The Lore of Lauder: Book One - Discovering the Lies

Prologue

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then-in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life-was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold.

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

Alone-Edgar Allen Poe, written in 1829, published in 1875

There are dark lords who rule the world. They live in obscurity and take away peace. Myths began to evolve around them in the ancient world. These myths of the incubus, the vampire, the children of the night are known by all. They learned to hide behind this identity and hide the truth of what and who they really were. In truth they were possessed, but that didn't hold them back. These men could only grow older and more powerful with age. The numbers of the dark lords had varied for they had been killed by inside jealousies and outside wars. It was believed among themselves their beginnings were born in ancient Egypt. The oldest of their kind was from this ancient land. Their numbers spread throughout the world as countries were conquered, kingdoms were created and wealth spread among them. They were the rulers behind the scenes, manipulating the wealth, kings, governors, and presidents to do their will. Slavery was not new to them. They had many to serve them. To be born into the service of these lords was considered a curse that no one spoke of and no one dared.

One of these lords was William Naismythe of Scotland. In the early beginnings of the 1700’s, he was given the task to find the next new lord. This lord would rule the New World.

This new lord's creation began in a different manner from all the others of his kind. It gave him a strength they did not possess or understand. They used their wits and own combined strengths to keep him under their thumb. His gentle heart and kindness toward mankind became a useful way to keep him down. He hopelessly clung to the man within and wistfully yearned for salvation from the impious creatures that possessed him. In time he learned his strengths and how to use them to his advantage.

This is the story of the Lord of the Western World, the most powerful man who ever lived.

Chapter One

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

Alone-Edgar Allen Poe, written in 1829, published in 1875

In the year of our Lord 1726 on the 6th day of January, in the highlands of Scotland, a tiny village lay blanketed in snow. Night had fallen. A full moon hung in a clear sky just above the mountain peaks surrounding the village. The light of the moon illuminated the snow and gave it an iridescent glow. Smoke drifted upward from holes cut in thatched roofs of the tiny houses. The smell of burning peat filled the air. Nothing, it seemed, could penetrate the quietness of the night.

The villagers were of the clan of Naismythe. None were blood relatives to the man but were his servants, his property. The meager crops they managed to raise, the sheep and cattle they kept, all belonged to Lord Naismythe. People outside the village knew of him, but the villagers knew him as a dark lord.

Lord Naismythe often came and took a lad or lass away at the age of fifteen for trade with the other lords. Whole families could be taken. The villagers lived in fear of being separated from loved ones never to see them again. True friendships and bonds were rare and so often broken.

A new fear had fallen on the tiny village. Two firstborn boys had been recently taken by Lord Naismythe before they reached a week old. The wee ones had been given to other families in the village. The mother and father traded away, never to be seen again. Rumor had it he planned on taking one more.

Inside one of the hovels in the bedchamber, a woman lay in labor about to give birth to her firstborn. The mid-wife aided her and coached her as she waited to deliver the child. The mother prayed for a girl.

Push, the midwife said. Th’ heid is crowning. Push. The muscles in her jaws twitched.

Ah, the woman cried out. Please, Laird let it be a female bairn.

A baby’s cry broke through the stillness and quiet with sounds of life. The midwife's eyes filled with tears as she laid it on the mother’s chest. It is male.

Tears ran down the mother cheeks as she quieted the baby and held a teat to his hungry mouth. She thought of ending the tiny life by pressing his face against her flesh, but she couldn’t. This was her son, her flesh and blood. She kissed the top of his head. A loue ye wee yin. I loue ye.

The father sat with two of his friends around the fire pit on short-legged stools for the peat burning in the pit gave off a lot of smoke. It drifted up to the hole cut in the roof. The midwife left the room to inform the father he had a son.

What should have been a joyous occasion was one of grief. The night lay shrouded in a dark unknown of what might become of the boy’s future.

On the day of the 9th just three days after his birth, the father sat in his home. The same friends sat with him with a demeanor of sorrow. Although word had not reached them they knew the inevitable truth. In just a matter of time, their lord and master would come busting through the door to see the child. Would this son be one of those chosen?

Mibbie he wilnae take yer son, said one of the men.

He visited me three months aga, replied the father. He had placed his haun on mah wife's belly 'n' said, ‘a'm feelin' a male child’. The man spits at the fire pit and as it sizzled upon the rock, he added, It can mean ainlie one thing. Mah son wull be taken.

They all stared into the fire.

The Allanach’s git one o' th' bairns Lord William took, one of the friends said softly. Thay recently lost one.

Aye, the father nodded. They're guid people.

Th' ither bairn went tae th' Fearghasdan’s, said the other friend. They are an auld couple, but I suppose they can raise a child.

Aye, a wet nurse wis left wi' thaim. the father nodded.

Heard she is French.

Don’t know. Haven’t met th' wifie bit I’m sure she haes a sad story tae tell.

'n' isn’t talking, said the other friend. Lauder’s bairn wis born deid last fortnight.

Uncanny.

They fell silent once more.

Why does he tak' th' wee ones 'n' gie thaim tae ithers tae be raised? asked one friend.

Why indeed? asked another.

Whit bothers me, is he wull ne'er know his true faither or mither. The father gave a sigh. He wull ne’er know his true name.

'n' we wull have tae haud oor tongues forever, the two friends said in unison.

They fell silent.

Mibbie he wull nae come.

As if on cue, three men silhouetted in the full moon rode over the hill on horseback. A woman rode behind one, clinging to him so as not to fall. They stopped outside the home and dismounted. Dressed in black trousers and kilts of black and deep blood red, two of the men positioned themselves outside the door in stoic military stances as the third entered. The woman entered behind him. She was wearing a black dress and blouse with the same tartan cloth wrapped around her for warmth.

His broad shoulders filled the doorway. The moon’s glow gave his silhouette an ominous appearance that brought quiet, reverence and fear from the men sitting around the fire. He had a full red beard and red hair touching his shoulders beneath the tam he wore on his head. He stared at the three men dressed in similar tartan as he. These were his servants, his to do his will as he saw fit. He was their lord, William Naismythe. They kept their head bowed in respect and fear. Aye, mister Donlevy, Naismythe’s booming voice filled the room, a son haes bin born, haes he not?

The father nodded but did not rise from his stool. Aye, my laird, mah son has entered th' world tae be yer humble servant.

Ye know how come I’m here. He folded his arms across his broad chest.

But he’s nae even four days auld, Laird. Please let him abide with us fur just awhile.

Lord Naismythe nodded at the woman behind him and she crossed the tiny room to enter the bedchamber. Protesting cries could be heard from the mother. The baby began to cry in short screams of panic as the woman pulled him from the mother’s breast. She wrapped him in a soft woolen blanket and threw a thicker one over her shoulder. She began cooing to him and protected him from the smoke that lifted up in the air from the burning peat. He quieted. She brought him to Lord Naismythe. He is a bonny laddie, m' laird. Ye wull be well pleased.

Lord Naismythe pulled the blanket from the baby’s head. The child had a head full of dark hair and baby pink skin with the hint of the olive complexion he would one day have. His dark eyes were open and stared up at the ruddy face of the man who gazed at him. Aye laddie yer a brawl one indeed. He turned his eyes to the woman. Wrap th' boy in warm blankets, wifie.

A sound came from the bedchamber and the mother appeared in the doorway. She wore a long nightgown of rough-hewn cloth and had wrapped herself in the bedclothes still stained with the blood from the birth. Ye can’t tak' him. He is mines. I wull not let you. She took a few steps and collapsed in the floor, not from weakness, but sorrow.

Lord Naismythe opened the door behind him and motioned to the two men waiting outside. They stepped in the home and stood between Lord Naismythe and the woman. Their hands were upon the sword stuck in the sheaths on their belts. Neither one said a word nor had to. They were there to protect their lord from any protest that might occur. The three men remained in place on their stools.

The husband looked at the wife with sadness. Wis proclaimed afore his birth, if 'twas a laddie he wid be taken. We hae na say.

He will be goin’ to the fowk I have chosen to raise him, Lord Naismythe said. As soon as yer able to travel wifie, ye and yer husband wull be sent to serve Laird Clouitier, Lord Naismythe looked at the father. Ah wull gie ye th' honor o' giein' him a name. Whit be th' name a'm tae call him?

Paul, Donlevy answered. He looked up at his lord for the first time. Paul.

Lord Naismythe nodded. Is a guid name. He stepped out and the woman followed behind him clutching the baby close to her body.

The mother lay wailing on the floor in a flood of tears. No comfort for her. Her firstborn child was gone and she would never see him again.

And a life of lies began. Would they be discovered?

Chapter Two

Oh, Culloden, oh Culloden.

Thy moors layout before me.

Oh, what fate do I face?

Doth death fall close behind me?

Paul Lauder

April 15th, 1746. The moors of Culloden were a heathy flat land five miles from Inverness and a mile and a half southeast of Culloden house. To the front was Nairn, the river by the same name to the right and the enclosure of Culloden Woods on the left. The battle of all battles ever fought on Scottish soil would soon begin. Blàr Chùil Lodair, Scottish Gaelic for the Battle of Culloden, would be the final battle between the Jacobite Highlanders under Charles Edward Stuart and the British troops and loyalists led by William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland.

Cumberland and his troops made camp at Nairn. They were in great spirits for they were closing in on the army of the Bonnie Prince Charles and it was Cumberland’s 25th birthday. They decided to celebrate. What better time was there to party. They knew the battle ahead would be a decisive one; a battle that could very well end Prince Charles’s challenge for good. Their spirits were high indeed for soon they would give their commander the prince’s head.

The weakened Highlanders had not lost heart. Plans were made and laid out for a night attack on Cumberland’s army. The celebration of Cumberland’s birthday had put the government army in a leisurely state. Prince Charles thought surely this would put his army on the winning side and give them a great advantage. Their attack would be a surprise and the Redcoats would be no match for the Jacobite-Highlander troops.

They headed out two abreast and tried to make it in the dark and cold night. The moor lay deep in mud. Reality began to sink in as they stumbled in the dark. They would not be able to fight. Many trailed behind. Some even deserted. It turned into a chaotic disaster. The Highlanders had gambled and failed miserably. They retreated.

The men were tired, hungry and weakened by the time they made it back to their base camp. A gray line stretched across the horizon as dawn approached. A gentle rain began to fall. It dampened their spirits even more.

They collapsed in defeat on the cold ground. Exhausted from the ill-fated attack, the men wanted just a wee bit of rest. Rations of a few biscuits and water were given them could not satisfy the hunger that grew in the stomachs of these young, strong and tired men. Many departed to find food.

The light of dawn did little to brighten their moods.

Inverness was not far away and they had time to draw back. They could regain their strength and perhaps even their numbers. Some favored retreat to the River Nairn where they stood a better chance in battle. Bitter arguments broke out among the senior commanders. The French envoy fell to his knees before the Prince. The men need rest and food. We need to gain strength. Retreat to Inverness, he begged.

Young Paul Lauder’s heart filled with dread. He looked for his lord William Naismythe. William stood nearby listening to all that went on around him. He seemed as if he were hungry for blood and willing to die to get it. Paul could not understand why. He never had understood the man.

His thoughts turned to the love he had left behind. Katie, he whispered and listened as her name filled the air like a song. Katie, and bowed his head in silent prayer.

He could picture her standing in the doorway of their hovel with tears running down her sweet face, her hand on her belly as she thought of her barren womb and the child they recently lost. Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Oh that he could have given her a child. He thought of the many times they tried and failed. The babies she had conceived and lost brought new woe to his heart.

He knew his fate. He would die here. There was nothing else for him to look forward to. He kept his eyes closed for a moment’s rest, but rest would not come. He wanted to leave, to run home. So, what if William pursued him? What could he do but kill him? He faced death anyway. Oh to die in his Katie’s arms and not here on a cold and unmerciful ground.

He gazed upon the massive government army, an army ready for Highlander blood. The Prince was going to deliver it to them. He might as well have been carrying it to them in a silver chalice on a silver platter as an offering. The men around him had families. They too had women at home that loved them. Och, whit woe this war haes brought upon us. He bowed his head in prayer once more. Och, God, please, juist hurl me up 'n' carry me hame tae Katie, Mither, and Faither. Ah dinnae wantae be 'ere.

The Prince, ah, the Prince, what a fool, filled with his own puffed up pride; he wanted victory then and there. The sad state of the affairs his army faced was beyond his vision. He could not see that winning was not in his future. So here they would fight at Culloden. Here they would face death and despair.

Cumberland’s army stood prepared, facing their Highlander foes and yearning for their blood. The Highlander pipers stood and began to play. The men struggled to their feet and prepared their lines for battle. None knew what the future held, but few thought it bright. They would fight, for a Scot never gives up a fight. They would fight to their death, even for this Prince of ill fate.

The battleground lay out before them. Paul’s heart pounded in his chest with fear. His mouth went dry.

April 16th, the time was nearing one o’clock in the afternoon. The Highlander army opened fire on the government forces. The government responded in counter fire with their own cannons that far outnumbered the Highlander’s. The battle of woe had begun.

The Highlanders were bombarded by the cannons and mortar bombs. The infantry waited for the command to attack. Paul looked around. He saw strength on the other faces, a strength he could not share.

At last, the command to charge came and they moved forward. Through a hail of fire and smoke from the homicidal gunfire and grapeshot, they made their way toward the enemy. At eighty paces from the enemy, they opened fire with their muskets and charged. They fought savagely in their attack. Some made it to the Redcoats, others did not.

Paul watched as they fell around him. Men were missing limbs and even their heads as cannon balls passed through the ranks. Much to his dismay, the government troops began to challenge them with bayonet tactics. It was bayonet against the Highland broadsword which many carried. Paul pulled the dirk his father had given him from its sheath and began to fight.

He fought a good fight, maiming as many as he could. His only thoughts were to get back to Katie. He knew it was fight or be killed. There were many blows exchanged. Pains he should have felt were numbed from the excitement of battle. He had not even felt the bayonet that had pierced the flesh just below his ribs. It wasn’t until he felt the wetness of his own blood that he knew he had been wounded.

He collapsed first to his knees. Thankfully no one came in for the final kill. He fell to his hands and began to crawl with one hand while holding what surely were his guts with the other. Two of his comrades lifted him and carried him toward the woods. They lay him down. One wrapped his body tightly in his cloak. Lie 'ere 'n’ wait. Laird William wull be 'ere shortly tae carry ye hame.

Hame, the word ran through his mind. He longed to be there. If he died, he wanted to die in his Katie’s arms. He had to hold on. New pains were shooting throughout his body. Pains from injuries unknown ran through his legs and arms. He had to hold on.

Hardly an hour had passed from the first gunshot to the last man standing. The green grasses of the moor laid painted in scarlet blood, the blood of the Scottish. Many fled the battlefield and the government army chased after them.

Paul lay waiting to die. His thoughts focused on Katie. He even dreamt of her. He looked up and saw her face as life continued to drain from him. Coldness like none he had ever felt ran through his body. He longed for the warmth of her arms. He could hear the fighting as it began to die down. He wondered if someone would find him. Visions of light and darkness danced in his head. He reached toward the light. Its brightness shone round about him. He cried out.

Aye thare ye ur laddie, a familiar voice rang in his ears, we wull tak' care o' ye noo.

Drink, mon jeune ami.

Do yer magic, Henri, and gie him blood.

Magic no, what I do, I hope it will work. Henri replied and mumbled under his breath, imbécile, and vous pouvez le tuer.

Ah haven’t murdurred ‘im. He wull live.

He wull live.The Frenchman shook his head. Our dream of control over new world may die here.

Chapter Three

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle,

and are spent without hope. Job 7:6

***

From the depths of despair

And the doors of death

Was my life pulled

And here I, Paul Lauder, live.

Paul Lauder

It was the month of June in the year of our Lord 1998. I had lived two-hundred-seventy-two years. My life had been one of leisure in Tennessee in a refurbished antebellum mansion built in 1850. I lived here with my wife, Maggie, a woman who had stolen my heart in 1971. I could not live without her and brought her into my world much to the displeasure of my peers. I had one close friend, Thomas. I made him many years before I ever met Maggie. Thomas had his own place in the city of Memphis, but he spent most of his time with Maggie and me. I provided him with a room in my mansion, a closet full of clothes and an open invitation to visit anytime he so chose. Maggie and he were my constant companions, knew my every mood and loved me in spite of my faults.

I was the youngest and strongest of the lords of the world. Much of my life had been spent creating the United States of America, the greatest country the world had ever known. An assumption on my part, perhaps, but one I shared with many. I had proven to be a great asset to those that made me and more intelligent than they had imagined. My achievements far outnumbered any of those of my peers, all of whom had lived much longer than I had lived.

It was very early on a Friday morning. I had fallen asleep in my recliner while reading a book by one of my favorite authors, Tom Clancy. I loved the way he spun stories of espionage. The words at first seemed to draw me in but my eyes soon grew weary and, although I fought the sleepiness, it won.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times, startling me awake. My book fell from my lap and hit the floor with a thud. I picked it up and placed it on the table beside me and retrieved the remote control from a pocket on the side of my recliner. The television responded with a click of the button and its light reflected around the room. I went to the guide, scrolled down through the channels and found nothing to watch. With a frown, I turned it off.

My little nap had done nothing but refresh me and I was bored.

I stood, stretched and walked across the rug covering most of the den. My feet soon met the marble hallway. The shock was enough to send me running toward the door of my study, which I always kept locked when not in use. I fumbled for the keys in the pocket of my jeans as I danced on the marble floor. It seemed I couldn’t get them out and get the right key into the lock fast enough. I welcomed the soft carpet to my feet. My eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and found my desk in the center of the room.

It was a massive thing made of hickory with eloquent carvings of an oak tree in a pasture across the front. Beneath the oak were a few sheep grazing and a stream ran along the bottom. In the top right corner was the sun. Oak leaves were carved along the edges and the legs curved and formed into acorn feet. Given to me by an old and dear friend, now long departed, it was considered an antique by American standards.

I turned on the desk lamp and the monitor to my personal computer and then took a seat in my leather office chair. The cushion squeaked and made flatulence sounds as my bum settled down into its softness. I clicked to the internet and waited for the seconds it took to connect. Several emails needed to be read. My peers communicated what was transpiring in the world and the things that needed to be done. I saved a few, deleted the rest and began to search the news and found nothing new or unexpected. The same things were reoccurring around the world as they always had. Wars, rumors of wars, fingers being pointed, people accusing, mayhem and the list goes on. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Ecclesiastes 1:9.

Man being man.

Now the computer age had made a few advancements since its introduction into the modern world. Regular mail or slow mail, land phones, and news in print or on television were still what were mostly used. The average home had just begun to accept the computer age. The younger generations were beginning to communicate via email, message boards, and chat rooms. The cell phones were not very smart and laptops, although they existed, were unheard of. Yet the world was connecting like it never had before.

I had discovered the youth had developed more fascination in the occult world by the end of the nineties. The darkness had taken over their lives and showed itself in their dress and makeup. They chased after the ghost, werewolf, and vampire, and practiced dark magic. It saddened me to see the demise of these young souls. I knew it would only grow worse.

I myself was fascinated by their desire to follow the vampire. I had read all the books and saw all the melodramatic movies. I found them most inaccurate to the truth of my existence. This gave me nothing more than a feeling of sadness and a deep loneliness for a life that I once had. The stories and vain imaginations of mankind completely missed the mark, however. Yet we, the true dark lords of the world had always been able to use man’s ignorance to our advantage. My kind and I cloaked ourselves in the dark myths of vampires.

I entered the word vampire to search. Site after site of vampire lore and games were listed. It amazed me how many had been caught up in the gloom and doom of the dark world. I scrolled down the page reading site after site.

Katie’s Diary

I stopped. The cursor hung over the words. My heart seemed to race inside my chest. Katie's Diary, I heard the words, but not sure I was the one who spoke them. I looked around the study. It had to have been me. I turned my eyes back to the screen in front of me. Beneath the words, I apparently had read out loud was a brief statement; In the hopes of finding a true vampire: A search for Paul Lauder.

I nearly swallowed my tongue, this shocked me so. Who would be searching for me? I had to check into this. If I had found it, who else of my kind might have stumbled upon it? The name Katie's Diary should have stopped me from going forward. However, I couldn’t stop myself from continuing. I entered the site.

The graphics were Christian in theme with a background color of black. There were two hands held palm up in the center as if in praise to God. In the hands were three gold crosses. One was draped with a scarlet robe. The words Katie's Diary was written across the top and beneath these words was written A search for Paul Lauder" In the background, a shadowed image of a face could be seen. It remarkably resembled me.

I clicked on the home page. The shadowed face was there as well.

I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and continued.

There were only little tidbits of information. A few census reports and then questions asked that only I would know the answer to. I found it amazing that someone had collected this much information on me.

I entered the message board, created an account using not a name but a pseudonym, No One. I began reading over the messages posted there. I laughed as I read them. Some were saying they were Paul Lauder. The editor of the page quickly spotted the phonies and asked pertinent questions. I paused as I read one such question. What year were you born? The person had given an answer and the reply, You are not him.

I posted a message of my own, bookmarked the site and exited.

♠♠♠

Friday afternoon fifteen-year-old Michael Wrayford and his girlfriend, fourteen-year-old Katie Oliver sat in her bedroom. They had grown up together. Their families were connected through church and their fathers’ occupations as police officers for the city of Memphis. Mike felt as much at home in the Oliver house as he did his own.

Katie’s mother was cleaning the bathroom across the hall and checking in on them every so often. She heard the chatter between the two of them and found it amusing. It reminded her of a popular cartoon featuring teen investigators. The young investigators were going over their lists of suspects. The only thing missing was a talking dog and a friend that always seemed to have the munchies.

So, far what do we have? she heard Mike’s voice say