“Wasn’t it…just…utterly disgusting?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’d rather starve,” said Saark, primly, leaning back in his saddle, as if he’d gleaned every atom of information required.
“You’ve never been in that situation,” said Kell, voice an exhalation. “You don’t know what it’s like, dying, chipped at by the howling wind, men sliding from ledges and screaming to their deaths; or worse, falling hundreds of feet, breaking legs and spines, then calling out to us for help for hours and hours, screaming out names, their voices following us through the passes, first begging, then angry and cursing, hurling abuse, threatening us and our families; and gradually, over a period of hours as their words drifted like smoke after us down long, long valleys, they would become subdued, feeble, eaten by the cold. It was an awful way to die.”
“Is there a good one?”
“There are better ways.”
“I disagree, old horse. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“I knew a man, they called him the Weasel, worked for Leanoric in the, shall we say, torturing business. I got drunk with him one night in a tavern to the south
of here, in the port-city of Hagersberg, to the west of Gollothrim. He reckoned he could keep a man alive, in exquisite pain, for over a month. He reckoned he could make a man plead for death; cry like a baby, curse and beg and promise with only the sweet release of death his reward. This Weasel reckoned, aye, that he could break a man—mentally. He said it was a game, played between torturer and victim, a bit like a cat chasing a mouse, only the cat was using information and observation and the nuances of psychology to determine how best to torture his victims. The Weasel said he could turn men insane.”
“You didn’t like him much, then?”
“Nah,” said Kell, as they finally broke from the trees and stood the geldings under the light of a yellow moon. Clouds whipped overhead, carrying their loads of snow and hail. A chill wind mocked them. “I cut off his head, out in the mud.”
“So you were taking a moral standpoint? I applaud that, in this diseased and violent age. Men like the Weasel don’t deserve to breathe our sweet, pure air, the torturing bastard villainous scum. You did the right thing, mark my words. You did the honourable thing.”
“It was nothing like that,” said Kell. He looked at Saark then, and appeared younger; infinitely more dangerous. “I was simply drunk,” he said, and tugged at the gelding’s reins, and headed towards another copse of trees over the brow of a hill.
Saark kicked his own mount after Kell, muttering under his breath.
The sun crept over the horizon, as if afraid. Tendrils of light pierced the dense woodland, and Kell and Saark had a break, tethering horses and searching through saddlebags confident, at least for the moment, that they had shaken their pursuers. More snow was falling, thick flakes tumbling lazy, and Kell grunted in appreciation. “It will help hide our tracks,” he said, fighting with the tight leather straps on a saddlebag.
“I thought the canker hunted by smell? Lions in the far south hunt by smell; by all accounts, they’re impossible to shake.”
Kell said nothing. Opening the saddlebags, the two men searched the albinos’ equipment, finding tinder and flint, dry rations, some kind of dried red-brown meat, probably horse or pig, herbs and salt, and even a little whisky. Saark took a long draught, and smacked his lips. “By the balls of the gods, that’s a fine dram.”
Kell took a long drink, and the whisky felt good in his throat, warm in his belly, honey in his mind. “Too good,” he said. “Take it away before I quaff the lot.” He gazed back, at the thickly falling snow.
“The question is,” said Saark, drinking another mouthful of whisky, “do we make camp?”
“No. Nienna is in danger. If the albino soldiers find her, they’ll kill her. We can eat as we ride.”
“You’re a hard taskmaster, Kell.”
“I am no master of yours. You are free to ride away at any moment.”
“Your gratitude overwhelms me.”
“I wasn’t the one pissing about on the bed of a river, flapping like an injured fish.”
“I acknowledge you saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful; but Kell, we have been through some savage times, surely my friendship means something? For me, it’s erudite honour to ride with the Legend, to perhaps, in the future, have my own exploits recounted by skilled bards on flute and mandolin, tales spun high with ungulas of perfume as Kell and Saark fill in the last few chapters of high adventure in the mighty Saga!” He grinned.
“Horse-shit.” Kell glared at Saark. “I ain’t allowing no more chapters of any damn bard’s exaggerated tales. I just want my granddaughter back. You understand, little man?”
Saark held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was only trying to impress on you the importance of your celebrity, and how a happy helper like myself, if incorporated into said story, would obviously become incredibly celebrated, wealthy, and desired by more loose women than his thighs could cope with.”
Kell mounted his horse, ripped a piece of dried meat in his teeth. He set off down a narrow trail, ducking under snow-laden branches. “Is that all you want from life, Saark? Money and a woman’s open legs?”
“There is little more of worth. Unless you count whisky, and maybe a refined tobacco.”
“You are vermin, Saark. What about the glint of sunlight in a child’s hair? The gurgle of a newborn babe? The thrill of riding a unbroken stallion? The brittle glow of a newly forged sword?”
“What of them? I prefer ten bottles of grog, a plump pair of dangling breasts on a willing, screaming, slick, hot wench, a winning bet on some fighting dogs, and
maybe a second woman, for when the first wench grows happily exhausted. One woman was never enough! Not for this feisty sexual adventurer.”
Kell looked back, into Saark’s eyes. “You lie,” he said.
“How so?”
“I can read you. You have behaved like that, in the past, giving in to your base needs, your carnal lusts; but there is a core of honour in your soul, Saark. I can see it there. Read it, as a monk reads a vellum scroll. That’s why you’re still with me.” He smiled, his humour dry, bitter like amaranth. “It’s not about women, wet and willing, nor the drink. You wish to warn King Leanoric; you wish to do the right thing.”
Saark stared hard at Kell, for what seemed like minutes, then snapped, “You’re wrong, old man.” His humour evaporated. His banter dissolved. “The only thing left in my core is a maggot, gorging on the rotten remains. I drink, I fuck, I gamble, and that’s all I do. Don’t think you can see into my soul; my soul is more black and twisted than you could ever believe.”
“As you wish,” said Kell, and kicked his horse ahead, scouting the trail, his Svian drawn, a short albino sword by his hip on the saddle sheath. And ahead, Kell smiled to himself; finally, he had got to Saark. Finally, he had shut the dandy popinjay’s mouth!
Saark rode in sullen silence, analysing his exchange with Kell. And in bitterness he knew, knew Kell was close to the bone with his analysis and he hated himself for it. How he wished he had no honour, no desire
to do the right thing. Yes, he drank, but always to a certain limit. He was careful. And yes, he would be the first to admit he was weak to the point of village idiot by a flash of moist lips, or the glimpse of smooth thigh on a pretty girl. Or even an ugly girl. Thin, fat, short, tall, red, brown, black or blonde, light skinned, freckled, huge breasts or flat; twice he’d slept with buxom black wenches from the far west, across Traitor’s Sea, pirate stock with thick braided hair and odd accents and smeared with coconut oil…he grew hard just thinking of them, their rich laughter, strong hands, their sheer unadulterated willingness…he shivered. Focused. On snow. Trees. Finding Nienna. Reaching Leanoric.
Up ahead, Kell had stopped. The gelding stamped snow.
Saark reined behind, slowing the other two horses, and loosened his rapier. “Problem?”
“This fellow doesn’t want to proceed.”
Saark looked closer in the gloom of the silent woods. The gelding had ears laid back flat against its head. The beast’s eyes were wide, and it stamped again, skittish. Kell leaned forward, stroking ears and muzzle, and making soothing noises.
“Maybe there’s a canker nearby.”
“Not even funny,” said Kell.
“He can sense
something.
”
“I think,” said Kell, eyes narrowing, “this is Stone Lion Woods.”
Saark considered this. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’ve heard ghastly things about this place. That it’s…haunted.”
“Dung. It’s dense woodland full of ancient trees. Nothing more.”
“I heard stories. Of monsters.”
“Tales told by frightened drunks!”
“Yes, but look at the horses.” Now, all four had begun to shiver, and with coaxing words they managed another twenty hoof-beats before Kell and Saark were forced to dismount and stroke muzzles, attempting to calm them.
“Something’s really spooking the animals.”
“Yes. Come on, we’ll walk awhile.”
They moved on, perhaps a hundred yards before Kell suddenly stopped. Saark could read by his body language something was wrong: he had seen something up ahead. And he didn’t like it…
“What is it…oh.” Saark stared at the statue, and his jaw dropped. It was thirty feet high, towering up between the trees. It was old, older than the woodland, pitted and battered by the elements of a thousand years, sections covered in moss and weeds, lichens and fungi; and yet still it stared down with a menacing air, a violent dominance.
“What’s it supposed to be?” questioned Saark, tilting his head.
“A stone lion, perhaps?” muttered Kell. “Hence, Stone Lion Woods.”
“I’ve never seen a lion look like that,” said Saark. “In fact, I’ve never seen a lion. Not in the flesh. Apparently, they are terrifying, and stink like the sulphur arse-breath of a cess-pit.”
“It is a lion,” said Kell, voice low, filled with respect. “Only it’s twisted, deformed, reared up on hind legs.
Look at the mane. Look at the craftsmanship in the sculpted stonework.”
“I’m more interested in whether it’ll topple on us. Look at those cracks!”
The two men watched the statue, a hint of awe in their eyes, hands stroking the skittish horses, calming the beasts with soothing murmurs. A little snow had filtered through the canopy of Stone Lion Woods, and sat on the statue, shining almost silver in the gloom. The effect was ghostly, ethereal, and Saark shivered.
“I don’t like it here. The rumours speak of terrible beasts. Ghosts. Hobgoblins. Were-dragons.”
“Horse-shit. Come on. I feel my axe; she’s getting close.”
Saark looked oddly at Kell. “You can really sense the weapon?”
“Aye. We are linked. She’s a bloodbond weapon, and that means we are joined, in some strange way I cannot explain, nor understand.”
“A bloodbond. I have heard of such things.” Saark closed his mouth, reluctant to speak more. The tales and legends of bloodbond magick were dark and fearful indeed: stories used to frighten little children. Like the Legend of Dake the Axeman; he was huge and shaggy, with the grey skin of a corpse and glowing red eyes. Dake would creep down the chimney of bad little boys and cut off their hands and feet in the night. If they were really bad, Dake would take the child with him, back to the Tower of Corpses where he’d hang the child in a cage from the outside wall and let Grey Eagles eat their flesh. Even now, Saark remem
bered his father scaring him with such stories when he’d been a bad boy: when he’d slapped his sister, or stolen one of his mother’s fresh-baked pastries.
For years, such nightmares had been erased from Saark’s memory. Now, especially in this caliginous and eerie place, watched over by a twisted stone statue, the horror of those dark tales from childhood crept back into Saark’s sparking imagination. He remembered all too clear huddling under thick blankets watching the twitching shadows on the walls…waiting for Dake the Axeman to come for him.
“Are you all right?” said Kell.
“I was just…thinking of my childhood.”
“Were they happy times, aye?” said Kell.
Saark pictured running into the house holding a kite he’d made to find his father swinging from a high rafter by the neck, his face purple, one eye hanging on his cheek. There was dried blood around his mouth, his tongue stuck out like some obscene cardboard imitation. Taking a bread knife, he’d cut down the dead man and sat with him, rocking his head, holding his stiffening hands until his mother arrived home…with the city bailiffs, ready to repossess their family home. There had been no sympathy. A day later, they were walking the streets.
“Happy, yes,” said Saark, banishing the memories like extinguishing a candle. Strange, he thought. To resurrect them here, now. He’d locked them away in a deep, hidden place for decades. Saark coughed, and tugged at the horses. “Come on. Let’s move. This place gives me the shits.”
“You sure you’re well?” asked Kell. He appeared concerned. “You looked, for a moment there, like you’d seen a ghost.”
Saark pictured his father, swinging. “Maybe I did,” he said, voice little more than a whisper; then he was gone, striding down a wide, twisting trail and Kell tugged his own mount forward. The gelding gave a small whinny of protest, and moved reluctantly.
“That’s not good,” muttered Kell, sensing a change in Saark’s mood. “Not good at all.”
They moved through the woods, deep into gloom for an hour, gradually picking a route over roots and branches, through a mixture of junipers, Jack Pine and Tsugas, through rotting leaves from towering twisted oaks and thick needle carpets from clusters of Red Cedar. The woods were old here, ancient, gnarled and crooked, and huge beyond anything Saark had ever witnessed.
Reaching a natural clearing, Saark halted and gazed at the array of statues, his mouth dropping open. There were seven, arranged in a weird natural circle as if the trees themselves were wary to set root and branch near these twisted effigies.
“What,” he said, “are those?”
“The Seven Demons,” said Kell, quietly. He placed a hand on Saark’s shoulder. “Best move quietly, lad. We don’t want to upset them.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Blood-magick is an old beast, no matter what the vachine think. It goes back thousands of years. When you’ve travelled as much as I, you learn a few things, you see a few things;
and you begin to understand when to keep your head down.”