“Up here.” Styx led them along an old deer trail, and they emerged in a small clearing where an ancient, fallen pine acted as a natural bench. Jex was cooking stew over a small fire, and Nienna looked around.
“Where is he?”
The blow slammed the back of Nienna’s head, and she felt her face pushed into needles and loam, and there was no pain. She remembered scents, pine resin, soil, old mud and woodland mould. When she blinked, groggy, and came back into a world of gloomy consciousness, she realised she was tied, her back leant against the fallen pine. She groaned.
“We have a live one,” grinned Styx, crouching before her. Nienna spat in his face, and his grin fell, his hand lifting to strike her.
“Enough,” snapped Myriam, voice harsh. “Go and help Jex pack the horses.” Styx departed in silence, and Nienna ran her tongue around a mouth more stale than woodland debris.
“Why?” said Nienna, eventually, looking up at Myriam.
“You are my best bartering tool. When Kell has finished playing battleground hero, he will come looking for you. By taking you north, I guarantee he will follow.”
“Is it not enough to poison us?” snapped Nienna, eyes narrowed and full of hate.
“It is not enough,” said Myriam, gaunt face hollow, eyes hard.
Nienna’s gaze transferred to Saark, seated, slumped forward, face heavily beaten. He lifted himself up a little, drool and blood spilling from his mouth, and smiled at her through the massive swellings on his face. One eye was swollen shut, and blood glistened in his dark curls. His hands were tied behind his back, but even as he shifted he winced, in great pain.
“Saark, what happened to you?”
“Bastards jumped me.” He grinned at her, though it looked wrong through his battered features. “Hey, Nienna, fancy a kiss?”
She snorted a laugh, then shook her head. “How can you joke, Saark?”
“It’s either that or let them break me.” His eyes went serious. “And I’d rather die. Or at least, rather die than be ugly.” He glanced up at Myriam, and winked at her with his one good eye. “Like this distorted bitch.”
Myriam said nothing, and Styx and Jex returned with their horses. Styx grabbed Nienna roughly, and she kicked and struggled. He punched her, hard, in the face and she went down on her knees gasping, blinded. He dragged her back up again. “We can do this awake, or unconscious. I know which one I’d rather choose,” growled the Blacklipper.
Nienna was helped into the saddle, and Styx mounted behind her. His hands rested on her hips, and he grinned, leaning close to her ear. “This is intimate, my sweet. The first of many adventures between us, I think.”
“You wave your maggot near me, and I’ll bite it off,” she snarled.
Styx’s grin widened, and he squeezed her flesh with strong fingers. “Like I said. We can do this awake, or unconscious.”
Myriam crossed to Saark, and crouched before him. “Look at me.”
“I’d rather not. The cancer has eaten your face. There’s nothing the vachine can do for you now, my love.”
“Bastard! Listen, and listen good. We’re taking Nienna north, to the Cailleach Pass. The poison will take three weeks to kill Kell. The ride is around fifteen days. He can meet us by the Cailleach Pass northwest of Jalder; there, I have a partial antidote that will extend his-and Nienna’s-lives. Enough to get us through the mountains at least. You understand all this?”
“I understand, bitch.”
“Good.” She smiled with tombstone teeth. “And here’s a little present to remember me by.” She pulled free a dagger, and slammed it between Saark’s ribs. He grunted, feeling warm blood spread from the embedded blade, and as Myriam pulled it free he gasped, toppling onto his side where he lay, winded, as if struck by a sledge hammer. “Nothing fatal, I assure you. Unless you choose not to move your arse, and lie there like a stuck pig. It’ll be a while before you use that pretty sword again, dandy man; Sword-Cham-pion.” She knelt and cut Saark’s bonds, then turned and leapt with agility into her horse’s saddle.
The group wheeled, and galloped from the forest clearing.
Silence fell like ash.
Saark lay, panting, bleeding. There was no pain, and that scared him. Then the lights went out.
King Leanoric knelt in the mud, heavily chained. Beside him were his Division Generals and various captains who hadn’t died in either the battle, or from the savage effects of the invasive ice-smoke. Despair slammed through Leanoric, and he looked up, tears in his eyes, across the battlefield of the frozen, the ranks of the dead. His army had been annihilated, as if they were stalks of wheat under the scythes of bad men.
Distantly, the remaining cankers growled and snarled, but the albinos were curiously silent despite their easy victory. There were no battle songs, no drunken revelry; they went about building their camp in total silence, like androgynous workers; like insects.
Tears rolled down Leanoric’s cheeks. He had failed, unless his divisions further north surprised Graal’s Army of Iron and destroyed them in the night; they were commanded by Retger and Strauz, two wily old Division Generals, strategic experts, and Strauz had never lost a battle. Leanoric’s heart lifted a little. If their scouts realised what had happened, that the king’s men had been routed, frozen, and slaughtered like cattle…
Maybe then he would see his sweet Alloria again.
His tears returned, and he cast away feelings of shame. There was nothing wrong with a man crying. He was on the brink of losing his wife, his realm, his army, his people. How then did simple tears pale into comparison when so much was at stake?
King Leanoric needed a miracle.
Instead, he got General Graal.
Graal walked through the camp and stopped before the group of men. He drew a short black sword, gazed lovingly at the ornate rune-worked blade for a moment, then cut the head from Terrakon’s shoulders. The old Division General’s head lay there on frozen mud, grey whiskers tainted by droplets of blood, and Leanoric looked up with hate in his eyes. “My people will kill you,” he snarled. “That’s a promise.”
“Really?” said Graal, almost idly, wandering over to Lazaluth and throwing Leanoric a cold, narrow-lipped smile. He reached up, ran a hand through his white hair, then fixed his eyes on the king. “So often I hear these threats, from the Blacklippers I slaughter, from the smugglers of Dog Gemdog gems, from the kings of conquered peoples.”
His sword lashed out, and Lazaluth’s head rolled to the mud, a look of shock on the death-impact expression. The body slumped down, blood pumping sluggishly from chilled neck arteries, and Leanoric watched with fury and cold detachment and he knew, he realised, he would be next but at least death would be swift…but hell, it wasn’t about death, it was about his people, and their impending slavery. And it was a bad thing to die, knowing you had utterly failed.
Leanoric prayed then. He prayed for a miracle. For surely only a god could stop General Graal?
Graal moved to him, and hunkered down, slamming the black blade into the frozen mud. “How does it feel?” he asked, voice almost nonchalant. “Your army is destroyed, your queen sent north to my Engineers, your people about to become…” he laughed, a tinkling of wind chimes, “our supper.”
“You will burn in Hell,” said Leanoric, voice a flatline. He tried to estimate how long it would be before his returning battalions marched over the hill; for example, now would be a most opportune moment. A surprise attack? Rescued at the final second? Just like in a bard’s tale.
Graal watched the king’s eyes. Finally, their gazes locked.
“You are thinking of your army, your divisions, your battalions, your cavalry and archers who at this very moment march south, towards this very location in order to hook up with your army and smash the enemy invaders.”