Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  Why bring him here?

  He grinned, a skeletal grin. He wasn't leaving this place, was he?

  They were going to drown him in the oil; and it would swallow him, and leave no mark of his passing.

  He stared down into the black pit, motionless now, but as a man moved on the wooden planks so tiny ripples edged out and betrayed the liquid viscosity of centuries-old scum, filled with impurities and filth, and the perfect hiding place for murder…

  With senses fast returning, Saark counted the men. There were twelve. T welve? He didn't remember accosting twelve women, but then the nights were cold and long in Kettleskull, Saark was easily bored and so, apparently, were the local housewives and daughters. Was he really that decadent? Saark stared long and hard into his own soul, and with head hung low in shame, he had to admit that he was.

  "What are you going to do?" he asked, finally, watching as Rake tied a knot in a thick length of rope. A noose? Wonderful, thought Saark. Just perfect.

  "We are going to purify you," said Rake, face a demon mask in the lantern light, and moved forward, looping the rope over Saark's neck.

  "No you're not, lads," came a voice from the darkness. Then Kell stepped forward, his shape, his bulk hinted at by the very edges of lantern light. In this gloom it mattered not that he was over sixty years of age; he was large, he was terrifying, and Ilanna held steady in bear's paws was a horrible and menacing sight to behold. "Now put the dandy down, and back away from the chair."

  The men froze, helves and a few rusted short-swords held limp and useless. Rake, who held Saark in a tight embrace – a bonding between executioner and victim – stared at Kell without fear. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  "Go home, old man. We have unfinished business here."

  Kell gave a low, dark laugh. "Listen boy. I've been killing men for over forty years, and I've killed every bastard who stood in my way. Now, despite your violence on Saark here, I understand your position, I even agree with you to a large extent…"

  "Thanks, Kell!" moaned Saark.

  "… but this is not his time to die." Kell's eyebrows darkened to thunder. His voice dropped an octave. "I have no argument with any man here. But anybody lays another finger on the wandering peacock, and I'll cleave the bastard from skull to prick."

  Time seemed to freeze. Kell's words hung in the air like drifting snow… and as long as nobody moved, the spell was cast, uncertainty a bright splinter in every man's mind. But then Rake screamed, and hauled on the noose which tightened around Saark's throat, dragging him upright, chair and all, his legs kicking, heels scraping old planks, and Kell took four long strides forward. The terrible axe Ilanna sang through the air and Rake's head detached from his body, and sailed into a dark oil pool. There was a schlup as Rake's head went under. His body stood, rigid in shock for several heartbeats as blood pumped from the ragged neck wound. One leg buckled, and slowly Rake's body folded to the floor like a sack of molten offal.

  There was a thunk as Ilanna rested against the planks, and Kell's gaze caressed the remaining men. "Anybody else?" came his soft words, and they were the words of a lover, whispered and intimate, and every man there lifted hands in supplication and started to back from the chamber.

  Kell turned to Saark, reached down, and with a short blade cut the ropes. Saark stood, massaging wrists, then probed tenderly at his nose. "I think they broke it."

  "No less than you deserve."

  "And I thought you were my knight in shining armour!" scowled Saark, voice dripping sarcasm.

  "Never a knight. And no armour," shrugged Kell. He lifted his axe, heavy shoulders tense, and glared around.

  "What's the matter, Kell?" Saark rolled his neck, and pressed tenderly at his ribs. "Ouch. And look at that! The bastards tore the silk. Do you know how much silk costs up here? Do you know how hard it is to locate and procure a fine tailor? Bloody heathens, bloody peasants… no appreciation of the finer things in life." "Take out your pretty little sword," said Kell.

  "Why?"

  "DO IT!"

  There came a scream. And a crunch. It was a heavy, almost metallic crunch. Like an entire body being ripped in half. This was followed by a thick slopping sound, and ripples spread across the black oil pool towards the men.

  "That sounded interesting," said Saark, his recent beating forgotten. He drew his sword, a fluid movement. The way he held the delicate rapier spoke volumes of his skill with the weapon; this was not some toy, despite its lack of substance. Saark's speed and accuracy were a thing to behold.

  "Interesting?" snorted Kell, then ducked as a limp body went whirring overhead. It hit a wall of crumbling stone, and slid down like a broken doll, easing into the black ooze. The stunned face, with ragged beard and oval brown eyes, was last to disappear. Kell and Saark watched, faces locked in frowns of confusion; then they spread apart with the natural instinct of the seasoned warrior.

  The single lantern, brought by Rake and his men, spluttered noisily. Its stench was acrid and evil, but not as evil as the shadows cast by the stroboscopic wick.

  Kell took a step back. More crunches and screams echoed from the darkness, then fell gradually to an ominous silence.

  "What is it?" whispered Saark.

  "My mother?" ventured Kell.

  "Your humour is ill placed," snapped Saark. "Something just silenced eleven men!"

  "Well," grinned Kell, "maybe it'll have the awesome ability to silence you! Although I doubt it."

  "I am so glad we're both about to die," hissed Saark. "At least I'll die in the knowledge that you were ripped apart too."

  "I don't die easy," said Kell, and rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed, lantern-light turning his aged greying beard into a demonic visage. His eyes were hooded, unseen, but Saark could feel the cloak of solid violence which settled over Kell's frame; it felt like a high charge of electricity during a raging thunderstorm. It was there, unseen, but ready to strike with maximum ferocity.

  The creature came from the gloom, moving easily, fluid, despite its bulk, despite its size. It was a canker, but more than just a canker; this was immense, a prodigy of the deviant, and Kell grinned a grin which had nothing to do with humour.

  "Shit," he said, voice low, "I think Graal saved this one for us."

  "It's been looking for us," said Saark, eyes narrowed, some primeval intuition sparking his mind into action. "Look at its eyes. There's recognition there, I swear by all the gods!"

  Kell nodded, hefting his axe, movements smooth and cool and calculated as he stepped forward. The canker was on a narrow bridge now, a thick plank of timber which bowed under its weight. It stopped, eyes fastening on Kell, fangs drooling blood-oil to the wood.

  "Looking for me?" said Kell.

  Within the canker's flesh, tiny gears and cogs spun and clicked. Its huge shaggy head lowered, and Saark had been right; there was recognition there. It sent a thrill coursing through Kell's veins. Here, he looked into the maw of death. And he was afraid.

  "Graal sent me," said the canker, its voice a strange hybrid of human, animal and… machine. A clockwork voice. A voice filled with the tick-tock of advanced Watchmaking. Its huge shaggy head, so reminiscent of a lion, and yet so twisted and bestial and deformed, tilted to one side in an almost human movement. That sent a shiver of empathy through Kell. He knew. Knew that once these creatures had been human. And it pleased him not a bit to slay them. "I am a messenger."

  "Then deliver your message, and be gone," snapped Kell, brows furrowed, face lost in some internal pain which had nothing to do with age and arthritis, but more to do with the state of Falanor, the invading Army of Iron, and the abuse to humanity he was witnessing at the hands of the expanding vachine empire.

  "He wants to speak with you. He wants you to return with me."

  Kell grinned then. "He's worried, isn't he? The Great Graal, General of the Age – worried about an old warrior with impetigo and a drinking habit. Well, once I said that if we met again I'd carve my name on his arse. That p
romise still stands."

  "He needs your help," said the canker, voice a lowlevel rumble. "Both of you."

  Kell considered this. "Well. I bet that was hard to admit." He rubbed his beard. "And if we say no?"

  "You are coming with me. One way or another." The voice was one layer away from threat; but threat it was.

  Kell stepped forward, rolling his shoulder and lifting Ilanna from her rest against the floor. Kill it, whispered the bloodbond axe in his mind. Kill it, drink its blood, let me feast. It is nothing to you. It is nothing but a deformation of pure.

  Kell shrugged off Ilanna's internal voice – but could not ignore Saark's. He was close. Close behind Kell. His voice tickled Kell's ear. "We can take it, brother. After all we've been through, you can't let Graal dictate. He's sent this special messenger and there's a reason. I'd wager it has something to do with you hunting vachine in the Black Pikes!"

  "And I would second that," said Kell, and launched a blistering attack so fast it was a blur, and left Saark staggering backwards, mouth open in shock and awe as Kell's axe slammed for the canker's head. But the beast moved, also with inhuman speed, with a speed born of clockwork, and it snarled and dropped one shoulder, the axe blade missing its face by inches and shaving tufts of grey fur to lie suspended in the air for long moments. Then reality slammed back and the canker went down on one shoulder, rolling sideways and missing the pool of oil by inches. It launched at Kell, huge forepaws with long curved talons slashing for his throat, but Kell side-stepped, axe batting aside the talons and right fist cannoning into the beast's head. Again he struck, a mighty blow and a fang snapped under his gloved knuckles. The canker's rear legs swiped out, and Kell leapt back and the canker charged him but Ilanna whistled before its face, checking its charge. They circled, warily, amidst the glittering pools of oil. Saark had stepped back, to the edge of one pool, crouching beside the sputtering lantern, rapier in his fist but eyes wide, aware he was no match for a canker in single combat but willing to dive in and help at the soonest opportunity. Suddenly, he darted forward, the razor-edge of his rapier carving a line down one flank. The canker squealed, rearing up, head smashing round as flesh opened like a zip, and coils of muscle spilled out, integrated with tendons and tiny clockwork machines which thrummed and clicked and whirred. A claw lashed out, back-handing Saark across the platform in a flurry of limbs. He rolled fast and lay drooling blood, stunned. Kell attacked, but the canker snarled, ducking a sweep of the axe and slamming both claws into Kell's face, knocking the old warrior back. Kell went down on one knee, and the canker reared up, grinning down through strings of saliva and blood-oil – then turned, head twisting, focusing on Saark who had crawled to his knees, eyes narrowed.

  "Don't you recognise me, Saark?"

  "Yeah. I reckon you look like my dad."

  "Truly? You cannot see my human flesh… the woman I used to be?"

  Saark scowled, crawling to his feet, rapier extended amidst soiled lace ruffs. Then, he frowned, and his head moved and eyes locked with Kell. He breathed out, and staggered as if struck from behind. "No," he said, and moved closer to the canker. "It cannot be."

  "I was a woman once, Saark." The canker settled down, a clawed and bestial hand moving back to the wound in its flank, and pushing spilled muscle into the cramped cavity. "They chose me… because of my association with you. Because… once we were…"

  "No!" screamed Saark, and images flowed like molten honey through a brain twisted with rage and horror and disbelief. For this was Aline, an early love of his life, his childhood sweetheart. They had spent months wandering the pretty woodlands south of Vor, making love in shadowed glades beside burbling brooks, carving their names in the Tower Oak, words entwined in a neatly carved love-heart, whispering promises to one another, sneaking through cold castle corridors on secret love trysts – the stuff of young love, of passionate adventure; the honour of the naive. But it was never meant to be. Aline was cousin to royalty, and her arranged marriage and fate were sealed by a father with huge gambling debts and a need to secure more land and income. Their parting had been swift, bitter, and involved five soldiers holding a sharp dagger to Saark's throat. He still had a narrow white scar there, and his battered fingers came up to touch the place now. Through words choked with emotion, he said, more quietly than he intended, "Aline, it cannot be you."

  "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.