Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  "You cannot take on an entire nation of clockwork killers," said Saark, hand on Kell's shoulder.

  "You just do it one head at a time," snapped Kell. "You'd be surprised what a pyramid you can build."

  "I think, old horse, that sometimes you are crazy."

  Kell nodded sombrely. "I'm just the way the world made me."

  More snow fell, a light scattering making rocks treacherous and slippery. After several hours of the narrow pass they emerged into a circular valley with a frozen tarn at its floor. All around reared jagged teeth peaks, and Kell put his hands on his hips, breathing deeply, staring out at the stunning, desolate beauty of the place.

  "Kingsman's Tarn," said Kell. He pointed, and the others followed his gaze. "Up that way is Demon's Ridge, the first of our trials. If we can get up there by nightfall, we'll be safe from anything that follows."

  "You're being followed?" said Myriam, eyes narrowed, hand straying to her longbow.

  "I guarantee it," said Kell. "Graal seems to have a passion to make me dead. Well, as he's going to find out, I don't die easy."

  "You keep saying that," snapped Saark.

  "Ain't it true, lad?"

  "I'm not disputing its truth, just pointing out that it grates on my nerves every time you say it."

  Kell laughed, seeing Saark's uneasiness. A cold wind howled down over the tarn, and rushed past them like a phalanx of cold angels. "I understand now! You are so much out of your natural environment, it hurts."

  Saark frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "The royal court," Kell sneered, "with its golden goblets, bowls of honey fruit, its randy middle-aged courtiers with powdered wigs and silk panties and glossy leather boots – that's your world, Saark. The world of easy sex and animal sex, of whiskey-wine and the best cuts of meat full of thick fat juice and spiced herbs from a different continent! The world of the dandy. The fop. The rich idiot with too much gold and nothing between his ears, nor his legs, I'd wager. That, Saark, my favourite horny, perfumed goat, is the world to which you belong. Your natural setting. But this. This!" He stared around, at the wilds, the rugged ridgelines, the whipping flurries of snow, the ice, the storm-filled skies; a place of natural wonder, and brutality, and death. "This is my place," he finished quietly.

  Saark pushed ahead, leading Mary. "That way, you say?"

  "Yes. Across the heather. There's a rocky path we can follow further on, an old stream bed leading up to Demon's Ridge. You'll struggle with that damn donkey, though."

  "I'm not leaving her behind. Not here," said Saark, patting her fondly.

  "Aye. Well, I suppose there's good eating on one."

  "What?" Saark's voice was ice.

  "Her meat will be a bit stringy, but it'll do when we're starving on the crags."

  "She's not for eating," scowled Saark. "That would be a crime!"

  "Aye. A crime to my belly, is what I'm thinking. But come on. We have a long way to go."

  They rose from Kingsman's Tarn in the basin valley, and within an hour the wind was howling across the rock faces and cutting through their clothing. Each pulled on extra woollen shirts and dug out thick cloaks, as high over the ridges snow danced and threatened heavy falls.

  "I expect," said Saark, grunting as he jumped down into the old stream bed and turned to guide Mary, "that the snow can easily block our passage. Render our journey impossible. That sort of thing?"

  "Aye," said Kell, panting, putting his hands on his hips to gaze up the narrow incline ahead. Although snow was present, it was surprisingly shallow and banked to one side of the old stream bed. Kell picked a path to the left where his boots could still grip the stones, and he led the way up the slope.

  Their progress was slow, and before long all four were panting, and struggling to move forward. Despite cold and ice, the small rocks of the old stream bed shifted under boots, making the scramble difficult.

  Still, they pushed on.

  Out of the wind it was hot work climbing, and they played an annoying game of removing clothing, then suffering the bite of wind and putting it back on. Saark cursed more than the others, and Nienna was silent, her face strong, eyes focused on the task, pushing herself on much to the silent pride of Kell. She is definitely of my blood, he thought. She has the strength of ten lions!

  Darkness was gradually falling as they reached the final section of the steep trail, which grew worse for perhaps the final hundred metres of ascent up to Demon's Ridge. The ridgeline had vanished now, and all they could see was rock and ice, boulders and channels in the mountain rock.

  Saark stopped, and glanced back at what they had climbed. He grinned over at Nienna. "You're doing well, girl." She nodded, but no smile came to her face. She was exhausted, hands cut, feet sore, the cold seeping into her bones, the wind shrieking in her brain. "I am trying, Saark. Really trying." Her voice was the voice of a child again, and weariness her mistress.

  Now, the climbing got harder and they struggled on, clawing at the frozen rocks, dragging themselves up steep inclines and past huge boulders. Mary the donkey was, as Saark predicted, surprisingly agile, but as he peered further and further up the trail, he wondered for how long she'd be able to manage.

  They struggled on, sweat pouring down faces, making their hair lank and skin chilled by the wind. Myriam suffered the worst, for with her savage cancer she had grown weak, and grew weaker with every passing day. Her face and eyes were fevered, and she drank water often, hands shaking with fatigue and dehydration. At one point she stumbled, and Saark was there in the blink of an eye, moving with incredible agility and speed, grabbing her arm before she toppled back down the steep road of stones. She smiled in gratitude to him, leaning on him heavily as she fumbled for her water bottle again. Saark scowled, and let go.

  "I should have let you go," he snapped.

  "You're still sore about that knife wound, aren't you?"

  Saark said nothing, but moved ahead. Myriam watched him with bright fevered eyes.

  Kell was first to reach the summit and stand on the heady heights of Demon's Ridge. He planted a boot either side of the ridgeline, hands on hips, hair and beard caught by the wild, whining wind, and gazed out over the stacked ridges and endless teeth of the Black Pike Mountains. They filled his vision like nothing else ever could, and Kell caught a breath in his throat, filled with emotion, filled with dread, and filled with a deep certainty, an intuition that this was his last time in the Black Pikes. He knew, as sure as night follows day, that he would die here. The Pikes would claim him. For Kell, this time, there was no going home.

  Melancholy hit Kell like a fist. He helped Nienna climb up and stand beside him on the high ridge, gazing out across the staggered realms of hundreds of mountains which stretched off to a distant, dark horizon. Trails of dry snow curled in the air, and each mountain was subtly different, many purple or black or grey, many with snow on flanks and peaks; but they all shared one thing in common. Each was a savage barbed pike, a threat to life and love, and without an ounce of mercy in the billions of tonnes of rock which carved out passes and channels, gulleys and scree slopes. These were the Black Pike Mountains. All they brought to humanity was suffering and death.

  Saark arrived next, panting, his dark curls drenched with sweat. Mary the donkey followed him, struggling up the last section, but once on the ridge was surefooted and seemed unconcerned by the vast drops surrounding them. Saark patted her muzzle and looked to Kell. "You move fast for an old fat man," he said.

  "And you climb well for an effete arsehole."

  Saark gazed out. "I don't like the look of that. Too many places to die!"

  "It's beautiful!" said Nienna, voice filled with awe.

  "Yeah," muttered Saark, taking in great lungfuls of air, "as beautiful as a striking cobra. Girl, this place is no place for mortals. The Black Pikes were put here by the gods to keep us away from the Granite Thrones!"

  "The Granite Thrones? What're they?"

  "Tsch," scowled Kell. "That's a myth."


  "In my experience, nine times out of ten myths are based on fact."

  Kell shrugged. "Whatever. That does not concern us. What does concern us is getting to Silva Valley; it's a long, hard haul my friends."

  Myriam climbed the final stretch, and stared at the donkey's arse blocking her path. Saark clicked his tongue, and Mary moved out of Myriam's way, eyes flared, ears laid back along her dark-haired skull.

  "This is no place for an ass," said Myriam acidly, stepping up onto the ridge.

  "I wish everybody would stop complaining about my donkey," moaned Saark.

  "Who said I was talking about the donkey?"

  They laughed, and stared out in wonder. The world seemed much larger, a vast sweeping canvas. Nienna turned a full circle, eyes absorbing the magnificent splendour as the wind swooped and howled, crackled and snapped.

  Kell laid his hand on Nienna's shoulder. "Is this what you wanted, girl?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "That day, when the Army of Iron invaded Jalder. You said you were bored. You wanted a taste of adventure. Well, you've been given adventure all right. You've been given adventures enough to last you a lifetime!"

  "It's not what I expected," she said, in a small voice, remembering the evil people she had met, the pain she had endured, the friends she had lost. And most of all, she pictured Kat, a victim at the hands of Styx's Widowmaker crossbow. Nienna realised she was glad Styx was dead. He was a bad man, and had deserved everything. "I realise now. I did not understand. It would have been better to stay at home, go to university, raise a family." She took a deep breath, and looked up into Kell's eyes as the wind whipped her dark hair. "But I am here now, and this thing is happening to our world. The Army of Iron will not stop, the vachine will not stop – not unless we stop them, right?"

  Kell chuckled. "An old man, a haunted child, a cancer-riddled woman and a foppish dandy. What chance, in the name of the Bone Underworld, have we really got?"

  "You sell us short, old man," said Saark, smiling, his eyes twinkling as his gaze moved back down the trail they had traversed. The smile dropped from his face, as if he'd been hit by a helve. Distant, by the tarn, where the pass led from the Cailleach Fortress, something moved. "We have company," snapped Saark, hand on the hilt of his rapier.

  The group turned, looked down, and stared.

  Distant, two pale-skinned figures emerged. They were tall, lithe, athletic, and moved with a balanced ease across uneven ground. Even from this great remoteness it was clear they were Graal's daughters, the vachines who had attacked Kell and Saark earlier. They were the Soul Stealers. And they still hunted Kell's blood.

  "I thought we'd scared them off," said Saark, voice little more than a whisper.

  "No chance, lad," said Kell, eyes hooded. "And look. This time they brought friends."

  Behind the two women, on long chain leashes, came the cankers. There were three of them, but these were smaller than previous beasts and appeared, almost, like bow-legged horses. Only these seemed to have no skin. Bloody, crimson flesh gleamed, even from this distance. One of the skinless cankers screeched, and the sound echoed through the basin valley like a woman being stabbed, reverberating on high spirals of wind. It was a chilling sound.

  "Time for us to move on, I think," said Saark, mouth dry, voice a whisper.

  "Let's go," agreed Kell, and they headed down the opposite side of Demon's Ridge as far below, in the valley, the Soul Stealers sniffed the air and started forward in pursuit.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Black Pike Mountains

  General Graal knelt on luxurious rugs, his body naked and oiled, and grasped the black sword in shaking fingers. He had imbibed drugs, the leaf of the Truaga Plant, and allowed his blood to be filtered through KaKa Leaves. And although he was considered an amateur in circles of magick, this simple spell taught by Kradek-ka, this simple mind-to-mind communion using blood-oil as a signal carrier was something at which Graal was becoming peculiarly adept. For he knew he would need this skill when the Vampire Warlords returned…

  Kuradek, Meshwar and Bhu Vanesh.

  It had been an age since they walked the lands. An age since they sat on the Granite Thrones. But their time was about to return, and Graal could feel their apprehension in the Blood Void; could feel their frustration and eagerness, and ultimately, their desire to return with their toxicity, with their plague.

  "Kradek-ka?" he whispered.

  "I am here," said Kradek-ka, the telltale tick tick tick of his vachine clockwork filling Graal's mind and making it difficult to concentrate over such distance.

  "I am finished here. Falanor is a conquered land."

  "Yes. You have conquered it, Graal; you have brought a bloody retribution for their past; for the times of Ankarok. Servants they again shall be! And, as a consequence, we have enough blood-oil for the Summoning. But still, we need the third Soul Gem. Without it, we will have no control of the Vampire Warlords. With all three Soul Gems, we will be Masters." He laughed, a cold cruel laugh.

  "Does Anukis know?" said Graal.

  "No. She is a simple fool. She believes me, and she trusts me; after all, I am Watchmaker, I am Engineer! She was polluted by her mother as a child, I fear, fed simple morals and indoctrinated in the way of vachine; she wishes to see the vachine society expand and prosper, despite what they did because of her impure nature; despite what Vashell was forced to do – by coercion, and by magick. But she will come round, Graal. She will deliver the Soul Gem voluntarily… And if she does not? Well, I will rip the Gem from her chest with my own teeth. The Engineer Religion must end here. It is time for a new Empire. An Empire based on Blood and Sacrifice and Vampire Plague!"

  Graal said nothing for a moment, and thought of his own daughters, Shanna and Tashmaniok. If they had carried a gem of infinite power, of destructive soul magick buried deep within their own flesh, if they had carried a key to controlling the ancient vampire gods – would he sacrifice them? He smiled then. Of course he would. For they were only flesh, and bone, and what Kradek-ka and Graal planned… Well, that was immortality. Power. And total control.

  "What of the second?" said Graal, then. "Have the three moons aligned?"

  "The moons are aligned," confirmed Kradek-ka. "And even as we speak, Jageraw is in the mountains on his strange deviant course. As the Book of Angels decreed, the Gems had to be implanted in Guardian Souls. When released, only then would they have the true power to control the Vampire Warlords."

  "So we have Anukis. We have Jageraw. Our lady, our contact implanted the third… have you found her, yet? Have you found the Guardian?"

  "Yes." Kradek-ka's voice was soft. Clockwork gears stepped and clicked with a vague, background buzz. "I know the Guardian now."

  "Did she choose well? Is the Guardian known to me?" said Graal, voice grave.

  "Let us just say this answers a puzzle which has haunted us for many a day, General Graal."

  The brass chamber in the Engineer's Palace was cold, and eerily quiet at this hour of the night. Sa entered, pulling a high-collared shimmering iron gown tight. Her eyes burned with annoyance. "This had better be good," she snarled, striding across the metal floor, boots ringing. Then she stopped. She stared at Walgrishnacht and the three remaining members of his platoon.

  The Cardinal and his vachine warriors were in a sorry state. Their flesh was cut and burned, by weapons and by ice, and their armour and clothing was in tatters showing signs of many a battle. The vachine warriors wore bloodied bandages with pride.

  "You came through the mountains?"

  "Through the Secret Paths," said Walgrishnacht.

  "And you have news," said Sa, briskly.

  "Princess Jaranis is dead. General Graal had her murdered. I assume this precludes invasion."

  "It is not your duty to assume," snapped Sa, eyes narrowed. "You were pursued?"

  "By cankers," said Walgrishnacht, voice level. Tagortel gave a short hiss, air rushing past his vachine fangs. He gestured to Sa, who nodded. For c
ankers to attack vachine was unheard of. Unbelievable! Even to utter such a breath was heresy in the Engineer's Palace.

  "You can prove this?" said Tagor-tel, voice low and filled with poison.

  Beja stepped from the shadows, and he carried a sack. Unceremoniously, he upended the cloth and a huge, deformed canker head rolled out, leaving bloodoil smears on the chamber floor.

  Sa took an involuntary step back. She met Walgrishnacht's steel gaze.

  "We are not the enemy here," said the Cardinal, and she noted his hand was on his sword-hilt. He had a finger missing.

  "Do you realise to whom you speak?" hissed Sa, invoking her Watchmaker status.

  "Yes," said Walgrishnacht. "But it looks to me that Graal intends to invade. You must call the War Council. If you do not pull our troops, and our Ferals back from Untamed Lands, we will be defenceless. Silva Valley will be defenceless!"

  Sa gave a nod. She turned to Tagor-tel. "Any news from Fiddion?"

  "No. He has been strangely silent."

  "Then call the War Council," said Sa, voice bleak. "Come the spring, it appears we go to war."

  Kell and his fellow travellers made a hasty descent into a narrow pass which led through the mountains. Tension was eating them, now. On their trail were two cross-breed vachine albino killers. Which meant… what? That the vachine and albino soldiers were breeding? Saark shivered at the thought as he moved lithely across rocky ground, and a cold wind laced with ice caressed him.

  "You're going to have to leave the donkey," said Kell, finally, as they stumbled through a narrow inverted V, leading to a rocky ravine.

  "No."

  "It's not up for debate, Saark. With those bastards on our tail, we need to put down more speed. She's slowing us down." Kell placed his hand gently on Saark's arm. "My friend. If Mary is with us when the cankers come, they will tear her to pieces. You know this."

  Saark nodded, and with a tear in his eye he patted the donkey's muzzle, removed the heavy load from her back and took a few essentials from the bags, before slapping her rump with the hilt of his rapier. With a startled "eeyore", Mary cantered back down the trail, then turned and stared at Saark reproachfully with large, baleful eyes.