share of the fight as well. Agreed, Saark?'
'Point taken. Twenty minutes, you say?'
'Good man! Go knock 'em out.'
And for the first time in what felt like years, Kell focused on one thing and one thing only. Gorging himself on a fine fried breakfast. He tried hard to shut out the shouts, laughter and whistles as Saark moved gaily through the old prison grounds, but could not help himself. Kell grinned like a lunatic.
The armourers were a bunch of huge, heavily muscled men – numbering perhaps forty in total, with one single exception. A small, weedy looking man standing almost swallowed by the wall of blackened, bulging flesh. They wore the universal uniform of smithies the world over: colourless leather pants, heavy work boots, and most went bare-chested, a few with leather aprons. The small man was the only one smiling.
'Look at him,' nodded Saark, and nudged Kell in the ribs with his elbow. 'Stands out like a flower on a bucket of turds.'
'I'd keep your voice down if I was you,' said Kell. 'Smithies are not known for their fine tempers and happy chatter. You liken them to horse-shit, next minute you'll be trampled in it, mate.'
'Point taken. Point taken.'
'Right, lads,' said Kell, standing with huge hands on hips. 'You all know what's happening here, so I reckon I'll cut to the shit. We'll be going into battle. All the men here will be fighting men, and they'll need weapons, light armour, and shields.'
'Won't we move faster without armour and shields?'
'Ha. Maybe. But we certainly won't live as long against… them. Now, I know you have great stores of iron and steel here in the mines. Have you any gold?'
The small man lifted his hand. 'I believe there are several bags of coin in Governor Myrtax's underground vault. He kept a certain mint for King Leanoric. We found some large lodes down in the mines, you see. Way deep down, in the dark, where fear of collapse is greatest.'
'Good. Good.' Kell scratched his chin. 'We'll need that to pay the lads. But with regards warfare, this is what I need. Short stabbing swords for close combat. Maybe only,' he parted his hands, 'this long. I want round shields with rimmed edges, so they can be hooked together, locked together to repel a charge. I need long heavy spears, maybe twice as heavy as you'd normally make, and arrows – I want iron shafts with slim heads.'
'They'll be heavy for the archers to fire,' said a big man, with thunderous brows, shoulders like an ox, and a certain distinct look of eagles about him.
'Yes,' nodded Kell, 'but they'll also have a lot more impact. And believe me, we'll need that for these vampire bastards. They'll take some killing, if they're anything like their dirty, blood-sucking vachine brethren.'
'Steady on, Kell,' said Saark, sounding a little injured.
'Just telling it how it is.'
'The men who came in last night,' said the large smith. 'They said three vampires wiped out near forty of their friends. They managed to kill one, and after a long struggle they captured the other two. That means these creatures are pretty brutal, if you ask me.'
Kell nodded. 'They're brutal, I reckon. But they also prey on naivety. If we know what we're fighting, and we know how to kill 'em, and we have some protection – I reckon we can take the fight to them. Another thing we need,' he looked around to check he wasn't overheard, 'we need steel collars.'
'Like a dog collar?'
'Aye. Only these stop the bastards getting their fangs in your throat. You understand?'
'How thick do you want them?'
'About half a thumb-length.'
'They'll be uncomfortable. Chafing, like.'
'Not as uncomfortable as having your throat torn out and strewn across Valantrium Moor.'
'I take your point. Although I'm not sure the men will wear them.'
'They will. And those that won't, when they see a friend spewing blood they'll soon change their minds.'
'What's the best way to kill these vampires?' asked the small man.
Kell jabbed his thumb towards Saark. 'Lads. This is Saark. He's an, er, an expert on the vachine, and indeed, that makes him more of an expert on the Vampire Warlords than any of us could ever be. Any more questions about killin' 'em, ask Saark here. I know he looks like an accident in a tart's parlour, but he knows his stuff. I'm off, I need to speak to my daughter.'
' Kell! ' snapped Saark, frowning.
'What is it, lad?'
'You're leaving me here? With these?'
'Hey, you chose to dress like a sweat-slippery whore in a disreputable tavern.' Kell grinned, and slapped Saark on the back. 'Don't worry, lad! If they bugger you rancid, I'll hear the screams and come running to your rescue!'
'Kell!'
'Just remember, some of these blokes have been locked up for years without a quim as tasty as yours.'
'Kell, my entire sense of humour has gone!'
'Good. Because now is not the time for jokes; now is the time for killing. Tell them what you know, and tell them well. One day soon, our lives will rest on these men.'
Saark swallowed, and turned, and looked at the forty hefty labourers with dark eyes under dark brows. A cold wind howled down from the mountains, and from the corner of his eye Saark observed Kell stride away. What a bastard. A bastard's bastard.
One of the smiths stepped forward. His two front teeth were missing, and his forearms were as wide as Saark's thighs. 'Is that really a pink silk shirt you're wearing, boy?' he rumbled, voice so deep it was like an earthquake beneath the Black Pikes.
Saark drew his rapier. He smiled. 'Gentlemen. Allow me to begin your education,' he said.
• • • •
As Kell strode across the rocky earth towards the cells built into the mountainside, Governor Myrtax joined him, jogging a little to keep up with Kell's warrior stride.
'They will work for you?'
'Aye,' said Kell. He stopped, and looked across to the smaller man. 'I want you to oversee production. I want as many labourers as possible helping make armour and weapons and shields. When we go into battle, each man must have the best, for the fight will be savage indeed.'
'Do you think we can win?'
Kell looked Myrtax straight in the eye. 'No,' he said.
'Then why fight?'
'Why indeed.'
'This is insane, Kell! Madness! You say these Vampire Warlords are all-powerful. I saw those vampires the men from Jalder brought in; and they killed forty people! We cannot stand against such odds.'
'But it matters that we stand,' said Kell, his voice low. 'Now tell me, what did you do with Jagor Mad?'
Myrtax pointed. 'He's in those cells over there. With the other bastard so-called Governors. Why? Are you going to kill him?' There was a strange gleam in Myrtax's eye that Kell did not like. Kell grimaced.
'No. I need his help.'
'His… help?' Myrtax's voice had gone up several octaves. 'He'll not help you, Kell, unless it's to throw you in the furnace. He hates you with every ounce of his flesh.'
'We'll see. First, I'm going to see my daughter.'
'I'll come with you.'
Kell stopped again, and turned. 'No, Governor. Go to Saark. Help him organise the smiths. Saark is a canny lad, but he's little experience with metallurgy – or indeed, the instruction of people. Especially men. He tends to rile them the wrong way, admittedly by trying to sleep with their wives and virgin daughters, but still. Go. Help me, Myrtax. I cannot do this alone.'
The Governor nodded, and hurried off, one hand on his robust and well-fed belly.
Kell continued to walk, glancing up at the skies, a huge pastel canvas of white, ochre and deep slate. Distant,
