Andy Remic - Kell’s Legend

Now, people left the Graverobber to himself.

“You want to fight Army of Iron, you say? Yes. Their blood-oil magick is powerful, very powerful, and they walk the Old Ways with Harvesters of Legend. That is where their power comes from. Freeze your men with horror,” he chuckled, “they will.”

“I never said it was the Army of Iron,” said Leanoric, eyes narrowing.

“That is who Graal commands. Kill him, you must.” Jageraw took a bite from a human heart, and chewed thoughtfully, staring down at his food. “Their magick takes time to cast, that is your strength. They attack at night, yes, pretty pretty night. You must think of a way to circle them, or draw them out. Once they unleash their magick, for a little while, it is out of their control. Now I must go. Now I must eat. Told you too much, I have.”

Jageraw grinned, dark eyes glinting malevolently.

“Thank you…Jageraw.”

“Come back any time,” said the slick black creature, backing away from King Leanoric with ceramic tinklings. “Bring gifts, bring feast, pretty meat from still warm human bodies is what I prefer.” His eyes blinked, and he started to fade. “If you survive, little king,” he chuckled, and was gone.

Leanoric realised he was kneeling, and stood up. He backed hurriedly from the ancient circle of stones, and realised his sword was half drawn. He shivered, aware there were some things he would never understand; and acknowledging there were things he did not want to understand. Jageraw could rot, for all he now cared.

Leanoric turned, mounted his horse, and set off across the mist-laden moors as fast as he dared.

Behind, at the edge of the circle, unseen and rocking rhythmically sat Jageraw, gnawing on fresh liver, and waving with crinkled, blood-stained claws.

Kell, Saark, Nienna, Myriam, Styx and Jex rode hard through the rest of the night, exhausting their horses and breaking out onto the Great North Road just north of Old Skulkra, a deserted ghost-city which sat three leagues north of the relatively new, modern, and relocated city of Skulkra.

They reined in mounts on a low hill, gazing down the old, overgrown, frost-crusted road which led from the Great North Road to distant, crumbling spires, smashed domes, detonated towers, fragmented buildings and fractured defensive walls. On the flat plain before Old Skulkra Leanoric had two divisions camped after moving north from Valantrium Moor, 9600 men plus a few cavalry, lancers and archers stationed to the north of the infantry to provide covering fire in case of surprise attack. In the dawn light their fires had burned low, but there was activity.

“Remember,” said Myriam, leaning forward over the pommel of her saddle. “Any tricks or signals, and the girl dies in two weeks time. A terrible, painful death.”

“How could I forget?” said Kell, and went as if to ride for Leanoric’s camp.

“Wait,” said Saark, and Kell turned on him. There was pain there, in Saark’s face, in his eyes, and he smiled a diluted smile at Kell, then gazed off, towards the camp. “I cannot come,” he said.

“Why the hell not?” snapped Kell. “It was your damn fool idea to warn the king in the first place!”

“To travel to that camp would mean death,” said Saark, voice gentle.

“What are you muttering about, lad? Come on, we need to warn Leanoric. Those bastards might only be a few hours behind us. What if they hit the army now, like this, camped and scratching its arse? It will be a rout, and they’ll flood into the south like a plague.”

“If I go down there,” said Saark, quietly, “King Leanoric will have me executed.”

“Why the hell would he do that, lad?”

Saark looked down, and when he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I…betrayed him. Betrayed his trust. And he sentenced me to death. I…ran. Yes. I stand before you filled with shame.”

“And still you have come back to warn him?” sneered Styx. “What a fucking fool you are, Saark. As I said. A pretty boy.”

“If you do not close your stinking, horse-arse mouth, I’ll shove my sword so far up your belly it’ll come out the top of your head! Understand, Blacklipper?”

Kell held up his hand, glaring at Myriam. “What did you do, Saark?” His voice was soft, eyes understanding.

Saark took a deep breath. “I was Leanoric’s Sword-Champion. I was entrusted with guarding the queen. Alloria. We…I, fell in love with her. We committed a great sin, both of us betraying the great King Leanoric.” He fell silent, unable to look at Kell. Finally, he glanced up. He met Kell’s gaze. “I have been running away ever since. I have been a coward. I knew, when the army invaded Jalder, that even though I might die I had to come here. I had to try and help, even though they would slaughter me as a base criminal, a rapist, a murderer. Now…I cannot face it. Although I should.”

Kell nudged his horse forward, and patted Saark on the back. “Don’t worry lad. You stay here. I’ll go and speak to the king. I know him from…way back. I’ll let him know what is happening to his realm.”

Saark nodded, and Kell gestured to Nienna. “Come with me, girl. It is important to meet nobility, even in times such as these. I will teach you how to speak with a king.”

“I am coming with you,” said Myriam.

“No,” said Kell.

“I don’t trust you.”

Kell laughed, then waved his hand. “So be it. You think I would risk my only chance of beating your pathetic little poison for my granddaughter? Come, then, Myriam; come and frighten the little children with your skull face.” Myriam flushed crimson with fury, but bit her tongue and said nothing, eyes narrowed, hand on sword-hilt. If Kell had to endure her poison, he reasoned, then she, too, would have to endure his. They were symbiotic, now; but that didn’t mean Kell had to enjoy it.

“You see the stand of trees? Over yonder?”

“Aye,” said Kell.

“We’ll wait for you there,” said Saark, eyes hooded, face filled with melancholy.

Kell nodded, reading Saark’s face. “Play nice, now,” he said, and kicked his horse forward alongside Nienna. A moment later, Myriam followed leaving the three men on the low hill. They watched the small group descend, where they were quickly intercepted by scouts and a small, armoured cavalry squad. Weapons were taken from them, and they were escorted towards the shadowy, crumbling walls of a leering, eerie Old Skulkra.

“You leading the way, pretty boy?” grinned Styx. Saark glanced at him, and saw the Widowmaker held casual in one fist, wound and giving an occasional tick. Saark nodded, and guided his horse south, down the hill and towards nearby woodland. As he rode, his thoughts turned violent.

“Kell! By all the gods, it is good to see you!”

King Leanoric’s tent was filled with incense, rich silks and furs, and he was seated in full armour around a narrow table containing maps, alongside Terrakon and Lazaluth, his Division Generals. They had cups of water clasped in gnarled hands, and Lazaluth smoked a pipe, dark eyes narrowed, ancient white whiskers yellowed from the pipe smoke he so loved.

The men stood, and Kell grinned, embracing first Leanoric, then Terrakon and Lazaluth, both of whom Kell knew well, for they had fought alongside one another in ancient, half-forgotten campaigns. The four men stood apart, smiling sombrely.

“I hope, by all that’s holy, you’ve come to fight,” said Leanoric.

“So my journey is wasted? You know of the events in Jalder?”

“Only that is has been taken. We have no specifics. It would seem,” Leanoric’s face turned dark, brooding, “that few survived.”

Myriam and Nienna were taken outside, and seated with a group of women awaiting a meal of stew and bread. They accepted this food thankfully, and Myriam found Nienna watching her strangely; there was a hint of hate, there, but also a deep thread of needful revenge. Myriam smiled. Nienna’s bitterness, growing cynicism and fast rise to adulthood started to remind her of herself.