Author's Note. I'm sure you're all totally fed up of battle scenes by now,
but I promise there are only two (?) more to go! Oh yeah, and sorry if I'm
rambling - not feeling particularly concise today so this chapter may be a
little long . . .
*
The crunch of booted feet on gravel echoed repetitively as Grix strode imperiously back and forth before the assembled throng, his sense of authority enlarged in proportion to the size of his audience. Word had been sent out immediately on his return from Janos' secret hideaway the previous night, and by first light, the recruits were pouring in from the four points of the compass. It was with a sense of superior satisfaction that the vampire beheld the orderly lines of pale-faced soldiers: all those who had answered the call had come dressed in the recommended non-descript grey and black, and were even now standing rigidly to attention to receive their eagerly-awaited orders: the opportunity to embark on a mission handed down directly from Janos Audron himself had inspired even the most introverted of the species to present themselves. Grix took great delight in imparting to the volunteers the self-same information that had been passed to him: that these 'Razielim' were a rival Vampire species come to wipe out the Nosgoth Vampire creed by disposing of their ultimate saviour, the child Kain, at an early age. The dissonant outcry that rose from the two hundred or so vampires rebounded malevolently from the walls of Grix' courtyard, and was of sufficient volume to chill the blood of a farmer who huddled in his muddy nightshirt in the heart of the forest a full three miles away.
A short distance to the south, the Razielim were departing the Sarafan Sanctuary. So far, they had passed through the remainder of the complex relatively unchallenged - it was clear that the events of the past few hours had not only severely reduced the numbers of inhabitants, but had also ensured that those who remained had little on their minds but grief for fallen comrades. When the decision had been taken to try to pick up the vampire leader's cold trail to the north of the Sanctuary, Isca and Raziel had fallen into deep conversation at the head of the column while the rest followed respectfully behind. Freya imagined that they had much to discuss, and she briefly pondered what Isca's thoughts might be on having Raziel back again, especially on the matter of having to rescind his leadership. In any event, it was clear from the latter's attitude that he was exceedingly proud of his offspring, and was most impressed at the role he had undertaken in his absence. Either way, Freya was glad the two were otherwise engaged, as it at least meant Isca's attention would be elsewhere in this moment of relative calm. Nonetheless, her mind was plagued with worry that the Vampire son might see fit to mention to his sire that she had had foreknowledge of his demise at Kain's hands. She kept her fingers crossed for the time being.
About an hour into their march, the party came to a halt. An advance scout had returned at full pelt with a warning that the vampires they had encountered previously were travelling in their direction. The scornful jeers that rose from the troops were silenced as the scout went on to warn that their numbers were significantly increased - the force he had seen had numbered some seventy or eighty men. Undaunted by such trifling odds, the Razielim continued on to where the narrow gorge they were following opened out into a gravely plain at the side of a rushing river, enclosed on either sides by earthworks that rose to the height of a tall man. The formation of the banks suggested that they were man-made, probably to prevent the river's reclamation of its flood-plain, the geographic features combining to form a species of natural arena. As the march ceased once again, Freya pushed forward to join Raziel and Isca at the summit. The view before them was discouraging, but far from insurmountable. It was evident that the advance scout had underestimated slightly, the true strength of the opposition numbering closer to one hundred. The three exchanged tactical comments, each one an experienced leader of men. They soon concurred that the priority was to ensure they were not outflanked, the decision prompting an order for the rearguard to reconnoitre the earthen banks and ensure the enemy could not pass and surround them.
A cloud passed fleetingly over the early morning sun, a chill breeze stirring the light scree and sending it tumbling across the plain with a hard chittering sound. Freya's eyes darted to the earthen bank to her left, upon which heads were steadily appearing as one of the enemy flanks came into view. She nudged Isca's arm and felt the responding tensing of his frame as a company of fifty crested the rise. They were soon mirrored by an equal number on the right hand side of the field, armed to the teeth and awaiting the word in ominous, anticipatory silence. Isca's jaw muscles tensed as he gritted his teeth: since their arrival he had lost but a few of his men, and though his company still numbered some thirty, all Elite, the likelihood of emerging victorious against such overwhelming odds was slim at best. He glanced at his sire, who was appraising the scene with what Isca assumed was a similar expression to his own, and found himself wondering if indeed he could even fight in that pitiful form. A strengthening wind whistled mournfully down the canyon behind them, causing cloaks to flap with whip-cracking suddenness. Then, with no warning, the vampires attacked.
Raziel watched with considerable pride as his Clan adopted their trademark defensive positions, the tactic almost entirely unchanged from the method he had taught them so very long ago. He noted with interest that Isca and Freya had chosen to partner one another in the fight, although he was not entirely surprised that the pairing went well - he had evaluated the P'ramma's combat style himself when he had fought her armies so very long ago - or was that so very far in the future? The Soul Reaver shook his head, dismissing the temporal quandary, and joined his men in combat.
The first line of troops that encountered the Razielim were sent back in pieces, the defence holding strong. Grix, unconcerned by the loss of men, ordered twice as many in the second wave from where he stood overlooking the battle from his perch atop the left hand bank They fared no better. Angered by the repeated failure, and contrary to the agreed plan, he motioned to the flankers on either bank to attack with the third wave. The tide turned.
As the battle began in earnest, Isca's eyes were drawn to the wiry figure shouting orders from on high, his partner catching his eye as he did so. Isca gave a grim smile as he beheld the sheer mass of combatants that separated him from his eventual goal.
"He'll have to wait."
As the fight wore on and the adversaries increased and varied their attacks, Freya found herself revelling in the bloodshed as never before. Working in tandem with her Vampire ally, it was as though they moved in an elegant, deadly dance, each slash and cut matched by a complementary action in a blinding display of harmonic skill. The pair's death-dealing blades flashed in a passable impression of a meat grinder, and it was not long before they had accumulated a large number and variety of body parts on the floor at their feet. Sheer exultation was exceeded only by ravenous bloodlust, and although the woman's was sated in a vastly different manner from that of the Vampire, still she savoured every crimson-tinted minute and every splash of cold enemy blood. In an all-too-brief moment of respite, the breathless couple exchanged wild grins, the woman turning back almost immediately to check her surroundings. Isca, still jubilant from their continued success, clapped his companion on the back in a gesture of approbation. Freya froze, her teeth gritted as she attempted to pop her shoulder back into place before the fighting began anew. She turned to him with a look of complete aggravation.
"If you do that once more, I'm going to go partner someone else - I don't think my back can take much more of your enthusiasm!" On seeing the vampire's look of contrition, she instantly regretted her cutting tone.
Isca, for his part, berated himself soundly - he tended to forget that his human companion was not quite as robust as they. "Forgive me, Freya - I sometimes forget . . ." He paused as he found himself quite opposed to the idea of dissolving the formidable partnership they had come to form.
"There are few I'd rather have at my side . . . in battle."
Freya tried not to read too much into his tone, nor his mid-sentence pause, but the look that accompanied the words spoke volumes on its own. With a wry smile, she gave her shoulder one final click, rotating it to check it functioned, and returned to the fray with added impetus.
Elsewhere, the battle was not going so well. Despite valiant efforts, the Razielim were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their adversaries: the flood plain grew dark with blood as the occasional unfortunate Clan warrior disappeared beneath a writhing mass of grey, the impossibility of the six- to-one odds becoming all too clear. Their valiant efforts proved vain as man after man was torn limb from limb in jetting geysers of blood. This looked to be the Razielim's blackest day. However, a stalwart few stood against a zealous many, and Fortune favours the brave - which was where Raziel came in.
In complete contrast to Isca's fear, the Soul Reaver proved himself easily the most vicious and most capable warrior on the battlefield. His skills, well-adapted to fighting multiple adversaries, made him the scourge of the plain as he slashed right and left with wide sweeps of his deadly claws. It perturbed him a little that the wraith blade appeared to have deserted him, its shimmering presence felt only in the Spectral Realm since the events at the Stronghold. Dismissing the thought, he levitated a spear from a fallen warrior and, taking a firm two-clawed grip, pivoted to face the creature who had been stalking him, the writhing form finding itself impaled on the weapon mere seconds later. Glancing about at his outnumbered children, he took to using his telekinetic force projectiles to free them from the enemies who clung to them like oversized parasites, the Razielim's gratitude evinced by the salutes he received in return. The sense of belonging that had assailed him as he knelt, wasted and wounded in the Spectral Realm returned with renewed strength, endowing the Soul Reaver with a purpose for survival other than revenge. He threw himself back into combat, a fierce grin in his mind, if not on his face, blissfully ignorant of the fact that without his aid, the tide of battle might well have turned against the future-born.
As the morning wore on, the crowd began to thin, the odds now far closer to two to one - well within the Razielim's ferocious capabilities. It was at this time that Isca caught sight of Grix in a gap on the battlefield, sword at his side and his eyes locked on target, patently waiting for him. He placed a claw gently on his fighting partner's shoulder to catch her attention, to see her gaze flick from him to the waiting vampire and back again.
Freya quickly interpreted the torn look on Isca's face and grinned indulgently.
"Go settle that score, you!"
Isca responded with a look of guilt-ridden concern. To ease his conscience, Freya indicated a nearby Razielim whose comrade had but recently fallen. "I'll partner him."
Isca met her gaze with a look that for some unfathomable reason invoked goosebumps.
"For now . . ."
A smile was threatening to erupt on Freya's face, and a loaded glance passed briefly between them. With an unspoken promise lingering nebulously in the air, the vampire departed to meet his nemesis.
Grix stood statue-still, sword point resting on the floor between his feet. Having seen the young vampire exchange words with the human woman, he gave a malicious grin. "You took your sweet time, youngling - did you have to ask permission from the little woman to come out and fight?"
Oblivious to his opponent's warning growl, he cast an appraising glance at the lithe, black-clad form currently cutting chunks out of his soldiers and gave a lewd smile, commenting, "To the victor the spoils, eh?"
Isca's eyes flared with anger and a possessiveness that surprised him.
"Over my dead body."
"That's the general idea, boy."
Fired by the scrawny creature's words, Isca launched a devastating attack, which, if it had hit home, would have split his adversary from neck to groin. Grix was faster than that. Impressed nonetheless by Isca's dramatic swing, he countered with a low thrust, testing the youth's reflexes. Throwing himself quickly into a forward roll, the future-born vampire rose easily and turned to parry the surprise attack he knew was coming. Steel met steel with an explosion of blue sparks and a resounding clang. Grix nodded his approval: this would be a duel to remember. The combatants now entered into a frantic slash-and-parry contest, the speed increasing by the moment until the sparking blades were a silvered blur in the misty air. Much as Isca was relishing the frenzied attack, Grix was slowly proving the more experienced of the two, a moment later taking advantage of his opponent's concentration on the swordplay to suddenly change tactics and knock the youngster's feet from under him.
He rested the point of his sword at the bested vampire's throat, his tone that of an admonishing schoolmaster.
"Tut tut, child. Now I see why you rescinded control to that skeletal wretch - you're hardly 'leader' material, are you?"
The insinuation that he was unfit to lead galvanised Isca's despondent form, and, taking a leaf from Freya's book, he batted away the blade to leap to his feet in a good approximation of the shoulder-vault he had seen his friend execute on several occasions, much to the surprise of both parties. Grim determination marked Isca's carriage now that insult had been added to injury. Remembering some words of wisdom his sire had imparted to him as a young fledge, he decided to forego his attempt at matching the vampire's style. Instead he returned once more to the assets upon which he had always relied: brute strength and speed, these fortes now complemented by the recent addition of the outlandish moves he had picked up from contact with Freya's more unusual fighting habits. Grix was hard- pressed to defend against the whirlwind attack that the youngster now launched, his defensive stance wavering beneath the sheer weight of Isca's blows. With a final Herculean effort, Isca shattered the vampire's blade, the point of his sword continuing past his opponent's breached guard to embed itself in his shoulder.
Grix sank to the ground with a look of fear contorting his pallid features. He scrabbled frantically against the loose dirt, attempting to elude Isca's finishing strike and achieving nothing other than a fair impression of a frightened crab.
With a defiant glare, the vampire shouted, "It matters not that you win this day - you will never gain possession of Kain." He shot desperate glances about him looking for an escape route, only to find that the whelp was now flanked by the human woman and the blue-skinned demon. Unable to relinquish his hold on existence without getting one over on his enemy, Grix added, "He is in Janos' hands now, and my Lord will never allow you to destroy our kind."
Raziel, thoroughly confused by the vampire's words, and even more so that he should name the Ancient as his master, stepped between Isca and Grix, taking a handful of the hapless creature's leather hauberk into one lethal claw.
"What do you know of Janos Audron?" The Soul Reaver's eyes glowed white with the promise of unimaginable pain. "Why would you claim that it is he who commands this rabble?"
"Hands off me, skeletal one - he is the father of our kind. When he hears of this . . ."
Shaking the vampire soundly, Raziel interjected, "Janos Audron is dead, miscreant." Grix' eyes widened and he shook his head in mindless denial. Raziel continued, "I was present when the Sarafan took his life yesterday in his Aerie." The Soul Reaver hesitated as unpleasant memories flooded back, and he added in a gentler tone, "I was with him when he passed."
Grix wrenched himself free and stumbled backwards, horror marring his features. "Lies! I was with him just last night!" Realising that he was free of the demon's grasp and out of reach of Isca's sword, he leaped to his feet and turned to bolt. Isca stepped forward, weapon poised to strike, but Raziel stayed his hand, receiving a mutinous, indignant and angry look in return. For one tense moment Raziel thought Isca might actually chance his arm against him, but the moment passed and without a word, Isca thundered after his prey. Freya and Raziel hesitated only long enough to assure themselves that the battle had indeed turned at last in the Razielim's favour, before leaving them to their feast and heading off on Isca's trail, both sure that the ancient vampire would probably lead them to the true malefactor.
Within ten minutes, their loping jog brought Isca into sight. He was standing at the edge of a vile-smelling swamp, evidently attempting to locate the trail of the fleeing vampire. Raziel indicated a tumbledown shack that bore evidence of recent forced entry, and the three passed silently between its shadowy walls. Hardly had they entered when Grix emerged screaming from the depths of a tunnel at the back of the room, his hair snow-white, his eyes rolled up in his head, his mouth slack and drooling, only the physical impulse to escape whatever lurked beneath sending his body onwards in its staccato marionette dance. Blind to the path before him, the vampire ran cleanly onto Isca's outstretched blade, the madness fading into a look of gratitude as the life and knowledge departed the tormented form. The Razielim took no pleasure in his enemy's death, and the Soul Reaver passed the mutually accepted comment that Isca had probably done him a favour.
Since it was now a fair assumption that they had reached the lair of the beast, the three descended into the tunnel from where Grix' had made his precipitous exit, their presence shortly met with mocking laughter that echoed through the cavernous halls below.
"I was wondering when we would meet again." The voice was at once welcoming, snide and self-satisfied. "Your adventures in this time have not gone unnoticed, my friend." The three glanced at one another, uncertain as to who the voice might be addressing, until the next question left them in no doubt. "You just didn't have the decency to stay dead, did you?" That horrendous laugh poured forth once again, filling the cavern with its lunatic echoes.
The Soul Reaver scowled at the noise, calling out to the maniac, "Identify yourself - you are not Janos, for all the vampires of this time seem to think so."
There was a pregnant silence. "Can it be that you do not know me," the voice took on a petulant note,
"Brother?"
*
The crunch of booted feet on gravel echoed repetitively as Grix strode imperiously back and forth before the assembled throng, his sense of authority enlarged in proportion to the size of his audience. Word had been sent out immediately on his return from Janos' secret hideaway the previous night, and by first light, the recruits were pouring in from the four points of the compass. It was with a sense of superior satisfaction that the vampire beheld the orderly lines of pale-faced soldiers: all those who had answered the call had come dressed in the recommended non-descript grey and black, and were even now standing rigidly to attention to receive their eagerly-awaited orders: the opportunity to embark on a mission handed down directly from Janos Audron himself had inspired even the most introverted of the species to present themselves. Grix took great delight in imparting to the volunteers the self-same information that had been passed to him: that these 'Razielim' were a rival Vampire species come to wipe out the Nosgoth Vampire creed by disposing of their ultimate saviour, the child Kain, at an early age. The dissonant outcry that rose from the two hundred or so vampires rebounded malevolently from the walls of Grix' courtyard, and was of sufficient volume to chill the blood of a farmer who huddled in his muddy nightshirt in the heart of the forest a full three miles away.
A short distance to the south, the Razielim were departing the Sarafan Sanctuary. So far, they had passed through the remainder of the complex relatively unchallenged - it was clear that the events of the past few hours had not only severely reduced the numbers of inhabitants, but had also ensured that those who remained had little on their minds but grief for fallen comrades. When the decision had been taken to try to pick up the vampire leader's cold trail to the north of the Sanctuary, Isca and Raziel had fallen into deep conversation at the head of the column while the rest followed respectfully behind. Freya imagined that they had much to discuss, and she briefly pondered what Isca's thoughts might be on having Raziel back again, especially on the matter of having to rescind his leadership. In any event, it was clear from the latter's attitude that he was exceedingly proud of his offspring, and was most impressed at the role he had undertaken in his absence. Either way, Freya was glad the two were otherwise engaged, as it at least meant Isca's attention would be elsewhere in this moment of relative calm. Nonetheless, her mind was plagued with worry that the Vampire son might see fit to mention to his sire that she had had foreknowledge of his demise at Kain's hands. She kept her fingers crossed for the time being.
About an hour into their march, the party came to a halt. An advance scout had returned at full pelt with a warning that the vampires they had encountered previously were travelling in their direction. The scornful jeers that rose from the troops were silenced as the scout went on to warn that their numbers were significantly increased - the force he had seen had numbered some seventy or eighty men. Undaunted by such trifling odds, the Razielim continued on to where the narrow gorge they were following opened out into a gravely plain at the side of a rushing river, enclosed on either sides by earthworks that rose to the height of a tall man. The formation of the banks suggested that they were man-made, probably to prevent the river's reclamation of its flood-plain, the geographic features combining to form a species of natural arena. As the march ceased once again, Freya pushed forward to join Raziel and Isca at the summit. The view before them was discouraging, but far from insurmountable. It was evident that the advance scout had underestimated slightly, the true strength of the opposition numbering closer to one hundred. The three exchanged tactical comments, each one an experienced leader of men. They soon concurred that the priority was to ensure they were not outflanked, the decision prompting an order for the rearguard to reconnoitre the earthen banks and ensure the enemy could not pass and surround them.
A cloud passed fleetingly over the early morning sun, a chill breeze stirring the light scree and sending it tumbling across the plain with a hard chittering sound. Freya's eyes darted to the earthen bank to her left, upon which heads were steadily appearing as one of the enemy flanks came into view. She nudged Isca's arm and felt the responding tensing of his frame as a company of fifty crested the rise. They were soon mirrored by an equal number on the right hand side of the field, armed to the teeth and awaiting the word in ominous, anticipatory silence. Isca's jaw muscles tensed as he gritted his teeth: since their arrival he had lost but a few of his men, and though his company still numbered some thirty, all Elite, the likelihood of emerging victorious against such overwhelming odds was slim at best. He glanced at his sire, who was appraising the scene with what Isca assumed was a similar expression to his own, and found himself wondering if indeed he could even fight in that pitiful form. A strengthening wind whistled mournfully down the canyon behind them, causing cloaks to flap with whip-cracking suddenness. Then, with no warning, the vampires attacked.
Raziel watched with considerable pride as his Clan adopted their trademark defensive positions, the tactic almost entirely unchanged from the method he had taught them so very long ago. He noted with interest that Isca and Freya had chosen to partner one another in the fight, although he was not entirely surprised that the pairing went well - he had evaluated the P'ramma's combat style himself when he had fought her armies so very long ago - or was that so very far in the future? The Soul Reaver shook his head, dismissing the temporal quandary, and joined his men in combat.
The first line of troops that encountered the Razielim were sent back in pieces, the defence holding strong. Grix, unconcerned by the loss of men, ordered twice as many in the second wave from where he stood overlooking the battle from his perch atop the left hand bank They fared no better. Angered by the repeated failure, and contrary to the agreed plan, he motioned to the flankers on either bank to attack with the third wave. The tide turned.
As the battle began in earnest, Isca's eyes were drawn to the wiry figure shouting orders from on high, his partner catching his eye as he did so. Isca gave a grim smile as he beheld the sheer mass of combatants that separated him from his eventual goal.
"He'll have to wait."
As the fight wore on and the adversaries increased and varied their attacks, Freya found herself revelling in the bloodshed as never before. Working in tandem with her Vampire ally, it was as though they moved in an elegant, deadly dance, each slash and cut matched by a complementary action in a blinding display of harmonic skill. The pair's death-dealing blades flashed in a passable impression of a meat grinder, and it was not long before they had accumulated a large number and variety of body parts on the floor at their feet. Sheer exultation was exceeded only by ravenous bloodlust, and although the woman's was sated in a vastly different manner from that of the Vampire, still she savoured every crimson-tinted minute and every splash of cold enemy blood. In an all-too-brief moment of respite, the breathless couple exchanged wild grins, the woman turning back almost immediately to check her surroundings. Isca, still jubilant from their continued success, clapped his companion on the back in a gesture of approbation. Freya froze, her teeth gritted as she attempted to pop her shoulder back into place before the fighting began anew. She turned to him with a look of complete aggravation.
"If you do that once more, I'm going to go partner someone else - I don't think my back can take much more of your enthusiasm!" On seeing the vampire's look of contrition, she instantly regretted her cutting tone.
Isca, for his part, berated himself soundly - he tended to forget that his human companion was not quite as robust as they. "Forgive me, Freya - I sometimes forget . . ." He paused as he found himself quite opposed to the idea of dissolving the formidable partnership they had come to form.
"There are few I'd rather have at my side . . . in battle."
Freya tried not to read too much into his tone, nor his mid-sentence pause, but the look that accompanied the words spoke volumes on its own. With a wry smile, she gave her shoulder one final click, rotating it to check it functioned, and returned to the fray with added impetus.
Elsewhere, the battle was not going so well. Despite valiant efforts, the Razielim were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their adversaries: the flood plain grew dark with blood as the occasional unfortunate Clan warrior disappeared beneath a writhing mass of grey, the impossibility of the six- to-one odds becoming all too clear. Their valiant efforts proved vain as man after man was torn limb from limb in jetting geysers of blood. This looked to be the Razielim's blackest day. However, a stalwart few stood against a zealous many, and Fortune favours the brave - which was where Raziel came in.
In complete contrast to Isca's fear, the Soul Reaver proved himself easily the most vicious and most capable warrior on the battlefield. His skills, well-adapted to fighting multiple adversaries, made him the scourge of the plain as he slashed right and left with wide sweeps of his deadly claws. It perturbed him a little that the wraith blade appeared to have deserted him, its shimmering presence felt only in the Spectral Realm since the events at the Stronghold. Dismissing the thought, he levitated a spear from a fallen warrior and, taking a firm two-clawed grip, pivoted to face the creature who had been stalking him, the writhing form finding itself impaled on the weapon mere seconds later. Glancing about at his outnumbered children, he took to using his telekinetic force projectiles to free them from the enemies who clung to them like oversized parasites, the Razielim's gratitude evinced by the salutes he received in return. The sense of belonging that had assailed him as he knelt, wasted and wounded in the Spectral Realm returned with renewed strength, endowing the Soul Reaver with a purpose for survival other than revenge. He threw himself back into combat, a fierce grin in his mind, if not on his face, blissfully ignorant of the fact that without his aid, the tide of battle might well have turned against the future-born.
As the morning wore on, the crowd began to thin, the odds now far closer to two to one - well within the Razielim's ferocious capabilities. It was at this time that Isca caught sight of Grix in a gap on the battlefield, sword at his side and his eyes locked on target, patently waiting for him. He placed a claw gently on his fighting partner's shoulder to catch her attention, to see her gaze flick from him to the waiting vampire and back again.
Freya quickly interpreted the torn look on Isca's face and grinned indulgently.
"Go settle that score, you!"
Isca responded with a look of guilt-ridden concern. To ease his conscience, Freya indicated a nearby Razielim whose comrade had but recently fallen. "I'll partner him."
Isca met her gaze with a look that for some unfathomable reason invoked goosebumps.
"For now . . ."
A smile was threatening to erupt on Freya's face, and a loaded glance passed briefly between them. With an unspoken promise lingering nebulously in the air, the vampire departed to meet his nemesis.
Grix stood statue-still, sword point resting on the floor between his feet. Having seen the young vampire exchange words with the human woman, he gave a malicious grin. "You took your sweet time, youngling - did you have to ask permission from the little woman to come out and fight?"
Oblivious to his opponent's warning growl, he cast an appraising glance at the lithe, black-clad form currently cutting chunks out of his soldiers and gave a lewd smile, commenting, "To the victor the spoils, eh?"
Isca's eyes flared with anger and a possessiveness that surprised him.
"Over my dead body."
"That's the general idea, boy."
Fired by the scrawny creature's words, Isca launched a devastating attack, which, if it had hit home, would have split his adversary from neck to groin. Grix was faster than that. Impressed nonetheless by Isca's dramatic swing, he countered with a low thrust, testing the youth's reflexes. Throwing himself quickly into a forward roll, the future-born vampire rose easily and turned to parry the surprise attack he knew was coming. Steel met steel with an explosion of blue sparks and a resounding clang. Grix nodded his approval: this would be a duel to remember. The combatants now entered into a frantic slash-and-parry contest, the speed increasing by the moment until the sparking blades were a silvered blur in the misty air. Much as Isca was relishing the frenzied attack, Grix was slowly proving the more experienced of the two, a moment later taking advantage of his opponent's concentration on the swordplay to suddenly change tactics and knock the youngster's feet from under him.
He rested the point of his sword at the bested vampire's throat, his tone that of an admonishing schoolmaster.
"Tut tut, child. Now I see why you rescinded control to that skeletal wretch - you're hardly 'leader' material, are you?"
The insinuation that he was unfit to lead galvanised Isca's despondent form, and, taking a leaf from Freya's book, he batted away the blade to leap to his feet in a good approximation of the shoulder-vault he had seen his friend execute on several occasions, much to the surprise of both parties. Grim determination marked Isca's carriage now that insult had been added to injury. Remembering some words of wisdom his sire had imparted to him as a young fledge, he decided to forego his attempt at matching the vampire's style. Instead he returned once more to the assets upon which he had always relied: brute strength and speed, these fortes now complemented by the recent addition of the outlandish moves he had picked up from contact with Freya's more unusual fighting habits. Grix was hard- pressed to defend against the whirlwind attack that the youngster now launched, his defensive stance wavering beneath the sheer weight of Isca's blows. With a final Herculean effort, Isca shattered the vampire's blade, the point of his sword continuing past his opponent's breached guard to embed itself in his shoulder.
Grix sank to the ground with a look of fear contorting his pallid features. He scrabbled frantically against the loose dirt, attempting to elude Isca's finishing strike and achieving nothing other than a fair impression of a frightened crab.
With a defiant glare, the vampire shouted, "It matters not that you win this day - you will never gain possession of Kain." He shot desperate glances about him looking for an escape route, only to find that the whelp was now flanked by the human woman and the blue-skinned demon. Unable to relinquish his hold on existence without getting one over on his enemy, Grix added, "He is in Janos' hands now, and my Lord will never allow you to destroy our kind."
Raziel, thoroughly confused by the vampire's words, and even more so that he should name the Ancient as his master, stepped between Isca and Grix, taking a handful of the hapless creature's leather hauberk into one lethal claw.
"What do you know of Janos Audron?" The Soul Reaver's eyes glowed white with the promise of unimaginable pain. "Why would you claim that it is he who commands this rabble?"
"Hands off me, skeletal one - he is the father of our kind. When he hears of this . . ."
Shaking the vampire soundly, Raziel interjected, "Janos Audron is dead, miscreant." Grix' eyes widened and he shook his head in mindless denial. Raziel continued, "I was present when the Sarafan took his life yesterday in his Aerie." The Soul Reaver hesitated as unpleasant memories flooded back, and he added in a gentler tone, "I was with him when he passed."
Grix wrenched himself free and stumbled backwards, horror marring his features. "Lies! I was with him just last night!" Realising that he was free of the demon's grasp and out of reach of Isca's sword, he leaped to his feet and turned to bolt. Isca stepped forward, weapon poised to strike, but Raziel stayed his hand, receiving a mutinous, indignant and angry look in return. For one tense moment Raziel thought Isca might actually chance his arm against him, but the moment passed and without a word, Isca thundered after his prey. Freya and Raziel hesitated only long enough to assure themselves that the battle had indeed turned at last in the Razielim's favour, before leaving them to their feast and heading off on Isca's trail, both sure that the ancient vampire would probably lead them to the true malefactor.
Within ten minutes, their loping jog brought Isca into sight. He was standing at the edge of a vile-smelling swamp, evidently attempting to locate the trail of the fleeing vampire. Raziel indicated a tumbledown shack that bore evidence of recent forced entry, and the three passed silently between its shadowy walls. Hardly had they entered when Grix emerged screaming from the depths of a tunnel at the back of the room, his hair snow-white, his eyes rolled up in his head, his mouth slack and drooling, only the physical impulse to escape whatever lurked beneath sending his body onwards in its staccato marionette dance. Blind to the path before him, the vampire ran cleanly onto Isca's outstretched blade, the madness fading into a look of gratitude as the life and knowledge departed the tormented form. The Razielim took no pleasure in his enemy's death, and the Soul Reaver passed the mutually accepted comment that Isca had probably done him a favour.
Since it was now a fair assumption that they had reached the lair of the beast, the three descended into the tunnel from where Grix' had made his precipitous exit, their presence shortly met with mocking laughter that echoed through the cavernous halls below.
"I was wondering when we would meet again." The voice was at once welcoming, snide and self-satisfied. "Your adventures in this time have not gone unnoticed, my friend." The three glanced at one another, uncertain as to who the voice might be addressing, until the next question left them in no doubt. "You just didn't have the decency to stay dead, did you?" That horrendous laugh poured forth once again, filling the cavern with its lunatic echoes.
The Soul Reaver scowled at the noise, calling out to the maniac, "Identify yourself - you are not Janos, for all the vampires of this time seem to think so."
There was a pregnant silence. "Can it be that you do not know me," the voice took on a petulant note,
"Brother?"