Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (20 page)

    Kell fell into a brooding hunch, and his eyes were hooded, his face dark.

    "And the outcome of your sermon
is
?" said Saark brightly.

    "Appreciate what you've got," snarled Kell, bitterness at the forefront of his mind. "I was like you, Saark, although you have only a limited intelligence to realise it; I was a mad man, a bad man, and I took no prisoners. Ale, whiskey, drugs, women, I took it all with both hands. But it did me no good. Ultimately, it left me hollow and brittle and broken."

    "You look far from broken to me," said Saark, voice soft.

    "You only see the shell," snapped Kell. "You don't see the empty cancerous holes inside. Now, be as you will, boy, do what you will with no respect for others; but I swear, one day, when you're old, and your time is spent, and you are riddled with arthritis and have no children to weep your passing, and no grandchildren to sit on your bouncing knee and ask with bright wide eyes, aye," he laughed, "they'll ask for stories of your travels with
Kell the Legend
; well, Saark, my lad, if you have been nothing but a dishonourable fellow – one day, one day you'll realise that your bloody time ran out. And you'll die, sad, and unloved, and alone. Even more alone than me." Kell smiled then, and kicked his horse forward, breaking free of the snow-laden forest and looking out and on to the looming Black Pike Mountains.

    Saark scowled. Kell had touched a nerve, and his thoughts swirled like a winter storm. "You miserable,
miserable
old bastard," he muttered, and cantered after the old warrior, hands tight on the high pommel of his gelding's saddle.

Saark called a halt, and they sat under snow-heavy conifers, staring across a bleak landscape. Distantly, the Black Pike Mountains mocked them. They were getting close. As Kell grew weak, so they were getting close. And he knew Nienna was out there, just as he knew thousands of enemies were out there. Kell raged inside, and wanted to tear out his beard and his hair. It was a bad situation; a bitter situation! The world had become a savage place. But then, wasn't that what his victims thought as his great axe, his great
demon-possessed axe,
clove them from crown to crotch? You are an old man, and yet you walk with demons. You are an old man, and you converse with evil. You stalked the streets of Kalipher during the Days of Blood…

    "Do you hate all vachine," said Saark, suddenly, looking back to Kell.

    Kell grunted. "Eh?"

    "No. Really. Do you hate them?"

    "I hate what they stand for."

    "Which is?"

    Kell considered this. "They are not of this world by choice. They merge with machines, and in doing so, drink the refined blood narcotic of those they have slain. I reckon that's an unhealthy place to be, don't you, lad?"

    "What happens when a vachine bites you?" said Saark, voice soft, but Kell, preoccupied with his own pain from the poison in his bones, and thoughts of finding Nienna, missed any subtleties or nuances which may have emerged from Saark's voice or facial expression.

    "Well lad, it starts to turn you," said Kell.

    "What does that mean? Turn you?"

    Kell shrugged. "They give you blood-oil, and take your fresh blood. It's, not a poison exactly, but more a chemical that works in harmony with the clockwork machines inside any clockwork vampire. Without the clockwork…"

    "Yes?"

    "You suffer. Suffer long and hard. Until you beg for the clockwork to be inside you."

    "Great. And how do you get this damn clockwork?" scowled Saark.

    "You either visit Silva Valley, or a skilled Vachine Engineer. It's a religion, apparently." Kell barked a laugh, and slapped Saark on the back. "Why lad, not been bit, have you?" He roared suddenly, at his own incredible witticism, his own great humour.

    "Of course not," said Saark, face straight. "Because then I'd be a vachine, and you'd want to cut off my head."

    "Nonsense," boomed Kell, his mood seemingly lightened. He leaned in close. "I like you. You're my friend. For you, maybe I'd cut out only one lung."

    Kell cantered ahead.

    Saark frowned, a heavy dark frown like the thunder of worlds. "Wonderful," he muttered. "A vachine
killer
with a sense of humour."

Snow fell heavy, drifting in great veils across the world. Wrapped heavy in furs, they rode through day and partly through night, before finding a shallow place amongst rocks to camp. They built a fire, abandoning their subterfuge for the simple act of wanting to stay alive. Mary and the horses huddled together for warmth, and Saark sat now, face illuminated by flames, watching Kell sleep. Saark did not feel tired. He could feel his blood pulsing through his veins. Eventually the snow stopped, and the sky brightened, and looking upwards the moon seemed so incredibly bright. Saark smiled, and welcomed the cold.

    He drifted for a long time, analysing his life and wondering, again, why sleep would not come. Was it the blood-oil working through his veins? Creeping through his organs? He smiled as intuition nagged him. Of course it was. He was changing, just as Kell had predicted in his summary of what happened after a vachine bit. And that meant? He had to imbibe clockwork of some sort? Saark frowned. That sounded like a bucket of horseshit. Surely Kell was wrong.

    Then the pain arrived, a distant, nagging pain which grew brighter and sharper and keener with every passing heartbeat. And then twin stings shot through his mouth and Saark might have cried out, he wasn't sure, but he fell to the snowy ground and smelled crushed ice and the trees and the woodland and a rabbit shivering in a burrow and the stench of Kell, his sweat, bits of food in his bushed beard, stale whiskey on his jerkin. Saark looked up, from the snow, shivering, looked up at the moon. Again, the pain stabbed through his jaws and his teeth seemed to rattle in his skull. The pain was incredible, like nothing he'd ever felt, far surpassing the stabbing at the hands of Myriam; far outweighing the feeling of any blade which had ever pierced his flesh. He wanted to scream, but the pain swamped him, and it was a strange pain, a honey pain, thick and sweet and sickly and almost welcoming… almost.

    Saark heard the sounds, then, as if from a great distance. Crunches of tearing flesh and snapping bone rattled through him, and with horror he rocked back onto his arse and touched his face, touched his teeth where long incisors had pushed through his upper jaw. He touched the fangs, felt their incredible, razor sharpness; he sliced his thumb, watched blood roll down his frozen moonlit-pale flesh, and his eyes went wide. His nostrils twitched. The smell of blood awoke something animal within him; no, not something animal, something deeper, something more feral, base, primitive, something which he could not explain.

    "What is happening to me?" he said, his words thick and slurred, his head spinning. Then his head slammed right. His eyes narrowed. He fixed on Kell. Not only could he smell the detritus of human stench; now, he could smell Kell's blood.

    Saark moved onto his hands and knees, and crouched, and stopped, his eyes focused on Kell, the smell of Kell's blood in his nostrils. He could smell every droplet. Every ounce. It pulsed sluggishly through Kell's veins and to Saark, here, now, the world receded, changed, and the only thing in the entirety of existence was this group of rocks, this campfire, this snow-filled moment with Kell, asleep, head back, snoring, throat exposed. Saark could see the pulse in Kell's neck. It went beyond enticement, through lust and need and into another realm which meant more than life and death. Saark wanted blood. Saark
needed
blood. If he did not drink Kell's blood he would surely die; he would surely explode into a billion fragments of pain only to be reformed again and torn apart again over and over for ever and ever and ever unto eternity.

    Slowly, Saark crawled across the snow.

    Under waxen moonlight, Kell slept on.

    CHAPTER 9

    
The Harvest

The wolves crept into the cave, and Alloria stood frozen with fear, her eyes locked to the lead wolf, huge, black, yellow, baleful. "Stand back," came Vashell's voice, and Alloria turned, slowly, as if fearful the moment she presented her back it would be leapt upon, huge jaws fastening over her head and ripping it easily from her shoulders.

    Slowly, Alloria retreated. The fire was warm by her back. Her mouth was dry, eyes wide, breath coming in short bursts. Her hand dropped to her lower belly, an unconscious act of protection, an act of the maternal – although her boys, if they lived – which she doubted – were many, many miles away. In a different world.

    Vashell eased past her, his terribly scarred face demonic, his eyes narrowed, his clockwork ticking, gears stepping. Alloria jumped, noticing he carried a short stabbing sword in powerful grip. He had taken it from her pack. He was hunched, powerful shoulders ready for battle… which did not come. Vashell
growled
, a low animal sound, bestial and yet mixed curiously with the sounds of subtle clockwork, as if this were a gift be stowed by engineers rather than Nature. The wolves tilted heads, and under his advance they began to back away, still rumbling threateningly, but heads lower now, submissive, as if bowing down before their master.

    Vashell stepped out into the storm. The blizzard whipped him. Through veils of snapping snow and ice, the mountains reared, eternal, powerful, immortal.

    The wolves continued to back away, until another was set forward. It was massive, bigger by a head than even the biggest wolf. Its fur was jet black, its eyes green and intelligent. It was the prodigal, a natural born leader of the pack, a beast in its prime. Vashell stood and stared at the wolf, which carried something in its jaws. The others had made a decision, and retreated, allowing this huge creature the ultimate choice of attack or retreat.

    Vashell stopped, and stared, eyes narrowed, throat still making the strange clockwork growling. And he stared without emotion at the object, the trophy, carried between the jaws of the wolf. Alloria followed Vashell out into the blizzard, arm coming up to shield her eyes, and she gasped. For between its jaws, the magnificent and powerful wolf carried the head of a Harvester.

    Alloria placed her arm on Vashell's steel bicep. "Don't attack," she said, urgently. "Maybe it is a friend? Any enemy of the Harvesters is surely an ally of mine…"

    But before Vashell could make any informed decision the wolf stood, a fluid blur, then stretched languorously. Its every movement held contempt for Vashell. With every nuance, every glint of those bright green intelligent eyes, the wolf seemed to say:
I know
you, you are vachine, I do not fear you, I do not fear the Harvesters, I will rend you and slay you until you are no more.

    The severed head, hanging by a thick flap of skin and spinal column, was blank and white and smeared with dirt. The tiny black eyes were lifeless – but then, Alloria thought, they always looked like that. The narrow nasal slits no longer hissed with their customary fast intake of breath.

    Slowly, the wolf dropped the Harvester's head to the snow. It licked its lips, again embodying contempt, then accelerated into an attack so fast it was a blur of black…

    Vashell stumbled back, sword slamming up but the wolf's jaws rattled left and right, clashing bone with steel and almost disarming Vashell. He rolled, battle instinct returning, dropping one shoulder and shifting, hitting the ground, coming up fast in a crouch with sword ready, head down, eyes narrowed. The wolf's huge pads hit the snow, and it shook itself like a raindrenched dog. It chuckled, a huge rolling rumble, turned to face Vashell, then attacked again with a savage scream, a bestial show of prowess. Vashell launched himself forward, sword held two-handed, intending to power the weapon into the wolf's lungs and beyond, into the pumping heart. But the wolf twisted, one huge paw lashing lazily across Vashell's face and sending him tumbling, skidding over snow towards the treacherous precipice. Below, rocks waited, ten thousand pointed daggers which mocked him.

    The wolf paced around in a tight circle, and to one side sat the rest of the pack, a few yelping, all pelts covered in a fine sprinkling of snow, whilst on the other side stood Alloria. Her face was shocked, for without Vashell to protect her she would be dead in an instant.

    The wolf moved forward, slowly, head lowering, green eyes fixed on its intended victim. "No!" gasped Alloria, hand to her mouth, and she realised in horror how in this savage wilderness, in the Black Pike Mountains which she had so casually underestimated, she now relied on one who, a few days earlier, would have quite happily slaughtered her. How mad was the world? How ironic? A sick sense of humour, for sure.

    Vashell grasped at his sword, fingers clasping steel, and the wolf bunched for the final leap, a snarl erupting from its muzzle as its whole frame tensed and muscles writhed like snakes under fur and it leapt, and Vashell's sword came up but was knocked aside, away, down, spinning onto the rocks far far below and Vashell rammed arms and legs between himself and the beast, and its fangs snapped in his face, fetid rotting breath rolling down his throat and he screamed, the vachine screamed as clockwork gears went
click
and a surge of blood-oil strength powered through veins and with awesome effort he heaved, and twisted, and rolled from the ledge of the high mountain pass. The wolf was dragged into the gap by its own weight, and claws slashed wounds down Vashell's throat, jaws snapping, as it was suddenly whipped away, spinning, into oblivion. Vashell's hands snapped out, grasped rocks, but his body slid over the edge and his fingers grappled and his healing fingers cast for purchase. If he'd had his vachine claws, he would have been safe. Instead, he slid for several feet on near-vertical icy rock, his movements panicked, until his boot wedged in a narrow V, nothing more than a crevice for hardy mountain flowers. He caught his descent. He glanced down. The huge wolf spun away, silent, eyes fixed on him with that bright green gaze. And then it was gone in swathes of mist, smashes of blizzard, and Vashell struggled for a minute and wearily heaved himself back onto the frozen trail where he lay, panting.

    Alloria was there, cradling his head, but Vashell pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the rest of the pack. He clenched his fists and snarled at Alloria to get back in the cave, his words almost unrecognisable as human, his head lowered for the final battle which he knew he could not win…

    The wolves sat, watching him, then turned as one and disappeared into the storm.

    Alloria helped Vashell into the cave, and he slumped, breathing harsh, blood running from the claw gouges in his throat. "Let me help you," she said, and tearing a strip of cloth from her clothing, went as if to bind the wound. Vashell caught her by the wrist, and shook his head.

    "I do not need your help."

    "You are bleeding."

    "I've bled before. I'll bleed again. Listen, you want to make yourself useful, go and get the Harvester's head. They left it. Like I won a prize." He smiled weakly, face a horror mask of scars and weeping wounds.

    "I cannot."

    "You will not?"

    "I
cannot
touch that thing. It's abhorrent!"

    Vashell jacked himself to his elbows, then sighed and left the cave. He returned holding the dead head by the spinal tail, and he threw it next to the fire.

    "What were you thinking? Cremation?"

    "Not yet," said Vashell, and started warming his hands. They were battered, scratched from the fight with the black wolf, and from saving himself the terrible fall. "Look in my pack. There's some dried cat, and my hunting knife."

    "Cat?"

    "I caught a small snow panther. Or rather, it attacked me in a frenzy of hunger. Without a sword, it was difficult; but my dagger eventually made a good job of it, although I would rather have used vachine fang and claw." He dropped into a silence of brooding, and Alloria felt it wise to remain quiet.

    She moved, and rummaged through his pack, pulling out strips of dried meat and the knife. As she turned, she saw Vashell had taken the Harvester's head and stood it on a rock. The spinal column had curled around the bloodless stump like a snake around a staff. Alloria shivered.

    "It almost looks alive," she said.

    "I am," came a faint, drifting, almost unheard voice from the Harvester's mouth. "Fetch me some water."

    Alloria stood, frozen, but Vashell carried a small bottle to the creature's lips and poured. The Harvester spluttered, and wetted its mouth, and Alloria watched in absolute disgust as the water leaked from the creature's severed neck stump.

    "But it's dead!" she cried, finally, moving to Vashell as if for protection; but he knelt before the head, and Alloria found herself doing the same thing, her eyes locked on those tiny black orbs, almost fascinated now as a tongue licked necrotic lips.

    "Thank the gods you came," hissed the Harvester. "I thought I would spend an eternity in that beast's stinking maw."

    "How can you still live?" said Alloria, stunned into gawping stupidity.

    "Hold your tongue woman. He has limited strength." Vashell's brow was narrowed, but he did not show the surprise he ought to. Which meant he had seen this kind of thing before.

    "They are immortal?" whispered Alloria.

    "Not immortal," said Vashell. "Have you ever seen a cockroach?"

    "Yes, once they infested the palace stores; we lost much food, and it took the servants an age to sort the problem. What of them?"

    "If you take a knife, and cut off a cockroach's head, it takes the tough little bastard a week to die. And the only reason it dies? Because it can no longer eat and sustain its body as a complete entity. Harvesters are the same. Decapitation can sometimes be the end; but not always."

    "That's unbelievable."

    "Believe what you like, woman. But I have seen this before, once, when I was a child. Hunting snow lions with other vachine royalty; I was along for the ride, with my father. We had a Harvester with us, a tracker named Graslek. The lion surprised us in a circle of rocks, and as we fought a hasty retreat it bit off Graslek's head. My father carried the severed head back to the other Harvesters, who returned it to their world. I do not know what happened then, all I know is that the head talked the entire journey back. Gave me nightmares for months. My mother had to calm me with a strong blood-oil infusion."

    "What happened to the snow lion?"

    "Regrettably, it survived. Loped off into the peaks with half of a Harvester's body for a prize. Ruined the hunting trip."

    Vashell sat down, cross-legged before the head. A tongue wetted lips, and at its request Vashell poured a little more water onto its eager, questing tongue. Five times more he did this, and gradually the Harvester's eyes grew bright, its features more relaxed.

    "What is your name, Harvester?"

    "Fiddion."

    "How long ago were you…"

    "Killed?" The Harvester chuckled, a low and nasty sound. "I have become arrogant, it would seem. I was performing a religious rite. I was secure in my own observation skills; I did not see, nor sense, that wolf approach. But then, maybe the Nonterrazake have removed some of my skills. In their eyes, I would deserve such a humiliating punishment."

    "You have been cast out?" said Vashell, eyes wide in shock. It was the greatest show of emotion Alloria had ever witnessed from the vachine, but hard to read on his scarred features.

    "Yes. And although it shames me, their treatment of me burns with hate. I would avenge myself on those who did this; I would bury their whole world under fire and ash!"

    "What did you do?" asked Alloria, in awe, and Fiddion's small black eyes turned on her.

    "You dare ask that of me, child? Begone! Away! I am not here to lay my soul bare before
humans
. That would be base and pathetic. But what I would seek…" he paused, small eyes blinking in a long, slow movement more to do with thought than anything else. "Yes. I would seek to give you information."

    "Why?" snapped Vashell, feeling uneasy. Everything in his vachine world spoke of honour and loyalty to the Engineer Religion, to the Episcopate and Watchmakers; and they in turn, the vachine as a whole, trusted the Harvesters implicitly. They had fought wars together. They had died together. Whatever information Fiddion wished to share, it was born from bitterness, resentment and a need for revenge. And for Vashell, this sat worse than any ten year cancer.

    "I would give you information," said the Harvester, "you can make an informed choice. Would you save your race, Vashell? Would you nurture the vachine into a new millennium?"

    "We can do that without your help," said Vashell, quietly, but his eyes flickered with nervousness, almost like the orbs of a hunted creature. He knew he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear; he knew, instinctively, it would change his life forever.

    Fiddion laughed. Quite a feat for a severed head. His spinal column seemed to relax and contract with delicate slithering sounds, like snake scales gliding over rock.

    "Listen,
vachine
," he said, and his black eyes glowed like the outer reaches of space. "Your whole race, your whole religion, your whole world is threatened. By the Harvesters. By Kradek-ka. By General Graal and his stinking Army of Iron. They work together, can't you see?"

    "To do what?" snorted Vashell.

    "To bring about the return of the three Vampire Warlords. They are like Dark Gods, and once they walked these lands with a malice and depravity you could never comprehend. The world shivered when they awoke; and it breathed again when they died."

    "They are legend," said Vashell, head tilted, one side of his scarred face illuminated by the flickering fire. Wood crackled, and woodsmoke twitched his nostrils. Outside, the wind howled mournfully and Vashell felt a great emptiness, a bleakness, in his soul. "Even if they did return, they would do us no harm. We are of the same blood. We are allies!" But even as he spoke the words, he could see the twisted logic of his own argument. They were not of the same blood. That was the whole point. The vachine were a hybrid clockwork deviation.