Andy Remic - Soul Stealers

"There you go," said Kell. "You admit it. I would have slain any who stood before me. That is not honourable. That is not strong. That is weak, Saark; I am a weak man. A strong man would not use his physical strength as do I. A strong man would not… abuse his gift."

"The only abuse here," said Saark, "is your lack of table manners. Look! By all the gods, you're spilling soup down your jerkin. You're a scruffy bastard, Kell. It's in your beard and everything! Can you not connect hand to mouth? Can you not retain a simple soup in your orifice?"

"I'll shove my fist in your orifice if you don't stop mewling."

"Ha, and there was I defending your honour and integrity."

"I need no man for that," said Kell.

Myriam had been watching bemusedly as the two men squabbled, then sat, staring at Kell. "Kell."

"Yes, lass?"

"I am confused. And a little worried."

"Spit it out."

"Well, as to why you are still guiding me to Silva Valley – to the vachine. I don't want to wake up – or not wake up – with an axe in the back of my skull. I am tired of looking over my shoulder. Weary of living in fear. And I recognise I have earned this by my actions. To you, and to Nienna. I am deeply sorry."

Kell grinned, looking down into their meagre fire. "You have pushed me a lot, Myriam. Pushed me beyond the boundaries of accepted behaviour." He glanced up. His eyes glittered, then he shifted his gaze sideways to his granddaughter. Nienna was looking up at the cave walls in fascination, as if she'd found a particularly original composition of poetry embedded in damp stone. Kell shook his head. He could not understand her continual enthralment. "The thing is, lass, if you'd pulled that trick on me a few years back, with the poison – well girl, you'd now be dead. The minute the antidote touched my lips I would have split you down the fucking middle like a log." He rested back, soup finished, hands on his knees. He sighed. "However. I am trying. I am trying to be… not good, but better. I am trying to be a tolerable man, for Nienna, to show her a fine example. Ironically, I am trying to do this in the midst of an invasion. But a man must strive." He ran his hand through his thick, shaggy, unkempt hair. Then scratched at his beard, rubbing away a smudge of soup. "And we have the same goals. The same destination. Silva Valley seems to be the place with answers. I am Kell. And I sorely want some answers."

"I have a trade."

"Another one?" growled Saark. "The only trade you deserve is a blade between the ribs."

"Quiet," snapped Kell, scowling. "She's done bad things. We all agree this. But then, Saark, you are hardly the angel. I have not forgotten what you did with Kat. You are a predator. What did the men say back at the village? At Kettleskull Creek? 'Saark, an arrogant rich bastard, unable to keep his childmaker in his cheese-stinking pants.'"

"Oh. You heard that, did you?"

"I heard it, lad." He glanced at Myriam. "What are you thinking?"

"Information. About the Soul Stealers."

"Go on."

"You promise not to kill me?"

"If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

Myriam nodded, realising that her life hung by a thread, and that thread was called Nienna. She swallowed.

"The Soul Stealers. They are creatures of the Black Pike Mountains. That is what I read."

"Yes?"

"Their father is said to be an ancient servant of the Vampire Warlords. They do his bidding. I read that for hundreds of years the Soul Stealers have been employed in an attempt to bring back the Vampire Warlords – and if they do, these Warlords will use the vachine and the albinos and the Harvesters… all will be subservient, all will turn the world into a dark place of chaos."

Kell considered this. "I have heard this tale before," he said. "About these Warlords, although under a different name; it is a fiction used to frighten little children by the fire. It is a nonsense."

Myriam shrugged. "There is a place, Helltop, a mountain-top hall, a sacred place of the vachine. It overlooks Silva Valley, from thousands and thousands of feet up. It is said to be the home of the Soul Stealers. It is said that they cannot be killed except in that place, for it is a source of their power, the source of their own collective soul. And when they kill, every soul they take flows back to the Granite Thrones which reside there."

"I have heard of the Granite Thrones," said Nienna, suddenly. "It is where the Blood Kings once sat. We did it in Classical History in preparation for Jalder University." She went quiet, then. She was continually reminded of a life she no longer had.

Kell nodded, remembering shoving his Svian deep into the vachine who attacked him. He should have pierced her core, with a blow like that. He should have destroyed her clockwork engine. "You think we'll have big trouble with these Soul Stealers?"

"I guarantee it," whispered Myriam.

With the dawn they set off through an icy valley, and a stone path rose in a series of switch-backs for perhaps two thousand feet. They climbed this narrow pathway in silence, hands cold and tucked into furs and pockets, and with faces tortured by the biting, howling, bitter mountain wind. Kell led the way in grim silence, brooding. When Nienna asked how long they had before the Soul Stealers and the cankers caught up with them, he just smiled grimly and shook his head.

At the rear travelled Saark, and Myriam dropped back, boots kicking loose rocks. She walked along beside him for a while, in silence, as jagged walls reared around them and far above, an eagle soared.

"Have you forgiven me yet?" she said, smiling.

"No. Fuck off."

"Harsh words, Saark."

"Not as harsh as sticking a knife in an unsuspecting man's belly."

"That was a mistake. I admit that now."

"Not easy to forget, nor forgive."

"Still, I am sorry. I apologise. I would never, ever do it again." She met his eyes. "I mean it, sincerely, Saark. It was a mistake." She gave a short laugh, like a bark. "I must admit, the more I have got to know Kell, the more I admire him. He is so strong, powerful, a giant to walk the mountains with."

"Careful girl, I think you're getting a bit wet down there."

Myriam looked at him, her face humoured. "You think so? Because of Kell, or because of you?"

Saark stopped for a moment, staring at her, then continued to walk the steep trails, calf muscles burning, feet throbbing inside his boots, his pack a dead weight across his spine – as if he carried a corpse.

He shook his head. Smiled. "I must admit, girl, I do tend to have that effect on young women." He considered this. "And middle aged women. Hell, even grannies. It's rare I've met a woman alive who doesn't want a bit of the tender Saark loving."

"Do you really think that much of yourself?"

"No. Women think much of me. I am simply along for the ride."

"Have you ever been in love?" Saark's smile fell, and immediately Myriam realised her mistake. "I am sorry," she said.

"No. No, don't be. I shouldn't bottle my guilt and self-loathing inside; it's an unhealthy combination. Yes. I have been in love. Twice. One was taken away from me, for an arranged marriage."

"And the other?"

"The other was married to another," said Saark, voice a croak, eyes filled with tears. He waved away her concern. "Ach, both were a long time ago, although some bastard seems intent on reminding me of past miseries. Have you ever been in love?"

"No," said Myriam, tilting her head to one side. "I admire men, for looks or physique, but if I am totally honest, then no man has ever grabbed my heart. And then, well, I became ill, and it has eaten away at me, robbed me of youth and my looks, even my bodyweight. It is a savage punishment. The gods have a sick sense of humour, don't they? They seem to use most of it on me. No wonder I became so bitter."