The Vorbing by Stewart Stafford

help me fight the vampires,” Vlad said.
                  “Fight them with what?” one man said. “Pitchforks?!”
                  “No,” Vlad said. “Fight them with bravery.”
                  “What would you know about bravery?” Rupert said. “When they fought at McLintock’s Spit, you were still a boy.”
                  “I was fifteen,” said Vlad. “I wanted to fight, but my father would not let me go.”
                  “What difference will bravery make if you are dead?” another man said.
                  “All the difference in the world,” Vlad replied. “They murder us at night anyway! Why should we wait for them to slaughter our loved ones? Let us take the battle to THEM for a change! Make THEM suffer for once!”
                  “Your words are pretty, Ingisbohr,” burly Storm Vidor said, “but I will not place my life in the hands of a farm boy, especially not against those things up in the hills!”
                  “We will not listen to another word of this juvenile madness!” Rupert protested as he walked away.
    “What will convince you that I am the one to lead you?” Vlad asked.
                  “Bring us the head of Deadulus,” a portly woman said facetiously.
                  “If I could kill all the vampires myself, I wouldn’t need any of you,” Vlad said, “but I can’t do it alone. We must unite now, or there won’t be enough of us left to fight them.”
                  The crowd murmured and shook their heads in disbelief. There was no support for Vlad or his plans. It was time to play his trump card. He tore open the bloodied sack and held aloft the head of Necromus. There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd and then silence. There were not delighted or inspired, as Vlad had hoped; they were even more scared.
    “I bring you the head of Necromus!” Vlad shouted. “Do you see? We CAN beat them! This land CAN be ours once again.”
    “You shandy simpkin!” Rupert Haygood said. “You have killed us all!”
    Old Rupert turned to face the crowd. “See what this foolish boy has done?” he said, pointing at Vlad. “The vampires will annihilate us for this.”
    “I have killed the second most important vampire, next to Deadulus,” Vlad reasoned, “and you are unhappy?”
    “Of course, I’m unhappy,” Rupert replied. “You have infuriated our tormentors. We will all pay dearly for your foolish actions!”
    The mob became agitated and shouted threats at Vlad. They threw anything they saw at him: mud, dung, rotten fruit, and rubbish. Vlad looked quite a sight; he was bloody, muddy, and decorated with stinking detritus.
    “Bring him before the council of elders!” Rupert shouted. “They’ll decide what to do with him.”
    The crowd grabbed hold of Vlad and hustled him into a barn where a meeting of the council of elders was in session. The council’s debate was brought to an unexpected halt by the intrusion. It was the barn of Vrillium Gladwish, and he was also the head elder. Vrillium never tried to hide his disdain for Vlad, and seeing him being dumped before him in such a filthy state by an angry mob did nothing to assuage that. A stunned silence fell as they stared at Vlad in disgust.
    Vrillium Gladwish had a pompous air about him. He had a long nose that he was content to look down through at everyone, including Vlad. He made anyone before him feel as if they had transgressed merely by being in his presence. Vrillium was an older man, which automatically engendered awe and respect in a land where life was incredibly brief. His long white tendrils of hair drooping down onto the sackcloth he wore were a sign that he was a survivor. The wrinkles in Vrillium’s chapped skin were tributaries leading to the torrent of intensity that were his hooded blue eyes.
    To Vlad, Vrillium was a toad sitting on a lily,