Vampire Warlords

CHAPTER 8

When Kell came round, he was lying in a dark cave, bright winter sunlight spilling in unwelcome and unholy, and thumping his already pounding head with big new fists. For a few moments he thought he'd been on the whiskey again, down that hole, locked in that dungeon, and a terrible dread stole over him and he rifled frantically through the pages of his fractured memory. But then, like the break of a new dawn, images slowly filtered back through the upper reaches of consciousness. Black Pike Mines. Dandall, Grey Tail and Jagor Mad. Crossbow bolt. Right hook… Kell clutched for the bolt, but it had been removed, his shoulder bound with a torn section of shirt which he recognised as Saark's fine lace frippery. Great, he thought. Just what I need. Saved from death by a dandy idiot.

"Don't worry. There's no badness in there. And if there was, I'll be damned if I was sucking on your foul necrotic flesh."

Kell groaned, clutching his head, and sat up like a bear emerging from hibernation. His dark shirt was torn and bloodstained. The world swam. Then, he thought of Nienna.

He rose, like a colossus, and strode at Saark. "Where's my granddaughter?" he roared.

"It's fine, Kell, don't panic," Saark held up his hands, "that Jagor Mad was just putting his fist up your arse. Giving you something big and hard to worry about. I can see her from here, she's tied up in one of the cells across the way. Over there." He pointed. Kell squinted.

Kell took a few moments to analyse his surroundings. To his right loomed the great wall of the Black Pike Mine fortress, containing hefty stone barricades replete with steps and towers on which soldiers could defend against any opposing force. The valley floor ran pretty straight, pretty flat, and was lined to either side by hundreds, no… thousands of cells, all carved into the natural rocky walls and fitted with sturdy iron bars. Kell and Saark had been locked in one of these. Nienna, in another.

"Why didn't they separate us two?" he grunted.

"They didn't want you dying; gave me a needle and thread, had me patch you up good."

"Why the hell would they do that? There's three hundred men out there must surely want my blood."

"I thought you said a hundred?" Saark shook his head. "Anyway, they, er, they said something about sport, and entertainment, words of that calibre, and then something about a trial. They don't want you dead. Not yet. Not before you suffered as, I assume, they feel they have suffered under your rough justice." Saark's eyes were gleaming, and he grinned at Kell without humour. "They want to play, Kell," he said.

Kell digested this information. He finally caught sight of Nienna across the valley floor, and gave her a wave, but she seemed lost in a half-sleep, staring at the roof of her cave cell. Kell's tongue probed his dry mouth, and he cursed these people, and cursed the drugs they'd used to incapacitate him. By the Bone Halls, he thought, they'd better finish him off next time or he'd crack a few skulls!

Kell's gaze swept left and right. He could see, perhaps, three hundred men. They were roughshod, most quite stocky from years working in the Black Pike Mines. These were Falanor's worst, most grim and nasty criminals. The murderers, rapists, smugglers, child-killers. Kell stared at them with uncontrolled disgust, and an even bigger disgust at what he must do. He sighed. It was the only choice he had.

"So, come on then," said Saark. He was looking sideways at Kell, eyes narrowed. "What's the big plan now, eh? You managed to get us caught pretty bad, with your so-called ooh Governor Myrtax is totally trustworthy and we can go in and get something to eat old horse shit. And they've gone and captured Mary. I tell you something, if they cook my donkey, there'll be hell to pay."

"Stop whining."

"Give me some answers then, damn you!"

"Listen to the demands of Saark, the wonderful, masterful, all-powerful vachine shagging vachine coward. I didn't see you doing much to help when they peppered me with fucking crossbow bolts!"

"It was one bolt, Kell. Hark at the power of a man's exaggeration!"

"You're a fine one to speak. If anybody believed your tales, you'd have impregnated half of Falanor by now!"

"Maybe I have! They do say I have a certain way with the women."

"Yeah, and I bet you carry enough pox to drop a battalion. Now shut your mouth, Saark, and tell me what they did with my axe."

Saark frowned, then rubbed his bruised face. He, too, had taken a beating at the hands of Jagor Mad. As the huge oaf declared, he was indeed, at least partially, mad. But then, Saark was getting used to taking a beating in the fiery orbit of Kell's legend. After all, that's what friends were for, no?

"They dumped it in one of the cells, I think. Along with Nienna and the rest of our weapons. It's got to be said, Kell, sometimes I wonder who you love the most: Nienna, or that damn axe?"

"The axe'll never let me down," growled Kell, face locked in a terrible anger. "Now listen to me, Saark. This is the plan."

"Wonderful!"

"Take the grin off your powdered mug before I damn well knock it clear. Things are about to get serious, and you need to know what to do."

"Go on, then. Stun me with the geometry of your tactician's mind."

"I'm going to win over the criminals here, and we'll form them into a fighting unit, into an army, and march on the Vampire Warlords! We will take the battle to the enemy. We will attack, first Jalder, then Gollothrim, then Vor. We will kill the Vampire Warlords. We will stop the vampire plague."

There was a long silence. Outside, somewhere high in the mountains, an avalanche boomed. Crashing echoes reverberated from on high, a deafening and terrifying sound which gradually faded into drifting echoes, like a scattering of loose snow.

"Kell, even for you that's madder than a mad dog's dinner."

"Meaning?"

"Well, where do I begin? For a start, all the bastards here hate you and want your blood and spleen. The Vampire Warlords are, er, indestructible. How can you train an army out of scum? What sorry fool will do the training? And even more importantly, even if, and this is a big if, you persuaded three thousand hardened criminals to join your cause, what would stop them being criminals the minute we set foot back in the real world? They'd be straight back to killing and raping, I'd wager."

"Yeah. But we have the upper hand."

"Which is?"

"They have no idea what's happening, out there, in Falanor. They saw the Army of Iron passing through, they rebelled against Governor Myrtax and took over the fortress. They have no idea about Jalder being overrun, or Vor or the gods only know how many other damn cities. They know nothing of King Leanoric dying in battle, or of the cankers or the destruction of Silva Valley."

Saark snorted. "And they don't fucking care, Kell! Don't you understand? We're dealing with criminal scum here, the freaks of the country, the bastards who are bastards to their own mother's bastards. They don't deserve to live, and they won't fucking help you, I'm fucking telling you, I am."

"Ha, that's so much horse shit," snapped Kell. "You, with your southern queer dandy ways, you have no fucking idea what these men are like." Kell moved close, his voice dropping a little. "You don't get how life works, do you, Saark? You've had silver platters and boiled eggs all your life. You've had your face in so many rich bouncing tits, licking the arse-crumbs from oh so many perfume-stinking nobles' cracks, that you have no connection with reality. Most of these men, they're not bad men, not evil men, there are shades of grey, Saark, and we all make mistakes. It's nice to see you're so fucking perfect! In a different world, you would have lost your head a long time ago!"

Saark snorted again. "What the hell am I hearing? You put hundreds of these bastards in here! Listen to the last of the great hypocrites! You hunted them down, Kell, you killed a lot, and you dragged many back to Vor for trial. And now you want them to fight for you? Now you want them to die for you? I've met some mad skunks in my time, heard some crazy bloody plans, but this takes the ridiculous plum straight from the mouth of the insane rich. They'll never follow you, Kell, Legend or no. They'd rather shit on your grave."

"You'll see," rumbled Kell.

"And what you going to do? Kill the new governors?" Saark laughed.

"That's the idea."

"What with? Your left thumb?"

"If I have to. Now stop your prattling, I'm trying to think and you're carping on like a fishwife on a fish stall selling buckets of fish to rank stinking fishermen."

"What? What? Is that an example of how you're going to win over the crowd? Ha ha, Kell, you've got some serious lessons to learn in life. You're about to throw yourself to the wolves."

"We'll see," said Kell, eyes glowing. "We'll just see."

As the day progressed, Kell and Saark watched a hundred or so men sawing wood and putting together some kind of framed structure. Kell brooded in silence, wincing occasionally at his damaged shoulder, and sat with his knees pulled up under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, wondering how to get out of this mess. Nobody came to their cell, and they were given no food or water. Occasionally, they saw one of the new Black Pike Governors wandering around the frantic building work, and as a hefty softwood frame took shape, Saark put his head on one side.

"Looks like a stage," he said, at last. "Why are they building a stage? Are they going to treat us to a performance of Dog's Treason, or maybe a sequence of sonnet recitals based around the life of that great lover, Cassiandra? I know! I've got it! They're going to perform The Saga of Kell's Legend just for your bloody benefit!"

"It's a gallows, idiot. That's why the centre has extra vertical struts. There's going to be a hole through which somebody drops."

"Somebody?"

"I take a lot of killing," said Kell, voice low, eyes narrowed. "Look, there's Jagor Mad. He really is a big, dumb fool. I thought he would have learnt his lesson last time I brought him in. Evidently not."

"What did he do?"

"Aah," Kell shook his head, then lowered his face to stare at the rocky floor of the cave. He kicked his boot against one of the pitted iron bars. "Jagor came from a city called Gilrak, to the west of Vor. All those who wanted to live in Vor, but couldn't afford to live in the capital, well they lived in Gilrak, and what a sorry heap of shit it was. Like a scum overflow. A sewer outlet. Now, the thing about Gilrak was that it was a new city, with the old one, Old Gilrak, lying a half-league southwest. But what few people knew was that the two were connected by old tunnels. So Jagor and a few of his friends came up with a wonderful money-making scheme. They'd kidnap children, take them through the tunnels – so that when a search went out there was no chance of finding the bastards – take them through the tunnels to the deserted city of Old Gilrak, fast horses, down to the coast where bad men from across the sea were waiting on Crake's Beach with boats."

"So he took children and sold them?"

"Yes. Sold them to bad men, for a lot of gold, men who would use them for, shall we say, unspeakable acts. Things a child should never have to go through." Kell's eyes were gleaming.

"Not a happy end for a child?" ventured Saark.

"No. King Leanoric had three genius spies, who eventually uncovered what was going on. Then they passed the information over to me, and the King charged me with stopping the trade. He gave me limitless funds, and the pick of his men. Well. I work fast, and alone, but Jagor had forty men working his trade so I picked out five of Leanoric's best killers. Not swordsmen, mind, not soldiers, but killers. Men I'd seen in battle, men with real stomach for the job."

"And the job was?"

"Extermination," said Kell, glancing up at Saark. "I've seen the way the justice courts worked in Vor." He spat. "I've watched good men hang, and I watched bad men walk free. I wasn't about to let this little fish escape the pond."

"So what happened?"

"First, we found one of Jagor's scouts. We tortured him, broke his fingers and toes, cut off his balls, held him screaming in a cellar before cutting his throat. The vermin. Well, he told us where the next targets were; where the next children were. And Jagor's kidnappers were getting greedy; they were going to take ten children that night, all under the age of ten. One of my killers took the place of Jagor's scout, and we waited, let them sneak in and take the girl from her little town house in the poor part of the city, then we followed those fuckers back to their camp in the woods, and the place they'd dug down and smashed through into the old tunnel network leading to Old Gilrak."

"What happened next?"

Kell shrugged. "We came on them in the night. Fucking slaughtered them, six of us there were with rage in our eyes and blood on our swords and axes. We massacred them, men and women alike, no mercy. Five escaped into the tunnels, including Jagor Mad. I'd gone in for the kill, we fought and I hit him so hard I put a dent in his skull, broke three bones in my hand but it was worth it. But then somebody jumped on my back, I rammed back my head, ended up with half his teeth stuck in my scalp, but it gave Jagor time to flee. Down through the tunnels."

"You don't make friends easy, do you Kell?"

"Shut up. Well, my men took the kids back to Gilrak and I went down the tunnels after these rats. I followed them all night, caught up with two who were injured, killed them easy enough, then another two tried to spring a trap on me in the dark. Well, Kell doesn't die easy, and I gave them a few things to think about – delivered courtesy of the butterfly blades of Ilanna. Then I chased Jagor Mad all damn night, but the bastard got away. He might look like a big brute, but he ran faster than any frightened schoolgirl, I can tell you."

"How did he end up here?"

"Some of Leanoric's soldiers caught him a week later, north in Fawkrin, heading there with all his ill-gotten gains. I reckon he was going to set himself up as a bandit in Vorgeth Forest, live like a woodland lord. Anyway, because the soldiers had him, he was delivered to the Chief Lord Justice in Vor. Meant he got a trial. Hah! I had to stand there, and them bastards with their fancy words and stupid wigs, they tried to make it sound like I was some bloodthirsty killer, or something…"

"And of course, they'd be right."

"And I pointed out I wasn't the one selling children to dirty bastards from across the sea, and that's when we went into the woods, it was six of us and forty of them. Still."

Kell rubbed his chin. "They had to put him in prison. Too many families weeping and wailing in the courts. Would have looked bad on the Chief Lord Justice. Not even he could have stomached a mass public retribution for his bad comedy court system." Kell chuckled. "I'll never forget, all those judges giving me their dirty looks from under powdered wigs. Gods! Enough to make a man puke, it was."

"So… Jagor Mad came here?"

"Yeah. Scowling at me all the way through the courtroom, mouth uttering threats. He was the lucky one; the others got a taste of my axe. And they fucking deserved it."

Saark looked out from behind bars. He tested them, tugging gently, as he had a hundred times that day. "And now they'll give you your own trial, to satisfy Jagor Mad's sense of revenge."

"Looks that way."

"What about the others? Dandall and Grey Tail? You put them both here?"

"Aye, lad."

"And what did they do?"

"Dandall killed people. Lots of people. Used to wait down on Port of Gollothrim docks for drunks, men, women, didn't matter to him. He used to use a long stiletto dagger, get them down a back alley and push it through their necks. I reckon he thought he was doing somebody a favour, although it was probably himself. He was lucky there were seargents with me when I brought him in. He'd just done a drunk prostitute, killed her then cut out her eyes. If I'd been on my own, well, he would have got Ilanna in the back of the head."

Saark considered this. "Is there anybody you don't try to kill?"

"Yeah. People who mind their own business."

"So Jagor Mad kidnapped children for the sex trade, Dandall was an out and out murderer, what lovely crime did Grey Tail commit? Don't tell me, he was arrested for stealing sugar?"

"No. He used to eat people. Before he was a Blacklipper. Must have picked up that dirty stinking vachine habit – no offence – when he came to this wonderful shit-hole. Grey Tail lived in Vor, our illustrious capital city, quite a rich man by all accounts. Worked as a physician, tending the wounded arses of those too rich to get off them. It took the authorities years to realise that occasionally his rich clients would vanish. He had a big house on a very well-to-do street in Merchant's Quarter. Four storeys it was, very nice stone, big cellar below street level. Used to take the odd client, one who wouldn't be missed too much, take them down there, strap 'em to a chair and then, well then he'd begin."

"There he is now," said Saark, and they stared out at the small, wiry man with the round face. He was directing a group of carpenters, who were hammering planks in place as a makeshift floor. If you looked past the evidence of him being a Blacklipper, he was a modest-looking man who could have quite easily, in the eye of the imagination, been a respectable surgeon. "What exactly did he do to his patients?"

"Used to cut them up, piece by piece, and cook them in a little pan. Used to eat their flesh first, he'd gag 'em, slice off a chunk, fry it, eat it. Keep them alive for a few weeks whilst he feasted on their flesh. It was the neighbours who complained; I reckon they got sick of the stench of frying human fat."

"We live in a decadent world," said Saark.

"Aye. Sometimes, laddie, it makes me wonder if the vachine have the right idea."

"Hey, I can always bite you?" He grinned. "You'd become one of us."

Kell stared at him. "The day you bite me, Saark, is the day I rip off your skull."

"As I said, is there anybody you've met who you didn't try and kill?"

"No. I don't have it in me."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Oh, look Kell, up go the gallows. Hurrah!" Ten men laboured to erect a huge post, which was then strapped into position and secured with cross-struts. The sound of hammering echoed across the flat ground. Kell's face was grim.

"No need to be so happy about it."

"Hey, I'm pretty sure it's designed for me as well, mate. You're not the only one with the honour of being an enemy of the new Black Pike Mine Governors."

"Yeah. Well. We should rest. Going to need all our strength, later, aren't we."

"You really think you can convince them?"

"I hope so," said Kell. "All our lives depend on it."

"Wake up, you fucking bastards." It was Jagor Mad, growling through the evening gloom and between the bars. Snow was falling. Both Kell and Saark awoke, weary, groggy, as if they had been drugged. "Come on, quick, before I call a man with a crossbow."

Kell stood, and stretched languorously, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. "Yeah. Well, lad, that would be your way now, wouldn't it? Shoot us through the bars, in the fucking back, just like the coward piece of sliced horse dick you really are. But look, out there. All your pussy lickers are waiting, watching you. And you know you have to play the game, or some bastard will stick you in your sleep. Not that you don't get that every night, eh Saark?" Kell nudged Saark, who gave a nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the pure hate and rage that filled the trembling Jagor Mad standing before them.

"You will eat those words, Axeman," spat Jagor.

"Show me!"

"Your time will come, soon enough! On the end of a fucking rope!"

"Like that'll stop me," snarled Kell, moving close. Suddenly, he grabbed Jagor through the bars and dragged the huge bear close. Jagor Mad struggled, but despite his prodigious strength Kell was his match. Jagor's face slammed the bars, and Kell pushed his nose against his enemey's as his hands flapped and slapped, and grappled for his sword. When Kell spoke, his words were a low growl, so only he, Jagor and Saark could hear. "I could kill you, Big Man, right here, right now, bite off your fucking nose, put out your fucking eyes and you'd be screaming and then you'd be dead, and you fucking know it, you worthless worm." He pushed Jagor roughly back, just as sword cleared scabbard. The blade rang against the bars, and Jagor was in an uncontrollable rage.

"Wise?" enquired Saark, backing away as Jagor Mad fumbled with the locks.

"Is anything in this world?" snapped Kell. "Or would you rather dance on the end of a rope?"

"Calm," said Dandall, and a hand appeared on Jagor Mad's shoulder, and there were muttered words and the huge Governor strode away, face scarlet. Dandall opened the locks, and behind him were ten crossbow men, all grinning.

"Give up the tricks now, Kell. You're going on trial for your crimes. Either that, or ten bolts in your belly. You decide."

"I'll come quiet," said Kell, "although it isn't my way."

"Oh yes. The Legend." Dandall gave a slick sneer. "Well, it won't get you far in these parts. Not with these men. They like a good hanging, y'see? They like a bit of entertainment to pass away the long, cold winter evenings."

Kell and Saark stepped from their cage. Wind caught them, chilled them, thrilled them. It ruffled Kell's hair and beard, and he flexed his powerful fingers and looked around, like a wild beast in its first few seconds of release. Then he looked down, to where three thousand convicts crowded at the front of the now finished stage and gallows. Kell gave a grim smile. Everybody knew this was a farce, a stage-show; there would be no real trial, just a performance and then some killing. Kell took a deep breath. So be it, he thought.

Kell and Saark were guided down the rocky path, and Kell glanced left. He could see Nienna, clutching the bars of her own cell and watching, face small, white, filled with fear. Kell tried to give her an encouraging smile, but a spear butt jabbed him in the back of the head and he stumbled. Kell stopped, and turned. The man stared at him.

"Do that again, and I'll make you eat it, point first," growled Kell.

The man swallowed, and took a step back.

Dandall laughed. "Don't let the old fool scare you. He knows he can't outrun or outfight crossbow bolts; and at the end of the day, we have his granddaughter. Nienna. And the fun we could have with that pretty sweet slab of meat." Dandall licked his lips. "After all, Kell knows how skilled I am with a variety of blades. And if we were to give Nienna over to Grey Tail there, well," he chuckled, and sniffed the air as if sniffing the aroma of a fine cooking stew, "mmmm, I'm sure there's bits that would taste sweeter than she looks!"

Kell made a guttural growling sound, but said no more. He marched forward, down the path to be swallowed between the jeering, shouting crowd of men. Many punched and kicked out as he passed, but Kell ignored the blows, and marched with head held high, reaching the stage and pausing just for a second to stare up the steps, at the huge thick beam supporting the gallows and a gently swinging noose. Kell gave a sickly, wry smile. He'd sent enough men to be hanged under the supervision of King Leanoric. How ironic, it had come to this!

Kell mounted the steps, and Saark was jabbed up after him. Their boots were hollow, echoing on the planks as they were pushed forward and made to kneel. To one side, ten thick, hand-carved chairs had been set in a semi-circle, and now another seven men approached and mounted a second set of steps, taking their places in the chairs with as much regal air as they could muster. They were old, most of them, and wearing rich clothes and thick gold jewellery. Their eyes were bleak and cold – except for one man, on the end, Governor Myrtax, who was trembling, and kept his head low, eyes studiously ignoring Kell. It was clear he was being coerced, but Kell felt a twinge of disappointment that the man had no backbone. Kell sneered at him, and gazed out on the crowd.

Thousands of faces. Filled with hate. Shouting, and sneering, crying and bellowing. Fists were punching the air. Their hate rolled out and encompassed Kell and he absorbed it, and he used it. He revelled in it. He used it to focus. It reminded him of fighting in the pit.

Now, Grey Tail and Jagor Mad approached, and took their seats, leaving one final chair free for Dandall who stood, and raised his hands, and gradually the cacophonous roaring cheering noise subsided.

"Men and women of Black Pike Mines!" he cried, and another roar went up and Kell's fists clenched. He glanced over at Saark, who was visibly pale, and trembling. Saark licked his lips and gave Kell a worried smile. Vachine or no, Saark would die in this place. No extra strength or speed could aid him against such numbers. A crowd like this, they were a killing crowd, a lynching mob. They wanted blood, and wouldn't be happy until they had it – even if that meant each other's.

"Hang 'em!" shouted a man near the front, a man with a thick beard and small dark eyes.

"Yeah, we want to see them dance!" cried another.

Kell squared himself to the crowd, and allowed himself to smile. "Why don't you come up here and do it yourself, fucker?" he snarled. "Or have you lost your balls in that face full of beard?"

A roar of laughter rippled through the crowd and Kell grinned. "You are all fools," he said, and the laughter stopped in an instant. "You sit here in the place that imprisoned you, frightened to move, frightened to leave, frightened to fucking fart, and you have no idea what's turning in the real world outside!"

"Shut up!" snapped Dandall. "You are here for trial. A trial to determine your death, so I advise you to be silent when I tell you."

"A trial?" roared Kell, and saw Jagor Mad surge from his seat, face red, fists clenched but Grey Tail held him back. "What petty nonsense. And to be honest, Dandall, I don't give a shit about your trial. I reckon you'll all be dead, soon enough."

"What do you mean?" rumbled the bearded man from the front of the audience.

"STOP!" roared Jagor Mad. "This is OUR day, the day when Kell the Legend, defender of the rich, arse-kisser to nobility, fucker of Queens, the day when he DIES!"

Kell laughed. His voice was low, but carried to every man in the audience. "If you want me dead so bad, Jagor Mad, why not come do it yourself? Here. Right now."

"I will!" thundered the huge man. "Who do you think will be dropping you on the end of that noose?"

Kell spat out laughter once more. "Just what I thought of you, Jagor. A coward and a lick-spittle, spineless, chicken, hiding behind the decisions of others, hiding behind a hangman's horse shit when out there in Jalder and Vor and Gollothrim the Vampire Warlords have returned, they're killing all your people, your friends, and families, infecting them with vampire poison, turning them into vampire slaves!"

A murmur ran through the audience, and Jagor strode forward and hit Kell with a mighty right hook. Kell did not go down, but instead stared hard at Jagor, blood at the corner of his mouth. "Go on!" he bellowed, "show them what you can do to a man with his hands tied! What a hero! What a warrior! A man to be feared – by chickens!"

Again, laughter ran through the crowd and Jagor went red with embarrassment and anger. "You want to fight me, old man? You want to fight, here and now, and the loser hangs? Then so fucking be it."

Silence reigned. The falling snow hissed gently in a diagonal sleet.

"That would be unfair," said Kell, voice rumbling out slow and measured, a performance as good as any Saark had ever seen. Kell turned to face the crowd. He acknowledged that they held the power in this comedy trial; they would demand what they wanted, and would get it through strength in numbers. Kell stared at three thousand faces, hard men, criminals, men who'd survived the mines for many years, the hard manual labour making them stronger, more brutal in a struggle for simple survival. Kell smiled. He glanced at Jagor Mad. "You, on your own, ha, you would be far too easy. I would fight you, Dandall and Grey Tail! All at once. And if I win, I get to speak to the crowd. I tell them of the Vampire Warlords, and the carnage sweeping the real world."

"They don't want to hear your bedtime stories, you old fuck," snarled Jagor Mad. "They want to see blood!"

"Let's show them," said Kell, and lifted his bound hands. "Untie me!"

"No!" snapped Dandall, striding forward with Grey Tail close at his heel. The three Governors of the Black Pike Mines scowled at Kell. Swiftly, he had changed the dynamic of the trial. The three men almost felt as though they were back before the noose. "Kell will hang. That will be an end to it."

"You scared of him, Dandall?" said the bearded man near the front.

"Of course I'm not scared of him!"

"Let him fight you, then. You telling me the three of you can't take one old man?" The crowd started to laugh, and the three Governors exchanged glances. Somehow, the tide had turned. There was hatred for Kell, yes, but it didn't outweigh a lust to watch a good fight. Entertainment, Saark had called it. And he'd been right.

At that moment, Saark started to make soft clucking chicken noises. More laughter burst out, and Jagor Mad pulled free a curved knife and pointed at Saark. "I'll deal with you later, dandy," then slashed the knife through Kell's ropes.

Kell moved back, boots pacing the stage as he rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles, wincing a little at the crossbow wound but grinding his teeth and knowing he must show no pain.

Kell reached the other side of the stage, and turned, and lifted his fists in a stance taken by Shit Pit fighters; a roar went up from the crowd and Dandall placed a hand on Jagor Mad's arm. The three Governors looked at one another, gave a nod, and spread out, eyes narrowed, wary. They knew who Kell was, knew him far too well, far too painfully, and despite appearances they knew what he could do. Kell was a killer, pure and simple. But they were experienced. They'd done this sort of thing before.

"Come on lads, let's see what you've got."

Jagor Mad rushed Kell, fists high, purple face filled with hate and rage and spittle flying from lips which thrashed, teeth grinding, and he swung a powerful right hook but Kell swayed back, Jagor's knuckles flashing past his nose, and he slammed his boot into Jagor's groin. As Jagor grunted, and stumbled forward, Kell powered a punch down onto the bridge of the large man's nose and there was a terrible crunch. Jagor hit the planks face first and Kell stepped over him, watching as Dandall and Grey Tail spread even wider apart. They rushed him at once, a concerted attack, and Kell ducked a punch from Dandall, dropping to one knee and ramming his fist into the Governor's stomach, folding him over with an explosion of sour air. In the same movement, his arm powered back and he turned, where Grey Tail had leapt into a kick. Both boots hit Kell in the face, and he grabbed the wiry man's legs and they both went backwards across the doubled-over figure of Dandall, crashing to the boards. Grey Tail slithered around, getting atop Kell and delivering four powerful punches straight to Kell's face before Kell grabbed the man's cock and balls in a single handful, jerking tight, and Grey Tail let out a high-pitched wail as Kell crushed him in one mighty fist, rising to one knee, then to his boots, with Grey Tail dancing and squealing on his tiptoes, "Let go, let go, let go." Kell let go, and slammed a head-butt to his face, dropping the small man and turning into… a punch, which glanced from his cheekbone, and another, which glanced from his temple. Jagor Mad loomed over him, eyes mad with rage, and Kell dodged a third blow and kicked out, boot crunching against Jagor's kneecap and knocking the big man back. Kell stood, and lifted his fists. "It's like fighting three little girls," he spat though saliva and blood. Laughter rippled.

Dandall leapt at him, but Kell side-stepped, ramming an elbow into the man's face as he swept past, lifting him almost horizontally before Dandall thumped to the boards. Then with a roar, Kell charged at Jagor and delivered six punches, which Jagor managed to block, stepping back and back and back until he reached the edge of the stage, stumbled, his questing boot found nothing but air and he fell, face slapping the edge of the stage before he tumbled back into the crowd, who let out a loud jeer. Kell whirled, into a plank wielded by Grey Tail. The wood slapped his face and Kell went down, coughing, stunned, as Grey Tail set about kicking the large axeman. Kell warded off the blows, rubbed blood out of his eyes, then lunged at Grey Tail, grabbing him by balls and throat, hoisting him into the air and launching him into the crowd, who parted, allowing Grey Tail to land heavily. There was savage crunch, and his leg twisted beneath him at a crazy angle. Bone poked through cloth. Blood pooled out. Grey Tail screamed for a few seconds, then passed into a nodoubt welcome realm of unconsciousness.

Dandall stood, stunned, as Jagor Mad grunted and heaved himself back onto the stage. His face was battered, a diagonal line of blood crossing from one eye to his jaw, and his eyes held murder.

"Fuck this horse shit," he said, and drew a small knife. Kell's eyes narrowed.

"You upping the stakes, boy?"

"Fuck the stakes, I'm going to gut you like a rancid fish."

"But what about your crowd? They want to see a fight."

"They want to see a killing."

"Never upset your audience, Jagor."

"Fuck the audience."

The large Governor advanced, and Dandall backed away, face pale, recognising a fight now entering a different league; something of which he wanted no part. Jagor lunged at Kell, who backed away, then again, and they circled warily.

"Not so tough without your axe, eh Kell?"

Jagor ran at Kell, who batted the knife to one side and slammed a fist into Jagor's head, then skipped away as the knife slashed for his belly. Now, Kell's back was to the thick wood column and its dangling noose. He could feel the gaping hole of the drop behind him, and glanced back. Seeing his chance, Jagor ran at him and Kell stepped aside, slammed three straight punches into Jagor's face, slapped the knife from the man's hand then took hold of his tattered, bloodstained shirt.

"Is this what you wanted?" growled Kell, and shoved Jagor to the noose, grabbing the rope and lowering it over Jagor's head. Stunned, and coming round an instant too late, Jagor's fists grappled at Kell's bearskin and his boots scrabbled at the edge of the drop.

"What are you doing?" he shrieked.

"You said they came here for a hanging!"

"Not me, for you, Kell, for you!" Jagor's voice was filled with terrible fear, and his knuckles were white where he clung to Kell's bearskin. "No, no, get the rope off!"

"You try to kill me, you up the stakes to death, then don't fucking complain when I return the favour!"

"No, Kell, I beseech you, don't do this! I don't want to die!"

"None of us want to die, son," said Kell, and slammed a heavy slow punch between Jagor Mad's eyes. His fingers released Kell's jerkin and he stepped back, and there was a snap as the rope went tight and Jagor dangled there, kicking, face purple, hands clawing at the rope but because he was such a hefty, large man, battered and bruised and tired from the fight, he could not take his weight. He kicked for a while, and a cheer went up from the army of convicts ranged about the stage.

Kell glanced over at Dandall, who was white with fear. Kell stooped, picking up Jagor's knife, and his eyes were glittering and Dandall held up his hands. "No, not me, spare me Kell, please."

"Get down on your knees and beg."

Dandall got down on his knees, and touching his trembling forehead to the planks, he begged.

"And these are your leaders?" roared Kell, facing the crowd as behind him Jagor Mad's head and shoulders could be seen, struggling, and below the stage his legs kicked and danced and he refused to let go of that most precious thing. Life.

"You would fight for these worms? You would kill, for these fucking maggots?"

"NO!" roared the men before Kell, and he grinned at them, and turned, and sawed through the rope. Jagor Mad fell through the hole and hit the ground with a thump. He lay still, wheezing, and Kell peered down at him, where he squirmed in the mud and snow-slush.

Kell lifted his arms wide, and addressed the convicts. "The Army of Iron came from the north, from beyond the Black Pike Mountains. They slaughtered thousands of people in Jalder, men, women, children, I saw this with my own eyes. King Leanoric's army was beaten, their bodies fed into huge machines, Blood Refineries, to feed the vampire monsters to the north. But then it got worse, gentlemen. The vachine summoned the ancient Vampire Warlords – and they are terrible indeed. They rampage through our land, through Falanor, and none can stand against them. They take your friends and families, your kinsmen and countrymen, they bite them, they convert them to vampires and the world out there will never be the same again unless you stand beside me and fight!"

"Why should we trust you?" shouted one man.

"Because I am Kell the Legend!" he boomed, "and when I fight the world trembles! I do not do this for money, or lust, or any petty base desire. I do this because it has to be done! It is the right thing to do! I know many of you here hate me, but that's good, lads, hate is a good thing – I'm not asking you to kiss my fucking arse," a few laughed at that, "I'm asking you to help me put the world back together. These vampire whoresons have broken it, and they need a damn good thrashing."

"You put many of us here! We're criminals to you, scum, why the fuck would you care?"

"No, you're wrong, you're men who made mistakes, and yeah a lot of you did bad things, but now's your chance to do the right thing. Falanor needs you. She needs your strength. She needs your trust. She needs your steel. Will you fight with me?"

A terrible silence washed across the gathered men. Behind him, Kell heard Saark's sharp intake of breath. Their future, their lives and deaths, and the lives and deaths of thousands of people, the future of Falanor, all hung here, and now, as if a delicate thread of silk lay threatened by the brute bulk horror of an axe-blade.

Kell folded his arms, as if in challenge to the three thousand men ranged before him.

"Well lads," came a voice from the front. It was the hefty bearded man who'd spoken earlier. "I don't know about youse lot, but I ain't having no vampires shitting blood and shit in my bloody country!" He drew a short sword, and waved the dull blade above his head. "I'm with you, Kell, even though it's your damn fault I'm here! I'll fight beside you, man. We'll send these fuckers home and down into the shit!"

"Good man!" boomed Kell. "What do they call you?"

"They call me Grak the Bastard."

"And are you?" roared Kell.

The large bearded man grinned. "You'd better believe it, you old goat!"

"Glad to have you with me, Grak. Now then, lads, are you going to let Grak head out there into Falanor alone? Or are you going to show some brotherly bonding, are you going to fight for your homeland, fight for the future of your children? After all, it's damn fucking unsporting to let me and Grak kill all those vampire bastards on our own! It'd be a shame to have all the hero songs to ourselves!"

"I'll come!" bellowed a short, powerful man with biceps as thick as Kell's.

"Me too! We'll show the vampire scum what the scum of Falanor can do!"

"Yeah, we'll do better than any King's damn army!"

Kell watched the men talking animatedly for a moment, and Saark appeared beside him. Using Jagor's knife, Kell sawed through Saark's bonds and the dandy grinned at him. "I don't believe what I just saw."

"Men are always looking for something to fight for," grimaced Kell.

"But you're the same!"

Kell stared at him "Of course I am." It was no criticism, just an observation. "Listen – go and get Ilanna. I'm missing my axe terribly."

Saark stared at the big man, with his battered face and bloodied knuckles. "And Nienna? I should release Nienna?"

"That goes without saying," smiled Kell, easily, and turned as Grak the Bastard climbed the steps and moved forward.

"You're smaller than you look, up close," said Grak.

Kell grinned. "Well met, Bastard." They clasped hands, wrist to wrist.

"Only my mother calls me that."

"I have a job for you, Grak, and I think you're the man for the job."

Grak pushed back his broad shoulders, and clenched his fists. "You name it, Kell. I'm yours to command."

"I'll be the General of this here little army. You can be one of my Command Sergeants."

Grak raised his eyebrows. "Promotion is quick in your new army, I see. I'll surely stick around now. Who knows where I'll be in a week? In a year, I'll surely be a god with a big fat arse!" He roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, and many men joined in.

"I want you to round up Grey Tail, Jagor and Dandall. Get them tied up and brought to me."

"You going to kill them?"

"No. They're just blinded by hatred; and to be honest, Grak, I need every good fighting man I can get. These Vampire Warlords – they're like nothing I've ever seen in this world."

"I'll get on it, Kell."

"And Grak?"

"Yes, General?"

"What did you do out in the real world? So that I dragged your arse to this chaotic shit-hole?"

Grak the Bastard grinned at Kell with a mouthful of broken teeth from too many bar brawls. "I killed my last General," he said, turned his back, and strode across the planks of the hangman's platform.

Kell stood on the battlements as night closed in. Snow fell on the plains beyond, and a harsh wind blew across the wilds. Kell shivered, and considered the enormity of what he was doing. Kell knew he was no general, but he was going to lead an army of convicts across Falanor and engage the vampires and the Army of Iron in bloody battle. And the Army of Iron alone had slaughtered King Leanoric's finest Eagle Divisions, more than ten thousand men. And here, Kell had a mere three.

"It's an impossible task," he muttered, but he knew, deep down in his heart, deep down in his soul, it was something he had to do. Something nobody else would, or could.

Kell sighed, and Ilanna sang out in a vertical slice as a shadow moved behind him.

"Hell, man, I nearly cut off your bloody head!"

"Sorry, Kell, sorry!" It was Myrtax, wearing a fresh robe and rubbing his hands together, eyes averted from Kell's cold steel gaze. "Listen. Kell. I came to apologise."

"Ach, forget it, man."

"No, no, what I did was cowardly."

"Horse shit. You were protecting your family. I would have done the same."

"Very noble of you to say so, Kell, but I know that isn't the case. You would have stood, and fought, and overcome your enemies. I stand before you a broken, humbled man."

"Yes. Well." Kell was uncomfortable. "We can't all be a…" he smiled sardonically, "a Legend."

Myrtax moved to the battlements and stared off into the distance. Snow landed lightly on his hair, making him look older than his advancing years. Then he glanced at Kell.

"We're getting old."

"Speak for yourself."

"What you up to, Kell? You want to fight off all the vampire hordes?"

"Aye. It's the only way I know."

"I was speaking with Nienna."

"Yes?" Kell looked sharply at Myrtax. "And?"

"She said you're tired. That you didn't want to come here. Didn't want to do this. You said Falanor would look after Herself."

"Aye, I said that. And it's true." He sighed. "You're right. We are getting old. This is a young man's war."

"You're wrong, Kell. This is a time when the world needs heroes. Heroes who are not afraid of the dark. Heroes who will," he smiled, looking back off into the snow-heavy distance, "walk into a fortress prison of three thousand enemies, and turn them to good deeds."

"They can only do what's in their hearts."

"They will fight for you, Kell. I can feel it. In the air. In the snow. They are excited; horrified, frightened, but excited. You have inspired them."

"Maybe. But they won't be inspired when the vampires rip out a few hundred throats and crows eat eyeballs on the blood-drenched battlefields."

Myrtax squinted into the snow. "Somebody comes."

Kell shaded his eyes, and through the haze of snowfall they watched a cart slowly advancing, being pulled by two horses. More men walked beside the cart, which had a heavy tarpaulin thrown over the back.

"Let's go and see what they want. The hour is late, and men don't wander to prisons in the dead of night for naught."

Kell and Myrtax descended the steps, and were soon joined by Saark and Grak the Bastard. They marched to the gates and stepped out, the huge walls looming behind them and seeming to cast a deep, oppressive silence over the world.

"They look cut up," said Saark, voice grim. "Like they've been in the wars."

As they neared, they slowed, and each of the six men carried swords, unsheathed.

"If you've come for a fight, lads, better be on your way," said Kell, hefting Ilanna and taking a step forward.

"We don't want trouble," said one man.

"We've come for help," said another.

"What's your story, lad?" said Governor Myrtax, not unkindly.

"We're from Jalder. The city was overrun weeks back, but near fifty of us escaped through the sewers. Women and children as well. No soldiers were sent after us, and after a few days' travelling, running, we camped up in an old farmhouse."

"I think we should invite them in, hear their story over an ale and broth," said Myrtax.

"Wait," said Saark, holding out his hand. Then he shook his head. "What's under the tarpaulin, gentlemen?"

"It's them," snapped one. "Two of the bastards who came hunting us." He looked suddenly frightened, a terrible look on the face of such a big, brutal man.

"Let me guess? They came at you in the night, slaughtered most of you, but you six escaped?"

The man nodded, and Kell strode forward, lifting the edge of the tarpaulin with the corner of his axe. "Did you cut off their heads?"

"No. They're still alive."

"You did well capturing them. They usually fight to the death."

"Well, forty of us died trying. We thought we'd bring them here, to Governor Myrtax. My dad always said he was a good man. He could… put them on trial, or something. I haven't got it in me to kill women, no matter how vile."

Nienna had appeared at the gates, rubbing at tired eyes, yawning. She padded to Saark's side and touched his arm lightly. He smiled down at her, and said, "You not sleep?"

"What, with you all making a racket out here? What's going on?"

"They caught some vampires."

"Oh."

Kell glanced up at Nienna. "Stand way back. These are vicious, especially if they've been tied down for a while. You don't know what they might do."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Kell?" Myrtax had gone deathly pale. Saark had drawn his rapier, and Grak held a short stabbing sword in one meaty fist.

Kell shrugged, and threw back the tarpaulin. On the cart lay two beautiful women of middle-years, their hair glowing and glossy, their skin pale white and as richly carved as finest porcelain. They were tied up tight with rope and field-wire, and they moved lethargically as they glanced up, struggling to move. Kell saw the rope which bound them had been nailed to the cart. Their yellow, feral eyes fell on Kell and one hissed, but the other, the more elegant of the two, stared hard at him and rolled to her knees, elegant despite the bindings. She licked her lips and Kell swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, hands clammy on Ilanna. Fear sucked at him, sucked out his courage and almost his sanity.

"No," he whispered.

"You! Bastard!" hissed the vampire.

"What is it?" snapped Saark, running forward and clutching Kell's huge iron bicep, and he realised too late Nienna was with him, and her run was pulled up short by the clamp of Kell's fist.

The vampire laughed, eyes glittering, snow settling gently on her long dark hair and smooth black dress. She stood, and stared down at them, tugging gently at her bindings, and Nienna fell to her knees in the snow, weeping and staring up.

"What's going on? " snarled Saark, feeling the panic of the situation rising.

"Saark, meet Sara," growled Kell, grimly, his eyes never leaving the yellow slits of the tall vampire. "My daughter. Nienna's mother."