"I assume that would end your wonderful and secret plan," muttered Saark, still scratching.
"It certainly would." Kell took a deep breath, staring up at the sky, then out across the wilderness. "By the gods, there are a thousand places out there for an ambush."
"Hark, the happy voice of pessimism," said Saark.
"Will you stop that damn scratching? It's like standing next to a fucking flea-bitten dog!"
"Hey, listen, I feel like I've got a plague of ants living under my skin. I can't stop bloody scratching. It's not like I have a choice."
"Well, if you'd not been so stupid and put the donkey first, you wouldn't have gone through the damn surface."
"There you go, blaming Mary again. Listen Kell, it's not Mary's fault and I resent the constant implication that she's holding up your weird and unspeakable mission that is so clever you have to keep it a secret!"
Kell leaned close. "The reason I keep it to myself, you horse cock, is so when, shall we say, certain priapic fools started sticking their child-maker into hot, sweaty and untrustworthy orifices, there's no possible chance of a blurted word at the wrong moment. You get me?"
"So…" he frowned, "you think I'd spout our plans during sex? Like some loose-brained dolt?"
"Of course you would, lad. You're a man! You think with your hot plums, not with your brain."
"Oh, and I suppose the great Kell-"
"There's a farmhouse."
The two men ceased their squabbling and followed Nienna's line of vision. Through swirls of snow, halfhidden by a hollow of rocks and heavily folded landscape, there was indeed a farmhouse.
"Any smoke?" squinted Kell.
"None I can see." Nienna clicked her tongue, and led Mary ahead. Ten paces away she stopped, and turned back. "Are you coming? Or shall I go searching for food alone?"
Kell and Saark followed at a distance.
"Stroppy girl, that one," said Saark.
"Yeah. Well. She's sad Myriam has gone, you know? They'd become friends. Been through a lot. Shame you had to start sticking your pork sausage where it didn't belong."
"If you're going to keep on at me, Kell, I'm going to walk with the fucking donkey."
"You do that, lad. No talk is better than your talk."
"I'll watch her arse," muttered Saark, marching away from Kell. "It's a damn sight prettier than your battered face."
The farmhouse was deserted, and had been left in a hurry – presumably when the Army of Iron had marched through this way, months earlier. The travellers hunted through various rooms, scavenging what they could. Fresh clothing, blankets and furs, boots for Saark, salt, sugar, coffee, some raw vegetables preserved by the winter, and some chunks of dried beef and goat from a small curing shed with a slanted, black-slate roof. They found hard loaves of bread, which would soften in soup, onions, and also a large round of cheese sealed in wax which was placed reverently in Mary's basket. It had been a long time since they'd eaten cheese. That would be a tasty reward on the hard, unforgiving trail.
Saark wanted to stay in the farmhouse to rest, but Kell shook his head, forcing them to push on. It was with great regret they left the sanctuary of the building, heading back out into the snow, into the folded wild lands. Soon it fell far behind, and only snow, and heather, and rocks were there to offer comfort.
Kell pushed hard, and they travelled long into the night before collapsing into an exhausted sleep. He woke them at dawn, and they pushed on again, grumbling and cold, feet aching, joints aching, growing a little warm with travel but at least now with bellies full of meat and cheese instead of straggled weeds and unwholesome mushrooms from the forest.
The landscape here was warmer to travel, for the shape of the land, the folds and dips, cut down on many a crosswind. Once, Saark had been separated from a unit on military manoeuvres with King Leanoric, and had to walk ten leagues across Valantrium Moor. The wind-chill alone nearly killed him, and it took a week of hot baths, hot liquor and hot women to restore his good humour.
Now, however, there was no promise of hot baths, liquor or women; only a cold prison mine and the prospect of meeting prison guards. Would there be nubile young women included in that gathering? Would there be succulent wobbling flesh? Eager thighs? Clawed and painted nails? Saark doubted it.
For a week they travelled like this, Kell always ahead, his stamina a true thing to behold, especially for one so old. Saark and Nienna had taken to walking together, and for the first few days Nienna sulked with Saark, her lower lip out, face turned away, jealous no doubt of his frantic coupling with Myriam. But Saark worked on her relentlessly, with nothing else to do except talk to the donkey; and gradually, his charm began to break through her iron and ice resolve. On the third day after leaving the Iron Forest, there came a smile, quickly followed by a scowl. After four days, a chuckle. After five, a real bursting laugh of good humour. And by the sixth day she had started to talk again. Internally, he punched the air with joy; looking back through his long life of talking to, and fucking, women, he now realised Nienna had become the hardest challenge. Ironic, that only days earlier she'd been falling over herself to please him. To help him. To couple with him.
"This feels like a never-ending journey," said Nienna.
They had stopped at the top of a low rise, which fell away suddenly in a steep cliff. Kell had gone on ahead to find a safe path down. It gave them a good – if limited – view of the near distance. Anything further was blocked by occasional swathes of mist, or flurries of snow.
"Hard on the feet," said Saark, removing his boots. He scratched his legs, then rubbed at his toes.
"That's quite a stench," said Nienna, smiling to take the sting from her words.
"I think it would win me certain awards, back at the King's Royal Court," grinned Saark, and pulled a face as he rubbed between his toes. "By the Chaos Halls, the old gimlet pushes a fast pace."
"He is a great man," beamed Nienna.
"Yes, with a bad temper and a tongue fiercer than a dominatrix's whip," scowled Saark.
"You do goad him," said Nienna.
"Only to keep the old goat on his cheesy toes. Look at it this way, without me to take his mind off more serious matters, he'd be going crazy with grief! My talk of wine and wenches gives him a simple anchor-point for his short-term anger episodes."
Nienna considered this. "You have, er, enjoyed a lot of wine, then?" she said, carefully.
"And wenches, that's what you really mean, eh?" smiled Saark, easily, and pulled on his boot. He removed the other. "By all the gods, this one is worse! How can a man's feet smell so bad? I do believe I should cut them off and burn them on the fire!"
"I agree."
"Ask me, then."
"Ask you what?"
"Whatever's troubling you, little lady. There's always something troubling you, young… no, no, I take that back. You're no longer young, are you? So I'll begin again. There's always something troubling you, Nienna." He smiled kindly.
"Do you love Myriam?" she blurted out, then bit her tongue, aware she'd probably gone too far.
The smile froze on Saark's face like a rictus of ice-smoke magick. It was a question he hadn't anticipated, and Saark looked down at the frozen rocks, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His mind swirled. Did he love Myriam? Despite the fights, and the betrayals, did he? Did he really? Despite her trying to kill him? To drown him like a flapping chicken?
And bizarrely, Saark realised that he did. But he recognised this was not the time to say such a thing, and especially not to Nienna, here, in this place. What harm her ignorance? What harm protecting her from herself?
"No," he said, finally. Then added, "I have a lot of affection for the girl, after all, ever since she stabbed me in the guts we've been through a lot together." Then a flash of inspiration bit him. "What you think you saw, you did not. We coupled, but it was nothing to do with love, or even lust – it was everything to do with the clockwork. Everything to do with the vachine."