Kell entered a snowy forest, and before long could hear the trickle of a frozen stream. Hooves cracked ice, and Kell was across and galloping hard once more. Steam rose from the stallion's flanks, and the beast was labouring hard as they reached the next rise and Kell dismounted. He crouched low, eyes scanning the southern wall of Jalder. His mind was sharp with memories of Sara, the little girl on the black pony, and the laughing face of King Leanoric. In older times. Happier times. Times now gone…
There!
Kell moved through the snow, thinking back to Saark, and Grak, and Dekkar, Nienna and Myriam. Even now, Grak should be organising the women, the archers, to advance to the rear of the fighting square. They had been training hard in previous weeks, and Kell was sure they would inflict a terrible damage on the vampires…
Kell grimaced. He hoped they could hold out.
Kell crouched in a ditch by the tunnel entrance, and scowled. There were thick steel bars, thicker than anything he could ever bend. They had been wrenched open, violently outwards, as if by some terrible, powerful blast. Of one thing Kell was sure: whatever slammed through those bars turning them into splayedout spikes and giving him a secret opening into Jalder – well, whatever it was, it wasn't human.
Kell squinted into the darkness. "Shit," he muttered, and hefted the solid haft of Ilanna.
I am with you, she said.
"That's what I'm worried about," muttered the old warrior, and touched one of the bars. It felt warm, and warm air drifted from the tunnel. Would it have rats? Or… something more sinister. Kell shrugged, and grinned. "Fuck it." Whatever's down here, it can't be more terrible than me!
"Kell! Wait!"
Kell cursed, and turned slowly, glancing up the icecovered slope. It was Myriam, on foot and holding her longbow in one hand. Kell's eyes dropped to her waist, where a Widowmaker was sheathed. Kell licked his lips. He'd forgotten Myriam used to carry such a weapon, a multi-loading hand-held crossbow, powered by clockwork and packing an awesome punch. It was with such a weapon Nienna's friend, Kat, had been murdered by one of Myriam's former colleagues. The memory was fresh in Kell's mind, like a bright stain of crimson against his soul. In some ways, he blamed Myriam. And that weapon. That dirty weapon. That underhand weapon. Kell hated it with every drop of acid in his soul.
"What do you want?"
"I've come to help."
"You'll get in my way."
"I need to help, Kell! All those men dying back there, and a lot of this shit, it's my fault."
"Then go and fight in the battle!" hissed Kell, whirling on her. His eyes were flashing like dark jewels. "You'll get in my way! I can carry no baggage."
"Baggage, is it?" she snapped, and was close to him, and her hand slid down his thigh and he groaned, and the blade pressed against Kell's throat. She grinned into his face. "This baggage got close enough to cut your fucking windpipe out."
"I could kill you, you know," said Kell, quietly.
"I know. But what a thrill, yes? It's damn good to be alive!"
Kell looked into her eyes. He saw madness there. He saw a lot of things there. He wasn't sure he fully understood Myriam. She wasn't just complex, but unpredictable and wild. It was this which attracted him to her. This which made him interested in women again… after so long. One woman, he corrected himself. One woman.
Once, in the marshes of the east, Kell had been attacked by a wild kroug cat, a stinking shaggy beast which roamed the marshes using secret paths. Kell was in the army at the time, and as his regulation short sword slid through its belly, up into lungs and heart, so their eyes had been inches apart, Kell punched onto his back, the dying, bleeding cat above him, foul breath caressing him, entering him, a kiss from the other side of sanity. Myriam's eyes reminded him of that wild cat. Untameable. Living on the edge, dangerous, truly a creature of chaos.
Kell grinned. "You can move your hand off my leg, now."
"Do you want me to?"
"No," sighed Kell, and relaxed, and Myriam stepped back and sheathed her blade. The Widowmaker hung at her belt, longbow on her back. She was tall and fit and athletic. Kell could still taste her breath on his tongue. "Later," he muttered.
"So I can come?"
"I don't believe I have any choice."
"No, old man. You do not. Lead the way!"
"You've not dragged bloody Nienna along as well, have you? Last bloody thing I need is half my family jumping out at inopportune moments. Makes it a bit difficult to hunt vampires."
"And Vampire Warlords."
"Indeed, yes."
They crouched, watching, then eased into the tunnel. The warm air was disconcerting after the cold of the snow and ice. It was quiet in the tunnel, dry as the desert. Kell touched the walls. "What was this place?"
"An escape tunnel for royalty," said Myriam, and when Kell looked at her, she shrugged. "I think it is, although these things are not really publicised. No?"
"I forgot. You fucked your way into all sorts of academic secrets back in Vor. In your quest to survive."
"That's all any of us want," she whispered.
They crept through long, dusty tunnels, thick with grime and smelling stale, with a tangy scent, like raw abused metal. The stonework was ancient, and carved into baroque curves and flutes which made Kell frown. Why make carvings down here? Where nobody could see and enjoy? He got a sense these tunnels had an ancient story to tell; something he would never discover.
After an hour Kell could smell fresh air. The tunnel abruptly ended at an ancient, iron ladder, leading up to far distant daylight. Snow fell down through the aperture, and Kell welcomed it, breathing deep after the confines of the tunnel. He hated tunnels. Hated enclosed spaces. It reminded him too much of the grave…
"Is it safe?" said Myriam.
Kell laughed.
"What?" she said.
"There's three Vampire Warlords on the loose converting thousands into vampires; there's a battle raging on the snowy plains outside Jalder. And you're worried about a ladder?"
"I just don't want to be entombed," she said, quietly.
"Hmm." Kell started to climb, and the ladder shook, but held under his considerable weight. Myriam followed, and they appeared on the roof of a warehouse, emerging and crouching by a low stone wall. Distantly, they could hear the sounds of battle. The vampires were once again assaulting the lines of the new Falanor army.
"Which way?" said Myriam.
Kell pointed. The Blue Palace reared, and in the diffused light of the gentle snowstorm, looked ugly, gothic, ancient and evil. Kell shivered, as if with premonition. Bad things were going to happen here. Very bad things.
"We can go over the rooftops, to… there." She pointed. Kell nodded. "Come on. This is my area of expertise."
They moved, climbing a sloped roof to a ridgeline and then halting. Kell glanced over the walls which surrounded Jalder. He could see the old garrison, once housing one of King Leanoric's Eagle Divisions; now deserted, the cobbles no doubt stained with the blood of the slain.
Kell glanced back, down the hill towards the river, and saw the tiny square of his old house. His heart skipped a beat. You've come full circle, old man. You're back where you started. Back in Jalder. Back where the Army of Iron invaded. Where the ice-smoke drifted out and took so many lives, froze so many innocent people to be just cattle for the bloodthirsty vachine…
He glanced at Myriam. Vachine.
He shook his head.
We must go, said Ilanna, her words soft and drifting through his skull. Kuradek awaits.
And you want his blood?
I want him to taste the Chaos Halls. To go back to where he belongs…
Kell stood, but Myriam touched his arm. "Wait. Look."
Kell glanced back to the distant battle. The vampires had pulled back. The men of Falanor, no doubt under instruction from Saark, Grak and Dekkar, were reorganising their lines. But then Kell saw something that made his heart leap into his mouth. By the gates of Jalder were Harvesters… a line of Harvesters, and their hands were above their heads, eyes fixed on the Falanor men… and around their feet swirled and billowed a huge globe of pulsing ice-smoke.