Kell's Legend

Where’s the boat?”
    “Gone.”
    “Where are we?”
    “Do I look like a fucking mapmaker?”
    “Actually, old horse, you do, rather.”
    Something surged from the river nearby, a huge black coil, then submerged with a mighty splash. In its wake, the canker, or more precisely, half of the canker, floated for a few moments, bobbing, torn, trailing strings of tendon and jagged gristle, before gradually sinking out of sight.
    “At least that’s one problem sorted,” said Saark, voice strangled. He reached down, rolling up his trews. Puncture holes lined his shins and knees, bleeding, and he prodded them with a wince. “I hope I’m not poisoned.”
    “It’s dead. For now.” Kell climbed to his feet. He sheathed his Svian and cursed. His axe, Ilanna, was on the boat. Gone. Kell ran hands through his wet hair and shivered again. Snow began to fall, just to add to his chilled and frozen mood.
    Saark had found something in one of the puncture wounds, and with a tiny schlup pulled free a fang. “Ugh!” he said, staring at the brass tooth. “The dirty, dirty bastard.” He flung it out into the river. “Ugh.”
    “We need to find Nienna,” said Kell.
    “And Kat,” said Saark, glancing up at the old man.
    “And Kat,” agreed Kell. “Come on.”
    “Whoa! Wait up, maybe you’re in the mood for running cross-country in the dark, covered in ice; I’m going to die if I stay out here much longer. And you too, by the looks of it. You’re turning blue!”
    “I’ve crossed the Black Pike Mountains,” growled Kell. “It takes more than the fucking cold to kill me.”
    “And that was…how many years ago? Look at you, man, you’re shivering harder than a pirate ship in asquall. We need fire, and we need dry clothes. Come on. These lowlands are populated; we’ll find somewhere.”
    They walked, Saark limping, roughly following the course of the river until a thick evergreen woodland of Jack Pine and Red Cedar forced them inland. Trudging across snow and frozen tufts of grass, they circled the woods and eventually came upon a small crofter’s hut, barely four walls and a roof, six feet by six feet, to be used during emergencies. With thanks they fell inside, forcing the door shut against wind and snow. As was the woodland way, a fire had already been laid by the last occupant and Kell found a flint and tinder on a high shelf. His shaking hands lit a fire, and both men huddled round the flames as they grew from baby demons. Eventually, what seemed an age, the small hut filled with heat and they peeled off wet clothing, hanging items on hooks around the walls to dry, until they sat in pants and boots, hands outstretched to the flames, faces grim.
    “What I’d give for a large whisky,” said Kell, watching steam rise from their clothes.
    “What I’d give for a fat whore.”
    “Do you ever think about anything other than sex?”
    “Sometimes,” said Saark, and turned, staring into the flames. “Sometimes, in distant dreams, I think of honour, of loyalty, and of friendship; I think of love, of family, of happy children, a doting wife. All the good things in life, my friend. And then I remember who I am, and the things I did, and I am simply thankful for a fat whore sitting on my face. You?”
    “Me what?”
    “I gave you a potted history. Now it’s your turn. You’re a hero, right?”
    “You make the word ‘hero’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”
    “Not at all.” Saark grinned, then, his melancholy dropping like a hawk from the heavens. “I heard a poem about you, once. ‘Kell’s Legend’, it was called. That’s you, right? You’re the character of legend?”
    “You make ‘character’ sound like ‘arsehole’.”
    “Very droll. Come on, Kell. It was a good poem.”
    “Ha! A curse on all poets! May they catch the pox and have ugly children.”
    “This poem was a good one,” persisted Saark. “Proper hero stuff. Had a decent rhyme as well. Foot-tapping stuff, when recited in a tavern by men with harps and honey-beer and the glint of wonder in their eyes.”
    Kell drew his Svian blade. His eyes glowed and he pointed at Saark in the close proximity. “Don’t even fucking think about it. All poets should be gutted like fish, their entrails strung out to dry, then made to compose ballads about how they feel with the bastard suffering. A curse on them!”
    Saark sang, voice soft, hand held out to ward off Kell’s knife should he make a strike:
“Kell waded through life on a river of