The Vorbing

The Vorbing

STEWART STAFFORD

For my mother Anna, Chelsea and Lucky.

Vorb
.
v.
(
vorbs, vorbing, vorbed
) blood-feeding process of vampires in the kingdom of Dubhtayl.

ORIGIN from
VAMPIRES
and
ABSORB.

“Have you ever looked into the eyes of evil? Have you ever seen evil glaring back at you, studying you, trying to find your darkest fears so it can use them against you? I have, and this is my tale.” -
Vlad Ingisbohr

Chapter One

The sky was full of vampires. The vile parasites swarmed in formation across the horizon as far as the eye could see. They were all of man’s nightmares in one enormous beast. They had the heads and wings of giant bats, but their muddy, grey bodies were humanoid, complete with genitalia. Their reddish-brown body hair became thick, black fur on their upper torsos. Sweaty mucus glinted on their limbs and leathery faces as they flew in the dying light of dusk. It was a protective secretion that soothed the mild sunburn they suffered for emerging to feed (or
vorb
in a vampire’s vocabulary) before night fell completely. Vampires liked to attack from the direction of the setting sun to mask their approach with blinding light.

The constant flapping action of the vampire’s mighty wings swelled their back muscles to gigantic proportions. It gave them phenomenal thrust when flying into a headwind and awesome leverage with which to scoop prey up off the ground. Unarmed humans and animals were unable to cope with such overwhelming force from above.

The first glimmering stars of evening stared safely from their celestial sanctuary. It was an unusually humid October evening, and the slightest sound travelled great distances. Gold dust moths swirled in the fields below, only to be engulfed by a parade of monstrous shadows from above as the shroud of vampires fell across the terrified village of Nocturne. They swooped over the wooden huts and farms below with their cowering inhabitants within. The vampires did not seem to focus their attention anywhere else in the kingdom of Dubhtayl (pronounced locally as, “Dovetail”). Perhaps they preferred the sanguinary grape of the Nocturnian vine; nobody was certain. As the vampires swept imperiously over the orchard, the fruit rotted on the fire trees.

Vampires didn’t do explanations. They took what they wanted and vanished, leaving dismembered corpses in their wake. They were the apex predators in the land and enjoyed complete mastery of the ground and air at night. Fresh kills were of paramount importance to them. It made vampires ill to feed on stale blood that had not circulated through a heart in days (the equivalent of food poisoning in humans). A vampire would kill another vampire if they shared dead blood with them back in their lair. Bringing back impure blood could kill weaker members of the vampire clan and render the others too sick to hunt, putting all of them in grave danger of extinction. Every vampire deemed such killings a reasonable punishment and an acceptable loss. It was better that one of them died than all of them. They incinerated the body of the offending vampire in a fire, as their contaminated blood was useless to the others.

Humans, brave ones, were the only other creatures who killed vampires. People like Adam Ingisbohr and his fellow Nocturnians who banded together, dared to defy them, and died fighting at the Battle of McLintock’s Spit. Too often, humans were content to be docile victims. That suited the vampires, as it secured their blood supply. Like any creature, they stayed where the sustenance was and would have to be forced to leave. Some humans lived in denial about that fact and did everything to avoid confronting them. That was how the vampires thrived in Nocturne. Weakness attracted aggression throughout history as surely as dung always had attracted flies. It was a painful lesson that would have to be learned by some once again if they ever were to rid themselves of the curse that was upon them.

The jade eyes of the vampires scanned the ground beneath them for prey as the rhythmic beating of their enormous wings sounded a virtual curfew drum for Nocturne beneath them. A skull-faced blood moon was rising in the distance. Nothing moved beneath them. All the inhabitants were safe indoors where no vampire could enter unless invited. Strange as it may seem, some poor souls did offer that invitation when they grew tired of living, or when madness seized them. The vampires were only too willing to partake of their blood. Any human greedily hoping for eternal life as a vampire was sadly mistaken. The vampires drained every drop of blood and then tore them apart at the point of death to ensure no human vampires ever were created. Making competitors for their limited blood supply was illogical and self-destructive, so they pre-emptively thinned the pack. It was perhaps the vampire’s unwritten commandment and an inversion of God’s relationship with man:
Thou shalt not create any being in thine own image
. No vampire would willingly violate that spoken rule, and the penalty would be a slow bloodbath and death if any of them did. Not all vampires were created equal.

It was hard to know who had met their end at the hands of the vampires, as any remains found were often unrecognisable. There was usually nothing more than bloody piles of torn skin, shattered bone, and/or matted hair leftover, with perhaps some brains and internal organs decorating the surrounding kill zone. Sometimes children found these sites and were struck dumb or blind. Others overheard the whispers of their families and spread the horror to their friends. The consequences of being caught outside without shelter at night were well known to every Nocturnian, as lost travellers found to their peril. Strangers were not welcome in Nocturne, as one mistake could get them all killed, and they were not willing to risk it. Not that many people ever came to Nocturne, anyway. Nocturnians were insular and somewhat paranoid. They trusted each other up to a point, but tension and feuds sometimes snowballed into wild accusations and violence. That momentarily seemed to lance the boil of stress in the village.

At the head of the vampire formation was their leader, the NightLord Deadulus (locals pronounced it, “Day-ad-ull-us”). He was the largest vampire of all, with a ferocious face, muscular torso, and large, clawed hands capable of severing anything. His skin was more sallow than the rest, with strange tattoos across his chest like hieroglyphs as some sort of symbol of maturity and dominance. Deadulus was the eyes and ears of the vampires following in his thrall. He had ultimate power. There was no time to argue in the hunt. All energy was conserved for the kill. Wherever Deadulus went, the vampires behind him followed. If he deviated an inch, they deviated an inch. Every vampire had to be in the correct position so they brought their full force down on whatever unfortunate prey was beneath them in one crushing blow. It was a blitz from above that used their combined strength to render their victims unconscious or injured enough so they were unable to flee.

Behind Deadulus flew his probable successor Necromus. He was not as big as Deadulus, but he was a very cunning and ruthless vampire nevertheless. Deadulus used the crafty abilities of Necromus to suppress dissension and defeat his enemies both internal and external. He was instinctively aware that Necromus could use those very same abilities to plot against him and seize power. The other male vampires brought up the rear. They were the soldiers of Deadulus who would fight and die for him at any moment if necessary. That was the order they flew in, and also the order in which they fed.

The vampires were about to turn around and circle back again when Deadulus’ head jerked sharply to the side. His hawkish vision detected movement at the edge of a clearing in the distance. Deadulus had spotted a plump, piebald cow that had broken free of its tethering in a barn beneath him. He killed animals if human victims were not around. Deadulus enjoyed killing humans far more, as their blood tasted richer to his palate. At first, human kills were plentiful at night in Nocturne, but over time they became an increasing delicacy.

Nocturnians had lived with the vampire threat for years and drummed their fears into their children to make them wary. They were too experienced to allow themselves or their loved ones to get caught at night by that stage of vampire rule. Some Nocturnians even hung garlic and juniper around their dwellings, as it was reputed to ward off epidemics and evil. Superstitions flourished in an uncertain time. Observing them gave the villagers the illusion of control in a random world of sudden death and appalling cruelty.

Deadulus and his vampires were gearing themselves up to swoop down on the unsuspecting cow when a better target presented itself. Whatever it was, Deadulus sensed it was alive with warm blood coursing through its veins. His hypersensitive nose detected that the blood was human. The vampires were very interested. Deadulus majestically swooped towards the unsuspecting victims, and the others darted down instinctively behind him to give their support to the hunt.

Peter and Lillia Kurten used the moon as their guide as they hurriedly shuffled through the dense, crackling undergrowth. They were two plump local peasants who had been childhood sweethearts. They had lived in Nocturne all their lives. Lillia held their baby close to her breast as they moved, wheezing all the way. Peter’s thick, grey moustache looked even stiffer than normal in the chilly twilight. Lillia’s bright red headscarf gave her some protection against the cold.

“Curse it!” Lillia said, scolding Peter. “Why did we stay so long? If we’d left when we heard the first cry of the vampires, we’d be safe at home now.”

“I asked you to leave several times,” Peter scolded, “but you wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Just keep moving,” Lillia said. “We must hurry.”

The baby gurgled in her arms. The sound reminded Lillia of what was at stake, and it made her feel nauseous. It was imperative that they got home without delay. On their own, in vampire territory, the Kurtens would not stand a chance. Lillia had heard their heart-stopping screeching as the Geineds threw her off their farm for gossiping way past curfew. Lillia cursed herself for ignoring the warnings and overstaying her welcome at her neighbour’s farm. She knew she should have left early, but it didn’t seem that frightening, swapping stories and gossip beside a cosy fire. Outside, fleeing in the darkness, it was another matter.

Usually, only the “immoral” members of the community went missing at night: the drunks, thieves, and careless lovers. In that respect, their deaths did not bother the local peasants. Lillia Kurten was a wife and mother. Her mind repeated those facts to her like a reassuring mantra. As she stumbled on, she thought of her child’s pleasant smile and about how much she wished to see it again. She had hitched her skirt up over her thick legs to increase her mobility and speed. She paused for a moment to get her bearings before hurrying on at an even quicker pace.

Peter and Lillia came to a primitive boundary wall. Lillia struggled to get over it. Peter put his hands on her buttocks and pushed with all his might. Caught up in their laborious task, they failed to notice the eerie, spectral glow lighting up the horizon. It looked like the Star of Bethlehem, but it was anything but a holy event. The light slowly dimmed, and a cloud billowed forth from the same spot. It descended rapidly from behind the oblivious couple. Lillia cleared the wall with a grunt, and Peter scrambled over it behind her and joined her on the other side.

A terrifying, inhuman roar echoed across the sky behind them. They ran with even more urgency, pushing their bodies to the limit. The gravity of their situation was stamped on their thunderstruck faces. As they ran, the beating sounds of dozens of pairs of huge wings became audible. A red mist drifted down behind them and spread through the forest. It slowly gained on them and eventually engulfed them. Peter and Lillia strained to see, and they gasped for breath in the thick, dank vapour. They detected a strange, musky scent with a charnel house odour beneath it. The beating of wings ceased. Peter and Lillia heard growls coming from behind them. They looked back and saw figures moving through the haze. The growls got nearer. Whatever was back there was far from human.

The vampires had landed.

Lillia was close to having a panic attack. She desperately looked around for a hiding place for her offspring. The yellow flowers of a gorse thicket attracted her gaze. Lillia figured that its prickly leaves would give her child protection from the vampires or any of the other woodland animals that would eat her if they could. She pointed it out to Peter. Peter gently placed their daughter in the thicket and stood back. The sharp gorse resembled a crown of thorns protecting their child from danger. Lillia made the sign of the cross over their child, and they fled. They had to lead the vampires as far away from the resting place of the baby as possible; Lillia silently prayed that the child would fall asleep and avoid detection.

Peter and Lillia heard grunting and sniffing nearby. The vampires were gaining on them. They also heard gravelly whispering and high-pitched, bat-like screeches. The vampires were communicating with each other as a team. Lillia looked behind her and saw dozens of green eyes glowing through the mist. With shocking ferocity, a wall of scratching claws pulled Peter into the mist to be devoured.             

“Peter!” Lillia screamed.

The sounds of Peter's screams mixed with the ravenous grunting of Deadulus. The vampire savaged him somewhere behind the red wall of mist that now permanently separated Lillia Kurten from the love of her life.

“No!” Lillia sobbed.

When Deadulus tore into prey with his fangs, an arterial spray usually spewed forth. Every vampire piling in for the kill behind their NightLord captured all of it in their gaping mouths. The vampire horde crushed behind Deadulus to begin that process. Their NightLord raised his claw above his head, indicating that Peter Kurten was dead. The lesser vampires controlled their blood thirst, bowed down to Deadulus, and backed off. They allowed their NightLord the spoils of his dominance and gave him his tribute of taking first blood on every kill. To vampires, blood was not only life, it was power as well. The more powerful a vampire was or became, the more blood of the fresher, purer kind they became entitled to.