He smiled, grabbed the pommel of the saddle, and with a grunt heaved himself up on the third attempt. He slouched forward, and realised he hadn't untethered the gelding. He muttered, drew his rapier from behind the saddle, and slashed at the rope, missing. He blinked. He slashed down again, and the rope parted.

"Come on, boy." He clicked his tongue, turned the horse, and set off at a gentle canter through the trees.

The whole world spun around him, and he felt sick. He was rocking, an unwilling passenger on a galleon in a storm. His felt as if his brain was spinning around inside his skull, and he slowed the horse to a walk, took in deep breaths, but it did not help. His mouth was dry again. Pain came in waves.

After what seemed an eternity of effort, Saark reached the edge of the woodland. He gazed out, over grass now effectively blanketed by snow. Slowly, he rode through the gloom, across several fields and to the top of the nearest hill. He stared out across a decimated battlefield. His eyes searched, and all he could see was the black armour of the Army of Iron.

Cursing, Saark kicked the horse into a canter and removed himself from the skyline. He dismounted, leaning against the horse for support, his mind spinning. What, was the battle over already? But then, how long had he lain unconscious? The Army of Iron had won?

Holy mother of the gods, he thought, and drew his rapier.

That would mean scouts, patrols-and where was Kell? Had he been captured? Worse. Was he dead?

Saark turned his horse and slapped the gelding's rump; with a whinny, he trotted off down the hill and Saark crawled back to the top on his belly, leaving a smear of blood on the snow, but thankful at least that from this position the world wasn't rolling, his eyes spinning, the ground lurching as if he was drunk on a bottle of thirty year-old whisky. Saark peered out over the enemy camp, spread out now before the battered city walls of Old Skulkra. To Saark's right, the ancient deserted city spread away as far as the eye could see, with crumbling towers, leaning spires, and many buildings having crumbled to the ground after...Saark smiled, sardonically. After the troubles. He fixed his gaze on what was, effectively, a merging of two war camps. The corpses of Falanor's soldiers had been laid out in neat lines away from the new camp and, with a bitter, grim, experienced eye, Saark looked along row after row after row of bodies.

What are they doing? he thought, idly. Why aren't they burning the bodies? Or burying them? What are they waiting for? Why risk disease and vermin? The image sat uneasy with Saark, and he changed tactic, moving his gaze back to the camp. If Kell was alive, and with a sinking feeling Saark realised it was improbable, then he was down there.

Saark scanned the tents, and eventually his gaze was drawn to a group of men, mist curling between them. They were a group of albino soldiers with swords unsheathed, and Saark squinted, trying to make out detail through the haze of distance, gloom and patches of mist. There came some violent activity, and Saark watched a man picked up kicking, struggling, then dropped back to the frozen mud. Saark's mouth formed a narrow line. He recognised Graal, more by his arrogant stance than armour or looks. There was something about the way the general moved; an ancient agility; an age-old arrogance, deeper than royalty, as if the world and all its wonders should move aside when he approached.

Saark watched Graal walk away from the small hill, walking down towards...Saark's breath caught in his throat. There were cages. Lots of cages. Cankers. Cankers. Shit. Saark's good eye moved left, and he saw a huge pile of canker bodies-a huge pile. His heart swelled in pride. At least we got some of the fuckers, he thought bitterly. He tried to spot Graal again, but the general had disappeared in the maze of cages and tents. Where had he gone? Damn. Saark searched, methodically, up and down the rows where cankers snarled and hissed and slept; eventually, he caught sight of Graal. The general was observing...a man. A man, in a cage. Saark grinned. It had to be! Who else needed caging like a canker? There was only one grumpy sour old goat he could think of. Then Saark's heart sank. What else had they done to Kell? Was he tortured? Maimed? Dismembered? Saark knew all too well, and from first-hand experience, the horrors of battle; the insanity of war. Shit. Saark's good eye moved left, and he saw a huge pile of canker bodies-a huge pile. His heart swelled in pride. At least we got some of the fuckers, he thought bitterly. He tried to spot Graal again, but the general had disappeared in the maze of cages and tents. Where had he gone? Damn. Saark searched, methodically, up and down the rows where cankers snarled and hissed and slept; eventually, he caught sight of Graal. The general was observing...a man. A man, in a cage. Saark grinned. It had to be! Who else needed caging like a canker? There was only one grumpy sour old goat he could think of. Then Saark's heart sank. What else had they done to Kell? Was he tortured? Maimed? Dismembered? Saark knew all too well, and from first-hand experience, the horrors of battle; the insanity of war.

At least he is alive, thought Saark.

He lay back. Closed his eyes against the spinning world, although even then the feeling did not leave him. He moved a little down the hill, then searched in his pockets, finding his tiny medical kit, and as he waited the long, long hours until nightfall, he busied himself with a tiny brass needle and a length of thread made from pig-gut. He sewed himself back together again. And afterwards, after vomiting, he slept.

Kell came back into a world of consciousness slowly, as if swimming through a sea of black honey. He was lying on a metal floor, and a cold wind caressed him. He was deeply cold, and his eyes opened, staring at the old pitted metal, at the floor, and at the mud beyond streaked with swirls of snow. He coughed, and placed both hands beneath him, heaving himself up, then slumping back, head spinning, senses reeling. And he felt...loss. The loss of Ilanna. The loss of his bloodbond axe.

Kell flexed his fingers, and gazed around. He was in a cage with thick metal bars, and outside, all around him, were similar cages containing twisted, desecrated cankers. Most slept, but a few sat back on their haunches, evil yellow eyes watching him, their hearts ticking unevenly with bent clockwork.

Kell rolled his shoulders, then crawled to his knees and to the corner of the cage, peering out. He was back in Leanoric's camp, only now there were no soldiers of Falanor to be seen; only albino guards, eyes watchful, hands on sword-hilts. Kell frowned, and searched, and realised that the two camps had been made to blend, just like a canker and its clockwork. The Army of Iron had usurped the Falanor camp.

Darkness had fallen, and Kell realised he must have been out of the game for at least a day. He peered out from behind his bars, could just make out the edges of Old Skulkra, with her toothed domes and crumbling walls. Beyond lay Valantrium Moor, and a cold wind blew down from high moorland passes carrying a fresh promise of snow.

Kell shivered. What now? He was a prisoner. Caged, like the barely controllable cankers around him. "Hey?" growled Kell to the nearest canker. "Can you hear me?" The beast gave no response, just stared with the baleful eyes of a lion. "Do you realise you have a face like a horse's arse?" he said. The canker blinked, and its long tongue protruded, licking at lips pulled back over half its head. Inside, tiny gears made click click click noises. Kell shivered again, and this time it was nothing to do with the cold.

"Kell." The voice was low, barely above a whisper. Kell squinted into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"It's Saark. Wait there."

"I'm not going anywhere, laddie."

There came several grunting sounds, and a squeal of rusted metal. The side of the cage opened, and Saark, skin pale, sweat on his brow, leant against the opened door.

Kell strode out, stood with his hands on his hips, looking around, then turned to Saark. "I thought you would have come sooner."

Saark gave a nasty grin. "A 'thank you' would have sufficed."

"Thank you. I thought you would have come sooner. And by the way, you look like a horse trampled your face."

"I ran into a bit of trouble, with Myriam and her friends."

Kell's brows darkened; his eyes dropped to the bloodstains on Saark's clothing. He softened. "Are you injured?"

"Myriam stabbed me."

"She had Nienna with her."

"She still does. I'm sorry, Kell. She's taken Nienna north, to the Black Pike Mountains. She said to tell you she will wait at the Cailleach Pass. She knows you will come. I'm sorry, Kell; I could do nothing."

The huge warrior remained silent, but rolled his neck and shoulders. His hand leapt to where his Svian was sheathed; to find the weapon gone. "Bastards," he muttered, looked around, then turned and started off between the cages.

"Wait," said Saark, hobbling after him. "You're going the wrong way. We can head out through Old Skulkra; I think even the albinos won't travel there. It's still a poisoned hellhole; stinks like a pig's entrails."

"I'm going to find Graal."

"What?" snapped Saark. He grabbed Kell, stopping him. "What are you talking about, man?" he hissed. "We're surrounded by ten thousand bloody soldiers! You want to march in there and kill him?"

"I don't want to kill him," snapped Kell, eyes glittering. "I want Ilanna."

Saark gave a brittle laugh. "We can buy you another axe, old man," he said.

"She's...not just an axe. She is my bloodbond. I cannot leave her. It is hard to explain."

"You're damn right it's hard to explain. You'd risk your life now? We can escape, Kell. We can go after Nienna."

Kell paused, then, his back to Saark. When his words came, they were low, tainted by uncertainty. "No. I must have Ilanna; then I find Nienna. Then I kill Myriam and her twisted scum-bastard friends."

"You're insane," said Saark.

"Maybe. You wait here if you like. I'll be back."

"No." Saark caught him up, his rapier glittering in the darkness. "I may be stuck like a pig, but I can still fight. And if we split up now, we're sure to be caught and tortured. Damn you and your stupid fool quest!"

"Be quiet."

They eased through the nightshade.

It watched them. It crept low along the ground, and watched them. When they looked towards it, it hid its face, in shame, great tears rolling down its tortured cheeks as it hunkered to the ground, and its body shook in spasms of grief. Then they were gone, and it rose again, jaws crunching, and paced them through the army of tents...

Only once did Kell meet two albino guards, and the old man moved so fast they didn't see him coming. He broke a jaw, then a neck, then knelt on the first fallen guard, took his face between great paws, and wrenched the guard's head sideways with a sickening crunch. Kell stood, took one of the albino's short black swords, and looked over at Saark.

"Help me hide the bodies."

Saark nodded, and realised Kell danced along a line of brittle madness. He had changed. Something had changed inside the old warrior. He had...hardened. Become far more savage, more brutal; infinitely merciless.

They eased along through black tents, past the glowing embers of fires, and Kell pointed. It had been Leanoric's tent, in which Kell had stood only a few short hours before. Now, Kell knew, Graal's arrogance would make him take residence there. It was something about generals Kell had learned in his early days as a soldier. Most thought they were gods.

Kell stopped, and held up a blood-encrusted hand. Saark paused, crouched, glancing behind him. Slowly, Kell eased into the tent and was gone. Saark felt goose-bumps crawl up and down his arms and neck and went to follow Kell into the tent but froze. He glanced back again, and as if through ice-smoke General Graal materialised. Behind him marched a squad of albino soldiers, heavily armed and armoured, this time wearing black helmets decorated with swirling runes. Graal stopped, and smiled at Saark, and a chill fear ran through the dandy's heart like a splinter.

"Kell?" he whispered. Then, louder, eyes never leaving Graal, "Kell!"

"What is it?" snapped Kell, emerging, and looking at Graal with glittering eyes. "Oh, it's you, laddie."

"Looking for this?" said Graal, lifting Ilanna so moonlight shimmered from her black butterfly blades.

"Give her to me."

Graal rammed the axe into the ground. Behind him, the albino soldiers drew their blades. "Tell me how to make her mine, and you will live. Tell me how to talk with the bloodbond."

"No," snapped Kell.

Graal stepped forward, head lowered for a moment, then glanced up at Kell, blue eyes glittering. "I will grow unhappy," he said, voice low.

"I have been pondering a strange puzzle for some time," said Kell, placing his hands on his hips and meeting Graal's gaze. "How is it, lad, that you have the face and skin and hair of these albino bastards around you...and yet your eyes are blue?" Kell scratched at his whiskers. "I see you have the fangs of the vachine, and yet the vachine are tall, most dark haired, not like these effeminate soldiers behind you. What are you, Graal? Some kind of half-breed?"

"On the contrary," said Graal, taking another step closer. His eyes had gone hard, the mocking humour dropped from his face, and Saark realised Kell had touched some deep nerve with his words. "I am pureblood," said Graal. "I am Engineer. I am Watchmaker. But more than this-" He leapt, arms smashing down, but Kell moved fast and blocked the blow, taking a step back. "I am one of the first vachine; the three from which all others stem."

Kell grinned. "I thought I could smell something rotten."

Graal snarled, and lashed out again, but Kell ducked the blow, moving inhumanly fast, and delivered a right hook that shook Graal. The general whirled, rolling with the blow, taking Kell's arm and slamming him over to smash the ground. Kell rolled, as Graal's boots hit the frozen earth where his face had been. Kell rose into a crouch and launched himself, grappling Graal around the waist and powering him to the soil. Atop Graal, Kell slammed his fists down with power, speed, accuracy, three blows, four five six seven, his knuckles lacerated and bleeding and Graal twisted, suddenly, throwing Kell to the ground where he grunted, and came up. They leapt at one another with a crunch, crunch, and suddenly locked, heaving, a match for one another in strength, heads clashing, and Saark who had been eyeing the five albino soldiers uneasily saw long fangs eject from Graal's mouth and screamed, "Kell, his teeth!" and Kell twisted, following Graal's head with a mighty blow that sent Graal reeling to the ground. Kell stood, chest heaving, blood on his face and his fists. and suddenly locked, heaving, a match for one another in strength, heads clashing, and Saark who had been eyeing the five albino soldiers uneasily saw long fangs eject from Graal's mouth and screamed, "Kell, his teeth!" and Kell twisted, following Graal's head with a mighty blow that sent Graal reeling to the ground. Kell stood, chest heaving, blood on his face and his fists.

Graal climbed to his feet and stood, and smiled through his blood. "Your strength is prodigious," he said, eyes narrowing. "Too prodigious. Nothing human can stand before me; and yet you have done so."

"I've had lots of practise," said Kell, fists clenching, head lowering. "Once, I worked in the Black Pike Mountains. I was part of a squad sent there by King Searlan to hunt down the vachine; to kill your kind. We did well. We were there for four years...four long, bitter, hard years...it was hard learning, Graal, but we learnt well. I think, even now, I am referred to as Legend by your perverse kind."

"You!" snarled Graal, eyes widening. "The Vachine Hunter! It cannot be! He was slaughtered in the Fires of Karrakesh!"

"It is I," said Kell, "and that is why you could never speak with my bloodbond axe, my Ilanna...for she is anathema to your kind; she is poison to your blood: she is the sworn vachine nemesis."

There came a snarl, high-pitched and terrible, and something cannoned from the darkness, hitting Graal in a flurry of slashing claws and frothing fangs. It was big, a cross between human and lion, obviously a canker and yet twisted strangely, different from the other cankers under Graal's command. The head was long and narrow, and wrapped around with hundreds of strands of fine golden wire so that only glimpses of eyes and nose and mouth could be seen. Slashes covered the tufted, half-furred muscular body, but again muscles, biceps and thighs and abdomen were all wound about with tight golden wire, and sections of clockwork could be seen outside the flesh, half embedded, clicking and whirring furiously, as if this body, this canker, was having some kind of furious internal battle with the very machinery which now, undoubtedly, kept it alive...

They fought in the gloom of the usurped camp, Graal and this twisted canker nightmare, a flurry of insane blows, writhing and wrestling and twisting in the mud, thumps echoing out, claws and teeth slashing. Graal had exposed his full vachine toolset; was biting and rending, face lost in a mask of raw primal savagery that had nothing to do with the human. They spun and punched and slashed in the mud, both opening huge wounds down the other's flanks, sparks flying from crumpled clockwork, grunting and growling and the canker's fist punched Graal's face, slamming his head back into the mud and the canker glanced up, eyes masked by the wires circling its head but they fixed, fixed on Saark with recognition, then on Kell, and the canker seemed to smile, a lop-sided stringing of tattered lips and saliva and blood-oil drool...

Saark gasped. "Elias?" he hissed, in disbelief.

"Go-now," forced the canker between corrupted flesh, and Graal's hands grasped Elias's arm, twisted savagely with a popping of tendons and the canker was flung to one side, where it rolled fast and reversed the trajectory with a savage snarl, leaping on Graal's back and burying him and slamming the general into the mud.

Kell walked to his axe, Ilanna, and took her in his great hands. His head came up, eyeing the albino soldiers, who stood uncertainly, swords drawn. He attacked in a blur, each strike cutting bodies in half, and stood back with a grunt, covered in fresh gore, bits of intestines, slivers of heart, chunks of albino bone, to stare bitterly at the ten chunks of corpse.

Saark grabbed his arm. His voice was low. 'We have to move! Now, soldier!' Saark pointed. More enemy were gathering down in the main camp. They were strapping on swords and armour. Kell nodded, and then started to run with Saark beside him.

Saark suddenly stopped. Turned. He wanted to thank the twisted, corrupted shell of Elias; thank him for their lives. But the battle was a savagery of blows and scattered flesh.

They ran.

Through tents and paddocks of horses. Saark motioned, and they unlatched a gate, grabbing two tall chestnut geldings and leaping across them bareback. They kicked heels, and grabbing manes trotted from the paddock, then galloped through the rest of the camp towards the teetering walls of Old Skulkra...which loomed before them, vast, ancient, foreboding.

Old Skulkra was haunted, it was said. One of the oldest cities in Falanor, it had been built over a thousand years before, a majestic and towering series of vast architectural wonders, immense towers and bridges, spires and temples, domes and parapets, many in black marble shipped from the far east over treacherous marshes. It had been a fortified city, with towering walls easily defendable against enemies, each wall forty feet thick. It had vast engine-houses and factories, once home to massive machines which, scholars claimed, were able to carry out complex tasks but were now huge, silent, rusted iron hulks full of evil black oil and arms and pistons and levers that would never move again. Now, the city was century-deserted, its secrets lost in time, its reputation harsh enough to keep any but the most fearless of adventurers away. It was said the city carried plague close to its heart, and that to walk there killed a man within days. It was said ghosts drifted through the mist-filled streets, and that dark blood-oil creatures lived in the abandoned machinery, awaiting fresh prey.

Kell and Saark had little option. Either ride through a camp of ten thousand soldiers intent on their annihilation; or brave the deserted streets of Old Skulkra. It was hardly a choice.

They passed the forty-foot defensive walls, corners and carved pillars crumbling under the ravages of time. Huge green and grey stains ran down what had once been elegantly carved pillars. Despite their flight, Saark looked around in wonder. "By the gods, this place is huge."

"And dangerous," growled Kell.

"You've been here before?"

"Not by choice," said Kell, and left it at that.

They swept down a wide central avenue, lined by blackened, twisted trees, arms skeletal and vast. Beyond were enormous palaces and huge temples, every wall cracked and jigged and displaced. Even the flagstones were cracked and buckled, as if the city of Old Skulkra had been victim of violent earth upheavals and storms.

The horses' hooves rang on black steel cobbles. The world seemed to drift down into silence. Mist coagulated on street corners. Saark shivered, and turned to look back at the broken gates through which they'd entered. The mist made the vision hazy, obscure. But he could have sworn he saw at least a hundred albino soldiers, clustering there, swords drawn but...refusing to step past the threshold.

They're frightened, he thought.

Or they know something we don't.

"They won't follow us here," said Saark, and his voice rang out, echoing around the ancient, damp place. It echoed back from crumbling buildings, from towers once majestic, now decayed.

"Good," snapped Kell. "Listen. If we can get through the city, we can head northeast, up through Stone Lion Woods. Then we can follow the Selenau River up to Jalder, then further up towards the Black Pike Mountains..."

"She's safe," said Saark, staring at Kell. "They won't harm her. Myriam has too much to lose by angering you further. She knows Nienna is the only bartering tool she has."

Kell nodded, but his eyes were dark, hooded, brooding. He could feel the sluggish pulse of poison in his system, running alongside the bloodbond of Ilanna. It was a curious feeling, and even now made his head clouded, his thoughts unclear. Weakness swept over him. Kell gritted his teeth, and pushed on.

They rode for a half hour at speed, the horses nervous, ears laid back against skulls, eyes rolling. It took great horsemanship to calm them; especially without reins.

And then, they heard the growls.

Kell cursed.

Saark frowned. "What is it?"

"The bastards wouldn't come in on their own. Oh no."

"So what is it?" urged Saark.

"The cankers. They've unleashed the cankers."

Saark paled, and he allowed a breath to ease from his panicked, pain-wracked frame. "That's not good, my friend," he said, finally.

Kell urged his horse on, and they galloped down wide streets, angling north and east. The mist thickened, and the streets became more narrow, more industrial. The buildings changed to factories and stone tower blocks, vast and cold, all windows gone, all doors rotted and vanished an age past. The horses became increasingly agitated, and the occasional growls and snarls of pursuing cankers grew louder, echoing, more pronounced.

"We're not going to make it," said Saark, eyes wide, his tension building.

"Shut up."