The high priest, meanwhile, was still abased before his God, forehead
pressed to the ground, arms outstretched before him in what must have been
a most uncomfortable position. Turel ignored him, looking straight at me,
while I returned his curious gaze. The much-maligned vampire was greater
in size than any of the stories (apart from those inevitable tall tales
that make the protagonists ten feet tall with eyes like saucers) would have
had me believe. His mass exceeded my own nearly twice over. He was
dressed in a floor-length, armless robe of ceremonial style; its high
collar and wide flaring shoulders boasting borders raised into relief with
embroidery work that in my estimation would have taken half the slaves in
the pits several weeks to do. The robe itself was of the darkest green, the
colour of pine needles at night, while the borders and piping were of gold-
leaf, and swirled in an endlessly changing design that comprised a thousand-
and-one curlicues, and zigzags, and abstract shapes. His clan symbol was
embossed in a stylised manner onto each breast of the robe, and overlaid
with squares of jet that gleamed dully in the greenish light. I attempted
not to focus on his face for too long, and instead found myself staring at
his hair, which was drawn back from his face in an uncompromising way that
emphasised his widow's peak. The lengthy black tresses fell away out of
sight behind him, and presumably settled on the throne.
The high priest's voice broke my concentration as he began the inevitable lengthy and tedious dedication of me to Turel, as a gift from the Temple.
"O mighty God, master of all peoples who dwell within the domain of the Turelim, noble and merciful Lord upon whom we mortals in our imperfection are not fit to gaze, O revered and powerful Prince, we your humble servants salute you ..."
"Get to the point," The voice was like the sound of rotten carcasses being dragged over broken glass.
The priest stuttered and became rather flustered, but soon regained his stride.
"We offer you this humble gift in honour of your continued lenience and beneficence, and ask that you allow this mortal to please you, unfit as she is to even look upon you."
The Priest's elaborate ad-libbing had obviously not pleased Turel, as he interjected sharply: "She is unfit? Why then have you brought her? Is this or is this not the best your temple has to offer?"
The Priest stiffened, horrified at the decision that now lay before him: If he said 'yes', Turel might strike him for his insolence and demand that he search for better stock - that is, if I was not to his liking. If he said 'no', Turel would surely kill him for having retained the best and given Turel a substandard offering. Despite fears for my own safety, I was chuckling inside to see the tables turned on the scurrying toady.
"Yes," he stuttered eventually. At least then the fault was not his.
Turel nodded evenly.
"Get out."
The priest stood quickly, apparently quite at a loss - he had expected more of an audience, and if half of what he had told me was true, he had a whole wish list he wanted to present to his God in exchange for his gift.
Turel dismissed him without so much as a glance - his attention was still on me, as it had been for the last few minutes. Although it was fair burning my eyes to look him in the face, I knew from my teachings that this offered me the best chance of survival. The priests had learned through trial and error, and apparently far fewer of their offerings were killed at first presentation now. The thought was far from comforting. The huge double doors clanged shut behind the priest and for a moment, Turel and I did but stare at one another. I knew I must wait for his command, but I was itching to do something so that I might see how difficult it would be to take him by surprise. His voice bisected my thoughts.
"Dance for me."
I nodded once. I had been fully prepared for this - this was how it always began, the odalisque would undertake a slow, undulating dance that combined rhythm and practice, whose various contortions were meant to demonstrate the woman's flexibility and skill. I had the routine down to perfection, and pulled it off without a hitch, despite the trembling in my limbs and the fear that sat like a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. I finished in a position of invitation, standing upright, legs crossed one before the other, arms outstretched, head down, eyes up.
Apparently there was as much to the dance as the priests had hinted, for Turel rose almost immediately from his carven throne, and stood watching me balefully. Shortly, he drew his robe open at the chest, slid it from his shoulders and allowed it to fall with a quiet hiss of heavily embroidered cloth to the waiting floor. My heart skipped a beat as I understood with some finality that this was real. There was no turning back now - what I had instigated, I must see through to the end. As he drew near, and I saw him for the first time close-up in the light, I understood in that one crystal-clear moment what it was to be of their kind, and why it was that he inspired such fear, such hatred.
With his robe gone, his chest was laid bare. The skin was a dirty grey that was semi-translucent, and stretched so tight over his frame that it shone with tension. Beneath the torpid surface, the many-branched veins throbbed and pulsed with stolen life, and I found myself wondering regretfully how many had died through the centuries to keep this parasite alive; the blood of how many poor damned souls invigorated the bloated arteries, drove the overgrown muscles. Too many. As he moved to stand before me, I looked at last at his face and saw straight into the eyes of Hell. Through the gold-tinged irises I glimpsed a tortured soul forced into a shell of evil; rotten to the core from all the foul deeds it had accomplished since its unholy rebirth. Somewhere in those blazing orbits, the knowledge of what he was damned him incessantly, but the beast within had dominance. The eyes themselves were set deep into the head, giving the impression that the ridged forehead protruded. The cheeks were sunken, and no extraneous flesh clung to the bones of his features, while his chin, cleft and cleft again, stuck out in a permanent display of belligerence. Turel was ugly. Just being this close to him filled my head with images of bloated bodies washed up on the riverside, their lifeblood replaced with the swelling waters; of malformed animals, and of murdered babies.
I almost lost control as he seized me by the waist and hauled me against him, his breath reminiscent of the air that escapes from a drowned corpse when it is pierced, cold and wet and infinitely putrid. And worse, he stank of blood. I had once come across a fellow slave who had come to misadventure with one of the rolling mills in the pits - he had been pulped like the paper he had spent his whole life producing. The priests had had us scrub him off the rollers like any other stain, and I had almost fainted from the stench of flattened organs, of leaking marrow, but most of all from the all-pervading salt-acid stench of blood. Now, as Turel's breath wafted against my face, I felt my gorge rise. Knowing that what I did next would determine whether I lived or died, I swallowed against the bile in my throat, quelled every ounce of hatred that had somehow gathered itself into a tight knot in my chest, and smiled sweetly at him. It is not an uncommon trait amongst us humans - especially us women, as we are sometimes the most adept at hiding our true feelings - to play at compliance. While my outer self projected wanton desire, my inner self was busy tearing out a symbolic Turel's eyes and stabbing him repeatedly in the head with his own sword. What two-faced creatures we all are, at heart . . . and so I allowed myself to be drawn back towards his throne, where he seated himself comfortably and settled me on his lap.
The human mind has ways of dealing with events that disturb or unnerve it, and will often bury unpleasant or potentially damaging memories beneath layers of defensive strata, sometimes never to be retrieved until some key event sparks the memory recall process. I am glad to say that the long minutes I spent on that throne with the Lord of the Turelim is a back spot. I thank my Gods for that. I remember nothing but the odd fact that he was strangely obsessed with my hair - it was not until much later that I found out why. My memories now start at the instant I decided I was going to try for the knife. From the information my mysterious visitor had imparted to me when I received it from him, the blade had been dipped in some substance lethal to vampirekind. Otherwise such as I would have no hope of ending so ancient and powerful a creature's existence in what could easily turn into a contest of steel, no matter how relaxed and subdued the intended victim. All I had to do, according to my guide, was to get the blade into his heart - this would ensure that the toxin was distributed throughout his system with sufficient speed to allow me chance to escape. If I missed the heart, his life would still be ended, but possibly not before he had ended mine into the bargain. I had, as a consequence, spent sufficient time familiarising myself with certain chapters in my lesson-books on vampire anatomy, and was almost certain I could hit the required organ first time.
Seeing that the vampire's attention was firmly held elsewhere, and that my loosened hair fortuitously hid most of my actions from his view, buried as he was in its silken depths, I began to move my clothing about to see if the rustling would disturb him. Not a bit. Presently, the knife slid from its concealment within the folds of my skirt, and I deadened the impact of any betraying noises with a melodramatic sigh, instantly fearing that my pretence was showing. He showed no signs of alarm, and so I continued to bring the weapon closer.
In times of desperation, I have often found that I have reserves of strength otherwise undreamed-of, both mental and physical - how else can I explain my lengthy life-span? It was this reserve that enabled me now to reach out and caress the cold skin of the vampire's cheek, applying gentle pressure to get him to turn his head just a little further to the left so that I had a clear path to his chest. Turel seemed happy enough to comply, and though my hand felt as though it were pressed against something vile and unnatural, like an animal bladder stuffed with slugs and leeches, I managed to retain my composure, and keep him distracted until I was certain my one-shot aim would be true.
With the phrase 'for humanity' ringing in my head, I drove the blade hilt- deep into cold, unyielding flesh, until I felt it grate on bone.
My mission was accomplished. Our blow had been struck.
The high priest's voice broke my concentration as he began the inevitable lengthy and tedious dedication of me to Turel, as a gift from the Temple.
"O mighty God, master of all peoples who dwell within the domain of the Turelim, noble and merciful Lord upon whom we mortals in our imperfection are not fit to gaze, O revered and powerful Prince, we your humble servants salute you ..."
"Get to the point," The voice was like the sound of rotten carcasses being dragged over broken glass.
The priest stuttered and became rather flustered, but soon regained his stride.
"We offer you this humble gift in honour of your continued lenience and beneficence, and ask that you allow this mortal to please you, unfit as she is to even look upon you."
The Priest's elaborate ad-libbing had obviously not pleased Turel, as he interjected sharply: "She is unfit? Why then have you brought her? Is this or is this not the best your temple has to offer?"
The Priest stiffened, horrified at the decision that now lay before him: If he said 'yes', Turel might strike him for his insolence and demand that he search for better stock - that is, if I was not to his liking. If he said 'no', Turel would surely kill him for having retained the best and given Turel a substandard offering. Despite fears for my own safety, I was chuckling inside to see the tables turned on the scurrying toady.
"Yes," he stuttered eventually. At least then the fault was not his.
Turel nodded evenly.
"Get out."
The priest stood quickly, apparently quite at a loss - he had expected more of an audience, and if half of what he had told me was true, he had a whole wish list he wanted to present to his God in exchange for his gift.
Turel dismissed him without so much as a glance - his attention was still on me, as it had been for the last few minutes. Although it was fair burning my eyes to look him in the face, I knew from my teachings that this offered me the best chance of survival. The priests had learned through trial and error, and apparently far fewer of their offerings were killed at first presentation now. The thought was far from comforting. The huge double doors clanged shut behind the priest and for a moment, Turel and I did but stare at one another. I knew I must wait for his command, but I was itching to do something so that I might see how difficult it would be to take him by surprise. His voice bisected my thoughts.
"Dance for me."
I nodded once. I had been fully prepared for this - this was how it always began, the odalisque would undertake a slow, undulating dance that combined rhythm and practice, whose various contortions were meant to demonstrate the woman's flexibility and skill. I had the routine down to perfection, and pulled it off without a hitch, despite the trembling in my limbs and the fear that sat like a cold lump in the pit of my stomach. I finished in a position of invitation, standing upright, legs crossed one before the other, arms outstretched, head down, eyes up.
Apparently there was as much to the dance as the priests had hinted, for Turel rose almost immediately from his carven throne, and stood watching me balefully. Shortly, he drew his robe open at the chest, slid it from his shoulders and allowed it to fall with a quiet hiss of heavily embroidered cloth to the waiting floor. My heart skipped a beat as I understood with some finality that this was real. There was no turning back now - what I had instigated, I must see through to the end. As he drew near, and I saw him for the first time close-up in the light, I understood in that one crystal-clear moment what it was to be of their kind, and why it was that he inspired such fear, such hatred.
With his robe gone, his chest was laid bare. The skin was a dirty grey that was semi-translucent, and stretched so tight over his frame that it shone with tension. Beneath the torpid surface, the many-branched veins throbbed and pulsed with stolen life, and I found myself wondering regretfully how many had died through the centuries to keep this parasite alive; the blood of how many poor damned souls invigorated the bloated arteries, drove the overgrown muscles. Too many. As he moved to stand before me, I looked at last at his face and saw straight into the eyes of Hell. Through the gold-tinged irises I glimpsed a tortured soul forced into a shell of evil; rotten to the core from all the foul deeds it had accomplished since its unholy rebirth. Somewhere in those blazing orbits, the knowledge of what he was damned him incessantly, but the beast within had dominance. The eyes themselves were set deep into the head, giving the impression that the ridged forehead protruded. The cheeks were sunken, and no extraneous flesh clung to the bones of his features, while his chin, cleft and cleft again, stuck out in a permanent display of belligerence. Turel was ugly. Just being this close to him filled my head with images of bloated bodies washed up on the riverside, their lifeblood replaced with the swelling waters; of malformed animals, and of murdered babies.
I almost lost control as he seized me by the waist and hauled me against him, his breath reminiscent of the air that escapes from a drowned corpse when it is pierced, cold and wet and infinitely putrid. And worse, he stank of blood. I had once come across a fellow slave who had come to misadventure with one of the rolling mills in the pits - he had been pulped like the paper he had spent his whole life producing. The priests had had us scrub him off the rollers like any other stain, and I had almost fainted from the stench of flattened organs, of leaking marrow, but most of all from the all-pervading salt-acid stench of blood. Now, as Turel's breath wafted against my face, I felt my gorge rise. Knowing that what I did next would determine whether I lived or died, I swallowed against the bile in my throat, quelled every ounce of hatred that had somehow gathered itself into a tight knot in my chest, and smiled sweetly at him. It is not an uncommon trait amongst us humans - especially us women, as we are sometimes the most adept at hiding our true feelings - to play at compliance. While my outer self projected wanton desire, my inner self was busy tearing out a symbolic Turel's eyes and stabbing him repeatedly in the head with his own sword. What two-faced creatures we all are, at heart . . . and so I allowed myself to be drawn back towards his throne, where he seated himself comfortably and settled me on his lap.
The human mind has ways of dealing with events that disturb or unnerve it, and will often bury unpleasant or potentially damaging memories beneath layers of defensive strata, sometimes never to be retrieved until some key event sparks the memory recall process. I am glad to say that the long minutes I spent on that throne with the Lord of the Turelim is a back spot. I thank my Gods for that. I remember nothing but the odd fact that he was strangely obsessed with my hair - it was not until much later that I found out why. My memories now start at the instant I decided I was going to try for the knife. From the information my mysterious visitor had imparted to me when I received it from him, the blade had been dipped in some substance lethal to vampirekind. Otherwise such as I would have no hope of ending so ancient and powerful a creature's existence in what could easily turn into a contest of steel, no matter how relaxed and subdued the intended victim. All I had to do, according to my guide, was to get the blade into his heart - this would ensure that the toxin was distributed throughout his system with sufficient speed to allow me chance to escape. If I missed the heart, his life would still be ended, but possibly not before he had ended mine into the bargain. I had, as a consequence, spent sufficient time familiarising myself with certain chapters in my lesson-books on vampire anatomy, and was almost certain I could hit the required organ first time.
Seeing that the vampire's attention was firmly held elsewhere, and that my loosened hair fortuitously hid most of my actions from his view, buried as he was in its silken depths, I began to move my clothing about to see if the rustling would disturb him. Not a bit. Presently, the knife slid from its concealment within the folds of my skirt, and I deadened the impact of any betraying noises with a melodramatic sigh, instantly fearing that my pretence was showing. He showed no signs of alarm, and so I continued to bring the weapon closer.
In times of desperation, I have often found that I have reserves of strength otherwise undreamed-of, both mental and physical - how else can I explain my lengthy life-span? It was this reserve that enabled me now to reach out and caress the cold skin of the vampire's cheek, applying gentle pressure to get him to turn his head just a little further to the left so that I had a clear path to his chest. Turel seemed happy enough to comply, and though my hand felt as though it were pressed against something vile and unnatural, like an animal bladder stuffed with slugs and leeches, I managed to retain my composure, and keep him distracted until I was certain my one-shot aim would be true.
With the phrase 'for humanity' ringing in my head, I drove the blade hilt- deep into cold, unyielding flesh, until I felt it grate on bone.
My mission was accomplished. Our blow had been struck.
