Wood could feel heat scorching his flesh as he leant against the wall. He, and the remainder of the old soldiers, had retreated here after a vicious final battle. But now the ships were burning, the vampires seemed to have more pressing matters on their hands, and the short savage skirmish had been temporarily forgotten. Vampires lined the rooftops in their thousands, eyes glowing in the reflected lights of their burning navy. They simply watched, perhaps too afraid to tackle the flames. But then, Command Sergeant Wood conceded, only the ocean could extinguish such an inferno. He'd never seen anything like it in his life.
Port of Gollothrim glowed like the Furnace in the Chaos Halls.
Slowly, Wood became aware of another group of vampires. There were perhaps a hundred of them, which didn't make Wood feel too good; after all, the old soldiers numbered only thirty or forty, now. Wood nudged his companion, the man's white beard turned black with soot and cinders. His eyes were glowing and wild.
"We fucked them hard, eh, lad?" He grinned at Wood. "It'll take 'em years to rebuild all them ships!"
Wood nodded, and gestured to this new unit of vampires taking an unhealthy interest in the old soldiers' predicament. "I think these bastards want a bit of payback," he said, and hefted his battered, chipped, blunted sword.
"Let's make them earn their fucking blood," snarled the old man beside him, rubbing his singed beard, eyes bright and alive with the fire-glow from the shipyard inferno.
The group of old men hefted their weapons, and despite being weary, drained, exhausted, they faced the vampires creeping towards them with chins held high, eyes bright, fists clenched, knowing they had done their bit in bringing down the cancerous plague, the fastspread evil, the total menace of the Vampire Warlords…
The old soldiers had helped break their backs.
Now, it would be up to others to finish the story… the song…
The Legend.
With snarls and squeals the fire-singed vampires, their pale skin stained with smoke and soot, some bearing savage, bubbling burns and fire-scars, launched themselves at the old soldiers, claws slashing, fangs biting, voices ululating triumphant calls across the smoke-filled city…
Swords clashed and cried in the darkness.
And in a few minutes, it was all over.
Kell watched the vampires disappear from down below, taking bows and hateful arrows with them. He watched fire fill the horizon like a flood. He watched the ships burn, his aerial view perfect in witnessing the fast spread of raw destruction. Kell could not believe the fire spread so swiftly; but it did, aided by a good wind and plentiful casks of lantern oil.
Still, he heard sword blows. Then Myriam appeared at the portal. "Come on!" she cried. "I can't fight them on my own!" She disappeared, and Kell grimaced and struggled on, cursing his weight, cursing his age, and vowing never to touch a single drop of whiskey again.
He reached the ledge, panting, sweat dripping in his eyes, his hands like the hands of a cripple with slashed tendons and no strength . He jumped down, blinded by the gloomy interior. To his back, silhouetting him against a raging orange archway, the entire naval fleet – old and new – burned.
Myriam was fighting a losing battle against two vampires. She spun and danced, avoiding their slashing claws, her sword darting out and scoring hits – but nothing fatal. They were too fast for her.
Kell growled, and hefted Ilanna. Then his hands cramped, and he dropped the axe, almost severing his own toes. "By all the bastards in Chaos," he muttered, scrabbling for the axe as one vampire broke free and charged him. He lifted Ilanna just in time, sparks striking from her butterfly blades and he slashed a fast reverse cut, Ilanna chopping swiftly, neatly, messily into the vampire's face. The man fell with a cry from halfchopped lips, and Kell stood on the vampire's throat, hefted Ilanna, and did a proper job this time, cutting his head and brain in half, just below the nose. Blood splattered the flags. Myriam speared her adversary through the eye, and he fell in a limp heap.
Myriam turned back to Kell. "I thought you were going to fall off!" she snapped.
"Me too."
"Your arse would have made one mighty huge crack in the cobbles."
"I'll lay off the ale and puddings when this is over, that's for sure."
Myriam grinned, and released a long-drawn breath. "Another one's coming. It feels like they were waiting for us!"
"I didn't expect anything less," said Kell.
Division General Dekull stepped from the shadows, a large man with a bull-neck and a hefty scowl. He had thinning brown hair and large hands, each one bearing a sword. He was a formidable opponent, equalling Kell in size and weight, but carrying less fat.
Before Kell could speak, Myriam charged, light, graceful, sword slashing down. Dekull swayed slightly, a precise movement, and back-handed Myriam across the chamber where her head cracked against the wall. It was a sickening noise, and made Kell wince.
"At last, the mighty Kell," said Dekull, voice a rumble. "We've been… waiting for you. Let's say your reputation precedes you."
"I won't ask your name," said Kell. "And the only thing that precedes you is the foul, rotten-egg stench."
Dekull's face darkened. "You should learn some respect, feeble, petty, rancid mortal."
"Respect? For your kind? I'd rather show you my cock."
"I'm going to teach you a lesson you will never forget, boy…" snarled Dekull, vampire fangs ejecting, shoulders hunching, swords glittering.
Kell laughed, an open, genuine sound of humour. "My name is Kell," he rumbled. "Here, let me carve it on your arse, lest you forget."
Kell moved forward, wary, and Dekull charged with a roar which showed his vampire fangs in all their glory, glinting with reflected firelight from the orange glow outside.
Kell felt the killing rage come on him, and it was now and here and the time was right. He was no longer an old man. He was no longer a weary, aged, retired soldier. Now he was strong and fast and deadly; he was a creature born in the Days of Blood and he revelled in his might, prowess, superiority, and although he knew this was a splinter of blood-oil magick, a dark magick, a trick and a curse instilled from his dead wife trapped inside his mighty, possessed axe – he locked the information in a tiny cage and tossed away the key with a snort. Now, he needed this energy. No matter how dark. No matter how bad. No matter how inherently evil.
Now, he needed the Legend.
Kell needed the Legend…
Kell slapped the swords aside, left right, a fast figureof-eight curving from Ilanna with intricate insane skill, and front-kicked Dekull in the chest. But Dekull came on, crashing into Kell, who grabbed Dekull's ear and with a growl wrenched it off. Dekull screamed, a shocking high-pitched noise as blood erupted, and Kell crashed his fist – still holding the flapping ear – into Dekull's nose, breaking it with a crunch. Then Ilanna lifted high, keening with promise, and slammed down, cutting Dekull from collarbone to mid-chest allowing the huge man to flap open. Dekull staggered back, almost cut in two, his arms a good eight feet apart. Swords clattered to the stone, useless, released by limp twitching fingers.
Kell rolled his shoulders, and stared into Division General Dekull's eyes. They were glazed in disbelief, but he was still alive, still conscious. "Damn," muttered Kell, clenching and unclenching his hands. "That cold out there, it spoiled my bloody stroke. Here, lad. Let's have another go, shall we?" The second blow started where the first had ended, cleaving Dekull clean in two. Entrails and internal organs slopped to the floor, along with fat and muscle and skin and neatly severed bones. Kell turned from the dead vampire and stared through the portal.