by Andy Remic
The Jailers
Saark watched the axe, Ilanna, in Kell’s mighty hands; watched her sing in dark prophecy as she rushed towards his skull. And as he observed that crescent razor approach, an utter calm descended on him and he reflected on his life, his early goals, his mistakes, and on his current self-loathing; and he knew, knew life was unfair and the world took no prisoners, but that ultimately he had made his own choices, and he deserved death. He deserved the cold dark earth, the sombre tomb, worms eating his organs. He deserved to be forgotten, for in his life he had done bad things, terrible things, and for these he had never been punished. With his death, his end, then the world would be a cleaner place. His scourge would be removed. He smiled. It was a fitting end to be slain by a hero such as Kell; poetic, almost. Despite the irony.
The blade sliced frozen earth a hair’s-breadth from his ear, scraped the ice with a metallic shriek, then lifted into the air again and for a horrible moment Saark thought to himself, the old bastard missed! He’s pissed on whisky, and he damn well fucking missed!
But Kell glared at him, face sour, eyes raging, and held out his hand. “Up, lad. It’s not your time. We have a job to do.”
Saark turned, rolled, and sprang lightly to his feet, his injuries pushed aside as he watched, with Kell, Nienna, Kat and the others; watched the albino soldiers drifting from wreaths of ice-smoke.
Kell whirled on the gathered crowd. “You must run!” he bellowed. “The ice-smoke will freeze you where you stand, then they will drain you of blood. Stop standing like village idiots, run for your lives!”
A knife flashed from the darkness, and Ilanna leapt up, clattering the blade aside in a show of such consummate skill Saark found his mouth once again dry. The old boy hadn’t missed with his strike; nobody that good missed, despite half a bottle of whisky. If Kell wanted Saark dead, by the gods, he’d be dead.
Saark sidled to Kell. The advancing albinos had halted. They seemed to be waiting for something. The mist swirled, huge coils like ghostly snakes, as if gathering strength.
“What do we do, old horse?”
“We run,” said Kell. “Tell Nienna and Kat to get the horses.”
Kell stood, huge and impassable in the street as the albinos arrayed themselves before him; yet more drifted from the shadows between cottages. They wore black armour, and their crimson eyes were emotionless, insectile.
Like ants, thought Kell. Simply following their programmed instructions…
There were fifty of them, now. Off to the right a platoon of soldiers emerged, and a group of villagers attacked with swords and pitchforks. Their screams sang through the night to a musical accompaniment of steel on steel; they were butchered in less than a minute.
“Come on, come on,” muttered Kell, aware that some spell was at work here, and he growled at the albino warriors and then, realised with a jump, that they watched his axe, eyes, as one, fixed on Ilanna. He lifted the great weapon, and their eyes followed it, tracking the terrible butterfly blades.
So, he thought. You understand her, now.
“Come and enjoy her gift,” he snarled, and from their midst emerged a Harvester, and Kell nodded to himself. So. That was why they waited. For the hardcore magick to arrive…
Iron-shod hooves clattered on ice and cobbles, and Nienna and Kat rode free of the stables, the geldings sliding as they cornered and Saark whirled, leapt up behind Kat, taking the reins from her shaking fingers.
“Kell!” he bellowed.
Kell, staring at the Harvester, snarled something incomprehensible, then turned and vaulted into the saddle behind Nienna—hardly the action of an old man with rheumatism. “Yah!” he snarled and the horses galloped through the streets, churning snow and frozen mud, slamming through milling people and over the bridge and away…
Behind, the screams began.
“Soldiers ahead!” yelled Saark as they charged down a narrow street of two-storey cottages with well-tended gardens, and there were ten albino warriors standing in the road, swords free, heads lowered, and as Saark dragged violently on reins the gelding whinnied in protest. Kell did not slow, charging his own horse forward, Nienna gasping between his mighty arms as Ilanna sang, a high pitched song of desolation as she cleaved left, then right, leaving two carved and collapsing corpses in sprays of iridescent white blood. Kell wheeled the horse, and it reared, hooves smashing the lower jaw from the face of an albino who shrieked, grabbing at where his mouth had been. Behind, Saark cursed, and urging his own gelding forward, charged in with his sword drawn. Steel rang upon steel as he clashed, and to his right Kell leapt from the saddle as Nienna drew her own sword from its saddle-sheath. Kell carved a route through the soldiers, his face grim, eyes glowing, whisky on his breath and axe moving as if possessed; which it surely was.
Nienna sat atop the horse, stunned by events; from fine dresses and heady drinks to sitting in the street, sword in hand, petrified to her core. Again. She shook her head, feeling groggy and slow, mouth tasting bad, head light, and watched almost detached as a soldier stepped from his comrades, focused on her, and charged with sword raised…
Panic tore through Nienna. The soldier was there in the blink of an eye, crimson eyes fixed, sword whistling towards her in a high horizontal slash; she stabbed out with her own short blade, and the swords clashed, noise ringing out. Kell’s head slammed left, as Ilanna cut the head from a warrior’s shoulders. Kell sprinted, then knelt in the snow, sliding, as Ilanna slammed end over end to smash through the albino’s spine, curved blade appearing before Nienna’s startled gaze on a spray of blood.
Saark finished the last of the soldiers, slitting a man’s throat with a dazzling pirouette and shower of horizontal blood droplets. The corpse crumpled, blood settled like rain, and behind them, on the road, ice-smoke crept out and curled like questing fingers.
“We need to get out of Jajor Falls,” panted Saark.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” Kell took the reins, smiling grimly up at Nienna who rubbed her tired face.
“You’re not even out of breath, old boy.”
“Economy of movement,” said Kell, and forced a smile. “I’ll teach you, one day.”
There came an awkward hiatus. Saark gazed into Kell’s eyes.
“I thought you were going to kill me, back there.”
“No, laddie. I like you. I wouldn’t do that.”
Saark let the lie go, and they mounted the geldings. As they rode from Jajor Falls, out into the gloom under heavy falling snow, down a narrow winding lane which led to thick woodland and ten different tracks they could choose at random, behind them, in the now frozen village, the Harvesters moved through the rigid population with a slow, cold, frightening efficiency.
As day broke, so the trail they followed joined with the cobbled splendour of the Great North Road, winding and black, shining under frost and the pink daubs of a low-slung newly-risen sun. The horses cantered, steam ejecting from nostrils, and all four travellers were exhausted in saddles, not just from lack of sleep, but from emotional distress.
“How far to the king?” said Kell, as they rode.
“It’s hard to say; depends with which Eagle Division he’s camped, or if we have to travel all the damn way to Vor. Best thing is stop the first soldier we see and ask; the army has good communications. The squads should be informed.”
“You know a lot about King Leanoric,” said Kat, turning to gaze up at Saark. She was aware of his powerful arms around her, his body pressed close to her through silk and furs, which he’d wrapped around her shoulders in the middle of the night to keep her warm. It had been a touching moment.
“I…used to be a soldier,” said Saark, slowly.
“Which regiment, laddie?”
“The Swords,” said Saark, eyes watching Kell.
“The King’s Own, eh?” Kell grinned at him, and rubbed his weary face. The smell of whisky still hung about him like a toxic shawl.
&n
bsp; “Yes.”
“But you left?”
“Aye.”
Kell caught the tension in Saark’s voice, and let it go. Kat, however, did not.
“So you fought with the King’s Men? The Sword-Champions?”
Saark nodded, squirming uneasily in the saddle. To their left, in the trees, a burst of bird song caught his attention. It seemed at odds with the frost, and the recent slaughter. He shivered as a premonition overtook him.
“Listen, Kell, it occurs to me the Army of Iron is moving south.”
“Occurred to me as well, laddie.”
“And they’re moving fast.”
“Fast for an army, aye. They’re taking every village as they go, sweeping down through Falanor and leaving nobody behind to oppose them. If the king already knows, he will be mustering his divisions. If he does not…”
“Then Falanor lies wide open.”
Kell nodded.
“He must know,” said Saark, considering, eyes observing the road ahead. They were moving between rolling hills now, low and rimed with a light scattering of snow, patches of green peeping through patches of white like a winter forest patchwork.
“Why must he?”
“Falanor is riddled with his troops, sergeants, scouts, spies. Even now, Leanoric will be summoning divisions, and they will march on this upstart aggressor. We can be of no further use.”
Kell looked sideways at Saark. “You think so, do you?” he murmured.
Saark looked at him. “Don’t you?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We could head west, for the Salarl Ocean. Book passage on a ship, head across the waves to a new land. We are both adept with weapons; we’ll find work, there’s no question of that.”
“Or you could steal a few Dog Gemdog gems, that’d keep you in bread, cheese and fine perfume.”
Saark paused. He sighed. “You despise me, don’t you? You hate my puking guts.”
“Not at all,” said Kell, and reined in his mount. “We need to make camp. The girls are freezing. We’ve put a good twelve leagues between us and the bastards. If we don’t get some warmth we’ll freeze to death; and my arse feels like a blacksmith’s anvil.”
“Here’s a spot,” said Kat, and they dismounted. Kell sent the young women to a nearby woodland to gather fallen branches, as he rummaged in the mount’s saddlebags, pulling free two onions, salt and a few strips of jerked beef. “Hell’s teeth. Is this all there is? I suppose we left in a hurry.”
“We were brawling in the street,” said Saark. “We had little warning to gather provisions.”
Kell looked at Saark, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. About that.” His face twisted. He was unused to apology. “I…listen, I over-reacted. Kat is a beautiful young woman, but I know your sort, out to take what you want, then you’d leave her behind, weeping and broken, heart smashed into ice fragments.”
“Your opinion of me is pure flattery,” said Saark, coldly.
“Listen. I lost my temper. There. I said it.” He looked into Saark’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have killed you, lad.”
“I think you would,” said Saark, carefully. “I’ve seen that look before.”
Kell grinned. “Damn. You’re right. I would have killed you.”
“What stopped you?”
“The arrival of the soldiers,” said Kell, hissing in honesty. “You were the one who brought up this poem, right? This Saga of Kell’s Legend. But have you heard the last verse? It’s rare the bards remember it; either that, or they choose easily to forget, lest it ruin their night of entertainment.”
“The one about Moonlake and Skulkra? Kell fought with the best?”
“No. There is another verse.”
“I did not realise.”
Kell’s voice was a low rumble as he recited, unevenly, more poetry than song; he would be the first to admit he was no bard. Kell quoted:
“And Kell now stood with axe in hand, The sea raged before him, time torn into strands, He pondered his legend and screamed at the stars, Death open beneath him to heal all the scars Of the hatred he’d felt, and the murders he’d done And the people he’d killed all the pleasure and life He’d destroyed.
“Kell stared melancholy into great rolling waves of a Dark Green World, And knew he could blame no other but himself for The long Days of Blood, the long Days of Shame, The worst times flowing through evil years of pain, And the Legend dispersed and the honour was gone And all savagery fucked in a world ripped undone And the answer was clear as the stars in the sky All the bright stars the white stars the time was to die, Kell took up Ilanna and bade world farewell, The demons tore through him as he ended the spell And closed his eyes.”
Kell glanced at Saark. There were tears in his eyes. “I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blame the whisky, for so long I blamed the whisky, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. I eventually married, reared two daughters…who came to hate me. Only Nienna has time for me, and for her love I am eternally grateful. Do you know why?”
“Why?” said Saark, voice barely more than a croak.
“Because she is the only thing that calms the savage beast in my soul,” said Kell, grasping Ilanna tight. “I try, Saark. I try so hard to be a good man. I try so hard to do the right thing. But it doesn’t always work. Deep down inside, at a basic level, I’m simply not a good person.”
“Why so glum?” said Nienna, dumping a pile of wood on the ground. She glanced from Saark to Kell, and back, and Kat came up behind with her arms also laden with firewood. “Have you two been arguing again?”
“No,” said Saark, and gave a broad, beaming smile. “We were just…going over a few things. Here, let me build a fire, Nienna. You help your grandfather with the soup. I think he needs a few warm words from the granddaughter he loves so dearly.”
Kell threw him a dark look, then smiled down at Nienna, and ruffled her hair. “Hello monkey. You did well with the wood.”
“Come on, we’re both starving.” And in torn silk dresses and ragged furs and blankets salvaged from dead soldiers’ saddlebags, the group worked together to make a pan of broth.
It was an hour later as they came across a straggled line of refugees, who turned, fear on faces at the sound of striking hoof-beats. Several ran across the fields to the side of the Great North Road, until they saw the young girls who rode with Kell and Saark. They rode to the head of the column, and Kell dismounted beside a burly, gruff-looking man with massive arms and shoulders like a bull.
“Where are you riding?” asked Kell.
“Who wants to know?”
“I am Kell. I ride to warn the king of the invading army.”
The man relaxed a little, and eyed Kell’s axe and Svian nervously. “I am Brall, I was the smithy back at Tell’s Fold. Not any more. The bastard albinos took us in the night, two nights back, magick freezing people in the street. I can still hear their screams. A group of us,” he gestured with his eyes, “ran through the woods. And we’ll keep on running. Right to the sea if we have to.”
A woman approached. “It was horrible,” she said, and her eyes were haunted. “They killed everybody. Men, women, little ones. Then these…ghosts, they drifted through the streets and drank the blood of the children.” She shuddered, and for a moment Kell thought she was going to be sick. “Turned them into sacks of skin and bone. You’ll kill me, won’t you, Brall? Before you let that happen?”
“Aye, lass,” he said, and his thick arm encircled her shoulder.
“Have you seen any Falanor men on the road?” asked Saark, dismounting.
“No.” Brall shook his head. “Not for the last two weeks. Most of the battalions are south.”
“Do you know where King Leanoric camps?”
Brall shrugged. “I am only a smithy,” he said. “I would not be entrusted with such things.”
“Thank you.” Saark turned to Kell. “I know what’s happening.”
“What’s
that?”
“More than half of Leanoric’s men are paid volunteers; summer men. They go home for the winter. The Black Pike Mountains, much of Leanoric’s past angst, are now impassable with snow. So as winter heightens, spreads south, so he stands down most of the volunteers and they return to families. He’s been travelling through his divisions, reorganising command structures, deciding who can go home for the winter, that sort of thing.”
“So as we stand here, he might even now be disbanding the very army he’s going to need?”
“Precisely.”
“That’s not good,” said Kell. “Let’s move out.”
They cantered on, leaving behind the straggling line of survivors from Tell’s Fold.
They rode all day, and as more snow fell and the light failed, so they headed away from the Great North Road, searching for a road shelter, as they were known. In previous decades, following work begun by his father, Leanoric had had shelters built at intervals up and down the huge highway to aid travellers and soldiers in times of need. The snow fell, heavier now, and Saark pointed to the distance where a long, low, timber building nestled in the lee of a hill, surrounded by a thick stand of pine.
“Hard to defend,” muttered Kell.
“We need to recharge,” said Saark, his cloak pulled tight, his eyes weary. “You might be as strong as an ox, but me and the girls…we need to eat, to sleep. And the horses are dead on their feet.”
“Lead the way,” said Kell, and they walked through the ankle-deep fall.
Saark opened the door on creaking hinges, allowing snow to blow in, and Kell led the horses behind the road shelter and tied them up in a lean-to stable, at least secluded from the worst of the weather. He found a couple of old, dusty horse blankets and covered the beasts, and filled their nose-bags with oats from the dwindling remains of their saddlebag stores. Saark was right. They needed to rest and recharge; but more, they needed supplies, or soon the wilderness of Falanor would kill them.
“It’s bare,” said Nienna, moving over and sitting on the first bed. The room had a low roof, and was long, containing perhaps sixteen beds. It was like a small barracks, and was chilled, smelling of damp. A fire had been laid at the far end, but the logs were damp.