Kell realised, then: Sara had been weakened during a fight in which she killed forty men and women. She had been restrained. But soon, soon she would snap the wires like cotton thread. She had let them take her; so she could rest. Recuperate. To sleep the sleep of the vampire – like an injured hound licking its wounds, waiting, waiting…
Suddenly Kell leapt atop the cart so he was inches from Sara, and Ilanna was between them and she hissed when she saw the axe, and scrambled back as far as the bindings would allow.
"You remember my axe?" said Kell, voice deep, eyes fixed on Sara. The second vampire started to rise, but Kell waved Ilanna at her. At it. "Stay down, or I'll cut off your pissing head, I swear! There's no healing a wound like that!" He returned to Sara. "Not even for you, daughter of mine."
"It is a shame it came to this," she said, and licked her lips, showing sharp fangs.
"Indeed," said Kell, gaze locked. "Because now I'm going to have to kill you."
"Please, no," and suddenly she was pleading, voice soft, aggression gone and she dropped to her knees. "I will pray to you, great Kell, Kell the Legend, and I will do your bidding."
Kell gave a mocking laugh. "Like you prayed to your god? And look what he did for you, Sara. He cursed you! He made you like this! The gods? Bah! A curse on all their hairy arses! And all for what? The pain you caused Nienna with your hard ways, your religious learning, your pious necessities. Well, now she is my ward." Kell dropped to his own knees, so they were once again facing each other. His words came out in a low growl. "And you will serve. Or you will die."
"I will serve," said Sara, head low. She glanced at Ilanna.
"Look well on the blades," said Kell, and then climbed down from the cart as Saark approached with shackles. "For vampire or no, they will tear out your soul and devour it. This, you know. This, you have seen."
Saark secured the shackles on ankles and feet, and using a small ratchet tool, cranked them tight until Sara gave a howl and glanced at him, sharply, as if imprinting his face in her mind for future reference.
Kell lifted Nienna to her feet. "Come on, girl. This place is too painful for you."
"What will you do to her?"
"I will not kill her, if that's what you think."
"I… I love her, Kell. She is my mother, no matter all her faults. No matter her poisonous gossip, her forcefed opinions, her casual hate. I have to love her. No matter what she's done. That's why she's my mother."
"I know that, love."
"How did she become like this? What happened?"
And as they passed through the gates, into the dark and brooding shadows, Kell whispered, "I don't know, girl. I just don't know."
Kell slept badly. His dreams were dark flashes of black, violet and blood red. In his last dream, he dreamt he awoke and it felt real, felt like it was happening and Sara was there, inches from his throat, and she laughed and hissed and her jaws dropped, fangs puncturing his skin and Kell screamed and thrashed but she pinned him down, her strength incredible and unreal as Kell kicked and kicked and kicked, and felt his lifeblood sucked from him, sucked from his gaping throat. Sara would rise above him, dripping blood and grinning in absolute madness – and Kell sat up with a shout, a snap of jaws, and then glared across at Saark lounging in a chair beside his bed.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Good morning to you, Kell."
"What the fuck is that smell?"
"It's perfume. Hint of Venison."
"Hint of what, lad?"
"Er, venison." Saark suddenly looked a touch uncertain.
"So, you're telling me you're wearing a perfume that stinks like a charging, honking stag?"
"No, no, it's more a suggestion of an aura of power, over which all women will stumble erotically when they enter the room."
Kell stared at him. "Either that, or they're knocked down by the stench and buggered unconscious by a group of rampant drunk nobility! Ha, Saark, it smells like rancid bowels on a ten-week battlefield. So I hope you don't want a good morning kiss, 'cos I fear I've got kitten breath something chronic!"
"Not at all, my sweetness," he said between clenched teeth. "I just dropped by to check up on you. Brought you some coffee, and here," he lifted a plate from the floor. "Compliments of Myrtax."
Kell uncovered a large tin plate filled with bacon, sausage, four eggs and fried mushrooms. Kell gawped. "By all the gods, that's a breakfast fit for a King!"
"Or certainly a fat bastard, more like. But you eat it all up, Kell, get some strength in you, then we need to talk about what's to be done."
Kell lifted mushrooms on his fork, chewed, looked almost euphoric, then snapped, "What's to be done? Eh? What do you mean, laddie?"
"Well, I refer to the next stage of your thrilling plan. I am curious."
Kell stared at his friend, who had taken the entire previous evening, late though it was, to bathe, sprinkle himself with perfume and a light dusting of make-up from Myrtax's wife's quarters. The Chaos Hounds only knew which wardrobe he'd raided – now he wore a pink silk shirt, ruffed with lace at collar and cuffs, and bulbous green silk pantaloons the like of which Kell had never seen. He also wore yellow shoes, polished to a bright vomit shine.
"Listen. I'll have my breakfast," said Kell, uncertainly, still stunned by Saark's garish wardrobe. "You go and gather all the armourers and smithy labourers together. Meet me down the Smith House with them, in about… twenty minutes. That's if they haven't kicked your head in first."
"Meaning?"
"You look like a peacock."
"Yes. Well. 'Tis hardly a fair division of work, I feel," said Saark, pouting. "And I did bring you breakfast."
"Eh? Well, I tell you what, next time I'm up to my neck in gore from the killing, I'll make sure you get your fair share of the fight as well. Agreed, Saark?"
"Point taken. Twenty minutes, you say?"
"Good man! Go knock 'em out."
And for the first time in what felt like years, Kell focused on one thing and one thing only. Gorging himself on a fine fried breakfast. He tried hard to shut out the shouts, laughter and whistles as Saark moved gaily through the old prison grounds, but could not help himself. Kell grinned like a lunatic.
The armourers were a bunch of huge, heavily muscled men – numbering perhaps forty in total, with one single exception. A small, weedy looking man standing almost swallowed by the wall of blackened, bulging flesh. They wore the universal uniform of smithies the world over: colourless leather pants, heavy work boots, and most went bare-chested, a few with leather aprons. The small man was the only one smiling.
"Look at him," nodded Saark, and nudged Kell in the ribs with his elbow. "Stands out like a flower on a bucket of turds."
"I'd keep your voice down if I was you," said Kell. "Smithies are not known for their fine tempers and happy chatter. You liken them to horse-shit, next minute you'll be trampled in it, mate."
"Point taken. Point taken."
"Right, lads," said Kell, standing with huge hands on hips. "You all know what's happening here, so I reckon I'll cut to the shit. We'll be going into battle. All the men here will be fighting men, and they'll need weapons, light armour, and shields."
"Won't we move faster without armour and shields?"
"Ha. Maybe. But we certainly won't live as long against… them. Now, I know you have great stores of iron and steel here in the mines. Have you any gold?"
The small man lifted his hand. "I believe there are several bags of coin in Governor Myrtax's underground vault. He kept a certain mint for King Leanoric. We found some large lodes down in the mines, you see. Way deep down, in the dark, where fear of collapse is greatest."
"Good. Good." Kell scratched his chin. "We'll need that to pay the lads. But with regards warfare, this is what I need. Short stabbing swords for close combat. Maybe only," he parted his hands, "this long. I want round shields with rimmed edges, so they can be hooked together, locked together to repel a charge. I need long heavy spears, maybe twice as heavy as you'd normally make, and arrows – I want iron shafts with slim heads."