Gurt's heart skipped a beat, and the scene before him slowed to a sluggish, unreal crawl. He watched, horrified as the Captain, a highly valued officer as well as a friend of more than a century, slid lifeless to the ground. Blood glistened thickly on exposed innards as he split slowly into two perfect halves, both of which descended to the sandstone floor with a duet of wet thuds. The Fledgling Master slowly retreated, eyes darting from one side of the door to the other with great suspicion as the Sarafan advanced to block the entrance, blades in hands and cruel smiles apiece.
The knowledge that they had taken down a person of some note in the ranks of the Razielim stimulated an air of confidence and satisfaction amidst the human guard. By now, the malice that pervaded the dim-lit room had reached almost palpable proportions, and before long, the foremost of the guards stepped forward to beckon to Gurt to follow his Captain's foolish move. While the Fledge Master continued his strategic retreat, the Sarafan, having disarmed the razor-wire trap at the keep entrance, began to pour out, their flexible, silvered armour gleaming like molten metal in the torchlight.
From his safe haven at the back of the room, Kalippa barked a command.
"Get him! I want one of them alive!"
Elsewhere, in the cobbled streets of Meridian, the battle had begun in earnest. From innkeeper to apothecary and from temple to tumbledown cot, every denizen of the city was fighting for his life and his land. For once, the fire of determination burned strong in the hearts of the mortal populace, the threat of invasion hammering on their door vitalising even the faintest of heart, and ensuring that the vampires would have no easy task of it tonight. Rattlings and rummagings disturbed the fraught silence as seldom-used weapons were excavated from attics and chests, while kitchen and garden implements sufficed when no true armaments could be found. In addition, the supply of willing human fighters seemed inexhaustible: fresh, impromptu troops filling the gaps left by the vanquished almost as soon as they had fallen, the desire to hold onto their land making them brash and almost heroic.
The ageless enemy, on the other hand, was driven by more than the conquest of territory. Revenge was a factor that could easily tip the scales. In every quarter, pale-skinned figures ran amuck through the blood-slick streets, the earliest arrivals proudly displaying their gore-splattered features, while the more recent reinforcements quickly sought to make up for lost time. The Elite had no trouble with the Sarafan, their age and experience ensuring that few could match their battle lore, and many were the knights who fell foul of their thirsting teeth and claws. The fledglings, for their part, were simply revelling in the opportunity to spill Sarafan blood - in copious amounts and in inventive fashions - a pleasure that had been distinctly lacking of late.
Isca, one of the first to arrive, had long since given up the focused approach, and was mercilessly decimating the enemy whenever the opportunity arose. As he strode purposefully down one of the main streets, he barely broke stride as he tugged a merchant from where he huddled behind his stall, throwing him directly onto the spiked railings of the church at his left. He passed away with a bubbling moan, his upturned visage, in death, adding a long-lost air of piety to the abandoned church. A skulking Sarafan knight was the next object of his indiscriminate violence, his intended ambush foiled as the keen senses of the undead allowed him to pre-empt the strike. Seizing the shocked soldier by the plume of his well-secured helmet, he swung the youth from his hideaway in an alley into plain view. Pausing only to snap the young man's neck with a grating crunch, his keen gaze swept across the burning buildings, his golden eyes soon discerning the goal he sought – the Sarafan Keep.
The Keep itself had been erected centuries before, and over the course of the years, the dour stone walls had seen the city rise from a smattering of servants' cottages to a thriving, industrial complex. Meridian, as all metropoli, was a den of iniquity; but the scabrous, clandestine aspect was hidden beneath a gaudy show of wealth and finery. At length, the onward surge of the vampire forces brought them to the paved square at the foot of the massive building. It was partly a matter of planning - but more a quirk of coincidence - that several squads arrived at the same time from different directions. By now, the air was thick with acrid smoke, the ground miry with clotted blood. It was onto this scene of destruction that Isca marched, the various groups of vampires drifting in to coalesce into one cogent mass behind him.
With a pang of regret, the young Razielim recognised the body of his Captain, and he sent a short but fervent prayer after his departing spirit before locking his eyes and his anger onto the towering structure before him. Suspecting a trap, he grabbed a handy human knight and gave him a tremendous shove that sent him staggering towards the entrance. Isca's eyes narrowed as he saw first-hand the fate that had befallen Harrin. He grimaced and let out a frustrated breath. They would not gain entry this way. Presently, his searching gaze alit on a long line of windows that looked as though they opened onto a large hall. After exchanging a few brief words with a number of the senior Elite, he and a select few circled around to the windows and prepared to force their way in. Had he but known it, this was the same method his sire had chosen to launch a sneak attack on the keep but a few months before, the ill-advised move sparking an incident which not only brought about the downfall of the previous Sarafan Lord, but was also a major catalyst in the destruction of his own tithe villages. Isca continued oblivious.
The growing light from the raging inferno outside cast devilish shadows that danced restlessly about the gloomy walls of the great hall. As the vampires descended silently into the keep, Isca became aware that something dominated the centre of the room, a hulking shadow that his even his keen eyes could not yet make out. He approached with caution, ever casting furtive glances about the chamber, still cloaked in Stygian dark. A word was muttered, and the walls were thrown into stark relief by the light of several brands, instantaneously ignited to reveal to the undead a roomful of well-armed knights and a single dark-robed figure. The form was secured to a large, upright stake in the centre of the room, while its face remained hidden in the depths of a voluminous hood.
As the Razielim fell into their standard defensive position, forming a circle back to back so that none could catch them unawares, Kalippa stepped out from behind a pillar.
"So good of you to come."
Isca snarled and declined to reply. The Sarafan chuckled to himself and grinned condescendingly at the young vampire.
"Attitudes like that will not win negotiations."
"We did not come here to negotiate." snapped Isca, his claw wrapping slowly around the hilt of his sword.
The paper-thin smile faded from Kalippa's face as he ascended to stand on the raised stone block at the foot of the stake.
"You might want to reconsider that opinion," he advised, in a voice like silk.
Sliding a long, curved dagger from its sheath, he pulled back the hood that covered the prisoner's head to reveal Gurt, his features barely recognisable under a multitude of cauterised scalds that were characteristic of the Vampire reaction to water.
The Razielim line almost broke.
When he was sure that the elder Elite had stopped the remainder from rushing forward in a rash charge, Isca took time to appraise Gurt's situation more carefully. He lived, but barely, if the weak fluttering of lashless eyelids was anything to go by; it was also fairly evident that the water torture had not been restricted to his face, and that he had been unable to escape because they had driven massive, round-headed iron nails through palm and shin. Though the wounds were already starting to heal – imprisoning the man more effectively than the humans ever could - still Vampire blood shimmered in a restless pool about the base of the stake.
"Release him," came Isca's hoarse demand.
"Call off the attack." countered Kalippa.
Isca's eyes flared with anger, frustration and not a little trepidation at the decision he would have to take. It was with considerable effort that he managed not to look at his men: he knew their expressions, whatever they were, would be enough to sway him. They had, almost to a man, been trained by the Fledgling Master, and each held the veteran in the highest respect. Furthermore, Isca could not afford to give Kalippa the impression that he had to look at the others for advice in order to make the decision.
Too late. He had hesitated.
Kalippa's square features lit with a smile that told that his suspicions were confirmed. "So, he is of value to you after all."
Isca cursed himself for delaying. His hesitation had given the enemy valuable knowledge - he would know better in future. The young vampire felt he was finally coming to understand Raziel's occasionally harsh attitude: it was slowly becoming clear to him that one of the greatest burdens of leadership was that of making tough choices. Such decisions would only be harder if those in control did not keep a certain distance from men who lived and died at their command. As this appreciation of his mentor's actions formed in his mind, a phrase that Raziel had uttered what seemed like a lifetime ago came back to him with crystal clarity.
"Presence of mind, strength of purpose, devotion to a cause . . ."
His eyes sought Gurt's. Though wracked with unimaginable pain, still the vampire's staunch beliefs shone through. He was now, as he ever had been, ready and willing to die for his Clan. Isca glanced across to read the expression of the Sarafan leader – he refused, even in his mind to consider the usurper a Lord – and saw the uncertainty that skulked beneath his overconfident veneer. Beneath the desire to rule and dominate lay a lost, directionless man, desperately seeking fulfilment through the games of War. He, like all his kind, had no faith. That was why the humans would lose. A movement from the figure on the stake caught his attention, and he saw that Gurt was vehemently shaking his head, his lips, fused by the burning touch of the water, unable to articulate his decision.
There was no need.
Isca inclined his head in a last gesture of respect to the Fledgling Master.
Kalippa tightened his grip on his dagger.
With his head still lowered, Isca raised his eyes to glare at the Sarafan, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
"Kill them."
