One by one the heroes of legend fell,
Where their blood froze upon on the ice.
Until only the boy remained and all hope seemed lost,
But with a fierce cry he charged his hateful enemy.
EXCERPT FROM THE SAGA OF KELL KRESSIA
BY THE BARD PAX MEDINA
Kell ignored Gerren as best as he could. He refused to answer any of his questions and just pretended he wasn’t there.
The village was much like the others he’d passed through. Famous for nothing, busy with travellers and merchants. The only unusual thing he noticed was a lot of people were covered in grey dust which meant there was a mine.
Not far away a line of men and women from across the Five Kingdoms were waiting to collect their wages. Hard times had driven people to this but at least they would be paid for an honest day’s work. It was better than going hungry.
As a young man Kell had often dreamed of wealth. The only thing of real value he owned was the farm which he’d inherited when his mother died. His father had died when Kell had been very young. All memories of his father came from the few stories his mother had told him over the years.
“You can’t keep ignoring me forever,” said Gerren, as Kell climbed off his horse and passed Misty’s reins to a lurking stable girl.
“Are the rooms clean?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the tavern.
“Cleanest around,” she promised, although her grimy appearance didn’t fill him with much confidence. Nevertheless he went inside the Blind Fox. A warm meal, a soft bed and a good night’s sleep. That’s all he wanted.
Gerren constantly badgered him at the bar and then refused to leave Kell alone when he sat down to eat. Closing his eyes Kell savoured every bite of his venison. The food was expensive but for once he had enough money not to worry about the price. It was only going to get more expensive in the coming months.
When he’d finished eating Kell ordered some of the spiced apple pie he’d seen others enjoying. The boy briefly stopped talking to eat but now that he was almost done Kell could see he was getting ready to resume his pestering.
“Before you start,” said Kell, finally addressing the boy after two hours of silence. “You need to hear a few truths. Will you listen without interrupting?”
Gerren started to answer but instead clamped his mouth shut and just nodded.
“The story you know, the one everyone is told by the bards, it’s not the whole story. A lot more happened and much of it wasn’t pretty. No one wants to hear about those parts but they still happened.”
“But even those parts make you a hero,” said the boy, bursting with enthusiasm. “Besides, I know why you tried to leave me behind.”
“Really?” said Kell, raising an eyebrow.
“It was noble, but I don’t need you to protect me.”
“That’s not the reason. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”
Gerren’s face turned pale. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
“Boy, you should be scared. The things waiting in the Frozen North are worthy of nightmares. There are places where even the Frostrunners won’t tread. But I did. Twelve of us went north and only I returned. Gerren, if you listen to only one thing then let it be this. The heroes you worship, they all died screaming in pain. At the end they all begged for their mothers like frightened children. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
The boy swallowed hard and stubbornly bit his lip. It was at that moment Kell knew that no matter what he said, the boy wouldn’t listen. The truth wouldn’t dissuade him. Even lies wouldn’t work.
As Kell stewed on what to do he noticed a few people looking in his direction. He was starting to be recognised. Travellers on the road must have mentioned his name and word had spread. If he stayed in the tavern Kell knew what would happen. He’d be asked to repeat the story to another audience who were desperate for some excitement. For a short time, through his tale of misery and suffering, they would live as heroes.
With his mood soured Kell left the Fox, refusing to stop when people tried to engage him. The muscles in Kell’s left leg twitched as he waited for the girl to retrieve his horse. He wouldn’t stay the night. He couldn’t any more.
“Where are you going?” asked Gerren, coming up behind him.
Kell didn’t answer because he didn’t know. He had a sudden urge to be far away from other people. To be outside without a roof over his head or walls boxing him in. He needed to see the night sky. To feel earth between his fingers. Kell told himself that the icy trickle running down his spine was sweat. It wasn’t the cold hand of fear. He wasn’t back in the north waiting to die. All of that was over. There were no whispering voices. It was just the wind and his imagination. He needed to get away. To fly.
Kell pulled himself into the saddle and rode out of the village as if pursued by an angry mob. Part of him was on the horse but the rest was elsewhere, trapped in the past. The nightmares that he thought long-buried resurfaced bringing fresh horrors with them. The calluses he’d built up over ten years offered little in the way of protection.
He desperately wanted to forget the past, but he couldn’t. Not with time or drink. The memories were immovable and unyielding, like a perfectly formed diamond.
He was back on the ice. Desperately trying to put up a tent and help the heroes. Something was soaking into his trousers, pooling around his legs. He told himself it was just water, except it was warm and red. One of the heroes shoved him aside, his arms full of bandages. All of their faces were pale, eyes wide with terror. They knew it was already over, the wounds were too severe but desperation made them try. A final breath came and then the flesh began to cool, eyes staring at nothing. Forever.
One by one the heroes died and he witnessed it all. Every cry. Every last breath. Every prayer for their departed soul.
Time lost all meaning. Kell rode until there were only trees and the sky above full of stars. When Misty stumbled he let his horse slow to a walk. Gradually he came back to the present and found he was panting as much as his horse. They stopped at a stream to drink and he let Misty rest before checking her for injuries. Thankfully she’d carried him through it safely.
He still had nightmares from time to time but it had been many years since his last waking episode. Even pretending to make this journey for a second time was bringing up a lot of old memories.
Some time later Kell heard another horse approaching. He was sitting against a tree staring into the darkness. His clothing was soaked with sweat and he was shivering. Gerren said nothing. He gathered wood and carefully built up a fire before covering Kell with a blanket. Slowly the heat began to seep into his body and the numbness faded.
“There’s a flask,” said Kell, vaguely gesturing towards his horse. Gerren rummaged around in his saddlebags and eventually returned with it. The small silver flask had been a gift from King Bledsoe. “Drink,” said Kell, urging the boy to have a taste.
Gerren took a sip and had a coughing fit. Kell took a long pull, enjoying the burning sensation as it passed through his body.
“Did you ever hear any stories about Kursen the Hunter?” asked Kell.
“Everyone has,” asked Gerren. “My favourite is the one where he wrestled a bison bull to the ground.”
Kursen had been tall, even for a Hundarian, with arms that seemed longer than his legs. Kell had expected him to be boastful and loud like many of the other heroes, but he’d been quiet and thoughtful. He smiled and laughed at their jokes but not if they were cruel. He liked to drink and had an easy-going nature, but sometimes Kursen would go for hours without speaking. During those times the others knew to leave him alone and when Kell asked they said that it was just his way. Kursen would fall under a black cloud. Eventually it would fade and his smile would return but Kell stayed clear during his bleak times. Out of them all he was the only one that Kell would call a genuine hero.
“Was the story true? Did he really do it?” asked the boy, intruding on his thoughts.
“He did. His arms were so long he wrapped them around the beast and choked it to the ground. After that it followed him around like a puppy.”
Kell smiled at the memory. They had been sat around a fire, much like the current one, only back then he’d been the boy. Kursen’s booming laughter had rolled out into the night as he’d told Kell about the bison.
Kell’s humour faded as another memory rose to the surface. “One day, when we were crossing the ice, a sabre of maglau attacked. Kursen was injured in the fight. He pretended it wasn’t serious and told no one when the wound became infected. Three days later he was delirious from blood poisoning. There was nothing we could do. We were too far north to turn back and we had to press on. But the dogs wouldn’t carry him because of the smell, so we left him there to die, alone on the ice.”
It wasn’t the most difficult thing Kell had ever done but it was definitely one of the worst. He’d argued with the others, desperate to find an alternative. Some had wanted to wrap Kursen in a blanket to muffle the smell and take him with them. The rest wanted to leave him there to die. By that point half of the heroes were already dead and the thought of losing someone else was too much to bear. The vote was tied until Kursen himself ended the argument by voting to be left. When Kell asked him why, Kursen said he would rather spend his final moments in peace, wrapped in silence, than be surrounded by angry voices and furious hearts.
He must have frozen to death in a few hours. By chance, Kell came across his body on the way south but with no tools there was no way to dig a shallow grave or free him from the ice. Leaving him behind a second time had been as difficult as the first.
This time the boy didn’t smile or make light of Kell’s story. He was starting to understand but Kell knew it was too little too late.
“You can’t trust anyone. And you can only rely on yourself.”
Kell knew the boy wanted to argue that he was just old and bitter, which was true, but it didn’t change the facts. Showing wisdom for his age, Gerren remained silent, his face thoughtful in the firelight.
The warmth of the drink and the fire eased Kell’s troubled mind. Sleep pulled at him and he willingly went towards it, keen to be away from the world and its problems.
The next morning Kell woke early to find the fire had burned down to ashes. He checked on his horse, gathered up his belongings and gently eased the boy into a sitting position against the tree. Gerren stirred, muttering in his sleep, but didn’t wake. With a bit of persuasion he encouraged the boy’s horse to go for a run.
As Kell was climbing into the saddle the boy’s eyes fluttered open but it was too late. He tried to stand and then began thrashing about, but Kell had made sure the rope was secure about his wrists. With a bit of sweating and some fierce wriggling, plus losing a bit of skin, Gerren would be able to get out of his restraints in an hour or two. It would take him at least as long to retrieve his horse, by which time Kell would be far away.
If Gerren continued to pursue him then by the time he arrived at the next town Kell would already have left and be on the way towards his new life.
“Why?” asked Gerren, when he realised he couldn’t escape.
“I told you, boy. You can’t trust anyone.”
“You’re afraid.”
Kell laughed. “Of course I am, and you should be too. The problem is you’re too young and stupid to listen. Do you think Kursen and the others were never afraid? Most of them pissed themselves when we heard the Qalamieren.” The colour drained from Gerren’s face at mention of the ancient creatures. “Oh, that’s right, boy. They’re real. I’ve heard them and they’re far worse than anything you’ve been told.”
“You’re supposed to be a hero.” There was accusation in Gerren’s voice but it didn’t affect him.
Kell leaned forward on his saddle, fixing the boy in place with a stare. “Listen closely, because it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to you. If you ignore me and go north into the frozen wastes, you will die. There’s no maybe about it. You have no hope and no chance. So do yourself a favour and go home.”
Realisation dawned on Gerren’s face and the optimism leaked from his features. “You’re a coward.” Kell leaned back in his saddle but didn’t deny it. “You’re not going north, are you?”
Kell shook his head. “I’ve done my part. It’s someone else’s turn. In a few years’ time, no one will even remember me.”
Gerren’s struggles became more frantic. Blood began to trickle from his wrists where the rope was cutting into his skin. “I’ll tell everyone about you.”
The weak threat made Kell laugh. “Really? And who are you, boy? What have you done with your life? You’ve barely got hair on your balls. You’ve never been anywhere or done anything. You’ve never risked anything. I killed the Ice Lich and saved the world. Who do you think they’re going to believe?”
For once Gerren didn’t have an answer and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Go home,” Kell urged him. “Someone else will take care of this.”
A heavy silence settled over them. A few hours alone would give the boy some time to think it over.
Gerren took a deep breath and raised his chin. “Leave it,” he said.
“What?”
“The sword.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re right. Someone else is going to take care of it. At least with your sword I stand a chance.”
“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” said Kell. “But do you want to know a secret? There’s nothing special about my sword.”
“But it’s Slayer! You slew the Ice Lich with it!” insisted Gerren.
“It’s not a magic sword.”
“That doesn’t matter. Besides, I need Slayer more than you.”
“Then you’d best head for Seithland. I sold the original blade to a merchant seven years ago. This is the third Slayer,” said Kell, gesturing at the sword on his back.
“Is anything about you real? Was it all lies?”
Kell didn’t answer. Turning Misty around he rode out of camp.
He hoped the boy would listen but Kell recognised that stubborn look. It was possible Gerren would tell stories about him but it didn’t matter any more.
Soon he would be free. Free of the past and everything that came with it. His new life was about to begin and nothing would stop him.