Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (26 page)

    Myriam met his gaze, then. "I wanted to say I am sorry. About before, in Falanor, when I…"

    "When you stabbed me in the guts? You bitch."

    "Yes. I was. I was fuelled by hatred, by need, by a lust for life. It has made me irrational. Unpredictable. And I confess, a little… insane." She took a deep breath. Looked off, over the skewed fortress battlements. "I would make amends. I would say that I am sorry. That is all."

    "Kell is taking you to the Silva Valley. We are here because of you."

    Myriam shook her head. "I cannot explain it, but you are here for a greater good. This is what the magick has shown me, taught me, revealed to me."

    Saark's eyes were hard. "You'll not con me with your half-penny tricks, bitch. I've seen plenty of part time conjurers in my time; and in my experience, the only thing they crave is silver coin. Amazingly, this impending accrued wealth always coincides with a 'greater good'. Crazy, wouldn't you agree?"

    "You can believe what you wish. But Kell believes, and that is for all our benefit."

    "Yeah, well, the old goat's a rancid fool."

    "I will say it again. I am sorry. You can take it with grace, and acknowledge that I may have changed – that, bizarrely – spending time with Nienna has, shall we say,
altered
my view of the world. She has touched me. She has changed me. And now, because I have changed, the magick runs deeper through my veins. In sacrificing my hate, in stepping away from my rage, I can see more clearly."

    "Good for you, girl! What do you want? A big sloppy kiss?"

    "Curb your cynicism," she snapped, and he could see tears on her cheeks. Saark chewed his lip, and considered stepping close to her, holding her, hugging her, telling her he forgave the vicious stabbing back in the woods. But his mind shifted. She was a chameleon. She was out for self-preservation. He did not believe she had changed, but still sought personal profit at their little group's expense.

    "Ha! I'm going back to bed. Save your sob stories for Kell. He's a sucker for a dying woman."

    "But you, Saark? What do you care about?"

    Saark gave a dark smile under the glowing edges of a rising winter sun. "Why, I'm a soft touch when it comes to myself."

    "So we are the same, then?"

    Saark stared at Myriam, stared at her hard as the

    truth of her words bit him. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. She was correct. They were
exactly
the same. Saark used people for his own ends. He always had, and he always would. He was vain, narcissistic, and totally enveloped with furthering his own pleasure – and life. Shit, he realised. Shit. In Myriam's position, would he have acted the same? Would he have stabbed somebody, poisoned another, in order to force them to help? And he knew, deep down in the glowing embers of his ruptured heart, that he probably would.

    With shame touching him, he turned and went back to his cold bed. And the pounding of the rampant vachine blood-oil in his veins echoed right down to his soul.

Soon after dawn they followed a narrow alleyway through the fortress, winding between towering dark walls which exuded not just cold and gloom and abandonment, but an inherent
dread
which seemed to be a part of this long-deserted fortress. People had not only died here, it felt as if their souls had been sucked into the very stones, distorting them, tearing them free.

    Kell led the way, walking his skittish horse with Nienna in the saddle. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. Nobody would take his granddaughter from him again; not without stepping over his dead body first. Next came Myriam, dressed in warm winter garb, her face seeming more shrunken on this freezing morn, her eyes ringed with purple and black, her breathing rasping and shallow. And behind came Saark, a wary eye on Myriam, listening to her ragged cancerous breathing and wondering how long she really had left. She wanted to reach Silva Valley, but according to Kell it was a hard, brutal journey and Saark could not quite puzzle out why he was still agreeing to do it. Surely, he could turn around now? He had Nienna. He had the antidote. And even if he believed Myriam's magick, her supposed prophecy, if he headed away from the Black Pikes then surely he would never see a pride of snow lions. How, then, could he lose Nienna to attack? It was strange. Saark decided to question Kell in private when the opportunity arose.

    Within the hour they were free of the Cailleach Fortress, and in a narrow valley which ran beyond, through a narrow pass with massive, sheer towering walls. It was terribly gloomy in the pass, and huge rocks littered the floor, in places rising in piles which the group had to scramble up and over, slipping and sliding on wet rocks and ice. The horses struggled on gamely, and with pride Saark watched Mary – more agile than them all, despite carrying a heavy load on her back. The donkey did not complain, but willingly climbed each hill of loose rock to stand, staring down at the cursing humans with an almost equine arrogance.

    After a while, Kell called a halt. "It's no good taking the horses any further, unless we intend to eat them."

    Everybody stared at him. "You can't
eat
a good horse," snapped Saark. "What a waste of a fine creature!"

    Kell grunted. "It's meat, like anything else. But the path will grow ever more treacherous; best now to let them free. They will soon start to slow us down. If we release them here, there's a chance we may find them on our return."

    "Our return," said Myriam, softly, eyes distant. She smiled a skeletal smile. "Maybe some of us won't return? Instead, we will find paradise."

    "In your dreams, Myriam," said Saark unkindly, and slapped his mount's rump, watching the beast slither back down the pathway and canter to a halt. The group emptied saddlebags, and then Kell stared meaningfully at Mary.

    "No," said Saark.

    "She'll be a pain in the arse."

    "Nonsense! Mary is a fine beast, agile as a goat, the stamina of a lion. Where I go, Mary goes."

    Kell peered close, and grinned. "Is there something I don't know about you and that mule?"

    "Mary is a donkey. And don't be so crass." "Why not? You've fucked everything else in existence."

    "I resent that, axeman."

    "Why so? I've never seen one so rampant. You'll be chasing Myriam next!" He roared with laughter, some good humour returned, and slapped Saark on the back. "Come on lad. Walk ahead with me. I wish to talk."

    They moved on after releasing the horses, and Saark led Mary, her rope wrapped around one fist. Behind, Nienna walked with Myriam, and Myriam smiled down at the girl. "Is it good? Good to be back with your grandfather?"

    "Yes. I have missed him terribly. I knew he would come for me."

    "I… I wanted to apologise, girl. For the way I treated you. And treated him. I have been selfish beyond reason."

    Nienna shrugged. "What I don't understand is why we are still here. Why we are heading through the mountains. I thought he would leave you when you gave him the antidote; in fact, I thought he would cut you in half." She smiled, a weak, cold smile, her eyes glittering.

    Myriam sighed. "I have done… bad things, Nienna. I admit that. And I deserve Kell's hatred. And even yours."

    "I don't hate you," said Nienna, smiling gently. "I see your pain, understand your agony. I pity you, Myriam, not hate you."

    Myriam's eyes went dark. "Well girl, sometimes pity is far worse."

    Ahead, Kell had halted. The towering walls were silent, looming, filling the narrow pass with shadows. Water trickled and gushed in various places, and had frozen solid in others, either in fingers of sculpted, corrugated ice, or in vast, hanging sheets. Occasionally, stones rattled down the sheer iron-stained flanks of this interior slice from the mountain range.

    "We must move with care," said Kell. "There have been many rockfalls here over the years. Any loud noise could bring down the Pikes on our bloody heads. We all understand?"

    "Aye," nodded Saark, rubbing Mary's muzzle.

    They set off again, down a rocky slope, boots slithering. Eventually, Saark said, "Kell, I have a question." "It better not be about sex," growled the huge warrior.

    "No no. Not this time. I was simply wondering why we are still here?"

    "Think about it."

    "About Myriam?"

    "No, you dolt. About the two vachine who Graal sent to kill us. I was thinking about them; thinking a lot. Graal has invaded Falanor, wiped the whole damn army of Leanoric under his boots. So then. What next? We stumble through his camp like blind men through a brothel, and by some bloody miracle manage to escape. What
should
Graal do? Continue his expansion in the name of vachine blood-oil gathering? Or spend considerable resources sending killers after us? Why? Why hunt us down? He knew we were heading north. Why waste two of his best killers? Surely he has more important fish to fry."

    Saark considered this. "He knew your history, Kell. About being a Vachine Hunter for the old Battle King."

    "Exactly. But that should not worry him; what's the worst I could do? Harry a few stray vachine scum in the mountains? Hardly a threat to his war effort, don't you think?"

    "What are you getting at?"

    "Graal knows I was heading north. He knows I know the Pikes. Maybe – and this is just a thought – maybe he thinks I'm heading for Silva Valley. The homeland of the vachine. But then, surely I would be slaughtered the minute I arrived?"

    "So you think Graal wants to stop you finding Silva Valley?"

    Kell nodded. "Yes. He thinks I know something I don't. There is some great mystery here, some puzzle we need to unravel. I think Graal is not playing for the vachine; I think he works his own game, I think the conniving bastard is up to his own bowel-stinking tricks. But what? What could he possibly be doing? And
why
would he think I was a threat to his plans?"

    "I see your reasoning. And now I see why we're heading north, instead of south back to the relative comfort of Falanor – such as we'd be able to find. If Graal doesn't want you here, this is probably the best place for you to be."

    "Exactly!" growled Kell. "Silva Valley, that is where the answers lie. The more we travelled north after Nienna, the more I realised that Myriam's goal is our goal. She wants immortality; I want answers. Our only chance of stopping this damned invasion is to confront its source. We need to know more about these Harvester bastards, we need to know where the albino soldiers come from – but more importantly, we need to find the source of the vachine."

    "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?"