Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Book 3

by Andy Remic

  "We can go over the rooftops, to… there." She pointed. Kell nodded. "Come on. This is my area of expertise."

  They moved, climbing a sloped roof to a ridgeline and then halting. Kell glanced over the walls which surrounded Jalder. He could see the old garrison, once housing one of King Leanoric's Eagle Divisions; now deserted, the cobbles no doubt stained with the blood of the slain.

  Kell glanced back, down the hill towards the river, and saw the tiny square of his old house. His heart skipped a beat. You've come full circle, old man. You're back where you started. Back in Jalder. Back where the Army of Iron invaded. Where the ice-smoke drifted out and took so many lives, froze so many innocent people to be just cattle for the bloodthirsty vachine…

  He glanced at Myriam. Vachine.

  He shook his head.

  We must go, said Ilanna, her words soft and drifting through his skull. Kuradek awaits.

  And you want his blood?

  I want him to taste the Chaos Halls. To go back to where he belongs…

  Kell stood, but Myriam touched his arm. "Wait. Look."

  Kell glanced back to the distant battle. The vampires had pulled back. The men of Falanor, no doubt under instruction from Saark, Grak and Dekkar, were reorganising their lines. But then Kell saw something that made his heart leap into his mouth. By the gates of Jalder were Harvesters… a line of Harvesters, and their hands were above their heads, eyes fixed on the Falanor men… and around their feet swirled and billowed a huge globe of pulsing ice-smoke.

  "Horse shit," snarled Kell, his eyes bleak. And as his gaze drifted, through the falling snow, as if by instinct he looked to the north and saw the army that appeared through the haze. They marched in unity, black armour gleaming under winter sunlight, black helms and black swords proud and Kell's mouth went terribly dry. He could see they were an albino army, very much like the Army of Iron which had first taken Jalder. And they, combined with the summoning ice-smoke at the feet of the Harvesters before Jalder's gates… well, it did not bode well for the men of Falanor.

  "Come on!" hissed Myriam.

  "Look," said Kell, voice bleak, tears in his eyes. How could they battle such magick? How could they go to war against such evil – and even hope to win?

  "They will fight," snarled Myriam. "They will stand strong! Come! We have our own path. Come on!"

  They hurried across the rooftops, and Myriam signalled a place to climb to the ground. The streets were deserted, most vampires obviously out on the plain already fighting the Blacklippers and criminals of Falanor. Kell stood on the cobbles, and felt foolish. He felt lost. He felt a cold flood of desolation through his soul.

  Kill Kuradek, said Ilanna. You must do it! Now!

  Kell grasped the axe, and ground his teeth. They moved to a high iron gate set in a stone wall and grown about with wild white roses. The gate was open. It was almost as if Sara had anticipated their route, and Kell smiled at that.

  They moved down paths, and into the cool interior of the palace. High chambers were empty, but showed many signs of destruction. Polished wooden floors were scarred with hundreds of gouges from claws, and furniture lay in smashed heaps, vases shattered, bronze cups twisted and crushed and scattered; everything showed signs of decadence, of destruction, of disrespect.

  "I have a bad feeling," said Kell, voice low. He hefted Ilanna, and Myriam cranked her Widowmaker. It gleamed dully in grey light from the high windows.

  They moved through endless chambers, empty feasting halls, long high corridors with stone arches, many lined with statues of past kings and queens.

  "Where is the bastard?" snarled Kell, eventually, and they arrived at a sweeping set of stairs. They climbed, wary, weapons at the ready, and when they were halfway up there issued snarls…

  The vampires leapt from on high, snarling and spitting, and landed lightly before Kell and Myriam. One was a small, narrow-faced man, slim and wiry, his clothing torn, his hands curled into talons, his eyes blood-red and insane. Kell blinked in recognition, and licked his lips. This was Ferret, renowned through Jalder as a fighter, a thief, part of the hazy criminal underworld. He had a reputation. He was a Syndicate Man. But they'd got to him… the bastard vampires had got to him…

  The second vampire was a girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She was slim, with dark skin, her eyes shadowed, her face twisted into the bestial. On her fingers were expensive rings set with huge gems, a contrast to her pale vampire flesh, her yellow, crooked vampire claws…

  They attacked, in a blur, Ferret launching at Kell who slammed his axe up in a vertical strike, catching Ferret in the chest and lifting him, carrying him, flinging him back down the marble steps and onto the smooth marble floor beyond, where he skidded on all fours like an animal, and came charging straight back at Kell…

  "No!" hissed Myriam, but Rose was on her, spitting and snarling and there was a slam as the Widowmaker kicked in Myriam's hand, and Rose was lifted vertically into the air, arms and legs paddling, face snarling, blood and strings of flesh drooling from her fangs and Myriam took a step back, aimed, and sent a second bolt hammering into Rose's face. Rose catapulted backwards, her head caved in, face gone, and lay twitching on the steps. Myriam whirled, saw Ferret leap high but Kell ducked, a swift neat movement, Ilanna slamming overhead and hitting Ferret between the legs, cutting straight through his balls and up to wedge in his abdomen. Both Ferret and Ilanna continued the arc, hitting the steps and wrenching the axe from Kell's grasp. He cursed. Ferret squirmed, claws ringing against Ilanna's blades as he tried to drag the axe free from his trapped body. Kell drew his Svian, and moved to Ferret squirming on the steps. Kell smiled, a warm smile of sympathy, and of empathy, and there was compassion in his eyes. "I'm sorry, lad. Really I am," Kell whispered, voice low, and soothing, and he punched the Svian through Ferret's heart. The small man went still, muscles relaxing, and blood pooled under his body, rolling down the steps in a narrow stream, dripping from one to the next until it finally slowed, and all that could be heard in the huge hall was the tiny drip drip drip.

  Myriam reclaimed her bolts, and reloaded the Widowmaker. She glanced over at Kell.

  "You all right?"

  "No."

  "It's going to get worse."

  "I know. Come on. Let's put this fucking Vampire Warlord out of his misery."

  Saark was breathing deep, and he touched tenderly at his ribs where a vampire's claws had sliced him down to the bone. But damn, he thought, they were sharp. And fast! Too fast. Faster than him. Suddenly, his vachine status didn't feel so menacing…

  "Come on, Kell, come on, Kell," he muttered, watching the vampires retreat. They were hard, and fast, but the stout men of Falanor were standing their ground well and inflicting punishing casualties on the vampires. Long spears for repelling charges, and short stabbing swords for close-quarters combat were a devastating combination. The battlefield was littered with hundreds, even thousands, of dead vampires. Those that didn't disintegrate into oily puddles or smoke.

  "How you doing, lad?" said Grak, slapping Saark on the shoulder. Saark groaned. He felt like one huge bruise.

  "I feel like a big fat whore sat on my face."

  "I thought you would have enjoyed that?"

  Saark eyed Grak. The man was oblivious to sarcasm. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I would, at that. How long before they come back?"

  "Not long," snapped Grak, peering out from the shield wall. "Shit. What in the name of the Bone Halls are those?"

  Saark stared, and his mouth went dry. From beyond the gates of Jalder emerged a line of Harvesters. They wore white robes patterned with gold thread. They were tall, with small black eyes and hissing maws, but it was those long fingers of bone which attracted Saark's attention. He had seen up close what they could do. And they frightened him, deep down in a primal place.

  "They're Harvesters," said Saark.

  "They look mean. Do they fight?"

  "They use magick," whispered Saark, and even as he watched, the ground began
to blossom with surges of summoned ice-smoke. "Bad magick. Magick that freezes a man, renders him unable to fight. We must retreat, Grak! We must run!"

  "Are you crazy?" snapped Grak. "If we run, if we break ranks, the bastards will slaughter us from behind! They'll pick us off like children!"

  Saark saw the white clouds starting to billow. The Harvesters became shrouded in ice-smoke.

  "They'll freeze us, here, where we stand!" hissed Saark, eyes crazy. "Then suck out our blood. I've seen it done! I've seen this before…"

  "Sir!" snapped a soldier, slamming to a halt.

  "What is it?" frowned Grak.

  "Soldiers, sir. Lots of soldiers."

  "Where?"

  "To the north."

  Grak and Saark ran around the fighting square, and stopped, dumbfounded. There, on a low hill, stood at least five thousand albino warriors. They wore black armour, black helms, carried black swords, and their shields were emblazoned with a brass image.

  "Holy Mother," said Grak, and drew his sword. "We cannot fight two armies! On two flanks! We will be crushed!"

  "We must flee the battlefield," urged Saark.

  "No! We must stand! We must fight!"

  "We cannot!"

  "Archers!" screamed Grak, and turned, glancing to the square of women with bows strung, arrows stuck in the snow by their boots. He glanced back to the Harvesters. Ice-smoke billowed, and started creeping across the ground towards the men of Falanor… and the vampires stood, smiling, watching, claws flexing, blood-red eyes fixed on their prey…

  There came a shouted command from the hilltop, and Saark drew his own sword. His mind was blank, mouth dry, bladder full of piss. They were going to die. Frozen. Cut down. Smashed apart like ripe fruit. "Shit shit shit," he muttered. "HORSE SHIT!"

  The Army of Brass, led by General Exkavar, drew their swords with eerie precision, with the rhythm of a single machine… and charged down the hill towards the Falanor army in ghostly, flowing silence…

  The room was filled with incredible opulence. From carved cherrywood chests, brass and gold urns, rich oil paintings covering huge expanses of wall, thick velvet curtains and drapes, carpets as thick as a man's fist covering the floors; well, it was a room fit for royalty.

  At the centre, before the heavy, oak four-poster bed, stood Kuradek.

  Kuradek, the Unholy.

  "You came," he said, smoke curling around his smoke lips. And he smiled.

  Kell and Myriam, who had been in the act of creeping into the room thinking Kuradek was in some kind of fugue, froze. They had waited a good ten minutes, watching him, but the Vampire Warlord had ceased to move, to breathe, apparently, to live. But he was alive. Alive and waiting.

  "Well, we didn't want to let you down, boy," growled Kell, pushing his shoulders back and hoisting Ilanna.

  Be calm, she said.

  Until the… Time.

  Kell stepped forward, and breathed deeply, and stared up at the towering figure of Kuradek, last seen on Helltop after his summoning from the Chaos Halls by General Graal.

  "I thought you'd be bigger," said Kell.

  "I knew you would come," said Kuradek. "It is written."

  "What, prophecies again?" mocked Kell. "Give it a rest, you smoke-filled bastard. Now then." He pointed. "You know what I want. You know why I'm here. If you don't fuck off back to the Chaos Halls, I'm going to give you a damn good spanking and send you home with your tail between your legs."

  Kuradek chuckled. "You think to challenge me, mortal? How?" He was genuinely amused. It was a genuine question.

  "With this!" said Kell, shaking Ilanna at the Vampire Warlord.

  The huge figure was silent for some time, as if analysing Kell and his weapon. Myriam, by the door, was of no consequence. Forgotten. Worse than forgotten: dismissed.

  "One of the Three," said Kuradek, finally. "Well done. Still, She will not be enough."

  "She is blood-bond," said Kell, gently, head lowered, eyes glittering dark. "And you know what that means."

  "Then show me!" snarled Kuradek, and his huge long arms shot out, claws reaching for Kell who stepped back, and Ilanna smashed out left, then right, striking Kuradek's arms away. But incredibly, as they were slapped away, Ilanna's fearsome blades failed to penetrate the smoke flesh. Kuradek stepped forward, stooping, and behind Kell Myriam's Widowmaker hummed with clockwork and a bolt struck Kuradek straight in the face. The bolt was swallowed. Kuradek laughed. He moved with a hiss, so swift Kell was slammed aside, crashing through vases and a finely carved dressing table, turning them to tinder, hitting the wall and then the floor, winded, mind a blank, stunned by the speed and ferocity of Kuradek. Of the Vampire Warlord. "You think a fucking mortal could fight me?" he snarled, and held Myriam by the throat, two feet from the ground, her legs dangling, her face turning purple. "You think to challenge the might of the Vampire Warlords?" he shrieked, and threw Myriam who disappeared through the doorway, tumbling and rolling, flapping and slapping stone flags until she came to rest in the distance, useless and broken.

  Kell climbed to his feet. He felt like an old man.

  He stared at the smoke fangs. He stared hard at those blood-red eyes, glowing like coals.

  He tried to summon Ilanna, but she was silent.

  He tried to summon the rage from the Days of Blood… but it would not come. It had gone, deserted him, left him here like a lamb to die. To be sucked dry. To be slaughtered…

  Kell stood his ground, pushing against the terrible fear which invaded him. "I have killed your kind before!" he growled, but his voice came out like a mewl from a frightened kitten.

  "Not like me," said Kuradek, and there was a flash, a blur, and he was beside Kell, towering over Kell, looking down with those red eyes and Kell was frozen, could do nothing, and he realised in horror he was charmed by the vampire. Charmed, using blood-oil magick, a dirty back-hand trick. Kell snarled, but it was as if he was manacled in prison irons.

  Kuradek leaned forward. His eyes were an inch from Kell's.

  "You see. I have you in my power. Such an easy thing. Such a simple thing to disable the great Kell. Kell, the Legend?" Kuradek laughed, a low mocking sound, and smoked curled from his mouth, and entered Kell's lungs, and made him choke.

  "I would say your time is done."

  Kuradek's head lowered, and his fangs sank into Kell's throat…

  CHAPTER 14

  The Days of Blood

  Kell stood in the razed city. Around him, corpses burned. He was naked. He was smeared with the blood of a thousand people. Men. Women. Children. He laughed, and there was insanity in his mind, in his heart, in his soul. These were the Days of Blood. This was what Ilanna promised. Do it, said the voice, only this voice was not human, it was the voice of the axe, the primal voice of Ilanna – one of the Three. We must be blood-bond. For the future. For survival. Kell strode through the streets. When people ran before him, Ilanna cut out, chopping off legs and arms, lopping off heads. Bodies toppled at his feet, dead before they hit the ground. Gore splattered his legs. His toes squelched through pulped flesh. The gutters ran red. The cobbles were slick. Kell walked, and walked, and walked, and it took an eternity, and he wondered if sometimes he were dreaming, or in Hell, in the Bone Halls, in the Chaos Halls. He did not need food, or water, he wanted for nothing. Only constant slaughter. Only constant rampage. And the rage in him was terrible, all-consuming, and he was not human, he was not mortal. His blood flowed like lava. He had become an infection. A plague. A creature created to…

  Fight.

  The Impure.

  To kill the impure, you must become impure. To eradicate evil, you must absorb the essence of evil. You must dance with the devils, Kell, you must be consumed by the Days of Blood, for only that way can you truly understand your greatest enemies, only that way can you become the nemesis of clockwork, of vampire, of wolf, of dragon, of all those other dark dreams which will come to plague Falanor during the following years…

  It is written, Kell.

/>   In the Oak Testament.

  It is written you will be a killer, and a saviour.

  It is written you must be impure, and pure.

  It is written you shall never have redemption.

  It is written you shall be a slave for all eternity.

  Kell nodded, and walked, and accepted his fate, and reached the house and she was there, his sweet wife Ehlana, slim and naked, lying on the bed, and she glanced up and fear infused her eyes, fear and confusion and horror, and then she recognised him, and started to rise –

  "Kell?"

  "Shh," he said, and Ilanna slammed down, but the blades did not smash her apart as they would normal flesh and blood and bone, they cut into her spirit, and with a cry, a simple "No!" she was drawn from her body which shrivelled and died, sucked free of fluid, sucked free of fire, sucked free of her terrible dark magick and Ehlana, Kell's wife, Kell's love, was taken and absorbed into the axe. She melded with steel. Wasn't that the spell she cast? To make Kell immortal. To make Kell a Legend. She had seen the visions. She had seen the following darkness. And they needed a hero. They needed somebody who could fight the demons. But her pact with the Grellorogan gods needed more. They needed life. They needed blood. They need love. They needed magick. Her dark blood. Her dark magick. And so Ehlana, reading the prophecies, casting her spells, creating the ultimate killer, the ultimate champion for King Searlan of Falanor… so she gave her own life, and love, and magick.