“Get your sword.”
Saark reappeared in his damp clothes, grumbling, and stood beside the immobile form of Kell in the snow. “What’s the matter now, you old goat? Forgot your gold teeth? Left your hernia cushion? Maybe you need a good hard shit?”
Kell turned on him, eyes wide, flared in anger. “Shut up, idiot! There’s something in the trees.”
Saark was about to offer further sarcastic comment, but then he, too, sensed more than heard the movement. He turned his back on the small hut and faced the trees, rapier lifting, eyes narrowing.
Kell drew his Svian from under his arm, and cursed the loss of his axe. He felt it deeply; not just because it was a weapon, and he needed such a weapon now. But because the axe was…his. Ilanna. His.
“Hell’s teeth,” muttered Saark, as the albino soldiers edged carefully from the trees, gliding like pale ghosts, their armour shining in shafts of moonlight tumbling between snow-clouds.
“I count ten,” said Kell, delicately.
“Eight,” said Saark.
“Two archers, just inside the trees, off to the right.”
“By the gods, you have good eyesight! I see them!”
“Horse-shit. I wish I had my axe.”
“I wish I had a fast horse.”
“Very heroic.”
“Not much use for dead heroes in these parts.”
The albino soldiers spread out, crimson eyes locked on the two men. Kell stepped away from Saark, mind settling into a zone for combat; and yet, deep down, Kell knew he would have struggled even with his axe. With a long knife? Even one as deadly as the Svian? And with his bad knees, and cracked ribs, and god only knew what other arthritic agonies were waiting to trip him up?
He grimaced, without humour. Damn. It wasn’t looking good.
“Drop your weapons,” said the albino lieutenant.
“Kiss my arse,” snarled Kell.
“Superb: weaponless and an idiot,” said Saark, eyes fixed on the soldiers.
“You can always run back through the woods and jump in the river.”
“Now that is a good idea.”
They stood, tense, waiting for an attack. The lieutenant of the albino soldiers was wary; Kell could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fooled by an old man and a dandy dressed in villager’s clothing. He could see Saark’s hair, the cut of his stance, the quality of his rapier. There were too many factors of contrast, and the albino was cautious. This showed experience.
“Ready?” muttered Kell…as something huge, and hissing, with gears crunching and hot breath steaming slammed from the trees and into the midst of the albino soldiers, rending and tearing, ripping and smashing, causing an instant sudden confusion and panic, and the albinos wheeled in perfect formation, swords rising, attacking without battle cries but with a superb efficiency, a cold and calculating precision which spoke more of butchery than soldiering…swords slammed the canker, and two sets of arrows flashed from the trees, embedding in the canker’s flanks. Rather than wound the creature, or slow it, it sent the canker into a violent rage and it whirled, grabbing an albino and ripping him apart to scatter torn legs spewing milk blood in one direction, and a still screaming torso and head in the other. More arrows thudded the canker’s flanks, and it reared, pawing the air with deformed arms, hands ending in glinting metal claws, and fangs slid from its jaws as its vampire vachine side emerged and it leapt on a soldier, fangs sinking in, drinking up milky blood and then choking, sitting backwards as swords hacked at its cogs and heavily muscled flesh and it spat out the milk, reached out and grasped an albino by the head, to pull his head clean off trailing spinal column and clinging tendons which pop pop popped as they dangled and swung like ripped cloth.
“This is our invitation to leave, I feel,” muttered Saark.
“Into the woods,” said Kell. “I’ll wager they’ve got horses nearby.”
As the savage battle raged, so Kell and Saark edged for the trees, then ran for it, tense and awaiting the slam of sudden arrows in backs. They made the treeline, cold, snow-filled, silent, and behind them howls and grunts bellowed, and swords clanged from clockwork as the canker spun and danced in a twisted spastic fury.
“There.” Kell pointed.
They moved through the trees, the sounds of battle fading behind; within minutes the noises were muffled, like a dream from another world.
A group of horses were tethered to a tree by a small circle of logs. Kell untied the reins, and taking four mounts they spurred the remaining creatures and mounted two black geldings, leading the other two along a narrow forest deer-trail.
“Which way?” said Saark.
“Away from the canker.”
“A good choice of direction, I feel.”
“Seems the wisest, at the moment.”
“A thought occurs, Kell.”
“What’s that?”
“That creature back there. It was different to the last, the one ripped apart in the river. There are…two of the beasts, at least. Yes?”
“Observant, aren’t you, laddie?”
“I try,” grinned Saark, in the dark of the snow-locked forest. “What I’m trying to say is that, if there are two, maybe you were right, maybe there will be more. And they are not the sort of beasts we can fight with peasant’s sword and axe.”
“Under the Black Pike Mountains, Saark,” Kell’s voice was a grim monotone, “there are thousands of these creatures. I saw them. A long, long time ago.”
They rode in silence.
Eventually, Saark said, “So, to all intents and purposes, there could be an essentially endless supply of these ugly bastards?”
“Yes.”
“Well. That’s put a dampener on things, old horse.” He followed as Kell switched direction, heading deeper into the forest. Now, the sounds of battle, all 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.”