Kell's Legend

by Andy Remic

  “Hell’s teeth,” muttered Saark, as the albino soldiers edged carefully from the trees, gliding like pale ghosts, their armour shining in shafts of moonlight tumbling between snow-clouds.

  “I count ten,” said Kell, delicately.

  “Eight,” said Saark.

  “Two archers, just inside the trees, off to the right.”

  “By the gods, you have good eyesight! I see them!”

  “Horse-shit. I wish I had my axe.”

  “I wish I had a fast horse.”

  “Very heroic.”

  “Not much use for dead heroes in these parts.”

  The albino soldiers spread out, crimson eyes locked on the two men. Kell stepped away from Saark, mind settling into a zone for combat; and yet, deep down, Kell knew he would have struggled even with his axe. With a long knife? Even one as deadly as the Svian? And with his bad knees, and cracked ribs, and god only knew what other arthritic agonies were waiting to trip him up?

  He grimaced, without humour. Damn. It wasn’t looking good.

  “Drop your weapons,” said the albino lieutenant.

  “Kiss my arse,” snarled Kell.

  “Superb: weaponless and an idiot,” said Saark, eyes fixed on the soldiers.

  “You can always run back through the woods and jump in the river.”

  “Now that is a good idea.”

  They stood, tense, waiting for an attack. The lieutenant of the albino soldiers was wary; Kell could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fooled by an old man and a dandy dressed in villager’s clothing. He could see Saark’s hair, the cut of his stance, the quality of his rapier. There were too many factors of contrast, and the albino was cautious. This showed experience.

  “Ready?” muttered Kell…as something huge, and hissing, with gears crunching and hot breath steaming slammed from the trees and into the midst of the albino soldiers, rending and tearing, ripping and smashing, causing an instant sudden confusion and panic, and the albinos wheeled in perfect formation, swords rising, attacking without battle cries but with a superb efficiency, a cold and calculating precision which spoke more of butchery than soldiering…swords slammed the canker, and two sets of arrows flashed from the trees, embedding in the canker’s flanks. Rather than wound the creature, or slow it, it sent the canker into a violent rage and it whirled, grabbing an albino and ripping him apart to scatter torn legs spewing milk blood in one direction, and a still screaming torso and head in the other. More arrows thudded the canker’s flanks, and it reared, pawing the air with deformed arms, hands ending in glinting metal claws, and fangs slid from its jaws as its vampire vachine side emerged and it leapt on a soldier, fangs sinking in, drinking up milky blood and then choking, sitting backwards as swords hacked at its cogs and heavily muscled flesh and it spat out the milk, reached out and grasped an albino by the head, to pull his head clean off trailing spinal column and clinging tendons which pop pop popped as they dangled and swung like ripped cloth.

  “This is our invitation to leave, I feel,” muttered Saark.

  “Into the woods,” said Kell. “I’ll wager they’ve got horses nearby.”

  As the savage battle raged, so Kell and Saark edged for the trees, then ran for it, tense and awaiting the slam of sudden arrows in backs. They made the treeline, cold, snow-filled, silent, and behind them howls and grunts bellowed, and swords clanged from clockwork as the canker spun and danced in a twisted spastic fury.

  “There.” Kell pointed.

  They moved through the trees, the sounds of battle fading behind; within minutes the noises were muffled, like a dream from another world.

  A group of horses were tethered to a tree by a small circle of logs. Kell untied the reins, and taking four mounts they spurred the remaining creatures and mounted two black geldings, leading the other two along a narrow forest deer-trail.

  “Which way?” said Saark.

  “Away from the canker.”

  “A good choice of direction, I feel.”

  “Seems the wisest, at the moment.”

  “A thought occurs, Kell.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That creature back there. It was different to the last, the one ripped apart in the river. There are…two of the beasts, at least. Yes?”

  “Observant, aren’t you, laddie?”

  “I try,” grinned Saark, in the dark of the snow-locked forest. “What I’m trying to say is that, if there are two, maybe you were right, maybe there will be more. And they are not the sort of beasts we can fight with peasant’s sword and axe.”

  “Under the Black Pike Mountains, Saark,” Kell’s voice was a grim monotone, “there are thousands of these creatures. I saw them. A long, long time ago.”

  They rode in silence.

  Eventually, Saark said, “So, to all intents and purposes, there could be an essentially endless supply of these ugly bastards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. That’s put a dampener on things, old horse.” He followed as Kell switched direction, heading deeper into the forest. Now, the sounds of battle, all sounds in fact, had vanished. Only a woolly silence greeted them. Above, the trees swayed, whispering, false promises murmured in dreams. “By the way, which way are we going?”

  “Towards Nienna.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Trust me.”

  “Seriously, Kell. How can you know?”

  “She has my axe. I can feel it. I am drawn to it.”

  Saark stared at Kell in the murk. One of the geldings whinnied, and Kell leaned forward, stroking his head, calming him. “There, boy. Shh,” he said.

  “He’s not a dog, Kell.”

  “Do you ever stop yakking?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Back in Jalder, a neighbour of mind had a shitty yakking little bastard of a dog. All damn night, yak yak yak, with barely a word from the woman to chastise the beast. Many times, the little bastard yakked all night; so one summer, fatigued by lack of sleep, and in a temper I admit, I took down my axe, went around to my neighbour, and cut off her dog’s head.”

  “Is this a sophisticated parable?”

  “The moral of my story,” growled Kell, “is that dogs that yak all night tend towards decapitation. When I’m annoyed.”

  “Proving you are no animal lover, I’d wager. What happened to the neighbour?”

  “I broke her nose.”

  “You’re an unfriendly sort, aren’t you, Kell?”

  “I have my moments.”

  “Was the yakking dog some veiled reference to my own delicate tongue?”

  “Not so much your tongue, more your over-use of said appendage.”

  “Ahh. I will seek to be quiet, then.”

  “A good move, I feel.”

  They eased through the night, listening with care for the canker, or even a squad of albino soldiers; neither men were sure who would be victorious, only that the battle would be vicious and long and bloody, and could not end without some form of death.

  Suddenly, Saark started to laugh, and quelled his guffaws. Silence rolled back in, like oily smoke.

  “Something amuse you, my friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like to share it?”

  “That damn canker, attacking its own men. I thought they were on the same side? What a deficient brainless bastard! Laid into them as if they were the enemy; as if it had a personal vendetta.”

  “Maybe it did,” said Kell, voice low. “What I saw of them, they had few morals or intelligence as to who or what they slaughtered. They were basic, primitive, feral; humans who had devolved, been twisted back by blood-oil magick.”

  “Humans?” said Saark, stunned. “They were once men?”

  “A savage end, is it not?”

  “As savage as it gets,” said Saark, shivering. “Listen, old man—how do you know all this?”

  “I was in the army. A long time ago. Things…happened. We ended up, stranded, in the Black Pike Mountains and had to f
ind our way home. It was a long, treacherous march over high ice-filled pathways no wider than a man’s waist. Only three survived the journey.”

  “Out of how many?”

  Kell’s eyes gleamed in darkness. “We started with a full company,” he said.

  “Gods! A hundred men? What did you eat out there?”

  “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “Trust me, I would.”

  “You’re like an over-eager puppy, sticking your snout into everything. One day, you’ll do it to something sharp, and end up without a nose.”

  “I still want to know. A nose has limited use, in my opinion.”

  Kell chuckled. “I think you are a little insane, my friend.”

  “In this world, aren’t we all?”

  Kell shrugged.

  “Go on then; the suspense is killing me.”

  “We ate each other,” said Kell, simply.

  Saark rode in silence for a while, digesting this information. Eventually, he said, “Which bit?”

  “Which bit what?”

  “Which bit did you eat?”

  Kell stared at Saark, who was leaning forward over the pommel of his stolen horse, keen for information, eager for the tale. “Why would you need to know? Writing another stanza for the Saga of Kell’s Legend?”

  “Maybe. Go on. I’m interested.” He sighed. “And in this short, brutal, sexually absent existence, your stories are about the best thing I can get.”

  “Charming. Well, we’d start off with his arse, the rump—largest piece of meat there is on a man. Then thighs, calves, biceps. Cut off the meat, cook it if you have fire; eat it raw if you don’t.”

  “Wasn’t it…just…utterly disgusting?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I’d rather starve,” said Saark, primly, leaning back in his saddle, as if he’d gleaned every atom of information required.

  “You’ve never been in that situation,” said Kell, voice an exhalation. “You don’t know what it’s like, dying, chipped at by the howling wind, men sliding from ledges and screaming to their deaths; or worse, falling hundreds of feet, breaking legs and spines, then calling out to us for help for hours and hours, screaming out names, their voices following us through the passes, first begging, then angry and cursing, hurling abuse, threatening us and our families; and gradually, over a period of hours as their words drifted like smoke after us down long, long valleys, they would become subdued, feeble, eaten by the cold. It was an awful way to die.”

  “Is there a good one?”

  “There are better ways.”

  “I disagree, old horse. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

  “I knew a man, they called him the Weasel, worked for Leanoric in the, shall we say, torturing business. I got drunk with him one night in a tavern to the south of here, in the port-city of Hagersberg, to the west of Gollothrim. He reckoned he could keep a man alive, in exquisite pain, for over a month. He reckoned he could make a man plead for death; cry like a baby, curse and beg and promise with only the sweet release of death his reward. This Weasel reckoned, aye, that he could break a man—mentally. He said it was a game, played between torturer and victim, a bit like a cat chasing a mouse, only the cat was using information and observation and the nuances of psychology to determine how best to torture his victims. The Weasel said he could turn men insane.”

  “You didn’t like him much, then?”

  “Nah,” said Kell, as they finally broke from the trees and stood the geldings under the light of a yellow moon. Clouds whipped overhead, carrying their loads of snow and hail. A chill wind mocked them. “I cut off his head, out in the mud.”

  “So you were taking a moral standpoint? I applaud that, in this diseased and violent age. Men like the Weasel don’t deserve to breathe our sweet, pure air, the torturing bastard villainous scum. You did the right thing, mark my words. You did the honourable thing.”

  “It was nothing like that,” said Kell. He looked at Saark then, and appeared younger; infinitely more dangerous. “I was simply drunk,” he said, and tugged at the gelding’s reins, and headed towards another copse of trees over the brow of a hill.

  Saark kicked his own mount after Kell, muttering under his breath.

  The sun crept over the horizon, as if afraid. Tendrils of light pierced the dense woodland, and Kell and Saark had a break, tethering horses and searching through saddlebags confident, at least for the moment, that they had shaken their pursuers. More snow was falling, thick flakes tumbling lazy, and Kell grunted in appreciation. “It will help hide our tracks,” he said, fighting with the tight leather straps on a saddlebag.

  “I thought the canker hunted by smell? Lions in the far south hunt by smell; by all accounts, they’re impossible to shake.”

  Kell said nothing. Opening the saddlebags, the two men searched the albinos’ equipment, finding tinder and flint, dry rations, some kind of dried red-brown meat, probably horse or pig, herbs and salt, and even a little whisky. Saark took a long draught, and smacked his lips. “By the balls of the gods, that’s a fine dram.”

  Kell took a long drink, and the whisky felt good in his throat, warm in his belly, honey in his mind. “Too good,” he said. “Take it away before I quaff the lot.” He gazed back, at the thickly falling snow.

  “The question is,” said Saark, drinking another mouthful of whisky, “do we make camp?”

  “No. Nienna is in danger. If the albino soldiers find her, they’ll kill her. We can eat as we ride.”

  “You’re a hard taskmaster, Kell.”

  “I am no master of yours. You are free to ride away at any moment.”

  “Your gratitude overwhelms me.”

  “I wasn’t the one pissing about on the bed of a river, flapping like an injured fish.”

  “I acknowledge you saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful; but Kell, we have been through some savage times, surely my friendship means something? For me, it’s erudite honour to ride with the Legend, to perhaps, in the future, have my own exploits recounted by skilled bards on flute and mandolin, tales spun high with ungulas of perfume as Kell and Saark fill in the last few chapters of high adventure in the mighty Saga!” He grinned.

  “Horse-shit.” Kell glared at Saark. “I ain’t allowing no more chapters of any damn bard’s exaggerated tales. I just want my granddaughter back. You understand, little man?”

  Saark held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was only trying to impress on you the importance of your celebrity, and how a happy helper like myself, if incorporated into said story, would obviously become incredibly celebrated, wealthy, and desired by more loose women than his thighs could cope with.”

  Kell mounted his horse, ripped a piece of dried meat in his teeth. He set off down a narrow trail, ducking under snow-laden branches. “Is that all you want from life, Saark? Money and a woman’s open legs?”

  “There is little more of worth. Unless you count whisky, and maybe a refined tobacco.”

  “You are vermin, Saark. What about the glint of sunlight in a child’s hair? The gurgle of a newborn babe? The thrill of riding a unbroken stallion? The brittle glow of a newly forged sword?”

  “What of them? I prefer ten bottles of grog, a plump pair of dangling breasts on a willing, screaming, slick, hot wench, a winning bet on some fighting dogs, and maybe a second woman, for when the first wench grows happily exhausted. One woman was never enough! Not for this feisty sexual adventurer.”

  Kell looked back, into Saark’s eyes. “You lie,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “I can read you. You have behaved like that, in the past, giving in to your base needs, your carnal lusts; but there is a core of honour in your soul, Saark. I can see it there. Read it, as a monk reads a vellum scroll. That’s why you’re still with me.” He smiled, his humour dry, bitter like amaranth. “It’s not about women, wet and willing, nor the drink. You wish to warn King Leanoric; you wish to do the right thing.”

  Saark stared hard at Kell, fo
r what seemed like minutes, then snapped, “You’re wrong, old man.” His humour evaporated. His banter dissolved. “The only thing left in my core is a maggot, gorging on the rotten remains. I drink, I fuck, I gamble, and that’s all I do. Don’t think you can see into my soul; my soul is more black and twisted than you could ever believe.”

  “As you wish,” said Kell, and kicked his horse ahead, scouting the trail, his Svian drawn, a short albino sword by his hip on the saddle sheath. And ahead, Kell smiled to himself; finally, he had got to Saark. Finally, he had shut the dandy popinjay’s mouth!

  Saark rode in sullen silence, analysing his exchange with Kell. And in bitterness he knew, knew Kell was close to the bone with his analysis and he hated himself for it. How he wished he had no honour, no desire to do the right thing. Yes, he drank, but always to a certain limit. He was careful. And yes, he would be the first to admit he was weak to the point of village idiot by a flash of moist lips, or the glimpse of smooth thigh on a pretty girl. Or even an ugly girl. Thin, fat, short, tall, red, brown, black or blonde, light skinned, freckled, huge breasts or flat; twice he’d slept with buxom black wenches from the far west, across Traitor’s Sea, pirate stock with thick braided hair and odd accents and smeared with coconut oil…he grew hard just thinking of them, their rich laughter, strong hands, their sheer unadulterated willingness…he shivered. Focused. On snow. Trees. Finding Nienna. Reaching Leanoric.

  Up ahead, Kell had stopped. The gelding stamped snow.

  Saark reined behind, slowing the other two horses, and loosened his rapier. “Problem?”

  “This fellow doesn’t want to proceed.”

  Saark looked closer in the gloom of the silent woods. The gelding had ears laid back flat against its head. The beast’s eyes were wide, and it stamped again, skittish. Kell leaned forward, stroking ears and muzzle, and making soothing noises.

  “Maybe there’s a canker nearby.”

  “Not even funny,” said Kell.

  “He can sense something.”

  “I think,” said Kell, eyes narrowing, “this is Stone Lion Woods.”

  Saark considered this. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’ve heard ghastly things about this place. That it’s…haunted.”

  “Dung. It’s dense woodland full of ancient trees. Nothing more.”