Kell's Legend

Saark. “I ain’t allowing no more chapters of any damn bard’s exaggerated tales. I just want my granddaughter back. You understand, little man?”
    Saark held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was only trying to impress on you the importance of your celebrity, and how a happy helper like myself, if incorporated into said story, would obviously become incredibly celebrated, wealthy, and desired by more loose women than his thighs could cope with.”
    Kell mounted his horse, ripped a piece of dried meat in his teeth. He set off down a narrow trail, ducking under snow-laden branches. “Is that all you want from life, Saark? Money and a woman’s open legs?”
    “There is little more of worth. Unless you count whisky, and maybe a refined tobacco.”
    “You are vermin, Saark. What about the glint of sunlight in a child’s hair? The gurgle of a newborn babe? The thrill of riding a unbroken stallion? The brittle glow of a newly forged sword?”
    “What of them? I prefer ten bottles of grog, a plump pair of dangling breasts on a willing, screaming, slick, hot wench, a winning bet on some fighting dogs, andmaybe a second woman, for when the first wench grows happily exhausted. One woman was never enough! Not for this feisty sexual adventurer.”
    Kell looked back, into Saark’s eyes. “You lie,” he said.
    “How so?”
    “I can read you. You have behaved like that, in the past, giving in to your base needs, your carnal lusts; but there is a core of honour in your soul, Saark. I can see it there. Read it, as a monk reads a vellum scroll. That’s why you’re still with me.” He smiled, his humour dry, bitter like amaranth. “It’s not about women, wet and willing, nor the drink. You wish to warn King Leanoric; you wish to do the right thing.”
    Saark stared hard at Kell, for what seemed like minutes, then snapped, “You’re wrong, old man.” His humour evaporated. His banter dissolved. “The only thing left in my core is a maggot, gorging on the rotten remains. I drink, I fuck, I gamble, and that’s all I do. Don’t think you can see into my soul; my soul is more black and twisted than you could ever believe.”
    “As you wish,” said Kell, and kicked his horse ahead, scouting the trail, his Svian drawn, a short albino sword by his hip on the saddle sheath. And ahead, Kell smiled to himself; finally, he had got to Saark. Finally, he had shut the dandy popinjay’s mouth!
    Saark rode in sullen silence, analysing his exchange with Kell. And in bitterness he knew, knew Kell was close to the bone with his analysis and he hated himself for it. How he wished he had no honour, no desireto do the right thing. Yes, he drank, but always to a certain limit. He was careful. And yes, he would be the first to admit he was weak to the point of village idiot by a flash of moist lips, or the glimpse of smooth thigh on a pretty girl. Or even an ugly girl. Thin, fat, short, tall, red, brown, black or blonde, light skinned, freckled, huge breasts or flat; twice he’d slept with buxom black wenches from the far west, across Traitor’s Sea, pirate stock with thick braided hair and odd accents and smeared with coconut oil…he grew hard just thinking of them, their rich laughter, strong hands, their sheer unadulterated willingness…he shivered. Focused. On snow. Trees. Finding Nienna. Reaching Leanoric.
    Up ahead, Kell had stopped. The gelding stamped snow.
    Saark reined behind, slowing the other two horses, and loosened his rapier. “Problem?”
    “This fellow doesn’t want to proceed.”
    Saark looked closer in the gloom of the silent woods. The gelding had ears laid back flat against its head. The beast’s eyes were wide, and it stamped again, skittish. Kell leaned forward, stroking ears and muzzle, and making soothing noises.
    “Maybe there’s a canker nearby.”
    “Not even funny,” said Kell.
    “He can sense something. ”
    “I think,” said Kell, eyes narrowing, “this is Stone Lion Woods.”
    Saark considered this. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’ve heard ghastly things about this place. That it’s…haunted.”
    “Dung. It’s dense woodland full of ancient trees. Nothing more.”
    “I heard stories. Of monsters.”
    “Tales told by frightened drunks!”
    “Yes, but look at the horses.” Now, all four had begun to shiver, and with coaxing words they managed another twenty hoof-beats before Kell and Saark were forced to dismount and stroke muzzles, attempting to calm them.
    “Something’s