'And what do we do?'
'We do nothing,' said Jagor, forcing a smile that looked wrong on his face. 'If you draw your weapon, they will shoot you down. Let me do the talking. You have been warned.'
They cantered horses across the snow, hooves echoing dully, and in the gloom of the valley where high mountain walls – perhaps two thousand feet in height – towered over the two men and cast long dark shadows, so gradually Kell became aware of movement…
Jagor held up a hand and they halted, side by side. Along the ridges scurried small figures, and it was with surprise Kell realised they were children. But as the figures halted their scurrying, and lifted longbows and drew back bowstrings, so Kell realised with sinking horror that these were no normal children. These were Blacklipper children – which meant they had drunk, and continued to drink, the narcotic refined drug, blood-oil, the substance which the vachine needed to survive. But when it was imbibed by a human, it caused a drug high like nothing in Falanor, or even beyond the Three Oceans.
Kell watched carefully, making no move towards his weapons, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. There were perhaps fifty children in all, and each was what he knew could be described as a Deep Blood. They had drunk so much of the powerful narcotic, were so entrenched in the liquid's power and dark magick, the essence of the refined blood-oil so necessary to vachine survival – and so condemning of human flesh – that their lips were stained black, and their veins stood out across pale flesh like strands of glossy spider webs on marble skin.
Soon, Kell knew, these children would die.
Soon, they would travel what Kell knew they called the Voyage of the Soul. To an afterlife all Blacklippers believed in. To an afterworld that justified narcotic slavery.
'Throw down your weapons!' shouted one girl, no more than thirteen years old. Her hair was long and black, braided in heavy strips. She was naked to the waist, and her veins stood out like a river-system viewed from mountain crags at night. She carried an adult longbow, a weapon Kell had seen punch an arrow through a hand- thick pine door. The arrow fletch touched her cheek. As far as Kell could tell, her hand did not shake.
Slowly, Jagor and Kell complied.
'Now get off the horses and speak your names, and nothing funny, or you'll have fifty arrows through you!'
'Nice place,' muttered Kell.
'Wait till you meet the parents,' said Jagor.
'What's that?' cried the girl. 'What are you saying? Speak quickly now, or you will die!'
'You are the Watchers,' said Jagor, his voice booming out, 'and I am Jagor Mad. Your people know me well.'
'Yes,' said the girl. 'Welcome home, Jagor Mad. You may take up your weapon. Who is the man alongside you?'
'His name is Kell.'
'Kell, the Legend?' said the girl, her voice painfully neutral.
'Yes,' said Jagor, and threw Kell such a strange look the large warrior was moving before he heard the sound of the arrows. Shafts slammed all around him, peppering the snow and thudding home into his horse which reared, suddenly screaming a high-pitched horse scream, and Kell leapt for his axe, leapt for Ilanna as the charcoal gelding staggered back on hind legs, front hooves pawing the air, blood pumping from ten wounds and arrows protruding like the spikes on a spinehog. There was a devastating thump as the gelding hit the snow, a huge pool of red spreading fast around the creature and Kell's head slammed up, eyes narrowed, fixed on Jagor as he realised realised the bastard had led him into a trap…
'What did you do?' screamed Kell, and leapt forward, Ilanna in his fists and Jagor stepped backwards fast, his own sword coming up with a hiss. Ilanna swung down, and Jagor deflected the powerful blow with a grunt and a squawk.
'Nothing, Kell! Nothing! I did nothing!'
'I'll fucking eat your heart, you whoreson!' he screamed.
'Drop the axe, Kell!' shouted the girl. An arrow slammed between his boots, and Kell stared at that arrow, stared at it hard. A moment earlier, his horse's bulk had protected him. Now, he had no such protection.
Kell glanced up. 'What's to stop you peppering me like a fucking deer in the woods?' he snarled.
'I am,' came a deep, bass rumble, and from a cave which blended into the gloom of the rocky wall stepped a man bigger than any Kell had ever seen in his life.
The figure walked forward, dwarfing Kell and even Jagor. His skin was pasty and white, the black webtraces of Deep Blood veins marking him out as an addict of blood-oil; but more, his eyes were black with the oil, his lips, his nostrils, even his fingernails had been polluted by the toxin of his chosen drug. He carried a huge flange mace, matt black and nearly the size of Kell's entire torso. To be struck by such a weapon…
'And you are?' snapped Kell, slowly lowering Ilanna but keeping the beloved axe close to his body; a barrier between himself and the unknown; a last resort between Kell walking the world and walking the infinity of the Chaos Halls.
'My name is Dekkar. I am one of the Kings of the Blacklippers.'
Kell bowed his head a fraction, and lowered Ilanna. 'I knew Preyshan. I knew him well.'
'Yes. But still you must drop the axe and back away,' said Dekkar, and flexed his mighty chest. Muscles writhed like dying eels. 'I guarantee my children will not kill an unarmed man.'
Kell nodded, and Ilanna thunked to the snow. He backed away. Dekkar watched, and Jagor Mad moved forward and with an evil grin, placed his short sword – the very short sword Kell had given him – against Kell's throat.
'What's this?' said Kell, softly.
Jagor looked at Dekkar, and his grin widened. 'Do you want to tell him? Or shall I?'
Dekkar moved forward, looming over Kell. The huge flange mace lifted, and Kell saw himself reflected as smeared, dulled, featureless colours in its merciless grim finish.
'Jagor is my brother,' said Dekkar, his voice laced with irony. 'And here, Kell, your name is indeed a Legend – for all present in the Valleys of the Moon are instructed that the Prime Law is that you must die!'
CHAPTER 11
Command Sergeant Wood was having a bad morning, it had to be said. He stood in the stone tunnel, Pettrus unconscious on the floor behind him, a cold breeze blowing through with the stink of old sewers, and he watched the two vampires picking their way towards him over the twisted corpses of their brethren.
One was a girl, young, beautiful, with slender limbs and high cheekbones and curly golden hair. But her eyes were narrowed in a look of hatred and bestiality that shouldn't have resided on such a pretty child's face. Blood rimed her lips and vampire fangs.
'Shit,' muttered Wood. 'Shit!'
The second vampire was an old man, crooked and bent and moving in a twisted way, as if something was wrong with his spine. He had a white, bowl haircut, ragged and uneven, that was, perhaps, one of the worst haircuts Wood had ever seen – on mortal or vampire. Then recognition hit Wood like a mallet between the eyes.
'Langforf!' he exclaimed, stepping back, his short sword wavering in his grasp. 'Langforf, it's me, Wood! Don't you recognise me, man? We fought together in five campaigns!'
Langforf, along with his very bad haircut, growled and leapt at Wood, claws slashing for his throat. Wood stepped back fast, stumbling over Pettrus' unconscious body and hitting the ground hard on his arse with an 'oof' that would have been comedic, if it hadn't been for impending death looming over him. Langforf leapt at Wood, landing atop the soldier as if they were old lovers on a secret tryst and eager for sex. Foul breath swept over Wood, into his mouth and lungs making him choke. It was rotting meat combined with dried, old blood. Wood screamed. Claws scrabbled for him, and he grabbed Langforf's throat, bad haircut bobbing to tickle his own forehead, and they
