Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  Graal's body twitched and pulsated, and emptied itself onto the altar of the Ankarok.

  Still Skanda sang, and looking back he was a boy again and Graal's eyes met Skanda's and Skanda gave a single nod, smiling, and released Graal to slump to the floor where he lay, curled foetal, twitching spasmodically. His fingers lifted, and touched his throat. Touched the gaping wound from whence his blood-oil and blood-magick had been sucked…

  "Come and watch," whispered Skanda, and without any control of his body Graal climbed to his feet and as he walked, boots thumping clumsily as if he were a puppet on strings, he followed Skanda and a cool breeze blew through the room and into the gaping wound at his throat but he was not dead was not dead and he walked across the stone and out into the weak grey daylight –

  The city was squirming.

  Old Skulkra was alive, every stone surface a maelstrom of movement as things seemed to shift, and move, and push under the surface of the stone, as if the very buildings themselves were fluid, vertical walls of thick oil trapping large desperate creatures within. The whole world seemed to shift and coalesce, and Graal wanted to heave and vomit, but had no control and his open throat was flapping and if he could, he would have screamed with two mouths…

  Skanda stood, and watched, and on his hand squatted a tiny scorpion with two tails, two stings, and Graal dragged his unwilling gaze back to the city, back to Old Skulkra, and he watched.

  The walls squirmed and pulsed, and now the ground was fluid, heaving and churning as if under the blades of some terrible plough. Paving stones cracked and shifted, and the whole world was alive with movement, with shifting, with coalescing images a blend of reality and the fluid, a mix of sanity and the insane, and Graal watched with lower jaw hung open and his slit throat forgotten as from under the earth and from inside the walls they came, they pushed, they heaved, they were born.

  The Ankarok emerged, and they were children, and their skin was gloss black and shining as if smeared with oil, and their teeth were the black of insect incisors, and many had four arms and claws for feet, some had pincers and mandibles and one young boy crawled forward, and Graal could see he had a thorax. The Ankarok weren't simply children, they were blended with insects, with scorpions and cockroaches and ants and beetles, and they shifted and squirmed and scampered like insects and there were hundreds of them spilling from the walls like ants from a nest, and there were thousands of them, surging from under the earth like a flood of beetles from a dunghill, and

  we have been imprisoned for thousands of years

  and

  we have been waiting for this moment, biding our time

  and

  we were sent here, and trapped here, tricked here, lost here

  but

  now we are free, now we can work, and that's all we wanted, all we ever dreamed, the joy of the labour, the joy of the slave, the joy of the making, the joy of the killing –

  Old Skulkra squirmed and heaved beneath him, and Graal faded away into a realm of impossibility, into a plane of unexistence in which the world was ruled by the Ankarok, and they

  were

  all-powerful.

  CHAPTER 12

  Vampire Scouts

  Saark was drunk. Saark was allowed to be drunk! After all, it'd been a hell of a day.

  He staggered from Grak the Bastard's quarters, set high in the fortress walls and, in times of war or attack, doubling as a store-room and a place for archers. It also made a good vantage point looking out over the plain to see who approached Black Pike Mines.

  Saark, in his drunken state, found another use for the archer's slit in Grak's bedroom wall, and as his urine arced far and long over the snowy field below, Grak patted him heartily on the shoulder and suggested it was time for bed.

  Saark staggered across the frozen mud of what was now the "Training Yard", although in all honesty, Saark left most of the training to Grak. Grak was a capable man, and Saark had to admit that he himself was capable of drinking, and enjoying a roll with a woman, and hell even cards or betting on bear fights were high on his agenda; but training men? No sir!

  As Saark mounted the steps to his room, he recounted the week's success stories. Kell would be proud, no doubt, when he returned. They (meaning Grak) had whittled the men into a raw but efficient set of fighting units. They weren't an army. Not yet. They (meaning Grak) would need to put in a lot more effort to make sure the men could fight now as a whole, that's what Grak kept saying, a bloody whole – or was it hole? Saark stopped, and scratched his balls.

  Still, they could charge in several formations, and at shouted commands or blasts from a tinny bugle, they could change from square to line to wedge, they could lock shields, they could disengage shields, they could charge and retreat. Because most of the men had worked (and indeed survived) the Black Pike Mines for a long period of time, they had great upper body strength and impressive stamina and endurance. Greater than Saark, as today's humiliating race had contested. But then, Saark had been drunk the night before. And the night before that. And, what a surprise, the night before that!

  He stumbled to his room, and as the world swayed he removed his clothes and stood, hands on hips, naked and proud and desperate for a tankard of water. He moved to a water barrel and dunked his head in, coming up with a splash and lick of his lips. Gods he was hungry! What did he have in the room? Bread, cheese, donkey-meat…

  "Saark?"

  She sounded sleepy, and sat up in the bed, her dark hair tousled and illuminated by the moonlight easing through a small square window. Saark could make out her upper torso, naked, and he licked his lips again only not, in this case, with the need for water.

  "Hello there," he said, and moved towards the bed.

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "Only a drop, sweetie," he murmured, and crawled onto the bed.

  "Good," said Nienna. "I warmed your blankets. I hope you don't mind?"

  "Of course not," he said, and she knelt up before him, and her body was perfect, white and pale, gleaming in the moonlight, her small but firm breasts young and pert, her lips slightly parted as her head tilted, and she stared at his face.

  "Do you want me to stay?" she said.

  "Oh yes," said Saark, reaching out and caressing her breasts. Instantly her nipples hardened and reaching forward, gently, his tongue circled her areola. Nienna murmured, and shuffled closer, and Saark's arms encircled her, and now his hard cock pressed into her, and he kissed her, he kissed her lips and they were warm and sweet from honeycakes and wine, and he kissed her neck, which was warm and soft like silk, and his hands ran down her back and she shivered in anticipation and thrust herself painfully against him, in need, in lust, and his hands came to rest on her buttocks, firm and hard from so much travelling in the wilds. They kissed again, harder this time, with passion and a need that transcended threats and Saark's hand dipped, stroked between Nienna's legs and she squirmed, giggling a little, then moaning and sinking into his embrace as his hand entered her, and he bore her down to the bed, and Saark was lost in wine and lust and memories, and he remembered Alloria; she was his first love and she was his true love and she was before him now, on the soft silk sheets in King Leanoric's chambers, Alloria, with her mane of curled black hair, her flashing dangerous green eyes, her ruby red lips, tall, with her elegant long languorous limbs and her tongue stained from blue karissia, and she smiled up at Saark, and Alloria said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Nienna said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Saark pushed himself into her, all the way, to the hilt, and she groaned and he groaned and they fucked long and hard on the bed, their groans and thrusts rising rising rising to a climax of perfect joy and union, and Saark whispered, "Alloria," but Nienna was too far gone to hear the words and she gave herself to Saark, not caring, not caring about the world and Kell's threats and vachine imperfections… and slowly, they spiralled down into a cold place, a cold world of reality, facing war and mutilation and death.

  And in the cold dark hours of the nigh
t, they clung tightly to each other like children.

  Governor Myrtax could not sleep. He was too hot, sweating and feeling fevered, and so he stepped from his bed and pulled on low, soft-leather boots. His wife murmured in sleep and turned, one arm flinging out, but she did not wake. Myrtax crossed to the next room and looked in on his sleeping babes; he saw their dark shapes, breathing rhythmically in the ink, and he smiled; smiled the happy smile of fatherhood; smiled the smile of innate joy at what a man's child could invest without effort – just simply by being.

  Too hot. Too damn hot!

  Myrtax stepped from his quarters and looked across at the distant fortress walls. Fires burned in braziers on the battlements, and ten guards kept watch across the snowy plains. Damn, but he didn't want to leave this place. Didn't want to go to war. Why would he? His family was here. His wife, who he loved more than life; his children, who he'd die for!

  Myrtax jogged down the steps and onto the frozen mud. He was surprised to find he had a knife in his hand, and he slipped it back into the oiled leather sheath. Strange. I don't remember belting the knife on. Why would I need a knife in my own mine? But of course, after the Governors – the false Governors – took over and threatened my children; well, a man has to protect himself; a man has to look after his own interests.

  Governor Myrtax moved across the ground, seemingly with no destination, until he found himself outside the cell of Sara. Kell's daughter.

  How strange to come here. Why would I come here? Kell said she was dangerous, and not to trust her, but I know he's wrong because I have seen into her eyes, and she is a noble creature, a beautiful creature, and anything that stunning must be good…

  "Good evening, sir," said the guard, and gurgled and vomited blood as Governor Myrtax's dagger slid under his ribs and up, with a hard jabbing thrust, into his heart. The man sagged into Myrtax's arms, and he frowned, confused at why the man was so heavy, and why the man had been drinking on duty, and why he was now asleep in his arms like a dirty drunkard.

  "I'll have you up on a charge," muttered Myrtax, lowering the twitching guard to the ground and taking the keys from his belt. He moved to the cell, the interior of which was a black pool of oil, impenetrable to the naked eye, and Myrtax inserted the key and opened the gate.

  Myrtax stood back, his mind flushed with confusion, and he looked up and the stars were bright, bathing him in a surreal glow and he smiled, as he thought about his children. He had been blessed when they were born, and blessed more as they grew into two of the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed in creation –

  "Myrtax. You have surpassed yourself," said Sara, stepping from her cage. She smiled, and leant forward, fangs extending towards the dazed Governor of the Black Pike Mines.

  "Hey! Hey you!" It was an inner-wall patrol of guards, set up by Grak. Boots pounded stone, and three soldiers wearing new armour and carrying newly forged short swords sprinted forward, and a sword whistled for Sara but she leapt, straight up into the air, the sword slashing beneath her boots. She twisted in the air, back-flipping behind the men. She landed lightly, reached out, and snapped one man's neck. He crumpled instantly. A sword hammered down, and Sara swayed, arm slapping out to break the man's arm in half. His hand and wrist fell twitching to the stone, spewing blood, and he screamed – a scream silenced as Sara punched out, fist entering his mouth and breaking his teeth and exploding from the back of his head… and as it exited, her claws extended with a flick, putting out the third soldier's eyes.

  Sara withdrew her hand with a squelch and shower of bloody mush, and leaving one soldier sobbing on the floor, holding his ruined face, she reached over and gently kissed Myrtax on the lips. "Until the next time, lover," she said, and was gone in a whisper of darkness.

  More soldiers arrived, led by Grak, his sword out, his face grim. He stepped up to the man without eyes and only half a face remaining; with a savage downward stab, he put the writhing man out of his misery.

  "Check the cell." Grak whirled on Governor Myrtax. "What the hell happened here?" Then he saw the keys still in Myrtax's hands, and the dazed look on the man's face even as he started to drift back into some semblance of understanding.

  "What? What… where did all the blood come from? Oh, my…" said Myrtax.

  The soldier returned. "Sir. One vampire is gone, the other is… well, it's a husk."

  "What do you mean, a husk?"

  "It's shrivelled up. Like all the blood has been sucked out."

  Grak strode forward, and stared at the skin-bag of bones. "Shit," he snarled, then turned back to Myrtax. "The vampire must have fed from the other one; to keep strong." He pointed at the Governor. "Are you happy with yourself? Eh?" Then back to the soldier, in a tone of disgust. "Go and lock that bastard up, before he does any more damage."

  Two soldiers grabbed Myrtax's arms and removed the dagger from his belt. They led him away, tears on his cheeks, protesting confusion and innocence.

  Grak looked down at the dead soldiers, then up at the night sky. The stars twinkled. Grak had no time for their cold beauty. "You, lad!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Double the guards."

  "Where, sir?"

  "Everywhere!" he thundered. "Tell them we have a vampire loose in the fucking mine."

  "Yes, sir!"

  "And soldier?"

  "Yes sir?"

  "Go and wake Saark. He needs to know about this."

  Kell stared around in disbelief. The Valleys of the Moon was massive, and bisected down the middle of the floor by a huge crevasse from which steam slowly rose, along with a sulphurous stench that made Kell's eyes weep.

  His hands were bound tightly behind his back, and Dekkar carried Ilanna in one hand, his own flanged mace in the other. He was grinning madly, and Jagor Mad walked by his side, a kind of strutting arrogance in his step now he had the upper hand.

  "I can't believe I trusted you," said Kell, his eyes moving along the rift in the valley floor to the distant huts beyond. They lined the walls, small and made from mud and stone, with slate roofs and hand-carved doors of oak.

  "More the fool you," said Jagor, cocky now, too cocky, his eyes shining with a new light. Kell realised what it was. Hatred. It hadn't vanished, only been pushed deep down whilst Jagor brought him here. Kell had been played like a pawn. Like a court jester. And that burned him bad, worse than any poison force fed into his bones by Myriam's invading needle.

  "You know the stakes here," said Kell, face filled with thunder. "This is about everybody! This is about Falanor, this is about us all working together to rid the world of a dangerous menace!"

  "The only dangerous menace here is you!" hissed Jagor, and pressed his sword against Kell's throat. "I will have my revenge for all those years spent in that fucking mine! I will spill your blood! But not yet, oh no, not yet!"

  "Be silent!" roared Dekkar suddenly, and as they moved across the jagged rocks, filled in places with snow and ice except around the rim of the valley rift, where all snow had melted revealing black rocks veined with red and grey minerals, so Blacklippers streamed from distant huts and moved like a tide to meet their King.

  Dekkar.

  King of the Blacklippers.

  Behind, many of the children followed, bows still aimed at Kell. Nobody trusted him, and he smiled a sour smile. Here, it would appear, he was a dark myth. How now would he convince these people to fight for him? How would he convince them to go to war against the Vampire Warlords? If he attacked them, he would have no chance of convincing them – for he would simply reinforce his status as enemy. And with Jagor Mad ready to stab him in the back, it looked like his luck had come head-to-head with a mountain flank.

  "Hear me!" roared Dekkar, halting by the edge of the hot stinking rift in the rocky floor. Fumes hung over the great tear in the earth, and over it, near the centre, Kell squinted. He could see a bridge, a narrow span of brass filled with huge clockwork wheels and gears. Kell frowned. He had never seen anything like it in his life, except in minia
ture in the workings of a clock. "Here, we have the prisoner Kell! Sworn enemy of the Blacklippers! Hunter of the Blacklippers! Raper of our women, murderer of our children, despoiler of Blacklipper flesh!"

  A hush fell over the Blacklippers.

  Kell met their gazes, the men, all armed with spears and swords, faces grim, shoulders stocky and proud. These were a warrior race. These were the outcasts, the criminals, the freaks and deviants of Falanor – who had taken blood-oil to relieve their pain and suffering, to find an inner peace from physical torment, instead finding social torment and a finality as outcasts; names to be revered as evil and unholy, cast away to the dark regions of the mountains where nobody would travel. Kell knew this. He had hunted enough Blacklippers in his time. Some, at least, of what they said was true.

  He grinned, a sour grin.

  Because that's what this came back to, that's what this came round to: his earlier escapades. As a Hunter. A Vachine Hunter, but also a killer of those who smuggled Karakan Red across the mountains; those who stole blood to feed the impure amongst the vachine.