Andy Remic - Soul Stealers

Saark's eyes shone with tears. "I'll look after you, lad. You see if I don't," he said.

Saark reckoned he created quite a stir when he walked into the smoky, crowded tavern. The crowd certainly parted to allow him passage, and he ignored the many stares as he crossed to Kell and seated himself opposite the axeman, back to the crowd.

"What," said Kell, "in the name of horse-shit, are you wearing?"

"I call it Orange Blossom in Winter. I think it's quite alluring. I think the ladies are noticing me." He smiled a broad, happy smile.

"Mate, every bastard is noticing you, from the lowliest mongrel backstabbing thief to the dirtiest, sleaziest whore in the village. What the hell were you thinking, Saark?"

"I was thinking it's been awhile since I had some female company."

"I thought you were over that?"

"Kell, my friend, you do not understand men, nor women. This is not something I want; this is something I need. I cannot control myself, no more than you control your… your swinging axe."

"Saark, we are staying one night. What possessed you to dress like a peacock?"

"It is my way."

"And you stink! Gods, it's like you've been showered with every tart's knicker-drawer lavender bottle in the country! You'll have the bastard albino soldiers on us in an instant if you step into the wilds of Falanor stinking like that."

"You are so uncouth."

"I thought you'd overcome all this crap? I thought we were on a mission?"

"What?" Saark looked incredulous. " What? Overcome? You confuse, old horse. Indeed, there is nothing here for which to overcome, because this is a question of breeding, this is a question of sophistication, and this is an embodiment of culture – something intrinsic, not just learned. And, because I have been forced to endure your company and travel in extraneous hardship, just because I have been forced to sleep in shit, and eat shit, and listen to shit, does not mean I thus crave shit. No. You know I am used to the finer aspects of life, and despite this being a poor backward peasant village," several of the men in the tavern scowled and muttered at these brash, arrogant and loudly delivered words, "filled with dirty, low-born peasants whose only knowledge is how to feed pigs and kill chickens," he laughed, a bright tinkling of crystal windchimes, "that doesn't mean to say I have to denigrate myself to the lower echelons of a rude base society. Understand?"

"You're a horse's dick, Saark."

"I rest my case."

"Meaning?"

"When faced with superior intelligence, culture and argument, you instantly revert to the base gutter which spawned you. I do not blame you for low-born behaviour, Kell, in fact sometimes I am envious; how I wish I wasn't so beautiful, and charming, and irresistible to the ladies." Saark took this moment to have a good look around, and although his eyes lingered on several buxom wenches, the sight of their moribund attire, cracked and broken fingernails and dowdy knifehacked hair made him turn back to Kell with a scowl and deep sigh. "However. I am cursed thus, and so must make the most of my natural endowments, and indeed, the nature of my beast. And what a beast it is."

"I'd forgotten," said Kell.

"What do you mean, old horse?"

Kell bared his teeth, and drained his tankard. "We've been through some battles, Saark lad, some hard shit, and you've proved yourself to be tougher than I anticipated. You're a good swordsman, with a strong arm and keen eye, and enough mental toughness to face any enemy."

"But?"

"But the minute you touch any form of civilisation, you regress to the pig-headed sugar-mouthed hardcocked brainless stinking village fucking idiot I've always loathed." Saark opened his mouth, as Kell hefted his axe and stood, stool scraping the straw-covered stone flags. "And if I hear another sugar-coated pile of goat's bollocks from you, I'll carve my name on your arse." Saark's mouth closed again, and Kell stalked through the crowded tavern and stepped out into the night.

"Really!" said Saark, and grinned, then winced as the stitches in his side pulled tight. He laughed, half in pain, half in joy at this simple touch of civility. He moved round the table, taking Kell's place with his back to the wall, and noticed with surprise that quite a few of the tavern's stocky peasant farmers were throwing him dark, menacing scowls. Saark waved cheerily, and they returned their dark glances and mutters to the bar, and flat ale.

"Now, what shall I do?" murmured Saark, and rubbed his chin. It was slightly pink from shaving, but by the gods it felt good to be rid of the stubble and dirt. He had groomed his moustache carefully, using a little oil supplied by Bess, the tavern master's daughter. The rest he had rubbed into his hands and smoothed through his long, dark curls. Saark knew he cut a tall, dashing, handsome figure. But after the beating by Myriam's men, resulting in a head like a sausagestuffed pig's stomach, he had been knocked temporarily out of the womanising game. But now… now most of the bruises and swelling were gone, and Saark understood the dark, smoky interior would hide any remaining blemishes. Like a cat, he was ready to play. Like a lust-fuelled bull, he was ready to charge! He grinned. Saark was back, baby, Saark was back!

His eyes wandered the room, and he drank his ale and ordered another, which he also downed. Several women looked at him, and smiled. Saark graded them silently, methodically, placing them in a mental hierarchy of whom he would bed first provided no finer lass entered the premises. Such was his confidence, and experience, it never occurred to Saark that a lady might turn him down. That was something which happened to other poor unfortunates.

So intent was Saark on scrutinising the women on display, like prime beef at a cattle market, that as he was finishing the dregs from his fourth tankard of ale two men approached. He didn't register until they were standing directly before him.

"Hello, lads," smiled Saark, placing his tankard down with a clack. "What can I do you for?"

"The popinjay asks what he can do for us," laughed the first man. He was big, with a round head, roughcropped hair, large ears and ruddy cheeks. In his fist, he held a longsword, point lowered. Saark's eyes followed the blade to the ground.

"That's a good question," replied his companion. "A very good question indeed. A damn fine question, if I be honest."

"Listen," said Saark, leaning forward a little as if sharing a conspiracy, "much as I'd like to sit here and trade stunning witticisms with two grand but obsequious fellows, who are both obviously the core intellectual firecrackers of this entire inbred ensemble, I really feel I must rise and circulate in order to integrate with the finer female brethren contained within this squalid den of congenital primates."

"You see," said the first man. "There he goes again. Spouting all that crap. Horseshit, I says it is."

"Aye. And he stinks like horseshit, as well." Then to Saark. "You hear that, boy? You stink like horseshit."

Saark sighed, and there came a little tearing sound. One of the men yelped, and went rigid. Saark's eyes were suddenly dark, and contained less humour, and his face and dandy clothing seemed somehow just that bit less ridiculous. "That little prick you feel against your leg, my friend – and I can tell you're a man who enjoys feeling little pricks against his leg – well, it's the point of my rapier. Let me assure you, my weapon is tempered from finest Jevaiden steel, and probably cost more than this entire village; indeed, I spend a good half hour a day keeping it sharp ready for the hour I need to teach some uncouth big-eared boy a lesson. Now, I'd advise you not to move quickly because the point is a single twitch from slitting your femoral artery – that's the main one, which runs through your groin and will empty your pathetic body of blood in less than two minutes." Saark leaned forward. His eyes glittered. "I've killed thirty eight men with that cut. Not a single man didn't writhe and scream like his intestines were filled with molten lead. You hearing me nice and clear, village idiot?"