Soul Stealers Read online

  "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.<
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  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.r />
  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.