Still Nosferatu remained silent. It occurred to him that Aspasia’s Shadow was bored. More than bored, Nosferatu realized. Aspasia’s Shadow was lonely, a feeling that Nosferatu could certainly understand.
“I’ve met Vampyr, your brother in blood,” Aspasia’s Shadow continued. He seemed disappointed that Nosferatu still made no reply. “He, at least, makes the world an interesting place. He had a kingdom. On an island south of here. He was getting quite powerful and earning quite a fearsome reputation. I feared I might have to take action, but the planet itself brought his plans, quite literally, to ruin.”
Nosferatu had no idea what Aspasia’s Shadow was referring to. “He did take his revenge though,” Aspasia’s Shadow 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.”
“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.”
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.
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 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.
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.