by Andy Remic
Kell watched all this, and growled a low growl as realisation struck him. There was something there, between Nienna and Saark. Or at least, there was something there from Nienna. Previously, Kell had always focused on the dandy and his machinations towards Kat, Nienna's older friend, for that had been the obvious flirtation. It had taken his eye from the more subtle approaches of his granddaughter.
"Horse shit," said Kell, and spat on the tunnel floor. "Come on!" His voice was loud and brash. "Let's get moving. You sure it's this way, Myriam, my sweet little angel?"
Myriam gave him a strange look. Her lips curled into half-smile, half-grimace. There was a question in her eyes but Kell stared back, a hard look, a dark look. The same look Dake the Axeman got shortly before his head was cut from his mighty, heroic shoulders.
Myriam shrugged. "Yes. Two days, by my reckoning. Although I'm not sure what we'll do when we get there, the river is too fast to swim, although there are some albino storerooms nearby. Let's hope they're not full of soldiers, hey?"
"Makes no odds to me," grunted Kell. "One way or another, we'll be passing through." He lifted Ilanna, and his meaning was obvious. Myriam did not miss the inherent threat.
"Let's move, then," she said.
When they stopped for the night, it was warmer, and Myriam found some shards of crate for a fire. "It'll be smelt for miles around," muttered Kell unhelpfully, but did not stop her lighting it. They all needed heat. More. They needed the light and morale-boost of a good fire. There was something about the tunnels which invaded a person, chewed its way down into a person's internals… and sucked out their life and guts and soul. The tunnels, indeed, Skaringa Dak itself, was a huge tomb. Being inside the mountain was like being buried alive. Being inside the mountain was like being dead and buried.
Nienna found herself a quiet corner, and using a thin blanket given to her by Myriam, tried as best she could to make herself comfortable. Saark approached and knelt beside her, offering her a cup of water. "Myriam found it, down yonder. A pool which doesn't taste of sulphur and shit. It's fresh. Try it!"
"Such small pleasures in life," said Nienna, "that we are reduced to this. Thankful and rejoicing for a simple taste of fresh water."
"Yes, hardly beats the honeyed wine and whorehouses of Vor!" grinned Saark, then looked immediately contrite. He glanced at Kell. "Sorry," he said. "I was forgetting your youth. And my big mouth."
Nienna touched his arm. "I'm not as young as you think," she said.
Saark's eyes glittered. They were dark and entrancing, and Nienna gazed into their rich depths. "Too young, my sweetness, I think," he said with an easy, disarming, friendly smile. And under his breath, "Far too dangerous."
"I'm only a few months younger than Katrina," pointed out Nienna. "And her youth wasn't a problem for you."
"Yes. And look how that ended!" snapped Saark, the smile falling from his face. He sighed, and rubbed at tired eyes. "Sorry. Again. I'll not forget what that bastard Styx did. Such a waste. Such a sorrow."
"Yes." Saark pulled gently away from Nienna, and she lay under her blanket, looking at him. His hair was long and black and curled. Even without oils and perfume, he was a picture of masculine beauty. Well balanced. Perfectly formed. Yes, he had been through the wars, but recent travel, exercise and constant battle had simply enhanced his athleticism, making him even more of a naturally powerful warrior than when they'd first met. That, and the vachine enhancements… His skin now glowed. His eyes glittered like jewels. He was like… a god.
"I'm cold," said Nienna.
Saark gave a long, lazy pause, eyes locked to hers. "That's a shame. That's what it's like, down here in this wasteland." He glanced to Kell again, then back to Nienna meaningfully. "I, too, miss warm and cosy beds, and the easy living. Maybe one day, I'll be able to warm you. But not tonight, my precious." And then he was gone, and Nienna could smell his natural perfume, and she bit her lips and rubbed her eyes and stared at her grandfather. Saark's fear of the old man was palpable. Nienna scrunched herself under her blanket, and tried to think pleasant thoughts. Instead, she dreamed of Bhu Vanesh, hunting her, hunting her through dark citadels… and nobody could hear her screams. Nobody could ever hear her screams…
For three days they journeyed through narrow, winding, underground tunnels. Sometimes they had to climb across savage vertical drops, and on several occasions they came to guard outposts: small wooden buildings, usually empty of everything except wooden cots without bedding. At least this meant they had firewood, and Kell broke up the cots and they burned them at night, as much for the comfort of living flames as for any real heat they produced.
On the fourth day, Kell stopped and tilted his head. Then looked to Saark. "You hear it?"
"Yes. You have exquisite hearing for a human," smiled Saark.
"Helps me to kill," grunted Kell, and carried on.
"What can you hear?" asked Nienna.
"Water. A river."
They continued for another hour, until the tunnel spat them out on a gentle rocky slope. It was littered with rubble, and a sloping shingle bank led gently into a wide, fast flowing and very deep underground torrent. Back by the tunnel entrance there was another guard outpost, which Kell approached warily, Ilanna ready in huge fists, and down along the shingle black moss grew, and black vines twisted and turned amongst the stones like narrow, skeletal fingers.
"I'm amazed anything grows down here," said Nienna, crunching down to the water's edge.
"Don't go too close," said Myriam, and placed her hand on Nienna's shoulder. "To fall in, that would be to die. The cold and ice would chill you in minutes."
Nienna twisted away from Myriam's grip. "I don't need your advice. I'm not stupid."
Myriam looked to Saark, who shrugged.
"It's empty," called Kell from the guard hut, then stepped inside. He emerged after a few minutes. "There are some supplies. A sack of grain and weapons."
"Swords?" said Saark.
"Aye," nodded Kell, and threw Saark a thin military rapier.
Saark caught the weapon, and swished it through the air several times. "Well balanced. Good steel." He lifted eyes and met Kell's gaze. "Maybe our luck is improving?"
"Yeah, well don't get too horny. This place is a dead end." He nodded to the river.
Saark glanced up and down the shingle slope, and saw Kell was right. The only access was via the river. Then he noticed a short jetty, in black wood, half rotten and listing to one side. It had been repaired with old rope, but threatened at any moment to crash into the river.
"I get the impression this place isn't used often," said Saark.
"I think the damn albinos have more things to worry about than us, lad. You remember back on Skaringa Dak? The sky going out like a candle? The appearance of those pretty boys, those Vampire Warlords?"
"I remember," said Saark. He glanced up and down the river, and shivered. Then he looked over to Myriam, then back to the thickly churning waters. He could see lumps of ice. "I know what you're going to suggest."
"You do?" Kell looked impressed.
"We have only one option."
"Which is?"
"The river." Saark's eyes were dark. "If we don't build it right, we'll drown, Kell."
"I know that, lad. But if we stay here, we'll either freeze or meet another group of Graal's arse-kissing gigolos. It's one of those risks we'll have to take."
"I'm not a boat-builder," said Saark, eyes narrowed, voice suddenly wary with suspicion. "What do you want me to do?"
"Go and cut that rope free from the old jetty. We'll need it for bindings. And I'll sort out some timber."
"What will I cut it with?"
"There's knives in the hut."
"Are they sharp?"
Kell stared at Saark. "I don't know, lad. Go and have a bloody look."
Muttering, Saark moved to the guard shack and peered in. It was dark, and damp, wood mouldering, the sack of grain rotten. Saark curled his lips into a sneer, and crept in as if a
fraid to touch anything. He found one of the knives, blade rusted, hilt unravelling, and stepped back out to the shingle. "This knife is rusty," he said.
Kell looked up. He sighed. "Just do your best, lad."
Saark moved to the jetty, muttering again about being rich, and honoured, and noble, and how manual labour was a disgrace to his ancestors and so far beneath Saark he should live on a mountaintop. He stopped and peered warily at the treacherous footing. Water gushed around the jetty with gusto, bubbling and churning. Reaching out, Saark touched the wood with a grimace, and it was slick with mould. The whole structure shifted under his touch, shuddering.
"Great," he said, hefting the rusted knife and starting to saw at one piece of rope.
Back at the shack, Kell pried free several planks using the tip of Ilanna's butterfly blade, whilst whispering an apology to the axe. She was a killing weapon. A weapon of death. To use her for simple carpentry was total sacrilege.
Myriam built a small fire, and with Nienna's help cooked thin soup. They used a little of the grain, and watched in amusement as Saark fought with the rope, the rusted knife, and even the whole shaking jetty. Despite his usual visual elegance, his elan and poise and balance, the minute he touched any form of menial task it was as if Saark's thumbs had been severed. He growled and cursed, and finally cut free a length of rope, arms waving for a moment as he fought not to fall into the river. Myriam leapt forward, grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him back.
"Thanks," he said.
"You dance a jig like a criminal in a noose."
"The only crime here," he said, smoothing his neat moustache, "is having to perform basic peasant labour." He stopped. He was close to Myriam, and her hand had slipped from a handful of shirt to the base of his spine. It was as if she held him. Close. Like a lover. He turned, into her, and breathed in her natural perfume. She was sweet like summer trees. Ripe like strawberries. As dangerous and tempting as any honeyed poison.
Myriam was as tall as him, and their eyes met only inches away, and their lips were close. Myriam licked hers, leaving a wetness that glistened. Saark stepped back, breathing out deeply, and saw that both Nienna and Kell were watching them.
"What's the matter?" he growled. "Never seen an artist wrestle with a rope before?"
"A piss-artist, maybe. Let Myriam do it," said Kell. "That way you won't bloody drown."
"The cheek of it!" But Saark handed Myriam the dagger, and retired to the fire. He watched her move elegantly, and climb out onto the jetty to the far end. It trembled and he felt his heart in his mouth. Swiftly, she made a cut and began uncoiling the old, blackened rope. To the left, Kell was gathering a formidable supply of planks, at the expense of the shack's rear-end wall where the wood was more sound.
Saark looked back to Nienna, and was surprised to find her glaring at him.
"Something the matter, little monkey?"
"I'm not your fucking little monkey," she snarled, and Saark lifted his hands, palms out, and shook his head a little, face confused. Nienna calmed, and gazed into the fire. Then she snapped back to Saark. "You enjoy touching her, did you?"
"You have nothing to worry about," said Saark. "You forget, easily, how this was the woman who stabbed a knife between my ribs. I do not forgive, nor forget. Not as easy as you, it would seem."
"Back then she was dying, she was a husk," snapped Nienna. "Now she is… pretty. Beautiful! Her skin glows. She is strong, and the picture of health. And you are both now…"
"Vachine?" Saark laughed. "I've yet to discover if that is a curse I will soon regret. Yes, it has healed me. Yes, my eyesight is a thousand times better, and I do not tire like once I did. But there is a price, I can feel it; there is always a price."
"Bite me," said Nienna.
"What?"
"Make me like you."
"No." Saark frowned. "This is madness. If Kell heard you speak thus…"
"What would he do? He's a grumpy old man. A fucking has-been. Bite me, Saark, then take me with you. When we get out of the mountains, we can flee together!"
"Whoa!" Saark leant back, and saw that Nienna's eyes were gleaming, almost with fever. Gently, he leaned towards her and put his hand on her knee. "What's going on inside your pretty head, Little One?"
"Stop treating me like a damn child!" she hissed. "You know what I want!"
Saark laughed easily. "Yes, I am predictable, am I not? But what you ask will get me killed. You know it, and I know it. If we are together, how long before Kell comes hunting us down? How long before sweet Ilanna cleaves through my skull? Where then your childish love?"
"Childish love? How dare you!"
"I dare much, little girl," said Saark, and smiled easily, eyes glowing. "If you simply want a quick session with your legs wide, any soldier in the barracks will accommodate you. I can arrange it, if you like. But if you want prime steak, if you want to feel Saark's superior touch and skill and expertise, well, you'll have to wait until you're a little older. I'm not the same as the perfumed absinthe drinkers in Vor who seek out little boys and girls for their fun. That is a practice I helped stamp out."
Nienna, with eyes wide, stood and stalked off, just as Myriam arrived and dumped a large coil of rope beside the fire. She sat, and looked at Saark. "You know I heard most of that?"
"I know."
"Do you think it'll work?"
"I hope so. Much as I'd like to taste her youthful sweetness, I'm sure the price would be too high." He glanced again at Kell. "Far too high."
"There is a price for everything in life," said Myriam, giving him a dazzling smile.
"I'd noticed," muttered Saark.
• • • •
They ate in a tired and weary silence, the gloom and cold getting to them despite their meagre fire. After three hours of grunting and hard work, stomping around in the shingle, Kell had finally fashioned a raft.
They stood, staring at the vessel, and Saark wore a frown like a deviated ballroom mask from the Black Plague Tribute, an illegal and anti-royal piece by one of Falanor's most twisted playwrights.
"So, what's that look mean, then?" said Kell, scowling.
"Nothing! Nothing. I mean, is it supposed to look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like that. I mean, all twisted and uneven. I swear by all that's unholy, Kell, you're no bloody carpenter."
"I know I'm not a carpenter," snapped Kell. His eyes blazed with anger. "That's the whole damn point! This is a life and death situation; we must make do with what we have; work with our limited tools. Which means none. This is about escape, Saark, not pissing carpentry."
"Still." He pursed his lips. "She hardly looks seaworthy."
" She is not a bloody galleon," snarled Kell, hands on hips, his fury still rising.
"And I can bloody see that!" said Saark. "To be honest, I think I might take my chances with the soldiers and demons. If we try and ride the river on that thing, we are sure to die."
Kell stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. You coming, Myriam?"
"I'm coming," said Myriam, flashing Saark a weak smile. She grabbed one edge, and with Kell they dragged the makeshift raft down to the water's edge, where the water tugged eagerly.
Saark shuffled after them, and stopped, shifting from one foot to the other. "This is starting to feel like a military training camp," he muttered, as he watched Kell making last minute adjustments, pulling several of the binding ropes tight. The timber creaked in protest under Kell's exerted pressure.
"Meaning?"
"Well, we did all sorts of horse shit like this during training. Carry rocks and logs, build rafts, work as a team to get across the river, make stepping stones, swing from high trees, climb like monkeys up pointless walls of rock, run through the mountains, navigate blizzards, that sort of thing. Hah! What a chamber pot of rotting turds that whole thing turned out to be!"
"So, you've built a raft before?" Kell glanced up as he worked.
"Sort of."
&n
bsp; "How can you 'sort of' build a raft? You either do or you don't."
"I directed their actions, like a good captain should."
"You mean you let others do the real graft, whilst you sat on your arse thinking about women?"
"Of course," smirked Saark, failing to grasp even the subtlest strand of sarcasm. "That's the way it should be. Royalty and people of breeding doing the commanding, whilst, ahem, no offence meant, but peasants work their fingers to the bone."
"So I'm a peasant, eh lad?" Kell straightened, and rubbed his hands on his jerkin. The skin of his hands was ingrained with dirt. His fingernails were mostly black from impacts during battle. His huge hands wore the hardy skin of sixty years of toil.
"Of course you are!" said Saark brightly. He grinned, and slapped Kell on the back. "But don't worry, old horse! I won't hold it against you! As you say, I've worked with worse tools."
Kell lifted Nienna onto the bobbing wooden raft, and then held out his hand for Myriam, who stepped lightly aboard. The raft bobbed. It looked far from safe. Kell glanced at Saark's beaming face, then stepped on himself. It took his weight, and he placed a hand on the low, makeshift tiller he'd fashioned from the lid of an old cherrywood chest. The raft began to drift from the shore.
"Hey, what about me?" snapped Saark, suddenly. His eyes went wide.
"Better jump for it, laddie."
"Hey, wait, I thought, I mean…"
"Didn't think you'd want to touch my dirty peasant's paws," grinned Kell. The gap was two feet distant now, and the current started to turn the raft. "Better be quick, when the current gets us you'll never make it."
Saark took a step back, and with an inelegant squawk, leapt for the raft. He hit the edge, and scrabbled for a moment, one leg sinking into the ice-chilled waters to the thigh. Then Myriam grabbed him, and hauled him onto the rough-lashed planks where he lay, gazing up, panting.
"You would have left me," he said.
"Don't be silly," smiled Kell.
"You would. I know you would."
"Well, maybe one day you'll learn your lesson," said Kell.
Saark pushed himself up. "And what lesson's that?"
