Andy Remic - Kell’s Legend

Inside the war-tent, Kell hurriedly outlined his recent exploits in Jalder, from the ice-smoke invasion and the incursion of heartless, slaughtering albino soldiers, murdering men, women and children without mercy, down to accounts of the cankers and Harvesters, and the subsequent battles as they travelled south.

“Have you seen this Army of Iron?” said Lazaluth, puffing on his pipe and churning out a cloud of blue smoke.

Kell shook his head. “Only platoons of albino soldiers. But they fight like bastards, and use the ice-smoke blood-oil magick-freezing everybody in their path. And they have the cankers. I know in my heart they have more of these beasts; they are savage indeed.”

“How far behind you lie this albino army?”

“The vanguard? No more than a few hours.”

“Really,” said Leanoric, voice low. His eyes narrowed. “My scouts, to a man, tell me three days. We have another two divisions on the march; they will arrive tomorrow, just ahead of the enemy.”

“No,” said Kell, shaking his head. “Your scouts are…lying. Or misinformed. Graal is closer than you believe, I swear this by every bone in my body.”

“That’s impossible!” roared Terrakon. “I have known Angerak since he was a pup! He is a fine scout, and would never betray his king, nor his country! Get the lad in here, we’ll question him. You must be mistaken, Kell. It is not in this boy’s nature.”

Kell waited uneasily as Angerak was summoned, and he felt the eyes of the old Division Generals on him. He grinned at them, a broad-teeth grin. “You can cut out that shit, gentlemen; I no longer serve under your iron principles. You can stick your polished breastplates up your arse!”

“You always were a cheeky young bear,” growled Terrakon. “But fight! Gods, I have never seen a man fight like you. It’s good to have you here, Kell. It is a good omen. We’re going to give this Graal a kicking he won’t forget, send him running back to the Black Pikes squeaking with his shitty piglet tail between his legs. Aye?”

Angerak was shown in, and he bowed before Leanoric. He cast a sideways glance at Kell, displaying a narrowed frown, then returned his eyes to the king. “Majesty, you sent for me?”

“Tell me again what you saw of the enemy on your journey north.”

“I filed a full report already, sire. I-”

“Again, Angerak.”

Angerak looked left and right, at the old Division Generals, then coughed behind the back of his hand. “I travelled up over Corleth Moor; it was bathed in a heavy mist, and I dismounted, moved further in on foot. There, in the Valley of Crakken Fell, I saw the Army of Iron, camped out with perhaps three to four thousand soldiers. They were disorganised, like children playing at war; like idiots in a village carnival. We will slaughter them with ease, sire. Do not worry.”

“So,” Leanoric chose his words with infinite care, “there is…no chance they could be closer?”

“No, sire. I would have passed them on my journey. I have been a scout for many years; I do not make mistakes. There were no other battalions nearby, and their skills at subterfuge were, shall we say, lacking.”

“It’s funny, laddie,” interjected Kell, drawing all eyes in the war-tent to him, “but, you know, I’ve just been chased here through Vorgeth Forest with at least sixty albino soldiers right behind me. Their army is close behind, I’d wager. What would you say to that?”

Angerak placed his hand on his sword-hilt. “I would say you are mistaken, sir.” A cool and frosted silence descended on those in the tent. Terrakon and Lazaluth exchanged meaningful glances. Angerak looked around, eyes hooded. “I would also suggest I do not like your tone.”

“What are they paying you, boy? What did General Graal offer?”

Angerak said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Leanoric. He shook his head. Finally, he said, “You are mistaken in your beliefs. I have been a faithful scout for the past-” The dagger appeared from nowhere, and in a quick lunge he leapt at Leanoric…but never made the strike. In his back appeared Ilanna, with a sickening thutch, and Angerak crashed to floor on his face. Kell stepped forward, placed his boot on Angerak’s arse and wrenched free the weapon, dripping molten flesh. He looked around at those present.

“Get your scouts in here,” he said. “It would seem Graal has already infiltrated your army.” Kell threw Leanoric a thunderous frown. “I hope your strategy is in place, gentlemen.”

“We have two divisions coming from the northeast,” said Leanoric. “They will be here by the morning.”

Kell rubbed his beard. “So you have just under ten thousand men? Let us hope the enemy is weak…”

“We must draw the Army of Iron back, into the city wasteland of Old Skulkra. I will have archers placed in ancient towers-a thousand archers! If we can do this, fake a retreat, draw them in, then we will slaughter them.” Leanoric stepped forward, sighing. “Kell, will you stay? Will you help us?”

“You have your generals here,” said Kell, voice grave, looking to Terrakon and Lazaluth. “I have my granddaughter to consider…but I will help, where I can.” He stepped swiftly from the tent…just as a scream rent the air…

“Attack! We’re under attack!”

The camp exploded into action, with men scrambling into armour and strapping on weapons. Fires flared. Distant over the plain, before Old Skulkra, the enemy could be seen: the Army of Iron, formed into squares, a huge and terrifying, perfectly organised mass. They marched down from the hills in clockwork unity, boots stomping frozen grass and snow, the gentle rattle of accoutrements the only indication they were marching into battle. Leanoric strode out behind Kell, his strong face lined with anxiety. Quickly, he surveyed the enemy, and something went dead inside as he realised the two armies were equally matched. This was not to be his finely trained troops routing invading, poorly fed brigands from the mountains. This was two advanced armies meeting on a flat plain for a tactical battle…

Draw them back into the city.

Break away from the ice-smoke, from the blood-oil magick…

His troops had been warned; they knew what to do if General Graal attempted underhand tactics. But would this be enough? With a skilled eye Leanoric read the albino discipline like a text. They were tight. Impossibly so.

Over the horizon, dawn light crept like a frightened child.

“Generals!” bellowed Leanoric, taking a deep breath and stepping forward. “To me! Captains-organise your companies, now!” Leanoric’s men quickly fell into ranks, reorganised into battle squares, as they had done so many times on the training field. Leanoric felt pride swell his chest in the freezing dawn chill, for the men of Falanor showed no fear, and moved with a practised agility and professionalism.

Then his eyes fell to the enemy.

The Army of Iron had halted, weapons bristling. They looked formidable, and eerily silent, pale faces hazy through distance, and through a light mist that curled across the ground.

“They look invincible,” said Leanoric, voice quiet.

“They die like any other bastard,” growled Kell. “I have seen this. I have done this.” He turned, and grasped Leanoric’s arm. “So you’re going to draw them back into the city? That is your strategy?”

“If it starts to go badly, aye,” said Leanoric. He gave a crooked smile. “If they try to use blood-oil magick. I have a few surprises in store in Old Skulkra.”

The enemy ranks across the virgin battlefield parted, and several figures drifted forward between heavily armoured troops, even as Leanoric’s captains organised battle squares before the fragmented walls of Old Skulkra. The figures were impossibly tall for men, and wore white robes embroidered in fine gold. They had flat, oval, hairless faces, small black eyes, and slits where the nose should have been. As they advanced before the Army of Iron, they stopped and surveyed Leanoric’s divisions.