ill afford. With his potential death just hours away, such trivial things faded into the background. Dead people didn’t need grain or money. It was easy to hit still bags of grain. For a more realistic test, Vlad needed a moving target.
He found a woodland strip. Vlad entered and scanned his surroundings for targets. After a few minutes, Vlad saw nothing and decided to move deeper into the wood. Vlad came to a stream and stopped to slake his thirst. The water was pure and refreshing. Vlad scooped up another handful, but quickly poured it back in when he looked up. A stag munched leaves on a hillock nearby. Vlad picked up his bow, removed an arrow from the quiver, and took aim. The stag stopped eating and looked around. It sensed danger, but was unsure what and where it was. Its reaction made the strain on Vlad’s arms even worse. Beads of perspiration sprang out on his forehead. His breathing became laboured as the bow shook. The stag moved back towards the bushes. Vlad knew if he didn’t fire soon, he would miss his chance. Vlad steadied himself and let the arrow fly. It missed the stag’s head by inches and
stuck in the tree above its head. The frightened animal bolted into the bushes and out of sight.
Vlad slammed his fist into the ground in frustration. He would face the most vicious beast ever to walk the earth that night. Deadulus was not a docile animal, but a cunning, evil warrior. He would never allow Vlad the luxury of having time to think and fire. A split-second would be Vlad’s tiny window of opportunity, if any, and he knew that God had better guide his hand then or all would be lost. Vlad would have to finish the NightLord with one decisive blow, as there would not be another. One direct hit from Vlad’s special arrows, and death became a certainty. If Deadulus discovered the ace Vlad had up his sleeve, he would flee, and Vlad never would get another chance to kill him. Not unless he followed him to the ends of the earth. Vlad jumped the stream and retrieved his arrow. With his head down, Vlad trekked out of the forest and back to his farmhouse.
Ula was waiting for him. Her anxiety was obvious and her eyes heavy with tears. She ran into Vlad’s arms when he came into view and cried. Vlad held her tight.
“Is there anything I can say to make you leave here with me now?” Ula asked.
“No, nothing,” Vlad said.
“I didn’t think so,” Ula said.
She held out a crucifix on a chain to Vlad and put it around his neck.
“I want you to wear this today,’ Ula said. ‘It was my mother’s. She had it blessed in Kristos City. If you feel overwhelmed, hold the cross in your hand and I’m there with God on your side.”
“Thank you, my love, it will protect me, I’m sure,” Vlad said.
Vlad kissed her forehead and held her tight.
“I’m coming back, I promise you.”
“Then come back alive and not as a spirit.”
“I’ll try; it’s in God’s hands now.”
“Yes,” Ula agreed sadly.
“You and your family must leave Nocturne now and stay with relatives in another village before nightfall,” Vlad said.
“What about the curfew?” Ula said.
“This is war; the focus is on fighting more than vorbing.”
“Very well, you are right.”
“If we are defeated, never come back here and forget me, understand?”
“I could never do the latter, but I understand,” Ula said.
“I love you, Ula.”
“I love you too, come back safely,” Ula said, joining her hands in prayer.
Vlad kissed her hand and left to meet up where his force had amassed.
For the rest of the day, Vlad drilled his troops in a tough, efficient manner. He secretly worried whether he could succeed without Pierre but never let his troops see that.
“Where has the knight gone when we need him?” a farmer asked.
“He’ll be back with help,” Vlad said. “Carry out your duties.”
There was a quiet determination among the men as they gave their all in battle drills. A poignant moment occurred as the women and children began evacuating Nocturne. It was a bittersweet feeling for their men; they got a sinking feeling watching them leave but knew they were out of harm’s way. Ula waved to Vlad as she departed on a wagon with Lillia Kurten and others. He waved back and she was gone from sight.
As the sun went down, the camp grew silent. Some of them would be dead before sunrise the following morning. They might die slow, agonising deaths, or death might come fast for them. Some of them would survive with crippling injuries and be in constant pain. The older men were all too aware of the dangers and conserved their energy for battle. Death and war were both alien concepts to the young men in the group. They thought they were invincible, and fidgeted from their pent-up energy and excitement. The one comfort they had was that none of them would return as vampires to attack their families and friends in the village. Deadulus would never permit their conversion, and that was a small mercy. Excess thinking time added to their anxiety. They waited for the spine-chilling roars to echo down from on-high that would tell them the vampires were coming. That they would land within the hour. They waited for the screeching, but none came. The men scanned the scarlet sky for the winged fiends, but they saw nothing.
Vlad had seen hundreds of sunsets in his time. When he set eyes on what could be his last one, it took on endless dimensions of beauty. The dusk bathed everything in a portentous sepia tint. He saw a cross on a distant hill, silhouetted against the sky, the emblem cast in half-shadow by the dying sun. It reminded Vlad of the crosses on the Hill of Calvary when a righteous man faced his inevitable fate. Vlad was no messiah, but wished he could be as brave. He prayed to his creator to give him the same strength. For one ounce of his father’s bravery, he would give everything he had. Vlad was about to face the Antichrist himself, and, if he lost his life in the ensuing battle, he would be in Heaven meeting his opposite number the following morning. A few weeks before, none of this would have seemed possible. Neither would the death of his mother. It was incredible how everything had changed in Vlad’s life in such a short time, a life possibly entering its last phase. Everything around him felt hyper-real at that moment.
“Vlad,” a voice whispered.
Startled from his thoughts, Vlad looked up and listened. He thought it was his father’s voice, but Vlad was beginning to forget what his father sounded like and doubted what he heard. Only the low keening of the wind greeted his straining ears. “Adam Ingisbohr,” Vlad said.
He whispered in case the men heard him and thought him mad.
“Speak, Father,” Vlad said. “I need your help.”
The wind gave the only reply. The young man sighed and held his head in his hands. Vlad’s troops paced up and down, nervously sharpening their swords, digging in the dirt with the points of their arrows, and wishing each other good luck. Yet, again, the vampires did not attack. Vlad wondered what was happening. Were millions of vampires up in the mountains waiting to attack? Were they dividing up the multitudes into battalions? Vlad decided that they had waited long enough. It was time to bring the battle to the vampires. He leapt up on a cart and silence fell over his nervous army.
“Let us begin with a prayer to protect us against the forces of darkness,” Vlad said, and bowed his head and joined his hands in prayer.
Everyone mirrored Vlad’s actions.
“Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle,” Vlad began, “be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do Thou O Prince of the Heavenly Host by the power of God cast into Hell, Satan-”
A flash of lighting at the peak of Vampire Mountain interrupted Vlad’s prayer. An ominous rumble of thunder followed and reverberated around the Heavens for some time. It made everyone restless.
“…and all evil spirits,” Vlad said, “who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
“Amen,” the men said.
Vlad looked o
ut at his army and they looked up at him in anticipation as their standards fluttered in the breeze. It still amazed Vlad that they believed in him enough to risk their lives in battle. Some of them would be dead before sunrise. Those that lived would face a fate worse than death if the vampires triumphed again. Yet still, they awaited his command.
“We are all dead men,” Vlad began.
The shocked men muttered to themselves, believing a madman was leading them to the slaughter.
“Me…you…everyone who can hear my voice,” Vlad continued. “Why? The dead feel no fear, and fearless men are dangerous because they have already won half the battle. As we climb this mountain, we face two enemies: the vampires and the enemy we don't see.”
The men murmured again and shifted with agitation, afraid there was some hidden danger awaiting them on Vampire Mountain. Vlad was playing a dangerous game. The men might turn on him if the speech kept going in that manner but he knew what he was doing. He said a silent prayer anyway.
“The enemy we don't see is fear,” Vlad continued. “We feel it in our heads, in our hearts, and in our souls. It cripples us and helps the vampires to beat us before we even fight them. We must make that disappear from our bodies without a trace. We must fight for our lives by fighting with the fearlessness of the dead!”
Vlad’s men struck their shields with swords and spears as applause.
“The vampires are counting on us being intimidated by their reputation before setting foot on the field of battle,” Vlad said. “That ends here. We must make nothing easy for them. We must not give ground. If we lose, we fight to the last man…to the last man! Tonight, our fear stops and their fear begins!”
Fire burned in the eyes and hearts of the men of Nocturne. Seeing that reflected back at him fired Vlad up, too. He let out an involuntary roar and struck his chest with his fist. It was a side of Vlad no one ever had seen before. The transformation stunned his army and even Vlad himself. Vlad’s newfound ferocity impressed would have impressed Pierre had he been present. The knight would have seen Vlad as a gifted orator and leader that men would follow into battle and give their lives for. It was a priceless gift that few possessed.
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