"What?"
"Saark!" Her frown deepened.
"I am simply pointing out that a buxom wench could be considered a luxury in these parts." He shrugged. "You know how it is, with me and buxom wenches."
"I certainly do," said Nienna, her voice more icy than the frozen battlements.
Governor Myrtax opened the huge, thick door, which in turn was set in the fifty foot high gates which guarded the prison wall; he stood, a beaming smile on his face, a well-built man who had run to fat. His hair was shaved close to the scalp, and peppered with grey. He wore a full beard, a mix of black and ash, and his eyes were dark, intelligent, and friendly.
Myrtax opened his arms. "Kell! It's been too long! No happy prisoners for me this time?"
"No," snapped Kell, and stepped forward, hugging the man. "Sorry. Not this time. But give a few months and I'll have ten thousand heads on spikes for you!"
"Are things that bad, to the south?"
"King Searlan is dead."
"No!" Myrtax drew in a sharp breath, and his face went serious. "That is grave news indeed." He glanced around, up and down the snowy field where the wind blasted gusts of loose snow in rhythmical, vertical curtains. "Better come inside. We've had Blacklippers sniffing around, the dirty, oil-taking bastards."
Kell nodded, and ushered Nienna and Saark before him. They moved into a long, dark killing tunnel, high roofed and with balconies for archers and stone-throwers used in times of siege. They walked a short way along, and Saark glanced up nervously.
"Don't worry lad. We can trust Myrtax."
Myrtax had stopped next to the second portal. Beyond, they could see black cobbles and streaks of ice. Myrtax turned, lifted his hands, and his eyes fixed on Kell and his eyes were haunted, filled with guilt, and with grief. "I'm sorry, Kell."
There came a rattle of activity and above the three travellers, on the high killing balconies, rose fifty men, convicts, murderers, dressed in rag-tag furs and armour and each sporting a powerful crossbow.
"Truly. I am sorry."
A tear ran down Myrtax's cheek. "They have my wife. They have my little ones. What could I do, man? What could I do?"
"Throw down your weapons," came a gruff bark.
"There's only fifty of you," snorted Kell, dark eyes moving across the ranks of men. But Saark's hand touched his shoulder, and he knew what the dandy meant. Nienna. There was always Nienna. Like a splinter in his side, removing his strength, castrating his fury. "Damn."
Saark tossed down his rapier, and Nienna threw down her short sword and knives.
Reluctantly, Kell rested his great, black axe against the wall. His shoulders sagged. They had him.
Three men pushed into the tunnel, and shoved Myrtax aside where he stumbled against the wall, going down on one knee. They arranged themselves before the travellers, and each wore a snarl as ugly as his features.
"I am Dandall," said the first, a tall, narrow-faced man in his fifties with slanted green eyes. He had scars on his cheeks, and long, bony fingers.
"I am Grey Tail," said the smaller of the three. He was a head shorter than Dandall, slim and wiry, his face round and almost trustworthy, if it wasn't for the black lips of imbibed blood-oil which tainted him with its curse. Kell saw the man's hands were shaking, probably withdrawal from his drug of choice. The veins stood out on the backs of his hands, on his throat, black, as if etched in ink through his pale white skin, a relief roadmap pointing straight towards Hell and damnation to come – for that was where he would soon travel. When a Blacklipper became so marked, he had only limited time on the face of the world. He carried a small black crossbow, which quivered even as his fingers quivered.
"And I am Jagor Mad, because I'm mad," rumbled the third, a huge bear of a man, a good head taller than Kell and rippling with muscle like an overstuffed canvas sack. His head was misshapen, and riddled with scars and dents. His nose was twisted, and stubble grew unevenly around wide scar tissue tracts. His fists were clenched, and he carried no weapon like the other two, who both wore short swords. His eyes were gleaming, and his gaze never left Kell.
"I remember you, Jagor Mad," said Kell, almost amiably, although his eyes gleamed in the gloom. "I put one of those big dents in your dumb head, if I remember it rightly. I reckon it should have knocked some sense into you, but I can see I'm fucking wrong."
Growling, Jagor Mad stepped forward, but Dandall's bony fingers spread out, his arm blocking the huge man's path.
"Let me kill him, Dandall, let me rip out his windpipe with my teeth!"
"Not yet," said Dandall, voice soft. He focused on Kell. "You put us all here, my large and wearisome friend. But now," and he laughed, a nasal whining like spent vachine gears, " now we three are the Governors of the Black Pike Mines. Behind these doors, we have three thousand new soldiers, our new model army! Once, they were convicts, and Blacklippers and scum, the freaks and the murderers, the outcast from pretty little Falanor, but now they're under our command and we rule these damn mountains, this mine and this fucking fortress!"
Dandall motioned, and Grey Tail stepped forward. The crossbow lifted, suddenly hissed and took Kell in the shoulder, punching the large man backwards. He stumbled, but righted himself. He grasped the bolt protruding from his flesh, and blood pumped out through his fingers. His eyes glowed. "Just like a coward," he growled, voice dripping liquid hate, as Jagor Mad stepped forward and with a devastating right hook knocked Kell to the ground. Jagor put one knee on Kell's chest, and grabbed the bolt. He applied weight, and Kell groaned like a dying wolf. Saark leapt forward, but a rattle of bolts from the balcony above clattered around him on the cobbles, and Saark did a crazy dance, hands over his head, trying his best not to get pierced.
"We got you now, Kell old boy," Jagor Mad spat, furious scarred face looming down at Kell as if from a toxin-induced nightmare. "And you know what?"
Kell was swimming, not because of the pain or the bolt – he'd been shot before. But because of the drugs coating the bolt's tip, which even now entered his system forcing him down into a realm of drifting unconsciousness. And as he swam deeper and deeper down down down, losing control, losing connection, down into the inky void of bitter lost dreams and terminal disappointments, so Jagor Mad's last words rattled in his thumping, crashing skull…
"Get the girl. We'll torture her first."
CHAPTER 8
When Kell came round, he was lying in a dark cave, bright winter sunlight spilling in unwelcome and unholy, and thumping his already pounding head with big new fists. For a few moments he thought he'd been on the whiskey again, down that hole, locked in that dungeon, and a terrible dread stole over him and he rifled frantically through the pages of his fractured memory. But then, like the break of a new dawn, images slowly filtered back through the upper reaches of consciousness. Black Pike Mines. Dandall, Grey Tail and Jagor Mad. Crossbow bolt. Right hook… Kell clutched for the bolt, but it had been removed, his shoulder bound with a torn section of shirt which he recognised as Saark's fine lace frippery. Great, he thought. Just what I need. Saved from death by a dandy idiot.
"Don't worry. There's no badness in there. And if there was, I'll be damned if I was sucking on your foul necrotic flesh."
Kell groaned, clutching his head, and sat up like a bear emerging from hibernation. His dark shirt was torn and bloodstained. The world swam. Then, he thought of Nienna.
He rose, like a colossus, and strode at Saark. "Where's my granddaughter?" he roared.
"It's fine, Kell, don't panic," Saark held up his hands, "that Jagor Mad was just putting his fist up your arse. Giving you something big and hard to worry about. I can see her from here, she's tied up in one of the cells across the way. Over there." He pointed. Kell squinted.