Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  To the north of Falanor, where the Selenau River flowed through the Iron Forest and entered the vast realms of the Black Pike Mountains, there was a wall of rock, a half-league wide, jagged and black, sheer and vast. Impassable, and yet beyond there was a road, a black road, a wide road, built over a hundred years by the White Warriors, the soldiers of the vachine, the soldiers of the Harvesters, a secret road from whence the Army of Iron arrived at Falanor's northern borders and thence to the city of Jalder, and beyond.

  This mammoth wall of towering rock was a barrier, a shield of sorts, between the world of men and the world of albino soldiers. Between men and Harvesters. Men and vachine.

  Snow fell from a bruised sky. The wind howled mournfully from the edge of the Iron Forest, and whipped up in little dancing eddies, creating complex patterns in the snow before scattering and merging once more with undulating fields of white.

  Everything was still, and calm – a perfect watercolour of serenity.

  Then the black wall shimmered, each chimney and vertical ridge hung with rivers of ice sparkling for a moment as if hoarding a million trapped diamonds… And then the wall was not a wall, but a veil, like a shimmering black curtain. And beyond, a black road stretched away, edged with ice and snow, a blasted road, a desolate road. And as the mountain rock shimmered like insubstantial lace, so there came the stamp of marching boots, and the rattle of armour, and beyond the wall as if seen through mist came ranks of soldiers, their flesh pale and white, their armour matt black, carrying spears and wearing swords and maces at belts. They wore highpeaked battle helmets, and their shields bore silver insignia. The sign of the White Warriors. The sign of the Leski Worms, from whence they were once hatched.

  The front battalion approached the wall, then stopped with a stamp of boots. Slowly, they walked forward, and eased through solid rock, out onto the snowy drifts. Rank after rank came, until the battalion was free of a rocky, blood-oil magick imprisonment, and they moved out across the snow in a square unit formation – to be followed immediately by a second battalion, another square group of four hundred soldiers, marching out into the cold crispness of Falanor from the black road beyond the Black Pike Mountains. More battalions came, until they made a brigade, and the brigade doubled into a division of four thousand eight hundred soldiers, and eventually, through churned snow and mud, the battalions finally formed into an albino army. The Army of Silver, the silver on their shields glinting with reflections from a low-slung winter sun.

  The Army of Silver, led by General Zagreel, moved west from this secretive rock entrance, and they were trailed by a hundred Harvesters, bone-fingered hands still weaving the magick of opening and long white robes drifting through snow, tall thin bodies ignoring the bite of the Falanor wind.

  Silence flowed for a while, followed by the stamp of more boots, and this time the approaching battalion held matt black shields decorated with insignia in brass, and they flowed from the mountain wall like a river of darkness, their pale faces impassive, their spears erect, swords gleaming black under winter sunlight, ignoring the whipping snow as more and more units and regiments filed out to stand before the mountain wall and then, with the tiniest of sighs, the mountain wall lost its sheen and became solid once more, leaving two full albino armies standing in the snow between the Black Pikes and the Iron Forest.

  General Exkavar turned his eyes to the forest, the dark iron trunks twisted and threatening, and a cruel smile crept across his narrow, white lips. Blood eyes surveyed the snow, and he removed his helmet and ran a hand through thick, snow-white hair. He glanced back at his perfectly ordered Army of Brass, and then over the snow fields to the equally professional Army of Silver.

  He turned to the bugler. "Sound the march," he said, and his eyes were distant, as if reliving a dream. "We head south."

  CHAPTER 7

  Black Pike Mines

  Kell, Saark and Nienna moved as fast as they could down narrow trails which weaved like criss-crossing spider-webs through the Iron Forest. West they headed, constantly west, and eventually, on one dull morning with light snowflakes peppering the air, they broke free of the trees and looked out over a rugged, folded country, full of hills and rocks, stunted trees and deep hollows. Everything was white, and still, and calm. This was wild country filling in the gaps between Corleth Moor and the Cailleach Pass to the west of Jalder. They were past Jalder now, past the Great North Road; the Iron Forest had done its job, but as Myriam pointed out before her fight with Saark, and her sudden departure, the once outlaw-occupied forest had been curiously devoid of criminal activity. Dead, or just sleeping? Or fled to safer climates?

  They stared out over the undulating folds of these raw wild lands. "Looks like rough travelling," said Saark, chewing on a piece of dried beef.

  "We're going to need supplies," said Kell, ignoring Saark.

  "I said, it looks like rough travelling," snapped Saark.

  "I heard what you said, lad. But you're stating the obvious. We've had rough travelling ever since we left Jalder, through the tannery and down the Selenau River. What did you expect? A cushioned silk carriage waiting for you?"

  "You're a grumpy old bastard, Kell, you know that?"

  "Yeah. You keep mentioning it."

  Saark bent down, rubbing at his legs. Ever since falling into the polluted lake in the Iron Forest, his skin had flared red, all over his body, stinging him with knives of fire. But Kell had come up with a theory why his flesh had not fallen from his bones, as certain rumours would have it. As a vachine, Saark had accelerated healing. Now, his flesh was being eaten by toxins, but healing just as fast as it was being destroyed.

  "So I'll be like this, in a scratching agony, forever?" Saark had snapped, face twisted in annoyance.

  "I thought you'd be used to a bit of scratching by now," Kell had smirked.

  Now, it was irritating Saark again and he rubbed his legs, and chewed his beef.

  "Won't they have food at these Black Pike Mines?"

  "Maybe. We're not sure what we'll find, though. Maybe it'll be deserted? Maybe it was ransacked by the Army of Iron on their way through. It could be a burnt shell, smouldering timbers and blackened rocks."

  "I assume that would end your wonderful and secret plan," muttered Saark, still scratching.

  "It certainly would." Kell took a deep breath, staring up at the sky, then out across the wilderness. "By the gods, there are a thousand places out there for an ambush."

  "Hark, the happy voice of pessimism," said Saark.

  "Will you stop that damn scratching? It's like standing next to a fucking flea-bitten dog!"

  "Hey, listen, I feel like I've got a plague of ants living under my skin. I can't stop bloody scratching. It's not like I have a choice."

  "Well, if you'd not been so stupid and put the donkey first, you wouldn't have gone through the damn surface."

  "There you go, blaming Mary again. Listen Kell, it's not Mary's fault and I resent the constant implication that she's holding up your weird and unspeakable mission that is so clever you have to keep it a secret!"

  Kell leaned close. "The reason I keep it to myself, you horse cock, is so when, shall we say, certain priapic fools started sticking their child-maker into hot, sweaty and untrustworthy orifices, there's no possible chance of a blurted word at the wrong moment. You get me?"

  "So…" he frowned, "you think I'd spout our plans during sex? Like some loose-brained dolt?"

  "Of course you would, lad. You're a man! You think with your hot plums, not with your brain."

  "Oh, and I suppose the great Kell–"

  "There's a farmhouse."

  The two men ceased their squabbling and followed Nienna's line of vision. Through swirls of snow, halfhidden by a hollow of rocks and heavily folded landscape, there was indeed a farmhouse.

  "Any smoke?" squinted Kell.

  "None I can see." Nienna clicked her tongue, and led Mary ahead. Ten paces away she stopped, and turned back. "Are you coming? Or shall I go searching for
food alone?"

  Kell and Saark followed at a distance.

  "Stroppy girl, that one," said Saark.

  "Yeah. Well. She's sad Myriam has gone, you know? They'd become friends. Been through a lot. Shame you had to start sticking your pork sausage where it didn't belong."

  "If you're going to keep on at me, Kell, I'm going to walk with the fucking donkey."

  "You do that, lad. No talk is better than your talk."

  "I'll watch her arse," muttered Saark, marching away from Kell. "It's a damn sight prettier than your battered face."

  The farmhouse was deserted, and had been left in a hurry – presumably when the Army of Iron had marched through this way, months earlier. The travellers hunted through various rooms, scavenging what they could. Fresh clothing, blankets and furs, boots for Saark, salt, sugar, coffee, some raw vegetables preserved by the winter, and some chunks of dried beef and goat from a small curing shed with a slanted, black-slate roof. They found hard loaves of bread, which would soften in soup, onions, and also a large round of cheese sealed in wax which was placed reverently in Mary's basket. It had been a long time since they'd eaten cheese. That would be a tasty reward on the hard, unforgiving trail.

  Saark wanted to stay in the farmhouse to rest, but Kell shook his head, forcing them to push on. It was with great regret they left the sanctuary of the building, heading back out into the snow, into the folded wild lands. Soon it fell far behind, and only snow, and heather, and rocks were there to offer comfort.

  Kell pushed hard, and they travelled long into the night before collapsing into an exhausted sleep. He woke them at dawn, and they pushed on again, grumbling and cold, feet aching, joints aching, growing a little warm with travel but at least now with bellies full of meat and cheese instead of straggled weeds and unwholesome mushrooms from the forest.

  The landscape here was warmer to travel, for the shape of the land, the folds and dips, cut down on many a crosswind. Once, Saark had been separated from a unit on military manoeuvres with King Leanoric, and had to walk ten leagues across Valantrium Moor. The wind-chill alone nearly killed him, and it took a week of hot baths, hot liquor and hot women to restore his good humour.

  Now, however, there was no promise of hot baths, liquor or women; only a cold prison mine and the prospect of meeting prison guards. Would there be nubile young women included in that gathering? Would there be succulent wobbling flesh? Eager thighs? Clawed and painted nails? Saark doubted it.

  For a week they travelled like this, Kell always ahead, his stamina a true thing to behold, especially for one so old. Saark and Nienna had taken to walking together, and for the first few days Nienna sulked with Saark, her lower lip out, face turned away, jealous no doubt of his frantic coupling with Myriam. But Saark worked on her relentlessly, with nothing else to do except talk to the donkey; and gradually, his charm began to break through her iron and ice resolve. On the third day after leaving the Iron Forest, there came a smile, quickly followed by a scowl. After four days, a chuckle. After five, a real bursting laugh of good humour. And by the sixth day she had started to talk again. Internally, he punched the air with joy; looking back through his long life of talking to, and fucking, women, he now realised Nienna had become the hardest challenge. Ironic, that only days earlier she'd been falling over herself to please him. To help him. To couple with him.

  "This feels like a never-ending journey," said Nienna.

  They had stopped at the top of a low rise, which fell away suddenly in a steep cliff. Kell had gone on ahead to find a safe path down. It gave them a good – if limited – view of the near distance. Anything further was blocked by occasional swathes of mist, or flurries of snow.

  "Hard on the feet," said Saark, removing his boots. He scratched his legs, then rubbed at his toes.

  "That's quite a stench," said Nienna, smiling to take the sting from her words.

  "I think it would win me certain awards, back at the King's Royal Court," grinned Saark, and pulled a face as he rubbed between his toes. "By the Chaos Halls, the old gimlet pushes a fast pace."

  "He is a great man," beamed Nienna.

  "Yes, with a bad temper and a tongue fiercer than a dominatrix's whip," scowled Saark.

  "You do goad him," said Nienna.

  "Only to keep the old goat on his cheesy toes. Look at it this way, without me to take his mind off more serious matters, he'd be going crazy with grief! My talk of wine and wenches gives him a simple anchor-point for his short-term anger episodes."

  Nienna considered this. "You have, er, enjoyed a lot of wine, then?" she said, carefully.

  "And wenches, that's what you really mean, eh?" smiled Saark, easily, and pulled on his boot. He removed the other. "By all the gods, this one is worse! How can a man's feet smell so bad? I do believe I should cut them off and burn them on the fire!"

  "I agree."

  "Ask me, then."

  "Ask you what?"

  "Whatever's troubling you, little lady. There's always something troubling you, young… no, no, I take that back. You're no longer young, are you? So I'll begin again. There's always something troubling you, Nienna." He smiled kindly.

  "Do you love Myriam?" she blurted out, then bit her tongue, aware she'd probably gone too far.

  The smile froze on Saark's face like a rictus of ice-smoke magick. It was a question he hadn't anticipated, and Saark looked down at the frozen rocks, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His mind swirled. Did he love Myriam? Despite the fights, and the betrayals, did he? Did he really? Despite her trying to kill him? To drown him like a flapping chicken?

  And bizarrely, Saark realised that he did. But he recognised this was not the time to say such a thing, and especially not to Nienna, here, in this place. What harm her ignorance? What harm protecting her from herself?

  "No," he said, finally. Then added, "I have a lot of affection for the girl, after all, ever since she stabbed me in the guts we've been through a lot together." Then a flash of inspiration bit him. "What you think you saw, you did not. We coupled, but it was nothing to do with love, or even lust – it was everything to do with the clockwork. Everything to do with the vachine."

  Nienna frowned. "How does that work?"

  "I was bitten by a Soul Stealer; her blood-oil infected me. But the vachine are different from the vampires of old, and the blood-oil they carry instead of vampire's blood is like a drug, a living cancer, and without the clockwork machines to control it, it will finally kill you. What me and Myriam did was to save my life. Nothing more."

  Nienna looked into his eyes. And she heard it. The tick tick tick of the machine vampire. Saark tilted his head, and then gave a short nod. "Yes. It feels… odd. Almost like I carry a weight in my chest. But that is all. Otherwise, I think and breathe and fight and love, just like before."

  "Love me," said Nienna.

  "I can't do that," said Saark, stiffly. "Kell would cut off my balls, and you damn well know it!"

  "You have to live your own life. Don't be scared of my grandfather. I am a grown woman now, you said so yourself." She had moved closer, a lot closer, and despite Saark's accelerated vachine skills he only now realised. He swallowed. He could smell the musk of her skin and something took hold of his mind in its fist and squeezed, gently, and he felt himself losing control. It was always the same. With women. With wine. The temptation would present itself and Saark could never, ever, say no. It was as if his brain was mis-wired, and didn't work like a normal person's brain. He had not the capacity to deprive himself of any earthly pleasure. Saark was a slave to hedonism, and had very little real control in his conscious decision making. It was a curse he carried deep.

  Nienna was close. He stared at her lips, slick and wet. Her tongue darted out, a nervous gesture, and then Saark was falling into a well of uncontrollable insanity and every trick and nuance and skill fell neatly into place, click click click, like a brass karinga puzzle being worked by an expert's flashing fingers. And she tasted good, tasted sweet, and he was inside her and t
hey kissed, sat there on the rocks, and kissed.

  Saark pulled away.

  "Oh!" said Nienna, and smiled.

  "Oh no," said Saark, and grinned. "But shit, Kell will rip off my balls! He'll rip off my head!"

  "Rubbish! It was only a kiss." And she giggled, but he could see it in her eyes, she wanted more, she wanted much more, she wanted it all. Saark swallowed, as a hand thumped his shoulder.

  "Not far now, lad."

  "Kell." Saark's voice was a croak, and he did well to speak at all.

  "Did you sneak up on us, grandfather?" said Nienna, turning her head and fixing him with a beady stare.

  "Heh, just checking Saark here was being an honourable gentleman. Anyway, come on, there's a cottage up ahead. It's been lived in recently, but it's empty now; probably owned by a crofter. We can have a good rest, I think we've earned it, and approach the Black Pike Mine prison fresh tomorrow, eh?"