Kell's Legend

by Andy Remic

  Kell lit a fire, and within an hour warmth had filled the cottage. Darkness fell outside, and night brought with it a storm of snow and hail, which rattled off the windows as a mournful wind howled through the yew trees out back.

  Nienna and Kat cooked a large pot of stew, thick with cabbage and potatoes, and plenty of salt which Kell found in a cupboard along with dried herbs, thyme and rosemary, which they added for flavour. They sat around the table, eating. All had cleaned themselves as best they could in the ice-cold river, and Nienna found some old clothes in a chest in the bedroom. Despite being cold, and smelling mildly of damp, they were far superior to the stained items which had suffered the tannery. Each in turn changed, burning old clothes on the fire and pulling on woollen trews and rough cotton shirts. Saark went last, and when Nienna handed him the thick trousers and shirt he held them at arm’s length, his distaste apparent.

  “What would you like me to do with these?” he asked Nienna.

  She gave a short laugh. “Put them on, idiot!”

  “Are you sure? I thought they were for cleaning out the pigs.” He glanced over at Kell and grimaced. “I see you’ve settled comfortably into your new wardrobe, old horse.”

  “These clothes are fine,” Kell said gruffly, not looking up.

  “Not itchy at all?”

  Kell glanced up from his stew. “Not for me,” he said. “But you may find them a little rough, what with your baby-soft skin, manicured hands and cream-softened arse.”

  “Ha! These are the clothes of the peasant. I’ll not wear them.”

  “Then you’ll stink of dog-shit, old brains and cattle-fat for the next week.”

  Saark considered this. “You sure they don’t itch?” he asked. “There’s nothing worse than a peasant’s fleas. Except, maybe, a whore’s syphilis!” He laughed at his joke, and carried the clothes through to the bedroom with Kell staring after him, eyes glowing embers.

  The door closed, then opened again. “Any chance one of you young ladies could help me dress? You know how tiresome this can be for us fine noble types.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Kell, pushing back his chair which scraped against the stone floor.

  “Ach, that’s all right, big man. I…I think I can manage.”

  Saark disappeared, and Kell returned to his stew, complementing Nienna and Kat on their cooking.

  When they’d finished eating, Nienna said, “Grandpa?”

  “Yes, monkey?”

  “Will the…” she seemed to be fighting with her thoughts, “will those albino soldiers come after us? This far from Jalder?”

  “No, girl,” said Kell. “They took the garrison, then the city. If they do intend to invade Falanor further, then the logical route is to head south down the Great North Road. After all, King Leanoric built it for transporting his troops.” He smiled, and it was grim. “It’s ironic, however, that I think he envisioned his own soldiers using it. Not the enemy.”

  “Where did those albino men come from?” said Kat. She was leaning back, hands stretched towards the fire, belly full and at least savouring a little contentment.

  “From the north, past the Black Pike Mountains. I saw them once; they have a huge civilisation there.”

  “Why does nobody in Jalder speak of them? Why is there no trade?”

  Kell shrugged. “The paths across the mountains are treacherous indeed. For most of the year impassable, even; certainly impossible for an army to travel. This Army of Iron must have found a new route, something to which I am not privy.”

  “Is it true there are tunnels under the Black Pikes?”

  Kell nodded. “Many. And more treacherous than the mountain trails, of that I am certain.” His eyes were distant, now, as if reliving ancient days. “I’ve seen many a man die in the Black Pikes. The mountains take no prisoners.”

  “You speak as if they live?”

  “Maybe they do,” said Kell, rubbing wearily at his eyes. “Maybe they do.”

  Saark chose that moment to make his grand entrance, and he grinned, giving a twirl by the bedroom door. “I look like you people, now,” he said, tying back his long curls.

  “You said they were clothes for a peasant,” pointed out Kell.

  “Exactly,” smiled Saark. “Is there any more stew? I’m famished.”

  “You’ve already had two bowls,” said Kat.

  “I’m a growing lad who needs his energy.” He winked at her, and sat down, ladling more stew into his bowl. “By all the gods, this stinks of cabbage.”

  “You can always go hungry, lad,” said Kell.

  “No, no, I’m starting to enjoy the…ahh, cabbage flavour. It’s certainly an acquired taste, but I think, in maybe a year or two, I might just get used to it.”

  After the girls were asleep, Saark waved a small flask at Kell. “Drink, old horse?”

  “Stop calling me old horse. I ain’t that old.”

  “Ach, so you won’t be wanting this whisky, aged fifteen years in oak vats, will you?”

  “Maybe just a drop,” conceded Kell. “To warm against the winter chill.” He took the flask, drank deeply, and handed it back to Saark, smacking his lips. “By all the gods, that’s a fine drop.” He eyed Saark. “Must have cost a pretty penny.”

  “Stolen by my own fair hand.”

  “‘The World despises a thief, leste he undermyne Mighty Kings’,” quoted Kell, staring hard at Saark. “I kind of echo that sentiment, laddie.”

  “All fine and well, when you have money in your purse. Ask those without. The merchant who shared his produce won’t be needing it; the albino soldiers killed him and his wife.”

  “And I suppose you had just…ravished her?”

  Saark snorted laughter, and took another drink. “Ravished? Come come, Kell, we are both men of the world. You can speak to me as one man to another. Yes, I fucked her. And what a pretty piece of quim she was, too. Never have I tasted such succulent honey.”

  Kell’s eyes hardened, fists clenching. “You have very little respect for women, lad.”

  Saark considered this. “Well, they have very little respect for me. Now, listen Kell.” He leant forward, firelight dancing in his dark eyes. “We need to decide what we’re going to do next. You know, as I, the Army of Iron will head south. We have but a few days; they will consolidate their position, leave their own garrison in command of Jalder, and travel the Great North Road. We need to be gone from here by then; their scouts will spread out, and will certainly find us. We are easy to spot.” He thought. “Well, you are.”

  Kell nodded, and when he replied his voice was cool. He found it hard to hide his distaste for the popinjay. Kell was a simple man who wore emotions on his face, and on his fists. He told it like it was. “What do you have in mind, Saark?”

  “Much as it pains me to say this, for there is little actual personal profit in it for me, but…we should ride south. We should warn King Leanoric. It is the right thing to do.”

  Kell picked up a sharp bread knife, toyed with it between his fingers. He seemed uneasy. “Surely, the king already knows? His northern capital has been sundered.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If the Army of Iron surprises Leanoric…well, they can plough through Falanor like a knife through a sleeping man’s eyeball. Our armies would topple. People enslaved. All that kind of tiresome business of Empire. Could you live with that on your conscience, Kell?”

  “You’re a fine one to speak of conscience.”

  “For a cuckolded husband? No. For the slaughter of an entire population? Use your head, Kell. And anyway…there may be a warm spot in the Hall of Heroes for somebody who does the Heroic Thing.” He winked. “One must always try and please the gods. Just in case.”

  “You’re a worm, Saark.”

  “Maybe. But a man needs all the help he can get. We must warn Leanoric. He will need to gather the Eagle Divisions; if surprised, he could be sorely routed. What life then for a dandy on a mission?”

  Kell nodded, and his eyes met Saark’s. “You
are from the south, aren’t you lad?”

  “Yes. Hard to hide the Iopian burr.”

  “Have you met the king?”

  “Once,” said Saark, his voice dropping soft, eyes becoming dreamy. “Many moons ago, old horse.”

  The fire was burning low. Outside, the wind howled and hail rattled in bursts against the windows like a smash of arrows. Kell came awake, one arm cold, head foggy. The whisky had done him few favours. It rarely did.

  What had woken him?

  Kell sat up, from where he lay before the fire. He could hear Nienna’s rhythmical snoring in the bedroom. Across from him, Saark turned in his sleep, but did not wake. Kell stood, and reached for his axe, then crouched beside Saark and shook him.

  “Mmm?”

  “Shh. I heard something.”

  “Probably a rat.”

  “There are no rats. I checked.”

  “Probably a chicken.” He shook off Kell’s grip. “Let me go back to sleep.”

  “Might be an albino soldier with a dagger for your throat,” whispered Kell in Saark’s ear.

  Saark rolled over, pulled on his boots, and drew his rapier. “You are the fun soul of any party, Kell, you know that? Shit then. Let’s go check it out.”

  “Wake the girls.”

  “Why? Women are best left asleep after the night’s work is done, in my opinion.”

  “We may need to leave fast.”

  Saark moved to the bedroom, woke the girls and watched without embarrassment as they dressed in the gloom, leaning against the doorway, his eyes lingering on breasts. Kell moved to the front door and stopped. He stared at the wooden planks, which rattled in the wind; outside, hail bombarded the world and Kell tilted his head, frowning, eyes narrowing, then was suddenly moving, twisting, diving aside at high speed as the door—including torn hinges and wrenched locks—imploded with a squeal and crash, the whole thing slamming across the room and missing Kell by inches, to crash into the far wall where it exploded into chunks and splinters. Kell lifted his axe, Saark whirled around, face drawn, sword high, and there in the entrance stood…the canker, Zalherion. It growled, a low metallic sound underlain with a thrashing of delicate brass gears.

  “What the hell-” hissed Saark.

  The canker leapt, its bulk smashing stones from the door surround as Kell rolled right, axe thundering in an arc to slam flesh with a thump and spray of bright blood; Saark’s rapier slashed the creature’s flank, carving a long razor-line down bulging muscle and the creature roared, head thrashing as it turned, bulky and huge in the room as it stomped chairs to tinder. Saark whirled. To Nienna and Kat, he hissed, “Out the window! Run down to the boat, now, as if your lives depend on it!”

  He leapt as the canker turned on him, and a great paw on the end of a bent, angled, barely human arm snapped at him. Talons tore three shallow jagged lines across his clothing, hurling him across the room upside down to thud the wall and hit the floor, tangled and groaning. Kell’s axe, Ilanna, slammed at the creature’s spine, blades embedding in flesh. He tore his axe free as the canker screamed, rearing up, head smashing the ceiling and bringing down thick plaster and several cracked wooden beams. Grimly, Kell wrenched free his axe, took a step back for balance and weighting, and hammered it again as if chopping wood. Blades bit flesh, muscle, and several small brass gears were flung free of the canker, tinkling as they scattered across the stone floor.

  The creature turned on Kell, huge open maw filled with gnashing clockwork and drooling thick crimson pus. It howled, and charged at him in the confined space, and Kell scrambled back, twisting to avoid the swipe of massive talons at the end of a human arm, his axe coming up to deflect a second blow, ducking a third swipe which hit the fireplace behind him, cracking stones with sheer force of impact.

  Kell looked deep into the canker’s eyes. The rage there was indescribable…the pain, the suffering, the anguish, the hatred. He swallowed hard as its shoulders tensed, and Kell realised it was going to crush him against the stone of the cottage wall with sheer bulk and weight—and he didn’t have room to swing Ilanna! There was nothing he could do.

  FIVE

  The Church of Blessed Engineers

  Anukis awoke slowly, as if from a long, bad dream. She could taste blood, and two of her teeth were smashed. She reached into her mouth and plucked the tiny pieces of bone free, wincing, wanting to cry, but forcing back the piercing pain and ignoring the fire. She had more urgent matters to consider.

  Coughing, Anukis sat up and opened her eyes. She was naked, wrists chained, and the room was illuminated by a dim light. However, her superior vachine eyes kicked in with a tiny background whirr of clockwork, and her eyes enhanced the ambient light. She was in a cell. It was a good cell, a clean cell; precise, and fashioned totally from metal.

  Anukis looked about. The floor was steel, ridged for grip, and sporting channels no-doubt to carry away blood and the water used to sluice out the honey from the tortured. The walls were black iron, rusted in patches, the ceiling brass and set with tiny squares to allow entry for distant daylight.

  Anukis stood, testing her body, checking how much damage had been done. The vachine had beat her; oh, how they enjoyed their sport, slamming the impure with fists and boots, but no teeth—no, Vashell had not allowed them to rip her apart with fangs and claws.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Anukis endured her savage beating; it lasted maybe an hour. She recognised it had gone on long after he had lost consciousness. Slowly, now, she checked her way through her bones, searching for breaks; there was a mild fracture in her left shoulder blade, and she winced as she rolled it, ignoring the torn and protesting muscles, the impact bruises, but going deep, analysing the pain within. One finger was snapped, on her left hand—ironically, her wedding ring finger. I suppose Vashell won’t be asking me to marry him anymore, she thought, and felt a hysterical giggle welling in her breast which she quashed savagely. No. Not here. You cannot lose your mind here. Because to lose your mind is to…

  Die.

  Such a simple word. An effortless concept. The natural order of all things: to live, and to die. Only the vachine were different, for they had introduced a third state with their hybrid watchmaking technology…as created by her grandfather, and refined, accelerated and implemented by her father Kradek-ka. It was a state of life which was partially removed from life; not death, no, not exactly. But only a sidestep away from the long dark journey.

  Anukis realised two ribs were cracked, and she bit her tongue against the pain as she shifted her weight. She ran her hands over her naked, pale skin, up and down her legs, over her hips and belly, stroking her flanks, searching for tears in flesh and damage to muscle and tendon within. Finally, satisfied, Anukis walked around her cell, hands tracing contours on the walls and pausing, occasionally, at odd-shaped slots and sockets. These were for the mobile torture devices of the Engineers and Cardinals. She had heard of such things; but never witnessed. With a cold chill she grasped her position, and understood with clarity that her opportunity might come sooner than she realised.

  Anukis moved to the cell door for analysis. It was brass, thick and very, very heavy, a solid slab with only a hand-sized portal through which to feed prisoners. Anu’s fingers traced the join between door and the metal wall—it was precise, as befitted a religion and culture of engineers and metal craftsmen.

  As she stood, she heard a lock mechanism whirr and took a hurried step back. The door swung inwards, silently, and a figure was outlined. It was the athletic figure of Vashell, the light source behind him, his features hidden in darkness and shadow.

  “Have you come to gloat, bastard?”

  His fist lashed out, slamming Anukis’s face and dropping her to the floor. He stepped forward, and his boot smashed her face, stamped on her chest, and as she lay, stunned, bleeding, he stamped on her head.

  Vashell pulled off a pair of gloves and moved, sitting on her bed, reclining a little, hands clasped around one armoured knee. He smiled, his brass
fangs poking over his lower lip, and his eyes were dark, oil-filled, glittering first with resentment, then with amusement at Anukis’s pain.

  She lay, wheezing, head spinning, and it took many minutes for the effects of the blows to subside. Finally, she sat up, coughed up blood which ran down her breasts and pooled in her lap, in her crotch, an ersatz moon-bleeding.

  “Ten years ago we played in my father’s garden,” he said. “We ran through the long grass, and you giggled, and your hair shone in the winter sun. We walked down to the river, sat watching the savage fast waters filled with ice-melt from beneath the Black Pikes; and I held you, and you told me you loved me, and that one day we would be together.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your memories are twisted, Vashell. It didn’t happen like that.” She coughed, holding her breast, blood staining her chin like a horror puppet. “You chased me. I struggled. I asked for you to leave me alone!”

  “Liar!” he surged to his feet, face contorted into a vachine snarl. Inside his mouth, gears stepped and wheels spun.

  Anu was crying as she looked up at him. “Vashell,” she said, gently, “I never said I loved you, I never loved you. You saw what you wanted to see. You pursued me for a decade, and never once did I give you reason to believe I returned your love; I was careful, because you were an Engineer Priest, and I knew to anger you would be fatal.”

  Vashell subsided, and sat again, staring at her, his expression unreadable. “I loved you,” he said, simply.

  “You captured me, had me beaten. Just now, you kicked me like a dog. How can you sit there and say you loved me?”

  “You betrayed me!” he snarled, spittle flying from his fangs. “You made me a fucking mockery amongst the Engineers; you have undermined my authority, lowered my rank, and you sit there and wonder why I strike you? That is my right, fucker. You have earned the beating, and much, much more. You are impure. Bad blood. A Heretic. No true vachine would have led an Engineer Priest on such a pretty dance.”