Chapter Text
The Sarafan Citadel had been picked clean. Nearly all traces of the Razielim’s combat here, some six months ago, had vanished – to brigands, wild beasts, the local peasantry. The rich tapestries were gone, doorways further broken in or hacked for firewood, even the thick walls were beginning to decay, chipped into their component blocks and hauled away by sled. Soon enough, of course, some lord would retake the citadel, for it was too solid a prize to relinquish entirely to the hands of looters, and eventually, Raziel knew, the Sarafan would make their home here once more.
But perhaps not this generation of Sarafan.
Crawling things skittered away in the corners, darted down hallways as the Razielim vanguard entered. They had arrived at this age battered by time, buoyed by a new hope, but few in number. Now, they were fewer. The armor they wore and weapons they wielded had been repaired many times over, despite the preserving enchantments which the Ancients had woven into the steel. Nevertheless, they moved not in the manner of the exhausted or routed, but maintained discipline, every man and woman amongst them alert and ready. Long, barbed pikes at the fore, the Razielim infiltrated the vast complex, slipping from shadow to shadow. As if of a single mind, they froze as one, listening with preternatural accuracy.
Several moments passed. If there had been any humanoids in residence, they’d fled the approach of the larger Razielim army. All clear, came the sending.
At their head, Raziel nodded to Anani, his face drawn down into hard, focused lines. As with all his Razielim, the six months of near-constant battle had taken its toll. His clan-drape and armor, both battered and mended, were silent evidence of the wounds even he had taken from the Hylden, despite his own skill and that of his personal guard. But Raziel had lived up to his fame as Kain's first Lieutenant, and the Razielim as the Empire's finest warriors, and the Hylden had not been able to prevail against them. The portal in Meridian had been sealed a bare month ago, and the time since spent hunting down any stragglers and human sympathizers that might reopen it. And now ....
Now it was time for Raziel to make good on his promise to them. To take them to the green and fertile lands of the Ancients, far in Nosgoth's past, and give his Clan the rest they had earned.
The small Chronoplast chamber off to one side of the main hall was just as they had left it, except perhaps somewhat dirtier in the absence of the citadel's human keepers. Raziel flicked his gaze to a nearby squad. Rearguard. The warriors immediately bowed, clasping taloned fists over their hearts, and retreated back to the castle entrance. Raziel glanced at Anani, and a silent and inscrutable Tarrant, as they approached the Chronoplast controls. The Ancients had trained him upon their use, but .... leaving without Kain at his side felt wrong, even more wrong than battling without him had been.
"Have the others hold back to the entrance of the chamber while I activate the portal," he told Anani, his eyes upon the device.
Anani nodded shortly, delivering the same brief bow as had the squadron of elders. He moved away to relay the orders, leaving Raziel and Tarrant momentarily alone. Under the Power’s fractured silver gaze, Raziel laid hand upon the chamber’s controls.
Before leaving the Ancients nearly a year ago, Raziel had arranged for the construction of this very timestreaming chamber. He’d been assured that the construction would take no more than three years – that, and the fact that Kain had once consulted an astronomer in the Ancients’ era, made setting the best date a simple task. Before them, the portal blasted open with the brilliant howl of time-space displaced.
Behind Raziel, the army had gathered itself rapidly into discrete units, though some of the squadrons seemed thin, bare. The war against the Hylden had taken its greatest toll on the youngest, those with less than a century of experience and accumulated power. There were sires, relatively young themselves, who stood solidly in rank with empty places beside them, grim reminders of lost progeny, or whole bloodlines. At the same time, there were six – six! -- sires who waited beside vampires so newly-risen that the fledglings could scarce stand still, their attentions drifting.
Rearing fledglings on the battlefield was difficult enough, even if Raziel had done it a multitude of times. But there’d been little other choice; Raziel speculated that taking humans back in time would be unwise, lest the mortals breed and arrive at the paradox of having fathered their own ancestors. Turning a human, however, should affect the timestream no more than killing him, and thus, when petitioned, Raziel had allowed the siring.
The forward units moved into position, prepared to follow Raziel.
Raziel glanced at Tarrant, then back at the others, checking to see if they were ready. Then he faced forward once more, and stepped through.
The power of the Chronoplast took him with a familiar dizzying whirl, vast energies pulling at every fiber of his body, tugging him forward in the riptide. For a single, fleeting eternity he was drowning in the endless flow of time ...
... and then he was stepping forward again, booted feet setting down upon stone with the faintest of stumbles as the portal thrust him forward and into a new time. It was the same chamber that he'd left; but this one was newly built, stone still showing the fresh marks of chisel and hammer. In point of fact, said tools were still there, lying discarded upon the floor--and Raziel heard the shouts of retreating artisans as they fled the magic portal that had burst into existence--and the strange creature it had now disgorged. Blade in hand, he stepped downward, off the platform, just in time to greet the Ancient guards as they charged into the chamber, spears ready.
The winged vampires stopped short, immediately falling to their knees. "Chosen one!" one said, his attempt at the human tongue imperfect, but understandable. "We did not know you would return to us so soon!"
Behind Raziel, the wall of the portal rippled, disgorging first one of Raziel’s personal guards, then another, looking ill with the disorientation of timestreaming. Then three more, heavy steel boots ringing loud against the stone floor. One man staggered on trembling legs, only to be caught by his brethren and hauled a few steps away, making room for more of the unit as they emerged from the conflicting wash of blue and hot molten gold.
The Ancients were not difficult to spot. “By the name of K—“ started Simeon, Raziel’s fortieth and sire to Hadrian, as he moved as well as he was able to take up a position close to Raziel, lest the… whatever-they-were decided to attack. He was not so disoriented, though, as to fail to realize what he’d started to say, and his jaws clicked shut on the epithet. Those were… the Ancients? They looked like the angels worshiped by one or another of the human religions. But it seemed they knew their place….
For their part, the Ancients exchanged glances as more scarred, beclawed elders filed from the portal.
"Rise," Raziel told them, gesturing upward. "The date of our return was not exact, but Janos and the other Guardians will be expecting us. One of you go, carry a message to Janos regarding our arrival. The other shall remain. We will require an escort for myself and my Clan, once they have all made passage." The Ancient guards nodded, eyes wide at the thought of even *more* strange vampires, did as they were bid. As the second squad of Razielim stumbled free of the portal, the shorter of the two guards bowed and turned away, taking off at a run, wings half-spread. Raziel turned, waving the others further away to make room for the new arrivals.
"Yes, those are Ancients," he told Simeon quietly, knowing that the others would also hear. "Living and yet immortal, the first vampires to exist. They are a dying race, and it is their lands that they have offered to us; make sure to show them the respect commensurate with such a gift."
The honor guard was completely through. A few moments, and the next unit began to emerge, younger vampires blinking and inhaling deeply. The air was crisp with snow and water and new grass, and so very sweet. Simeon nodded as he found his feet, aware of what his Sire was implying. Yes, Sire. T’would be wise to recuperate, before embarking on further conquest. Not many Razielim relished the thought of further warfare, just at the moment, no matter how well they normally enjoyed the battlefield.
The guard paled, the unconscious reflex appearing odd upon his sky blue skin. Tarrant, just through the portal, smirked.
Raziel rounded upon him with a snarl, wings mantling. There will be NO conquest of Ancient lands--nothing that is not freely given! They have suffered enough at the hands of the Hylden, and will suffer more from the humans in the centuries to come--the Razielim will not add to that suffering! Am I clear, Simeon? The sending was laced through with rage, sharp and hot, enough to slice painfully through the younger vampire's mind. There would be lands aplenty for the Razielim to take without encroaching upon the Ancients--lands newly emptied of the Hylden, or held by humans--and he would not see the ancient vampires' generosity rewarded in such a bestial fashion!
Simeon flinched visibly before the force of that sending. I… yes, Master, he returned meekly, tilting his head to bare the side of his throat.
More Razielim were spilling from the portal, now in fairly orderly columns of four. The first of the newly risen, not four months old, was very nearly carried through. Squads regrouped quickly, ordering themselves in the broader open space of the chamber. None broke ranks, yet, but a few of the young, their hands still five-fingered, craned their necks to peer down the long corridor, striving for a glimpse of their new world. Most Razielim, however, regarded the sole remaining Ancient with a great deal of interest – frankly curious or speculative stares.
The guard tucked his wings a little tighter and lifted a hand, clearing his throat uneasily. “There is more space available on the plain without, should you require, Divine Benefactor,” he offered.
Raziel inclined his head to show he had heard. "Simeon, go with him to lead the advance warriors out onto the plain, and set up guard stations." He gave his fledgling a hard look. "More Ancients will likely arrive soon; I make you responsible for their welfare. They are *not* to be attacked." He had a feeling that the Ancient would likely be more at ease in the open air, as well, even surrounded by Razielim.
Turning away in dismissal, he caught the eye of a third generation Razielim. Named Castillan, she was one of the relatively few females in the Clan, and had risen to Raziel's notice for the clarity of her judgment more than the strength of her arm; she had an innate understanding of her fellow clansman that almost bordered on the precognitive. How go the arrivals? Raziel sent to her, tamping down on the remainder of his temper. The fledglings--how fare they? He had never before attempted to bring vampires so young and vulnerable through the Chronoplast ... but there had been no other choice. Leaving them behind would have been a death sentence.
At Raziel’s side, Simeon clasped a fist over his heart, and departed, clearly aware of his misstep. He nodded to the Ancient guard, offered a greeting, and followed the winged vampire towards the exit, calling for one of the first units to fall in behind.
Castillan lifted her head where she stood in rank. My Lord. They are confused, but well. She paused. Fledglings did not travel well in general, preferring the comfort of familiar surroundings and security from the sun and elements. They will be better once stable shelter can be loca... Hadrian! That last was a mere bleed-over of sending, inadvertently sent to two minds. One of the very fledglings just under discussion had broken file, wandering away from his momentarily inattentive sire as Simeon and the Ancient passed by. Hadrian, closer to the disturbance, turned – and then himself lunged from his place.
The fledgling, having located a living heartbeat, was stalking it.
Castillan's warning was echoed only a moment later by Raziel's own. "Simeon! 'Ware!" The fledgling, with all the instinctual cunning of its kind, had slunk soundlessly through the ranks of the distracted Razielim, until he was within pouncing range. Even Raziel's shout did not seem to distract those bright golden eyes, currently fixed upon the Ancient, and even as the others began to move, the fledgling leaped.
In the same moment, Hadrian had reached out, trying to grab the fledgling, even as Simeon turned and shoved the Ancient aside, covering the surprised guard with his own body.
The fledgling, fairly indiscriminate, clamped short fangs down on Simeon’s upper arm – albeit briefly. Hadrian wasted no time peeling the young vampire off Hadrian's own sire. The fledgling squalled in frustration and distress -- far in excess of his probable discomfort -- as he was tucked under an arm and hauled bodily back to his unit, and to Ferris, his thoroughly abashed sire.
Simeon made an effort to brush dust off the astonished Ancient. “Are you well?” he asked, solicitously. He seemed scarcely to notice the pair of fang-scrapes just below his pauldron.
Raziel shook his head, both exasperated and amused. As harmless as the fledgling's attack was, he hoped it was not an omen of things to come between the Ancients and the Razielim. "Make sure the other fledglings are watched," he instructed the others, trusting that his commands would be spread to the other elders as they arrived. He turned to the Ancient. "He is new-made, and has little control," he said in explanation. "He thought you were prey; and fledglings are always hungry, unfortunately."
Raziel tilted his head at Tarrant, trusting the alien vampire to follow, and headed for the chamber's exit. "Gershom will handle the rest of the arrivals. Come."
Stepping out of the chamber drove home the difference between the age they had left and the one they had entered. There was no citadel here, only the Time shrine, newly built into a verdant hillside. The air was almost heady in its purity; redolent with the scent of trees and rich earth, stars gleaming overhead, undimmed by the haze of battle or Turelim furnaces. Raziel lifted his face to the wind, closing his eyes briefly and savoring the feel of an uncorrupted Nosgoth. He was not so naive as to believe that this era would be one of perfect peace, or that his Razielim would be unchallenged in their new world. But now ... now there was possibility, and a future, where once there had been none.
“I… yes. …Newly made?” The Ancient echoed, muffled by Simeon's arm. He fluffed his wings and sidled uneasily away from the elder vampire’s attempts at ministrations. But the press of the gathering crowd interrupted – horses were just starting to be led through the portal – and the clan lord had walked away before the guard could complete the query. Blinking in bemusement, the Ancient trailed after.
Soon, discrete units of Razielim were arraying themselves comfortably across the new spring meadow, avoiding the patches of snow that lingered. The Ancient had little to do but be gawked at, and frankly to do some staring of his own – Razielim simply kept pouring forth from the Chronoplast. At least he could make certain the human workmen were well out of the newcomers’ way. That task completed, the Ancient spearman returned to Raziel’s side. “Pardon the interruption, Savior,” said the blue-skinned vampire, leaning on his weapon. “How is it that your clansman was born adult in stature?” Particularly compared to the Ancients, who tended towards slender build.
Something in Raziel's posture had relaxed, tension easing as he watched his Clan fill the plain. "Vampires of my era are not born as you know it," he replied, turning his attention to the Ancient. "We do not live and die as humans and other creatures do. A vampire can only be created by another vampire from a human recently dead, or upon the cusp of death. All you see here were made by me or by my offspring, blood of my blood. That fledgling who attacked you had been newly made just a few months previous; such creatures have not learned control over their instincts just yet." He watched the guard, wondering what the likely reaction would be: acceptance or condemnation?
The expression that crossed the guard’s face was automatic and instinctive, though very swiftly subsumed: revulsion. About what part – the contact with humankind, the vampires’ apostate state, or even the fact that *these* accursed could multiply quite well and relatively rapidly – Raziel could not be certain. The Ancient was silent for a few moments, perhaps composing himself, perhaps simply thinking. “There were certain of us, as well, for whom the bloodhunger was uncontrollable,” he said at last, slowly. There was something of old pain there, of memory. “You say that the control… could have been learned?” The way he phrased the question, carefully in the past tense, was… strange.
"As to that--I cannot say," Raziel said carefully. "In a sense, my people are the inheritors of your people's curse ... but it has changed in coming to us. There are a few fledglings--willful and disobedient, that refuse to learn to control their desires--but I believe that is more from choice and temperament than incapacity." He chose deliberately not to speak on the fate of such fledglings, who generally were not allowed to live long. That, also, was part of a sire's burden.
"Your people have suffered the full brunt of a magic I cannot even comprehend," he said, not sure if his words would help or harm. "With us, a fledgling has their sire, to guide and guard--and discipline--as necessary. The curse inflicted upon you ... did not grant you that."
On the north horizon, backlit by moonlight and the silvery glow of the thin cloud cover, several black-winged forms flew fast and low towards the expansive meadow. The guard beside Raziel seemed too lost in thought to notice. He watched the fledglings, instead. They were not difficult to pick out, even given the throng rapidly spilling from the Chronoplast's ornately carved -- at least, the parts of it that were not shrouded in scaffolding -- entrance. While nearly all Razielim bore the accountrements of warfare -- packs and blades and much-dented armor -- the fledglings wore simple cloth leggings and tunics. They were kept close beside... well, beside each's respective 'Sire', the Ancient assumed. But the fledglings' manner was far more distinctive than their dress. They stood as if fascinated unutterably by their surroundings, enthralled by the detail of even a few blades of grass or an insect or footprint, sometimes crouching to better view the novel object. One, clearly curious, put his hand in sodden snow, and promptly yowled until hauled back upright by his sire's grip. Another, separated a few steps from his creator, jostled fretfully back to his side until he could touch his sire once more, just a light brush of fingertips on armor. The first fledgling, perhaps a little older than the others, watched the Ancient with bright golden eyes. And licked his fangs.
"I... do not know if that would make a difference. Perhaps it must, but... you say they have been like this for months?" the guard asked, his feathers ruffled with unease.
"To a greater or lesser degree, that is so," Raziel said easily, his eyes upon the fast-approaching forms. Fledglings were fledglings--intemperate, hungry, and single-minded in their focus. "After the first year, it is expected that they will gain more command of both their senses and their desires. Still, it is ofttimes as long as a decade before they are released by their sire, to stand or fall as full Razielim." This, to Raziel, did not seem extraordinary--what was a decade to an immortal? His own fledgling years had been compressed out of necessity, as had those of his brothers. As the Empire had risen, however, the teaching of fledgling vampires had been refined and codified, allowing the Clans' progeny far better able to withstand the predations of the Sarafan than the bestial caitiff they might have been otherwise. Raziel's gaze followed that of the Ancient, resting upon those youngest among the growing numbers of Razielim. At the moment, they were raw potential, nothing more; time would have the proving of them. In a way, that was to be true of all his Clan ... despite all that had passed, he still had not forgotten the corruption that had felled his brothers and their progeny.
By now, more than half of the Razielim had entered into this new age, spilling out into the plain in ordered ranks. Even with minimal baggage, they still numbered in the thousands, a spreading sea of pale-skinned, sharp-eyed vampires in battered armor, gazing about in wary fascination at the rich world around them.
"A year," the Ancient guardsman said, leaning heavily on his spear. For all his light, strong build and physical vitality, he seemed somehow worn. He shook his head slightly, a small and unconscious gesture. If his dismay was with the fledglings -- worry, perhaps, that they'd be let to run amuck for that length of time -- it was clearly unfounded; the older vampires were keeping effortlessly tight reign on their progeny, dragging back those who wandered far, cuffing hard those who erred more than once. In this, the sires were aided by their own, older, spawn -- many eyes monitored each young vampire. A mistake like Ferris' in the Chronoplast chamber was rare, though with the distractions this new world offered, it was understandable.
If the casual brutality of the correction was at all shocking, it was well indeed that the Ancients had never witnessed Raziel's own fledgling. These young vampires would, if history was any guide, thoughtlessly touch water or wander into rain several times over the next few months, before the understanding sunk home. Kain had permitted Raziel to make that mistake but once. After the resultant long, long night of... discipline, and an emptied waterskin, the lessoning was well and truly ingrained. But all the brothers' fledglings were more... delicate at first than they themselves had been, and those of the subsequent generations yet moreso. They could not, at this age, survive the kinds of correction Raziel himself had borne -- on the other hand, because dicipline could not be as stringent, it was possible that at least one of these six would be lost to a foolish mistake, perhaps a dash through a spring thundershower or an attempt to traverse a bog.
After a short time, Raziel was obliged to retreat momentarily, to enspell the time-limited portal open once more. When he returned, the advance guard of the Ancients, with a flurry of backwinging, began to land at some distance -- the closest large space still open as Razielim continued to pour out of the Chronoplast. The nearby units of Razielim stirred uneasily, some of them forming up into defensive postures, shields at the ready. Other vampires stared up in open awe. Only two of the fledglings, in contrast, were distracted from their rapt examination of the dewdrops and spider webs hidden in the new grass. Ziliah, the Nature guardian, flew amongst the new arrivals.
Raziel gave the Ancient guard a long, considering look, wondering what thoughts lay concealed behind those eyes. But he had concerns enough to attend to, and so he let the matter lie. The curse that had been laid upon the Ancient race had ripped them apart in more ways than one, and even Raziel was not arrogant enough to believe that he could heal such a far-reaching wound.
Instead, he moved toward the new arrivals, the ranks of the Razielim parting to make way. His guard fell in silently behind, wary eyes upon the winged, spear-wielding Ancients in their alien garb. The space between the two groups was not wide, but held an uncertain tension as predator gauged predator, unsure whether battle or truce were in the offing. The presence of so many stranger vampires; under any other circumstances, would be considered an overt threat, if not an outright invasion. Raziel's brief stay with the Ancients had taught him a great deal; but there was also much that remained unknown to him, including whether they shared the territorial imperatives of their vampiric descendants. So he was careful to keep hands away from weapons, holding himself with the careful, neutral diplomacy oft required in negotiations between the Clans.
"Ziliah." The greeting was warm as Raziel bowed, one elder to another. The formality was more for the benefit of his watching Razielim; the Ancients might not require such abasement from their 'Divine Benefactor', but he knew full well that his Clan would take their cues from their lord. "As promised, I have returned ... and my Clan with me." He felt their regard like a massed weight at his back, and knew the Ancients felt it as well; his fledglings and their offspring, down to the fifth and sixth generation, proud and waiting, warriors all.
The difference between the Ancients and the new arrivals was striking. For all their naturally bold coloration, the Ancients were dressed in soft fabrics of pale hue -- whites, greens, blues. Only two of them were armored; Ziliah bore no weapon at all. Not, of course, that she likely needed a blade -- Kain had once battled the maddened human Nature Guardian, and the tale of that conflict was a desperate one. As before, the mark of her station, the heavy branch-horned and gilded helm, was nowhere to be seen, and there was little to distinguish her from her company. The Ancients maintained no rigid order, simply stood in a loose cluster, gazing in frank curiosity at the activity around them. All of them were slim, lightly built. The Razielim were far from the bulkiest of the clans -- only the Rahabim were on average shorter and more slender -- but in comparison to the blue-skinned vampires they seemed forbiddingly powerful. The stark white of their skins glowed under the moonlight, a halo against red cloaks and the metal tones of armor and fierce gold eyes.
Ziliah matched Raziel's bow -- the impression was that she, no less than the Razielim, was taking her cues from Raziel. "Chosen One," she said, exultation clearly underlying the words. "We have awaited your coming with greatest anticipation." She offered both hands, palm up. Raziel had seen other Ancients clasp hands in greeting, often in midair, though the gesture was a familiar one, of dear friends. One of Ziliah's entourage eyed her severely; she seemed not to notice. "You and yours are welcome. We were nearby on research, and thus have few supplies, but will share what we can. Others shall arrive at all speed -- but tell me, to whence your first destination? The nearest of our townships is New Avalon, some two days hence. Or shall we proceed directly north?" Janos had, upon Raziel's prior visit, been insistent -- the Ancients would prepare quarters for the newcomers in the largest of the Ancients' cities. They would, however, select other more remote territories, in case any Razielim found the facilities unsuitable.
After a moment's pause, Raziel stepped forward and clasped those hands, curling talons around Ziliah's softer, smaller blue ones carefully. "I am happy that you are here to welcome us," he replied honestly, mindful of the eyes upon them both. "If New Avalon can accommodate so many, we would welcome the chance to rest and resupply. We will need to travel on foot, however--how many days' travel would it be without the aid of wings?" The Razielim could move swiftly, far more swiftly than any human migration, but they still remained wingless, and therefore at the mercy of the terrain--and the weather. The snow on the ground, patchy as it was, would hinder their movement.
Without turning, he reached out, touching the familiar thread of his firstborn's mind. Anani. How many have we left to arrive?
Anani's reply did not come immediately; Raziel could 'hear' the susurrus of Whispers as he checked with his brethren, and they with their progeny, generals to officers and back again, each man accounting for those under their command. Only twoscore or so, my lord--the rearguard is all that remains. came Anani's reply. They should be through shortly.
Good. We shall begin moving once they have rejoined us. Raziel turned his attentions back to Ziliah, knowing she had likely heard the Whispered conversation. "We will soon be ready to leave," he affirmed.
Behind the Nature Guardian, her entourage was acting upon her words, opening the simple packs they carried and withdrawing leather wineskins. With the grace and gravity of ceremony, the individual Ancients moved towards the closest of the Razielim units. With shallow, formal bows, they offered their tokens. Petrus, who stood with his men nearby, glanced briefly at Raziel, and then with a small shrug, took the proffered liquid and unscrewed the top.
Ziliah blinked, but nodded. The other creatures with whom Raziel had traveled were capable of flight; she'd assumed.... "There are many roads remaining of good quality," she said, "though some remain damaged from the war. By foot..." she shrugged slightly, not knowing for certain the swiftness of the Razielim. Ancients rarely walked, and when they did, their passage was slow. She knew that humans travelled the Hylden-crafted roads, sometimes in number, but like most of the Ancients she had paid them little heed. "Five days, perhaps. From there, two weeks to the capital." She watched Raziel for a moment, gaze catching upon his battlescarred and now mismatched armor. She squeezed Raziel's talons briefly, then released his hands. "Your journey has surely been long, and I little belike the necessity of prolonging it. But we shall travel with you, and set your feet upon the swiftest of the...."
Petrus peered warily into the flask he held, unwilling either to swallow or spit out the small mouthful he'd taken. Sire... is this... meant to be drunk? Though he, like all the Razielim, had been warned that the Ancients were adept at mind mageries, the habits of centuries died hard. And Petrus' ability to shield his sendings was better than most -- he'd not often had to fear interception of his sendings by Zephonim spies.
Compared to the placeholders of Haven, the enchanted fountains of the Ancients produced entirely suitable vitae. But the Razielim had not come from Haven, but rather from the Empire, wherein lines of slaves had been bred for superior taste for centuries. Even the lowliest of communal bloodslaves from those lineages was by comparison a feast -- and the humans usually enjoyed by Razielim elders were far better. There were reserves where select breeds ran free and happily wild until harvest, others where the humans' food was restricted to clover and honey for months before each bleeding; blended, preserved, and aged, the resultant bloodwine was indescribeably clear, bright, and nourishing. Vinyards on the southern Melchiahim border spent generations perfecting their herds' diet, activity level, emotional state, developing flavors and complexities that teased at and enflamed the senses. The fruits were grown to match; great, ancient grape vines, their roots entangled with the bones of captives buried alive. This was... Petrus tilted the wine skin. Were there... chunks in the bottom?
Having tasted the Ancients' vintages in his earlier visit, Raziel kept his expression carefully neutral, though his wry amusement bled through the link as he replied. It is ... we shall have to adapt to many things in this era, and that is merely one of them. Be reassured in this, at least: while there is much we can learn from the Ancients, there are at least a few things they likewise could learn from us ... The skill of the Razielim vintners had never reached the rarefied heights of those of the Melchiahim or Zephonim; but compared to what the Ancients' efforts had produced thus far, their bloodwines would be the finest ambrosia indeed. When a wine skin was proffered to him as well, he suited action to his words, taking it with a nod of thanks and drinking deep. Compared to the blood of demons or placeholders, this vitae was palatable--though he feared nothing would make it more than that. He had to admire the Ancients' fortitude--if not their taste--if they subsisted solely upon such fare.
Returning the skin, he turned to Ziliah. "If one of your companions can be persuaded to remain with us as a guide, despite our groundbound state, we should make good time." He smiled slightly, his expression softening. "And perhaps you can tell me what has passed in the intervening years ... has anything changed since our departure?"
"One?" Ziliah smiled. "Most of us should be honored to accompany you, I imagine, unless you would prefer to travel without large accompaniement. And others will arrive by dawn to greet your coming, though..." she rubbed her talons together, thoughtfully, her gaze falling behind Raziel, to the cavalry units. Those vampires were not riding; their mounts were far too overburdened. Aside from the small packs each man carried, the sum total of the army's remaining equipment was packed upon those animals, wagons being generally too broad to fit through the portal, as well as too slow on the march. Warhorses, unaccustomed to bearing bulky packs, snapped and kicked at their handlers with ill temper. In this, too, Kain's disappearance had been ill-timed: while Raziel bore a large quantity of gear in sub-dimensional pockets, Kain had carried much more. The waging of war would have been far less dire with the healing potions, spare armor, and long bolts Kain had been transporting.
"I shall send word ahead to New Avalon, so that more supplies and beasts of burden may be summoned. As for the past three years or more, we -- I and the other guardians -- are generally well-pleased. Construction of the Chronoplast required great time and attention on the parts of many, and those choosing the Reaver have been few. Perhaps twenty -- a small number compared with the nearly hundred thousand who remain. Ah -- the citadel at Whitecliff, on the new continent, was abandoned shortly after you departed. Too few inhabited the city to make the facilities there worth maintaining, and the local human populations had become aggressive." Ziliah seemed to find no particular menace in that -- in her opinion, if wild spike-backed hogs kept attacking the crops for example, it simply meant that their ranges had been encroached upon too severely, and that other lands should be chosen for habitation. Ziliah shrugged, trying to think of what else might interest The Divine Benefactor. "I've been monitoring a precipitous falloff in sand dragon numbers in the southern hemisphere, and bass and armorfish populations in Mirror Lake; we're still not certain of the causes."
Raziel had little enough interest in the well-being of sand dragons and armorfish, truth be told; though he could not help but wonder, in the back of his thoughts, if these things were a precursor to the corruption to come. Such a thing seemed unlikely, not in an age with the Pillars new-made and pristine. Still, it would be something to consider and watch as the years passed.
"Supplies are welcome, of course, but beasts--" Raziel hesitated. Ziliah *was* the Nature Guardian, after all. "Any beasts brought would have to remain some distance away, or they will become maddened with fear. Most natural creatures flee at our approach." Whether that was a judgment on vampires as undead and fundamentally unnatural, or simply a reaction to a preeminent predator, who could say?
Ziliah's revelation that the Reaver blade was the chosen method of suicide among the Ancients was--disturbing-- in a way. Logically he knew it had nothing to do with him; no portion of his soul was housed within the blade in this age. Still ... the waste of it, all because of the Ancients' blind faith in their lurking and gluttonous 'god', was hard to accept.
The rearguard is here, my lord--none have remained behind. Anani's mindvoice was calm, with an undercurrent of satisfaction.
Ziliah arched a brow, but nodded. "We shall do what we can, then," she said, her gold gaze sweeping the assembled Razielim. "The road is not far distant," she said, gesturing, when it seemed the army was prepared to move, columns and units forming up in ordered masses.
Despite the wet grass and the occasional patch of snow, it soon became apparent that by foot the Razielim would move a great deal more swiftly than the Ancients. Even at what a human force would call a doubletime march -- slow, compared to the lope at which vampires usually moved -- the Razielim outpaced their guides. After some attempts to match pace, the Ancients at last gave up, flying ahead in short bursts to await the Razielim vanguard, or looping and wheeling overhead the broad serpentine column of steel and hard white flesh. Ziliah alone stayed beside Raziel and his guardsmen, discussing logistical matters -- what supplies the Razielim most needed, what last few arrangements should be made for their habitation -- though her breath soon came somewhat shortly.
The road was indeed close, scarcely an hour distant. Thick grass parted to reveal a wide ribbon formed of precisely fitted and matched flagstones. The road was expertly graded, the roadbed fifteen meters or more deep in places, with a wide margin. Twelve men might walk comfortably abreast. But it was the marker stones that caught Raziel's attention -- these were lit by the virulent green glow of very familiar runes. The magics seemed minor, but clearly stabilized and preserved the roadway, for though it had been some twenty years since the end of the war, the highway was as if newly built.
In the vanguard, Goran stiffened and stopped short, his sword hissing from its sheath at the sight of the runes. Many of the others did the same, both elder and younger reacting to the sight with growls and bared fangs. Any amazement at the broad, perfectly engineered road was pushed aside by presence of the glyphs; their battles against the Hylden had taught them well what havoc such magics could wreak against their kind, given only a moment's chance. Raziel's personal guard immediately began to move, weapons at the ready, positioning themselves defensively, only to be forestalled by their lord's uplifted hand.
"Hold," he ordered, and turned to Ziliah. "Many of us have borne the scars wrought by glyph magic," he explained, his face neutral. "Do we need to beware these as remnants of the Hylden, or are they magics the Ancients have turned to their own purposes?” Most likely, the glyphs were entirely benign; why would the Ancients lead them to a road warded against vampires? But assumptions were dangerous things, especially now.
Ziliah paused, startled. As Raziel had already seen in the winged vampires' steam baths and architecture, the Ancients had no particular compunction about using the devices of their defeated foes. Indeed, they seemed to depend upon them, to a certain degree. "The glyphs themselves have always been harmless," she said, giving the blade-wielding Razielim a wide berth as she stepped forward and laid her talons over the top of the waist-high pillar. Her mouth twisted in mild distaste. "Even if they place more strain upon the fibre of their surroundings than seems befitting." Thurstan, standing at ready attention beside Raziel, stiffled a full-body shudder. Any magic of Hylden make, regardless of whether its intent was as a weapon, burned fiercely the flesh of any vampire fool enough to touch a thing around which such foul miasma clung.
"My Lord," Aquila, one amongst Raziel's honor guard, clenched his right hand over his heart and gave an abbreviated bow. "By your leave, I shall test these wardings."
At Raziel's brief nod, he sheathed his blade and approached the glyph-inscribed pillar with resolute caution, stepping warily, as if he approached a venomous snake. Mindful of the watching eyes of his brethren, he did not flinch or pause, but reached out to touch lightly upon the stone next to Ziliah's own three-fingered hand. The glyph ... flickered, perhaps--possibly a trick of the light--but its glow did not intensify, and no foulsome magics lashed outward to sear flesh in retaliation.
A ripple of relief moved through the watching ranks of Razielim. Weapons were lowered, and the waiting tension eased as it became clear that there was no trap waiting to be sprung. In its stead came wonder ... none were undisciplined enough to break ranks, but those artisans and engineers fortunate enough to be in units be nearest to the road were focussed less upon their commanders and more upon the road itself, perfect and pristine. Roads were common enough in the Empire, built for both their strategic advantages as well as their use in trade ... but most were rutted, narrow things. Only those routes near the Sanctuary and the citadels of the Clans could boast any roads to rival this one, and even they seemed ill-made next to the wide causeway in front of them. Murmurs travelled between those close enough to inspect it, marvelling at the unnatural precision in which the stones were laid, with scarcely a wheel-rut or divot to be seen upon its surface.
Raziel gave no word of acknowledgment as Aquila returned to his place, moving forward as the Razielim began to stalk in ranks forward onto the road's surface. Aquila had merely done his duty; no less would have been expected of any other Razielim, much less those that had risen to the notice of Raziel himself. Instead Raziel approached the glyph, glancing at Ziliah before touching the stone pillar himself, feeling the energies move beneath his talons. It was ... familiar, yet different--more ordered, and not nearly so malevolent as had been his experience with the Hylden's workings. Had their long imprisonment twisted their magic as well as their bodies? Or was this simply a more primitive and lesser bit of magic than those the Hylden had learned to wield against vampires? "You will have to forgive our caution," he remarked wryly to Ziliah. "Our journey here has been long; we have become too accustomed to battle and treachery, I fear."
Ziliah nodded. "I understand well, never fear," she said, though it was clear that the strong reactions to the small glyph left her somewhat bewildered. "The Hylden are devious foes. But belacking the power of God, surely even they cannot coordinate an assault through the intervening ages." She turned away, dismissing the concern, not precisely impolitely, but with the same oblivious assurance exhibited by most Ancients.
Thurstan flexed his shoulders. Beneath his armor, like a splash of acid across his chest and back, spilled the scars of glyph magic. He'd swallowed pride sufficiently to submit to Tarrant's fleshcraftings -- he'd not have lived past the injury otherwise. Of all the Razielim, he was perhaps least likely to underestimate the Hylden -- and correspondingly most appalled by the Ancient's apparent unconcern. But he said nothing.
For all his normally-expressive lankiness, Ludovic, also amongst Raziel's guard, scarcely arched an eyebrow. Though subtle, the gesture was telling. Raziel's fifty-seventh took interest in esoteric magics and psychologies -- the manners in which beliefs cascaded into causes, shaping the courses of history. He was old enough to have witnessed first-hand much of that history, and his understandings had helped to secure a dozen battles against the Hylden. "God?" he prompted, gaze flicking briefly towards Raziel. Roughly translated, that word had typically applied to Kain.
Goran led the vanguard forward, making room for more Razielim, pouring in a dark wave from the hillside, spilling over the road's fine surface. Silent by training, they made less sound than the breeze as they whispered through the flexing new grass. Scouts peeled off in trios, ranging like wolves alongside the road, alert for any sign of ambush -- or evidence of suitable prey. At some distance, a doe and a fawn, bedded down near the roadside, darted away in white-eyed alarm as they caught the iron-dust scent of vampire. The fledglings dotted amongst the central portion of the army kept up quite well, or were made to keep up, their Sires' hand wrapped tight around forearm or shoulder. In truth, even the youngest neonates were well-equipped to run alongside their Sires, the deeply instinctual need for moving both far and quiet supplanting their normally mercurial attentions. The young could even fight alongside their Sires, though they typically cast aside blades to leap into combat with bare fists, as Raziel had proved once, long ago. Of course, in doing so, they ofttimes took great injury -- Raziel had first proved that, too.
More airborne arrivals, my Lord. North by northwest, Anani reported, a light and imperturbable mental contact, as someone caught sight of more dark wings against the moonlight.
I see them, Raziel affirmed, turning his eyes in the direction indicated. These new Ancients were still some distance off--mere flickers of movement high above the horizon, invisible to any but vampire eyes. Their approach was swift, the Ancients' great dark wings making good time; it would be only a handful of moments before they arrived. "I am sure the Ancients will tell you much of their God," he said in answer to Ludovic's question and Thurstan's unease. "It was at his command that they went to war against the Hylden." There was an oblique and subtle note of warning in those words, audible only to those who knew Raziel well. In the coming days, he would need to find time and privacy to warn his Razielim more thoroughly against the Ancients' monstrous 'god'--and do so without somehow also mortally offending their hosts. "Your compatriots from New Avalon, I presume?" Raziel asked politely of Ziliah, nodding in the direction of the newcomers.
There was a subtle reshuffling in the ranks of the Razielim as the new contingent of winged vampires neared. While nothing so obvious as a defensive line materialized, the injured and those burdened by baggage or fledglings fell back, allowing the positions facing the new arrivals to be filled silently with armed and readied warriors, their eyes upon the sky.
Ziliah cocked her head, listening to communications that whispered against Raziel's own mind, there and gone, too swiftly for his limited training to seize. "No... one of the Gera twins, Neka. She was supervising a mining operation just to the north, I believe. She sends her most delighted greetings." Ziliah smiled broadly, pleasantly, dainty fang tips bright against her dark lips, in what to Razilim sensibilities would have been a minor threat. "Those residing in New Avalon may be some time in arriving; they needs must prepare for your arrival," she said, in apology. New Avalon had been, as most of the Ancient's cities, built for many, many more than presently resided there. There were chambers to be aired and furnished, stables to clean, long-neglected bloodfountains to be started once more, and so on.
As it became apparent that the Razielim were not to continue that very moment, a few of the circling Ancients landed at polite distance on the roadway. A young sylph of an Ancient, his skin a frosted blue like the perfect bowl of a desert sky, approached one of the units to the rear of the Razielim formation. The men there shifted uneasily as he came close -- closer than necessary simply to speak. In a nearby unit, one sire dragged his protesting neonate fledgling behind him, grip tight enough to bruise. "Might I assist with your burden?" asked the Ancient, in a heavily-accented human tongue, extending a slender hand towards Bentham, one of the warriors.
The Razielim, carrying a heavy pack of enchanted mortars and chemicals for the production of white fire, blinked. It was difficult enough even for Raziel, and those nearly as old as he, to understand the archaic language the Ancients used. Bentham glanced nervously to his shieldmate, Khel, who was perhaps even younger than he, though sired directly by Raziel, unlike himself. "What does it want?" he murmured.
Khel, conscious of both his standing and his relative youth, tried to look dignified instead of blank, but he feared his attempt wasn't very convincing. He tilted his head, and said carefully in the common human tongue, "I ... do ... not ... understand," speaking each word very carefully in the vain hope the dark-winged creature would comprehend. He had heard his Sire speak to the Ancients in an archaic tongue of some kind ... but he couldn't understand more than the occasional word, and none had ever thought to lesson him in dead languages as well as living tongues. And from the looks of it, his attempt at the common tongue was just as incomprehensible. The slender, almost fragile-looking winged blue man in front of them tilted his head quizzically, and a ripple of amusement flickered through those clansmen nearest to them at their predicament.
"Um ..." Khel glanced at Bentham a little helplessly, then tried again as the Ancient said something else and tugged carefully at a strap of Bentham's pack. "We don't ... I am sorry, but you cannot have that ..." In a certain amount of desperation, he tried to Whisper at the winged vampire, not even knowing if he could touch the mind of an Ancient. I do not understand ... do you require something from us?
The Ancient blinked. He glanced back to his compatriots and spoke a few words -- musical and sweet, but entirely enigmatic. Khel's tentative mental contact was... ignored. But a similar whisper was extended towards Bentham, who was older than Khel and had been gifted with full talons. The contact was gentle, firm, patient, as the Ancient ascertained that the strength of the link was ample for the exchange of images. Then pictures were presented neatly in Bentham's mind's eye, first one of the far smaller Ancient carrying the pack Bentham bore so lightly, then an image of the blue-skinned vampire walking alongside the column of Razielim.
Three more Ancients approached. One of them murmured something that sounded like a question, reached out and laid soft-skinned blue talons upon the massive black steel shaft of Bentham's heavy halberd, one of not less than three weapons the Razielim carried. The other two Ancients walked past Khel, who was equally as burdened, but at a mere eighty-six years of age had yet to develop true talons -- to peer up at Castillian. The Razielim was taller than either of the blue skinned vampires. "May we assist with your spears?" asked an Ancient hopefully, gesturing to the bundle of long, heavily-enchanted bolts, meant to be hurled by a war machine constructed from whatever thick tree trunks the Razielim sappers might scavenge from the countryside. The bolts were long -- they towered over Castillian's head.
Bentham's talons tightened upon the shaft of his halberd, an instinctive growl stifled at the back of his throat. The strange vampires appeared to only be trying to help, but he was not inclined to give up his weapons to the care of another! He backed off a step, glancing over to his immediate superior. "I think ... they want to help us, sir ..."
The elder Razielim had been watching the Ancients antics with some bemusement, but as they continued to prove insistent, Harim stepped forward, carefully inserting an arm in between the importunate Ancient and his target. While several centuries old, he still was not old enough to know the human tongue the Ancients had used. Instead he scrutinized those azure alien features, that eager expression, free of guile. After a moment of silent consideration, he gestured to a waiting Razielim, who immediately handed over his pack without argument. Are you sure you can carry this? he sent to the waiting Ancient, proffering it. The pack was large and awkward to the extreme, and heavy--could such a slender creature bear up under that weight?
Thurstan turned, his head tilting as uneasy Whispers trickled up from his commanders. He glanced at Raziel, still in conversation with Ziliah, and came to a swift decision. Do not allow them to take up personal weapons, nor any supplies that might prove dangerous. Otherwise ... if they wish to share our burdens, we will not gainsay them. As nonthreatening as the Ancients had been, there was a certain amount of risk in letting winged creatures lay hands upon what meager possessions the Razielim had managed to bring through--if they decided to take flight, there would be no way for any of them to pursue, except for Raziel himself.
Still ... their Lord seemed to trust them. It seemed only fitting that Thurstan do the same.
The young-seeming Ancient sensed the question, even if the words made no particular sense. He nodded happily, arms out-held -- the Razielim bore their burdens as if they were all but weightless, after all. The pack was duly deposited. Harim was careful to let go of the weight gradually, but even so, the Ancient chirped a short sound of dismay, quickly bitten off, as the mass of the pack fell upon him. The Ancients were a strong race, but the rucksack was heavier than the frost-blue Ancient -- by perhaps four times over. Eyes wide, he hugged the pack to his body, trying to regain his balance. He smiled wanly at Harim, whites still showing around his eyes, and managed to take a wobbling step. The Ancient who had tried to touch Bentham's halberd abandoned the effort and rushed to assist. Between the two of them, and with a flurry of whispers and gesturing, they manhandled the pack around, until at last each Ancient grasped one shoulder-strap, the haversack scraping the ground between them.
Castillian, for her part, kept the long bolts withheld as Thurstan's command was relayed. She paused a moment, then proffered a lightweight buckler instead, which one Ancient took up with a pleased smile. She was aware, of course, of the need to treat with these blue skinned... beings in a mannerly way. There'd been no shortage of warnings over the nights before the Razielim entered the time portal... though Castillian was still half-convinced that the orders were meant to be a ruse, a means of keeping the Ancients off their guard. Not, she thought, watching the pair struggle with the pack, that they had much 'guard' in the first place. They did, however -- now that several specimens were close enough for Castillian to thoroughly examine -- smell delectable. Sweet, like musk and blackberries and clean skies, radiant with heat that pulsed, like blood, just under the skin....
Above, the trio of new arrivals -- Neka Gera, and two other Ancients -- dove rapidly through wisps of cloud cover. Their broad wings, so suitable for long, soaring distances, should have made them relatively slow; their approach seemed unnaturally rapid. But as they came near, Raziel's sharp eyes caught a glimpse of... something, not the spell-weave itself, but rather a rippling front of displaced air before and beside each of the winged beings. The magic dissipated with a wash of breeze, and all three Ancients backwinged onto the roadway. "Messiah. It is fine indeed to see you so early, Chosen One," Neka said, dropping into the same deep bow as had the guardsmen earlier: one knee and fist on the ground, head bowed, wings half-spread in a graceful sweep so that the longest flight feathers just brushed the dust. Those feathers trembled, just a little -- she'd clearly flown fast and hard for the past hour.
Raziel acknowledged the greeting with a careful bow of his head and a certain wry sense of resignation. As much of a misnomer the title 'messiah' was, it seemed he was destined to carry it regardless, along with the unspoken hopes and single-minded fascination of their Ancient progenitors. He could only hope that the arrival of his Clan might ... diffuse that fascination somewhat. "Rise, if you will. You are ... Neka?" He glanced at Ziliah for assistance in their introduction. The other two Ancients remained unnnamed, and seemed to be retainers of some kind, hovering in the background with a kind of eager deference, their eyes flickering between Raziel and his assembled Clan in apprehensive wonder.
Knowing from experience that they would remain upon this spot all night exchanging pleasantries with arriving Ancients if they did not continue their travels, Raziel caught Anani's gaze. New Avalon awaits us, and dawn approaches apace. Do not tarry; move the Clan as swiftly as is practicable. Daybreak would do little except inconvenience the elder Razielim--but unfiltered sunlight would scald fledglings and weaken lesser Razielim. He turned back to the waiting Ancients, gesturing at the waiting roadway. "We must continue on ... if the Nature Guardian sees fit to allow it, you are welcome to join us." He did not wait for further discussion, but suited action to words, moving forward as the ranks of Razielim did the same under Anani's silent command.
"I..." Neka glanced up, and her eyes flicked to the vampires massed behind Raziel. Such had been her haste that she'd not fully registered the scale of the new army. An uncomfortable pause, and then she had to drag her gaze back to Raziel. "Yes, Divine Benefactor. I would be honored," she said, standing.
She glanced towards Ziliah, who nodded faintly -- access to Raziel himself had once been tightly restricted during his previous stay in the capital, both because of the sheer number of Ancients who wished to greet him, and against the prospect of humans coming into contact with the Chosen One. "The Divine Benefactor's clan has only just arrived from warfare with the Hylden," said Ziliah, stepping forward to touch talontips with Neka. "If you will, do what you can to assist their journey to New Haven." Neka nodded eagerly, and gestured back to her companions. The three of them bowed once more to Raziel, then tread lightly back down the column of Razielim.
At the rear of the formation, Harim huffed a sigh. He divested from one of his clansmen a thick, but lightweight, coil of the cord used to mend leather armor. "It seems we require that pack after all," he said diplomatically, though aware he'd not likely be understood. He reached between the two Ancients, hooking his talons under the pack's metal frame -- the only point that could be freely handled by taloned elders, as even the thickest leather straps would wear out quickly under their hands -- and lifted it easily from the disappointed Ancients. He proffered the cord instead, and the Ancients took it up, speaking words that sounded pleased.
Fully formed up, the head of the Razielim column began to flow down the road in discrete units. Each phalanx contained some hundred men, with plenty of room to maneuver between each block, in case of an attack. As swift as the Razielim had been on the plains, they were yet faster here -- the road was nearly as perfect as the tar-black sheets Raziel had seen in Haven -- some magic seemed even to keep the highway clear of falling leaves and moisture. The grade was no greater than one or two percent, even through the verdant foothills. There was an astonishing variety and number of wildlife present, from birds and bats, to insects, to a number of very large creatures, heard crashing through the trees at a distance. None, however, were mindless enough to disturb the Razielim. There was even some evidence of human activity -- a broken wheel dragged to the side, dirt footpaths that radiated away from the Hylden road towards distant villages.
Those Ancients already with the column took whatever lightweight objects they could and flew ahead, unable to maintain the pace by foot. Even Ziliah abandoned her place beside Raziel from time to time, to take to wing. Several times every hour, more Ancients arrived and sought to greet Raziel, even if only very briefly. Thereafter, some departed to spread the news, but most remained with the Razielim, proffering skins of odd-tasting blood, attempting to assist where they could. "May I ease your journey?" offered one of the larger male Ancients, as he touched down beside one limping warrior. The Razielim, Cyrus, had been severely wounded -- had lost much of one hip and thigh a month ago. Even now, his pace was slower, and painful. Cyrus glanced in interest at the Ancient, not precisely understanding the request, then started as the Ancient sent an image -- the blue-skinned vampire in flight, arms wrapped firmly around Cyrus' waist.
"Me?" he asked reflexively, scrutinizing the Ancient suspiciously for any sign of pity or scorn. But he found none--only an honest curiosity and willingness to help. "I do not believe that I can ..." This Ancient appeared somewhat stronger than his brethren, but still--to lift a muscled, armored warrior must surely take more strength than the creature possessed! And even were that not the case, he could not abandon his position in the phalanx, even ...
... even if he desperately wanted to. To be able to touch the sky like a bird ... like Lord Raziel himself ...
Cyrus found himself searching out the familiar face of his Sire and commander. ...what should I ...?
From mind to mind the question flew, until finally it reached Raziel himself. The dark, potent touch of Kain's firstborn settled upon Cyrus's thoughts, darkly amused. So you wish to fly, then ...
Cyrus stopped short, caught fast between trepidation and hope. ...only if that be your will, my lord.
A long, singular moment ... and then an answer. Go. It is my hope that all the Razielim will know the sky, in time ... you shall simply be the first. There was an odd resonance to the words, as if they were laden with buried memories that Cyrus could not touch.
His heart was silent within his chest, as it had been since his rebirth as a Razielim--but it did not take the pound of a heartbeat to betray his mounting anticipation. With a certain amount of unseemly haste, Cyrus handed over his glaive into the care of his shieldmate. Then he paused, suddenly uncertain as he faced the waiting Ancient. Exactly how was this supposed to work?
The Ancient followed patiently, for even as messages and commands were passed, the Razielim unit never stopped moving. Once Cyrus seemed ready, expectant, the blue-skinned vampire offered up another image, one of Cyrus standing separately from his phalanx. Cautiously, perhaps suspiciously, Cyrus stopped, falling back from his platoon, until there was room enough for the downsweep of broad wings. And with no further ado, the Ancient stepped close, one arm wrapping tight around Cyrus' hips, the other just under his shoulder blades. And then he leaped.
The two-step jolt was sudden, disconcerting, one wrench of inertia as the Ancient sprang skyward, another as his wings cracked down hard, feathers slapping at the air, propelling both bodies fifteen meters vertically in a bare second. Then came a sickening sense of falling as those wings swept upward once more. But the Razielim were not particularly heavy -- certainly not in comparison to the equipment many of them carried -- and the Ancients were far more capable in the air than on the ground. Again the Ancient's pinions beat down, and again, the ascent slightly less laborious as they began to gain forward momentum.
Above, a pair of Ancients casually barrel-rolled out of the way with a lazy fold of wing, their rapt conversation unperturbed.
A lifetime of discipline kept Cyrus' reflexive gasp from escaping his throat as they launched into the air. His arms were clasped hard around the Ancient's frame as the ground dropped swiftly away, however, talons digging into the surprisingly resistant silk and leather garments before he forced himself to loosen his grip for fear he would wound the one responsible for keeping them both aloft. The power in those dark-pinioned wings was amazing; the Ancient seemed to have little trouble lifting them both into the sky, especially once they had reached the higher, stronger currents of air.
The wind was cold, and clear--and as his apprehension passed, Cyrus found himself craning his neck to stare in fascination at the sight of the world spread out below. They were now higher than he had ever imagined possible--far above even the tallest tree or castle tower, almost as high as if he stood upon a mountain precipice. He saw his Clan moving below, a dark shadowed mass loping swiftly upon that shining, improbable road, and he instinctively reached out to share those images to his sire, his brethren. Look ... look at the world, my brothers ... Verdant, lush as even the dawn of the Empire had never been, spreading out before his eyes like the promised land .... How could the Ancients bear to give up such bounty?
Raziel's eyes were also turned upward, the faint touch of a smile curving his lips as he watched them fly, listening to the echo of Cyrus' Whisper spread from mind to mind. Firmly squashing the urge to join them in the air, he remarked to Ziliah, "Your people are generous beyond measure--I do not think Cyrus had ever expected such a gift. At least not so soon." And given that Cyrus, like the others, had recently been facing extinction ... most likely none would have been given the chance to follow their Lord into the sky.
Ziliah smiled, glancing up, aware of the images and emotions being broadcast, even if not the particular words. "So they will... fledge in time, then?" she asked, as if Ludovic, Thurstan, Aquila, and the rest of Raziel's honor guard were not walking just beside. There was more than the Ancients' usual polite interest in the question, an intentness. Most of Raziel's kindred possessed talons, at least, but there had been Ancients who had held the opinion that at least some of the Divine One's kindred would also be winged.
Far above, the body in Cyrus' careful taloned grasp was warm -- hot, even through the leather and silk, fired by the muscular effort of flight. Cyrus could feel the Ancient's heartbeat against his own chest; sweet-scented blood, like sage and citrus, throbbed beneath the sky-blue skin of the throat mere inches away. At a height, the Razielim army became a sinuous silver cord where the road curved, the lights of huddled villages visible only as dull, banked sparks on the rolling undulation of field and forest. Sensing his passenger's delight, the Ancient smiled benevolently. "Higher?" he asked, wind whipping at the words. Without awaiting a response, he pumped hard, rising into rougher air. At this altitude, dawn was a orange and attenuated smear on the horizon.
Some of the human villages nearby were close indeed; as the breeze shifted, the older Razielim could scent woodsmoke. Zimri, Raziel's eighteenth and acting general of the fifth division -- for she had in part lead the disastrous assault upon Sanctuary, and her position was presently subject to Raziel's judgement -- politely requested a moment of her Sire's attention. "My Lord. May I send a scouting unit for provisioning?"
At Ziliah's question, Raziel's eyes darkened ... and Anani and the others tensed, hands tightening into fists and upon weapon hilts. Eyes flickered to their Lord's back, and the wings folded there. Only Anani and a chosen few had seen what had been left behind after Kain had done his grisly work--but the memories that followed belonged to them all. All the Razielim had borne the price for Raziel's wings ... and unlike Raziel himself, they had no intervening centuries to blunt the memories of all they had lost.
"In time ..." Raziel said slowly, catching Anani's gaze. "I was the first, but ... in time, yes, I believe they will." And if Anani did, as well as the others ... perhaps that would balance the scales, at least in part. Shaking away dark memories, he turned to respond to Zimri. "Very well. We could use the resupply, as well. Instruct them to take no more than a third of the herd as tribute, unless--" he paused, suddenly aware that perhaps he had just proposed raiding their hosts' larder. "Do the villages here belong to your people, Ziliah? If so, I would be glad to barter for the humans we require." They did not have much in the way of trade goods--but Raziel would find a way, if necessary.
From his vantage, high in the air, Cyrus hissed a little in aggravation as he caught sight of the faint orange glow that heralded the sun's imminent rise. Distracted by his injuries and the unique experience of flight, he had not realized dawn was so near. "We must find shelter soon," he said to the Ancient holding him, knowing even as he did so that the winged man would not understand. He tried to reach out to the other vampire's mind, shakily offering images of searing light, cringing fledglings, and cool, dark shade under the relentless burning sun ...
"Hm?" The Ancient asked, cupping his wings to slow them. He turned his head, as if hearing better would somehow enable him to understand. The motion turned his nose against Cyrus' ear, and for a moment, the Ancient paused, wings stuttering in flight. The Divine One's brethren had very little scent, even considering the wind that whipped past, but... deep purple, like the sheen of a new-forge blade quenched and cooling, darkening, solidifying. So deeply sweet.... Cyrus was little more than three hundred; his curse far less refined than that of many other Razielim. But the Ancient who carried him was less than a tenth his age. The winged vampire, all but unaware of the movement, ducked his head, inhaling more deeply.
The brush of images against the Ancient's mind, however, was more than sufficient to distract his erring attentions. His blush rose as a darker shade of blue. The Ancient glanced quickly away, focusing on the mental contact. "I... are you like unto the darkmagic construction? The... Tarrant?" The Ancient asked. He was aware that the rarer atmosphere lightened first, and promptly angled his wings, feathers hissing through the air as he dropped into a swift, shallow descent.
"Bargain?" Ziliah looked shocked. "Janos has proposed formally offering up unto you the whole of the world, from the pinnacles of our towers to the depths of the oceans. He, like many, is of the opinion that as the emissary of God, you have the truest claim upon the entirety of our sphere of existence." Ziliah paused, a little uncomfortable. "Others... differ. To a degree." That rift would deepen, she feared, once all the Guardians viewed the new arrivals. For that matter, Ziliah could not support the Reaver Guardian's view, for she would not stand idly by if Raziel chose a path disruptive of the natural world. There was another facet to her reluctance, too -- the Ancients had told Raziel that a place for his kindred would be provided; now, three years later, they were still locked in argument over what that place should be, precisely.
Raziel looked at Ziliah in astonishment, almost stopping short at her words. Only the press of the Clan around him kept him moving. "Janos ... wishes to cede *all* of Nosgoth to us?" His disbelief did not stem from the magnitude of Janos' proposal--had not the Empire stretched over all of Nosgoth, from one sea to the next? Rather it was the idea that those lands would be given freely, rather than taken by force of arms and the shedding of blood. Even if those same lands were destined to be emptied by the Ancients' eventual extinction, it was nigh unfathomable to the Razielim that their vampire antecedents would not defend their territory--by fang and claw if necessary.
However, surprise did not preclude Raziel's ability to sense the unease behind those words. "You do not agree with Janos, then? What arrangement do you believe would be equitable?" As a Pillar Guardian, Ziliah held a status equal to a Lieutenant, at least in Raziel's estimation. Messiah Raziel might be, but the patronage of one or more of the Guardians could only aid his Clan in the maneuverings that were sure to come. As such, learning what considerations might be required was necessary, if the Razielim were ever to be more than humble petitioners.
In the air, Cyrus did not comprehend the question the Ancient had asked of him, knowing it was a question only through the lilt in tone. Though the winged vampire's ... distraction was becoming more obvious by the moment, that hot, living scent of power changing subtly, edged about with a copper-tang of musk. If it were another of his kind, he would have known what was required. But these strange vampires, soft-skinned and generous, were neither elder nor fledgling. Should he bare his throat, or assert his own will?
Distracting himself from his uncertainty, he spied a copse of trees in the far distance, and pointed. "Let us look there," he said, doing his best to send pictures of them winging their way towards it. "There might be shelter enough there." And was still within reach by dawn, if the Razielim kept their current pace.
The copse of trees to which Cyrus pointed was a thick, dark tangle of ancient first growth forest, untouched by hoe or fire for generations. Though at this height they seemed miniature, many of those trees crested at eighty times a man's height, their trunks like great pillars of the earth. Sheltered in a hollow between hilly extensions of the mountains, the broad bowl was wetter than the surrounding lands, which were covered in scrub and brush. Several sweet-water springs collected their waters in an oval of glassy black at the center, though it could scarcely be glimpsed through the cover of boughs and new leaves. The place had been used as a campsite by Ancients before. Cyrus' own Ancient seemed to understand; he called briefly to one of the other winged vampires, aloft nearby, and then set out for the copse. Behind, other laden Ancients followed, bringing along the objects they had collected from the Razielim -- for most knew Tarrant, or of him. If other Razielim might suffer in the sunlight in a similar manner, the Ancients would assist in setting up a camp. Mindcalls to distant Ancients whispered at the verge of Cyrus' consciousness, requests for new arrivals to bring tents or canvasses, if they could.
Beside Raziel, Ziliah shook her head reluctantly. "I... no. I have duties that preclude my complete agreement: I could not permit you, nor yours, to greatly disrupt the natural order, for example. Nor to interfere significantly with the preparations for your future questing, such as the placement of fonts and edifices." She shrugged -- Janos claimed that the Messiah could simply be trusted not to trespass, and while Ziliah agreed, she was more practically minded. What if Elon, the Time Guardian, discovered that a great fortress must be constructed directly where the Razielim were lodged? What if Raziel, or his kindred, wished to return an Ancient to God before his or her work was completed? There were considerations that Janos simply did not see. "Additionally... some of us keep lands or enterprises or humans." Her nose wrinkled a little, perhaps at that last. "It would, I think, ease integration if those were not disrupted unduly. Neka's mining operations to the north, for example."
Ziliah paused, evidently interrupted by a mental contact. She conferred rapidly with the previously arrived Ancients. "Though," she added, "if you believe production can be increased, we would be pleased to place most mines in your hands. They were taken over from the Hylden, and administering the equipment and the human workers they left behind has proved... difficult." Revolts had already halted the flow of ore coming from two more distant outposts. Since metals were required for the construction of items Elon foresaw necessary, this presented certain difficulties. "In any case, however, the closest such claimed resources are... hn. Perhaps Virgil's cotton plantations, some thirty kilometers to the southeast. The local humans are all unclaimed and quite wild -- and can be dangerous."
A few of the elders in Raziel's guard of honor glanced sidelong at the Nature Guardian. The conversation sounded very nearly as if she was discussing the Ancients' conditions of surrender. Petrus and Zimri exchanged silent looks -- from the content of Cyrus' unexpected scouting, the surrounding villages contained nothing but peasants and country squires.
A sardonic smile curved Raziel's lips. "Humans we can deal with, wild or otherwise." Turning his attention to the still-waiting Zimri, he added, "Take the scouting party then, and go. Dawn is approaching--make sure all the warriors are armored against it, for we cannot wait for you." Zimri's group would need to catch up to the Razielim after they had taken shelter for the day, and burdened by live prey, they would likely be far too slow to evade daybreak themselves.
"As you command," came the reply. Zimri bowed briefly, an eager light in her eyes--it had been far too long since any of them had been able to afford time for a hunt.
She disappeared swiftly through the throng, and Raziel glanced at Ziliah. "Tell me of these mines ... Perhaps your troubles can provide benefit to both our peoples." Their pace never slackened, even as they discussed the recent human revolts, the shortages of precious and arcane metals, what territories had been abandoned to the humans and the wilderness as the Ancients found themselves no longer able to defend them.