Progenitor

* * *

A nervous Child did not add to the calm.

"It's so quiet in here."

"The palace inhabitants are accustomed to moving about inaudibly," Loam was glad to be distracted from hin thoughts. "People aren't allowed in here, except as an exception, and the chimeras do the cleaning. By the way, don't lower your voice - our conversation could be overheard from the other wing if they wanted to."

"It's not a pleasant feeling."

"Master the inner speech," Loam shrugged slightly. "Etiquette permits the use of sound-distorting spells only at public events like balls, negotiations, Council meetings... We can't use our powers now."

"Why?"

"Because until we prove the title, we have no rights here."

For both life and after-life, the need for money is a universal phenomenon. At least, that's what it seemed to Loam in those moments when he was in a philosophical mood, trying to remember who he was before his conversion. Non-dead people lost their memories in rebirth more often than they'd like, yeah... Guess he was a mercenary, or a guard, or otherwise sold the sword to those willing to buy it. At any rate, no relation to the merchant class - the master said he found the dying man on the battlefield, sensed the mark of the Dark One, and hurried to convert before the potential Child died of his wounds. A spontaneous decision, for which he had to pay the price of nearly a hundred years of stress.

I guess the old prick threw a party after Loam left. At any rate, he shouted something like that, tossing the adult risen over the fence.

By the standards of the undead, the young man knew nothing. He could not speak to a crowd of people until they lost all critical thinking, could not pretend to be an admiring listener, listening to all kinds of bullshit, carried by an important official or feudal lord, the money ran through his fingers ... But the second father taught him a good fight, and blood of his ancestor provided an understanding of the habits of beasts. Shy horses and independent cats at first were frightened by the undead, but soon got used to it and begged for affection from his cold hands. A good talent, useful, but not too useful.

He had to sell his sword to all comers, and sell it cheaply. Masters of the cities were not particularly eager to give up one-time orders. They gave work more out of racial solidarity than real need and were in no hurry to take a newcomer into the entourage. He did not try to become a demon hunter - mercenaries are extremely tolerant of non-dead men, but not to the point where they would admit them into their ranks. From time to time he managed to feed the Guilds, especially those who were in constant need of power support. It's also an income. Even a certain reputation had developed.

So Loam wasn't too surprised when he got the offer from the Guild of Phantoms to visit a merchant's house. They were always scheming, and if they didn't want to go, there must have been a reason. Only it was unclear why they had chosen him. The vampires in Lord of the Night Dwer's bloodline had never been known for their silent infiltration skills. Of course, they could do some things, on a decent level, but they were good at other things. They were good at knocking teeth out, snapping necks... That was the point, it turned out - to imitate a robbery by a not-so-experienced thief. Phantoms are interested in the documents from the safe merchant, and the rest of the loot, they are allowed to keep, honestly warned that the large amount is not worth it to count. The merchant doesn't keep gold at home, he takes it straight to the bank.

The most difficult thing was to enter the house. The unknown magician, who put the protection, was clearly a creative person, though not a master. Loam would not have made it through the workshop. Chains of signs protected the house and its inhabitants from fire, hail, curses, and unpleasant visits from the undead, and did so in an unconventional way. Not that the novice thief was well versed in runology, but a favorite of the local school bundles knew and can bypass them. Unfortunately, now I had to use different skills. One of the ancestral talents of the Dwer lineage was the ability to take the form of animals, fully copying their energy. Well, Loam was still far away from such heights, but he could already do some things. So he took advantage of it.

And now he was standing in the middle of the office - in the carefully chosen spot where the alarm lines formed an empty square - holding a bag full of papers from a safe torn from the wall and other things, and thinking what a fool he was. Because he can't take the painting off the wall, it's too carefully protected, but he really wants to.

It wouldn't occur to Loam to call himself a sensitive person, but he didn't visit exhibitions of painters or sculptors just to talk over life with potential employers. He also looked at works, even if he judged them on the level of "I like it, I don't like it". Well, he liked this painting. A lot. Very much. In the literal sense of the word, it touched the soul, the existence of which had not been confirmed. For the sake of it was worth the risk and did a stupid thing from the category of those memories which later become embarrassing and joyful. It's kind of a faux pas, but it's catchy.

So the vampire stood there, calculating his options.

A few minutes later, the plan took shape and was deemed reasonable. Costly, though, but what could he do? Security is always expensive. With a disgruntled hiss, Loam dug into his belt bag, packed with all sorts of useful stuff, and pulled out a small vial of dark green liquid. Rare and useful stuff, and it was a pity he wouldn't be able to buy one soon. A stimulant that boosted the strange metabolism of the undead by an order of magnitude, it was made and sold in the few shops of the Guild of Darkness. Most of the goods were bought by the rulers of the cities and other bigwigs. The likes of Loam had measly leftovers, and at exorbitant prices.

After a few minutes, the elixir took effect. The vampire exhaled sharply, putting himself in a trance and speeding up his personal time, and pushed himself gently off the floor... The gray shadow stuck to the wall for a moment, deftly avoiding contact with the signal threads, then darted just as swiftly through the narrow window. The signs reacted instantly, grew alarmingly red, and the air grew heavy and thick with crackling and worry. Too late! Human magic could not keep up with the undead, and the blurry silhouette swept through the courtyard and over the high fence in less than a second, leaving behind a house that was not yet alarmed, but already frightened.

The wall on which the painting used to hang was empty.

The next night, Argelius, of Medea's family, dropped in on Loam's temporary shelter - all his shelters were temporary, his way of life prevented him from having a permanent one. Like all artists, he was a bit careless, with a pack of mental cockroaches in his head and an unmistakable sense of the unusual.

"Show me," he demanded as soon as he was allowed in. "I'm anxious to see her."

"Who?" the host did not understand. And just in case, he put his hand on the short truncheon.

"Steppe Horses" by the great Thalia! Don't tell me you don't have it! Didn't you rob that merchant's house?" Argelius snapped his fingers, trying to remember the name. "Never mind! The whole town is talking about the theft of a masterpiece!"

"How do you know this is my work?"

"Well, I have some connections," the guest smiled disarmingly. "By the way, you stole one of the most secure items in town, you know."

Loam gritted his teeth faintly and pointed to the painting, neatly propped against the wall above the low table. The artist immediately sprang to the table, knelt, and froze, gazing intently at the lines of the painting, absorbing the furious movement that the artist had transferred to the canvas with ingenious precision. The master, far less impressed, was suffering in the meantime. For it appeared from Argelius' words that pretending to be an inexperienced thief had failed, which meant that he could not expect orders from the Guild of Phantoms for the foreseeable future. And he'd better get out of town.

"Talent," the artist finally unfroze, reaching forward gingerly with his hand but stopped, don't dare to touch the drawing with his fingers. "It's a marvelous talent. Sell it to me."

"No."

"I understand... But isn't it sacrilegious to hide such beauty in the dark? And where do you intend to store it? Paintings, especially such ones, require special conditions."

It is quite normal for a descendant of the Sweet Voice to shift a little on the collection of art objects, so Argelius behaved decently by the standards of his kin. In fact, one might even say, restrained. But it was clear that he was going to get his way, one way or another. Loam had communicated with him enough to understand such things.

"What do you suggest?"

"My Guild could, shall we say, rent a painting from you. We would place it among other masterpieces, in a special vault, with the right temperature and humidity, and only a select few guests would have the right to admire it..."

"As far as I know your ways, I won't be one of your guests," the overly fortunate robber sarcastically interjected. "I'm not good enough, and I'm not a member of the Guild.:

"I think our head will make an exception to the rule." The smug dandy finally broke away from his contemplation and looked at Loam. "Personal students or applicants are allowed access to part of the inner chambers. As a last resort, we'll make you an honorary member."

The mercenary scratched the back of his head with a gesture from his human life, and his mood shot up. Prospects were gradually turning into pleasing colors. The Guild of Arts, for all the small-mindedness of some members, was considered one of the most influential, both among the living and the undead. It would have been tempting to stick to the big trough, but Loam resisted by inertia.

"Look at me," he pointed to his face an apt description of the term "thug face". "What kind of creative person am I? I can't even draw, except on a fence with charcoal."

"I'll teach you," Argelius promised.

"Are you crazy?"

Frant turned his gaze to the painting, glanced again at his companion, as if assessing the front of the work, and confidently repeated.

"I will definitely teach you!"

"Master, why am I here?"

"I have to show them, my descendant, as proof," Loam grimaced. "You're the strongest because you're the only one. I have been pointed [censored] out that the number of blood-bearers is too low, and I've been advised to get another Child as soon as possible."

"Didn't you swear that I was your first and last?"

"There are some advisors who are very hard to ignore."

A dozen paces away from the talking non-dead men, the shadows thickened, taking the shape of a man's figure. It took the guardsman a few moments to fully materialize. The Queen's acolyte, the executor of the queen's will, the herald or executioner, approached Loam and bowed politely, without servility.

"Messen Loam, the Council is waiting for you. Please follow me."

The reality is that you can't argue with it. You can invent any rules, formulate theories, invent laws by which society exists... Life will put everything in its place. The wolf will not eat the grass, the exhausted land will not give birth to a bountiful harvest, and people will not allow an outsider to rule them.

The power of vampires has never been overt. Yes, there were times when the Master of the City stood openly behind the throne and actually determined the region's politics, it happened. But there was always a line that should not have been crossed, for when the threat of loss of independence came, the mortals would quickly and suddenly organize, create a kind of underground, and begin to screw things up. At first, it was small, then it was bigger and bigger.

However, more often than not, the temples were the first to track the growing influence of the undead, and they were the first to strike. They declared a city or, in rare cases, a state invaded by the Darkness, and launched an all-out raid on cultists, vampires, mortal servants, and unregistered mages. Given the level of holy scouts, few were saved. The ruling class also suffered, albeit to a lesser extent, and in general, it is better to flee the city under the joint edict of at least three temples. Which, in fact, is what Loam was doing now.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Slight inadequacy of the Night Ruler of the city, up to a certain point, did not bother his subjects. They, you know, are not paragons of normality. But when the Prince, or as the Northerners call it, the First Master, began to openly interfere in human politics, the undead began to falter. First, the regional guild representatives notified the ruler that his actions threatened the safety of the community, then the city was visited by the Queen's messenger who made the same declaration, and in the end came the Council decision, notifying of the possibility of imminent conflict and ordering the Guild of Paths to help evacuate anyone who wished. The willing turned out to be many.

In principle, Loam knew from the beginning where the wind was blowing, and he was going to get out. Responsibility let him down. He'd made a contract with a merchant to look after the property until the goods and real estate were sold out, and he was a bit slow on the uptake. In their midst, blunders are remembered for centuries, so it's best not to break an agreement without a good reason. So when the fire broke out, he had to leave on his own, and off-road. Priestly magic froze space, destroying portals, and posted around the city outposts prevented civilized movement.

What happened to the rest of his brethren was of little interest to Loam. Probably nothing good. The Master of the cities enjoyed a great deal of autonomy, the Mistress rarely interfered in their internal affairs, only in cases of serious violations of the Code, but she was in no hurry to solve the problems created by unintelligent servants. Everyone is responsible for their faults. If the Master of the city was ready to compromise his rights in favor of the central government - then yes, the help increased manifold.

The cozy, dry cave that Loam had discovered fifty years ago had lost none of its outstanding qualities over time and was still an excellent place to spend the night. At one time he had lived here for several months, hunting small demons in the vicinity. He made ingredients to sell to alchemists, tried unsuccessfully to change into beastly form, and drew at the same time. He could not write poetry (however, the failure of his attempt was evident beforehand), with modeling things were better, at the level of a solid average man, but suddenly he had a good talent for painting. Argelius even organized an exhibition, once.

Judging by the fireplace, hunters periodically slept here. The place was comfortable, and the drawings on the walls were not bad. Loam looked around nostalgically, gazing with unaccustomed tenderness at the old work. It wasn't bad! Not perfect, of course, but four surviving drawings could be showcased to a sympathetic audience. Although there are some things he would have painted differently now that he had gained experience. For instance, in this picture of a lynx, he might add a few touches, and the ears were a bit unnatural... Before he knew it, he was walking over to the wall and carefully patching up his past mistakes.

An unopened bag of belongings was left lying abandoned at the entrance.

He didn't see the point in rushing. Where to? Why? All his obligations were fulfilled, and no one was waiting for him. Relationships with his second-born kin were difficult. There are more good acquaintances among the artists. Not friends, but good acquaintances. Too different life values of a lone wolf mercenary and people who have devoted eternity to comprehension of beauty.

So Loam hunted the creatures, feeding on their blood, gathered rare herbs, and tried to stay out of sight of the people of the nearby village. The land was not under edict, nor should there be any holy warriors around, but who knows? Sometimes the temple guards made several rounds of raids around the towns that were being cleansed of dark cults.

Precautions were not superfluous, but, alas, did not help.

All normal vampires preferred to rest during the day, and Loam was no exception. He didn't like to fry in the sun, and he didn't understand his congeners, who made their bodies more resistant to damage that way. It was masochistic! So he slept during the day and missed the approach of a party of monster hunters. But they noticed his footprints from afar...

When the mortals entered the shelter, Loam lay on the ground, crushed by the pressure of the priest's magic, and tried in vain to get up. It was no use.

"A vampire indeed," exclaimed the bearded man with an ax on a long handle, "And I did not believe it! Lucky for us. You got him?"

A hunter dressed as an officer of the Dragon of Heaven nodded, his face dripping with sweat.

"I got. Faster."

The divine magic wrapped a dense cocoon around an undead man, not just preventing him from moving, but also preventing him from using his kind's abilities. Not to freeze, not to hide in the shadows, not to... Mages and priests have always been the core of the evil-hunting squads. If by some miracle, he could get rid of the priest, the other four wouldn't be much of a threat, even now, with the sun at its highest point. Loam groaned with powerlessness and anger. The energy was pressing, hindering his concentration, seeping under his skin and burning his flesh. His whole body seemed to be covered in a thin layer of the weak acid.

However, no. At one spot, the heat gave way to a pleasant coolness.

Lynx! He drew the cat, putting energy into the background of the drawing, otherwise, it was impossible to achieve the vividness of the image. So now there is an artifact to the priest's right, unnoticed by him, weak and ridiculous, but suitable as a distraction. If he can get the priest to break his concentration, Loam won't let him cast the spell a second time. The other hunters are not as dangerous. They might kill him in a fight, but at least he stands a chance. Just as long as he can get the priest to break down!

Thoughts flashed quickly, the man with the ax barely had time to take a few cautious steps. He had to hurry. Free energy flowed through the thin thread linking creation and creator into the drawing. The skin tingled more, and the pain intensified...

People must have been surprised when the drawing came to life.

The wild lynx, created by magic and coal dust, shredded the man's neck and chest in bloody flaps with one blow of its translucent paw.

The Major Council hadn't met in two hundred years, not since the war in the Western Isles. Nothing much had happened since then that required a face-to-face meeting of all the leaders of the race, and affairs were handled by the Minor, made up of the guild heads and rulers of the ten largest communities. Some of them remembered the days before the Plague, each had powerful factions and alliances behind them, all with enormous personal power. Loam had avoided their company before, and he intended to do the same in the future.

If they let him.

He had no excessive ambition, or, more accurately, it was in areas unrelated to power, wealth, or fame. Crossing the Gloomy Plateau alone was cool, and he didn't care if no one found out. It took sixty years to prepare the expedition, and the equipment and maps cost a monstrous sum, but it was worth it. In the short term, of course, he would be under the scrutiny of the factions, but soon the excitement would pass, everyone would realize that the new progenitor was not involved in politics, and he would quietly settle down in some quiet corner. Yes, that is what he will do.

As I crossed the invisible line, my hair stood on end, a chill ran down my spine. The Mistress had sealed off the chasm in the Darkness long ago, and it no longer killed any living thing that dared to approach, but the echoes of the otherworldly power were still present. Though it is not dangerous to stay here for long. The Council meets in the former center of Taleнa, and even mortals occasionally come to report or negotiate.

The massive carved stone doors swing open, and a herald announces:

"Lord of the Night Loam has arrived to present himself to the Council!"

What artists can't deny is their ability to communicate. And a lot of thinking outside the box, of course. In difficult situations, Loam sought Argelius' advice, and not once had a representative of the most diplomatic of the guilds ever failed him.

"He looks all right to me. Look how enthusiastically he swings his sword."

With a sigh, Loam pulled his guest by his clothes, pulling him out of the window, and with a wave of his palm placed a barrier of silence over the room.

"He is not bestowed with a legacy of blood."

He got his first offspring at the age of eight hundred and something, and at first, everything seemed normal. Until the age of five, the Child had little sense and needed daily communication; from thirty, he began to show independence, and then his energy stabilized and the time came for real learning. As far as the older vampire remembered himself at that age, his master had no problems at that stage.

"Remind me, please, what are your line's gifts," Argelius asked.

"Mostly physical, with only the higher ones being friendly with the beasts. The physical ones are more or less okay, though the other childs are stronger. What worries me is that his animals are afraid of him."

"Even the dark ones? Rats, wolves, snakes?"

"Mm-hmm. True, the neighbor's cat lets him pick her up, but that's the only success."

Argelius looked out the window once more. The young undead was scurrying through the garden, waving a thin knife rapidly. He was chopping up mosquitoes on the fly.

"Let's experiment."

It was decided not to show the Child to the warlocks. The representatives of the Guild of Darkness had an unpleasant tendency to get carried away by the process, and their friends needed the result. So they thought for themselves. A month later, after a series of unsophisticated experiments, it became clear that almost all of the animals, when they fell into the hands of the young offspring, either desperately try to escape, or hang lifelessly in a state of shock. Totally the wrong reaction! In addition, the Child reacted too sharply to the sun and fire, even though its close relatives were more resistant to damage. He moved faster, and his reaction time was a bit better, but not too much out of the norm.

In search of a clue to the phenomenon, they turned to the town elders. They listened, chuckled, recalled a couple of similar cases, and advised us not to dwell on known abilities. Say, run the child through a circle, in case you find something new. For lack of other ideas, they used this one.

The result stunned them both.

"The drawings are coming to life," Argelius repeated. "The drawings come to life. The abilities of Semmer and Kalim's bloodlines."

"You forgot about Allaris."

"It's different, it's hard to work with space." The artist was silent, looking at the old acquaintance with a new expression in his eyes. "My friend, it seems that you have become the progenitor of your own line."

"Don't be silly."

"Why? All signs point to this. Your kin tends to socialize - you like solitude. They are not good at subtle influences - even in our midst, you are considered a master, even in one particular area. It is a proverbial truth that they have a violent temper, and you have not had a temper tantrum in two hundred years. Or is it just that I haven't seen it?"

"There were no reasons."

"If you want it, you'll find a reason. Anyway, congratulations!"

"Nothing," Loam cut him off. "There must be another explanation."

Argelius smiled thinly, and his voice had a contented tone to it:

"You're stubborn! Looks like a visit to the Guild of Darkness can't be avoided after all."

The most reliable way to determine a new progenitor is to force him to face his ancestor in a duel of wills. The Lord of the Night, whose energy serves as the basis for the personality of all his descendants, will inevitably defeat the challenger unless he broke the mental ties with the founder, and changes completely and irrevocably. Strength, age, and magic do not matter here, it is the blood that counts. If you feel like kneeling, if you yearn to obey, if you can't help but obey a command, it means that you haven't become the founder of your line yet. Try to enter the elite in other ways.

However, since the progenitor of Dwer had been gone for millennia in the realm of Morvan, Loam was tested in another way. A warlock's way, for affinity with the blood of his closest kin. He could not refuse, Argelius had blabbed to the elders, and they immediately scheduled a ritual. The matter was too important, too many interested parties. The Lord of the Night would inevitably - unless he died or renounced his allegiance - become one of the nodes in the network that binds the race together and allows them to successfully oppose the gods of mortals. As a consequence, he has a voice on the Major Council, partial judicial immunity, the right to demand help from the Guilds, and the right to subdue other undead in emergencies. Nice perks, yeah. However, the package included increased attention of human intelligence services, participation in the most brutal intrigues, the need to acquire a personal entourage, and the occasional execution of orders of the Queen. Because the Mistress did not like freeloaders.

When the ritual showed the appearance of a new line, Argelius became ecstatic. Creative person, what do you want? With difficulty, he wrestled the new Lord away from the warlocks, who were so hungry for research, that he went to his guild, where he enthusiastically organized a feast. This was no small event, and so he could not make do with a mere party. He ignored Loam's objections and advised them not to concentrate on trivialities and concentrate on what was important. The main thing, in this case, was registration.

Vampires were not particularly fond of paperwork, not even bankers. Among their people, they preferred honest words. Because if you deceive a fellow vampire, confuse him in terms of legalities and interpretations, he will hack your legs off with an ax and leave you on the roof to die in the sun two hundred years later. The undead had no complicated procedures, not even in the Guild of Arts, which loved colorful performances. But the emergence of a new bloodline was a different matter.

The commotion began as soon as word of the ritual left the underground laboratory of the Guild of the Darkness (which consisted of only two members). First, the Taleya headquarters of the warlocks had sent word that a commission was coming to confirm the conclusions of a local colleague. The issue was too important to be handled by the very best. Secondly, the Master of the City had sent his two attendant guards. Loam took their appearance as a mockery, and uttered a great deal of "what the hell are you doing here"? The taunts were received without pleasure, but humbly, reflecting more clearly the vampire's new status.

The most interesting thing began the next night. Almost all the important people of the city, at least of the dark side, came to Loam's small and once cozy cottage. The Prince came to visit, the local guild leaders were in, cultists prayed in the courtyard, and temple censors swarmed around with their spyglasses and amulets. The Guild of Arts displayed a belted portrait of the birthday boy in the lobby, his brief biography written in a prohibitively benevolent tone, and began to celebrate. Loam's absence from the celebration did not embarrass them.

Accompanied by three guardsmen, the warlocks arrived. They looked around, sympathized, and confirmed the results of their local colleagues. They asked out of politeness if the esteemed Lord would like to move to Taleya, so that in a quiet atmosphere to get acquainted with the new duties. He didn't like the mention of duties, but he wanted to get away from the circus, and how. Again, personal experience told him that "the sooner you get in, the sooner you get out".

He packed up quickly.

They were waiting for him. Ten Guild Chiefs, as many rulers of the largest communities, the Captain of the Guard, Lord Latham, and the Mistress herself. The Queen. The embodied power, the pinnacle, and the center of the dark family.

A great honor, of course, but he would never see them at all.

"Sooner or later, you would have come here anyway, Lord Loam," it seemed that his thoughts were no secret to the Mistress. The hairs on his scruff stood on end. "Nevermind. Messen, I present Loam, Lord of the Night. Our brother shuns noisy company. He'd rather paint in the wilderness. Nevertheless, he's risen to the highest rung of our kind. He's proven his right to be here. Let us welcome the new Lord of the Night and wish his family strength!"

One by one the Lords rose to congratulate him, Loam thanked him, and he remembered his Mistress' last words with longing. It seems that until his second Child matures, he won't be allowed to go anywhere. New lines are rare, their abilities strengthen the race, and are very valuable. The Council will not take the risk of allowing the only adult blood-bearer to get involved in adventures and endanger his existence. So, at least a hundred and fifty years will have to be spent in the Capital, under guard.

Judging by the faint nod from Mistress, he got it right. A lousy prospect.

* * *