“You don’t serve them, correct?”
“We will never serve them,” Kajik said.
“Then what is the purpose of your order?”
There was a long silence in the hut, before Kajik spoke once more. “It is our mandate to watch.”
“Who gave the mandate?”
“At the First Gathering, after the fall of Atlantis, those who were there gave it.”
“Men. Like you?”
“Yes. Priests who had escaped Atlantis and who would not serve the Gods ever again after the great betrayal.”
Nosferatu thought back to his childhood and the First Age. “Those at that First Gathering had been abandoned by the Gods. Other priests were chosen, many brought here to serve. Maybe to other places. But not those who formed your order. Have you ever considered that?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It means your order was founded out of bitterness.”
“So?”
“What is born in hatred is doomed to fail.”
“Who are you to say that?” Kajik demanded. “Why do you think those like Tyrn hunt you? Are you any better than the Gods?”
Nosferatu squatted so he was at eye level with the man. “Yes. Because over the years I have learned much. I just want to be able to live in peace. And have my love live. That is all most people ask, isn’t it? But as long as the Gods exist, that can never be.
“So I ask you once again, Watcher, what is the purpose of your order?”
Nosferatu did not wait for an answer. “I will tell you why you only watch. Fear. Your ancestors — those who founded your order — knew they could not fight the Airlia Gods, so they decided only to watch. It was a decision based on fear. They should have decided to fight them.”
Kajik’s dark eyes stared at Nosferatu, whatever thoughts he had to what he was hearing hidden behind them. “Fight and die?” “This”—Nosferatu waved his hand about the hut—“is living? I have been here before. Nothing has changed here. But the world out there”—he pointed out the door of the hut—“is changing.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I have been told that some of the Airlia — those led by Artad, along with him — sleep in a place called China. Is this so?” “Yes.”
“Do you know where exactly? I was told a place called Qian-Ling but that means nothing to me.”
“He sleeps underneath a mountain made by men.”
“Like the pyramid?” “That I do not know.”
“What else do you know about Artad’s sleeping place?”
“A Watcher-Hunter passed through here during the time of my grandfather. He was looking for more information on you and others like you. He told my grandfather there is rumor of Undead near where Artad sleeps.”
Nosferatu had never considered that there would be others besides Vampyr. He was still, assimilating this startling news for several moments. Then he asked, “Where is Aspasia?”
Kajik simply pointed up.
“What does that mean?”
“He is not on this planet. He is sleeping among the stars.”
Nosferatu slid his legs out from under him and sat down, feeling the weariness of the years he had already lived. Aspasia was inaccessible. It was as likely that Artad was too, even though he was in the place called China.
But that there might be other Undead there gave him hope of perhaps enlisting some allies, in addition to Alexander and his army. Aspasia’s Shadow’s plan might simply be a distraction, another roll of the dice; but that didn’t mean Nosferatu couldn’t turn it to his own advantage.
Nosferatu took leave of Kajik and returned to the army. Alexander led the army north and east out of Egypt and toward Babylon. They crossed the Tigris and the Euphrates and met Darius once more in battle at Gaugamela. Once more Alexander was victorious and once more Darius fled, although this time he escaped Alexander but not death as he was slain by two of his own generals.
Nosferatu found that following an army on the march made for excellent feeding because of the number of camp followers, on whom no one kept a close eye. However, he was still dismayed at the slowness of the advance. It was four years since he’d left Greece with Alexander and they were still within the known world. He spent many of his nights wandering local villages and cities trying to learn more of the world to the east and listening for any mention of the land of China and of other Undead. But nothing.
At his urging Alexander moved forward in the winter of 331, an unheard-of thing, and captured the Persian capital of Persepolis. He burned the city, ending the Persian Empire.
With access to the Persian court records, Nosferatu found the first mention of a land that might be China. Far to the east and north of a huge mountain range. There were drawings of flying dragons and other odd beasts and tales of a strange people with yellow skin and slanted eyes. He was discouraged to see the distances drawn on the maps and the number of kingdoms still between him and his objective.
Alexander didn’t care. They finished the winter outside the sacked remains of the Persian capital as his emissaries went to all the surrounding kingdoms and demanded tribute lest they face destruction. By winter’s end his domain stretched from Greece to Afghanistan to Turkistan to Carthage. He was essentially the ruler of the known world.
It was to the unknown world, however, that Aspasia’s Shadow’s imprinting and Nosferatu’s urging pushed him. Any other ruler at such a young age would have been content to govern and reap the rewards of his hard labor. But Alexander was not the ruler of his own mind.
In 326 he crossed the Indus River and invaded the Punjab.
Nosferatu could finally see the high mountains to the north, apparently impassable, blocking him — and Alexander’s army — from the goal of China and Qian-Ling.
At that point what Nosferatu had long feared finally happened, the army rebelled. They had been away from home and loved ones for almost a decade in an age when the average life span was barely three decades. They refused to continue and no amount of coaxing or threats by Alexander could make them go a step farther.
Nosferatu stood on the bank of the Indus and watched as the hastily constructed fleet of Alexander set sail, to go downriver and then into the Indian Ocean and on to the Persian Gulf and eventually home.
He did not join them. He turned his face to the north and headed toward the white peaks that seemed to touch the ceiling of the sky. He would try to reach Qian-Ling on his own.
Nosferatu, who knew Vampyr well, was right. Vampyr’s hatred had kept him alive when the Spartans had sent him out of their camp, naked, handless, without any supplies, and frighteningly depleted of blood. All he had was his xithos, which Acton had hung around his neck on a scabbard, saying he had earned the weapon.
Vampyr had staggered through the forest, weaving his way among the trees. A wounded animal, simply seeking some place to hide. The first day he’d burrowed under the previous winter’s leaves, his body wracked with pain, real and phantom from where his hands ought to be. How could flesh that was not there cause pain? he’d wondered in bewilderment.
He had judged the humans wrongly, he’d realized those first weeks after he was maimed. They were more cunning and determined than he had imagined. He promised himself he would never underestimate them again.
It took all he had learned over the many years and the training of the Spartans for him to survive his wounds and the handicap of not having hands. He fed on children, the old, the weak, those he could overpower most easily. And he made his way south, knowing he needed to get back to his tube, to go into the deep sleep. It took him two years to cross southern Greece. Then another year before he managed to make his way on board a ship to Crete.
He found the island fragmented, the kingdom he had once ruled a distant memory that most believed never really existed. He went to the ruins of his old palace, to the hidden chamber behind the throne room. Using a stick gripped between his teeth, he set the controls, and then crawled in, managing with great difficulty to put the leads around his arms and legs. Then he went into the deep sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of revenge.