Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 13

"It's grandfather!" grinned Nienna, shading her eyes from the glare of the snow. From the hilltop across the valley emerged a horde of soldiers, heavily armed, who descended into the valley floor with Kell marching alongside a huge man bearing a mace.

"Looks like a bunch of murderous cutthroats to me," muttered Saark, then gave a sly smile. "As you say. Your grandfather."

"Don't be like that! He's done it! He's brought more soldiers!"

Nienna ran off ahead, boots ploughing through fresh soft snow, an almost childish look on her face which made Saark blush as he remembered the past week and the things they'd done. Nothing fazed Nienna. Saark had to admit, she gave him a run for his money.

Saark watched as Nienna leapt at the old man, throwing her arms about him, and he laughed and hugged her tight, shifting Ilanna to one side out of the way where sunlight gleamed on the dark matt blades.

If he finds out, I'm a dead man. No. More. If he finds out, he'll beat me, then he'll torture me, then he'll cut me up into little pieces! He'll tear off my arms and cut off my balls. Saark clutched his balls with compassion. And I don't ever want to lose my balls. I like my balls. After all… He grimaced. My balls are my best feature.

Saark moved across the snow, signalling to Grak the Bastard to stand down the men. As Saark approached, Kell grinned at him and cracked his knuckles. "I see you, dandy."

"Somebody hit you?" Saark squinted at the damage.

"People always hit me," said Kell.

"I see somebody broke your nose. You look better for it."

"Yes," said Kell, and gestured to Dekkar, the Blacklipper King. "We had a few, shall we say, disagreements. But then the vampires attacked the Valleys of the Moon, and it all worked out right in the end."

Saark nodded, grinning. "Nice to meet you, Dekkar." Saark held out his hand. Dekkar simply stared at him, as a lion would if presented with a potato. "Ahh, I see, you employ the old school of ignorance just like our big stinking friend here."

Dekkar leaned close to Kell. "Shall I silence this yapping puppy?"

"No, no, he's all right. He's always like this. You get used to him."

"I do not think I will," said Dekkar, scowling and hefting his huge mace.

"Hey," said Saark, scowling, "I'm here, you know, right here in front of you, now I'm used to people talking about me behind my back but this just isn't on. You wouldn't get this sort of thing in the Court of King Leanoric, I can tell you!"

"Did he look after you?" said Kell, to Nienna.

"He looked after me," she said, voice small, but thankfully Kell was looking away, surveying the army of criminals as presented by Saark. So he missed the blush. He missed Nienna's subtle tone of voice. Saark scowled at her, then waved up the slope.

"We trained them. Just like you said. And although I'd like to take all the credit, in fact I shall take all the credit, but maybe a little of the credit must go to Grak. He's a bastard, but he knows a thing or two about formations, and training men, and getting the best out of them."

"Stop babbling," said Kell.

"But. We had, er, a couple of problems."

"Such as?"

They watched Grak striding down the slope, dragging with him the unwilling figure of Myrtax. The man was struggling, and his hands were bound before him.

"It wasn't my fault, Kell," said Myrtax, red and sweating.

"Explain."

"He let Sara go," said Saark, voice low. "Killed the guards. Released her into the night."

"Horse shit," snarled Kell, "now the fucking vampires will know what we plan! Why did you do it, Myrtax? Why?"

"I was… I lost control!"

With a snarl, Kell hefted Ilanna and in a sudden stroke cut off Myrtax's head. There came a stunned silence, a pattering of blood, and the body flopped to one side, the head rolling to a stop in crimson snow.

"Why did you do that?" cried Nienna, suddenly, stepping back from Kell, face twisted in horror.

"He was a traitor, with a direct bloody link to the Vampire Warlords," growled the old warrior, and stared hard at Nienna. "I'm sorry. I seem to have lost control." He gave a grim smile, and pointed with a stubby, powerful finger. "Now stop asking damn fool questions and get back up the hill to Grak. We have a lot to do, and because of this offal," he spat, "we need to move fast. Saark!"

"Yes sir!" He snapped to attention, then slumped again. He pulled a pained face. "Did I really call you sir? Shit. Something bad must have got into me."

"And indeed," said Kell, voice low, temper now gone, mind drifting into a mood for battle, "something bad will get into you if you don't listen. She's called Ilanna, and she takes no prisoners. We will march east on Jalder. It's not a complex plan. You finished all the weapons? And collars?"

"All done," said Saark. "The smiths worked through many a night. Do you think they'll be effective?"

"If they don't, we'll soon be dead," said Kell. "Let's use what remains of the daylight and close down a few leagues; we can talk and plan tonight. GRAK!"

"Sir?" bellowed the bearded warrior.

"Let's move out."

"Yes, General!" bellowed Grak, and leading three thousand armoured convicts, now bearing swords and shields and helms of polished steel, they descended into the valley churning snow to mud.

Kell glanced down at Myrtax. He was touched by sorrow for a moment. The man had a wife. And little ones. But then Kell's heart went hard. For Myrtax would have sold them all out for his own safety. His cowardice had become his undoing… And a lesson had to be shown to the many fighting men around Kell: that traitors would not be tolerated. Dealt with swiftly. Harshly. Without mercy.

"Goodbye, old friend," he said.

Governor Myrtax continued to bleed into the snow.

The two new Divisions of Falanor men moved in discrete units. The Black Pike Mine men were grim, it had to be said; but not as grim as the Blacklippers, who considered themselves born to die.

Grak and Saark headed one column, and Kell and Dekkar the other. Nienna rode with Saark, and though this irked Kell, he accepted it. She was upset with him for killing Governor Myrtax, and one day, he knew, she would understand his act. Now was not a time to be planning. Now was a time for action.

After half a day's marching, when they stopped by the edge of a young forest to refill waterskins and eat hurried meals of oats and dried biscuits, Kell strode to Saark. "We'll be joined soon by an old friend," he said, and frowned, feeling like an intruder on Saark and Nienna's conversation. Saark grinned up at him, but Nienna's face remained set in a frown.

"What, old friend?" she said.

"Myriam."

"What?" spluttered Saark, spitting watery biscuit down his pink shirt, "I'll kill the bitch, I'll rip off her head and piss down her neck! The bitch! The back-stabbing whore!"

"No," said Kell, and squatted down beside his friend. "In the Valleys of the Moon, I was dead, lad. About to be slaughtered by that huge fucker," he gestured to the mighty figure of Dekkar, who was talking quietly with some of the most senior Blacklippers and examining a steel collar. "Myriam had been following me. She came to my rescue. Without her, Saark, Nienna, I would be dead."

"She betrayed us, grandfather," said Nienna, softly.

Kell shrugged. "Then she rescued me. She redeemed herself."

"Does that mean you'll cut off her head, like poor Myrtax?"

" Poor Myrtax stuck a knife through the ribs of a good soldier. That man had a family, Nienna. Little girls, by all accounts. Little girls who will grow up without their father thanks to the betrayal of Myrtax. And down to his big mouth and runny brain, we might all well be walking into a trap at Jalder. This game has not played out yet."

Nienna shrugged, blushing. "Well, why go, then?"

"Because we must!" snapped Kell, feeling his temper boiling once more. He struggled to control himself. "Listen. I'm sorry. I just… I have so many hundreds of things running through my brain! I am a warrior, not a general. A killer, not a damn tactician. I am out of my world, and trying my damn best. But the only thing I truly know is if we don't make a stand, if we leave the spread of this vampire plague unchecked, then one day, and one day soon, we will all be dead."

Nienna nodded, and Kell rose. He pointed at Saark. "When she arrives, lad, you behave. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Kell. And Kell?"

"Yeah lad?"

"Don't worry. About the battle. We have some good men here. Some tough, hardy, unbreakable warriors, that's for sure."

Kell sighed. "I know we do. The great irony is it's up to the condemned to save the innocent. Still. I'd rather this honour and task had gone to somebody else. I feel uncomfortable wearing a general's helm."

"You'll do grand, Kell. You always do."

Kell snorted, and moved off to talk to Dekkar and Grak.

"Nice to see he's grumpy as ever," laughed Nienna.

Saark smiled, but tension throbbed behind his eyes. Myriam! What a… complication. Now all he needed was a few irate ex-girlfriends to turn up as well, pregnant and waving invoices for food and lodging, and closely followed by their even more irate husbands bearing spears and torture implements.

"Bah," he spat, and rummaged for another biscuit.

Saark watched Myriam arrive at a distance, and she dismounted and walked with Kell for a while, chatting. Saark glanced at her a few times, and Grak slapped him on the back. "She's a looker, eh lad?" he rumbled. "Look at those long legs! Wouldn't mind them wrapped around my back, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, Saark," said Nienna, glancing up at him. "Wouldn't mind them wrapped around your back, eh?"

"You know what?" said Saark, scowling. "I'm starting to hit that point where I've had my fill of women – for a lifetime!"

"Nonsense," boomed Grak, pushing out his chest. "The day I tire of a woman's fine company is the day they bury my casket."

"Not long, then," smiled Nienna, sweetly.

"Little lady," scowled Grak, "that's not a very good thing to say to a man on his way to a battle."

"Well, you talk about women as if they're objects! As if we can't damn well think for ourselves! Let me tell you something, Grak, you bastard, maybe if you'd treated a woman as an equal instead of some cheap slab of meat for the night, maybe you'd have a fine warrior wench right here by your side now! As for me, I'm sure I can get some more equitable talk back there with the rapists and killers. I take my leave."

Nienna stalked off.

"She's a lioness, that one, that's for sure," said Grak, grinning.

"Aye," muttered Saark, weakly.

"I pity the man who ends up with her!"

" Aye," mumbled Saark.

"And just think, not only have you to get past the sharpened tip of that acid tongue, but if you put a bloody foot wrong, you get Kell's axe in the back of the head!" He roared with laughter. "Not only would you have to be a masochist, you'd have to be as dumb as that mule back there." He gestured with his thumb.

"She's a donkey."

"Eh? Whatever. As dumb as that donkey back there, is what I said. And by the gods, lad, she's a dumb beast if ever I saw one."

"I suggest you leave Mary out of this," said Saark, tetchily, and moved off to walk alone, throwing occasional glances to Myriam – who was laughing at some ribald jest Kell had made.

"Damn them all," he muttered from his psychological pit.

"Saark?"

Saark half-rose from the fire, but Myriam showed both hands as she crept from the darkness, and he slumped back down with a curse.

"What do you want? I thought you wanted me dead last time we met. I seem to remember your certain attempt to drown me."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not good enough, Myriam! You can't just roll back into camp, apologise, and get on with your plans for world domination! What is it this time? Take over our army and conquer the Vampire Warlords that way?"

"I'm sorry. Truly. I was… out of hand. I wasn't thinking clearly. It's just, I love you, Saark. I was thrilled by our union. You understand? We are both vachine, and there's not many left now after the devastation of Silva Valley. We have to stick together, you and me." She shuffled closer, and punched him on the arm.

"Ha. Yes. There is that."

"I'm sorry, Saark. All right? I promise I won't do it again."

"Which bit?"

"Which bit would you like me to promise?"

"Er, for a start, you can promise not to kill me."

"Sure. I promise not to kill you." She leant in a bit closer. Saark inhaled the musk of her skin. He groaned, as that familiar feeling washed over him and he tried to focus and tried to keep it clear… but could not. I am cursed. I am deviant. I have a brain like a child and the lust of a platoon. What am I to do with myself? What is the world to do with any man like me?

Myriam kissed him.

And in the shadows by the edge of the campfire, Nienna stood bearing two cups of honeyed mead, and cried in the darkness, her tears glowing with the colour of the flames.

It was dawn.

Jalder sat below them, sheathed in an early morning mist which made Kell twinge in panic. If the vampires knew they were coming… if they had Harvesters, and blood-oil magick, and ice-smoke… well, the battle would be over before it had begun.

"Thoughts?" said Grak, lifting the heavy sword he had chosen.

They had sat up long into the night, formulating a basic strategy and trying to consider every eventuality. They sought to draw the vampires out onto the plain before Jalder for an open, pitched battle. There, the heavy formation of soldiers with shields and long spears could possibly counteract the vampires' advantage of speed and agility. If their army was drawn into the city itself, however, they lost all the benefits of armed and armoured units.

Kell was convinced they could do it.

"It is their arrogance," he argued. "They will come, they'll drift out from the gates and they will fight. The stench of our blood will be an overwhelming factor for them! They must have hunted down most of the humans in Jalder now; that means no fresh meat, no fresh blood! And they need fresh blood like a drowning man needs oxygen. When we roll up, it'll be like a plate of succulent beef stuck under the nose of a starving man! Trust me on this."

"I'm not convinced," growled Dekkar. "I think they'll run and hide when faced with a superior force."

"Whatever happens," said Kell, "we must not be drawn into a running street battle. These bastards are cunning. They'll lay traps in the streets, in back-alleys, leap from the rooftops. No. We must get them out here. This is where the battle must be."

And now, the two Divisions descended from low hills. Jalder lay silent, its ancient dark stones steeped in history and lore, its streets and temples and houses and schools silent, slick with ice and mist, echoing with horror from the recent atrocities.

"So far, so good," said Saark; he looked sick.

Kell glanced at him. "You took your happy leaf?"

"I have decided to give up women!"

Kell snorted in laughter, as the five thousand men, ranged fifty men wide and ranked a hundred men deep, a tight fighting square with shields presented to all sides, moved slowly down from the hills.

"An easy claim to make as we head into battle!"

"I mean it! Do not mock me!"

"Well then. I give up whiskey!" grinned Kell.

"And I give up killing generals!" boomed Grak, slapping Kell on the back, and around him many men laughed, helping to ease the fear which was creeping stealthily through their ranks as fluid as any ice-smoke.

They made the plain below. Behind, on the hilltop, Myriam and Nienna sat with another fifty or so women from the Black Pike Mines who had travelled with the army in order to help feed the soldiers and repair clothing and armour. They also carried bows and knives, for none believed this would end well. They were hardy women, stout and tough, with ice in their eyes and fire in their bellies. They frightened Nienna.

"This is it, then," she said, voice almost a whisper as the soldiers spread out on the plain between the hills and Jalder's main western gates.

"Seemed more romantic, back then," agreed Myriam. "Save Falanor! Raise an army and attack the vampires!" She shivered, suddenly, and pointed. "Look. The gates are opening."

Kell halted the army, and the huge bristling mass of soldiers waited. Shields were held tight, and spears stood proud to attention. A cold wind howled across the plain as the gates squealed on rusting hinges. Snow whipped up in little eddies that danced across the bleak place.

A single figure stepped out. It was a man, tall and lean, his face angular and with the blood-red eyes of the vampire. He walked forward with a curious gait, trailing through the compact snow, his eyes fixed on the large body of fighting men without any fear whatsoever.

He halted. He waited.

Kell stepped forward from behind the wall of shields, and approached the tall vampire. And Kell hissed as recognition bit him. This was Xavanath, Principal of Jalder University. Kell had met him once… when the man had been human. He was an honourable and respected academic. Now, blood stained his claws, and strips of flesh trailed from his fangs. And… and he stank. He stank like a corpse. He stank of death. He stank of murder. The smell washed over Kell and made him want to vomit, and it was something he had never considered before; the vampires were trapped in their own filth, their blood coagulated, their flesh necrotic. The longer they remained vampires, the more they began to rot.

"You are the leader?" said Xavanath, with all the haughtiness of any true academic superior.

"By all the gods, lad, you stink like a fucking corpse. But then, excuse my manners. You are one."

A ripple of laughter shifted through the ranks, and Xavanath stared hard at Kell. He made a clicking sound, a show of annoyance…

As if dealing with a disobedient child.

As if dealing with a naughty student.

"Kuradek, the great Vampire Warlord, instructs you to immediately lay down your weapons and accompany me into the city. He guarantees your safe passage. He would talk the terms of a truce." Xavanath's bloodred eyes ranged across the soldiers, with their new armour and shields and spears. "There is no need for slaughter on this day," he said, his words soft but carrying to every man on the plain. Then he smiled, and it was a sickly smile, like the smile on the face of a man dying from necrotising fasciitis. "Your slaughter, that is."

"Well, lads," boomed Kell, turning and surveying the five thousand hardened men behind him. "He's come out with fighting talk, that's for sure!" Kell launched himself at Xavanath in a sudden blur of speed, Ilanna slamming up and over, and cutting vertical down deep through the vampire's neck. Xavanath stumbled back, claws flashing up but Kell followed, dragging Ilanna out as the vampire hit the snow; the second blow cut the vampire's head from his shoulders, and the corpse slowly melted into a wide, black, oily puddle.

Kell's head came up, and he glared at Jalder – at the silent city. "Come on, you fucking whoresons!" he screamed. "Don't cower in the dark like little girls, come out and face us! Or is Kuradek truly a coward? Is Kuradek the Vampire Pukelord cowering and whimpering in the corner, sucking his own engorged dick and vomiting up his dinner in rank open fear!"

Kell strode back to the ranks and planted Ilanna's haft between his boots. He waited.

Saark sidled forward.

"I don't mean to be pedantic, old horse," said Saark, "but wasn't that a bit… rash?"

"The only rash here is on your crotch!" snapped Kell.

"Shouldn't we have at least talked to him?"

"No. We have to piss them off. We have to draw them out for a fight. If we head into the city now, where they are strong, we lose the advantage of armour and steel. We cannot let them hunt us down. We must do battle."

"Why won't they come?"

"They don't like the light," grinned Kell, his face filled with humour but eyes narrowed, evil almost in the gloom. He glanced up at the clouds, heavy, black and thunderous above. "But there's a storm coming. They'll like that. They like the cold, and they like the gloom. Pray for snow, Saark. That'll bring them to us…"

Even as Kell was speaking, the sky overhead darkened perceptibly. Clouds rushed across the sky and thunder rumbled, deep and ominous. Then the gates to Jalder opened fully to reveal – a woman.

It was Sara. Kell's daughter. And she was smiling.

Kell glanced at Saark. "Go back. I'll deal with this bitch."

"What are you going to do?" said Saark, voice trembling.

"What I have to."

"You can't," hissed Saark, grabbing Kell's arm. "Nienna's back there! She's watching!"

Kell took hold of Saark's shirt and dragged the dandy in close. His talk was fuelled with fire and spittle. "I must! " he hissed into Saark's face, then threw the exSword Champion back, where he stumbled in the snow and glared at Kell.

Kell strode out to meet Sara. Her hair was dark, her eyes shrouded in gloom, her face beautiful. Kell swallowed. He loved her. Loved her so much. Losing her to bitter internal family feuding had been a hard pill to swallow. Something he tried to put right again, and again, and again. But Sara was a stubborn woman. One of the worst. Kell had laughed at the time; "She gets it from me," he would chuckle, but in reality there was no humour about their situation, and it had to be here, and now, all events spiralling down to this battlefield outside Jalder. Between the castoffs of Falanor, and the vampire converted.

"Father," said Sara, striding forward. She glanced down at the beheaded corpse of Xavanath without compassion. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes, and this confused Kell. Why was a vampire crying?

"Go back to your whining master, girl," snapped Kell. "This is no place for women."

"Spoken like the true woman-hating bastard you are!" she hissed, but still tears trickled down her face and it was this contrast which slowed Kell. He knew he had to kill her. And fast. She was deadly, he could sense it, and the world suddenly went slow, honey treacle, and Ilanna was there in his mind like a ghost…

Talk to her, Kell…

Listen to her, Kell…

You know you must.

Sara leapt, suddenly, claws slashing for Kell's throat. He leaned back, but her fist struck his jaw, rocking him – his boot came up into her groin, and his free hand grabbed her hair and with a grunt, he planted her head against the snow. She struggled violently, but Kell lowered Ilanna so the arc of the left butterfly blade pinned her throat to the ground like a stationary, waiting guillotine.

"Go on!" she snarled, legs still kicking. "Do it, father, you always wanted to. You were ever the fucking hero. Well kill me. Kill your own daughter, just like you killed your own fucking wife!"

Kell's eyes went hard, and with Sara in place, he pulled free his Svian and rammed it down hard into her heart. She started to kick, and struggle, but Ilanna pinned her in place, held her there like a slaughtered lamb.

Her eyes locked to Kell. And she smiled. And blood bubbled from her mouth.

"You remember the south tunnel?" she said, her teeth crimson, her legs still kicking. Her eyes were locked to Kell now, locked in death, and his teeth were gritted, and tears were on her cheeks, and snow was falling, a gentle drift all around them as huge dark clouds unleashed. Kell gave a single nod. "It is open," she said, on a flood of black blood, "and Kuradek lies at the end."

Then she spasmed, and Sara, Kell's daughter, died.

Saark ran up beside Kell, and the huge old warrior stood, slowly, wearily, and began to clean his Svian whilst staring down at his dead daughter. He remembered holding her as a babe, her mewling sounds, and the incredible love and joy he'd felt surge through him. For the first time in his life, here had been something which truly meant something to him. A child. A child for whom he would kill… and for whom he would die. But it had gone wrong. Gone so terribly wrong.

"What happened?" snapped Saark.

"She sacrificed herself," said Kell, gently, his voice cracked.

"What do you mean?"

"She knew I had to kill her. She allowed me to kill her. Then she gave me information. On how to reach Kuradek."

"How?"

Kell looked at Saark, then, and the dandy saw the old man crying openly. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and into his beard, and Saark stepped in close, supporting the huge warrior, holding him.

"When she was a child, she came riding with me and King Leanoric. She was so proud, sat on the saddle of a little black pony. We'd found a tunnel, dug by Blacklippers for smuggling, way to the south of Jalder." He waved a hand vaguely. "It led deep into the city, coming up in a building near the Palace. Leanoric had it sealed. Sara has opened the tunnel for me. I know this. I feel this."

"To get you inside?"

"To get me to Kuradek," growled Kell.

"It could be a trap."

"This is no trap," said Kell. He took a deep breath, and stepped back. His sorrow passed, and he gazed up at the falling snow. He turned and addressed the army. "They're coming, lads! Be ready! And Saark?"

"Yes… Kell?"

"Thanks, lad."

Saark grinned. "Hey. I love you like a brother, but I still don't want to marry you. So don't get any bloody ideas, you old goat."

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Kell, and turned to face the gates.

And they came.

The vampires came…

In a wide, dark flood, pouring from the city of Jalder with screams and hisses and snarls, red eyes crazy with blood lust, many running, some crawling, some leaping in huge bounds, there were men and women and children, there were bakers and smiths, armourers and greengrocers, teachers and students, and all were snarling and spitting, fangs wide, jaws stretched back, and Kell felt the men behind waver as they realised the scope of the battle – for these were not just a few vampires, they poured from the gates which bottlenecked their charge. But outside the city they spread, spread wide into huge ranks a hundred across. There were thousands. Kell swallowed, hard. His military-trained eye swept the surging, seething ranks as they halted, and assembled, like rabid dogs pulling at an unseen leash. Kell swallowed again.

"There must be ten thousand!" snapped Grak, who had come up close behind him.

"Fuck," said Kell. "You're right." His hands were slippery on Ilanna. He turned swiftly on Grak. "You know what to do," he said.

Grak nodded, and ran back to the men. "Shield wall!" he screamed. "Long spears at the ready."

"Time for us to move, old horse," said Saark, and there was fear in his face, nestled in his eyes like golden tears.

"Yes. I know. I might be hard," said Kell, "but I ain't stupid."

They turned, and as the vampires let out a mammoth screeching roar that filled the plain from end to end with a terrible decaying sound, and charged at the army of convicts and Blacklippers, so Kell and Saark pounded back to their battle lines and the shield walls opened to allow them in. They took up their positions, each taking a long spear and bracing themselves.

"Hold steady now, lads," growled Grak, and his voice carried through the ranks, strong and steady. "Let 'em come to us! Let 'em fall on us!"

The shield wall held.

Fear washed through the men, like a plague.

Snow fell from winter skies, as dark as twilight.

The vampires charged. The front ranks slammed the men of Falanor. Vampires hit the wall of shields, which opened at the last second at a scream from Grak the Bastard, and spears slammed through piercing flesh, throats and necks and groins and hearts and eyes, and the first rank of vampires went down thrashing and screaming, spewing blood and black oil vomit, and the spears withdrew and then struck out again, and again, and again, and waves of vampires went down falling over their brethren, but the wall was wide, too wide, and on both sides the vampire charge swung around like enveloping horns, attacking the men of Falanor from three sides now. The Blacklippers and convicts from the Black Pike Mines were strong, grim men, and although they were not soldiers, they held their ground, and they slaughtered the vampires, and the snow was slippery with blood in minutes, in seconds. A breach appeared to Kell's left, a vampire slashing a man's throat and squeezing into their fighting square of armour and spears, and Kell's Svian was out, slamming into the creature's eye and it fell with a gurgle. "Breach!" screamed Kell, as more vampires poured into the hole in the fighting wall. Short swords stabbed out, but the vampires were fast, and strong, their claws sharp, claws like razors. They fought with tooth and claw. They ripped out throats, and ripped off heads using incredible strength. Snarls echoed through the Falanor men. Screams wailed up from the mud, down amongst tramping boots and the fallen. Kell used his Svian, for Ilanna was strapped to his back, too big and hefty for close-quarters combat. He grabbed a short sword from a fallen man as a vampire leapt, an old woman with yellow eyes. He shoved the sword point into her mouth, and down into lungs and heart, ripping it out in a shower of bone and blood which covered him. Snarls sounded in his ear. Kell whirled about, but Saark skewered the vampire through the back, through its heart. Smoke came out of its ears, and it lay whining in the mud until Kell stabbed it through the spine at the base of its skull. A vampire hit Saark from behind, and Kell cut off its arm. Saark stabbed it through the eye, its punctured eyeball emerging from the back of its head. Blood bubbled and splattered across the struggling men. Kell saw their fighting square was faltering, and with sword and Svian, waded into the breach. A vampire hit him in the chest, and he head-butted it, his broken nose flaring in agony, and his Svian cut up into its groin. He felt a warm flush of blood cascade over his fist and he pushed, heaving deeper. Another two vampires leapt, and coolly Kell sliced a throat and stabbed one in the eye, but there were more, always more, and five had widened the gap, ripping off the heads of convicts with dull cracks and twists and splatters. Kell and Saark launched at them, boots slipping, screaming and shouting as snarls filled their ears, but these vampires had swords and metal on metal rang, the discordant clash of steel, a song of battle, a symphony of slaughter, and Kell hacked like mad and a blade whistled in front of his eyes making him step back, as a vampire landed on his shoulders and he reached up, dragging it to the floor and kneeling on its throat to stab out its eyes. Then Dekkar was beside him, had fought his way alongside Kell and there was a space around him and Kell saw why. Dekkar's huge flanged mace whirled with a sullen whine, and caved in the brains of a vampire, crushing its head down into a compact bone platter. Another blow killed a second, then a third, then a fourth and fifth and Kell leapt forward, Ilanna sliding free and together Kell and Dekkar reigned bloody slaughter on the vampires, forcing them back through the breach of the shield wall, back onto the snowswirling plain. They stepped out beyond their comrades, Dekkar's mace whirling and crushing, Ilanna singing now, a high pitched song like the voice of a woman, a beautiful woman, a sorrowful woman, and Kell felt himself tumbling into that pit, into that dark blood pit and he was back, back there, back in that place, back in the fucking Days of Blood and it feels good it feels right and they fall before the axe before Ilanna before her blades, and none can stand before me, not man, woman, beast, or fucking vampire and Kell's axe slammed left, and right, twin decapitations, and heads spun up into the sky on geysers of blood. Ilanna cut one vampire in two from crown to crotch, body peeling apart like halved fruit, necrotic bowel sliding free like diseased oil snakes. She slammed left, smashing ribs and leaving a vampire writhing in the mud where Dekkar's mace crushed the woman's face. In the same swing, Ilanna drove right, removing a vampire's legs. The man floundered, walking for a moment on stumps before being consumed by mud and snow and blood. Dekkar and Kell fought on, oblivious now to the widening circle around them, and although the rest of the vampires fought on, attacking with raw screeching ferocity, they were thinning. A child leapt at Dekkar, and he swayed back but could not kill. It landed on the Blacklipper King's chest, fangs snapping forward for his throat. Ilanna caught the child vampire on one blade, tossing it back into the vampire horde. Dekkar flashed Kell a smile, and Kell, covered from head to boot in vampire blood and gore, gave a nod. There was no smile. In his head, he was in a different place. Then…

A cheer went up.

Kell staggered, and righted himself. He started to breathe, and realised he was panting, and the world slid back into focus and it was a grim place. The vampires retreated, and reformed their ranks, and their dead lay scattered in their hundreds, a semi-circle around the fighting square of Falanor men.

"Grak!" screamed Kell.

"I'm on it!"

Grak started reorganising the men, and from behind came stretcher-bearers, removing the wounded. Wails and screams echoed over the battlefield. The vampires watched in silence, like kicked dogs licking their wounds. Licking their balls.

Kell, a gore-coated demon, gathered Dekkar, Grak and Saark to him. "You know what must happen now."

Saark took Kell's hand, wrist to wrist in the warrior's grip. "Be swift, my friend."

Kell nodded, and moved back into the ranks, and removed his bearskin jerkin, handing it to a huge man named Mallabar. The man carried an axe, an axe that looked similar to Ilanna and which had been forged at the Black Pike Mines.

"Fight well," growled Kell.

"Be lucky," growled Mallabar.

"I don't believe in luck," said Kell, and thumped the large man on the arm. "I make my own."

And then Kell was gone, to the rear of the thousands of fighting men where several horses waited. He rode up the hill, towards the women and Myriam and Nienna. He heeled his mount to a stop, and Nienna stared up at him, face hard and white, eyes like stones.

"I had to do it," said Kell.

"You could have taken her prisoner," snapped Nienna.

"One day, you will understand."

"Today, I understand."

"And what do you understand, girl?" growled Kell.

"I finally understand your Legend," said Nienna.

Cursing, Kell put heels to flank, and the horse sped away over the hill, and circled to the south, away from the battlefield. Snow fell thickly. Kell rode hard, the stallion snorting and protesting at his weight and abuse. Kell slammed along, knowing that time was of the essence. The army was terribly outnumbered, and although they were fighting bravely, they would only last so long against so many enemies…

Kell entered a snowy forest, and before long could hear the trickle of a frozen stream. Hooves cracked ice, and Kell was across and galloping hard once more. Steam rose from the stallion's flanks, and the beast was labouring hard as they reached the next rise and Kell dismounted. He crouched low, eyes scanning the southern wall of Jalder. His mind was sharp with memories of Sara, the little girl on the black pony, and the laughing face of King Leanoric. In older times. Happier times. Times now gone…

There!

Kell moved through the snow, thinking back to Saark, and Grak, and Dekkar, Nienna and Myriam. Even now, Grak should be organising the women, the archers, to advance to the rear of the fighting square. They had been training hard in previous weeks, and Kell was sure they would inflict a terrible damage on the vampires…

Kell grimaced. He hoped they could hold out.

Kell crouched in a ditch by the tunnel entrance, and scowled. There were thick steel bars, thicker than anything he could ever bend. They had been wrenched open, violently outwards, as if by some terrible, powerful blast. Of one thing Kell was sure: whatever slammed through those bars turning them into splayedout spikes and giving him a secret opening into Jalder – well, whatever it was, it wasn't human.

Kell squinted into the darkness. "Shit," he muttered, and hefted the solid haft of Ilanna.

I am with you, she said.

"That's what I'm worried about," muttered the old warrior, and touched one of the bars. It felt warm, and warm air drifted from the tunnel. Would it have rats? Or… something more sinister. Kell shrugged, and grinned. "Fuck it." Whatever's down here, it can't be more terrible than me!

"Kell! Wait!"

Kell cursed, and turned slowly, glancing up the icecovered slope. It was Myriam, on foot and holding her longbow in one hand. Kell's eyes dropped to her waist, where a Widowmaker was sheathed. Kell licked his lips. He'd forgotten Myriam used to carry such a weapon, a multi-loading hand-held crossbow, powered by clockwork and packing an awesome punch. It was with such a weapon Nienna's friend, Kat, had been murdered by one of Myriam's former colleagues. The memory was fresh in Kell's mind, like a bright stain of crimson against his soul. In some ways, he blamed Myriam. And that weapon. That dirty weapon. That underhand weapon. Kell hated it with every drop of acid in his soul.

"What do you want?"

"I've come to help."

"You'll get in my way."

"I need to help, Kell! All those men dying back there, and a lot of this shit, it's my fault."

"Then go and fight in the battle!" hissed Kell, whirling on her. His eyes were flashing like dark jewels. "You'll get in my way! I can carry no baggage."

"Baggage, is it?" she snapped, and was close to him, and her hand slid down his thigh and he groaned, and the blade pressed against Kell's throat. She grinned into his face. "This baggage got close enough to cut your fucking windpipe out."

"I could kill you, you know," said Kell, quietly.

"I know. But what a thrill, yes? It's damn good to be alive!"

Kell looked into her eyes. He saw madness there. He saw a lot of things there. He wasn't sure he fully understood Myriam. She wasn't just complex, but unpredictable and wild. It was this which attracted him to her. This which made him interested in women again… after so long. One woman, he corrected himself. One woman.

Once, in the marshes of the east, Kell had been attacked by a wild kroug cat, a stinking shaggy beast which roamed the marshes using secret paths. Kell was in the army at the time, and as his regulation short sword slid through its belly, up into lungs and heart, so their eyes had been inches apart, Kell punched onto his back, the dying, bleeding cat above him, foul breath caressing him, entering him, a kiss from the other side of sanity. Myriam's eyes reminded him of that wild cat. Untameable. Living on the edge, dangerous, truly a creature of chaos.

Kell grinned. "You can move your hand off my leg, now."

"Do you want me to?"

"No," sighed Kell, and relaxed, and Myriam stepped back and sheathed her blade. The Widowmaker hung at her belt, longbow on her back. She was tall and fit and athletic. Kell could still taste her breath on his tongue. "Later," he muttered.

"So I can come?"

"I don't believe I have any choice."

"No, old man. You do not. Lead the way!"

"You've not dragged bloody Nienna along as well, have you? Last bloody thing I need is half my family jumping out at inopportune moments. Makes it a bit difficult to hunt vampires."

"And Vampire Warlords."

"Indeed, yes."

They crouched, watching, then eased into the tunnel. The warm air was disconcerting after the cold of the snow and ice. It was quiet in the tunnel, dry as the desert. Kell touched the walls. "What was this place?"

"An escape tunnel for royalty," said Myriam, and when Kell looked at her, she shrugged. "I think it is, although these things are not really publicised. No?"

"I forgot. You fucked your way into all sorts of academic secrets back in Vor. In your quest to survive."

"That's all any of us want," she whispered.

They crept through long, dusty tunnels, thick with grime and smelling stale, with a tangy scent, like raw abused metal. The stonework was ancient, and carved into baroque curves and flutes which made Kell frown. Why make carvings down here? Where nobody could see and enjoy? He got a sense these tunnels had an ancient story to tell; something he would never discover.

After an hour Kell could smell fresh air. The tunnel abruptly ended at an ancient, iron ladder, leading up to far distant daylight. Snow fell down through the aperture, and Kell welcomed it, breathing deep after the confines of the tunnel. He hated tunnels. Hated enclosed spaces. It reminded him too much of the grave…

"Is it safe?" said Myriam.

Kell laughed.

"What?" she said.

"There's three Vampire Warlords on the loose converting thousands into vampires; there's a battle raging on the snowy plains outside Jalder. And you're worried about a ladder?"

"I just don't want to be entombed," she said, quietly.

"Hmm." Kell started to climb, and the ladder shook, but held under his considerable weight. Myriam followed, and they appeared on the roof of a warehouse, emerging and crouching by a low stone wall. Distantly, they could hear the sounds of battle. The vampires were once again assaulting the lines of the new Falanor army.

"Which way?" said Myriam.

Kell pointed. The Blue Palace reared, and in the diffused light of the gentle snowstorm, looked ugly, gothic, ancient and evil. Kell shivered, as if with premonition. Bad things were going to happen here. Very bad things.

"We can go over the rooftops, to… there." She pointed. Kell nodded. "Come on. This is my area of expertise."

They moved, climbing a sloped roof to a ridgeline and then halting. Kell glanced over the walls which surrounded Jalder. He could see the old garrison, once housing one of King Leanoric's Eagle Divisions; now deserted, the cobbles no doubt stained with the blood of the slain.

Kell glanced back, down the hill towards the river, and saw the tiny square of his old house. His heart skipped a beat. You've come full circle, old man. You're back where you started. Back in Jalder. Back where the Army of Iron invaded. Where the ice-smoke drifted out and took so many lives, froze so many innocent people to be just cattle for the bloodthirsty vachine…

He glanced at Myriam. Vachine.

He shook his head.

We must go, said Ilanna, her words soft and drifting through his skull. Kuradek awaits.

And you want his blood?

I want him to taste the Chaos Halls. To go back to where he belongs…

Kell stood, but Myriam touched his arm. "Wait. Look."

Kell glanced back to the distant battle. The vampires had pulled back. The men of Falanor, no doubt under instruction from Saark, Grak and Dekkar, were reorganising their lines. But then Kell saw something that made his heart leap into his mouth. By the gates of Jalder were Harvesters… a line of Harvesters, and their hands were above their heads, eyes fixed on the Falanor men… and around their feet swirled and billowed a huge globe of pulsing ice-smoke.

"Horse shit," snarled Kell, his eyes bleak. And as his gaze drifted, through the falling snow, as if by instinct he looked to the north and saw the army that appeared through the haze. They marched in unity, black armour gleaming under winter sunlight, black helms and black swords proud and Kell's mouth went terribly dry. He could see they were an albino army, very much like the Army of Iron which had first taken Jalder. And they, combined with the summoning ice-smoke at the feet of the Harvesters before Jalder's gates… well, it did not bode well for the men of Falanor.

"Come on!" hissed Myriam.

"Look," said Kell, voice bleak, tears in his eyes. How could they battle such magick? How could they go to war against such evil – and even hope to win?

"They will fight," snarled Myriam. "They will stand strong! Come! We have our own path. Come on!"

They hurried across the rooftops, and Myriam signalled a place to climb to the ground. The streets were deserted, most vampires obviously out on the plain already fighting the Blacklippers and criminals of Falanor. Kell stood on the cobbles, and felt foolish. He felt lost. He felt a cold flood of desolation through his soul.

Kill Kuradek, said Ilanna. You must do it! Now!

Kell grasped the axe, and ground his teeth. They moved to a high iron gate set in a stone wall and grown about with wild white roses. The gate was open. It was almost as if Sara had anticipated their route, and Kell smiled at that.

They moved down paths, and into the cool interior of the palace. High chambers were empty, but showed many signs of destruction. Polished wooden floors were scarred with hundreds of gouges from claws, and furniture lay in smashed heaps, vases shattered, bronze cups twisted and crushed and scattered; everything showed signs of decadence, of destruction, of disrespect.

"I have a bad feeling," said Kell, voice low. He hefted Ilanna, and Myriam cranked her Widowmaker. It gleamed dully in grey light from the high windows.

They moved through endless chambers, empty feasting halls, long high corridors with stone arches, many lined with statues of past kings and queens.

"Where is the bastard?" snarled Kell, eventually, and they arrived at a sweeping set of stairs. They climbed, wary, weapons at the ready, and when they were halfway up there issued snarls…

The vampires leapt from on high, snarling and spitting, and landed lightly before Kell and Myriam. One was a small, narrow-faced man, slim and wiry, his clothing torn, his hands curled into talons, his eyes blood-red and insane. Kell blinked in recognition, and licked his lips. This was Ferret, renowned through Jalder as a fighter, a thief, part of the hazy criminal underworld. He had a reputation. He was a Syndicate Man. But they'd got to him… the bastard vampires had got to him…

The second vampire was a girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She was slim, with dark skin, her eyes shadowed, her face twisted into the bestial. On her fingers were expensive rings set with huge gems, a contrast to her pale vampire flesh, her yellow, crooked vampire claws…

They attacked, in a blur, Ferret launching at Kell who slammed his axe up in a vertical strike, catching Ferret in the chest and lifting him, carrying him, flinging him back down the marble steps and onto the smooth marble floor beyond, where he skidded on all fours like an animal, and came charging straight back at Kell…

"No!" hissed Myriam, but Rose was on her, spitting and snarling and there was a slam as the Widowmaker kicked in Myriam's hand, and Rose was lifted vertically into the air, arms and legs paddling, face snarling, blood and strings of flesh drooling from her fangs and Myriam took a step back, aimed, and sent a second bolt hammering into Rose's face. Rose catapulted backwards, her head caved in, face gone, and lay twitching on the steps. Myriam whirled, saw Ferret leap high but Kell ducked, a swift neat movement, Ilanna slamming overhead and hitting Ferret between the legs, cutting straight through his balls and up to wedge in his abdomen. Both Ferret and Ilanna continued the arc, hitting the steps and wrenching the axe from Kell's grasp. He cursed. Ferret squirmed, claws ringing against Ilanna's blades as he tried to drag the axe free from his trapped body. Kell drew his Svian, and moved to Ferret squirming on the steps. Kell smiled, a warm smile of sympathy, and of empathy, and there was compassion in his eyes. "I'm sorry, lad. Really I am," Kell whispered, voice low, and soothing, and he punched the Svian through Ferret's heart. The small man went still, muscles relaxing, and blood pooled under his body, rolling down the steps in a narrow stream, dripping from one to the next until it finally slowed, and all that could be heard in the huge hall was the tiny drip drip drip.

Myriam reclaimed her bolts, and reloaded the Widowmaker. She glanced over at Kell.

"You all right?"

"No."

"It's going to get worse."

"I know. Come on. Let's put this fucking Vampire Warlord out of his misery."

Saark was breathing deep, and he touched tenderly at his ribs where a vampire's claws had sliced him down to the bone. But damn, he thought, they were sharp. And fast! Too fast. Faster than him. Suddenly, his vachine status didn't feel so menacing…

"Come on, Kell, come on, Kell," he muttered, watching the vampires retreat. They were hard, and fast, but the stout men of Falanor were standing their ground well and inflicting punishing casualties on the vampires. Long spears for repelling charges, and short stabbing swords for close-quarters combat were a devastating combination. The battlefield was littered with hundreds, even thousands, of dead vampires. Those that didn't disintegrate into oily puddles or smoke.

"How you doing, lad?" said Grak, slapping Saark on the shoulder. Saark groaned. He felt like one huge bruise.

"I feel like a big fat whore sat on my face."

"I thought you would have enjoyed that?"

Saark eyed Grak. The man was oblivious to sarcasm. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I would, at that. How long before they come back?"

"Not long," snapped Grak, peering out from the shield wall. "Shit. What in the name of the Bone Halls are those?"

Saark stared, and his mouth went dry. From beyond the gates of Jalder emerged a line of Harvesters. They wore white robes patterned with gold thread. They were tall, with small black eyes and hissing maws, but it was those long fingers of bone which attracted Saark's attention. He had seen up close what they could do. And they frightened him, deep down in a primal place.

"They're Harvesters," said Saark.

"They look mean. Do they fight?"

"They use magick," whispered Saark, and even as he watched, the ground began to blossom with surges of summoned ice-smoke. "Bad magick. Magick that freezes a man, renders him unable to fight. We must retreat, Grak! We must run!"

"Are you crazy?" snapped Grak. "If we run, if we break ranks, the bastards will slaughter us from behind! They'll pick us off like children!"

Saark saw the white clouds starting to billow. The Harvesters became shrouded in ice-smoke.

"They'll freeze us, here, where we stand!" hissed Saark, eyes crazy. "Then suck out our blood. I've seen it done! I've seen this before…"

"Sir!" snapped a soldier, slamming to a halt.

"What is it?" frowned Grak.

"Soldiers, sir. Lots of soldiers."

"Where?"

"To the north."

Grak and Saark ran around the fighting square, and stopped, dumbfounded. There, on a low hill, stood at least five thousand albino warriors. They wore black armour, black helms, carried black swords, and their shields were emblazoned with a brass image.

"Holy Mother," said Grak, and drew his sword. "We cannot fight two armies! On two flanks! We will be crushed!"

"We must flee the battlefield," urged Saark.

"No! We must stand! We must fight!"

"We cannot!"

"Archers!" screamed Grak, and turned, glancing to the square of women with bows strung, arrows stuck in the snow by their boots. He glanced back to the Harvesters. Ice-smoke billowed, and started creeping across the ground towards the men of Falanor… and the vampires stood, smiling, watching, claws flexing, blood-red eyes fixed on their prey…

There came a shouted command from the hilltop, and Saark drew his own sword. His mind was blank, mouth dry, bladder full of piss. They were going to die. Frozen. Cut down. Smashed apart like ripe fruit. "Shit shit shit," he muttered. "HORSE SHIT!"

The Army of Brass, led by General Exkavar, drew their swords with eerie precision, with the rhythm of a single machine… and charged down the hill towards the Falanor army in ghostly, flowing silence…

The room was filled with incredible opulence. From carved cherrywood chests, brass and gold urns, rich oil paintings covering huge expanses of wall, thick velvet curtains and drapes, carpets as thick as a man's fist covering the floors; well, it was a room fit for royalty.

At the centre, before the heavy, oak four-poster bed, stood Kuradek.

Kuradek, the Unholy.

"You came," he said, smoke curling around his smoke lips. And he smiled.

Kell and Myriam, who had been in the act of creeping into the room thinking Kuradek was in some kind of fugue, froze. They had waited a good ten minutes, watching him, but the Vampire Warlord had ceased to move, to breathe, apparently, to live. But he was alive. Alive and waiting.

"Well, we didn't want to let you down, boy," growled Kell, pushing his shoulders back and hoisting Ilanna.

Be calm, she said.

Until the… Time.

Kell stepped forward, and breathed deeply, and stared up at the towering figure of Kuradek, last seen on Helltop after his summoning from the Chaos Halls by General Graal.

"I thought you'd be bigger," said Kell.

"I knew you would come," said Kuradek. "It is written."

"What, prophecies again?" mocked Kell. "Give it a rest, you smoke-filled bastard. Now then." He pointed. "You know what I want. You know why I'm here. If you don't fuck off back to the Chaos Halls, I'm going to give you a damn good spanking and send you home with your tail between your legs."

Kuradek chuckled. "You think to challenge me, mortal? How?" He was genuinely amused. It was a genuine question.

"With this! " said Kell, shaking Ilanna at the Vampire Warlord.

The huge figure was silent for some time, as if analysing Kell and his weapon. Myriam, by the door, was of no consequence. Forgotten. Worse than forgotten: dismissed.

"One of the Three," said Kuradek, finally. "Well done. Still, She will not be enough."

"She is blood-bond," said Kell, gently, head lowered, eyes glittering dark. "And you know what that means."

"Then show me!" snarled Kuradek, and his huge long arms shot out, claws reaching for Kell who stepped back, and Ilanna smashed out left, then right, striking Kuradek's arms away. But incredibly, as they were slapped away, Ilanna's fearsome blades failed to penetrate the smoke flesh. Kuradek stepped forward, stooping, and behind Kell Myriam's Widowmaker hummed with clockwork and a bolt struck Kuradek straight in the face. The bolt was swallowed. Kuradek laughed. He moved with a hiss, so swift Kell was slammed aside, crashing through vases and a finely carved dressing table, turning them to tinder, hitting the wall and then the floor, winded, mind a blank, stunned by the speed and ferocity of Kuradek. Of the Vampire Warlord. " You think a fucking mortal could fight me? " he snarled, and held Myriam by the throat, two feet from the ground, her legs dangling, her face turning purple. " You think to challenge the might of the Vampire Warlords? " he shrieked, and threw Myriam who disappeared through the doorway, tumbling and rolling, flapping and slapping stone flags until she came to rest in the distance, useless and broken.

Kell climbed to his feet. He felt like an old man.

He stared at the smoke fangs. He stared hard at those blood-red eyes, glowing like coals.

He tried to summon Ilanna, but she was silent.

He tried to summon the rage from the Days of Blood… but it would not come. It had gone, deserted him, left him here like a lamb to die. To be sucked dry. To be slaughtered…

Kell stood his ground, pushing against the terrible fear which invaded him. "I have killed your kind before! " he growled, but his voice came out like a mewl from a frightened kitten.

"Not like me," said Kuradek, and there was a flash, a blur, and he was beside Kell, towering over Kell, looking down with those red eyes and Kell was frozen, could do nothing, and he realised in horror he was charmed by the vampire. Charmed, using blood-oil magick, a dirty back-hand trick. Kell snarled, but it was as if he was manacled in prison irons.

Kuradek leaned forward. His eyes were an inch from Kell's.

"You see. I have you in my power. Such an easy thing. Such a simple thing to disable the great Kell. Kell, the Legend?" Kuradek laughed, a low mocking sound, and smoked curled from his mouth, and entered Kell's lungs, and made him choke.

"I would say your time is done."

Kuradek's head lowered, and his fangs sank into Kell's throat…