Kell’s Legend

EIGHT
Stone Lion Woods

The canker leapt with a howl, and the girls hunkered in terror. It landed, and with a blink they realised they weren’t the target. One of the woodsmen was still alive, groaning softly, and had lifted his sword and rolled, groan turning to a snarl at the sight of the canker…which stooped, suddenly, and with a crunch, bit off his head.

Kat eased through dead pine needles, through the rotting forest underlay as the canker ate the corpse noisily. It tore long strips of meat from his thighs and bones with crunches and rips, and then from the man’s broad arse, huge lumps which glistened. It swallowed them down in a fast, slick gobble.

They both crouched, watching the canker. Nienna felt herself shivering, and they scavenged around for what torn items lay at their feet. As they dressed in rags, so Kat stood on a dead branch, which cracked. The canker lifted its head from its feast, blood rimed around the massive open jaws, and stringing from its twisted teeth. Nienna saw, suddenly, that this was a different creature from back at the cottage. The mouth was smaller, more lop-sided to the left, the teeth like blackened steel stumps, which bludgeoned meat rather than sliced it. It was also slimmer, less bulky than the first canker they’d witnessed, and with a start, Nienna saw it had breasts, small and rounded, hanging down between its stumpy front legs; the nipples gleaming like polished iron, aureoles of copper, and within the frighteningly thin translucent skin tiny pistons worked.

It was a woman, Nienna realised, and this, somehow, made the cankers a thousand times worse. One thing to be a monster; but to be a monster created from a human shell? To think that through a series of twisted decisions, of incorrect choices, of random bad luck, one could end up…like that?

“Gods,” she hissed, and the canker tilted its head, focusing on her and Kat as if for the first time. Its tiny gold-flecked eyes narrowed, and raising its head, it bellowed up into the dark night forest in something akin to pain…

Not waiting to see if it attacked, Nienna and Kat turned and ran, sprinting as fast as they could, tearing down forest lanes and leaping fallen trunks, ducking under thick branches, as all around the snow continued to pepper the forest innards and the cold stillness invaded them, their bodies and their minds, threatening with icy chill…

Breaking branches told them they were being pursued. Nienna glanced back to see the canker wedge between two boles of trees that must have been a hundred years old apiece; it roared again, a terrifying squealing bass sound that echoed off through the forest, through the trees which swayed high up as if in hissing appreciation of the gladiatorial hunt taking place within.

With a grunt, and the cracking of wood, the canker broke through the trees. They fell, toppling from high above, crashing through branches and other smaller trees and bringing a whole mass of forest down in a howling crunching terrifying clump.

Nienna and Kat were running, pine needles peppering their hair from above as trees fell and whipped. The canker howled again, and continued to crash after them, clumsy in its passion.

“Thick woods,” panted Nienna, face streaked with sweat and covered by numerous tiny scratches.

“What?”

“Head for thick woods; the trees will stop the canker. Slow it down!”

Kat nodded, and they veered left. The canker altered its course, crashing and smashing, thumping and tearing its way through the forest like a whirlwind. Soon, the trees grew more closely placed, but this plan didn’t work as well as Nienna and Kat anticipated; for one thing, the more dense sections of forest were the younger sections of forest. The older, thicker trunks were more widely spaced; they had conquered their territory, their particular arena of forest floor, and at their bases where little sunlight reached were simple carpets of pine and discarded branches. Here, now, in the midst of entanglements was where new trees fought for supremacy, for height, for sunlight, and Nienna realised with a pang of horror that the canker ploughed through such trees with ease. There was no halting it…

“I’ve got to stop!” wailed Kat.

“What is it?”

“My feet, they’re cut to ribbons!”

Darkness poured into the thick forest, like from a jug. That was the second downside, Nienna realised, acknowledging her own error of judgement with a sour grimace. The thicker the woods, the more dark and terrifyingly cloying it was. With bigger trees, at least some light, and snow, crept through. Here it was just icy and dark, with little ambient light

Kat stopped, and Nienna stopped beside her. They stood still, listening to the canker falter, and halt; a bellow rent the air, and they heard the deformed beast sniffing.

“Maybe it won’t see us,” said Kat, voice trembling. She shuffled closer to Nienna, and they held each other in the caliginous interior. They could not even make out one another’s faces.

“Yes.”

The canker, snuffling and grunting, came closer. Now they could hear the tiny, metallic undercurrent of vachine noise; the click of gears, the whistle of piston, the spinning of cogs.

“What the hell is it?” said Kat.

“Shh.”

Even now, it came closer, and closer, and both girls held in screams and prayed, prayed for a miracle as their feet bled and they shivered, sweat turning to ice on their trembling flesh…

Something huge moved above them and Nienna felt a great presence in the trees, as if a giant stalked the forest and the canker growled, screamed, and leapt, and there were sounds of scuffling, of claws scrabbling wood and jaws clashing with metallic crunches and then a mammoth, deafening, final thud. The forest shook, as if by a giant’s fist.

Silence curled like smoke.

Nienna and Kat, both trembling, looked at one another.

What happened?

To the canker, but also…out there?

There came a series of sudden hisses, and clanks, and then silence again. Whatever had happened to the canker it had been immediate, and final. Some giant predator? A bear, maybe? Nienna shook her head at her internal monologue. No. A bear couldn’t have killed the-thing-that pursued them. So what, then?

“Come on, let’s move,” whispered Kat.

Something huge and terrible reared above them in the darkness, smashing branches and whole trunks in its ascent and making Kat scream out loud, all sense of self-preservation vanished as primeval terror took over and the dark shadow reared above, and roared, suddenly, violently, a deep and massive bass roar without the twisted undercurrents of the canker…

“I know where we are,” hissed Nienna, clutching Kat in the shade.

“Where?” she wept.

“Stone Lion Woods,” whispered Nienna, her mind filled with horror.

“I’m telling you,” said Saark, “it’s crazy to head out into the snow!”

“Well, I’m going, aren’t I.”

Kell opened the door, and stepped out into the storm. It had lessened now, and small flakes tumbled turning the forest clearing into a haze. Kell’s eyes swept the dark trees.

“Get your sword.”

Saark reappeared in his damp clothes, grumbling, and stood beside the immobile form of Kell in the snow. “What’s the matter now, you old goat? Forgot your gold teeth? Left your hernia cushion? Maybe you need a good hard shit?”

Kell turned on him, eyes wide, flared in anger. “Shut up, idiot! There’s something in the trees.”

Saark was about to offer further sarcastic comment, but then he, too, sensed more than heard the movement. He turned his back on the small hut and faced the trees, rapier lifting, eyes narrowing.

Kell drew his Svian from under his arm, and cursed the loss of his axe. He felt it deeply; not just because it was a weapon, and he needed such a weapon now. But because the axe was…his. Ilanna. His.

“Hell’s teeth,” muttered Saark, as the albino soldiers edged carefully from the trees, gliding like pale ghosts, their armour shining in shafts of moonlight tumbling between snow-clouds.

“I count ten,” said Kell, delicately.

“Eight,” said Saark.

“Two archers, just inside the trees, off to the right.”

“By the gods, you have good eyesight! I see them!”

“Horse-shit. I wish I had my axe.”

“I wish I had a fast horse.”

“Very heroic.”

“Not much use for dead heroes in these parts.”

The albino soldiers spread out, crimson eyes locked on the two men. Kell stepped away from Saark, mind settling into a zone for combat; and yet, deep down, Kell knew he would have struggled even with his axe. With a long knife? Even one as deadly as the Svian? And with his bad knees, and cracked ribs, and god only knew what other arthritic agonies were waiting to trip him up?

He grimaced, without humour. Damn. It wasn’t looking good.

“Drop your weapons,” said the albino lieutenant.

“Kiss my arse,” snarled Kell.

“Superb: weaponless and an idiot,” said Saark, eyes fixed on the soldiers.

“You can always run back through the woods and jump in the river.”

“Now that is a good idea.”

They stood, tense, waiting for an attack. The lieutenant of the albino soldiers was wary; Kell could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fooled by an old man and a dandy dressed in villager’s clothing. He could see Saark’s hair, the cut of his stance, the quality of his rapier. There were too many factors of contrast, and the albino was cautious. This showed experience.

“Ready?” muttered Kell…as something huge, and hissing, with gears crunching and hot breath steaming slammed from the trees and into the midst of the albino soldiers, rending and tearing, ripping and smashing, causing an instant sudden confusion and panic, and the albinos wheeled in perfect formation, swords rising, attacking without battle cries but with a superb efficiency, a cold and calculating precision which spoke more of butchery than soldiering…swords slammed the canker, and two sets of arrows flashed from the trees, embedding in the canker’s flanks. Rather than wound the creature, or slow it, it sent the canker into a violent rage and it whirled, grabbing an albino and ripping him apart to scatter torn legs spewing milk blood in one direction, and a still screaming torso and head in the other. More arrows thudded the canker’s flanks, and it reared, pawing the air with deformed arms, hands ending in glinting metal claws, and fangs slid from its jaws as its vampire vachine side emerged and it leapt on a soldier, fangs sinking in, drinking up milky blood and then choking, sitting backwards as swords hacked at its cogs and heavily muscled flesh and it spat out the milk, reached out and grasped an albino by the head, to pull his head clean off trailing spinal column and clinging tendons which pop pop popped as they dangled and swung like ripped cloth.

“This is our invitation to leave, I feel,” muttered Saark.

“Into the woods,” said Kell. “I’ll wager they’ve got horses nearby.”

As the savage battle raged, so Kell and Saark edged for the trees, then ran for it, tense and awaiting the slam of sudden arrows in backs. They made the treeline, cold, snow-filled, silent, and behind them howls and grunts bellowed, and swords clanged from clockwork as the canker spun and danced in a twisted spastic fury.

“There.” Kell pointed.

They moved through the trees, the sounds of battle fading behind; within minutes the noises were muffled, like a dream from another world.

A group of horses were tethered to a tree by a small circle of logs. Kell untied the reins, and taking four mounts they spurred the remaining creatures and mounted two black geldings, leading the other two along a narrow forest deer-trail.

“Which way?” said Saark.

“Away from the canker.”

“A good choice of direction, I feel.”

“Seems the wisest, at the moment.”

“A thought occurs, Kell.”

“What’s that?”

“That creature back there. It was different to the last, the one ripped apart in the river. There are…two of the beasts, at least. Yes?”

“Observant, aren’t you, laddie?”

“I try,” grinned Saark, in the dark of the snow-locked forest. “What I’m trying to say is that, if there are two, maybe you were right, maybe there will be more. And they are not the sort of beasts we can fight with peasant’s sword and axe.”

“Under the Black Pike Mountains, Saark,” Kell’s voice was a grim monotone, “there are thousands of these creatures. I saw them. A long, long time ago.”

They rode in silence.

Eventually, Saark said, “So, to all intents and purposes, there could be an essentially endless supply of these ugly bastards?”

“Yes.”

“Well. That’s put a dampener on things, old horse.” He followed as Kell switched direction, heading deeper into the forest. Now, the sounds of battle, all sounds in fact, had vanished. Only a woolly silence greeted them. Above, the trees swayed, whispering, false promises murmured in dreams. “By the way, which way are we going?”

“Towards Nienna.”

“And you know this because?”

“Trust me.”

“Seriously, Kell. How can you know?”

“She has my axe. I can feel it. I am drawn to it.”

Saark stared at Kell in the murk. One of the geldings whinnied, and Kell leaned forward, stroking his head, calming him. “There, boy. Shh,” he said.

“He’s not a dog, Kell.”

“Do you ever stop yakking?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Back in Jalder, a neighbour of mind had a shitty yakking little bastard of a dog. All damn night, yak yak yak, with barely a word from the woman to chastise the beast. Many times, the little bastard yakked all night; so one summer, fatigued by lack of sleep, and in a temper I admit, I took down my axe, went around to my neighbour, and cut off her dog’s head.”

“Is this a sophisticated parable?”

“The moral of my story,” growled Kell, “is that dogs that yak all night tend towards decapitation. When I’m annoyed.”

“Proving you are no animal lover, I’d wager. What happened to the neighbour?”

“I broke her nose.”

“You’re an unfriendly sort, aren’t you, Kell?”

“I have my moments.”

“Was the yakking dog some veiled reference to my own delicate tongue?”

“Not so much your tongue, more your over-use of said appendage.”

“Ahh. I will seek to be quiet, then.”

“A good move, I feel.”

They eased through the night, listening with care for the canker, or even a squad of albino soldiers; neither men were sure who would be victorious, only that the battle would be vicious and long and bloody, and could not end without some form of death.

Suddenly, Saark started to laugh, and quelled his guffaws. Silence rolled back in, like oily smoke.

“Something amuse you, my friend?”

“Yes.”

“Like to share it?”

“That damn canker, attacking its own men. I thought they were on the same side? What a deficient brainless bastard! Laid into them as if they were the enemy; as if it had a personal vendetta.”

“Maybe it did,” said Kell, voice low. “What I saw of them, they had few morals or intelligence as to who or what they slaughtered. They were basic, primitive, feral; humans who had devolved, been twisted back by blood-oil magick.”

“Humans?” said Saark, stunned. “They were once men?”

“A savage end, is it not?”

“As savage as it gets,” said Saark, shivering. “Listen, old man-how do you know all this?”

“I was in the army. A long time ago. Things…happened. We ended up, stranded, in the Black Pike Mountains and had to find our way home. It was a long, treacherous march over high ice-filled pathways no wider than a man’s waist. Only three survived the journey.”

“Out of how many?”

Kell’s eyes gleamed in darkness. “We started with a full company,” he said.

“Gods! A hundred men? What did you eat out there?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Trust me, I would.”

“You’re like an over-eager puppy, sticking your snout into everything. One day, you’ll do it to something sharp, and end up without a nose.”

“I still want to know. A nose has limited use, in my opinion.”

Kell chuckled. “I think you are a little insane, my friend.”

“In this world, aren’t we all?”

Kell shrugged.

“Go on then; the suspense is killing me.”

“We ate each other,” said Kell, simply.

Saark rode in silence for a while, digesting this information. Eventually, he said, “Which bit?”

“Which bit what?”

“Which bit did you eat?”

Kell stared at Saark, who was leaning forward over the pommel of his stolen horse, keen for information, eager for the tale. “Why would you need to know? Writing another stanza for the Saga of Kell’s Legend?”

“Maybe. Go on. I’m interested.” He sighed. “And in this short, brutal, sexually absent existence, your stories are about the best thing I can get.”

“Charming. Well, we’d start off with his arse, the rump-largest piece of meat there is on a man. Then thighs, calves, biceps. Cut off the meat, cook it if you have fire; eat it raw if you don’t.”

“Wasn’t it…just…utterly disgusting?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d rather starve,” said Saark, primly, leaning back in his saddle, as if he’d gleaned every atom of information required.

“You’ve never been in that situation,” said Kell, voice an exhalation. “You don’t know what it’s like, dying, chipped at by the howling wind, men sliding from ledges and screaming to their deaths; or worse, falling hundreds of feet, breaking legs and spines, then calling out to us for help for hours and hours, screaming out names, their voices following us through the passes, first begging, then angry and cursing, hurling abuse, threatening us and our families; and gradually, over a period of hours as their words drifted like smoke after us down long, long valleys, they would become subdued, feeble, eaten by the cold. It was an awful way to die.”

“Is there a good one?”

“There are better ways.”

“I disagree, old horse. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

“I knew a man, they called him the Weasel, worked for Leanoric in the, shall we say, torturing business. I got drunk with him one night in a tavern to the south of here, in the port-city of Hagersberg, to the west of Gollothrim. He reckoned he could keep a man alive, in exquisite pain, for over a month. He reckoned he could make a man plead for death; cry like a baby, curse and beg and promise with only the sweet release of death his reward. This Weasel reckoned, aye, that he could break a man-mentally. He said it was a game, played between torturer and victim, a bit like a cat chasing a mouse, only the cat was using information and observation and the nuances of psychology to determine how best to torture his victims. The Weasel said he could turn men insane.”

“You didn’t like him much, then?”

“Nah,” said Kell, as they finally broke from the trees and stood the geldings under the light of a yellow moon. Clouds whipped overhead, carrying their loads of snow and hail. A chill wind mocked them. “I cut off his head, out in the mud.”

“So you were taking a moral standpoint? I applaud that, in this diseased and violent age. Men like the Weasel don’t deserve to breathe our sweet, pure air, the torturing bastard villainous scum. You did the right thing, mark my words. You did the honourable thing.”

“It was nothing like that,” said Kell. He looked at Saark then, and appeared younger; infinitely more dangerous. “I was simply drunk,” he said, and tugged at the gelding’s reins, and headed towards another copse of trees over the brow of a hill.

Saark kicked his own mount after Kell, muttering under his breath.

The sun crept over the horizon, as if afraid. Tendrils of light pierced the dense woodland, and Kell and Saark had a break, tethering horses and searching through saddlebags confident, at least for the moment, that they had shaken their pursuers. More snow was falling, thick flakes tumbling lazy, and Kell grunted in appreciation. “It will help hide our tracks,” he said, fighting with the tight leather straps on a saddlebag.

“I thought the canker hunted by smell? Lions in the far south hunt by smell; by all accounts, they’re impossible to shake.”

Kell said nothing. Opening the saddlebags, the two men searched the albinos’ equipment, finding tinder and flint, dry rations, some kind of dried red-brown meat, probably horse or pig, herbs and salt, and even a little whisky. Saark took a long draught, and smacked his lips. “By the balls of the gods, that’s a fine dram.”

Kell took a long drink, and the whisky felt good in his throat, warm in his belly, honey in his mind. “Too good,” he said. “Take it away before I quaff the lot.” He gazed back, at the thickly falling snow.

“The question is,” said Saark, drinking another mouthful of whisky, “do we make camp?”

“No. Nienna is in danger. If the albino soldiers find her, they’ll kill her. We can eat as we ride.”

“You’re a hard taskmaster, Kell.”

“I am no master of yours. You are free to ride away at any moment.”

“Your gratitude overwhelms me.”

“I wasn’t the one pissing about on the bed of a river, flapping like an injured fish.”

“I acknowledge you saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful; but Kell, we have been through some savage times, surely my friendship means something? For me, it’s erudite honour to ride with the Legend, to perhaps, in the future, have my own exploits recounted by skilled bards on flute and mandolin, tales spun high with ungulas of perfume as Kell and Saark fill in the last few chapters of high adventure in the mighty Saga!” He grinned.

“Horse-shit.” Kell glared at Saark. “I ain’t allowing no more chapters of any damn bard’s exaggerated tales. I just want my granddaughter back. You understand, little man?”

Saark held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was only trying to impress on you the importance of your celebrity, and how a happy helper like myself, if incorporated into said story, would obviously become incredibly celebrated, wealthy, and desired by more loose women than his thighs could cope with.”

Kell mounted his horse, ripped a piece of dried meat in his teeth. He set off down a narrow trail, ducking under snow-laden branches. “Is that all you want from life, Saark? Money and a woman’s open legs?”

“There is little more of worth. Unless you count whisky, and maybe a refined tobacco.”

“You are vermin, Saark. What about the glint of sunlight in a child’s hair? The gurgle of a newborn babe? The thrill of riding a unbroken stallion? The brittle glow of a newly forged sword?”

“What of them? I prefer ten bottles of grog, a plump pair of dangling breasts on a willing, screaming, slick, hot wench, a winning bet on some fighting dogs, and maybe a second woman, for when the first wench grows happily exhausted. One woman was never enough! Not for this feisty sexual adventurer.”

Kell looked back, into Saark’s eyes. “You lie,” he said.

“How so?”

“I can read you. You have behaved like that, in the past, giving in to your base needs, your carnal lusts; but there is a core of honour in your soul, Saark. I can see it there. Read it, as a monk reads a vellum scroll. That’s why you’re still with me.” He smiled, his humour dry, bitter like amaranth. “It’s not about women, wet and willing, nor the drink. You wish to warn King Leanoric; you wish to do the right thing.”

Saark stared hard at Kell, for what seemed like minutes, then snapped, “You’re wrong, old man.” His humour evaporated. His banter dissolved. “The only thing left in my core is a maggot, gorging on the rotten remains. I drink, I fuck, I gamble, and that’s all I do. Don’t think you can see into my soul; my soul is more black and twisted than you could ever believe.”

“As you wish,” said Kell, and kicked his horse ahead, scouting the trail, his Svian drawn, a short albino sword by his hip on the saddle sheath. And ahead, Kell smiled to himself; finally, he had got to Saark. Finally, he had shut the dandy popinjay’s mouth!

Saark rode in sullen silence, analysing his exchange with Kell. And in bitterness he knew, knew Kell was close to the bone with his analysis and he hated himself for it. How he wished he had no honour, no desire to do the right thing. Yes, he drank, but always to a certain limit. He was careful. And yes, he would be the first to admit he was weak to the point of village idiot by a flash of moist lips, or the glimpse of smooth thigh on a pretty girl. Or even an ugly girl. Thin, fat, short, tall, red, brown, black or blonde, light skinned, freckled, huge breasts or flat; twice he’d slept with buxom black wenches from the far west, across Traitor’s Sea, pirate stock with thick braided hair and odd accents and smeared with coconut oil…he grew hard just thinking of them, their rich laughter, strong hands, their sheer unadulterated willingness…he shivered. Focused. On snow. Trees. Finding Nienna. Reaching Leanoric.

Up ahead, Kell had stopped. The gelding stamped snow.

Saark reined behind, slowing the other two horses, and loosened his rapier. “Problem?”

“This fellow doesn’t want to proceed.”

Saark looked closer in the gloom of the silent woods. The gelding had ears laid back flat against its head. The beast’s eyes were wide, and it stamped again, skittish. Kell leaned forward, stroking ears and muzzle, and making soothing noises.

“Maybe there’s a canker nearby.”

“Not even funny,” said Kell.

“He can sense something. ”

“I think,” said Kell, eyes narrowing, “this is Stone Lion Woods.”

Saark considered this. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’ve heard ghastly things about this place. That it’s…haunted.”

“Dung. It’s dense woodland full of ancient trees. Nothing more.”

“I heard stories. Of monsters.”

“Tales told by frightened drunks!”

“Yes, but look at the horses.” Now, all four had begun to shiver, and with coaxing words they managed another twenty hoof-beats before Kell and Saark were forced to dismount and stroke muzzles, attempting to calm them.

“Something’s really spooking the animals.”

“Yes. Come on, we’ll walk awhile.”

They moved on, perhaps a hundred yards before Kell suddenly stopped. Saark could read by his body language something was wrong: he had seen something up ahead. And he didn’t like it…

“What is it…oh.” Saark stared at the statue, and his jaw dropped. It was thirty feet high, towering up between the trees. It was old, older than the woodland, pitted and battered by the elements of a thousand years, sections covered in moss and weeds, lichens and fungi; and yet still it stared down with a menacing air, a violent dominance.

“What’s it supposed to be?” questioned Saark, tilting his head.

“A stone lion, perhaps?” muttered Kell. “Hence, Stone Lion Woods.”

“I’ve never seen a lion look like that,” said Saark. “In fact, I’ve never seen a lion. Not in the flesh. Apparently, they are terrifying, and stink like the sulphur arse-breath of a cess-pit.”

“It is a lion,” said Kell, voice low, filled with respect. “Only it’s twisted, deformed, reared up on hind legs. Look at the mane. Look at the craftsmanship in the sculpted stonework.”

“I’m more interested in whether it’ll topple on us. Look at those cracks!”

The two men watched the statue, a hint of awe in their eyes, hands stroking the skittish horses, calming the beasts with soothing murmurs. A little snow had filtered through the canopy of Stone Lion Woods, and sat on the statue, shining almost silver in the gloom. The effect was ghostly, ethereal, and Saark shivered.

“I don’t like it here. The rumours speak of terrible beasts. Ghosts. Hobgoblins. Were-dragons.”

“Horse-shit. Come on. I feel my axe; she’s getting close.”

Saark looked oddly at Kell. “You can really sense the weapon?”

“Aye. We are linked. She’s a bloodbond weapon, and that means we are joined, in some strange way I cannot explain, nor understand.”

“A bloodbond. I have heard of such things.” Saark closed his mouth, reluctant to speak more. The tales and legends of bloodbond magick were dark and fearful indeed: stories used to frighten little children. Like the Legend of Dake the Axeman; he was huge and shaggy, with the grey skin of a corpse and glowing red eyes. Dake would creep down the chimney of bad little boys and cut off their hands and feet in the night. If they were really bad, Dake would take the child with him, back to the Tower of Corpses where he’d hang the child in a cage from the outside wall and let Grey Eagles eat their flesh. Even now, Saark remembered his father scaring him with such stories when he’d been a bad boy: when he’d slapped his sister, or stolen one of his mother’s fresh-baked pastries.

For years, such nightmares had been erased from Saark’s memory. Now, especially in this caliginous and eerie place, watched over by a twisted stone statue, the horror of those dark tales from childhood crept back into Saark’s sparking imagination. He remembered all too clear huddling under thick blankets watching the twitching shadows on the walls…waiting for Dake the Axeman to come for him.

“Are you all right?” said Kell.

“I was just…thinking of my childhood.”

“Were they happy times, aye?” said Kell.

Saark pictured running into the house holding a kite he’d made to find his father swinging from a high rafter by the neck, his face purple, one eye hanging on his cheek. There was dried blood around his mouth, his tongue stuck out like some obscene cardboard imitation. Taking a bread knife, he’d cut down the dead man and sat with him, rocking his head, holding his stiffening hands until his mother arrived home…with the city bailiffs, ready to repossess their family home. There had been no sympathy. A day later, they were walking the streets.

“Happy, yes,” said Saark, banishing the memories like extinguishing a candle. Strange, he thought. To resurrect them here, now. He’d locked them away in a deep, hidden place for decades. Saark coughed, and tugged at the horses. “Come on. Let’s move. This place gives me the shits.”

“You sure you’re well?” asked Kell. He appeared concerned. “You looked, for a moment there, like you’d seen a ghost.”

Saark pictured his father, swinging. “Maybe I did,” he said, voice little more than a whisper; then he was gone, striding down a wide, twisting trail and Kell tugged his own mount forward. The gelding gave a small whinny of protest, and moved reluctantly.

“That’s not good,” muttered Kell, sensing a change in Saark’s mood. “Not good at all.”

They moved through the woods, deep into gloom for an hour, gradually picking a route over roots and branches, through a mixture of junipers, Jack Pine and Tsugas, through rotting leaves from towering twisted oaks and thick needle carpets from clusters of Red Cedar. The woods were old here, ancient, gnarled and crooked, and huge beyond anything Saark had ever witnessed.

Reaching a natural clearing, Saark halted and gazed at the array of statues, his mouth dropping open. There were seven, arranged in a weird natural circle as if the trees themselves were wary to set root and branch near these twisted effigies.

“What,” he said, “are those?”

“The Seven Demons,” said Kell, quietly. He placed a hand on Saark’s shoulder. “Best move quietly, lad. We don’t want to upset them.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Blood-magick is an old beast, no matter what the vachine think. It goes back thousands of years. When you’ve travelled as much as I, you learn a few things, you see a few things; and you begin to understand when to keep your head down.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yes.”

“So, is this place haunted, then?”

“Worse, laddie, so let’s just be quiet, move quickly, get to Nienna and hope we don’t upset anything.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It can only get worse, trust me. The Stone Lion Woods didn’t garner their savage reputation through idle banter, drunken discourse or the loose tongue of a happy mistress.” Kell grinned at Saark, and at his contradiction. He could see it in Saark’s eyes…you’ve conned me, thought Saark. Kell shrugged. “Follow me close, lad. And keep your puppy yelps to yourself.”

They moved through the circle of statues. Some were big, incredibly old, unrecognisable in their shape or form, weathered, battered, broken, and covered in fungus and moss. Two of the statues were man-sized, a stone representation of twisted, unfathomable monsters; a third was a man, tall and proud, regal almost; another was a lion, and another…something else entirely. A final statue was small, only knee high, and reminded Saark of a deformed embryo, only a touch bigger, and stood on hind legs with joints reversed like those of a dog. He shivered. He felt curiously sick.

They plunged back into the woods, Kell following his senses, although Saark wondered if Kell was crazy and simply navigating a random path. Regularly Saark checked his back-trail, for albino soldiers, or worse, the cankers which seemed to be hunting them. They walked all day, sometimes slowing to squeeze through narrow sections of tangled branches, and leading the skittish horses with care.

The night fell early, and again the two warriors came upon a circle of seven statues at dusk. Saark began to get twitchy, jumping at lengthening shadows as the trees crowded in, gnarled and crooked, limbs reaching over them, towards them, brushing at faces and clothing, dropping their lodes of snow to the woodland carpet.

Kell stopped. “We’ll leave the horses here,” he said. They were beside a narrow cross-roads, trails probably formed by wild deer, badgers and boars.

Saark nodded. “Is Nienna close?”

“Ilanna is close. I’m hoping the girl is with her.”

“You mean your granddaughter.”

Kell stared at Saark. “That’s what I said.”

They carried on, on foot, until they came to a long corridor in the thick woodland; it was almost rectangular and walled with evergreen leaves and pine branches, holly and juniper and hemlock entwined with honeysuckle and creepers. The air was thick with resin and woodland perfume, cloying, a heady aroma, and Nienna and Kat were both seated on a thick fallen log.

“Nienna,” said Kell, his voice low, barely more than a growl. His eyes fixed on Ilanna, resting beside the girl; and then transferred back as she turned. Her face was frightened, skin tight, eyes wide; she mouthed at Kell, and he frowned, trying to make out the words.

Saark crept up beside Kell, crouched at the edge of the leaf corridor. He frowned. “What’s she trying to say?”

His words, although quiet, reverberated down the natural sound channel. Nienna stood up suddenly and grasped Kell’s axe in tiny hands, turning away from the men towards a distant clearing, rich in its greenery. Something began to click, like pebbles dropped on boulders, and Kell stood and launched himself down the corridor towards the two girls…beyond, almost out of sight but hinted at, it rose hugely from the ground, earth and dead leaves and brown pine needles tumbling around the thing as it detached from the woodland floor and huge grey limbs unfolded to reveal fists, each the size of a man, and twisted limbs only barely reminiscent of the lion it had once represented…

“It’s a Stone Lion,” shrieked Nienna as Kell reached her, took her in his hands, shook her.

“Are you injured?”

“No! It saved us! Saved me and Kat from the canker!”

A noise began to thrum through the woods. It was ancient, if a noise could be such a thing, primeval, not really words but music, a song, a song made from stone and wood and fire, and it rose in pitch and volume until it was a roar and Kell glanced back, saw the fear in Saark’s eyes, could hear the whinny of their tied horses struggling at tethers and he took his axe, his Ilanna, and she melted into his hands like warm soft female flesh, and she was there with him and his agitation and fear fled and Kell was whole again, a total being and he realised, in that crazy snapshot of time how his addiction and his need was rooted deep down in his skull, his bones, his blood, his soul, and Ilanna was his saviour; and more, also his curse.

“It said it would kill you,” hissed Nienna, her eyes not on Kell but the creature still rising from the earth at the end of the tunnel. “It said we were protected by the forest, because of our…innocence. But it knew you would come, you and Saark; it said you were defiled. Abused. You were not creatures of the Stone Lion Woods. It said it would eat you, like it ate the canker…”

“Go to Saark,” said Kell, his face grim, and grabbed Kat, pushing her after Nienna and both girls fled along the green corridor. A cold wind blew, filled with the smell of ice and leaves, of rotting branches, of sap, of mouldy pines and wild mushrooms and onions.

Kell grasped Ilanna, and faced the Stone Lion.

Its roar died down, and it stooped low, stepping into the corridor. It was five times the height of a man, twisted, a merged and joined creation of stone and wood, earth and trees, and primal quartz; it was a carved thing, a live thing, a demon of the deep woods, a spirit of the darkness, and its face, despite being a worn weathered blur of stone and wood, looked down at Kell and he could have sworn it was grinning.

He glanced back. Tightened his grip on his axe. “Saark!” he roared. “Get to the horses! Get the girls out of here!”

Saark nodded, and they fled.

Kell turned back, faced the Stone Lion. It growled, a long, low, permanently mewling sound, and took a few tentative steps, as if testing its legs worked. It lowered its head then, spine crackling, and roared at Kell with a hot blast scream which stank of rotting wood, sulphur, onions and death.

Kell’s beard whipped about him, and he ground his teeth, face dropping into a snarl.

Give me your blood, said Ilanna. Her voice was sweet music in his mind, but Kell steeled himself, for he knew the deception, knew how this thing worked; he had been tricked before, had been used before by Ilanna…and it had led to terrifying results.

“You know I cannot.”

You will not!

“I remember the last time,” he muttered, as the Stone Lion took another step forward on twisted legs, sizing him up, its eyes falling on the axe in his hands, its head tilting to one side, almost…inquisitive.

It’s going to crush me, he thought.

How can I fight something that…big?

It will be different this time, promised Ilanna. I will be good. I promise you. I will smash this puny creature of blood-oil magick, of the forest and the soil. I will not…abuse you, Kell. I know I injured your mind, and your pride. It will be different this time!

“No.”

The Stone Lion charged, the ground thundering, and Kell stood his ground, axe raised, eyes narrowed, mouth a grim, sour, dry line and it smashed towards him, and at the last moment he rolled, felt the Stone Lion’s huge bulk slam past and the axe sliced one leg, a butterfly blade exiting with chunks of stone and wood splinters. Kell’s shoulder hit the earth, he rammed the wall of the green lane, was spun around by the incredible force, and with a grunt he gained his feet, watched the Stone Lion stumble, skid, turn, and lower its head towards him. He hefted Ilanna, moving to the centre of the trail, studying the way the Stone Lion carried itself; he’d injured it, damaged it in some way, but it had not screamed. There was no blood. Now, in silence, it advanced, more slowly, and its huge long arms came thumping towards Kell and he swayed back, fast, a stone-like fist whirring a hand’s-breadth from his face and his axe slammed the arm but glanced off, nearly wrenching Kell’s arms from sockets. He skipped back avoiding another blow, then the Stone Lion surged forward and Kell was backing away, his axe ringing from arms and fists as he deflected blow after blow, his own arms jarring with every strike of the axe-blade, but the Stone Lion was tough, its skin like stone and Kell realised its legs were its weakness; he ducked a whirling appendage, then rolled under its reach towards the thick trunk-like legs. Ilanna sang in his scarred hands as he cut chunks from the Stone Lion’s twisted timber shins, embedded one butterfly blade in a thigh with a clunk and wrested it free as the Stone Lion caught him in the chest with a blow, accelerating him down the green lane to tumble, and lie on his chest, panting, before scrambling to his feet and lifting his axe with a grimace.

The Stone Lion was gazing down at itself, at its damaged legs. It looked up, glared at him, and let out a high-pitched roar that made Kell shudder. But he stood his ground, and glimpsed a thick yellow liquid oozing from the cuts and slices he’d inflicted. The Stone Lion took a step forward, then went down on one knee. It stood again, grasping the lane to heave itself up.

Kell decided this was the right moment.

He turned and ran, stampeding through leaves and dead pine, listening for pursuit from the massive creature of legend. As he reached a thick section of woodland he risked a glance back, but the Stone Lion still stood its ground, glaring at him, its chest…heaving? Heaving, or laughing. Kell was unsure which. Then he blinked, and realised the wounds he had so skilfully inflicted were healing, the thick yellow liquid had hardened, formed a shell over the cuts like hardening sap.

Kell fell into the woodland; only then did he hear the pursuit, the thump thump thump of a heavy pendulous charge, and the ground was shaking beneath him and fear filled him up like a jug. He realised he could not kill it…unless he gave control to Ilanna. He scowled. That would only happen over his dead body.

Run! If he could reach the horses, he could outrun the Stone Lion. Perhaps.

He charged on, branches slamming his face and arms, the Stone Lion in pursuit. He reached the crossroads where they’d tethered the horses, and for a second was flooded with relief, for Saark and the young women were nowhere to be seen; they had fled, were gone, were safe. His sacrifice had bought them time. Only, now…he frowned. All the horses were gone. Which meant he was…on foot.

“Saark, you dandy bastard!”

A roar echoed through the trees behind, and Kell cast about; Saark had headed south, as they’d discussed, to reach King Leanoric, warn him of events in Jalder. Kell sprinted down the trail but the recent fighting, lack of sleep, and the curse of age and inactivity hit him like a cobble. He faltered within a hundred yards, was streaming with sweat after two. The Stone Lion still pursued. It ceased its bestial roar, but Kell could hear the thump of heavy steps…how could he not? He grimaced.

“Horse-dung,” he muttered. He was going to die here.

Ahead, through heavy snow, the trees grew thinner and a fantasy entertained Kell; maybe he was by the edge of Stone Lion Woods? Maybe there was a boundary to the Stone Lion’s territory, beyond which it could not pursue? Blood-oil magick worked like that, sometimes…

But there was no guarantee.

Kell laboured on, and could hear the Stone Lion growing closer, and closer, a dark shadow behind, a black ghost in the trees. Kell stopped, wheezing, red lights dancing in his brain. He hawked, and spat a lump of phlegm to the woodland floor.

A high roar, bestial, like a choking woman, made him jump and surge forward…as growls up ahead made him skid to a halt, confused. Through the trees, Kell saw the shape of a canker. Something died inside him. He was trapped. By all the gods! Trapped!

“Not good.”

His eyes narrowed, as the first canker was joined by two more, all three different shapes and sizes, but each with a wide-open head showing cogs and gears clicking and moving. Kell glanced back. The Stone Lion was there, advancing on him. He could see its legs now, and no wounds were visible…it had completely healed.

Kell sprinted, axe tight in sweat-slippery hands, and the cankers saw him; with spastic jerks of deformed and bloated heads, they let out vicious, triumphant growls and howls and thuds of accelerating, deviated twisted clockwork with bunched muscles run through with lodes of silver-quartz, and with snarls they leapt to the attack…and in a whirling chaos of confusion, with the Stone Lion roaring behind, and the smell of hot canker oil in his nostrils, Kell narrowed his eyes and lifted his axe in the eerie snow-brightened woodland where snow flurries drifted and swirled, and as panic detonated around him he leapt at the cankers and brought the singing, glinting blades of Ilanna around in a savage downward sweep…