Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (32 page)

  "Climb the steps," sang Skanda, talking and singing the words at the same time and the small boy followed Graal upwards and the albino vachine stood on the altar and turned and looked out, as if an audience awaited his performance and for an instant, just an
instant
, the ground seemed to squirm as if alive with black maggots. But then the feeling, the
image
, the
essence
, was gone, and Graal tried to speak, but found he could not.

  "Over here," said Skanda, and took Graal's hand, and in a bizarre scene led the tall, athletic killer, warrior, soldier,
vachine
to the centre of the stage. They stood there, in the warmth, and Graal felt sweat creeping down his forehead, down his cheeks, trickling under his dull black armour and making him
squirm.

  Skanda's song rose in pitch, and suddenly in intensity and Graal could feel it, feel the magick in the air and he realised the
magick was in the music
and Skanda's song was summoning something, something
bad,
and Graal felt a sudden urge to flee this place, get on his horse and ride for all he was worth. To hell with dominion and ruling the world; some dreams were best left dead.

  Skanda's song was a beautiful wail, dropping low into the deepest depths of reverberation, then shrieking high and long like a pig impaled on a spear, but all the time the notes came tumbling and they were beautiful and surreal and they spoke of an ancient time, a time of blood and earth and song, a time before the vachine, a time before the vampires, when Falanor was young and fresh and the Ankarok were good and proud and strong. Graal fell to his knees, choking suddenly, and Skanda was standing above him and he seemed to
stretch
upwards, he was huge, and no longer a boy but savagely ugly, his face the black of carved scorched wood, twisted like the roots of a tree, his face thick with corded knots of muscles and tendon uneven and disjointed and disfigured and this huge face loomed down at Graal and thin tentacles grew from his eyes and his mouth elongated into a beak and his eyes shrunk, became round and circular and still the song went on and on and on and huge powerful hands took Graal, and held him tight, and two more hands moved round only they weren't hands they were
mandibles
and they clamped Graal with sudden ferocious pain and he screamed, screamed as he looked down at the tiny glass disc on the floor before him, glowing black, radiating power and some ancient stench that had nothing to do with even human or vampire; and one of the claws rose, clicking softly, and a smell invaded the place and it was the smell of
insect chitin
. Graal swallowed, an instant before the claw lashed out and cut Graal's throat. He felt his flesh peel apart like soft fruit under a paring knife. Blood vomited from the new hole, his flesh quivering, his body pumping, heart pumping, emptying his blood-oil, his sacred refined
blood-oil
into the glass disc where it bubbled and was sucked down, absorbed. Graal would have screamed, but he could not. He would have fought and thrashed and run; but he could not.

  Graal's body twitched and pulsated, and emptied itself onto the altar of the Ankarok.

  Still Skanda sang, and looking back he was a boy again and Graal's eyes met Skanda's and Skanda gave a single nod, smiling, and released Graal to slump to the floor where he lay, curled foetal, twitching spasmodically. His fingers lifted, and touched his throat. Touched the gaping wound from whence his blood-oil and blood-magick had been
sucked…

  "Come and watch," whispered Skanda, and without any control of his body Graal climbed to his feet and as he walked, boots thumping clumsily as if he were a puppet on strings, he followed Skanda and a cool breeze blew through the room and into the gaping wound at his throat but he was not dead
was not dead
and he walked across the stone and out into the weak grey daylight –

  The city was
squirming.

  Old Skulkra was
alive
, every stone surface a maelstrom of movement as
things
seemed to shift, and move, and push under the surface of the stone, as if the very buildings themselves were fluid, vertical walls of thick oil trapping large desperate creatures within. The whole world seemed to shift and coalesce, and Graal wanted to heave and vomit, but had no control and his open throat was flapping and if he could, he would have screamed with two mouths…

  Skanda stood, and watched, and on his hand squatted a tiny scorpion with two tails, two stings, and Graal dragged his unwilling gaze back to the city, back to Old Skulkra, and he watched.

  The walls squirmed and pulsed, and now the ground was fluid, heaving and churning as if under the blades of some terrible plough. Paving stones cracked and shifted, and the whole world was alive with movement, with shifting, with coalescing images a blend of reality and the fluid, a mix of sanity and the insane, and Graal watched with lower jaw hung open and his slit throat
forgotten
as from under the earth and from inside the walls they came, they pushed, they heaved, they were
born.

  The Ankarok emerged, and they were children, and their skin was gloss black and shining as if smeared with oil, and their teeth were the black of insect incisors, and many had four arms and claws for feet, some had pincers and mandibles and one young boy crawled forward, and Graal could see he had a thorax. The Ankarok weren't simply children, they were blended with insects, with scorpions and cockroaches and ants and beetles, and they shifted and squirmed and scampered like insects and there were hundreds of them spilling from the walls like ants from a nest, and there were
thousands
of them, surging from under the earth like a flood of beetles from a dunghill, and

  
we have been imprisoned for thousands of years

  and

  we have been waiting for this moment, biding our time

  and

  we were sent here, and trapped here, tricked here, lost here

  but

  
now we are free, now we can work, and that's all we wanted, all we ever dreamed, the joy of the labour, the joy of the slave, the joy of the making, the joy of the killing –

  Old Skulkra squirmed and heaved beneath him, and Graal faded away into a realm of impossibility, into a plane of unexistence in which the world was ruled by the Ankarok, and they

  were

  all-powerful.

CHAPTER 12

Vampire Scouts

Saark was drunk. Saark was allowed to be drunk! After all, it'd been a hell of a day.

  He staggered from Grak the Bastard's quarters, set high in the fortress walls and, in times of war or attack, doubling as a store-room and a place for archers. It also made a good vantage point looking out over the plain to see who approached Black Pike Mines.

  Saark, in his drunken state, found another use for the archer's slit in Grak's bedroom wall, and as his urine arced far and long over the snowy field below, Grak patted him heartily on the shoulder and suggested it was time for bed.

  Saark staggered across the frozen mud of what was now the "Training Yard", although in all honesty, Saark left most of the training to Grak. Grak was a capable man, and Saark had to admit that he himself was capable of drinking, and enjoying a roll with a woman, and hell even cards or betting on bear fights were high on his agenda; but training men? No sir!

  As Saark mounted the steps to his room, he recounted the week's success stories. Kell would be proud, no doubt, when he returned. They (meaning Grak) had whittled the men into a raw but efficient set of fighting units. They weren't an army. Not yet. They (meaning Grak) would need to put in a lot more effort to make sure the men could fight now as a
whole
, that's what Grak kept saying, a bloody
whole
– or was it hole? Saark stopped, and scratched his balls.

  Still, they could charge in several formations, and at shouted commands or blasts from a tinny bugle, they could change from square to line to wedge, they could lock shields, they could disengage shields, they could charge and retreat. Because most of the men had worked (and indeed
survived
) the Black Pike Mines for a long period of time, they had great upper body strength and impressive stamina and endurance. Greater than Saark, as today's humiliating race had contested. But then, Saark
had
been drunk the night before. And the night before that. And, what a surprise, the night before that!

  He stumbled to his room, and as the world swayed he removed his clothes and stood, hands on hips, naked and proud and desperate for a tankard of water. He moved to a water barrel and dunked his head in, coming up with a splash and lick of his lips. Gods he was hungry! What did he have in the room? Bread, cheese, donkey-meat…

  "Saark?"

  She sounded sleepy, and sat up in the bed, her dark hair tousled and illuminated by the moonlight easing through a small square window. Saark could make out her upper torso, naked, and he licked his lips again only not, in this case, with the need for water.

  "Hello there," he said, and moved towards the bed.

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "Only a drop, sweetie," he murmured, and crawled onto the bed.

  "Good," said Nienna. "I warmed your blankets. I hope you don't mind?"

  "Of course not," he said, and she knelt up before him, and her body was perfect, white and pale, gleaming in the moonlight, her small but firm breasts young and pert, her lips slightly parted as her head tilted, and she stared at his face.

  "Do you want me to stay?" she said.

  "Oh yes," said Saark, reaching out and caressing her breasts. Instantly her nipples hardened and reaching forward, gently, his tongue circled her areola. Nienna murmured, and shuffled closer, and Saark's arms encircled her, and now his hard cock pressed into her, and he kissed her, he kissed her lips and they were warm and sweet from honeycakes and wine, and he kissed her neck, which was warm and soft like silk, and his hands ran down her back and she shivered in anticipation and thrust herself painfully against him, in need, in lust, and his hands came to rest on her buttocks, firm and hard from so much travelling in the wilds. They kissed again, harder this time, with passion and a need that transcended threats and Saark's hand dipped, stroked between Nienna's legs and she squirmed, giggling a little, then moaning and sinking into his embrace as his hand entered her, and he bore her down to the bed, and Saark was lost in wine and lust and memories, and he remembered Alloria; she was his first love and she was his true love and she was before him now, on the soft silk sheets in King Leanoric's chambers, Alloria, with her mane of curled black hair, her flashing dangerous green eyes, her ruby red lips, tall, with her elegant long languorous limbs and her tongue stained from blue karissia, and she smiled up at Saark, and Alloria said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Nienna said, "Make love to me, Saark," and Saark pushed himself into her, all the way, to the hilt, and she groaned and he groaned and they fucked long and hard on the bed, their groans and thrusts rising rising rising to a climax of perfect joy and union, and Saark whispered, "Alloria," but Nienna was too far gone to hear the words and she gave herself to Saark, not caring, not caring about the world and Kell's threats and vachine imperfections… and slowly, they spiralled down into a cold place, a cold world of reality, facing war and mutilation and death.

  And in the cold dark hours of the night, they clung tightly to each other like children.

Governor Myrtax could not sleep. He was too hot, sweating and feeling fevered, and so he stepped from his bed and pulled on low, soft-leather boots. His wife murmured in sleep and turned, one arm flinging out, but she did not wake. Myrtax crossed to the next room and looked in on his sleeping babes; he saw their dark shapes, breathing rhythmically in the ink, and he smiled; smiled the happy smile of fatherhood; smiled the smile of innate joy at what a man's child could invest without effort – just simply by
being.

  Too hot. Too damn hot!

  Myrtax stepped from his quarters and looked across at the distant fortress walls. Fires burned in braziers on the battlements, and ten guards kept watch across the snowy plains. Damn, but he didn't want to leave this place. Didn't want to go to war. Why would he? His family was here. His wife, who he loved more than life; his children, who he'd die for!

  Myrtax jogged down the steps and onto the frozen mud. He was surprised to find he had a knife in his hand, and he slipped it back into the oiled leather sheath.
Strange. I don't remember belting the knife on. Why would I need a knife in my own mine? But of course, after the Governors – the false Governors – took over and threatened my children; well, a man has to protect himself; a man has to look after his own interests.

  Governor Myrtax moved across the ground, seemingly with no destination, until he found himself outside the cell of Sara. Kell's daughter.

  
How strange to come here. Why would I come here? Kell said she was dangerous, and not to trust her, but I know he's wrong because I have seen into her eyes, and she is a noble creature, a beautiful creature, and anything that stunning must be good…

  "Good evening, sir," said the guard, and gurgled and vomited blood as Governor Myrtax's dagger slid under his ribs and up, with a hard jabbing thrust, into his heart. The man sagged into Myrtax's arms, and he frowned, confused at why the man was so heavy, and why the man had been drinking on duty, and why he was now asleep in his arms like a dirty drunkard.

  "I'll have you up on a charge," muttered Myrtax, lowering the twitching guard to the ground and taking the keys from his belt. He moved to the cell, the interior of which was a black pool of oil, impenetrable to the naked eye, and Myrtax inserted the key and opened the gate.