Soul Stealers

by Andy Remic

  Pain lashed through his veins, and Kell gritted his teeth, swooning in the saddle. The world blurred and reeled, and he grasped the saddle pommel with both hands, face pale, eyes squeezed shut, and focused on simply breathing as the world in its entirety swirled down in wide lazy blood circles. He heard Saark's voice, but it was a garbled, stretched out series of meaningless sounds. And in the middle of it all there was a taste, and the taste was whiskey, and he knew that if only he could have another drink then everything would be all right again, and the pain would go away again, and no matter that it made him violent because he was in a violent world on a violent mission and the whiskey would help him achieve his goal; waves of pain pulsed through him, and then a moment of darkness, and then he was breathing, gasping at the cold air like a drowning man coming to the surface of a lake.

  The world slapped Kell in the face, and he was gasping, and Saark was asking him if he was well. Kell took several deep, exaggerated breaths, and looked right to Saark. He gave a nod. "It's the poison, lad," he managed, voice hoarse. "When she bites, she bites real hard."

  "We need to rest," said Saark. "Somewhere warm, some hot food, a good sleep. We've been through a lot." He winced, clutching his wounded side instinctively. "And we stink like a ten day corpse."

  "Speak for yourself," barked Kell.

  "Kell?" It was Skanda. His eyes glittered. Again, now they had stopped, the scorpion sat on his hand and seemed to be watching proceedings. Kell eyed the insect uneasily, and made a mental note to tread the bastard underboot at the first opportunity.

  "What is it, lad?"

  "There is a village, yonder. Creggan. I have travelled there before. It is getting late, we should move."

  "Where?" Both Kell and Saark squinted, looking off over gloom-laden, snowy hills which dropped in vast steps from their position, like folds in a giant's goosedown quilt.

  Skanda pointed. "Come. I will show you." He reached out, and the lead between Saark's horse and Mary fell away. Skanda cantered the donkey forward, and the usually stubborn beast (on several occasions, Saark had had to practically wrestle the donkey into ambulation) obeyed Skanda without hesitation, nor braying complaint.

  Saark shrugged, and Kell scowled. Skanda set off in a seemingly random direction from the high ground near the Great North Road. Saark followed, his gelding stamping and snorting steam. Kell waited for a few moments, pulled free the unmarked whiskey bottle, and drained the last few drops. He licked his lips, and despite hating himself for it, hoped to the High Gods that there was a tavern.

  The village was small, a central square with hall and tavern and a few shops. All seemed closed and empty and dead on this cold winter evening, another apparent victim of the Army of Iron. Kell and Saark had Skanda wait by the outskirts as they rode in, weapons drawn, eyes wary as they searched for albino soldiers. Nobody walked the streets. Most of the houses seemed deserted.

  "Has the Army of Iron been through, do you think?"

  Kell shrugged, and pointed to the tavern where thin wisps of smoke eased from a ragged, uneven chimney. "I don't think so. No bodies in the road, for a start. But let us find out." He dismounted at the tavern, and thumped open the door. Inside was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth. A long bar supported three men, all stocky and dour, who jumped as the door opened, their eyes casting nervous to the intruders, hands on sword hilts. A tall, thin barman gave a nod to Kell, and Kell entered.

  "Do you have rooms?"

  "How many?"

  "Two."

  "Yes. It'll be five coppers a night. Will you be wanting warm water? 'Cos that's another copper."

  "Warm water is a prerequisite to cleanliness and holiness, my man," said Saark, entering the tavern and smiling, leaning forward over ale-stained timbers.

  The barman stared at the ragged, bruised, tattered dandy, without comprehension.

  "He said 'yes'," grunted Kell, and dropped coins on the bar. Then to Saark, "Go and get the boy, and stable our horses."

  When Saark had left, Kell eyed the barman. "You have a cosy little town, here, barman."

  "And we would keep it that way. An army passed through, killing everyone in surrounding towns," his eyes were bleak, his mind full of nightmares, "of this we know. We would ask you to keep your knowledge of Creggan to yourselves. We have nowhere to run, you understand?"

  Kell nodded, and ordered a whiskey, which he downed in one. Then, when Saark returned after stabling the horses and Mary, Kell pushed past him on his way to the door.

  "Hey, where are you going?"

  "Out."

  "Out where?"

  "Just out," grinned Kell, but it was a grin without humour.

  "Old horse, I have a question. Why did you only purchase two rooms? A little odd, I thought."

  Kell's grin widened. "You love that damn creepy Ankarok boy so much. Well. You can bunk with him. Maybe he'll stop you behaving like an idiot!"

  It was later. Much later. Darkness had fallen, and with it a fresh storm of snow. Kell had returned, brushing flakes from the shoulders of his heavy bearskin jerkin, and now sat eating a meal at a corner table in the tavern. It was a pie filled mostly with potatoes, a little ham, and thick gravy. Kell also had a full loaf of black bread, which he sliced thickly, smothering each slice with butter. Skanda sat, facing Kell, eyes fixed on the old warrior, watching the man eat. On three occasions Kell had offered the boy food, but the thin-limbed urchin waved it away.

  "You need something warm inside you, lad," said Kell, relaxing with a full belly, eyes kind now he was out of the cold, the wind, the snow, and immediate threat of battle. He was getting old, he realised. Damn it, he was old! And, thinking of their pursuit after Nienna, he realised just how ancient and worn he really felt. To the core.

  "I am not hungry," said Skanda.

  "You must eat something."

  "If you could ask for a little warm milk?"

  Kell nodded, and called over a serving girl. She returned shortly with a cup of warm milk, and a tankard of ale for Kell. Both Kell and Skanda sat, drinking their drinks and watching the tavern gradually fill. The village of Creggan was not as deserted as it first seemed.

  "Where's Saark got to?" said Kell, after a while. He was watching a group of men in the corner, and noting their ease of movement, and how they hardly touched their drinks. They seemed like military men to Kell, but one had a taint to the lips, as if he might be a blossoming Blacklipper. Blacklippers were men, and women, who had found a taste for the illegal and hard to come by blood-oil, so revered and necessary to the vachine. Most Blacklippers had little idea the narcotic juice they purchased was refined from human blood. Nor did they realise it was destined for a market so… esoteric: that of the vachine civilisation deep within the folds of the Black Pike Mountains. Most Blacklippers simply lived for the moment, and took their pleasure – including blood-oil – when and where they found it; the one downside, of course, being that the more a person used blood-oil, the more their lips, and eventually, fatally, their very veins stood out black from their skin. When a Blacklipper's veins stood out like a battlefield map in ink, one could count their remaining weeks on one hand.

  Skanda sipped his milk. "He went out."

  "Where to?" Kell frowned. "He said he was having a bath."

  "He said he had things he needed to buy."

  "Hmm," said Kell, and placed his chin on his fist. By his boot, no more than a hand-span away, Ilanna leant against the edge of the rough-sawn table. And under his left arm lay sheathed his Svian knife; usually, his last resort weapon on the few occasions he was parted from his first love. Ilanna.

  The tavern was crowded now, but curiously subdued. They all know, then, thought Kell. They understand that Falanor has been invaded and they have missed the network of searching soldiers through sheer luck. No obvious roads led to Creggan. They had been overlooked. By the villagers' demeanour, they understood what would happen if a second pass came upon this little haven.

  Kell's practised eye picked out that every man
wore a sword, or long knife. Even the women who came in wearing thick woollen dresses and cotton shirts were armed. This was a town living in fear. It was palpable, like ash on their skin, like plague in their eyes.

  Skanda finished his milk, and stood.

  "Where are you going, lad?"

  "I'm tired. I am going to sleep."

  Kell nodded, and watched the thin boy weave his way through the crowded tavern. Smoke washed over him, and a serving girl approached. She asked if he wanted a drink. Kell looked down at his ale. He looked up at her. And he considered.

  "Bring me a whiskey," he said at last, voice hoarse.

  Saark sat in hot water, the wound in his side stinging like the fires of the Chaos Halls, his limbs bruised like a pit-fighter's, but still happy as heat flowed through his damaged flesh and aching bones. He settled back with a sigh. The stench of blood, and sweat, and dirt, of battle, of cankers, of sleeping in the forest, of albino brains and albino gore, all were scrubbed from his now pink and raw skin. And even better, he had asked around, and purchased some rich bath herbs, and perfume, none of it as fine as the scents used in the Royal Court in Vor, but a damn sight more refined than stinking of horse-sweat and death.

  Saark sighed again. The water lapped the edges of the bath rimed with excised scum. He stared happily at the new clothes – clothes he knew, in his deepest of hearts, were a wasteful extravagance, and certainly not geared for travelling across the country – but still of necessity to one such as Saark. He was addicted to buying clothes and perfume as some men were addicted to whiskey, or gambling on dog fights. Because, he knew, with fine clothes and perfume matched to his natural beauty, the whole heady mix led to one thing, and one thing only: amorous meetings with pretty young ladies.

  Saark closed his eyes, picturing the many women he had conquered. And yet Katrina's face kept returning, invading his imagination, pointing a finger of accusation. I am dead, she seemed to be saying. You told me you loved me. Now I rot under the soil and you did not stop it happening!

  Mood soured by ghosts, Saark climbed from the bath and towelled himself dry. He stood, shivering a little and staring at himself in a full length brass mirror. The wound was healing in his side; it still leaked blood occasionally, but it was getting better. The stitches were holding fine. The swelling in his face had gone down, so he no longer looked like a horse had danced on his features, and many of his bruises had faded to yellow, and many, incredibly, had gone.

  I heal fast, he thought with a smile. But not mentally, he realised, with a grimace.

  He dressed, in a bright orange silk shirt with ruffles of lace around wrists and throat, and bright blue woollen leggings. He'd also bought a new snow leopard cloak, long down to his ankles, fine doe-leather and lined with snow leopard fur, or so he'd been told; although he doubted it. Still, it added a nice splash of white to set off the orange of his shirt. And would undoubtedly be warm on the road.

  Saark draped a cord over his neck, settling a bright green pendant at his throat, and then buckled his rapier at his side. He drew the weapon, a blur flickering silver in the mirror, a stunning display of skill and accuracy; then he winced, slowly, and held his side. "Ouch," he muttered. "Not there yet, lover. Not there yet."

  Leaving his old clothes in a pile for the tavern's serving girls to burn, Saark returned to his room and opened the door. Skanda was seated, on one of the narrow sparse beds, but his face was wide as if celebrating a rapturous applause, and something long, and brass, lay loose along his arm. Saark stepped inside and closed the door. He laid his cloak on a chair and moved to Skanda.

  "What are you doing, boy?" he asked, voice low, words not unkind.

  Skanda did not respond. His eyes were open, but there was no comprehension there. Saark's eyes travelled down to the brass object. It was old, very old and worn by its look, and quite ornate. Saark had seen similar objects in the houses of doctors when he'd had swordfight wounds stitched. It was a needle, a brass needle, used to inject fluids into the human body. This was affixed to Skanda's arm; or more precisely, his vein.

  "Skanda," breathed Saark and moved as if to remove the needle. There came a rapid clicking sound, and his eyes moved fast and he leapt back. The scorpion was there, twin tails raised in threat, pincers flexing as it watched Saark with its many tiny black eyes.

  Saark released a hiss of breath. "Damn disgusting little thing," he snapped, and drew his sword, eyes narrowing. "I'm going to cut you in two!" But then he understood the situation with a stab of insight. The scorpion was protecting its master.

  How can that be? thought Saark. It's an insect! A poisonous little arachnid with no compassion or empathy for anything. Why would it protect the boy?

  Slowly, Saark sheathed his sword and held out his hands. "I was simply going to remove the needle and put the boy to bed. You know? Make him more comfortable?"

  The scorpion surveyed him for a few moments, then lowered its stings and scuttled back within Skanda's loose clothing. Warily, Saark pulled free the needle with a tiny squirt of blood, and put it to one side. Then he lifted Skanda onto the bed and laid him out, covering him with a thin blanket. "There you go," he muttered, and thought back to his own childhood, his father hanging by the throat, his mother screaming, and the long, long, long weeks of being utterly and totally alone.

  Saark's eyes shone with tears. "I'll look after you, lad. You see if I don't," he said.

  Saark reckoned he created quite a stir when he walked into the smoky, crowded tavern. The crowd certainly parted to allow him passage, and he ignored the many stares as he crossed to Kell and seated himself opposite the axeman, back to the crowd.

  "What," said Kell, "in the name of horse-shit, are you wearing?"

  "I call it Orange Blossom in Winter. I think it's quite alluring. I think the ladies are noticing me." He smiled a broad, happy smile.

  "Mate, every bastard is noticing you, from the lowliest mongrel backstabbing thief to the dirtiest, sleaziest whore in the village. What the hell were you thinking, Saark?"

  "I was thinking it's been awhile since I had some female company."

  "I thought you were over that?"

  "Kell, my friend, you do not understand men, nor women. This is not something I want; this is something I need. I cannot control myself, no more than you control your… your swinging axe."

  "Saark, we are staying one night. What possessed you to dress like a peacock?"

  "It is my way."

  "And you stink! Gods, it's like you've been showered with every tart's knicker-drawer lavender bottle in the country! You'll have the bastard albino soldiers on us in an instant if you step into the wilds of Falanor stinking like that."

  "You are so uncouth."

  "I thought you'd overcome all this crap? I thought we were on a mission?"

  "What?" Saark looked incredulous. "What? Overcome? You confuse, old horse. Indeed, there is nothing here for which to overcome, because this is a question of breeding, this is a question of sophistication, and this is an embodiment of culture – something intrinsic, not just learned. And, because I have been forced to endure your company and travel in extraneous hardship, just because I have been forced to sleep in shit, and eat shit, and listen to shit, does not mean I thus crave shit. No. You know I am used to the finer aspects of life, and despite this being a poor backward peasant village," several of the men in the tavern scowled and muttered at these brash, arrogant and loudly delivered words, "filled with dirty, low-born peasants whose only knowledge is how to feed pigs and kill chickens," he laughed, a bright tinkling of crystal windchimes, "that doesn't mean to say I have to denigrate myself to the lower echelons of a rude base society. Understand?"

  "You're a horse's dick, Saark."

  "I rest my case."

  "Meaning?"

  "When faced with superior intelligence, culture and argument, you instantly revert to the base gutter which spawned you. I do not blame you for low-born behaviour, Kell, in fact sometimes I am envious; how I wish I wasn't so be
autiful, and charming, and irresistible to the ladies." Saark took this moment to have a good look around, and although his eyes lingered on several buxom wenches, the sight of their moribund attire, cracked and broken fingernails and dowdy knifehacked hair made him turn back to Kell with a scowl and deep sigh. "However. I am cursed thus, and so must make the most of my natural endowments, and indeed, the nature of my beast. And what a beast it is."

  "I'd forgotten," said Kell.

  "What do you mean, old horse?"

  Kell bared his teeth, and drained his tankard. "We've been through some battles, Saark lad, some hard shit, and you've proved yourself to be tougher than I anticipated. You're a good swordsman, with a strong arm and keen eye, and enough mental toughness to face any enemy."

  "But?"

  "But the minute you touch any form of civilisation, you regress to the pig-headed sugar-mouthed hardcocked brainless stinking village fucking idiot I've always loathed." Saark opened his mouth, as Kell hefted his axe and stood, stool scraping the straw-covered stone flags. "And if I hear another sugar-coated pile of goat's bollocks from you, I'll carve my name on your arse." Saark's mouth closed again, and Kell stalked through the crowded tavern and stepped out into the night.