"They're my best men, my Lord."
"They are your sons, Anders," Raziel corrected him.
"That, and my best men," Anders insisted. He pushed back his irritation at the lavish decoration of his Lord's rooms. He had this entire suite to himself, and the reception room alone must have cost a fortune to furnish.
Raziel ignored his remark. "And I commiserate with your loss, but you know my position. I do not negotiate. I don't understand why you've even bothered to come here. It sounds like those savages still need your attention."
Anders pressed his jaws together. Obviously, his Lord was not in a forthcoming mood. Yet, he would never forgive himself if he didn't try his damnedest. "I do know your position; we don't make concessions. However, in this case, I think it could benefit us greatly to make a small one. If ever we wanted to give them land, now is the time. They have had a new leader since a few years..."
Raziel made an impatient noise, but Anders continued. "Please, listen! He's different. He's not from the swamps, he speaks the proper tongue and claims his heritage back to Fint Millersson, if you remember him..." his imploring glance was met by two very cold and narrowed eyes. "It doesn't matter, the point is they love him! They will follow him blindly and he is a man of honour."
"Honour?" Raziel spat out. "That swampscum doesn't even understand the word!"
"That's my point," Anders said gently. "He's not swampscum."
Raziel glowered at him. "They are murderers and thieves, regardless of who leads them. They have terrorised the herd for centuries and now you want me to give them a village?"
"The raids will stop, he has given me his word. Is that not what we want?" he asked imploringly.
"No, Anders, we want them brought to justice," Raziel answered, slowly, as if he was talking to a child. "That is what you vowed to do and that is why I sent you down there, to wipe them out, not play hide and go seek for three centuries!"
Anders clenched his jaws tightly together, struggling to contain his anger. Raziel met his furious gaze, wide-eyed, daring him to burst out in violence. "I mean no disrespect, my Lord," Anders said slowly, "but I do believe you underestimate the difficulties caused us by the terrain."
"I never said your assignment would be easy, Anders," Raziel answered, calmly. "I simply told you to get on with it. I can get you more men, if you need them."
"Kain's blood!" Anders swore, his patience finally breaking. "Do you really not understand? The number of men makes no difference, the swamp is impenetrable! The humans have set up traps around their city of almost a mile deep. They can swim my Lord, whereas we can not! You could march all the men in Darstein down there and they would all fail!"
Raziel's lip curled in a displeased snarl, and Anders knew he had overstepped the line. "Is that so?" his sire asked coldly. "I think you're simply not trying hard enough. I think you're afraid to take risks. Unwilling to accept losses. I think you and your men are getting a little too comfortable there in the south."
"What?" Anders breathed in unfeigned shock. "Comfortable? My Lord, we live in misery! It rains more often than it doesn't, everything is always damp, we can barely feed ourselves, there is nothing..."
Raziel was regarding him coldly, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He was clearly unmoved by Anders' words.
"My men are sick and tired of that festering swamp, we want to come home! Please, make this small concession, we will get them later. Please let them have it!" So there he was. Reduced to begging. And of course, Raziel would still refuse.
Raziel turned away, as if the sight of his son so brought down disgusted him. "Odd. I seem to remember you volunteered for this position." He ran his finger over the frame of a large painting and studied his finger for traces of dust.
Anders hung his head. "I did," he said. "Centuries ago. But how could I have known, sire?" He was still forced to address Raziel's back, and he knew his words were useless. Misery threatened to consume him. "Please," he whispered, though he knew it was no use.
"I will ask sir Marius to lend you some of his men; his division has grown large." Raziel's voice was hard, devoid of emotion. It was the kind of voice that would accept no disagreement. "You will take those men and end this. Forget about the cost, just remember your oath. Crush them."
Anders knew he'd lost. Once again, it was given to him to do the impossible. Again, he would lead young, inexperienced vampires to their deaths. Again, the stalemate would remain. He wondered what, if anything, Raziel wanted from him. Did he use the swamps to get rid of excess population? Was it cruelty? Or did he really fail to see...
He realised Raziel had turned back, and was staring at him. "Yes, my Lord," he whispered, his voice sharp with frustration, and, without looking up, slinked out of the room.
Hengest!
What?
What? Oh, I I think I slept.
Hengest looked for Horsa's one good eye beyond the curtain of black hair. He smiled. You did, he whispered. you looked almost peaceful.
Horsa smiled back. Hold strong, my heart. This suffering will end.
Hengest let his head hang again, it was the least trying position to be in. But it can only end in death, he said.
Yes.
He fought the flicker of hope that had threatened him all through the day. Raz...
Raziel does not care a whit for us, you know that. Oswald lies, I don't know why. Maybe simply to torture us.
Bloody tears welled in Hengest's eyes. Part of him was amazed that he could still cry; he felt as dry as dust. To think, he whispered, and lifted his head again to look at his brother's ruined face, that we will never again fight together, that I will never again find shelter behind your shield...
Horsa looked up, sadness in his eyes. His hand twitched as if it tried to reach out of its own accord.
That is the greatest pain of all, this hunger is nothing, not compared to that. Hengest's tears flowed freely now, cutting new streaks over his soiled face.
I know, my heart. Shush, be still. Someone approaches, don't let them see your tears.
There was indeed a soft footfall outside. The curtain of dry leaves and vines was swept aside, and a girl entered, a young daughter of the swamp. Her hair was teased back with clips and string; her clothes carelessly revealed the swell of her breasts and a sliver of creamy hip. She was skinny and short, but to the two starved undead, she looked like an angel.
"Oh, honey! Oh, my flower," Hengest croaked, his voice dry and feeble.
The girl glared at him.
"Come here, I want... I won't hurt you," he cooed. "I just want a taste..."
She clearly needed to pass them to get what she wanted, and she hesitated, not convinced that the monsters were really safely bound. They looked at her with brightly burning eyes and hungry, fanged smiles.
Oh Kain, we can smell her, Hengest whispered. She's... "Just a drop, my child, it won't hurt, I promise..." he begged, his lips pulled back in a desperate grimace.
She's bleeding, Horsa confirmed. He had picked up the dark, fleshy smell before his brother had. Normally it would have disgusted him, but now, with this hunger, the smell was intoxicating.
"Let me have it!" Hengest whispered, straining against his bonds. "You've got to! Oh, please, little darling, give me that sweet, rotten blood..."
"Stoppa!" the girl cried, angrily. "Hud otta damei!"
Horsa realised he was drooling. He swallowed, and looked at his brother, who was pulling on the ropes, careless of the pain he inflicted on himself.
"Please, please little flower, just a taste..." he groaned. "Give it to me!"
The girl grabbed a hard, round bread and threw it at him with all her strength. It bumped off his head and rolled on the floor, his perverse pleas interrupted by this sudden insult. There was complete silence for a heartbeat, and then something gave way inside Hengest.
Horsa could actually feel it slip, as if a dam had burst and a flood of incoherent, fantastically bloody thoughts poured forth from his brother's mind. Hengest roared loudly, his face twisted into an animalistic grimace, and he tore at his bonds as though he would rather lose his arms than let them restrain him. The girl backed away, frightened.
Hengest! Stop it! he whispered, but Hengest could not hear him. His mind was boiling with blood-fever, nothing could get through to him now. The nail embedded in his wrist tore through his flesh as he worked part of his arm free. Horsa flinched, he could hear the joint splitting, muscle tearing loose from bone. "Hengest, please! Stop!" he screamed, but it was useless. Hengest pulled his right arm free and turned on the left with the bloodied stump, seemingly unaware that he'd left his hand dangling from the nail. He roared in frustration, pulling on his other arm with short jerks. The girl fled, screaming.
Hengest! Horsa called, trying desperately to pierce the blood-haze surrounding his brother's mind. Hengest looked up dumbly, holding up what was left of his right arm. Two pieces of bone were sticking out of the mess of raw, bloodied flesh. Stop it, Horsa begged, tears running down his cheeks.
Hengest howled. The wooden frame he was tied to shook and his severed hand dropped to the floor. The girl had seemed to have raised a general alarm, and soon a small army of swamp-warriors swarmed into the small hut. Hengest greeted them with a hungry roar, his lips pulled back far over his fangs, but he was still mostly bound, his only free limb was useless. Horsa turned away as they started stabbing him with their sharpened sticks. He prayed they would kill him now, but that did not seem to be their intention. When he stopped moving, they tied his free arm to the wooden beam again, wrapping his arm in rough, cutting rope, and then pulled the spears from his torso.
They left him like that, black blood oozing from his wounds, his dead hand lying on the floor with the palm facing up.
