The Concordia, Twelve Hundred Years Before
Give or Take a Century
Swords in hand, the brave and noble soldiers crept up the rampart, conquering the fortifications of the enemy, and creeping closer to the stronghold castle, skirting the chickens who fossicked through the dirt for their breakfast, and keeping belly to ground in order not to be spotted as they reached the peak.
“I see them,” Thaelen whispered, his blond hair blowing forward over his dirt smeared face. His features still held the roundness of youth, only just beginning to reveal the strong lines of adulthood. “Crouched over there, behind the wooden barrels.”
The three other boys, designated enemy soldiers by the game, clutched wooden practice swords and crouched between barrels and the wooden wall fortification. The women and men who maintained a watch above the gate, bored by the still day and the length of their duty, watched from their perch with amusement as the boys practiced their soldiering skills, waiting for the inevitable battle, so that they could call out encouragement and criticism, and enjoy the brawl that the game was sure to end in when players forgot that they only played, and resorted to violence.
“Well, there is no way we can reach them without them seeing, their position is well chosen,” Haethnir replied grimly.
“There is only one thing for it, then, and that is to lure them out. They must be getting hungry by now,” Thaelen regarded Griort, Ulthred, and Isolund through narrowed eyes. “They have not seen us.” He rolled onto his back, surveying the houses within the rampart for a likely victim. “There we have our bait,” he pointed to a human child, a blood slave, playing with carved wooden animals in the dirt near one of the slave houses.
As Thaelen began to descend the rampart to retrieve his bait, Haethnir gasped and grabbed him by the shoulder, pointing towards where the ocean was a lush blue between the green and yellow sandhills.
“Thaelen, look,” Haethnir was distracted by a glint in the distance. “Boats have landed at the beach.”
Thaelen stood, game forgotten, and rose to the full extent of his pre-adolescent height, all long thin limbs and knobbly joints peeking out from where he had outgrown shirt and trousers in a sudden growth spurt and shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun. “It is them! I see my father!”
The land along the coast had been held by the Concordia family for as long as living vampire memory. Beneath the gently undulating green hills, and the fertile fields, existed an extensive subterranean development, known only to vampires. Treasure rooms, temples, and tombs containing the ashes of vampire ancestors and honored slaves could be found within a warren of tunnels and chambers kept safe below.
On the surface, they lived a simple existence. Within fields of grain and vegetables worked by the human slaves, the vampire fortress was secured by a double ring of wooden wall and earth-mound rampart. A gate was located at each compass point, with a cross of roads north to south and east to west running through, and within each quarter of the circle, identical houses had been constructed with care, precision, and the knowledge of an ancient culture quick to adapt to new technology.
With the majority of their menfolk frequently at sea, raiding human settlements up and down the coastline of the neighbouring countries, although the Concordia answered to the king, within the fortress it was a matriarchy, with the women supervising the human slaves, the children, and fulfilling all roles within the community from blacksmithing to building.
Thorarin Gulgane, king of the Concordia marched at the head of a long line of soldiers and slaves, the latter heavily laden with the treasures of conquest. “My son,” he caught Thaelen against him in a tight embrace as the boy ran along the Western road from the ring fortress to meet the returning army. “Let us look at you!” He held Thaelen back from him and ran his eye over him head to foot, and back up before rubbing at the dirt on Thaelen’s cheek. “You have grown again, my boy. Your wrists and ankles are sticking out of your clothing.”
“I know,” Thaelen laughed. “Mother was complaining about it this morning.”
“Ah, she will complain less once she sees what I have brought back for her. How is your mother?” Thorarin tucked Thaelen under his arm as they continued to walk into the fortress, nodding his head in greeting to the guards at the gate, and the slaves and members of the royal household that hurried out of their houses in order to help carry in the plunder of their raids.
“Husband!” Lagita, her long blond braids wrapped around her head like a crown, stood in the doorway of their house. “Welcome home. In one piece, I see.”
“That I am,” he replied releasing Thaelen in order to pull Lagita into his arms, resting his forehead against hers. “It has been too many nights, my wife, since we have been together.”
“Six weeks of days and nights, Thorarin. I had begun to fear that I would not see you again,” she whispered sinking her fingers into his hair and pulling his mouth to hers in a passionate kiss. “It is good to have you home!”
The fortress seethed with activity and Thaelen and his peers ducked and weaved through the busyness, marvelling at the treasures that had returned with the soldiers. Cloth, precious stones, gold, herbs, and spices from afar, grains, and weaponry were all slowly brought from the fleet of ships into the fortress and distributed to the subterranean holds for safe keeping.
The new slaves, filthy, blood stained and exhausted from the battle and their capture, were fed and penned. In time, they would surrender to their fate, but when first brought to the fortress all slaves had moments where they sought freedom from their captors. Part of the process of breaking their spirit involved branding, collaring, and shackling the new arrivals.