The low burble of conversation resounded from the walls of a room that had seen no activity since the eve of Raziel's execution.  At long last, the vaulted chamber, which had been used for purposes as diverse as councils of war, entertainment and murder was filled once again with active brains making strategic decisions.  One man alone could even hazard a guess as to what had truly occurred within these walls on that fateful night, and he was keeping his own counsel.  The sombre discourse was interrupted by the groan of brass on wood as the heavy door opened to reveal their long-absent emissary.  He was alive, but bore all the signs of having been forcibly ejected from his destination.  His initial words confirmed the suspicion that had already formed in the minds of all present.

"They will not aid us."

Gurt nodded lightly and knowingly, eyeing his comrade with some concern.  "I doubted they would.  You should not have put yourself at risk, Captain."

"If they would not listen to me, they would not have listened to any one of us," replied Harrin, easing himself into a comfortable chair with some difficulty.

Isca sighed resignedly and removed the representation of the Dumahim Clan from his campaign map. 

Gurt caught his expression and examined the tabletop scene in more detail.  "So.  Neither Rahab nor Dumah are interested in the conquest of Meridian."

"It comes as no surprise," commented Harrin, gratefully accepting the mulled wine offered him.  "Their lands are far from here, and their own holdings under threat from the human armies that border their domains." 

Gurt grunted his agreement.  "And what with Melchiah and Zephon otherwise engaged with the knights who seek to invade their lands from the south . . ."

There was a pregnant silence as neither Gurt nor Harrin dared proceed to the obvious conclusion.  There was but one Clan whose lands lay close enough to Meridian for the human populace there to pose sufficient threat to warrant their joining in the Razielim's quest: the Turelim.  Isca swept the last Clan symbol from the map with a wave of his arm and raised his eyes to meet the eyes of the Captain and the Fledgling Master.

"Then we will conquer it alone."

Gurt and Harrin exchanged anxious glances, and before long the Captain rose shakily to his feet to approach the glaring fledgling.

"We are too few to take the city." He advised, not unkindly.

"We have already reduced their numbers," countered the fledgling.

The Captain moved to stand opposite the grim-faced youth, the table with its map of Meridian separating them.  "We cannot win with an all-out assault."

Isca's sharp hearing caught the emphasis in his words and eyed the Captain shrewdly.  While his tortured soul screamed for vengeance on these humans who had murdered both his family and his sweetheart, as well as decimating the Razielim tithe villages, a steadily strengthening voice was telling him that Harrin had years of experience on him, and that his strategic knowledge was far superior to his own.  He bit down on the retort that almost sprang from his mouth and asked the pertinent question:

"You have another idea?"

*

Kalippa huddled in his quarters, his eyes also drawn to the map of the city that lay on his desk.  Things were not going well for him.  He had lost many of his best men in his recent, futile assault.  His general had been returned to him, stone dead on the back of his horse, his hands still stubbornly gripping the reins as though determined, even in death, to guide his mount back to Sarafan soil.  Worse still, since these night-time raids had begun, sending the inhabitants of Meridian into blind panic, public opinion had turned against him.  His eyes shot to the door as heavy footsteps thundered past, and he waited tensely until they faded into the distance before he relaxing slightly – it was not another attempt on his life.  He turned his troubled gaze back to his map, which showed the localised attacks that had taken place over the last few weeks.  There seemed to be no discernible pattern to them, the vampires choosing seemingly random targets from night to night.  First the schoolhouse, then two taverns on two successive nights, then nothing for an entire week, then the arson strike on the library, in which thousands of irreplaceable Sarafan tomes had been lost.  Kalippa began to sweat.  If he did not figure out the pattern and provide a solution in the next day or so, he knew that he would have to face the Bishop, who was waiting eagerly in the wings with a most unwanted offer of help with his inspiration.

Kalippa had already packed his bags.

As dusk settled over Meridian, the city exchanged its daytime finery for its night-time garb. The bustling crowds were slowly but surely replaced by smaller groups of revellers, the antics of street performers and musicians by and by supplanted by the antics of drunkards and thieves.  The city guard oversaw it all from their perches on the crenellated walls surrounding the inner town.  The  vampire raids of recent weeks had forced them to work for their money for once, and the threats that had come down from the Bishop were sufficient to ensure that every man was on full alert tonight.  None relished the thought of failure.  As the last of the late-night celebrators staggered reluctantly from the lighted doorways, and the still of the dark hours descended like a woollen blanket over the sleeping city, the attack began.

As with each previous occasion, there was no warning: no bellowed challenge, no cavalcade of horsemen with banners flying, no battering ram at the gates: the shadows at the city walls simply came to life.  By the time the first dull-witted guard noticed the presence of the enemy, the Razielim were surging over unguarded portions of the wall, their dark clothes providing perfect camouflage against the sable shadows.  Even with their poor night vision, the night watch could see that there were a terrifying number of invaders, and, even as the alarm sounded, there was more than one soldier on top of that wall who was convinced that the end had come.  The advance was relentless, the bloodthirsty mob ploughing through the last nocturnal stragglers before turning their violent tendencies on individual dwellings.  There would be no quarter given tonight, no reprieve for the Sarafan knights and their human compatriots, and no turning back for the vampire forces.  Meridian would fall.

Breaking away from his group as they separated, Isca shoulder-barged a cottage door open with a splintering crack, sending the male who had been holding it shut flying backwards to land in a huddle against the chairs and table beyond.  Hardly had he crossed the threshold when something hard and metallic slammed down onto the crown of his head with an audible clang.  He turned with an enraged growl to see a woman brandishing a blackened metal skillet that now had a head-shaped dent in it.  Seeing that the man was already clambering to his feet, Isca aimed a backhanded slap at the woman's face, sending her tumbling into the corner of the room, the skillet still clutched in one white-knuckled hand.  The vampire's ears pricked up sharply as the air quivered with the ring of steel sliding from a sheath - the man was advancing on him with a rusted blade which had probably not seen the light of day in many a summer.  Isca smiled grimly, dodged the man's awkward swing with panther-like grace and allowed the human's forward lunge to carry him neatly into his outstretched claw.  Gripping the shocked male tightly around the neck, Isca shook him until his teeth rattled, and the sword fell from his trembling fingers.  Hearing shouts from just beyond the door, and fully aware that speed was of the essence if they were to maintain the advantage the element of surprise had given them, he resolved to end the struggle quickly.  Isca promptly tightened his fist.  There was a sickening crunching noise as the man's spine splintered within the vampire's steel grip, and, dropping the bulging-eyed corpse to the ground, Isca sought the cottage's other inhabitant.

He crossed the room with a purposeful stride to find that the female had landed in a rather ungainly heap of skirts and petticoats in a shadowy corner of the room.  His thoughts darkened as he approached, his mind filled with images of the likely actions of the Sarafan in identical situations in the tithe villages.  He stopped short a few feet from the woman's sprawled and unconscious form, a snarl of disgust curling his upper lip.  The act was beyond contemplation.  His entire being was filled with revulsion at the very notion of coming into closer contact with this pathetic mortal, and he drew his sword before moving to stand over her, blade hovering for the kill.  As though suddenly aware of his presence, the woman's eyes shot open and widened in alarm as her thoughts quickly matched those that had occurred to the vampire moments before.  She drew her skirts together and crawled backwards towards the wall, shaking her head in denial of the assault she was sure was coming.  Isca's snarl intensified, his deepening disgust of the creature cowering before him forestalling his usual intentions of mischief, as well as the mental torment he was coming to favour in the moments before delivering the death-blow.  The air soughed past his blade as it descended to land cleanly in the woman's chest, a quick twist of the blade ensuring her doom.

Elsewhere, scenes of chaos and death prevailed as the vengeful vampires took out their pent-up anger and frustration on the long-despised objects of their hate.  Retribution would be sought for the atrocities committed against the people they had failed to protect, their anger at their own inaction only fuelling the strength of the attack on their hated enemies.  In accordance with Harrin's suggestions, no time was wasted in the torture or harassment of victims: simple efficient death-dealing was the order of the day. This stricture, accompanied with the liberal use of fire and overall destruction combined to ensure that the city would not come out of the night intact.

Now Meridian burned.

In the very centre of the town, Harrin was busily fighting his way up to the main keep with Gurt at his side.  His mind was filled with regret at his earlier, foolish decision not to aid the tithe villages, but this shame was gradually assuaged as he cut his way through progressively larger numbers of knights, each drop of Sarafan blood spilt going some way to ease his guilt.  Having won to the very threshold of the keep, the small group of undead warriors broke through the meagre defences to come face-to face with the 'Sarafan Lord'.  Contrary to Harrin's expectations, the man backed off nervously, glancing from left to right and voicing heartfelt pleas for his men to help him.  The Sarafan remained where they were, to all appearances frozen in fear.  As Harrin strode through the door, his passing was marked by a swish of air and a silvery blur.  Gurt stood stock still, his mind trying to make sense of what he had just seen, his eyes still unwilling to accept the message his brain was trying to convey: Harrin had been halved by sprung razor-wire.

*

Author's Note: webpage will have tattoos added in about 5 hours' time.  *bounces around in anticipation*