They slowed the horses, which were verging on the uncontrollable, until Kell's mount reared, whinnying in terror, and threw him. He landed with a thud, thud, rolling on steel cobbles, and came up with his axe in huge hands, eyes glowering, but there was nothing there. Darkness seemed to creep in. Mist swirled. The horse galloped off, and was lost in shadows. rolling on steel cobbles, and came up with his axe in huge hands, eyes glowering, but there was nothing there. Darkness seemed to creep in. Mist swirled. The horse galloped off, and was lost in shadows.

There came a distant slunch, slunch, a whinny of agony; then silence. a whinny of agony; then silence.

Kell spun around, looking up at the towering stone walls surrounding him. It was cold. His breath streamed. Icicles mixed with the old blood of battle frozen in his beard.

"Get up behind me," said Saark, reaching forward to take Kell's arm. But his own horse reared at that moment, and he somersaulted backwards from the creature, landing in a crouch, rapier drawn, face white with pain. The horse bolted, was gone in seconds between the towering walls of ancient stone.

"Neat trick," growled Kell, rubbing at his own bruised elbow and shoulder.

"I'll show you sometime," Saark grimaced.

The sounds of pursuing cankers grew louder.

"This is bad," said Saark, battered face full of fear, eyes haunted.

"We need somewhere to defend. A stairwell, somewhere narrow." Kell pointed with Ilanna. "There. That tower block."

The edifice was huge, the walls jigged and displaced, full of cracks and mis-aligned stones. A cold wind howled through the block, bringing with it a sour, sulphuric stench.

"I'm not going in there," said Saark.

"Well die out here, then," snapped Kell and started forward.

The cankers rounded a corner. There were a hundred of them, snarling, slashing at one another with claws, and they came in a horde down the narrow street, pushing and jostling, fighting to be first to feed on fresh, sweet meat. Kell ran for the tower, beneath an empty doorway and through a sweeping entrance hall littered with debris, old fires, stones and twisted sections of iron rusted out of shape and purpose; he stopped, looking hurriedly about. "There," he snapped. Saark was close behind him. Too close.

"We're going to die," said Saark, ever the voice of doom.

"Shut up, laddie, or I'll kill you myself."

They ran, skidding to a halt by a narrow sweep of steps. Kell looked up, and could see the sky far far above, perhaps twenty storeys, straight up. The tower block had no roof, and snow-clouds swirled. The steps spiralled up, wide enough for two men, and with a shaky, flaked, mostly rotted iron handrail the only barrier between the steps and a long fall to hard impact. Kell started up, thankful the stairwell was built from stone. Saark followed. They powered up in grim silence, followed by cackles and growls. It was only when Kell ventured too close to the edge that there came a crack, and stones tumbled away taking a quarter section of the staircase with it. Kell leapt back, almost sucked away in the sudden fall.

Saark stared at Kell, sweat on his swollen face, but said nothing.

"Keep to the wall," advised Kell.

"I'd already worked that one out, old horse."

Below, the cankers found the stairwell. They started up, jostling and snarling. Saark glanced down, but Kell powered ahead, face grim, beard frozen with ice-blood, eyes dark, mind working furiously.

The cankers ascended fast, claws scrabbling on icy steps. Panting and drenched with sweat, the two men reached a landing halfway up-ten storeys in height, halfway to the tower block's summit-before the first canker appeared, a huge shaggy beast with tufts of reddish fur and green eyes. Kell's axe clove into its head and Saark's rapier sliced into its belly, and the beast fell back, spitting lumps of clockwork and spewing blood. The two men ran across the landing and onto the next set of steps, as a crowd of cankers surged onto the narrow platform and Kell screamed, 'Run!' to Saark, and stopped on the steps, turning with his axe, the snarling heaving mass only a few feet away as cracks and booms filled the tower. Kell lifted his axe, and struck at the landing, again and again, and the whole floor was shaking under the weight of the cankers and the impact from the axe, and they were there, in his face, fetid breath in his throat as a huge crack echoed through the tower block and the landing fell away, with a whole storey section of steps, fell and tumbled away carrying twenty cankers scrabbling and clawing down the centre of the spiralling stairwell and leaving Kell teetering on the edge of oblivion. He swayed for a moment, and something grabbed him, pulled him back and he fell to his arse, turned, and grinned at Saark.

"Thanks, lad."

"No problem, Kell. Shall we ascend?"

"After you."

They started up, hearing growls and snarls fall away behind as two cankers attempted to leap the chasm, and bounced from walls, dropping away clawing and snarling to be lost in dust and ice and debris. There were booms booms as they impacted with the floor far below, and merged component limbs with ancient lengths of rusted iron. as they impacted with the floor far below, and merged component limbs with ancient lengths of rusted iron.

The two men ran, muscles screaming, sweat staining their skin, limbs burning, fatigue eating them like acid. Eventually, they reached the final set of steps, and burst out into snowy daylight, great iron-bruise clouds filling the sky. A cold wind slammed them. Old Skulkra spread out in all directions, vast, decaying, frightening.

The top of the tower block was a treacherous rat-run of stone beams and channels. Ancient woodwork had long gone, meaning the entire floor was a crisscross network where one incorrect step meant a long fall to unwelcome stone beneath. The whole tower block seemed to sway in violent gusts of wind. The wind gave long, mournful groans. Kell stepped across various beams to the low wall encircling the top floor of this vast tower. He stared off, across the ancient city, to the Valantrium Moor beyond, distant, enticing, ensconced in a snow shroud.

Saark came up beside him. He peered at another, nearby structure. "Can we make the jump?"

"I'll let you try first," said Kell.

"We can't go back."

Kell nodded. "You can see the Stone Lion Woods from here," he said, pointing.

"We need a plan," said Saark, eyes narrowing. "How do we get down from this shit-hole? Come on Kell, you're the man with all the answers!"

"I have no answers!" he thundered, rage in his face for a moment; then he calmed himself. "I'm just trying to keep us alive long enough to think." He rubbed at his beard, fingers rimed in filth and old blood. Only then did he look down at himself, and he gave a bitter laugh. "Look at the state of me, Saark." His eyes were dark, glittering, feral. "Just like the old days. The Days of Blood."

Saark said nothing. His mind worked fast. Kell was losing it. Kell was going slowly...insane.

"There must be a way off here," said Saark, voice calm. "You wait here, guard the steps. I'll see if I can find a ramp, or gantry, or some other way to the roof of another building."

Saark moved around the outside wall of the tower block, each footstep chosen with care, with precision; below, the tower interior was like a huge, sour-smelling throat. Growls echoed up to meet him.

Saark stopped. He looked across the vast, rotting decadence of Old Skulkra. Beyond the walls he could see the enemy: the Army of Iron. A great sorrow took his heart, then, and crushed it in his fist. He realised with bitterness that General Graal had won. He had crushed Falanor's armies as if they were children. He had obliterated their soldiers, and...now what?

Saark frowned. From this vantage point he could see the Great North Road, snaking north and south, a meandering black ribbon through hills and woodland, all peppered with snow. To the west he could make out the sprawl of Vorgeth Forest, stretching off for as far as they eye could see. But there, on the road, he could see...

Saark rubbed his eyes. His swollen eye had opened a little, but still he could not understand what he witnessed. Huge, black, angular objects seemed to fill the Great North Road; from the ancient connecting roads of Old Skulkra heading north, for as far as the eye could see. Saark stroked his moustache, mouth dry, fear an ever-present and unwelcome friend.

"The Blood Refineries," said Kell, making Saark jump.

"What?"

"On the road. That's what you can see. The vachine need them to refine blood; and they need blood-oil to survive."

Saark considered this. "They have brought their machinery with them?"

"Yes." Kell nodded. He was sombre. Below, they heard a fresh growl, a snarl, and the scrabble of slashing claws. The cankers had found a way past the collapsed stairwell. They were on their way up.

"So they've won?" said Saark.

"No!" snarled Kell. "We will fight them. We will fight them to the bitter end!"

"They will massacre our people," said Saark, tears in his eyes.

"Aye, lad."

"The men, the women, the children of Falanor."

"Aye. Now take out your sword. There's work to be done." Kell strode to the opening leading to the stairwell. The cankers were growing louder. There were many, and their snarls were terrifying.

Saark stood beside Kell, his rapier out, his eyes fixed on the black maw of the opening.

"Kell?"

"Yes, Saark?"

"We're going to die up here, aren't we?"

Kell laughed, and it contained genuine humour, genuine warmth. He slapped Saark on the back, then rubbed thoughtfully at his bloodied beard, and with glittering eyes said, "We all die sometime, laddie," as the first of the cankers burst from the opening in a flurry of claws and fangs and screwed up faces of pure hatred.

With a roar, Kell leapt to meet them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks must go to various people for advice and encouragement along the way, especially when the road glittered dark. Thanks to Ian Graham, author of Monument, Monument, for hardcore test reading, insightful advice and hallucinating the cankers. Cool! for hardcore test reading, insightful advice and hallucinating the cankers. Cool!

Thanks to Green Sonia the Savage, for encouraging me to write for insane periods of time in order to hit those deadlines, and never moaning.

Thanks to Joe Blade and Olly Axe, for making me smile when the forest seemed dark.

And thanks to Marc Gascoigne, for giving me a fresh crossbow-shot at scribing fantasy. I owe a few tankards of honey-mead!

Finally, a big thank you to Claire and Natalie Ralph, for their original inspiration and for being such good little vampires.

Extras...

20 MINUTES INSIDE THE MIND OF Andy Remic

As part of getting to truly know our authors, we sometimes like to throw a bunch of quickfire questions their, see if we can get a glimpse of what they really think. And then, well, we lobbed some of those questions at Rem...

One book Legend by David Gemmell. I read it when I was 15 years old, and it was extremely influential. I later struck up a friendship with Dave, and he never forgave me for a critique I once did (circa 1990) in which I said one of his novels had elements of the "turkey" in it. He said his book had never been described as fowl before, and I was lucky not to receive a right hook. by David Gemmell. I read it when I was 15 years old, and it was extremely influential. I later struck up a friendship with Dave, and he never forgave me for a critique I once did (circa 1990) in which I said one of his novels had elements of the "turkey" in it. He said his book had never been described as fowl before, and I was lucky not to receive a right hook.

One book to burn I don't really criticise other writers' works if I can help it. Authors, without exception, work incredibly hard, even if a book is perceived as "ready to burn", so I leave the acid to "professional critics".

One film This would have to be Blade Runner, Blade Runner, extremely influential and dark, moody, violent, intelligent, and based on a superb Phil Dick source text! Although I do have a secret passion which will guarantee small children point at me and laugh-I love those old Conan films. "Conan, what is best in life..." extremely influential and dark, moody, violent, intelligent, and based on a superb Phil Dick source text! Although I do have a secret passion which will guarantee small children point at me and laugh-I love those old Conan films. "Conan, what is best in life..."

One film to burn What do I hate? Hmm. I think it's got to be The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz. Everybody bangs on about how brilliant it is; I thought it was a pile of sputum. Go on, burn it. As an aside, I am pretty good at burning things myself. I set fire to my decking a few weeks back using petrol on a BBQ; dumb, I know, and I nearly died, but on the upside the firemen thought it was pretty funny (especially as my brother is a fireman), and I got an invitation from Keith Flint to his annual summer party. Firestarter? Twisted firestarter? Surely not. Everybody bangs on about how brilliant it is; I thought it was a pile of sputum. Go on, burn it. As an aside, I am pretty good at burning things myself. I set fire to my decking a few weeks back using petrol on a BBQ; dumb, I know, and I nearly died, but on the upside the firemen thought it was pretty funny (especially as my brother is a fireman), and I got an invitation from Keith Flint to his annual summer party. Firestarter? Twisted firestarter? Surely not.

One song/record "Green and Grey" by New Model Army, from the album Thunder and Consolation. Thunder and Consolation. Just perfect. But it's closely followed by Cypress Hill's "Tequilas Sunrise" from Just perfect. But it's closely followed by Cypress Hill's "Tequilas Sunrise" from IV. IV. That's more than one, right? Hot damn, I wish I could count. That's more than one, right? Hot damn, I wish I could count.

One record to smash Showwadaawaddywaddy, or however the bastard you spell it. Hell! It's hell, I tell you. I bought an album when I was 10 years old. The shame. The horror. The horror. Kurtz, kill me now.

One creative person you always wanted to be JRR Tolkien. Think of those royalty statements!! And of course, he was a genius masquerading as a university lecturer. Or maybe a university lecturer masquerading as a genius.

One book you wish you'd written Harry Potter. Very well written, and just think of those fat royalty statements!

Who's your hero?

Justin Sullivan, of New Model Army, who ironically sang, "There are no heroes anymore".

Ideal dinner party guests Why, that would be the wonderful people from Angry Robot Books. OK, aided and abetted by New Model Army, and hell, why not, the cast from Twilight. Yes, I am getting back in touch with my teen roots. Although it has to be said, if Milla Jovovich popped in, I wouldn't deny her a sausage.

The biggest influence on your writing David Gemmell, recently departed King of Heroic Fantasy. Sorry. It's just the way it is. Because of Dave, I started writing seriously, and indeed started writing heroic fantasy.

The biggest influence on your life My dad. A complex one this, so I won't go into it here (it's part of my PhD, it's that complex). He was as close to a hero you could get or hope for. He escaped from two prisoner-of-war camps, and he shot some Nazis. Wish I'd been there.

Got a nickname?

Jappo. It's a long story. Oh yes, and there was one at school-Mugsy, after the old Melbourne House Spectrum game about gangsters. And, I believe, some cheeky monkey scamp kids used to call me Captain Ginger Beard when I was a teacher, bless their little cotton chainsaws.

Tell us a joke It's a rude one. It's about this fat woman. And her fat husband...No, no, my reputation is already bad enough to kill a skunk at fifty yards, without making it worse. I'm trying to keep my big stupid mouth shut. I'm trying, anyway.

Support a team?

No. I believe football (soccer, haha) has become a pure game of pure money. An absolute business transaction!! And I do not subscribe to money unless it's buying me a new motorbike.

What do you sing in the shower I don't sing. I scrub. I am a scrubber.

Any notable pets?

Yes, Samson, my big fat chocolate Labrador who starred in my first three Spiral books. He's dead now, bless him, the stubborn teddy-shagging mongrel, but now I have an insane Border Collie called Fizz (not my choice) who puts me to shame on technical ridge-lines at the top of mountains by bounding around like a mountain goat on mescaline whilst I cling in fear to the edges of high rocks. What a bitch.

Earliest memory?

Being naked in a paddling pool in Yugoslavia in 1976. The humiliation, I tell you! My mother has a photo. The bitch.

First story you told?

I was about 7 or 8. I wrote a novel called The Four-Headed Monster. The Four-Headed Monster. It was about a Four-Headed Monster. I told it to the class. They were suitably impressed (as 7 and 8 year olds are by a Four-Headed Monster). It was about a Four-Headed Monster. I told it to the class. They were suitably impressed (as 7 and 8 year olds are by a Four-Headed Monster).

First story you sold?

My first novel, Spiral, Spiral, to Orbit Books. Thank you, Tim Holman;-) to Orbit Books. Thank you, Tim Holman;-) What do you say when people ask "Where do you get your ideas from?"

Ideas come from anywhere and everywhere, from books and films, conversations and sex, whisky and demons. You must mash it all up in a big pan, add a splash of rum, mix it with a Big Spoon and cook at 190 for about 1 hour 40 minutes. Then you may have the workings of a story.