Kat laughed out loud, and placed her hand on Saark’s knee, leaning forward to say, “You have a beautiful way with words, sir.”
“And you have the face of an angel,” he replied, voice a little husky.
Kell entered, stalking down the stairs at the far end of the room, and Kat hurriedly removed her hand. Kell eased through the crowded common room, searching, and only spied the group when Saark waved his arm high in the air. Kell strode to them and stood, hands on hips, face full of raw thunder.
“What’s this?” he growled.
“A table,” said Saark, feigning surprise. “I’m agog with amazement that you failed to recognise such a basic appliance of carpentry.”
“The clothes,” he raged, “you brightly coloured horse-cock! What do you think you’re doing?”
“You would rather the ladies dressed in rags? Showed tits and arses through threadbare holes for every punter to see?”
“No, but…something less…
colourful
would have been appropriate.” He lowered his voice, eyes narrowing. “Couldn’t you have bought some cotton shirts and trews? We’ll be travelling in the snow later; what good are silk dresses then?”
“I have purchased a few normal items, and fur-lined cloaks, Kell, even for you; although I’ll wager you’ll be as grateful as a rutting dog after a savage castration. Listen, these were all the merchant had. What was I
supposed to do? Let them come here with knife rips in their shirts? For I know what would have been the more suspicious.”
“Hmph,” muttered Kell, slumping to a stool.
Saark turned, and winked at the girls. Kat covered her mouth, and giggled. “Anyway,” said Saark, twirling his wrists to allow puffed cotton to flower. “Don’t you like my noble attire, good sir? I find it serves when attracting the attention of sophisticated ladies.”
“Saark, you’re a buffoon, a clown, a macaroni and a peacock! I thought we were travelling to King Leanoric carrying urgent news? Instead, you strut about like a dog with three dicks.”
“We are,” snapped Saark, “but we can at least have a little fun along the way! Life is shit, Kell, and you have to grasp every moment, every jewel. You go out back and eat with the pigs from their slop-trough if you like; me and the ladies, we are going to dine on meat and sup fine wines.”
“No drink,” said Kell.
“Why not?”
“We may have to leave fast.”
“Bah! You are a killjoy, a grump and a…a damn killjoy! We will drink, the ladies are my guests, and if you have any sense, man, you’ll at least have an ale. You look like a horse danced on your face. Admittedly, it improves your savage and ugly looks, but it must hurt a little, surely? A whisky would do no harm, against the pain of injury and winter chill.”
“An ale, then,” conceded Kell.
The server arrived, a young woman, slightly overlarge and with rosy cheeks. Saark ordered the finest
food on the menu—gammon, with eggs and garnished potatoes. He also ordered a flagon of wine, and two whiskies.
Kell muttered something unheard.
They talked, and Kell surveyed the room. They had attracted a certain amount of attention with their fancy clothes, and the act of Saark buying the inn’s population a drink. He was showing he had perhaps a little too much money; they were certainly marked as strangers to the Falls.
Little happened before the food arrived. When plates were delivered, Saark expressed his delight and tucked in heartily, knife and fork cutting and rising like a man possessed. The girls ate more sparingly, as befitted their new image as ladies, and Kell sat, picking like a buzzard worrying a corpse, despite his hunger, one eye on the crowd and the door, wondering uneasily at the back of his mind if the albino army was marching south. And if they were, how far had they traversed across the Great North Road? Did Leanoric know of the invasion of Falanor? Did he have intelligence as to the taking of Jalder? Surely he must know…but only if somebody had escaped the massacre, and managed to get word to him.
Uneasily, Kell ate his eggs and gammon, allowing juices from the meat to run down his throat. Kell always ate slowly, always savoured his food; there had been times in his life when he could not afford such luxuries. Indeed, times in his life when there was no food to be had, camping in high caves in windy passes, the snow building outside, no way of making a fire, no food in his pack…but worst of all, there had
been times far too miserable and brutal to recollect, times
running through dark streets, the only light from fires consuming buildings as citizens cowered indoors screaming flames consuming flesh hot fat running over stone steps and into gutters; charging through streets, blood smeared flesh gleaming in the light of the burning city, axe in hands and blades covered in gore and glory in his mind violence in his soul and dancing along a blade of madness as the Days of Blood consumed him…
Kell snapped out of it. Saark was looking at him. Nienna and Kat were looking at him. He frowned. “What?”
“I said,” repeated Saark, rolling his eyes, “are you going to drink that whisky, or stare at it all night?”
Remembering his vision, Kell took the whisky. It was amber, a good half tumbler full—these tiny outpost villages always provided generous measures—and he could see his face distorted in the reflection. He knocked it back in one, then closed his eyes, as if savouring the moment; in reality, he was dreading the moment, for he knew deep down in his heart and deep down in his soul that when the whisky took him, consumed him, he could and would become a very, very bad man…
But not any more, right? He grinned weakly. Those days were dead and gone. Buried, like the burned corpses, the mutilated women, the hacked up pigs…
“Order another,” he said, slapping the glass on the oak planks.
“That’s my boy!” cheered Saark. He eyed Kell’s plate. “Are you going to eat those potatoes?”
“No. Suddenly, I don’t feel hungry.” He wanted to add, the minute I begin drinking I cannot eat, for all that I want is more whisky. But he did not. Saark reached over and speared a potato, gobbling it down.
“Can’t be wasting good food,” he said, grinning through mash. “There’s village idiots in Falanor starving!”
“You’ve eaten enough to feed a platoon,” said Kell.
Saark pouted. “I’m a growing lad! Need to keep up my strength for tonight, right?”
“Why?” said Kell, as his second whisky arrived. “What’s happening tonight?”
“Oh, you know,” said Saark, stealing a second unwanted potato. “I feel like a hermit, locked up for a whole month! It’s been days since I had a good time. I’m a hedonist at heart, you realise.”
“What’s a hedonist?” asked Kat.
“A skunk’s arsehole,” said Kell.
“Funny,” snapped Saark, raising his glass. “Here’s to getting out of Jalder alive.”
Kell lowered his glass. “I don’t need to toast that. It’s the past. What we should think about is the future.”
“No problem,” grinned Saark. “Well, let’s toast these fine young ravishing women beside us. They are the future!”
Warily, Kell toasted, and Nienna and Kat drank their own glasses of port. Nienna, who had never before experienced alcohol, felt her senses spin. The room was a pond of swimming colours, and warbled sounds and fluctuating smells. Suddenly, her belly flipped, felt queasy, but she fought the sensation for
her mind was filled with liquid honey, and Saark was looking surprisingly handsome, now she really thought about it, he was tall and dashing, witty and charming, and when his eyes fell on Nienna she felt her heartbeat quicken and her legs go weak at the knees. She glanced over at Kat, but Kat’s topaz eyes were fixed on Saark.
One of the innkeeper’s daughters arrived. “You ordered hot water for a bath, sir?” she enquired.
Kell nodded, and stood, feeling the whisky bite him. Damn, he thought. I should never have drunk it so fast! But then, two little whiskies couldn’t hurt him, could they? He was a big man, an experienced man, and Saark—damn his fancy ways—was right. It was a miracle they were alive. They deserved at least some normality…
He nodded to Saark. “I need this bath. Don’t get in any trouble when I’m away.”
“You’re right, you do need the bath,” agreed Saark. “And don’t worry about a thing. I’ll look after the ladies. We were considering dessert; some kind of sugared sponge cake, covered in cream. How about it, ladies?”
Kat nodded, licking lips in anticipation. It was rare she got such a treat.
Kell followed the innkeeper’s daughter across the crowded room, aware that eyes were on him, curious but somehow…disconcerting. He hated being any centre of attention; the gods only knew, it had happened enough in his life. Usually during combat.
Halting by the stairs, he called the girl back, and checking to see Saark and Nienna weren’t watching,
told her to bring a bottle of whisky to the bathing room.
“We don’t usually…” began the woman.
“I’ll pay you double.”
“I’m sure it can be arranged, sir,” she said, and Kell was gone, stomping up the steps, days of sweat and blood itching him now that a promise of hot water and soap were reality.
After their cake, Saark reclined, patting his belly. “By the gods, I think I’ve put on a few pounds there.”
“Me too,” laughed Kat.
“Does port always make you feel like this?” said Nienna.
Saark nodded, and grinned. “How does it feel?”
“I feel like the room is moving. Spinning!”
Saark shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. Listen, I have a fancy to go out back to the stables, to check on the horses. Will you two young ladies be fine by yourselves? Feel free to order anything you like to eat or drink.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Nienna, waving her hand.
Saark stood, checked his sword, and left the inn. Nienna missed the meaningful look between him and Kat, and so a minute later, when Kat whispered, “I need to pee, I’m going to the ladies room,” Nienna simple smiled, and nodded, and reclined in her own little world of honey and swirling sweet thoughts.
Kat stepped into the snow, but felt no chill. Excitement was fire in her blood, raging in her mind, and she crept around the outer wall of the inn, hearing
the noise and banter inside as a muffled backdrop, a blur of sounds rolling into one strange, ululating whole.
She reached the corner, which led to a short opening and the stable-square beyond. She could see nothing.
“Saark?” she whispered. Then louder, “Saark!”
“Yes, princess?” He was behind her, close, and she felt his breath on her neck and a quiver of raw energy rampaged through her veins. She did not turn, instead standing stock still, now she was here, out in the darkness with this beautiful man, and suddenly unsure of what to do.
“I thought you really had gone to see to the horses,” she said.
“Maybe I did,” he said, and kissed her neck, a gentle tease of lips and tongue, leaving a trail which chilled to ice in the cold air.
Kat shivered. A thrill ran down her spine.
“Did that tickle?”
“It was wonderful.”
“Shall I do it again?”
Kat turned, looked up into his eyes. They were wide and pretty and trustworthy. They shone with love. They shone with understanding. She felt her heart melt; again. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?’
“More beautiful than the stars, princess, more beautiful than a snowflake, or a newborn babe.” He reached forward, until his lips were a whisper from her own. She felt his hands come to rest lightly on her hips, and again a thrill raged through her, pulsing like energy with every beat of her heart. Her head spun,
and she wanted him, wanted him so badly she would risk anything to be with Saark right now, here, in this cold place of snow and ice…
He kissed her.
He was gentle, teasing, his tongue darting into her mouth and she grasped his head in eagerness and pressed her face into his, kissing him with passion, kissing him with a raw ferocity; his arms encircled her waist and she felt his hardness press against the front of her silk dress and it thrilled her like nothing in the world had ever thrilled her before…
He pulled away.
“Don’t stop,” she panted.
“You’re an eager little fox,” he said.
“Kiss me,” she said. “Kiss me everywhere! Touch me everywhere!
Please
…”
“Oh, my princess,” whispered Saark, eyes glinting in the darkness, “believe me, I will.”
Kell sank into hot water. It slammed him with a violence he welcomed. He poured a huge glass of whisky, balanced it on the rim of the old, ceramic bath, and allowed the oils in the water to fill his senses with pleasure.
You cannot drink it,
said Ilanna.
Go fuck yourself, mused Kell, and sloshed in the bathwater. I’ll do what I damn well please. You’re not my mother!
You cannot return there!
I can return to whatever piss-hole I like. I am Kell. They wrote poems about me, you know? You were in them as well, but I was the hero, I was the legend.
Kell’s Legend they called it—sour crock of deformed and lying shit it really was.
Please don’t drink it, Kell.
Why do you care? Because I won’t perform? Because I won’t kill as efficiently for you? To supply your blood fantasy? Your blood-oil craving?
You misunderstand.
What are you? My gran? Kell was mocking, his laughter slurred. He took the whisky. He drank the large glass in one, felt it swim through him like tiny fishes in vinegar. His mind reeled and he welcomed the feeling; glorified in the abandon.
It had been a long time.
Too long.
Nienna is feeling ill,
said Ilanna, playing to the one emotional fulcrum she knew.
Kell cursed, and stood, water and oils dripping from his old, scarred, but mightily impressive frame. Most men grew stringy as they aged, their muscles becoming stretched out, their strength gradually diminishing. Not so Kell. Yes, his joints ached, yes arthritis troubled him, but he knew he was as strong as when he was twenty. Strength was something which had never failed him; he was proud of his prodigy.
Damn you. You lie!
I do not.
What’s going on?
Three men are talking to her. They can see she is drunk on the port Saark bought. They seek to bed her, in sobriety, or not.