The Iron Wolves (20 page)

Narnok had drained a flagon in one, and went to clean himself up. Kiki sat, a bowl on her lap, cleaning the blood off Dek’s face as the pit fighter tested each tooth in turn. “I hate breaking a tooth. Do you know how hard it is to find a good dentist? Last bitch almost burned off my tongue with her bloody hot steel tools. I broke her jaw for that one.”

“It occurs to me, that you are not a subtle man,” said Kiki, dabbing a cut above his eye.

“Aye. Well. Some of us are made that way.”

“You weren’t like that on the walls of Desekra Fortress when the mud-orcs screamed and charged towards us. ‘Tall he was, noble and proud, a cloak he wore as if a shroud; his shining armour blazed like fire, the enemy burned on a funeral pyre!’”

“Fuck
off
, Kiki; that was a bad poem back in its day, and unlike wine, it has not matured with age. Whoever wrote it should be killed.”

They stayed in silence for a while, and Kiki dabbed the cloth into a water and blood filled bowl, and slowly cleaned the blood around Dek’s mouth.

“You let him beat you, didn’t you?”

Dek met her questioning gaze. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, eventually.

“Narnok is a fearsome warrior with an axe. And a formidable man in a fist fight. But I’ve seen you in the Pits, Dek; you’re a machine. You’re unstoppable. You scare
me.
”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dek, gently, and smiled. “The point is, Narnok got some kind of a revenge. A small one, I’ll grant you, but up here,” he tapped his head, “it’ll do him the world of good. And now we can travel, can we not? Now, we can head for Timanta.”

“Good. I think it’s time we got some sleep.”

“Together?”

“Nice try, mister. But not tonight. Not in this life.”

“But we…”

“No.”

A commotion came from downstairs. A crashing sound, followed by a repeated banging, as of wood on wood.

“Narnok fall down the stairs?” grinned Dek.

“No…” said Kiki, frowning. “That was far too loud…” She gathered her sword and moved to the door leading to the stairs. Dalgoran came from his room, his own blade in his hand, closely followed by Ragorek.

“What is it?”

Kiki gave a shake of her head and opened the door. Another crash echoed up the stairway and Kiki ran to the top of the wooden flight; Ralph was at the bottom, backing away, hands outstretched. “No,” he was saying, hands trembling, “No, please, no!” and then he turned, and saw Kiki and his face contorted and he screamed, “Please, help me!” as something
big
hit him hard and fast, a blur of movement that shocked Kiki so much she took a step back. A ruptured shrill scream pierced the tavern and the creature, a twisted, grotesque deviation of horse and
something else
lowered its head and bit straight through Ralph’s red puffed cheeks, allowing his brain slop to spill out like jelly from a bowl.

It screamed again and shook its head from side to side like a dog with a bone. Then it looked up, its elongated equine head, with a huge lump to one side and random tufts of black spider hair sprouting, fixed on Kiki.

“By the Seven Sisters,” she said, voice hushed, taking a two-handed hold on her sword.

“Ralph! Ralph, Ralph!” wailed Beth, rushing forward bearing a carving knife.

“Keep back!” yelled Kiki, but with one swift movement the horse beast turned its head, and a huge arm/leg came up containing long black claws that sprouted through a buckled iron horse shoe; it lashed out, claws decapitating Beth. Her head rolled down the corridor and her body hit the wall to leave a crimson smear against the patterned flower wallpaper.

Kiki growled and took a step down towards the beast.

“I’m going to cut your fucking horsehead off,” she said.

“Wait!” hissed Dalgoran, and touched Kiki’s shoulder. From behind the twisted horse creature appeared two more, pacing forward like hunting lions. These, also, were part horse and part
something
, and each one was broken and twisted in a different way, each one wore different coloured skin and had crooked fangs of various diseased colours. One had a tusk in the side of its head.

“What in hell’s balls are those?” boomed Narnok, and hefted his axe, pushing to the front of the group.

“They move fast,” advised Dek, remembering Heroes’ Square. “Go for the eyes and the brain.”

Narnok nodded, for once lost for words.

And with a clattering thunder of broken hooves and claws, the splice lowered their heads, screamed a high-pitched alien wail and bounded up the stairs towards the grim warriors above…

The vast, rolling plain lay dull green, frosted with white. Heavy bruised clouds dominated the sky, with various towering cumulonimbus killing the winter sun and threatening snow with clenched fists and thunder. Banners bearing the crest of Vagandrak fluttered and snapped in the wind, and as General Jagged breached a rise he felt his adrenalin pump as the army spread out before him; thirty thousand camped infantry ranged in twenty-two individual battalion camps, each with their own cooks and armourers, servants and whores. At the centre was a large white tent, surrounded by the smaller tents for the generals and captains, and Jagged’s eyes narrowed at the black and white pennant of King Yoon.

“So, here you are, you bastard,” he muttered. Jagged leant back in the saddle with a creak of leather, and both Tuokhane and Kerran gave him a nod. Big serious men, born warriors, they were not to be taken lightly and rode their mounts like born cavalry, backs ramrod straight, dark eyes masked in storm-shadowed helms. “Now, there’s an army of Vagandrak iron, eh lads?” he grinned, but the two men said nothing. Jagged shrugged. They were here as bodyguards, not to swap pleasantries, and they took their roles with the utmost seriousness of the professional soldier.

“Yah!” Jagged kicked his horse into a canter and within thirty seconds ten riders broke away from the camp, galloping with lowered lances to meet the three men. As they came close, their lances lifted and Captain Gerander of House Trantor smiled at General Jagged.

“You’re a long way from home, General!” He saluted. “I thought you’d retired? What brings you all the way out here?”

“I seek an audience with King Yoon,” said General Jagged, watching the cavalry captain’s face for signs of… what? Well, if the rumours were true…

Captain Gerander stiffened a little, and his eyes lost their humour. “The King does not enjoy the company of unwanted guests without appointment,” he said, carefully. “I would urge the general to reconsider the need of such a meeting, and only approach our beloved King if the meeting is of the utmost urgency.”

Jagged urged his mount forward and he patted Gerander on the shoulder. “It is, lad. It is. Don’t you worry. Take me to him.”

“You will have to surrender your weapons,” said Gerander, voice carefully neutral.

General Jagged stared at the captain for a long minute, then gave a nod, his smile gone, his mouth a line, his eyes hard. “If that’s the way it has to be,” he said, and gestured to his two bodyguards who reluctantly drew swords and knives, handing them over to the Vagandrak riders.

Jagged rode beside Gerander through the sprawling camp. Soldiers glanced up from their tents, swords or bowls of soup as the group passed by, and many gestured, waved or nodded to General Jagged. Jagged was an old soldier, a veteran of many a campaign. He smiled at a great many men, often making comments like, “I see you there, Belfour, you young pup,” or “you missed some rust on that blade, Falazar; sloppy work, man, sloppy work!” and there were a few grins. But Jagged’s overall impression was of an army not at the pinnacle of its morale.

Thunder rumbled distantly as heavily armoured guards took reins from Jagged. Gerander saluted, and said, “I must leave you here, General. It was good to see you again.”

“And you, Captain. If you’re ever north of Vagan, feel free to call in on my estates.”

“A very kind offer, sir. Maybe one day I will.”

Jagged’s guards were bid to wait outside, and Jagged ducked under a tent flap and stopped, his mouth open.

King Yoon’s war tent was… exquisite.

The ground was covered in thick patterned rugs and several mounds of fur had been built up, giving what Jagged could only presume were areas in which to be pampered. Several braziers burned, set on marble plinths, and gold and obsidian busts had been set around the tent’s interior on low stands. Silks and tapestries hung from horizontal tent-poles, some fluttering from unseen breezes or updrafts. Incense burned, lavender, orange and… Jagged frowned. Was that
honey-leaf
? The fact it soon filled his head with muddy thoughts, slowing his reactions, gave him the answer. There were long tables containing rich cakes, salted meats, flagons of wine and crystal decanters of amber liquor, and deep within the haze of the tent Jagged suddenly realised there were women reclining on a low bed; three of them, completely naked, oiled, moving with the ease and languor of sun-lazy snakes as they slowly crawled over one another, kissing, touching, caressing…

“Your Majesty?” inquired Jagged, uncertainly. The honey-leaf stank in his nostrils worse than any burning city. It made him want to gag.

And then he realised with a start that the King was seated, watching the three oiled women. He was totally focused on their oiled bodies. His long shaggy hair was just as black and unkempt as Jagged remembered, and the joke around court was “that bloody king should get a good haircut!” only not to his face. He seemed to be wearing some kind of baggy outfit like jesters wore, fashioned from diamond panels of brightly coloured silk.

Jagged moved forward. “Your Majesty?”

“Ahh, Jagged.”

The King stood and moved around the oiled beauties; for they
were
beauties and Jagged’s breath caught in his throat. He coughed, feeling it inappropriate to speak about what they thought was an impending invasion in front of such… debauchery. He coughed again, but King Yoon loomed close, bending over at the waist but peering upwards toward Jagged’s face. It was a most unnatural position, and Jagged took a step back.

“Your Highness. I come with missives of great urgency.”

“You do, eh, General?” Yoon grinned at him, and fluttered a hand as if waving away a buzzing insect. “But more of that later. What would you like? I have some spiced wine or whiskey with ice. What’ll it be, hmm?”

“Highness, I come with news of grave importance; information regarding the security of the realm!”

“Ahh, and what is it, then? We need more City Watch, do we, lad? We need more money in the royal coffers?” He gave a small giggle, which he stilled with the back of his hand, then gave a cough. He moved to the table where flagons were lined, and poured out two generous measures of something amber with tiny black things floating in it.

“No, Highness.” Jagged took the glass but made no effort to drink. He could still see the oiled bodies in his peripheral vision. “Maybe you should dismiss the… ahh, performers, and we can sit down and speak of matters of war, of life and death; and of Desekra Fortress.”

Yoon sighed and leant against a thick tent pole, sipping his drink. He rolled his great dark eyes and shook his shaggy mane of hair. His face was painted white, Jagged could see now in the light of a fish-oil lantern, and it made the creases of Yoon’s face ever-deeper. To Jagged, this man looked little like a king, any king. But he was, and Jagged would have to work with what he had.

“It is a fact, Highness, that the army has been somewhat thinned at Desekra.”

“Yes, yes, what of it? There is no threat from the south. I have papers from Zorkai to that effect. In fact, I believe I may be marrying one of his illegitimate daughters. When she grows by another ten years, ha ha.”

“Highness, I bring word from General Dalgoran, your most trusted servant and former General of the King’s Army.”

“Dalgoran. Yes. I liked him. Nice man. Too tall. Never trust a too tall man, that’s what I say.”

“But, Sire,” said Jagged, flustered.

“Oh yes. Message from Dalgoran. Do go on. You don’t mind if I drink, do you? It’s this damn weather. Plays havoc with my joints. Not that I’m getting old, you understand. It wouldn’t do for my adoring and loving public to think I’m getting old.
You
don’t think I’m getting old, do you, Jagged?”

“No, no, of course not, King Yoon.”

“Do go on. You don’t mind if I drink?”

Drink yourself to death for all I care, thought Jagged but, kept his face straight. “No, Highness. Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

“And your message?”

“A seer visited Dalgoran on his seventieth birthday. We thought it a fun game, a bit of frivolity for the old man, but her words were deadly serious, and she foretold the return of the mud-orcs from the south.”

“I wouldn’t worry about such ramblings,” said Yoon, swaying his glass from left to right, his eyes watching the ice cubes chink.

Jagged frowned. “Not ramblings, Majesty. A
prediction
. And we would have been highly sceptical if we hadn’t been visited within a few moments by the most horrific of beasts from darkest nightmare. A creature, part-wolf, broke through the party and killed the seer; we eventually put the monster down, but it took a lot of killing.”

“A lot of killing,” murmured Yoon.

“Yes, Highness. It was like nothing I have ever seen, in all my years of soldiering. It was twisted, broken, but almost like man and wolf had been merged together…”

“I think you were mistaken,” said Yoon, flapping his hand, a movement accentuated by the silk and lace. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have more pressing matters to attend to,” and he’d already turned, eyes fixed on the oiled, gyrating women, his feet in brightly coloured soft slippers stepping away from General Jagged. His point was obvious.
The meeting is over. Please leave.

Jagged gave a cough, any meekness he may have suffered now deserting him. His parade ground brusqueness returned, and returned with a vengeance. His eyes narrowed, and five decades of shouting at big men stomped to the front of his brain.

“King Yoon,” said General Jagged, and something in the tone of the old man’s voice halted Yoon and made the dandy king turn. “If the seer was correct, and there really is an army of mud-orcs heading for the Pass of Splintered Bones, their intention the raiding of Vagandrak, the slaughter of its civilians, the emptying of the royal coffers, the despoiling and slaughter of Vagandrak women; then, the king who would allow such a thing to happen would become a laughing stock; more, indeed it could be argued a rebellion might form and seek to overthrow some weak, selfish, narcissistic monarch who chose personal gratification over the safety and security of the country’s people. You camp here, only a week’s march from Desekra, with thirty thousand well-trained soldiers, and yet Desekra stands at quarter-compliment with only ten thousand. You can man the walls with this force, Majesty, and be seen as the king who did the right thing, thus preserving his honour and popularity with the people! Now, General Dalgoran entrusted me with this message, and you and I both know he deserves at least an answer from yourself, Highness. You must understand, we seek to offer no disrespect, but I beseech you, this is a time of urgent national security, if nothing else, send scouts south, seek out Zorkai and his princelings; for something sinister is afoot in our lands, King Yoon, and we cannot stand by and watch evil grow and invade.”

Yoon considered this, walking forward, swirling his drink, his dark eyes hooded.

“Jagged?” he said, almost amiably.

“Yes, Majesty?”

“I have a gift.” His arm came back, lace ruff puffing out, and for a moment Jagged thought the king was going to slap him. But it was worse than that. Much worse. The ruff concealed a slender black dagger, which slashed for Jagged’s face and the old general leapt back, mostly from instinct and decades of training, for he had not seen the concealed weapon, nor even anticipated such a blow.

“Yoon!” yelled Jagged, mouth open in shock.

Yoon lunged forward again, and Jagged’s arm came up. The blade slashed across his forearm and the straps which held his greaves; steel bit flesh, drawing blood, nothing serious, but pain forced Jagged to gasp and take two more steps back.

“GUARDS, GUARDS!” screamed Yoon suddenly, “ASSASSINATION!” and in a heartbeat five huge armoured men were there, swords rammed up against Jagged’s throat, their sweat palpable, their breath stinking of onions as they bore Jagged to the ground and he went down under a sudden weight of men and armour.

A wall of iron filled Jagged’s vision, and an incredible pain crushed his chest. His heart pounded in his ears and his mouth was suddenly dry. Why would Yoon do this?
Why?
And the answer came and the answer was a simple one.

Madness.

For long moments Jagged could not move, and his brain swirled in confusion. The King had quite obviously gone insane. But what to do? How to get out of this predicament with… he smiled grimly. His life.

He had to get word back to Dalgoran.

He had to warn his friend.

The weight shifted a little, and he heard barked orders. The steel armour shifted again, and some of the pressure released. A sword blade was held against his throat, and the soldiers slowly removed themselves. With a blink, General Jagged realised it was Yoon that held the blade.

“You think to come here and mock me?” sneered Yoon through his white mask of paint. “You use words like ‘rebellion’ and ‘overthrow’ and think this is acceptable language to use in front of your king?”

“Majesty, I…”

King Yoon raised the sword, half turning, and General Jagged started to lift himself up on elbows. But Yoon whirled back, the blade slamming down, hacking into Jagged’s throat and opening a huge wound. Jagged gagged, eyes rolling, blood flushing from the huge crimson slash. Yoon lifted the sword again, dark eyes gleaming, and hacked down again, severing Jagged’s head. The body flopped to the rich rugs, pumping out blood from a ragged neck stump, and the head rocked a little, tongue poking out, the features suddenly very, very old.

Yoon’s soldiers stood by, uneasily. They knew who this great general was. But if King Yoon chose to execute him for talk of rebellion, or for attempted assassination, who were they to stand in his way?

Yoon was panting, lank hair in his eyes, sweat on his brow making trickles of white paint run down his face. He glared suddenly at the soldiers, and it took massive courage to not take a step back under that gaze, for there was murder in Yoon’s eyes. Instead, he said, “Take his head outside, place it on a lance point, and stand the lance at the edge of the camp.
No man
tells me how to run my country. No man talks of rebellion. No fucker tells me
what to do!
” He screamed the last words.

The soldiers came forward, lifting Jagged’s head and body and bearing them from the tent.

Yoon returned to the wide bed, sword dripping a trail of blood across fine rugs, to where the three oiled ladies had halted their drug-infused ecstasy. Yoon waved the blade. “Continue. And you.” He pointed with the bloody weapon at a shocked, oiled, painted lady. “Open your legs. Open them wide. I need some entertainment.”