by Andy Remic
The creature slumped slowly back, like a balloon deflating, and was still.
Blood pooled in a huge puddle from under black and grey fur, and Dalgoran turned, eyes sweeping the carnage and the shocked faces of his birthday party guests. He rolled his sword in his wrist, and took a cloth from a guard, wiping the blood and gore from the blade.
Jagged came up beside him, along with Vornek and Kalum, both high-ranking military officers, all with bloodied swords.
“The words, the words of the seer,” said Jagged, face drained of blood.
“And now this,” said Dalgoran, and gave a solemn nod. “I know what you’re thinking. Morkagoth. The mud-orcs. But… we killed him, Jagged. The Wolves killed him. We drove those mud-orcs back to the slime.”
“This stinks like a dog corpse,” said Vornek. “We need to go to the King. We need to warn him.”
“Eighty percent of the army have been stood down by Yoon over the past six months,” said Kalum. “The seer said ‘Mud born, blood rage’. If it is, the mud-orcs are on the march again, and Drakerath Fortress is stupidly undermanned. Yoon needs to recommission the army; we need men on those walls.”
“And if the seer was talking nonsense?” said Dalgoran.
“You disbelieve her words?”
Dalgoran said nothing, brow furrowed. “Her words, on their own, would have done nothing. But that… creature. In fifty years of soldiering I have never seen anything like it. Where did it come from? And more importantly, are there more?”
“The times are changing,” said Jagged, gently. “That creature alone needs reporting to the King. As for the seer’s words? I only believe in iron and blood and soldiering. I brought her here for fun. And look what happened.”
“The creature came for her,” said Dalgoran. “Maybe its intention was to stop her speaking? Stop the warning? But it was too late and she delivered her message. It failed in its mission.”
The men mulled this over and Dalgoran waved over a servant. “Find Granesh. I want horses saddling, with full battle gear. I want packs with food and water ready within the hour. I have a journey to make.”
“I’ll come with you to see King Yoon,” said Jagged.
“I, also,” said Vornek, and was echoed by another six or seven of the military men present.
“I am not going to Yoon. Not yet, anyway.”
“Where, then?” frowned General Jagged.
“There’s a war coming; I can feel it in my bones.” General Dalgoran sheathed his sword, took several deep breaths, back stiff, head high. His bleak eyes surveyed each man in turn, like a hawk weighing up the kill. “And you heard the seer, gentlemen. I must go to Rokroth. It’s time the Wolves came home.”
OLD HONEY
You’re a tart, a bitch and a cheap whore. You suck men in like a whirlpool, gain their trust, then rob them, abuse them, kill them. I despise what you have become, sister. What happened to your nobility? Your honour? What happened to the little girl who ran with flowers in her hair? What happened to the girl who sailed boats on the lake? What happened to the girl who loved her sister?
“It was never like that, Suza. You have romanticised the past. You have created fabulous scenarios that never existed; father was a tough man, a man of iron and steel. He worked us hard. Trained us hard with sword and spear and bow. We were taught to fight! How can you not remember that?”
We were children, bitch. And father simply had our best interests at heart. He was preparing us for a wicked world, an evil world, a world that does not suffer fools. And we were iron, Kiki. Tough as old leather. But what happened to you? You were his star pupil, his little girl, his little battle princess. And look at you now! There was laughter, but this was nothing to do with humour. This was mockery laced with a web of hate.
“And now it comes out, Suza, doesn’t it? The real lodestone of your pathetic fucking poison. This is nothing to do with how I treat men, or how I live my life now. This is to do with how father treated me; and how he treated you.”
Shut up.
“So, I was his little battle princess, was I? That’s because I chose to go into the army, whereas you chose to marry young, tend your roses and fire out a child. Hardly my fault! You took the easy path. You walked with pansies, whilst I took hold of thorns and wrung their fucking necks.”
Easy path! shrieked Suza. You dare to say I took the easy path? Oh you bitch, Kiki; you absolute back-stabbing nasty evil lump of horse shit. You know my baby died! You know it turned my mind inside out with grief! How can you criticise me for that? How can you mock my pain, my trauma, my grief…
“Shh,” said Kiki, “not here, not now; I’m too tired, too strung out, the pain is back, the pain…” and she could feel it rising, a thumping drumbeat like an earthquake, that climbed up her spine from the tumour inside her, climbed like crawling vine tentacles until they blossomed with black leaves which wrapped around her brain and squeezed, gently, but with such incredible eternal pressure like sliding land plates that it made her scream.
Kiki screamed, and screamed, and screamed; and Suza laughed as she disappeared like drifting campfire smoke.
Kiki’s eyes opened and she groaned. Her mouth was dry. The pain thumped through her head like a horse repeatedly kicking her. The light was blinding and she closed her eyes again, breathed deeply through rat-breath, tried to calm the trembling in her hands and arms and entire body.
Honey-leaf, screamed her body.
Give me the honey-leaf.
Kiki forced her eyes open again, knowing that if she could just find one single leaf, or even a portion of a leaf, and ease it under her tongue like a magic pill then the world would fade away, and it would be a gentle release, dissolved, not this mortal agony which raged through her like a shamathe’s elemental storm. She clawed herself into a sitting position and realised the light was not actually bright; just cracks from around the curtains. She blinked and licked her lips. She needed her pouch. Her little black pouch. She scrambled across the tangled bed sheets and stopped, suddenly, mid-crawl.
There was somebody else in the room. He was seated in the single comfort chair in the gloom.
Images of Lars and violent guards came flooding back through the treacle of her memories and Kiki launched herself off the bed to where she kept her sabre – but it was gone.
There came a small, rhythmical tapping sound from the chair.
“Looking for this?”
A deep voice. Male. Strong. It filtered through clouds of pain. It wormed through Kiki’s withdrawal with just a tiny hint of recognition.
“Who are you?” Her words were slurred. She staggered, fell to the bed, and she felt more than heard or saw the man stand and lean her sabre against the wall. He moved towards her, and she lashed out with a fist, but he stepped back and she fell to the bare floorboards and groaned.
“Kiki. It’s me. Dalgoran.”
“Dalgoran?” She looked, face scrunched, flesh pale, hair lank and filthy. “It is really you?”
“It’s really me,” he said, and knelt, and took her in his arms and she began to cry, great sobs which came from deep inside her, welling up and bursting free with a decade of fear and frustration and terror.
Kiki snuggled into his arms, sobbing, and could smell smoke, and horses, and the oil he used to sharpen his iron blade; and a world of memories came rushing in, an eternity of memories came rushing back, hard days on the parade ground, marching, mock combat, training to be Wolves. Training to be Iron Wolves…
“I missed you,” she said, eyes full of tears, and drifted away into sleep.
When Kiki woke again, it was to the smell of frying bacon. She yawned, and at least the banging in her head had gone, although she was still trembling. More importantly, Suza had left her in peace; which meant pleasant – silent – dreams.
She sat up slowly, and realised she was dressed in a long, soft, cotton nightdress. She dug around the untidy room, pulling out socks, trousers, boots and a thick woollen shirt. She glanced out the window
to see a thin scattering of snow on the street down below. There came a series of clangs from the smithy across the street, and the rattle of horse hooves over cobbles as some noblemen rode past.
In the small kitchen, Dalgoran had lit the cast iron stove and was frying bread in lard. Kiki stepped in and leant against the door frame, watching the old general. He was just as she remembered; like the last time they had spoken. Well. Argued. Only now his hair was grey instead of black with streaks, his face a little more lined, but still strong, proud, almost ageless in its cast. He wore a smart black uniform but without insignia, and it was bulked, betraying a chainmail vest beneath. His boots were polished to a shine and this, strangely, made Kiki feel scruffier than ever.
“Bacon? Fried bread?” he said, without looking up.
“Yes. Thank you.” Kiki moved almost humbly to the table, and sat, and pressed her hands down hard against the wood to stop them shaking. Her mouth was dry to the point of ashes and she poured herself a wooden cup of water from a clay jug.
“I am… surprised,” he said, slowly.
“By?”
“By this,” said Dalgoran, and gave her a sideways glance. Then he went back to turning the bacon in the pan. It hissed and sizzled and the smell made Kiki feel suddenly nauseous. It was always the same after the leaf. All you wanted was another, to take away the pain. She fought it.
“This room? This house? This life?”
“Yes, this room. Have you really pissed away everything King Tarek gave you?”
“No. No.” Kiki shook her head, sipping water and watching Dalgoran over the rim of the cup. “I could buy this town ten times over. Every building in it. I like it here. Above a bakers. Across from Big Jon the Smith, who always shouts hello when I step out onto the cobbles. Back in Ganda, in my wonderful marble palace, I just rattled around like a pebble in a bucket.” She stumbled into silence.
“How did you find me?”
“I followed the honey-leaf fumes,” he said.
There was an awkward silence. “Oh,” said Kiki, finally.
Dalgoran scraped the bacon and fried bread onto a wooden platter and carried it to the table, placing it in front of Kiki. It was all she could do to not heave up the acid contents of her belly and she turned away for a few moments, taking deep breaths, trying to calm herself.
Dalgoran grabbed a rough-sawn pitch pine chair, reversed it and sat, arms folded at chest height across the back. He stared hard at Kiki, then, stared hard with those old eyes and she squirmed under the stare.
“Stop it with the guilty horse shit, will you?” she said, finally, and pushed a piece of bread around her plate.
“Eat it. It’ll make you strong again.”
“I am strong!”
“In your dreams, maybe,” said Dalgoran, more harshly than he meant.
“I could take you, old man,” she said, eyes flashing with anger. “I wasn’t your captain for no fucking reason and you know it.” She pushed her plate away, wood scraping wood.
“Is that what you want? To hurt me? To stick that pretty little sabre through my guts and watch me bleed like a pig all over your floorboards?”
“No.” Kiki retreated. Her eyes had huge dark rings. She looked… hunted. “What I meant, was…”
“Or do you want this,” said Dalgoran slowly, and pulled a small black pouch from his pocket. It was still fat with honey-leaves. Kiki’s breath caught in her throat, and the trembling in her hands returned.
“Give me that,” she said.
“No.”
“I need it,” she said, and raised her eyes to Dalgoran’s. The pity in his gaze nearly floored her. She considered that pity. From the greatest man she had ever known. From somebody she considered not just her general, but also her friend. Not just her friend, but her father. She shouldn’t have responded how she did. Instead, she felt her anger building. What was the old fool doing, coming to her after all these years, making judgements about where she lived, what she did with her time, the people she met, and the… the leaves she chose to ingest? Who the hell did he think he was? He had no right! They hadn’t spoken for ten years, and even then the words had been heated; again, his criticisms about how she lived her life. He was her general, not her damn bastard mother, and she was sick of it!
“No.” He stared at her with his hard eyes.
“No?” she shrieked, rising to her feet, face contorting into something near pain. “The leaves are mine! I bought them. They belong to me. I can do with them as I like, and I need one right now, old man.”
“It’s got you that bad, has it?”
“Ha! What would you know? I haven’t seen you for ten years. What do you care about my life and the way I’m living it? And now you break into my world, and I’m sure you think in your head you’re doing the right thing, come here to save me from myself and all that stinking rancid horse shit.” Dalgoran’s face had not changed. He was still rigid, poised, focused. “Unless… of course.” Realisation dawned. “You need me for something, don’t you, General?” She saw the flicker in his eyes, and she gave a laugh. “Last time I saw you, you began to preach like an old Church Priest on a mission to purify me. I said I’d break your jaw and you stalked off, huffing and puffing like one of those oil engines down in the factories. But now, now something has changed. What is it, General? Your wife left you and you need me to hunt her down? Somewhere warm where she’s frolicking with her new and much younger lover?”
“My wife died,” said Dalgoran, face stone, voice level. “I am on my own now, but not for the reason you say.”
Kiki paused, then shrugged, and inside a little part of her died and she hated herself for it. This is a man you love, she imagined Suza saying. And you’re on a mission to make him slit your throat. But that wasn’t it. She simply wanted…
“The honey-leaves. Give them to me.” She held out a hand, locking her eyes to his.
He met her gaze for long moments, then turned swiftly and threw the pouch through the open door of the stove. There came a sparkle and the pouch flared in the heat of the fire amongst the glowing coals, flaring into a bright splash of silver and gold.
Kiki’s cheeks flushed red and she leapt across the table, stretching for the pouch. Dalgoran caught her and she snarled and he pushed her back, hand outstretched, fingers open, but eyes hard and locked.
“You need it so much you’d lose your hand?” he said.
“You bastard. You know, know how much I need it…”
“Then it’s damn well time you stopped. Yes, you are right, there is something I want you to do. You are Kiki; Captain of Wolves. I came looking for her. Looking for my captain. But… maybe I was mistaken?”
“Maybe you were.”
“It was my birthday. As a present, some old friends brought a seer. Her prophecy spoke of mud-orcs marching, blood being shed, soldiers slaughtered; it’s happening again, Kiki. The bastards are gathering; I can feel it in these ancient bones. At the end, the chant spoke of one hope – to reunite the Wolves. That’s you. And me. And the others.”
Kiki relaxed back, sat on her chair and stared long and hard at Dalgoran.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, finally.
“Shortly afterwards, our party was crashed by… a creature.” He went on to explain the fight and the creature biting off the seer’s head and spitting the mangled bone and brain at the charging men. “I have never seen anything like it, Kiki. In all my long years. I don’t know where it came from, what dark magick conjured it from Hell or the Furnace; but it was real and it took some hard killing.” He lapsed into a brooding silence and stood, hands on hips, staring at his former captain.
“What was the full prophecy spoken by the seer?”
Dalgoran repeated the chant as best he remembered it, his eyes down, voice a low rumble. And then he glanced up to see Kiki smiling.
“That could mean anything, you old fool,” she laughed, voice full of mockery, reclining on her chair, rocking it back on two wooden feet and stretching
out her legs.
“You think so?” snarled Dalgoran, losing his cool. “I’ve come halfway across fucking Vagandrak to find you; I was looking for my captain, looking for the hard woman of iron I knew so well, a woman I loved like a daughter, so we could gather the Wolves and take them home; back to Desekra; back to the Splintered Bones. But instead, I find a whore sleeping with petty noblemen, murdering King’s Guards and filling her cheeks full of the idiotic narcotic favoured by mindless simpletons – the useless, the weak – and using the cancer in her heart to fuel her constant whining and constant fucking self-pity.”
“You know about that?” growled Kiki.
“Yes, soldier,” snapped Dalgoran, then stepped suddenly forward and smashed a hard slap across her face. The blow knocked her from the chair and her head snapped up fast, eyes glowing. She leapt at him, small blade in her fist – Dalgoran didn’t see it drawn – and within the blink of an eye had it pressed against his throat. Kiki was dangerously close.
“You’ve been watching me?” she whispered.
“A purse of silver coin buys a lot of information, in these parts.”
“Some things earn an immediate death sentence,” said Kiki, voice low, menacing, hands trembling in rage.
Dalgoran looked deep into her eyes, her face and her soul. “I have nothing but love, admiration, honour, time, patience and respect for Kiki, my Captain of the Iron Wolves. But I see you are not her. I see she left this place a long time ago. Lady, I bid you good day.”
Dalgoran knocked the blade aside as he would an annoying insect, gathered his heavy overcoat and scabbarded sword, and made for the stairs. As his boots thumped, so Kiki slumped to the floor, tears streaming down her face, knife clattering on the boards, and she lowered her head and cried into her hands and thought about his biting words: But instead, I find a whore sleeping with petty noblemen, murdering King’s Guards and filling her cheeks full of the idiotic narcotic favoured by mindless simpletons – the useless, the weak – and using the cancer in her heart to fuel her constant whining and constant fucking self-pity.
