Over the next few days, Freya spent a great deal of time in Cornelius' vast
library, absorbing as much information as humanly possible about the
current state of affairs between themselves and the Vampire Clans. As a
consequence, she saw very little of the Sarafan Lord, a small mercy for
which she was quite grateful as the man had been surly and uncommunicative
ever since their confrontation. However, in the interim there had been no
other attempts on her life, so Freya judged the situation a vast
improvement. At this moment she was reading from a tome the size of a
small microwave that bore the grand title of "The Issuing of Formal
Challenges; Intention, Reasoning and Methodology", which she would have
recommended to the most ardent java addict as an excellent sedative.
She was half-way to closing the book (which was probably going to constitute her exercise quota for the day) in favour of the even more enticing "Parades and Processions: A Study in Sarafan Celebration", when a footnote caught her eye. It pertained to the first time the Sarafan had challenged for land, and referred on to an entire chapter on the formalities of regaining lost territory.
She turned to Cornelius, who was knee-deep in de-shelved tomes, muttering about people not putting things back in place, and beckoned to him with a winning smile. At her unspoken summons, he clambered over the nearest pile of musty, leather-covered volumes, an expectant look on his age-weathered face. Freya explained about the chapter she'd just digested before asking, "Does this practice still hold sway?"
Cornelius, thrilled at being asked to elaborate on one of his favourite historical topics, launched into his reply with enthusiasm. "Indeed it does, P'ramma, and furthermore, the custom is well-respected by our vampire adversaries, who hold the old ways in high esteem." Freya twitched her eyebrows. "It is only natural that such ancient creatures should be bound by tradition." Cornelius explained.
"Then . . . why have you not challenged for land before?"
The old man sighed and trudged back towards his bookshelves. "Not since the days of Lord Roland have we seen the observance of those practices. Times have changed."
"And they will again," vowed Freya grimly. "Cornelius, call a meeting of the Council," she commanded, rising from her chair and closing the book with a thump that echoed off the walls and raised a small simoon of dust. "We're going to get our land back."
The P'ramma's call to council had caused quite a stir amongst council elders and warriors alike, as most people could not even remember the last time such a request had been made. Nevertheless, all those summoned answered the call, and that very evening found a most prestigious gathering making its way to the Great Hall, the buzz of conversation reflecting the curiosity of those assembled. When order had been established, Cornelius thanked everyone for coming and turned control of the proceedings over to Freya, who had not been slow to note the calculating glances afforded her by Antaris and his cronies.
After a brief explanation of the information she had gleaned from the tome, Freya outlined her plan. The Sarafan Lord was not the only one to oppose the idea, deeming it a waste of men and valuable resources for the acquisition of some "poxy strip of land".
Freya closed her eyes and counted to ten before responding. "Do you have any idea how little fertile ground is left to us? We cannot allow chunks of land along the northern seaboard to fall into vampire hands!" She motioned to Cornelius, who passed around maps showing Sarafan holdings etched in blue, while those recently lost to the Clans were outlined in red. "If the vampires are allowed to consolidate their grasp on the coastline, it could put an end to all trade with the northlands across the sea." Freya could see from the looks of dismay around the table that not one of them had realised the seriousness of their plight - the maps looked as though they'd been etched in blood. At length, General Thorin, acknowledged by all as the Sarafan Lord's right-hand man, looked up from his map, a look of sick fear written plainly on his features.
"When do we begin?"
The Sanctuary of the Clans stood offered its usual imposing welcome as Raziel approached it at dusk the following day. An unearthly aura of stony patience emanated from its hallowed walls as it stood silent and impassive in the dusky twilight. He carried with him the documents he had found on the shores of the subterranean lake, their knowledge still hidden from him despite repeated attempts to decipher them. The P'ramma's weapon he had left at this own abode, although he fully intended to inform Kain of its existence.
A short search led him to the throne room where his sire sat, as was his wont at this hour, in the massive carved throne he had caused to be set with a sense of blasphemous irony at the foot of the Pillars of Nosgoth. His hand rested lightly in its customary position on the hilt of his sword, the ancient and mystical Soul Reaver, whose undulating blade glowed a dull orange in the light reflecting from iron braziers set at intervals around the immense circular chamber. Raziel crossed the threshold at Kain's bidding and approached the throne with his usual slow assured stride, pausing in the centre of the chamber to kneel in deference to his master.
"And to what do I owe the honour?" growled Kain.
The vampire raised his head and indicated the chest he had brought with him. "I came upon some texts in a cavern deep beneath the Sarafan Sun Temple." Kain looked askance at him. "I was unable to read them but I thought that they might not be beyond your understanding."
Kain was perplexed. "Why would you consider them of importance if you have no idea of their contents?
"I'm fairly sure the Sarafan P'ramma was looking for them - they may contain intelligence of use to us."
Kain gave them a disinterested glance. "The Sarafan are well-known for documenting trivia. Pay them no heed - dispose of them."
More than a little vexed at his master's inference that he had wasted his time, Raziel went on to tell Kain of the demon-bedecked sword he had found, and of how strange it was that a servant of their enemy should wield such an arm.
"You find mysteries where there are none. If you were given a weapon to fight for your life, would you think twice about using it though it were wrought in ivory and decorated with fairies?" He interrupted Raziel's bewildered pondering by adding, "You would do well to destroy both the writings and the weapon and instead concentrate your efforts on conquering the remaining Sarafan territories."
The Vampire Lord bowed in acknowledgement of his master's order - and the implied reprimand, knowing at the same time that he had no intention of giving up either item. One thought was prevalent in the Raziel's mind as he stalked towards the exit: It is always useful to have in one's possession something one's enemy craves.
Daylight found the Keep at Meridian alive with the hum and bustle of activity on the predetermined Day of Challenge. A formal letter had been sent to the Razielim Clan, politely requesting that they meet with the Sarafan knights at a chosen location, where the ownership of the land surrounding the Sun Temple would be resolved in the time-honoured manner. The challenge had been accepted with due civility, and now the morning of the battle had arrived, all too soon for some. The blacksmith was no exception to this category, having spent most of the last two nights wrestling with - and cursing a blue streak at - the P'ramma's new breastplate.
At the appointed hour, the air was briefly filled with the thudding of hooves, boots and cloven feet as the two armies approached the fields outside the Sun Temple. The dying sunlight drenched each element of the scene in a sanguine hue; from the shining plate armour and plumed helmets of the Sarafan contingent to the sable garb and death-white faces of their vampire opponents. It was as though blood had already been spilled.
According to tradition, the opposing leaders rode out to meet each other and exchange pleasantries before the battle itself began.
"Greetings, P'ramma. I trust today finds you well?"
"Indeed, lord Raziel. And your good self? I trust the sun is not taxing your energies too much?"
"Not at all," he smirked, "And I have made sure my fledgelings are somewhat better prepared for the heat this time." He gestured behind him to indicate a contingent of the youngsters clad from head to foot in matte black armour, smoked glass inset into the visors of their helmets. "It would not do to have them burst into flame at some inopportune moment as they nearly did the other day."
Freya also noted that there were others ranged behind the Vampire Lord who were not thus attired, and that each carried at his side a long, curved scimitar, similar to the one she had taken from the fallen Turelim. These must be the Razielim Elite - the vampires must have some idea of the true value of the temple to have brought these into the fray.
"Shall we begin?" she asked cheerfully, as though the battle in which they were about to participate amounted to no more than a game of chess.
"At your convenience, lady." He inclined his head with the ease of one born to nobility, and the two returned in a stately manner to their respective troops.
"The odds are about as good as they're going to get," said Antaris in an aside as she returned. "They match us, man for man, but the fledgelings are inexperienced, and I doubt they'll have much manoeuvrability in those suits."
Freya nodded agreement, and, seeing that her men were as prepared as they ever would be, gave voice to what she hoped was a Celtic battle-cry and led the charge at the enemy who stood waiting for them, dark, silent and brooding in the bloody twilight.
Battle was joined.
Nothing could have prepared Freya for the experience that followed. Although by now she had tested herself enough to know that her fighting skills were not an issue, the pure bloodlust that ensorcelled every being on that field from the first clash of steel on steel caught her unawares. It was contagious, and the initial feeling of fear that had been eating away at the pit of her stomach since morning was almost instantly replaced by a primal rage as she tore into the undead with a ferocity that rivalled their own.
The tide of battle surged forwards, filling the air with the cries of the wounded, the dying and the victorious, and saturating the earth with the lifeblood of both Sarafan and Vampire. Through it all, Antaris strode, slicing at vampire flesh with his favoured weapon; a huge two-handed blade with curved edges that could cleave plate armour at a single stroke. His chest was already covered with streams of vampire blood, and rivulets of the dark, precious liquid ran down his bracers and cuisses to pool on the ground beneath his feet. Raziel ordered a few of his Elite in the Sarafan Lord's direction.
The fledgelings meanwhile were enjoying their first taste of combat. The restrictions imposed by the protective suits were more than made up for by the chance to reave Sarafan flesh from Sarafan bone, a task into with they threw themselves with much gusto. The Sarafan knights who came within reach of their slashing blades fell back in terror, each clutching a spouting artery or groping around in vain for a lost limb. They had been ordered to maim.
Freya meanwhile had lost herself to the fight. She was never sure later if the red haze through which she glimpsed her opponents was due to the battle frenzy or the blood dripping in her eyes. For the moment it was unimportant. All that mattered now was satisfying the roaring lust that drove her every move. When one of the fledgelings refused to fall before the deadly backhanded slash she aimed at him, the bloodlust manifested itself with a fearsome yell, torn unwilling from her throat, and she dropped her guard in a determined attempt to behead the creature. The fledge took advantage of her mistake and clove her shield with a mighty downwards stroke of his axe. Infuriated as much by her own stupidity as the fledgeling's success, she swung the broken shield at his legs, stamping on his right arm as he went down. With the creature thus incapacitated, she kicked off its helmet, watching with grim pleasure as the last rays of sun incinerated his face in golden flame.
Raziel stood apart from the fracas, surveying the scene with immense satisfaction. Then, as though a certain hour had arrived, he called out to his men to retreat.
Freya whirled at the sound, her features contorted in an almost feral grimace, her eyes betraying the exhilaration she felt. The force of her movement swung her bloodstained hair around her face, leaving it covered in faint red marks. "Had enough?" She taunted.
"I will not risk losing more men over this holding." He replied, shaking the reins to calm his whirling mount. He inclined his head in a short but courteous nod. "The lands around the Sun Temple are hereby returned to the Sarafan. Until we next meet, P'ramma."
Freya breathed a sigh of relief. That had been almost too easy - few of her men had fallen, and those that had were mostly wounded, not dead.
The vampire lord turned suddenly as he reached the edge of the clearing. Freya looked up sharply, concerned that the retreat had been a ruse. "Oh, and P'ramma - I wouldn't hold out too much hope of finding what you're looking for," he called with a lopsided smile, "the Sun Temple has already yielded its secrets." He had the audacity to wink before spurring his mount deeper into the forest behind his departing troops.
It was too much for Freya. She threw her shattered shield on the floor before letting loose a torrent of invective coloured with choice Earthly colloquialisms, most of which were not completely lost on the Nosgoth-born.
Cornelius covered his ears.
She was half-way to closing the book (which was probably going to constitute her exercise quota for the day) in favour of the even more enticing "Parades and Processions: A Study in Sarafan Celebration", when a footnote caught her eye. It pertained to the first time the Sarafan had challenged for land, and referred on to an entire chapter on the formalities of regaining lost territory.
She turned to Cornelius, who was knee-deep in de-shelved tomes, muttering about people not putting things back in place, and beckoned to him with a winning smile. At her unspoken summons, he clambered over the nearest pile of musty, leather-covered volumes, an expectant look on his age-weathered face. Freya explained about the chapter she'd just digested before asking, "Does this practice still hold sway?"
Cornelius, thrilled at being asked to elaborate on one of his favourite historical topics, launched into his reply with enthusiasm. "Indeed it does, P'ramma, and furthermore, the custom is well-respected by our vampire adversaries, who hold the old ways in high esteem." Freya twitched her eyebrows. "It is only natural that such ancient creatures should be bound by tradition." Cornelius explained.
"Then . . . why have you not challenged for land before?"
The old man sighed and trudged back towards his bookshelves. "Not since the days of Lord Roland have we seen the observance of those practices. Times have changed."
"And they will again," vowed Freya grimly. "Cornelius, call a meeting of the Council," she commanded, rising from her chair and closing the book with a thump that echoed off the walls and raised a small simoon of dust. "We're going to get our land back."
The P'ramma's call to council had caused quite a stir amongst council elders and warriors alike, as most people could not even remember the last time such a request had been made. Nevertheless, all those summoned answered the call, and that very evening found a most prestigious gathering making its way to the Great Hall, the buzz of conversation reflecting the curiosity of those assembled. When order had been established, Cornelius thanked everyone for coming and turned control of the proceedings over to Freya, who had not been slow to note the calculating glances afforded her by Antaris and his cronies.
After a brief explanation of the information she had gleaned from the tome, Freya outlined her plan. The Sarafan Lord was not the only one to oppose the idea, deeming it a waste of men and valuable resources for the acquisition of some "poxy strip of land".
Freya closed her eyes and counted to ten before responding. "Do you have any idea how little fertile ground is left to us? We cannot allow chunks of land along the northern seaboard to fall into vampire hands!" She motioned to Cornelius, who passed around maps showing Sarafan holdings etched in blue, while those recently lost to the Clans were outlined in red. "If the vampires are allowed to consolidate their grasp on the coastline, it could put an end to all trade with the northlands across the sea." Freya could see from the looks of dismay around the table that not one of them had realised the seriousness of their plight - the maps looked as though they'd been etched in blood. At length, General Thorin, acknowledged by all as the Sarafan Lord's right-hand man, looked up from his map, a look of sick fear written plainly on his features.
"When do we begin?"
The Sanctuary of the Clans stood offered its usual imposing welcome as Raziel approached it at dusk the following day. An unearthly aura of stony patience emanated from its hallowed walls as it stood silent and impassive in the dusky twilight. He carried with him the documents he had found on the shores of the subterranean lake, their knowledge still hidden from him despite repeated attempts to decipher them. The P'ramma's weapon he had left at this own abode, although he fully intended to inform Kain of its existence.
A short search led him to the throne room where his sire sat, as was his wont at this hour, in the massive carved throne he had caused to be set with a sense of blasphemous irony at the foot of the Pillars of Nosgoth. His hand rested lightly in its customary position on the hilt of his sword, the ancient and mystical Soul Reaver, whose undulating blade glowed a dull orange in the light reflecting from iron braziers set at intervals around the immense circular chamber. Raziel crossed the threshold at Kain's bidding and approached the throne with his usual slow assured stride, pausing in the centre of the chamber to kneel in deference to his master.
"And to what do I owe the honour?" growled Kain.
The vampire raised his head and indicated the chest he had brought with him. "I came upon some texts in a cavern deep beneath the Sarafan Sun Temple." Kain looked askance at him. "I was unable to read them but I thought that they might not be beyond your understanding."
Kain was perplexed. "Why would you consider them of importance if you have no idea of their contents?
"I'm fairly sure the Sarafan P'ramma was looking for them - they may contain intelligence of use to us."
Kain gave them a disinterested glance. "The Sarafan are well-known for documenting trivia. Pay them no heed - dispose of them."
More than a little vexed at his master's inference that he had wasted his time, Raziel went on to tell Kain of the demon-bedecked sword he had found, and of how strange it was that a servant of their enemy should wield such an arm.
"You find mysteries where there are none. If you were given a weapon to fight for your life, would you think twice about using it though it were wrought in ivory and decorated with fairies?" He interrupted Raziel's bewildered pondering by adding, "You would do well to destroy both the writings and the weapon and instead concentrate your efforts on conquering the remaining Sarafan territories."
The Vampire Lord bowed in acknowledgement of his master's order - and the implied reprimand, knowing at the same time that he had no intention of giving up either item. One thought was prevalent in the Raziel's mind as he stalked towards the exit: It is always useful to have in one's possession something one's enemy craves.
Daylight found the Keep at Meridian alive with the hum and bustle of activity on the predetermined Day of Challenge. A formal letter had been sent to the Razielim Clan, politely requesting that they meet with the Sarafan knights at a chosen location, where the ownership of the land surrounding the Sun Temple would be resolved in the time-honoured manner. The challenge had been accepted with due civility, and now the morning of the battle had arrived, all too soon for some. The blacksmith was no exception to this category, having spent most of the last two nights wrestling with - and cursing a blue streak at - the P'ramma's new breastplate.
At the appointed hour, the air was briefly filled with the thudding of hooves, boots and cloven feet as the two armies approached the fields outside the Sun Temple. The dying sunlight drenched each element of the scene in a sanguine hue; from the shining plate armour and plumed helmets of the Sarafan contingent to the sable garb and death-white faces of their vampire opponents. It was as though blood had already been spilled.
According to tradition, the opposing leaders rode out to meet each other and exchange pleasantries before the battle itself began.
"Greetings, P'ramma. I trust today finds you well?"
"Indeed, lord Raziel. And your good self? I trust the sun is not taxing your energies too much?"
"Not at all," he smirked, "And I have made sure my fledgelings are somewhat better prepared for the heat this time." He gestured behind him to indicate a contingent of the youngsters clad from head to foot in matte black armour, smoked glass inset into the visors of their helmets. "It would not do to have them burst into flame at some inopportune moment as they nearly did the other day."
Freya also noted that there were others ranged behind the Vampire Lord who were not thus attired, and that each carried at his side a long, curved scimitar, similar to the one she had taken from the fallen Turelim. These must be the Razielim Elite - the vampires must have some idea of the true value of the temple to have brought these into the fray.
"Shall we begin?" she asked cheerfully, as though the battle in which they were about to participate amounted to no more than a game of chess.
"At your convenience, lady." He inclined his head with the ease of one born to nobility, and the two returned in a stately manner to their respective troops.
"The odds are about as good as they're going to get," said Antaris in an aside as she returned. "They match us, man for man, but the fledgelings are inexperienced, and I doubt they'll have much manoeuvrability in those suits."
Freya nodded agreement, and, seeing that her men were as prepared as they ever would be, gave voice to what she hoped was a Celtic battle-cry and led the charge at the enemy who stood waiting for them, dark, silent and brooding in the bloody twilight.
Battle was joined.
Nothing could have prepared Freya for the experience that followed. Although by now she had tested herself enough to know that her fighting skills were not an issue, the pure bloodlust that ensorcelled every being on that field from the first clash of steel on steel caught her unawares. It was contagious, and the initial feeling of fear that had been eating away at the pit of her stomach since morning was almost instantly replaced by a primal rage as she tore into the undead with a ferocity that rivalled their own.
The tide of battle surged forwards, filling the air with the cries of the wounded, the dying and the victorious, and saturating the earth with the lifeblood of both Sarafan and Vampire. Through it all, Antaris strode, slicing at vampire flesh with his favoured weapon; a huge two-handed blade with curved edges that could cleave plate armour at a single stroke. His chest was already covered with streams of vampire blood, and rivulets of the dark, precious liquid ran down his bracers and cuisses to pool on the ground beneath his feet. Raziel ordered a few of his Elite in the Sarafan Lord's direction.
The fledgelings meanwhile were enjoying their first taste of combat. The restrictions imposed by the protective suits were more than made up for by the chance to reave Sarafan flesh from Sarafan bone, a task into with they threw themselves with much gusto. The Sarafan knights who came within reach of their slashing blades fell back in terror, each clutching a spouting artery or groping around in vain for a lost limb. They had been ordered to maim.
Freya meanwhile had lost herself to the fight. She was never sure later if the red haze through which she glimpsed her opponents was due to the battle frenzy or the blood dripping in her eyes. For the moment it was unimportant. All that mattered now was satisfying the roaring lust that drove her every move. When one of the fledgelings refused to fall before the deadly backhanded slash she aimed at him, the bloodlust manifested itself with a fearsome yell, torn unwilling from her throat, and she dropped her guard in a determined attempt to behead the creature. The fledge took advantage of her mistake and clove her shield with a mighty downwards stroke of his axe. Infuriated as much by her own stupidity as the fledgeling's success, she swung the broken shield at his legs, stamping on his right arm as he went down. With the creature thus incapacitated, she kicked off its helmet, watching with grim pleasure as the last rays of sun incinerated his face in golden flame.
Raziel stood apart from the fracas, surveying the scene with immense satisfaction. Then, as though a certain hour had arrived, he called out to his men to retreat.
Freya whirled at the sound, her features contorted in an almost feral grimace, her eyes betraying the exhilaration she felt. The force of her movement swung her bloodstained hair around her face, leaving it covered in faint red marks. "Had enough?" She taunted.
"I will not risk losing more men over this holding." He replied, shaking the reins to calm his whirling mount. He inclined his head in a short but courteous nod. "The lands around the Sun Temple are hereby returned to the Sarafan. Until we next meet, P'ramma."
Freya breathed a sigh of relief. That had been almost too easy - few of her men had fallen, and those that had were mostly wounded, not dead.
The vampire lord turned suddenly as he reached the edge of the clearing. Freya looked up sharply, concerned that the retreat had been a ruse. "Oh, and P'ramma - I wouldn't hold out too much hope of finding what you're looking for," he called with a lopsided smile, "the Sun Temple has already yielded its secrets." He had the audacity to wink before spurring his mount deeper into the forest behind his departing troops.
It was too much for Freya. She threw her shattered shield on the floor before letting loose a torrent of invective coloured with choice Earthly colloquialisms, most of which were not completely lost on the Nosgoth-born.
Cornelius covered his ears.
