sharp, and end up without a nose.”
“I still want to know. A nose has limited use, in my opinion.”
Kell chuckled. “I think you are a little insane, my friend.”
“In this world, aren’t we all?”
Kell shrugged.
“Go on then; the suspense is killing me.”
“We ate each other,” said Kell, simply.
Saark rode in silence for a while, digesting this information. Eventually, he said, “Which bit?”
“Which bit what?”
“Which bit did you eat?”
Kell stared at Saark, who was leaning forward over the pommel of his stolen horse, keen for information, eager for the tale. “Why would you need to know? Writing another stanza for the Saga of Kell’s Legend?”
“Maybe. Go on. I’m interested.” He sighed. “And in this short, brutal, sexually absent existence, your stories are about the best thing I can get.”
“Charming. Well, we’d start off with his arse, the rump-largest piece of meat there is on a man. Then thighs, calves, biceps. Cut off the meat, cook it if you have fire; eat it raw if you don’t.”
“Wasn’t it…just…utterly disgusting?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’d rather starve,” said Saark, primly, leaning back in his saddle, as if he’d gleaned every atom of information required.
“You’ve never been in that situation,” said Kell, voice an exhalation. “You don’t know what it’s like, dying, chipped at by the howling wind, men sliding from ledges and screaming to their deaths; or worse, falling hundreds of feet, breaking legs and spines, then calling out to us for help for hours and hours, screaming out names, their voices following us through the passes, first begging, then angry and cursing, hurling abuse, threatening us and our families; and gradually, over a period of hours as their words drifted like smoke after us down long, long valleys, they would become subdued, feeble, eaten by the cold. It was an awful way to die.”
“Is there a good one?”
“There are better ways.”
“I disagree, old horse. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“I knew a man, they called him the Weasel, worked for Leanoric in the, shall we say, torturing business. I got drunk with him one night in a tavern to the south of here, in the port-city of Hagersberg, to the west of Gollothrim. He reckoned he could keep a man alive, in exquisite pain, for over a month. He reckoned he could make a man plead for death; cry like a baby, curse and beg and promise with only the sweet release of death his reward. This Weasel reckoned, aye, that he could break a man-mentally. He said it was a game, played between torturer and victim, a bit like a cat chasing a mouse, only the cat was using information and observation and the nuances of psychology to determine how best to torture his victims. The Weasel said he could turn men insane.”
“You didn’t like him much, then?”
“Nah,” said Kell, as they finally broke from the trees and stood the geldings under the light of a yellow moon. Clouds whipped overhead, carrying their loads of snow and hail. A chill wind mocked them. “I cut off his head, out in the mud.”
“So you were taking a moral standpoint? I applaud that, in this diseased and violent age. Men like the Weasel don’t deserve to breathe our sweet, pure air, the torturing bastard villainous scum. You did the right thing, mark my words. You did the honourable thing.”
“It was nothing like that,” said Kell. He looked at Saark then, and appeared younger; infinitely more dangerous. “I was simply drunk,” he said, and tugged at the gelding’s reins, and headed towards another copse of trees over the brow of a hill.
Saark kicked his own mount after Kell, muttering under his breath.
The sun crept over the horizon, as if afraid. Tendrils of light pierced the dense woodland, and Kell and Saark had a break, tethering horses and searching through saddlebags confident, at least for the moment, that they had shaken their pursuers. More snow was falling, thick flakes tumbling lazy, and Kell grunted in appreciation. “It will help hide our tracks,” he said, fighting with the tight leather straps on a saddlebag.
“I thought the canker hunted by smell? Lions in the far south hunt by smell; by all accounts, they’re impossible to shake.”
Kell said nothing. Opening the saddlebags, the two men searched the albinos’ equipment, finding tinder and flint, dry rations, some kind of dried red-brown meat, probably horse or pig, herbs and salt, and even a little whisky. Saark took a long draught, and smacked his lips. “By the balls of the gods, that’s a fine dram.”
Kell took a long drink, and the whisky felt good in his throat, warm in his belly, honey in his mind. “Too good,” he said. “Take it away before I quaff the lot.” He gazed back, at the thickly falling snow.
“The question is,” said Saark, drinking another mouthful of whisky, “do we make camp?”
“No. Nienna is in danger. If the albino soldiers find her, they’ll kill her. We can eat as we ride.”
“You’re a hard taskmaster, Kell.”
“I am no master of yours. You are free to ride away at any moment.”
“Your gratitude overwhelms me.”
“I wasn’t the one pissing about on the bed of a river, flapping like an injured fish.”
“I acknowledge you saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful; but Kell, we have been through some savage times, surely my friendship means something? For me, it’s erudite honour to ride with the Legend, to perhaps, in the future, have my own exploits recounted by skilled bards on flute and mandolin, tales spun high with ungulas of perfume as Kell and Saark fill in the last few chapters of high adventure in the mighty Saga!” He grinned.
“Horse-shit.” Kell glared at Saark. “I ain’t allowing no more chapters of any damn bard’s exaggerated tales. I just want my granddaughter back. You understand, little man?”
Saark held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was only trying to impress on you the importance of your celebrity, and how a happy helper like myself, if incorporated into said story, would obviously become incredibly celebrated, wealthy, and desired by more loose women than his thighs could cope with.”
Kell mounted his horse, ripped a piece of dried meat in his teeth. He set off down a narrow trail, ducking under snow-laden branches. “Is that all you want from life, Saark? Money and a woman’s open legs?”
“There is little more of worth. Unless you count whisky, and maybe a refined tobacco.”
“You are vermin, Saark. What about the glint of sunlight in a child’s hair? The gurgle of a newborn babe? The thrill of riding a unbroken stallion? The brittle glow of a newly forged sword?”
“What of them? I prefer ten bottles of grog, a plump pair of dangling breasts on a willing, screaming, slick, hot wench, a winning bet on some fighting dogs, and maybe a second woman, for when the first wench grows happily exhausted. One woman was never enough! Not for this feisty sexual adventurer.”
Kell looked back, into Saark’s eyes. “You lie,” he said.
“How so?”
“I can read you. You have behaved like that, in the past, giving in to your base needs, your carnal lusts; but there is a core of honour in your soul, Saark. I can see it there. Read it, as a monk reads a vellum scroll. That’s why you’re still with me.” He smiled, his humour dry, bitter like amaranth. “It’s not about women, wet and willing, nor the drink. You wish to warn King Leanoric; you wish to do the right thing.”
Saark stared hard at Kell, for what seemed like minutes, then snapped, “You’re wrong, old man.” His humour evaporated. His banter dissolved. “The only thing left in my core is a maggot, gorging on the rotten remains. I drink, I fuck, I gamble, and that’s all I do. Don’t think you can see into my soul; my soul is more black and twisted than you could ever believe.”
“As you wish,” said Kell, and kicked his horse ahead, scouting the trail, his Svian drawn, a short albino sword by his hip on the saddle sheath. And ahead, Kell smiled to himself; finally, he had got to Saark. Finally, he had shut the dandy popinjay’s mouth!
Saark rode in sullen silence, analysing his exchange with Kell. And in bitterness he knew, knew Kell was close to the bone with his analysis and he hated himself for it. How he wished he had no honour, no desire to do the right thing. Yes, he drank, but always to a certain limit. He was careful. And yes, he would be the first to admit he was weak to the point of village idiot by a flash of moist lips, or the glimpse of smooth thigh on a pretty girl. Or even an
