The ladder felt sturdy enough under his gnarled hands, and strong fingers grasped narrow rungs as he began to descend. Above, Saark followed, his breathing shallow and fast, his boots kicking dirt over Kell. 'Sorry!' he said. 'Just don't bloody jump,' muttered Kell.
They climbed downwards, the ladder shaking and making occasional cracking sounds. After a while, Kell felt a pattering of something dark and wet on his head, and scowling, he looked up to where Saark was fumbling in the mote-filled gloom. 'I hope that's not piss, lad.'
'It's blood! The wound has opened. So much for your damn battlefield stitching.'
'You're welcome to do it yourself.'
'I think next time I will. I can do without a scar that looks like some medical experiment gone wrong. What would the ladies say? I have a perfect torso, fit only for kings, and you would massacre me with your inept needlework.'
'Hold a pad to the wound,' said Kell, more kindly. 'And let's hope you've not infected me with the plague of the popinjay! That's all I need, irrational lust after every young woman that dances by.'
They climbed, down and down, for many stories; before they reached the base, Skanda called them from a narrow ledge, which led off between the ancient, crumbling joists of another building. Like rats, they scuttled between the linings of deserted buildings; like cockroaches, they inhabited the spaces between spaces where once life thrived.
For another hour, as darkness fell fast outside, they scrambled through apertures, crawled through dusty tunnels, squeezed through thick pipes containing an ancient residue of oily film, coating their hands with slick gunk, until finally, and thankfully, they emerged from a wide lead pipe which dropped into a swamp. Skanda squatted on the edge of the pipe, watching Kell and Saark drop into the waistdeep slurry, cracking the ice. Then, with the agility of a monkey, Skanda leapt onto Saark's back and clung to the athletic warrior who frowned, and complained, but recognised that to drop Skanda would be to drown the boy. Hardly a fair exchange for saving their lives.
They waded through icy slurry, which stunk of old oil and dead-animal decomposition, despite the cold. They crawled up a muddy bank in darkness and lay on the snow, panting, before Kell hauled himself to his feet and drew his fearsome axe, Ilanna, peering around into the gloom, head tilted, listening. 'Any bad guys, old horse?'
'Don't mock. If a canker bites your arse, it'll be me you come to running to.'
'A fair point.'
Saark struggled to his feet and stood, hand pressed against his ribs, his slender rapier drawn. He looked down at his fine boots, his once rich trews and silk shirt. He cursed, cursed the destruction of such fine and dandy clothing. 'You know something, Kell? Since I met you, I haven't been able to maintain any fine couture whatsoever. It's like you are cursed to dress like the poorest of peasants, and those who accompany you are similarly afflicted by your fashion!'
Kell sighed. 'Stop yapping, and let's get away from the city. Believe me, sartorial elegance shouldn't be at the forefront of your mind; getting eaten, now that's what should be bothering you.'
They moved away from the crumbling walls of Old Skulkra, away east in a scattering of Blue Spruce woodlands. Finding an old, fallen wall, probably once part of a farm enclosure, Saark built a fire using the remaining stones as shelter, whilst Kell disappeared into the woodland.
'Just like a hero to fuck off when there's work to be done,' muttered Saark, sourly, as he struggled with damp tinder. Behind him, Skanda scavenged amongst tree roots, puffing and panting, fingers scrabbling at the snow. The noise intruded on Saark's thoughts – fine thoughts, of dancing with leggy blondes at fine regal functions, of eating caviar from wide silver platters, of suckling honeyed wine from a puckering quim, lips gleaming, focus more intent than during any act of war – and eventually, Saark whirled about, eyes narrowed, hand clutching his side, and snapped, 'What are you doing down there, lad? You are disrupting my heavenly fantasy!'
Skanda held up three onions and a potato. He smiled. 'We need to eat, yes? I am an expert at finding food in frozen woodland.' The boy's dark eyes glittered. 'That is, unless you wish to starve?'
'And what are you going to cook it in?' sneered Saark. 'Your bloody knickers?'
Skanda lifted a small ceramic pot. 'This,' he said, simply.
'Where did you get that?'
'There's a ruined farmhouse, thirty paces yonder.' Saark scowled further. 'Then by Dake's Balls, what am I doing starting a fire here? There's no shelter! A farmhouse will give us more shelter! By all the gods, am I surrounded by idiots?'
He explored the ruins, and they were ruins: ancient, moss-strewn, the original stones rounded and smoothed by centuries of rain and snow. There was no roof, only stubby walls, but at least a fireplace which shielded Saark's fire from the wind. By the time Kell returned he had a merry blaze going, and he and Skanda had pulled an old log before the flames. Saark sat, boots off, warming his sodden toes. Skanda was peeling vegetables and chopping winter herbs on a slab of stone.
Wary, Kell stepped through a sagging doorway and frowned. 'What is this place?'
'It's a brothel,' snapped Saark. 'What does it look like? Sit ye down, Skanda's making a broth. He found some wholesome vegetables in the woods, although what I'd give for some venison rump and thick meat gravy I couldn't say.' He licked his lips, eyes dreamy. 'These should help,' said Kell, depositing a hare and two rabbits on the slab of stone.
Saark stared. 'How, in the name of the Chaos Halls, did you manage to catch those with a bloody axe?' Kell winked. 'It's all in the wrist, boy.' He looked to Skanda. 'Do you know how to gut and skin?' 'Does a bear shit in the woods?' snapped the young lad, and Kell smiled, moving to Saark. 'He's a cheeky bugger,' said Saark.
'He has spirit,' said Kell. 'I like that. And we owe him our lives.'
'But?' Kell looked at him. 'What do you mean?'
'I've known you too long, old horse. There's always a but.'
Kell's face hardened. 'He's a compromise,' said the old warrior, stretching out his legs and resting Ilanna by his side, butterfly blades to the ground, haft within easy reach should he need it; and need her killing expertise. 'Meaning?' 'Meaning I have to prioritise.'
Saark stared at the old man. For a long moment he analysed the grey beard and the dark hair shot through with grey. Kell's face was lined and weather-beaten, appearing older, more worn, than his sixty-two years. Saark pulled on his boots. He stood. He stared down at Kell. 'Explain prioritise?' 'I must rescue Nienna.'
'What's that got to do with this boy?' said Saark.
Kell's eyes hardened. He stood, looming over Saark with a sudden, threatening presence. 'I will find Nienna. I will kill Myriam – and whoever stands with her. That is it. That is what my life has become. I care nothing for anybody, or anything, else. If you can't stand that,' Kell's face curled into a snarl, 'well, I understand your misunderstanding, dandy. I suggest you go back to whoring and drinking, just like you know best; that is, if you can find a place that'll let you rut and drink. After all, it looks to me like the albinos have slaughtered most of the good people of Falanor.'
'Hey!' Saark thumped Kell in the chest, making the big man take a step back. 'Just hang on a minute there, Kell. I stood for Nienna, and I stood for you; don't be twisting this situation around, don't be trying to say I'm no good for anything. If it wasn't for me, Nienna would be dead. Horseshit Kell, you'd be dead. I have my vices, yes,' his face twisted a little, as if he was pained to recall them, 'but I know where my priorities lie. And if we abandon this boy, he will die.'
'Not so.'
'You a prophet now, Legend?'
Kell's eyes narrowed. 'You have been sent to torture me, Saark, I swear. I should have killed you back in Jajor Falls.'
'Why didn't you?' It was such an innocent question, it caught Kell off guard. Saark persisted, clutching his side where blood wept through the makeshift packing of torn shirt. 'You're the Big Man here, you're the warrior, the hero, the bloody legend of song and dance; you're the man with no conscience, the man of the fucking moment and to the Bone Halls with everybody else! Why am I still here, hey? Why am I still walking by your side? Or have you got a sneaky back-handed death lined up for me, also?'
Kell grabbed Saark's shirt, lifting him from the ground and drawing him in close, until their faces were only inches apart.
'Don't push me.'
'Or what'll you do, big man? Stab me in my sleep?' 'Damn you Saark! You twist my mind! You twist my
