Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  He walked between the wash-backs and stopped, warily, beside a rail which overlooked a lower section of the distillery reached by twin sets of iron stairs. His eyes took in the wash chargers and wash-stills, with their odd copper shapes which looked as if they'd half melted, the metal sloping towards the floor like molten candle-wax, only to harden again. They look like garlic bulbs, he thought, and took another drain of whiskey. He grunted at the continued irony. The only bloody whiskey in this entire place was the cheap, nasty blend he carried in his paws.

  "Damn it. What I'd give for a single malt."

  Outside, the world seemed to flood into darkness. Clouds, passing over the stars and moon. Kell squinted, for despite having incredibly acute vision, he knew age was getting the better of him and his eyesight was not as good as it once was. "I can still pin a wolf to a tree at fifty paces with my axe," he muttered, and stared down at the steps. They looked far too dangerous to descend. But beyond, he knew, was the warehouse. Would it have barrels of whiskey? He doubted it. But if there was some nectar stored there, it called to him, taunting, drawing him as if down some invisible umbilical.

  No.

  "No."

  Kell took a deep breath. His fists clenched, and he stared at the bottle in his hands. It was poison, he decided. And it would kill him faster than Myriam's injected toxin.

  You used to have strength, he realised.

  You used to have willpower.

  Once, you could have stopped. Once, you would have cast away the piss. Once, you would have been a man. A man who ruled the bottle, instead of the bottle ruling his world.

  Kell hurled the whiskey bottle out over the spiritstills, and there came a mighty boom followed by a clattering, skittering sound. Then silence rushed back in, like the ocean filling a hole.

  "Interesting," came a gentle, feminine voice.

  Kell did not turn. His senses screamed. The hairs across the back of his neck prickled, and he forced a grin between tight teeth. He reached up, and slowly rubbed his beard. "The fact that I chose to launch the bottle, or the fact that you were sneaking through the dark?"

  "Neither," she said. "I was told you were dangerous, and I was simply pondering the best way to kill a fat old man."

  Kell turned, Ilanna in both hands now. His eyes narrowed, and he took in the tall, lithe albino woman, her crimson eyes, her brass fangs, the silver sword sheathed at her hip. She moved elegantly, and stopped, one hip pushed forward slightly giving her an arrogant, defiant stance. She had a gaunt face, and cropped white hair. She was pretty. Dake's Balls, thought Kell, she was beautiful – but maybe forty years his junior. He grinned. "I don't die that easy," he rumbled, rolling his shoulders almost imperceptibly to loosen the muscles.

  "But I'm sure that you do," she smiled, and drew her sword.

  "That's what the other vachines said," he soothed, head dropping a little, eyes now pools of blackness. He was pleased to note the annoyance in her expression; not just at his recognition, and knowledge, but at his tone of voice. His was not a sermon of arrogance; his was the voice of a known truth.

  "Do you want to know my name?" she purred stepping forward. Beneath her, the gantry creaked and Kell looked warily to one side.

  "Not really," he said. "You fucking vachine all smell the same to me; decayed flesh, hot oil, and mangled clockwork."

  She snarled, a bestial sound far from human. Her fangs slid out yet more, with tiny crunches. "My name is Tashmaniok. I am going to sup your blood, Kell. I'm going to savour it running down my throat. I am going to taste your most intimate dreams. I am going to drink your soul. I will lead you to the brink of despair, to a razor-edge of desolation, and you will teeter there like a maggot on a hook and then, only then, when you beg for death, when you plead with me for release… only then will I show you real pain."

  Kell grunted. "Stop talking. Show me." But even as the words left on a hot exhalation of air she leapt, a sudden striking blur, and Kell's axe lifted deflecting the sword blow with only a hair's breadth between life and death. He stepped forward, mighty axe swinging, to deflect a second, then third blow – and as sparks flew, so the axe twisted, reversed, and swept close to Tashmaniok's face causing her to leap back.

  Kell grinned at her. "You're quick, pretty one, I'll grant you that. But you talk a whole bucket of clockwork shit. Be careful, lest I spill your ticking gears over the gantry."

  Tash said nothing, but lowered her head and attacked, her sword flickering in a stunning series of frenetic bursts, showing dazzling skill and a precision Kell had rarely met in a human. But then, Tashmaniok was far from human. She was vachine.

  Kell deflected the blows, struggling, sweat beading on his skin, but the whiskey was numbing his brain, and so much recent fighting had tired his mighty muscles. Blow after blow he halted, sparks showering the old distillery, only for Tash to twist her blade and attack again; slowly, Kell was forced back to the iron steps leading down.

  Tash paused, head high, eyes gleaming. She twirled her sword, experimentally, as if loosening her wrist after a brisk warm-up session. She showed no fatigue. By comparison, Kell was sweating heavily, and he felt sick. He could taste bad whiskey and old bile. Doubt flared in his breast, but he quelled it savagely. Now was not a time for doubt. He had killed better than Tashmaniok. He had killed far better.

  "You're good, girl," he said. "But I reckon you should work on your speed. I've seen one-legged whores move faster than you."

  Tash smiled, with genuine humour. She lifted her head a little, and some distant beam of starlight caught her eyes, which sparkled. "Old man. Save your breath for battle. For I've not seen anything special as of yet; and to think, they call you a Vachine Hunter."

  She's answered that question, thought Kell sourly. She was sent by General Graal. Their little war party had not escaped so easily. Indeed, Kell realised, now Graal felt it was personal. An intuition told him things had changed; strangely, Kell felt like Graal wanted something. But what the hell did he want other than Kell's head on a plate? What could Kell offer the warped general?

  Tash stepped forward, fluid, sword singing a figure of eight; Kell slammed his axe horizontal, and Tash did something with her sword, a technique Kell had never before experienced. His axe clattered off down the walkway behind her, and Kell felt something large and dark fall through him, like a rock down a well. He stood, stunned for a moment, and Tash moved fast leaping, both boots slamming his chest. With a grunt Kell staggered back and fell from the steps, rolling violently down the rattling, iron construct to lie, stunned and bleeding, at the foot.

  Kell groaned, and pushed himself up, then slumped to his chest once more. He rolled onto his back, tasting blood, and watched Tashmaniok walk lightly down the iron staircase. She strode, stood over him, her body framed by the sculpted shapes of spirit-stills in the gloom. Dust motes floated in the air from Kell's pounding descent, and he coughed, clutching his diaphragm, face contorted in pain.

  Tash twirled her sword once more, humour on her lips. But her crimson eyes were hard. Like glittering rubies.

  "Graal told me to be careful," she murmured, and lowered herself to one knee, so that she straddled him. Kell could smell her natural perfume. She smelt good.

  "Aye?" he growled.

  "But I don't understand why. You're nothing but a whisky-drunk old man who's seen better days." She lifted her sword high in both hands, and Kell watched the silver blade without emotion. His eyes were dark, like the soul of a canker.

  Tash twitched, and her sword plunged down.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Cailleach Fortress

  Nienna watched Styx advance, wintry moonlight glinting on his dagger. His cock was a narrow worm in the moonlight, and she realised with a start she had aroused him. Or her vulnerability had. She bared her teeth in a snarl. I'll bite it off, she thought, and images of blood descended into her mind and she knew, knew she was not strong enough to take on this man, this escaped prisoner, this killer but she would make him suffer, she damn wel
l knew, and she would make him wish he'd never met her.

  Styx dropped to his knees on the ground, and Nienna cringed, but she played on her fear and exaggerated her suffering and weakness, for it allowed him to grow confident and close – and then she would strike, like a viper. Styx shuffled closer, knife before him, but she could see him falling into lust and she had seen that look before, on the faces of college boys during their first encounter with a woman. They lost control. They lost intelligence. By the Bone Halls, they lost everything that made them attractive in the first place!

  Nienna stayed still, like a frightened mouse.

  Styx's scent overpowered her before his physicality; he stunk, of sweat, of sword oil, of excrement, of bad teeth and bad breath and the blood-oil which stained his lips from the inside out, like a parasitical disease.

  He was panting. His knife lowered. His eyes half closed as he lusted towards her, lips puckered, and she hit him with a right hook, just like her grandfather had shown her, her weight dropped into it, power from the shoulder, all her strength and weight and might and hatred and fury and fear powered into that single devastating blow which rocked Styx back on his heels – and made him open his eyes, and laugh at her.

  Nienna's mouth dropped open.

  Styx lifted the blade. "For that, bitch, I'm going to cut you up."

  Nienna felt piss trickle down her legs, and she knew she was doomed and dead and worse; a slave to this terrible man.

  Something appeared from nowhere, a blur, a wristthick length of wood which connected with the side of Styx's head. Blood and saliva showered from his mouth, along with a tooth, and in slow motion Nienna watched him writhe sideways, body a jellied doll, and hit the earth unconscious. He twitched, and lay still.

  Myriam loomed from the darkness. She stood over Styx, face contorted in rage. The tree branch descended again, smacking Styx's head so hard the wood disintegrated in her hands, separating into three discrete sections which tumbled to the earth.

  Nienna sat, hands clasping frozen roots, unable to speak.

  "Come here, child," said Myriam. Nienna obeyed, scrambling to her feet to stand, staring down at Styx. Blood ran from his ear. His lips were fluttering, and blue. Nienna looked up at Myriam, who placed a protective hand on Nienna's shoulder.

  "Have you killed him?"

  "I hope so."

  "You could stab him?"

  Myriam spun Nienna around, and crouched, staring into her eyes. "Child, this is no place to murder an unconscious man. I have done… terrible things. In my past. In my life. Things so awful you could never comprehend. However. You might not believe this, but I still have some pride. Styx did something bad here tonight; but I have given him a warning – a final warning. If he wishes to take it further, then I will kill him. It's that simple. He obeys my rules, or he's food for the maggots."

  She stood. Nienna stared up at her, but said nothing. Then Nienna tilted her head. "Are you in pain?"

  "What?" snapped Myriam, eyes scanning the dark woodland.

  "You look like you're in pain. It's in your face. In your eyes. All the time. I don't understand."

  "Yes," hissed Myriam, eyes narrowed. "I am in constant pain. The gods have decided I am their plaything; they have a task for me, and if I do not succeed then I die, I die soon, I die in great agony, I die horribly. Why, little chicken, what's it to you?" She forced a smile, through her rage, to take the sting from her words. But Nienna could still see the low-level bright agony, like a fishing-line through her face, through her brain, and it reached out to Nienna. To her empathy. She could not bear to see somebody suffer.

  "Where do you hurt?"

  "Walk with me. Back to the camp," said Myriam. As she walked, she sighed. "It hurts everywhere, little one. In my muscles, in my bones; in my head, in my belly, in my groin."

  "Should I rub your muscles?"

  Vehemence flared in Myriam for a few moments, like exploding lava erupting into the ocean, but mentally she calmed herself. She hated pity. But this was not pity; this was empathy. A different breed entirely.

  Myriam sighed. Nobody had touched her in years. "That would be… odd," she said, and tilted her head. "But welcome, I think."

  They reached the camp. Jex was sharpening his sword. He glanced up. "Did you find him?"

  "Found him and warned him," said Myriam. "Go and see to him, if you like."

  "I will. We may need his skill if we meet any of those albino bastards. With just two of us, it would be foolhardy indeed." Myriam nodded, and watched Jex lope off through the woods.

  "Dawn is coming," she said, and moved to the fire, throwing on a few more logs. Sparks danced. "Come and sit."

  Nienna moved to Myriam, and as the tall woman sat, stretching her legs out, lifting her head with a groan, Nienna moved behind her, and placed hands on shoulders. "My grandfather taught me this," she said. She began to squeeze Myriam's muscles, and felt knots of tension there. Myriam might look cool and relaxed, but she was a tense mess of taut muscle and rigid fear. Nienna closed her eyes, and allowed her hands to follow the flow, to kneed Myriam's neck and shoulders easing away tension. For a while she rubbed, and probed, and stroked, and when she opened her eyes Myriam groaned, a low ululation of almost ecstasy.

  "Is it helping?" asked Nienna.

  "It is wonderful," said Myriam, and turned, looking back at the girl. "It's been too long since I was touched." Then she laughed, and shook her head, her short black hair laced with sweat. "Forgive me. Ignore me. I am foolish."

  Nienna saw the tears in Myriam's eyes, but wisely decided not to comment. Instead, she analysed the harsh, gaunt features, the sunken eyes, the thin white scars, the brutality of ravaged flesh. Here was a woman close to death, realised Nienna. And yet, she was a killer. She had poisoned Nienna, and Kell; did she not deserve to die? And Nienna realised. Myriam simply wanted what everybody in the world wanted. Life. A simple basic necessity, the one thing so many seemed to take for granted, the one primal commodity so many pissed against the wall with their pointlessness, their pettiness, their crime and greed and self-pity. Life. So huge, and yet so undervalued at the same time. "What are you thinking?" whispered Myriam, her eyes locked on Nienna and there were tears in her eyes. She grinned, a young, girlish grin, and tilted her head and for a moment Nienna saw sunshine, saw youth and vitality and beauty and it all faded, crumbled into a pan of disintegration leaving Myriam's savaged face as an encore.

  "I am thinking you were once pretty," said Nienna.

  "And I'm thinking she'll soon be dead," snarled Styx, who'd staggered forward, blood soaking his hair, covering his face, to lean against a tree. In one hand he held a Widowmaker. Behind him, Jex stood, sword drawn, eyes unforgiving.

  "So you both turn against me?" said Myriam.

  "You've taken it too far with the girl," said Jex. "She's just another plaything; just like all the others. And they never bothered you before, woman. They never got to you before. You should have let Styx fuck her, have his fun. We would have dealt with Kell when he arrived. You are wrong about this situation, Myriam. You have changed."

  "What?" she laughed, easily, fluid, eyes never leaving the Widowmaker. "I have not changed! This is about ownership, or leadership; I've got both of you bastards out of many a tight situation. Without me, you'd still be in jail. Rotting."

  "Aye," nodded Styx, "that is correct. But now we're going to kill you. And take the girl. Rape her, and peel her skin from her screaming, twitching limbs. We'll have such fun, such sweet fun; she'll dance a jig a'right. Then kill her, as well, and bury her for the worms to feast. And you know something else, Myriam?"

  "Surprise me," said Myriam, voice low.

  "I might just fuck you. Aye. Give you one last farewell going over, before the cancer – or my knife – steals that which you think is so precious. You want to live, Myriam my sweet?" He grinned, showing stubs of teeth through black stained lips which glistened with spit. "Do you want to live, bitch?"

  "Life is precious," whispered Myriam.


  "So is death," snarled Styx, and lurched forward, fresh blood pumping down his bruised face, free hand flexing, the Widowmaker held high and pointed at Myriam's face. His eye was narrowed and filled with death. Behind Myriam, Nienna cowered in abject fear.

  There came a slam, and the top of Styx's head exploded, his entire upper cranium removed in the blink of an eye by a steel-tipped black bolt. A shower of skull and brains rained down. Blood washed down Styx's face, the expression stunned for a moment, then he slammed down on the frozen soil of the woodland carpet.

  Myriam lifted her own Widowmaker from between her legs, where it was concealed by her loose cotton shirt. She pointed it at Jex, and the tattooed man had gone pale despite his ink; he dropped his sword, and lifted both hands, palms outwards, showing submission.

  "He was right," said Myriam, her voice a bitter epitaph. "Death is also precious. All death. Why did you do it, Jex? Why did you turn on me? We had something… special, here."

  "He offered me more," came the short man's reply. He shrugged, eyes glittering, and smiled. "But now the odds have turned against him. Put down the 'Maker, Mirry. You know you don't want to do this, we've been through way too much." He looked at Styx's exploded head, which glistened crimson in a pool of blood. "Just like I know you didn't want to do that."

  "Take your shit, and leave," said Myriam.

  Jex eyed her for a while, then stooped, lifting his sword and sheathing the weapon. He shrugged again, turned, and drifted through the trees. Myriam released a long, shuddering breath, and sat back down, the Widowmaker loose between trembling fingers.

  "He would have killed you," said Nienna, touching Myriam's shoulder.

  "I know that! It's just – we go back. Way back. We went through some hellish times together, child. A world you would never understand." She turned and stared at Nienna. "It's not the killing that bothers me. I've killed priests with their baubled knickers round their ankles. No. It's the loss. The betrayal. I don't understand it." She laughed then, and climbed wearily to her feet, rubbing at her eyes. She stared off through the woods, which grew light with the approach of dawn. "It shouldn't have ended like this," she whispered. "We should have been stronger."