A mass of lacerated red flesh slid down the slab towards the maw of battered iron waiting below. Dark steel hounded the crimson streaks all the way, filling the chamber with a slow, sharp, rasp.
“Carefully does it,” a sanguine voice whispered.
The pot hissed and seethed, greedily swallowing every scrap, and sending the fleeting bubbles up to be lost amongst the broiling surface.
Meaty paws pulled the knife close to a broad chest, as a colossal head leaned down and drew in a nosefull of pungent air.
“Can you see the colours changing? The blood’s seeping into the mix?”
A dozen chins jiggled as the head nodded.
“Good, good,” the voice hissed excitedly. “And now… the garlic, quickly.”
The big man shuffled over to the busy worksurface, his feet barely lifting from the floor.
With great care, he selected a large white bulb and began to pick and prod with the tip of his knife. Within moments the peel had fallen and the pale skin lay bare.
“The onion next.”
The chef nodded again, breath spilling from his mouth as the pace of his work overwhelmed his shrunken nostrils.
The inn upstairs was heaving tonight. The mead was flowing like the river beneath the ice sheets, and with every slam of every mug that echoed down through the creaking floor, one thought stalked closer to the mind of every man and woman up there.
Dinner.
The chef, stained and greasy smock flapping, dropped the aromatics into the stew, sending the tenor scents of raw vegetable leaping into the air, rising sharply over the wholesome bass of baking bread and the rolling baritones of braising meat.
The symphony was almost upon them.
The big man wiped his forehead, skewing his thin hair at an odd angle as the sweltering air raked over his lips.
It was hot down here. The fire of industry roared below the antique pot, caked with all the seasonings of every yesterday.
From the darkest corner, buried between the sacks of potatoes, a sweating shadow watched the scene unfold.
As the big man worked, a sigh cut through the gentle rumble of the place, high and sharp.
“You’re too early for dinner.”
The chef didn’t bother to turn.
The shadow smiled as he took a step forward, letting the flickering firelight paint his pale face.
He pushed a fraying lock of grey hair behind his ear with a chuckle.
“Smells damn good, Sevvy.”
A single dried laugh shot back as the chef groped at the spice rack and dropped a few leaves into the mix, knife still glinting in his hand.
“If only that was all you were after, Akkarin…”
The man spread his arms, looking about the room as if to garner the support of the invisible crowd, but the dancing light never left his eyes.
“Can’t a man drop in on an old friend?”
A pause filled the little kitchen, almost smothering the flames under its weight.
“How’d you find me?”
Akkarin shook his head.
“Not that hard, if you ask the right questions.” The grin returned.
Another moment passed as his words were pondered and the bread was snatched from the oven, flooding the place with the soft scents of saffron lattice.
“Here’s another one, then: What’s it going to take for you to walk out that door and never come back?”
The smile withered. From under the slick expression, fatigue finally broke through. Upon Akkarin’s face, the fire spelled out the lines like the words of an unspoken epic.
“Come on, mate, really?”
The chef flipped the meat and pulled the great pan off the flames with his free hand, setting it down upon the stone table as the hissing quietened.
This time there was no pause.
“Yes.”
Turning, Akkarin sighed, throwing back the ashen cloak to reveal a glinting suit of rippling blackened mail, and knuckled either hip.
The movement scattered the firelight across the ceiling.
“Alright, will you stop that and talk to me?” Akkarin demanded, voice rising, making the big cook finally bring his staccato motions to a flinching pause. “I think you owe me that much at least!”
The two men eyed each other uneasily.
Akkarin stared into those watery doe eyes and tried to hide his contempt.
“Please, Sevvy?”
The chef finally broke away, turning back to the chopping board, brushing crumbs and chasing cuttings with the flat of the dark blade.
When the voice spoke up again, it sounded as tired as Akkarin looked.
“Keith. Go get some air.”
The big man groaned reluctantly.
“Keith!” The voice said, warning for a moment, before softening like butter left on the hearth’s edge. “Go on, out with you.”
The thud that followed seemed to rock the whole building.
With a heaving sigh, the man in the grubby chef’s uniform bowed his head and turned, awkwardly padding away. The door clicked closed behind him and the sound of those gigantic feet stomped up the stairs.
Shaking his head, Akkarin looked back towards the counter, the relief palpable upon his face.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you put up with him.”
From the worksurface, tip buried half an inch in the wood, the knife stood, staring back. Blankly.
“He’s a good bloke, we’re happy together.” The voice said defensively. “And, more importantly, he doesn’t throw me at anyone.”
Akkarin looked at his friend. Ironically, it had changed more than he had.
The double-edge had retreated into one sweeping curve, and the elegant handle that had once sat so nicely in his palm had lost its silk wrappings, polished to a shine by years of hard use in sweaty fingers.
Sevvy watched the surprise trace his friend’s face.
“I don’t care what you think,” the voice said. If it had had an arm it would have waved him away. “I’m done.”
Pushing the cloak out from under him, Akkarin stepped back and dropped onto a bag of potatoes.
“Come on, you haven’t even heard me out!” The man protested.
“That’s the thing, Akki, I don’t need to. I know what you’re going to say.”
The man folded his arms. “Oh, really?”
The knife regarded him coldly.
“Something like ‘One last score’?” Sevvy tutted. “Perhaps even a ‘I can’t do this without you, me ol’ mucker?’… Am I close?”
Akkarin had the good grace to drop his eyes to the floor.
The cold edge of steel laughed in his face.
“What were you going to offer me?”
The man blushed a shade further.
“Half.”
“Half? Akki, I wouldn’t do it for all the money in the world.” The lungless piece of metal sighed.
Akkarin looked up, a sly flash of teeth sparkling from the corner of his mouth as he leaned forward and drew his secret ace.
“How about for an old friend?”
Firelight glinted off the spine.
“No.”
The man threw himself backward and folded his arms. The expression on his face seemed to melt through the various stages of grief, until even a heartless knife felt as though it’d just stabbed a puppy.
Silence fell between them, the ruckus above pounding through the floor as the logs cracked under the pot.
Keenly aware of the cooking stew, the knife regarded the door eyelessly, wondering just how far his hands – and the body they were attached to – had gone.
Sevvy gave an awkward cough. “Can you, ah, give me a hand?”
Akkarin looked up, letting the firelight spill over his face, filling the range of mountainous peaks and cavernous troughs carved there.
“What?”
“The…” The knife cleared his non-existent throat. “Carrots need doing.”
For a moment, man stared at metal. Then the corner of his mouth snaked up into a crooked smirk.
“Sure.”
He rose and sauntered over to the counter, awkwardly reaching out and wrapping his hand around his old partner. He whistled as he hefted the blade.
“You’ve put on weight, Sev.”
“Shut it.”
Chuckling, Akkarin looked around for the carrots, spinning the wicked blade between his fingers.
“On the left, top shelf.”
“Ta.”
Selecting one, he set to work, quickly shaving the plant with smooth flicks of finger and wrist.
“Haven’t lost your edge though, have you?”
The knife wrapped on the counter as Akkarin freed the last of the orange cuttings and plucked another vegetable from the basket.
“I’m not doing it, Akki. I want a quiet life,” the blade whispered back, the words appearing in the man’s ear as the steel spun in his hand.
He paused. “You’re a sentient knife!”
“The others all got their chance!” Sevvy said, defiance his defence. “They all got to walk away!”
“Yes, and they need someone to pile the earth on afterward.” Akkarin parted the last of the veg and cast the orange slithers into the stew. “You don’t.”
“Me?” Sevvy spat. “What about you? What happens when you’ve used all your coin on booze and whores, and can’t stand up anymore? Ever think about that?
Akkarin shook his head. “Won’t happen, mate. I’ll go out in a blaze of glory, on my feet, in a flash. Not like you, going blunt in a blaze of carrot peel!”
“You’re insensible.”
“And you’re a knife, start acting like it!”
Sevvy laughed. “I’d say I’m in my element.”
Akkarin slammed the tip of the blade into the counter and stepped backward.
“Yeah, alright for you isn’t it!” He roared. “Transferable skills and all that. Whoever heard of an honest thief? You think a locksmith is going to want me in his shop?”
The knife would have looked away, if it had the eyes to do so.
“Alright, calm down…”
“Easy for you all to walk off, ain’t it?” The man kept shouting. “But what about me? Only thing I’ve ever known is thieving.” Shoulders heaving, the old man’s eyes started to shimmer. “What else I got? Nothing. Cos you decided to piss off and suddenly I had to go it alone.”
“That’s not fair, Akki…”
“Too bloody right it ain’t!”
The stew bubbled up through the silence and Akkarin stormed over and gave the pot a stir.
The world seemed to press in on the little basement, and at a certain point even steel starts to buckle.
“Alright,” Sevvy said eventually. “I’ll do it – on one condition.”
The man sniffed.
“What?” He asked carefully.
“You do something with the money, and when we’re done, put me in a proper kitchen – and then never talk to me again.”
Turning away from the fire, the glow remained in Akkarin’s smile.
Snatching up the knife, he brought it up to his face and kissed it, catching a flash of carrot and raw beef.
“Ah, you won’t regret it, I knew you’d have my back, me ol’ mucker…”
“Where are we going?” The knife called. “Door’s behind you.
“Nah, I broke the window in the storeroom and climbed through.”
“You did what…!”
With that, they were gone, the thin door gently scraping closed behind them.
A few moments later, heavy footsteps thudded uncertainly back down the stairs and the other door popped open.
The gargantuan head searched the room with watery eyes before the rest of Keith’s body pulled itself in.
He approached the pot with a frown that rapidly deepened as he saw the empty countertop.
With a whine, he dropped to his knees and started peering into the dust on the floor.
Back on his feet in a flash he stood there, paralysed, mouth working, open and closed.
Breath heaving, he reached over, snatched up another knife from the rack and brought it to his ear, placing the flat of the blade against his skin.
He closed his eyes and listened.
Another moment passed.
And then, his eyes opened, the smile came to his face. The relief that left his lungs made the fire flare.
As he started to hum a dainty tune, Keith stirred the pot. He took a hefty pinch of pepper and, for the first time in months, made a decision all on his own.
[Image Credit : Photo by Artur Voznenko on Unsplash]
Matthew lives in East London, UK, writing Fantasy, Sci-fi and whatever else grabs his attention. Having completed two novels, he is now actively building a list of published shorter works and seeking representation.
