by Andy Remic
"They're men who'll do much worse if we don't cooperate," said Saark, nostrils twitching at the stench of blood which filled up his nose and mouth and mind with a whirling red vortex of sudden lust. "Come on." Saark helped Nienna to her feet. She swayed, with pain and shock.
"Can she walk?" snapped Spilada. "If not, we'll toss her into the canyon."
"I can walk, you bastard," Nienna snarled, suddenly venomous. There was pure hate in her eyes. Spilada smiled at the vision.
"We have a little Hellcat here, I see."
"A Hellcat who'll cut your throat."
Spilada's smile dropped from his face like a stone down a well. "Enough talk. Walk or die."
Nienna nodded, and Saark helped her to stumble to her grandfather. Kell looked at her then, sorrow in his eyes, tears on his cheeks and in his beard.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's not your fault!" wept Nienna, and tried to hug him, clumsily due to her bound wrists.
"I caused you injury. I will never forgive myself."
"You were trying to get us free," she said.
Kell scowled. "I should never have brought you here, child. This is a place of death." His voice dropped, turning to a growl. "Or very soon, it will be." His eyes strayed to Ilanna. She had been placed in a sack with other weapons, and one soldier carried it over his shoulder. But Kell could see her outline. And he could hear her voice.
In time, she said. It will come.
I promise you that, Legend.
Kell nodded, and the group moved into another narrow tunnel which led, as ever, upwards.
After many more hours, during which they were allowed only short rests – mainly for the sake of Nienna, who had dropped into a subdued, bitter silence – they emerged from another steeply-climbing tunnel onto a platform in a vast subterranean cavern. Now, the soldiers carried lit torches, for the glow of worm slime had faded behind them. Fire sputtered and whipped in wild underground breezes, howling from unseen high places, crags and hollows, high tunnels and caves. The platform led out over a narrow stone bridge, wide enough to let three men walk abreast but with no guard rails. It arched slightly over a vast abyss, and disappeared into darkness which the torchlight could not penetrate.
"There's somebody on the bridge," said Saark.
"You've better eyesight than me, lad," said Kell.
"You first," grunted one soldier, and prodded Kell. Kell climbed a few short rough-hewn steps, and out onto the windy, underground bridge. It was damp, and looked slippery. Wary, Kell stepped forward, but the bridge was solid under his boots. He walked with care, followed by Saark and Nienna, and then the soldiers from the Army of Iron spreading out behind with Spilada at their core.
"By all the gods, it's Myriam!" said Saark, voice rising a little in surprise.
"Does she have her bow?" snapped Kell.
"Yes! She must be here to help." His voice dropped. "But… something is wrong," he said, head tilting to one side. "How could she have survived that fall?"
"Probably got stuck on a ledge," muttered Kell. "Don't think about that now… what we need to think about is escape."
"If we fail, we die," said Saark, looking into Kell's eyes.
"Then we die," said Kell softly. "I have a knife in my boot. When we get close to Myriam, follow my lead."
"Stop the talk!" snapped Spilada from the rear. He drew his sword. "Unless you want ten inches of steel in your spine!"
Kell and Saark were quiet, moving forward across the slick stone bridge. The wind snapped at them with hungry jaws. The abyss loomed. Myriam was smiling as they came close.
Kell gasped, for her hair was thick and lush, her gaunt face no longer gaunt, but finely chiselled and defined by beauty; her figure, her limbs, her hips, all were powerful and athletic, and her flesh was healthy, even in this cold subterranean hollow, not the waxen pallor of the near-dead. Now, she was beautiful again. Myriam was no longer a slave to cancer and the fear of death. Myriam was a woman in her prime.
"Kell…" warned Saark.
And Kell knew, knew the risks, knew Myriam might not be with them but the opportunity was too good and the location too neat not to use for his own ends, his own plan, and battle rage swamped him and he could not be a prisoner, could not be bound like an animal heading for predicted slaughter and yes they might all die, but better to die fighting! He stumbled, tripped on the bindings which locked his legs together in a prisoner's hobble, and went down on one knee. The tiny knife in his boot cut up, through leg bindings and wrist bindings with one swift harsh movement and as Kell arose in a blur of action Saark had turned to him, and Kell slashed his bonds, in the same movement his arm snapping back and launching the blade which embedded to the hilt in Spilada's eye. The soldier screamed, grappling at his face and Kell leapt down the bridge, fist slamming one man to break his cheekbone and send him rolling, to topple from the span. Another drew his sword but as it left the scabbard Kell was in close, headbutting the man and taking the weapon neatly. A back-handed swipe cut his head from his shoulders, the short blade rammed through another's man's chest to the hilt, and Kell tossed the soldier's blade to Saark who leapt to Kell's aid. They cut their way through three men in as many seconds, leaving the kneeling figure of Spilada behind them on the bridge. The clash of steel on steel echoed through the vast cavern. Nienna, shocked by the sudden violence, the acceleration of battle, blinked, then stared at the kneeling figure of Spilada. He held the hilt of the small knife, gently, as if readying himself to pull it from his eye-socket. With a growl, Nienna leapt forward and slammed the heel of her hand against the hilt of the blade, driving it deep, through Spilada's socket and into the brain within. Spilada slumped back, legs kicking, and Nienna dropped to her knees and was sick on the bridge.
Saark battled the remaining soldiers, and Kell dropped to one knee, opening the sack in the hands of the dead soldier. Slowly, reverently, he drew out Ilanna. She squirmed in his hands, her haft almost like skin to the touch, and Kell stood and his eyes were fire and his mouth was a grim line. "Saark, step back," he said.
Saark stopped, and backed away. Kell strode forward, rolling his shoulders.
The enemies stared at him, and their eyes moved to the axe. So, thought Kell, they know her. "Come on," he said, voice little more than a whisper of mountain breeze.
The remaining soldiers turned and fled, dropping their swords, sprinting along the bridge and disappearing into the black.
The wind howled, increasing in fury. Kell turned back to Saark, and Nienna, and the figure of Myriam who had not moved during the battle. However, she had not drawn an arrow to aid them. Kell scowled, and strode forward, with Saark joining him.
He stopped short of Myriam. He placed Ilanna against the stone of the bridge with a dull iron clank.
"You're looking well, lass," he said, calm, meeting her gaze which now shone with good health and bright vitality. Myriam laughed, the tinkling of a summer brook over marble pebbles.
"You can see what happened," she said, and as she spoke they could spy her tiny vachine fangs. Her nose twitched. Nienna came to stand behind Kell and Saark, peeping at Myriam, face confused.
Myriam made eye contact. "Nienna." She smiled, face radiant. "It feels wonderful, Nienna… truly, I am whole again, truly, I am at the peak of my physical prowess!"
"Step aside," sighed Kell. "I can see you're not here to help, and I have not the will to fight you."
"What?" mocked Myriam, suddenly. "The great Vachine Hunter, not willing to fight the terrible, evil vachine which stands before him? I thought you were Kell? I thought you were a Legend?"
"What do you want?" said Saark, voice soft.
"Ahh, the suckling vachine speaks!"
"What?" snapped Saark, face pale, etched with worry.
Myriam looked past Saark, to Kell, meeting his iron gaze. "He didn't tell you? The dandy didn't share his great secret? Back in the town, he was bitten, Kell. I can smell it! He's half-turned, but without the clockwork it's a slow and painful proce
ss." She dropped her gaze back to Saark. "Had any strange pains, boy? In your fingers? In your teeth? In your heart?"
"Shut up," growled Saark.
"Or what?" grinned Myriam. "You'll rip out my throat with your fangs? Go on Saark, show your friends your teeth. You can't hide it now, can you? Only the dark down here has been concealing your shame. But there's nothing to be ashamed of, Saark! Nothing, it's wonderful, it's a rebirth! Don't you feel your senses singing? Can't you hear the beat of the Mountain's Heart?"
"What do you want?" said Kell, voice level, refusing to look at Saark. Saark took a step away from Kell. Fear etched his features like moonlight.
"I am to escort you," said Myriam, returning her gaze to Kell. "I was to take you from the soldiers, but you had to have your little sport. Still. I said you would come quietly." She winked, and her tongue licked her vachine fangs. Somewhere, almost unheard, there came the click of changing gears. "For old time's sake."
"Stand aside, Myriam," said Kell, lowering his head and the rage of battle welled in him again and he was finding it harder to control, and he could hear the screams of the dying and the mutilated, the burned and the raped during the Days of Blood. And their blood ran in his mouth and down his throat, and he was eating their raw meat with the others, with the damned, with the possessed. That wasn't me, said Kell. But he knew different. And a hundred souls screamed from his past and pointed at him with cold dead fingers.
"No," said Myriam, still making no move for her weapon.
"So be it," said Kell, and hefted Ilanna – as a whoosh hissed through the air, and something unseen slammed past at incredible speed and Kell was knocked to the ground with stunning force. Kell was up, a blur of movement, blood on his mouth and eyes narrowed. He whirled on Nienna and Saark. "Get back!" he screamed. "Back along the bridge! They're here!"
"This is a place of blood-oil magick," said Myriam, gently, and drew her own short sword. It was silver, and it glowed, just a hint, but enough to show it was no ordinary weapon of base metal. "And the Soul Stealers are strong here, Kell, so strong… stronger than you could ever comprehend."
Nienna and Saark were running, and Kell turned back to Myriam. His intention was obvious. Never leave an enemy behind; especially not one with a bow. Ilanna came up, black butterfly blades dull by comparison to Myriam's silver sword, but infinitely more threatening. He launched at Myriam, but she danced back, silver sword parrying the blow. Again, something whistled past Kell, so fast he did not see, and something fine and hard wrapped around his face. With Ilanna in one hand, he clawed at the substance, pulling at it but it wriggled, and he saw it was a fine gauge golden wire. More whistles and moans of wind surrounded him, and suddenly there was a flurry of activity as the Soul Stealers passed, their flight one of magick, and the gold wire wrapped around Kell's face and head and neck, and the wire was around his arms, pinning them against him and strapping Ilanna to him, and he fought and struggled, but they drew tight and he screamed as they cut through clothing, cut into his flesh, then they were squirming, moving, writhing as if they had a surreal intelligence, a form of metal life, and Kell's legs were tightened and he hit the bridge, watched the wire as it seemed to expand and grow and wind around him, and around him, until he could not move, could barely breathe, locked to his axe like a dark lover.
Kell watched, witnessed Saark and Nienna hit the bridge further along. There came light slaps as the Soul Stealers landed on the stone, vachine fangs bared, eyes crimson and burning. They moved close to Kell, and Tashmaniok knelt, and stroked his face and beard interwoven by gold wire, and she smiled, then turned back to Myriam who had sheathed her sword.
"Bring him," she said, and in raw agony Kell passed into darkness.
CHAPTER 16
Warlords
Vor, capital city of Falanor, sat in silence, desolate, a ghost town. Fine snow whipped along the dead streets. Darkness bled into corners like leaking ink. Occasionally, lightning cracked the sky like a bad egg.
On a hill overlooking the city squatted the Blood Refineries. They were dark, brooding, terrible in their monstrous design and purpose. The wind hummed around the huge vachine-built edifices, as if conveying a lament for the slaughtered, the drained, and the desecrated.
Above this gentle storm of snow, there came a crackle of high electricity. Not lightning, but a web of incandescent fingers which trailed across the sky in bursts, illuminating the clouds, melting the snow, filling the sky with a lightshow of wonder and bestial primitive ferocity. The only audience were encamped soldiers from the Army of Iron left behind to guard the Blood Refineries, and they emerged from tents and shielded eyes, gazing up in wonder, heads tilting, mouths forming lines of compression… and of understanding.
"So it begins," said one, his words a whisper in the storm.
More crackles leapt across the sky, this time blood red and turning the night into an electric storm of crimson. The Refineries started to hum, to vibrate like caged animals in shackles desperate to break free. The horizontal bursts of electricity filled the sky, no longer bursts but sheets of sparks and webs and fire, which finally discharged with tornadoes of bright burning light against the Blood Refineries… and the world was filled with noise and concussion and raw energy as General Graal, hands raised in the Black Pike Mountains, on Helltop, on the Vampire Warlords' Seat of Power, so he drew this source of blood-oil magick and allowed it a channel home.
They had assembled on Helltop, and Graal walked along the line of Granite Thrones, his back to them, showing contempt for their weakness, but also hiding his joy at their capture. Kell was dumped to the slick smooth ground, and he grunted as he hit the floor and glared up at Graal with undisguised loathing. Nienna was weeping, the wires which bound her cutting into flesh and drawing blood, and Saark said nothing, his mouth a bloodless slit. Graal turned.
"Stand them up."
Unceremoniously, the Soul Stealers dragged Kell, Nienna and Saark to their feet, and they shivered as the cold mountain wind kissed them, and gazed around at the silent dark gathering. There were soldiers from the Army of Iron, a silent honour guard for their General and Watchmaker, Kradek-ka. Of the three Granite Thrones, two were occupied. The first, by a young woman with long, golden curls and the fangs of the vachine. Her face was slack, drugged, her eyes rolled back in a skull which showed the marks of a beating. Her throat still sported a huge puncture wound, halfhealed by advanced vachinery, and softly through the silence, the tick-tick-tick of her clockwork could be heard. On the second throne was a strange, crumpled, black-skinned creature, his skin more like insect chitin than real flesh. He was tied, as were Kell and Saark, with tight golden wire and although they could read no expression in his face, his eyes held a deep and ancient rage… and yet also understanding, and submission, and cooperation. For Jageraw, this was the culmination of his purpose and his existence. This was his destiny, and they needed no bonds.
Kell hawked, and spat on the ground. Distantly, thunder rumbled through the mountains, the Black Pikes displaying unease and raw, limitless power. He scowled at Graal, and looked slowly around, at the soldiers, at Kradek-ka who displayed a facial expression of intense focus, and then to the Soul Stealers and Myriam, their vachine subordinate, who had helped capture them and truss them like goats ready for sacrifice.
"At last. Kell. You have arrived. We have been waiting for you."
Kell growled something incomprehensible, and spat again. "I made a grave mistake the last time we met, Graal. I should have carved you out a skull-bucket and pissed in it. However. The error is mine, but one I'll not make again."
Graal gave a low, level laugh, but his eyes held no humour. He looked up at the torn sky. Then back to Kell. "Can you not feel the shift in power, Kell? Old man, can you not feel the vibrations in the air, and smell the sickly-sweet blood-stench of a hundred thousand victims? They are coming back, tonight, and all we lacked was the final Soul Gem. My beautiful daughters, here," he moved around Tashmaniok, his hand sliding around her hips as he
walked, and she tilted her head to smile at Kell, a dazzling show of beauty, "they did well to find it and deliver it to evil."
"What horseshit is this?" snarled Kell. "We have no Soul Gem!"
"But you do," said Graal, voice lover-soft, moving close to Kell, "and it is buried inside," he touched his own chest, "integrated with the heart, and it will be such a shame to cut it free because, sadly, a side effect of removing the Soul Gem is… death."
He turned and moved back to the Granite Thrones. He reached out, and touched the huge solid artefacts, face serene, for he knew everything was ready, everything aligned, in place, and nothing – not even Kell – could stop them. Nothing on earth could stop the Vampire Warlords.
Graal raised his arms to the sky, and the sky crackled with horizontal sheets of crimson electricity. The Soul Stealers moved to him, stood slightly back, pale faces bathed in a glow of blood-oil magick. The wind shrieked through Helltop like a million banshees. The snowstorm whipped and snapped, and the sky, still full of awesome primal power, an awe-inspiring Summoning, turned red and black as it filled with blood-oil streaks of energy. The snow itself turned red, into frozen blood snowflakes, and crimson flakes fell around Helltop like tears from the slain, which is what they surely were.