Chapter Two:
Journey to the Stronghold
Lucas stared out the entrance of the tent, sitting on his makeshift bed with his knees drawn up and his arms around them. He rested his head on his kneecaps, with his wet cheeks and puffy, bloodshot eyes that threatened with new tears at any moment. He was alone now—his worse fear had come to pass. And what did he have for comfort? Why, nothing but an unfamiliar tent, and a strange, half-armored, bald man trying to talk to him.
Melchiah was indeed only half-armored—he'd taken the torso piece of his suit off because of the sun, and of course, the weight. It lay next to the stool he'd brought in to sit on next to Lucas' bed. Lucas himself had been staring out of the tent's entrance since he'd brought him back here, and yet his eyes were unfocused, as though he were staring out at something too far off for normal eyes to see. The boy's condition worried Melchiah, but only moderately. This wasn't the first time he'd comforted a grieving child.
"Do you have any family?" Melchiah asked softly. His gentleness was often surprising to those who saw him work in situations like this, particularly when considering his lifestyle. "Any one at all that might take you in?"
Lucas shook his head slowly. That, or a nod, was the best response Melchiah had been able to get out of him since discovering his parents were dead.
"No one? No aunts or uncles?" Melchiah asked again. "Even someone far away. Perhaps in, say, Coorhagen, or Willendorf…"
Lucas shook his head again. Mentally, he wondered if Melchiah were dense, or if he enjoyed repeating himself.
The Sarafan sighed and leaned back slightly, looking at Lucas sadly. "There's no help for it, then," he mumbled to himself, "You'll be coming back with us."
"Who will be coming with us?" someone asked outside. A man in green armor underclothes but, like Melchiah, missing his helmet and torso piece, walked in. he looked from Melchiah, then to Lucas, and then backed to Melchiah. He gestured to the boy. "Is that him?" he asked.
Melchiah nodded. "He says his name's Lucas," he informed the other, "He also says he has no other family."
The other Sarafan sighed. "You're right, then," he mumbled, "He'll be coming to the stronghold." He looked at Lucas, and then walked to the foot of his bed. "I know things look bad now, lad," he said, "but they won't always. The world will be a beautiful place again someday, you'll see."
Lucas remained silent, but did look up at the man, his eyes losing some of their glazed-over look as he did so. The man watched him a moment, then turned to leave. Just as he was about to depart, the boy's voice caught him—amazingly strong and valiant. "What's your name, sir?"
Surprised, the man turned back around, looked at Lucas, then back at Melchiah. Melchiah, who seemed equally stunned, only shrugged and gestured back to Lucas. The man shook his head and looked back. "Turel," he said finally.
"Have you ever been lost and alone before, Sir Turel?" Lucas asked.
Turel's brow darkened slightly. "Yes," he said, "but I found peace again."
"How?" Lucas quarried.
"I became a Sarafan," Turel responded. He then looked back to Melchiah. "Lord Malek arrived to finish the cleanup. People have begun to move back into their homes, and we will be breaking camp shortly." He paused, glanced at Lucas, and then looked back. "He says to prepare the boy as well. He'll be with you."
Melchiah nodded, and Turel then left.
Lucas watched him go, and then looked to Melchiah. Melchiah looked back at him, sighed, then stood up and began putting his armor back on. Lucas turned back to the entrance and resumed his previous task of staring into space.
Lucas didn't become aware of the world around him for another two hours, when Melchiah, now wearing his horned helmet and carrying a pike on his back, walked in with a bald-headed woman who was dressed like a some kind of monk the boy thought. When he did become aware, however, one of the things he became aware of was the fact his head still felt like it would split in two.
"He'll be Azalea's when we get to the stronghold," Melchiah was saying, "But for now, I'm in charge of him. If we are attacked, however, I will be needed at my brothers' sides…"
"Fear not, brother," the woman said, "I'll watch him, should we be attacked."
Melchiah nodded. "Thank you, sister," he said, and the woman left.
"Attacked?" Lucas asked, his wide eyes revealing his concern much better than his still eerily clear voice.
"I see you've come around again," Melchiah said. "It is only a precaution. We are Sarafan, and there will be many of us—only a vampire bent on suicide would dare such a thing. But there's no need to take the risk." He extended a gauntleted hand out to Lucas. "Can you walk, Lucas?"
For a moment, the boy didn't respond. Melchiah was about to go over and pick him up, thinking he'd disappeared into himself again, when Lucas began to climb out of bed by himself. "I…think so," he said, but as soon as he tried to stand, he sat right back down again, groaning.
"Vertigo?" Melchiah asked as he walked over.
"Wha…what?" Lucas mumbled, holding his head.
"Did your head spin when you tried to stand?" Melchiah asked, defining the word for him.
Lucas nodded. "And my legs are tingling, too," he muttered.
"The head is from your concussion," Melchiah said, picking the boy up with both arms. "And the legs are from sitting like that all day. You cut the circulation off to them, and they went to sleep." Lucas didn't respond.
Outside of the tent, a lightly armored horse waited. Most of the tents from earlier were down now, not that there were many to begin with, and only Sarafan is armor less individualized than that of the six Lucas had met so far, as well as more bald monk-women, were left in the area. In the distance, he could see large bon fires burning-why was something he hadn't the will, or wish, to reflect on. Behind them, he could hear someone already starting to work on taking down his own tent.
"We will be leaving soon," Melchiah was saying. Lucas brought his attention back to the Sarafan who carried him. "I have to help with a few other tasks first. In the mean time, my horse should make adequate company so long as you don't spoke her."
"Won't you be ridding?" Lucas asked, his tone making the question the first, child-like thing he'd said all day.
Melchiah shook his head. "You need to rest," he said, "and that means no walking. And sadly, what few wagons we brought don't have enough room for another passenger. But you may ride with me, if you like."
As the Sarafan began to walk off, Lucas stared after him for a time. Just as it seemed he'd stay where he was until forced to move the horse, he turned her head around and followed Melchiah. The mare's long strides quickly caught up to him.
"That's more like it," Melchiah said, looking up at Lucas. The boy couldn't tell for the helm, but he guessed that Melchiah might have been smiling under it by his tone. And yet, it was hard to imagine anything able to wear that thing that could also smile. "You may make it through this yet, won't you, Lucas?"
The boy shrugged just as Zephon, wearing his own full armor now, approached them. "Raziel sends word that we are almost ready to mount up, and that Lord Malek has already moved ahead with the first group." Zephon stopped and looked up at Lucas, then back at Melchiah. "You gave him your horse?" he asked in a surprised tone.
"He certainly couldn't walk," Melchiah replied rationally.
Zephon looked at Lucas, his horse, and then at Melchiah. "No wonder you get stuck with all these soft jobs, you Gyp," he scoffed, "You are too soft to say 'no'." He then proceeded to turn and leave, shaking his head as he did so.
The boy would've thought Melchiah would be angry, as Zephon's word were certainly very unkind even without considering his tone, but he was surprised when the man laughed. "Oh, Zephon," Melchiah said, shaking his head and still chuckling to himself, "Old habits die so hard…Come, Lucas, we're needed elsewhere."
By the time the company was on the road, the sun had grown low in the sky. It filled Lucas with dread to think he would be out here in the night, alone as he was, but he saw that he had no choice. It was go with the Sarafan, or return to Ziegsturhl to find a job as a servant boy, or, worse, a gravedigger. A cemetery was a terrifying place to the eight-year-old mind, and a servant boy was treated more like a misbehaving dog than a human. He'd much rather take his chances with his rescuers than with either of those fates.
But that didn't mean he was any more outward. The loss of his family, his entire life in fact, still weighed very heavily on the boy's heart. Sarafan or no Sarafan, he'd never felt so alone in all his young life, and had never been more afraid of the unknown. Still, Lucas was a Nosgothic peasant boy, and if any child knew how to survive the unsurvivable, he did. It just wouldn't be easy…Nor, he doubted, would it be pleasant.
They'd been walking along for perhaps thirty minutes when Melchiah couldn't stand it anymore. He'd been walking beside Lucas' since they'd left, and hadn't ventured far from his side through out the entire course of the day. True, the boy had lost his family, but moping forever wouldn't change that. He needed to realize that he was not the only orphan in the world.
"Lucas," Melchiah said. He looked up at the boy, saw that he still didn't have his attention, and so shook his leg for the added effect. "Lucas," he repeated. The boy finally shook his head a bit as he pulled it out of whatever land he'd been visiting, and looked at Melchiah. "There you are," the Sarafan said, "Did you hear what Zephon called me earlier? When he asked about you riding my horse?"
Lucas thought a moment, and then nodded. "A gyp," he said softly. Melchiah nodded.
"Gyp is short for gypsy," he said, "Gypsies are not the most favorable people in the world, and so it is an insult, mostly, to call someone a gyp. But I am the exception rather than the rule because, unlike most people, I am a gypsy."
Just as Melchiah had suspected, this caught the boy's interest, and for the first time since discovering his parents' demise, he seemed interest in something other than staring. "But you're a Sarafan," he said, the child-like manor creeping back into his voice, "How can you be both things at once?"
"Very easily," Melchiah replied, "At least, it is for me. You see, Lucas, you and I are more alike than you know…Just like you, I, too, was orphaned by a vampire attack…"
The day was bright, warm, and sunny—very typical of a Nosgoth spring. The gypsy camp had settled for the time being near the edge of the Termogent Forest to send the annual group of young men to the vampire Vorador, as were the gypsies' ways. Ever since vampires had began to flourish so, gypsies had made easy pray due to their roaming habits. Rather than give this lifestyle up, they instead made a deal with various vampire lords and ladies in order to leave them be. This particular band had made their deal with Vorador, long before the birth of their current leader, Aralim, was even a glimmer in the spokes of the Wheel of Fate. The arrangement was very simple: every spring, all of the band's strong, young men would journey through the Termogent, alone, to Vorador's exquisite mansion, where they would remain until mid autumn or even early winter. When they returned, they would occasionally be minus one or two of those who left, but that was better than the alternative of complete destruction.
And so they camped, preparing to send the men into the swamps and trees of the vampire's that night. As usual, many of the camp's men would be lost to this endeavor until winter. Aralim himself, while always expressing his wishes to go with the others, could no longer make the journey, as a fight with a bandit a year or so back had condemned him to a cane for the rest of his years. It was tradition to send the next male in his line in place of him, but Aralim's young son, Melchiah, was still far too young to be sent into the den of vampires.
Not everyone was very willing to go into the obvious danger, either. Melchiah, despite being only about as old as Lucas would be at the time of his own parents demise, was practicing knife throwing outside of his parents tent the last afternoon he had with them. Knife throwing was an art that was expected to be mastered by all gypsy men, and encouraged to be learned by women. He was interrupted by the sounds of raised voice from his family's tent. Curious, as all young boys are, he stopped throwing blades and squatted down just outside the entrance to listen.
"We can fight them!" a voice was saying. Melchiah knew that voice. It was Jeremy, one of the men to depart that night, who was also very vocal in his protests concerning the matter of practically enslaving himself to vampires for a few seasons. "We don't need to practically sell ourselves to them for safety! We are gypsies! We are brave, and furious, and no one in their right mind dare tangle with us for fear of losing their limbs! Why do these…these vermin need be any different?"
"Because these vermin, as you so elegantly put it," Melchiah's father, Aralim, was saying calmly, "Pray upon humans. And though we are gypsies, Jeremy, we are still human, and because we are also traveling outcasts from the societies of lands like Coorhagen and Willendorf, we are also easy prey for hungry vampires. This is our own method of assured safety."
"Safety!" Jeremy exclaimed, outraged, "We lose two or three men a year to those monsters!"
"Two or three a year is better than five or six a month," Aralim said, "I'd rather send our men into the depths of Termogent Forest then fear for my child's safety as he plays at dusk…"
"But we can fight them!" Jeremy insisted.
"Enough!" Aralim's patients had worn through. "I will not hear another word of fighting vampires! You will go into the forest tonight with the other men, and you will return in the autumn if you don't anger any vampires, and that will be the end of it! Good day, Jeremy!"
There was a pause. Melchiah pressed his ear more firmly against the tent's fabric, listening intently. Suddenly the sounds of someone walking towards him came to him, and he only barely got out of the way before Jeremy threw open the tent's door. Jeremy paused and scowled down at Melchiah. He wore very typical gypsy attire: red, long sleeve shirt and dark pants. His hair was black and slicked back, his green eyes bore down into Melchiah. The young boy gulped a bit, and then stood; ready for whatever it was Jeremy was going to spit at him.
At least, he thought he was. What Jeremy did say actually took him by surprise. "You're father is a coward," he informed Melchiah, "And if you can find pride in that, you are far more resourceful than I." With that, he walked past Melchiah and away from the tent.
Melchiah stood frozen for a few minutes, shocked, then walked to where he could peer into the tent. Inside, he saw his father, Aralim, sitting in a chair with his cane leaning against him. His bum left leg was stretched out before him, and he held his balding head in his hands, oblivious to his son's presence. Melchiah watched him a moment, still gripping one of his throwing knives, then walked inside. "Poppa?" he said quietly.
Aralim looked up. For an instant he looked old, far older than he actually was, then he smiled at his son. "Yes, Melchiah?"
"Why is Jeremy angry at you?" he asked.
Aralim considered, sighed, then sat up and patted his lap. Melchiah set his knife down on the floor as though it were another one of his toys rather than a weapon, and then climbed into his father's lap. "He's not angry, Melchiah," Aralim explained, "Rather, he's afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Melchiah asked innocently.
"The unknown," Aralim replied, "and of death. He's afraid that he's going to die."
"But everyone dies," Melchiah stated.
"That's very true," Aralim said, "but not everyone wants to die."
"But, Poppa, I thought it was an honor to go," Melchiah asked, still confused.
Aralim sighed and hugged his son tightly. "You'll understand when you're older, my child," he said, "Now go and play. I'll see you back here in few hours to bid the men farewell."
The departure went as planned. Many tears were shed, but for the most part nothing unexpected happened. Jeremy was still sour, Melchiah noted, and stayed quiet during the entire process, occasionally shooting Aralim hatful stares. When at last they were off into the woods, he seemed rather glad for it, as though he had important business to attend to elsewhere.
There was food, drink, and dance after that. They danced into the night, sang, and drank their draughts deeply. Aralim played a lyre with the band, while Melchiah asked a pretty little blonde girl his age to dance with him. When at last the gypsies dispersed to their tents, it was with full bellies and light hearts. It was one of the happiest nights of Melchiah's life, he told Lucas. Ironic, considering how it ended.
The sun was merely an hour or so from breaking through the horizon when the first scream awoke the camp. Sleepy, startled, and confused, many men and women exited their tents to see what the commotion was about. Aralim and his wife were amongst those to look out. Melchiah knew this because the screams that greeted what they saw woke him, and he saw them standing there moments before his mother fainted. Startled, he rushed to his parents' sides, and then stared in horror at the site.
Vorador himself stood in the shadows of their camp, his normally yellow eyes a deep red with fury and hunger. In one hand was his long, serpentine sword drawn and bloody, while in the other was the head of Jeremy, the man who'd had no wish or will to go to the vampire's mansion, his face frozen in a look of horror. Melchiah stared at the head and Vorador, unable to wrench his head away from the seen as the old vampire took his sword and pointed it directly at his father.
"You," he said accusingly, "I ask for servants and guards from you. Nothing more. They need not be skilled, or wise, or even stay as most of mine do…they need only know respect and fear of my kind and me. But what do you send me? Not servants, but hunters! Fools! Ignoramuses!" Vorador held Jeremy's head high for all the camp to see. "This one killed one of my brides! He has paid for his crime, as has his party! And you, Aralim, have betrayed the pact between your band and I!"
Vorador finally paused, and Melchiah remembered being thankful for that brief moment of silence-at least, until the vampire threw the head of Jeremy. It hit the ground and bounced once, then rolled three or four feet, stopping at Melchiah's feet. Melchiah looked down at the head, and one look into his glazed, dead eyes was all it took to make the boy yelp and jump. He jerked his head away from the eyes and then he saw them. Dozens of vampires had surrounded the camp while Vorador had been talking and now there were everywhere, their yellow eyes glaring down at them and many with smug little smirks on their faces. It didn't take Melchiah long to figure out what would make a vampire smile. He felt the blood run out of his face as he looked back at Vorador and saw the old vampire staring at them all.
"Your camp is no longer under my protection," he proclaimed. With that, he raised his sword up and pointed it at the camp. A signal if Melchiah ever saw one. In a sheer matter of moments the vampires were upon them, maiming…killing…feeding. It was a massacre. A few tried to defend themselves, but most were recovering from the events of the night, and perhaps even still a little tipsy. Easy pickings. Melchiah shrieked and clutched to his father's side, but then something horrible happened. Something that Melchiah would never forget.
His father pried Melchiah off of him, and shoved him away. Melchiah tripped and fell, and stared up at his father with hurt, tearful eyes. Aralim wasn't looking at him, though. He was looking over him.
"Don't touch him!" he yelled furiously, "Jeremy acted of his own will, not of mine! Don't your dare take your vengeance out on my son!"
Melchiah looked behind him and saw Vorador, sword raised and arm outstretched for blood intake, above him. He had just long enough to think, Dear God, I'm about to die when his father, lame leg and all, yelled at the vampire and lunged at him over Melchiah. The act took Vorador by surprise, and knocked him on the ground, giving Aralim the opportunity to yell at his son, "Run, damnit! Run, run!"
He didn't wait to see what happened next.
Everything was a blur after that. Melchiah remembered running through the camp, seeing the dead, the dying, and their killers. Vampires overran the entire camp and even in his adult years he wondered how he escaped alive. He ran for what felt like forever, but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, before he hit the mountain range that had sandwiched his band against the Termogent. He began to climb. By that time the first rays of morning were breaking out of the mountains, and Melchiah could see very well how to climb without mishap. Eventually he found a cave, empty for years except for leaves and small animals, and he hide inside it as far back as he could. He sat down in the back and curled up in a fetal position, panting, and staring wide-eyed out of the cave entrance, waited for his father to come and get him. Or his mother. Or a stranger. Anyone. Anyone but a vampire.
The day past. The night came. Melchiah didn't dare move. His mouth grew parched. His stomach growled. Days and nights passed. Even when his muscles cramped for laying in a fetal position for so long, he dared not move, and when he finally did try to uncurl he found his body was too weak to do so. He thought about what had happened to his band, and to his parents. He thought about what was probably going to happen to him. Melchiah lost count of the days, and grew weaker. He eventually could not tell the difference between night and day, as he spent most of his time unconscious. His vision blurred, and his hearing dulled. He accepted the inevitable: he was going to die, scared, cold, hungry, and alone in that cave.
He woke up to distant voices in the dark. He thought they were the voices of angels, and his time had finally come. He heard people walk into his cave, and someone yell, "We found him! Over here!" Someone in cold armor picked him up, causing him to moan as his poor, weak body was finally forced to uncurl itself. The man carried him out of the cave, and he felt the breeze briefly before being passed to warmer hands and wrapped in a blanket. Somehow, against all the odds, Melchiah had survived.
Lucas stared at Melchiah in wide-eyed, little boy interest. The sun had set long ago, and the boy hadn't even noticed—he was far to consumed in Melchiah's tale. The Sarafan himself had walked beside Lucas' horse during the entire ordeal, and now that he was done, he'd fallen silent.
"I don't understand," Lucas said suddenly. "How did they know?"
"Hmm?" Melchiah said distantly. He shook his head and looked at Lucas from under his helmet. "How did they know what?"
"Where to look for you? Because I don't think anyone survived the attack—did they?" Lucas said with his eyes still wide with interest and his face lit up. One look at that little boy's face made Melchiah smile slightly to himself—Lucas looked like the little boy he must've been two days ago, before his parents were killed in a situation all to familiar.
"No," Melchiah said casually, and looked ahead again as they marched. "No, no one survived. Do you think Vorador and his brood would actually leave perfectly good blood around to spoil?" Melchiah tried not to be shocked when Lucas laughed—actually laughed. "They knew where to look because of Lord Moebius."
"Lord who?" Lucas asked curiously.
"Moebius," Melchiah repeated, "The Time-Streamer. Do you know who the Circle of Nine is?" Lucas nodded.
"They're the Guardians of the Pillars, right?" Lucas said.
"That's right, son," Melchiah said, "And the Circle is who directs the Sarafan. Lord Moebius is the Guardian of the Time Pillar—he is particularly active in our operations."
"Home, ho!" someone, Raziel or possibly Turel, shouted from the front. Lucas turned his head to look ahead and was greeted by a massive stone fortress with great blue flags flying from its walls. Great wooden doors with metal bands were closed before them, but as they approached, the doors groaned and opened slowly to welcome home the returning warriors. On the walls, more armored men and bald-headed women in robes patrolled.
"Wow…" Lucas breathed.
Melchiah raised his pike to those on the wall, and they returned to gesture. "Welcome to the Sarafan Stronghold, my boy!" he exclaimed, "It isn't much, but it's home…And I think, if you give it a chance, it can be home to you as well."
Lucas smiled as he looked up at the flags before passing through the doors. "Yeah," he whispered, looking around. His parents' death, while still a fresh, terrible memory forever etched in his mind, seemed less painful in this great place, and he didn't feel so alone. "Home."
Author's Notes: Well, there it is, boys and girls…I'm not real satisfied with it, but if others like it, I like it. Hope the length didn't kill anyone (haha!). Constructive criticism welcome, of course. And now, the reviews…
Smoke: Thanks! I'm glad someone found it a little skooky… Anyway, I always thought Melchiah was the compassionate one, too, and I think that no matter what they've forgotten after being raised, they're still pretty much the same person they were with Raziel killed them. And yeah, word misuse…Sounds like my M.O. (har!)
Rikku142: I hope you think this chapter flows as well as the last. I don't, but I'm the most critical person of my work…That's why I don't have anything published, I guess. Spelling mistakes too? Hehe, also sounds like my M.O. Let me know what you think about this one, too, and thanks for your review.
Annonymous: That was among my thoughts when I started this. Surely they weren't all jerks…Surely they had lives, and stories, before Kain and (wraith) Raziel showed up. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
Cobra-kun: Why, thank you! (sniffs) That's one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to me…Are you steady with anyone? (j/k) It's wonderful to be able to write comedy, then turn around and write horror, but it's even better when the same people read both. Hope to see you this time around, too!
Well, there you have it…Please RR!