Soul Stealers

CHAPTER 4
Echoes of a Distant Age

A blur slammed past Kell, whose eyes were fastened on the dark blade descending for his unprotected throat, and Kell knew he would die there, half buried by rubble, head pounding from the force of shamathe magic and he had never felt anything like it, so odd, but the blur came from the edges of his vision and connected with Jekkron, the tall albino warrior, and with a blink Kell realised it was Skanda the skinny little boy, and Skanda's arms and legs were wide and wrapped around Jekkron who took a step back, his face frowning in annoyance at this interruption to murder. Jekkron raised a hand, as if to slap down the annoying boy who clung to him. And then he started to scream, and he started to scream high, and loud, like a woman peeled, like an animal skewered… Skanda hadn't just wrapped around Jekkron, he was burrowing into the man, his head snapping left and right and chewing and tearing flesh, and his hands and feet had claws and they tore into the albino soldier, who staggered now, dropping his sword, both fists beating down at Skanda who eased inside Jekkron by just a few inches, and with a terrible force of magick, ripped Jekkron's skin and muscle from his chest, belly and thighs. Skanda landed, carrying the skin and muscle like a thick white cloak, and Jekkron hit the ground unconscious, seconds from death. His blood flushed out as if from an overturned cauldron.

In the sudden confusion, only Lilliath saw what happened, the rest of the soldiers simply witnessed their leader going crazy and slapping at himself; Lilliath capered to one side, over a pile of rubble, to see a donkey staring at her. Lilliath stopped, crazy hair wavering, and Mary the donkey turned slowly around, and with a vicious bray, planted both hooves in the shamathe's face, sending her tumbling back over the pile of collapsed bricks.

As Jekkron, conscious again and gasping like a fish, struggled to rise with his lack of albino flesh, so Kell grunted and hauled himself to his feet. Skanda stood before him, staring at the gathered soldiers with a face less than human, his black teeth glinting with Jekkron's white blood, and hands lifted up and held like comedy claws. Except the joke was no longer funny.

Skanda fell on the dying soldier, and ripped out his throat with his teeth, and used claws to slice down Jekkron's ribs and pull free internal organs, which he held up for the soldiers to see. Then Skanda bounded forward, and in a sudden wave of fear the albino soldiers scattered, as Skanda screeched and screamed after them, and suddenly Kell and Saark were left alone.

Kell limped to Saark, who was just regaining consciousness. Blood leaked from his ears, making his long, dark curls glossy. Both men stood, and leaned on one another weakly, and Saark gazed down at the terribly savaged, torn-apart body of Jekkron. His eyes fastened on glinting pools of milk blood, nestling in hollows and peppered with drifting brick dust.

"Did you do that to him?" coughed Saark.

"It was the boy."

"Skanda? No! No way could a small child…"

"He is not a small child," said Kell, and with a grunt heaved himself upright and gazed across to the unconscious body of the shamathe. Her face was black and purple. "Your mule has a fine aim."

"Mary did that? Great! And by the way, she's a donkey, not a mule."

"Same difference," muttered Kell. "Come on, we need horses. We need to put leagues between us and them."

"What about Skanda?"

"I have a feeling," said Kell, voice hard, unforgiving, "that the boy can look after himself."

Kell lifted Ilanna, and gazed down at Lilliath. He hefted the axe high, and suddenly Saark was there, hands held up. "Whoa, Big Man, what are you doing?"

Kell scowled. "She tried to kill us, Saark. You surely don't want her following? Doing that to us in our sleep?"

"You can't kill her, Kell. She's an old woman. She's unconscious! For the love of the gods!"

"She's a white magicker, and she deserves to die."

Saark planted himself between Kell and the unconscious shamathe. "No. I won't let you! It is immoral. If you kill her, Kell, then you are as bad as the enemy; can't you see?"

Kell gave a great and weary sigh. "Very well," he said, eyes narrowed, face pale from dust. "But if she comes near us again, you can sort the bitch out. Let's find some horses."

They moved around the exterior of the deserted armoury, Saark leading Mary by her halter, and indeed found horses tethered. Distant screams echoed through the forest. Whatever Skanda was doing to the albino soldiers, he was keeping them occupied – and their minds far away from their mounts.

There were six beasts tethered here, all seventeenhand geldings, and Kell and Saark raided saddlebags for provisions and coin, then picked the most powerful looking horses. Saark tied Mary's lead to his mount's tail, and the men mounted the beasts under moonlight and cantered up a nearby slope, and away, into woodland, into the drifting, falling snow.

They did not speak.

They were simply glad to be alive.

They rode for an hour. Several times Saark suggested pausing, and waiting for Skanda. Kell simply gave Saark a sour, evil look, and Saark closed his mouth, aware he would not get far with Kell when the old warrior was in such a stubborn temper.

Finally, they made a cold camp, wary of lighting a fire lest it attract more unwanted military attention. Saark, in particular, was in a bad way. Whilst Kell was seemingly strong as an ox, Saark had suffered several beatings, and a loss of blood from the knife wound at the hands of Myriam; whilst better than he had been, stronger and a little more clear-headed, the constant battering was taking its toll on the man. He had deep, dark rings around his eyes, and his face was drawn and gaunt with exhaustion and pain.

"This is wrong," said Saark, as they stretched out an army tarpaulin between two trees to give them a little shelter. To their backs was a wall of rock from several huge, cubic boulders which must have tumbled from the nearby hills hundreds of years before, and this left only a single entrance from which the wind and snow could intrude.

"Which bit is wrong? Pull it, Saark, don't bloody tickle it."

"I'm pulling it, man, I'm pulling! I simply have a reduced mobility due to the wound in my side; or maybe you hadn't bloody noticed me getting stabbed?"

"I'll notice you getting stabbed in a minute, if you don't help erect this damn shelter," growled Kell. "My hands are turning blue with the cold! So go on, what's wrong, man?"

"Running away, leaving Skanda to face the soldiers, demons, and whatever else fills this magickhaunted forest."

Kell tightened a strap, and sat on a rock, rummaging in a saddlebag. Nearby, Mary brayed, and Kell scowled at the donkey. "Listen, Saark. You didn't see what I saw – the boy, he ripped that soldier's skin and muscle from his body like a rug from a floor. Peeled it off, complete! Then bit out the soldier's throat and cut out his organs. Don't start moaning to me about leaving a little boy in the woods; Skanda is no boy like I have ever seen."

"What is he then? A camel?"

Kell frowned at Saark, and motioned for the tall swordsman to sit. In a low voice, a tired voice, Kell said, "I told you what I saw. If you don't believe me, then to Dake's Balls with you! You get out there in the snow and look for the little bastard. Me, I'd rather put my axe through his skull. He gives me the creeps."

"You are incorrigible!"

"Me?" snapped Kell, fury rising. "I reckon we brought something bad out of Old Skulkra; invited it out into the world with us. I fear we may have done the world a disservice. You understand?"

"He saved us," sulked Saark, ducking into the makeshift shelter and resting his back against cold, damp rock. He shivered, despite his fur and leather cloak. "You are an ungrateful old goat, Kell. You know that?"

"Saved us?" Kell laughed, and his eyes were bleak. "Sometimes, my friend, I think it is better to be dead."

They shared out some dried beef and a few oatcakes, and ate in silence, listening to a distant, mournful wind, and the muffled silence brought about by heavy, snowladen woodland. Occasionally, there was a crump as gathered snow fell from high branches. At one point, Kell winced, and took several deep breaths.

"You are injured?" Saark looked suddenly concerned.

"It is nothing."

"Don't be ridiculous! You are like a bull, you only complain when something hurts you bad. What is it?"

"Pain. Inside. Inside my very veins."

Saark nodded, his eyes serious. "You think it's the poison?"

"Yes," said Kell, through gritted teeth. "And I know it's going to get worse. My biggest fear is finding Myriam, and the antidote, and not having the strength to break her fucking neck!"

"Do you think Nienna is suffering?"

"If she is, there will be murder," said Kell, darkly, fury glittering in his eyes. "Now get some sleep, Saark. You look weaker than a suckling doe. You sure you don't want some more food?"

"After seeing the result of that albino's corpse ripped asunder? No, my constitution is delicate at the best of times. After that spectacle, I have lost appetite enough to last me a decade."

Kell grunted, and shrugged. "Food is food," he said, as if that explained everything.

Saark slept. More snow fell in the small hours. Kell sat on the rock, back stiff, all weariness evaporating with the pain brought by poison oozing through his veins and internal organs. It felt as if his body, knowing it was shortly to die, wanted him to experience every sensation, every second of life, every nuance of pain before forcing him to lie down and exhale his last clattering breath.

The dawn broke wearily, like a tired, pastel watercolour on canvas. Clouds bunched in the sky like fists, and the wind had increased, howling and moaning through woods and between nearby rocks which seemed to litter this part of the world. On the wind, they could smell fire. It was not a comforting stench. It was the aroma of war.

Kell, chin on his fist, eyes alert, Ilanna by his side, jumped a little when Saark touched his shoulder.

"Have you been awake all night, Old Horse?"

"Aye, lad. I couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind."

"We will find Nienna," said Saark.

"I don't doubt that. It's finding her alive that concerns me."

"Shall I cook us breakfast?"

"Make a small fire," said Kell, softly. "Hot tea is what I need if these aged bones are to survive much more rough life in the wilderness."

"Ha, it's a fine ale I crave!" laughed Saark, pulling out his tinderbox.

"I find whiskey a much more palatable experience," muttered Kell, darkly.

They drank a little hot tea with sugar, and ate more dried beef. Kell's pain had receded, much to the big man's relief, and Saark was also looking much better after a good sleep and some food and hot tea. They huddled around the small fire, then stamped it out and packed away their makeshift camp. They were just packing saddlebags when Kell hissed, dropping to a crouch and lifting Ilanna before him. Her blades glittered, and in that crouch Saark saw a flicker of insanity made flesh.

Skanda walked from the trees, smiling with his black teeth. He stopped, and tilted his head. On his hand rode the tiny scorpion with twin tails. It seemed agitated, moving quickly about the boy's hand and never halting. Its tails flickered, fast, like ebony lightning.

"I found you," he said. He tilted his head. Kell rose out of his crouch, cursed, and continued to pack the saddlebags, turning his back on the boy with deliberate ignorance.

"Are you hurt?" said Saark, rushing over.

"No," smiled Skanda, "but I led those soldiers on a merry chase. I was not surprised to find you gone when I returned to the old armoury." His eyes shone. "I think I upset Kell, did I not? The great Legend himself."

Kell turned, and smiled easily, although his eyes were hooded. "No lad, you didn't upset me. But I didn't worry about leaving you behind, before you get any noble ideas about friendship and loyalty."

"Have I offended you? If so, I apologise."

Kell placed his hands on his hips. "In fact, boy, you have. You have a rare talent, don't you? The ability to kill."

Skanda stared at Kell for a long time. Eventually, he said, "It is a talent bestowed on the Ankarok. I can kill, yes. I can kill with ease. My small size and odd looks do nothing to highlight the bubbling ancient rage within."

Kell stared into the boy's eyes.

A darkness fell on his soul, like ash from the funeral pyres of a thousand children.

It is not human, he told himself.

It is consummately evil.

I should kill it. I should kill it now…

His hands grasped the haft of Ilanna, his bloodbond axe, and he took a step forward but a shrill note pierced the inside of his skull, and he realised Ilanna was screaming at him, warning him, and the note fell and her words came, and her voice was cool, a drifting metallic sigh, the voice of bees in the hive, the song of ants in the nest…

Wait, she said. Yo u must not.

Why not? he growled.

Because he is of Ankarok. The Ancient Race. They were here before the vachine, and before the vampires before them; they invented blood-oil, and mastered the magick, and they know too much.

Kell snorted. He felt like a pawn in another man's game. I am being manipulated, he thought. But is my sweet blood-drenched Ilanna telling the truth? Or is she lying through her blackened back teeth because she wants something of her own…

This was Ilanna, the bloodbond axe, and she was in control, or so she liked to think. Blessed in blood-oil, and instrumental, or so Kell believed, in the Days of Blood, she offered him a tenuous link with madness, a risk which Kell readily accepted because… well, because without Ilanna he would be a dead man. And if Kell was a dead man, then his granddaughter Nienna was a dead girl.

He should die.

Why? Because you say so?

Kell breathed in the perfume of the axe. The aroma of death. The corpse-breath of Ilanna. It was heady, like the finest narcotic, like a honey-plumped dram of whiskey; and Kell felt himself float for a moment, lost in her, lost in Ilanna… I am Ilanna, she sang, music in his heart, drug in his veins, I am the honey in your soul, the butter on your bread, the sugar in your apple. I make you whole, Kell. I bring out the best in you, I bring out the warrior in you. And yes I ask you to kill but can you not see the irony? Can you not see what I desire? I am asking you not to kill; I am asking you to spare the boy. He is special. Very special. You will see, and one day you will thank me for these words of wisdom. Skanda is Ankarok, he is older than worlds, look into his insect eyes and see the truth, Kell, understand the importance of what I am saying for we will never have another opportunity like this… he will help you find Nienna… help you save those you love.

You bitch.

I am stating the truth. And you know it. So grow up, and wise up, and let's get moving and get this thing done; Lilliath is leading the albino soldiers through the woods. They are coming, Kell, you must make haste…

Kell opened his eyes. He realised both Saark and Skanda were staring at him; staring at him hard.

"Are you well?" asked Saark, voice soft.

"Aye, I'm fine."

"We can stay a while longer, if you need rest," said Saark, suddenly remembering his own sleep with a sense of guilt. He had allowed Kell to sit up all night; it had been selfish in the extreme.

"No. The soldiers are coming. We should move."

Skanda's eyes went bright. "You want me to go back into the woods? Find them? Kill them?"

"No." Kell shook his head, eyeing the scorpion perched on the boy's hand. Seeing the look, and misreading its meaning, Skanda hid the tiny insect within folds of rough clothing, and Kell made a mental note to check his boots in the morn. "We're heading north. At speed. We're going to find Nienna. We're going to rescue her… or die in the process!"

Myriam crouched beside the still pool, its circumference edged with plates of ice, their layers infinite, their borders a billion shards of splintered and angular crystal. Beautiful, she thought, breathing softly, pacing herself, and then her gaze flickered up, above the ice, to her own reflection and her teeth clacked shut and the muscles along her jaw stood out in ridges as she clenched her teeth tight. But here, she thought, here, the beauty dies.

She had short black hair, where once she had worn it long. Once, it had been a luscious pelt that made men fall over themselves to stroke and touch. Now, she cropped it short for fear the rough texture and dull hue would scream at people exactly what she was: dying.

Myriam was dying, and she still found it difficult to admit, to say out loud, but at least now she had in some way acknowledged it to herself. For a year she had harboured denial, even as she watched her own flesh melt from her bones, and she'd continually conned herself, thinking that if she ate better, exercised more, found the right medicines, then this illness, this fever would pass and she would be well again. However, for the past three years now she had grown steadily weaker, flesh falling from her bones as pain built and wracked her ever slimming frame. She had often joked how the rich fat bulging bitches in Kallagria would pay a fortune to have what she had; now, Myriam joked no more. It was as if humour had been wrenched from her with a barbed spear, leaving a gaping trail of damaged flesh in its wake.

Myriam had travelled Falanor, attempting to find a cure for her sickness. She eventually tracked down the best physicians in Vor, and spent a small fortune in gold, stolen gold, admittedly, on their advice, their medications, their odd treatments. None had worked. What she had gained from her vast expenditure had been knowledge.

She had two tumours, growing inside her, each the size of a fist. They were like parasites, but whereas some parasites were symbiotic – would keep the host alive so that they, also, could live, these tumours were ignorant, killing the host which supported them. Her one small triumph would be they would also die. Yes. But only when Myriam died.

Myriam stared into her reflection, the stretched skin, the gaunt flesh, drawn back over her skull and making her shudder even to look at herself. Once, men and women had flocked to her. Now, they couldn't stand to be in the same room, as if they feared catching some terrible plague.

I am a creature of pity, she realised sadly. Then anger shot through her. Well, I don't want their fucking pity! I just want my fucking life back! I have only existed on this stinking ball of pain for twenty-nine winters. Twentynine! Is that any age to die? Are the gods laughing at me, mocking me with their sick sense of humour? How fair is that, that others, evil men and women, or useless, stupid, brainless men and women, how is it they get to live – and I do not? Who made that choice for me? Which rancid insane deity thought it would be fun?

Tears coursed her gaunt cheeks, and Myriam bit back the need to scream her anguish and pain and frustration through the frozen trees. No. She breathed deep. And she did what she always did. She thought about this day. And she thought about the next day. And she knew she had to take one day at a time, step after step after step until… until she reached Silva Valley. There, she knew, they had the technology to cure her. Using clockwork, and blood-oil, and dark vampire magick.

However, persuading them? That would be a different matter.

Fear flashed through her, then, and she licked dry lips. Her mouth tasted bad. Tasted like cancer. She grimaced, and her belly cramped in pain and she brought herself back to the present with a jolt; they had not eaten for two days. And the sparse woodland in the low foothills leading to the great feet of the Black Pike Mountains contained little game. She would have to work hard if she wanted supper.

Myriam was a skilled hunter. Before her affliction, she had won the Golden Bow three times in a row at the Vor Summer Festival. Now, the cancer ate her, and had sapped her strength, made her aim less true. But she was still a devastating archer, nonetheless.

Myriam crept through the woods, her boots treading softly on hard soil and patches of snow. She picked every footfall with care and stopped often, looking around with slow, fluid movements, her ears twitching, listening, her mind falling in tune with the winter trees.

There!

She saw the doe, a young one, rooting for food. Were there any parents close by? The last thing Myriam needed was a battle with an enraged stag; if nothing else, it made the meat damn tough.

She saw nothing, and eased herself to her knees, allowing her breathing to normalise, to regulate, as she notched the arrow to the bowstring and with a slow slow slow measured ease, drew back the string, taking the tension with her ever-so-slightly trembling muscles.

The arrow flashed through the woodland, striking the doe from behind, between the shoulder blades, and punching down into lungs and heart. It was a clean kill, instant, and the doe dropped. Myriam felt a burst of joy, of pride at her skill; then she stood, and the smile fell from her face like melting ice under sunshine.

Death. She shivered. Death.

Myriam crossed the forest floor and drew a long knife; expertly she sliced the best cuts of meat and placed them in a sack, blood oozing between her fingers. Then she stood, looked around, eyes narrowing. Something felt wrong, but she couldn't place her finger on it; however, Myriam trusted her senses, they were fine honed and reliable. If the element which felt out of key wasn't here, it must be back at camp. Her jaw tightened.

Myriam moved like a ghost through the trees. The world was silent, filled with snow and ice, and occasionally snow clumped from trees with a tumbling rhythm.

She approached the makeshift camp, trees thinning where huge fists of rock punched upwards at the sky, dominating her vision. Myriam felt her throat dry for a moment, for the Black Pike Mountains were a panorama indeed, a line of domineering peaks that lined her sight from the edge of the world to the edge of the world. Each peak she could see reared black and unforgiving into the sky, many damn near ten thousand feet. And beyond, she knew, they got much bigger, much more terrifying, and much more savage.

Myriam stopped, head tilting. The camp was quiet. Too quiet. Her eyes scanned right, where they could see the narrow trail which led from the Great North Road to the gawping maw of the Cailleach Pass; it was along this, she knew, Kell would finally come, head hung low, poison eating him, begging her for the antidote, for her to relieve his pain, for her to slit his throat and end his torment. Only Kell would not; he would be thinking of Nienna, and her suffering, and how he could save her instead.

A cold wind blew, and Myriam shivered. Snow fell from the trees behind her, making her jump, and she realised she had dropped the sack of meat and had notched an arrow to her bow without even realising it. Kell, the wind seemed to whisper. Kell. He will gut you like a fish. He will cut out your liver. He will drink your blood, bitch!

Scowling, Myriam grabbed the sack and stalked into their small camp, where the men, Styx and Jex, had built an arched screen of timber and evergreen fronds, for protection against the wind. Within this semi-circle they'd dragged logs for seats, and built a fire in a square of rocks. The fire burned low. Again, Myriam's eyes narrowed. To let the fire go out was foolish indeed; here, in this place, it meant the difference between life and death.

"Styx?" she said, voice little more than a murmur. Then louder. "Styx? Jex? Where are you?"

The camp was deserted. Myriam's eyes looked to where Nienna, their young prisoner, had been seated; there were deep marks in the snow created by her boots. A struggle?

"Damn it."

Myriam left the sack at camp, and followed tracks through the woods, kneeling once to examine a confusion of marks. She cursed; they had been using the camp for nearly a week now, and there were too many contradicting signs. Something rattled nearby. Myriam's head came up. She broke into a run, arrow notched, and skidded to a halt before a series of huge trees swathed in ivy, creating an ivy wall on two sides like a corridor; against this backdrop Nienna struggled, and even as Myriam watched Styx, squat, black-lipped Styx, with pockmarked skin and his left eye, uncovered, nothing more than a red, inflamed socket – she watched him push the blade to Nienna's throat and snarl something incomprehensible on a stream of foul spittle down her ear.

"Styx!" shouted Myriam, moving swiftly forward. She stopped, looked left at Jex, who simply shrugged. The small tattooed tribesman was not in charge of Styx; Styx was a free agent. He could do what he liked. Or so Jex's simple philosophy ran.

"She bit me!" snarled Styx. "This bitch has been nothing but trouble! Now I'm going to teach her a lesson." His free hand dropped down Nienna's side, to her hips, where he started to tug at her skirt. Nienna struggled wildly, and the knife bit her throat allowing a trickle of blood to run free.

"No, Styx," said Myriam. "This is not the way."

His head came up, black lips curling back over the blackened stumps of his drug-rotted teeth. His dark eye glittered like a jewel. "She's trouble, Mirry, I'm telling you! What I have in store for her will break her spirit; you'll see, it'll bring her back to the real world. Either that, or one of us will wake up with a knife in the heart."

"Put the girl down," said Myriam, voice deadly calm.

"And what if I don't?"

Myriam lifted her bow and sighted down the arrow. It was aimed at Styx's one remaining good eye, and Styx knew she was a good enough shot to pull it off, despite the illness which troubled her aim.

"What are you doing?"

"Exerting my authority."

"You're being a fool, Myriam. We've been through some shit together, girl, and now you'd turn on me? I don't bloody understand! This little bitch needs taming; you've watched me rape a hundred women before, young, old, fit, fat, diseased, what's the fucking problem with you now?" He gave a nasty grin, teeth like a fireravaged forest of stumps. "It's not like you haven't tasted a bit of screaming young pussy yourself. You always said the bigger the fight, the better the bite."

Myriam stared at him, and she knew she was willing to see him die. Because if he harmed Nienna and Kell went berserk then she would never make it to Silva Valley, where the vachine technology could make her whole again, make her well again; turn her into a woman again. And also, only if she admitted it to herself, she was a little frightened of Kell. If they abused Nienna he would never stop till they were dead; as it was, they walked a fine line between angering the old warrior, and turning him into a permanent merciless enemy, one that would hunt them to the ends of the earth.

"If you hurt the girl, Kell won't help us reach Silva. If we don't reach Silva, then you won't get your Blacklipper contacts; remember? The ones that will make you rich. The ones that will lead you to the three kings of the Blacklippers and all that precious gold beyond."

That stopped Styx. His eyes narrowed. In a voice like mist in a tombyard, he said, "What do you know of the three Kings?"

"I know enough," said Myriam, her arrow still aimed for Styx's face. Nienna had stilled in his arms, but the blade rested against her throat, a very real threat. A bead of sweat broke out on Myriam's brow, and her elbow gave a tiny tremble.

Styx saw this. He smiled.

With a whoosh, Myriam released the shaft which slammed through the air, piercing the lobe of Styx's ear and rattling off through the trees. He yelped, hand coming up to his lobe, and in doing so released Nienna. She ran to Myriam, cowering behind the tall woman's legs, and when Styx looked up she had another arrow notched, ready, steel point aimed at his face. There was a snarl on Styx's face; but worse, there was hatred in his eye, deep and glittering, and although Myriam had seen that look before a thousand times, she had never seen it directed at her. It chilled her. Styx was a very dangerous man; and not an enemy she wished to invoke. However. If Nienna was damaged in anyway, then it compromised her situation with Kell, finding the vachine, and living to see the next winter. For she knew, as certain as water flowed downhill, that these were her last few months on earth.

"I think you just made a big mistake," growled Styx. He held up his hands, his knife glinting a little with traces of Nienna's blood. "But don't worry. Don't panic, little Myriam; I am no danger to you. I value the Blacklipper contacts and their great wealth more than I value killing you in your sleep." He glanced at Nienna. "Or tasting her foul juice."

Styx lowered his hands, and walked past Myriam and the cowering form of Nienna; he disappeared into the woodland, and Myriam released a long breath. She glanced at Jex.

"Not such a good idea," said Jex, eyes fixed on Myriam.

"You think I don't know that? You think I'm a village idiot?"

"No," said the tribesman, carefully. "But I do think you should have let him have his fun with the girl; it would have kept him happy, not harmed her too much, and as he says – it would have tamed her spirit just a little." He shrugged. "Now you have to watch your back. From both fucking directions."

"You can watch it as well," smiled Myriam.

Jex did not return the smile. "Some things in life, we do alone," he said, and moved off through the trees.

Myriam finally lowered her bow, and placed the arrow in her sheath. Nienna moved around to face Myriam, and her hands were shaking. She looked up, and at first Myriam wouldn't meet her gaze.

Then their eyes locked, and Myriam studied the tall girl before her. She was pretty, with a rounded and slightly plump face. Her hair was a luscious brown down to her shoulders, and her eyes bright green, dazzling with youth and vitality. For a long moment Myriam hated her, despised her, was jealous to an insane degree of her youth, and beauty, and strength, and health, whilst she was slowly being eaten from the inside out, turning into a husk of degenerative cells. Hate flooded Myriam, fuelled by envy, and she wanted to smash Nienna's face open with a rock; split her head and watch the brains come spilling out. But Myriam breathed deeply, controlled herself, and fought the evil in her veins, in her soul. She forced a smile to her face.

"Thank you," said Nienna.

"Don't be too grateful," grunted Myriam. "You're still my prisoner… until the mighty Kell arrives, and shows us a way through the mountains."

"Still – Styx would have…" she shuddered.

Myriam smiled. "Don't think about it. He's a bad man, aye, but at least it's nothing personal. He hates all women. Come to think of it, he hates all men." Myriam turned, and started back through the trees with Nienna close behind. Nienna was still shivering.

"Why do you travel with such hateful creatures?" said Nienna, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. "It must darken your soul to see such evil at every turn. To witness such horror, and do nothing to halt it."

Myriam stopped, suddenly, and Nienna almost crashed into her. "I saved you, didn't I, little Nienna?" Her tone was mocking, her eyes flashing angry. "Darken my soul? Child, you know nothing of me, or my life, of my horrors and pain and suffering. Don't think because of one little moment, one tiny lapse in my self-control that I'm suddenly a mother figure. You're here for a reason, and that's to draw Kell. That's why I helped you. I care nothing for your suffering. In fact, I wish I'd let Styx rape you – he was right. It would have taught you to shut your bastard mouth."

She stalked off ahead, leaving a confused and now terrified Nienna behind. Nienna trotted after her, tears on her cheeks, and filled with a complete and devastating misery.

Kell managed an hour's sleep. In it, he dreamed. He dreamed of Ilanna, his axe; he dreamed of murder; he dreamed of the Days of Blood. He stood, muscles bulging, tensed as if pumped on drugs and violence, and his whole body quivered, and his mind flitted and could not settle on a single thought, like some butterfly caught in a raging storm. Blood smeared his face and arms and he glanced down, and Kell was naked, naked and proud and bulging with sexual arousal. His entire body was smeared with blood, and blue and green whorls of paint which were intricately complex and he frowned for he did not remember being painted, or tattooed, but then they did not matter for they were an irrelevancy… Kell leapt down from the stone wall and stood in the street, Ilanna in his hands, a snarl on his face, and refugees were streaming past him, sobbing, faces blackened with soot as behind the city burned, huge towers of fire screaming up into the skies. Kell watched the men and women and children stream past him, and Ilanna said something in his mind with a soothing caress and she sang, and Kell twitched and a head rolled, and blood fountained and Kell moved and allowed the twitching body to spray lifeblood over the butterfly blades of the great axe…

"Ugh!" Kell sat up, shivering, and pain washed through him like honey through a sieve; slowly, an ooze, spreading gently through limbs and veins and muscles and organs and into… into his bones.

It's the poison, he told himself.

It's getting worse.

He pulled his cloak tightly about him. The wind howled. Kell licked his lips. What he'd give for a drink. Gods, he'd kill for a drink. And then he smiled, face black in the moonlight, eyes glittering like some dark devil's, and he remembered the unlabelled bottle of whiskey deep in the basket on Mary's back.

It was a matter of moments to get the bottle and retire back to the phantom warmth of his cloak; the wind stirred eerily through the trees. Kell pulled out the cork with his teeth and an odour of sour, cheap, nasty whiskey filled him. He did not care. He breathed in the scent like drugsmoke; he revelled in its base oil consistency, in its hints at raw energy and amateur production. This was a whiskey made by unskilled peasants. This was a whiskey in which Kell could identify, not like the rich honeyed slop the aristocracy of Saark's social circle enjoyed. This was fire water, and Kell drank it.

He took several gulps, and it burned his throat.

He took several more, and a haze filled his mind.

The pain of the poison left him.

And Kell slept, whiskey bottle cradled like a small, adopted child.

The moon was high in a cold, crystal sky. Nienna sat, wrapped in blankets, listening to the soft snoring of Myriam by her side. The woman turned in her sleep, stretching out long legs. For a moment – a fleeting moment – Nienna considered running. She had tried twice before; the second time, Myriam had caught her and explained, using the back of her hand, what she would do the next time Nienna ran. Now, Nienna slept with her ankles bound so tight her feet would be blue by morning. And anyway, she had seen Myriam operate her bow. She was a lethal, very deadly young woman… who could kill over great distance. It made Nienna shiver in horror and anticipation.

Nienna drifted in and out of sleep, as she had done since her kidnapping. Such a simple word, and yet it embodied day after day of a living hell. Riding in front of Styx, and then Jex, they had shared her burden, swapping her often so as not to tire the horses with extra weight; they had ridden north, fast, as if Myriam feared Kell would take up immediate chase. Nienna knew Saark wasn't going to take chase; she had watched him beaten and then stabbed with a long, sharp dagger. Even now, Nienna was sure Saark must be dead and she shuddered, on the edges of sleep, once again picturing the beating, hearing every crunch, every slap of impact in her nightmares. Even now, she could see the blade slide so easily into his soft flesh, and thought no, it cannot be, cannot be happening, cannot be true, but blood poured from Saark and it was true and Myriam had come to them and they had ridden away into the snow, without a backward glance…

Nienna thought back. Back to Kat. Katrina. Her friend. Now dead. Now a corpse, rotting in the cold bunkhouse where she'd been nailed to the wall by Styx's Wi dowmaker. Nienna thought about that weapon. Thought about it a lot. With a weapon like that, she could really even the odds – no matter that she was a thin, physically weak, and hardly able to lift a longsword. With a Wi dowmaker she could punch a hole through Styx's face and run for the woods…

No. She would have to kill all three if she expected to escape.

But Kell! Kell would come and rescue her! Surely?

Maybe Kell was dead, spoke a dark side of her soul. He went into battle with King Leanoric – against the albino army. Maybe now he was just another corpse on the battlefield, crows eating his eyes, rats gnawing his intestines. She shivered, and gritted her teeth. No! Kell was alive. She knew it. Knew it deep in her heart.

And if Kell was alive, then he would come for her.

Nienna drifted off into sleep; coldness ate the edges of her flesh where skin poked from behind the blankets. She snuggled down as far as she could go, and her eyes suddenly clicked open. What was it? What had woken her? She was instantly wide awake – totally awake – and adrenaline surged through her system.

Nienna sat up. Her eyes searched the darkness. She turned to her right, and looked down at Myriam; the lithe woman snored softly, face lost in a haze of tranquillity that softened her features, made her more feminine. Nienna realised that when Myriam was awake her face was a constant scowl, as if she hated the world and every waking moment upon it.

Nienna turned to her left, and nearly leapt from her skin at the face mere inches from her. She felt the edge of the Wi dowmaker crossbow prod her under the blankets, and she nodded quickly as if to say, "I understand". Styx moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Scream, and I'll blow a hole through you, then I'll slaughter Myriam in her sleep and make my own way to Silva Valley."

"I won't scream," panted Nienna, fear a bright hot poker in her brain.

Styx pulled free the blankets, and lifted Nienna up by her elbow. Her eyes fell, and locked on that wood, brass and clockwork weapon. She was sure she could hear a tiny tick tick tick from within the stock. As if it was somehow powered by clockwork.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

Styx ignored the question, and eased her away from Myriam. Nienna gazed back at the sleeping woman, confused; it had been Myriam who, on both of Nienna's escape attempts, had heard the flight. Myriam slept light, like a dozing feline. Now, however, she continued to snore.

"Don't worry about her. I drugged her soup. She'll not be troubling nobody tonight."

Nienna felt icy fingers claw her heart. Realisation sank from her brain to her feet. Styx meant to rape her. Tonight. Now. And there was nothing she could do about it; not a thing on earth.

Styx marched Nienna through the woods, and he was panting hard, and he stunk of sweat and… something else. Liquor? Gin, like they used to sell in the Gin Palaces of Jalder?

Nienna was numb, not from the cold, but from fear. She allowed herself to be manhandled through the woods, stumbling. She did not complain. She could not complain. Fear had become her Master. Fear had stolen her tongue, and seemingly, her recent will to fight.

Finding a spot, Styx threw her to the ground. She landed heavy, a tree root slamming her spine and making her cry out. Even this was not enough to snap her from her cold embrace. She watched, with a mixture of horror and revulsion as Styx struggled from his leggings, one hand still holding the Widowmaker pointed loosely at her prostrate form.

Then, with the lower half of his body naked, he grinned at her and she hated him, there and then; she wanted him dead like she had wanted no other person dead in the world, ever. This man had killed her best friend. And now, this man sought to remove her chastity by force.

"If you touch me, I will kill you," she said. She wanted her words to come out strong and proud, like a sneer of contempt for this petty hateful specimen. But her words dribbled out, a mewling from a kitten, the slurred and feeble trickle of the wanton inebriate. Kell will come, she thought with tears in her eyes. Kell will rescue me!

But he didn't come. Here, and now, Nienna was on her own.

Styx dropped his Widowmaker to the frozen woodland carpet, and pulled out a knife. The blade gleamed. He smiled, showing stubby black teeth. "I think it's time we got to know each other a bit better, pretty one," he said.