The Iron Wolves

by Andy Remic

  “Your Majesty?” inquired Jagged, uncertainly. The honey-leaf stank in his nostrils worse than any burning city. It made him want to gag.

  And then he realised with a start that the King was seated, watching the three oiled women. He was totally focused on their oiled bodies. His long shaggy hair was just as black and unkempt as Jagged remembered, and the joke around court was “that bloody king should get a good haircut!” only not to his face. He seemed to be wearing some kind of baggy outfit like jesters wore, fashioned from diamond panels of brightly coloured silk.

  Jagged moved forward. “Your Majesty?”

  “Ahh, Jagged.”

  The King stood and moved around the oiled beauties; for they were beauties and Jagged’s breath caught in his throat. He coughed, feeling it inappropriate to speak about what they thought was an impending invasion in front of such… debauchery. He coughed again, but King Yoon loomed close, bending over at the waist but peering upwards toward Jagged’s face. It was a most unnatural position, and Jagged took a step back.

  “Your Highness. I come with missives of great urgency.”

  “You do, eh, General?” Yoon grinned at him, and fluttered a hand as if waving away a buzzing insect. “But more of that later. What would you like? I have some spiced wine or whiskey with ice. What’ll it be, hmm?”

  “Highness, I come with news of grave importance; information regarding the security of the realm!”

  “Ahh, and what is it, then? We need more City Watch, do we, lad? We need more money in the royal coffers?” He gave a small giggle, which he stilled with the back of his hand, then gave a cough. He moved to the table where flagons were lined, and poured out two generous measures of something amber with tiny black things floating in it.

  “No, Highness.” Jagged took the glass but made no effort to drink. He could still see the oiled bodies in his peripheral vision. “Maybe you should dismiss the… ahh, performers, and we can sit down and speak of matters of war, of life and death; and of Desekra Fortress.”

  Yoon sighed and leant against a thick tent pole, sipping his drink. He rolled his great dark eyes and shook his shaggy mane of hair. His face was painted white, Jagged could see now in the light of a fish-oil lantern, and it made the creases of Yoon’s face ever-deeper. To Jagged, this man looked little like a king, any king. But he was, and Jagged would have to work with what he had.

  “It is a fact, Highness, that the army has been somewhat thinned at Desekra.”

  “Yes, yes, what of it? There is no threat from the south. I have papers from Zorkai to that effect. In fact, I believe I may be marrying one of his illegitimate daughters. When she grows by another ten years, ha ha.”

  “Highness, I bring word from General Dalgoran, your most trusted servant and former General of the King’s Army.”

  “Dalgoran. Yes. I liked him. Nice man. Too tall. Never trust a too tall man, that’s what I say.”

  “But, Sire,” said Jagged, flustered.

  “Oh yes. Message from Dalgoran. Do go on. You don’t mind if I drink, do you? It’s this damn weather. Plays havoc with my joints. Not that I’m getting old, you understand. It wouldn’t do for my adoring and loving public to think I’m getting old. You don’t think I’m getting old, do you, Jagged?”

  “No, no, of course not, King Yoon.”

  “Do go on. You don’t mind if I drink?”

  Drink yourself to death for all I care, thought Jagged but, kept his face straight. “No, Highness. Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

  “And your message?”

  “A seer visited Dalgoran on his seventieth birthday. We thought it a fun game, a bit of frivolity for the old man, but her words were deadly serious, and she foretold the return of the mud-orcs from the south.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about such ramblings,” said Yoon, swaying his glass from left to right, his eyes watching the ice cubes chink.

  Jagged frowned. “Not ramblings, Majesty. A prediction. And we would have been highly sceptical if we hadn’t been visited within a few moments by the most horrific of beasts from darkest nightmare. A creature, part-wolf, broke through the party and killed the seer; we eventually put the monster down, but it took a lot of killing.”

  “A lot of killing,” murmured Yoon.

  “Yes, Highness. It was like nothing I have ever seen, in all my years of soldiering. It was twisted, broken, but almost like man and wolf had been merged together…”

  “I think you were mistaken,” said Yoon, flapping his hand, a movement accentuated by the silk and lace. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have more pressing matters to attend to,” and he’d already turned, eyes fixed on the oiled, gyrating women, his feet in brightly coloured soft slippers stepping away from General Jagged. His point was obvious. The meeting is over. Please leave.

  Jagged gave a cough, any meekness he may have suffered now deserting him. His parade ground brusqueness returned, and returned with a vengeance. His eyes narrowed, and five decades of shouting at big men stomped to the front of his brain.

  “King Yoon,” said General Jagged, and something in the tone of the old man’s voice halted Yoon and made the dandy king turn. “If the seer was correct, and there really is an army of mud-orcs heading for the Pass of Splintered Bones, their intention the raiding of Vagandrak, the slaughter of its civilians, the emptying of the royal coffers, the despoiling and slaughter of Vagandrak women; then, the king who would allow such a thing to happen would become a laughing stock; more, indeed it could be argued a rebellion might form and seek to overthrow some weak, selfish, narcissistic monarch who chose personal gratification over the safety and security of the country’s people. You camp here, only a week’s march from Desekra, with thirty thousand well-trained soldiers, and yet Desekra stands at quarter-compliment with only ten thousand. You can man the walls with this force, Majesty, and be seen as the king who did the right thing, thus preserving his honour and popularity with the people! Now, General Dalgoran entrusted me with this message, and you and I both know he deserves at least an answer from yourself, Highness. You must understand, we seek to offer no disrespect, but I beseech you, this is a time of urgent national security, if nothing else, send scouts south, seek out Zorkai and his princelings; for something sinister is afoot in our lands, King Yoon, and we cannot stand by and watch evil grow and invade.”

  Yoon considered this, walking forward, swirling his drink, his dark eyes hooded.

  “Jagged?” he said, almost amiably.

  “Yes, Majesty?”

  “I have a gift.” His arm came back, lace ruff puffing out, and for a moment Jagged thought the king was going to slap him. But it was worse than that. Much worse. The ruff concealed a slender black dagger, which slashed for Jagged’s face and the old general leapt back, mostly from instinct and decades of training, for he had not seen the concealed weapon, nor even anticipated such a blow.

  “Yoon!” yelled Jagged, mouth open in shock.

  Yoon lunged forward again, and Jagged’s arm came up. The blade slashed across his forearm and the straps which held his greaves; steel bit flesh, drawing blood, nothing serious, but pain forced Jagged to gasp and take two more steps back.

  “GUARDS, GUARDS!” screamed Yoon suddenly, “ASSASSINATION!” and in a heartbeat five huge armoured men were there, swords rammed up against Jagged’s throat, their sweat palpable, their breath stinking of onions as they bore Jagged to the ground and he went down under a sudden weight of men and armour.

  A wall of iron filled Jagged’s vision, and an incredible pain crushed his chest. His heart pounded in his ears and his mouth was suddenly dry. Why would Yoon do this? Why? And the answer came and the answer was a simple one.

  Madness.

  For long moments Jagged could not move, and his brain swirled in confusion. The King had quite obviously gone insane. But what to do? How to get out of this predicament with… he smiled grimly. His life.

  He had to get word back to Dalgoran.

  He had to warn his friend.

&n
bsp; The weight shifted a little, and he heard barked orders. The steel armour shifted again, and some of the pressure released. A sword blade was held against his throat, and the soldiers slowly removed themselves. With a blink, General Jagged realised it was Yoon that held the blade.

  “You think to come here and mock me?” sneered Yoon through his white mask of paint. “You use words like ‘rebellion’ and ‘overthrow’ and think this is acceptable language to use in front of your king?”

  “Majesty, I…”

  King Yoon raised the sword, half turning, and General Jagged started to lift himself up on elbows. But Yoon whirled back, the blade slamming down, hacking into Jagged’s throat and opening a huge wound. Jagged gagged, eyes rolling, blood flushing from the huge crimson slash. Yoon lifted the sword again, dark eyes gleaming, and hacked down again, severing Jagged’s head. The body flopped to the rich rugs, pumping out blood from a ragged neck stump, and the head rocked a little, tongue poking out, the features suddenly very, very old.

  Yoon’s soldiers stood by, uneasily. They knew who this great general was. But if King Yoon chose to execute him for talk of rebellion, or for attempted assassination, who were they to stand in his way?

  Yoon was panting, lank hair in his eyes, sweat on his brow making trickles of white paint run down his face. He glared suddenly at the soldiers, and it took massive courage to not take a step back under that gaze, for there was murder in Yoon’s eyes. Instead, he said, “Take his head outside, place it on a lance point, and stand the lance at the edge of the camp. No man tells me how to run my country. No man talks of rebellion. No fucker tells me what to do!” He screamed the last words.

  The soldiers came forward, lifting Jagged’s head and body and bearing them from the tent.

  Yoon returned to the wide bed, sword dripping a trail of blood across fine rugs, to where the three oiled ladies had halted their drug-infused ecstasy. Yoon waved the blade. “Continue. And you.” He pointed with the bloody weapon at a shocked, oiled, painted lady. “Open your legs. Open them wide. I need some entertainment.”

  WOLVES BITE

  Kiki and Narnok stood shoulder to shoulder as the splice bounded up the wide stairs; but it was too narrow for them to fight. “Behind me!” bellowed Narnok, and Kiki stepped back, twirling her short sword to loosen her wrist as Narnok tensed and hoisted his axe, hammering it down. It glanced from the shoulder of the beast, bouncing from thick hide as jaws snapped an inch from Narnok’s face. The second splice, accelerating close behind, leapt left, claws digging into the plaster of the wall and launching past Narnok. Kiki ducked a swipe from a knife-sharp split hoof and rammed her sword up into the beast’s belly. It screeched, landing next to Kiki on the landing. The first splice took Narnok’s axe in its flank, roared, and hit him with a back-hand blow that sent Narnok flying through the banister spindles, cracking the wood, to topple to the hall below.

  Kiki withdrew her blade, ducked another sweep of claws and thrust it higher this time. And Dek was there, his own longsword smashing overhead and cutting the creature down the middle of its skull. Still it came on, fangs gnashing, and with a twitch wrenched Dek’s sword from his grip. Jaws clashed a thumb’s breadth from Kiki’s face and she wriggled right, sword trapped in the splice’s chest.

  “There’s no room!” bellowed Dek. The third splice, halfway up the stairs, turned and leapt at Narnok, who was sitting, shaking his head, stunned. As it bore down on the dazed axeman, Dek leapt through the gap in the banister, both boots slamming into the creature’s head and knocking it to the floor, Dek atop. But it reared suddenly, and he clung on as its head twisted round, snapping at him in an attempt to remove his face.

  “Dek!” screamed Ragorek, and threw his sword. Dek caught the weapon in both hands, rearing up as if riding a horse, and plunging the blade down through the top of the beast’s head. Narnok came from below, a knife in each fist, stabbing them forward into its belly and cutting upwards, opening it like a gutted fish. Bowels slithered out like an overturned barrel of eels, and the beast wailed, making a high-pitched keening sound, then slammed a hoof into Narnok’s face sending him bouncing hard from the wall and down a long black well into unconsciousness.

  Kiki was fighting a rearward retreat from the splice with her sword in its chest. She held two long knives; its claws slashed left, right, then diagonally, trying to open her from shoulder to hip. Dalgoran stepped alongside her, cool like no man had a right to be, and as the beast slashed for Kiki’s face Dalgoran’s sword slammed down, cutting the twisted appendage free with a crack of cut bone. Blood spewed out, drenching Kiki. Dalgoran drew back his blade, and rammed it hard through the creature’s eye, leaning his full weight against his sword and driving it deep into the brain beyond. The splice hit the ground twitching, leaving just one creature standing on the landing.

  It eyed Kiki and Dalgoran, who had his boot on the slain beast’s head as he pulled free his blade. Ragorek was weaponless behind them, grim faced through his bushy beard, his fists clenched and ready. Below, Dek hacked his sword through the wounded splice’s throat until its thick twisted head came free. Narnok was groaning in a heap.

  The final beast screeched and leapt up the stairs towards Kiki and Dalgoran, taking his sword across one bent horseshoe with a shower of sparks, long equine teeth snapping for his face as claws raked across Kiki’s armour and both were pushed back by the creature’s sheer size and weight.

  “Dek!” screamed Kiki, slamming her sword into rancid horse flesh. That great head swung towards her, teeth gnashing to chew through the skin of her shoulder like the gears of some ancient machine. She screamed as pain hit her like a hammer, twisting away, and shoved a knife into its eye. Dalgoran hacked at its neck two-handed, but its head dropped and slammed upwards with a snort of blood, ramming Dalgoran against the wall where the back of his head slammed stone, and he toppled to the side, stunned.

  Ragorek ran forward, stooping to grab Dalgoran’s blade, and together with Kiki he hacked and slashed as claws tried to cut their faces from their skulls and open their bowels and arteries. Kiki leapt over a slashing claw, slammed a left hook to the beast’s face snapping a fang, and as Ragorek skewered its throat, holding its thrashing head in place, Kiki took her blade double-handed and hacked again and again and again, as blood and bits of brain and chunks of skull fell to the wooden floorboards. Eventually, the great moaning gnashing creature sank to the boards and was still, and Kiki stood, legs apart, still holding the sword with both hands. It was embedded in the dead splice’s head.

  “A bad business,” muttered Ragorek.

  Kiki nodded, and tugged free the blade with a crunch. She moved to Dalgoran, who was sat up, a trickle of blood at his temple. “How do you feel?”

  “I’ll live,” he grumbled, and let Kiki help him to his feet.

  Dek and Narnok moved up the stairs. Their faces were grim.

  “I think we should leave now,” said Dek, voice gruff. “There could be more of them.”

  “Yes. Get your shit together and meet me out front in five minutes,” said Dalgoran, wiping his blade clean. He stared down at the headless body of Ralph, and the torn cadaver of Beth, his wife. “It shames me to leave them like this, but Dek is right. We are trapped here like rats.”

  “Do you think they’re hunting us?” said Kiki, softly.

  “I didn’t. Now I do,” said Dalgoran.

  The wind was a harsh, cold, biting mistress. She snapped and whined, whistled and howled, slapping faces and bare exposed skin, chilling armour to torturous levels, and making the members of the group squirm uncomfortably in saddles, tugging at bits of clothing and cloaks and wrapping thick scarves around faces.

  A thin layer of snow covered the undulating, rocky ground. Now, to their left as they travelled south from Kantarok, then angling southeast, stood the massive, vicious, daunting White Lion Mountains. They passed through the lower foothills, with thousands of hidden gulleys and valleys, towering stacks of rounded rock and huge angular boulders, which mus
t have once been a part of these mountains. It was a dangerous journey, for there were many hidden opportunities for a horse to break an ankle, or stumble and throw a rider; the wind made it hard to see and so their progress was slow. Added to this, the recent battle at the tavern left none in the mood for idle banter.

  That evening, huddled around a camp fire in the lee of a group of boulders, Dalgoran and Dek fought to secure some tarpaulins from boulders to ground to give shelter from the still falling snow. The snowfall was thin and sporadic, whipped about by the wind, but the promise of a heavy fall was imminent.

  Narnok sat warming his hands, then returned to the flat rock on his knee where he sliced onions for the stew. Kiki was shredding dried beef into the bubbling pan, and glanced up as Ragorek returned, arms stacked with blackened wood from a nearby lightning-struck oak.

  “Smells good,” he grunted.

  Kiki nodded, as Ragorek settled by the fire.

  “Why don’t we head west out of this broken ground? I’m constantly worried my horse will break a knee and throw me head first onto a tooth of the White Lions.”

  Kiki shook her head. “The Rokroth Marshes spread like a bad disease, right up to the rocky ground we now find ourselves trapped in. I’ve tried sneaking through many times before with various units, during my soldiering days. Always bit me on the backside. You either end up lost in the stinking mist when it inevitably descends, or find yourselves trapped in some bottle-necked gulley and have to back-track for half a day. This way is best, trust me. I’ve ridden it before.”