by Andy Remic
A Harvester approached, eyes fixed on Graal, drifting through the fresh fall of snow like a ghost.
"You should calm yourself, Brother," said the Harvester. "I am fucking sick of this charade. I want the vachine dead. I want them slaughtered! I know my destiny, by right of conquest, of kindred, of birth! I know my place, Harvester!"
"It will come," soothed the Harvester. "It will all come. You have shown great patience to this point; why do you grow so agitated? What has disturbed your mind, general?"
Graal was silent for long minutes, pale lips compressed, white face shaded by shadows, gloom, and a cascade of falling snow. His stallion stamped, snorting steam, and he turned the beast to stare across Old Skulkra. The ancient towers and palaces were rimed with snow; its cracked tenements, crumbling plazas, disintegrating bridges, all were sprinkled with a sugary ash and if Graal narrowed his eyes enough, he could imagine the city as it was a thousand years ago, when it was the centre of the Vampire Warlords' Empire, when it had been a Seat of Power… and of death, misery, and human desecration.
Graal leapt lightly from his mount, and stroked his pale features, lost in thought. The skin of an albino, and yet the eyes of the vachine? How little they knew; how little they understood his lineage.
"What troubles you?" persisted the Harvester, drifting close, towering over the man. A hand reached out, five long bone needles, and rested gently on Graal's shoulder. Graal spat. "The cankers had a simple task: to hunt down an old man and his wounded companion. More than fifty cankers I sent, and yet they came back empty in tooth and claw. How could they not possibly find one simple old man and his tart?"
"You fear this man?"
Graal glanced at the Harvester then, and turned away. "No. Fear is not the correct word. I respect him, and respect the damage he may cause if left to run riot. This man is Kell, and once he troubled the vachine in the Black Pike Mountains. He and his soldiers called themselves Vachine Hunters – and yes, I do appreciate the irony, as sweet as any virgin's quim. They caused vachine and albino warriors alike serious trouble during a four year period. Not only did they slaughter our peoples, they disrupted the blood-oil trade and nearly killed in its entirety the smuggling of Karakan Red which, as we both know, many half-vachine rely on as part of Kradek-ka's… shall we say, experimentations." "You were sent to deal with this thorn?"
"Yes. To pluck it free. Many times Engineer Priests, and even Archbishops, were sent with elite squads amongst the Black Pikes to hunt down and end this… problem. They returned either empty handed, or not at all. It was said these Vachine Hunters were ghosts, demons, unsavoury spirits sent by God to remove our kind from the face of the planet. Not so. They were men, highly skilled men with a talent for death and bloodbond," he spat the word, teeth bared like an animal, "weapons baptised in some ancient dark magick of which we had no knowledge, nor understanding. They were sent by King Searlan, a magicker King, after he studied an ancient text and grew afraid." "And the text?" "The Book of Angels," said Graal, darkly.
"A dangerous tome indeed. I hope it was recovered?"
"No. That was part of my reason for persuading the Engineer Council to allow me to take their Army of Iron south; otherwise, I fear they may not have trusted me with so much singular authority." He smiled. "There was, of course, also inherent panic at their impending shortage of refined blood-oil."
"Of course," said the Harvester, with a sardonic smile. "A well crafted situation. However, this… Kell? You never found him during your time In the Black Pike Mountains?"
"My soldiers tracked him, and with his few men Kell fought a retreat into the bowels of Bein Techlienain; there, the battle raged for hours in the narrow tunnels and across high bridges, until my soldiers were sure the last of Kell's men – and the man himself – were cast screaming and begging into the Fires of Karrakesh." "And yet, it would seem he survived."
"Yes, he survived," said Graal, voice bitter. "I swear this is the same man, although I never saw his face myself under the Black Pikes." His voice dropped an octave. "I think some of my trusted soldiers were not quite honest with me about those long, dark weeks under the Stone."
"Maybe this new and unfortunate series of events is merely… coincidence? Or possibly a foolhardy, arrogant warrior seeking to step like a ganger into another's skin?" The Harvester seemed to be smiling, although this was unlikely through the narrow slit of its mouth. Harvesters were renowned for having a flatline when it came to humour.
"There is no such thing as coincidence," snapped Graal. He gave a bleak smile. "As I will demonstrate." He called to a young albino warrior, and sent him to find Nesh, the leader of the cankers sent to find Kell and Saark in Old Skulkra – and to bring them back. Nesh was as near controllable as one could achieve, with such an inherently uncontrollable and chaotic blend of twisted species.
Nesh arrived, huge, rumbling, mouth stretched wide open, tiny eyes filled with swirling gold as it watched Graal. The canker hunkered down, stinking of oil and hot metal. Inside, its clockwork clicked and stepped, and pistons thudded occasionally. Nesh was an example of a canker in its prime, although to be in its prime state, a canker must have regressed from both the human and clockwork that created it – to such an extent that the beautiful became ugly, the logical became parody. To be in prime canker state was to be days from death.
"Yes?" grunted the beast, its speech clipped and short. Words caused this creature, fully eight feet in height, great pain to utter. But it was a gift the canker treasured, for not all could speak through corrupted clockwork and fangs.
Graal walked down one flank, observing the open wounds, the twisted, blackened clockwork, the bent gears and pistons. He smiled, a tight smile. To Graal, more than any other albino or vachine in existence, these creatures were abomination. But like a good craftsman, he used his tools well – with Watchmaker precision. No matter the extent of his personal abhorrence.
"You followed Kell's scent? And the stench of the wounded popinjay?"
"Yes."
"And yet… you claim you lost them. In the maze of streets and alleyways?"
"Yes, General Graal. There much dark magick in Old Skulkra. Much we not understand. Much left over from… the Other Time."
"You are lying," said Graal.
There followed an uneasy silence, in which the huge, panting canker glared down at General Graal. Its mouth opened wider with tiny brass clicks, almost like the winding of a ratchet, and the small hate-filled eyes narrowed, fixed on Graal, fixed on his throat.
"I obey my Masters," said the canker carefully, "for only then do I get the blood-oil I require." The panting increased. Graal noted, almost subliminally, that the canker's claws were sliding free, silent, well-oiled, like razors in grease.
"My brother became a canker," said Graal, brightly, moving away from the huge beast. "For years I tried to stop it happening, tried to halt the inexorable progress of an all-conquering corruption. But I could not do it. I could not stop Nature. For days, nights, weeks, we sat there discussing the possibilities, of regression, of introducing fresh clockwork, of forceful medical excision. And yet I knew, I always fucking knew," Graal turned, fixing his glittering blue gaze on the huge beast, "when he was lying." Graal smiled, a narrow compression of lips. "I cannot tell you," snarled the canker. "You would never believe!"
"You will tell me," said Graal, voice soft, "or I will slaughter you where you stand."
"They will curse me!" howled the canker, voice suddenly filled with pain, and fear, and shock. "Who?"
"The Denizens of Ankarok," snarled Nesh, and launched itself with dazzling speed at Graal, claws free, fangs bright and gleaming with gold and brass, savage snarls erupting in a frenzy of sudden violence as claws slashed for Graal's head and the General, apparently frozen to the spot for long moments, moved with a swift, calculated precision, stepping forward and ducking wild claw swings until he was inches from the snarling frenzy of bestial deviant vachine, and his slender sword plunged into the canker, plunged deep and Gra
al stepped away from slashing, thrashing claws, almost like a dancer twirling away with a stutter of complex steps. Graal dropped to one knee, and waited. Nesh, in a frenzy of pain and hate, suddenly decelerated and its eyes met Graal's as realisation dawned. "You have killed me," it coughed, and blood poured from its mouth. It slumped to the ground, more bloodoil flowing from its throat, and its body slapped the damp hillside. It grunted, and there came the sounds of seizing clockwork. Finally, the internal mechanical whirrings died… and with a twitch, the canker died with them.
Graal stood, and pulling free a white cloth, cleaned his narrow black blade. The single cut had disabled the canker more efficiently than a full platoon of armed albino soldiers. His technique was precise, and deadly. He turned, and his eyes were narrowed, his face ash. The Harvester was watching him closely, almost with interest. "So, the Denizens of Ankarok aided Kell? I find that… improbable," he said, voice little more than a whisper.
"I also," snapped Graal, sheathing his sword. "Especially considering the Vampire Warlords slaughtered them to extinction nearly a thousand years ago!"
CHAPTER 2
A Taste of Desolation
It took Kell and Saark hours to work their way through the narrow tunnels set within the tower block's walls. Despite Kell being broad and bulky, and Saark of a more graceful and athletic persuasion, it was Saark who really suffered – from a psychological perspective. At one point, in a tight space, surrounded by gloom and ancient stone dust that made them cough, Kell paused, Skanda in the distance ahead and below him, climbing over a series of ancient lead pipes as Kell watched; he turned, and stared hard at Saark. Saark said nothing, but a sheen of sweat coated his face, and his eyes were haunted.
"The wound troubling you, lad?" Kell was referring to the stab wound Saark suffered at the hands of Myriam – Myriam, cancer-riddled outcast, thief and vagabond, who had poisoned Kell and kidnapped his granddaughter Nienna with the aim of blackmailing him into travelling north and showing her a route through the Black Pike Mountains. So far, her scheme was working well. And so far, her brass-needle injected poison was failing to worry Kell, for he had more immediate problems; but he knew this situation would soon change. When the poison started to bite.
"Aye," said Saark, pausing and wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He left grey streaks across his handsome, indeed, beautiful, features – or they would have been, if he hadn't recently suffered a beating. Still, even with a swollen face he had classical good looks, and once his long, curled, dark hair was washed, and groomed and oiled, and he slipped into some fine silk vests and velvet trews, he would be a new man. Saark touched his side tenderly; Kell's makeshift stitches and tight bandage fashioned from a shirt from a dead albino warrior was as good a battlefield dressing as Saark was going to get. "It's eating me like acid."
"You should be glad she didn't stab you in the belly," grunted Kell, and looked off, behind Saark, to steep passages inside the wall through which they travelled. "Then you'd really be suffering, squealing like a spearstuck pig long into the night."
Saark gave a sour grin. "Thanks for that advice. Helpful."
"Don't mention it."
"That was sarcasm."
"I know."
Saark stared at Kell. "Has anybody ever told you, you're an incorrigible old fart? In fact, worse than a fart, for a fart's stench soon wavers and dissipates; you do not dissipate. Kell, you are the cancerous wart on a whore's diseased quim lips."
Kell shrugged. "Ha, I get abused all the time – only not with your royal-court eloquence. But then," he grinned, showing teeth stained with age, "I reckon we walk in different social circles, lad."
"Yes," agreed Saark. "Mine is one of rich honey wine, clean and succulent women, fine soft silks, the choicest cuts of meat, and gems so sparkling they make your eyes burn."
Kell considered this. He looked around at the dust, the grime, the slime, and the stink of ancient, rotten piping. "I don't see any of that here," he said, voice level. He reached forward, and patted Saark on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll be out soon." "I'm not worried," said Saark, through gritted teeth. Kell closed his mouth on his next comment; Saark was a proud man, beaten down often in the last few days. What he didn't need was Kell pointing out his obvious claustrophobia. As Kell knew, all men had a secret fear. His? He chuckled to himself. His was the very axe which protected and yet cursed him. Ilanna. His bloodbond. They moved on, and realised they had lost Skanda in the gloom. They reached a collage of twisted piping, ancient, slime-covered, and after climbing the obstacle, their shoulders barely able to squeeze through the narrow horizontal aperture, they came to a ladder of iron. Kell paused, boots scuffing the edge of what appeared a vast drop. The aperture, between two walls, was barely wide enough for them to descend; add into the equation a wobbling, unsecured ladder, and the descent promised to be particularly treacherous.
"Shall I go first?" said Kell, staring into Saark's open fear.
"Yes. I wouldn't like your pig-lard arse dropping on my head from above. That sort of thing can genuinely ruin a man's day."
"Let's hope I don't get stuck, then." Kell eased himself over the dusty stone, the descent lit by cracks and occasional gaps in the walls; outside, he could see it was growing dark. Kell wondered if the cankers were still waiting. Damn them, he thought. Damn then to Drennach!
The ladder felt sturdy enough under his gnarled hands, and strong fingers grasped narrow rungs as he began to descend. Above, Saark followed, his breathing shallow and fast, his boots kicking dirt over Kell. "Sorry!" he said. "Just don't bloody jump," muttered Kell.
They climbed downwards, the ladder shaking and making occasional cracking sounds. After a while, Kell felt a pattering of something dark and wet on his head, and scowling, he looked up to where Saark was fumbling in the mote-filled gloom. "I hope that's not piss, lad."
"It's blood! The wound has opened. So much for your damn battlefield stitching."
"You're welcome to do it yourself."
"I think next time I will. I can do without a scar that looks like some medical experiment gone wrong. What would the ladies say? I have a perfect torso, fit only for kings, and you would massacre me with your inept needlework."
"Hold a pad to the wound," said Kell, more kindly. "And let's hope you've not infected me with the plague of the popinjay! That's all I need, irrational lust after every young woman that dances by."
They climbed, down and down, for many stories; before they reached the base, Skanda called them from a narrow ledge, which led off between the ancient, crumbling joists of another building. Like rats, they scuttled between the linings of deserted buildings; like cockroaches, they inhabited the spaces between spaces where once life thrived.
For another hour, as darkness fell fast outside, they scrambled through apertures, crawled through dusty tunnels, squeezed through thick pipes containing an ancient residue of oily film, coating their hands with slick gunk, until finally, and thankfully, they emerged from a wide lead pipe which dropped into a swamp. Skanda squatted on the edge of the pipe, watching Kell and Saark drop into the waistdeep slurry, cracking the ice. Then, with the agility of a monkey, Skanda leapt onto Saark's back and clung to the athletic warrior who frowned, and complained, but recognised that to drop Skanda would be to drown the boy. Hardly a fair exchange for saving their lives.
They waded through icy slurry, which stunk of old oil and dead-animal decomposition, despite the cold. They crawled up a muddy bank in darkness and lay on the snow, panting, before Kell hauled himself to his feet and drew his fearsome axe, Ilanna, peering around into the gloom, head tilted, listening. "Any bad guys, old horse?"
"Don't mock. If a canker bites your arse, it'll be me you come to running to."
"A fair point."
Saark struggled to his feet and stood, hand pressed against his ribs, his slender rapier drawn. He looked down at his fine boots, his once rich trews and silk shirt. He cursed, cursed the destruction of such fine and dandy clothing. "Yo
u know something, Kell? Since I met you, I haven't been able to maintain any fine couture whatsoever. It's like you are cursed to dress like the poorest of peasants, and those who accompany you are similarly afflicted by your fashion!"
Kell sighed. "Stop yapping, and let's get away from the city. Believe me, sartorial elegance shouldn't be at the forefront of your mind; getting eaten, now that's what should be bothering you."
They moved away from the crumbling walls of Old Skulkra, away east in a scattering of Blue Spruce woodlands. Finding an old, fallen wall, probably once part of a farm enclosure, Saark built a fire using the remaining stones as shelter, whilst Kell disappeared into the woodland.
"Just like a hero to fuck off when there's work to be done," muttered Saark, sourly, as he struggled with damp tinder. Behind him, Skanda scavenged amongst tree roots, puffing and panting, fingers scrabbling at the snow. The noise intruded on Saark's thoughts – fine thoughts, of dancing with leggy blondes at fine regal functions, of eating caviar from wide silver platters, of suckling honeyed wine from a puckering quim, lips gleaming, focus more intent than during any act of war – and eventually, Saark whirled about, eyes narrowed, hand clutching his side, and snapped, "What are you doing down there, lad? You are disrupting my heavenly fantasy!"