Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (16 page)

    "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 well 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."

    "Myriam?" Nienna reached out, touching her arm.

    Myriam whirled, her face a mask of snarling animal hatred. The Widowmaker was high, pointing at Nienna's face. "Don't touch me!" she snarled. "If you touch me again, I'll remove your damn face!" With that, she stalked off through the woods leaving a shocked and chalk-white Nienna staring at the slowly cooling corpse of Styx.

Nienna sat for a long time. She watched Styx stiffen. She had never seen death like this before, close up, casual; she had never before been the spiritual prisoner of a corpse.

    I should like this, she thought.

    I should be filled with joy.

    She pictured Katrina's face. Styx had murdered her; cut short the young woman's blossoming life. This was her revenge! This was her moment! A time for Nienna to internalise emotions and find some kind of closure.

    It should have been wonderful! thought Nienna.

    However, if this is revenge, why does it feel so wrong?

    Eventually, she stood and stretched and moved to the packs the group had carried. Nearby, a horse whinnied. Nienna rummaged around until she found some small, hard oatcakes. She sat back on a log and ate, slowly, with small rabbit bites. As she ate, her gaze dropped, lower and lower, past Styx's shocked and destroyed face, past his narcotic-stained lips, to the Widowmaker lying on the frozen ground with his fingers still curled around the stock. Nienna continued to eat. Would it be hard to use? she thought. How hard could it be?

    She stood, finishing the food. Myriam's voice cut through Nienna's thoughts of escape.

    "Don't be fooled," came her softly spoken words. "It takes weeks of practice. And against somebody like me, with a deadly eye, the steady hand and eye of the hunter, and a killing edge you could never possess?" Myriam stepped forward from the shadow of the trees. "Well girl, you'd die real quick."

    "I wasn't thinking…"

    "Shh." Myriam held up a single finger. "Sort through Styx's pack. Save anything you think you can use, dump the rest here. We're riding out."

    "I thought we were waiting for Kell?" said Nienna, her voice small.

    "We will. At the Cailleach Fortress."

    "I thought you said it was haunted?"

    Myriam grinned, her face skeletal, and gaunt with the cancer. "We'd better make a pact with the ghosts, child; for if Jex comes back, we'll need a fortress to fend him off. He's a warrior of great skill."

    "Kell will kill him," said Nienna, hope bright in her eyes.

    "Maybe," said Myriam, gathering her bow. "Maybe."

They rode through a winter landscape, down narrow unmarked tracks and threading between wooded hills. Myriam knew the trails and paths like the back of her hand; never once did she falter when they reached a fork or series of scattered trails. Nienna, riding on Styx's horse, contemplated making a break for it often, but the Widowmaker hanging close by Myriam's right hand, and indeed her skill with her yew longbow, made her think twice. Myriam told Nienna the short clockworkpowered crossbow could kill at a hundred paces; Nienna didn't want to find out the hard way. As night approached, so did the Black Pike Mountains. They were huge, rearing from beyond the summit of a hill as they breached the rise on steaming mounts. Nienna coughed a gasp. She had seen the Black Pikes, but never this close; and when she saw the reality of their massive, stunning, brooding mass, the sheer weight of their squat and terrifying majesty, all thoughts of exploring them with student classmates went the way of campfire smoke.