Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (30 page)

    Anukis frowned. "Once, not long ago, I was cast out by my own people. The vachine of Silva Valley humiliated me, and I was destined for death. I set out with Vashell to find our father – he was captured by the Harvesters. I swore I would seek vengeance on the vachine, for never had I felt such pain. Surely, if Kradek-ka seeks to destroy the vachine… no, it is all too confusing. It is all too insane!"

    "The vachine are your race," said Shabis, gently. "You cannot destroy a whole race because of what they did to you. Genocide is never the way, no matter how unholy you perceive the enemy, Anukis. Our father intends to kill the vachine. All of them. And that includes you."

    "Now you are being ridiculous. Father would never hurt me."

    "Not yet. Because he needs you. But the time will come."

    The scene started to fade around Anukis, and she swallowed, mouth dry with fear. She was being dragged away from this ethereal plane, away from whatever bright, shining existence Shabis inhabited. And she had no control. No control at all.

    "Needs me?" she said, speaking quickly, lethargy leaving her momentarily. "In what way does he need me?"

    "Ask him about the Soul Gems," whispered Shabis, even as she faded away and was gone.

Anukis awoke. The walls pulsed white. Kradek-ka was watching her. He smiled, but his eyes were dark, his fangs gleaming gold. Kradek-ka was vachine. And yet, now that she thought about it, she had never, ever, ever seen him take blood-oil. And when Anukis was considered
unholy
, he had not just known about Karakan Red and the Blacklippers… he had known Preyshan, the
king.

    "Tell me about the Soul Gems," said Anukis, moistening her lips with her tongue.

    There was a flicker in Kradek-ka's face, but then it was gone. He smiled in serenity. "I don't know what you mean."

    "The Soul Gems. Why do you need me, father? Where are we going?"

    "We are going to celebrate a holy ritual. On behalf of the Harvesters. We are giving thanks that they help the vachine with blood-oil; that we are all holy together."

    "Something is wrong. You are their prisoner."

    "Yes. A prisoner of sorts. Only until I help them… perform a certain ritual."

    You don't need me."

    "You are coming," said Kradek-ka, his voice hard and brittle as iron. Then he softened a little. He took a deep breath. He reached out, and helped Anukis rise from the soft, white bed. His hands were gentle. His claws gleamed, sparkling like silver in the diffused light.

    "I will stay here. I feel weak. I need to sleep."

    "No. Time grows short. You will come now."

    Anukis met her father's gaze. "No, father. I will not," she said, voice icy, breaking free of the honey drugs in her veins and mind and wondering just what game was being played here. Anukis was sick to the heartcore of being pushed around, told what to do, used and abused and taken advantage of. She had come through the Vrekken, risked her life for her father, and yet this did not
feel
like her father; he felt like an imposter, a chameleon, something which changed its skin to please and was yet different inside. A different organism.

    Kradek-ka, still smiling, slammed out his fist. At the end, his claws were extended and they were impossibly long, huge curved silver and gold blades which pierced Anukis's throat, driving through her windpipe and neck muscles and spine, appearing at the back of her neck in an explosion of blood that decorated the white walls. With the force of the blow Anukis's body danced like a dropped corpse in a noose, and Kradek-ka stood there, holding Anukis in the air, a punctured ragdoll. Anukis gurgled and kicked, not quite believing the strength of Kradek-ka, not quite believing her own weakness, and not quite believing what had just happened.

    "My girl," said Kradek-ka, eyes glowing impossibly dark. "You will do exactly what you are told," he said, and retracted his claws.

General Graal moved to the Blood Refinery. The cold night breeze cooled his naked body. Without clothing and armour, he was tautly muscled and very, very lean. Graal's skin was perfectly white, like fine porcelain, and when he turned the moonlight caught his features and gave him a surreal, dead look. As if carved from stone.

    "The Sending Magick is ready, general," came the sibilant hiss of a Harvester, bobbing as it walked towards him. Graal nodded, and moved through the snow, feet crunching, to where the huge Blood Refinery squatted, fat and black and bloated, like a burnt corpse in the sun, like the full belly of a corpse-fed battlefield raven. He turned back, looked at the Harvesters, and beyond, down into Falanor's capital city of Vor. Many buildings burned fiercely. The temples. The libraries. Smoke spiralled into the dark winter sky, fireflies of ash dancing like insects. Graal's nostrils twitched, and he could smell distant smoke. He turned back to the Blood Refinery. It reminded him of an overfull insect.

    "We are finished here," he said, voice low. "You know what to do."

    "Yes," hissed the Harvester.

    Graal stepped forward, and pressed his naked body against the Blood Refinery. He started the incantation, and felt the Sending Magick flow through ancient iron and
into
his veins and flesh and bones, and he flowed with the magick and was absorbed by the magick, and it smashed his skull with a sudden bright pounding and he flowed with it, and the destination was clear and he felt every component atom in his being broken down and disseminated then reintegrated into a whole, and Graal laughed for this was what insanity must feel like and he revelled in it, this was what being a god must feel like and he bathed in it, gloried in it, and lost his own mind to it all, and it was Good.

    Graal swam. He leapt. He flowed. It took a million years.

    He eased like a blood cell through the veins of the universe.

    He trickled through time, like a virus through an organism.

    Graal no longer existed, for his matter was part of all matter, and the magick
tugged
at him, and
directed
him and only through the bindings of the spell did he retain some semblance of identity and was not spread across an infinite plane.

    And then everything was dark. And it was over.

It felt like being born. Pain lashed him with a million stings in every atom of flesh, and Graal would have screamed but the pain was too great. He squeezed from something soft and slick, pus-filled and flexible and yielding. He slapped to the floor, trembling as if suffering a violent seizure, and cold fluid poured out after him and covered him with thick ice ichor. He felt hands on him, or felt
something
on him, and they were hard and pointed and pierced his flesh accidentally. He was manhandled into blankets and he realised, with a moment of panic, that he was blind. Towels rubbed his body, rubbing life back into his flesh, rubbing gooey liquid from his eyes, and gradually a soft diffused light began to wander into his eyes and skull. Only then did Graal cough, and disgorged a huge stream of thick pus which pooled on the floor to lie, quivering, like dark blood.

    "You did well," said Vishniriak, and the Harvester patted him gently in a rare moment of connection.

    Graal focused on the Harvester, but could not speak. His vocal chords were raw, as if rubbed by a grater.

    "I felt like God. I felt like Death," he finally managed.

    Vishniriak nodded, in understanding. He had travelled The Sending. He understood exactly what Graal meant. To travel the Lines of the Land by magick was to be a part of the earth, of the mountains and oceans and forests and bedrock. It was to lose identity. Without powerful bindings, a mind would snap. But Graal was strong. Graal was very strong.

    Graal stood, and clothing and armour were brought for him. He dressed slowly, feeling old, feeling more old than the Black Pike Mountains. Finally, he strapped well-oiled armour into place, and a short black sword by his side.

    He nodded at Vishniriak. "Has Kradek-ka arrived?"
    "Yes, general."
    "And he has the girl?"
    "He has, general."

    Graal smiled then, his eyes gleaming. "Kell is coming to us. We must prepare," he said. "The time is ready for the Vampire Warlords to return." And he strode confidently, arrogantly, from the chamber deep within the bowels of Skaringa Dak.

CHAPTER 14

Wax Nest

The world was shrouded in mist. Kell stood, poised on the high mountain ridgeline, the world around him a blanket interspersed with vast drops and glimpses of the rearing, Black Pike Peaks.

    Ahead, the mist thickened momentarily, obscuring the two Soul Stealers. Only the canker came on, and more vachine longbow shafts whistled from the mist and Ilanna slammed left, then right, cutting arrows from flight… as the canker, close now, and amazingly nimble for its bulk, bounded along the narrow, undulating rock path and leapt at Kell with a savage snarl, an ejection of saliva, and Kell's axe slammed left but the canker ducked, equine head swaying back. Claws hammered at Kell but Ilanna deflected the blow on a fast return sweep, and he took a step back, the mist suddenly parting around him to reveal vast drops from nightmare. He ducked another swipe of curved claws and set his chin in a grim line as he clenched teeth hard, brows furrowed, and felt himself descending dropping plummeting into a blood red rage…

    
I will help,
said Ilanna.

    
Yes,
said Kell.

    A flickering staccato of images rampaged through his mind. It was the Days of Blood – again. And he welcomed it.
He stood, muscles bulging, tensed as if pumped on
drugs and violence. His brain ached, and random chaos
bounced around the cage of his brain. He lifted Ilanna, and
she sang, she sang a high beautiful song only this time THIS
TIME the world could hear her lullaby and the people running down the street fleeing the insanity of the army they
stopped, and turned, and listened to the stunning ethereal voice
of Ilanna as the perfect hypnotising notes reverberated through
fire and smoke and sounds of slaughter, and the fleeing
refugees paused and Kell strode amongst them Ilanna cutting
left and right, and they did not flee, and they did not retaliate,
they simply stood staring at this blood soaked figure at Kell's
rage and his fury and his madness as Ilanna slammed left and
right with economical accuracy, and they had love in their eyes,
love for Ilanna's Song, and they welcomed death and in welcoming death their blood fed the butterfly blades and when
they were all dead, all cut up in pieces on the muddy cobbles,
so Kell fell to his knees amongst the men and women and children, and he cried, his tears running through a mask of blood
and he cast Ilanna away and screamed "WHAT HAVE I
DONE?" and he knew then, that he was cursed, that he was
evil, that ultimately he was trying to be good and just and honourable; but deep down, he was simply a very bad man.

    Kell blinked.

    The canker was on him, fangs an inch from his throat and his eyes met the mad crimson gaze and he dropped Ilanna between them, and thrust her up and
out
, blades punching a huge hole up through the beast's great, cavernous chest, and Kell's legs braced and his teeth ground, and he stood there, strong, a powerhouse, with the impaled canker kicking on the end of his axe and with neck muscles and arm and shoulder and chest muscles bulging, his face purple with effort, and he lifted the kicking squealing canker up, high up into the air and stood there, feeling a wonderful power flooding through him, feeling strength and godliness teasing through flesh like a divine orgasm. Ilanna began to sing and the canker kicked, like a lizard on the end of a spear. Kell jerked the axe, blades cutting deeper into the huge beast, fully twice his size, great equine head thrashing with teeth gnawing invisible bones, and Kell thrust forward again, the blades so deep now that thick gore flowed out, over his head and torso, drenching him in entirety. With a final thrust Ilanna severed the canker's spine. It went suddenly still on the end of the axe. With a mighty scream, Kell wrenched Ilanna sideways, half severing the dying canker's body into two discrete pieces, which flopped with slaps of thick dead meat. Bloody clockwork components scattered, many tumbling down the mountain's flanks, clattering, brass and crimson gears still stepping, wheels spinning, cogs shifting. Kell lifted Ilanna in the air, one-handed, as the mist parted and the Soul Stealers locked eyes to him and he grinned, grinned through his mask of canker blood and Ilanna began to sing. She sang a high beautiful song, which rang out across the mountains and valleys, echoed across snowfields and frozen tarns. It was long and eerie and mournful, a song about murder, a song about death. And as she sang, so the Soul Stealers paused, and they stood for a long time listening as the dead canker slowly shifted, and slipped from the mountain ridge, vanished into the abyss. Eventually, Kell lowered Ilanna. The Soul Stealers turned, and disappeared into the swirling white vapour.

    "Grandfather!" came Nienna's shout. They were far across the ridgeline now, Saark guiding the young woman. Kell turned, moved away from the canker's blood pools and stopped. Gazing down where Myriam had fallen, he tried to differentiate her corpse from the distant slopes and jagged rocks. He could not.

    "Damn it," he snarled, then loped across the ridge at great speed, showing no fear of heights, showing no worry at the vast slopes veering off to either side. For Kell, vertigo was something that happened to other people.

    Saark and Nienna moved on, through the eddying haze, and Kell eventually caught them up as they climbed towards the next mountain top. As they breached a rise, a savage steep scramble which did its best to cast all three back down the mountainside, so a wind snapped around them and the mist cleared, and the world of the Black Pike Mountains opened like God peeling the top off the world.

    "Stunning," said Nienna, simply.

    Kell grunted.

    Saark helped the old warrior up the last scree of rocks, and they stood in silence staring at the black granite wilderness, and the sweeping fields of snow. It was quite light where they stood, although the wind bit into them like ice knives.

    "You did well," said Saark.

    "I reverted," said Kell.

    "Meaning?"

    "Something happened to me. Something happened to Ilanna. Something bad."

    "I don't understand."

    "I think only Ilanna understands. I think, sometimes, she plays her own game, Saark. She sang to the Soul Stealers – there was a connection there, what kind of connection I am not sure. But they retreated. They fled."

    "You killed the canker. Maybe they were scared of you?"

    "No," grunted Kell, rubbing his beard and leaning on the axe. Her blades gleamed black in the harsh winter light. "No, they were frightened of Ilanna. I think."

    "Where do we go next?" asked Nienna, hunkering down in her clothing. Her face was drawn, ashen, her eyes red from crying. The death of Myriam had stunned her.

    Kell pointed, to where a huge mountain reared high above the others. It was formidable, even at this distance, with twin horns of overhanging rock rearing near the summit and spreading out, so the beast in its entirety resembled the skull of a ram.

    "Skaringa Dak," he said. "Otherwise known as Warlord's Peak."

    "That's one ugly mountain," said Saark. "And it's big. Too big, Kell. Look at the distance we have to cover! We can't be dragging Nienna all that way."

    "We must. But rest assured, we go
through
the mountain, not over the top."

    "Kell, that's Silva Valley you're talking about. It's an entire
civilisation
, by all the balls of the gods! You cannot fight the world, old friend."

    "One step at a time," said Kell.

    Saark sighed, and Nienna moved to him, hugged him. "I can't believe Myriam is gone," she said. Saark nodded, but said nothing. It did not surprise him, and he had to admit, he had wanted her dead. However, now the deed was done, guilt stabbed him like a tiny knife in the belly. She had been a victim of the cancers eating her body, her bones. She had given in to madness to chase an impossible dream. And her only reward now was lying dead and broken, a smashed doll, at the foot of the terrible Black Pikes.

    "Yes," he said, finally, and hugged Nienna tight. It was a simple connection, a simple sharing of warmth and humanity. And in this dark place of stone and ice, it felt necessary.

    "Come on," said Kell. "We have a long way to go."

    "You're mad, old man."

    "Maybe," he said, face dark. "Let's get moving, before those bitches forget Ilanna's song and come back."

She swam through darkness, and at last there was no pain. It had happened so suddenly. The arrow in her throat, rolling from the high ledge, then… a long, rattling descent. She hit rocks, and was conscious for a while of great darkness hanging over her like a guillotine blade waiting to drop. Then, she supposed, she died. There was a long period of nothing. And then fire seemed to rage through her veins, potent and raw, the most powerful injection of energy she had ever, ever felt. She felt something cold against her chest, and with a jerk she shuddered in huge lungfuls of cold mountain air. Only then did she feel the pain at her neck, and everything came rushing back and she opened her mouth to scream but a hand clamped over her face, muffling her. She thrashed for a while, arms and legs kicking in chaos, but something immeasurably strong pinned her down, holding her still, and she felt the fire raging through her and it hurt, hurt so bad, hurt worse than anything she'd ever felt and seemed to rage for a million years. Then her eyes flickered open and she stared into a gaunt, pale, beautiful face. The face of the Soul Stealer. She tried to struggle in sudden panic, but Shanna held her tight and smiled a hollow smile and showed her fangs, which were stained with blood.

    "Be still, child," she hissed. "It will not take long."

    She looked to the left and Tashmaniok came into Myriam's plane of vision. She carried something and Myriam frowned. Then another punch of pain spun through her and she convulsed, unable to breathe, her heart filled with pure white agony as she slammed into cardiac arrest.

    "Now," said Shanna.

    Tash knelt, and in her hand was a tiny device, a cross between the innards of a watch and an insect made from gold wire. It scampered from Tash's hands, and moved across Myriam's skin as she stared down at it, pain slapping her in waves, her eyes following the tiny clockwork machine in terror. "This is the latest technology," came Tash's soothing voice, as the clockwork spider paused over Myriam's spasming, fractured heart, lifted a leg, and with a high-pitched screeching drilled a hole through her breastbone.

    Myriam screamed, thrashing, and again Shanna clamped the woman's mouth, cutting the sound off with a sharp slap. The tiny clockwork machine cut downwards, opening a dark hole in Myriam's chest, and then climbed in. It reached back, and did something – as if closing a zip. Then it crawled into Myriam's heart and long tendrils of gold wire ejaculated from tiny needles, encircling Myriam's dying, fluttering organ and encapsulating it. Tiny sections of the clockwork machine broke away, and began to travel through Myriam's body. She spasmed, and convulsed, her limbs twitching, her eyes rolling back, froth foaming from her mouth, fingers and toes clenching and then suddenly
erupting
with brass claws, and her teeth broke out with
snaps
as fangs pushed from her own gums. They were made from gold. They gleamed.

    Finally, Tash threw Shanna a knife. Shanna slashed her wrist, and allowed a gush of dark blood-oil to spill into Myriam's open mouth. She convulsed again, as if taking poison, her teeth stained crimson, and black, her tongue lolling around like a fat eel. Then, finally, she went still.

    Shanna wrapped a cloth around her wrist, binding it tight, then climbed from Myriam's still, lifeless body. She moved to Tash, and placed her hand on the Soul Stealer's shoulder. They waited, motionless, watching Myriam with interest.

    "Did it work?" said Shanna, finally.

    "If they do not bind, she will soon fall apart," said Tashmaniok without emotion. "Like succulent cooked meat pared from the bone. Like a desecration of all that is human." Then she turned, and stared up the mountain flanks to Wolfspine. Her eyes narrowed, still remembering the pain of Ilanna's song piercing her skull. It had skewered her brain like a spear. Her soul. Even now, she was shivering.

    We will find you soon enough, old man, she thought.

    We will see how long the magick lasts in your axe!

All pain fled. It happened in an instant. Myriam sighed, and breathed out. She felt, ultimately, at peace. Devoid of the agonies which had wracked her for so long, the cancers which had eaten her and supplied constant pain. She had suffered an eternity, the pains fading to a background agony, a persistent throb which just became normal to everyday existence. Only in sleep did the fire sometimes abate; and there was always a vast disappointment in the morning when Myriam awoke to find she still suffered.

    But… Not now.

    She felt it, as an emotion, as injected knowledge. The clockwork had moved through her body, combining with blood-oil, combining with the virus of the vampire, and all three had worked in harmony. Cancers were obliterated in a moment. The arrow wound in her throat had bubbled, and slowly healed as she slept. Her pain had gone, all pain had gone, and she floated in a warm secure place not unlike a womb.

    Her eyes opened. It was dark. They were in a small, warm cave. Shanna and Tash sat on rocks by the fire, watching her.

    Slowly, Myriam sat up. She was wary. These were the enemy.

    Then she looked down at her hands, and a thrill of fear and excitement flooded her. Her fingers ended in claws. She blinked. She reached up to her throat, remembering the savage arrow-wound which had, effectively, punched her from the summit of the ridge. The flesh was smooth, uninterrupted by wound or scar.