from the shadows between cottages. They wore black armour, and their crimson eyes were emotionless, insectile.
Like ants, thought Kell. Simply following their programmed instructions…
There were fifty of them, now. Off to the right a platoon of soldiers emerged, and a group of villagers attacked with swords and pitchforks. Their screams sang through the night to a musical accompaniment of steel on steel; they were butchered in less than a minute.
“Come on, come on,” muttered Kell, aware that some spell was at work here, and he growled at the albino warriors and then, realised with a jump, that they watched his axe, eyes, as one, fixed on Ilanna. He lifted the great weapon, and their eyes followed it, tracking the terrible butterfly blades.
So, he thought. You understand her, now.
“Come and enjoy her gift,” he snarled, and from their midst emerged a Harvester, and Kell nodded to himself. So. That was why they waited. For the hardcore magick to arrive…
Iron-shod hooves clattered on ice and cobbles, and Nienna and Kat rode free of the stables, the geldings sliding as they cornered and Saark whirled, leapt up behind Kat, taking the reins from her shaking fingers.
“Kell!” he bellowed.
Kell, staring at the Harvester, snarled something incomprehensible, then turned and vaulted into the saddle behind Nienna-hardly the action of an old man with rheumatism. “Yah!” he snarled and the horses galloped through the streets, churning snow and frozen mud, slamming through milling people and over the bridge and away…
Behind, the screams began.
“Soldiers ahead!” yelled Saark as they charged down a narrow street of two-storey cottages with well-tended gardens, and there were ten albino warriors standing in the road, swords free, heads lowered, and as Saark dragged violently on reins the gelding whinnied in protest. Kell did not slow, charging his own horse forward, Nienna gasping between his mighty arms as Ilanna sang, a high pitched song of desolation as she cleaved left, then right, leaving two carved and collapsing corpses in sprays of iridescent white blood. Kell wheeled the horse, and it reared, hooves smashing the lower jaw from the face of an albino who shrieked, grabbing at where his mouth had been. Behind, Saark cursed, and urging his own gelding forward, charged in with his sword drawn. Steel rang upon steel as he clashed, and to his right Kell leapt from the saddle as Nienna drew her own sword from its saddle-sheath. Kell carved a route through the soldiers, his face grim, eyes glowing, whisky on his breath and axe moving as if possessed; which it surely was.
Nienna sat atop the horse, stunned by events; from fine dresses and heady drinks to sitting in the street, sword in hand, petrified to her core. Again. She shook her head, feeling groggy and slow, mouth tasting bad, head light, and watched almost detached as a soldier stepped from his comrades, focused on her, and charged with sword raised…
Panic tore through Nienna. The soldier was there in the blink of an eye, crimson eyes fixed, sword whistling towards her in a high horizontal slash; she stabbed out with her own short blade, and the swords clashed, noise ringing out. Kell’s head slammed left, as Ilanna cut the head from a warrior’s shoulders. Kell sprinted, then knelt in the snow, sliding, as Ilanna slammed end over end to smash through the albino’s spine, curved blade appearing before Nienna’s startled gaze on a spray of blood.
Saark finished the last of the soldiers, slitting a man’s throat with a dazzling pirouette and shower of horizontal blood droplets. The corpse crumpled, blood settled like rain, and behind them, on the road, ice-smoke crept out and curled like questing fingers.
“We need to get out of Jajor Falls,” panted Saark.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” Kell took the reins, smiling grimly up at Nienna who rubbed her tired face.
“You’re not even out of breath, old boy.”
“Economy of movement,” said Kell, and forced a smile. “I’ll teach you, one day.”
There came an awkward hiatus. Saark gazed into Kell’s eyes.
“I thought you were going to kill me, back there.”
“No, laddie. I like you. I wouldn’t do that.”
Saark let the lie go, and they mounted the geldings. As they rode from Jajor Falls, out into the gloom under heavy falling snow, down a narrow winding lane which led to thick woodland and ten different tracks they could choose at random, behind them, in the now frozen village, the Harvesters moved through the rigid population with a slow, cold, frightening efficiency.
As day broke, so the trail they followed joined with the cobbled splendour of the Great North Road, winding and black, shining under frost and the pink daubs of a low-slung newly-risen sun. The horses cantered, steam ejecting from nostrils, and all four travellers were exhausted in saddles, not just from lack of sleep, but from emotional distress.
“How far to the king?” said Kell, as they rode.
“It’s hard to say; depends with which Eagle Division he’s camped, or if we have to travel all the damn way to Vor. Best thing is stop the first soldier we see and ask; the army has good communications. The squads should be informed.”
“You know a lot about King Leanoric,” said Kat, turning to gaze up at Saark. She was aware of his powerful arms around her, his body pressed close to her through silk and furs, which he’d wrapped around her shoulders in the middle of the night to keep her warm. It had been a touching moment.
“I…used to be a soldier,” said Saark, slowly.
“Which regiment, laddie?”
“The Swords,” said Saark, eyes watching Kell.
“The King’s Own, eh?” Kell grinned at him, and rubbed his weary face. The smell of whisky still hung about him like a toxic shawl.
“Yes.”
“But you left?”
“Aye.”
Kell caught the tension in Saark’s voice, and let it go. Kat, however, did not.
“So you fought with the King’s Men? The Sword-Champions?”
Saark nodded, squirming uneasily in the saddle. To their left, in the trees, a burst of bird song caught his attention. It seemed at odds with the frost, and the recent slaughter. He shivered as a premonition overtook him.
“Listen, Kell, it occurs to me the Army of Iron is moving south.”
“Occurred to me as well, laddie.”
“And they’re moving fast.”
“Fast for an army, aye. They’re taking every village as they go, sweeping down through Falanor and leaving nobody behind to oppose them. If the king already knows, he will be mustering his divisions. If he does not…”
“Then Falanor lies wide open.”
Kell nodded.
“He must know,” said Saark, considering, eyes observing the road ahead. They were moving between rolling hills now, low and rimed with a light scattering of snow, patches of green peeping through patches of white like a winter forest patchwork.
“Why must he?”
“Falanor is riddled with his troops, sergeants, scouts, spies. Even now, Leanoric will be summoning divisions, and they will march on this upstart aggressor. We can be of no further use.”
Kell looked sideways at Saark. “You think so, do you?” he murmured.
Saark looked at him. “Don’t you?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We could head west, for the Salarl Ocean. Book passage on a ship, head across the waves to a new land. We are both adept with weapons; we’ll find work, there’s no question of that.”
“Or you could steal a few Dog Gemdog gems, that’d keep you in bread, cheese and fine perfume.”
Saark paused. He sighed. “You despise me, don’t you? You hate my puking guts.”
“Not at all,” said Kell, and reined in his mount. “We need to make camp. The girls are freezing. We’ve put a