Kell's Legend

by Andy Remic

  “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.