Soul Stealers Page 12

  "No! That is, not directly. I had to instigate certain events. I had to make sure General Graal, or whoever else, took the Army of Iron south. Invaded Falanor. It is for a greater purpose." His voice dropped to a low rumble. "A higher purpose."

  "I do not understand."

  "And nor should you." He smiled. Anukis did not like the smile.

  "What are you doing, daddy? You left us! Shabis is dead!"

  "I know this," said Kradek-ka, face serious, eyes gleaming. "But it had to be so."

  "I killed her," said Anukis, hanging her head with guilt.

  "This, also, I know."

  "And you do not hate me?"

  "You are pure, Anu," he was suddenly smiling. "Shabis chose her own path; and it was the wrong path. You came to me, you sought me out. I hoped it would be so. For together, we can find the remaining Soul Gems, and we can…" He stopped, suddenly, and his teeth clamped shut.

  "This is too strange," said Anukis. "It is like a surreal, drug-induced dream. Have I imbibed blood-oil? Am I really hallucinating, back at my apartment in Silva Valley? Will Vashell bring a surgeon to bleed out the poisons? Tell me this is so."

  "I have much to tell you, Anukis. I have much to tell. But soon, you will understand. And soon, I hope, you will choose to help me. You will help… us all."

  Kradek-ka motioned, and Anukis turned, and gasped at the Harvesters standing silently in the doorway. She could see perhaps twenty, but also saw their pale bony figures spreading off into the surreal hazy gloom of the bone place.

  Anukis's fangs and claws ejected, but Kradek-ka squeezed her hand. "No. They are friends."

  "They have been hunting me!"

  "But now you are here. Now you are safe. They do not understand the bigger game. I do."

  Anukis was staring, hard, eyes narrowed, mind a maelstrom Everything was wrong. Nothing fit like it should. The world felt… seized, like old clockwork. Like a rusted puzzlebox.

  Suddenly, Kradek-ka stood, drawing Anukis up with him. His eyes gleamed. "Don't you understand, Anu? I made you special! I made you special for a reason! The day is coming, when the vachine will regress! We will return to a time of ancient power, of ancient mastery!" His face contorted into a snarl. "Now we are secondhand, kept alive, kept whole by clockwork machines." He spat across the desk, where thousands of tiny intricate machines lay. "It was not always thus."

  "You saved the vachine," said Anu, voice small.

  "I cursed them!" he said. And his eyes glittered. "And now I will uncurse them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We will bring back the Vampire Warlords, Anu," he said. "And then you will see what a species can achieve!"

  Alloria, Queen of Falanor, wife to the Warrior King Leanoric, Guardian of all Falanor States, knew instantly the moment her husband died. It felt as if she had been stabbed through the heart.

  She had been walking a path through high mountain passes, not long after she left Anukis who in turn set off in the Engineer's Barge, in search of her father. Queen Alloria, alone now, and carrying a satchel with few provisions and extra clothing which Anukis had given her from the Barge's stores, was navigating a particularly treacherous path of sharp frozen rocks, a sheer cliff to her right, a vast drop of maybe five thousand feet to her left, down sharp, scree-covered slopes which ended in a tumbled platter of massive cubic rocks. Her hands, once delicate and manicured, the nails perfectly filed and painted with tiny scenes, skin soft from rich creams and unguents, were now hard and scabbed and ingrained with dirt. They reached out, touching the rock wall for security lest her vertigo tip her over the edge of the slope, and laugh at her fall as she kicked and screamed her way to becoming a bloody pulped carcass at the bottom.

  Alloria breathed deep. She calmed her mind.

  Then the pain came, slashing through her heart like a razor, and she gasped, and heard his cry across the miles, across the skies, across the mountains, across the void; and Alloria knew as sure as the sun would rise that Leanoric, her true love, the man she had betrayed and who had, against all probability, forgiven her; she knew he was dead.

  Alloria gasped, and fell to her knees. Overhead, an eagle swooped, then dropped and disappeared into the vastness of the canyon. Alloria clutched her chest, and the pain was intense and she could hear Leanoric's scream which suddenly cut off – in an instant – as he was slain.

  "Oh, my, no," was all she managed to whisper, and knelt there on the rocky trail, rocking gently backwards and forwards as desolation filled her like ink in a jug; right to the brim.

  She knelt there. For long hours. And cried. She cried for his death. She cried for her boys. And she cried for her betrayal of Falanor, her foolish foolish betrayal, which sat with her, sat bad with her, like a demon smothering her soul.

  It was only as darkness fell, and she heard the distant cries of wolves that she was prodded into action. She climbed wearily to her feet, drained beyond any semblance of humanity. It had all been too much; the invasion, the rape, the abuse, the kidnapping. And now that her husband was dead, and she knew in her heart he was truly gone, there seemed little left to live for. But what about your children? asked a tiny part of her conscience, and she smiled there on the mountain ledge, as clouds swirled heavy above her and light flakes of snow began to snap in the wind. Of course, she thought. Her children. Sweet Oliver, and handsome Alexander; oh how she missed them. She picked her way along the trail in the fast-falling gloom. But then, who was to say they had not also been slain? They had been with Leanoric as he checked his armies in those last fateful days of Falanor's rule. Surely they were still with him, in the fast-falling panic following the swift invasion by Graal's Army of Iron? The albinos had marched on Jalder, then headed south with speed, taking every city and town and village they came upon. They allowed few to escape; and those who did escape were hunted down by the terrible beasts known as cankers.

  Alloria shuddered again. She looked up. Above her, light fell swiftly from the sky. Velvet caressed her vision. She cursed herself, cursed herself for her self-pity, and cursed herself for knowing too much. Graal. Graal. She touched her hand to her breast, remembering the gems.

  Whilst she knelt, weeping, the mountain night and the savagery of nature had crept in on her. Now the Black Pikes would seek to test her mettle, her agility, her stamina and her courage.

  Alloria stumbled over a rocky ledge, and nearly pitched into the chasm far below. Panting, and with hands raw from scraping rock, she moved on, telling herself constantly that Oliver and Alexander were still alive; that Leanoric would have had the foresight to hide them somewhere safe. But deep down in her heart, in her soul, she did not believe it… even if she could not feel their deaths as acutely as that of her king, her husband, her lover, and ultimately, her soul mate.

  She stopped, suddenly. She turned to face the vast drop. She could no longer see it, for night in the mountains was darkness as she had never before experienced; a total immersion of vision, and senses, and soul. But she knew the drop was there; she could feel the gaping presence, the mammoth opening of space and cold, snapping air. Snow landed in her hair. She ignored it. She stepped up onto the lip.

  I should die, she realised.

  There is nothing left to live for.

  General Graal has won.

  "Wait there, little lady," came a soft whisper.

  Alloria jumped, startled by the gentle voice. However, she recognised the tone, and yet the words seemed alien to her at the same time. She shook spastically, with fear, with adrenaline, with apprehension at her impending suicide.

  "I cannot see you!" she hissed.

  "But I can see you," came the voice, at once gentle and powerful and harsh and merciless. Strong hands took hold of her, and eased her back from the slash of precipice. Before her, waves of ice crashed down onto invisible rocks of awesome destruction.

  "Vashell? Is that you?"

  "Yes," came the rich, powerful voice of the vachine. "It is I."

  "Have you followed me?"
>
  "Let us say we travel the same path," came his words, at once soothing and deeply terrifying. Alloria had witnessed his cruelty first hand; and his violence. She was afraid.

  "How can you see in the dark?" she murmured, heart beating a rampage in her chest. She realised, then, that she needed her blue karissia; just to help her sleep. Always to help her sleep.

  "I have special vision," said Vashell. "I have clockwork eyes. Now, come, the snow is growing heavy; in an hour we will be trapped on this narrow path. I know of a cave a distance ahead where we can take shelter. By the gods, woman, you are freezing! Have you no cloak?"

  Alloria struggled to free her cloak from the satchel she carried, and Vashell helped. Once encapsulated within fur and leather, she felt better; a little better. But the death of Leanoric still bit her, like wolf fangs through her heart.

  "This way. Hold my hand. I will lead."

  Alloria stumbled along the trail, with Vashell leading the way. She did not trust the man – she smiled, and corrected herself. The vachine. But then, she had little choice, and in all actuality, no longer cared. If he was going to rape her, slit her, toss her ragdoll body down the mountain, then so be it. Surely, she deserved no less? Alloria had lost the fight and fire in her heart.

  They struggled on against worsening weather. The wind howled like a stabbed banshee. The snow pummelled them with padded fists. At one point Alloria fell, with a grunt and a small cry, and she felt herself reeling and sliding towards a violent chasm – but Vashell was there, strong hands pulling her back, and he held her, and she shivered and knew it was not from the cold; she was impervious, now, to ice. It was for the loss. The deep, drowning, terrible loss of her dead husband, her dead children. She knew she would never be sane again.

  "Here. We are here."

  Alloria could see nothing but white and gloom, but felt a sudden lessening of the wind and horizontally lashing snow. Vashell led her far back into the cave and it was curiously warm. He sat her on a stone, and using a bundle of small sticks, lit a tiny fire in a circle of blackened rocks. This place had been used by many travellers, it would seem.

  Firelight filled the cave, and although little heat was produced, the illusion was enough for Alloria, for now. She moved closer, stretching out fingers to the meagre flames, and then her head snapped up as she remembered the vicious fight between Vashell and Anukis (so long ago, drifting through ancient dreams)… a fight which had ended with Vashell losing his face.

  Even in the darkness, in the flickering firelight, his face was nothing less than a terrible mess; strings of flesh covered cords of tendon and visible bone; some scar tissue showed where the vachine's accelerated healing was trying frantically to compensate for such a savage wounding. But it hadn't done enough.

  Vashell lowered his face; his eyes were full of pain, and shame. With head lowered, he said, "Once, my Queen, you found me beautiful." She said nothing. He looked up, glittering eyes meeting hers. "But not any more, I think."

  "Beauty is more than the skin on your bones, Vashell. It is here, in your heart, in your soul, and mirrored by the things you do. And no, sadly, from what I have seen of you, and the horror of which I heard you speak, I am not prepared to think of you as a beautiful soul."

  "I have done… questionable things," said Vashell, head lowered once again. His hand held a dagger. It glinted, blade black in the firelight. Suddenly, Alloria's eyes fixed on that blade, and she swallowed, tasting a thrill of raw metal fear.

  She realised, with a dawning like a virgin sun, that she was antagonising a tormented man. He shuffled back a little, and breathed deeply. Here was a vachine warrior not to be trifled with. According to Alloria, he had slain children – impure, Blacklipper children – in their beds. He had no qualms about killing women. He was a predator; the ultimate predator. And he killed not to survive; but because he had an intrinsic enjoyment of the concept, and indeed, the act.

  Outside, in the darkness, distant through the snow, a wolf howled.

  Alloria shivered, and stared at the cave opening. She was no match for a wolf. When she had decided to head off through the mountains after her release by Anukis, she had never considered such things as wolves, or bears, or even now, as she thought about it, wild men, brigands, outlaws on the mountain trails. She shuddered. Maybe death was still the answer? But on her own terms. By her own hand. Not ripped apart by the wild.

  Vashell stood and moved to the cave entrance. Then he turned to her. His destroyed face was creased in… in what? She could not tell whether it was humour, or hatred. Vashell had lost the ability to display facial expressions. Indeed, Vashell had lost the ability to show his face.

  "The wolves are coming," he said.

  "How do you know?"

  "I can hear them. A winter pack. White wolves. They are the worst."

  "Why the worst?" Her voice seemed, to her own ears at least, incredibly small.

  "Because they are the most hungry," he said, with a twisted smile that showed teeth through the holes in his cheeks.

  Alloria looked away.

  "They are following your scent. They must have been tracking you for hours. There's precious little meat on these bare hills."

  "Then I will die," said Alloria, lifting her head, eyes blazing.

  "We all die," said Vashell, turning back to the cave entrance.

  Outside, there came a fast padding, and a snarl. Slowly, Vashell backed towards Alloria; his athletic frame partially blocked the cave entrance, and she suddenly realised that Vashell had no sword, only the knife which she had seen him with earlier, a blade stolen from the Engineer's Barge during his escape several days ago.

  Then she saw the wolf. It was large-framed but scrawny, lean and athletic and hungry-looking; its fur was a mix of shaggy white streaked with grey and black, its eyes a wide-slitted yellow, its fangs old and yellow and curved like daggers. It was far bigger than any wolf Alloria had ever seen in Falanor, and its claws rasped on the cave's floor. It stopped, head tilted, surveying the two people. Vashell, poised, did not move. He seemed frozen to the spot – either in fear, or gauging his enemy.

  Then more wolves arrived, and they were snarling and hissing, drool spooling from ancient fangs as they moved as a pack into the cave which, with its too-wide opening, allowed them in three abreast. There were five, now; then eight. Then twelve. Their fur bristled with snow melt, and each wolf had a narrowed, hungry look. A haunted look. They were willing to die in order to feed.

  Alloria heard herself utter a small whimper. Vashell did not turn, but she saw his muscles tense.

  The lead wolf snarled, a sudden, aggressive sound, and leapt at Vashell in a blur…

  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.