"Shabis?" Vashell smiled, and from the gloom, in the glow of the candles, Shabis appeared. She was smiling, a broad smile. Her hands came up, rested, interlacing over Vashell's shoulder. Her hips were staggered, her stance commanding.

"What are you doing?" said Anu. She felt understanding flood from her soul.

"Vashell is mine, bitch. He will marry me. He told me what you did to him; how you tried to poison him with your impure blood. You are a canker, Anu, diseased, toxic, not a true vachine. You will rot in hell."

Anu stood, mouth open, pain pounding through her head, her crushed nose stinging, and stared with utter, total disbelief at the scene before her. Her jaws clacked shut, and she watched Vashell turn, kiss Shabis, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

"He will never marry you," said Anu, eventually.

"Liar! We are betrothed. The Watchmakers will conduct the ceremony in three weeks' time. You lied about him taking you; you lied to make him more evil in my mind, so when the time came for you to kill him I would help. Vashell is filled with honour; he would never stoop to fuck an impure." She snarled the word, fangs ejecting a little. Her dark eyes were narrowed, and Anu could not believe what she was seeing. She could not comprehend the hatred emanating from her sister. She did not understand.

Vashell ran his hand down Shabis's flank, stroking her, and said, softly, "Kill her, Shabis. Kill Anukis."

Growling, Shabis ejected claws and fangs with tiny slithers of steel and brass. She dropped to a crouch, and moved around the bed, eyes narrowed and fixed on her sister, face full of hatred, her tongue licking lips in the anticipation of fresh blood...

"No," said Anu, voice near hysteria. "Shabis! Don't do this! Vashell lies!"

"Spoken just like an impure," snapped Shabis, and with a feral vachine snarl, leapt at her lifeblood.

SIX

Toxic Blood

Kell tensed as the canker lowered its head, muscles rigid, a low metal buzzing growl coming from its wide open head and loose flapping jaws; and he stared into that wide open maw, stared into those eyes and shuddered as his past life-and more importantly, more hauntingly, the Days of Blood-flashed through his mind and he felt regret and self-loathing, and a despair that he hadn't put things right, hadn't found forgiveness and sanctuary from others, and more importantly, for himself...

The canker howled, rearing up. More dust and stones flew, fell, pouring from the destroyed ceiling. A huge cross-member dropped, clunking against the canker which hit the ground under huge weight, snarling and snapping, and through the falling dust Kell saw Saark, his blade buried deep in the canker's flank and Saark screamed, "The roof's coming down! We've got to get out!"

Kell nodded, slammed his axe into the canker's head with a thud which brought another bought of thrashing and snarling, then he squeezed around the edges of the wall and sprinted, as more stones and timber toppled around him, diving out of the doorway and hitting the snow on his belly with a violent exhalation of air. Behind, the cottage screamed like a wounded beast, shaking its head in agony; and the roof caved in.

Saark was there, black with dust, dragging Kell to his feet. "I don't think it will stop the bastard."

Kell took a deep breath. Snow drifted around him, like ash in the night. He turned, staring at the cottage which seemed to rise, then settle, a great dying bear. For a second it was still, then somewhere deep within started to shift and stones, rubble, timber, all started to move and rise and Saark was already running towards the shingle beach and the boat, where Nienna and Kat urged them on. Kell followed, wincing at pains in his ribs, his shoulder, his head, his knees, and he felt suddenly old, and weary, battered and bettered, and he stumbled down onto the shingle as behind them, with a terrible sadistic roar the canker emerged from the detritus in a shower of stones.

The heavens grumbled, and distantly lightning flickered a web. Thunder growled, a beast in a storm cage behind bars of ignition, and heavy hail pounded the shingle around Kell as he heaved the boat down the beach, axe cleaving the securing rope, and leapt in, rocking the vessel.

They moved away from the bank, as the canker orientated.

"It can't see us," whispered Saark. "Shh." He placed a finger on lips.

As they drifted away, they watched the canker, seemingly confused; then its head lifted, huge open maw searching the skies, and it turned and its head lowered and it charged across cobbles and mud and snow straight in their direction...

Nienna gave a gasp.

"It's fine," breathed Saark, throat dry with fear. "The river will stop the bastard."

The canker reached the edge of the rampant water and without breaking stride leapt, body elongating into an almost elegant, feline dive. It hit the black river, rippled by hailstones, and went under the surface. It was gone immediately.

Kell stood, rocking the boat, and hefted his axe.

"Surely not," snapped Saark, lifting his own blade and peering wildly about their totally vulnerable position.

"It's under there," snarled Kell. "Be ready."

Silence fell, like a veil. Hail scattered across the river like pebbles. More thunder rumbled, mountains fighting, and lighting lit the scene through storm clouds and sleet.

"It was sent, wasn't it?" said Saark, gazing at the dark river.

"Yes," said Kell, eyes searching.

"How did it find us?"

"It followed your petal-stench perfume, lad."

"Hah! More like the stench from your fish-laden pants."

Calm descended.

They waited, tense.

The boat suddenly rocked and there came a slam from beneath; it swayed violently, turning around in the current. Something glided beneath them, snapping the oars with easy cracks; broken toothpicks.

"I don't like this!" wailed Nienna.

"Shut up," growled Kell. "Take out your swords. If you see anything at all, stab it in the eyes."

The boat was slammed with tremendous force from beneath, lifting out of the water, then slapping down again and spinning, turning, all sense of direction lost now, gone now, in the turbulent storm. The boat was hammered again, and it shuddered, timbers creaked, and a long crack appeared across the stern.

"We need to get back on land!" shouted Saark.

"We have no oars," said Kell, voice calm, axe rigid in steel-steady hands. "We will have to kill it."

Abruptly the canker emerged, mighty jaws ripping free the prow of the boat and Saark ran with a scream, sword raised, as the canker released the boat and lunged, grabbing his leg and dragging him backwards, his body thumping from the boat's prow and disappearing suddenly over the edge...

Everything was still.

The river surged, and the water levelled.

"Saark!" screamed Katrina. But the man was gone.

With a curse Kell dropped his axe to the floor of the boat, and leapt into the black river. He was encompassed immediately, swamped by darkness, by a raging thunder, merging with the gathered filth of Falanor's major northern city. Down he plunged, unable to see Saark, unable to find the canker. He swam down with powerful strokes, and withdrew his Svian from beneath his arm; down here, Ilanna would be useless. What a warrior needed was a short sharp stabbing weapon...

Where is he? screamed Kell's mind.

His lungs began to burn.

He thrashed, turning, round and around, but everything was black. He felt panic creep into him like crawling ivy; he had scant seconds before the canker drowned Saark, and that was providing the beast hadn't ripped him apart with tooth and claw.

Kell was saved by the lightning. It crackled overhead, above the boat, and for an instant the churning river was lit by incandescent flashes. Kell saw the canker, dragging Saark down, and powered after them, Svian between his teeth, straggled hair and beard flowing behind him. He found them in the darkness, and his blade slashed down, he felt it enter flesh, grind in cogs, felt the canker lashing out and he was knocked back, and everything was a confusion of bubbles and madness and darkness and something was beside him, huge and cold, a wall of smoothness that slid past and Kell felt, more than saw, Saark slide up beside him. He grabbed the unconscious man, his very lungs filled with molten lava as he kicked out, boots striking the smooth, gliding wall and propelling him to the surface...

Lighting crackled again, a maze of angular arcs transforming the sky into a circuit. Kell looked down, and saw a battle raging beneath the river, between the canker, all claws and disjointed fangs, and a huge, silent, black eel. It must have been fifty yards long, its body the diameter of three men, its head a huge triangular wedge with row after row of sharp teeth. It had encircled the canker, was crushing the thrashing beast, its head snapping down, teeth tearing flesh repeatedly. Kell thought he saw trails of blood like confetti streamers in the black; then he burst from the surface, lungs heaving in air, Saark limp under one arm, and looked for the boat.

It had gone, slammed down the river without oars on powerful currents and a rage of mountain snowmelt.

Kell cursed, and half swam, half dragged Saark through the water, angling towards the high banks. He stopped, shivering now, teeth chattering, bobbing under the high earth walls too high to climb. He moved on, still dragging Saark's leaden weight through the darkness, through ice-filled waters, until the banks dropped and wearily Kell rolled onto a frozen, muddy slope, dragging Saark up behind him, and he lay for a while, breath panting like dragon smoke, head dizzy with flashing lights.

Eventually, the cold bit him and Kell roused himself. He shook Saark, who groaned as he came awake, coughing out streamers of black water. Eventually, he stared around, confused.

"What happened?"

"The creature dragged you under. I dove in after you. I'm pretty damn sure you're not worth it."

"Charming, Kell. You would whisk away the pants from any farmer's daughter without hindrance. Where's the boat?"

"Gone."

"Where are we?"

"Do I look like a fucking mapmaker?"

"Actually, old horse, you do, rather."

Something surged from the river nearby, a huge black coil, then submerged with a mighty splash. In its wake, the canker, or more precisely, half of the canker, floated for a few moments, bobbing, torn, trailing strings of tendon and jagged gristle, before gradually sinking out of sight.

"At least that's one problem sorted," said Saark, voice strangled. He reached down, rolling up his trews. Puncture holes lined his shins and knees, bleeding, and he prodded them with a wince. "I hope I'm not poisoned."

"It's dead. For now." Kell climbed to his feet. He sheathed his Svian and cursed. His axe, Ilanna, was on the boat. Gone. Kell ran hands through his wet hair and shivered again. Snow began to fall, just to add to his chilled and frozen mood.

Saark had found something in one of the puncture wounds, and with a tiny schlup pulled free a fang. "Ugh!" he said, staring at the brass tooth. "The dirty, dirty bastard." He flung it out into the river. "Ugh."

"We need to find Nienna," said Kell.

"And Kat," said Saark, glancing up at the old man.

"And Kat," agreed Kell. "Come on."

"Whoa! Wait up, maybe you're in the mood for running cross-country in the dark, covered in ice; I'm going to die if I stay out here much longer. And you too, by the looks of it. You're turning blue!"

"I've crossed the Black Pike Mountains," growled Kell. "It takes more than the fucking cold to kill me."

"And that was...how many years ago? Look at you, man, you're shivering harder than a pirate ship in a squall. We need fire, and we need dry clothes. Come on. These lowlands are populated; we'll find somewhere."

They walked, Saark limping, roughly following the course of the river until a thick evergreen woodland of Jack Pine and Red Cedar forced them inland. Trudging across snow and frozen tufts of grass, they circled the woods and eventually came upon a small crofter's hut, barely four walls and a roof, six feet by six feet, to be used during emergencies. With thanks they fell inside, forcing the door shut against wind and snow. As was the woodland way, a fire had already been laid by the last occupant and Kell found a flint and tinder on a high shelf. His shaking hands lit a fire, and both men huddled round the flames as they grew from baby demons. Eventually, what seemed an age, the small hut filled with heat and they peeled off wet clothing, hanging items on hooks around the walls to dry, until they sat in pants and boots, hands outstretched to the flames, faces grim.

"What I'd give for a large whisky," said Kell, watching steam rise from their clothes.

"What I'd give for a fat whore."

"Do you ever think about anything other than sex?"

"Sometimes," said Saark, and turned, staring into the flames. "Sometimes, in distant dreams, I think of honour, of loyalty, and of friendship; I think of love, of family, of happy children, a doting wife. All the good things in life, my friend. And then I remember who I am, and the things I did, and I am simply thankful for a fat whore sitting on my face. You?"

"Me what?"

"I gave you a potted history. Now it's your turn. You're a hero, right?"

"You make the word 'hero' sound like 'arsehole'."

"Not at all." Saark grinned, then, his melancholy dropping like a hawk from the heavens. "I heard a poem about you, once. 'Kell's Legend', it was called. That's you, right? You're the character of legend?"

"You make 'character' sound like 'arsehole'."

"Very droll. Come on, Kell. It was a good poem."

"Ha! A curse on all poets! May they catch the pox and have ugly children."

"This poem was a good one," persisted Saark. "Proper hero stuff. Had a decent rhyme as well. Foot-tapping stuff, when recited in a tavern by men with harps and honey-beer and the glint of wonder in their eyes."

Kell drew his Svian blade. His eyes glowed and he pointed at Saark in the close proximity. "Don't even fucking think about it. All poets should be gutted like fish, their entrails strung out to dry, then made to compose ballads about how they feel with the bastard suffering. A curse on them!"

Saark sang, voice soft, hand held out to ward off Kell's knife should he make a strike: "Kell waded through life on a river of blood, His axe in his hands, dreams misunderstood, In Moonlake and Skulkra he fought with the best This hero of old, this hero obsessed, This hero turned champion of King Searlan Defiant and worthy a merciless man."

Kell snorted. "Poets make a joy out of slaughter, the academic smug self-satisfying bastards. I am ashamed to be a part of that song! Bah!" Kell frowned darkly. "And you! You sing like a drunkard. I can sing better than that, and I sound like a fart from a donkey's arse...and I'm proud of it! A man should only sing when he's a belly full of whisky, a fist full of money, and the idea of a fight in his head. You can keep your cursed poetry, Saark, you idiot. A bad case of gonorrhoea on you all! Death to all poets!"

"Death to all poets?" chuckled Saark, and relaxed as Kell sheathed his long, silver-bladed Svian. "A little harsh, I find, for simply extending the oral tradition and entertaining fellow man. But was it true? The stuff in the poem? The Saga?"

"No."

"Not even some of it?"

"Well, the bastards spelt my name right. Listen, Saark, we need to go after Nienna and Kat. They could end up miles away. Leagues! They could be in danger even as we sit here, wasting our breath like a whore wastes her hard-earned coin."

"We'll die if we go back to the storm." Saark's voice was soft.

"Where's your courage, man?"

"Hiding behind my need to stay alive. Kell, you're no use to her dead. Wait till the sun's up; then we'll search."

"No. I am going now!" He stood and reached for his wet clothes.