There are moments that define who and what we are; moments that shape our lives, our futures, our very beings. It is said, in fact, that it is in the times of deepest strife that we truly find ourselves - and that one interminable instant of indecision, eked out over seconds that seemed like centuries, was one such moment. What these men did next – these ragged, rotten remnants of men - was to dictate my very nature for the next thousand violent and bloody years of my life.
I knew that I had made a dangerous gamble. Until today, I had relied upon the tainted physiology of malnourished peasants: deceptively easy to create, and as quick to revolt in death as they had been in life. Now I had base material from different stock, hardy and resilient, and with the potential to be the most loyal and deadly of servants: but therein lay the problem. They were an unknown quantity. Would any inkling of their Sarafan selves remain in those withered brains, like fragments of faded graffiti on crumbling temple walls? Would a long-dormant spark of honour or allegiance send them crashing against my weakened form like a wave of justice from beyond the grave? Or would the Thirst awaken a mindless hunger in them in the form of a need for violence and bloodshed? Even if these were empty vessels that knew nothing of their former lives, nor the nature nor alignment of their former personalities, still they could be my undoing. It all hinged on that one, pivotal moment.
'Kneel.' I had ordered, and every ounce of my pride, my determination and my vanity was invested in that one word. 'Kneel.' Even as I said it, I envisioned them genuflecting before me, and I willed that vision to become a reality. They stared back at me, the faintest glimmer of purgatorial flames reddening their blank eye sockets. Faces creased in concentration as the concept of language was once again impressed upon them. They had all been soldiers, I reasoned; they had all been accustomed to following orders – it was merely a matter of reminding them of the niceties of obedience.
'Kneel.' This time, I cursed silently as the trembling that wracked my limbs approached the point of no control. The loss of blood I had endured could not possibly be balanced out by the life-force of the lone human I had drained, and already his meagre donation ebbed from my veins. Time was short, and the six would not be put off by my words for much longer. It occurred to me then in a moment of distraction and confusion that the air
itself stank of death, and I began to wonder if it was my own. It was then that I saw that two or three of the death-dealing instruments I had raised had ceased their advance, and were standing still, with their heads cocked to one side as though listening. I tensed my muscles to hide the palsied shaking, and strove to summon strength from an untouched reservoir of will. There I plumbed the depths of my belief in my own superiority.
'Kneel.'
At last the rearmost three sank slowly to the ground; unsteady but deliberate, they bent their knees and showed subservience to me. I glared at another of the revenants and spoke the word again, clear as crystal, but this time backed up with my full conviction in what I wished of him. He too sank down on one knee, his face registering a little confusion, as though his actions were something of a surprise to him. The fifth followed suit in short order, apparently not wishing to be the odd one out, and singled out as the anarchist of the group. I nodded my approval. Now only one remained standing, his skeletal frame drawn proudly erect, his head raised in continued rebuttal of my attempted mastery. I could but wonder what kind of man he had been; what deeds of valour he had accomplished; what luminaries of my race he had slaughtered. That this creature had led before I did not doubt; his tomb had been grand, his name and title carved in bold relief on heavy brass; his sarcophagus dotted with bronze ornamentation; and now here was further proof of his station. While his cohorts knelt in cowed deference behind him, he stood upright, prepared to face me as an equal.
It was not to be.
I guessed that it might be necessary to adopt a different tactic to hold sway over this one, and I approached him with as much confidence as my shaking stride would allow. I reached out to him and clasped his shoulder in a grip which, though enfeebled by my standards, could easily have crushed bone. The flesh was cold - even to my touch, and the chill of the grave clung to him like a second skin. Beneath the leathern hide, sinews and tendons twisted uneasily, like old rope under sailcloth drawn taut by a storm, and I wondered if he could even feel my hand upon him. I altered my tone, lowering the timbre and likening it to that of a well-respected teacher asking a favour.
"Kneel for me."
The brows knitted together, and the lipless mouth, drawn open against the teeth in a posthumous grimace loosed a hiss of air. The jaw muscles spasmed beneath skin so pale it was almost translucent. The creature made several jerky movements with his arms, each one the start of a classic Sarafan offensive move, but eventually, the furrows in the brow lightened, and a sort of understanding seemed to dawn. The message had been understood. The first-born of my new children dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed his head, the patchy, lank hair falling in twin curves to brush the bloodstained floor. His reawakened brethren did likewise at this signal, and I spent a long moment surveying the scene in satisfaction and relief. I had prevailed.
It was then that it struck me: this behaviour was not new. It was obvious to me as I observed their interaction that these resurrected creatures had operated in a group before, with the foremost as their leader. I had assumed that the tomb had been populated over the course of several years, the next to die in glory being sent to some other catacomb when this was filled - but I sensed now that I was wrong. They were already a tight-knit unit, and had likely fought and died together: so much the better for my purposes that they were already a well-trained and cohesive band. True, they had been harder to tame than the common stock I was used to, but that in itself augured well for their likely ferocity and longevity. Although they looked less than intimidating now, with their tattered rainment and their wasted limbs, soon they would be restored; the world would feel their presence as they did my bidding, and all would tremble at the sound of my name.
Since I had desecrated and despoiled my own mansion house and could no longer return there, I was left with something of a quandary as to where to stay. I was not about to request sanctuary from Vorador, and the list of my remaining allies - now that I had eradicated my own kin - was short indeed. Again I was reminded of the error I had made in the past in building on the work of others, and so I decided to start afresh - after all, I now had a rank of tireless devotees at my beck and call. We would start from the
ground up.
It was with a feeling of immense pride that I led those long-dead warriors out from beneath the dank earth to the dark splendour of the Nosgothic night. They followed behind me with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, and I wondered how the world had changed since they had been laid to rest. Still deprived of full vision, they stumbled between the stunted trees, relying on their newborn vampiric instincts to guide them in my wake. In those first hours, the Thirst is a searing brand that burns to the core of one's very being. It is a brand I remember only too well - even now, and it drove them to base behaviour that would be a cause of embarrassment and ridicule to them for years to come. I curled my lip half in disgust, half in amusement as they snared rodents and vermin and small nocturnal prey from the bowels of the wood, and devoured them whole - only to retch up chunks of flesh and hair that they could no longer digest. Despite their folly, the effect of the blood was abundantly clear; already one or two had regained their sight, the eyeballs reforming in the bare sockets like plump mushrooms blooming under midnight skies, and glistening with dew.
We took up the march, and from time to time I glanced across at them when the moonlight glinted brightly from their armour, still more or less intact in stark contrast to their clothing and skin. As the miles wore on, the disciplined marching seemed to be awakening old memories, drilled deep into their psyches from years of training. Every so often, they would shake their heads and abruptly attempt to correct their strides, and I have to admit the sight amused me; stumbling corpses attempting parade. At length, as I called a brief halt, the foremost turned to the others and waved two to the back. Another he dragged bodily forward by the epaulettes, and he continued to rearrange them until he appeared satisfied with the formation.
I nodded my approval as the troop moved forward in a more orderly fashion. Already I was impressed with their rate of recovery and the initiative and cohesion they showed. I had indeed chosen well.
We wandered on through the night, looking for a likely spot to make base, until at last the thicketed woods opened onto a clearing. Moonlight lanced between secretive clouds and picked out highlights in the metal embossed onto the surfaces of the Pillars of Nosgoth, and my shoulders slumped. There were no natural caverns nearby in which to seek safety from the dawn, and the likelihood of finding vampiric allies in this region was remote to say the least. I was about to lead my blind, shuffling party onwards when a new thought struck me. I hastened to ascend to the rounded platform in the centre of the circle and I began to look around, imagining walls and hallways and vaulted roofs above the broken stumps of the Pillars. I laughed aloud, and the sound of pure malice echoed through the deserted ruins. Here, on this scene of ultimate corruption, at the very crux of my madness, I would plant the seeds of my empire.
Meanwhile, my newborns stood dazed before the broken grandeur of the Pillars, milling around uneasily as though lost, or beset by some superstitious fear.
I called them to attention and informed them: "Here we will make Sanctuary."
"When the underworld freezes over!" The rude interruption came from an armoured knight bearing the sigil of my ancient nemesis, who strode into the clearing with a small group of likewise armed companions.
I smiled grimly at him. "Today is a cold day in Hell."
"This is holy ground, vampire, you'll not ..." he broke off as his poor eyesight finally enabled him to recognize me. "You! To arms men, it's the parasite himself, the carrier of the disease!"
I recognized this zealot at once. He had been among those who had conspired with my treacherous kin to murder me. His comment about 'healing deconsecrated flesh' echoed in my mind and I laughed openly at him once again. It felt good.
"Surrender to us now and we will give you absolution before you die." The knight was hunched before me, a broad sabre clutched in a two-handed grip. I could smell the sweat and the fear on him from ten yards away.
"Does it not trouble you that the leader of your cause is no more?" I asked, watching his reactions closely. "What reason have you to carry on his fight without him?"
"He may be slain, but his memory remains. Everything he stood for is embodied in our Code, and as such he is never truly gone." The knight recited the words as though reading from a script. Despite the lack of emotion in his delivery, I ground my teeth and snarled. The last thing I wished now was to be reminded that the remnants of the Sarafan Lord's empire still thrived.
"Faugh! What foulness have you dredged up now?" he demanded, indicating my hollow-eyed childer, "Your progeny betray your failing strength, leech - they look half dead!'
I leaned back against the Pillar of Time and folded my arms. "Until an hour ago, they were dead."
The knight spat scornfully at the ground at my feet, giving my new recruits one final appraisal before his face paled to a shade lighter than that of bleached paper, and crumpled in disbelief.
"I know that armour ..." his voice was a whisper, while his eyes goggled as he perceived the depths of my blasphemy. "Monster! They were Saraf..." he never finished his sentence. I tore out his throat before my newborns could hear. I let the moments tick by in silence: had they heard? Did they now comprehend the extent of my sacrilege? More importantly, if they did, with whom would they side in the inevitable clash? Wasting no time, and with every ounce of will I could summon, I urged them to battle.
"Tear out their hearts!"
There is nothing quite as invigorating as watching a fledgling's first taste of battle. They are more agile than even they realize, and this often catches them unawares. However, their raw hunger for blood more than compensates for any puerile acrobatics they perform, and the knights, though fully armoured and well-trained in dispatching my kind, had not a chance in hell. Since I had not had time to find them weaponry, they were forced to resort to their claws and teeth – not that they would have used any other means, even had they been available. I remember those feelings well. The Thirst is an insidious drive, quite unlike any other, and nothing will satisfy but the sensation of soft enemy flesh rending under bright, new claws. I watched as the nearest tore off his victim's armour in a series of frantic tugs, and I was reminded of an overexcited child opening a giftwrapped present. His movements were almost clumsy as he stabbed his talons into the man's chest and raked open the abdomen, then burying his face in the resulting morass. Presently, another came and knelt before me, his face liberally smeared with blood, his expression eager. He offered me a heart on bended limb in a literal display of obedience. I took it from him with an approving smile and feasted on it before my new warriors' fervent gaze, further confirming the relationship of Master and subjects.
At my word, they fell to feeding again, their natural instincts as well as my own inherited Thirst propelling and guiding their every move. Presently they rose again, the stench of exposed innards drifting rank and sweet on the warm night breeze. Already they had begun to change physically: the skin had lost its leathery, wrinkled appearance, and the semblance of flesh and muscle was starting to appear beneath. Several of them now had eyes, and these shone bright gold in the moonlight. Presently, my own gaze was drawn to the first-raised of my childer where he stood to one side in deep concentration. As I watched, he clenched his fists and stared mesmerized as the claws split his skin and spilled blood. He seemed confused, and I could hardly blame him. It is something of a shock when, for the first time, your wounds heal instantaneously, and the deepest cut causes only minor annoyance. One soon gets used to it.
With his hands still dripping precious blood at the base of the Pillars, he turned his questioning gaze on me and asked, "Who am I, Lord?"
