Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  Kell watched carefully, making no move towards his weapons, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. There were perhaps fifty children in all, and each was what he knew could be described as a Deep Blood. They had drunk so much of the powerful narcotic, were so entrenched in the liquid's power and dark magick, the essence of the refined blood-oil so necessary to vachine survival – and so condemning of human flesh – that their lips were stained black, and their veins stood out across pale flesh like strands of glossy spider webs on marble skin.

  Soon, Kell knew, these children would die.

  Soon, they would travel what Kell knew they called the Voyage of the Soul. To an afterlife all Blacklippers believed in. To an afterworld that justified narcotic slavery.

  "Throw down your weapons!" shouted one girl, no more than thirteen years old. Her hair was long and black, braided in heavy strips. She was naked to the waist, and her veins stood out like a river-system viewed from mountain crags at night. She carried an adult longbow, a weapon Kell had seen punch an arrow through a hand-thick pine door. The arrow fletch touched her cheek. As far as Kell could tell, her hand did not shake.

  Slowly, Jagor and Kell complied.

  "Now get off the horses and speak your names, and nothing funny, or you'll have fifty arrows through you!"

  "Nice place," muttered Kell.

  "Wait till you meet the parents," said Jagor.

  "What's that?" cried the girl. "What are you saying? Speak quickly now, or you will die!"

  "You are the Watchers," said Jagor, his voice booming out, "and I am Jagor Mad. Your people know me well."

  "Yes," said the girl. "Welcome home, Jagor Mad. You may take up your weapon. Who is the man alongside you?"

  "His name is Kell."

  "Kell, the Legend?" said the girl, her voice painfully neutral.

  "Yes," said Jagor, and threw Kell such a strange look the large warrior was moving before he heard the sound of the arrows. Shafts slammed all around him, peppering the snow and thudding home into his horse which reared, suddenly screaming a high-pitched horse scream, and Kell leapt for his axe, leapt for Ilanna as the charcoal gelding staggered back on hind legs, front hooves pawing the air, blood pumping from ten wounds and arrows protruding like the spikes on a spinehog. There was a devastating thump as the gelding hit the snow, a huge pool of red spreading fast around the creature and Kell's head slammed up, eyes narrowed, fixed on Jagor as he realised realised the bastard had led him into a trap…

  "What did you do?" screamed Kell, and leapt forward, Ilanna in his fists and Jagor stepped backwards fast, his own sword coming up with a hiss. Ilanna swung down, and Jagor deflected the powerful blow with a grunt and a squawk.

  "Nothing, Kell! Nothing! I did nothing!"

  "I'll fucking eat your heart, you whoreson!" he screamed.

  "Drop the axe, Kell!" shouted the girl. An arrow slammed between his boots, and Kell stared at that arrow, stared at it hard. A moment earlier, his horse's bulk had protected him. Now, he had no such protection.

  Kell glanced up. "What's to stop you peppering me like a fucking deer in the woods?" he snarled.

  "I am," came a deep, bass rumble, and from a cave which blended into the gloom of the rocky wall stepped a man bigger than any Kell had ever seen in his life.

  The figure walked forward, dwarfing Kell and even Jagor. His skin was pasty and white, the black webtraces of Deep Blood veins marking him out as an addict of blood-oil; but more, his eyes were black with the oil, his lips, his nostrils, even his fingernails had been polluted by the toxin of his chosen drug. He carried a huge flange mace, matt black and nearly the size of Kell's entire torso. To be struck by such a weapon…

  "And you are?" snapped Kell, slowly lowering Ilanna but keeping the beloved axe close to his body; a barrier between himself and the unknown; a last resort between Kell walking the world and walking the infinity of the Chaos Halls.

  "My name is Dekkar. I am one of the Kings of the Blacklippers."

  Kell bowed his head a fraction, and lowered Ilanna. "I knew Preyshan. I knew him well."

  "Yes. But still you must drop the axe and back away," said Dekkar, and flexed his mighty chest. Muscles writhed like dying eels. "I guarantee my children will not kill an unarmed man."

  Kell nodded, and Ilanna thunked to the snow. He backed away. Dekkar watched, and Jagor Mad moved forward and with an evil grin, placed his short sword – the very short sword Kell had given him – against Kell's throat.

  "What's this?" said Kell, softly.

  Jagor looked at Dekkar, and his grin widened. "Do you want to tell him? Or shall I?"

  Dekkar moved forward, looming over Kell. The huge flange mace lifted, and Kell saw himself reflected as smeared, dulled, featureless colours in its merciless grim finish.

  "Jagor is my brother," said Dekkar, his voice laced with irony. "And here, Kell, your name is indeed a Legend – for all present in the Valleys of the Moon are instructed that the Prime Law is that you must die!"

  CHAPTER 11

  Blood Temple

  Command Sergeant Wood was having a bad morning, it had to be said. He stood in the stone tunnel, Pettrus unconscious on the floor behind him, a cold breeze blowing through with the stink of old sewers, and he watched the two vampires picking their way towards him over the twisted corpses of their brethren.

  One was a girl, young, beautiful, with slender limbs and high cheekbones and curly golden hair. But her eyes were narrowed in a look of hatred and bestiality that shouldn't have resided on such a pretty child's face. Blood rimed her lips and vampire fangs.

  "Shit," muttered Wood. "Shit!"

  The second vampire was an old man, crooked and bent and moving in a twisted way, as if something was wrong with his spine. He had a white, bowl haircut, ragged and uneven, that was, perhaps, one of the worst haircuts Wood had ever seen – on mortal or vampire. Then recognition hit Wood like a mallet between the eyes.

  "Langforf!" he exclaimed, stepping back, his short sword wavering in his grasp. "Langforf, it's me, Wood! Don't you recognise me, man? We fought together in five campaigns!"

  Langforf, along with his very bad haircut, growled and leapt at Wood, claws slashing for his throat. Wood stepped back fast, stumbling over Pettrus' unconscious body and hitting the ground hard on his arse with an "oof" that would have been comedic, if it hadn't been for impending death looming over him. Langforf leapt at Wood, landing atop the soldier as if they were old lovers on a secret tryst and eager for sex. Foul breath swept over Wood, into his mouth and lungs making him choke. It was rotting meat combined with dried, old blood. Wood screamed. Claws scrabbled for him, and he grabbed Langforf's throat, bad haircut bobbing to tickle his own forehead, and they struggled for a few moments with Langforf hissing and spitting foul stuff into Wood's open maw.

  "Get it off, get it off!" he shrieked, but of course there was nobody to help him get it off and he realised he would have to help himself. He got one hand free, and Langforf's fangs brushed his throat making him squirm. His strength was failing, and for an old bowl-cut, Langforf was surprisingly strong. Wood managed to get a dagger free from his belt and he rammed it between Langforf's ribs. No blood came out, and indeed Langforf continued to struggle with the same strength and determination. Again and again Wood plunged the dagger into Langforf's side, until there was a large squelching hole and something round and slick and evil slid out, nestling in a pool of slime in Wood's lap and making his life just that little bit more uncomfortable.

  "Aie!" he screamed, and got the dagger high, between him and Langforf at throat level. Then Wood simply let Langforf descend with his fangs, pushing his own throat onto the dagger and cutting his head nearly clean in half.

  Wood scrambled out from under the twitching old revenant, and grabbed his short sword – just as the young girl leapt. Wood hit her, hard, breaking her clavicle and shearing his sword down into her lungs – where it wedged under her ribs and was wrenched from his grasp.

  Wood stood there, feeling like an
idiot, as the girl took a step back and prodded at the sword as if she'd never seen such a weapon before. She tried to tug it free as Wood looked frantically about for another blade, then skipped back, grabbing Pettrus' sword – too long and fanciful for Wood's normal liking – and leaping forward he slammed the blade through her neck. It jarred, cutting through her spine, and her head came away, lolling grotesquely to one side and held in place by skin and tendons. Her red eyes glared at him, accusingly, as she continued to tug at the embedded sword. Wood shuddered, and hacked again, detaching the head. Slowly, a black smoke escaped from her neck as if released from a clockwork pressure valve, and the vampire collapsed.

  Wood rubbed his beard with the back of his hand, and crept forward, tugging free his own sword. Then he moved back to Pettrus, who was gradually coming round.

  "Got the drop on us, the bastards," he said, surveying the carnage. "But you did well, my friend. Very well."

  "I'm getting tired of this," said Wood, grimacing. "I just want my old life back."

  Pettrus grabbed him by the shoulders, looked into his eyes. "You know that's never going to happen. Right?"

  "I know. I know. I just wish. In a sane and normal world, beautiful young women shouldn't try to bite your throat. Or at least, not until they've had a few drinks."

  Pettrus chuckled. "Glad to see you've still got that sense of humour," he muttered.

  "Yeah, me and most of the city. Come on. We're not far now. And it's still safer travelling down here under the rock than across the rooftops."

  "Until you meet bastards in the tunnels."

  "Until you meet bastards in the tunnels," agreed Wood.

  They moved on, warily now for they had grown lax and complacent in the past few hours, coming upon the previous gathering of vampires with their weapons sheathed and minds tired and blank and definitely switched off. It had been a short, hard, savage fight, and Wood and Pettrus both knew they were lucky to be alive. Luck, and combat instinct honed over decades was what saved them. Now, they did not want to run the risk of a second encounter; not when they were so close to the Black Barracks.

  It took another hour of careful navigation and creeping through the darkness. Rounding a bend in the rock tunnel, Wood stopped and squinted. He could see a figure at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Black Barracks. To Wood's right, a heavy flow of slow sewage didn't so much move as coagulate. Pettrus squinted over Wood's shoulder.

  "That's not a vampire."

  "Why not?"

  "It's Fat Bill."

  "Maybe Fat Bill got bit? Maybe Fat Bill is now Fat Bill the vampire scourge?"

  "Nah," said Pettrus, shaking his head. "He's got his sword drawn. Look. He's guarding the steps."

  "Maybe he's a vampire guarding the steps from people like us?"

  "I don't reckon," said Pettrus. "Vampires don't use swords."

  "Of course they do! I've seen hundreds!"

  "There's only one way to find out." Raising his voice, Pettrus shouted, "Hey, Fat Bill! Are you a vampire? Do we have to stick a blade through your heart and skull?"

  Fat Bill, who must have weighed the same as three sacks of flower, lumbered around in a slow circle and squinted through the darkness. "Any man who tries that better be ready to have their own head crushed," he rumbled, and grinned in the gloom. "By all the gods, is that you, Pettrus? And who's that with you? That skinny gay goat, Wood? It's bloody good to see you both!"

  Pettrus and Wood moved along the walkway, and looked up at Fat Bill. He wasn't just fat, he was tall, broad, and both soldiers knew he packed a punch greater than any kicking shire horse. The men shook hands, chuckling, and Fat Bill led them up the stone steps.

  "The lads'll be glad to see you."

  "Who's here?"

  Bill stopped, and turned. He grinned, with most of his teeth missing from brawling. His hair, straggly and white, whispered around his head like cotton. "All of us, Wood. All of us."

  They continued, passing a couple more guards whom Wood only vaguely knew; then they emerged into a long, low-ceilinged barracks room.

  The Black Barracks squatted on the outskirts of Port of Gollothrim, in what used to be an old warehouse area used for the loading and unloading of cargo; when an industrial accident had destroyed the nearby quays, the area had been pretty much abandoned and left to rot. It was a quiet place, and more importantly for the old men who ran the Black Barracks, a cheap place. Whoever said growing old made you generous was a lying bastard. The old soldiers who attended the Black Barracks for weekly drinking sessions and to regale one another with exaggerated tales of valour in their youth, well, they were uniformly tighter than any mother-inlaw's hidden purse.

  Despite being located in a quiet area of the city, still the barracks had been kitted out as if under siege. All windows had been blacked out and boarded up, and the doors had been reinforced by heavy planks of steel. Lanterns were kept to a lit minimum, and the noise level was a dull mumble as Wood stepped through the door – as opposed to the normal drunken roar that greeted him.

  "My God, it's good to see you old boys!" grinned Wood, and for the first time since the vampires had spread through Port of Gollothrim, his heart lifted in joy.

  "Wood!" roared a few old soldiers, who stood and smiled in welcome at the two new men. "Glad to see a few bloodsuckers didn't manage to suck you dry!"

  Wood strode forward, and slapped a man on the back. "Gods, who've we got here? There's Kelv Blades, never been a better man with a battleaxe or I'm not Command Sergeant Wood! And look! Well met, Nicholas. Who'd have thought The Miser would have left his Gold Vaults, even in times of vampire plague?"

  "Got most of it stashed," winked Nicholas the Miser.

  "And there's Old Man Connie, Sour Dog, Stickboy Pulp and Bulbo the Dull. Well met! And look, by all the gods, it's Weevil and Bad Socks! I thought you two were dead?"

  "It'd take more than a rock on my head to kill me!" rumbled Bad Socks, who climbed ponderously to his feet. He was, as ever, without his boots and his socks did indeed smell bad. He was also nearly seventy years old, one-eyed and his face was so heavily criss-crossed with scars there was little original skin left. He hadn't so much retired from the army, as been forcibly ejected.

  Pettrus grinned around as conversation and arguments broke out. "They're all here," he said, meeting Wood's gaze. "What's that? Two hundred of them? Two hundred! That's two hundred blades, Wood. Our own little army."

  "And not a man here under the age of sixty-five, I believe," said Wood. He was still smiling though. It was good to see so many friendly old faces. Indeed, it was wonderful to realise he wasn't alone and unloved in a hostile world.

  "Just think of the experience, though!" said Pettrus.

  "Just think of the arthritis!" grinned Wood.

  "If any man here hears you say that, you'll get a sword in the guts."

  "Yeah, I know. But by the Granite Thrones, it's bloody good to see them all." He raised his voice. "I said, it's bloody grand to see you all! It's good to know I'm not alone!"

  "Have you been fighting 'em?" rumbled Fat Bill. "The bloodsuckers, I mean?"

  "Fighting and killing them," said Pettrus.

  "Good. 'Cos we've got a plan." Fat Bill grinned, but Wood felt his heart sinking. To Wood, the word "plan" was usually synonymous with "trouble", "error" and inevitably, "massacre". "We need some handy men to help carry it out."

  "It's nothing to do with robbing the Gollothrim Bank again, is it?" scowled Pettrus. "You know what happened that time."

  "No," said Fat Bill, and Wood realised everybody was quiet in the Black Barracks, all eyes on Fat Bill, Wood and Pettrus. "This is something infinitely more juicy."

  Graal was tired. Bone weary. He had never felt so tired before and attributed it to the wounds suffered at the claws of Bhu Vanesh. He reined in his horse at the top of a rocky, barren hill, a stolen black charger from the stables of the old Mayor of Gollothrim, and turned in his saddle. Skanda was close behind, riding side-saddle on a small, grey ma
re which constantly eyed Graal with nervous eyes, tosses of the head and snorts and stamps.

  Skanda pulled alongside Graal, and smiled.

  "You are weary?"

  "Through to my bones."

  "Bhu Vanesh did more than torture your flesh. I think he may have poisoned your soul."