The cloying stench of spilled entrails rose in steaming vaporous clouds from the mangled bodies of the fallen. Here and there a pale human hand rose ghost-like from the glistening remains, fingers fixed in a parody of their slayers' in the inevitable rictus of death. The victors of this encounter paced shin-deep in the crimson gore, powerful claws freeing injured comrades from the tepid organic mire. As the pack made their way towards the welcoming night, content with the securing of their vaunted quarry, a scarlet-daubed figure approached the last remaining warm-blooded creature in the room.

Freya had been watching with incredulous relief as the undead, patently uninterested in her fate, prepared to exit the keep. Had she but known it, her actions at Lemar had ensured her eternal safety among the Turelim. However, the breath she exhaled with her sigh of relief remained exhaled as she became aware of the proximity of one last vampire.

Raziel.

Having seen the casual, almost distracted ease with which the immortal had dispatched the cream of the Sarafan crop, Freya had the distinct impression that the length of steel she now held in her hand might as well be a toothpick. Even so, she met his gaze with resolute defiance. If this was to be her last moment, she would not spend it on her knees praying for mercy as had the craven Antaris.

Raziel regarded her contemplatively from beneath a furrowed brow. "You upheld your part of the bargain."

His opening statement was unexpected, to say the least. Freya's eyes took in the steaming remains that had until recently been twenty-nine Sarafan warriors - their agreement had entailed nothing of the sort. However, in retrospect, she had to admit that his request for her to follow Antaris' Special Forces had indeed been honoured.

"I did . . ."

Another step brought him so close that she could see the individual rivulets of garnet liquid that meandered across his blue-veined marble flesh. Freya turned her head and gritted her teeth involuntarily. The noxious odour of rapidly congealing body fluids tugged at stomach and throat. Hope evaporated. All that remained was a prayer that it would be swift, and that he wouldn't toy with her as he had Antaris.

"You'll be wanting your sword back."

The woman was staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. On one hand, he could hardly blame her: he doubted that the Vampire reputation for honesty was widely advertised among the Sarafan. On the other, she'd trusted him enough on Relstadt Day to come unarmed to meet him on Vampire soil. He would leave the decision with her. With a brief nod, he turned and strode toward the window. A backwards glance revealed that she wasn't following, and instead stood staring into space, completely at a loss.

"P'ramma." The tone was sharp, demanding and not to be ignored. Freya's head shot up. "If the antipathy displayed by these Sarafan is anything to judge by, I would not advise waiting for the next thirty to break down that door." A fleeting look at the portal in question showed that it was still heavily barred, but had in the last few minutes begun to resound with a slow steady pounding that suggested the use of an impromptu battering ram. "Whether you accompany us or not, staying here is no longer an option."

With an almost canine shake, Freya roused herself. The events of the previous twenty-four hours had pushed all thoughts of retrieving the katana to the back of her mind, and now the very notion that it might yet be within her grasp galvanised her. As she neared the window from which the Turelim were even now making their exit, she caught sight of a familiar- looking tome on the trestle table near the fire. The Gaminged. Bound in black leather and embossed with a bisected circular silver symbol, the book was all that remained of the only Sarafan for whom she would gladly have given her life, even now. Poor Cornelius. Freya tucked the volume under one arm as she had seen the old man do on many an occasion, and joined the creatures of the night in their departure.

A quick stop at the stables secured her a robust mount that showed little fear of the thirteen vicious predators with whom it now consorted. Before long, it became clear that a large portion of the city guard was now on the alert, and that their departure from the town was likely to be hindered by the night watch as well as some of the bolder citizens. Keeping together in a tight group, the party moved as a single entity towards the town wall, any stray Sarafan that crossed their path cut down in swift, merciless silence before their location could be divulged. From Freya's position in the rear-middle, she could see not only the fall of each guard, for whom she now held a burning contempt, but also Antaris' bulky form, slumped unconscious over the back of a preceding Turelim stallion.

At length, the gateway loomed ahead, its solid metal doors slick from the night drizzle. Before them, ranged in ragged ranks waited a bedraggled, recently awoken group of knights and townsfolk. Raziel and Turel exchanged a word of accord. At their master's edict, the Turelim Elite took to emitting a high keening noise that set teeth on edge and sent a paralysing numbness through a person's very core. This, accompanied by a rush of speed on thundering hooves as they sped towards the rapidly dispersing crowd at the gate, contrived to hide the fact that the terrifying horde barely numbered more than ten.

As her mount plummeted blindly through the pitch black night, Freya held on for dear life and prayed to whatever Gods might be listening that the beast she rode was taking some kind of mental instruction from the demon steeds that surrounded them. Huge animals they were, oil-slick black from mane to tail and built like mutant shirehorses. It made little difference whether she kept her eyes open or closed; except that when closed, the red pin points of light that marked the location of the snorting beasts' eyes were no longer visible. Despite the that unnerving observation, she kept them open.

In time, they approached a clearing that she recognised. A building with a dimly discernable stone adornment on its roof stood in a field near to a bend in the river. The Sun Temple. The three Vampire Lords drew together in discussion. From what Freya could make out of their conversation, here their ways would part until the next day when they would take Antaris to Kain so that the Master Vampire might decide his fate. In a matter of moments, Zephon had departed to the west, a lone figure in the friendless dark. As Turel's band gathered together for their departure, their Lord approached Freya, reining in his mount a few feet from hers.

"You have earned the gratitude of my Clan," he began, his attitude imperious but earnest. "Not to mention the people of Lemar." Freya smiled her understanding. Turel glanced across at Raziel before adding, by way of farewell, "Good luck, P'ramma." At a command from their leader, the Turelim receded into the distance, Antaris' insensible form bouncing wildly on the rearguard horse's rump.

"This way." Raziel's clear baritone called her attention to the path ahead and she urged her mount to follow, wondering where that path might lead. As they rode along, the question gathered pertinence: assuming the vampire did not intend to kill her - which seemed likely since for the moment her skin was still intact - what would she do once her sword was returned? She could hardly go back to Meridian, not that this particular option held any attraction for her; on the other hand, neither was she over enamoured with the idea of joining the ranks of the undead. Freya had just come to the conclusion that her future prospects on this world were limited to mercenary or barkeep when the narrow canyon they had been traversing opened to reveal Raziel's stronghold.

Massive triple gates dwarfed an imposing staircase of chiselled malachite, flanked on either side by banners bearing the Razielim Clan symbol, lifeless now in the early morning stillness. Here and there along turrets and walkways, ravens perched in roosting groups, awaiting with dreamy indolence the fast-approaching dawn. As Isca detached himself from the unit of men who stood awaiting their Lord's return, Freya was struck anew with an undeniable sense of déjà vu. Unable to decipher the reason for the sensation, she pushed the thought aside and followed the two as they entered the yawning maw of an entryway, listening distractedly as the fledge updated his master on the events of the day. The vampires' path led along broad, torchlit corridors until they eventually came to a halt at the bottom of a flight of wide steps. The fledgeling nodded understanding of his latest order and hurried off, eager to do his Lord's bidding.

Raziel caught Freya's eye, his attention now centred on the possibility that his theory about the sword might yet be proven correct. The metal- barred door at the head of the stairway opened silently at his approach, and with a sweeping gesture, he indicated that she should precede him. A broad chamber led onto yet another flight of stairs and opened onto a large room, ending at a raised dais which sported a flaming bier and two doors. It was to this dais that they marched in anticipatory silence.

As Raziel lifted the sword from its niche on the back wall, he felt the weapon's energy lick at his fingers once again. He was aware that the blade was imbued with some kind of eldritch power which responded slightly to his own touch. He was also fairly confident that this effect would reach spectacular proportions when the arm was returned to its rightful owner. With this in mind, he extended the weapon towards Freya, hilt and point resting lightly on the tips of his claws.

Freya approached hesitantly, hardly daring to breathe. She cast frequent glances at the vampire's face, searching constantly for signs of perfidy, and finding only frank curiosity. Her right hand curled around the sculpted hilt while the left took a gentle grip on the scabbard. She lifted it experimentally and felt a rush of delight as the blade returned to her possession. Slowly, savouring each second, she drew the blade from the sheath for the first time in many months, admiring the edge (which she suspected had been recently sharpened) and the mirrored sheen, reflecting jet and amber from its surroundings.

Raziel was disappointed. Where were the fireworks?

Its name returned to her then in a glorious burst of Epiphanous revelation, and as she whispered, "Dark Angel," in affectionate greeting, her memories came back; not filtered slowly as water through limestone, but with all the suddenness and force of a hydraulic press. As the old substrata of memories began to reassert themselves over the recent superstrate, contradictory thoughts clashed together as years of recollections vied for supremacy.

Memories of herself as a young girl, riding a bicycle down a steep hill with legs akimbo clashed head-on with images of a death-shrouded battlefield and a desperate fight for survival. Next, every frame of every film she'd ever seen came crashing upwards in a multi-coloured procession of flashing images; every conversation she'd had with everyone she'd even known, on topics ranging from existentialism to sliced bread hurtled through her brain with the speed of an express train; every lyric of every song she'd ever heard emptied into her head, shortly followed by a cacophonous cavalcade of music as the songs themselves poured back into her consciousness. The noise was deafening. One thought crystallised with uncanny clarity before her overloaded mind shut itself down, the very same idea that had almost overwhelmed her when she'd clasped hands with Raziel on Relstadt night in the Vampire sanctuary.

'I know you.'

Freya keeled over backwards, stiff as a poker, katana clasped two-handed across her chest in a white-knuckled 'wild horses couldn't drag this from me' grip.

The vampire arched an eyebrow.
Notes:

Total Destruction: You're back! *HUG*