The Vorbing (13 page)

              “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 and 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.”

              “Very well, your highness,” Pierre said, gesturing the way for Vlad to walk.

              Vlad went first, and both he and Pierre bowed before King Stargard and his daughter on their thrones. Bishop Hopkins stood sternly in his purple robes, watching proceedings beside his king.

              “I congratulate you on your victory,” King Stargard said.

              “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Vlad said. “I am not worthy.”

              “See, Pierre?” the king said. “There is a lesson you can learn from this boy.”

              “And what lesson is that, Sire?” the knight asked.

              “Humility,” the king said, bursting into a booming laugh. Pierre also laughed out of courtesy, but his eyes said he did not enjoy being the butt of humour.

              “I see you are not the hunchbacked tyrant I have heard about,” Vlad said, his faux pas hanging in the air with foreboding.

              The crowd gasped at the imagined slight to their king. Had Vlad blurted out that rash comment at any other time, he would have found himself without a head for it. Luckily, King Stargard was a savvy politician who knew the allure of champions to the public. Monarchs stole the thunder of champions by giving them further titles and honours to bind their public images together. King Stargard would not risk provoking the wrath of a mob by turning on their darling in front of them. Stargard roared with laughter, defusing the situation.

              “Is that what my subjects say about me?” the king said.

              “Aye, some do, Your Majesty,” Vlad said. “I am pleased to see they are wrong.”

              “The arrogance of youth, God bless it,” the king replied. “God has not seen fit to blight me for my sins…yet. There is still time for both of us.”

              ‘Aye,’ Vlad said ‘I mean, yes, Your Majesty.’

              “Vlad Ingisbohr, you are the new champion archer of Mortis. Step forward and receive your prize,” King Stargard said.

              “With the greatest respect, Sire, there is a greater prize I seek,” Vlad said, but did not believe the words he heard himself saying.

              “Forget what I said about humility,” the king said in an irritated tone. “What prize is that?”

              “I need you to send knights to lift the siege my village is under, Your Majesty,” Vlad continued.

              The king frowned at the surprising news. “Under siege from whom?” the king asked.

              “Vampires, Sire,” Vlad said.

              “WHAT?!” the king bellowed, thinking it a joke at his expense in front of his people.

              That was when Sir Pierre de la Costa did something unexpected. He leapt to Vlad’s defence. “Majesty, I have seen the beasts the boy speaks of with my own eyes; they are very real,” Pierre said.

              The endorsement cooled the king’s temper. “You vouch for this boy?” the king asked, surprised at the knight’s sudden coalition with the youth who had defeated him.

              “Aye,” Pierre said. “I also know that the slaughter of the men of Nocturne happened ten years ago because we did nothing.”

              “One of those men who died was my father,” Vlad said.

              The crowd murmured with uncertainty.

              “You must help him, Father,” Princess Annalise implored.

              “Why should I care about a peasant village on the outskirts of my domain?” the king said haughtily.

              Bishop Hopkins leaned forward and spoke into the king’s ear. “Need I remind Your Majesty that it is your Christian duty to rid this land of evil, be it witches, heathens, or the Devil himself?” Bishop Hopkins purred.

              “Nay, holy man,” the king said. “You remind me of that
ad nauseam
.”

              “It would also make military sense, Sire, to post a garrison of knights on the border,” Pierre said. “This would block a Bellochian invasion and facilitate an invasion by us into their lands.”

              The king drank in this information and stroked his chin.

              “Very well, Sir Knight,” the king said. “I grant you leave to investigate the boy’s claims. If you find them to be true, you have my permission to post a garrison of my knights at Nocturne.”

              “As you wish, Sire,” Pierre said somewhat grudgingly.

              “I trust you will join us at the banquet in your honour tonight,” the king said excitedly to Vlad.

              “I am flattered, Your Majesty,” Vlad said, “but I cannot feast and celebrate while my people are dying. With your permission, I will forego the banquet so we may make an early start in the morning.”

              The king stroked his chin and shrugged with disappointment. “Your commitment to your people is admirable,” King Stargard said. “Of course, you have my permission, but I shall miss not having both of you there tonight. Though it may have some benefits.”

              “What are those, Your Majesty?” Vlad asked.

              “It is a kindness visited upon you by the Lord that you shall not be in Pierre’s presence when he has consumed ale,” the king said as the crowd laughed. “His mind babbles as a brook, and he speaks in tongues like a mad ass. He is lewd and looks to strike any man within punching distance. Wind escapes from all parts of him, and then he must lie down to vomit like a dog. Then he awakes in mournful regret and stinging pain with empty promises of abstinence on his lips.”

              “Abstinence makes the innards grow fonder,” Vlad joked.

              The crowd roared with laughter, as did the king. Pierre smiled awkwardly, but again, his eyes told another story as he glared at Vlad.

              “Indeed, Your Majesty, the Lord is merciful, as I myself do not partake of ale,” Vlad added.

              “You are not yet a man,” Pierre said.

              “I am as manly as you,” Vlad said.

              Pierre laughed. “Your head is a hollow eggshell, boy,” he scoffed.

              “As yours was at my age,” Vlad countered, “but I yearn for the yolk of experience.”

              “You
earn
the yolk of experience,” Pierre countered back. “I yearn to know how you fire blind and score a bullseye through sheer force of will.” The knight scrutinised Vlad for any clues.

              “I know not the explanation for this,” Vlad said. “It happens.”

              “The Lord is merciful,” Pierre said, “for it is a God-given gift.”

              “Aye,” Vlad agreed.

              “De la Costa, escort our champion to the castle, and find him the best available chamber,” the king commanded.

              “As you wish, Sire,” Pierre said, bowing respectfully. Vlad mirrored his gesture, and they both retreated to cheers from the crowd. They left the common and headed uphill towards the castle together.

              “Defeat in the tournament and then mockery from my king and my public,” Pierre said quietly through gritted teeth. “I am a laughing stock because of you, boy.”

              “All the more reason to make sure you restore your reputation by returning in triumph from Nocturne,” Vlad said.