Memories
As always, when he walked through the fortress, Dumah couldn't help admiring the effort that had gone in to building this fortress in less than a decade. When he'd first arrived, this fortress had been barely begun, the foundations barely laid, a fence of wooden stakes protecting it from attack. And the soldiers were well equipped but ill trained, with even an attack by half a dozen bandits not easily repulsed. Such humble beginnings. His own status, at the time, had been humbler still. A mere bandit, exiled from Willendorf for accidentally crippling a fellow soldier during a sparring session. He'd joined a group of bandits called the Exiles, and quickly risen in their rankings. There were more than a thousand Exiles, all banished from various military organizations for offenses ranging from cowardice and treason to, in the case of one unfortunate soldier, breaking into laughter at the wrong moment. Anyone attempting to join after an offense of deliberate murder or rape was not tolerated. Since several of the exiles had belonged to elite units, or had been in charge of training recruits, the level of skill among the exiles often surpassed existing armies. When the King of Willendorf had feared their growing power and sent an army to attack them, it had been smashed. Most of the survivors had joined the exiles. After that, as long as they kept their level of banditry reasonable, they were left alone.
But then the vampires had arrived. An entire clan, led by an adult calling himself Turo. They had slowly insinuated themselves into the exiles until they controlled them. Anyone who objected had been murdered. And then they had been ordered to step up their ambushes, in order to feed the vampires. If a vampire was not sated, he merely killed one of the exiles. And then...
Dumah lay flat in his hiding place above the road. They'd received word that a small caravan escorting a diplomat would be passing on the road below, and Turo had decided it would be an excellent opportunity to give his three newest fledglings a chance to make their first kills. He was personally escorting the three fledglings, and, as always, whenever he left the camp he took the former leaders with him, unwilling to give them any chance to organize resistance. Turo assured him that if his clan sensed his death, they would start a slaughter back at the camp, so they could not kill him when he was alone.
After several hours of waiting, the travelers hadn't materialized. They were just about to leave when two guards and an old man carrying a quarterstaff walked down the road. Two guards! Two! Even before the vampires had stepped up the amount of attacks, no one had been stupid enough to travel this road with only two guards.
"Old fool." Turo remarked, laughing. He signaled the fledglings to attack.
They lunged. The guards saw them coming -and fled. The old man stood his ground, drawing his quarterstaff with eerie speed and swinging it at the first vampire. Dumah had seen this done before. A quarterstaff was a formidable weapon, easily capable of cracking a skull or a jaw. But he'd never seen it remove a head.
When they saw this, the other two tried to change direction mid leap. They crashed into each other and landed in a tangled heap on the ground. The old man drew a belt knife and removed their heads before they could rise.
Turo shrieked with rage "Kill him! Kill him!" The six humans warily advanced. He stood calmly, waiting. Possibly nobody but professional soldiers would have seen him tense. Then he moved. Turel barely batted aside a belt knife flung at his head. Zephon parried a wicked thrust intended to smash a kneecap, but the old man drew back before any of the others could capitalize on him being overextended. His speed was eerie, as though he was manipulating time itself. But he was fighting six well trained men, and he couldn't attack any one for long without one of the others stabbing him in the back. He was no immortal, though, and eventually made a mistake. attempting an overhead slash at Turel, who shoulder charged him before the blow could fall. The old man was knocked flat, and lost his grip on the quarterstaff. Dumah wasted no time in kicking it away. Again their quarry moved with unnatural speed for his age, but the six soldiers moved fast too, and as he rose to his knees he found six blades at his throat. Sighing, he raised empty hands.
"Good." Turo said, rising from his hiding place. "Old man, you cost me three valuable fledglings, and you shall rue their deaths. Bring him." They bound him hand and foot and kept blades at his throat for the entire return journey. Only once did he show distress. Turo tried to take his staff. Not the iron shod one he'd used to fight, but a decorative thing, adorned with an orb.
"Sir, you would not part an old man from his walking stick?"
"I saw what you can do with such a stick, old man."
"My name is Moebius. And that staff is a delicate thing, useless as a weapon. If I hit you with it, it would shatter. But it was a gift from ...a friend, and I do not wish to be parted from it in my last hours."
Turo considered. And, in a decision considered by the humans to be unfathomably foolish, he replied "Very well." And from that moment his fate was sealed.