"She's a donkey."
"Eh? Whatever. As dumb as that donkey back there, is what I said. And by the gods, lad, she's a dumb beast if ever I saw one."
"I suggest you leave Mary out of this," said Saark, tetchily, and moved off to walk alone, throwing occasional glances to Myriam – who was laughing at some ribald jest Kell had made.
"Damn them all," he muttered from his psychological pit.
"Saark?"
Saark half-rose from the fire, but Myriam showed both hands as she crept from the darkness, and he slumped back down with a curse.
"What do you want? I thought you wanted me dead last time we met. I seem to remember your certain attempt to drown me."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not good enough, Myriam! You can't just roll back into camp, apologise, and get on with your plans for world domination! What is it this time? Take over our army and conquer the Vampire Warlords that way?"
"I'm sorry. Truly. I was… out of hand. I wasn't thinking clearly. It's just, I love you, Saark. I was thrilled by our union. You understand? We are both vachine, and there's not many left now after the devastation of Silva Valley. We have to stick together, you and me." She shuffled closer, and punched him on the arm.
"Ha. Yes. There is that."
"I'm sorry, Saark. All right? I promise I won't do it again."
"Which bit?"
"Which bit would you like me to promise?"
"Er, for a start, you can promise not to kill me."
"Sure. I promise not to kill you." She leant in a bit closer. Saark inhaled the musk of her skin. He groaned, as that familiar feeling washed over him and he tried to focus and tried to keep it clear… but could not. I am cursed. I am deviant. I have a brain like a child and the lust of a platoon. What am I to do with myself? What is the world to do with any man like me?
Myriam kissed him.
And in the shadows by the edge of the campfire, Nienna stood bearing two cups of honeyed mead, and cried in the darkness, her tears glowing with the colour of the flames.
It was dawn.
Jalder sat below them, sheathed in an early morning mist which made Kell twinge in panic. If the vampires knew they were coming… if they had Harvesters, and blood-oil magick, and ice-smoke… well, the battle would be over before it had begun.
"Thoughts?" said Grak, lifting the heavy sword he had chosen.
They had sat up long into the night, formulating a basic strategy and trying to consider every eventuality. They sought to draw the vampires out onto the plain before Jalder for an open, pitched battle. There, the heavy formation of soldiers with shields and long spears could possibly counteract the vampires' advantage of speed and agility. If their army was drawn into the city itself, however, they lost all the benefits of armed and armoured units.
Kell was convinced they could do it.
"It is their arrogance," he argued. "They will come, they'll drift out from the gates and they will fight. The stench of our blood will be an overwhelming factor for them! They must have hunted down most of the humans in Jalder now; that means no fresh meat, no fresh blood! And they need fresh blood like a drowning man needs oxygen. When we roll up, it'll be like a plate of succulent beef stuck under the nose of a starving man! Trust me on this."
"I'm not convinced," growled Dekkar. "I think they'll run and hide when faced with a superior force."
"Whatever happens," said Kell, "we must not be drawn into a running street battle. These bastards are cunning. They'll lay traps in the streets, in back-alleys, leap from the rooftops. No. We must get them out here. This is where the battle must be."
And now, the two Divisions descended from low hills. Jalder lay silent, its ancient dark stones steeped in history and lore, its streets and temples and houses and schools silent, slick with ice and mist, echoing with horror from the recent atrocities.
"So far, so good," said Saark; he looked sick.
Kell glanced at him. "You took your happy leaf?"
"I have decided to give up women!"
Kell snorted in laughter, as the five thousand men, ranged fifty men wide and ranked a hundred men deep, a tight fighting square with shields presented to all sides, moved slowly down from the hills.
"An easy claim to make as we head into battle!"
"I mean it! Do not mock me!"
"Well then. I give up whiskey!" grinned Kell.
"And I give up killing generals!" boomed Grak, slapping Kell on the back, and around him many men laughed, helping to ease the fear which was creeping stealthily through their ranks as fluid as any ice-smoke.
They made the plain below. Behind, on the hilltop, Myriam and Nienna sat with another fifty or so women from the Black Pike Mines who had travelled with the army in order to help feed the soldiers and repair clothing and armour. They also carried bows and knives, for none believed this would end well. They were hardy women, stout and tough, with ice in their eyes and fire in their bellies. They frightened Nienna.
"This is it, then," she said, voice almost a whisper as the soldiers spread out on the plain between the hills and Jalder's main western gates.
"Seemed more romantic, back then," agreed Myriam. "Save Falanor! Raise an army and attack the vampires!" She shivered, suddenly, and pointed. "Look. The gates are opening."
Kell halted the army, and the huge bristling mass of soldiers waited. Shields were held tight, and spears stood proud to attention. A cold wind howled across the plain as the gates squealed on rusting hinges. Snow whipped up in little eddies that danced across the bleak place.
A single figure stepped out. It was a man, tall and lean, his face angular and with the blood-red eyes of the vampire. He walked forward with a curious gait, trailing through the compact snow, his eyes fixed on the large body of fighting men without any fear whatsoever.
He halted. He waited.
Kell stepped forward from behind the wall of shields, and approached the tall vampire. And Kell hissed as recognition bit him. This was Xavanath, Principal of Jalder University. Kell had met him once… when the man had been human. He was an honourable and respected academic. Now, blood stained his claws, and strips of flesh trailed from his fangs. And… and he stank. He stank like a corpse. He stank of death. He stank of murder. The smell washed over Kell and made him want to vomit, and it was something he had never considered before; the vampires were trapped in their own filth, their blood coagulated, their flesh necrotic. The longer they remained vampires, the more they began to rot.
"You are the leader?" said Xavanath, with all the haughtiness of any true academic superior.
"By all the gods, lad, you stink like a fucking corpse. But then, excuse my manners. You are one."
A ripple of laughter shifted through the ranks, and Xavanath stared hard at Kell. He made a clicking sound, a show of annoyance…
As if dealing with a disobedient child.
As if dealing with a naughty student.
"Kuradek, the great Vampire Warlord, instructs you to immediately lay down your weapons and accompany me into the city. He guarantees your safe passage. He would talk the terms of a truce." Xavanath's bloodred eyes ranged across the soldiers, with their new armour and shields and spears. "There is no need for slaughter on this day," he said, his words soft but carrying to every man on the plain. Then he smiled, and it was a sickly smile, like the smile on the face of a man dying from necrotising fasciitis. "Your slaughter, that is."
"Well, lads," boomed Kell, turning and surveying the five thousand hardened men behind him. "He's come out with fighting talk, that's for sure!" Kell launched himself at Xavanath in a sudden blur of speed, Ilanna slamming up and over, and cutting vertical down deep through the vampire's neck. Xavanath stumbled back, claws flashing up but Kell followed, dragging Ilanna out as the vampire hit the snow; the second blow cut the vampire's head from his shoulders, and the corpse slowly melted into a wide, black, oily puddle.