Tao of Vampires
A Novel by Marques Dillard
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Tao of Vampires
A Novel by Marques Dillard
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It Will Always End With Swords Northern Scotland 1710 The beach was a graveyard. Corpses, parts of corpses, golden armor, and implements of war littered the fog-laden battlefield. Two suicidal legions, bent on self-slaughter, were gone. The remains lay amid smoldering cannons and burning catapults, with nothing more to launch but gray plumes of smoke. The scent of seaweed and salt water coalesced with the stench of rotting flesh. Black crows reigned supreme. Two powerful beings had survived the symphony of death. Phoebus Apollo son of Zeus stood forty paces from Arvo son of Hermes, both covered with the blue splatter of vampire blood. Red splotches of human fluid were the complement. Phoebus Apollo was impotent; his preternatural powers depleted after hours of body-to-body violence. His ability to repel substance, to conjure bolts, to defy gravity, and to move objects--with mere thought--were gone. He fixed his eyes upon the deep purple eyes of his breathing nightmare, clad in black samurai armor. His enemy was a lean and muscular creature, with the deceiving countenance of an effeminate boy. They were still and silent in that moment before the storm. Seagulls were the spectators from above, their calls in concert with the waves crashing against the shore. “Well, it seems that all of my dark powers have been exhausted,” he said, in Sakros-Dola, the Indo-European language of the Ancient Dead and their direct descendents. “Since I’m still standing, I will assume your gifts are gone as well.” “That may be a correct statement,” Arvo replied in an articulate and delicate tone, his Sakros-Dola diction was perfect. “My actions will speak for me.” Arvo’s smooth response, in the exclusive tongue, confirmed his Ancient Dead lineage. Blood of the Olympic Coven was intermingled with something feared, something mysterious. Phoebus Apollo cleared his throat as he tried to ignore the putrid mounds of flesh of previously living, breathing creatures with hopes, dreams, families, and aspirations of glory, of transcendence. Dared to the combat, Phoebus Apollo suggested, “I suppose we should finish this with swords.” “As expected.” Arvo twirled his katana sword in his light brown hand. “No matter what has gone before, it will always end with swords.” A heavy gust of wind made the skirt of his kenjutsu uniform flap like a flag. “You do have a choice, cousin. Give me Conscientia and I will spare your life.” Phoebus Apollo wiped spittle from his beard and mustache. “Never. You’ll have to rip Conscientia from my brain.” Arvo pulled a black scarf from his belt. “So be it.” He sheathed his sword, collected his braided hair, and tied it into a topknot. “So be it.” Phoebus Apollo stabbed the sand with his claymore and shed his golden suit of armor. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, pulled off his gold waistcoat, and tossed it aside. He unbuttoned his white shirt, exposing his pallid chest and the crucifix upon it. “This spot seems a bit congested. Shall we move to an open space?” Arvo, barely visible in the fog, nodded. “Yes.” Bloated and dismembered bodies splashed against the Scottish shore as Arvo and Phoebus Apollo stepped over the dead, until they found an open space appropriate for combat. “Here we go. This seems a proper spot.” Phoebus Apollo smiled. “Shall we do this the way of the Ancient Dead?” “If it pleases you.” They placed the tip of their swords into the sand and paced until there was a circle drawn into the sand. “I will give you one more chance to comply.” “I refuse to comply, savage.” “Are you certain?” “I hate to change the subject.” Apollo contrived a chuckle. “But do you ever look in the mirror and realize what an abomination you are?” “Abomination.” Arvo stated with a disconnected tone. “Anything greatly disliked or abhorred. However, here is the rub. I am only an abomination to those who dislike me and are abhorred by me. Ultimately, I find that word a compliment.” Arvo twirled his sword in his hand, crossing over each side of his body. “Will you comply? It’s in your best interest.” “Abomination, let’s get on with it.” They stepped toward one another, stood face to face. They raised their weapons, touched blades. Arvo shifted into a martial stance with his katana above his head. “Such a shame.” His other hand gripped the Wakizashi short sword in his belt. “You are already dead.” “Look, swine, I’m thousands of years your senior. It’s not the first time I’ve heard such boasting.” Phoebus Apollo raised his sword, holding it before him. “Yet, here I stand.” “For the very last time.” Phoebus Apollo shook his head. “I promise you won’t suffer. Abominations like you deserve to die quickly.” “I’ll speak with my sword,” Arvo said. The dance began. Phoebus Apollo tried to end the battle early by using the length and weight of the claymore as a tool to bludgeon. He created a torrent of blows he thought would beat Arvo into submission. The Incrementum casually avoided the flurry with his own sword behind his back. Phoebus Apollo stepped away from Arvo. “Damn you! Fight like a man, you coward!” “If you understand your adversary and you understand yourself.” Arvo dodged a down-stroke to the left, an up-stroke to the right.” You need not fear the outcome of a thousand battles.” Phoebus Apollo growled like a wolf and bared his fangs. “You think you know me? Know this.” He recalled the proper methods of combat with a heavy sword. “I will not be bested by a child!” He double-gripped his sword and lifted it above his head. He stepped forward and struck down upon Arvo, but the Incrementum governed his sword to parry the strikes. Phoebus Apollo extended his sword to his left and swept right, but Arvo was there, blocking another blow. The calm and confident expression on Arvo’s brown visage fed the rancor inside the Ancient Dead. Arvo said, “If you understand yourself but not your adversary, for every triumph gained you will suffer a defeat.” He gestured toward the beach of corpses. “They did not understand.” “You dare school me? Here’s a lesson!” The Olympian tried to gut his foe, with a cross-section down-stroke, but Arvo’s countermeasure was on task, deflecting the blow into the sand. “Wait not, Arvo. I come again!” The sounds of the wind, the gulls, the crashing waves were accompanied by the clang of colliding swords. Phoebus Apollo, impatient with the song, lunged forward as he thrust the tip of his sword toward Arvo’s chest, but the preternatural parried, spun, and side-kicked Phoebus Apollo in the face. The Ancient Dead wiped the blue blood from his nose. He glared at his enemy. “You kick like a pox-ridden girl.” Arvo crouched into his martial stance. “Your eyes have gone red, cousin. They are glowing as well. Not a good sign for an Ancient Dead.” “So you wish. Incrementum scum. You’re no wiser than a goat.” Phoebus Apollo shifted his broken nose back into place. It healed in moments. He attacked, again, with the best of his execution, as Arvo blocked his strikes. Phoebus Apollo put all his energy into a sidestroke, Arvo ducked and spun low, his long leg connected with Phoebus Apollo’s ankles, taking his legs out from under him, sending him back onto the sand. Phoebus Apollo gripped his sword and sprang to his feet. “Goat!” He continued his assault, moving forward as he probed for a weakness, but before he could discover a fault, Arvo stepped aside, spun and kicked the Ancient Dead in the back of his head. Phoebus Apollo fell facedown in the sand. “Shite!” He spit the sand out of his mouth, punched the sand, gripped his sword, and arose. He was panting as he looked upon the calm visage of the Incrementum. He kissed his crucifix. “Come with it, bastard son of Hermes.” Arvo attacked. His smooth and compact strokes breached Phoebus Apollo’s futile defenses. Phoebus Apollo waited for the fatal stroke, but all he received was a humiliating slap on his cheek with the side of Arvo’s sword. “Give me Conscientia.” Phoebus Apollo stepped back and wiped the blood from his cheek. A part of his beard was missing. The degrading gesture made him boil. “You tree tall beast of a whore!” He lunged forward, trying to break the defense of the Incrementum, but he stumbled over a patch of seaweed thus lost his rhythm. Arvo stole the offense, breached Phoebus Apollo’s defense, slapped him on the left cheek with the side of his sword. “If you understand neither the adversary nor yourself,” Arvo lunged forward, his sword strokes forcing Phoebus Apollo to stagger back, as he frantically blocked the strikes of the Incrementum, “you will succumb in every battle.” “Oriental combat foolery! A lowly coward’s way to fight.” Arvo stayed his sword, front-kicked Phoebus Apollo in the chest, sending the Ancient Dead meters away and on his back. Phoebus Apollo was staring into the blue until Arvo stood above, looking down at him. The Incrementum placed the tip of his sword on the chest of Phoebus Apollo. “Give me Conscientia. Give me The Knowledge.” “No, you blackest devil! Never!” Phoebus Apollo tried to move, but some force immobilized him. All he could do is stare at his sword, less than one foot away. “You sneaky bastard! Your powers still remain. Where is your honor?” “You’re a poor listener, cousin. I said quote, that MAY BE a correct statement, unquote. Now give me what I want and I’ll honorably spare your life.” Phoebus Apollo tried to shake away his paralysis, but all he could do is quiver. “You grotesque spawn of Hermes!” “Well then. Perhaps this will change your mind.” Phoebus Apollo gritted his teeth as he felt Arvo’s sword thrust deep into the right side of his chest. “Will you give me Conscientia?” Phoebus Apollo coughed blood. “Filthy, wicked beast!” There was a sucking noise as blood and air streamed out of the wound. “Bastard son…of Hermes!” Arvo twisted his sword. “Now?” Phoebus Apollo’s throat was too full of blood for him to reply. He gargled blood then spat it in the face of his nemesis. “Shame upon Hermes, for tupping a beast, for creating the abomination of all abominations!” “I will presume your reply means no.” Arvo stabbed him again, on the left side of his chest. Phoebus Apollo quivered as he felt the steel go deep. His hand clawed sand as he felt the sword twist inside him. Arvo pulled the sword out of Apollo’s chest. Blood poured out of the jagged hole. “You are wounded but not killed. I’ll spare your life if you give me Conscientia.” Phoebus Apollo coughed the blood out of his throat. “Shame on Hermes! Shame on Hermes!” Arvo knelt next to the Ancient Dead. “If that is all you have to say,” He pulled his short sword from its scabbard, “then here comes the consequence.” Phoebus Apollo convulsed, as the short sword was thrust, twisted, in-and-out of all his vital organs, except the heart. He was relieved after the sword was removed. I can survive this. I am an Ancient Dead. I am forever! “Last chance, cousin.” “Burn in Hell, savage!” “There is no Hell in my philosophy, but I will take your gaudy crucifix.” Arvo took the crucifix and placed it around his neck. “I’ll show it to your next of kin, just before I slice them in half.” Phoebus Apollo spat his blood on Arvo’s cheeks. The Incrementum dismissed the gesture. “The rest is silence.” Phoebus Apollo cried out as the sword punctured his chest, slipping between his ribs. Blood spurted out with each pump of his damaged heart. Arvo stood, retrieved his katana, gripping it with both hands. “It will always end with swords.” He lifted his sword over his head and struck down upon Phoebus Apollo for the very last time.
Phoebus Apollo’s own screaming awakened him. He shoved the lid of his gold sarcophagus aside and sat upright. He frantically looked around his pitch-black private chamber. His Ancient Dead eyes searched the huge armoire before him, the bed beside him, the mirror behind him. He was huffing as he used his forearm to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He gripped the crucifix on his chest. He sighed. He heard a light knock on the front door of his chamber. “Speak!” “It’s Xenophanes, wortos-potis.” Phoebus Apollo stepped out of his sarcophagus then tightened his robe. He spoke in Latin, a common language used to communicate with beings of less stature. “What do you want?” “Your bodyguards heard some disquieting noises. Are you all right?” Phoebus Apollo chuckled at the quirk of fate. What an idiot I am. He remembered the many instances when he made others scream, but in this instance, he was the screamer. “I’m still breathing.” He struck a match and lit the four twelve-branch candelabras at each corner of the room. He walked to the front door and opened it. Two guards in gold armor flanked a short vampire with round spectacles. “I live, Xenophanes. You see?” “We were concerned, lord-master, I mean, wortos-potis.” He wiped his lips with his fingers. Bit my lip over a nightmare. He stared at his blood for a moment then licked it off. “Send in four donors. I’m ravenous.” Xenophanes retrieved a bell from the pocket of his long coat. “Your preference, wortos-potis?” “All male. Young this time. The old ones taste horrible.” Xenophanes rang the bell four times. “A young but manly banquet it is.” He dropped the bell back into his coat pocket. “How would you like to be dressed for this evening’s entertainment, wortos-potis?” He licked the roof of his dry mouth. “What entertainment?” “Perhaps you may have forgotten. Hamlet is being performed at The Apollonian Globe Theatre tonight. Curtain call is in,” Xenophanes retrieved his gold pocket watch and flipped it open, “less than an hour.” “Hamlet. A good play though a bit overdone. What player performs the role of Hamlet?” “Branagh, an Irishman. Well received throughout Britain. I will be playing his companion, Horatio, so it’s pressing that I leave to prepare, as soon as you allow.” Phoebus Apollo smiled. “How could I have forgotten?” He patted Xenophanes on the shoulder. “My mind was somewhere else, I suppose.” “I agree. I’m quite concerned regarding your mind’s whereabouts.” Xenophanes followed Phoebus Apollo to a large dress mirror with a golden frame. “There are some matters of business we need discuss.” Phoebus Apollo teased his hair with a comb. “Be brief.” “Some senators have voiced their concerns in regards to our archaic defenses. Since Arvo is in France, they believe it’s imperative that we construct defenses using current technology.” “Tell them to wiggle a pen and I’ll sign the release for whatever resources they will need.” “Very well then.” Phoebus Apollo noticed Xenophanes hesitant departure. “Xenophanes.” “Yes?” “You’re still here.” “Yes. There is vital business we must discuss. The pressing matter in regards to the pact with Lugh and his Celtic covens, and the peace agreement with Odin and his Norse covens.” Phoebus Apollo stopped teasing his hair. “And?” “Well, wortos-potis, I’ve been informed that neither document has been signed, sealed or delivered.” “Well, Xenophanes, you are my advisor. Why haven’t you reminded me of issues of importance?” “Wortos-potis, I have reminded you four times.” “I don’t recall. Are you certain?” “Yes.” Xenophanes pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket. “Let’s see, October fifteenth, the twenty first, the—“ “Oh, put that away. I’ll sign them tomorrow.” “Very well, wortos-potis. I’ll bring you the documents.” “Enough about that, Xenophanes. It’s time to discuss immediate and most grave concerns. Should I wear the gold or the black wig tonight?” “Wortos-potis, as I have said previously, you are one of the few individuals who does not need to wear a wig. Your hair is long and curly enough. In addition, crimson red locks are the rave of the times.” “Xenophanes, your way with words pleases me. No wig.” “Thank you, wortos-potis, but may I be bold enough to suggest that you remove your beard. You look more like your father than yourself.” Phoebus Apollo rubbed his beard. “Seems so, but I have no problems with similarities. He’s my only better.” He turned to Xenophanes and examined his face. “But, I think you would benefit from a spruce-up. Have my beauticians veil your shortcomings.” “Thank you, wortos-potis. You are too kind.” Four young men in red tunics stopped at the door. Phoebus Apollo could feel his heart beat harder. “My mind has returned,” he said in an ardent tone. “Come on in, you lovely fellows.” The four men entered the chamber. They stood in line in front of him. He fixed his eyes upon the thick, pulsating vein on the throat of the first donor. “How would you prefer to be dressed today, wortos-potis?” Phoebus Apollo caressed the donor’s throat. “Dress me what you will.” “Gold waistcoat, breeches? Black shirt, stockings, shoes?” “Yes, yes, yes. That’s fine. Now leave me.” “Thank you, wortos-potis. The servants will be sent in to dress you after you have fed.” Phoebus Apollo put his hand out. The donor kissed it. “And you are?” “Jacob, my god.” Xenophanes cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my deiwos.” Phoebus Apollo stared into the nervous eyes of the mortal. “Jacob, tonight your name is Hyacinth.” “As you wish, my deiwos.” Phoebus Apollo bowed his head and placed his hands before himself with palms up. “Vesta, in all dwellings mortal and immortal. Yours is the highest honor, the sweet wine offered first and last at the feast, poured out to you duly. Never without you can gods or mortals hold banquet.” He tilted Hyacinth’s chin then sunk his fangs into his throat. The donor grunted and started to breathe quickly. Phoebus Apollo drank deep, the warm blood flowing down his throat. He stopped after he counted to thirty and placed a gold seal upon the punctures on the donor’s throat. “Thank you, Hyacinth.” He gently kissed the droopy-eyed donor on the lips. “Next.”
The Apollonian Globe Theatre was at full capacity. Ancient Dead, Antediluvian, and Nocturne vampires filled the three-story, open-air amphitheatre seats. Privileged mortals stood in the pit below. The audience was mute, eyes fixed upon Xenophanes standing above the still form of Hamlet that lay before him. Xenophanes said, “And let me speak to the yet unknowing world how these things came about. So shall you hear of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause, and, in the upshot, purposes mistook, fallen on the inventor’s head. All of this can I truly deliver….” It was a standing ovation inside the theatre as Hamlet’s body was carried off the stage. Phoebus Apollo was on his feet as well, standing in the front of the wortos-potis’s golden lounge. He sent a message to the mind of Xenophanes who was still on stage. Well done. Very well done. Xenophanes bowed in Phoebus Apollo’s direction. I thank you, wortos-potis. Your approval warms my heart. Of course it does. Phoebus Apollo and Xenophanes strolled out of the theatre and up a hill toward the center of the acropolis. “That was an impressive performance by all the players. Make certain the mortal players are well fed, have the best living quarters and, most importantly, are untouched, unmolested. None shall be designated as donors. You understand me?” “As always, wortos-potis.” “Untouched and unmolested.” “Definitely, wortos-potis. Not one drop of their blood will fall upon the lips of any.” They strolled to a garden fountain before the marble step that led to the Greek acropolis. Phoebus Apollo cupped his hands and dipped them into the water. He splashed his face and combed his hair with his fingers. He stared into the sky and fixed his eyes upon the full moon. He began to count the craters. “Damn the full Moon. Never a good sign.” “Excuse me, wortos-potis?” Apollo stopped counting. “A few somber thoughts.” Apollo recollected Horatio’s soliloquy. Carnal, bloody, unnatural acts. A tale told time after time. “It’s nothing.” “I’ve known you for centuries, wortos-potis. Nothing usually means something.” Phoebus Apollo stared at a couple as they tossed coins into the fountain. “You’ve seemed uneasy all evening,” Xenophanes whispered. “Is it the nightmares?” “I rather not speak of it at this time. It will affect my mood. Besides, it’s one of those concerns I should keep to myself.” “Wortos-potis, this world has circled the sun hundreds of times since you changed me. Before that day, I was merely a Greek scholar. Now, I am your servant and counselor.” He moved closer to Phoebus Apollo and whispered, “It would undoubtedly harm me if you could not confide in me.” Phoebus Apollo silently admitted that changing Xenophanes was one of the better decisions he made during the classical Greek period. The mouse of a man counseled senators, educated slaves and, when time permitted, was nose-deep into scrolls, literature, and philosophical writings. “I’ve had nightmares before, Xenophanes, but these latest…dreams seem far too ominous.” “What occurs in these night…dreams?” “Every nightmare is a swordfight against Arvo. Some occasions the fight is on snow-covered mountains, other instances in barren desert. Today’s scare was on a Scottish beach, very like the beach below us. However, what disturbs me the most is no matter where the fight may be there’s always fog. Fog so thick that I can barely see my foe.” The couple turned Phoebus Apollo’s direction. They smiled, bowed and walked away. “And? What was the conclusion?” Phoebus Apollo stared at the constellations. “I was vanquished.” He looked into the brown eyes of Xenophanes. “I was vanquished in the most gruesome ways; dismembered, disemboweled, beaten into a bloody pulp.” Xenophanes held Phoebus Apollo’s hand. “Wortos-potis, about twelve hundred years ago, there was a philosopher poet who did not believe the Olympians existed. He publicly denounced their existence with wit and gibes. Then, one fateful night, a god, who looked very much like you, crept into his chamber to persuade him to believe. As I remember, it was a very painful method of persuasion, but you certainly were convincing.” “Well then, wise Xenophanes, are the vampires of the Olympic Coven gods or false gods? What say you? Be honest.” “Wortos-potis, gods are not defined as gods by their name, but by their deeds. Now, I’ve never witnessed a parted sea, a cloud of locusts or a Great Flood, but I have witnessed many other fantastical occurrences since I’ve been by your side.” He put his arm around Phoebus Apollo and squeezed his shoulder. “The Bible tells many tales that did not occur exactly as written. The labors of the Greek Pantheon, Olympic Coven, call it what you will—is no different.” He slapped him on the back. “Now quit your pouting. I have a surprise.” Phoebus Apollo watched Xenophanes shuffle through the crowd and take his place on the speaker’s pedestal. He raised his arms to his side. “Mark my words,” Xenophanes said aloud. All conversations ceased. The garden was silent, until Xenophanes spoke. “They were mortal once, thousands of years back. In the time of the immemorial, something sinister and dangerous, something mysterious and wondrous--made them different. Ancient Dead they are called. The oldest and most powerful vampires known across these lands. Age after age, they have assumed the identities of Europe’s most revered deities, flaunting powers only gods could possess. Mortals have worshipped them as gods and goddesses to be loved, feared, and appeased by the giving of their blood. “But now there is Arvo, an Incrementum, an offspring of an Ancient Dead and something UNKNOWN, from the darkest reach of time and place, Africa, its vestigial essence whispered to be twenty thousand years before the birth of Christ. There is no other threat that the Ancient Dead fear, but this creature, this abomination, this monster--a cunning beast, too cunning to call beast, churning its ascendancy to dominate and eliminate all vampires that violate laws of nature. Arvo, the unholy Incrementum, believes that the Ancient Dead are the foremost violators of such laws and thus hunted like game in a forest. “These latter centuries have been very dire times until now. Ares, the paragon of warriors, and his vast legions of vampires will intercept Arvo’s mercenary throng in a matter of days. When the final kill is made, and Arvo and his rag-tag mob are destroyed, the Ancient Dead will resume their divine designs to assure dominion. Within their penumbra, all who follow them shall flourish!” Polite applause followed his speech. Heads were nodding. “Well said, well said,” one vampire said. “Prose worth remembering,” another added. Xenophanes received multiple pats on his shoulders as he shuffled back to the fountain. A mortal walked to Phoebus Apollo. He made a subservient bow. “Do you remember me, my deiwos?” Phoebus Apollo glanced at the seal on the donor’s neck. “Of course. You’re Alfanzo. Alfanzo, better known as, in my memory, Cyparissus.” Cyparissus grinned and nodded. “Yes, yes! I am Cyparissus. Or anyone else you would want me to be.” Xenophanes tone was cynical. “That’s a revelation.” “How was I?” Cyparissus eyes blinked quickly. “I mean how did I taste?” “You were delicious. I would love to consume your elixir again in one moon.” “Thank you, my deiwos! Thank you!” Cyparissus bowed multiple times before shuffling away. Xenophanes snickered. Phoebus Apollo looked at Xenophanes. “What?” “I just find it ironic. You take their blood and they love you for it.” “That’s how it’s been, Xenophanes. You know that.” Phoebus Apollo looked upon rolling slopes where a small reproduction of ancient Rome was erected upon seven hills. A replica of Athens was below and to the left of the Roman city. The citadel of Thebes was on a lower hill to the right of the Acropolis of Greece, all facing the distant shore. “Apollonia. Magnificent.” “Apollonia, Athens, Rome, and Thebes all put together.” Xenophanes placed his hand on Phoebus Apollo’s shoulder. “Every time I look at them, lit up at night, it takes my breath.” Praetorians saluted Phoebus Apollo as they marched by him. “Reminds me of better days. When I was still worshipped by millions.” Phoebus Apollo recalled when thousands bowed before him. “Now, I’m some myth to be told like a fairytale.” “Nothing lasts, wortos-potis. In fact, we’ve been fortunate. We should thank Zeus and Hera for building such a marvel. All of this erected so you may be properly sequestered.” “Hardly. You mean all of this erected so Conscientia could be properly sequestered. Not its keeper.” Xenophanes amiably shook Phoebus Apollo’s shoulder. “You have a rare gift, wortos-potis.” “Don’t remind me again.” Phoebus Apollo remembered that specific day, October 31st 1667. It was the day an extraordinary ceremony, never accomplished before, was completed in a cave in Mount Olympus. The oldest of Ancient Dead placed their foreheads against Phoebus Apollo’s forehead and transferred the Memories of the Immemorial, also known as Conscientia, into the darkest recesses of his mind--a region of his mind that was forbidden to visit. Any attempt to access Conscientia would mean certain death. Phoebus Apollo was told that Arvo tortured an Ancient Dead to learn that he possessed Conscientia. The Incrementum had tracked him ever since. Phoebus Apollo stared at a nearby cliff with an Edinburgh Castle reproduction on the edge. Several portholes were glowing. “Any ships seen?” “Only our ships, wortos-potis, but there’s heavy fog tonight, rolling in like clouds.” “Hmm.” “Wortos-potis?” “Should we double the watch?” Xenophanes shook his head. “I doubt it would matter, wortos-potis, but it’s your decision.” “Another dozen. That will do.” “I’ll place it in motion after we depart.” “That’s acceptable.” Phoebus Apollo tossed another coin in the fountain. “I smell the morning. Let us retire.” Sealed within his sarcophagus, his body was still and his mind went cool until doom returned in the form of Arvo, holding his katana above his head. “It will always end with swords.” |
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