An active person by nature, Freya chafed at the delay in her recovery. The
next three weeks saw her confined to the infirmary as the Sarafan healers
endeavoured to purge her system of the noxious poison with which the
Melchahim were wont to imbue their blades. Cornelius on the other hand was
glad of the opportunity to have a captive audience to listen to his
profound historical observations. Not having the heart to discourage him,
Freya endured his prolonged orations with staunch patience. It was during
one of his afternoon visits that she finally broached the subject of
Antaris' Special Forces, taking pains to make it clear that her interest
amounted to no more than superficial time-filling.
It soon became evident that although Cornelius was cognizant of their existence, he knew little more than the basics: they were a handful of men, no more than twenty-five at any one time, specially chosen to work undercover and obtain covert intelligence on vampire plans. At length, Freya realised that she had reached the limits of the sage's knowledge on the matter and turned the conversation to other topics, her first request being an update on the Challenges.
Cornelius patted her hand and smiled, his expression one of benevolent tolerance. "You just get yourself better, P'ramma, then you can ask his Lordship all the questions you like. In the meantime, more rest!"
Freya observed his departure with watchful eyes. As soon as he had exited the room, she threw back the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting her feet become accustomed to the cold touch of the tiles before attempting to stand. The result was wobbly, but better than she expected. She'd probably not be fighting fit for another week or so, but she was certainly not as weak as the healers had intimated. A few minutes' search turned up some suitable attire, which she donned with a little difficulty, and she made her way to the door. It opened to reveal two partially-armoured Sarafan wielding halberds almost as tall as they were. Standard security. Freya glanced from one to the other and stepped out into the hallway to continue on her journey.
The halberds clashed together an inch in front of her nose, the steely silence of each man conveying the message of refusal as surely as if it had been spoken. She was not permitted to leave. If there was one thing that irked her it was people who stood in her way when she had a particular goal in mind. With this thought prevailing, Freya elbow-barged the nearest guard, using her weakness as justification to herself for her chosen target area. As he doubled over, retching and ashen faced, she attempted to wrench the polearm from his grasp. However, the Sarafan to her left was advancing quickly, and her strength was apparently not sufficient to obtain the weapon by force. Taking advantage of her own sideways crouch, she waited until the advancing guard was within three feet of her before launching a left roundhouse at his own weak spot. Grimacing at the pain the force of the kick must have inflicted, she mouthed a quick "sorry" at the back of his head, and, lifting the heavy arm from his nerveless fingers, hurried off towards the exterior door.
Freya's prolonged recovery period had given her plenty of time to consider recent happenings. Foremost in her mind was the thought that Raziel had planted there: the possibility that the very men she led might be in some way victimising their own people. It seemed ridiculous of course, but her mind returned constantly to the same argument - he had no reason to lie. With this in mind she decided first to go inconspicuously among the denizens of the city so that she could observe normal Sarafan behaviour. Having ascertained that there was nothing untoward or unusual in their activities (unless you counted the preponderance of rat-on-a-stick, a prolific delicacy she was not tempted to try), she turned her attention to the barrack-buildings around the Soldiers' Quarter.
Wandering nonchalantly through the streets in her hooded cowl, she was able to study these men at ease, and, far from the fractious monsters in the mental picture the Vampire Lord had painted for her, she found a perfect portrait of the fighting man at rest: In one corner, a young guard was playing with a group of excited children, demonstrating how to hold a sword, and warning them of the dangers of taking one up to soon; another had a young woman on his knee and was lovingly stroking her golden hair as she twirled a fresh-picked flower in her slim hands in the afternoon sunlight, their gaze meeting ever and anon to exchange looks that only young lovers can make; still another was repairing a dilapidated porch over the apothecary shop, the old couple in the doorway watching with a proprietary air as they made ready to offer the soldier mead and cake when the task was done.
Freya shook her head and turned her steps back towards town. The vampire's accusation sounded less and less likely as time went on. Nevertheless, she intended to ask the question of Antaris, albeit in a decidedly subtle manner. In the meantime, she returned to the market square, bursting with life at this point in the afternoon, and made it clear to all present that she had fully recovered and would soon relieve Antaris of the onerous self- imposed burden he had borne these past three weeks. Her reinstatement secured in the eyes of the people, Freya set off to find the aforementioned knight.
The Sarafan Lord's reaction to her appearance in his study was brusque at best. She waved aside his baleful insistence that she should be resting still with the observation that it was far too pleasant a time of year to be lying abed. She let it be known that she was itching to return to active service, although she obviously recognised the folly of plunging in head-first, which was why, she reasoned, she'd like the opportunity to accompany his Special Forces on one of their secret, but physically undemanding missions.
Antaris rummaged in the mound of papers on his desk, eyes down. "What 'Special Forces'?"
"Come now, Lord Antaris, I have heard whispers of them in the city - the people hold them in the highest regard."
With a resigned sigh, he admitted their existence. "However, P'ramma, I cannot have you accompanying them on their next mission - they leave at dawn tomorrow, and despite your marked improvement, you would still slow them down."
Apparently, this was sufficient justification for Freya. With an accepting smile, she rose shakily from her seat, and offered a "You're probably right, Antaris, there will be other times." before vacating the room, ostensibly to seek her chamber.
The corners of his mouth curled in an unpleasant smile. Women were so predictable.
Daybreak saw Freya sneak stealthily through the stables and depart the city on horseback in the wake of a small group of men led by the irrepressible General Thorin. As the last set of hoof beats faded into the distance, Antaris strode from his hiding place at the water-fountain and headed in the direction of the barracks. The deafening peal of the alarm bell set the majority of the soldiers on their feet in a matter of seconds, their sleep- crusted eyes slowly discerning the figure of the Sarafan Lord with one thuggish fist wrapped around the bell-chain.
"Ready yourselves for battle."
The troops exchanged confused glances; there was no Challenge scheduled for days.
"Get a move on, you lily-livered pansies! What are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed?" Antaris' warning bark was enough to assure even the most obtuse that the alarm was for real.
It was a most bemused contingent of men that assembled in the barracks courtyard a little over an hour later to take their orders from the Sarafan Lord. Antaris strode up and down before his men, calling attention to an unbuckled strap here, an unpolished boot there, until he was sure that the two hundred gathered before him were well-prepared.
"Today we take back what is ours by right."
"If you please, my Lord - where is the P'ramma?" asked one, "Word is that she is recovered."
"Yes," agreed his mate, "Saw her myself yesterday. Will she not be leading us?"
Antaris strolled in a blasé manner towards he who had spoken last, leaning in closely so that the soldier would not miss one sibilant syllable of his reply.
"The P'ramma no longer leads this army. She will not take the necessary risks to ensure the survival of our culture. This militia answers to me once again. Do you have a problem with that?"
The young soldier swallowed, not daring to wipe his face. "No, sir."
Another calculating glance ensured the man's silence, and Antaris went on to outline their plan of attack. This done, he ordered the cavalry to mount up and led the parade, accompanied by a small gaggle of excitable early risers, towards the gate. As they were about to leave, one of the youngsters asked, "Sir, what is our target?"
The Sarafan Lord's answer silenced every heartily bantering man in the crowd, and the soldiers who trudged through that gate, death-pale, were as men walking to their doom.
Freya, meanwhile, was rapidly tiring of her adventure. The Sarafan she had followed had travelled with no particular urgency to almost all the outlying villages, collecting tithes, helping with repairs and chatting with acquaintances. On perceiving that the Twenty-Five were making ready to depart for yet another town, she pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb and gave some serious thought to going home. The sight of another circle of mud-thatched cottages and another litter of mangy curs was hardly the most enticing proposition. However, this was her part of the bargain with the Vampire Lord, and whether his claims were true or not, she intended to make good on her promise.
Another hour's dodging behind the bizarre cacti that passed for foliage in this particular region brought Freya to the edge of a much larger village, surrounded on all sides by a large wooden palisade. Further to the north she could make out the sea through a misty haze, and atop a brooding crag, an intimidating structure of black stone. She dismounted, interested at last, and made her way forward in a low crouch to where she could lie unseen on a bank outside the settlement. There was some commotion emanating from the main gate, so she wriggled into a position whence the cause of the disturbance might be discerned.
To all appearances, General Thorin was talking calmly and decorously with another who, judging by his black and sliver velvet garb, was a denizen of some note. He was being detained by two burly Sarafan, his face steeled in a mask of obstinate denial, his very posture evincing his stubborn recalcitrance. Freya's eyes narrowed, wondering what the man had done; maybe he had mistreated one of the village women? Ah yes, a woman was being brought forth even now. Most likely the Sarafan knights would make him apologise publicly, and the woman would have satisfaction. She settled down into the earth in cheerful anticipation, wishing she had a bucket of popcorn to munch while watching the unfolding drama.
At the emergence of the woman, the black-garbed man seemed to falter, the obstinacy draining from his features along with the colour. The woman looked from the General to the Accused and slowly shook her head. A moment later, it rolled on the soil, her lifeless eyes staring endlessly at the General's boots. Freya stiffened. What had been the woman's crime? The man in black sank to his knees next to the headless body, his attitude screaming his loss. He raised a wretched face towards the General, his expression obdurate despite his evident grief. Brief words passed between the Sarafan and the Accused, then with dispassionate purpose, the Twenty- Five stormed the village.
It soon became evident that although Cornelius was cognizant of their existence, he knew little more than the basics: they were a handful of men, no more than twenty-five at any one time, specially chosen to work undercover and obtain covert intelligence on vampire plans. At length, Freya realised that she had reached the limits of the sage's knowledge on the matter and turned the conversation to other topics, her first request being an update on the Challenges.
Cornelius patted her hand and smiled, his expression one of benevolent tolerance. "You just get yourself better, P'ramma, then you can ask his Lordship all the questions you like. In the meantime, more rest!"
Freya observed his departure with watchful eyes. As soon as he had exited the room, she threw back the blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed, letting her feet become accustomed to the cold touch of the tiles before attempting to stand. The result was wobbly, but better than she expected. She'd probably not be fighting fit for another week or so, but she was certainly not as weak as the healers had intimated. A few minutes' search turned up some suitable attire, which she donned with a little difficulty, and she made her way to the door. It opened to reveal two partially-armoured Sarafan wielding halberds almost as tall as they were. Standard security. Freya glanced from one to the other and stepped out into the hallway to continue on her journey.
The halberds clashed together an inch in front of her nose, the steely silence of each man conveying the message of refusal as surely as if it had been spoken. She was not permitted to leave. If there was one thing that irked her it was people who stood in her way when she had a particular goal in mind. With this thought prevailing, Freya elbow-barged the nearest guard, using her weakness as justification to herself for her chosen target area. As he doubled over, retching and ashen faced, she attempted to wrench the polearm from his grasp. However, the Sarafan to her left was advancing quickly, and her strength was apparently not sufficient to obtain the weapon by force. Taking advantage of her own sideways crouch, she waited until the advancing guard was within three feet of her before launching a left roundhouse at his own weak spot. Grimacing at the pain the force of the kick must have inflicted, she mouthed a quick "sorry" at the back of his head, and, lifting the heavy arm from his nerveless fingers, hurried off towards the exterior door.
Freya's prolonged recovery period had given her plenty of time to consider recent happenings. Foremost in her mind was the thought that Raziel had planted there: the possibility that the very men she led might be in some way victimising their own people. It seemed ridiculous of course, but her mind returned constantly to the same argument - he had no reason to lie. With this in mind she decided first to go inconspicuously among the denizens of the city so that she could observe normal Sarafan behaviour. Having ascertained that there was nothing untoward or unusual in their activities (unless you counted the preponderance of rat-on-a-stick, a prolific delicacy she was not tempted to try), she turned her attention to the barrack-buildings around the Soldiers' Quarter.
Wandering nonchalantly through the streets in her hooded cowl, she was able to study these men at ease, and, far from the fractious monsters in the mental picture the Vampire Lord had painted for her, she found a perfect portrait of the fighting man at rest: In one corner, a young guard was playing with a group of excited children, demonstrating how to hold a sword, and warning them of the dangers of taking one up to soon; another had a young woman on his knee and was lovingly stroking her golden hair as she twirled a fresh-picked flower in her slim hands in the afternoon sunlight, their gaze meeting ever and anon to exchange looks that only young lovers can make; still another was repairing a dilapidated porch over the apothecary shop, the old couple in the doorway watching with a proprietary air as they made ready to offer the soldier mead and cake when the task was done.
Freya shook her head and turned her steps back towards town. The vampire's accusation sounded less and less likely as time went on. Nevertheless, she intended to ask the question of Antaris, albeit in a decidedly subtle manner. In the meantime, she returned to the market square, bursting with life at this point in the afternoon, and made it clear to all present that she had fully recovered and would soon relieve Antaris of the onerous self- imposed burden he had borne these past three weeks. Her reinstatement secured in the eyes of the people, Freya set off to find the aforementioned knight.
The Sarafan Lord's reaction to her appearance in his study was brusque at best. She waved aside his baleful insistence that she should be resting still with the observation that it was far too pleasant a time of year to be lying abed. She let it be known that she was itching to return to active service, although she obviously recognised the folly of plunging in head-first, which was why, she reasoned, she'd like the opportunity to accompany his Special Forces on one of their secret, but physically undemanding missions.
Antaris rummaged in the mound of papers on his desk, eyes down. "What 'Special Forces'?"
"Come now, Lord Antaris, I have heard whispers of them in the city - the people hold them in the highest regard."
With a resigned sigh, he admitted their existence. "However, P'ramma, I cannot have you accompanying them on their next mission - they leave at dawn tomorrow, and despite your marked improvement, you would still slow them down."
Apparently, this was sufficient justification for Freya. With an accepting smile, she rose shakily from her seat, and offered a "You're probably right, Antaris, there will be other times." before vacating the room, ostensibly to seek her chamber.
The corners of his mouth curled in an unpleasant smile. Women were so predictable.
Daybreak saw Freya sneak stealthily through the stables and depart the city on horseback in the wake of a small group of men led by the irrepressible General Thorin. As the last set of hoof beats faded into the distance, Antaris strode from his hiding place at the water-fountain and headed in the direction of the barracks. The deafening peal of the alarm bell set the majority of the soldiers on their feet in a matter of seconds, their sleep- crusted eyes slowly discerning the figure of the Sarafan Lord with one thuggish fist wrapped around the bell-chain.
"Ready yourselves for battle."
The troops exchanged confused glances; there was no Challenge scheduled for days.
"Get a move on, you lily-livered pansies! What are you waiting for? Breakfast in bed?" Antaris' warning bark was enough to assure even the most obtuse that the alarm was for real.
It was a most bemused contingent of men that assembled in the barracks courtyard a little over an hour later to take their orders from the Sarafan Lord. Antaris strode up and down before his men, calling attention to an unbuckled strap here, an unpolished boot there, until he was sure that the two hundred gathered before him were well-prepared.
"Today we take back what is ours by right."
"If you please, my Lord - where is the P'ramma?" asked one, "Word is that she is recovered."
"Yes," agreed his mate, "Saw her myself yesterday. Will she not be leading us?"
Antaris strolled in a blasé manner towards he who had spoken last, leaning in closely so that the soldier would not miss one sibilant syllable of his reply.
"The P'ramma no longer leads this army. She will not take the necessary risks to ensure the survival of our culture. This militia answers to me once again. Do you have a problem with that?"
The young soldier swallowed, not daring to wipe his face. "No, sir."
Another calculating glance ensured the man's silence, and Antaris went on to outline their plan of attack. This done, he ordered the cavalry to mount up and led the parade, accompanied by a small gaggle of excitable early risers, towards the gate. As they were about to leave, one of the youngsters asked, "Sir, what is our target?"
The Sarafan Lord's answer silenced every heartily bantering man in the crowd, and the soldiers who trudged through that gate, death-pale, were as men walking to their doom.
Freya, meanwhile, was rapidly tiring of her adventure. The Sarafan she had followed had travelled with no particular urgency to almost all the outlying villages, collecting tithes, helping with repairs and chatting with acquaintances. On perceiving that the Twenty-Five were making ready to depart for yet another town, she pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb and gave some serious thought to going home. The sight of another circle of mud-thatched cottages and another litter of mangy curs was hardly the most enticing proposition. However, this was her part of the bargain with the Vampire Lord, and whether his claims were true or not, she intended to make good on her promise.
Another hour's dodging behind the bizarre cacti that passed for foliage in this particular region brought Freya to the edge of a much larger village, surrounded on all sides by a large wooden palisade. Further to the north she could make out the sea through a misty haze, and atop a brooding crag, an intimidating structure of black stone. She dismounted, interested at last, and made her way forward in a low crouch to where she could lie unseen on a bank outside the settlement. There was some commotion emanating from the main gate, so she wriggled into a position whence the cause of the disturbance might be discerned.
To all appearances, General Thorin was talking calmly and decorously with another who, judging by his black and sliver velvet garb, was a denizen of some note. He was being detained by two burly Sarafan, his face steeled in a mask of obstinate denial, his very posture evincing his stubborn recalcitrance. Freya's eyes narrowed, wondering what the man had done; maybe he had mistreated one of the village women? Ah yes, a woman was being brought forth even now. Most likely the Sarafan knights would make him apologise publicly, and the woman would have satisfaction. She settled down into the earth in cheerful anticipation, wishing she had a bucket of popcorn to munch while watching the unfolding drama.
At the emergence of the woman, the black-garbed man seemed to falter, the obstinacy draining from his features along with the colour. The woman looked from the General to the Accused and slowly shook her head. A moment later, it rolled on the soil, her lifeless eyes staring endlessly at the General's boots. Freya stiffened. What had been the woman's crime? The man in black sank to his knees next to the headless body, his attitude screaming his loss. He raised a wretched face towards the General, his expression obdurate despite his evident grief. Brief words passed between the Sarafan and the Accused, then with dispassionate purpose, the Twenty- Five stormed the village.
