Freya opened her eyes to see a broad expanse of green canvas, the rippling, snapping motion of the material leading her to the educated guess that she was in a tent. As she moved to sit up, she found her progress impeded by the sudden appearance of a pair of scimitar blades, above which hovered the faces of two Elite guards she recognised.
"Isca!" shouted one, obeying a formerly given command.
The vampire in question broke off his examination of the remains of his armour and approached, waving them both away. He stood in threatening silence before his errant fledgling.
Freya rubbed her jaw, waggling it from side to side to check its movement.
"I'd forgotten about that right hook of yours," she informed him with a rueful half-smile.
"One of many things you would do well to remember," replied Isca sourly. "Get up."
The tone of his order was enough to assure her that she was not out of trouble yet, despite his assurances in Kain's stronghold. She rose to follow him as he led her between a number of tents that were clustered irregularly about the muddy field, fully aware of the hostile glares afforded her by Sarafan and Vampire alike. Sometime during her imposed nap she had been relieved of her vambraces, greaves and breastplate, leaving her in her chainmail shirt and leather trousers. This was probably prudent, as the silvered accoutrements had marked her undeniably as a partisan of the Vampire Master, and would undoubtedly have worsened their reception of her at the camp - if that were possible.
Shortly, Isca stopped before a large, peaked pavilion, set at the heart of the field, and drew aside the entrance flap, motioning to her to proceed him. Freya stepped inside and instantly froze in her tracks. Three guards stood at intervals around the edges of the tent: the first, judging by the familiar vampiric armour Freya took to be one of Vorador's get; he was flanked by one of the Razielim Elite and a sturdy Sarafan warrior. However, it was the figures who occupied seats at the wooden table at the rear of the tent that arrested her attention and forced her premature halt. To the left, eyeing her with distaste, sat Vorador himself: Freya could only imagine how many of his troops had met their demise at the hands of her Inquisitors; to the right sat Lord Roland, his expression one of outright hatred – he was probably still seething over her merciless - and public - dispatching of his beloved agent. In the centre, and on his feet, loomed Raziel, his own expression unreadable. The atmosphere in the tent was one of tangible menace: Freya had not sensed an aura of such concentrated antipathy since the night she had walked unwittingly into Antaris' death-trap at the Sarafan keep.
A solid push from behind sent her stumbling stiff-legged into the pavilion, leaving her with the distinct impression that she had just been thrown to the lions. Raziel addressed her first, his gaze steady and emotionless.
"You stand accused of treason."
Freya was incredulous. "Treason?" she glanced from Vorador to Roland then back to Raziel, who was apparently acting as a neutral party in this.
"Since I owe allegiance neither to the Vampire Cabal nor the Lord Protector of the Sarafan, would you mind explaining what exactly brings you to that conclusion?"
Raziel frowned, his expression implying that she should already know. "You betrayed your bloodline."
Freya raised an eyebrow at the hypocrisy. "Quite the contrary, surely."
He moved quickly on to the questions they had prepared. "How long have you served Kain?"
Growing increasingly irate at Raziel's apparent double standards, she retorted, "About nine hundred and ninety-seven years less than you did."
The Dark Lord's eyes flared briefly in warning, and Vorador glanced at him suspiciously. Freya caught the interchange and chuckled darkly.
"No, I don't suppose you've enlightened your newfound allies on that score, have you?" Ignoring the death stares she was receiving from the figure behind the table, Freya continued heedlessly, addressing Vorador directly.
"You were not aware that he himself was closer to Kain than anyone? That he was the first-born of his favoured Lieutenants? That he spent a millennium undertaking deeds of unequalled callousness in Kain's name, helping to subjugate the land in its damnation and bring about Nosgoth's Twilight?"
While the figures around the table rose to their feet, demanding explanations, Freya felt her arm seized in an uncompromising grip, and shortly an infuriated voice hissed in her ear:
"Do you have any idea how difficult it was to prevent Roland and Vorador from stringing you up the moment I brought you into camp?" Isca felt the woman's frame tense as the reality of the situation was brought home to her. "You told me you wanted to atone - do not waste this opportunity."
Freya lowered her head, relenting. She could only guess what sort of discourse her usually laconic sire would have had to undertake on her behalf to arrive at this juncture. She glanced again at the three figures before her, to see that Raziel had managed to forestall Vorador and Roland's questions, and was looking at her expectantly.
"Three years."
Raziel resumed his seat, nodding his approval to Isca.
"And in that time you have been privy to his plans."
Freya closed her eyes, the true depths to which she was about to sink becoming clear to her. She nodded silently.
Raziel leaned back in his chair.
"Whenever you're ready."
Isca's grip on her arm tightened again and Kain's Head Inquisitor began to talk.
*
"Is there anything of relevance in all this tripe?"
Freya paused in her speech to regard the irate Sarafan.
"This is useless!" continued the Lord Protector. He had kept his peace until the woman had begun to tell them of Kain's plans to march on the Sarafan Stronghold.
"She has told us nothing we did not already know."
At a further insistence from Isca, Freya added a final, vital piece of information.
"Hendstadt."
Roland's eyes snapped in her direction. "What of it?"
"Kain controls it."
"I think not," began Roland indignantly. At the woman's fateful nod, he rose to his feet, fists clenched.
"This 'Hendstadt' - it has strategic significance?" queried Vorador.
Through gritted teeth, Roland answered, his eyes ever on the face of the Inquisitor.
"It's our fall-back position. It's the only village in the valley north of the Stronghold – if the security of the compound is broken from the south, Hendstadt holds extra troops and munitions for a counter-attack."
"Not any more." Freya corrected him.
With a loud curse, Roland thumped his fist on the table. Raziel quieted him: he had seen the look of dawning realisation that had begun to bloom on Freya's face.
"Speak."
Freya clenched her jaw, irresolute. She had already divulged the majority of Kain's plans – what difference would another admission make? Besides, the more time she spent in the presence of her former allies, the more she was starting to appreciate the profundity of her mistake. The flow of information by this point was almost willing, and as her sire moved around to stand at her side, she found herself wondering anew at her previous actions. A further persuasive contraction of Isca's claw provoked an unexpected shudder as she reflected on the fate that had been averted for him - he looked much better with his skin on. She decided to comply.
"If Kain realises that I have been brought here, he might suspect this interrogation. As I mentioned, he plans to march on the Sarafan Stronghold in a week's time, when he has added sufficient numbers to his fledgling army - but if he suspects that you know this, he may move his plans forward."
Vorador remained unconvinced. "He may simply decide to pick another target, one unknown to you."
Raziel shook his head. He knew Kain well enough. Roland too was otherwise persuaded.
"Everything he has done in the last three years has been in preparation for this one attack. He will not be deterred when he is this close." Freya advised them.
"Then there is no time to lose." Declared Roland, striding toward the door. "Are you with me?" Raziel and Vorador gave their respective answers by moving to accompany him. As the remaining three guards trooped from the tent, Freya observed Isca and his sire in conversation at the exit. Although the initial words that passed between them were inaudible, she caught Raziel's parting comment, for his head was turned in her direction as he made it.
". . . Or I will."
The tent emptied, leaving her alone with Isca.
The tense, oppressive atmosphere that had prevailed whilst in the company of Roland and Vorador would have been a welcome release from the sheer, gut-churning uncertainty of this encounter. Freya almost wished Roland would come back – his hostility had at least been a known variable. When she had first seen Isca during the fracas outside Vorador's mansion, the shock had been overwhelming: in fact, his appearance had constituted more than half the reason for her calling the retreat. Later, when Kain's punishment for her failure had left her feeling ashamed for backing down in front of the object of her long-harboured loathing, she had vowed that the next time they met, he would be the one running away. Now that she saw things in a clearer light, in the company of old allies and away from the corrupting influence of Nosgoth's ravager, Freya was utterly convinced that Isca would never have abandoned her intentionally. Despite this realisation, the woman found she could barely meet her sire's eye as he regarded her in silent disapproval. She knew how bitterly disappointed he was: it scathed, it burned, it twisted her insides. She desperately needed his forgiveness, but after her atrocious actions towards him, she didn't feel she deserved it.
Isca stared at her dispassionately.
"So . . ." she began, her throat suddenly dry. "What about me? Am I to go with you to battle?"
Her sire remained silent a moment before answering.
"Can we trust you?" At her hesitation, he added, "If we were to go up against your own troops tonight, with Kain leading the pack, would you be certain of your loyalties?"
"I don't know," replied the woman honestly, wretchedly.
"That doesn't help, Freya."
As he called her by her name something inside snapped, ending long months of domineering control and bringing her close to the brink of tears. She hid it well, though, straightening up and taking a deep breath as new purpose gave her strength.
"I want to fight at your side again."
Isca stepped closer, his scrutiny intense as he endeavoured to fathom the depths of her resolve.
"No."
Freya almost crumbled. It had taken most of her courage to say those words. She watched in disbelief as Isca turned and left the tent without so much as a backwards glance.
*
Author's Note.
Heh. I'm so mean to my characters.
Review Response:
Kittie! Welcome back! Thought we'd lost you.
MikotoTribal:
Hmm . . .
*rereads previous chapter then wanders off trying to figure out what strange idea Mikoto's got into her head this time*