As Raziel emerged from Vorador's mansion into the dubious moonlight, he was met with the sight of his brooding offspring, who stood unmoving next to the low, blood-drenched wall just beyond the broad entrance. He halted momentarily, gathering his thoughts. It had been several centuries since Raziel himself had felt the call of the flesh – the implacable evolution of the vampiric id resulted in a steadily decreasing desire for the baser human pleasures. Nevertheless, he understood his son's anguish (for such he had come to regard the headstrong young vampire in recent months), and was aware that, now more than ever, he needed his lieutenant in full control of his emotions and in full possession of his mental faculties. Raziel sighed to himself: he had never imagined the various roles of leadership would come to include playing counsellor to his officers.
"I'm sure that image outside the chronoplast was a possibility from an alternate time-line." He began awkwardly, hoping that the tone of his voice was reassuring.
Isca continued to stare into the spreading darkness of the poison swamp, apparently unaware that Raziel had even spoken. Unbeknownst to either party, Vorador had taken up a position behind them, and was now standing in observant silence in the shadows beneath the curving arch of his doorway.
"After all," Raziel continued in a reasonable tone, "What would Freya be doing here - in this time?"
Isca glowered at the swamp – just to have something to glower at. He was good at glowering. It made him feel better. He did, however, realise that Raziel would want an answer.
Isca shrugged.
At his sire's despairing sigh, he relented, turning his mind to the events at hand with the disciplined ease of one accustomed to living with turmoil.
"So, are you going to face Kain here?"
Raziel looked askance at him.
"You are far older and more powerful than he is now," continued Isca, "You could end his tyranny before it begins. . ."
"Thereby negating our own existence." Put in Raziel pointedly.
Isca lowered his head, unsure if even he could make that sacrifice.
"Then we should leave now," urged Isca. "We have prevented the destruction of the Cabal, as we intended. Does this not mean that the other events we witnessed have been avoided? We should not risk any more disturbance to the time-line." Isca was well aware that his hurry to leave this era and return to the Razielim fortress had little to do with temporal anomalies.
Raziel chewed his lip pensively. "Perhaps - but one thing yet worries me - I seem to remember that Lord Roland was successful in turning back Kain's armies from the gates of the Stronghold. From what Vorador tells me, even the combined forces of Sarafan and Cabal may not be enough when Kain makes that advance – as he surely will. We should stay long enough to ensure that the battle ends in the desired result, then I will be satisfied that the true course of events is being followed once again."
Isca reluctantly acquiesced, and Vorador retreated into his mansion, his curiosity satisfied for now.
*
Not twenty miles away, the vampire in question slumped on his throne, the darting shadows thrown by the dim firelight disguising his weakened condition. To the casual observer, he was Kain, conqueror and ravager, unchallenged master of all he surveyed. To better-trained eyes, such as those of his Head Inquisitor who appraised him even now, the Master of the Vampires appeared lacklustre: almost desiccated. The strain of creating his ever-growing army of fledglings was severely taxing his reserves, and he for one would be glad when his elite came of age to sire their own. Transitory weakness notwithstanding, still he exuded a formidable presence, his unwavering scowl ensuring that his minions did not meet his eye unless spoken to, and then only under duress.
The current object of his undiminished wrath was the Head Inquisitor, whose armoured form awaited his word in a pose of anxious contrition.
"You were overcome by Vorador and his rag-tag band of reprobates?" Kain's voice, though fainter than usual, betrayed his anger and incredulity.
"They have united with the Sarafan, my Lord. Their forces . . ."
Kain interrupted, rising to his feet despite expectations.
"Do not tell me that you retreated from humans." The Master Vampire's voice warned of the consequences of such an admission, as well as belying his revulsion for the mortal herd. The Head Inquisitor wisely remained silent, eyes lowered in shame.
With a foreboding exhalation, Kain stalked stiffly towards his trusted guard, voicing an aside as he passed. "I will deal with you later."
The Inquisitor stiffened, head quickly inclining in acceptance.
Turning his attention to the remainder of the assembled throng, who numbered some thirty Inquisitors as well as nigh on a hundred of his 'regulars', Kain gave his orders.
"The Sarafan Stronghold is almost within our grasp. Only one line of defence separates us from our ultimate goal."
He commanded their rapt attention, every one of his recruits awed as always by the sheer charismatic energy and strength of purpose emanating from the future Emperor. They awaited the naming of their target with bated breath.
"The Tower."
*
Plated feet crunched steadily on dry earth, the measured stride bearing witness to recent years of strict, uncompromising drills. Against the inky black of the Nosgothic night loomed a darker silhouette, a towering bastion of granite and steel, its sloping sides pockmarked with innumerable murder-holes and arrow-slits. The Tower. The last, impregnable defence of the valley in which nestled the Sarafan Stronghold. From their positions within the bosom of the cold, stone fortress, a most unlikely group of comrades viewed the inexorable advance of Kain's army. Sarafan knights stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their age-old nemeses, some of whom were not even destined to be born before the lapsing of several centuries. Roland, flanked by Vorador and Raziel, watched the enemy's progress with a species of reserved aplomb.
"I appreciate your support in this, Raziel."
The Dark Lord cast a wry, sidelong glance at the fabled knight: the legends of Lord Roland's persuasiveness were true. Despite his better judgement, and his reservations on meddling too deeply in the flow of the time-line, he found himself being swayed by the young knight's pitch. Raziel would have been hard-pressed to refuse the Sarafan's argument for their joining in the skirmish - even if it had not been for the persistent demands of his restless offspring: Isca was spoiling for a fight. Only one thought gnawed at Raziel's mind as he prepared himself to meet the onslaught: Kain. In spite of his assurances to Isca that he would not engage his sire here, he found himself wondering whether he would be able to resist the lure of power represented by the slaying of his own executioner. Holding to the knowledge that Kain's death here would inevitably result in his own, Raziel readied himself to face his temptation.
Isca had elected to join the ground troops before the darkened tower, knowing that, in the absence of an immediate resolution of his problem, the surest cure for the tense unease that assailed his system was a few hours of mindless violence. So great was his anticipation of the coming bloodshed that he had taken to humming an old Vampire battle-dirge, which was unfortunately beginning to play on the nerves of the Sarafan troops who surrounded him. They began by degrees to edge away, leaving the psychotically humming Razielim in a space at the centre of a steadily growing and empty circle. Isca continued regardless.
The charge came swift, the steady march of the almost invisible troops degenerating into a wild stampede without so much as the warning of a battle-cry. The Sarafan outside the Tower found themselves in the thick of combat almost before they realised their opponents were upon them. Isca, his vampiric senses soaring as battle commenced, perceived what the humans could not: the Inquisitors were leading the fray. He smiled for the first time in days as the Razielim blade that seemed at times an extension of his own arm, sought vampire flesh with strokes as precise as those of a butcher's cleaver. He did love his work.
As the battle progressed, it became apparent that Kain's army had learned from their assault on Vorador's mansion, this time resorting to specialised, ranged-attack weaponry. At various points around the battlefield lay human corpses, riddled with arrows. Nor were the mortal contingent the sole recipients of the Inquisitors' poison barbs – several of Vorador's vampire allies strode unsteadily from foe to foe, their appearance that of humanoid porcupines. Angered by the imbalance, Isca cast about to locate the source of the assault, soon espying several archers atop a rocky ledge to the far left-hand side of the field.
With a combination of recklessness and determination, Isca fought his way up onto the lofty precipice, where he encountered a quartet of Kain's regulars, each armed with a sturdy crossbow. Dispatching the four with little distress to himself, the vampire turned at the telltale thud of a landing body to find himself face-to-face with the Head Inquisitor. For such he assumed his foe to be; clad, as were all the Inquisitors in jet black scale- and chainmail with accoutrements of bright steel, the leader of Kain's elite was set apart by the scarlet sigil embossed on its breastplate. Isca's features twisted into a feral grin. Vorador had told the out-of-time Razielim of the history of this particular miscreant: one of Kain's earliest recruits, the bastard had apparently earned a bloody reputation even before being lured under the Conqueror's command - the Head Inquisitor's subsequent deeds had ensured the pitiless sadist a place in the annals of infamy. Isca decided that the Inquisitor's head would make a fine addition to those already adorning the gates to the Tower.
The first cunning upstroke launched by his untried opponent almost unbalanced the overconfident vampire, forcing him to quickly re-evaluate the terms of the duel. As the fight wore on, it became apparent to both combatants that the Head Inquisitor was no match for Isca in brute strength - there were few who were - but the wiry creature's speed and agility kept the stronger vampire constantly on his toes. Before long, Isca dropped his guard in a well-practised attempt to gain ground on his adversary, and, as though expecting this very move, the Inquisitor sidestepped his advance. Pivoting with alarming celerity, the maille-clad figure dealt the Razielim a vicious slash across the un-armoured expanse of his back. Roaring in pain, and almost blinded by rage, Isca managed to retaliate with an extraordinarily precise backhand blow at the Inquisitor's head. His nemesis ducked with a fraction of a second to spare, and the deadly stroke that would surely have resulted in decapitation instead caught the helmet a glancing blow, removing it and sending it clattering over the edge of the precipice. Isca hastened forward, almost able to taste the golden nectar of triumph, only to stop short as the Inquisitor turned her golden eyes and pale features towards him, her mouth contorted in a grimace of pain.
In a moment of freezing horror, Isca recognised his own fledgling.
Author's note:
Did I fool you?
I've been planning this for weeks. : )
Review response:
Vladimir's Angel:
Re your query about Isca: Nope. : )
*waves a thankyou to Kain*
Hugs and puppies indeed!
And erm, you're not s'posed to like evil Kain, you twisted loony, you. *wanders off, Blood Omen 2 clasped behind her back, whistling innocently*
Wouldn't it be great if they did a BO2 era figure of Kain? *makes a gurgling, drooling sound a la Homer Simpson in a steakhouse*
Hmm . . .
*whips out pen and paper and starts making plans for a hostile takeover of Blue Box Toys*
MikotoTribal:
And I thought I was being sadistic in chapter 8. Holy cow. Poor Donald! Not that I have any particular liking for the verbally-challenged duck, but you don't normally associate that level of violence with cartoon characters.
Actually … *envisions Itchy and Scratchy in any episode except 'Porch Pals'*
I take it all back – do what you like to Donald, Goofy and Mickey, I don't care! : )
Deionarra:
Yeah, I was cringing about that line – I did try to wipe out all the Disney influences, but that one just managed to sneak through. I just wanted to show a little opposition from Vorador's cronies . . .
Oh, and you can blame Mikoto for the red herring about Freya – she keeps guessing my plot lines!
To Everyone:
*hands out cheese graters to anyone currently wearing a leather catsuit*
You may need these.
Deionarra: Sex in a battle – haha! I finally get it.