by Andy Remic
"It looks like a prison," said Saark.
"It is."
"I know. I'm just saying."
"Searlan wanted his bastards to stay put. That's what they called themselves, back in the bad old days. Searlan's Bastards."
"I expect you put a few good men away there as well, did you?"
"No."
"No?"
"No good men. Only scum."
"How many?"
"What does it matter?" Kell's eyes gleamed. More snow was falling, and the gloom made him look eerie; a giant amongst men, bear-like, with his looming, threatening mass, his bearskin, his huge paws. It was easy to forget he was over sixty years old.
"I'm just contemplating, right, what happens if we get inside that place and a few of the old prisoners recognise you? You understand? Old fuckers carrying some twenty year pent-up grudge. After all, I've known you but a few sparse months, and I already want you dead."
"Thanks very much."
"I'm just being honest."
"Listen, Saark. I must have put over a hundred men in there. And if they cross me again, they'll have a short sharp conversation with Ilanna. You understand?"
"You can't kill a hundred men, Kell. Be reasonable."
"Fucking watch me," he growled. "Come on. Get your shit. I know the Governor, a man called Myrtax. He's a good man, a fair man. As long as he kept those gates shut, even the Army of Iron would have struggled to breach the defences; and I doubt very much this pipe in the arsehole of Hell was high on Graal's invasion agenda."
They moved down a narrow track which led to a wide open, bleak killing field. As they moved across barren rock and snow, Kell pointed to four high towers.
"Each tower can take fifty archers. That's two hundred arrow men raining down sudden death. And out here," he opened his arms wide, "there's nowhere to hide."
"You fill me with a happy confidence," said Saark, voice dry.
"I try, lad. I try."
They moved warily across the killing ground, heads lifted, eyes watching the towers for signs of archers, or indeed, any military activity. But they were bare. Silent. The whole place reeked of desertion.
They drew closer. A cold wind blew, whipping snow viciously and slapping it into exposed faces. Nienna gasped frequently, her breath snapped away, an ice shock sending shivers down her spine.
Eventually, they were in shouting distance and Kell halted, Ilanna thunking to the snow, Kell stroking his beard as he surveyed the formidable wall and massive gates before him.
"IS ANYBODY THERE?" he rumbled, deep voice rolling out across the bleak prison fortress. Echoes sang back at him from the walls, from the vertical mountain flanks, from the slick, ice-rimed rocks. The wind howled, an eerie, high-pitched ululation.
Silence followed. A long, haunting silence.
"There's nobody here, Kell."
"I don't understand. Why would Myrtax give up his castle? He was a brave man. Loyal to the King."
"The King is dead," said Saark, weary now, sighing.
"Hmm."
There came a crack, and a head appeared over the icy crenellations. "By all the gods, Kell, is that you?"
"Governor Myrtax?"
"It's been a long time. Wait there, I'll come down and open the gate."
"Where are the prisoners?" frowned Kell, hand on his axe.
"Gone, Kell. All gone. Wait there. I'll be but a few moments; I have warm stew, a fire, and hot blankets inside. You must have travelled far."
Kell nodded, and rubbed once more at his frosted beard.
"Wonderful!" beamed Saark. "A little bit of civilisation, at last! I'd wager he has some fine ale in there as well, and all we need to make the evening complete is a couple of buxom happy daughters, and…"
"Saark!" snapped Nienna.
"What?"
"Saark!" Her frown deepened.
"I am simply pointing out that a buxom wench could be considered a luxury in these parts." He shrugged. "You know how it is, with me and buxom wenches."
"I certainly do," said Nienna, her voice more icy than the frozen battlements.
Governor Myrtax opened the huge, thick door, which in turn was set in the fifty foot high gates which guarded the prison wall; he stood, a beaming smile on his face, a well-built man who had run to fat. His hair was shaved close to the scalp, and peppered with grey. He wore a full beard, a mix of black and ash, and his eyes were dark, intelligent, and friendly.
Myrtax opened his arms. "Kell! It's been too long! No happy prisoners for me this time?"
"No," snapped Kell, and stepped forward, hugging the man. "Sorry. Not this time. But give a few months and I'll have ten thousand heads on spikes for you!"
"Are things that bad, to the south?"
"King Searlan is dead."
"No!" Myrtax drew in a sharp breath, and his face went serious. "That is grave news indeed." He glanced around, up and down the snowy field where the wind blasted gusts of loose snow in rhythmical, vertical curtains. "Better come inside. We've had Blacklippers sniffing around, the dirty, oil-taking bastards."
Kell nodded, and ushered Nienna and Saark before him. They moved into a long, dark killing tunnel, high roofed and with balconies for archers and stone-throwers used in times of siege. They walked a short way along, and Saark glanced up nervously.
"Don't worry lad. We can trust Myrtax."
Myrtax had stopped next to the second portal. Beyond, they could see black cobbles and streaks of ice. Myrtax turned, lifted his hands, and his eyes fixed on Kell and his eyes were haunted, filled with guilt, and with grief. "I'm sorry, Kell."
There came a rattle of activity and above the three travellers, on the high killing balconies, rose fifty men, convicts, murderers, dressed in rag-tag furs and armour and each sporting a powerful crossbow.
"Truly. I am sorry."
A tear ran down Myrtax's cheek. "They have my wife. They have my little ones. What could I do, man? What could I do?"
"Throw down your weapons," came a gruff bark.
"There's only fifty of you," snorted Kell, dark eyes moving across the ranks of men. But Saark's hand touched his shoulder, and he knew what the dandy meant. Nienna. There was always Nienna. Like a splinter in his side, removing his strength, castrating his fury. "Damn."
Saark tossed down his rapier, and Nienna threw down her short sword and knives.
Reluctantly, Kell rested his great, black axe against the wall. His shoulders sagged. They had him.
Three men pushed into the tunnel, and shoved Myrtax aside where he stumbled against the wall, going down on one knee. They arranged themselves before the travellers, and each wore a snarl as ugly as his features.
"I am Dandall," said the first, a tall, narrow-faced man in his fifties with slanted green eyes. He had scars on his cheeks, and long, bony fingers.
"I am Grey Tail," said the smaller of the three. He was a head shorter than Dandall, slim and wiry, his face round and almost trustworthy, if it wasn't for the black lips of imbibed blood-oil which tainted him with its curse. Kell saw the man's hands were shaking, probably withdrawal from his drug of choice. The veins stood out on the backs of his hands, on his throat, black, as if etched in ink through his pale white skin, a relief roadmap pointing straight towards Hell and damnation to come – for that was where he would soon travel. When a Blacklipper became so marked, he had only limited time on the face of the world. He carried a small black crossbow, which quivered even as his fingers quivered.
"And I am Jagor Mad, because I'm mad," rumbled the third, a huge bear of a man, a good head taller than Kell and rippling with muscle like an overstuffed canvas sack. His head was misshapen, and riddled with scars and dents. His nose was twisted, and stubble grew unevenly around wide scar tissue tracts. His fists were clenched, and he carried no weapon like the other two, who both wore short swords. His eyes were gleaming, and his gaze never left Kell.
"I remember you, Jagor Mad," said Kell, almost amiably, although his eyes gleamed in the gloom. "I put one of those
big dents in your dumb head, if I remember it rightly. I reckon it should have knocked some sense into you, but I can see I'm fucking wrong."
Growling, Jagor Mad stepped forward, but Dandall's bony fingers spread out, his arm blocking the huge man's path.
"Let me kill him, Dandall, let me rip out his windpipe with my teeth!"
"Not yet," said Dandall, voice soft. He focused on Kell. "You put us all here, my large and wearisome friend. But now," and he laughed, a nasal whining like spent vachine gears, "now we three are the Governors of the Black Pike Mines. Behind these doors, we have three thousand new soldiers, our new model army! Once, they were convicts, and Blacklippers and scum, the freaks and the murderers, the outcast from pretty little Falanor, but now they're under our command and we rule these damn mountains, this mine and this fucking fortress!"
Dandall motioned, and Grey Tail stepped forward. The crossbow lifted, suddenly hissed and took Kell in the shoulder, punching the large man backwards. He stumbled, but righted himself. He grasped the bolt protruding from his flesh, and blood pumped out through his fingers. His eyes glowed. "Just like a coward," he growled, voice dripping liquid hate, as Jagor Mad stepped forward and with a devastating right hook knocked Kell to the ground. Jagor put one knee on Kell's chest, and grabbed the bolt. He applied weight, and Kell groaned like a dying wolf. Saark leapt forward, but a rattle of bolts from the balcony above clattered around him on the cobbles, and Saark did a crazy dance, hands over his head, trying his best not to get pierced.
"We got you now, Kell old boy," Jagor Mad spat, furious scarred face looming down at Kell as if from a toxin-induced nightmare. "And you know what?"
Kell was swimming, not because of the pain or the bolt – he'd been shot before. But because of the drugs coating the bolt's tip, which even now entered his system forcing him down into a realm of drifting unconsciousness. And as he swam deeper and deeper down down down, losing control, losing connection, down into the inky void of bitter lost dreams and terminal disappointments, so Jagor Mad's last words rattled in his thumping, crashing skull…
"Get the girl. We'll torture her first."
CHAPTER 8
Prison Steel
When Kell came round, he was lying in a dark cave, bright winter sunlight spilling in unwelcome and unholy, and thumping his already pounding head with big new fists. For a few moments he thought he'd been on the whiskey again, down that hole, locked in that dungeon, and a terrible dread stole over him and he rifled frantically through the pages of his fractured memory. But then, like the break of a new dawn, images slowly filtered back through the upper reaches of consciousness. Black Pike Mines. Dandall, Grey Tail and Jagor Mad. Crossbow bolt. Right hook… Kell clutched for the bolt, but it had been removed, his shoulder bound with a torn section of shirt which he recognised as Saark's fine lace frippery. Great, he thought. Just what I need. Saved from death by a dandy idiot.
"Don't worry. There's no badness in there. And if there was, I'll be damned if I was sucking on your foul necrotic flesh."
Kell groaned, clutching his head, and sat up like a bear emerging from hibernation. His dark shirt was torn and bloodstained. The world swam. Then, he thought of Nienna.
He rose, like a colossus, and strode at Saark. "Where's my granddaughter?" he roared.
"It's fine, Kell, don't panic," Saark held up his hands, "that Jagor Mad was just putting his fist up your arse. Giving you something big and hard to worry about. I can see her from here, she's tied up in one of the cells across the way. Over there." He pointed. Kell squinted.
Kell took a few moments to analyse his surroundings. To his right loomed the great wall of the Black Pike Mine fortress, containing hefty stone barricades replete with steps and towers on which soldiers could defend against any opposing force. The valley floor ran pretty straight, pretty flat, and was lined to either side by hundreds, no… thousands of cells, all carved into the natural rocky walls and fitted with sturdy iron bars. Kell and Saark had been locked in one of these. Nienna, in another.
"Why didn't they separate us two?" he grunted.
"They didn't want you dying; gave me a needle and thread, had me patch you up good."
"Why the hell would they do that? There's three hundred men out there must surely want my blood."
"I thought you said a hundred?" Saark shook his head. "Anyway, they, er, they said something about sport, and entertainment, words of that calibre, and then something about a trial. They don't want you dead. Not yet. Not before you suffered as, I assume, they feel they have suffered under your rough justice." Saark's eyes were gleaming, and he grinned at Kell without humour. "They want to play, Kell," he said.
Kell digested this information. He finally caught sight of Nienna across the valley floor, and gave her a wave, but she seemed lost in a half-sleep, staring at the roof of her cave cell. Kell's tongue probed his dry mouth, and he cursed these people, and cursed the drugs they'd used to incapacitate him. By the Bone Halls, he thought, they'd better finish him off next time or he'd crack a few skulls!
Kell's gaze swept left and right. He could see, perhaps, three hundred men. They were roughshod, most quite stocky from years working in the Black Pike Mines. These were Falanor's worst, most grim and nasty criminals. The murderers, rapists, smugglers, child-killers. Kell stared at them with uncontrolled disgust, and an even bigger disgust at what he must do. He sighed. It was the only choice he had.
"So, come on then," said Saark. He was looking sideways at Kell, eyes narrowed. "What's the big plan now, eh? You managed to get us caught pretty bad, with your so-called ooh Governor Myrtax is totally trustworthy and we can go in and get something to eat old horse shit. And they've gone and captured Mary. I tell you something, if they cook my donkey, there'll be hell to pay."
"Stop whining."
"Give me some answers then, damn you!"
"Listen to the demands of Saark, the wonderful, masterful, all-powerful vachine shagging vachine coward. I didn't see you doing much to help when they peppered me with fucking crossbow bolts!"
"It was one bolt, Kell. Hark at the power of a man's exaggeration!"
"You're a fine one to speak. If anybody believed your tales, you'd have impregnated half of Falanor by now!"
"Maybe I have! They do say I have a certain way with the women."
"Yeah, and I bet you carry enough pox to drop a battalion. Now shut your mouth, Saark, and tell me what they did with my axe."
Saark frowned, then rubbed his bruised face. He, too, had taken a beating at the hands of Jagor Mad. As the huge oaf declared, he was indeed, at least partially, mad. But then, Saark was getting used to taking a beating in the fiery orbit of Kell's legend. After all, that's what friends were for, no?
"They dumped it in one of the cells, I think. Along with Nienna and the rest of our weapons. It's got to be said, Kell, sometimes I wonder who you love the most: Nienna, or that damn axe?"
"The axe'll never let me down," growled Kell, face locked in a terrible anger. "Now listen to me, Saark. This is the plan."
"Wonderful!"
"Take the grin off your powdered mug before I damn well knock it clear. Things are about to get serious, and you need to know what to do."
"Go on, then. Stun me with the geometry of your tactician's mind."
"I'm going to win over the criminals here, and we'll form them into a fighting unit, into an army, and march on the Vampire Warlords! We will take the battle to the enemy. We will attack, first Jalder, then Gollothrim, then Vor. We will kill the Vampire Warlords. We will stop the vampire plague."
There was a long silence. Outside, somewhere high in the mountains, an avalanche boomed. Crashing echoes reverberated from on high, a deafening and terrifying sound which gradually faded into drifting echoes, like a scattering of loose snow.
"Kell, even for you that's madder than a mad dog's dinner."
"Meaning?"
"Well, where do I begin? For a start, all the bastards here hate you and want your blood and spleen. The Vampire Wa
rlords are, er, indestructible. How can you train an army out of scum? What sorry fool will do the training? And even more importantly, even if, and this is a big if, you persuaded three thousand hardened criminals to join your cause, what would stop them being criminals the minute we set foot back in the real world? They'd be straight back to killing and raping, I'd wager."
"Yeah. But we have the upper hand."
"Which is?"
"They have no idea what's happening, out there, in Falanor. They saw the Army of Iron passing through, they rebelled against Governor Myrtax and took over the fortress. They have no idea about Jalder being overrun, or Vor or the gods only know how many other damn cities. They know nothing of King Leanoric dying in battle, or of the cankers or the destruction of Silva Valley."
