by Andy Remic
Skanda held up three onions and a potato. He smiled. "We need to eat, yes? I am an expert at finding food in frozen woodland." The boy's dark eyes glittered. "That is, unless you wish to starve?"
"And what are you going to cook it in?" sneered Saark. "Your bloody knickers?"
Skanda lifted a small ceramic pot. "This," he said, simply.
"Where did you get that?"
"There's a ruined farmhouse, thirty paces yonder." Saark scowled further. "Then by Dake's Balls, what am I doing starting a fire here? There's no shelter! A farmhouse will give us more shelter! By all the gods, am I surrounded by idiots?"
He explored the ruins, and they were ruins: ancient, moss-strewn, the original stones rounded and smoothed by centuries of rain and snow. There was no roof, only stubby walls, but at least a fireplace which shielded Saark's fire from the wind. By the time Kell returned he had a merry blaze going, and he and Skanda had pulled an old log before the flames. Saark sat, boots off, warming his sodden toes. Skanda was peeling vegetables and chopping winter herbs on a slab of stone.
Wary, Kell stepped through a sagging doorway and frowned. "What is this place?"
"It's a brothel," snapped Saark. "What does it look like? Sit ye down, Skanda's making a broth. He found some wholesome vegetables in the woods, although what I'd give for some venison rump and thick meat gravy I couldn't say." He licked his lips, eyes dreamy. "These should help," said Kell, depositing a hare and two rabbits on the slab of stone.
Saark stared. "How, in the name of the Chaos Halls, did you manage to catch those with a bloody axe?" Kell winked. "It's all in the wrist, boy." He looked to Skanda. "Do you know how to gut and skin?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" snapped the young lad, and Kell smiled, moving to Saark. "He's a cheeky bugger," said Saark.
"He has spirit," said Kell. "I like that. And we owe him our lives."
"But?" Kell looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I've known you too long, old horse. There's always a but."
Kell's face hardened. "He's a compromise," said the old warrior, stretching out his legs and resting Ilanna by his side, butterfly blades to the ground, haft within easy reach should he need it; and need her killing expertise. "Meaning?" "Meaning I have to prioritise."
Saark stared at the old man. For a long moment he analysed the grey beard and the dark hair shot through with grey. Kell's face was lined and weather-beaten, appearing older, more worn, than his sixty-two years. Saark pulled on his boots. He stood. He stared down at Kell. "Explain prioritise?" "I must rescue Nienna."
"What's that got to do with this boy?" said Saark.
Kell's eyes hardened. He stood, looming over Saark with a sudden, threatening presence. "I will find Nienna. I will kill Myriam – and whoever stands with her. That is it. That is what my life has become. I care nothing for anybody, or anything, else. If you can't stand that," Kell's face curled into a snarl, "well, I understand your misunderstanding, dandy. I suggest you go back to whoring and drinking, just like you know best; that is, if you can find a place that'll let you rut and drink. After all, it looks to me like the albinos have slaughtered most of the good people of Falanor."
"Hey!" Saark thumped Kell in the chest, making the big man take a step back. "Just hang on a minute there, Kell. I stood for Nienna, and I stood for you; don't be twisting this situation around, don't be trying to say I'm no good for anything. If it wasn't for me, Nienna would be dead. Horseshit Kell, you'd be dead. I have my vices, yes," his face twisted a little, as if he was pained to recall them, "but I know where my priorities lie. And if we abandon this boy, he will die."
"Not so."
"You a prophet now, Legend?"
Kell's eyes narrowed. "You have been sent to torture me, Saark, I swear. I should have killed you back in Jajor Falls."
"Why didn't you?" It was such an innocent question, it caught Kell off guard. Saark persisted, clutching his side where blood wept through the makeshift packing of torn shirt. "You're the Big Man here, you're the warrior, the hero, the bloody legend of song and dance; you're the man with no conscience, the man of the fucking moment and to the Bone Halls with everybody else! Why am I still here, hey? Why am I still walking by your side? Or have you got a sneaky back-handed death lined up for me, also?"
Kell grabbed Saark's shirt, lifting him from the ground and drawing him in close, until their faces were only inches apart.
"Don't push me."
"Or what'll you do, big man? Stab me in my sleep?" "Damn you Saark! You twist my mind! You twist my words! Everything with you is fencing, a tactical, verbal puzzle to be negotiated. And I am sick of it!" "Listen." Saark smoothed down his shirt. "I am with you, Kell. I am not your enemy. I will come with you; we will rescue Nienna, of that I am sure. But don't let panic, don't let blind urgency cloud your vision. This boy here; he is innocent. In fact more; without him, we'd be dead."
"Maybe."
"What?" scoffed Saark. "You think you could take on fifty cankers? You dream, old horse. But what I would say to you is this; I am going for a walk, in the snow, to check our perimeter. I want you to talk to the boy. Find a peace with him – here," he tapped his own skull, "in your head. Because you have a problem, Kell, a serious problem they did not choose to address in your Saga." Saark moved away from the fire, and with drawn rapier, stepped through the leaning doorway and out into the cold, bleak woods. Kell sat down for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the slithering of Skanda's knife. Eventually, as his temper settled, and recognising some worth in Saark's words, he stood and turned and crossed to Skanda, who was just slicing the final strips of meat and adding them to the broth. "It will be a fine stew," said the boy.
"It smells good already." Kell's hand was tight on the haft of Ilanna. The axe blades gleamed cold. He was standing before the boy, just to one side, and Skanda was busy, intent on his task. An easy target. An easy death. No, he thought. Then: why not?
After all, he had been poisoned, infected by the vile escaped prisoner, Myriam, with the aim of blackmailing him to help her save her own worthless skin. Kell's mission was simple, uncomplicated – ride north, fast, and locate Nienna. His granddaughter had also been poisoned with the same toxin; without Kell's haste, she would die, probably sooner than he for she was young and weak. Despite Kell's age, he was as strong as an ox, he knew. But the problem here lay with Skanda. Kell knew, deep down, that Saark wouldn't leave the boy with so many albino soldiers and cankers scouring the woods looking for them. But the boy would slow Kell down. In doing so, Nienna might die… so, to his mind, it was an easy problem to fix.
Kell scratched his beard. He realised Ilanna was still tight in his fist. Her blades gleamed, catching the light of the fire.
Another problem, was that if he left the boy behind, then how long before Graal tortured information from his spindly limbs? Saark had blabbed enough of the story to Skanda to make the boy a threat. Which meant only one course of action.
Kell took a step closer. Still, Skanda did not look up. His hands moved swiftly, preparing more of the fresh rabbit meat. The smell made Kell's nose twitch, but his mind was working fast, one step ahead of something so simple as animal hunger.
"You seek to rescue your granddaughter?" said Skanda, looking up suddenly. Kell nodded, and Skanda lowered his face again. The knife sliced and chopped. "Yes. She will die without me. She has been poisoned." "Saark said she was being held at the Cailleach Pass. That's the road to the Black Pike Mountains, isn't it?" Kell smiled grimly. Damn you, Saark, he thought. "Yes," he said, voice barely above a whisper. The fire crackled. Firelight gleamed in Kell's dark eyes. He no longer appeared like a hero from legend; now, in this ruined cottage in the midst of the night, clutching his possessed axe and eerily silent for such a big man, Kell was infinitely more intimidating.
"I used to have a grandfather. A lot like you," said Skanda, innocently, oblivious to the threat which lay within inches, within heartbeats, of his delicate and fragile existence. "He died though, a long ti
me ago. I thought he was as strong as ten men, but age wore him down in the end until his mind snapped, and he could no longer speak. He used to sit by the fire, rocking, dribbling, and this was the man who took on a hundred of the enemy at Tellakon Gate. A tragedy."
"A tragedy," agreed Kell, voice low, and shifted his stance a little to the left, to give him better clearance for the strike. Kell licked his lips. He would kill the boy. Decapitate him. It would be clean. It would be quick. And much more humane than leaving the child to be slaughtered by the cankers… eaten alive, in fact. Kell gripped his axe tight. His eyes went hard. He lifted Ilanna into the air. Firelight gleamed from her butterfly blades. Kell relaxed, and readied himself for the strike…
Saark moved around the perimeter of their camp like a spirit, halting occasionally to listen. The fall of snow acted as a natural muffler, but was dangerous for it hid fragile twigs and obstacles that might give away Saark's position. Still, he edged around a wide perimeter, eyes and ears alert, slender rapier in one chilled hand, and thinking hard on the problem of Falanor.
General Graal had invaded. There had been no demands. Just slaughter.
Why? What did he want?
Saark mulled over the problem as he scouted, crouching occasionally. At one point he saw an owl, high in a tree, its huge yellow orbs surveying a world which appeared, Saark was sure, as bright as daylight to the savage, nocturnal hunting bird.
Saark's mind drifted to Kell. He turned, to where he knew the ruined cottage lay. He considered Kell's motives, and thought of Nienna, but when he thought of her it made him think of Kat, and that was too painful a memory.
Only days earlier, in their pursuit to warn King Leanoric of the impending invasion of albino soldiers led by General Graal, Kell and his companions – Saark, Nienna and Nienna's best friend, Katrina, with her short, wild red hair and topaz eyes, athletic and feisty despite her youth – were riding out a snowstorm in a deserted barracks when three dangerous brigands entered. Myriam, tall, wiry, strong, short black hair and rough, gaunt features, her eyes a little sunken, her flesh a little stretched from the cancer that was eating her from the inside out. Along with her, two companions: Styx, an inexorably ugly Blacklipper smuggler with only one eye and black lips, and Jex, small and permanently angry, with a tattooed face and the physique of a pugilist.
Myriam had injected Kell and Nienna with poison, and Styx had murdered Katrina using a clockworkpowered Widowmaker mini-crossbow. They kidnapped Nienna during the Army of Iron's attack on King Leanoric's forces. Kat. Murdered. Dead.
Even now, Saark brushed away a tear, and felt guilt and shame well within him. He had loved Katrina, which was ridiculous, even Saark had to admit. He was not just a dandy and popinjay, he was, even at his own admittance, one of the world's best seducers of women. He knew how they worked, how their minds operated, which dials to turn, which switches to flick, how to speak and lick and kiss and caress, and his beauty had brought him scores of lovers, many a cuckold, and so to fall in love with a seventeen year-old university student was simply bizarre. Ridiculous in the extreme. He told himself over and over that was not what happened; that it had been a simple tactic on his part to persuade Katrina to give away that most sought after prize, her virginity… but even Saark did not believe his own lie.
And Saark had had the chance to kill her murderer. And failed.
Bitterly now, Saark smiled. The wounds were still fresh. The hate was still bright. He would have his day with Styx, Saark knew; one way or another, in this world or in the next. He would cut the fucker in two, and drink his blood, and toast Kat's shade towards the Hall of Heroes.
Saark stopped. Orientated himself. He had been drifting. Dreaming. He winced, clutching the pad at his side. It was still warm, and blood still leaked. Maybe he was weak from blood loss? And the recent beatings? Saark scowled. And thought of Kell. And a sudden dark premonition swept through him.
No. Saark shook his head. Not even Kell would kill a child. Not in cold blood. Surely?
Saark's eyes narrowed.
Could he?
Flitting embers from snatches of story pierced Saark's mind. Snippets of late drinking songs, when the candles were trimmed low and coals glowed dark in the tavern's hearth. The bard would lower his voice, fingers flickering gently over lyre strings as he recounted the Days of Blood, and the atrocities that occurred therein… All speculation, of course. Nobody knew what really happened all those years ago; no soldier had ever spoken of it. Those that still lived, of course, for most survivors had taken their own lives.
Kell, however… he had been there. He had told Saark, although Saark was sure Kell didn't recall uttering the words. However, Saark still remembered the look in Kell's eyes.
"I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blamed the whiskey, for so long I blamed the whiskey, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. 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." And then, later, as Saark was sure Kell was falling into a pit of insanity… "Look at the state of me, Saark. Just like the old days. The Days of Blood." The Days of Blood. The day when an entire army went berserk. Insane, it was said. They killed men, women, children, torched houses, slaughtered cattle, torched people in their beds and… much worse. Or so it was said. So the dark songs recounted. And Saark knew Kell didn't have the necessary streak of evil to murder a child he thought might hold him back; and in so doing, be responsible for the death of his granddaughter, the only creature he loved on earth. "Horseshit," he muttered.
Saark limped back towards the ruined cottage, cursing his stupidity and chewing at his lip.
Saark burst through the listing doorway, eyes drawn immediately to the crackling fire which danced bright after the gloom of the snowy woodland. There was no sign of Kell. Nor Skanda.
"Son of a bastard's mule!" snapped Saark, and heard a grunt. He peered into the gloomy interior, and the darkness rearranged itself into shapes. Skanda was sat, almost hidden, stirring his ceramic pot of broth. "Are you well?" said Skanda, almost sleepily.
"Yes, yes!" Saark strode forward, and sat on the log. He kicked off his boots and stretched out his feet, warming his toes. "Where's Kell? Don't tell me. The grumpy old weasel has gone for a shit in the woods." Skanda giggled, and appeared for once his age. "I think you might be right."
Saark peered close. "Seriously. Are you all right, boy? For a minute, back there, I had the craziest notion that Kell might… well, that he might…"
Skanda looked suddenly wise beyond eternity. "Let us say," whispered the boy, staring into the fire, "that Kell made the right choice."
There came a crack, and Kell grinned at Saark from the doorway. "Thought you'd got lost out there, lad. Hugging the trees, were you? Digging in the dirt for more dirt? Or just having bad dreams about noble and heroic old Kell, the man of the Legend." Kell grinned, and although the destroyed cottage had little light, ambient or otherwise, Saark could have sworn Kell displayed no humour.
"We're safe, for now," said Saark. "No sounds of cankers, no soldiers, no pursuit."
Kell moved close. "Well don't get too comfy, lad. We eat, then we move."
"We'll freeze!"
"Freeze or die here," said Kell. "Because I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before that bastard Graal sends someone…" his smile widened, "or some thing, after us."
"And the boy?"
Kell could read the pain in Saark's eyes. He sighed, and ran a hand through his thick, grey-streaked hair. "The boy can come with us. But I'm warning you, if he gets in the way, or either of you slow me down, then I'll cut you both loose."
"You think you can travel faster than I?" stammered Saark. "Man, I'm damn near thirty years your junior!"
Kell leered close. "I know I can, lad. Now get some warm food inside you. We've got a long, hard journey ahead."
They moved through the woodland and as dawn broke, wintry ten
drils streaking through heavy cloud cover, so the distant walls of Old Skulkra could still be seen. Saark called a halt, and gestured to Kell. Kell moved close, axe in fist, eyes brooding. "What is it?" Saark pointed. Distantly, the Blood Refineries squatted on the plain like obscene bone dice tossed by the gods. "I have it in my mind to do some research," said Saark, voice soft, eyes bright. "And maybe some damage! Those machines are here for no good." "I know what they are," said Kell. "You do? How is that… possible?"
Kell smiled grimly. "I have seen them in action. In another time. Another place. Let's just say, Saark, that to go chasing them now to satisfy your curiosity would end badly for all of us." "We need to know what we're fighting!"
"So, lad, now we have gone to war?" Kell smiled, but there was no mockery in his tone. If anything, he valued Saark's spirit; especially after they had been through so much.