substantial gambling debts.' Saark moved to his saddlebag, fished out several coins, and tossed them over with an air of arrogance. The tall man grunted, catching the coins, fumbling for a moment, then examining the gold carefully. Slowly, the swords were sheathed one by one. Saark gave a chuckle. 'Peasant gold,' he said, head high, eyes twinkling as they challenged the group of men. Several went again for their weapons, but the tall man stopped them, and waved Saark on.
'Go on, about your business. But don't be causing any trouble. There's enough in Kettleskull who have cause to challenge you, King's Man.'
'No longer King's Man, I think you'll find.'
'As you wish.'
They strode down the frozen road, and Kell muttered, ''Peasant's Gold'?'
Saark gave a thin smile. 'It does one no harm to be occasionally reminded of one's place.'
'Surely you meant 'Stolen Gold'?'
'That as well,' smiled Saark, sardonically.
The main inn, The Spit-Roasted Pig, squatted beside a huge, warehouse-type building, dark and foreboding, set back from the road and piled high with snow. Kell stared up at the structure, then dismissed it. He followed Saark towards the inn.
'Remember,' rumbled Kell, grabbing Saark's shoulder and pulling him rudely back. 'Keep a low profile in here. We restock, refuel, then we're off again to find Nienna. No funny business. No women. No drinking. You understand? '
'Of course!' scowled Saark, and held apart his hands, face a platter of innocence. 'As if I would do anything else!'
Kell stared at the half-full bottle of whiskey as Myriam's poison began to eat him again. The bottle squatted on the bar, filled with an amber delight, a sugary nectar which was sweet, oh so sweet, and it called to him like a woman, called to him with honeyed words of promise. Taste me. Drink me. Absorb me into your blood, and we can be one, we can be whole. I will take away the poison, Kell. I will take away your pain.
Around Kell the noise of the inn blurred, and fell into a tumbling swirling spiral of downward descent. Only him, and the whiskey, existed and he could taste it, taste her on his tongue and she was delight, summer flowers, fresh honey, a virgin's smile, and how could Kell possibly say no to such an innocent invitation? How could he refuse?
Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the bottle. It was aged twenty years in oak vats. It had cost a pretty penny of gold, but the gold in his saddlebags was stolen from the albino army, the invading Army of Iron; and Kell cared nothing for their loss.
'I'm going to my room,' said Kell, tongue thick, mind swirling, focus dead.
'There's a good lad,' said Saark, eyes glittering with a different distraction, and watched the old warrior depart.
Saark loved many things in life. In fact, there were so many pleasures that in his humble opinion made life worth living, he doubted he could list them all. A child's laughter. Sunlight. The clink of gold on gold. The soft kiss of a woman's lips. The velvet skin on the curve of a hip. The slick handful of an eager quim. Liquor. Bawdy company. Bad jokes. Gambling…
Saark coughed, innocent and unaware, eyes on a buxom wench across the tavern who'd caught his eye. She had long red hair and a cheeky smile. Then the heavy blow knocked him from his feet. He hit the ground, confusion his mistress, and he swam through treacle and felt himself being dragged. Another two blows sent him spinning into darkness. When he came round, groggy and stunned, a cold wind caressed his skin, but it felt good, good against the swellings on his face, tortured flesh battered and bruised after a pounding of helves. What happened? he thought, dazed. Just what the fuck happened?
'Not so cocky now, are you, King's bitch?' snarled a face close to his, bad breath and garlic mixing to force a choke from Saark's lips. In the gloom he fought to recognise his assailant, but his mind was spinning, and the world seemed inside out.
'I'd lay off the garlic next time,' advised Saark through bleeding lips. 'You'll never get intimate with a lady when you stink like a village idiot.' There was a growl, and a boot connected with his ribs, several times. Then he was hefted along, dragged through snow, and over rough wood planks. He felt splinters worming into his hands and knees, but it was all he could do to scramble – and be dragged – along.
'Watch your footsteps, lad, wouldn't want you to drown,' came a half-recognised voice, and laughter accompanied the voice and with a start Saark realised there were men, many men, and this wasn't a simple dispute over a spilt tankard of ale; it was a lynching party. A sadness sank deep through him, like a sponge through lantern oil. He was in trouble. He was in a barrel of horseshit.
Saark was dumped to the ground, which echoed ominously, and boots clattered around him. Saark waited for more pain, but it didn't come. Curled foetal, he finally opened his eyes and took a deep breath and spat out a sliver of broken tooth. That stung him, that tooth. Anger awoke in him, like an almost extinguished candle wick. This was turning into a bad day.
What happened?
He was laughing, joking, there was smoke and whiskey, they were playing at the card table. The villagers from the gate. He was taking their money like honey-cakes from a toddler – winning fair and square, for a change, and not having to resort to the many gambling tricks at which he was so good. Then… a blow from behind, from a helve, his face clattering against the table and taking the whole gambling pit with him. Boots finished him off. He didn't see it coming.
But why? In the name of the Holy Mother of Falanor, why?
'He's awake. Sit him up, lads.'
Saark was dragged up, forced onto a chair, then tied to it with tight knots. Saark tested his bonds. Yes, he thought. There was no breaking free of those! He gazed around, at so many faces he did not know. Except for one. What was the man's name? Jake? Rake? Drake? Bake? Saark suppressed a giggle. It was the rangy man from the village gates…
'What's this all about, Stake?'
'The name is Rake, dimwit.' The circle of men chuckled.
Saark looked about uneasily, and rolled his neck. He could still feel the press of his narrow rapier against his thigh – but had no ability to reach the weapon. Like all villagers, they underestimated the danger of such a narrow blade; what they considered a 'girl's weapon'. If it wasn't an axe, pike or bastard sword, then it wasn't really a weapon. Saark gave a narrow smile. Very much in the mould of Kell. They would find out, if he was given opportunity. Of that, he was sure.
'Surely I don't owe that much money,' said Saark.
The circle of men closed in, and he could read anger, rage even, and a certain amount of affront on their faces, many bearded, several pock-marked, all with narrowed eyes and clenched fists and brandished weapons.
'Look around you,' said Rake, unnecessarily thought Saark, although he deemed it prudent not to be pedantic. 'Fathers. Brothers. Sons.'
'Aye?' Still Saark wore confusion like a cloak.
'Enjoyed many a pretty dalliance during days passing through, haven't you Saark, King's Man? When you arrived, word went round fast. Here was Saark, an arrogant rich bastard, unable to keep his childmaker in his cheese-stinking pants.'
Saark eyed the circle of men once more. Now he understood their almost pious rage. 'Ahh,' he said, and realised he was really in trouble. 'But surely, gentleman, we are all men of the world? I could perhaps recompense you with a glitter of gold coin? I could make it worth your while…'
'You took my daughter's virginity, bastard!' snarled Rake, and punched Saark with a well-placed right hook. The chair toppled and Saark's head bounced from the planks. Beyond swirling stars, he saw a broad, still pool of gleaming black. More confusion invaded him. What was this place?
The men righted the chair, and Saark had to listen to the sermon, how rich arrogant bastards shouldn't poke around with their poker where they weren't welcome; how families had been destroyed, children cast out, bastard children born, yawn yawn. Get to the point you dullards, mused Saark, as his gaze fell beyond the men to what looked like a lake of black oil. It gleamed in the light of the lanterns, and suddenly Saark felt extremely uneasy. He
