Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 12

Saark was drunk. Saark was allowed to be drunk! After all, it'd been a hell of a day.

He staggered from Grak the Bastard's quarters, set high in the fortress walls and, in times of war or attack, doubling as a store-room and a place for archers. It also made a good vantage point looking out over the plain to see who approached Black Pike Mines.

Saark, in his drunken state, found another use for the archer's slit in Grak's bedroom wall, and as his urine arced far and long over the snowy field below, Grak patted him heartily on the shoulder and suggested it was time for bed.

Saark staggered across the frozen mud of what was now the "Training Yard", although in all honesty, Saark left most of the training to Grak. Grak was a capable man, and Saark had to admit that he himself was capable of drinking, and enjoying a roll with a woman, and hell even cards or betting on bear fights were high on his agenda; but training men? No sir!

As Saark mounted the steps to his room, he recounted the week's success stories. Kell would be proud, no doubt, when he returned. They (meaning Grak) had whittled the men into a raw but efficient set of fighting units. They weren't an army. Not yet. They (meaning Grak) would need to put in a lot more effort to make sure the men could fight now as a whole, that's what Grak kept saying, a bloody whole – or was it hole? Saark stopped, and scratched his balls.

Still, they could charge in several formations, and at shouted commands or blasts from a tinny bugle, they could change from square to line to wedge, they could lock shields, they could disengage shields, they could charge and retreat. Because most of the men had worked (and indeed survived) the Black Pike Mines for a long period of time, they had great upper body strength and impressive stamina and endurance. Greater than Saark, as today's humiliating race had contested. But then, Saark had been drunk the night before. And the night before that. And, what a surprise, the night before that!

He stumbled to his room, and as the world swayed he removed his clothes and stood, hands on hips, naked and proud and desperate for a tankard of water. He moved to a water barrel and dunked his head in, coming up with a splash and lick of his lips. Gods he was hungry! What did he have in the room? Bread, cheese, donkey-meat…

"Saark?"

She sounded sleepy, and sat up in the bed, her dark hair tousled and illuminated by the moonlight easing through a small square window. Saark could make out her upper torso, naked, and he licked his lips again only not, in this case, with the need for water.

"Hello there," he said, and moved towards the bed.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Only a drop, sweetie," he murmured, and crawled onto the bed.

"Good," said Nienna. "I warmed your blankets. I hope you don't mind?"

"Of course not," he said, and she knelt up before him, and her body was perfect, white and pale, gleaming in the moonlight, her small but firm breasts young and pert, her lips slightly parted as her head tilted, and she stared at his face.

"Do you want me to stay?" she said.

"Oh yes," said Saark, reaching out and caressing her breasts. Instantly her nipples hardened and reaching forward, gently, his tongue circled her areola. Nienna murmured, and shuffled closer, and Saark's arms encircled her, and now his hard cock pressed into her, and he kissed her, he kissed her lips and they were warm and sweet from honeycakes and wine, and he kissed her neck, which was warm and soft like silk, and his hands ran down her back and she shivered in anticipation and thrust herself painfully against him, in need, in lust, and his hands came to rest on her buttocks, firm and hard from so much travelling in the wilds. They kissed again, harder this time, with passion and a need that transcended threats and Saark's hand dipped, stroked between Nienna's legs and she squirmed, giggling a little, then moaning and sinking into his embrace as his hand entered her, and he bore her down to the bed, and Saark was lost in wine and lust and memories, and he remembered Alloria; she was his first love and she was his true love and she was before him now, on the soft silk sheets in King Leanoric's chambers, Alloria, with her mane of curled black hair, her flashing dangerous green eyes, her ruby red lips, tall, with her elegant long languorous limbs and her tongue stained from blue karissia, and she smiled up at Saark, and Alloria said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Nienna said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Saark pushed himself into her, all the way, to the hilt, and she groaned and he groaned and they fucked long and hard on the bed, their groans and thrusts rising rising rising to a climax of perfect joy and union, and Saark whispered, "Alloria," but Nienna was too far gone to hear the words and she gave herself to Saark, not caring, not caring about the world and Kell's threats and vachine imperfections… and slowly, they spiralled down into a cold place, a cold world of reality, facing war and mutilation and death.

And in the cold dark hours of the night, they clung tightly to each other like children.

Governor Myrtax could not sleep. He was too hot, sweating and feeling fevered, and so he stepped from his bed and pulled on low, soft-leather boots. His wife murmured in sleep and turned, one arm flinging out, but she did not wake. Myrtax crossed to the next room and looked in on his sleeping babes; he saw their dark shapes, breathing rhythmically in the ink, and he smiled; smiled the happy smile of fatherhood; smiled the smile of innate joy at what a man's child could invest without effort – just simply by being.

Too hot. Too damn hot!

Myrtax stepped from his quarters and looked across at the distant fortress walls. Fires burned in braziers on the battlements, and ten guards kept watch across the snowy plains. Damn, but he didn't want to leave this place. Didn't want to go to war. Why would he? His family was here. His wife, who he loved more than life; his children, who he'd die for!

Myrtax jogged down the steps and onto the frozen mud. He was surprised to find he had a knife in his hand, and he slipped it back into the oiled leather sheath. Strange. I don't remember belting the knife on. Why would I need a knife in my own mine? But of course, after the Governors – the false Governors – took over and threatened my children; well, a man has to protect himself; a man has to look after his own interests.

Governor Myrtax moved across the ground, seemingly with no destination, until he found himself outside the cell of Sara. Kell's daughter.

How strange to come here. Why would I come here? Kell said she was dangerous, and not to trust her, but I know he's wrong because I have seen into her eyes, and she is a noble creature, a beautiful creature, and anything that stunning must be good…

"Good evening, sir," said the guard, and gurgled and vomited blood as Governor Myrtax's dagger slid under his ribs and up, with a hard jabbing thrust, into his heart. The man sagged into Myrtax's arms, and he frowned, confused at why the man was so heavy, and why the man had been drinking on duty, and why he was now asleep in his arms like a dirty drunkard.

"I'll have you up on a charge," muttered Myrtax, lowering the twitching guard to the ground and taking the keys from his belt. He moved to the cell, the interior of which was a black pool of oil, impenetrable to the naked eye, and Myrtax inserted the key and opened the gate.

Myrtax stood back, his mind flushed with confusion, and he looked up and the stars were bright, bathing him in a surreal glow and he smiled, as he thought about his children. He had been blessed when they were born, and blessed more as they grew into two of the most beautiful things he had ever witnessed in creation -

"Myrtax. You have surpassed yourself," said Sara, stepping from her cage. She smiled, and leant forward, fangs extending towards the dazed Governor of the Black Pike Mines.

"Hey! Hey you!" It was an inner-wall patrol of guards, set up by Grak. Boots pounded stone, and three soldiers wearing new armour and carrying newly forged short swords sprinted forward, and a sword whistled for Sara but she leapt, straight up into the air, the sword slashing beneath her boots. She twisted in the air, back-flipping behind the men. She landed lightly, reached out, and snapped one man's neck. He crumpled instantly. A sword hammered down, and Sara swayed, arm slapping out to break the man's arm in half. His hand and wrist fell twitching to the stone, spewing blood, and he screamed – a scream silenced as Sara punched out, fist entering his mouth and breaking his teeth and exploding from the back of his head… and as it exited, her claws extended with a flick, putting out the third soldier's eyes.

Sara withdrew her hand with a squelch and shower of bloody mush, and leaving one soldier sobbing on the floor, holding his ruined face, she reached over and gently kissed Myrtax on the lips. "Until the next time, lover," she said, and was gone in a whisper of darkness.

More soldiers arrived, led by Grak, his sword out, his face grim. He stepped up to the man without eyes and only half a face remaining; with a savage downward stab, he put the writhing man out of his misery.

"Check the cell." Grak whirled on Governor Myrtax. "What the hell happened here?" Then he saw the keys still in Myrtax's hands, and the dazed look on the man's face even as he started to drift back into some semblance of understanding.

"What? What… where did all the blood come from? Oh, my…" said Myrtax.

The soldier returned. "Sir. One vampire is gone, the other is… well, it's a husk."

"What do you mean, a husk?"

"It's shrivelled up. Like all the blood has been sucked out."

Grak strode forward, and stared at the skin-bag of bones. "Shit," he snarled, then turned back to Myrtax. "The vampire must have fed from the other one; to keep strong." He pointed at the Governor. "Are you happy with yourself? Eh?" Then back to the soldier, in a tone of disgust. "Go and lock that bastard up, before he does any more damage."

Two soldiers grabbed Myrtax's arms and removed the dagger from his belt. They led him away, tears on his cheeks, protesting confusion and innocence.

Grak looked down at the dead soldiers, then up at the night sky. The stars twinkled. Grak had no time for their cold beauty. "You, lad!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Double the guards."

"Where, sir?"

"Everywhere!" he thundered. "Tell them we have a vampire loose in the fucking mine."

"Yes, sir!"

"And soldier?"

"Yes sir?"

"Go and wake Saark. He needs to know about this."

Kell stared around in disbelief. The Valleys of the Moon was massive, and bisected down the middle of the floor by a huge crevasse from which steam slowly rose, along with a sulphurous stench that made Kell's eyes weep.

His hands were bound tightly behind his back, and Dekkar carried Ilanna in one hand, his own flanged mace in the other. He was grinning madly, and Jagor Mad walked by his side, a kind of strutting arrogance in his step now he had the upper hand.

"I can't believe I trusted you," said Kell, his eyes moving along the rift in the valley floor to the distant huts beyond. They lined the walls, small and made from mud and stone, with slate roofs and hand-carved doors of oak.

"More the fool you," said Jagor, cocky now, too cocky, his eyes shining with a new light. Kell realised what it was. Hatred. It hadn't vanished, only been pushed deep down whilst Jagor brought him here. Kell had been played like a pawn. Like a court jester. And that burned him bad, worse than any poison force fed into his bones by Myriam's invading needle.

"You know the stakes here," said Kell, face filled with thunder. "This is about everybody! This is about Falanor, this is about us all working together to rid the world of a dangerous menace!"

"The only dangerous menace here is you! " hissed Jagor, and pressed his sword against Kell's throat. "I will have my revenge for all those years spent in that fucking mine! I will spill your blood! But not yet, oh no, not yet!"

"Be silent!" roared Dekkar suddenly, and as they moved across the jagged rocks, filled in places with snow and ice except around the rim of the valley rift, where all snow had melted revealing black rocks veined with red and grey minerals, so Blacklippers streamed from distant huts and moved like a tide to meet their King.

Dekkar.

King of the Blacklippers.

Behind, many of the children followed, bows still aimed at Kell. Nobody trusted him, and he smiled a sour smile. Here, it would appear, he was a dark myth. How now would he convince these people to fight for him? How would he convince them to go to war against the Vampire Warlords? If he attacked them, he would have no chance of convincing them – for he would simply reinforce his status as enemy. And with Jagor Mad ready to stab him in the back, it looked like his luck had come head-to-head with a mountain flank.

"Hear me!" roared Dekkar, halting by the edge of the hot stinking rift in the rocky floor. Fumes hung over the great tear in the earth, and over it, near the centre, Kell squinted. He could see a bridge, a narrow span of brass filled with huge clockwork wheels and gears. Kell frowned. He had never seen anything like it in his life, except in miniature in the workings of a clock. "Here, we have the prisoner Kell! Sworn enemy of the Blacklippers! Hunter of the Blacklippers! Raper of our women, murderer of our children, despoiler of Blacklipper flesh!"

A hush fell over the Blacklippers.

Kell met their gazes, the men, all armed with spears and swords, faces grim, shoulders stocky and proud. These were a warrior race. These were the outcasts, the criminals, the freaks and deviants of Falanor – who had taken blood-oil to relieve their pain and suffering, to find an inner peace from physical torment, instead finding social torment and a finality as outcasts; names to be revered as evil and unholy, cast away to the dark regions of the mountains where nobody would travel. Kell knew this. He had hunted enough Blacklippers in his time. Some, at least, of what they said was true.

He grinned, a sour grin.

Because that's what this came back to, that's what this came round to: his earlier escapades. As a Hunter. A Vachine Hunter, but also a killer of those who smuggled Karakan Red across the mountains; those who stole blood to feed the impure amongst the vachine.

"Shit," he muttered, as full realisation dawned. "They were going to kill him. There was no persuading these people. He had been a fool. An arrogant, trusting, naive fool.

"Kell! The Legend!" roared Dekkar, and an answering roar met him and Kell tried to shout over the noise but it rose like thunder and hundreds of Blacklippers swarmed at him, swamping him, and he went down under a barrage of blows, fists and sticks slamming his head and nose and cheeks and jaw. Kell hit the ground hard, and was kicked, and then the crowd surged back and Kell looked up at Dekkar, who stooped, and lifted Kell above his head.

"The Bridge!" somebody shouted.

"Yes! The Trial! The Bridge!"

"Bridge! Bridge! Bridge!" chanted the Blacklippers, and Kell, dazed, felt himself moving as if on a sea of hands and he realised he had been taken, was being carried by many, and Dekkar held Ilanna again and if only Kell could reach his axe, these bastards, he'd show them who was a fucking Legend, he'd carve himself a path so fucking bloody his name would ring like Death through a thousand fucking years of their mangled fucking history!

Kell was carried along the edge of the rift. He glanced down, and wished he hadn't.

Fumes welled up, making him choke, and his eyes were met by a pulsing deep glow of red and orange. The heat was incredible. It singed his beard and eyebrows. It made him cough and choke. For the first time in years Kell felt panic well in his chest like a striking viper. This was a bad place, an evil place; and he realised instinctively he had been condemned and he would die here. Kell gritted his teeth. If he was to die, then he would take oh so many with him…

As they grew close to the bridge so Kell realised its awesome scope and size. It was a mammoth brass contraption, not just a bridge but a machine. The whole length was a mass of cogs and wheels, gears and levers. In the centre, disappearing down into the glow, was a huge pendulum like Kell had seen in many a clock, only this was the length of twenty men and must have weighed something shocking.

They reached the point where the bridge met the rocky ground – only it didn't. There was a gap too large to jump, and Dekkar reached to a small brass pod and pulled a lever. There came a heavy clunk, a spin of cogs which transferred to others cogs and gears stepped up and down like pistons. There was a groan, and the pendulum swung and the bridge shifted, lifted, and eased onto the rocky ground with a crash and grinding of brass on rock. Kell was prodded on, hands tight behind his back, and with a grimace he realised Dekkar had used his own axe, his own damn Ilanna! Kell spat onto the brass grid beneath his boots. Dekkar would pay for that.

They moved across the brass bridge, which continually shifted and moved, rolling like a ship at anchor in a bay. Beneath his boots Kell could feel the spinning cogs, and the shift of gears. It felt like the bridge was alive.

Reaching the centre, his eyes streaming with tears from the chemical updraft, Kell saw the swing and the noose of woven brass rope. So, he was to be hanged. Again. "Horse shit," he muttered, and glanced back. Now, there was only Dekkar and Jagor Mad. They were both grinning at him, and Dekkar passed Ilanna to his brother.

"Do you want to kill him, brother, or shall I?"

"No, that's my job," said Jagor. "I owe him. Owe him bad."

"Jagor, listen to me!" hissed Kell. "You know the vampires are coming. You know this is insanity! We must all work together, must fight together to remove this menace! If you hang me, the Vampire Warlords – they will not vanish. And slowly, they will hunt down every living creature in Falanor. You might live another month; you might live a year. But they will come for you, and they'll either turn you into a vampire, or they'll burn your fucking soul, lad."

"The Vampire Warlords?" said Dekkar, raising his eyebrows. "I have heard of such creatures. They are part of Blacklipper Legend. Part of vachine folklore as scribed within the Oak Testament."

"General Graal of the vachine flooded Silva Valley from the Granite Thrones on Helltop," said Kell. "He sacrificed the vachine in a mass offering of blood, to open the Paths to the Chaos Halls. The Vampire Warlords came back. Now, they are in Jalder, and Gollothrim, and Vor! They will spread, Dekkar. They will kill your people."

Dekkar considered this. Then he smiled. "I care nothing for the people of Falanor. Kill him!"

Jagor prodded Kell with Ilanna, drawing blood across the old warrior's forearm. Kell growled, and stepped up onto the brass ramp. Jagor climbed up behind him, and placed the brass noose about Kell's neck.

"You will die for my suffering," he snarled.

"If you kill me," said Kell, voice perfectly quiet, perfectly calm, "then you condemn yourself. You condemn the people of Falanor to an eternity of slavery. You condemn your entire race of Blacklippers to vampire slavery."

"You think one old man is so important?"

"No. But I know that I can make a difference. If I can get close enough to the Vampire Warlords, I will kill them."

"Ha! I'll do it myself!" snapped Jagor Mad. "Now step off the ramp, old man, lest I use this pretty axe to open your skull!"

Kell turned his back on Jagor, and took a deep breath. A million thoughts rushed through his mind. His misplaced trust in this, a convicted killer. Saark's training of the army. Nienna, sweet Nienna. Sara, snarling and hissing, spitting and cursing. And then back, back through the days and weeks and months, back through Myriam and the Soul Stealers, the fights on Helltop, scrapping on the dangerous ridges of the Black Pike Mountains with snarling cankers and creatures of the dark, the vachine and the vampires, the cursed and the unholy. Back back back, and one face kept returning to his mind and if Kell had to blame one man, then that one man would be Graal. General Graal. He had it coming. He had a hard death coming. But Kell would not be the man to see it through.

Kell thought about Ehlana.

He remembered the Crooked Oak, the sunshine, the flowers in her hair and tears were in his eyes, on his cheeks, in his beard. "You are man and wife. You may kiss her." And he leant forward, and he kissed her, and it had been an incredible moment, a moment of unity and purity and perfection. But how had it gone so bad? How had it all gone wrong? I'm coming to you, Ehlana, I'm coming just like I said I would, just like I promised. We'll walk the long dark roads together, and I'll bring you to paradise. I can do no more in this place. In this world. In this life.

"Jump, fucker," snarled Jagor Mad, and Kell turned and smiled at the big man, and saw the shock in his face for to see Kell cry must have been such a rarity; and over the thumping of the bridge and the hiss of the smoke and churning furnace below, Kell heard another sound, like shouting, and Jagor Mad's eyes went wide and Ilanna started to lift in his great brutal fists as an arrow materialised in one eye socket with a savage slap, and Jagor Mad screamed stumbling backwards, falling to the ground, dropping Ilanna with a clatter and reaching up to touch the shaft in his skull – which made him scream again.

Kell squinted through the smoke. A figure was galloping a grey mare along the edge of the valley's rift. Another arrow slashed through the air, but Dekkar was already moving, launching himself sideways and grunting as he hit the bridge walkway.

Kell tugged at his bonds, but they were too tight. He struggled, and dropping his head down and back, got the noose from its promise. Dekkar was crawling across the bridge and he hit a panel against one rail. The clockwork bridge cranked and lifted, as a third arrow sailed over and clattered along the walkway a few feet from Dekkar.

Kell leapt down to Jagor, who was weeping, touching the shaft in his eye tenderly. "Help me!" he wailed at Kell, and Kell drove a knee into his face sending him rolling, embedded arrow slapping the brass bridge and making him scream and scream and scream, and to this backdrop of noise Kell found Ilanna, and sitting and shuffling backwards, he rubbed the bonds across her razor-sharp blades and they parted like simple cotton threads.

Kell took Ilanna, and rose to his feet.

He was Thunder. He was the Storm.

Dekkar was standing, staring at him, his face a fury, the black flanged mace steady in his huge hands.

Dekkar looked down at Jagor, who had passed into unconsciousness. "I am going to crush you for that, worm."

"Show me," snarled Kell through strings of saliva.

With a scream, Dekkar launched an attack. He was huge, mighty, and attacked with such a sudden violent speed it made Kell blink in shock and surprise, stepping back, Ilanna coming up to deflect the mace – which struck in a shower of sparks, and continued onwards forcing Kell down on one knee, teeth gritted, muscles straining and bulging. The mace stopped an inch from his eyes, which flickered up to Dekkar, or rather, Dekkar's boot. The blow sent Kell reeling back across the bridge, rolling, Ilanna gone from his fingers and Dekkar leapt forward, the mace whirring down again. Kell twitched to one side, and the blow left a dent in the brass bridge. It would have crushed Kell's head like a melon. Another blow sent sparks careering from the bridge's rails, and Kell got to his knees, streaked with sweat, panting, anger rising through him in a colossal insane wave. Dekkar was bigger, and stronger, and faster. But Kell was mean. Kell was fucking mean. He screamed, spittle lacing his beard, and as the mace whistled over his head in a mighty horizontal stroke he came up from the duck into a lunge, grabbing Dekkar around the midriff and punching the large man backwards, off balance, to hit the ground. The mace flashed up, but Kell caught the shaft against his arm, and it slid from Dekkar's fingers. Kell slammed a right straight down into Dekkar's face, and again, and again, and felt teeth break under impact. Dekkar screamed, and his hand grabbed Kell's balls, the other Kell's throat, and the huge man scrabbled to his knees and hoisted Kell over his head. He threw Kell down the bridge, and Kell rolled over and over, and lay for a moment stunned, his throat and balls on fire and clubbing him with waves of impact pain. Dekkar roared, and ran at Kell who stumbled to his feet. A straight punch jabbed Kell back, a right hook shook him, rocking him on his heels, and Dekkar took Kell's head in his hands and head-butted him, once, twice, three times and let go, grinning, blood and smashed teeth filling his mouth.

Kell stared up at the huge man. "Is that all you've fucking got?" he screamed, groggy, staggering back.

"I'll kill you!" roared Dekkar, and slammed another hook which sent Kell reeling sideways, hitting the bridge's rail and rolling along it, slamming against the panel which controlled the movement of the brass bridge. There came a huge, metallic groan and clockwork started to spin, huge gears pumping, mammoth brass pistons hissing and thrusting. The bridge lurched and suddenly spun, leaving a huge gap to the rocky bank and safety. An arrow sailed through the steam, missing Dekkar by a few inches. He scowled, and Kell realised he had found his mace. Dekkar advanced down the bridge at Kell, who was touching his broken nose and gritting his teeth in anger and frustration.

"Come on!" screamed Kell, as Dekkar broke into a run, but the bridge lurched again, spinning around, a heavy metallic cranking sound echoing through the Valleys of the Moon. Steam hissed from the brass bridge. Along the banks Kell saw hundreds of faces flash past. It was the Blacklippers, and they were watching, motionless, many with mouths open in awe. Kell couldn't see the person who'd saved him. The bridge spun around again. Kell felt sick, and was pitched off balance, landing heavy with a grunt. The bridge tipped, and he was sent skidding down the rough brass ramp, arms and legs kicking, to crash into Dekkar who was pinned against a brass strut. Kell hit him with three straight punches, heavy leaden blows that cracked the man's cheekbone making him howl, then the bridge spun again, lurching and groaning, and Kell was thrown away like a toy doll, down the expanse to hit the rail with such force he thought for a moment he'd broken his back.

"You have to get off the bridge!" a woman was screaming, and Kell nodded at this immutable logic. He got to his knees, a drool of saliva and pain trailing from his beard, mingled with blood from his smashed nose. He ran along the rail, fighting gravity as the bridge rocked back on mammoth pistons and it was all Kell could do to grab a nearby strut and hold on for his life. The bridge rose, near vertical now, and Kell felt his boots and legs slip away from beneath him so he was hanging, gazing down into a distant inferno with clouds of steam and sulphur.

"Holy Mother," he whispered, eyes wide, all thoughts of battle forgotten. Ilanna skated along the metal with a scream, and wedged against a brass strut below. Dekkar was also kicking beneath him, and Kell watched Jagor Mad's unconscious body slip and slide, spinning with arms and legs akimbo, until he bounced from a strut, jigged off at an angle, then soared from the edge of the bridge to be lost in the raging inferno below.

" Noooo! " screamed Dekkar.

But Jagor Mad was gone. Gone, into the furnace.

Dekkar looked up at Kell. "This is your fault!" he roared.

Kell said nothing, but looked up, searching for a way to climb from the bridge. The bridge groaned. More clanking came from deep down in the clockwork machine's bowels, and then it gave a sudden jerk. Kell nearly lost his grip.

Then -

A noise rent the air, long and ululating, almost like a war cry but far too high-pitched and feminine. Kell stared off across the banks of the valley rift, across black rock and ice beyond. Riders were streaming across the snow, and Kell saw the Blacklippers running for their huts, many drawing weapons and Kell squinted through the fumes, and And blinked.

They were vampires. Twenty of them at least, wearing black cloaks and with hair tied back tight. They were riding horses that were… red? Kell focused. No, not red. Pure muscle. Pure muscle, without the skin. The beasts were panting, snorting, whinnying in pain and fear. Kell could see the heavy muscle fibres working and he suddenly felt very sick, despite his own problems.

"Kell, you've got to reach the control panel," a woman was shouting, and Kell turned back to the rocky embankment. He squinted again, and then shook his head. It was Myriam, bow in hand, face earnest.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled.

"Rescuing you, old man! Reach the panel! I can see the core shafts of the bridge, and they're bending, you understand? The whole damn thing is tearing itself free! It's going to fall!" Kell felt the sickness in his stomach rise through him. If the bridge fell into the furnace, well, it was Goodnight Sweet Lady.

Kell started to climb down, hand over hand, the brass warm to his touch. He could see Dekkar struggling beneath him, and his gaze moved first to the control panel, then left, to Ilanna. Kell gritted his teeth, and struggled to the axe. He took her. He cradled her to his chest. She was warm to his touch. She was thankful.

"Kell!" screamed Myriam. He glanced up.

The charging vampires hit the massed Blacklippers in a tight wedge, and he saw, saw heads sail up into the air and heard the vampires' high-pitched keening, realising with rising gorge that they were laughing, fucking laughing as they slaughtered. The swords of battle rang across the Valleys of the Moon. Steel on steel. Steel biting flesh. Steel breaking bone.

Kell scrabbled across the brass strut. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him. He stared at the controls, but there were small dials and levers and he did not understand. He started to press and twist things at random, and the bridge groaned, gears clanked, and there came a horrible, booming tearing sound. The bridge shuddered, and dropped – then in an eerie silence, tilted to one side and began to fall.

Kell hung on for his life, wind and sour sulphur fumes blowing through his hair and bloodied beard, and the edge of the bridge clanged against the edge of the valley floor, but behind him it fell away and then snagged with various metallic tearing sounds. Kell looked up, into Myriam's concerned face. "Shit," he snarled. "I can't believe it's you!"

"Come on. We have only seconds!" She glanced behind herself, fearful of the charging vampires who were cutting a path through the Blacklippers. Men, women and children were slaughtered like diseased cattle. Heads were cut from shoulders, arms and legs from torsos. It was a massacre. It was an abattoir.

Kell scrambled up the brass planks and leapt, catching Myriam's outstretched hand. She was strong. She hauled him up onto the rocky ridge, and Kell whirled, eyes narrowed, staring at the vampires. The Blacklippers had retreated, forming themselves into a fighting square surrounded by the corpses of their friends. Those with shields had made a wall at the front, and the vampires coolly dismounted and watched with interest, smiles staining faces as they lifted bright, silver swords.

"Help me up," he croaked.

Kell jumped, and glared down into Dekkar's face. The huge man was in pain, face twisted and battered and streaked with grime. He had climbed as far as he could, but could not traverse the final leap.

"Why?"

"Because they're slaughtering my people!" screamed Dekkar, and held out his hand.

Kell stared at it. The bridge lurched again, dropping another foot. Great tearing sounds echoed through the rift, and the bridge was vibrating as if alive and fitting. Cogs could be seen, spinning slowly. A huge piston went thunk.

Kell glanced at Myriam. "Hold my belt." She grabbed him, hands like iron shackles, and he knelt, leaning forward, hand outstretched. His eyes met Dekkar's. "You'll have to jump."

"Can I trust you?"

"No. But you have little choice."

Dekkar growled an ancient curse, and leapt…

Kell leant, and the two men grabbed one another, wrist to wrist and stayed locked there for a moment, Kell staring down into Dekkar's wild eyes, muscles screaming as they took the weight. Then Kell hissed, and hauled Dekkar up the wall as behind him the huge brass bridge squealed like a woman in pain, and slowly tilted, sliding backwards with a whoosh to vanish into the abyss.

Kell looked down at his hand, and then up into Dekkar's eyes. He noted the big man carried his mace, and he swallowed. Kell always said he took a lot of killing; well, here was a man hewn from the same granite cast.

Dekkar turned, and stared at the vampires. They had dismounted, and were smiling as they advanced on the retreating Blacklippers. He released Kell's grip, and Kell hoisted Ilanna and glanced at Myriam, who drew her own sword.

"It's time for those bastards to die," said Kell.

"Let's fight," growled Dekkar.

They charged across the rocky ground, and the vampires smiled wider until eyes fell on Ilanna. One pointed, but Kell, Dekkar and Myriam crashed into them and Kell's axe lashed out, opening a throat, and on the return swing cutting a vampire's head free from its body. There was an explosion of flesh, and Kell grabbed the hair and hoisted the head up high. "See!" he screamed "They can fucking die! Die, I tell you!" Everything was chaos. The vampires seemed to suddenly shrink back, staring at Kell, and Ilanna, and the severed vampire head with fangs still gnashing and gnawing. Kell launched the head into the pit, and kicked over the body which spewed out foul stinking black blood. Kell waded into the mass, Ilanna hewing left and right, thumping into flesh, spattering him with gore. The vampires attacked him with their inhuman speed but Kell was a demon, moving smoothly, seeming to shift here, twitch there, and claws and swords sailed past him by a hair's breadth, but always by a hair's breadth, and he had some inhuman instinct, some natural grace as if he was in perfect tune with the killers and always slipping beyond their claws. Dekkar was close behind, feeding in Kell's wake. As Kell moved forward through the vampires, Ilanna slamming left and right, so anything that went past was crushed under Dekkar's mighty mace. Myriam, also, moved with incredible vachine speed, sword slamming out, cutting throats and piercing hearts. Some vampires shrivelled into decayed mush. Some crumbled into ash.

In what seemed an instant, Kell broke through their ranks and high-pitched keening rent the air. Five or six fled, leaping onto horses and galloping away only to find a wall of Blacklippers had gathered, and charged at the remaining vampires with swords and axes, cutting them to pieces. Screams pierced the air. Without mercy, the Blacklippers killed the skinless horses, and threw them into the sulphurous rift.

Kell stood for a moment, panting, then whirled on Dekkar. Ilanna came up. Kell's eyes were bright glowing coals without trust.

Dekkar placed his mace head against the ground, and leant heavily on the weapon. Suddenly he looked old, and tired; bone-weary. He smiled weakly at Kell, and rubbed his eyes.

"You did well. For an old man."

"As did you. For a fat bastard."

"Ha! Kell, I think we may have got off to a bad start."

Kell scratched his chin. "You reckon? Maybe I'd have to agree with that one. I came here to warn you about the vampires, about their army gathered at Jalder. I have gathered my own army, and I was coming here to ask you to join."

"What, you would have Blacklippers fight alongside the good men of Falanor?" There was a hint of a sneer to Dekkar. Long-held prejudices could not be erased with ease.

Kell shrugged, and gazed at Ilanna's bloodied blades. They were slick with vampire gore. "My army is made up of criminals, freaks, and convicts from the Black Pike Mines."

Dekkar smiled. "That is good, then. My sort of people."

"Will you come with me?" said Kell. "Will you fight with me?"

Dekkar stared hard at Kell, then past him, to the thousands of gathered Blacklippers. His people. His outcast race. Then he nodded, and lifted his mace into the air. "Gather your weapons!" he roared. "We are going to war!"

A cheer rang out, and Kell turned, face a dark sour hole. Myriam grasped his arm and they walked away from the cheering Blacklippers to stare out, past the destroyed bridge and the torn clockwork moorings that were all that remained.

"What is wrong?" she said.

"They cheer because they know they will kill the men and women of Falanor. It is sick."

"You got your army."

"Yes. I got it. But what worries me is once I've unleashed it, and if we win… how do I rein it back again? But that's a problem for another day."

Myriam nodded, and peered down into the depths of the rift. "I'm sorry, Kell. About before. About Saark."

"I should have let you drown him longer. Would have done him good. Cooled him off a little." Kell grinned. "Have you learnt your lesson?"

"So you're not going to cut off my head?"

"You saved my life, didn't you? With that damn fine bow."

"Maybe I was trying to hit you?"

Kell roared with laughter, suddenly, and slapped Myriam on the back. He was battered, his nose broken, his face and clothing covered in gore, vampire blood, strings of flesh. He looked like an animal. He looked worse than an animal. He looked like a Vampire Killer.

Myriam shivered.

"Either way, lass, you saved my hide on that bridge. And in a roundabout way, you have helped save Falanor."

"How so?"

"I think you led the vampires here. They were a tracking unit. I reckon they were after killing themselves a vachine. They know your kind are a threat, and you must be a priority hunt for them."

"Oh," she said, deflating a little. Kell put his arm round her.

"Don't worry, Myriam. You're with me now. And me and Ilanna, we're starting to get quite fond of you vachine. You certainly have your uses in a scrap!"

"Yes, but we're hard to love," said Myriam, and smiled, and looked up at Kell, and he stared at her as if almost seeing her for the first time. When Kell had first met Myriam, back in Vorgeth Forest, and she had poisoned him; she had been a husk of a woman, riddled with cancer, eyes sunken, hair lifeless; now, thanks to her vachine change at the hands of the Soul Stealers, she was tall, powerful, skin pale but radiant, and her hair was long, gently curled, luscious like the glossy pelt of a panther. Her eyes were dark and glittering and intelligent, and if it hadn't been for the brass vachine fangs, she would have been, to Kell's eyes at least, strikingly beautiful.

He remembered her touch. He remembered glimpses of her, little snippets of naked flesh, bathing, dressing. And back in Vorgeth Forest, just before she had injected him with poison, she had pressed close against him, and even now he could remember the musk of her body, and he remembered the rising lust in his loins and cursed himself, now and then, for being weak, for being pitiful, for betraying the memory of his long lost Ehlana. Back in Vorgeth Myriam had kissed him, and it had felt good. It had felt more than good. But he pushed the memory away. Never again, old man, he had told himself. Not in this life.

Kell shuddered.

"No," he said.

"No what?" Myriam was looking at him strangely.

"Just no. Come on. Let's take these Blacklippers to Saark and the men. The fight is just beginning."

"Wait." Her hand was on his arm.

Kell stared at her fingers, then lifted his head to look into her face. Again, that curious smile. The tilt of the head. Kell shivered, for he thought he knew what that smile meant. Myriam was weak – she needed to be loved, to be cherished, and to be in control. And she was attracted to power. Attracted to Kell's ferocity, his savagery, his Legend.

"Go on."

"That thing. Back there. With Saark. I didn't mean it."

"What, trying to kill him? Don't worry about that. I love the man, but I, also, want to kill him regular."

"Not killing him, no. The… other thing."

"Ahh."

"It was just… a moment. I am free of him. You see?"

"I see," said Kell, voice low, eyes locked to Myriam. "Come on, lass. We should go."

"Yes."

Kell led the way, and Myriam followed, sheathing her sword.

Dekkar sent a fast rider with three horses within the hour. The mission was simple: to reach Saark at the Black Pike Mines with a letter from Kell. In it, were instructions to assemble the new army and to rendezvous on the plains south of the Black Pike Mines. Then they would take a direct course from the Black Pike Mines to the occupied city of Jalder.

Now Kell, Myriam and Dekkar, King of the Blacklippers, led two thousand armed male and female Blacklippers across the ice and snow, and out from the Valleys of the Moon. They moved mostly in silence, hair and furs ruffled by the cold wind from the mountains. It was a bleak day, grey and cold and threatening snow.

"Now, we go to war," said Myriam, voice gentle.

"Now, we fight for Falanor," agreed Kell.