The Iron Wolves (18 page)

A thousand miles away, in a black silk tent, Orlana’s eyes opened in the darkness with a
click.
Outside, the splice were howling. Zorkai snored beside her, his handsome face troubled in sleep.

“I see you,” she whispered, and stretched out her hand which coiled with serpents of mist.

“I know you,” she breathed, licking her blood dark lips.

“Come to me, Iron Wolves. Come to Orlana.”

The Oram Mud-Pits. More than a thousand individual hollows, each one a small lake of ooze. They stank of sulphur, bubbling softly in huge craters amongst the violent upthrust of savage rocks; Nature’s natural daggers.

King Zorkai stood on a rocky plateau, looking off towards the setting sun, a huge orange orb slowly dying over the vast horizon. It was bloated, like a seven day corpse. Suddenly, Zorkai felt as if he was going to vomit. He closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself internally; and then took a deep breath. He wished he hadn’t, as sulphurous fumes filled his lungs and he spent the next three minutes choking.

Finally, wiping tears from his eyes, he glanced off across the Pits. They stretched away from his vantage point for as far as the eye could see; huge clusters of vertical jagged red rocks, each a sentinel mound guarding a vast elliptical chamber filled with mud and oily water, some black, some red, some a murky, metallic rust colour, some green like pus from a gangrenous wound. Many bubbled. Some were stagnant. But one thing was for sure: nothing lived here. Nothing could survive in this godforsaken place.

Orlana was standing out in the midst of the Mud-Pits, a tiny stick figure in flowing white robes. She should be dead, Zorkai knew; he was on the verge of puking his internal organs out and he knew from experience to move any further in would be to perish. And yet there she stood. The witch. The demon. The bitch. Zorkai smiled. But she was his key to becoming an Immortal Legend.

Hearing a whimper, followed by a deep-throated growl, he half-turned, but then paused and turned back to observe Orlana. He forced himself. She was walking toward him, bare feet treading lightly on the scorched, razor rock.

A pang of guilt rose in Zorkai like bile, but he quelled it savagely. Had he not killed his brothers and sisters? Had he not slit the throats of cousins lying in their beds? There was a time for feeling, emotion, pity, understanding and love; and there was a time for brutality, and savagery, and greatness. Now, he knew, was a time for greatness.

Behind, on the paths leading to the Oram Mud-Pits was a huge stream of people. His soldiers had emptied the hospitals, toured the streets of Zak-Tan proclaiming a new incredible Healer had come to the palace, and how she would cure diseases, deformity, blindness, deafness and any other ailment a person suffered. Thousands had poured from their homes and had been led west away from the city with carts of food and wine, with promises of healing. How many had Tsanga said? Fifteen thousand, so far. And that didn’t include those being brought on carts from the hospitals and the asylum.

Only now, the
splice
had arrived, savagely tearing apart several runners as an example to the others, and the huge group had been split into sections and escorted west; brought
here.

Be strong, Zorkai told himself.

Soon, this abomination will be over.

And things can only get better.

He watched Orlana approach, and she gave him a cursory smile and passed him by, leaping up the rocks to stand at the summit, looking down on the winding paths and the plains beyond, and the huge gathering of the ill, the deformed, and the crying. She lifted her right arm and the splice began snarling, their huge heads lowered and weaving, nudging the people forward. Crying and begging, they began the trek up the remaining pathways until they reached the summit. A woman tried to run, turning and fighting her way free, but a splice bit her in half at the waist, showering women and children with crimson arterial gore.

“Feed the Mud-Pits,” whispered Orlana, eyes bright.

Men, women and children were pushed, jostled and urged over the summit where they began to choke from the fumes, disorientation fast overcoming many. These were dragged by the splice and dumped unceremoniously into the many huge ovals of bubbling mud.

At first, Zorkai could not watch. Each scream pierced his heart. But then curiosity got the better of him and he opened his eyes, cutting off the cries and the begging, to stare down at these: the weak, being given a second chance.

As the sun sank, and darkness descended, so tens and hundreds were fed into the mud pools, where they sank, silently, without trace. Orlana stood beside Zorkai, watching impassively.

A woman screamed, arms outstretched towards her king. She was lame, he could see, with a twisted foot, hobbling urgently to get away from the snapping fangs of a splice which took her to the edge of a mud-pool and butted her, sending her into the slime. She thrashed for a moment, screaming, the thick red substance flowing into her mouth and throat – and then she sank, and was gone.

“The Mud-Pits need to be fed,” repeated Orlana.

“I know,” said Zorkai, both fists clenching, his left coming to rest on a sword hilt.

“This will build you an unstoppable army. You will see.”

“Yes.”

The work went on long into the night. Several fights broke out, mainly men, old soldiers, who formed small squares and refused to move. They were broken in seconds, dragged screaming and bellowing by their ankles up over the ridge and down, where they were tossed into the pools.

Men. Women. Crying children, their faces streaked with soot and dark sand. Even babes, wailing, squawking, and Zorkai gritted his teeth, muscles in his jaw tight, as they were tossed away, spinning: hurled into oblivion.

Finally, the numbers had thinned and the splice were taking the few remaining hundred further away, down rocky aisles between the hundreds of Mud-Pits which dominated the plain.

Orlana glanced at Zorkai. “It is not enough.”

“You said…”

“I know what I said. But it would appear you are a healthy people.” She smiled sardonically. “Tuboda!”

The great lion beast was there in an instant, his huge bulk bounding up the rocks, where he settled, gazing adoringly at Orlana. “Yes, Horse Lady?” he managed between his fangs.

“We need more.”

“Your will, Horse Lady.”

“Round up every second woman and child. We need the men for the merging…”

“Yes, Horse Lady.”

“No!” snapped Zorkai, his eyes flashing.

“Rule with me, or…” Orlana lifted her head, gesturing to the massacre, “join them.”

Zorkai’s eyes narrowed. “You are destroying my people!”

“You will grow again.
This
will make you stronger. You will not just rule Zakora; you will rule Vagandrak, Zalazar, Lartendo, even the Plague Lands. They will speak your name for ten thousand years!”

“And what do you get out of this?” said Zorkai, suddenly.

“My plan goes much deeper than simple domination,” said Orlana, and watched a hundred splice charge past, over the rocks, on their way back towards Zal-Tan, and the unsuspecting, sleeping population.

Zorkai awoke. For three days he had sat on the plateau, at first watching Orlana’s splice feed thousands more into the mud, across the whole plain, across hundreds of massive pits which bubbled and accepted the gift without sign. He kept telling himself it was something he had to do; this mass murder was for the greater good. But some small sliver of his heart did not quite believe it.

“Your people will rise again!” Orlana soothed him, kissing his neck.

And slowly, she had eased away his doubts, and he found the sliver of disbelief, and sorrow, and extracted it, tossing it away like a lost pin. He hardened his heart, focused his mind, and knew he fucking
knew
this was what had to be done. To become strong, there had to be sacrifice. To rule, there were always casualties.

Night had fallen.

Fires burned out on the plain, and down amongst the Mud-Pits.

Now, all the screaming was gone and done.

Now, Orlana said, all they had to do was
wait
.

“
The mud-orcs are a creature of flesh and bone and magick; they are as old as the world, a primitive seed held in the Mud-Pits of Oram where they can be summoned, and grown, starting with the flesh of others as an agent to stimulate rebirth. They are not strictly born, but are a resurrection of past mud-orcs; so even when they are young, they retain incredible fighting skill combined with a savagery rarely seen amongst Men.
”

“
Why will they serve you?
”
asked Zorkai, eyes wide.

“
Because I channelled the magick of their rebirth. I am their Mistress. I am their Lady. I am their Queen.
”

And now, he watched as the pits started to bubble with an intensity he found alarming. The ground shook. His lungs were scorched from the hot air and the sulphur. And now it grew worse, and huge clouds of vapours, of gas and fire, erupted from the pits. There came a movement, a surging of thick mud and something,
something
emerged, climbing up the jagged rocks to stand, naked and proud, bigger than a man by more than a full head, with wiry limbs and a wide chest and narrow hips; its skin was a pale green with streaks of red like open wounds; its head round and hairless, eyes jet black, tongue blood red, fingers tapered into long crooked claws, feet the same; and its first words were growls of blasphemy and it lifted its head to the moon and howled like a wolf…

More came, climbing from the Mud-Pits and Zorkai’s hackles were standing on end, his heart thumping hard in his chest, mouth dry, bladder full, as these creatures, these visions from nightmare, from the darkest dreams of terrified children, climbed from the Mud-Pits in their tens, then their hundreds. Gradually, the whole plain of rock and pits was alive like a writhing, shifting ant nest as the mud-orcs were reborn, climbing gleaming from the lakes of mud, and they moved in a great stream of green and blood-red flesh towards Orlana, where she stood, arms apart, palms outwards in greeting, smiling at the abominations emerging before her…

“Is there a captain amongst you?”

“He will come, Lady,” hissed, and growled, and spat one mud-orc with long yellow fangs and a dark, intelligent gaze.

“Go, assemble on the plains below alongside my war tents, and when your leader arrives, send him to me.”

They moved like huge cats, agile and supple despite their size, loping off down the trails towards the fluttering white tents Orlana had erected. A huge stream of mud-orcs flowed down onto the plains and, without instruction, they began building their own camp. Tuboda was down there, giving out weapons and tools. Before long, several units headed off to distant stands of woodland; maybe a hundred mud-orcs in all.

“What are they doing?”

“Building a camp for when their captains arrive. The captains will come later; and you’ll know about it, when they do.”

“Big, are they?”

“Big, and mean, and more than a match for one of my splice.”

“You sound like you’re a fan,” said Zorkai, weakly.

“I am. We’ve worked together before.” She took his hand and tugged him towards her. “We have time. Come down to the tents. I have need of you.”

Zorkai could feel the need emanating from his new queen, and in deep shame, and his own deep lust, he could not bring himself to refuse her.

It was the middle of the night when Zorkai rolled from the blankets and furs, in desperate need of a piss. He could see the flickering of many fires beyond the canvas walls, but what he witnessed as he opened the flap and stepped outside made him gasp…

The mud-orcs spread away across the plain like a dark ocean, their fires burning, their low, grunting songs chanting with a primeval rhythm. Drums beat, and the screeches of stressed steel reached Zorkai’s ears.

“What the hell are they doing?” he muttered, and then turned – to find himself an inch away from the silent mud-orc captain, with its arms folded, eyes watching him. The creature was massive, and stank like a corpse. Zorkai looked slowly upwards, from the heavily muscled chest, with its thick, rippled green and red skin, full of warts and lesions, up to the wide brutal face and head, where tusks protruded from the lower jaw and gleaming black eyes surveyed him with an intelligence he did not enjoy.

Slowly, the mud-orc captain lifted a great, swarthy hand and pushed Zorkai in the chest. His hand went to his sword-hilt and the mud-orc gave a wide, evil smile. “Where is Horse Lady?” he rumbled.

But before Zorkai could speak, Orlana was there, her hand on his arm, nuzzling his ear. “Don’t upset him,” she said. “He’s very, very hungry.”

“Hun...!” but Zorkai snapped his mouth shut.

“Reporting, Horse Lady,” said the creature, fangs chomping, a huge string of saliva drooling from his face. “Can I eat the human?”

“Not this one. I need this one.”

“Oh.” The mud-orc looked crestfallen.

“What is your name?”

“Vekkos.”

“This is your order, Captain Vekkos. Take your battalion, scour the country for a hundred miles in every direction: every hut, every village, every town; find weapons, and armour, and food; but more importantly, bring me
people
. We must still feed the Mud-Pits. We must still build your ranks!”

“What we eat? We hungry! We mud-orcs need feed!”

“Pigs, cows, camels, snakes, whatever you find; but not the horses, Vekkos. Never kill the horses.” Orlana smiled, cold eyes glittering. “Bring them to me,” she said. “I have a very special treat in store.”

The days passed. The mud-orcs brought hundreds of people; thousands of people. All were forced struggling into the Oram Mud-Pits. The mud-orcs made their own weapons, and their ranks expanded; and this larger force headed out, further afield, bringing back hundreds and thousands more. Only Zak-Tan remained totally unmolested, and the remaining population stayed in their homes out of sheer animal terror. The more mud-orcs were born, the more fresh battalions headed out scouting for flesh, now with carts for the living, piled high and soon to be fed into the mud.

And the wind howled mournfully. A song for the dead. For the dead.

After a month, Orlana called Zorkai to him. She was dressed in full battle armour, all black; a stark contrast to her beautiful white face.