Freya's stomach lurched, threatening to disgorge the remains of her frugal
morning meal. It was as though she viewed the horrific scene detached,
through a nebulous veil. Had she been able, she would have cried, but no
tears would come to her thunderstruck system. How could she have been so
wrong? Feelings of guilt and anxiety consumed her - that she had been so
blind not to perceive the deception, the very thought caused her heart to
batter against her ribs in an unsettling rhythm. She was halfway down the
bank before her body realised it had got to its feet. Thorin, his back to
her, was still standing in the entryway to the village, overseeing the
melee with hands on hips and a wide grin on his brutish features. Her hand
gripped his arm, wrenching him around to face her.
"What the hell are you doing?" Freya didn't have the words to express the horror she was feeling.
The General seemed genuinely surprised to see her. "Carrying out our orders."
The woman recoiled, a look of utter repulsion written plainly on her countenance. "Stop them! Now!" Thorin shook his head maliciously. "These are human beings, not vampires - what the hell is wrong with you?"
"They are dissidents, P'ramma. They serve and nurture their Vampire Tithe Lord - they are no better than the foul creatures that suckle at their flesh. They deserve to die."
The depths of the Sarafan persecution sank home. Even the Vampires, ancient and cursed as they were rarely stooped to the murder of their own kind in the name of idealism. In this insane world, it seemed the bloodsucking undead were the lesser of two evils. Freya whirled towards the village, intent on stopping the marauding horde, but the General grabbed her shoulder, causing a line of white fire to shoot from collarbone to bicep. The Melchahim wound was still fresh. Desperate to help the imperilled townsfolk, Freya elbowed Thorin in the nose with her good arm and ran further into the village, leaving him fuming and bloodied in her wake.
The scene was chaos. In one corner, a heavily armoured knight was herding a group of terrified youngsters into a thatched hut, burning brand raised high in one plated fist; in another, a group of five were busy ransacking market stalls - foodstuffs, clothing and livestock were being piled unceremoniously into a steadily growing pyre; then a glance at a nearby hut galvanised Freya into action. Three heavily-built guards were dragging a young woman screaming across the threshold, her torn clothing and the lewd laughter of the men painting an unmistakeable picture of the event about to transpire. Aware that the General had been stealthily creeping up behind her, Freya allowed him to come within striking distance before whipping her sword from its sheath and swinging around to place it neatly beneath his Adam's apple.
"Call them off." The command was feral, gritty, implacable.
Thorin made an airless gulping noise and deliberately shook his head. A sharp dig in his throat that caused red droplets to form on the end of the keen blade convinced him this was not the best way to end the stalemate, and he nodded grudging assent.
"Withdraw!"
One by one the force trouped back to the gateway, disbelief their companion. When all twenty-five were assembled, they received explicit and forceful orders to return immediately to Meridian, where the P'ramma would join them later. At this command, Thorin was sorely tempted to draw his own weapon and put paid to the interfering bitch once and for all, but the thought was almost instantly superseded by the recognition that Antaris would be less than impressed if he himself was not there to witness it. He would bide his time.
As the heavy wooden gates slammed shut behind the departing Sarafan, Freya turned to evaluate for herself the extent of the damage the knights had wrought. Apart from the general disorder and the smattering of small fires around the palisade, it was evident that they hadn't had much time to fulfil their ultimate aim: four or five were seriously wounded, and many more had sustained cuts and bruises in the general commotion that had ensued, but none had died. Seeing that the village healer had her hands full, Freya went to offer what help she could. Their combined efforts to save one profusely bleeding woman were in vain, and as the healer stroked the eyelids shut, Freya felt a hand on her shoulder.
The man in black greeted her and introduced himself as Karl, the village headsman. He was half-way through thanking her for her intervention when he noticed that tears were coursing unchecked down her cheeks. "What ails you, lady?"
Freya made a gesture that indicated the wounded, the overturned marketplace, the flaming cots and the now-still body of the young woman. She shook her head numbly. "They were my men."
"You are the P'ramma?" Freya nodded, dimly aware that the admission could seal her fate. "Our Tithe Lord speaks well of you. He says you are a worthy opponent, unlike that bastard of a Sarafan Lord." Freya humphed dejectedly, walking alongside Karl as he led her to his own abode. "That fool's actions may bring about an all-out war."
"Surely it won't come to that?" Freya asked, her eyes red-rimmed and haunted.
"His attack on Zephon's keep cannot go unanswered."
She stopped in her tracks. At her request, Karl elaborated on Antaris' underhand defeat of the Vampire Lord, the wanton destruction of his tower, and described how he had left him humiliated before his fallen keep until some of his beholden had found him the next day. As the headsman's tale evolved, the hollow feeling in Freya's stomach gradually transmuted into a dogged resolve as anger took the place of worry and fear. "It seems I have been out of the picture a little too long." She opined grimly. She then took a steadying breath and nodded to Karl, new strength evident in her carriage and demeanour. "Antaris will answer to me tonight."
"Beware the Sarafan Lord, P'ramma," warned Karl, "You countermanded his orders on the field of battle. He may not be so pleased to see you."
Freya laughed humourlessly as she ran her eyes over the scene of destruction. Then, unbidden, a hitherto forgotten thought resurfaced. The truth of Raziel's words had been borne out.
"Who is your Tithe Lord?"
Turel's high-ceilinged council chamber had rarely contained such power as tonight; never before had all six of Kain's Lieutenants been gathered together inside its lofty walls. The mood was sombre and electric, the combined dark presence of the beings gathered within dissuading all but the most confident of Turel's aides from even entering the same wing. Flickering amber light issued from sconces set around the vaulted walls, imbuing the air with the gold tinge of Charon's coins, though no heat could prevail over the collective auras of these messengers of death.
A large circular table had been set out, and in the last hour this innocent slab of wood had been assaulted by a deluge of maps and documents, several overfilled goblets of wine, at least six thumping fists and an occasional hapless human. Raziel, as eldest, had endeavoured to take control and keep his brothers' dangerous zealousness in check.
"I cannot find in favour of an all-out strike, Zephon."
His younger brother ground his teeth, eyes wide in outrage. "You would allow their attack on me and mine to go unpunished?" he rose from his seat, his grief surpassing his anger. "Half of my fledges are dead!"
Raziel bowed his head. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "I am truly sorry for your loss, brother." His piercing gaze rose to meet that of his distraught sibling. "But if today's manoeuvre is anything to judge by . . ."
A sudden commotion from the hallway interrupted the vampire's speech. A rapid clanging, accompanied by several thuds and gasps told those within that some enemy was swiftly and steadily approaching the door. The heavily timbered portal swung inwards, and the threshold was breached by a somersaulting Turelim, closely followed by an especially irate-looking P'ramma.
"Where were you?" Freya demanded of Turel, her rage still unabated, only realising a moment later the identities of the persons in whose presence she now stood. She swallowed silently as it became clear how impertinent the question must appear; she, the Sarafan P'ramma had forced an entry into an enemy fortress and now stood alone on undisputedly vampire territory in the company of all Kain's sons. Undaunted, she gritted her teeth and stood her ground. She wanted answers.
Before Turel could reply, a guard hobbled in, left side still spurting blood. "We could not stop her, my lord, she insisted on . . ."
"Go, fledgeling," interjected Raziel, "We will deal with this."
Freya rounded on him instantly. "You! With all your talk of Vampire Lords protecting those beholden to them. A pack of lies!"
Raziel narrowed his eyes, thunder on his brow. He couldn't remember the last time a mortal had called him a liar. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his displeasure in check. "What do you mean?"
"Lemar!" She said in exasperation.
Turel shot a glance at the soldier at the door, who was already edging towards the exit, a look of concern on his face. "Go, see that all is well with your family."
"The Sarafan won't be doing any more damage today, I sent them back to Meridian." Turel nodded his appreciation. "I followed them this morning, as Raziel suggested." She had calmed somewhat now, but the question still remained. "Why didn't you aid them?"
"You don't know." Turel's question became a statement as soon as it was uttered.
Freya paled visibly. What new treachery awaited?
"Two hundred Sarafan attacked the Sanctuary of the Clans this morning."
Freya looked as if Turel had just told her black was white. She physically took a step back, and after a few moments to digest this, she turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the door.
"Guards!" Her egress was instantly prevented by a group of Turel's Elite, each carrying that tell-tale scimitar. Freya regarded the Vampire Lords over her shoulder, lips set in a straight line and one eyebrow raised.
Turel walked towards her, a supercilious smile on his pallid, drawn features. "I think it would be foolish of us to let such a valuable bargaining chip slip through our fingers."
Freya turned to face him, a matter-of-fact look on her face. Her reply took in every being in the room. "Do you really think Antaris is going to negotiate for my release?"
The truth of the statement was undeniable. One by one the Vampire lords nodded their agreement, and with a gesture from Turel, the guards moved aside.
"This ends tonight." Freya promised sternly. She inclined her head curtly to those assembled before striding from the room.
In the silence that followed her departure, Turel hazarded, "That's the last we'll see of her. If I were Antaris, she'd be dead by dawn."
Raziel lowered the map he was studying, a germinating thought forcing itself from his lips. "The fight she takes to Antaris this day is in our name. She will challenge him on his attack on the Sanctuary of the Clans as well as his persecution of our tithe villages. To all intents and purposes, she fights for our cause now - should we allow her to die for it?"
The response was fifty-fifty. Dumah, Rahab and Melchiah were soundly of the opinion that the fate of one human life was none of their concern. Turel, on the other hand, agreed readily - he had good reason to fight after the attack on Lemar, and Zephon, who was already armed to the teeth and tapping his foot in impatience at the door, had more than just cause. Raziel had his own vested interest. Thus, it was a party of three that departed the council chamber, each clad in his own distinctive Clan armour which covered neck, shoulder and shin while leaving large expanses of chest bare. Red, blue and green cloaks flowed with the steady, rhythmic pace of the Vampire Lords as they strode down the ramp that led to Turel's stables, where they were joined by a number of Turel's Elite, who had their own motives for avenging the Sarafan strike.
A waning moon iced the black leather of the riders with a silvery sheen as thirteen feisty stallions stomped the ground, night vapour issuing from their snorting nostrils.
"To Meridian!"
Author's note.
I understand why so may people have written parodies now. When you get all 6 Lieutenants together in one place, the temptation to make them misbehave and crack jokes is almost irresistible. But I did it! Hoorah!
Also, thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - keep 'em coming. That way I know whatcha like!
"What the hell are you doing?" Freya didn't have the words to express the horror she was feeling.
The General seemed genuinely surprised to see her. "Carrying out our orders."
The woman recoiled, a look of utter repulsion written plainly on her countenance. "Stop them! Now!" Thorin shook his head maliciously. "These are human beings, not vampires - what the hell is wrong with you?"
"They are dissidents, P'ramma. They serve and nurture their Vampire Tithe Lord - they are no better than the foul creatures that suckle at their flesh. They deserve to die."
The depths of the Sarafan persecution sank home. Even the Vampires, ancient and cursed as they were rarely stooped to the murder of their own kind in the name of idealism. In this insane world, it seemed the bloodsucking undead were the lesser of two evils. Freya whirled towards the village, intent on stopping the marauding horde, but the General grabbed her shoulder, causing a line of white fire to shoot from collarbone to bicep. The Melchahim wound was still fresh. Desperate to help the imperilled townsfolk, Freya elbowed Thorin in the nose with her good arm and ran further into the village, leaving him fuming and bloodied in her wake.
The scene was chaos. In one corner, a heavily armoured knight was herding a group of terrified youngsters into a thatched hut, burning brand raised high in one plated fist; in another, a group of five were busy ransacking market stalls - foodstuffs, clothing and livestock were being piled unceremoniously into a steadily growing pyre; then a glance at a nearby hut galvanised Freya into action. Three heavily-built guards were dragging a young woman screaming across the threshold, her torn clothing and the lewd laughter of the men painting an unmistakeable picture of the event about to transpire. Aware that the General had been stealthily creeping up behind her, Freya allowed him to come within striking distance before whipping her sword from its sheath and swinging around to place it neatly beneath his Adam's apple.
"Call them off." The command was feral, gritty, implacable.
Thorin made an airless gulping noise and deliberately shook his head. A sharp dig in his throat that caused red droplets to form on the end of the keen blade convinced him this was not the best way to end the stalemate, and he nodded grudging assent.
"Withdraw!"
One by one the force trouped back to the gateway, disbelief their companion. When all twenty-five were assembled, they received explicit and forceful orders to return immediately to Meridian, where the P'ramma would join them later. At this command, Thorin was sorely tempted to draw his own weapon and put paid to the interfering bitch once and for all, but the thought was almost instantly superseded by the recognition that Antaris would be less than impressed if he himself was not there to witness it. He would bide his time.
As the heavy wooden gates slammed shut behind the departing Sarafan, Freya turned to evaluate for herself the extent of the damage the knights had wrought. Apart from the general disorder and the smattering of small fires around the palisade, it was evident that they hadn't had much time to fulfil their ultimate aim: four or five were seriously wounded, and many more had sustained cuts and bruises in the general commotion that had ensued, but none had died. Seeing that the village healer had her hands full, Freya went to offer what help she could. Their combined efforts to save one profusely bleeding woman were in vain, and as the healer stroked the eyelids shut, Freya felt a hand on her shoulder.
The man in black greeted her and introduced himself as Karl, the village headsman. He was half-way through thanking her for her intervention when he noticed that tears were coursing unchecked down her cheeks. "What ails you, lady?"
Freya made a gesture that indicated the wounded, the overturned marketplace, the flaming cots and the now-still body of the young woman. She shook her head numbly. "They were my men."
"You are the P'ramma?" Freya nodded, dimly aware that the admission could seal her fate. "Our Tithe Lord speaks well of you. He says you are a worthy opponent, unlike that bastard of a Sarafan Lord." Freya humphed dejectedly, walking alongside Karl as he led her to his own abode. "That fool's actions may bring about an all-out war."
"Surely it won't come to that?" Freya asked, her eyes red-rimmed and haunted.
"His attack on Zephon's keep cannot go unanswered."
She stopped in her tracks. At her request, Karl elaborated on Antaris' underhand defeat of the Vampire Lord, the wanton destruction of his tower, and described how he had left him humiliated before his fallen keep until some of his beholden had found him the next day. As the headsman's tale evolved, the hollow feeling in Freya's stomach gradually transmuted into a dogged resolve as anger took the place of worry and fear. "It seems I have been out of the picture a little too long." She opined grimly. She then took a steadying breath and nodded to Karl, new strength evident in her carriage and demeanour. "Antaris will answer to me tonight."
"Beware the Sarafan Lord, P'ramma," warned Karl, "You countermanded his orders on the field of battle. He may not be so pleased to see you."
Freya laughed humourlessly as she ran her eyes over the scene of destruction. Then, unbidden, a hitherto forgotten thought resurfaced. The truth of Raziel's words had been borne out.
"Who is your Tithe Lord?"
Turel's high-ceilinged council chamber had rarely contained such power as tonight; never before had all six of Kain's Lieutenants been gathered together inside its lofty walls. The mood was sombre and electric, the combined dark presence of the beings gathered within dissuading all but the most confident of Turel's aides from even entering the same wing. Flickering amber light issued from sconces set around the vaulted walls, imbuing the air with the gold tinge of Charon's coins, though no heat could prevail over the collective auras of these messengers of death.
A large circular table had been set out, and in the last hour this innocent slab of wood had been assaulted by a deluge of maps and documents, several overfilled goblets of wine, at least six thumping fists and an occasional hapless human. Raziel, as eldest, had endeavoured to take control and keep his brothers' dangerous zealousness in check.
"I cannot find in favour of an all-out strike, Zephon."
His younger brother ground his teeth, eyes wide in outrage. "You would allow their attack on me and mine to go unpunished?" he rose from his seat, his grief surpassing his anger. "Half of my fledges are dead!"
Raziel bowed his head. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "I am truly sorry for your loss, brother." His piercing gaze rose to meet that of his distraught sibling. "But if today's manoeuvre is anything to judge by . . ."
A sudden commotion from the hallway interrupted the vampire's speech. A rapid clanging, accompanied by several thuds and gasps told those within that some enemy was swiftly and steadily approaching the door. The heavily timbered portal swung inwards, and the threshold was breached by a somersaulting Turelim, closely followed by an especially irate-looking P'ramma.
"Where were you?" Freya demanded of Turel, her rage still unabated, only realising a moment later the identities of the persons in whose presence she now stood. She swallowed silently as it became clear how impertinent the question must appear; she, the Sarafan P'ramma had forced an entry into an enemy fortress and now stood alone on undisputedly vampire territory in the company of all Kain's sons. Undaunted, she gritted her teeth and stood her ground. She wanted answers.
Before Turel could reply, a guard hobbled in, left side still spurting blood. "We could not stop her, my lord, she insisted on . . ."
"Go, fledgeling," interjected Raziel, "We will deal with this."
Freya rounded on him instantly. "You! With all your talk of Vampire Lords protecting those beholden to them. A pack of lies!"
Raziel narrowed his eyes, thunder on his brow. He couldn't remember the last time a mortal had called him a liar. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his displeasure in check. "What do you mean?"
"Lemar!" She said in exasperation.
Turel shot a glance at the soldier at the door, who was already edging towards the exit, a look of concern on his face. "Go, see that all is well with your family."
"The Sarafan won't be doing any more damage today, I sent them back to Meridian." Turel nodded his appreciation. "I followed them this morning, as Raziel suggested." She had calmed somewhat now, but the question still remained. "Why didn't you aid them?"
"You don't know." Turel's question became a statement as soon as it was uttered.
Freya paled visibly. What new treachery awaited?
"Two hundred Sarafan attacked the Sanctuary of the Clans this morning."
Freya looked as if Turel had just told her black was white. She physically took a step back, and after a few moments to digest this, she turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the door.
"Guards!" Her egress was instantly prevented by a group of Turel's Elite, each carrying that tell-tale scimitar. Freya regarded the Vampire Lords over her shoulder, lips set in a straight line and one eyebrow raised.
Turel walked towards her, a supercilious smile on his pallid, drawn features. "I think it would be foolish of us to let such a valuable bargaining chip slip through our fingers."
Freya turned to face him, a matter-of-fact look on her face. Her reply took in every being in the room. "Do you really think Antaris is going to negotiate for my release?"
The truth of the statement was undeniable. One by one the Vampire lords nodded their agreement, and with a gesture from Turel, the guards moved aside.
"This ends tonight." Freya promised sternly. She inclined her head curtly to those assembled before striding from the room.
In the silence that followed her departure, Turel hazarded, "That's the last we'll see of her. If I were Antaris, she'd be dead by dawn."
Raziel lowered the map he was studying, a germinating thought forcing itself from his lips. "The fight she takes to Antaris this day is in our name. She will challenge him on his attack on the Sanctuary of the Clans as well as his persecution of our tithe villages. To all intents and purposes, she fights for our cause now - should we allow her to die for it?"
The response was fifty-fifty. Dumah, Rahab and Melchiah were soundly of the opinion that the fate of one human life was none of their concern. Turel, on the other hand, agreed readily - he had good reason to fight after the attack on Lemar, and Zephon, who was already armed to the teeth and tapping his foot in impatience at the door, had more than just cause. Raziel had his own vested interest. Thus, it was a party of three that departed the council chamber, each clad in his own distinctive Clan armour which covered neck, shoulder and shin while leaving large expanses of chest bare. Red, blue and green cloaks flowed with the steady, rhythmic pace of the Vampire Lords as they strode down the ramp that led to Turel's stables, where they were joined by a number of Turel's Elite, who had their own motives for avenging the Sarafan strike.
A waning moon iced the black leather of the riders with a silvery sheen as thirteen feisty stallions stomped the ground, night vapour issuing from their snorting nostrils.
"To Meridian!"
Author's note.
I understand why so may people have written parodies now. When you get all 6 Lieutenants together in one place, the temptation to make them misbehave and crack jokes is almost irresistible. But I did it! Hoorah!
Also, thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far - keep 'em coming. That way I know whatcha like!
