Legacy of Kain: Blood Brothers

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Chapter Two

The Flesh Is Weak

Melchiah drank his fill and let the human body slip from his grasp. It tumbled lifelessly off his lap and off the throne, coming to a rest in a heap in front of him. He wiped stray blood from his chin.

“This is a handsome specimen. Have it prepared.”

His two servants nodded enthusiastically and picked the body up. They snuck away to a secret back room to have the body carefully skinned. Melchiah would have preferred not to take another set of flesh so soon, but over time it seemed that they dried out faster and faster, and all he could do was take more and more to keep up appearances. His current skin was only a week old and already it was flaking and peeling, necessitating the need for a new one.

Melchiah’s own flesh was a hideous shade of decayed green, the color of a long-dead corpse. No amount of blood could rejuvenate it, and he was forced to skin human victims and don their flesh just to look normal. He certainly could not go about looking like a diseased cadaver in front of the other vampire Lords.

His brothers knew of this physical weakness, of course, but it was rarely spoken of, like some embarrassing family secret. Melchiah knew how they felt about it though, how they talked about him when he was not around, how they shook their heads in disappointment whenever he turned his back. He was the runt of the family, the weakest of all his brothers. Dumah hated him for it, finding him pathetic and repulsive. Even Turel, who tried so hard to be civilized and impartial, could not look Melchiah in the eye when the flesh he wore began to dry out.

Melchiah was the youngest of Kain’s children, the last one to receive the gift of vampirism. Made last, he was given the smallest portion of Kain’s strength, and it was enough to keep the body animated, but not nearly enough to keep it looking healthy. Kain had once actually apologized to Melchiah for it, many years ago, taking the blame for his offspring’s debilitating deformity. It did not take away the shame, though.

Dumah believed that it was actually just an inherent insufficiency in Melchiah’s soul that resulted in his weakness, not any fault of Kain’s. He believed that Melchiah was just not strong enough to be a vampire, and he made his opinions on the subject openly known. He said that Melchiah was a failure and that his physical weakness brought down all the clans. He was better off dead, so Dumah claimed.

But Kain ignored such heartless claims and treated Melchiah equally, the only thing for which he was grateful. Sometimes, he agreed with Dumah himself.

It did not have any negative effects on his clan, however. The Melchahim were as numerous as any of the clans, with a broad territory and no problems dominating the human population in the area. If Melchiah’s flesh was weaker than that of his brothers, his spirit was as strong as any of them, and even Dumah could not say different.

But the increasing rate of bodies he needed disturbed him slightly. It seemed that things were getting worse as the decades passed.

How long had it been since they threw Raziel screaming into the Abyss? Half a century now? Melchiah didn't bother to count the years, but it had been some time since Raziel's death. And in that time, not much had changed. None of them had grown a pair of wings at least. Dumah was still a brutish thug, Rahab was still a fawning sycophant, and Turel was still trying to prove himself the morally superior one.

Zephon had changed, however. He spent most of his time studying, and Melchiah rarely saw him. The last time he had visited had been maybe ten years before, and Zephon had looked different somehow. Maybe Melchiah wasn’t the only one experiencing problems with his body.

Melchiah’s servants reappeared, shaking him from his reverie. “My Lord,” one of them said, “the body is ready. I hope the work is satisfactory.”

With a groan, Melchiah rose from his throne and followed the two of them into the back room. It was ripe with the smell of blood, and the floor was slick with it. The skin was laid out on a stone table in the center of the room.

“Leave me. I can do this alone,” Melchiah said, unhooking his cape and laying it across a wooden table along the other wall.

“Yes, of course, my Lord.” The servants politely left the room single-file as Melchiah began to undress. He turned and looked at one of them as they left.

The servant had a large patch of dry skin along his neck. As the door closed behind them, Melchiah sighed to himself. Things were getting worse indeed.

*****

Turel turned the brittle yellow page and read to himself, the flickering gold candlelight illuminating the small, dusty alcove. He was in one of the old human tombs in the east, where hundreds of dead human warriors had been laid to rest. Turel broke into such tombs and abandoned catacombs frequently in his search for knowledge, his quest to find out more about the origins of Kain and his vampire brethren.

Almost all of what Turel and the others knew about Nosgoth’s history had been given to them by Kain himself, who could hardly be called a neutral, unbiased source for information. And so Turel examined old human records in the search for more knowledge about their origins, their beginnings. He did not find much.

Frustrated, he pushed the old book off the small lectern and it puffed into dust when it hit the floor. He left the tomb and made his way carefully back outside. It was night already, he was surprised to find. He’d spent the entire day there, perusing old journals and histories, learning nothing not already known before.

At first, his desire for knowledge was simply that. He was curious, and interested in the history of his species. But as the years turned to decades, Turel began to feel a different sort of motivation for his quest for facts. If he could perhaps learn the truth about vampires, about himself, he could better predict what was going to happen to him in the future. He wanted to know what caused their evolution, or maybe what directed it.

His brothers were already changing. Not drastically, as they usually did, but gradually, over a span of years. Melchiah, never particularly healthy in the first place, was positively falling apart these days. Turel knew all about his need for fresh bodies to keep up appearances, and he also knew that there would come a time when Melchiah would no longer be able to hide his physical deformity. He was getting worse.

They all were. Zephon looked horrible, and Turel couldn't even begin to guess what warped form his body was changing into. Zephon had always been tall and slender, but it was becoming stressed to the extreme. His body seemed to stretch out, his limbs getting longer and lankier, and his skin seemed hard and brittle. Turel found him repulsive to look at, even more so than Melchiah.

What will happen next? he wondered. Who will change? And what will they change into? Turel had a sinking sensation that all of them were going to evolve eventually, none of them keeping even a hint of their previous vampire form. He even felt the stirring of change within himself, but tried not to think about it.

The secret lied with Kain, he was sure of it. Kain had been around longer than any of them, and he seemed not to evolve at all. He looked exactly the same as he had centuries ago, not that Turel had seen him recently. It seemed that as Turel and his brothers experienced their physical changes, they grew farther apart. They had not all met together at the Sanctuary of the Clans in probably fifteen years. And Kain seemed not to care, as if he had more important matters to worry about.

Kain knows the truth, Turel thought. He knows what’s going to happen, and he doesn’t care. He never did explain his execution of Raziel to Turel’s satisfaction, and that event seemed to be the catalyst for all that had happened in the decades since. Is he content to let his brethren mutate and evolve into monsters, and not lift a finger to help them or maybe explain why it's happening?

Kain knew. And Turel was determined to find out as well.

*****

Arkos didn't know what was happening to him, and as time went on, his desire to know lessened. No one spoke of it, at least not in public, but everyone knew they were changing. Arkos looked closely into the mirror in his personal quarters, trying to discern exactly how his face looked before and how it looked now. Before, his appearance had been basically human, but looking carefully, he could see how his features were becoming more pronounced as time went on. And his body was getting bigger as well.

Lord Dumah had been the first to change, of course. Always huge, in recent years he had gotten even bigger and more powerful. His height was easily seven feet. In addition to his physical increases, he had become even more arrogant and heartless. It seemed obvious to Arkos that Lord Dumah did not care about anyone other than himself. Not his own kin, and certainly not his fawning brother Rahab, who Arkos and many of the other Dumahim detested.

Arkos left his room, feeling depressed. He was almost 200 years of age now, since his resurrection as a vampire, and Lord Dumah still treated him as an incompetent fledgling. Insulting him in front of the others and frequently “volunteering” him for the weekly fights in the main hall. He still remembered the shattered jaw Dumah gave him the day Turel came to visit, more than a century ago.

He made his way to the main hall on his way out of Dumah’s castle. He wanted to do some walking outside, hoping the chill winter air would invigorate him. He stopped at the door, hearing Dumah’s voice.

“He what?” Dumah boomed, his voice easily carrying through the door and into the hallway. Arkos pressed his ear against the door to hear the much quieter response from the person Dumah was talking to. The annoying, high-pitched voice gave it away as Rahab.

“He said that he's through hiding his true form. He’s gone to his citadel and says he doesn't plan to leave it ever again.”

“That weakling! Good riddance to him!”

“I thought you'd be glad at this news,” Rahab said, his voice oozing with self-satisfaction.

“He always was a pathetic embarrassment,” Dumah said. “I’m disgusted to know that he and I were created by the same hand.”

Arkos jerked in surprise. They were talking about Melchiah, Lord Dumah’s brother! Dumah never held back his negative opinions of Melchiah, so Arkos knew immediately who they were referring to. But what did Rahab mean by “hiding his true form?” Arkos crouched by the door and listened closer.

“Did you see him last time?” Rahab laughed. “His flesh looked about to fall right off him!”

“He disgusts me,” Dumah muttered. “I hope he speaks the truth when he says he'll never leave again. I won't have to look at his loathsome form anymore.”

“Yes, let him stay there and rot!”

“Look at me, Rahab,” Dumah said. “Look at how I’ve grown. I’ve become stronger and bigger over the years. My strength increases naturally, without me even trying. But he only becomes more and more hideous.”

“The gift that Kain gave us is more like a curse with him,” Rahab snickered.

“He can’t even hold his own body together, and he dares call himself a vampire Lord? He squanders what little power he has.”

Arkos pondered the meaning of all this. He had only seen Melchiah a few times, and only at the Sanctuary of the Clans. Melchiah had never come to visit Dumah, but considering the way Dumah felt about him, that was no surprise. And in those few brief meetings, Arkos had no reason to think Melchiah any weaker than Lord Kain’s other lieutenants. So what did Dumah’s comments mean? What was wrong with Melchiah?

“What does Lord Kain have to say about this?” Dumah asked.

“I haven’t seen Kain,” Rahab replied. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in some time.”

“Neither have I. He rarely even comes to the Sanctuary anymore, and I have no reason to go track him down. I have my own clan to worry about.”

“The only one I’ve spoken to is Turel, and you can guess how he felt about it. He said it was ‘regrettable’ and ‘unfortunate’ that Melchiah felt that way, and wished he could do something to help him.”

“The fool!” Dumah snorted. “He’s as useless as Melchiah is! Thinks he's smarter and better than the rest of us. No wonder he and Raziel were such friends. They had a lot in common.”

Arkos couldn't believe what he was hearing. He always believed that Kain's lieutenants all mutually respected each other. There was rivalry among them, surely, but it was healthy rivalry. The way Rahab flattered and fawned over Dumah, Arkos somehow felt that the other brothers held similar respect for each other, even despite Dumah’s constant belittling of Melchiah.

To learn that some of the brothers truly did not like each other astonished him. Dumah seemed to openly hate both Melchiah and Turel. And the mentioning of the dead brother Raziel surprised Arkos even more. Raziel had not been mentioned for years, even though the grisly details of his execution were no secret. It was just an uncomfortable bit of history.

“He’s changing too,” Rahab said suddenly. “Turel is. When I saw him, I could see the difference in his face.”

“Is that so?” Dumah asked. “For a time, I thought it was only me. Well, and Zephon, of course.”

Arkos caught a hint of something in Dumah’s voice, something he had never heard before. Was it fear?

“I won’t go see him,” Rahab said, his voice low. “I can’t even look at him. I don’t know how his clan members can stand it.”

“It's probably happening to them as well. It's like Kain and the rest of us. The Lord initiates the change and his brethren follow suit. It's always been that way.”

“But it’s usually fast,” Rahab said. “Not slow, like this.”

“Yes, I know. I can’t explain it.”

“What about your clan?” Rahab asked. “Have you noticed a change?”

“Yes, but it's very slight. They're becoming more like me, it is true.”

Arkos felt his vampire blood run cold. Crouching by the door, eavesdropping on a private conversation between his Lord and his Lord’s brother made him feel like a cowardly spy. But hearing Dumah talk so casually about their physical changes chilled him to the bone. Dumah knew about the changes? If he knew, why didn’t he tell the rest of the clan, to put their fears at ease? Was it a natural thing? Why was it happening?

And what about Zephon? Arkos had met Zephon about as many times as he had met Melchiah, and saw nothing wrong with him. So what were Dumah and Rahab talking about?

The word 'changes' rang in Arkos’ mind, and he suddenly realized what they were talking about. Dumah was getting bigger and stronger, but something else was happening to Melchiah and Zephon. They were changing too, in different ways. Arkos felt frozen in fear. Why were they changing? And what in the name of Nosgoth were they all changing into?

*****

The Zephonim spoke in hushed tones, as if some dreaded monster was asleep behind them and they dared not wake it. They spoke as if afraid of the sound of their own voice. But it was not their own voice they were afraid of, it was their own Lord’s appearance.

Zephon knew of their fears but did not address them. What could he tell the members of his clan? What excuse could he give for his startling appearance? He could just admit that he had no control over it, but that would not go over well, he knew. Better to pretend it was intentional, a specific transformation for some future purpose. But even Zephon could no longer pretend that his own visage did not frighten him, he could no longer casually accept what he was slowly turning into.

Raziel got wings and I get this, he thought, staring down at his body. In recent years, his skin had become gradually harder, as if drying out and turning to bone. His limbs got longer, making him appear horrifically lanky and awkward. At full height he was almost seven feet now, almost as tall as Dumah, when before he had been more than a foot shorter.

Despite the fact that he and his brothers had become so estranged, news still traveled fast between them. He knew of Melchiah’s situation and feared that he might soon follow his younger brother’s example. But Melchiah had always had to deal with his problems, while Zephon was only now being forced to. And Melchiah’s weaknesses could be effectively covered up. Zephon could not hide his form by wearing someone else’s skin. His whole body was changing shape.

He sat down at his desk, a task that was getting harder and harder to do as his legs got longer. These days he wore nothing but a long, loose robe, since his regular clothes no longer fit properly and he was too depressed to have new ones made. He feared he would outgrow them as well as his change worsened.

Built into the wall behind the desk was a glass case to display Zephon’s newest hobby. Among the complex mix of webs were three large spiders, his pets. He loved to just sit and watch them as they patrolled their webs, and would drop live grasshoppers and beetles into the case to feed them, watching in fascination as they snared their prey and cocooned them in webbing, to feast on their bodies later.

There were many other spiders in the room, having staked out claims in the ceiling’s lofty corners or narrow crevices between or under furniture. Zephon let them stay there, finding them acceptable roommates.

How beautiful they were, walking on eight thin legs. It was like a complicated dance, their bodies seeming to hover in mid-air, held aloft by the legs like a hot air balloon anchored to the ground with cables. Of all Nosgoth’s animal life, Zephon found spiders the most amazing, the most unique.

So beautiful, and so deadly. The three large spiders in the glass case were all extremely poisonous. Not to Zephon of course, since a spider bite could not kill a vampire any more than a stab wound could, but the little arachnids could kill a full-grown human in minutes with just one bite. The tiniest bit of venom could drop a two-hundred pound creature. Zephon found it amazing.

They were so similar, vampires and spiders. Both were known for their skill at killing enemies, both were found repulsive to most humans, and the obvious similarity, they received sustenance by drinking from their victims. Spiders were the vampires of the insect world, Zephon thought with a weak chuckle. Powerful and ruthless, lurking in the corners to jump out and kill their victims. But vampires had conquered their world, while spiders were content to be mere residents of theirs.

Zephon sighed. This time in the evening, he usually read, but he no longer found any interest in it. Instead, he just went to bed, feeling completely exhausted for some reason.

He slept for six days straight.

When he awoke almost a week later, he felt something was different. He fell out of bed, groggy and disoriented. Something was wrong. He stood up and blinked his eyes, looking around the room. But it was not something in the room, it was something with him that seemed different. He looked down at himself, and then he saw.

He screamed in horror.

Two more arms had grown out of his back.

*****

Melchiah sat in his darkened throne room, having kicked all his servants out. He wanted to be alone. In the flickering light of a few nearby torches, his decayed skin seemed to glisten with sweat. His eyes glowed dimly red, one more disturbing change.

Sitting alone in the shifting darkness, Melchiah felt as if the weight of impending doom had settled upon him. It was the pressing weight of centuries to come, and he knew, as if by prophecy, that they would not be pleasant. If the world was difficult now, it would be unbearable in the future.

Vampires still had control of Nosgoth, gripping it with an iron hand. But would their strength last for another millennium? Another century? Melchiah wondered just how long their fragile grip would last, given all the dark portents he saw on the horizon. He and all his brothers were now facing several changes, not all of them physical. The sudden abandonment of the Sanctuary of the Clans, which none of them had visited in a decade at least. It was as if the recent events were sentient creatures, determined to drive the vampires apart and cripple Kain’s previously unstoppable empire.

Once again, Melchiah’s thoughts drifted to his long-dead brother Raziel. It was his startling metamorphosis and sudden execution that had signaled the beginning of the end, as far as Melchiah was concerned. That was when their world began to unravel like threads in a poorly-made blanket. Now, it was becoming threadbare.

At one time, the clans were loyal to each other. But that was slowly becoming the exception instead of the norm. Dumah and Rahab were close, or rather, Rahab stayed close to Dumah, but all the other brothers had long since gone their separate ways. Zephon, morphing into some hideous creature, was too scared and ashamed to associate with the others. Turel seemed intent on separating himself from the rest of his brethren, and was reportedly moving farther north as if trying to escape a spreading plague. Melchiah made his choice with the rest of them. He would not leave this fortress again, that was certain. He would stay here and accept his evolution, living out his life in secrecy and solitude.

And then there was Kain. Once their Lord and Master, Kain was now nothing more than a frequently absent babysitter. He seemed to have no interest at all in keeping the clans together, and without his strength and influence, they were sure to spread even farther apart.

What would Raziel say if he could see them now? Just then, an amusing thought struck Melchiah. What if Raziel had not been executed? What if he was still alive now, witnessing their slow descent from greatness, joining them in their fall from grace? What would he be doing right now? What alliances would he keep and which would he discard with the changing times?

Melchiah let himself wonder about it for awhile, but eventually his thoughts drifted back into reality and the way things actually were, as opposed to how they might be. And he began thinking about himself again.

Fairly soon, Melchiah planned to make alterations to his large, circular throne room. He had something very special in mind. He planned to construct a circular cage in the middle of the room, and above it, a series of huge, spinning blades arranged like an enormous meat grinder. A gruesome device, built for one purpose. Execution. Or more precisely, suicide.

Because if his mutating form became too much for him to bear, or his world deteriorated to the point that he found it unlivable, Melchiah wanted a way to make it stop. He wanted a way out.

*****

The Sanctuary was as silent as a tomb, which perhaps, it had become. It had once been a busy, active place, filled with the movements and energies of vampire fledglings working to impress their masters, vampire scholars studying in the vast library, and most importantly, Lord Kain and his lieutenants frequenting it to discuss politics and other matters. It was the center of Kain’s empire, the social and political center of Nosgoth. It was the soul of the world.

But not anymore. The building was quiet and cold, abandoned by most of its residents and workers. The Pillars of Nosgoth were like the posts of deserted soldiers. The few who still came to visit or work there did not view the Great Hall with awe or reverence, as they once had. They treated it nostalgically, like some fond childhood memory. The Sanctuary was now more of a symbol of a glorious past than the heart of a prosperous future.

All this change in barely a century. In less than one hundred years, a flicker in the lifespan of an immortal vampire like Kain, the Sanctuary had degenerated from a thriving symbol to a dusty relic. It had all started with Raziel’s death, of course.

Kain pondered this while seated in his throne, the distorted Pillar of Balance. Although it seemed as if his very world was falling apart around him, he was not concerned. He knew it would happen, and not just in a vaguely intuitive way. He knew it was going to happen long before it did. Trying to prevent it would have been worse than pointless, and worrying about it now would be nothing but a waste of time.

A waste of time, Kain thought. What a funny concept. Time was never wasted. It could only be spent, could only be used. Though in a real sense, no one really used time. Time used them.

Kain could have contemplated the philosophical aspects of time for days if the mood struck him. The mood did not strike him today. He was not concerned with metaphysics at this point. He was far beyond that. Instead of pondering the meaning of time, Kain was just impatiently waiting for it to pass.

He felt a stirring behind him, like a loose breeze. But it was not physical, it did not ruffle the folds of his cape. It was a mystical wind that brushed his soul. He sighed and tapped his claws against the edge of his throne.

“Kain,” a whispery voice announced, as if speaking took a great expenditure of energy.

“I’m here,” Kain grumbled, angry at the intrusion.

Out of the thin air in front of him, a figure appeared. Clad in a white dress turned dingy gray, floating several feet above the ground, the image of a woman materialized. Her hands were clasped at her chest, her long blonde hair hanging from her head like dead weeds. One side of her face was badly burned, the flesh melted and charred black.

Ariel. The former Guardian of the Pillar of Balance. Murdered long ago, doomed to spend eternity haunting the Pillars. Kain’s longtime companion, though none else knew of it. Ariel, bonded to the Pillars, was like an echo of Kain’s long-dead conscience, or so he liked to think of her. Their relationship was hardly a friendly one.

“You come here so rarely,” Ariel said.

“I’ve been busy,” Kain replied.

“Ah, yes,” Ariel said, and she smiled. Or at least it looked as if she smiled; her shimmering image sometimes made it hard to discern details about her appearance. “You have planning to do, yes?”

“Preparing,” Kain corrected. “I have no plans.”

“Of course. All of your plans were successfully completed centuries ago. Now all you can do is deal with their consequences.”

“That is one way to view the situation.”

“Are their others?”

Now it was Kain’s turn to smile. “There are always alternative viewpoints. Everyone looks at things differently. There are millions of angles from which to view events, each creating a different effect in the spectator.”

“You do not need to lecture me, Kain.”

“Why not?” Kain muttered. “You lecture me often enough.”

“But not today. I did not come to lecture you this time.”

“Then why have you come?”

“To warn you.”

Inwardly, Kain laughed at her. Coming to warn him! Whatever she was coming to warn him of, he was surely aware of already. Warnings were redundant, as far as Kain was concerned. Like giving a man the cure for a disease he had already recovered from. Kain could not be warned any more than he could be surprised.

But he said none of this. Only, “Warn me of what?”

“Your brethren,” Ariel said. “You must know how they have begun to change.”

“Any fool could have noticed it by now.”

“It will get worse, Kain. Much worse.”

Kain waved her off. “I'll deal with it.”

“You cannot deal with it,” Ariel insisted. “You cannot prevent it.”

“I said I'll deal with it,” Kain said, getting angry. “I will do nothing. That's how I'll deal with it.”

“Do you not care?”

“What is there to care about?”

“Their clans will change as well, becoming as their masters. Your great race of vampires will devolve into inhuman beasts, Kain. Your Empire will crumble into dust.”

“It already has,” Kain growled. “You tell me nothing new.”

Ariel was silent for a few moments. Then, almost regrettably, she said, “You cannot be turned from your course. I see that now. Nothing will change you.”

“We cannot escape our fate,” Kain said. “It's as integral to our being as the very air we breathe. We cannot rid ourselves of it, we cannot run from it. Our fate is a permanent part of our lives.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I know it. I have no need of beliefs.”

Ariel shook her head sadly. Somewhere in his heart, what was left of it, Kain felt sorry for her. It was not his fault she was there, forever trapped like a prisoner in her spiritual cell. He was to blame for much of what was wrong with Nosgoth, but he was not to blame for Ariel’s spectral imprisonment. He would even have released her from it, if he could, if for no other reason than to keep her from bothering him. But like him, her fate was set into motion long ago.

“One day, you may realize the error of your ways, Kain. You may live to regret the things you have done in your life. If you do, I hope it destroys you.”

With that, Ariel faded away like a bad dream, leaving only a faint mist floating in the center of the room, which then dissipated into nothing. Kain still felt her presence, though. She was gone, but she had not truly left, because she never could.

What she did not understand was that Kain would never live to regret his actions, never live to feel remorse or guilt over the terrible crimes he had committed. He could not regret what he had no control over. And even if he could, even if he wanted to, it was too late to do it now. It was far too late.

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