OCR is Not the Only Font

The Vampire

Challenge #5: Write a story that includes the themes of power and gender roles.

As he approached the palace, Losuco could see that it was not just the local politicians who had been corrupted. Though cloudless, the sky was dim and tiny bats flittered in the afternoon haze. The cattle were sickly and thin, as though the life had been sucked from the very grass in the fields, and the people…Losuco recognised some of the gaunt faces that stared back at him, but only barely. The gold that had poured from that noble’s hand seemed to have poisoned the place.

Despite its rich terracotta tiles and walls of light sandstone, the palace was somehow dark and cold. Losuco realised that it was the windows. The glass, in those that had it, was stained with deep reds and purples that he was sure would admit little light. Those without glass were little more than arrow slits and, in fact, might have been. The place was built like a fortress. Waiting for the sound of his knock to drift through the building, he glanced up at the ceiling of the arched entranceway. There were murder holes above.

The door opened a crack and a hunchbacked old man peered out. “Who shall I say has arrived?” he croaked, his eyes searching past Losuco for the coach of some aristocrat.

“If it please your master,” answered Losuco, “say that I am a merchant with a business proposition. Also…” he smiled, unwrapping the velvet from a tiny but exquisite gold figurine “…a small gift.”

The doorman stared greedily at the fine work. “Such generosity,” he said, heaving the door open all the way, “I am sure will earn you an audience.”

As Losuco followed the old man up the steps, he made sure to keep his smallsword well hidden within the folds of his travellers’ cloak. Though the doorman’s greed set him securely among the living, the stagnant air inside the palace reeked of damp flesh and graveyard earth: the telltale stench of undeath. The china bowls of potpourri littering every surface did little to mask the smell.

The doorman poked his misshapen head around the door before allowing Losuco to enter, but the noble had been standing nearby and caught sight of his visitor before he could be introduced.

“And who is this, Untor?” His voice was smooth and surprisingly friendly. Despite this, Losuco found his mere presence terrifying. There was a power to this figure that his sallow face and spindly limbs could not conceal.

“A merchant,” replied the doorman. “He brings a gift.” He pushed the door open and held his hand out behind him, waiting to be given the tiny statue. Losuco stepped forward and handed it to him. As he did so, he noticed the other person in the room.

She was frightfully pale, sitting in the shade of a window darkened by the image of some ancient family crest: a serpent encircling the head of a lion. Besides her floury complexion, there was nothing all that extraordinary about her appearance and yet, also, there was something terribly wrong. Her eyes watched the figures moving before her, but they did not seem to recognise anything going on. This, Losuco realised, was the bride of the vampire: the thick ring on her finger suggested she was some Earl’s poor daughter, given away in exchange for land or gold and doomed to succumb, eventually, to her new husband’s corrupting influence. Seeing this, Losuco’s fear of the noble was replaced entirely by hatred. The town, and this maiden, had to be saved.

“Hm.” The noble turned the figurine in his hands briefly before passing it back. “You may keep this trifle, Untor. It will serve you as pay.”

“Thank you.” Untor bowed and backed out of the door, almost bumping into Losuco on his way out. “Thank you. Most generous. Thank you.”

The noble turned to Losuco, who realised he was studying the muddy cuffs of his trousers. “I’d be far more interested in finding out what sort of merchant cannot afford a horse.”

Seeing a certain spark there, Losuco was almost tricked into looking into his enemy’s eyes. Instead, he squeezed his own shut and reached into his pocket, drawing out a phial. Uncorking it, he glanced up for just an instant to check his aim. It was like looking into the face of an adder, and the vampire’s magnetic gaze almost stopped him then and there. But he was already moving, and the holy water found its mark.

The creature reeled backwards, screeching. Losuco drew his sword then, hearing Untor thundering once more up the stairs, slammed shut the door and bolted it. When he turned back, the creature was already upon him. In the second since he had last looked, more than the skin-thick scalds had changed it. The eyeless face was bestial and warped with rage, and the hands that clutched for him had nails like chisels. There was no time to bring the sword to bear. Blinded, the vampire had lunged a little wide of the mark and Losuco escaped its sweeping grasp by ducking to one side. But his foot snagged on a small chair by the door and he toppled, landing heavily. Pointed ears twitching, the vampire hurled itself at the noise. As it did so, Losuco swung the point of his sword up to meet it.

The thing was dead before it fell. Hurriedly pushing it off himself, Losuco watched as it withered and the skin crumbled away. At last, the world could see this noble for what he had always been. The curse was broken. The woman by the window was already stirring.

“Don’t worry,” he said, kneeling and taking her hand in his own. “You’re safe now. I can help.” It was only then that he noticed the motif on the ring: a serpent, and a lion’s head. Without thinking, he glanced up into her eyes; no longer blank, no longer harmless.

“You’d better,” she said. “You just killed my servant.”