The Iron Wolves (13 page)

“Later,” coughed Yoon, and seemed to remember where he stood. He turned to Isvander. “You there. Chief Engineer. I see progress is being made at a considerable pace. I am happy with the work. Although,” his hand swept an empty area, “I would like more gargoyles. More gargoyles on this level.”

“Sire?” enquired Isvander, softly. “I think you’ll find you have already specified an inordinate amount of gargoyles for this level. Indeed, I think the plans show the current number of gargoyles to be… Granda? Do you know how many gargoyles we are carving for this level?”

Granda flashed Isvander a filthy look, as if to say:
don’t drag me into your dirty sycophantic warbling.
“Three hundred,” he growled, and lowered his head again, as if the rancid, thick perfume in the air was making him sick. Which it probably was.

“Three hundred, Majesty,” said Isvander, with an easy, open smile.

“Not enough,” snapped Yoon, and clicked his fingers in rapid quick succession until a young man in bright green silks ran up to him and produced a long tube from a long leather satchel. Isvander felt his heart begin to sink.

“Surely, not more plans, you simple, giggling, face-painted bastard? Just stick to dyeing your hair and humping your many and varied mistresses, both men, women and young boys if all accounts are true, and we’ll get this bloody tower built on time, you fucking imbecile, right?” That’s what Isvander
wanted
to say. Instead, he held a tight smile to his tight face, and muttered, “Surely, the plans are
locked
, Sire. To make more changes could further jeopardise a stable foundation which, I assure you...”

“Nonsense.” With a swipe of one hand, Isvander’s concern, and indeed, engineering skill, was dismissed. Pepp and the green-silk architect unrolled the plans on the floor, and King Yoon crouched, his cock dangling obnoxiously from the venting slit in his red robes.

Isvander glanced to the other masons on the wide stone platform. Wisely, everybody kept their eyes down, hands busy on their work. Isvander moved to King Yoon.

“More gargoyles?”

“Yes! More gargoyles! I want
two hundred
extra gargoyles! And we have also revised the height of the tower. I require the Tower of the Moon to elevate for another thirty levels.”

“
Thirty
…” Isvander stood, mouth open, unconsciously staring at his monarch’s child-maker. He snapped out of his shock. “But Highness, the sheer
weight
of another thirty levels would guarantee a necessitated modification to the foundations… we’d need extra footings, capable of supporting
vast
…”

“Nonsense! Krolla! Explain it to him.”

Krolla, the man in green silks, explained it to a solemn, narrow-eyed Isvander. What he explained was insanity. This was a man who did not understand the simple relationship between the size of a building’s foundations, and its subsequent allowable height and weight. The math he proposed was illogical. Wisely, Isvander kept his mouth shut and his eyes from the bare naked breast which King Yoon was stroking idly, then licking, in open view of his braying entourage.

Krolla finished his architectural and mathematical lecture with a wagging finger. Chief Engineer Isvander gave a single nod of tight-lipped acquiescence. What was the point of arguing? Who could argue with the insane? And indeed, what was the point being Chief Engineer if nobody listened to your engineering
experience?

“So, as you can see,” Yoon was strutting around again, sunlight gleaming from his black hair, his heavy robes swaying regally around his silk sandals, “not only will the Tower of the Moon be
named
the Tower of the Moon, one day, it may even
reach as high as the moon
!”

Somebody giggled.

Isvander kept his face painfully neutral. And realisation struck him. Surely… surely Yoon didn’t think he could really build a tower that high? Was that his aim? Truly?
Gods, he’s getting worse! He’s plunging fast into a deep pit of madness, and he has the money to do it and sustain it. What can I say to bring him back to reality? How can I help the King?

Pepp stepped forward. He had an inordinately high forehead, greased back curls, and a laugh that could crack glass at fifty paces swifter than any crossbow quarrel. “Surely, Highness, a tower could never touch the moon?”

There was an awkward silence.

King Yoon took a threatening step forward, and glowered down at Pepp, who shifted uneasily in his long, pointed, black leather boots. When Yoon spoke, his voice had dropped to a low, animal growl. “If I say the Tower of the Moon touches the moon, then touch the moon it shall!”

“But, that’s impossible,” said Pepp, like a stubborn dog with a rotten bone.

Yoon’s hand slammed out, grabbed Pepp by the throat, and in a few shocked seconds he dragged the choking nobleman to the edge of the platform where he held him out over the vast drop. Pepp’s boots scrabbled on stone, scarring their highly polished leather. Pepp choked and kicked. Yoon’s arm was rigid, muscles standing out like iron.

“See that? Down there, you pathetic little maggot? You see my city? My country? Do you see my whole
world? My fucking world
?”

Pepp tried to agree and choke at the same time. One boot slipped and his body swayed out over the drop.

“It’s MY WORLD!” screamed Yoon, and gave a short giggle. “Do you want to see it more closely? Well, Pepp, that can easily be arranged! Oh yes!” His fingers opened their grip.

Isvander watched in grim horror as Pepp seemed to suspend for a moment, a look of dismay on his stupid painted face. Then he fell, screaming like a little girl having her hair pulled, arms and legs swimming as if he might paddle his way back to the tower’s summit.

Most of the entourage rushed to the edge of the platform and gazed down, watching Pepp fall. And land. He landed hard. There came a distant
slap,
muffled, almost unheard. But disconcertingly
real.
His body seemed to separate into many different pieces.

Isvander heard it. So did Granda. Both men exchanged a solemn glance.
This is getting out of control,
said Isvander’s gaze.

This is already out of control,
came Granda’s grim response.

“So then,” King Yoon slapped Isvander on the shoulder, his voice merry, as if they had just shared some jolly triviality, a glass of port, a humorous anecdote about a turnip, and now they were parting as old friends and comrades. “You can do five hundred gargoyles, lad? Surely?”

“Of course, Majesty,” said Isvander.

King Yoon strutted to the steps. His entourage, talking happily, trailed after him. From somewhere, one had produced a crystal decanter of wine. Several were drinking, their lips slick, glasses waving gaily. King Yoon stopped. The entourage stopped. They walked when he walked. They stopped when he stopped. They were a gaily coloured, perfume stinking
shadow.

“Well, we understand one another perfectly, then, Chief Engineer Isvander.” Yoon’s dark eyes seemed to gleam as he stared hard at Isvander for just
a little bit too long.
They drove into him. Seemed to worm inside his brain… and turn it inside out.

“Perfectly,” said Isvander, mouth full of ash.

King Yoon stepped onto the spiral of stone steps and descended three. Then he stopped again. He glanced back at Isvander. “Oh yes. Be a good boy, and send somebody out there to clean up the mess, won’t you?”

“I will see what I can do, Great King,” croaked Isvander.

Yoon smiled, and along with his gaudy group of giggling followers, disappeared from view.

King Zorkai was a tall, powerful man, early thirties, with a forked black beard, thick bushy black hair and piercing blue eyes. He was an incredible swordsman, archer, bareknuckle fighter, and had hunted and killed lions, tigers, bears and wolves for sport with nothing but his bare hands and a short spear. He lived to fight. He lived for war. He lived to die. With three wives and seven children, he had secured his bloodline, his longevity and now, in the prime of his health, and strength, and ferocity, with an able experienced army to back him, nothing was a threat to the King of Zakora.
Nothing.

And the fact he had killed all three of his brothers and seven cousins who could potentially fight for the crown also added comfort to his present Kingship. King Zorkai was a man who knew where he stood. He was a man who did not like surprises.

Which is why, when the scout reports came in, he listened, frowning. The reports spoke of a woman with a hundred or so “rabid, twisted creatures”, advancing rapidly through his domain. They were challenged by a cavalry unit of three hundred, who engaged them in battle, according to one report, although – insanely – the scrawled message spoke of “horses turning on their riders and eating them”. Zorkai’s men were killed. All of them.

Zorkai sat, rubbing his whiskers in thought, and refusing to immediately dismiss the report, although he knew he would have the scout flogged in the city square, then nailed to the Betrayal Cross. Horses turning on their riders and eating them? He’d been heavy on the grain spirit, no doubt.

Zorkai stood and walked to the rough sandstone windowsill of the Desert Palace, looking out over the city.
His
city. Zak-Tan. Fifty thousand sandstone dwellings, mostly two storeys high, many painted white to reflect the heat of the sun. Here and there Prayer Towers rose from the throng of buildings, and great swathes of people moved amidst the narrow streets and alleyways. He could hear music from a nearby bazaar and the shouts of traders selling silks, spices, honeyed milk, salted fish and many sweetmeat delicacies. The city was a thriving ants’ nest and he enjoyed watching the scene, listening to the people, soaking up the atmosphere of the place he had helped build, helped create! His father, the late King Zentak, had brought together ten wandering desert tribes, sowing the seeds of the Zak-Tan dream. They had conquered other tribes and built a city of tents. As they expanded, and built up their army, they had invaded neighbouring desert areas, conquering and becoming wealthy beyond their dreams. Architects were drafted from “more civilised” lands to build, initially, a fortified palace – which is where Zorkai now stood. Despite being surrounded by the soft flowing desert, there were also the Salt Plains to the south and southwest: hard-packed, lifeless and unforgiving. But able to bear cavalry. King Zentak was the first of the desert kings to buy horses from the northern lands of Vagandrak, to learn the secrets of breeding and cross-breeding, and to expand his army with cavalry. Within ten short years, his army was unstoppable. Eight thousand foot warriors and nearly three thousand cavalry soldiers with long spears and expert training; there was no other force for a thousand miles that could challenge his supremacy. Except Vagandrak. But they hid behind their mountain walls, the Skarandos Range; hid behind their massive fortress, cowering like children.

“Is everything well, my love?”

Zorkai turned, and frowned again. It was his wife, Shanaz, dressed in flowing red silk and leaning seductively against the wide arched doorway.

“No, it is not. I have garbled reports of some mad woman with a collection of monsters and horses that eat themselves.”

Shanaz considered this. “That is… strange. Still, come to my bed and I will take your mind from such petty distractions.”

Zorkai stared at her. Shanaz was his most recent wife and, he suspected, a trouble-causer. His first two wives had certainly not taken well to her, and he’d caught the three squabbling on occasion.

“There you are, Shanaz! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Hunta and Marella came through the door, both wearing long black silks and shawls, and Shanaz did not turn, instead looking towards the king as she said, “I was here asking my husband to bed, as you two had announced you were going to the market to buy vegetables.”

“Ridiculous!” snapped Hunta. “We said no such thing! We told you not to disturb
our
husband, the King, for important reports had come in from his scouts. And you blatantly ignored our instruction!”

“You are giving me instructions now, are you?” Shanaz whirled, eyes blazing vicious fire. “Just because you have been married for longer, and yes, are suitably
older
, does not give you superiority over me!” She padded towards Zorkai, bare feet slapping the terracotta tiles, and grasped his arm, looking up with those wide, pleading eyes which had so captured his heart at the annual Feast of Warriors. “Tell them, Zorky; your other wives are being mean to me! They always are, when you’re not here.”

“Ha!” snapped Hunta. “Zorkai, you simply would not believe what we have to put up with in your absence. You have married a little bitch, that’s for sure! She wanders around in her bare feet, crowing like a cockerel that she has a better time between the bedsheets with you. She says we are sexually inferior to her and she knows how to play you like a
zanda trell.
”

“Ladies!” snapped Zorkai. But Hunta was on a roll.

“She’s also bragged about how, if you were to choose one queen, you would choose her over us, because she controls you like a puppeteer with a little king puppet. She says she pulls your strings.”

“Horse shit!” yelled Shanaz, whirling on Hunta. “How
dare
you try and sabotage the special love I have with my king! Just because you feel you have grown old and wrinkled before your time, your tits sagging to your waist and your flower becoming dry and barren…”

“Why, you little sparkly bitch,” said Hunta, eyes narrowed. “I’ll…”

“Stop them, Zorkai, stop them both!” pleaded Marella, and the King threw his hands in the air. “They both love you for your money; I am, truly, the only one who loves you for
yourself.
”

Hunta and Shanaz were staring at Marella.

“Oh, you back-stabbing whore,” snarled Hunta.

“LADIES!” thundered Zorkai, both fists clenched, face suddenly purple. “You will ALL stop your bickering, or I will have you ALL flogged! I am sick to the back teeth of this constant yapping! Now get out of my sight, I have an important issue to deal with; you are not helping the situation!”

The three women, heads held high, haughtily withdrew from the King’s Chamber. The doors swung shut, snugly clicking into the arched doorframe. The minute he heard that click, there followed urgent hushed voices beyond and Zorkai glanced, just for a moment, towards his short sword.

His mother had warned him. “Only an idiot marries three,” she had said, unblinking eyes fixed on him. “You’ll be taken in by their young, supple limbs, their luscious hair, their pouting lips, their shining eyes, their writhing hips. But ultimately, my son, they’ll bring you more pain than pleasure. I promise you. I know these things.”

He had ignored her. He was
the king
after all. But oh, how she had been right!

“Sire! I have urgent news!”

It was Jendakka, one of Zorkai’s most feared generals. Vicious, merciless, a hard man without compassion for anything or anyone. Zorkai shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Gods, he hadn’t even heard the man enter!

“What is it, Jen?”

“Further sightings of this tall, white woman. It is said she rides a lion beast and is followed by monsters. And she is heading straight towards Zak-Tan. Either this is really happening, or the whole country has been drinking ether spirit.”

“She’s heading across the South Salt Plains, then?”

“According to scouts.”

“Send message to the barracks. Saddle three thousand mounts. Let’s see what this woman wants.”

They rode hard in a wedge formation with King Zorkai and General Jendakka the point of the wedge. Behind, in perfect symmetry, rode three thousand highly trained warriors on horses bred for war. Hooves drummed the salt plains sending up clouds of salt. Each mount had damp cloths over muzzles to protect them from the dust, and warriors had heads and faces wrapped with finely woven keffiyeh. Zorkai pushed them hard for an hour, then they dismounted and walked their mounts for twenty minutes, resting them. Mounting once more, they continued south following directions given by Jendakka’s scouts.

When they saw the enemy force, it was much larger than they’d anticipated and Zorkai drew rein, his huge stallion rearing and dropping to stamp the salt plain. His eyes met Jendakka’s. “How many?”

“At least five hundred. At
least.
”

“That’s what I was thinking. Suggestions?”

“They are intruders in our lands, Sire. I suggest total annihilation.”

Zorkai nodded. “Battle formation!” he bellowed. “Long lances, we’ll hit them from the front, split and wheel in the Ram’s Horn; come in from both sides to mop up any survivors.” Men pulled on battle helms and unhitched lances. “Any questions?” shouted the king. “Then ride hard and true, my boys! For Zakora!”

“FOR ZAKORA!” they thundered, and kicked their horses into a matched canter, building swiftly up to a gallop. They stampeded across the salt plains, hooves drumming, great clouds rising behind them, and as they came close so visors were lowered on helms and lances levelled in readiness for impact…

Screams echoed across the salt plains, high pitched and piercing and King Zorkai
felt
more than saw or heard the chaos behind him, and cast a glance back. What met his gaze was, truly, an impossibility, for his entire battalion were sat astride rearing, thrashing mounts, stampeding around on rear hooves, pawing the air, huge maws open showing lolling thrashing tongues and gleaming long teeth as lips quivered and the men clung on grimly. It felt, to Zorkai, that the entire world had gone suddenly mad. And then the horses started to break apart, bones crunching, flesh running, blood splattering, and he cantered to a stop, lance and sword forgotten, mouth hung open as three thousand men and mounts merged together, folding in on each other, and then they hit the salt plains in a thrashing screaming mass and great salt clouds rose up to engulf the savage horrific spectacle and Zorkai cantered a few steps forward, then halted again, lance suddenly slippery in his grip. He turned to Jendakka, to see if he was crazy, to see if Jendakka’s eyes mirrored his own. Jendakka threw off his helm, was panting heavily, and that look told Zorkai everything he needed to know. He was not a victim of dark seed, liquor or some horrible imagined nightmare. This was real. This was
happening
…

“We have to help them,” shouted Zorkai over the sounds of thrashing, squealing, thumping and squelching. “What, in the name of the Sacred Fire Orchids, is happening?” But Jendakka’s mount suddenly reared, and Zorkai watched him merge with his horse, the beast’s back opening like a huge wound and sucking the man inside, plates of armour melding with the horse’s back and flanks; it hit the ground on its side, Jendakka’s boots kicking and then becoming slowly absorbed and sucked into the expanding, bulging mass as horse and man became one: one creature, one monster.

Zorkai leapt from his own mount, eyeing it suspiciously, and with a sudden horror remembered the large enemy force they’d been about to engage. He swallowed, mouth desert dry, and to a symphony of merging flesh and metal and thumping slaughter, turned and looked upon the enemy.

She walked towards him in utmost serenity.

She was beautiful beyond belief.

And deadly. Zorkai sensed her intrinsic killer streak, and panic welled in his breast like a fast blossoming cancer, opening dark petals to swallow his heart and soul. Beside her padded a massive beast, a twisted, deformed lion with… Zorkai swallowed. Its features were almost human. Almost. But it was neither one thing nor the other, and great yellow fangs poked unevenly from a broken lion’s maw. Huge tawny eyes settled on him and he held that gaze for a moment, recognising human emotion, intelligence, mixed in a golden pot of unabridged violence and a need to kill and feed.

Zorkai met the woman’s gaze.

“I am Orlana,” she said, voice simple, quiet, unchallenging.

“I am King Zorkai. What have you done to my… men?”

“It is a thing of the old magick. I cannot explain in your language, for it is more of an essence, of land and rock and sky. Let us say I can channel such power; and I can
shift
men and beasts together, splice them into one beast which will serve me unfalteringly until death. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said King Zorkai. “And yet, you have not done this to me?”

“No. I need you.”

“You
need
me?” Zorkai was frowning. He glanced over his shoulder, at where the splicing of Jendakka and his mount was complete. A short, squat, powerful horse beast stared back with evil, dark eyes. Black fangs nestled like razors in a too-big equine maw. From one set of claws Zorkai could see a bulging lance point, and he shuddered. Man, and horse, and metal. All made one. He turned back to Orlana. With voice little more than a croak, he asked, “What do you need of me?”

She stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest. He was breathing fast. He still held his sword, but some intuition told him she could kill him faster than he could raise the blade. After all, she’d just disabled three thousand hardened warriors. And swelled her own ranks in the process.

She leant close. “None can stand against me,” she whispered in his ear, words tickling, and suddenly, curiously, he felt aroused. This woman, this witch, this dark shaman; she excited him in ways he had never dreamed.

“Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”

“You can either join me, and I will become your Queen. Or you can… serve me, as your warriors here now serve me.”

Zorkai turned once more. The salt dust was settling. He wished it wasn’t.

Turning back, he suddenly dropped to one knee and took Orlana’s long, slender fingers. He kissed the marble white skin of her hand.

“Welcome home, Queen Orlana.”

“You may stand, my King.”

Zorkai stood and eyed the beasts arraigned behind this tall, beautiful woman. He swallowed, then looked deep into her eyes. “What happens next?”

“Take me to our palace at Zak-Tan. We have plans to formulate.”