by Andy Remic
"They did this to me, Saark. They knew it would hurt you. They knew it would persuade you. I must take you both back to Graal; only then, will they make me human again. Only then, can I be a woman again."
Saark's gaze shifted, from the abused deviation of his childhood sweetheart, to the fully erect, ominous figure of Kell. Kell's eyes were shadowed, but his head gave a single shake. A clear message. No. Saark looked back to the canker, and only in the eyes dragged back sideways over the skull, only in a few twists of golden hair which remained, only in a certain set of wrenched facial bones which, if imagination wrapped them around a normal skull could mentally reconstruct a face… did he recognise the woman of his childhood. "No," he said again.
"Help me," pleaded the canker, head lowering, submissive now before Saark who felt his heart melt and his brain lock and his soul die.
Saark, gazing down, rapier forgotten, reached out with his delicate, tapered fingers. He touched Aline, touched the pale skin, the tufts of fur, worked in horror over the merging of flesh and clockwork. And then she – it – screamed, high and long and Kell was there, looming over her, Ilanna embedded in the canker's back narrowly missing the spine. Kell placed a boot against the canker, tugging at his axe which had lodged awkwardly under a rib.
"No, Kell, no!" wailed Saark, but Kell wrenched free the butterfly blades which lifted high trailing droplets of blood and a shard of broken rib and several strings of tendon, and the canker whirled low, claws lashing for the axeman in a disembowelling stroke which missed by a hairsbreadth and on the return stroke Aline smashed a fist into Saark's chest and he was powered backwards, almost vertical, his legs finally dropping and he hit the ground, rolled, and splashed into the oil with desperate fingers scrabbling at the platform like claws…
Kell leapt again, axe whirring, and he and the transmogrified woman circled with eyes locked, then struck and clashed in a blur of strikes which left a trail of sparks glittering in the gloom. "Get out!" snarled Kell, glancing back to Saark. "Get out of here, lad, now!"
"Don't kill her," whispered Saark.
"She can never change back, don't you see?" snapped Kell, axe slamming up, claws raking the blades. He staggered back under the immense impact, and jabbed axe points at the canker's eyes. It snarled, head shaking, spittle drenching Kell. "It's a one way process! You cannot revert!"
The canker was pushing Kell back, claws lashing out with piledriver force, and Saark could see Kell weakening fast. Within moments, he would be dead; dead, or drowning in oil. With an inhuman effort, Saark's fingers raked the harsh boards and his legs kicked against thick, viscous oil. He rolled onto the deck, panting, and levered himself to his feet where he swayed. He grabbed at his rapier, but sheathed the weapon. Kell saw the movement, and his face went grim, went dark, his eyes becoming something more – or indeed, something less – than human.
"Aline." Saark's voice was a lullaby. A song of nostalgia.
The canker paused mid-snarl, but did not turn. Its eyes were fixed with glittering hatred on Kell, his back to the oil, his axe resting against wooden boards. His chest was heaving, and his jerkin was sliced by claws showing shredded flesh beneath.
"Will you help me?" came the voice of Aline. And Saark could hear her, now, hear her tone and inflections entwined around the audible ejaculations of an alien beast.
"Yes," said Saark, with great sadness. "I will help you." He hooked his boot behind the lantern, and with a swift kick sent the flask of oil sailing across the platform, where it shattered against the canker and flames exploded outwards. Fire roared, engulfing the canker which screamed a high-pitched feminine sound and spun around in a tight circle, fighting the fire with claws whirring and slashing at itself as flesh burned and fat bubbled and clockwork squealed. Kell came at a sprint, head down, axe in both hands, and both he and Saark hammered down flexing planks into the darkness in the direction of the ancient factory exit…
The canker lowered to its haunches, burning, then glared through flames at the fleeing men. It roared, and charged after them, its burning flesh illuminating the way. Tufts of glowing fur fell from its burning body, into the oil, which slumbered for a few moments after the canker's passage and then suddenly, erratically, ignited. Fire roared along the surface of the oil pools, overtaking the canker and licking at the heels of Kell and Saark, sweating now, eyes alive with the orange glow of roaring demons, and they ran with every burst of speed and energy they possessed as heat billowed around them and sparks exploded and the roar and surge of fire was something both men had never before experienced… "We're going to die!" screamed Saark.
CHAPTER 11
Fortress of Ghosts
Kell ran on, and did not reply to Saark's panic, just heaved his bulk along flexing planks with fire at his boots, a stench of burning chemicals filling his nostrils and smoke blinding him. He choked, gagged, and the fire overtook the two men who ran on blindly, across yet another narrow plank into darkness and smoke and behind them the roar of fire drowned the roar and screeches of the burning canker and suddenly both men slammed into the welcome icecold night air, flames belching from the orifice behind as they hit the snow and rolled down a gentle slope to finally slide together, turning slowly on ice, to a stop, Kell's great bearskin jerkin glowing and smouldering.
The two men coughed and choked for a while, entwined like scorched lovers, then untangled themselves from one another. Kell staggered to his feet and hefted his axe, staring up at the factory doorway, brows furrowed, fire-blackened face focussed in concentration as his eyes narrowed and he readied himself in a centuries-old battle-stance.
"Surely not?" whispered Saark, climbing to his feet and spitting black phlegm to the snow. His fine clothes were blackened, scorched tatters. Beneath, his flesh was burn-pink in places. He patted his head, when he suddenly realised his hair was on fire.
Kell did not reply. Just stood, staring at the doorway where an inferno raged. And then something moved, a huge cumbersome ill-defined shape within the shimmering portal, a demon dancing in the fire, an image of molten rock against the stage of a raging inferno, and Saark thought he saw the shape of the canker, of his twisted childhood sweetheart, of Aline, stagger within the opening and then slump down, clockwork machines glowing as they finally succumbed to the heat and ran in molten streams. Then the roof of the factory belched and slumped, and with a great groaning roar it collapsed bringing part of the walls down with it, and burning rubble filled the doorway and all was gone and still, except for the bright fire, and the demons.
"How could Graal do that?" whispered Saark, eyes still fixed on the blaze. All around the factory, snowsteam hissed like volcanic geysers.
Kell stared at him.
"To a woman, I mean," said the scorched dandy.
"Graal will do what he has to. To get the job done."
"I want his head on a fucking plate," snarled Saark, suddenly. "I want that man dead."
Kell gave a curt nod, and turned his back on the inferno. "We all want him dead, lad." He sighed, then. And gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour. "But at least he's showed us one thing."
"And what's that?"
Kell's face was a dark mask, his eyes pools of ink. Unreadable. "He thinks we're a threat. He went to a lot of trouble to bring us in. And that means we are a danger not just to Graal, but to the whole damn vachine invasion. And… I think we have something he wants. Ilanna, maybe? I do not know. But we will find out, I promise you that." Kell began to walk, back towards the stables. It was time to leave. It was time to leave Kettleskull Creek fast.
Saark stood, stunned, watching Kell's back.
Fire crackled, and sparks spiralled up into a clear and frozen night sky.
Kell turned. Grinned a sour, twisted grin. So much for a warm, soft bed! "Come on, lad. What're you waiting for? We have to make General Graal earn his coin. And he'll have to move faster than that to catch us."
In silence, and with sombre heart, Saark followed Kell into the night.
It was a day later, and darkness was spreading fast, a vast jagged purple shroud easing out from the towering blocks of the Black Pike Mountains, questing knifeblades stealing into the real world like a disease spreading from its host. Kell reined in his horse, and climbed stiffly from the saddle. The pain from the poison was with him again, in his blood, in his bones, and he grinned with skull teeth. At least this fresh agony took away the lesser evils of arthritis and torn muscles from battle. At least it focused him – focused him – on impending death.
Nobody lives forever, old man, he thought to himself. And I wouldn't want to! But by the gods, it would be sweet to taste life long enough to see the bastard Graal dead and buried.
Saark's boots hit the frozen ground, and he rubbed his eyes. "I ache like a dog in a fighting pit."
"You look just as rough."
"Thanks, old friend."
"If I was your friend, I'd hang myself."
"You're a regular old charmer, Kell."
"There she is." He pointed, and Saark took in the majestic sweep of the mountains, an endless block of vast peaks, sheer and violent and ragged. Cold wind and snowstorms swept down from the Pikes, as if it was some epicentre for gratuitous weather and intent on inflicting misery across the civilised world.
"They're just so… big!" said Saark, eyes once more sweeping the mammoth portrait before him. It was an oil painting, a violence of blacks and greys, purples and reds. "And beautiful," he added, voice touched with awe. "Totally beautiful."
"You ever been here before?"
"Once, in my younger days. Alas, I believe I was pretty much drunk for the entire trip. And I rode it in a fine brass carriage with two women of, shall we say, dishonourable disposition. One had a poodle dog. What tricks that yapping snapping little canine could conjure!"
Kell snorted, and started over the hillside. Rocks lay strewn everywhere, building in intensity as the ground rose towards the vastness of the sky-blocking Pikes. Saark followed, still talking.
"One of the women, a ripe peach named Guinevere, had a neat trick whereby she would take a long, thin block of cheese, and upon removing her corset…"
"Stop." Kell turned. "There's the fortress."
"Cailleach?" Saark gave a tiny shudder. He glanced around, at the fast-falling gloom. The wind howled in the distance like slaughtered wolves. "Hadn't we better wait till morning?"
"No. We're going in. Now."
"It's turned dark," warned Saark.
"I'm the worst fucking thing in the dark," snapped Kell.
"I'm sure you are, old boy. But my point is, the rumours state this place is, ahh, haunted. And correct me if I'm wrong, but more specifically, haunted at night. Yes?"
Kell chuckled. "I thought you were a modern hedonist? I didn't think you'd believe in ghosts."
"Well, yes, I don't, but when you hear so many fireside tales…"
"Popinjays drunk on watered wine," snapped Kell, and surged forward, allowing his horse to pick a trail through the rocks. Muttering, Saark followed at a reasonable distance, telling himself that if wild beasts or haunted things attacked, then at least it would take them time to consume the bulk that was Kell, thus giving him time to flee.
As the hill dropped to a flat plain, so the rocks became not just more intense in their regularity, but larger, more ominous. Many were smoothed by centuries of weathering, and bands of precious minerals ran through many a cottage-sized cube.
The hugeness of the subtly twisted fortress came ever closer, and as darkness fell through the sky, so Kell ran his gaze over the dark stones, the cracks, the jigged walls and battlements. Above the battlements, leading back to the keep and the rocky valley beyond, which the fortress seemed in some way to protect, stood several slightly leaning, slightly twisted towers. Most had no roof, just great blocks which had shifted and settled, to give the appearance of some puzzle – or at least, a madman's example of architecture.
"It's depraved," said Saark, eventually.
"It's old," said Kell.
Staring at the warrior's broad back, Saark, said, "The two go hand in hand, Kell, old wolf. But what I mean is, look at it, the whole thing, it's – well, it's not straight, for a start. I thought they would have brought in some decent builders. Architects who could draw a straight line. That sort of thing. Not some epileptic draughtsmen who spilled the ink and let idiots loose with a trowel!"
Kell stopped and turned. His eyes were glinting. "Shut up," he said.
"Yes, fine, no need to be rude. You only needed to ask."
There was an old road, made of the same strange dark stone. Many cobbles were missing, and filled with dirt and frozen weeds. Much was obscured by wide patches of ice. Kell picked his way carefully to the road, and they moved down it, towards the huge maw of a leering archway. The Cailleach Fortress reared above them in the gloom, defined by moonlight and foregrounded by the immense power of the sentinel Black Pikes.
"The archway is a guardian," said Kell, voice little more than a whisper. "Listen. She will speak to us…"
"What?" snorted Saark, voice dripping sarcasm. Yet as he stepped forward, so warm breeze rolled out to greet him and he halted, shocked, hackles rising on the back of his neck. "What's going on?" he growled. "What kind of horse-shit is this?"
"Be quiet, boy," hissed Kell, glancing at Saark, dark eyes glinting like jewels. "If you value your bloody life. Follow me, say nothing, do nothing, do not draw your weapon, don't even shit in your kerchief unless I give you permission. I've been here before; and there are rules."
"Rules?" whispered Saark, and despite himself, despite his new found… strength, from impure blood, he moved closer to Kell. "I don't like this place, Kell. It has a stench of evil, in its very rocks, in its very bones."
"Aye, lad." They moved beneath the huge gateway. Beyond, darkness wavered like the oesophagus of some huge, breathing creature. "So follow me, be a good lad, and we both may get through this alive."
"You really think so?" whispered Saark, and the final dregs of light were cast from the sky.
"No," said Kell, "I'm just trying to make you feel better." And with that, he disappeared into the void.
Saark walked, his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut, his fist wound tight about his mount's reins and his arse puckered in terror. Behind, he heard Mary the donkey braying and he wanted to turn, to shout "Shut up you stupid donkey!" but he did not; he had neither the nerve nor the energy. Fear coursed through him like raw fire. It filled his mind with ash.
They walked, boots echoing on cobbles. Shapes seemed to drift around them, ghosts in silk, sighs caressing cold skin, and Saark realised he had new, heightened senses. He could feel more, sense more, smell more. He could smell his own stench of fear, that was for sure.
Something brushed his cheek, like a kiss, and he fancied he heard a giggle of coquettish laughter. Something tightened in his chest. It had not occurred to him the ghosts – or whatever depraved spirits, or dark magick these creatures were – it had never occurred to him they would be women. He felt a caress down his thigh, and another kiss on his cheek. His resolve hardened. The whole thing felt wrong, and then he caught sight of a figure ahead and she walking towards the two men. She was tall, eight feet tall, and very slender and narrow, both of hips and limbs. Her skin was dark, and shined as if oiled. She wore a black silk robe which rustled, and the hood was thrown back to reveal an almost elongated face, high and thin with pointed features and narrow, feline eyes. Saark looked into those eyes and realised the pupils were horizontal slits. They looked wrong. Saark swallowed. The tall woman stopped, and only then did Saark realise she was both insubstantial, like a drifting haze in the darkness; and that she carried a black sword strapped at her hip. Ha, thought Saark. A ghost sword? And yet he knew, in his heart, it would cut just like the finest steel.
"Who passes in my realm?" came her voice, and it was note-perfect and absolutely beautiful.
"I am Kell. Once, I served your people."
"Kell. I remember. You slew the vachi
ne. That was good."
Kell bowed his head, as if offering obeisance to royalty. He stayed like that for what – to Saark, at least – seemed an exaggerated length of time. Then he stood, and back straight, stared into the ghost's eyes.
"May we pass, lady?"
She lifted a ghostly arm, and pointed at Saark. He shivered, and felt suddenly light-headed as if… as if his brains were rushing out of his ears and a million memories flowed like wine like water and he was dancing and laughing and drinking and fucking and he was watched from a million years away by eyes older than worlds and he felt himself judged and he felt himself wrenched through a mental grinder and then–
Saark was kneeling on the cobbles, panting, and his head pounded worse than any three-flagon hangover. Slowly, Saark climbed to his feet, and ignoring Kell and the ghost, unhooked a water-skin from his saddle and took a long, cool draught.