Soul Stealers cvc-2

by Andy Remic

  "It smells good already." Kell's hand was tight on the haft of Ilanna. The axe blades gleamed cold. He was standing before the boy, just to one side, and Skanda was busy, intent on his task. An easy target. An easy death. No, he thought. Then: why not?

  After all, he had been poisoned, infected by the vile escaped prisoner, Myriam, with the aim of blackmailing him to help her save her own worthless skin. Kell's mission was simple, uncomplicated – ride north, fast, and locate Nienna. His granddaughter had also been poisoned with the same toxin; without Kell's haste, she would die, probably sooner than he for she was young and weak. Despite Kell's age, he was as strong as an ox, he knew. But the problem here lay with Skanda. Kell knew, deep down, that Saark wouldn't leave the boy with so many albino soldiers and cankers scouring the woods looking for them. But the boy would slow Kell down. In doing so, Nienna might die… so, to his mind, it was an easy problem to fix.

  Kell scratched his beard. He realised Ilanna was still tight in his fist. Her blades gleamed, catching the light of the fire.

  Another problem, was that if he left the boy behind, then how long before Graal tortured information from his spindly limbs? Saark had blabbed enough of the story to Skanda to make the boy a threat. Which meant only one course of action.

  Kell took a step closer. Still, Skanda did not look up. His hands moved swiftly, preparing more of the fresh rabbit meat. The smell made Kell's nose twitch, but his mind was working fast, one step ahead of something so simple as animal hunger.

  "You seek to rescue your granddaughter?" said Skanda, looking up suddenly. Kell nodded, and Skanda lowered his face again. The knife sliced and chopped. "Yes. She will die without me. She has been poisoned." "Saark said she was being held at the Cailleach Pass. That's the road to the Black Pike Mountains, isn't it?" Kell smiled grimly. Damn you, Saark, he thought. "Yes," he said, voice barely above a whisper. The fire crackled. Firelight gleamed in Kell's dark eyes. He no longer appeared like a hero from legend; now, in this ruined cottage in the midst of the night, clutching his possessed axe and eerily silent for such a big man, Kell was infinitely more intimidating.

  "I used to have a grandfather. A lot like you," said Skanda, innocently, oblivious to the threat which lay within inches, within heartbeats, of his delicate and fragile existence. "He died though, a long time ago. I thought he was as strong as ten men, but age wore him down in the end until his mind snapped, and he could no longer speak. He used to sit by the fire, rocking, dribbling, and this was the man who took on a hundred of the enemy at Tellakon Gate. A tragedy."

  "A tragedy," agreed Kell, voice low, and shifted his stance a little to the left, to give him better clearance for the strike. Kell licked his lips. He would kill the boy. Decapitate him. It would be clean. It would be quick. And much more humane than leaving the child to be slaughtered by the cankers… eaten alive, in fact. Kell gripped his axe tight. His eyes went hard. He lifted Ilanna into the air. Firelight gleamed from her butterfly blades. Kell relaxed, and readied himself for the strike…

  Saark moved around the perimeter of their camp like a spirit, halting occasionally to listen. The fall of snow acted as a natural muffler, but was dangerous for it hid fragile twigs and obstacles that might give away Saark's position. Still, he edged around a wide perimeter, eyes and ears alert, slender rapier in one chilled hand, and thinking hard on the problem of Falanor.

  General Graal had invaded. There had been no demands. Just slaughter.

  Why? What did he want?

  Saark mulled over the problem as he scouted, crouching occasionally. At one point he saw an owl, high in a tree, its huge yellow orbs surveying a world which appeared, Saark was sure, as bright as daylight to the savage, nocturnal hunting bird.

  Saark's mind drifted to Kell. He turned, to where he knew the ruined cottage lay. He considered Kell's motives, and thought of Nienna, but when he thought of her it made him think of Kat, and that was too painful a memory.

  Only days earlier, in their pursuit to warn King Leanoric of the impending invasion of albino soldiers led by General Graal, Kell and his companions – Saark, Nienna and Nienna's best friend, Katrina, with her short, wild red hair and topaz eyes, athletic and feisty despite her youth – were riding out a snowstorm in a deserted barracks when three dangerous brigands entered. Myriam, tall, wiry, strong, short black hair and rough, gaunt features, her eyes a little sunken, her flesh a little stretched from the cancer that was eating her from the inside out. Along with her, two companions: Styx, an inexorably ugly Blacklipper smuggler with only one eye and black lips, and Jex, small and permanently angry, with a tattooed face and the physique of a pugilist.

  Myriam had injected Kell and Nienna with poison, and Styx had murdered Katrina using a clockworkpowered Wi dowmaker mini-crossbow. They kidnapped Nienna during the Army of Iron's attack on King Leanoric's forces. Kat. Murdered. Dead.

  Even now, Saark brushed away a tear, and felt guilt and shame well within him. He had loved Katrina, which was ridiculous, even Saark had to admit. He was not just a dandy and popinjay, he was, even at his own admittance, one of the world's best seducers of women. He knew how they worked, how their minds operated, which dials to turn, which switches to flick, how to speak and lick and kiss and caress, and his beauty had brought him scores of lovers, many a cuckold, and so to fall in love with a seventeen year-old university student was simply bizarre. Ridiculous in the extreme. He told himself over and over that was not what happened; that it had been a simple tactic on his part to persuade Katrina to give away that most sought after prize, her virginity… but even Saark did not believe his own lie.

  And Saark had had the chance to kill her murderer. And failed.

  Bitterly now, Saark smiled. The wounds were still fresh. The hate was still bright. He would have his day with Styx, Saark knew; one way or another, in this world or in the next. He would cut the fucker in two, and drink his blood, and toast Kat's shade towards the Hall of Heroes.

  Saark stopped. Orientated himself. He had been drifting. Dreaming. He winced, clutching the pad at his side. It was still warm, and blood still leaked. Maybe he was weak from blood loss? And the recent beatings? Saark scowled. And thought of Kell. And a sudden dark premonition swept through him.

  No. Saark shook his head. Not even Kell would kill a child. Not in cold blood. Surely?

  Saark's eyes narrowed.

  Could he?

  Flitting embers from snatches of story pierced Saark's mind. Snippets of late drinking songs, when the candles were trimmed low and coals glowed dark in the tavern's hearth. The bard would lower his voice, fingers flickering gently over lyre strings as he recounted the Days of Blood, and the atrocities that occurred therein… All speculation, of course. Nobody knew what really happened all those years ago; no soldier had ever spoken of it. Those that still lived, of course, for most survivors had taken their own lives.

  Kell, however… he had been there. He had told Saark, although Saark was sure Kell didn't recall uttering the words. However, Saark still remembered the look in Kell's eyes.

  "I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blamed the whiskey, for so long I blamed the whiskey, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. I try, Saark. I try so hard to be a good man. I try so hard to do the right thing. But it doesn't always work. Deep down inside, at a basic level, I'm simply not a good person." And then, later, as Saark was sure Kell was falling into a pit of insanity… "Look at the state of me, Saark. Just like the old days. The Days of Blood." The Days of Blood. The day when an entire army went berserk. Insane, it was said. They killed men, women, children, torched houses, slaughtered cattle, torched people in their beds and… much worse. Or so it was said. So the dark songs recounted. And Saark knew Kell didn't have the necessary streak of evil to murder a child he thought might hold him back; and in so doing, be responsible for the death of his granddaughter, the only creature he loved on earth. "Horseshit," he muttered.

  Saark limped back towards the ruined cottage, cursing hi
s stupidity and chewing at his lip.

  Saark burst through the listing doorway, eyes drawn immediately to the crackling fire which danced bright after the gloom of the snowy woodland. There was no sign of Kell. Nor Skanda.

  "Son of a bastard's mule!" snapped Saark, and heard a grunt. He peered into the gloomy interior, and the darkness rearranged itself into shapes. Skanda was sat, almost hidden, stirring his ceramic pot of broth. "Are you well?" said Skanda, almost sleepily.

  "Yes, yes!" Saark strode forward, and sat on the log. He kicked off his boots and stretched out his feet, warming his toes. "Where's Kell? Don't tell me. The grumpy old weasel has gone for a shit in the woods." Skanda giggled, and appeared for once his age. "I think you might be right."

  Saark peered close. "Seriously. Are you all right, boy? For a minute, back there, I had the craziest notion that Kell might… well, that he might…"

  Skanda looked suddenly wise beyond eternity. "Let us say," whispered the boy, staring into the fire, "that Kell made the right choice."

  There came a crack, and Kell grinned at Saark from the doorway. "Thought you'd got lost out there, lad. Hugging the trees, were you? Digging in the dirt for more dirt? Or just having bad dreams about noble and heroic old Kell, the man of the Legend." Kell grinned, and although the destroyed cottage had little light, ambient or otherwise, Saark could have sworn Kell displayed no humour.

  "We're safe, for now," said Saark. "No sounds of cankers, no soldiers, no pursuit."

  Kell moved close. "Well don't get too comfy, lad. We eat, then we move."

  "We'll freeze!"

  "Freeze or die here," said Kell. "Because I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before that bastard Graal sends someone…" his smile widened, "or some thing, after us."

  "And the boy?"

  Kell could read the pain in Saark's eyes. He sighed, and ran a hand through his thick, grey-streaked hair. "The boy can come with us. But I'm warning you, if he gets in the way, or either of you slow me down, then I'll cut you both loose."

  "You think you can travel faster than I?" stammered Saark. "Man, I'm damn near thirty years your junior!"

  Kell leered close. "I know I can, lad. Now get some warm food inside you. We've got a long, hard journey ahead."

  They moved through the woodland and as dawn broke, wintry tendrils streaking through heavy cloud cover, so the distant walls of Old Skulkra could still be seen. Saark called a halt, and gestured to Kell. Kell moved close, axe in fist, eyes brooding. "What is it?" Saark pointed. Distantly, the Blood Refineries squatted on the plain like obscene bone dice tossed by the gods. "I have it in my mind to do some research," said Saark, voice soft, eyes bright. "And maybe some damage! Those machines are here for no good." "I know what they are," said Kell. "You do? How is that… possible?"

  Kell smiled grimly. "I have seen them in action. In another time. Another place. Let's just say, Saark, that to go chasing them now to satisfy your curiosity would end badly for all of us." "We need to know what we're fighting!"

  "So, lad, now we have gone to war?" Kell smiled, but there was no mockery in his tone. If anything, he valued Saark's spirit; especially after they had been through so much.

  "They brought war and chaos to Falanor. I would like to return the favour with the blade of my sword." "A task for another day." "You would save Nienna over Falanor?"

  "I would save her over the world," rumbled Kell. Seeing the look of incredulity in Saark's face, Kell shrugged and said, "Let me quantify it thus – Graal and his soldiers are searching for us, all of us. And those Blood Refineries are their life-blood. They will be guarded more heavily than any sparkling gems, than any royal blood. To go there, Saark, is folly. And what would you do? Gather information? For whom? Which army will use your military intelligence? No, Saark, we must travel north. When I have Nienna, when I hold her safe in my arms, then we will turn our gaze on Graal and these white-skinned bastards."

  Saark considered this. "That could, taken the wrong way, look simply like you're putting your own needs first." "Maybe I am, lad, maybe I am. But without me, you'll never conquer these bastards. I am your lynch pin. And I have been poisoned, and even as we stand debating what to do, the toxic venom pulses through my veins. Or had you forgotten this? Without me, you will fail." "Your arrogance astounds me."

  "It is the truth." Saark sighed, and turned his back on the giant, distant machines. "You say you have seen these Refineries working. I assume they do not bode well for the people of Falanor?"

  "The battle was horrific, yes? Leanoric's slaughter devastating?"

  "Yes."

  "The battle was just a prologue for what is to come. Trust me, Saark, when I say we need to use cunning, use our brains; charging back into that enemy camp is the last thing we should do."

  "You will not?"

  "I will not. But I admire your bravado, lad. Come. We will head north. This is a battle for another day." Saark hung his head, and they moved back into heavy woodland, tracking along in parallel with the Great North Road.

  They walked all day, and Kell muttered about pains in his knees. The landscape was beautiful, with hidden hollows filled with virgin snow, woodland branches, stark and bare, pointing white-peppered fingers at the bleak, blue-grey sky. Heavy swathes of conifer forest clutched the contours of the land like a lover. Streams lay frozen like snakes of diamond. The air was crisp, cold and fresh.

  Kell marched ahead often, eyes scanning the landscape for signs of enemy activity. At every hilltop he would drop and approach on his belly, so as not to silhouette himself to scouts. His keen eyes tracked the lay of the land, the contours of forest and river, of hillside and mossy nooks, of boulder fields and silent farmhouses.

  At one point before midday Kell spent a full half hour watching a farmhouse; no smoke curled from the chimney, and there was no sign of life. They approached warily, driven by hunger and cold, to find the farm hastily abandoned. As they walked across a cobbled yard chickens clucked in a nearby coop. Kell gestured. "Kill them, and bag them up. Fresh meat will do us the world of good."

  Saark stared at Kell's back. "What?"

  Kell stopped, and turned. "Kill the chickens. I will find us furs, woollen cloaks, dried beef. Go on, lad." "You kill the chickens," snapped Saark. "Is there a problem here?"

  "Only peasants kill chickens! I am used to my fresh meat served on silver platters, garnished with butter, herbs and new potatoes, a little salt, not too much pepper, and brought to me by a plump serving wench with breasts bigger than the bloody bird she's serving! Kell stared hard at Saark; the swelling in his beaten face had subsided, but he was still bruised, his lips cut, his skin scratched, and he looked a thousand leagues from the well-dressed dandy Kell had met in the tannery back in Jalder. "Well," said Kell, considering his position, "here, and now Saark, you're a peasant. You look like a peasant, and you stink like a peasant. So kill the damn chickens." "I will not kill the chickens. I am no serf!"

  'You will kill the chickens or go hungry," snapped Kell, and stormed off into the farmhouse, kicking open the door and leading the way with the gleaming blades of his axe.

  Saark stood for a moment, staring at the empty doorway and muttering curses. A hand touched him lightly on the arm, and Skanda grinned up at him. "It's all right, Pretty One, I'll kill them. Despite my appearance, I have a talent for it."

  "Are you sure?" muttered Saark, eyes dark, lips pouting.

  "Leave it to me." Skanda carried a rough bronze dagger, which he placed carefully between his teeth. He moved towards the coop and the clucking hens within.

  "I'll just… find some firewood. Or something." Saark waved to Skanda, then turned and started rooting around. "What we really need are horses," he said, and crossed to the stables, knowing there would be no beasts there – in times of flight, who would leave a horse? – but willing to search all the same. As he approached, the stables were dark, and silent. Rubbing his chin, he threw open the doors to reveal a total lack of thoroughbred stallion. "Hmm," he muttered, cursin
g his luck. Would it have hurt, for just this once, to give them a bit of good fortune? For a change? Instead of the gods throwing soldiers and deranged creatures into the battle at every damn pissing turn?

  Saark turned, leant his back against the stable door, and heard a strangled cluck. He winced. He had been truthful, in that his food was normally served on a silver platter by a wench whose breasts would suffocate three men, never mind one; but the reality of the matter, and something that shamed him, was that his life of high society had ill-prepared him for chicken slaughter. He had no idea how one slaughtered a chicken; nor any inclination to find out.

  Another deranged cluck emerged from the coop, and Saark winced again, almost in sympathy. A sympathy overwhelmed only by his ravenous hunger. Then, suddenly, behind him something went clack in the gloom of the dingy stable interior. He whirled about, slim rapier drawn, eyes narrowed.

  "Is there somebody there?" he snapped. "Show yourself! Don't make me come in there after you!" Nothing. No reply. No movement. No sound.

  Saark glanced back to the farmhouse, but there was no sign of Kell, and anyway, Saark resented being made to look a fool over something as ridiculous as the murder of a chicken. He pushed into the stable and lowered his head, as if this movement might somehow aid his night vision. He walked along the stalls, nose wrinkled at the stench of old dung and damp straw. The place reeked as bad as a rancid corpse. "Come out, now, before I lose my temper!" he said, voice raised, and as he neared the end stall he slowed his pace. Whoever it was, they had to be in there.

  Saark leapt the last few feet, rapier outstretched, and blinked. There, huddled in the stall, was a donkey. Saark and the donkey stared at one another for a while, and Saark finally relaxed. The donkey gave a husky bray, and tilted its head, observing the tall, lithe swordsman. "Damn it, they left you! You poor little thing." Saark opened the door, and finding a lead on the wall, spent several minutes attaching a halter and then leading the donkey out through the stables. Kell was just appearing from the farmhouse with a collection of items wrapped in a blanket as Saark emerged into wintry sunlight. They both stopped, staring at one another.