think you just line your britches with old shit. It all adds to the rancid stench of the legend.'
Kell shrugged, easily. 'No problem. If that's what you want.' A pool of piss leaked out from one boot, forming a puddle of glistening yellow and Kell stepped closer to the men, trailing a stream of piss and both soldiers, with backs to the scree slope now, dropped their gazes in disgust.
'Not here, you dirty old fool!' snapped one soldier, and glanced up -
Into Kell's boot. It was a massive blow, catching the soldier under the chin and lifting him high into the air, and backwards. He tumbled down the scree slope in a clatter of rocks. The second man rose fast, started drawing his sword, but Kell stamped on his hand and he let go of the blade; twisting, Kell stamped down a second time, boot catching the pommel and striking it downwards. The sword blade punched through scabbard, a diagonal strike down through the buckling man's left calf muscle, right through flesh and into his right foot, pinning his legs together. He toppled, screaming, clawing at the bloodied blade.
At the edge of the scree slope there came a short scream as the sliding soldier was ejected into the abyss. He took a clatter of stones with him. Then silence followed his long descent into oblivion.
The rest of the soldiers leapt into action, drawing swords and Kell turned on them, eyes glowing, teeth bared. 'Come on, you heaps of walking horseshit! Let's see what you're made of! Let's see if the maggots fight as well as they breed!'
'No,' came a soft voice. Spilada held Nienna, one hand clamped around her throat choking her, the other with a short skinning knife, blade gleaming. Even as Kell watched, face thunder, Spilada let go of her throat, grabbed her hand, lifted it before the group and with a swift, tight cut, snipped off the little finger of her right hand. Nienna screamed, there was a spurt of blood and she went down on her knees weeping, cradling the mutilated limb, rocking. Her finger lay on the ground, like a tiny white worm.
Spilada stepped forward, and as Kell surged at him he lifted a finger and placed the skinning dagger against Nienna's throat. He smiled a cold smile. Kell stopped. He lowered his face. The flat of a sword smashed the back of his skull, and he went down on one knee. Boots waded in, and they kicked him, eight soldiers kicked him, but he did not go down. He simply took the beating, blood on his teeth, eyes never leaving Spilada even under the heaviest of blows.
Saark leapt to Nienna, cradling her, tearing off a section of his shirt and binding her cut finger as best he could. He glared up at Spilada. 'What are you doing? She's just a child!' he snarled.
Spilada shrugged. 'Next time, I'll cut off her hands. You men, you listen, you will cooperate. This is no game we play.' He turned back to Kell, who had stood now the beating ended. The soldiers backed away from him warily, as if they surrounded a wild caged bear. In the background, the man whose legs were pinned together by his own sword whimpered. Spilada made a strange tight gesture, a flicker of fingers, a signal, and another albino slit the wounded man's throat in a rush of white blood. He gurgled for a while, twitched, and was still.
'I will kill you,' said Kell.
Spilada shrugged. 'You will cooperate. Do I have your cooperation? Or shall I fetch my bag of razor- knives?'
'I will do as you ask,' said Kell, gently. He lowered his head. He did not look at Nienna.
'Hush girl,' said Saark, and the soldiers now bound Kell's feet – a loose binding, an effective hobbling which allowed him to walk, clumsily, like a prisoner. Saark hugged Nienna. She was crying in pain and shock.
'He cut off my finger!' she wept, staring at the bloodied section of shirt tied tight around her stump. 'He cut it off! What kind of men are these? We should never have come here!'
'They're men who'll do much worse if we don't cooperate,' said Saark, nostrils twitching at the stench of blood which filled up his nose and mouth and mind with a whirling red vortex of sudden lust. 'Come on.' Saark helped Nienna to her feet. She swayed, with pain and shock.
'Can she walk?' snapped Spilada. 'If not, we'll toss her into the canyon.'
'I can walk, you bastard,' Nienna snarled, suddenly venomous. There was pure hate in her eyes. Spilada smiled at the vision.
'We have a little Hellcat here, I see.'
'A Hellcat who'll cut your throat.'
Spilada's smile dropped from his face like a stone down a well. 'Enough talk. Walk or die.'
Nienna nodded, and Saark helped her to stumble to her grandfather. Kell looked at her then, sorrow in his eyes, tears on his cheeks and in his beard.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'It's not your fault!' wept Nienna, and tried to hug him, clumsily due to her bound wrists.
'I caused you injury. I will never forgive myself.'
'You were trying to get us free,' she said.
Kell scowled. 'I should never have brought you here, child. This is a place of death.' His voice dropped, turning to a growl. 'Or very soon, it will be.' His eyes strayed to Ilanna. She had been placed in a sack with other weapons, and one soldier carried it over his shoulder. But Kell could see her outline. And he could hear her voice.
In time, she said. It will come.
I promise you that, Legend.
Kell nodded, and the group moved into another narrow tunnel which led, as ever, upwards.
After many more hours, during which they were allowed only short rests – mainly for the sake of Nienna, who had dropped into a subdued, bitter silence – they emerged from another steeply-climbing tunnel onto a platform in a vast subterranean cavern. Now, the soldiers carried lit torches, for the glow of worm slime had faded behind them. Fire sputtered and whipped in wild underground breezes, howling from unseen high places, crags and hollows, high tunnels and caves. The platform led out over a narrow stone bridge, wide enough to let three men walk abreast but with no guard rails. It arched slightly over a vast abyss, and disappeared into darkness which the torchlight could not penetrate.
'There's somebody on the bridge,' said Saark.
'You've better eyesight than me, lad,' said Kell.
'You first,' grunted one soldier, and prodded Kell. Kell climbed a few short rough-hewn steps, and out onto the windy, underground bridge. It was damp, and looked slippery. Wary, Kell stepped forward, but the bridge was solid under his boots. He walked with care, followed by Saark and Nienna, and then the soldiers from the Army of Iron spreading out behind with Spilada at their core.
'By all the gods, it's Myriam!' said Saark, voice rising a little in surprise.
'Does she have her bow?' snapped Kell.
'Yes! She must be here to help.' His voice dropped. 'But… something is wrong,' he said, head tilting to one side. 'How could she have survived that fall?'
'Probably got stuck on a ledge,' muttered Kell. 'Don't think about that now… what we need to think about is escape.'
'If we fail, we die,' said Saark, looking into Kell's eyes.
'Then we die,' said Kell softly. 'I have a knife in my boot. When we get close to Myriam, follow my lead.'
'Stop the talk!' snapped Spilada from the rear. He drew his sword. 'Unless you want ten inches of steel in your spine!'
Kell and Saark were quiet, moving forward across the slick stone bridge. The wind snapped at them with hungry jaws. The abyss loomed. Myriam was smiling as they came close.
Kell gasped, for her hair was thick and lush, her gaunt face no longer gaunt, but finely chiselled and defined by beauty; her figure, her limbs, her hips, all were powerful and athletic, and her flesh was healthy, even in this cold subterranean hollow, not the waxen pallor of the near-dead. Now, she was beautiful again. Myriam was no longer a slave to cancer and the fear of death. Myriam was a woman in her prime.
'Kell…' warned Saark.
And Kell knew, knew the risks, knew Myriam might not be with them but the opportunity was too good and the location too neat not to use for his own ends, his own plan, and battle rage swamped him and he could not be a prisoner, could not be bound like an animal heading for predicted slaughter and yes they might all die, but better to die fighting! He stumbled, tripped on the bindings which locked his legs together in a prisoner's hobble, and went down on one knee. The tiny knife in his boot cut up, through leg bindings and wrist bindings with one swift harsh
