Disclaimer: All characters, locations etc from Legacy of Kain are property of Eidos Interactive / Crystal Dynamics.
"Cuimhnich air na daoine o'n d'thàinig thu." - "Remember the people from whom you come."
Torment of the mind is far more enduring than torment of the body, irrespective of one's genetic make-up or disposition. Emotional scars never truly heal, and, unlike physical wounds, may cause pain even when the causal event is little more than a distant, faded memory. Those who know this truth are able to appreciate the inherent power of pain; those who use it to their advantage are the most dangerous of all men.
*
Slender arms sought the sky, billowing sleeves retreating with the act of supplication to reveal skin already tanned from long Spring days working the fields. The lightest of zephyrs stirred long, glossy locks, animating the statue-still figure without breaking her disciplined concentration. Every eye in the crowd centred on the svelte, sylph-like figure of the Priestess, the attention of two males in particular a little more acute than the rest. The first was Darrin, husband to the Priestess, his ceremonial robes marking him as brother-in-cloth to the three acolytes at his side. He watched with eyes unchanged from those of the soldier who had beheld her for the first time nearly fifteen years ago: he had long since given up the following of war for devotion to his family. The second pair of eyes belonged to the couple's young son, who watched his mother's graceful, well-rehearsed gestures with a species of proprietary awe. None compared to her. There was, so far as the boy was concerned, no woman on all Nosgoth so pretty, so caring, so devoted to her son and her life-mate as Daera. Almost as if the child's thoughts had filtered through to her, the Priestess glanced across at the her son where he waited with the rest of the children in the shade of the woods that ringed the clearing. A hint of a smile curled her lips momentarily before she schooled her expression back to one of serious concentration. The harvest ritual was about to begin.
Once again, Daera raised her arms to the sky, entreating the Old Gods with words as ancient as the colossal wooded giants that marked the boundaries to the clearing. The lowering heavens, roiling with turbulent clouds, kept their silence. Despite the serenity of the ceremony, several people among the gathered throng - which constituted almost everyone from the village of Carno – shuffled and coughed uncomfortably, as though disturbed by vague, hazy doubts. Their gaze was drawn again and again to the looming bulk of the massive fortress that cast an implacable shadow over the lush, fertile valley below. Shortly, Daera commanded undivided attention once more as she placed the offerings one by one on the natural altar provided by a long-fallen arboreal giant. As the Priestess intoned the words, many of the villagers mouthed along silently, the familiarity of the litany going some way to calm those unsettled by the rising breeze and the darkening sky.
"The first picked blade of hay, that the crop be plentiful."
"The first plucked fruit of the vine, that we may never thirst."
"The first sheared lock from the first-born lamb, that we may never hunger."
"Bless the harvest."
The last phrase was repeated time without number while the Priestess knelt with her arms raised in a 'V', dark eyes closed in the fervour of her devotions.
Abruptly, a metallic clanging noise cut across the reverent chant as a ceremonial urn was overturned and sent rolling into the centre of the clearing, disrupting the Priestess' entreaties. A raucous laugh shattered the ensuing quiet. As Daera turned to ascertain the reason for the disturbance, a grim figure on horseback breached the edge of the clearing. The rider was followed by two score others, and several people caught their breath as they recognised the distinctive armour. The rider reined his spirited mount to a stop just inside the clearing, taking in the sight of the audacious heathen, dressed in regal green, a makeshift crown of leaves encircling her inappropriately long, black hair. His lip curled in a sneer.
"This ceremony takes place against our wishes."
Daera turned from the altar to address the intruders, her manner and voice stately despite the simplicity of her attire. She was, to all appearances, a queen in pauper's robes.
"The will of the Gods must be appeased, my Lord – your permission notwithstanding." This raised some small chuckles from the bolder villagers.
The mounted warrior twisted the reins around his fingers with a creaking of stressed leather.
"You have been warned, Daera. These ceremonies are a direct affront to our beliefs."
"You don't have to witness them, my Lord." She commented as she glided up to stand at the side of the agitated stallion, her gaze entreating, calming, prepossessed.
"You could just turn a blind eye. . ." The Priestess' tone of voice would have (and indeed had in the past) made many a man agree to just about anything. This, however, was not just any man, and his reaction to her suggestion proved it. Drawing a well-used broadsword from its saddle-sheath, the rider roared an order for his soldiers to attack. Reaching down as the horses thundered past him, he grabbed Daera by the hair and followed his men into the clearing, dragging the struggling Priestess with him.
Although the village of Carno had once boasted a reasonable number of able-bodied men, their numbers had thinned in proportion with the frequency of these raids, and those that were not killed, were drafted. Consequently, the riders met with little opposition as they let loose their righteous wrath on the unbelievers. Having already press-ganged the majority of the young men from this particular village, they were now faced with the satisfying prospect of wiping the remnants of their co-believers from the face of the world. The persecutors were relentless and indiscriminating in their violence, paying no heed to the age or gender of the people who fell to their blades, or who died an agonising death beneath the trampling hooves of their mounts. With a sweep of a thuggish arm, the Priestess' offerings were swept to the ground where they were submerged in the blood that mixed sluggishly with peat and grass.
Dodging between the frantic horses and keen-edged blades, a young woman, burdened by her gravid state, managed at last to reach the bleached horn that hung from the branches of a tree at the far end of the clearing. A clear, haunting note resounded about the valley and the surviving villagers took heart – help would come. The only question now was whether it would arrive before the attack turned into a massacre. The young woman paused, the horn still at her lips as she sensed movement behind her. Her eyes widened as several soldiers converged on her and ended both her life and that of her unborn.
Darrin fought on as best he could with the ceremonial staff – the only 'weapon' he had brought with him to the clearing. He cursed himself for a fool: he should have suspected such an attack after the muttered warnings that had abounded within neighbouring villages of late. His hard-won warrior instincts had been hinting at this possibility, but he had been too concerned with indulging his wife in her anticipation of the coming ceremony. His stomach lurched as he saw Daera dragged past, dangling limp and unresisting from the leader's saddle. His life-mate's peril awoke more of his old soldier skills, and, tripping a nearby enemy, he proceeded to subdue him fervently with the butt end of his staff before lunging after the figure on horseback.
From the dubious safety of the treeline, childish faces watched with fixed expressions of horror as parents, friends and relatives were cut down where they stood. Darrin and Daera's son waited among them; one half of him too petrified to move, the other yearning to go and help – but even at nine, he knew when he would be a liability.
All of a sudden, the ground began to tremble with the approach of more horsemen; those already fighting continued regardless, hoping against hope that the riders were their summoned allies and not reinforcements of the enemy. The children, huddled in the shade of the trees, watched open-mouthed as they beheld a sight all-too-rarely seen these days. Twenty horsemen charged into the clearing, their own unique armour gleaming dully in the fading light . The youngsters' spirits lifted as their sworn protectors thundered to the rescue, glittering blades shearing the intruders' armour and flesh as they prepared to punish the defilers of a most sacred ceremony. Eventually, as was wont to happen in such confrontations, the opposing leaders met: as twilight began to settle over the corpse-littered clearing, a heroic figure in gleaming plate armour faced off with an ashen-skinned leech in leather.
"Release the priestess." The demand was imperious, while inviting opposition.
"She will die for her sins." Came the hissed reply.
"Perhaps one day – but not at your hand."
The priestess' captor gave vent to an insidious chuckle in reply, before ending Daera's life with a casual twist of his wrist. From the safety of the trees, a young voice screamed its denial. As the priestess' body slumped to the embrace of the earth, the duel began in earnest, the attack of the human fuelled by his utter conviction in his beliefs. It was over all too quickly, the knight defeated in short order by the whirling blade and untiring skills of the vampire. As the victor appraised the status of the battle, he perceived a satisfactory outcome: the undead were triumphant.
Shortly, the vampires began to trawl through the remains of the villagers in search of survivors, hurling bodies aside in their eagerness to find the still-living. Meanwhile, the last denizens of Carno hovered terrified at the forest edge – all except for Daera's son, who was undeterred by the bloodiness of the scene and raced forward to see for himself if his parents still lived. The vampires ignored him, intent on the task at hand, enabling him to approach the body of his mother, who lay unmoving at the side of the clearing. The boy halted a few feet distant, unable to approach further. His shocked eyes took in irrelevant details with crystal clarity: a slender hand, impossibly white against the rich loam; a spray of black locks, spread in a fan shape about a serene face. Eyes that would never see again bored straight into his skull.
A voice called his name, weakly, and the boy freed himself from the spell to heed the summons. Numbly, he approached his father, who lay bleeding profusely against the overturned altar.
"Father!" cried the youngster, dropping to his knees aside his wounded parent.
Darrin placed a weary hand on his offspring's head, wondering how to console the boy in these, his own last moments.
"Mother is gone." The child turned sorrowful eyes to his father, the dark brown orbits pleading for comfort. "What will we do without her?"
Darrin's pain-wracked brain sought desperately for the right answer, only to freeze as the Vampire leader strode forward to stand behind his son. The two exchanged a loaded glance.
"Will you take him?" the human's voice held a desperate edge.
"He is yet too young, Darrin."
The boy shot a glance over his shoulder to see the Clan leader appraising him critically. He rose steadily to his feet and drew himself up to his full four feet, ten inches, staring defiantly at the imposing figure of the Vampire Lord.
"I'm not afraid."
The Clan leader's visage remained stern, but the faintest hint of amusement momentarily lit his eyes.
"I daresay you're not, at that." He realised the boy was looking at him expectantly. He sighed and squatted before the child, holding the youngster's attention with a golden-eyed stare.
"But I doubt you would be happy staying nine years old forever."
The boy slowly shook his head, the vampire's words clarifying his hitherto dim understanding of the consequences of his request.
The vampire turned his attention back to the dying man. "We will take the survivors to a holding a little closer to the Fortress."
Darrin nodded his gratitude, a sudden choking spasm causing him to bring up a mouthful of blood. The vampire looked from the boy to his father, sensing that the child would be orphaned soon. He stood to allow them privacy in their last moments together.
"I want to go with them, Father – then I can help protect my friends." The boy's dark thoughts, however, strayed far from idealistic visions of protection. They erred more on the side of revenge.
Darrin smiled at his son's precociousness, wondering if he had been the same way at nine. He had. Nine is immortal, invincible.
"Be patient, my son. When you come of age, you can attempt the Trials – until then," he raised his voice as the headstrong boy began to protest again, "Until then, protect our people, and serve the Clan."
The child nodded his assent, somewhat reluctantly, watching bemusedly as his father's eyes filled with tears.
"Be well, my son." His eyes were dimming, and his fixed smile edged closer to a grimace as Death approached with a relentless tread.
"My little Isca."
*
Black rain poured from the Wheel like tears as the Turelim tightened the winch.
