Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 15

It was night. Kell crawled through the snow, which froze his knees and made him wince. Damn, he hated it when his knees seized up. Getting old, he thought to himself bitterly. Old, and weak, and tired, and weary. Weary of the world. Weary of the years. Weary of the fighting. Everything seems so complicated now, why can't it be simple like in the old days? In the old days, Saark would have been hanged from the nearest oak if he'd stepped outside in silk and perfume…

How decadent we've become.

How decadent…

"It's quiet," said Saark, who was lying next to Kell in the snow. "Maybe too quiet?"

"They're out there," said Kell, and his eyes scanned the huge sprawl of Port of Gollothrim below. On the outskirts were massive yards and factories, silent now, still, motionless, a ghost town within a ghost town. Machines should be grinding and clanking, Kell knew. Gollothrim was a thriving anthill, even at night. But not tonight.

The vampires had taken control…

"You know we'll not get them out for combat," said Grak the Bastard, voice low, stroking his beard. He was a reassuring mass in the darkness. Grak had proved himself to be a more than able soldier. "We'll have to go in after them. I reckon those Warlords speak to each other, up here." He tapped his head. "They'll know right enough what happened to Kuradek. Know how Kell disposed of him. There'll be no sneaking in, this time."

Kell scratched his beard. "I need to get to Bhu Vanesh. I need to bury Ilanna in his skull, open the pathway back to the Chaos Halls. They want him back, that much is for sure."

"Who?" said Saark, looking sideways at Kell.

"The Keepers," said Kell, darkly.

"You know way too much for a fat old man," said Saark, and shivered. "And sometimes, you can have too much insight. Me, I'd rather have a plump serving wench sat on my face, ten flagons of ale and a plate of fried pork and eggs in the morning."

Kell stared at Saark. "I have a favour to ask."

"Yes?"

Kell looked down, and seemed to fidget for a moment. He gestured to the vast sprawl of Gollothrim. "It's going to be wild down there, you know that? It's going to be bad. Much worse than Jalder."

"You think?"

"I have a sixth sense about these things," said Kell, quietly. "What I wanted to ask you, what I wanted to… request, was a promise. Something sworn in blood and honour. Can you do that for me, Saark?"

Saark stared into Kell's dark eyes. There was a glint of desperation there. Saark nodded. "Kell. I fool around a lot. But you know, deep down, I was the Sword Champion of King Leanoric. And yes, I betrayed him, but I do have honour – I have honour for my friends, and for those whom I love. I may wear handsome silks and the finest perfumes – don't comment – but when it really matters, I will kill and die if needed. You know that, don't you?"

"I know, laddie." Kell chewed his lip. "If I die down there, Saark, I want you to promise me you'll take care of Nienna. I want you to swear on your lifeblood that you will not treat her bad. You will treat her with respect and honour and dignity, help her with the hard choices in life… hell, I don't know. Be like a guardian for her. She's a tough girl, I know – she's my granddaughter, after all. But she's still just a babe when held against the warped tapestry of the real world. Of history."

"I will do anything for her, Kell. And for you. So yes. I swear. By every ounce of honour in my blood. By every clockwork wheel that turns and gear that steps. You know this, Kell."

Kell turned his gaze back to Gollothrim, and allowed a long breath to hiss free. He gazed past the factories and yards, storage huts, barracks, houses, schools, temples, narrow twisting streets and broad thoroughfares for the moving of goods from the docks. He could see the dark silhouettes of the ships at anchor in the bay. He could see the skeletons of many more new ships, destined to take the vampires abroad, to spread their plague to other continents in search of global dominion. And Kell knew, this would be the hardest fight of his life. He knew death waited for him down there. It looked quiet, it looked safe, but soon the vampires would come drifting out to play. And Kell had to find his way through the maze. Find Bhu Vanesh, and kill the bastard.

"You know I'm coming with you," said Saark.

"No, laddie. You stay here and look after Nienna. That must be your priority. That must be your mission. If things start to turn bad, then you take her. You get away. You take her some place safe. You understand me?"

"I understand."

"I'm trusting you, Saark, with the greatest treasure of my life. Don't let me down."

"I won't, Kell."

Even as they watched, as Kell had predicted, the vampires started to emerge into the dark quarters of Port of Gollothrim. They wandered the streets mostly in packs, some alone. They howled at the moon like dogs. They laughed and squealed, danced and fought. Kell, and Saark, and Grak watched grimly. They watched, down by the wide yard as a group of vampires cornered a woman. She screamed, and ran. They pursued her cackling like demons, and grabbed her, pulling her apart. Her arms came away spewing blood and she fell over, weeping, still alive. The six vampires descended on her, drinking her blood, laughing and singing and masturbating.

"We must go in," growled Grak, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We must end this depravity."

Kell nodded. "I agree. Go get the men ready. I want archers at the front, and we'll descend real slow. Pick off those we can, then divide into small fighting squares. If we stick to the wide avenues, we'll bring the fuckers out onto our spears. You must warn the men – never chase them into narrow alleys. They'll fall on us from above, and our long spears will be useless."

"How many in each unit?"

"I'd say fighting squares of twenty-five. Shields all round. Couple of archers in the centre of each square. We'll quarter the city, work through it methodically."

"Why don't we wait for daylight?" said Saark. "Most of them sleep."

"We'll never bloody find them," snapped Kell. "We'll waste too much time hunting in sewers and bloody cellars. No. This way we can fight them on reasonably open ground; get some good slaughterin' done. Then in the daylight, we can pick out the rest. Gather those still normal around us, they'll know where some of these vampires are hiding. Sound like a plan?"

Grak stared at where the six vampires chewed on the dead woman. He realised, stomach churning, that she was actually still alive. She was making weak mewling sounds. It was the sickest thing Grak had ever seen.

"Sounds like a solid fucking plan to me. Let's get it done." Grak crawled back, then disappeared into the dark.

Saark looked down on the city. "Kell. There's an awful lot of them out, now. Thousands of them."

"Good. We'll have plenty of targets then, won't we?"

"Don't you think the odds are against us?"

"Lad, the odds are always against us. From birth to death, life is just one whole shit of a bitch."

"I meant here, and now."

"I know what you meant." Kell's eyes gleamed. "You remember what I said? About protecting Nienna?"

"In some ways I'm relieved I'm not coming with you," said Saark.

Kell's hand smashed out, and stroked Saark's cheek. He grinned, like a demon in the moonlight. "Look after her, vachine. You're strong, fast, deadly. Nobody else can keep her alive like you."

Saark nodded. "What about Myriam?"

"Myriam? Why, she's coming with me, lad."

The outcast men of Falanor, the Blacklippers and thieves, rapists and murderers, extortionists and freaks, kidnappers and maniacs, the cast out and the depraved and the downright psychotic, assembled in tight military units, eyes gleaming, shields on arms, steel collars fixed around throats, swords oiled and sharpened, boot laces tightened and jaws grim with the prospect of death and mutilation as they considered the enemy – their numbers, and their ferocity.

"Let's move," said Grak, and they marched through the darkness, through the trees and over low hills, boots tramping snow and ice and mud. They found the main arterial route which ran from the Great North Road to Port of Gollothrim, and picked it up like casual syphilis, emerging from the trees like armed and armoured ghosts, eyes hot jewels, lips wet, anticipation and hatred building like a slow-boiled rage.

The armoured units approached Port of Gollothrim.

It began to snow, a heavy snow obscuring their vision.

Boots touched down on slick iced cobbles. Cold hands grasped weapons in readiness.

In the darkness, Kell and Myriam slipped away…

"Steady, lads," said Grak, voice a low rumble. The twenty-four men around him shifted uneasily in their steel cage. Behind, other units were ready. Then the fighting began…

From the gloom and snow the vampires attacked. With squeals of rage they launched at the armoured unit, and spears jabbed out, impaling vampires through hearts and throats. Grak caught a flash of fangs, and claws slid between shields. He slashed down with his sword, cutting off fingers which tumbled below pushing, tramping boots. A fanged face leered at him, hissing, spitting, and in what seemed like slow motion Grak slid his short sword into that mouth, watched the blade cut a wide smile and jab further in, into the brain, killing the vampire dead. Smoke hissed black from nostrils and it thrashed on his blade. Grak pulled back, and heard a clang from above. A vampire, on their roof of shields. He shoved his blade up, skewering a groin. More vampires slammed into the armoured unit, and swords and spears jabbed and slashed and it was chaos, but an organised chaos, madness, but controlled madness. It was a surreal world, a blood-red snow-filled insanity. All around men were fighting, grunting, pushing. Claws slashed through to Grak's left and tore off a man's face with a neat flick of the wrist. Grak saw eyes popping out on stalks, a horror of gristle and spasmodic working jaws. The man screamed blood. Grak cut the vampire's hand clean off with a short hack, then roared in anger and burst from the cage of shields and grabbed the creature, but it was strong, so fucking strong, and they wrestled and Grak was slammed backwards onto the cobbles, and the thing with only one hand squirmed like a thick eel above him. A spear suddenly appeared in an explosion of black blood, drenching Grak. The spear point was a hair's breadth from his face. The vampire corpse slid sideways, like an excised cancerous bowel. Dekkar grinned, and held out his hand.

"You fighting it, or fucking it, lad?" he growled.

Grak grinned, and glanced around. The wide street was empty, save for armoured units and vampire corpses. "We beat them off?"

"For now. For a minute."

The units reformed themselves. In Grak's square they had lost four men. Grak stared down at their bodies, mouth a grim line, eyes glittering jewels. He realised, with desolate horror, that they could not win this day. How many were there? How many? They couldn't kill them all.

"I know what you're thinking," rumbled the Blacklipper King, and slapped him on the back. "And the answer is – we must try."

Grak gave a nod.

"The bastards are coming back," snarled a soldier.

And through the darkness, and the falling snow, squeals and cries and giggles reverberated from walls. The noise built and built and built, until it seemed the whole world was full of vampires. Shadows cast across walls, from rooftops above, from alleyways and streets and the darkened interiors of tall regal town houses.

"Holy Mother," whispered Grak, as around him his unit looked up, around, back to back, weapons wavering uncertainly.

And they came, boots thumping in quick succession with a sound like thunder. They came, like a cancerous flood, hundreds and hundreds of vampires sprinting and leaping and cavorting from the darkness…

Command Sergeant Wood sat on the roof of the Green Church, down by the docks, and watched the old soldiers from the Black Barracks creeping into position. Old they might be, but they moved with skill and practice earned over a lifetime of fighting. They may be old, but each would hold his own in a barroom brawl. Each would fight to the death. And Wood could ask for no more.

Fat Bill crouched next to him on one side, and Pettrus on the other. Both men looked grim, faces sour like they were sucking lemons. Wood gripped his sword tight, and blinked. The old soldiers had disappeared. Their skills at hiding were second to none.

"There," said Fat Bill, pointing into the darkness. It had started to snow, and everything more than ten feet away was hazy and surreal. A perfect Holy Oak painting. A perfect festival, a time to relax, to put out holly on the doorstep and presents in wooden crates before the fire delivered by Old Crake and his Wraith Keepers. But not now. Not here. Those times were long gone. After all, children had little to laugh about in Port of Gollothrim now the vampires had taken over…

"What am I looking at?" said Wood, careful to keep his voice low.

"The docks."

"So?"

"What's most precious to the vampires? The ships, I reckon. They're beavering away like their lives depend on it. Building a fleet. Take their vermin plague to warmer climates, I reckon."

"But that's good for us," said Wood. "If they clear off and leave us in peace."

"We both know that will never happen," said Pettrus, darkly. "I agree with Fat Bill. We need to torch these bastards. Hit them where it hurts. We haven't enough men to take them on in battle; but by the Bone Lords, we can stick a knife in their ribs whenever we get the chance."

"Most of the lads are carrying oil flasks," said Fat Bill with a fat grin. "I think it's time we turned the night into day."

Wood gave a nod, mouth dry, and stood as Fat Bill and Pettrus stood. There came a slap on stone behind them, and Wood turned fast, past a blur which made him blink, stepping back, knocking into Fat Bill as his sword flickered up. The blur was a vampire, and her flying kick slammed into Pettrus' chest, making him grunt, stumble back, hit the Green Church's crenallated roof and flip over. There was a hiatus as the vampire hit the ground and rose smoothly.

Then a slap and crack as Pettrus hit the cobbles far below.

Wood wanted to scream, to rush to the edge and look, but a deep sickly feeling raged through his guts and he knew, knew his friend and mentor was dead and in a moment, he'd be dead too. The female vampire was smiling, and Wood felt a lurch of fear riot through him. It was Lorna, Bhu Vanesh's bitch, the vampire he'd thrown from the high tower roof, watched her break on the ground below, squirming and squealing like a kitten after a hammer blow. But she was here. Alive. And strong.

"Remember me?" she snarled, glossy crimson black eyes bright with hatred. She moved left, and Wood's blade wavered. Then right, and his sword slashed before her face by mere inches.

"I remember watching you break your pretty little spine," he said, eyes fixed on the petite blonde. She was pretty, slim, but she had changed from the woman he had once known. The skin of her face and hands looked stretched, almost fake, as if she wore a mask. Her hair, once a luscious blonde pelt, was now stringy like wire. She exuded death. To Wood, she looked no better than a rotting corpse. "And I knew you were coming. I could smell your dead stink from a hundred paces."

Lorna hissed, claws slashing, then rolled right under Wood's sword, and slashed her claws across Fat Bill's belly. She opened him like a bag of offal, and his bowels spooled out as if from a reel, his hands dropping his sword and paddling at his entrails with mad scooping motions as he tried to hold himself together.

Lorna leapt back as Wood's sword whistled past her throat, and she was smiling, and Fat Bill slammed to the floor of the roof and made panting noises as he slowly died. He waved a bloodied hand at Wood. "Kill her, kill her!" he groaned, "don't fucking bother about me!"

Wood ran at Lorna, her face showing surprise for a moment, but she back-flipped away. His sword slammed at her, cutting a line down her pale arm, and the flesh opened but no blood came out. She grabbed the wound, and the smile fell from her lips.

"You see, you cut like any other bitch," snarled Wood, and anger was firing him into the realms of hatred now. This wasn't just another vampire. This had become personal.

"You didn't kill me last time," taunted Lorna, and they circled. She darted forward, claws slashing for his throat, but his sword flashed up cutting her short. She leapt away, and back-flipped up onto the battlements. She turned, and let out a howl, and below vampires swarmed from still, silent, dark buildings. They began to climb up houses and factories and towers, towards the hidden old soldiers. Faces gleamed like pale ghosts in the moonlight. Snow melted on necrotic flesh, making them shine.

Wood ran at her, but she leapt over him in an amazing high arc, a back-flip but Wood anticipated the move and leapt at the same time, his sword ramming up in a hard vertical strike, entering her body at the core of her spine and emerging from under her breasts in a shower of black blood.

Wood landed, panting, and turned fast. Lorna had continued her somersault, landed, and cradled the point of the blade emerging from her chest. She stood, the sword straight through her to the hilt, and smiled at Wood. There was blood on her lips. On her fangs.

"Bastard," she said, and ran at him, and Wood's hands came up but she grabbed him, and she was awesomely strong, and she pulled him into a bear hug and Wood found the point of his own sword pressing into him, into his chest, and then driving in through flesh and bone, and he gasped and it burned and steel grated on bone. Lorna was close. Close enough to kiss. Her breath stunk like the grave, and her pretty dark eyes were fixed on Wood.

She leant forward. "How does it feel, Command Sergeant Wood? How does it feel, not only to die, but to see all your old friends die?"

Wood gasped, and pain swamped him for a moment, the world turning red and hot and unbearable. Then he caught himself from falling into the dark pit, and turned, and saw the vampires stood across the rooftops. There were several hundred. Out of the shadows rose the old soldiers of Falanor, Kelv the Axeman, Old Man Connie, Bulbo the Dull, Weevil and Bad Socks and so many more. So many men. So many soldiers. So many memories. They were surrounded, and outnumbered…

Lorna kissed Wood, first on the lips, then on his ear. Her fangs lowered towards his neck. She jerked him tighter, into her, a metal conjugation of the blade. A hard steel fuck. And her fangs caressed his neck, as she savoured the moment of the hunt. She seemed to sniff him, and taste him, and enjoy a lingering moment.

Below, on the rooftops, the vampires attacked…

Kell and Myriam crept from house to house, from street to street. They kept to shadows and moved with an infinity of care. Their aim wasn't to take on the vampire army. Their aim was to slaughter its Warlord.

"You were right," whispered Myriam, close to Kell's ear, her words tickling. "He's in the tower. How did you know?"

Kell grinned a skeletal grin in the darkness. "Intuition. These vampires. They have some fucking ego, that's for sure. Come on." They moved on through gloom, through falling snow which smelt of a distant, frozen sea. They could hear the sounds of battle now, shouting, screams, the echoing, reverberating cries of attacking vampires and slap of steel on flesh. Kell and Myriam did not talk about it. There was nothing to talk about. They simply pushed on, forward, further into the realm of the vampire.

Ilanna was drawn. And ready.

Myriam carried her Widowmaker in one gloved hand, and her vachine fangs were out. They gleamed in the darkness. She was as ready for battle as she could ever be.

They drifted like ghosts. Somewhere, a building burned. Vampires were screaming in the flames, and the roasting of flesh smelled like cooked pig interlaced with something subtly… human. Kell nearly puked, so they pulled back, crept down a different alleyway. As they left the black smoke behind they could see the Warlord's Tower.

They crouched and watched it for a while. Around the base were perhaps a hundred vampires, lounging in the snow, some walking, none talking. They seemed lethargic, sleepy, without any focus.

"What's the matter with them?" hissed Kell.

"Lack of fresh blood. They grow tired. Soon, they'll turn on one another. You'll see."

"How do you know this?"

"I feel it in myself," said Myriam, smiling and showing brass fangs. "We're not so different, them and me. No matter what they say, no matter what they think. They believe we are a deviant offspring; the Soul Stealers told me we were the more ancient race. We have our clans far to the north, in the cold places where humans don't travel. Me and Saark; we are parts of those vachine clans, now. Part of a distant, clockwork world. Part of an ancient heritage. One day, they will call us. And we will not be able to resist."

Kell stared at her, then shrugged. He got a sudden feeling the vachine of Silva Valley nestled deep within the Black Pike Mountains had been just a glimpse of what the vachine really were. Of their size, their might, their ferocity. Images flashed dark in his mind. Of huge clockwork vampire armies. Vast, cold and mechanical. Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. And Silva Valley had been an offshoot, rebels almost. And the vampires thought they had birthed the vachine – when in reality, it had been the other way round.

Kell shivered. It was too much to comprehend. Not here. Not now.

"That's a battle for another day," he said, finally, and saw the curious look in Myriam's eye. He held up a finger. "No. Don't even consider trying to convert me to what you have become. You had a good reason for becoming vachine, Myriam. A damn good reason. But I'm happy to die like any other old man."

"You can live forever," she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sometimes, I think it's better to die," he said, with an inherent wisdom he did not feel. Then he blinked, and shrugged off her vachine spell. He grinned. "Come on, lass. How do we get in?"

"Up there." She pointed to another tower, and between the two ran twin cables. "It's for passing messages, from the Warlord's Tower to servant quarters. We can climb across that."

Kell looked at the awesome height, with an equally awesome fall to iced cobbles below. "I can't bloody climb across a cable like that!" he scowled. "I'll fall! I'll die!"

"No," smiled Myriam. "You won't. You're Kell, the Legend."

"I wish people would stop saying that," muttered the old warrior, and sheathing Ilanna on his back, followed Myriam to the second, smaller tower. It was unguarded, and they entered through a doorway that looked like a broken mouth,

Into the breach, thought Kell, and chuckled. Somebody up there has a fine sense of humour!

They climbed a massive circular stone staircase for what seemed an age. Kell's knees complained. His back complained. He complained, but in an internal muttering monologue which had served him well for many a decade in the army. Years of running through mud, carrying logs, wading through rivers, staggering under heavy armour, fighting with a heavy shield on one arm, axe in hand, bodies falling before him, beneath him, carved like fine roast beef…

Kell blinked. A chilled wind scoured him.

The view from the tower ledge was incredible, spreading away through a fine haze of snow. Fire burned throughout the Port of Gollothrim. Vampires screamed and shrieked. Again, he could hear the sounds of battle, but could not determine the armoured units of Falanor men, of Blacklippers and criminals he had created. Here to fight for you. Here to die for you. So get on with it! Kill the Warlord. Then we can go home.

Is it ever that easy?

It always begins with a small step.

Kell moved to the edge of the precipice, and grabbed the cable. It seemed ridiculously thin, woven from slippery metal, and he scowled and looked down to the distant courtyard. The vampires still lounged. It felt wrong. Like Kell was stumbling easily into a trap like a courtroom jester. Would they really leave such an opening unguarded? Or were there vampires with crossbows waiting from him to swing out onto the wire?

"I can't do this," said Kell.

"Why not?" hissed Myriam, who was tying her weapons to herself. "Secure that bloody axe. If you drop anything, the bastards will hear us and they'll look up. Then we're dead."

"This is too easy."

"You call that easy?" snapped Myriam, gesturing to the expanse of swaying cable – perhaps five hundred strides in all, and a good height. Good enough to turn the vampires on the ground far below into stick-men.

"We'll be vulnerable."

Myriam shrugged. "That's how us normal mortals feel all the time." She saw Kell's look, and pressed at one of her vachine fangs. "Well. You know what I mean."

Myriam took hold of the cable, and it was cold to the touch. Freezing. She grimaced. "Come on, axe man. We have a job to do."

"One thing."

"Yes?"

Kell grinned. "I like you, Myriam."

Her eyes glinted. "I know you do. You showed me that in oh so many different ways. Just proves what an old man has still got left inside him, if he really tries."

"No. I mean, we've had our differences. And I still don't trust you for spit." He held up a finger to silence her complaint. "But you've come good, Myriam. You may be as unpredictable as a violent raging sea storm, but by the Chaos Halls, I think I like that in a woman."

"What you're saying is, despite what we've been through, if I betray you now, you'll still lop off my head with that bloody axe?"

"You know I will," said Kell. "Now let's move. Before I change my mind."

Myriam took hold of the cable and swung her legs up, crossing them. Then she began to haul herself along the icy length, hand over hand, with smooth effortless strokes.

Kell took hold, Ilanna strapped tight to his back, and hoisted his legs up. The whole cable sagged, and Kell bobbed, and he cursed, and his muscles ached already. It was one thing in battle to be a huge, stocky, ironmuscled warrior – but such mass did not lend itself well to supporting one's own weight from a high cable.

Kell started to haul himself along. Within minutes the tower fell away, and he was far across the expanse. A cold wind whipped him. His muscles screamed. His bones creaked. His knees and back pummelled him with pain. And worse, the worst thing of all, the cable was freezing, and his hands were frozen. They were rigid, like solid brittle steel cast wrong in the forge, and Kell was struggling to move his fingers, struggling to pull himself across the vast drop.

Kell paused for a moment, and glanced down, just like he knew he shouldn't, but perversely revelling in the danger. If he fell now, he'd make a mighty dent in the cobbles. He grinned. Bastard. Bastards! He wanted to scream into the wind, into the snow, but instead he gritted his teeth and forced iron resolve to tear through him and he continued onwards. Onwards.

Half way.

Kell paused. His hands were as numb as they'd ever been. As numb as ice. As numb as Saark's brain.

"Donkey shit."

He clamped his teeth shut, blinking fast. He realised the cold was now numbing his brain. He looked up. Myriam was getting close to the portal, and he watched her flip over the lip. She disappeared, and Kell searched for her to reappear with a smile, and an encouraging wave. However, she did not. Kell scowled.

Shit.

He moved, as fast as lethargic muscles would allow, as fast as frozen bear paws would grapple. But the ice was winning. The cold was beating him down, no question.

Three quarters of the way, and Kell could not go on. He could not move and he hung there on a cable, high above vampire hordes and a city at war, and he listened to the wind, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. And then, worst of all, he heard the sounds of battle from inside the tower. Steel on steel. The clash of blades. Myriam was in trouble!

Kell struggled to move on. To drag himself on. He glanced down. The vampires below had heard the battle as well, and they were looking up at him. One pointed. Several pale faces seemed to be grinning. Some vampires emerged, and they carried bows and Kell groaned. An arrow sailed up, missing him by inches. There came laughter, like a ripple of metal across ice.

Kell tried to force his fingers to move. They would not.

Kell was stuck…

Saark stared at Nienna as if she'd struck him.

"That's the single most incredibly stupid idea I've ever heard in my entire life."

"But you can't stop me," she said, voice low, and purring, and dangerous.

"I can stop you," snapped Saark, "and I bloody will!"

"No. You'd have to force me down, sit on me, pin my arms to the icy ground. Because I'm going after them, Saark. I'm going to help them. They need my help, I can feel it in my bones!"

"What a load of old rampant horse shit," snapped Saark, and grabbed Nienna's arm. Her hand flashed up, and it held a blade. The blade touched Saark's throat.

"See? I'm good enough to get past your guard."

Saark stepped back, hands out, and shook his head. "Kell told me to keep you here. In the forest. To make sure no harm came to you. He made me promise."

"This is unbelievable!" stormed Nienna. "Everybody has gone down to Gollothrim, even the women, to fight! And I'm expected to sit on my hands and play with myself? Well, I won't do it. I'm going after Kell and Myriam. The only way you'll stop me is by killing me."

"The women are trained archers!" wheedled Saark, and Nienna strode off down the forest trail. Saark ran after her. "Wait, wait! At least let me grab my rapier."

"So you're coming with me?"

"Aye, bloody looks like it, doesn't it?"

"Well, a woman should always get what she wants."

"In my experience, she always does. Only most of the time she learns to regret it."

Nienna shrugged. "You know I'm right, Saark. You know we need to be part of this. We can make a difference. We can help Kell."

"Have you heard yourself?" snapped Saark. " Help Kell? Have you bloody seen him fight? That rancid old lion needs no help from a little girl like you."

"Watch your tongue, lest I cut it out."

"Girl, if Kell learns I allowed you to follow him into that hell hole, then he'll cut out more than my damn tongue."

"Well let's make sure we make a difference, then," said Nienna, eyes hard, and by her stance Saark could see she meant trouble. She'd come a long way from the day he'd met her in the tannery in Jalder; then, she'd been soft like a puppy, her eyes gooey and lustful, her skin like virgin's silk. Now, she was hard, and lean, and her eyes were dark. She'd seen too much. Her innocence had been flayed from her, like skin strips under a cat o' nine.

Saark trotted after Nienna through the woods. There seemed little other option.

It did not take long to reach Gollothrim, and they stood in a darkened alley on the outskirts, listening to the sounds of horror reverberating through the streets. Many fights were erupting in the distance. Vampires screamed. Men screamed. Flames roared. The city had erupted into chaos.

"This is a bad idea," muttered Saark.

"To the tower, you said?"

"That's what Kell told me," muttered Saark, feeling like a down and dirty traitor, like his tongue would turn black and fall out of his burning mouth. He moved to Nienna, touched her shoulder. " Please . Let's turn back. This is not the time for us. Not the place."

"I am a child no longer," said Nienna, eyes hard.

Footsteps padded at the end of the alleyway, and a figure stopped, and turned. It was a woman. A vampire. She hissed, eyes glowing red, and extended her claws.

"Great," muttered Saark, drawing his sword, and turning, watched a second vampire casually close off the end of the alleyway. Two women, two vampires, working together as a small unit. To trap the unwary. To slaughter. To drink fresh blood…

Nienna had drawn her own short sword, and backed towards Saark. "There's two of them," she muttered, glancing up along the rooftops to make sure no more dropped from above.

"You reckon?" he snapped, eyes flickering between the two. They were advancing. Fluid. Too fluid. Graceful, like cats. Saark had seen vampires move like that before. These were the true predators of the pack. Deadly and swift. "Remember," he hissed, "eyes, throat and heart. Strike hard and fast, and keep hitting till the fucker's down," but there was no more time for words as the vampires shifted into a sprint and ran fast down the alley to leap at Saark and Nienna, who stood grim, blades glittering…

Grak shoved his sword into a vampire's open mouth, snapping fangs as claws scrabbled against his breastplate and slashed viciously across the steel band around his throat. But it saved him. The steel saved him.

"There's too many!" screamed Dekkar through the fighting throng. Their units of twenty-five men had been decimated, carved up, and backed together in a disorganised mass. They stood, panting, as vampires cir cled them on the wide main thoroughfare of Gollothrim. Occasionally, one would dart out but a spear would jab, and it would retreat. Grak looked frantically about. There were maybe twenty of them left, out of fifty. Most had lost shields, now. Most barely carried weapons. Dead vampires surrounded their boots. What happened to the other units? Fighting in their own shit, Grak reckoned. Down streets and alleyways. In buildings. What had he said? Stick to the main wide road, where each unit could help defend the other units. And what had they gone and done? Gone bloody running off in every bloody direction like horny young virgins at the sniff of a brothel! Grak the Bastard hawked and spat. Bloody undisciplined soldiers, was what they were. Bloody untrained, that was their curse! But… of course they were. They were never born for a life in the army.

Dekkar backed to him, and Grak stood side by side next to the Blacklipper giant. Grak glanced up.

"It's been an honour to fight alongside you, brother," he said.

Dekkar looked down. "You too. It's a shame it takes something like war to unite us."

Grak nodded. "You see how many there are? You have a slight height advantage over me."

"I reckon three hundred," said Dekkar, voice bitter.

"So, it's time," said Grak, and thought back past all the bad things he'd done. Would he go to the Golden Halls? The Halls of Heroes? He hawked, and spat again. After all the bad things he'd done? This hardly counted. No. He'd go to the Chaos Halls. With the Keepers. But at least one thing was sure and damn well guaranteed… he'd take as many fucking vampires with him as humanly possible…

"COME ON, YOU WHORESONS!" he screamed, and waved his sword, beating it against his breastplate and chanting and snarling. The others around him did the same, and their noise rolled out over the snarling vampire hordes which jostled and shifted like some huge live thing, some organic vampire snake.

Then a high-pitched squeal rent the air, and the vampires screamed, their noise rising up in waves as their claws extended, their fangs gleamed in the darkness, and with a unity uncharacteristic of their unholy race, they charged the men of Falanor…

Command Sergeant Wood snarled, and his head smashed forward, forehead slamming Lorna's nose and making her squeal, and as her head slapped back so he sank his teeth into her throat in a beautiful, ironic reversal. He bit and he chewed, his head thrashing, his teeth gnashing, and he chewed out her windpipe and bit through her skin and muscle and tendon, and Lorna's claws raked at his back but they were pinned together by the sword, and he bit and he chewed, he ripped through her flesh as hard and as fast as he could, and black glistening blood ran down his throat and it tasted foul, like decay, like death, like eternity. They fell to the side, rolled onto the stone flags which lined the circumference of the Green Church roof, and Lorna went suddenly still. Wood, in a crazed panic, in a fit of hatred and loathing, continued to bite and chew, not believing she was dead until his teeth clacked against her spine. He had chewed out her entire throat. Wood squeezed his hands between them, and pushed himself from the sword point with a cry of pain which rent the night skies like a lightning strike. Then he lay there, shivering, and with gritted teeth he grabbed the stone crenellations and yanked himself to his feet, bleeding and ragged, pain his total mistress. He gazed out across the old soldiers, but they had out-thought the vampires. Whereas the vampires had surrounded the hidden men of the Black Barracks, so this had simply been a decoy… to draw them out, into the open. Hundreds had risen from secondary hiding places, and as the vampires attacked so hundreds of iron-tipped arrows slashed through the night, through the snow, piercing eyes and throats, hearts and groins. Wood watched, saw hundreds of arrows slashing through gloom and darkness, watched vampires pierced and screaming and punctured, rolling down slates and tiles, toppling from rooftops to pile like plague victims in the alleys below.

Then eyes turned, and looked up towards him. Wood gave a single wave of his hand as he swayed, wheezing, blood dribbling from his jaws with strings of vampire flesh, and he watched the old soldiers moving across the icy rooftops. Despite their age, they were iron. They were ruthless. They were unstoppable. It filled Wood with a little bit of shame at his own moaning. After all – he was still alive. He gritted his teeth, and ignored the hole in his chest, he regained his sword, tugging it from the vampire corpse. But as he turned to leave… he glanced down at Lorna's face. Her eyes were shining. She was watching him. She was still alive…

Her hand moved. Slow, like a white worm in the moonlight. At first Wood thought she was pointing at him, but she made a motion across the gaping hole where her throat had been. It was clear and simple. She wanted him to finish her.

"Not sure you deserve it, girl," he grunted, but lifted the short stout blade anyway. Their eyes met, and there was a curious moment of connection. Strangely, Wood felt like Lorna was thanking him. Thanking him – for removing the plague curse.

The sword slammed down, and cut her head from her torso.

Lorna's eyes closed, and she was at peace.

Wood checked Fat Bill, but he was a fast-cooling corpse on the snowy roof. Wood closed the man's eyes, and wincing like a man with a sword wound in his chest, limped from the roof to join the old soldiers in the alley below.

From there, they headed for the docks…

Saark's sword slammed down. The vampire dodged. "Help me, Saark!" squealed Nienna, and Saark speared his rapier through the vampire's eye and kicked off from her chest, somersaulting backwards to kick the second vampire in the back of the head. She went down on one knee, Saark going down with her and his hand came back – paused for a moment – then scooped out her throat with his vachine claws. She thrashed for a while on ice-slick cobbles, then lay still, eyes glassy, blood puke on her chin and soaking her chest and belly.

Saark's head came up. He glared at Nienna. "Now we turn back."

"No. Now we go on." She frowned at him, stubborn as ever.

"You will take us to our doom!"

"Then that's the path I choose," she snapped.

"By all the gods, I can see you carry Kell's blood."

"Better the blood of Kell than the blood of a whining coward!"

"Me? I just saved your life!"

"Yes, that's physical skill! What I'm talking about is determination. Now come on!"

Nienna stalked down the cobbles, stepping on a vampire corpse as she passed. Saark followed, head hung a little low, wishing he was back in the Royal Palace like it used to be, dancing to fine tunes, swigging fine wines, fucking fine succulent wenches. Saark had come from the gutters, worked his way swiftly to a place of eminence – and then the damn royal rug had been pulled from under his lacquered boots in an instant!

"I must have been a bad man, in a former life," he muttered.

You've been a pretty lowly shit in this one, too, replied his mocking conscience.

Nienna led the way, almost by intuition. Certainly she seemed linked to her grandfather. As if by a miracle they slid between groups of vampires, eased between units and squads. Many times they heard fighting, and saw glimpses of armoured units, the brave criminals and Blacklippers of Falanor, battling ferociously against groups of screeching vampires. Swords and spears slammed out, piercing hearts and throats. Swords hacked and cut. Men fell to the ice and mud, screaming and gurgling on blood and entrails.

At one point they spied Grak and Dekkar, back to back, from the confines of a narrow alley. Their sorrowful collection of remaining soldiers were surrounded. Saark tugged to move forward, but Nienna grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"No, Saark, no! " she hissed. "Kell may need us! We have to focus!"

Saark glared at her, but allowed himself to be drawn along, feeling like a back-stabber all the way but knowing, deep down, bedded in reality, that the greater mission was the destruction of the Vampire Warlords. And Bhu Vanesh, in particular… the leader. The Prime.

Through alleys they crept, in gutters filled with corpses. They moved through desecrated houses, across dead people's furniture and belongings, their flesh creeping, their breathing ragged. Closer and closer they got to the Warlord's Tower, and only as they came through a long, low house, and stopped by the smashed doorway filled with the splintered remnants of a battered door, did they peer out onto the courtyard and see the hundred-strong horde of vampires lounging around, lethargic, almost decadent in their casual manner.

"What now?" muttered Saark.

"We have to get past them."

"Using what blood-oil magick, I ask?"

"We must find Kell."

"Well he's not in there," snorted Saark. "He couldn't have got through this hornet's nest without stirring up a whole bucket full of maggot shit. No. He's somewhere close, though. He'll be looking for another way in, I'd wager, the canny old donkey."

Even as they watched, the vampires started to take interest in something above. Something beyond Saark and Nienna's field of vision; a couple fetched bows, and languorously began to fire arrows at some high target…

"That has to be Kell up there," said Nienna, almost desperate with a need to leave their safe confines. "Come on. We must stop them!"

Saark took hold of Nienna, and shook her. He shook her hard. "We die as easy as the next man," he growled. "You need to use your brain, girl, or you'll get us both killed. You hear me?" He let go of her, and caught a glimpse of hatred in her eyes. Saark licked his lips. Suddenly, he realised what was wrong – Nienna was skirting along a razor edge of sanity. She had lost her touch with reality. Maybe it had been losing her mother to the vampires, maybe it was simply the act of growing up way too fast; she'd been through enough horror to last any man or woman a lifetime. But the fact remained – she was fast becoming a danger. To Saark, to Kell, and to herself.

Distantly, there came a sudden, deafening roar. There were more bangs, and clatters, and an undercurrent of strange violent crackling sounds. Saark moved to another window in the ransacked town house and stared off across the wide courtyard. The edges of the city glowed orange. Fire was raging along the docks.

Outside, the vampires had seen the fire as well. Screeches and wails echoed through their ranks, language that was guttural, feral, and definitely inhuman. With Kell forgotten, they moved as a mass of figures, running, leaping, and within seconds were gone, a flood raging out through the night… and leaving the route to the tower entrance undefended.

"They did it!" hissed Saark. "Grak's men must have reached the docks! They've torched the ships!" he beamed, misunderstanding. "The vampires are starting to panic, they need…" He turned, but Nienna had gone. He peered out of the window, and saw her disappear into the tower across the courtyard. Saark frowned. "You silly, silly little girl," he snapped, and with rapier clasped tight in his sweating fist and vachine fangs gleaming under errant strands of moonlight, Saark surged across the iced cobbles after his entrusted ward.

Wood and a group of old soldiers watched fire dance along the ships, from timber to rigging, from sails to masts. On the docks beside one vessel a store of oil had caught, a hundred barrels of flammable fish oil, and gone up with a terrible, mammoth explosion which Wood felt tremble beneath his boots like an earthquake. Flames shot out, destroying dockside buildings, smashing through four or five ships and spreading streamers of fire high into the night sky. Flames roared. Night turned to an orange, smoke-filled day. Embers fluttered on the wind, igniting yet more ships – many of which were soaked in lantern oil from casks hurled by the old soldiers of the Black Barracks. When the vampires arrived, in a pushing, heaving horde, it was too late to save their new navy, and indeed, their old navy. Even ships moored a good way out soon came under fire. Drifting sparks and glowing sections of sail, carried high on heated currents of air, drifted far and wide, igniting yet more sails which spread to masts and rigging, planks and timbers and barrels of oil in storage. More explosions rocked the ocean. The whole dockside became an inferno. After a while, even the ocean itself seemed to burn.

Wood could feel heat scorching his flesh as he leant against the wall. He, and the remainder of the old soldiers, had retreated here after a vicious final battle. But now the ships were burning, the vampires seemed to have more pressing matters on their hands, and the short savage skirmish had been temporarily forgotten. Vampires lined the rooftops in their thousands, eyes glowing in the reflected lights of their burning navy. They simply watched, perhaps too afraid to tackle the flames. But then, Command Sergeant Wood conceded, only the ocean could extinguish such an inferno. He'd never seen anything like it in his life.

Port of Gollothrim glowed like the Furnace in the Chaos Halls.

Slowly, Wood became aware of another group of vampires. There were perhaps a hundred of them, which didn't make Wood feel too good; after all, the old soldiers numbered only thirty or forty, now. Wood nudged his companion, the man's white beard turned black with soot and cinders. His eyes were glowing and wild.

"We fucked them hard, eh, lad?" He grinned at Wood. "It'll take 'em years to rebuild all them ships!"

Wood nodded, and gestured to this new unit of vampires taking an unhealthy interest in the old soldiers' predicament. "I think these bastards want a bit of payback," he said, and hefted his battered, chipped, blunted sword.

"Let's make them earn their fucking blood," snarled the old man beside him, rubbing his singed beard, eyes bright and alive with the fire-glow from the shipyard inferno.

The group of old men hefted their weapons, and despite being weary, drained, exhausted, they faced the vampires creeping towards them with chins held high, eyes bright, fists clenched, knowing they had done their bit in bringing down the cancerous plague, the fastspread evil, the total menace of the Vampire Warlords…

The old soldiers had helped break their backs.

Now, it would be up to others to finish the story… the song…

The Legend.

With snarls and squeals the fire-singed vampires, their pale skin stained with smoke and soot, some bearing savage, bubbling burns and fire-scars, launched themselves at the old soldiers, claws slashing, fangs biting, voices ululating triumphant calls across the smoke-filled city…

Swords clashed and cried in the darkness.

And in a few minutes, it was all over.

Kell watched the vampires disappear from down below, taking bows and hateful arrows with them. He watched fire fill the horizon like a flood. He watched the ships burn, his aerial view perfect in witnessing the fast spread of raw destruction. Kell could not believe the fire spread so swiftly; but it did, aided by a good wind and plentiful casks of lantern oil.

Still, he heard sword blows. Then Myriam appeared at the portal. "Come on!" she cried. "I can't fight them on my own!" She disappeared, and Kell grimaced and struggled on, cursing his weight, cursing his age, and vowing never to touch a single drop of whiskey again.

He reached the ledge, panting, sweat dripping in his eyes, his hands like the hands of a cripple with slashed tendons and no strength . He jumped down, blinded by the gloomy interior. To his back, silhouetting him against a raging orange archway, the entire naval fleet – old and new – burned.

Myriam was fighting a losing battle against two vampires. She spun and danced, avoiding their slashing claws, her sword darting out and scoring hits – but nothing fatal. They were too fast for her.

Kell growled, and hefted Ilanna. Then his hands cramped, and he dropped the axe, almost severing his own toes. "By all the bastards in Chaos," he muttered, scrabbling for the axe as one vampire broke free and charged him. He lifted Ilanna just in time, sparks striking from her butterfly blades and he slashed a fast reverse cut, Ilanna chopping swiftly, neatly, messily into the vampire's face. The man fell with a cry from halfchopped lips, and Kell stood on the vampire's throat, hefted Ilanna, and did a proper job this time, cutting his head and brain in half, just below the nose. Blood splattered the flags. Myriam speared her adversary through the eye, and he fell in a limp heap.

Myriam turned back to Kell. "I thought you were going to fall off!" she snapped.

"Me too."

"Your arse would have made one mighty huge crack in the cobbles."

"I'll lay off the ale and puddings when this is over, that's for sure."

Myriam grinned, and released a long-drawn breath. "Another one's coming. It feels like they were waiting for us!"

"I didn't expect anything less," said Kell.

Division General Dekull stepped from the shadows, a large man with a bull-neck and a hefty scowl. He had thinning brown hair and large hands, each one bearing a sword. He was a formidable opponent, equalling Kell in size and weight, but carrying less fat.

Before Kell could speak, Myriam charged, light, graceful, sword slashing down. Dekull swayed slightly, a precise movement, and back-handed Myriam across the chamber where her head cracked against the wall. It was a sickening noise, and made Kell wince.

"At last, the mighty Kell," said Dekull, voice a rumble. "We've been… waiting for you. Let's say your reputation precedes you."

"I won't ask your name," said Kell. "And the only thing that precedes you is the foul, rotten-egg stench."

Dekull's face darkened. "You should learn some respect, feeble, petty, rancid mortal."

"Respect? For your kind? I'd rather show you my cock."

"I'm going to teach you a lesson you will never forget, boy…" snarled Dekull, vampire fangs ejecting, shoulders hunching, swords glittering.

Kell laughed, an open, genuine sound of humour. "My name is Kell," he rumbled. "Here, let me carve it on your arse, lest you forget."

Kell moved forward, wary, and Dekull charged with a roar which showed his vampire fangs in all their glory, glinting with reflected firelight from the orange glow outside.

Kell felt the killing rage come on him, and it was now and here and the time was right. He was no longer an old man. He was no longer a weary, aged, retired soldier. Now he was strong and fast and deadly; he was a creature born in the Days of Blood and he revelled in his might, prowess, superiority, and although he knew this was a splinter of blood-oil magick, a dark magick, a trick and a curse instilled from his dead wife trapped inside his mighty, possessed axe – he locked the information in a tiny cage and tossed away the key with a snort. Now, he needed this energy. No matter how dark. No matter how bad. No matter how inherently evil.

Now, he needed the Legend.

Kell needed the Legend…

Kell slapped the swords aside, left right, a fast figureof-eight curving from Ilanna with intricate insane skill, and front-kicked Dekull in the chest. But Dekull came on, crashing into Kell, who grabbed Dekull's ear and with a growl wrenched it off. Dekull screamed, a shocking high-pitched noise as blood erupted, and Kell crashed his fist – still holding the flapping ear – into Dekull's nose, breaking it with a crunch. Then Ilanna lifted high, keening with promise, and slammed down, cutting Dekull from collarbone to mid-chest allowing the huge man to flap open. Dekull staggered back, almost cut in two, his arms a good eight feet apart. Swords clattered to the stone, useless, released by limp twitching fingers.

Kell rolled his shoulders, and stared into Division General Dekull's eyes. They were glazed in disbelief, but he was still alive, still conscious. "Damn," muttered Kell, clenching and unclenching his hands. "That cold out there, it spoiled my bloody stroke. Here, lad. Let's have another go, shall we?" The second blow started where the first had ended, cleaving Dekull clean in two. Entrails and internal organs slopped to the floor, along with fat and muscle and skin and neatly severed bones. Kell turned from the dead vampire and stared through the portal.

Myriam had regained her feet, swaying and holding onto the wall. She sensed a change in Kell, and kept well back. He was different. He wasn't just dangerous; he was deadly. Deadly to everyone. She licked her lips and his terrible raging eyes fell on her. There was insanity there, wriggling, like a corrupt worm at the heart of a corrupt apple.

"Kell?"

"Yes?"

"Bhu Vanesh. Through there." She pointed.

"Stay here," said Kell, with a torn, sickly grimace. "I wouldn't like you to get in the way."

Kell strode forward, through the archway, up several steps and into a huge circular chamber. It was devoid of furniture, but thick rugs covered the walls and windows keeping the room in perpetual darkness. The floor, also, was completely filled with thick embroidered rugs, each showing complex patterns of blood-oil magick invocation, or scenes of rape and mutilation from ancient battles.

Bhu Vanesh sat in the centre of the chamber, crosslegged, long limbs relaxed, his smoky skin squirming with half-formed, drifting scenes of his distilled depravity; the eating of flesh, the biting of throats, acts of decadent arching screaming deathrape, the joy of giggling child murder, the orgasm in the hunt of the innocent, the frail, the stupid…

Bhu Vanesh.

Greatest of the Vampire Warlords.

The Prime.

Bhu Vanesh…

The Eater in the Dark.

Kell halted, and Ilanna clunked to the carpeted stone. His eyes burned like molten ore. He smiled a grim smile that had nothing to do with humour, and glanced down at the pile of child corpses, a small pyramid of desolation nestling pitifully beside the Warlord. There were perhaps thirty or forty babes in all, drained to husks, nothing more than bones in mottled flesh sacks.

"Interrupt breakfast, did I, you corrupted deviant fuck?" snarled Kell. His voice was bleak, like breeze over leaden caskets. Like the solitary chime of a funeral bell.

"Welcome to my humble home, Kell, Legend," spoke Bhu Vanesh, and smoke curled from his mouth, around his grey vampire fangs, around his long long claws which reached out towards Kell, as if imploring the old man to lay down his axe.

"Well, I got to say it, this ain't your home, Vanesh. It's time for you to go back. Back to the Chaos Halls. Back to the Keepers. You know this. You know it's time you left my world."

Bhu Vanesh's eyes flashed dark, like jewelled obsidian in smoke pools. He stood, a long, languorous uncurling imbued with restrained power. He towered over Kell, and his long legs seemed to sag at knee joints which bent the wrong way, and his arms reached almost to the ground and ended in vicious-looking curved talons. And all the time his smoke skin curled and twisted, depicting scenes of murder and cruelty and evil sex and deathrape and the hunt. The hunting of women. The hunting of children. From Bhu Vanesh's past… His History. His Legacy. Faces flashed in quick succession across his smoke skin. All begging. Pleading. Screaming. Dying.

Darkness, desolation, fear, hate, all emanated from the Vampire Warlord like a bad drug. A stench of hate. An aroma of evil.

Kell swallowed.

Something grabbed him in its fist.

Fear, a rancid ball of fat, filled his belly and throat and mind.

It took him over. It rolled into him, and filled him like a jug to the brim.

Kell wanted to puke. He wanted to scream. He wanted to die…

It was all he could do to meet Bhu Vanesh's piercing gaze.

"You dare to come here and challenge me?" snarled the Vampire Warlord. "You, nothing but a smear of shit on the vastness of time and purity, nothing but a wriggling, deformed babe fresh from its mother's stinking syphilitic cunt, nothing but a smear of organic pus from the rancid quivering arsehole of Chaos?" His voice had risen to a roar. The walls seemed to shake. Brands flickered wild in their brackets, almost extinguishing with Bhu Vanesh's open raw wild fury. He took a step forward, head lowering to Kell's level, and his huge long arms lifted threateningly. "Turn around, you fucking pointlessness, and leave me in peace."

Bhu Vanesh began a slow turn, back to his pile of suckled corpses, his face and demeanour filled with disgust, and loathing, and revulsion, and raw pure abhorrence.

"A pointlessness, is it?" growled Kell, and leapt forward with a bestial growl, Ilanna singing a beautiful high song, a song from the dying of worlds, a song plucked from strands of strummed chaos, a song of purity, and Ilanna struck for Bhu Vanesh's head but the Warlord turned fast, long arm slamming out with piledriver force to strike Kell in the chest. The old warrior grunted, was punched backwards, and hit the wall several feet above the ground. He landed heavy, in a crouch, and his head came up. He rubbed at his chest, and with a wrench pulled out a battered steel breastplate – now a mangled mess of twisted armour. Kell coughed, a harsh hacking cough, and dropped the steel to the ground.

Kell spoke. His words were low, harsh, inhuman, barely more than guttural noises as a fire demon would make… and certainly not the voice of Kell. "Bhu Vanesh. Creature of the Chaos Halls. It is time to come back. The Keepers have decreed it so. I am here as your Guide."

Kell charged again, and Bhu Vanesh turned fast and claws raked against Ilanna's butterfly blades, only now they were not steel – and flames from brands in iron brackets did not reflect from Ilanna's blades but were sucked deep into them like trailing streamers, sucked and spooled and drawn into the eternal portal of the Chaos Halls. Bhu Vanesh fought, and as Myriam staggered to the door and leaned heavily against the frame, watching, it seemed to her that he struck with long, lazy strokes, like a pendulum, a clockwork machine, claws slamming Ilanna left, then right, and curling around Kell to lift him from the floor, accelerating him high up so he nearly touched the vaulted ceiling.

"Petty mortal, I will tear you in two!" he snarled, long smoking drools of saliva pooling from vampire fangs. "You cannot stand against me! I am Bhu Vanesh. The Eater in the Dark. I do not obey the Keepers! I mock them!"

Kell struck down with Ilanna, crashing her butterfly blades into Bhu Vanesh's skull. "Is that so, you babysucking bastard?" he roared. He slammed down again, Ilanna squealing, screaming, wailing like an animal in pain, and again, and again, and sounds of tortured metal reverberated around the chamber, "Well if you don't obey the Keepers, you can fucking obey me!"

Kell struck down a third time. Black light seemed to crackle around the room, igniting the carpets and tapestries, which all burned with black fire. A cold ice wind rushed through the chamber. Bhu Vanesh squealed, and tossed Kell like a piece of tinder. The old warrior hit the wall, clothes setting alight with black fire, and his huge hands patted frantically at his clothing as dark eyes watched the thrashing figure of Bhu Vanesh. But it wasn't enough, it still wasn't enough, and Kell charged back at the Vampire Warlord who was thrashing and squealing, claws flailing wide and flashing like scythes through the air, and a deep groaning chimed through the chamber, making the very stones vibrate. Through this chaos came Nienna, face pale, lips drawn back in horror, and Myriam grabbed for her, brushed against her arm, but Nienna slapped her away and stumbled into the chamber, sword held high, her eyes glowing triumphant as she faced that which she feared the most, Bhu Vanesh, the Eater in the Dark, and Haunter of Dreams, Desecrater of Flesh. "I defy you!" she screamed, "I banish you back to the Chaos Halls!" and Bhu Vanesh's laughter rolled out like terrible thunder, like the crushing of tectonic plates, and Kell was battling in fury in the midst of the storm, Ilanna rising and falling, the black fire inside him, his bearskin jerkin aflame, sparks dancing through his beard and grey hair, Ilanna slamming left, and right, and left and right, striking away the Warlord's claws, sinking into smoky flesh only to pull back and the flesh seal like hot wax as faces screamed at Kell from beneath the smoke surface. A claw struck Kell a mighty blow, sending him whirling through the chaos, Ilanna still singing, and his tumbling, spinning body careered into Nienna, crashing her to the ground, Ilanna's blades cleaving through her chest, straight down to bone, straight into her heart.

The storm ended, with a click.

The black fire died.

Kell, kneeling, his jerkin drifting smoke, an old man again, looked up slowly and in horror. Saliva pooled from his silently working jaws. His face and hands were lacerated. His blood dripped to the thick burnt carpets. Nienna was lying at his feet, gasping, a huge wound from her shoulder to ribs. Blood bubbled at her chin, on her tongue and lips. Blood pulsed easily from the wound. Her eyes were glazed, confused, tears lying on her cheeks like spilt mercury. Kell dropped to her side, threw Ilanna to the floor, and grabbed at the huge slice through Nienna's flesh. With trembling fingers he tried to hold Nienna together. With force of will, he tried to meld her body back into one piece. Blood pulsed up, ran over his hands with the beating of her damaged, irregular heart. "No," whispered Kell, staring down into his sweet granddaughter's face, "no, not here, not now, not this way…"

"Grandfather?" she said, although it was barely audible. " Why?"

And then her lips went pale, and her eyes closed, and she convulsed, and although Kell's hands tried to hold her back together, she died there on the floor at the bequest of the great Ilanna – at the command of the Vampire Warlord.

"NO!" screamed Kell, and shook Nienna, but she was dead, and gone, gone to another realm, and Kell stood and took up Ilanna, and he gazed at her butterfly blades where Nienna's blood, her life-force, her essence, her soul stained those portals into the Chaos Halls… and a wild wind slammed through the chamber, both hot, and cold, and bitter and sweet. Smoke poured out from Ilanna, a thick black acrid smoke which stank of Nienna's blood, her summoning, and which filled the room in an instant. The world went slow, filled with black sparks, and a groan rent the air, the groan of the world torn asunder as a smoke-filled corridor opened up behind Bhu Vanesh. It stretched away for a million years. It led to a chamber of infinity, endlessly black, and from the sky fell corpses tumbling down down down through nothingness into lakes of blood and rivers of death and oceans of evil weeping souls. Kell hefted Ilanna, and glared at Bhu Vanesh, who lifted his hands in supplication, eyes glowing red, smoke curling from his slick wet mouth.

"Get thee back to Chaos," snarled Kell, and strode forward, and there came a deafening clanking of chains and deep within the vaults Kell could see figures, tall and thin, like grey skeletons, their eyes pools of liquid silver that glowed. They came forward, walking oddly, and Kell blinked for he was on the roadway, on the path to the Chaos Halls, and thick pitted iron chains slammed past him, wrapping around Bhu Vanesh who was weeping, smoke oozing from every orifice like drifting blood-mist, and Kell strode forward and slammed Ilanna between his eyes, splitting Bhu Vanesh's head in two but still the Vampire Warlord wept, and still the smoke spilled from his mouth, for Kell could not kill Bhu Vanesh. Nobody could kill Bhu Vanesh. He was immortal.

"That's for Nienna," he spat.

"Not the Halls," Bhu Vanesh wept. "Not the Halls!"

The chains rattled, and Bhu Vanesh hurtled off along the infinite road all the while chanting his mantra, and now Kell saw the roadway was made of bones, of skulls, a wide flowing road of skulls and Kell dropped to one knee and wept, and the tall bony figures strode towards him and stood, five of them, watching him with their silver eyes, in complete silence.

Finally, Kell ceased his crying. He stood, breathing deeply, and lifted Ilanna in both hands still stained with Nienna's blood. Only then did a chill breeze caress his soul. He turned, wind ruffling his scorched bearskin jerkin, but the portal to the World of Men was gone.

All that remained was that infinite roadway of skulls, an obsidian sky, and a world stretching off to a distant horizon of eternally falling corpses, of fallen souls…

Kell was trapped in the Chaos Halls.

Kell was lost to Chaos.