Kell’s Legend

TWELVE
The Jailers

Saark watched the axe, Ilanna, in Kell’s mighty hands; watched her sing in dark prophecy as she rushed towards his skull. And as he observed that crescent razor approach, an utter calm descended on him and he reflected on his life, his early goals, his mistakes, and on his current self-loathing; and he knew, knew life was unfair and the world took no prisoners, but that ultimately he had made his own choices, and he deserved death. He deserved the cold dark earth, the sombre tomb, worms eating his organs. He deserved to be forgotten, for in his life he had done bad things, terrible things, and for these he had never been punished. With his death, his end, then the world would be a cleaner place. His scourge would be removed. He smiled. It was a fitting end to be slain by a hero such as Kell; poetic, almost. Despite the irony.

The blade sliced frozen earth a hair’s-breadth from his ear, scraped the ice with a metallic shriek, then lifted into the air again and for a horrible moment Saark thought to himself, the old bastard missed! He’s pissed on whisky, and he damn well fucking missed!

But Kell glared at him, face sour, eyes raging, and held out his hand. “Up, lad. It’s not your time. We have a job to do.”

Saark turned, rolled, and sprang lightly to his feet, his injuries pushed aside as he watched, with Kell, Nienna, Kat and the others; watched the albino soldiers drifting from wreaths of ice-smoke.

Kell whirled on the gathered crowd. “You must run!” he bellowed. “The ice-smoke will freeze you where you stand, then they will drain you of blood. Stop standing like village idiots, run for your lives!”

A knife flashed from the darkness, and Ilanna leapt up, clattering the blade aside in a show of such consummate skill Saark found his mouth once again dry. The old boy hadn’t missed with his strike; nobody that good missed, despite half a bottle of whisky. If Kell wanted Saark dead, by the gods, he’d be dead.

Saark sidled to Kell. The advancing albinos had halted. They seemed to be waiting for something. The mist swirled, huge coils like ghostly snakes, as if gathering strength.

“What do we do, old horse?”

“We run,” said Kell. “Tell Nienna and Kat to get the horses.”

Kell stood, huge and impassable in the street as the albinos arrayed themselves before him; yet more drifted from the shadows between cottages. They wore black armour, and their crimson eyes were emotionless, insectile.

Like ants, thought Kell. Simply following their programmed instructions…

There were fifty of them, now. Off to the right a platoon of soldiers emerged, and a group of villagers attacked with swords and pitchforks. Their screams sang through the night to a musical accompaniment of steel on steel; they were butchered in less than a minute.

“Come on, come on,” muttered Kell, aware that some spell was at work here, and he growled at the albino warriors and then, realised with a jump, that they watched his axe, eyes, as one, fixed on Ilanna. He lifted the great weapon, and their eyes followed it, tracking the terrible butterfly blades.

So, he thought. You understand her, now.

“Come and enjoy her gift,” he snarled, and from their midst emerged a Harvester, and Kell nodded to himself. So. That was why they waited. For the hardcore magick to arrive…

Iron-shod hooves clattered on ice and cobbles, and Nienna and Kat rode free of the stables, the geldings sliding as they cornered and Saark whirled, leapt up behind Kat, taking the reins from her shaking fingers.

“Kell!” he bellowed.

Kell, staring at the Harvester, snarled something incomprehensible, then turned and vaulted into the saddle behind Nienna-hardly the action of an old man with rheumatism. “Yah!” he snarled and the horses galloped through the streets, churning snow and frozen mud, slamming through milling people and over the bridge and away…

Behind, the screams began.

“Soldiers ahead!” yelled Saark as they charged down a narrow street of two-storey cottages with well-tended gardens, and there were ten albino warriors standing in the road, swords free, heads lowered, and as Saark dragged violently on reins the gelding whinnied in protest. Kell did not slow, charging his own horse forward, Nienna gasping between his mighty arms as Ilanna sang, a high pitched song of desolation as she cleaved left, then right, leaving two carved and collapsing corpses in sprays of iridescent white blood. Kell wheeled the horse, and it reared, hooves smashing the lower jaw from the face of an albino who shrieked, grabbing at where his mouth had been. Behind, Saark cursed, and urging his own gelding forward, charged in with his sword drawn. Steel rang upon steel as he clashed, and to his right Kell leapt from the saddle as Nienna drew her own sword from its saddle-sheath. Kell carved a route through the soldiers, his face grim, eyes glowing, whisky on his breath and axe moving as if possessed; which it surely was.

Nienna sat atop the horse, stunned by events; from fine dresses and heady drinks to sitting in the street, sword in hand, petrified to her core. Again. She shook her head, feeling groggy and slow, mouth tasting bad, head light, and watched almost detached as a soldier stepped from his comrades, focused on her, and charged with sword raised…

Panic tore through Nienna. The soldier was there in the blink of an eye, crimson eyes fixed, sword whistling towards her in a high horizontal slash; she stabbed out with her own short blade, and the swords clashed, noise ringing out. Kell’s head slammed left, as Ilanna cut the head from a warrior’s shoulders. Kell sprinted, then knelt in the snow, sliding, as Ilanna slammed end over end to smash through the albino’s spine, curved blade appearing before Nienna’s startled gaze on a spray of blood.

Saark finished the last of the soldiers, slitting a man’s throat with a dazzling pirouette and shower of horizontal blood droplets. The corpse crumpled, blood settled like rain, and behind them, on the road, ice-smoke crept out and curled like questing fingers.

“We need to get out of Jajor Falls,” panted Saark.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Kell took the reins, smiling grimly up at Nienna who rubbed her tired face.

“You’re not even out of breath, old boy.”

“Economy of movement,” said Kell, and forced a smile. “I’ll teach you, one day.”

There came an awkward hiatus. Saark gazed into Kell’s eyes.

“I thought you were going to kill me, back there.”

“No, laddie. I like you. I wouldn’t do that.”

Saark let the lie go, and they mounted the geldings. As they rode from Jajor Falls, out into the gloom under heavy falling snow, down a narrow winding lane which led to thick woodland and ten different tracks they could choose at random, behind them, in the now frozen village, the Harvesters moved through the rigid population with a slow, cold, frightening efficiency.

As day broke, so the trail they followed joined with the cobbled splendour of the Great North Road, winding and black, shining under frost and the pink daubs of a low-slung newly-risen sun. The horses cantered, steam ejecting from nostrils, and all four travellers were exhausted in saddles, not just from lack of sleep, but from emotional distress.

“How far to the king?” said Kell, as they rode.

“It’s hard to say; depends with which Eagle Division he’s camped, or if we have to travel all the damn way to Vor. Best thing is stop the first soldier we see and ask; the army has good communications. The squads should be informed.”

“You know a lot about King Leanoric,” said Kat, turning to gaze up at Saark. She was aware of his powerful arms around her, his body pressed close to her through silk and furs, which he’d wrapped around her shoulders in the middle of the night to keep her warm. It had been a touching moment.

“I…used to be a soldier,” said Saark, slowly.

“Which regiment, laddie?”

“The Swords,” said Saark, eyes watching Kell.

“The King’s Own, eh?” Kell grinned at him, and rubbed his weary face. The smell of whisky still hung about him like a toxic shawl.

“Yes.”

“But you left?”

“Aye.”

Kell caught the tension in Saark’s voice, and let it go. Kat, however, did not.

“So you fought with the King’s Men? The Sword-Champions?”

Saark nodded, squirming uneasily in the saddle. To their left, in the trees, a burst of bird song caught his attention. It seemed at odds with the frost, and the recent slaughter. He shivered as a premonition overtook him.

“Listen, Kell, it occurs to me the Army of Iron is moving south.”

“Occurred to me as well, laddie.”

“And they’re moving fast.”

“Fast for an army, aye. They’re taking every village as they go, sweeping down through Falanor and leaving nobody behind to oppose them. If the king already knows, he will be mustering his divisions. If he does not…”

“Then Falanor lies wide open.”

Kell nodded.

“He must know,” said Saark, considering, eyes observing the road ahead. They were moving between rolling hills now, low and rimed with a light scattering of snow, patches of green peeping through patches of white like a winter forest patchwork.

“Why must he?”

“Falanor is riddled with his troops, sergeants, scouts, spies. Even now, Leanoric will be summoning divisions, and they will march on this upstart aggressor. We can be of no further use.”

Kell looked sideways at Saark. “You think so, do you?” he murmured.

Saark looked at him. “Don’t you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We could head west, for the Salarl Ocean. Book passage on a ship, head across the waves to a new land. We are both adept with weapons; we’ll find work, there’s no question of that.”

“Or you could steal a few Dog Gemdog gems, that’d keep you in bread, cheese and fine perfume.”

Saark paused. He sighed. “You despise me, don’t you? You hate my puking guts.”

“Not at all,” said Kell, and reined in his mount. “We need to make camp. The girls are freezing. We’ve put a good twelve leagues between us and the bastards. If we don’t get some warmth we’ll freeze to death; and my arse feels like a blacksmith’s anvil.”

“Here’s a spot,” said Kat, and they dismounted. Kell sent the young women to a nearby woodland to gather fallen branches, as he rummaged in the mount’s saddlebags, pulling free two onions, salt and a few strips of jerked beef. “Hell’s teeth. Is this all there is? I suppose we left in a hurry.”

“We were brawling in the street,” said Saark. “We had little warning to gather provisions.”

Kell looked at Saark, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. About that.” His face twisted. He was unused to apology. “I…listen, I over-reacted. Kat is a beautiful young woman, but I know your sort, out to take what you want, then you’d leave her behind, weeping and broken, heart smashed into ice fragments.”

“Your opinion of me is pure flattery,” said Saark, coldly.

“Listen. I lost my temper. There. I said it.” He looked into Saark’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have killed you, lad.”

“I think you would,” said Saark, carefully. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Kell grinned. “Damn. You’re right. I would have killed you.”

“What stopped you?”

“The arrival of the soldiers,” said Kell, hissing in honesty. “You were the one who brought up this poem, right? This Saga of Kell’s Legend. But have you heard the last verse? It’s rare the bards remember it; either that, or they choose easily to forget, lest it ruin their night of entertainment.”

“The one about Moonlake and Skulkra? Kell fought with the best?”

“No. There is another verse.”

“I did not realise.”

Kell’s voice was a low rumble as he recited, unevenly, more poetry than song; he would be the first to admit he was no bard. Kell quoted: “And Kell now stood with axe in hand, The sea raged before him, time torn into strands, He pondered his legend and screamed at the stars, Death open beneath him to heal all the scars Of the hatred he’d felt, and the murders he’d done And the people he’d killed all the pleasure and life He’d destroyed. “Kell stared melancholy into great rolling waves of a Dark Green World, And knew he could blame no other but himself for The long Days of Blood, the long Days of Shame, The worst times flowing through evil years of pain, And the Legend dispersed and the honour was gone And all savagery fucked in a world ripped undone And the answer was clear as the stars in the sky All the bright stars the white stars the time was to die, Kell took up Ilanna and bade world farewell, The demons tore through him as he ended the spell And closed his eyes.”

Kell glanced at Saark. There were tears in his eyes. “I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blame the whisky, for so long I blamed the whisky, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. I eventually married, reared two daughters…who came to hate me. Only Nienna has time for me, and for her love I am eternally grateful. Do you know why?”

“Why?” said Saark, voice barely more than a croak.

“Because she is the only thing that calms the savage beast in my soul,” said Kell, grasping Ilanna tight. “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.”

“Why so glum?” said Nienna, dumping a pile of wood on the ground. She glanced from Saark to Kell, and back, and Kat came up behind with her arms also laden with firewood. “Have you two been arguing again?”

“No,” said Saark, and gave a broad, beaming smile. “We were just…going over a few things. Here, let me build a fire, Nienna. You help your grandfather with the soup. I think he needs a few warm words from the granddaughter he loves so dearly.”

Kell threw him a dark look, then smiled down at Nienna, and ruffled her hair. “Hello monkey. You did well with the wood.”

“Come on, we’re both starving.” And in torn silk dresses and ragged furs and blankets salvaged from dead soldiers’ saddlebags, the group worked together to make a pan of broth.

It was an hour later as they came across a straggled line of refugees, who turned, fear on faces at the sound of striking hoof-beats. Several ran across the fields to the side of the Great North Road, until they saw the young girls who rode with Kell and Saark. They rode to the head of the column, and Kell dismounted beside a burly, gruff-looking man with massive arms and shoulders like a bull.

“Where are you riding?” asked Kell.

“Who wants to know?”

“I am Kell. I ride to warn the king of the invading army.”

The man relaxed a little, and eyed Kell’s axe and Svian nervously. “I am Brall, I was the smithy back at Tell’s Fold. Not any more. The bastard albinos took us in the night, two nights back, magick freezing people in the street. I can still hear their screams. A group of us,” he gestured with his eyes, “ran through the woods. And we’ll keep on running. Right to the sea if we have to.”

A woman approached. “It was horrible,” she said, and her eyes were haunted. “They killed everybody. Men, women, little ones. Then these…ghosts, they drifted through the streets and drank the blood of the children.” She shuddered, and for a moment Kell thought she was going to be sick. “Turned them into sacks of skin and bone. You’ll kill me, won’t you, Brall? Before you let that happen?”

“Aye, lass,” he said, and his thick arm encircled her shoulder.

“Have you seen any Falanor men on the road?” asked Saark, dismounting.

“No.” Brall shook his head. “Not for the last two weeks. Most of the battalions are south.”

“Do you know where King Leanoric camps?”

Brall shrugged. “I am only a smithy,” he said. “I would not be entrusted with such things.”

“Thank you.” Saark turned to Kell. “I know what’s happening.”

“What’s that?”

“More than half of Leanoric’s men are paid volunteers; summer men. They go home for the winter. The Black Pike Mountains, much of Leanoric’s past angst, are now impassable with snow. So as winter heightens, spreads south, so he stands down most of the volunteers and they return to families. He’s been travelling through his divisions, reorganising command structures, deciding who can go home for the winter, that sort of thing.”

“So as we stand here, he might even now be disbanding the very army he’s going to need?”

“Precisely.”

“That’s not good,” said Kell. “Let’s move out.”

They cantered on, leaving behind the straggling line of survivors from Tell’s Fold.

They rode all day, and as more snow fell and the light failed, so they headed away from the Great North Road, searching for a road shelter, as they were known. In previous decades, following work begun by his father, Leanoric had had shelters built at intervals up and down the huge highway to aid travellers and soldiers in times of need. The snow fell, heavier now, and Saark pointed to the distance where a long, low, timber building nestled in the lee of a hill, surrounded by a thick stand of pine.

“Hard to defend,” muttered Kell.

“We need to recharge,” said Saark, his cloak pulled tight, his eyes weary. “You might be as strong as an ox, but me and the girls…we need to eat, to sleep. And the horses are dead on their feet.”

“Lead the way,” said Kell, and they walked through the ankle-deep fall.

Saark opened the door on creaking hinges, allowing snow to blow in, and Kell led the horses behind the road shelter and tied them up in a lean-to stable, at least secluded from the worst of the weather. He found a couple of old, dusty horse blankets and covered the beasts, and filled their nose-bags with oats from the dwindling remains of their saddlebag stores. Saark was right. They needed to rest and recharge; but more, they needed supplies, or soon the wilderness of Falanor would kill them.

“It’s bare,” said Nienna, moving over and sitting on the first bed. The room had a low roof, and was long, containing perhaps sixteen beds. It was like a small barracks, and was chilled, smelling of damp. A fire had been laid at the far end, but the logs were damp.

“It’ll save our life,” shivered Saark, and struggled from his cloak. In the gloomy light, his frilled clothes, splattered with dried blood, no longer looked so fine. “How are you two?”

“Exhausted,” said Kat, and flashed Saark a smile. “It’s been…a strange few days, hasn’t it?”

“We need to get a fire going. Nienna, will you go and find some wood?”

Sensing they needed to be alone, Nienna left and the door slammed shut. Saark approached Kat.

“What happened back there…”

“It’s all right,” she said, smiling and placing a finger against his lips. “We both got carried away in the moment…”

“No. What I meant to say was, I think you’re special. I am trying to be different. A reformed character.” His smile was twisted, self-mocking. “In my past life, I have been a bad man; in many ways. But I feel for you, Katrina.” He stared into her topaz eyes, and ran his hands through her short, red hair, still stuck with bits of straw from back at the village stables.

She reached up, and kissed him, and for a long moment their lips lingered. “Let’s take it one step at a time. Let’s reach the king. Let’s save Falanor. Then we can play at holding hands.”

Saark grinned. “You’re a wicked wench, that’s for sure.”

She stroked his moustache, winked, then turned her back on him. “You better believe it, mister.”

Nienna returned with firewood, followed by Kell, shivering and brushing snow from the shoulders of his mighty bear-skin jerkin. “Let’s get a fire lit,” he rumbled, “I could do with a pan of soup.”

“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 teeth, 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.

“You are familiar, of course,” said Jex, “with the workings of a crossbow? This is similar. It can punch a fist sized-hole through a man at a hundred metres. It works on clockwork, was created by the very enemy who now advance through our land.” He stood, chair scraping, and Saark licked suddenly dry lips. Styx stood as well, beside Jex, and pulled free a similar weapon.

“We call it a Widowmaker,” said Styx, single eye gleaming. “But rather than cause unnecessary bloodshed, I see you need a demonstration.” His arm moved, there came a click and a whump as the clock-work-powered mini-crossbow discharged. The sixteen year-old villager was picked up and slammed across her bed, an impact of red at her breast, a funnel of flesh exploding from her back and splattering up the wooden wall with strips of torn heart and tiny shards of bone shrapnel.

“No!” screamed the older woman, and ran to the dead teenager, sobbing, mauling at her corpse which rolled, slack and useless and dead, to the floor. The room fell still; cold and terrifying.

“Damn you, you could have fired at a target!” raged Saark.

Styx nodded, gaze fixed to Saark. “Aye, I did. I find the horrors of the flesh have more immediate impact.”

Kat stalked forward, eyes furious, hands clenching and unclenching. “You cheap dirty stinking bastards! She was an innocent villager, she meant no harm to you; why the hell would you do that? Why the hell would you kill an unarmed girl?”

Styx smiled, showing blackened stumps. “Because,” he said, eye narrowing, all humour leaving his face to be replaced by an innate cruelty, the natural evil of the predator, the natural amorality of the shark, “I am a Jailer,” he said, “and I thrive on the pleasure of killing sport.”

“The Jailers,” said Saark, voice barely above a whisper, sword still poised.

Styx nodded. “I see you have heard of us.”

“What the hell are Jailers?” snapped Kat, eyes moving fast between Jex, Styx and Saark. She willed Saark to attack. She had seen him in battle, seen him kill with his pretty little rapier; she knew knew he could get to them in time, could slaughter them like the walking offal they were…

“They spent five years in Yelket Jail,” said Saark, speaking to Kat but not moving his eyes from the two men with their clockwork crossbows. “They are very, very dangerous. They were put inside because of Kell. And six months ago, they escaped, and have been terrorising travellers on the Great North Road, killing Leanoric’s soldiers and innocent people up and down the land…they are destined to be hanged.”

“See, you do know us,” smiled Styx, and his weapon settled on Kat. “Now, Saark, my queer little friend, I want you to place your sword very slowly on the ground. One wrong move, and I blow a ragged hole through Kat’s pretty, pouting face.”

Saark tensed…and from outside, heard a shout Myriam kissed Kell, and he allowed himself to be kissed, but his thoughts flowed back to his long dead wife, so long ago, so distant and yet so real and images flickered through his mind…getting married under the Crooked Oak, Ehlana with flowers in her hair and she kissed him and it was sweet and they were young and carefree, not knowing what troubles would face them over the coming years…and here, and now, this kiss felt like a betrayal even though she was dead, and so long ago gone, and cold, and dust under the ground. Kell pulled away. “No,” he said.

“Help me,” breathed Myriam.

“I cannot.”

“You will not.”

“Yes.” He looked into her torture-riddled eyes. “I will not.”

“I think you will,” she said, and pushed the brass needle into his neck. Kell grunted in pain, taking a step back as he slammed a right hook to Myriam’s head, making her yell out as she was punched into a roll, coming up fast, athletically, on her feet with a dagger out, eyes gleaming, triumphant, a sneer on her lips.

Kell staggered back, fingers touching at the brass needle poking from his flesh like a tiny dagger. “Bitch. What have you done to me?”

“It’s a poison,” said Myriam, licking her lips, her eyes wide and triumphant. “Very slow acting. Comes from a brace of Trickla flowers, from way across the Salarl Ocean.” She tilted her head. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”

Kell nodded, and with a hiss, pulled the needle free, stared down at it, glinting in his palm, covered in his blood.

“You have killed me, then,” he said, eyes narrow, face filled with a dark controlled fury.

“Wait!” Myriam snapped, and seemed to be listening for something. Then she stared up at the night sky. “There is an antidote.” She grinned at him, head like a skull by starlight. “I have hidden it. Far to the north. Take me to the Black Pike Mountains, Kell, and you will live!”

“How long do I have?”

“A few weeks, at most. But you will grow weak, Kell. You will suffer, even as I suffer. We will be linked, lovers in pain, suffering together in dark throes of an accelerating agony, both searching for a cure.”

“I could kill you now, bitch, and take my chances.”

Myriam stood up straight, and sheathed her dagger. She held her head high. Her hair was peppered with snow. “Then do it,” she said, eyes locked to Kell, “and let’s be finished with this fucking business.”

Kell took his axe from his back, loosened his shoulder with a rolling motion, and strode towards Myriam with a look of pure and focused evil.

Inside the cabin, Saark leapt, sword slashing down. Styx and Jex moved fast, slamming apart in a heartbeat and Styx’s Widowmaker gave another click and whump and something unseen blurred across the open space hitting Katrina in the throat and smacking her back against the wall, pinned her to the boards as her legs kicked and her topaz eyes grew impossibly bright with collected tears and she gurgled and choked and spewed blood, and her fingers scrabbled at her chest and neck and the huge open wound and the dark glinting coil of brass and copper at her throat and quite suddenly…

She died.

Kat slumped, hung there, limp and bloodied, a pinned ragdoll, her legs twisted at odd angles.

“No!” screamed Nienna, dragging free her own sword in a clumsy, obstructed action. “No!” She charged.

THIRTEEN Insanity Engine

General Graal, Engineer and Watchmaker of the vachine, stood on the hilltop and surveyed the two divisions below him, each comprising 4800 albino soldiers, mainly infantry; they glittered like dark insects in the moonlight, nearly ten thousand armoured men, one half of the Army of Iron, standing silent and disciplined in ranks awaiting his command. The second half of his army were north, pitched to the southwest of Jalder, different battalions guarding northern passes and other routes leading through the Black Pike Mountains; in effect, guarding the route back to the Silva Valley, home of the vachine. Graal did not want the enemy, despite their apparent ignorance, mounting a counter-attack on his homeland whilst he invaded. But…was Graal making a mistake, taking only half his army south? He smiled, knowing in his heart it was not arrogance that fuelled his decision, but a trust in technology. With the Harvesters, and the power of blood-oil magick, the Army of Iron were…invincible! Even against a foe of far greater numbers; and Falanor barely had that.

Invincible!

And he also had his cankers.

A noise echoed across the valley, and Graal turned, and with acute eyesight aided by clockwork picked out the many canker cages used for more volatile beasts. The less insane were tied up like horses; seemingly docile for the moment. Until they smelt blood. Until they felt the thrill of the kill. Graal watched, licking thin lips, eyes fixing on the huge, stocky beasts which he knew linked so very closely to the vachine soul…

Occasionally, claws would eject and slash at the belly of another canker with snarls and hisses; but other than this, they could be safely tethered. Graal was in possession of just over a thousand cankers; the rejects of vachine society. But more were coming. Many more. Graal went cold inside, as he considered their tenuous position with the Blood Refineries. He thought of Kradek-ka, and his heart went colder still, the gears in his heart stepping up, cogs whirring as he grimaced and in a moment of rare anger bared his teeth and swept his gaze over the land before him. Moonlight glittered on armour. Beyond, lay Vorgeth Forest, and angling down he would march on Vor.

Mine! he snarled, an internal diatribe of hate. These people would suffer, they would fall, and his army would feed!

Graal calmed himself, for it was not seemly to show temper-an effective loss of control. And especially not before the inferior albino clans from under the mountain. No. Graal took a deep breath. No. A Watchmaker should have charm, and stability, cold logic and control. They were the superior race. Superior by birth, genetics and ultimately, superior by clockwork.

Frangeth was a platoon lieutenant, and with sword drawn he led his twenty men through the trees under moonlight. An entire battalion had divided, spread out, and from different points north were advancing as scouting parties, ahead of the great General Graal himself. Frangeth was proud to be a part of this operation, and would happily give his life. For too long he had felt the hate of the southerners, their irrational ill-educated fear, and how their culture and art depicted his albino race as monsters, little more than insect workers worthy of nothing more than a swift execution. He had read many Falanor texts, with titles like Northern Ethics, On Execution, and the hate-fuelled Black Pike Diaries about a group of hardcore mercenaries who had travelled the aforementioned mountains, searching out “rogue albino scum” and slaughtering them without mercy.

Frangeth had been part of an elite squad under the command of the legendary Darius Deall, and they had infiltrated Falanor-a decade gone, now-to the far western city of Gollothrim. There, under cover of darkness, they had found the remains of the mercenary squad, and in particular, the authors of the Black Pike Diaries. Drunk, and rutting in whorehouses on the proceeds of their hateful tome, the five men had been captured, harshly beaten, and driven by ox-cart to the outskirts of Vorgeth Forest where lawlessness was a given. Here, in an abandoned barn previously scouted, old, deserted, with cracked timbers and wild rats, the authors of the Black Pike Diaries had been pegged out, cut and sliced and diced, and then left for the rats whilst the albino squad watched from a balcony, eating, drinking, talking quietly. The wild rats, free from a fear of man, took their time with their feast. The authors of the Black Pike Diaries had died a horrible but fitting death for their crime.

Frangeth shook his head, smiling at the memories. Ten years. Ten long years! He had raised a family back in his tunnel since then: two daughters, one of them only three years old and even more pretty than her mother, her eyes a deeper red, her skin so perfectly translucent veins stood out like a river map.

Frangeth pushed the images away. No. Not now. This was a time of invasion, a time of war. And here he was, back in the province of the southerners, with their hate and unrivalled prejudice; here he was, travelling the darkest reaches of Vorgeth Forest, searching for the enemy. Any enemy. He smiled. All southern blood tasted the same.

Frangeth and the soldiers were angling south-east, at the same time as a similar battalion crossed Valantrium Moor to the east and angled south-west, the idea being they would link as a forward host to the main force of Graal’s army on the Great North Road. That way, it would be difficult for Leanoric’s battalions to circle and hit them from behind. That way, it would be a straight fight, with the blood-oil magick chilling ice from the earth, and chilling the enemy…to their very bones.

Frangeth halted, and held up his hand, which gleamed, pale and waxen in the moonlight filtering through firs. Behind, the other nineteen members of the platoon dropped to one knee and waited his instruction. Frangeth heard several whispers of iron on leather, and his eyes narrowed. Such noise was unprofessional.

He focused. It had been a shout, of surprise, more than pain, that alerted him. He took in the scene with an experienced glance, watched the huge man, bear-like in his stance, pluck something from his neck and stare at his great paws. He spoke with…a woman, but a woman who appeared as nothing Frangeth had ever seen. She was skeletal, and quite obviously close to death. Frangeth watched the huge man un-sling a battle-axe from his back and march on the woman and a thrill coursed his veins, for the warrior’s demeanour was quite obvious, his intention to kill…

The woman’s head snapped right, and her eyes fixed on the darkness where Frangeth and his albino soldiers crouched. Impossible! They were shrouded by blood-oil magick; they were invisible! She drew a small weapon and her arm extended towards the group, she snarled something at the huge warrior as suddenly, there came an explosion of glass and through the window of the timber building accelerated a small, powerful man, to land with a grunt on the snow.

Frangeth glanced back. He blinked. They were waiting.

“Take them,” he said, and from the close nigritude of the forest streamed twenty albino warriors…

Myriam fired her Widowmaker with a whump, and one of the charging albino soldiers was smacked from his feet with a gurgle and wide spray of blood. Kell loosened his shoulder and lifted his axe, waiting coolly for the rush of men. Saark leapt from the window of the building, landed lightly in the snow behind the stunned figure of Styx, and lifted his rapier to deliver a killing blow-as his eyes focused on the stream of albino soldiers and Kell bellowed, “Saark, to me!” and the albino soldiers were on them, swords slamming down, flashing with moonlight. Steel rang on steel as Myriam dragged free her own sword, the Widow-maker useless at such close quarters. Kell’s axe whirred, decapitating a soldier then twisted, huge blades cleaving another’s arm from his body. Kell ducked a whistling sword, but a boot struck his chest and he staggered back. Saark leapt into battle, and as the forest clearing was filled with savage fighting, the clash of steel on steel, grunts of combat, a shout from Myriam echoed.

“Styx! Jex! To me! I need you!”

Styx rolled from the snow, and came up fighting. Jex staggered from the building with a sword-wound to his upper arm, face grim, and lifting his blade he leapt into battle. At the doorway appeared Nienna, face drawn grey in fear, her short-sword clasped in one hand, the blade edged with Jex’s blood. With a gasp, she turned and ran back to check on Kat…

Almost unconsciously, Kell, Saark, Myriam, Jex and Styx formed a fighting unit, a battle square upon which the albinos hurled themselves. Swords and Kell’s axe rose and fell, and they covered one another’s backs, pushing forward deeper into the forest as the albinos swarmed at them, and were cut down with a savagery not just of desperation, but born from a need to live.

Eight albinos lay dead, and the rest backed away a little, then split without word, six men moving off to each side for an attack against both flanks.

“Kell, what the hell’s going on?” snarled Saark.

“Long story,” growled Kell. “I’ll tell you when we’ve killed these bastards.”

“When?”

“Listen, just don’t trust this bunch of cut-throats!”

“I already discovered that,” snarled Saark. “Styx killed Katrina.”

“What?”

In eerie silence the albinos attacked, and again the clearing was filled with steel on steel. Then a sword-blow cleaved Styx’s clavicle with a crunch, and shower of blood. Styx drew out a short knife, and rammed it into the albino’s belly, just under the edge of his black breast-plate. He pushed again, harder, and the albino slumped forward onto him. Myriam broke from the group, whirling and dancing, dazzlingly fast as she took up a second sword from a fallen soldier and leapt amongst the men, blades clashing and whirring, then in quick succession killing three albino soldiers who hit the ground in a burst. Saark killed two, and Kell waded into the remaining group with a roar that shook the forest, Ilanna slamming left, then right, a glittering figure of eight which impacted with jarring force leaving body-parts littering the clearing. Kell ducked a sword-strike, front kicked the soldier who stumbled, falling back onto his rump. Kell’s axe glittered high, and came down as if chopping a log to cut the albino soldier straight through, from the crown of his head down to his arsehole. His body split in two, peeling away like parted sides of pork revealing brain and skull and fat and meat, and a slither of departing internal organs and bowel. A stench filled the clearing, and Kell turned, face a bloody mask, chest heaving, rage rampant in his eyes and frame. He realised the soldiers were all dead, and he lifted his axe, staring hard at Myriam. Styx sat on the floor, nursing his injured shoulder as Jex tried to stem the flow of blood. Nienna ran out from the barracks, crying, and fell into Kell despite his coating of gore.

“Styx killed Katrina!” she wailed, then looked up into her grandfather’s eyes. “Kill him, please, for me,” she turned and pointed at Styx and wailed, “Kill him! Kill him now!”

Kell nodded, pushed Nienna aside, and started forward hefting his axe. Myriam leapt between them, head high, eyes bright, and she lifted a hand. “Wait. To kill him, you must go through me. And if you do that, you’ll never find the antidote.”

“A chance I’m willing to take,” growled Kell. “Move, or I’ll cut you in half.”

“Nienna has also been poisoned.”

Kell stopped, then, and his head lowered. When he lifted his face, his eyes were dark pools of evil in a face so contorted with rage it was inhuman; a writhing demon. Myriam took a step back.

Kell turned to Nienna. “Did he stick a needle in you?”

Nienna nodded, pointing at Jex. “That’s why I was able to hit him. With my sword. He was too busy playing with his little brass dagger…his needle? What have they done to me?”

“They’ve poisoned us,” snarled Kell.

“But there’s an antidote?” said Saark.

“Yes. To the north. If I take this whore to the Black Pike Mountains. She wishes,” he gave a nasty grin, “to explore the vachine technology. She wishes to live.”

Saark stood alongside Kell, and Nienna. “We should kill them now. We will find this antidote.”

“You do not have time,” said Myriam, voice soft. “It takes between two and three weeks for the poison to kill. It would be more than that to sail across the Great Salarl.” She transferred her gaze to Nienna, and gave a narrow, cruel smile. Without looking at Kell, she said, “I understand your willingness to condemn yourself, old man. But what of this sweet child? So young, pretty, and with so much to look forward to. So much to live for.”

“We need to warn Leanoric,” said Saark, hand on Kell’s arm.

Kell felt himself fold, internally; but outside he kept his iron glare, and turned to Nienna. “Do you understand what is happening?”

Nienna nodded, and wiped away her tears. “I understand there are many evil people in the world,” she said, voice little more than a whisper. “But we must warn King Leanoric that the enemy approach. Or thousands more will die!”

Kell nodded, glancing at Myriam. “You hear that, bitch? I will take you to the mountains. But first, we ride south.”

“You would gamble with your life? And that of the girl?” Myriam looked aghast, and she shook her head, staring down at Styx and Jex. Styx had his shoulder bound tight, and stood, flexing the limb.

Kell scowled at him. “Know this, Blacklipper. When we are done, I will come looking for you.”

“I will be waiting,” said Styx.

Ilanna beat a tattoo of warning in Kell’s mind, and he gazed off between the trees. “I think there are more,” he said, voice low. “We need to get the horses. We need to ride south now.”

Saark and Jex went for the mounts, as snow tumbled from bleak dark skies above the edges of Vorgeth Forest. Within a few minutes they had mounted, Nienna behind Saark, and as the forest whispered with ancient leaves and branches and needles, so more platoons of albino soldiers, drawn by distant sounds of battle, emerged warily from the foliage. There were two platoons-forty soldiers, and their cautious advance turned swiftly into a run with weapons drawn as they spotted fallen comrades…

“Ride!” shouted Saark, and his horse reared. Myriam led the way, thundering out of the clearing down a narrow dark path, her sword in her fist, head lowered over her mount. The rest of the group followed, with Jex bringing up the rear firing bolts from his Widowmaker with metallic winding thumps, and smashing several soldiers from their feet.

Then they were gone, lost to the sinister forest.

King Leanoric calmed his horse, a magnificent eighteen-hand stallion, and peered off through the gloom. A curious mist had risen, giving the moorland plateau a curious, cut-off feeling, a sidestep from reality, a different level of existence.

He had left his personal guard behind, a mile hence, aware that the Graverobber would never agree to meet him with soldiers present. The Graverobber was a fickle creature at the best of times, but add in a heady mix of weapons, armour and soldierly sarcasm…well, claws were ejected and the Graverobber would begin to kill without question.

Leanoric walked over springy heather, and stopped by the towering circle of stones. Le’annath Moorkelth, they were called in the Old Tongue. Or simply the Passing Place in every contemporary Falanor lexicon. Whatever the origins of the stones, it was said they were over ten thousand years old, and evidence of an earlier race wiped from existence by an angry god. Leanoric peered into the space between the stones, where the Graverobber dwelled, and again felt that curious sensation of light-headedness, as if colours were twisting into something…else. Leanoric rubbed his beard, then stepped into the circle and heard a hiss, a growl, and the patter of fast footfalls on heather…

The Graverobber leapt at him, and Leanoric forced his eyes to remain open, forced himself to stare at the twisted, corrugated body of the deformed creature, once human but deviated by toxins, poisons, its skin a shiny, ceramic black, tinkling as it moved, tinkling as if it might shatter. It, or he, was thin-limbed, his head perfectly round and bald with narrow-slitted eyes and a face not a thousand miles from that of a feline. He had whiskers, and sharp black teeth, and a small red tongue, and as he leapt for Leanoric with claws extending and powerful, corded muscles bunched for the kill, so Leanoric spoke his name, and in doing so, tamed the savage beast “Jageraw!”

The Graverobber hit the ground lightly, and turned, spinning around on himself on all fours before rearing into an upright walking position. Leanoric heard the crinkle of ceramic spine, and pretended he hadn’t.

“What want you here, human?”

“I have questions.”

“What makes you think I answer?”

“I have a gift.”

“A gift? For me? How pretty. What is it?” Jageraw’s demeanour changed, and he dropped to all fours again, black skin gleaming unnaturally. Leanoric opened the sack he was carrying, and steeling himself, put in his hand. He pulled out a raw liver. It glistened in the gloom, and the muscles on Leanoric’s jaw went tight.

Jageraw sniffed, and edged closer, eyes watching Leanoric suspiciously. He swayed, peering past Leanoric into the gloom, then focused on the liver. “Human or animal?”

“Human,” said Leanoric, voice little more than a whisper. “Just the way you like it.”

Jageraw lashed out, taking the liver, then went through an elaborate sequence where he sniffed, and licked, and tasted, and sampled. When finally happy, the shiny black creature, glistening as if coated with oil, moved to the centre of the stone circle, dug up a little earth and buried the organ.

“You bring me more, human man?”

“Answers.”

“To questions? Ask questions. You bring me more?”

“I have two hearts, two kidneys and another liver.”

Jageraw’s eyes went wide, as if offered the finest feast of his life. He licked his thin shiny lips, and his sharp teeth clattered for a moment as if in unadulterated excitement.

“Ask your questions.”

“There is an army advancing on my land. It is said they use blood-oil magick.” Jageraw twitched, as if stung, and a crafty look stole over his face. “I want to know if it is true.”

“Who leads the army?”

“General Graal. He is a…vachine.”

Jageraw hunkered down, and hissed. “They are not good. They are bad. They are not pretty. They are far from pretty. You want to avoid these men, they have blood-oil magick. Yes.”

“How do I fight them?”

“Hmm. The food smells nice. Smells pretty. Smells succulent. Jageraw would like another sample.”

Leanoric threw the bag, which thudded as it hit the ground. Jageraw leapt forward, excitement thrumming through his taut muscled body, and Leanoric watched the Graverobber chewing and tasting, head in the bag, then emerging, blood dribbling down his chin as his dark eyes surveyed King Leanoric.

“You are very generous, sire. ” He chuckled, as if at some great jest. His head tilted, and not for the first time Leanoric thought to himself, what the hell kind of creature are you? What happened to you? Why do you eat human remains-hence earning the title of Graverobber, from earlier days? Days when you robbed graves for your food. And, ultimately, why can you no longer leave this ancient circle of stones? Others had asked such questions, and several eminent professors from Jalder University had been sent to research the Old Ways and the Blood-oil Magick Legacy for purposes of scholarly study. All were dead. Jageraw might seem an oddity, but he was powerful beyond belief, and had the ability to…fade away when threatened.

Once, three mercenaries had been hired to bring back the Graverobber’s carcass, with or without a head. One entered the circle with a bag of goodies, and enticed Jageraw out as his comrades waited in the gloom of falling night with powerful longbows. They peppered Jageraw with savage, barbed, poisoned arrows, six or seven of which thudded home to sprays of bubbling blood in slick black flesh. In squealing agony, Jageraw grabbed the first mercenary within the circle and they…vanished. Or so the story went. The man’s companions waited for three nights for their friend, and one evening emerged to discover him lying in the circle, his body peeled but still, incredibly, alive. He’d whimpered pitifully, pleading and begging for help. His companions on impulse rushed into the circle, and Jageraw pounced from nowhere, his body perfectly healed, his claws cutting through swords and shields to sever heads from bodies. That night, Jageraw ate well.

Now, people left the Graverobber to himself.

“You want to fight Army of Iron, you say? Yes. Their blood-oil magick is powerful, very powerful, and they walk the Old Ways with Harvesters of Legend. That is where their power comes from. Freeze your men with horror,” he chuckled, “they will.”

“I never said it was the Army of Iron,” said Leanoric, eyes narrowing.

“That is who Graal commands. Kill him, you must.” Jageraw took a bite from a human heart, and chewed thoughtfully, staring down at his food. “Their magick takes time to cast, that is your strength. They attack at night, yes, pretty pretty night. You must think of a way to circle them, or draw them out. Once they unleash their magick, for a little while, it is out of their control. Now I must go. Now I must eat. Told you too much, I have.”

Jageraw grinned, dark eyes glinting malevolently.

“Thank you…Jageraw.”

“Come back any time,” said the slick black creature, backing away from King Leanoric with ceramic tinklings. “Bring gifts, bring feast, pretty meat from still warm human bodies is what I prefer.” His eyes blinked, and he started to fade. “If you survive, little king,” he chuckled, and was gone.

Leanoric realised he was kneeling, and stood up. He backed hurriedly from the ancient circle of stones, and realised his sword was half drawn. He shivered, aware there were some things he would never understand; and acknowledging there were things he did not want to understand. Jageraw could rot, for all he now cared.

Leanoric turned, mounted his horse, and set off across the mist-laden moors as fast as he dared.

Behind, at the edge of the circle, unseen and rocking rhythmically sat Jageraw, gnawing on fresh liver, and waving with crinkled, blood-stained claws.

Kell, Saark, Nienna, Myriam, Styx and Jex rode hard through the rest of the night, exhausting their horses and breaking out onto the Great North Road just north of Old Skulkra, a deserted ghost-city which sat three leagues north of the relatively new, modern, and relocated city of Skulkra.

They reined in mounts on a low hill, gazing down the old, overgrown, frost-crusted road which led from the Great North Road to distant, crumbling spires, smashed domes, detonated towers, fragmented buildings and fractured defensive walls. On the flat plain before Old Skulkra Leanoric had two divisions camped after moving north from Valantrium Moor, 9600 men plus a few cavalry, lancers and archers stationed to the north of the infantry to provide covering fire in case of surprise attack. In the dawn light their fires had burned low, but there was activity.

“Remember,” said Myriam, leaning forward over the pommel of her saddle. “Any tricks or signals, and the girl dies in two weeks time. A terrible, painful death.”

“How could I forget?” said Kell, and went as if to ride for Leanoric’s camp.

“Wait,” said Saark, and Kell turned on him. There was pain there, in Saark’s face, in his eyes, and he smiled a diluted smile at Kell, then gazed off, towards the camp. “I cannot come,” he said.

“Why the hell not?” snapped Kell. “It was your damn fool idea to warn the king in the first place!”

“To travel to that camp would mean death,” said Saark, voice gentle.

“What are you muttering about, lad? Come on, we need to warn Leanoric. Those bastards might only be a few hours behind us. What if they hit the army now, like this, camped and scratching its arse? It will be a rout, and they’ll flood into the south like a plague.”

“If I go down there,” said Saark, quietly, “King Leanoric will have me executed.”

“Why the hell would he do that, lad?”

Saark looked down, and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I…betrayed him. Betrayed his trust. And he sentenced me to death. I…ran. Yes. I stand before you filled with shame.”

“And still you have come back to warn him?” sneered Styx. “What a fucking fool you are, Saark. As I said. A pretty boy.”

“If you do not close your stinking, horse-arse mouth, I’ll shove my sword so far up your belly it’ll come out the top of your head! Understand, Blacklipper?”

Kell held up his hand, glaring at Myriam. “What did you do, Saark?” His voice was soft, eyes understanding.

Saark took a deep breath. “I was Leanoric’s Sword-Champion. I was entrusted with guarding the queen. Alloria. We…I, fell in love with her. We committed a great sin, both of us betraying the great King Leanoric.” He fell silent, unable to look at Kell. Finally, he glanced up. He met Kell’s gaze. “I have been running away ever since. I have been a coward. I knew, when the army invaded Jalder, that even though I might die I had to come here. I had to try and help, even though they would slaughter me as a base criminal, a rapist, a murderer. Now…I cannot face it. Although I should.”

Kell nudged his horse forward, and patted Saark on the back. “Don’t worry lad. You stay here. I’ll go and speak to the king. I know him from…way back. I’ll let him know what is happening to his realm.”

Saark nodded, and Kell gestured to Nienna. “Come with me, girl. It is important to meet nobility, even in times such as these. I will teach you how to speak with a king.”

“I am coming with you,” said Myriam.

“No,” said Kell.

“I don’t trust you.”

Kell laughed, then waved his hand. “So be it. You think I would risk my only chance of beating your pathetic little poison for my granddaughter? Come, then, Myriam; come and frighten the little children with your skull face.” Myriam flushed crimson with fury, but bit her tongue and said nothing, eyes narrowed, hand on sword-hilt. If Kell had to endure her poison, he reasoned, then she, too, would have to endure his. They were symbiotic, now; but that didn’t mean Kell had to enjoy it.

“You see the stand of trees? Over yonder?”

“Aye,” said Kell.

“We’ll wait for you there,” said Saark, eyes hooded, face filled with melancholy.

Kell nodded, reading Saark’s face. “Play nice, now,” he said, and kicked his horse forward alongside Nienna. A moment later, Myriam followed leaving the three men on the low hill. They watched the small group descend, where they were quickly intercepted by scouts and a small, armoured cavalry squad. Weapons were taken from them, and they were escorted towards the shadowy, crumbling walls of a leering, eerie Old Skulkra.

“You leading the way, pretty boy?” grinned Styx. Saark glanced at him, and saw the Widowmaker held casual in one fist, wound and giving an occasional tick. Saark nodded, and guided his horse south, down the hill and towards nearby woodland. As he rode, his thoughts turned violent.

“Kell! By all the gods, it is good to see you!”

King Leanoric’s tent was filled with incense, rich silks and furs, and he was seated in full armour around a narrow table containing maps, alongside Terrakon and Lazaluth, his Division Generals. They had cups of water clasped in gnarled hands, and Lazaluth smoked a pipe, dark eyes narrowed, ancient white whiskers yellowed from the pipe smoke he so loved.

The men stood, and Kell grinned, embracing first Leanoric, then Terrakon and Lazaluth, both of whom Kell knew well, for they had fought alongside one another in ancient, half-forgotten campaigns. The four men stood apart, smiling sombrely.

“I hope, by all that’s holy, you’ve come to fight,” said Leanoric.

“So my journey is wasted? You know of the events in Jalder?”

“Only that is has been taken. We have no specifics. It would seem,” Leanoric’s face turned dark, brooding, “that few survived.”

Myriam and Nienna were taken outside, and seated with a group of women awaiting a meal of stew and bread. They accepted this food thankfully, and Myriam found Nienna watching her strangely; there was a hint of hate, there, but also a deep thread of needful revenge. Myriam smiled. Nienna’s bitterness, growing cynicism and fast rise to adulthood started to remind her of herself.

Inside the war-tent, Kell hurriedly outlined his recent exploits in Jalder, from the ice-smoke invasion and the incursion of heartless, slaughtering albino soldiers, murdering men, women and children without mercy, down to accounts of the cankers and Harvesters, and the subsequent battles as they travelled south.

“Have you seen this Army of Iron?” said Lazaluth, puffing on his pipe and churning out a cloud of blue smoke.

Kell shook his head. “Only platoons of albino soldiers. But they fight like bastards, and use the ice-smoke blood-oil magick-freezing everybody in their path. And they have the cankers. I know in my heart they have more of these beasts; they are savage indeed.”

“How far behind you lie this albino army?”

“The vanguard? No more than a few hours.”

“Really,” said Leanoric, voice low. His eyes narrowed. “My scouts, to a man, tell me three days. We have another two divisions on the march; they will arrive tomorrow, just ahead of the enemy.”

“No,” said Kell, shaking his head. “Your scouts are…lying. Or misinformed. Graal is closer than you believe, I swear this by every bone in my body.”

“That’s impossible!” roared Terrakon. “I have known Angerak since he was a pup! He is a fine scout, and would never betray his king, nor his country! Get the lad in here, we’ll question him. You must be mistaken, Kell. It is not in this boy’s nature.”

Kell waited uneasily as Angerak was summoned, and he felt the eyes of the old Division Generals on him. He grinned at them, a broad-teeth grin. “You can cut out that shit, gentlemen; I no longer serve under your iron principles. You can stick your polished breastplates up your arse!”

“You always were a cheeky young bear,” growled Terrakon. “But fight! Gods, I have never seen a man fight like you. It’s good to have you here, Kell. It is a good omen. We’re going to give this Graal a kicking he won’t forget, send him running back to the Black Pikes squeaking with his shitty piglet tail between his legs. Aye?”

Angerak was shown in, and he bowed before Leanoric. He cast a sideways glance at Kell, displaying a narrowed frown, then returned his eyes to the king. “Majesty, you sent for me?”

“Tell me again what you saw of the enemy on your journey north.”

“I filed a full report already, sire. I-”

“Again, Angerak.”

Angerak looked left and right, at the old Division Generals, then coughed behind the back of his hand. “I travelled up over Corleth Moor; it was bathed in a heavy mist, and I dismounted, moved further in on foot. There, in the Valley of Crakken Fell, I saw the Army of Iron, camped out with perhaps three to four thousand soldiers. They were disorganised, like children playing at war; like idiots in a village carnival. We will slaughter them with ease, sire. Do not worry.”

“So,” Leanoric chose his words with infinite care, “there is…no chance they could be closer?”

“No, sire. I would have passed them on my journey. I have been a scout for many years; I do not make mistakes. There were no other battalions nearby, and their skills at subterfuge were, shall we say, lacking.”

“It’s funny, laddie,” interjected Kell, drawing all eyes in the war-tent to him, “but, you know, I’ve just been chased here through Vorgeth Forest with at least sixty albino soldiers right behind me. Their army is close behind, I’d wager. What would you say to that?”

Angerak placed his hand on his sword-hilt. “I would say you are mistaken, sir.” A cool and frosted silence descended on those in the tent. Terrakon and Lazaluth exchanged meaningful glances. Angerak looked around, eyes hooded. “I would also suggest I do not like your tone.”

“What are they paying you, boy? What did General Graal offer?”

Angerak said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Leanoric. He shook his head. Finally, he said, “You are mistaken in your beliefs. I have been a faithful scout for the past-” The dagger appeared from nowhere, and in a quick lunge he leapt at Leanoric…but never made the strike. In his back appeared Ilanna, with a sickening thutch, and Angerak crashed to floor on his face. Kell stepped forward, placed his boot on Angerak’s arse and wrenched free the weapon, dripping molten flesh. He looked around at those present.

“Get your scouts in here,” he said. “It would seem Graal has already infiltrated your army.” Kell threw Leanoric a thunderous frown. “I hope your strategy is in place, gentlemen.”

“We have two divisions coming from the northeast,” said Leanoric. “They will be here by the morning.”

Kell rubbed his beard. “So you have just under ten thousand men? Let us hope the enemy is weak…”

“We must draw the Army of Iron back, into the city wasteland of Old Skulkra. I will have archers placed in ancient towers-a thousand archers! If we can do this, fake a retreat, draw them in, then we will slaughter them.” Leanoric stepped forward, sighing. “Kell, will you stay? Will you help us?”

“You have your generals here,” said Kell, voice grave, looking to Terrakon and Lazaluth. “I have my granddaughter to consider…but I will help, where I can.” He stepped swiftly from the tent…just as a scream rent the air…

“Attack! We’re under attack!”

The camp exploded into action, with men scrambling into armour and strapping on weapons. Fires flared. Distant over the plain, before Old Skulkra, the enemy could be seen: the Army of Iron, formed into squares, a huge and terrifying, perfectly organised mass. They marched down from the hills in clockwork unity, boots stomping frozen grass and snow, the gentle rattle of accoutrements the only indication they were marching into battle. Leanoric strode out behind Kell, his strong face lined with anxiety. Quickly, he surveyed the enemy, and something went dead inside as he realised the two armies were equally matched. This was not to be his finely trained troops routing invading, poorly fed brigands from the mountains. This was two advanced armies meeting on a flat plain for a tactical battle…

Draw them back into the city.

Break away from the ice-smoke, from the blood-oil magick…

His troops had been warned; they knew what to do if General Graal attempted underhand tactics. But would this be enough? With a skilled eye Leanoric read the albino discipline like a text. They were tight. Impossibly so.

Over the horizon, dawn light crept like a frightened child.

“Generals!” bellowed Leanoric, taking a deep breath and stepping forward. “To me! Captains-organise your companies, now!” Leanoric’s men quickly fell into ranks, reorganised into battle squares, as they had done so many times on the training field. Leanoric felt pride swell his chest in the freezing dawn chill, for the men of Falanor showed no fear, and moved with a practised agility and professionalism.

Then his eyes fell to the enemy.

The Army of Iron had halted, weapons bristling. They looked formidable, and eerily silent, pale faces hazy through distance, and through a light mist that curled across the ground.

“They look invincible,” said Leanoric, voice quiet.

“They die like any other bastard,” growled Kell. “I have seen this. I have done this.” He turned, and grasped Leanoric’s arm. “So you’re going to draw them back into the city? That is your strategy?”

“If it starts to go badly, aye,” said Leanoric. He gave a crooked smile. “If they try to use blood-oil magick. I have a few surprises in store in Old Skulkra.”

The enemy ranks across the virgin battlefield parted, and several figures drifted forward between heavily armoured troops, even as Leanoric’s captains organised battle squares before the fragmented walls of Old Skulkra. The figures were impossibly tall for men, and wore white robes embroidered in fine gold. They had flat, oval, hairless faces, small black eyes, and slits where the nose should have been. As they advanced before the Army of Iron, they stopped and surveyed Leanoric’s divisions.

“Harvesters,” said Kell, his voice soft, eyes hard.

And then a howling rent the air, followed by snarls and growls and the enemy ranks parted further as cankers were brought forward, devoid of protective cages, all now on leashes and many held by five, or even ten soldiers. They pulled at their leashes, twisted open faces drawn back, saliva and blood pooling around savage fangs as they snapped and growled, whined and roared, slashing at one another and squabbling as they arraigned their mighty, heavily-muscled, leonine bodies before the infantry squares in a huge, ragged, barely-controlled line.

Leanoric paled, and swallowed. He felt a chill fear sweep his soldiers. “Angerak never spoke of these beasts,” he said, voice impossibly low, eyes fixed on the living nightmare cohort of the snarling, thrashing cankers…

They heard a distant command echo over the brittle, chill plain.

The cankers were suddenly unleashed with a jerk of chains, and with cacophonous howls of unbidden joy and bloodlust, a thousand heavily muscled beasts, of deviated flesh and perverted clockwork, charged and surged and galloped forward with snarls and rampant glee…towards the fear-filled ranks of Leanoric’s barely organised army.