Nienna had appeared at the gates, rubbing at tired eyes, yawning. She padded to Saark's side and touched his arm lightly. He smiled down at her, and said, 'You not sleep?'
'What, with you all making a racket out here? What's going on?'
'They caught some vampires.'
'Oh.'
Kell glanced up at Nienna. 'Stand way back. These are vicious, especially if they've been tied down for a while. You don't know what they might do.'
'Are you sure you know what you're doing, Kell?' Myrtax had gone deathly pale. Saark had drawn his rapier, and Grak held a short stabbing sword in one meaty fist.
Kell shrugged, and threw back the tarpaulin. On the cart lay two beautiful women of middle-years, their hair glowing and glossy, their skin pale white and as richly carved as finest porcelain. They were tied up tight with rope and field-wire, and they moved lethargically as they glanced up, struggling to move. Kell saw the rope which bound them had been nailed to the cart. Their yellow, feral eyes fell on Kell and one hissed, but the other, the more elegant of the two, stared hard at him and rolled to her knees, elegant despite the bindings. She licked her lips and Kell swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, hands clammy on Ilanna. Fear sucked at him, sucked out his courage and almost his sanity.
'No,' he whispered.
'You! Bastard!' hissed the vampire.
'What is it?' snapped Saark, running forward and clutching Kell's huge iron bicep, and he realised too late Nienna was with him, and her run was pulled up short by the clamp of Kell's fist.
The vampire laughed, eyes glittering, snow settling gently on her long dark hair and smooth black dress. She stood, and stared down at them, tugging gently at her bindings, and Nienna fell to her knees in the snow, weeping and staring up.
'What's going on? ' snarled Saark, feeling the panic of the situation rising.
'Saark, meet Sara,' growled Kell, grimly, his eyes never leaving the yellow slits of the tall vampire. 'My daughter. Nienna's mother.'
CHAPTER 9
For a while, Kuradek the Unholy spent his days recovering, basking like a lizard on a rock. The journey from the Chaos Halls had been a long, hard journey, fraught with peril and indeed, filled with violent bursts of fighting simply to survive… even for one as savage as Kuradek.
Kuradek turned several humans into slaves and they brought him meat, and fresh blood, the near-dead bodies of children and babes on which he could gorge until full, until bloated. He would lie, in the Blue Palace, on a couch of silk, his skin smoking and squirming with evil religion, and his hatred was palpable, like a haze of ocean fog, and his red eyes surveyed the turned and he smiled with crooked smoke fangs.
Slowly, Kuradek fed, and he recovered his strength, and thought long and hard. He brooded. He remembered a time, the time of the vachine and he spat out black lumps of smoking phlegm with rage. He reached down and tore off a baby's arm, ignoring the dead blue eyes which stared up from a bloodied pile of infant corpses. He chewed on the fingers for a while, and having gnawed to the bones, moved up to the wrist, sucking at the bone marrow and picking strips of flesh clean with his fangs.
The vachine!
Bastards!
He remembered like yesterday their magick, how they had taken control from the Vampire Warlords by their deceit, them, the slaves he had allowed to live! And even the sacrifice of Silva Valley did little to cheer Kuradek, even the death of so many vachine did little to satiate his lust for revenge. For Kuradek knew, knew they had expanded north, past the Black Pike Mountains, and there were hundreds of thousands still remaining, still breathing air, still breeding human cattle and mixing their blood with foul oil-magick. They were impure, the vachine; they were deviants of the vampire. They were an outcast race. They were a clock work race, and Kuradek would not have it! His eyes glowed, and his long arms flexed, talons dropping to shriek against stone with an array of sparks. No.
Kuradek would make the vachine pay.
One day.
All of them…
Slowly, Kuradek rose from his bloated slumber and blinked lazily. He stepped up to the high window in the west tower of the Blue Palace, and stared out across the blackness of Jalder. No fires burned, now, and a cold ice wind blew across what appeared a deserted city. And yet… yet he could smell those who still lived, could smell the blood in their veins, hear the pumping of their hearts like discordant music, off-key notes, a poisoned orchestra. Kuradek breathed deep, and leapt from the high tower window, landing and cracking the ancient stone flags of the courtyard. A group of the turned scattered in shock, then fixed eyes on their master and returned slowly, smiles on pale faces lit by the moon.
Kuradek hissed, and gestured the slaves back, then he moved, running through the darkened streets, moving with awesome speed across snow and ice, talons gripping with surety, smoke-trailing head weaving from side to side as he sniffed, as he hunted… he reached a cottage, skidded on ice, kicked the door across the room in an explosion of splinters and stood in the centre of the space. One talon smashed down through floorboards, and the whole room seemed to erupt in violence as screams rent the air and Kuradek leapt down into the hidden cellar where eight people hid, and swords struck at him but seemed to slow through his smoke-filled, symbol-tattooed body then emerge from the other side without harming the Warlord. His talons lashed out, punching holes through men's chests. He grabbed a woman, and his long limbs pulled apart and both her arms came off at the shoulders spewing blood and leaving her screaming, her blood describing fountains across the walls. Kuradek loomed over a four year-old girl with curly brown hair, brown eyes looking up at him in awe and shock and wonderment. He reached down, and with a quick bite, removed her head, swallowing it whole.
Kuradek lifted his smoky muzzle and… howled, howled at the city, at the moon, at the stars, at his tortured past, at his escape from the Chaos Halls, at the bastard vachine and their curse and imprisonment, but most of all, Kuradek howled with enjoyment and hatred and rage and impotent fury and the joy, the pure acid joy of the hunt.
Throughout Jalder, Kuradek's howls and screams seemed to stimulate the turned vampires into action. They rampaged through the streets, breaking into houses, searching through attics and cellars, finding more hidden humans and either drinking their blood and leaving drained corpses, or as they had been instructed, turning them into yet more vampires. Into Kuradek's Legion.
For Kuradek knew.
Falanor was full to the brim with human offal. And they would bring the fight to him. They always did. It was their nature. But he would crush them. Unlike a thousand years ago, when the vachine turned on their masters, this time Kuradek and the Vampire Warlords would be ready…
As the hours passed, and day turned to night turned to day, so Falanor fell under the spread of the vampire. And unlike the vachine before them, who had sought simple extermination for blood-oil magick, and for sacrifice, the Vampire Warlords sought slaves, sought an army of the impure. For that way, they could expand. That way, they could create Dominion.
In Vor, Meshwar the Violent uncurled like a snake and stood tall, stretching, smoke curling from the corners of his mouth. His blood eyes dropped to survey the slaves before him, and he strode down the once pure regal steps of King Leanoric's beautiful Rose Palace, and stared out through huge iron gates, out over the destruction and desolation of Vor, Falanor's capital city.
Smoke curled along midnight streets, swirling about the feet of many slave vampires bearing the mark of Meshwar. He grinned, a smoke grin of tightly reined insanity, and surveyed his handiwork. He was not called The Violent for no reason…
