by Andy Remic
“I feel like it. Let’s find those horses.”
Zastarte’s tracking skill led them for two miles before they found their mounts, standing idle, their packs still intact, cropping at winter ferns. With gentle coaxing the horses were gathered and checked over; for, as Zastarte pointed out, Kiki could have quite easily blasted every living thing in the forest to the Furnace and back with her magick and summoning. Dek snorted a laugh.
They rode for the rest of the day, but Kiki’s exhaustion forced them to halt early and build a temporary shelter by the edges of Skell Forest. As they approached the edges of the forest, so more snow was channelled into the haven, blown by powerful surges of wind. Kiki suggested an early night, and the others agreed. Skell Forest, for all its brooding silence and the possibility it could contain predators, was at least a place of shelter away from the wild brutal elements that had overtaken Vagandrak.
Dek and Zastarte forced Kiki to rest as they cut branches and ferns and constructed a lean-to, out of the wind. Then Dek built a fire and cooked a thick soup using wild mushrooms and onions he’d dug up with his recently re-discovered sword, apologising to the blade for this lack of honour. But when you were hungry, honour had little place, and a sword made a damn fine spade, if a little narrow.
Darkness fell, tumbling across the sky, and the three Iron Wolves ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Zastarte seemed to have retreated into himself: no more jokes or light-hearted banter, no talk of the women he’d conquered or the fine wines he liked to sup. Now, his face was lined with weariness and anxiety, his movements tinged with lethargy. After eating, Dek said he’d take first watch, despite his own weariness, and watched Kiki pass into an immediate sleep reaching right down to oblivion.
Dek sat, watching the fire. A cool breeze whispered through the trees, and beyond the orange flames the shadows seemed darker than ink, and he shivered when he cast his mind back over the last few months. What wild times we live through, he thought sombrely. And then he sank into thinking about his dear, departed mum. He remembered the good times, he remembered the best times, and found tears filling his eyes and running down his cheeks. He hadn’t contemplated her recent death; indeed, had been so busy dealing with bastards with swords trying to hack off his head, since the night he’d burned down her house and cursed his brother, Ragorek, and consigned the bastard known as Crowe to the flames; well, he hadn’t had much head space for contemplation.
Now, with only the fire as company, he remembered the good times. His mum cooking at the stove, making him sweet cakes and letting him run his fingers around the bowl, licking their sweet stickiness. Playing with his friends in the woods, swords made from hacked branches, taking on the violent hordes of monsters from the Plague Lands and beating them back, then running through long ferns, jumping streams and getting home ready for thick broth and Mum’s homemade bread. Building a dam with Ragorek using rocks and mud, then watching with patient fascination as the water level built up to form a small pond, then tying a rope above it to make a swing and watching Ragorek swing across, slip and fall head first into their newly created reservoir, all spluttering and cursing to Dek’s screams of laughter… and Mum’s warm towels by the hearth as she rubbed dry his hair and made soft clucking noises. Lost days, distant days; love and warmth long gone and dead and buried in the ashes of the fire and distant memory.
Dek coughed, and rubbed the tears from his eyes, and felt an arm around his shoulders. He looked up into Kiki’s eyes, saw the concern there, and forced a grin he did not feel.
“Are you okay, Dek?”
“Just thinking about my old mum,” he said, his voice a little wavery.
“Come to bed.”
“No, the Tree Stalkers might come back…”
Kiki closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head, her eyes opening a fraction later. “There’s nobody here in Skell, Dek. Trust me. There’s no threat. We can sleep easy tonight, at least.”
She led Dek into the shelter, and welcomed him under her blankets where they clung to one another like children, like young lovers, like newlyweds, like a couple waiting to die; and drifted off into a shared sleep and a welcoming oblivion of darkness.
Leaving the towering treetops of Skell Forest they rode east, hard and fast. Within a few hours they could see the distant city of Dunn, and beyond that, the towers of Kantarok, but they feared the worst and knew it was more important to push on, imperative they reached Zalazar beyond the White Lion Mountains. The land here was hilly, with some large climbs that forded them views of the White Lions – towering peaks, easily in the same league as the Mountains of Skarandos far to the southwest.
For the next two days Kiki, Dek and Zastarte rode the hills, and then foothills of the White Lion Mountains, which marched steadily towards them, mammoth, white-coated sentinels, tightly packed like teeth. More snow fell and the going was slow, but on the third morning after leaving the shelter of Skell Forest, they breached a rise that fell away, jagged vertical cliffs falling away to the sloping approaches of the first White Lion.
The land was snowy, but even the snow could not combat and cloak the huge rocks that littered this land. The Iron Wolves dismounted and tethered their mounts to a nearby stand of trees, and gazed down into the vast valley far below.
“You know the way through the mountains?” said Dek, and then his mouth fell open, for far below, and a little to the south, lay camped an army. Dek closed his mouth, and forced himself to remain very, very still.
“Elf rats,” said Zastarte, finally.
“The army Sameska promised would march,” said Kiki, her eyes shining. “On their way to deliver slaughter and mayhem to Yoon’s armies, wherever they may be camped; on their way to bring blood and death to the men and women of Vagandrak.”
“We’re too late,” hissed Dek.
“No, because we move faster than any damn army can. But it will be close, Dek. We know that now.”
“How do we get through them? They’re camped before the only fucking pass that runs through the White Lions, and that’s being fucking generous, as we all know how treacherous that path is to walk.”
“They are preparing to move,” said Kiki, her eyes fixed on the encampment.
“How do you know that? Is this your magicking Shamathe powers at play again? I am mightily impressed.”
“No.” Kiki pointed. “Look. They’re packing up their shit.”
The three Iron Wolves lay on their bellies for an hour or so, watching the elf rats dismantling tents and packing bundles onto massive carts pulled by oxen, six beasts to a cart. Kiki estimated the army to number around six thousand warriors, with a third that number again in ancillary staff.
Eventually, they moved back to their horses and spent a while gathering wood, which they tied in bundles and to their horses’ saddles; it was going to be a long trek across the mountains, and without fuel they would surely die of exposure.
Finally, when Kiki was happy they had enough fuel for the journey, they began looking for a way down into the valley, which took them several miles north, then onto a winding, man-made road of savage switchbacks cut into the rocky cliff-side itself. It was narrow and dangerous, especially in the snow and ice, and Kiki found vertigo a constant friend as she felt as if she teetered on the brink of some savage drop into an abyss. Hooves clattered and kicked in snow as they walked their horses down this descent, and they took their time, dropping carefully towards the distant valley floor.
Above them loomed the threatening shadows of the White Lion Mountains, and it was early afternoon, growing dark with stacked up storm clouds overhead, as they reached the valley floor and carefully picked their way towards the Kripzallandril Pass, simply known as The Krip, before which the departed elf rat army had been camped.
More snow began to fall, delicate little flakes that settled on their shoulders and hats and mounts. Dek glanced up, face a scowl, as they moved onwards and stopped in the deserted space the camp had occupied.
Zastarte went off to scout the locality, as Dek and Kiki turned to face the mouth of the pass. Here, it looked completely non-threatening. It was wide enough to take ten cavalry side by side and had only a gentle slope that had been trampled flat by the recent elf rat soldiers. However, both Dek and Kiki knew what lay ahead: the path, winding steeply up into the White Lion Mountains, narrowing to single file as it travelled up, up, up into the lofty peaks, treacherous for both men and horses alike, as howling icy winds blew hard enough to send an explorer careering off the path and into the void below. Dislodged rocks from above could crush a man’s skull or, even worse, there were huge sections that were prone to avalanche. Not only was there a threat of being buried in such a horrific fall of ice and rock, but there was also the threat of reaching a section of previous fall and finding the path either gone, or buried. It was not a trek to make lightly, nor was it one for the faint-hearted.
“I remember training here,” said Dek, gently, his voice oozing like smoke, his mind drifting back over the years. He glanced at Kiki. “You remember?”
“Not something you easily forget,” smiled back Kiki, lips narrow.
“I’m not looking forward to this. We lost lots of good men. Back in the day.”
Kiki nodded, and turned at the sound of Zastarte’s approach. “They’re heading southeast, following the range down towards Timanta. I would tentatively suggest they’re using Zunder Fortress as a staging post; good defensive position, and you have the whole of eastern Vagandrak at your disposal.”
“And what about the west?”
Zastarte shrugged. “They have more than one army.”
“That’s what worries me,” brooded Kiki.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Dek. “Maybe the whole of their forces haven’t yet come meandering over the White Lions; maybe, and this is just a very sombre thought, just maybe we’ll meet them high up on the peaks.”
Kiki considered this. “We’ll cross that particular cracking ice ravine when we come to it.”
Despite the lateness of the hour, and with night falling fast, they began the trek up the wide snow road ahead of them, aware that time was of the essence, painfully aware that Vagandrak was running out of time. They moved with slow, measured steps, each lost in their own thoughts, each looking ahead at the mission to come – the stealing, or destruction, of the Elf Heart from under the very nose of the elf rat king, Daranganoth; unless he’d travelled south with his army – or armies. The whole mission stank like a ten day corpse and Kiki found familiar demons haunting her, found familiar doubts assailing her senses. The old what ifs. What if this didn’t work? What if Sameska had been lying? What if they died in an avalanche? What if they were slaughtered the minute they stepped foot in Zalazar? Were Narnok and Trista still alive? Was there still a release from their Iron Wolf curse waiting for them back at Desekra Fortress, as General Dalgoran had promised? All swirled in a maelstrom of worry and doubt, with a constant underlying cackle from Suza, her dead bitch sister, waiting for her to drop down to the Chaos Halls beyond the Valleys of the Dead.
Dek found himself falling into a dark mood of desolation and doubt. As they trudged through ankle-deep snow, each footstep sapping just a little bit more strength, and with a biting wind chilling his face and finding tiny ways of intruding beyond his woollen clothing and oiled leather coat to make him curse and forever tug at the edges of his leaking clothing, so he glanced left at Kiki; glanced at that, some would say, gaunt face but a face that he found strong and beautiful. She was a proud woman, and he loved her dearly. But here and now, he felt like they were marching to their doom on an impossible task. Sometimes, Dek felt like he could take on the world. Here, in these godsforsaken lands, on this desolate mountain road heading for the poisoned lands of a hated, cast-out race, he felt a great weariness settle over his heart – like a gauntleted fist encompassing his dreams and goals and future. What future could they possibly have? They were going to die on this foolish fucking mission, and yet Kiki would not back down, would give her life to save her country despite her own deep problems, and that was why he loved her. That’s why he’d follow her to the edges of the world and die for her on a distant battlefield, his blood mixing with the ice and frozen ground. That’s why he loved her.
Zastarte, also, was moody and nostalgic. He thought about his childhood, joining the army, applying for and being accepted into the brotherhood of the Iron Wolves – Tarek’s elite. He remembered being a hero: the cheering crowds, children thanking him in village squares for killing the sorcerer Morkagoth and bringing peace and security back to the lands of Vagandrak. And the women… oh, how they were thankful, throwing themselves at him, opening their legs willingly for this hero of Vagandrak, a prince, no less, with his dashing good looks and, even though he said so himself, a perfection of sartorial elegance. And yet. And yet somewhere along the line it had gone wrong. Somewhere his brain had become mis-wired; he’d always thought he’d end up married with bawling, boisterous kids ready to carry on the Zastarte name. Instead, he found himself in a torture cellar inflicting pain on innocent victims and watching them suffer, and burn.
He shivered, as a demon passed over his soul.
And now he realised he was in love with Trista. But, even if she’d lived after the events in Zanne, even if she’d survived the constant fighting without him by her side to watch out for her, would she ever return his love? How could she, knowing what he’d done in his dark and evil past? The atrocities he’d carried out in the name of… jealousy? Loathing? A base-level hatred of humanity? Because these things he had done, they were not born from love, or even desire or lust – no. They were products of a hatred that ran bone-deep, at the cellular level. They were genetic. Inherited, perhaps? Had his father carried the same warped desires?
Zastarte ground his teeth and marched on as darkness fell over the mountains and the world, and the biting wind brought him more pain.
“We’re all going to die,” he murmured, although his words were taken by the wind and snapped away to the snow-laden valleys far below their panoramic view, fading fast. He gave a twisted, sardonic smile. “And nobody is going to give a fuck.”
They walked for half the night, deeper into The Krip, travelling inwards and upwards as if this were some insane military training exercise and a competition to see who had the greatest natural stamina. Dek finally called a halt, spying a cave down a narrow ice-edged cleft, and away from what had become a more severe and narrow path into the heart of the White Lion Mountains.
They just managed to squeeze the horses into the opening and tether them to nearby rocks. The place was a natural wind break and they unloaded wood from the horses, placing blankets across their backs, and Zastarte built a small fire at the mouth of the cave, where Dek brewed some hot tea and they all warmed savagely chilled fingers over the flames, sitting on their bedrolls to remove the seeping cold from the rocky ground.
The wind howled, a mournful series of ghost sounds, and Dek and Kiki huddled together, her head on his shoulder, staring at the dancing fire. Zastarte watched them from across the flames, his eyes hooded and dark, his cup in both hands warming his fingers, his mood brooding.
“You wish she was here, don’t you?” said Kiki.
Zastarte gave a single nod.
“You’ve changed a lot since I found you in that torture cellar.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why?”
Zastarte considered this. Eventually, just as Kiki thought he wouldn’t answer and was going to prompt him again, he said, “I believe that I found myself. I found peace with myself. The inner demon was cast out.”
“Inner demon?”
“Yes. A voice that spoke in my head. Prompted me to do bad things.” Kiki’s mouth went dry, and she thought about Suza.
“And you killed it?”
“I think, more, I exorcised it.”
“Did your demon have a name?” said Kiki softly.
“Yes, but I will not speak it he
re, lest I conjure the bastard back from the Furnace.” His head tilted to one side. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Kiki in a tiny voice. “I have a sister. Suza. She… died when I was much younger. It is her that haunts me, her that taunts me.”
“No, no,” said Zastarte, shaking his head. “I don’t believe that; I don’t believe your sister is inside your skull. This is something else. Something that came with our curse on that day Dalgoran and the other magickers created The Iron Wolves.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. This Suza – she is a product of the curse. There will be a way you can kill her; or banish her from your mind. You just have to find the right trigger, the right pressure point, and she will be kicked screaming and wailing into the Pit.”
“What was your trigger, Prince Zastarte?”
He leaned forward, and for a moment his eyes were visible by the light of the fire. They glistened with tears and he gave a woeful smile.
“I fell in love,” he said.
They set off with the coming of dawn, and the track grew ever narrower, ever steeper. Many sections had had great steps hewn into the rock, staircases on which the horses struggled, their iron-shod hooves slipping and sliding. The snow had stopped, and the sky was the colour of the ocean, a dark thunderous grey, with rolling clouds like waves and a distant low-level narrow strip lit by the winter sun. It was bleak, and yet beautiful, and the more they climbed so the pastel panorama before them widened to reveal the land of Vagandrak in all its beauty; all its decadence. Distant castles dotted the horizon, and great swathes of forest were highlighted in stark patches of evergreen. Through drifts of cloud they could see Zunder the volcano, and noted trails of distant black oozing from its summit. The volcano had not erupted for nearly three hundred years, and most scholars believed the mammoth beast dormant. Here, though, now that the elf rats had invaded, and there were no scholars to witness, it appeared the mighty dragon would ignite once more.
