"You're coming with us, lad," snapped Kell, and continued to eat, gnawing at the joint.
Footsteps echoed, and Saark spun around. "Ah! And here is the most beautiful Nienna."
Kell watched the grand entrance, and he licked grease from his lips, and considered his words with care. She wore a long silk gown, silk slippers, and her lips were rouged in the manner he'd seen women employ at Royal Court. And she wore perfume almost as nauseating as Saark's.
"A couple of fine dandies you make together," he growled, at last, and grasped his tankard, drinking his ale and spilling a goodly amount down his jerkin and on the table.
"We're not… together," said Nienna, frowning, then smiled.
Kell placed his tankard down with care, and stared hard at Nienna. Then over to Saark, who grinned, and held his palms outwards in a flourish, shrugging his shoulders. "We're not," he said.
Kell returned to his meal. "Good," he said. And as Saark and Nienna, whispering and giggling, moved towards the arched opening leading from the hall, Kell snapped, "Go pack your stuff. We'll be leaving early in the morning."
"So, just one last night of civility?" said Saark.
Kell glared at him. "Looks that way," he muttered.
Nienna watched Saark undressing. He was a little drunk, but she didn't mind, because she was too. She slid deeper down under the covers luxuriating in their softness, and the firmness of the bed. She wasn't used to such opulent surroundings.
"You still want me, Little One?" whispered Saark, removing his trews in the shadows. Nienna felt a thrill course through her veins. It was like dying. No, it was like being born. Born into a different world, at least.
"I want you," she said, husky.
He came to her, sliding under the covers, his flesh warm, soft, and he touched her and she writhed, responding to the delicate caress of his fingers. He was gentle. He was caring. He was skilful. He was kind. He kissed her, and they lay like that for a while, lips connected, tongues darting, his hand between her legs teasing her.
Nienna pulled back.
"Do you love me, Saark?"
"I love you," he said, and the words slid from his mouth like honey from a spoon.
"I bet you say that to all the women," she said.
"Only the ones I love," he said. "And I love you."
"Did you say it to Myriam?"
"No."
"I bet you did."
"I did not. I loved another woman – she was betrothed to another. She was Queen Alloria. She betrayed me. She was Graal's puppet on a string. I felt like a fool, and so the words do not come easy."
"So… you mean it?"
"I mean it, angel."
Nienna drew her to him, and as he entered her she gasped. Her hands raked his hair, cut trenches down his back, grasped his buttocks and pulled him deeper, with lust, with urgency, with open raw desire. "Fuck me, Saark," she whispered in his ear, biting the lobe and feeling him work harder. He liked that, she'd discovered.
"I'm trying," he muttered, biting her neck and then – withdrawing, at the last moment. His brass fangs gleamed under stray strands of moonlight. Saark hissed, but Nienna was too lost to the moment to recognise the danger. Saark shook his head. How long can I live between worlds? How long can I suppress my vachine instincts?
Blood. Blood-oil.
The desires increase…
"How long will you love me?" said Nienna.
"Until the day I die," crooned Saark, and the silk under his hands felt fine, the woman beneath his flesh felt succulent, and his perfume filled both their nostrils with its charm and sophistication.
"That might not take very long," came a low, cold voice, and a figure was there and it filled the room, filled the sky and Saark squawked and scrambled from Nienna, falling onto his back and sliding from the silk scattered bed with a thump.
"Kell!" he breathed.
Kell filled the space. He was vast, a giant, a titan, a god. His face was bathed in shadows, gloom was his mistress, darkness his master, and Kell stood with Ilanna lifted against his chest and Saark felt fear, knew fear, for this was it, the end, his death come so soon and for what? For the simple pleasure of a girl? There are worse ways to die… Shit! The axe glinted, dull in the darkness, moonlight tracing tiny chips in the black iron butterfly blades. Saark could not take his eyes from that axe. It was bigger than Kell. Mightier. It filled the universe. It drank in stars. It was a pathway to the Chaos Halls and now, NOW Saark understood and he felt the wonder and vast dread and cold hydrogen horror of the weapon, more ancient than time, an eternal devourer in the dark. That was how Kell fought the Vampire Warlords. That was how Kell took on cankers, and vachine, and vampires, and gods. For Ilanna was not just metal, not even demon-possessed metal. She was a symbol. She was a pathway. She was dark magick made whole. She was Chaos, pure Chaos, in the form of a weapon wielded by Man. And she controlled Kell. Saark felt it. Knew it. Here, and now, Kell was not his own person and he always said it was the whiskey which forced him into unreasonable violence. However. It had never been the liquor. No. It had been the axe.
"Damn you, do it!" screamed Saark, hands clawing at the thick Ionian rugs. "Get it over with! Cut my bloody head off!"
There came a pause, a slice through the realms of time, and the world ran slow on its shifting axis. Then Kell leant forward, and his face was a writhing mass of war, contorting, a raging inner battle. Through gritted teeth, he growled, long and low and slow, "You've earned it, by all the demon shit that roams the planet, you've earned it, Saark."
"I'm sorry! Sorry, Kell! I love her!"
"He does, grandfather." Nienna was standing, naked, skin pure and soft and white, her eyes glowing as if filled with molten love. She moved to Saark, stood before him protectively, like some faerie creature from dreams come to defend the weak and downtrodden. "I will not let you do this."
Kell stood quivering, torn, huge muscles tense, Ilanna lifted high and ready for combat and slaughter. Then, slowly, he slumped back, seemed to fold in on himself until he was simply a mortal once more. A simple old soldier with a bad back, arthritis, and in need of a simple life.
"I'm sorry, Nienna," he said.
Nienna smiled, and reached out, and touched his arm.
"I'm sorry for being the village idiot. I'm sorry for being stubborn, and rude, and brash, for my bad temper and threats and worst of all, for treating you like a child. You are a woman. I can see that now."
"Yes," she said, voice a lilting rose. "I am a woman."
"Do you know how hard it was?" said Kell, and tears were running down his cheeks, through his beard, making it glisten. "To kill Sara? My own flesh and blood? My own little girl? Shit." Kell shook his head, half turned, then turned back. He glared down at Saark. "You're one lucky bastard's bastard," he said.
"You think I don't realise that?" snapped Saark.
Kell waved Ilanna casually at the popinjay. "Get some pants on. Walk with me."
"But it's freezing out there! It's the bloody middle of… the… fine, fine, I can do that, it's not a problem, if that's what you want, that's what we'll do."
Kell walked fast down the huge hallway. High above, dark towers and pillars glistened. Huge archways and the carvings of ancient demons were hidden in shadows. Saark slapped along, bare-foot beside the huge old warrior. He eyed the axe nervously, not totally convinced this wasn't some secret ruse to get him alone and decapitate him.
Kell halted. Saark stopped, also, but not too close. Never too close.
"You look like pampered donkey shit," said Kell, gesturing Saark's bedraggled appearance, silk shirt hanging out his trews, feet bare, toenails blackened from far too many weeks marching the mountains.