Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (29 page)

  Jagor nodded, and finished his coffee. "I think we should be moving."

  "Aye. A long way to go, and already my arse feels like a fat man's been dancing on it."

  "You never were a horseman, were you Kell?"

  Kell grinned. "In my opinion, the only thing a horse is good for is eating."

Kell and Jagor Mad rode for another three days in more-or-less companionable silence. Jagor didn't speak about his capture all those years ago, or the recent incident with the noose; and Kell didn't mention the crossbow wound in his shoulder, nor the recent threat of murder. When they did talk, they spoke of old battles and the cities of Falanor, they talked of Kell's
Legend,
the saga poem, and how Kell hated his misrepresentation. As if he was a damned
hero
. Kell knew he was not.

  Eventually, as they passed through folded foothills, past huge boulders and a random scattering of spruce and pine, Jagor stopped and looked to the right where the Black Peaks towered. His horse pawed the snow, and Kell's mount made several snorting sounds. The world seemed unnaturally silent. Eerie. Filled with ghosts.

  "Easy, boy," said Kell, patting the horse's neck. Then to Jagor, "What is it?"

  "We are close."

  "To the Valleys of the Moon?"

  "Aye."

  Kell ran his gaze up and down the solid, looming walls of rock. "I see nothing."

  "You have to know how to look. Follow me."

  They rode on, and again Jagor reined his mount. He seemed to be counting. Then he pointed. "There."

  Kell squinted. Snow was falling, creating a haze, but he made out a finger of smooth, polished granite no bigger than a man. "What is it?"

  "A marker. Come on."

  Jagor led the way; Kell followed and loosened Ilanna in her saddle-sheath. Then Jagor paused, and Kell saw another marker, and they veered right, between two huge boulders over rough ground; normally, Kell would have avoided the depression – it was a natural and instinctive thing to do whether on horseback or foot. It was too good a place for an ambush.

  Jagor led the way between the boulders, and onto a flat path which led up, out of the tiny bowl. "Now look," he said.

  Kell stared around, and Ilanna was in his hand as he glanced at Jagor. "I see nothing. Are you playing me for a fool?"

  "Not at all, Kell. It's there." Jagor pointed, to the solid wall of jagged black granite.

  "You're an idiot! That's impassable."

  Jagor shook his head, and said, "Shift to the left. By one stride."

  Kell shifted his mount, and as if by magick a narrow channel appeared before his eyes which led
into
the seemingly impassable rock face. Kell shifted his gelding again, and the passage slid neatly out of view, the rocky wall naturally disguising this narrow entrance. Kell stared hard. "By the Bone Halls, that plays tricks on a man's eyes."

  "You have to know it's there. One footstep in either direction and the passage vanishes! As you say, like magick!"

  "You lead the way."

  "You still not trusting me?" Jagor Mad grinned, his brutal face looking odd with such an expression.

  "I trust nobody," snapped Kell. "Take me to the Blacklippers. Take me to the Valleys of the Moon."

Saark stood in the snow and the churned mud, and his feet were freezing and he was scowling. The men had been divided into platoons of twenty, as he had watched King Leanoric do on so many occasions. Each platoon was commanded by a lieutenant, and five platoons made up a company ruled over by a captain.

  They'd held a contest on the second day, in which crates, barrels and planks of wood had been assembled beside a pretend river. On the other side, behind upturned carts, archers with weak bows and blunt, flat-capped arrows were the enemy. Each platoon had to work together to "cross" the river and take the cart. The platoon which succeeded first would earn wine and gold.

  Saark and Grak watched in dismay at first, as men squabbled and fought over planks and crates. But a young, handsome man, Vilias, imprisoned for his spectacular thieving career, gathered together several crates and got three of the platoons crouched behind them for protection from the archers as the other platoons continued to argue, or were shot by archers.

  "We need to work together," said Vilias.

  "But then the prize is shared between sixty, not twenty!"

  "But we still win the prize," grinned the charismatic thief. "One bottle of wine is better than none, right mate?"

  Vilias set several men to smashing up crates, and they fashioned several large, crude shields. Then, with five men at a time using the wide wooden shields they worked under protection to build a bridge, crossed the river and stormed into the cart fortress with swords raised and battle screams filling the air.

  Afterwards, Saark and Grak called Vilias to them.

  "You showed great courage," said Saark, smiling at the man.

  Vilias saluted. "Thank you, sir. But it was just common sense."

  "Common sense has got you promoted to Command Sergeant, lad. That's extra wine and coin for
all
the platoons under your new command."

  "Thank you… sir!"

  "You understand that an army is all about working together," said Saark, with his chin on his fist. With his dark curls and flashing eyes, with his charisma and natural beauty, he cut a striking figure now he no longer wore fancy silk shirts and bulging pantaloons. Grak had persuaded him to don something more fitting for the Division General of a new army.

  "Yes, sir!"

  Vilias returned to his men to share the good news, and Saark sagged, glancing over at Grak who grinned a toothless grin of approval.

  "Well inspired!" boomed Grak. "Any army indeed works – and
wins
by all the gods – by the simple act of cooperation. Soldiers watching one another's backs; spearmen protecting shield-men, archers protecting infantry, cavalry protecting archers."

  Saark chuckled. "I only
know
because you told me last night after a flagon of ale."

  "Still," said Grak. "You
sounded
like you knew what you were talking about! And that's what matters, eh lad?"

  "I'm not cut out for this," said Saark, displaying a weak grin. "Only yesterday the smiths came with technical questions about the shields; what the fuck do I know about shields? Succulent quims, yes! Breasts, I could talk all day about the size and texture and quality of many a buxom pair of tits. But shields?
Shields
, I ask you?"

  "With things like that," said Grak, "just refer it to me. Say you're too busy to deal with it. Last thing we need," he bit a chunk from a hunk of black bread, "is a shield with the shape and functionality of a woman's flower."

  Saark paused. "A what?" he said.

  "A flower."

  "You mean the slick warm place between her legs?"

  "Don't be getting all rude with me," snapped Grak. "I won't take it, y'hear?"

  Saark stood, and stretched. Then grinned, eyeing the ranks of men who were now practising with wooden swords as newly appointed Command Sergeants strolled up and down the lines, shouting encouragement and offering advice. Grak had appointed those with soldiering experience, he'd said.

  "I suggest we go to the quartermaster," said Saark.

  "Why?"

  "I suggest we get two flagons of ale and retire to my quarters. You can teach me about warfare, about units and field manoeuvres, and I, well," Saark grinned, and ran a hand through his long dark curls, "darling, I will teach you about
women
."

Kell and Jagor rode into the narrow pass. It was quiet, eerie, and very, very gloomy. Kell eased his mount forward, and the beast whinnied. High above, there came a trickle of stones.

  Jagor turned in the saddle, and motioned to Kell to halt. "This place," he said, speaking quietly, "they call the Corridor of Death. It is the only way to reach the Valleys of the Moon, and is always, I repeat
always
conducted in silence."

  "Why?"

  Jagor glanced up, fearful now. "Let us say the slopes and rocky faces are far from stable. I once witnessed a hundred men crushed by rockfall; it took us three days to dig them out. Most died. Most were trapped, and as we dug, and hauled rocks, and had our horses drag boulders in this narrow shitty confine, all the time we could hear them crying for help from down below under the pile. They cried for help, they screamed for mercy, and eventually they begged for death."

  "That is a very sobering tale. I will keep it in mind," said Kell, and glanced upwards. The sheer walls and steeply slanted inclines were bulged and rocky, covered in snow and ice and fiery red winter heathers. Kell licked his lips and shivered. He had no desire to be imprisoned under a thousand tumbling rocks.

  They moved on, in silence, whispering soothing words to the horses. Sometimes the trail widened so that three horses could walk side by side; sometimes it narrowed so the men had to dismount, walking ahead of their mounts to allow them to squeeze flanks through narrow rough rock apertures. It did nothing to improve Kell's mood.

  Eventually, the passage started to widen and they emerged in a valley devoid of rocks. It was just a huge, long, sweeping channel and Kell instinctively glanced upwards where high above, on narrow ledges, he could spy the openings of small caves.

  "I don't like this," said Kell.

  "The Watchers live here," said Jagor. "This is where we will be challenged."

  "And what do we do?"

  "We do nothing," said Jagor, forcing a smile that looked wrong on his face. "If you draw your weapon, they will shoot you down. Let me do the talking. You have been warned."

  They cantered horses across the snow, hooves echoing dully, and in the gloom of the valley where high mountain walls – perhaps two thousand feet in height – towered over the two men and cast long dark shadows, so gradually Kell became aware of movement…

  Jagor held up a hand and they halted, side by side. Along the ridges scurried small figures, and it was with surprise Kell realised they were children. But as the figures halted their scurrying, and lifted longbows and drew back bowstrings, so Kell realised with sinking horror that these were no normal children. These were Blacklipper children – which meant they had drunk, and continued to drink, the narcotic refined drug, blood-oil, the substance which the vachine needed to survive. But when it was imbibed by a human, it caused a drug
high
like nothing in Falanor, or even beyond the Three Oceans.

  Kell watched carefully, making no move towards his weapons, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. There were perhaps fifty children in all, and each was what he knew could be described as a Deep Blood. They had drunk so much of the powerful narcotic, were so entrenched in the liquid's power and dark magick, the essence of the refined blood-oil so necessary to vachine survival – and so condemning of human flesh – that their lips were stained black, and their veins stood out across pale flesh like strands of glossy spider webs on marble skin.

  Soon, Kell knew, these children would die.

  Soon, they would travel what Kell knew they called the Voyage of the Soul. To an afterlife all Blacklippers believed in. To an afterworld that justified narcotic slavery.

  "Throw down your weapons!" shouted one girl, no more than thirteen years old. Her hair was long and black, braided in heavy strips. She was naked to the waist, and her veins stood out like a river-system viewed from mountain crags at night. She carried an adult longbow, a weapon Kell had seen punch an arrow through a hand-thick pine door. The arrow fletch touched her cheek. As far as Kell could tell, her hand did not shake.

  Slowly, Jagor and Kell complied.

  "Now get off the horses and speak your names, and nothing funny, or you'll have fifty arrows through you!"

  "Nice place," muttered Kell.

  "Wait till you meet the parents," said Jagor.

  "What's that?" cried the girl. "What are you saying? Speak quickly now, or you will die!"

  "You are the Watchers," said Jagor, his voice booming out, "and I am Jagor Mad. Your people know me well."

  "Yes," said the girl. "Welcome home, Jagor Mad. You may take up your weapon. Who is the man alongside you?"

  "His name is Kell."

  "Kell, the Legend?" said the girl, her voice painfully neutral.

  "Yes," said Jagor, and threw Kell such a strange look the large warrior was moving before he heard the sound of the arrows. Shafts slammed all around him, peppering the snow and thudding home into his horse which reared, suddenly screaming a high-pitched horse scream, and Kell leapt for his axe, leapt for Ilanna as the charcoal gelding staggered back on hind legs, front hooves pawing the air, blood pumping from ten wounds and arrows protruding like the spikes on a spinehog. There was a devastating
thump
as the gelding hit the snow, a huge pool of red spreading fast around the creature and Kell's head slammed up, eyes narrowed, fixed on Jagor as he realised
realised
the bastard had led him into a trap…

  "What did you do?" screamed Kell, and leapt forward, Ilanna in his fists and Jagor stepped backwards fast, his own sword coming up with a hiss. Ilanna swung down, and Jagor deflected the powerful blow with a grunt and a squawk.

  "Nothing, Kell! Nothing! I did nothing!"

  "I'll fucking eat your heart, you whoreson!" he screamed.

  "Drop the axe, Kell!" shouted the girl. An arrow slammed between his boots, and Kell stared at that arrow, stared at it hard. A moment earlier, his horse's bulk had protected him. Now, he had no such protection.

  Kell glanced up. "What's to stop you peppering me like a fucking deer in the woods?" he snarled.

  "I am," came a deep, bass rumble, and from a cave which blended into the gloom of the rocky wall stepped a man bigger than any Kell had ever seen in his life.

  The figure walked forward, dwarfing Kell and even Jagor. His skin was pasty and white, the black webtraces of Deep Blood veins marking him out as an addict of blood-oil; but more, his eyes were black with the oil, his lips, his nostrils, even his fingernails had been polluted by the toxin of his chosen drug. He carried a huge flange mace, matt black and nearly the size of Kell's entire torso. To be struck by such a weapon…