CHAPTER 1
Twelve rode forth, twelve answered the call,
Eleven heroes and a boy of no deeds at all.
One rode home, one brave lad,
Who saved the world from eternal darkness.
EXCERPT FROM THE SAGA OF KELLKRESSIA
BY THE BARD PAX MEDINA
Kell Kressia, slayer of the Ice Lich and saviour of the Five Kingdoms, tripped on a rake and fell into a pile of horse shit. With a vicious curse he scrambled to his feet, trying to brush the moist steaming turds off his clothing. Instead he managed to smear it down the front of his shirt and trousers.
“Fuck! Shit!”
His old nag, Droga, snickered as Kell stumbled towards the rain barrel. Pulling off his soiled shirt he filled a bucket and sluiced himself off before scrubbing his trousers and hands. Damp scraggly bits of hair clung to his face. His beard itched and a cool wind touched his bare skin making him shiver. The sun should have been baking today but the good Shepherd, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to thwart him and every other farmer with bad weather. If it didn’t improve over the next few weeks it would mean another poor crop and more empty stomachs. People were already struggling after last year’s meagre harvest.
Not for the first time Kell wished he had someone to help him with the farm. It wasn’t a big holding, enough for him to make a living,
but working alone meant it was a lot of hard work and long hours.
Just once he’d like to come home and find someone waiting for him at the front door. Maybe they’d lit the fire or heated some water for a bath. Or maybe they’d made a nice stew for dinner. Someone to trim his beard and warm the bed.
Before his fantasy went any further he walked back up the hill to his empty little house. With a sigh Kell pulled on a fresh shirt, rolled up his sleeves and returned to work in the fields. His vegetables usually grew well by themselves but he was hoping the horse shit would give them a boost.
“I should sell you to the Choate,” he said to Droga, while collecting turds. “They drink horse blood, you know.”
Droga said nothing. He just dropped another huge steaming pile and went back to chewing grass. Kell laughed and patted the old horse with affection.
By the time his chores were done for the day it was getting late. The market would be closing soon and the streets would be quiet which he preferred. In search of a meal cooked by someone else for a change he hurried into town.
Honaje was a good place to live because of the lake, the dense forests and the rich black soil. There was always plenty of work so that meant a fair amount of money flowing in and out of town. It also helped that King Bledsoe, who was a sneaky old bastard, kept carving up parts of his territory and selling them off. He even gave some bits away for free, out of the
goodness of his heart. Scrubland and rocky holdings on hillsides that most people couldn’t farm. And yet the settlers were smart and somehow always made it work, raising hardy sheep or goats. And in return, for his apparent kindness, once a year the wily King sent the taxman to visit.
The narrow-faced collector, Obbrum, always arrived at the same time and yet every year people were surprised to see him. Kell had paid the local Manx to hex Obbrum and make his cock drop off, but so far it hadn’t worked. Then again, perhaps it had. The only thing that seemed to give the taxman any pleasure was taking money from other people. He probably hadn’t used his cock in years.
As Kell walked down the main street everyone waved or said hello. It always startled him that they all knew who he was, and what he’d done, but he knew nothing about them as individuals. Complete strangers would greet him as if they were old friends, shake his hand and pat him on the back. The physical contact was always jarring and he did his best to avoid it.
As he skirted the edge of town Kell waved to those that greeted him, but didn’t stop to exchange small talk with anyone. He never remembered their names as he spent as little time as possible in town and there were too many new faces to keep track.
Despite his infrequent visits Kell noticed there had been significant changes over the last few years. There were a lot more visitors from across the Five Kingdoms. Those in the rugged north were suffering where the weather
was cooler and the land more barren. Traders from far and wide, even pasty Corvanese, were now bringing in more fruit and vegetables from across the Narrow Sea. There was always a stream of travellers passing through town either heading west to the capital, Thune, or east to Lorzi, the Holy City and beyond to the coast.
As he entered the market Kell’s nose was assaulted by a range of smells. Questionable meat, combined with heady spices and medicinal herbs, created a blend that wasn’t appealing. Normally the market would be full of noise and people, but at this hour it was quiet and felt abandoned. He’d timed it perfectly.
At the centre of the market most of the stalls were packing up for the day, but Dos Mohan was still there, sharpening his razor on a leather strop. All of the awnings were white or yellow to ward off the sun, but the barber’s was dyed in the traditional pale blue. A thick wooden pole, as wide as Kell’s leg and as tall as a man, stood at the front of the tent. It was painted in hoops of red and white to announce Mohan’s honourable profession.
Mohan was at least sixty years old so the intricate blue tattoos on his arms and cheeks had faded over the years. The designs were also partially hidden by the wrinkles on his weathered face. He’d been living in Honaje almost ten years so Kell considered him a local despite being one of the vicious Choate. In the past they’d rarely ventured outside their territory, but in the last thirty years they’d begun to explore the lands of their neighbours.
“Ah, here he is, the big hero man,” said Mohan, showing off huge white teeth. The barber insisted it was because he scrubbed them every day, but Kell was convinced they were painted wood.
“You need a shave? A haircut? You have a bad tooth?”
“Just a shave, if you have time?” asked Kell.
“For you, I always have time,” said Mohan, slapping the padded chair.
As Mohan pulled on his short white apron Kell tried to get comfortable. Putting his trust in someone was difficult, especially when they wielded a razor, but over the years he’d found a strange kinship with the barber. In their own way they were both outsiders who people smiled at in public but talked about behind closed doors. They’d struck up a peculiar friendship and Mohan was among a handful of people that he trusted in town.
“Your hair is dry and coarse like a horse brush,” said Mohan, rubbing Kell’s scalp. “Do you want me to cut it? Put on some resin?”
“Maybe next time. I don’t want to keep you from getting home. I know it upsets your wife when you’re late.”
“You’re a good man,” said the barber, starting to trim his beard. If the barber was late home Mohan’s wife would spit at Kell in the street as she’d done two months ago. She’d also hissed something at him in her own language. Although the Choate was reluctant to speak about his life or homeland, he was happy to teach Kell his native language. Learning a few words at a time Kell had
picked up a rudimentary grasp of the Choate tongue. Every time he saw Mohan’s wife she cursed him for something. Last time it had been something to do with a ruined meal.
Mohan had customers in his chair from across the Five Kingdoms. Many came just to say they’d seen a Choate up close without being stabbed in the face. As a whole, Mohan’s people had a fairly aggressive reputation and with good reason. There was a long history of feuds between them and the neighbouring kingdoms. It was only a hundred years ago that an uneasy form of peace had been established. Most people thought they were savages who lived in mud huts, but then again, most people were idiots. While customers sat in the barber’s chair, nervous and scared, they talked and Mohan listened. The barber often knew what was happening before anyone else, including the town Chief.
“I heard some worrying news,” said Mohan.
“Famine?”
“No, but there’s been trouble in the north. Fights breaking out over food and merchants being robbed on the road. If the weather doesn’t change, then it may come to that. Have you noticed how cold it’s been?”
“Too cold,” said Kell. His crops were at least two months behind where they should be. It was the second year in a row of mild winters and cool summers which meant low yields. “Trouble is on the way.”
“Yes, it is,” said the barber, as his scissors flashed around Kell’s chin. “There, neat again.”
Kell opened his eyes and peered into the battered old mirror beside the chair. His scraggly beard was gone. Mohan had turned it into something neat that emphasised his broad jaw. Staring into his pale blue eyes Kell wished his nose wasn’t quite so wide. His hair was still a mess, but it would have to do. He didn’t want the barber to be late. Mohan clucked his tongue and tied back Kell’s hair without being asked, gathering it up with a piece of leather cord.
“Now, you look like a hero,” he said, winking at Kell in the mirror. It was at that moment Kell noticed Mohan was holding a metal spike in one hand. “Let me look at your teeth,” said the barber with a grin.
“No, that’s fine,” said Kell, trying to get up but the Choate pressed him back into the chair. Despite working all day on the farm he wasn’t nearly as strong as the old barber.
“This won’t hurt,” promised Mohan, which was a lie. It always hurt when he stabbed Kell’s teeth with a steel spike, but apparently it was for his own good. “Open.”
Realising he wasn’t going to get away, Kell opened his mouth and Mohan peered in. “Ugh,” he said, wincing at the smell. “Trapped meat,” he said, poking at one tooth until he dislodged something. “Apple peel,” he said, stabbing another tooth and hooking out something else. “I don’t even know what this is,” he added, holding up a chunk of something to the fading light. After stabbing Kell in the mouth a few more times he finally seemed satisfied. “It’s better now, yes?”
Kell didn’t want to admit it but the ache was gone from that annoying bit of apple. “Yes. How much?”
“For you, big hero, three dinars,” said Mohan. Kell dropped four dinars in the brass dish at the bottom of the striped pole. Mohan heard the clink of the coins and offered him a big smile.
“You’re most generous,” he said.
“Shepherd’s blessing upon your house,” said Kell. Before the barber tried to check him for lice he hurried out of the tent towards his favourite tavern, the Dancing Cricket.
It was still early in the evening but unfortunately the main room was already packed, with only a few spare tables. In the far corner was a raised stage for performers which was empty tonight.
Noticing a free table close to the fire, Kell squeezed past chairs and sat down, taking a moment to enjoy the heat on his back. Normally at this time of year the fireplace would be cold and every window thrown open, but not tonight. Not until the weather improved.
Everyone in the room knew Kell but they left him alone. Even after all this time he was still getting used to being around large groups. Sometimes the smells and particularly the noise were overwhelming. By focusing on his breathing, the anxiety began to ebb away until he felt almost normal again.
Despite his unease, sometimes it was nice to be in a room with others and feel as if he was part of the community. Working alone on the farm all day meant he didn’t see many
people and occasionally it was lonely. He’d grown comfortable with solitude and preferred it, but Kell never wanted to feel isolated.
After ordering a mug of ale he paid for the cook’s special, a spicy chicken stew. The price was eye-wateringly high, and he doubted there would be much meat in his bowl, but this was a rare treat. While waiting for his food Kell eavesdropped on conversations. As expected, most of the talk was about the weather or taxes.
When the food arrived the stew was tangy and delicious. The vegetables were crisp, if a little shrivelled, and he didn’t see much meat, but at least there was plenty of rice to fill him up. The cook’s husband was a lucky man. To come home to such a meal every night would be a real blessing from the Shepherd. Despite keeping to himself, a shadow fell across Kell’s table.
“Are you him?” asked a buxom merchant. She was Corvanese with pink skin and yellow hair, which had been rare ten years ago. More ships were crossing the Narrow Sea all the time. “Are you Kell Kressia?”
“I am.” She wore a black tricorn hat marked with five blue ribbons. That meant she was allowed to trade across all Five Kingdoms, including the Holy City.
“Is that your sword, Slayer?” she asked, gesturing towards the silver blade above the fireplace. Its surface seemed to shimmer in the firelight. Everyone else pretended not to notice the excited merchant. This wasn’t the first time someone from out of town had reacted like this.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Kell.
“It’s a pleasure. A real pleasure,” said the woman, her eyes wide with delight. “My name is Rowaz tan Nadia.”
Kell forced a smile even though he was starting to feel anxious. People were beginning to stare. He could feel their eyes on him like ants crawling across his skin. He needed her to sit down and leave him alone.
“Can I join you for a drink?” asked Nadia. “I’ll pay, of course,” she volunteered.
Kell shook his head, despite the offer of a free drink. It was always the same. They asked the same questions without fail. What did the Ice Lich look like? Did he really cut off her head with one blow? What happened to the heroes? Are their bodies really still up there on the ice?
To them it was nothing more than an exciting story, but he’d lived through the events in the bard’s saga. Digging up the past always left him feeling uneasy and bitter. They had been rich and famous warriors that people still adored despite being dead for ten years. As the only survivor he’d come home to a fanfare but little else for his efforts. There’d been no reward. No riches. Not even a reprieve from his taxes.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Kell, not wanting to indulge Nadia’s curiosity. More heads were turning in his direction and now three merchants were standing beside his table. The other two were a local apprentice and another Corvanese with only two ribbons.
“Please, we just want the real story. We’ve heard it from the bards, but they always
embellish it.”
More people were taking note of their conversation. Without being asked, Nadia sat down and before Kell could protest her two friends followed suit. One placed a mug of beer in front of him.
“We just want the truth,” said the apprentice. People went back to their own business and Kell felt some of his nervous energy drain away.
Kell shook his head. “You don’t want that.”
Nobody wanted the truth about what had happened. They all said it but the truth was ugly. It was a knotted web of grey decisions, not black and white. People wanted neat and simple but life was a convoluted path of decisions that no one could predict.
If he told Nadia that he’d been kicked out of the army at seventeen because he was tired of following orders she’d tell him it was fate. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been at home to hear about the call to arms.
When the weather changed, the dwellers beyond the Frozen Circle, the Frostrunner clans, sent an emissary south to meet with the five Kings. There hadn’t been such a conclave in hundreds of years. Normally the clans had no reason to leave their homeland on the ice, but even they were struggling to survive. Ten years ago the Frostrunners had been starving to death along with everyone else.
The five kings came to an agreement and called upon their best. The bravest and greatest warriors. Lowbren One Eye, Cardeas the Bold, Droshalla the Beautiful, Bron the
Mighty and others. A total of eleven heroes that everyone knew and loved. Kell, like every other teenager, had idolised them.
How quickly that had changed.
They might have been warriors with famous names, but they weren’t heroes. After days in the saddle they’d moaned about sore arses like everyone else. No one wanted to hear about that. Or how their mighty leader, Cardeas, had a bad belly and got a run of the shits for three days.
“Tell us about the heroes,” said the apprentice, startling Kell from his reverie.
“No, tell us about the Ice Lich. Did she really turn the weather sour? Was it worse than now?” said the other merchant.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Kell, sliding the untouched beer across the table. He didn’t want to go back there in his mind. Kell was about to get up from the table when Nadia’s question caught him by surprise.
“When were you most afraid?”
Anger flooded Kell’s mind and he sank back into his chair.
According to the Medina saga his worst moment had come when he’d battled the Ice Lich. The truth was far more shocking and that part of the story hadn’t made it into the bard’s tale.
“Fine. I’ll tell you the real story,” said Kell. “It was the day Bron the Mighty collapsed…”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
