Andy Remic - Kell’s Legend

“It’ll save our life,” shivered Saark, and struggled from his cloak. In the gloomy light, his frilled clothes, splattered with dried blood, no longer looked so fine. “How are you two?”

“Exhausted,” said Kat, and flashed Saark a smile. “It’s been…a strange few days, hasn’t it?”

“We need to get a fire going. Nienna, will you go and find some wood?”

Sensing they needed to be alone, Nienna left and the door slammed shut. Saark approached Kat.

“What happened back there…”

“It’s all right,” she said, smiling and placing a finger against his lips. “We both got carried away in the moment…”

“No. What I meant to say was, I think you’re special. I am trying to be different. A reformed character.” His smile was twisted, self-mocking. “In my past life, I have been a bad man; in many ways. But I feel for you, Katrina.” He stared into her topaz eyes, and ran his hands through her short, red hair, still stuck with bits of straw from back at the village stables.

She reached up, and kissed him, and for a long moment their lips lingered. “Let’s take it one step at a time. Let’s reach the king. Let’s save Falanor. Then we can play at holding hands.”

Saark grinned. “You’re a wicked wench, that’s for sure.”

She stroked his moustache, winked, then turned her back on him. “You better believe it, mister.”

Nienna returned with firewood, followed by Kell, shivering and brushing snow from the shoulders of his mighty bear-skin jerkin. “Let’s get a fire lit,” he rumbled, “I could do with a pan of soup.”

“You and your soup,” said Saark.

“It’s good for the ancient teeth,” said Kell, but whereas once Saark would have bantered, now a gloomy silence fell on the group and they worked quietly, their humour a thing of the past.

Once the fire was lit, and a little warmth built inside the road shelter, Kell used the last of their supplies to make a thin, watery soup. He also discovered he’d used the last of the salt. He cursed. What was life without a little salt?

Outside, darkness fell, and the snowfall increased in intensity.

“Winter’s finally come,” said Saark, gesturing out of the small windows.

“Good,” grunted Kell. “It’ll slow the invading army.”

“Don’t you find it odd,” said Saark, playing with his dagger on the thick-planks of the table.

“What do you mean?”

“The Army of Iron, invading at the start of winter. Guaranteed a slow advance, men freezing to death, supply problems, lowered morale. There’s nothing like standing all night in the damn snow to sap a man’s morale; it’s like spreading syphilis. I know, I’ve done it. I thought my feet would never get warm again. It was two whole days before I felt life in my little toes! So, a strange choice then, yes?”

“Yes,” grunted Kell, finishing the last of his broth. He had made better, but the girls didn’t complain. He’d expected a few jibes from Saark, along the lines of his soup being the watery consistency of old goat piss; but Saark had remained silent, moody. Since their fight in the street, Saark had retreated into himself, into his shell, and whilst a part of Kell was glad of the change in character, another part of him, a part he did not recognise, actually missed the banter. With a jolt like a shock of lightning, Kell realised he liked the dandy; although he was damned if he could figure out why.

Nienna and Kat moved away to sort out the sleeping arrangements, and check for extra blankets. They’d found some, which they laid out on the floor before the fire to banish vestiges of damp. Now they searched the cupboards and drawers at the back of the shelter.

“Look,” said Kell, staring at Saark across the table. “I…I wanted to apologise. Again. For what happened back at the tavern. It rests uneasy with me, laddie. It shouldn’t have happened. I am ashamed of what I did.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” said Kell. “I feel bad. And it wasn’t totally your fault; when I drink whisky, it twists my brain. Turns me into the bad man from the poem.” He smiled wryly. “Yes, the stanza they never repeat, lest it sour my legend. Ha!” He turned, stared into the fire for a while. Then he reached across the table. “Take my hand.”

“Why? You want to read my palm?”

“No, I want to crush your fingers, idiot. Take my damn hand.”

Saark took the old man’s grizzled paws, felt the massive strength contained therein. He looked up into Kell’s eyes, and swallowed. There was power there, true power, charisma, strength and an awesome resolve.

“That will never happen again, Saark, I promise you. I count you as a friend. You have saved my granddaughter’s life, and you have fought with great courage on my behalf. If you ever see me touch a whisky bottle to my lips, please, smash me over the head with the fucking bottle. I will understand. And…I owe you, my friend. I owe you with my life. I will give my life to protect you.”

Saark blinked, as Kell released him, and sat back a little. He grinned. “You could have just blown me a kiss.”

“Don’t get smart.”

“Or sent some flowers.”

“I might not kill you,” snarled Kell, “but I’ll slap your arse, for sure. Now be a good lad, and go and find some candles…the dark outside, well, it’s getting kind of eerie; what with these Harvesters and cankers and damned albino bastards roaming the land.”

“Candles won’t stop the horrors of the dark, my friend.”

“ I know that! Just find some.”

As Saark was rummaging around in the bottom of an old cupboard, the door to the road shelter opened and three figures were illuminated by firelight. They stood for a moment, surveying the interior, and then stepped in, leading another four refugees, presumably from recent slaughter in a local village.

Kell stood, taking up his axe, and stared at the newcomers. The villagers he dismissed immediately from his mind, for they were obviously refugees in tatters, half dead with cold. But the first three; they were warriors, vagabonds, and very, very dangerous. Kell could tell from the glint in their eyes, the wary way they moved, the cynical snarls ingrained on weary, stone-carved expressions.

“We saw your fire,” said one of the newcomers, stepping forward. She was tall, taller than Kell even, her limbs wiry and strong, her fingers long, tapered, the nails of her right hand blackened from constant use of the longbow strapped to her back. She had short black hair, cropped rough, and gaunt features, her eyes sunken, her flesh stretched and almost yellow. “My name is Myriam.”

“Welcome, Myriam,” said Kell, watching as the other newcomers spread out. The four villagers cowered behind them, staring longingly at the fire. “Do you bring any supplies?”

“We have potatoes, meat, a little salt. The villagers here also have food between them. Are those your horses out back?”

“So what if they are?” said Saark, smoothly, standing beside Kell. “They are not for sale.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to buy them,” said Myriam, and stalked forward, taking up a chair, reversing it, and sitting down, her arms leaning over the solid back. The two men approached, standing behind her; she was obviously the leader.

Kell eyed the men carefully. One was of average height, squat, and inexorably ugly. He had pockmarked skin, narrow dark eyes, or eye, as the left was a lifeless socket, red and inflamed, and his cubic head sported tufts of hair as if shaved with a blunt razor. Worst of all, his lips were black, the black of the smuggler, the black of the outlawed Blacklipper, and it gave his countenance a brooding, menacing air. Kell instinctively decided never to turn his back on the man.