Four
The Fires of Resistance

I am not sure why we had not realised before; that the building we were in was on fire. Perhaps Raziel was too caught up in his own thoughts, his mind entangled within the next plans of action, and my own ensnared within the points of geography upon the map that I had studied moments before the Razielim had come crashing through the doorway.

And where had been our guards to alert us of such danger, where had been the call to arms? Why had it taken so much time for one solitary vampire to reach us and warn us of the danger? The answer I sought would be given in following Raziel.

I felt the heat upon my face. I heard the sound of the flames, consuming all that stood their way. And in the distance, at the back of my mind – the threads of my mentality that were still conscious to the situation and had not been mesmerised by the heat and flames of the fire like some of my thoughts – was the faint and distant voice of Raziel telling me to get out.

For but a brief moment I foolishly stood rooted to the spot. The mass of a catalytic warning was beginning to run through my mind, developing a burning sensation which consumed my thoughts and screamed of the danger that we were all in.

Fire. It is one of the most dangerous elements a vampire can come into contact with. I admire water and have loved it so for many centuries. Fire, however, has always remained to be my enemy. It is a greedy element, one that will not hesitate to consume all.

A vampire's skin can repair itself quite efficiently to cuts and deadly wounds. It has also been known that, at times, should a body remain intact, that a vampire's soul can find its former shell and thus resurrect itself – becoming a much stronger vampire then before. Nonetheless, such resurrection has its downfalls, for a vampire's soul cannot return to such a body if it remains impaled, or obviously, if the body is no longer in existence – for example, it had been destroyed by water or fire.

That is why, whenever vampire hunter can, they will destroy a vampire's body. You see, our mortal opponents see fire as a 'purifying' element. When they set fire to a vampire's carcass they delude themselves with the thoughts that they are purifying the soul. To them, they consider vampiric blood to be little more than a poison. They say that we are those who are the cursed, those of poisoned blood. They do not see our nobility.

The room was ablaze. The guards that should have alerted us to the danger no longer moved. Lifeless. Destroyed. Empty. The vacant husks of their former bodies lay motionless upon the floor – no longer needed for their souls had already left the bodies that they had been chained to. Now, with those chains broken, and their bodies ripped asunder, so their life force was free to spill into the next realm – or wherever it is that souls do linger after life.

Despite the scene around us I stood still, staring at the forgotten bodies of those that had once been Raziel's children.

"Foolish Rahab, back!" Raziel's voice. The vocals of such echoed in the chambers of my mind, calling me back to the moment at hand.

"Rahab!"

It was with suddenness that I came to realise that we were not alone in this burning furnace. It was the realisation that brought forth the equalisation that it was not just Raziel and I, not just the soulless bodies of his dead children upon the floor. The realisation that between calling to me, Raziel fought.

Of course. I should have known that those who had started the fire would not be far away. It was common knowledge that the vampire hunters, in all their self-righteousness, were most dedicated to their cause.

All too suddenly I became aware of someone looming behind me. My vampiric senses picked up upon the sudden footfalls, and the noise of a highly sharpened weapon piercing the air as it was thrust forwards.

I felt the sensation of skin being torn open as the blade of a sword sliced through it. With that sudden and surprising sensation of pain so it was I gritted my teeth, holding back the sudden cry of revelation that threatened to break loose at any given moment.

I fell forwards, twisting sideways on my heel so as to confront the bastard who had dared destroy Raziel's children, and in the aftermath so had the nerve to waylay me, and no doubtfully hope to end my own existence.

The cut was but a graze, and healed itself within moments. The pain it had caused was more so through the aliment of my own self-worth, and sudden alarm of having such a whelp of a mortal creep up upon me.

It was as my hands automatically made way towards where it was my scabbard usually hung, that I cursed myself for allowing my mind to wander and thus allow myself to be caught off guard. I was deeply thankful for the fact that Lord Kain had not been there to witness my moment of folly, for it would have pained me to see the disappointment upon his face that I would even dare allow a mortal such a free moment of where he could gain advantage.

In the future, I made myself swear, I would not be so sentimental in the loss of others, because such, as demonstrated at that moment in time, could result in the separation of my own soul from its body. And then what would happen to my clan? Who would govern and lead the Rahabim if not the Rahabim Lord?

It seemed that foolishness was not to leave anytime soon. In the moment of loss of good sense that was to follow my actions, it all too quickly dawned upon me that both my weapon, and its scabbard, was still back within the room that I had previously rested in.

An image meandered through my mind. It was the afterthought of my folly and the resulting consequences. The scene developed within my mind as I thought back to when I had last had my sword. It was the scene of the fledglings that had gained entry into my temporary chambers and thus spent the night resting with me. They were at peace and completely unaware of the chaos breaking out within the other end of the building. And there, upon the table near the bed I had lain upon, was my sword and its sheath. They had been completely forgotten to me in the moment that Raziel had asked me to go with him. But then, I had not been expecting anyone to attack us when already we had claimed this town and its land in the name of Lord Kain.

'Up! Wake, linger no more here!' A whisper through mind, and I sent it to my children as I narrowly dodged a torch of flame that Raziel had knocked out of one of the hands of his opponent.

Within a moment like this one, an image of being without a weapon can torment even the strongest warriors. Consequently not only did my body suffer a wound or two, but also my pride at being waylaid in such a manner.

Yet a true warrior is not just the one who is the most skilful fighter. For in times when we have allowed one of our children to fight that of another from a different clan, I have seen a weak fighter survive through cunning alone. A skilful fighter is not just good with a weapon, but also one who can think quickly and cleverly in a situation of peril, one of quick wit and slyness. That is why Lord Kain has always been an exceptional warrior.

To say I was without a weapon is thoughtlessness. For I, and all those of vampiric blood, have an advantage over the fragility that is the mortal knight. A mortal without a sword, a lance, a halberd, a crossbow, for the extreme – a flamethrower – or any other weapon, is in for a difficult battle. Yet should we, we of vampire kin, ever be caught 'weapon less', then we have something that can, well let's just say – be deadlier then any weapon.

I clenched my claws.

He would not leave this building alive. I would not allow it. This was the promise that I hissed to the fallen, and to him, between gritted teeth, as I advanced onwards.

With all my strength I launched myself forwards, part of me reckless, but a more dominant part of me striving for vengeance. I would not allow him to escape and thus return to tell his foolish comrades of his victory in whatever cowardly crevice they hid within. He would pay dearly for the noble blood he had spilt, and he would pay for it with his own.

As I drove myself onwards, claws exposed – seeking out to slice the veins that channelled life around his body, Raziel was holding his own.

From behind us there came the dull sound of wood splintering as a table was broken, metal armour hitting solid stonewall, and human flesh meeting red hot fire and the scream of such an action. Raziel's other opponent grunted, his head slamming backwards at an awkward angle. Raziel's claws were wrapped tightly around his opponent's throat as he lifted him from the floor. His blade was tarnished with the element of the living, in union, so was his lips.

His opponent wore no helm, and in such times, that is how many of the hunters came clad – adorned in ramshackled and old dented armour, salvaged from the graveyards of time.

They wore oddments of armour, some clad in mismatching gauntlets, others with pauldron's that dwarfed them because they were much too big for them. It did not really matter to them what the size, as long as it offered substantial protection. Yet even that was debatable, because one could not help but notice some of the worn leather straps that fixed some pieces of armour to their bodies. Other times one would see tightly tied twine in place of the leather straps that had long ago rotted due to lack of treatment, or simply worn away by time's loving hands.

These were the soldiers of humanity, left to try and defend what they could. Left to fight in ramshackled armour and rusting weapons because they lacked the resources to make finer ones. It was a sad scene, one might think. But to us, they were little more then a nuisance that needed taming and brought under our rule. What did we care about them?

They had not always been this way. Lord Kain told tales sometimes, of when it had been the vampiric race that had clung to the remnants of battlements and left over armour, and humanity had been the owner of armies with shining armour so splendid and fine, and sharp, fierce weapons.

Some of my books told accounts of the Sarafan – what were to be known as the 'Angels of Light'. They had been the finest example of humanities highest pinnacle in the way of chivalry, until their downfall. Of course history speaks, and it is recorded, that the Sarafan rose again, so many, many years later – as strong and fierce then before, but never like those of what humanity regarded as the 'Finer Days'.

My adversary swung his sword with what became clear as a natural expertise. I dodged and blocked, the blade of his sword clashed against my claws, which I used to my advantage – quite thankful for all the periods of evolution and combined metamorphosis, which had sharpened and strengthened them.

I bowed low, ducking underneath the malice of his biting blade and its cruel edge, and then strategically advancing for my own attack whenever a chance presented itself.

With the built up anger stored inside of me, I was able to gather together a short burst of telekinetic force that knocked him away from me and to the ground.

"Foolish one," I chided, my voice but a mere venomous whisper. The annoyance within me rose. The heat was getting to me, pushing my usually claim exterior to a point of rage, yet predatory excitement.

My skin was filthy with sweat and blood. It stung from his swift attacks, but mainly from the heat of the flames. My eyes too, were swore, like someone had gouged them on the point of two red hot pokers and then allowed them to roast slowly over an open fire. I became aware that they were weeping, and as a result fought my opponent a majority of the time through narrowed eyes. Not through choice, or in the display of an over-surge of anger, but due to the fact that I had very little choice.

It was here, at this moment, that I first became aware that out of all of the brethren, it was I – and therefore my clan – who was the most effected by light, and heat and fire. As time moved on my weakness was to become more fatal, until it was I could barely stand to look upon the sight of an open fire without crying out and covering my eyes in agony.

I could bear to be within this room no longer. It felt that at any moment I would combust, my bones shattering to a fine dust.

But I had to continue to endure the heat for as long as my opponent stayed alive, lest I give myself to the open maw of oblivion.

I tossed my head back so as to remove the strands of slick and sweaty hair from my face and out of my seeping eyes. I was the vengeful ocean, crashing its waves against a ship so as to throw it against the jagged and forbidding cliff-side.

"What was it you hoped to do?" I was spiteful and callous, tormenting him in his moment of turmoil. "Kill our children? Kill us, your Lords?" I laughed, and once again threw back my head in a moment of exhilaration that only hunting can bring, my face streaked and stained with blood and the weeping substance from my eyes.

He rolled sideward and in one fluid moment he was back upon his feet, twisting in an instant of parry, his sword arching and turning swiftly in harmony with every movement that he did make.

The blade caught me in his deadly swing, slicing through the skin of my unprotected torso. This time I could not hold back the cry of pain that came with the agonizing touch of his sword as its malicious bite cut through the texture of my skin.

My skin, raw from the heat of the flames, and now the pain heightened more so through the cut of his sword.

And with the severing wound came my blood.

My moment of wildness made me fledgling-like. Fledgling-like in the sense that when a vampire is first made they believe themselves to be indestructible. They will cavort around with all the blood of their elders flowing within them, dancing daringly with Death because they believe that Death cannot touch them. What they do not realise is that vampires are immortal only in the sense that they are spared from time's touch. And whilst they can survive wounds and abrasions that would kill a mere mortal, they are not spared from destruction completely.

Therefore fledglings are often surprised and shocked when they find out they can still be cut and bleed from such. I have seen many incidences where a fledgling has simply been fascinated by the sight of their own blood, and even the taste, to which they have sat on the floor of my halls and licked their cuts. It is almost like they had never seen blood before.

Suddenly I was clumsy, fumbling to stop the blood from flowing. I looked intently at my claws and the blood that covered them. It was a look that might suggest to any onlookers that I could not quite believe that upon my hands was my blood, and not his.

I imagined that underneath that helm of his he was smiling at the thought of the wound he had inflicted, and the staggered look upon my face that a mortal had actually managed to hurt me.

With a look of absent amusement I regarded my own blood once more. It was slightly darker in colour then that of mortals, and as I brought a blooded claw to my lips, so as to lick the blood, it did not taste the same either, so I discovered. Gone was the coppery and distinctive taste that makes vampires refer to mortals as having 'sweet blood', when in reality this is not true. Instead, my own, this vampiric blood, tasted old, refined, and laced throughout with time, the knowledge that came with such, and all the eternity of hereafter.

'Heal,' I thought, commanding my skin to repair itself, and to do so quickly. I stared at the piece of skin that hung flaccidly from my torso, glaring at it and bidding it to rejoin with the other pieces of membrane, for the cells to meet and knit and weave throughout each other once more.

The moment of our battle had been paused. My opponent watched me with morbid curiosity. The kind of curiosity that holds you fast and bids you to look upon a highly macabre scene, even if you wish to do nothing more but to close your eyes. And for some reason, no matter how much you want to look away, you never can. For you are forced, compelled, to look upon the setting in front of you.

I contemplated the situation. My adversary continued to stare at me, breathing heavily, his sword gripped tightly. The edge of the sword's blade was painted crimson, tipped with my own blood. Slowly he began to back out of the room, to which I followed him, walking with interest into the next room, and leaving Raziel to fight the remainders of the others in that hellish inferno.

I did not worry for Raziel. Nay, he was quite capable of looking after himself. He was, after all, Lord Kain's 'right hand', as my Lord had called him many times before.

With a darkened grin I brought my left hand to my torso and with one claw gently and delicately pushed the flap of skin back towards my chest.

With that one gesture, that one small interlude, so the battle resumed. At least out here, away from the main fire, I had a better chance of staying focussed. Yet, in a moment of weakness, so it was he seized his chance of conquering me.

Without hesitation my opponent leapt forward, slamming into me – his blade ever striking sharply, gleaming deadly in what light there was around us. His sword was adorned with a deadly blade with a hunger all of its own, as onwards it once again sought for some unprotected skin to cut. But I was quick to consol myself, and put aside my pain.

I redeemed myself for my moment of recklessness, and regained my balance before it was I could topple backwards into the previous room, where it was the flames roared at the back of me.

Backing swiftly away I turned on my heel, but with all his force he dived for me once more.

I allowed him to do so. I waited – as if preparing myself to welcome his advancement – allowing him to come forth, until it was the tip of his sword was but a small way from once again penetrating my skin.

It happened so quickly that not even the foolish mortal could believe his own eyes. The scene was set. Him, with full force, unleashed a deadly volley, his sword pointing outwards, and me, standing very still and anticipating his attack.

Yet before his sword could strike me down, to his astonishment, I had gone. His sudden bafflement caused him not to notice the sudden formation of mist, which, as he rushed forwards, passed right through him, only to linger behind his figure.

It was a gift derived from my noble blood. A gift Lord Kain himself was most adept in using, having used such in the past to pass through things that otherwise would have been impassable. Locked portcullis... bars... the tiny gap of someone's doorway...

Not every vampire can turn to mist because, as like most things, it is something that needs to be practised. It is a gift that usually manifests at a certain point of a fledgling's life, and then from that moment on, it is a gift that only grows stronger with age.

One has to clear their mind and embrace uncertainties. One has to accept that things are not always what they may seem. Turning to mist is not an easy accomplishment, nor is it safe. For but a brief moment of uncertainty whilst in mist form, can lead to disaster.

Imagine passing through an iron gate. Just as your body has lost the solidness of reality, and just as your mist form is passing through the centre of the iron bars, you suddenly come to the utmost conclusion that turning to mist is not possible. Not possible because your body is solid, and therefore you are unable to walk through such structures. Imagine that. Imagine that, and then image the pain that you feel afterwards before passing into the next realm, for the reason that, you just so happened to loose your mist form and thus end up impaling yourself. Because that is what happens if one turns to mist and has but a stray thought cross his mind, that what they are doing is impossible. That is why many of the fledglings do not try such until they are of a certain age, or under certain tutorage.

It is what I did at that moment – to clears my mind. And then to open out my arms as if to embrace the night, to wrap his cloak of darkness around myself, to allow the solidness of my body to disperse into mere particles of nothingness.

It seemed my opponent was only used to hunting the weakest of fledgling vampires than that of a Vampire Lord. For my remarkable transgression into mist sent him stumbling into a moment of perplexity. Before he could even realise what I had done, my position for attack had switched.

Now I stood behind him, a shimmering spectre, as the mist concentrated itself back into my vampiric form. With outstretched hands I caught him unaware, as with a moment of swiftness, my one arm was wrapped tightly around his throat in what would seem almost like a comradely embrace. A dark embrace.

He struggled and kicked, and twisted, all in hope of getting his weapon within range of me. But my firm grasp held him tight.

Now at a point of advantage behind my victim, I want to feed. His blood would nourish me; help heal the wounds and scars engraved by his sword in my skin, and replace some of what I had lost. I used my strength to overcome him, but this did not end the struggle.

Together, our forces combined, we staggered forwards. This opponent of mine was much stronger than I had first supposed. Normally it did not take long to dispose of a hunter.

With my free hand I grabbed a hold of his weapon-arm. I seized a hold of it so sharply that my claws tore at the skin that his bracer did not protect. For the first time in our fight, I heard him cry out.

Now with the advantage of having some sort of control over where he pointed his sword, so it was I bashed his hand into the wall that we had fallen against in our struggle. The first time nothing happened, but on the third it had the desired effect I had hoped for, and his sword fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

Without warning our battle altered its course. My one arm was still locked around his throat as we ineptly made way into one of the corridors that was off the room. In abruptness he twisted in my grasp, pushing me backwards.

I clung onto him, my claws digging deep once more into unprotected flesh, drawing blood, as if he alone would stop my fall.

Darkness opened out to us as in unison we toppled down stone steps.

Our fight was not at all dignified, and to be honest I was quite disappointed. With this rival, one who was almost worthy to fight a Vampire Lord, I had expected quite the dance of death. Instead I was rewarded with a slightly clumsy waltz that resulted in both us fighting in whatever way we thought was appropriate, him with a newly drawn short-sword, as we tumbled down into the darkness of the cellar below.

He must have felt quite the vengeful angel, as if in flight, soaring down into the netherworld, and the demons screaming all around him.

Air became trapped in my lungs as my back hit the stone ground of the underbelly of the building with great force. It mattered not. Breathing was not always necessary. I could afford to sacrifice a little intake of air should it provide me with the upper hand whilst in the midst of battle. But the upper hand, I was soon to find, I did not need.

There upon the floor he lay. His eyes were closed upon the nightmare surrounding him, his breathing laboured. It looked as if our decent into down the stone stairs had done him more damage than me.

What thoughts crossed his mind at that moment, I can only guess. Maybe he did believe that he had fallen into the bowls of the netherworld. It certainly had felt that way from the heat of the flames above.

It was only in that moment of looking down at him, that I came to see some of the damage from our battle that he had endured.

His armour was dented and tainted with the blood of his and my own. The cuirass he had word was hanging half on and half off – one of the straps having broken. His helm had come off in the fall, thus exposing the vulnerable features of a young man who's face had been aged long before his time with the lines and creases of worry and, with no doubt, the traces of fear – though he tried to hide it in front of me.

This was not just some usual misbegotten, flea-bitten mercenary that we usually came across in such towns as this one. Instead this 'knight' seemed to be someone with more skill and power than what the usual mercenaries showed.

This was a man who had not just been set down in some dilapidated group of vampire hunter because, by chance he just so happened to be able to hold a sword correctly – and out of all those who could, he was the only one still alive. No, this was someone who would perhaps be in charge of such a group of vampire hunters. Someone who would role their eyes and utter despairing comment under his breath as they tried to teach the last miserable hope of humanity how to wield a sword, carry a battered shield at the same time, and walk. Was perhaps this 'fallen creature' a leader of some sort? I suspected so.

It became clear that not everyone agreed with Lord Kain's rule, especially the mortals. This was expected, and that is why we acted so quickly in our first moves to tame humanity. Though we never really considered the thoughts that anyone would dare rise up against us, to resist our rule. I summarised without much effort that we had obviously been foolish in our ignorance to think such thoughts.

I thought back to the other pieces of land we had claimed nights before. Instances had also occurred there where those who wielded fire had attacked us. Some of them carried weapons that we came to identify as 'flame-throwers'. I have mentioned before of how some mortals believed that fire purified certain things, certain things such as what they considered to be the 'souls of the damned' – us, vampires. It seemed that the mortals who fought with fire believed in this strongly.

In but a few sharp moments of that night, it seemed a resistance within the mortals had been shown to us. Of all the knowledge I have of resistances, from what I have gathered from books written in centuries past, is that fraction groups such as these should be quelled quickly, lest they get out of hand.

I descended upon my knees, ignoring the calamity above, and knelt next to my fallen adversary.

His eyes slowly opened, they were glazed and bloodshot. What a scene to open your eyes to, to find yourself lying injured upon your back, well aware of the blood that flows from your wounds, and one of the Vampire Lords looking down at you.

He must have known what fate awaited him, or perhaps he waited to see which path I would take. After all, there were two possible outcomes. Death. Immortality.

Did he think that I would choose him to become one of my own?

Had I the patience at that moment, than I would have turned him. I am sure one with such a cunning mind and gifted in fighting, would have made a great vampire, a wonderful Rahabim. And I would have been proud of him being a child of mine.

But the bastard had proved to be something more than just an annoyance, and consequently my tolerance with him was now wearing very thin. Conclusively he was to be no child of mine.

He went to look away from me, but with one swift movement I reached out for him, my claws gripping his chin so I could tilt his head to look at me.

I gambled upon the chance that if my theories were correct, and that such a resistance existed, than he would be a part of it.

"What of this resistance?" I asked him, leaning in close to his face. "The flag burners, wielders of flame, where is it you come from? What holes do you hide within?"

The offer of immortality can be tempting to some. I hoped that he would provide me with the answers I sought, if I pretended to offer him such.

But he glared at me, his look laced throughout with hatred and loathing. He was well aware of the 'false bribe' I was trying to concoct. Strong, even though he lay dying upon the floor.

"Plague upon Nosgoth!" He harked what blood and bile he could at the back of his throat and spat at me. "As if giving you answers would help me. I know I am to die. I do not fear death as you do."

"You know nothing about me..." I muttered. "We fear nothing."

I could smell blood upon his breath; he would not last long.

"Devourers of this world..."

"Indeed." I interrupted him, and placed a claw upon his lips so as to quell him for a while. "'Devourer of Worlds' – it is a title my master has been quite fond of for a while. Your words and insults do not harm my brethren or me."

A smile formed upon his lips, one most sinister, one that even Zephon would have been proud of displaying.

"This is true," said he, grunting. One could hear in his voice that the oncoming swiftness of death was not far from him.

"But it is fire that does harm you!" With what appeared to be his last mouthful of air, he had reached out, unknown to me, for a shard of wood that had splinted from the fiery rafters and beams above us.

I realised he was to launch one final attack at me.

I realised too late.

He pushed the flaming torch towards me, as if to push it into my arms, as if he were a mother passing on an unwanted baby into the arms of a stranger. And in response I did what anyone else would have done, vampire or not. I lost control over all emotions and the way my body responded. My arms simply flayed about. With anguished I swiped the torch from the young man's hand and sent it spinning across the room.

It was a strange moment, one that felt as if I had been catapulted out of my own body in shock, and resulted in me surveying the scene from another angle entirely. I heard a voice that I did not recognise; fill the room with its piercing vocals. It sounded like a banshee's call, a dying screech. And then I discovered those screams were but my own.

There was grim satisfaction upon his dying face. It made me hate him one hundred times more. To think that for one moment I had ever considered to sire him as my own, to make him my champion.

With what can only be described as a chain reaction aided by a moment of revenge I plunged my claws forwards. They plunged deep into his chest to which they then sought home with his heart, and with but one touch it was still and he was no more.

I remember looking at his empty and crushed body upon the floor, and recalling a piece of writing I had once read from an old tome. As I knelt in the underbelly of the world – the ashes of the building – I recalled the sentences, allowing the words to fall in whispers from my parched, blooded and split lips.

"Would you dance upon our ashes afterwards? Would you sing to our fallen cities of your moment of glory? And would they listen to you and agree that we were forsaken for a reason, that no longer are we heard, that no longer do we hear, that our decadence made us the fallen?"

And than there was nothing but silence, and darkness, and dust, and Turel's claws, latching onto me and dragging me out of that netherworld.