by Remic, Andy
Kell had lowered his head. Now his eyes lifted, and there were tears on his bearded cheeks.
"You would take me back?" he said, voice a husky low growl. "After all that I did? To you and your mother?"
"Yes! We could be a family again."
Kell stood, and turned his back to Sara. She stood, in her cage of rock and iron, and stepped forward, grasping the bars. "Come with me, Kell. Come to Kuradek. He waits for you!"
Kell turned back. His knuckles were white around Ilanna. "I'll go to him all right. I'll cut his puking head from his shoulders!"
"No, Kell, no! Wait!" but Kell was striding away, across the rocks, to the cell which held Jagor Mad.
Behind, in her cell, Sara sat cross-legged on the floor. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, and the feeling of Kuradek filled her, filled every muscle and every atom. She seemed to float, and she breathed deeply, and the world took on a surreal quality, a haze of witch-light, clouds rushing across the skies, dark ghosts walking the rocks beyond her cell like jagged, black cut-outs, holes in the raw core of the Chaos Halls.
"You did well," hissed Kuradek.
"I failed you."
"No. You gave him something to think about."
"He will come for you."
"Yes. And I will be waiting."
"He will try and kill you."
"Yes. But I am all-powerful. He will crumble. Like dust between my claws."
"Are you sure?"
Hundreds of miles away, on his throne in the Blue Palace at Jalder, Kuradek opened his dark crimson eyes and smiled. "Yes, my sweet," he said, smoke oozing from his mouth, skin writhing with corrupt religious symbols that squirmed as if fighting to be free of his dark-smoke skin. "They always do."
Kell's mood could be described as a thunderous rage as he approached Jagor Mad's cell. The three men who had called themselves the new Governors of the Black Pike Mines were sat together, eyes sullen, faces lost to despair. They were awaiting execution. The atmosphere was sombre.
Kell stopped by the bars, and gestured to the two guards who held long spears and wore short stabbing swords over kilts of steel. "Open it."
"But… Governor Myrtax said…"
"Governor Myrtax does what I tell him, laddie!" barked Kell, employing a parade ground bellow that once made many a Command Sergeant piss his pants.
"Yes, yes sir," snapped one guard, shaking as he fumbled keys and unlocked a three bar gate, swinging it wide from its slot in the mountain wall.
"Jagor Mad. Step free."
"What do you want?" said the big man, voice husky and low, his face still battered and bruised from their fight. Jagor stepped from his confinement, squinting at the bright daylight, and he stretched his huge frame. His throat was heavily bruised, huge welts showing where the rope had savagely burned him.
"I want your help," said Kell, folding his arms.
"Why would I help you?"
Kell drew Ilanna from his back, glanced at the twin black blades, and hefted her against his chest. "You help me, or I execute you now. Right here. On this fucking spot."
Jagor Mad considered this, and a finger lifted, touching the marks at his throat. "Seems like a fair choice. I'll help you. But don't be asking me to fucking sing and dance."
Kell grinned. "No, I have something far more fun than that planned." He turned to the guard. "Give Jagor your sword."
"What?"
"Are you deaf, lad, or shall I unblock your ears with my axe?"
"No need to be rude," grumbled the guard, and handed Jagor Mad the sword. Jagor took the weapon, face showing a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "What's happening here, Kell?" he murmured.
"Follow me."
"You wish to battle?"
"No, Jagor, you big dumb fool! These vampire bastards threaten the whole of Falanor! I want you alive, because you're a big hard bastard, and I'll not waste a man like you just because you were fighting for your freedom! I respect that. I respect your anger, your fire, and your fucking brutality! You were born to fight, Jagor, not be locked in a cage, not to hang from the gallows. Well, I'm giving you the chance to earn redemption."
"What do you want me to do?"
"There is a place. A hidden place. Where the last of the Blacklipper Kings reside, after their brother was killed by the vachine known as Vashell. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"I know."
"Can you take me to this place?"
"It is a closely guarded secret amongst the Blacklippers," said Jagor Mad, carefully.
"We are all threatened here," said Kell, eyes glittering. "I need the help of the Blacklippers. I hunted them for decades, aye, and I am their sworn enemy. But now, I am like a brother compared to the nightmare in the dark."
Jagor stared hard into Kell's eyes. He lowered his sword. "I will take you. But they will kill you, old man. With no remorse."
Kell grinned. "I don't die easy," he said.
Kell strode up to Saark, who was sat on a stool eating a plate of sausages from his knees. He glanced up, then leapt up spilling his plate and knocking over his tankard as he saw Jagor Mad looming behind Kell. Saark grappled for his rapier, shouting, "Look out, Kell, he's behind you!"
Kell patted Saark on the arm. "I know, lad, I know. I brought him here."
"What? What?" snapped Saark, spitting and dribbling sausage everywhere.
"He's coming with me. To help me."
"Where are we going all of a sudden?" said Saark, lifting and picking his sausages from the snow with a curse and a dirty glance. "I thought you said we had an army to train?"
"Yes. You have an army to train. I have a problem to solve."
"What problem, what the hell are you talking about? And army? Me train an army? You have to be sky-high out of your fucking donkey skull if you think I'm capable of training a bloody army!"
"You were a soldier, weren't you?" said Kell, and nodded to Grak who appeared, carrying a newly forged steel collar in his powerful hands. Grak stopped, and put his hands on his hips, grinning.
"I was King Leanoric's Sword Champion," said Saark, looking injured, "if that's what you mean?"
"There you go. You were in the army. That's good enough for me. That's all settled then."
"Now wait a minute," said Saark, "I was a commissioned officer, I didn't rough it with the scum in the barracks," he glanced at Grak, and Jagor, and swallowed, "no offence meant, I was in the High Court watching the jesters and eating venison and lobster from silver platters! I was attending the buxom serving wenches and bestowing gifts of fine silver jewellery on nobility! I wasn't eating bloody beans from a pan and scrubbing my boots! I had servants for that sort of thing! Peasants! Like… well, like you…" He stopped.
Grak gave a cough, and slapped Saark on the back, a slap so hard he nearly pitched Saark to the ground. "Don't worry, lad. I'll help you! Grak the Bastard by name, Grak the Bastard by nature. I won't let no fancy big-titted silver-wearing venison-stuffed ladies get in the way of you training the lads. Right?"
"Er, right," said Saark, weakly, and seemed to physically slump.
"After all, if all our lives rest on your scrawny shoulders, I think you're going to need some help. Right?"
"Right."
"I mean, if we're going into battle to face a terrible foe, a foe who is savage and brutal, knows no remorse, is stronger than us, faster than us, more brutal than we could ever imagine – well, we'd be idiots to let a dandy moron train us without any experience or skills, wouldn't we?"
"Er. Yes."
They stared at each other. "Not that I'm saying you're a moron," explained Grak, helpfully, and roared with laughter.
Saark stared at the carrots stuck in Grak's beard, and shook his head. He threw Kell a nasty glance. "So, Legend, what wonderful little jaunt are you going to be enjoying whilst I get stuck here with three thousand condemned convicts, nary a beautiful woman in sight, and food so bad even Mary would turn up her muzzle in disgust?"
"I'm going to the Valleys of the Moon,"
said Kell, smiling and nodding.
"What?" said Saark, and placed a hand on one hip in what could only be described as an effeminate stance. "The Valleys of the Moon don't exist! Leanoric hunted for them, for thirty years, after his father had damn well given up!"
"It's said you have to be a mystic to enter," said Kell, cryptically.
"And I suppose you qualify, do you?"
Kell shrugged. "I have three thousand soldiers here. Or I will have, when you complete their training. I need more. It's not enough to take Jalder, or indeed, any of the other cities. The vampires are savage. And the Army of Iron is disciplined, that's for sure. They also rely on magick. We need the magick of the Blacklippers."
"Pah, what are you talking about? Have you been on the whiskey again?"
"It's true," rumbled Jagor, stepping forward. Saark looked again at the sword in his huge hands. It looked like a child's toy. Saark swallowed, for he was within striking distance and Kell seemed extremely laid back. As if he had nothing in the world to worry about.
"Which bit? The fact the Valleys of the Moon don't exist, or the fact that you have to be a village idiot invested with the dribbling liquid brain of a certifiable peasant to even want to look for such a mythical artefact?"
"No. It exists," said Jagor. "I have been there."
"And you're a mystic, are you?" scoffed Saark, examining the lace ruff of his sleeve.
"I surely am," rumbled Jagor, eyes flashing dangerously dark. "Watch. I can mystically transfer this short sword into the middle of your head."
"Point taken," prickled Saark, and turned his attention to Kell. "But seriously, Kell, think about it. You know I like to gamble, drink the finest wines, suckle the most succulent foods, dance like a peacock and fuck like a stallion. All the sensible things in life, my man. I've never trained an army in my life! You'd be insane to entrust me with such an important directive!"
Kell loosened his axe, and in a sudden movement swung the blade for Saark's head. Saark rolled back, fast, faster than any human had a right to move. His rapier was out, and he'd grabbed up the stool on which he was seated and hoisted it as a makeshift shield. He'd also moved, imperceptibly, so his back was against the wall of the fortress.
Kell grinned. "You see? Defence, stance, back to the wall, and you shifted so that you could attack all three of us, not knowing from whence the next strike would come." Kell sheathed Ilanna. Saark scowled. "It's all intuitive. You'll do just fine, lad. Just teach them about the strength of shield walls, the tactical advantage of a solid fighting square and how to respond in formation to commands. Get them practising. That's what I need. That's what you must do. Lives depend on it, Saark. All our lives."
"Bloody great," mumbled the dandy.
"As I said," roared Grak, "the bastard here will help. I've trained soldiers before. Just see yourself as the commissioned officer, and me as your finely honed tool."
"There's only one finely honed tool around here," mumbled Saark, but forced a smile. "Very well. If train men I must, then train men I must! We will turn back the tide of these evil vampires! Hurrah!" He flourished his rapier. Everybody stared at him.
"But don't think you can sit on your arse and do nothing," said Grak, amiably.
"Er. That's something like what I had in mind. You said yourself, you've trained men before."
"Aye, but I won't put up with slothful bastards. I put my foot down, I do."
"I take it by your story and demeanour, young Grak, that something untoward happened to your last Commanding Officer?"
"Aye. I cut off his hand."
"By accident?"
"Well, it was his accident to be damn disrespectful about the men whilst I was chopping wood."
"I thought you said you killed your General?" interjected Kell.
"Aye, him as well. Why do you think I'm here?"
Saark stared at Kell. "Please?" he mouthed, silently.
Kell turned his back on the dandy, and slapped Jagor Mad on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoe to do so. "Come on, lad. Our horses are waiting."
"How long will you be?" said Saark, in what bordered on a useless puppy whine.
"A week, I reckon," said Kell, and glanced back. "Don't let me down on this, Saark. You understand?"
"Yes, Kell."
"And Saark?"
"Yeah?"
"Watch out for Sara. She's a wily bitch. I think she communes with Kuradek, so I'd limit what she can see, hear and do. She can spy bloody everything from that cell you put her in."
"Perhaps you'd like me to put a bag over her head?"
"A brilliant idea! Just don't get too close to her claws."
"Yes," said Saark, weakly.
"And Saark?"
"Go on." He sighed. "What now?"
"Don't touch Nienna."
"Like I would dream!"
"I know all about your fucking dreams, lad. If you do it again, the next fight we have, vampire invasion or no, you'll be wearing your feet as souvenirs round your pretty slit throat."
"Any other advice?"
"Keep the men well fed, but work them hard."
Saark put his hands on his hips. "Any more fucking advice? Why the fuck are you leaving? Maybe you should write me a, y'know, short manuscript on the art of running a fucking soldier-camp full of scumbag convicts – no offence meant –"
"None taken," smiled Grak menacingly.
"– or maybe you should just do it yourself!"
"See you in a week."
Saark scowled as Kell and Jagor moved to the horses, the finest war chargers from Governor Myrtax's stables. Huge beasts of nineteen hands, one was a sable brown gelding, the other charcoal black. Kell mounted the black beast, which reared for a moment and silhouetted Kell against the weak winter sun.
Saark stared in wonder.
Kell calmed the gelding, patting its neck and whispering into its ear, and ducking low over the horse's neck, galloped off through the gates of the Black Pike Mines and out onto the snowy fields beyond, closely followed by the hulking figure of Jagor Mad dressed in bulky furs and standing in his stirrups, giving a final, menacing, backward glance.
"I hope he knows what he's doing," said Saark.
"I hope you do," said Grak, staring at him.
The gates closed on well-oiled hinges, and Saark glared at Grak with open hatred. "I'm going for a bath," he said.
Grak nodded, and watched the peacock strut away, hand on scabbard, a stray sausage stuck to the back of his silk leggings. Grak sighed, and stared up at the sky.
"The gods do like to challenge," he said, and headed for the barracks.
Kell and Jagor rode in silence for a long time. West they travelled, along a low line of foothills before the rearing, dark, ominous Black Pike Mountains. Both horses carried generous packs of provisions, and for a while Kell brooded on his last conversation with Nienna.
"I'll miss you, grandfather."
"And I you, little Nienna."
"I am little no longer," she laughed.
"You will always be a child to me."
He sensed, more than saw, her shift in mood.
"That's the problem, isn't it? You control. I heard what mother said, heard some of the things she accused you of; and I have seen you raise your hand to me on several occasions! You need to learn, grandfather, you need to get in tune with the modern way of thinking! I am a little girl no longer! Understand?"
"When I was a boy," said Kell, "a woman could not… meet with a man until she was twenty-five summers! You hear that? Twenty-five years old! And you are seventeen, a suckling child barely weaned from her mother's tit and still lusting after the stink of hot milk."
"How dare you! I can have children! I can drink whiskey! I am a woman, and men find me attractive. Who the hell are you to lecture me on keeping myself to myself? I worked it out, Kell. I'm not stupid. You were twenty when you sired my mother; and she was eighteen. Barely older than me! And I bet that wasn't the first time your child-maker had a bit of fun with her…"
Kell glared, and lifted Ilanna threateningly. "You need to learn to hold your tongue."
"Or what? You'll cut it out?"
Kell frowned now, as a cold wind full of snow whipped down from the mountains and blasted him with more ferocity than his memories allowed for. Or had he simply been tougher, during his youth? As the years passed, had he simply grown weak? More pampered? Relying more on his reputation than any real skill in battle?