by Andy Remic
It could have been expected that all would die, such was the hardship in Jalder. The ice-smoke froze people in their beds, froze traders selling wares at market stalls, murdered children playing in the street. And those not killed had been rounded up by the Army of Iron, and even worse, many were eaten when a unit of rogue cankers broke free and rampaged through the streets, ripping out throats and snapping off heads.
The Army of Iron had moved south, leaving behind a token garrison of three hundred albino warriors and five ethereal, ghostly Harvesters in order to patrol the deserted city of Jalder, mopping up stragglers and warning Graal of any military activity behind his advancing lines.
Twelve weeks had passed.
And incredibly, some people had survived.
They lived in sewers, and attics, in the tanneries and deserted fish-stores, they scuttled like cockroaches beneath the floorboards of once-rich, proud dwellings, they hid in the towers of Jalder University, in the dungeons of Jalder's Marble Palace, in the Dazoon Clocktower and the old guild spice-houses. They scrabbled for food like vermin, dressed in rags, their weapons rusted. But they survived. They existed. And slowly, warily, they began to fight back.
The resistance was led by a small, narrow-faced man known simply as Ferret. He was slim, wiry, but incredibly strong for his size after a life of hardship as a thief, a pit-fighter, and later in His Majesty's Prisons, including a stint in the terribly harsh Black Pike Mines. What Ferret lacked in brawn he made up for with speed and accuracy, dirty-fighting and the ability to use his mind. In those first days when the ice-smoke rolled through Jalder, he had been safe in the dungeons – until two albino soldiers went through the cells systematically killing all prisoners. When they came to Ferret, he'd been curled in a ball in the corner of his cell, crying, begging for his life, covered in snot and sores. The two soldiers opened the cell, and one studied his nails whilst the second moved in for the kill – gurgling as Ferret leapt forward, out-stretched fingers punching through and into the soldier's throat. He took the dying warrior's sword, hefted it thoughtfully, and split the second albino's skull straight down the middle with a single blow. Turning back to the first man, with finger-holes through his oesophagus pouring white blood, Ferret took hold of his hair and hacked free his head.
Three months ago.
Three months!
How things had changed. How life in Jalder had changed for those poor unfortunates still left. The Harvesters roamed the streets, directing the patrols. Many of the humans remaining were soon killed… killed and harvested. The old, frail, weak, scared. The children had proved resilient; good at hiding, and learning quickly to kill in packs with youthful ferocity, and without remorse.
And gradually, they had all come to Ferret. This small man, this skinny man, with his lank brown hair and pockmarked features like the arse of a pig. He was one of the downtrodden, one of the underdogs. But hell, Ferret had come good. Ferret had shown that it was all about the mind. All about planning, and thinking, and instruction. Not simply violence, but the planning of violence.
Ferret gathered those stray and directionless men and women and children to him; he organised them into groups, the children into food foraging parties, the woman into units who practised with swords and bows during the day, and mended armour and fashioned arrows by night. They discovered underground tunnels near the river, and set nets to catch fish thus providing fresh food and protein. They used the old furnace chambers of the tanneries to cook their food, so that smoke and fumes would be carried up high brick chimneys and away on distant winds. They slept, huddled together under old furs and blankets the children found in rich merchants' houses, and always with weapons to hand. Once, a unit of five albino soldiers found a sleeping pit – the battle had been fierce, but short, with twenty people slaughtered including one of Ferret's trusted "Generals", as he liked to call those he promoted and put in charge.
In those first days, the resistance had numbered maybe five hundred: the strays in the sewers, those hiding in attics and cellars, shivering in the cold dark places. Now, they were no more than two hundred. Slowly, systematically, they had been rooted out and killed. It depressed Ferret more than he could ever admit, and now, as he sat in his little control centre deep within an old tannery building, cold, silent, the huge cauldrons empty, the fires gone out, he waited with three of his Generals for his best weapon, his most trusted ally, his most vicious soldier – a twelve year-old girl they called Rose. Beautiful on the outside, but sharp with thorns beneath.
Rose was a slim, quiet thing. But she had proved herself time and again as the most capable soldier in Ferret's resistance. She was superb at gathering intelligence: where albino soldiers would patrol, if there would be Harvesters, what was happening in the outside world. She had her own routes through the city, and Ferret did not ask. Her results were what counted, and Ferret did not need to know the details.
All he knew about Rose was that her parents had been killed when she was young, maybe four or five years, and she had survived in the city from that early age on her wits and intelligence and intuition. She was a born killer, despite her angelic appearance. She was dangerous beyond compare.
Her tiny bare feet pattered down the corridor, and Rose glided into view; warily, for she was always wary; but with an easy and confident manner. She was a girl in tune with this odd underground environment.
"Hello, Rose."
"Ferret," she said, her dark eyes glancing to the Generals, then around the room. "Nice hideout."
"You have information?"
"Of course. You have payment?"
"Yes." Ferret smiled, his narrow face breaking into genuine humour. Never trust anybody who did something for free, he thought. With Rose, he had to buy her information. Usually with precious stones, which he had children through the city scouring rich merchants' deserted houses to find so he could keep this particular human gem in active service.
Ferret tossed her a small velvet bag of rubies. "Here you go."
Rose snatched the bag from the air, and looked around suspiciously. She frowned, then seemed to relax. Ferret tuned in to her senses; he had never seen her frown. Was there something wrong? Had she seen, or sensed, something he had not?
Ferret felt his alertness kick up a few degrees. He loosened his sword and knife at his belt, but kept the smile on his face for Rose. He glanced to the three Generals; all huge men and proven warriors, despite their soiled garb. It was hard to keep clean fighting from the sewers. They stunk like three-week-dead dogs. All except Rose, that is. She was perfectly clean, her simple black clothes fresh as virgin snowfall, her shoulderlength black hair neatly brushed. Nothing about her indicated a covert lifestyle of information gathering, and the secret murder of albino soldiers.
Rose tipped the rubies onto her small, white hand. They looked wrong, somehow, sitting there in the girl's palm. Then, in one swift movement she ate them, swallowing with a grimace, and glancing up to Ferret. She allowed the velvet bag to drop to the stone floor.
"The albinos know where you are," said Rose.
Ferret felt a thrill of fear course through him, tugging his senses like drugsmoke, pounding through his head, flowing like molten lead through his veins.
"What? This place? They know about this place?"
"Yes," said Rose, and glanced around. As if nervous. Ferret had never seen her do that before; never seen her portray anything but the utmost calm, secure in her knowledge that she was unobserved, had not been followed. Now. Now she was different. She was out of character. Ferret grimaced, as he realised the emotion she carried like raw guilt. Rose was scared. "They are coming for you," she added, almost as an afterthought.
"Tonight?"
"No. Now. Now!"
Even as the words brushed past her lips on a warm exhalation of air, so there came a scream of bricks and torn steel, and a shower of rubble cascaded into the underground chamber. Bricks clattered in the control centre, dust billowed, and Ferret and his generals had drawn weapons, w
ere standing ready, as one of the vampires leapt snarling from the dust, so fast it was a blur, hitting one general in the chest and bearing him to the ground with talons slashing open his throat. The large man convulsed, started to thrash, choking on his own blood, on geysers of blood as he flopped around, arms and legs kicking, but pinioned to the ground as if the vampire was a heavy weight.
Ferret licked dust-rimed lips. The vampire was tall, thin, with white skin and a near-bald head. Long ears swept back, and it turned a narrow, elongated face towards him, eyes red, fangs poking over its lips and with a start, with a jump that nearly kicked his balls through his belly, Ferret realised this was Old Terrag, once a butcher down on the markets by the Selenau River, an expert with a cleaver by all accounts, and now an integral part of the resistance in Jalder. Old Terrag was one of Ferret's most trusted men. Now, he had changed…
The vampire snarled, lowering its head as the cutopen general slowly ceased his thrashing, blood dropping from fountain to bubbling brook, and with a blink the huge war hammer hit the vampire in the face, sending it catapulting in a flurry of limbs across the room. Ferret glanced at Blaker, and gave a nod. The huge general had kept his wits about him and crept through the billowing dust. Even when Ferret had not. Shit. That won't happen again. Well, over my dead body. Especially over my dead body!
Ferret glanced back to Rose, but the young girl had gone. "Damn," he snarled, as the vampire hit him in the back and his face smacked the stone floor, hard. Stars flashed through his skull, and he was blinded. He could hear scuffling, hissing, snarling, and Ferret jacked himself up and began to crawl. There came a crack, like wood breaking, and a terrible scream. This was finished off with a gurgle. Ferret searched around for his sword, and as his vision cleared his fingers curled around the short, sturdy blade. He found a wall, and realised most of the lanterns had gone out. Smashed. Only one weak flame burned, and Ferret scrambled around until his back was to the wall, and he crouched there, sword touching the ground, looking, listening. Use your brain, damn you! Think!
Three generals. Two definitely dead. And a hammer blow to the face for the attacking bastard. A blow which should have cracked the vampire's skull in two like a fruit on a chopping block, had simply stalled it for seconds. What have they done to you, Old Terrag? What did they make you? But Ferret knew. He'd read the stories. He'd heard the old tales, warped and twisted fantasies passed down through generations. Old Terrag was a vampire. And much, much stronger than the albino soldiers who patrolled the streets of Jalder making Ferret's life miserable.
There came a roar, and Dandig attacked with his axe. Ferret squinted, saw something squirm through the dust and still spilling rubble from the hole in the roof. The two figures clashed, one a huge bear of a man, his neck as wide as Ferret's thigh, his biceps not much thinner, a black-hearted bastard of a killer who only obeyed Ferret because he didn't know where the gold was kept – or in fact, that there was no gold at all. The axe swept for Old Terrag, who swayed back, changing direction, leaping, bouncing from the wall and launching at Dandig from above. Clawed hands took hold of Dandig's head, as the axe on its return sweep made a humming noise lashing under Old Terrag's elongated, stretched out body. And whilst still airborne, the vampire twisted Dandig's head, and Ferret waited for the snap of breaking neck but it was worse, much worse as the vampire kept on twisting and tendons crackled and popped and the head came clean off. Blood fountained. Dandig's confused body collapsed like a sack of sloppy shit.
Ferret tried to lick his lips, but could not. Fear had drained him of spit.
Old Terrag straightened, damn, he'd always been a tall bastard, and stared for a while at the pumping body on the floor. The head had rolled off into the shadows, and Ferret knew the man would have been completely pissed off. Dandig wasn't a man used to losing.
Ferret fought down the urge to splutter a histrionic giggle.
Old Terrag turned that blood gaze on Ferret and his balls retracted to pips. "Your turn, Ferret," hissed the vampire and Ferret was frozen, a statue, a carving from ice, and the vampire launched at him and he wanted to scream and curl up in a ball, to crawl away to some dark recess and lie there until he decomposed. There there, Fador, soothed his mother and tucked him under the thick sheep-wool blanket but the dark was all around, those tales from Uncle Grimmer still vivid and bright in his child's colourful imagination, the clockwork vampires and clockwork werebeasts creeping through the dark with talons longer than a man's forearm… prowling… ready to strike…
He blinked, and Old Terrag was on him, flying at him, arms outstretched and he jerked up his sword in sheer panic, no timing, no skill, just a flurry of scrabbling and movement and the blade flashed and Old Terrag impaled himself on the blade. Ferret heard steel bite through flesh, through bone, through muscle, sliding through Old Terrag's chest, through his heart, to exit on shards of spine.
They squatted there, together, like lovers, and Old Terrag's outstretched clawed fingers took hold of Ferret's face and their eyes met. Ferret licked his lips. The vampire was shivering on the sword, impaled, and Ferret could see the tip of his blade on the other side of the vampire's body. Old Terrag trembled, and hatred etched the drawn back skin of his face, its face. Ferret thought he was dead, then. It still had the strength to twist off his head. Like it did with Dandig. Shit.
Then Old Terrag closed his eyes, and smiled, and died.
Ferret waited for a minute, waited to see what would happen. Then he scrambled from underneath the body and put his boot on the vampire's chest, withdrawing the short sword. Its heart. He had pierced its heart!
He leant against the wall for a few moments, breathing heavily, then wiped sweat mixed with brick-dust from his brow, leaving a muddy red smear on his sleeve.
"You can cut off their heads, as well," came the gentle voice of Rose, as she emerged from the dust.
Ferret coughed, and snorted snot to the ground. "You've seen them killed?"
"A few," she said. "The eastern quarter of the city is all but overrun. All your rebels." She smiled, sadly. "All of them… changed."
"How are they changed? With magick?"
"With a bite. To the neck. Then they seem to die, and they come back to life and are quick, and strong, and hard to kill. As you saw." She glanced at the three twisted corpses of Ferret's Generals; three hardy men, grim men, men who had slaughtered albino soldiers for fun. But one vampire had killed all three. And would have killed Ferret, if not for a twist of fate. Of luck.
"Shit. We have gone to the Bone Graveyard!"
"No. We are in Jalder. You must tell your people. They will listen to you. You must tell them how to fight. How to kill…" She glanced at the corpse of Old Terrag. Already, it had gone black, crinkled as if cooked, and the stench was unbearable. "How to kill these creatures."
"I will," said Ferret. "Come with me, Rose."
"No."
"It's death out there!"
"I know." She smiled. "But I have things I must do."
His name was Vishniriak. He was a Harvester. He was a leader amongst the Harvesters. He came from under the Black Pike Mountains and was tall, wearing thin white robes embroidered with gold religious symbols and threads. His face was flat and oval, his head hairless, his nose tiny slits which hissed when he breathed. And eyes… small black eyes without emotion, but glittering with a feral intelligence.
He stood on the battlements overlooking the city of Jalder, and the wind howled, and his robes flapped and whipped, snapping viciously. He turned to his left, and stared at Kuradek the Vampire Warlord with tiny black eyes.
Hate flowed through him.
Vishniriak, and the Harvesters, hated the Vampire Warlords. But he knew they were tools. And a good workman uses the best of tools.
To the Harvesters, the Vampire Warlords were the best of tools.
"Send them," said Kuradek, his flesh swirling, flowing, and Vishniriak knew that one day there would be a reckoning, and one day they would fight; but now. Now they were allies. With
a single goal.
Vishniriak looked down into the courtyard, the same place where months earlier a flood of albino soldiers, the Army of Iron, had marched down into the city of Jalder under cover of ice-smoke and slaughtered most of the population, corpses ready for the Harvest.
Now, there were nearly a hundred vampires, pickings from the hardiest men and women and children who had stood against the albino soldiers still active in the city. But not now. Not now.
It had been fascinating for Vishniriak to watch, and no matter how much he hated the vampires in principle the domino effect of their transformation had been stunning and swift. Kuradek had found three humans, infecting them, making them his primaries, his ghouls, then sent them out to find and infect others. Like a plague they swept through the eastern quarter of Jalder. Until none were left.
