The Iron Wolves

by Andy Remic

  Jagan peered out, and saw the ladders and grappling irons bearing forward.

  More shafts hissed through the air like black rain, steel hail, but there were simply too many mud-orcs to create an area of dead ground. On they came, and now with quivers spent, the archers stepped back and took up short swords. All along Sanderlek the defenders prepared for battle.

  Jagan jumped as a grappling iron sailed over and bit into the stone of the battlement crenel, and he reached forward, but Reegez grabbed him. “No! It’ll take off your fingers!”

  The mud-orcs were howling battle-cries that drowned out the drums, and below the charge had faltered, slowing as the mud-orcs were channelled into the pass. Every soldier turned and grabbed large cobbles, which had been piled along the battlement walkways, and along the wall different sergeants screamed the command. Men started dropping cobbles off the battlements, to devastating effect against the climbing mud-orcs below. Many climbing were knocked from ropes and ladders, whilst those below had heads caved in, dropping instantly with crushed skulls and leaking brains.

  Jagan and Reegez lobbed their pile of cobbles from the walkway, panting and sweating, hoisting the great lumps of stone onto the parapets then rolling them free. Below, hundreds of mud-orcs were crushed and injured. But then the cobbles were gone, and the defenders, seeing the seething mass of screaming, howling creatures, felt massively under-prepared. They were not ready for such a huge battle. They were not ready for war.

  “STAND STEADY, LADS!” boomed Sergeant Dunda, shoulder against the parapet, shortsword in his gloved hands. He fixed his eyes on Reegez. “I see you there, Reegez, you dirty young pup! You owe me two silver pieces, so don’t be fucking dying on me, you hear?”

  “I hear you, Sarge!”

  “They’re coming!” breathed Jagan.

  A slobbering head with black tusks appeared suddenly and Jagan stared into the black eyes, mouth open. Reegez’s sword slammed past, a blur, slamming between the mud-orc’s eyes and sending it sailing backwards.

  “Kill them!” screamed Reegez.

  “Thanks,” said Jagan.

  “Fucking kill them!”

  And then the mud-orcs were appearing up and down Sanderlek, hundreds of them breaching the summit along the wall’s entirety – and swords and clubs beat down, smashing them back, until a huge feral mud-orc breached the rise bearing a vicious heavy club with many iron spikes. The great weapon swept left and right, scattering defenders, crushing heads and snapping limbs. The mud-orc roared, moving forward and allowing a gap behind for more of its brethren to fill. The wall was breached.

  “Jagan, to me!” screamed Reegez, seeing the danger, and ran at the huge mud-orc, fear ripe on his tongue, worms in his mind, and as its eyes turned on him and that club whistled an inch from removing his face, he felt himself fall into a calm well of serenity. He dropped himself, sliding under the swing of the club, and his sword hacked out once, twice, three times at the mud-orc’s legs, cutting one free beneath the knee. It toppled across him, snarling and hissing and spitting and trying to bite his face off. Reegez screamed, but Jagan and Sergeant Dunda were there, swords plunging down as other soldiers cut and hacked, blood flying, limbs severed, until the breach was driven back and the mud-orc corpses cast from the battlements.

  “Well done!” snapped Dunda, hauling Reegez to his feet. Then, “LOOK READY, LADS! THERE’S MORE OF THE BASTARDS COMING FAST! CUT AS MANY ROPES AS YOU CAN! AND PUT OUT THEIR EYES!”

  Reegez and Jagan stood shoulder to shoulder, both men covered in blood and gore, both sets of eyes hardened, their lips grim compressed lines as below the mud-orcs howled and chanted, the drums beat hard, and with horror they realised it had only been an hour since the mud-orcs were sighted against the horizon.

  Reegez looked up at the weak, wintry sun. He rubbed a hand through the blood on his face, and realised deep in his heart, deep in his soul, the very great mistake he had made in coming to Desekra Fortress.

  For deep down, he knew the massive stone fortress would be his tomb.

  THE DRAKKA

  “Ragorek!” screamed Dek, as the Iron Wolves attacked the beast… weapons raised and hacking down with ferocity and need.

  “Take it alive!” bellowed Kiki over the melee, and the Iron Wolves hacked at the splice, cutting at limbs as Dalgoran pulled a coil of rope from his pack and tossed it to Kiki. Amongst the scattered fire they battled and bludgeoned the splice, cutting free all four limbs in a frenzy of slamming sword and axe strikes… until it lay there, panting, single remaining dark insect eye fixed on them, glistening, intelligent, understanding…

  Dek ran to Ragorek and crouched by the man, crouched by his brother. Ragorek was breathing fast and shallow, staring down at the limb like a thick spear inside him. He looked up at Dek and understanding passed between the two men. Ragorek was dying, and dying fast. There was no way Rag was walking away from a wound like that; to pull the limb free would be to unplug a river that would empty him like a bucket gushing free.

  Dek held out his hand, and Ragorek took it in the warrior’s grip. His grip was awesomely tight and he grimaced at Dek, blood frothing at his lips.

  “I’m sorry, brother.”

  “I know, brother.”

  “I never meant it to end like this. Between us, I mean.”

  “I know that as well.”

  “I don’t want to die with us full of hate.”

  Dek lowered his head and looked at the ground, and Ragorek realised the pugilist was crying. His head lifted slowly and through his tears, Dek growled, “I forgive you, Ragorek. Anything I said before, I said it in anger. All those hot words of fury, I cast them away. You’re my brother and blood is thicker than water. We sent her away together, my friend, and at the end of the day, I reckon that’s enough.”

  Ragorek nodded, and his head tipped forward a little. More blood frothed at his beard.

  “I’m so thirsty,” he croaked, and Kiki was there, passed Dek a canteen. Dek allowed water to dribble inside Rag’s mouth, and he spluttered for a moment, then drank a few swallows.

  He looked up suddenly, eyes bright and feverish. “It’s gone dark, Dek. Why’s it gone dark?”

  “The clouds have covered the moon,” said Dek, squeezing his brother’s hand. “Don’t worry, mate. I’m here. And soon the sun will be out.”

  “Good. I… like the… sunshine.”

  Dek nodded, holding his brother’s hand as he had held his mother’s, watching his brother die as he had watched his mother die, and a great and massive weight moved slowly down through him, like ink poured into water; like a devil gnawing through his soul.

  “I’m here for you, Ragorek. Just like you were there for me. When we was kids. Remember that mine shaft? I fell down that, sat in the dark for a full day until you found me and rescued me. I’d be dead if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “Yes. I remember.” He smiled, a weak smile rimed with pink froth.

  “Somebody’s coming. Across the black desert.”

  Dek gritted his teeth, muscles squirming along his jaw. “Who is he?”

  “He’s wearing black armour, and a black helm, and rides a huge black stallion with no eyes.”

  “Bring him here, brother, I’ll kill him for you.”

  “My sword, I need my sword!” screamed Ragorek, suddenly, hands scrabbling, and Dek grabbed the man’s blade and pressed the pommel into Rag’s quivering fingers. His hands curled around the weapon and he relaxed back with a deep sigh.

  Then his eyes closed.

  And his breathing stopped.

  Dek sat, holding his hand for a long, long time, until Kiki put her hand on his shoulder. “Dek?”

  “Hm?”

  “Dek, we have the splice. Thought you might like a chat with the twisted bastard?”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  Reluctantly, he released Ragorek’s hand and stood, stretching his mighty chest. Then he turned and looked down the corridor of rock, to where they’d dragged the splice and bound what was l
eft of the creature more tightly.

  Dek strode towards the beast, Kiki close behind, and he pulled free a knife and knelt beside it.

  “You killed my brother,” he said, breathing harsh.

  “It is the consequence of battle,” said the splice, great jaws working hard to pronounce human sounds; the sight of this beast speaking seemed unreal. Surreal. Impossible even.

  “Well, now you will give us some answers.”

  The splice stared at him from that one remaining insect-like eye. “As you wish,” it rasped, then its jaws worked soundlessly, drooling. It squirmed a little bit, but Narnok had been excessive with the ropes and the knots.

  “Who sent you?”

  “You already know, little man. I told you.” Its pincers clicked together several times, tongue lolling within its mouth.

  “Remind me.”

  “The Horse Lady.”

  “Orlana,” said Dalgoran, stepping forward and crouching beside Dek. “She is known as Orlana the Changer; also the Horse Lady, because she takes horses and uses the old magick. She turns them into beasts like this.”

  Dek nodded. “How many of you are there?”

  The splice’s eye met Dek’s, then shifted to Dalgoran. “You are too late. We are coming.”

  “How many?” growled Dalgoran.

  “Mud-orcs? Fifty thousand. A hundred, maybe. We are still growing, you petty, shitty little human.” It cackled, thick tongue like a black sausage rolling around within the cage of its massive jaws. “And there are thousands of splice. We will riot over your walls. We will crush your army. We will ransack your world. There is nothing you can do, human.”

  “You will hit Desekra Fortress?”

  The splice grinned at Dalgoran. “In days. If we are not already there. How does it feel to be a member of a soon extinct nation? An extinct species?”

  Dek weighed the knife thoughtfully. “How do we kill Orlana?”

  The splice’s mouth lolled, and it did not answer. That eye was watching the knife.

  “I can make your death last for days,” said Dek.

  “Do what you wish,” said the splice.

  Dalgoran put his hand on Dek’s arm. “I know of Orlana. She is a creature of the Furnace. Like Morkagoth, killing her will not be easy.”

  “You talk of your own magick,” rumbled the splice, and Dek stood and reached towards Narnok, who frowned, then nodded in understanding and handed the pit fighter his huge, double-headed axe.

  “And how do you know of our magick?” said Dalgoran, voice stiff.

  The splice grinned again, a most terrifying sight. “Orlana knows of you, Iron Wolves. And she knows of your… talent. She knows of your threat. She knows of your curse. We have been sent to kill you. To remove you from the equation.”

  Dek rolled his shoulders. “You said ‘we’?”

  “I am the first. More will follow. You will see. I was the test. I am one of the weakest.”

  Dek glanced sideways at Dalgoran, who gritted his teeth in a snarl. “Make it quick. We ride for Desekra Fortress at the Pass of Splintered Bones.”

  The axe smashed down, cleaving the splice’s skull in two.

  The Iron Wolves did not bury Ragorek, but instead collected rocks which they piled about his body, after first removing the splice’s claws and throwing the limb onto the fire. More rocks piled up until only Rag’s face remained, and Dek lifted a large, rough-edged chunk of black volcanic rock, staring down into Rag’s features, relaxed now in death.

  “Goodbye, brother. Rest well in the Hall of Heroes.”

  Then he covered his brother’s face, and the man was gone.

  The Iron Wolves rode hard, for long, long hours. Using the mounts from the pursuing guards killed by Dek and Narnok, they were able to swap between horses every couple of hours, resting one group of mounts whilst pushing themselves on without sleep.

  Thankfully, the snow had stopped falling, but the world was a cold, bitter place, every tree and rock and wooded hollow and rolling grassland peppered with a thin scattering of snow or ice. The wind howled mournfully over moorland and shivering grass, a sorrowful sound of death and desolation.

  Hooves cracked icy puddles and streams, and the following dawn saw them strung out in single file, tired, riding in silence, by instinct, each man and woman lost in their thoughts.

  They were angling south and west now, towards what was known as the Drakka, Old Drak, a deserted and supposedly haunted city, and the shores of the Plague Ocean beyond. This would then cut them west, fast, taking a narrow path through the eastern arm of the Mountains of Skarandos, to emerge in the Pass of Splintered Bones where they could finally travel the rocky, bone-strewn valley floor, to join their comrades at Desekra Fortress.

  Dalgoran was looking older than ever, hunched inside his cloak against the cold. Kiki rode in grim silence, the weight of Ragorek’s death like a chain of guilt about her. If it hadn’t been for their mission to reunite the Wolves, then Ragorek would never have died. That sort of shit always burned her worse than any brand.

  Narnok rode next, axe across his lap, scarred face up and stern and focused, the milky eye in his face giving him an even more savage look. Ragorek’s death had not touched him, for he had seen many men die – many in far worse ways. But Dek’s pain touched him. After all, once they had been brothers. Now, brothers in hate, but still brothers. Then came Zastarte, his mood curiously dampened, his thoughts dark and old and lingering. Trista rode in silence, shivering against the cold despite her woollen clothes and fur-lined leather cloak. Her features were deathly pale, icy, and asleep she could easily be mistaken for a corpse. A beautiful one, but a corpse nonetheless.

  Finally rode Dek, lost in distant dreams of childhood, his mind flooded with memories of an older brother he had looked up to for so long, despite the constant jibes, and jokes, and his apparent annoyance at every question Dek had ever asked, his enquiring mind simply eager for knowledge and, more importantly, acceptance.

  They had not been the closest of brothers, and after their father had died Ragorek had taken Dek under his wing – or so Dek thought. But it soon became apparent that his eager questions, despite their innocence and good meaning, were an annoyance to his older brother, and so Dek had shifted inside himself, becoming more and more introverted. His moods had darkened, and at school he’d started getting into more and more fights, brought on by his bitterness at isolation, the death of his father, and the useless wreck his mother had become. He still loved her dearly, but his father’s death had hit her hard, and she was barely a use to herself, never mind her fifteen year-old son. And so Dek had glided further and further from the right path, getting into more fights – most of which he won, until he started training hard, running, lifting rocks, putting himself about the village doing heavy lifting tasks, chopping wood, anything to earn a little money and simultaneously increase his strength and speed and fitness. Soon, he did not lose any fights. Soon, he’d made a name for himself and the big boys from other villages came looking for him. He broke them all, sometimes savagely, until one day a visit from the City Guard and a threat of tossing him into the dungeons and losing the key made him start to think of his future. Where was he going? He couldn’t keep breaking noses and cheekbones, coming home with bloody knuckles and broken fingers. A kindly City Guard captain, Captain Horsell, had taken him to one side and given him a good hard talking to. He said a young man with Dek’s… enthusiasm should channel that energy into something positive. He suggested the army, under King Tarek. Said he’d even write the young man a glowing reference, because he’d known Dek’s father and Dek was a good person at heart. Horsell said it was a shame how some things turned out, and without a father, Dek needed guidance.

  The next day, Dek had signed up. Been taken in as a grunt, a foot soldier, and quickly stood out not just as adept, but as a natural born warrior; a natural born killer. He’d been propelled forward until Dalgoran noticed him. And the rest was history.

  Now, with the threat of Or
lana and the mud-orcs and splice hanging over them like a heavy pendulous blade, it almost felt as if they were riding together on one last final desperate mission.

  To help save Vagandrak. To help save their souls.

  Darkness was falling fast as the Iron Wolves breached a massive hill, and looked down over the vast sprawl of Sayansora alv Drakka. Nearly twenty leagues wide in places, much more in some as it spread south towards the Plague Lands, this dense, vast forest ran from the southern edges of the Rokroth Marshes all the way through Vagandrak, until it effectively blocked any passage between the Plague Ocean and the Plague Lands. From north to south, the Drakka was probably a hundred leagues in total, and the core of the forest was rumoured to be at least a thousand years old, with massive ash, beech and oak forming many sections which were truly impassable, along with a proliferation of stinga, large, nasty thorn bushes which could cause serious allergic reactions in people. There were three main roads through the Drakka, although it wasn’t the roads that were the problem.

  Sayansora alv Drakka was silent. It was lifeless. Nothing stirred or moved in the vast places filled with ancient trees. No squirrels gathered nuts, no wolves prowled for prey, no birds sang and twittered.

  Sayansora alv Drakka. The Drakka.

  The Sea of Trees.

  The Suicide Forest.

  It was not a place for the delicate, the mentally unstable, or the spiritual. It was spoken in hushed whispers that the Drakka was a haunted place; haunted by the angry spirits of those trapped by their own suicide hands.

  Kiki shivered.

  “It looks dangerous,” observed Trista, squirming a little in the saddle.

  “It is dangerous,” said Kiki, turning to look at her old friend and comrade-in-war. She smiled at the pale woman. “You’ll be fine. With me.”