Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (23 page)

  Dandall stood, stunned, as Jagor Mad grunted and heaved himself back onto the stage. His face was battered, a diagonal line of blood crossing from one eye to his jaw, and his eyes held murder.

  "Fuck this horse shit," he said, and drew a small knife. Kell's eyes narrowed.

  "You upping the stakes, boy?"

  "Fuck the stakes, I'm going to gut you like a rancid fish."

  "But what about your crowd? They want to see a fight."

  "They want to see a killing."

  "Never upset your audience, Jagor."

  "Fuck the audience."

  The large Governor advanced, and Dandall backed away, face pale, recognising a fight now entering a different league; something of which he wanted no part. Jagor lunged at Kell, who backed away, then again, and they circled warily.

  "Not so tough without your axe, eh Kell?"

  Jagor ran at Kell, who batted the knife to one side and slammed a fist into Jagor's head, then skipped away as the knife slashed for his belly. Now, Kell's back was to the thick wood column and its dangling noose. He could feel the gaping hole of the drop behind him, and glanced back. Seeing his chance, Jagor ran at him and Kell stepped aside, slammed three straight punches into Jagor's face, slapped the knife from the man's hand then took hold of his tattered, bloodstained shirt.

  "Is this what you wanted?" growled Kell, and shoved Jagor to the noose, grabbing the rope and lowering it over Jagor's head. Stunned, and coming round an instant too late, Jagor's fists grappled at Kell's bearskin and his boots scrabbled at the edge of the drop.

  "What are you doing?" he shrieked.

  "You said they came here for a hanging!"

  "Not me, for you, Kell, for you!" Jagor's voice was filled with terrible fear, and his knuckles were white where he clung to Kell's bearskin. "No, no, get the rope off!"

  "You try to kill me, you up the stakes to
death
, then don't fucking complain when I return the favour!"

  "No, Kell, I beseech you, don't do this! I don't want to die!"

  "None of us want to die, son," said Kell, and slammed a heavy slow punch between Jagor Mad's eyes. His fingers released Kell's jerkin and he stepped back, and there was a
snap
as the rope went tight and Jagor dangled there, kicking, face purple, hands clawing at the rope but because he was such a hefty, large man, battered and bruised and tired from the fight, he could not take his weight. He kicked for a while, and a cheer went up from the army of convicts ranged about the stage.

  Kell glanced over at Dandall, who was white with fear. Kell stooped, picking up Jagor's knife, and his eyes were glittering and Dandall held up his hands. "No, not me, spare me Kell, please."

  "Get down on your knees and beg."

  Dandall got down on his knees, and touching his trembling forehead to the planks, he begged.

  "And these are your leaders?" roared Kell, facing the crowd as behind him Jagor Mad's head and shoulders could be seen, struggling, and below the stage his legs kicked and danced and he refused to let go of that most precious thing.
Life.

  "You would fight for these worms? You would kill, for these fucking maggots?"

  "NO!" roared the men before Kell, and he grinned at them, and turned, and sawed through the rope. Jagor Mad fell through the hole and hit the ground with a thump. He lay still, wheezing, and Kell peered down at him, where he squirmed in the mud and snow-slush.

  Kell lifted his arms wide, and addressed the convicts. "The Army of Iron came from the north, from beyond the Black Pike Mountains. They slaughtered thousands of people in Jalder, men, women, children, I saw this with my own eyes. King Leanoric's army was beaten, their bodies fed into huge machines, Blood Refineries, to feed the vampire monsters to the north. But then it got worse, gentlemen. The vachine summoned the ancient Vampire Warlords – and they are terrible indeed. They rampage through our land, through Falanor, and none can stand against them. They take your friends and families, your kinsmen and countrymen, they bite them, they convert them to vampires and the world out there will
never
be the same again unless you stand beside me and fight!"

  "Why should we trust you?" shouted one man.

  "Because I am Kell the Legend!" he boomed, "and when I fight the world trembles! I do not do this for money, or lust, or any petty base desire. I do this because it has to be done! It is the right thing to do! I know many of you here hate me, but that's good, lads,
hate
is a good thing – I'm not asking you to kiss my fucking arse," a few laughed at that, "I'm asking you to help me put the world back together. These vampire whoresons have broken it, and they need a damn good thrashing."

  "You put many of us here! We're criminals to you, scum, why the fuck would you care?"

  "No, you're wrong, you're men who made mistakes, and yeah a lot of you did bad things, but now's your chance to do the right thing. Falanor needs you. She needs your strength. She needs your trust. She needs your steel. Will you fight with me?"

  A terrible silence washed across the gathered men. Behind him, Kell heard Saark's sharp intake of breath. Their future, their lives and deaths, and the lives and deaths of thousands of people, the future of Falanor, all hung here, and now, as if a delicate thread of silk lay threatened by the brute bulk horror of an axe-blade.

  Kell folded his arms, as if in challenge to the three thousand men ranged before him.

  "Well lads," came a voice from the front. It was the hefty bearded man who'd spoken earlier. "I don't know about youse lot, but I ain't having no vampires shitting blood and shit in
my
bloody country!" He drew a short sword, and waved the dull blade above his head. "I'm with you, Kell, even though it's your damn fault I'm here! I'll fight beside you, man. We'll send these fuckers home and down into the shit!"

  "Good man!" boomed Kell. "What do they call you?"

  "They call me Grak the Bastard."

  "And are you?" roared Kell.

  The large bearded man grinned. "You'd better believe it, you old goat!"

  "Glad to have you with me, Grak. Now then, lads, are you going to let Grak head out there into Falanor alone? Or are you going to show some brotherly bonding, are you going to fight for your homeland, fight for the future of your children? After all, it's damn fucking unsporting to let me and Grak kill all those vampire bastards on our own! It'd be a shame to have all the hero songs to ourselves!"

  "I'll come!" bellowed a short, powerful man with biceps as thick as Kell's.

  "Me too! We'll show the vampire scum what the scum of Falanor can do!"

  "Yeah, we'll do better than any King's damn army!"

  Kell watched the men talking animatedly for a moment, and Saark appeared beside him. Using Jagor's knife, Kell sawed through Saark's bonds and the dandy grinned at him. "I don't believe what I just saw."

  "Men are always looking for something to fight for," grimaced Kell.

  "But you're the same!"

  Kell stared at him "Of course I am." It was no criticism, just an observation. "Listen – go and get Ilanna. I'm missing my axe terribly."

  Saark stared at the big man, with his battered face and bloodied knuckles. "And Nienna? I should release Nienna?"

  "That goes without saying," smiled Kell, easily, and turned as Grak the Bastard climbed the steps and moved forward.

  "You're smaller than you look, up close," said Grak.

  Kell grinned. "Well met, Bastard." They clasped hands, wrist to wrist.

  "Only my mother calls me that."

  "I have a job for you, Grak, and I think you're the man for the job."

  Grak pushed back his broad shoulders, and clenched his fists. "You name it, Kell. I'm yours to command."

  "I'll be the General of this here little army. You can be one of my Command Sergeants."

  Grak raised his eyebrows. "Promotion is quick in your new army, I see. I'll surely stick around now. Who knows where I'll be in a week? In a year, I'll surely be a god with a big fat arse!" He roared with laughter, slapping his thigh, and many men joined in.

  "I want you to round up Grey Tail, Jagor and Dandall. Get them tied up and brought to me."

  "You going to kill them?"

  "No. They're just blinded by hatred; and to be honest, Grak, I need every good fighting man I can get. These Vampire Warlords – they're like nothing I've ever seen in this world."

  "I'll get on it, Kell."

  "And Grak?"

  "Yes, General?"

  "What did you do out in the real world? So that I dragged your arse to this chaotic shit-hole?"

  Grak the Bastard grinned at Kell with a mouthful of broken teeth from too many bar brawls. "I killed my last General," he said, turned his back, and strode across the planks of the hangman's platform.

Kell stood on the battlements as night closed in. Snow fell on the plains beyond, and a harsh wind blew across the wilds. Kell shivered, and considered the enormity of what he was doing. Kell knew he was no general, but he was going to lead an army of convicts across Falanor and engage the vampires and the Army of Iron in bloody battle. And the Army of Iron
alone
had slaughtered King Leanoric's finest Eagle Divisions, more than ten thousand men. And here, Kell had a mere three.

  "It's an impossible task," he muttered, but he knew, deep down in his heart, deep down in his soul, it was something he had to do. Something nobody else would, or could.

  Kell sighed, and Ilanna sang out in a vertical slice as a shadow moved behind him.

  "Hell, man, I nearly cut off your bloody head!"

  "Sorry, Kell, sorry!" It was Myrtax, wearing a fresh robe and rubbing his hands together, eyes averted from Kell's cold steel gaze. "Listen. Kell. I came to apologise."

  "Ach, forget it, man."

  "No, no, what I did was cowardly."

  "Horse shit. You were protecting your family. I would have done the same."

  "Very noble of you to say so, Kell, but I know that isn't the case. You would have stood, and fought, and overcome your enemies. I stand before you a broken, humbled man."

  "Yes. Well." Kell was uncomfortable. "We can't all be a…" he smiled sardonically, "a
Legend
."

  Myrtax moved to the battlements and stared off into the distance. Snow landed lightly on his hair, making him look older than his advancing years. Then he glanced at Kell.

  "We're getting old."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "What you up to, Kell? You want to fight off all the vampire hordes?"

  "Aye. It's the only way I know."

  "I was speaking with Nienna."

  "Yes?" Kell looked sharply at Myrtax. "And?"

  "She said you're tired. That you didn't want to come here. Didn't want to do this. You said Falanor would look after Herself."

  "Aye, I said that. And it's true." He sighed. "You're right. We
are
getting old. This is a young man's war."

  "You're wrong, Kell. This is a time when the world needs heroes. Heroes who are not afraid of the dark. Heroes who will," he smiled, looking back off into the snow-heavy distance, "walk into a fortress prison of three thousand enemies, and turn them to good deeds."

  "They can only do what's in their hearts."

  "They will fight for you, Kell. I can feel it. In the air. In the snow. They are excited; horrified, frightened, but excited. You have inspired them."

  "Maybe. But they won't be inspired when the vampires rip out a few hundred throats and crows eat eyeballs on the blood-drenched battlefields."

  Myrtax squinted into the snow. "Somebody comes."

  Kell shaded his eyes, and through the haze of snowfall they watched a cart slowly advancing, being pulled by two horses. More men walked beside the cart, which had a heavy tarpaulin thrown over the back.

  "Let's go and see what they want. The hour is late, and men don't wander to prisons in the dead of night for naught."

  Kell and Myrtax descended the steps, and were soon joined by Saark and Grak the Bastard. They marched to the gates and stepped out, the huge walls looming behind them and seeming to cast a deep, oppressive silence over the world.

  "They look cut up," said Saark, voice grim. "Like they've been in the wars."

  As they neared, they slowed, and each of the six men carried swords, unsheathed.

  "If you've come for a fight, lads, better be on your way," said Kell, hefting Ilanna and taking a step forward.

  "We don't want trouble," said one man.

  "We've come for help," said another.

  "What's your story, lad?" said Governor Myrtax, not unkindly.

  "We're from Jalder. The city was overrun weeks back, but near fifty of us escaped through the sewers. Women and children as well. No soldiers were sent after us, and after a few days' travelling, running, we camped up in an old farmhouse."

  "I think we should invite them in, hear their story over an ale and broth," said Myrtax.

  "Wait," said Saark, holding out his hand. Then he shook his head. "What's under the tarpaulin, gentlemen?"

  "It's
them
," snapped one. "Two of the bastards who came hunting us." He looked suddenly frightened, a terrible look on the face of such a big, brutal man.

  "Let me guess? They came at you in the night, slaughtered most of you, but you six escaped?"

  The man nodded, and Kell strode forward, lifting the edge of the tarpaulin with the corner of his axe. "Did you cut off their heads?"

  "No. They're still alive."

  "You did well capturing them. They usually fight to the death."

  "Well, forty of us died trying. We thought we'd bring them here, to Governor Myrtax. My dad always said he was a good man. He could… put them on trial, or something. I haven't got it in me to kill women, no matter how vile."

  Nienna had appeared at the gates, rubbing at tired eyes, yawning. She padded to Saark's side and touched his arm lightly. He smiled down at her, and said, "You not sleep?"