Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 7

Kell, Saark and Nienna moved as fast as they could down narrow trails which weaved like criss-crossing spider-webs through the Iron Forest. West they headed, constantly west, and eventually, on one dull morning with light snowflakes peppering the air, they broke free of the trees and looked out over a rugged, folded country, full of hills and rocks, stunted trees and deep hollows. Everything was white, and still, and calm. This was wild country filling in the gaps between Corleth Moor and the Cailleach Pass to the west of Jalder. They were past Jalder now, past the Great North Road; the Iron Forest had done its job, but as Myriam pointed out before her fight with Saark, and her sudden departure, the once outlaw-occupied forest had been curiously devoid of criminal activity. Dead, or just sleeping? Or fled to safer climates?

They stared out over the undulating folds of these raw wild lands. "Looks like rough travelling," said Saark, chewing on a piece of dried beef.

"We're going to need supplies," said Kell, ignoring Saark.

"I said, it looks like rough travelling," snapped Saark.

"I heard what you said, lad. But you're stating the obvious. We've had rough travelling ever since we left Jalder, through the tannery and down the Selenau River. What did you expect? A cushioned silk carriage waiting for you?"

"You're a grumpy old bastard, Kell, you know that?"

"Yeah. You keep mentioning it."

Saark bent down, rubbing at his legs. Ever since falling into the polluted lake in the Iron Forest, his skin had flared red, all over his body, stinging him with knives of fire. But Kell had come up with a theory why his flesh had not fallen from his bones, as certain rumours would have it. As a vachine, Saark had accelerated healing. Now, his flesh was being eaten by toxins, but healing just as fast as it was being destroyed.

"So I'll be like this, in a scratching agony, forever?" Saark had snapped, face twisted in annoyance.

"I thought you'd be used to a bit of scratching by now," Kell had smirked.

Now, it was irritating Saark again and he rubbed his legs, and chewed his beef.

"Won't they have food at these Black Pike Mines?"

"Maybe. We're not sure what we'll find, though. Maybe it'll be deserted? Maybe it was ransacked by the Army of Iron on their way through. It could be a burnt shell, smouldering timbers and blackened rocks."

"I assume that would end your wonderful and secret plan," muttered Saark, still scratching.

"It certainly would." Kell took a deep breath, staring up at the sky, then out across the wilderness. "By the gods, there are a thousand places out there for an ambush."

"Hark, the happy voice of pessimism," said Saark.

"Will you stop that damn scratching? It's like standing next to a fucking flea-bitten dog!"

"Hey, listen, I feel like I've got a plague of ants living under my skin. I can't stop bloody scratching. It's not like I have a choice."

"Well, if you'd not been so stupid and put the donkey first, you wouldn't have gone through the damn surface."

"There you go, blaming Mary again. Listen Kell, it's not Mary's fault and I resent the constant implication that she's holding up your weird and unspeakable mission that is so clever you have to keep it a secret!"

Kell leaned close. "The reason I keep it to myself, you horse cock, is so when, shall we say, certain priapic fools started sticking their child-maker into hot, sweaty and untrustworthy orifices, there's no possible chance of a blurted word at the wrong moment. You get me?"

"So…" he frowned, "you think I'd spout our plans during sex? Like some loose-brained dolt?"

"Of course you would, lad. You're a man! You think with your hot plums, not with your brain."

"Oh, and I suppose the great Kell-"

"There's a farmhouse."

The two men ceased their squabbling and followed Nienna's line of vision. Through swirls of snow, halfhidden by a hollow of rocks and heavily folded landscape, there was indeed a farmhouse.

"Any smoke?" squinted Kell.

"None I can see." Nienna clicked her tongue, and led Mary ahead. Ten paces away she stopped, and turned back. "Are you coming? Or shall I go searching for food alone?"

Kell and Saark followed at a distance.

"Stroppy girl, that one," said Saark.

"Yeah. Well. She's sad Myriam has gone, you know? They'd become friends. Been through a lot. Shame you had to start sticking your pork sausage where it didn't belong."

"If you're going to keep on at me, Kell, I'm going to walk with the fucking donkey."

"You do that, lad. No talk is better than your talk."

"I'll watch her arse," muttered Saark, marching away from Kell. "It's a damn sight prettier than your battered face."

The farmhouse was deserted, and had been left in a hurry – presumably when the Army of Iron had marched through this way, months earlier. The travellers hunted through various rooms, scavenging what they could. Fresh clothing, blankets and furs, boots for Saark, salt, sugar, coffee, some raw vegetables preserved by the winter, and some chunks of dried beef and goat from a small curing shed with a slanted, black-slate roof. They found hard loaves of bread, which would soften in soup, onions, and also a large round of cheese sealed in wax which was placed reverently in Mary's basket. It had been a long time since they'd eaten cheese. That would be a tasty reward on the hard, unforgiving trail.

Saark wanted to stay in the farmhouse to rest, but Kell shook his head, forcing them to push on. It was with great regret they left the sanctuary of the building, heading back out into the snow, into the folded wild lands. Soon it fell far behind, and only snow, and heather, and rocks were there to offer comfort.

Kell pushed hard, and they travelled long into the night before collapsing into an exhausted sleep. He woke them at dawn, and they pushed on again, grumbling and cold, feet aching, joints aching, growing a little warm with travel but at least now with bellies full of meat and cheese instead of straggled weeds and unwholesome mushrooms from the forest.

The landscape here was warmer to travel, for the shape of the land, the folds and dips, cut down on many a crosswind. Once, Saark had been separated from a unit on military manoeuvres with King Leanoric, and had to walk ten leagues across Valantrium Moor. The wind-chill alone nearly killed him, and it took a week of hot baths, hot liquor and hot women to restore his good humour.

Now, however, there was no promise of hot baths, liquor or women; only a cold prison mine and the prospect of meeting prison guards. Would there be nubile young women included in that gathering? Would there be succulent wobbling flesh? Eager thighs? Clawed and painted nails? Saark doubted it.

For a week they travelled like this, Kell always ahead, his stamina a true thing to behold, especially for one so old. Saark and Nienna had taken to walking together, and for the first few days Nienna sulked with Saark, her lower lip out, face turned away, jealous no doubt of his frantic coupling with Myriam. But Saark worked on her relentlessly, with nothing else to do except talk to the donkey; and gradually, his charm began to break through her iron and ice resolve. On the third day after leaving the Iron Forest, there came a smile, quickly followed by a scowl. After four days, a chuckle. After five, a real bursting laugh of good humour. And by the sixth day she had started to talk again. Internally, he punched the air with joy; looking back through his long life of talking to, and fucking, women, he now realised Nienna had become the hardest challenge. Ironic, that only days earlier she'd been falling over herself to please him. To help him. To couple with him.

"This feels like a never-ending journey," said Nienna.

They had stopped at the top of a low rise, which fell away suddenly in a steep cliff. Kell had gone on ahead to find a safe path down. It gave them a good – if limited – view of the near distance. Anything further was blocked by occasional swathes of mist, or flurries of snow.

"Hard on the feet," said Saark, removing his boots. He scratched his legs, then rubbed at his toes.

"That's quite a stench," said Nienna, smiling to take the sting from her words.

"I think it would win me certain awards, back at the King's Royal Court," grinned Saark, and pulled a face as he rubbed between his toes. "By the Chaos Halls, the old gimlet pushes a fast pace."

"He is a great man," beamed Nienna.

"Yes, with a bad temper and a tongue fiercer than a dominatrix's whip," scowled Saark.

"You do goad him," said Nienna.

"Only to keep the old goat on his cheesy toes. Look at it this way, without me to take his mind off more serious matters, he'd be going crazy with grief! My talk of wine and wenches gives him a simple anchor-point for his short-term anger episodes."

Nienna considered this. "You have, er, enjoyed a lot of wine, then?" she said, carefully.

"And wenches, that's what you really mean, eh?" smiled Saark, easily, and pulled on his boot. He removed the other. "By all the gods, this one is worse! How can a man's feet smell so bad? I do believe I should cut them off and burn them on the fire!"

"I agree."

"Ask me, then."

"Ask you what?"

"Whatever's troubling you, little lady. There's always something troubling you, young… no, no, I take that back. You're no longer young, are you? So I'll begin again. There's always something troubling you, Nienna." He smiled kindly.

"Do you love Myriam?" she blurted out, then bit her tongue, aware she'd probably gone too far.

The smile froze on Saark's face like a rictus of ice-smoke magick. It was a question he hadn't anticipated, and Saark looked down at the frozen rocks, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His mind swirled. Did he love Myriam? Despite the fights, and the betrayals, did he? Did he really? Despite her trying to kill him? To drown him like a flapping chicken?

And bizarrely, Saark realised that he did. But he recognised this was not the time to say such a thing, and especially not to Nienna, here, in this place. What harm her ignorance? What harm protecting her from herself?

"No," he said, finally. Then added, "I have a lot of affection for the girl, after all, ever since she stabbed me in the guts we've been through a lot together." Then a flash of inspiration bit him. "What you think you saw, you did not. We coupled, but it was nothing to do with love, or even lust – it was everything to do with the clockwork. Everything to do with the vachine."

Nienna frowned. "How does that work?"

"I was bitten by a Soul Stealer; her blood-oil infected me. But the vachine are different from the vampires of old, and the blood-oil they carry instead of vampire's blood is like a drug, a living cancer, and without the clockwork machines to control it, it will finally kill you. What me and Myriam did was to save my life. Nothing more."

Nienna looked into his eyes. And she heard it. The tick tick tick of the machine vampire. Saark tilted his head, and then gave a short nod. "Yes. It feels… odd. Almost like I carry a weight in my chest. But that is all. Otherwise, I think and breathe and fight and love, just like before."

"Love me," said Nienna.

"I can't do that," said Saark, stiffly. "Kell would cut off my balls, and you damn well know it!"

"You have to live your own life. Don't be scared of my grandfather. I am a grown woman now, you said so yourself." She had moved closer, a lot closer, and despite Saark's accelerated vachine skills he only now realised. He swallowed. He could smell the musk of her skin and something took hold of his mind in its fist and squeezed, gently, and he felt himself losing control. It was always the same. With women. With wine. The temptation would present itself and Saark could never, ever, say no. It was as if his brain was mis-wired, and didn't work like a normal person's brain. He had not the capacity to deprive himself of any earthly pleasure. Saark was a slave to hedonism, and had very little real control in his conscious decision making. It was a curse he carried deep.

Nienna was close. He stared at her lips, slick and wet. Her tongue darted out, a nervous gesture, and then Saark was falling into a well of uncontrollable insanity and every trick and nuance and skill fell neatly into place, click click click, like a brass karinga puzzle being worked by an expert's flashing fingers. And she tasted good, tasted sweet, and he was inside her and they kissed, sat there on the rocks, and kissed.

Saark pulled away.

"Oh!" said Nienna, and smiled.

"Oh no," said Saark, and grinned. "But shit, Kell will rip off my balls! He'll rip off my head!"

"Rubbish! It was only a kiss." And she giggled, but he could see it in her eyes, she wanted more, she wanted much more, she wanted it all. Saark swallowed, as a hand thumped his shoulder.

"Not far now, lad."

"Kell." Saark's voice was a croak, and he did well to speak at all.

"Did you sneak up on us, grandfather?" said Nienna, turning her head and fixing him with a beady stare.

"Heh, just checking Saark here was being an honourable gentleman. Anyway, come on, there's a cottage up ahead. It's been lived in recently, but it's empty now; probably owned by a crofter. We can have a good rest, I think we've earned it, and approach the Black Pike Mine prison fresh tomorrow, eh?"

Saark stood, and took Mary's rope.

And as Kell led the way, he threw Nienna a look which she missed; she was gazing, distantly, a dreamy look on her face. Shit. Shit shit and double horse and donkey shit!

Less than an hour saw them inside the small and cosy cottage. It was little more than a living room and a sidelarder, mostly empty except for a few flagons, old mouldy bread and three small sacks of grain. Saark made a nosebag for Mary, filling it with grain and placing a blanket over her back under a rickety lean-to on the south side of the cottage, where there was the least wind.

Nienna prepared a thick broth, and Kell chopped firewood. He got a good blaze burning, and they sat, warm for the first time in what felt like years, bellies full of hot broth and mugs of coffee in dirt-ingrained hands.

"I'd forgotten what it felt like to be a part of civilisation," said Saark, quietly, and sipped his sweet coffee, relishing the heat and the mixture of bitterness and sweetness all mixed in together. A contrast of pleasures.

Kell snorted a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Not long ago, lad, this would have been far from your idea of civilisation. Where's all your raw fish on silver platters now? Where are your buxom serving wenches with rouged lips and powdered wigs? I tell you, a curse on nobility."

"Spoken like a true working man," smiled Saark.

Kell stood, and stretched, and Saark eyed the old warrior thoughtfully. He was much leaner than when Saark first met him back in Jalder, hiding in a tannery from a hunting Harvester. The miles, the fights, the climbing of mountains, it had done much to return Kell to a lean, rugged, muscular figure, despite his advancing years. Then Saark's eyes slid sideways to Nienna; here, also there had been a vast change in physical appearance. Whereas she had been slightly plump, and soft, her face carrying the puppy-fat of childhood, now she was slimmer, stronger, more muscular; she carried herself erect and proud, like a fighter. The fat had gone, and there were creases in her face, hard edges around her eyes. A young woman who had seen too much hardship. Still, she was coping, mentally, as well as physically. Saark wasn't sure how long many young women from King Leanoric's court, with their white make-up and long, crafted fingernails, would have lasted in the mountains, or being hunted by Soul Stealers and cankers and rough soldiers from the Army of Iron. No. Not long, he'd wager.

Nienna saw the look, and gave him a dazzling smile. Saark licked his lips. He could still taste her there. It was most pleasant. His ruse about Myriam had worked. Nienna believed him.

Kell moved into the small storeroom, and came out with a pewter flagon. He sniffed it warily, and his face lit up. "It's whiskey," he said, in all innocence.

"Oh no," said Saark. "You know you shouldn't drink that. You know what it does to you!"

"Just a small one," said Kell, and smiled easily, and pulled up a chair with a scrape. "Saark, after all the shit scrapes we've been through, lad, after nearly dying on Skaringa Dak and falling through that mountain, the least I can do is have a drink."

"It makes you bad," said Saark.

"No. Too much makes me bad. But I know when to stop. I always know when to stop. It's just sometimes I choose not to." He lifted the flagon, and took a hefty drink, then lowered it and smacked his lips with the back of his hand, rubbing at his beard. "By all the gods, that's a rough drop, but it warms a man's belly after a trek through snow, so it does."

"Here." Saark took the flagon, and took a hefty drink himself. He nearly choked as the raw moonshine burned his throat, but Kell had been right, and it warmed him right through.

"It's good, right lad?"

"It's like drinking donkey piss, Kell."

"You should know, mate. You and that Mary lass have got way too close." He laughed, and winked, and offered the flagon but Nienna waved it away. He took another hefty swig, and this time held it there for a while. As he lowered it, Nienna looked concerned.

"No more, grandfather. Saark was right. It turns you bad."

"Ach, I'm a big man, I can take the whole flagon and it wouldn't touch the hole in my stomach!"

"Or indeed, the ego in your skull," said Saark.

"Ha!" He took another big drink, and passed it to Saark, who put the flagon carefully to one side.

"No more, Kell."

"You big girl!"

Saark smiled. "Maybe, but I having a feeling that where we are going tomorrow, the last thing you need is a drink; or even worse, a damn hangover!"

Kell shrugged, easily, and sat down. For a while they sat in amiable silence, watching the fire, then Kell stood again. "I'll go and chop some more wood. You know me. I like to keep active."

Saark nodded, and Kell stepped outside. The world seemed brighter, more whiter than white. He grinned to himself, and licked at the droplets in his beard. They tasted just grand. Snow was falling heavy now, obscuring the sky, obscuring the world. A fluffy silence filled every space. This cottage clearing felt small, safe and secure.

Kell strolled around to the small woodshed, and glancing back to make sure he went unobserved, pulled a hidden flagon from under a pile of logs. He unstoppered the flagon, took a deep breath, and followed it with a long, gulping drink.

"No good will come of this," he muttered, but by then – as it always was – it was far too late…

Night fell. The fire burned low. Kell snored heavily on one side of the room, and Saark lay with his back to the fire, eyes closed, unable to sleep. Inside of him he felt something shift and it made him feel nauseous, like he was going to puke. Tick, tick, tick went his steady clockwork-enhanced heart. By all the gods, he thought, it feels too strange.

Saark heard Nienna shift, and kneel up beside the fire. Saark turned himself, and looked at her long hair glowing. She moved to him, and lay beside him, and he threw a glance to Kell but the man had drank more whiskey later that evening, and was now sleeping like a baby – albeit a very drunk one.

"We shouldn't," he said, as Nienna kissed him; but not like before, this time it was urgent, and this time she pressed herself into him, eagerly, filled with lust, filled with desire.

"We should." She had waited a long time to get hold of Saark. She wasn't going to let him go now.

They kissed, and she straddled him, and their passion grew and Saark felt himself in that place again, that uncontrollable place and, as he always did, he gave in to it, surrendered unconditionally and kissed Nienna, kissed her hard, with passion, his hands running up and down her flanks, caressing her breasts and she writhed atop him, moaning, and Saark was hard and pressing against her and something intruded on his thoughts and there was a click as he realised his error. Something was wrong. Shit. Kell was no longer snoring…

"Up you get, girl."

Kell lifted Nienna bodily from Saark, and placed her to one side. His eyes were glowing embers in the gloom of the cottage, his fists were clenched, his beard glinted with droplets of whiskey, and the firelight gave him the air of a demon.

Maybe he is, thought Saark.

"You too. Up you get."

"We've been here before," laughed Saark.

"No we haven't. This time I'm going to break your fucking spine, I reckon."

Saark looked up into those merciless eyes, and swallowed hard. Kell was not a man to back down.

"I implore you, Kell, there are greater things at stake here than Nienna's honour! Think of Falanor! Think of the Vampire Warlords! And let's be honest, look, the girl is fully clothed, all I did was maul her a bit. Squeeze her tits. Get her hot and ready. No harm is done, really, Kell, I beseech you!"

Kell loomed close. "The harm, fucker, is that you never stop. Ever. And unless I teach you a lesson, you'll come back time and time again. And I can't have that. Now get up, or I'll kick you into a pulp like the fucking dog you are."

Kell's boot swung, and Saark rolled fast, avoiding the blow. He leapt up, wearing only his trews, and lifted his fists slowly, as did the pugilists he'd watched in the Shit Pits.

"I've got to warn you, Kell. I'm vachine now. Stronger. Faster. Harder." His own eyes glowed by the light of the fire.

"Show me," said Kell.

"Stop it!" screamed Nienna, both hands at the sides of her head. "Stop it, both of you!"

They ignored her.

Kell charged, roaring like a bear and throwing a fast combination of five punches. Saark dodged, left, right, ducked, then leapt back and his back slammed the wall of the cottage. But Kell followed him, a right straight thundering a hair's breadth from Saark's chin and implanting a dent in the plaster of the wall. Saark skipped away, and Kell followed again, a whirr of punches coming faster than any drunk should be able; Saark ducked, shifted his weight, then slammed a right hook to Kell's jaw that rocked the big warrior.

Kell halted, and stared hard at Saark.

"Have you come to your senses?" snapped Saark.

"Ha, no, well done boy," he rubbed his jaw, "a fine punch. Let's see some more." He launched at Saark, arms grappling around Saark's own and pinning them to his sides. Together, they crashed through the cottage door reducing it to tinder, and landed in the snow with "oofs" of exploded air. Saark wriggled, the dead weight of Kell atop him, and a stunning blow caught the side of his head, blinding him for a moment, then another cracked his nose and that made Saark good and angry and he felt his fangs ease free and talons slide from fingers and with a scream he heaved Kell aside and leapt up, talons slashing for Kell's throat, but Kell took a step back, swaying, and lifted his fists. "Yes lad! Come on! Show me what this pretty dandy's made of!"

They circled in the snow, Nienna hanging at the doorway, panting. Both men were wary now, eyes shining. Snow fell thick around them, and the whole scene was surreal to Nienna, muffled, silent, as if she was seeing it in a dream, or from the bottom of a frozen lake…

" Stop, " she begged, wearily.

Again, they ignored her. Saark attacked, aiming punches for Kell who swayed, the punches missing him. Kell's boot lashed out, catching Saark in the stomach, but Saark turned the blow into a backward leap, and he flipped, somersaulting to land on his feet, fists raised.

"A pretty trick, boy-lover. You left a piss-trail of perfume droplets in your wake."

"Funny, because despite the perfume I can smell your stale whiskey and bad sweat from here."

Kell growled, and charged, and Saark leapt over him, flipping again to land in the snow.

"Damn you, stand still and be battered!"

"No, Kell, I don't want to fight you! Don't you understand? There are enough fucking enemies out there to last us a thousand lifetimes! And you want to play here in the snow like little kids?"

"Little kids, is it?" growled Kell, and charged again. Saark leapt high, but Kell was ready, jumping himself with a grunt and catching Saark's legs. He swung Saark like a slab of beef, and the dandy hit the snow hard, head slapping trampled ice, all air smashed from him. Kell put one knee on Saark's chest, and one great hand around his throat. With his free fist, he punched Saark with a crunch, and glared down with lips working soundlessly, anger his mistress.

Nienna ran inside the cottage, and curled her hands around Ilanna. The weapon was cool to the touch, and perfectly smooth, like ice. Nienna lifted the axe, the huge axe, with ease. It was surprisingly light.

I have missed you, came the words in her head, and Nienna jumped. She nearly let go of the weapon, but for Saark wriggling around under Kell and returning punches to the great man's head.

Saark grabbed Kell's balls and squeezed hard. Kell howled, rolling to one side, and Saark scrambled free across the snow, but Kell lunged, catching the vachine's ankle and dragging him back -

Claws hissed through the air.

Nienna blinked. Am I dreaming? she thought, mind in a swirl of severed lust, fear and now, wonder.

No. I am Ilanna. I am Kell's axe. Do you remember, back in the Stone Lion Woods? I saved your life, but at the time thought you were too young to shock with my… thoughts. Now, I see, you are a much harder woman. I congratulate you.

If only everybody thought so, dreamed Nienna. She took a step towards the door. Kell and Saark were exchanging punches once more. Saark's newly accelerated vachine status was proving a match even for Kell, and both wore bruised and battered faces like horror masks.

I've missed you, said Ilanna, voice soft and sweet.

What does that mean?

We worked together. In the past. It was a good union. One day soon, we will speak again.

Confused, Nienna stepped out into the snow. "Stop!" she screamed, and held the huge battleaxe above her head. Ilanna gleamed dull, matt black, an awesome sight to behold. "Stop this foolishness! I demand it!"

Kell and Saark paused. Blood dribbled from the edge of Saark's mouth, and one of his brass vachine fangs had snapped. Kell had a blackened eye and blood coming from his nose. He looked superbly pissed off.

Kell gave a sudden laugh, a bark, and lowered his fists. "Whatever you say, granddaughter. I think I gave this popinjay a pasting."

"You think so, old man?" scowled Saark. "I've had grandmothers give me harder blow jobs."

Kell lifted his fists again.

"STOP!" screamed Nienna. "What is wrong with you? Saark, you idiot, stop provoking him! And Kell, what's your problem? One sniff of whiskey and you turn into an uncontrollable beast."

That stopped Kell in his tracks, and he rubbed his beard, and lowered his head, a little in shame, a little in guilt. "Yes," he mumbled, and then looked up again. "Give me the axe."

"Why?"

"Because she is mine."

Nienna chewed her lip. She nearly spoke. Nearly said it – that Ilanna had talked to her. But part of her thought it was nothing more than a hallucination brought on by stress, or lack of sleep; part of her thought that maybe she was a little crazy.

Nienna stepped forward, and Kell took the huge weapon. He stared at it thoughtfully, then over at Saark. Saark slowly lowered his fists, paling. Kell wasn't called a vachine hunter for nothing.

"Now wait a minute, Big Man," he said.

"Ach, calm yourself, dickhead. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." He gestured with Ilanna, pointing towards Saark's chest with the blade tips. His voice lowered to a bestial rumble. "But I promise you this, lad. If you lay another finger on Nienna, I'll cut your dirty vachine head from your fucking vachine neck. Understand?"

"I understand."

"And this time, it's a fucking promise, lad."

"Acknowledged."

Kell lowered the weapon, strode to Saark, and threw his arm around the man's shoulders. "But by all the gods, you've got bloody handier with those clockwork fists, so you have! I haven't had a black eye in thirty years!"

"Wonderful," said Saark, mouth dry.

"This calls for a drink! Nienna, bring out the flagons."

"Over my dead body," said Nienna, scowling.

Kell shrugged. "Was only a suggestion, was all. Let's have some soup, then – and talk about happier times gone by!"

"I remember my father hanging himself," said Saark, voice cold, testing his broken brass fang with his thumb and wincing.

"You always know how to put a pisser on it, don't you lad?" He slapped him, hard. "Come on. I'll tell you about when I lost my first bout of single combat."

"You lost in single combat?" said Saark, raising his eyebrows.

"No lad, of course I didn't. I'm just trying to cheer you up."

"It's big," said Saark, lying on his belly and staring down into the valley. "No. I'll rephrase that. It's a monster."

The Black Pike Mines.

Originally built by King Searlan to house the worst and most violent criminals in Falanor, it also became a repository for the Blacklipper smugglers – who, by definition, had probably caused murder in order to get their casks of Karakan Red.

There was a gap in the mountains, and the Black Pike Mines had been built into the gap, the front wall merging seamlessly with near-vertical walls of jagged mountain rock. However, to simply call it a mine or a prison was misleading; this was a fortress. The staggered front walls were a sort of keep, and the prison stepped back into the V of an inaccessible, impregnable mountain valley. There was no back door, and only sheer smooth black granite walls for those who wanted to get in – or out. It would take an army to enter the prison mine, and that was the idea. When King Searlan built a prison, he intended his criminals to stay put.

Behind the defendable battlement walls were rows of cells carved into the mountain itself, fitted with black iron bars. Further back, where Saark and Nienna could not spy, Kell informed them, was the Hole. The Hole, or the mine itself, was the place where so many thousands of criminals had been worked to death in the name of rehabilitation.

"It looks like a prison," said Saark.

"It is."

"I know. I'm just saying."

"Searlan wanted his bastards to stay put. That's what they called themselves, back in the bad old days. Searlan's Bastards."

"I expect you put a few good men away there as well, did you?"

"No."

"No?"

"No good men. Only scum."

"How many?"

"What does it matter?" Kell's eyes gleamed. More snow was falling, and the gloom made him look eerie; a giant amongst men, bear-like, with his looming, threatening mass, his bearskin, his huge paws. It was easy to forget he was over sixty years old.

"I'm just contemplating, right, what happens if we get inside that place and a few of the old prisoners recognise you? You understand? Old fuckers carrying some twenty year pent-up grudge. After all, I've known you but a few sparse months, and I already want you dead."

"Thanks very much."

"I'm just being honest."

"Listen, Saark. I must have put over a hundred men in there. And if they cross me again, they'll have a short sharp conversation with Ilanna. You understand?"

"You can't kill a hundred men, Kell. Be reasonable."

"Fucking watch me," he growled. "Come on. Get your shit. I know the Governor, a man called Myrtax. He's a good man, a fair man. As long as he kept those gates shut, even the Army of Iron would have struggled to breach the defences; and I doubt very much this pipe in the arsehole of Hell was high on Graal's invasion agenda."

They moved down a narrow track which led to a wide open, bleak killing field. As they moved across barren rock and snow, Kell pointed to four high towers.

"Each tower can take fifty archers. That's two hundred arrow men raining down sudden death. And out here," he opened his arms wide, "there's nowhere to hide."

"You fill me with a happy confidence," said Saark, voice dry.

"I try, lad. I try."

They moved warily across the killing ground, heads lifted, eyes watching the towers for signs of archers, or indeed, any military activity. But they were bare. Silent. The whole place reeked of desertion.

They drew closer. A cold wind blew, whipping snow viciously and slapping it into exposed faces. Nienna gasped frequently, her breath snapped away, an ice shock sending shivers down her spine.

Eventually, they were in shouting distance and Kell halted, Ilanna thunking to the snow, Kell stroking his beard as he surveyed the formidable wall and massive gates before him.

"IS ANYBODY THERE?" he rumbled, deep voice rolling out across the bleak prison fortress. Echoes sang back at him from the walls, from the vertical mountain flanks, from the slick, ice-rimed rocks. The wind howled, an eerie, high-pitched ululation.

Silence followed. A long, haunting silence.

"There's nobody here, Kell."

"I don't understand. Why would Myrtax give up his castle? He was a brave man. Loyal to the King."

"The King is dead," said Saark, weary now, sighing.

"Hmm."

There came a crack, and a head appeared over the icy crenellations. "By all the gods, Kell, is that you?"

"Governor Myrtax?"

"It's been a long time. Wait there, I'll come down and open the gate."

"Where are the prisoners?" frowned Kell, hand on his axe.

"Gone, Kell. All gone. Wait there. I'll be but a few moments; I have warm stew, a fire, and hot blankets inside. You must have travelled far."

Kell nodded, and rubbed once more at his frosted beard.

"Wonderful!" beamed Saark. "A little bit of civilisation, at last! I'd wager he has some fine ale in there as well, and all we need to make the evening complete is a couple of buxom happy daughters, and…"

"Saark!" snapped Nienna.

"What?"

"Saark!" Her frown deepened.

"I am simply pointing out that a buxom wench could be considered a luxury in these parts." He shrugged. "You know how it is, with me and buxom wenches."

"I certainly do," said Nienna, her voice more icy than the frozen battlements.

Governor Myrtax opened the huge, thick door, which in turn was set in the fifty foot high gates which guarded the prison wall; he stood, a beaming smile on his face, a well-built man who had run to fat. His hair was shaved close to the scalp, and peppered with grey. He wore a full beard, a mix of black and ash, and his eyes were dark, intelligent, and friendly.

Myrtax opened his arms. "Kell! It's been too long! No happy prisoners for me this time?"

"No," snapped Kell, and stepped forward, hugging the man. "Sorry. Not this time. But give a few months and I'll have ten thousand heads on spikes for you!"

"Are things that bad, to the south?"

"King Searlan is dead."

"No!" Myrtax drew in a sharp breath, and his face went serious. "That is grave news indeed." He glanced around, up and down the snowy field where the wind blasted gusts of loose snow in rhythmical, vertical curtains. "Better come inside. We've had Blacklippers sniffing around, the dirty, oil-taking bastards."

Kell nodded, and ushered Nienna and Saark before him. They moved into a long, dark killing tunnel, high roofed and with balconies for archers and stone-throwers used in times of siege. They walked a short way along, and Saark glanced up nervously.

"Don't worry lad. We can trust Myrtax."

Myrtax had stopped next to the second portal. Beyond, they could see black cobbles and streaks of ice. Myrtax turned, lifted his hands, and his eyes fixed on Kell and his eyes were haunted, filled with guilt, and with grief. "I'm sorry, Kell."

There came a rattle of activity and above the three travellers, on the high killing balconies, rose fifty men, convicts, murderers, dressed in rag-tag furs and armour and each sporting a powerful crossbow.

"Truly. I am sorry."

A tear ran down Myrtax's cheek. "They have my wife. They have my little ones. What could I do, man? What could I do?"

"Throw down your weapons," came a gruff bark.

"There's only fifty of you," snorted Kell, dark eyes moving across the ranks of men. But Saark's hand touched his shoulder, and he knew what the dandy meant. Nienna. There was always Nienna. Like a splinter in his side, removing his strength, castrating his fury. "Damn."

Saark tossed down his rapier, and Nienna threw down her short sword and knives.

Reluctantly, Kell rested his great, black axe against the wall. His shoulders sagged. They had him.

Three men pushed into the tunnel, and shoved Myrtax aside where he stumbled against the wall, going down on one knee. They arranged themselves before the travellers, and each wore a snarl as ugly as his features.

"I am Dandall," said the first, a tall, narrow-faced man in his fifties with slanted green eyes. He had scars on his cheeks, and long, bony fingers.

"I am Grey Tail," said the smaller of the three. He was a head shorter than Dandall, slim and wiry, his face round and almost trustworthy, if it wasn't for the black lips of imbibed blood-oil which tainted him with its curse. Kell saw the man's hands were shaking, probably withdrawal from his drug of choice. The veins stood out on the backs of his hands, on his throat, black, as if etched in ink through his pale white skin, a relief roadmap pointing straight towards Hell and damnation to come – for that was where he would soon travel. When a Blacklipper became so marked, he had only limited time on the face of the world. He carried a small black crossbow, which quivered even as his fingers quivered.

"And I am Jagor Mad, because I'm mad," rumbled the third, a huge bear of a man, a good head taller than Kell and rippling with muscle like an overstuffed canvas sack. His head was misshapen, and riddled with scars and dents. His nose was twisted, and stubble grew unevenly around wide scar tissue tracts. His fists were clenched, and he carried no weapon like the other two, who both wore short swords. His eyes were gleaming, and his gaze never left Kell.

"I remember you, Jagor Mad," said Kell, almost amiably, although his eyes gleamed in the gloom. "I put one of those big dents in your dumb head, if I remember it rightly. I reckon it should have knocked some sense into you, but I can see I'm fucking wrong."

Growling, Jagor Mad stepped forward, but Dandall's bony fingers spread out, his arm blocking the huge man's path.

"Let me kill him, Dandall, let me rip out his windpipe with my teeth!"

"Not yet," said Dandall, voice soft. He focused on Kell. "You put us all here, my large and wearisome friend. But now," and he laughed, a nasal whining like spent vachine gears, " now we three are the Governors of the Black Pike Mines. Behind these doors, we have three thousand new soldiers, our new model army! Once, they were convicts, and Blacklippers and scum, the freaks and the murderers, the outcast from pretty little Falanor, but now they're under our command and we rule these damn mountains, this mine and this fucking fortress!"

Dandall motioned, and Grey Tail stepped forward. The crossbow lifted, suddenly hissed and took Kell in the shoulder, punching the large man backwards. He stumbled, but righted himself. He grasped the bolt protruding from his flesh, and blood pumped out through his fingers. His eyes glowed. "Just like a coward," he growled, voice dripping liquid hate, as Jagor Mad stepped forward and with a devastating right hook knocked Kell to the ground. Jagor put one knee on Kell's chest, and grabbed the bolt. He applied weight, and Kell groaned like a dying wolf. Saark leapt forward, but a rattle of bolts from the balcony above clattered around him on the cobbles, and Saark did a crazy dance, hands over his head, trying his best not to get pierced.

"We got you now, Kell old boy," Jagor Mad spat, furious scarred face looming down at Kell as if from a toxin-induced nightmare. "And you know what?"

Kell was swimming, not because of the pain or the bolt – he'd been shot before. But because of the drugs coating the bolt's tip, which even now entered his system forcing him down into a realm of drifting unconsciousness. And as he swam deeper and deeper down down down, losing control, losing connection, down into the inky void of bitter lost dreams and terminal disappointments, so Jagor Mad's last words rattled in his thumping, crashing skull…

"Get the girl. We'll torture her first."