by Andy Remic
Saark gave a dark smile under the glowing edges of a rising winter sun. "Why, I'm a soft touch when it comes to myself."
"So we are the same, then?"
Saark stared at Myriam, stared at her hard as the
truth of her words bit him. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. She was correct. They were exactly the same. Saark used people for his own ends. He always had, and he always would. He was vain, narcissistic, and totally enveloped with furthering his own pleasure – and life. Shit, he realised. Shit. In Myriam's position, would he have acted the same? Would he have stabbed somebody, poisoned another, in order to force them to help? And he knew, deep down in the glowing embers of his ruptured heart, that he probably would.
With shame touching him, he turned and went back to his cold bed. And the pounding of the rampant vachine blood-oil in his veins echoed right down to his soul.
Soon after dawn they followed a narrow alleyway through the fortress, winding between towering dark walls which exuded not just cold and gloom and abandonment, but an inherent dread which seemed to be a part of this long-deserted fortress. People had not only died here, it felt as if their souls had been sucked into the very stones, distorting them, tearing them free.
Kell led the way, walking his skittish horse with Nienna in the saddle. He didn't want to let her out of his sight. Nobody would take his granddaughter from him again; not without stepping over his dead body first. Next came Myriam, dressed in warm winter garb, her face seeming more shrunken on this freezing morn, her eyes ringed with purple and black, her breathing rasping and shallow. And behind came Saark, a wary eye on Myriam, listening to her ragged cancerous breathing and wondering how long she really had left. She wanted to reach Silva Valley, but according to Kell it was a hard, brutal journey and Saark could not quite puzzle out why he was still agreeing to do it. Surely, he could turn around now? He had Nienna. He had the antidote. And even if he believed Myriam's magick, her supposed prophecy, if he headed away from the Black Pikes then surely he would never see a pride of snow lions. How, then, could he lose Nienna to attack? It was strange. Saark decided to question Kell in private when the opportunity arose.
Within the hour they were free of the Cailleach Fortress, and in a narrow valley which ran beyond, through a narrow pass with massive, sheer towering walls. It was terribly gloomy in the pass, and huge rocks littered the floor, in places rising in piles which the group had to scramble up and over, slipping and sliding on wet rocks and ice. The horses struggled on gamely, and with pride Saark watched Mary – more agile than them all, despite carrying a heavy load on her back. The donkey did not complain, but willingly climbed each hill of loose rock to stand, staring down at the cursing humans with an almost equine arrogance.
After a while, Kell called a halt. "It's no good taking the horses any further, unless we intend to eat them."
Everybody stared at him. "You can't eat a good horse," snapped Saark. "What a waste of a fine creature!"
Kell grunted. "It's meat, like anything else. But the path will grow ever more treacherous; best now to let them free. They will soon start to slow us down. If we release them here, there's a chance we may find them on our return."
"Our return," said Myriam, softly, eyes distant. She smiled a skeletal smile. "Maybe some of us won't return? Instead, we will find paradise."
"In your dreams, Myriam," said Saark unkindly, and slapped his mount's rump, watching the beast slither back down the pathway and canter to a halt. The group emptied saddlebags, and then Kell stared meaningfully at Mary.
"No," said Saark.
"She'll be a pain in the arse."
"Nonsense! Mary is a fine beast, agile as a goat, the stamina of a lion. Where I go, Mary goes."
Kell peered close, and grinned. "Is there something I don't know about you and that mule?"
"Mary is a donkey. And don't be so crass." "Why not? You've fucked everything else in existence."
"I resent that, axeman."
"Why so? I've never seen one so rampant. You'll be chasing Myriam next!" He roared with laughter, some good humour returned, and slapped Saark on the back. "Come on lad. Walk ahead with me. I wish to talk."
They moved on after releasing the horses, and Saark led Mary, her rope wrapped around one fist. Behind, Nienna walked with Myriam, and Myriam smiled down at the girl. "Is it good? Good to be back with your grandfather?"
"Yes. I have missed him terribly. I knew he would come for me."
"I… I wanted to apologise, girl. For the way I treated you. And treated him. I have been selfish beyond reason."
Nienna shrugged. "What I don't understand is why we are still here. Why we are heading through the mountains. I thought he would leave you when you gave him the antidote; in fact, I thought he would cut you in half." She smiled, a weak, cold smile, her eyes glittering.
Myriam sighed. "I have done… bad things, Nienna. I admit that. And I deserve Kell's hatred. And even yours."
"I don't hate you," said Nienna, smiling gently. "I see your pain, understand your agony. I pity you, Myriam, not hate you."
Myriam's eyes went dark. "Well girl, sometimes pity is far worse."
Ahead, Kell had halted. The towering walls were silent, looming, filling the narrow pass with shadows. Water trickled and gushed in various places, and had frozen solid in others, either in fingers of sculpted, corrugated ice, or in vast, hanging sheets. Occasionally, stones rattled down the sheer iron-stained flanks of this interior slice from the mountain range.
"We must move with care," said Kell. "There have been many rockfalls here over the years. Any loud noise could bring down the Pikes on our bloody heads. We all understand?"
"Aye," nodded Saark, rubbing Mary's muzzle.
They set off again, down a rocky slope, boots slithering. Eventually, Saark said, "Kell, I have a question." "It better not be about sex," growled the huge warrior.
"No no. Not this time. I was simply wondering why we are still here?"
"Think about it."
"About Myriam?"
"No, you dolt. About the two vachine who Graal sent to kill us. I was thinking about them; thinking a lot. Graal has invaded Falanor, wiped the whole damn army of Leanoric under his boots. So then. What next? We stumble through his camp like blind men through a brothel, and by some bloody miracle manage to escape. What should Graal do? Continue his expansion in the name of vachine blood-oil gathering? Or spend considerable resources sending killers after us? Why? Why hunt us down? He knew we were heading north. Why waste two of his best killers? Surely he has more important fish to fry."
Saark considered this. "He knew your history, Kell. About being a Vachine Hunter for the old Battle King."
"Exactly. But that should not worry him; what's the worst I could do? Harry a few stray vachine scum in the mountains? Hardly a threat to his war effort, don't you think?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Graal knows I was heading north. He knows I know the Pikes. Maybe – and this is just a thought – maybe he thinks I'm heading for Silva Valley. The homeland of the vachine. But then, surely I would be slaughtered the minute I arrived?"
"So you think Graal wants to stop you finding Silva Valley?"
Kell nodded. "Yes. He thinks I know something I don't. There is some great mystery here, some puzzle we need to unravel. I think Graal is not playing for the vachine; I think he works his own game, I think the conniving bastard is up to his own bowel-stinking tricks. But what? What could he possibly be doing? And why would he think I was a threat to his plans?"
"I see your reasoning. And now I see why we're heading north, instead of south back to the relative comfort of Falanor – such as we'd be able to find. If Graal doesn't want you here, this is probably the best place for you to be."
"Exactly!" growled Kell. "Silva Valley, that is where the answers lie. The more we travelled north after Nienna, the more I realised that Myriam's goal is our goal. She wants immortality; I want answers. Our only chance of stopping this damned invasion
is to confront its source. We need to know more about these Harvester bastards, we need to know where the albino soldiers come from – but more importantly, we need to find the source of the vachine."
"You cannot take on an entire nation of clockwork killers," said Saark, hand on Kell's shoulder.
"You just do it one head at a time," snapped Kell. "You'd be surprised what a pyramid you can build."
"I think, old horse, that sometimes you are crazy."
Kell nodded sombrely. "I'm just the way the world made me."
More snow fell, a light scattering making rocks treacherous and slippery. After several hours of the narrow pass they emerged into a circular valley with a frozen tarn at its floor. All around reared jagged teeth peaks, and Kell put his hands on his hips, breathing deeply, staring out at the stunning, desolate beauty of the place.
"Kingsman's Tarn," said Kell. He pointed, and the others followed his gaze. "Up that way is Demon's Ridge, the first of our trials. If we can get up there by nightfall, we'll be safe from anything that follows."
"You're being followed?" said Myriam, eyes narrowed, hand straying to her longbow.
"I guarantee it," said Kell. "Graal seems to have a passion to make me dead. Well, as he's going to find out, I don't die easy."
"You keep saying that," snapped Saark.
"Ain't it true, lad?"
"I'm not disputing its truth, just pointing out that it grates on my nerves every time you say it."
Kell laughed, seeing Saark's uneasiness. A cold wind howled down over the tarn, and rushed past them like a phalanx of cold angels. "I understand now! You are so much out of your natural environment, it hurts."
Saark frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The royal court," Kell sneered, "with its golden goblets, bowls of honey fruit, its randy middle-aged courtiers with powdered wigs and silk panties and glossy leather boots – that's your world, Saark. The world of easy sex and animal sex, of whiskey-wine and the best cuts of meat full of thick fat juice and spiced herbs from a different continent! The world of the dandy. The fop. The rich idiot with too much gold and nothing between his ears, nor his legs, I'd wager. That, Saark, my favourite horny, perfumed goat, is the world to which you belong. Your natural setting. But this. This!" He stared around, at the wilds, the rugged ridgelines, the whipping flurries of snow, the ice, the storm-filled skies; a place of natural wonder, and brutality, and death. "This is my place," he finished quietly.
Saark pushed ahead, leading Mary. "That way, you say?"
"Yes. Across the heather. There's a rocky path we can follow further on, an old stream bed leading up to Demon's Ridge. You'll struggle with that damn donkey, though."
"I'm not leaving her behind. Not here," said Saark, patting her fondly.
"Aye. Well, I suppose there's good eating on one."
"What?" Saark's voice was ice.
"Her meat will be a bit stringy, but it'll do when we're starving on the crags."
"She's not for eating," scowled Saark. "That would be a crime!"
"Aye. A crime to my belly, is what I'm thinking. But come on. We have a long way to go."
They rose from Kingsman's Tarn in the basin valley, and within an hour the wind was howling across the rock faces and cutting through their clothing. Each pulled on extra woollen shirts and dug out thick cloaks, as high over the ridges snow danced and threatened heavy falls.
"I expect," said Saark, grunting as he jumped down into the old stream bed and turned to guide Mary, "that the snow can easily block our passage. Render our journey impossible. That sort of thing?"
"Aye," said Kell, panting, putting his hands on his hips to gaze up the narrow incline ahead. Although snow was present, it was surprisingly shallow and banked to one side of the old stream bed. Kell picked a path to the left where his boots could still grip the stones, and he led the way up the slope.
Their progress was slow, and before long all four were panting, and struggling to move forward. Despite cold and ice, the small rocks of the old stream bed shifted under boots, making the scramble difficult.
Still, they pushed on.
Out of the wind it was hot work climbing, and they played an annoying game of removing clothing, then suffering the bite of wind and putting it back on. Saark cursed more than the others, and Nienna was silent, her face strong, eyes focused on the task, pushing herself on much to the silent pride of Kell. She is definitely of my blood, he thought. She has the strength of ten lions!
Darkness was gradually falling as they reached the final section of the steep trail, which grew worse for perhaps the final hundred metres of ascent up to Demon's Ridge. The ridgeline had vanished now, and all they could see was rock and ice, boulders and channels in the mountain rock.
Saark stopped, and glanced back at what they had climbed. He grinned over at Nienna. "You're doing well, girl." She nodded, but no smile came to her face. She was exhausted, hands cut, feet sore, the cold seeping into her bones, the wind shrieking in her brain. "I am trying, Saark. Really trying." Her voice was the voice of a child again, and weariness her mistress.
Now, the climbing got harder and they struggled on, clawing at the frozen rocks, dragging themselves up steep inclines and past huge boulders. Mary the donkey was, as Saark predicted, surprisingly agile, but as he peered further and further up the trail, he wondered for how long she'd be able to manage.
They struggled on, sweat pouring down faces, making their hair lank and skin chilled by the wind. Myriam suffered the worst, for with her savage cancer she had grown weak, and grew weaker with every passing day. Her face and eyes were fevered, and she drank water often, hands shaking with fatigue and dehydration. At one point she stumbled, and Saark was there in the blink of an eye, moving with incredible agility and speed, grabbing her arm before she toppled back down the steep road of stones. She smiled in gratitude to him, leaning on him heavily as she fumbled for her water bottle again. Saark scowled, and let go.
"I should have let you go," he snapped.
"You're still sore about that knife wound, aren't you?"
Saark said nothing, but moved ahead. Myriam watched him with bright fevered eyes.
Kell was first to reach the summit and stand on the heady heights of Demon's Ridge. He planted a boot either side of the ridgeline, hands on hips, hair and beard caught by the wild, whining wind, and gazed out over the stacked ridges and endless teeth of the Black Pike Mountains. They filled his vision like nothing else ever could, and Kell caught a breath in his throat, filled with emotion, filled with dread, and filled with a deep certainty, an intuition that this was his last time in the Black Pikes. He knew, as sure as night follows day, that he would die here. The Pikes would claim him. For Kell, this time, there was no going home.
Melancholy hit Kell like a fist. He helped Nienna climb up and stand beside him on the high ridge, gazing out across the staggered realms of hundreds of mountains which stretched off to a distant, dark horizon. Trails of dry snow curled in the air, and each mountain was subtly different, many purple or black or grey, many with snow on flanks and peaks; but they all shared one thing in common. Each was a savage barbed pike, a threat to life and love, and without an ounce of mercy in the billions of tonnes of rock which carved out passes and channels, gulleys and scree slopes. These were the Black Pike Mountains. All they brought to humanity was suffering and death.
Saark arrived next, panting, his dark curls drenched with sweat. Mary the donkey followed him, struggling up the last section, but once on the ridge was surefooted and seemed unconcerned by the vast drops surrounding them. Saark patted her muzzle and looked to Kell. "You move fast for an old fat man," he said.
"And you climb well for an effete arsehole."
Saark gazed out. "I don't like the look of that. Too many places to die!"
"It's beautiful!" said Nienna, voice filled with awe.
"Yeah," muttered Saark, taking in great lungfuls of air, "as beautiful as a striking cobra. Girl, this place is no place for mortals. The Black
Pikes were put here by the gods to keep us away from the Granite Thrones!"
"The Granite Thrones? What're they?"
"Tsch," scowled Kell. "That's a myth."
"In my experience, nine times out of ten myths are based on fact."
Kell shrugged. "Whatever. That does not concern us. What does concern us is getting to Silva Valley; it's a long, hard haul my friends."
Myriam climbed the final stretch, and stared at the donkey's arse blocking her path. Saark clicked his tongue, and Mary moved out of Myriam's way, eyes flared, ears laid back along her dark-haired skull.
"This is no place for an ass," said Myriam acidly, stepping up onto the ridge.
"I wish everybody would stop complaining about my donkey," moaned Saark.
"Who said I was talking about the donkey?"
They laughed, and stared out in wonder. The world seemed much larger, a vast sweeping canvas. Nienna turned a full circle, eyes absorbing the magnificent splendour as the wind swooped and howled, crackled and snapped.