Vampire Warlords: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles (48 page)

  Saark watched him for a while, then glanced at Myriam, who shrugged, pushing out her lower lip.

  "You want to visit?" asked Saark, eventually.

  "No."

  "Do you trust Skanda?"

  "No."

  "He claims all the Ankarok want is that one, single city. He delivered Meshwar to the Vampire Warlords, turned the vampire slaves back into people, and set them gently outside the city gates. He did everything he promised. More. He gave them food, supplies, money. It's a small price to pay, I think, for saving so many lives."

  Kell said nothing, continuing to scowl. Eventually he coughed, rubbed his beard, then his weary eyes, and said, "Only bad things will come of this, you mark my words. This is not the last we've heard of Skanda, nor the damned Ankarok. I have a bad feeling in my bones, Saark. A bad feeling that runs right down into the sour roots of Falanor."

  "We could ride down," said Saark, eyes glittering. "Take the city! Single-handed! Just like the old days, eh, Myriam? Eh?"

  Kell shook his head. "The battle for Vor. It is a battle for another day. I'm tired, Saark. Too tired. Too old. I saw my daughter die, and I saw my granddaughter die." He turned, and there were tears in the old soldier's eyes. "It shouldn't be like this. You should never outlive your children. Sometimes, Saark, I fear I will never laugh again."

  "At least the scourge of the Vampire Warlords has ended, Kell. Nienna died defending the land she loved. She did it for the good of Falanor, for its people, its history, its honour."

  "Doesn't make it any easier to swallow," growled Kell, still staring at the haze of Vor.

  "We are free of oppression," said Saark, forcing a false brightness into his voice. As ever, he was dressed in silk; bright green, this time, in an attempt to "blend with forest hues".

  "Yeah," snarled Kell, curling his lips into an evil grimace. "But for how long? The Keepers, down in the Chaos Halls, told me that a war is coming. The vachine from Silva Valley – they were just the beginning. There are more, many more, far to the north, far beyond the Black Pike Mountains where no man has trodden for ten thousand years. They have a vast, corrupt, vachine empire built in the ice. And they want revenge, for what happened to the vachine of Silva Valley."

  "You think a war is coming?" said Saark, quietly.

  "There is always a war coming," said Kell, impassively.

  "What shall we do?"

  "What can we do?" said Kell, voice and eyes bleak, tears running down his cheeks as he thought about Nienna for the hundredth time, thought about the terrible axe blades of Ilanna and tried to persuade himself
tried to convince himself
that the axe had nothing to do with the young woman's death. After all, Ilanna was just steel. Cold black steel. Nothing more, nothing less.

  "Time to leave," said Myriam, glancing up at the sky. "There's a storm coming."

  Kell nodded, and dug heels to the flanks of his mount, cantering ahead of the small group.

  Myriam glanced at Saark. "Do you think he'll be all right?" she said. "I mean. We thought he was dead, back there."

  Saark gave a single nod. "Maybe he did die. A little bit. Lost a part of his soul."

  "But will he be all right?"

  "Of course he will. He's Kell. Kell, the Legend."

Spring was coming to Falanor. The cold winds from the north grew mild, and snow and ice began a long melt, gradually freeing up the Great North Road for easier passage; of both people and supplies.

  Over the coming months, slowly, the cities of Falanor rebuilt themselves, and the thousands of people who'd fled the horrors, first of the albino Army of Iron, the Harvesters, and later the Vampire Warlords, the refugees, the outcasts, slowly they drifted back and populations began once again to grow, to build, to prosper.

  As the first daffodils scattered brightness across the hills and valleys of Falanor, a new King was crowned. He had been found sheltered in the forest city of Vorgeth close to the Autumn Palace along with his brother, Oliver. His name was Alexander, son of Leanoric, and proud grandson of Searlan the Battle King. And although he was only just sixteen years old, he was wise, and stern, and honest, and promised to make a fine new leader. Immediately, he appointed a new General of his infant Eagle Divisions. The General's name was Grak, who earned his rank through sterling service to the Land of Falanor.

  In time, Alexander's eyes turned south. South, to the city of Vor, once the capital of Falanor, once his
father's
city, his father's
pride
. And Alexander brooded on the secrecy of the occupying race known as the Ankarok.

  Since Vor closed its great iron gates, nobody had entered nor left the much-altered city.

A year after the banishment of the Vampire Warlords to the Chaos Halls, Alexander, Oliver, Grak and twenty soldiers reined in their armoured mounts far to the west of Vor, and gazed with a mixture of wonder and horror at what had once been the oldest city in the country.

  Whereas once huge white towers, temples and palaces dominated the skyline, and the city had been surrounded by white stone walls, now everything had been…
encompassed
by what looked, at first glance, like a giant, matt black beetle shell.

  "Holy Mother," said Oliver, rubbing his chin and placing his hand on his sword hilt. "The city! It's gone!"

  "Not gone," said Alexander, who now sported a small scar under one eye from duelling, from
training
, "but
buried
. What have those bastards done to our father's city? What have they done to
our heritage?"

  Grak kicked his horse forward, and placed a warning hand on Alexander's arm. "Majesty. I suggest caution. We must not approach the city. That was the pact made, the agreement between the leaders of Falanor and the… Ankarok."

  Alexander nodded, but his eyes gleamed, and secretly he thought,
that was not my agreement
. Later, as he pored over maps in his tent, drinking watered wine from a gold goblet and eating cheese and black bread, so Alexander doodled a
hypothetical
retaking of the city of Vor.

  For the honour of his father's memory, of course.

  For the honour of Falanor.

A cold, fresh mountain wind blew.

  Kell stood on a crag, exercising with slow, easy movements, swinging Ilanna left and right, running through manoeuvres so long used in battle they were now an instinct. He breathed deep, drinking in the vast pastel vision of mountains and hills and forests, valleys and rivers and lakes. It was a mammoth, natural vista, a painting more beautiful than anything ever captured on canvas. And it was there, there for Kell, there for his simple honest pleasure.

  Kell finally ended his routine, and stood for a while, holding Ilanna to his chest, a violent internal war raging through his skull and heart. Part of him wanted to cast the axe away, far out from the mountain plateau, to be lost in the wilderness of crags and rocky slopes and scree below. But he did not. Could not. Even though he blamed Ilanna, to some extent, for the death of Nienna.

  Nienna.

  She haunted him.

  Haunted him, with her innocence and the unfairness of it all.

  "How are you feeling, old horse?" Saark grinned up at Kell, then deftly climbed up the ridge and sat, staring out over the early morning view. "By all the gods, this is a throne for a prince!"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "A simple
good morning
would have been a far more pleasant and agreeable salutation."

  "Ha. I'm not here to be pleasant."

  "I noticed. Here." Saark unwrapped a cloth sack and handed Kell a chunk of cheese and grain bread. Saark bit himself a lump of cheese and began to chew.

  Kell, also, broke his fast, and the two men sat in companionable silence for a while. Until Kell winced, and clutched his stomach, tears springing to his eyes. He coughed, then rubbed at his head.

  "The poison?"

  "Aye, lad. It's gotten worse."

  "You know what this means?"

  Kell stared into Saark's eyes, and gave a nod. He sighed. "Aye. I must travel west. Find the antidote. Find the cure. I am reluctant to leave Falanor, but – well, I think after what happened with Nienna, maybe it would do me good. To see new countries, meet new people. To put my mark on a new place. A new world."

  "'Different cultures, different customs'," quoted Saark, chewing on his bread. "You would of course need to travel far across the Salarl Ocean, my friend, out towards the lands of Kaydos. It is told the place is a vast, hot continent. Thousands and thousands of leagues of forest, hot, humid, damp, uncomfortable, where insects fight to make a merry meal of a man, and it is claimed in hushed whispers around strange fires that men and wolves walk together under the full yellow moon."

  Kell eyed Saark thoughtfully. "Sounds like a harsh land, laddie."

  "Only a fool would travel there," Saark agreed.

  "I've already packed my things. I believe a ship leaves from Garramandos in a week. It should not be hard to acquire passage. As I said, it would do me good. And of course, this damn poison still courses through my veins. Some days, I curse Myriam her lusts."

  "And some days you thank her," grinned Saark.

  "Aye. That I do."

  They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, Saark said, "I, also, have taken the liberty of packing. It would, of course, be highly foolish to let such a moaning old goat as yourself travel alone. Imagine the trouble you would get yourself into, with your ignorant peasant ways, base stupidity and crude manners! Whereas I, I with my noble breeding, sense of natural etiquette, and
love
of everything honourable, well, I would surely keep one such as you out of terrible mischief."

  Kell looked sideways at Saark. "I suppose you've packed a huge wardrobe? Silver goblets? Silk shirts? A perfume of subtly mingled horse shit?"

  "Of course. But thankfully, I have Mary, my donkey, to help shoulder my burden."

  Kell groaned. "You're
not
bringing that stinking and cantankerous beast."

  Saark frowned. "But
Kell
, how else will I journey with an extensive wardrobe? Just because I travel with peasants, doesn't mean I have to look like one. I must protest…"

  "Wait, wait." Kell held up a huge hand. "What do you mean, '
peasants
'? Plural? You told Myriam?"

  "Well," Saark shifted uncomfortably, "I couldn't have you sneaking off in the night without her, could I? I couldn't allow you to do the dishonourable thing."

  "
Dishonourable thing!
" spluttered Kell, turning bright red. "You!
You!
You dare to come out with that whining bloody gibberish? After all the things you've done to the poor women of Falanor! After all the hearts you broke? After all the children you sired? After all the chastity locks you picked?"

  "Hey," frowned Saark. "I never said I was perfect. Only that you should show some morals."

  "Morals?" screeched Kell, but they were rudely interrupted. Myriam appeared, climbing deftly up the rocky ridgeline. She was dressed for travel, and had her bow strapped to her back. She smiled at the two men.

  "I'm ready," she said.

  Kell scowled. "So I need to book passage for three travellers, do I?" he snapped.

  "And a donkey," said Saark.

  "And a donkey," growled Kell, through gritted teeth. "Well, we better be going, I reckon. It's a long trek to Garramandos, that's for sure. Over some treacherous terrain."

  All three stared across the western flanks of the Black Pike Mountains, vast and black, towering and defiant, and their gazes drifted down towards the Salarl Ocean, which glittered like molten silver in the early morning sunlight.

  "Men and wolves," said Kell, distantly.

  Saark grinned and slapped him on the back. "Aye. Men and wolves. Come on."

  Against a sparkling horizon of ocean and a rearing backdrop of savage mountains, the three travellers began a long, careful descent from the mountain plateau to the breathless, waiting world below.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks must go, as ever, to many people. To Sonia, Joe and Oliver for lots of laughs, to Dorothy for advice and critiques, to my ever-increasing circle of editors, you are all wonderful creatures and
always right
… to my many filmmaking friends for enduring my abuse on either side of the camera, to Nick for all his Mac advice and weird Combat K machinations, to Jim for being such a good sport, to Kev for relighting an old friendship (and
I
won that old Monopoly tournament, by the way…), and seeing as this is the final Clockwork Vampire novel, a final big kiss to the Gemmell community for not savaging me
too much
in what is a genuine homage to my writing hero.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andy Remic is a British writer with a love of ancient warfare, mountain climbing and sword fighting. Married with two children, he works as a writer in the fields of Fantasy and SF, and in his spare time is a smuggler of rare Dog Gems, a drinker of distilled liquor and hunter of rogue vachine. He also dabbles in filmmaking.

www.andyremic.com

Extras...

A Q & A WITH THE MAN REMIC HIMSELF

Angry Robot)
So that brings us to the end of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles. Prior to
Kell's Legend
you were known for your science fiction. How have you enjoyed your first foray into the realms of epic fantasy?

Andy Remic)
I've absolutely LOVED writing in the fantasy genre. I really appreciate the opportunity given to me by Angry Robot, so lots of man-love should be squirted around the room. It's quite a different process writing in the fantasy genre compared to SF; I have a completely different mind-set, and enter a completely different world during creation. In some ways (many ways) when I write in the fantasy genre it's a lot more realistic for me – I think I used to be a warrior of Genghis Khan. Or something. I love riding ponies. And can smell the Prairie Steppes on a rainy day… even in London ;-).