Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (43 page)

  "I will do anything for her, Kell. And for you. So yes. I swear. By every ounce of honour in my blood. By every clockwork wheel that turns and gear that steps. You know this, Kell."

  Kell turned his gaze back to Gollothrim, and allowed a long breath to hiss free. He gazed past the factories and yards, storage huts, barracks, houses, schools, temples, narrow twisting streets and broad thoroughfares for the moving of goods from the docks. He could see the dark silhouettes of the ships at anchor in the bay. He could see the skeletons of many more new ships, destined to take the vampires abroad, to spread their plague to other continents in search of global dominion. And Kell knew, this would be the hardest fight of his life. He knew death waited for him down there. It looked quiet, it looked safe, but soon the vampires would come drifting out to play. And Kell had to find his way through the maze. Find Bhu Vanesh, and kill the bastard.

  "You know I'm coming with you," said Saark.

  "No, laddie. You stay here and look after Nienna. That must be your priority. That must be your mission. If things start to turn bad, then you take her. You get away. You take her some place safe. You understand me?"

  "I understand."

  "I'm trusting you, Saark, with the greatest treasure of my life. Don't let me down."

  "I won't, Kell."

  Even as they watched, as Kell had predicted, the vampires started to emerge into the dark quarters of Port of Gollothrim. They wandered the streets mostly in packs, some alone. They howled at the moon like dogs. They laughed and squealed, danced and fought. Kell, and Saark, and Grak watched grimly. They watched, down by the wide yard as a group of vampires cornered a woman. She screamed, and ran. They pursued her cackling like demons, and grabbed her, pulling her apart. Her arms came away spewing blood and she fell over, weeping, still alive. The six vampires descended on her, drinking her blood, laughing and singing and masturbating.

  "We must go in," growled Grak, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We must end this depravity."

  Kell nodded. "I agree. Go get the men ready. I want archers at the front, and we'll descend real slow. Pick off those we can, then divide into small fighting squares. If we stick to the wide avenues, we'll bring the fuckers out onto our spears. You must warn the men – never chase them into narrow alleys. They'll fall on us from above, and our long spears will be useless."

  "How many in each unit?"

  "I'd say fighting squares of twenty-five. Shields all round. Couple of archers in the centre of each square. We'll quarter the city, work through it methodically."

  "Why don't we wait for daylight?" said Saark. "Most of them sleep."

  "We'll never bloody find them," snapped Kell. "We'll waste too much time hunting in sewers and bloody cellars. No. This way we can fight them on reasonably open ground; get some good slaughterin' done. Then in the daylight, we can pick out the rest. Gather those still normal around us, they'll know where some of these vampires are hiding. Sound like a plan?"

  Grak stared at where the six vampires chewed on the dead woman. He realised, stomach churning, that she was actually still alive. She was making weak mewling sounds. It was the sickest thing Grak had ever seen.

  "Sounds like a solid fucking plan to me. Let's get it done." Grak crawled back, then disappeared into the dark.

  Saark looked down on the city. "Kell. There's an
awful
lot of them out, now. Thousands of them."

  "Good. We'll have plenty of targets then, won't we?"

  "Don't you think the odds are against us?"

  "Lad, the odds are always against us. From birth to death, life is just one whole shit of a bitch."

  "I meant here, and now."

  "I know what you meant." Kell's eyes gleamed. "You remember what I said? About protecting Nienna?"

  "In some ways I'm relieved I'm not coming with you," said Saark.

  Kell's hand smashed out, and stroked Saark's cheek. He grinned, like a demon in the moonlight. "Look after her, vachine. You're strong, fast, deadly. Nobody else can keep her alive like you."

  Saark nodded. "What about Myriam?"

  "Myriam? Why, she's coming with me, lad."

The outcast men of Falanor, the Blacklippers and thieves, rapists and murderers, extortionists and freaks, kidnappers and maniacs, the cast out and the depraved and the downright psychotic, assembled in tight military units, eyes gleaming, shields on arms, steel collars fixed around throats, swords oiled and sharpened, boot laces tightened and jaws grim with the prospect of death and mutilation as they considered the enemy – their numbers, and their ferocity.

  "Let's move," said Grak, and they marched through the darkness, through the trees and over low hills, boots tramping snow and ice and mud. They found the main arterial route which ran from the Great North Road to Port of Gollothrim, and picked it up like casual syphilis, emerging from the trees like armed and armoured ghosts, eyes hot jewels, lips wet, anticipation and hatred building like a slow-boiled rage.

  The armoured units approached Port of Gollothrim.

  It began to snow, a heavy snow obscuring their vision.

  Boots touched down on slick iced cobbles. Cold hands grasped weapons in readiness.

  In the darkness, Kell and Myriam slipped away…

"Steady, lads," said Grak, voice a low rumble. The twenty-four men around him shifted uneasily in their steel cage. Behind, other units were ready. Then the fighting began…

  From the gloom and snow the vampires attacked. With squeals of rage they launched at the armoured unit, and spears jabbed out, impaling vampires through hearts and throats. Grak caught a flash of fangs, and claws slid between shields. He slashed down with his sword, cutting off fingers which tumbled below pushing, tramping boots. A fanged face leered at him, hissing, spitting, and in what seemed like slow motion Grak slid his short sword into that mouth, watched the blade cut a wide smile and jab further in, into the brain, killing the vampire dead. Smoke hissed black from nostrils and it thrashed on his blade. Grak pulled back, and heard a clang from above. A vampire, on their roof of shields. He shoved his blade up, skewering a groin. More vampires slammed into the armoured unit, and swords and spears jabbed and slashed and it was chaos, but an organised chaos, madness, but controlled madness. It was a surreal world, a blood-red snow-filled insanity. All around men were fighting, grunting, pushing. Claws slashed through to Grak's left and tore off a man's face with a neat flick of the wrist. Grak saw eyes popping out on stalks, a horror of gristle and spasmodic working jaws. The man screamed blood. Grak cut the vampire's hand clean off with a short hack, then roared in anger and burst from the cage of shields and grabbed the creature, but it was strong, so fucking strong, and they wrestled and Grak was slammed backwards onto the cobbles, and the
thing
with only one hand squirmed like a thick eel above him. A spear suddenly appeared in an explosion of black blood, drenching Grak. The spear point was a hair's breadth from his face. The vampire corpse slid sideways, like an excised cancerous bowel. Dekkar grinned, and held out his hand.

  "You fighting it, or fucking it, lad?" he growled.

  Grak grinned, and glanced around. The wide street was empty, save for armoured units and vampire corpses. "We beat them off?"

  "For now. For a minute."

  The units reformed themselves. In Grak's square they had lost four men. Grak stared down at their bodies, mouth a grim line, eyes glittering jewels. He realised, with desolate horror, that they could not win this day. How many were there? How many? They couldn't kill them all.

  "I know what you're thinking," rumbled the Blacklipper King, and slapped him on the back. "And the answer is – we must try."

  Grak gave a nod.

  "The bastards are coming back," snarled a soldier.

  And through the darkness, and the falling snow, squeals and cries and giggles reverberated from walls. The noise built and built and built, until it seemed the whole world was full of vampires. Shadows cast across walls, from rooftops above, from alleyways and streets and the darkened interiors of tall regal town houses.

  "Holy Mother," whispered Grak, as around him his unit looked up, around, back to back, weapons wavering uncertainly.

  And they came, boots thumping in quick succession with a sound like thunder. They came, like a cancerous flood, hundreds and hundreds of vampires sprinting and leaping and cavorting from the darkness…

Command Sergeant Wood sat on the roof of the Green Church, down by the docks, and watched the old soldiers from the Black Barracks creeping into position. Old they might be, but they moved with skill and practice earned over a lifetime of fighting. They may be old, but each would hold his own in a barroom brawl. Each would fight to the death. And Wood could ask for no more.

  Fat Bill crouched next to him on one side, and Pettrus on the other. Both men looked grim, faces sour like they were sucking lemons. Wood gripped his sword tight, and blinked. The old soldiers had
disappeared.
Their skills at hiding were second to none.

  "There," said Fat Bill, pointing into the darkness. It had started to snow, and everything more than ten feet away was hazy and surreal. A perfect Holy Oak painting. A perfect festival, a time to relax, to put out holly on the doorstep and presents in wooden crates before the fire delivered by Old Crake and his Wraith Keepers. But not now. Not here. Those times were long gone. After all, children had little to laugh about in Port of Gollothrim now the vampires had taken over…

  "What am I looking at?" said Wood, careful to keep his voice low.

  "The docks."

  "So?"

  "What's most precious to the vampires? The ships, I reckon. They're beavering away like their lives depend on it. Building a fleet. Take their vermin plague to warmer climates, I reckon."

  "But that's good for us," said Wood. "If they clear off and leave us in peace."

  "We both know that will never happen," said Pettrus, darkly. "I agree with Fat Bill. We need to torch these bastards. Hit them where it hurts. We haven't enough men to take them on in battle; but by the Bone Lords, we can stick a knife in their ribs whenever we get the chance."

  "Most of the lads are carrying oil flasks," said Fat Bill with a fat grin. "I think it's time we turned the night into day."

  Wood gave a nod, mouth dry, and stood as Fat Bill and Pettrus stood. There came a
slap
on stone behind them, and Wood turned fast, past a blur which made him blink, stepping back, knocking into Fat Bill as his sword flickered up. The
blur
was a vampire, and her flying kick slammed into Pettrus' chest, making him grunt, stumble back, hit the Green Church's crenallated roof and flip over. There was a hiatus as the vampire hit the ground and rose smoothly.

  Then a
slap
and
crack
as Pettrus hit the cobbles far below.

  Wood wanted to scream, to rush to the edge and look, but a deep sickly feeling raged through his guts and he knew, knew his friend and mentor was dead and in a moment, he'd be dead too. The female vampire was smiling, and Wood felt a lurch of fear riot through him. It was Lorna, Bhu Vanesh's bitch, the vampire he'd thrown from the high tower roof, watched her break on the ground below, squirming and squealing like a kitten after a hammer blow. But she was here. Alive. And strong.

  "Remember me?" she snarled, glossy crimson black eyes bright with hatred. She moved left, and Wood's blade wavered. Then right, and his sword slashed before her face by mere inches.

  "I remember watching you break your pretty little spine," he said, eyes fixed on the petite blonde. She was pretty, slim, but she had changed from the woman he had once known. The skin of her face and hands looked stretched, almost fake, as if she wore a mask. Her hair, once a luscious blonde pelt, was now stringy like wire. She exuded death. To Wood, she looked no better than a rotting corpse. "And I knew you were coming. I could smell your dead stink from a hundred paces."

  Lorna hissed, claws slashing, then rolled right under Wood's sword, and slashed her claws across Fat Bill's belly. She opened him like a bag of offal, and his bowels spooled out as if from a reel, his hands dropping his sword and paddling at his entrails with mad scooping motions as he tried to hold himself together.

  Lorna leapt back as Wood's sword whistled past her throat, and she was smiling, and Fat Bill slammed to the floor of the roof and made panting noises as he slowly died. He waved a bloodied hand at Wood. "Kill her, kill her!" he groaned, "don't fucking bother about me!"

  Wood ran at Lorna, her face showing surprise for a moment, but she back-flipped away. His sword slammed at her, cutting a line down her pale arm, and the flesh opened but no blood came out. She grabbed the wound, and the smile fell from her lips.

  "You see, you cut like any other bitch," snarled Wood, and anger was firing him into the realms of hatred now. This wasn't just another vampire. This had become personal.

  "You didn't kill me last time," taunted Lorna, and they circled. She darted forward, claws slashing for his throat, but his sword flashed up cutting her short. She leapt away, and back-flipped up onto the battlements. She turned, and let out a howl, and below vampires swarmed from still, silent, dark buildings. They began to climb up houses and factories and towers, towards the hidden old soldiers. Faces gleamed like pale ghosts in the moonlight. Snow melted on necrotic flesh, making them shine.

  Wood ran at her, but she leapt over him in an amazing high arc, a back-flip but Wood anticipated the move and leapt at the same time, his sword ramming up in a hard vertical strike, entering her body at the core of her spine and emerging from under her breasts in a shower of black blood.

  Wood landed, panting, and turned fast. Lorna had continued her somersault, landed, and cradled the point of the blade emerging from her chest. She stood, the sword straight through her to the hilt, and smiled at Wood. There was blood on her lips. On her fangs.