"As spoken by a true vampire prophet. But his logic, and yours, are flawed. For by turning against your own race in your desperate search for an ultimate kingship, you left your flank unprotected."
"Sacrificing the vachine of Silva Valley was a necessary evil! A move on the gameboard of life and conquest, a sacrifice that will lead eventually to ultimate victory!"
"I'm surprised you still feel that way after watching Bhu Vanesh twist Kradek-ka's head from his shoulders."
"There are always casualties in war," growled Graal.
"Indeed there are," said Skanda. "But normally one seeks to wipe out the enemy, not one's own nation."
"It was the only way," said Graal. Then shrugged. "Anyway, plenty more vachine survive to the north who know nothing of my betrayal; I can always go slithering back to them with my tail between my legs." He grinned, an almost boyish grin if it hadn't been for the evil gleam in his cold blue eyes.
"There are more?" Skanda's head snapped up, a little too sharp.
Graal stared at Skanda. "More vachine? Yes. Does that bother you?"
Skanda relaxed, and his words slid out, cool as chilled snakemeat. "Of course not. I know the vachine civilisation wasn't restricted to Silva Valley. How many more?"
"Thousands," said Graal, and grinned. " Hundreds of thousands. Far north, north of the Black Pike Mountains which are simply pimples on the arse of the World Beast. North, where the ice rules, where the vachine built their master civilisation, Garrenathon, with the help of Harvesters Pure."
"Indeed," said Skanda, voice still cold, eyes fixed on Graal. "Why, then, do you not reside there? In this Garrenathon? Surely you would be received as a great general? Surely you could satisfy your whims of wealth and power and dominion from such a seat?"
Graal shook his head. "Kradek-ka and I, we came here, to Silva. Oversaw the building. So you see? The vachine of Silva Valley were our puppets, our playthings, right from the start; nurtured, grown, crafted, awaiting the time when we could resurrect the Vampire Warlords. But we underestimated them. Bastards."
"Come. Time to move on," said Skanda, and hopped up onto the mare with incredible agility. His black eyes fixed, once, on Graal, then turned and stared off to the far north. There, he imagined vast, vast cities of ice; a world of huge towers and temples and palaces, filled with a million clockwork vampires, a million vachine. "One day, I will find you," he whispered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I shall lead the way, Graal. We wouldn't want you falling in the marsh now, would we?"
After the biting and discomfort of two days in the Gantarak Marshes, Graal was relieved to break free onto the Great North Road. Snow fell occasionally, a light peppering that drifted in the wind and frosted the pines which lined the road. They rode north for a while, horses picking their way with ease, but Skanda grew increasingly agitated at this open route commonly used by armies, and now by association, possible vampire armies. After all, the Warlords were spreading their new rule, their new plague, with acumen. And the Great North Road was the easiest way to move troops up and down the flanks of Falanor…
They cut northeast from the Great North Road just south of Old Valantrium, and travelled east towards Moonlake but with no intention of entering the city – which would either be deserted, or maybe ravaged by vampires, Graal was sure. He had not been privy to all plans set in motion by the Vampire Warlords; but certainly, infesting every city of Falanor was an initial priority.
Graal and Skanda travelled in silence, mostly. Graal thought long and hard on his past actions, on the vachine, their betrayal, the blood-oil legacy, and Kell. Kell. The bastard who had helped his current tumbling downfall… or at least, that was one way Graal saw events. If Kell had not killed the Soul Stealers, then Graal might, might just, have had the strength necessary to overthrow the Vampire Warlords in their initial moment of weakness. Instead, Graal had been slapped aside like a naughty child.
Bastard, he thought. Bastard!
Another two days saw the ancient walls of Old Skulkra edging into view past the rolling snowy heather of Valantrium Moor. Those two days had been a desolation for Graal, two days of plodding across high, exposed moorland, a sharp nasty wind cutting from east to west and carrying ice and snow, no paths to follow in this deserted landscape and a cold sky wider than the world.
Now, as the frozen heather dropped down from the moorland plateau, so Skanda found them a sheltered place and they made camp before nightfall. The sky was the colour of topaz and stars lay strewn like sugar on velvet. Graal built a fire, and for a change Skanda came and sat with him, and both warmed hands over the flames.
"What's the plan when we arrive?" said Graal, eyeing the small boy with distaste. Skanda may look like a child, a young human boy, but Graal knew different; he still remembered his inhuman movements when Shanna and Tashmaniok tried to cut his head from his shoulders. He had danced between their silver swords like a ghost. Like one of the Ankarok. The Ancient Race.
"You will see."
"You need my blood, do you not?"
Skanda tilted his head back, and eyes older than the moon surveyed Graal. Skanda smiled, but there was no real humour there, just a mask held in place by necessity and discipline. "Yes. You are observant."
"Well, I didn't think you dragged me all the way out here for my cooking skills."
Skanda shrugged. "Your blood-oil runs thick with the souls of thousands. It is rich with death and slaughter. General Graal, I don't believe I could have found a more worthy and more potent specimen if I tried."
"You will perform magick?"
"I will."
"And what will happen?"
"You will see, General. You will see."
And despite the fire, despite the warmth of the flames, General Graal realised he was shivering.
Dawn broke, the sky filled with grey ice. Pink highlighted the edges of huge, thundering stormclouds. The world looked bleak. To Graal, the world felt bleak. A desolation. A world without hope.
They rode from their makeshift camp, and soon could make out the huge, crumbling walls which surrounded the once-majestic and truly ancient city of Old Skulkra. The walls were thick, collapsed in segments, battlements crumbling, and within the city buildings had become slaves to time. Houses were fragments, part collapsed, spires crumbled, domes smashed and deflated, towers detonated as if by some terrible explosion. Those buildings that were intact were sometimes skewed, twisted, walls leaning dangerously or gone altogether. Graal observed all this as they rode from Valantrium Moor, and it was exactly as he remembered it. Back when he'd sent the cankers to kill Kell and Saark…
Old Skulkra was haunted, it was said, and as Graal and Skanda grew closer they saw a thin mist creeping through the streets, passing over cracked and buckled paving slabs, ghostly fingers curling around the blackened figures of skeletal trees lining many an avenue. Graal reined in his horse and took a good, hard, long look at this ancient, threatening place.
It was rumoured the city had been built a thousand years ago, but Graal knew this was a misconception. It was probably closer to three thousand years old, maybe even four; it certainly pre-dated the Vampire Warlords and their First Empire of Carnage. It had been a derelict tombstone when Graal first walked the young plains and forests of Falanor. It was simply amazing to Graal that still the city stood, as if defying Nature, as if defying Time and the World.
The city was filled to the brim with a majestic and towering series of vast architectural wonders, immense towers and bridges, spires and temples, domes and parapets, many in black marble shipped from the far east over treacherous marshes. Old Skulkra had once been a fortified city with walls forty feet thick.