May I be of service?"
"Mount up. There's work to be done."
"Slaughter?" Graal's eyes twinkled.
"Is there any other kind?"
Graal sat, watching the Refineries, the dripping pipes, listening to the churn of clockwork machinery. All gone, he thought. Long dead, and gone. Just like his mother, the queen, and his father, the king. Killed. Murdered! Slaughtered like human cattle. Graal's lips drew back, making his face incredibly ugly, a baring of the vampire within him, trapped within his now weak flesh, the flesh of the combination, the pathetic shell of the vachine.
We will be free again, he nodded.
We will be free.
He stood, and stretched his back, and rolled his neck, and gazed around. Behind him, the war camp was running smoothly; the albino soldiers ran like – he laughed, a little – like clockwork. They cooked and cleaned, oiled weapons and armour, sharpened blades, tended to prisoners and the cankers; they needed very little organisation from Graal, for they were like insects, workers in the hive, busy with their own little jobs and all part of the Great Wheel.
Graal turned back to the Refineries and waited, patiently, until in the blink of an eye the Harvesters oozed from metal walls, pulling free as if from a thick liquid. They moved before Graal, a triumvirate of consummate evil. Graal smiled. Evil was something he could work with.
"It is complete?"
"As you wish. The blood-oil is refined. Do you not feel the rise in energy? The surge of usable power?"
"No. It will come to me later, in the dark hours."
The Harvesters reared up, long fingers of bone stretching out, and to an onlooker if would have appeared – for just an instant – as if the Harvesters were about to attack Graal, slice his head from his shoulders, peel the skin from his vachine bones. But they did not. They prostrated before him in a low bow, faces pressing the earth in an almost unprecedented show, and one they would certainly never have replicated before any other vachine. The Harvesters accepted Graal as Master. He smiled, controlling his urges of madness and almost panic-fuelled hysterics, for these creatures were so awesomely powerful that what Graal was actually witnessing was an acknowledgement of what he was about to achieve; what was to come, not what had passed.
The Vampire Warlords.
The Harvesters stood. One said, "What of the Soul Gems?"
"Kradek-ka is searching for the one remaining Gem; the other two are… safe, for now. But he knows where to look. We had… help."
"Will he hold strong?"
"Yes, despite his madness."
"And yet, there is still a thorn to be plucked?"
Graal nodded. "Kell. The Black Axeman of Drennach. I know this."
"What will you do?"
"I have sent the Soul Stealers," he said. "Kell is a dead man."
CHAPTER 4
Echoes of a Distant Age
A blur slammed past Kell, whose eyes were fastened on the dark blade descending for his unprotected throat, and Kell knew he would die there, half buried by rubble, head pounding from the force of shamathe magic and he had never felt anything like it, so odd , but the blur came from the edges of his vision and connected with Jekkron, the tall albino warrior, and with a blink Kell realised it was Skanda the skinny little boy, and Skanda's arms and legs were wide and wrapped around Jekkron who took a step back, his face frowning in annoyance at this interruption to murder. Jekkron raised a hand, as if to slap down the annoying boy who clung to him. And then he started to scream, and he started to scream high, and loud, like a woman peeled, like an animal skewered… Skanda hadn't just wrapped around Jekkron, he was burrowing into the man, his head snapping left and right and chewing and tearing flesh, and his hands and feet had claws and they tore into
"Mount up. There's work to be done."
"Slaughter?" Graal's eyes twinkled.
"Is there any other kind?"
Graal sat, watching the Refineries, the dripping pipes, listening to the churn of clockwork machinery. All gone, he thought. Long dead, and gone. Just like his mother, the queen, and his father, the king. Killed. Murdered! Slaughtered like human cattle. Graal's lips drew back, making his face incredibly ugly, a baring of the vampire within him, trapped within his now weak flesh, the flesh of the combination, the pathetic shell of the vachine.
We will be free again, he nodded.
We will be free.
He stood, and stretched his back, and rolled his neck, and gazed around. Behind him, the war camp was running smoothly; the albino soldiers ran like – he laughed, a little – like clockwork. They cooked and cleaned, oiled weapons and armour, sharpened blades, tended to prisoners and the cankers; they needed very little organisation from Graal, for they were like insects, workers in the hive, busy with their own little jobs and all part of the Great Wheel.
Graal turned back to the Refineries and waited, patiently, until in the blink of an eye the Harvesters oozed from metal walls, pulling free as if from a thick liquid. They moved before Graal, a triumvirate of consummate evil. Graal smiled. Evil was something he could work with.
"It is complete?"
"As you wish. The blood-oil is refined. Do you not feel the rise in energy? The surge of usable power?"
"No. It will come to me later, in the dark hours."
The Harvesters reared up, long fingers of bone stretching out, and to an onlooker if would have appeared – for just an instant – as if the Harvesters were about to attack Graal, slice his head from his shoulders, peel the skin from his vachine bones. But they did not. They prostrated before him in a low bow, faces pressing the earth in an almost unprecedented show, and one they would certainly never have replicated before any other vachine. The Harvesters accepted Graal as Master. He smiled, controlling his urges of madness and almost panic-fuelled hysterics, for these creatures were so awesomely powerful that what Graal was actually witnessing was an acknowledgement of what he was about to achieve; what was to come, not what had passed.
The Vampire Warlords.
The Harvesters stood. One said, "What of the Soul Gems?"
"Kradek-ka is searching for the one remaining Gem; the other two are… safe, for now. But he knows where to look. We had… help."
"Will he hold strong?"
"Yes, despite his madness."
"And yet, there is still a thorn to be plucked?"
Graal nodded. "Kell. The Black Axeman of Drennach. I know this."
"What will you do?"
"I have sent the Soul Stealers," he said. "Kell is a dead man."
CHAPTER 4
Echoes of a Distant Age
A blur slammed past Kell, whose eyes were fastened on the dark blade descending for his unprotected throat, and Kell knew he would die there, half buried by rubble, head pounding from the force of shamathe magic and he had never felt anything like it, so odd , but the blur came from the edges of his vision and connected with Jekkron, the tall albino warrior, and with a blink Kell realised it was Skanda the skinny little boy, and Skanda's arms and legs were wide and wrapped around Jekkron who took a step back, his face frowning in annoyance at this interruption to murder. Jekkron raised a hand, as if to slap down the annoying boy who clung to him. And then he started to scream, and he started to scream high, and loud, like a woman peeled, like an animal skewered… Skanda hadn't just wrapped around Jekkron, he was burrowing into the man, his head snapping left and right and chewing and tearing flesh, and his hands and feet had claws and they tore into
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