GOOD WEAPONS
"The vampire fights, simply because he doesn't know what else to do." That was the one line I had in my head that started this one, and I still have no idea why I wrote it. This is just a piece of random interplay between Lord Kain and Lieutenant Raziel, a few days or so before any of that embarrassing faux pas with the wings and the Abyss went on. Destiny is a horrible thing when it interferes with the plans of the great. Any readers of Terry Pratchett may want to consider something I thought of while writing this – does Kain ever remind you of Lord Vetinari?
Disclaimer: Legacy of Kain game series owned and distributed by Eidos Interactive. Remember, I'm British, so I haven't played Defiance yet. If I've made any stupid canon mistakes in the light of it, forgive me. ^_^ My canon knowledge was never the best. I just like to write stories.
The vampire fights, simply because he doesn't know what else to do.
He has no real hope of winning, save that tiny, vain spark that lives in all of us, living or undead – maybe today is my day. Maybe I can write that novel, sing that chart-topping song, take that starring role.
Or, in his case, maybe I can beat him and his place, his power will be mine.
He is afraid. So far his fear has kept him alive.
And for a few moments, it seems that he may even have some chance, because his claws clip his adversary, make him glare in fury. But it is barely a scratch. Nothing incapacitating.
Too bad.
The vampire swings, faster than the human eye can follow – but his opponent is faster by a whole second.
A second is a long time in a vampire fight.
That second costs him half the skin on his pale cheek, and as he ducks, hissing in pain, he hears, incredibly, the voice of the other in his mind.
Today is not your day.
Blood runs freely over his collar, and he snarls, because in a moment his arms will both be broken and snarling will be all he has left. The green-stick snapping of his bones is dull in his ears because his head has been torn from his shoulders and is held high, dangling in shame, from the claws of the victor.
Blood is thicker than water, but vampire blood is getting thin. His eyes go first, and he is glad of the blindness as he becomes aware that his body, unseen several feet away in the dirt, is now on fire.
"Boring," says Kain, kicking listlessly at the marble of his seat, "entertaining enough in a mild, milky, human gladiatorial manner but really, and I feel I must be honest to you, my child – it was very boring."
Raziel drops the head and sets his shoulders in exasperation. Blood slides thickly over the length of his claws, and he shakes them, fastidiously, like a cat with wet feet.
What will it take? he wonders. Oh, Raziel. Better not to question.
"I doubt somehow that Dumah will find it so tedious," he murmurs. Wretched Dumahim. Raziel's pet targets, because there just seemed to be so may of the creatures and they were all as arrogant and unbearable as their sire.
Kain smiles in an almost fatherly fashion. The constant in-fighting of his lieutenants is his great (and secret) passion. Openly he condemns it: sets upon them roaring with wrath when new gang fights between Razielim and Turelim become unavoidably obvious to the vampire court: but when alone he sits and amuses himself with numbering the casualties and keeping track of the new petty feuds that spring up between the brothers each week.
After all, it keeps them occupied, and stops all of them, even the pushy and ambitious ones like Dumah and Raziel, from plotting to overthrow their lord.
Kain's hand strays to the hilt of his sword, while his eyes remain on Raziel.
His most promising soldier is wiping the blood from his hands and glaring at him as if hatred of Kain were the only thing worth thinking about.
My sword…my Raziel…you are both my weapons. I should keep you both with care at my side, because even a good sword may cut its master if handled unwisely…
The set of Raziel's shoulders promises confrontation to come, so Kain reaches out a hand and beckons the younger vampire forward. Raziel moves, obediently enough, and even kneels, black hair curtaining his face so that the angry working of his jaw will not show.
"Raziel," says Kain, gently, "you know that I value you above all of them, do you not?"
Raziel does not reply. His eyes are cast down, and Kain is mildly surprised that the marble is not melting to magma where Raziel's furious gaze is fixed upon it.
"You know I trust you, do you not?"
Raziel still does not respond, and Kain becomes tired of such flagrant insubordination and grabs Raziel's chin to make him look up.
"Do you not, Raziel?"
"Yes. I know."
Kain gives the chin a playful shake and Raziel winces.
"What?"
Raziel grits his teeth. Kain trusts nobody and is rightly famous for it. This is obviously a ploy of some sort and the lieutenant wants no part of it.
"Yes, I know, my lord."
Kain strokes the edge of his talons along the strong, sharp line of Raziel's jaw, hard enough to leave a line of blood, then lets go and sits back, sliding his claws instead along the wicked, curved blade of the Reaver. A thin smear of red gleams on the metal for a moment, then begins to fade to brown as it dries.
"Then to show you how much I trust you I wish to see you play the same game you have just played…but with this."
Raziel looks at him now in total disbelief and extreme suspicion.
"I will not take your sword, Lord Kain."
Kain blinks at him in mock-horror.
"I think my vast age is affecting my hearing…Surely I did not hear you refusing a direct order of mine…?"
The talons on the skull hilt of the Reaver flex, briefly, in warning. Raziel grinds his teeth again, a habit which Kain is beginning to find irritating.
"You have a very insubordinate jaw, Raziel, do not make me remove it to teach it a lesson…"
Raziel becomes quite still, and his gaze is locked on the sword. Kain hesitates only for one moment more – yes, this will work – then offers it up across both hands to his fledgeling.
"Take it."
Raziel's gauntleted hand twitches.
"Take it, it won't hurt you."
There is an ugly pause and then Raziel's hand snaps out in one quick, almost panicky moment, and draws the sword away from Kain.
It looks like a far bigger sword in Raziel's hands. Kain ponders the optical illusion for a moment, and then dismisses it, because the answer is obvious – Raziel is shorter, more slightly built, than himself.
The lord of Nosgoth claps his claws together imperiously, and the great doors of the chamber swing open to admit this time a Turelim, a female, looking terrified to be so close to her ruler and his second-in-command.
Kain chuckles at the pleading look in her eyes as she bares her fangs in a vain attempt at a smile. He'd never liked Turel – the boy was always too damn secretive, staying away from court all the time and only turning up if specifically summoned.
He sits back in his seat and nods to Raziel. "Play on."
And this is when the truly interesting thing happens, and Kain is forced to sit up again to take notice. Raziel's stance changes: his balance shifts forward on his claws, so that he seems taller, more alert. The Reaver, as if moving on its own, settles backwards and upwards into position in front of Raziel's shoulder.
Kain is impressed.
The female vampire, however, is completely overcome with horror. She, unlike the Dumahim before her, does not try to fight. She is young, perhaps under fifty years old. She falls to her knees, cowers at Raziel's feet. Her hands scrabble at the catches on his boots, her forehead presses to his thigh.
She is desperate.
Raziel leans down to her, head on one side, cat-yellow eyes wide and compassionate. His claws cradle her face, play with her long brown hair, and she begins to sob with hope. After all, this is Raziel, not Kain himself. Perhaps she will be spared. Perhaps her Lord Turel will come now and rescue her.
Unfortunately, as Kain knows, Lord Turel cannot be trusted to be on time for his own funeral. Raziel flings the girl away from him, ignoring the sharp crack as her shoulder strikes the cold floor and equally ignoring her screech of pain. The Reaver raises again to killing stance, and Kain watches the ensuing slaughter with interest.
A good weapon is only as good as your control over it…
It is soon over, and Raziel stands alone before Kain, his back turned. There is a chink sound as his grip slackens on the hilt and the tip of the Reaver's blade touches the floor. Kain stands, walks forward, click-click-click as his clawed feet fall on the marble.
"Very entertaining," he says. "My congratulations."
He stops about twelve inches away from Raziel's right shoulder.
"And now," he adds, softly, "because I trust you, give me my sword."
Raziel does not look at him. His shoulder muscles raise as if invisible hackles are rising all along his shoulderblades, under the sweep of his clan cloak.
Kain remains very still, because this is the moment he was waiting for – the moment to decide if Raziel should live or die.
He could be a threat to me, I saw it the moment he held the sword. But not yet, I think, not yet…are you with me or against me, Raziel?
"If you do not put that sword into my hand, I will take it from you."
Raziel does not turn, but his muscles slump. Kain leans in close, so close that his lips brush his lieutenant's ear, and whispers:
"You know that I can."
The Reaver falls from Raziel's claws with a clatter, and the echoes of its fall flutter around Kain's chamber like birds, long after the sound itself has died away.
The moment evaporates. Raziel, although he does not know it, has just saved his own life by not being as stupid as Dumah might have been. He is very lucky. But, as he does not know this, and believes in his vanity that he could have killed Kain before Kain killed him, he simply storms from the room without looking back, and Kain lets him go because right now, he has other things to think about…
His claws are glad to feel the Reaver as he bends to reclaim it. My sword, my Raziel. They are practically twins in their utility and application, and I am the master of them both. Good weapons, and a good hand to wield them…What could possibly tear such a relationship apart?
Oh, Kain. Better not to question.