In 2006, there were two deaths in the extended family and the double bereavement was emotionally devastating. I'm an inward-outward writer, which means I put myself in the shoes of my heroes, and that requires optimum mental fortitude. When I'm mentally in one piece, not only does the transformation come easily, but I also find joy in the acting that goes on in my head. I'm a writer who really creates character-driven stories because I play everybody. Experiencing dozens of lives in a single lifetime through the imagination is an experience that has been well worth the personal price for me. For me, virtual reality is an unnecessary product, because I have my own inner worlds and I can switch between them and play my favourite scenes as I like (How many story (world) heroes and scenes do I have in my head?) Plus, I listen to the music that fits that scene and another life beats in my heart. The theme song to The Legendary of the Bloodhunters, which I've heard Sarah Brightman's perform hundreds of times in the making of the novels, is a Queen classic, Who wants to live forever, because if you think about it, if you look at the extinction of the species, after the extinction of the human race, the immortal human would be the only one of its species in a totally changed world. Can you really imagine existing for a million years?!
The book I held in my hand was published in 2004, from Gábor Krigler. In English, "To be continued" could be a translation of the title. As soon as it was available in the library I borrowed it and read it. It was in this book that I first came across the names and advice of Lajos Egri and Robert McKee. Gábor Krigler's book helped me a lot as a writer. Yes, it was here that I first read about character-driven drama, and I fully embraced the idea that without an active protagonist there is no story. Action is inevitable, because the terrestrial world, and even the solar system, the Milky Way, is a dynamic system, and anything that does not respond to change is either dead or will be dead very soon.
In October 2002, I dreamt the dream that became The Legendary of the Bloodhunters. In it, five characters had already appeared and I had an idea of what kind of story they were in. Mantes Alcubierre and Belizar were among the five you'll meet in the novel excerpt shared in the second half of this post, which is the first half of the first chapter of Part Two. The novel is called 'Golden Leaf'.
Gábor Krigler's book helped me a lot. I thought about everything carefully, spent a lot of time with the characters, put together their backgrounds, but also the story of my whole predator species. I did a good job. Twenty years on, I marvel with satisfaction at the immense energy of my young mind in putting together three novels.
I know very well what dreams are worth, or what my writing is worth. I think of a million years and forgive myself for my human smallness. I've been, I've dreamed, and the rest doesn't matter.
The novel excerpt is after the music.
(Note: my writing master was my editor. He made my text neater.)
"The Mantes corporate empire’s building modestly hidden among the skyscrapers of Midtown. It didn’t try to compete in height with the nearby Empire State Building, nor in decoration with the Chrysler Building a couple of blocks away, and it wasn’t as old as these more famous structures. Its interior decoration was conventional, with gold plating and marble linings as standard as the three-story high decorative staircase with Mediterranean pines that were not considered curiosities. The founder of the Mantes corporate empire had it built using standard architectural elements in downtown New York City. The company founder never entered the building, as he was erected for his successors and their people as an administrative center.
Primarily,
the Mantes corporate empire was engaged in commerce. It bought and sold
anything that people needed. Examples, among its suppliers were several hundred
South American farmers who sold cocoa beans to a local confectionery factory,
while on the other side of the world, in Japan, research labs manufactured
electronic sector components that bore codes made only of letters and numbers.
The final product reached the stores as cheap milk chocolate and the sky as
expensive satellites. The Mantes corporate merely bought and sold, skimming off
a management fee. Its sphere of interest wove a web across the entire Earth,
and only the members of the executive council knew the true size and power of
the company. The leaders serving under them were responsible for smaller
segments, burdened enough to keep the company's real profile.
The only
person with power over the eight-member executive council was the perpetual
president appointed by the founder. The
job required him to regularly visit his office in the corporate
building.
That is what
he was doing now.
The
president of the Mantes corporate empire shut off the engine and climbed out of
his vehicle. He pushed the car door shut behind him and reached into the inner
pocket of his mole-grey jacket. He pulled out a pair of rimless sunglasses and
put them on. The black lenses sharply contrasted with his pale northern
complexion and his ash-blonde hair, shoulder length and worn in a ponytail. His
face was covered by a three-day stubble, the light hairs revealed by the neon
light that flickered on them. He had never remove the first beard of his youth.
Underneath his jacket, he wore a medium-blue shirt without a tie, paired with
black jeans. His feet were clad in rawhide shoes, the kind that could withstand
rough terrain. He did not button up his double-breasted suit, which suited his
broad shoulders. At first glance, his appearance suggested a worker who had
climbed to a high position. However, his overall image was confused by the
delicate features of his narrow face, making him look like a woodcutter who had
wandered into the fashion industry.
He surveyed
the empty garage, then cast a long glance at his battered Fiat Dino, which had
snow chains on its wheels. The car was covered with dirty slush. Despite the
January snowstorm, he had traveled in the elegant sports car, insisting that
they enjoy the snow and winter together. He liked the snow because it reminded
him of his homeland.
His gaze
shifted from the sports car to another parked vehicle, a black Rolls-Royce
Silver Spirit. He thought no one else had managed to drive through the
snowstorm. He took a closer look at the other car, realized it hadn't moved
from its spot since the east coast of America was hit by the severe weather,
burying Washington under sixty centimeters of snow.
A wrinkle
appeared at the corner of his mouth from a kind of sour smile as he headed
towards the elevator.
Of the
fifty-two-story skyscraper's fifteen elevators, only one opened its doors to
the twenty-third floor, where his office was located. However, this elevator only
stopped on this floor if the user had a numeric code for identification. Only
nine individuals received such a code from the founder of the corporate empire.
He entered
the elevator and punched in his own code, which immediately appeared on the
monitor built into the secretary’s desk upstairs. The elevator made barely any
noise, but in the empty space, even this small sound was noticeable to its
passenger, who tapped his foot on the floor to drown out the annoying hum. The
private elevator halted with a soft jolt on the 23th floor. Its passenger shook
his head as if to shake off an unpleasant thought. He stepped out of the
elevator into the short, monotonously colored, deserted corridor leading to the
reception room. This empty space might seem startling compared to the
presidential level he had entered. It was intentionally designed this way; the
white walls, the floor, and the ceiling deliberately hinted at nothing special,
unlike the ornate hall that from which opened the presidential room, where his
secretary’s desk was situated.
The
president stopped at the end of the corridor in front of the gray metal door
and hummed a verse of the Latin hymn he knew. The voice recognition device
confirmed the match of the voice pattern, and the door opened. From the center
of the reception room, the secretary flashed an angelic smile at him.
“Welcome,
Mr. President!” she greeted him in Spanish, her voice light and cheerful. “Even
this dreadful snowfall couldn’t stop you from being punctual?”
He did not
give her more than a glance. The woman was wearing a black suit made of alpaca
wool fabric, and her smiley cheeks were watched over by her emotionless eyes.
“How can I
wipe that silly grin off your face?” he muttered under his breath in Norwegian,
so the woman would not understand.
The
secretary continued to smile undisturbed and returned to her computer built
into the desk. The beautiful ebony keyboard looked like a patinated jewelry box
with its shiny platinum buttons, and above it, the flat-screen monitor encased
in ebony appeared like an antique mirror. However, this “mirror” did not
reflect the room’s image but displayed a multitude of statistical data, parts
of a health plan currently being prepared. The woman not only performed
secretarial duties but also acted as the humanitarian leader of the executive
council.
Meanwhile,
the security door closed behind the president, and its ornate wooden covering
blended into the wood carvings. The variously colored wooden panels depicted
the stylized forms of trees, flowers, and fruits of the Garden of Eden. The
room’s ceiling stretched up four meters high, and there, the ebony panels
displayed the constellations of the sky. The secretary’s desk was also made of
ebony, and its carvings formed such a dense pattern that the word baroque
barely covered its lavish abundance. The steel and glass building monster’s
heart was adorned with the vivid manifestations of life, crafted in wood.
The
innermost office was protected by one last security system. The large metal
door covered by decoration depicted an apple tree, with a snake coiled around
its low trunk. The fruit-laden branches almost touched the ground.
The
president stopped in front of it, placed his left palm on one of the apples,
and took off his sunglasses with his right hand to look into the snake’s eyes.
The hidden retina scanner checked the swirling platelets in the depths of his
pupils, which glowed red in his eyeballs.
The double
doors of the presidential office swung open.
“Mr.
President,” called the secretary in her pleasant mezzo-soprano voice, “I’ve
placed today’s schedule on your desk. Please read it as soon as you can!”
The man
would have liked to slam the door behind him, but its hinges obeyed only their
own control and resisted any repulsive force; the gate closed itself in its own
rhythm, with dignified silence.
The
presidential office suggested a completely different atmosphere than the
reception room; instead of the old cozy warmth, it emitted a rejecting
coolness. Its walls, clad in gray marble, were adorned with ivory reliefs. The
wings of angels dancing with skeletons were covered with silver plates. Most of
the furniture was made of metal; their colors suggested that precious metals
were alloyed with more robust titanium. The unnatural effect was further enhanced
by the motionless light of artificial lighting. A stark, light-colored interior
space that conveyed an uncomfortable truth to those inside.
“Another day
in the underworld,” grumbled. He stuffed his sunglasses into his jacket pocket
and, in a nervous, hurried gesture, crushed it.
“Interesting
reaction,” a soft male voice noted in Spanish.
The two
men’s gazes met.
The
black-suited, dark-haired, black-eyed secretary with the same fiery pupils
continued to speak.
“Forgive me,
Mr. President, if my observation seems indiscreet, but you seem to smash one
almost every week, as if unconsciously signaling through the destruction of
your sunglasses that the cataract has fallen from your eyes.”
His facial
muscles tensed at the remark. It further enraged him that his secretary, like
the rest of his council, the other Mantes descendants, used their father’s
language. They spoke to him exclusively in Spanish, even though they knew
English and about half a dozen other languages.
Out of petty
defiance, he responded in English to the witty comment, using this language
because of the conflict between them, although he also spoke Spanish.
“Did the old
man train you to be confessor? As if one of you wasn’t enough...” Shoving aside
his feelings, he sat down in the leather-upholstered executive chair, next to
the desk made of metal and marble. The plastic-covered bundles of documents on
the special surface looked like tourists wandering around the Vatican. His gaze
swept over them, finally settling on the secretary.
The
short-cut hair, thick and strong eyebrows, hooked nose, narrow lips, and sharp,
small chin reminded him of the previous owner, Mantes Alcubierre, the Old
Serpent.
The
secretary moved his head.
He caught
his gaze; he was studying the papers on the desk. The secretary’s notepad
revealed a familiar name among the urgent calls. Once again, his face showed a
mix of irritation and concern. But contemplation drove the uncertainty from his
eyes.
“Did Ahriman
say what she wants?”
“No, Mr.
President.” The secretary turned the pages of the documents and extended one to
him, which he signed with his name, Bear Johns, in thick ink and straight
letters.
“She’s
treating me as if I were her son too!” He pushed the contract to the other side
of the desk. He glanced over the calls again, and only now, on the second look,
did he notice the sign of the Indian Rudrargasz Brotherhood and the name of the
person who had called him from this organization. Irritation mixed with
nervousness. “After a month of silence, Dzsinar and the diplomatic delegation
suddenly reappear. Can you tell me anything concrete about them?”
“Mr.
President, the young Dzsinar has requested a meeting with you in the most
polite manner possible. He wishes to discuss a diplomatic matter.”
“Where is
the official spokesperson?”
“I have no
information about the guest of high priority from that busy December day.”
“So, my
secretary, who is far more informed than I am about my company, has no idea
where the chief diplomat of the Rudrargasz Brotherhood might be? I would rather
speak with him, not endure the company of that arrogant buffoon Dzsinar. Ten
minutes was enough. He questioned me as if I were an ignorant peasant who had
stolen the lord’s pig, while he wanted to know who killed a member of their
delegation on the 27th. Just by chance, what do you know about that?”
“His
accusation surprised me too. However, the old diplomat spoke the truth: even a
hunter can meet with an accident in the jungle. Don’t worry about the young
man’s fervor! We wash our hands of it.”
“Oh, you’re
so adept at calming the conscience!”
“Why should
I bother with something I have no involvement in?” the secretary shrugged. “I
suggest, Mr. President, that we deal with today’s matters. Amarilla asked me to
remind you that Ahriman is beginning to lose her patience.”
The
president stopped the involuntary scribbling on the notepad, the many little
squiggles as if trying to be many little trees, a forest in which he wanted to
hide. His pupil dilated as a sign of anger, then narrowed.
“She won’t
leave me alone... The new year is no better than the old one. Sign the rest for
me! I know you can perfectly imitate my signature. I’ve seen the contracts from
the 47th week of ’95.”
“Mr.
President, you gave me carte blanche during that period, considering your
exhausting commitments!”
“Which I
also owed to your master.”
The
secretary allowed himself a thoughtful smile and stopped checking and sorting
the documents. He leaned back in his chair.
“How
fortunate that the fledgling has already flown, and you have no more troubles
with him. I owe you gratitude for giving her your blood.”
He noticed
the change in the secretary’s manner. A tiny playful light appeared in those
black eyes, as if thinking of an entertaining matter kept to himself, amusing
that the other was clueless about it.
He was
irritated by the secretary’s look; it awakened unpleasant memories. He leaned
closer over the table to the corporate empire’s gray eminence, the
vice-president.
“What do you
call yourself?”
“Blanco
Satanael, the name given to me by Mantes Alcubierre.”
He recoiled
in disgust, then turned his attention to the contracts in front of him instead.
“The old
serpent called himself that. What does it mean?” he asked curtly.
“Light-guardian.”
“Ironic,
because there’s nothing brightly in his work, bastard!”
The
secretary made a familiar gesture, his fingertips supporting each other, then
both palms came together as if to pray, before dropping both hands into his
lap. The smiling lips thinned as the smile broadened.
“Harsh words
from a master whose first fledgling is partly our little sister. A bastard your
daughter is, whose Blood nevertheless proved strong enough to defeat you.”
They stood
facing each other, yet together beside the same piece of furniture. He was
irritated by the situation and the obvious facts being brought up.
“I didn't
want to at all...” The anger silenced him.
The
secretary took advantage of his hesitation, and their dialogue’s ripostes
followed each other quickly.
“You desired
power, you got it. Live it! You don’t need to play the obedient one to Ahriman.
Forget tradition! Why would you listen to a foolish old?”
“Rather to
someone whose master tried to kill me?!”
“It was a
mistake. You survived, you could forget it, and instead of dwelling on the
past’s painful experiences, you could focus on the present’s splendid
opportunities. Use the knowledge gathered by my master, your old mentor, and
stop those who are against you.”
“We are
currently facing each other...”
“Managing
the same corporate empire, of which you are the president!”
“I’m just a
puppet. You do business at your pleasure, and I find out about most of it too
late or never.”
“Why should
we bother you with the minor details of power when more important tasks await
you?” The secretary, satisfied with the stirred emotions, resettled in his
chair.
He stared
dumbfounded at the provocative figure and asked suspiciously:
“Such as?”
The
secretary looked him in the eye and softly uttered one word:
“Conquest.”
He shook his
head and helplessly stared at the plethora of documents on the table.
“As the
president of the corporate empire, I control seventeen percent of the Earth’s
resources; a billion lives depend on my companies, I almost entirely own South
America, yet still, conquer?! Why? This much power is more than enough for a
long life.”
“Then use
it, don’t just buy souvenirs for your so-called friends, who are actually
enemies!” hissed the secretary, switching to a more direct, familiar tone.
“Ahriman refused your gift and stayed at her old headquarters. She didn’t even
look at the property you bought for her. She knows what she needs, and you
should too.”
“No.” His
voice deepened threateningly.
The
secretary met his cutting gaze, and the playful light became into an obsessed blaze.
“I know why
you took the presidency. You longed for our Master’s Repository of Knowledge,
hoping it would answer a question of yours. Unfortunately, the Repository is
not all-knowing. Despite the failure, believe me, the answer to everything is
the same: power. You started the search wrong. Go to Ahriman, and see where you
get!”
His face
tensed, his jaw muscles involuntarily grinding.
“You talk
like the old serpent. You’re too much like him, as if you were not just his
physical but also his spiritual mirror image, a failed attempt at immortality.
However much you mimic him, you’re just his shadow.”
The
secretary casually slid a document aside.
“You can
insult me, but with that, you’re only crudely missing the mark. Why are you
afraid of me, or my siblings?”
“Indeed, why
should I only slash words at you?”
The
secretary did not flinch as he leaned closer.
“Would
squabbling befit us? Would the fighting resolve anything?”
“Do you
think I’m afraid?!”
Their gazes
locked.
“Then go to
Ahriman, and tell him why you neglect your youthful duties towards her. Explain
to him why, despite blood kinship, she can’t count on you. As soon as these
words leave your mouth, you’ve signed your death warrant, and you know it.
You’re the president of the Mantes corporate empire, a possessor of power,
which you neither want to use nor share or pass on. You’re a fool, and sooner
or later they’ll kill you for your attitude, for hesitating to decide over
lives and deaths. Your position is untenable. We await your commands, after
which, filled with gratitude, we can help you in conquest. We thirst for blood,
others’ blood, whether Ahriman’s or the others’. We must kill if we want to
live and see our desires fulfilled. Seek out the ghost haunting you, whom you
keep alive in your heart! Find him, and if you do, prepare for Ahriman’s
wrath.” The secretary smiled knowingly.
He stunned,
forgot his anger; it was extinguished by the harsh certainty.
“The old
serpent trained you well. He told you everything about me. But he was wrong. I
would rather have you killed.” He pushed back the executive chair and strode to
the door, which opened automatically with a dignified slowness at his touch.
The
secretary had enough time for his farewell words.
“Our
father’s falcon should have killed you. Someone made a poor choice. Think about
who you owe your current situation to, Raida’s son, Belizar!”
At the
mention of Raida’s name, he paused between the opened door wings, but then he
mastered his emotions and moved on. He hurried toward the other door hidden
behind the apple tree.
The
secretary smiled at him. A freshly brought bouquet of flowers scented the air
on her desk, a bundle of slender, crimson rosebuds.
“The
imperial symbols of Roman emperors made from Persian-origin roses. Glory and
love. How princely!” She crushed one of the flower heads and sprinkled the
crushed petals towards him. “Glory to you, Lord of Babylon!”
Belizar
tried to ignore the smiling-faced, cold-eyed secretary, but the sight of the
falling, crushed rose petals and her strangely emphasized words stopped him.
“What are
you trying to say?”
“The
beautiful Mediterranean region has seen many battles and retains memories of
defeats. Proud Haoma, still burning with hatred and desire for revenge. Glory
and love. Old fool, chasing them. What is lost can never be regained.”
“I’ve found
that every bastard received enough sense from the old serpent, yet they all
enjoy their little games.”
“Oh, as a
gentle woman, I was attracted to practicing mercy.”
“Stay away
with your kind heart, as well as the other inside with his light of wisdom, and
the rest leave me with their virtues... which are actually loathsome
pretenses!”
“Which of
the girl’s qualities irritates you? After all, she is the ninth Mantes
disciple.”
“She doesn’t
belong among you.”
The
secretary smiled even wider, her pearl teeth showing.
“I cared for
her, washed her body, changed her sheets when the Magister accepted her among
us.”
“She’s not
some filthy blood bastard, but the…”
“Source of
glory and love.”
He growled.
“No.”
The
secretary began to laugh softly, then said in a low, almost loving tone:
“Fool!”
He pushed
aside his emotions and touched the wall. The hidden door swung open, revealing
the drab-colored corridor. He paused for a moment behind the wooden depiction
of Eden. The secretary came out into the reception room and stood beside the
smiling secretary.
“Go! We will
wait for you.”
He stepped
into the corridor, and the hidden door closed behind him."
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