Thundering air. Churning water. Boiling blood. The final, desperate struggle of a drowning man.

A sky the colour of tarnished pewter leached inch by inch into the creature's consciousness. Something was amiss. Vertical - the sky was vertical! Half-formed claws scrabbled in panic at the sun-warmed rock- face, like those of an insect about to be tipped unwanted from a garden stone. Understanding bloomed: he was lying on his side. With the arrival of full consciousness, the sensations of boiling blood and churning water receded to the status of a fevered dream. The air, however, was still filled with the sound of thunder. A determined effort saw the creature able to raise his head, long black locks momentarily obscuring his vision, and survey his surroundings. With a heavy heart, he crawled the remaining thirty feet to where the ground cut off sharply, the roar of the water growing stronger with every second.

The Abyss.

Here the tragedy had transpired. Here the unspeakable had happened. Here he had lost his Lord. As Isca looked down into the whirling circle of spume that marked the mouth of the vortex, his eyes were drawn inexorably to its centre, and by and by he was seized by an insane desire to dive into the inviting chasm. Shaking his head as though to clear it, Isca fought against the growing sense of vertigo that assailed him, and dragged his body away from the edge of the precipice. The rest of the scene was deserted, the Lieutenants and their Master having long departed. Isca also noted with some alarm that there was no sign of Freya. He hoped fervently - for her sake - that she had been cast into the vortex after Raziel. Better that than the fate she could expect at the hands of Kain.
The fledgeling rose and dusted himself off, a keen sense of loss pervading his every thought. What would become of the Razielim without their leader? The Lieutenants were too prideful to accept the necessity of a second-in- command, and although there were high-ranking officers among the Elite, Isca doubted any one of them was up to the task ahead. That aside, he accepted his own responsibility - he must return to his Clan as the bearer of these woeful tidings. As his steps took him to the far end of the plateau, he glimpsed the banner that marked the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Clans, the symbol and its inherent meaning causing the fledgeling to stop dead in his tracks. What madness was this? The Clans were supposedly united in their quest for dominance over the humans - why then would brother turn against brother? A snarl curled the corner of the vampire's upper lip as the true horror of the deed he had witnessed became clear. One thing was for certain: from this day forward, no Turelim or Dumahim cousin would ever find quarter at his hand.

Isca's disconsolate stride brought him at length to the gates of his late master's domain. Heart filling with dread, he passed into the shadows beneath the empty portals, passing the word to those he saw to gather for a meeting of the entire Clan. The news did not go down well. As Isca had feared, there were few among the Razielim Elite who would even consider assuming the role, such had been the awe and respect inspired by their former Lord. The fledglings were even less helpful. The room was in danger of sinking into yet another uproar of uncertainty and turmoil when an icy, penetrating voice cut through the proceedings, silencing all.

"Is this truly the legacy my late brother leaves me? A battalion of overgrown fledgelings and a handful of mis-reared pups?"

The Razielim turned as one entity to locate the source of the mocking words. Turel stood beneath the Clan banner that adorned the main entrance to the hall, flanked on either side by a large number of his Elite. Still more were ranged behind him, lines of peaked helmets and razor-tipped staves snaking into the far distance. This was no courtesy call. Raziel's Elite cast uncertain glances at one another, unsure as to who should step forward to address the Vampire Lieutenant. After a moment's delighted viewing of this scene of blatant indecision, Turel uttered a harsh, scornful laugh.

"As I thought. Not one of you has the backbone to take charge."

Isca looked frantically from one Elite guard to the next. Would no-one challenge him?

"So be it. I claim this territory and all its vassals - which formerly belonged to my dear departed brother - in the name of the Clan Turelim." The vampire strode forward with a flourish, fixing the crowd with his lurid stare. "Henceforth you will accept me as your Lord. Any of you who do not accede to this new order will be summarily executed as traitors and may follow your beloved master into the Lake of the Dead. Any questions?"

Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Isca blurted out, "I have one."

That dratted fledge. Turel should have convinced Kain to throw him in after Raziel. "Proceed."

"Are you prepared to massacre the entire Clan to achieve your end?"

Turel considered this. He would prefer not to have to repopulate the entirety of his brother's vast domain, and the acquisition of new troops had been half the reason for his invasion; but the fledge was obviously bluffing. "Of course," he said with a magnanimous grin.

"Very well," responded Isca, looking around him for support. "It comes to this. There is not one of us who would not gladly give up his immortal soul before he'd see you take control of these lands." Knowing that his next comment might well be his last, Isca steeled himself and said, "You're not worthy, Turel." The fledgling was aware that he spoke out of place, and was half expecting his captain, who was standing behind him, to cuff him on the ear.

Turel's smile of triumph drained from his face. No fledge had ever insulted him before, let alone in front of such a gathering. His claws clenched into tight fists, thunder rumbled in his throat and his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl that revealed the overgrown canines in their full vicious beauty. The time for pleasantries was over.

"Attack! Take them all! Leave none standing!"

As the Turelim stampeded into the hall, the Razielim, heartened by the words the fledge had voiced - not to mention the insult - met the charge of their cousins with the wild, selfless fury of the bereft. Despite the fact that the majority of them were unarmed, they fought their adversaries with the lances of wrath, the spears of hate. Turel, incensed by the youngster's brazen words, made a deliberate and violent attempt to cut a path through the ranks of his brother's men to the source of his humiliation, injuring some of his own troops in the process. Shortly, he came up against a solid wall of Elite guards. Far from discouraged, the Lieutenant drew his blade with unnerving speed and hacked with mindless mania at the bare-chested vampires that faced him, his every stroke punctuated by a sadistic cry of mingled frustration and euphoria.

Rare were the occasions when Clan turned against Clan, and this day's bloodletting was testament to the scarcity of such events; the scene was red chaos. Centuries-old killing machines were set loose upon one another with deep-rooted motives driving their every slash, thrust and bite. Opportunity was taken wherever it arose to tear at an enemy's throat, thereby leeching the strength with which age had imbued the blood. Driven by latent loyalty, the Razielim fought like cornered wolves, their every move shearing Turelim flesh, bare hands sufficing - and satisfying - in place of weapons, and it was not long before the Vampire Lieutenant perceived that this was one battle he was not going to win.

A full third of Turel's company had fallen before their obsessed leader called a retreat, by which time the ground, along with much of the walls and windows, was literally drenched in gore. As the Lieutenant sidled - himself injured - towards the exit, he cast a final hateful glance at the upstarts who had dared oppose his will, ranged in bloodied, growling ranks above the remains of his men. His gaze connected with that of Isca, the rebellious fledge who had affronted him, and he addressed him with a deadly, ominous whisper.

"You will have cause to rue this day, fledgling." And with a final baleful glare at his brother's descendants, Turel departed.

Over the course of the next few months, the Razielim Clan became something of a black sheep, ostracised from the rest of vampiredom for their refusal to join with Turel. Isca, still numb from the loss of his mentor, took to roaming the Turelim and Dumahim borders alone, looking for trouble. It was on one of these ill-advised night hikes that his ordeal began. His path this evening had taken him past a small sanctuary that consisted of a cave set in a canyon wall in the Razielim borderlands. His keen senses told him that a lone Dumahim was inside, and so after a brief search of a nearby village, he returned to the cave and dumped a squirming burden on the floor before the retreat. As if on cue, the human emitted a frightened squeal, tantalising the creature inside with thoughts of easy prey. Moments later, the vampire emerged, hungry eyes locked on the terror-stricken girl. With dispassionate intent, Isca stepped from the shadows and without so much as a glance at his enemy's face, took off the creature's head with a single backhand slash. Ignoring the uncomprehending cries of the young woman, he continued on his way, his eyes lifeless and devoid of emotion.

A blood moon sank slowly towards the horizon, her usually bright glow dulled by the approaching sunrise. The ruddy light turned the slippery mud to the semblance of pureed meat as Isca pressed onward, his cloven feet leading him he knew not where. Presently he became aware of the approach of a large group of men at arms. Not caring now whether they were Sarafan or Vampire, the fledgling drew his weapon and stood, head down in the darkened clearing, awaiting his fate. Snide comments drifted to his ears. He waited until the group had him surrounded before raising his eyes to meet those of the Elite who led them. The look on the young vampire's face gave his elder cause for concern, and with good reason. As the fledgling recognised the Clan armour of his adversaries, he was overcome with a frenzy of bloodlust and fell into a berserk rage. His forceful attack felled several of their number before they managed to restrain him; even then it took three of their Elite to keep him under control. Their taunting mood dispersed, the Turelim accompanied the still-struggling Razielim back to their Clanlands in sullen silence. Their Lord had ordered him taken alive.

Turel slumped brooding in a massive throne of lapis lazuli, the devastating wound he had sustained in the recent battle but lately healed. His head was bowed almost onto his chest, face steeped in sombre shadow. As the sounds of the approaching struggle reached his ears, his eyes flicked up and locked with burning intensity on the bane of his defeat. A slow smile curved his dark lips, while his eyes remained cold, heartless, vengeful. Isca met his gaze with staunch indifference. Turel would get no satisfaction from him.

"Ahh . . .the upstart." The voice was velvet-soft, deceptive.

Isca responded through gritted teeth. "The betrayer."

"Impudent boy." Turel's smirk contradicted his tone. "Renounce your master and swear allegiance to me and I'll think about sparing your life."
Isca laughed openly. "You don't deserve my allegiance."

Turel rose from his throne and descended the steps, stalking towards the boy with something far worse than death in his eyes. "Your attachment to Raziel's memory is touching, fledge - but he is gone." He paused before Isca, face lit by an unpleasant, almost eager expression. "Last chance."

Isca grinned insolently at the Vampire Lieutenant and firmly shook his head.

"Good," replied the Lieutenant briskly, gesturing to the dungeon guards. "I was hoping you wouldn't disappoint me."

Turel's brutality was boundless.

*
Author's notes.

Thanks soooooooo much for the reviews (there just aren't enough 'o's in the world to express my gratitude)! It's great to know some of you guys out there like my babble.

Deionarra: Many thanks for the heads-up - can't have my bus looking like that. *Wanders outside with hosepipe, sponge and stick-on Garfield*