Kell's Legend

by Andy Remic

  “What I’d give for a large whisky,” said Kell, watching steam rise from their clothes.

  “What I’d give for a fat whore.”

  “Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”

  “Sometimes,” said Saark, and turned, staring into the flames. “Sometimes, in distant dreams, I think of honour, of loyalty, and of friendship; I think of love, of family, of happy children, a doting wife. All the good things in life, my friend. And then I remember who I am, and the things I did, and I am simply thankful for a fat whore sitting on my face. You?”

  “Me what?”

  “I gave you a potted history. Now it’s your turn. You’re a hero, right?”

  “You make the word ‘hero’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”

  “Not at all.” Saark grinned, then, his melancholy dropping like a hawk from the heavens. “I heard a poem about you, once. ‘Kell’s Legend’, it was called. That’s you, right? You’re the character of legend?”

  “You make ‘character’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”

  “Very droll. Come on, Kell. It was a good poem.”

  “Ha! A curse on all poets! May they catch the pox and have ugly children.”

  “This poem was a good one,” persisted Saark. “Proper hero stuff. Had a decent rhyme as well. Foot-tapping stuff, when recited in a tavern by men with harps and honey-beer and the glint of wonder in their eyes.”

  Kell drew his Svian blade. His eyes glowed and he pointed at Saark in the close proximity. “Don’t even fucking think about it. All poets should be gutted like fish, their entrails strung out to dry, then made to compose ballads about how they feel with the bastard suffering. A curse on them!”

  Saark sang, voice soft, hand held out to ward off Kell’s knife should he make a strike:

  “Kell waded through life on a river of blood, His axe in his hands, dreams misunderstood, In Moonlake and Skulkra he fought with the best This hero of old, this hero obsessed, This hero turned champion of King Searlan Defiant and worthy a merciless man.”

  Kell snorted. “Poets make a joy out of slaughter, the academic smug self-satisfying bastards. I am ashamed to be a part of that song! Bah!” Kell frowned darkly. “And you! You sing like a drunkard. I can sing better than that, and I sound like a fart from a donkey’s arse…and I’m proud of it! A man should only sing when he’s a belly full of whisky, a fist full of money, and the idea of a fight in his head. You can keep your cursed poetry, Saark, you idiot. A bad case of gonorrhoea on you all! Death to all poets!”

  “Death to all poets?” chuckled Saark, and relaxed as Kell sheathed his long, silver-bladed Svian. “A little harsh, I find, for simply extending the oral tradition and entertaining fellow man. But was it true? The stuff in the poem? The Saga?”

  “No.”

  “Not even some of it?”

  “Well, the bastards spelt my name right. Listen, Saark, we need to go after Nienna and Kat. They could end up miles away. Leagues! They could be in danger even as we sit here, wasting our breath like a whore wastes her hard-earned coin.”

  “We’ll die if we go back to the storm.” Saark’s voice was soft.

  “Where’s your courage, man?”

  “Hiding behind my need to stay alive. Kell, you’re no use to her dead. Wait till the sun’s up; then we’ll search.”

  “No. I am going now!” He stood and reached for his wet clothes.

  Saark sang:

  “And brave Kell marched out through the snow, His dullard brain he left behind, He took with him a mighty bow, His thumb up his arse and shit in his mind.”

  Kell paused. Stared hard at Saark, who shrugged, and threw another chunk of wood on the fire. “You’re being irrational, my friend. I may dress like an idiot, but I know when to live, and when to die. Now is not the time to die.”

  Kell sighed, a deep sigh of resignation, and returned to the fire. He sat, staring into flickering flames.

  “Say it,” said Saark.

  “What?”

  “Admit that I’m right.”

  “You’re right.”

  “See, that wasn’t too painful, eh, old horse?”

  “But I’ll tell you something, Saark. If anything happens to Nienna, then I’ll blame you; and it’ll take more than fucking poetry to remove my axe from your fat split head.”

  Saark laughed, and slapped Kell on the back. “What a truly grumpy old bastard you are, eh? You remind me of my dad.”

  “If I was your dad, I’d kill myself.”

  “And if I was your son, I’d help you. Listen, enough of this banter; we need to get some sleep. I have a strange feeling tomorrow’s going to be a hard day. Call me extreme, but it can’t get any worse.”

  “A hard day?” scoffed Kell. “Harder than yesterday? That seems unlikely. However, young man, I will take your advice, even though it pains me to listen to somebody with the wardrobe sense of a travelling chicken.”

  “At least that beast…at least it was dead, in the river. It was dead, wasn’t it?”

  “It was a canker.”

  “A what?”

  “A canker. That’s what it was.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw one. Once. Halfway up a mountain in the Black Pikes; it tried to kill us.”

  “What happened?”

  “It slipped on ice. Fell six thousand feet onto rocks like spears.” Kell’s eyes gleamed, misted, distant, unreadable. He coughed. “So put that Dog Gemdog gem in your poem, laddie. Because the canker, well, it’s a vachine creation. And there are more of the bastards where that one came from.”

  Saark shivered, and scowled hard at Kell. “Well, thanks for that cheerful nocturnal nugget, just before I try and sleep. Sweet dreams to you as well, you old goat!”

  The boat spun out of control through the blackness and Nienna screamed, clinging to Kat. “What do we do?”

  “We row!”

  “The oars were smashed!”

  The two girls looked frantically for something to use as a paddle, but only Kell’s axe caught Nienna’s eye and she stooped, picking up the weapon. She expected a dead-weight, impossible to lift, but it was surprisingly light despite its size. She hefted the weapon, and it glowed, warm for a moment, in her hands. Or had she imagined that?

  “You can’t paddle with that,” snapped Kat.

  “I was thinking more of hitting it into the beast’s head.”

  “If it comes back,” said Kat.

  They both thought of Saark, and Kell, under the freezing river, fighting the huge beast. They shivered, and neither dared to wonder what the outcome would be.

  The boat spun around again, and bounced from a rotting tree-trunk, invisible in the darkness. The river grew wider, more shallow, and they found themselves rushing through a minefield of rocks, the river gushing and pounding all around.

  “What do we do?” shouted Kat over the torrent.

  “I don’t know!”

  Both girls moved to the boat’s stern, and with four hands on the tiller, tried to steer the boat in towards the shore. Amazingly, it began to work, and they bounced and skimmed down the fast flow and towards an overhanging shoreline in the gloom…with a crunch, the boat beached on ice and stones, and Nienna leapt out as she had seen Kell do, holding his axe, and tried to drag the boat up the beach. She did not have the strength. Kat jumped out and they both tried, but the boat was dragged backwards by wild currents and within seconds was lost in the raging darkness.

  Snow fell.

  The girls retreated a short distance into the woods, but stopped, spooked by the complete and utter darkness. A carpet of pine needles were soft underfoot, and the heady smell of resin filled the air.

  “This is creepy,” whispered Nienna.

  Kat nodded, but Nienna couldn’t discern the movement; by mutual consent, their hands found one another and they walked deeper into the forest, pushed on by a fear of the canker that outweighed a fear of the dark. They stared up at the massive boles of towering Silver Firs, and a vio
lent darkness above which signified the sky. Random flakes drifted down through the trees, but at least here there was no wind; only a still calm.

  “Will that creature come back, do you think?” asked Kat.

  “I have Kell’s axe,” said Nienna, by way of reply.

  “Kell and Saark couldn’t kill it,” said Kat.

  Nienna did not answer.

  They stopped, their footsteps crunching pine needles. All around lay the broken carcass shapes of dead-wood; ahead, a criss-crossing of fallen trees blocked their path, and cursing and moaning, they dragged themselves beneath the low barricade to stand, again, in a tiny clearing.

  “Look,” said Nienna. “There was a fire.”

  They ran forward, to where a ring of stones surrounded glowing embers. Kat searched about, finding dead wood to get the blaze going, and they fed twigs into the embers, waiting for them to ignite before piling on thicker branches. Soon they had the fire roaring, and they warmed their hands and feet by the flames, revelling in their good fortune.

  “Who do you think was here?” asked Nienna.

  “Woodsmen, I should think,” said Kat. “But they’ll be long gone. A fire can burn low like that for a couple of days.” She took a stick, and poked around in the fire. Flames crackled, and sparks flew out, like tiny fireflies, sparkling into the air. Around them, the chill of the forest, the smell of cold and rotting vegetation, filled their senses.

  “What are we going to do, Kat?” said Nienna eventually, voicing that which they were both thinking.

  “I don’t know. Kell will find us.”

  “Maybe he…” She left it unsaid.

  “I’ve read about your grandfather,” said Kat, staring into the fire. “He’s a survivor. He’s a…killer.”

  “No he’s not. He’s my grandpa.” Nienna scowled, then glanced at Kat. “What do you mean? A killer?”

  “His legend,” said Kat, avoiding Nienna’s gaze. “You’ll see. He’ll come looking for us. For you, I mean.”

  “He’ll come for both of us!” snapped Nienna, frowning at the tone Kat employed. “He’s an honourable man! An old soldier! He would always do the right thing.”

  Kat said nothing.

  “Well well well,” came a strange voice from the trees. It was a twisted voice, full of friendly humour and yet mocking at the same time. “What have we got here?”

  Both girls leapt up, and Nienna lifted the axe. From the gloom of the forest emerged six men, drifting slowly from the black. They were a rag-tag bunch, dressed in little more than rags and stained, matted furs. They wore heavy scuffed boots and carried tarnished swords; two men hefted fine yew longbows.

  “What do you want?” snarled Kat.

  The man who spoke was tall and lean, his face pock-marked, his eyes large and innocent. His hair was long and dark, tied back beneath a deerstalker hat with furred edges. He was grinning at the two young women, showing a missing tooth.

  “We don’t want anything, me sweets. You’ve made yourself comfortable in our camp, is all.”

  “Are you robbers?”

  The man held his hands apart, and he carried no weapons. “Tsch, just because I lives in the forest, me sweets, doesn’t make me a robber. Has been a hard time for us all I think. This winter is a harsh one, for sure. Only now, we were out hunting for meat.” He gestured, to where one of the forest-men carried a pole containing two dead hares. “Pickings are lean,” he said, eyes narrowing, but then he smiled again. “Don’t let us worry you. You got the fire going; that’s got to be worth a mouthful of rabbit meat.”

  Kat nodded, and the men moved around easily, leaning weapons against trees with two of them sitting by the fire, holding out chilled hands. The leader seated himself and gestured to Nienna and Kat, still standing, to have a seat.

  “I won’t bite, me sweets. Honest. Come and sit yourself down here. Keep yourself warm. You both looks like you’ll die from the cold! I’m Barras, and I’d wager you’re a long way from your homes. City girls, are ye?”

  “From Jalder,” said Nienna, and Kat kicked her on the ankle. Nienna threw her a dark look.

  “Jalder’s a fine city,” said Barras, smiling broadly, friendly, as one of his companions began to skin and gut the rabbits. “I have a lot of good friends who live there. Well, people I owe money to, anyways.”

  “It was overrun! By an army. An army of albinos!” hissed Nienna, her eyes wide.

  Barras rubbed at his chin with a rasping sound. “Is that so ways? That would be bad news, if I hadn’t owed so much silver to the Hatchet Man.”

  “Who’s the Hatchet Man?” asked Kat, intrigued.

  “Runs the gambling dens. When you don’t pay, he cuts off your hands with a hatchet. Chop!” He roared with laughter, as one of his men brought a large pan of water and set it on the fire. Barras leaned forward, then, his lips pouting as he considered a question. Almost instinctively, Kat leaned forward to listen; but Nienna found her hands tightening on Ilanna. Something wasn’t right. The atmosphere felt…just wrong.

  Nienna glanced about. And it hit her. All of the men still wore weapons. They had removed some for show; but they still wore short swords. They were behaving like they were winding down, making camp, but nobody skinned a rabbit with a sword sheathed at his side. Or was she simply looking for trouble where none should be found? She stared at Barras. His face was filthy, yes, but honest. Why not trust him? He was a simple woodsman enduring a harsh winter…surely they would have a house or cottage nearby. A wife? Three children to feed?

  Barras edged a little closer. He licked his lips. “What’s your name, me sweets?”

  “Kat.”

  “I was a-wondering, Kat, if you taste as good as you look?”

  There came a moment of silence, and both Nienna and Kat surged to their feet but one of the woodsmen had circled behind and a club cracked Nienna’s skull, sending her sprawling sideways, fingers losing grip on Ilanna, and two men grabbed Kat, bearing her to the ground where she screamed, until one punched her, a heavy blow that silenced her in an instant.

  Nienna’s last sight was of Barras, lifting Ilanna and frowning a little as his eyes scanned the delicate faded runes along the black haft. He shook his head, then stared at Nienna in a curious way; before a second vicious blow from behind rendered her unconscious.

  Nienna awoke to pain, pain in her fingers, hands, and running like fiery trails along her forearms and biceps, to end like pits of coal deep within her shoulders. She moaned, and her eyes flickered open. Her head pounded. A sour taste filled her mouth, and she realised she had vomited down her shirt.

  She was moving, swaying, and at first she thought it a reaction to being hit over the back of the head. Then she realised the awful truth; she was tied up, and hung from the branch of a tree. She scowled, anger charging to the front of her mind. Bastards, trussing her up like a chicken! She heard laughter, and shouting, the crackle of the fire, and as she gently moved around on her length of rope she saw Kat. She was in a state of undress. Six men had ripped free her shirt and trousers, and she stood in her underwear and boots, a long stick in her hands, face a curious mix of hatred and fear as the men spread out, surrounding her, and she jabbed at them with a stick.

  “Watching them, me sweets?”

  Nienna looked down, saw Barras standing close to her, not looking at her, but watching the spectacle with Kat.

  “Let us go,” she said.

  “Why? We’re going to have a pretty fun with you two for, oh, I’d say the next month. You can get a lot of use out of a young woman like yourself; you have so much stamina, so much passion, so much anger. But, finally, when we’ve fucked you, and beaten you, and broken your spirit worse than any high-bred stallion, when you no longer scream during orgasm, when you no longer scratch at faces and pull at hair…when your spirit is gone, me sweet little doll, then, and only then, do we slit your throats.”

  Nienna stared down at the man, tasting vomit, and wondering how she could kill him. His words frightened her more
than anything she had had ever heard, or ever seen; worse than the albino army, worse than any canker. For here, and now, this was personal, not just an invasion, and this man was evil, a total corruption of the human shell. She was still stunned that she had not been able to see it. To smell it. It was a sobering life experience.

  “How could you do that to us?” she asked, in a small voice.

  Barras glanced up, then reached out, his hand creeping up the inside of her trouser leg. His fingers were rough on her skin. She squirmed, but he was stronger than he looked; he grinned as his fingers groped her inner thigh, her soft flesh, her young flesh, and his eyes were old and dark and deeply malevolent.

  “Not everybody in this world has the same morals as you, little honey. You little rich girls; well, you deserve every fucking you get.”

  The men, laughing, got the stick from Kat and bore her to the ground. One kissed her, and when she bit his tongue in a spurt of bright blood he slapped her hard, across the face, then again with the back of his hand. Blood trickled from her nose and she lay, stunned, fingers clenching and unclenching. The man pulled free her vest revealing small, firm, breasts. He squeezed them, one in each hand, to the cackling of his companions…

  “Call them off,” said Nienna, voice so dry she could hardly speak.

  “Why, me sweets?”

  “You saw the axe,” said Nienna, voice turning hard. “It’s Ilanna.”

  Barras narrowed his eyes then, scowling at her. “Where did you hear such a name?”