Kell's Legend

heads lowered, and as Saark dragged violently on reins the gelding whinnied in protest. Kell did not slow, charging his own horse forward, Nienna gasping between his mighty arms as Ilanna sang, a high pitched song of desolation as she cleaved left, then right, leaving two carved and collapsing corpses in sprays of iridescent white blood. Kell wheeled the horse, and it reared, hooves smashing the lower jaw from the face of an albino who shrieked, grabbing at where his mouth had been. Behind, Saark cursed, and urging his own gelding forward, charged in with his sword drawn. Steel rang upon steel as he clashed, and to his right Kell leapt from the saddle as Nienna drew her own sword from its saddle-sheath. Kell carved a route through the soldiers, his face grim, eyes glowing, whisky on his breath and axe moving as if possessed; which it surely was.
    Nienna sat atop the horse, stunned by events; from fine dresses and heady drinks to sitting in the street, sword in hand, petrified to her core. Again. She shook her head, feeling groggy and slow, mouth tasting bad, head light, and watched almost detached as a soldier stepped from his comrades, focused on her, and charged with sword raised…
    Panic tore through Nienna. The soldier was there in the blink of an eye, crimson eyes fixed, sword whistling towards her in a high horizontal slash; she stabbed out with her own short blade, and the swords clashed, noise ringing out. Kell’s head slammed left, as Ilanna cut the head from a warrior’s shoulders. Kellsprinted, then knelt in the snow, sliding, as Ilanna slammed end over end to smash through the albino’s spine, curved blade appearing before Nienna’s startled gaze on a spray of blood.
    Saark finished the last of the soldiers, slitting a man’s throat with a dazzling pirouette and shower of horizontal blood droplets. The corpse crumpled, blood settled like rain, and behind them, on the road, ice-smoke crept out and curled like questing fingers.
    “We need to get out of Jajor Falls,” panted Saark.
    “Yes. Let’s go.”
    “How do you do that?”
    “Do what?” Kell took the reins, smiling grimly up at Nienna who rubbed her tired face.
    “You’re not even out of breath, old boy.”
    “Economy of movement,” said Kell, and forced a smile. “I’ll teach you, one day.”
    There came an awkward hiatus. Saark gazed into Kell’s eyes.
    “I thought you were going to kill me, back there.”
    “No, laddie. I like you. I wouldn’t do that.”
    Saark let the lie go, and they mounted the geldings. As they rode from Jajor Falls, out into the gloom under heavy falling snow, down a narrow winding lane which led to thick woodland and ten different tracks they could choose at random, behind them, in the now frozen village, the Harvesters moved through the rigid population with a slow, cold, frightening efficiency.
    As day broke, so the trail they followed joined with the cobbled splendour of the Great North Road,winding and black, shining under frost and the pink daubs of a low-slung newly-risen sun. The horses cantered, steam ejecting from nostrils, and all four travellers were exhausted in saddles, not just from lack of sleep, but from emotional distress.
    “How far to the king?” said Kell, as they rode.
    “It’s hard to say; depends with which Eagle Division he’s camped, or if we have to travel all the damn way to Vor. Best thing is stop the first soldier we see and ask; the army has good communications. The squads should be informed.”
    “You know a lot about King Leanoric,” said Kat, turning to gaze up at Saark. She was aware of his powerful arms around her, his body pressed close to her through silk and furs, which he’d wrapped around her shoulders in the middle of the night to keep her warm. It had been a touching moment.
    “I…used to be a soldier,” said Saark, slowly.
    “Which regiment, laddie?”
    “The Swords,” said Saark, eyes watching Kell.
    “The King’s Own, eh?” Kell grinned at him, and rubbed his weary face. The smell of whisky still hung about him like a toxic shawl.
    “Yes.”
    “But you left?”
    “Aye.”
    Kell caught the tension in Saark’s voice, and let it go. Kat, however, did not.
    “So you fought with the King’s Men? The Sword-Champions?”
    Saark nodded, squirming uneasily in the saddle. To their left, in the trees, a burst of bird song caught hisattention. It seemed at odds with the frost, and the recent slaughter. He shivered as a premonition overtook