Kell's Legend

by Andy Remic

  The group wheeled, and galloped from the forest clearing.

  Silence fell like ash.

  Saark lay, panting, bleeding. There was no pain, and that scared him. Then the lights went out.

  King Leanoric knelt in the mud, heavily chained. Beside him were his Division Generals and various captains who hadn’t died in either the battle, or from the savage effects of the invasive ice-smoke. Despair slammed through Leanoric, and he looked up, tears in his eyes, across the battlefield of the frozen, the ranks of the dead. His army had been annihilated, as if they were stalks of wheat under the scythes of bad men.

  Distantly, the remaining cankers growled and snarled, but the albinos were curiously silent despite their easy victory. There were no battle songs, no drunken revelry; they went about building their camp in total silence, like androgynous workers; like insects.

  Tears rolled down Leanoric’s cheeks. He had failed, unless his divisions further north surprised Graal’s Army of Iron and destroyed them in the night; they were commanded by Retger and Strauz, two wily old Division Generals, strategic experts, and Strauz had never lost a battle. Leanoric’s heart lifted a little. If their scouts realised what had happened, that the king’s men had been routed, frozen, and slaughtered like cattle…

  Maybe then he would see his sweet Alloria again.

  His tears returned, and he cast away feelings of shame. There was nothing wrong with a man crying. He was on the brink of losing his wife, his realm, his army, his people. How then did simple tears pale into comparison when so much was at stake?

  King Leanoric needed a miracle.

  Instead, he got General Graal.

  Graal walked through the camp and stopped before the group of men. He drew a short black sword, gazed lovingly at the ornate rune-worked blade for a moment, then cut the head from Terrakon’s shoulders. The old Division General’s head lay there on frozen mud, grey whiskers tainted by droplets of blood, and Leanoric looked up with hate in his eyes. “My people will kill you,” he snarled. “That’s a promise.”

  “Really?” said Graal, almost idly, wandering over to Lazaluth and throwing Leanoric a cold, narrow-lipped smile. He reached up, ran a hand through his white hair, then fixed his eyes on the king. “So often I hear these threats, from the Blacklippers I slaughter, from the smugglers of Dog Gemdog gems, from the kings of conquered peoples.”

  His sword lashed out, and Lazaluth’s head rolled to the mud, a look of shock on the death-impact expression. The body slumped down, blood pumping sluggishly from chilled neck arteries, and Leanoric watched with fury and cold detachment and he knew, he realised, he would be next but at least death would be swift…but hell, it wasn’t about death, it was about his people, and their impending slavery. And it was a bad thing to die, knowing you had utterly failed.

  Leanoric prayed then. He prayed for a miracle. For surely only a god could stop General Graal?

  Graal moved to him, and hunkered down, slamming the black blade into the frozen mud. “How does it feel?” he asked, voice almost nonchalant. “Your army is destroyed, your queen sent north to my Engineers, your people about to become…” he laughed, a tinkling of wind chimes, “our supper.”

  “You will burn in Hell,” said Leanoric, voice a flatline. He tried to estimate how long it would be before his returning battalions marched over the hill; for example, now would be a most opportune moment. A surprise attack? Rescued at the final second? Just like in a bard’s tale.

  Graal watched the king’s eyes. Finally, their gazes locked.

  “You are thinking of your army, your divisions, your battalions, your cavalry and archers who at this very moment march south, towards this very location in order to hook up with your army and smash the enemy invaders.”

  Leanoric said nothing.

  Graal stood, and stretched his back. He glanced down at King Leanoric, as one would a naughty child. “They are dead, Leanoric. They are all dead. Frozen by the Harvesters blood-oil magick; slaughtered and sucked dry as they knelt. You have no army left, King Leanoric. Face facts. You are a conquered, and an enslaved race.”

  “No!” screamed Leanoric, surging to his feet despite the weight of chains and around him unseen albino soldiers in the mist drew swords as one, the hiss of metal on oiled scabbard, but Graal lifted one hand, smiled, then stepped in close, lifting Leanoric from his feet, and Leanoric kicked and saw a mad light in the General’s eyes and he dragged Leanoric into an embrace and fangs ejected with a crunch and he bit down deep, pushing his fangs into Leanoric’s neck, into his flesh, feeling the skin part, the muscle tear, rooting out that precious pump of blood, injecting the meat the vein the artery, closing his eyes as he sucked, and drained, and drew in the King’s royal blood.

  Leanoric screamed, and kicked, and fought but Graal was strong, so much stronger than he looked; chains jangled and Graal held Leanoric almost horizontal, mouth fastened over his neck, eyes closed in a final revelation; a final gratification.

  Graal grunted, and allowed a limp and bloodied Leanoric to topple to the soil. Blood streaked his mouth and armour, and he lifted his open fangs to the sky, to the mist, to the magick, and he exhaled a soft howl which rose on high through clouds and spread out across the Valantrium Moor beyond Old Skulkra, across the Great North Road, across Vorgeth Forest and that howl said, This country is mine, that howl said, These people are mine, that guttural primal noise from a creature older than Falanor itself said, This world is mine.

  Saark awoke. He was terribly cold.

  He stared up at towering Silver Firs with his one good eye, and tried to remember what had happened in the world, tried to focus on recent events. Then reality and events flooded in and cracked him on the jaw, and he blinked rapidly, and his hand dropped to his ribs—and came away sticky.

  “Bastards.”

  With a grunt, he levered himself up. He was incredibly thirsty. The world swayed, as if he was drunk, his brain caught in a grasp of vertigo. Saark crawled to his knees, and saw his horse, the tall chestnut gelding, still tied where he’d left him. Saark crawled slowly to the gelding, feeling fresh blood pump from the dagger wound and flow down his flank, soaking into his groin. It was warm, and wet, and frightening.

  “Hey, boy, how the hell are you?” Saark use the stirrups to lever himself up, and grasping the saddle, he pulled himself to his feet with gritted teeth. Pain washed over him, and he yelped, dizziness swamping him, and he nearly toppled back.

  “No,” he said, and the gelding turned a little, nuzzling at his hand. “No oats today, boy.” Saark struggled with the straps of his saddlebags, his fumbling fingers refusing to work properly, and finally he found his canteen and drank, he drank greedily, water soaking his moustache and flowing down his battered chin. He winced. He face felt like a sack of shit. He probed tenderly at his split lip, cracked nose, cracked cheekbone, swollen eye. He shook his head. When I catch up with them, he thought. When I catch up with them…

  Saark laughed, then. Ridiculous! When he caught them? Gods, he could hardly stand.

  He stood for a while holding the saddle, swaying, watching the falling snow, listening to the rustle of firs. The air, the world outside, seemed muffled, gloomy, a perpetual dawn or dusk.

  Focus. Find Kell. Rescue Nienna. Kill bad people.

  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. 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 r
ight 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.