The Iron Wolves (22 page)

She turned over in her sleep, hugging her cloak tight about her.

Snow had gathered on the stretched-out tarpaulins and had started to bow them. Outside, a fox padded into the camp and paused, muzzle to the ground near the fire. It found a morsel of beef and ate hurriedly before padding onwards. A few miles out into the forest it halted, nose twitching, scenting something…
strange.
Whatever the scent, the fox changed direction and sped away, head low, paws running silently across fresh fallen snow.

You should tell him you still love him
, said Suza, voice like a snake in Kiki’s bed
. Tell him you are dying and only have days left; then he will take pity on you and come to your bed. A pity-fuck. That’s what you’re used to, isn’t it, you hateful wide-legged whore?

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” She turned in her sleep, arm falling free. Her brow was creased, eyelids twitching.

Tell him Dalgoran is right, and the mud-orcs are coming. Tell him they are here, and you want him for those last final moments before their claws tear out your eyes, their spears pierce your body, their brutal black swords hack off your head. Then he’ll come to you, naked and lean and hard. Imagine him pressing against your naked body, Kiki. Imagine his powerful hands opening your legs as you roll onto your back like a yelping puppy; imagine him kissing you, his hands moving down over your breasts and belly and touching you there, teasing you, his fingers gliding into you…

“No! Stop it! Suza, you are a wicked, evil poison; get out of my head, get out of my dreams! Leave me in peace…”

You’ll be left in peace all right, bitch, when the mud-orcs arrive…

“And when is that?”

Yeah, Kiki, when, when, when. They’re expanding even as you lie here like a cheap strumpet; expanding their ranks, forging swords and spear points and axes; they feed the living to create the twisted, they feed the mud to give birth from the mud. Orlana has sent out scouting parties. And she has sent out killing parties. Vicious mud-orcs looking for certain people; looking for those who might oppose her in these first days.

“Is this true?”

Would I lie to you, sister of mine?

“How could you know such things?”

The barriers between their world and my world are not so hard to cross. I watched Orlana; watched her take Zorkai to bed like a pimply eighteen year-old virgin. She ate him in many ways; just after she’d eaten his wives.

“So, Dalgoran is right?”

He might be. Or maybe I just like playing games with your pretty little stupid head.

“Damn you, tell me the truth!” raged Kiki, and Suza’s mocking laughter peeled out and Kiki blinked, realising she was awake, and cursed. She kicked herself quietly from her blankets, pulled on her cloak and crawled from the tarpaulin protection. A cool breeze chilled her and she moved to the remnants of the camp fire, noting the fox prints and smiling. “I hope we left you something,” she muttered, and stoked the glowing coals.

Then something, a tiny bad feeling, crept into the back of her mind.

Tell him Dalgoran is right, and the mud-orcs are coming… scouting parties… killing parties…

A noise echoed from the boulders to the right. Kiki moved back to her tarpaulin, grabbing her short sword free. She moved to Dek, nudging the large man with the toe of her boot and he grunted, rolling smoothly from his blankets and drawing his own blade.

“Trouble?”

“I don’t know. Something’s not quite right.”

Dek roused the others as Kiki moved to the fire and its sanctuary of warmth and flickering flame; then she moved beyond, into the trees, where she settled into a crouch allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

A cool breeze eased through the boughs bringing the scent of pine needles. Wind hissed through brittle brown leaves far off to her left. And then… she
heard
them coming. They moved swiftly through the gloom, angling towards her and the fire behind. Kiki kicked up from the snow and ran back to where Narnok was weighing his axe, face a horror-show by the light of the glowing embers.

“What is it?”

“Mud-orcs!” hissed Kiki.

“You’re joking?” snapped Dek.

“Do I look like I’m the village fucking idiot?”

The Iron Wolves formed a line, rocks to their backs, weapons before them. The remnants of the fire flickered and crackled gently.

The trees sighed and creaked.

Their smell came first; it was rotten eggs, it was bad milk, it was sour cheese, it was open gangrene, it was the maggot-filled corpse of a strangled cat. Putrefaction washed over the group and they gagged, and then the mud-orcs sprinted from the darkness and they were big, and moved with agility and aggression and no fear and Kiki gasped as memories slammed into her mind and she was back on the walls of Desekra Fortress in the Pass of Splintered Bones while the war-horde chanted and screamed on the plains below…

Mud-orcs…

They came through the darkness, a large group, perhaps forty strong, moving with inhuman speed in a ragged line. Within twenty feet they began an unholy howl, mouths like muzzles lifted to the sky, breathing ragged and panting like dogs; they were bigger than men, with spindly limbs and carrying rough-edged swords and axes.

“Stand strong,” came Dalgoran’s voice – steady, authoritative – as the mud-orcs, growling now, became visible. Their skin was a sickly green and streaked vertically with red and crimson, as if their flesh had been hacked wide open. Their eyes were glassy black, and they had painted war markings on their flesh with white clay and mud ochre. All four limbs ended in long, curling claws as they powered through the forest…

And then they were there, and Kiki screamed and leapt over the fire, an axe rushing past her head as she swayed and her sword clubbed between glistening eyes. The mud-orc went down in a tangle and she leapt its body, slashing her blade left into another’s eyes, then right across a throat, opening it like a wide smile gushing blood. To her left, Narnok waded in with his axe, cleaving skulls left and right, splitting them down the middle like melons so brains splashed out over his axe blades, over his jerkin, over his scarred face. He fought in silence, features a terrible grim mask.

All was madness in the dark forest. General Dalgoran, despite his advancing years, fought with a mechanical accuracy gained from half a century with a blade in his hand. He was cool, calculating: each movement, each block and strike and cut performed with minimum effort, maximum efficiency. The mud-orcs, larger in numbers, and each one bigger and heavier than their human foes, were used to using their bulk and weight and power to devastating effect. But Dalgoran used clever little twists of body and blade, small accurate side-steps, neat movements of head and shifts of weight to manoeuvre himself out of danger, and skewer his opponents on his short sword. Whereas Narnok bludgeoned his way to victory, each massive blow cutting limbs and heads from bodies, in contrast, Dalgoran’s blade seemed hardly to touch the mud-orcs: a throat cut appeared nothing more than a thin red line delivered on the tip of his blade, but then unzipped like a jacket spilling out oesophagus and vocal cords in a shower of blood. Dalgoran stabbed one raging massive mud-orc in the chest, a simple flicker of in-out, his blade intruding barely more than a couple of inches into the mud-orc’s flesh; and yet with unerring accuracy it pierced the mud-orc’s heart and dropped it like a sack of shit.

Dek was mid-point between Narnok and Dalgoran; he fought with accuracy, but also with a primitive joy in battle, hacking and slicing, twisting and moving with great agility. He also used his fists, elbows, knees and boots, effective in dirty bouts in the Red Thumb Fighting Pits, and just as effective in a melee in the darkened woods.

And finally, Ragorek fought on the right, not as skilled as the others with his blade, but just as ferocious as being Dek’s older brother would suggest. His great mane of hair seemed aflame by the dying light of the fire, and he bellowed through his beard, half in rage, half in fear, as the mud-orcs seemed to come on in a great flood of green flesh like some necrotic army, and he found himself in a sudden island of fighting, completely surrounded by mud-orc flesh and armour and dirty great battle-axes. Rag felt himself starting to panic. He blocked a downward axe sweep, kicked the mud-orc between the legs, making it grunt, but its weight carried it forward and it crashed into Rag. He tried to side-step, as he had seen Dalgoran do, but the mud-orc’s arms wrapped around him and both went down in a flurry of limbs. Rag lost grip of his sword and screamed as a knife slid across his ribs. He head-butted the creature, breaking its already buckled nose, and twisting, crawled atop it, grabbing its windpipe, thumbs pressing in deep, throttling it. Now the mud-orc slammed a knee up into Rag’s balls, and a throw sent him flying. The mud-orc leapt across him, grinning down, eyes gleaming, long strings of saliva drooling down onto Ragorek’s face and open mouth. He thrashed, but the mud-orc was incredibly strong, and heavier than Rag. He threw punches, left and right, left and right, huge heavy blows, but the mud-orc pushed its head back out of reach whilst still delivering that windpipe crushing grip…

Stars swam. Red ran through black, like blood disseminating through a night lake. Ragorek was choking, his vision gone now, his tongue protruding like a stalk, his legs thrashing. The beast was incredibly strong; stronger than Rag.

This is what it’s like to die, he thought through rivers of pain.

This is where it ends.

Vagandrak’s more southerly capital, Drakerath, was less militarised than Vagan, and concerned itself more with being a hub for the arts and culture. In societal terms, the Vagan people considered themselves tough, no-nonsense, strong of body and mind, whereas those who chose Drakerath in the south were soft and weak and more concerned with man loving man. Of course, those in Drakerath considered themselves sophisticated, educated, more prone to think than to fight, whereas their neighbours in “the second capital” were boorish, uncouth, aggressive and proved their stupidity by a lack of appreciation of the arts and response to criticism with violence.

On this night, however, as a few flurries of snow kissed the winter gardens, the tree lined avenues, the beautiful tall houses of the rich quarter, and King Yoon’s Drakerath Palace’s sculpted battlements, white marble walkways and narrow, picturesque purple towers, so Drakerath’s citizens had something rather more serious than neighbourly insults to contend with…

A scream echoed from the darkness. Followed by rushing footfalls.

A woman appeared at the edges of the golden glow of a fish-oil street lantern, face twisted in terror, one shoe lost. Then something in the darkness, growling in a low burble, reached out and plucked her from the light, dragging her back into black. She screamed again, and there came various tearing noises, two cracks and a heavy thump. Then, more slow tearing and a sound like a long-drawn out deflating sigh.

Captain Horsell, of Drakerath’s City Watch, stared at the mound of paperwork forlornly as the door to the watch-house burst open and screams echoed through to his office and the cells beyond. Horsell groaned, rubbing his already weary eyes. It was going to be
one of those nights.

He heaved himself up and walked swiftly through to the counter, where Jarred was nobly trying to calm the woman. She was dressed like one of the many prostitutes who worked the Lower Quarter of the city, down by the river where the tanners, fish markets, cheese factories and fighting pits tended to operate their slightly noisome trade. She wore brightly coloured silks and a yellow scarf, but on this night it, and her face, were sprinkled by a delicate tracing of blood.

Jarred had moved round the counter and had the woman held by both upper arms in a gentle but firm grip, and was trying to talk her down from her fast, impenetrable babble.

“Madam,” said Horsell, “you need to calm down.” For some reason, his deep, resonant tones brought a sudden hush to the watch-house front desk. He moved closer to her, and Jarred released her, taking a step back in deference.

“Did she tell you anything?” asked Horsell.

“All I got was ‘
wild animal
’. He gave Horsell a sideways glance, for they’d already had two reports of some kind of huge dog, or maybe wolf, loose in the city. Eaten one lady’s poodle, apparently. Scared some children. Savaged a drunk down by the rice warehouses. It was midweek. It should have been a
quiet night
…

“OK, calm down, lady. First, can you tell me your name?”

She gave him a suddenly shifty look, for the Watch were not renowned for their leniency when whores strayed from their designated areas. He waved away her look. “Just so I know who I’m speaking to.”

“Galina, sir.”

“And is that blood on your scarf, Galina?”

“It is, Captain Horsell. Well the thing is, I was out walking the streets with Jade, we were standing under a streetlamp, stamping our feet for ’t’as grown terribly cold now winter is coming fast, and this carriage pulls up. He was a right portly gentleman, and balding, with a face like a pig’s anus, but his carriage was sleek and black, the two horses in good health…” she took a deep breath, and her eyes grew haunted, “and we hears this growling sound, like a big dog, and it leapt and brought down the two horses in one bound, crushing them, snapping with long fangs, like, and it was rightly terrible. It turned on the carriage, biting at the wood, and we ran, and we heard the portly gentleman’s screams and the thing
came after us
…” She paused, gulping, as Jarred placed a wooden tankard of water before her. She took it thankfully, draining it in one.

“What happened next?”

“It came down Groper’s Alley, and I am ashamed to say I ran from Jade, cutting right and heading here, like. I shouted for her to follow. But she didn’t. I heard some screams. They must have been her. Oh please, Captain Horsell, please go and look for her. Take your sword!”

“You say this wolf brought down
two horses
in one leap? No wolf can do that.”

“It was not a wolf, sir.” Her words were soft, her chest rising and falling fast in her panic above a tight corset the colour of blood.

“What was it?”

“It… it was like a dog, but big as a lion. But, twisted. Its head was twisted to one side. It bit a horse’s head clean off!”

Horsell took Jarred to one side. “Have you smelt her breath?”

“Gin?”

“Aye, I reckon. And too much of it by the sound of her. But that is blood on her scarf, so we’d better check it out. Have Darka and Lantriack checked in?”

“No, sir. They’re due.”

“This is what we’ll do. You stay here, I’ll head down Groper’s Alley and try and retrace this woman’s footsteps…”

Boots pounded the cobbles outside and Lantriack spun into the watch-house. He looked dishevelled, panicked, and that was not like Lantriack. Lantriack was the calm professional who could both talk any enraged drunk down, and had the natural presence to command respect when he decided to crack heads with his Peacemaker. Lantriack did not panic easily, and yet here he was – red in the face, eyes wild, lips wet, breath coming fast.

“Captain Horsell! You’d better come quick. There’s been some murders!”

“
Some
murders?”

“Women.” Lantriack gulped. “Seven women!”

Horsell rounded on Jarred. “Stay here. With her. Don’t let her leave.” He grabbed his Peacemaker, stared at it for a moment, tossed it aside and grabbed his short sword. This was not a night to be half-prepared.

Reena’s Palace was just down Fisherman Black’s Lane, across from the Fish Hex Market. It wasn’t, as the name suggested, a palace at all, but rather a narrow two storey house wedged between a spice shop and an open-fronted food pit which sold slabs of roasted pig for two copper pieces.

Captain Horsell was panting as he arrived, and a light falling of a snow was frosting the cobbles in white. Darka was standing in the doorway, eyes wide, stamping his feet to ward off the cold, and behind him was a young pretty girl of no more than sixteen years; obviously a “lady in training”.

“Upstairs,” said Darka, grimly, and his face told the tale.

Horsell stooped to speak to the girl. “You called this in?”

She nodded, mute with terror.

Horsell took the stairs three at a time, long legs eating the ascent, left hand holding his scabbard tight against his trews to stop it slapping. He stopped on the landing, a sudden movement as if he’d hit a portcullis.

The first woman lay a few feet from the stairs. Her hands were stretched out towards Horsell, as if in pleading; as if she’d been crawling to escape when…
whatever it was
had bitten off both her legs. Thick puddles of blood, gore, stray ligaments and tendons and wispy straggles of torn skin led like a trail in a V from the woman’s body trunk. Horsell met her glassy eyes, and looked away.

Carefully, he stepped over her remains, but could not avoid the blood. It was everywhere. Horsell had been in several battles, and witnessed various murder scenes; but this was something else. Like somebody had tipped buckets of blood over the floor. It was obscene. And unavoidable… he left bloody footprints on his way to the main room of the brothel, and stood in the doorway for a moment, shaking, eyes wide, before stepping to one side and throwing up his supper.

Lantriack came in, stepping over the first body.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. Yes.” Their eyes met. “By the Holy Mother, what in hell’s teeth did this?”

“I truly do not know,” said Lantriack. He stood alongside Horsell, and together they once more surveyed the scene. There were six bodies – or so they would discover the following day, after the pieces were laid out on sheets in the street and crudely put back together again. Here, though, and now, they were strewn around the room. No single body was intact. Legs, arms, hands, feet, heads, teeth, hair, all were mingled with buckets of blood, with torn clothing, with shoes and jewellery that glittered under the oozing crimson. As Horsell’s gaze moved slowly around the room, looking for clues, looking for
any
clue, he saw a finger here still wearing a ruby ring, a section of face there (which appeared to be smiling but in reality was probably screaming), there, an unrecognisable lump of meat, there a…

“What
is
that?” said Horsell.

“It’s a breast, sir.”

“We need to find who did this, Lantriack.” Their eyes met. “And kill him.”

“Or it, sir.”

“You think a wild animal did this?”

“I used to live on a farm when I was a lad, sir. We kept horses, cattle and also chickens. One winter’s night, a fox broke into the chicken pen; thirty it slaughtered, in a frenzy of killing madness. It couldn’t possibly eat that much, but it murdered every chicken in that hut. This… this scene kind of reminds me of that. A wild animal gone crazy with bloodlust.”

“Whatever it is, it’s powerful. To pull a woman apart like that…”

“What shall we do, sir?”

“Emergency call out to all guards. And send messages to General Caltor at the garrison barracks. We might need their help. And, I expect, we should inform King Yoon.”

Lantriack met Horsell’s eye for a moment. “That won’t do any good, sir,” he said, his words quiet and neutral. “In fact, in might do a lot of bad.”

“And yet we must,” said Horsell. “Go on. Get on to Caltor first; he can summon more men than I.”

Lantriack saluted and back-tracked down the stairs, boots thudding. Horsell looked around the room at the dismembered corpses, then up and out of the small panes of glass at the window. Outside, snow had started to fall heavy.

“Winter’s coming,” he muttered, and he meant it in more ways than one.