by Andy Remic
Approaching a walled town at dusk, Orlana said nothing but simply focused, and the beasts around her surged forward, snarling and growling, and inside the stockaded walls an urgent bell began to chime in panic from a tall, angular wooden church. The high town gates were dragged shut and Orlana could hear shouts and yells and the clanking of arms. As the splice neared, a small group of men lined the walls with bows drawn – but it was too late. The splice smashed through thick wooden boards barely breaking stride, and those without such heavy, powerful bulks leapt, iron hooves scrabbling to scale the twelve foot planks, and over, and into the town. Once inside, screams echoed and the slaughter began. They charged through the streets, hooves crushing skulls, bulks charging men and women, crushing them against walls where they toppled into the mud and their heads were cracked open. Huge jaws bit off arms, showering the ground and village cottages with blood. The massacre was over in a few minutes, and the splice padded around, hunting out any survivors.
The gates were opened as Orlana approached, Tuboda by her side. Two of her creatures had found the town chief cowering inside the church, and they dragged him out, careful not to rip his arms from his round plump body.
Orlana looked him up and down, and smiled. “You know who I am?”
“No, no, I apologise, we have done nothing, we are a simple people…”
“Tell me, who is your king? Your queen?”
“Zorkai, King of Zakora. You are in his lands now.”
“His capital city is Zak-Tan, yes? In the desert, yes, close to the Mud-Pits?”
“The Mud-Pits are forbidden,” said the chief, shaking, eyes fixed to the ground as if his subservience might save him. Occasionally he glanced up at one of the quivering, snarling splice, as if maybe he thought he dreamed a nightmare and would wake up soon. But he didn’t wake up. It was real. And he stared at the ground again, wishing it would open and swallow him.
“Why forbidden?”
“It is said the Mud-Pits spawned the mud-orcs of old, when the evil sorcerer Morkagoth strode the world. It is one of our Dark Legends.”
“Ah, yes, old Morkagoth. A fool. How many men does this King Zorkai command?”
“I… I am not sure. Thousands. I am not a military man, I swear, I do not know such things…”
Orlana nodded, as behind the town chief the splice had rounded up every horse in the area. There were perhaps a hundred, their eyes glassy, ears laid back in fear beside their bulkier, larger, more fearsome counterparts. Orlana held out her hand, and closed her eyes, and the horses began to rear, whinnying, screaming, hooves pawing the air as they suddenly… began to change. Legs cracked, spines rippled, skin and muscle folded in on itself and the town chief stood with mouth hung open, eyes wide in horror and brain shutting down because he knew; knew he would never be able to sleep again.
After the change was done, Orlana let out a breath and turned to Tuboda.
“We must rest now. This place will be fine. Tomorrow we march on Zak-Tan.”
“Our army… we not… have enough,” said Tuboda, carefully, forming his words past huge, misshapen lion fangs.
“We shall see,” smiled Orlana. “Now pass the word to rest.”
“What… I do… with him?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Always,” rumbled Tuboda, eyes narrowing.
The rotund town chief looked up suddenly, a snap of his head as understanding kicked him. He squeaked in fear. He began to back away, hands held out. “No,” he said, “No, please no, have mercy!”
“He’s yours.”
Tuboda leapt, huge jaws fastening over the town chief’s head. There was a pause as they seemed locked, motionless, a snapshot in a stark flash of lightning. Then Tuboda ripped the head free, crunched easily through the skull and brain, and swallowed. The body hit the mud, and Tuboda placed a heavy paw on the dead man’s chest and looked up, lifting his great shaggy head to roar at the sky; in majesty, in exultation, in acceptance.
Then, lowering his muzzle, he burrowed through the man’s sternum and drank, and fed.
He ran through the long grass, excitement and joy thundering in his breast. She had said yes. Yes! And she was so beautiful! He could not believe it.
“She will meet you by the Scorched Willow, in one hour,” said Juranda, his best friend, grinning and patting him on the back. “You be good to her, or her father will knock out all your teeth!”
Now he ran, stretching out his muscles as he pounded the dirt track, cutting left onto a grassy hillside which he climbed with easy, loping strides eating the distance. He reached the top of the grassy slope and was momentarily blinded by the sun. He paused, shading his eyes, staring down the long grassy slope to the fast-flowing river they called the Zerantarillo, or “Loop of Life”. He could see a figure standing under the angular black branches of the Scorched Willow, which was a traditional meeting place for young lovers of his tribe when they camped in this area.
Calming his thundering heart, the racing, skipping beat having little to do with his exertions, he forced himself to walk even though he wanted to sprint as fast as he could and sweep sweet beautiful stunning funny Darlana up in his arms and deliver the biggest kiss he could. Yet he knew that would never happen. He was far too shy. Far, far too shy!
The sun was nearing its zenith and beat down with glorious warmth. The grass hissed under a cool breeze from the south. And with his heart filled with joy, he knew today was a good day to be alive.
He walked down towards the Scorched Willow, and she had her back to him.
As he got closer, he said, words so soft they could hardly be heard above the hiss of the grass, “Darlana?”
She did not turn, did not register him, and for a moment his heart fell like a rock down a well. Was Juranda playing some cruel joke? Was this some evil jest dreamed up by the other young men of the tribe? He felt his temper rising, and his fists clenched, and he would show Juranda what was funny, and what was not; that was a promise!
Then Darlana turned, and she saw him, and she smiled. Her whole face lit up!
“Juranda, well,” he said, “well, I was passing… and I saw you, and I thought.” He cursed himself and closed his yapping mouth. The more he spoke, he knew, the more he would bury himself in the dirt.
“Tuboda,” she said, softly, her voice music; the sound was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
“And I you.”
“You can step closer. I won’t bite.” And she giggled, and his heart melted, and he knew then he desired this woman more than life itself. For all eternity. He stepped closer. She reached out, shy then, lowering her eyes to the ground, her hand snaking out to stroke the back of his.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the tribe,” he said, at last.
She looked up, dark eyes flashing. “Really? But Zarind is dazzling! And the most athletic girl I’ve ever met. She can hurl a javelin two hundred paces!”
“Beside you, Zarind is a haggard old woman with a moustache,” said Tuboda.
Darlana giggled and stepped a little closer. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with humour, her eyes glittering with love. “Tuboda? I have a question.”
“Anything, my sweet.”
“Why… why have your eyes changed colour?”
He frowned. “What?”
“And, your face… it is changing, growing, expanding…” she gasped, stepping back from him in horror, and black storm clouds rushed across the sky and he could see the fear and disgust in her face as thunder rumbled and pain slashed through him like a silver sabre, and he bent, bones cracking, falling to all fours as the lion absorbed him from the inside out, and he jerked and fitted spasmodically, limbs growing, filling out with massive cords of muscle, huge curved claws ejecting from his fingers and slicing through soft loam.
Darlana screamed. “Get away! Get away from me!” and she stumbled away, crying.
Tuboda tried to speak, but realised his bent and twis
ted fangs were in the way. He forced the words out, but they were deformed and broken. “Cme… ba… ck…” he managed, and her scent filled his nostrils and his eyes narrowed and he realised he no longer wanted to hold her and kiss her; no. Now, he wanted to feed, to taste her blood and hear her bones crunch and feel her warm muscles slither down his throat.
A darkness flooded his mind, like it was in water, billowing in great expanding clouds.
What have I become? he thought.
What monster? What terrible, awful beast?
Tuboda awoke, great head on his paws, his patchy golden fur wet with tears. He stood, slowly, stretching out his legs and spine, and then forcing himself back and up onto two feet. He wasn’t sure which was more comfortable, but some lingering memory of being a man stuck with him and, for now, at least, he wished to walk upright despite the pain in his hips and lower spine.
It was near dawn. He walked through the town, down muddy streets now filled with nothing but overturned carts, the odd stray weapon and a chicken or two which clucked and ran when they noticed his approach.
A great thirst was upon him, and he moved to a well, picking his way between ten sleeping horse beasts, all lying on their sides, snoring, spluttering, drooling. Reaching the well, his claws clasped the bucket – like a tiny cup in his great paws – and he dropped it. The wheel spun, rope whining, and there was a splash.
He wound the handle awkwardly, and when the bucket arrived he stared for a long time into the shimmering reflection of his great tawny eyes.
He’d had… a dream.
He’d remembered… a woman. But even now, even as he remembered it, it floated away, like smoke on a strong breeze.
He drank.
“Are you ready for today?” said Orlana, from close behind.
Without turning, Tuboda nodded. “Yes, Horse Lady. I am ready.”
“Wake the splice. It’s time to ride.”
YOON
Chief Engineer Isvander sat on the flat stone summit of the unfinished Tower of the Moon, cross-legged and tapping carefully at an intricate carving with his hammer and stone chisel. He ignored the sounds of his mason team which surrounded him in a bustle of activity, the grinding of stone blocks being fitted together, the chimes of chisels on marble and the scrape of careful, studied refinement. Of skill, and precision, and stonemason engineering.
Three hundred masons, five hundred and thirty labourers, and still it would take two years to finish the tower to match existing plans, despite nearly six years of Isvander’s life already spent cutting blocks, carving the greatest figures of Vagandrak heroes (including, it had to be acknowledged, three hundred individual carvings of the great King Yoon himself), engineering intricate arches and fluted columns, and formulating a magnificent tower greater than anything previously created. Ever.
Isvander, as Chief Engineer on the project, was promised immortality in this vast stone creation by King Yoon. However, whereas King Yoon promised his modestly ageing Chief Engineer would be remembered as Isvander the Inventive, he was sure with a wry and painful smile, and a nod to popular downtown opinion, that in all reality he would also be known as Isvander the Idiot. Yoon’s Folly, they would name the tower. Or even worse. Isvander’s Pointlessness.
The Tower of the Moon, commissioned by King Yoon after a spate of drunken orgies, was to be the tallest single structure ever built. So tall, that on clear nights to stand on its summit one could see clear across the distant Pass of Splintered Bones, through the valleys of the Mountains of Skarandos and from there into the southern lands of Zakora.
Zakora. The Three Deserts. Uncultured, uncouth, a land of death…
The Tower of the Moon was so prohibitively expensive, King Yoon could have built another ten extravagant marble palaces and still have change for another of his hedonistic parties (with painted horses, mounds of honey-leaf narcotics in bowls of Ice desert crystal and a flood of naked girls and boys smeared with oil and tongue paint of different flavours). The stone had been mined in the White Lion Mountains in northern Vagandrak. Yet more stone had been mined from the heart of the Mountains of Skarandos, to the south; those mighty great peaks which acted as a natural border and defence against their subdued and controlled enemies, the desert people of Zakora. The stone for the tower staircases, inlaid with minerals and swirling blue and white patterns, had been dug by slaves from the Junglan Mountains in the northwest. It was even said, in hushed whispers by the more reckless members of King Yoon’s court, that sacred Crimson Stone from the Blood Teeth Mountains on Blood Isle was being imported for a special summit bedroom chamber. A thousand ships would transport the almost transparent red stone from far to the south, following the dangerous jagged coastline of Oram, up round the Cape of Zangir to dock at Old Skell in Port Crystal, where King Yoon would specifically build good roads to transport the stone to the Vagandrak capital, Drakerath. “An extravagance, yes,” King Yoon was reported to have said, “but one cannot skimp and save copper coin when one is putting one’s life work, one’s genius, into molten flesh.”
Isvander finished the small stone piece he’d been working on, lifted it to the sun and blew a skin of rough dust from the surface, then ran his finger down the arched flank of the carved angel. Perfect, he thought. As perfect as I can make it. And he had to admit, no matter how insane he, or any other member of his team of sculptors and masons found the King, he was certainly giving them a world canvas and a chance to be remembered in the Tomes of History in the Red Circle Library of Drakerath.
Isvander stood and stretched his weary back. Pain was troubling his lower spine, had been for a couple of years now, growing progressively worse, especially in the last few months. Still, he would finish the Tower of the Moon; he was damned if he was going to bow out before the job was done. Then, only then, would he consider retiring with his sweet wife, Anador. They would grow old together in the Quiet Sector in Drakerath; also known as the Flowered Quarter. It was peaceful there, and beautiful, and the perfect place in which to relax and grow old. King Yoon’s gold would secure them a perfect little cottage. It would be… idyllic.
A cool wind blew, and dust drifted across the flat stone platform. Isvander glanced back, at the fifty or so masons working on this wide summit level beside him. He caught Granda’s attention. The one-armed mason grinned at Isvander, and waved his stump. Amputation in battle in his younger, wilder, military days had done little to dampen Granda’s twisted sense of humour; he was probably making a rude gesture.
Isvander walked across the stone platform, carefully circling the hole leading to steps which spiralled down beneath them for a good distance. Around Isvander, from his stunning pinnacle, the capital of Drakerath drifted away like some distant, wonderful painting, a rich scene of bustling city life. Drakerath. The greatest of the Marble Cities!
Even at this height, the Tower of the Moon was taller than any structure ever built, but that was still not good enough for King Yoon. He wanted it taller. Taller. Taller taller taller…
“It’s a hot one,” mumbled Granda, as Isvander came close, and took a cup from the water bucket. Isvander nodded, drinking noisily and spilling a little down his tunic.
“That’s it, my friend. And the more we build, the closer we get to the sun. I fear one day we’ll all burst into flame!”
Granda snorted a laugh and continued to chisel away at the block on which he worked. With only one arm, Granda’s ability to chisel stone was an art in itself; he had fashioned himself a series of special tools, which he sharpened every night without fail. Isvander had once asked what he’d do if he lost his other arm, and Granda had said he’d chisel with his mouth and teeth. He claimed there were only two things that could possibly stop him working – decapitation, or marrying a rich whore. Maybe both, he conceded, when pushed. But preferably the rich whore first.
“Is Anador well?”
“Aye, aye,” said Isvander. “She’s got it in her head she’s going to embroider a map of the whole of Drakerath! I think, sometim
es, the woman is obsessed.”
“Not like her husband, then?”
Isvander laughed, and replaced the cup in the bucket. “Most certainly not. What are you trying to imply?”
“And the boys? How do they fare?”
“Dagron is at the university in Kantarok. He’s doing extremely well, or so his letters confidently proclaim. But then, he always did know how to pull the wool over his old dad’s eyes. Did I tell you about the time he re-directed the neighbour’s toilet drain into the kitchen of a local Syndicate man who was extorting money from several old women? Got into a lot of trouble over that one, but I always knew he’d become an engineer or an architect – from the very moment a shoal of turds flooded Dak Veygon’s evening dinner.”
The two men laughed and then were quiet, reminiscing on their younger days.
A call came drifting up the spiralling stone steps from far below. “A number eight chisel,” came the shout, and it was repeated several times by different masons and labourers. Isvander cursed. This was their coded language. There was no “number eight chisel”. It meant King Yoon, the noble and extravagant King of Vagandrak, had arrived below with his entourage for one of his random “inspections”. He would certainly spend several hours in the Tower of the Moon. And, more worryingly, he would no doubt question Isvander long into the evening, thus eating away any free time the Chief Engineer had hoped to spend with his lovely wife.
“That mad fool,” snapped Granda, frowning.
“Shush, man! He’ll have you flayed! Or worse. You know how… touchy he has become of late.”
