Kell was saved by the lightning. It crackled overhead, above the boat, and for an instant the churning river was lit by incandescent flashes. Kell saw the canker, dragging Saark down, and powered after them, Svian between his teeth, straggled hair and beard flowing behind him. He found them in the darkness, and his blade slashed down, he felt it enter flesh, grind in cogs, felt the canker lashing out and he was knocked back, and everything was a confusion of bubbles and madness and darkness and something was beside him, huge and cold, a wall of smoothness that slid past and Kell felt, more than saw, Saark slide up beside him. He grabbed the unconscious man, his very lungs filled with molten lava as he kicked out, boots striking the smooth, gliding wall and propelling him to the surface…
Lighting crackled again, a maze of angular arcs transforming the sky into a circuit. Kell looked down, and saw a battle raging beneath the river, between the canker, all claws and disjointed fangs, and a huge, silent, black eel. It must have been fifty yards long, its body the diameter of three men, its head a huge triangular wedge with row after row of sharp teeth. It
had encircled the canker, was crushing the thrashing beast, its head snapping down, teeth tearing flesh repeatedly. Kell thought he saw trails of blood like confetti streamers in the black; then he burst from the surface, lungs heaving in air, Saark limp under one arm, and looked for the boat.
It had gone, slammed down the river without oars on powerful currents and a rage of mountain snowmelt.
Kell cursed, and half swam, half dragged Saark through the water, angling towards the high banks. He stopped, shivering now, teeth chattering, bobbing under the high earth walls too high to climb. He moved on, still dragging Saark’s leaden weight through the darkness, through ice-filled waters, until the banks dropped and wearily Kell rolled onto a frozen, muddy slope, dragging Saark up behind him, and he lay for a while, breath panting like dragon smoke, head dizzy with flashing lights.
Eventually, the cold bit him and Kell roused himself. He shook Saark, who groaned as he came awake, coughing out streamers of black water. Eventually, he stared around, confused.
“What happened?”
“The creature dragged you under. I dove in after you. I’m pretty damn sure you’re not worth it.”
“Charming, Kell. You would whisk away the pants from any farmer’s daughter without hindrance. Where’s the boat?”
“Gone.”
“Where are we?”
“Do I look like a fucking mapmaker?”
“Actually, old horse, you do, rather.”
Something surged from the river nearby, a huge black coil, then submerged with a mighty splash. In its wake, the canker, or more precisely, half of the canker, floated for a few moments, bobbing, torn, trailing strings of tendon and jagged gristle, before gradually sinking out of sight.
“At least that’s one problem sorted,” said Saark, voice strangled. He reached down, rolling up his trews. Puncture holes lined his shins and knees, bleeding, and he prodded them with a wince. “I hope I’m not poisoned.”
“It’s dead. For now.” Kell climbed to his feet. He sheathed his Svian and cursed. His axe, Ilanna, was on the boat. Gone. Kell ran hands through his wet hair and shivered again. Snow began to fall, just to add to his chilled and frozen mood.
Saark had found something in one of the puncture wounds, and with a tiny schlup pulled free a fang. “Ugh!” he said, staring at the brass tooth. “The dirty, dirty bastard.” He flung it out into the river. “Ugh.”
“We need to find Nienna,” said Kell.
“And Kat,” said Saark, glancing up at the old man.
“And Kat,” agreed Kell. “Come on.”
“Whoa! Wait up, maybe you’re in the mood for running cross-country in the dark, covered in ice; I’m going to die if I stay out here much longer. And you too, by the looks of it. You’re turning blue!”
“I’ve crossed the Black Pike Mountains,” growled Kell. “It takes more than the fucking cold to kill me.”
“And that was…how many years ago? Look at you, man, you’re shivering harder than a pirate ship in a
squall. We need fire, and we need dry clothes. Come on. These lowlands are populated; we’ll find somewhere.”
They walked, Saark limping, roughly following the course of the river until a thick evergreen woodland of Jack Pine and Red Cedar forced them inland. Trudging across snow and frozen tufts of grass, they circled the woods and eventually came upon a small crofter’s hut, barely four walls and a roof, six feet by six feet, to be used during emergencies. With thanks they fell inside, forcing the door shut against wind and snow. As was the woodland way, a fire had already been laid by the last occupant and Kell found a flint and tinder on a high shelf. His shaking hands lit a fire, and both men huddled round the flames as they grew from baby demons. Eventually, what seemed an age, the small hut filled with heat and they peeled off wet clothing, hanging items on hooks around the walls to dry, until they sat in pants and boots, hands outstretched to the flames, faces grim.
“What I’d give for a large whisky,” said Kell, watching steam rise from their clothes.
“What I’d give for a fat whore.”
“Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”
“Sometimes,” said Saark, and turned, staring into the flames. “Sometimes, in distant dreams, I think of honour, of loyalty, and of friendship; I think of love, of family, of happy children, a doting wife. All the good things in life, my friend. And then I remember who I am, and the things I did, and I am simply thankful for a fat whore sitting on my face. You?”
“Me what?”
“I gave you a potted history. Now it’s your turn. You’re a hero, right?”
“You make the word ‘hero’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”
“Not at all.” Saark grinned, then, his melancholy dropping like a hawk from the heavens. “I heard a poem about you, once. ‘Kell’s Legend’, it was called. That’s you, right? You’re the character of legend?”
“You make ‘character’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”
“Very droll. Come on, Kell. It was a good poem.”
“Ha! A curse on all poets! May they catch the pox and have ugly children.”
“This poem was a good one,” persisted Saark. “Proper hero stuff. Had a decent rhyme as well. Foot-tapping stuff, when recited in a tavern by men with harps and honey-beer and the glint of wonder in their eyes.”
Kell drew his Svian blade. His eyes glowed and he pointed at Saark in the close proximity. “Don’t even fucking think about it. All poets should be gutted like fish, their entrails strung out to dry, then made to compose ballads about how they feel with the bastard suffering. A curse on them!”
Saark sang, voice soft, hand held out to ward off Kell’s knife should he make a strike:
“Kell waded through life on a river of blood, His axe in his hands, dreams misunderstood, In Moonlake and Skulkra he fought with the best This hero of old, this hero obsessed, This hero turned champion of King Searlan Defiant and worthy a merciless man.”
Kell snorted. “Poets make a joy out of slaughter, the academic smug self-satisfying bastards. I am ashamed
to be a part of that song! Bah!” Kell frowned darkly. “And you! You sing like a drunkard. I can sing better than that, and I sound like a fart from a donkey’s arse…and I’m proud of it! A man should only sing when he’s a belly full of whisky, a fist full of money, and the idea of a fight in his head. You can keep your cursed poetry, Saark, you idiot. A bad case of gonorrhoea on you all! Death to all poets!”
“Death to all poets?” chuckled Saark, and relaxed as Kell sheathed his long, silver-bladed Svian. “A little harsh, I find, for simply extending the oral tradition and entertaining fellow man. But was it true? The stuff in the poem? The Saga?”
“No.”
“Not even some of it?”
“Well, the bastards spelt my name right. Listen, Saark, we need to go after Nienna and Kat. They could end up miles away. Leagues! They could be in danger even as we sit here, wasting our breath like a whore wastes her hard-earned coin.”
“We’ll die if we go back to the storm.” Saark’s voice was soft.
“Where’s your courage, man?”
“Hiding behind my need to stay alive. Kell, you’re no use to her dead. Wait till the sun’s up; then we’ll search.”
“No. I am going now!” He stood and reached for his wet clothes.
Saark sang:
“And brave Kell marched out through the snow, His dullard brain he left behind, He took with him a mighty bow, His thumb up his arse and shit in his mind.”
Kell paused. Stared hard at Saark, who shrugged, and threw another chunk of wood on the fire. “You’re being irrational, my friend. I may dress like an idiot, but I know when to live, and when to die. Now is not the time to die.”
Kell sighed, a deep sigh of resignation, and returned to the fire. He sat, staring into flickering flames.
“Say it,” said Saark.
“What?”
“Admit that I’m right.”
“You’re right.”
“See, that wasn’t too painful, eh, old horse?”
“But I’ll tell you something, Saark. If anything happens to Nienna, then I’ll blame you; and it’ll take more than fucking poetry to remove my axe from your fat split head.”
Saark laughed, and slapped Kell on the back. “What a truly grumpy old bastard you are, eh? You remind me of my dad.”
“If I was your dad, I’d kill myself.”
“And if I was your son, I’d help you. Listen, enough of this banter; we need to get some sleep. I have a strange feeling tomorrow’s going to be a hard day. Call me extreme, but it can’t get any worse.”
“A hard day?” scoffed Kell. “Harder than yesterday? That seems unlikely. However, young man, I will take your advice, even though it pains me to listen to somebody with the wardrobe sense of a travelling chicken.”
“At least that beast…at least it was dead, in the river. It was dead, wasn’t it?”
“It was a canker.”
“A what?”
“A canker. That’s what it was.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw one. Once. Halfway up a mountain in the Black Pikes; it tried to kill us.”
“What happened?”
“It slipped on ice. Fell six thousand feet onto rocks like spears.” Kell’s eyes gleamed, misted, distant, unreadable. He coughed. “So put that Dog Gemdog gem in your poem, laddie. Because the canker, well, it’s a vachine creation. And there are more of the bastards where that one came from.”
Saark shivered, and scowled hard at Kell. “Well, thanks for that cheerful nocturnal nugget, just before I try and sleep. Sweet dreams to you as well, you old goat!”
The boat spun out of control through the blackness and Nienna screamed, clinging to Kat. “What do we do?”
“We row!”
“The oars were smashed!”
The two girls looked frantically for something to use as a paddle, but only Kell’s axe caught Nienna’s eye and she stooped, picking up the weapon. She expected a dead-weight, impossible to lift, but it was surprisingly light despite its size. She hefted the weapon, and it glowed, warm for a moment, in her hands. Or had she imagined that?
“You can’t paddle with that,” snapped Kat.
“I was thinking more of hitting it into the beast’s head.”
“If it comes back,” said Kat.
They both thought of Saark, and Kell, under the freezing river, fighting the huge beast. They shivered, and neither dared to wonder what the outcome would be.
The boat spun around again, and bounced from a rotting tree-trunk, invisible in the darkness. The river grew wider, more shallow, and they found themselves rushing through a minefield of rocks, the river gushing and pounding all around.
“What do we do?” shouted Kat over the torrent.
“I don’t know!”
Both girls moved to the boat’s stern, and with four hands on the tiller, tried to steer the boat in towards the shore. Amazingly, it began to work, and they bounced and skimmed down the fast flow and towards an overhanging shoreline in the gloom…with a crunch, the boat beached on ice and stones, and Nienna leapt out as she had seen Kell do, holding his axe, and tried to drag the boat up the beach. She did not have the strength. Kat jumped out and they both tried, but the boat was dragged backwards by wild currents and within seconds was lost in the raging darkness.
Snow fell.
The girls retreated a short distance into the woods, but stopped, spooked by the complete and utter darkness. A carpet of pine needles were soft underfoot, and the heady smell of resin filled the air.
“This is creepy,” whispered Nienna.
Kat nodded, but Nienna couldn’t discern the movement; by mutual consent, their hands found one
another and they walked deeper into the forest, pushed on by a fear of the canker that outweighed a fear of the dark. They stared up at the massive boles of towering Silver Firs, and a violent darkness above which signified the sky. Random flakes drifted down through the trees, but at least here there was no wind; only a still calm.
“Will that creature come back, do you think?” asked Kat.
“I have Kell’s axe,” said Nienna, by way of reply.
“Kell and Saark couldn’t kill it,” said Kat.
Nienna did not answer.
They stopped, their footsteps crunching pine needles. All around lay the broken carcass shapes of dead-wood; ahead, a criss-crossing of fallen trees blocked their path, and cursing and moaning, they dragged themselves beneath the low barricade to stand, again, in a tiny clearing.
“Look,” said Nienna. “There was a fire.”
They ran forward, to where a ring of stones surrounded glowing embers. Kat searched about, finding dead wood to get the blaze going, and they fed twigs into the embers, waiting for them to ignite before piling on thicker branches. Soon they had the fire roaring, and they warmed their hands and feet by the flames, revelling in their good fortune.
“Who do you think was here?” asked Nienna.
“Woodsmen, I should think,” said Kat. “But they’ll be long gone. A fire can burn low like that for a couple of days.” She took a stick, and poked around in the fire. Flames crackled, and sparks flew out, like tiny fireflies, sparkling into the air. Around them, the chill
of the forest, the smell of cold and rotting vegetation, filled their senses.