Saark looked down on the city. 'Kell. There's an awful lot of them out, now. Thousands of them.'
'Good. We'll have plenty of targets then, won't we?'
'Don't you think the odds are against us?'
'Lad, the odds are always against us. From birth to death, life is just one whole shit of a bitch.'
'I meant here, and now.'
'I know what you meant.' Kell's eyes gleamed. 'You remember what I said? About protecting Nienna?'
'In some ways I'm relieved I'm not coming with you,' said Saark.
Kell's hand smashed out, and stroked Saark's cheek. He grinned, like a demon in the moonlight. 'Look after her, vachine. You're strong, fast, deadly. Nobody else can keep her alive like you.'
Saark nodded. 'What about Myriam?'
'Myriam? Why, she's coming with me, lad.'
The outcast men of Falanor, the Blacklippers and thieves, rapists and murderers, extortionists and freaks, kidnappers and maniacs, the cast out and the depraved and the downright psychotic, assembled in tight military units, eyes gleaming, shields on arms, steel collars fixed around throats, swords oiled and sharpened, boot laces tightened and jaws grim with the prospect of death and mutilation as they considered the enemy – their numbers, and their ferocity.
'Let's move,' said Grak, and they marched through the darkness, through the trees and over low hills, boots tramping snow and ice and mud. They found the main arterial route which ran from the Great North Road to Port of Gollothrim, and picked it up like casual syphilis, emerging from the trees like armed and armoured ghosts, eyes hot jewels, lips wet, anticipation and hatred building like a slow-boiled rage.
The armoured units approached Port of Gollothrim.
It began to snow, a heavy snow obscuring their vision.
Boots touched down on slick iced cobbles. Cold hands grasped weapons in readiness.
In the darkness, Kell and Myriam slipped away…
'Steady, lads,' said Grak, voice a low rumble. The twenty-four men around him shifted uneasily in their steel cage. Behind, other units were ready. Then the fighting began…
From the gloom and snow the vampires attacked. With squeals of rage they launched at the armoured unit, and spears jabbed out, impaling vampires through hearts and throats. Grak caught a flash of fangs, and claws slid between shields. He slashed down with his sword, cutting off fingers which tumbled below pushing, tramping boots. A fanged face leered at him, hissing, spitting, and in what seemed like slow motion Grak slid his short sword into that mouth, watched the blade cut a wide smile and jab further in, into the brain, killing the vampire dead. Smoke hissed black from nostrils and it thrashed on his blade. Grak pulled back, and heard a clang from above. A vampire, on their roof of shields. He shoved his blade up, skewering a groin. More vampires slammed into the armoured unit, and swords and spears jabbed and slashed and it was chaos, but an organised chaos, madness, but controlled madness. It was a surreal world, a blood-red snow-filled insanity. All around men were fighting, grunting, pushing. Claws slashed through to Grak's left and tore off a man's face with a neat flick of the wrist. Grak saw eyes popping out on stalks, a horror of gristle and spasmodic working jaws. The man screamed blood. Grak cut the vampire's hand clean off with a short hack, then roared in anger and burst from the cage of shields and grabbed the creature, but it was strong, so fucking strong, and they wrestled and Grak was slammed backwards onto the cobbles, and the thing with only one hand squirmed like a thick eel above him. A spear suddenly appeared in an explosion of black blood, drenching Grak. The spear point was a hair's breadth from his face. The vampire corpse slid sideways, like an excised cancerous bowel. Dekkar grinned, and held out his hand.
'You fighting it, or fucking it, lad?' he growled.
Grak grinned, and glanced around. The wide street was empty, save for armoured units and vampire corpses. 'We beat them off?'
'For now. For a minute.'
The units reformed themselves. In Grak's square they had lost four men. Grak stared down at their bodies, mouth a grim line, eyes glittering jewels. He realised, with desolate horror, that they could not win this day. How many were there? How many? They couldn't kill them all.
'I know what you're thinking,' rumbled the Blacklipper King, and slapped him on the back. 'And the answer is – we must try.'
Grak gave a nod.
'The bastards are coming back,' snarled a soldier.
And through the darkness, and the falling snow, squeals and cries and giggles reverberated from walls. The noise built and built and built, until it seemed the whole world was full of vampires. Shadows cast across walls, from rooftops above, from alleyways and streets and the darkened interiors of tall regal town houses.
'Holy Mother,' whispered Grak, as around him his unit looked up, around, back to back, weapons wavering uncertainly.
And they came, boots thumping in quick succession with a sound like thunder. They came, like a cancerous flood, hundreds and hundreds of vampires sprinting and leaping and cavorting from the darkness…
Command Sergeant Wood sat on the roof of the Green Church, down by the docks, and watched the old soldiers from the Black Barracks creeping into position. Old they might be, but they moved with skill and practice earned over a lifetime of fighting. They may be old, but each would hold his own in a barroom brawl. Each would fight to the death. And Wood could ask for no more.
Fat Bill crouched next to him on one side, and Pettrus on the other. Both men looked grim, faces sour like they were sucking lemons. Wood gripped his sword tight, and blinked. The old soldiers had disappeared. Their skills at hiding were second to none.
'There,' said Fat Bill, pointing into the darkness. It had started to snow, and everything more than ten feet away was hazy and surreal. A perfect Holy Oak painting. A perfect festival, a time to relax, to put out holly on the doorstep and presents in wooden crates before the fire delivered by Old Crake and his Wraith Keepers. But not now. Not here. Those times were long gone. After all, children had little to laugh about in Port of Gollothrim now the vampires had taken over…
'What am I looking at?' said Wood, careful to keep his voice low.
'The docks.'
'So?'
'What's most precious to the vampires? The ships, I reckon. They're beavering away like their lives depend on it. Building a fleet. Take their vermin plague to warmer climates, I reckon.'
'But that's good for us,' said Wood. 'If they clear off and leave us in peace.'
'We both know that will never happen,' said Pettrus, darkly. 'I agree with Fat Bill. We need to torch these bastards. Hit them where it hurts. We haven't enough men to take them on in battle; but by the Bone Lords, we can stick a knife in their ribs whenever we get the chance.'
'Most of the lads are carrying oil flasks,' said Fat Bill with a fat grin. 'I think it's time we turned the night into day.'
Wood gave a nod, mouth dry, and stood as Fat Bill and Pettrus stood. There came a slap on stone behind them, and Wood turned fast, past a blur which made him blink, stepping back, knocking into Fat Bill as his sword flickered up. The blur was a vampire, and her flying kick slammed into Pettrus' chest, making him grunt, stumble back, hit the Green Church's crenallated roof and flip over. There was a hiatus as the vampire hit the ground and rose smoothly.
Then a slap and crack as Pettrus hit the cobbles far below.
Wood wanted to scream, to rush to the edge and look, but a deep sickly feeling raged through his guts and he knew, knew his friend and mentor was dead and in a moment, he'd be dead too. The female vampire was smiling, and Wood felt a lurch of fear riot through him. It was Lorna, Bhu Vanesh's bitch, the vampire he'd thrown from the high tower roof, watched her break on the ground below, squirming and squealing like a kitten after a hammer blow. But she was here. Alive. And strong.
'Remember me?' she snarled, glossy crimson black eyes bright with hatred. She moved left, and Wood's blade wavered. Then right, and his sword slashed before her face by mere inches.
'I remember watching you break your pretty little spine,' he said, eyes fixed on the petite blonde. She was pretty, slim, but she had changed from the woman he had once known. The skin of her face and hands looked stretched, almost fake, as if she wore a mask. Her hair, once a luscious blonde pelt, was now stringy like wire. She
