The Iron Wolves

by Andy Remic

  Torquatar held up his fist and the riders thundered to a halt behind him. Night was falling, and they were far from home, tired to the bone, their mounts exhausted, but General Vorokrim Kaightves had been most explicit in his instructions after receiving the message from King Yoon. The general’s face had paled just a little beneath his thick blond beard, and his ice eyes had turned on Torquatar and the five other cavalry captains gathered in the high draughty chamber at the Keep of Desekra Fortress.

  “The King assures us there is nothing to worry about,” rumbled Vorokrim, his face like carved stone, his eyes hard, his vocal inflections offering nothing beyond the facts of his actual words. “He is adamant there is no army of mud-orcs advancing on our fortress, despite many messages from panicked merchants fleeing the south and seeking shelter beyond our walls and beyond our fortress. King Yoon… reassures us that all communications with King Zorkai of Zakora are friendly and in place, and that nothing untoward is about to occur. He says we are not at war. He claims all stories to the contrary are simply wild rumours spread by unsympathetic agitators intent on destabilising his monarchy.”

  Vorokrim’s eyes swept the men before him. All good men. Strong men. Men who had proved themselves time and again in skirmishes against Zorkai’s warriors in what was a never-ending border war, perpetuated not because of necessity, but down to the pride of the warrior-hearts of Zorkai’s tribesmen.

  Ineilden coughed into his gauntleted fist. “With all due respect, General Vorokrim, the King’s assurances seem… poorly researched, and thus perhaps flawed, in the current climate of panic spread by merchants seeking shelter in Vagandrak.”

  Vorokrim considered this.

  “In this missive,” he gestured with the crumpled parchment in his fist, “King Yoon expressly forbids us sending out scouts to the south. He states he is in delicate talks with Zorkai over the future of our borders, and that he does not wish our foolhardy headstrong riders to incite an incident that could jeopardise his talks.”

  He allowed that to sink in.

  “So, the King forbids any men travelling south?” said Ineilden, voice and eyes guarded.

  “Exactly so,” said Vorokrim.

  “Then, what do we do?” rumbled Elmagesh, running a hand through his long, sweat-streaked hair. His dark armour gleamed by the light coming through the keep’s archer slits. Outside, the grey light was fading fast.

  “Obviously, I hereby forbid any of you to head south on a scouting mission. I forbid you to take your pick of the finest mounts from the stables, and to take your pick from the men available. We only have ten thousand left after King Yoon disbanded three quarters of the standing force.”

  He gave a narrow smile.

  “What is our expressly forbidden mission, then?” rumbled Elmagesh.

  “You have three days,” said Vorokrim, “to not search out any possible enemy mud-orc movements. On this mission that does not exist, I would advise you do not engage any possible hostiles unless absolutely necessary. And of course, any information on possible advancing numbers, if indeed there are any, would be treated in a strictly confidential manner.”

  “When would you like us not to leave?” grinned Ineilden.

  “I would like you not to leave immediately,” said Vorokrim, eyes hard. Then he softened. “I love you all, like brothers; may the gods smile on your mounts, your sword arms and your children.”

  “Mounts, sword arms, children,” intoned the men, and left the high room of the keep one by one.

  Finally, General Vorokrim Kaightves was left alone. He moved to a slit in the thick stone and peered down at the long sections of killing ground between each wall, and then out, past the seemingly impenetrable fortress to the vast expanse of plains beyond, dotted with jagged rocks.

  Silently, his servant Moshkin approached. “A drink, General?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You think they will not succeed?”

  The general barked a laugh. “I know they will succeed. And that, my friend, is the problem.”

  Now, they had found the mud-orcs. They were camped across the horizon as, in the far distance, the city of Pajanta Kin burned. And it was a big city. A vast city.

  Hell, thought Torquatar with bitterness, sadness and a low-level, impending horror. Camped across the horizon? They are the horizon. His blood was chilled. Never had he seen so many campfires, never mind campfires belonging to a mud-orc enemy horde. Their dark shadows moving around the flames were the stuff of nightmares.

  Covertly, the Vagandrak men returned to their mounts and rode hard and fast north. But they’d been spotted, and mud-orc units sent in pursuit.

  “Captain, they’re circling us.”

  “Wedge formation. We will ride fast.”

  “They’re moving fast.”

  “I know that,” hissed Captain Torquatar.

  They rode hard for another twenty minutes, until their horses were about to keel over and die there on the hard-baked plains of northern Zakora. The men dismounted and walked their mounts for a while under a bloated yellow moon which filled the plains with a ghostly, ethereal light.

  “It feels like we are dead and walk the shadow world of ghosts,” said Xubadar, shivering.

  “Thank you for sharing that,” grumbled Torquatar.

  “They’re coming!” screamed one man, drawing free his sword. And they saw the enemy up close for the first time. The mud-orcs, numbering perhaps a hundred, had crept along a low ridgeline of rocks which formed the lower foothills leading to the Mountains of Skarandos. Now they had managed to get ahead, and were streaming out from the rocky cover, forming a wide line, three ranks deep, axes and notched swords at the ready.

  “Mount up!” bellowed Torquatar and, alongside Ebodel, formed the point of the wedge. They unhitched lances, and kicked their mounts into a wild charge under the yellow moon, hooves galloping across the dusty, near-frozen plain, moonlight making it difficult to spot uneven ground and holes that would break a mount’s leg.

  Bravely, the Vagandrak cavalry charged an enemy four times their size.

  As they came close, Torquatar heard the growling, the muttering, the slobbering. He saw the dark gleaming eyes, the spools of saliva, the twisted inhuman faces, the slashes of red through green skin like opened crimson wounds. They seemed not like a hundred mud-orcs, but like a thousand with razor-edged swords waiting under the yellow moon, the terrible moon, to rip and tear and slash and kill.

  “KILL THEM!” bellowed Torquatar as they thundered towards the enemy, and the mud-orcs broke into a ragged charge and the two forces raced towards one another under the moon, smashing together with an unmistakable crash and cacophony of metal on metal, metal slicing flesh, hoof beats, cries, noises of shocked surprise and an element of chaos, always an element of chaos when foes collide; Torquatar slammed his lance point into a mud-orc’s face and blood splattered him and he caught sight of the twisting snarling features up close but then he was amongst them, and his sword slashed up and clear, then down and bloody into a snarling face. He blocked a low cut and back-handed his sword across a black/green throat, horse still ploughing onwards with the speed and weight of the charge. He cut a head from a body and then he was free, free of the mud-orcs and the weight of the cavalry forced through and swords slammed and smashed up and down, staining the dry desert plains with orc blood. Axes and swords crashed into men and horses in retaliation sending squeals echoing out across the plain, but then the Vagandrak cavalry unit were through and galloped hard across the baked earth, only slowing another mile away where Torquatar turned in his saddle and peered across the eerie, moonlit plain.

  The mud-orcs were not in pursuit.

  “Dismount!” bellowed the captain, and the men thankfully slid wearily from saddles. Many were splattered with blood. Many had haunted eyes.

  “Captain!” saluted Sauo, approaching.

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Six, captain. Along with their mounts. Eight wounded, but they can still fight.�
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  Torquatar gestured for his men to gather round. “You did well today, my friends. We had the first taste of the enemy.”

  “Tell that to the dead! Yoon has a fucking lot to answer for!”

  “No, what is important here is we know the enemy are approaching: fact. And more. We know they are closer than we could have imagined. Yes, the dead do not appreciate this information; but their families will when we petition Yoon for more soldiers and stand strong on the walls of Desekra Fortress. Now, no more talk that makes me think of deserters and sacrilege; we will walk our mounts for a half hour, then head back to the fortress. We have the information General Vorokrim Kaightves did not request.”

  “Are we at war, then?” shouted one soldier.

  Torquatar waved his hand. He was tired. Tired to his bones. He smiled a grim smile. “Let’s just say, if we are not, within a matter of days the blood will start to flow.”

  BEAUTY & THE BEAST

  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 p
laywrights 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.