Kell's Legend

never been in that situation,” said Kell, voice an exhalation. “You don’t know what it’s like, dying, chipped at by the howling wind, men sliding from ledges and screaming to their deaths; or worse, falling hundreds of feet, breaking legs and spines, then calling out to us for help for hours and hours, screaming out names, their voices following us through the passes, first begging, then angry and cursing, hurling abuse, threatening us and our families; and gradually, over a period of hours as their words drifted like smoke after us down long, long valleys, they would become subdued, feeble, eaten by the cold. It was an awful way to die.”
    “Is there a good one?”
    “There are better ways.”
    “I disagree, old horse. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
    “I knew a man, they called him the Weasel, worked for Leanoric in the, shall we say, torturing business. I got drunk with him one night in a tavern to the southof here, in the port-city of Hagersberg, to the west of Gollothrim. He reckoned he could keep a man alive, in exquisite pain, for over a month. He reckoned he could make a man plead for death; cry like a baby, curse and beg and promise with only the sweet release of death his reward. This Weasel reckoned, aye, that he could break a man—mentally. He said it was a game, played between torturer and victim, a bit like a cat chasing a mouse, only the cat was using information and observation and the nuances of psychology to determine how best to torture his victims. The Weasel said he could turn men insane.”
    “You didn’t like him much, then?”
    “Nah,” said Kell, as they finally broke from the trees and stood the geldings under the light of a yellow moon. Clouds whipped overhead, carrying their loads of snow and hail. A chill wind mocked them. “I cut off his head, out in the mud.”
    “So you were taking a moral standpoint? I applaud that, in this diseased and violent age. Men like the Weasel don’t deserve to breathe our sweet, pure air, the torturing bastard villainous scum. You did the right thing, mark my words. You did the honourable thing.”
    “It was nothing like that,” said Kell. He looked at Saark then, and appeared younger; infinitely more dangerous. “I was simply drunk,” he said, and tugged at the gelding’s reins, and headed towards another copse of trees over the brow of a hill.
    Saark kicked his own mount after Kell, muttering under his breath.
    The sun crept over the horizon, as if afraid. Tendrils of light pierced the dense woodland, and Kell and Saark had a break, tethering horses and searching through saddlebags confident, at least for the moment, that they had shaken their pursuers. More snow was falling, thick flakes tumbling lazy, and Kell grunted in appreciation. “It will help hide our tracks,” he said, fighting with the tight leather straps on a saddlebag.
    “I thought the canker hunted by smell? Lions in the far south hunt by smell; by all accounts, they’re impossible to shake.”
    Kell said nothing. Opening the saddlebags, the two men searched the albinos’ equipment, finding tinder and flint, dry rations, some kind of dried red-brown meat, probably horse or pig, herbs and salt, and even a little whisky. Saark took a long draught, and smacked his lips. “By the balls of the gods, that’s a fine dram.”
    Kell took a long drink, and the whisky felt good in his throat, warm in his belly, honey in his mind. “Too good,” he said. “Take it away before I quaff the lot.” He gazed back, at the thickly falling snow.
    “The question is,” said Saark, drinking another mouthful of whisky, “do we make camp?”
    “No. Nienna is in danger. If the albino soldiers find her, they’ll kill her. We can eat as we ride.”
    “You’re a hard taskmaster, Kell.”
    “I am no master of yours. You are free to ride away at any moment.”
    “Your gratitude overwhelms me.”
    “I wasn’t the one pissing about on the bed of a river, flapping like an injured fish.”
    “I acknowledge you saved my life, and for that I am eternally grateful; but Kell, we have been through some savage times, surely my friendship means something? For me, it’s erudite honour to ride with the Legend, to perhaps, in the future, have my own exploits recounted by skilled bards on flute and mandolin, tales spun high with ungulas of perfume as Kell and Saark fill in the last few chapters of high adventure in the mighty Saga!” He grinned.
    “Horse-shit.” Kell glared at