Andy Remic - Soul Stealers

Alloria heard herself utter a small whimper. Vashell did not turn, but she saw his muscles tense.

The lead wolf snarled, a sudden, aggressive sound, and leapt at Vashell in a blur…

Jageraw travelled with care, avoiding men, avoiding albino soldiers, avoiding cankers and avoiding anybody he thought might be a threat – which meant anything alive. The pain in his chest was worse now, and often made him gasp and he would mutter to himself, "Not pretty, not pretty," and rub at his armoured chitin as if by rubbing the area he could ease away the pain.

The canker Jageraw had saved back at Le'annath Moorkelth was gone, fled through the forest. He was an odd one that canker, yes, thought Jageraw, bitter for a moment that none wished to share his company. Did he stink? Was that it? Stink of fish? All Jageraw got out of the twisted clockwork creature was its name: Elias. Then it was gone, floundering and stamping through the forest, easy meat for soldier's crossbows yes yes. He regretted now not eating the Elias. It was a pain, spitting out the cogs, but cankers could taste quite prime.

As he moved, so he thought of the Hexels.

They had saved him.

They had honoured him.

Now, Jageraw knew his task.

Muttering, he stumbled on through forests and snow, stopping occasionally to hunt down some unsuspecting traveller or refugee, but even the slick feeling of raw kidneys or liver on his tongue, or even – the joy! – a succulent lung, did nothing to ease the pain in his chest. And the further north he travelled, the more the pain burned.

It was late afternoon, sky darkening, as Kell rode his steed up a steep hill, reins in one hand, the other on the haft of his saddle-sheathed axe. He drew rein atop the summit, and Saark came up beside him, silent, considering. Mary the donkey brayed, the noise loud and echoing, and Kell threw back a bitter scowl.

"Don't even think it," said Saark.

"What?"

"She's invaluable. And Skanda is enjoying riding her. You wouldn't take such a simple pleasure from the boy?"

Kell stared hard into Saark's eyes, and what he saw there he did not understand. Kell knew that he was good at reading men, but Saark was a true conundrum. Complex, unpredictable, Kell knew deep in his heart he would make better progress if he left Saark behind. And that was the answer, he realised. Singularity.

Pain lashed through his veins, and Kell gritted his teeth, swooning in the saddle. The world blurred and reeled, and he grasped the saddle pommel with both hands, face pale, eyes squeezed shut, and focused on simply breathing as the world in its entirety swirled down in wide lazy blood circles. He heard Saark's voice, but it was a garbled, stretched out series of meaningless sounds. And in the middle of it all there was a taste, and the taste was whiskey, and he knew that if only he could have another drink then everything would be all right again, and the pain would go away again, and no matter that it made him violent because he was in a violent world on a violent mission and the whiskey would help him achieve his goal; waves of pain pulsed through him, and then a moment of darkness, and then he was breathing, gasping at the cold air like a drowning man coming to the surface of a lake.

The world slapped Kell in the face, and he was gasping, and Saark was asking him if he was well. Kell took several deep, exaggerated breaths, and looked right to Saark. He gave a nod. "It's the poison, lad," he managed, voice hoarse. "When she bites, she bites real hard."

"We need to rest," said Saark. "Somewhere warm, some hot food, a good sleep. We've been through a lot." He winced, clutching his wounded side instinctively. "And we stink like a ten day corpse."

"Speak for yourself," barked Kell.

"Kell?" It was Skanda. His eyes glittered. Again, now they had stopped, the scorpion sat on his hand and seemed to be watching proceedings. Kell eyed the insect uneasily, and made a mental note to tread the bastard underboot at the first opportunity.

"What is it, lad?"

"There is a village, yonder. Creggan. I have travelled there before. It is getting late, we should move."

"Where?" Both Kell and Saark squinted, looking off over gloom-laden, snowy hills which dropped in vast steps from their position, like folds in a giant's goosedown quilt.

Skanda pointed. "Come. I will show you." He reached out, and the lead between Saark's horse and Mary fell away. Skanda cantered the donkey forward, and the usually stubborn beast (on several occasions, Saark had had to practically wrestle the donkey into ambulation) obeyed Skanda without hesitation, nor braying complaint.

Saark shrugged, and Kell scowled. Skanda set off in a seemingly random direction from the high ground near the Great North Road. Saark followed, his gelding stamping and snorting steam. Kell waited for a few moments, pulled free the unmarked whiskey bottle, and drained the last few drops. He licked his lips, and despite hating himself for it, hoped to the High Gods that there was a tavern.

The village was small, a central square with hall and tavern and a few shops. All seemed closed and empty and dead on this cold winter evening, another apparent victim of the Army of Iron. Kell and Saark had Skanda wait by the outskirts as they rode in, weapons drawn, eyes wary as they searched for albino soldiers. Nobody walked the streets. Most of the houses seemed deserted.

"Has the Army of Iron been through, do you think?"

Kell shrugged, and pointed to the tavern where thin wisps of smoke eased from a ragged, uneven chimney. "I don't think so. No bodies in the road, for a start. But let us find out." He dismounted at the tavern, and thumped open the door. Inside was warm, a fire crackling in the hearth. A long bar supported three men, all stocky and dour, who jumped as the door opened, their eyes casting nervous to the intruders, hands on sword hilts. A tall, thin barman gave a nod to Kell, and Kell entered.

"Do you have rooms?"

"How many?"

"Two."

"Yes. It'll be five coppers a night. Will you be wanting warm water? 'Cos that's another copper."

"Warm water is a prerequisite to cleanliness and holiness, my man," said Saark, entering the tavern and smiling, leaning forward over ale-stained timbers.

The barman stared at the ragged, bruised, tattered dandy, without comprehension.

"He said 'yes'," grunted Kell, and dropped coins on the bar. Then to Saark, "Go and get the boy, and stable our horses."

When Saark had left, Kell eyed the barman. "You have a cosy little town, here, barman."

"And we would keep it that way. An army passed through, killing everyone in surrounding towns," his eyes were bleak, his mind full of nightmares, "of this we know. We would ask you to keep your knowledge of Creggan to yourselves. We have nowhere to run, you understand?"

Kell nodded, and ordered a whiskey, which he downed in one. Then, when Saark returned after stabling the horses and Mary, Kell pushed past him on his way to the door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Out."

"Out where?"

"Just out," grinned Kell, but it was a grin without humour.

"Old horse, I have a question. Why did you only purchase two rooms? A little odd, I thought."

Kell's grin widened. "You love that damn creepy Ankarok boy so much. Well. You can bunk with him. Maybe he'll stop you behaving like an idiot!"

It was later. Much later. Darkness had fallen, and with it a fresh storm of snow. Kell had returned, brushing flakes from the shoulders of his heavy bearskin jerkin, and now sat eating a meal at a corner table in the tavern. It was a pie filled mostly with potatoes, a little ham, and thick gravy. Kell also had a full loaf of black bread, which he sliced thickly, smothering each slice with butter. Skanda sat, facing Kell, eyes fixed on the old warrior, watching the man eat. On three occasions Kell had offered the boy food, but the thin-limbed urchin waved it away.