Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (19 page)

    For hours he watched the Blacklipper raiders finishing up, and only when the cold dawn arrived and the town was deserted except for corpses did Jageraw climb steadily from the old church tower. He crept through the streets with his bag, pulling free a heart here, a kidney there, a spleen here, and some tasty precious lungs there.

    Then, with his sack full of organs, full to the brim with squelching delights, he slung it over his shoulder and headed for the forests and trails no longer used by man.

    It was hours later, and it was dark, and cold. Kell and Saark had rode hard for what seemed an eternity, until the blazing cottages and the vachine killers and the
danger
seemed, at least for now, far behind. It was Kell who finally pulled rein, and they sat on a low wooded hilltop, the distant fires obscured by snowfall and the haze of a welcome distance. Finally, Saark said, "How are you, Kell, old boy?" There was no mockery in his voice. Only concern.

    "I have felt better. Much better."

    "Back at that town, one came after you? A vachine, I mean?"

    "Yes."

    "Me also. She… scraped out my emotions like offal from a sack, and left them glistening on the road like so many spilled entrails. I feel unclean, Kell. I feel like she polluted my soul."

    Kell turned to Saark. "They were sent by Graal, and the bastard wants us dead. Or he wants… something. Something else, although I cannot figure what." He lowered his head, and for long moments looked like nothing but a weary old man. He rubbed at his eyes, his cheeks, his beard. He sighed, and in so sighing gave in to decades of weariness, to decades of a hard life, and a harder fight.

    "Are you injured?" said Saark, at last.

    "Only my ego, lad. She was fast, by all the gods." He grinned then. "But if I am to be slain, then let it be by one so beautiful! She was stunning beyond belief!"

    "Mine also. She hooked me like a fish. I fear I am becoming predictable." He sighed, and touched unconsciously at the collar of his cloak, beneath which lay the indelible fang-marks. He could feel them, burning. "Once, even such a beauty would have made me snarl and pucker, and flirt and push away; make her work for the privilege, you understand? Now, I fear, I am a slave to my trade."

    "And what trade's that, boy?"

    Saark smiled, and rubbed again at his neck. "The trade of dishonesty," he said.

They made a rough camp before nightfall, deep in the woods, and Kell risked a fire. With little food between them they ate sparsely, but took comfort in the flames.

    Kell fell into a brooding silence, and winced occasionally. Saark realised it was the poison in his veins, in his organs, in his bones, and he made no comment; instead, he fell into his own weird and deviated brooding.

    As Kell fell asleep, watching the fire, so Saark took a little time to move away from the camp seeking solitude. His side was still incredibly sore where Myriam had stabbed him, a bitter event which still filled his mind with dark fury and images of an almost
sexual revenge
. His fingers traced across the dried blood mask which caked his skin. He winced, and pulled up his shirt. His fingers traced the contours of the wound and he jumped, eyes growing wide, then narrowing. The wound had healed. Completely. There was not even the ridge of a fresh scar.

    Saark fumbled in the darkness for a while, trying to see the wound, but he could not. And fear touched him, then. Shanna had bitten him. His fingers came up to his neck, and he realised these two wounds, also, had gone. What had she done top him? What strange vachine magick had she poured into his veins?

    Saark returned to the camp, and wrapped himself in a fur-lined cloak, and watched the fire and tried to sleep, but he was infused with a strange bubbling energy and sleep would not come. So, instead he watched Kell snoring by the fire, and wondered what powered the man: blood and gristle, like the rest of humanity? He smiled grimly. Or maybe Kell, too, was an esoteric meshing of flesh and clockwork?

    Kell dreamed of Nienna. She was seated beneath the arch of the Cailleach Fortress. Strange rocks littered the ground. The Black Pike Mountains grumbled in the background, like an angry father. "I am sorry," said Kell, walking towards her, both hands outstretched, but she opened her eyes and they were blood red, and she opened her mouth and it was a vachine abomination, and her fangs crunched free and she hissed the bestial hiss of the vampire… and leapt for him, and he batted her aside, watched her roll in the dirt and dust, cracking her head against a rock. Blood flowed, but instantly healed, blood rolling backwards up her flesh as skin and bone melded, hot wax running together. "What are you?" he screamed at his granddaughter,
"What the hell
are you?"
and she leapt again, long claws stretching to tear free his throat…

     Kell sat up. He spat. He noticed Saark watching him and scowled. "What you looking at?"

    "A grumpy old stoat?"

    "Fuck off."

    "You did ask."

    "You didn't need to answer."

    "What are you thinking about?"

    "Rescuing Nienna."

    "What about the poison in your veins?"

    "DAMN THE POISON IN MY VEINS!" Kell screamed, face almost purple with rage, and then he realised he was standing, axe in hands, glowering down at Saark who had leant back, hands out, face open in shock. "Calm down," said Saark, eventually, as Kell subsided.

    "I am… sorry," said the big man.

    "You need to learn to lighten up a little."

    "You can always fu… Yes, yes, I see." Kell made a growling noise. "I am sorry. I will attempt to be more amenable. I will talk with you, Saark, and I will be a gentleman." He gave a rough cough, and pain shivered through his features.

    "You are dying," said Saark, gently.

    "Yes. It grows unbearable. Excuse my rage."

    "We need to find this Myriam bitch."

    "Yes," sighed Kell, weary with the world.

    "I am looking forward to some payback," said Saark, with a narrow smile.

They rode for hours. The clouds dissipated, and the sun, although weak, was warm and pleasing on their skin. On this morning, heading north, the world seemed a much happier, warmer place.

    "Talk to me," said Saark, after a while, hunched over his saddle, face lost in distant dreams.

    "About what?" grunted Kell.

    "Anything."

    "I'm not in the mood for talking."

    "I need you to take my mind off… something."

    Kell stared at Saark, hard. But said nothing.

    "I'll begin then," coughed Saark, and thought for a moment. "Don't you think," he paused, contemplating a myriad montage of memories in his laconical mind, "that's there's nothing sweeter in this world than a ripe, eager quim?"

    Kell considered this. "Meaning?" he growled.

    "It means what it says."

    "Meaning?"

    "Come on Kell, talk to me, confide in me, I'm bloody
bored
, mate, and you need some cheering up. I nearly died back there at the fangs of
Shanna
or whatever the shit she was called, and I want some fun. I want some philosophising. I want some banter, my man – it's what I thrive on! I want some
life
!"

    Kell stared at him. He cleared his throat. "After all we've been through, after all the things we've seen, after all the battles we've endured; how can you be
bored
?"

    Saark spread his arms wide, and grinned. His humour had returned. Pain no longer seemed to trouble him. He was bright as a button; brighter, in fact. So bright he
shone
. "Hey," he said, "you know me. I am a hedonist. Drink. Women. Gambling. Fighting. Thievery. Debauchery. It's a dull day when the Bone Underworld shuts its gates."

    Kell coughed again, and looked away to distant mountains. Then he returned his stare to Saark. "Do you not think," he said, slowly, one great hand holding the reins of his horse, the other nestled almost unconsciously on the saddle-stashed Ilanna, "do you not think I, also, enjoy such things?"

    Saark considered this. "Pah! You are Kell the Hero. Kell the
Legend
. You're idea of a good time is rescuing fair damsels in distress, hunting down vagabonds and returning stolen monies to the authorities, hell, you probably even clean your teeth before you go to bed."

    "You met my granddaughter, yes?"

    "Of course, a fine fillet of female flesh, she was." He coughed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "If you don't mind me saying so."

    "I do, as a matter of fact," said Kell, voice hard. But he let it pass. "Obviously, I have a granddaughter. So then, where did she come from?"

    "Your daughter would be the logical conclusion," said Saark, smugly.

    "Yes. My daughter. Proof of my prowess, surely?" "Ha. I am sure I have many daughters! One is not proof of prowess, simply a proof of simple, common luck."

    "Meaning?" Kell's voice was cold.

    "All I'm saying is that ale has a lot to answer for."

    "And your
meaning
?"

    "Well," said Saark, losing a little of his comfort zone, "I know many an ugly bastard who's sired a child. The Royal Court wine is strong, and when drank in plentiful consumption can lead, shall we say, to amorous connections best left to the annals of dreams." He considered this, as if through experience, his mouth twisting a little. "Or maybe nightmare."

    Kell coughed, eyes glittering with a dangerous shine. "You trying to say something, lad?"

    "Only that alcohol has sired many children. One daughter, and hence granddaughter, is no display of excellence in the art of amorous seduction."

    "I'm not talking about seduction. I'm talking about love… no, no I'm not." Kell frowned, rubbing his beard. "I always was rough around talk of such things. What I mean to say is, I obviously had a wife."

    "Yes?" Saark smiled politely. There were many responses he could have made, but wisely chose to utter none.

    "Well," struggled on Kell, "I had a wife, and I was married, and we had a child. A girl. A little angel. I loved her with all my heart, and I was a brute I know, but it was the first time in my life I realised I would kill for somebody, and I would also
die
for somebody. That was a new one on me. That was something unique."

    "I have heard it is a magical experience," said Saark, a little stiffly. "Although I have never experienced it
firsthand
, myself.
Despite
being a father many times over."

    Kell grinned, and it looked wrong on his face, Saark observed. Where was the scowl? The hatred? The fury?

    "Well lad, you missed out on a rare experience, for all your talk of hedonism. For nothing beats a high like childbirth – and I should know," his voice dropped to a dark realm, "I've taken every bastard drug in Falanor."

    They rode in silence for a while, whilst Saark digested this information. We
ll,
he thought,
there's more
life in the old donkey than I realised!
"Go on," he said, finally. "What happened to your wife?"

    "How did you know I was treading that particular territory?"

    "I have spent an eternity in courts, with nobility, and royalty, and peasants who thought they were nobility. One thing they always want to speak about is their wives. Too fat, too thin, small tits, tits like a pig's bladder, carping, harping, moaning, whining, legs always open, legs always shut. It's all water off a greased duck's back." Saark smiled. "So, what's
your
story?"

    "I was illustrating a point," growled Kell with a nasty look.

    "Am I supposed to understand the point? Or does that bit come later?"

    "Just listen," growled Kell. "The point is, I am no longer with my wife. She is not dead. We separated. It was the best option."

    "What did you do?" asked Saark, voice a little more understanding now.

    "I was a bad man," said Kell, words so soft they were almost lost in the sigh of the wind. "I was the toughest, meanest fucker you ever did meet. I maimed, I hurt, I tortured, I killed. I was infamous. My name was feared throughout Falanor. And I… I
revelled
in it, in the notoriety. Many a time we would stop at an inn, and I would leave my wife in the room and come down to the drinking bar, and drink whiskey, drink far too much whiskey, and as the night progressed so I would lie on the bar, bare-chested, laughing off challenges as a host of women rubbed ale into my hairy chest, or drank fine wine and passed it by mouth to my mouth, and then, when I was ready, I would pick out the biggest, meanest, hardest village bastard and take him outside and humiliate him. I'd never kill him, no, I was not a complete animal – although nearly, lad, nearly. But I'd always leave him with something to remember me by. Once, I punched a man so hard, when he came round he snorted two teeth out of his nose. Another time, I indented my knuckles on a man's skull; damn lucky I didn't kill him. He was unconscious for five weeks."

    "And you waited by him for his recovery? Surely that was, at least, a fine and noble gesture! You showed that you had some modicum of honour. You cared enough to find out the result."

    "Nonsense!" thundered Kell, filled with rage for a moment. "I met him, ten years later, when I was drunk. He showed me my knuckle imprints on his skull. Said he'd been a pit fighter for nigh twenty years, and never known a man punch as hard as I had."

    "Well, your infamy was well placed, then," said Saark, coldly.

    "You're missing the point, lad. The point is, I was a bastard to my wife. No. The point
is
, I was a hedonist, much like you; I disrespected my wife, I wallowed in violence, and ale, and whiskey, and the women threw themselves at me in those days, when I was the hardest fucker in the tavern and willing to take on any man in the village or town or city – and beat them all! The women were mine, they were at my disposal, they were there to be used and I used them. And my wife left me. And my daughter hated me. And I am lucky to have even a simple contact with Nienna. I am lucky to have my granddaughter."