Leaden air weighed like an extra suit of steel on the already heavily-armoured bodies of the knights before the Sarafan Stronghold. Overhead, a sullen sky glowed a sickly yellow-orange, the overcharged thunderheads expressing frustration at their withheld power through an occasional dazzling flash across their bloated underbellies. Forked prongs of blue-white energy danced on the distant horizon – the storm was on its way. The plain itself was well-lit with a smattering of small bonfires, their glowing flames signifying that the Sarafan would not have to cope with the reduced visibility associated with a night-time battle, as well as offering a convenient means of disposal for Kain's fledgling guard.
Roland, Lord Protector of the Sarafan Stronghold, stood side by side with a battalion of his own knights; Vorador and the vampire warriors of the Cabal; and Raziel, with his eight remaining Elite. Roland was reasonably happy with the situation so far: thanks to the information gleaned from Kain's Head Inquisitor, the allied forces stood ready and waiting before the object of the Conqueror's rapacious desire, and although it had been too late to call for extra troops from distant strongholds, the Sarafan Knight was reasonably confident of success. The only additional boon he now prayed for was rain.
The company fell silent as a massive shadow began to detach itself from the gloom at the far side of the plain. From where the allied forces stood, it resembled nothing so much as a boiling, turbulent black cloud of heaving, bristling belligerence. Kain's fledgling army was on the move. As the mass approached, the allies were able to perceive the silver-haired figure that stalked at the head of the line, the deadly curves of the Soul Reaver gleaming from its cradle in one clawed fist. Hale and hearty once again and oozing supreme confidence, the would-be Emperor advanced until he was less than a hundred feet from the Lord Protector's position outside the Stronghold before issuing his challenge.
"Surrender!" grinned the prospective Conqueror, knowing the response before it was uttered.
Lord Roland laughed at the ridiculousness of the demand. "Not tonight, nor any other while I still draw breath."
"As you wish," replied Kain affably. He was in a much better mood since he had finished creating his fledglings. His gaze roved over Roland's new collaborators; Vorador he knew, and he accorded the cat-eyed immortal a condescending leer before tossing some acerbic comments in his direction:
"Having fun with your pets, Vorador? And there I thought I'd seen the last time you would soil your own hands by entering into battle." The green-skinned immortal scowled, but kept his peace.
With a satisfied smirk, Kain glanced at the other figures at Roland's side, quickly identifying the impetuous creature who had made off with his Head Inquisitor, before his gaze settled at last on the winged creature who accompanied him. Kain's eyes met those of Raziel and narrowed sharply, sensing some unnameable, but nonetheless virulent emotion emanating from the cerulean-skinned vampire. Sloughing the uncomfortable feeling as a snake sheds its skin, he glanced at his troops, gauging their eagerness, and pumped his fist into the air as he gave voice to the battle-cry.
"Vae Victus!"
The bloodthirsty challenge was taken up and echoed by hundreds of ravenous throats as the army surged towards its ultimate and long-sought-after goal. The fledges were hungry, as much for blood as for victory, their scheming master having forced them to fast before the battle in order to take full advantage of the natural violence born of the Vampire Thirst. As the opposing forces rushed together with the bellowing of forceful challenges, and the resounding clank of sword meeting shield, it quickly became apparent that although the fledglings were no match for Raziel's Elite, nor Vorador's Cabal, the Sarafan Knights - who made up the greater portion of the army - would have serious trouble in tackling them. However, the tide of battle waits for no man, living or undead, and the sheer brutality of the scene unfolding beneath the pregnant skies ensured that the Gods of War, who doubtless watched in anticipation, would be thoroughly entertained tonight.
Lord Roland took on his enemies with the honourable ferocity for which he was famed. His blade sought the hearts of Kain's damned, deeming each dispatch a release for the tortured soul within. His troops were inspired by the lead of his heroic figure, the firelight flashing from his polished silver armour lending him a radiant aura, and despite the desperate dearth of men on their side, Roland and his troops were optimistic. Right would triumph.
Isca was not enjoying the combat as much as usual. Despite the ready availability of easy prey, the vampire was plagued by thoughts of Kain's corruption of his fledge, and in spite of her recent attempt at turning, repenting and atoning, he was as yet unsure of what lasting damage might have been done. Furthermore, he was still wracked with uncertainty at the aptness of his parting words to her: it had taken much of his considerable willpower to deny her request, and he had been compelled to expel himself from the tent before his own resolve weakened. Although it had been an unexpected joy to hear his estranged lover express her desire to join him in battle once again, Raziel's orders had made him hesitate in giving the answer that had almost escaped his lips. Despite the Inquisitor's informing, his sire was far from convinced of her allegiance, and had warned Isca that if for any reason he suspected her continued loyalty to Kain, he was to dispatch her - or else he would undertake the deed himself. All in all, it was better that she remain in the camp until this final battle should be resolved - Raziel had given his assurance that they would be moving on as soon as he was satisfied with the outcome. For the first time in his unlife, Isca hoped the fight was over quickly.
Kain was lost in the delirium of bloodshed, the pure pleasure he derived from the kill second only to the knowledge that but a few puny soldiers separated him from his ultimate goal. An almost sophisticated smile curved his lips as he hacked and slashed his way through the ranks of the enemy, Nosgoth's ravager taking the opportunity whenever it arose to sneak up on an unsuspecting foe from behind, savouring the extra tang of adrenaline that tinged the blood of the surprised before Death claimed them. He moved as an unstoppable wave through the Sarafan ranks, leaving a broken path of inhuman destruction in his wake. Ever and anon the flow of combat brought him close to the winged vampire, who often caught his eye, but whenever he made a move to engage the tantalising foe, the blue-skinned coward would lose himself in the crowd. Kain was fast becoming annoyed.
Raziel, for his part, was sorely tempted. Every time his darting feet brought him close to his sire, he was reminded that this youthful Kain was no match for his own strength and skill, and every time this seductive thought flirted with his mind, he found himself increasingly inclined to try. And, after all, why not? Why not set the world to rights? Was his own existence and that of the few Elite who remained worth the price? With one single action he could prevent Kain's centuries of dominion before they could begin. The self-same power-lust surged over him again, just as it had in Moebius' Chronoplast chamber: the unequalled pleasure he had experienced at being in control of his own destiny – and now potentially that of Kain - sending him ever closer to the brink of attempting the deed. Only his new-found sense of his own worth stayed his twitching hand.
Isca watched his sire closely. He had been appalled at the expression he had seen on Raziel's countenance whenever Kain drew near, and had since endeavoured to keep himself between them. He was disturbingly aware of the consequences of Kain's death here (he did not for one minute envisage the Conqueror emerging victorious from a potential match with his own sire) and was therefore taking steps to ensure that Raziel's temptation was kept to a minimum. He fought on regardless, the spilling of the blood of the Kain's spawn giving him some measure of vicarious satisfaction against the creature he knew neither he nor his sire was allowed to kill.
*
Less than a mile away, Freya sat numbly on one of the wooden chairs in the pavilion, the ache in her chest reminding her to breathe occasionally. The woman stared disconsolately at the entrance flap from where Isca had departed less than an hour previously: she did not blame him for not wanting her to stand by him in combat – she fully appreciated that it might take a long time – years perhaps - before the vampire would trust her again. Freya sighed heavily, accepting the difficulty of the situation, only then realising that her keen ears were picking up the sounds of combat from the nearby battlefield. It occurred to her then in a moment of utter gut-wrenching clarity that Isca was out there fighting for his life – fighting against Kain and the fledgling army she had helped train, having refused her help and put himself in danger yet again - and damn the stubborn git to hell and back, she was going to go and help him whether he liked it or not. Rising to her feet as her decision was taken, Freya left the tent, appropriated herself a weapon and headed purposefully for the Stronghold.
The woman was shortly racing onto the battlefield, closely observed by several pairs of suspicious eyes. She quickly spotted the embattled Isca where he stood almost surrounded in the centre of the field – it was just typical of him to be in the thick of things. Fortunately, however, it was evident that his battle with Kain's fledges was barely taxing his strength; heads, limbs and streamers of blood jetted in all directions as the immortal cut a swathe through the pack that beset him. Freya allowed herself a small smile as she watched him in combat, finding herself struck again by his martial prowess, just as she had been in a skirmish not too far from this very spot, barely three years ago. With a slight shake of her head, she started for his side. As Freya's determined jog brought her level with a natural opening in the crowd, she saw an unwanted sight that made her blood run cold.
Kain.
Nosgoth's ravager was laughing maliciously as he impaled and disembowelled and decapitated, his ash-white skin daubed red with his victims' lifeblood. Suffering to the conquered indeed. She felt the seditious pull, as she did so often in his presence, the desire to maim and hurt and leave her victims dying in slow, mortal suffering blooming once again as though he were some unholy catalyst, or propagator of evil thoughts. She tore her gaze away from the sadistic Conqueror to see her one-time lover where he fought for his life, his deadly strokes, though still unmatched, seeming a little less fervent than usual. Freya's decision was made in less than a second, the resolution sending her pelting in Isca's direction with her sword drawn.
Raziel's second-in-command was starting to feel the strain of fighting without a decent incentive. Every swing was a chore, and for the first time since Raziel had welcomed him into this night-time world of unending violence, this indomitable warrior, this unflagging engine of destruction, was feeling almost tired. No sooner had the thought struck him than he found the strain had been taken from his left hand side – he was no longer being attacked from that quarter. Chancing a glance during a second's peace, he saw Freya assiduously working her blade through her former comrades, her back to him as she thrust and parried, keeping the fledgling attackers at bay. Isca smiled to himself. Bloody-minded woman. Trust her to do exactly what she wanted. With a suppressed chuckle threatening to escape his throat, Isca threw himself back into battle with much more gusto, his smug pleasure at the woman's presence doubling his already improved combat efficiency.
The tide had turned.
Kain's fledgling forces, as vicious and voracious as they were, still hovered at the lowest rung of the vampiric evolutionary ladder. Those who encountered the brutally-slashing blades of the Razielim or the merciless arms of Vorador's contingent met with swift, sudden release. The Sarafan knights, however, aware of their own disadvantages, used those of the fledges against them, setting their sensitive skin alight with burning brands, or hurling their reluctant bodies to the waiting flames - and the equally expectant waters. The fledgling numbers were thinning, and Kain knew it.
Isca's jubilation reached new heights as Kain's forces began to beat a reluctant retreat, and, falling back on old habits, he clapped a nearby Sarafan ally on the back, sending the unsuspecting fellow reeling into the distance. His apologetic smile faded as he watched Kain and Freya exchange one last glance, the slightest, almost imperceptible shaking of the woman's head assuring him that this particular alliance was over. Kain's disgusted sneer sealed the impression.
As the future Emperor departed, his keen mind already plotting his revenge, he reflected on how much he liked the armour worn by the guards of the winged warrior's army.
Amidst howls of approbation and derisive comments aimed at the Conqueror's remaining departing troops, Roland emerged to drape an arm over the shoulders of the leaders of his Vampire allies.
"Well, my friends, the battle is won, the enemy is driven from our door – this is where the celebration begins. Will you join us?"
Raziel and Vorador exchanged a glance.
"I have my own plans, Lord Roland," replied Vorador hurriedly. "Although I appreciate the offer." He added with a gracious nod.
Roland turned his contagious grin on Raziel, who hesitated, assailed again by the strength of the unpleasant memories associated with the Stronghold. However, the new-born nihilist in him was swayed by the knowledge that this man would keep Kain from getting his claws on the Sarafan sanctuary as long as he lived. Furthermore, he would maintain a standing of 'honourable foe' with Vorador and his Cabal until the end of the golden days of his rule. Taking another glance at the Stronghold, Raziel acquiesced. It was about time he overcame past dreads.
Raziel now turned his gaze on Isca, who signalled with a tilt of his head that his sire should go on without him. The field slowly began to empty.
Isca now turned to deal with his wayward fledge, his expression and tone belying the severity of his displeasure.
"I told you not to come."
Biting down on the initial retort that rose to mind, Freya swallowed her pride and replied, in a voice that was almost meek.
"You told me you didn't want me at your side if I wasn't sure of my loyalties."
"And now suddenly you are? How convenient."
Freya's brows knitted together into a puzzled frown. There was something wrong with his face.
"Did you even stop to consider the possibility that the sight of your former master might trigger your past fidelities?" he asked, his mouth seeming to twitch as though with a nervous tick.
"I saw him long before I ever got to you."
Isca tensed at this new piece of information. "And you weren't tempted?"
Freya gave a fair approximation of a sly grin, tinged as it was by remorse and underlying desires.
"He's got nothing on you."
There was definitely something amiss with her sire's expression: he now looked for all the world like he was sucking a lemon. As she opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, Isca's control broke, and the grin he had been suppressing for the last five minutes erupted onto his face with a flash of pointed canines. He chortled.
"Doting fool."
Freya's outrage at the insult lasted all of two-and-a-half seconds, before she conceded to the light-heartedness of his teasing and allowed herself a brief chuckle. When his laughter had run its course, Isca's expression became somewhat more serious. He hesitated, as though giving the matter some serious consideration, before extending a bloodied claw towards her in an unmistakeable gesture of friendship. Although it was not quite the reception she had hoped for, Freya was fully cognizant of the fact that her recent actions might well have ensured that their involvement might never return to its former status. Nonetheless, she managed a smile as she clasped his hand.
As the two made their way back to Vorador's camp (Freya had the distinct impression that she would be less than welcome at the victory celebrations in the Stronghold, and equally so at the party of doubtless orgiastic proportions which would surely ensue at Vorador's mansion), they conversed on recent events, exchanging stories and filling in gaps in each others' knowledge.
"When are we leaving?" asked Freya finally, her desire to put as much time between her and the events of the last three years making her question almost a plea.
"At first light," began her companion, snapping his claws as he remembered her disadvantage. "We had better find you a helmet."
"Thanks a lot." Replied Freya, oozing sarcasm. Seeing his raised eyebrow, she relented, adding, "Just as long as you don't leave me behind this time."
"You needn't worry on that score. I think even Raziel is convinced you're far more of a liability when you're out of our sight."
Freya was not exactly sure how to take that comment, so for the moment she contented herself with pleasant thoughts of leaving the still powerful sphere of the young Kain's influence. They approached the camp in companionable silence, each taking in the sights and sounds of the night, alive as always to vampiric senses. As they entered the deserted camp, Isca turned aside momentarily to examine the body of a Sarafan knight that lay unmoving before the entrance to a tent. Turning quickly to his companion to inform her that the body had been drained, he froze, his eyes wide and his mind barely able to process the horrendous sight that awaited him. Not ten feet from him, Freya stood immobile, transfixed by an undulating blade that extended from the hand of a maliciously grinning, silver-haired fiend.
"No-one betrays me without paying the price."