Andy Remic - Soul Stealers

And Saark had had the chance to kill her murderer. And failed.

Bitterly now, Saark smiled. The wounds were still fresh. The hate was still bright. He would have his day with Styx, Saark knew; one way or another, in this world or in the next. He would cut the fucker in two, and drink his blood, and toast Kat's shade towards the Hall of Heroes.

Saark stopped. Orientated himself. He had been drifting. Dreaming. He winced, clutching the pad at his side. It was still warm, and blood still leaked. Maybe he was weak from blood loss? And the recent beatings? Saark scowled. And thought of Kell. And a sudden dark premonition swept through him.

No. Saark shook his head. Not even Kell would kill a child. Not in cold blood. Surely?

Saark's eyes narrowed.

Could he?

Flitting embers from snatches of story pierced Saark's mind. Snippets of late drinking songs, when the candles were trimmed low and coals glowed dark in the tavern's hearth. The bard would lower his voice, fingers flickering gently over lyre strings as he recounted the Days of Blood, and the atrocities that occurred therein… All speculation, of course. Nobody knew what really happened all those years ago; no soldier had ever spoken of it. Those that still lived, of course, for most survivors had taken their own lives.

Kell, however… he had been there. He had told Saark, although Saark was sure Kell didn't recall uttering the words. However, Saark still remembered the look in Kell's eyes.

"I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blamed the whiskey, for so long I blamed the whiskey, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. I try, Saark. I try so hard to be a good man. I try so hard to do the right thing. But it doesn't always work. Deep down inside, at a basic level, I'm simply not a good person." And then, later, as Saark was sure Kell was falling into a pit of insanity… "Look at the state of me, Saark. Just like the old days. The Days of Blood." The Days of Blood. The day when an entire army went berserk. Insane, it was said. They killed men, women, children, torched houses, slaughtered cattle, torched people in their beds and… much worse. Or so it was said. So the dark songs recounted. And Saark knew Kell didn't have the necessary streak of evil to murder a child he thought might hold him back; and in so doing, be responsible for the death of his granddaughter, the only creature he loved on earth. "Horseshit," he muttered.

Saark limped back towards the ruined cottage, cursing his stupidity and chewing at his lip.

Saark burst through the listing doorway, eyes drawn immediately to the crackling fire which danced bright after the gloom of the snowy woodland. There was no sign of Kell. Nor Skanda.

"Son of a bastard's mule!" snapped Saark, and heard a grunt. He peered into the gloomy interior, and the darkness rearranged itself into shapes. Skanda was sat, almost hidden, stirring his ceramic pot of broth. "Are you well?" said Skanda, almost sleepily.

"Yes, yes!" Saark strode forward, and sat on the log. He kicked off his boots and stretched out his feet, warming his toes. "Where's Kell? Don't tell me. The grumpy old weasel has gone for a shit in the woods." Skanda giggled, and appeared for once his age. "I think you might be right."

Saark peered close. "Seriously. Are you all right, boy? For a minute, back there, I had the craziest notion that Kell might… well, that he might…"

Skanda looked suddenly wise beyond eternity. "Let us say," whispered the boy, staring into the fire, "that Kell made the right choice."

There came a crack, and Kell grinned at Saark from the doorway. "Thought you'd got lost out there, lad. Hugging the trees, were you? Digging in the dirt for more dirt? Or just having bad dreams about noble and heroic old Kell, the man of the Legend." Kell grinned, and although the destroyed cottage had little light, ambient or otherwise, Saark could have sworn Kell displayed no humour.

"We're safe, for now," said Saark. "No sounds of cankers, no soldiers, no pursuit."

Kell moved close. "Well don't get too comfy, lad. We eat, then we move."

"We'll freeze!"

"Freeze or die here," said Kell. "Because I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before that bastard Graal sends someone…" his smile widened, "or some thing, after us."

"And the boy?"

Kell could read the pain in Saark's eyes. He sighed, and ran a hand through his thick, grey-streaked hair. "The boy can come with us. But I'm warning you, if he gets in the way, or either of you slow me down, then I'll cut you both loose."

"You think you can travel faster than I?" stammered Saark. "Man, I'm damn near thirty years your junior!"

Kell leered close. "I know I can, lad. Now get some warm food inside you. We've got a long, hard journey ahead."

They moved through the woodland and as dawn broke, wintry tendrils streaking through heavy cloud cover, so the distant walls of Old Skulkra could still be seen. Saark called a halt, and gestured to Kell. Kell moved close, axe in fist, eyes brooding. "What is it?" Saark pointed. Distantly, the Blood Refineries squatted on the plain like obscene bone dice tossed by the gods. "I have it in my mind to do some research," said Saark, voice soft, eyes bright. "And maybe some damage! Those machines are here for no good." "I know what they are," said Kell. "You do? How is that… possible?"

Kell smiled grimly. "I have seen them in action. In another time. Another place. Let's just say, Saark, that to go chasing them now to satisfy your curiosity would end badly for all of us." "We need to know what we're fighting!"

"So, lad, now we have gone to war?" Kell smiled, but there was no mockery in his tone. If anything, he valued Saark's spirit; especially after they had been through so much.

"They brought war and chaos to Falanor. I would like to return the favour with the blade of my sword." "A task for another day." "You would save Nienna over Falanor?"

"I would save her over the world," rumbled Kell. Seeing the look of incredulity in Saark's face, Kell shrugged and said, "Let me quantify it thus – Graal and his soldiers are searching for us, all of us. And those Blood Refineries are their life-blood. They will be guarded more heavily than any sparkling gems, than any royal blood. To go there, Saark, is folly. And what would you do? Gather information? For whom? Which army will use your military intelligence? No, Saark, we must travel north. When I have Nienna, when I hold her safe in my arms, then we will turn our gaze on Graal and these white-skinned bastards."

Saark considered this. "That could, taken the wrong way, look simply like you're putting your own needs first." "Maybe I am, lad, maybe I am. But without me, you'll never conquer these bastards. I am your lynch pin. And I have been poisoned, and even as we stand debating what to do, the toxic venom pulses through my veins. Or had you forgotten this? Without me, you will fail." "Your arrogance astounds me."

"It is the truth." Saark sighed, and turned his back on the giant, distant machines. "You say you have seen these Refineries working. I assume they do not bode well for the people of Falanor?"

"The battle was horrific, yes? Leanoric's slaughter devastating?"

"Yes."

"The battle was just a prologue for what is to come. Trust me, Saark, when I say we need to use cunning, use our brains; charging back into that enemy camp is the last thing we should do."

"You will not?"

"I will not. But I admire your bravado, lad. Come. We will head north. This is a battle for another day." Saark hung his head, and they moved back into heavy woodland, tracking along in parallel with the Great North Road.

They walked all day, and Kell muttered about pains in his knees. The landscape was beautiful, with hidden hollows filled with virgin snow, woodland branches, stark and bare, pointing white-peppered fingers at the bleak, blue-grey sky. Heavy swathes of conifer forest clutched the contours of the land like a lover. Streams lay frozen like snakes of diamond. The air was crisp, cold and fresh.