As the blazing days faded to the cooler shades of night, the Chamber was illumined alternately by filtered gold and muted silver. Neither light flattered the wicked outlines of Turel's cruel playthings. However, as the moonlight gave way to dawn for a third time, bringing with it no visit from either the Vampire Lord or his vassals, Isca began to believe, against his own better judgement, that his torment might at last have ceased. As he pondered this, his sensitive ears soon told him a story to which his other senses were blind: some of the prisoners were dying. Those who still lived were mainly women whose punishment, while horrific, had been less physically exacting than that of their male counterparts. Their continual pleas for release and succour added a poignant backing to the death rattles of the other prisoners. Isca doubted that help would come. On this third day, when the remaining captives were starting to drop like flies from dehydration, Isca became convinced that they had been abandoned by their captors: the ominous silence of the fortress only served to strengthen his suspicions.
This conviction fired the last spark of determination that, even after all these months, still burned in his gut. With a concentrated effort, he focussed upon his Thirst, forcing down the mental barriers he had erected against its cravings in order to keep himself sane. There was a fleeting moment of utter lucidity when he understood completely the motivation behind the Vampire psyche, before his personality was swallowed, perhaps irredeemably, by the bloodthirsty demon that drove his baser needs. As the beast that dwelt within was allowed free reign, its purposeful thoughts were drawn to the apparatus that held him prisoner: instead of trying to wrench the metal shackles from their moorings, it forced its host's claws through a minute gap in the boards beneath him, wrenching apart the planks with a strength that had far more to do with the mind than the wasted body. Stout oak yielded to the vampire's prising with an almost articulate groan, and, with long minutes punctuated by more reluctant creaks, the prison finally surrendered its victim. Freed at last, Isca dragged himself upright, his feral expression marking him more beast than man - and more completely in the thrall of his vampiric needs than he had been at any time in his unlife. He cast his keen senses about the room before attempting to stand.
As the frail figure rose defiantly from the remains of its prison, the few survivors let out cries of surprise and thankfulness, shortly calling to him to free them as well.
Isca, bowed from the strain of holding his frame erect, raised his head and staggered in the direction of the sounds, trusting his twitching, pointed ears over his glazed eyes. The first woman he came to hung suspended a couple of feet from the ground by twin chains, her once-fine dress in tatters. The vampire registered vaguely that she was repeating the words 'thank goodness' over and over like a litany, and he raised his head, faintly discerning the chains that held her. Reaching upwards with one shaking claw, he raked open her chest with a single downwards stroke, and, unable to remain standing, collapsed to his knees with his face upraised in the hopes of catching as much of the downpour as possible. As the warm, rich liquid began to restore his strength, he clawed back upwards, caring not whether his searching digits found flesh or cloth. At length, and with the woman's arms stretched to their limit between his weight and the restriction of the chains, he finally succeeded in hauling himself to his feet, whereupon he buried his face against the wound he had inflicted, the slowing thud of the woman's heart a comforting note in his ears.
The cries of joy and gratitude faded to a low wail of terror as the other living captives witnessed the fate of the first woman, guessing therefrom the future intentions of the vampire. They began to scream and struggle, the proximity of their long-prayed-for release now seeming an unwanted fate in their survivalist eyes. Their screams only quickened their demise, the yells of denial serving to aid the dazed fledgling in pinpointing their location. Isca found but three more who still lived, and from whom he was able to feed. The first, suspended even as his previous victim, he dealt with in a like manner, this time managing to remain standing throughout the entire event. The second he had to extricate forcefully from a barred cell, as she apparently preferred the option of a slow death from dehydration than an immediate one at the hands of this inhuman creature that had suddenly escaped and run amuck in Turel's dungeon. Isca quickly deprived the woman of her choice.
The final survivor had apparently resigned herself to her fate at his hands; she had, over the past few hours become aware of the influx of a particularly vicious breed of rodent into the chamber. Better the swift mercy of the vampire than the slow, agonising demise she could expect at the pitiless claws of the rats. So it was that when the starving Razielim approached her, doused almost from head to toe in the blood of her fellow prisoners, she met his approach with a steady gaze, the proud tilt of her head indicative of her status in her former life. Isca, lost in the bloody haze of the Thirst, failed to notice these minor facts at first, his brain registering little apart from the fact that one human still lived, and that he was separated from her by stout bars to which no lock could be discerned. He growled in frustration. A few moments later, it was impressed upon his distanced thoughts that the woman was pointing something out to him; on following her advice, he was able to operate the lever that opened the door. Too hungry even to be suspicious, Isca stepped into the dark confines of the cell. Once within, he was surprised again as the woman, smiling sadly, pushed aside her hair and the neckline of her dress in an offer that not even the most clouded vampire brain would have mistaken. Not needing a second invitation, the fledge stumbled forward, his initial aim falling short as his feet caught against the flagstones. The bite that would have landed squarely on her neck instead found its mark some inches below her collarbone, while the momentum of the vampire's stumbling gait sent them both back onto the uncomfortable iron bench that was the cell's only furnishing. Isca continued heedlessly, and when his weakness would have sent his head lolling from her chest, the woman clutched gently at him, holding him to her breast in an almost motherly embrace, until her own hand slipped lifeless into empty air.
Isca let the body slip to the ground, breathing deep the scent of approaching freedom: and perhaps retribution. Although the meagre supplies of blood furnished by Turel's erstwhile victims had but barely taken the edge off his Thirst, it did, however go some way towards restoring his presence of mind. It also gave him the strength to wrench open the door to the dungeon, a burning brand clutched in one shaking hand in the vain hope that it would help fend off any Turelim who crossed his path.
He need not have concerned himself: the fortress was long deserted.
*
It was a gaunt, haggard figure that staggered across the border towards the Razielim fortress several hours later, one skeletal claw grabbing onto the ornate iron gate to keep from falling. This particular hour found the fledglings in their training grounds, a fact which probably saved Isca's life: for when several of the bored youngsters caught sight of the reeling figure, and recognised him for one of their own, they promptly rushed to his aid.
Gurt, who was overseeing the evening's session, strode ahead of the pack and sent one of the fledges to tell their Captain to hasten to the scene.
"Isca!" Gurt caught the boy before he could hit the ground, instantly yelling an order to some gawping young men as he perceived his charge's condition.
"You there! Fetch one of those Sarafan up from the dungeons – and make sure you pick a nice fat one." He settled the youth on the floor, resting his back against the wall for support before taking a long, appraising look at his condition. He shook his head and called out to the fledglings before they could leave the courtyard.
"Better make it two."
Isca's former Captain skidded to a halt at Gurt's side, his eyes wide in surprise and dismay.
"What in Kain's name happened to you?"
"Turel . . ." managed the fledge, leaving his Captain wondering how the vampire had managed to speak at all. The youth's once-robust form was emaciated, the skin sunken against wasted muscle, and coloured a greyish-blue from months of starvation.
"The questions can wait," advised the Fledge Master. The Captain nodded agreement, swiftly turning to relieve the newly-arrived fledges of their human burdens. Between them, Gurt and the Captain aided the weakened vampire in consuming the nourishment they had brought for him, the fresh blood restoring some of the colour and a little of the smoothness of his skin. Only when the second knight was drained, and the youth professed satiety - much to the disbelief of his companions - did Gurt allow the Captain to proceed with his questions.
"Now, fledgling, tell me all."
"There's not much to tell. I've been in Turel's torture chamber for . . ." he looked at his superiors in query.
"Four months," offered Gurt.
"Four months . . .?" came the shocked echo.
The Captain shook his head at the fledge's apparent foolishness.
"What on earth convinced you to go wandering across the border when the Turelim were so unkindly disposed towards us?"
Isca simply shook his head, vaguely remembering the thirst for vengeance that had settled like a dark miasma over his every thought. He had been driven, he recalled that much: he very much doubted the single-minded Captain would understand this nebulous sentiment.
"Did you . . .'tell' . . . them anything?"
Isca frowned at the Captain's delicate phrasing. His indignation at the officer's implication faded into smug satisfaction as he realised at last that Turel had tried – and failed – to break him.
"Not a thing," he grinned. The officer returned the smile, sensing the honesty in the fledge's statement. The Captain's next comment drove all thoughts of exacting revenge on Turel from his mind.
"When Poul told us he'd seen you heading for the border, we feared the worst."
Isca's head snapped up to look his Captain straight in the eye.
"Poul?"
Turel's intimation that he had been betrayed by one of his own Clan came thundering back to him, along with the knowledge that the fledgling in question could not possibly have seen him that particular night.
The Captain nodded.
"Then I should … go thank him."
Gurt chuckled gruffly. "When you can stand on your own two feet again, fledge – you're naught but skin and bones yet."
Isca proved the Fledge Master wrong by rising determinedly – if a little unsteadily – to his feet and heading slowly towards the fledgling barracks.
"Wait – you won't find him there." Isca stopped and looked askance at the Captain. "He is a sergeant now – he has moved to quarters that befit his rank."
Isca vented a tense breath and nodded sharply, correcting his course.
As Isca departed, Gurt and the Captain exchanged quiet comments on the fledgling's resilience, both parties impressed by the aura of strength and control he exuded, despite his malnourished appearance. As to what other changes had been wrought in the boy – only time would tell.
