Moonlight reflected from the moist, glistening corpses of twenty Sarafan warriors, the light ruddied by the surfeit of spilled blood that still pooled in the canyon's pitted surfaces. Here and there the victors of the contest were extracting trophies from the fallen, some of which were more grisly than Freya cared to contemplate. Seemingly dismayed at the bloodbath, the woman shook her head and tutted quietly.

Isca shot a cold glance in her direction. "You don't approve? It's a little late to be getting a sense of morality."

She gave him an annoyed stare. "If they'd left even one alive we could have questioned him about the creature who stole Kain. Bloody trigger- happy vampires." She added in a low mutter.

"The Sarafan were heading in the same direction we were - stands to reason they were following the true abductor." Was Isca's matter-of-fact response before he gathered the company together to move off. Despite the apparent logic of Isca's deduction, the night wore on and no sign of their quarry was found by their advance scouts. Freya began to fret.

"Isca - we have no idea what path he might have taken. He could be twenty miles east or west of here by now, and I don't recognise this place well enough to hazard a guess as to where he might have gone."

The vampire nodded thoughtfully, turning his attention to a nearby farmhouse, in whose window a night light still burned. Turning abruptly, he walked boldly up to the wooden porch and began to hammer on the door.

"What are you doing?" hissed Freya.

"Asking for directions." replied he with a hint of sarcasm. As the door swung hesitantly open, the vampire grabbed the inhabitant, a frightened old man in a nightshirt and floppy bobble cap, by his collar, making a polite but firm request for a map.

The old man stared at the pale-skinned long-fanged warrior in slack-jawed terror and remained silent, apparently deprived of the power of speech. With an impatient sigh, Isca made a signal to the nearest of his men, who slipped past the two at the door to conduct a swift search of the interior. He reappeared a moment later, burdened with a struggling young woman, ostensibly the farmer's daughter. He allowed the man to take in the sight of the leering immortal toying with his offspring before repeating the question, slowly and clearly so that even this vacuous dullard would understand.

"Do - you - have - a - map?"

It seemed the cogs were finally turning. The old man nodded shakily, indicating a chest in the corner of the room next to the fire. Turning his chilling gaze on the farmer once again, Isca said, in a voice that made Freya intensely glad the command wasn't aimed at her, "Go."

The farmer needed no second invitation. Without so much as a backwards glance, he tore out of the house with a speed that would have made him the envy of many a younger man, and threw himself unhesitatingly into the relative safety of the wolf-haunted forest.

"Uh . . . Isca." Freya indicated with a jerk of her thumb the young woman who was yet in the grasp of the Razielim warrior, the latter taking great amusement in baring his teeth at the terrified girl. Shaking his head again in wonder at his willingness to accede to the woman's whims, Isca gave the order for her release. The girl tore herself free from her captor's relaxed grip, and, pausing only to give Freya one utterly confounded stare, followed her father to freedom.

Having temporarily availed themselves of the comforts of the farmhouse, Freya and Isca took their seats at the scrubbed wooden table to examine the map which, true to the old man's words, had been buried in the chest. Isca's plan at this point was twofold: first to see if there was any location that looked likely to house a Vampire coven, and second to see if Freya recognised any of the sites, or the roads that might lead them to their ultimate destination. Huddled together over the faded parchment, Freya told him all she knew.

"We can't take this path - you'd need the Soul Reaver to open the gate." She waved aside his unspoken question and continued. "We could make our way through here - although there are a few cliffs to scale and a large number of Sarafan in the way. Oh, and a waterfall."

Hearing no response from her companion, Freya turned to read his expression, only to find that his face was mere inches from hers, his look one of intense curiosity. She wasn't at all sure she wanted him in such close proximity after the previous day's proposition - not to mention tonight's comment about her making him miss dinner, so she used the excuse of sitting back in her chair to put some distance between them.

She stretched out her legs with a sigh. "It's been a long time since I looked at a map of Nosgoth. I hope my memory's up to the task." A glance in the vampire's direction showed he was still looking at her with an almost predatory fascination, which at last encouraged her to voice the concern that was eating at her mind and nerves on a daily basis.

"Isca . . . not that I would want it any other way, but . . . what's keeping me alive?"

Isca was silent for a moment before giving his answer. "You tried to save Raziel. Your attempt, albeit somewhat belated, has earned you a temporary reprieve." He examined his claws and Freya's attention returned to the map, more or less placated by his answer and not wishing to pursue the matter further. Her gaze shot to his face again in alarm as one cold, smooth claw curved unexpectedly around her neck. Freya's hand gripped his wrist forcefully, her expression one of anger and indignation. Drawing her closer by his grip on her neck, he added in a low voice:

"For the moment, you are our best chance of tracking him down - I will respect your wishes to ensure your continued co-operation. But rest assured, if you for one moment give me cause to think you're in danger of shuffling off the mortal coil, or of reverting to your former loyalties . . ." Isca drew the tip of his thumb-talon down the side of her neck, not deep enough to draw blood, just hard enough to be felt. His eyes lingered a moment on her throat, his lips slightly parted to reveal the deadly canines before releasing her and rising to leave the table, the threat still hanging ominously in the air. Freya, more than a little shaken, wondered what could cause such a sudden and complete change in his attitude towards her, her mind soon ranging back to the tale he had told her of his suffering at Turel's hands. If even half of it was true, it was a wonder the man hadn't emerged completely psychotic.

*

Lithe and soundless, a black-robed figure made its way with an unfaltering stride across the few dry hillocks that protruded through the stagnant waters of the Termagant Swamp. The creature emitted no sound itself, being of a laconic nature at the best of times, yet still a gurgling noise rose ever and again from the burden it carried, alerting all manner of bog- dwellers to the strange duo's passage. It was with some relief and a not inconsiderable sense of achievement that Grix once again crossed the threshold into the tumbledown shack, his previous contemptuous attitude replaced by one of reverent awe: he now knew whose power the humble structure housed. In spite of this revelation, he greeted the servant who once again awaited him with a haughty word - his manner towards those of the servile class had not changed - and was soon following him down a dank passageway that led deep beneath the bowels of the swamp. The man-made walls and floors eventually gave way to natural bedrock whose ebon hues sparkled with mineral veins, and the tunnel eventually discharged its travellers into a cavern of immense proportions where waited the figure Grix was so eager to please.

"I have brought the child, my Lord." He bowed in anticipation of his master's commendation.

Janos' golden eyes fell on the burden the vampire carried, and he stepped forward eagerly, face lit by an almost manic joy.

"You're sure this is he?"

A little taken aback by the Ancient's offhand manner, as well as his lack of formal greeting, Grix replied, "Yes, my Lord. His own father confirmed it."

As though suddenly aware of the impropriety of his actions, the blue- skinned being straightened from his hunched posture over the cot and regarded Grix as though for the first time.

"You have done well, my friend." Grix glowed with pleasure. Janos gave him a pointed stare. "You may leave."

A little put out that he should be so quickly dismissed, Grix decided to mention the outlandish kindred he had met earlier that day. As the vampire gave a detailed description of their garb and weaponry, the elder's eyes darkened and a harsh snarl tugged at the corners of his lips. Cutting across Grix' less-than-flattering monologue, he interjected.

"Was their armour adorned with any symbol or insignia?" At the vampire's affirmation and consequent description of the emblem, it became apparent that the Ancient was practically shaking with anger, his hands clenched into fists and his teeth bared in a vicious grimace of hatred. A further glance at the stunned vampire caused Janos to calm himself, straightening his robe in an attempt to appear unruffled.

"They are deceivers, Grix, come to wipe out our people and claim our lands for their own. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you." As the vampire nodded in willing acceptance of this latest order, Janos paused to add a phrase he knew would further infuse his servant with the flame of duty:

"Kill them for me."

*

The Razielim's tireless tread brought them to the boundaries of the Sarafan Stronghold shortly before dawn's first glimmer lighted the horizon. The vampire contingent stepped warily into the grass-verged courtyard, the edges of which were home to the gruesome prizes the warrior priests had wrested from their vanquished foes. Although Freya would much have preferred to find a way around, Isca pointed out that there were likely to be far less guards around at this hour of the morning, and so it was a perfect time to cut across the grounds. His words were to prove a trifle inaccurate as a small army of Sarafan warriors, armed and ready for battle, careened into view from one of the doorways that opened onto the square. The troop came to a halt, taking in the sight of the undead intruders with some alarm.

"Did someone open the gates to the Underworld tonight?" asked the commanding officer in disbelief. "Where are these demons coming from?"

Without waiting for an answer to his question, the Sarafan knight levelled his weapon at the Razielim and gave voice to a lusty battle-cry. The vampires were more than ready: any opportunity to face their arch-enemies, irrespective of place or time, was welcomed with open arms. The conflict would be fierce and deadly - these knights were obviously of higher rank and better training than those the Razielim had so recently engaged - and the undead would be hard put to maintain the advantage. . .

*
Author's Notes

The first scene in this chapter was one of many I planned to cut as unnecessary, but Kitty's recent comments convinced me that it actually wasn't clear why Freya was wandering around with a group of vampires with complete impunity. On the other hand, the attitude of the Razielim (and particularly Isca) towards her is hinted at in the last couple of chapters of 'Lost on Nosgoth'. I think - at least that was the plan. . . so much for subtlety! I'll use the sledgehammer approach in future. : )