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Authors: Douglas Clegg

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The Priest of Blood

BOOK: The Priest of Blood
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P
RAISE
FOR
N
EW
Y
ORK
T
IMES
BESTSELLING
AUTHOR
D
OUGLAS
C
LEGG
AND
T
HE
P
RIEST
OF
B
LOOD

“The stunning first volume of a new dark fantasy epic from Stoker-winner Clegg (
Nightmare House
) gives the iconic vampire a massive makeover and draws fresh possibilities from its most familiar aspects...This rich and symbol-laden blend of myth and history makes intense reading while it lays a solid foundation for later books in the series.” —
Publisher’s Weekly

“Action and adventure combine with traditional vampire fiction to create a book that will appeal to fans of vampires and historical fantasy.” —
Library Journal

“Well-paced fantasy adventure, and not just for hardcore vampire fans.” —
Kirkus Reviews

 

“An intense and grisly dark fantasy, set in the 12th century, that rivals Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s Saint-Germain sequence in both sheer narrative scope and unbridled, violent eroticism...Clegg’s Vampyricon saga will be a blood-sucking masterpiece of truly epic proportions...” —Paul Goat Allen,
BN.com

“Douglas Clegg has accomplished a rarity in the horror vein...This book will sink its teeth into you!” —
Kansas City Star

“Clegg’s unique interpretation of vampire mythology makes for a page-turning, bone-chilling adventure. Vampire fans and horror aficionados will relish this tale.” —
Romantic Times

 

 

 

 

THE PRIEST OF BLOOD

Book One of The Vampyricon

D
OUGLAS
C
LEGG

A
LKEMARA
P
RESS

 

 

THE VAMPYRICON TRILOGY

The Priest of Blood
, Book 1

The Lady of Serpents
, Book 2

The Queen of Wolves
, Book 3

T
ABLE
OF
C
ONTENTS

The Priest of Blood

Contact Douglas Clegg

Also by Douglas Clegg

About the Author

Copyright

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE PRIEST OF BLOOD

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE INVOCATION

Sing to me, Falconer, of what was and what shall be. Blow the victory ram’s horn and recall the destiny to which you were so cruelly taken.

How you came to us in the night of your soul’s despair, on the rocky ledges and fallen citadels of the eastern kingdoms. Roar the story of the warrior-youth from the West, who came to plunder the treasures of Antioch and Kur-Nu and was himself plundered...

Here is the story that has been kept secret for more than eight hundred years, suppressed by the Keepers of the Veil, hunted by the humans who came after the Falconer, and buried by those he most trusted.

The shroud of history is upon humankind and those born of the Serpent as well, and all has been lost from the past, but you will invoke it now that it might live—

Speak the prophecies of Medhya, and of the secret wars that would not have begun without the appearance of the Maz-Sherah—

And remember the tale of the Priest of Blood, who brought you to this desolate and wretched and noble state...

 

 

 

 

 

 

BOOK ONE

________________

MORTALITY

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART 1: THE FOREST

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

________________

T
HE
W
ORDS
OF
THE
B
LOOD

1

Mortal life is an echo of footsteps heard in the halls of the dead. Despite the adventures glimpsed at Death’s Threshold, we turn toward life, as if that echo were all.

Within life, the blood is sustenance, the flesh is our cloak, but it is the breath that is the life—of eternity—itself.

2

Long before my birth, and well before my initiation into the mysteries of vampyrism, there were prophecies written in blood on a parchment made of human skin. These were rolled, as a scroll might be, bound in goatskin, placed in an urn, then sealed.

Servants of the fallen ones buried the urn beneath the earth to protect its secrets. The servants were slaughtered, with the last taking his own life, so that no one might ever know of the prophecies and the power they possessed.

The Earth itself wished to learn of the urn’s secrets, and so after many years, the Earth crushed the urn. Dirt and crawling insects spilled across the words of blood.

From this earth grain grew, and whispered the words to the air.

One who harvested the grain heard the words as wind swept the grasses. This man came to know the power within the words of the Blood, and became a great priest of his tribe, and when he passed to the Threshold that exists between life and death, he returned to life and raised up a kingdom of his own. He had many daughters in his former life, and they grew in power themselves, stolen from him and from the shades that gathered to those who held the power of one called Medhya, who had made the prophecies with her own blood, and the parchments were her own flesh.

She had been a great queen of a distant country that the ancients called Myrryd, which now lies somewhat in northern Africa and in the sea, for it is one of the fallen kingdoms of the world.

Medhya had power and wisdom in her youth. It was said that the Serpent, which was sacred to her land, told her the secrets of the Earth and of immortality, stolen from the lands beyond the Veil. With this illicit knowledge, she brought about prosperity and heaped all manner of blessings on her people. Three distinct priesthoods grew about her as her kingdom grew to encompass many kingdoms—the Myrrydanai, the Kamr, and the Nahhashim, to gather worshippers to her throne.

But she grew corrupt with her immortality and became a tyrant to her followers. When foreign invaders finally destroyed the thousand years of Myrryd, her priests discovered the source of her immortality and stole it for themselves.

They took her flesh from her, to wear as a cloak, and her blood to drink, leaving only her shadow, which was dark as midnight.

The ones called the Nahhashim preserved her words in her blood, on her sun-dried skin, as her shadow lingered with them, whispering prophecies that maddened them and brought them death when her whispering was done. A tree grew among their graves, and from it a flower with juice that was poison. From the tree a staff was cut, and the priests called the Kamr, who likewise drank of Medhya’s blood, took the seed of the flower, and the priests called Myrrydanai tasted of her flesh.

But the prophecies were unknown to them, and the shadow of Medhya was upon them, both a curse and a powerful force.

The first prophecy told of the days to come when the blood would sing within the cupbearer, and all who had drunk of the cup would know her secrets.

The second prophecy spoke of a great bird that would come to devour the snake and so become a dragon and raise up the Fallen Ones of Medhya.

And the third prophecy of that terrible and powerful immortal was that the bloodline of Medhya would drink the blood of the dead and dying until All became the One, and the One, All.

There was one more prophecy, but the one who heard the words on the tips of windblown grain did not reveal it. All that anyone would know of it was that it spoke of a great war that would be like no other, between those of the blood, and those of the flesh, and it would return Medhya to her place of power.

There are those who say Medhya walked the Earth for many thousand years more, calling for her flesh, weeping for her lost blood and for the children of her children, cursing those who had stolen the source of her power, searching for a doorway from the world of shadow into the world of flesh. She is nothing but shadow by day, and by night she is the whispering darkness itself.

Against her will, but from those who stole her blood and her secrets, the race of vampyres was born, from the Curse of Medhya and her Sacred Kiss, which drinks, resurrects the flesh, and passes the soul from mouth to mouth.

She seeks those who stole her secrets.

She hunts the night to bring Hell to her children.

She is the mother of the tribe of vampyres, and the one who wishes to bleed them for eternity.

These prophecies and this legend were unknown to me until after my nineteenth year, when a vampyre named Pythia took me.

3

When she murdered me, her sharp canine teeth savaged my throat. I can still remember the pain: it was the pain of birth. I saw a vision of shadows in darkness, as of men of some authority gathered around, shadow against shadow. I felt my blood rise up to the bite, as if meeting Pythia’s lips and tongue. The smell of her—at that instant—was the musky perfume of the grave itself. Her beauty changed from the maiden to that of the corpse, the drying leather of skin pulled taut against her skull. I saw her for her flesh and not for her spirit. Her eyes opened, milky white and diseased. Her jaw, wolf-like, as she tore into me. I froze, paralyzed, unable to fight, then the awful sucking sounds as she drank me.

I saw her true beauty as the life poured from my veins into her mouth. Her eyes like burning jewels. Her hair, thick, dark as night, flowing from her alabaster face, then the flush of pink in her cheeks as my blood nourished her.

It was not intense pleasure I felt then, in the Sacred Kiss that burned on my lips. The pleasure came after, when I experienced my first resurrection. The pleasure of opening myself up to the night, to creation itself, to the flesh in full.

The pleasure arises when the body comes fully alive again.

When the thirst for blood begins.

The curse of the thirst is not thirst itself, but the memories it stirs. Each drop of blood brings forth, once more, the years of my mortal life.

Red is for remembrance.

4

There is another world, and until I tasted of it, it remained legend.

I am vampyre, but have not always been. Once, like you, I was someone’s child, and the world seemed an eternal spring to me.

There is a history that only those who have torn the Veil have known. The world you believe existed in my mortal lifetime is a forgery, committed by the monasteries whose monks wrote much and lied more, and by great men who proclaimed their great deeds in order to store up their treasures and create dynasties. But like a blanket of mist on marshlands, the past has been hidden to remove the power of those who were not men. And even the past is its own fog, for beyond it lies the Otherworld itself, the Veil’s secret world that exists with the one of mortals, and yet we do not see it. You cannot conquer a world if your chronicles tell of your failures and defeats and of the blood on your own hands. You can only conquer when those who come after see you as the holy victor, as the anointed of God, a victim of devilish evil, of plagues, and of monstrous invaders. But the truth resides with me, and others like me.

I will tell you what happened in those dark times.

BOOK: The Priest of Blood
7.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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