the old days. The Days of Blood.' The Days of Blood. The day when an entire army went berserk. Insane, it was said. They killed men, women, children, torched houses, slaughtered cattle, torched people in their beds and… much worse. Or so it was said. So the dark songs recounted. And Saark knew Kell didn't have the necessary streak of evil to murder a child he thought might hold him back; and in so doing, be responsible for the death of his granddaughter, the only creature he loved on earth. 'Horseshit,' he muttered.
Saark limped back towards the ruined cottage, cursing his stupidity and chewing at his lip.
Saark burst through the listing doorway, eyes drawn immediately to the crackling fire which danced bright after the gloom of the snowy woodland. There was no sign of Kell. Nor Skanda.
'Son of a bastard's mule!' snapped Saark, and heard a grunt. He peered into the gloomy interior, and the darkness rearranged itself into shapes. Skanda was sat, almost hidden, stirring his ceramic pot of broth. 'Are you well?' said Skanda, almost sleepily.
'Yes, yes!' Saark strode forward, and sat on the log. He kicked off his boots and stretched out his feet, warming his toes. 'Where's Kell? Don't tell me. The grumpy old weasel has gone for a shit in the woods.' Skanda giggled, and appeared for once his age. 'I think you might be right.'
Saark peered close. 'Seriously. Are you all right, boy? For a minute, back there, I had the craziest notion that Kell might… well, that he might…'
Skanda looked suddenly wise beyond eternity. 'Let us say,' whispered the boy, staring into the fire, 'that Kell made the right choice.'
There came a crack, and Kell grinned at Saark from the doorway. 'Thought you'd got lost out there, lad. Hugging the trees, were you? Digging in the dirt for more dirt? Or just having bad dreams about noble and heroic old Kell, the man of the Legend.' Kell grinned, and although the destroyed cottage had little light, ambient or otherwise, Saark could have sworn Kell displayed no humour.
'We're safe, for now,' said Saark. 'No sounds of cankers, no soldiers, no pursuit.'
Kell moved close. 'Well don't get too comfy, lad. We eat, then we move.'
'We'll freeze!'
'Freeze or die here,' said Kell. 'Because I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before that bastard Graal sends someone…' his smile widened, 'or some thing, after us.'
'And the boy?'
Kell could read the pain in Saark's eyes. He sighed, and ran a hand through his thick, grey-streaked hair. 'The boy can come with us. But I'm warning you, if he gets in the way, or either of you slow me down, then I'll cut you both loose.'
'You think you can travel faster than I?' stammered Saark. 'Man, I'm damn near thirty years your junior!'
Kell leered close. 'I know I can, lad. Now get some warm food inside you. We've got a long, hard journey ahead.'
They moved through the woodland and as dawn broke, wintry tendrils streaking through heavy cloud cover, so the distant walls of Old Skulkra could still be seen. Saark called a halt, and gestured to Kell. Kell moved close, axe in fist, eyes brooding. 'What is it?' Saark pointed. Distantly, the Blood Refineries squatted on the plain like obscene bone dice tossed by the gods. 'I have it in my mind to do some research,' said Saark, voice soft, eyes bright. 'And maybe some damage! Those machines are here for no good.' 'I know what they are,' said Kell. 'You do? How is that… possible?'
Kell smiled grimly. 'I have seen them in action. In another time. Another place. Let's just say, Saark, that to go chasing them now to satisfy your curiosity would end badly for all of us.' 'We need to know what we're fighting!'
'So, lad, now we have gone to war?' Kell smiled, but there was no mockery in his tone. If anything, he valued Saark's spirit; especially after they had been through so much.
'They brought war and chaos to Falanor. I would like to return the favour with the blade of my sword.' 'A task for another day.' 'You would save Nienna over Falanor?'
'I would save her over the world,' rumbled Kell. Seeing the look of incredulity in Saark's face, Kell shrugged and said, 'Let me quantify it thus – Graal and his soldiers are searching for us, all of us. And those Blood Refineries are their life-blood. They will be guarded more heavily than any sparkling gems, than any royal blood. To go there, Saark, is folly. And what would you do? Gather information? For whom? Which army will use your military intelligence? No, Saark, we must travel north. When I have Nienna, when I hold her safe in my arms, then we will turn our gaze on Graal and these white-skinned bastards.'
Saark considered this. 'That could, taken the wrong way, look simply like you're putting your own needs first.' 'Maybe I am, lad, maybe I am. But without me, you'll never conquer these bastards. I am your lynch pin. And I have been poisoned, and even as we stand debating what to do, the toxic venom pulses through my veins. Or had you forgotten this? Without me, you will fail.' 'Your arrogance astounds me.'
'It is the truth.' Saark sighed, and turned his back on the giant, distant machines. 'You say you have seen these Refineries working. I assume they do not bode well for the people of Falanor?'
'The battle was horrific, yes? Leanoric's slaughter devastating?'
'Yes.'
'The battle was just a prologue for what is to come. Trust me, Saark, when I say we need to use cunning, use our brains; charging back into that enemy camp is the last thing we should do.'
'You will not?'
'I will not. But I admire your bravado, lad. Come. We will head north. This is a battle for another day.' Saark hung his head, and they moved back into heavy woodland, tracking along in parallel with the Great North Road.
They walked all day, and Kell muttered about pains in his knees. The landscape was beautiful, with hidden hollows filled with virgin snow, woodland branches, stark and bare, pointing white-peppered fingers at the bleak, blue-grey sky. Heavy swathes of conifer forest clutched the contours of the land like a lover. Streams lay frozen like snakes of diamond. The air was crisp, cold and fresh.
Kell marched ahead often, eyes scanning the landscape for signs of enemy activity. At every hilltop he would drop and approach on his belly, so as not to silhouette himself to scouts. His keen eyes tracked the lay of the land, the contours of forest and river, of hillside and mossy nooks, of boulder fields and silent farmhouses.
At one point before midday Kell spent a full half hour watching a farmhouse; no smoke curled from the chimney, and there was no sign of life. They approached warily, driven by hunger and cold, to find the farm hastily abandoned. As they walked across a cobbled yard chickens clucked in a nearby coop. Kell gestured. 'Kill them, and bag them up. Fresh meat will do us the world of good.'
Saark stared at Kell's back. 'What?'
Kell stopped, and turned. 'Kill the chickens. I will find us furs, woollen cloaks, dried beef. Go on, lad.' 'You kill the chickens,' snapped Saark. 'Is there a problem here?'
'Only peasants kill chickens! I am used to my fresh meat served on silver platters, garnished with butter, herbs and new potatoes, a little salt, not too much pepper, and brought to me by a plump serving wench with breasts bigger than the bloody bird she's serving! Kell stared hard at Saark; the swelling in his beaten face had subsided, but he was still bruised, his lips cut, his skin scratched, and he looked a thousand leagues from the well- dressed dandy Kell had met in the tannery back in Jalder. 'Well,' said Kell, considering his position, 'here, and now Saark, you're a peasant. You look like a peasant, and you stink like a peasant. So kill the damn chickens.' 'I will not kill the chickens. I am no serf!'
'You will kill the chickens or go hungry,' snapped Kell, and stormed off into the farmhouse, kicking open the door and leading the way with the gleaming blades of his axe.
Saark stood for a moment, staring at the empty doorway and muttering curses. A hand touched him lightly on the arm, and Skanda grinned up at him. 'It's all right, Pretty One, I'll kill them. Despite my appearance, I have a talent for it.'
'Are you sure?' muttered Saark, eyes dark, lips pouting.
'Leave it to me.' Skanda carried a rough bronze dagger, which he placed carefully between his teeth. He moved towards the coop and the clucking hens within.
'I'll just… find some firewood. Or something.' Saark waved to Skanda, then turned and started rooting around. 'What we really need are horses,' he said, and crossed to the stables, knowing there would be no beasts
