Kell’s Legend

SIX
Toxic Blood

Kell tensed as the canker lowered its head, muscles rigid, a low metal buzzing growl coming from its wide open head and loose flapping jaws; and he stared into that wide open maw, stared into those eyes and shuddered as his past life-and more importantly, more hauntingly, the Days of Blood-flashed through his mind and he felt regret and self-loathing, and a despair that he hadn’t put things right, hadn’t found forgiveness and sanctuary from others, and more importantly, for himself…

The canker howled, rearing up. More dust and stones flew, fell, pouring from the destroyed ceiling. A huge cross-member dropped, clunking against the canker which hit the ground under huge weight, snarling and snapping, and through the falling dust Kell saw Saark, his blade buried deep in the canker’s flank and Saark screamed, “The roof’s coming down! We’ve got to get out!”

Kell nodded, slammed his axe into the canker’s head with a thud which brought another bought of thrashing and snarling, then he squeezed around the edges of the wall and sprinted, as more stones and timber toppled around him, diving out of the doorway and hitting the snow on his belly with a violent exhalation of air. Behind, the cottage screamed like a wounded beast, shaking its head in agony; and the roof caved in.

Saark was there, black with dust, dragging Kell to his feet. “I don’t think it will stop the bastard.”

Kell took a deep breath. Snow drifted around him, like ash in the night. He turned, staring at the cottage which seemed to rise, then settle, a great dying bear. For a second it was still, then somewhere deep within started to shift and stones, rubble, timber, all started to move and rise and Saark was already running towards the shingle beach and the boat, where Nienna and Kat urged them on. Kell followed, wincing at pains in his ribs, his shoulder, his head, his knees, and he felt suddenly old, and weary, battered and bettered, and he stumbled down onto the shingle as behind them, with a terrible sadistic roar the canker emerged from the detritus in a shower of stones.

The heavens grumbled, and distantly lightning flickered a web. Thunder growled, a beast in a storm cage behind bars of ignition, and heavy hail pounded the shingle around Kell as he heaved the boat down the beach, axe cleaving the securing rope, and leapt in, rocking the vessel.

They moved away from the bank, as the canker orientated.

“It can’t see us,” whispered Saark. “Shh.” He placed a finger on lips.

As they drifted away, they watched the canker, seemingly confused; then its head lifted, huge open maw searching the skies, and it turned and its head lowered and it charged across cobbles and mud and snow straight in their direction…

Nienna gave a gasp.

“It’s fine,” breathed Saark, throat dry with fear. “The river will stop the bastard.”

The canker reached the edge of the rampant water and without breaking stride leapt, body elongating into an almost elegant, feline dive. It hit the black river, rippled by hailstones, and went under the surface. It was gone immediately.

Kell stood, rocking the boat, and hefted his axe.

“Surely not,” snapped Saark, lifting his own blade and peering wildly about their totally vulnerable position.

“It’s under there,” snarled Kell. “Be ready.”

Silence fell, like a veil. Hail scattered across the river like pebbles. More thunder rumbled, mountains fighting, and lighting lit the scene through storm clouds and sleet.

“It was sent, wasn’t it?” said Saark, gazing at the dark river.

“Yes,” said Kell, eyes searching.

“How did it find us?”

“It followed your petal-stench perfume, lad.”

“Hah! More like the stench from your fish-laden pants.”

Calm descended.

They waited, tense.

The boat suddenly rocked and there came a slam from beneath; it swayed violently, turning around in the current. Something glided beneath them, snapping the oars with easy cracks; broken toothpicks.

“I don’t like this!” wailed Nienna.

“Shut up,” growled Kell. “Take out your swords. If you see anything at all, stab it in the eyes.”

The boat was slammed with tremendous force from beneath, lifting out of the water, then slapping down again and spinning, turning, all sense of direction lost now, gone now, in the turbulent storm. The boat was hammered again, and it shuddered, timbers creaked, and a long crack appeared across the stern.

“We need to get back on land!” shouted Saark.

“We have no oars,” said Kell, voice calm, axe rigid in steel-steady hands. “We will have to kill it.”

Abruptly the canker emerged, mighty jaws ripping free the prow of the boat and Saark ran with a scream, sword raised, as the canker released the boat and lunged, grabbing his leg and dragging him backwards, his body thumping from the boat’s prow and disappearing suddenly over the edge…

Everything was still.

The river surged, and the water levelled.

“Saark!” screamed Katrina. But the man was gone.

With a curse Kell dropped his axe to the floor of the boat, and leapt into the black river. He was encompassed immediately, swamped by darkness, by a raging thunder, merging with the gathered filth of Falanor’s major northern city. Down he plunged, unable to see Saark, unable to find the canker. He swam down with powerful strokes, and withdrew his Svian from beneath his arm; down here, Ilanna would be useless. What a warrior needed was a short sharp stabbing weapon…

Where is he? screamed Kell’s mind.

His lungs began to burn.

He thrashed, turning, round and around, but everything was black. He felt panic creep into him like crawling ivy; he had scant seconds before the canker drowned Saark, and that was providing the beast hadn’t ripped him apart with tooth and claw.

Kell was saved by the lightning. It crackled overhead, above the boat, and for an instant the churning river was lit by incandescent flashes. Kell saw the canker, dragging Saark down, and powered after them, Svian between his teeth, straggled hair and beard flowing behind him. He found them in the darkness, and his blade slashed down, he felt it enter flesh, grind in cogs, felt the canker lashing out and he was knocked back, and everything was a confusion of bubbles and madness and darkness and something was beside him, huge and cold, a wall of smoothness that slid past and Kell felt, more than saw, Saark slide up beside him. He grabbed the unconscious man, his very lungs filled with molten lava as he kicked out, boots striking the smooth, gliding wall and propelling him to the surface…

Lighting crackled again, a maze of angular arcs transforming the sky into a circuit. Kell looked down, and saw a battle raging beneath the river, between the canker, all claws and disjointed fangs, and a huge, silent, black eel. It must have been fifty yards long, its body the diameter of three men, its head a huge triangular wedge with row after row of sharp teeth. It had encircled the canker, was crushing the thrashing beast, its head snapping down, teeth tearing flesh repeatedly. Kell thought he saw trails of blood like confetti streamers in the black; then he burst from the surface, lungs heaving in air, Saark limp under one arm, and looked for the boat.

It had gone, slammed down the river without oars on powerful currents and a rage of mountain snowmelt.

Kell cursed, and half swam, half dragged Saark through the water, angling towards the high banks. He stopped, shivering now, teeth chattering, bobbing under the high earth walls too high to climb. He moved on, still dragging Saark’s leaden weight through the darkness, through ice-filled waters, until the banks dropped and wearily Kell rolled onto a frozen, muddy slope, dragging Saark up behind him, and he lay for a while, breath panting like dragon smoke, head dizzy with flashing lights.

Eventually, the cold bit him and Kell roused himself. He shook Saark, who groaned as he came awake, coughing out streamers of black water. Eventually, he stared around, confused.

“What happened?”

“The creature dragged you under. I dove in after you. I’m pretty damn sure you’re not worth it.”

“Charming, Kell. You would whisk away the pants from any farmer’s daughter without hindrance. Where’s the boat?”

“Gone.”

“Where are we?”

“Do I look like a fucking mapmaker?”

“Actually, old horse, you do, rather.”

Something surged from the river nearby, a huge black coil, then submerged with a mighty splash. In its wake, the canker, or more precisely, half of the canker, floated for a few moments, bobbing, torn, trailing strings of tendon and jagged gristle, before gradually sinking out of sight.

“At least that’s one problem sorted,” said Saark, voice strangled. He reached down, rolling up his trews. Puncture holes lined his shins and knees, bleeding, and he prodded them with a wince. “I hope I’m not poisoned.”

“It’s dead. For now.” Kell climbed to his feet. He sheathed his Svian and cursed. His axe, Ilanna, was on the boat. Gone. Kell ran hands through his wet hair and shivered again. Snow began to fall, just to add to his chilled and frozen mood.

Saark had found something in one of the puncture wounds, and with a tiny schlup pulled free a fang. “Ugh!” he said, staring at the brass tooth. “The dirty, dirty bastard.” He flung it out into the river. “Ugh.”

“We need to find Nienna,” said Kell.

“And Kat,” said Saark, glancing up at the old man.

“And Kat,” agreed Kell. “Come on.”

“Whoa! Wait up, maybe you’re in the mood for running cross-country in the dark, covered in ice; I’m going to die if I stay out here much longer. And you too, by the looks of it. You’re turning blue!”

“I’ve crossed the Black Pike Mountains,” growled Kell. “It takes more than the fucking cold to kill me.”

“And that was…how many years ago? Look at you, man, you’re shivering harder than a pirate ship in a squall. We need fire, and we need dry clothes. Come on. These lowlands are populated; we’ll find somewhere.”

They walked, Saark limping, roughly following the course of the river until a thick evergreen woodland of Jack Pine and Red Cedar forced them inland. Trudging across snow and frozen tufts of grass, they circled the woods and eventually came upon a small crofter’s hut, barely four walls and a roof, six feet by six feet, to be used during emergencies. With thanks they fell inside, forcing the door shut against wind and snow. As was the woodland way, a fire had already been laid by the last occupant and Kell found a flint and tinder on a high shelf. His shaking hands lit a fire, and both men huddled round the flames as they grew from baby demons. Eventually, what seemed an age, the small hut filled with heat and they peeled off wet clothing, hanging items on hooks around the walls to dry, until they sat in pants and boots, hands outstretched to the flames, faces grim.

“What I’d give for a large whisky,” said Kell, watching steam rise from their clothes.

“What I’d give for a fat whore.”

“Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”

“Sometimes,” said Saark, and turned, staring into the flames. “Sometimes, in distant dreams, I think of honour, of loyalty, and of friendship; I think of love, of family, of happy children, a doting wife. All the good things in life, my friend. And then I remember who I am, and the things I did, and I am simply thankful for a fat whore sitting on my face. You?”

“Me what?”

“I gave you a potted history. Now it’s your turn. You’re a hero, right?”

“You make the word ‘hero’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”

“Not at all.” Saark grinned, then, his melancholy dropping like a hawk from the heavens. “I heard a poem about you, once. ‘Kell’s Legend’, it was called. That’s you, right? You’re the character of legend?”

“You make ‘character’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”

“Very droll. Come on, Kell. It was a good poem.”

“Ha! A curse on all poets! May they catch the pox and have ugly children.”

“This poem was a good one,” persisted Saark. “Proper hero stuff. Had a decent rhyme as well. Foot-tapping stuff, when recited in a tavern by men with harps and honey-beer and the glint of wonder in their eyes.”

Kell drew his Svian blade. His eyes glowed and he pointed at Saark in the close proximity. “Don’t even fucking think about it. All poets should be gutted like fish, their entrails strung out to dry, then made to compose ballads about how they feel with the bastard suffering. A curse on them!”

Saark sang, voice soft, hand held out to ward off Kell’s knife should he make a strike: “Kell waded through life on a river of blood, His axe in his hands, dreams misunderstood, In Moonlake and Skulkra he fought with the best This hero of old, this hero obsessed, This hero turned champion of King Searlan Defiant and worthy a merciless man.”

Kell snorted. “Poets make a joy out of slaughter, the academic smug self-satisfying bastards. I am ashamed to be a part of that song! Bah!” Kell frowned darkly. “And you! You sing like a drunkard. I can sing better than that, and I sound like a fart from a donkey’s arse…and I’m proud of it! A man should only sing when he’s a belly full of whisky, a fist full of money, and the idea of a fight in his head. You can keep your cursed poetry, Saark, you idiot. A bad case of gonorrhoea on you all! Death to all poets!”

“Death to all poets?” chuckled Saark, and relaxed as Kell sheathed his long, silver-bladed Svian. “A little harsh, I find, for simply extending the oral tradition and entertaining fellow man. But was it true? The stuff in the poem? The Saga?”

“No.”

“Not even some of it?”

“Well, the bastards spelt my name right. Listen, Saark, we need to go after Nienna and Kat. They could end up miles away. Leagues! They could be in danger even as we sit here, wasting our breath like a whore wastes her hard-earned coin.”

“We’ll die if we go back to the storm.” Saark’s voice was soft.

“Where’s your courage, man?”

“Hiding behind my need to stay alive. Kell, you’re no use to her dead. Wait till the sun’s up; then we’ll search.”

“No. I am going now!” He stood and reached for his wet clothes.

Saark sang: “And brave Kell marched out through the snow, His dullard brain he left behind, He took with him a mighty bow, His thumb up his arse and shit in his mind.”

Kell paused. Stared hard at Saark, who shrugged, and threw another chunk of wood on the fire. “You’re being irrational, my friend. I may dress like an idiot, but I know when to live, and when to die. Now is not the time to die.”

Kell sighed, a deep sigh of resignation, and returned to the fire. He sat, staring into flickering flames.

“Say it,” said Saark.

“What?”

“Admit that I’m right.”

“You’re right.”

“See, that wasn’t too painful, eh, old horse?”

“But I’ll tell you something, Saark. If anything happens to Nienna, then I’ll blame you; and it’ll take more than fucking poetry to remove my axe from your fat split head.”

Saark laughed, and slapped Kell on the back. “What a truly grumpy old bastard you are, eh? You remind me of my dad.”

“If I was your dad, I’d kill myself.”

“And if I was your son, I’d help you. Listen, enough of this banter; we need to get some sleep. I have a strange feeling tomorrow’s going to be a hard day. Call me extreme, but it can’t get any worse.”

“A hard day?” scoffed Kell. “Harder than yesterday? That seems unlikely. However, young man, I will take your advice, even though it pains me to listen to somebody with the wardrobe sense of a travelling chicken.”

“At least that beast…at least it was dead, in the river. It was dead, wasn’t it?”

“It was a canker.”

“A what?”

“A canker. That’s what it was.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw one. Once. Halfway up a mountain in the Black Pikes; it tried to kill us.”

“What happened?”

“It slipped on ice. Fell six thousand feet onto rocks like spears.” Kell’s eyes gleamed, misted, distant, unreadable. He coughed. “So put that Dog Gemdog gem in your poem, laddie. Because the canker, well, it’s a vachine creation. And there are more of the bastards where that one came from.”

Saark shivered, and scowled hard at Kell. “Well, thanks for that cheerful nocturnal nugget, just before I try and sleep. Sweet dreams to you as well, you old goat!”

The boat spun out of control through the blackness and Nienna screamed, clinging to Kat. “What do we do?”

“We row!”

“The oars were smashed!”

The two girls looked frantically for something to use as a paddle, but only Kell’s axe caught Nienna’s eye and she stooped, picking up the weapon. She expected a dead-weight, impossible to lift, but it was surprisingly light despite its size. She hefted the weapon, and it glowed, warm for a moment, in her hands. Or had she imagined that?

“You can’t paddle with that,” snapped Kat.

“I was thinking more of hitting it into the beast’s head.”

“If it comes back,” said Kat.

They both thought of Saark, and Kell, under the freezing river, fighting the huge beast. They shivered, and neither dared to wonder what the outcome would be.

The boat spun around again, and bounced from a rotting tree-trunk, invisible in the darkness. The river grew wider, more shallow, and they found themselves rushing through a minefield of rocks, the river gushing and pounding all around.

“What do we do?” shouted Kat over the torrent.

“I don’t know!”

Both girls moved to the boat’s stern, and with four hands on the tiller, tried to steer the boat in towards the shore. Amazingly, it began to work, and they bounced and skimmed down the fast flow and towards an overhanging shoreline in the gloom…with a crunch, the boat beached on ice and stones, and Nienna leapt out as she had seen Kell do, holding his axe, and tried to drag the boat up the beach. She did not have the strength. Kat jumped out and they both tried, but the boat was dragged backwards by wild currents and within seconds was lost in the raging darkness.

Snow fell.

The girls retreated a short distance into the woods, but stopped, spooked by the complete and utter darkness. A carpet of pine needles were soft underfoot, and the heady smell of resin filled the air.

“This is creepy,” whispered Nienna.

Kat nodded, but Nienna couldn’t discern the movement; by mutual consent, their hands found one another and they walked deeper into the forest, pushed on by a fear of the canker that outweighed a fear of the dark. They stared up at the massive boles of towering Silver Firs, and a violent darkness above which signified the sky. Random flakes drifted down through the trees, but at least here there was no wind; only a still calm.

“Will that creature come back, do you think?” asked Kat.

“I have Kell’s axe,” said Nienna, by way of reply.

“Kell and Saark couldn’t kill it,” said Kat.

Nienna did not answer.

They stopped, their footsteps crunching pine needles. All around lay the broken carcass shapes of dead-wood; ahead, a criss-crossing of fallen trees blocked their path, and cursing and moaning, they dragged themselves beneath the low barricade to stand, again, in a tiny clearing.

“Look,” said Nienna. “There was a fire.”

They ran forward, to where a ring of stones surrounded glowing embers. Kat searched about, finding dead wood to get the blaze going, and they fed twigs into the embers, waiting for them to ignite before piling on thicker branches. Soon they had the fire roaring, and they warmed their hands and feet by the flames, revelling in their good fortune.

“Who do you think was here?” asked Nienna.

“Woodsmen, I should think,” said Kat. “But they’ll be long gone. A fire can burn low like that for a couple of days.” She took a stick, and poked around in the fire. Flames crackled, and sparks flew out, like tiny fireflies, sparkling into the air. Around them, the chill of the forest, the smell of cold and rotting vegetation, filled their senses.

“What are we going to do, Kat?” said Nienna eventually, voicing that which they were both thinking.

“I don’t know. Kell will find us.”

“Maybe he…” She left it unsaid.

“I’ve read about your grandfather,” said Kat, staring into the fire. “He’s a survivor. He’s a…killer.”

“No he’s not. He’s my grandpa.” Nienna scowled, then glanced at Kat. “What do you mean? A killer?”

“His legend,” said Kat, avoiding Nienna’s gaze. “You’ll see. He’ll come looking for us. For you, I mean.”

“He’ll come for both of us!” snapped Nienna, frowning at the tone Kat employed. “He’s an honourable man! An old soldier! He would always do the right thing.”

Kat said nothing.

“Well well well,” came a strange voice from the trees. It was a twisted voice, full of friendly humour and yet mocking at the same time. “What have we got here?”

Both girls leapt up, and Nienna lifted the axe. From the gloom of the forest emerged six men, drifting slowly from the black. They were a rag-tag bunch, dressed in little more than rags and stained, matted furs. They wore heavy scuffed boots and carried tarnished swords; two men hefted fine yew longbows.

“What do you want?” snarled Kat.

The man who spoke was tall and lean, his face pock-marked, his eyes large and innocent. His hair was long and dark, tied back beneath a deerstalker hat with furred edges. He was grinning at the two young women, showing a missing tooth.

“We don’t want anything, me sweets. You’ve made yourself comfortable in our camp, is all.”

“Are you robbers?”

The man held his hands apart, and he carried no weapons. “Tsch, just because I lives in the forest, me sweets, doesn’t make me a robber. Has been a hard time for us all I think. This winter is a harsh one, for sure. Only now, we were out hunting for meat.” He gestured, to where one of the forest-men carried a pole containing two dead hares. “Pickings are lean,” he said, eyes narrowing, but then he smiled again. “Don’t let us worry you. You got the fire going; that’s got to be worth a mouthful of rabbit meat.”

Kat nodded, and the men moved around easily, leaning weapons against trees with two of them sitting by the fire, holding out chilled hands. The leader seated himself and gestured to Nienna and Kat, still standing, to have a seat.

“I won’t bite, me sweets. Honest. Come and sit yourself down here. Keep yourself warm. You both looks like you’ll die from the cold! I’m Barras, and I’d wager you’re a long way from your homes. City girls, are ye?”

“From Jalder,” said Nienna, and Kat kicked her on the ankle. Nienna threw her a dark look.

“Jalder’s a fine city,” said Barras, smiling broadly, friendly, as one of his companions began to skin and gut the rabbits. “I have a lot of good friends who live there. Well, people I owe money to, anyways.”

“It was overrun! By an army. An army of albinos!” hissed Nienna, her eyes wide.

Barras rubbed at his chin with a rasping sound. “Is that so ways? That would be bad news, if I hadn’t owed so much silver to the Hatchet Man.”

“Who’s the Hatchet Man?” asked Kat, intrigued.

“Runs the gambling dens. When you don’t pay, he cuts off your hands with a hatchet. Chop!” He roared with laughter, as one of his men brought a large pan of water and set it on the fire. Barras leaned forward, then, his lips pouting as he considered a question. Almost instinctively, Kat leaned forward to listen; but Nienna found her hands tightening on Ilanna. Something wasn’t right. The atmosphere felt…just wrong.

Nienna glanced about. And it hit her. All of the men still wore weapons. They had removed some for show; but they still wore short swords. They were behaving like they were winding down, making camp, but nobody skinned a rabbit with a sword sheathed at his side. Or was she simply looking for trouble where none should be found? She stared at Barras. His face was filthy, yes, but honest. Why not trust him? He was a simple woodsman enduring a harsh winter…surely they would have a house or cottage nearby. A wife? Three children to feed?

Barras edged a little closer. He licked his lips. “What’s your name, me sweets?”

“Kat.”

“I was a-wondering, Kat, if you taste as good as you look?”

There came a moment of silence, and both Nienna and Kat surged to their feet but one of the woodsmen had circled behind and a club cracked Nienna’s skull, sending her sprawling sideways, fingers losing grip on Ilanna, and two men grabbed Kat, bearing her to the ground where she screamed, until one punched her, a heavy blow that silenced her in an instant.

Nienna’s last sight was of Barras, lifting Ilanna and frowning a little as his eyes scanned the delicate faded runes along the black haft. He shook his head, then stared at Nienna in a curious way; before a second vicious blow from behind rendered her unconscious.

Nienna awoke to pain, pain in her fingers, hands, and running like fiery trails along her forearms and biceps, to end like pits of coal deep within her shoulders. She moaned, and her eyes flickered open. Her head pounded. A sour taste filled her mouth, and she realised she had vomited down her shirt.

She was moving, swaying, and at first she thought it a reaction to being hit over the back of the head. Then she realised the awful truth; she was tied up, and hung from the branch of a tree. She scowled, anger charging to the front of her mind. Bastards, trussing her up like a chicken! She heard laughter, and shouting, the crackle of the fire, and as she gently moved around on her length of rope she saw Kat. She was in a state of undress. Six men had ripped free her shirt and trousers, and she stood in her underwear and boots, a long stick in her hands, face a curious mix of hatred and fear as the men spread out, surrounding her, and she jabbed at them with a stick.

“Watching them, me sweets?”

Nienna looked down, saw Barras standing close to her, not looking at her, but watching the spectacle with Kat.

“Let us go,” she said.

“Why? We’re going to have a pretty fun with you two for, oh, I’d say the next month. You can get a lot of use out of a young woman like yourself; you have so much stamina, so much passion, so much anger. But, finally, when we’ve fucked you, and beaten you, and broken your spirit worse than any high-bred stallion, when you no longer scream during orgasm, when you no longer scratch at faces and pull at hair…when your spirit is gone, me sweet little doll, then, and only then, do we slit your throats.”

Nienna stared down at the man, tasting vomit, and wondering how she could kill him. His words frightened her more than anything she had had ever heard, or ever seen; worse than the albino army, worse than any canker. For here, and now, this was personal, not just an invasion, and this man was evil, a total corruption of the human shell. She was still stunned that she had not been able to see it. To smell it. It was a sobering life experience.

“How could you do that to us?” she asked, in a small voice.

Barras glanced up, then reached out, his hand creeping up the inside of her trouser leg. His fingers were rough on her skin. She squirmed, but he was stronger than he looked; he grinned as his fingers groped her inner thigh, her soft flesh, her young flesh, and his eyes were old and dark and deeply malevolent.

“Not everybody in this world has the same morals as you, little honey. You little rich girls; well, you deserve every fucking you get.”

The men, laughing, got the stick from Kat and bore her to the ground. One kissed her, and when she bit his tongue in a spurt of bright blood he slapped her hard, across the face, then again with the back of his hand. Blood trickled from her nose and she lay, stunned, fingers clenching and unclenching. The man pulled free her vest revealing small, firm, breasts. He squeezed them, one in each hand, to the cackling of his companions…

“Call them off,” said Nienna, voice so dry she could hardly speak.

“Why, me sweets?”

“You saw the axe,” said Nienna, voice turning hard. “It’s Ilanna.”

Barras narrowed his eyes then, scowling at her. “Where did you hear such a name?”

“It’s true,” she hissed. “It’s my grandfather’s axe. He’s coming. Soon. He will kill you all.”

“What’s his name?”

“You know his name, you heap of horse-shit.”

“Speak his name!” snarled the woodsman.

“He is Kell, and he will eat your heart,” said Nienna.

This impelled Barras to move, and cursing (cursing himself, he knew he had seen the axe before), he stepped forward to talk to the woodsmen; but something happened, a blur of action so fast he blinked, and only as a splatter of blood slapped across his face and dirt-streaked stubble did he leap into action…

The creature slammed across the clearing from the darkness of the trees in an instant, picking one man up in huge jaws, lifting the man high at the waist and crunching through him through his muscle and bones and spinal column and he screamed, gods he screamed so hard, so bad, as the canker shook him and gears spun and wheels clicked and turned and gears made tiny click click tick tock noises, and it threw him away like a bone into the forest.

Barras ran forward, screaming, his sword raised…

The canker whipped around, a blur, and leapt, biting off the woodsman’s head in a single giant snap.

His body stood for a moment, still holding a tarnished sword, an arc of blood painting a streak across the forest in a gradually decreasing spiral. Then a knee buckled; the fountain of blood soaked the pine needle carpet, and the body crumpled like a deflated balloon.

Nienna struggled against her ropes, and she could see Kat crying, pulling on her vest and trews.

“Kat! Over here! Get the axe!”

The remaining four woodsmen had grouped together, pooling weapons. With a scream, and as a unit that displayed previous military experience, they charged across the fire at the canker which growled, hunkering down, crimson eyes watching the charge with interest, as a cat watches a disembowelled mouse squirm.

Kat grabbed the axe and, still sobbing, half crawled, half ran towards Nienna. She swung at the rope, missed, then swung again and the sharp blades of Ilanna sliced through with consummate ease. Nienna hit the ground, and Kat helped her get the ropes from her wrists to the backing track of screams, thuds, gurgles, and most disturbingly, the solid crunches of impact, of gristle, of snapping bones.

The girls half hoped the woodsmen had won; but then, they’d have to face the prospect of rape and murder.

But what would happen with the canker?

Kat pulled on her boots, and something smashed off into the forest, a woodsman, picked up by the canker, slamming an axe into its back again and again and again as it charged through the forest with his legs in its jaws. There came the smash and crack of breaking wood. A gurgle. Another crack; this time of bone.

Nienna and Kat stood, shivering, wondering what to do.

Slowly, the canker emerged from the gloom, lit only by the flames of the fire. Blood soaked its white fur, and congealed gore interfered with fine cogs and gears, splashed up its uneven, distended eyes. Skin and torn bowel were caught in long streamers between its claws, and it made a low churning sound as if about to be violently sick…

“Back away,” mumbled Kat, as Nienna hefted the axe and they started to retreat into the forest.

Nienna stood on a branch, which snapped.

The canker turned, slowly, red eyes watching them.

“Is it going to charge?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t move!”

“It’s already seen us!”

“Stop talking!”

“You’re talking as well!”

They stopped. The canker stopped. They eyed each other, over perhaps fifty yards. Then, with a wide grin-which looked like the creature had peeled the top of its head right off-it let out a howl, a howl to the fire, to the forest, to the moon, and lowered its head with a grinding snarl and with a shift of gears, a mechanical grind of cogs, the canker leapt at the girls…