Isca was at a complete loss. For the last few months, his thoughts had been focused solely on surviving the next excruciating moment of his existence, and more lately on exacting his revenge on Poul. With this done, his thoughts had quickly returned to Maeve, and Poul's wounding comments about his relationship with her. As he returned to his barracks in search of less blood-stained clothing, he found himself in two minds as to his course of action. If what Poul had said was true, and he had indeed become close with the girl, there was always the possibility that the young woman would no longer want his company or attentions. Worse still - he, Isca, had ended the Sergeant's life in a fit of rage and jealousy – what if Maeve now saw him as the beast who murdered her lover? The fledgling quickly chastised himself for such a foolish thought. There was no certainty that Poul's words had been anything more than bluster, invented to inflict further suffering on his intended victim in the moments before his death. Besides, even if his boast were true, Poul was gone, and Isca could reclaim her as his own. With the recent feeds restoring his composure and reasoning, Isca resolved to simply seek out the girl and gain her perspective on the matter.
With his rapidly regenerating body restored to its Fledgling uniform, and the worst of the dried blood brushed from his hair, Isca professed himself ready for the encounter. Presently, his long stride brought him to the edge of the hill that overlooked the village. Couched at the foot of the escarpment, it enjoyed an enviable position as the closest tithe village to the Fortress. Isca took a deep breath as he prepared to look once again on the town that he had called home for almost half of his human days. That was when he noticed the smoke. Startled, he strained his acute senses to gain more information on the state of the village.
Quadros burned.
Pausing only to yell a warning to a fellow fledge closer to the Fortress, he threw himself full-pelt towards the town, striving to keep his mind clear of the horrendous images that were unfolding unwanted before his mind's eye. He careened to a halt at the town gates, one of which stout wooden barriers had been torn loose from its hinges. A quick appraisal of the scene told him a poignant story: the town was in ruins. The attack, which -judging by the strength of the fires- was recent, must have been swift and devastating. A different atrocity lurked in every direction: women and children had been cut down, burned alive, or impaled. Blood etched the dull grey cobbles in gaudy red. Everywhere Isca looked, he saw clear evidence of the identity of the perpetrators of the attack: houses aflame, bodies bristling with barbed arrows, and to top it all off, a lone banner, driven through the chest of a fallen body, standing as an insolent challenge in the centre of the town square. Isca had seen it before. The emblem, formed like an open-topped ankh, was the symbol of the hated Sarafan. With fear overriding his anger for the moment, he headed for the village tavern, fearing the worst. It was an inferno. Several overturned barrels outside explained why this building burned so much more fiercely than the rest. Casting about to find a way through the flames, his heart gave a lurch as his gaze fell upon an untidy heap of bodies in the tavern garden. Tearing his way through the wreckage, his eyes fell at last on a flash of blonde hair beneath the bloodied pile. As his shaking claws pulled the form to freedom, he knew that for Maeve, it was too late: her skin, so hot that it had burned him when last they met, now lay cold and unresponsive beneath his claws. The vampire knelt with head bowed and added another crime to his reasons for exacting revenge on the Sarafan. With lowered brow, he turned his head slowly in the direction of Meridian, his eyes rising as though they could see across the many miles to the impregnable walls of the foul human city. The hour was at hand.
By now the Razielim had reached the town and had begun the hopeless search for survivors. Lowering Maeve's body gently to the earth, Isca turned to see that Gurt and Captain Harrin had arrived and were standing together, deep in conversation. He rose and approached, his mind –despite his grief - already forming a plan for a retributive attack. As they saw him draw near, they loosed their weapons and challenged him.
"Stay where you are, fledge!"
"Keep your hands where we can see them!"
Isca looked at the pair as though they had both gone mad. He half-raised his hands in an automatic response to the order from his superiors.
Gurt strode swiftly towards Isca and relieved him of his sword.
"What the. . .?" Isca stared open-mouthed at the incomprehensible actions of his allies.
The Captain moved to stand before him, his expression stern.
"Poul's body has been found. His throat was torn out and his blood drained."
Isca's puzzled frown vanished as the situation became clear.
"The wretch got no more than he deserved."
"You admit that it was your doing?" At Isca's emotionless affirmation, Captain Harrin continued:
"It was not for you to decide his fate, fledgling. I appreciate you may have envied him his promotion, but that does not justify . . ."
"He had allied himself with the Turelim." Isca cut in.
Gurt shot a loaded glance at his fellow officer. The Captain ignored it.
"I think your time in Turel's prison has addled your brain, boy. Poul's loyalty was never in question."
"You weren't there when he confessed," replied Isca in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.
The officer chose not to heed Gurt's pointed throat-clearing and continued regardless.
"I know of the rivalry that existed between the two of you, and I understand that you resented his advancement in the ranks - but your actions are unconscionable."
Isca lost patience. "This has nothing to do with rank, Captain - he delivered me into the hands of the enemy, and Turel himself promised Poul a position of power in return for his betraying the Clan."
The continued denial on Harrin's face riled the fledgling still further, prompting him to add, "If you can't see the truth, it's your brain that's addled!"
For a moment, the fledgling and the officer faced each other head-on, eyes locked in challenge. The face-off marked the precursor to an event that could have only one possible outcome – one that did not bode well for Isca. For a moment, the Captain continued to stare coldly at the fledgling, but eventually even he discerned that which Poul had also seen in the young vampire's eyes: conviction. Solid, unshakeable conviction, backed up by a will as strong as iron.
The Captain lowered his eyes.
"Poul's death is no great loss," murmured Gurt, as though closing the matter. The Captain bobbed his head in distracted agreement, chewing absently at his thumb-claw.
Isca gave a heavy sigh, putting aside his pride in the face of present dangers. "The Sarafan grow ever bolder, I see – they bring the fight to our very doorstep."
Gurt, seeing that his superior was lost in thought, stepped forward to answer. "They took two more of our tithe villages a few months back
Isca was shocked at the news and its implications, glancing angrily at the smoking remains of the town. "And you did not prepare for this eventuality? Did you not suspect that they might attack Quadros?"
Gurt shot a surreptitious glance at the brooding Captain, but kept his silence. Isca's sharp mind quickly arrived at the next logical danger.
"What of the last village? Do we have a contingent there?"
The officer snapped his head up at the mention of the last tithe village, Isca's domination of the conversation reminding him of his own position of authority. He straightened and snapped a reply.
"We are too few already. We cannot risk losing men to the Sarafan when the threat of invasion from the other Clans lies so close at hand."
"For this you allowed our holdings to fall? Those people depended upon us for their safety. They paid us for a service that you failed to deliver." Isca emphasised his accusation by pointing a recently-formed claw at Harrin's chest.
The Captain gave a visible shake, catching himself just short of feeling chastised by the words of a mere fledgling.
"You speak out of turn, fledge. It is not your place to point out our shortcomings."
"Well, someone should," Isca snapped. "Or do you care so little for the work our sire started that you would let the fruit of his efforts wither and die at the hands of the enemy?"
By now, the body of Elite guards who had accompanied Gurt to the village had drawn near and were listening intently to the conversation. Harrin drew himself up to his full height at the inference that he was unfaithful to his Lord's memory. He slowly and carefully enunciated every word of his reply:
"I am trying to keep us alive."
"At the cost of our very ethos? At the cost of everything that makes us what we are? That's not living. That could barely even be called surviving." Isca's voice carried easily to the eager ears of his fellows as he continued.
"The Razielim are the descendents of Kain's own first-born - should they be consigned to the status of mice? Eking an existence, hiding in the shadows?"
Gurt nodded, a grim smile serving as evidence of his approval. The fledgling was not yet aware of the audience that had gathered around him and which was, by now, hanging on his every word. He guessed that Harrin would have a hard time refuting these arguments. He himself had been one of a faction opposed to allowing the tithe villages to suffer for the vampires' survival, and time and again he had cursed himself for not putting up more resistance to his superior officer's ill-advised plans. He left these thoughts behind as the fledgling's clear tones cut across the silence once again.
"Would you have us bury our heads in the sand, flee in terror before the Sarafan and neglect our duties as sworn protectors of those beholden to us?"
A low rumble of dissent rose from the steadily growing crowd, finally alerting Isca to their presence and attention. He disregarded them: he had already made up his mind as to what he planned to do, and he cared little whether he had the cooperation of his fellow vampires or not.
"You do as you will, Captain. I am going to offer my sword to the villagers who still live, so they will know they have not been completely abandoned by their 'protectors'."
Harrin considered the fledge's words carefully. One side of him was urging him to take the boy to task, put him in his place and carry on as he had up to now; the other, less willing side told him that Isca was correct: that the Razielim, despite their loss, still had a sacred duty to perform, one that had indeed been neglected in favour of his own petty and selfish plans for survival. The sound of departing footsteps drew his attention to the fact that the fledge had turned to leave.
"Wait," he called, sighing resignedly. He glanced about at the circle of men who had surrounded the two during their argument, instinctively guessing their own feelings on the matter.
"You have the right of it, Isca. We have . . . no, I have held back thus far." Isca nodded solemnly, appreciative of the effort it must have cost the prideful Captain to make such an admission. "But you must understand, all I want is for the Clan to survive."
"That is also my wish." Isca assured him, taking a few steps towards the officer to stop just in front of him with one claw extended.
"But not at the price of our identity."
As Harrin's claw connected with Isca's in a firm handshake, his face broke into a smile tinged with an emotion close to respect.
"Where you go, I follow."
Isca's jaw dropped. He had not been expecting such a declaration and took a physical step back, shaking his head. It had not been his intention to try to wrest control or demand allegiance from the Captain: it seemed almost perverse that a vampire of such rank should offer his support to him - a lowly fledgling. He almost jumped out of his skin as further offers of commitment began to issue from various points amidst the impressed crowd. His stricken glance eventually alighted upon Gurt, who was grinning broadly, apparently hugely amused by the unforeseen happenstance. As the random cries became a steadily rising chant, Isca realised two things: since their leader's demise, the Razielim had been at a loss, directionless and ineffective; and that Turel's 'punishment' had left him stronger for the experience. There was little to fear in the world that could possibly compare to the torment he had already suffered – and if Turel could not break him, then the Sarafan had even less chance. His resolve remained unshaken: he would still march against the human knights, and fight to his last breath to uphold the regime that Raziel had forged, while at the same time exacting his long-sought-after revenge for the death of his parents - and now for Maeve. It seemed, however, that his chances of survival had now increased: the Razielim were with him.
Author's Note
Sorry about the state of this chapter. I'm knackered. But happy. : ) BOING! Oh, and for anyone I left out of my email the other night, I posted the pic I did of Isca on my 'website' *cough splutter*. The address is in my bio if anyone wants a peek.
Review Response:
MikotoTribal: Sooooooo glad you're back again, *bounce bounce hug hug* and congrats on such a fabulous ending to your story. If anyone hasn't read it, GO CHECK IT OUT, IT ROCKS! There. A little barefaced plugging never hurt anyone.
Glad you're enjoying the story, and I really appreciate your comment about character development – it worked! Hoorah! *does a little victory dance*
Re your latest comment: Your wish is my command (see above).
Vladimir's Angel: Wanna see your pics now! Liked the one of Lupa, by the way : )
Shadowrayne: Thanks very much. *taunts you mightily about how good the Evanescence gig was* : P
Sereda: Thankyou. I'm quickly swinging towards the opinion that you can never have too much sadism. : )
AmuseMe: Thanks for your lovely comments. Did you manage to escape the dreaded lusty boyf last night? ; ) And what is it about guys when we're on the computer? They just can't leave us alone – anyone would think they were jealous of our little hunks of plastic and components. Then again, maybe it's what lurks inside . . .
Shady Foxfire: Thankyou – and let me know which bits are confusing; maybe I should sort them out!
Silmuen: Oh God, I've created a monster.
