Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 16

Grak the Bastard knelt amidst a hundred vampire corpses, sword lashing out, and Dekkar was behind him, a few remaining men beside. As fires roared along the dockside, so other units from the new army of Falanor had found Grak, and they fought vicious short battles until they were together, clashed together, united, the last few hundred survivors. But still they were losing. Still they were being massacred…

Then, the vampires fell back.

The dawn was coming.

Still fires raged, flames crackling, and Grak couldn't tell where the snow ended and the ash began. The world was in chaos. A living nightmare madness. Grak watched the ring of vampires, their snarling faces, their blood-red eyes.

"What are they waiting for?" rumbled Dekkar.

"Beats me," said Grak, sword before him, eyes lost to the horror . There was no way out of this. If Kell had killed Bhu Vanesh, then it would have been done a long time ago. If Kell had killed the Vampire Warlord, then his creatures would have turned to dust, to slime, to oil. But here they stood. The dawn had come.

Kell was dead, Grak knew it in his heart, in his bones, in his soul. Kell wasn't coming back.

"Shit," he said, hawked, and spat.

"What are they waiting for?" snapped Vilias, words edged with pain. He had a long, ragged slash down his face, from one eye to his chin. He'd been moaning about how no woman would ever look at him again. Grak supposed it didn't really mattered any longer… soon, they would all be corrupt. Either that, or dead.

"Maybe they know they're outnumbered?" suggested Grak. "They know they're beaten! After all, we're what? Three hundred? And they've…" his eyes scanned the rooftops, the roadways, the distant rubble, the edges of inferno. "Three, four thousand bloodsucking scum? We can take 'em, eh lads? We'll give 'em a damn good kicking!" Chuckles ran up and down the ranks, and exhausted men, wounded men, hoisted their weapons and waited grimly for the end.

"Come on!" screamed Grak. "Show us what you're made of! Fucking cowards! FUCKING VAMPIRE PLAGUE COWARDS! COME ON!"

"Hey." Vilias nudged Grak in the ribs. "Somebody's coming."

"Who is it? Dake the Axeman?" He roared with laughter. "Shall I show him my arse?"

"Better than that," grinned Vilias. "It's Kell."

"No!"

"It is, I swear it!"

From the distance, and as the dawn broke like a soft ruptured egg, Kell strode. Beams of yellow winter sunlight traced lines over the horizon, and Kell was blocked for a moment by the huge edifice of the Warlord's Tower. Then he moved through the rubble, strode past corpses, past fallen shields and fallen men, and stopped before Grak with boots crunching. Eerily, the vampires had parted to let him through. Their snarling subsided. They stared at him.

Everything was focused on Kell.

On Kell, the Legend.

Kell hefted Ilanna, and Grak could see the old warrior had tears in his beard. He lifted Ilanna, and his mouth opened, and he looked out at the vampire horde.

When he spoke, his voice was soft. Gentle, almost. Like mist creeping over a battlefield of corpses.

"Time to go home," he said, and each vampire lifted its head and smoke poured from its mouth, and flowed like lines of silver into Ilanna, into Kell's axe, in the Portal of the Chaos Halls. Kell stood, shuddering as each vampire was cleansed, each vampire purified. And now, as people, they fell to their hands and knees weeping in horror as they remembered what they had done.

It seemed to take an age.

One, by one, by one, the vampires' corruption was drawn into Ilanna. Their evil exorcised.

A cold winter wind blew over the slain, bringing ice, and making those watching shiver.

When it was over, Kell sank to the ground, rolling gently to his side and closing his eyes. Vilias moved tenderly to the old warrior, the old man, the old soldier. No longer did he look like Kell the Legend. Now, he just looked old and withdrawn and lost.

"Well?" snapped Grak, frowning.

Vilias looked up. "Holy Mother! He's dead, Grak! Kell's dead!"

Kell stood before the Keepers of the Chaos Halls. He scowled and clutched Ilanna tight, and looked from one, to the next, to the next, and they surveyed him with eyes of silver, unspeaking, unmoving, uncaring.

Is this it, then? Is this where I die? Is this where the game ends? Is this my new eternity?

No. It was Ilanna. Her voice was honey in his brain, and she was weaving her dark magick once more. This is not punishment, Kell. This is reward. This is not where you die. This is where you choose to live!

Choose to live?

So there's a bloody choice?

Kell braced himself, staring up at the five Keepers. They exuded a lack of emotion. A neutrality. They were neither good, nor evil. They simply were. Kell scowled.

"Can I do something for you sorry-looking fuckers? Eh, lads? Or maybe you'd like a good kick to get you started?"

"You are to be congratulated," said one of the Keepers. Its voice was low but musical, and without threat. "Without your help, we would not have all the Vampire Warlords back in our custody."

"What about Meshwar? He's in Vor…"

"He is with us, now," said the Keeper. "You are not the only creature with the power to open a portal to the Chaos Halls. Although, it would seem, you are the most… efficient."

Kell considered this, then gave a single nod. Then he seemed to deflate. He remembered Nienna. Bitterness washed through him like a fast-flood of liquid cancer.

"Why am I here?"

"We have one last task for you."

"And suppose I don't want to accept your task? Suppose I'm sick of these games? Suppose I'm just a bitter and lonely old man, who wants nothing more than to die?"

The Keeper moved close, and bent down until its face was a finger's breadth from Kell's face. Those silver eyes drilled into him and in those swirling silver depths Kell saw something impossible, something eternal, something truly godlike. The voice was a gentle breath across his face, and he inhaled the words, sucked them straight down into his soul… "You are lost at the moment, Kell, lost to the sadness and for that I still grant you life for foolish words and foolish thoughts. But do not think to test us, for we are the Keepers and we hold the Key to All Life. The Vampire Warlords should never have broken free – and one day, there will a reckoning for that abomination. But still, in Gollothrim, the vampires roam, the spawn of Bhu Vanesh… you can go there, we will give you the tools to take it back. You can save thousands, Kell. Either that…" The Keeper pulled back, silver orbs still fixed on Kell who coughed, and dropped to one knee, choking as if on heavy woodsmoke. "Either that, or you can stay here and be our guest for an eternity."

The sky went dark, struck through with huge zig-zags of crimson. The falling corpses fell faster, and screams rent the sky, screams of pure anguish like nothing Kell had ever heard. Nor would want to hear again.

"There is always a reckoning," said the Keeper. "Nothing goes unseen. Nothing goes unpunished. Remember that, Kell, the Legend, when you finally seek our forgiveness."

Kell nodded, but could not speak. The world tilted, the Chaos Halls spun away into a tiny black dot and Kell fell through light and opened his eyes, lying on his back, next to the fast-cooling corpse of Nienna.

Three horses picked their way across a pastel landscape of white, greys and subtle cold blues. The beasts entered a sprawling forest of pine, and it was half a day before they emerged again on the flanks of a hill, climbing, following old farmers' trails high into the hills east of the Gantarak Marshes. From here, the glittering, ancient sprawl of Vor could be spied far, far to the south, and Kell reined his mount and sat for a while, staring at the distant city; staring at the new home of the Ankarok.

Saark watched him for a while, then glanced at Myriam, who shrugged, pushing out her lower lip.

"You want to visit?" asked Saark, eventually.

"No."

"Do you trust Skanda?"

"No."

"He claims all the Ankarok want is that one, single city. He delivered Meshwar to the Vampire Warlords, turned the vampire slaves back into people, and set them gently outside the city gates. He did everything he promised. More. He gave them food, supplies, money. It's a small price to pay, I think, for saving so many lives."

Kell said nothing, continuing to scowl. Eventually he coughed, rubbed his beard, then his weary eyes, and said, "Only bad things will come of this, you mark my words. This is not the last we've heard of Skanda, nor the damned Ankarok. I have a bad feeling in my bones, Saark. A bad feeling that runs right down into the sour roots of Falanor."

"We could ride down," said Saark, eyes glittering. "Take the city! Single-handed! Just like the old days, eh, Myriam? Eh?"

Kell shook his head. "The battle for Vor. It is a battle for another day. I'm tired, Saark. Too tired. Too old. I saw my daughter die, and I saw my granddaughter die." He turned, and there were tears in the old soldier's eyes. "It shouldn't be like this. You should never outlive your children. Sometimes, Saark, I fear I will never laugh again."

"At least the scourge of the Vampire Warlords has ended, Kell. Nienna died defending the land she loved. She did it for the good of Falanor, for its people, its history, its honour."

"Doesn't make it any easier to swallow," growled Kell, still staring at the haze of Vor.

"We are free of oppression," said Saark, forcing a false brightness into his voice. As ever, he was dressed in silk; bright green, this time, in an attempt to "blend with forest hues".

"Yeah," snarled Kell, curling his lips into an evil grimace. "But for how long? The Keepers, down in the Chaos Halls, told me that a war is coming. The vachine from Silva Valley – they were just the beginning. There are more, many more, far to the north, far beyond the Black Pike Mountains where no man has trodden for ten thousand years. They have a vast, corrupt, vachine empire built in the ice. And they want revenge, for what happened to the vachine of Silva Valley."

"You think a war is coming?" said Saark, quietly.

"There is always a war coming," said Kell, impassively.

"What shall we do?"

"What can we do?" said Kell, voice and eyes bleak, tears running down his cheeks as he thought about Nienna for the hundredth time, thought about the terrible axe blades of Ilanna and tried to persuade himself tried to convince himself that the axe had nothing to do with the young woman's death. After all, Ilanna was just steel. Cold black steel. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Time to leave," said Myriam, glancing up at the sky. "There's a storm coming."

Kell nodded, and dug heels to the flanks of his mount, cantering ahead of the small group.

Myriam glanced at Saark. "Do you think he'll be all right?" she said. "I mean. We thought he was dead, back there."

Saark gave a single nod. "Maybe he did die. A little bit. Lost a part of his soul."

"But will he be all right?"

"Of course he will. He's Kell. Kell, the Legend."

Spring was coming to Falanor. The cold winds from the north grew mild, and snow and ice began a long melt, gradually freeing up the Great North Road for easier passage; of both people and supplies.

Over the coming months, slowly, the cities of Falanor rebuilt themselves, and the thousands of people who'd fled the horrors, first of the albino Army of Iron, the Harvesters, and later the Vampire Warlords, the refugees, the outcasts, slowly they drifted back and populations began once again to grow, to build, to prosper.

As the first daffodils scattered brightness across the hills and valleys of Falanor, a new King was crowned. He had been found sheltered in the forest city of Vorgeth close to the Autumn Palace along with his brother, Oliver. His name was Alexander, son of Leanoric, and proud grandson of Searlan the Battle King. And although he was only just sixteen years old, he was wise, and stern, and honest, and promised to make a fine new leader. Immediately, he appointed a new General of his infant Eagle Divisions. The General's name was Grak, who earned his rank through sterling service to the Land of Falanor.

In time, Alexander's eyes turned south. South, to the city of Vor, once the capital of Falanor, once his father's city, his father's pride. And Alexander brooded on the secrecy of the occupying race known as the Ankarok.

Since Vor closed its great iron gates, nobody had entered nor left the much-altered city.

A year after the banishment of the Vampire Warlords to the Chaos Halls, Alexander, Oliver, Grak and twenty soldiers reined in their armoured mounts far to the west of Vor, and gazed with a mixture of wonder and horror at what had once been the oldest city in the country.

Whereas once huge white towers, temples and palaces dominated the skyline, and the city had been surrounded by white stone walls, now everything had been… encompassed by what looked, at first glance, like a giant, matt black beetle shell.

"Holy Mother," said Oliver, rubbing his chin and placing his hand on his sword hilt. "The city! It's gone!"

"Not gone," said Alexander, who now sported a small scar under one eye from duelling, from training, "but buried. What have those bastards done to our father's city? What have they done to our heritage?"

Grak kicked his horse forward, and placed a warning hand on Alexander's arm. "Majesty. I suggest caution. We must not approach the city. That was the pact made, the agreement between the leaders of Falanor and the… Ankarok."

Alexander nodded, but his eyes gleamed, and secretly he thought, that was not my agreement. Later, as he pored over maps in his tent, drinking watered wine from a gold goblet and eating cheese and black bread, so Alexander doodled a hypothetical retaking of the city of Vor.

For the honour of his father's memory, of course.

For the honour of Falanor.

A cold, fresh mountain wind blew.

Kell stood on a crag, exercising with slow, easy movements, swinging Ilanna left and right, running through manoeuvres so long used in battle they were now an instinct. He breathed deep, drinking in the vast pastel vision of mountains and hills and forests, valleys and rivers and lakes. It was a mammoth, natural vista, a painting more beautiful than anything ever captured on canvas. And it was there, there for Kell, there for his simple honest pleasure.

Kell finally ended his routine, and stood for a while, holding Ilanna to his chest, a violent internal war raging through his skull and heart. Part of him wanted to cast the axe away, far out from the mountain plateau, to be lost in the wilderness of crags and rocky slopes and scree below. But he did not. Could not. Even though he blamed Ilanna, to some extent, for the death of Nienna.

Nienna.

She haunted him.

Haunted him, with her innocence and the unfairness of it all.

"How are you feeling, old horse?" Saark grinned up at Kell, then deftly climbed up the ridge and sat, staring out over the early morning view. "By all the gods, this is a throne for a prince!"

"What are you doing here?"

"A simple good morning would have been a far more pleasant and agreeable salutation."

"Ha. I'm not here to be pleasant."

"I noticed. Here." Saark unwrapped a cloth sack and handed Kell a chunk of cheese and grain bread. Saark bit himself a lump of cheese and began to chew.

Kell, also, broke his fast, and the two men sat in companionable silence for a while. Until Kell winced, and clutched his stomach, tears springing to his eyes. He coughed, then rubbed at his head.

"The poison?"

"Aye, lad. It's gotten worse."

"You know what this means?"

Kell stared into Saark's eyes, and gave a nod. He sighed. "Aye. I must travel west. Find the antidote. Find the cure. I am reluctant to leave Falanor, but – well, I think after what happened with Nienna, maybe it would do me good. To see new countries, meet new people. To put my mark on a new place. A new world."

"'Different cultures, different customs'," quoted Saark, chewing on his bread. "You would of course need to travel far across the Salarl Ocean, my friend, out towards the lands of Kaydos. It is told the place is a vast, hot continent. Thousands and thousands of leagues of forest, hot, humid, damp, uncomfortable, where insects fight to make a merry meal of a man, and it is claimed in hushed whispers around strange fires that men and wolves walk together under the full yellow moon."

Kell eyed Saark thoughtfully. "Sounds like a harsh land, laddie."

"Only a fool would travel there," Saark agreed.

"I've already packed my things. I believe a ship leaves from Garramandos in a week. It should not be hard to acquire passage. As I said, it would do me good. And of course, this damn poison still courses through my veins. Some days, I curse Myriam her lusts."

"And some days you thank her," grinned Saark.

"Aye. That I do."

They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Saark said, "I, also, have taken the liberty of packing. It would, of course, be highly foolish to let such a moaning old goat as yourself travel alone. Imagine the trouble you would get yourself into, with your ignorant peasant ways, base stupidity and crude manners! Whereas I, I with my noble breeding, sense of natural etiquette, and love of everything honourable, well, I would surely keep one such as you out of terrible mischief."

Kell looked sideways at Saark. "I suppose you've packed a huge wardrobe? Silver goblets? Silk shirts? A perfume of subtly mingled horse shit?"

"Of course. But thankfully, I have Mary, my donkey, to help shoulder my burden."

Kell groaned. "You're not bringing that stinking and cantankerous beast."

Saark frowned. "But Kell, how else will I journey with an extensive wardrobe? Just because I travel with peasants, doesn't mean I have to look like one. I must protest…"

"Wait, wait." Kell held up a huge hand. "What do you mean, ' peasants '? Plural? You told Myriam?"

"Well," Saark shifted uncomfortably, "I couldn't have you sneaking off in the night without her, could I? I couldn't allow you to do the dishonourable thing."

" Dishonourable thing! " spluttered Kell, turning bright red. "You! You! You dare to come out with that whining bloody gibberish? After all the things you've done to the poor women of Falanor! After all the hearts you broke? After all the children you sired? After all the chastity locks you picked?"

"Hey," frowned Saark. "I never said I was perfect. Only that you should show some morals."

"Morals?" screeched Kell, but they were rudely interrupted. Myriam appeared, climbing deftly up the rocky ridgeline. She was dressed for travel, and had her bow strapped to her back. She smiled at the two men.

"I'm ready," she said.

Kell scowled. "So I need to book passage for three travellers, do I?" he snapped.

"And a donkey," said Saark.

"And a donkey," growled Kell, through gritted teeth. "Well, we better be going, I reckon. It's a long trek to Garramandos, that's for sure. Over some treacherous terrain."

All three stared across the western flanks of the Black Pike Mountains, vast and black, towering and defiant, and their gazes drifted down towards the Salarl Ocean, which glittered like molten silver in the early morning sunlight.

"Men and wolves," said Kell, distantly.

Saark grinned and slapped him on the back. "Aye. Men and wolves. Come on."

Against a sparkling horizon of ocean and a rearing backdrop of savage mountains, the three travellers began a long, careful descent from the mountain plateau to the breathless, waiting world below.