Soul Stealers

CHAPTER 11
Fortress of Ghosts

Kell ran on, and did not reply to Saark's panic, just heaved his bulk along flexing planks with fire at his boots, a stench of burning chemicals filling his nostrils and smoke blinding him. He choked, gagged, and the fire overtook the two men who ran on blindly, across yet another narrow plank into darkness and smoke and behind them the roar of fire drowned the roar and screeches of the burning canker and suddenly both men slammed into the welcome icecold night air, flames belching from the orifice behind as they hit the snow and rolled down a gentle slope to finally slide together, turning slowly on ice, to a stop, Kell's great bearskin jerkin glowing and smouldering.

The two men coughed and choked for a while, entwined like scorched lovers, then untangled themselves from one another. Kell staggered to his feet and hefted his axe, staring up at the factory doorway, brows furrowed, fire-blackened face focussed in concentration as his eyes narrowed and he readied himself in a centuries-old battle-stance.

"Surely not?" whispered Saark, climbing to his feet and spitting black phlegm to the snow. His fine clothes were blackened, scorched tatters. Beneath, his flesh was burn-pink in places. He patted his head, when he suddenly realised his hair was on fire.

Kell did not reply. Just stood, staring at the doorway where an inferno raged. And then something moved, a huge cumbersome ill-defined shape within the shimmering portal, a demon dancing in the fire, an image of molten rock against the stage of a raging inferno, and Saark thought he saw the shape of the canker, of his twisted childhood sweetheart, of Aline, stagger within the opening and then slump down, clockwork machines glowing as they finally succumbed to the heat and ran in molten streams. Then the roof of the factory belched and slumped, and with a great groaning roar it collapsed bringing part of the walls down with it, and burning rubble filled the doorway and all was gone and still, except for the bright fire, and the demons.

"How could Graal do that?" whispered Saark, eyes still fixed on the blaze. All around the factory, snowsteam hissed like volcanic geysers.

Kell stared at him.

"To a woman, I mean," said the scorched dandy.

"Graal will do what he has to. To get the job done."

"I want his head on a fucking plate," snarled Saark, suddenly. "I want that man dead."

Kell gave a curt nod, and turned his back on the inferno. "We all want him dead, lad." He sighed, then. And gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour. "But at least he's showed us one thing."

"And what's that?"

Kell's face was a dark mask, his eyes pools of ink. Unreadable. "He thinks we're a threat. He went to a lot of trouble to bring us in. And that means we are a danger not just to Graal, but to the whole damn vachine invasion. And… I think we have something he wants. Ilanna, maybe? I do not know. But we will find out, I promise you that." Kell began to walk, back towards the stables. It was time to leave. It was time to leave Kettleskull Creek fast.

Saark stood, stunned, watching Kell's back.

Fire crackled, and sparks spiralled up into a clear and frozen night sky.

Kell turned. Grinned a sour, twisted grin. So much for a warm, soft bed! "Come on, lad. What're you waiting for? We have to make General Graal earn his coin. And he'll have to move faster than that to catch us."

In silence, and with sombre heart, Saark followed Kell into the night.

It was a day later, and darkness was spreading fast, a vast jagged purple shroud easing out from the towering blocks of the Black Pike Mountains, questing knifeblades stealing into the real world like a disease spreading from its host. Kell reined in his horse, and climbed stiffly from the saddle. The pain from the poison was with him again, in his blood, in his bones, and he grinned with skull teeth. At least this fresh agony took away the lesser evils of arthritis and torn muscles from battle. At least it focused him – focused him – on impending death.

Nobody lives forever, old man, he thought to himself. And I wouldn't want to! But by the gods, it would be sweet to taste life long enough to see the bastard Graal dead and buried.

Saark's boots hit the frozen ground, and he rubbed his eyes. "I ache like a dog in a fighting pit."

"You look just as rough."

"Thanks, old friend."

"If I was your friend, I'd hang myself."

"You're a regular old charmer, Kell."

"There she is." He pointed, and Saark took in the majestic sweep of the mountains, an endless block of vast peaks, sheer and violent and ragged. Cold wind and snowstorms swept down from the Pikes, as if it was some epicentre for gratuitous weather and intent on inflicting misery across the civilised world.

"They're just so… big!" said Saark, eyes once more sweeping the mammoth portrait before him. It was an oil painting, a violence of blacks and greys, purples and reds. "And beautiful," he added, voice touched with awe. "Totally beautiful."

"You ever been here before?"

"Once, in my younger days. Alas, I believe I was pretty much drunk for the entire trip. And I rode it in a fine brass carriage with two women of, shall we say, dishonourable disposition. One had a poodle dog. What tricks that yapping snapping little canine could conjure!"

Kell snorted, and started over the hillside. Rocks lay strewn everywhere, building in intensity as the ground rose towards the vastness of the sky-blocking Pikes. Saark followed, still talking.

"One of the women, a ripe peach named Guinevere, had a neat trick whereby she would take a long, thin block of cheese, and upon removing her corset…"

"Stop." Kell turned. "There's the fortress."

"Cailleach?" Saark gave a tiny shudder. He glanced around, at the fast-falling gloom. The wind howled in the distance like slaughtered wolves. "Hadn't we better wait till morning?"

"No. We're going in. Now."

"It's turned dark," warned Saark.

"I'm the worst fucking thing in the dark," snapped Kell.

"I'm sure you are, old boy. But my point is, the rumours state this place is, ahh, haunted. And correct me if I'm wrong, but more specifically, haunted at night. Yes?"

Kell chuckled. "I thought you were a modern hedonist? I didn't think you'd believe in ghosts."

"Well, yes, I don't, but when you hear so many fireside tales…"

"Popinjays drunk on watered wine," snapped Kell, and surged forward, allowing his horse to pick a trail through the rocks. Muttering, Saark followed at a reasonable distance, telling himself that if wild beasts or haunted things attacked, then at least it would take them time to consume the bulk that was Kell, thus giving him time to flee.

As the hill dropped to a flat plain, so the rocks became not just more intense in their regularity, but larger, more ominous. Many were smoothed by centuries of weathering, and bands of precious minerals ran through many a cottage-sized cube.

The hugeness of the subtly twisted fortress came ever closer, and as darkness fell through the sky, so Kell ran his gaze over the dark stones, the cracks, the jigged walls and battlements. Above the battlements, leading back to the keep and the rocky valley beyond, which the fortress seemed in some way to protect, stood several slightly leaning, slightly twisted towers. Most had no roof, just great blocks which had shifted and settled, to give the appearance of some puzzle – or at least, a madman's example of architecture.

"It's depraved," said Saark, eventually.

"It's old," said Kell.

Staring at the warrior's broad back, Saark, said, "The two go hand in hand, Kell, old wolf. But what I mean is, look at it, the whole thing, it's – well, it's not straight, for a start. I thought they would have brought in some decent builders. Architects who could draw a straight line. That sort of thing. Not some epileptic draughtsmen who spilled the ink and let idiots loose with a trowel!"

Kell stopped and turned. His eyes were glinting. " Shut up, " he said.

"Yes, fine, no need to be rude. You only needed to ask."

There was an old road, made of the same strange dark stone. Many cobbles were missing, and filled with dirt and frozen weeds. Much was obscured by wide patches of ice. Kell picked his way carefully to the road, and they moved down it, towards the huge maw of a leering archway. The Cailleach Fortress reared above them in the gloom, defined by moonlight and foregrounded by the immense power of the sentinel Black Pikes.

"The archway is a guardian," said Kell, voice little more than a whisper. "Listen. She will speak to us…"

"What?" snorted Saark, voice dripping sarcasm. Yet as he stepped forward, so warm breeze rolled out to greet him and he halted, shocked, hackles rising on the back of his neck. "What's going on?" he growled. "What kind of horse-shit is this?"

"Be quiet, boy," hissed Kell, glancing at Saark, dark eyes glinting like jewels. "If you value your bloody life. Follow me, say nothing, do nothing, do not draw your weapon, don't even shit in your kerchief unless I give you permission. I've been here before; and there are rules."

"Rules?" whispered Saark, and despite himself, despite his new found… strength, from impure blood, he moved closer to Kell. "I don't like this place, Kell. It has a stench of evil, in its very rocks, in its very bones."

"Aye, lad." They moved beneath the huge gateway. Beyond, darkness wavered like the oesophagus of some huge, breathing creature. "So follow me, be a good lad, and we both may get through this alive."

"You really think so?" whispered Saark, and the final dregs of light were cast from the sky.

"No," said Kell, "I'm just trying to make you feel better." And with that, he disappeared into the void.

Saark walked, his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut, his fist wound tight about his mount's reins and his arse puckered in terror. Behind, he heard Mary the donkey braying and he wanted to turn, to shout "Shut up you stupid donkey!" but he did not; he had neither the nerve nor the energy. Fear coursed through him like raw fire. It filled his mind with ash.

They walked, boots echoing on cobbles. Shapes seemed to drift around them, ghosts in silk, sighs caressing cold skin, and Saark realised he had new, heightened senses. He could feel more, sense more, smell more. He could smell his own stench of fear, that was for sure.

Something brushed his cheek, like a kiss, and he fancied he heard a giggle of coquettish laughter. Something tightened in his chest. It had not occurred to him the ghosts – or whatever depraved spirits, or dark magick these creatures were – it had never occurred to him they would be women. He felt a caress down his thigh, and another kiss on his cheek. His resolve hardened. The whole thing felt wrong, and then he caught sight of a figure ahead and she walking towards the two men. She was tall, eight feet tall, and very slender and narrow, both of hips and limbs. Her skin was dark, and shined as if oiled. She wore a black silk robe which rustled, and the hood was thrown back to reveal an almost elongated face, high and thin with pointed features and narrow, feline eyes. Saark looked into those eyes and realised the pupils were horizontal slits. They looked wrong. Saark swallowed. The tall woman stopped, and only then did Saark realise she was both insubstantial, like a drifting haze in the darkness; and that she carried a black sword strapped at her hip. Ha, thought Saark. A ghost sword? And yet he knew, in his heart, it would cut just like the finest steel.

"Who passes in my realm?" came her voice, and it was note-perfect and absolutely beautiful.

"I am Kell. Once, I served your people."

"Kell. I remember. You slew the vachine. That was good."

Kell bowed his head, as if offering obeisance to royalty. He stayed like that for what – to Saark, at least – seemed an exaggerated length of time. Then he stood, and back straight, stared into the ghost's eyes.

"May we pass, lady?"

She lifted a ghostly arm, and pointed at Saark. He shivered, and felt suddenly light-headed as if… as if his brains were rushing out of his ears and a million memories flowed like wine like water and he was dancing and laughing and drinking and fucking and he was watched from a million years away by eyes older than worlds and he felt himself judged and he felt himself wrenched through a mental grinder and then Saark was kneeling on the cobbles, panting, and his head pounded worse than any three-flagon hangover. Slowly, Saark climbed to his feet, and ignoring Kell and the ghost, unhooked a water-skin from his saddle and took a long, cool draught.

"That hurt," he said, eventually.

"There is a taint on this one," said the ghost, pointing to Saark but talking to Kell.

"Aye. I know. But he's with me."

"It runs bone deep," said the ghost, and Saark froze as he realised what she meant. His infection. His bad blood. His newly acquired and gradually transforming nature. What had Kell said? He'd killed vachine for these creatures? So they were enemies, and she knew Saark for what he was – or at least, what he would become.

"He's still with me," said Kell, staring at the apparition and, with his traditional stubborn streak, refusing to back down. Eventually, the tall, dark lady gave a single nod, and glided away, disseminating as she moved into spirals of black light which eventually whirled, and were gone.

"What a bitch," breathed Saark, releasing a pentup breath.

"Halt your yapping, puppy, lest I cut off your head!" snapped Kell, and strode forward, leading his horse.

Saark clamped his teeth tight shut, and followed Kell. Behind him, Mary brayed, and Saark scowled. To his ears, it was an abrasive, mocking, equine jibe, and if there was one thing Saark hated, it was being laughed at by a donkey.

They emerged into the courtyard before the twisted, disjointed, deformed keep. Behind them, the tunnel was dark as the void, sour as a corpse. Saark breathed cool ice air, and thanked the gods he was alive – and not just alive, but with his affliction still his own.

Kell was panting, and they looked up at the sky in wonder. Hours had passed, and strange coloured starlight rimed the frozen mountains and peaks.

"Grandad!" screamed Nienna, and sprinted across ice-slick cobbles from the doorway of a small, stone building. She leapt at him, wrapping herself around the old warrior and he hugged her, buried his face in her hair and inhaled her scent and welcomed her warmth, and her love, for without Nienna, Kell was a bad man, a weak man, a lesser man; a dilution. With her, he was whole again. Filled with honour, and love, and an understanding of what made life and the world so good.

Kell dropped Nienna to the cobbles, and she half turned as Myriam appeared at the doorway. Myriam gave Kell a curt nod, eyes bright, head high, proud and wary and strong despite the cancer eating through her. She gave a smile, but it was an enigmatic smile and Kell could not read her intent. She looked past Kell, to Saark, and he saw her eyes glow a little.

"How are you feeling, dandy man?"

"Better now your knife is no longer in my guts. But be warned, Myriam, your time on this planet is finite. You made an enemy of me for life; one day, I will slit your throat."

"But not now?" She moved forward, still athletic despite her gauntness. "Why not, Saark? What's stopping you? The poison which eats Kell even as we speak?"

"Enough!" bellowed Kell, and stomped forward, loosening Ilanna and swinging the great axe wide. For a moment only fear shone like bright dark flames in Myriam's eyes, then she shook her head and strode forward to meet him. If nothing else, she had spirit, and courage enough to match her cunning and evil.

Myriam halted before Kell, and looked into the huge warrior's eyes. She was tall, and proud, and she matched Kell for height. "Do you want to live, Kell, or do you want to die?"

"I don't die easy," he growled.

"You never answered the question."

"Where's the antidote?"

"Close by. However, I have another insurance policy I need to show you; otherwise, what's to stop you cutting me in half with that huge axe? Ilanna, she's called, isn't she?" Myriam smiled, then, and Kell did not like the smile. There was knowledge there, but more. There was an intimacy.

"You are playing games," said Kell. He glanced over to Nienna. "Did this woman hurt you, girl?"

"No, grandfather. And much as I hate to say it, she saved my life. Styx wanted to rape me, and kill me. Myriam murdered him. Jex left."

Kell nodded, and leaned in close to Myriam, aware her hand was on her sword hilt but knowing, as he had always known, that he could cut her in two before she cleared weapon from scabbard. "You play a dangerous game," he said, threat inherent in his tone.

"Yes. The game of life and death. And I choose life. And so should you. Don't be a hero, Kell. Don't be a jangling, bell-adorned capering village idiot."

"I say kill her," said Saark, and he moved closer, his slender rapier drawn. There was a quiet, dormant rage bubbling beneath the surface of his foppishness. "If we let her live, she'll stab us in the back. Again. And this place isn't so big; we can find the antidote to the poison."

"Stab you in the back?" laughed Myriam. She focused on Saark. "I'd save that pleasure only for you, my sweet." She smiled, easily.

Saark growled. Kell held up a hand. "Enough." He focused on Myriam. "You have bought a truce for now. I will take you through the mountains. But the poison is seeping through my system. If I do not have the cure soon, I will be useless. And the Black Pike Mountains is no place where a warrior should be useless."

"I will give it to you – soon," breathed Myriam, calmer now that imminent threat was gone. But she knew; Kell was like a caged lion, one moment passive, submissive even, the next a raging feral beast. "But first, you must see this." She lifted her hand, then, and turned it so her palm faced upwards. Across her skin danced a tiny flame, and the flame grew until it was an inferno of silver flames all contained on the palm of her hand. The flames twisted and curled, and then formed themselves into a vision. In the tiny, glittering scene Kell stood on a high mountain pass, with Nienna behind him, cowering against frozen rocks. Saark was nowhere to be seen. Huge beasts loped forward, their fur white, their fangs terrible. They were snow lions, there were three of them, and they were mighty, their fur bright white, three males with bushy manes and yellow eyes. Kell roared and charged the snow lions, and claws smashed aside his axe. In the scene, the third lion circled Kell, leaping nimbly up the rocks and then dropping down before Nienna. She screamed, her scream tiny and a million miles away. The lion grinned, and lunged for her, but Myriam rushed past, her sword sticking into the lion and making it rear, blood gushing from a savage throat-wound and spraying bright crimson against snow and fur. The lion stumbled back, and went over the cliffs – and in the tiny vision, Myriam took Nienna in her arms and cuddled the terrified girl.

Slowly, the image faded, and Myriam closed her hand.

"You are a magicker!" gasped Saark, taking several steps back. "A witch!"

"Nothing so dramatic," snapped Myriam, scowling. "But I have certain prophetic skills. I may not be able to use magick for pain and destruction, as some can and do; but I see things. This was my vision. And yours, too."

"Clever," said Kell, face dark.

"If you kill me, then the lion kills Nienna." Myriam tilted her head. "You see how the puzzle pieces are coming together? To make a whole?"

"The game is not finished. Not yet."

"Still. We are a partnership."

"Is that why you killed Styx? Because you worked out another way to persuade me?"

"Yes. The power of the Black Pike Mountains brings out the magicker in me; but you are correct. I knew none of this when I poisoned you, and as we drew close to the Pikes then the dreams began, the visions, the pains in my heart."

"I will take you where you want to go," said Kell.

"To Silva Valley? Through the Secret Trails? The Worm Caves?"

"Yes."

"You swear?"

"If you save Nienna's life, as in that vision, then I swear. Now get me that damn antidote! I feel as if you have my balls in the palm of your hand, and I don't bloody like it!"

"Maybe one day I will," soothed Myriam, and turned, and disappeared back into the small stone room at the foot of the keep. She emerged with a tiny vial, and tossed it to Kell. He shook it. There was a small amount of clear liquid within.

He unstoppered the vial, and stared at Myriam. Then knocked it back in one.

"It will take a day or so, but will cleanse the poison from your system. This, I swear."

"And what of Nienna?" growled Kell, voice dark.

"I was never poisoned, grandfather!" smiled Nienna. "That was a lie. A lie to bring you here."

Kell stared for a long time at Myriam. She hid it well, but she was terrified. Eventually, Kell blinked, and relaxed his hand from the terrible haft of Ilanna.

"Now, we can kill her," smiled Saark, and glanced to Kell for support. "Yes, Big Man? Is that what you have in mind?" He was too eager. Too eager for death.

"No," said Kell. "You saw the magick."

"Pah!" snapped Saark. "She conjured that from thin air; it is an empty ruse, a courtside conman's trick, a slick cock up your arse, my friend. Do you not see?"

"It may or may not be real." Kell had a stubborn look on his face. His voice was low. "And maybe I have my own business now, in Silva Valley."

"Your own business? Like what?"

"That would be my business."

"You are worse than any mule," frowned Saark, and sheathed his rapier in disappointment. "Listen. Can we at least rest before we set off on some foolhardy mission through the most treacherous mountains the world has ever known? I stink. I stink worse than the donkey. In fact, I stink worse than you, Kell!"

Kell stared at Saark, and realised the man was saving face. He urgently wanted Myriam dead, and it was still there in his eyes, a burning coal. But for now, Kell could rely on Saark not to unbalance the equilibrium. But long term? Whether Kell believed in the vision or not, whether Kell chose to kill Myriam or not, Saark would one day have his way. And that sat bad in the back of Kell's mind, like an old bone buried by a dead dog.

"We have time," said Myriam, and stepped aside, pointing back into the small room – which in turn led to a small complex of apartments, empty and cold now, but which once must have housed a gatemaster and his family. "We can build a fire. Heat water. It is better than camping in the snow and ice."

Nienna led the way inside, followed by Kell, who struggled to squeeze Ilanna's huge butterfly blades through the opening.

Saark looked at Myriam. She smiled, and tilted her head.

"I have one question."

"Which is?"

"Where was I in the vision?"

"But you don't believe in it, dandy."

"That doesn't matter. Where was I?"

Myriam shrugged, and moved into the building.

"Playing damn games with my head," Saark muttered, and followed with a certain amount of apprehension.

The main guard room was small, but Myriam had built a fire in the hearth filling the limited space with heat. The group slept on under their travelling blankets, but the stone plinths in the chamber used as beds were hard and unforgiving, uncomfortable and deeply cold. Outside, the wind howled from the high passes of the Black Pike Mountains, rasping and ululating through guttural corridors and wide, slightly skewed battlements. Even in the guard room, every line was just a little bit out of square. It made for many complaints, as each bed seemed to be trying to roll its occupant to the floor, or twist them into an unsubtle heap.

Kell slept a deep sleep without dreams, his rage at last satiated in his quest for Nienna. For this simple pleasure, he was thankful. It was also a sleep of recovery, as the antidote to Myriam's poison went to work on the toxins in his blood, in his muscles, in his organs, eating away at the chemicals that would make Kell a dead man. But at the back of it all was the secure knowledge that Nienna was unharmed, and that he was by her side, his axe in one hand, his bulk and ferocity and skill a barrier to any who might now threaten her.

Nienna slept uneasily. The Cailleach Fortress was not just unwelcoming, but deeply unnerving. As she lay, thinking about her dead friend Katrina and all the good times they'd been through, and contemplating the young woman's death for the thousandth time, so she would hear gentle whispers like draughts from the higher reaches of the chamber, or hisses and bangs, like popping stones in the fire. Nienna thought of her mother, a long way distant, lost and lonely – possibly even dead. Had she fallen when the Army of Iron invaded Falanor? Was she dead and buried, food for worms? Or had she found an escape? After all, she was a very resilient woman. She was the daughter of Kell.

Saark, on the other hand, tossed and turned, his teeth hurting him, his blood hurting him. His heart raced through his ears, pounded at him with hammers as his body fluctuated from a heart rate of one beat per minute, leaving him gasping for oxygen, then shooting up to two or even three hundred beats, racing through his chest like a steam-powered clockwork engine and making him claw his blankets in panic, the world a swirl of weird colours and surreal smells and sounds as his senses adjusted, and he felt himself dropping into the world of the altered human…

Eventually the feelings passed, and Saark was just falling into an exhausted sleep after three nights of wakefulness when he sensed somebody close to him. A hand touched his chest, lightly, and Saark's eyes flared open in panic. It was Myriam. He remembered the last time she had been this close; the stab of the knife, the wound in his guts, eating soil. Saark grabbed her wrist, a savage hard movement, but Myriam did not complain. She was there, beside him, her breathing slow, her eyes glittering.

She leaned close, so that her words tickled his ear, and Saark was a split second from drawing his punchdagger and feeding it to her eyeball. "I would speak with you," she said, words gentle.

"Last time you wanted to speak with me, you stabbed me in the belly."

"That was different." She seemed to be fighting something, and her face twisted. "I am… different."

"Really? That is a surprise."

"Damn you, Saark! Come outside."

She stood, and he let go of her wrist, leaving enraged marks where his surprisingly powerful grip had scoured her flesh. He watched her leave, a cold wind and curls of snow entering the warm guard room on her departure. Cursing, Saark rolled from his hard bed and pulled on trews, boots and cloak. He stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him, and was hit in the face by a snap of wind-driven snow. He gasped. The cold reached into every gap in his clothing and bit him like a piranha. He cursed. Then cursed again. He saw Myriam further ahead, sheltering under a huge towering buttress of stone. Saark put his hand on the hilt of his rapier, and walked towards her, grimly. If there was any foul play, he would gut her like a fish.

The sky was dark, but a glowing edge to the horizon signified the beginnings of dawn. Snow and wind whipped and shrieked. Saark gazed up at the massive keep, huge and black, slick with ice and slightly jigged from the vertical.

Walking towards Myriam, one hand holding the neck of his cloak together, he snapped, "What the shit do you want, woman? It isn't normal to be out in this." "You'd better get used to it. We have a long way to go."

"What do you want?"

Myriam met his gaze, then. "I wanted to say I am sorry. About before, in Falanor, when I…"

"When you stabbed me in the guts? You bitch."

"Yes. I was. I was fuelled by hatred, by need, by a lust for life. It has made me irrational. Unpredictable. And I confess, a little… insane." She took a deep breath. Looked off, over the skewed fortress battlements. "I would make amends. I would say that I am sorry. That is all."

"Kell is taking you to the Silva Valley. We are here because of you."

Myriam shook her head. "I cannot explain it, but you are here for a greater good. This is what the magick has shown me, taught me, revealed to me."

Saark's eyes were hard. "You'll not con me with your half-penny tricks, bitch. I've seen plenty of part time conjurers in my time; and in my experience, the only thing they crave is silver coin. Amazingly, this impending accrued wealth always coincides with a 'greater good'. Crazy, wouldn't you agree?"

"You can believe what you wish. But Kell believes, and that is for all our benefit."

"Yeah, well, the old goat's a rancid fool."

"I will say it again. I am sorry. You can take it with grace, and acknowledge that I may have changed – that, bizarrely – spending time with Nienna has, shall we say, altered my view of the world. She has touched me. She has changed me. And now, because I have changed, the magick runs deeper through my veins. In sacrificing my hate, in stepping away from my rage, I can see more clearly."

"Good for you, girl! What do you want? A big sloppy kiss?"

"Curb your cynicism," she snapped, and he could see tears on her cheeks. Saark chewed his lip, and considered stepping close to her, holding her, hugging her, telling her he forgave the vicious stabbing back in the woods. But his mind shifted. She was a chameleon. She was out for self-preservation. He did not believe she had changed, but still sought personal profit at their little group's expense.

"Ha! I'm going back to bed. Save your sob stories for Kell. He's a sucker for a dying woman."

"But you, Saark? What do you care about?"

Saark gave a dark smile under the glowing edges of a rising winter sun. "Why, I'm a soft touch when it comes to myself."

"So we are the same, then?"

Saark stared at Myriam, stared at her hard as the truth of her words bit him. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. She was correct. They were exactly the same. Saark used people for his own ends. He always had, and he always would. He was vain, narcissistic, and totally enveloped with furthering his own pleasure – and life. Shit, he realised. Shit. In Myriam's position, would he have acted the same? Would he have stabbed somebody, poisoned another, in order to force them to help? And he knew, deep down in the glowing embers of his ruptured heart, that he probably would.

With shame touching him, he turned and went back to his cold bed. And the pounding of the rampant vachine blood-oil in his veins echoed right down to his soul.

Soon after dawn they followed a narrow alleyway through the fortress, winding between towering dark walls which exuded not just cold and gloom and abandonment, but an inherent dread which seemed to be a part of this long-deserted fortress. People had not only died here, it felt as if their souls had been sucked into the very stones, distorting them, tearing them free.

Kell led the way, walking his skittish horse with Nienna in the saddle. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. Nobody would take his granddaughter from him again; not without stepping over his dead body first. Next came Myriam, dressed in warm winter garb, her face seeming more shrunken on this freezing morn, her eyes ringed with purple and black, her breathing rasping and shallow. And behind came Saark, a wary eye on Myriam, listening to her ragged cancerous breathing and wondering how long she really had left. She wanted to reach Silva Valley, but according to Kell it was a hard, brutal journey and Saark could not quite puzzle out why he was still agreeing to do it. Surely, he could turn around now? He had Nienna. He had the antidote. And even if he believed Myriam's magick, her supposed prophecy, if he headed away from the Black Pikes then surely he would never see a pride of snow lions. How, then, could he lose Nienna to attack? It was strange. Saark decided to question Kell in private when the opportunity arose.

Within the hour they were free of the Cailleach Fortress, and in a narrow valley which ran beyond, through a narrow pass with massive, sheer towering walls. It was terribly gloomy in the pass, and huge rocks littered the floor, in places rising in piles which the group had to scramble up and over, slipping and sliding on wet rocks and ice. The horses struggled on gamely, and with pride Saark watched Mary – more agile than them all, despite carrying a heavy load on her back. The donkey did not complain, but willingly climbed each hill of loose rock to stand, staring down at the cursing humans with an almost equine arrogance.

After a while, Kell called a halt. "It's no good taking the horses any further, unless we intend to eat them."

Everybody stared at him. "You can't eat a good horse," snapped Saark. "What a waste of a fine creature!"

Kell grunted. "It's meat, like anything else. But the path will grow ever more treacherous; best now to let them free. They will soon start to slow us down. If we release them here, there's a chance we may find them on our return."

"Our return," said Myriam, softly, eyes distant. She smiled a skeletal smile. "Maybe some of us won't return? Instead, we will find paradise."

"In your dreams, Myriam," said Saark unkindly, and slapped his mount's rump, watching the beast slither back down the pathway and canter to a halt. The group emptied saddlebags, and then Kell stared meaningfully at Mary.

"No," said Saark.

"She'll be a pain in the arse."

"Nonsense! Mary is a fine beast, agile as a goat, the stamina of a lion. Where I go, Mary goes."

Kell peered close, and grinned. "Is there something I don't know about you and that mule?"

"Mary is a donkey. And don't be so crass." "Why not? You've fucked everything else in existence."

"I resent that, axeman."

"Why so? I've never seen one so rampant. You'll be chasing Myriam next!" He roared with laughter, some good humour returned, and slapped Saark on the back. "Come on lad. Walk ahead with me. I wish to talk."

They moved on after releasing the horses, and Saark led Mary, her rope wrapped around one fist. Behind, Nienna walked with Myriam, and Myriam smiled down at the girl. "Is it good? Good to be back with your grandfather?"

"Yes. I have missed him terribly. I knew he would come for me."

"I… I wanted to apologise, girl. For the way I treated you. And treated him. I have been selfish beyond reason."

Nienna shrugged. "What I don't understand is why we are still here. Why we are heading through the mountains. I thought he would leave you when you gave him the antidote; in fact, I thought he would cut you in half." She smiled, a weak, cold smile, her eyes glittering.

Myriam sighed. "I have done… bad things, Nienna. I admit that. And I deserve Kell's hatred. And even yours."

"I don't hate you," said Nienna, smiling gently. "I see your pain, understand your agony. I pity you, Myriam, not hate you."

Myriam's eyes went dark. "Well girl, sometimes pity is far worse."

Ahead, Kell had halted. The towering walls were silent, looming, filling the narrow pass with shadows. Water trickled and gushed in various places, and had frozen solid in others, either in fingers of sculpted, corrugated ice, or in vast, hanging sheets. Occasionally, stones rattled down the sheer iron-stained flanks of this interior slice from the mountain range.

"We must move with care," said Kell. "There have been many rockfalls here over the years. Any loud noise could bring down the Pikes on our bloody heads. We all understand?"

"Aye," nodded Saark, rubbing Mary's muzzle.

They set off again, down a rocky slope, boots slithering. Eventually, Saark said, "Kell, I have a question." "It better not be about sex," growled the huge warrior.

"No no. Not this time. I was simply wondering why we are still here?"

"Think about it."

"About Myriam?"

"No, you dolt. About the two vachine who Graal sent to kill us. I was thinking about them; thinking a lot. Graal has invaded Falanor, wiped the whole damn army of Leanoric under his boots. So then. What next? We stumble through his camp like blind men through a brothel, and by some bloody miracle manage to escape. What should Graal do? Continue his expansion in the name of vachine blood-oil gathering? Or spend considerable resources sending killers after us? Why? Why hunt us down? He knew we were heading north. Why waste two of his best killers? Surely he has more important fish to fry."

Saark considered this. "He knew your history, Kell. About being a Vachine Hunter for the old Battle King."

"Exactly. But that should not worry him; what's the worst I could do? Harry a few stray vachine scum in the mountains? Hardly a threat to his war effort, don't you think?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Graal knows I was heading north. He knows I know the Pikes. Maybe – and this is just a thought – maybe he thinks I'm heading for Silva Valley. The homeland of the vachine. But then, surely I would be slaughtered the minute I arrived?"

"So you think Graal wants to stop you finding Silva Valley?"

Kell nodded. "Yes. He thinks I know something I don't. There is some great mystery here, some puzzle we need to unravel. I think Graal is not playing for the vachine; I think he works his own game, I think the conniving bastard is up to his own bowel-stinking tricks. But what? What could he possibly be doing? And why would he think I was a threat to his plans?"

"I see your reasoning. And now I see why we're heading north, instead of south back to the relative comfort of Falanor – such as we'd be able to find. If Graal doesn't want you here, this is probably the best place for you to be."

"Exactly!" growled Kell. "Silva Valley, that is where the answers lie. The more we travelled north after Nienna, the more I realised that Myriam's goal is our goal. She wants immortality; I want answers. Our only chance of stopping this damned invasion is to confront its source. We need to know more about these Harvester bastards, we need to know where the albino soldiers come from – but more importantly, we need to find the source of the vachine."

"You cannot take on an entire nation of clockwork killers," said Saark, hand on Kell's shoulder.

"You just do it one head at a time," snapped Kell. "You'd be surprised what a pyramid you can build."

"I think, old horse, that sometimes you are crazy."

Kell nodded sombrely. "I'm just the way the world made me."

More snow fell, a light scattering making rocks treacherous and slippery. After several hours of the narrow pass they emerged into a circular valley with a frozen tarn at its floor. All around reared jagged teeth peaks, and Kell put his hands on his hips, breathing deeply, staring out at the stunning, desolate beauty of the place.

"Kingsman's Tarn," said Kell. He pointed, and the others followed his gaze. "Up that way is Demon's Ridge, the first of our trials. If we can get up there by nightfall, we'll be safe from anything that follows."

"You're being followed?" said Myriam, eyes narrowed, hand straying to her longbow.

"I guarantee it," said Kell. "Graal seems to have a passion to make me dead. Well, as he's going to find out, I don't die easy."

"You keep saying that," snapped Saark.

"Ain't it true, lad?"

"I'm not disputing its truth, just pointing out that it grates on my nerves every time you say it."

Kell laughed, seeing Saark's uneasiness. A cold wind howled down over the tarn, and rushed past them like a phalanx of cold angels. "I understand now! You are so much out of your natural environment, it hurts."

Saark frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The royal court," Kell sneered, "with its golden goblets, bowls of honey fruit, its randy middle-aged courtiers with powdered wigs and silk panties and glossy leather boots – that's your world, Saark. The world of easy sex and animal sex, of whiskey-wine and the best cuts of meat full of thick fat juice and spiced herbs from a different continent! The world of the dandy. The fop. The rich idiot with too much gold and nothing between his ears, nor his legs, I'd wager. That, Saark, my favourite horny, perfumed goat, is the world to which you belong. Your natural setting. But this. This!" He stared around, at the wilds, the rugged ridgelines, the whipping flurries of snow, the ice, the storm-filled skies; a place of natural wonder, and brutality, and death. "This is my place," he finished quietly.

Saark pushed ahead, leading Mary. "That way, you say?"

"Yes. Across the heather. There's a rocky path we can follow further on, an old stream bed leading up to Demon's Ridge. You'll struggle with that damn donkey, though."

"I'm not leaving her behind. Not here," said Saark, patting her fondly.

"Aye. Well, I suppose there's good eating on one."

"What?" Saark's voice was ice.

"Her meat will be a bit stringy, but it'll do when we're starving on the crags."

"She's not for eating," scowled Saark. "That would be a crime!"

"Aye. A crime to my belly, is what I'm thinking. But come on. We have a long way to go."

They rose from Kingsman's Tarn in the basin valley, and within an hour the wind was howling across the rock faces and cutting through their clothing. Each pulled on extra woollen shirts and dug out thick cloaks, as high over the ridges snow danced and threatened heavy falls.

"I expect," said Saark, grunting as he jumped down into the old stream bed and turned to guide Mary, "that the snow can easily block our passage. Render our journey impossible. That sort of thing?"

"Aye," said Kell, panting, putting his hands on his hips to gaze up the narrow incline ahead. Although snow was present, it was surprisingly shallow and banked to one side of the old stream bed. Kell picked a path to the left where his boots could still grip the stones, and he led the way up the slope.

Their progress was slow, and before long all four were panting, and struggling to move forward. Despite cold and ice, the small rocks of the old stream bed shifted under boots, making the scramble difficult.

Still, they pushed on.

Out of the wind it was hot work climbing, and they played an annoying game of removing clothing, then suffering the bite of wind and putting it back on. Saark cursed more than the others, and Nienna was silent, her face strong, eyes focused on the task, pushing herself on much to the silent pride of Kell. She is definitely of my blood, he thought. She has the strength of ten lions!

Darkness was gradually falling as they reached the final section of the steep trail, which grew worse for perhaps the final hundred metres of ascent up to Demon's Ridge. The ridgeline had vanished now, and all they could see was rock and ice, boulders and channels in the mountain rock.

Saark stopped, and glanced back at what they had climbed. He grinned over at Nienna. "You're doing well, girl." She nodded, but no smile came to her face. She was exhausted, hands cut, feet sore, the cold seeping into her bones, the wind shrieking in her brain. "I am trying, Saark. Really trying." Her voice was the voice of a child again, and weariness her mistress.

Now, the climbing got harder and they struggled on, clawing at the frozen rocks, dragging themselves up steep inclines and past huge boulders. Mary the donkey was, as Saark predicted, surprisingly agile, but as he peered further and further up the trail, he wondered for how long she'd be able to manage.

They struggled on, sweat pouring down faces, making their hair lank and skin chilled by the wind. Myriam suffered the worst, for with her savage cancer she had grown weak, and grew weaker with every passing day. Her face and eyes were fevered, and she drank water often, hands shaking with fatigue and dehydration. At one point she stumbled, and Saark was there in the blink of an eye, moving with incredible agility and speed, grabbing her arm before she toppled back down the steep road of stones. She smiled in gratitude to him, leaning on him heavily as she fumbled for her water bottle again. Saark scowled, and let go.

"I should have let you go," he snapped.

"You're still sore about that knife wound, aren't you?"

Saark said nothing, but moved ahead. Myriam watched him with bright fevered eyes.

Kell was first to reach the summit and stand on the heady heights of Demon's Ridge. He planted a boot either side of the ridgeline, hands on hips, hair and beard caught by the wild, whining wind, and gazed out over the stacked ridges and endless teeth of the Black Pike Mountains. They filled his vision like nothing else ever could, and Kell caught a breath in his throat, filled with emotion, filled with dread, and filled with a deep certainty, an intuition that this was his last time in the Black Pikes. He knew, as sure as night follows day, that he would die here. The Pikes would claim him. For Kell, this time, there was no going home.

Melancholy hit Kell like a fist. He helped Nienna climb up and stand beside him on the high ridge, gazing out across the staggered realms of hundreds of mountains which stretched off to a distant, dark horizon. Trails of dry snow curled in the air, and each mountain was subtly different, many purple or black or grey, many with snow on flanks and peaks; but they all shared one thing in common. Each was a savage barbed pike, a threat to life and love, and without an ounce of mercy in the billions of tonnes of rock which carved out passes and channels, gulleys and scree slopes. These were the Black Pike Mountains. All they brought to humanity was suffering and death.

Saark arrived next, panting, his dark curls drenched with sweat. Mary the donkey followed him, struggling up the last section, but once on the ridge was surefooted and seemed unconcerned by the vast drops surrounding them. Saark patted her muzzle and looked to Kell. "You move fast for an old fat man," he said.

"And you climb well for an effete arsehole."

Saark gazed out. "I don't like the look of that. Too many places to die!"

"It's beautiful!" said Nienna, voice filled with awe.

"Yeah," muttered Saark, taking in great lungfuls of air, "as beautiful as a striking cobra. Girl, this place is no place for mortals. The Black Pikes were put here by the gods to keep us away from the Granite Thrones!"

"The Granite Thrones? What're they?"

"Tsch," scowled Kell. "That's a myth."

"In my experience, nine times out of ten myths are based on fact."

Kell shrugged. "Whatever. That does not concern us. What does concern us is getting to Silva Valley; it's a long, hard haul my friends."

Myriam climbed the final stretch, and stared at the donkey's arse blocking her path. Saark clicked his tongue, and Mary moved out of Myriam's way, eyes flared, ears laid back along her dark-haired skull.

"This is no place for an ass," said Myriam acidly, stepping up onto the ridge.

"I wish everybody would stop complaining about my donkey," moaned Saark.

"Who said I was talking about the donkey?"

They laughed, and stared out in wonder. The world seemed much larger, a vast sweeping canvas. Nienna turned a full circle, eyes absorbing the magnificent splendour as the wind swooped and howled, crackled and snapped.

Kell laid his hand on Nienna's shoulder. "Is this what you wanted, girl?"

"What do you mean?"

"That day, when the Army of Iron invaded Jalder. You said you were bored. You wanted a taste of adventure. Well, you've been given adventure all right. You've been given adventures enough to last you a lifetime!"

"It's not what I expected," she said, in a small voice, remembering the evil people she had met, the pain she had endured, the friends she had lost. And most of all, she pictured Kat, a victim at the hands of Styx's Widowmaker crossbow. Nienna realised she was glad Styx was dead. He was a bad man, and had deserved everything. "I realise now. I did not understand. It would have been better to stay at home, go to university, raise a family." She took a deep breath, and looked up into Kell's eyes as the wind whipped her dark hair. "But I am here now, and this thing is happening to our world. The Army of Iron will not stop, the vachine will not stop – not unless we stop them, right?"

Kell chuckled. "An old man, a haunted child, a cancer-riddled woman and a foppish dandy. What chance, in the name of the Bone Underworld, have we really got?"

"You sell us short, old man," said Saark, smiling, his eyes twinkling as his gaze moved back down the trail they had traversed. The smile dropped from his face, as if he'd been hit by a helve. Distant, by the tarn, where the pass led from the Cailleach Fortress, something moved. "We have company," snapped Saark, hand on the hilt of his rapier.

The group turned, looked down, and stared.

Distant, two pale-skinned figures emerged. They were tall, lithe, athletic, and moved with a balanced ease across uneven ground. Even from this great remoteness it was clear they were Graal's daughters, the vachines who had attacked Kell and Saark earlier. They were the Soul Stealers. And they still hunted Kell's blood.

"I thought we'd scared them off," said Saark, voice little more than a whisper.

"No chance, lad," said Kell, eyes hooded. "And look. This time they brought friends."

Behind the two women, on long chain leashes, came the cankers. There were three of them, but these were smaller than previous beasts and appeared, almost, like bow-legged horses. Only these seemed to have no skin. Bloody, crimson flesh gleamed, even from this distance. One of the skinless cankers screeched, and the sound echoed through the basin valley like a woman being stabbed, reverberating on high spirals of wind. It was a chilling sound.

"Time for us to move on, I think," said Saark, mouth dry, voice a whisper.

"Let's go," agreed Kell, and they headed down the opposite side of Demon's Ridge as far below, in the valley, the Soul Stealers sniffed the air and started forward in pursuit.