"Horse shit," snarled Kell, his eyes bleak. And as his gaze drifted, through the falling snow, as if by instinct he looked to the north and saw the army that appeared through the haze. They marched in unity, black armour gleaming under winter sunlight, black helms and black swords proud and Kell's mouth went terribly dry. He could see they were an albino army, very much like the Army of Iron which had first taken Jalder. And they, combined with the summoning ice-smoke at the feet of the Harvesters before Jalder's gates… well, it did not bode well for the men of Falanor.
"Come on!" hissed Myriam.
"Look," said Kell, voice bleak, tears in his eyes. How could they battle such magick? How could they go to war against such evil – and even hope to win?
"They will fight," snarled Myriam. "They will stand strong! Come! We have our own path. Come on!"
They hurried across the rooftops, and Myriam signalled a place to climb to the ground. The streets were deserted, most vampires obviously out on the plain already fighting the Blacklippers and criminals of Falanor. Kell stood on the cobbles, and felt foolish. He felt lost. He felt a cold flood of desolation through his soul.
Kill Kuradek, said Ilanna. You must do it! Now!
Kell grasped the axe, and ground his teeth. They moved to a high iron gate set in a stone wall and grown about with wild white roses. The gate was open. It was almost as if Sara had anticipated their route, and Kell smiled at that.
They moved down paths, and into the cool interior of the palace. High chambers were empty, but showed many signs of destruction. Polished wooden floors were scarred with hundreds of gouges from claws, and furniture lay in smashed heaps, vases shattered, bronze cups twisted and crushed and scattered; everything showed signs of decadence, of destruction, of disrespect.
"I have a bad feeling," said Kell, voice low. He hefted Ilanna, and Myriam cranked her Widowmaker. It gleamed dully in grey light from the high windows.
They moved through endless chambers, empty feasting halls, long high corridors with stone arches, many lined with statues of past kings and queens.
"Where is the bastard?" snarled Kell, eventually, and they arrived at a sweeping set of stairs. They climbed, wary, weapons at the ready, and when they were halfway up there issued snarls…
The vampires leapt from on high, snarling and spitting, and landed lightly before Kell and Myriam. One was a small, narrow-faced man, slim and wiry, his clothing torn, his hands curled into talons, his eyes blood-red and insane. Kell blinked in recognition, and licked his lips. This was Ferret, renowned through Jalder as a fighter, a thief, part of the hazy criminal underworld. He had a reputation. He was a Syndicate Man. But they'd got to him… the bastard vampires had got to him…
The second vampire was a girl, maybe eleven or twelve years old. She was slim, with dark skin, her eyes shadowed, her face twisted into the bestial. On her fingers were expensive rings set with huge gems, a contrast to her pale vampire flesh, her yellow, crooked vampire claws…
They attacked, in a blur, Ferret launching at Kell who slammed his axe up in a vertical strike, catching Ferret in the chest and lifting him, carrying him, flinging him back down the marble steps and onto the smooth marble floor beyond, where he skidded on all fours like an animal, and came charging straight back at Kell…
"No!" hissed Myriam, but Rose was on her, spitting and snarling and there was a slam as the Widowmaker kicked in Myriam's hand, and Rose was lifted vertically into the air, arms and legs paddling, face snarling, blood and strings of flesh drooling from her fangs and Myriam took a step back, aimed, and sent a second bolt hammering into Rose's face. Rose catapulted backwards, her head caved in, face gone, and lay twitching on the steps. Myriam whirled, saw Ferret leap high but Kell ducked, a swift neat movement, Ilanna slamming overhead and hitting Ferret between the legs, cutting straight through his balls and up to wedge in his abdomen. Both Ferret and Ilanna continued the arc, hitting the steps and wrenching the axe from Kell's grasp. He cursed. Ferret squirmed, claws ringing against Ilanna's blades as he tried to drag the axe free from his trapped body. Kell drew his Svian, and moved to Ferret squirming on the steps. Kell smiled, a warm smile of sympathy, and of empathy, and there was compassion in his eyes. "I'm sorry, lad. Really I am," Kell whispered, voice low, and soothing, and he punched the Svian through Ferret's heart. The small man went still, muscles relaxing, and blood pooled under his body, rolling down the steps in a narrow stream, dripping from one to the next until it finally slowed, and all that could be heard in the huge hall was the tiny drip drip drip.
Myriam reclaimed her bolts, and reloaded the Widowmaker. She glanced over at Kell.
"You all right?"
"No."
"It's going to get worse."
"I know. Come on. Let's put this fucking Vampire Warlord out of his misery."
Saark was breathing deep, and he touched tenderly at his ribs where a vampire's claws had sliced him down to the bone. But damn, he thought, they were sharp. And fast! Too fast. Faster than him. Suddenly, his vachine status didn't feel so menacing…
"Come on, Kell, come on, Kell," he muttered, watching the vampires retreat. They were hard, and fast, but the stout men of Falanor were standing their ground well and inflicting punishing casualties on the vampires. Long spears for repelling charges, and short stabbing swords for close-quarters combat were a devastating combination. The battlefield was littered with hundreds, even thousands, of dead vampires. Those that didn't disintegrate into oily puddles or smoke.
"How you doing, lad?" said Grak, slapping Saark on the shoulder. Saark groaned. He felt like one huge bruise.
"I feel like a big fat whore sat on my face."
"I thought you would have enjoyed that?"
Saark eyed Grak. The man was oblivious to sarcasm. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I would, at that. How long before they come back?"
"Not long," snapped Grak, peering out from the shield wall. "Shit. What in the name of the Bone Halls are those?"
Saark stared, and his mouth went dry. From beyond the gates of Jalder emerged a line of Harvesters. They wore white robes patterned with gold thread. They were tall, with small black eyes and hissing maws, but it was those long fingers of bone which attracted Saark's attention. He had seen up close what they could do. And they frightened him, deep down in a primal place.
"They're Harvesters," said Saark.
"They look mean. Do they fight?"
"They use magick," whispered Saark, and even as he watched, the ground began to blossom with surges of summoned ice-smoke. "Bad magick. Magick that freezes a man, renders him unable to fight. We must retreat, Grak! We must run!"
"Are you crazy?" snapped Grak. "If we run, if we break ranks, the bastards will slaughter us from behind! They'll pick us off like children!"
Saark saw the white clouds starting to billow. The Harvesters became shrouded in ice-smoke.
"They'll freeze us, here, where we stand!" hissed Saark, eyes crazy. "Then suck out our blood. I've seen it done! I've seen this before…"
"Sir!" snapped a soldier, slamming to a halt.
"What is it?" frowned Grak.
"Soldiers, sir. Lots of soldiers."
"Where?"
"To the north."
Grak and Saark ran around the fighting square, and stopped, dumbfounded. There, on a low hill, stood at least five thousand albino warriors. They wore black armour, black helms, carried black swords, and their shields were emblazoned with a brass image.
"Holy Mother," said Grak, and drew his sword. "We cannot fight two armies! On two flanks! We will be crushed!"