There is an old adage that says: 'time flies when you're having fun'. I
used to believe it. The speed of the following day's passing convinced me
that time also flies when you desperately wish it would stop in its tracks
and start moving backwards. Although I had been unable to sleep after my
visitor had departed, the remainder of the dark hours all too quickly
surrendered to dawn, and, at first light, the preparations began.
The Priest who had liberated me from the slave pits arrived in a flurry of ceremony just before ten bells, and, once suitable obsequeties had been offered him by the fawning Temple adepts, he took me aside into an antechamber in order to ascertain that I had been adequately prepared. During those long, tedious hours, he reaffirmed all that I had been taught, and tested me rigorously on the theory I had learned. He emphasised the importance of adhering rigidly to the seemingly pointless protocols that they had gone to pains to teach me - they, he said, would drastically increase my life-expectancy. I listened attentively: despite the monotonous repetition, I knew the advice he imparted constituted survival tactics, and having come this far, I had no desire to die.
As the first, warming rays of the afternoon sun filtered like burnished gold through the many windows of the temple, he professed himself satisfied with my knowledge. Before I could so much as breathe a sigh of relief, a gaggle of excited female adepts ushered me from the room and subjected me to several hours of pampering, and brushing, and cleansing, and oiling, and finally dressed me in a specially-made robe of damask and gauze that glittered with an magnificent display of precious stones. They spent a further hour arranging my hair into an unlikely and precarious style, topped off with a headdress which, were I to sell it, would probably buy me a small town.
All preparations ceased with the arrival of two massive Turelim guards. If I had been surprised at the sycophancy shown to the Priest, then the abject abasement of every person present before the Turelim left me in a state of shock. No-one spoke, and even the revered Priest lowered his head in awe.
"Are you ready?"
The question, though aimed at the Priest, was indirectly alluding to me, though I rather had the impression that my readiness was of little consequence to them.
The Priest gave a scurrying, sweeping bow and affirmed our mutual preparedness.
And so the journey began. As it happened, the Temple was but a half-hour's march from the Turelim stronghold, and I found myself travelling in the middle of a small procession. One of the Vampire guards strode at the fore, leading the way; The Priest and I followed immediately behind; at our backs marched four armed adepts, while the other vampire brought up the rear. As we travelled, the Priest gibbered at me almost incessantly, his nervousness obvious even to me. Most of his pointless banter was of great disinterest, up until we reached the inner gate to the Fortress. There, stationed above the second portcullis rose a long wooden beam, suspended from the ground by two vertical posts. From its horizontal length were suspended a number of corpses in a most peculiar state. They dangled from the beam by lengths of rope, tied around their wrists, and although the wood above them was stained with bloody scratches, it was not immediately apparent how they had died. As we walked closer, however, I was able to make out a glint from the dark metal of the long, cruel spikes that rose perpendicularly beneath each hapless body, offering a slow and painful death to each, once the strength in their arms was spent. I shuddered, drawing my thin shawl around me. It afforded little comfort.
"'Traitor's Row'," explained the Priest, seeing my curious stare. "Here you will find treacherous vampires, unworthy priests and rebellious humans, set aloft for all to see as a reminder of the extent of Lord Turel's far- seeing eye."
This one comment cleared my mind and simultaneously sent me into a spiral of despair: what in the world was I doing here? I was no assassin! I hadn't the slightest idea how to kill someone - so how could I possibly hope to succeed against one of the mightiest powers in all the land? I had been a fool to listen to the intruder - I had been seduced by his words, by the ease with which he seemed to think the deed could be done. This was madness - the attempt itself would get me killed, and by the look of Traitor's Row, not pleasantly either. For one insane moment I contemplated an escape; but one look at the solid lines of the gate that had already descended behind me, the grim, set faces of the multitude of warriors who guarded it, and the vivid memory of Traitor's Row all combined to convince me that the attempt would be hopeless. Head hanging low, I reluctantly followed the procession.
The central chamber of the keep was reached by means of broad stone passageways, arranged in concentric circles that drove ever deeper into the heart of the fortress. As the restless torchlight at last illumined the doors to this holy of holies, I began to feel the first real stirrings of fear. Here I was, a girl who had been a filthy slave up until just a few months ago, but a few steps away from the most private dwelling of one of the oldest and most fearsome of the Vampire Gods. What was I doing here? Suddenly, my glorious rainment seemed drab and ordinary, my exotic coiffure lank and unimaginative, my shimmering headdress a child's hobby project. Surely he would see me for what I was, glorified pit-scum daring to attempt an assassination by exploitation of the needs of the flesh? It was then I began to fret. If he could read me by my appearance, would he also perceive my motive? Would he be able to see through the guise to the burning mission that drove me? I berated myself for the mere thought. Turel would see no flaw in my dedication, for the priests had prepared me well - how could they do otherwise? They would not dare risk the wrath of their unforgiving Gods by sending an unprepared concubine. To fail their masters was to sentence themselves to death.
With this assertion restoring a small measure of my confidence, I took a deep breath and waited for the doors to open. The carven portals parted with a slow, painful creak, spilling light the colour of rotten seaweed across the corridor floor. My heart was in my throat as I crossed the threshold, flanked as I was by two massive guards, and preceded by the trembling Priest. After all the years of fear and horror stories, overlaid with my recent months of preparation, I was at last within moments of finding myself in the presence of one of the great immortals who had inspired terror for a hundred generations amongst the human populace of Nosgoth. The strain was too much - the leaden pressure of the creature's presence in the chamber made my legs tremble and I dared not look up, so instead I followed the priest, judging his position in front of me by the location of his sandaled feet.
Abruptly, he stopped, and I had to pull up short to keep from running into him. He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before a figure I had not yet the confidence to face. I managed - just barely - to prevent myself from following him to the ground. Though my legs were trembling fit to throw me to the floor, the priest's recent warnings to me echoed in my head - 'Do not stray from the protocols in which you have been instructed and you will live longer.' I remained standing.
It shortly became impressed upon me that a low murmur of conversation had prevailed since my entry, and this now continued, none of it seemingly aimed at me. I gathered my wits and forced myself to look up, ready or not, I would see for myself if the tales were true.
The image that met my eyes was on a par with my expectations: more morbidly realistic than the fantastic tales the priests had spun for me, and far more civilized and orderly than the horror stories with which I had been raised. Turel sat aloft on a great throne, seemingly hewn from a single chunk of some opaque, green crystal. Its polished curves and planes reflected dully the light that gleamed with unnatural, sulphurous glow from steaming glass orbs set into the walls. He was flanked on his left by a sour-faced female, dressed in a most bizarre fashion: though her head was covered with a loose-wrapped yashmak, from which her eyes gleamed with malicious alertness, the rest of her garb was contrarily revealing. A simple black shift fell in graceful lines from her shoulders to the floor, gathering in deep folds around her ankles and toes, while the neckline plunged in a daring V to stop just below her navel. Long, full sleeves smothered slender arms, which terminated in long-nailed fingers so bedecked with jewelry that the claw-like deformation of her evolving talons was hardly noticeable at first sight. Her demeanour was that of a woman who has fought a thousand years' worth of battles to gain her coveted position, and is not about to give it up in a hurry. To Turel's right stood a figure only slightly lesser than the Vampire Lord himself in stature and might. Lean of cheek and languid-eyed, I identified him immediately from the description the Priests had given me. Judging by his position, the pips at his collar, and the scarified tattoo that covered half of his left cheek, this was Turel's own first-born. With the dead-straight hair that fell in serrated lines to his shoulders, and the aura of confidence and maturity he projected, he might almost have been attractive, were it not for the cruel downturn in his thin lips that denoted his cold heart, and the way he eyed up the new human arrivals as though dinner had just been served.
Just as I finished my appraisal of the two characters, Turel silenced his child's report by bringing his claw in a chopping motion through the air, his full attention fixed on me now. I flinched before his gaze and instantly found a spot on the floor that merited my attention. But my curiosity has ever been my bane. Within seconds my reluctant gaze had been drawn to the trio around the throne again, in time to see Turel motion them both in my direction. I drew myself upright as I had been taught, and waited for them to approach and conduct their search. The twain slid quickly toward me, like cats to warm cream, the woman closing her eyes and reaching her gnarled digits towards me - I felt the faintest feathered touch of her mind meeting mine, and I endeavoured to think of everything I had learned in the temple texts, anything to keep my mind occupied, and conceal my real goal. Meanwhile the man conducted a brief and chivalrous search of my person, ostensibly seeking concealed weapons. Since my knife was snug in my garter against my inner thigh, he found nothing. The woman, too was soon done with her investigation, and the two spared me an unanimous sneer before departing the room.
"I give her two days."
"Would you care to take a wager on that?"
The rest of their derisive conversation was thankfully lost to me as the doors closed firmly behind them.
The Priest who had liberated me from the slave pits arrived in a flurry of ceremony just before ten bells, and, once suitable obsequeties had been offered him by the fawning Temple adepts, he took me aside into an antechamber in order to ascertain that I had been adequately prepared. During those long, tedious hours, he reaffirmed all that I had been taught, and tested me rigorously on the theory I had learned. He emphasised the importance of adhering rigidly to the seemingly pointless protocols that they had gone to pains to teach me - they, he said, would drastically increase my life-expectancy. I listened attentively: despite the monotonous repetition, I knew the advice he imparted constituted survival tactics, and having come this far, I had no desire to die.
As the first, warming rays of the afternoon sun filtered like burnished gold through the many windows of the temple, he professed himself satisfied with my knowledge. Before I could so much as breathe a sigh of relief, a gaggle of excited female adepts ushered me from the room and subjected me to several hours of pampering, and brushing, and cleansing, and oiling, and finally dressed me in a specially-made robe of damask and gauze that glittered with an magnificent display of precious stones. They spent a further hour arranging my hair into an unlikely and precarious style, topped off with a headdress which, were I to sell it, would probably buy me a small town.
All preparations ceased with the arrival of two massive Turelim guards. If I had been surprised at the sycophancy shown to the Priest, then the abject abasement of every person present before the Turelim left me in a state of shock. No-one spoke, and even the revered Priest lowered his head in awe.
"Are you ready?"
The question, though aimed at the Priest, was indirectly alluding to me, though I rather had the impression that my readiness was of little consequence to them.
The Priest gave a scurrying, sweeping bow and affirmed our mutual preparedness.
And so the journey began. As it happened, the Temple was but a half-hour's march from the Turelim stronghold, and I found myself travelling in the middle of a small procession. One of the Vampire guards strode at the fore, leading the way; The Priest and I followed immediately behind; at our backs marched four armed adepts, while the other vampire brought up the rear. As we travelled, the Priest gibbered at me almost incessantly, his nervousness obvious even to me. Most of his pointless banter was of great disinterest, up until we reached the inner gate to the Fortress. There, stationed above the second portcullis rose a long wooden beam, suspended from the ground by two vertical posts. From its horizontal length were suspended a number of corpses in a most peculiar state. They dangled from the beam by lengths of rope, tied around their wrists, and although the wood above them was stained with bloody scratches, it was not immediately apparent how they had died. As we walked closer, however, I was able to make out a glint from the dark metal of the long, cruel spikes that rose perpendicularly beneath each hapless body, offering a slow and painful death to each, once the strength in their arms was spent. I shuddered, drawing my thin shawl around me. It afforded little comfort.
"'Traitor's Row'," explained the Priest, seeing my curious stare. "Here you will find treacherous vampires, unworthy priests and rebellious humans, set aloft for all to see as a reminder of the extent of Lord Turel's far- seeing eye."
This one comment cleared my mind and simultaneously sent me into a spiral of despair: what in the world was I doing here? I was no assassin! I hadn't the slightest idea how to kill someone - so how could I possibly hope to succeed against one of the mightiest powers in all the land? I had been a fool to listen to the intruder - I had been seduced by his words, by the ease with which he seemed to think the deed could be done. This was madness - the attempt itself would get me killed, and by the look of Traitor's Row, not pleasantly either. For one insane moment I contemplated an escape; but one look at the solid lines of the gate that had already descended behind me, the grim, set faces of the multitude of warriors who guarded it, and the vivid memory of Traitor's Row all combined to convince me that the attempt would be hopeless. Head hanging low, I reluctantly followed the procession.
The central chamber of the keep was reached by means of broad stone passageways, arranged in concentric circles that drove ever deeper into the heart of the fortress. As the restless torchlight at last illumined the doors to this holy of holies, I began to feel the first real stirrings of fear. Here I was, a girl who had been a filthy slave up until just a few months ago, but a few steps away from the most private dwelling of one of the oldest and most fearsome of the Vampire Gods. What was I doing here? Suddenly, my glorious rainment seemed drab and ordinary, my exotic coiffure lank and unimaginative, my shimmering headdress a child's hobby project. Surely he would see me for what I was, glorified pit-scum daring to attempt an assassination by exploitation of the needs of the flesh? It was then I began to fret. If he could read me by my appearance, would he also perceive my motive? Would he be able to see through the guise to the burning mission that drove me? I berated myself for the mere thought. Turel would see no flaw in my dedication, for the priests had prepared me well - how could they do otherwise? They would not dare risk the wrath of their unforgiving Gods by sending an unprepared concubine. To fail their masters was to sentence themselves to death.
With this assertion restoring a small measure of my confidence, I took a deep breath and waited for the doors to open. The carven portals parted with a slow, painful creak, spilling light the colour of rotten seaweed across the corridor floor. My heart was in my throat as I crossed the threshold, flanked as I was by two massive guards, and preceded by the trembling Priest. After all the years of fear and horror stories, overlaid with my recent months of preparation, I was at last within moments of finding myself in the presence of one of the great immortals who had inspired terror for a hundred generations amongst the human populace of Nosgoth. The strain was too much - the leaden pressure of the creature's presence in the chamber made my legs tremble and I dared not look up, so instead I followed the priest, judging his position in front of me by the location of his sandaled feet.
Abruptly, he stopped, and I had to pull up short to keep from running into him. He dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before a figure I had not yet the confidence to face. I managed - just barely - to prevent myself from following him to the ground. Though my legs were trembling fit to throw me to the floor, the priest's recent warnings to me echoed in my head - 'Do not stray from the protocols in which you have been instructed and you will live longer.' I remained standing.
It shortly became impressed upon me that a low murmur of conversation had prevailed since my entry, and this now continued, none of it seemingly aimed at me. I gathered my wits and forced myself to look up, ready or not, I would see for myself if the tales were true.
The image that met my eyes was on a par with my expectations: more morbidly realistic than the fantastic tales the priests had spun for me, and far more civilized and orderly than the horror stories with which I had been raised. Turel sat aloft on a great throne, seemingly hewn from a single chunk of some opaque, green crystal. Its polished curves and planes reflected dully the light that gleamed with unnatural, sulphurous glow from steaming glass orbs set into the walls. He was flanked on his left by a sour-faced female, dressed in a most bizarre fashion: though her head was covered with a loose-wrapped yashmak, from which her eyes gleamed with malicious alertness, the rest of her garb was contrarily revealing. A simple black shift fell in graceful lines from her shoulders to the floor, gathering in deep folds around her ankles and toes, while the neckline plunged in a daring V to stop just below her navel. Long, full sleeves smothered slender arms, which terminated in long-nailed fingers so bedecked with jewelry that the claw-like deformation of her evolving talons was hardly noticeable at first sight. Her demeanour was that of a woman who has fought a thousand years' worth of battles to gain her coveted position, and is not about to give it up in a hurry. To Turel's right stood a figure only slightly lesser than the Vampire Lord himself in stature and might. Lean of cheek and languid-eyed, I identified him immediately from the description the Priests had given me. Judging by his position, the pips at his collar, and the scarified tattoo that covered half of his left cheek, this was Turel's own first-born. With the dead-straight hair that fell in serrated lines to his shoulders, and the aura of confidence and maturity he projected, he might almost have been attractive, were it not for the cruel downturn in his thin lips that denoted his cold heart, and the way he eyed up the new human arrivals as though dinner had just been served.
Just as I finished my appraisal of the two characters, Turel silenced his child's report by bringing his claw in a chopping motion through the air, his full attention fixed on me now. I flinched before his gaze and instantly found a spot on the floor that merited my attention. But my curiosity has ever been my bane. Within seconds my reluctant gaze had been drawn to the trio around the throne again, in time to see Turel motion them both in my direction. I drew myself upright as I had been taught, and waited for them to approach and conduct their search. The twain slid quickly toward me, like cats to warm cream, the woman closing her eyes and reaching her gnarled digits towards me - I felt the faintest feathered touch of her mind meeting mine, and I endeavoured to think of everything I had learned in the temple texts, anything to keep my mind occupied, and conceal my real goal. Meanwhile the man conducted a brief and chivalrous search of my person, ostensibly seeking concealed weapons. Since my knife was snug in my garter against my inner thigh, he found nothing. The woman, too was soon done with her investigation, and the two spared me an unanimous sneer before departing the room.
"I give her two days."
"Would you care to take a wager on that?"
The rest of their derisive conversation was thankfully lost to me as the doors closed firmly behind them.
