Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  "Does that mean you'll cut off her head, like poor Myrtax?"

  "Poor Myrtax stuck a knife through the ribs of a good soldier. That man had a family, Nienna. Little girls, by all accounts. Little girls who will grow up without their father thanks to the betrayal of Myrtax. And down to his big mouth and runny brain, we might all well be walking into a trap at Jalder. This game has not played out yet."

  Nienna shrugged, blushing. "Well, why go, then?"

  "Because we must!" snapped Kell, feeling his temper boiling once more. He struggled to control himself. "Listen. I'm sorry. I just… I have so many hundreds of things running through my brain! I am a warrior, not a general. A killer, not a damn tactician. I am out of my world, and trying my damn best. But the only thing I truly know is if we don't make a stand, if we leave the spread of this vampire plague unchecked, then one day, and one day soon, we will all be dead."

  Nienna nodded, and Kell rose. He pointed at Saark. "When she arrives, lad, you behave. You hear me?"

  "I hear you, Kell. And Kell?"

  "Yeah lad?"

  "Don't worry. About the battle. We have some good men here. Some tough, hardy, unbreakable warriors, that's for sure."

  Kell sighed. "I know we do. The great irony is it's up to the condemned to save the innocent. Still. I'd rather this honour and task had gone to somebody else. I feel uncomfortable wearing a general's helm."

  "You'll do grand, Kell. You always do."

  Kell snorted, and moved off to talk to Dekkar and Grak.

  "Nice to see he's grumpy as ever," laughed Nienna.

  Saark smiled, but tension throbbed behind his eyes. Myriam! What a… complication. Now all he needed was a few irate ex-girlfriends to turn up as well, pregnant and waving invoices for food and lodging, and closely followed by their even more irate husbands bearing spears and torture implements.

  "Bah," he spat, and rummaged for another biscuit.

  Saark watched Myriam arrive at a distance, and she dismounted and walked with Kell for a while, chatting. Saark glanced at her a few times, and Grak slapped him on the back. "She's a looker, eh lad?" he rumbled. "Look at those long legs! Wouldn't mind them wrapped around my back, if you know what I mean."

  "Yes, Saark," said Nienna, glancing up at him. "Wouldn't mind them wrapped around your back, eh?"

  "You know what?" said Saark, scowling. "I'm starting to hit that point where I've had my fill of women – for a lifetime!"

  "Nonsense," boomed Grak, pushing out his chest. "The day I tire of a woman's fine company is the day they bury my casket."

  "Not long, then," smiled Nienna, sweetly.

  "Little lady," scowled Grak, "that's not a very good thing to say to a man on his way to a battle."

  "Well, you talk about women as if they're objects! As if we can't damn well think for ourselves! Let me tell you something, Grak, you bastard, maybe if you'd treated a woman as an equal instead of some cheap slab of meat for the night, maybe you'd have a fine warrior wench right here by your side now! As for me, I'm sure I can get some more equitable talk back there with the rapists and killers. I take my leave."

  Nienna stalked off.

  "She's a lioness, that one, that's for sure," said Grak, grinning.

  "Aye," muttered Saark, weakly.

  "I pity the man who ends up with her!"

  "Aye," mumbled Saark.

  "And just think, not only have you to get past the sharpened tip of that acid tongue, but if you put a bloody foot wrong, you get Kell's axe in the back of the head!" He roared with laughter. "Not only would you have to be a masochist, you'd have to be as dumb as that mule back there." He gestured with his thumb.

  "She's a donkey."

  "Eh? Whatever. As dumb as that donkey back there, is what I said. And by the gods, lad, she's a dumb beast if ever I saw one."

  "I suggest you leave Mary out of this," said Saark, tetchily, and moved off to walk alone, throwing occasional glances to Myriam – who was laughing at some ribald jest Kell had made.

  "Damn them all," he muttered from his psychological pit.

  "Saark?"

  Saark half-rose from the fire, but Myriam showed both hands as she crept from the darkness, and he slumped back down with a curse.

  "What do you want? I thought you wanted me dead last time we met. I seem to remember your certain attempt to drown me."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's not good enough, Myriam! You can't just roll back into camp, apologise, and get on with your plans for world domination! What is it this time? Take over our army and conquer the Vampire Warlords that way?"

  "I'm sorry. Truly. I was… out of hand. I wasn't thinking clearly. It's just, I love you, Saark. I was thrilled by our union. You understand? We are both vachine, and there's not many left now after the devastation of Silva Valley. We have to stick together, you and me." She shuffled closer, and punched him on the arm.

  "Ha. Yes. There is that."

  "I'm sorry, Saark. All right? I promise I won't do it again."

  "Which bit?"

  "Which bit would you like me to promise?"

  "Er, for a start, you can promise not to kill me."

  "Sure. I promise not to kill you." She leant in a bit closer. Saark inhaled the musk of her skin. He groaned, as that familiar feeling washed over him and he tried to focus and tried to keep it clear… but could not. I am cursed. I am deviant. I have a brain like a child and the lust of a platoon. What am I to do with myself? What is the world to do with any man like me?

  Myriam kissed him.

  And in the shadows by the edge of the campfire, Nienna stood bearing two cups of honeyed mead, and cried in the darkness, her tears glowing with the colour of the flames.

  It was dawn.

  Jalder sat below them, sheathed in an early morning mist which made Kell twinge in panic. If the vampires knew they were coming… if they had Harvesters, and blood-oil magick, and ice-smoke… well, the battle would be over before it had begun.

  "Thoughts?" said Grak, lifting the heavy sword he had chosen.

  They had sat up long into the night, formulating a basic strategy and trying to consider every eventuality. They sought to draw the vampires out onto the plain before Jalder for an open, pitched battle. There, the heavy formation of soldiers with shields and long spears could possibly counteract the vampires' advantage of speed and agility. If their army was drawn into the city itself, however, they lost all the benefits of armed and armoured units.

  Kell was convinced they could do it.

  "It is their arrogance," he argued. "They will come, they'll drift out from the gates and they will fight. The stench of our blood will be an overwhelming factor for them! They must have hunted down most of the humans in Jalder now; that means no fresh meat, no fresh blood! And they need fresh blood like a drowning man needs oxygen. When we roll up, it'll be like a plate of succulent beef stuck under the nose of a starving man! Trust me on this."

  "I'm not convinced," growled Dekkar. "I think they'll run and hide when faced with a superior force."

  "Whatever happens," said Kell, "we must not be drawn into a running street battle. These bastards are cunning. They'll lay traps in the streets, in back-alleys, leap from the rooftops. No. We must get them out here. This is where the battle must be."

  And now, the two Divisions descended from low hills. Jalder lay silent, its ancient dark stones steeped in history and lore, its streets and temples and houses and schools silent, slick with ice and mist, echoing with horror from the recent atrocities.

  "So far, so good," said Saark; he looked sick.

  Kell glanced at him. "You took your happy leaf?"

  "I have decided to give up women!"

  Kell snorted in laughter, as the five thousand men, ranged fifty men wide and ranked a hundred men deep, a tight fighting square with shields presented to all sides, moved slowly down from the hills.

  "An easy claim to make as we head into battle!"

  "I mean it! Do not mock me!"

  "Well then. I g
ive up whiskey!" grinned Kell.

  "And I give up killing generals!" boomed Grak, slapping Kell on the back, and around him many men laughed, helping to ease the fear which was creeping stealthily through their ranks as fluid as any ice-smoke.

  They made the plain below. Behind, on the hilltop, Myriam and Nienna sat with another fifty or so women from the Black Pike Mines who had travelled with the army in order to help feed the soldiers and repair clothing and armour. They also carried bows and knives, for none believed this would end well. They were hardy women, stout and tough, with ice in their eyes and fire in their bellies. They frightened Nienna.

  "This is it, then," she said, voice almost a whisper as the soldiers spread out on the plain between the hills and Jalder's main western gates.

  "Seemed more romantic, back then," agreed Myriam. "Save Falanor! Raise an army and attack the vampires!" She shivered, suddenly, and pointed. "Look. The gates are opening."

  Kell halted the army, and the huge bristling mass of soldiers waited. Shields were held tight, and spears stood proud to attention. A cold wind howled across the plain as the gates squealed on rusting hinges. Snow whipped up in little eddies that danced across the bleak place.

  A single figure stepped out. It was a man, tall and lean, his face angular and with the blood-red eyes of the vampire. He walked forward with a curious gait, trailing through the compact snow, his eyes fixed on the large body of fighting men without any fear whatsoever.

  He halted. He waited.

  Kell stepped forward from behind the wall of shields, and approached the tall vampire. And Kell hissed as recognition bit him. This was Xavanath, Principal of Jalder University. Kell had met him once… when the man had been human. He was an honourable and respected academic. Now, blood stained his claws, and strips of flesh trailed from his fangs. And… and he stank. He stank like a corpse. He stank of death. He stank of murder. The smell washed over Kell and made him want to vomit, and it was something he had never considered before; the vampires were trapped in their own filth, their blood coagulated, their flesh necrotic. The longer they remained vampires, the more they began to rot.

  "You are the leader?" said Xavanath, with all the haughtiness of any true academic superior.

  "By all the gods, lad, you stink like a fucking corpse. But then, excuse my manners. You are one."

  A ripple of laughter shifted through the ranks, and Xavanath stared hard at Kell. He made a clicking sound, a show of annoyance…

  As if dealing with a disobedient child.

  As if dealing with a naughty student.

  "Kuradek, the great Vampire Warlord, instructs you to immediately lay down your weapons and accompany me into the city. He guarantees your safe passage. He would talk the terms of a truce." Xavanath's bloodred eyes ranged across the soldiers, with their new armour and shields and spears. "There is no need for slaughter on this day," he said, his words soft but carrying to every man on the plain. Then he smiled, and it was a sickly smile, like the smile on the face of a man dying from necrotising fasciitis. "Your slaughter, that is."

  "Well, lads," boomed Kell, turning and surveying the five thousand hardened men behind him. "He's come out with fighting talk, that's for sure!" Kell launched himself at Xavanath in a sudden blur of speed, Ilanna slamming up and over, and cutting vertical down deep through the vampire's neck. Xavanath stumbled back, claws flashing up but Kell followed, dragging Ilanna out as the vampire hit the snow; the second blow cut the vampire's head from his shoulders, and the corpse slowly melted into a wide, black, oily puddle.

  Kell's head came up, and he glared at Jalder – at the silent city. "Come on, you fucking whoresons!" he screamed. "Don't cower in the dark like little girls, come out and face us! Or is Kuradek truly a coward? Is Kuradek the Vampire Pukelord cowering and whimpering in the corner, sucking his own engorged dick and vomiting up his dinner in rank open fear!"

  Kell strode back to the ranks and planted Ilanna's haft between his boots. He waited.

  Saark sidled forward.

  "I don't mean to be pedantic, old horse," said Saark, "but wasn't that a bit… rash?"

  "The only rash here is on your crotch!" snapped Kell.

  "Shouldn't we have at least talked to him?"

  "No. We have to piss them off. We have to draw them out for a fight. If we head into the city now, where they are strong, we lose the advantage of armour and steel. We cannot let them hunt us down. We must do battle."

  "Why won't they come?"

  "They don't like the light," grinned Kell, his face filled with humour but eyes narrowed, evil almost in the gloom. He glanced up at the clouds, heavy, black and thunderous above. "But there's a storm coming. They'll like that. They like the cold, and they like the gloom. Pray for snow, Saark. That'll bring them to us…"

  Even as Kell was speaking, the sky overhead darkened perceptibly. Clouds rushed across the sky and thunder rumbled, deep and ominous. Then the gates to Jalder opened fully to reveal – a woman.

  It was Sara. Kell's daughter. And she was smiling.

  Kell glanced at Saark. "Go back. I'll deal with this bitch."

  "What are you going to do?" said Saark, voice trembling.

  "What I have to."

  "You can't," hissed Saark, grabbing Kell's arm. "Nienna's back there! She's watching!"

  Kell took hold of Saark's shirt and dragged the dandy in close. His talk was fuelled with fire and spittle. "I must!" he hissed into Saark's face, then threw the exSword Champion back, where he stumbled in the snow and glared at Kell.

  Kell strode out to meet Sara. Her hair was dark, her eyes shrouded in gloom, her face beautiful. Kell swallowed. He loved her. Loved her so much. Losing her to bitter internal family feuding had been a hard pill to swallow. Something he tried to put right again, and again, and again. But Sara was a stubborn woman. One of the worst. Kell had laughed at the time; "She gets it from me," he would chuckle, but in reality there was no humour about their situation, and it had to be here, and now, all events spiralling down to this battlefield outside Jalder. Between the castoffs of Falanor, and the vampire converted.

  "Father," said Sara, striding forward. She glanced down at the beheaded corpse of Xavanath without compassion. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes, and this confused Kell. Why was a vampire crying?

  "Go back to your whining master, girl," snapped Kell. "This is no place for women."

  "Spoken like the true woman-hating bastard you are!" she hissed, but still tears trickled down her face and it was this contrast which slowed Kell. He knew he had to kill her. And fast. She was deadly, he could sense it, and the world suddenly went slow, honey treacle, and Ilanna was there in his mind like a ghost…

  Talk to her, Kell…

  Listen to her, Kell…

  You know you must.

  Sara leapt, suddenly, claws slashing for Kell's throat. He leaned back, but her fist struck his jaw, rocking him – his boot came up into her groin, and his free hand grabbed her hair and with a grunt, he planted her head against the snow. She struggled violently, but Kell lowered Ilanna so the arc of the left butterfly blade pinned her throat to the ground like a stationary, waiting guillotine.

  "Go on!" she snarled, legs still kicking. "Do it, father, you always wanted to. You were ever the fucking hero. Well kill me. Kill your own daughter, just like you killed your own fucking wife!"

  Kell's eyes went hard, and with Sara in place, he pulled free his Svian and rammed it down hard into her heart. She started to kick, and struggle, but Ilanna pinned her in place, held her there like a slaughtered lamb.

  Her eyes locked to Kell. And she smiled. And blood bubbled from her mouth.

  "You remember the south tunnel?" she said, her teeth crimson, her legs still kicking. Her eyes were locked to Kell now, locked in death, and his teeth were gritted, and tears were on her cheeks, and snow was falling, a gentle drift all around them as huge dark clouds unleashed. Kell gave a single nod. "It is open," she said, on a flood of black blood, "and Kuradek li
es at the end."

  Then she spasmed, and Sara, Kell's daughter, died.

  Saark ran up beside Kell, and the huge old warrior stood, slowly, wearily, and began to clean his Svian whilst staring down at his dead daughter. He remembered holding her as a babe, her mewling sounds, and the incredible love and joy he'd felt surge through him. For the first time in his life, here had been something which truly meant something to him. A child. A child for whom he would kill… and for whom he would die. But it had gone wrong. Gone so terribly wrong.

  "What happened?" snapped Saark.

  "She sacrificed herself," said Kell, gently, his voice cracked.