Dislcaimer: I do not own Eidos Interactive, Soul Reaver or any of the characters contained therein.
Chapter

Freya was the only daughter of Ted and Ellen Challenger, oil tycoon and women's liberation activist respectively. Born in Kent and raised in innumerable temporary homesteads, their world-wide locations varying according to the latest place in need of Ellen's evangelistic preachings, or Ted's newest slick deal, Freya soon became accustomed to taking what she needed when she needed it. In her formative years this was generally food, amusement and affection, whilst in her later years it tended to be money and knowledge. From her parents' teachings, both intentional and otherwise, she had gleaned that knowledge was power, and so took the opportunity to learn as much as possible about anything and everything that interested her. With her father's fortune behind her, this was relatively easy, and so the girl's voracious appetite for knowledge was fed upon history, language, politics, astronomy, astrology, gastronomy; and the list went on. Neither did she neglect the physical, as her mother's admonitions had left her with the indelible impression that, in order for equality to truly work, a woman must be the equal of a man, physically as well as mentally. To attain this end, she used her father's readily available funding to enrol in classes ranging from ballet and yoga to Kendo and Ninjitsu, eventually settling for a personal trainer as her constant moving and consequent changing of teachers and methods was affecting her style.

This particular evening found her at home, seated on a marshmallow-like 3- seater sofa in her kendo kit, feet up on an oversized teak coffee table, game controller in one hand, munching away at a small mountain of popcorn. Her personal trainer had pushed her hard today, and she'd been itching to get away for the last half-hour of repetitive breathing exercises to return to her favourite video game. Her father generally disapproved of such things (unless he happened to be selling them), which, of course, made her all the more determined to obtain and master them. Her game of the moment was a 3rd person 3D adventure and puzzle-solving game by the name of "Soul Reaver". It was taking up most of her spare evenings (which were rare enough these days, what with the salsa classes and the kendo / Tai Chi evenings with the trainer who was still refusing point-blank to teach her Oni. She had a feeling she was wearing him down, though). Tonight she had managed to breach the domain of Zephon and was merrily making the protagonist of the piece hack away at some skin-crawling flunkies with his ethereal blade when she was overwhelmed with the desire for a cup of tea.

Happily humming the haunting theme tune to herself, she was midway through drying off a teacup when a nagging sensation caused her to turn back and survey the lounge. At first glace all seemed normal. The popcorn and game controller lay where she had discarded them on the coffee table, the furniture was all exactly as she had left it, and the Oriental, Celtic and African hangings were shifting slightly in the breeze, as usual. Frowning slightly, she gave the cup a final buff and set it down on the worktop before moving stealthily into the next room, tea towel still in her hand. Living in various cities with numerous perils had taught her that danger usually comes when you least expect it, and so she was peering cautiously around the doorframe when she realised what was wrong. The hangings on the wall were wavering - not billowing with the draught from the open window as she'd thought, but actually shimmering as though in heat haze on a hot tarmac road. A moment more and she found the effect was not limited to the hangings, but had spread inexorably to the rest of the scene, and seemed to be gradually replacing the usual vista of couch, coffee table and television with the face of a massive 4-horned demon, roaring and snorting steam from its nostrils.

The beast was a scant twenty feet from where she now stood, and it looked angry. Or hungry. Neither possibility was particularly comforting. However, on the floor about halfway between her and the beast, gleaming in the light of a fire whose source she was too busy to locate lay her sword. The one that had been in her lounge not 1 minute previously. The katana. It had a live blade. She didn't pause to wonder why it had come through with her and not the tea-towel she had been holding (capricious fate, she supposed), she just thanked luck, fate and chance and made a headlong rush for it. There was barely time to unsheathe the weapon before the beast had closed the gap and raised a massive claw in readiness to separate her from her intestines. Acting on pure instinct she brought the razor-sharp blade upwards in a sweeping arc which made contact with the left side of the demon's neck and emerged a millisecond later from the corresponding point on the right. Money well spent.

The four-horned head landed with a wet thunk more or less at her feet, but for some unfathomable reason, the beast didn't quite seem to realise that it was dead, and continued to lash out with its black clawed arms, threatening to dislodge some loose rocks on a rather unstable looking wall.

Freya stared at the thing in horror. "You're dead, you lummox - die!" The curse, however, did not speed the thing's demise and she cast about vainly trying to get out of its way. "Through the heart," yelled a voice from behind her, "Pierce its heart!" Without a backwards glance, she launched the katana javelin-style at the creature's chest. It connected and penetrated and she gave herself a mental pat on the back, a thought which was soon replaced by consternation as it became evident that this act had obviously initiated some sort of internal combustion. Hardly had the thought entered her head when the blast knocked her off her feet and sent her flying backwards towards the unknown darkness behind her. She collided with someone who was apparently attempting to stop her precipitous flight and she hit the ground a moment later, half on top of her rescuer.

When her eyes had recovered from the flare of light, and the dust had begun to settle, she took stock of several things. The beast was definitely dead. She was in a roomy cave. The firelight was emanating from hand torches. The hand torches were carried by a group of armed and armoured men, about forty strong, whose leader was approaching her even now. She sat up slowly, still a little disoriented from the shift and the fight and the blast and turned to thank the one who had broken her fall.

Her gaze was met by a wolfish grin from a golden-eyed, raven-haired, alabaster-skinned warrior, whose three-clawed hands rested on her arms, supporting her still. She blinked a little at the vision and managed a "thank you" before struggling to her feet.

As she dusted herself off, the man she'd assumed was the leader drew closer, and the other behind her got to his feet. "Identify yourself, woman!" snapped their leader. Freya paused momentarily in her dusting to fix him with a sharp stare. "Who sent you? Why did you interfere?"

"Antaris," put in the pale-skinned man, calmly surveying the blood splattered cave walls, "of all your hair-brained schemes against my unlife, this one takes the cake. Only you would resurrect a blood demon of the ancient world to destroy me without checking if you could control it."

"Silence, vampire," the other thundered, "I have not finished with you yet."

Freya's blood ran cold at his words, and she turned to her erstwhile rescuer, appraising him anew. "You're a vampire?"

"He's a poor excuse for one," Antaris interjected, "now state your purpose and alignment before I clap you in irons."

"Show some courtesy, Sarafan," said the vampire, "she just saved your life." The creature took some pleasure in watching his enemy cringe and fluster.

Freya, patently ignoring Antaris' questions, walked over to the pile of offal that had until recently been a massive demon. She looked vainly for the katana, pushing aside gristly lumps of flesh with the toe of her boot, but to all appearances, it seemed the sword had been incinerated along with the beast. Her only link to her home - gone. She cursed under her breath before returning to the two men.

"Now why don't you two start with the introductions?" she asked sternly, noting a brief flicker of admiration from the vampire.

"You will have to forgive my dear friend here," began the vampire, eliciting a meancing growl from Antaris, "he was on the other side of the door when courtesy was handed out." Freya could barely suppress a grin at the creature's taunting of his foe. "I am Raziel, first-born of the lieutenants of Kain and lord of the Razielim vampires. And I am at your service." He bowed gracefully, his eyes never leaving hers, his face lit by a fanged smile.

Antaris' derisive snort jolted her attention from the leather-clad vampire, and she gave him an expectant stare.

"I am Antaris, Lord of the Sarafan and keeper of the Key of Hebros. And you, lady?" he asked with exaggerated courtesy. As she opened her mouth to speak, a short, bearded, ancient man in a long brown robe came hobbling through the group of armed men, a massive leather-bound book clasped under one frail arm.

"She is the P'ramma!"

Antaris was incredulous - and highly miffed. This impudent harpy could not be their long-awaited deliverer. As for Freya, she was glad of the interruption, as she found herself desperately trying to remember her name. She was sure she'd known it when she arrived; after all, she'd known the katana was hers; but now it eluded her completely. Who she was, where she was from, how she'd got there were all facts shrouded in a deepening mist.

The old man's wavering voice roused her from her musings. He was waggling a book excitedly under her nose, pointing repeatedly to a picture of a woman beheading a four-horned demon in a torchlit cave, surrounded by men in armour and one other single pale-skinned man. It was all a bit much. Freya sat down on a nearby rock, holding her head in her hands while the old man, who introduced himself as Cornelius, continued to jabber excitedly about prophecies and mysteries and "exciting times ahead".

From what Freya gathered from the old man's lengthy and highly formal speech, the Sarafan were under the impression that a "deliverer" would one day arrive, who would solve ancient riddles left by their ancestors and lead them to victory over their enemy. Freya was far from convinced, especially when Conrnelius explained that the enemy in question was an entire race, and her concern turned to real doubt when he began to talk about the extermination of the "vampire plague".

"I'm not sure that's why I'm here." she began

"Of course it is!" Antaris put in, "You will aid us in our glorious quest to eliminate the vampire race and return this land to humans of pure blood."

"What you're talking about isn't glory - it's genocide!" she retorted, fury barely held in check. Antaris rounded on her, weapon sliding quickly from its sheath. "Tell me now, woman - once and for all, do you fight for good or for evil?"

"That's completely subjective!" replied Freya, momentarily questioning her own outspokenness - why on earth was she advocating the vampires? She shook her head as though to clear it and added, in a forcedly calmer tone, "Look, we're not going to figure all this out in one fell swoop," Antaris acknowledged this with a sarcastic smile, "But since for the time being I find myself in an unfamiliar place, with the only clue to my purpose here being your prophecies, I will go along with you and see what is to be learned."

The vampire raised an eyebrow from where he leaned in apparent nonchalance against the cave wall, but said nothing.

"Very well," said Antaris, watching with mild reproof as Cornelius did a little dance of joy. "Prepare the charges, we will seal the vampire in here for eternity." The men instantly began to make ready the explosives. At that moment, something clicked in Freya's mind. Without knowing quite why, she had a niggling feeling that if she allowed the creature to be sealed in by these men, not only would she be allowing a great miscarriage of justice, but she would be sealing her own fate as well. And so it was that as Antaris turned to leave the cave, he found himself confronted by a most displeased P'ramma. "Something wrong?" He asked.

Freya set her jaw. "I will accompany you back to the Sarafan stronghold on one condition." The Sarafan lord tilted his head questioningly. "The vampire goes free."

Antaris was dumfounded, and made several attempts to speak, most of which made him resemble a goldfish and were obviously of great amusement to the vampire, who laughed heartily.

"You lured him in here and made a bungled attempt on his life," Freya continued, "I think in the circumstances, he deserves a second chance." Despite Antaris' protests, Freya was adamant and, on Cornelius' advice, he decided not to anger her.

With a mock bow to the Sarafan lord, Raziel sauntered in a leisurely manner toward the exit, Antaris' guards moving aside reluctantly and with much grumbling to let him pass. He paused as he drew level with Freya, a curious but grateful expression on his face, and said, "This will not be forgotten, 'P'ramma'."