by Andy Remic
“This is an illegal processing plant,” said Narnok, moving forward to a bench. His hands moved over implements in the darkness. We must have come out in the Haven.”
“What’s the Haven?”
“The slums,” said Dek. “The shittiest of shit holes narrow alleys and dark taverns where evil bastards plan their dark deeds. A place where even the City Watch won’t tread. They leave it in the hands of the Red Thumb Gangs.”
“Ahh,” said Narnok, rubbing his short, patchy beard with the tip of his thumb. “I’m not well liked by them bastards.”
“Me neither,” said Dek.
“I, also, am not in their good books,” smiled Kiki, weakly. “Seems like we’ve all been busy making friends. Come on. Let’s get up to the roof, see if we can work out what’s going on.”
They moved with care through the honey-leaf processing factory, the smell prickling nostrils and making them all feel just a little bit sick. All except Kiki. Kiki felt her eyes widening a little, felt her nostrils flaring, her heartbeat – her twin heartbeats – quicken. As they walked along a floor littered with trip-hazards, she trailed her hand along a low bench filled with many small, intricate machines used for drying and compressing the plant leaves. And other machines used for mixing resins and pastes, to create cubes, and what were known in the trade as coins, little round pieces of dried paste honey-leaf which could be sat under the tongue and allowed to dissolve for a long period of time; even after one had lost consciousness.
Kiki’s hand trailed along the benches as they headed for a set of cheap iron stairs leading to the roof.
And Kiki could not help herself.
They crouched by a low parapet. Behind was a steep, sloping slate roof bordered by rusted iron railings. A cold breeze blew, ruffling hair and chilling exposed skin. The wind offered a knife-bite of winter. It spoke of ice, and frost, and death.
“What’s that?” said Narnok, pointing.
“A tree,” said Dek. “A big old oak, but it’s…”
“Twisted, broken. As if struck by lightning.”
“Yes.”
They peered some more, looking off over the Haven, the warren of slums, of narrow streets and tightly compacted houses, many of which, even in this poor light, could be seen to be in massive disrepair. Some were half fallen down ruins, abandoned, some simply skeletal structures of torched wood where nobody had bothered to rebuild or repair after a savagery of fire.
“There’s a lot of plant life in the streets,” said Narnok. “Look. All them shrubs and young saplings growing up. I wouldn’t expect that. Not here, and now.”
“Again, they’re all twisted and broken,” pointed out Dek.
“Aren’t elves supposed to be linked to trees? So the old stories go.”
“Maybe they’re growing their own?” said Dek, his words highlighting his unease.
Their gazes turned north, across the Haven, and then northeast towards Zanne Keep, the massive, hulking black cube at the centre of the city which acted as both King Yoon’s palace and citadel in these parts; and also as his War Council. Twin towers rose up in the sky, like thick black fingers, and the huge edifice was surrounded by an expanse of wildly tropical gardens which, even from this distance, looked more like a jungle of the far south than anything from northern climes.
“The Gardens of the Winter Moon,” murmured Kiki.
“You know them?”
“I was there, once. As a child.” She licked her lips, gaze sweeping south. “There’s nobody here,” she said. No people. No fires. No smoke from chimneys. No sounds other than those we make.”
Even as the last syllable left her lips, movement caught their eyes. A young girl, some scruffy barefoot street urchin with long matted hair and a soot-smudged face, was running in a panic along the black cobbles of the Haven. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old. And they blinked as they realised she was being pursued. The elf rats, perhaps ten of them, were running on all fours like cats. Several bounced onto walls and doors, running along the vertical surfaces for a few steps before hitting the cobbles again with claws clacking.
“No,” hissed Narnok, and moved to stand.
Kiki grabbed his shoulder, but he shrugged her off. “You, you fuckers! Leave her be!” he bellowed down into the snow-laden street. The other Iron Wolves froze, faces in rictus grins of disbelief, then they all stood and drew their weapons.
The elf rats didn’t even glance up. They pounced, were on the young girl. Her screams pierced through the city night, cutting like glass. Tearing sounds came, and her screams rose to a wail as Narnok, snarling, ran back into the processing plant and pounded down the metal staircase making the whole thing shudder in its rusted frame, brackets vibrating free of stone with showers of dust. The other Wolves followed, and Narnok kicked the door from its hinges and charged out into the snowy street, hefting his double-headed axe, eye alight with fury.
The girl was in pieces against the icy cobbles. Her arms and legs had been pulled free of the body trunk, and lay several feet away in different directions. Blood had pumped out, more blood than Narnok would have believed possible from a child, along with straggled strands of tendons and veins. Her face was locked in a mask of incredible pain, eyes open and glassy and staring at the sky. Snow started to fall: a gentle, delicate shower tumbling, and snowflakes touched her face and blood-spattered lips, and suddenly the world was a very still, serene place.
Narnok strode forward with great speed for such a big man. His axe came up and slammed into the back of the nearest elf rat, severing its spine and pitching it forward into other, still feeding, creatures. Heads snapped round, but Narnok was in them, amongst them. The axe sang left, cutting a head free, then right, lodging in an elf rat’s chest. One turned and leapt at Narnok, snarling, fangs open wide in a face made of bark with long ears swept back and black eyes glittering with feral ferocity, but the world seemed to drop into a dream and Narnok’s left hand snapped up, fist catching the elf rat under the chin with a thunderous blow as he tugged his axe free with his right hand, and the great weapon followed the punch and split the elf rat’s head down the centre like a ripe melon spilling out brain slop and brain shards, like so many rotten seeds. Then, the Iron Wolves were there, swords smashing and cutting, Zastarte’s rapier darting in to skewer a brain, Trista’s bowstring touching her cheek as she released three shafts in quick succession and two elf rats were punched from their feet, scrabbling at deeply embedded barbed heads as Dek fell on them, his long sword slamming into chests and throats.
The Iron Wolves stood in a circle of elf rat corpses, and looked about, turning, searching for more enemies.
“You put us all at risk,” snapped Kiki, suddenly, catching Narnok’s eye.
“I don’t need your fucking permission,” growled the big axeman. “You don’t like it, fuck off and let me do my own thing. But I ain’t standing by and watching little girls get tore apart.”
“You could have compromised our…”
“What?” sneered Narnok. “Our mission? We haven’t got a fucking mission. Dalgoran is dead. Yoon wants us dead. We’re not the Iron Wolves any longer, Kiki. Don’t you get it? We’re fucking outlaws. Well, you wanted to know what was going on in the city. It’s clear as summer sunshine. Zanne is overrun with elf rats. So what you gonna fucking do about it now, woman?”
“Er, Narnok?” said Dek, voice low, eyes looking past the big warrior.
“Don’t you start getting involved, pit fighter, just cos she’s your new bitch and rides the end of your cock like a drunk whore after a big payout!”
“No, Narn, you dick! Look!”
Narnok turned. There were elf rats, advancing slowly, and in silence, down the street.
“How many’s that, do you reckon?” scowled Narnok.
“I reckon that’s about a hundred,” said Dek, starting to back away, licking his lips, catching the eyes of the others as they formed into a ragged line.
“More this way,” said Zastarte, words crisp
and fast.
From the other end of the street, around the corner, they came. Ten, twenty, thirty, then their numbers were lost in the ranks of the elf rats, each one different, walking, hobbling, limping, with twisted spines and humps and distortions, with black vines like external veins winding around arms and legs, with heads squashed to one side or disfigured beyond the realms of any disfigured humanity the Iron Wolves had ever witnessed.
“Fifty at least,” said Trista, her eyes darting from one to another to another, as their unit shifted, from line to circle, as they now faced two fronts.
A high-pitched keening sound went up in the air, so high it made the Iron Wolves flinch and it was taken up by the others until they all raised their elf rat snouts to the sky and shrieked and ululated, throats quivering before they dropped to all fours, like a huge mass of wolves…
…and charged down the cobbles in attack.
OLD EVIL
It was like the old days. It was like the bad days. It was like the days of blood, the weeks of slaughter, the months of bloodshed, skirmishes, the battles, the war, the fucking mud-orcs scaling the walls of Desekra Fortress guarding the Pass of Splintered Bones at the foot of the Mountains of Skarandos, twenty years ago under the onslaught of Morkagoth the Sorcerer, then, like history repeating itself, the return of a bad old penny, mud-orcs once more summoned from the Oram Mud Pits by Orlana the Horse Lady to wreak havoc and bloody terror across the world, alongside their twisted, deviated horse brethren, the splice…
The world and sanity dropped and tumbled into a swirling pit of chaos. For each and every member of the Iron Wolves, the whole world slowed to a blur as not just adrenalin kicked in, but the curse that flowed through their veins, normally a background sluggish drug, but now kicked into full violence, a full flow, which gave them a special edge, which made them what they were.
The elf rats leapt forward, a swarm, a plague, and the Iron Wolves lifted weapons and took them on – full in the face. Kiki felt the game kicked into another realm. Fighting with two swords, the blades became a glittering dark blur under the falling snow, slashing left and right, each following the other in crazy arcs of death leaving behind spinning bloody droplets as heads, arms and legs were cut from trunks; as throats were slit, bellies opened, eyes cut out. A sword slashed by her, she swayed, elbowed the attacker in the face, right blade sliding into another’s groin to cut the major artery, first blade back-handing an attacker across the eyes, right-hand sword hacking into a head, front kick to a third attacker’s chest, then leaping forward, boots on him, sword plunging down through his mouth as she ducked another sword slash and rammed her sword hilt into his teeth, snapping them with bone crunches. She landed atop the thrashing figure, everything crazy chaos about her. Dek fought with his savage pit-fighting aggression, long sword a whirling frenzy of iron, bludgeoning as much as it was cutting, and his fists, feet and broad forehead delivering hefty thumps and crashes. Narnok’s twin-headed axe was a demon, glittering and singing, and the huge axeman seemed to pull off impossible feats with the weapon, slashing and cutting, reverse cuts, feints, twisting the butterfly blades to lock swords, snapping them as if they were a child’s wooden playthings. Trista moved with a cool grace, sabre and long knife flashing about her as she spun and danced, elegantly avoiding enemy strikes. And Zastarte, similar to Trista in his technique, a dainty touch from a master swordsman who relied on delicate skill and accuracy rather than any brute force. The tip of his blade was a razor always opening just the right amount of flesh to maim or kill, but never threatening to lodge in bone or sinew. His was a daintiness, like a tight-rope walker, and his slim build and athletic grace made him a formidable opponent. But more, more than the individual warriors they all undoubtedly were, they gelled into the perfect fighting unit, unconsciously covering one another’s backs, cutting hands wielding swords before a blow could be delivered, stabbing out the eyes of a comrade’s opponent, creating a whirlwind circle of iron and steel and razor death for any who stepped within killing range of the collective of dazzling blades.
However, the Iron Wolves were not perfect.
A narrow thrust caught Kiki along the ribs, and she felt skin part – that old hot sting and bite of steel – felt warmth rush down her side before her short sword cut up into the elf rat’s groin and removed his cock and balls. He grunted, eyes wide, and Kiki’s second blade crashed into his face, flat-first, sending him stumbling back into the attacking mass. An elf rat leapt at Dek, boots first, both crashing into the pit-fighter’s face and breaking his nose – but even as the elf rat was still in the horizontal, boots against Dek’s cracking cartilage, so Narnok’s great axe slammed down cutting the elf rat clean in half at the waist and leaving two wriggling sections of body squirming in a sudden open flood of bloody entrails. Zastarte took a cut to his cheek, and stopped, stunned, for the first time ever receiving a facial wound. Horror slammed through him and Trista had to skewer his attacker and slam her fist into his chest. “Fucking fight, you idiot!”
“But… my face!” Horror.
“They’ll be cutting off your fucking head next!” she screamed. “Fight!” But even as the words left her spitting lips, so the elf rats suddenly pulled back in a circle of snarling fangs, slashing claws, gleaming eyes; they left a huge ring of dead in their wake, and the Iron Wolves moved closer, shoulder to shoulder, panting, snarling, preparing themselves for another attack…
“Wait!” The word was a command.
The Iron Wolves watched with narrowed, suspicious eyes as an old, bent, broken figure hobbled through the horde of elf rats. The way they parted, with nobody touching him, many heads bowing in reverence, spoke of this creature’s power or standing. His face illuminated his great age, and his rough brown robes were interwoven with brown and black branches. His head came up, surveying the Iron Wolves as he leaned heavily on his gnarled staff, which was taller than his own bent frame.
“I am Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel,” he intoned, and from his right hand there was a sense of thrashing snakes in shadows.
In one fluid motion, Trista pulled free her bow, notched an arrow and sent the shaft plunging into Bazaroth’s eye with a thud that sent the ancient sorcerer stumbling back. The Iron Wolves ran for it, sprinting over corpses and hitting the line of elf rats as a wedge with the mighty Narnok at its point, axe cleaving through bodies with sickening crunches… and then they broke free and charged down the street, sliding on ice. They reached the corner of Blackleg Alley, but were charged by a squad of elf rats who appeared from the gloom. Their attackers ploughed into their midst with a burst of amazing speed and aggression, curved fangs snarling.
Kiki, Dek and Zastarte were hammered back into a narrow alley by the elf rat charge, fighting a sudden retreat, swords clashing against swords and long spears as fifteen elf rats charged them, falling down on the cobbles with crushed skulls and skewered eyes, but still coming on, still snarling and spitting…
“There’s too many!” screamed Kiki, swords a blur, narrowly missing having her own head removed by a horizontal slash from a pitted black blade. She ducked and spun, sword piercing an elf rat through the guts.
“Back!” snapped Dek. “We have to fall back.” Suddenly, they turned and ran, searching for an alley they could cut through to rejoin Narnok and Trista. But the winding cobbles took them south, then arced to the right with only left exits leading further south towards the Royal Gate. Before they knew it, they were in the heart of the Haven again, only a hundred feet from the pursuing elf rats.
“Down there!” pointed Dek.
“Narnok and Trista?”
“No, it’s the tunnel that led us into Zanne.”
“We can’t leave them,” said Kiki, eyes gleaming.
“We need a confined space to fight. There’s too fucking many of them, Kiki!”
Kiki nodded, and they sprinted back towards the black brick steps leading down into the sewer tunnels under Zanne. And with only a sharp backward glance, plunged down into the darkness, the se
wage, and the unholy stink…
Back at the corner, the larger section of this split elf rat squad focused on Narnok, swarming around the axeman as his blades cleaved left and right, splattering brains and cutting heads from shoulders. Trista fought close by with increasing frenzy, her cool and poise now gone. Their group had been split, and the two of them were on their own. A much more worrying prospect now, considering the numbers ranged against them.
Suddenly, the elf rats fell back – and parted.
Trista was panting, curled blonde hair lank with sweat and getting in her eyes. She brushed it away, glanced at Narnok who grinned at her with his terrible scarred face and single narrowed eye. He didn’t seem out of breath and she wanted to curse him, to shout you fucking got us into this, you horse dick, trying to save that little girl, but she didn’t have the breath left in her. Instead, she scowled, then gestured up the street.
From the corner of an alley strode a huge elf rat, easily two heads taller than Narnok, and much wider at the shoulders. He carried a mighty hammer of oak and iron, with thick banding and brass studs the size of a man’s fist. He was limping slightly, one leg longer than the other, and was bald, his skin coarse and grey, his eyes red like berries in a face that was oval, and smooth, like old polished ash.
This creature, this giant amongst elf rats, accelerated suddenly at Narnok who gazed up, mouth actually open, as the huge hammer raised above the elf rat’s head and it leapt at him; Narnok side-stepped, axe lashing out to be batted aside by a forearm brace forged from iron. Sparks flew. The hammer thundered against the cobbles, making the whole street seem to shake and cracking ten of the rounded stones. Narnok staggered, then leapt back as the hammer was jerked into a horizontal strike that nearly crushed him against a wall. Instead, it completely removed the edge of a brick house and bricks toppled out like rock-fall, the house groaning as it sagged on old rotten timbers. Narnok’s axe came up in both hands, and he backed away, the elf rats lumbering around and grinning at him, some with evil curved fangs as long as a man’s forearm.
