Denial

The spear was light with anticipation and heavy with purpose in Commander Pyrron’s hands as he watched the figures in the dark take their positions. He could not see them, but he trusted his men to get where he ordered them to go; two on the rise, four blocking the road ahead, two behind, and a final three behind the trees on the other side of the road. The bushes concealed the commander as he watched the small caravan enter the ambush zone. Usually there was no traffic at night on the roads, especially where people had been slain in the dark hours for the last few weeks.

Then again, what vampire traveled in daylight?

Pyrron kept quiet, waiting for the covered wagon and those walking beside it to fully enter the ambush zone. He wasn’t sure which were vampires and which were not, but as much as he hoped to spare the innocent, he knew that the one responsible for a string of vicious murders in Ardûnn was in this group. Maybe the others were accomplices, or maybe they had no idea a killer was among them, but it had to end tonight regardless.

There.

Pyrron readied to jump out, making only a slight sound as he did so, and one of those walking with the wagon sharply turned their head at the sound. That one. Heightened hearing. Vampire. He drew breath to shout a warning but Pyrron leapt out of the bushes, driving his silvered spear through the monster’s chest. Shouts rang out as his soldiers entered the fray, a half dozen more enemies pouring out of the wagon. Some were nats -slang for normal folk- but two others moved with uncanny quickness and strength.

Supernaturals could not be shown mercy. One false move, and a human was no match for their speed and strength. They would all have to be killed, and killed quickly.

Dodging a punch from one of the nats, a human he guessed, Pyrron struck him with the haft of his spear in the ribs followed by a sweep of his leg to trip them. The human went down and a quick stab to the neck ended that skirmish. One of the vampires went for him next, and their speed put Pyrron on the defensive, forcing him to give ground. A scream to his right told him one of his soldiers just died. Waiting, Pyrron saw the vamp punch at him again, fast but predictable, and they lost that arm to Pyrron’s broad spearhead, followed by their head. The scuffles died down as his men finished the fight, arresting three of the remaining nats. The last vampire was laying headless in the road. Three other humans were dead; a soldier and two of the enemy combatants.

“Tie up the fugitives,” Pyrron said, sheathing his spear after collapsing the telescoping shaft. “We’ll let the magistrate decide what to do with them.”

As his men worked, Pyrron went to retrieve the body of his comrade. He had died to a torn out throat, a vampire’s doing, and his glassy eyes beheld nothing. Pyrron removed one of his metal gauntlets to free one of his hands for the gentle task of closing them in respect. He knelt to close the fallen soldier, his wet blood sticky as it coated Pyrron’s fingertips, and he pulled the lids of his eyes down, giving the man a semblance of peace. Byron had been his name. Pyrron would remember it. Shame told him that he should have been a better commander.

As Pyrron began to stand again, something to his left moved akin to a striking snake, and he felt a burning pain in his forearm. Stabbed. Yanking his arm free, Pyrron stumbled back before driving his spear into the thing that just attacked him. The first vampire, whom he thought dead but must have only been stabbed in the lung and not the heart, twisted and rolled away from the blow, fleeing into the night.

“Commander, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Pyrron said, shaken but reluctant to admit it. A quick check revealed that his arm was barely bleeding. Concluding that it must have been a small knife, Pyrron decided not to mention it. He couldn’t show weakness. “One survived, he’s in the woods.”

“Should we pursue?”

“No, there are too few of us and though he’s wounded, he will have too great of an advantage in the dark trees.”

“Yes sir.”

Pyrron pushed away his regret of failure before picking up the body of his fellow soldier. He could linger on it later.

Pyrron credited the riveting book he brought with him about the laws of the faeling kingdoms for his endurance of the ride back to the outpost. The ride itself was not terrible; Pyrron and his men were on horses, the prisoners in a cart pulled by another. Byron’s body was towed in another cart, covered by a shroud. The other bodies had been buried respectfully by the road where they fell, even the vampires. Pyrron refused to desecrate even their foul remains.

Pyrron focused on his book, trying to ignore the feverish feel of his skin and the stabbing brightness of the clear day. Waking up ill had been unpleasant, and it seemed to get worse rather than better as the hours passed. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and neck and his skin stung with sunburn. Every tooth ached, maybe from how his stomach had roiled since breakfast, and water was all he’d been able to keep down.

Lunch was no better when they stopped that afternoon.

Pyrron took a few bites of food and had to stifle a gag. His stomach declaring disagreement, rejecting what he’d swallowed. After another bite, Pyrron’s attempt to wrestle his nausea into submission, it flared worse and Pyrron set his food aside.

“Everything alright sir?”

Pyrron glanced at the soldier who had spoken and was now watching his commander with concern.

“I’m fine, Lance,” Pyrron said, resisting the desire to vomit.

“Are you sure? You look awfully pale.”

“It’s probably nothing more than food poisoning,” Pyrron said, his voice assured.

“Alright…” Lance reluctantly went back to his food.

A sudden shout grabbed Pyrron’s attention and he looked quickly to his left, squinting a little. The soldier who shouted seemed surprised at his reaction.

“Sir?”

Pyrron hesitated for a second as his thoughts caught up to his senses; that had been no shout. Only a spoken word. A headache throbbed in his skull. Perhaps it was responsible for how much the noise level irritated him. The breaths of the horses, the creak of the cart, even the rustling of leaves all stabbed his eardrums. A slow, deep breath staved off the discomfort a little.

There, see? Just a little sick.

“It’s nothing.”

He’d be fine.

Pyrron got out of bed and rushed outside to the back steps of the barracks with a bucket as dawn neared. Starvation clawed his innards even as he emptied his stomach. Jabs of pain attacked the root of every tooth now. He’d lost two of them biting into some bread, though he kept this hidden from his men. It appalled him, considering he had always taken excellent care of himself. He shouldn’t be losing teeth in his late twenties.

Then again, he also didn’t expect to be spending his night throwing up into a bucket after forcing down a bowl of stew.

Resting his head between his knees, denial began to fizzle out.

Something was wrong.

Cacophonous footsteps came up behind him, ramming into his headache with splitting pain. Everything was a hammer blow to his ears. The snores of the other soldiers rattled in the lodging behind him. Every creak, crack and tap was amplified to a discord of many wordless voices. Trying to cover his ears with his left hand and his right shoulder, Pyrron used the bucket again.

A hand tapped Pyrron’s shoulder. The commander knew it was Redegar Oakenson without needing to look up. The younger lieutenant needed Pyrron’s attention to communicate, so the shoulder tap in place of words identified him even before Pyrron turned his gaze to the younger man.

‘You alright?’ Oakson signed, kneeling by his friend, his auburn hair completely clear to Pyrron’s vision. Had the sun risen faster than usual? It was supposed to be dark.

‘I don’t know,’ Pyrron signed back, having made the effort to learn the basics once he knew he’d have a deaf soldier under his command. The young man was quick witted, a capable warrior, and loyal to the death. Learning to sign for him was an investment he would never regret, and he sorely missed Oak’s company on the latest mission.

Oak sat next to him, patting his friend’s back as the bucket once again proved its value. Once Pyrron could look up again, Oak made his thoughts clear.

‘You look lousy. You sick?’

‘A little,’ Pyrron answered, his hand a bit shaky, marring the sign with its tremble.

‘I medic find?’

Pyrron grimaced and didn’t respond yet, reluctant to request aid so directly. His father would never have approved of such weakness.

Oak paused while the commander tried to decide, then he began studying Pyrron’s face. He leaned in close. Very close.

Uncomfortable, Pyrron pushed him back slightly and signed, ‘What?’

‘Your teeth.’

‘My teeth?’

‘Yes. They odd.’

Oak drew a silver knife -standard issue for hunter units- and held the blade up so Pyrron could see his reflection. Squinting, Pyrron struggled to see himself in the knife, as though he were partially transparent in appearance. He could see where his incisors had been.

His blood ran cold.

Two new teeth were growing in their place already. But they didn’t look like incisors…

They looked like…

‘Fangs?’ Pyrron asked.

Oak frowned, gesturing for Pyrron to open his mouth so Oak could look inside easier. Pyrron obliged and Oak’s frown grew increasingly worried and concerned as he pulled Pyrron’s lip back a bit for a clear view. After a minute, he sat back and nodded, grim. ‘Fangs.’

Pyrron reached up, touching the spots his upper incisors had been. There was some blood there, caused by the fangs poking out of his gums. His other teeth felt sharper too; a mouth of venomous thorns.

Horror crossed Pyrron’s face.

It shouldn’t be possible.

He’d been careful.

How could-

His arm.

Grabbing his sleeve, he tried to roll it up, but in his haste he tore it away as easily as if it were wet paper. Stunned, he stared at the fabric in his fist for a moment. It had been designed for combat, thick and able to resist arrows. Bile filled his throat. He looked at his arm… and the vampire bite scar that now decorated it.

“It can’t be….”

The world crashed around him. He stared at his arm, then recoiled, holding it away from himself like it was some alien thing attached to him.

“NO!”

A hand covered his mouth, and he almost bit it out of instinct- What instinct?! He had never been inclined to bite anyone like an animal before. Shoving the impulse down, and the hand away, he recognized it as Oak’s. His friend’s gaze held sympathy and worry. Though Pyrron knew Oak couldn’t hear his cry of dismay, a shout must be hard to miss.

‘Quiet,’ Oak signed, letting Pyrron push his hand back. ‘You yell, they come, they see you.’

Only a faint, mild relief of Oak’s hand leaving the vicinity of his face made the situation any better in Pyrron’s eyes.

‘But,’ Pyrron signed, ‘I monster… look at me!’

Oak did look, his gaze lingering on Pyrron’s eyes and ears. Reaching to feel them, Pyrron found his ears now had slight points. Shaking off another bout of nausea, he took the knife again and studied his eyes in his fading reflection. They had been brown before, but now were a sulfur yellow, with slitted pupils like a cat.

He couldn’t look away, revulsion plain in his expression. With a pained gasp, he dropped the knife, his fingertips blistering from the silver’s touch. It broke the spell that held his gaze to the knife’s reflection, and he sat there in horrified existence.

“How could I have been so careless?”

Oak sat by his friend, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as Pyrron fought sobs. What would his father think? Seven generations of service ruined because of a single mistake. His mistake. The military was his life. Sacrifices had been made. His wife. His son. His hobbies. All given up. Pyrron had nothing beyond the barracks.

If he was found out…

Pyrron felt his stomach cramp, and he hugged himself, leaning forward.

Oak moved in front of him, getting Pyrron’s attention as he signed quickly. ‘Wrong what?’

Though Pyrron hated to force his friend to lipread, considering how inaccurate and difficult it could be, holding his stomach was also holding himself back. With dread, Pyrron understood another piece of the puzzle; normal food was no longer an option.

“Starving,” Pyrron said, tightening his hold on himself. “I need to eat, it’s getting worse.”

Oak nodded, backing away. ‘Understood, I blood find, you wait here.’

His lieutenant hurried off, the sky growing paler. Pyrron denied the longing thoughts of red rivers as they flowed by his mind, ignored their persuasions to just go inside. The men were asleep. It would be easy. They were right there, waiting. Willing to die for him.

He took his torn sleeve and gagged himself. The fabric was scratchy against his face, but the gag helped him resist. Monster or not, he rejected the thought of human blood.

But yielding was drawing ever closer as the minutes passed.

The hunger was ravenous. The devouring need for blood was overcoming his will with excruciating steps. Every advance was fought, but the war would result in loss if respite was not granted. Where was Oak? He must feed, whether or not he willed it. Already his body was betraying him as the instinct of survival dismantled each mental defense. He gripped the wooden steps he sat on, and they splintered in his grasp.

The sound of footsteps returning out of the gloomy morning brought a light to Pyrron’s hope. Looking up, he saw Oak was running over, a canteen in hand. The smell of its contents reached Pyrron and he leapt up from his seat and tore it with vicious ferocity from the lieutenant’s grasp, shoving him away. Yanking the gag down around his neck, Pyrron ripped the cap of the canteen off and tipped its contents down his throat.

His tongue cried in displeasure at the cow blood and Pyrron nearly choked, but the desperate tearing of hunger faded. The malice retreated into the dark. A hum in the background he could ignore. Never had he been so glad to ingest something that tasted like a metallic, warm, sour milkshake. Panting, Pyrron fell to his knees in relief and looked to Oak.

Pyrron’s heart felt lanced at the disgust he saw in his lieutenant’s, but worse was the fear.

‘I sorry. You hurt?’ The apology didn’t feel like enough.

Oak shook his head, masking his emotions. ‘I fine. You better?’

‘I don’t know.’ Pyrron wiped his chin, shuddering at the smear of red on his hand.

‘Now, you want do what?’

The question brought Pyrron’s attention to a crushing halt; what did he want to do?

Regulations stated he must turn himself in and accept whatever judgment the Sovereign decreed. The law was clear. His path should be clear.

“Why am I hesithathing?”

Pyrron covered his mouth in surprise at the lisp he just spoke with. His fangs had finished growing and caught his tongue when he talked.

Oak frowned. ‘Repeat please. Your lips, I can’t read.’

Pyrron repeated what he had said in sign, adding what he had just learned of his voice as well.

‘Practice,’ Oak signed back. ‘If you want hide you vampire, practice speaking, or sign.’

Leaning back slightly, Pyrron’s eyes widened a bit in surprise. ‘You think I hide must?’

Oak nodded. ‘Law important, but I trust you. You control can.’

Pyrron wavered his hand in an unsure gesture. It had been close.

‘I still trust,’ Oak insisted. ‘I not want you tell.’

‘But not telling illegal.’

Rules were rules. Isn’t that why he memorized them? Enjoyed them? To knowingly, and willingly, break a law was appalling.

Oak shook his head. ‘Your choice, but I not want commander different.’

Pyrron sat on the shaded porch and wrung his hands. The day was too bright to be hopeful. It hurt his eyes and scalded his skin. Lying about this scraped against the grain of his integrity. He would have court marshaled his own soldiers for it.

And yet…

A young Pyrron stood tall with his graduating class of cadets. His posture was perfect and his head held up strong. Valedictorian was an honor to most, but a necessity for him. His father watched. Toil and labor had led up to this moment, and as joyous as the occasion was to Pyrron, he did not smile. Professional. Stoic. Carrying on the legacy of his fathers; service to the kingdom going back seven generations.

Be perfect.

He could be nothing less.

It was the only value he had.

Oak offered Pyrron something as the commander’s face settled in grim acceptance. Taking it, Pyrron turned it over in his hands, studying it.

A helm.

It was forged from steel and tinted with red hues, as red was the color Pyrron had chosen for his unit. Bold, brave, unyielding. Now mocking. The helm extended down in full, to cover his whole head, and the visor was slitted. His strange eyes and pointed ears would be hidden.

‘Thank you,’ Pyrron signed, setting the helm on his head to check its fit. It would do.

‘You’re welcome,’ Oak signed back. ‘You alright?’

Pyrron nodded, glancing at Oak. ‘I fine.’

He hated lying.