The city of Coorhagen, situated on a low-lying plain and surrounded on three sides by dense forest, epitomised one of Nosgoth's latest and greatest achievements: civilization. From the well-planned layout of the rigidly straight streets to the massive metal tanks that provided running water to the city's fortunate, its exterior boasted a picture of progress and prosperity. However, every great success has its by-products, and Coorhagen was no exception: the rat-infested slums were rife with the detritus of human society, cutpurses and beggars lurked on every corner, lives were bought and sold at the exchange of a gold coin, and all types of contraband were passed freely from hand to hand. It was onto this scene of decay that Grix now descended, his highly sensitive nostrils offended by the foul stench of rotting vegetables and diseased meat. Despite his growing hunger, the vampire vowed he would never stoop to dining in such sordid quarters.

Grix was highly resentful of the fact that he had been forced to enter the city by means of its waste pipes, but the wealth and importance of the inhabitants had led to a slight overabundance of sentry guards, especially during the night watch. Fastidiously brushing the remnants of ordure and cabbage-mould from his previously immaculate black suit, the vampire made his way with all possible haste out of the slums and into the well-lit quarters inhabited by Nosgoth's more prosperous caste. As his wiry form moved stealthily into the central square, the difference between this quarter and the slums he had just vacated became painfully clear. Marble fountains tinkled tunefully from their hiding places amidst lush greenery and brightly-coloured flowerbeds, and here the air was filled with a heady perfume that assailed the vampire's keen senses, conjuring images of corpulent merchants and buxom daughters. Grix licked his lips - he loved rich people.

A short walk and a brief, bloody interrogation later, the vampire found himself outside a grand manor house, the walls of which, according to the revered Ancient, housed a most valuable child. Dropping the subterfuge now his destination had been reached, Grix quickly dispatched the watchman where he sat cleaning his nails in the broad entryway, his strangled scream ending with a moist splat as the vampire parted his head from his neck. Kicking the corpse aside when it refused to fall down (the vampire considered this a personal affront), he proceeded to the main door. Judging by the size of the house, the family was quite influential, and were therefore likely to have several servants living on the premises: Grix paused to cross his fingers in the hope that at least some of them would be buxom before wrenching the door from its hinges and embarking upon his killing spree.

At long last, the man of the house impaled on one sharp-nailed hand, Grix reached the nursery where the child Kain slept, all unknowing of the destiny the Fates had written for him, nor the unpredicted change of course his fortune was about to take.

"This is him?" Grix asked. It was as much a rhetorical question as a query to the dying male who dangled from his outstretched arm.

"Please," gurgled the man, "Don't hurt him - allow the child to live and you may have my fortune." Seeing the Vampire's impassive air, he added, not without difficulty since Grix' claw-like fingers had penetrated the flesh either side of his spine, "Take my house, my lands, anything you wish - but spare my bloodline, I beg you."

The vampire appeared thoughtful for a moment, a moment later deigning to respond: "I have no intention of killing him, mortal. What fate my master has in store for him I do not know. But I do know this. . ." turning to the human with a look of sheer wickedness, he said, "He is beyond your help now. You, his own father can do nothing to prevent his falling into Vampire hands - if it be his fate to survive, I will make sure I tell him how feeble were your attempts at saving his life."

With the practised ease of one accustomed to victory, Grix closed his hand into a fist, relishing the look of anguish on the man's face and observing closely as it transmuted from mental distress to physical agony. With a final wrench, he tore out that portion of the human's spine enclosed within his hand, his look of wild glee quickly returning to his usual carefully schooled mask of disdain. As he gathered up the infant, choosing to carry the entire cot rather than be seen with a babe in his arms, he found his thoughts turning unwanted to the day's battle. These musings were to plague the rest of his journey from Coorhagen to the Termagent Swamp: he had never seen the like of the creatures he had fought this day, and Grix found himself wondering idly if they were foreigners from the lands across the sea. Wherever their point of origin, they certainly looked well-fed, if a little too vainglorious to merit his full approval. What he wouldn't give for a chance to give that strutting leader of theirs a proper lesson in swordplay! That the match would have been tough he had no doubt, but it had been evident to Grix from the outset that the young warrior was many years his junior, and in spite of his obvious strength and skill, enthusiasm was just no match for experience.

He resolved to ask the omniscient Janos about these strangers.

*

A rowdy cheer arose from the thirty or so Razielim warriors who stood grouped in their protective circles at random points across the dusty field. The cowardly retreat of their kindred was accompanied by a round of uncomplimentary remarks and a variety of unseemly gestures from the Clan warriors, some of the more boisterous of whom had gone so far as to bare parts of their anatomy in an extra parting gesture of derision. Freya, still elated from her recent experience, joined in the cat-calls with the rest, although she wisely suppressed any temptation to mimic the rest of the insulting actions. A movement to her left warned her that Isca was on the move, and, sensing from his grin that one of his trademark spine- shakers was in the offing, she deftly intercepted his hand and shook it pointedly, hoping to forestall any unintentional physical harm.

"We'll have to remember that manoeuvre next time we're cornered," began Isca, his expression one of bemused approval.

"It certainly seemed to do the trick," agreed Freya, who had been as surprised as he that their vastly differing combat styles should prove the perfect foil for each other.

"Although," continued the vampire, wiping the blood from his blade, "You'll understand if I forego the pleasure when I get the chance to engage that bastard of a leader of theirs in single combat."

A little concerned at his tone, Freya glanced at her companion to see that his expression was dark and brooding; the enemy leader's devious trick had seemingly constituted a heavy blow to Isca's pride. Aware that revenge was a dangerous motive, she attempted to take his mind off his recent failed duel.

Taking him by the arm, she tugged him forwards in their original direction, saying, "The night is still young, Isca. We can put a few more miles beneath our feet tonight and be that much closer to our goal by morning." Seeing that his expression was still despondent, she added, "You'll get your chance."

Seemingly cheered by her words, the vampire nodded assent and threw a companionable arm about her shoulders as he gave the order to move on. Freya's knees buckled under the weight.

A gibbous moon searched out the canyon with tentative fingers, her wan light barely able to penetrate steep walls of the gorge. The Razielim, still rambunctious after what they saw as an easy conquest, were a far cry from their usual stealthy selves as they traversed the moonlit path. It was partly due to this unusual level of noise that no-one noticed the passing of a sable shadow at the top of the gorge. It overtook the group in moments, its footfalls silent and its face hidden in the depths of a voluminous hood, even the burden it carried was uncommonly quiet for its age. A hundred feet below on the floor of the valley, Isca was busy regaling his human companion with tales of his life as a fledgling, concentrating particularly on some of the more ridiculous and revolting things he had done in the first few years of his vampiric unlife. It was plain from the woman's expression that she didn't believe half of it.

"You ate it?" asked Freya, her face undecided as to whether it was displaying disbelief or amused disgust.

Isca grinned. "I was still young - I didn't know you weren't supposed to chew."

A sound from behind cut across the laughter, the thunderous approach of galloping hooves loud enough to catch their attention even over the hubbub. The Razielim mood, so recently one of laid-back merriment was instantly transformed into one of aggression as swords snicked from their sheaths in preparation to defend against whosoever might emerge from the shadows. It was a foregone conclusion that the riders would be unkindly disposed towards them - they had met nothing but opposition since they arrived. These Sarafan would not disappoint them. Twenty mounted knights cantered around the corner, torch-holders flanking each side of the group, the foremost rider skidding to a halt as the black-clad undead came into view.

"To arms, men - we've found the dogs!"

Assuming that this attack was a retaliation for their earlier massacre in the clearing, Isca smiled openly - these men would fare no better than their cohorts, for all that they were mounted and carried lances. He gripped the hilt of his sword in anticipation: a violent, bloody victory over the Sarafan would go some way towards restoring a measure of his wounded pride.

"Give us the child, undead, and your deaths will be swift." Called the officer at the head of the pack.

The vampires cast puzzled glances at each other, shortly shrugging off the irrelevant demand to face their nemeses with eager growls.

The officer's gaze fell on Freya, and, recognising her as human he asked, "Have you no shame? To assist in the stealing of a child from its parents' loving care? What sort of woman are you?"

Freya, resentful of the implications, retorted, "We've stolen nothing, Sarafan." Oh, but it felt good to use the word as an insult at last.

"Liar! The child Kain was taken by Vampire hands - the evidence is irrefutable!" The Sarafan officer, fired by the zealousness of his own speech, soon gave the order to charge.

The Sarafan surged forward, lances outstretched before them, their visions of an easy win fading by the second as it became clear that these vampires would not go quietly into death's cold embrace. A lightning-fast counter- charge sent a number of the Razielim over the top of the Sarafan lances, where they landed with unerring precision on the saddles of their opponents' steeds, bearing their enemies to the ground with the weight of their attack. Isca had let loose his pent-up anger, and was even now wreaking havoc among the dismounted knights, cleaving through armour left and right with wide sweeps of his keen-edged blade.

Freya stood incongruously still in the midst of the scuffle, the officer's words ringing in her head. An as-yet-unformed idea sent her hesitantly in Isca's direction, approaching him with considerable caution so as not to be caught by one of his brutal backslashes. Isca, satisfied that his weapon had seen its fair share of bloodletting, sheathed the blade in favour of tooth and claw, grabbing a nearby knight and wrenching off his helmet in preparation for the strike. He paused, fangs inches from the ill-fated man's throat as he felt an insistent tugging at his arm. He swivelled his eyes to the right to see that Freya had a firm grip on his leather vambrace and was shaking his forearm urgently in an attempt to get his attention.

"This doesn't happen."

Isca, as perplexed by the meaningless phrase she had uttered as her choice of moments to annoy him, shot a loaded glance from her face to the knight's neck and back again, patently asking to be allowed to continue with his meal.

"Isca, please - I need to talk to you."

The vampire was torn between the exposed jugular barely a hand's breadth below his open mouth, and curiosity as to what had prompted the woman to disturb him mid-feed, an act which would have meant instant death for any other human. Heartily confounded at his own actions, Isca took one more longing look at the Sarafan's neck before throwing him aside in a fit of pique and following Freya to the relative peace at the rear of the Razielim guard.

"This had better be worth it," warned the vampire in a low growl.

"Kain is not kidnapped by vampires."

As much confused by her choice of tense the continued incomprehensibility of her words, Isca raised a brow in query.

"This isn't part of the g . . . the legend." Freya slipped the amendment in just in time, only to give voice to a heavy sigh - the vampire still looked blank. "Someone is messing with the timeline, Isca. They've taken Kain - who knows what mayhem they could wreak on the path of history if they change his future."

"I could care less for Kain's fate." the vampire shot back. "In case you had forgotten, it was he who gave the order for Raziel's execution. We owe him no further loyalty."

Appalled by the vampire's lack of vision, Freya stated coldly, "If Kain is killed here and now, he will never gather an army of Vampire Lieutenants, which means that you and all your men . . ."

". . .Will never have existed." Finished Isca in a whisper, the true horror of the consequences of manipulating the time-stream becoming clear to him at last. He looked up, decision making him resolute once more. "We need to find the vampire who stole the child."

Their eyes met as pieces of the puzzle fell into place and Isca gave voice to the conclusion they had both reached.

"That vampire leader. . ."

Minds reeling with temporal conundrums, they hastened back to the scene of combat which had by now become one of complete carnage, the outnumbered Sarafan having long since fallen to Razielim blades.

Isca cast a petulant glance at Freya before accusing her of spoiling his dinner.