It was some time before the army started marching again and the officers had to more than once violently rouse the soldiers from celebratory drinking at the display of favour and glory from God on their young king. Whatever the occasion, religious or not, Humans tended to open the beer kegs at the earliest opportunity. There was great talk about what they had seen and more than one voice suggested that the church ought to promote their king to sainthood.
Finally the mass of men and horses began their slog through the Fens and the patches of forested marsh that stretched on for leagues to the south. An alternating environment, the Fens was an expanse of open marshland, thickly forested swamp, and seas of long green reeds. Rivers clogged with mud and debris crisscrossed on their way to the deltas on the southern coast, creating hidden pools of quicksand to trap unwary creatures and drag them down into hidden depths. It was not a region to cross incautiously. The army was deploying rafts to carry the horses, equipment, and supplies while the main body of men were expected to swim or wade.
The region was largely uninhabited, save for one lone sheltered community of fishermen, farmers, and fur hunters. This small settlement, a few crude huts clustered together, was immediately swarmed by the scouts ranging ahead of the army to ensure that no word of their passage could be filtered back to the enemy. It was something of a gamble to proceed with this strategy, given the ambush by the black Werewolves. There was no way of knowing how much the beasts were in league with the Mandarins or, if they were, how much they would choose to tell them of the movements of their enemies. But the army had come too far now to deviate. All that was left to do was to make a forced march south as quickly as possible to besiege the regional capital. The generals all agreed that right now, speed was the key to their whole campaign.
William, king and newly appointed saint amongst men, sat on his horse in the shelter of a copse of trees where he could not be seen by the army. He was not watching the army’s progression, but rather the long sword he held before him, admiring the gleam of light on the polished surface of the blade. He seemed almost mesmerized by it, like he was the prey before a colossal serpent and could not take his eyes away. He turned it this way and that, sometimes even spinning the hilt around in one hand in a display of excellent hand-eye coordination.
“A truly magnificent blade!” He proclaimed and there was a strange reverence in his voice. It was more than mere admiration, but rather had an undercurrent of steely determination, as if he finally held a tool with which he would accomplish a great task.
“Clearly you did not exaggerate your ability.” He continued and half turned in his saddle to look back over his shoulder at the figure he knew to be there, concealed in the shadows cast by a colossal, moss covered tree. “This is the finest craftsmanship that I have ever…” He stopped in mid-sentence and frowned, seeing the rigidity and agitation clear in the other’s body language. “Is something the matter?”
Vorador looked at him squarely, his lips pressed tightly together and his eyes as hard as flint. It had taken him some time to calm the racing, paranoid thoughts in his mind and regain his rational composure. The revelation of this youthful monarch’s historical identity had been quite a shock indeed and it showed.
“You look a bit ill…” William commented, turning his horse to look directly at him. The steed nickered nervously in the Vampires’ presence, sensing the close proximity of a predator. “And for a Vampire that is not an easy task.” Vorador ignored the quip and looked the young man directly in the eye with a stern, almost accusatorial look.
“YOU are William the Just?” He asked in a harsh tone of voice. “YOU?” The young man did not perceive the emphasis he put on the name. He pushed his chainmail hood free from his head and scratched himself while looking up at the sky thoughtfully.
“Well, it is a rather ostentatious, self-aggrandising title, I grant you.” He conceded, but still smiling pleasantly. “But it is harmless enough and I would rather have them calling me 'the Just' than a dark, ravaging nemesis.”
Vorador took another moment to collect himself, shutting his mouth. He ought not to have said anything, he realised belatedly.
“Of course… It’s not happened for you yet.” He mused quietly to himself. This boy would know nothing of the legacy he would eventually leave behind, the genocide of Vampires committed in his name. For him it was a path not yet travelled and events far beyond his own death over which he had no control.
“I beg your pardon?” William asked looking perplexed.
“Nothing of concern.” Vorador asserted quickly. With purposeful, disciplined effort he drove all considerations of future events and implications of causality out of his mind. Steadfastly he reminded himself over and over of why he was here. Umah. Her name echoing in his mind was like a raft he could cling to in a sea of chaotic events. Despite it all he was still as determined as ever to wrest his family from the chaos of history.
But one other thing was clear too and it was just as comforting, although a bit more physically satisfying. If the Seer did not fulfil her promise to restore his daughter to him for all the mayhem he was being forced to endure for her, he would break the Hylden woman in half with his bare hands and call the vengeful indemnification worth the reignited war with her people.
“Well then, seeing as I am so just and noble, I suppose I ought to live up to my end of the bargain.” William was saying jovially, tapping his sword with one hand. Vorador pulled his attention sharply back to the here and now, listening intently. The Seer was most definitely going to feel his chastisement, the degree of which he could determine later.
“The artefact you seek is the legendary Shield of the Lance Lord, confiscated by the Sarafan inquisitor Charlemagne during the early years of the crusaders.” The king went on, his voice lowering to what he thought was a resonate tone appropriate for the telling of great fables and myths, but came across as extremely theatrical. One of the Vampires’ large ears twitched in annoyance. “According to legend, if the shield was worn in the light of a full moon it granted its wearer extraordinary reserve of stamina.” He gave Vorador an impish look. “Is that what you wanted?”
Vorador frowned in recollection, William’s words stirring a memory. Grandmaster Ajatar-Cadre had said that she had once forged an artefact from Eclipse-ka, a shield commissioned by an expedition of Ancient Vampires to find the Celestial Arrow in the East thousands of years ago. Janos had been part of that expedition and it had been on that trip that he had discovered Vorador as a young boy. The rest of the expedition had carried on without him and not one of them had ever returned.
Could it be that Ajatar’s shield had survived whatever fate befell them and had been used in the myths of the region ever since, becoming a piece of armour for some fabled Human warrior? The odds were against it but it seemed to be the only explanation. In any case, from William’s description the artefact exhibited properties of the strange, otherworldly metal and it was precisely what was needed.
“Indeed.” The Vampire replied, keeping his expression neutral. “And where might I find this legendary shield?” At the sight of William’s smile Vorador knew there would be trouble. It was a smile which the young man did his best to make appear casual, but Vorador could see the edges of his mouth twitch in the telltale sign of great condensing amusement.
“To the south, in the district capital of Zwergstadar.” He replied. Vorador’s expression was already flat but now it turned completely deadpan, every muscle relaxed except for those around his eyes which tightened ever so slightly.
“The capital of your enemies, the Mandarins?” He asked rhetorically. “How convenient.” William just continued to smile, his face the inoffensive mask of a lying politician. The two of them stood looking at each other for a long moment, the sound of the army moving on a constant hum in the background. Finally the Vampires’ expression twisted with contempt.
“You despicable little man.” He said and pointed a talon at the weapon the young monarch was holding. “You persuaded me to make you that sword knowing full well that my going to Zwergstadar would cause the Mandarins difficulties enough for you to take advantage of, fair payment in and of itself.”
William did not look repentant in the slightest. If anything his impish smile widened. He looked for all the world like a man who had just dealt an opponent in a roll of dice, confident in victory and of no negative consequences for it.
“One thing I learned quite well during my education, Vampire, was to take advantage of every opportunity you get.” He said candidly. “Because once that opportunity is gone, it’s not coming back.”
Leaning back he slid the commissioned blade into the leather and fur sheath his armourers had hastily made for it. It was too long a sword to carry in a scabbard at his side so it could only be slung across his back, similar to the fashion in which Vorador had seen Kain carry the Reaver. The comparison seemed disturbingly apt.
Vorador looked at this monarch atop his war horse, framed by the light of the sun and the sight of a marching army behind him, and he seemed in that moment less a foppish dandy of a boy and more of a ruthless general trampling anything before him into the dirt beneath his feet.
“And of course you would know.” The Vampire remarked just as frankly. William met his gaze steadily.
“A king does what he must.” He said without committing himself to revealing anything. Vorador just grunted and turned away.
“So does a father.” He must have given William quite a fright when he transformed into a wolf right there in front of him. The horse certainly didn’t care for it, whinnying loudly and rearing up with front hooves churning. The young king had to grasp its mane and apply his stirrups quite forcefully in order to get the animal back under control. With an amused lupine smile, Vorador darted away into the expanse of the marshland.
Crossing the marsh on the wing as a raven might have been the quicker means of travel, but Vorador knew that the Mandarins were accomplished in many arcane arts and there was still a great deal of mystery to them. It would be better to conceal his presence on the ground, where in the air he might easily be sensed in his approach. Far better to take some time now to hide himself, and the form of the wolf was fast enough to keep ahead of the army. It was imperative that he got to the city of Zwergstadar first. In the chaos of such a colossal siege the artefact might very easily be lost or destroyed.
Travelling some distance, perhaps several leagues, he paused on the edge of a moss covered slate rock protruding from the muck to listen. He could still hear the army as it marched on, a continual thud of thousands of feet and splashes as they waded. Louder, however, were the hum of insects and the high, trilling calls of the strange birds and other animals that called this place home. He was used to swamp conditions, having lived in a manor house in the depths of the Black Forest, but this marsh was altogether different.
-0-
“The Fens was a mixture of mangroves, open swampland, and mud-ridden streams and rivers, home to a variety of giant insects and reptiles. But it had not always been so. A long time ago, the Ancient Vampire city of Mu, an outpost in the East, had stood here. But the passing centuries had swallowed the ruins, an entire city absorbed by mud.”
-0-
He looked for signs that the city had once been here. There had been ancient Vampire structures in the swamp where he had lived as well. He had even had his mansion built on top of one of them. But here, the foundations had long since been undermined and Mu had completely vanished. Not so much as a set of building stones to make an educated guess where it had been. Nature had reclaimed her territory and smothered all attempts at intrusion.
He continued on, the environment becoming more and more exotic the farther south he travelled. The snow which had clung to the northern expanses seemed to vanish. As if he had crossed some undetermined line, the climate changed and became more humid and wet. The clouds overhead more often than not turned grey and let loose a steady rain. Bright flowers as large as his head opened up wide to receive the water. As they did, the insects came out to feed on their pollen. Most of the skittering bugs were average sized and came in thick swarms, buzzing around the flower stems. Larger spindly spiders fed on them, gathering them up in thick webs cast between outstretched tree branches. They in turn were fed upon by the dragonflies. These insects were not at all like the smaller species in the west. Several Vorador witnessed had to be as long and thick as a man’s arm, flying on wings that stretched a meter or more. They moved in a pattern, six in a straight line with a seventh leading. In this formation they would fly low and pick off the spiders as they attempted to feast on their own catch. Vorador ignored the display of exotic life, for he knew the fate of this diverse ecosystem. It, like everything else, would slowly wither and die in the eons after the collapse of the Pillars.
Finally Vorador came to the edge of the river than ran down from the Lake of Bones. It twisted as rivers generally did and the curve was blocking his way. Beyond that curve, the ground appeared more sodden and marshy. He was approaching the start of the delta now and he would face there nothing but an expanse of sodden ground between stretches of water. In the distance, a mere smudge on the horizon was curving shoreline. He could not see the sea from this distance but the smell of it carried nonetheless.
-0-
“While such an environment was familiar to me, it offered nothing but danger to a Vampire. If I wished to proceed swiftly and without hindrance, the form of the snake would be a great asset.”
-0-
Quickly he reassumed his natural shape and then from there flowed into the elongated, slender form of his newest alternative guise. By now assuming the reptilian form was easy and once wrapped in scales, he slid into the water and began his more leisurely pace southwest towards that distant landmass.
Being such a large serpent in appearance any wildlife that saw him cleared out of his way as quickly as possible, all except a trio of crocodiles sitting on a mud bank. They just watched him go past with dull eyed disinterest, one with its mouth hung open to allow a small bird to peck out gobs of meat from between its teeth. Perhaps as fellow reptiles of comparative size they saw no need to be alarmed by his presence. Vorador swam on past them and into the reeds.
He was not arrogant enough to assume that seizing this shield from the Mandarins would be an easy task. It was altogether possible they might be open to bartering for the artefact, but he doubted that as well. Far better it would be for him if he were to approach the situation with a degree of stealth. There was still the question of exactly how potent the powers of the five mind-joined sorcerers actually were.
“Come, firstborn.” The voice boomed inside his mind like a thunderclap. The snake almost rolled over itself in the water in surprise, slithering up onto the bank at the side of the stream. Vorador had been left alarmed, his mind reeling. He was no stranger to telepathic communication. He himself was an accomplished user of the Vampiric method, the Whisper. What he had just experienced, however, was beyond that.
“Come to Me.” The voice came again and penetrated down to his very core, past every mental defence he had in place. In that moment he also got the distinct impression that the user had done so merely to get his undivided attention and that if it wanted, it could do much worse. In a flash he was back in his own form, one hand reaching for Marrow’s hilt, his eyes snapping this way and that for an attacker. He saw nothing.
“I would have words with you.” The voice added and this time its effect was muted, not so violating and intrusive.
“Who speaks?” He demanded, his eyes still scanning the scrubby grass and muck around him for dangers. “Show yourself!”
Subtly, he found his attention being drawn to his left. His turned his head to look on instinct. Hidden beneath the grass, only visible now that his attention had been drawn to it was a stretching series of white stones. They were badly weathered and covered in moss but Vorador recognised them as pieces of Ancient Vampire architecture. Undoubtedly he had indeed found some telltale trace of the outpost of Mu. The stones stretched forward, leaving a trail which led off into the haze of the falling rain.
“Come.” The voice insisted again. Vorador supposed what he ought to do was ignore this voice and carry on to his destination. But strangely he found himself obeying the command, moving along the hidden stone path and into the haze. He wasn’t even aware that he was moving until he had passed the fourth stone along the route.
The path twisted through the marsh a short distance to the southeast, meandering around large boulders protruding from the muck, old dead trees, and an occasional sinkhole. As he progressed, the feeling of being watched intensified to a mind-numbing degree, a disconcerting feeling that sat like a weight on his mind.
Finally he came to the end of the trail. The rubble of white stone formed a near perfect circle, within which the water was clear and untainted by the muck and filth of the swamp just outside. The moss and foliage did not simply grow over the stones either. It stayed back and away, leaving this place a spot unspoiled amongst the dirt of the swamp. The strangeness of this hidden spot, so open and yet so isolated, gave it an alien, dream-like quality.
Vorador stood for a long moment on the edge of the clear, calm pool. The sense of presence was intensely strong here.
“Who are you?” He asked finally, his eyes drawn inescapably to the pool. “What are you?” Silence endured for another few moments afterward, the rain in the background a distant humming. The water in the pool remained perfectly calm and suddenly that fact struck Vorador. It was raining and yet the water in the pool did not so much as ripple.
“Your latter question cannot be answered, no matter how many times it is asked of Me by those involved.” The voice said and even as it echoed in his mind it seemed to be coming from both the pool before him and strangely from the sky above at the same time.
“I am the Keeper – one half of the primary and original immigrants from beyond, beyond.” The voice continued. Vorador blinked despite himself.
“The God of the Hylden?” He asked. He knew enough about Hylden culture to know the deity they worshipped. One of their great Houses was primarily devoted to the study of that god’s supposed scriptures. In addition, there were the stories told to him by Raziel back in his castle, where he had spoken of meeting both this god and the supposed Oracle of the Wheel of Fate. At the time it had been too bombastically fantastic to believe.
“They chose to venerate Me.” The voice replied with a ripple of amusement in it, as if the speaker found the whole idea a mild joke. “And doing so does them no lasting harm, so I permitted it.” Vorador’s face creased into a frown.
“So you are a verification of Raziel’s boasting about godly entities beyond time, then?” He asked sceptically. Above all else he was a rationalist and even if he were speaking with a god, he would maintain that perspective.
“Raziel told you the truth.” The voice said in affirmation. “It would be in your best interests to absorb fully what he told you and accept it.” Vorador stared into the pool without saying a word, his brow knit together in an expression of stern dislike. “You do not trust Me.” It was not a question.
“You are a disembodied voice. I have never met you before.” Vorador replied promptly and with little civility. He folded his arms over his large chest. “Of course I do not trust you.” The silence that followed seemed to drip the hidden conversationalist’s almost sardonic amusement.
“But you have met Me before.” It said, catching Vorador off guard with the statement. “Has the passing of eons eroded the memory totally?”
The Vampire’s frown deepened almost into a scowl.
“I think I would remember an encounter such as this.” He said dismissively.
“You were but a Human boy when I first saw you.” The voice continued despite that. “Mad with terror, running from a fate you did not desire, you stumbled into the fumes given off by the sulphurous lake and collapsed. You saw me watching, did you not?”
Vorador’s face morphed, displaying a moment of startled alarm before he could cover it. Those words had sparked a memory. He had indeed collapsed by such a lake, the Lake of Spirits, and had been overcome by the fumes there. As he had collapsed, he had thought he had seen eyes watching him from out of the depths of the water. He had assumed such a vision had been a hallucination brought on by inhaling the poisonous gasses. He had told no one about seeing those eyes, as he had only recently remembered.
“You were there…” The Vampire breathed in that unguarded moment.
“I watched as you were rescued by Janos Audron.” The voice affirmed. “I have watched the birth and beginning of all those important for the future of this world.”
The water in the pool before him flickered and colours danced across it like mother-of-pearl. Vorador stared, his attention totally captured. The colours dancing across the water began to morph and coalesce into a recognisable shape.
It was the image of a babe in a cradle, a shock of black hair atop its newborn head, wrapped in the clean white sheets that showed the family it belonged to was of noble birth.
“I was there when Kain was born, already corrupted by Nupraptor’s spiritual poison.” The voice said. In the image in the water a young girl, perhaps in her mid teens, came to the cradle and looked down at the babe. Her eyes were filmy in obvious blindness. She gently stroked the babe’s face with one hand.
“I was there when Raziel’s original incarnation first spread his wings.” The image went out of focus and then sharpened again. It had changed. Now a young, blue skinned and black winged Ancient Vampire was standing atop a cliff. The young one raised his wings and flapped them experimentally several times before taking a deep breath and leaping from the precipice. Immediately a powerful updraft caught in his wings and carried him up, propelling him high into the clear sky.
“I was there when Janos Audron did likewise.” The young Vampire was joined by another in his flight, thinner and with longer hair. The images of the two young Vampires soared together beneath the sun as the image went out of focus once more.
“I was there when fanatics burned down the house of Umah’s family, leaving her the only survivor for you to rescue.” The small house was burning, the mob long since dispersed to celebrate their piety in the nearest tavern. Vorador saw himself standing there watching the flames with a flat, neutral expression, his face showing nothing. But tucked into the nook of one arm was the soot covered form of a young girl, badly hurt but still alive.
“Customarily, I have simply watched.” The voice continued, the image of that burning house maintaining itself. “But occasionally it has been necessary to nudge one or more of you in the proper direction if you are to prevail.” Vorador kept his eyes on that fire and on the sight of the little girl his daughter had once been, the memory like a knife twisting inside him.
“That is why I called you here to Me now.” Those words brought him out of his mental isolation with a start.
“What do you mean?” He asked, his frown returning quickly.
“You have come far, Vorador. You have grown both in power, personality, and purpose.” The voice replied. “Long gone and best forgotten is the selfish isolationist who preferred to amuse himself with sadistic torments in the bowels of the Black Forest.” The way it was phrased Vorador was not entirely sure if he were being insulted. In the years after Janos’ death at the hands of the Sarafan and before the beginning of Moebius’ crusade, he had admittedly devolved into sadistic decadence. He had kept Humans around for a fresh supply of blood of course, but had taken something of a delight in applying various tortures to them. While now he felt no love for Mankind, he realised the pastime for the soul damaging activity it really was. Their pain had not really given him that much pleasure and he had abandoned the practise as the second crusade began.
“But to know if you are truly prepared, an evaluation must take place.” That sounded distinctly ominous and the Vampire leaned back in apprehension, the hand by Marrow’s hilt moving ever so slightly to be in the best position to draw the blade.
“You mean to test me?” He asked and could not keep the hesitancy out of his voice.
“This is not an idle activity.” The voice assured him confidently. “Some of the others have been tested already. It is necessary.”
Suddenly Vorador felt that he had stood for long enough at this pool, talking to a voice that seemed to speak from two directions at once. He still had a long way to go.
“I do not have time for this.” He said and moved to turn away. Suddenly the image in the pool burst forth, erupting out from the water and becoming as real as the world around him. He was caught up in it, ensnared in an instant. He tried to move, to draw the blade at his side but his body was suddenly numb.
“You have as much time I determine to give you.” The voice said and there was iron in it now, an implacable determination that its will be carried out. “Pass the test, Vorador.”
Ensnared by whatever powers this entity possessed, Vorador found that he was no longer in a swamp. He had been transported, standing before the warm fireplace of his sire’s aerie. He recognised the structure at once, having been there many times in the past. It had been one of the few Ancient Vampire structures kept whole while it was still standing.
He had no eye for the environment, however. His gaze was fixed immovably on the scene of carnage before him. Janos Audron was down, collapsed on a wooden sofa, wings limply outspread. The expression on his face was one of alarmed terror. He was badly injured, his body covered in various cuts and bruises.
Standing around the stricken Ancient were five armoured figures, each instantly recognisable as Sarafan Knights. Their armour was mostly identical but their helmets differed, each one having a different set of horns protruding from the temples. Their leader was wearing a strange amber and gold armour and his helmet was winged on either side. Attached to the gauntlet of his left arm was a cruelly curving blade that reached past the fingers. Janos was yelling, striking out at the figures as hard as he could and trying to keep them back.
With an alarmed start Vorador realised what he was seeing. This was his sire’s death, when the Sarafan had torn the heart from his body. He had not been there to witness the event but now he was experiencing the entire bloody deed firsthand. He did not want to watch this but the powers that entrapped him in this illusion did not give him the liberty.
Janos lashed out, striking the Sarafan leader up under the chin. His blue talons caught the helmet and tore it free from the man’s head. It clattered a short distance away, rolling to a stop by a wall. The man’s face was revealed, his expression twisted in angry hatred. Even contorted so and Human, Vorador recognised the face of Raziel. The blue wraith had told him that in one past life he had been the Sarafan inquisitor responsible for Janos’ execution. Here before him was complete and utter verification.
The man punched Janos across the face with his gauntleted right hand, knocking him back down and leaving a mark across his cheek.
“Hold him!” He barked to one of the other Knights. The armoured man held forth what he was holding and Vorador’s rage burst within him at the sight of Moebius’ staff, the orb atop infamous for its ability to render any Vampire within its range immobile. To render an opponent helpless before striking the final blow was an act of cowardice so vile it made a mockery of the romanticised image of the Knights.
The orb flared and Janos, with a gasp, collapsed down inert. He tried to move but his body would not let him, reducing him to twitching in pathetic desperation. Above the prone Vampire, the inquisitor Raziel drew the arm with its cruel blade back. His teeth clenched in hatred, he brought the ugly weapon up sharply.
Vorador was forced to watch as his sire’s chest was carved open in one swing, the insides wet with blood. The rib cage was cracked open like dried wood, fragments flying everywhere. Janos screamed despite the paralysis that beset him, the innards of his torso on full display.
But the butcher was not done yet. Sharply he stabbed his right hand down into that open wound, reaching in deep. Janos screamed again, the cry of pain going on and on until finally it cut off in a gurgle of pain. The inquisitor dragged his hand back out in one motion, the sound of tearing flesh hideously loud. Grasped in his hand was Janos’ bloody heart, the organ which would become known as the Heart of Darkness. It thumped loudly in the murderer’s hand, dripping blood through his fingers to stain the white toga of its original owner.
“Look at his black heart!” The knight holding the staff declared, staring at the organ. “See how it still beats!”
The rage building in Vorador was a boiling volcano. It was threatening to crush his mind and send him into the plunging depths of madness. He could feel it massing, ready to push him over that edge. But he resisted. He had much left to do, too much counting on him to allow such a thing to happen. Grimly and with steadfast determination he took that rage which threatened to consume him and instead brought it into himself, adapting that anger and making it his own weapon. He controlled the anger. It did not control him.
The scene before him melted away in that moment, but he was not released. Instead, another visage claimed him at once. This test was far from over.
He was in Stahlberg. The hourglass banners of Moebius’ crusade hung from buildings all around him. The air was thick with the acrid reek of death and the hate filled cries of the mob in front of the scaffold. To his left was the executioner, wearing the traditional black hood mask. Just beyond him was the loathsome hooded form of Moebius the Time Streamer himself.
Suddenly Vorador became aware of his own position. He was kneeling, his head locked into the wooden harness of the guillotine. Behind him his arms and legs were shackled by heavy chains of iron. Below him was a basket, already full of severed heads. With sick horror he realised he was about to relive his own execution and he could do nothing to stop it.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed the dawn, Vampire.” A crackling voice said, a shadow passing over him. Vorador felt himself turning his head to look up. It was a move he did not consciously make, his body obeying the commands he had given it when this event had actually taken place. Moebius was looming over him. “It’s the last one you’ll ever see.”
His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood but the malicious smile was all too clear. The orb on the end of his staff glowed faintly. When all this had really taken place it had prevented Vorador from using his own arcane arts to escape but here, it was the strange power that transported him into this memory in the first place that bound him. The Time Streamer turned and made a gesture to the expansive group of bigots he had spent fifty years churning up.
“The crowd demands justice!” He said, raising his voice to be heard. The crowd in question rumbled angrily back their agreement.
Moebius raised himself to his full height, standing over him like a personified court ready to pass judgement.
“Vorador, son of the black devil Janos Audron, I find you guilty of heinous atrocities committed against the Human race.” He intoned formally, loud enough for everyone behind him to hear. Slowly he began to move and take his place beside the executioner. “The sentence is death by beheading. May the Lord have mercy on whatever passes for your soul!”
Somewhere, a bell began to toll. It was hard to say from where. Moebius nodded to the executioner as he passed him and the black hooded man took hold of the lever which would bring down the blade hanging above.
Vorador could do only one thing in this situation; endure. He had suffered death once before and risen again. Despite this, the guillotine had been a source of perpetual anxiety for him ever since. Now he was being forced to face that demon head-on. There was no escape, no turning aside. If he wished to survive the fear this memory invoked he would have to be a rock it would break against.
The blade came down and the image around him changed.
He was no longer kneeling. Moebius, the executioner, and the crowd had disappeared. The terrible memory of his first death had faded with his resolve. The scene before him now was by far the worst yet.
Umah was collapsed, on her knees amongst the crumbled bodies of several of the fascist Sarafan pretenders. They were all dead, but she was hardly much better. Her body was covered in wounds. Cuts that could only have been made by swords had lacerated her arms and legs. She was terribly pale from the amount of blood she had lost. Attached to her chest over her breasts was the Nexus Stone, the artefact employed by the Sarafan Lord to protect himself from the effects of the Soul Reaver.
Leaning over her was Kain, the younger version of the would-be tyrant, before the change that would give him traits of the progenitor species had occurred. There was a blank expression on his face but his eyes were full of sympathy.
“It seems…I was wrong.” Umah said in a weary voice, shivering in her weakness. Cringing at the humiliation Vorador knew such an admission must cause her, she looked up at Kain with a distraught expression. “I could not carry the fight...alone.”
Kain reached out and gently brushed the hair away from her face with the back of his hand, caressing her soothingly.
“You were brave to try.” He said and for the first time Vorador heard affection in his voice, a tone he had never known Kain to use. Umah winced from the pain of her wounds and looked up at him. Despite her determination to be as independent as she could possibly be, Umah knew when she needed help.
“Kain… I’m dying…” She began weakly.
“Yes. You are.” Kain nodded, his expression still blank. Cringing more from the necessity of asking than from the wounds, she implored him.
“I need your blood… Please… You can save me…” Kain reached out again. This time he did not stroke her but gently took the Nexus Stone, prying it free from her.
“I know.” He replied softly. He leaned over her, his eyes fixed to hers. “Tell me, child. Do you see me ruling Nosgoth?” It was a cruel thing to ask. Umah shivered again in pain. Vorador knew that right now she would say anything to survive.
“Yes… Yes, I see it now…” She replied, her gaze growing faint as more and more of her blood dripped free from her wounds.
“And do you believe that Nosgoth rightfully belongs to me?” Kain asked again. There seemed to be no malice in his questions, only a sad sense of an unpleasant duty that had to be done.
“…I do… I do believe it, Kain. Please…” Umah was so weak now she could barely speak, her desperation to live driving her to do or say anything he wanted, no matter how humiliating. But Kain did not offer her his blood. He looked right at her and his expression changed slightly and there was despair clear there.
“Then you may die, knowing the truth.” He said and struck. His claws sliced deep into her exposed neck, tearing through jugular and windpipe in one swift motion. Umah’s gasp of pain turned into a gurgle. She was knocked back down to the ground, fresh vital blood spilling out.
“No!!!” She managed to struggle out, one hand grasped to the wound. Kain stood up, watching the life fade from her without averting his eyes.
“You should never have betrayed me. You could have been my queen.” He said to her but there was no reprimand in his voice. Her life fading from her, Umah reached one hand weakly towards him. Her expression was confusion, pain, and a despair that matched Kain’s own.
“Kain…” She breathed. It was the last word she said. With a whimper of pain she went limp, her eyes closing. Her murderer stood over her corpse, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
“Now you have left me alone.” He breathed.
Without warning, Vorador found himself free from the paralysis of the vision. His body responded to him instantly as he drew Marrow and started forward, gaze set on the man who had killed his daughter and who stood guilty over her body. He did not hurry his pace. He just stalked towards Kain’s unprotected back with the sword in one hand, tensed and steady to skewer.
As he came near, the figure before him turned around to face him. It was no longer the youthful Kain, but now the fully matured version which had come back in time to his mansion in search of scraps of lore. It was the form of the Vampire who in order to save Umah’s life had given to her the Dark Gift, full well knowing that he would eventually become her murderer. On that face was no expression of regret or sorrow. There did not need to be. The eyes told everything. In those golden eyes Vorador could read thousands of years of doubt and remorse for a decision made by a tempestuous youth. It was a decision he had thought, as a king, he had to make. Umah had betrayed him and he could not play favourites. But now he was old enough and experienced enough to realise the foolishness of that sentiment and regret was forever a weight on his soul.
Vorador lowered his sword. There was no need to do anything to this man. There was nothing he could do to him that would trump the mental torture he had inflicted upon himself. After eons of anguish and despair, Kain had suffered enough. This left the two of them on equal footing and together they shared affection for Umah, who had been daughter to one and a potential lover to the other. Despite himself Vorador felt pity for him. It was the beginnings of forgiveness at least, but it would be some time before that came to pass entirely. Slowly he sheathed his sword.
The vision came to an abrupt end. He was firmly in reality again, standing on the edge of that strange pool in the middle of the Fens, the rain cascading down all around him. Whatever power that had swept him up had released its hold.
“Adaptation, Endurance, Forgiveness.” The voice recited, noting the qualities he had displayed with each vision. Its tone sounded almost jubilant in his mind. “You have passed the test.”
The anger Vorador had taken into himself flared once more. He ground his teeth, lips pulling back to expose his fangs.
“Why?!” He snarled and his voice was a growl of barely suppressed anger. “Why did you make me watch her die?!” His hands were shaking. “Of all the things by which to test me, why did it have to be that?!” The visions had left his own rigid mental discipline badly shaken.
“Because it was necessary.” The voice replied without any attempt at apology. There was movement above and Vorador shot a glance up. The rain clouds directly overhead were churning around in a tight circle but not like they were being spun by wind. They looked very much like they were being moved by the presence of something colossal above them which was gently circling. Whatever it was had to be huge as occasionally a shadow was cast, outlining a vague shape which could only hint at the presence of a giant.
“You have indeed grown, Vorador.” The voice said and now that he was looking up it seemed to be coming from that direction alone, directly from those churning clouds. “But you will need to further augment before the end of this. You are about to face a terrible danger, one you will not be prepared for.” The shape in the clouds was beginning to sluggishly move off.
“The ancient abandoned city you seek is a place where the truths about Nosgoth’s earliest histories, its first recordings, are housed.” The voice told him and now its tone was quite serious.
“If it means undoing what I just had to witness, then I will endure.” Vorador replied firmly and with renewed ironclad conviction. The shape above was moving off.
“You may continue on your journey.” The voice said and it was beginning to grow faint. “But I would offer you this one warning.” The shape began to disappear, the shadow it cast becoming one with the natural gloom. “Do not stand directly before the onslaught of Thanatos’ wrath, or he will destroy you.” With that, the form hidden by the clouds and the voice were gone.
Vorador was left standing there, his face creased into a deep frown. The experience he had just had was unique and it would be some time before he would be able to properly evaluate it. The meeting with this so-called god was momentous enough, but the emotional and mental tests had strained his own mind and left him with altered preconceptions. But he passed all that aside for now to focus on one thing that stood out amongst all others. The being’s parting words, to beware of something called Thanatos, had struck deep.
He had heard that name before. Eons ago now, when he had rescued the Seer from the tortuous depths of the Eternal Prison he had discovered the Hylden woman driven to near madness and babbling the name ‘Thanatos’ over and over. The chamber she had been contained in had made that fear personify in the form of some winged horror. Ever since he had thought she had been merely babbling, but now he found the name repeated elsewhere.
Whoever or whatever Thanatos was, if it was involved in this quest of his then it would be a terrible danger. The mere memory of it had nearly driven the Seer insane, and for all her faults she was a woman of great mental resource.
New worries in his mind, Vorador turned back to follow his course on to the city of Zwergstadar and the fulfilment of his quest.