Andy Remic - Soul Stealers

At the top they stopped for a short rest on a ledge of black rock. Below, the scree slope led off to a massive drop which fell away into echoing blackness. The air was strange, at some times freezing cold making the group shiver, at others bearing wafts of raging hot air which brought them out in streams of sweat. Kell and Saark were kept seated apart, but Nienna was allowed to sit near Saark.

"How you doing, girl?" grinned Saark after he had regained his breath.

"That was incredibly hard," she said.

"Yes, we're not mountain climbers, right?"

"No." There came an awkward pause. Around them, the white-skinned soldiers sorted out their kit, all the while keeping a close eye on the prisoners. Kell sat to the left, legs dangling off a small drop, face calm but eyes murderous. They could sense his violence from a league away. "What's going to happen, Saark? I'm frightened."

"I don't know, Little One," he soothed. "What I do know is that it was a mistake coming here. Kell thinks he can take on the world; yet now, here, he's just a broken, captured old man."

"He's still Kell," said Nienna, voice soft, pride and belief shining in her eyes. "He is The Legend. He slew Dake the Axeman. He was the Hero of Jangir Field. He turned the tide at the Battle of Black Beach, carrying Dake's head back to the King. He was at the Battle of Valantrium Moor. He's a hero, Saark. He cannot be beaten!"

"He is still a man," said Saark, gently, thinking of the other side of Kell, the dark side of Kell, the murder in his eyes, the murder in his axe, and ultimately, his part in the Days of Blood. Unreported massacres. Cannibalism. Torture. The rape of the dead…

"He's more than just a man," said Nienna, hope in her breast. "He is Kell."

Saark nodded, not willing to remove her spark, her hope, but staring around at the ten warriors with a sense of painful reality. He smiled, still thinking of these soldiers as albino. But they were not. They were… Saark shivered. Shrugged. He had no idea what they were. Part insect? They were shells, he realised. Something else, something old, living inside a human shell.

Kell stood, and stretched, back still to the soldiers. He turned, and two looked up from honing swords, watching him closely. He smiled in a friendly fashion, and moved over to them. "I need a piss," he said.

"Over there," gestured a soldier, with a nod.

"And how do I get my cock out? You've tied me tighter than a fishmonger's purse strings."

"You'll not be untied, old man."

"Better come and hold it for me, then."

"No. I have a better idea." The soldier smiled, a wax, fake smile. "Just piss in your pants. You old warriors all stink of piss anyways; it's said you make incontinence pads out of leaves in the forest, but I don't believe it myself. I think you just line your britches with old shit. It all adds to the rancid stench of the legend."

Kell shrugged, easily. "No problem. If that's what you want." A pool of piss leaked out from one boot, forming a puddle of glistening yellow and Kell stepped closer to the men, trailing a stream of piss and both soldiers, with backs to the scree slope now, dropped their gazes in disgust.

"Not here, you dirty old fool!" snapped one soldier, and glanced up -

Into Kell's boot. It was a massive blow, catching the soldier under the chin and lifting him high into the air, and backwards. He tumbled down the scree slope in a clatter of rocks. The second man rose fast, started drawing his sword, but Kell stamped on his hand and he let go of the blade; twisting, Kell stamped down a second time, boot catching the pommel and striking it downwards. The sword blade punched through scabbard, a diagonal strike down through the buckling man's left calf muscle, right through flesh and into his right foot, pinning his legs together. He toppled, screaming, clawing at the bloodied blade.

At the edge of the scree slope there came a short scream as the sliding soldier was ejected into the abyss. He took a clatter of stones with him. Then silence followed his long descent into oblivion.

The rest of the soldiers leapt into action, drawing swords and Kell turned on them, eyes glowing, teeth bared. "Come on, you heaps of walking horseshit! Let's see what you're made of! Let's see if the maggots fight as well as they breed!"

"No," came a soft voice. Spilada held Nienna, one hand clamped around her throat choking her, the other with a short skinning knife, blade gleaming. Even as Kell watched, face thunder, Spilada let go of her throat, grabbed her hand, lifted it before the group and with a swift, tight cut, snipped off the little finger of her right hand. Nienna screamed, there was a spurt of blood and she went down on her knees weeping, cradling the mutilated limb, rocking. Her finger lay on the ground, like a tiny white worm.

Spilada stepped forward, and as Kell surged at him he lifted a finger and placed the skinning dagger against Nienna's throat. He smiled a cold smile. Kell stopped. He lowered his face. The flat of a sword smashed the back of his skull, and he went down on one knee. Boots waded in, and they kicked him, eight soldiers kicked him, but he did not go down. He simply took the beating, blood on his teeth, eyes never leaving Spilada even under the heaviest of blows.

Saark leapt to Nienna, cradling her, tearing off a section of his shirt and binding her cut finger as best he could. He glared up at Spilada. "What are you doing? She's just a child!" he snarled.

Spilada shrugged. "Next time, I'll cut off her hands. You men, you listen, you will cooperate. This is no game we play." He turned back to Kell, who had stood now the beating ended. The soldiers backed away from him warily, as if they surrounded a wild caged bear. In the background, the man whose legs were pinned together by his own sword whimpered. Spilada made a strange tight gesture, a flicker of fingers, a signal, and another albino slit the wounded man's throat in a rush of white blood. He gurgled for a while, twitched, and was still.

"I will kill you," said Kell.

Spilada shrugged. "You will cooperate. Do I have your cooperation? Or shall I fetch my bag of razor-knives?"

"I will do as you ask," said Kell, gently. He lowered his head. He did not look at Nienna.

"Hush girl," said Saark, and the soldiers now bound Kell's feet – a loose binding, an effective hobbling which allowed him to walk, clumsily, like a prisoner. Saark hugged Nienna. She was crying in pain and shock.

"He cut off my finger!" she wept, staring at the bloodied section of shirt tied tight around her stump. "He cut it off! What kind of men are these? We should never have come here!"

"They're men who'll do much worse if we don't cooperate," said Saark, nostrils twitching at the stench of blood which filled up his nose and mouth and mind with a whirling red vortex of sudden lust. "Come on." Saark helped Nienna to her feet. She swayed, with pain and shock.

"Can she walk?" snapped Spilada. "If not, we'll toss her into the canyon."

"I can walk, you bastard," Nienna snarled, suddenly venomous. There was pure hate in her eyes. Spilada smiled at the vision.

"We have a little Hellcat here, I see."

"A Hellcat who'll cut your throat."

Spilada's smile dropped from his face like a stone down a well. "Enough talk. Walk or die."

Nienna nodded, and Saark helped her to stumble to her grandfather. Kell looked at her then, sorrow in his eyes, tears on his cheeks and in his beard.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not your fault!" wept Nienna, and tried to hug him, clumsily due to her bound wrists.

"I caused you injury. I will never forgive myself."

"You were trying to get us free," she said.

Kell scowled. "I should never have brought you here, child. This is a place of death." His voice dropped, turning to a growl. "Or very soon, it will be." His eyes strayed to Ilanna. She had been placed in a sack with other weapons, and one soldier carried it over his shoulder. But Kell could see her outline. And he could hear her voice.