which slumbered for a few moments after the canker's passage and then suddenly, erratically, ignited. Fire roared along the surface of the oil pools, overtaking the canker and licking at the heels of Kell and Saark, sweating now, eyes alive with the orange glow of roaring demons, and they ran with every burst of speed and energy they possessed as heat billowed around them and sparks exploded and the roar and surge of fire was something both men had never before experienced… 'We're going to die!' screamed Saark.
CHAPTER 11
Fortress of Ghosts
Kell ran on, and did not reply to Saark's panic, just heaved his bulk along flexing planks with fire at his boots, a stench of burning chemicals filling his nostrils and smoke blinding him. He choked, gagged, and the fire overtook the two men who ran on blindly, across yet another narrow plank into darkness and smoke and behind them the roar of fire drowned the roar and screeches of the burning canker and suddenly both men slammed into the welcome icecold night air, flames belching from the orifice behind as they hit the snow and rolled down a gentle slope to finally slide together, turning slowly on ice, to a stop, Kell's great bearskin jerkin glowing and smouldering.
The two men coughed and choked for a while, entwined like scorched lovers, then untangled themselves from one another. Kell staggered to his feet and hefted his axe, staring up at the factory doorway, brows furrowed, fire- blackened face focussed in concentration as his eyes narrowed and he readied himself in a centuries-old battle- stance.
'Surely not?' whispered Saark, climbing to his feet and spitting black phlegm to the snow. His fine clothes were blackened, scorched tatters. Beneath, his flesh was burn-pink in places. He patted his head, when he suddenly realised his hair was on fire.
Kell did not reply. Just stood, staring at the doorway where an inferno raged. And then something moved, a huge cumbersome ill-defined shape within the shimmering portal, a demon dancing in the fire, an image of molten rock against the stage of a raging inferno, and Saark thought he saw the shape of the canker, of his twisted childhood sweetheart, of Aline, stagger within the opening and then slump down, clockwork machines glowing as they finally succumbed to the heat and ran in molten streams. Then the roof of the factory belched and slumped, and with a great groaning roar it collapsed bringing part of the walls down with it, and burning rubble filled the doorway and all was gone and still, except for the bright fire, and the demons.
'How could Graal do that?' whispered Saark, eyes still fixed on the blaze. All around the factory, snowsteam hissed like volcanic geysers.
Kell stared at him.
'To a woman, I mean,' said the scorched dandy.
'Graal will do what he has to. To get the job done.'
'I want his head on a fucking plate,' snarled Saark, suddenly. 'I want that man dead.'
Kell gave a curt nod, and turned his back on the inferno. 'We all want him dead, lad.' He sighed, then. And gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour. 'But at least he's showed us one thing.'
'And what's that?'
Kell's face was a dark mask, his eyes pools of ink. Unreadable. 'He thinks we're a threat. He went to a lot of trouble to bring us in. And that means we are a danger not just to Graal, but to the whole damn vachine invasion. And… I think we have something he wants. Ilanna, maybe? I do not know. But we will find out, I promise you that.' Kell began to walk, back towards the stables. It was time to leave. It was time to leave Kettleskull Creek fast.
Saark stood, stunned, watching Kell's back.
Fire crackled, and sparks spiralled up into a clear and frozen night sky.
Kell turned. Grinned a sour, twisted grin. So much for a warm, soft bed! 'Come on, lad. What're you waiting for? We have to make General Graal earn his coin. And he'll have to move faster than that to catch us.'
In silence, and with sombre heart, Saark followed Kell into the night.
It was a day later, and darkness was spreading fast, a vast jagged purple shroud easing out from the towering blocks of the Black Pike Mountains, questing knifeblades stealing into the real world like a disease spreading from its host. Kell reined in his horse, and climbed stiffly from the saddle. The pain from the poison was with him again, in his blood, in his bones, and he grinned with skull teeth. At least this fresh agony took away the lesser evils of arthritis and torn muscles from battle. At least it focused him – focused him – on impending death.
Nobody lives forever, old man, he thought to himself. And I wouldn't want to! But by the gods, it would be sweet to taste life long enough to see the bastard Graal dead and buried.
Saark's boots hit the frozen ground, and he rubbed his eyes. 'I ache like a dog in a fighting pit.'
'You look just as rough.'
'Thanks, old friend.'
'If I was your friend, I'd hang myself.'
'You're a regular old charmer, Kell.'
'There she is.' He pointed, and Saark took in the majestic sweep of the mountains, an endless block of vast peaks, sheer and violent and ragged. Cold wind and snowstorms swept down from the Pikes, as if it was some epicentre for gratuitous weather and intent on inflicting misery across the civilised world.
'They're just so… big!' said Saark, eyes once more sweeping the mammoth portrait before him. It was an oil painting, a violence of blacks and greys, purples and reds. 'And beautiful,' he added, voice touched with awe. 'Totally beautiful.'
'You ever been here before?'
'Once, in my younger days. Alas, I believe I was pretty much drunk for the entire trip. And I rode it in a fine brass carriage with two women of, shall we say, dishonourable disposition. One had a poodle dog. What tricks that yapping snapping little canine could conjure!'
Kell snorted, and started over the hillside. Rocks lay strewn everywhere, building in intensity as the ground rose towards the vastness of the sky-blocking Pikes. Saark followed, still talking.
'One of the women, a ripe peach named Guinevere, had a neat trick whereby she would take a long, thin block of cheese, and upon removing her corset…'
'Stop.' Kell turned. 'There's the fortress.'
'Cailleach?' Saark gave a tiny shudder. He glanced around, at the fast-falling gloom. The wind howled in the distance like slaughtered wolves. 'Hadn't we better wait till morning?'
'No. We're going in. Now.'
'It's turned dark,' warned Saark.
'I'm the worst fucking thing in the dark,' snapped Kell.
'I'm sure you are, old boy. But my point is, the rumours state this place is, ahh, haunted. And correct me if I'm wrong, but more specifically, haunted at night. Yes?'
Kell chuckled. 'I thought you were a modern hedonist? I didn't think you'd believe in ghosts.'
'Well, yes, I don't, but when you hear so many fireside tales…'
'Popinjays drunk on watered wine,' snapped Kell, and surged forward, allowing his horse to pick a trail through the rocks. Muttering, Saark followed at a reasonable distance, telling himself that if wild beasts or haunted things attacked, then at least it would take them time to consume the bulk that was Kell, thus giving him time to flee.
As the hill dropped to a flat plain, so the rocks became not just more intense in their regularity, but larger, more ominous. Many were smoothed by centuries of weathering, and bands of precious minerals ran through many a cottage-sized cube.
The hugeness of the subtly twisted fortress came ever closer, and as darkness fell through the sky, so Kell ran his gaze over the dark stones, the cracks, the jigged walls and battlements. Above the battlements, leading back to the keep and the rocky valley beyond, which the fortress seemed in some way to protect, stood several slightly leaning, slightly twisted towers. Most had no roof, just great blocks which had shifted and settled, to give
