by Andy Remic
“You and your soup,” said Saark.
“It’s good for the ancient teeth,” said Kell, but whereas once Saark would have bantered, now a gloomy silence fell on the group and they worked quietly, their humour a thing of the past.
Once the fire was lit, and a little warmth built inside the road shelter, Kell used the last of their supplies to make a thin, watery soup. He also discovered he’d used the last of the salt. He cursed. What was life without a little salt?
Outside, darkness fell, and the snowfall increased in intensity.
“Winter’s finally come,” said Saark, gesturing out of the small windows.
“Good,” grunted Kell. “It’ll slow the invading army.”
“Don’t you find it odd,” said Saark, playing with his dagger on the thick-planks of the table.
“What do you mean?”
“The Army of Iron, invading at the start of winter. Guaranteed a slow advance, men freezing to death, supply problems, lowered morale. There’s nothing like standing all night in the damn snow to sap a man’s morale; it’s like spreading syphilis. I know, I’ve done it. I thought my feet would never get warm again. It was two whole days before I felt life in my little toes! So, a strange choice then, yes?”
“Yes,” grunted Kell, finishing the last of his broth. He had made better, but the girls didn’t complain. He’d expected a few jibes from Saark, along the lines of his soup being the watery consistency of old goat piss; but Saark had remained silent, moody. Since their fight in the street, Saark had retreated into himself, into his shell, and whilst a part of Kell was glad of the change in character, another part of him, a part he did not recognise, actually missed the banter. With a jolt like a shock of lightning, Kell realised he liked the dandy; although he was damned if he could figure out why.
Nienna and Kat moved away to sort out the sleeping arrangements, and check for extra blankets. They’d found some, which they laid out on the floor before the fire to banish vestiges of damp. Now they searched the cupboards and drawers at the back of the shelter.
“Look,” said Kell, staring at Saark across the table. “I…I wanted to apologise. Again. For what happened back at the tavern. It rests uneasy with me, laddie. It shouldn’t have happened. I am ashamed of what I did.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” said Kell. “I feel bad. And it wasn’t totally your fault; when I drink whisky, it twists my brain. Turns me into the bad man from the poem.” He smiled wryly. “Yes, the stanza they never repeat, lest it sour my legend. Ha!” He turned, stared into the fire for a while. Then he reached across the table. “Take my hand.”
“Why? You want to read my palm?”
“No, I want to crush your fingers, idiot. Take my damn hand.”
Saark took the old man’s grizzled paws, felt the massive strength contained therein. He looked up into Kell’s eyes, and swallowed. There was power there, true power, charisma, strength and an awesome resolve.
“That will never happen again, Saark, I promise you. I count you as a friend. You have saved my granddaughter’s life, and you have fought with great courage on my behalf. If you ever see me touch a whisky bottle to my lips, please, smash me over the head with the fucking bottle. I will understand. And…I owe you, my friend. I owe you with my life. I will give my life to protect you.”
Saark blinked, as Kell released him, and sat back a little. He grinned. “You could have just blown me a kiss.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“Or sent some flowers.”
“I might not kill you,” snarled Kell, “but I’ll slap your arse, for sure. Now be a good lad, and go and find some candles…the dark outside, well, it’s getting kind of eerie; what with these Harvesters and cankers and damned albino bastards roaming the land.”
“Candles won’t stop the horrors of the dark, my friend.”
“ I know that! Just find some.”
As Saark was rummaging around in the bottom of an old cupboard, the door to the road shelter opened and three figures were illuminated by firelight. They stood for a moment, surveying the interior, and then stepped in, leading another four refugees, presumably from recent slaughter in a local village.
Kell stood, taking up his axe, and stared at the newcomers. The villagers he dismissed immediately from his mind, for they were obviously refugees in tatters, half dead with cold. But the first three; they were warriors, vagabonds, and very, very dangerous. Kell could tell from the glint in their eyes, the wary way they moved, the cynical snarls ingrained on weary, stone-carved expressions.
“We saw your fire,” said one of the newcomers, stepping forward. She was tall, taller than Kell even, her limbs wiry and strong, her fingers long, tapered, the nails of her right hand blackened from constant use of the longbow strapped to her back. She had short black hair, cropped rough, and gaunt features, her eyes sunken, her flesh stretched and almost yellow. “My name is Myriam.”
“Welcome, Myriam,” said Kell, watching as the other newcomers spread out. The four villagers cowered behind them, staring longingly at the fire. “Do you bring any supplies?”
“We have potatoes, meat, a little salt. The villagers here also have food between them. Are those your horses out back?”
“So what if they are?” said Saark, smoothly, standing beside Kell. “They are not for sale.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to buy them,” said Myriam, and stalked forward, taking up a chair, reversing it, and sitting down, her arms leaning over the solid back. The two men approached, standing behind her; she was obviously the leader.
Kell eyed the men carefully. One was of average height, squat, and inexorably ugly. He had pockmarked skin, narrow dark eyes, or eye, as the left was a lifeless socket, red and inflamed, and his cubic head sported tufts of hair as if shaved with a blunt razor. Worst of all, his lips were black, the black of the smuggler, the black of the outlawed Blacklipper, and it gave his countenance a brooding, menacing air. Kell instinctively decided never to turn his back on the man.
“This is Styx,” said Myriam, following Kell’s gaze. She gave a narrow smile. “Don’t lend him any money.”
The second man was small and angry-looking, as so often small men were. He wore a thin vest, bloodstained and tattered, and scant protection against the cold. He was heavily muscled in chest, arm and shoulder, but what set him apart more than anything were his tattoos which writhed up hands, arms and shoulders, onto his neck and scampered across his face. His heavy tattooing denoted him as a tribesman from the eastern New Model Tribes, weeks of travel over treacherous swamps and land-pits, as the quicksand plains were known; even past Drennach.
“This is Jex,” said Myriam, and Kell nodded to both men, who grunted at him, eyes appraising, noting his manner and his axe. They were gauging him for battle, and it made Kell uneasy. This was not the time, nor place.
“I am Kell. This is Saark. The two girls are Nienna and Kat.”
Myriam nodded, and seemed to relax a little now introductions had been made. Styx and Jex pulled up chairs, scraping them across the boards, and sat behind Myriam as if deferring to her to speak.
“I’ve heard of you, Saark.”
“You have?” he said, eyes glittering.
“You were the King’s Sword-Champion. I saw you fight, in Vor, about five years ago. You were stunning, if a little arrogant.”
“Well, I’ll, admit I’m ever more arrogant now,” he said, hand on hilt, “and happy to give a display of violence to any who beg.”
“Styx here, despite being a Blacklipper and getting the shakes, is adept with a blade. Maybe in the morning we could have a tourney; spin a little coin?”
“I’d feel he was disadvantaged, having only one eye. It makes a devil of defence on that side. But you, my pretty, I’m sure you’re adept with your little metal prick…”
Myriam flushed red, frowning, and started to rise.
“Enough!” boomed Kell, and Myriam settled back. Kell glared at Saark, then returned
to the woman. “There are enough enemy out there to satisfy your bloodlust for a century. So let’s just roast that nice bacon joint the villagers brought in, boil a few potatoes, and enjoy a bit of civilised company.”
“I’m going to check on the horses,” said Saark, and left the cabin, allowing cold air to swirl in.
Myriam shivered, and started to cough. The cough was harsh, savage, and Kell watched as the two men attended her, almost tenderly, despite their vagabond appearances. She coughed for a while, and Kell thought he saw blood. He looked again at her gaunt face, the sunken eyes, the shape of her skull beneath parched skin. He had seen such afflictions before; men, and women, riddled with cancers. He would wager Myriam was getting perilously close to death. It spooked him with a sense of his own mortality.
Give me an enemy to fight with my axe any day, he thought sourly, rather than some nasty sneaky little bastard growing deep down inside. Kell’s eyes burned. He felt a stab of pity for the woman. Nobody should die like that.
Kell stood, poured a cup of water and carried it to Myriam. She drank, and smiled her thanks. Through her pain, and gaunt features, and harsh cropped hair, Kell saw a glimmer of prettiness. Once, she would have been beautiful, he thought. But not just cancer had eaten her; bitterness and a world-weary cynicism had removed what beauty lines remained.
“I suggest you sit nearer the fire.”
“She’ll sit where she damn well pleases,” snarled Jex, voice heavy with an eastern burr.
“As you wish.”
“Wait,” said Myriam, and met Kell’s gaze. “Can I speak with you?”
“You’re speaking with me.”
“In private.”
“There is no privacy.” He smiled, coldly.
“Outside. In the snow.”
“If you like.”
They walked from the long cabin, boots crunching snow, Kell following Myriam a good distance until she stopped, leaning against a tree, wheezing a little. She gazed up at the falling snow, then turned, smiling at Kell. “It’s the cold. It affects my lungs.”
“I thought it was the cancer.”
“That as well. What pains me most are the things I can no longer do, actions I remember performing with ease. Like running. Gods! Once I could run like the wind, all bloody day, up and down mountains. Nothing stopped me. Now, I’m lucky to run to the privy.”
“You wanted to speak?” Kell stared at her, and felt a strange twinge of recognition. He leaned close, and she leaned away. “Do I know you?” he said, finally, his memory tugging at him.
“No. But I know of you. The Saga of Kell’s Legend, a tale to frighten and inspire, a tale to breed heroes and soldiers, don’t let the little ones leave the safety of the fire.” She laughed, but Kell did not. “You’re a hero through these parts,” she said.
“According to some, aye,” he sighed, and leant his own back against a pine. The wind howled mournfully through the trees, a low song, a desolate song. Somewhere, an owl hooted. “What’s it to you?”
“I just…I heard stories of you. From my father. When I was a child.”
“A child?” said Kell, disbelieving. “How old are you, girl?”
“Twenty-nine winters, round about now.” She blushed. “I know. I look a lot older. It’s because I’m dying, Kell. And…I know some of your past. Some of your history.”
“Oh yes?” He did not sound thrilled.
“You could help me.”
“I’m busy. There’s an invasion going on, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“You could save me from dying,” she said, and her eyes were pleading. “You’ve been through the Black Pike Mountains. I know this. I’ve talked to an old soldier who swears he went there with you. He said you know all the secret trails, the hidden passes; and ways past the deadly Deep Song Valley, the Wall of Kraktos, and the Passage of Dragons. Well,” she took a deep breath, “I need to go there; I need to walk the high passes. I need to reach…”
“Where do you need to reach?” said Kell, voice impossibly soft.
“The hidden valley,” breathed Myriam, looking Kell straight in the eye. “Silva Valley.”
“And what would you do there, lady?”
“You can see what is happening to me,” said Myriam. Tears shone in her eyes. “For the past three years I have grown steadily weaker. Meat has fallen from my bones. I get terrible pains, in my sides, in my hips, in my head. I spent a fortune in gold on fat physicians in Vor; they told me I had tumours, parasitical growths inside, each the size of a fist. The physicians said I would die within the year, that there was nothing I could do…damn them all! But, three years later, I am still here, hanging on by a thread, still searching for a cure. But sometimes, Kell, sometimes the pain is so bad I wish I were dead.” She started to cough again, and covered her mouth, turning away, staring into the night-blackened trees. Snow swirled on eddies of breeze. Kell could smell ice.
“You didn’t answer the question,” he said, when the fit had passed.
“What would I do in Silva Valley? They have…machines there. Machines that could heal me.”
“They would change you,” said Kell. “I have seen the result of their experiments. It was not good.”
Myriam was closer, now, had edged closer so that Kell could smell the musk of her body. She pressed herself in to him, and he felt something he had not felt for a long time; a rising lust, surging from a deep dark pool he had thought long vanished with age. It had been a long time. Perhaps too long.
Kell’s eyes shone, and he licked his lips, which gleamed, and calmed his breathing.
“I would make it worth your while. I would do anything to live,” she said, her gaunt face inches from Kell’s, her arms lifting to drape over his shoulders. Her body was lean against his, her small breasts hard, nipples pressing against him.
“You don’t understand,” Kell said, voice low, arms unconsciously circling her waist. “They are called the vachine. They would change you. They would…kill every part of you that is human. It is better, I think, to die like you are, than to suffer their clockwork in-dignities.”
Myriam was silent for a while. She was crying.
“I’m sorry,” said Kell. “The answer is no.”
Myriam kissed him.
Back in the cabin, Saark sat back, aloof, watching the two men with open distaste. They were exactly the opposite of Saark; whereas he was beautiful, they were ugly; whereas he was elegant, they were clumsy. He dressed like a noble, Styx and Jex dressed like walking shit.
“Can I get you a drink?” said Kat, approaching the two men.
“You can sit on my lap, pretty one,” said Jex, grinning through his tattoos.
“Ahh, no, just…”
“She’s with me,” said Saark, eyes cold.
“Is that so, dandy man?” Jex smiled at Saark, and he knew, then, knew violence was impending. These were dangerous, rough outlaws. They knew no rules, no laws, and yet by the scars on their arms they had survived battle and war for a considerable time. They were good, despite their savage looks and lack of dress-code. If they weren’t good, they’d be long dead.
“It’s simply a fact,” said Saark, eyes flicking left to where the four refugees were unpacking meagre belongings. There were two men, two women, the youngest woman only sixteen or seventeen years old, hair braided in pigtails, pink skirts soiled from her forest escape. His eyes flickered to the two men. They were plump, hands ink-stained: town workers and bureaucrats, not warriors.
Styx leant forward a little, and drummed his fingers on the table. Saark saw they were near to Kell’s Svian, and he blinked. It was unlike Kell to leave behind this weapon; it was his last blade, what he used when parted from his axe. A Svian, so the unwritten rule went, was also used in times of desperation for suicide. For Kell to have left it was…foolish, and meant that something had touched him; had rattled his cage. Did he know these people?
“You’re a pretty little man, aren’t you?” said Styx. He smiled through blackened stumps of te
eth, which merged nauseatingly with the stained lips of the Blacklipper. I bet his breath stinks like a skunk, thought Saark.
“What, you mean in contrast to your own obviously handsome facial properties?”
Anger flared in Styx’s good eye, but he controlled it with skill. Saark became wary. There was something more at stake here than a simple trading of insults. This was too controlled, too planned. What did they want?
“What I meant to say,” said Styx, tongue moistening his black lips, “is that you’re a pretty boy.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, it’s like this. I love fucking pretty boys, so I do. In more ways than one.”
Jex laughed, and Saark caught a glimpse of steel beneath clothing. A hidden blade. Saark’s hand strayed towards his own sword, a tentative crawl of edging fingers, eyes never leaving the two men exuding hate and arrogance and dark violent energy.
“I like to hear them squeal, you understand,” smiled Styx, “only because pretty boys take so much better to the knives, to the scars. They scream, high and long, like a woman, and when you fuck them, later on as they’re bent over a log or table, oh that feeling, so tight, so much resistance,” he laughed, a low grumble of mirth, “what I like to call a good tight virgin-fuck, well man, that brings tears to old Styx’s eye. But not as much as flowing tears to the weeping eyes of a pretty boy.”
Saark smiled easily. “Well then, gentlemen, you seem to have me mixed up with somebody else. Because I fuck women, I fuck men, I fuck anything that moves. I’m used to taking it, so would offer little sport as your…how do you say? Virgin-fuck? But what I will offer…” He launched up, sword out, a movement so quick it brought the room to a sudden standstill and caught Styx and Jex with their mouths open…“Well, if it’s a little sword-sport you want, I’m all yours, gentlemen.”
Slowly, Jex pulled a weapon from beneath his clothing and pointed it at Saark. It was small, little bigger than his hand, and made from polished oak. Saark tilted his head, frowning. He had never seen such a weapon. There came a tiny click.