The Iron Wolves (11 page)

“This way,” growled Dek, and ran through the dark and shadow-filled house. Both men had spent their childhood there. They knew every corridor, every step, every stairwell, every room and cut-through and nook and cranny, every cupboard and wardrobe, every window and which way they opened, every statue and pillar and panel and table and hideaway. Even in the dark, intuition kicked in, from a childhood playing at being soldiers and heroes, of fighting mock battles with sticks and small wooden figures, of lying in the dark, long into the night, talking excitedly about strategy and how they would both join the King’s army and help rid Vagandrak of evil wherever it may be found! Now, some of that evil, members of the Red Thumb Gang, Vagandrak’s biggest underground scourge, were here to do them harm. It was an ironic turn of events.

Dek slowed, and Rag mimicked his younger brother. They were approaching the rear of the house and the servants’ kitchen, quarters and entrance. As they entered the long kitchen which had, in former glorious years, been able to cater for more than a hundred guests, Ragorek’s nostrils twitched. What was that smell? Lantern oil?

Dek and Rag approached the rear door, solid oak, and, even as they arrived, so a narrow, flat, paper-thin blade was inserted through the crack and jiggled the lock. Dek gave a two strike gesture with his index finger, and in the darkness Rag nodded. They separated, swords out, moving to stand with backs to the cupboards that flanked the door. Dek crouched, and Rag did the same. The door creaked open on purposefully un-oiled hinges.

Three men crept in, bearing swords which had been blackened with gun-oil and soot, and as they came into range Dek let them move past, then reared up, his own blade hacking at the rearmost man. The blade tore into his neck, grating on bone, and the man gave a ragged cry, trying to turn. Dek front-kicked him away, and smashed his blade in a backhand sweep, cutting the second gang-member’s throat. He went down on both knees and Dek slid the sword into his eye socket. During this, Ragorek cut down the third man, ramming his sword into the man’s back. He followed the gang member to the floor, kneeling on his back and plunging the blade a second time through his kidneys. The man lay still, blood leaking out onto ancient stone flags.

“He’s here! He’s here!” came a scream from outside. They saw dark shapes running towards the rear door.

“An excellent plan,” murmured Ragorek. “Discovered immediately.”

“No. It’s perfect. Come on.”

Dek pounded through the house, and Ragorek glanced back. Men were flooding through that thick oak door, past the large grooved preparation table on which ten thousand carcases had been skinned and gutted and carved over the decades; and past a stack of barrels. Barrels?

There came the sounds of smashing glass, from several parts of the building. And the splintering of wood from the front door.

“This way.”

They headed for the cellar steps, but five men blocked their way.

“Dek!” bellowed Crowe. “Stop! Don’t make me come after you!”

Dek said nothing, but veered right with Ragorek close behind. They pounded down the wide main corridor, back to the central living room where their mother’s rough-sawn coffin rested. Dek moved to stand behind the coffin, as did Ragorek. Both their swords were bloody, and only then did Ragorek realise the room stank of oil. Lantern oil. He blinked in the gloom. In the short time they had been away, the coffin had been soaked in oil. And now, several barrels flanked the coffin, and a cool breeze drifted into the room from the window behind.

Crowe and ten of his men entered, bristling swords and knives and grim faces.

“Welcome, old friend,” said Dek.

“What horse shit is this?” scowled Crowe, rubbing his forked beard. “You know what you have to do, Dek; you need to give me good hard coin, and lots of it! Killing my men will not find you favour with the Red Thumb Gang. And you fucking know we control every damn town and city from here to the Skarandos Mountains in the south, and all the way up to Kantarok and the Skell Forest. You are fucked if you don’t cooperate, Dek. You and your pretty brother.” He gave a nasty grin which showed his tombstone teeth. “Unless, Ragorek, you wish to come and work for us? We always have use for pretty boys like you. I’m sure we can come to some kind of understanding.”

“Listen,” said Dek, holding his hands apart, an interesting vision of placation because his sword still dripped blood. “The way I see it, Crowe, it’s like this. Yes, I gambled away a life’s fortune when I was pissed. And you bastards allowed it. Even
you
allowed it. Old friend. But I recognise a debt is a debt, and as you see, here’s my old mum in her coffin, dead, and now this house here belongs to me and my brother here. I reckon this house is good enough to settle my debt. What do you reckon? You can have it.”

“Dek!” snarled Ragorek.

Crowe raised his dark, shaggy eyebrows, and withdrew some of his aggression. He looked around, eyes widening, nodding in appreciation.

“That’s good, Dek. I see where you’re going with this. And I see you have at last come to your senses. This sure is a fine house. I’m positive the men in charge, the people I have to answer to, I am
sure
they will value this as being a good way to paying off some of your debt. Then you won’t have to die. Not yet, anyways. So yes, a wise move, and the sensible option, my old comrade.”

Dek smiled a narrow smile. “Yes.”

Crowe’s eyes were fixed to his. “I knew you had history, but didn’t realise you had such good family…
connections.
You kept them from me. All those years ago.” He smiled. “Lucky for you. It’s saved your life.”

“Crowe. I think we misunderstand one another,” said Dek, face relaxing into a sombre expression. He licked his lips and his eyes gleamed in the flickering light from the single brand.

“We do? How so?” Crowe frowned.

Dek suddenly lunged, grabbing the flaming brand from its bracket. “When I said you could have the house; I didn’t mean by selling it and allowing you to reap the financial rewards. I meant that it would be your final resting place. Your grave. Yours, forever.” Dek dropped the brand to the coffin and a wall of flame shot up. Searing heat lashed out and Crowe and his men suddenly realised they were standing on carpets soaked with lantern oil. Fire roared, billowing out, igniting the carpets, the oil, and the suddenly screaming men. Clothes caught. Beards and hair flared in ignition. Fire, a dancing demon, leapt from man to man to man, scorching flesh, burning, burning bright, and each man screamed and grabbed at himself and tried to escape in a blind panic of desperation and sudden, incredible terror.

Dek and Ragorek stumbled backwards, towards the open window. Bright fire blinded them. They turned and leapt out, boots thudding into soft earth. Weasel and a group of men were waiting. Weasel’s face was deadly serious.

“Are they all in?” snapped Dek.

“Yes. We’ve still scouts out, but these boys didn’t think to leave anybody outside to keep watch. Not too bright, these Red Thumb idiots.”

“Nail it up.”

Men ran forward and started hammering planks over the window from which Dek and Ragorek had escaped. Bangs and thuds echoed across the gardens and cobbled driveway, reverberating from the boles of nearby ancient trees.

“You sure you got all the doors?” asked Dek.

Weasel nodded. “As soon as you lured them all in through the kitchens and started leading them away, we began then. And when you lit the coffin, I gave the signal to the others.”

Now, they could hear the roar of raging fire and the crackling of timbers. Dek walked away from his family home, from his mother’s house, from
his own
house, and when halfway down the drive he stopped, and turned, and stared up at the magnificent stone edifice which had been in his family for five generations. Now, in his grief, and in his desperation, he’d torched the place.

Ragorek approached. His face was grim and soot-streaked.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he said.

Dek stared. The whole lower floor was on fire, and even as they watched flames could be seen caressing the upper storey. A man leapt, burning, screaming, from one of the upper windows. He hit the ground with a dull thud and Weasel and three men ran over and plunged long knives into the burning body, which lay still, flames flickering.

“No escape,” whispered Dek. “None of them can escape.”

“They’ll still know you did it. The Red Thumbs, I mean.”

Dek shrugged. “I no longer give a fuck.”

They watched the house burn. They watched their home burn.

The roof had caught now, and the whole place was a roaring inferno. Nobody was getting out of the place alive. But then, that had been the whole idea.

Weasel approached. “We’re done, Dek. The whole lower floor is nailed up tighter than a whore’s… yes. Well.”

Dek grasped the small man’s hand. “Thanks, Weasel. To you and your boys. You done me proud.”

“Anything for you, Dek,” grinned Weasel. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes. Any stragglers come staggering out, and I’ll give them a bit of Dek loving. Ragorek here will go with you. I have some business to attend to.”

“Ragorek is staying where the hell he wants,” growled Ragorek, staring hard at Dek. “It’s my damn house too. My damn mother who’s burning.”

Dek gave a single nod. “As you wish, brother.”

Weasel and his men melted into the night, and Dek and Ragorek stood for an hour, watching the house burn. Flames roared high illuminating the estate almost as if it were day. But here, ten miles north of the city, there weren’t any neighbours. Dek and Ragorek were left alone to watch their mother, and their fortune, burn.

Eventually, Dek sat down cross-legged on the cobbles. Ragorek sat next to him.

There was a mammoth roar as the roof collapsed inwards, shooting a million sparks up into the freezing winter sky. The fire seemed to calm a little then, and the core of the house was glowing white like the centre of a blacksmith’s forge.

“It was a good send off,” said Dek, finally.

“For mother?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realise that was the plan.”

“That was always the plan,” said Dek, giving Ragorek a skeletal grin. “The Red Thumb Gang – well, they just got in the way, and this was a convenient way to settle an old score.”

“That Crowe man?”

“Yeah. The bastard.”

“You know him?”

“Oh, I know him, all right,” said Dek, eyes filled with sorrow. “Used to be my best friend.”

They sat, their backs freezing, the heat from the burning house throwing out enough energy to make them sweat like armoured soldiers in the sun.

“I miss her,” said Ragorek.

“You do?”

“Yes, of course I fucking do!”

“And there was me, thinking you were a heartless, jealous, childish bastard.”

“Maybe I’m that as well. So, what do we do now?” Ragorek asked.

Dek shrugged and lay down on the cobbles, placing his head on his arm. “Don’t know about you, mate, but I’m going to sleep. It’s been a long day. A long week. A long fucking life. And I’m staying here till mum’s gone and done and ashes.”

Ragorek nodded, and stayed up for a while, watching the stones begin to glow.

It was a cold chill bastard morning. The sky was grey and bleak, like iron. The puddles lay frozen in tiny platters; like dead fish eyes.

The house smouldered. The four main walls were still standing, along with the skeletal infrastructure of supporting walls. But that was all that remained. Windows and doors were toothy gaps. The entire innards of the house were gone and several walls had collapsed to form mounds of rubble. The core of the house glowed, and heat emanated to warm the surrounding cobbles. Ash lay in concentric circles spreading away from the centre, and the great mounds were stirred by gentle gusts of winter breeze, glowing bright occasionally as oxygen breathed life into old fire.

The figure trod carefully up the cobbles, looking left and right, nostrils twitching at the scent of charred timbers and wood smoke. The figure stopped, staring at Dek and Ragorek, lying on the ground in uncomfortable slumber, still warmed by the dying embers of their family.

The figure gestured back to another figure, an old military hand signal, and then approached very, very carefully. Eyes took in the two big men, and the empty bottle of whiskey which lay between them.

Dek was snoring, but the snoring stopped abruptly as the long sliver of steel rested against his throat.

He showed no sign he was awake, but she knew he was.

“Are you here to kill me?” he rumbled, finally. His eyes flickered open. “Because if you are, get it fucking done.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” said the woman, gently. “I’m here to rescue you. From yourself.”

Orlana rode a huge, jet-black war charger, sitting, back straight, every inch the queen. To her left padded Tuboda, a massive, magnificent example of man and lion crushed together, warped together, with patchy white skin and tufts of golden fur. Every so often his tawny eyes shifted to gaze up at Orlana, with total love, total obedience, and she would smile and nod in his direction, acknowledging his love. Behind, came the two hundred or so horse beasts, the splice, padding along with heavy feet and paws and mangled iron hooves, some running with odd angular movements due to legs of differing lengths, or a twisted shoulder or pelvis where the fusing of man and beast had not gone completely smoothly. But whatever their deformities, whatever their
perfection,
whatever their
evolution
, all cut a terrifying spectacle. All oozed threat and menace and a promise of oblivion. A merged cavalry unit from ancient tales of horror. From the Before Times. From the millennia rule of the Equiem.

Approaching a walled town at dusk, Orlana said nothing but simply
focused
, and the beasts around her surged forward, snarling and growling, and inside the stockaded walls an urgent bell began to chime in panic from a tall, angular wooden church. The high town gates were dragged shut and Orlana could hear shouts and yells and the clanking of arms. As the splice neared, a small group of men lined the walls with bows drawn – but it was too late. The splice smashed through thick wooden boards barely breaking stride, and those without such heavy, powerful bulks leapt, iron hooves scrabbling to scale the twelve foot planks, and over, and into the town. Once inside, screams echoed and the slaughter began. They charged through the streets, hooves crushing skulls, bulks charging men and women, crushing them against walls where they toppled into the mud and their heads were cracked open. Huge jaws bit off arms, showering the ground and village cottages with blood. The massacre was over in a few minutes, and the splice padded around, hunting out any survivors.

The gates were opened as Orlana approached, Tuboda by her side. Two of her creatures had found the town chief cowering inside the church, and they dragged him out, careful not to rip his arms from his round plump body.

Orlana looked him up and down, and smiled. “You know who I am?”

“No, no, I apologise, we have done nothing, we are a simple people…”

“Tell me, who is your king? Your queen?”

“Zorkai, King of Zakora. You are in his lands now.”

“His capital city is Zak-Tan, yes? In the desert, yes, close to the Mud-Pits?”

“The Mud-Pits are forbidden,” said the chief, shaking, eyes fixed to the ground as if his subservience might save him. Occasionally he glanced up at one of the quivering, snarling splice, as if maybe he thought he dreamed a nightmare and would wake up soon. But he didn’t wake up. It was real. And he stared at the ground again, wishing it would open and swallow him.

“Why forbidden?”

“It is said the Mud-Pits spawned the mud-orcs of old, when the evil sorcerer Morkagoth strode the world. It is one of our Dark Legends.”

“Ah, yes, old Morkagoth. A fool. How many men does this King Zorkai command?”

“I… I am not sure. Thousands. I am not a military man, I swear, I do not know such things…”

Orlana nodded, as behind the town chief the splice had rounded up every horse in the area. There were perhaps a hundred, their eyes glassy, ears laid back in fear beside their bulkier, larger, more fearsome counterparts. Orlana held out her hand, and closed her eyes, and the horses began to rear, whinnying, screaming, hooves pawing the air as they suddenly… began to change. Legs cracked, spines rippled, skin and muscle folded in on itself and the town chief stood with mouth hung open, eyes wide in horror and brain shutting down because he knew; knew he would never be able to sleep again.

After the change was done, Orlana let out a breath and turned to Tuboda.

“We must rest now. This place will be fine. Tomorrow we march on Zak-Tan.”

“Our army… we not… have enough,” said Tuboda, carefully, forming his words past huge, misshapen lion fangs.

“We shall see,” smiled Orlana. “Now pass the word to rest.”

“What… I do… with him?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Always,” rumbled Tuboda, eyes narrowing.

The rotund town chief looked up suddenly, a snap of his head as understanding kicked him. He squeaked in fear. He began to back away, hands held out. “No,” he said, “No, please no, have mercy!”

“He’s yours.”
Tuboda leapt, huge jaws fastening over the town chief’s head. There was a pause as they seemed locked, motionless, a snapshot in a stark flash of lightning. Then Tuboda ripped the head free, crunched easily through the skull and brain, and swallowed. The body hit the mud, and Tuboda placed a heavy paw on the dead man’s chest and looked up, lifting his great shaggy head to roar at the sky; in majesty, in exultation, in acceptance.

Then, lowering his muzzle, he burrowed through the man’s sternum and drank, and fed.

He ran through the long grass, excitement and joy thundering in his breast. She had said yes. Yes! And she was
so beautiful!
He could not believe it.

“She will meet you by the Scorched Willow, in one hour,” said Juranda, his best friend, grinning and patting him on the back. “You be good to her, or her father will knock out all your teeth!”

Now he ran, stretching out his muscles as he pounded the dirt track, cutting left onto a grassy hillside which he climbed with easy, loping strides eating the distance. He reached the top of the grassy slope and was momentarily blinded by the sun. He paused, shading his eyes, staring down the long grassy slope to the fast-flowing river they called the Zerantarillo, or “Loop of Life”. He could see a figure standing under the angular black branches of the Scorched Willow, which was a traditional meeting place for young lovers of his tribe when they camped in this area.

Calming his thundering heart, the racing, skipping beat having little to do with his exertions, he forced himself to walk even though he wanted to sprint as fast as he could and sweep sweet beautiful stunning funny Darlana up in his arms and deliver the biggest kiss he could. Yet he knew that would never happen. He was far too shy. Far,
far
too shy!

The sun was nearing its zenith and beat down with glorious warmth. The grass hissed under a cool breeze from the south. And with his heart filled with joy, he knew today was a good day to be alive.

He walked down towards the Scorched Willow, and she had her back to him.

As he got closer, he said, words so soft they could hardly be heard above the hiss of the grass, “Darlana?”

She did not turn, did not register him, and for a moment his heart fell like a rock down a well. Was Juranda playing some cruel joke? Was this some evil jest dreamed up by the other young men of the tribe? He felt his temper rising, and his fists clenched, and he would show Juranda what was funny, and what was not;
that
was a promise!

Then Darlana turned, and she saw him, and she smiled. Her whole face lit up!

“Juranda, well,” he said, “well, I was passing… and I saw you, and I thought.” He cursed himself and closed his yapping mouth. The more he spoke, he knew, the more he would bury himself in the dirt.

“Tuboda,” she said, softly, her voice music; the sound was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I you.”

“You can step closer. I won’t bite.” And she giggled, and his heart melted, and he knew then he desired this woman more than life itself. For all eternity. He stepped closer. She reached out, shy then, lowering her eyes to the ground, her hand snaking out to stroke the back of his.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the tribe,” he said, at last.

She looked up, dark eyes flashing. “Really? But Zarind is dazzling! And the most athletic girl I’ve ever met. She can hurl a javelin two hundred paces!”

“Beside you, Zarind is a haggard old woman with a moustache,” said Tuboda.

Darlana giggled and stepped a little closer. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with humour, her eyes glittering with love. “Tuboda? I have a question.”

“Anything, my sweet.”

“Why…
why
have your eyes changed colour?”

He frowned. “What?”

“And, your face… it is changing, growing, expanding…” she gasped, stepping back from him in horror, and black storm clouds rushed across the sky and he could see the fear and disgust in her face as thunder rumbled and pain slashed through him like a silver sabre, and he bent, bones cracking, falling to all fours as the
lion
absorbed him from the inside out, and he jerked and fitted spasmodically, limbs growing, filling out with massive cords of muscle, huge curved claws ejecting from his fingers and slicing through soft loam.

Darlana screamed. “Get away! Get away from me!” and she stumbled away, crying.

Tuboda tried to speak, but realised his bent and twisted fangs were in the way. He forced the words out, but they were deformed and broken. “Cme… ba… ck…” he managed, and her scent filled his nostrils and his eyes narrowed and he realised he no longer wanted to hold her and kiss her; no. Now, he wanted to feed, to taste her blood and hear her bones crunch and feel her warm muscles slither down his throat.

A darkness flooded his mind, like it was in water, billowing in great expanding clouds.

What have I become? he thought.

What monster? What terrible, awful beast?

Tuboda awoke, great head on his paws, his patchy golden fur wet with tears. He stood, slowly, stretching out his legs and spine, and then forcing himself back and up onto two feet. He wasn’t sure which was more comfortable, but some lingering memory of being a man stuck with him and, for now, at least, he wished to walk upright despite the pain in his hips and lower spine.

It was near dawn. He walked through the town, down muddy streets now filled with nothing but overturned carts, the odd stray weapon and a chicken or two which clucked and ran when they noticed his approach.

A great thirst was upon him, and he moved to a well, picking his way between ten sleeping horse beasts, all lying on their sides, snoring, spluttering, drooling. Reaching the well, his claws clasped the bucket – like a tiny cup in his great paws – and he dropped it. The wheel spun, rope whining, and there was a splash.

He wound the handle awkwardly, and when the bucket arrived he stared for a long time into the shimmering reflection of his great tawny eyes.

He’d had… a dream.

He’d remembered… a woman. But even now, even as he remembered it, it floated away, like smoke on a strong breeze.

He drank.

“Are you ready for today?” said Orlana, from close behind.

Without turning, Tuboda nodded. “Yes, Horse Lady. I am ready.”

“Wake the splice. It’s time to ride.”