Kell's Legend

face was very finely chiselled, his hair black, curled, oiled back, neat above a trimmed moustache and long sideburns that were currently theheight of fashion amongst nobles. He wore a rich blue shirt, dark trews, high cavalry boots and a short, expensive, fur-lined leather cloak. He had expensive rings on his fingers, a clash of diamonds and rubies. His eyes were a dazzling blue, even in this gloomy, murky, hellish place. He had what Nienna liked to call a smiling face.
    Kat snorted. Nienna was about to laugh as well, so ridiculous did the nobleman look in this evil-smelling tannery from hell; until she saw his sword. This, too, had a faint air of the ridiculous, until she married it to his posture. Only then did she consider the broad shoulders, the narrow hips, the subtle stance of an experienced warrior. Nienna chided herself. This man, she realised, had been underestimated many times.
    “Why are you skulking back there, fool?”
    “Skulking? Skulking ? Old horse, my name is Saark, and Saark does not skulk. And as for fool, I take such a jibe as I presume you intend; in utter good humour and jest at such a sorry situation and predicament in which we find ourselves cursed.”
    “Pretty words,” snorted Kell, turning back to Nienna and Kat. He turned back, and realised Saark was close. Too close. The rapier touched Kell’s throat and there was a long, frozen moment of tension.
    “Pretty enough to get me inside your guard,” said Saark, voice soft, containing a hint of menace.
    “I think we fight the same enemy,” said Kell, eyes locked to Saark.
    “Me also!” Saark stepped back and sheathed his blade. He held out his hand. “I am Saark.”
    “You already said.”
    “I believe it’s such a fine name, it deserves saying twice.”
    Kell grunted. “I am Kell. This is Nienna, my granddaughter, and her friend Kat. We were thinking of stealing a boat. Getting the hell away from this invaded charnel house of a city.”
    Saark nodded, moving close to Nienna and Kat. “Well, hello there, ladies.” Both young women blushed, and Saark laughed, a tinkling of music, his eyes roving up and down their young frames.
    “Saark!” snapped Kell. “There are more important things at play, here. Like the impending threat on our lives, for one.”
    Saark made a tutting sound in the back of his throat, and surveyed his surroundings. And yet, despite his smile, his fine clothes, his finer words, Nienna could see the tension in this man; like an actor on the stage, playing a part he’d rehearsed a thousand times before, Saark was enjoying his performance. But he was hampered, by an emotion which chipped away at the edges of his mask.
    Fear.
    It lurked in his eyes, in his stance, in a delicate trembling of his hand. Nienna noticed. She enjoyed people-watching. She was good at it.
    Saark took a deep breath. “How did you know I was here?”
    “I could smell you.”
    “ Smell me ?” Saark grinned then, shaking his head. His face was pained. “I cannot believe you could smell me amidst this stench. I like to think I have better grooming habits.”
    Kell had moved to a window, was standing back from the wooden shutters and watching soldiers down by the river. He turned and eyed Saark warily. “It was your perfume.”
    “Aaah! Eau du Petale. The very finest, the most excitingly exquisite…”
    “Save it. We’re moving. We can escape via the pipe which dumps tannin and slop out into the river. If we head down into the cellars, I’m sure…”
    “Wait.” Saark brushed past Kell and stood, one manicured hand on the shutters, the other on the hilt of his rapier. Suddenly, Saark’s foppish appearance didn’t seem quite so ridiculous.
    “What is it?”
    “The carriage. I know it.”
    Kell gazed out. A carriage had drawn alongside a cage full of weeping prisoners; all women. The carriage was black, glossy, and had an intricate crest painted on the door. The horses stomped and chewed at their bits, disturbed either by the stench of the tanneries or the moans of the women. The driver fought to keep the four beasts under control and their hooves clattered on ice-rimed cobbles.
    “Well, I know him,” snarled Kell, as General Graal stalked towards the carriage and folded his arms. His armour gleamed. He ran a hand through his long white hair, an animal preening. “He’s the bastard in charge of this army. He called it the Army of Iron.”
    “You know him?” Saark met Kell’s gaze.
    “The bastard sent a couple of