Inside the barracks, fifty-nine men whose hands were engaged with ale, dice or the odd wench (or some combination of the three) stood staring at us in utter disbelief. Wasting no time, I motioned my followers forward and took up a position wherefrom I could watch the proceedings in safety: although my strength was returning after the ill-advised creation of my makeshift labour-force, I was still far from at my best.

Like a wave bristling with armaments of war, they surged forwards to break upon the shoal of unprepared Sarafan, and I closed my eyes momentarily to bask in the flume of red spray that their eager claws released. From that moment, the game was on: the foxes had been set loose in the chicken-coop, and I was already relishing the sight of my chosen taking such obvious delight in their duties.

The last-born of my kin, Zephon and Melchiah, had taken to working together, and they were even now forcing a bloody path through the left hand side of the crowd. Where Zephon's careless blade sent a survivor spinning in his wake, Melchiah could be there to mop up the leftovers, and dispatch the unfortunate in ways that ensured the utmost suffering. As if I were in any doubt, the enthusiasm they lent their death-dealing strokes, and their random cackles of delight made it clear how much they were enjoying their work. In their wake lay a bloodied trail of splintered tables, spilled tankards and dismembered bodies. Sometimes even the youngest can surprise.

Dumah and Turel too had found ways of co-operative fighting that went far beyond anything I could hope to accomplish myself – I have ever been a loner. I had found Rahab to exhibit the same quality in the brief time that I had come to know him, and although he might not have the advantage of a cohort to watch his side or his back, his aptitude for stealing amongst the shadows and catching his prey unawares was nigh on unmatched. He apparently savoured, as I had in my younger days, the unique flavour of fear and adrenaline that tinges the blood of those taken by surprise. Though his methods might be less overtly offensive than the majority of his brethren, he was none the less deadly in combat for his choice, and his attitudes were more heartless than all save one other: Raziel.

Every good general knows precisely which move each of his soldiers should make during every instant of combat. With Raziel, his movements were so in tune with those I would have him perform that it was almost as though he could pick up my thoughts, and act upon my every tactical instinct. To this marvellous martial intuition he added his own ferocious flair. From the first forays the group had made under my supervision, his raw skill and complete lack of scruples on the battlefield had filled me with a species of reluctant pride. To say that in combat he was effortlessly graceful; that his strike was devastating; that his lack of mercy was inspirational would be understatements of the highest magnitude. Simply put, where Raziel went, death followed.

Despite my confidence in his prowess, I was far from assured of his fidelity or his subservience, and so I remained understandably wary. From time to time, while directing the attack and calling out commands, I would catch my first-born watching me with narrowed eyes, and more than once I had seen him hesitate in carrying out my orders. Although as yet he had not overtly disobeyed, I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake in leaving him at the head of the group, in the position he had assumed at his rebirth. Until now, I had considered his previous standing and his subsequent displays of leadership justification enough to give him this nominal command. It was a snap judgment I might come to regret - but these were concerns for later. We had come to this place with definite purpose: to exact revenge for damage already done, and to ensure that those Sarafan who had been foolish enough to remain in proximity to our new home would trouble us no longer.

As if we needed reasons.

As if this attack amounted to anything more than a sentient extrapolation of blind instinct.

The thirst compelled me back then, far more than it has in recent centuries. Although I might make eloquent excuses to myself about the nobility of my actions in eradicating this particular concentration of Sarafan: how I was making them pay for hundreds of years of vampire oppression; how I was extinguishing the last of the Hylden monstrosity's faith; how I was ensuring that my newborns had sufficient experience and strength before I instigated all-out war, I know with hindsight that I was fooling myself. I wanted blood and I wanted territory; food and shelter, the most basic needs of any being.

By now, the melée was approaching bedlam. Having truly unleashed my newborns for the first time since their rebirth, they had apparently decided to take advantage of their every moment of freedom, and to make up for lost time. Everywhere I looked, I saw sights to make a teacher proud: there were corpses smeared up the walls in bloody, gristly streaks, while elsewhere bodies sagged limply over iron wall sconces, their life forces extinguished in a vivid blend of blood and fire. Women ran screaming through the thick of the battle, often coming in for blows intended for others, their screams adding a shrill tremolo to the bass din of stamping feet, and the percussive clash of swords. Windows were shattered, banners shredded, and a hundred small blazes burned in smoke-filled corners, assuring me that the fate of the barracks was sealed. As I lowered my gaze, I noticed that the cracks in the tiled floor were slowly being inked in red, and I could almost taste my victory in the blood-hazed air. Presently, a mangled body came tumbling to land like a crumpled marionette at my feet, and as the tang of dying flesh reached my nostrils, I could stand by passively watching no longer. I threw myself into the fray.

Leaving the Reaver secured at my belt, I waded forwards in search of an enemy worthy of my attention. Presently, I found one. He was holding off Melchiah's lateral thrusts with one sword, while a practiced flick of an ornamental main gauche prevented Zephon from engaging him from the other side. They had occasionally found a way through his guard, judging by the slashes in his jerkin, but still he held them off. I impressed my presence upon the two subtly, and they drew back in respect, leaving the man to me. I raised my hands, palms upwards and twitched an eyebrow at him. Nodding slowly, he put away both weapons and adopted a stance I had often seen humans affect when getting ready to fist fight. He began to move around in a circle, seeking a way through my guard and feinting and jabbing as though to fool me into making a move. I studied him as he put all his energy into this pointless display, reminding me so much of the rest of humankind, endlessly pouring their hearts and souls into unachievable goals. Presently, I tired of him, and when he next jabbed at my side, I twisted and caught his wrist, wrenching his arm towards me with all the speed and violence I could muster. It is a testimonial to my weakness at the time that his arm remained attached at the shoulder. Instead, my wrench bought him stumbling against me, and I was already savaging his throat by the time he sank his dagger into my chest.

It hurt. I will not deny that, even now. In those days I was more demanding of my body and my physical resources than was wise, but I was driven by my own impatience, by the need to project my superiority - my infallibility - to the world at large, and so the wound could not hurt. I withdrew the dagger while the knight slumped to the ground, and tossed it disdainfully after his dying form. I moved on, trying to ignore the throb in my ribcage, and the blood I knew full well was coursing down my skin, and edging under my clothing, the wound refusing to clot. My next entanglement earned me a slash across the thigh, and I cursed myself for refusing to wear full armour in my vanity, and my wish to assume a fearless front. I finished the culprit in short order, but another rose to take his place. I was I the thick of it now, and enemies lurked on every side, armed with whatever had come to hand. I took another graze to the shoulder in my next encounter, and as I moved to engage another, my heart pounding fiercely from the strain, I found him whipped out of my grasp.

My head shot up to see Raziel twisting the man's neck in a casual but precise manner, as though demonstrating the method to a green recruit. I bit down on the snarl that threatened to curl my lip and moved to grab another. This one met a like fate before he could lay a glove on me, and, my condition notwithstanding, I could stomach the interference no longer. I drew myself upright and gave him an order.

"Take Melchiah and Zephon and flush out that side passage," I commanded, indicating a darkened corridor that led deeper into the complex.

He glanced at the target, then back at me, brushing excess blood from his hands so as not to sully his sword hilt on his next draw. "There is much to be done here before we start looking for fresh enemies, Sire."

The snarl broke out, unbidden. "I did not ask for your opinion, Raziel. Obey me." I reinforced my wish by allowing my eyes to blaze red, a trick I have found useful in influencing others over the course of the years. He hesitated, the working of his jaw suggesting that his new teeth were coming in for a grinding. A moment later, he nodded curtly and stalked off in search of his companions.

I hissed out an exasperated breath and assuaged my temper by exterminating a few more of the human knights, my strength waxing and waning with each feed and each wound, until I halted once more to appraise the situation. To my shock and disgust, I found that Raziel and the others were still in the main chamber finishing off the remainder of the knights. He had disobeyed me outright. When he saw me glaring at them, he sent three of his companions to reconnoitre the passage. They found it hard going and were unable to win through without calling on the assistance of the entire party. At length, those sequestered in the inner fortified areas of the barracks were ousted, and the place was proclaimed free of danger.

Now I had an insurgent to deal with. My first instinct was to break him – publicly - to make an example of him to ensure that no-one would follow his lead in this respect as they seemed to in almost every other - but in that moment I had a flash of insight that spawned a modicum of understanding. I still remembered then what it was like in the first days; the elation of testing new powers, of exploring new strengths, and the difficult task of learning to control them. In those natal years, it is almost as though you have been given control over the moon and the stars; you feel as though nothing is – or should be – beyond your reach, and moreover, the dark forces inside compel you to fight for it all.

Empathy notwithstanding, he had undermined me, and the dynamic of the group might already be shattered beyond repair. I could not allow him to get away with it.

While my lieutenants fell to feasting and looting what was left of the occupants of the outpost, I drew the culprit aside to where the others could not hear. When we were secluded in the shadows of a blood-splattered alcove, I imposed myself between him and his brethren so that he would not feel he could draw on their support. My hand curled around the hilt of the Reaver. From that distance he would not miss the low hum of power that always accompanied its joining to me, and it would likely make him uncomfortably aware that he had left his own weapon jutting from a Sarafan officer's corpse on the top table.

"Why did you not take them into the passageway as I told you?" My growl shook loose some crumbling brick dust that hissed to the floor at our feet. His face showed no sign that he had heard either the falling stone or the Reaver's awakening.

"We were setting ourselves up for an ambush – we couldn't have opened the door at the far end, so the corridor was a blind alley. It was better this way..."

He let the sentence trail off, but he need not have finished it aloud. I had erred and we both knew it. I would have seen that deadly glitch in my plan if I had been thinking clearly. The trouble was, I had been so intent on taking what I had come for, and ensuring that Raziel followed my orders that all other concerns had been obscured.

Much as it galled me to admit it, I could not punish him for my own wrong, and so I nodded and stepped back to allow him to return to his fellows. I would not make an issue of his disobedience now – partly because I knew I was in the wrong, but mostly because only then would his insubordination become a real problem. I had gained a poison chalice when I had resurrected this one, for he was a fighter and strategist worth ten of the best soldiers I had ever commanded. Nonetheless, as I watched him rejoin his brethren, I vowed that if he gave me one more reason to question his motives, I would content myself with five lieutenants.