Kell's mood could be described as a thunderous rage as he approached Jagor Mad's cell. The three men who had called themselves the new Governors of the Black Pike Mines were sat together, eyes sullen, faces lost to despair. They were awaiting execution. The atmosphere was sombre.
Kell stopped by the bars, and gestured to the two guards who held long spears and wore short stabbing swords over kilts of steel. 'Open it.'
'But… Governor Myrtax said…'
'Governor Myrtax does what I tell him, laddie!' barked Kell, employing a parade ground bellow that once made many a Command Sergeant piss his pants.
'Yes, yes sir,' snapped one guard, shaking as he fumbled keys and unlocked a three bar gate, swinging it wide from its slot in the mountain wall.
'Jagor Mad. Step free.'
'What do you want?' said the big man, voice husky and low, his face still battered and bruised from their fight. Jagor stepped from his confinement, squinting at the bright daylight, and he stretched his huge frame. His throat was heavily bruised, huge welts showing where the rope had savagely burned him.
'I want your help,' said Kell, folding his arms.
'Why would I help you?'
Kell drew Ilanna from his back, glanced at the twin black blades, and hefted her against his chest. 'You help me, or I execute you now. Right here. On this fucking spot.'
Jagor Mad considered this, and a finger lifted, touching the marks at his throat. 'Seems like a fair choice. I'll help you. But don't be asking me to fucking sing and dance.'
Kell grinned. 'No, I have something far more fun than that planned.' He turned to the guard. 'Give Jagor your sword.'
'What?'
'Are you deaf, lad, or shall I unblock your ears with my axe?'
'No need to be rude,' grumbled the guard, and handed Jagor Mad the sword. Jagor took the weapon, face showing a mixture of confusion and suspicion. 'What's happening here, Kell?' he murmured.
'Follow me.'
'You wish to battle?'
'No, Jagor, you big dumb fool! These vampire bastards threaten the whole of Falanor! I want you alive, because you're a big hard bastard, and I'll not waste a man like you just because you were fighting for your freedom! I respect that. I respect your anger, your fire, and your fucking brutality! You were born to fight, Jagor, not be locked in a cage, not to hang from the gallows. Well, I'm giving you the chance to earn redemption.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'There is a place. A hidden place. Where the last of the Blacklipper Kings reside, after their brother was killed by the vachine known as Vashell. Do you know what I'm talking about?'
'I know.'
'Can you take me to this place?'
'It is a closely guarded secret amongst the Blacklippers,' said Jagor Mad, carefully.
'We are all threatened here,' said Kell, eyes glittering. 'I need the help of the Blacklippers. I hunted them for decades, aye, and I am their sworn enemy. But now, I am like a brother compared to the nightmare in the dark.'
Jagor stared hard into Kell's eyes. He lowered his sword. 'I will take you. But they will kill you, old man. With no remorse.'
Kell grinned. 'I don't die easy,' he said.
Kell strode up to Saark, who was sat on a stool eating a plate of sausages from his knees. He glanced up, then leapt up spilling his plate and knocking over his tankard as he saw Jagor Mad looming behind Kell. Saark grappled for his rapier, shouting, 'Look out, Kell, he's behind you!'
Kell patted Saark on the arm. 'I know, lad, I know. I brought him here.'
'What? What? ' snapped Saark, spitting and dribbling sausage everywhere.
'He's coming with me. To help me.'
'Where are we going all of a sudden?' said Saark, lifting and picking his sausages from the snow with a curse and a dirty glance. 'I thought you said we had an army to train?'
'Yes. You have an army to train. I have a problem to solve.'
'What problem, what the hell are you talking about? And army? Me train an army? You have to be sky-high out of your fucking donkey skull if you think I'm capable of training a bloody army!'
'You were a soldier, weren't you?' said Kell, and nodded to Grak who appeared, carrying a newly forged steel collar in his powerful hands. Grak stopped, and put his hands on his hips, grinning.
'I was King Leanoric's Sword Champion,' said Saark, looking injured, 'if that's what you mean?'
'There you go. You were in the army. That's good enough for me. That's all settled then.'
'Now wait a minute,' said Saark, 'I was a commissioned officer, I didn't rough it with the scum in the barracks,' he glanced at Grak, and Jagor, and swallowed, 'no offence meant, I was in the High Court watching the jesters and eating venison and lobster from silver platters! I was attending the buxom serving wenches and bestowing gifts of fine silver jewellery on nobility! I wasn't eating bloody beans from a pan and scrubbing my boots! I had servants for that sort of thing! Peasants! Like… well, like you…' He stopped.
Grak gave a cough, and slapped Saark on the back, a slap so hard he nearly pitched Saark to the ground. 'Don't worry, lad. I'll help you! Grak the Bastard by name, Grak the Bastard by nature. I won't let no fancy big-titted silver-wearing venison-stuffed ladies get in the way of you training the lads. Right?'
'Er, right,' said Saark, weakly, and seemed to physically slump.
'After all, if all our lives rest on your scrawny shoulders, I think you're going to need some help. Right?'
'Right.'
'I mean, if we're going into battle to face a terrible foe, a foe who is savage and brutal, knows no remorse, is stronger than us, faster than us, more brutal than we could ever imagine – well, we'd be idiots to let a dandy moron train us without any experience or skills, wouldn't we?'
'Er. Yes.'
They stared at each other. 'Not that I'm saying you're a moron,' explained Grak, helpfully, and roared with laughter.
Saark stared at the carrots stuck in Grak's beard, and shook his head. He threw Kell a nasty glance. 'So, Leg end, what wonderful little jaunt are you going to be enjoying whilst I get stuck here with three thousand condemned convicts, nary a beautiful woman in sight, and food so bad even Mary would turn up her muzzle in disgust?'
'I'm going to the Valleys of the Moon,' said Kell, smiling and nodding.
'What?' said Saark, and placed a hand on one hip in what could only be described as an effeminate stance. 'The Valleys of the Moon don't exist! Leanoric hunted for them, for thirty years, after his father had damn well given up!'
'It's said you have to be a mystic to enter,' said Kell, cryptically.
'And I suppose you qualify, do you?'
Kell shrugged. 'I have three thousand soldiers here. Or I will have, when you complete their training. I need more. It's not enough to take Jalder, or indeed, any of the other cities. The vampires are savage. And the Army of Iron is disciplined, that's for sure. They also rely on magick. We need the magick of the Blacklippers.'
'Pah, what are you talking about? Have you been on the whiskey again?'
'It's true,' rumbled Jagor, stepping forward. Saark looked again at the sword in his huge hands. It looked like a child's toy. Saark swallowed, for he was within striking distance and Kell seemed extremely laid back. As if he had nothing in the world to worry about.
'Which bit? The fact the Valleys of the Moon don't exist, or the fact that you have to be a village idiot invested with the dribbling liquid brain of a certifiable peasant to even want to look for such a mythical artefact?'
'No. It exists,' said Jagor. 'I have been there.'
'And you're a mystic, are you?' scoffed Saark, examining the lace ruff of his sleeve.
'I surely am,' rumbled Jagor, eyes flashing dangerously dark. 'Watch. I can mystically transfer this short
