Soul Stealers: The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles by Andy Remic Page A

something so simple as animal hunger.
        "You seek to rescue your granddaughter?" said Skanda, looking up suddenly. Kell nodded, and Skanda lowered his face again. The knife sliced and chopped. "Yes. She will die without me. She has been poisoned." "Saark said she was being held at the Cailleach Pass. That's the road to the Black Pike Mountains, isn't it?" Kell smiled grimly. Damn you, Saark, he thought. "Yes," he said, voice barely above a whisper. The fire crackled. Firelight gleamed in Kell's dark eyes. He no longer appeared like a hero from legend; now, in this ruined cottage in the midst of the night, clutching his possessed axe and eerily silent for such a big man, Kell was infinitely more intimidating.
        "I used to have a grandfather. A lot like you," said Skanda, innocently, oblivious to the threat which lay within inches, within heartbeats, of his delicate and fragile existence. "He died though, a long time ago. I thought he was as strong as ten men, but age wore him down in the end until his mind snapped, and he could no longer speak. He used to sit by the fire, rocking, dribbling, and this was the man who took on a hundred of the enemy at Tellakon Gate. A tragedy."
        "A tragedy," agreed Kell, voice low, and shifted his stance a little to the left, to give him better clearance for the strike. Kell licked his lips. He would kill the boy. Decapitate him. It would be clean. It would be quick. And much more humane than leaving the child to be slaughtered by the cankers… eaten alive, in fact. Kell gripped his axe tight. His eyes went hard. He lifted Ilanna into the air. Firelight gleamed from her butterfly blades. Kell relaxed, and readied himself for the strike…
        
    Saark moved around the perimeter of their camp like a spirit, halting occasionally to listen. The fall of snow acted as a natural muffler, but was dangerous for it hid fragile twigs and obstacles that might give away Saark's position. Still, he edged around a wide perimeter, eyes and ears alert, slender rapier in one chilled hand, and thinking hard on the problem of Falanor.
        General Graal had invaded. There had been no demands. Just slaughter.
    Why? What did he want?
        Saark mulled over the problem as he scouted, crouching occasionally. At one point he saw an owl, high in a tree, its huge yellow orbs surveying a world which appeared, Saark was sure, as bright as daylight to the savage, nocturnal hunting bird.
        Saark's mind drifted to Kell. He turned, to where he knew the ruined cottage lay. He considered Kell's motives, and thought of Nienna, but when he thought of her it made him think of Kat, and that was too painful a memory.
        Only days earlier, in their pursuit to warn King Leanoric of the impending invasion of albino soldiers led by General Graal, Kell and his companions – Saark, Nienna and Nienna's best friend, Katrina, with her short, wild red hair and topaz eyes, athletic and feisty despite her youth – were riding out a snowstorm in a deserted barracks when three dangerous brigands entered. Myriam, tall, wiry, strong, short black hair and rough, gaunt features, her eyes a little sunken, her flesh a little stretched from the cancer that was eating her from the inside out. Along with her, two companions: Styx, an inexorably ugly Blacklipper smuggler with only one eye and black lips, and Jex, small and permanently angry, with a tattooed face and the physique of a pugilist.
        Myriam had injected Kell and Nienna with poison, and Styx had murdered Katrina using a clockworkpowered Wi dowmaker mini-crossbow. They kidnapped Nienna during the Army of Iron's attack on King Leanoric's forces. Kat. Murdered. Dead.
        Even now, Saark brushed away a tear, and felt guilt and shame well within him. He had loved Katrina, which was ridiculous, even Saark had to admit. He was not just a dandy and popinjay, he was, even at his own admittance, one of the world's best seducers of women.