Kell's Legend

sounds in fact, had vanished. Only a woolly silence greeted them. Above, the trees swayed, whispering, false promises murmured in dreams. “By the way, which way are we going?”
    “Towards Nienna.”
    “And you know this because?”
    “Trust me.”
    “Seriously, Kell. How can you know?”
    “She has my axe. I can feel it. I am drawn to it.”
    Saark stared at Kell in the murk. One of the geldings whinnied, and Kell leaned forward, stroking his head, calming him. “There, boy. Shh,” he said.
    “He’s not a dog, Kell.”
    “Do you ever stop yakking?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Back in Jalder, a neighbour of mind had a shitty yakking little bastard of a dog. All damn night, yak yak yak, with barely a word from the woman to chastise the beast. Many times, the little bastard yakked all night; so one summer, fatigued by lack of sleep, and in a temper I admit, I took down my axe, went around to my neighbour, and cut off her dog’s head.”
    “Is this a sophisticated parable?”
    “The moral of my story,” growled Kell, “is that dogs that yak all night tend towards decapitation. When I’m annoyed.”
    “Proving you are no animal lover, I’d wager. What happened to the neighbour?”
    “I broke her nose.”
    “You’re an unfriendly sort, aren’t you, Kell?”
    “I have my moments.”
    “Was the yakking dog some veiled reference to my own delicate tongue?”
    “Not so much your tongue, more your over-use of said appendage.”
    “Ahh. I will seek to be quiet, then.”
    “A good move, I feel.”
    They eased through the night, listening with care for the canker, or even a squad of albino soldiers; neither men were sure who would be victorious, only that the battle would be vicious and long and bloody, and could not end without some form of death.
    Suddenly, Saark started to laugh, and quelled his guffaws. Silence rolled back in, like oily smoke.
    “Something amuse you, my friend?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like to share it?”
    “That damn canker, attacking its own men. I thought they were on the same side? What a deficient brainless bastard! Laid into them as if they were the enemy; as if it had a personal vendetta.”
    “Maybe it did,” said Kell, voice low. “What I saw of them, they had few morals or intelligence as to who or what they slaughtered. They were basic, primitive, feral; humans who had devolved, been twisted back by blood-oil magick.”
    “Humans?” said Saark, stunned. “They were once men?”
    “A savage end, is it not?”
    “As savage as it gets,” said Saark, shivering. “Listen, old man—how do you know all this?”
    “I was in the army. A long time ago. Things…happened. We ended up, stranded, in the Black Pike Mountains and had to find our way home. It was a long, treacherous march over high ice-filled pathways no wider than a man’s waist. Only three survived the journey.”
    “Out of how many?”
    Kell’s eyes gleamed in darkness. “We started with a full company,” he said.
    “Gods! A hundred men? What did you eat out there?”
    “You wouldn’t want to know.”
    “Trust me, I would.”
    “You’re like an over-eager puppy, sticking your snout into everything. One day, you’ll do it to something sharp, and end up without a nose.”
    “I still want to know. A nose has limited use, in my opinion.”
    Kell chuckled. “I think you are a little insane, my friend.”
    “In this world, aren’t we all?”
    Kell shrugged.
    “Go on then; the suspense is killing me.”
    “We ate each other,” said Kell, simply.
    Saark rode in silence for a while, digesting this information. Eventually, he said, “Which bit?”
    “Which bit what?”
    “Which bit did you eat?”
    Kell stared at Saark, who was leaning forward over the pommel of his stolen horse, keen for information, eager for the tale. “Why would you need to know? Writing another stanza for the Saga of Kell’s Legend?”
    “Maybe. Go on. I’m interested.” He sighed. “And in this short, brutal, sexually absent existence, your stories are about the best thing I can get.”
    “Charming. Well, we’d start off with his arse, the rump—largest piece of meat there is on a man. Then thighs, calves, biceps. Cut off the meat, cook it if you have fire; eat it raw if you don’t.”
    “Wasn’t it…just…utterly disgusting?”
    “Yes.”
    “I think I’d rather starve,” said Saark, primly, leaning back in his saddle, as if he’d gleaned every atom of information required.
    “You’ve