Kell's Legend (43 page)
“Thanks, lad.”
“No problem, Kell. Shall we ascend?”
“After you.”
They started up, hearing growls and snarls fall away behind as two cankers attempted to leap the chasm, and bounced from walls, dropping away clawing and snarling to be lost in dust and ice and debris. There were
booms
as they impacted with the floor far below, and merged component limbs with ancient lengths of rusted iron.
The two men ran, muscles screaming, sweat staining their skin, limbs burning, fatigue eating them like acid. Eventually, they reached the final set of steps, and burst out into snowy daylight, great iron-bruise clouds filling the sky. A cold wind slammed them. Old Skulkra spread out in all directions, vast, decaying, frightening.
The top of the tower block was a treacherous rat-run of stone beams and channels. Ancient woodwork had long gone, meaning the entire floor was a crisscross network where one incorrect step meant a long fall to unwelcome stone beneath. The whole tower block seemed to sway in violent gusts of wind. The wind gave long, mournful groans. Kell stepped across various beams to the low wall encircling the top floor of this vast tower. He stared off, across the ancient city,
to the Valantrium Moor beyond, distant, enticing, ensconced in a snow shroud.
Saark came up beside him. He peered at another, nearby structure. “Can we make the jump?”
“I’ll let you try first,” said Kell.
“We can’t go back.”
Kell nodded. “You can see the Stone Lion Woods from here,” he said, pointing.
“We need a plan,” said Saark, eyes narrowing. “How do we get down from this shit-hole? Come on Kell, you’re the man with all the answers!”
“I have no answers!” he thundered, rage in his face for a moment; then he calmed himself. “I’m just trying to keep us alive long enough to think.” He rubbed at his beard, fingers rimed in filth and old blood. Only then did he look down at himself, and he gave a bitter laugh. “Look at the state of me, Saark.” His eyes were dark, glittering, feral. “Just like the old days. The Days of Blood.”
Saark said nothing. His mind worked fast. Kell was losing it. Kell was going slowly…insane.
“There must be a way off here,” said Saark, voice calm. “You wait here, guard the steps. I’ll see if I can find a ramp, or gantry, or some other way to the roof of another building.”
Saark moved around the outside wall of the tower block, each footstep chosen with care, with precision; below, the tower interior was like a huge, sour-smelling throat. Growls echoed up to meet him.
Saark stopped. He looked across the vast, rotting decadence of Old Skulkra. Beyond the walls he could see the enemy: the Army of Iron. A great
sorrow took his heart, then, and crushed it in his fist. He realised with bitterness that General Graal had won. He had crushed Falanor’s armies as if they were children. He had obliterated their soldiers, and…now what?
Saark frowned. From this vantage point he could see the Great North Road, snaking north and south, a meandering black ribbon through hills and woodland, all peppered with snow. To the west he could make out the sprawl of Vorgeth Forest, stretching off for as far as they eye could see. But there, on the road, he could see…
Saark rubbed his eyes. His swollen eye had opened a little, but still he could not understand what he witnessed. Huge, black, angular objects seemed to fill the Great North Road; from the ancient connecting roads of Old Skulkra heading north, for as far as the eye could see. Saark stroked his moustache, mouth dry, fear an ever-present and unwelcome friend.
“The Blood Refineries,” said Kell, making Saark jump.
“What?”
“On the road. That’s what you can see. The vachine need them to refine blood; and they need blood-oil to survive.”
Saark considered this. “They have brought their machinery with them?”
“Yes.” Kell nodded. He was sombre. Below, they heard a fresh growl, a snarl, and the scrabble of slashing claws. The cankers had found a way past the collapsed stairwell. They were on their way up.
“So they’ve won?” said Saark.
“No!” snarled Kell. “We will fight them. We will fight them to the bitter end!”
“They will massacre our people,” said Saark, tears in his eyes.
“Aye, lad.”
“The men, the women, the children of Falanor.”
“Aye. Now take out your sword. There’s work to be done.” Kell strode to the opening leading to the stairwell. The cankers were growing louder. There were many, and their snarls were terrifying.
Saark stood beside Kell, his rapier out, his eyes fixed on the black maw of the opening.
“Kell?”
“Yes, Saark?”
“We’re going to die up here, aren’t we?”
Kell laughed, and it contained genuine humour, genuine warmth. He slapped Saark on the back, then rubbed thoughtfully at his bloodied beard, and with glittering eyes said, “We all die sometime, laddie,” as the first of the cankers burst from the opening in a flurry of claws and fangs and screwed up faces of pure hatred.
With a roar, Kell leapt to meet them.
Many thanks must go to various people for advice and encouragement along the way, especially when the road glittered dark. Thanks to Ian Graham, author of
Monument,
for hardcore test reading, insightful advice and hallucinating the cankers. Cool!
Thanks to Green Sonia the Savage, for encouraging me to write for insane periods of time in order to hit those deadlines, and never moaning.
Thanks to Joe Blade and Olly Axe, for making me smile when the forest seemed dark.
And thanks to Marc Gascoigne, for giving me a fresh crossbow-shot at scribing fantasy. I owe a few tankards of honey-mead!
Finally, a big thank you to Claire and Natalie Ralph, for their original inspiration and for being such good little vampires.
20 MINUTES INSIDE THE MIND OF
Andy Remic
As part of getting to truly know our authors, we sometimes like to throw a bunch of quickfire questions their, see if we can get a glimpse of what they really think. And then, well, we lobbed some of those questions at Rem…
One book
Legend
by David Gemmell. I read it when I was 15 years old, and it was extremely influential. I later struck up a friendship with Dave, and he never forgave me for a critique I once did (circa 1990) in which I said one of his novels had elements of the “turkey” in it. He said his book had never been described as fowl before, and I was lucky not to receive a right hook.
One book to burn
I don’t really criticise other writers’ works if I can help it. Authors, without exception, work incredibly hard, even if a book is perceived as “ready to burn”, so I leave the acid to “professional critics”.
One film
This would have to be
Blade Runner,
extremely influential and dark, moody, violent, intelligent, and based on a superb Phil Dick source text! Although I do have a secret passion which will guarantee small children point at me and laugh—I love those old Conan films. “Conan, what is best in life…”
One film to burn
What do I hate? Hmm. I think it’s got to be
The Wizard of Oz.
Everybody bangs on about how brilliant it is; I thought it was a pile of sputum. Go on, burn it. As an aside, I am pretty good at burning things myself. I set fire to my decking a few weeks back using petrol on a BBQ; dumb, I know, and I nearly died, but on the upside the firemen thought it was pretty funny (especially as my brother is a fireman), and I got an invitation from Keith Flint to his annual summer party. Firestarter? Twisted firestarter? Surely not.
One song/record
“Green and Grey” by New Model Army, from the album
Thunder and Consolation.
Just perfect. But it’s closely followed by Cypress Hill’s “Tequilas Sunrise” from
IV.
That’s more than one, right? Hot damn, I wish I could count.
One record to smash
Showwadaawaddywaddy, or however the bastard you spell it. Hell! It’s hell, I tell you. I bought an album when I was 10 years old. The shame. The horror. The horror. Kurtz, kill me now.
One creative person you always wanted to be
JRR Tolkien. Think of those royalty statements!! And of course, he was a genius masquerading as a university lecturer. Or maybe a university lecturer masquerading as a genius.
One book you wish you’d written
Harry Potter. Very well written, and just think of those fat royalty statements!
Who’s your hero?
Justin Sullivan, of New Model Army, who ironically sang, “There are no heroes anymore”.
Ideal dinner party guests
Why, that would be the wonderful people from Angry Robot Books. OK, aided and abetted by New Model Army, and hell, why not, the cast from Twilight. Yes, I am getting back in touch with my teen roots. Although it has to be said, if Milla Jovovich popped in, I wouldn’t deny her a sausage.
The biggest influence on your writing
David Gemmell, recently departed King of Heroic Fantasy. Sorry. It’s just the way it is. Because of Dave, I started writing seriously, and indeed started writing heroic fantasy.
The biggest influence on your life
My dad. A complex one this, so I won’t go into it here (it’s part of my PhD, it’s that complex). He was as close to a hero you could get or hope for. He
escaped from two prisoner-of-war camps, and he shot some Nazis. Wish I’d been there.
Got a nickname?
Jappo. It’s a long story. Oh yes, and there was one at school—Mugsy, after the old Melbourne House Spectrum game about gangsters. And, I believe, some cheeky monkey scamp kids used to call me Captain Ginger Beard when I was a teacher, bless their little cotton chainsaws.
Tell us a joke
It’s a rude one. It’s about this fat woman. And her fat husband…No, no, my reputation is already bad enough to kill a skunk at fifty yards, without making it worse. I’m trying to keep my big stupid mouth shut. I’m trying, anyway.
Support a team?
No. I believe football (soccer, haha) has become a pure game of pure money. An absolute business transaction!! And I do not subscribe to money unless it’s buying me a new motorbike.
What do you sing in the shower
I don’t sing. I scrub. I am a scrubber.
Any notable pets?
Yes, Samson, my big fat chocolate Labrador who starred in my first three Spiral books. He’s dead now, bless him, the stubborn teddy-shagging mongrel, but now I have an insane Border Collie called Fizz (not
my choice) who puts me to shame on technical ridge-lines at the top of mountains by bounding around like a mountain goat on mescaline whilst I cling in fear to the edges of high rocks. What a bitch.
Earliest memory?
Being naked in a paddling pool in Yugoslavia in 1976. The humiliation, I tell you! My mother has a photo. The bitch.
First story you told?
I was about 7 or 8. I wrote a novel called
The Four-Headed Monster.
It was about a Four-Headed Monster. I told it to the class. They were suitably impressed (as 7 and 8 year olds are by a Four-Headed Monster).
First story you sold?
My first novel,
Spiral,
to Orbit Books. Thank you, Tim Holman;-)
What do you say when people ask “Where do you get your ideas from?”
Ideas come from anywhere and everywhere, from books and films, conversations and sex, whisky and demons. You must mash it all up in a big pan, add a splash of rum, mix it with a Big Spoon™ and cook at 190 for about 1 hour 40 minutes. Then you may have the workings of a story.
Do you have an unusual talent or skill?
I can sword fight (really), am a superb cook (forget that amateur Ramsey bloke), and have been known
to wield a chainsaw. You’ve got to be careful with a chainsaw, though, because it is amoral and can easily cut off your own leg.
Best place you ever visited?
Kenya, Africa. Magical and surreal. Went on safari, and watching elephants coming to the watering hole at sunset has to rank up there with All Time Great Moments. It was highly amusing when a huge bull elephant took exception to the nearby watering hole dining experience, and charged at the couples enjoying a romantic meal—you’ve never seen fat people move so damn fast.
Favourite building or structure?
Peel Tower, Ramsbottom. My original cycling haunt. The times I’ve sat on those steps drinking coffee in the rain/snow/sleet and setting the world to rights with my mate, Jake. Eee. Those wer’t days, lad.
What keeps you awake at night?
My three year-old climbing into my bed, snuggling down, then spinning in slow circles ,methodically kicking me and my wife in the backs of our heads.
The last time you cried?
When my cat died, the nasty, feral, murdering, evil little torturer. Live by the sword, die by the sword, that’s what I say.
If you weren’t a writer what would you be?
I probably should have joined the army, but in
reality I cannot just cannot respond to authority. So then. Maybe a doctor? I’m certainly a pharmaceutical expert and I do enjoy seeing people in pain.
Favourite fancy dress costume?
My well-used Halloween zombie costume. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. It’s full of rancid fake blood.
Got an irritating/bad habit?
I
am
a bad habit.
Next book you’ll read?
The latest Orcs novel by Stan Nicholls. His stuff is visceral, fast-paced, good fun—a bit like mine :-)
Favourite word?
“Cunt”. I just love how people get so upset by it. It’s just a word, right? And it is in the dictionary.
