Kell's Legend

leapt, axe lashing out but the Harvester moved, fast, rolling away from the blades, bony fingers lashing out. Kell’s axe cut back on a reverse stroke, slamming the arm away, and he skidded on icy wood, righting himself. The Harvester lowered its head towards him.
    “You will die a long, painful death, little man.”
    “Show me, laddie,” snarled Kell, head low, shoulders lifted, powerful, as the Harvester attacked. His axe lashed out, was knocked aside but he ducked, whirled a low circle with Ilanna singing through cold air to slam fast at the Harvester’s legs…it stepped back and the axe turned, coming up over Kell’s head in a glittering arc as he stepped in, and the blades smashed down at the Harvester’s shoulders. There came a sound, like snapping wood, the blades were savagely deflected to the right dragging Kell off-balance. A fist hit Kell in the ribs, and he hit the ground on the way down. The Harvester’s fingers slammed at his heart, but he rolled, Ilanna cutting an arc to smash the extended fingers, trapping them in the wood, embedding both bony fingers and axe in the platform.
    Kell climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs, and the Harvester tugged at its trapped fingers, making a lowbut high-pitched growling sound. Its head snapped up, black eyes scowling at Kell who reached under his jerkin and pulled out his Svian knife. He leapt forward, knife slashing for the Harvester’s throat, blade cutting white flesh that parted like fish-meat, but no blood came out no scream emerged and the Harvester slapped a back-handed blow against Kell sending him rolling across the platform.
    “Get in the boat!” screamed Saark. The current was pulling at them more viciously, and ice crackled in a flurry of shots.
    Kell climbed to his feet, bearded face filled with a dark, controlled fury. He watched the Harvester rip its fingers free with a splintering of torn wood, and Ilanna fell to the platform with a slap. The Harvester stood tall, flexing its undamaged fingers. Kell swallowed. The blades should have amputated; instead, there was no mark. His gaze lifted to the slit throat, but the fish-flesh had knitted together, and was whole again.
    Kell knew, now. There was blood-oil magick here; he could not kill this creature. Ilanna had been right, and this sickened him.
    He ran, and the Harvester leapt at him with a hiss, fingers slashing for his heart. But Kell ducked, turned his run into a slide on icy wood, under the Harvester’s flashing bone talons to grasp his axe. Arms pumping, he sprinted for the boat even as Saark’s grip finally lost its battle and the boat slid out along the still water, crackling ice, to join the flow of the raging torrent. Kell leapt, landing heavily in the boat which rocked madly for a moment. Then he stood, staring back atthe Harvester as he replaced his Svian in its sheath beneath his left arm, and they were whisked away into thickening mist.
    “A good effort,” said Saark, smiling kindly at Kell. “If the bastard had been human, it’d now be dead.”
    “But it’s not,” growled Kell, slumping down and taking the boat’s oars. “And that makes me want to puke. Come on, let’s get out of this godsforsaken city. It gives me the shits.”
    General Graal led the way to the elevated tower room, presenting the broad target of his back to Dagon Trelltongue.
    Dagon, a tall but slender man with shoulder-length grey hair and small eyes, wearing the finest silk and wool fashion-clothing of the south, felt keenly the presence of the delicate sword at his waist, the jewelled knife under his arm and the poison in the vial at his hip-belt. He swallowed, dry spit in a dry mouth. He could kill Graal, a swift piercing of sword through lungs, watch the general’s blood bubble onto the rich carpets they now walked. Dagon could send the Army of Iron back north, with no leader, no hope, no fire; he could save the coming war, save his friend, lord, and King, Leanoric—and indeed, all the people of Falanor.
    Dagon’s eyes narrowed. Bastards!
    No. They would pay. They would suffer.
    Damn them all.
    They entered a large chamber, once one of Jalder’s finest council offices. Thick carpets kept chill from stone flags, the walls were plastered and paintedwhite, and the whole room was decorated with dark wood, inlaid with gold. Fine works of art hung at intervals around the chamber; discreet. Many comfort couches were set apart, amidst desks and stone pedestals showing several of Falanor’s