Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (24 page)

    "Looking for me?" said Kell.

    Within the canker's flesh, tiny gears and cogs spun and clicked. Its huge shaggy head lowered, and Saark had been right; there was recognition there. It sent a thrill coursing through Kell's veins. Here, he looked into the maw of death. And he was afraid.

    "Graal sent me," said the canker, its voice a strange hybrid of human, animal and…
machine
. A clockwork voice. A voice filled with the tick-tock of advanced Watchmaking. Its huge shaggy head, so reminiscent of a lion, and yet so twisted and bestial and deformed, tilted to one side in an almost human movement. That sent a shiver of empathy through Kell. He knew. Knew that once these creatures had been human. And it pleased him not a bit to slay them. "I am a messenger."

    "Then deliver your message, and be gone," snapped Kell, brows furrowed, face lost in some internal pain which had nothing to do with age and arthritis, but more to do with the state of Falanor, the invading Army of Iron, and the abuse to
humanity
he was witnessing at the hands of the expanding vachine empire.

    "He wants to speak with you. He wants you to return with me."

    Kell grinned then. "He's worried, isn't he? The Great Graal, General of the Age – worried about an old warrior with impetigo and a drinking habit. Well, once I said that if we met again I'd carve my name on his arse. That promise still stands."

    "He needs your help," said the canker, voice a lowlevel rumble. "Both of you."

    Kell considered this. "Well. I bet that was hard to admit." He rubbed his beard. "And if we say no?"

    "You are coming with me. One way or another." The voice was one layer away from threat; but threat it was.

    Kell stepped forward, rolling his shoulder and lifting Ilanna from her rest against the floor.
Kill it,
whispered the bloodbond axe in his mind.
Kill it, drink its blood, let
me feast. It is nothing to you. It is nothing but a deformation
of pure.

    Kell shrugged off Ilanna's internal voice – but could not ignore Saark's. He was close. Close behind Kell. His voice tickled Kell's ear. "We can take it, brother. After all we've been through, you can't let Graal dictate. He's sent this
special messenger
and there's a reason. I'd wager it has something to do with you hunting vachine in the Black Pikes!"

    "And I would second that," said Kell, and launched a blistering attack so fast it was a blur, and left Saark staggering backwards, mouth open in shock and awe as Kell's axe slammed for the canker's head. But the beast moved, also with inhuman speed, with a speed born of clockwork, and it snarled and dropped one shoulder, the axe blade missing its face by inches and shaving tufts of grey fur to lie suspended in the air for long moments. Then reality slammed back and the canker went down on one shoulder, rolling sideways and missing the pool of oil by inches. It launched at Kell, huge forepaws with long curved talons slashing for his throat, but Kell side-stepped, axe batting aside the talons and right fist cannoning into the beast's head. Again he struck, a mighty blow and a fang snapped under his gloved knuckles. The canker's rear legs swiped out, and Kell leapt back and the canker charged him but Ilanna whistled before its face, checking its charge. They circled, warily, amidst the glittering pools of oil. Saark had stepped back, to the edge of one pool, crouching beside the sputtering lantern, rapier in his fist but eyes wide, aware he was no match for a canker in single combat but willing to dive in and help at the soonest opportunity. Suddenly, he darted forward, the razor-edge of his rapier carving a line down one flank. The canker squealed, rearing up, head smashing round as flesh opened like a zip, and coils of muscle spilled out, integrated with tendons and tiny clockwork machines which thrummed and clicked and whirred. A claw lashed out, back-handing Saark across the platform in a flurry of limbs. He rolled fast and lay drooling blood, stunned. Kell attacked, but the canker snarled, ducking a sweep of the axe and slamming both claws into Kell's face, knocking the old warrior back. Kell went down on one knee, and the canker reared up, grinning down through strings of saliva and blood-oil – then turned, head twisting, focusing on Saark who had crawled to his knees, eyes narrowed.

    "Don't you recognise me, Saark?"

    "Yeah. I reckon you look like my dad."

    "Truly? You cannot see my human flesh… the woman I used to be?"

    Saark scowled, crawling to his feet, rapier extended amidst soiled lace ruffs. Then, he frowned, and his head moved and eyes locked with Kell. He breathed out, and staggered as if struck from behind. "No," he said, and moved closer to the canker. "It cannot be."

    "I was a woman once, Saark." The canker settled down, a clawed and bestial hand moving back to the wound in its flank, and pushing spilled muscle into the cramped cavity. "They chose me… because of my association with you. Because… once we were…"

    "No!" screamed Saark, and images flowed like molten honey through a brain twisted with rage and horror and disbelief. For this was Aline, an early love of his life, his childhood sweetheart. They had spent months wandering the pretty woodlands south of Vor, making love in shadowed glades beside burbling brooks, carving their names in the Tower Oak, words entwined in a neatly carved love-heart, whispering promises to one another, sneaking through cold castle corridors on secret love trysts – the stuff of young love, of passionate adventure; the honour of the naive. But it was never meant to be. Aline was cousin to royalty, and her arranged marriage and fate were sealed by a father with huge gambling debts and a need to secure more land and income. Their parting had been swift, bitter, and involved five soldiers holding a sharp dagger to Saark's throat. He still had a narrow white scar there, and his battered fingers came up to touch the place now. Through words choked with emotion, he said, more quietly than he intended, "Aline, it cannot be you."

    "They did this to me, Saark. They knew it would hurt you. They knew it would persuade you. I must take you both back to Graal; only then, will they make me human again. Only then, can I be a woman again."

    Saark's gaze shifted, from the abused deviation of his childhood sweetheart, to the fully erect, ominous figure of Kell. Kell's eyes were shadowed, but his head gave a single shake. A clear message.
No.
Saark looked back to the canker, and only in the eyes dragged back sideways over the skull, only in a few twists of golden hair which remained, only in a certain set of wrenched facial bones which, if imagination wrapped them around a normal skull could mentally reconstruct a
face
… did he recognise the woman of his childhood. "No," he said again.

    "Help me," pleaded the canker, head lowering, submissive now before Saark who felt his heart melt and his brain lock and his soul
die.

    Saark, gazing down, rapier forgotten, reached out with his delicate, tapered fingers. He touched Aline, touched the pale skin, the tufts of fur, worked in horror over the merging of flesh and clockwork. And then she – it – screamed, high and long and Kell was there, looming over her, Ilanna embedded in the canker's back narrowly missing the spine. Kell placed a boot against the canker, tugging at his axe which had lodged awkwardly under a rib.

    "No, Kell, no!" wailed Saark, but Kell wrenched free the butterfly blades which lifted high trailing droplets of blood and a shard of broken rib and several strings of tendon, and the canker whirled low, claws lashing for the axeman in a disembowelling stroke which missed by a hairsbreadth and on the return stroke Aline smashed a fist into Saark's chest and he was powered backwards, almost vertical, his legs finally dropping and he hit the ground, rolled, and splashed into the oil with desperate fingers scrabbling at the platform like claws…

    Kell leapt again, axe whirring, and he and the transmogrified woman circled with eyes locked, then struck and clashed in a blur of strikes which left a trail of sparks glittering in the gloom. "Get out!" snarled Kell, glancing back to Saark. "Get out of here, lad, now!"

    "Don't kill her," whispered Saark.

    "She can never change back, don't you see?" snapped Kell, axe slamming up, claws raking the blades. He staggered back under the immense impact, and jabbed axe points at the canker's eyes. It snarled, head shaking, spittle drenching Kell. "It's a one way process! You cannot
revert
!"

    The canker was pushing Kell back, claws lashing out with piledriver force, and Saark could see Kell weakening fast. Within moments, he would be dead; dead, or drowning in oil. With an inhuman effort, Saark's fingers raked the harsh boards and his legs kicked against thick, viscous oil. He rolled onto the deck, panting, and levered himself to his feet where he swayed. He grabbed at his rapier, but sheathed the weapon. Kell saw the movement, and his face went grim, went dark, his eyes becoming something more – or indeed, something
less
– than human.

    "Aline." Saark's voice was a lullaby. A song of nostalgia.

    The canker paused mid-snarl, but did not turn. Its eyes were fixed with glittering hatred on Kell, his back to the oil, his axe resting against wooden boards. His chest was heaving, and his jerkin was sliced by claws showing shredded flesh beneath.

    "Will you help me?" came the voice of Aline. And Saark could hear her, now, hear her tone and inflections entwined around the audible ejaculations of an alien beast.

    "Yes," said Saark, with great sadness. "I will help you." He hooked his boot behind the lantern, and with a swift kick sent the flask of oil sailing across the platform, where it shattered against the canker and flames exploded outwards. Fire roared, engulfing the canker which screamed a high-pitched
feminine
sound and spun around in a tight circle, fighting the fire with claws whirring and slashing at itself as flesh burned and fat bubbled and clockwork squealed. Kell came at a sprint, head down, axe in both hands, and both he and Saark hammered down flexing planks into the darkness in the direction of the ancient factory exit…

    The canker lowered to its haunches, burning, then glared through flames at the fleeing men. It roared, and charged after them, its burning flesh illuminating the way. Tufts of glowing fur fell from its burning body, into the oil, which slumbered for a few moments after the canker's passage and then suddenly, erratically, ignited. Fire roared along the surface of the oil pools, overtaking the canker and licking at the heels of Kell and Saark, sweating now, eyes alive with the orange glow of roaring demons, and they ran with every burst of speed and energy they possessed as heat billowed around them and sparks exploded and the
roar
and
surge
of fire was something both men had never before experienced… "We're going to
die
!" screamed Saark.

CHAPTER 11

Fortress of Ghosts

Kell ran on, and did not reply to Saark's panic, just heaved his bulk along flexing planks with fire at his boots, a stench of burning chemicals filling his nostrils and smoke blinding him. He choked, gagged, and the fire overtook the two men who ran on blindly, across yet another narrow plank into darkness and smoke and behind them the roar of fire drowned the roar and screeches of the burning canker and suddenly both men slammed into the welcome icecold night air, flames belching from the orifice behind as they hit the snow and rolled down a gentle slope to finally slide together, turning slowly on ice, to a stop, Kell's great bearskin jerkin glowing and smouldering.

    The two men coughed and choked for a while, entwined like scorched lovers, then untangled themselves from one another. Kell staggered to his feet and hefted his axe, staring up at the factory doorway, brows furrowed, fire-blackened face focussed in concentration as his eyes narrowed and he readied himself in a centuries-old battle-stance.

    "Surely not?" whispered Saark, climbing to his feet and spitting black phlegm to the snow. His fine clothes were blackened, scorched tatters. Beneath, his flesh was burn-pink in places. He patted his head, when he suddenly realised his hair was on fire.

    Kell did not reply. Just stood, staring at the doorway where an inferno raged. And then something moved, a huge cumbersome ill-defined shape within the shimmering portal, a demon dancing in the fire, an image of molten rock against the stage of a raging inferno, and Saark thought he saw the shape of the canker, of his twisted childhood sweetheart, of Aline, stagger within the opening and then slump down, clockwork machines
glowing
as they finally succumbed to the heat and ran in molten streams. Then the roof of the factory belched and slumped, and with a great groaning roar it collapsed bringing part of the walls down with it, and burning rubble filled the doorway and all was gone and still, except for the bright fire, and the demons.

    "How could Graal do that?" whispered Saark, eyes still fixed on the blaze. All around the factory, snowsteam hissed like volcanic geysers.

    Kell stared at him.

    "To a woman, I mean," said the scorched dandy.

    "Graal will do what he has to. To get the job done."

    "I want his head on a fucking plate," snarled Saark, suddenly. "I want that man dead."

    Kell gave a curt nod, and turned his back on the inferno. "We all want him dead, lad." He sighed, then. And gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour. "But at least he's showed us one thing."

    "And what's that?"

    Kell's face was a dark mask, his eyes pools of ink. Unreadable. "He thinks we're a threat. He went to a lot of trouble to bring us in. And that means we are a danger not just to Graal, but to the whole damn vachine invasion. And… I think we have something he wants. Ilanna, maybe? I do not know. But we will find out, I promise you that." Kell began to walk, back towards the stables. It was time to leave. It was time to leave Kettleskull Creek
fast.

    Saark stood, stunned, watching Kell's back.

    Fire crackled, and sparks spiralled up into a clear and frozen night sky.

    Kell turned. Grinned a sour, twisted grin. So much for a warm, soft bed! "Come on, lad. What're you waiting for? We have to make
General Graal
earn his coin. And he'll have to move faster than that to catch us."

    In silence, and with sombre heart, Saark followed Kell into the night.

It was a day later, and darkness was spreading fast, a vast jagged purple shroud easing out from the towering blocks of the Black Pike Mountains, questing knifeblades stealing into the real world like a disease spreading from its host. Kell reined in his horse, and climbed stiffly from the saddle. The pain from the poison was with him again, in his blood, in his bones, and he grinned with skull teeth. At least this fresh agony took away the lesser evils of arthritis and torn muscles from battle. At least it focused him –
focused him
– on impending death.

    Nobody lives forever, old man, he thought to himself. And I wouldn't want to! But by the gods, it would be sweet to taste life long enough to see the bastard Graal dead and buried.

    Saark's boots hit the frozen ground, and he rubbed his eyes. "I ache like a dog in a fighting pit."

    "You look just as rough."

    "Thanks, old friend."

    "If I was your friend, I'd hang myself."

    "You're a regular old charmer, Kell."

    "There she is." He pointed, and Saark took in the majestic sweep of the mountains, an endless block of vast peaks, sheer and violent and ragged. Cold wind and snowstorms swept down from the Pikes, as if it was some epicentre for gratuitous weather and intent on inflicting misery across the civilised world.

    "They're just so… big!" said Saark, eyes once more sweeping the mammoth portrait before him. It was an oil painting, a violence of blacks and greys, purples and reds. "And beautiful," he added, voice touched with awe. "Totally beautiful."

    "You ever been here before?"

    "Once, in my younger days. Alas, I believe I was pretty much drunk for the entire trip. And I rode it in a fine brass carriage with two women of, shall we say, dishonourable disposition. One had a poodle dog. What tricks that yapping snapping little canine could conjure!"

    Kell snorted, and started over the hillside. Rocks lay strewn everywhere, building in intensity as the ground rose towards the vastness of the sky-blocking Pikes. Saark followed, still talking.

    "One of the women, a ripe peach named Guinevere, had a neat trick whereby she would take a long, thin block of cheese, and upon removing her corset…"

    "Stop." Kell turned. "There's the fortress."

    "Cailleach?" Saark gave a tiny shudder. He glanced around, at the fast-falling gloom. The wind howled in the distance like slaughtered wolves. "Hadn't we better wait till morning?"

    "No. We're going in. Now."

    "It's turned dark," warned Saark.

    "I'm the worst fucking thing in the dark," snapped Kell.

    "I'm sure you are, old boy. But my point is, the rumours state this place is, ahh, haunted. And correct me if I'm wrong, but more specifically, haunted at night. Yes?"

    Kell chuckled. "I thought you were a modern hedonist? I didn't think you'd believe in ghosts."

    "Well, yes, I don't, but when you hear so many fireside tales…"

    "Popinjays drunk on watered wine," snapped Kell, and surged forward, allowing his horse to pick a trail through the rocks. Muttering, Saark followed at a reasonable distance, telling himself that if wild beasts or haunted
things
attacked, then at least it would take them time to consume the bulk that was Kell, thus giving
him
time to flee.

    As the hill dropped to a flat plain, so the rocks became not just more intense in their regularity, but larger, more ominous. Many were smoothed by centuries of weathering, and bands of precious minerals ran through many a cottage-sized cube.

    The hugeness of the subtly twisted fortress came ever closer, and as darkness fell through the sky, so Kell ran his gaze over the dark stones, the cracks, the jigged walls and battlements. Above the battlements, leading back to the keep and the rocky valley beyond, which the fortress seemed in some way to
protect
, stood several slightly leaning, slightly twisted towers. Most had no roof, just great blocks which had shifted and settled, to give the appearance of some puzzle – or at least, a madman's example of architecture.

    "It's depraved," said Saark, eventually.

    "It's old," said Kell.

    Staring at the warrior's broad back, Saark, said, "The two go hand in hand, Kell, old wolf. But what I mean is, look at it, the whole thing, it's – well, it's not straight, for a start. I thought they would have brought in some decent builders. Architects who could draw a straight line. That sort of thing. Not some epileptic draughtsmen who spilled the ink and let idiots loose with a trowel!"

    Kell stopped and turned. His eyes were glinting. "
Shut up,
" he said.

    "Yes, fine, no need to be rude. You only needed to ask."

    There was an old road, made of the same strange dark stone. Many cobbles were missing, and filled with dirt and frozen weeds. Much was obscured by wide patches of ice. Kell picked his way carefully to the road, and they moved down it, towards the huge maw of a leering archway. The Cailleach Fortress reared above them in the gloom, defined by moonlight and foregrounded by the immense power of the sentinel Black Pikes.

    "The archway is a guardian," said Kell, voice little more than a whisper. "Listen. She will speak to us…"

    "What?" snorted Saark, voice dripping sarcasm. Yet as he stepped forward, so warm breeze rolled out to greet him and he halted, shocked, hackles rising on the back of his neck. "What's going on?" he growled. "What kind of horse-shit is this?"

    "Be quiet, boy," hissed Kell, glancing at Saark, dark eyes glinting like jewels. "If you value your bloody life. Follow me, say nothing, do nothing, do not draw your weapon, don't even shit in your kerchief unless I give you permission. I've been here before; and there are rules."

    "Rules?" whispered Saark, and despite himself, despite his new found… strength, from impure blood, he moved closer to Kell. "I don't like this place, Kell. It has a stench of evil, in its very rocks, in its very bones."

    "Aye, lad." They moved beneath the huge gateway. Beyond, darkness wavered like the oesophagus of some huge, breathing creature. "So follow me, be a good lad, and we both may get through this alive."

    "You really think so?" whispered Saark, and the final dregs of light were cast from the sky.

    "No," said Kell, "I'm just trying to make you feel better." And with that, he disappeared into the void.

     Saark walked, his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut, his fist wound tight about his mount's reins and his arse puckered in terror. Behind, he heard Mary the donkey braying and he wanted to turn, to shout "Shut up you stupid donkey!" but he did not; he had neither the nerve nor the energy. Fear coursed through him like raw fire. It filled his mind with ash.

    They walked, boots echoing on cobbles. Shapes seemed to drift around them, ghosts in silk, sighs caressing cold skin, and Saark realised he had new, heightened senses. He could feel more, sense more, smell more. He could smell his own stench of fear, that was for sure.

    Something brushed his cheek, like a kiss, and he fancied he heard a giggle of coquettish laughter. Something tightened in his chest. It had not occurred to him the ghosts – or whatever depraved spirits, or dark magick these creatures were – it had never
occurred
to him they would be
women
. He felt a caress down his thigh, and another kiss on his cheek. His resolve hardened. The whole thing felt wrong, and then he caught sight of a figure ahead and she walking towards the two men. She was tall, eight feet tall, and very slender and narrow, both of hips and limbs. Her skin was dark, and shined as if oiled. She wore a black silk robe which rustled, and the hood was thrown back to reveal an almost elongated face, high and thin with pointed features and narrow, feline eyes. Saark looked into those eyes and realised the pupils were horizontal slits. They looked wrong. Saark swallowed. The tall woman stopped, and only then did Saark realise she was both insubstantial, like a drifting haze in the darkness; and that she carried a black sword strapped at her hip. Ha, thought Saark. A ghost sword? And yet he knew, in his heart, it would cut just like the finest steel.

    "Who passes in my realm?" came her voice, and it was note-perfect and absolutely beautiful.

    "I am Kell. Once, I served your people."

    "Kell. I remember. You slew the vachine. That was good."

    Kell bowed his head, as if offering obeisance to royalty. He stayed like that for what – to Saark, at least – seemed an exaggerated length of time. Then he stood, and back straight, stared into the ghost's eyes.

    "May we pass, lady?"

    She lifted a ghostly arm, and pointed at Saark. He shivered, and felt suddenly light-headed as if…
as if his
brains were rushing out of his ears and a million memories
flowed like wine like water and he was dancing and laughing
and drinking and fucking and he was watched from a million
years away by eyes older than worlds and he felt himself
judged and he felt himself wrenched through a mental grinder
and then–

    Saark was kneeling on the cobbles, panting, and his head pounded worse than any three-flagon hangover. Slowly, Saark climbed to his feet, and ignoring Kell and the ghost, unhooked a water-skin from his saddle and took a long, cool draught.

    "That hurt," he said, eventually.

    "There is a taint on this one," said the ghost, pointing to Saark but talking to Kell.

    "Aye. I know. But he's with me."

    "It runs bone deep," said the ghost, and Saark froze as he realised what she meant. His infection. His bad blood. His newly acquired and gradually transforming
nature
. What had Kell said? He'd killed
vachine
for these creatures? So they were enemies, and she knew Saark for what he was – or at least, what he would become.

    "He's still with me," said Kell, staring at the apparition and, with his traditional stubborn streak, refusing to back down. Eventually, the tall, dark lady gave a single nod, and glided away, disseminating as she moved into spirals of black light which eventually whirled, and were gone.

    "What a bitch," breathed Saark, releasing a pentup breath.

    "Halt your yapping, puppy, lest I cut off your head!" snapped Kell, and strode forward, leading his horse.

    Saark clamped his teeth tight shut, and followed Kell. Behind him, Mary brayed, and Saark scowled. To his ears, it was an abrasive, mocking, equine jibe, and if there was one thing Saark hated, it was being laughed at by a donkey.