As Saark crawled towards Kell, towards his pulsing blood-stench, the hunger deep in his veins and soul, so a new devastating pain lashed through him in waves. Saark hit the ground, hard, and lay there panting, face pressing the snow, and feeling as though he was being beaten with helves. He looked up, strained to see if Kell had noticed, and then wrenched at his own face as the fangs – having made their presence known to him – retreated back into his skull. Saark screamed a silent scream of pure agony, then rolled onto his back and allowed the cold night to claim him.
At dawn, Saark awoke to Kell's whistling. He was covered by a thick blanket, and warm soup bubbled over a fire. With aching limbs, Saark stood and tested himself. Numbly, he realised there was no longer any pain. Whatever had poisoned him, blood-oil Kell called it; well, it had gone. And he still had his head, which he shook in disbelief; and that meant nothing had given him away to Kell.
Approaching the fire, he slumped down and Kell smiled. "If you sleep out in the snow like that, lad, you'll catch your death."
"It was the fight. In Creggan. It took a lot out of me."
"Aye," said Kell. "Well, let's eat fast then saddle up. We have a long day through enemy-infested country ahead of us. And I dare say, those two bitches from the Bone Fields will be somewhere behind, sniffing on our stinking trail."
"Do you… do you feel all right?" said Saark, softly, not quite meeting Kell's gaze.
"I feel as powerful as ten men," growled Kell. "Come on. I want to find Nienna."
The canker stood in the shadow of the ancient oak woodland on the summit of Hangman's Hill, a natural chameleon on the outskirts of the desecrated, crumbling monastery. Snow fell, drifting in light diagonal flurries and adding a fuzzy edge to reality. The canker was huge, the size of a lion, but there the similarity ended. Muscles writhed like the coils of a massive serpent beneath waxen white skin, the smooth surface broken occasionally by tufts of grey and white fur, and by open, weeping wounds where tiny cogs and wheels of twisted clockwork broke free, ticking, spinning, minute gears stepping up and down, tiny levers adjusting and clicking neatly into place. Only here, in this canker, in this abnormal vachine, the movements were not so neat – because every aspect of the canker's clockwork was a deviation, an aberration of flesh and engineering and religion; the canker was outcast. Impure. Unholy.
As evening spread swiftly towards night, the sky streaked with purple bruises and jagged saw-blades of cloud, so the canker watched two men progress, like distant avatars, making their way gradually across the snowy plain. The small entourage zig-zagged between stands of lightning-blasted conifers and ancient, pointed stones, one stocky man leading two horses, the second, more slender and effete, master of a laden donkey. The canker shifted its bulk, aware it was invisible to the men, blending as it did with the ancient tumble of fallen stones and thick woodland of thousand year oaks, and doubly hidden by the haze of wind-whipped snow. It turned, superior clockwork eyes observing the trees, their gnarled trunks and branches full of protrusions, whorls and nubs of elderly bark. A product of ancient vegetative inter-breeding, a meshing of woodland technologies – of nature, and soul, and spirit. Like me, thought the canker, and smiled as far as such a bestial, twisted, corrupted creation could smile; for its mouth was five times the size of a human mouth, the jaw jacked wide open, lips pulled high and wrenched upwards over the skull with eyes displaced to the side of its head. Huge fangs, twisted and bent in awkward directions, glistened with saliva and… blood-oil. Blood-oil. And blood-oil magick. The basis for an entire vachine civilisation; the nectar of the machine vampires.
The canker smiled again, a bitter smile as it remembered its long past, as it remembered the pretty man, and this time the thoughts behind the grimace were as equally twisted. For the canker was deviant, unholy, cast out by the Engineer Episcopate, and however conversely, employed by the very vachine Engineers who had condemned it. The canker could hunt. And it could kill. And in some small way attempt to find a token retribution, some faith, some hope for that entwining symbiotic battle of flesh and clockwork which had twisted the canker since shortly after its meeting with… Graal. When clockwork had been introduced to fresh human flesh.
Graal. Now, there was a man to hate.
The canker was obedient. It had been bribed with a future promise of returned and retuned flesh, of fresh new mortality, of assimilation into a purebreed human where it could return to a life of normality; without the eternal internal pain of battling machinery.
I can do it, thought the monster. I can find out.
And if not? Well, the instruction had been complicit.
I must kill, it thought.
For it is the only way to be sane.
The canker watched the two men dwindling into twilight, drifting ghosts, and even from this great distance it could smell the oil on their weapons, the sweat in their clothes, the unrefined blood in their veins. Hunger pulsed in the canker's brain, amidst a turmoil of gears and cogs and painful memories, so painful; brainmesh, it was called. And it hurt worse than acid.
In eerie silence the canker stood, stretched powerful muscles, and padded down the hill between elderly gnarled oaks.
"I thought you said there was a fortified town out this way?" grumbled Kell, stopping and leaning on his axe with a weary sigh. Snow swirled around his boots, and the huge tangled bearskin across his broad shoulders sat crusted with rimes of ice, shining silver. The two geldings halted behind him, and one pawed the frozen earth with a heavy, iron-shod hoof. "It'll be night soon; I could dearly do with some hot food and three hours in a soft bed, away from this bastard snow."
"Ah, Kell old horse, you are so narrow-minded in your basic warrior's vision!" Saark grinned at the old soldier. As the day had advanced, he had begun to feel better and better, more fit and healthy than he had for years. It was a miracle, he realised, with a dark, grim, bitter humour. "A plate of simple peasant vegetables? Surely that cannot be your only lust? What of the warm inviting thighs of some generously proportioned innkeeper's daughter? What of her eager lips? Her fastrising bosom? Her peasant's need to please?"
Kell hawked and spat, and focused on the dandy. "Saark mate, you misunderstand me. Exhaustion is the first thing on my mind; followed by an ale, and then a need to get to Nienna before something bad happens. And look at you! I cannot believe you bought such ridiculous clothes back in Creggan. You should have been born a woman, mate. Too much pompous lace and courtside extravagance. It's enough to make an honest woodsman puke."
"But Kell, Kell, dear Kell – born a woman, you say?" Saark smiled, his perfectly symmetrical teeth displaying a boyish humour that had broken many a woman's heart. "Is that because you find me secretly attractive? Through all our battles, all our triumphs, the mighty Kell, grizzled old warrior, hero of Kell's Legend, superior in strength and violence to all his many enemies… secretly, all along, he was a boy-fancier and lusted after a slice of Saark's pork pie!"
"You go too far!" stormed Kell, and lurched forward, mighty axe Ilanna held in one hefty fist, face crimson with embarrassment and sudden rage. "Don't be smear ing me with your own backward deviant wants. You might enjoy a roll with a man; I do not. The only use I have for a man," he hoisted his axe purposefully, "is to detach his head from his fucking shoulders."
Saark took a step back, hand on sword-hilt. His smile was still there, but mistrust shone in his eyes. He knew Kell to be a good friend, and a mighty foe; honourable, powerful, but ultimately compromised by a bad streak of temper made worse by even the smallest drop of whiskey. "Kell, old boy," his words were more clipped now, for the stress of the journey – and the hunt for Nienna – was wearing hard on both men. "Calm down. I was only jesting. Soon, we will find a tavern. Hopefully, one without vachine bitches and Blacklipper raiders. And then, then you can satiate your own personal lust."
"What's that supposed to mean, lad?"
"I'm sure they'll have a drop or ten of Falanor's Finest Malt ."
Kell made a growling sound, more animal than human, and took another step closer. Saark, to his credit, stood his ground. He may have looked like a rampant peacock loose and horny in the midst of a silk market, but he had been King Leanoric's Sword Champion. Many times, he had been underestimated – usually at the expense of somebody's life.
"You in the mood for a fight, lad?" snapped Kell.
Saark held up one hand, shaking his head, eyes lowered to the snowy ground. "No, no, you misunderstand." He gazed up then, reading Kell's pain. Nienna had been gone far too long, and their quest to find her seemed as hopeless now as it had when the land of Falanor was overrun by the albino Army of Iron.
Ultimately, Kell's missing granddaughter was a thorn in this great lion's paw; but one nobody could easily extract. Only Kell could do that. And the chances were, the search and rescue would be carried high on the back of mutilation, murder and annihilation. Kell was not a forgiving man.
"My friend, you are worse than any irate vachine. Calm down! I was just trying to lighten the mood, old horse."
"I'll lighten your bowels," growled Kell.
"You really are a cantankerous and stinking donkey."
"And you are a feathered popinjay, too damn fond of your own song. Shut your mouth, Saark-I can't say it any plainer-before I carve you a second smile."
Saark nodded, and they understood one another, and they moved on through the now heavily falling snow.
"There's the town," said Saark. "It's called Kettleskull Creek. Fortified with high walls. Brilliant. We might get an uninterrupted sleep! And it looks like the Army of Iron did not pass this way; probably too eager to get to Jalder, and the ripe harvest found there."
"Kettleskull Creek? What an odd name."
"It's fine, Kell. They know me."
"By the way you say 'know me', do you mean there are fifteen bastard children?"
Saark tilted his head. "You know, Kell, for you that's pretty good. No. I have only four bastard children I know of, although I'm sure there are many more in the provinces." He gave a wry smile, eyes distant, as if reliving a catalogue of pretty women. "I did a lot of travelling in the name of the king. So many beautiful ladies. So little time."
But Kell wasn't listening. He had turned, was looking down their back trail. In the distance huge brooding hills blackened the sky through the twilight snow. Kell searched from left to right, both hands clasped on Ilanna. "Let's get to the town," he said.
"A problem?"
"We're being followed."
"You sure?"
Kell turned, and the look in his eyes chilled Saark to the marrow. "Your skill is wooing unsuspecting ladies, lad. Mine is killing those creatures who need to be dead. Trust me. We are being followed. We need to move now… unless you relish a fight in the dark? In the ice?"
"Understood," muttered Saark, and led the way towards the high walls of the stocky timber barricade.
Saark had spoken the truth, the villagers knew him, and they lifted the bars on the twenty foot high gates and allowed the two men entry. As Saark turned, smiling, he faced a porcupine of steady, unsheathed swords.
"What's the matter, lads? Did I say something to offend?"
"Gambling debts," muttered one man with strange, black tattoos on his teeth. He was tall and rangy, with dark looks and bushy brows that met at the centre of his forehead. "Let's just say that last time you was here Saark… well mate, you made a swift exit."
Saark gave an easy laugh, resting back on one hip, his hand held out, lace cuff puffed towards the ranger. "My man, you have read my very honourable intention. I have indeed decided to return in order to pay off my substantial gambling debts." Saark moved to his saddlebag, fished out several coins, and tossed them over with an air of arrogance. The tall man grunted, catching the coins, fumbling for a moment, then examining the gold carefully. Slowly, the swords were sheathed one by one. Saark gave a chuckle. "Peasant gold," he said, head high, eyes twinkling as they challenged the group of men. Several went again for their weapons, but the tall man stopped them, and waved Saark on.
"Go on, about your business. But don't be causing any trouble. There's enough in Kettleskull who have cause to challenge you, King's Man."
"No longer King's Man, I think you'll find."
"As you wish."
They strode down the frozen road, and Kell muttered, "'Peasant's Gold'?"
Saark gave a thin smile. "It does one no harm to be occasionally reminded of one's place."
"Surely you meant 'Stolen Gold'?"
"That as well," smiled Saark, sardonically.
The main inn, The Spit-Roasted Pig, squatted beside a huge, warehouse-type building, dark and foreboding, set back from the road and piled high with snow. Kell stared up at the structure, then dismissed it. He followed Saark towards the inn.
"Remember," rumbled Kell, grabbing Saark's shoulder and pulling him rudely back. "Keep a low profile in here. We restock, refuel, then we're off again to find Nienna. No funny business. No women. No drinking. You understand? "
"Of course!" scowled Saark, and held apart his hands, face a platter of innocence. "As if I would do anything else!"
Kell stared at the half-full bottle of whiskey as Myriam's poison began to eat him again. The bottle squatted on the bar, filled with an amber delight, a sugary nectar which was sweet, oh so sweet, and it called to him like a woman, called to him with honeyed words of promise. Taste me. Drink me. Absorb me into your blood, and we can be one, we can be whole. I will take away the poison, Kell. I will take away your pain.
Around Kell the noise of the inn blurred, and fell into a tumbling swirling spiral of downward descent. Only him, and the whiskey, existed and he could taste it, taste her on his tongue and she was delight, summer flowers, fresh honey, a virgin's smile, and how could Kell possibly say no to such an innocent invitation? How could he refuse?
Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the bottle. It was aged twenty years in oak vats. It had cost a pretty penny of gold, but the gold in his saddlebags was stolen from the albino army, the invading Army of Iron; and Kell cared nothing for their loss.
"I'm going to my room," said Kell, tongue thick, mind swirling, focus dead.
"There's a good lad," said Saark, eyes glittering with a different distraction, and watched the old warrior depart.
Saark loved many things in life. In fact, there were so many pleasures that in his humble opinion made life worth living, he doubted he could list them all. A child's laughter. Sunlight. The clink of gold on gold. The soft kiss of a woman's lips. The velvet skin on the curve of a hip. The slick handful of an eager quim. Liquor. Bawdy company. Bad jokes. Gambling…
Saark coughed, innocent and unaware, eyes on a buxom wench across the tavern who'd caught his eye. She had long red hair and a cheeky smile. Then the heavy blow knocked him from his feet. He hit the ground, confusion his mistress, and he swam through treacle and felt himself being dragged. Another two blows sent him spinning into darkness. When he came round, groggy and stunned, a cold wind caressed his skin, but it felt good, good against the swellings on his face, tortured flesh battered and bruised after a pounding of helves. What happened? he thought, dazed. Just what the fuck happened?
"Not so cocky now, are you, King's bitch?" snarled a face close to his, bad breath and garlic mixing to force a choke from Saark's lips. In the gloom he fought to recognise his assailant, but his mind was spinning, and the world seemed inside out.
"I'd lay off the garlic next time," advised Saark through bleeding lips. "You'll never get intimate with a lady when you stink like a village idiot." There was a growl, and a boot connected with his ribs, several times. Then he was hefted along, dragged through snow, and over rough wood planks. He felt splinters worming into his hands and knees, but it was all he could do to scramble – and be dragged – along.
"Watch your footsteps, lad, wouldn't want you to drown," came a half-recognised voice, and laughter accompanied the voice and with a start Saark realised there were men, many men, and this wasn't a simple dispute over a spilt tankard of ale; it was a lynching party. A sadness sank deep through him, like a sponge through lantern oil. He was in trouble. He was in a barrel of horseshit.
Saark was dumped to the ground, which echoed ominously, and boots clattered around him. Saark waited for more pain, but it didn't come. Curled foetal, he finally opened his eyes and took a deep breath and spat out a sliver of broken tooth. That stung him, that tooth. Anger awoke in him, like an almost extinguished candle wick. This was turning into a bad day.
What happened?
He was laughing, joking, there was smoke and whiskey, they were playing at the card table. The villagers from the gate. He was taking their money like honey-cakes from a toddler – winning fair and square, for a change, and not having to resort to the many gambling tricks at which he was so good. Then… a blow from behind, from a helve, his face clattering against the table and taking the whole gambling pit with him. Boots finished him off. He didn't see it coming.
But why? In the name of the Holy Mother of Falanor, why?
"He's awake. Sit him up, lads."
Saark was dragged up, forced onto a chair, then tied to it with tight knots. Saark tested his bonds. Yes, he thought. There was no breaking free of those! He gazed around, at so many faces he did not know. Except for one. What was the man's name? Jake? Rake? Drake? Bake? Saark suppressed a giggle. It was the rangy man from the village gates…
"What's this all about, Stake?"
"The name is Rake, dimwit." The circle of men chuckled.
Saark looked about uneasily, and rolled his neck. He could still feel the press of his narrow rapier against his thigh – but had no ability to reach the weapon. Like all villagers, they underestimated the danger of such a narrow blade; what they considered a "girl's weapon". If it wasn't an axe, pike or bastard sword, then it wasn't really a weapon. Saark gave a narrow smile. Very much in the mould of Kell. They would find out, if he was given opportunity. Of that, he was sure.
"Surely I don't owe that much money," said Saark.
The circle of men closed in, and he could read anger, rage even, and a certain amount of affront on their faces, many bearded, several pock-marked, all with narrowed eyes and clenched fists and brandished weapons.
"Look around you," said Rake, unnecessarily thought Saark, although he deemed it prudent not to be pedantic. "Fathers. Brothers. Sons."
"Aye?" Still Saark wore confusion like a cloak.
"Enjoyed many a pretty dalliance during days passing through, haven't you Saark, King's Man? When you arrived, word went round fast. Here was Saark, an arrogant rich bastard, unable to keep his childmaker in his cheese-stinking pants."
Saark eyed the circle of men once more. Now he understood their almost pious rage. "Ahh," he said, and realised he was really in trouble. "But surely, gentleman, we are all men of the world? I could perhaps recompense you with a glitter of gold coin? I could make it worth your while…"
"You took my daughter's virginity, bastard!" snarled Rake, and punched Saark with a well-placed right hook. The chair toppled and Saark's head bounced from the planks. Beyond swirling stars, he saw a broad, still pool of gleaming black. More confusion invaded him. What was this place?
The men righted the chair, and Saark had to listen to the sermon, how rich arrogant bastards shouldn't poke around with their poker where they weren't welcome; how families had been destroyed, children cast out, bastard children born, yawn yawn. Get to the point you dullards, mused Saark, as his gaze fell beyond the men to what looked like a lake of black oil. It gleamed in the light of the lanterns, and suddenly Saark felt extremely uneasy. He noticed planks across the oil, resting occasionally on rusted iron pillars, and over which he had been dragged. Then he noticed, as they almost materialised from the gloom, huge, ancient machines, of angular iron, with great clockwork wheels and gears, meshing and interweaving. So. An old factory. From Elder Days. Abandoned. Derelict. With no understanding. But here they were, in the bowels of the old factory, the sump, where cooling oil was once stored. But one bright element drove through Saark's thoughts like a spear through chainmail.
Why bring him here?
He grinned, a skeletal grin. He wasn't leaving this place, was he?
They were going to drown him in the oil; and it would swallow him, and leave no mark of his passing.
He stared down into the black pit, motionless now, but as a man moved on the wooden planks so tiny ripples edged out and betrayed the liquid viscosity of centuries-old scum, filled with impurities and filth, and the perfect hiding place for murder…
With senses fast returning, Saark counted the men. There were twelve. T welve? He didn't remember accosting twelve women, but then the nights were cold and long in Kettleskull, Saark was easily bored and so, apparently, were the local housewives and daughters. Was he really that decadent? Saark stared long and hard into his own soul, and with head hung low in shame, he had to admit that he was.
"What are you going to do?" he asked, finally, watching as Rake tied a knot in a thick length of rope. A noose? Wonderful, thought Saark. Just perfect.
"We are going to purify you," said Rake, face a demon mask in the lantern light, and moved forward, looping the rope over Saark's neck.
"No you're not, lads," came a voice from the darkness. Then Kell stepped forward, his shape, his bulk hinted at by the very edges of lantern light. In this gloom it mattered not that he was over sixty years of age; he was large, he was terrifying, and Ilanna held steady in bear's paws was a horrible and menacing sight to behold. "Now put the dandy down, and back away from the chair."
The men froze, helves and a few rusted short-swords held limp and useless. Rake, who held Saark in a tight embrace – a bonding between executioner and victim – stared at Kell without fear. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"Go home, old man. We have unfinished business here."
Kell gave a low, dark laugh. "Listen boy. I've been killing men for over forty years, and I've killed every bastard who stood in my way. Now, despite your violence on Saark here, I understand your position, I even agree with you to a large extent…"
"Thanks, Kell!" moaned Saark.
"… but this is not his time to die." Kell's eyebrows darkened to thunder. His voice dropped an octave. "I have no argument with any man here. But anybody lays another finger on the wandering peacock, and I'll cleave the bastard from skull to prick."
Time seemed to freeze. Kell's words hung in the air like drifting snow… and as long as nobody moved, the spell was cast, uncertainty a bright splinter in every man's mind. But then Rake screamed, and hauled on the noose which tightened around Saark's throat, dragging him upright, chair and all, his legs kicking, heels scraping old planks, and Kell took four long strides forward. The terrible axe Ilanna sang through the air and Rake's head detached from his body, and sailed into a dark oil pool. There was a schlup as Rake's head went under. His body stood, rigid in shock for several heartbeats as blood pumped from the ragged neck wound. One leg buckled, and slowly Rake's body folded to the floor like a sack of molten offal.
There was a thunk as Ilanna rested against the planks, and Kell's gaze caressed the remaining men. "Anybody else?" came his soft words, and they were the words of a lover, whispered and intimate, and every man there lifted hands in supplication and started to back from the chamber.
Kell turned to Saark, reached down, and with a short blade cut the ropes. Saark stood, massaging wrists, then probed tenderly at his nose. "I think they broke it."
"No less than you deserve."
"And I thought you were my knight in shining armour!" scowled Saark, voice dripping sarcasm.
"Never a knight. And no armour," shrugged Kell. He lifted his axe, heavy shoulders tense, and glared around.
"What's the matter, Kell?" Saark rolled his neck, and pressed tenderly at his ribs. "Ouch. And look at that! The bastards tore the silk. Do you know how much silk costs up here? Do you know how hard it is to locate and procure a fine tailor? Bloody heathens, bloody peasants… no appreciation of the finer things in life." "Take out your pretty little sword," said Kell.
"Why?"
"DO IT!"
There came a scream. And a crunch. It was a heavy, almost metallic crunch. Like an entire body being ripped in half. This was followed by a thick slopping sound, and ripples spread across the black oil pool towards the men.
"That sounded interesting," said Saark, his recent beating forgotten. He drew his sword, a fluid movement. The way he held the delicate rapier spoke volumes of his skill with the weapon; this was not some toy, despite its lack of substance. Saark's speed and accuracy were a thing to behold.
"Interesting?" snorted Kell, then ducked as a limp body went whirring overhead. It hit a wall of crumbling stone, and slid down like a broken doll, easing into the black ooze. The stunned face, with ragged beard and oval brown eyes, was last to disappear. Kell and Saark watched, faces locked in frowns of confusion; then they spread apart with the natural instinct of the seasoned warrior.
The single lantern, brought by Rake and his men, spluttered noisily. Its stench was acrid and evil, but not as evil as the shadows cast by the stroboscopic wick.
Kell took a step back. More crunches and screams echoed from the darkness, then fell gradually to an ominous silence.
"What is it?" whispered Saark.
"My mother?" ventured Kell.
"Your humour is ill placed," snapped Saark. "Something just silenced eleven men!"
"Well," grinned Kell, "maybe it'll have the awesome ability to silence you! Although I doubt it."
"I am so glad we're both about to die," hissed Saark. "At least I'll die in the knowledge that you were ripped apart too."
"I don't die easy," said Kell, and rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowed, lantern-light turning his aged greying beard into a demonic visage. His eyes were hooded, unseen, but Saark could feel the cloak of solid violence which settled over Kell's frame; it felt like a high charge of electricity during a raging thunderstorm. It was there, unseen, but ready to strike with maximum ferocity.
The creature came from the gloom, moving easily, fluid, despite its bulk, despite its size. It was a canker, but more than just a canker; this was immense, a prodigy of the deviant, and Kell grinned a grin which had nothing to do with humour.
"Shit," he said, voice low, "I think Graal saved this one for us."
"It's been looking for us," said Saark, eyes narrowed, some primeval intuition sparking his mind into action. "Look at its eyes. There's recognition there, I swear by all the gods!"
Kell nodded, hefting his axe, movements smooth and cool and calculated as he stepped forward. The canker was on a narrow bridge now, a thick plank of timber which bowed under its weight. It stopped, eyes fastening on Kell, fangs drooling blood-oil to the wood.
"Looking for me?" said Kell.
Within the canker's flesh, tiny gears and cogs spun and clicked. Its huge shaggy head lowered, and Saark had been right; there was recognition there. It sent a thrill coursing through Kell's veins. Here, he looked into the maw of death. And he was afraid.
"Graal sent me," said the canker, its voice a strange hybrid of human, animal and… machine. A clockwork voice. A voice filled with the tick-tock of advanced Watchmaking. Its huge shaggy head, so reminiscent of a lion, and yet so twisted and bestial and deformed, tilted to one side in an almost human movement. That sent a shiver of empathy through Kell. He knew. Knew that once these creatures had been human. And it pleased him not a bit to slay them. "I am a messenger."
"Then deliver your message, and be gone," snapped Kell, brows furrowed, face lost in some internal pain which had nothing to do with age and arthritis, but more to do with the state of Falanor, the invading Army of Iron, and the abuse to humanity he was witnessing at the hands of the expanding vachine empire.
"He wants to speak with you. He wants you to return with me."
Kell grinned then. "He's worried, isn't he? The Great Graal, General of the Age – worried about an old warrior with impetigo and a drinking habit. Well, once I said that if we met again I'd carve my name on his arse. That promise still stands."
"He needs your help," said the canker, voice a lowlevel rumble. "Both of you."
Kell considered this. "Well. I bet that was hard to admit." He rubbed his beard. "And if we say no?"
"You are coming with me. One way or another." The voice was one layer away from threat; but threat it was.
Kell stepped forward, rolling his shoulder and lifting Ilanna from her rest against the floor. Kill it, whispered the bloodbond axe in his mind. Kill it, drink its blood, let me feast. It is nothing to you. It is nothing but a deformation of pure.
Kell shrugged off Ilanna's internal voice – but could not ignore Saark's. He was close. Close behind Kell. His voice tickled Kell's ear. "We can take it, brother. After all we've been through, you can't let Graal dictate. He's sent this special messenger and there's a reason. I'd wager it has something to do with you hunting vachine in the Black Pikes!"
"And I would second that," said Kell, and launched a blistering attack so fast it was a blur, and left Saark staggering backwards, mouth open in shock and awe as Kell's axe slammed for the canker's head. But the beast moved, also with inhuman speed, with a speed born of clockwork, and it snarled and dropped one shoulder, the axe blade missing its face by inches and shaving tufts of grey fur to lie suspended in the air for long moments. Then reality slammed back and the canker went down on one shoulder, rolling sideways and missing the pool of oil by inches. It launched at Kell, huge forepaws with long curved talons slashing for his throat, but Kell side-stepped, axe batting aside the talons and right fist cannoning into the beast's head. Again he struck, a mighty blow and a fang snapped under his gloved knuckles. The canker's rear legs swiped out, and Kell leapt back and the canker charged him but Ilanna whistled before its face, checking its charge. They circled, warily, amidst the glittering pools of oil. Saark had stepped back, to the edge of one pool, crouching beside the sputtering lantern, rapier in his fist but eyes wide, aware he was no match for a canker in single combat but willing to dive in and help at the soonest opportunity. Suddenly, he darted forward, the razor-edge of his rapier carving a line down one flank. The canker squealed, rearing up, head smashing round as flesh opened like a zip, and coils of muscle spilled out, integrated with tendons and tiny clockwork machines which thrummed and clicked and whirred. A claw lashed out, back-handing Saark across the platform in a flurry of limbs. He rolled fast and lay drooling blood, stunned. Kell attacked, but the canker snarled, ducking a sweep of the axe and slamming both claws into Kell's face, knocking the old warrior back. Kell went down on one knee, and the canker reared up, grinning down through strings of saliva and blood-oil – then turned, head twisting, focusing on Saark who had crawled to his knees, eyes narrowed.
"Don't you recognise me, Saark?"
"Yeah. I reckon you look like my dad."
"Truly? You cannot see my human flesh… the woman I used to be?"
Saark scowled, crawling to his feet, rapier extended amidst soiled lace ruffs. Then, he frowned, and his head moved and eyes locked with Kell. He breathed out, and staggered as if struck from behind. "No," he said, and moved closer to the canker. "It cannot be."
"I was a woman once, Saark." The canker settled down, a clawed and bestial hand moving back to the wound in its flank, and pushing spilled muscle into the cramped cavity. "They chose me… because of my association with you. Because… once we were…"
"No!" screamed Saark, and images flowed like molten honey through a brain twisted with rage and horror and disbelief. For this was Aline, an early love of his life, his childhood sweetheart. They had spent months wandering the pretty woodlands south of Vor, making love in shadowed glades beside burbling brooks, carving their names in the Tower Oak, words entwined in a neatly carved love-heart, whispering promises to one another, sneaking through cold castle corridors on secret love trysts – the stuff of young love, of passionate adventure; the honour of the naive. But it was never meant to be. Aline was cousin to royalty, and her arranged marriage and fate were sealed by a father with huge gambling debts and a need to secure more land and income. Their parting had been swift, bitter, and involved five soldiers holding a sharp dagger to Saark's throat. He still had a narrow white scar there, and his battered fingers came up to touch the place now. Through words choked with emotion, he said, more quietly than he intended, "Aline, it cannot be you."
"They did this to me, Saark. They knew it would hurt you. They knew it would persuade you. I must take you both back to Graal; only then, will they make me human again. Only then, can I be a woman again."
Saark's gaze shifted, from the abused deviation of his childhood sweetheart, to the fully erect, ominous figure of Kell. Kell's eyes were shadowed, but his head gave a single shake. A clear message. No. Saark looked back to the canker, and only in the eyes dragged back sideways over the skull, only in a few twists of golden hair which remained, only in a certain set of wrenched facial bones which, if imagination wrapped them around a normal skull could mentally reconstruct a face… did he recognise the woman of his childhood. "No," he said again.
"Help me," pleaded the canker, head lowering, submissive now before Saark who felt his heart melt and his brain lock and his soul die.
Saark, gazing down, rapier forgotten, reached out with his delicate, tapered fingers. He touched Aline, touched the pale skin, the tufts of fur, worked in horror over the merging of flesh and clockwork. And then she – it – screamed, high and long and Kell was there, looming over her, Ilanna embedded in the canker's back narrowly missing the spine. Kell placed a boot against the canker, tugging at his axe which had lodged awkwardly under a rib.
"No, Kell, no!" wailed Saark, but Kell wrenched free the butterfly blades which lifted high trailing droplets of blood and a shard of broken rib and several strings of tendon, and the canker whirled low, claws lashing for the axeman in a disembowelling stroke which missed by a hairsbreadth and on the return stroke Aline smashed a fist into Saark's chest and he was powered backwards, almost vertical, his legs finally dropping and he hit the ground, rolled, and splashed into the oil with desperate fingers scrabbling at the platform like claws…
Kell leapt again, axe whirring, and he and the transmogrified woman circled with eyes locked, then struck and clashed in a blur of strikes which left a trail of sparks glittering in the gloom. "Get out!" snarled Kell, glancing back to Saark. "Get out of here, lad, now!"
"Don't kill her," whispered Saark.
"She can never change back, don't you see?" snapped Kell, axe slamming up, claws raking the blades. He staggered back under the immense impact, and jabbed axe points at the canker's eyes. It snarled, head shaking, spittle drenching Kell. "It's a one way process! You cannot revert!"
The canker was pushing Kell back, claws lashing out with piledriver force, and Saark could see Kell weakening fast. Within moments, he would be dead; dead, or drowning in oil. With an inhuman effort, Saark's fingers raked the harsh boards and his legs kicked against thick, viscous oil. He rolled onto the deck, panting, and levered himself to his feet where he swayed. He grabbed at his rapier, but sheathed the weapon. Kell saw the movement, and his face went grim, went dark, his eyes becoming something more – or indeed, something less – than human.
"Aline." Saark's voice was a lullaby. A song of nostalgia.
The canker paused mid-snarl, but did not turn. Its eyes were fixed with glittering hatred on Kell, his back to the oil, his axe resting against wooden boards. His chest was heaving, and his jerkin was sliced by claws showing shredded flesh beneath.
"Will you help me?" came the voice of Aline. And Saark could hear her, now, hear her tone and inflections entwined around the audible ejaculations of an alien beast.
"Yes," said Saark, with great sadness. "I will help you." He hooked his boot behind the lantern, and with a swift kick sent the flask of oil sailing across the platform, where it shattered against the canker and flames exploded outwards. Fire roared, engulfing the canker which screamed a high-pitched feminine sound and spun around in a tight circle, fighting the fire with claws whirring and slashing at itself as flesh burned and fat bubbled and clockwork squealed. Kell came at a sprint, head down, axe in both hands, and both he and Saark hammered down flexing planks into the darkness in the direction of the ancient factory exit…
The canker lowered to its haunches, burning, then glared through flames at the fleeing men. It roared, and charged after them, its burning flesh illuminating the way. Tufts of glowing fur fell from its burning body, into the oil, which slumbered for a few moments after the canker's passage and then suddenly, erratically, ignited. Fire roared along the surface of the oil pools, overtaking the canker and licking at the heels of Kell and Saark, sweating now, eyes alive with the orange glow of roaring demons, and they ran with every burst of speed and energy they possessed as heat billowed around them and sparks exploded and the roar and surge of fire was something both men had never before experienced… "We're going to die!" screamed Saark.