Soul Stealers

CHAPTER 9
The Harvest

The wolves crept into the cave, and Alloria stood frozen with fear, her eyes locked to the lead wolf, huge, black, yellow, baleful. "Stand back," came Vashell's voice, and Alloria turned, slowly, as if fearful the moment she presented her back it would be leapt upon, huge jaws fastening over her head and ripping it easily from her shoulders.

Slowly, Alloria retreated. The fire was warm by her back. Her mouth was dry, eyes wide, breath coming in short bursts. Her hand dropped to her lower belly, an unconscious act of protection, an act of the maternal – although her boys, if they lived – which she doubted – were many, many miles away. In a different world.

Vashell eased past her, his terribly scarred face demonic, his eyes narrowed, his clockwork ticking, gears stepping. Alloria jumped, noticing he carried a short stabbing sword in powerful grip. He had taken it from her pack. He was hunched, powerful shoulders ready for battle… which did not come. Vashell growled, a low animal sound, bestial and yet mixed curiously with the sounds of subtle clockwork, as if this were a gift be stowed by engineers rather than Nature. The wolves tilted heads, and under his advance they began to back away, still rumbling threateningly, but heads lower now, submissive, as if bowing down before their master.

Vashell stepped out into the storm. The blizzard whipped him. Through veils of snapping snow and ice, the mountains reared, eternal, powerful, immortal.

The wolves continued to back away, until another was set forward. It was massive, bigger by a head than even the biggest wolf. Its fur was jet black, its eyes green and intelligent. It was the prodigal, a natural born leader of the pack, a beast in its prime. Vashell stood and stared at the wolf, which carried something in its jaws. The others had made a decision, and retreated, allowing this huge creature the ultimate choice of attack or retreat.

Vashell stopped, and stared, eyes narrowed, throat still making the strange clockwork growling. And he stared without emotion at the object, the trophy, carried between the jaws of the wolf. Alloria followed Vashell out into the blizzard, arm coming up to shield her eyes, and she gasped. For between its jaws, the magnificent and powerful wolf carried the head of a Harvester.

Alloria placed her arm on Vashell's steel bicep. "Don't attack," she said, urgently. "Maybe it is a friend? Any enemy of the Harvesters is surely an ally of mine…"

But before Vashell could make any informed decision the wolf stood, a fluid blur, then stretched languorously. Its every movement held contempt for Vashell. With every nuance, every glint of those bright green intelligent eyes, the wolf seemed to say: I know you, you are vachine, I do not fear you, I do not fear the Harvesters, I will rend you and slay you until you are no more.

The severed head, hanging by a thick flap of skin and spinal column, was blank and white and smeared with dirt. The tiny black eyes were lifeless – but then, Alloria thought, they always looked like that. The narrow nasal slits no longer hissed with their customary fast intake of breath.

Slowly, the wolf dropped the Harvester's head to the snow. It licked its lips, again embodying contempt, then accelerated into an attack so fast it was a blur of black…

Vashell stumbled back, sword slamming up but the wolf's jaws rattled left and right, clashing bone with steel and almost disarming Vashell. He rolled, battle instinct returning, dropping one shoulder and shifting, hitting the ground, coming up fast in a crouch with sword ready, head down, eyes narrowed. The wolf's huge pads hit the snow, and it shook itself like a raindrenched dog. It chuckled, a huge rolling rumble, turned to face Vashell, then attacked again with a savage scream, a bestial show of prowess. Vashell launched himself forward, sword held two-handed, intending to power the weapon into the wolf's lungs and beyond, into the pumping heart. But the wolf twisted, one huge paw lashing lazily across Vashell's face and sending him tumbling, skidding over snow towards the treacherous precipice. Below, rocks waited, ten thousand pointed daggers which mocked him.

The wolf paced around in a tight circle, and to one side sat the rest of the pack, a few yelping, all pelts covered in a fine sprinkling of snow, whilst on the other side stood Alloria. Her face was shocked, for without Vashell to protect her she would be dead in an instant.

The wolf moved forward, slowly, head lowering, green eyes fixed on its intended victim. "No!" gasped Alloria, hand to her mouth, and she realised in horror how in this savage wilderness, in the Black Pike Mountains which she had so casually underestimated, she now relied on one who, a few days earlier, would have quite happily slaughtered her. How mad was the world? How ironic? A sick sense of humour, for sure.

Vashell grasped at his sword, fingers clasping steel, and the wolf bunched for the final leap, a snarl erupting from its muzzle as its whole frame tensed and muscles writhed like snakes under fur and it leapt, and Vashell's sword came up but was knocked aside, away, down, spinning onto the rocks far far below and Vashell rammed arms and legs between himself and the beast, and its fangs snapped in his face, fetid rotting breath rolling down his throat and he screamed, the vachine screamed as clockwork gears went click and a surge of blood-oil strength powered through veins and with awesome effort he heaved, and twisted, and rolled from the ledge of the high mountain pass. The wolf was dragged into the gap by its own weight, and claws slashed wounds down Vashell's throat, jaws snapping, as it was suddenly whipped away, spinning, into oblivion. Vashell's hands snapped out, grasped rocks, but his body slid over the edge and his fingers grappled and his healing fingers cast for purchase. If he'd had his vachine claws, he would have been safe. Instead, he slid for several feet on near-vertical icy rock, his movements panicked, until his boot wedged in a narrow V, nothing more than a crevice for hardy mountain flowers. He caught his descent. He glanced down. The huge wolf spun away, silent, eyes fixed on him with that bright green gaze. And then it was gone in swathes of mist, smashes of blizzard, and Vashell struggled for a minute and wearily heaved himself back onto the frozen trail where he lay, panting.

Alloria was there, cradling his head, but Vashell pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the rest of the pack. He clenched his fists and snarled at Alloria to get back in the cave, his words almost unrecognisable as human, his head lowered for the final battle which he knew he could not win…

The wolves sat, watching him, then turned as one and disappeared into the storm.

Alloria helped Vashell into the cave, and he slumped, breathing harsh, blood running from the claw gouges in his throat. "Let me help you," she said, and tearing a strip of cloth from her clothing, went as if to bind the wound. Vashell caught her by the wrist, and shook his head.

"I do not need your help."

"You are bleeding."

"I've bled before. I'll bleed again. Listen, you want to make yourself useful, go and get the Harvester's head. They left it. Like I won a prize." He smiled weakly, face a horror mask of scars and weeping wounds.

"I cannot."

"You will not?"

"I cannot touch that thing. It's abhorrent!"

Vashell jacked himself to his elbows, then sighed and left the cave. He returned holding the dead head by the spinal tail, and he threw it next to the fire.

"What were you thinking? Cremation?"

"Not yet," said Vashell, and started warming his hands. They were battered, scratched from the fight with the black wolf, and from saving himself the terrible fall. "Look in my pack. There's some dried cat, and my hunting knife."

"Cat?"

"I caught a small snow panther. Or rather, it attacked me in a frenzy of hunger. Without a sword, it was difficult; but my dagger eventually made a good job of it, although I would rather have used vachine fang and claw." He dropped into a silence of brooding, and Alloria felt it wise to remain quiet.

She moved, and rummaged through his pack, pulling out strips of dried meat and the knife. As she turned, she saw Vashell had taken the Harvester's head and stood it on a rock. The spinal column had curled around the bloodless stump like a snake around a staff. Alloria shivered.

"It almost looks alive," she said.

"I am," came a faint, drifting, almost unheard voice from the Harvester's mouth. "Fetch me some water."

Alloria stood, frozen, but Vashell carried a small bottle to the creature's lips and poured. The Harvester spluttered, and wetted its mouth, and Alloria watched in absolute disgust as the water leaked from the creature's severed neck stump.

"But it's dead!" she cried, finally, moving to Vashell as if for protection; but he knelt before the head, and Alloria found herself doing the same thing, her eyes locked on those tiny black orbs, almost fascinated now as a tongue licked necrotic lips.

"Thank the gods you came," hissed the Harvester. "I thought I would spend an eternity in that beast's stinking maw."

"How can you still live?" said Alloria, stunned into gawping stupidity.

"Hold your tongue woman. He has limited strength." Vashell's brow was narrowed, but he did not show the surprise he ought to. Which meant he had seen this kind of thing before.

"They are immortal?" whispered Alloria.

"Not immortal," said Vashell. "Have you ever seen a cockroach?"

"Yes, once they infested the palace stores; we lost much food, and it took the servants an age to sort the problem. What of them?"

"If you take a knife, and cut off a cockroach's head, it takes the tough little bastard a week to die. And the only reason it dies? Because it can no longer eat and sustain its body as a complete entity. Harvesters are the same. Decapitation can sometimes be the end; but not always."

"That's unbelievable."

"Believe what you like, woman. But I have seen this before, once, when I was a child. Hunting snow lions with other vachine royalty; I was along for the ride, with my father. We had a Harvester with us, a tracker named Graslek. The lion surprised us in a circle of rocks, and as we fought a hasty retreat it bit off Graslek's head. My father carried the severed head back to the other Harvesters, who returned it to their world. I do not know what happened then, all I know is that the head talked the entire journey back. Gave me nightmares for months. My mother had to calm me with a strong blood-oil infusion."

"What happened to the snow lion?"

"Regrettably, it survived. Loped off into the peaks with half of a Harvester's body for a prize. Ruined the hunting trip."

Vashell sat down, cross-legged before the head. A tongue wetted lips, and at its request Vashell poured a little more water onto its eager, questing tongue. Five times more he did this, and gradually the Harvester's eyes grew bright, its features more relaxed.

"What is your name, Harvester?"

"Fiddion."

"How long ago were you…"

"Killed?" The Harvester chuckled, a low and nasty sound. "I have become arrogant, it would seem. I was performing a religious rite. I was secure in my own observation skills; I did not see, nor sense, that wolf approach. But then, maybe the Nonterrazake have removed some of my skills. In their eyes, I would deserve such a humiliating punishment."

"You have been cast out?" said Vashell, eyes wide in shock. It was the greatest show of emotion Alloria had ever witnessed from the vachine, but hard to read on his scarred features.

"Yes. And although it shames me, their treatment of me burns with hate. I would avenge myself on those who did this; I would bury their whole world under fire and ash!"

"What did you do?" asked Alloria, in awe, and Fiddion's small black eyes turned on her.

"You dare ask that of me, child? Begone! Away! I am not here to lay my soul bare before humans. That would be base and pathetic. But what I would seek…" he paused, small eyes blinking in a long, slow movement more to do with thought than anything else. "Yes. I would seek to give you information."

"Why?" snapped Vashell, feeling uneasy. Everything in his vachine world spoke of honour and loyalty to the Engineer Religion, to the Episcopate and Watchmakers; and they in turn, the vachine as a whole, trusted the Harvesters implicitly. They had fought wars together. They had died together. Whatever information Fiddion wished to share, it was born from bitterness, resentment and a need for revenge. And for Vashell, this sat worse than any ten year cancer.

"I would give you information," said the Harvester, "you can make an informed choice. Would you save your race, Vashell? Would you nurture the vachine into a new millennium?"

"We can do that without your help," said Vashell, quietly, but his eyes flickered with nervousness, almost like the orbs of a hunted creature. He knew he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear; he knew, instinctively, it would change his life forever.

Fiddion laughed. Quite a feat for a severed head. His spinal column seemed to relax and contract with delicate slithering sounds, like snake scales gliding over rock.

"Listen, vachine," he said, and his black eyes glowed like the outer reaches of space. "Your whole race, your whole religion, your whole world is threatened. By the Harvesters. By Kradek-ka. By General Graal and his stinking Army of Iron. They work together, can't you see?"

"To do what?" snorted Vashell.

"To bring about the return of the three Vampire Warlords. They are like Dark Gods, and once they walked these lands with a malice and depravity you could never comprehend. The world shivered when they awoke; and it breathed again when they died."

"They are legend," said Vashell, head tilted, one side of his scarred face illuminated by the flickering fire. Wood crackled, and woodsmoke twitched his nostrils. Outside, the wind howled mournfully and Vashell felt a great emptiness, a bleakness, in his soul. "Even if they did return, they would do us no harm. We are of the same blood. We are allies!" But even as he spoke the words, he could see the twisted logic of his own argument. They were not of the same blood. That was the whole point. The vachine were a hybrid clockwork deviation.

"No," said Fiddion, almost sadly, although Vashell was sure sadness was an emotion denied the Harvesters. "You are vachine. You are a dilution, my friend, of the feral wild Vampire Warlords; the vampires of old. Your clockwork is anathema to everything they believed in. Your race would be an abomination to everything they stood for; alien to their very essence.

Vashell shook his head. "We are mighty," he said. "We would fight them! We would destroy them!"

"No, because you will already be dead."

"What?" mocked Vashell. "The entire vachine civilisation? Don't be ridiculous."

"And do not be so arrogant," snapped Fiddion. "That is your curse!"

"And how would this miracle occur?"

Fiddion went silent for a while, face impassive, but then he licked at narrow lips showing his pointed teeth. "I do not know," he said, finally. "It was not introduced to our One Mind. All I know is that it involves Graal, and his army, his recent invasion of Falanor and the rivers of blood-oil now being gathered for the great magick required to resurrect the Vampire Warlords."

"You are forgetting one thing. Graal invaded Falanor on our instruction; on the command of the Engineers, and the Watchmakers."

"Yes. But why?"

Vashell frowned. "Because we run dry of blood-oil."

"But why, Vashel? Use your intellect, use your mind, don't allow the stagnant mental decadence of a thousand years pollute your ability to reason."

"The crops began to fail. The Refineries needed fresh blood. Some of them began to break down; to become inefficient. Do you think Kradek-ka had a part to play in all of this?"

"I think we can guarantee that," said Fiddion gently.

"What must I do?" But it came to him, a strike of lighting in the thunderstorm of his raging mind. Clarity sparkled like sunlight on a raging sea. "I must find Kradek-ka. I must track Anukis. She has gone to her father; but she does not understand his betrayal of the vachine." Understanding pulsed through him in waves. Kradek-ka had made Anukis, his daughter, in a different mould; when he introduced clockwork to her, it had been different, advanced, like nothing before ever seen by the vachine. She was awesome. And now Vashell knew why. She was an instrument, somehow, a tool to be used in bringing back the Vampire Warlords.

"Kradek-ka has a larger part to play in this than you could ever believe," said Fiddion, and Vashell nodded, and he knew Fiddion, the bitter, desecrated Harvester, was right.

Vashell turned. He stared at Alloria. He blinked. "You understand all this, woman?"

"I understand thousands will die," she said, voice small and yet run through with a fine-lode of iron. Alloria took a deep breath. After all. She was Queen of Falanor. "Our fates are entwined, are they not?" she said. "The people of Falanor. And the vachine. It is not a simple case of invasion. The puzzle is far more intricate than that."

Fiddion's eyes adjusted, and focused on Alloria. She felt her breath catch in her throat; felt her heartbeat stutter and stop. "You are correct," he said, eyes boring into her like the granite and diamond drill-bits used for mining under the Black Pike Mountains.

"The Vampire Warlords will kill you all," Fiddion said, voice little more than a whisper. Then his tiny black eyes closed, and he slept.

Winter in the Black Pike Mountains was a savage, relentless mistress. The nights were long, hard, cold, the frequent storms a show of temper like nothing seen across the Four Continents. For Alloria, shivering in the corner of the cave, peering occasionally at the motionless, decapitated head of the Harvester, and fearing a return of the feral mountain wolves, it seemed to take a month just for the cold dawn to arrive.

With light came an abatement of the storm, and the mournful howling reduced to nothing more than occasional, scattered shrieks. Snow flurries decorated the cave mouth, random snaps of hail and gusts of icechilled wind.

Alloria sat, nearer the fire now, arms wrapped around her legs, hugging herself in a need for heat. Terrible icy draughts entered the cave, and she could feel her teeth chattering, jarring her skull. She had never experienced such savage weather in the warm southlands of Falanor. She looked over to where Vashell slept, and envied him his peace. His scarred face seemed strangely calm, his breathing regular.

What have I got myself into? thought Alloria, and gave a deep, bitter sigh. How violently her world had changed in a few short weeks. From her rape and abduction at the whim of General Graal in an effort to subdue King Leanoric, through to a nightmare journey through Falanor, and secret subterranean tunnels under the mountains, to her final accidental rescue by the vachine Anukis, Alloria's life had become a journey of insanity and confusion. Abused, both physically, sexually and mentally, she knew she teetered on the edge of breaking. And yet… and yet her country, Falanor, needed her. King Leanoric used to say: I am the Land, and the Land is me. Now, Falanor had no King and Alloria was – as far as she could ascertain – the only living member of royalty. Sourly, this led to her boys and she sank deeper into depression.

What did life matter now if her babes were dead?

Why did anything matter?

And she thought back, further. Images of betrayal flittered through her skull. She could picture a gem. A small, dark gem. With a sour taste in her mouth, she refused the memories, and pushed them away, feeling pain at simple understanding. Betrayal, echoed the halls of her memory. Betrayal.

Smoothly, Vashell rolled to his feet. He glanced at Alloria. "Somebody is coming."

"Who?"

Vashell ignored her and drew his knife, staring at the cave entrance. A few moments later, like a ghost from the snow, came a figure. He was tall, athletic and broadshouldered. He moved warily into the cave with short-sword drawn, then stopped, staring at Vashell.

"Llaran!" exclaimed Vashell, and took a step forward, then paused, and lowered his face. When he glanced up, his eyes were bright with tears. Llaran lowered his sword, and his face softened.

"Vash? Is that you?"

"Llaran, little brother, it's been a hard fight."

Llaran moved closer. Icicles clung to his hair and heavy furs. His boots were crusted with ice. He stopped, staring at Vashell, his handsome face shocked, his mouth open. Llaran flexed his golden claws, and his vachine fangs ejected.

"They took your face, brother." His voice hardened a little, but then in a flurry of movement he lowered his sword and stepped in close and held Vashell. Vashell felt tears on the scars of his cheeks. The salt stung his tattered flesh.

"Aye, they took my face. But not my honour! Not my dignity! I am still more violent than you could believe possible! I am still vachine at heart, at soul!"

"I don't doubt that," laughed Llaran, releasing his older brother and moving towards the fire with an easy, relaxed, rolling gait. He stopped beside the head of the Harvester, looking down in open wonder, then with a sudden movement he slashed his sword across the Harvester's face, toppling the head into the fire. The Harvester's eyes snapped open and it began to scream, a terrible high pitched sound as flames curled around skin and licked into eyes and scorched flesh. A stench filled the cave. Vashell surged forward, but Llaran's sword came up – a swift movement. Suddenly, his eyes seemed hard and the smile had gone from his face. Noisily, and still screaming, Fiddion's head burned.

"What have you done?" shouted Vashell.

There came a clatter of noise from the mouth of the cave, and three vachine stood there, swords drawn, the bulk of their armour and furs blocking out the cold snow-light.

"We've been hunting this traitor for weeks," said Llaran, lips a narrow line of bloodless ice. "Now, as you can see, his fate is sealed. But you, dear sweet brother, you are a bonus I did not expect!"

Llaran turned to the three vachine warriors, who slid out claws and fangs in readiness for battle. Llaran stepped back towards the wall of the cave, and in a voice full of malice as he stared at his older brother, said, "Kill him. And kill the woman, too."

General Graal rode his steed to the top of the hill, hooves crunching snow and dead leaves, and scattered woodland detritus. He dismounted and calmed the beast, feeding it a handful of oats from his saddlebag. The night sky was a patchwork of black and grey clouds, and moonlight shimmered in shafts illuminating a vast city landscape below. Graal's eyes narrowed, as he watched ten thousand albino soldiers – the Army of Iron – moving into position with the precision of…

Graal smiled.

Why, with the precision of clockwork.

Silently the ranks of albino infantry assembled. To the rear, hidden by woodland, Graal knew the cankers had been released from their cages. However, hopefully they wouldn't be needed for the sleeping, unwary populace of Vor – Falanor's Capital City. The main problem with cankers was they were too vicious, too bloodthirsty, too brutal; they savaged a corpse without refinement allowing precious blood to pump free during frenzy and savagery. No. The trick was an ice-death using ice-smoke. Freeze the bodies of human cattle, encase them in ice – so that the Harvesters could reap the Harvest at their leisure.

Graal turned, eyes narrowing, checking the distant shapes on the Great North Road. The huge black outlines of the Refineries loomed, rumbling gently as they were dragged by teams of horses. This time, everything would come together neatly with no surprises. This time, the mission – cause and effect – would slot neatly into place. There would be no… wastage.

Graal returned his eyes to the waiting Army of Iron. Moonlight glinted on dull black armour, on unsheathed swords, on matt helmets. Special soldiers had been sent ahead to hunt down and silence any sentries, any woodsman, any stragglers who might alert the population of Vor to their impending slaughter – to their impending harvest. Graal smiled a narrow smile. After all, he didn't want to waste precious time hunting down the terrified. Not when ice-smoke could make a neat kill in the first place.

Below, Harvesters were assembling, drifting eerily, like wood-spirits, through the ranks of motionless soldiers. Graal's chest swelled with pride at his men, his albino ghosts. Graal's blue eyes sparkled, and his head tilted, and he acknowledged the irony of the phrase. Albino was not quite correct.

At the head of the infantry now, the Harvesters stopped. Their chanting was low, a monotone, little more than sighs on a winter wind. Their hands, with long bone fingers, lifted towards the sky and Graal felt a pulse of magick thump through the ground, passing beneath his boots and on down, down the steep hillside, through gullies and streams and rocks, through narrow channels of peat bog and patches of sparse woodland until it met the Harvesters and from their feet, from the soil, rose the ice-smoke. It billowed, thick wreaths and coils, like ice-snakes under the precise control of their masters. The ice-smoke grew, rising, obscuring the Harvesters and the infantry and Graal felt a stab of pleasure as he knew, knew this mission would be successful, and with its success came the total subjugation of Falanor. After that, only one thing remained.

The mammoth clouds of ice-smoke were huge, now, and Graal watched impassively as they rolled out, flowing down hills to encompass and swallow the first of the buildings on the outskirts of Falanor's capital city; there were no screams, no shouts of alarm, and this, Graal acknowledged, was the beauty of such an attack. It was clean. Silent. Efficient. There was no wastage.

The ice-smoke flooded across cottages, tenements, factories, bridges, rivers, parks, a writhing coiling turbulence of freezing cold with a motionless army of killers waiting behind. This was not a battle, not an invasion; this was simple butchery. And Graal revelled in it.

Finally, there came a scream. But by then, the icesmoke was moving fast as if accelerating with the downward slope. It spread like a flood, and within a few short minutes the entire city was bathed in white, as if a huge blanket of mist had settled gently in the early morning darkness. Only this time, the mist was deadly.

Graal turned to his horse, and from an oiled leather sheath removed a slender, black battle-horn. It was said it was made from the thigh-bone of a god, but Graal smiled grimly at this nonsense. The horn was made from something much, much worse.

He placed the horn to his lips, and blew a long, single ululation which echoed mournfully across the sea of icesmoke. With unity and proud synchronisation, the Army of Iron moved forward into the sleeping city streets.

And the slaughter began.

The weak winter sun had risen in a raped sky. Purple bruised clouds lay scattered, the welt-marks of the abuser. The ice-smoke had nearly dissipated, but still long coils, like dying ice-snakes, writhed in the streets. Graal rode his mount, hooves clattering cobbles, and he surveyed his handiwork. Corpses lay in piles to either side of every alley where he looked. Men, women, children, all white and blue and purple, frozen in sleep, frozen in the act of running, their bodies motionless. Some, he knew, were still alive, the ice-smoke purposefully not killing them, just seeking to retain every precious drop of blood. However, death was usually a realistic consequence. Except for those of incredibly strong disposition.

Graal rode his horse down the main thoroughfare, a wide cobbled street lined with baskets of winter flowers and where once King Leanoric, and his queen, Alloria, had ridden carriages in procession, the streets lined with cheering people, happy people, good people, unaware of the fate shortly to befall their land, their country, their species.

Graal halted before the Rose Palace, and it was a wonderful site to behold. Huge iron gates were skilfully melded into a battle scene, and protected long lawns, now piled with corpses, Graal noted, those of servants and retainers, and the King's Royal Guard, their red jackets frosted with ice. The building itself was staggeringly beautiful. Commissioned seven hundred years previously, it was built from white stone, marble and obsidian, and the mortar was mixed with silver which glinted, even now, in this weak winter sunshine. Graal cantered across a frozen lawn, hooves crunching grass, and he dismounted by the wide, flowing marble steps. A Harvester, Tetrakall, was waiting for him.

"You did well," said Graal, removing his gauntlets.

"Lambs to the slaughter," replied Tetrakall with a shrug of his elongated, bony shoulders.

"Still. Your magick is something which impresses. And I am not an easy man to impress."

"You should see the magick of my homeland," said Tetrakall, taking a bobbing step forward, his head lowering a little, his blank eyes staring into Graal's. "We weave dreams, we weave magick, we harvest souls and use them for… things I cannot vocalise, things you would never understand."

"One day, I will visit," said Graal, voice low, and he meant it. The Harvesters thrilled him in a way he found hard to express. They did not scare him – well, maybe a little – but the only thing he truly understood was that they were from an ancient time, a time before the Vampire Warlords. And this in itself was something of which to be wary. Still. They had a pact; a symbiotic agreement. The vachine got the blood for their refineries. And the Harvesters… well, they took something else.

Graal moved past Tetrakall, and Dagon Trelltongue was waiting for him. The man, once trusted advisor to King Leanoric, a man who had betrayed the people of Falanor for his own life, betrayed his king and queen, gave a deep bow and fear was etched deeply into his face as if by carefully applied drops of acid. He had aged since Graal had last seen him. He had aged considerably. Grey streaked his hair, fear squatted in his eyes like black toads, and his mouth was a trembling line of persistent terror.

"You have conquered," said Dagon, his bow lowering further, the tone of his voice unreadable. He had seen what cankers could do first hand; he did not want to be their next victim.

"Yes. And you, also, did well Trelltongue. You have-" Graal smiled. "Why, my man, you have slaughtered your own people. How does that feel, pray tell?" Graal moved close. Could smell Dagon's terror. He reached out, and stroked the man's hair, his long finger tracing a line down Dagon's jaw. "You are responsible for the ease of my success, you are responsible for perfectly traced plans, responsible for the fall of Falanor. I wonder, little man, if you sleep soundly in your bed at night?"

Dagon looked up, then, a sharp movement. "Alcohol helps," he said, smoothly. And there was a spark in his eyes, but Graal held his gaze and the flame died to be replaced by cold dread. A knowledge that every waking day he would have to live with the guilt of betraying a nation.

"Come with me!" snapped Graal, and led Dagon across the Welcome Hall with its gold and silver mosaics depicting the Trials of Gerannorkin, through several long chambers still resplendent with huge oak tables filled with baskets of winter flowers from the South Woods, then right, down more corridors to a huge library. Graal was sure of his path. To Dagon, it appeared Graal had been there before. Many times.

In the ancient library, wood gleamed and stunk of rich wax and polish. The smell of well-tended books invaded Dagon's nostrils, and a stab of recognition and nostalgia pierced his mind; he had sat here with King Leanoric on many occasions, as they shared coffee and brandy and discussed affairs of state. Now, the place seemed cold and dead, as cold and dead as the king. And whilst it could not be said Dagon Trelltongue was directly responsible for the invasion of Falanor – it would have happened with or without his input, his revealing of tactics and military positions, and his betrayal, his information, had certainly made the life of General Graal and the Army of Iron easier.

Dagon noticed a bag in the General's hand, and they moved to the centre of the library. Towering bookcases reared around them, and Graal gestured to a series of low leather reading couches. Dagon sat, on the edge of a couch, as if he might flee at any moment. Graal smiled at this.

From the bag he took a small mirror and placed this flat on a table. Then he seated himself, and stared down at the silver glass. Softly, he whispered three words of power, and the glass misted black, then swirled with sparkles of gold and amber. Then a face materialised and Graal smiled. It was his daughter. One of the Soul Stealers.

"Tashmaniok."

"Father."

"Did you find them?"

"We found them."

"Did you kill them?"

"No, father."

Graal disguised his annoyance well, with only a tightening of muscles in his jaw betraying the fact he did not appreciate such news. "What happened?"

"Kell, the old warrior, turned out more resourceful than we anticipated. He was bloodbond. But more. There was something else about him, father; something we do not understand."

"He is mortal, like the rest of them," spat Graal, suddenly losing his cool. "You must destroy him!"

"Is this pride speaking, father?" She smiled a cold smile, and Graal knew, then, he had raised her well.

"Not pride." He was cool. "Necessity. What of the other? Saark? Did he have that which we seek?"

"We could not ascertain."

"You were fought off?"

"Saark had help."

"From whom?"

"A little boy summoned insects from the wood, the floors, the air. His name was Skanda. I have read about him, in your Book of Legends, and in your Granite Throne Lore."

Graal frowned. "Impossible. Skanda is dead! The whole Ankarok race are dead! The Warlords saw to that, millennia past!"

Tashmaniok turned from the mirror, then returned to gaze at her father with unnerving, crimson eyes. Her gaze was cold; unforgiving. "Still," she said, smoothly, unperturbed. "Skanda was able to toss Shanna aside as if she were a simple village girl. And he carried a scorpion."

"Did it… have two tails? Two stings?"

"It did," said Tash. "Now do you believe us?"

"I believe there is dark magick at play," scowled General Graal. "Where are you?"

"Heading north," said Tashmaniok. "We picked up their trail leading away from the burning town. It's a long story. However, Skanda no longer travels with the two men. There is little between here and the Black Pike Mountains; we can only assume they head for the Cailleach Fortress."

"I will send some help. Something special," said Graal.

"Yes. We underestimated these men. It will not happen again. No more mistakes. We will peel the skin from their bones."

"Do it. And Tash?"

"Yes, father?"

Graal blinked, slow and lazy, like a reptile. "I love you, girls. Don't ever forget that."

"We never forget it, father."

The mirror returned to a shimmer of silver and Graal stood, stretching his spine. He moved to a narrow window in the library wall, more of an archer's slit than a true window, which had been filled with lead-lined glass. He looked down from the Rose Palace, over the vision below.

The first of the Refineries was being hauled up the main cobbled street, its darkness, and angularity, seeming to block out pink pastel light from a winter sun. Graal turned to Dagon, deep in thought.

"You know it is said this man, Kell, is blessed by the gods," said Dagon, slowly, looking sideways at Graal.

"That is not so," said Graal. "He is mortal, like the rest of you… with your feeble human shells."

"No," said Dagon, and his voice held a splinter of triumph. "He is Kell. He is the Legend. He carries the mighty Ilanna. He may not be a part of your culture, but he is certainly a part of ours."

"You know something else?" Graal strode in fury to the cowering man, and hoisted him into the air by the throat. Dagon's legs kicked and he choked, and slowly Graal released the iron in his grip.

"No, I swear!"

"Speak, or I'll rip out your windpipe and eat it before your fucking eyes!"

"All I know is what Leanoric told me! He said Kell was a Vachine Hunter, way back, years ago for the old Battle King. He roamed the Black Pike Mountains, slaying rogue vachine who troubled our borders. We did not know, back then, that these were outcast, the impure, the damaged, the unholy. We did not know there was a civilisation! We did not realise vachine were a discrete species, an entire race! If we had known, we would have sent our armies!"

Graal dropped Dagon to the polished, wooden floor. He moved back to the window.

"Kell is a special man. He has special knowledge."

"He knows how to kill vachine," said Dagon, rubbing his throat.

"Soon he will learn to die," said Graal without emotion, as he watched soldiers loading Blood Refineries with the first of the frozen corpses from the ravaged city of Vor.