by Andy Remic
"It's true," rumbled Jagor, stepping forward. Saark looked again at the sword in his huge hands. It looked like a child's toy. Saark swallowed, for he was within striking distance and Kell seemed extremely laid back. As if he had nothing in the world to worry about.
"Which bit? The fact the Valleys of the Moon don't exist, or the fact that you have to be a village idiot invested with the dribbling liquid brain of a certifiable peasant to even want to look for such a mythical artefact?"
"No. It exists," said Jagor. "I have been there."
"And you're a mystic, are you?" scoffed Saark, examining the lace ruff of his sleeve.
"I surely am," rumbled Jagor, eyes flashing dangerously dark. "Watch. I can mystically transfer this short sword into the middle of your head."
"Point taken," prickled Saark, and turned his attention to Kell. "But seriously, Kell, think about it. You know I like to gamble, drink the finest wines, suckle the most succulent foods, dance like a peacock and fuck like a stallion. All the sensible things in life, my man. I've never trained an army in my life! You'd be insane to entrust me with such an important directive!"
Kell loosened his axe, and in a sudden movement swung the blade for Saark's head. Saark rolled back, fast, faster than any human had a right to move. His rapier was out, and he'd grabbed up the stool on which he was seated and hoisted it as a makeshift shield. He'd also moved, imperceptibly, so his back was against the wall of the fortress.
Kell grinned. "You see? Defence, stance, back to the wall, and you shifted so that you could attack all three of us, not knowing from whence the next strike would come." Kell sheathed Ilanna. Saark scowled. "It's all intuitive. You'll do just fine, lad. Just teach them about the strength of shield walls, the tactical advantage of a solid fighting square and how to respond in formation to commands. Get them practising. That's what I need. That's what you must do. Lives depend on it, Saark. All our lives."
"Bloody great," mumbled the dandy.
"As I said," roared Grak, "the bastard here will help. I've trained soldiers before. Just see yourself as the commissioned officer, and me as your finely honed tool."
"There's only one finely honed tool around here," mumbled Saark, but forced a smile. "Very well. If train men I must, then train men I must! We will turn back the tide of these evil vampires! Hurrah!" He flourished his rapier. Everybody stared at him.
"But don't think you can sit on your arse and do nothing," said Grak, amiably.
"Er. That's something like what I had in mind. You said yourself, you've trained men before."
"Aye, but I won't put up with slothful bastards. I put my foot down, I do."
"I take it by your story and demeanour, young Grak, that something untoward happened to your last Commanding Officer?"
"Aye. I cut off his hand."
"By accident?"
"Well, it was his accident to be damn disrespectful about the men whilst I was chopping wood."
"I thought you said you killed your General?" interjected Kell.
"Aye, him as well. Why do you think I'm here?"
Saark stared at Kell. "Please?" he mouthed, silently.
Kell turned his back on the dandy, and slapped Jagor Mad on the shoulder, having to stand on tiptoe to do so. "Come on, lad. Our horses are waiting."
"How long will you be?" said Saark, in what bordered on a useless puppy whine.
"A week, I reckon," said Kell, and glanced back. "Don't let me down on this, Saark. You understand?"
"Yes, Kell."
"And Saark?"
"Yeah?"
"Watch out for Sara. She's a wily bitch. I think she communes with Kuradek, so I'd limit what she can see, hear and do. She can spy bloody everything from that cell you put her in."
"Perhaps you'd like me to put a bag over her head?"
"A brilliant idea! Just don't get too close to her claws."
"Yes," said Saark, weakly.
"And Saark?"
"Go on." He sighed. "What now?"
"Don't touch Nienna."
"Like I would dream!"
"I know all about your fucking dreams, lad. If you do it again, the next fight we have, vampire invasion or no, you'll be wearing your feet as souvenirs round your pretty slit throat."
"Any other advice?"
"Keep the men well fed, but work them hard."
Saark put his hands on his hips. "Any more fucking advice? Why the fuck are you leaving? Maybe you should write me a, y'know, short manuscript on the art of running a fucking soldier-camp full of scumbag convicts – no offence meant -"
"None taken," smiled Grak menacingly.
"- or maybe you should just do it yourself!"
"See you in a week."
Saark scowled as Kell and Jagor moved to the horses, the finest war chargers from Governor Myrtax's stables. Huge beasts of nineteen hands, one was a sable brown gelding, the other charcoal black. Kell mounted the black beast, which reared for a moment and silhouetted Kell against the weak winter sun.
Saark stared in wonder.
Kell calmed the gelding, patting its neck and whispering into its ear, and ducking low over the horse's neck, galloped off through the gates of the Black Pike Mines and out onto the snowy fields beyond, closely followed by the hulking figure of Jagor Mad dressed in bulky furs and standing in his stirrups, giving a final, menacing, backward glance.
"I hope he knows what he's doing," said Saark.
"I hope you do," said Grak, staring at him.
The gates closed on well-oiled hinges, and Saark glared at Grak with open hatred. "I'm going for a bath," he said.
Grak nodded, and watched the peacock strut away, hand on scabbard, a stray sausage stuck to the back of his silk leggings. Grak sighed, and stared up at the sky.
"The gods do like to challenge," he said, and headed for the barracks.
Kell and Jagor rode in silence for a long time. West they travelled, along a low line of foothills before the rearing, dark, ominous Black Pike Mountains. Both horses carried generous packs of provisions, and for a while Kell brooded on his last conversation with Nienna.
"I'll miss you, grandfather."
"And I you, little Nienna."
"I am little no longer," she laughed.
"You will always be a child to me."
He sensed, more than saw, her shift in mood.
"That's the problem, isn't it? You control. I heard what mother said, heard some of the things she accused you of; and I have seen you raise your hand to me on several occasions! You need to learn, grandfather, you need to get in tune with the modern way of thinking! I am a little girl no longer! Understand?"
"When I was a boy," said Kell, "a woman could not… meet with a man until she was twenty-five summers! You hear that? Twenty-five years old! And you are seventeen, a suckling child barely weaned from her mother's tit and still lusting after the stink of hot milk."
"How dare you! I can have children! I can drink whiskey! I am a woman, and men find me attractive. Who the hell are you to lecture me on keeping myself to myself? I worked it out, Kell. I'm not stupid. You were twenty when you sired my mother; and she was eighteen. Barely older than me! And I bet that wasn't the first time your child-maker had a bit of fun with her…"
Kell glared, and lifted Ilanna threateningly. "You need to learn to hold your tongue."
"Or what? You'll cut it out?"
Kell frowned now, as a cold wind full of snow whipped down from the mountains and blasted him with more ferocity than his memories allowed for. Or had he simply been tougher, during his youth? As the years passed, had he simply grown weak? More pampered? Relying more on his reputation than any real skill in battle?
Kell was troubled by Nienna, but aware that events were overtaking him fast. He knew Saark would destroy any training he hoped to give his fledgling army. And anyway – an army of bloody convicts? Kell would laugh so hard he would puke, if he could summon the stamina.
And just to make his life more miserable, filled with hardship, filled wit
h pain, the poison injected into him by Myriam was starting to make its presence felt once more. It was a tingling in his bones. Especially the joints of his ankles, knees, elbows and wrists. "Damn that vachine bitch," he muttered.
"Are you well, old man? You look fit and ready to topple from the bloody saddle!" Jagor was grinning, but there was menace behind that grin. A low-level hatred.
"I'll last longer than you," grunted Kell, staring sideways at Jagor. "And don't be getting any fancy ideas. I ain't as fucking weak, nor as old, as you think."
Jagor held up both hands, as his horse picked its way through snowy tufts of grass. "Hey, I'm not complaining, Kell. Thing is, I wanted you dead so much – so bad. So bad it burned me like a horse-brand. Tasted like sour acid in my mouth. But when I was hanging by the throat, all I could see were bright lights and hear the voice of my little girl singing in the meadow. I knew I was going to die. I knew I would never see her again. And that hurt, Kell. Hurt more than any fucking noose. But then you cut me down, and saved me. And although that burned me in a different way, I have to concede you spared me. You kept me alive. And one day, if we're not massacred in the Valleys of the Moon, I might get to see that little girl again."
"I didn't know you had a little girl."
"Why would you?"
"I thought it might have come out at the trial."
Jagor Mad laughed. "I told them bastards nothing, you hear? Nothing. If they'd found out, they would have arrested Eilsha. The Bone Halls only know where my little one would have ended up. At least I spared them the pain of imprisonment."
Kell considered this, turning his head to the left as more snow whipped him, making him smart, and his eyes water. "I am confused, Jagor. You were part of a syndicate that used to kidnap children, and sell them into slavery? Yes? How could you do that, when you have your own little one?"
Jagor's face went hard. "We had to eat," he said, scowling.
"Would you have liked it, if another slaver took your girl?"
"That's different. I would have cut out his liver."
"And so now, you have the right to hang on to yours?"
"I didn't say what I did was right, Kell, and believe me as I lay in my cell night after night, week after week, year after bloody year, I cursed you for catching me, yes, but I cursed myself for my poor decisions in life. Once, I believe I was immoral. Above all those weak and petty emotions. Now, I have changed. At least a little." He gave a grim smile.
"I don't believe men change," said Kell, bitterly.
"So you're the same as during the Days of Blood?" Kell's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Oh yes, Kell, I have heard of your slaughter. You are legend amongst the Blacklippers – for all the wrong reasons."
Kell sighed, his anger leaving him as fast as it came. "You are right. And by my own logic, I am still a bloodthirsty, murdering savage. Maybe I am. I don't know. You can be the judge of that when we head into battle; for believe me when I say we have many a fight to come."
The night was drawing close, and they made a rough camp in the lee of a huge collection of boulders at the foot of the Black Pikes. Kell stretched a tarpaulin over them as a makeshift roof, which was fortunate as thick snow fell in the night.
Kell lay in the dark, listening to Jagor snoring. Pain nagged him like an estranged ex-wife, and it seemed to take an age for him to fall into sleep. He stared at the stars, twinkling, impossibly cold and distant, and thought about his dreams and aspirations. Then he smiled a bitter smile. What do the stars care for the dreams of men?
He awoke, cold and stiff, to the smell of coffee. He shivered, and looked up to see Jagor crouched by a small fire, boiling water in a pan, staring at him. Kell gritted his teeth. He had allowed himself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep; not an ideal situation when travelling with a certifiable killer.
"Coffee?" said Jagor, raising his eyebrows.
"Plenty of sugar," said Kell, and sat up, stretching. He was wrapped in a blanket, fully clothed, his boots by his side. Ilanna was by his thigh. She was never far from his grasp.
"You snore like a pig," said Jagor, pouring the brew.
Kell squinted. "Well, I ain't asking you to marry me."
Jagor laughed, and a little of their tension eased. "I like it that you snore, old man. Makes me think of you as human."
"Why, what did you think of me?"
"I thought you were a Chaos Hound," said Jagor, face serious, handing Kell the tin mug. "When you followed me down those tunnels to Old Gilrak, well, I knew then I was cursed, knew I was being pursued by something more than human. Hearing you fart in the night – well, old man, that's helping my mind heal."
"That's Saark's damn cooking, that is, the dandy bastard." Kell sipped his coffee. It was too sweet, but he didn't complain; rather too sweet than too bitter. Like life.
"He's a strange one, all right. What's with the pink silk, though? And green pants? And all that stink of a woman's perfume? Eh?"
"I think he thinks he's a noble."
"Is he?"
"Damned if I know," said Kell, and took the proffered oatcake.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Kell nodded, eating the oatcake and drinking more coffee. After a cold night under canvas, it was bringing him back to life; making him more human. "Go ahead."
"Why do you travel with him? You two seem… so different."
"Don't worry," growled Kell, "I'm not into that sort of thing."
"That's not what I meant," rumbled Jagor, reddening a little. "I mean, him with his long curly hair and fancy little rapier; you with your snoring and your axe. I wouldn't have thought you'd put up with him."
Kell considered this, finishing his coffee. "You're right, in a sense," he said. "Once was a time I couldn't have stood his stink, his talk, his letching after women or the sight of his tart's wardrobe. But we've been through some tough times together, me and Saark. I thought I saw him killed down near Old Skulkra, and I was ready to leave him for dead; but he showed me he was a tough, hardy and stubborn little bastard, despite appearances. I don't know. I like him. Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I've just killed one too many men, and like to talk and listen for a change, instead of charging in with the axe. Whatever. Saark's a friend, despite his odd ways. I ain't got many. And I'd kill for him, and I'd die for him."
Jagor nodded, and finished his coffee. "I think we should be moving."
"Aye. A long way to go, and already my arse feels like a fat man's been dancing on it."
"You never were a horseman, were you Kell?"
Kell grinned. "In my opinion, the only thing a horse is good for is eating."
Kell and Jagor Mad rode for another three days in more-or-less companionable silence. Jagor didn't speak about his capture all those years ago, or the recent incident with the noose; and Kell didn't mention the crossbow wound in his shoulder, nor the recent threat of murder. When they did talk, they spoke of old battles and the cities of Falanor, they talked of Kell's Legend, the saga poem, and how Kell hated his misrepresentation. As if he was a damned hero. Kell knew he was not.
Eventually, as they passed through folded foothills, past huge boulders and a random scattering of spruce and pine, Jagor stopped and looked to the right where the Black Peaks towered. His horse pawed the snow, and Kell's mount made several snorting sounds. The world seemed unnaturally silent. Eerie. Filled with ghosts.
"Easy, boy," said Kell, patting the horse's neck. Then to Jagor, "What is it?"
"We are close."
"To the Valleys of the Moon?"
"Aye."
Kell ran his gaze up and down the solid, looming walls of rock. "I see nothing."
"You have to know how to look. Follow me."
They rode on, and again Jagor reined his mount. He seemed to be counting. Then he pointed. "There."
Kell squinted. Snow was falling, creating a haze, but he made out a finger of smooth, polished granite no bigger than a man. "What is it?"
"A marker. Come on."
/> Jagor led the way; Kell followed and loosened Ilanna in her saddle-sheath. Then Jagor paused, and Kell saw another marker, and they veered right, between two huge boulders over rough ground; normally, Kell would have avoided the depression – it was a natural and instinctive thing to do whether on horseback or foot. It was too good a place for an ambush.
Jagor led the way between the boulders, and onto a flat path which led up, out of the tiny bowl. "Now look," he said.
Kell stared around, and Ilanna was in his hand as he glanced at Jagor. "I see nothing. Are you playing me for a fool?"
"Not at all, Kell. It's there." Jagor pointed, to the solid wall of jagged black granite.
"You're an idiot! That's impassable."
Jagor shook his head, and said, "Shift to the left. By one stride."
Kell shifted his mount, and as if by magick a narrow channel appeared before his eyes which led into the seemingly impassable rock face. Kell shifted his gelding again, and the passage slid neatly out of view, the rocky wall naturally disguising this narrow entrance. Kell stared hard. "By the Bone Halls, that plays tricks on a man's eyes."
"You have to know it's there. One footstep in either direction and the passage vanishes! As you say, like magick!"
"You lead the way."
"You still not trusting me?" Jagor Mad grinned, his brutal face looking odd with such an expression.
"I trust nobody," snapped Kell. "Take me to the Blacklippers. Take me to the Valleys of the Moon."
Saark stood in the snow and the churned mud, and his feet were freezing and he was scowling. The men had been divided into platoons of twenty, as he had watched King Leanoric do on so many occasions. Each platoon was commanded by a lieutenant, and five platoons made up a company ruled over by a captain.
They'd held a contest on the second day, in which crates, barrels and planks of wood had been assembled beside a pretend river. On the other side, behind upturned carts, archers with weak bows and blunt, flat-capped arrows were the enemy. Each platoon had to work together to "cross" the river and take the cart. The platoon which succeeded first would earn wine and gold.
Saark and Grak watched in dismay at first, as men squabbled and fought over planks and crates. But a young, handsome man, Vilias, imprisoned for his spectacular thieving career, gathered together several crates and got three of the platoons crouched behind them for protection from the archers as the other platoons continued to argue, or were shot by archers.
