Kell lay in the dark, listening to Jagor snoring. Pain nagged him like an estranged ex-wife, and it seemed to take an age for him to fall into sleep. He stared at the stars, twinkling, impossibly cold and distant, and thought about his dreams and aspirations. Then he smiled a bitter smile. What do the stars care for the dreams of men?
He awoke, cold and stiff, to the smell of coffee. He shivered, and looked up to see Jagor crouched by a small fire, boiling water in a pan, staring at him. Kell gritted his teeth. He had allowed himself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep; not an ideal situation when travelling with a certifiable killer.
"Coffee?" said Jagor, raising his eyebrows.
"Plenty of sugar," said Kell, and sat up, stretching. He was wrapped in a blanket, fully clothed, his boots by his side. Ilanna was by his thigh. She was never far from his grasp.
"You snore like a pig," said Jagor, pouring the brew.
Kell squinted. "Well, I ain't asking you to marry me."
Jagor laughed, and a little of their tension eased. "I like it that you snore, old man. Makes me think of you as human."
"Why, what did you think of me?"
"I thought you were a Chaos Hound," said Jagor, face serious, handing Kell the tin mug. "When you followed me down those tunnels to Old Gilrak, well, I knew then I was cursed, knew I was being pursued by something more than human. Hearing you fart in the night – well, old man, that's helping my mind heal."
"That's Saark's damn cooking, that is, the dandy bastard." Kell sipped his coffee. It was too sweet, but he didn't complain; rather too sweet than too bitter. Like life.
"He's a strange one, all right. What's with the pink silk, though? And green pants? And all that stink of a woman's perfume? Eh?"
"I think he thinks he's a noble."
"Is he?"
"Damned if I know," said Kell, and took the proffered oatcake.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
Kell nodded, eating the oatcake and drinking more coffee. After a cold night under canvas, it was bringing him back to life; making him more human. "Go ahead."
"Why do you travel with him? You two seem… so different."
"Don't worry," growled Kell, "I'm not into that sort of thing."
"That's not what I meant," rumbled Jagor, reddening a little. "I mean, him with his long curly hair and fancy little rapier; you with your snoring and your axe. I wouldn't have thought you'd put up with him."
Kell considered this, finishing his coffee. "You're right, in a sense," he said. "Once was a time I couldn't have stood his stink, his talk, his letching after women or the sight of his tart's wardrobe. But we've been through some tough times together, me and Saark. I thought I saw him killed down near Old Skulkra, and I was ready to leave him for dead; but he showed me he was a tough, hardy and stubborn little bastard, despite appearances. I don't know. I like him. Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I've just killed one too many men, and like to talk and listen for a change, instead of charging in with the axe. Whatever. Saark's a friend, despite his odd ways. I ain't got many. And I'd kill for him, and I'd die for him."
Jagor nodded, and finished his coffee. "I think we should be moving."
"Aye. A long way to go, and already my arse feels like a fat man's been dancing on it."
"You never were a horseman, were you Kell?"
Kell grinned. "In my opinion, the only thing a horse is good for is eating."
Kell and Jagor Mad rode for another three days in more-or-less companionable silence. Jagor didn't speak about his capture all those years ago, or the recent incident with the noose; and Kell didn't mention the crossbow wound in his shoulder, nor the recent threat of murder. When they did talk, they spoke of old battles and the cities of Falanor, they talked of Kell's Legend, the saga poem, and how Kell hated his misrepresentation. As if he was a damned hero. Kell knew he was not.
Eventually, as they passed through folded foothills, past huge boulders and a random scattering of spruce and pine, Jagor stopped and looked to the right where the Black Peaks towered. His horse pawed the snow, and Kell's mount made several snorting sounds. The world seemed unnaturally silent. Eerie. Filled with ghosts.
"Easy, boy," said Kell, patting the horse's neck. Then to Jagor, "What is it?"
"We are close."
"To the Valleys of the Moon?"
"Aye."
Kell ran his gaze up and down the solid, looming walls of rock. "I see nothing."
"You have to know how to look. Follow me."
They rode on, and again Jagor reined his mount. He seemed to be counting. Then he pointed. "There."
Kell squinted. Snow was falling, creating a haze, but he made out a finger of smooth, polished granite no bigger than a man. "What is it?"
"A marker. Come on."
Jagor led the way; Kell followed and loosened Ilanna in her saddle-sheath. Then Jagor paused, and Kell saw another marker, and they veered right, between two huge boulders over rough ground; normally, Kell would have avoided the depression – it was a natural and instinctive thing to do whether on horseback or foot. It was too good a place for an ambush.
Jagor led the way between the boulders, and onto a flat path which led up, out of the tiny bowl. "Now look," he said.
Kell stared around, and Ilanna was in his hand as he glanced at Jagor. "I see nothing. Are you playing me for a fool?"
"Not at all, Kell. It's there." Jagor pointed, to the solid wall of jagged black granite.
"You're an idiot! That's impassable."
Jagor shook his head, and said, "Shift to the left. By one stride."
Kell shifted his mount, and as if by magick a narrow channel appeared before his eyes which led into the seemingly impassable rock face. Kell shifted his gelding again, and the passage slid neatly out of view, the rocky wall naturally disguising this narrow entrance. Kell stared hard. "By the Bone Halls, that plays tricks on a man's eyes."
"You have to know it's there. One footstep in either direction and the passage vanishes! As you say, like magick!"
"You lead the way."
"You still not trusting me?" Jagor Mad grinned, his brutal face looking odd with such an expression.
"I trust nobody," snapped Kell. "Take me to the Blacklippers. Take me to the Valleys of the Moon."
Saark stood in the snow and the churned mud, and his feet were freezing and he was scowling. The men had been divided into platoons of twenty, as he had watched King Leanoric do on so many occasions. Each platoon was commanded by a lieutenant, and five platoons made up a company ruled over by a captain.
They'd held a contest on the second day, in which crates, barrels and planks of wood had been assembled beside a pretend river. On the other side, behind upturned carts, archers with weak bows and blunt, flat-capped arrows were the enemy. Each platoon had to work together to "cross" the river and take the cart. The platoon which succeeded first would earn wine and gold.
Saark and Grak watched in dismay at first, as men squabbled and fought over planks and crates. But a young, handsome man, Vilias, imprisoned for his spectacular thieving career, gathered together several crates and got three of the platoons crouched behind them for protection from the archers as the other platoons continued to argue, or were shot by archers.
"We need to work together," said Vilias.
"But then the prize is shared between sixty, not twenty!"
"But we still win the prize," grinned the charismatic thief. "One bottle of wine is better than none, right mate?"
Vilias set several men to smashing up crates, and they fashioned several large, crude shields. Then, with five men at a time using the wide wooden shields they worked under protection to build a bridge, crossed the river and stormed into the cart fortress with swords raised and battle screams filling the air.