Kell's Legend (37 page)
“So,” Leanoric chose his words with infinite care, “there is…no chance they could be closer?”
“No, sire. I would have passed them on my journey. I have been a scout for many years; I do not make mistakes. There were no other battalions nearby, and their skills at subterfuge were, shall we say, lacking.”
“It’s funny, laddie,” interjected Kell, drawing all eyes in the war-tent to him, “but, you know, I’ve just been chased here through Vorgeth Forest with at least sixty albino soldiers right behind me. Their army is close behind, I’d wager. What would you say to that?”
Angerak placed his hand on his sword-hilt. “I would say you are mistaken, sir.” A cool and frosted silence descended on those in the tent. Terrakon and Lazaluth exchanged meaningful glances. Angerak looked around, eyes hooded. “I would also suggest I do not like your tone.”
“What are they paying you, boy? What did General Graal offer?”
Angerak said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Leanoric. He shook his head. Finally, he said, “You are mistaken in your beliefs. I have been a faithful scout for the past-” The dagger appeared from nowhere, and in a quick lunge he leapt at Leanoric…but never made the strike. In his back appeared Ilanna, with a
sickening
thutch,
and Angerak crashed to floor on his face. Kell stepped forward, placed his boot on Angerak’s arse and wrenched free the weapon, dripping molten flesh. He looked around at those present.
“Get your scouts in here,” he said. “It would seem Graal has already infiltrated your army.” Kell threw Leanoric a thunderous frown. “I hope your strategy is in place, gentlemen.”
“We have two divisions coming from the northeast,” said Leanoric. “They will be here by the morning.”
Kell rubbed his beard. “So you have just under ten thousand men? Let us hope the enemy is weak…”
“We must draw the Army of Iron back, into the city wasteland of Old Skulkra. I will have archers placed in ancient towers—a thousand archers! If we can do this, fake a retreat, draw them in, then we will slaughter them.” Leanoric stepped forward, sighing. “Kell, will you stay? Will you help us?”
“You have your generals here,” said Kell, voice grave, looking to Terrakon and Lazaluth. “I have my granddaughter to consider…but I will help, where I can.” He stepped swiftly from the tent…just as a scream rent the air…
“Attack! We’re under attack!”
The camp exploded into action, with men scrambling into armour and strapping on weapons. Fires flared. Distant over the plain, before Old Skulkra, the enemy could be seen: the Army of Iron, formed into squares, a huge and terrifying, perfectly organised mass. They marched down from the hills in clockwork unity, boots stomping frozen grass and snow, the
gentle rattle of accoutrements the only indication they were marching into battle. Leanoric strode out behind Kell, his strong face lined with anxiety. Quickly, he surveyed the enemy, and something went dead inside as he realised the two armies were equally matched. This was not to be his finely trained troops routing invading, poorly fed brigands from the mountains. This was two advanced armies meeting on a flat plain for a tactical battle…
Draw them back into the city.
Break away from the ice-smoke, from the blood-oil magick…
His troops had been warned; they knew what to do if General Graal attempted underhand tactics. But would this be enough? With a skilled eye Leanoric read the albino discipline like a text. They were tight. Impossibly so.
Over the horizon, dawn light crept like a frightened child.
“Generals!” bellowed Leanoric, taking a deep breath and stepping forward. “To me! Captains—organise your companies, now!” Leanoric’s men quickly fell into ranks, reorganised into battle squares, as they had done so many times on the training field. Leanoric felt pride swell his chest in the freezing dawn chill, for the men of Falanor showed no fear, and moved with a practised agility and professionalism.
Then his eyes fell to the enemy.
The Army of Iron had halted, weapons bristling. They looked formidable, and eerily silent, pale faces hazy through distance, and through a light mist that curled across the ground.
“They look invincible,” said Leanoric, voice quiet.
“They die like any other bastard,” growled Kell. “I have seen this. I have done this.” He turned, and grasped Leanoric’s arm. “So you’re going to draw them back into the city? That is your strategy?”
“If it starts to go badly, aye,” said Leanoric. He gave a crooked smile. “If they try to use blood-oil magick. I have a few surprises in store in Old Skulkra.”
The enemy ranks across the virgin battlefield parted, and several figures drifted forward between heavily armoured troops, even as Leanoric’s captains organised battle squares before the fragmented walls of Old Skulkra. The figures were impossibly tall for men, and wore white robes embroidered in fine gold. They had flat, oval, hairless faces, small black eyes, and slits where the nose should have been. As they advanced before the Army of Iron, they stopped and surveyed Leanoric’s divisions.
“Harvesters,” said Kell, his voice soft, eyes hard.
And then a howling rent the air, followed by snarls and growls and the enemy ranks parted further as cankers were brought forward, devoid of protective cages, all now on leashes and many held by five, or even ten soldiers. They pulled at their leashes, twisted open faces drawn back, saliva and blood pooling around savage fangs as they snapped and growled, whined and roared, slashing at one another and squabbling as they arraigned their mighty, heavily-muscled, leonine bodies before the infantry squares in a huge, ragged, barely-controlled line.
Leanoric paled, and swallowed. He felt a chill fear sweep his soldiers. “Angerak never spoke of these
beasts,” he said, voice impossibly low, eyes fixed on the living nightmare cohort of the snarling, thrashing cankers…
They heard a distant command echo over the brittle, chill plain.
The cankers were suddenly unleashed with a jerk of chains, and with cacophonous howls of unbidden joy and bloodlust, a thousand heavily muscled beasts, of deviated flesh and perverted clockwork, charged and surged and galloped forward with snarls and rampant glee…towards the fear-filled ranks of Leanoric’s barely organised army.
Anu snarled, leaping at the Harvester which made an almost lazy, slow-motion gesture which nevertheless swept Anu aside with an invisible blow. She rolled fast, came up snarling, and circled the Harvester with more care. The Harvester flexed bone fingers, and lowered its head, black eyes glowing, as behind the creature, Alloria backed away, towards the crumpled figure of Vashell and some strangely perceived safety.
More ice-smoke swirled.
Anu attacked, and the Harvester moved fast, arms coming up as Anu’s claws slashed down. The Harvester swiped at her, but she ducked, rolled fast, and her claws cut its robe and the pale flesh within. Skin and muscle parted, but no blood emerged.
Anu rolled free, and her eyes were gleaming, feral now, all humanity, even vachine intelligence gone as something else took over her soul and she reverted to the primitive.
“She cut it,” whispered Vashell, his eyes wide. Never had he seen such a thing.
The Harvester shrugged off its robe, to reveal a naked, sexless, pale white body sporting occasional clumps of thick black hairs, like a spider’s. Its legs were long and jointed the wrong way, like a goat’s, and narrow taut muscles writhed under translucent flesh.
The Harvester moved fast, attacking Anu in loping strides, bone fingers slashing the air with a whistle. Anu rolled back, came up with her fangs hissing, then leapt again to be punched from her feet, sliding along frozen grass and almost pitching into the sluggish flow of the Silva River. Immediately she was up, charging, and rolled under swiping bone fingers, reversing her charge to leap on the Harvester’s back. It swung around, trying to dislodge her, and savagely Anu’s claws gouged the Harvester’s throat, ripping free a handful of flesh, of windpipe, of muscle. She landed lightly, back-flipping away as the Harvester staggered.
It turned, and glared at her, eyes glowing, face now snarling. It did not speak. It could not speak. Anu held its windpipe in her fist. Amazingly, instead of dying, the Harvester attacked and Anu deflected a quick succession of blows with her forearms, and bone fingers clattered against her claws and the Harvester looked surprised…Anu’s vachine claws should have been cut free. They were not. It snarled at her with a curious hissing gurgle, launched forward and grabbed her, picking her up above its head and moving as if to throw her…but Anu twisted, and there came a savage crack. The Harvester’s arm broke, bone poking free through pale skin, again with no blood, just torn straggles of fish-flesh. Anu landed, and her claws slashed the Harvester’s belly, then she leapt and her
fangs fastened on its head, bearing it to the ground like a dwarf riding a giant. She savaged the Harvester’s eyes, biting them out and spitting them free, then staggered back, strips of pale flesh hanging from her fangs, her face stunned as the mangled form of the Harvester rose and orientated on her. The mangled face smiled, and with a scream Anu ran at the creature, both feet slamming its head and driving it staggering backwards. It toppled, into the river, went under, and was immediately swept away.
Gone.
Anu knelt, panting, staring at the cold surging waters, which calmed, flowing back into position with chunks of bobbing ice. She stood, smoothed her clothing, then turned on Vashell. His eyes were wide in his bloodied mask.
“That is…impossible,” he said, softly.
“I killed it!” snarled Anu, face writhing with hatred and a strange light of triumph, of victory, conquering her fear.
“No,” said Vashell, shaking his head. “You
hurt
it. And now, it simply needs a little time to…” He gave a soft smile, a caricature of the vachine in his demonic, faceless face. “Regenerate.”
Anu stared at him, then back to the river. “Get on the boat.”
Vashell eased himself to his feet, huge frame towering over Alloria. Unconsciously, Alloria reached out to help him, to steady him, and he stared at her, surprise in his eyes. She said nothing, but aided him hobbling to the jetty, and then down onto the long Engineer’s Barge. Vashell slumped to a seat, blood tears running down his neck, and Alloria stared at her
hands—also gore-stained—and then into Vashell’s eyes.
“Thank…you,” he managed. He licked at the broken stumps of his vachine fangs. They leaked precious blood-oil. He was growing weak. He laughed at this, a musical sound. Maybe he would die, after all.
Anu leapt into the boat, and as they moved away from the jetty, the frozen ground sliding away, five more Harvesters emerged from the mist. They drifted to the edge of the river, staring silently at the boat.
Anu stared back, unspeaking.
“We will hunt you to the ends of the earth,” said one, voice a sibilant whisper, and then they were gone, swallowed by towering walls of black rock, the Engineer’s Barge sucked further away and further into the desolate, brutal realm of the Black Pike Mountains.
The brass barge journeyed up the river, clockwork engine humming, nose pushing through chunks of ice. A cold wind howled, desolate and mournful like a lost spirit, and eventually they came to a river junction, where two wide fast flowing sections split, each heading off up a particular steep canyon of leering mountains. Anu’s eyes followed each route, then she turned to Vashell who was sat, head resting on the barge rail, clawless fingers flexing.
“Which way?” she said.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.” She scowled. “Take me to my father.”
“You won’t like what you find.”
“I will be the judge of that, vachine.”
Vashell chuckled, and sighed. His fingers touched his ruined face, tenderly, and he glanced up, and over, at the raging waters, pointing. “That way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure, girl!”
“Where does it lead?”
“Why,” Vashell smiled, a demonic vision on his tortured face. “It leads to the Vrekken. And to Nonterrazake beyond.”
Anu stared at him for a while, holding the brass barge steady in a gentle equilibrium against the current. “That cannot be,” she said, finally.
“Why not?”
“Nonterrazake is a myth.”
“It is a reality,” said Vashell, smugly.
“You have been there?”
“It is something I do not wish to discuss, child.” His eyes became hooded.
“I can cause you much pain, and bring you a savage death,” said Anu, face ugly with anger in the snowladen gloom.
Vashell shrugged. “There are some things far worse than death, Anu. That, you will learn. You want me to take you to Kradek-ka, then I will take you to Kradek-ka, although I promise you, you will not thank me for it, nor like the things you learn. But such is the nature of humanity, is it not?” He laughed, then, at his own private joke. “And that of the twisted vampire machines.”
Anu guided the Engineer’s Barge up the river, and as night fell, and the raging torrents grew calm again, she moored the craft in the centre of the wide river in
order to gain a few hours’ sleep.
She moved to central chambers below deck, and watched as Alloria made herself comfortable on a narrow bunk. “How do you feel?” asked Anu, and saw the way Alloria looked at her. As if she was a lethal, unpredictable, uncontrollable wild animal. Anu sighed.
“I will be fine once I leave this country,” said Alloria, voice gentle, eyes red-rimmed. Only then did Anu realise she had been crying. “Once I travel home.”
“You are upset?”
“My country is besieged by a savage clockwork race, and my husband must risk his life in battle. Yes, I am upset. I fear my children will be slaughtered. I fear my husband will have his throat cut. But most of all,” she stared hard at Anu, “I fear your people will conquer.”
“I am not part of their war,” said Anu.
“You are one of them.”
“They cast me aside!”
