Deserts were not dry.
In fact, in Isca's opinion, deserts had no concept of the meaning of words such as 'parched', or 'arid', or even 'desiccated'. Not even the wind-blasted wasteland outside the Sanctuary of the Clans (which he had been fortunate enough to see on one unforgettable occasion) could ever hope to sympathise with the sheer, burning dehydration with which the fledgling was afflicted. It filled every second of every waking moment – of which there was a surfeit, the Thirst precluding the possibility of his stealing a moment's respite through the healing embrace of fledgling sleep - and tainted his every thought, no matter how unrelated it was to the sensation of drinking fresh blood.
Raziel was refusing to let him hunt.
On some level, he understood that he was being punished for his action – or lack thereof - at the Fledgling Tournament. However, understanding his predicament did not help him to bear the unfair weight he felt had been imposed on him, and by and by, Isca's existence was starting to gall him. As the nights dragged on, the young vampire's thoughts were increasingly consumed with a red need, an all-pervading craving that left little room for other considerations. Surely his Lord must relent soon? After all, mused the half-starved fledge, the other Clan Lords had thought his performance high entertainment.
Apparently, Raziel had not been so amused.
Dusk saw two figures on horseback depart the Razielim stronghold, a third horse trailing riderless at the rear. The journey, though not overly long, was by its very nature an arduous trek for the thirsting fledgling. Every furtive movement in the bushes; every flitting shadow that raced across the moonlit ground; every unusual night sound was a lone human begging to have its throat cut, and its lifeblood leeched. Isca began to wonder how long a fledge could hold out without sustenance before it went mad. Shortly, he observed that they had crossed into Melchiah's territory, and, to his relief, Raziel drew to a halt before a small stone sanctuary set into a hillside.
The Clan Lord shot a surreptitious glance at the agitated youngster. While Isca had indeed served him well over the last five years, his behaviour at the Tourney had alerted him to the fact that the boy was holding on to far too many of his old human ideals. Not only were these unnecessary, but they forewarned of future hindrances to the execution of his will. He planned to take steps to rectify this. Tonight, it was blatantly obvious that Isca was in the grip of the later stages of the Thirst: he was eyeing everything as though it were a potential meal, and was starting to show the bluish pallor and muscular spasms that were the characteristic withdrawal symptoms of his particular curse. The Vampire Lord had therefore decided to test the strength of his fledge's devotion to its utmost. He had already fed in front of the thirsting youth before leaving the Razielim grounds, and while he was aware that he was being hard on the boy, he saw in him the fallow seed of potential, and that was too rare a quality to waste. Besides, Raziel by his very nature thrived on the discomfiture of others.
He would, of course, allow the boy to feed tonight, but only when the test was accomplished to his satisfaction.
"I have a task for you."
Isca stood to attention as well as he could, his system wracked by frequent shudders - and gnawing pains that seemed to be eating away at his guts from the inside.
"The Sarafan army is camped near here tonight. I want you to take a message to their leader."
Isca's jaw dropped, despite himself. This was surely a death sentence.
Raziel grinned at his young aide's expression, giving voice to a calming chuckle.
"You need not fear them tonight – it is Relstadt Night, and not even they will dishonour the truce."
"Yes, my Lord. What is the message?" Isca asked. He ground his teeth audibly as he thought of entering the enemy camp – the enemy to whom he owed a bloody revenge – while the Thirst was on him, and still endeavouring to do his Lord's bidding. He had no idea whether or not he possessed the necessary willpower to complete the task. Nevertheless, with the message fixed in his mind, he took the reins of the spare mount in one hand, and spurred his own horse in the direction of the Sarafan camp. Despite his master's assurances, he was in no way consoled by the nebulous status of 'truce' that existed for this one night of the year, and began to wonder if he would live to see another night.
Isca roped the horses together at some distance from the noise and light of the campfire, and began to circle around the group of humans, all of whom were completely oblivious to his presence. He allowed himself some small measure of superior satisfaction at this: if the situations were reversed, a human in his position would have been sensed, captured and, quite likely, devoured by now. Isca immediately wished he had not envisioned feeding: his stomach now felt as though it were trying to eat itself again. As the fledgling hovered at the edge of the circle of light projected by the fire, trying to come up with a plan that did not involve him walking straight into the middle of the Sarafan knights and asking them to take him to their leader, he spotted a most unexpected sight. The person he sought, the Sarafan P'ramma, was seated alone beneath a tree not twenty paces from where he stood, cradling a wineskin.
Not a little puzzled by her behaviour, he nonetheless thanked the Dark Gods for his luck, and approached with a fair amount of noise, so as not to surprise her into shouting for help. As he drew closer, he was struck again by the woman's appearance: her long, chestnut hair, green eyes and unusual build made her stand out from any of the southern castes with which he was acquainted: he supposed she must hail from northern stock. Casting such frivolous musings aside, he stepped into the woman's line of sight, causing her to leap to her feet, where she remained, swaying unsteadily until he informed her of his Lord's request to meet with him.
It took precious little time to convince the Sarafan leader to accompany him, as Raziel apparently possessed some documents which were of such interest to the woman that she was willing to abandon the relative safety of her camp and head off into the uncertain darkness with a servant of the enemy. Unarmed at that. Isca reflected on these circumstances as he held the horse steady for the rapidly sobering woman to mount, and soon found himself speculating on whether it was his Lord's intention to corrupt the P'ramma tonight. These ideas continued to circulate in his head as they approached the Sanctuary in silence, the young vampire all too aware of the heat emanating from the woman beside him. Her heartbeat, accelerated as much by anticipation of the upcoming meeting as by the large quantities of wine in her bloodstream, was like the tattoo of a thousand drums, beating directly in the needy fledgling's ear. Isca bit his lip, causing his own blood to flow – it did nothing for the Thirst. The fledge urged his mount to greater speed: if they did not reach the sanctuary soon, not only was he going to fail in his latest mission, but the Sarafan were going to be looking for a new leader.
To say that Isca was relieved to reach the Melchahim sanctuary would have been tantamount to saying that vampire-haunted humans were relieved to see the dawn. When the unwieldy door had scraped to a close, sealing the Sarafan leader inside with his master, the fledgling placed his back to the rough stone wall and slid slowly to the ground, eyes closed against the cruel, gnawing cravings. The pangs were increasing in frequency and strength, his every breath sending fiery twinges through every muscle, every nerve; his teeth ached; his head was pounding, and to top it all off, he knew he was a good half-hour's ride from the nearest village – not that he would dare defy Raziel's will. Isca, resigned to his fate, buried his head in his hands and waited.
The meeting was concluded more quickly than he had expected, the sanctuary door scraping open less than an hour later to allow egress to a most bewildered-looking P'ramma. Isca's eyes fastened onto her departing form, the predator in him anticipating and following every movement, while the vampire in him prayed to whatever Gods might watch over fledglings that Raziel would relent and allow him to hunt soon. His own wrist was starting to look tasty.
For that matter, so was the horse.
At his Lord's command, Isca entered the stone building, his slowly evolving fingers crossed in hope that the words that came out of his master's mouth would be: 'Well done, fledge. Now go and feed before you fall over,' or 'You have served me well, Isca, and you have suffered enough. Indulge your Thirst.'
The clan leader's comment sent the young man's spirits plummeting into another spiral of dismay. Raziel wanted the fledge to hunt for him.
Isca had never tracked down a human so quickly in his entire unlife. His senses were raw by this time, his ears and eyes sending signals to his brain in blaring stereo and gaudy technicolour, and the lone vampire hunter camped two miles from the sanctuary might as well have had a flashing neon sign above his head, stating 'Free Food.'
Raziel watched with great amusement as his fledge dragged the struggling hunter across the threshold, almost instantly proffering the human towards him in a gesture that reminded him of nothing so much as a housecat offering a dead bird to its owner. He suppressed a chuckle as he rose and circled the two figures. He nodded briefly to the youth as he took the vampire hunter by the scruff of the neck, and Isca, with obvious effort, released him and took a step back.
The Vampire Lord pulled the human's head to one side and eyed the exposed neck lazily, as though deciding whether it was worth the effort to take a bite.
Isca subconsciously licked his lips, unable to take his eyes off the pulsing jugular.
As though having reached a decision, Raziel sank his fangs into the hunter's flesh, drinking deeply at first, then allowing a large amount to overspill, blatantly wasting the feed.
The fledge clenched his fists and bared his teeth in a snarl, the latter stages of the Thirst beginning to manifest themselves in the uncontrolled rage that was starting to seep into his expression.
Raziel allowed himself a satisfied smile before dropping the still-living hunter to the ground. He fixed his fledgling with a knowing stare that also spoke eloquently of the pleasure he had derived from the torment. Isca was ready.
"Go."
It took the fledgling a few moments for the command and its implicit permission to filter through to his consciousness. He glanced warily at his Lord, who was smiling at him, the disturbing expression on his pallid features lying somewhere between approval and triumph. Isca did not need to be told twice, and with the briefest of nods, he tore off on horseback for the nearest human settlement. He was fully aware that he had but a few hours before dawn, and his haste – along with the compelling force of the Thirst - made him reckless. It is often said that children learn by example, and that constant exposure to certain practices invokes analogous behaviour: Isca's submersion in the influence of Raziel's sadistic whims had brought out the sadist in him, and so it was that when the fledgling descended into the sleeping village under the full thrall of fledgling Thirst, he knew that nothing short of a violent bloodbath would sate his needs.
Casting thoughts of discovery aside, Isca kicked at the wooden door of the first cottage he came to, the door instantly succumbing to vampiric anger and flying loose from its hinges to crash onto the floor inside. The fledge strode across the threshold, his gaze darting from left to right as the inhabitants came rushing to investigate. A red rage, the like of which the vampire could not possibly have conceived before this night, surged over him at the sight of these pitiful mortals in their nightclothes, frozen like fieldmice beneath a circling hawk at the sight of him. And quite a sight he was too, with his blue-tinged face drawn into a look of anger and disdain, his posture hunched and tensed from the muscular spasms that assailed him, lending him a macabre aura that struck his terrified prey to the core.
As his last shred of human control snapped, the demon inside revealed itself in a flurry of slashing claws and rending fangs, one last lucid thought surfacing before the Thirst dragged him down for good: maybe this was actually what Raziel had intended all along – to bring out the killer in him.
At long last, Isca returned to his senses and glanced about him. It looked as though some madcap artist had come in and painted the walls in gristly red, with mangled bodies set as installation pieces in a tasteful arrangement about the room. The door was off its hinges, and there was not an item of furniture left intact. Blood oozed down the window panes. Previously, he had not thought himself capable of such destruction, but he now understood that Raziel had enabled him to savour his first taste of true power – and he had to admit, he liked it. He felt liberated; potent; satisfied.
A glance at the lightening sky caused the fledgling to rise unsteadily to his feet and stagger out into the pre-dawn air: there was no time to lose. He would head for the Melchahim sanctuary and await nightfall there.
Isca mounted his horse and urged it to the north, one tangent thought bringing an irreverent grin to his face as he rode.
'Nutcracker.'
*
Fledgling eyes closed again as the morning's ritual torture began. For the next hour, the sun's toxic rays would devour the flesh of his right leg. Eternities of agony would ensue as the wound slowly healed itself during the hours of darkness; then, in the morning, the sun would rise, and the ritual would begin again.
He was beginning to wish his tormentor would cut his leg off.
Author's Note
I realise this part of the story has kind of been told already, but I think showing it from Isca's point of view, as well as elaborating on what was going on in the background, makes it worth telling again.
If anyone doesn't get the 'Nutcracker' reference, it's in chapter 7 of 'Lost on Nosgoth.'
