Area 51: Nosferatu-8 (18 page)

Nosferatu had no idea what Aspasia's Shadow was referring to.

"He did take his revenge though," Aspasia's Shadow 149

said. "You asked about the other four Airlia who dwelt in the Roads. Vampyr killed them. They are dead in their tubes."

His father was dead. Nosferatu felt neither elation nor sadness. He thought back to his proud boast to Kajilil about there being a time for the Undead to rule. He looked at the creature across from him and realized this war would never end. Power was a dangerous thing. The only reason Aspasia's Shadow did not kill him was because he posed little threat. Nosferatu shook his head, trying to clear the flurry of thoughts that Aspasia's Shadow's words crowded into his mind.

Aspasia's Shadow mistook the gesture. "You do not believe me?"

"I believe you," Nosferatu said. "Vampyr vowed vengeance many years ago. I am surprised it took him so long."

"It took him so long because I stopped him all the times before," Aspasia's Shadow said.

"And why not this time?"

"I was tired. And I cannot be everywhere. Vampyr chose a time when the kingdom in Egypt was in disarray."

"Where is Vampyr now?"

"Not far away."

"Where?"

"To the south. He has spent the last two centuries fighting. Spilling blood.

And drinking it, of course. He revels in it. It keeps his mind from other things."

From the reality of being alone for centuries, Nosferatu thought. He realized that the three of them had that one thing very much in common.

"Why did you save me?" Nosferatu asked.

"I know where you can find Airlia blood. And you are free to take it if you can."

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"Where?"

Aspasia's Shadow pointed to his left. "China."

Nosferatu had never heard of the place. "And where is that?"

"To the east. Very far to the east. Farther than any here have ever traveled." Aspasia's Shadow leaned back in his seat and regarded Nosferatu with hooded eyes. "I will do you a favor, my Undead friend, if you will do one for me."

"And that is?"

"Kill Artad and his Kortad. You can have their blood."

"By myself?"

"No, you would need an army to do this. They are asleep, in a mountain tomb called Qian-Ling in the land called China."

Nosferatu spread his hands. "I have no army."

"Not to worry," Aspasia's Shadow said. "I've prepared one. And I've prepared their leader. He is but a boy now, but eventually, with my help, he will go far.

Perhaps he may even reach China."

"What is his name?"

"Alexander, son of Philip, from a small state north of here called Macedonia."

GREECE: 354 B.C.

Vampyr wrapped the cloth around his head, covering his skin and eyes. The material was blood-red and he could see through it in daylight, which was less than a half hour away. The effect was terrifying, but it did have its disadvantages. The warrior with the red face had become a legend in the area around Sparta, and sometimes Vampyr had a difficult time finding enemies to engage during battle.

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It had been a long march to Pylos. Wandering the camp at night and listening, Vampyr had learned that this expedition had nothing to do with politics. It was purely for economic reasons. The three lochoi were being rented out to another city-state, Pirgos, in conflict with Pylos.

Fighting for money.

Vampyr looked to the right of the three Spartan units. The local militia from Pirgos was forming in uneven ranks to help support what they had paid the Spartans to lead. In reality, Vampyr knew they were there to loot the city once the Spartans defeated their enemy.

Dawn was not far off and with it death. Vampyr could smell the fear in the air. Even from some of the Spartans, as well trained as they were in the art of logophobia—the discipline of conquering fear and controlling one's body—were giving off a palpable aura.

They had reason, of course, to be scared. Every battle hinged on uncertainty.

It was also not so much a matter of killing the enemy as breaking their spirit and these foes would be defending their homes and families, a circumstance that made for the most desperate fighting.

Overall, though, the Spartans were calm. Vampyr had gone through their training as an adult, a most unusual thing, as Spartan boys were sent from their homes to an agoge—training barracks—at age seven. He had been sponsored by one of the leading knights in the city after saving the man's life in battle and asking only this favor of him. On the first day some of the older boys had made fun of the man among them, but Vampyr had quelled that quickly and brutally by killing the leader of the bullies. In the strange way of the Spartans, he was not punished for doing so, but praised and accepted.

The training had been worth it. Despite his Airlia

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blood, Vampyr was still predominantly human and he had realized long ago that that part of his being required discipline and training in order to survive over the years.

The focus of Spartan training was more than just martial prowess. It encompassed the body and mind, with a specific emphasis on the science of fear.

Initially, the trainees were taught to control their muscles when every instinct they had screamed to do other than that which they were ordered to. They participated in exercises where they had to stand perfectly still and blindfolded while instructors walked among the ranks, unexpectedly striking out with a wooden stake. In this manner the muscles were disciplined against their natural fleeing instincts. A man thus trained held a great advantage in combat over one who did not possess this capability.

Looking out from the plain they were on, Vampyr could see the walled city of Pylos,which was their objective. The ground rose in a gentle slope up to the walls. Not favorable terrain for an assault.

Muffled orders were being issued and the lines were being formed. The Spartans would be out in front, the local Pirgosian militia sliding over to take a position behind them. Vampyr felt quite ready to spill some blood. He had not fed in over eight weeks while on the march. It was a deprivation he suffered deliberately to build his lust for the coming battle.

As the main line formed, a skirmish line of Rangers— Skiritai—began to move out on the flanks like the horns of a bull. Vampyr had seen this tactic used again and again, and it rarely failed to work. He knew the Spartan commander did not want to lay siege to the town. It would be time-consuming and difficult, requiring the construction of siege machines followed by a dangerous assault against a fortified position. Spartans fought best in the open ground.

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Vampyr took his place in the center of the Spartan line, directly behind the commander, Acton. It was lighter now, and even the humans around Vampyr could see the city and the men manning the walls. The sun's light was amplified by a red glow as the Skiritai began to set fire to the homes and businesses that surrounded the walled part of the city. Crops also began to burn. The people might be safe inside, but their homes and livelihoods were mostly outside and being destroyed while they watched.

It only took fifteen minutes, before the gates of the city swung open and the Pylosian troops poured through. There was no hesitation on Acton's part. He immediately gave the order to advance and the Spartans moved out into the field toward the city at a quick pace as the Pylosians tried to get into formation.

The Spartans were in perfect alignment as they moved, their spears held upright. If one stood to the side and looked along the line, it would appear as if there were only one spear at the end in each rank, so perfect was their training. In contrast, the spears of the first rank of Pylosian troops to form trembled and shook as if in a storm.

Vampyr could hear the Pylosian officers screaming commands, trying to get their men into proper formation. He knew it was already too late. The front rank of enemy troops could see the Spartans coming and began to shift without even realizing it, each man moving slightly to his right, trying to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man on that side. To add to their disarray, the Skiritai began to fire their bows, sending arrows high into the air, coming down in the half-formed enemy ranks.

Just as intimidating as the sight of the red-cloaked lines approaching was the sound the Spartans made, their

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oxhide sandals hitting the ground in unison with each step, the ground practically trembling at their approach. The cadence was 120 paces per minute, beaten into each Spartan at the agoge and practiced constantly.

Less than a quarter mile from the Pylosian lines, Acton yelled the order to change from quick time to charge. Spears snapped in one precise movement from vertical to horizontal and shields jammed tighter together, presenting a solid wall as the Spartans broke into a controlled run at 180 steps per minute. Vampyr adjusted slightly as Acton fell back into position next to him on his right, a position of honor for Vampyr as his shield protected the commander.

The Pylosian lines had never completely formed, and what little order there was began to break in the face of the bristling juggernaut heading toward them.

Some in the rear tried to run and were cut down by officers stationed there specifically for just that event.

Vampyr felt the bloodlust and had to use all the discipline he had learned in the agoge not to sprint ahead of the rank of Spartans. He gripped his spear shaft tighter as they closed on the enemy line. The Spartans smashed into the Pylosians with a thunderous sound of spearpoint on metal and flesh. This was immediately followed by the screams of dying and wounded.

With their eight-foot spears, the Spartans were able to use their first three ranks to attack the Pylosians. As soon as a spear became caught in the flesh or shield of an enemy warrior and could not be pulled back, each Spartan would draw his xithos—a short sword designed for jabbing rather than slashing.

The Pylosian line broke and the slaughter began. Vampyr had run his spear through not only the warrior directly in front of him, but also into the man behind

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him, spitting the two on its wooden haft, leaving them both writhing on the ground. He drew his sword and leapt forward, giving up his position in the Spartan line. The Pylosians were fleeing and thus making themselves more vulnerable to attack due to the lack of armor on their backs. Vampyr jabbed once, twice, then a third time and three men went down at his feet. He whirled, and even though the sword was a jabbing weapon, he put such power behind the stroke that his xithos beheaded a fourth Pylosian. For the first time Vampyr halted, watching the blood pulse up from the still-beating heart in the headless torso, which remained upright for several seconds, before slowly tumbling over.

That man's blood mixed with that of the other casualties along with urine from bladders emptied from fright and the spasms of death. The ground was turning into a horrible quagmire, but the Spartans relentlessly pressed forward, continuing to slay and advance.

The Pylosians began to surrender and beg for mercy. Vampyr gave no quarter, slaying those with weapons in their hands and those who held them empty in the air. Those who had hired the Spartans now surged forward, slaying those who surrendered. Vampyr continued his own murderous spree toward the gates of the city. He saw the enemy commander, tears streaming down his face, as he screamed futile orders at the warriors fleeing by him, trying to make a last stand before the open city gates, knowing there would be no safety inside.

Vampyr was soaked in blood, the cloth wrapped around his face tantalizing him with the taste as the red nectar he craved seeped through. He bounded up to the enemy commander. He parried the other's thrust, knocking the sword from the defeated leader's hands. Vampyr dropped his own sword and grabbed the man's throat

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with both hands, squeezing until the other passed out. Then he dragged him into the gates of the city and through the door of the nearest building, where he ripped the man's throat open and drank his fill.

He was not sated.

The screams of women and children now filled the air as the Pirgosians moved into the city, raping, killing, and stealing. The Spartans remained outside, content with the gold they had been paid and not wanting to lose any more men to desperate last stands inside the city.

Vampyr was the exception as he kicked open doors, searching. He found a woman huddled with two young children. He killed the mother quickly by breaking her neck, then drank from the children until their small hearts stopped beating. He emerged from the house, wrapping the cloth around his face. In his engorged pleasure he did not see a shadowy figure in armor watching him.

He could not wait for the next battle.

He walked out of the city. He could see that the Spartans had pulled back, tending to their few dead and wounded. He also saw that a man on a horse, a messenger from Sparta, was next to Acton, talking to him. Vampyr made his way over. There was indeed news.

A council had been held at Corinth. A treaty had been signed by representatives from practically every city-state, including Pylos and Pirgos, to unite under a young warrior-king from the north named Alexander. Sparta had also agreed to the pact and would send four lochoi to support the new king's proposed assault against the Persians.

Vampyr wanted to laugh at the folly of humans. Every man who had died that day was one less the Greeks could send against the Persians. And all three forces were now allies.

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A campaign to the east. Vampyr nodded. Something to occupy the next decade or so. He needed to stay busy.

As Vampyr turned away from Acton and the messenger, he sensed movement behind and whirled, a split second too late, and the flat side of a xithos slammed into his temple, just below the brim of his helmet.

Vampyr crumpled to the ground unconscious.

It was night when Vampyr awoke. He was on his back and when he tried to move, ropes around his chest, legs, and arms, kept him in place. There were torches flickering all about him and when he turned his head, he could see Acton and the other senior knights of the expedition staring at him. He was on one of the field tables used by the surgeons to work on the wounded.