Myriam flushed red, frowning, and started to rise.
“Enough!” boomed Kell, and Myriam settled back. Kell glared at Saark, then returned to the woman. “There are enough enemy out there to satisfy your bloodlust for a century. So let’s just roast that nice bacon joint the villagers brought in, boil a few potatoes, and enjoy a bit of civilised company.”
“I’m going to check on the horses,” said Saark, and left the cabin, allowing cold air to swirl in.
Myriam shivered, and started to cough. The cough was harsh, savage, and Kell watched as the two men attended her, almost tenderly, despite their vagabond appearances. She coughed for a while, and Kell thought he saw blood. He looked again at her gaunt face, the sunken eyes, the shape of her skull beneath parched skin. He had seen such afflictions before; men, and women, riddled with cancers. He would wager Myriam was getting perilously close to death. It spooked him with a sense of his own mortality.
Give me an enemy to fight with my axe any day, he thought sourly, rather than some nasty sneaky little bastard growing deep down inside. Kell’s eyes burned. He felt a stab of pity for the woman. Nobody should die like that.
Kell stood, poured a cup of water and carried it to Myriam. She drank, and smiled her thanks. Through her pain, and gaunt features, and harsh cropped hair, Kell saw a glimmer of prettiness. Once, she would have been beautiful, he thought. But not just cancer had eaten her; bitterness and a world-weary cynicism had removed what beauty lines remained.
“I suggest you sit nearer the fire.”
“She’ll sit where she damn well pleases,” snarled Jex, voice heavy with an eastern burr.
“As you wish.”
“Wait,” said Myriam, and met Kell’s gaze. “Can I speak with you?”
“You’re speaking with me.”
“In private.”
“There is no privacy.” He smiled, coldly.
“Outside. In the snow.”
“If you like.”
They walked from the long cabin, boots crunching snow, Kell following Myriam a good distance until she stopped, leaning against a tree, wheezing a little. She gazed up at the falling snow, then turned, smiling at Kell. “It’s the cold. It affects my lungs.”
“I thought it was the cancer.”
“That as well. What pains me most are the things I can no longer do, actions I remember performing with ease. Like running. Gods! Once I could run like the wind, all bloody day, up and down mountains. Nothing stopped me. Now, I’m lucky to run to the privy.”
“You wanted to speak?” Kell stared at her, and felt a strange twinge of recognition. He leaned close, and she leaned away. “Do I know you?” he said, finally, his memory tugging at him.
“No. But I know of you. The Saga of Kell’s Legend, a tale to frighten and inspire, a tale to breed heroes and soldiers, don’t let the little ones leave the safety of the fire.” She laughed, but Kell did not. “You’re a hero through these parts,” she said.
“According to some, aye,” he sighed, and leant his own back against a pine. The wind howled mournfully through the trees, a low song, a desolate song. Somewhere, an owl hooted. “What’s it to you?”
“I just…I heard stories of you. From my father. When I was a child.”
“A child?” said Kell, disbelieving. “How old are you, girl?”
“Twenty-nine winters, round about now.” She blushed. “I know. I look a lot older. It’s because I’m dying, Kell. And…I know some of your past. Some of your history.”
“Oh yes?” He did not sound thrilled.
“You could help me.”
“I’m busy. There’s an invasion going on, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“You could save me from dying,” she said, and her eyes were pleading. “You’ve been through the Black Pike Mountains. I know this. I’ve talked to an old soldier who swears he went there with you. He said you know all the secret trails, the hidden passes; and ways past the deadly Deep Song Valley, the Wall of Kraktos, and the Passage of Dragons. Well,” she took a deep breath, “I need to go there; I need to walk the high passes. I need to reach…”
“Where do you need to reach?” said Kell, voice impossibly soft.
“The hidden valley,” breathed Myriam, looking Kell straight in the eye. “Silva Valley.”
“And what would you do there, lady?”
“You can see what is happening to me,” said Myriam. Tears shone in her eyes. “For the past three years I have grown steadily weaker. Meat has fallen from my bones. I get terrible pains, in my sides, in my hips, in my head. I spent a fortune in gold on fat physicians in Vor; they told me I had tumours, parasitical growths inside, each the size of a fist. The physicians said I would die within the year, that there was nothing I could do…damn them all! But, three years later, I am still here, hanging on by a thread, still searching for a cure. But sometimes, Kell, sometimes the pain is so bad I wish I were dead.” She started to cough again, and covered her mouth, turning away, staring into the night-blackened trees. Snow swirled on eddies of breeze. Kell could smell ice.
“You didn’t answer the question,” he said, when the fit had passed.
“What would I do in Silva Valley? They have…machines there. Machines that could heal me.”
“They would change you,” said Kell. “I have seen the result of their experiments. It was not good.”
Myriam was closer, now, had edged closer so that Kell could smell the musk of her body. She pressed herself in to him, and he felt something he had not felt for a long time; a rising lust, surging from a deep dark pool he had thought long vanished with age. It had been a long time. Perhaps too long.
Kell’s eyes shone, and he licked his lips, which gleamed, and calmed his breathing.
“I would make it worth your while. I would do anything to live,” she said, her gaunt face inches from Kell’s, her arms lifting to drape over his shoulders. Her body was lean against his, her small breasts hard, nipples pressing against him.
“You don’t understand,” Kell said, voice low, arms unconsciously circling her waist. “They are called the vachine. They would change you. They would…kill every part of you that is human. It is better, I think, to die like you are, than to suffer their clockwork in-dignities.”
Myriam was silent for a while. She was crying.
“I’m sorry,” said Kell. “The answer is no.”
Myriam kissed him.
Back in the cabin, Saark sat back, aloof, watching the two men with open distaste. They were exactly the opposite of Saark; whereas he was beautiful, they were ugly; whereas he was elegant, they were clumsy. He dressed like a noble, Styx and Jex dressed like walking shit.
“Can I get you a drink?” said Kat, approaching the two men.
“You can sit on my lap, pretty one,” said Jex, grinning through his tattoos.
“Ahh, no, just…”
“She’s with me,” said Saark, eyes cold.
“Is that so, dandy man?” Jex smiled at Saark, and he knew, then, knew violence was impending. These were dangerous, rough outlaws. They knew no rules, no laws, and yet by the scars on their arms they had survived battle and war for a considerable time. They were good, despite their savage looks and lack of dress-code. If they weren’t good, they’d be long dead.
“It’s simply a fact,” said Saark, eyes flicking left to where the four refugees were unpacking meagre belongings. There were two men, two women, the youngest woman only sixteen or seventeen years old, hair braided in pigtails, pink skirts soiled from her forest escape. His eyes flickered to the two men. They were plump, hands ink-stained: town workers and bureaucrats, not warriors.
Styx leant forward a little, and drummed his fingers on the table. Saark saw they were near to Kell’s Svian, and he blinked. It was unlike Kell to leave behind this weapon; it was his last blade, what he used when parted from his axe. A Svian, so the unwritten rule went, was also used in times of desperation for suicide. For Kell to have left it was…foolish, and meant that something had touched him; had rattled his cage. Did he know these people?