great pain to utter. But it was a gift the canker treasured, for not all could speak through corrupted clockwork and fangs.
Graal walked down one flank, observing the open wounds, the twisted, blackened clockwork, the bent gears and pistons. He smiled, a tight smile. To Graal, more than any other albino or vachine in existence, these creatures were abomination. But like a good craftsman, he used his tools well – with Watchmaker precision. No matter the extent of his personal abhorrence.
'You followed Kell's scent? And the stench of the wounded popinjay?'
'Yes.'
'And yet… you claim you lost them. In the maze of streets and alleyways?'
'Yes, General Graal. There much dark magick in Old Skulkra. Much we not understand. Much left over from… the Other Time.'
'You are lying,' said Graal.
There followed an uneasy silence, in which the huge, panting canker glared down at General Graal. Its mouth opened wider with tiny brass clicks, almost like the winding of a ratchet, and the small hate-filled eyes narrowed, fixed on Graal, fixed on his throat.
'I obey my Masters,' said the canker carefully, 'for only then do I get the blood-oil I require.' The panting increased. Graal noted, almost subliminally, that the canker's claws were sliding free, silent, well-oiled, like razors in grease.
'My brother became a canker,' said Graal, brightly, moving away from the huge beast. 'For years I tried to stop it happening, tried to halt the inexorable progress of an all-conquering corruption. But I could not do it. I could not stop Nature. For days, nights, weeks, we sat there discussing the possibilities, of regression, of introducing fresh clockwork, of forceful medical excision. And yet I knew, I always fucking knew,' Graal turned, fixing his glittering blue gaze on the huge beast, 'when he was lying.' Graal smiled, a narrow compression of lips. 'I cannot tell you,' snarled the canker. 'You would never believe!'
'You will tell me,' said Graal, voice soft, 'or I will slaughter you where you stand.'
'They will curse me!' howled the canker, voice suddenly filled with pain, and fear, and shock. ' Who?'
'The Denizens of Ankarok,' snarled Nesh, and launched itself with dazzling speed at Graal, claws free, fangs bright and gleaming with gold and brass, savage snarls erupting in a frenzy of sudden violence as claws slashed for Graal's head and the General, apparently frozen to the spot for long moments, moved with a swift, calculated precision, stepping forward and ducking wild claw swings until he was inches from the snarling frenzy of bestial deviant vachine, and his slender sword plunged into the canker, plunged deep and Graal stepped away from slashing, thrashing claws, almost like a dancer twirling away with a stutter of complex steps. Graal dropped to one knee, and waited. Nesh, in a frenzy of pain and hate, suddenly decelerated and its eyes met Graal's as realisation dawned. 'You have killed me,' it coughed, and blood poured from its mouth. It slumped to the ground, more bloodoil flowing from its throat, and its body slapped the damp hillside. It grunted, and there came the sounds of seizing clockwork. Finally, the internal mechanical whirrings died… and with a twitch, the canker died with them.
Graal stood, and pulling free a white cloth, cleaned his narrow black blade. The single cut had disabled the canker more efficiently than a full platoon of armed albino soldiers. His technique was precise, and deadly. He turned, and his eyes were narrowed, his face ash. The Harvester was watching him closely, almost with interest. 'So, the Denizens of Ankarok aided Kell? I find that… improbable,' he said, voice little more than a whisper.
'I also,' snapped Graal, sheathing his sword. 'Especially considering the Vampire Warlords slaughtered them to extinction nearly a thousand years ago!'
CHAPTER 2
A Taste of Desolation
It took Kell and Saark hours to work their way through the narrow tunnels set within the tower block's walls. Despite Kell being broad and bulky, and Saark of a more graceful and athletic persuasion, it was Saark who really suffered – from a psychological perspective. At one point, in a tight space, surrounded by gloom and ancient stone dust that made them cough, Kell paused, Skanda in the distance ahead and below him, climbing over a series of ancient lead pipes as Kell watched; he turned, and stared hard at Saark. Saark said nothing, but a sheen of sweat coated his face, and his eyes were haunted.
'The wound troubling you, lad?' Kell was referring to the stab wound Saark suffered at the hands of Myriam – Myriam, cancer-riddled outcast, thief and vagabond, who had poisoned Kell and kidnapped his granddaughter Nienna with the aim of blackmailing him into travelling north and showing her a route through the Black Pike Mountains. So far, her scheme was working well. And so far, her brass-needle injected poison was failing to worry Kell, for he had more immediate problems; but he knew this situation would soon change. When the poison started to bite.
'Aye,' said Saark, pausing and wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He left grey streaks across his handsome, indeed, beautiful, features – or they would have been, if he hadn't recently suffered a beating. Still, even with a swollen face he had classical good looks, and once his long, curled, dark hair was washed, and groomed and oiled, and he slipped into some fine silk vests and velvet trews, he would be a new man. Saark touched his side tenderly; Kell's makeshift stitches and tight bandage fashioned from a shirt from a dead albino warrior was as good a battlefield dressing as Saark was going to get. 'It's eating me like acid.'
'You should be glad she didn't stab you in the belly,' grunted Kell, and looked off, behind Saark, to steep passages inside the wall through which they travelled. 'Then you'd really be suffering, squealing like a spearstuck pig long into the night.'
Saark gave a sour grin. 'Thanks for that advice. Helpful.'
'Don't mention it.'
'That was sarcasm.'
'I know.'
Saark stared at Kell. 'Has anybody ever told you, you're an incorrigible old fart? In fact, worse than a fart, for a fart's stench soon wavers and dissipates; you do not dissipate. Kell, you are the cancerous wart on a whore's diseased quim lips.'
Kell shrugged. 'Ha, I get abused all the time – only not with your royal-court eloquence. But then,' he grinned, showing teeth stained with age, 'I reckon we walk in different social circles, lad.'
'Yes,' agreed Saark. 'Mine is one of rich honey wine, clean and succulent women, fine soft silks, the choicest cuts of meat, and gems so sparkling they make your eyes burn.'
Kell considered this. He looked around at the dust, the grime, the slime, and the stink of ancient, rotten piping. 'I don't see any of that here,' he said, voice level. He reached forward, and patted Saark on the shoulder. 'Don't worry. We'll be out soon.' 'I'm not worried,' said Saark, through gritted teeth. Kell closed his mouth on his next comment; Saark was a proud man, beaten down often in the last few days. What he didn't need was Kell pointing out his obvious claustrophobia. As Kell knew, all men had a secret fear. His? He chuckled to himself. His was the very axe which protected and yet cursed him. Ilanna. His bloodbond. They moved on, and realised they had lost Skanda in the gloom. They reached a collage of twisted piping, ancient, slime-covered, and after climbing the obstacle, their shoulders barely able to squeeze through the narrow horizontal aperture, they came to a ladder of iron. Kell paused, boots scuffing the edge of what appeared a vast drop. The aperture, between two walls, was barely wide enough for them to descend; add into the equation a wobbling, unsecured ladder, and the descent promised to be particularly treacherous.
'Shall I go first?' said Kell, staring into Saark's open fear.
'Yes. I wouldn't like your pig-lard arse dropping on my head from above. That sort of thing can genuinely ruin a man's day.'
'Let's hope I don't get stuck, then.' Kell eased himself over the dusty stone, the descent lit by cracks and occasional gaps in the walls; outside, he could see it was growing dark. Kell wondered if the cankers were still waiting. Damn them, he thought. Damn then to Drennach!
