man of honour. He will come for your flesh.”
“A man of honour? And I suppose you are as well-”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Nienna, glaring at Kat. “That’s my grandpa you’re speaking to. The hero of Kell’s Legend! Don’t you know your contemporary history? Your battle-lore? He saved the battle at Crake’s Wall, turned the tide of savages in the Southern Jungles!” Anger flushed her cheeks red. Her fists were clenched.
Kat looked sideways at Kell, who continued to stare across the fields. “It’s fine, Nienna,” he said, voice little more than a whisper. Then, to Kat, “You’re talking about back at the tannery, aren’t you lass?”
Kat nodded.
Kell continued, “Yes. I was brutal, brutal and merciless towards you, and I shocked you into movement, into action! If you’d lingered on your injuries, on your fear, you could have killed us all. I could not allow you, even as a friend of Nienna, to be responsible for her death. I would not allow it!” He turned, stared at his granddaughter with a mix of love, regret, and nostalgia. He smiled then. “I would cross the world for you, my little monkey. I would fight an army for you. I would kill an entire city for you. Nobody will get close to you again, this I swear, by the blood-oil of Ilanna.”
Nienna moved forward, took his hand, snuggled in close to him. “You don’t have to do all that, grandfather.” Her voice was small, a child again, nestling against the only father figure she had ever known.
“But I would,” he growled. “No canker will get close. I’ll cut out the bastard’s throat.”
“Saark’s coming.”
They watched him approach, walking his horse with care over snowy undulations. He was smiling, which was a good sign; at least the Army of Iron hadn’t rolled through destroying everything in its path. For a long, hopeful moment Kell prayed he was mistaken, prayed to any gods that would listen that he was wrong; but a sourness overtook his soul, and he fell into a bitter brooding.
“There’s an inn, with rooms. I’ve booked us three.” He glanced at Kell. “Wouldn’t like to put up with your snoring again, old horse. No offence meant.”
“None taken; I am equally horrified by the stench of your feet.”
“My feet! I am aghast with horror! Oh the ignominy! And to think, we risked mutilation and death to come back for you with a horse. Old boy, we should have left you to eat fried canker steaks for the next week; maybe then you would have learnt manners.”
Kell pushed past Saark, leading his own horse. “That’s an impossibility, lad. A man like me…well, I’m too honest. A farmer. A peasant. Manners are the reserve of gentry; those with money, those born with silver on their tongue…” Saark smiled, inclining his head to the compliment, “…and equally those with a brush up their arse, shit in their brains, a decadent stench of bad perfume on their crotch, and a sister who’s really their cousin, their mother and their daughter all rolled into one. Inbreeding?” He growled a laugh. “I blame it on the parents.”
He stalked off, down the hill, and Saark turned to the young women. “Who rattled his chain and collar?”
“He rattled it himself,” said Nienna, stepping forward, touching Saark’s arm. “Don’t be too offended; back in Jalder, he made few friends.”
“How many friends?”
“None,” admitted Nienna, and laughed. “But he was a wonderful cook!”
“So wonderful he poisoned them all?”
“You are full of charm,” said Nienna, breathing a sigh as Saark took her arm. They started down the hill, leaving Kat with two horses, and she scowled after them, eyes narrowing, watching the sway of Saark’s noble swagger as he walked, one hand on his hip. He was going home; or at least, to a place of modest civility.
“We’ll see who’s full of charm,” she muttered.
Darkness had fallen as they entered the outskirts of the town, which Saark identified as Jajor Falls. Six cobbled roads ran out from a central square which acted as a hub and market, and there was an ornate stone bridge containing six small gargoyles over a narrow, churning, river. A fresh fall of snow began, as if heralding the travellers’ arrival, and they walked tired horses up the snow-laden street, hoof-strikes muffled, looking left and right in the darkness. Some houses showed lantern light in windows; but most were black.
“A sombre place,” remarked Kell.
“The inn’s livelier.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Slaughtered Piglet.”
“You have to be joking?”
“Apparently, there is a long archaic story of magick and mayhem behind the title. They’ll tell us over a tankard of ale.” He winked. “You have to admire these peasant types; they tell it like it is.”
“Sounds grand.”
They heard music before they saw the inn; it came into view, a long, low, black-stone building. Smoke pumped from a stubby chimney, and light showed from behind slatted shutters. Kell led the horses to stables behind the inn, handing them over to a skinny old man who introduced himself as Tom the Ostler. He wore nothing but a thin shirt against the snow, and his limbs were narrow, wiry, his biceps like buds on a branch. He grinned at Kell in a friendly manner, taking the horses, stroking muzzles, staring into eyes, blowing into nostrils. “Come with me, my beauties,” he said, and Kell could sense the old man’s love for the beasts.
Kell strode back to the inn’s door, entered slowly, eyes scanning the busy main room. Tables were crammed in, and full, mainly, of men drinking tankards of ale and talking Falanor politics. A few women sat around the outskirts of the main room, mostly in groups, talking and laughing. Some wore bright dresses, but most wore thick woollen market skirts. Smoke filled the inn, and a general hubbub of noise made Kell gradually relax. Sometimes, it was nice to be anonymous amidst strangers. He looped a long leather thong through the haft of his axe, then over his shoulder, drawing the weapon to his back. Then, he strode to the bar, searching for Saark, Nienna and Kat.
The barman waved at Kell. “What’ll it be, squire?” he asked.
“My friend’s booked three rooms for the night.”
“Ach yes, I just gave him the keys. Up the stairs,” he pointed, “rooms twelve, thirteen and fourteen.”
Kell grunted thanks, strode up the stairs, and turned on the landing to survey the common room. He made out the gambling table in the corner. Near it were three women, dressed in high stockings, their lips rouged with ink, feathers in their hair. Whores. Kell grunted, eyes narrowing, thinking of Saark and his eagerness. He moved into a smoke-filled corridor and searched for the rooms. Floorboards squeaked under his boots, and this was good. It would be hard to creep down such a passageway.
Locating the first room, he tapped. “Grandfather?” came Nienna’s voice, and Kell pushed open the portal, stepping inside, scanning the sparse furnished space. There was a large bed, with ancient carved headboard depicting a raging battle. Thick rugs covered dusty boards, and drawers and two stools lined the far wall. The windows were shuttered. A lantern burned on a table with honey light.
“Cosy,” he said, setting down a pack he’d taken from the albino soldier’s horse. Then he removed his axe, and stretched broad shoulders. “I hope there’s a bath in this place, because I stink, and I hate it when I stink.”
“You look like you’ve had a beating,” said Nienna, moving over to him. “I could ask the landlord for some cold cream, to take down the swellings.” She reached out, tenderly touched his bruised cheek.
Kell cursed.
“Does it hurt?” said Nienna, concern in her eyes.
“No. It’s just people remember a beaten face. I stand out. That’s not good.”
Nienna nodded. “Shall I go and see if the bathing room is free?”
Kell looked around, then. He frowned. “Where’s Kat?”
Nienna shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Kell moved back to the corridor, walked to the next door with a surprisingly light step, and opened it. Both Saark and Kat were sat on the bed, side by side, just a little bit too close. Kat’s laughter tinkled like falling crystals.
Saark looked around, up into Kell’s face, and the smile dropped from his features.
“Saark. A word, if you please.”
Saark coughed, stood up; Kell saw he had removed his boots. He stepped out. “There a problem, old horse?”
Kell reached past, closed the door, smiling at Kat, then grabbed Saark by the throat and rammed him up
