by Andy Remic
"Be silent!" roared Dekkar suddenly, and as they moved across the jagged rocks, filled in places with snow and ice except around the rim of the valley rift, where all snow had melted revealing black rocks veined with red and grey minerals, so Blacklippers streamed from distant huts and moved like a tide to meet their King.
Dekkar.
King of the Blacklippers.
Behind, many of the children followed, bows still aimed at Kell. Nobody trusted him, and he smiled a sour smile. Here, it would appear, he was a dark myth. How now would he convince these people to fight for him? How would he convince them to go to war against the Vampire Warlords? If he attacked them, he would have no chance of convincing them – for he would simply reinforce his status as enemy. And with Jagor Mad ready to stab him in the back, it looked like his luck had come head-to-head with a mountain flank.
"Hear me!" roared Dekkar, halting by the edge of the hot stinking rift in the rocky floor. Fumes hung over the great tear in the earth, and over it, near the centre, Kell squinted. He could see a bridge, a narrow span of brass filled with huge clockwork wheels and gears. Kell frowned. He had never seen anything like it in his life, except in miniature in the workings of a clock. "Here, we have the prisoner Kell! Sworn enemy of the Blacklippers! Hunter of the Blacklippers! Raper of our women, murderer of our children, despoiler of Blacklipper flesh!"
A hush fell over the Blacklippers.
Kell met their gazes, the men, all armed with spears and swords, faces grim, shoulders stocky and proud. These were a warrior race. These were the outcasts, the criminals, the freaks and deviants of Falanor – who had taken blood-oil to relieve their pain and suffering, to find an inner peace from physical torment, instead finding social torment and a finality as outcasts; names to be revered as evil and unholy, cast away to the dark regions of the mountains where nobody would travel. Kell knew this. He had hunted enough Blacklippers in his time. Some, at least, of what they said was true.
He grinned, a sour grin.
Because that's what this came back to, that's what this came round to: his earlier escapades. As a Hunter. A Vachine Hunter, but also a killer of those who smuggled Karakan Red across the mountains; those who stole blood to feed the impure amongst the vachine.
"Shit," he muttered, as full realisation dawned. "They were going to kill him. There was no persuading these people. He had been a fool. An arrogant, trusting, naive fool.
"Kell! The Legend!" roared Dekkar, and an answering roar met him and Kell tried to shout over the noise but it rose like thunder and hundreds of Blacklippers swarmed at him, swamping him, and he went down under a barrage of blows, fists and sticks slamming his head and nose and cheeks and jaw. Kell hit the ground hard, and was kicked, and then the crowd surged back and Kell looked up at Dekkar, who stooped, and lifted Kell above his head.
"The Bridge!" somebody shouted.
"Yes! The Trial! The Bridge!"
"Bridge! Bridge! Bridge!" chanted the Blacklippers, and Kell, dazed, felt himself moving as if on a sea of hands and he realised he had been taken, was being carried by many, and Dekkar held Ilanna again and if only Kell could reach his axe, these bastards, he'd show them who was a fucking Legend, he'd carve himself a path so fucking bloody his name would ring like Death through a thousand fucking years of their mangled fucking history!
Kell was carried along the edge of the rift. He glanced down, and wished he hadn't.
Fumes welled up, making him choke, and his eyes were met by a pulsing deep glow of red and orange. The heat was incredible. It singed his beard and eyebrows. It made him cough and choke. For the first time in years Kell felt panic well in his chest like a striking viper. This was a bad place, an evil place; and he realised instinctively he had been condemned and he would die here. Kell gritted his teeth. If he was to die, then he would take oh so many with him…
As they grew close to the bridge so Kell realised its awesome scope and size. It was a mammoth brass contraption, not just a bridge but a machine. The whole length was a mass of cogs and wheels, gears and levers. In the centre, disappearing down into the glow, was a huge pendulum like Kell had seen in many a clock, only this was the length of twenty men and must have weighed something shocking.
They reached the point where the bridge met the rocky ground – only it didn't. There was a gap too large to jump, and Dekkar reached to a small brass pod and pulled a lever. There came a heavy clunk, a spin of cogs which transferred to others cogs and gears stepped up and down like pistons. There was a groan, and the pendulum swung and the bridge shifted, lifted, and eased onto the rocky ground with a crash and grinding of brass on rock. Kell was prodded on, hands tight behind his back, and with a grimace he realised Dekkar had used his own axe, his own damn Ilanna! Kell spat onto the brass grid beneath his boots. Dekkar would pay for that.
They moved across the brass bridge, which continually shifted and moved, rolling like a ship at anchor in a bay. Beneath his boots Kell could feel the spinning cogs, and the shift of gears. It felt like the bridge was alive.
Reaching the centre, his eyes streaming with tears from the chemical updraft, Kell saw the swing and the noose of woven brass rope. So, he was to be hanged. Again. "Horse shit," he muttered, and glanced back. Now, there was only Dekkar and Jagor Mad. They were both grinning at him, and Dekkar passed Ilanna to his brother.
"Do you want to kill him, brother, or shall I?"
"No, that's my job," said Jagor. "I owe him. Owe him bad."
"Jagor, listen to me!" hissed Kell. "You know the vampires are coming. You know this is insanity! We must all work together, must fight together to remove this menace! If you hang me, the Vampire Warlords – they will not vanish. And slowly, they will hunt down every living creature in Falanor. You might live another month; you might live a year. But they will come for you, and they'll either turn you into a vampire, or they'll burn your fucking soul, lad."
"The Vampire Warlords?" said Dekkar, raising his eyebrows. "I have heard of such creatures. They are part of Blacklipper Legend. Part of vachine folklore as scribed within the Oak Testament."
"General Graal of the vachine flooded Silva Valley from the Granite Thrones on Helltop," said Kell. "He sacrificed the vachine in a mass offering of blood, to open the Paths to the Chaos Halls. The Vampire Warlords came back. Now, they are in Jalder, and Gollothrim, and Vor! They will spread, Dekkar. They will kill your people."
Dekkar considered this. Then he smiled. "I care nothing for the people of Falanor. Kill him!"
Jagor prodded Kell with Ilanna, drawing blood across the old warrior's forearm. Kell growled, and stepped up onto the brass ramp. Jagor climbed up behind him, and placed the brass noose about Kell's neck.
"You will die for my suffering," he snarled.
"If you kill me," said Kell, voice perfectly quiet, perfectly calm, "then you condemn yourself. You condemn the people of Falanor to an eternity of slavery. You condemn your entire race of Blacklippers to vampire slavery."
"You think one old man is so important?"
"No. But I know that I can make a difference. If I can get close enough to the Vampire Warlords, I will kill them."
"Ha! I'll do it myself!" snapped Jagor Mad. "Now step off the ramp, old man, lest I use this pretty axe to open your skull!"
Kell turned his back on Jagor, and took a deep breath. A million thoughts rushed through his mind. His misplaced trust in this, a convicted killer. Saark's training of the army. Nienna, sweet Nienna. Sara, snarling and hissing, spitting and cursing. And then back, back through the days and weeks and months, back through Myriam and the Soul Stealers, the fights on Helltop, scrapping on the dangerous ridges of the Black Pike Mountains with snarling cankers and creatures of the dark, the vachine and the vampires, the cursed and the unholy. Back back back, and one face kept returning to his mind and if Kell had to blame one man, then that one man would be Graal. General Graal. He had it coming. He had a hard death coming. But Kell would not be the man to see it through.
Kell though
t about Ehlana.
He remembered the Crooked Oak, the sunshine, the flowers in her hair and tears were in his eyes, on his cheeks, in his beard. "You are man and wife. You may kiss her." And he leant forward, and he kissed her, and it had been an incredible moment, a moment of unity and purity and perfection. But how had it gone so bad? How had it all gone wrong? I'm coming to you, Ehlana, I'm coming just like I said I would, just like I promised. We'll walk the long dark roads together, and I'll bring you to paradise. I can do no more in this place. In this world. In this life.
"Jump, fucker," snarled Jagor Mad, and Kell turned and smiled at the big man, and saw the shock in his face for to see Kell cry must have been such a rarity; and over the thumping of the bridge and the hiss of the smoke and churning furnace below, Kell heard another sound, like shouting, and Jagor Mad's eyes went wide and Ilanna started to lift in his great brutal fists as an arrow materialised in one eye socket with a savage slap, and Jagor Mad screamed stumbling backwards, falling to the ground, dropping Ilanna with a clatter and reaching up to touch the shaft in his skull – which made him scream again.
Kell squinted through the smoke. A figure was galloping a grey mare along the edge of the valley's rift. Another arrow slashed through the air, but Dekkar was already moving, launching himself sideways and grunting as he hit the bridge walkway.
Kell tugged at his bonds, but they were too tight. He struggled, and dropping his head down and back, got the noose from its promise. Dekkar was crawling across the bridge and he hit a panel against one rail. The clockwork bridge cranked and lifted, as a third arrow sailed over and clattered along the walkway a few feet from Dekkar.
Kell leapt down to Jagor, who was weeping, touching the shaft in his eye tenderly. "Help me!" he wailed at Kell, and Kell drove a knee into his face sending him rolling, embedded arrow slapping the brass bridge and making him scream and scream and scream, and to this backdrop of noise Kell found Ilanna, and sitting and shuffling backwards, he rubbed the bonds across her razor-sharp blades and they parted like simple cotton threads.
Kell took Ilanna, and rose to his feet.
He was Thunder. He was the Storm.
Dekkar was standing, staring at him, his face a fury, the black flanged mace steady in his huge hands.
Dekkar looked down at Jagor, who had passed into unconsciousness. "I am going to crush you for that, worm."
"Show me," snarled Kell through strings of saliva.
With a scream, Dekkar launched an attack. He was huge, mighty, and attacked with such a sudden violent speed it made Kell blink in shock and surprise, stepping back, Ilanna coming up to deflect the mace – which struck in a shower of sparks, and continued onwards forcing Kell down on one knee, teeth gritted, muscles straining and bulging. The mace stopped an inch from his eyes, which flickered up to Dekkar, or rather, Dekkar's boot. The blow sent Kell reeling back across the bridge, rolling, Ilanna gone from his fingers and Dekkar leapt forward, the mace whirring down again. Kell twitched to one side, and the blow left a dent in the brass bridge. It would have crushed Kell's head like a melon. Another blow sent sparks careering from the bridge's rails, and Kell got to his knees, streaked with sweat, panting, anger rising through him in a colossal insane wave. Dekkar was bigger, and stronger, and faster. But Kell was mean. Kell was fucking mean. He screamed, spittle lacing his beard, and as the mace whistled over his head in a mighty horizontal stroke he came up from the duck into a lunge, grabbing Dekkar around the midriff and punching the large man backwards, off balance, to hit the ground. The mace flashed up, but Kell caught the shaft against his arm, and it slid from Dekkar's fingers. Kell slammed a right straight down into Dekkar's face, and again, and again, and felt teeth break under impact. Dekkar screamed, and his hand grabbed Kell's balls, the other Kell's throat, and the huge man scrabbled to his knees and hoisted Kell over his head. He threw Kell down the bridge, and Kell rolled over and over, and lay for a moment stunned, his throat and balls on fire and clubbing him with waves of impact pain. Dekkar roared, and ran at Kell who stumbled to his feet. A straight punch jabbed Kell back, a right hook shook him, rocking him on his heels, and Dekkar took Kell's head in his hands and head-butted him, once, twice, three times and let go, grinning, blood and smashed teeth filling his mouth.
Kell stared up at the huge man. "Is that all you've fucking got?" he screamed, groggy, staggering back.
"I'll kill you!" roared Dekkar, and slammed another hook which sent Kell reeling sideways, hitting the bridge's rail and rolling along it, slamming against the panel which controlled the movement of the brass bridge. There came a huge, metallic groan and clockwork started to spin, huge gears pumping, mammoth brass pistons hissing and thrusting. The bridge lurched and suddenly spun, leaving a huge gap to the rocky bank and safety. An arrow sailed through the steam, missing Dekkar by a few inches. He scowled, and Kell realised he had found his mace. Dekkar advanced down the bridge at Kell, who was touching his broken nose and gritting his teeth in anger and frustration.
"Come on!" screamed Kell, as Dekkar broke into a run, but the bridge lurched again, spinning around, a heavy metallic cranking sound echoing through the Valleys of the Moon. Steam hissed from the brass bridge. Along the banks Kell saw hundreds of faces flash past. It was the Blacklippers, and they were watching, motionless, many with mouths open in awe. Kell couldn't see the person who'd saved him. The bridge spun around again. Kell felt sick, and was pitched off balance, landing heavy with a grunt. The bridge tipped, and he was sent skidding down the rough brass ramp, arms and legs kicking, to crash into Dekkar who was pinned against a brass strut. Kell hit him with three straight punches, heavy leaden blows that cracked the man's cheekbone making him howl, then the bridge spun again, lurching and groaning, and Kell was thrown away like a toy doll, down the expanse to hit the rail with such force he thought for a moment he'd broken his back.
"You have to get off the bridge!" a woman was screaming, and Kell nodded at this immutable logic. He got to his knees, a drool of saliva and pain trailing from his beard, mingled with blood from his smashed nose. He ran along the rail, fighting gravity as the bridge rocked back on mammoth pistons and it was all Kell could do to grab a nearby strut and hold on for his life. The bridge rose, near vertical now, and Kell felt his boots and legs slip away from beneath him so he was hanging, gazing down into a distant inferno with clouds of steam and sulphur.
"Holy Mother," he whispered, eyes wide, all thoughts of battle forgotten. Ilanna skated along the metal with a scream, and wedged against a brass strut below. Dekkar was also kicking beneath him, and Kell watched Jagor Mad's unconscious body slip and slide, spinning with arms and legs akimbo, until he bounced from a strut, jigged off at an angle, then soared from the edge of the bridge to be lost in the raging inferno below.
" Noooo! " screamed Dekkar.
But Jagor Mad was gone. Gone, into the furnace.
Dekkar looked up at Kell. "This is your fault!" he roared.
Kell said nothing, but looked up, searching for a way to climb from the bridge. The bridge groaned. More clanking came from deep down in the clockwork machine's bowels, and then it gave a sudden jerk. Kell nearly lost his grip.
Then -
A noise rent the air, long and ululating, almost like a war cry but far too high-pitched and feminine. Kell stared off across the banks of the valley rift, across black rock and ice beyond. Riders were streaming across the snow, and Kell saw the Blacklippers running for their huts, many drawing weapons and Kell squinted through the fumes, and And blinked.
They were vampires. Twenty of them at least, wearing black cloaks and with hair tied back tight. They were riding horses that were… red? Kell focused. No, not red. Pure muscle. Pure muscle, without the skin. The beasts were panting, snorting, whinnying in pain and fear. Kell could see the heavy muscle fibres working and he suddenly felt very sick, despite his own problems.
"Kell, you've got to reach the control panel," a woman was shouting, and Kell turned back to the rocky embankment. He squinted aga
in, and then shook his head. It was Myriam, bow in hand, face earnest.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled.
"Rescuing you, old man! Reach the panel! I can see the core shafts of the bridge, and they're bending, you understand? The whole damn thing is tearing itself free! It's going to fall!" Kell felt the sickness in his stomach rise through him. If the bridge fell into the furnace, well, it was Goodnight Sweet Lady.
Kell started to climb down, hand over hand, the brass warm to his touch. He could see Dekkar struggling beneath him, and his gaze moved first to the control panel, then left, to Ilanna. Kell gritted his teeth, and struggled to the axe. He took her. He cradled her to his chest. She was warm to his touch. She was thankful.
"Kell!" screamed Myriam. He glanced up.
The charging vampires hit the massed Blacklippers in a tight wedge, and he saw, saw heads sail up into the air and heard the vampires' high-pitched keening, realising with rising gorge that they were laughing, fucking laughing as they slaughtered. The swords of battle rang across the Valleys of the Moon. Steel on steel. Steel biting flesh. Steel breaking bone.
Kell scrabbled across the brass strut. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him. He stared at the controls, but there were small dials and levers and he did not understand. He started to press and twist things at random, and the bridge groaned, gears clanked, and there came a horrible, booming tearing sound. The bridge shuddered, and dropped – then in an eerie silence, tilted to one side and began to fall.
Kell hung on for his life, wind and sour sulphur fumes blowing through his hair and bloodied beard, and the edge of the bridge clanged against the edge of the valley floor, but behind him it fell away and then snagged with various metallic tearing sounds. Kell looked up, into Myriam's concerned face. "Shit," he snarled. "I can't believe it's you!"
"Come on. We have only seconds!" She glanced behind herself, fearful of the charging vampires who were cutting a path through the Blacklippers. Men, women and children were slaughtered like diseased cattle. Heads were cut from shoulders, arms and legs from torsos. It was a massacre. It was an abattoir.
