Damn you. You lie!
I do not.
What’s going on?
Three men are talking to her. They can see she is drunk on the port Saark bought. They seek to bed her, in sobriety, or not.
Kell surged from the bath, knocking the bottle of whisky over. It glugged amber heaven to the rugs and Kell ignored it. He wrenched on his trews, boots and shirt, grasped his axe, and stormed out and down the stairs.
Ilanna had been right. The inn was even more crowded, now, noisier, rowdier, no longer a place for a genial meal; now this was a pit in which to drink, get drunk, and flirt with whores.
Nienna sat, back to the wall, face a little slack. Three men sat around her in a semi-circle; even as Kell strode down the stairs one pushed a glass to Nienna, feeding her drunken state, and she giggled, throwing back the liquor as she swayed. The men were young, late twenties, in rough labourers clothing and with shadows of stubble.
Kell stopped behind them, and placed his hands on hips. Nienna could barely focus.
“Grappa?” she said, and grinned.
The three men turned.
“I suggest,” said Kell, face dark like an approaching storm, “you move away. I wouldn’t like to cause a nasty scene in the inn where I sleep; it often increases my lodging bill. And if there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s an extortionate bill for broken furniture.”
“Fuck off, grandad, this girl’s up for some fun,” laughed one young man, turning back to Nienna, and thrusting another drink at her. This meant he’d turned his back on Kell. Later, he would realise his mistake.
Kell’s fist struck him on the top of the head so hard his stool broke, and as he keeled over and his head bounced from floorboards, it left a dent. He did not move. Kell glared at the other two men, who half stood, hands on knives.
Kell drew Ilanna, and glared at them. “I dare you,” he said, voice little more than a whisper. Both men released knives, and Kell grinned. “I’d like to say this wouldn’t hurt. But I’d be lying.” He slammed a straight right, which broke the second man’s nose, dropping him with a crash, and a powerful left hook broke the third man’s cheekbone, rendering him unconscious. It took less than a second.
The innkeeper stepped in, holding a helve, but took one look at Kell and lowered the weapon. “We don’t want no trouble,” he said.
“I intend to give none. You should allow a better class of scum into your establishment,” he said, and gave a sickly smile. “However, I am a fair man, who has not yet lost his temper. Get your daughters to escort my granddaughter to her room, and tend her a while, and I won’t seek compensation.”
“What do you mean?” asked the innkeeper, touched by fear.
“My name is Kell,” he said, eyes glowering coals, “and I kill those who stand in my way. I’m going outside for fresh air. To cool off. To calm down. When I return, I expect these three piglets to have vanished.”
At the name, the innkeeper had paled even more. There were few who had not heard of Kell; or indeed, the bad things he had done.
“Whatever you say, sir,” muttered the innkeeper.
Still furious, more with himself than anybody else, and especially at invoking the vile magick of his own name, Kell strode to the door and out, away from the smoke and noise now rumbling back into existence after the fight. He took several deep lungfuls, and cursed the whisky and cursed the snow and cursed Saark…why hadn’t the damn dandy kept an eye on Nienna as he’d promised? And where was Kat?
“The useless, feckless bastard.”
Kell glanced up and down the street, then moved to the corner of the inn. Snow fell thickly, muffling the world. Kell stepped towards the stables and thought he heard a soft moan, little more than a whisper, but carrying vaguely across the quiet stillness and reminding him of one thing, and one thing only…
Sex.
With rising fury and a clinical intuition, Kell stomped through the snow towards the nearest stall. He stopped. Saark was lying back on a pile of hay, fully clothed, his face in rapture. Kat stood, naked before him, stepping from her dress even as he watched. Kell was treated to a full view of her powerful, round buttocks.
“You fucking scum,” snarled Kell, and slapped open the stable door.
“Wait!” said Saark.
Kell lurched forward, kicking Saark in the head, stunning the man who fell back to the hay. He turned to Kat, face sour. “Get your clothes on, bitch. You’ll be having no fun tonight.”
“Oh yes? Why? Haven’t you a hard enough cock yourself?”
Kell raised his hand to strike her, then stared hard, glancing at his huge splayed fingers; like the claws of a rabid bear. He lowered his hand, instead grabbing Saark by the collar and dragging him through the hay, back out onto the street and throwing him down.
“What did I tell you?” he snarled, and kicked Saark in the ribs. Saark rolled through the snow, grunting, to lie still, staring at snowfall. He gave a deep, wracking cough.
“Wait,” Saark managed, lifting his hand.
Kell strode forward, rage rushing through him, an uncontrollable drug. Deep down, he knew it was fuelled by whisky. Whisky was the product of the devil, and it made him behave in savage, evil ways, ways he could not control…
“You would abuse a young, innocent girl?” he screamed, and swung a boot at Saark’s face. Saark rolled, catching Kell’s leg and twisting it; Kell stumbled back, and Saark crawled to his feet, still stunned by the blows, his face twisted as he spat out blood.
“Kell, what are you doing?” he shouted.
“You went too far,” raged Kell, squaring up to Saark. “I’m going to give you a thrashing you’ll never forget.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, old man.”
“Don’t call me old man!” Kell charged, and Saark side-stepped but a whirring fist cracked the side of his head. He spun, and returned two punches which Kell blocked easily, as if fending off a child. Kell charged again, and the men clashed violently, punches hammering at one another in a blur of pounding. They staggered apart, both with bloodied faces, and every atom of Saark’s good humour disintegrated.
“This is crazy,” he yelled, dabbing at his broken lips. “She’s eighteen years old! She knows what she wants!”
“No. She knows what you tell her! You’re a womaniser and a cur, and I swear I’m going to beat it out of you.”
They clashed again, and Kell clubbed a right hook to Saark’s head, stunning him. Saark ducked a second blow, smashed a straight to Kell’s jaw, a second to his nose, a hook to his temple, and a straight to his chin. Kell took a step back, eyes narrowed, and Saark realised a lesser man would have fallen. In fact, a great man would have been out in the mud. Saark may have come across as an effeminate dandy, with a poison tongue and love of female sport and hedonism, but once, long ago, he had been a warrior; he knew he could punch harder than most men. Kell should have gone down. Kell should have been out.
Kell coughed, spat on the snow with a splatter of blood, and lifted his fists, eyes raging. “Come on, you dandy bastard. Is that all you’ve got?” He grinned, and Saark suddenly realised Kell was playing with him. He had allowed Saark the advantage. But Kell’s face turned dark. “Let’s see what you’re fucking made of,” he said.
Saark started to retreat, his head pounding, his face numb from the blows, but Kell charged, was on him and he ducked a punch, spun away from a second, leapt back from a third. He held out his hands. “I apologise!” he said, eyes pleading.
“Too late,” growled Kell, and slammed a hook that twisted Saark into the air, spinning him up and over, to land with a grunt on the snow, tangled. He coughed, and decided it was wise to stay down for a few moments.
“Get up,” said Kell.
“I’m fine just here,” said Saark.
“Grandfather!” Nienna was standing in the inn’s doorway, sobered by the spectacle, and surrounded by others from the inn who jostled to watch. She ran down the steps, silk shoes flapping, and placed herself before the fallen Saark and the enraged figure of Kell.
