The Iron Wolves (12 page)

Chief Engineer Isvander sat on the flat stone summit of the unfinished Tower of the Moon, cross-legged and tapping carefully at an intricate carving with his hammer and stone chisel. He ignored the sounds of his mason team which surrounded him in a bustle of activity, the grinding of stone blocks being fitted together, the chimes of chisels on marble and the scrape of careful, studied refinement. Of skill, and precision, and stonemason
engineering.

Three hundred masons, five hundred and thirty labourers, and
still
it would take two years to finish the tower to match existing plans, despite nearly six years of Isvander’s life already spent cutting blocks, carving the greatest figures of Vagandrak heroes (including, it had to be acknowledged, three hundred individual carvings of the great King Yoon himself), engineering intricate arches and fluted columns, and formulating a magnificent tower greater than anything previously created.
Ever.

Isvander, as Chief Engineer on the project, was promised immortality in this vast stone creation by King Yoon. However, whereas King Yoon promised his modestly ageing Chief Engineer would be remembered as Isvander the Inventive, he was sure with a wry and painful smile, and a nod to popular downtown opinion, that in all reality he would also be known as Isvander the
Idiot
. Yoon’s Folly, they would name the tower. Or even worse. Isvander’s Pointlessness.

The Tower of the Moon, commissioned by King Yoon after a spate of drunken orgies, was to be the tallest single structure ever built. So tall, that on clear nights to stand on its summit one could see clear across the distant Pass of Splintered Bones, through the valleys of the Mountains of Skarandos and from there into the southern lands of Zakora.

Zakora. The Three Deserts. Uncultured, uncouth, a land of
death…

The Tower of the Moon was so prohibitively expensive, King Yoon could have built another ten extravagant marble palaces and still have change for another of his hedonistic parties (with painted horses, mounds of honey-leaf narcotics in bowls of Ice desert crystal and a flood of naked girls and boys smeared with oil and tongue paint of different flavours). The stone had been mined in the White Lion Mountains in northern Vagandrak. Yet more stone had been mined from the heart of the Mountains of Skarandos, to the south; those mighty great peaks which acted as a natural border and defence against their subdued and controlled enemies, the desert people of Zakora. The stone for the tower staircases, inlaid with minerals and swirling blue and white patterns, had been dug by slaves from the Junglan Mountains in the northwest. It was even said, in hushed whispers by the more reckless members of King Yoon’s court, that sacred Crimson Stone from the Blood Teeth Mountains on Blood Isle was being imported for a special summit bedroom chamber. A thousand ships would transport the almost transparent red stone from far to the south, following the dangerous jagged coastline of Oram, up round the Cape of Zangir to dock at Old Skell in Port Crystal, where King Yoon would specifically build good roads to transport the stone to the Vagandrak capital, Drakerath. “An extravagance, yes,” King Yoon was reported to have said, “but one cannot skimp and save copper coin when one is putting one’s life work, one’s genius, into molten flesh.”

Isvander finished the small stone piece he’d been working on, lifted it to the sun and blew a skin of rough dust from the surface, then ran his finger down the arched flank of the carved angel. Perfect, he thought. As perfect as I can make it
.
And he had to admit, no matter how insane he, or any other member of his team of sculptors and masons found the King, he was certainly giving them a world canvas and a chance to be remembered in the Tomes of History in the Red Circle Library of Drakerath.

Isvander stood and stretched his weary back. Pain was troubling his lower spine, had been for a couple of years now, growing progressively worse, especially in the last few months. Still, he would finish the Tower of the Moon; he was damned if he was going to bow out before the job was done. Then, only then, would he consider retiring with his sweet wife, Anador. They would grow old together in the Quiet Sector in Drakerath; also known as the Flowered Quarter. It was peaceful there, and beautiful, and the perfect place in which to relax and grow old. King Yoon’s gold would secure them a perfect little cottage. It would be… idyllic.

A cool wind blew, and dust drifted across the flat stone platform. Isvander glanced back, at the fifty or so masons working on this wide summit level beside him. He caught Granda’s attention. The one-armed mason grinned at Isvander, and waved his stump. Amputation in battle in his younger, wilder, military days had done little to dampen Granda’s twisted sense of humour; he was probably making a rude gesture.

Isvander walked across the stone platform, carefully circling the hole leading to steps which spiralled down beneath them for a good distance. Around Isvander, from his stunning pinnacle, the capital of Drakerath drifted away like some distant, wonderful painting, a rich scene of bustling city life. Drakerath. The greatest of the Marble Cities!

Even at this height, the Tower of the Moon was taller than any structure ever built, but that was still not good enough for King Yoon. He wanted it taller. Taller. Taller taller taller…

“It’s a hot one,” mumbled Granda, as Isvander came close, and took a cup from the water bucket. Isvander nodded, drinking noisily and spilling a little down his tunic.

“That’s it, my friend. And the more we build, the closer we get to the sun. I fear one day we’ll all burst into flame!”

Granda snorted a laugh and continued to chisel away at the block on which he worked. With only one arm, Granda’s ability to chisel stone was an art in itself; he had fashioned himself a series of special tools, which he sharpened every night without fail. Isvander had once asked what he’d do if he lost his other arm, and Granda had said he’d chisel with his mouth and teeth. He claimed there were only two things that could possibly stop him working – decapitation, or marrying a rich whore. Maybe both, he conceded, when pushed. But preferably the rich whore first.

“Is Anador well?”

“Aye, aye,” said Isvander. “She’s got it in her head she’s going to embroider a map of the whole of Drakerath! I think, sometimes, the woman is obsessed.”

“Not like her husband, then?”

Isvander laughed, and replaced the cup in the bucket. “Most certainly not. What are you trying to imply?”

“And the boys? How do they fare?”

“Dagron is at the university in Kantarok. He’s doing extremely well, or so his letters confidently proclaim. But then, he always did know how to pull the wool over his old dad’s eyes. Did I tell you about the time he re-directed the neighbour’s toilet drain into the kitchen of a local Syndicate man who was extorting money from several old women? Got into a lot of trouble over that one, but I always knew he’d become an engineer or an architect – from the very moment a shoal of turds flooded Dak Veygon’s evening dinner.”

The two men laughed and then were quiet, reminiscing on their younger days.

A call came drifting up the spiralling stone steps from far below. “A number eight chisel,” came the shout, and it was repeated several times by different masons and labourers. Isvander cursed. This was their coded language. There was no “number eight chisel”. It meant King Yoon, the noble and extravagant King of Vagandrak, had arrived below with his entourage for one of his random “inspections”. He would certainly spend several hours in the Tower of the Moon. And, more worryingly, he would no doubt question Isvander long into the evening, thus eating away any free time the Chief Engineer had hoped to spend with his lovely wife.

“That mad fool,” snapped Granda, frowning.

“Shush, man! He’ll have you flayed! Or worse. You know how…
touchy
he has become of late.”

“He makes my skin creep.”

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, Granda. After all, he is our… king.”

Granda nodded and went back to work, thankful King Yoon’s attentions would be focused on his friend and superior. Isvander was a patient man. And from what Granda had seen of King Yoon recently, Isvander would need
all
his skill and patience to survive.

First came the drifting sounds as King Yoon and his entourage swept up and up the spiral steps towards the summit of the construction. There were giggles from Yoon’s sycophantic hangers-on, there was raucous braying and chatter, loud obnoxious voices that made Isvander and Granda exchange worried glances. This wasn’t just Yoon; this sounded like his entire bloody court!

Next came the smell. Expensive perfumes imported from Zalazar and the southern Ice deserts of Zakora. Isvander wrinkled his nostrils. They might as well be distilled from the rotting fish-guts of the Rokroth Marshes, for all the pleasure they offered the Chief Engineer.

And finally came the King himself. King Yoon strutted from the staircase, head high, a light sheen of sweat on his pale waxen brow from the climb, but still proving he had hidden stamina, for the climb was a long, hard one, and during its course he’d left half his retinue behind.

“Isvander!” boomed the King, voice an uneven shrill as he strode forward trailing red silk and lace, and embraced the Chief Engineer awkwardly. “I see your work progresses apace.” He laughed, and the trailing members of his court (some of them still wheezing from the climb), laughed and giggled alongside him as if they’d caught some strange, foreign plague of comedy.

Isvander eyed his King and Monarch with a wary eye. King Yoon was tall, well over six feet in height, and as broad and athletic as his warrior heritage would suggest. After all, was King Yoon not a direct bloodline descendant of the incredible Battle King, Tarek, the very king who fought and was victorious over thousands of invading mud-orcs during the War of Zakora? Had King Yoon not been trained in sword, spear and bow from his earliest childhood moments? He could fight as soon as walk, and had proved himself a warrior on many occasions, leading skirmishes south into Zakora when regular uprisings of the nomadic people threatened either the watching Garrison Towers, or indeed, even the Desekra Fortress which guarded the pass through the Mountains of Skarandos.

Had King Yoon not shown great courage in battle? Great leadership and tactical skills? Great physical strength and, indeed, honour and loyalty from his soldiers earned by his love and concern for them? It was even said he’d fought a lion, and slain it by standing his spear against a rock and letting the beast charge him. Not the actions of a coward.

Yes, decided Isvander, as he watched King Yoon strut about the tower summit, wandering dangerously close to the edge, which had no barriers and gave a dazzling, vertigo-inducing view – straight down to the waiting city below. Yes. King Yoon was all those things.
Had been
all those things. But he was changing. It was subtle, but he was changing.

Now, King Yoon had his long, thick, shaggy hair dyed an unrealistic deep black in order to disguise the grey. He wore a thick, white makeup, accentuating his already pale skin and filling the wrinkles of his ageing face with excess. It caught in the creases of his skin and made him, along with the false gleam of his panther pelt, look more like an out-of-work stage actor than any noble King of note. He wore a robe of thick red velvet which ran from neck to ankles, but had strategic vents at both front and back that, when Yoon moved, and if one were to catch an unfortunate glimpse, displayed flashes of his genitalia and backside, depending which way he turned. From his throat and sleeves flowed long scarves of silk and lace, and again all Isvander could imagine was some actor in a contemporary stage piece relaying a part from foreign shores. The Drakerath Empire was traditional. Men wore leather, cotton, chainmail; its foresters wore greens and browns; and in the Marble Cities even dandies wore more subdued colours of green and red. King Yoon’s current fashion statement was… odd.

With sinking heart, Isvander watched the rest of the entourage assemble. There must have been twenty men and women. The men wore ornamental armour and silks, with many a decorative carved leather codpiece on show, whereas the women dressed in gauzy thin cottons and laces which flowed and described succulent curves and revealed a worrying lack of undergarments.

Isvander licked his lips, as many of the entourage giggled for no apparent reason.

“Highness! Please, stay away from the edge!” cried one young man, moving forward and resting his hand casually on his own protruding, quivering codpiece. Isvander winced. The movement was too oddly familiar to be natural.

“Listen to me, Pepp. I am
divine!
”
intoned Yoon, solemnly. “I will walk where I will, for none shall
dare
take my life, not god, thief nor beggar!” Yoon edged closer and stalked along the very edge of the platform. Tiny stones, scuffed by his silk sandals, clattered away into the vast, awning abyss.

Isvander coughed. “Still, Highness, I think…
Pepp
? I think he may have a point. It would be a sad day if you were to fall.”

“Nonsense!” Yoon stopped, turned suddenly, and a breeze whipped his silks away behind him, far over the edge of the precipice. “I
will not fall!
Indeed, I
cannot fall!
”

A low wind moaned, kicking up stone-dust on the platform, which swirled past King Yoon and disappeared into the distance. Isvander licked his lips again. Nervous now? He didn’t want to be even vaguely responsible for Yoon’s death, no matter how tenuous the link. And he was instinctively aware that if Yoon fell, somehow, no doubt some
way
, he would end up shouldering the blame.

“Highness, look at this!” cried one woman. She was kneeling by a half-finished stone-carving of a gargoyle. “Isn’t he cute? Isn’t he divine?” In her crouch, her short silk skirts had ridden up revealing, in Isvander’s opinion, far too much pale white thigh-flesh and the quivering pink of revealed puckered lips.

Yoon strutted forward, a walk so far removed from the battlefield as to be alien. “Yes, indeed, it is determinably cute and bulbous. As are you, Jamanda, my sweet ripe fruit.” He took the woman’s hand, and she rose, and he kissed her deeply, tongue in her mouth, apparently unaware that he had an audience; an audience that did not presently include his wife and queen.

Jamanda broke away and swooned, and her hands eased out and stroked King Yoon’s flanks in an over-familiar way. “Would you like to, Highness?”