Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  The storm ended, with a click.

  The black fire died.

  Kell, kneeling, his jerkin drifting smoke, an old man again, looked up slowly and in horror. Saliva pooled from his silently working jaws. His face and hands were lacerated. His blood dripped to the thick burnt carpets. Nienna was lying at his feet, gasping, a huge wound from her shoulder to ribs. Blood bubbled at her chin, on her tongue and lips. Blood pulsed easily from the wound. Her eyes were glazed, confused, tears lying on her cheeks like spilt mercury. Kell dropped to her side, threw Ilanna to the floor, and grabbed at the huge slice through Nienna's flesh. With trembling fingers he tried to hold Nienna together. With force of will, he tried to meld her body back into one piece. Blood pulsed up, ran over his hands with the beating of her damaged, irregular heart. "No," whispered Kell, staring down into his sweet granddaughter's face, "no, not here, not now, not this way…"

  "Grandfather?" she said, although it was barely audible. "Why?"

  And then her lips went pale, and her eyes closed, and she convulsed, and although Kell's hands tried to hold her back together, she died there on the floor at the bequest of the great Ilanna – at the command of the Vampire Warlord.

  "NO!" screamed Kell, and shook Nienna, but she was dead, and gone, gone to another realm, and Kell stood and took up Ilanna, and he gazed at her butterfly blades where Nienna's blood, her life-force, her essence, her soul stained those portals into the Chaos Halls… and a wild wind slammed through the chamber, both hot, and cold, and bitter and sweet. Smoke poured out from Ilanna, a thick black acrid smoke which stank of Nienna's blood, her summoning, and which filled the room in an instant. The world went slow, filled with black sparks, and a groan rent the air, the groan of the world torn asunder as a smoke-filled corridor opened up behind Bhu Vanesh. It stretched away for a million years. It led to a chamber of infinity, endlessly black, and from the sky fell corpses tumbling down down down through nothingness into lakes of blood and rivers of death and oceans of evil weeping souls. Kell hefted Ilanna, and glared at Bhu Vanesh, who lifted his hands in supplication, eyes glowing red, smoke curling from his slick wet mouth.

  "Get thee back to Chaos," snarled Kell, and strode forward, and there came a deafening clanking of chains and deep within the vaults Kell could see figures, tall and thin, like grey skeletons, their eyes pools of liquid silver that glowed. They came forward, walking oddly, and Kell blinked for he was on the roadway, on the path to the Chaos Halls, and thick pitted iron chains slammed past him, wrapping around Bhu Vanesh who was weeping, smoke oozing from every orifice like drifting blood-mist, and Kell strode forward and slammed Ilanna between his eyes, splitting Bhu Vanesh's head in two but still the Vampire Warlord wept, and still the smoke spilled from his mouth, for Kell could not kill Bhu Vanesh. Nobody could kill Bhu Vanesh. He was immortal.

  "That's for Nienna," he spat.

  "Not the Halls," Bhu Vanesh wept. "Not the Halls!"

  The chains rattled, and Bhu Vanesh hurtled off along the infinite road all the while chanting his mantra, and now Kell saw the roadway was made of bones, of skulls, a wide flowing road of skulls and Kell dropped to one knee and wept, and the tall bony figures strode towards him and stood, five of them, watching him with their silver eyes, in complete silence.

  Finally, Kell ceased his crying. He stood, breathing deeply, and lifted Ilanna in both hands still stained with Nienna's blood. Only then did a chill breeze caress his soul. He turned, wind ruffling his scorched bearskin jerkin, but the portal to the World of Men was gone.

  All that remained was that infinite roadway of skulls, an obsidian sky, and a world stretching off to a distant horizon of eternally falling corpses, of fallen souls…

  Kell was trapped in the Chaos Halls.

  Kell was lost to Chaos.

  CHAPTER 16

  Kell's Legend

  Grak the Bastard knelt amidst a hundred vampire corpses, sword lashing out, and Dekkar was behind him, a few remaining men beside. As fires roared along the dockside, so other units from the new army of Falanor had found Grak, and they fought vicious short battles until they were together, clashed together, united, the last few hundred survivors. But still they were losing. Still they were being massacred…

  Then, the vampires fell back.

  The dawn was coming.

  Still fires raged, flames crackling, and Grak couldn't tell where the snow ended and the ash began. The world was in chaos. A living nightmare madness. Grak watched the ring of vampires, their snarling faces, their blood-red eyes.

  "What are they waiting for?" rumbled Dekkar.

  "Beats me," said Grak, sword before him, eyes lost to the horror. There was no way out of this. If Kell had killed Bhu Vanesh, then it would have been done a long time ago. If Kell had killed the Vampire Warlord, then his creatures would have turned to dust, to slime, to oil. But here they stood. The dawn had come.

  Kell was dead, Grak knew it in his heart, in his bones, in his soul. Kell wasn't coming back.

  "Shit," he said, hawked, and spat.

  "What are they waiting for?" snapped Vilias, words edged with pain. He had a long, ragged slash down his face, from one eye to his chin. He'd been moaning about how no woman would ever look at him again. Grak supposed it didn't really mattered any longer… soon, they would all be corrupt. Either that, or dead.

  "Maybe they know they're outnumbered?" suggested Grak. "They know they're beaten! After all, we're what? Three hundred? And they've…" his eyes scanned the rooftops, the roadways, the distant rubble, the edges of inferno. "Three, four thousand bloodsucking scum? We can take 'em, eh lads? We'll give 'em a damn good kicking!" Chuckles ran up and down the ranks, and exhausted men, wounded men, hoisted their weapons and waited grimly for the end.

  "Come on!" screamed Grak. "Show us what you're made of! Fucking cowards! FUCKING VAMPIRE PLAGUE COWARDS! COME ON!"

  "Hey." Vilias nudged Grak in the ribs. "Somebody's coming."

  "Who is it? Dake the Axeman?" He roared with laughter. "Shall I show him my arse?"

  "Better than that," grinned Vilias. "It's Kell."

  "No!"

  "It is, I swear it!"

  From the distance, and as the dawn broke like a soft ruptured egg, Kell strode. Beams of yellow winter sunlight traced lines over the horizon, and Kell was blocked for a moment by the huge edifice of the Warlord's Tower. Then he moved through the rubble, strode past corpses, past fallen shields and fallen men, and stopped before Grak with boots crunching. Eerily, the vampires had parted to let him through. Their snarling subsided. They stared at him.

  Everything was focused on Kell.

  On Kell, the Legend.

  Kell hefted Ilanna, and Grak could see the old warrior had tears in his beard. He lifted Ilanna, and his mouth opened, and he looked out at the vampire horde.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft. Gentle, almost. Like mist creeping over a battlefield of corpses.

  "Time to go home," he said, and each vampire lifted its head and smoke poured from its mouth, and flowed like lines of silver into Ilanna, into Kell's axe, in the Portal of the Chaos Halls. Kell stood, shuddering as each vampire was cleansed, each vampire purified. And now, as people, they fell to their hands and knees weeping in horror as they remembered what they had done.

  It seemed to take an age.

  One, by one, by one, the vampires' corruption was drawn into Ilanna. Their evil exorcised.

  A cold winter wind blew over the slain, bringing ice, and making those watching shiver.

  When it was over, Kell sank to the ground, rolling gently to his side and closing his eyes. Vilias moved tenderly to the old warrior, the old man, the old soldier. No longer did he look like Kell the Legend. Now, he just looked old and withdrawn and lost.

  "Well?" snapped Grak, frowning.

  Vilias looked up. "Holy Mother! He's dead, Grak! Kell's dead!"

  Kell stood before the Keepers of the Chaos Halls. He scowled and clutched Ilanna tight, and looked from one, to the next, to the next, and they su
rveyed him with eyes of silver, unspeaking, unmoving, uncaring.

  Is this it, then? Is this where I die? Is this where the game ends? Is this my new eternity?

  No. It was Ilanna. Her voice was honey in his brain, and she was weaving her dark magick once more. This is not punishment, Kell. This is reward. This is not where you die. This is where you choose to live!

  Choose to live?

  So there's a bloody choice?

  Kell braced himself, staring up at the five Keepers. They exuded a lack of emotion. A neutrality. They were neither good, nor evil. They simply were. Kell scowled.

  "Can I do something for you sorry-looking fuckers? Eh, lads? Or maybe you'd like a good kick to get you started?"

  "You are to be congratulated," said one of the Keepers. Its voice was low but musical, and without threat. "Without your help, we would not have all the Vampire Warlords back in our custody."

  "What about Meshwar? He's in Vor…"

  "He is with us, now," said the Keeper. "You are not the only creature with the power to open a portal to the Chaos Halls. Although, it would seem, you are the most… efficient."

  Kell considered this, then gave a single nod. Then he seemed to deflate. He remembered Nienna. Bitterness washed through him like a fast-flood of liquid cancer.

  "Why am I here?"

  "We have one last task for you."

  "And suppose I don't want to accept your task? Suppose I'm sick of these games? Suppose I'm just a bitter and lonely old man, who wants nothing more than to die?"

  The Keeper moved close, and bent down until its face was a finger's breadth from Kell's face. Those silver eyes drilled into him and in those swirling silver depths Kell saw something impossible, something eternal, something truly godlike. The voice was a gentle breath across his face, and he inhaled the words, sucked them straight down into his soul… "You are lost at the moment, Kell, lost to the sadness and for that I still grant you life for foolish words and foolish thoughts. But do not think to test us, for we are the Keepers and we hold the Key to All Life. The Vampire Warlords should never have broken free – and one day, there will a reckoning for that abomination. But still, in Gollothrim, the vampires roam, the spawn of Bhu Vanesh… you can go there, we will give you the tools to take it back. You can save thousands, Kell. Either that…" The Keeper pulled back, silver orbs still fixed on Kell who coughed, and dropped to one knee, choking as if on heavy woodsmoke. "Either that, or you can stay here and be our guest for an eternity."

  The sky went dark, struck through with huge zig-zags of crimson. The falling corpses fell faster, and screams rent the sky, screams of pure anguish like nothing Kell had ever heard. Nor would want to hear again.

  "There is always a reckoning," said the Keeper. "Nothing goes unseen. Nothing goes unpunished. Remember that, Kell, the Legend, when you finally seek our forgiveness."

  Kell nodded, but could not speak. The world tilted, the Chaos Halls spun away into a tiny black dot and Kell fell through light and opened his eyes, lying on his back, next to the fast-cooling corpse of Nienna.

  Three horses picked their way across a pastel landscape of white, greys and subtle cold blues. The beasts entered a sprawling forest of pine, and it was half a day before they emerged again on the flanks of a hill, climbing, following old farmers' trails high into the hills east of the Gantarak Marshes. From here, the glittering, ancient sprawl of Vor could be spied far, far to the south, and Kell reined his mount and sat for a while, staring at the distant city; staring at the new home of the Ankarok.

  Saark watched him for a while, then glanced at Myriam, who shrugged, pushing out her lower lip.

  "You want to visit?" asked Saark, eventually.

  "No."

  "Do you trust Skanda?"

  "No."

  "He claims all the Ankarok want is that one, single city. He delivered Meshwar to the Vampire Warlords, turned the vampire slaves back into people, and set them gently outside the city gates. He did everything he promised. More. He gave them food, supplies, money. It's a small price to pay, I think, for saving so many lives."

  Kell said nothing, continuing to scowl. Eventually he coughed, rubbed his beard, then his weary eyes, and said, "Only bad things will come of this, you mark my words. This is not the last we've heard of Skanda, nor the damned Ankarok. I have a bad feeling in my bones, Saark. A bad feeling that runs right down into the sour roots of Falanor."

  "We could ride down," said Saark, eyes glittering. "Take the city! Single-handed! Just like the old days, eh, Myriam? Eh?"

  Kell shook his head. "The battle for Vor. It is a battle for another day. I'm tired, Saark. Too tired. Too old. I saw my daughter die, and I saw my granddaughter die." He turned, and there were tears in the old soldier's eyes. "It shouldn't be like this. You should never outlive your children. Sometimes, Saark, I fear I will never laugh again."

  "At least the scourge of the Vampire Warlords has ended, Kell. Nienna died defending the land she loved. She did it for the good of Falanor, for its people, its history, its honour."

  "Doesn't make it any easier to swallow," growled Kell, still staring at the haze of Vor.

  "We are free of oppression," said Saark, forcing a false brightness into his voice. As ever, he was dressed in silk; bright green, this time, in an attempt to "blend with forest hues".

  "Yeah," snarled Kell, curling his lips into an evil grimace. "But for how long? The Keepers, down in the Chaos Halls, told me that a war is coming. The vachine from Silva Valley – they were just the beginning. There are more, many more, far to the north, far beyond the Black Pike Mountains where no man has trodden for ten thousand years. They have a vast, corrupt, vachine empire built in the ice. And they want revenge, for what happened to the vachine of Silva Valley."

  "You think a war is coming?" said Saark, quietly.

  "There is always a war coming," said Kell, impassively.

  "What shall we do?"

  "What can we do?" said Kell, voice and eyes bleak, tears running down his cheeks as he thought about Nienna for the hundredth time, thought about the terrible axe blades of Ilanna and tried to persuade himself tried to convince himself that the axe had nothing to do with the young woman's death. After all, Ilanna was just steel. Cold black steel. Nothing more, nothing less.

  "Time to leave," said Myriam, glancing up at the sky. "There's a storm coming."

  Kell nodded, and dug heels to the flanks of his mount, cantering ahead of the small group.

  Myriam glanced at Saark. "Do you think he'll be all right?" she said. "I mean. We thought he was dead, back there."

  Saark gave a single nod. "Maybe he did die. A little bit. Lost a part of his soul."

  "But will he be all right?"

  "Of course he will. He's Kell. Kell, the Legend."

  Spring was coming to Falanor. The cold winds from the north grew mild, and snow and ice began a long melt, gradually freeing up the Great North Road for easier passage; of both people and supplies.

  Over the coming months, slowly, the cities of Falanor rebuilt themselves, and the thousands of people who'd fled the horrors, first of the albino Army of Iron, the Harvesters, and later the Vampire Warlords, the refugees, the outcasts, slowly they drifted back and populations began once again to grow, to build, to prosper.

  As the first daffodils scattered brightness across the hills and valleys of Falanor, a new King was crowned. He had been found sheltered in the forest city of Vorgeth close to the Autumn Palace along with his brother, Oliver. His name was Alexander, son of Leanoric, and proud grandson of Searlan the Battle King. And although he was only just sixteen years old, he was wise, and stern, and honest, and promised to make a fine new leader. Immediately, he appointed a new General of his infant Eagle Divisions. The General's name was Grak, who earned his rank through sterling service to the Land of Falanor.

  In time, Alexander's eyes turned south. South, to the city of Vor, once the capital of Falanor, once his father's city, his father's pride. And Alexander brooded on the secrecy of
the occupying race known as the Ankarok.

  Since Vor closed its great iron gates, nobody had entered nor left the much-altered city.