Myriam was starting to make its presence felt once more. It was a tingling in his bones. Especially the joints of his ankles, knees, elbows and wrists. 'Damn that vachine bitch,' he muttered.
'Are you well, old man? You look fit and ready to topple from the bloody saddle!' Jagor was grinning, but there was menace behind that grin. A low-level hatred.
'I'll last longer than you,' grunted Kell, staring sideways at Jagor. 'And don't be getting any fancy ideas. I ain't as fucking weak, nor as old, as you think.'
Jagor held up both hands, as his horse picked its way through snowy tufts of grass. 'Hey, I'm not complaining, Kell. Thing is, I wanted you dead so much – so bad. So bad it burned me like a horse-brand. Tasted like sour acid in my mouth. But when I was hanging by the throat, all I could see were bright lights and hear the voice of my little girl singing in the meadow. I knew I was going to die. I knew I would never see her again. And that hurt, Kell. Hurt more than any fucking noose. But then you cut me down, and saved me. And although that burned me in a different way, I have to concede you spared me. You kept me alive. And one day, if we're not massacred in the Valleys of the Moon, I might get to see that little girl again.'
'I didn't know you had a little girl.'
'Why would you?'
'I thought it might have come out at the trial.'
Jagor Mad laughed. 'I told them bastards nothing, you hear? Nothing. If they'd found out, they would have arrested Eilsha. The Bone Halls only know where my little one would have ended up. At least I spared them the pain of imprisonment.'
Kell considered this, turning his head to the left as more snow whipped him, making him smart, and his eyes water. 'I am confused, Jagor. You were part of a syndicate that used to kidnap children, and sell them into slavery? Yes? How could you do that, when you have your own little one?'
Jagor's face went hard. 'We had to eat,' he said, scowling.
'Would you have liked it, if another slaver took your girl?'
'That's different. I would have cut out his liver.'
'And so now, you have the right to hang on to yours?'
'I didn't say what I did was right, Kell, and believe me as I lay in my cell night after night, week after week, year after bloody year, I cursed you for catching me, yes, but I cursed myself for my poor decisions in life. Once, I believe I was immoral. Above all those weak and petty emotions. Now, I have changed. At least a little.' He gave a grim smile.
'I don't believe men change,' said Kell, bitterly.
'So you're the same as during the Days of Blood?' Kell's head snapped up, eyes blazing. 'Oh yes, Kell, I have heard of your slaughter. You are legend amongst the Blacklippers – for all the wrong reasons.'
Kell sighed, his anger leaving him as fast as it came. 'You are right. And by my own logic, I am still a bloodthirsty, murdering savage. Maybe I am. I don't know. You can be the judge of that when we head into battle; for believe me when I say we have many a fight to come.'
The night was drawing close, and they made a rough camp in the lee of a huge collection of boulders at the foot of the Black Pikes. Kell stretched a tarpaulin over them as a makeshift roof, which was fortunate as thick snow fell in the night.
Kell lay in the dark, listening to Jagor snoring. Pain nagged him like an estranged ex-wife, and it seemed to take an age for him to fall into sleep. He stared at the stars, twinkling, impossibly cold and distant, and thought about his dreams and aspirations. Then he smiled a bitter smile. What do the stars care for the dreams of men?
He awoke, cold and stiff, to the smell of coffee. He shivered, and looked up to see Jagor crouched by a small fire, boiling water in a pan, staring at him. Kell gritted his teeth. He had allowed himself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep; not an ideal situation when travelling with a certifiable killer.
'Coffee?' said Jagor, raising his eyebrows.
'Plenty of sugar,' said Kell, and sat up, stretching. He was wrapped in a blanket, fully clothed, his boots by his side. Ilanna was by his thigh. She was never far from his grasp.
'You snore like a pig,' said Jagor, pouring the brew.
Kell squinted. 'Well, I ain't asking you to marry me.'
Jagor laughed, and a little of their tension eased. 'I like it that you snore, old man. Makes me think of you as human.'
'Why, what did you think of me?'
'I thought you were a Chaos Hound,' said Jagor, face serious, handing Kell the tin mug. 'When you followed me down those tunnels to Old Gilrak, well, I knew then I was cursed, knew I was being pursued by something more than human. Hearing you fart in the night – well, old man, that's helping my mind heal.'
'That's Saark's damn cooking, that is, the dandy bastard.' Kell sipped his coffee. It was too sweet, but he didn't complain; rather too sweet than too bitter. Like life.
'He's a strange one, all right. What's with the pink silk, though? And green pants? And all that stink of a woman's perfume? Eh?'
'I think he thinks he's a noble.'
'Is he?'
'Damned if I know,' said Kell, and took the proffered oatcake.
'Do you mind if I ask you a question?'
Kell nodded, eating the oatcake and drinking more coffee. After a cold night under canvas, it was bringing him back to life; making him more human. 'Go ahead.'
'Why do you travel with him? You two seem… so different.'
'Don't worry,' growled Kell, 'I'm not into that sort of thing.'
'That's not what I meant,' rumbled Jagor, reddening a little. 'I mean, him with his long curly hair and fancy little rapier; you with your snoring and your axe. I wouldn't have thought you'd put up with him.'
Kell considered this, finishing his coffee. 'You're right, in a sense,' he said. 'Once was a time I couldn't have stood his stink, his talk, his letching after women or the sight of his tart's wardrobe. But we've been through some tough times together, me and Saark. I thought I saw him killed down near Old Skulkra, and I was ready to leave him for dead; but he showed me he was a tough, hardy and stubborn little bastard, despite appearances. I don't know. I like him. Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I've just killed one too many men, and like to talk and listen for a change, instead of charging in with the axe. Whatever. Saark's a friend, despite his odd ways. I ain't got many. And I'd kill for him, and I'd die for him.'
Jagor nodded, and finished his coffee. 'I think we should be moving.'
'Aye. A long way to go, and already my arse feels like a fat man's been dancing on it.'
'You never were a horseman, were you Kell?'
Kell grinned. 'In my opinion, the only thing a horse is good for is eating.'
Kell and Jagor Mad rode for another three days in more-or-less companionable silence. Jagor didn't speak about his capture all those years ago, or the recent incident with the noose; and Kell didn't mention the crossbow wound in his shoulder, nor the recent threat of murder. When they did talk, they spoke of old battles and the cities of Falanor, they talked of Kell's Legend, the saga poem, and how Kell hated his misrepresentation. As if he was a damned hero. Kell knew he was not.
Eventually, as they passed through folded foothills, past huge boulders and a random scattering of spruce and pine, Jagor stopped and looked to the right where the Black Peaks towered. His horse pawed the snow, and Kell's mount made several snorting sounds. The world seemed unnaturally silent. Eerie. Filled with ghosts.
'Easy, boy,' said Kell, patting the horse's neck. Then to Jagor, 'What is it?'
'We are close.'
'To the Valleys of the Moon?'
'Aye.'
Kell ran his gaze up and down the solid, looming walls of rock. 'I see nothing.'
'You have to know how to look. Follow me.'
They rode on, and again Jagor reined his mount. He seemed to be counting. Then he pointed. 'There.'
Kell squinted. Snow was falling, creating a haze, but he made out a finger of smooth, polished granite no bigger than a man. 'What is it?'
