Post by Ascanio Giovanni on Oct 28, 2013 6:26:20 GMT -8
Live by the Knife, Die by the Knife: An Epitaph for Samuel Lechley
The battle lines were formed. The greatest warriors in the domain were all arrayed in one purpose. The dark figure who acted as their general in this conflict swept among them, distributing all that a Cainite warrior could need, be that enchantments, weapons, encouragements, or prayer.
We are not ready.
As the general walked among his troops, he heard their words, heard their bravado.
“We’re gonna kick his ass”
“Dylan is done for now.”
“Seattle will deal with this one just like we dealt with Donya.”
Fools. Poor fools unable to see what it is they face. Until you’ve truly faced overwhelming power there is no way to know what that means. I have faced it time and time again. I’ve learned to recognize it for what it is. Each time I tilt at the windmill, I know I dice with the devil. I see those blades coming closer and closer. It is all well and good to fight the overwhelming foe, at least when there is a chance of victory, but I only wish I had managed to convince some of these of what they were facing. This Dylan is beyond any foe I have ever fought. I only saw him for a few moments, but it was there in his face, in his stance. This was one who looked at me with the same confidence I would look at a Toreador neonate. This was a foe I could not best…and we both knew it the moment we met each other’s eyes. These children cannot understand what they are marching into. I can’t help thinking of them as children in this, even those older than me in years. I lead them in this struggle. Their lives rest in the palm of my hand. Should my plan fail, some if not all of these eager warriors will die tonight. I go to face my death smiling. I only regret that they cannot do the same.
Most of the true warriors, those who had known real battle and overwhelming odds before had segregated themselves from the eager throng. Each warrior has his own way to prepare for a battle he knows he may well not return from. Some sat in meditation, some practiced sword forms again and again, and some prayed.
Oh God how I wish I could take comfort in prayer. Those warriors who truly believe cannot know what it is like for the rest of us who face the dark alone. The comfort of belief in a higher power ordaining our actions, the knowledge that some reward can still follow our damned lives, steeped in blood as we are. God I wish I could know that comfort.
As the general walked among the true warriors, he saw a girl, quietly praying. She knelt apart from the others, fiddling with a rosary, her eyes closed. Not quite knowing what he was doing, the general knelt down beside her, closed his eyes and began to mouth the familiar words from his mortal life. A simple prayer for the fallen, and for those about to fall.
What am I doing? I don’t believe in any of this. I have no desire to mock her faith. Ariel Martin, why do I care for you so much? You are a child playing at the games of men. So young, you should still be holding a practice sword and training with a master. And yet you have seen more battles in your short life than most of these eager bravos a hundred years your elder. I pray for you. I pray you do not die tonight before you can see that there is more to life than battle, strife and loss.
As the prayer ended the general and the child turned and looked at each other and quietly nodded. No words were needed. Both of them understood what this fight would be. Both of them had faced death before and knew that it was more than likely at least one of them would not walk out of that house.
As the time drew near the general surveyed his troops one more time, going over the plan in his head again and again. He had looked to the future and knew something of what would be coming. Dylan would stretch out his vile hand attempt to take control of the strongest warriors and force them to slaughter the rest before they ever reached the house. As a good general he took this into account and formed a counterplan, though the only option was extremely dangerous, and not something that could be broadcast. The fastest warriors would need to charge headlong into the fray, to reach him before he could strike and bring with them all those essential to the plan.
As his vision came true and the order to march was given, a surge of pride swept through the general. This was where he belonged. This was his purpose. Leading men into battle, turning each warrior into a soldier, giving them the opportunity they craved: to struggle, to fight, to die if their time had come, yet doing everything he damn well could to keep that day far off for every soldier. And bless them all, given an enemy such as Dylan this bizarre city had rallied and come to support the cause.
This is something monsters like Dylan can never understand. No matter how powerful you may find yourself, no matter how many infernal compacts you make or power you steal through diablerie, there is nothing more powerful than a united army. Our kind are slow to mobilize, but give us enough cause and creatures such as Dylan always create the armies of their own defeat. I am proud to command this army. No matter what this city has done to me in the past, no matter how many of them might hate me, this city knows how to fight for a necessary cause.
As the time approached that Dylan would strike from afar at the greatest warriors, the order to charge was given. The general grabbed the Giovanni and his brother Al-Samir ibn Nassad leaving the former Warmaster Luthias to bring Hamza and Alastor Giles. All pieces of the plan must be present at the very beginning or there would be no hope. They all knew that if Dylan was given an opportunity to act, it was all over. They had the advantage of surprise, the general was sure of that. There was no way Dylan could know of his plan with the precautions he had taken putting it together. The magics had been cast, the triggers were in place. A single drop of blood in that vial on the Giovanni’s hip was all it would take and Dylan would be finished. But he had to get there first.
Luthias fights at my side. Is this wise? To trust my back in combat to one I am considering for final judgment? I’ve trusted him in combat before and he has never let me down. Whatever his failings might be, he is a loyal soldier and a good tactician. If he chooses to let me die, I can trust that it will truly be the only way to succeed in the mission. The mission must come before any of us. Dylan must die, even if it means I must join him.
As the pair of warriors charged into and through the house, breaking the sound barrier as they charged through walls to reach their destination, the calm of battle settled on the general. All plans had been made. Everything that could be done had been done. If he died here, he knew he would die well and the others would see this monster destroyed.
Breaking through the final wall Dylan stood ready for them, ready for battle in the form of the Black Metamorphosis, surrounded in thick tendrils of shadow ready to grasp them and squeeze the life from them. In his hands he held a wicked sword, glowing green with unnatural flame.
With blinding speed Dylan struck with a force and precision the general had never before seen even among the mightiest warriors of the Salubri Antitribu calling on the power of their third eye for focus or even masters of Awakening the Steel. Required to split his attention to defend against the darkness, the general attempted to parry the blow as best he could but faster than he could react, Dylan altered his strike to avoid the swordbreaker in its path. The flaming blade connected right at his armour’s weak point in the armpit slicing cleanly through flesh and bone as the general screamed in agony. This was it. This was the end. But as he fell he forced a smile to his lips and projected his thoughts as hard as he could to the infernalist before him, hoping he was reading his mind.
You took the bait. You struck at me and that is your downfall. Though I die here, my death buys yours. This is a very good bargain indeed. One like you could never understand the bargain a true soldier makes when he takes up the sword. It has long been said that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and truer words were never spoken. I accept my death at your sword fiend. Will you accept the price you pay for mine?
As the general fell, his sense of time slowed by the Elder level of Celerity he temporarily wielded through his magic he witnessed a glorious scene unfold before him. Luthias and Al-Samir held to the plan as they knew they must, calling on their magics to drain the blood from Dylan and activate the triggers. Dylan was a master of Countermagick, but his defenses were only so much. More effective against the static and formulaic arts of the Tremere, Luthias’ power was rebuffed and unwoven, but the older and more intuitive arts of Dur-An-Ki wielded by Al-Samir broke through his defenses and pulled the blood from his body, filling the vessel. The Tremere magic on the vessel instantly triggered, guaranteeing the success of the next part of the plan as the Necromantic magic pulled his tainted, vile soul free of his body. As the general fell, he saw Dylan fall with him. A fitting end for the dark warrior. Both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously as the general prepared for the embrace of Death’s cold shroud. He would pay this price, if not gladly, then at least with the grim determination and acceptance appropriate to a Warrior of Haqim.
Wait, what is happening? Oblivion has not claimed my mind. How is that possible? Is this an afterlife? No it can’t be. This is far too real. I feel strong arms picking up my body and running. Could it be that I survived this conflict after all?
The wounded general forced his eyes open with every ounce of strength he possessed. He lived still. He was being carried by Hamza away from the battlefield. Using the meditation techniques he had learned from the very man carrying him, the general forced away the pain, forced his mind back into focus. Yes, Dylan’s blade had come within a sliver of cutting him clean in half, ending him forever, but that sliver of scaly skin only recently acquired still held. If he could have moved he would have laughed. His life had been saved by a Setite. Perhaps he would have to try harder not to hate them in future.
As he travelled back toward the Elysium in the arms of his elder a wave of elation washed over the general. He had survived! Prepared for death, feeling it come so close he had never expected to see another night. But he would. He would reap the rewards of this victory. A court position was assured after this, not to mention induction into the Alastors for slaying one on the Red List. His name would be praised on high for his victory here tonight. Not that pride was why he fought, but for once since his arrival in this city, he would truly know validation for his work. And the greatest reward of all: no one had died. This was the impossible battle every general dreamed of. The enemy was vanquished and the butcher was denied his bill tonight. The general let the continued sense of life wash through him and basked in the glow of a victory hard won.
Consciousness came and went as they travelled away from the bloody field. Even with the best of meditation techniques, the pain was too intense to stand for more than a few minutes at a time.
Hamza. Only weeks ago I regarded you as an enemy. You called judgment on me and sent assassins to do your work for you. I was certain I would need to kill you to ensure my life. And here you are, carrying my wounded body from the field. Will you tend my wounds? I find that I trust you to do just that. I may have questioned your honour in the past, but I am grateful for the words of Elder Antara that persuaded me not to kill you. This victory may not have been possible without your magics to distract and hinder the fiend. Perhaps now that we have known such strife side by side in battle, we may find a new understanding. There is a reason the sorcerers are necessary, and it is greater than the simple fact of their affinity with magic. I am coming to see your honour, even though it may differ from my own.
Communicating through the latent magic imbued in one of the small pebbles lodged under his tongue in one of his hard-fought-for moments of clarity through the fog of pain, the general told his elder where to take his body. An old ally from his nights fighting in Los Angeles had unexpectedly turned up as the Anarch Baron in Tacoma. Odd that a Child of Haqim would ever come to trust a Tremere, but Richter had always seemed different. During their time in Los Angeles, Richter had worked alongside the general countless times, both for magical support and as a liaison to the Anarchs working alongside his squad. The general had come, not only to trust the warlock, but in his own way to even begin to like him. He was straightforward and spoke his mind without thought for politics. The general liked that, particularly in a Tremere. Since his return he had heard that his old friend had mastered a rare path of Thaumaturgy that would allow his wounds to heal in a fraction of the time for a fraction of the cost. Thinking only of recovery he asked his elder to take him to Tacoma.
Arriving at the art museum that Richter had declared a sanctuary for the Anarchs, Hamza gave him into his custody. As soon as Richter took his body, an odd chill went through the general as his unmoving eyes looked up at his old friend’s face. There was something in his eyes that his instincts screamed at him not to trust. But this was Richter. He had never given the wounded warrior any cause for mistrust. Still, he had not lived through as many battles as he had fought by ignoring his instincts. Sharply he told Hamza to follow him and not let his body out of his sight. Richter argued about protecting the secrets of the Tremere’s magic, but Hamza was steadfast. He would accompany them to Richter’s surgery and witness the procedure. Grudgingly, Richter eventually agreed and the three began the trek down to the basement.
As they walked, the feeling of trepidation grew stronger in the wounded warrior, his feeling of uneasiness growing with every step. There was something in the way his old friend held his body, a tightness in his grip that seemed off somehow, his footsteps just a bit heavier than usual. As he laid the general’s body on the steel operating table their eyes met and in that instant the warrior knew what was coming. He would never see the night sky again, never feel the desert wind whip across his skin in as he sat atop a pyramid in the Valley of the Kings, never see his old home in England again. He would die here and now in this stark basement at the hands of an old friend. Helpless and wounded as he was he could do nothing but scream at Hamza over the pebble as Richter pulled his enchanted dagger, the dim light of the green flame that wreathed it making the shadows dance across his face, turning his look of determination into a rictus of sadistic satisfaction.
As Richter pulled the dagger, Hamza drew his sword, and in that moment, the final, terrible truth of the situation watched over the helpless soldier. He watched as Richter hesitated, exchanging a look with his elder. The look only lasted a few seconds but time had slowed to a crawl for the warrior on the table as he stared up, unmoving at the burning point of steel that would claim his life.
Hamza, with this act you have truly abandoned your last vestige of honour. What happened? Do you truly hate me so much that not only would you have me killed as I lay helpless, but would even deny me a warrior’s death? You have not even the respect to see my blood reclaimed by the clan that I might strengthen the Children of Haqim. I said I would be proud to die by your sword should I fall beyond redemption. I meant it. Your sword though Hamza, your sword. Instead you corrupt my old friend to strike the final blow for you. How much you must hate me. This is exactly why a sorcerer cannot call a judgment. Your caste knows nothing of a warrior’s honour, and you have proven my point with this act. You have no honour, and I weep for your fall.
Richter, I don’t know what he told you to bring you to this. I am sorry old friend. With this act your fate is sealed and there is nothing that can be done to change it. I know you can’t hear me now, but I have to say it anyway. My allies and my clan will not give you forgiveness for this. But I forgive you.
Nothing left but to die well, the general, Samuel Lechley the Dark Warrior of Haqim, the Soldier of the Camarilla, Samuel Litton Soldier of the Empire and Graverobber of Egypt, watched the blade descend. Perhaps it was a latent effect from the elder power of Celerity that still coursed in his veins, or perhaps it was simply an effect that happens to one about to die, but time slowed to a crawl. Samuel watched as his death approached, inch by inch. He began to breathe again, feeling the dank air of the basement room fill his lungs, becoming one with the breath. In and out. In and out. As the knife descended he sent his final message to his grandsire, performing his final duty with honour and declaring the two murderers in the room with him unworthy of the blood of Caine and Hamza in particular unworthy of the blood of Haqim. He would not live to see their judgment carried out, but he would do his final duty to see the act put in motion.
And so at last I die. It seems the adage is not correct after all. On many occasions he who lives by the sword dies by the knife. I should have remembered that. But in truth this is more fitting. I claim to have lived by the sword, but I suppose in this last moment of my life I’ll truly be honest with myself. I am not a warrior. I am not a soldier. I am an assassin. I live by the knife, not the sword. I struck from the shadows, denying my targets any chance of defence or honour in their deaths. Perhaps then it is fitting that I die by my own implement. Not the honour of a battlefield death, sword in hand and facing an honourable opponent. For me it is to be the unseen killer, the death from the shadows, the death of betrayal.
I have lived by the knife since my days as a mortal. The knife brought me into this world of darkness, with the deaths of those Americans outside the Great Pyramid so I could get inside and steal the artifacts they were trying to steal. That was where my sire slept and that was where I was reborn in blood and steel.
I have lived by the knife as I judged countless Cainites unworthy of their blood in the century before the curse was broken. I bestowed many a death just such as this.
I have lived by the knife, so let me die by the knife. It is a fitting end for an assassin, whatever delusions of honour he might cling to.
Strike true old friend. Let the steel body of my oldest companion, the weapon that drenched my hands in more blood than I can remember pierce my breast and bring with it the last embrace we all must know eventually. Strike true. Strike fast.
As the knife completed its final descent and Samuel Lechley felt his body begin to crumble to ash, his last thoughts flowed to an unexpected place. His memories fixated on an image from 1916, kneeling in the blood-soaked mud of the battlefield of the Somme. He was staring down at a small body, hand curled around the rifle he could barely hold. Adrian Litton, last of his grandchildren, last of his line dead in the mud. His lips formed one last smile as they turned to dust.
It seemed the man was not dead afterall. Together Samuel Litton the man, and Samuel Lechley the monster met once again and embraced death as one.
The battle lines were formed. The greatest warriors in the domain were all arrayed in one purpose. The dark figure who acted as their general in this conflict swept among them, distributing all that a Cainite warrior could need, be that enchantments, weapons, encouragements, or prayer.
We are not ready.
As the general walked among his troops, he heard their words, heard their bravado.
“We’re gonna kick his ass”
“Dylan is done for now.”
“Seattle will deal with this one just like we dealt with Donya.”
Fools. Poor fools unable to see what it is they face. Until you’ve truly faced overwhelming power there is no way to know what that means. I have faced it time and time again. I’ve learned to recognize it for what it is. Each time I tilt at the windmill, I know I dice with the devil. I see those blades coming closer and closer. It is all well and good to fight the overwhelming foe, at least when there is a chance of victory, but I only wish I had managed to convince some of these of what they were facing. This Dylan is beyond any foe I have ever fought. I only saw him for a few moments, but it was there in his face, in his stance. This was one who looked at me with the same confidence I would look at a Toreador neonate. This was a foe I could not best…and we both knew it the moment we met each other’s eyes. These children cannot understand what they are marching into. I can’t help thinking of them as children in this, even those older than me in years. I lead them in this struggle. Their lives rest in the palm of my hand. Should my plan fail, some if not all of these eager warriors will die tonight. I go to face my death smiling. I only regret that they cannot do the same.
Most of the true warriors, those who had known real battle and overwhelming odds before had segregated themselves from the eager throng. Each warrior has his own way to prepare for a battle he knows he may well not return from. Some sat in meditation, some practiced sword forms again and again, and some prayed.
Oh God how I wish I could take comfort in prayer. Those warriors who truly believe cannot know what it is like for the rest of us who face the dark alone. The comfort of belief in a higher power ordaining our actions, the knowledge that some reward can still follow our damned lives, steeped in blood as we are. God I wish I could know that comfort.
As the general walked among the true warriors, he saw a girl, quietly praying. She knelt apart from the others, fiddling with a rosary, her eyes closed. Not quite knowing what he was doing, the general knelt down beside her, closed his eyes and began to mouth the familiar words from his mortal life. A simple prayer for the fallen, and for those about to fall.
What am I doing? I don’t believe in any of this. I have no desire to mock her faith. Ariel Martin, why do I care for you so much? You are a child playing at the games of men. So young, you should still be holding a practice sword and training with a master. And yet you have seen more battles in your short life than most of these eager bravos a hundred years your elder. I pray for you. I pray you do not die tonight before you can see that there is more to life than battle, strife and loss.
As the prayer ended the general and the child turned and looked at each other and quietly nodded. No words were needed. Both of them understood what this fight would be. Both of them had faced death before and knew that it was more than likely at least one of them would not walk out of that house.
As the time drew near the general surveyed his troops one more time, going over the plan in his head again and again. He had looked to the future and knew something of what would be coming. Dylan would stretch out his vile hand attempt to take control of the strongest warriors and force them to slaughter the rest before they ever reached the house. As a good general he took this into account and formed a counterplan, though the only option was extremely dangerous, and not something that could be broadcast. The fastest warriors would need to charge headlong into the fray, to reach him before he could strike and bring with them all those essential to the plan.
As his vision came true and the order to march was given, a surge of pride swept through the general. This was where he belonged. This was his purpose. Leading men into battle, turning each warrior into a soldier, giving them the opportunity they craved: to struggle, to fight, to die if their time had come, yet doing everything he damn well could to keep that day far off for every soldier. And bless them all, given an enemy such as Dylan this bizarre city had rallied and come to support the cause.
This is something monsters like Dylan can never understand. No matter how powerful you may find yourself, no matter how many infernal compacts you make or power you steal through diablerie, there is nothing more powerful than a united army. Our kind are slow to mobilize, but give us enough cause and creatures such as Dylan always create the armies of their own defeat. I am proud to command this army. No matter what this city has done to me in the past, no matter how many of them might hate me, this city knows how to fight for a necessary cause.
As the time approached that Dylan would strike from afar at the greatest warriors, the order to charge was given. The general grabbed the Giovanni and his brother Al-Samir ibn Nassad leaving the former Warmaster Luthias to bring Hamza and Alastor Giles. All pieces of the plan must be present at the very beginning or there would be no hope. They all knew that if Dylan was given an opportunity to act, it was all over. They had the advantage of surprise, the general was sure of that. There was no way Dylan could know of his plan with the precautions he had taken putting it together. The magics had been cast, the triggers were in place. A single drop of blood in that vial on the Giovanni’s hip was all it would take and Dylan would be finished. But he had to get there first.
Luthias fights at my side. Is this wise? To trust my back in combat to one I am considering for final judgment? I’ve trusted him in combat before and he has never let me down. Whatever his failings might be, he is a loyal soldier and a good tactician. If he chooses to let me die, I can trust that it will truly be the only way to succeed in the mission. The mission must come before any of us. Dylan must die, even if it means I must join him.
As the pair of warriors charged into and through the house, breaking the sound barrier as they charged through walls to reach their destination, the calm of battle settled on the general. All plans had been made. Everything that could be done had been done. If he died here, he knew he would die well and the others would see this monster destroyed.
Breaking through the final wall Dylan stood ready for them, ready for battle in the form of the Black Metamorphosis, surrounded in thick tendrils of shadow ready to grasp them and squeeze the life from them. In his hands he held a wicked sword, glowing green with unnatural flame.
With blinding speed Dylan struck with a force and precision the general had never before seen even among the mightiest warriors of the Salubri Antitribu calling on the power of their third eye for focus or even masters of Awakening the Steel. Required to split his attention to defend against the darkness, the general attempted to parry the blow as best he could but faster than he could react, Dylan altered his strike to avoid the swordbreaker in its path. The flaming blade connected right at his armour’s weak point in the armpit slicing cleanly through flesh and bone as the general screamed in agony. This was it. This was the end. But as he fell he forced a smile to his lips and projected his thoughts as hard as he could to the infernalist before him, hoping he was reading his mind.
You took the bait. You struck at me and that is your downfall. Though I die here, my death buys yours. This is a very good bargain indeed. One like you could never understand the bargain a true soldier makes when he takes up the sword. It has long been said that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword, and truer words were never spoken. I accept my death at your sword fiend. Will you accept the price you pay for mine?
As the general fell, his sense of time slowed by the Elder level of Celerity he temporarily wielded through his magic he witnessed a glorious scene unfold before him. Luthias and Al-Samir held to the plan as they knew they must, calling on their magics to drain the blood from Dylan and activate the triggers. Dylan was a master of Countermagick, but his defenses were only so much. More effective against the static and formulaic arts of the Tremere, Luthias’ power was rebuffed and unwoven, but the older and more intuitive arts of Dur-An-Ki wielded by Al-Samir broke through his defenses and pulled the blood from his body, filling the vessel. The Tremere magic on the vessel instantly triggered, guaranteeing the success of the next part of the plan as the Necromantic magic pulled his tainted, vile soul free of his body. As the general fell, he saw Dylan fall with him. A fitting end for the dark warrior. Both bodies hit the ground almost simultaneously as the general prepared for the embrace of Death’s cold shroud. He would pay this price, if not gladly, then at least with the grim determination and acceptance appropriate to a Warrior of Haqim.
Wait, what is happening? Oblivion has not claimed my mind. How is that possible? Is this an afterlife? No it can’t be. This is far too real. I feel strong arms picking up my body and running. Could it be that I survived this conflict after all?
The wounded general forced his eyes open with every ounce of strength he possessed. He lived still. He was being carried by Hamza away from the battlefield. Using the meditation techniques he had learned from the very man carrying him, the general forced away the pain, forced his mind back into focus. Yes, Dylan’s blade had come within a sliver of cutting him clean in half, ending him forever, but that sliver of scaly skin only recently acquired still held. If he could have moved he would have laughed. His life had been saved by a Setite. Perhaps he would have to try harder not to hate them in future.
As he travelled back toward the Elysium in the arms of his elder a wave of elation washed over the general. He had survived! Prepared for death, feeling it come so close he had never expected to see another night. But he would. He would reap the rewards of this victory. A court position was assured after this, not to mention induction into the Alastors for slaying one on the Red List. His name would be praised on high for his victory here tonight. Not that pride was why he fought, but for once since his arrival in this city, he would truly know validation for his work. And the greatest reward of all: no one had died. This was the impossible battle every general dreamed of. The enemy was vanquished and the butcher was denied his bill tonight. The general let the continued sense of life wash through him and basked in the glow of a victory hard won.
Consciousness came and went as they travelled away from the bloody field. Even with the best of meditation techniques, the pain was too intense to stand for more than a few minutes at a time.
Hamza. Only weeks ago I regarded you as an enemy. You called judgment on me and sent assassins to do your work for you. I was certain I would need to kill you to ensure my life. And here you are, carrying my wounded body from the field. Will you tend my wounds? I find that I trust you to do just that. I may have questioned your honour in the past, but I am grateful for the words of Elder Antara that persuaded me not to kill you. This victory may not have been possible without your magics to distract and hinder the fiend. Perhaps now that we have known such strife side by side in battle, we may find a new understanding. There is a reason the sorcerers are necessary, and it is greater than the simple fact of their affinity with magic. I am coming to see your honour, even though it may differ from my own.
Communicating through the latent magic imbued in one of the small pebbles lodged under his tongue in one of his hard-fought-for moments of clarity through the fog of pain, the general told his elder where to take his body. An old ally from his nights fighting in Los Angeles had unexpectedly turned up as the Anarch Baron in Tacoma. Odd that a Child of Haqim would ever come to trust a Tremere, but Richter had always seemed different. During their time in Los Angeles, Richter had worked alongside the general countless times, both for magical support and as a liaison to the Anarchs working alongside his squad. The general had come, not only to trust the warlock, but in his own way to even begin to like him. He was straightforward and spoke his mind without thought for politics. The general liked that, particularly in a Tremere. Since his return he had heard that his old friend had mastered a rare path of Thaumaturgy that would allow his wounds to heal in a fraction of the time for a fraction of the cost. Thinking only of recovery he asked his elder to take him to Tacoma.
Arriving at the art museum that Richter had declared a sanctuary for the Anarchs, Hamza gave him into his custody. As soon as Richter took his body, an odd chill went through the general as his unmoving eyes looked up at his old friend’s face. There was something in his eyes that his instincts screamed at him not to trust. But this was Richter. He had never given the wounded warrior any cause for mistrust. Still, he had not lived through as many battles as he had fought by ignoring his instincts. Sharply he told Hamza to follow him and not let his body out of his sight. Richter argued about protecting the secrets of the Tremere’s magic, but Hamza was steadfast. He would accompany them to Richter’s surgery and witness the procedure. Grudgingly, Richter eventually agreed and the three began the trek down to the basement.
As they walked, the feeling of trepidation grew stronger in the wounded warrior, his feeling of uneasiness growing with every step. There was something in the way his old friend held his body, a tightness in his grip that seemed off somehow, his footsteps just a bit heavier than usual. As he laid the general’s body on the steel operating table their eyes met and in that instant the warrior knew what was coming. He would never see the night sky again, never feel the desert wind whip across his skin in as he sat atop a pyramid in the Valley of the Kings, never see his old home in England again. He would die here and now in this stark basement at the hands of an old friend. Helpless and wounded as he was he could do nothing but scream at Hamza over the pebble as Richter pulled his enchanted dagger, the dim light of the green flame that wreathed it making the shadows dance across his face, turning his look of determination into a rictus of sadistic satisfaction.
As Richter pulled the dagger, Hamza drew his sword, and in that moment, the final, terrible truth of the situation watched over the helpless soldier. He watched as Richter hesitated, exchanging a look with his elder. The look only lasted a few seconds but time had slowed to a crawl for the warrior on the table as he stared up, unmoving at the burning point of steel that would claim his life.
Hamza, with this act you have truly abandoned your last vestige of honour. What happened? Do you truly hate me so much that not only would you have me killed as I lay helpless, but would even deny me a warrior’s death? You have not even the respect to see my blood reclaimed by the clan that I might strengthen the Children of Haqim. I said I would be proud to die by your sword should I fall beyond redemption. I meant it. Your sword though Hamza, your sword. Instead you corrupt my old friend to strike the final blow for you. How much you must hate me. This is exactly why a sorcerer cannot call a judgment. Your caste knows nothing of a warrior’s honour, and you have proven my point with this act. You have no honour, and I weep for your fall.
Richter, I don’t know what he told you to bring you to this. I am sorry old friend. With this act your fate is sealed and there is nothing that can be done to change it. I know you can’t hear me now, but I have to say it anyway. My allies and my clan will not give you forgiveness for this. But I forgive you.
Nothing left but to die well, the general, Samuel Lechley the Dark Warrior of Haqim, the Soldier of the Camarilla, Samuel Litton Soldier of the Empire and Graverobber of Egypt, watched the blade descend. Perhaps it was a latent effect from the elder power of Celerity that still coursed in his veins, or perhaps it was simply an effect that happens to one about to die, but time slowed to a crawl. Samuel watched as his death approached, inch by inch. He began to breathe again, feeling the dank air of the basement room fill his lungs, becoming one with the breath. In and out. In and out. As the knife descended he sent his final message to his grandsire, performing his final duty with honour and declaring the two murderers in the room with him unworthy of the blood of Caine and Hamza in particular unworthy of the blood of Haqim. He would not live to see their judgment carried out, but he would do his final duty to see the act put in motion.
And so at last I die. It seems the adage is not correct after all. On many occasions he who lives by the sword dies by the knife. I should have remembered that. But in truth this is more fitting. I claim to have lived by the sword, but I suppose in this last moment of my life I’ll truly be honest with myself. I am not a warrior. I am not a soldier. I am an assassin. I live by the knife, not the sword. I struck from the shadows, denying my targets any chance of defence or honour in their deaths. Perhaps then it is fitting that I die by my own implement. Not the honour of a battlefield death, sword in hand and facing an honourable opponent. For me it is to be the unseen killer, the death from the shadows, the death of betrayal.
I have lived by the knife since my days as a mortal. The knife brought me into this world of darkness, with the deaths of those Americans outside the Great Pyramid so I could get inside and steal the artifacts they were trying to steal. That was where my sire slept and that was where I was reborn in blood and steel.
I have lived by the knife as I judged countless Cainites unworthy of their blood in the century before the curse was broken. I bestowed many a death just such as this.
I have lived by the knife, so let me die by the knife. It is a fitting end for an assassin, whatever delusions of honour he might cling to.
Strike true old friend. Let the steel body of my oldest companion, the weapon that drenched my hands in more blood than I can remember pierce my breast and bring with it the last embrace we all must know eventually. Strike true. Strike fast.
As the knife completed its final descent and Samuel Lechley felt his body begin to crumble to ash, his last thoughts flowed to an unexpected place. His memories fixated on an image from 1916, kneeling in the blood-soaked mud of the battlefield of the Somme. He was staring down at a small body, hand curled around the rifle he could barely hold. Adrian Litton, last of his grandchildren, last of his line dead in the mud. His lips formed one last smile as they turned to dust.
It seemed the man was not dead afterall. Together Samuel Litton the man, and Samuel Lechley the monster met once again and embraced death as one.
