Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 10

Kell stared at his daughter, and slowly, without taking his eyes off the tall female vampire, he reached down and hoisted Nienna to her feet.

"Mother!" she gasped.

Sara stared at Kell, glanced at Nienna, sneered, and turned back to Kell. "You are looking old, Bastard Father. Soon, soon you will be dead. Sooner, if I have my way."

Kell glanced at Saark. "Go and get chains. And shackles." He stared hard at Sara. "Better make them strong ones."

Saark nodded, and eased through the fortress gates.

"You're looking well," said Kell, staring up at his vampire daughter. She rolled her neck, as if easing tension, and smoothed her hands down her black dress. Then she looked at the bonds restraining her hands. They were tight, and blood bubbled around the rope and thin wires, which bit into her flesh.

"I am weak. These fools put a pitchfork in my back. Right through me! The bastards. But soon, when I am strong, I will return the favour!" She turned and hissed at the men, who backed hurriedly away from the cart, lifting their weapons in a parody of defence.

Kell realised, then: Sara had been weakened during a fight in which she killed forty men and women. She had been restrained. But soon, soon she would snap the wires like cotton thread. She had let them take her; so she could rest. Recuperate. To sleep the sleep of the vampire – like an injured hound licking its wounds, waiting, waiting…

Suddenly Kell leapt atop the cart so he was inches from Sara, and Ilanna was between them and she hissed when she saw the axe, and scrambled back as far as the bindings would allow.

"You remember my axe?" said Kell, voice deep, eyes fixed on Sara. The second vampire started to rise, but Kell waved Ilanna at her. At it. "Stay down, or I'll cut off your pissing head, I swear! There's no healing a wound like that!" He returned to Sara. "Not even for you, daughter of mine."

"It is a shame it came to this," she said, and licked her lips, showing sharp fangs.

"Indeed," said Kell, gaze locked. "Because now I'm going to have to kill you."

"Please, no," and suddenly she was pleading, voice soft, aggression gone and she dropped to her knees. "I will pray to you, great Kell, Kell the Legend, and I will do your bidding."

Kell gave a mocking laugh. "Like you prayed to your god? And look what he did for you, Sara. He cursed you! He made you like this! The gods? Bah! A curse on all their hairy arses! And all for what? The pain you caused Nienna with your hard ways, your religious learning, your pious necessities. Well, now she is my ward." Kell dropped to his own knees, so they were once again facing each other. His words came out in a low growl. "And you will serve. Or you will die."

"I will serve," said Sara, head low. She glanced at Ilanna.

"Look well on the blades," said Kell, and then climbed down from the cart as Saark approached with shackles. "For vampire or no, they will tear out your soul and devour it. This, you know. This, you have seen."

Saark secured the shackles on ankles and feet, and using a small ratchet tool, cranked them tight until Sara gave a howl and glanced at him, sharply, as if imprinting his face in her mind for future reference.

Kell lifted Nienna to her feet. "Come on, girl. This place is too painful for you."

"What will you do to her?"

"I will not kill her, if that's what you think."

"I… I love her, Kell. She is my mother, no matter all her faults. No matter her poisonous gossip, her forcefed opinions, her casual hate. I have to love her. No matter what she's done. That's why she's my mother."

"I know that, love."

"How did she become like this? What happened?"

And as they passed through the gates, into the dark and brooding shadows, Kell whispered, "I don't know, girl. I just don't know."

Kell slept badly. His dreams were dark flashes of black, violet and blood red. In his last dream, he dreamt he awoke and it felt real, felt like it was happening and Sara was there, inches from his throat, and she laughed and hissed and her jaws dropped, fangs puncturing his skin and Kell screamed and thrashed but she pinned him down, her strength incredible and unreal as Kell kicked and kicked and kicked, and felt his lifeblood sucked from him, sucked from his gaping throat. Sara would rise above him, dripping blood and grinning in absolute madness – and Kell sat up with a shout, a snap of jaws, and then glared across at Saark lounging in a chair beside his bed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Good morning to you, Kell."

"What the fuck is that smell?"

"It's perfume. Hint of Venison."

"Hint of what, lad?"

"Er, venison." Saark suddenly looked a touch uncertain.

"So, you're telling me you're wearing a perfume that stinks like a charging, honking stag?"

"No, no, it's more a suggestion of an aura of power, over which all women will stumble erotically when they enter the room."

Kell stared at him. "Either that, or they're knocked down by the stench and buggered unconscious by a group of rampant drunk nobility! Ha, Saark, it smells like rancid bowels on a ten-week battlefield. So I hope you don't want a good morning kiss, 'cos I fear I've got kitten breath something chronic!"

"Not at all, my sweetness," he said between clenched teeth. "I just dropped by to check up on you. Brought you some coffee, and here," he lifted a plate from the floor. "Compliments of Myrtax."

Kell uncovered a large tin plate filled with bacon, sausage, four eggs and fried mushrooms. Kell gawped. "By all the gods, that's a breakfast fit for a King!"

"Or certainly a fat bastard, more like. But you eat it all up, Kell, get some strength in you, then we need to talk about what's to be done."

Kell lifted mushrooms on his fork, chewed, looked almost euphoric, then snapped, "What's to be done? Eh? What do you mean, laddie?"

"Well, I refer to the next stage of your thrilling plan. I am curious."

Kell stared at his friend, who had taken the entire previous evening, late though it was, to bathe, sprinkle himself with perfume and a light dusting of make-up from Myrtax's wife's quarters. The Chaos Hounds only knew which wardrobe he'd raided – now he wore a pink silk shirt, ruffed with lace at collar and cuffs, and bulbous green silk pantaloons the like of which Kell had never seen. He also wore yellow shoes, polished to a bright vomit shine.

"Listen. I'll have my breakfast," said Kell, uncertainly, still stunned by Saark's garish wardrobe. "You go and gather all the armourers and smithy labourers together. Meet me down the Smith House with them, in about… twenty minutes. That's if they haven't kicked your head in first."

"Meaning?"

"You look like a peacock."

"Yes. Well. 'Tis hardly a fair division of work, I feel," said Saark, pouting. "And I did bring you breakfast."

"Eh? Well, I tell you what, next time I'm up to my neck in gore from the killing, I'll make sure you get your fair share of the fight as well. Agreed, Saark?"

"Point taken. Twenty minutes, you say?"

"Good man! Go knock 'em out."

And for the first time in what felt like years, Kell focused on one thing and one thing only. Gorging himself on a fine fried breakfast. He tried hard to shut out the shouts, laughter and whistles as Saark moved gaily through the old prison grounds, but could not help himself. Kell grinned like a lunatic.

The armourers were a bunch of huge, heavily muscled men – numbering perhaps forty in total, with one single exception. A small, weedy looking man standing almost swallowed by the wall of blackened, bulging flesh. They wore the universal uniform of smithies the world over: colourless leather pants, heavy work boots, and most went bare-chested, a few with leather aprons. The small man was the only one smiling.

"Look at him," nodded Saark, and nudged Kell in the ribs with his elbow. "Stands out like a flower on a bucket of turds."

"I'd keep your voice down if I was you," said Kell. "Smithies are not known for their fine tempers and happy chatter. You liken them to horse-shit, next minute you'll be trampled in it, mate."

"Point taken. Point taken."

"Right, lads," said Kell, standing with huge hands on hips. "You all know what's happening here, so I reckon I'll cut to the shit. We'll be going into battle. All the men here will be fighting men, and they'll need weapons, light armour, and shields."

"Won't we move faster without armour and shields?"

"Ha. Maybe. But we certainly won't live as long against… them. Now, I know you have great stores of iron and steel here in the mines. Have you any gold?"

The small man lifted his hand. "I believe there are several bags of coin in Governor Myrtax's underground vault. He kept a certain mint for King Leanoric. We found some large lodes down in the mines, you see. Way deep down, in the dark, where fear of collapse is greatest."

"Good. Good." Kell scratched his chin. "We'll need that to pay the lads. But with regards warfare, this is what I need. Short stabbing swords for close combat. Maybe only," he parted his hands, "this long. I want round shields with rimmed edges, so they can be hooked together, locked together to repel a charge. I need long heavy spears, maybe twice as heavy as you'd normally make, and arrows – I want iron shafts with slim heads."

"They'll be heavy for the archers to fire," said a big man, with thunderous brows, shoulders like an ox, and a certain distinct look of eagles about him.

"Yes," nodded Kell, "but they'll also have a lot more impact. And believe me, we'll need that for these vampire bastards. They'll take some killing, if they're anything like their dirty, blood-sucking vachine brethren."

"Steady on, Kell," said Saark, sounding a little injured.

"Just telling it how it is."

"The men who came in last night," said the large smith. "They said three vampires wiped out near forty of their friends. They managed to kill one, and after a long struggle they captured the other two. That means these creatures are pretty brutal, if you ask me."

Kell nodded. "They're brutal, I reckon. But they also prey on naivety. If we know what we're fighting, and we know how to kill 'em, and we have some protection – I reckon we can take the fight to them. Another thing we need," he looked around to check he wasn't overheard, "we need steel collars."

"Like a dog collar?"

"Aye. Only these stop the bastards getting their fangs in your throat. You understand?"

"How thick do you want them?"

"About half a thumb-length."

"They'll be uncomfortable. Chafing, like."

"Not as uncomfortable as having your throat torn out and strewn across Valantrium Moor."

"I take your point. Although I'm not sure the men will wear them."

"They will. And those that won't, when they see a friend spewing blood they'll soon change their minds."

"What's the best way to kill these vampires?" asked the small man.

Kell jabbed his thumb towards Saark. "Lads. This is Saark. He's an, er, an expert on the vachine, and indeed, that makes him more of an expert on the Vampire Warlords than any of us could ever be. Any more questions about killin' 'em, ask Saark here. I know he looks like an accident in a tart's parlour, but he knows his stuff. I'm off, I need to speak to my daughter."

" Kell! " snapped Saark, frowning.

"What is it, lad?"

"You're leaving me here? With these?"

"Hey, you chose to dress like a sweat-slippery whore in a disreputable tavern." Kell grinned, and slapped Saark on the back. "Don't worry, lad! If they bugger you rancid, I'll hear the screams and come running to your rescue!"

"Kell!"

"Just remember, some of these blokes have been locked up for years without a quim as tasty as yours."

"Kell, my entire sense of humour has gone!"

"Good. Because now is not the time for jokes; now is the time for killing. Tell them what you know, and tell them well. One day soon, our lives will rest on these men."

Saark swallowed, and turned, and looked at the forty hefty labourers with dark eyes under dark brows. A cold wind howled down from the mountains, and from the corner of his eye Saark observed Kell stride away. What a bastard. A bastard's bastard.

One of the smiths stepped forward. His two front teeth were missing, and his forearms were as wide as Saark's thighs. "Is that really a pink silk shirt you're wearing, boy?" he rumbled, voice so deep it was like an earthquake beneath the Black Pikes.

Saark drew his rapier. He smiled. "Gentlemen. Allow me to begin your education," he said.

• • • •

As Kell strode across the rocky earth towards the cells built into the mountainside, Governor Myrtax joined him, jogging a little to keep up with Kell's warrior stride.

"They will work for you?"

"Aye," said Kell. He stopped, and looked across to the smaller man. "I want you to oversee production. I want as many labourers as possible helping make armour and weapons and shields. When we go into battle, each man must have the best, for the fight will be savage indeed."

"Do you think we can win?"

Kell looked Myrtax straight in the eye. "No," he said.

"Then why fight?"

"Why indeed."

"This is insane, Kell! Madness! You say these Vampire Warlords are all-powerful. I saw those vampires the men from Jalder brought in; and they killed forty people! We cannot stand against such odds."

"But it matters that we stand," said Kell, his voice low. "Now tell me, what did you do with Jagor Mad?"

Myrtax pointed. "He's in those cells over there. With the other bastard so-called Governors. Why? Are you going to kill him?" There was a strange gleam in Myrtax's eye that Kell did not like. Kell grimaced.

"No. I need his help."

"His… help?" Myrtax's voice had gone up several octaves. "He'll not help you, Kell, unless it's to throw you in the furnace. He hates you with every ounce of his flesh."

"We'll see. First, I'm going to see my daughter."

"I'll come with you."

Kell stopped again, and turned. "No, Governor. Go to Saark. Help him organise the smiths. Saark is a canny lad, but he's little experience with metallurgy – or indeed, the instruction of people. Especially men. He tends to rile them the wrong way, admittedly by trying to sleep with their wives and virgin daughters, but still. Go. Help me, Myrtax. I cannot do this alone."

The Governor nodded, and hurried off, one hand on his robust and well-fed belly.

Kell continued to walk, glancing up at the skies, a huge pastel canvas of white, ochre and deep slate. Distant, heavy clouds vied for sovereignty. They threatened more snow against the world of Men.

Reaching the cell, Kell saw Sara was alone. The two vampires had been separated through basic mistrust. A wise choice. She watched Kell approach, eyes yellow and narrow, but she did not move from where she lay on the floor, curled like a lizard on a rock in the sun.

Kell sat down an arm's length from the bars, and placed his chin on his fist.

"Sara. What am I going to do with you, eh girl?"

"Knowing you, you'll use that great axe to cut off my head!"

"You are vampire-kind now. Maybe that would be a kindness?"

"My master will find you!" she hissed, suddenly, and leapt at the bars, claws raking out. Kell stayed motionless, and the sharp points of her talons skimmed the end of his nose. For a few moments Sara thrashed and hissed, trying to get to him, to his throat, to his jugular, to spill his blood and drag him like torn offal into her cage where she could gorge and feed… but she could not reach. Kell had judged his distance well. Gradually, she subsided, glancing at him like a sulky child.

"Your master is Kuradek the Unholy?"

"Yes."

"And he has taken Jalder?"

"Go to Hell!"

"You're already there, girl. Help me!"

Kell and Sara stared at one another.

"You know nothing about how I feel," she snapped, eventually, and Kell sat back a little, listening. She eyed him warily. "You were a bad man, Kell. I know your secrets. My mother told me all about you, before she… died." Her eyes narrowed. "And even that event is shrouded by mystery, is it not, great Legend?"

"What happened during the Days of Blood, happened," said Kell, softly. "I am not proud of myself. Not proud of my actions. But I tell you now, there's no need to bring your mother into this. You have reason enough to hate me yourself."

"I can still feel the handprint," she hissed, jabbing a finger at Kell. "Here!" She placed a hand against her face. "It burns me, like a brand, making me a slave to the Great Man, the Great Hero, ha ha! If only the people of Falanor knew the real Kell. The bastard. The wife-beater. The child-beater."

"It was not like that," said Kell, darkly.

"Oh, but it was! You see, it's all about perspective, it's all about purity, and you had neither, you fucking old bastard. You turned on us. All of us. And not just your family, your King and country! Don't you remember? Or has the whiskey rotted your mind as well as your fucking teeth?"

"It was not like that," growled Kell, and his fists clenched. He forced himself to stay calm. "That is in the past. Now, Sara, we must talk about the present."

"What? About how you'll beat my little girl? Nienna never did see past your mask, did she, the little fool. Dragged in by the stories of glory, dragged in by the myth but not the man. I'm surprised you haven't bruised her yet, Kell. Or maybe you have. I'm amazed she's still walking in a straight line. It was my leg you broke though, silly me for forgetting."

"Still the acid tongue, I see," snapped Kell. "Just like your mother! There are bigger things at stake here, now, in this time. Like Falanor! Like the world!"

"Pah! Like you give a damn about anything but your own horse-shit ego and petty desires. Can't you see, Kell, I am part of something bigger, now, part of something powerful! I am strong, Kell. I could take you, in battle, I could rip your arms from their sockets and piss on your face as you stumbled slipping in the mud." Her eyes were gleaming, cheeks flushed in triumph. "Go on Kell, let me out, let me show you! Or are you still the pathetic, weak, moaning coward you always were?"

"Tell me of Kuradek."

Sara laughed. "What would you like to know? He controls Jalder. We have turned, between us, many thousands into vampires! There is little of the resistance left."

"So they did resist you? That's good. Their spirits still live."

"No! It is foolish! Kuradek is Master, he is incredibly powerful and he knows you, Kell, oh yes he knows you, he remembers you from Helltop and he has sworn to hunt you down, to change you into one of us! Imagine it, Kell, imagine how powerful you would be! Increased strength, speed, and you could never die!"

"You die," snapped Kell. "You die just like everybody else. All we need do is cut off your head, or ram a sword through your necrotic heart."

Sara went quiet.

"You forget," said Kell. "I know your kind."

"You hunted vachine," sneered Sara. "They are weak, spineless, mechanised with their pathetic ticking clockwork! They are an aberration of the pure; they are the weak, the diseased, the freaks." She chuckled. "The vachine are a corruption."

"I hunted vachine," said Kell, and met Sara's gaze. "But I hunted your kind, too. Me. And Ilanna. Do not think I haven't killed true vampires. It was a long time ago, but I remember the taste like it was yesterday."

"Impossible! Vampires were extinct until the Vampire Warlords returned!"

Kell shook his head. "Oh no," he said, eyes glittering. "You are so wrong, with your little mind from little Falanor. You never did travel, did you Sara? Never saw the world and all its mysteries. Well I did. I saw enough to make any sane man crazy. And that's why I know… I know your Master, Kuradek, Kuradek the Unholy – if I kill him, if I remove his head, then I may save all those he has tainted with his evil."

Sara remained silent, staring at him. Eventually, she said, "How could you know that?"

"I do," growled Kell. "Because I have seen things you people could never comprehend. I have walked the dark magick paths to the Chaos Halls. Do you think the Vampire Warlords are the only creatures touched by evil? Sara. I have done… many, sobering things. I believe I am touched by darkness. But I am trying to be good. Trying so hard."

"Well don't! Don't fight it! Come with me, come to Kuradek! He does not want you dead, Kell, he wants you as his General! He knows your power, he knows what you and he could do together! You could overthrow the other Vampire Warlords! You could rule the world! We could be together again… father. We could walk the roads again, father."

Kell had lowered his head. Now his eyes lifted, and there were tears on his bearded cheeks.

"You would take me back?" he said, voice a husky low growl. "After all that I did? To you and your mother?"

"Yes! We could be a family again."

Kell stood, and turned his back to Sara. She stood, in her cage of rock and iron, and stepped forward, grasping the bars. "Come with me, Kell. Come to Kuradek. He waits for you!"

Kell turned back. His knuckles were white around Ilanna. "I'll go to him all right. I'll cut his puking head from his shoulders!"

"No, Kell, no! Wait!" but Kell was striding away, across the rocks, to the cell which held Jagor Mad.

Behind, in her cell, Sara sat cross-legged on the floor. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, and the feeling of Kuradek filled her, filled every muscle and every atom. She seemed to float, and she breathed deeply, and the world took on a surreal quality, a haze of witch-light, clouds rushing across the skies, dark ghosts walking the rocks beyond her cell like jagged, black cut-outs, holes in the raw core of the Chaos Halls.

"You did well," hissed Kuradek.

"I failed you."

"No. You gave him something to think about."

"He will come for you."

"Yes. And I will be waiting."

"He will try and kill you."

"Yes. But I am all-powerful. He will crumble. Like dust between my claws."

"Are you sure?"

Hundreds of miles away, on his throne in the Blue Palace at Jalder, Kuradek opened his dark crimson eyes and smiled. "Yes, my sweet," he said, smoke oozing from his mouth, skin writhing with corrupt religious symbols that squirmed as if fighting to be free of his dark-smoke skin. "They always do."

Kell's mood could be described as a thunderous rage as he approached Jagor Mad's cell. The three men who had called themselves the new Governors of the Black Pike Mines were sat together, eyes sullen, faces lost to despair. They were awaiting execution. The atmosphere was sombre.

Kell stopped by the bars, and gestured to the two guards who held long spears and wore short stabbing swords over kilts of steel. "Open it."

"But… Governor Myrtax said…"

"Governor Myrtax does what I tell him, laddie!" barked Kell, employing a parade ground bellow that once made many a Command Sergeant piss his pants.

"Yes, yes sir," snapped one guard, shaking as he fumbled keys and unlocked a three bar gate, swinging it wide from its slot in the mountain wall.

"Jagor Mad. Step free."

"What do you want?" said the big man, voice husky and low, his face still battered and bruised from their fight. Jagor stepped from his confinement, squinting at the bright daylight, and he stretched his huge frame. His throat was heavily bruised, huge welts showing where the rope had savagely burned him.

"I want your help," said Kell, folding his arms.

"Why would I help you?"

Kell drew Ilanna from his back, glanced at the twin black blades, and hefted her against his chest. "You help me, or I execute you now. Right here. On this fucking spot."

Jagor Mad considered this, and a finger lifted, touching the marks at his throat. "Seems like a fair choice. I'll help you. But don't be asking me to fucking sing and dance."

Kell grinned. "No, I have something far more fun than that planned." He turned to the guard. "Give Jagor your sword."

"What?"

"Are you deaf, lad, or shall I unblock your ears with my axe?"

"No need to be rude," grumbled the guard, and handed Jagor Mad the sword. Jagor took the weapon, face showing a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "What's happening here, Kell?" he murmured.

"Follow me."

"You wish to battle?"

"No, Jagor, you big dumb fool! These vampire bastards threaten the whole of Falanor! I want you alive, because you're a big hard bastard, and I'll not waste a man like you just because you were fighting for your freedom! I respect that. I respect your anger, your fire, and your fucking brutality! You were born to fight, Jagor, not be locked in a cage, not to hang from the gallows. Well, I'm giving you the chance to earn redemption."

"What do you want me to do?"

"There is a place. A hidden place. Where the last of the Blacklipper Kings reside, after their brother was killed by the vachine known as Vashell. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"I know."

"Can you take me to this place?"

"It is a closely guarded secret amongst the Blacklippers," said Jagor Mad, carefully.

"We are all threatened here," said Kell, eyes glittering. "I need the help of the Blacklippers. I hunted them for decades, aye, and I am their sworn enemy. But now, I am like a brother compared to the nightmare in the dark."

Jagor stared hard into Kell's eyes. He lowered his sword. "I will take you. But they will kill you, old man. With no remorse."

Kell grinned. "I don't die easy," he said.

Kell strode up to Saark, who was sat on a stool eating a plate of sausages from his knees. He glanced up, then leapt up spilling his plate and knocking over his tankard as he saw Jagor Mad looming behind Kell. Saark grappled for his rapier, shouting, "Look out, Kell, he's behind you!"

Kell patted Saark on the arm. "I know, lad, I know. I brought him here."

"What? What? " snapped Saark, spitting and dribbling sausage everywhere.

"He's coming with me. To help me."

"Where are we going all of a sudden?" said Saark, lifting and picking his sausages from the snow with a curse and a dirty glance. "I thought you said we had an army to train?"

"Yes. You have an army to train. I have a problem to solve."

"What problem, what the hell are you talking about? And army? Me train an army? You have to be sky-high out of your fucking donkey skull if you think I'm capable of training a bloody army!"

"You were a soldier, weren't you?" said Kell, and nodded to Grak who appeared, carrying a newly forged steel collar in his powerful hands. Grak stopped, and put his hands on his hips, grinning.

"I was King Leanoric's Sword Champion," said Saark, looking injured, "if that's what you mean?"

"There you go. You were in the army. That's good enough for me. That's all settled then."

"Now wait a minute," said Saark, "I was a commissioned officer, I didn't rough it with the scum in the barracks," he glanced at Grak, and Jagor, and swallowed, "no offence meant, I was in the High Court watching the jesters and eating venison and lobster from silver platters! I was attending the buxom serving wenches and bestowing gifts of fine silver jewellery on nobility! I wasn't eating bloody beans from a pan and scrubbing my boots! I had servants for that sort of thing! Peasants! Like… well, like you…" He stopped.

Grak gave a cough, and slapped Saark on the back, a slap so hard he nearly pitched Saark to the ground. "Don't worry, lad. I'll help you! Grak the Bastard by name, Grak the Bastard by nature. I won't let no fancy big-titted silver-wearing venison-stuffed ladies get in the way of you training the lads. Right?"

"Er, right," said Saark, weakly, and seemed to physically slump.

"After all, if all our lives rest on your scrawny shoulders, I think you're going to need some help. Right?"

"Right."

"I mean, if we're going into battle to face a terrible foe, a foe who is savage and brutal, knows no remorse, is stronger than us, faster than us, more brutal than we could ever imagine – well, we'd be idiots to let a dandy moron train us without any experience or skills, wouldn't we?"

"Er. Yes."

They stared at each other. "Not that I'm saying you're a moron," explained Grak, helpfully, and roared with laughter.

Saark stared at the carrots stuck in Grak's beard, and shook his head. He threw Kell a nasty glance. "So, Leg end, what wonderful little jaunt are you going to be enjoying whilst I get stuck here with three thousand condemned convicts, nary a beautiful woman in sight, and food so bad even Mary would turn up her muzzle in disgust?"

"I'm going to the Valleys of the Moon," said Kell, smiling and nodding.

"What?" said Saark, and placed a hand on one hip in what could only be described as an effeminate stance. "The Valleys of the Moon don't exist! Leanoric hunted for them, for thirty years, after his father had damn well given up!"

"It's said you have to be a mystic to enter," said Kell, cryptically.

"And I suppose you qualify, do you?"

Kell shrugged. "I have three thousand soldiers here. Or I will have, when you complete their training. I need more. It's not enough to take Jalder, or indeed, any of the other cities. The vampires are savage. And the Army of Iron is disciplined, that's for sure. They also rely on magick. We need the magick of the Blacklippers."

"Pah, what are you talking about? Have you been on the whiskey again?"

"It's true," rumbled Jagor, stepping forward. Saark looked again at the sword in his huge hands. It looked like a child's toy. Saark swallowed, for he was within striking distance and Kell seemed extremely laid back. As if he had nothing in the world to worry about.

"Which bit? The fact the Valleys of the Moon don't exist, or the fact that you have to be a village idiot invested with the dribbling liquid brain of a certifiable peasant to even want to look for such a mythical artefact?"

"No. It exists," said Jagor. "I have been there."

"And you're a mystic, are you?" scoffed Saark, examining the lace ruff of his sleeve.

"I surely am," rumbled Jagor, eyes flashing dangerously dark. "Watch. I can mystically transfer this short sword into the middle of your head."

"Point taken," prickled Saark, and turned his attention to Kell. "But seriously, Kell, think about it. You know I like to gamble, drink the finest wines, suckle the most succulent foods, dance like a peacock and fuck like a stallion. All the sensible things in life, my man. I've never trained an army in my life! You'd be insane to entrust me with such an important directive!"

Kell loosened his axe, and in a sudden movement swung the blade for Saark's head. Saark rolled back, fast, faster than any human had a right to move. His rapier was out, and he'd grabbed up the stool on which he was seated and hoisted it as a makeshift shield. He'd also moved, imperceptibly, so his back was against the wall of the fortress.

Kell grinned. "You see? Defence, stance, back to the wall, and you shifted so that you could attack all three of us, not knowing from whence the next strike would come." Kell sheathed Ilanna. Saark scowled. "It's all intuitive. You'll do just fine, lad. Just teach them about the strength of shield walls, the tactical advantage of a solid fighting square and how to respond in formation to commands. Get them practising. That's what I need. That's what you must do. Lives depend on it, Saark. All our lives."

"Bloody great," mumbled the dandy.

"As I said," roared Grak, "the bastard here will help. I've trained soldiers before. Just see yourself as the commissioned officer, and me as your finely honed tool."

"There's only one finely honed tool around here," mumbled Saark, but forced a smile. "Very well. If train men I must, then train men I must! We will turn back the tide of these evil vampires! Hurrah!" He flourished his rapier. Everybody stared at him.

"But don't think you can sit on your arse and do nothing," said Grak, amiably.

"Er. That's something like what I had in mind. You said yourself, you've trained men before."

"Aye, but I won't put up with slothful bastards. I put my foot down, I do."

"I take it by your story and demeanour, young Grak, that something untoward happened to your last Commanding Officer?"

"Aye. I cut off his hand."

"By accident?"

"Well, it was his accident to be damn disrespectful about the men whilst I was chopping wood."

"I thought you said you killed your General?" interjected Kell.

"Aye, him as well. Why do you think I'm here?"

Saark stared at Kell. "Please?" he mouthed, silently.

Kell turned his back on the dandy, and slapped Jagor Mad on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoe to do so. "Come on, lad. Our horses are waiting."

"How long will you be?" said Saark, in what bordered on a useless puppy whine.

"A week, I reckon," said Kell, and glanced back. "Don't let me down on this, Saark. You understand?"

"Yes, Kell."

"And Saark?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for Sara. She's a wily bitch. I think she communes with Kuradek, so I'd limit what she can see, hear and do. She can spy bloody everything from that cell you put her in."

"Perhaps you'd like me to put a bag over her head?"

"A brilliant idea! Just don't get too close to her claws."

"Yes," said Saark, weakly.

"And Saark?"

"Go on." He sighed. "What now?"

"Don't touch Nienna."

"Like I would dream!"

"I know all about your fucking dreams, lad. If you do it again, the next fight we have, vampire invasion or no, you'll be wearing your feet as souvenirs round your pretty slit throat."

"Any other advice?"

"Keep the men well fed, but work them hard."

Saark put his hands on his hips. "Any more fucking advice? Why the fuck are you leaving? Maybe you should write me a, y'know, short manuscript on the art of running a fucking soldier-camp full of scumbag convicts – no offence meant -"

"None taken," smiled Grak menacingly.

"- or maybe you should just do it yourself!"

"See you in a week."

Saark scowled as Kell and Jagor moved to the horses, the finest war chargers from Governor Myrtax's stables. Huge beasts of nineteen hands, one was a sable brown gelding, the other charcoal black. Kell mounted the black beast, which reared for a moment and silhouetted Kell against the weak winter sun.

Saark stared in wonder.

Kell calmed the gelding, patting its neck and whispering into its ear, and ducking low over the horse's neck, galloped off through the gates of the Black Pike Mines and out onto the snowy fields beyond, closely followed by the hulking figure of Jagor Mad dressed in bulky furs and standing in his stirrups, giving a final, menacing, backward glance.

"I hope he knows what he's doing," said Saark.

"I hope you do," said Grak, staring at him.

The gates closed on well-oiled hinges, and Saark glared at Grak with open hatred. "I'm going for a bath," he said.

Grak nodded, and watched the peacock strut away, hand on scabbard, a stray sausage stuck to the back of his silk leggings. Grak sighed, and stared up at the sky.

"The gods do like to challenge," he said, and headed for the barracks.

Kell and Jagor rode in silence for a long time. West they travelled, along a low line of foothills before the rearing, dark, ominous Black Pike Mountains. Both horses carried generous packs of provisions, and for a while Kell brooded on his last conversation with Nienna.

"I'll miss you, grandfather."

"And I you, little Nienna."

"I am little no longer," she laughed.

"You will always be a child to me."

He sensed, more than saw, her shift in mood.

"That's the problem, isn't it? You control. I heard what mother said, heard some of the things she accused you of; and I have seen you raise your hand to me on several occasions! You need to learn, grandfather, you need to get in tune with the modern way of thinking! I am a little girl no longer! Understand?"

"When I was a boy," said Kell, "a woman could not… meet with a man until she was twenty-five summers! You hear that? Twenty-five years old! And you are seventeen, a suckling child barely weaned from her mother's tit and still lusting after the stink of hot milk."

"How dare you! I can have children! I can drink whiskey! I am a woman, and men find me attractive. Who the hell are you to lecture me on keeping myself to myself? I worked it out, Kell. I'm not stupid. You were twenty when you sired my mother; and she was eighteen. Barely older than me! And I bet that wasn't the first time your child-maker had a bit of fun with her…"

Kell glared, and lifted Ilanna threateningly. "You need to learn to hold your tongue."

"Or what? You'll cut it out?"

Kell frowned now, as a cold wind full of snow whipped down from the mountains and blasted him with more ferocity than his memories allowed for. Or had he simply been tougher, during his youth? As the years passed, had he simply grown weak? More pampered? Relying more on his reputation than any real skill in battle?

Kell was troubled by Nienna, but aware that events were overtaking him fast. He knew Saark would destroy any training he hoped to give his fledgling army. And anyway – an army of bloody convicts? Kell would laugh so hard he would puke, if he could summon the stamina.

And just to make his life more miserable, filled with hardship, filled with pain, the poison injected into him by Myriam was starting to make its presence felt once more. It was a tingling in his bones. Especially the joints of his ankles, knees, elbows and wrists. "Damn that vachine bitch," he muttered.

"Are you well, old man? You look fit and ready to topple from the bloody saddle!" Jagor was grinning, but there was menace behind that grin. A low-level hatred.

"I'll last longer than you," grunted Kell, staring sideways at Jagor. "And don't be getting any fancy ideas. I ain't as fucking weak, nor as old, as you think."

Jagor held up both hands, as his horse picked its way through snowy tufts of grass. "Hey, I'm not complaining, Kell. Thing is, I wanted you dead so much – so bad. So bad it burned me like a horse-brand. Tasted like sour acid in my mouth. But when I was hanging by the throat, all I could see were bright lights and hear the voice of my little girl singing in the meadow. I knew I was going to die. I knew I would never see her again. And that hurt, Kell. Hurt more than any fucking noose. But then you cut me down, and saved me. And although that burned me in a different way, I have to concede you spared me. You kept me alive. And one day, if we're not massacred in the Valleys of the Moon, I might get to see that little girl again."

"I didn't know you had a little girl."

"Why would you?"

"I thought it might have come out at the trial."

Jagor Mad laughed. "I told them bastards nothing, you hear? Nothing. If they'd found out, they would have arrested Eilsha. The Bone Halls only know where my little one would have ended up. At least I spared them the pain of imprisonment."

Kell considered this, turning his head to the left as more snow whipped him, making him smart, and his eyes water. "I am confused, Jagor. You were part of a syndicate that used to kidnap children, and sell them into slavery? Yes? How could you do that, when you have your own little one?"

Jagor's face went hard. "We had to eat," he said, scowling.

"Would you have liked it, if another slaver took your girl?"

"That's different. I would have cut out his liver."

"And so now, you have the right to hang on to yours?"

"I didn't say what I did was right, Kell, and believe me as I lay in my cell night after night, week after week, year after bloody year, I cursed you for catching me, yes, but I cursed myself for my poor decisions in life. Once, I believe I was immoral. Above all those weak and petty emotions. Now, I have changed. At least a little." He gave a grim smile.

"I don't believe men change," said Kell, bitterly.

"So you're the same as during the Days of Blood?" Kell's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Oh yes, Kell, I have heard of your slaughter. You are legend amongst the Blacklippers – for all the wrong reasons."

Kell sighed, his anger leaving him as fast as it came. "You are right. And by my own logic, I am still a bloodthirsty, murdering savage. Maybe I am. I don't know. You can be the judge of that when we head into battle; for believe me when I say we have many a fight to come."

The night was drawing close, and they made a rough camp in the lee of a huge collection of boulders at the foot of the Black Pikes. Kell stretched a tarpaulin over them as a makeshift roof, which was fortunate as thick snow fell in the night.

Kell lay in the dark, listening to Jagor snoring. Pain nagged him like an estranged ex-wife, and it seemed to take an age for him to fall into sleep. He stared at the stars, twinkling, impossibly cold and distant, and thought about his dreams and aspirations. Then he smiled a bitter smile. What do the stars care for the dreams of men?

He awoke, cold and stiff, to the smell of coffee. He shivered, and looked up to see Jagor crouched by a small fire, boiling water in a pan, staring at him. Kell gritted his teeth. He had allowed himself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep; not an ideal situation when travelling with a certifiable killer.

"Coffee?" said Jagor, raising his eyebrows.

"Plenty of sugar," said Kell, and sat up, stretching. He was wrapped in a blanket, fully clothed, his boots by his side. Ilanna was by his thigh. She was never far from his grasp.

"You snore like a pig," said Jagor, pouring the brew.

Kell squinted. "Well, I ain't asking you to marry me."

Jagor laughed, and a little of their tension eased. "I like it that you snore, old man. Makes me think of you as human."

"Why, what did you think of me?"

"I thought you were a Chaos Hound," said Jagor, face serious, handing Kell the tin mug. "When you followed me down those tunnels to Old Gilrak, well, I knew then I was cursed, knew I was being pursued by something more than human. Hearing you fart in the night – well, old man, that's helping my mind heal."

"That's Saark's damn cooking, that is, the dandy bastard." Kell sipped his coffee. It was too sweet, but he didn't complain; rather too sweet than too bitter. Like life.

"He's a strange one, all right. What's with the pink silk, though? And green pants? And all that stink of a woman's perfume? Eh?"

"I think he thinks he's a noble."

"Is he?"

"Damned if I know," said Kell, and took the proffered oatcake.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Kell nodded, eating the oatcake and drinking more coffee. After a cold night under canvas, it was bringing him back to life; making him more human. "Go ahead."

"Why do you travel with him? You two seem… so different."

"Don't worry," growled Kell, "I'm not into that sort of thing."

"That's not what I meant," rumbled Jagor, reddening a little. "I mean, him with his long curly hair and fancy little rapier; you with your snoring and your axe. I wouldn't have thought you'd put up with him."

Kell considered this, finishing his coffee. "You're right, in a sense," he said. "Once was a time I couldn't have stood his stink, his talk, his letching after women or the sight of his tart's wardrobe. But we've been through some tough times together, me and Saark. I thought I saw him killed down near Old Skulkra, and I was ready to leave him for dead; but he showed me he was a tough, hardy and stubborn little bastard, despite appearances. I don't know. I like him. Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I've just killed one too many men, and like to talk and listen for a change, instead of charging in with the axe. Whatever. Saark's a friend, despite his odd ways. I ain't got many. And I'd kill for him, and I'd die for him."

Jagor nodded, and finished his coffee. "I think we should be moving."

"Aye. A long way to go, and already my arse feels like a fat man's been dancing on it."

"You never were a horseman, were you Kell?"

Kell grinned. "In my opinion, the only thing a horse is good for is eating."

Kell and Jagor Mad rode for another three days in more-or-less companionable silence. Jagor didn't speak about his capture all those years ago, or the recent incident with the noose; and Kell didn't mention the crossbow wound in his shoulder, nor the recent threat of murder. When they did talk, they spoke of old battles and the cities of Falanor, they talked of Kell's Legend, the saga poem, and how Kell hated his misrepresentation. As if he was a damned hero. Kell knew he was not.

Eventually, as they passed through folded foothills, past huge boulders and a random scattering of spruce and pine, Jagor stopped and looked to the right where the Black Peaks towered. His horse pawed the snow, and Kell's mount made several snorting sounds. The world seemed unnaturally silent. Eerie. Filled with ghosts.

"Easy, boy," said Kell, patting the horse's neck. Then to Jagor, "What is it?"

"We are close."

"To the Valleys of the Moon?"

"Aye."

Kell ran his gaze up and down the solid, looming walls of rock. "I see nothing."

"You have to know how to look. Follow me."

They rode on, and again Jagor reined his mount. He seemed to be counting. Then he pointed. "There."

Kell squinted. Snow was falling, creating a haze, but he made out a finger of smooth, polished granite no bigger than a man. "What is it?"

"A marker. Come on."

Jagor led the way; Kell followed and loosened Ilanna in her saddle-sheath. Then Jagor paused, and Kell saw another marker, and they veered right, between two huge boulders over rough ground; normally, Kell would have avoided the depression – it was a natural and instinctive thing to do whether on horseback or foot. It was too good a place for an ambush.

Jagor led the way between the boulders, and onto a flat path which led up, out of the tiny bowl. "Now look," he said.

Kell stared around, and Ilanna was in his hand as he glanced at Jagor. "I see nothing. Are you playing me for a fool?"

"Not at all, Kell. It's there." Jagor pointed, to the solid wall of jagged black granite.

"You're an idiot! That's impassable."

Jagor shook his head, and said, "Shift to the left. By one stride."

Kell shifted his mount, and as if by magick a narrow channel appeared before his eyes which led into the seemingly impassable rock face. Kell shifted his gelding again, and the passage slid neatly out of view, the rocky wall naturally disguising this narrow entrance. Kell stared hard. "By the Bone Halls, that plays tricks on a man's eyes."

"You have to know it's there. One footstep in either direction and the passage vanishes! As you say, like magick!"

"You lead the way."

"You still not trusting me?" Jagor Mad grinned, his brutal face looking odd with such an expression.

"I trust nobody," snapped Kell. "Take me to the Blacklippers. Take me to the Valleys of the Moon."

Saark stood in the snow and the churned mud, and his feet were freezing and he was scowling. The men had been divided into platoons of twenty, as he had watched King Leanoric do on so many occasions. Each platoon was commanded by a lieutenant, and five platoons made up a company ruled over by a captain.

They'd held a contest on the second day, in which crates, barrels and planks of wood had been assembled beside a pretend river. On the other side, behind upturned carts, archers with weak bows and blunt, flat-capped arrows were the enemy. Each platoon had to work together to "cross" the river and take the cart. The platoon which succeeded first would earn wine and gold.

Saark and Grak watched in dismay at first, as men squabbled and fought over planks and crates. But a young, handsome man, Vilias, imprisoned for his spectacular thieving career, gathered together several crates and got three of the platoons crouched behind them for protection from the archers as the other platoons continued to argue, or were shot by archers.

"We need to work together," said Vilias.

"But then the prize is shared between sixty, not twenty!"

"But we still win the prize," grinned the charismatic thief. "One bottle of wine is better than none, right mate?"

Vilias set several men to smashing up crates, and they fashioned several large, crude shields. Then, with five men at a time using the wide wooden shields they worked under protection to build a bridge, crossed the river and stormed into the cart fortress with swords raised and battle screams filling the air.

Afterwards, Saark and Grak called Vilias to them.

"You showed great courage," said Saark, smiling at the man.

Vilias saluted. "Thank you, sir. But it was just common sense."

"Common sense has got you promoted to Command Sergeant, lad. That's extra wine and coin for all the platoons under your new command."

"Thank you… sir!"

"You understand that an army is all about working together," said Saark, with his chin on his fist. With his dark curls and flashing eyes, with his charisma and natural beauty, he cut a striking figure now he no longer wore fancy silk shirts and bulging pantaloons. Grak had persuaded him to don something more fitting for the Division General of a new army.

"Yes, sir!"

Vilias returned to his men to share the good news, and Saark sagged, glancing over at Grak who grinned a toothless grin of approval.

"Well inspired!" boomed Grak. "Any army indeed works – and wins by all the gods – by the simple act of cooperation. Soldiers watching one another's backs; spearmen protecting shield-men, archers protecting infantry, cavalry protecting archers."

Saark chuckled. "I only know because you told me last night after a flagon of ale."

"Still," said Grak. "You sounded like you knew what you were talking about! And that's what matters, eh lad?"

"I'm not cut out for this," said Saark, displaying a weak grin. "Only yesterday the smiths came with technical questions about the shields; what the fuck do I know about shields? Succulent quims, yes! Breasts, I could talk all day about the size and texture and quality of many a buxom pair of tits. But shields? Shields, I ask you?"

"With things like that," said Grak, "just refer it to me. Say you're too busy to deal with it. Last thing we need," he bit a chunk from a hunk of black bread, "is a shield with the shape and functionality of a woman's flower."

Saark paused. "A what?" he said.

"A flower."

"You mean the slick warm place between her legs?"

"Don't be getting all rude with me," snapped Grak. "I won't take it, y'hear?"

Saark stood, and stretched. Then grinned, eyeing the ranks of men who were now practising with wooden swords as newly appointed Command Sergeants strolled up and down the lines, shouting encouragement and offering advice. Grak had appointed those with soldiering experience, he'd said.

"I suggest we go to the quartermaster," said Saark.

"Why?"

"I suggest we get two flagons of ale and retire to my quarters. You can teach me about warfare, about units and field manoeuvres, and I, well," Saark grinned, and ran a hand through his long dark curls, "darling, I will teach you about women."

Kell and Jagor rode into the narrow pass. It was quiet, eerie, and very, very gloomy. Kell eased his mount forward, and the beast whinnied. High above, there came a trickle of stones.

Jagor turned in the saddle, and motioned to Kell to halt. "This place," he said, speaking quietly, "they call the Corridor of Death. It is the only way to reach the Valleys of the Moon, and is always, I repeat always conducted in silence."

"Why?"

Jagor glanced up, fearful now. "Let us say the slopes and rocky faces are far from stable. I once witnessed a hundred men crushed by rockfall; it took us three days to dig them out. Most died. Most were trapped, and as we dug, and hauled rocks, and had our horses drag boulders in this narrow shitty confine, all the time we could hear them crying for help from down below under the pile. They cried for help, they screamed for mercy, and eventually they begged for death."

"That is a very sobering tale. I will keep it in mind," said Kell, and glanced upwards. The sheer walls and steeply slanted inclines were bulged and rocky, covered in snow and ice and fiery red winter heathers. Kell licked his lips and shivered. He had no desire to be imprisoned under a thousand tumbling rocks.

They moved on, in silence, whispering soothing words to the horses. Sometimes the trail widened so that three horses could walk side by side; sometimes it narrowed so the men had to dismount, walking ahead of their mounts to allow them to squeeze flanks through narrow rough rock apertures. It did nothing to improve Kell's mood.

Eventually, the passage started to widen and they emerged in a valley devoid of rocks. It was just a huge, long, sweeping channel and Kell instinctively glanced upwards where high above, on narrow ledges, he could spy the openings of small caves.

"I don't like this," said Kell.

"The Watchers live here," said Jagor. "This is where we will be challenged."

"And what do we do?"

"We do nothing," said Jagor, forcing a smile that looked wrong on his face. "If you draw your weapon, they will shoot you down. Let me do the talking. You have been warned."

They cantered horses across the snow, hooves echoing dully, and in the gloom of the valley where high mountain walls – perhaps two thousand feet in height – towered over the two men and cast long dark shadows, so gradually Kell became aware of movement…

Jagor held up a hand and they halted, side by side. Along the ridges scurried small figures, and it was with surprise Kell realised they were children. But as the figures halted their scurrying, and lifted longbows and drew back bowstrings, so Kell realised with sinking horror that these were no normal children. These were Blacklipper children – which meant they had drunk, and continued to drink, the narcotic refined drug, blood-oil, the substance which the vachine needed to survive. But when it was imbibed by a human, it caused a drug high like nothing in Falanor, or even beyond the Three Oceans.

Kell watched carefully, making no move towards his weapons, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. There were perhaps fifty children in all, and each was what he knew could be described as a Deep Blood. They had drunk so much of the powerful narcotic, were so entrenched in the liquid's power and dark magick, the essence of the refined blood-oil so necessary to vachine survival – and so condemning of human flesh – that their lips were stained black, and their veins stood out across pale flesh like strands of glossy spider webs on marble skin.

Soon, Kell knew, these children would die.

Soon, they would travel what Kell knew they called the Voyage of the Soul. To an afterlife all Blacklippers believed in. To an afterworld that justified narcotic slavery.

"Throw down your weapons!" shouted one girl, no more than thirteen years old. Her hair was long and black, braided in heavy strips. She was naked to the waist, and her veins stood out like a river-system viewed from mountain crags at night. She carried an adult longbow, a weapon Kell had seen punch an arrow through a hand-thick pine door. The arrow fletch touched her cheek. As far as Kell could tell, her hand did not shake.

Slowly, Jagor and Kell complied.

"Now get off the horses and speak your names, and nothing funny, or you'll have fifty arrows through you!"

"Nice place," muttered Kell.

"Wait till you meet the parents," said Jagor.

"What's that?" cried the girl. "What are you saying? Speak quickly now, or you will die!"

"You are the Watchers," said Jagor, his voice booming out, "and I am Jagor Mad. Your people know me well."

"Yes," said the girl. "Welcome home, Jagor Mad. You may take up your weapon. Who is the man alongside you?"

"His name is Kell."

"Kell, the Legend?" said the girl, her voice painfully neutral.

"Yes," said Jagor, and threw Kell such a strange look the large warrior was moving before he heard the sound of the arrows. Shafts slammed all around him, peppering the snow and thudding home into his horse which reared, suddenly screaming a high-pitched horse scream, and Kell leapt for his axe, leapt for Ilanna as the charcoal gelding staggered back on hind legs, front hooves pawing the air, blood pumping from ten wounds and arrows protruding like the spikes on a spinehog. There was a devastating thump as the gelding hit the snow, a huge pool of red spreading fast around the creature and Kell's head slammed up, eyes narrowed, fixed on Jagor as he realised realised the bastard had led him into a trap…

"What did you do?" screamed Kell, and leapt forward, Ilanna in his fists and Jagor stepped backwards fast, his own sword coming up with a hiss. Ilanna swung down, and Jagor deflected the powerful blow with a grunt and a squawk.

"Nothing, Kell! Nothing! I did nothing!"

"I'll fucking eat your heart, you whoreson!" he screamed.

"Drop the axe, Kell!" shouted the girl. An arrow slammed between his boots, and Kell stared at that arrow, stared at it hard. A moment earlier, his horse's bulk had protected him. Now, he had no such protection.

Kell glanced up. "What's to stop you peppering me like a fucking deer in the woods?" he snarled.

"I am," came a deep, bass rumble, and from a cave which blended into the gloom of the rocky wall stepped a man bigger than any Kell had ever seen in his life.

The figure walked forward, dwarfing Kell and even Jagor. His skin was pasty and white, the black webtraces of Deep Blood veins marking him out as an addict of blood-oil; but more, his eyes were black with the oil, his lips, his nostrils, even his fingernails had been polluted by the toxin of his chosen drug. He carried a huge flange mace, matt black and nearly the size of Kell's entire torso. To be struck by such a weapon…

"And you are?" snapped Kell, slowly lowering Ilanna but keeping the beloved axe close to his body; a barrier between himself and the unknown; a last resort between Kell walking the world and walking the infinity of the Chaos Halls.

"My name is Dekkar. I am one of the Kings of the Blacklippers."

Kell bowed his head a fraction, and lowered Ilanna. "I knew Preyshan. I knew him well."

"Yes. But still you must drop the axe and back away," said Dekkar, and flexed his mighty chest. Muscles writhed like dying eels. "I guarantee my children will not kill an unarmed man."

Kell nodded, and Ilanna thunked to the snow. He backed away. Dekkar watched, and Jagor Mad moved forward and with an evil grin, placed his short sword – the very short sword Kell had given him – against Kell's throat.

"What's this?" said Kell, softly.

Jagor looked at Dekkar, and his grin widened. "Do you want to tell him? Or shall I?"

Dekkar moved forward, looming over Kell. The huge flange mace lifted, and Kell saw himself reflected as smeared, dulled, featureless colours in its merciless grim finish.

"Jagor is my brother," said Dekkar, his voice laced with irony. "And here, Kell, your name is indeed a Legend – for all present in the Valleys of the Moon are instructed that the Prime Law is that you must die!"