by Andy Remic
“There must be a way off here,” said Saark, voice calm. “You wait here, guard the steps. I’ll see if I can find a ramp, or gantry, or some other way to the roof of another building.”
Saark moved around the outside wall of the tower block, each footstep chosen with care, with precision; below, the tower interior was like a huge, sour-smelling throat. Growls echoed up to meet him.
Saark stopped. He looked across the vast, rotting decadence of Old Skulkra. Beyond the walls he could see the enemy: the Army of Iron. A great sorrow took his heart, then, and crushed it in his fist. He realised with bitterness that General Graal had won. He had crushed Falanor’s armies as if they were children. He had obliterated their soldiers, and…now what?
Saark frowned. From this vantage point he could see the Great North Road, snaking north and south, a meandering black ribbon through hills and woodland, all peppered with snow. To the west he could make out the sprawl of Vorgeth Forest, stretching off for as far as they eye could see. But there, on the road, he could see…
Saark rubbed his eyes. His swollen eye had opened a little, but still he could not understand what he witnessed. Huge, black, angular objects seemed to fill the Great North Road; from the ancient connecting roads of Old Skulkra heading north, for as far as the eye could see. Saark stroked his moustache, mouth dry, fear an ever-present and unwelcome friend.
“The Blood Refineries,” said Kell, making Saark jump.
“What?”
“On the road. That’s what you can see. The vachine need them to refine blood; and they need blood-oil to survive.”
Saark considered this. “They have brought their machinery with them?”
“Yes.” Kell nodded. He was sombre. Below, they heard a fresh growl, a snarl, and the scrabble of slashing claws. The cankers had found a way past the collapsed stairwell. They were on their way up.
“So they’ve won?” said Saark.
“No!” snarled Kell. “We will fight them. We will fight them to the bitter end!”
“They will massacre our people,” said Saark, tears in his eyes.
“Aye, lad.”
“The men, the women, the children of Falanor.”
“Aye. Now take out your sword. There’s work to be done.” Kell strode to the opening leading to the stairwell. The cankers were growing louder. There were many, and their snarls were terrifying.
Saark stood beside Kell, his rapier out, his eyes fixed on the black maw of the opening.
“Kell?”
“Yes, Saark?”
“We’re going to die up here, aren’t we?”
Kell laughed, and it contained genuine humour, genuine warmth. He slapped Saark on the back, then rubbed thoughtfully at his bloodied beard, and with glittering eyes said, “We all die sometime, laddie,” as the first of the cankers burst from the opening in a flurry of claws and fangs and screwed up faces of pure hatred.
With a roar, Kell leapt to meet them.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks must go to various people for advice and encouragement along the way, especially when the road glittered dark. Thanks to Ian Graham, author of Monument, for hardcore test reading, insightful advice and hallucinating the cankers. Cool!
Thanks to Green Sonia the Savage, for encouraging me to write for insane periods of time in order to hit those deadlines, and never moaning.
Thanks to Joe Blade and Olly Axe, for making me smile when the forest seemed dark.
And thanks to Marc Gascoigne, for giving me a fresh crossbow-shot at scribing fantasy. I owe a few tankards of honey-mead!
Finally, a big thank you to Claire and Natalie Ralph, for their original inspiration and for being such good little vampires.
Extras…
20 MINUTES INSIDE THE MIND OF
Andy Remic
As part of getting to truly know our authors, we sometimes like to throw a bunch of quickfire questions their, see if we can get a glimpse of what they really think. And then, well, we lobbed some of those questions at Rem…
One book
Legend by David Gemmell. I read it when I was 15 years old, and it was extremely influential. I later struck up a friendship with Dave, and he never forgave me for a critique I once did (circa 1990) in which I said one of his novels had elements of the “turkey” in it. He said his book had never been described as fowl before, and I was lucky not to receive a right hook.
One book to burn
I don’t really criticise other writers’ works if I can help it. Authors, without exception, work incredibly hard, even if a book is perceived as “ready to burn”, so I leave the acid to “professional critics”.
One film
This would have to be Blade Runner, extremely influential and dark, moody, violent, intelligent, and based on a superb Phil Dick source text! Although I do have a secret passion which will guarantee small children point at me and laugh—I love those old Conan films. “Conan, what is best in life…”
One film to burn
What do I hate? Hmm. I think it’s got to be The Wizard of Oz. Everybody bangs on about how brilliant it is; I thought it was a pile of sputum. Go on, burn it. As an aside, I am pretty good at burning things myself. I set fire to my decking a few weeks back using petrol on a BBQ; dumb, I know, and I nearly died, but on the upside the firemen thought it was pretty funny (especially as my brother is a fireman), and I got an invitation from Keith Flint to his annual summer party. Firestarter? Twisted firestarter? Surely not.
One song/record
“Green and Grey” by New Model Army, from the album Thunder and Consolation. Just perfect. But it’s closely followed by Cypress Hill’s “Tequilas Sunrise” from IV. That’s more than one, right? Hot damn, I wish I could count.
One record to smash
Showwadaawaddywaddy, or however the bastard you spell it. Hell! It’s hell, I tell you. I bought an album when I was 10 years old. The shame. The horror. The horror. Kurtz, kill me now.
One creative person you always wanted to be
JRR Tolkien. Think of those royalty statements!! And of course, he was a genius masquerading as a university lecturer. Or maybe a university lecturer masquerading as a genius.
One book you wish you’d written
Harry Potter. Very well written, and just think of those fat royalty statements!
Who’s your hero?
Justin Sullivan, of New Model Army, who ironically sang, “There are no heroes anymore”.
Ideal dinner party guests
Why, that would be the wonderful people from Angry Robot Books. OK, aided and abetted by New Model Army, and hell, why not, the cast from Twilight. Yes, I am getting back in touch with my teen roots. Although it has to be said, if Milla Jovovich popped in, I wouldn’t deny her a sausage.
The biggest influence on your writing
David Gemmell, recently departed King of Heroic Fantasy. Sorry. It’s just the way it is. Because of Dave, I started writing seriously, and indeed started writing heroic fantasy.
The biggest influence on your life
My dad. A complex one this, so I won’t go into it here (it’s part of my PhD, it’s that complex). He was as close to a hero you could get or hope for. He escaped from two prisoner-of-war camps, and he shot some Nazis. Wish I’d been there.
Got a nickname?
Jappo. It’s a long story. Oh yes, and there was one at school—Mugsy, after the old Melbourne House Spectrum game about gangsters. And, I believe, some cheeky monkey scamp kids used to call me Captain Ginger Beard when I was a teacher, bless their little cotton chainsaws.
Tell us a joke
It’s a rude one. It’s about this fat woman. And her fat husband…No, no, my reputation is already bad enough to kill a skunk at fifty yards, without making it worse. I’m trying to keep my big stupid mouth shut. I’m trying, anyway.
Support a team?
No. I believe football (soccer, haha) has become a pure game of pure money. An absolute business transaction!! And I do not subscribe to mo
ney unless it’s buying me a new motorbike.
What do you sing in the shower
I don’t sing. I scrub. I am a scrubber.
Any notable pets?
Yes, Samson, my big fat chocolate Labrador who starred in my first three Spiral books. He’s dead now, bless him, the stubborn teddy-shagging mongrel, but now I have an insane Border Collie called Fizz (not my choice) who puts me to shame on technical ridge-lines at the top of mountains by bounding around like a mountain goat on mescaline whilst I cling in fear to the edges of high rocks. What a bitch.
Earliest memory?
Being naked in a paddling pool in Yugoslavia in 1976. The humiliation, I tell you! My mother has a photo. The bitch.
First story you told?
I was about 7 or 8. I wrote a novel called The Four-Headed Monster. It was about a Four-Headed Monster. I told it to the class. They were suitably impressed (as 7 and 8 year olds are by a Four-Headed Monster).
First story you sold?
My first novel, Spiral, to Orbit Books. Thank you, Tim Holman;-)
What do you say when people ask “Where do you get your ideas from?”
Ideas come from anywhere and everywhere, from books and films, conversations and sex, whisky and demons. You must mash it all up in a big pan, add a splash of rum, mix it with a Big Spoon™ and cook at 190 for about 1 hour 40 minutes. Then you may have the workings of a story.
Do you have an unusual talent or skill?
I can sword fight (really), am a superb cook (forget that amateur Ramsey bloke), and have been known to wield a chainsaw. You’ve got to be careful with a chainsaw, though, because it is amoral and can easily cut off your own leg.
Best place you ever visited?
Kenya, Africa. Magical and surreal. Went on safari, and watching elephants coming to the watering hole at sunset has to rank up there with All Time Great Moments. It was highly amusing when a huge bull elephant took exception to the nearby watering hole dining experience, and charged at the couples enjoying a romantic meal—you’ve never seen fat people move so damn fast.
Favourite building or structure?
Peel Tower, Ramsbottom. My original cycling haunt. The times I’ve sat on those steps drinking coffee in the rain/snow/sleet and setting the world to rights with my mate, Jake. Eee. Those wer’t days, lad.
What keeps you awake at night?
My three year-old climbing into my bed, snuggling down, then spinning in slow circles ,methodically kicking me and my wife in the backs of our heads.
The last time you cried?
When my cat died, the nasty, feral, murdering, evil little torturer. Live by the sword, die by the sword, that’s what I say.
If you weren’t a writer what would you be?
I probably should have joined the army, but in reality I cannot just cannot respond to authority. So then. Maybe a doctor? I’m certainly a pharmaceutical expert and I do enjoy seeing people in pain.
Favourite fancy dress costume?
My well-used Halloween zombie costume. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. It’s full of rancid fake blood.
Got an irritating/bad habit?
I am a bad habit.
Next book you’ll read?
The latest Orcs novel by Stan Nicholls. His stuff is visceral, fast-paced, good fun—a bit like mine :-)
Favourite word?
“Cunt”. I just love how people get so upset by it. It’s just a word, right? And it is in the dictionary.
Who plays you in the movie?
Probably Vin Diesel. He certainly has more acting talent than me, but I feel that’s probably down to my incredible and awful wooden performance potential.
And what’s the pivotal scene?
Probably the bit when Vin pulls out the chainsaw to kill the bad guys/ save the world/ save his poisoned girlfriend, before riding off into a toxic LA sunset on an open-pipe Harley.
We’re buying…what’re you drinking?
Absolutely fucking everything.
Favourite possession?
My BMW GS1200 motorbike. I have something of a Ewan McGregor/Charlie Boorman Long Way Round obsession. Ask my wife.
Last dream of note?
It was actually, and honestly, a dream that I’m going to turn into a novel. A kind of Urban Fantasy for the Shotgun Generation.
Favourite item of clothing?
My clogged para-boots. It has been oft claimed that I am far from the pinnacle of fashion, what with my knife-cut army combats and faded South Park t-shirts, but at least my smart designer shirts are better than those of a certain other editor I worked with in the past, who shopped for his clothes in Asda. Haha.
Would you write full-time if you could?
I do, and whilst sometimes it’s totally great, sometimes I get cabin-fever and start to pull out hair, gnash teeth and drag my werewolf claws through the plaster. Then I know it’s time for some human interaction.
Do you plan in detail or set off hopefully?
I plan in detail, then see where it takes me. If it shifts, I change the plan. I hate writing blind.
What’s the view from your writing window?
My house has “open aspects to rear”, as they say, so it’s mainly fields and a few trees and hedgerows. There are foxes, rabbits and bats at dusk. It is very euphoric and intoxicating, especially (cough) after a few whiskies.
Where would you like to be right now?
New York City, driving a Ferrari. NYC is my favourite place on Earth. There’s this scurrilous rumour about how I stayed at the Waldorf Astoria wearing British army combats and a hoodie amidst people in tuxedoes, and I have to hang my head in shame and say it was totally true.
When & where were you happiest?
At the birth of my two boys. Without question, the two most intense, frightening and wonderful moments of my life. Obviously my wife was there as well, but she was high on pethadine, the lightweight. Ha ha.
Complete this sentence: Rewriting is…
Superb fun, a necessity, and an integral part of the writing process.
Complete this sentence: I owe it all to…
Myself. I am my own hardest task master, and without my own focus and motivation over so many years when the going was tough, I never would have achieved. So. Pat on the back, Remic. Thanks, mate. Here, have a whisky. Thanks again, buddy.
What advice would you give to an aspiring writer?
Be completely anal about every sentence you write, make sure you get it right, work harder than hard and be as persistent as a terrier on a firm leg. Stephen King gives excellent advice in his On Writing, and what I like about King’s book is that it’s totally down to earth, realistic, and lacking in bullshit. The best piece of advice good old Kingy gives is “omit needless words”, so I shall say the same. Omit needless words. Trim the trash. Cut the crap. Make your prose sparkle! And never, ever give up!!
What are you going to do right now when you’ve finished this ordeal?
Take the dog for a walk up to Peel Tower. She is a young Border Collie, mad with energy, and if I don’t at least try and burn the bitch out, she’ll be jiggling and bouncing all bloody day long—and thus stopping me from writing.
And believe me, the second Clockwork Vampire Chronicles book is going so well! It will blow you away.
THE SAGA OF KELL’S LEGEND
The mighty Kell stood proud upon sandy shores, He’d willingly cast out a palace of bores, He pondered on glory of merciless days, As lounged by his feet decadent poets sang praise, But now his axe of old lay down by his side, A weapon of terror and worthy genocide, As the sea sweet her whisper carried o’er to him, Her voice a bright loving invitation to swim, Eternal bed, quoth she, I bring long soothing sleep, Come to me my darling, now please don’t you weep;
Our hero of old, he felt not the dread, Of the battles gone by, of the children now dead, He dreamt of the slaughter at Valantrium Moor, A thousand dead foes, there could not be a cure Of low evil ways and bright terrible deeds, Of men turned bad, he’d harv
est the weeds, His mighty axe hummed, Ilanna by name, Twin sharp blades of steel, without any shame For the deeds she did do, the men she did slay, Every living bright-eyed creature was legitimate prey;
Kell waded through life on a river of blood, His axe in his hands, dreams misunderstood, In Moonlake and Skulkra he fought with the best This hero of old, this hero obsessed, This hero turned champion of King Searlan Defiant and worthy a merciless man, Through Jangir and Black Pike Kell slaughtered the foe,
Each battle was empty, each moment gone slow, And with each bloody murder Kell felt more the pain,
Reversal and angst brought home his heart bane.
‘Rarely sung final verse:’
And Kell now stood with axe in hand, The sea raged before him time torn into strands, He pondered his legend and screamed at the stars, Death open beneath him to heal all the scars Of the hatred he’d felt, and the murders he’d done And the people he’d killed all the pleasure and life He’d destroyed.
Kell stared melancholy into great rolling waves of a Dark Green World,
And knew he could blame no other but himself for
The long Days of Blood, the long Days of Shame, The worst times flowing through evil years of pain,
And the Legend dispersed and the honour was gone And all savagery fucked in a world ripped undone And the answer was clear as the stars in the sky All the bright stars the white stars the time was to die,
Kell took up Ilanna and bade the world farewell, The demons tore through him as he ended the spell And closed his eyes.
