The Vampire Touch 2: Into the Uknown

by Sarah J. Stone

  Those who are brave enough? They feel the full force of my might. Death comes quickly for them because I am in a rush. With the added benefit of a demigod fueling my abilities, I don’t have any issue with the lowest tier of warriors presented. One by one, they end up in the same place as their young demigod.

  If only they knew that this was all a part of the plan.

  “And where are your gods now?” I shout, as two more lay dead at my feet. “Too afraid to fight me so they send the weak to die? To suffer what my fate was intended to be?” Maybe this is too arrogant. Claiming that in my consumption they face a fate as bad as the darkness.

  Maybe not.

  “Then there is nothing stopping me?” I continue my journey out to the Bifrost. The walk is short. Shorter than I expected it to be, but I have heard peculiar things about this realm. Time moves differently.

  Everything works differently. Someday, I will dissect and study it all.

  A twinkle in the sky catches my eye just as I am about to get on the bridge. A beautiful bridge, much like its surrounding scenery, with the colors of the rainbow cascading across a great expanse leading to my portal out of here.

  “I cannot let you go,” Zeus stands before me. He’s dressed much like he was earlier that day at my tribunal. Wearing nothing more than old Greek-styled body armor.

  “Do you miss me, Daddy?” The words coming from me are those of his daughter. One small girl that caused the entire series of events.

  “I bet she doesn’t miss you.” A bolt of lightning narrowly misses my head, “Come now. You’ve got to be faster than that.” Zeus draws his sword, the hilt took an electrical charge and creating a dazzling blade of beauty and wonder.

  “Yes, get angry.” I slide my hands into my pockets. The ember that was lit earlier does not burn the hands. It is cool to the touch, though one would think the opposite from something forged in fire. He swipes with the blade. The angrier Zeus gets, the more reckless he fights. I don’t fight back. I dodge, duck, and dive to miss his attacks. I play with the ember a little longer.

  “Sahn, el zor khal.” I pull the ember from my pocket and throw it on the tiniest blade of grass. The only I could find. My free hand holds the arrowhead created many nights before. It stays stuck to the palm of my hand. The ember that struck the grass sets alight and from the flames, Zeus’ daughter appears.

  “Watch out,” is all she says, but it is too late. In his millisecond of distraction, I am upon him, my hand piercing through his armor and his chest, leaving the arrowhead embedded in his heart.

  “An interesting tool,” I speak as I watch him die. “It splits your soul in two. One comes to me, the other will suffer in your darkness. Can you imagine eternity suffering twice?” His eyes go lifeless as I finish speaking.

  I step onto the Bifrost bridge, tap into the immense power she has to offer. She opens up to me, and I to her.

  We are now connected.

  Prologue: Victor.

  Lost In Time:

  My son.

  The bastard spawn of unknown necessity and cruel intentions. Not even breaching the month of four, I know you will not turn out like me. A peasant turned play thing.

  Your life began in a way most heinous. The Black Prince claiming stake over the land Pontnewynydd after he himself burned it to the ground. His accounts claim the French were the demons that tore our village down. We know better.

  Beneath the yellows, blues, and reds of their armored hides, they did not speak in their native French tongue. They grunted and growled in English one could only surmise as being that spoken among the lower class of various counties across Britannia.

  Foreign Knights wearing the stench of the English.

  Who do we blame in these particularly dark days? Our kin? Or our foe?

  And how sad it seems that you, my sweet baby boy, have to face the darkness that clings to our very own Black Prince of Wales.

  Our governing body.

  Our hero.

  Our bane.

  Will you ever know the truth?

  The history that eludes you?

  Nay.

  My son will be incorruptible.

  A vision of light in the blackest night.

  ~ ~ ~

  “I've never been one to bow down to the King himself so why would I bow down to some Prince?” A legitimate question that the men around me can't understand. I have faced death on few occasion in my life, only once did the chance come from a member of the Welsh army services.

  Even so, in the face of danger, I have never allowed myself to be perceived as weak. It's never been apart of my nature. So here, standing beside four other young lads, not younger, nor older than myself, who have fallen to their knees, their shackles clanking and banging together as they go, I stand my ground. The brainless fool that believes himself in control, ordering me to bend my will but who is he?

  Nothing but a pawn in a long game of chess.

  "The Black Prince nears. You will show him the respect he deserves," I burst out laughing. Two more have up behind me now. I want to fight but there is no option for that. I am chained and bound to three other men that have already shown their subservient nature.

  “If you will not bow, we will make you bow,” The same man speaks before feeling the strike of a wooden club to behind my knee. I collapse. In this collapse, the man at my direct left topples over with me.

  That went worse than it could have, I can't help but think as I regain my composure. The guard moves aside. He's not wearing much armor. None of them are. If I was free, there may have been a chance I could claim some form of victory here today.

  But if is an illusion.

  We're out in a field. An empty, green wasteland with only a single tree behind the three of us. The wagon that brought the four of us here a stone throw away, with another four guards clad in the black cloth of their house. None of them are remarkable looking. Just four, generic soldiers. Cut from the same cloth as all the others.

  In the distance is a carriage. This, I assume, is the Black Prince of Wales everyone seems to cower from. I've heard stories of his dark nature but those late night camp fire horrors have never gotten to me. I have seen true darkness and came out the victor.

  So we wait.

  The carriage takes another while to get here. The music in the air, the whimpering three men bathed in fear. I wonder, is it cowardice or were they just raised in a safe environment that would allow this reaction to be acceptable. I was from a good home but I was sent to fight. Still, I fight. I wear the King's colors and go to war holding his banner. Are they not the same? Do they truly fear death so greatly that they must whine like mutts obsessing over some bitch in heat?

  “What have we done?” One of them asks. A blonde lad, with striking blue eyes.

  “Nothing,” One of the generic template guards replies.

  “Then why are we here?” The blue eyed boy cries out.

  "It's under the order of our Prince."

  Silence falls as the carriage stops next to the one that brought us here. I can hear him. From here, I can hear his voice. Smooth and elegant, soft even. One wouldn't imagine such a calm voice was the one that held the title of a Black Prince.

  What does that even mean, though?

  In a time where Chivalry is on its last stand, in a war over a piece of land King Edward has no claim to and with the black death slaughtering more people than any other phenomenon in our lifetimes or those before can this one single man be so vile, so evil that he deserves a title as heinous as The Black Prince?

  Or like in the stories of old, as he puffed out his chest like a peacock to show superiority where there is none?

  Time will tell.

  "So you may all be wondering why I have brought you here. Four men, their lives ahead of them. What purpose could I have with two farmers, a cattle herder, and a thief?" That last one directed at me and me alone. I nod my head. His eyes and mine locked in a gaze. He can tell I show no fear. I can tell he's impressed.

&
nbsp; “None of you are special,” The next comment to make its way out of his mouth, “You are all equal in my eye. My son's,” I don't care for what he's saying now. We can't be his son's. Definitely not, right? My father was not a nobleman. He was a horse thief sent to the gallows when I was but a babe. So this prince, this man, is nothing more than a false prophet spewing pathetic lies.

  One of the guards behind us unlocks the first man in the row. The same blonde, blue haired boy who spoke out earlier. He struggles but they pull him before the prince, "Do you know what's going to happen now?" He asks. He takes off his beautiful black coat, made from leather (no doubt) and hands it to the guard. A sick expression of glee dawns over his grizzled features.

  “I've heard stories,” He comments.

  “Stories? Tell me about what you have heard,” The Black Prince rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

  “You take the innocent and turn them into devils,” The prince laughs.

  “And you claim you're an innocent man?” The boy on his knees shakes his head.

  "I am not innocent but I am not a demon. You will not have my soul," He cries out, "Save me, Lord," He prays.

  The Prince touches the blonde's head and brings a finger down, then across forming an invisible cross against his head, "Then I absolve you of your sins."

  He's tormenting the man. I never assumed he would be a cruel man.

  "But everything you heard was wrong," The prince places his palm on the boy's forehead and holds it there. He says nothing. Does nothing. They hold eye contact. The boy starts to spasm. His body jerking out of control. Eyes breaking the gaze. As long as the prince doesn't move his hand, the spasming continues in place without break. The moment he releases him, the frantic jerking break the boy's spirits into tremendous screeching from incremental pain.

  He is dead.

  The next is brought to the prince's feet, “And you, do you have anything to confess to God?” He asks.

  "No," The man whimpers, "Please don't do this," The only thing that leaves his mouth before the same palm rests on his forehead and the same process begins. The difference now, the next in lines skin begins to melt from the bone. The contortion ends, as his cries echo through the field, his body liquefying in the process.

  The third is no different and it's here that I find my fate will be to face only death. In his rapturous bellowing, his body turns to dust. From his legs up, he suffers. There is no pause to his screaming until his lungs become the mass of dirt.

  Three corpses beside me. Each one carried to the prince apart from I. He walks to me, “This one's unruly,” One of the men say, “We do not want to release him from his bonds,” He finishes.

  “And you, young man... Do you have anything to confess?” Whatever we're doing here, I can see it's deeply disappointing the prince. He's not here to hurt us but he's not going to save us if he does.

  I look up at him through my brow, squint with the afternoon sun in my eye, "Yes. If you're going to do any saving today, save my mother," This is my prayer. The same palm that has ended the lives of three thus far now rests on my head. It's warm, damp from sweat that must have accumulated. I clear my throat.

  “One question,” I shout, “Before you begin...”

  “Yes>? The Black Prince returns.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “A man who questions the rightful order. I can respect that. As you watched, they lived and died cowards. This is not the way things are to progress. You? Well, to answer your question you must survive,” And suddenly, I am overwhelmed with an energy I cannot explain. My body wants to contort, snap and jerk as it pleases but I keep myself as close to the brink as I can, with my eyes locked onto his own icy blue. I bite down, ball my fists and let this rushing force burn me from the inside. There is nothing to fear but death itself and even this, a part of life. I welcome it.

  This sensation goes on for what seems like an eternity. A warm pulse of jolting fire that courses through every inch of my system until finally...

  It stops.

  I collapse onto the ground. My hands and legs are free, now. I look for the chains but they are nowhere to be seen. The Black Prince kneels in front of me, looking into my eyes, grabbing my head and inspecting whatever he's inspecting.

  “My son,” He says, standing up again, “I will come find you when you are ready.”

  The only words he says before returning to his carriage, the guards to making their way on and out.

  I am alone in a field.

  I am alive.

  ~ ~ ~

  There is nothing to fear in death, my son.

  There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

  Death is a part of life. One that we cannot rid ourselves of and one that we cannot question.

  I have prophesied your life and you will live a great one.

  You will rule. You will conquer and you will be a great man.

  We will not live forever, my beautiful child but forever we will be together.

  Not in this life but the next.

  I will stand as your stone, your guardian and your friend.

  And when it is time to go, then we will go.

  Where I will retake your place as a mother and you?

  My eternal sunshine.

  My son.

  ~ ~ ~

  A crowd forms around an open grave. I stand at the head of the grave, those who came to pay their last respects to a woman who died too soon, weeping in their Sunday best, each praying for her soul.

  I do not cry.

  My admission of guilt for the death of my mother is not something I take lightly. A proud, great woman, she did not deserve such an early sentence to the grave.

  My absence, when captured by the guard, had been far longer than I cared to count. Over a month, it seemed. On my return, I found her lying there in a bed. Her heart beat slow. Poison, they say. They being the lovely old couple beside my mother and my home. They were the ones to help her expel the vile concoction from her system and keep her alive. Only a while longer.

  It seems only long enough for me to say my goodbye's.

  I stand and wait for the crowd to circle the unmarked grave. It has been a week since my time in the field. I have no money for a burial. So what can I do but dig a hole here in a pasture that she so loved?

  My admission of guilt did not come lightly. I choose to accept the blame when I know it was not me. Over a month when I was to return that night. My mother must have expected the worst. Digging ever deeper into the well of despair. I can only tell that there was no hope.

  Even as I nurtured her, I knew there was no longer the spark for life. She could not look me in the eye. Remnants of a burned note in the fire, I can only assume, created even greater dismay. We've never hidden anything from one another. A burned note could only mean one thing.

  And so I tended to her. Trying not to allow her to sink and yet, she could not find the will to stay afloat. Not even for her son.

  I failed her.

  My admission of guilt is a fallacy. I do not take the blame for the injustice done to my mother. I blame a Prince, claiming to be my father.

  “Those who knew her, knew my mother to be a remarkable woman. Having to sell herself to bring me up, due to my father being sentenced to the hangman's noose far before I was born, she struggled on her path to make due. She gave me a life that most could only dream of and now she is dead. You here, have joined me, not only to bathe in her glory one last splendid time but to show support in my time of need,” I grab dirt from a pile behind her grave, “May she rest in peace, here. No more can the demons get you. I watch over you now,” My last line before dropping the dirt over her coffin. I kneel beside the grave and utter one last prayer:

  There is nothing to fear in death. Death is a part of life. I will return to you soon...

  ~ ~ ~

  Weeks turn into months.

  Months turn into years.

  Still, I return to the unmarked grave on the anniversary of her death. I have g
rown older, married and joined the guard. Simply to the extent of taking revenge over the man who broke my family to pieces. My wife, a beautiful young lady from a well off family. They allowed me her hand in marriage for the simple reason that I have become a well-ranking soldier.

  The age of twenty-seven.

  I am old now, in terms of settling down but still our battle wages on. Our war has no end.

  I come close to my target. I can feel it. I have upgraded my status far enough to be in the ranks of the Dark Prince's own son, Prince Richard.

  I have been gaining glory. Often sent to the front lines of battle. I feel it an act of jealousy. The way Prince Richard seems to cower behind his father at my arrival to the castles.

  Who am I to stand against his decision?

  Unlike his father, I do believe Richard seems to understand my ill intentions. I was wrong. My mother's death was nothing but a sick inconvenience. One out of spite, not a necessity.

  A cruel man, The Black Prince, it seems he has no care for those around apart from for his own gain.

  Still, he has never taken to me. I have mentioned with him, the trial faced in the field and he shuns it off.

  Until I am ready there will be no discussion, he says.

  When will I be ready?

  My thoughts of his jealousy were only strengthened when I was only to be sentenced to fight in the Battle of La Rochelle.

  A fierce naval war where we stood outnumbered. Our ships sunk and captured. Eight hundred of our men burned alive. I was no doubt wished to be a part of the burning crew when Richard was given the report of the loss.

  Captured, I knew there was only one option apart from death. Escape. You sometimes forget your old ways. You grow accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle and thus, cling onto it for dear life. On the surface, I am a converted nobleman. A peasant boy turned Knight.

  At heart?

  I am a thief.

  I was able to break free of my bonds. My name unknown as there were no more of my party members at my side. This and I removed The Black Prince's insignia from my equipment.