Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  Graal turned back to the Refineries and waited, patiently, until in the blink of an eye the Harvesters oozed from metal walls, pulling free as if from a thick liquid. They moved before Graal, a triumvirate of consummate evil. Graal smiled. Evil was something he could work with.

  "It is complete?"

  "As you wish. The blood-oil is refined. Do you not feel the rise in energy? The surge of usable power?"

  "No. It will come to me later, in the dark hours."

  The Harvesters reared up, long fingers of bone stretching out, and to an onlooker if would have appeared – for just an instant – as if the Harvesters were about to attack Graal, slice his head from his shoulders, peel the skin from his vachine bones. But they did not. They prostrated before him in a low bow, faces pressing the earth in an almost unprecedented show, and one they would certainly never have replicated before any other vachine. The Harvesters accepted Graal as Master. He smiled, controlling his urges of madness and almost panic-fuelled hysterics, for these creatures were so awesomely powerful that what Graal was actually witnessing was an acknowledgement of what he was about to achieve; what was to come, not what had passed.

  The Vampire Warlords.

  The Harvesters stood. One said, "What of the Soul Gems?"

  "Kradek-ka is searching for the one remaining Gem; the other two are… safe, for now. But he knows where to look. We had… help."

  "Will he hold strong?"

  "Yes, despite his madness."

  "And yet, there is still a thorn to be plucked?"

  Graal nodded. "Kell. The Black Axeman of Drennach. I know this."

  "What will you do?"

  "I have sent the Soul Stealers," he said. "Kell is a dead man."

  CHAPTER 4

  Echoes of a Distant Age

  A blur slammed past Kell, whose eyes were fastened on the dark blade descending for his unprotected throat, and Kell knew he would die there, half buried by rubble, head pounding from the force of shamathe magic and he had never felt anything like it, so odd, but the blur came from the edges of his vision and connected with Jekkron, the tall albino warrior, and with a blink Kell realised it was Skanda the skinny little boy, and Skanda's arms and legs were wide and wrapped around Jekkron who took a step back, his face frowning in annoyance at this interruption to murder. Jekkron raised a hand, as if to slap down the annoying boy who clung to him. And then he started to scream, and he started to scream high, and loud, like a woman peeled, like an animal skewered… Skanda hadn't just wrapped around Jekkron, he was burrowing into the man, his head snapping left and right and chewing and tearing flesh, and his hands and feet had claws and they tore into the albino soldier, who staggered now, dropping his sword, both fists beating down at Skanda who eased inside Jekkron by just a few inches, and with a terrible force of magick, ripped Jekkron's skin and muscle from his chest, belly and thighs. Skanda landed, carrying the skin and muscle like a thick white cloak, and Jekkron hit the ground unconscious, seconds from death. His blood flushed out as if from an overturned cauldron.

  In the sudden confusion, only Lilliath saw what happened, the rest of the soldiers simply witnessed their leader going crazy and slapping at himself; Lilliath capered to one side, over a pile of rubble, to see a donkey staring at her. Lilliath stopped, crazy hair wavering, and Mary the donkey turned slowly around, and with a vicious bray, planted both hooves in the shamathe's face, sending her tumbling back over the pile of collapsed bricks.

  As Jekkron, conscious again and gasping like a fish, struggled to rise with his lack of albino flesh, so Kell grunted and hauled himself to his feet. Skanda stood before him, staring at the gathered soldiers with a face less than human, his black teeth glinting with Jekkron's white blood, and hands lifted up and held like comedy claws. Except the joke was no longer funny.

  Skanda fell on the dying soldier, and ripped out his throat with his teeth, and used claws to slice down Jekkron's ribs and pull free internal organs, which he held up for the soldiers to see. Then Skanda bounded forward, and in a sudden wave of fear the albino soldiers scattered, as Skanda screeched and screamed after them, and suddenly Kell and Saark were left alone.

  Kell limped to Saark, who was just regaining consciousness. Blood leaked from his ears, making his long, dark curls glossy. Both men stood, and leaned on one another weakly, and Saark gazed down at the terribly savaged, torn-apart body of Jekkron. His eyes fastened on glinting pools of milk blood, nestling in hollows and peppered with drifting brick dust.

  "Did you do that to him?" coughed Saark.

  "It was the boy."

  "Skanda? No! No way could a small child…"

  "He is not a small child," said Kell, and with a grunt heaved himself upright and gazed across to the unconscious body of the shamathe. Her face was black and purple. "Your mule has a fine aim."

  "Mary did that? Great! And by the way, she's a donkey, not a mule."

  "Same difference," muttered Kell. "Come on, we need horses. We need to put leagues between us and them."

  "What about Skanda?"

  "I have a feeling," said Kell, voice hard, unforgiving, "that the boy can look after himself."

  Kell lifted Ilanna, and gazed down at Lilliath. He hefted the axe high, and suddenly Saark was there, hands held up. "Whoa, Big Man, what are you doing?"

  Kell scowled. "She tried to kill us, Saark. You surely don't want her following? Doing that to us in our sleep?"

  "You can't kill her, Kell. She's an old woman. She's unconscious! For the love of the gods!"

  "She's a white magicker, and she deserves to die."

  Saark planted himself between Kell and the unconscious shamathe. "No. I won't let you! It is immoral. If you kill her, Kell, then you are as bad as the enemy; can't you see?"

  Kell gave a great and weary sigh. "Very well," he said, eyes narrowed, face pale from dust. "But if she comes near us again, you can sort the bitch out. Let's find some horses."

  They moved around the exterior of the deserted armoury, Saark leading Mary by her halter, and indeed found horses tethered. Distant screams echoed through the forest. Whatever Skanda was doing to the albino soldiers, he was keeping them occupied – and their minds far away from their mounts.

  There were six beasts tethered here, all seventeenhand geldings, and Kell and Saark raided saddlebags for provisions and coin, then picked the most powerful looking horses. Saark tied Mary's lead to his mount's tail, and the men mounted the beasts under moonlight and cantered up a nearby slope, and away, into woodland, into the drifting, falling snow.

  They did not speak.

  They were simply glad to be alive.

  They rode for an hour. Several times Saark suggested pausing, and waiting for Skanda. Kell simply gave Saark a sour, evil look, and Saark closed his mouth, aware he would not get far with Kell when the old warrior was in such a stubborn temper.

  Finally, they made a cold camp, wary of lighting a fire lest it attract more unwanted military attention. Saark, in particular, was in a bad way. Whilst Kell was seemingly strong as an ox, Saark had suffered several beatings, and a loss of blood from the knife wound at the hands of Myriam; whilst better than he had been, stronger and a little more clear-headed, the constant battering was taking its toll on the man. He had deep, dark rings around his eyes, and his face was drawn and gaunt with exhaustion and pain.

  "This is wrong," said Saark, as they stretched out an army tarpaulin between two trees to give them a little shelter. To their backs was a wall of rock from several huge, cubic boulders which must have tumbled from the nearby hills hundreds of years before, and this left only a single entrance from which the wind and snow could intrude.

  "Which bit is wrong? Pull it, Saark, don't bloody tickle it."

  "I'm pulling it, man, I'm pulling! I simply have a reduced mobility due to the wound in my side; or maybe you hadn't bloody noticed me getting stabbed?"

  "I'll notice you getting stabbed in a minute, if you don't help erect this damn shelter," growled Kell. "My hands are turning bl
ue with the cold! So go on, what's wrong, man?"

  "Running away, leaving Skanda to face the soldiers, demons, and whatever else fills this magickhaunted forest."

  Kell tightened a strap, and sat on a rock, rummaging in a saddlebag. Nearby, Mary brayed, and Kell scowled at the donkey. "Listen, Saark. You didn't see what I saw – the boy, he ripped that soldier's skin and muscle from his body like a rug from a floor. Peeled it off, complete! Then bit out the soldier's throat and cut out his organs. Don't start moaning to me about leaving a little boy in the woods; Skanda is no boy like I have ever seen."

  "What is he then? A camel?"

  Kell frowned at Saark, and motioned for the tall swordsman to sit. In a low voice, a tired voice, Kell said, "I told you what I saw. If you don't believe me, then to Dake's Balls with you! You get out there in the snow and look for the little bastard. Me, I'd rather put my axe through his skull. He gives me the creeps."

  "You are incorrigible!"

  "Me?" snapped Kell, fury rising. "I reckon we brought something bad out of Old Skulkra; invited it out into the world with us. I fear we may have done the world a disservice. You understand?"

  "He saved us," sulked Saark, ducking into the makeshift shelter and resting his back against cold, damp rock. He shivered, despite his fur and leather cloak. "You are an ungrateful old goat, Kell. You know that?"

  "Saved us?" Kell laughed, and his eyes were bleak. "Sometimes, my friend, I think it is better to be dead."

  They shared out some dried beef and a few oatcakes, and ate in silence, listening to a distant, mournful wind, and the muffled silence brought about by heavy, snowladen woodland. Occasionally, there was a crump as gathered snow fell from high branches. At one point, Kell winced, and took several deep breaths.

  "You are injured?" Saark looked suddenly concerned.

  "It is nothing."

  "Don't be ridiculous! You are like a bull, you only complain when something hurts you bad. What is it?"

  "Pain. Inside. Inside my very veins."

  Saark nodded, his eyes serious. "You think it's the poison?"

  "Yes," said Kell, through gritted teeth. "And I know it's going to get worse. My biggest fear is finding Myriam, and the antidote, and not having the strength to break her fucking neck!"

  "Do you think Nienna is suffering?"

  "If she is, there will be murder," said Kell, darkly, fury glittering in his eyes. "Now get some sleep, Saark. You look weaker than a suckling doe. You sure you don't want some more food?"

  "After seeing the result of that albino's corpse ripped asunder? No, my constitution is delicate at the best of times. After that spectacle, I have lost appetite enough to last me a decade."

  Kell grunted, and shrugged. "Food is food," he said, as if that explained everything.

  Saark slept. More snow fell in the small hours. Kell sat on the rock, back stiff, all weariness evaporating with the pain brought by poison oozing through his veins and internal organs. It felt as if his body, knowing it was shortly to die, wanted him to experience every sensation, every second of life, every nuance of pain before forcing him to lie down and exhale his last clattering breath.

  The dawn broke wearily, like a tired, pastel watercolour on canvas. Clouds bunched in the sky like fists, and the wind had increased, howling and moaning through woods and between nearby rocks which seemed to litter this part of the world. On the wind, they could smell fire. It was not a comforting stench. It was the aroma of war.

  Kell, chin on his fist, eyes alert, Ilanna by his side, jumped a little when Saark touched his shoulder.

  "Have you been awake all night, Old Horse?"

  "Aye, lad. I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind."

  "We will find Nienna," said Saark.

  "I don't doubt that. It's finding her alive that concerns me."

  "Shall I cook us breakfast?"

  "Make a small fire," said Kell, softly. "Hot tea is what I need if these aged bones are to survive much more rough life in the wilderness."

  "Ha, it's a fine ale I crave!" laughed Saark, pulling out his tinderbox.

  "I find whiskey a much more palatable experience," muttered Kell, darkly.

  They drank a little hot tea with sugar, and ate more dried beef. Kell's pain had receded, much to the big man's relief, and Saark was also looking much better after a good sleep and some food and hot tea. They huddled around the small fire, then stamped it out and packed away their makeshift camp. They were just packing saddlebags when Kell hissed, dropping to a crouch and lifting Ilanna before him. Her blades glittered, and in that crouch Saark saw a flicker of insanity made flesh.

  Skanda walked from the trees, smiling with his black teeth. He stopped, and tilted his head. On his hand rode the tiny scorpion with twin tails. It seemed agitated, moving quickly about the boy's hand and never halting. Its tails flickered, fast, like ebony lightning.

  "I found you," he said. He tilted his head. Kell rose out of his crouch, cursed, and continued to pack the saddlebags, turning his back on the boy with deliberate ignorance.

  "Are you hurt?" said Saark, rushing over.

  "No," smiled Skanda, "but I led those soldiers on a merry chase. I was not surprised to find you gone when I returned to the old armoury." His eyes shone. "I think I upset Kell, did I not? The great Legend himself."

  Kell turned, and smiled easily, although his eyes were hooded. "No lad, you didn't upset me. But I didn't worry about leaving you behind, before you get any noble ideas about friendship and loyalty."

  "Have I offended you? If so, I apologise."

  Kell placed his hands on his hips. "In fact, boy, you have. You have a rare talent, don't you? The ability to kill."

  Skanda stared at Kell for a long time. Eventually, he said, "It is a talent bestowed on the Ankarok. I can kill, yes. I can kill with ease. My small size and odd looks do nothing to highlight the bubbling ancient rage within."

  Kell stared into the boy's eyes.

  A darkness fell on his soul, like ash from the funeral pyres of a thousand children.

  It is not human, he told himself.

  It is consummately evil.

  I should kill it. I should kill it now…

  His hands grasped the haft of Ilanna, his bloodbond axe, and he took a step forward but a shrill note pierced the inside of his skull, and he realised Ilanna was screaming at him, warning him, and the note fell and her words came, and her voice was cool, a drifting metallic sigh, the voice of bees in the hive, the song of ants in the nest…

  Wait, she said. Yo u must not.

  Why not? he growled.

  Because he is of Ankarok. The Ancient Race. They were here before the vachine, and before the vampires before them; they invented blood-oil, and mastered the magick, and they know too much.

  Kell snorted. He felt like a pawn in another man's game. I am being manipulated, he thought. But is my sweet blood-drenched Ilanna telling the truth? Or is she lying through her blackened back teeth because she wants something of her own…

  This was Ilanna, the bloodbond axe, and she was in control, or so she liked to think. Blessed in blood-oil, and instrumental, or so Kell believed, in the Days of Blood, she offered him a tenuous link with madness, a risk which Kell readily accepted because… well, because without Ilanna he would be a dead man. And if Kell was a dead man, then his granddaughter Nienna was a dead girl.

  He should die.

  Why? Because you say so?

  Kell breathed in the perfume of the axe. The aroma of death. The corpse-breath of Ilanna. It was heady, like the finest narcotic, like a honey-plumped dram of whiskey; and Kell felt himself float for a moment, lost in her, lost in Ilanna… I am Ilanna, she sang, music in his heart, drug in his veins, I am the honey in your soul, the butter on your bread, the sugar in your apple. I make you whole, Kell. I bring out the best in you, I bring out the warrior in you. And yes I ask you to kill but can you not see the irony? Can you not see what I desire? I am asking you not to kill; I am asking you to spare the boy. He is special.
Very special. You will see, and one day you will thank me for these words of wisdom. Skanda is Ankarok, he is older than worlds, look into his insect eyes and see the truth, Kell, understand the importance of what I am saying for we will never have another opportunity like this… he will help you find Nienna… help you save those you love.

  You bitch.

  I am stating the truth. And you know it. So grow up, and wise up, and let's get moving and get this thing done; Lilliath is leading the albino soldiers through the woods. They are coming, Kell, you must make haste…

  Kell opened his eyes. He realised both Saark and Skanda were staring at him; staring at him hard.

  "Are you well?" asked Saark, voice soft.

  "Aye, I'm fine."

  "We can stay a while longer, if you need rest," said Saark, suddenly remembering his own sleep with a sense of guilt. He had allowed Kell to sit up all night; it had been selfish in the extreme.

  "No. The soldiers are coming. We should move."

  Skanda's eyes went bright. "You want me to go back into the woods? Find them? Kill them?"

  "No." Kell shook his head, eyeing the scorpion perched on the boy's hand. Seeing the look, and misreading its meaning, Skanda hid the tiny insect within folds of rough clothing, and Kell made a mental note to check his boots in the morn. "We're heading north. At speed. We're going to find Nienna. We're going to rescue her… or die in the process!"

  Myriam crouched beside the still pool, its circumference edged with plates of ice, their layers infinite, their borders a billion shards of splintered and angular crystal. Beautiful, she thought, breathing softly, pacing herself, and then her gaze flickered up, above the ice, to her own reflection and her teeth clacked shut and the muscles along her jaw stood out in ridges as she clenched her teeth tight. But here, she thought, here, the beauty dies.

  She had short black hair, where once she had worn it long. Once, it had been a luscious pelt that made men fall over themselves to stroke and touch. Now, she cropped it short for fear the rough texture and dull hue would scream at people exactly what she was: dying.