Soul Stealers

CHAPTER 6
Stealers' Moon

Jageraw travelled with care, avoiding men, avoiding albino soldiers, avoiding cankers and avoiding anybody he thought might be a threat – which meant anything alive. The pain in his chest was worse now, and often made him gasp and he would mutter to himself, "Not pretty, not pretty," and rub at his armoured chitin as if by rubbing the area he could ease away the pain.

The canker Jageraw had saved back at Le'annath Moorkelth was gone, fled through the forest. He was an odd one that canker, yes, thought Jageraw, bitter for a moment that none wished to share his company. Did he stink? Was that it? Stink of fish? All Jageraw got out of the twisted clockwork creature was its name: Elias. Then it was gone, floundering and stamping through the forest, easy meat for soldier's crossbows yes yes. He regretted now not eating the Elias. It was a pain, spitting out the cogs, but cankers could taste quite prime.

As he moved, so he thought of the Hexels.

They had saved him.

They had honoured him.

Now, Jageraw knew his task.

Muttering, he stumbled on through forests and snow, stopping occasionally to hunt down some unsuspecting traveller or refugee, but even the slick feeling of raw kidneys or liver on his tongue, or even – the joy! – a succulent lung, did nothing to ease the pain in his chest. And the further north he travelled, the more the pain burned.

It was late afternoon, sky darkening, as Kell rode his steed up a steep hill, reins in one hand, the other on the haft of his saddle-sheathed axe. He drew rein atop the summit, and Saark came up beside him, silent, considering. Mary the donkey brayed, the noise loud and echoing, and Kell threw back a bitter scowl.

"Don't even think it," said Saark.

"What?"

"She's invaluable. And Skanda is enjoying riding her. You wouldn't take such a simple pleasure from the boy?"

Kell stared hard into Saark's eyes, and what he saw there he did not understand. Kell knew that he was good at reading men, but Saark was a true conundrum. Complex, unpredictable, Kell knew deep in his heart he would make better progress if he left Saark behind. And that was the answer, he realised. Singularity.

Pain lashed through his veins, and Kell gritted his teeth, swooning in the saddle. The world blurred and reeled, and he grasped the saddle pommel with both hands, face pale, eyes squeezed shut, and focused on simply breathing as the world in its entirety swirled down in wide lazy blood circles. He heard Saark's voice, but it was a garbled, stretched out series of meaningless sounds. And in the middle of it all there was a taste, and the taste was whiskey, and he knew that if only he could have another drink then everything would be all right again, and the pain would go away again, and no matter that it made him violent because he was in a violent world on a violent mission and the whiskey would help him achieve his goal; waves of pain pulsed through him, and then a moment of darkness, and then he was breathing, gasping at the cold air like a drowning man coming to the surface of a lake.

The world slapped Kell in the face, and he was gasping, and Saark was asking him if he was well. Kell took several deep, exaggerated breaths, and looked right to Saark. He gave a nod. "It's the poison, lad," he managed, voice hoarse. "When she bites, she bites real hard."

"We need to rest," said Saark. "Somewhere warm, some hot food, a good sleep. We've been through a lot." He winced, clutching his wounded side instinctively. "And we stink like a ten day corpse."

"Speak for yourself," barked Kell.

"Kell?" It was Skanda. His eyes glittered. Again, now they had stopped, the scorpion sat on his hand and seemed to be watching proceedings. Kell eyed the insect uneasily, and made a mental note to tread the bastard underboot at the first opportunity.

"What is it, lad?"

"There is a village, yonder. Creggan. I have travelled there before. It is getting late, we should move."

"Where?" Both Kell and Saark squinted, looking off over gloom-laden, snowy hills which dropped in vast steps from their position, like folds in a giant's goosedown quilt.

Skanda pointed. "Come. I will show you." He reached out, and the lead between Saark's horse and Mary fell away. Skanda cantered the donkey forward, and the usually stubborn beast (on several occasions, Saark had had to practically wrestle the donkey into ambulation) obeyed Skanda without hesitation, nor braying complaint.

Saark shrugged, and Kell scowled. Skanda set off in a seemingly random direction from the high ground near the Great North Road. Saark followed, his gelding stamping and snorting steam. Kell waited for a few moments, pulled free the unmarked whiskey bottle, and drained the last few drops. He licked his lips, and despite hating himself for it, hoped to the High Gods that there was a tavern.

The village was small, a central square with hall and tavern and a few shops. All seemed closed and empty and dead on this cold winter evening, another apparent victim of the Army of Iron. Kell and Saark had Skanda wait by the outskirts as they rode in, weapons drawn, eyes wary as they searched for albino soldiers. Nobody walked the streets. Most of the houses seemed deserted.

"Has the Army of Iron been through, do you think?"

Kell shrugged, and pointed to the tavern where thin wisps of smoke eased from a ragged, uneven chimney. "I don't think so. No bodies in the road, for a start. But let us find out." He dismounted at the tavern, and thumped open the door. Inside was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth. A long bar supported three men, all stocky and dour, who jumped as the door opened, their eyes casting nervous to the intruders, hands on sword hilts. A tall, thin barman gave a nod to Kell, and Kell entered.

"Do you have rooms?"

"How many?"

"Two."

"Yes. It'll be five coppers a night. Will you be wanting warm water? 'Cos that's another copper."

"Warm water is a prerequisite to cleanliness and holiness, my man," said Saark, entering the tavern and smiling, leaning forward over ale-stained timbers.

The barman stared at the ragged, bruised, tattered dandy, without comprehension.

"He said 'yes'," grunted Kell, and dropped coins on the bar. Then to Saark, "Go and get the boy, and stable our horses."

When Saark had left, Kell eyed the barman. "You have a cosy little town, here, barman."

"And we would keep it that way. An army passed through, killing everyone in surrounding towns," his eyes were bleak, his mind full of nightmares, "of this we know. We would ask you to keep your knowledge of Creggan to yourselves. We have nowhere to run, you understand?"

Kell nodded, and ordered a whiskey, which he downed in one. Then, when Saark returned after stabling the horses and Mary, Kell pushed past him on his way to the door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Just out," grinned Kell, but it was a grin without humour.

"Old horse, I have a question. Why did you only purchase two rooms? A little odd, I thought."

Kell's grin widened. "You love that damn creepy Ankarok boy so much. Well. You can bunk with him. Maybe he'll stop you behaving like an idiot!"

It was later. Much later. Darkness had fallen, and with it a fresh storm of snow. Kell had returned, brushing flakes from the shoulders of his heavy bearskin jerkin, and now sat eating a meal at a corner table in the tavern. It was a pie filled mostly with potatoes, a little ham, and thick gravy. Kell also had a full loaf of black bread, which he sliced thickly, smothering each slice with butter. Skanda sat, facing Kell, eyes fixed on the old warrior, watching the man eat. On three occasions Kell had offered the boy food, but the thin-limbed urchin waved it away.

"You need something warm inside you, lad," said Kell, relaxing with a full belly, eyes kind now he was out of the cold, the wind, the snow, and immediate threat of battle. He was getting old, he realised. Damn it, he was old! And, thinking of their pursuit after Nienna, he realised just how ancient and worn he really felt. To the core.

"I am not hungry," said Skanda.

"You must eat something."

"If you could ask for a little warm milk?"

Kell nodded, and called over a serving girl. She returned shortly with a cup of warm milk, and a tankard of ale for Kell. Both Kell and Skanda sat, drinking their drinks and watching the tavern gradually fill. The village of Creggan was not as deserted as it first seemed.

"Where's Saark got to?" said Kell, after a while. He was watching a group of men in the corner, and noting their ease of movement, and how they hardly touched their drinks. They seemed like military men to Kell, but one had a taint to the lips, as if he might be a blossoming Blacklipper. Blacklippers were men, and women, who had found a taste for the illegal and hard to come by blood-oil, so revered and necessary to the vachine. Most Blacklippers had little idea the narcotic juice they purchased was refined from human blood. Nor did they realise it was destined for a market so… esoteric: that of the vachine civilisation deep within the folds of the Black Pike Mountains. Most Blacklippers simply lived for the moment, and took their pleasure – including blood-oil – when and where they found it; the one downside, of course, being that the more a person used blood-oil, the more their lips, and eventually, fatally, their very veins stood out black from their skin. When a Blacklipper's veins stood out like a battlefield map in ink, one could count their remaining weeks on one hand.

Skanda sipped his milk. "He went out."

"Where to?" Kell frowned. "He said he was having a bath."

"He said he had things he needed to buy."

"Hmm," said Kell, and placed his chin on his fist. By his boot, no more than a hand-span away, Ilanna leant against the edge of the rough-sawn table. And under his left arm lay sheathed his Svian knife; usually, his last resort weapon on the few occasions he was parted from his first love. Ilanna.

The tavern was crowded now, but curiously subdued. They all know, then, thought Kell. They understand that Falanor has been invaded and they have missed the network of searching soldiers through sheer luck. No obvious roads led to Creggan. They had been overlooked. By the villagers' demeanour, they understood what would happen if a second pass came upon this little haven.

Kell's practised eye picked out that every man wore a sword, or long knife. Even the women who came in wearing thick woollen dresses and cotton shirts were armed. This was a town living in fear. It was palpable, like ash on their skin, like plague in their eyes.

Skanda finished his milk, and stood.

"Where are you going, lad?"

"I'm tired. I am going to sleep."

Kell nodded, and watched the thin boy weave his way through the crowded tavern. Smoke washed over him, and a serving girl approached. She asked if he wanted a drink. Kell looked down at his ale. He looked up at her. And he considered.

"Bring me a whiskey," he said at last, voice hoarse.

Saark sat in hot water, the wound in his side stinging like the fires of the Chaos Halls, his limbs bruised like a pit-fighter's, but still happy as heat flowed through his damaged flesh and aching bones. He settled back with a sigh. The stench of blood, and sweat, and dirt, of battle, of cankers, of sleeping in the forest, of albino brains and albino gore, all were scrubbed from his now pink and raw skin. And even better, he had asked around, and purchased some rich bath herbs, and perfume, none of it as fine as the scents used in the Royal Court in Vor, but a damn sight more refined than stinking of horse-sweat and death.

Saark sighed again. The water lapped the edges of the bath rimed with excised scum. He stared happily at the new clothes – clothes he knew, in his deepest of hearts, were a wasteful extravagance, and certainly not geared for travelling across the country – but still of necessity to one such as Saark. He was addicted to buying clothes and perfume as some men were addicted to whiskey, or gambling on dog fights. Because, he knew, with fine clothes and perfume matched to his natural beauty, the whole heady mix led to one thing, and one thing only: amorous meetings with pretty young ladies.

Saark closed his eyes, picturing the many women he had conquered. And yet Katrina's face kept returning, invading his imagination, pointing a finger of accusation. I am dead, she seemed to be saying. You told me you loved me. Now I rot under the soil and you did not stop it happening!

Mood soured by ghosts, Saark climbed from the bath and towelled himself dry. He stood, shivering a little and staring at himself in a full length brass mirror. The wound was healing in his side; it still leaked blood occasionally, but it was getting better. The stitches were holding fine. The swelling in his face had gone down, so he no longer looked like a horse had danced on his features, and many of his bruises had faded to yellow, and many, incredibly, had gone.

I heal fast, he thought with a smile. But not mentally, he realised, with a grimace.

He dressed, in a bright orange silk shirt with ruffles of lace around wrists and throat, and bright blue woollen leggings. He'd also bought a new snow leopard cloak, long down to his ankles, fine doe-leather and lined with snow leopard fur, or so he'd been told; although he doubted it. Still, it added a nice splash of white to set off the orange of his shirt. And would undoubtedly be warm on the road.

Saark draped a cord over his neck, settling a bright green pendant at his throat, and then buckled his rapier at his side. He drew the weapon, a blur flickering silver in the mirror, a stunning display of skill and accuracy; then he winced, slowly, and held his side. "Ouch," he muttered. "Not there yet, lover. Not there yet."

Leaving his old clothes in a pile for the tavern's serving girls to burn, Saark returned to his room and opened the door. Skanda was seated, on one of the narrow sparse beds, but his face was wide as if celebrating a rapturous applause, and something long, and brass, lay loose along his arm. Saark stepped inside and closed the door. He laid his cloak on a chair and moved to Skanda.

"What are you doing, boy?" he asked, voice low, words not unkind.

Skanda did not respond. His eyes were open, but there was no comprehension there. Saark's eyes travelled down to the brass object. It was old, very old and worn by its look, and quite ornate. Saark had seen similar objects in the houses of doctors when he'd had swordfight wounds stitched. It was a needle, a brass needle, used to inject fluids into the human body. This was affixed to Skanda's arm; or more precisely, his vein.

"Skanda," breathed Saark and moved as if to remove the needle. There came a rapid clicking sound, and his eyes moved fast and he leapt back. The scorpion was there, twin tails raised in threat, pincers flexing as it watched Saark with its many tiny black eyes.

Saark released a hiss of breath. "Damn disgusting little thing," he snapped, and drew his sword, eyes narrowing. "I'm going to cut you in two!" But then he understood the situation with a stab of insight. The scorpion was protecting its master.

How can that be? thought Saark. It's an insect! A poisonous little arachnid with no compassion or empathy for anything. Why would it protect the boy?

Slowly, Saark sheathed his sword and held out his hands. "I was simply going to remove the needle and put the boy to bed. You know? Make him more comfortable?"

The scorpion surveyed him for a few moments, then lowered its stings and scuttled back within Skanda's loose clothing. Warily, Saark pulled free the needle with a tiny squirt of blood, and put it to one side. Then he lifted Skanda onto the bed and laid him out, covering him with a thin blanket. "There you go," he muttered, and thought back to his own childhood, his father hanging by the throat, his mother screaming, and the long, long, long weeks of being utterly and totally alone.

Saark's eyes shone with tears. "I'll look after you, lad. You see if I don't," he said.

Saark reckoned he created quite a stir when he walked into the smoky, crowded tavern. The crowd certainly parted to allow him passage, and he ignored the many stares as he crossed to Kell and seated himself opposite the axeman, back to the crowd.

"What," said Kell, "in the name of horse-shit, are you wearing?"

"I call it Orange Blossom in Winter. I think it's quite alluring. I think the ladies are noticing me." He smiled a broad, happy smile.

"Mate, every bastard is noticing you, from the lowliest mongrel backstabbing thief to the dirtiest, sleaziest whore in the village. What the hell were you thinking, Saark?"

"I was thinking it's been awhile since I had some female company."

"I thought you were over that?"

"Kell, my friend, you do not understand men, nor women. This is not something I want; this is something I need. I cannot control myself, no more than you control your… your swinging axe."

"Saark, we are staying one night. What possessed you to dress like a peacock?"

"It is my way."

"And you stink! Gods, it's like you've been showered with every tart's knicker-drawer lavender bottle in the country! You'll have the bastard albino soldiers on us in an instant if you step into the wilds of Falanor stinking like that."

"You are so uncouth."

"I thought you'd overcome all this crap? I thought we were on a mission?"

"What?" Saark looked incredulous. " What? Overcome? You confuse, old horse. Indeed, there is nothing here for which to overcome, because this is a question of breeding, this is a question of sophistication, and this is an embodiment of culture – something intrinsic, not just learned. And, because I have been forced to endure your company and travel in extraneous hardship, just because I have been forced to sleep in shit, and eat shit, and listen to shit, does not mean I thus crave shit. No. You know I am used to the finer aspects of life, and despite this being a poor backward peasant village," several of the men in the tavern scowled and muttered at these brash, arrogant and loudly delivered words, "filled with dirty, low-born peasants whose only knowledge is how to feed pigs and kill chickens," he laughed, a bright tinkling of crystal windchimes, "that doesn't mean to say I have to denigrate myself to the lower echelons of a rude base society. Understand?"

"You're a horse's dick, Saark."

"I rest my case."

"Meaning?"

"When faced with superior intelligence, culture and argument, you instantly revert to the base gutter which spawned you. I do not blame you for low-born behaviour, Kell, in fact sometimes I am envious; how I wish I wasn't so beautiful, and charming, and irresistible to the ladies." Saark took this moment to have a good look around, and although his eyes lingered on several buxom wenches, the sight of their moribund attire, cracked and broken fingernails and dowdy knifehacked hair made him turn back to Kell with a scowl and deep sigh. "However. I am cursed thus, and so must make the most of my natural endowments, and indeed, the nature of my beast. And what a beast it is."

"I'd forgotten," said Kell.

"What do you mean, old horse?"

Kell bared his teeth, and drained his tankard. "We've been through some battles, Saark lad, some hard shit, and you've proved yourself to be tougher than I anticipated. You're a good swordsman, with a strong arm and keen eye, and enough mental toughness to face any enemy."

"But?"

"But the minute you touch any form of civilisation, you regress to the pig-headed sugar-mouthed hardcocked brainless stinking village fucking idiot I've always loathed." Saark opened his mouth, as Kell hefted his axe and stood, stool scraping the straw-covered stone flags. "And if I hear another sugar-coated pile of goat's bollocks from you, I'll carve my name on your arse." Saark's mouth closed again, and Kell stalked through the crowded tavern and stepped out into the night.

"Really!" said Saark, and grinned, then winced as the stitches in his side pulled tight. He laughed, half in pain, half in joy at this simple touch of civility. He moved round the table, taking Kell's place with his back to the wall, and noticed with surprise that quite a few of the tavern's stocky peasant farmers were throwing him dark, menacing scowls. Saark waved cheerily, and they returned their dark glances and mutters to the bar, and flat ale.

"Now, what shall I do?" murmured Saark, and rubbed his chin. It was slightly pink from shaving, but by the gods it felt good to be rid of the stubble and dirt. He had groomed his moustache carefully, using a little oil supplied by Bess, the tavern master's daughter. The rest he had rubbed into his hands and smoothed through his long, dark curls. Saark knew he cut a tall, dashing, handsome figure. But after the beating by Myriam's men, resulting in a head like a sausagestuffed pig's stomach, he had been knocked temporarily out of the womanising game. But now… now most of the bruises and swelling were gone, and Saark understood the dark, smoky interior would hide any remaining blemishes. Like a cat, he was ready to play. Like a lust-fuelled bull, he was ready to charge! He grinned. Saark was back, baby, Saark was back!

His eyes wandered the room, and he drank his ale and ordered another, which he also downed. Several women looked at him, and smiled. Saark graded them silently, methodically, placing them in a mental hierarchy of whom he would bed first provided no finer lass entered the premises. Such was his confidence, and experience, it never occurred to Saark that a lady might turn him down. That was something which happened to other poor unfortunates.

So intent was Saark on scrutinising the women on display, like prime beef at a cattle market, that as he was finishing the dregs from his fourth tankard of ale two men approached. He didn't register until they were standing directly before him.

"Hello, lads," smiled Saark, placing his tankard down with a clack. "What can I do you for?"

"The popinjay asks what he can do for us," laughed the first man. He was big, with a round head, roughcropped hair, large ears and ruddy cheeks. In his fist, he held a longsword, point lowered. Saark's eyes followed the blade to the ground.

"That's a good question," replied his companion. "A very good question indeed. A damn fine question, if I be honest."

"Listen," said Saark, leaning forward a little as if sharing a conspiracy, "much as I'd like to sit here and trade stunning witticisms with two grand but obsequious fellows, who are both obviously the core intellectual firecrackers of this entire inbred ensemble, I really feel I must rise and circulate in order to integrate with the finer female brethren contained within this squalid den of congenital primates."

"You see," said the first man. "There he goes again. Spouting all that crap. Horseshit, I says it is."

"Aye. And he stinks like horseshit, as well." Then to Saark. "You hear that, boy? You stink like horseshit."

Saark sighed, and there came a little tearing sound. One of the men yelped, and went rigid. Saark's eyes were suddenly dark, and contained less humour, and his face and dandy clothing seemed somehow just that bit less ridiculous. "That little prick you feel against your leg, my friend – and I can tell you're a man who enjoys feeling little pricks against his leg – well, it's the point of my rapier. Let me assure you, my weapon is tempered from finest Jevaiden steel, and probably cost more than this entire village; indeed, I spend a good half hour a day keeping it sharp ready for the hour I need to teach some uncouth big-eared boy a lesson. Now, I'd advise you not to move quickly because the point is a single twitch from slitting your femoral artery – that's the main one, which runs through your groin and will empty your pathetic body of blood in less than two minutes." Saark leaned forward. His eyes glittered. "I've killed thirty eight men with that cut. Not a single man didn't writhe and scream like his intestines were filled with molten lead. You hearing me nice and clear, village idiot?"

Both men nodded, and stepped warily back from the dandy. Their faces had turned pale.

Saark stood, and sheathed his rapier, and turned his back on them with a show of contempt. He glanced once again around the room. His face displayed open disappointment at the sport on offer.

Saark sighed, and strode to the door. The smoke, and perhaps a little too much ale, were making him dizzy, with the added consequence of polluting his new finery with a stink like a tobacconist's smoking shed. He stepped out into the night, pulling his snow-leopard cloak tight around his shoulders and looked up into the falling snow. He leant his back against the wall and took several deep breaths, head spinning a little. Damn the grog! he thought, hand on sword-hilt.

"Hello," came a voice, a female voice, and Saark found himself staring at a tall, lithe, robed figure. In the darkness the robe seemed to glimmer like velvet, and from the edges of the hood he could see bright blonde hair, a fan of translucence. She was a little taller than Saark, but rather than intimidate, this excited him. She held herself erect with a natural nobility, and her halfshadowed features were finely sculpted, high chiselled cheekbones, flawless skin and dark, half-hidden eyes.

"Well, hello there," smiled Saark, and stroked his chin, and wondered suddenly at the capriciousness of life, the gods, and most importantly, women. "What's a pretty thing like you doing out on a cold, dark, snowladen night like this? Surely, you must allow me to escort you somewhere warm where you might partake of drying your fine, moonlit-shadowed hair, and maybe partake of some fine Gollothrim brandy distilled from ripe plums and cherries teased from the superlative orchards of the south."

"Oh, you speak so fine and handsome, sir. You are not from these parts?"

"Alas, no, simply riding through. But I think you may entice me to return! You live here, no?"

"My parents are dead. I spend some time with my uncle in Jangir, the rest here with my aunt. She has a small farmstead."

"Wonderful! Is it nearby?"

"A goodly trek, sir. But what of this brandy of which you speak?" She moved closer, and Saark smelt her musk. It infected him, immediately, like a heady liquor injected to his vein, a toxic narcotic injected to his brain. If I die tonight after enjoying this fabulous woman, I would die a happy man, thought Saark, as he moved close to her and her eyes were still hooded and he reached out, stroked away a stray strand of hair and she giggled, and he leant forward, intoxicated by alcohol and her scent and their lips touched, the briefest of intimations, a promise of flesh and excitement to come. The woman turned away, a teasing, calculated movement which was not lost on the dandy. He enjoyed it. It was all part of the game.

Oh, thought Saark, you're good; you're very good.

"My room is this way," said Saark, gesturing to the tavern.

"It would be unseemly for me to trudge through the tavern common-room. Is there a… more discrete entrance?"

"I'm sure we will find one, my sweet," purred Saark, and reaching out he took her arm and they moved through the snow, and he said, "What is your name, my princess?"

"My name is Shanna," she whispered, voice husky with an anticipation of impending violence.

Saark moved to the bed, and lowered the wick on the lantern. He had taken the woman to Kell's room – after all, the boy Skanda was sleeping deeply in their shared quarters, and Saark knew the old goat wouldn't be needing his bed. Well, not for the intimacies of a lady, at any rate. The ambient air was filled with warmth, and positive energy, and the scent of Shanna which seemed to take Saark and spin him up and around in a frenzy of need and recklessness. He breathed deeply, and Shanna moved to the bed, and lowered her hood, and removed her cloak. She wore a short, white dress, and Saark moved to her and placed his hands on her shoulders and she murmured, a little in pleasure, a little in lust, a little in need, and Saark kissed the pale skin of her neck, kissed through her fine blonde hair and she wriggled in his embrace as if he tickled her, pleasured her, and it was all like a dream seen through a distorted piece of glass. Saark stepped away, panting. "You are beautiful and luscious indeed," he said, and kicked off his boots.

Shanna moved to the lantern, and lowered it more. When she looked up at him, her eyes were dark, like pools of liquid ruby. Her face was gaunt, but stunningly beautiful. When she smiled, Saark melted like butter in a pan. He groaned, and moved to her again, and kissed her, and his arms were over her and touching her, and she writhed under his touch in lustful agony and then took his head, suddenly, in a powerful grip and stared deep into his eyes.

"I think I am in heaven," whispered Saark.

"You soon will be," promised Shanna, and there came twin crunches as her fangs ejected and her head dropped for his throat and a fist of insanity punched through Saark's mind – but not enough to inhibit twenty-five years of military training and real-world combat. Saark swayed back, twisting fast, stepped back and away in shock; then he leapt at her, both boots slamming Shanna's chest and using the impact to kick himself backwards, through a somersault to land lightly on his feet by the door, facing her.

Shanna's hands had come up to her chest, head tilted, the smile still on her lips. There was no pain. Now, her visage was one of mock disappointment. "What? You would spurn me so soon, my beautiful and verbally sophisticated lover?"

Saark cast his gaze past Shanna, to where his rapier stood – useless – by the window. He grinned, a nasty sideways grin without humour as his hands levelled before him, and he stared at the vachine and took a step to the left. Shanna followed his direction with intimacy, and eased towards him.

"You would have bitten me," he said, eyes fixed on her long fangs, and then on her eyes, and he cursed himself. Her eyes were crimson, the red of the albino warriors who hunted them. And yet she had fangs, like the vachine creatures from beyond the mountains. "What the hell are you?"

"You wouldn't understand, Saark, my sweet," she said, and lunged at him.

Saark swayed to one side, and cracked a right hook against her cheek, spinning away to the other side of the room. Shanna touched her face, lower lip extending a little. She pouted.

"A little excessive, Saark, don't you think?"

Only then did he realise he had not told her his name. Something chilled inside him. Some primordial instinct told him this woman, or vachine, or whatever the hell she was, was very, very dangerous. And she was looking for him. Hunting him.

Shanna leapt again, and blocked three fast punches. She grabbed his throat and groin in one swift movement, and hurled Saark across the room where he hit the wall, hard, and landed in a heap, wheezing, head spinning, and then she was there, kneeling beside him, and she took hold of his long fine oiled curls and snapped back his head in a vicious movement. From the corner of his eye he saw her fangs extend that little bit more. They gleamed, like brass.

"You're going to taste so sweet, my love," she smiled, completely aware of the irony.

"No," he croaked… as her fangs dropped for his throat.

Kell marched through the snow, boots crunching, the glass of the whiskey bottle cold against his skin under heavy jerkin. He stopped at a narrow crossroads, and looked about. The village was quiet, eerie, dusted with mist and falling snow, most houses sporting lights subdued behind heavy curtains. The villagers knew what would happen if soldiers from the Army of Iron discovered their little safe haven, tucked away between low hills; and they guarded their anonymity with jealous fear and an understanding of a savage retribution if discovered. Wise, he thought. Very wise.

Kell looked up and down the twisting lanes, his breath steaming. He took out the whiskey bottle. He took a long drink. Honey eased into his veins. He thought of Nienna, he felt bad, and he knew if he got drunk he was doing nobody any favours, least of all his poor, kidnapped granddaughter. He knew, then, what he really should do was hurl the bottle down the street and go and get his horse and ride after her to the Cailleach Fortress. But he did not. He felt his mind crumbling, disintegrating, like a mud wall before a spring flood.

He started off down a narrow street, unsure of where he was going. The whiskey tasted good on his lips, hot in his throat, and he craved more. Much more. He knew, as did all drinkers, that he could use the excuse of the poison in his veins; however, deep in his heart he realised he was only cheating himself. He needed no whiskey to cover that pain. The pain he could live with. He had lived with worse; much worse. The reality was: he needed the whiskey, because he needed the fucking whiskey. It was that simple.

Kell stopped. Squinted. "It cannot be," he muttered and moved to the end of the street. He barked a short laugh, and ran his hand through his beard, and then through his shaggy grey-streaked hair. "Well, I'll be damned." And he recognised the beautiful irony. If the poison went too far through his veins, seeped into his organs and heart, then he really would be damned.

It was a distillery, a long, low building built with its back against a wall of rough-hewn rock carved from a steep hillside. The windows were dark, like torn out eye-sockets. Several were smashed. Behind, in what Kell presumed was a courtyard, squatted the old boilerhouse chimney, appearing far from the best of health. Kell assumed the distillery was long out of use. His eyes gleamed. I wonder if they left any casks behind? he mused, and laughed. Of course they didn't. Only a madman would do that.

Kell moved to the door, and forced it open. He placed his half-empty whiskey bottle in the long pocket of his jerkin, and with Ilanna in both hands, stepped inside.

It was gloomy, but a little starlight from shattered clouds filtered through a broken roof, a cold silver light which emphasised shapes without giving any real form or sense of solidity. Kell squinted, and his eyes adjusted, and he smiled. He was in the tun-room, and as he walked forward realised the distillery building dropped beneath him allowing for a double-height interior, but nestled in what appeared a single-storey shell. It was housed in an excavation. Kell stopped, boots rasping, and peered down from the walkway on which he stood. Beneath, he could see large, solid lids for the circular wash-backs. His eyes moved, counting. There were six below ground level, and six above, surrounded by an iron frame and timber gantries. Kell tested the handrail, and it crumbled beneath his powerful fingers. He grunted.

"What a waste! Letting a fine building like this rot and die."

He walked between the wash-backs and stopped, warily, beside a rail which overlooked a lower section of the distillery reached by twin sets of iron stairs. His eyes took in the wash chargers and wash-stills, with their odd copper shapes which looked as if they'd half melted, the metal sloping towards the floor like molten candle-wax, only to harden again. They look like garlic bulbs, he thought, and took another drain of whiskey. He grunted at the continued irony. The only bloody whiskey in this entire place was the cheap, nasty blend he carried in his paws.

"Damn it. What I'd give for a single malt."

Outside, the world seemed to flood into darkness. Clouds, passing over the stars and moon. Kell squinted, for despite having incredibly acute vision, he knew age was getting the better of him and his eyesight was not as good as it once was. "I can still pin a wolf to a tree at fifty paces with my axe," he muttered, and stared down at the steps. They looked far too dangerous to descend. But beyond, he knew, was the warehouse. Would it have barrels of whiskey? He doubted it. But if there was some nectar stored there, it called to him, taunting, drawing him as if down some invisible umbilical.

No.

"No."

Kell took a deep breath. His fists clenched, and he stared at the bottle in his hands. It was poison, he decided. And it would kill him faster than Myriam's injected toxin.

You used to have strength, he realised.

You used to have willpower.

Once, you could have stopped. Once, you would have cast away the piss. Once, you would have been a man. A man who ruled the bottle, instead of the bottle ruling his world.

Kell hurled the whiskey bottle out over the spiritstills, and there came a mighty boom followed by a clattering, skittering sound. Then silence rushed back in, like the ocean filling a hole.

"Interesting," came a gentle, feminine voice.

Kell did not turn. His senses screamed. The hairs across the back of his neck prickled, and he forced a grin between tight teeth. He reached up, and slowly rubbed his beard. "The fact that I chose to launch the bottle, or the fact that you were sneaking through the dark?"

"Neither," she said. "I was told you were dangerous, and I was simply pondering the best way to kill a fat old man."

Kell turned, Ilanna in both hands now. His eyes narrowed, and he took in the tall, lithe albino woman, her crimson eyes, her brass fangs, the silver sword sheathed at her hip. She moved elegantly, and stopped, one hip pushed forward slightly giving her an arrogant, defiant stance. She had a gaunt face, and cropped white hair. She was pretty. Dake's Balls, thought Kell, she was beautiful – but maybe forty years his junior. He grinned. "I don't die that easy," he rumbled, rolling his shoulders almost imperceptibly to loosen the muscles.

"But I'm sure that you do," she smiled, and drew her sword.

"That's what the other vachines said," he soothed, head dropping a little, eyes now pools of blackness. He was pleased to note the annoyance in her expression; not just at his recognition, and knowledge, but at his tone of voice. His was not a sermon of arrogance; his was the voice of a known truth.

"Do you want to know my name?" she purred stepping forward. Beneath her, the gantry creaked and Kell looked warily to one side.

"Not really," he said. "You fucking vachine all smell the same to me; decayed flesh, hot oil, and mangled clockwork."

She snarled, a bestial sound far from human. Her fangs slid out yet more, with tiny crunches. "My name is Tashmaniok. I am going to sup your blood, Kell. I'm going to savour it running down my throat. I am going to taste your most intimate dreams. I am going to drink your soul. I will lead you to the brink of despair, to a razor-edge of desolation, and you will teeter there like a maggot on a hook and then, only then, when you beg for death, when you plead with me for release… only then will I show you real pain."

Kell grunted. "Stop talking. Show me." But even as the words left on a hot exhalation of air she leapt, a sudden striking blur, and Kell's axe lifted deflecting the sword blow with only a hair's breadth between life and death. He stepped forward, mighty axe swinging, to deflect a second, then third blow – and as sparks flew, so the axe twisted, reversed, and swept close to Tashmaniok's face causing her to leap back.

Kell grinned at her. "You're quick, pretty one, I'll grant you that. But you talk a whole bucket of clockwork shit. Be careful, lest I spill your ticking gears over the gantry."

Tash said nothing, but lowered her head and attacked, her sword flickering in a stunning series of frenetic bursts, showing dazzling skill and a precision Kell had rarely met in a human. But then, Tashmaniok was far from human. She was vachine.

Kell deflected the blows, struggling, sweat beading on his skin, but the whiskey was numbing his brain, and so much recent fighting had tired his mighty muscles. Blow after blow he halted, sparks showering the old distillery, only for Tash to twist her blade and attack again; slowly, Kell was forced back to the iron steps leading down.

Tash paused, head high, eyes gleaming. She twirled her sword, experimentally, as if loosening her wrist after a brisk warm-up session. She showed no fatigue. By comparison, Kell was sweating heavily, and he felt sick. He could taste bad whiskey and old bile. Doubt flared in his breast, but he quelled it savagely. Now was not a time for doubt. He had killed better than Tashmaniok. He had killed far better.

"You're good, girl," he said. "But I reckon you should work on your speed. I've seen one-legged whores move faster than you."

Tash smiled, with genuine humour. She lifted her head a little, and some distant beam of starlight caught her eyes, which sparkled. "Old man. Save your breath for battle. For I've not seen anything special as of yet; and to think, they call you a Vachine Hunter."

She's answered that question, thought Kell sourly. She was sent by General Graal. Their little war party had not escaped so easily. Indeed, Kell realised, now Graal felt it was personal. An intuition told him things had changed; strangely, Kell felt like Graal wanted something. But what the hell did he want other than Kell's head on a plate? What could Kell offer the warped general?

Tash stepped forward, fluid, sword singing a figure of eight; Kell slammed his axe horizontal, and Tash did something with her sword, a technique Kell had never before experienced. His axe clattered off down the walkway behind her, and Kell felt something large and dark fall through him, like a rock down a well. He stood, stunned for a moment, and Tash moved fast leaping, both boots slamming his chest. With a grunt Kell staggered back and fell from the steps, rolling violently down the rattling, iron construct to lie, stunned and bleeding, at the foot.

Kell groaned, and pushed himself up, then slumped to his chest once more. He rolled onto his back, tasting blood, and watched Tashmaniok walk lightly down the iron staircase. She strode, stood over him, her body framed by the sculpted shapes of spirit-stills in the gloom. Dust motes floated in the air from Kell's pounding descent, and he coughed, clutching his diaphragm, face contorted in pain.

Tash twirled her sword once more, humour on her lips. But her crimson eyes were hard. Like glittering rubies.

"Graal told me to be careful," she murmured, and lowered herself to one knee, so that she straddled him. Kell could smell her natural perfume. She smelt good.

"Aye?" he growled.

"But I don't understand why. You're nothing but a whisky-drunk old man who's seen better days." She lifted her sword high in both hands, and Kell watched the silver blade without emotion. His eyes were dark, like the soul of a canker.

Tash twitched, and her sword plunged down.