The Origins (THE NARRATIVES OF VAMPIRES, BOOK 2)

CHAPTER 1: MONSONI

Sparta, 409 BC
The sun was low on the horizon. Its last rays drifting through the coastal town-village ahead of him. Passland. The moon was up. Its moonlight keeping darkness away and illuminating Monsoni's path as evening gave way for more of the darkness to invade.

Monsoni pulled the reigns. And as he pulled the stallion responded by catching more ground. Lamusland was now miles behind the horse and its rider. This was the residence of the Passlanders. He belonged here as well. They'd a few miles and Monsoni's top wish was that his horse could make the rest of the journey. He'd one mission, see the face of his father then get his blessing. It'd been years. The seven year separation had always worried him.

How is father doing? Who is taking care of him? Is he still alive? He'd always questioned himself among his sea of questions.

As he continued, his horse suddenly snorted and shied before it came to a stop. Impatiently, he pulled the reigns and the animal moved not. He pulled again. The animal raised its forelimbs to show some annoyance almost throwing him off its back.

"Come on, walk!" Monsoni said in frustration.

"Well! Well! Well!" a deep male voice said, "Look what we have here? New company!"

Monsoni pushed the faceplate before pulling the medieval helmet off his head to look around for signs of where the sound came from and his eyes caught something unusually expected. Right in front of him were a number of pointed spears and behind them, three feeble men.

"Anything you need fellows?" he asked them.

There was no answer except the men closing in on the few yards that separated him from them.

Smiling, he warned, "Little guys, you trying to joke with somebody you don't know. Let me forgive your naivety in exchange for you getting off my face-" The laughter that emerged from their leader made Monsoni to break off. "Sounds funny isn't it? Oh," he patted his forehead, "I know how of a comic I sound. Thanks for letting me know. Unfortunately, I have no time to engage in this," Monsoni warned moving the red cloak off his arms.

"So are we." One of them, probably their leader who'd come to good view thanks to the torchlights, responded.

"If I get off this back heads will roll," Monsoni warned. "If my feet touch the ground, someone will-"

The leader ignored him and gave an instruction to his very obedient juniors, "Take the horse, bring him along!"

"I assume you're joking. Please, I like not to swing my sword and you're making me."

The rude leader coughed and said, "Perhaps you'll lack the time to."

From the surrounding thicket came footsteps and well-grown men emerged sandwiching Monsoni and the horse. He'd feel somebody was already pulling his left leg and another had a knife wedged in between his legs. "Get off!" The attacker ordered as the knife was moved closer and rested next to the flesh of Monsoni's crouch.

Anger rose in Monsoni. In a spark, he brought his kneecap to the knife attacker's face. The formerly confident attacker staggered backwards to gain his lost balance thereby freeing his crouch from the knife's blade. He drew his heavy sword out, swung his left foot and got off the horse landing well on his two feet. He'd managed something tremendous. The attackers never gave in and they moved closer. Swords made noise. No side was willing to throw in the towel. The attacker's were not ready to lose an helot whereas Monsoni was not prepared to be one. After some minutes, Monsoni had a scratch to his rib and almost all of the attackers lay dying with grass unable to rise above the pools of blood. Some fleeing. For those he'd caught up with his weapon of steel, blood was rushing out of their blood vessels while some lay in pools of their blood and his sharp sword was stained of their blood. Only three now remained on their feet. The feeble leaders.