The Iron Wolves (5 page)

The sun hung low in the sky, a bloated orange eye. The rolling grasslands hissed, grass dancing like a million tiny soldiers, as a cold wind skimmed the hills and howled mournfully through shallow valleys filled with large, angular boulders. These were the borderlands south of the deserts of Zakora, inhabited by the Kreell, tribes of hardened riders who lived wild in the vast, sweeping wilderness, camping in hide tents and warring often amongst themselves. The tribes were fluid, often exterminating other tribes, sometimes absorbing members into their own. None numbered more than several hundred, for often they fought, and could never forgive other tribes’ long past blood feuds and death pacts.

The Horsenail tribe were one of the largest groups of Kreell who hunted the borders of Zakora. They were feared as vicious warriors who took no prisoners, raped the women of opposing tribes and beheaded children.

Benkai Tal, their chief, was a large man, his long black beard braided, a horned brass warhelm atop his shaggy head; he wore a mixture of silks and leather, and sat astride his heavy charger as if he owned the world. He certainly had little to fear in these remote borderlands.

On this cold morning, the camp was in transit. A little over two hundred mounted tribesmen, riding a mixture of heavy war chargers and geldings, with a few scattered ponies. To the rear followed twelve carts, each pulled by six oxen. The carts contained women, children, supplies, tents, extra weapons and armour, and anything else the nomadic people might require.

Benkai Tal’s warriors rode in an inverted V formation, with Benkai proud at the head. He was not a leader who led from the back; but more a born warrior who beheaded his enemies and impaled their bodies on spears. He was a man of few words, and had four wives and fifteen children. His senior men joked that one of Benkai’s wives had cut out his tongue to stop the other women becoming jealous of his moans during loving; but they never said it within earshot.

They approached the Sudar Valley with care. They were in no rush, and Benkai sent scouts out across the surrounding low hills to check for signs of possible ambush. He was a wary man. One had to be, even within one’s own tribe.

They entered the valley, and distant horn blasts signalled safe passage. The wind howled mournfully between the hills, stirring the dusty trail which wound between huge boulders, many times bigger than the carts which carried their families and possessions.

Here, the wedge of mounted men was forced inwards, and the warriors shifted smoothly into a column formation. Horses snorted and stamped the dry earth, scattering rocks. Benkai Tal’s chief general, Tuboda, cantered forward to ride beside the chief.

“I have a bad feeling,” he said, through his thick beard. He was short and stocky, and wore a thick necklace of knuckle bones from the men and women he had killed.

“Hn,” grunted Benkai.

“Look. Ahead.” Tuboda gestured, and Benkai held his fist in the air, halting the mounted column. Distantly, the oxen snorted as cart wheels ground to a halt.

“A woman,” growled Benkai Tal.

Already Tuboda was searching the hilltops, and he lifted a horn to his lips and gave three short blasts. His scouts returned his call, confirming there were no enemy riders waiting in ambush. Tuboda frowned. Unless…
unless
the enemy had ambushed the scouts and tortured them into returning the call.

“What she doing here? A long way from home, it looks.”

“We find out,” said Benkai.

“Hey, you not need another wife?” grinned Tuboda suddenly, and Benkai gave him a narrow scowl and kicked his horse forward. Tuboda followed, and the two tribesmen cantered down the wide track between boulders, halting abruptly before the tall, white-skinned woman with short, spiked white hair. She wore black leather trews, a white shirt, a heavy jacket of wolfskin. Her head was high, eyes watching the two warriors without fear. She was appraising them. She had some courage. Some balls. Benkai Tal liked that.

“You are in my way,” said Benkai. “These are Horsenail lands. No other person come here. Not unless they wish to join my tribe. Or die.”

The woman tilted her head. She smiled. But still, she showed no fear.

Benkai frowned and his temper began to slip. It did not take much. “You pale white-skins are forbidden from these valleys! You should know this! You will pay a toll. You will be whipped twenty times, then share my bed furs tonight. Then, if you are lucky, we will allow you to live.”

“Share your bed furs?” said the woman, and released a peal of laughter so confident, so full of genuine humour that Tuboda checked the hilltops once more with growing agitation and placed his hand on the hilt of his curved sword. He kicked his horse forward, but the beast lowered its head, snorted and refused to move.

The woman looked him in the eye and said, her voice low but carrying to the front of the column, “You talk big, for such a little man. Now, I have a deal for you.
You
will pay
my
toll if you wish to pass, Benkai Tal of the Horsenail tribe. These are no longer your lands. These are my lands. I am Orlana.”

“Ha! Never heard of you, bitch.” He kicked himself from the saddle, hitting the dirt, and strode forward, unsheathing his sword smoothly with eyes glittering. Still the smile did not falter from this woman’s haughty, arrogant, pale white face. Benkai glanced again for hidden archers, but could see nothing. He scowled. This woman’s confidence started to worm past Benkai’s guard, to chip away at his supreme assuredness. He stopped, and lifted his sword so the tip of the wide curved blade was only an inch from Orlana’s throat. “You not look so confident now, pale face.”

“Really?” said Orlana, and slapped away the blade.

Benkai felt his hold on the situation slipping; he was being observed by all his men, and probably by some of the families far behind. This woman was mocking him, toying with him, and there was only one course of action open.

Benkai drew back the blade and stabbed out; his intention was not to kill, but to wound her, to make her feel pain, to suffer, to drop her to her knees – and that would be the beginning of her torment, Benkai Tal would see to that. As he stabbed, he had visions of hot coals in her eyes, a back flayed of all skin, her feet with all ten toes cut free as she begged and squirmed. Yes. She would scream and moan long into the night hours…

Orlana’s hand lifted, caught the blade, which was incredible because the razor-edge should have removed all her fingers, and she tugged it from Benkai’s grip like a warrior taking a stick from a child. She tossed the sword carelessly away, stepped swiftly forward and struck Benkai with the edge of her hand, a vicious chop that
cracked
and went
through
his neck. The head rolled away, looking surprised, and the body collapsed in a heap, pumping blood.

Orlana looked up, and the other warriors sat on their mounts, faces grim, hands on sword hilts. This, they had not expected.

Orlana knelt, and her bloody fingers touched the dry dust, and she said, “It is here, in the land, in the bedrock, in the soil, in the dust; it exists there, has always been there. It comes from the mountains and rivers, the trees and rocks; it rides through volcanic eruptions, it surges through the great cracks in the plates of the world.” She looked up then, and the tribesmen were watching her intently, unsure what to do. “Tuboda,” she said.

Tuboda jerked as if stung, then slowly lifted his head to meet her gaze. His mouth was dry. This was turning into a bad day.

“Yes, witch?”

“Do you serve me, Tuboda?”

Tuboda was painfully aware of his dead chief lying just feet away, and of the two hundred swords at his back. Sweat beaded his forehead and he licked salt-rimmed lips. But some primal intuition spoke to him through the earth, through the great rocks around him, and through his connection to that woman’s eyes. This was no mortal. This Orlana was… something
special
.

He dismounted and approached her, more to put distance between himself and the swords at his back. He drew his own weapon, and for a moment the gathered tribesmen were unsure what path Tuboda would take. But then he thrust the weapon point down in the dust and knelt before her.

Orlana stepped up to him and her eyes raked over the two hundred riders. The horses were stamping and skittish, and she smiled, and touched Tuboda on the shoulder, and lifted her right hand, fingers outstretched. A man screamed, and the horses began to stamp and snort and whinny, and then there came a terrible
crunch
and the beast and its rider, along with saddlebags, sword, bow, clothes and boots all folded in
together
, flesh and clothing merging and melting and folding over and through itself; blood bubbled, muscles grew and the horse hit the ground, trembling, hooves kicking violently as man and beast merged into one. Muscles filled out, swelling, becoming thicker and rippling, and the horse’s head, screaming an equine cry of pain and terror suddenly mouthed silently, great strings of saliva connecting the great stretched head as the eyes turned from brown to golden, and the face stretched wider still, and the horse, and the man, became one.

Tuboda, who had turned at the screams and whines, stared in stunned disbelief as the other beasts reared and whinnied, bloating, screaming and pawing the air. They folded together with their riders with crunches and breaks, snaps and slopping sounds, as blood ran and bones broke and shifted and reformed; and then he glanced back to Orlana and her own eyes were a softly glowing gold, her fingers straight, rigid, as she channelled power from the earth and the rocks and the mountains. Down through the columns every single man and beast crunched and writhed together in some great orgy of bloated flesh, screaming men, crying horses, and the grass turned slowly crimson, and was churned into mud, and grooves filled with blood and bits of useless bone were left scattered around the carnage like useless pulled teeth. Slowly, from the mess, from the mud, from the pulsing bloated bodies rose panting, drooling creatures, thick with muscle and with jaws broken open, showing huge fangs. Many eyes glowed softly golden and had a haunted intelligent look; like human eyes after witnessing a mass killing.

“Walk with me.”

Tuboda was drawn to his feet by Orlana and with open mouth followed his new mistress, down through a column which had become a charnel house; and each new creature, an amalgamated entity of horse and man, some with hooves, some fingers, some with bulging human appendages erupting from blistering horse flesh like boils, all stood large and bulky with muscle and thick strong bones. Heads were twisted and broken and wide, eyes disjointed, jaws lop-sided, and all eyes followed Orlana as she strode confidently forward, patting a beast here, stroking a flank there, her smile wide, eyes beaming in admiration for these, her creatures, her warriors, her new
family.

She halted near the back of the column. During the savage transformation, most families had scrambled from carts and fled, children screaming and weeping, mothers holding babes close to their chests. Many of the oxen had broken free and stampeded, leaving a sudden ghost town of lost wagons. Those that remained stared on with dull, bovine stupidity, their bodies trembling, waiting to die.

Somewhere amidst the abandoned wagons, a dog barked. Orlana made a small gesture, and one of the great horse creatures turned and leapt with incredible agility, disappearing between the wagons. There came a crunch and a squeal, and it returned with a bloody limp dog carcass between those great jaws, head hung sadly to one side, great doleful brown eyes glazed.

“Your thoughts?” said Orlana, and faced Tuboda.

“I… I… I…”

“You are speechless. Perhaps understandable. I have improved your tribesmen, Tuboda. They have merged with their mounts, but in joining have become so much more powerful, and vicious, and obedient. No longer do they pursue petty rivalries and grudges; no longer do they lust after women and liquor and gold. Now, they obey me. Without question. These are the
splice.
They are my new family. They are my army. And you are part of that, now. You are part of my expanding warhost.”

Tuboda swallowed, lowering his eyes. “Yes, Lady,” he whispered.

Orlana shifted her gaze to the panting, drooling beasts. “Come to me,” she said, and they rose, gathering round, shuffling forward, many looming over Orlana and a cowering, terrified Tuboda. All he could see were razor fangs, bloody mouths and insane eyes. He realised tears stained his own cheeks and he put his face in his hands.

“You are the beginning,” spoke Orlana, looking around herself, eyes shining with pride. She lifted her hands in the air. “You are my children! And I know the Change was difficult for you, pain like you have never before experienced; and you are hungry beyond the comprehension of mortal man. Go now, find the oxen which pulled these wagons, feast on their flesh and blood and bone marrow; go now, find the women and children of the tribe, devour them whole, feed your hunger and be satisfied.”

“No!” cried Tuboda, as the massive creatures turned and padded off down the boulder-strewn valley. He whirled on Orlana with wide, crazed eyes. “No, not the women and children; you cannot do this, please!
My
wife and children are with them!” Without thinking he found a long knife in his hand and he stabbed it towards Orlana’s heart. She batted it aside with ease, where it thudded into the dirt and blood at their feet. Tuboda waited to die, like the others; a part of him welcomed it. But Orlana behaved as if Tuboda hadn’t just attempted a mortal blow.

He fell to his knees.

She leant forward and took his hand. Looked down at him. Smiled.

“You have a new woman, now,” she said, and led him up, guiding him towards the abandoned wagons.

It was just before dawn, and Tuboda sat on the wagon steps and cried.

All around lay Orlana’s twisted creatures of nightmare, satiated, panting, drooling, great distended bellies rumbling and gurgling. Some slept on their flanks, huge heads to one side, black tongues lolling free. Tuboda did not know when they had returned, but he was sure all his tribe were now gone, and lost, and dust.

Finally, Tuboda took several deep breaths. He glanced behind, but Orlana was silent in sleep. Still. As if she were dead.

Tuboda crept down the steps and retrieved his long knife from earlier. Then he sat down cross-legged on the ground and stared up at a bloated yellow moon. The horizon was infused with a pastel pink. It was going to be a beautiful, cold day.

He shuddered at the memories of his night with Orlana. Again and again she had forced him to bring her to orgasm, her nails clawing his back like knives, drawing blood. And then she had slept, and he had felt truly unclean. As if he had made love with a living corpse.

“Holy Mother, forgive me, for I am lost,” he said, and pressed the knife to his wrist. One deep, hard cut, and eternal sleep would be his. He could find Darlana on the Lost Plains, and Boda, and cheeky little Eska; they would be a family again. Together again. Together in Eternity.

He shuddered and tried to cut down. But his hands would not work. He tried, again and again, until tears of frustration drenched his cheeks. But his limbs no longer obeyed his control.

He sensed her behind him and shuddered again, his body shaking with great silent sobs. She came close, naked, and sat down behind him, wrapping her legs around him, kissing him on the back of the neck.

“You don’t need to do that,” she whispered in his ear, breath tickling. “I have a present for you. I’ve been saving something special – just for you.”

From the dawn gloom something moved, shifted, and Tuboda blinked. And then he
smelled
the beast, smelled its rancid vinegar piss and stinking breath filled with strips of old rotting meat. It moved closer, head low to the ground, huge tawny eyes fixed on him as if hypnotised. It gave a low, low bass rumble, and its huge paws thud-thudded on the dirt.

A lion, he thought. Holy Mother of the Plains, a lion!

“My present, to you,” whispered Orlana, kissing his neck again and rising, stepping away.

“No!” Tuboda wanted to scream, as the great lion reared over him and his autonomy returned too late…

It leapt, fangs sinking into him, and they rolled together and… and everything was hot like a furnace and he was sinking into the lion and the lion into him, and his mind went blank and then flowed like thick honey; and then the pain struck him, every single atom of his body wrenching apart as dark magick burned, and he merged with the lion and all he knew was the pain – which became everything, and nothing, and seemed to last…

For. Ever.