Kell's blood in his nostrils. He could smell every droplet. Every ounce. It pulsed sluggishly through Kell's veins and to Saark, here, now, the world receded, changed, and the only thing in the entirety of existence was this group of rocks, this campfire, this snow-filled moment with Kell, asleep, head back, snoring, throat exposed. Saark could see the pulse in Kell's neck. It went beyond enticement, through lust and need and into another realm which meant more than life and death. Saark wanted blood. Saark needed blood. If he did not drink Kell's blood he would surely die; he would surely explode into a billion fragments of pain only to be reformed again and torn apart again over and over for ever and ever and ever unto eternity.
Slowly, Saark crawled across the snow.
Under waxen moonlight, Kell slept on.
CHAPTER 9
The Harvest
The wolves crept into the cave, and Alloria stood frozen with fear, her eyes locked to the lead wolf, huge, black, yellow, baleful. 'Stand back,' came Vashell's voice, and Alloria turned, slowly, as if fearful the moment she presented her back it would be leapt upon, huge jaws fastening over her head and ripping it easily from her shoulders.
Slowly, Alloria retreated. The fire was warm by her back. Her mouth was dry, eyes wide, breath coming in short bursts. Her hand dropped to her lower belly, an unconscious act of protection, an act of the maternal – although her boys, if they lived – which she doubted – were many, many miles away. In a different world.
Vashell eased past her, his terribly scarred face demonic, his eyes narrowed, his clockwork ticking, gears stepping. Alloria jumped, noticing he carried a short stabbing sword in powerful grip. He had taken it from her pack. He was hunched, powerful shoulders ready for battle… which did not come. Vashell growled, a low animal sound, bestial and yet mixed curiously with the sounds of subtle clockwork, as if this were a gift be stowed by engineers rather than Nature. The wolves tilted heads, and under his advance they began to back away, still rumbling threateningly, but heads lower now, submissive, as if bowing down before their master.
Vashell stepped out into the storm. The blizzard whipped him. Through veils of snapping snow and ice, the mountains reared, eternal, powerful, immortal.
The wolves continued to back away, until another was set forward. It was massive, bigger by a head than even the biggest wolf. Its fur was jet black, its eyes green and intelligent. It was the prodigal, a natural born leader of the pack, a beast in its prime. Vashell stood and stared at the wolf, which carried something in its jaws. The others had made a decision, and retreated, allowing this huge creature the ultimate choice of attack or retreat.
Vashell stopped, and stared, eyes narrowed, throat still making the strange clockwork growling. And he stared without emotion at the object, the trophy, carried between the jaws of the wolf. Alloria followed Vashell out into the blizzard, arm coming up to shield her eyes, and she gasped. For between its jaws, the magnificent and powerful wolf carried the head of a Harvester.
Alloria placed her arm on Vashell's steel bicep. 'Don't attack,' she said, urgently. 'Maybe it is a friend? Any enemy of the Harvesters is surely an ally of mine…'
But before Vashell could make any informed decision the wolf stood, a fluid blur, then stretched languorously. Its every movement held contempt for Vashell. With every nuance, every glint of those bright green intelligent eyes, the wolf seemed to say: I know you, you are vachine, I do not fear you, I do not fear the Harvesters, I will rend you and slay you until you are no more.
The severed head, hanging by a thick flap of skin and spinal column, was blank and white and smeared with dirt. The tiny black eyes were lifeless – but then, Alloria thought, they always looked like that. The narrow nasal slits no longer hissed with their customary fast intake of breath.
Slowly, the wolf dropped the Harvester's head to the snow. It licked its lips, again embodying contempt, then accelerated into an attack so fast it was a blur of black…
Vashell stumbled back, sword slamming up but the wolf's jaws rattled left and right, clashing bone with steel and almost disarming Vashell. He rolled, battle instinct returning, dropping one shoulder and shifting, hitting the ground, coming up fast in a crouch with sword ready, head down, eyes narrowed. The wolf's huge pads hit the snow, and it shook itself like a raindrenched dog. It chuckled, a huge rolling rumble, turned to face Vashell, then attacked again with a savage scream, a bestial show of prowess. Vashell launched himself forward, sword held two-handed, intending to power the weapon into the wolf's lungs and beyond, into the pumping heart. But the wolf twisted, one huge paw lashing lazily across Vashell's face and sending him tumbling, skidding over snow towards the treacherous precipice. Below, rocks waited, ten thousand pointed daggers which mocked him.
The wolf paced around in a tight circle, and to one side sat the rest of the pack, a few yelping, all pelts covered in a fine sprinkling of snow, whilst on the other side stood Alloria. Her face was shocked, for without Vashell to protect her she would be dead in an instant.
The wolf moved forward, slowly, head lowering, green eyes fixed on its intended victim. 'No!' gasped Alloria, hand to her mouth, and she realised in horror how in this savage wilderness, in the Black Pike Mountains which she had so casually underestimated, she now relied on one who, a few days earlier, would have quite happily slaughtered her. How mad was the world? How ironic? A sick sense of humour, for sure.
Vashell grasped at his sword, fingers clasping steel, and the wolf bunched for the final leap, a snarl erupting from its muzzle as its whole frame tensed and muscles writhed like snakes under fur and it leapt, and Vashell's sword came up but was knocked aside, away, down, spinning onto the rocks far far below and Vashell rammed arms and legs between himself and the beast, and its fangs snapped in his face, fetid rotting breath rolling down his throat and he screamed, the vachine screamed as clockwork gears went click and a surge of blood-oil strength powered through veins and with awesome effort he heaved, and twisted, and rolled from the ledge of the high mountain pass. The wolf was dragged into the gap by its own weight, and claws slashed wounds down Vashell's throat, jaws snapping, as it was suddenly whipped away, spinning, into oblivion. Vashell's hands snapped out, grasped rocks, but his body slid over the edge and his fingers grappled and his healing fingers cast for purchase. If he'd had his vachine claws, he would have been safe. Instead, he slid for several feet on near-vertical icy rock, his movements panicked, until his boot wedged in a narrow V, nothing more than a crevice for hardy mountain flowers. He caught his descent. He glanced down. The huge wolf spun away, silent, eyes fixed on him with that bright green gaze. And then it was gone in swathes of mist, smashes of blizzard, and Vashell struggled for a minute and wearily heaved himself back onto the frozen trail where he lay, panting.
Alloria was there, cradling his head, but Vashell pushed himself to his feet and turned to face the rest of the pack. He clenched his fists and snarled at Alloria to get back in the cave, his words almost unrecognisable as human, his head lowered for the final battle which he knew he could not win…
The wolves sat, watching him, then turned as one and disappeared into the storm.
Alloria helped Vashell into the cave, and he slumped, breathing harsh, blood running from the claw gouges in his throat. 'Let me help you,' she said, and tearing a strip of cloth from her clothing, went as if to bind the wound. Vashell caught her by the wrist, and shook his head.
'I do not need your help.'
'You are bleeding.'
'I've bled before. I'll bleed again. Listen, you want to make yourself useful, go and get the Harvester's head. They left it. Like I won a prize.' He smiled weakly, face a horror mask of scars and weeping wounds.
'I cannot.'
'You will not?'
'I cannot touch that thing. It's abhorrent!'
Vashell jacked himself to his elbows, then sighed and left the cave. He returned holding the dead head by the spinal tail, and he threw it next to the fire.
'What were you thinking? Cremation?'
'Not yet,' said Vashell, and started warming his hands. They were battered, scratched from the fight with the black wolf, and from saving himself the terrible fall. 'Look in my pack. There's some dried cat, and my hunting
