Godfang: Ch. 03 Fertile Fantasy Epic

Porcer stood beside the hearth in the Great Hall of his master, H'orvan Gyglunt. He marveled at the assembly of power he never dreamed would agree to his master's summons. His master had managed to draw from their nests the Vaunted Dusk Lords of Lovinja, Gablhal, Gottfert, and Merngard.

A parade of flesh servants passed through the gathering offering succor to travel-weary vampyr. Porcer knew he was not the only creature to notice that the mortal blood had aged. Gone were the days of sweet young blood. Since the war between the two mortal queens, more and more young men and women were being lured to ancient Ladd'ar. And House Gyglunt's spies claimed that their mortal rulers were no closer to divining a cure for their strange dis-ease.

As Porcer watched, he noted that the eldest of the Vaunted Dusk Lords barely drank. The ancients could endure months without blood. Why they chose to deny themselves confounded and disgusted him. All that power and they rarely appeared in the open, preferring instead to rule from the shadows. Porcer concealed his disdain from keener eyes, but he could not squash it outright. To him, power should be exercised by a fist that could reach out and crush what needed crushing.

"Vaunted Dusk Lords," Lord H'orvan began. "The moment has come to corral our mortal flock."

"Man is at an end," a voice wheezed. Porcer eyed the Lord of Gablhal. The creature was over three thousand years old. Suffice it to say, he wore his every year. Turned as an aging mortal, he was once a king among men. One of those who, in his undead eternity, seldom revealed himself. His nest in the Haizelands was a fortress of caverns rich with irons. Galhal's legions controlled the great blademaster mines at the foot of their mountain, and the Vaunted Dusk Lord exacted a heavy toll for access to his much sought-after ore.

H'orvan continued as if the creature had not spoken. "Mortal kings and queens rule at the pleasure of their subjects and their neighbors. They are not strong enough to do what must be done. They cannot save their species when all they muster is squabble. One uprising, one rebellion and they will fall apart."

"What do you propose?" Manwix Gottfert asked.

"A unification of vampyrdom. Humanity has failed to preserve itself. We are forced then to act to preserve the blood."

"And then?" This time, H'orvan leveled his blood-darkened gaze on Vaunted Gol of Gablhal. "Will you force the mortals to breed themselves to a cure?"

"If I must."

"They are delicate," Gol said instantly. "They are not like iron which can be made harder. Not on this. I speak from experience."

"I await with eagerness your solution, Vaunted."

"Solution?" Gol hissed. His words came slowly. "The solution is to choose the eternal slumber while the choice is still ours." Porcer bared his fangs in loathing. "I see you over there, Youngling. By the fire." Porcer stiffened. "You are the reason the elders do not emerge from their nests. The lust for power. It is a stench you carry. Like a fungus. I could remove your fangs. With these two fingers. Before your next breath, I think. When you have walked the earth. For as long as I. When you have seen what I have seen. When you understand that everything ends eventually. You no longer fear the changing tide."

"Perhaps," H'orvan said, "it is you who seeks the eternal slumber, Vaunted." There were barely muted reactions from nearly every shadowed face in the Great Hall. For vampyr, it was worth as much as a chorus of gasps.

"Yes," Gol said softly. "When the last man settles, I shall be glad to follow."

"Then you will forgive me for having disturbed you, Vaunted." Turning his back on the great Dusk Lord, H'orvan addressed the others. "For those who wish to endure, I require a force of one hundred thousand."

"Far more," Manwix said quickly. He was known as a military mind and so H'orvan listened carefully. "Since last the armies of man and immortal met on the field, there have been advancements in the technologies of bolt and arrow. I have long watched their skirmishes from the shadow. The House of Vladivov, for example, fields men with such devices capable of faster reload than I have ever seen. They are well-trained."

H'orvan nodded. "A hundred thousand extends us as it is. I had hoped to move quickly with horde legions. But perhaps stealth--"

"Legions?" Vaunted Gol interrupted. "Vampyr do not make bannermen, Youngling." He sounded almost amused. Bored. "They do not pledge allegiance. Nor rally to arms. Vampyr are hunters. Not soldiers."

"And where does that leave us?"

"I grow weary. Of this futility. Unless you mean. To declare yourself Godfang." Silence as thick as tree sap choked the room. "And tragically. I do not see that power. In you, Youngling."

In a blur of motion, Gol's hand closed around Porcer's throat. The creature had tried to sneak up and stake the ancient Lord of Dusk while distracted. Vaunted Gol had made no other motion, barely disturbing the long black robe of midnight silk draped over his sunken shoulders.

"You condemn yourself. So readily?" Blood sprang from the holes his long, jagged talons rent in Porcer's throat.

"You condemn yourself," Porcer choked.

Gol looked down to see a sliver of blackwood tenting his robe at the chest. Behind him, fangs bared, H'orvan held the hilt of the blackwood dagger he'd driven into Vaunted Gol's back.

"I do so claim the title of Godfang," H'orvan seethed. "And having staked my better, I wield the sacred right by ritual of bloodletting."

The three-thousand-year-old creature wore no look of surprise. His gray eyes took on a glossy mask and his immortality became dust.

Porcer pried Gol's hand from his throat and stepped back, eyes blazing. "Who amongst the Dusk Lords stands for this claim?" he shouted. H'orvan swept a steely gaze over the Great Hall. One by one, hands went to hearts. "Hail, Godfang!" Porcer roared.

H'orvan watched the undead blood dissolve from his fingers. "Make ready for the subjugation of Man."