A Vampire's Life - Part 3

January 1st, 1603

His feet pounded along the cobblestones of London's streets, running at the fastest pace he could manage. Scrimshaw had sent him on an errand; a delivery of money as payment for something or other. Bastian knew not what the ancient-looking man had bought, nor did he especially care. The white-haired old bugger had not taught him a single thing in terms of combat. He had taught him useful skills – reading, writing, how to speak (in an attempt to stomp out his accent), and some arithmetic – but those were only taught to him so he could perform the basic duties with which he was entrusted.

He'd also had him working his hind end off around the house; repairing furniture, windows, leaks in the roofing, and anything else that seemed broken. Coupled with this were many other basic chores. He cleaned the house, top to bottom, first thing every day. He made sure that the books in the old man's library were sorted in the way in which was so indicated – by subject, by year of printing, and then alphabetically. He had him cleaning and washing clothes. The closest he ever got to weapons was when he was cleaning and polishing them.

All the while, Old Scrimshaw was teaching no less than four students, often having Bastian clear the parlor so that the space could be used for lessons. He resented the treatment, truly, but there was little that he could do about it. His brother had locked him into it, and his father, upon learning of it, had agreed with his brother – though he had given Donner quite the lecture later about making such decisions without consulting him. Their father had also agreed to teach him how to properly use a firearm.

One piece of good news was that while Scrimshaw was quite miserly in his old age, he did appreciate the work that Bastian did. And, seeing it done as instructed, once a week he gave Bastian a Pound as a reward. It wasn't much. In fact, it was so little, that when he had offered the reward to his family, his parents had agreed that he should save the money. So he had. He'd made nearing thirty Pounds since starting work for the old man. The pay wasn't fabulous, or at least it didn't seem so considering that he had little that he ever wanted for, but at least he had some money.

Another piece of good news was that, while he had not been given lessons directly, he did sneak a look in on the lessons that happened in the parlor, and he would practice what he saw. Rapier, Longsword, Saber, Cutlass – Scrimshaw taught them all. Bastian, without a weapon himself, often ended up using bits of wood to practice with; even mops and brooms while he was meant to be cleaning. So far, however, it was all theoretical to the boy. He'd not once held a real sword without the old man having him clean and polish it under his watchful gaze.

There had been some small part of him that thought that working for the old miser would be something of an adventure; that he would be learning to become a swashbuckling rogue. That line of thinking had been dashed within the first hour or so of working for him. By now, he was firm in his belief that Scrimshaw saw him less like an apprentice, and more as a cheaply paid hired hand; a maid and errand boy all in one. After six months of the work and the running around the city on errands – and yes, he had him run everywhere, and seemed to know how long it would take him if he ran as he was instructed – he was certainly fit. As well, he'd taken to the book learning easily; his mind was rather sharp, or so Scrimshaw had remarked now and again.

He hated that the simple compliment from the old man had made him feel any amount of pride.

Today he was running at about two-thirds the speed that he could have run; still fast, but not so fast as to wind himself on the initial trip. It was a route he knew well, one that took him a decent distance, and he didn't feel the need to tire himself by sprinting full-tilt the entire way. As he rounded a corner, however, a flash of silver was all he had as a warning to duck. A thin blade slashed through the air, aimed for his neck, and he dropped and rolled on instinct. The attack missed, and as he righted himself and took to his feet, he saw his attacker. Avery Kitts, the leader of the trio that had attacked him six months prior. His face was scarred and his nose was crooked, teeth misaligned, and a disgusted look crossed his disfigurement as he regained his balance and glared at the younger boy.

“You? Again?” Bastian said, smirking slightly, “Avery, after last time, I would have thought you intelligent enough to leave me be.”

Avery scowled, “Your brother isn't here this time, you little git – and I'm the one that's armed.”

“Where are your minions? Beating an old woman, stealing from small children?”

“Don't you dare speak ill of them, you dirty little Catholic!” The last word was laced with as much venom as the elder boy could muster, “They're dead!”

Bastian could not have looked more surprised if he had been faking it. “Dead?”

“Pirates. On a merchant ship headed to a Venetian port, they were attacked by corsairs. They didn't survive the boarding.”

“Avery, I'm sorry.” Six months ago, he would have shrugged it off. Hearing those two were dead wouldn't have mattered to him. Even learning how they died wouldn't have bothered him. But now, he felt pity for them. “But fighting me won't bring them back.”

Avery laughed, “I'm not going to fight you...” Then he glared, “I'm going to kill you, and take that coin!” He pointed the tip of the rapier he wielded at the small locket-like case that hung around Bastian's neck on a leather strap. Through the glass front could be seen the denarius that his father had given him for his eleventh birthday.

Bastian looked at him incredulously, “What reason can you possibly have to want to kill me? Before you attacked me, I'd never done you wrong. I'd never spoken ill of you, or said anything against you. I barely even know you, Avery!”

Avery scoffed, a dark grin coming to his features, “None of that matters. You're a Catholic, and England has no place for the rats of the Papacy. And like rats, you need to be wiped out before your numbers can grow any larger.”

Bastian stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “Do you hear yourself right now? You sound as if you've lost your mind. Maybe I did more damage than I thought.”

And with that, Avery was done talking. He pulled the sword back, the rammed it forward, but Bastian was faster. He jumped back – though that alone was not what saved him. He tripped over a loose stone and fell on his hind end, while the sword stabbed into the air where he had been. Next came a swipe at him, but he lay back quickly to avoid it. Another was aimed at his legs, but he brought them up and used the motion to roll himself backward and onto all fours. As soon as he was on them, he hopped up to his feet and ran.

Avery gave chase and stayed on his heels, but he could never quite catch the younger boy. Having been Scrimshaw's 'apprentice' did have its advantages, apparently. Yet, Avery wasn't seeming to get winded either. He was in a rage, lusting for blood, and for what? Because his version of their religion did things differently? It was so stupid to fight over these things, much less kill one another. Bastian was a Catholic, a Prussian, and an immigrant to a country that currently hated all three of those classifications. He wished so much that his family had never come here, and yet, this was where life had taken them.

Rounding a corner, Bastian saw an opportunity and took it. A shopkeeper was sweeping just outside his business, and without a moment of hesitation, Bastian grabbed the broom right from the man's hands and kept running. He heard the man curse behind him, but he didn't pause. Instead, at the first opportunity, he broke the head off the broom. The broken end hadn't split with much of a point on the broken end, but it would be enough to fight with. Charging down an alley, he came out on a road, moving through carriage traffic and pedestrians, and span to face Avery.

The older boy went straight for a thrust, but Bastian parried it easily and with a flick of his wrist he smacked his opponent on the head. He hadn't gotten much speed up, but the hit stunned Avery just long enough for Bastian to bring the broom handle up and swing it down toward Avery's head. The power blow was dodged as the older boy returned to his senses, and the rapier flashed as it arced toward Bastian's midsection. It missed, barely, but slashed his left arm. He hopped back, and only now that he was wounded did he really get a look around them. The pedestrians had cleared away, but the carriages continued without a care, as if the boys weren't even there.

Though Bastian had practiced a few of the things that Scrimshaw had taught others, he was by no means ready to fight an armed opponent. He knew it, and he was sure that Avery didn't doubt it. Still, Bastian had every intention of getting out of this. He just needed to get rid of Avery's sword somehow. Inspiration struck him as Avery made to strike at him with a downward slash. Taking the broom handle in both hands, he held it up and blocked the blade. Then turned and bent to the right, and walloped Avery across the face with the broken end. With the elder boy stunned, he dropped the broom handle and grabbed Avery's sword hand – as well as the sword's handguard.

Gripping firmly, he pulled as he turned his body, yanking the sword from Avery's grip and then jogging a couple of steps away. He looked at Avery, then at the sword. Part of him wanted to use the weapon against the older boy. Run him through, here and now, and end this foolishness. It was the smart thing to do. Avery wanted him dead and apparently wouldn't stop until he had accomplished the grim task.

Yet, Bastian, for all the hate he had ever felt toward the other boy, did not hate him enough to kill him. He also didn't want trouble with the authorities for theft if he kept the blade and ran. So he went with the only other idea he could think of. Putting the tip firmly against the ground and angling the blade, he used a foot to kick it against the flat as hard as he could. And, in doing so, the blade snapped. It was a tragedy to break it, the sword being so fine of craftsmanship as it was, but he couldn't continue allowing it to be a viable weapon. With the sharp two-thirds of the blade gone, he didn't have to worry about it being used to stab him.

“You wretch!” Avery bellowed, “That was new!” He made for the younger boy, grabbing up the dropped broom handle along the way. And just like that, having a whole blade was sounding pretty good to Scrimshaw's apprentice. Ducking and dodging as Avery swung the broom handle wildly, he backed away from the older boy – noticing only too late that Avery was backing him toward the path of an oncoming carriage. A gleam was in the older boy's eyes as he pressed the attack, and as Bastian saw the carriage draw near, he did the only thing he could think of to give himself a reprieve.

He disengaged from the fight and charged toward the carriage. When he was almost to it, he dropped and aimed his body between the horses, the broken sword's guard clutched in one hand. The carriage driver nearly lost control as the horses reared up, but they only did so once the carriage came to a stop over top of him. However, his reprieve didn't last long. Avery came running to see if he'd been hit. As soon as he saw Bastian laying under the carriage, looking no worse for wear, he moved toward it. However, he stopped as the carriage door opened, staring in disbelief.

Bastian couldn't see what was going on, but he was thankful for it. The broom handle dropped from Avery's hand, and a woman in an ornate dress began to descend from the carriage. Once she was out of it, she moved closer to Avery, then turned and looked beneath the carriage. She gave a curious look, and then a soft, warm smile. She was no longer a young woman, but even at her age, she had traces of beauty from her youth. She motioned for him to come out from under the carriage, and he did so, hesitantly.

“What is your name, young man?” She asked as he finally drew near.

“Bastian, m'lady." He said sheepishly. Scrimshaw was no noble, but he was the closest thing to one that the boy had ever dealt with. This woman was obviously far above his station, and here he was, the boy that had just thrown himself under her carriage.

Avery, meanwhile, practically exploded at him, "Show some proper respect, you idiot! She's the QUEEN!"

The younger boy's eyes went wide, and it was only then that he realized he still had the broken sword in his hand. He looked to her, then broken blade, then without turning he threw the busted sword behind him. Queen Elizabeth, despite herself, couldn't help but smile at the young boy.

"Young man, do you make it a habit to throw yourself beneath carriages?" The Queen raised a brow, though there was clear amusement present in her tone.

"N-no, your Highness... I'm sorry... I didn't realize..."

"That you were throwing yourself under a carriage?"

"...That it was your carriage."

"I see. You do of course know that regardless of who the carriage belonged to, it is not a healthy thing to do, yes?"

"Yes, Your Highness." He said softly, in that tone that young boys use when they've been caught doing something foolish.

"Good. Now... I've been feeling rather lonely, today. I would like company. Would you care to join me?"

Bastian stared for a moment, blinked, then asked, "Me? ...Really?" Seeing her nod just slightly, he brightened, "Yes, thank you!"

Only a few paces away, Avery was dumbfounded, and his jaw went slack. How did that little Germanic rat end up getting an invitation like that?

More importantly... why hadn't he?!