Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  "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 vachine. 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.

  "That hurt," he said, eventually.

  "There is a taint on this one," said the ghost, pointing to Saark but talking to Kell.

  "Aye. I know. But he's with me."

  "It runs bone deep," said the ghost, and Saark froze as he realised what she meant. His infection. His bad blood. His newly acquired and gradually transforming nature. What had Kell said? He'd killed vachine for these creatures? So they were enemies, and she knew Saark for what he was – or at least, what he would become.

  "He's still with me," said Kell, staring at the apparition and, with his traditional stubborn streak, refusing to back down. Eventually, the tall, dark lady gave a single nod, and glided away, disseminating as she moved into spirals of black light which eventually whirled, and were gone.

  "What a bitch," breathed Saark, releasing a pentup breath.

  "Halt your yapping, puppy, lest I cut off your head!" snapped Kell, and strode forward, leading his horse.

  Saark clamped his teeth tight shut, and followed Kell. Behind him, Mary brayed, and Saark scowled. To his ears, it was an abrasive, mocking, equine jibe, and if there was one thing Saark hated, it was being laughed at by a donkey.

  They emerged into the courtyard before the twisted, disjointed, deformed keep. Behind them, the tunnel was dark as the void, sour as a corpse. Saark breathed cool ice air, and thanked the gods he was alive – and not just alive, but with his affliction still his own.

  Kell was panting, and they looked up at the sky in wonder. Hours had passed, and strange coloured starlight rimed the frozen mountains and peaks.

  "Grandad!" screamed Nienna, and sprinted across ice-slick cobbles from the doorway of a small, stone building. She leapt at him, wrapping herself around the old warrior and he hugged her, buried his face in her hair and inhaled her scent and welcomed her warmth, and her love, for without Nienna, Kell was a bad man, a weak man, a lesser man; a dilution. With her, he was whole again. Filled with honour, and love, and an understanding of what made life and the world so good.

  Kell dropped Nienna to the cobbles, and she half turned as Myriam appeared at the doorway. Myriam gave Kell a curt nod, eyes bright, head high, proud and wary and strong despite the cancer eating through her. She gave a smile, but it was an enigmatic smile and Kell could not read her intent. She looked past Kell, to Saark, and he saw her eyes glow a little.

  "How are you feeling, dandy man?"

  "Better now your knife is no longer in my guts. But be warned, Myriam, your time on this planet is finite. You made an enemy of me for life; one day, I will slit your throat."

  "But not now?" She moved forward, still athletic despite her gauntness. "Why not, Saark? What's stopping you? The poison which eats Kell even as we speak?"

  "Enough!" bellowed Kell, and stomped forward, loosening Ilanna and swinging the great axe wide. For a moment only fear shone like bright dark flames in Myriam's eyes, then she shook her head and strode forward to meet him. If nothing else, she had spirit, and courage enough to match her cunning and evil.

  Myriam halted before Kell, and looked into the huge warrior's eyes. She was tall, and proud, and she matched Kell for height. "Do you want to live, Kell, or do you want to die?"

  "I don't die easy," he growled.

  "You never answered the question."

  "Where's the antidote?"

  "Close by. However, I have another insurance policy I need to show you; otherwise, what's to stop you cutting me in half with that huge axe? Ilanna, she's called, isn't she?" Myriam smiled, then, and Kell did not like the smile. There was knowledge there, but more. There was an intimacy.

  "You are playing games," said Kell. He glanced over to Nienna. "Did this woman hurt you, girl?"

  "No, grandfather. And much as I hate to say it, she saved my life. Styx wanted to rape me, and kill me. Myriam murdered him. Jex left."

  Kell nodded, and leaned in close to Myriam, aware her hand was on her sword hilt but knowing, as he had always known, that he could cut her in two before she cleared weapon from scabbard. "You play a dangerous game," he said, threat inherent in his tone.

  "Yes. The game of life and death. And I choose life. And so should you. Don't be a hero, Kell. Don't be a jangling, bell-adorned capering village idiot."

  "I say kill her," said Saark, and he moved closer, his slender rapier drawn. There was a quiet, dormant rage bubbling beneath the surface of his foppishness. "If we let her live, she'll stab us in the back. Again. And this place isn't so big; we can find the antidote to the poison."

  "Stab you in the back?" laughed Myriam. She focused on Saark. "I'd save that pleasure only for you, my sweet." She smiled, easily.

  Saark growled. Kell held up a hand. "Enough." He focused on Myriam. "You have bought a tr
uce for now. I will take you through the mountains. But the poison is seeping through my system. If I do not have the cure soon, I will be useless. And the Black Pike Mountains is no place where a warrior should be useless."

  "I will give it to you – soon," breathed Myriam, calmer now that imminent threat was gone. But she knew; Kell was like a caged lion, one moment passive, submissive even, the next a raging feral beast. "But first, you must see this." She lifted her hand, then, and turned it so her palm faced upwards. Across her skin danced a tiny flame, and the flame grew until it was an inferno of silver flames all contained on the palm of her hand. The flames twisted and curled, and then formed themselves into a vision. In the tiny, glittering scene Kell stood on a high mountain pass, with Nienna behind him, cowering against frozen rocks. Saark was nowhere to be seen. Huge beasts loped forward, their fur white, their fangs terrible. They were snow lions, there were three of them, and they were mighty, their fur bright white, three males with bushy manes and yellow eyes. Kell roared and charged the snow lions, and claws smashed aside his axe. In the scene, the third lion circled Kell, leaping nimbly up the rocks and then dropping down before Nienna. She screamed, her scream tiny and a million miles away. The lion grinned, and lunged for her, but Myriam rushed past, her sword sticking into the lion and making it rear, blood gushing from a savage throat-wound and spraying bright crimson against snow and fur. The lion stumbled back, and went over the cliffs – and in the tiny vision, Myriam took Nienna in her arms and cuddled the terrified girl.

  Slowly, the image faded, and Myriam closed her hand.

  "You are a magicker!" gasped Saark, taking several steps back. "A witch!"

  "Nothing so dramatic," snapped Myriam, scowling. "But I have certain prophetic skills. I may not be able to use magick for pain and destruction, as some can and do; but I see things. This was my vision. And yours, too."

  "Clever," said Kell, face dark.

  "If you kill me, then the lion kills Nienna." Myriam tilted her head. "You see how the puzzle pieces are coming together? To make a whole?"