Isca was beginning to wish he'd heeded Raziel's lesson about keeping his
big mouth shut: the Turelim's idea of torture was unique and unremitting.
Far worse than any transitory physical pain was the mental torment his
captor insisted on heaping upon Isca's already heavily burdened conscience.
He plagued the troubled youngster at every opportunity with vivid
retellings of his master's execution, and musings on how different things
might have been had the boy arrived mere seconds sooner. Hour after hour
of interminable suffering wrought havoc on the fledgling's soul, and Isca
also discovered to his chagrin that there were some physical wounds from
which not even Vampire flesh could escape unscathed. At long last, his
anguished mind hovering an inch from madness, it became apparent that a
brief respite had arisen in his ordeal. Although in the pitch black it was
impossible to tell day from night by any difference in light, the young
vampire perceived that a great deal of time had passed since his tormentors
had last undertaken their regular visit. Weak from months of imprisonment
and half mad from the Thirst, Isca managed by sheer tenacity to tear his
way free from Turel's dungeon. Not a little perturbed by the apparent lack
of Turelim throughout the lower levels, Isca made his way to the surface,
random rodents restoring a small measure of his strength and presence of
mind.
Casting one last vengeful glance at Turel's strangely deserted fortress, the vampire turned his dogged footsteps in the direction of his own Clanlands.
His arrival was met with surprise and elation from his comrades, most of whom thought him long destroyed. Isca soon found out the reason for Turel's absence: he had taken his entire militia and instigated an all-out war with mankind. He was currently cutting a swathe through the last remaining Sarafan strongholds in the South. The Razielim, still leaderless, were struck by the transformation the Turelim had inadvertently brought about in the boy. Fired in the furnace of Raziel's execution and forged in Turel's chamber of pain, Isca had emerged a changed being, stronger for the survival of his unjust trial. All now looked to him for direction. He insisted that his only desire was for the survival of the Clan, and revenge on Turel - not only for Raziel's death but now also for his own castigation. They followed him nonetheless.
The years, fleeting instants in the lifespan of a vampire, rolled swiftly on, and still the Clans waged war against the ever-decreasing Sarafan forces. Eventually, the cull brought its own inevitable consequences. With few humans left from whom to draw sustenance, Vampire existence became a game of death as the Clans began to prey upon one other. The stagnation of the blood pool led to a kind of Vampiric inbreeding, a new plague from which the Clans, having all but eradicated their only food source, could not possibly hope to recover. The Turelim, first to succumb to the lure of the blood of their own kind, were hence the first Clan to descend into madness. Rattled by this new development, the Razielim first thought to seek out Kain in the hopes that the immortal might hold the answer to their dilemma. Isca returned from the Sanctuary disconsolate; the Vampire Master had not been seen in years. With a half-formed thought that ending Turel's reign might stem the plague, Isca gathered together a trusted group of his Elite and departed for the Turelim stronghold.
The group was stunned by the blood-crazed, demented creatures they encountered from the moment they entered the Lieutenant's decaying domain, thinly-disguised disgust marking the disposal of their once-proud cousins. After a number of brief skirmishes, they reached Turel's throne room, where the creature himself sat in apparent nonchalance on his shimmering blue throne. Isca fought down a wave of nausea as he came once more into the presence of his former tormentor. Swallowing hard, he addressed his nemesis.
"Stand forth, miscreant, and prepare to meet your end."
The creature on the throne did not move, nor did he show any signs that he had heard the challenge. Forcing down another wave of revulsion, Isca cautiously approached the dais. As he drew nearer, the vampire perceived that something was amiss with the seated figure; it seemed somewhat . . . deflated, for want of a better word.
One of the Razielim voiced a nervous laugh. "We are too late, Isca. The fiend has beaten us to it."
With half an ear on his companion's words, Isca inched closer to the motionless figure, realising at last what was wrong. It was an empty shell. No light glimmered in the hollow eye sockets, no flesh filled the lifeless sack as it lay slumped in its opulent tomb: it was as if the Vampire had shed its skin.
"That I have," The voice emanated from the deep shadows behind the throne. Isca backed off hurriedly. The voice was like a shroud scraping over grave dirt. Gathering his wits, the vampire gave the order to fire. Twenty crossbowmen fired in the direction of the sound, a hiss of inarticulate hatred proving that at least some of the arrows had found purchase. The ground groaned with strain as something massive began to drag its amorphous bulk from the shadows to the door at the left of the chamber.
"After him!"
The initial clatter of cloven feet was cut short as the Vampire Lieutenant passed beneath the shaft of sickly light that illumined this portion of the chamber. Each man recoiled as he saw his own nightmare vision; a beast that scuttled and slithered, a creature pulsing with putrescent foulness, a half-formed cross-breed of demon and the thing that should not be. Even as Isca watched paralysed, it slowly dawned on him that the metamorphosis was not complete. Turel was still changing. In this weakened state, they had their best - and probably only - chance at ending his wretched existence once and for all. With the disappearance of the foul being's rear end, the paralysis ended, and with a heartening shout to his company, Isca motioned them to follow him through the massive portal ahead. As the Razielim paused to look in wonder at the intricate moving mechanisms that adorned and illuminated the room (and ponder the distinct lack of a bulbous Vampire Lieutenant), Isca belatedly remembered the significance of the infinity symbol above the door. . .
*
Recently stoked embers glowed like sun-kissed rubies, replacing the night chill with a pleasant warmth. Above them, twisted, stretched and skinless, a small mammal roasted slowly on a makeshift spit, dropping occasional incendiary globs of fat into the flames below. Freya watched the animal turn in ravenous anticipation, secretly pleased that none of her companions would want a share. Isca had finished recounting his story, and was now awaiting her response from where he lounged at ease, to all appearances completely impervious to the lumpy ground.
Dragging her attention away from the mouth-watering sight on the spit, Freya considered the latest part of Isca's story. "You followed Turel here. . ." Isca nodded. That explained why Raziel had not yet caught up to his brother - at least not the Vampire incarnation. "Any idea where he might be hiding?"
Isca shook his head regretfully. "We've been unable to pick up the scent - despite his going through the Chronoplast moments before us."
Freya considered this. "Maybe Raziel caught up with him."
The low hum of conversation that had arisen about the campfire ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a hushed silence. Isca regarded her sternly but not without pity: it was the kind of memory one would try to suppress. "Do you not remember?"
Freya guessed his meaning. "You don't know . . ." the vampire tilted his head questioningly. "He was resurrected." A murmur that spoke at once of excitement, disbelief and long-lost hope circulated amongst the assembled. "Although he is not quite as you knew him." Freya added hastily.
Quickly rising to his feet, Isca held out a claw towards her, his manner abrupt. "Let's take a walk."
Freya cast a glance about at the rest of the group who were regarding her in fervent anticipation. She twitched her eyebrows at him in an unspoken question.
Annoyed at her lack of understanding, Isca knelt beside her, his manner urgent. "If you are wrong about this . . ."
It became immediately apparent to Freya that he was endeavouring to keep his men from false optimism, so she nodded agreement and rose quickly to accompany him into the depths of the forest. Even here it was not completely dark, as the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy of leaves was bright enough to trace a delicate silver path before their wandering feet.
The vampire listened as she outlined Raziel's current condition, skimming over details and sticking to a vague description of a blue-skinned demon with tattered wings. Isca's eyes widened in recognition of the verbal portrait she painted.
"We saw him at the Pillars just a few days ago." His voiced was hushed with awe. "He sensed he was being watched and so we retreated and left him alone. We had no quarrel with him - didn't even know what he was . . ." His voice trailed off.
Isca was silent for a long while, her words evidently having given him pause for thought. She cast a sidelong glance at his pensive profile. While it was true that vampires never truly aged, the creature striding at her side was much changed from the excitable fledgling she'd encountered but a few months ago. Although his face would ever be that of a youth not much younger than she, the experiences of what for him had constituted nearly fifty years were carved ineradicably into his countenance. The features, so close to human when they'd last met, had by degrees taken on the inherent traits of his vampire heritage; the cheekbones more pronounced, the lips darker, the skin paler, and the eyes a touch closer to that elusive shade of gold. Gone was the aspect of youthful exuberance, and in its place rested a seasoned resolve, a formidable potency which held its own dark magnetism.
Turning her mind to the matters at hand with not a little effort, Freya now sought to find out where exactly in Nosgoth's complicated time-stream they had landed. "Does Janos Audron yet live in this time?"
"I believe so. Why?"
Indecision delayed her response. She had seen what happened when Kain messed with the timeline and didn't relish adding any more havoc to Nosgoth's already uncertain future. On the other hand, her omission of action last time around hadn't gone too well either. She decided to tell Isca what she knew, at the same time swearing him to secrecy. Wisely, she omitted any mention of the game, instead leaving the vampire to draw his own inference about Earth having mythology pertaining to Nosgoth.
"You're from another world? That explains a lot." Freya feigned offence at his offhand remark, softened as it was by his roguish grin.
Eventually, Isca broke the companionable silence with a question Freya had been praying he wouldn't ask. "If you knew what would happen, why didn't you tell Raziel?"
The woman looked downcast. "I had no idea the transformation would be so quick - I thought there's be some warning."
Isca nodded understanding. "There usually is. The metamorphic process is normally a matter of days, not hours. Turel forced it." Freya's eyes widened. This was new. "It was one of the snippets of information he imparted to me. . ." Isca's eyes darkened as the harrowing memories returned, and his lips closed firmly, shutting out the memory.
Sensing the vampire's reluctance to elaborate on that particular point, Freya changed the subject. "Isca, I'm dying to know - what did happen to Antaris?"
The very thought brought an irreverent smile to the vampire's chiselled features. His mood lightened as he recounted the story in its full gory details, revelling in the disgusted faces his companion was making. At long length, his story done and dawn fast approaching, they turned their steps reluctantly in the direction of the camp, only to find to Freya's dismay that her dinner had been cremated.
Casting one last vengeful glance at Turel's strangely deserted fortress, the vampire turned his dogged footsteps in the direction of his own Clanlands.
His arrival was met with surprise and elation from his comrades, most of whom thought him long destroyed. Isca soon found out the reason for Turel's absence: he had taken his entire militia and instigated an all-out war with mankind. He was currently cutting a swathe through the last remaining Sarafan strongholds in the South. The Razielim, still leaderless, were struck by the transformation the Turelim had inadvertently brought about in the boy. Fired in the furnace of Raziel's execution and forged in Turel's chamber of pain, Isca had emerged a changed being, stronger for the survival of his unjust trial. All now looked to him for direction. He insisted that his only desire was for the survival of the Clan, and revenge on Turel - not only for Raziel's death but now also for his own castigation. They followed him nonetheless.
The years, fleeting instants in the lifespan of a vampire, rolled swiftly on, and still the Clans waged war against the ever-decreasing Sarafan forces. Eventually, the cull brought its own inevitable consequences. With few humans left from whom to draw sustenance, Vampire existence became a game of death as the Clans began to prey upon one other. The stagnation of the blood pool led to a kind of Vampiric inbreeding, a new plague from which the Clans, having all but eradicated their only food source, could not possibly hope to recover. The Turelim, first to succumb to the lure of the blood of their own kind, were hence the first Clan to descend into madness. Rattled by this new development, the Razielim first thought to seek out Kain in the hopes that the immortal might hold the answer to their dilemma. Isca returned from the Sanctuary disconsolate; the Vampire Master had not been seen in years. With a half-formed thought that ending Turel's reign might stem the plague, Isca gathered together a trusted group of his Elite and departed for the Turelim stronghold.
The group was stunned by the blood-crazed, demented creatures they encountered from the moment they entered the Lieutenant's decaying domain, thinly-disguised disgust marking the disposal of their once-proud cousins. After a number of brief skirmishes, they reached Turel's throne room, where the creature himself sat in apparent nonchalance on his shimmering blue throne. Isca fought down a wave of nausea as he came once more into the presence of his former tormentor. Swallowing hard, he addressed his nemesis.
"Stand forth, miscreant, and prepare to meet your end."
The creature on the throne did not move, nor did he show any signs that he had heard the challenge. Forcing down another wave of revulsion, Isca cautiously approached the dais. As he drew nearer, the vampire perceived that something was amiss with the seated figure; it seemed somewhat . . . deflated, for want of a better word.
One of the Razielim voiced a nervous laugh. "We are too late, Isca. The fiend has beaten us to it."
With half an ear on his companion's words, Isca inched closer to the motionless figure, realising at last what was wrong. It was an empty shell. No light glimmered in the hollow eye sockets, no flesh filled the lifeless sack as it lay slumped in its opulent tomb: it was as if the Vampire had shed its skin.
"That I have," The voice emanated from the deep shadows behind the throne. Isca backed off hurriedly. The voice was like a shroud scraping over grave dirt. Gathering his wits, the vampire gave the order to fire. Twenty crossbowmen fired in the direction of the sound, a hiss of inarticulate hatred proving that at least some of the arrows had found purchase. The ground groaned with strain as something massive began to drag its amorphous bulk from the shadows to the door at the left of the chamber.
"After him!"
The initial clatter of cloven feet was cut short as the Vampire Lieutenant passed beneath the shaft of sickly light that illumined this portion of the chamber. Each man recoiled as he saw his own nightmare vision; a beast that scuttled and slithered, a creature pulsing with putrescent foulness, a half-formed cross-breed of demon and the thing that should not be. Even as Isca watched paralysed, it slowly dawned on him that the metamorphosis was not complete. Turel was still changing. In this weakened state, they had their best - and probably only - chance at ending his wretched existence once and for all. With the disappearance of the foul being's rear end, the paralysis ended, and with a heartening shout to his company, Isca motioned them to follow him through the massive portal ahead. As the Razielim paused to look in wonder at the intricate moving mechanisms that adorned and illuminated the room (and ponder the distinct lack of a bulbous Vampire Lieutenant), Isca belatedly remembered the significance of the infinity symbol above the door. . .
*
Recently stoked embers glowed like sun-kissed rubies, replacing the night chill with a pleasant warmth. Above them, twisted, stretched and skinless, a small mammal roasted slowly on a makeshift spit, dropping occasional incendiary globs of fat into the flames below. Freya watched the animal turn in ravenous anticipation, secretly pleased that none of her companions would want a share. Isca had finished recounting his story, and was now awaiting her response from where he lounged at ease, to all appearances completely impervious to the lumpy ground.
Dragging her attention away from the mouth-watering sight on the spit, Freya considered the latest part of Isca's story. "You followed Turel here. . ." Isca nodded. That explained why Raziel had not yet caught up to his brother - at least not the Vampire incarnation. "Any idea where he might be hiding?"
Isca shook his head regretfully. "We've been unable to pick up the scent - despite his going through the Chronoplast moments before us."
Freya considered this. "Maybe Raziel caught up with him."
The low hum of conversation that had arisen about the campfire ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a hushed silence. Isca regarded her sternly but not without pity: it was the kind of memory one would try to suppress. "Do you not remember?"
Freya guessed his meaning. "You don't know . . ." the vampire tilted his head questioningly. "He was resurrected." A murmur that spoke at once of excitement, disbelief and long-lost hope circulated amongst the assembled. "Although he is not quite as you knew him." Freya added hastily.
Quickly rising to his feet, Isca held out a claw towards her, his manner abrupt. "Let's take a walk."
Freya cast a glance about at the rest of the group who were regarding her in fervent anticipation. She twitched her eyebrows at him in an unspoken question.
Annoyed at her lack of understanding, Isca knelt beside her, his manner urgent. "If you are wrong about this . . ."
It became immediately apparent to Freya that he was endeavouring to keep his men from false optimism, so she nodded agreement and rose quickly to accompany him into the depths of the forest. Even here it was not completely dark, as the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy of leaves was bright enough to trace a delicate silver path before their wandering feet.
The vampire listened as she outlined Raziel's current condition, skimming over details and sticking to a vague description of a blue-skinned demon with tattered wings. Isca's eyes widened in recognition of the verbal portrait she painted.
"We saw him at the Pillars just a few days ago." His voiced was hushed with awe. "He sensed he was being watched and so we retreated and left him alone. We had no quarrel with him - didn't even know what he was . . ." His voice trailed off.
Isca was silent for a long while, her words evidently having given him pause for thought. She cast a sidelong glance at his pensive profile. While it was true that vampires never truly aged, the creature striding at her side was much changed from the excitable fledgling she'd encountered but a few months ago. Although his face would ever be that of a youth not much younger than she, the experiences of what for him had constituted nearly fifty years were carved ineradicably into his countenance. The features, so close to human when they'd last met, had by degrees taken on the inherent traits of his vampire heritage; the cheekbones more pronounced, the lips darker, the skin paler, and the eyes a touch closer to that elusive shade of gold. Gone was the aspect of youthful exuberance, and in its place rested a seasoned resolve, a formidable potency which held its own dark magnetism.
Turning her mind to the matters at hand with not a little effort, Freya now sought to find out where exactly in Nosgoth's complicated time-stream they had landed. "Does Janos Audron yet live in this time?"
"I believe so. Why?"
Indecision delayed her response. She had seen what happened when Kain messed with the timeline and didn't relish adding any more havoc to Nosgoth's already uncertain future. On the other hand, her omission of action last time around hadn't gone too well either. She decided to tell Isca what she knew, at the same time swearing him to secrecy. Wisely, she omitted any mention of the game, instead leaving the vampire to draw his own inference about Earth having mythology pertaining to Nosgoth.
"You're from another world? That explains a lot." Freya feigned offence at his offhand remark, softened as it was by his roguish grin.
Eventually, Isca broke the companionable silence with a question Freya had been praying he wouldn't ask. "If you knew what would happen, why didn't you tell Raziel?"
The woman looked downcast. "I had no idea the transformation would be so quick - I thought there's be some warning."
Isca nodded understanding. "There usually is. The metamorphic process is normally a matter of days, not hours. Turel forced it." Freya's eyes widened. This was new. "It was one of the snippets of information he imparted to me. . ." Isca's eyes darkened as the harrowing memories returned, and his lips closed firmly, shutting out the memory.
Sensing the vampire's reluctance to elaborate on that particular point, Freya changed the subject. "Isca, I'm dying to know - what did happen to Antaris?"
The very thought brought an irreverent smile to the vampire's chiselled features. His mood lightened as he recounted the story in its full gory details, revelling in the disgusted faces his companion was making. At long length, his story done and dawn fast approaching, they turned their steps reluctantly in the direction of the camp, only to find to Freya's dismay that her dinner had been cremated.