Soul Stealers

CHAPTER 2
A Taste of Desolation

It took Kell and Saark hours to work their way through the narrow tunnels set within the tower block's walls. Despite Kell being broad and bulky, and Saark of a more graceful and athletic persuasion, it was Saark who really suffered – from a psychological perspective. At one point, in a tight space, surrounded by gloom and ancient stone dust that made them cough, Kell paused, Skanda in the distance ahead and below him, climbing over a series of ancient lead pipes as Kell watched; he turned, and stared hard at Saark. Saark said nothing, but a sheen of sweat coated his face, and his eyes were haunted.

"The wound troubling you, lad?" Kell was referring to the stab wound Saark suffered at the hands of Myriam – Myriam, cancer-riddled outcast, thief and vagabond, who had poisoned Kell and kidnapped his granddaughter Nienna with the aim of blackmailing him into travelling north and showing her a route through the Black Pike Mountains. So far, her scheme was working well. And so far, her brass-needle injected poison was failing to worry Kell, for he had more immediate problems; but he knew this situation would soon change. When the poison started to bite.

"Aye," said Saark, pausing and wiping sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He left grey streaks across his handsome, indeed, beautiful, features – or they would have been, if he hadn't recently suffered a beating. Still, even with a swollen face he had classical good looks, and once his long, curled, dark hair was washed, and groomed and oiled, and he slipped into some fine silk vests and velvet trews, he would be a new man. Saark touched his side tenderly; Kell's makeshift stitches and tight bandage fashioned from a shirt from a dead albino warrior was as good a battlefield dressing as Saark was going to get. "It's eating me like acid."

"You should be glad she didn't stab you in the belly," grunted Kell, and looked off, behind Saark, to steep passages inside the wall through which they travelled. "Then you'd really be suffering, squealing like a spearstuck pig long into the night."

Saark gave a sour grin. "Thanks for that advice. Helpful."

"Don't mention it."

"That was sarcasm."

"I know."

Saark stared at Kell. "Has anybody ever told you, you're an incorrigible old fart? In fact, worse than a fart, for a fart's stench soon wavers and dissipates; you do not dissipate. Kell, you are the cancerous wart on a whore's diseased quim lips."

Kell shrugged. "Ha, I get abused all the time – only not with your royal-court eloquence. But then," he grinned, showing teeth stained with age, "I reckon we walk in different social circles, lad."

"Yes," agreed Saark. "Mine is one of rich honey wine, clean and succulent women, fine soft silks, the choicest cuts of meat, and gems so sparkling they make your eyes burn."

Kell considered this. He looked around at the dust, the grime, the slime, and the stink of ancient, rotten piping. "I don't see any of that here," he said, voice level. He reached forward, and patted Saark on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll be out soon." "I'm not worried," said Saark, through gritted teeth. Kell closed his mouth on his next comment; Saark was a proud man, beaten down often in the last few days. What he didn't need was Kell pointing out his obvious claustrophobia. As Kell knew, all men had a secret fear. His? He chuckled to himself. His was the very axe which protected and yet cursed him. Ilanna. His bloodbond. They moved on, and realised they had lost Skanda in the gloom. They reached a collage of twisted piping, ancient, slime-covered, and after climbing the obstacle, their shoulders barely able to squeeze through the narrow horizontal aperture, they came to a ladder of iron. Kell paused, boots scuffing the edge of what appeared a vast drop. The aperture, between two walls, was barely wide enough for them to descend; add into the equation a wobbling, unsecured ladder, and the descent promised to be particularly treacherous.

"Shall I go first?" said Kell, staring into Saark's open fear.

"Yes. I wouldn't like your pig-lard arse dropping on my head from above. That sort of thing can genuinely ruin a man's day."

"Let's hope I don't get stuck, then." Kell eased himself over the dusty stone, the descent lit by cracks and occasional gaps in the walls; outside, he could see it was growing dark. Kell wondered if the cankers were still waiting. Damn them, he thought. Damn then to Drennach!

The ladder felt sturdy enough under his gnarled hands, and strong fingers grasped narrow rungs as he began to descend. Above, Saark followed, his breathing shallow and fast, his boots kicking dirt over Kell. "Sorry!" he said. "Just don't bloody jump," muttered Kell.

They climbed downwards, the ladder shaking and making occasional cracking sounds. After a while, Kell felt a pattering of something dark and wet on his head, and scowling, he looked up to where Saark was fumbling in the mote-filled gloom. "I hope that's not piss, lad."

"It's blood! The wound has opened. So much for your damn battlefield stitching."

"You're welcome to do it yourself."

"I think next time I will. I can do without a scar that looks like some medical experiment gone wrong. What would the ladies say? I have a perfect torso, fit only for kings, and you would massacre me with your inept needlework."

"Hold a pad to the wound," said Kell, more kindly. "And let's hope you've not infected me with the plague of the popinjay! That's all I need, irrational lust after every young woman that dances by."

They climbed, down and down, for many stories; before they reached the base, Skanda called them from a narrow ledge, which led off between the ancient, crumbling joists of another building. Like rats, they scuttled between the linings of deserted buildings; like cockroaches, they inhabited the spaces between spaces where once life thrived.

For another hour, as darkness fell fast outside, they scrambled through apertures, crawled through dusty tunnels, squeezed through thick pipes containing an ancient residue of oily film, coating their hands with slick gunk, until finally, and thankfully, they emerged from a wide lead pipe which dropped into a swamp. Skanda squatted on the edge of the pipe, watching Kell and Saark drop into the waistdeep slurry, cracking the ice. Then, with the agility of a monkey, Skanda leapt onto Saark's back and clung to the athletic warrior who frowned, and complained, but recognised that to drop Skanda would be to drown the boy. Hardly a fair exchange for saving their lives.

They waded through icy slurry, which stunk of old oil and dead-animal decomposition, despite the cold. They crawled up a muddy bank in darkness and lay on the snow, panting, before Kell hauled himself to his feet and drew his fearsome axe, Ilanna, peering around into the gloom, head tilted, listening. "Any bad guys, old horse?"

"Don't mock. If a canker bites your arse, it'll be me you come to running to."

"A fair point."

Saark struggled to his feet and stood, hand pressed against his ribs, his slender rapier drawn. He looked down at his fine boots, his once rich trews and silk shirt. He cursed, cursed the destruction of such fine and dandy clothing. "You know something, Kell? Since I met you, I haven't been able to maintain any fine couture whatsoever. It's like you are cursed to dress like the poorest of peasants, and those who accompany you are similarly afflicted by your fashion!"

Kell sighed. "Stop yapping, and let's get away from the city. Believe me, sartorial elegance shouldn't be at the forefront of your mind; getting eaten, now that's what should be bothering you."

They moved away from the crumbling walls of Old Skulkra, away east in a scattering of Blue Spruce woodlands. Finding an old, fallen wall, probably once part of a farm enclosure, Saark built a fire using the remaining stones as shelter, whilst Kell disappeared into the woodland.

"Just like a hero to fuck off when there's work to be done," muttered Saark, sourly, as he struggled with damp tinder. Behind him, Skanda scavenged amongst tree roots, puffing and panting, fingers scrabbling at the snow. The noise intruded on Saark's thoughts – fine thoughts, of dancing with leggy blondes at fine regal functions, of eating caviar from wide silver platters, of suckling honeyed wine from a puckering quim, lips gleaming, focus more intent than during any act of war – and eventually, Saark whirled about, eyes narrowed, hand clutching his side, and snapped, "What are you doing down there, lad? You are disrupting my heavenly fantasy!"

Skanda held up three onions and a potato. He smiled. "We need to eat, yes? I am an expert at finding food in frozen woodland." The boy's dark eyes glittered. "That is, unless you wish to starve?"

"And what are you going to cook it in?" sneered Saark. "Your bloody knickers?"

Skanda lifted a small ceramic pot. "This," he said, simply.

"Where did you get that?"

"There's a ruined farmhouse, thirty paces yonder." Saark scowled further. "Then by Dake's Balls, what am I doing starting a fire here? There's no shelter! A farmhouse will give us more shelter! By all the gods, am I surrounded by idiots?"

He explored the ruins, and they were ruins: ancient, moss-strewn, the original stones rounded and smoothed by centuries of rain and snow. There was no roof, only stubby walls, but at least a fireplace which shielded Saark's fire from the wind. By the time Kell returned he had a merry blaze going, and he and Skanda had pulled an old log before the flames. Saark sat, boots off, warming his sodden toes. Skanda was peeling vegetables and chopping winter herbs on a slab of stone.

Wary, Kell stepped through a sagging doorway and frowned. "What is this place?"

"It's a brothel," snapped Saark. "What does it look like? Sit ye down, Skanda's making a broth. He found some wholesome vegetables in the woods, although what I'd give for some venison rump and thick meat gravy I couldn't say." He licked his lips, eyes dreamy. "These should help," said Kell, depositing a hare and two rabbits on the slab of stone.

Saark stared. "How, in the name of the Chaos Halls, did you manage to catch those with a bloody axe?" Kell winked. "It's all in the wrist, boy." He looked to Skanda. "Do you know how to gut and skin?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" snapped the young lad, and Kell smiled, moving to Saark. "He's a cheeky bugger," said Saark.

"He has spirit," said Kell. "I like that. And we owe him our lives."

"But?" Kell looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I've known you too long, old horse. There's always a but."

Kell's face hardened. "He's a compromise," said the old warrior, stretching out his legs and resting Ilanna by his side, butterfly blades to the ground, haft within easy reach should he need it; and need her killing expertise. "Meaning?" "Meaning I have to prioritise."

Saark stared at the old man. For a long moment he analysed the grey beard and the dark hair shot through with grey. Kell's face was lined and weather-beaten, appearing older, more worn, than his sixty-two years. Saark pulled on his boots. He stood. He stared down at Kell. "Explain prioritise?" "I must rescue Nienna."

"What's that got to do with this boy?" said Saark.

Kell's eyes hardened. He stood, looming over Saark with a sudden, threatening presence. "I will find Nienna. I will kill Myriam – and whoever stands with her. That is it. That is what my life has become. I care nothing for anybody, or anything, else. If you can't stand that," Kell's face curled into a snarl, "well, I understand your misunderstanding, dandy. I suggest you go back to whoring and drinking, just like you know best; that is, if you can find a place that'll let you rut and drink. After all, it looks to me like the albinos have slaughtered most of the good people of Falanor."

"Hey!" Saark thumped Kell in the chest, making the big man take a step back. "Just hang on a minute there, Kell. I stood for Nienna, and I stood for you; don't be twisting this situation around, don't be trying to say I'm no good for anything. If it wasn't for me, Nienna would be dead. Horseshit Kell, you'd be dead. I have my vices, yes," his face twisted a little, as if he was pained to recall them, "but I know where my priorities lie. And if we abandon this boy, he will die."

"Not so."

"You a prophet now, Legend?"

Kell's eyes narrowed. "You have been sent to torture me, Saark, I swear. I should have killed you back in Jajor Falls."

"Why didn't you?" It was such an innocent question, it caught Kell off guard. Saark persisted, clutching his side where blood wept through the makeshift packing of torn shirt. "You're the Big Man here, you're the warrior, the hero, the bloody legend of song and dance; you're the man with no conscience, the man of the fucking moment and to the Bone Halls with everybody else! Why am I still here, hey? Why am I still walking by your side? Or have you got a sneaky back-handed death lined up for me, also?"

Kell grabbed Saark's shirt, lifting him from the ground and drawing him in close, until their faces were only inches apart.

"Don't push me."

"Or what'll you do, big man? Stab me in my sleep?" "Damn you Saark! You twist my mind! You twist my words! Everything with you is fencing, a tactical, verbal puzzle to be negotiated. And I am sick of it!" "Listen." Saark smoothed down his shirt. "I am with you, Kell. I am not your enemy. I will come with you; we will rescue Nienna, of that I am sure. But don't let panic, don't let blind urgency cloud your vision. This boy here; he is innocent. In fact more; without him, we'd be dead."

"Maybe."

"What?" scoffed Saark. "You think you could take on fifty cankers? You dream, old horse. But what I would say to you is this; I am going for a walk, in the snow, to check our perimeter. I want you to talk to the boy. Find a peace with him – here," he tapped his own skull, "in your head. Because you have a problem, Kell, a serious problem they did not choose to address in your Saga." Saark moved away from the fire, and with drawn rapier, stepped through the leaning doorway and out into the cold, bleak woods. Kell sat down for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the slithering of Skanda's knife. Eventually, as his temper settled, and recognising some worth in Saark's words, he stood and turned and crossed to Skanda, who was just slicing the final strips of meat and adding them to the broth. "It will be a fine stew," said the boy.

"It smells good already." Kell's hand was tight on the haft of Ilanna. The axe blades gleamed cold. He was standing before the boy, just to one side, and Skanda was busy, intent on his task. An easy target. An easy death. No, he thought. Then: why not?

After all, he had been poisoned, infected by the vile escaped prisoner, Myriam, with the aim of blackmailing him to help her save her own worthless skin. Kell's mission was simple, uncomplicated – ride north, fast, and locate Nienna. His granddaughter had also been poisoned with the same toxin; without Kell's haste, she would die, probably sooner than he for she was young and weak. Despite Kell's age, he was as strong as an ox, he knew. But the problem here lay with Skanda. Kell knew, deep down, that Saark wouldn't leave the boy with so many albino soldiers and cankers scouring the woods looking for them. But the boy would slow Kell down. In doing so, Nienna might die… so, to his mind, it was an easy problem to fix.

Kell scratched his beard. He realised Ilanna was still tight in his fist. Her blades gleamed, catching the light of the fire.

Another problem, was that if he left the boy behind, then how long before Graal tortured information from his spindly limbs? Saark had blabbed enough of the story to Skanda to make the boy a threat. Which meant only one course of action.

Kell took a step closer. Still, Skanda did not look up. His hands moved swiftly, preparing more of the fresh rabbit meat. The smell made Kell's nose twitch, but his mind was working fast, one step ahead of something so simple as animal hunger.

"You seek to rescue your granddaughter?" said Skanda, looking up suddenly. Kell nodded, and Skanda lowered his face again. The knife sliced and chopped. "Yes. She will die without me. She has been poisoned." "Saark said she was being held at the Cailleach Pass. That's the road to the Black Pike Mountains, isn't it?" Kell smiled grimly. Damn you, Saark, he thought. "Yes," he said, voice barely above a whisper. The fire crackled. Firelight gleamed in Kell's dark eyes. He no longer appeared like a hero from legend; now, in this ruined cottage in the midst of the night, clutching his possessed axe and eerily silent for such a big man, Kell was infinitely more intimidating.

"I used to have a grandfather. A lot like you," said Skanda, innocently, oblivious to the threat which lay within inches, within heartbeats, of his delicate and fragile existence. "He died though, a long time ago. I thought he was as strong as ten men, but age wore him down in the end until his mind snapped, and he could no longer speak. He used to sit by the fire, rocking, dribbling, and this was the man who took on a hundred of the enemy at Tellakon Gate. A tragedy."

"A tragedy," agreed Kell, voice low, and shifted his stance a little to the left, to give him better clearance for the strike. Kell licked his lips. He would kill the boy. Decapitate him. It would be clean. It would be quick. And much more humane than leaving the child to be slaughtered by the cankers… eaten alive, in fact. Kell gripped his axe tight. His eyes went hard. He lifted Ilanna into the air. Firelight gleamed from her butterfly blades. Kell relaxed, and readied himself for the strike…

Saark moved around the perimeter of their camp like a spirit, halting occasionally to listen. The fall of snow acted as a natural muffler, but was dangerous for it hid fragile twigs and obstacles that might give away Saark's position. Still, he edged around a wide perimeter, eyes and ears alert, slender rapier in one chilled hand, and thinking hard on the problem of Falanor.

General Graal had invaded. There had been no demands. Just slaughter.

Why? What did he want?

Saark mulled over the problem as he scouted, crouching occasionally. At one point he saw an owl, high in a tree, its huge yellow orbs surveying a world which appeared, Saark was sure, as bright as daylight to the savage, nocturnal hunting bird.

Saark's mind drifted to Kell. He turned, to where he knew the ruined cottage lay. He considered Kell's motives, and thought of Nienna, but when he thought of her it made him think of Kat, and that was too painful a memory.

Only days earlier, in their pursuit to warn King Leanoric of the impending invasion of albino soldiers led by General Graal, Kell and his companions – Saark, Nienna and Nienna's best friend, Katrina, with her short, wild red hair and topaz eyes, athletic and feisty despite her youth – were riding out a snowstorm in a deserted barracks when three dangerous brigands entered. Myriam, tall, wiry, strong, short black hair and rough, gaunt features, her eyes a little sunken, her flesh a little stretched from the cancer that was eating her from the inside out. Along with her, two companions: Styx, an inexorably ugly Blacklipper smuggler with only one eye and black lips, and Jex, small and permanently angry, with a tattooed face and the physique of a pugilist.

Myriam had injected Kell and Nienna with poison, and Styx had murdered Katrina using a clockworkpowered Wi dowmaker mini-crossbow. They kidnapped Nienna during the Army of Iron's attack on King Leanoric's forces. Kat. Murdered. Dead.

Even now, Saark brushed away a tear, and felt guilt and shame well within him. He had loved Katrina, which was ridiculous, even Saark had to admit. He was not just a dandy and popinjay, he was, even at his own admittance, one of the world's best seducers of women. He knew how they worked, how their minds operated, which dials to turn, which switches to flick, how to speak and lick and kiss and caress, and his beauty had brought him scores of lovers, many a cuckold, and so to fall in love with a seventeen year-old university student was simply bizarre. Ridiculous in the extreme. He told himself over and over that was not what happened; that it had been a simple tactic on his part to persuade Katrina to give away that most sought after prize, her virginity… but even Saark did not believe his own lie.

And Saark had had the chance to kill her murderer. And failed.

Bitterly now, Saark smiled. The wounds were still fresh. The hate was still bright. He would have his day with Styx, Saark knew; one way or another, in this world or in the next. He would cut the fucker in two, and drink his blood, and toast Kat's shade towards the Hall of Heroes.

Saark stopped. Orientated himself. He had been drifting. Dreaming. He winced, clutching the pad at his side. It was still warm, and blood still leaked. Maybe he was weak from blood loss? And the recent beatings? Saark scowled. And thought of Kell. And a sudden dark premonition swept through him.

No. Saark shook his head. Not even Kell would kill a child. Not in cold blood. Surely?

Saark's eyes narrowed.

Could he?

Flitting embers from snatches of story pierced Saark's mind. Snippets of late drinking songs, when the candles were trimmed low and coals glowed dark in the tavern's hearth. The bard would lower his voice, fingers flickering gently over lyre strings as he recounted the Days of Blood, and the atrocities that occurred therein… All speculation, of course. Nobody knew what really happened all those years ago; no soldier had ever spoken of it. Those that still lived, of course, for most survivors had taken their own lives.

Kell, however… he had been there. He had told Saark, although Saark was sure Kell didn't recall uttering the words. However, Saark still remembered the look in Kell's eyes.

"I was a bad man, Saark. An evil man. I blamed the whiskey, for so long I blamed the whiskey, but one day I came to realise that it simply masked that which I was. I try, Saark. I try so hard to be a good man. I try so hard to do the right thing. But it doesn't always work. Deep down inside, at a basic level, I'm simply not a good person." And then, later, as Saark was sure Kell was falling into a pit of insanity… "Look at the state of me, Saark. Just like the old days. The Days of Blood." The Days of Blood. The day when an entire army went berserk. Insane, it was said. They killed men, women, children, torched houses, slaughtered cattle, torched people in their beds and… much worse. Or so it was said. So the dark songs recounted. And Saark knew Kell didn't have the necessary streak of evil to murder a child he thought might hold him back; and in so doing, be responsible for the death of his granddaughter, the only creature he loved on earth. "Horseshit," he muttered.

Saark limped back towards the ruined cottage, cursing his stupidity and chewing at his lip.

Saark burst through the listing doorway, eyes drawn immediately to the crackling fire which danced bright after the gloom of the snowy woodland. There was no sign of Kell. Nor Skanda.

"Son of a bastard's mule!" snapped Saark, and heard a grunt. He peered into the gloomy interior, and the darkness rearranged itself into shapes. Skanda was sat, almost hidden, stirring his ceramic pot of broth. "Are you well?" said Skanda, almost sleepily.

"Yes, yes!" Saark strode forward, and sat on the log. He kicked off his boots and stretched out his feet, warming his toes. "Where's Kell? Don't tell me. The grumpy old weasel has gone for a shit in the woods." Skanda giggled, and appeared for once his age. "I think you might be right."

Saark peered close. "Seriously. Are you all right, boy? For a minute, back there, I had the craziest notion that Kell might… well, that he might…"

Skanda looked suddenly wise beyond eternity. "Let us say," whispered the boy, staring into the fire, "that Kell made the right choice."

There came a crack, and Kell grinned at Saark from the doorway. "Thought you'd got lost out there, lad. Hugging the trees, were you? Digging in the dirt for more dirt? Or just having bad dreams about noble and heroic old Kell, the man of the Legend." Kell grinned, and although the destroyed cottage had little light, ambient or otherwise, Saark could have sworn Kell displayed no humour.

"We're safe, for now," said Saark. "No sounds of cankers, no soldiers, no pursuit."

Kell moved close. "Well don't get too comfy, lad. We eat, then we move."

"We'll freeze!"

"Freeze or die here," said Kell. "Because I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before that bastard Graal sends someone…" his smile widened, "or some thing, after us."

"And the boy?"

Kell could read the pain in Saark's eyes. He sighed, and ran a hand through his thick, grey-streaked hair. "The boy can come with us. But I'm warning you, if he gets in the way, or either of you slow me down, then I'll cut you both loose."

"You think you can travel faster than I?" stammered Saark. "Man, I'm damn near thirty years your junior!"

Kell leered close. "I know I can, lad. Now get some warm food inside you. We've got a long, hard journey ahead."

They moved through the woodland and as dawn broke, wintry tendrils streaking through heavy cloud cover, so the distant walls of Old Skulkra could still be seen. Saark called a halt, and gestured to Kell. Kell moved close, axe in fist, eyes brooding. "What is it?" Saark pointed. Distantly, the Blood Refineries squatted on the plain like obscene bone dice tossed by the gods. "I have it in my mind to do some research," said Saark, voice soft, eyes bright. "And maybe some damage! Those machines are here for no good." "I know what they are," said Kell. "You do? How is that… possible?"

Kell smiled grimly. "I have seen them in action. In another time. Another place. Let's just say, Saark, that to go chasing them now to satisfy your curiosity would end badly for all of us." "We need to know what we're fighting!"

"So, lad, now we have gone to war?" Kell smiled, but there was no mockery in his tone. If anything, he valued Saark's spirit; especially after they had been through so much.

"They brought war and chaos to Falanor. I would like to return the favour with the blade of my sword." "A task for another day." "You would save Nienna over Falanor?"

"I would save her over the world," rumbled Kell. Seeing the look of incredulity in Saark's face, Kell shrugged and said, "Let me quantify it thus – Graal and his soldiers are searching for us, all of us. And those Blood Refineries are their life-blood. They will be guarded more heavily than any sparkling gems, than any royal blood. To go there, Saark, is folly. And what would you do? Gather information? For whom? Which army will use your military intelligence? No, Saark, we must travel north. When I have Nienna, when I hold her safe in my arms, then we will turn our gaze on Graal and these white-skinned bastards."

Saark considered this. "That could, taken the wrong way, look simply like you're putting your own needs first." "Maybe I am, lad, maybe I am. But without me, you'll never conquer these bastards. I am your lynch pin. And I have been poisoned, and even as we stand debating what to do, the toxic venom pulses through my veins. Or had you forgotten this? Without me, you will fail." "Your arrogance astounds me."

"It is the truth." Saark sighed, and turned his back on the giant, distant machines. "You say you have seen these Refineries working. I assume they do not bode well for the people of Falanor?"

"The battle was horrific, yes? Leanoric's slaughter devastating?"

"Yes."

"The battle was just a prologue for what is to come. Trust me, Saark, when I say we need to use cunning, use our brains; charging back into that enemy camp is the last thing we should do."

"You will not?"

"I will not. But I admire your bravado, lad. Come. We will head north. This is a battle for another day." Saark hung his head, and they moved back into heavy woodland, tracking along in parallel with the Great North Road.

They walked all day, and Kell muttered about pains in his knees. The landscape was beautiful, with hidden hollows filled with virgin snow, woodland branches, stark and bare, pointing white-peppered fingers at the bleak, blue-grey sky. Heavy swathes of conifer forest clutched the contours of the land like a lover. Streams lay frozen like snakes of diamond. The air was crisp, cold and fresh.

Kell marched ahead often, eyes scanning the landscape for signs of enemy activity. At every hilltop he would drop and approach on his belly, so as not to silhouette himself to scouts. His keen eyes tracked the lay of the land, the contours of forest and river, of hillside and mossy nooks, of boulder fields and silent farmhouses.

At one point before midday Kell spent a full half hour watching a farmhouse; no smoke curled from the chimney, and there was no sign of life. They approached warily, driven by hunger and cold, to find the farm hastily abandoned. As they walked across a cobbled yard chickens clucked in a nearby coop. Kell gestured. "Kill them, and bag them up. Fresh meat will do us the world of good."

Saark stared at Kell's back. "What?"

Kell stopped, and turned. "Kill the chickens. I will find us furs, woollen cloaks, dried beef. Go on, lad." "You kill the chickens," snapped Saark. "Is there a problem here?"

"Only peasants kill chickens! I am used to my fresh meat served on silver platters, garnished with butter, herbs and new potatoes, a little salt, not too much pepper, and brought to me by a plump serving wench with breasts bigger than the bloody bird she's serving! Kell stared hard at Saark; the swelling in his beaten face had subsided, but he was still bruised, his lips cut, his skin scratched, and he looked a thousand leagues from the well-dressed dandy Kell had met in the tannery back in Jalder. "Well," said Kell, considering his position, "here, and now Saark, you're a peasant. You look like a peasant, and you stink like a peasant. So kill the damn chickens." "I will not kill the chickens. I am no serf!"

'You will kill the chickens or go hungry," snapped Kell, and stormed off into the farmhouse, kicking open the door and leading the way with the gleaming blades of his axe.

Saark stood for a moment, staring at the empty doorway and muttering curses. A hand touched him lightly on the arm, and Skanda grinned up at him. "It's all right, Pretty One, I'll kill them. Despite my appearance, I have a talent for it."

"Are you sure?" muttered Saark, eyes dark, lips pouting.

"Leave it to me." Skanda carried a rough bronze dagger, which he placed carefully between his teeth. He moved towards the coop and the clucking hens within.

"I'll just… find some firewood. Or something." Saark waved to Skanda, then turned and started rooting around. "What we really need are horses," he said, and crossed to the stables, knowing there would be no beasts there – in times of flight, who would leave a horse? – but willing to search all the same. As he approached, the stables were dark, and silent. Rubbing his chin, he threw open the doors to reveal a total lack of thoroughbred stallion. "Hmm," he muttered, cursing his luck. Would it have hurt, for just this once, to give them a bit of good fortune? For a change? Instead of the gods throwing soldiers and deranged creatures into the battle at every damn pissing turn?

Saark turned, leant his back against the stable door, and heard a strangled cluck. He winced. He had been truthful, in that his food was normally served on a silver platter by a wench whose breasts would suffocate three men, never mind one; but the reality of the matter, and something that shamed him, was that his life of high society had ill-prepared him for chicken slaughter. He had no idea how one slaughtered a chicken; nor any inclination to find out.

Another deranged cluck emerged from the coop, and Saark winced again, almost in sympathy. A sympathy overwhelmed only by his ravenous hunger. Then, suddenly, behind him something went clack in the gloom of the dingy stable interior. He whirled about, slim rapier drawn, eyes narrowed.

"Is there somebody there?" he snapped. "Show yourself! Don't make me come in there after you!" Nothing. No reply. No movement. No sound.

Saark glanced back to the farmhouse, but there was no sign of Kell, and anyway, Saark resented being made to look a fool over something as ridiculous as the murder of a chicken. He pushed into the stable and lowered his head, as if this movement might somehow aid his night vision. He walked along the stalls, nose wrinkled at the stench of old dung and damp straw. The place reeked as bad as a rancid corpse. "Come out, now, before I lose my temper!" he said, voice raised, and as he neared the end stall he slowed his pace. Whoever it was, they had to be in there.

Saark leapt the last few feet, rapier outstretched, and blinked. There, huddled in the stall, was a donkey. Saark and the donkey stared at one another for a while, and Saark finally relaxed. The donkey gave a husky bray, and tilted its head, observing the tall, lithe swordsman. "Damn it, they left you! You poor little thing." Saark opened the door, and finding a lead on the wall, spent several minutes attaching a halter and then leading the donkey out through the stables. Kell was just appearing from the farmhouse with a collection of items wrapped in a blanket as Saark emerged into wintry sunlight. They both stopped, staring at one another.

"You found a donkey. Well done," said Kell.

"The miserable whoresons left her! What a horrible thing to do; they could have at least set her free. Well, she can come with us, carry our provisions. I'm sure I saw a basket somewhere."

"Well," said Kell, thoughtfully, dumping the blanket on the snow-peppered ground. "I've certainly no objections to taking a donkey with us. It's a long journey, and many a donkey has surely proved its worth during my lifetime." "Good," said Saark, rubbing the donkey's muzzle. "I think this beast has had enough mistreatment for one year."

"Yes. And I reckon there's good eating on a donkey," said Kell.

There came a long pause. "So, you'd eat the donkey?" Saark said.

"Saark, if I was starving lad, I'd eat your very arse cheeks. Now get this stuff in the basket. Did you kill those chickens?"

Skanda emerged at that moment with five birds tied together by the throat. He handed them to Kell, who took the dead chickens and glanced sideways at Saark. "What?" snapped the swordsman.

"For shame, Saark. Getting the boy to do a man's job. Your job, in fact. You!"

"He offered," said Saark, miserably, and returned to the stables to find the basket.

They moved fast for the rest of the day, only stopping early evening to have a cold meal of dried beef and hard oatcakes. Saark led the donkey, which he'd named Mary – to a rising of Kell's eyebrows, and an unreadable expression. Saark shrugged off the implied criticism, and walked slightly ahead of the group. But on one thing they all agreed. Mary did indeed lighten their load, and the farmhouse had been a store of many provisions, from bread, cheese, a side of ham, dried beef, oats, sugar and salt, and even a little chocolate. Kell found a bottle of unlabelled whiskey, which he stowed deep in the basket. He thought it best not to let Saark know, for the last time Kell drank an excess of whiskey it had ended in a savage brawl, with Saark taking a beating under Kell's mighty fists. But, obviously, Kell had no intentions of drinking any whiskey now. He was off the whiskey. It was for medicinal purposes only, he convinced himself. The sky stretched out, streaked with grey and black. What blue remained was thin, like a bleak watercolour portrait, and just as night began to fall they breached a hill and Kell pointed to a long, low, abandoned building made of black bricks. It had several squat chimneys, and by its overgrown look, gates hanging off hinges, missing bricks and smashed windows, had been empty for a considerable amount of time. "You knew this was here?" said Saark.

"Aye," nodded Kell. "Camped here a few times. It's an old armoury; rumoured, or so I've heard it told, to have made the finest weapons, helmets and breastplates in Falanor!"

"Safe?"

"As safe as anywhere else during the invasion of a wicked enemy army. I'll scout ahead, you wait here with, ahh, Mary."

Saark watched Kell descend a steep bank of tangled branches smothered in snow. The huge warrior stopped at the bottom, scanning, searching for footprints. Then, wary and with Ilanna drawn, he disappeared from view. He returned a few minutes later and waved them down, and both Saark and Skanda were more than happy to leave the biting chill of the wind behind. Despite new woollen jackets and leather-lined cloaks from the farmhouse, the cold still crept easily through to the depths of their bones. Falanor in winter was not the best place to travel, nor camp.

They slid down the snowy hill, the donkey's hooves digging in deep, and Saark tied Mary up outside the deserted armoury and ducked through the doorway, closely followed by Skanda.

Kell stood, hands on hips, looking around. They were in a huge, long, low-ceilinged workshop; benches lined the walls, set out in L-shapes at regular intervals, perhaps fifty in all stretching off into the gloom. Also ranged around the black, fire-damaged walls were curious iron ovens, and other machines with handles and tubes and strange gears, all black iron, many now rusted into solid blocks.

"Been empty a while," said Saark, whispering, but not realising why he whispered.

"Aye," nodded Kell. "Come on, it's too cold in this room, but there's lots of side rooms. I think this place has been used by travellers for nearly two decades now. Hopefully, somebody has laid a fire."

Saark and Skanda followed Kell through the huge chamber, and their eyes wandered to abandoned benches where ancient tools rested on work surfaces. "It's like they left in a hurry," said Saark, eyes following contours of rusted tools. There were hammers and tongs, files and pincers, and other tools in curious shapes Saark had never before seen; but then, he was a swordsman, not an armourer.

Kell approached one room to the side; the door closed, and he suddenly stopped. He turned and stared at Saark, features hidden in the gloom; then he seemed to win some internal debate, and stepped forward, pushing open the door The black longsword slashed for his throat and Kell swayed back with incredible speed, axe slamming up, the spike at its tip carving a long groove of channelled flesh up the albino soldier's face. His chin and nose disappeared like molten wax in a spray of milk white blood, and he screamed, and Kell brought back his gleaming axe, eyes narrowed, and yelled, "It's a trap! They saw us coming! Be ready!" He stepped forward with a mighty swing, halving the soldier's head, and then turning his back on the small room.

"They?" said Saark, drawing his slender rapier, and gaped with open flapping mouth as a flood of albino warriors raced through the gloomy old armoury; there were no war cries, no shouts, no screams of battle; only an eerie silence and thudding of boots.

A soldier fell on Saark and he parried the blow with a clash of steel, batting the ineffectual sword strike aside and drawing his blade across the man's throat. Flesh opened, parted, without blood – like slicing the throat of a corpse, thought Saark sourly – but all other images were slammed from him at the sheer number of soldiers in the armoury. Kell had been right, it was a set-up, a trap; they'd been waiting. Saark parried another blow, slammed his blade back in a shower of sparks, and exchanged several strikes before piercing his blade through the soldier's eye. Beside him, Kell's axe swung, but was hampered by the close confines fighting. He glimpsed the great blades behead an albino in a flail of long hair and gristle, and Saark shifted as the great Ilanna hummed past his own face.

'Kell!' screamed Saark, his face thunder, and he skipped to the side to give the old man more killing space. He spun low under a warrior's blade, and shoved his own sword up, brutally, into the soldier's groin. The albino screamed and fell, slipping on his own unspooling entrails, and Saark spun to shout at Skanda to run – but the boy had vanished. Good, breathed Saark as he prepared himself. The armoury was full of the enemy, so many he couldn't count them; what had it been? A platoon? Twenty men? Or… Saark paled, even in the gloom. If a company waited, there'd be damn near a hundred soldiers. And even Kell could not battle such odds. There were seven down, now, and outside the sun dipped below the horizon. Darkness flooded the room. Swords gleamed. Boots stamped. The only light was a surreal glow, the sun's dying rays reflected off smashed glass; more soldiers ran at Kell and Saark, and the men defended themselves with skill, sword and axe rising and falling, deflecting blades and cutting into flesh with savage, sodden thumps. More albino warriors fell, and Kell slapped Saark's shoulder and pointed. They backed away across the chamber, only to hear boots thudding outside a short corridor. They were surrounded! Saark tasted fear. At the end of the day Saark was a swordsman, and an incredibly skilled one – once, he had been the King's Sword Champion, and although Saark had fought in battles before, he much preferred the consummate test of skill during one-on-one combat. In war, he hated the randomness, the chaos, the unpredictability; the threat of an axe in the back of the head when you least expected it. No, for Saark the honour and prestige was in single combat – where the victor took the spoils, wine, gold, women. But here, now… this was fast turning into a charnel house. It was out of control.

The soldiers hung back, wary. Saark could just make out their ghost-white faces in the gloom. He reckoned on about thirty, but that didn't include those coming round behind.

Thirty! If Kell and Saark had been caught on open ground, they would have been slaughtered. Surrounded and butchered like dogs. But the albino soldiers, perhaps knowing the inherent skill of their quarries, had sought subterfuge and covert attack; this had backfired, for close quarters combat meant Saark and Kell could fight a tight battle and not easily be surrounded. "They're coming in," snapped Kell through gritted teeth. His face and beard were covered once more in blood and gore, only this time white, and glistening in what little ambient light remained. Ilanna filled his terrible hands, the edges of the butterfly blades glimmering. "You cover this side, I'll-" but his words were left unfinished, as a blast of blackness, of energy, a series of pulses in concentric circles like the spreading ripples in a lake after heavy impact cannoned through the confines of the armoury, and Kell and Saark were picked up amidst a surging charge of debris, old hammers, bits of battered armour, tools and dirt and even an anvil, and they seemed to hang for a moment before being accelerated in a swirling chaos across the room to hit the wall. Saark felt like his head was turned inside out, his teeth rattled in his skull, strings of bowels ripped out through his arse-hole. Kell groaned, and staggered to his feet with blood pouring from his nose. He lifted Ilanna, teeth grinding as the wall of albinos advanced… and at their core there was a tiny, ragged albino woman, with straggly white hair and bright crimson eyes and a face that was ancient, and lined, and haggard, and Kell knew upon what he looked for this this was an albino shamathe, a dreaded white magicker, and Kell shook his head and knew he had to kill her fast and put her down in an instant for her magick was awesome, potent, a product of earth and fire and blood and raw wild dark energy Ilanna slammed up, blades gleaming, but the second energy impact picked Kell up and pulped him against the wall, where the entire brickwork buckled and collapsed outwards in a shower of rubble and dust and broken beams. The armoury croaked and sagged, walls groaning, and Kell was half-buried under a pile of bricks as the air around him and an unconscious Saark rippled and surged and then was seemingly sucked back into normality like a rubber band returning to its original shape.

The albino shamathe cackled, and capered forward like a jester, but a tall soldier stepped to the fore, placed a hand on her cavorting shoulder and calmed the witch. "Well done, Lilliath," he spoke, words gentle, and drew a long black blade. "But… I will finish this." Lilliath nodded, hair wild and wavering.

Jekkron, tall, elegant, a warrior born, loomed over Kell who was groaning, eyelids fluttering. The old soldier had lost his axe amidst bricks and snapped timber joists. He opened his dust-smarting eyes and snarled through bloodied teeth but the albino smiled, and gave a single nod of understanding; his black sword lifted high, then hacked down at Kell's throat.