by Remic, Andy
From the gloom and snow the vampires attacked. With squeals of rage they launched at the armoured unit, and spears jabbed out, impaling vampires through hearts and throats. Grak caught a flash of fangs, and claws slid between shields. He slashed down with his sword, cutting off fingers which tumbled below pushing, tramping boots. A fanged face leered at him, hissing, spitting, and in what seemed like slow motion Grak slid his short sword into that mouth, watched the blade cut a wide smile and jab further in, into the brain, killing the vampire dead. Smoke hissed black from nostrils and it thrashed on his blade. Grak pulled back, and heard a clang from above. A vampire, on their roof of shields. He shoved his blade up, skewering a groin. More vampires slammed into the armoured unit, and swords and spears jabbed and slashed and it was chaos, but an organised chaos, madness, but controlled madness. It was a surreal world, a blood-red snow-filled insanity. All around men were fighting, grunting, pushing. Claws slashed through to Grak's left and tore off a man's face with a neat flick of the wrist. Grak saw eyes popping out on stalks, a horror of gristle and spasmodic working jaws. The man screamed blood. Grak cut the vampire's hand clean off with a short hack, then roared in anger and burst from the cage of shields and grabbed the creature, but it was strong, so fucking strong, and they wrestled and Grak was slammed backwards onto the cobbles, and the thing with only one hand squirmed like a thick eel above him. A spear suddenly appeared in an explosion of black blood, drenching Grak. The spear point was a hair's breadth from his face. The vampire corpse slid sideways, like an excised cancerous bowel. Dekkar grinned, and held out his hand.
"You fighting it, or fucking it, lad?" he growled.
Grak grinned, and glanced around. The wide street was empty, save for armoured units and vampire corpses. "We beat them off?"
"For now. For a minute."
The units reformed themselves. In Grak's square they had lost four men. Grak stared down at their bodies, mouth a grim line, eyes glittering jewels. He realised, with desolate horror, that they could not win this day. How many were there? How many? They couldn't kill them all.
"I know what you're thinking," rumbled the Blacklipper King, and slapped him on the back. "And the answer is – we must try."
Grak gave a nod.
"The bastards are coming back," snarled a soldier.
And through the darkness, and the falling snow, squeals and cries and giggles reverberated from walls. The noise built and built and built, until it seemed the whole world was full of vampires. Shadows cast across walls, from rooftops above, from alleyways and streets and the darkened interiors of tall regal town houses.
"Holy Mother," whispered Grak, as around him his unit looked up, around, back to back, weapons wavering uncertainly.
And they came, boots thumping in quick succession with a sound like thunder. They came, like a cancerous flood, hundreds and hundreds of vampires sprinting and leaping and cavorting from the darkness…
Command Sergeant Wood sat on the roof of the Green Church, down by the docks, and watched the old soldiers from the Black Barracks creeping into position. Old they might be, but they moved with skill and practice earned over a lifetime of fighting. They may be old, but each would hold his own in a barroom brawl. Each would fight to the death. And Wood could ask for no more.
Fat Bill crouched next to him on one side, and Pettrus on the other. Both men looked grim, faces sour like they were sucking lemons. Wood gripped his sword tight, and blinked. The old soldiers had disappeared. Their skills at hiding were second to none.
"There," said Fat Bill, pointing into the darkness. It had started to snow, and everything more than ten feet away was hazy and surreal. A perfect Holy Oak painting. A perfect festival, a time to relax, to put out holly on the doorstep and presents in wooden crates before the fire delivered by Old Crake and his Wraith Keepers. But not now. Not here. Those times were long gone. After all, children had little to laugh about in Port of Gollothrim now the vampires had taken over…
"What am I looking at?" said Wood, careful to keep his voice low.
"The docks."
"So?"
"What's most precious to the vampires? The ships, I reckon. They're beavering away like their lives depend on it. Building a fleet. Take their vermin plague to warmer climates, I reckon."
"But that's good for us," said Wood. "If they clear off and leave us in peace."
"We both know that will never happen," said Pettrus, darkly. "I agree with Fat Bill. We need to torch these bastards. Hit them where it hurts. We haven't enough men to take them on in battle; but by the Bone Lords, we can stick a knife in their ribs whenever we get the chance."
"Most of the lads are carrying oil flasks," said Fat Bill with a fat grin. "I think it's time we turned the night into day."
Wood gave a nod, mouth dry, and stood as Fat Bill and Pettrus stood. There came a slap on stone behind them, and Wood turned fast, past a blur which made him blink, stepping back, knocking into Fat Bill as his sword flickered up. The blur was a vampire, and her flying kick slammed into Pettrus' chest, making him grunt, stumble back, hit the Green Church's crenallated roof and flip over. There was a hiatus as the vampire hit the ground and rose smoothly.
Then a slap and crack as Pettrus hit the cobbles far below.
Wood wanted to scream, to rush to the edge and look, but a deep sickly feeling raged through his guts and he knew, knew his friend and mentor was dead and in a moment, he'd be dead too. The female vampire was smiling, and Wood felt a lurch of fear riot through him. It was Lorna, Bhu Vanesh's bitch, the vampire he'd thrown from the high tower roof, watched her break on the ground below, squirming and squealing like a kitten after a hammer blow. But she was here. Alive. And strong.
"Remember me?" she snarled, glossy crimson black eyes bright with hatred. She moved left, and Wood's blade wavered. Then right, and his sword slashed before her face by mere inches.
"I remember watching you break your pretty little spine," he said, eyes fixed on the petite blonde. She was pretty, slim, but she had changed from the woman he had once known. The skin of her face and hands looked stretched, almost fake, as if she wore a mask. Her hair, once a luscious blonde pelt, was now stringy like wire. She exuded death. To Wood, she looked no better than a rotting corpse. "And I knew you were coming. I could smell your dead stink from a hundred paces."
Lorna hissed, claws slashing, then rolled right under Wood's sword, and slashed her claws across Fat Bill's belly. She opened him like a bag of offal, and his bowels spooled out as if from a reel, his hands dropping his sword and paddling at his entrails with mad scooping motions as he tried to hold himself together.
Lorna leapt back as Wood's sword whistled past her throat, and she was smiling, and Fat Bill slammed to the floor of the roof and made panting noises as he slowly died. He waved a bloodied hand at Wood. "Kill her, kill her!" he groaned, "don't fucking bother about me!"
Wood ran at Lorna, her face showing surprise for a moment, but she back-flipped away. His sword slammed at her, cutting a line down her pale arm, and the flesh opened but no blood came out. She grabbed the wound, and the smile fell from her lips.
"You see, you cut like any other bitch," snarled Wood, and anger was firing him into the realms of hatred now. This wasn't just another vampire. This had become personal.
"You didn't kill me last time," taunted Lorna, and they circled. She darted forward, claws slashing for his throat, but his sword flashed up cutting her short. She leapt away, and back-flipped up onto the battlements. She turned, and let out a howl, and below vampires swarmed from still, silent, dark buildings. They began to climb up houses and factories and towers, towards the hidden old soldiers. Faces gleamed like pale ghosts in the moonlight. Snow melted on necrotic flesh, making them shine.
Wood ran at her, but she leapt over him in an amazing high arc, a back-flip but Wood anticipated the move and leapt at the same time, his sword ramming up in a hard vertical strike, entering her body at the core of her spine and emerging from under her breasts in
a shower of black blood.
Wood landed, panting, and turned fast. Lorna had continued her somersault, landed, and cradled the point of the blade emerging from her chest. She stood, the sword straight through her to the hilt, and smiled at Wood. There was blood on her lips. On her fangs.
"Bastard," she said, and ran at him, and Wood's hands came up but she grabbed him, and she was awesomely strong, and she pulled him into a bear hug and Wood found the point of his own sword pressing into him, into his chest, and then driving in through flesh and bone, and he gasped and it burned and steel grated on bone. Lorna was close. Close enough to kiss. Her breath stunk like the grave, and her pretty dark eyes were fixed on Wood.
She leant forward. "How does it feel, Command Sergeant Wood? How does it feel, not only to die, but to see all your old friends die?"
Wood gasped, and pain swamped him for a moment, the world turning red and hot and unbearable. Then he caught himself from falling into the dark pit, and turned, and saw the vampires stood across the rooftops. There were several hundred. Out of the shadows rose the old soldiers of Falanor, Kelv the Axeman, Old Man Connie, Bulbo the Dull, Weevil and Bad Socks and so many more. So many men. So many soldiers. So many memories. They were surrounded, and outnumbered…
Lorna kissed Wood, first on the lips, then on his ear. Her fangs lowered towards his neck. She jerked him tighter, into her, a metal conjugation of the blade. A hard steel fuck. And her fangs caressed his neck, as she savoured the moment of the hunt. She seemed to sniff him, and taste him, and enjoy a lingering moment.
Below, on the rooftops, the vampires attacked…
Kell and Myriam crept from house to house, from street to street. They kept to shadows and moved with an infinity of care. Their aim wasn't to take on the vampire army. Their aim was to slaughter its Warlord.
"You were right," whispered Myriam, close to Kell's ear, her words tickling. "He's in the tower. How did you know?"
Kell grinned a skeletal grin in the darkness. "Intuition. These vampires. They have some fucking ego, that's for sure. Come on." They moved on through gloom, through falling snow which smelt of a distant, frozen sea. They could hear the sounds of battle now, shouting, screams, the echoing, reverberating cries of attacking vampires and slap of steel on flesh. Kell and Myriam did not talk about it. There was nothing to talk about. They simply pushed on, forward, further into the realm of the vampire.
Ilanna was drawn. And ready.
Myriam carried her Widowmaker in one gloved hand, and her vachine fangs were out. They gleamed in the darkness. She was as ready for battle as she could ever be.
They drifted like ghosts. Somewhere, a building burned. Vampires were screaming in the flames, and the roasting of flesh smelled like cooked pig interlaced with something subtly… human. Kell nearly puked, so they pulled back, crept down a different alleyway. As they left the black smoke behind they could see the Warlord's Tower.
They crouched and watched it for a while. Around the base were perhaps a hundred vampires, lounging in the snow, some walking, none talking. They seemed lethargic, sleepy, without any focus.
"What's the matter with them?" hissed Kell.
"Lack of fresh blood. They grow tired. Soon, they'll turn on one another. You'll see."
"How do you know this?"
"I feel it in myself," said Myriam, smiling and showing brass fangs. "We're not so different, them and me. No matter what they say, no matter what they think. They believe we are a deviant offspring; the Soul Stealers told me we were the more ancient race. We have our clans far to the north, in the cold places where humans don't travel. Me and Saark; we are parts of those vachine clans, now. Part of a distant, clockwork world. Part of an ancient heritage. One day, they will call us. And we will not be able to resist."
Kell stared at her, then shrugged. He got a sudden feeling the vachine of Silva Valley nestled deep within the Black Pike Mountains had been just a glimpse of what the vachine really were. Of their size, their might, their ferocity. Images flashed dark in his mind. Of huge clockwork vampire armies. Vast, cold and mechanical. Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. And Silva Valley had been an offshoot, rebels almost. And the vampires thought they had birthed the vachine – when in reality, it had been the other way round.
Kell shivered. It was too much to comprehend. Not here. Not now.
"That's a battle for another day," he said, finally, and saw the curious look in Myriam's eye. He held up a finger. "No. Don't even consider trying to convert me to what you have become. You had a good reason for becoming vachine, Myriam. A damn good reason. But I'm happy to die like any other old man."
"You can live forever," she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Sometimes, I think it's better to die," he said, with an inherent wisdom he did not feel. Then he blinked, and shrugged off her vachine spell. He grinned. "Come on, lass. How do we get in?"
"Up there." She pointed to another tower, and between the two ran twin cables. "It's for passing messages, from the Warlord's Tower to servant quarters. We can climb across that."
Kell looked at the awesome height, with an equally awesome fall to iced cobbles below. "I can't bloody climb across a cable like that!" he scowled. "I'll fall! I'll die!"
"No," smiled Myriam. "You won't. You're Kell, the Legend."
"I wish people would stop saying that," muttered the old warrior, and sheathing Ilanna on his back, followed Myriam to the second, smaller tower. It was unguarded, and they entered through a doorway that looked like a broken mouth,
Into the breach, thought Kell, and chuckled. Somebody up there has a fine sense of humour!
They climbed a massive circular stone staircase for what seemed an age. Kell's knees complained. His back complained. He complained, but in an internal muttering monologue which had served him well for many a decade in the army. Years of running through mud, carrying logs, wading through rivers, staggering under heavy armour, fighting with a heavy shield on one arm, axe in hand, bodies falling before him, beneath him, carved like fine roast beef…
Kell blinked. A chilled wind scoured him.
The view from the tower ledge was incredible, spreading away through a fine haze of snow. Fire burned throughout the Port of Gollothrim. Vampires screamed and shrieked. Again, he could hear the sounds of battle, but could not determine the armoured units of Falanor men, of Blacklippers and criminals he had created. Here to fight for you. Here to die for you. So get on with it! Kill the Warlord. Then we can go home.
Is it ever that easy?
It always begins with a small step.
Kell moved to the edge of the precipice, and grabbed the cable. It seemed ridiculously thin, woven from slippery metal, and he scowled and looked down to the distant courtyard. The vampires still lounged. It felt wrong. Like Kell was stumbling easily into a trap like a courtroom jester. Would they really leave such an opening unguarded? Or were there vampires with crossbows waiting from him to swing out onto the wire?
"I can't do this," said Kell.
"Why not?" hissed Myriam, who was tying her weapons to herself. "Secure that bloody axe. If you drop anything, the bastards will hear us and they'll look up. Then we're dead."
"This is too easy."
"You call that easy?" snapped Myriam, gesturing to the expanse of swaying cable – perhaps five hundred strides in all, and a good height. Good enough to turn the vampires on the ground far below into stick-men.
"We'll be vulnerable."
Myriam shrugged. "That's how us normal mortals feel all the time." She saw Kell's look, and pressed at one of her vachine fangs. "Well. You know what I mean."
Myriam took hold of the cable, and it was cold to the touch. Freezing. She grimaced. "Come on, axe man. We have a job to do."
"One thing."
"Yes?"
Kell grinned. "I like you, Myriam."
Her eyes glinted. "I know you do. You showed me that in oh so many different ways. Just proves what an old man has still got left inside him,
if he really tries."
"No. I mean, we've had our differences. And I still don't trust you for spit." He held up a finger to silence her complaint. "But you've come good, Myriam. You may be as unpredictable as a violent raging sea storm, but by the Chaos Halls, I think I like that in a woman."
"What you're saying is, despite what we've been through, if I betray you now, you'll still lop off my head with that bloody axe?"
"You know I will," said Kell. "Now let's move. Before I change my mind."
Myriam took hold of the cable and swung her legs up, crossing them. Then she began to haul herself along the icy length, hand over hand, with smooth effortless strokes.
Kell took hold, Ilanna strapped tight to his back, and hoisted his legs up. The whole cable sagged, and Kell bobbed, and he cursed, and his muscles ached already. It was one thing in battle to be a huge, stocky, ironmuscled warrior – but such mass did not lend itself well to supporting one's own weight from a high cable.