Andy Remic - Kell’s Legend

Nienna nodded, and wiped away her tears. “I understand there are many evil people in the world,” she said, voice little more than a whisper. “But we must warn King Leanoric that the enemy approach. Or thousands more will die!”

Kell nodded, glancing at Myriam. “You hear that, bitch? I will take you to the mountains. But first, we ride south.”

“You would gamble with your life? And that of the girl?” Myriam looked aghast, and she shook her head, staring down at Styx and Jex. Styx had his shoulder bound tight, and stood, flexing the limb.

Kell scowled at him. “Know this, Blacklipper. When we are done, I will come looking for you.”

“I will be waiting,” said Styx.

Ilanna beat a tattoo of warning in Kell’s mind, and he gazed off between the trees. “I think there are more,” he said, voice low. “We need to get the horses. We need to ride south now.”

Saark and Jex went for the mounts, as snow tumbled from bleak dark skies above the edges of Vorgeth Forest. Within a few minutes they had mounted, Nienna behind Saark, and as the forest whispered with ancient leaves and branches and needles, so more platoons of albino soldiers, drawn by distant sounds of battle, emerged warily from the foliage. There were two platoons-forty soldiers, and their cautious advance turned swiftly into a run with weapons drawn as they spotted fallen comrades…

“Ride!” shouted Saark, and his horse reared. Myriam led the way, thundering out of the clearing down a narrow dark path, her sword in her fist, head lowered over her mount. The rest of the group followed, with Jex bringing up the rear firing bolts from his Widowmaker with metallic winding thumps, and smashing several soldiers from their feet.

Then they were gone, lost to the sinister forest.

King Leanoric calmed his horse, a magnificent eighteen-hand stallion, and peered off through the gloom. A curious mist had risen, giving the moorland plateau a curious, cut-off feeling, a sidestep from reality, a different level of existence.

He had left his personal guard behind, a mile hence, aware that the Graverobber would never agree to meet him with soldiers present. The Graverobber was a fickle creature at the best of times, but add in a heady mix of weapons, armour and soldierly sarcasm…well, claws were ejected and the Graverobber would begin to kill without question.

Leanoric walked over springy heather, and stopped by the towering circle of stones. Le’annath Moorkelth, they were called in the Old Tongue. Or simply the Passing Place in every contemporary Falanor lexicon. Whatever the origins of the stones, it was said they were over ten thousand years old, and evidence of an earlier race wiped from existence by an angry god. Leanoric peered into the space between the stones, where the Graverobber dwelled, and again felt that curious sensation of light-headedness, as if colours were twisting into something…else. Leanoric rubbed his beard, then stepped into the circle and heard a hiss, a growl, and the patter of fast footfalls on heather…

The Graverobber leapt at him, and Leanoric forced his eyes to remain open, forced himself to stare at the twisted, corrugated body of the deformed creature, once human but deviated by toxins, poisons, its skin a shiny, ceramic black, tinkling as it moved, tinkling as if it might shatter. It, or he, was thin-limbed, his head perfectly round and bald with narrow-slitted eyes and a face not a thousand miles from that of a feline. He had whiskers, and sharp black teeth, and a small red tongue, and as he leapt for Leanoric with claws extending and powerful, corded muscles bunched for the kill, so Leanoric spoke his name, and in doing so, tamed the savage beast “Jageraw!”

The Graverobber hit the ground lightly, and turned, spinning around on himself on all fours before rearing into an upright walking position. Leanoric heard the crinkle of ceramic spine, and pretended he hadn’t.

“What want you here, human?”

“I have questions.”

“What makes you think I answer?”

“I have a gift.”

“A gift? For me? How pretty. What is it?” Jageraw’s demeanour changed, and he dropped to all fours again, black skin gleaming unnaturally. Leanoric opened the sack he was carrying, and steeling himself, put in his hand. He pulled out a raw liver. It glistened in the gloom, and the muscles on Leanoric’s jaw went tight.

Jageraw sniffed, and edged closer, eyes watching Leanoric suspiciously. He swayed, peering past Leanoric into the gloom, then focused on the liver. “Human or animal?”

“Human,” said Leanoric, voice little more than a whisper. “Just the way you like it.”

Jageraw lashed out, taking the liver, then went through an elaborate sequence where he sniffed, and licked, and tasted, and sampled. When finally happy, the shiny black creature, glistening as if coated with oil, moved to the centre of the stone circle, dug up a little earth and buried the organ.

“You bring me more, human man?”

“Answers.”

“To questions? Ask questions. You bring me more?”

“I have two hearts, two kidneys and another liver.”

Jageraw’s eyes went wide, as if offered the finest feast of his life. He licked his thin shiny lips, and his sharp teeth clattered for a moment as if in unadulterated excitement.

“Ask your questions.”

“There is an army advancing on my land. It is said they use blood-oil magick.” Jageraw twitched, as if stung, and a crafty look stole over his face. “I want to know if it is true.”

“Who leads the army?”

“General Graal. He is a…vachine.”

Jageraw hunkered down, and hissed. “They are not good. They are bad. They are not pretty. They are far from pretty. You want to avoid these men, they have blood-oil magick. Yes.”

“How do I fight them?”

“Hmm. The food smells nice. Smells pretty. Smells succulent. Jageraw would like another sample.”

Leanoric threw the bag, which thudded as it hit the ground. Jageraw leapt forward, excitement thrumming through his taut muscled body, and Leanoric watched the Graverobber chewing and tasting, head in the bag, then emerging, blood dribbling down his chin as his dark eyes surveyed King Leanoric.

“You are very generous, sire. ” He chuckled, as if at some great jest. His head tilted, and not for the first time Leanoric thought to himself, what the hell kind of creature are you? What happened to you? Why do you eat human remains-hence earning the title of Graverobber, from earlier days? Days when you robbed graves for your food. And, ultimately, why can you no longer leave this ancient circle of stones? Others had asked such questions, and several eminent professors from Jalder University had been sent to research the Old Ways and the Blood-oil Magick Legacy for purposes of scholarly study. All were dead. Jageraw might seem an oddity, but he was powerful beyond belief, and had the ability to…fade away when threatened.

Once, three mercenaries had been hired to bring back the Graverobber’s carcass, with or without a head. One entered the circle with a bag of goodies, and enticed Jageraw out as his comrades waited in the gloom of falling night with powerful longbows. They peppered Jageraw with savage, barbed, poisoned arrows, six or seven of which thudded home to sprays of bubbling blood in slick black flesh. In squealing agony, Jageraw grabbed the first mercenary within the circle and they…vanished. Or so the story went. The man’s companions waited for three nights for their friend, and one evening emerged to discover him lying in the circle, his body peeled but still, incredibly, alive. He’d whimpered pitifully, pleading and begging for help. His companions on impulse rushed into the circle, and Jageraw pounced from nowhere, his body perfectly healed, his claws cutting through swords and shields to sever heads from bodies. That night, Jageraw ate well.