Myriam's invading needle.
'You know the stakes here,' said Kell, face filled with thunder. 'This is about everybody! This is about Falanor, this is about us all working together to rid the world of a dangerous menace!'
'The only dangerous menace here is you! ' hissed Jagor, and pressed his sword against Kell's throat. 'I will have my revenge for all those years spent in that fucking mine! I will spill your blood! But not yet, oh no, not yet!'
'Be silent!' roared Dekkar suddenly, and as they moved across the jagged rocks, filled in places with snow and ice except around the rim of the valley rift, where all snow had melted revealing black rocks veined with red and grey minerals, so Blacklippers streamed from distant huts and moved like a tide to meet their King.
Dekkar.
King of the Blacklippers.
Behind, many of the children followed, bows still aimed at Kell. Nobody trusted him, and he smiled a sour smile. Here, it would appear, he was a dark myth. How now would he convince these people to fight for him? How would he convince them to go to war against the Vampire Warlords? If he attacked them, he would have no chance of convincing them – for he would simply reinforce his status as enemy. And with Jagor Mad ready to stab him in the back, it looked like his luck had come head-to-head with a mountain flank.
'Hear me!' roared Dekkar, halting by the edge of the hot stinking rift in the rocky floor. Fumes hung over the great tear in the earth, and over it, near the centre, Kell squinted. He could see a bridge, a narrow span of brass filled with huge clockwork wheels and gears. Kell frowned. He had never seen anything like it in his life, except in miniature in the workings of a clock. 'Here, we have the prisoner Kell! Sworn enemy of the Blacklippers! Hunter of the Blacklippers! Raper of our women, murderer of our children, despoiler of Blacklipper flesh!'
A hush fell over the Blacklippers.
Kell met their gazes, the men, all armed with spears and swords, faces grim, shoulders stocky and proud. These were a warrior race. These were the outcasts, the criminals, the freaks and deviants of Falanor – who had taken blood-oil to relieve their pain and suffering, to find an inner peace from physical torment, instead finding social torment and a finality as outcasts; names to be revered as evil and unholy, cast away to the dark regions of the mountains where nobody would travel. Kell knew this. He had hunted enough Blacklippers in his time. Some, at least, of what they said was true.
He grinned, a sour grin.
Because that's what this came back to, that's what this came round to: his earlier escapades. As a Hunter. A Vachine Hunter, but also a killer of those who smuggled Karakan Red across the mountains; those who stole blood to feed the impure amongst the vachine.
'Shit,' he muttered, as full realisation dawned. 'They were going to kill him. There was no persuading these people. He had been a fool. An arrogant, trusting, naive fool.
'Kell! The Legend!' roared Dekkar, and an answering roar met him and Kell tried to shout over the noise but it rose like thunder and hundreds of Blacklippers swarmed at him, swamping him, and he went down under a barrage of blows, fists and sticks slamming his head and nose and cheeks and jaw. Kell hit the ground hard, and was kicked, and then the crowd surged back and Kell looked up at Dekkar, who stooped, and lifted Kell above his head.
'The Bridge!' somebody shouted.
'Yes! The Trial! The Bridge!'
'Bridge! Bridge! Bridge!' chanted the Blacklippers, and Kell, dazed, felt himself moving as if on a sea of hands and he realised he had been taken, was being carried by many, and Dekkar held Ilanna again and if only Kell could reach his axe, these bastards, he'd show them who was a fucking Legend, he'd carve himself a path so fucking bloody his name would ring like Death through a thousand fucking years of their mangled fucking history!
Kell was carried along the edge of the rift. He glanced down, and wished he hadn't.
Fumes welled up, making him choke, and his eyes were met by a pulsing deep glow of red and orange. The heat was incredible. It singed his beard and eyebrows. It made him cough and choke. For the first time in years Kell felt panic well in his chest like a striking viper. This was a bad place, an evil place; and he realised instinctively he had been condemned and he would die here. Kell gritted his teeth. If he was to die, then he would take oh so many with him…
As they grew close to the bridge so Kell realised its awesome scope and size. It was a mammoth brass contraption, not just a bridge but a machine. The whole length was a mass of cogs and wheels, gears and levers. In the centre, disappearing down into the glow, was a huge pendulum like Kell had seen in many a clock, only this was the length of twenty men and must have weighed something shocking.
They reached the point where the bridge met the rocky ground – only it didn't. There was a gap too large to jump, and Dekkar reached to a small brass pod and pulled a lever. There came a heavy clunk, a spin of cogs which transferred to others cogs and gears stepped up and down like pistons. There was a groan, and the pendulum swung and the bridge shifted, lifted, and eased onto the rocky ground with a crash and grinding of brass on rock. Kell was prodded on, hands tight behind his back, and with a grimace he realised Dekkar had used his own axe, his own damn Ilanna! Kell spat onto the brass grid beneath his boots. Dekkar would pay for that.
They moved across the brass bridge, which continually shifted and moved, rolling like a ship at anchor in a bay. Beneath his boots Kell could feel the spinning cogs, and the shift of gears. It felt like the bridge was alive.
Reaching the centre, his eyes streaming with tears from the chemical updraft, Kell saw the swing and the noose of woven brass rope. So, he was to be hanged. Again. 'Horse shit,' he muttered, and glanced back. Now, there was only Dekkar and Jagor Mad. They were both grinning at him, and Dekkar passed Ilanna to his brother.
'Do you want to kill him, brother, or shall I?'
'No, that's my job,' said Jagor. 'I owe him. Owe him bad.'
'Jagor, listen to me!' hissed Kell. 'You know the vampires are coming. You know this is insanity! We must all work together, must fight together to remove this menace! If you hang me, the Vampire Warlords – they will not vanish. And slowly, they will hunt down every living creature in Falanor. You might live another month; you might live a year. But they will come for you, and they'll either turn you into a vampire, or they'll burn your fucking soul, lad.'
'The Vampire Warlords?' said Dekkar, raising his eyebrows. 'I have heard of such creatures. They are part of Blacklipper Legend. Part of vachine folklore as scribed within the Oak Testament.'
'General Graal of the vachine flooded Silva Valley from the Granite Thrones on Helltop,' said Kell. 'He sacrificed the vachine in a mass offering of blood, to open the Paths to the Chaos Halls. The Vampire Warlords came back. Now, they are in Jalder, and Gollothrim, and Vor! They will spread, Dekkar. They will kill your people.'
Dekkar considered this. Then he smiled. 'I care nothing for the people of Falanor. Kill him!'
Jagor prodded Kell with Ilanna, drawing blood across the old warrior's forearm. Kell growled, and stepped up onto the brass ramp. Jagor climbed up behind him, and placed the brass noose about Kell's neck.
'You will die for my suffering,' he snarled.
'If you kill me,' said Kell, voice perfectly quiet, perfectly calm, 'then you condemn yourself. You condemn the people of Falanor to an eternity of slavery. You condemn your entire race of Blacklippers to vampire slavery.'
'You think one old man is so important?'
'No. But I know that I can make a difference. If I can get close enough to the Vampire Warlords, I will kill them.'
'Ha! I'll do it myself!' snapped Jagor Mad. 'Now step off the ramp, old man, lest I use this pretty axe to open your skull!'
Kell turned his back on Jagor, and took a deep breath. A million thoughts rushed through his mind. His misplaced trust in this, a convicted killer. Saark's training of the army. Nienna, sweet Nienna. Sara, snarling and hissing, spitting and cursing. And then back, back through the days and weeks and months, back through Myriam and the Soul Stealers, the fights on Helltop, scrapping on the dangerous ridges of the Black Pike Mountains with snarling cankers and creatures of the dark, the vachine and the vampires, the cursed and the unholy. Back back back, and one face kept returning to his mind and if Kell had to blame one man, then that one man would be Graal. General Graal. He had it coming. He had a hard death coming. But Kell would not be the man to see it through.
Kell thought about Ehlana.
He remembered the Crooked Oak, the sunshine, the flowers in her hair and tears were in his eyes, on his
