Strong beams of sunlight streamed through the doorway, their hue that coppery shade of reddish gold that belongs solely to late summer afternoons. Through the open portal of the wooden hut, a faint sound of clucking poultry could be heard, stirring the sleeper within and raising questions as to her location. Freya awoke to find herself on a bed, her arm lightly bandaged, suggesting that, wherever she was, she had been there long enough for her it to begin to heal. The memory of her shattered limb brought inseparable associations, forcing her to sit bolt upright on the bed in alarm. The room spun. When it had stopped, she took stock of her condition: her arm was as yet not fully healed, her carotid artery evinced a slow steady pulse, and, when she got to her feet and wiggled her fingers in the sunlight, they emerged unscathed. The evidence added up. She was still alive – but where? On stepping outside the wooden hut, the afternoon sunlight left her momentarily dazzled and she leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of a rural village. Someone nudged a tall, bearded man at the centre of the circle of houses who, seeing that she was up and about, downed his tools and approached her.
"You're awake." He observed gruffly.
"Where am I?" she demanded, "How did I get here?"
The headsman motioned for her to sit down, her difficulty in remaining standing all too clear.
"One of our herders found you at the edge of the swamp about three weeks ago."
Freya blanched. Three weeks? Panic bubbled in her gut as she attempted to guess the outcome of the battle. Raziel must have failed. But if that was so, then how had she escaped? Without a word she rose and wobbled unsteadily towards the village gate, the village headsman walking irritably after her.
"Where are you going?"
"To find out what happened to the people I was with."
He caught her arm. "You're in no fit state to make the journey. You need to rest and recover your strength."
Freya turned to him with a look of loss so strong it made the aroused a pang of sympathy in the hard-bitten headsman.
"I have to know . . ."
Reluctantly, he nodded his understanding. He too had lost loved ones to the malevolent forces of the night. "It will be dark soon – you don't want to be wandering around out there at night in your condition." He cut across her protest, adding, "Stay here tonight, have some food and drink, then you can borrow a horse and set out first thing in the morning."
The logic of his words partially overrode the burning anguish that was torturing her during every moment of delay - he was likely right. Besides, if she'd been here for three weeks, another night was not going to make a difference.
As the grey light of dawn stepped hesitantly across the threshold of the cabin, Freya rose, the vague aura of sleep that had tentatively courted her during the night instantly banished, and she set out for the stable. As she led the sleepy mare towards the gate, she perceived that the headsman was striding towards her, a bundle in a blanket under his arm. Her fears that he would attempt to prevent her departure faded as he said, "I have something for you."
Her undeniable relief at having the Dark Angel returned to her possession was marred by the thought that the last time she'd seen it, it had been in Raziel's hand. Growing more concerned by the moment for the fate of her friends, Freya attached it to her belt, and with a sincere word of thanks rode out of the village.
The deathly silence of the dilapidated building stilled Freya's initial fears that Turel might still be alive. Using one of her matches to light a brand she found in the outer room, she descended into the narrow tunnel, sword drawn in readiness. A quick search of the chamber assured her that it was empty, only the remains of Turel's mangled body marking the fact that a titanic battle had been fought here. Using the flickering golden light to examine the rest of the room, she soon discerned that a great number of cloven footprints surrounded the entrance to the cave. Knowing that that the vampires of this time had not yet evolved to the cloven feet and clawed hands phase, she surmised that the Razielim had come to aid their leaders. Raising the torch higher, she perceived the dark shadowy patch where Isca's body had lain – the deep footprints leading away from it suggesting that their maker had been carrying some weight other than his own. Adding these observations to the knowledge that she had been found at the edge of the swamp, it led her to the only possible conclusion:
They had abandoned her.
*
In a plane of existence unknown to all but those who have passed from the physical realm, a great hall stood. Its nebulous walls were adorned with scenes of battles, warriors, Gods and men, their scenes constantly shifting to depict an ongoing and universal struggle. Those who inhabited its sacred confines were men of deeds, heroes and martyrs, villains and victims - Chaos was all-pervading. It was in this place, the Vampire Halls of the Dead, that Raziel now found himself, his wasted figure incongruous amongst the hale and hearty warriors. As the reaver of souls stared about him in alarm, an individual detached himself from the crowd and approached him, his face lit by a smile of welcome.
"Janos?" began the Soul Reaver incredulously, doubt delaying his greeting. "Or are you Turel?"
"Turel is truly dead, Raziel - and you have a task to perform. You are Nosgoth's saviour."
Raziel scowled. He was tired of hearing that phrase. Janos continued undeterred. "You have little time here, so listen closely: The Pillars must be restored in order for the vampire creed to live in harmony with the human race."
"This is my purpose?" Raziel's scepticism was boundless. Having spent so long hating and loathing and clawing his vengeance from his former brethren, the thought of spending his days mending the rift between these two species - to neither of which he now belonged - was uninspiring to say the least.
"Is it so hard to believe? You had already begun to work towards this goal when you created the tithe villages." Janos was smiling at him now, his confidence in the Soul Reaver's abilities apparent in his expression.
"Make it so."
"How?"
"You have many resources at your disposal, Raziel: Loyal followers, time-streaming devices, and the Gifts you inherited when you reaved Turel's soul. You have the pieces of the puzzle – it is for you to decide what to do with them."
Raziel remained where he was, irresolute as he essayed to fathom the enigma.
Janos approached the reaver of souls, his expression sympathetic as he took in the decayed form that Kain's egotistical jealousy had forced on the once-great Lieutenant. The creature had suffered much – far more than was due him, and the Ancient guessed, rightly enough, that a spot of good fortune would do much to restore Raziel's faith in his purpose. He gave a secret smile.
"Go now, my son – your vampire partisans await." And with that, Raziel was cast out of the Vampire Hall of the Dead to continue his work in Nosgoth's Godless lands.
*
Isca, feeling stronger by the second, broke his deathlock on the woman's wrist with some effort and a fair amount of willpower. During the course of his feeding, he had raised himself to a sitting position and had ended up supporting Freya as her own energy reserves were drained. Seeing that she lived for the moment, he allowed her to fall back into a position of repose so that he could investigate the outcome of the battle. As he rose unsteadily to his feet, the sound of a small stampede came to his ears, and his eyes were shortly greeted by the arrival of his Elite, who, after the recent battle, were down to a scant eight. Indicating to his men that it was safe to approach, he cast one more grateful glance at Freya's unconscious form before moving to join his men at Raziel's side.
His steps slowed as his eyes beheld the sight before him. Raziel lay slumped against one of the stalagmites that were dotted about the cavern floor. Isca's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in wonder as he saw the change that had been wrought in his Lord. It seemed that with the defeat of the last of his betrayer kin, some higher power had seen fit to return the one-time vampire to some semblance of his former glory. Smooth, healthy skin once more covered the muscular contours of his body, his lower jaw sat neatly in place below its partner, and the hair had once again assumed its glossy raven sheen. There were however some obvious differences: The once-pale skin had retained a hint of the azure blue of his Soul Reaver form, and behind the Dark Lord, folded neatly against his back, were two restored wings, not the bat-like vanes of his downfall, but black, feathered appendages like those of his most ancient ancestors.
He was whole. More than that, he was Vampire once more.
In a movement abrupt enough to startle the assembled curious, Raziel's eyes flicked open, revealing to all the glowing golden orbs that would bend the world to his will.
He rose in silence, his every nerve thrumming vibrantly, and took in for the first time in an age the sights and sounds afforded by fully-functional vampiric abilities. Eminently pleased with the results, he raised his arm and clenched and unclenched his talons experimentally, watching in satisfaction as the corresponding muscles bunched and released beneath the flawless skin. After a further moment's perusal, he chuckled and muttered, almost to himself,
"Very persuasive, Janos."
As though suddenly aware of the presence of his Clan, he looked from one vampire to the next, the burning intensity of his stare inducing each man to lower his eyes. All except for Isca, who met his gaze unflinchingly and opined with a grin,
"You need trousers."
A pitiful wailing now attracted their attention, and Isca motioned to one of the Elite to search the far corner of the cave. He returned a moment later with a lemon yellow cot, within whose confines a babe was crying, the ardour of its outcries sufficient to assure those assembled that it had suffered no lasting harm. The Razielim held it at arms' length.
"What happens now?" asked Isca.
Raziel considered the question. "First we deliver Kain to Coorhagen so that his life may continue unhindered. Then . . ." He paused as he realised he still had not figured out Janos' puzzle. "I'm not sure yet." He admitted.
Isca wandered back over to where Freya lay, deathly pale against the dark earth.
"Is she dead?" Inquired Raziel, wondering what to do about trousers if she was not.
"Not yet."
Having seen the couple's blatant attachment to one another, Raziel was more than a little puzzled at his offspring's hesitation. "Will she not be joining us?"
"I'd rather she was back to full strength first."
Filled with sardonic amusement at his son's foibles, Raziel offered a solution.
"There is a village nearby – we could leave her with their healers while we rest and regroup." He advocated this idea for several reasons: not only would it mean he would have more time to ascertain his course of action, but it also meant that his men would have a good rest and, from what he'd seen, good hunting.
"In any event, it's about time I had a rest."
This decided, Isca lifted Freya's body from the ground, falling into step next to Raziel as they approached the cave exit. The cot-bearer walked beside them.
"So this is the future Emperor of Nosgoth," said Raziel, looking at the tiny pink face with a measure of disbelief.
Isca nodded gravely. "Stinks, doesn't he?"
Raziel grinned impudently. "No change there."
*
Freya swallowed hard against the feeling of despair that threatened to envelop her as she realised that they – that Isca – had deserted her, leaving her alone and friendless in Nosgoth's past. As she stood, indecisive and disconsolate in the lowering gloom, she heard the crunch of a booted foot on the rocky shale behind her. Without hesitation, she swung around, katana raised at head-height, placing the point of the blade unerringly beneath her unknown assailant's chin. She frowned as the poor torchlight illumined a familiar form, and she raised it higher to make out the facial features of the vampire before her. With a heartfelt sigh of relief she released the breath she'd been holding, the tension draining from her frame as Isca's bemused smile came into view.
He raised his hands in the air in a comical gesture of capitulation.
"I surrender!"
Freya managed to quash her initial instinct, which was to rush forward and give the teasing bloodsucker a big hug. Her hesitation was due to two factors: she was still a little upset at their apparent desertion of her, and furthermore, she knew that people often said things in the thick of battle and in the face of death that didn't always hold true when circumstances returned to normal.
"Didn't your parents ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"
"Quite the contrary," he grinned. Then, glancing pointedly at the blade digging into his Adam's Apple, he asked, "Are you going to put that away or will I have to disarm you?"
Freya allowed the weapon to drop from its position at his throat; in her surprise at seeing him she had all but forgotten that it was still in her hand. With a million questions begging for answers, Freya began to quiz her companion on the aftermath of the recent duel.
"Isca, What happened to Raziel when he defeated Turel? Are you alright? Where is everyone else? Why am I still alive – and why did the villagers find me in the swamp?"
The vampire raised his hands again as though to fend off the barrage. "So many questions!" His gaze now alit on the burning brand in the woman's hand. "May I?" he asked, in a patent request for the torch.
Freya handed it over, then using her freed hand to hold her scabbard as she sheathed her sword. The action completed, she glanced at him just in time to catch the look of mischief on his face as he threw the only cavern's only light source into the furthest corner of the room.
The woman tensed, the vampire's intentions unclear to her.
". . . What did you do that for?"
He answered by moving closer and sliding an arm about her waist.
"The light was hurting my eyes."
"Oh. . ." she managed, before he gathered her up into tight, welcome embrace. With her former misgivings fading by the second, Freya wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her cheek on his shoulder-guard, her feet barely touching the floor. They remained like that for quite some time, quiet and still in the ebon void, each taking much-needed comfort in the other's proximity. Eventually, Isca's grip slackened, allowing her to slide back to the ground, from where she could just make out his eyes, glinting with gold in the faintest gleam of light that emanated from the distant torch.
"You sidetracked me," she accused. "Are you going to answer my questions?"
Even in the darkness she could sense that he was grinning again. "There is no time for that now, and much as I would like to stay here and . . . sidetrack you . . . the others are waiting."
As Freya moved to depart she found that, in direct contradiction to his words, he still had not relinquished his hold. With a soft chuckle, Isca tilted her chin up towards him with his free hand and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle gesture of reunion and greeting. As the contact intensified, his attentions growing ever deeper and more languorous, sight, sound and awareness of the outside world faded into the background, until there was nothing but the dark ecstasy of his kiss.
*