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Bells chimed as the hawk shifted restlessly on the scarred leather of the glove, and the huntmaster grunted in satisfaction.
"Saa...this is an eager one. Though he won't be ready for a while yet, young master. He still needs to grow into his wings." Calloused fingers picked up a discarded flight feather and stroked it gently over the still-indistinct black-patterned breast.
At barely ten and five years, Kain had not begun to outgrow the clumsiness that sprouting limbs and overlarge feet had bestowed on him. So it was with due consideration that he approached slowly, moving to one side to better admire the eyas on the falconer's fist. The hawk cocked his head, fixing a keen and unafraid eye on the young noble. That gaze seemed to pierce through the dim light of the mews, and he found himself straightening under the hawk's regard as much as he ever had his father's. "He will be a good hunter, then?" he asked, reaching out to take the proffered feather and stroke it respectfully down the bird's back.
The old falconer's face creased into a smile, and he chuckled softly. "With any other, I would say it was too soon to be sure. But this one..." No lure had escaped this hunter's talons yet, and he was starting to think that perhaps none ever would. "This one's a born killer, young master. He just doesn't know it yet."
It was the beginning of his empire.
It seemed fitting that it would happen here, birthed in the stinking mass of blood and offal and dying human screams that defined a battlefield. Kain wiped the back of one hand against his mouth, the fresh crimson smear of blood fading into the rusty stains that already decorated pale fingers, and discarded the limp body of his last opponent to one side.
The humans were not faring well, he noted with satisfaction. They had thrown themselves at the vampires, confident in the belief that their old tactics would prevail, despite the cost. Surround the vampire and overwhelm it with fire and steel: that was the humans' way, and it had proven effective in the past. Now, however, they faced a new enemy--one armed with not only the Reaver and a host of other lethal powers, but also with a cabal of new-risen lieutenants that fought with savage and uncanny precision, striking through with blade and fang again and again to the heart of the enemy.
Kain found himself in the lee of the battle, the killing having moved away for the moment--and so he watched. Compared to the teeming mass of human defenders, the attacking group of vampires should have seemed pitifully small. Instead, Kain mused, it was like watching wolves tear through a bevy of hares, his vampire children wheeling and tearing great chunks from the enemy host. Fanatics the Sarafan most certainly had been, and arrogant in it--but even their enemies had not denied them their due as warriors. Death may have stolen their memories, but it was obvious that the Sarafan legacy lived on. Even when a battered remnant of a human squad, armed with pikes and backed by minor magery, managed to cut off Dumah from his brethren, their victory proved short-lived. Becoming aware of the new danger, Rahab and Turel closed ranks and sliced in from either flank. Rahab reached the mage first--and negated the humans' magical protections with a single precise snap of the man's neck. He fed; and the remaining humans fell under his brothers' claws, screaming in fear.
Yes, his choice had been perfect. Only he knew the irony he had wrought by resurrecting the greatest martyrs of Moebius' inquisition as vampires, and it had been delicious. Now, with six new-made vampiric sons fighting at his side, it seemed that his choice had been better than even he had foreseen.
His choice...gold eyes sought and found the figure he was looking for, deeply buried in the midst of the battle. Raziel had pulled away from his brothers, and now he fought at the point of their advance, fangs bared. Vambraces splashed with crimson to the elbows, his pale features remained unmarred as he ignored the blood around him in favor of his chosen prey. No movement was wasted, edged steel combined with vampiric strength to punch through the armored wall of his foes and create openings where none existed. Even half-surrounded, he still declined to fall back. Instead he sowed death through nothing but speed and skill, forcing the tide of battle back upon his enemies. His brothers were hard-pressed to keep up, their advance plodding next to Raziel's fearless strikes, and in moments he had reached the human lord who led their opposition.
He never hesitated.
Carving a bloody path through the wall of bodyguards, Raziel seemed immune to his wounds. A pike meant to impale him was battered aside, and three feet of crimson-streaked steel slid neatly between the guard's ribs. He disengaged his blade from the new-made corpse with a twist of his wrist, and moved onward even as the man fell, a booted foot on the back of his falling opponent launching him upward.
For a moment, time seemed to stop, the humans frozen in shock. Then Raziel descended, sword flashing down in a perfect, impossible lunge. His strike impaled the human lord, blade sliding between breastplate and gorget to rip into the softer flesh beneath. The man stumbled, transfixed in the moment of his own death as Raziel pinned him in a morbid parody of a lover's embrace, bent his head...and tore the man's throat out.
Kain's smile was a sharp-edged and predatory thing, unseen by the human rabble as they sent up a concerted wail of loss. He had indeed chosen well, especially in this. Panic was spreading out in ripples from Raziel's kill, and the retainers who tried to avenge the death of their lord proved to be just as doomed, the rest of the vampire host surging forward to cut them down from behind.
Kain unlimbered the Reaver, the sword flaring early to life in his hand, and strode unhurriedly towards the battle below. It wouldn't do not to claim his share of the kill, after all. The kill delivered unto him by the firstborn of his lieutenants, his swift killer...Raziel.