In a domed arena at the northern edge of Raziel's territory, the contest was about to begin. Ranks and tiers were filled with representatives from the various Clans, the low hubbub of undead voices echoing in a misleading pattern from the rounded walls. Below the stands lay the arena itself, little more than a rough, earthen circle, surrounded by high walls whose surfaces were stained a rusty brown from the blood of who knew how many hundreds of competitors throughout the years. At one edge of the arena was a raised platform, cordoned off from the rest of the stands – here the Clan leaders would enjoy an uninterrupted view of the proceedings while enjoying their host's hospitality. As the sun set fully, Raziel turned in his chair to witness the arrival of his guests, greeting each cordially as they took their seats next to him.
"Melchiah! It has been too long." He grasped his brother's arm warmly, gesturing to a chair at his right.
"Dumah – good to see you, brother." Raziel's eyes narrowed suspiciously. His sibling was looking extraordinarily self-satisfied, even for him.
"Turel . . ." Raziel halted, his face falling as he noted the burden his closest brother was carrying, "You brought your own food."
Turel replied with a dismissive wave. "Just something I picked up along the way."
"Anyone would think you didn't like drunken Sarafan. . ."
"What vintage?"
"Forty-five."
Turel promptly dropped his proposed meal over the side into the stands below, where it was devoured in short order.
He rubbed his claws together in anticipation. "I should have known you'd spare no expense."
The contest soon began in earnest, the liberal provision of intoxicating human blood going some way to heighten the rambunctious atmosphere in the arena. Although the proceedings involved no small measure of violence, the contest was more of a demonstration, an opportunity for the newest additions to each Clan to show off their skills against those of other Clans, as well as providing entertainment for their Lords. The fights were almost invariably called off before mortal wounds were inflicted – fledglings were generally far too precious a commodity to lose.
Rahab shook his head as another of his fledges staggered defeated from the arena, the Turelim who had bested him making irreverent gestures in his wake.
"That's three in a row. I'm going to have my Fledge Master flogged."
Dumah nudged him and whispered across in a conspiratorial fashion. "This next match will cheer you up. I have a surprise."
Rahab raised arched eyebrows in query, and shortly, he understood. As the swaggering Turelim left the stage, he was replaced by a lithe figure sporting Dumah's Clan symbol on a contoured metal breastplate. Breeches of smooth, soft leather smothered long, slender legs, and accoutrements of fine copper-coloured maille broke up the rest of the solid black armour. The female fledge coolly eyed the ranks above her, which had, since her entrance, descended into an uproar that bordered on a riot. She made a slow circuit of the pit with her sword drawn, patently basking in the lewd admiration of the predominantly male crowd, before halting in front of her Lord and bowing her head in deference.
Raziel was not the only one to look at the smugly grinning Dumah in surprise. Although the siring of female fledges was far from unheard-of, the Vampire Lords generally created such as this Dumahim for reasons other than combat.
From the opposite side of the arena, the female's opponent entered. Isca, his own weapon at the ready, glanced around at the spectators, wondering why the clamour had increased so dramatically in the last few minutes. An appraising glance at his challenger gave a lucid explanation for the screeching howls emanating from above him. He scowled as the Dumahim woman turned to face him, her face devoid of emotion, her frame eminently poised to strike.
Thoughts thundered through the riled fledgling's mind: was this some kind of a joke? Was their opinion of him so low that they put him in the arena with a female? He half-suspected that Poul had had a hand in this. Whatever the reason, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him belittle his skills thus.
Isca took one last glance at the crowd, sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest.
Raziel's eyes narrowed. What in Kain's name did the fledge think he was doing? Did he not realise that the danger from this Dumahim was real?
The female, tired of waiting for the Razielim whelp to attack, crossed the arena in a single bound and aimed a vicious slice at the unprepared youth's arm. Isca reeled from the blow but remained where he was, arms still folded stubbornly across his body. Dumah laughed uproariously. Several of his siblings joined in, shortly aiming a barrage of comments at their humiliated host.
"What have you been teaching them instead of combat skills, Raziel? Needlework?"
"What's he planning to do, stare her to death?"
"Perhaps he's hoping she'll drown in his blood."
"He does have a sword, doesn't he?"
Ignoring the comments, Raziel half-rose and gripped the side of the stand, grinding his teeth and willing Isca to defend himself, retaliate, rescind – anything but this embarrassing display of inaction before his brothers. Blasted fledge - this was no time to act out of some misplaced sense of chivalry! He grimaced again as the female fledge thrust her blade straight at Isca's thigh, the keen edge slicing through the reinforced leather and releasing a second stream of blood.
And so the 'fight' continued. Now and again the Dumahim would press home an attack, and Isca would either dodge out of the way or take the blow. The female was becoming increasingly irate and close to losing her hold on her temper: Isca was becoming increasingly bloody. The Dumahim fledgling was well aware that this match was for entertainment only – those who proved themselves valorous in these contests would be given accolades which would go some way to helping them achieve the coveted status of their Lords' Elite in the future. However, the Razielim's persistent and offensive refusal to fight her was taxing her patience, and ultimately, when she dealt him a vicious, gouging blow across the back to which he still didn't respond, her rage supplanted her decorum. She dropped her sword and leaped at him, tearing at the infuriating bastard's chest and throat with tooth and nail, reverting to her natural weapons in her fury.
At the female's attack, the crowd's mood transformed, the sight of flesh tearing beneath angered talons bringing out the demon in each of them. In addition, the one-sided duel had fired both the Razielim and the Dumahim to the point where naught but the death of their rivals' representative would placate them. They began to demand to see blood spilt. The chaotic shouting slowly transposed into a rhythmic, insistent chorus, the pounding of clawed fists and cloven feet adding a sonorous bass note to the din. This was no mantra of support - this was a death chant. Raziel frowned in alarm and clenched his fists until dark blood began to pool in his claws: he had few enough fledges from these recent Trials as it was.
Isca, meanwhile, was trying to keep the woman at arms' length as best he could, his new, primal instincts conflicting with his human father's deeply ingrained lessons regarding the treatment of women. It was no easy matter to keep the fledge at bay: whatever else she might or might not be, she was certainly a well-trained fighter, and his own reflexes were slowed by the wounds he had incurred. Isca was fast approaching the point where he would either have to yield to his vampiric training, or sacrifice himself for his refusal to let go of his human ideals. The realisation did little to help his situation. Ultimately, his distraught gaze caught that of Raziel, and his heart lurched sickeningly in his chest. His mentor's face was a mask of barely-suppressed, mortified rage. Holding the fledgling's gaze with eyes that warned against defiance, the Vampire Lord drew a claw sideways across his throat in a swift, unmistakeable gesture. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening. Isca took one last look at the furiously biting and clawing Dumahim before seizing the hissing creature by the neck and swinging her round to face the elated, bloodthirsty crowd. The chanting and pounding doubled in intensity, matching the thundering rhythm of his own heartbeat. His vision was a swirling blur of bared fangs and pumping fists, and, overriding it all, his Lord's blazing gold eyes. Steeling himself for the symbolic act he was about to undertake, he raised his own hand into the air in a joint salute and acknowledgement of his master's order, taking a firmer grip on the struggling female's throat as he did so. Forming the fingers of his right hand into a point, he used the full weight of his right side to plunge it into the fledgling's back, forcing his arm in until his searching fingers found their goal. The Dumahim's eyes bulged. Then, with his jaw clenched and his eyes locked on those of his master, Isca proceeded to tear out the creature's heart, which came loose of its host's convulsing frame with a reluctant squelch. With the crowd howling in approbation, he held the still-pulsating trophy aloft for all to see, while the Dumahim fledge slumped lifeless to the ground at his feet.
The Clans went wild, the Lieutenants rising to their feet along with their men.
Turel reached across and thumped the statue-still Raziel repeatedly on the back in a gesture of approval.
"Oh bravo, Raziel! Your fledge is almost as much of a showman as you are – did you put him up to it?"
Raziel shook his head distractedly, his eyes fixed on the creature who had almost shamed him.
Isca stared back blankly, his vision blinded by the death mask of the woman at his feet, his ears deaf to the riotous appreciation of his audience.
The Vampire Lord made a grim vow: when he got his claws on that fledgling, he was going to wish he had never been reborn.
*
"Wake up. Wake up! I want you to be conscious for this."
Eyelids flickered weakly in response, only to jolt open in agony as the sun planted searing kisses in a long, blistering line from neck to navel.
"Now that I have your attention, we can begin."
Review Response:
Silmuen:
Er . . .thanks for the review . . . *looks really puzzled and goes back to read chapter 3*
Just trying to figure out what it was in that chapter that got you all hot under the collar . . . ?! I mean if it was chapter 7 I could understand it. Muahaha! *wanders off to re-read the horrendously fluffy chapter she hasn't posted yet*
Raziella D.ReaverGlad you liked it, and yup, there's quite a bit more to this one yet . . .
Vladimir's Angel:
Yes, clever-clogs, you guessed right, 'twas a mental challenge. Sorry for the shuddery bits – Even I didn't know they were coming until I wrote them!
