The Iron Wolves (36 page)

Narnok coughed and choked on dust, and wondered for a split second how much being crushed to death was going to hurt. He hadn’t wanted to die so young, although he acknowledged he was far from being a spring chicken. Indeed, most days he felt truly invincible, despite his age, despite the scars, despite having only one eye! But here, and now, acting like a damn fool hero in a role he should have left to the young and the strong, to those more readily willing to carve themselves a pedestal in the Hall of Heroes, he’d gone and got himself fucking killed. You stupid old fool, he chastised himself.

The fortress around him rumbled and groaned, shaking, filled with dust and falling stone, and for a moment it felt like the whole of Sanderlek had come down on him. The world was rocking as if in the throes of a huge earthquake, and Narnok tried to turn and run but was swiftly battered down, hit in the head by a huge block which knocked him sideways and instantly unconscious.

Narnok’s dreams were sweet. He dreamt of Katuna, holding her close after making love, his seed in her womb, praying that it would find its way to her egg, so they could produce children, so he could become a father! He smelled the oil in her dark curls, and she slept with his great arms around her, protecting her from the evils of the night; the evils of the world. Even in the dark he could see her olive skin, soft and smooth and gorgeous, and he ran his fingers down her arm, marvelling that a woman so ravishingly beautiful could have not just taken him to bed, but chosen him to spend the rest of her life alongside; partners in crime, for the rest of eternity. “We will die together, my sweet,” he whispered to her sleeping form, “and we will be buried together at the old cemetery on Heroes Walk.” Then Xander’s face flashed into his mind, mouth wide and screaming, teeth sharp like daggers and plunging down to tear off his face…

He woke up coughing, in a panic, trying to turn but realising he was trapped, pinned down by Xander who had his razors sharp and ready and the acid in its bottle dripping to burn out his eye.

He breathed in deep, confused, choking on dust, and panic was his master for several minutes and he screamed and heaved and pushed and struggled and tried to escape. Gradually he tired enough to pause, and engage his brain, and think, and retrace his steps.

Mud-orcs. Splice. Invasion.

Sanderlek. Tunnel breach!

He’d brought down the roof. Ahh.
Ahhh!
Horse shit.

Narnok lay there for a long while, and he could not feel his legs. That wasn’t good, that wasn’t. He flexed both hands, and could move them, and most of his arms. The darkness was complete around him, so utter and total and black he could be lying in (shhhh)
his tomb.

Fear gnawed at him. Like a rat feeding on his intestines.

Yes, there had been the possibility of being crushed alive when he embarked on his foolhardy bloody stupid attempt to bring down the roof and seal the tunnel from the splice. He’d kind of romantically imagined he would flee along the tunnel, rocks tumbling down behind him, before making a last desperate dash and flinging himself out onto the winter grass beyond. The soldiers would laugh and pat him on the back and call him a hero. He’d beam at them like a village idiot, and say something inane and uproarious. “When I party, I always bring the roof down!” Har har har. Indeed.

What he hadn’t anticipated was being buried. Truly.
Buried
alive.

“HEY!” he shouted, but the sound reverberated back, stinging his own ears with its amplified volume and he winced. He quietened down and listened, to see if he could hear any sounds of digging. Surely they’d rescue him, wouldn’t they? But then, they
were
in the middle of a battle. Would they even have time, between fending off mud-orc attacks and simply trying to stay alive?

Of course they wouldn’t. They’d assume him dead. And they all had their own problems.

“Damn. Damn and bloody bollocks,” he muttered, and touched the stone above him. It was a huge flat slab. Subtly, he felt it shift. His hands explored the parameters; it was a damn sight bigger than him. If it came down, it’d crush him like a bug under a boot.

So, what now? Dig my own way out?

He lay for a while, wondering what to do, before he realised there was nothing he
could
do. He was good and trapped. Good and buried. Good and fucking dead.

He touched the block above him with both hands, tracing the smoothness of the stone. When they had been
made
Iron Wolves, Dalgoran and the others, the magick makers had explained that the magick came from the bones of the thousands slain in the Pass of Splintered Bones. It was part of the death-magick that ran through the very bedrock of the mountains. And Desekra Fortress was
part
of the mountains; part of that bedrock, built and created from the very stone infused with the power of life and death and law and chaos.

“Help me,” he said, staring into the darkness. “Desekra! I am one of your Iron Wolves. My friends are heading into the heart of darkness and I need to be there with them! I invoke you! I invoke the power of the Iron Wolves!”

And it came to him, he felt it, the magick in the stone, the energy stored deep within every atom of this massive fortress. And Desekra did not speak to him; there were no words or thoughts or ideas, simply a
feeling.
And that feeling was:
prepare yourself.
And Narnok prepared himself, and felt that surge of raw power like which he had not experienced for so many years; he felt the magick of the
shapeshifter
, and it started deep inside his bones, at their core, and he felt them turn to iron. They began to grow, and Narnok readied himself for the
pain
, and readied himself for the
change
, and readied himself for the absolute total
agony
to come.

Queen Orlana had stood outside her war tent, breathing the cold winter air of this human world. She watched, a little in dismay, as the tunnel was brought crashing down and she realised: King Yoon’s favour was gone. Either by understanding, or death, or betrayal. It did not matter. The fool with whom she had communicated was no longer in control. The idiot with whom she had
bargained
was no longer in a position to bargain. And she smiled. At least it had been an
interesting
situation. To watch one in such a position of power crumble like cheese.

Still. It mattered little.

She gazed across her ranks of mud-orcs. Ninety thousand strong and still growing as her scouts scoured the lands of Zakora for more flesh to feed the mud-pits, feeding the magick, growing the mud-orcs, creating the soldiers she needed to achieve…

Ahhh.

No need to know that, just yet.

Yoon had amused her greatly. “What do you want with my land? My home country? My Vagandrak?”

“I do not want your pathetic world,” she’d said.

“Then why invade?”

“I want what is beyond.”

“Explain?”

“Use your mind, man! It was what you were born with!”

And still he did not understand. And now, probably, he was dead. She shrugged. She examined her fingernails. It did not matter. Tomorrow, she would throw everything at Desekra. She had three thousand splice in the Skarandos Mountains, and surely thousands had died. But many would have survived, and would mass behind Desekra, where it was at its most vulnerable, where they least expected attack. She would hit them from both sides. Take the damned place. Overrun it, and head…

Beyond.

Into Vagandrak.

And
beyond.

But now, she stood and enjoyed the evening air of this alien place. This alien world. She had summoned two of her generals, and chuckled to herself as she realised one was not necessarily a
general,
but considered himself a
king.
But then, all idiots realise the truth too late, she thought. All are consumed by arrogance and ignorance and vastly exaggerated self-importance. It was simply the way of the world. From politicians to academics to the ones supposedly
in power
.

For Orlana, it was one of humanity’s greatest triumphs.

A natural order, an in-built pre-programmed aptitude for self-destruction.

The need to better the next man, to the exclusion of all fellow men.

It made her life
so much easier.

Zorkai had been taken to bed, and Orlana fucked him like she’d never fucked him before. He felt them fuse together, as one, as he pumped himself inside her and felt himself turned inside out, and he saw black stars in a black endless universe and suddenly understanding came to him: she was using him for something elemental, something to do with earth and blood and soul magick. And after the long hours, when she finally allowed him to withdraw like a withered, shrivelled shell, he felt utterly dirty and used and usurped. He was no longer the King of Zakora. He was no longer king.

He turned over on the sheets, head on his arm, and listened to the distant sounds of battle. Where once it had been music to him, now it was pain. Where once it had been a prelude to immortality, now it was a prologue to oblivion.

Zorkai rolled from the sheets, where Orlana slept like a pale white statue, and slowly he reached for his short sword. His brow furrowed. Yes. It was decided. He would run the bitch through, and go home... and the Vagandrak soldiers? Well, they were all big boys. They weren’t his problem. He’d had enough. Enough of the slaughter of his people. Of the stench of the mud-orcs. Of the squealing and drooling of the splice. But most of all, most sickeningly of all, of being the bastard pointless puppet of another human being. Well. Another
creature,
he told himself. And shuddered.

He lifted the blade. It felt good and solid and real in his hands. He would decapitate the bitch. Remove her fucking head. See if that didn’t send her flowing back to whatever shit-hole she’d squirmed from like a poisonous cold-skinned reptile…

That’s it. That’s what she reminded him of.

A snake. A big, white, albino snake – in the shell of a woman.

And the best way to kill a snake was to remove its head.

He eased forward in total silence, the sword lifting a little as he readied himself for the killing stroke.

“Better leave this one to us, Zorkai,” came a low, husky voice from the gloom at the back of the tent, just behind him.

Zorkai blinked, as his eyes adjusted, and he saw… four soldiers, and yet they were
not
soldiers. Even as he watched they were changing, their skin darkening, hairs like iron bristles starting to ease across their skin.

Orlana suddenly rolled from her sheets, completely naked, crouched on all fours, and her mouth folded back open until her whole head was nothing more than one huge fang-rimmed hole. She screamed at Zorkai, and the blast picked him up, stripped fat streamers of skin from his flesh, and blasted him backwards through the wall of the tent.

She turned on the Iron Wolves, face rolling back to a rough approximation of a woman like melted wax down the soft flanks of a candle; and she grinned at them. Slowly, she unfolded from the crouch and looked down her nose.

“Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Didn’t look that way to me,” growled Dek. “Looked like you were asleep, snoring and having dreams of happy slaughter.” His voice was thick, rolling slowly around his gradually emerging fangs. His face, also, was changing, as progressively a muzzle pushed its way from the lower portion of his face. And when he spoke, his teeth were no longer white, but the silver grey of polished iron. “Easy meat for the swords of the Iron Wolves.”

“I have been expecting you, because my splice failed to neutralise your threat. And after that dead fool Dalgoran revealed your existence to me through the lines, and illustrated exactly what you did to Morkagoth… Well. I have been awaiting this time. This meeting. With some relish, in fact.” She smiled, showing perfect teeth.

“I like it when a murdering bitch acknowledges her impending time for death,” said Zastarte. His curls were no longer curls, but a great dark mane. His eyes were larger, had shifted more around the sides of his skull, and were the gleaming colour of iron. His arms were longer, and thicker, and his fingers had turned into claws.

“You carry the old magick in your bones,” said Orlana, words almost a whisper. “Which is impressive.
Eain doam shalsoar.
The Art of the Shapeshifter. And yet you are not as dangerous as you think… You are merely kittens, mewling helplessly for their mother. You are newborns, without true control of your power. Indeed, without any understanding of the power you possess. You think the
shapeshifter
is simply about becoming another creature?” She laughed, a short cruel bark as the Iron Wolves tensed for battle. “But then, this is no time for debate. Or education.” Her eyes gleamed and her voice accelerated in volume. “TUBODA!”

The huge splice was there in an instant, appearing through the silk tent flaps to loom over Orlana protectively, like a mighty lion over its cub. Compared to the others, he was truly huge, his muzzle bent, fangs and claws twisted and broken, rippling with huge muscles and a jaw and bite bigger than any puny lion.

“This is Tuboda, my Prime,” said Orlana sweetly. “He will explain things to you. He will… educate you.”

Tuboda roared, head lowering and moving from left to right and back, a massive scream of air flowing back through the thick fur of the Iron Wolves. Now they dropped their weapons as slowly their bodies completed the transformation, as they shapeshifted from human to… not wolves, exactly, but some nightmare artist’s impression of a cross between wolf and demon. The curse was complete.

“Dek,” said Kiki through a muzzle thick with fangs.

Dek and Tuboda leapt at the same time, hammering together above Orlana’s bed sheets with a mighty
smack
of impacting flesh and muscle and bone. Amidst savage snarling fangs they snapped and slashed at one another, great limbs wrapping around like two big cats wrestling. Tuboda’s claws slashed, cutting a long line down Dek’s flank and he howled, ducking a swipe of twisted paw as his own claws raked Tuboda’s mighty chest. Claws flashed and slashed, and Dek stepped back, lowered a shoulder and charged Tuboda, but the splice saw the move, side-stepped and grabbed Dek by the scruff as he charged past. With toss of his head, he threw Dek from the tent and charged suddenly at Kiki, Zastarte and Trista, his fangs snapping, claws slashing, and for a moment everything became a chaos of razor fangs and flailing limbs, lethal claws and powerful thudding blows. Tuboda was fearsome indeed, smashing Trista aside, then Zastarte, and aiming himself straight for Kiki’s throat, huge expanded lion’s muzzle chewing and straining… Kiki leapt at him, her own head smashing Tuboda’s aside as Dek appeared back in the tent, grabbed the brazier between both claws, lifted it and hurled it at Tuboda. A raft of glowing coals hit the splice, igniting its fur, which went up in a sudden blaze, setting fire to the tent, which itself went up within a heartbeat. Flames screamed through the tent and the Iron Wolves rolled from the blaze, out into the cold night, and waited… Tuboda came charging out, fur on fire, roaring an attack straight for Kiki’s throat. They slammed together, going down in a snarling hammering smashing ball of violence. And then Orlana strode from the flames, naked, unmarked, head held high, a smile on her lips. Dek launched at her, claws slashing for her throat, but she shifted with a subtle movement, and punched him in the heart sending him accelerating across the rough ground to roll over twenty or thirty times before coming to a halt in the dust.

As Kiki fought for her life against Tuboda, their claws raking at one another, heads smashing together, fangs seeking to get a hold on the other’s throat to deliver that killing blow, so Zastarte and Trista, working as a team, attacked Orlana. Hardly seeming to move, she punched them from the air, one then the other, massive blows of energy that sent them flailing across the dry earth in ploughed furrows of mud.

With a roar Dek charged Tuboda’s side, knocking him from his dominant position above Kiki, and Dek’s muzzle drove deep into Tuboda’s flesh, snapping ribs and chewing through meat in search of the beating heart within. Tuboda screamed, great mouth lifting to roar at the velvet heavens, and Dek pulled out, snarling chewing muzzle dragging free muscle and tendons and splinters of bone. Tuboda spun around, but Kiki leapt on his back, jaws fastening over his head and biting down with all the might of her iron fangs. A huge chunk of Tuboda’s head came away with a crunch, and Kiki spat out a rock-sized lump of fur and skull and brain. Tuboda hit the ground with a thud, and lay there, panting, great tawny eyes watching them. Dek’s claws slashed Tuboda’s throat, ripping it free trailing skin and muscle. Blood pumped out, staining the soil. In a great shuddering spasm, Tuboda died.

The Iron Wolves padded to stand together, facing Orlana. She was smiling at them. “You cannot stand against me,” she said, simply.

“We will try,” growled Kiki.

“The prophecy said ‘Wolves unite’. You are not united. There is one missing. One buried beneath the fortress.”

“This is true.” Kiki’s iron eyes fixed on Orlana. “What do you want here, Orlana? Why attack our people? Why invade our land?”

Orlana laughed, a rich peal. “I don’t want your pathetic country. I want to take my army through the Pass of Splintered Bones and… beyond. I have my own agenda. One that does not concern you.”

“But on the route, you will slaughter thousands?”

“The Mud-Pits need to be fed if I want more mud-orcs. And I will always need more mud-orcs. They serve my purpose, Kiki. You are powerful indeed, Iron Wolves. If you joined with me, if you helped me with my cause, you would be very well rewarded.”

“I do not think so,” said Kiki, head lowering.

“Dalgoran cursed you well, with the magick of the Equiem.”

“It is a curse we will lift. When we have killed you.”

Orlana laughed again, that beautiful, tinkling sound that cut through the grind of savage battle like a diamond blade cutting glass. “I am a denizen of the Furnace,” she said, the smile falling from her face and her dark eyes fixing on Kiki. “I cannot be killed.”

“Let’s find out,” said Kiki.

Kiki, Dek, Zastarte and Trista spread out, growling. Each was bigger than any wolf, their fur like iron bristles, their teeth silver iron, their claws razor daggers, their huge shaggy heads towering above heavily muscled bodies. Moonlight glinted from their metallic fur, and their saliva drooled like mercury spools.

They charged, as one, but Orlana lifted both hands and her eyes closed for a moment. There was no sound, no bright fire, no explosions or sparks or screams. Just a silent
pulse
of energy, of Equiem magick funnelled up from the bedrock of the mountains and channelled
at
the Iron Wolves. They were picked up and sent spinning away, end over end, to hit the ground hard, rolling over in the dust and the mud, stunned and bruised. They leapt up, snarling, and widened their circle, charging in at Orlana from different directions. Orlana spun like a ballerina, both hands outstretched, and again the Iron Wolves were blasted away to lie in heaps, battered and stunned. If they had been human, they would have been broken and crushed into an easy death.