Nights lengthened to weeks, months into years, and with the fullness of time, Raziel's newborns were beginning to come into their own – and not a moment too soon. Outside the relatively safe confines of the Razielim fortress, times were changing. The Sarafan at Meridian had come under new leadership, which, aside from making the Sarafan a more credible enemy, had also, bewilderingly enough, returned them to older and more traditional methods of combat. The Vampire Lords, for once, had some measure of respect for this new, fairer adversary. Isca, unaffected by the changing whims of his Lords, still despised them with every fibre of his being, and found the idea of a noble enemy small consolation for the loss of his parents. He for one was glad when Raziel declared that their training was sufficient and began to take him and his fellow Trial survivors into battle against the humans.
The fledglings had come to understand from the earliest times that the nature of their training was twofold: while Gurt undertook the majority of their weapons and combat training, their instruction in the ways of Vampire lore lay always with their sire. Thus had it been over the course of the years: the Fledge Master imparting the physical skills and the necessary sense of martial judgement, while Raziel taught them the more esoteric ideals, along with their own Clan lore; and never was there a pupil more suited or more able to learn from the either Master than Isca, who devoured every word as though he subsisted on pure knowledge.
Raziel had not been slow to notice this fact, and was becoming increasingly impressed with the boy's natural skills and willingness to learn. The fledge had done well in their recent escapade beneath the Sun Temple, overcoming his natural fear of water to serve his Lord, and in some ways it was a pity the youngster had not shown these innate qualities sooner. It was obvious that the young man did not relish having Poul as his superior, but he had been an obvious choice to lead the six Initiates who had passed the Trial, and would remain nominal leader of the group until he proved otherwise.
Tonight, Raziel was taking them hunting. Although he was well aware that they were able to take down individuals when they hunted alone, he wished to see how they would fare as a group under Poul's command, and for this reason – along with his other motive of obtaining several live prisoners - he took them to the boundaries of the Sarafan lands. He had lain the trap himself: his plan being to make a show of attacking a lone woman, with the intention of luring a Sarafan contingent of some twenty men into a blind canyon. The stage set, he then handed control of the group over to Poul, who quickly shared his own plan with his companions. This done, the fledglings ascended the canyon walls above the petrified woman, who, when Raziel began a rather melodramatic and over-the-top impression of a hungry vampire, obligingly screamed for help.
True to form, the Sarafan were duped, rushing into the ravine with bold cries and rash challenges – they were more than a match for a single undead leech.
"Get away from the lady, you parasite!" called the foremost knight as he careened into the canyon.
Raziel turned his head quickly in the direction of the challenge, and with considerable effort managed to force an expression approximating mild fear onto his unwilling features. He ran through a series of possible rejoinders as the knights trouped into the ravine: 'Please don't kill me,' and 'I will release her if you spare my life,' quickly followed 'Oh no! Not the Sarafan Knights!' on the scrapheap of ideas. Raziel contented himself with an annoyed hiss instead: the knights looked suitably unimpressed.
As the scene below unfolded, Poul gave the order, and two fledglings plummeted into the canyon behind the armoured knights, blocking their exit. A heartbeat later, the other four descended into the pit while Raziel made good his own escape with the woman over his shoulder – it seemed a shame to waste the bait.
At first, the plan went smoothly and by the numbers, the fledglings, who were still tentatively feeling the extent of their power, subduing the knights as they came into range. They were under orders to take at least half of the party alive: Raziel had need of them. The rest were fair game, and their Lord watched with approval from where he crouched at the top of the ravine as his offspring cleanly parted the Sarafan from their lives, or rendered them unconscious with flailing fists. He had to stifle a laugh as Isca slipped in the pooling viscera and landed in a rather undignified manner on his rear end - that was where the cloven feet would come in useful when they developed in a few years' time. Seeing that Poul had the situation under control, he cast a comment over his shoulder at the woman, who was quietly creeping towards the deeply forested area at his back.
"The woods are full of wolves."
The young woman froze.
"They cannot be reasoned with."
She swallowed hard and remained where she was, indecisive, as the shadowy figure of the Clan lord rose to its full height and stretched languorously, cracking its knuckles. She watched in apprehension as he turned to face her, unholy fires glowing in the depths of his eyes.
"For that matter," he commented, "Neither can I."
Raziel was feeling decidedly lazy tonight, and in no mood for chasing his prey through the wolf-ridden forest - hence, the pursuit was over swiftly, a single pounce bringing the woman to the ground with a solid thud and a muffled scream. A glimpse of over-bright, impossibly round eyes, a gasp of terror from pale pink lips, then nothing but the red haze that obscured all vision as fangs found flesh. A few minutes later, a scuffle from below disturbed his feed, his sensitive ears detecting sounds that ought not to be. Rising reluctantly from the half-drained body, he glanced over the edge of the ravine, instantly cursing himself on several counts; for taking his eyes off the fledges, for permitting himself to be distracted by his meal, and for allowing Poul to take command.
He took in the scene's story in several swift, appraising glances. The human contingent had benefited from unexpected reinforcements – mercenaries by the look of them - and instead of alerting him, or ordering the fledges to retreat, Poul had decided to take them all on. The fledglings had struggled to take down the Sarafan, mainly because they had been ordered to keep some of them alive: the youngsters would ever find maiming harder than killing. The addition of the mercenaries to the equation had left the fledges trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place. Everywhere the sire looked he saw his offspring struggling to force back the new arrivals, several of whom were armed with long spears. This left the fledges with precious little room to manoeuvre, a fact which was forcing them to fight the humans on their own terms.
As he watched Poul make another tactical blunder which forced one of the fledglings onto the waiting spears of the mercenaries, Raziel's patience snapped. He dropped lithely into the canyon, wading through the ranks of the enemy like so much water. Where his progress was impeded, he swept the humans aside with devastating force, sometimes mashing two or three at a time into pulp against the unyielding canyon walls. One idiotic mercenary apparently fancied his chances against Kain's firstborn tonight, but Raziel was in no mood for playing. As the foolish creature rushed him with spear outstretched before him, the vampire sidestepped the strike, seized the haft and wrenched it from the human's grasp before lifting him from the ground and snapping him like a piece of driftwood over his knee. With the Vampire Lord added to the mix, the struggle was over quickly, the outcome inevitable. Silence descended over the ravine like a pall, steam rising in hazy clouds from the mangled bodies of mercenaries and knights alike. Poul, who knew full well he had failed in his duty – and the likely results of such an admission - was ready to say anything that might enable him to ingratiate himself again with his master. He dropped to his knees in a gesture of contrition.
"M-my Lord, it was not our fault – the mercenaries took us by surprise and -"
Raziel, who was staring regretfully at the fallen body of one of his fledglings, now turned his cold, disapproving gaze on the wittering youth.
"Nothing you can say will bring back this fledge."
Isca was not the only one to wonder at his Lord's choice of reprimand. He had been half-expecting to see Poul's head rolling on the floor after that little fiasco. He kept his fingers crossed – the night was still young.
"He was born of my blood, and your stupidity cost him his life."
Poul opened and closed his mouth rapidly, but no sound issued. Seemingly having said his piece, the vampire averted his gaze from the object of his distaste.
"You are not worthy to lead."
Poul seemed to retreat into himself; his shoulders hunching as he drew his legs up to his chest. Somehow his master's loss of faith in him was more hurtful than any physical pain the inventive Clan Lord could possibly have inflicted.
"I-I . . ." stammered Poul.
Raziel ignored him, stepping over bodies to reach the canyon exit.
"Get the living to the wagon," he ordered, and, pointing a bloodstained claw directly at Isca's nose, he added in a caustic tone:
"And you - make sure nothing goes wrong this time."
Isca's eyes goggled, belatedly remembering to incline his head in a dual gesture of acknowledgement and respect. Despite the harsh tone of Raziel's words, he knew that trust was being placed in him, and the butterflies in his stomach began to conflict with the fireworks that were going off in celebration in his head. He consequently oversaw the operation with a smug grin, which he flashed as often as possible in Poul's direction.
The Razielim leader did nothing without good reason, and this night's 'hunt' was no exception. In a few days' time, his fellow Clan Lords would arrive at his territory for the Fledgling Tourney. Although on the surface this marked an opportunity for each Clan's fledglings to prove their worth in single combat, it was also an excuse for diversion from the dreary, unending conquest of the human lands – and for revelry of suitably vampiric proportions. Raziel knew, as does every good host, that it is a sign of good breeding to offer one's guests appropriate refreshments.
Consequently, over the following few days, the Sarafan prisoners found to their surprise that they were kept well-fed and watered in comfortable conditions, the last few hours before the start of the tournament only serving to increase their bewilderment, as they were offered large quantities of a rather fine vintage of wine.
