by Andy Remic
"What, I am the reason for all of this?" snapped Nienna. The stump of her finger had been neatly bound, and she was sat, rubbing it thoughtfully. "You wish to protect me? Well, you'd better come with us then. Because I'm going with Saark."
"No, you are not," growled Kell.
"Yes, I bloody am. I am a woman. I have my own mind. You do not control me. Or is that what this is all about? It's not about me. Now, I'm your surrogate daughter… but you couldn't control your real daughter, oh no, and she went wild and now you seek to pass off your impotence and lack of control and lack of fatherhood on me. Well, I won't have it, grandfather. I am my own person, and to stop me you'll have to kill me."
Kell sat down by the fire, and stared into the flames, chin on his fist. Firelight glittered in his eyes and Myriam, Saark and Nienna exchanged glances.
Finally, Kell looked up, and stared at each of his companions in turn. Slowly, one by one, he met their gazes, and they stared back, defiant, heads high, proud. "I simply want to save Nienna," he said.
Nienna knelt by his side. "To do that, grandfather, you'll have to help us. This thing is wrong, and you know it. We have to do the right thing. We have to kill this evil. I was there, on Helltop; I saw them brought back from the Chaos Halls, just like you, and the terror nearly ripped me in two. These Warlords have not come to Falanor so they can go sleep in comfy beds and have sweet sugary dreams. They are here for blood and death."
"Just like the vachine," said Kell, sharply.
"Yes," said Saark. "Just like the vachine. But I fear we are in the middle of something far more complex than we could ever understand; we are in the middle of some ancient feud. Unfortunately, we're the bastards being persecuted, used as pawns, and I cannot sit by and watch good people slaughtered."
"It will be a hard fight," said Kell, looking around at their faces.
"Is there any other kind?" grinned Saark.
"We may all die," said Kell.
"As I pointed out, you're ever the happy face of optimism. But we're used to you now, Kell. We can put up with your strange ways."
"You'll have to do what you're told, lad," Kell snapped, pointing with a stubby rough finger. "You hear me?"
Saark spread his hands, face filled with pain and hurt. "Do I ever do anything else?"
"Hmph," said Kell, and rubbed his beard, then his eyes, then the back of his neck. "I will regret this. I know it. But if you want to bring down the Vampire Warlords, if you want to spread their ashes to the wind, all of you," again he fixed Saark, Myriam and finally Nienna, with a little shake of his head, fixed them all with a deadly stare, "all of you must do exactly what I say."
Saark shrugged. "Whatever you say, old horse. You have something in mind, then?"
Kell stared at him. And he gave an evil smile which had nothing to do with humour. "Yes. I have a plan," he said.
They rode for two days, both Kell and Myriam realising that they had emerged northeast of Jalder, quite close to the huge dark woodland known as the Iron Forest. The Iron Forest was a natural northern barrier which separated Jalder from the Black Pike Mountains, and rife with stories of rogue Blacklippers, evil brigands and ghosts. Kell waved this idea aside when Saark brought it up one evening, just before dusk.
"Pah," said Kell, the skinning knife between his teeth as he ripped flesh from a hare brought down by the skill of Myriam's archery. Now, as a vachine, she was even more deadly accurate with the weapon. What the cancer had taken away, vachine technology had improved with clockwork. "There's nothing as dangerous in the Iron Forest as me, lad. So stop quivering like a lost little girl who's pissed in her pants."
"Little girl? Piss? Me?" Saark placed a hand to his chest, and winced a little. The wound from Helltop at the hands of Kradek-ka, now nearly fully healed, still stung him occasionally. "I think you'll find that when brigands avoid you, it's nothing to do with your notoriety, nor your mythical axe. It's to do with the great stench of your unwashed armpits which precedes you."
"Boys, boys," said Myriam, holding up her hand. "Please. Stop. Enough." Nienna giggled. Since the pain in her hand had receded, partially due to the natural healing process, partially due to herbs which Myriam mixed into a creamy broth every night and which eased pain and gave sweet, beautiful dreams filled with vivid colours, she had found herself mellowing incredibly. Imminent danger was far ahead, the travelling not so hectic, and she found she was a far different girl from the slightly plump and naive creature who'd been about to enter the academic world of Jalder University. Now, Nienna's muscles had hardened, toned from weeks of marching and climbing, even fighting; her hands were calloused from chopping wood and gathering branches, and there was a toughness about her eyes. This was a girl who had witnessed death, observed horrors beyond the ken of most Falanor nobility. The experiences had strengthened her. Built her in character and resolve. Turned her from girl, to woman.
Kell snorted. "You're a dandy peacock bastard."
"You're a stinking old goat with a prolapse." Saark laughed, his laughter the decadent peal of raucous enjoyment found at any hedonistic Palace Feast.
Myriam shook her head again, somewhat in despair. "Saark! Stop! Listen, we passed some wild mushrooms back down the trail. Please please please, stop arguing, go back there and collect them for me. It would add a great deal to the meal."
Saark sighed. "Well, that depends on my reward." He winked.
Myriam tilted her head. Her eyes shone, but before she could answer Kell butted in, voice harsh. "You'll get the back of my hand if you don't, lad," he growled.
"Ahh, but I know you love me truly," smiled Saark, making Kell's scowl deepen further. Grabbing his sheathed rapier, he trotted off down the fast darkening path. "How far?" he shouted back.
"Ten minutes' walk," replied Myriam.
Saark nodded, and was gone. A ghost, vanished into the angular, bent trunks of the Iron Forest.
"Will he be all right?" said Nienna, face a mask of worry.
"The glib fool can look after himself," snorted Kell, returning to skinning the hare.
Saark trotted along, quite happy, vachine eyesight vivid in the darkness. He pondered the gift of the bite from Shanna, one of the Soul Stealers sent, not to kill him, as he had at first thought, but to bring him to Skaringa Dak for the resurrection – or summoning – of the Vampire Warlords. What had Myriam said? He'd been injected with blood-oil, which partially turned him into a vampire. Gave him many of the benefits, but without clockwork to make him truly vachine, then he would die. Saark snorted. He felt far from dead. In fact, he felt more alive than ever! Stronger, faster, tougher, with a higher tolerance to pain and an amazing rate of healing. Saark wondered what sort of match he would be for somebody like… Kell.
He grinned. No. Kell would still kick him down into the Bone Graveyard. After all, Kell was something special.
Saark stopped. He'd wandered a little off the trail, and rotated himself, eyes narrowing. There it was. In his meandering thoughts, he'd started through the twisted trunks of the Iron Forest.
"Damn."
The Iron Forest sprawled for perhaps ten or fifteen leagues, a haunted barrier between Jalder and the Black Pikes. This reputedly haunted stretch of woods was made up from ancient towering conifers, spruce and red pine, birch and blue sarl, and huge sprawls dominated by even more ancient oaks, perhaps five or six hundred years old, crooked and black as if their ancient trunks had been burned in savage forest fires. But the trees still managed to live on, in twisted blackened husks.
This woodland was the reason Jalder's walls had never spread far north. And it had also been one reason the Army of Iron, led by General Graal, had managed to covertly approach the city's northern defences without detection.
Saark shivered, suddenly looking around. It was a damned creepy place.
Even though the winter sky was still filled with witch-light, the forest was black. Long shadows and branch-filtered gloom did little to brighten the path. Saark shivered again, picking his way to the trail from which he had so fo
olishly strayed. He hated forests. And he especially hated forests at night. Saark was a creature of Palace Courts, of feasts and banquets, of jesters and music, laughing and dancing, long silk clothes and powdered wigs, thick white make-up, rouged lips, pungent perfume and slick eager quims. Saark's world was one of money and liquor, and endless long nights of drunken debauchery. Woods were for woodsmen. Forests were for peasants. The whole of the outdoors, in fact, the more Saark considered it, were a peasant's playground. How could one enjoy life grubbing for potatoes? Chopping wood? Slaughtering chickens? He shivered. Surely, that was a life worse than death? But here he was, ironically, stinking like a pauper and probably looking as bad as any vagrant who wandered the back-street gutters of Vor. Saark didn't dare look in a reflective pool; he was afraid of what he might see. Afraid of how far he'd fallen.
Reaching the path, Saark stopped. To his left, he heard a crack. He froze.
Horse shit, he thought. There's something there!
An animal? Or a man? He gave a little involuntary shiver, which tickled up and down his spine. He drew his rapier, and the steel shone cold in what trickles of light leaked through the forest canopy.
Saark breathed, a stream of chilled smoke.
Or… was it something worse?
A soldier. An albino soldier. Or maybe even a vachine. Maybe even a canker.
"Double horse shit," he muttered, his own unexpected utterance startling him. To his right, a clump of snow fell from slumped branches. It crunched through the woods in a subdued way, echoes bouncing back and forth from ancient gnarled trunks.
Saark swished his blade. Well, whatever it was, it'd better stay away from him! He'd gut it like a fish! Carve it like a duckling!
Saark looked left, and right. He decided wild mushrooms weren't such a culinary necessity after all, and what he really needed to do right at this moment in time was hurry back to the security and light of the campfire.
Above, snow started to fall.
Darkness finally drew a veil across the sky.
"You old bastard," he muttered, and began to pick his way back down the trail. Something moved, in the undergrowth to his right. It was something large, ponderous, and as Saark stopped, so the thing stopped.
It has to be a canker, thought Saark. His imagination flitted back, to those towering, powerful, snarling evil creatures, huge huge wounds in their flanks showing the twisted corrupted clockwork of their deviant manufacture. Kell had killed a fair few, the mighty Ilanna ripping through towering flesh and muscle and gears and cogs. But Saark? With his pretty little rapier? Against such a creature he was less than effective.
Saark began to creep. In the darkness, something stomped and changed direction, heading for the path. With a start of horror Saark realised it would cut him off. He broke into a panicked run, but ahead something huge loomed out of the darkness, stepping menacingly onto the trail, and its bulk was terrifying, its eyes demonic orbs in the gloom, a swathe of black fur running across its shadowed equine flanks, and Saark screamed, turning, slipping suddenly on iced roots and hitting the ground hard with his elbow, then his skull. Dazed for a moment, he realised he'd dropped his rapier and his right hand scrabbled blindly for the weapon as the great beast moved up the path towards him, looming over him like a terrible huge smoky demon, and Saark opened his mouth to scream as terrifying huge fangs descended for his throat…
"Eeyore," said the demon, and a long hairy muzzle dropped and nuzzled against Saark's chin, leaving a long slimy path of hot saliva across his stubble and wellgroomed moustache. Donkey breath washed over him. The donkey stepped back, and there came an unmistakable and unterrifying clop of donkey hooves.
"I… I just don't bloody believe it!"
Saark sat back on his arse, found his rapier, and with shaking fingers levered himself up from the icy trail. He stood, and stared at the donkey in the gloom.
"Eeyore," brayed the donkey.
Saark squinted. Then he rubbed his chin. Then he squinted again. He moved alongside the affable beast, and looked at the basket on its back. He rubbed his chin again. "And now I just don't bloody believe it! Mary! It's you, Mary! You came back over the mountains! It's me, Saark, your faithful owner, oh I'm so pleased to see you, so pleased you got away from those cankers and Soul Stealers, you must have come back through the Cailleach Fortress, then headed south down through the Iron Forest, following the trails until, by sheer coincidence, we were reunited! Joy!"
Saark stopped. He realised he was standing in the woods, talking to a donkey.
He rubbed her snout, and Mary nuzzled him. "Still. It's damn good to see you again, old friend." He grinned, and taking her loose dangling rope, led her on the trail back towards the adventurers' makeshift camp.
Stew was bubbling over the fire when Saark stepped triumphantly from the tunnel of trees. "Look, everyone!" he cried. "I found Mary in the woods! My faithful old donkey! She's come back to me from over the mountains! What a coincidence! It's a miracle!"
He beamed around, and Kell, glancing up, continued to sharpen Ilanna. "Good. Get her killed and gutted and skinned; we can put some donkey hooves in the stew."
"Ha ha," said Saark, smile wooden.
Kell stopped his honing and stared. "I'm serious. We're at risk of starving out here. As I've always maintained in the past, there's good eating on a donkey."
Mary brayed, nostrils flaring.
"You jest, surely?" said Saark.
"Leave him be," said Myriam, moving to examine the animal. It was indeed Mary, donkey, beast of burden, and Saark's honourable equine friend. She nuzzled Myriam's hand in a friendly fashion. "Are there any supplies still left in the basket?"
Saark rummaged around, and triumphantly produced dried beef, salt, sugar, coffee, arrows and blankets. "See, Kell, no need to kill my special friend. She has brought us much needed supplies! What a brave donkey. Yes you are, a brave donkey." He rubbed her snout.
Kell grunted.
Nienna moved close, and stroked Mary's muzzle. "I can't believe she found her way back. All that way!"
"Ahh, well," Saark stroked his neat moustache, "a clever creature, is your average donkey. You may think they're stubborn, and a bit docile, but I guarantee they have more brains than the majority of idiots you find in any smalltown tavern." He gave a meaningful glance to Kell, who was studiously ignoring both Saark and the donkey.
"Still. An incredible journey for a donkey," said Nienna. "Admirable. And that she managed to find you in the woods? What a stroke of luck!"
"She could smell his awful perfume," muttered Kell.
"You be quiet, old man," snapped Saark, bottom lip quivering a little, "just because you don't have a donkey of your own."
Kell stood, and stretched his back. He stared at Saark, a broad smile on his rough, bearded features. "Well lad," he grinned, and rubbed at his beard, and ran a hand through his shaggy, grey-streaked hair, and knuckled at weary eyes, then winked, "at least you'll have something to keep you warm under your blankets tonight, eh?"
And with that, he sauntered into the woods for a piss.
CHAPTER 5
Regular As Clockwork
Dawn was bright and crisp and cold. Snow clung to bare, angular branches, and in the magenta glow of a new morning the trees did indeed appear to be cast from iron. Most were huge, gaunt, stark against a brittle sky. Saark yawned, stretching, and opened his eyes to see Nienna sat by the fire, to which she'd added fuel and stoked it into life.
Saark rolled from under his blanket and shivered. "By the gods, it's cold out here."
"Did you sleep well, Saark?" Nienna didn't look up, but continued to prod the fire. Her voice was soft, lilting, like a delivery of fine soothing birdsong. Saark swallowed, and breathed deep.
"Yes, my sweet," he said.
She looked up then, and their eyes met, and Kell's snore interrupted the moment like a burst of crossbow quarrels. Saark glanced over to the old warrior, who had turned over in his slumber, boots poking from beneath his blanket. It
was as if he was mocking Saark, even in sleep. I am watching you, boy, the sleeping warrior seemed to say. Touch my granddaughter and I'll carve you a second arsehole.
Saark crossed and sat opposite Nienna. He watched her for a while, her delicate movements, and with a start he realised… On their long journey, she had changed – from child, to adult. From girl, to woman. She was harder, leaner, fitter. Her eyes were creased, and her face, on the one hand weary from endless travelling and the threat of being hunted, was also radiant with a new, inner strength. This was a woman who had stared into the Abyss, and come back from the brink.
"How are you feeling?" asked Saark.
Nienna tilted her head, giving a half shrug. "Tired. What I'd give for a hot bath."
"Me too." Saark coughed. "I mean, on my own, not, not with… you." He stumbled to a halt. Flames crackled. Wood spat. In the Iron Forest, snow fell from branches. Mary's hooves crunched snow.
