Prologue:


The air left his body, and he could do nothing but lay amidst the fallen leaves, helpless. He felt a weak wheeze enter, then leave his body – not enough. Nigel closed his eyes and silently screamed as he listened to the gentle crunch of the deciduous leaves under a pair of exquisite leather boots.

Nigel took in another shallow breath, and let it out in a quiet whine. He glanced back weakly, and saw the log he’d tripped over, which lay quite inoocently six inches or so from his own two feet. And beyond his pair of meek, cloth sandals, and beyond the fungus-infected log, the pair of boots glided quite gently towards him, barely 30 yards away.

With as deep as breath as he could muster, he tensed his muscles and pushed himself onto his side, to roll over onto his side. With a quick series of painful breaths, he staggered to his feet unsteadily, and began running off to the south, panting and gasping as he went.

He was limping, and clutching his right hand tightly, feebly trying to keep in the flowing blood from three severed fingers – punishment for his kind.

“You know, we would welcome you to a ceremony if you’d agree to return with me.” The voice came from behind – from Him – full of harmony, sweetness and beauty, but Nigel knew the words were laced with a peculiar brand of venom and hunger. Regardless of the sugared words, only one thing mattered: running, as far and as fast as he could.

He was even daring to run to England, escaping his native Scotland – the horror! What true madness it was to have driven him this far, he thought with a frail laugh. His voice died as he saw the flecks of blood that had come up with the laughter, and contented himself to focus on breathing. In, out, in, out, one foot forward, then the next –

“It’s all a misunderstanding, really.”

Nigel’s mind froze at the phrase, and he neglected his step at a vital point. With a futile attempt to try to catch himself, he tripped and fell heavily off the path. He rolled, the back of his head slamming against a tree trunk, and he knew it was over. His breathing had returned to some state of normality, but he simply lacked the energy to get up again. All he could do was lie on his back.

“The English would only have slain you for being different, you know. You rebelled against your own king!”

“That was because of you!” Nigel spat back. He turned his head gently, and saw the figure approaching him. Above the knee-high leather boots, it wore simple brown pants and a peculiar ice-blue tunic, blazened with elegant patterns of yellow, red, and white.

“Ah, you misunderstand, my poor fellow,” the figure gently stepped towards the fallen man, its gaunt form moving gracefully and appearing almost human. And it was almost human, Nigel thought with a frown. “You were going to start the revolution, and I merely provided you with the means!”

The creature gave its characteristic grin, revealing four protruding fangs, one where each incisor would have been. Its long, straight red hair was blown back, revealing elongated ears ending in a point. Barring the two facts, it looked remarkably human –

But the eyes! Those vibrant, yellow eyes were like wolf eyes – unresting, unyielding, and showing not a single emotion behind them except the omnipresent hunger and curiosity. The creature came besides its prey, and knelt gently, and tenderly caressed Nigel’s cheek.

“You see, we only have your interests in mind. We’re here to help you!” Those words, sweet music, but matched by those teeth, those eyes! Nigel wanted to close his eyes, but he felt himself transfixed by the other’s gaze!

“We? Are there others?” Nigel gasped, and tears began streaming at the thought.

“Why of course, my dear Nigel. As we speak, my daughters and nephews are coming to help govern your people!”

“…from where?” Nigel whispered, and gritted his teeth as the creature’s hand slipped down from the cheek to his neck.

“Across the sea. We’re here to help you…” It trailed off, and leaned in slowly, as if to kiss a lover. But Nigel let out a quiet wail, recalling the events of a few hours ago.

Their tribe was run by two heads, himself and a man by the name of William. The creature had appeared out of nowhere, proclaiming itself the liberator of the Celts. Upset over the British Crown’s involvements with the Celtic people, all the local tribes had agreed to its plan with gusto, except for theirs; William had said that the creature boded ill.

It was alien, most assuredly, a “wraith” from old norse tales, William had decided. Nigel, who’d travelled to France in his 20th year (to his dismay), had heard other legends from the east: “Vampires.” William had laughed as Nigel related the story, and shook it away as childrens’ tales.

That morning, a few days after the Creature’s arrival, Nigel had entered William’s tent in the hopes of discussing a plan to evict it, only to discover the Creature feasting upon the blood from William motionless cadaver. He’d contested the Creature’s murder publicly, but the village had been turned to its glorious call-to-arms, ignoring even the evidence of the dead body – they were through with old leaders, even their beloved chieftains, and as if spell-struck, gladly enacted upon Nigel the vampire’s penalty for treason – the loss of the three right fingers of the right hand. He was then free to go, in the hopes that he’d learn from his mistake.

As soon as he was released, however, he fled – he’d head to England and warn them of this uprising. Regretably, the vampire had guessed his intentions and followed quite fleetly.

And now, the vampire was leaning towards his exposed throat, his fangs protruded, the breath of the creature creating a warm, damp sensation on his neck, just around the major artery on the left side. “But why would we start a revolution?” Nigel gasped quickly, and he inwardly cheered as the breath retreated, and the vampire again looked him in the eyes. “James is our King! He’s a Scot!”

“He was yours,” the vampire said with a smile. “He’s changed – he’s thoroughly British, and he’s going to opress you just like the isle of Eire!”

“He wouldn’t – he’s done nothing!” Nigel frowned, but the vampire continued to smile, almost appearing joyful.

“It doesn’t matter what’s happened, my dear. Truth is what everyone thinks has happened! And they all think he’s ruining their lives-”

“Rumours!”

“And guess who started them?” Nigel gasped, and the vampire nodded quite happily.

“Why… Why are you meddling in our affairs?” Nigel asked, legitimate curiosity entering his mind.

The creature smiled. “Let’s say I want to build a house. First, I need to break the wood into smaller pieces – and I need an axe for this. The Celts have long been ready, hanging above the English head-”

“-You’re going to kill him?” Nigel gasped, and for once, the vampire frowned.

“How very crass. No, we’ll blackmail him, threaten him, and force him into servitude. We will use the British as an axe for other nations-”

“How many nations will you threaten?”

“Curious thing, aren’t you? Well, what’s the harm?” He smiled, and continued quite matter-of-factly, “We plan to supplant all the European governments – and we’ll work from there.”

“Who are you?” This last question burned in his mind, and the vampire, to his sorrow, simply knelt in towards his neck again. It leaned towards his ear and whispered, “I am King Flauros, and I am your worst nightmare!”

Nigel took in one, final, complete breath, and released it in a cry as the creature thrust its fangs into his soft flesh.