The Iron Wolves (25 page)

Ragorek thrashed and kicked and choked with the powerful mud-orc claws around his throat, and slowly, slowly died…

And then the mud-orc’s head vanished, and the grip relaxed, and Dek pulled the creature clear of his brother, grinned darkly through a mask of blood splashes, and offered Ragorek his blood-slippery hand.

“Better stick with me, old man. Don’t want you getting killed!”

Rag rolled to his feet and grabbed his sword, rubbing at his heavily bruised windpipe. When he spoke, it was a husky croak. “Thanks, Dek. I mean it.”

Dek looked at him hard. “Yeah. Well I reckon nobody gets to kill you except me,” he grunted, and launched a blistering attack at two mud-orcs which returned it with deafening bellows, charging the pugilist. They clashed in a flurry of blades and blows, leaving one dead, the second staggering forward without its axe-arm. It carried on past Dek, and Ragorek stabbed it through the eye.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ll remember that.”

Kiki felt wooden and clumsy. She had two left feet and two broken thumbs. Her short-sword seemed too heavy, her boots full of lead, her head full of residue from the honey-leaf, which came back to haunt her, a gentle pounding, a persistent tugging. Smoke me. Taste me. Eat me.

It had been years since she had been involved in a proper, full-on battle. A real fight. To the death.

Was it always like this, she thought.

Of course,
mocked Suza.
You were always shit.
But after her fifth kill, suddenly a weight lifted from her shoulders and in a moment of red-mist epiphany the skies cleared, her mind found clarity, her body found equilibrium.

And then she danced…

She spun, and twirled, and her sword was a natural extension of her arm. She ducked and weaved with incredible grace and speed, her body flowing like liquid, her mind dropping into a zone where she no longer
thought
about combat, it just
was.
It was everywhere. Everything. Every moment that had ever existed. Every moment to come. Kiki
became
death and she moved like a ghost, a shadow, a ballerina of slaughter. Her sword flickered and the mud-orcs fell and one by one, Dalgoran, then Ragorek, then Narnok, then Dek, killed their final foes and watched Kiki dance amongst the final three beasts, killing them with such consummate ease it was a crime to pitch so few against her.

The last axe-blade was deflected, eyes cut out with a neat sideways sword slash, ending with the blade thrusting straight into the mud-orc’s throat. It quivered erect, gibbering and drooling on the end of her blade as she looked fast, left and right, seeking more foes, before she front-kicked the beast from her blade and spun it lightning fast before guiding it back to its sheath.

Beneath her feet, the earth seemed to tremble. The trees spoke to her, whispering promises as their roots coiled through earthsoil, through worldrock, and Kiki’s fingertips tingled and she could taste copper.

Her eyes came up. She met the admiring gazes of the other Iron Wolves. Then a great heavy sudden darkness slammed her, and she hit the blood-soaked, limb-scattered battleground of the snow-peppered frozen forest floor.

She could hear them speaking before consciousness fully returned.

“What happened to her?”

“It was too much. The excitement. She has a joy of battle, that one.” She could almost sense Narnok grinning.

“No.” Dek sounded worried. She could hear the rustle as he rubbed his stubbled chin. “This was something different. She’s ill. Really ill.”

“Yes,” said Dalgoran, softly. Now she could hear the crackle of flames like music, and her left side was gloriously warm from the fire. She could still smell blood and stench from the slaughtered mud-orcs. Her fingers twitched, as if seeking a blade. “I cannot betray her trust, I cannot tell you exactly what ails her. But she is very, very ill.”

“Is there nothing we can do?”

“No. Except look after her when times like this occur.”

“What happens if it’s in the midst of battle?” rumbled Narnok.

“Well, my friends, my Wolves, we must keep a close eye on her!”

The Iron Wolves rode fast for Timanta, pushing their mounts as hard as they dared. It had stopped snowing and the morning was bleak, grey, and what blue sky could be seen through the haze was the icy blue of a frozen lake, hostile and threatening and waiting to swallow an unwitting person whole into deep dark murderous depths. They stopped at noon for a cold lunch, stretching backs and chewing through tough dried beef strips and chunks of black bread. Narnok brewed a pan of water over a small fire and made sweet tea to ward off the cold, and for this the Wolves were thankful.

Kiki felt strange, and burrowed deep down into herself, alone with her thoughts rattling around her skull. She knew she was a possible weak link in their group; what would have happened if she’d collapsed during the battle with the mud-orcs? It was things like that which could get a person, or one of their companions, killed. She’d seen it before, several times, comrades-in-war dying whilst they tried to protect a sword-brother. Kiki didn’t want the deaths of any more friends on her conscience.

And now they were racing to Timanta, before cutting southwest through The Drakka and then west to Desekra Fortress. The appearance of mud-orcs had given their mission to reform and get to Desekra a new urgency. If a roving band of mud-orcs had managed to get as far north as this, then they were closer than Dalgoran could have believed possible.

The journey for the rest of the day was a brutal thing, a test of endurance as great as any had endured before. The ground was still rocky, forcing each member of the group into hard-focused concentration, and each also had to be alert for mud-orcs or splice. The world suddenly seemed a very different, and hostile, place. Their comfort blanket of expected safety had been stolen away, and now each warrior was feeling particularly exposed, looking over their shoulders constantly.

They passed a burned and gutted village. People had been slaughtered like cattle, stabbed in the back, eyes put out. Every building had been put to the flame, and Narnok dismounted, his one good eye surveying the tracks.

“Mud-orcs,” he spat, following the tracks off to the north. “Obviously the same group we slaughtered. So, they were on a mission to murder innocents, were they? I’m glad I split a head or ten open with my trusty axe.”

They left the village behind, each with a heavy heart. There was nothing worse than seeing murdered villagers, men, women and children, to really make a soldier question the nature of the world, and existence, and life. One thing was for sure. The mud-orcs were real; the threat Dalgoran promised was coming to fruition.

As they approached the city of Timanta, a sprawl of grey and black buildings nestling under the protection of the White Lion Mountains where they curved away to the east like some great sweep across the face of the world, each drew rein and sat for a while, marvelling at the beauty of the city. Then Dek turned and pointed silently, and to the west they saw the massive, black oppressive bulk of Zunder, the long extinct volcano and centrepiece of many a historical tragedy on the stage and in literature. It had long been a fascination of playwrights and poets, and historically Timanta was built on the ruins of a previous city which had been destroyed by a pyroclastic flow. Geological surveys from the University of Vagan had shown that Timanta was indeed built
above
the previous city, and that beneath them lay a massive network of caverns and ancient streets, buried houses and temples from a different age that had been claimed in one mighty, long-forgotten volcanic eruption.

Dek lowered his arm and they turned their horses towards the black-walled city.

The sun was disappearing over the mountains, a glowing orange fireball which lit their faces with golden light.

“Let’s ride,” said Dalgoran, head high, face stern, and they broke into a canter, eager to reach a tavern, warmth and civilisation before nightfall.

The twisted screaming was gone and done. Zastarte sat on the floor, his own shirt torn and tattered, his head drooping wearily, dark curls touching the stone. Ember thought he was asleep, and in her long-drawn panic dreamed of escape, or rescue. Anything to get her away from this madman whom she had just watched kill Pestrat – murder him with nothing but a burning coal, pushing it not just through the man’s eye, but onwards, deep into the brain as he screamed and screamed and thrashed and twitched, finally slumping forward, dead, and gone, and at some kind of peace; if nothing else, at least an oblivion away from pain.

Pestrat’s body hung limp in chains. Zastarte was silent, brooding.

Ember noticed several candles flicker as a draught eased from somewhere deep in the cellar system. Her heart leapt. Had a door opened? Was somebody here to rescue her? Was she going to be saved? Please, by the Holy Mother and the Seven Sisters,
please
let it be one of the handsome guards from the City Watch! Heroes! Men of Iron! But then, and her brow twisted into a frown, wasn’t
Prince Zastarte
supposed to be one of the Iron Wolves? Wasn’t
he
supposed to be a Hero of Iron?

Footsteps came through the cellar, and Ember’s heart leapt in joy. It was a woman! Sweet Mother of God, it was a woman! Come to save her! Come to take her away from the cruelty and torture and death.

She was tall and athletic, a natural warrior by her catlike movements. Her hair was bobbed and brown, her eyes dark in this gloomy subterranean vault. She glanced at Ember, but no emotion passed across her face.

Ember felt her soul fall away into darkness.

The woman approached Zastarte, then stopped. When she spoke, her words were low and gentle. “Prince? You have fallen a long way, my friend.”

Zastarte chuckled and his head snapped up fast. So much for him being weary, or asleep. His eyes met those of the woman and for a long, long time they both remained silent. Then the woman’s head turned and she surveyed the handiwork of the ruined cadaver chained to the wall.

“What
are
you doing?”

“Righting wrongs.”

“I’d like to believe that. But what about her?” She gestured backwards with her thumb. Emba’s heart fluttered in panic.

“Don’t judge me, Kiki. That was always the problem with you; you were a fucking judgemental bitch who had far too much to say.” He stood, and pushed past her to drop the glowing coal into the sizzling brazier. Then he turned to a bowl of water and washed his hands, then splashed water into his face. Taking a towel, he dried his skin before glancing at Ember, then looking sideways at Kiki.

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Dalgoran is reforming the Iron Wolves. Vagandrak is about to be invaded by mud-orcs and terrible creatures. But obviously, you are far too busy here with your…” she glanced around, face wrinkled in distaste, “
playthings
, to be worried about the good of the fucking people. What happened to you, Zastarte? You were a noble man, once.”

“Noble men grow tired, and bitter, and cynical,” he said, throwing the towel to one side.

“You can walk away from this. From this kind of life.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You think so? You think I don’t have a commitment here?”

“A commitment? What, to torture?”

“To putting things right,” he said, dark eyes hooded. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I wouldn’t expect
any
of you bastards to understand. Heroes. Ha! They called us heroes because we were good, we were fast, we were hard; putting a blade into the eyes or throat of a living creature doesn’t make you a hero; slicing somebody’s throat, cutting open their bowels, hacking off arms and fucking legs. What’s heroic about that? War is justification for inhuman slaughter.”

“The mud-orcs
were
inhuman.”

He flapped a hand. “Just a formality. It wouldn’t have mattered to the politicians and the King if it had been men instead of scary beasts. Whoooo! Stories to frighten small children with. Murder to achieve votes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Tarek engineered the whole fucking incident, had Morkagoth on his fucking payroll, set the whole thing up to secure his throne against insurgency. After all, it was good old Tarek who saved the people, saved Vagandrak; without him, the people would be enslaved, or dead in their beds. They had a lot to thank him for. No wonder they showered us with jewels! But then, there never could have been a doubt. It was all a sham.”

“Is that what you really believe? Then you’re more twisted than the cancer eating my soul.”

“Oh, cancer is it, now? Don’t be trying to pluck at my heart strings. All my strings snapped a long time ago. Left them entwined on a distant battlefield with a dead sorcerer and my honour pissed out through my boots.”

“You took the money, the jewels, the lands, Prince.”

“Oh yes,” he said, and moved closer.

Kiki tensed. Zastarte had always been an unpredictable son of a bitch.

She could smell his sweat, smell his perfume, smell his pleasure. Her eyes narrowed. If he tried anything, she’d kill him.

Well. She’d try…

He circled her, like a predator. Then took a step back.

“What’s Dalgoran offering?”

“A chance to redeem your soul,” said Kiki, softly.

“Done!” Zastarte clapped his hands suddenly, and laughed. “I was getting bored, anyway. There’s only so many ways to torture a person. Only so many platitudes they can wail and scream and bubble.” He moved behind the trembling Ember, and grabbed a fresh silk shirt, pulling it over his head. The lace ruffs at neck and collar were pristine white. He dabbed a touch of perfume on his skin, then moved in front of Ember. He looked down at her. “What am I going to do with you, my pretty?”

“P… p… p…” she managed.

Zastarte glanced back at Kiki. “You think I should release her?”

“You do what you think is right,” said Kiki, eyes hard.

“I’ll release her,” said Zastarte, and undid the shackles with an iron key.

Ember climbed up from the bench, rubbing her wrists, eyes darting from Zastarte to Kiki and back again, as if this was all some cruel joke. She licked her lips and took an experimental step sideways.

“Go on, my chicken. Off you cluck.” He pointed. “That way. Down the tunnel. Can’t have you using the front door.”

“Wh… where does it lead?”

“Don’t worry, it leads out to another cellar and there are steps up to a different street. But… and this is a promise… don’t tell anybody what happened here.” He grinned, and stroked his chin. “Or I’ll come and find you. So, hush. Yes? Now go. Before I change my mind.”

Ember ran into the gloom, and quickly vanished.

Kiki looked at him. “That was the truth, wasn’t it? You’ve not sent her off into some terrible trap?”

Zastarte spread his hands, eyes sparkling, mouth a wide smile, face the humorous mask of an astonished nobleman; in an instant he was transformed from evil to joy, from torturer to regent. Kiki frowned, annoyed at how easily he could switch on his charisma. It made him a dangerous individual.

“Would I lie to you?” he purred.