Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (23 page)

    Around Kell the noise of the inn blurred, and fell into a tumbling swirling spiral of downward descent. Only him, and the whiskey, existed and he could taste it, taste
her
on his tongue and she was delight, summer flowers, fresh honey, a virgin's smile, and how could Kell possibly say no to such an innocent invitation? How could he refuse?

    Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the bottle. It was aged twenty years in oak vats. It had cost a pretty penny of gold, but the gold in his saddlebags was stolen from the albino army, the invading Army of Iron; and Kell cared nothing for their loss.

    "I'm going to my room," said Kell, tongue thick, mind swirling, focus dead.

    "There's a good lad," said Saark, eyes glittering with a different distraction, and watched the old warrior depart.

Saark loved many things in life. In fact, there were so many pleasures that in his humble opinion made life worth living, he doubted he could list them all. A child's laughter. Sunlight. The clink of gold on gold. The soft kiss of a woman's lips. The velvet skin on the curve of a hip. The slick handful of an eager quim. Liquor. Bawdy company. Bad jokes. Gambling…

    Saark coughed, innocent and unaware, eyes on a buxom wench across the tavern who'd caught his eye. She had long red hair and a cheeky smile. Then the heavy blow knocked him from his feet. He hit the ground, confusion his mistress, and he swam through treacle and felt himself being dragged. Another two blows sent him spinning into darkness. When he came round, groggy and stunned, a cold wind caressed his skin, but it felt good, good against the swellings on his face, tortured flesh battered and bruised after a pounding of helves. What happened? he thought, dazed. Just what the fuck happened?

    "Not so cocky now, are you, King's
bitch
?" snarled a face close to his, bad breath and garlic mixing to force a choke from Saark's lips. In the gloom he fought to recognise his assailant, but his mind was spinning, and the world seemed inside out.

    "I'd lay off the garlic next time," advised Saark through bleeding lips. "You'll never get intimate with a lady when you stink like a village idiot." There was a growl, and a boot connected with his ribs, several times. Then he was hefted along, dragged through snow, and over rough wood planks. He felt splinters worming into his hands and knees, but it was all he could do to scramble – and be dragged – along.

    "Watch your footsteps, lad, wouldn't want you to drown," came a half-recognised voice, and laughter accompanied the voice and with a start Saark realised there were men, many men, and this wasn't a simple dispute over a spilt tankard of ale; it was a lynching party. A sadness sank deep through him, like a sponge through lantern oil. He was in trouble. He was in a barrel of horseshit.

    Saark was dumped to the ground, which echoed ominously, and boots clattered around him. Saark waited for more pain, but it didn't come. Curled foetal, he finally opened his eyes and took a deep breath and spat out a sliver of broken tooth. That stung him, that tooth. Anger awoke in him, like an almost extinguished candle wick. This was turning into a
bad
day.

    What happened?

    He was laughing, joking, there was smoke and whiskey, they were playing at the card table. The villagers from the gate. He was taking their money like honey-cakes from a toddler – winning fair and square, for a change, and not having to resort to the
many
gambling tricks at which he was so good. Then… a blow from behind, from a helve, his face clattering against the table and taking the whole gambling pit with him. Boots finished him off. He didn't see it coming.

    But why? In the name of the Holy Mother of Falanor, why?

    "He's awake. Sit him up, lads."

    Saark was dragged up, forced onto a chair, then tied to it with tight knots. Saark tested his bonds. Yes, he thought. There was no breaking free of those! He gazed around, at so many faces he did not know. Except for one. What was the man's name? Jake? Rake? Drake? Bake? Saark suppressed a giggle. It was the rangy man from the village gates…

    "What's this all about, Stake?"

    "The name is Rake, dimwit." The circle of men chuckled.

    Saark looked about uneasily, and rolled his neck. He could still feel the press of his narrow rapier against his thigh – but had no ability to reach the weapon. Like all villagers, they underestimated the danger of such a narrow blade; what they considered a "girl's weapon". If it wasn't an axe, pike or bastard sword, then it wasn't
really
a weapon. Saark gave a narrow smile. Very much in the mould of Kell. They would find out, if he was given opportunity. Of that, he was sure.

    "Surely I don't owe
that much
money," said Saark.

    The circle of men closed in, and he could read anger, rage even, and a certain amount of
affront
on their faces, many bearded, several pock-marked, all with narrowed eyes and clenched fists and brandished weapons.

     "Look around you," said Rake, unnecessarily thought Saark, although he deemed it prudent not to be pedantic. "Fathers. Brothers. Sons."

    "Aye?" Still Saark wore confusion like a cloak.

    "Enjoyed many a pretty dalliance during days passing through, haven't you Saark,
King's Man
? When you arrived, word went round fast. Here was Saark, an arrogant rich bastard, unable to keep his childmaker in his cheese-stinking pants."

    Saark eyed the circle of men once more. Now he understood their almost pious rage. "Ahh," he said, and realised he was really in trouble. "But surely, gentleman, we are all men of the world? I could perhaps recompense you with a glitter of gold coin? I could make it worth your while…"

    "You took my daughter's
virginity
, bastard!" snarled Rake, and punched Saark with a well-placed right hook. The chair toppled and Saark's head bounced from the planks. Beyond swirling stars, he saw a broad, still pool of gleaming black. More confusion invaded him. What
was
this place?

    The men righted the chair, and Saark had to listen to the sermon, how rich arrogant bastards shouldn't poke around with their poker where they weren't welcome; how families had been destroyed, children cast out, bastard children born, yawn yawn. Get to the point you dullards, mused Saark, as his gaze fell beyond the men to what looked like a
lake
of black oil. It gleamed in the light of the lanterns, and suddenly Saark felt extremely uneasy. He noticed planks across the oil, resting occasionally on rusted iron pillars, and over which he had been dragged. Then he noticed, as they almost materialised from the gloom, huge, ancient machines, of angular iron, with great clockwork wheels and gears, meshing and interweaving. So. An old factory. From Elder Days. Abandoned. Derelict. With no
understanding
. But here they were, in the bowels of the old factory, the sump, where cooling oil was once stored. But one bright element drove through Saark's thoughts like a spear through chainmail.

    Why bring him here?

    He grinned, a skeletal grin. He wasn't leaving this place, was he?

    They were going to drown him in the oil; and it would swallow him, and leave no mark of his passing.

    He stared down into the black pit, motionless now, but as a man moved on the wooden planks so tiny ripples edged out and betrayed the liquid viscosity of centuries-old scum, filled with impurities and filth, and the perfect
hiding
place for
murder…

    With senses fast returning, Saark counted the men. There were twelve. T
welve?
He didn't remember accosting twelve women, but then the nights were cold and long in Kettleskull, Saark was easily bored and so, apparently, were the local housewives and daughters. Was he really that decadent? Saark stared long and hard into his own soul, and with head hung low in shame, he had to admit that he was.

    "What are you going to do?" he asked, finally, watching as Rake tied a knot in a thick length of rope. A noose? Wonderful, thought Saark. Just perfect.

    "We are going to purify you," said Rake, face a demon mask in the lantern light, and moved forward, looping the rope over Saark's neck.

    "No you're not, lads," came a voice from the darkness. Then Kell stepped forward, his shape, his
bulk
hinted at by the very edges of lantern light. In this gloom it mattered not that he was over sixty years of age; he was large, he was terrifying, and Ilanna held steady in bear's paws was a horrible and menacing sight to behold. "Now put the dandy down, and back away from the chair."

    The men froze, helves and a few rusted short-swords held limp and useless. Rake, who held Saark in a tight embrace – a bonding between executioner and victim – stared at Kell without fear. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

    "Go home, old man. We have unfinished business here."

    Kell gave a low, dark laugh. "Listen boy. I've been killing men for over forty years, and I've killed every bastard who stood in my way. Now, despite your violence on Saark here, I understand your position, I even agree with you to a large extent…"

    "Thanks, Kell!" moaned Saark.

    "… but this is not his time to die." Kell's eyebrows darkened to thunder. His voice dropped an octave. "I have no argument with any man here. But anybody lays another finger on the wandering peacock, and I'll cleave the bastard from skull to prick."

    Time seemed to freeze. Kell's words hung in the air like drifting snow… and as long as nobody moved, the spell was cast, uncertainty a bright splinter in every man's mind. But then Rake screamed, and hauled on the noose which tightened around Saark's throat, dragging him upright, chair and all, his legs kicking, heels scraping old planks, and Kell took four long strides forward. The terrible axe Ilanna sang through the air and Rake's head detached from his body, and sailed into a dark oil pool. There was a
schlup
as Rake's head went under. His body stood, rigid in shock for several heartbeats as blood pumped from the ragged neck wound. One leg buckled, and slowly Rake's body folded to the floor like a sack of molten offal.

    There was a
thunk
as Ilanna rested against the planks, and Kell's gaze caressed the remaining men. "Anybody else?" came his soft words, and they were the words of a lover, whispered and intimate, and every man there lifted hands in supplication and started to back from the chamber.

    Kell turned to Saark, reached down, and with a short blade cut the ropes. Saark stood, massaging wrists, then probed tenderly at his nose. "I think they broke it."

    "No less than you deserve."

    "And I thought you were my knight in shining armour!" scowled Saark, voice dripping sarcasm.

    "Never a knight. And no armour," shrugged Kell. He lifted his axe, heavy shoulders tense, and glared around.

    "What's the matter, Kell?" Saark rolled his neck, and pressed tenderly at his ribs. "Ouch. And look at that! The bastards tore the silk. Do you know how much silk costs up here? Do you know how
hard
it is to locate and procure a fine tailor? Bloody heathens, bloody peasants… no appreciation of the finer things in life." "Take out your pretty little sword," said Kell.

    "Why?"

    "DO IT!"

    There came a scream. And a
crunch
. It was a heavy, almost metallic crunch. Like an entire body being ripped in half. This was followed by a thick slopping sound, and ripples spread across the black oil pool towards the men.

    "That sounded interesting," said Saark, his recent beating forgotten. He drew his sword, a fluid movement. The way he held the delicate rapier spoke volumes of his skill with the weapon; this was not some toy, despite its lack of substance. Saark's speed and accuracy were a thing to behold.

    "Interesting?" snorted Kell, then ducked as a limp body went whirring overhead. It hit a wall of crumbling stone, and slid down like a broken doll, easing into the black ooze. The stunned face, with ragged beard and oval brown eyes, was last to disappear. Kell and Saark watched, faces locked in frowns of confusion; then they spread apart with the natural instinct of the seasoned warrior.

    The single lantern, brought by Rake and his men, spluttered noisily. Its stench was acrid and evil, but not as evil as the shadows cast by the stroboscopic wick.

    Kell took a step back. More crunches and screams echoed from the darkness, then fell gradually to an ominous silence.

    "What is it?" whispered Saark.

    "My mother?" ventured Kell.

    "Your humour is ill placed," snapped Saark. "Something just silenced eleven men!"

    "Well," grinned Kell, "maybe it'll have the awesome ability to silence you! Although I doubt it."

    "I am so glad we're both about to die," hissed Saark. "At least I'll die in the knowledge that you were ripped apart too."

    "I don't die easy," said Kell, and rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed, lantern-light turning his aged greying beard into a demonic visage. His eyes were hooded, unseen, but Saark could feel the cloak of solid violence which settled over Kell's frame; it felt like a high charge of electricity during a raging thunderstorm. It was there, unseen, but ready to strike with maximum ferocity.

    The creature came from the gloom, moving easily, fluid, despite its bulk, despite its size. It was a canker, but more than just a canker; this was immense, a prodigy of the deviant, and Kell grinned a grin which had nothing to do with humour.

    "Shit," he said, voice low, "I think Graal saved this one for us."

    "It's been looking for us," said Saark, eyes narrowed, some primeval intuition sparking his mind into action. "Look at its eyes. There's recognition there, I swear by all the gods!"

    Kell nodded, hefting his axe, movements smooth and cool and calculated as he stepped forward. The canker was on a narrow bridge now, a thick plank of timber which bowed under its weight. It stopped, eyes fastening on Kell, fangs drooling blood-oil to the wood.