“I am diabolical, I might make a decent vampire overlord. Assuming I live that long.” I said, excited with the idea I came up with.

Me and my undead minions were situated near one of the roads to the enemy keep. We were setup to intercept the caravan of supplies, using a brilliant tactic by yours truly. I was camped just shy of the road behind some bushes with a few zombies.

The rest of my zombie horde were buried beneath the road, ready to reach out and seize the caravan from below.

“From beneath, they reach out with clamy hands of death!” I announced, receiving no applause until I ordered them.

That was getting annoying, they don’t react to my villainous dialogue, unless I tell them to. My undead minions were not exactly the best conversationalists, but I get by talking to myself and sometimes filling in there side.

“Hanging around undead is not good for me, hazardous for my social skills.” I said out loud and as expected, no one replied.

I sighed, accepting my fate as a poor little lonely vampire lackey to a mad man. Well at least I was getting paid, mostly in blood but some silver to. Blood, I had nearly forgotten that I needed to feed. It was something that I hadn’t really gotten used to.

If only I could store blood for later use, my sire had told me it was better to drink from the source as blood goes bad after a while. I doubt he stored blood, given the wide selection of slaves at his disposal.

Personally I was not a fan of the practice, but a growing concern was a need for blood. I might have to start purchasing slaves as a food source or hunt people. Neither of those options appealed to me, but I suppose it depended on how hungry I got.

I really should focus and its lucky I did as that was the sound of a carriage. I peered put from behind the bush, inspecting our prey. I was suprised to detect only a single a carriage drawn by two horses.

It was a typical wooden design, no insignia to denote noble rank, nor was it large enough to house necessary supplies for a seige. Very peculiar, but whatever, the job is to destroy every caravan that passes this road.

I waited patiently, observing the mundane carriage shuffling along, drawn by unimpressive horses. I tried to ignore the gnawing hunger, but soon it will be sated. Hopefully there was some guards that resist. Not a fan of killing defenceless peasents, but a man with a sword and an intention to skewer me, less of an issue.

I watched as the horses approached the point of no return. They arrived and as expected reeled up in freight, the presence of the buried dead spooking the simple animals.

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The carriage jerked forward, grinding to a halt. The horses bucked, fighting against the reigns, desperate to escape the clutches of the undead. I spied the driver, he was middle aged, scraggly beard, greying hair, your typical peasent.

He managed to pull back the reigns, but was unable to calm his horses. It was too late anyway, with a command my forces burst from the earth, gnarled hands tore through wormy earth. They reached out, climbing there way to the centre of life above them.

I could sense there desire to consume flesh through our link. I quickly tugged on there metaphorical leash, reinforcing the order to capture alive. Lucky I did so, that one zombie was about to take a bite out of the driver. Instead he dragged him kicking and screaming, unceremoniously throwing him into the dirt.

The hunger welled up inside, tearing its way from control and reason, all the way up to my throat. Before rationality could dawn on me, I sped to the man with all the swiftness of a fledgling vampire. Grabbing him a little harder then I intentioned, I sank my fangs into his neck.

My fangs were not just canines for ripping flesh, they had holes for sucking up blood. I found that weird when I first learned it, but very convenient. I drank the poor driver, he struggled for a time but he hadn’t the strength to resist. I tried to ignore his body odour, focusing on the warm blood coursing through me.

Something else was annoying me, a voice, faint and indistinct. I listened and found it was the voice of a young girl, crying, pleading for someone to stop.

“Daddy! Stop please!” The voice pleaded.

I don’t know why, but that voice pulled me from the rapture of feeding. Call it what you will, pity, fear, remorse or any number of emotions. I withdrew from the mans neck, his blood dripped from my lips and he fell to the ground. My eyes were drawn to the voice, the sight pulled me from a foggy mind, back into reality.

It was a girl, no older then ten, kept at a distance by zombies. The undead held her in place, but despite the horrific entities keeping her in check. She struggled desperately, thrashing around as much as a ten year old could.

Reality came into focus and I could now see her. She was a child, long blonde hair, pale complexion, narrow green eyes and wearing a brown dress. The sight of a child snapped me back to the horrific reality of what I had done.

“Daddy!” She screamed, her gaze barely acknowledging me, only the bleeding man on the ground.

I was in shock, but I remembered my training and quickly regained a modicum of control. Without thought, I knelt down, tore a piece of the man’s shirt and bandaged the wound. I ignored the bloodstains as best I could and administered first aid.

Once I stopped the bleeding, I listened for a heart beat. It was faint but steady, that was a good sign, hopefully he lived. Rising to my feet, I inspected myself, noting the blood covered hands and stained leather armour.

The girl was still screaming for her father and I let her approach. She ignored the bloodthirsty vampire and collapsed on her father, sobbing and wailing. I left the two surrounded by zombies, ordered to stand guard.

I moved some distance away and fell into self deprecating thoughts. “Damn it all to the Abyss. I am a freaking vampire and I get squeamish about some victims daughter. How many fathers, brothers and sons have I killed in war. What’s one more to the pile! Every blade that meets flesh is a family torn appart, whats one more!” I tried to calm myself, but images of wailing children tormented me. “It is never just one more.” Someone said, perhaps the voice of my own guilt.

“I made a promise as all my brothers in arms. Never kill kids, I don’t care if I live for a thousand years, never kids.” I declared with the steely resolve of a man at war.

But what would I do now? I would pray to the Goddess for mercy and guidance, but I doubt she would answer me.