The Iron Wolves (7 page)

General Dalgoran stood on the white marble steps of his sprawling, white-walled villa, back ramrod straight, short grey hair neatly combed in place, his large frame proud and his bearing still that of a military man despite this, the first day of his seventy-first year.

“Cigar, old man?” said General Jagged, stepping out into the crisp cold air beside Dalgoran, and Dalgoran gave a chuckle.

“Less of the old man, you bloody slack old goat. I’m a damn month younger than you!”

“And yet you look so much older,” grinned Jagged, passing over a thick cigar and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. General Jagged was completely bald, a short, squat, powerful man, brown face heavily creased, like tanned and wrinkled antique leather from years of outdoor soldiering. He wore a short goatee beard, white as the purest snow. Despite his age, he still carried himself well. They both did.

Dalgoran lit the cigar, and thick blue plumes engulfed him for a moment. “Ahh. But that’s good. Bad for my chest, you understand, but on a special occasion like this, I’m sure one won’t kill me. Not yet, anyway.” He gazed off, towards the distant White Lion Mountains, silhouetted and vast and noble in the fast approaching gloom. They towered over the Skell Forest to the northeast and, if one looked carefully, one could make out the distant, high towers in the city of Kantarok.

“How’s your head, Jagged?”

“Nothing wrong with my head. What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“I thought, you know, with the promise of snow in the air, the biting chill… your lack of hair…”

“Pah!”

“That’s a damn cold wind blowing from the White Lions…” Dalgoran shivered theatrically, and enjoyed his cigar. “Could give a bald man like yourself a real nasty cold. I’d be covering yourself up, if I were you. Inside, Alaya can maybe find you a hat?”

“General, if it wasn’t your birthday, I’d break your nose.”

“Again? That would be exciting. But of course, not before I’d knocked out your teeth.”

The two old men laughed, and Dalgoran leant back against a white pillar, gazing across his acres of land. Down by the distant tree line were several cottages, housing woodsmen, the cook and his estate gardeners. His eyes travelled along the tree line bordering the north of his estates, admiring the finely sculpted hedgerows, the vast flowerbeds now a riot of white and blue with winter pansies and various patterned evergreen bushes which Dalgoran had planted himself. This place was idyllic. And yet the cold wind made him shiver and the smile slowly dropped from his face as he thought again about his wife.

“I tell you something,” said Jagged. “The bloody doctors in Drakerath are now saying, and I cannot believe this so-called
fact
, that smoking a cigar or pipe is bad for your lungs! What a nonsense! It clears me out a treat, I tell you.”

“And of course, you know better than all the medical minds of Vagandrak put together?”

“Of course,” growled General Jagged. “Without me, there’d
be
no damn medical minds, no damn universities and doctors and scholars. If I, and I concede you had a small part to play here Dalgoran, well if I hadn’t been in charge of organising the King’s armies when that bastard Morkagoth led his forces north… well. You and I both know, we’d be speaking and grunting in fucking mud-orc now. That, or be buried six feet under the ground.”

Dalgoran, who had spluttered on his cigar, gave Jagged a sideways look. “You’re a modest old skunk.”

“I was a good soldier.”

“I recognise the past tense.”

“Just smoke your cigar and look out for the guests. I believe the cake is huge – it has to be, to fit on so many bloody candles.”

They smoked in amiable silence for a while, as the winter sun sank behind the trees and painted the horizon scarlet. Pines turned to black sentinels. The shadows grew longer and eddies of snow eased from bruised heavens.

“You’re a good friend,” said Jagged, at last.

“Mighty fine of you to say so.”

“We’ve been through some shit together, haven’t we?”

Dalgoran grinned. “Remember Desekra Fortress? Charging that squad of mud-orcs, we thought there were a hundred men behind us, and there was just one – that simpleton Jorgrek. We were screaming, spears levelled, the mud-orcs with their wide eyes and slavering jaws, we thought they were staring in terror, but they must have been simply stunned at the stupidity of three men charging thirty.”

“You hit the leader between the eyes with your spear, didn’t you? And the impact popped his head from his body like a pea from a pod?”

“Aye. Made the bastards jump. Made
me
jump all that yellow jelly shit coming out of his neck.”

Dalgoran stared off across his lands. “I’ll never forget that look on your face when you realised you didn’t have a hundred lances behind you. It was priceless! You don’t get moments better than that. Not in this lifetime.”

“Yes,” growled Jagged, his feathers ruffled. “A bit like the time you came waltzing drunk out of that whorehouse in Lower Vagan and that half-dressed lady-friend came running out after you because you’d forgotten your hat, and she was scratching like a whole family of mice had nested in her panties! Har har!”

“I didn’t realise you were there that night?”

“I wasn’t. Old Sergeant Harkrock told me about it. Laugh? I think I actually pissed myself.”

“I see your incontinence problems persist.”

“Come on, Dalgoran. That was funny. The way she was scratching between her legs... Apparently you went so bloody pale it was said you’d pass out on the spot. You went to the battalion surgeon, still pissed, begging him to see to your groin, but he was busy building a model with his little boy and wouldn’t have anything to do with you. Oh, how we all roared and slapped our thighs.”

Dalgoran burst out laughing suddenly, and slapped Jagged on the back making him drop the stump of his cigar. “Yes. Funny. Good old days. Whatever happened to Harkrock? He was the one with the limp, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Broke his ankle in a fall from a horse and it turned bad. They had to amputate below the knee.”

“Ahh. Is he still alive?”

“Dalgoran, he died at the Pass. With most of the others.”

“That’s a shame,” said Dalgoran, finishing his cigar.

“Your guests are beginning to arrive.”

Dalgoran nodded, and they both watched several coaches start the long ascent up the sweeping stone drive, teams of horses straining.

Jagged gave a theatrical look around. “Why the hell did you build your villa
up here,
General? You had your pick of the King’s land.”

Dalgoran gave a shrug and ground the stub of his cigar under his gleaming, well-polished boot. “I like watching the horses struggle. Either that, or I have a pathological hatred of… people.”

“People?”

“People in general. No offence meant.”

“None taken, you cunning old bastard. You going to ask me in for a brandy?”

“Ha. Yes. No point reaching seventy if you can’t drink with your friends.”

General Jagged fixed him with a beady eye. “Friend? Whatever made you think that, old boy? Men like us don’t have friends. Just memories, acquaintances and a wish that we’d done things differently during our youths.”

Dalgoran considered this. “And you had to ask
why
I built my house up here?”

“Just curious, old boy. Just curious.”

Night had fallen, and during the last hour nearly two hundred guests had arrived, old friends, new friends, family and acquaintances. Many were of military bearing; one didn’t spend a lifetime in the army and not have a certain bias with regards to the trade of people one knew.

Fires roared in various wide stone hearths, and a band played discreetly in the corner: piano and strings, narrative songs about the heroes of Vagandrak. General Dalgoran circulated the several large rooms which had been set aside for his birthday celebration, smiling, chatting, kissing the odd proffered hand of a beautiful woman. Servants circulated with trays containing crystal glasses of honeyed wine, sweet meats and delicacies from as far south as Oram and as far north as Zalazar and the fabled Elf Rat Lands.

After a while, General Jagged moved to one of the large roaring fires and in his booming, parade-ground bellow, shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?” Everybody paused, turning their eyes on Jagged, with his wide grin and a fresh cigar. “As you know, we are here to celebrate the beginning of the seventy-first year of our friend, comrade and military
hero,
General Dalgoran. You all know him as a caring man, a great father and sadly a widower in these recent months. But I tell you! I knew Farsala like no other, an incredible woman – she had to be, to put up with this stubborn oaf–” there came a sprinkling of laughter, “but I know, if she were here today, she would talk about how proud she was of this fine, strong, charismatic general who is not just a brilliant soldier, a genuine morale builder for those who follow him and an unparalleled tactician, but is above all a superb and much-loved father, grandfather, and of course Farsala would have said
husband.
I’m not going to say that, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to marry the grumpy old bastard now.” More laughter. “So, without further ado, I ask you to raise your glasses and wish, along with me, a very happy birthday for General Dalgoran. One of Vagandrak’s finest.”

“One of Vagandrak’s finest!” came the cheer and, grinning from ear to ear, Dalgoran passed Jagged on the way to the slightly elevated platform in front of the roaring fire. As he passed, Dalgoran gave Jagged a hearty punch on the arm, and the slightly older man scowled.

“Thank you, Jagged, my oldest friend, comrade-in-arms and back-stabbing horse shagger.” A roar of laughter. “Lock up your ponies, ladies and gentlemen, because after just four or five tankards of ale, General Jagged will be out on the prowl with a horse-whip and a dirty smile.”

“Only with your help!” yelled Jagged from the back.

General Dalgoran held up a hand and a respectful silence descended. Here was a man who had genuinely saved the country and was respected by the people and kings under which he had served. Here was a man who was the epitome of strength, honour and courage to the civilians and military minds of Vagandrak. General Dalgoran was indeed a hero.

“I know many of you knew my late wife, the Lady Farsala,” he said, voice soft but still carrying, even over the crackling of the large, roaring fires. “And I know that you all know of our incredible, long-enduring love. She was the light of my life, my best friend, my lover, my soul mate. I met her when I was training at the King’s Barracks outside Vagan and me and a few lads disguised ourselves and snuck out to sample that fine city’s finest taverns. She was a serving girl, and we gave her a hard time – right up to the point she slapped my stupid useless face. I fell in love with her the instant she hit me, for what a heart that woman had! It took me another year to woo her, but woo her I did. And now I stand here, a proud father, grandfather and soon to be
great
grandfather. Where the years went, I will truly never know. They flowed away downriver, like fine wine down General Jagged’s throat! But I have so many wonderful memories; so many precious moments of time. When Lady Farsala lay dying she made me promise her one thing – that we’d had such an incredible time together, I would not cry at the end. When her last breath rattled free I cried – I could not contain myself. And it was the only time I ever broke a promise to her; my beloved. I told her I would follow her soon, for I know she awaits me beyond the Gilded Halls. It was my greatest dream that Farsala would be here to see my seventieth birthday celebrations; she made me promise to go ahead, even without her. And so, here I am and here we are.

“When she… passed away, for a long time the light went out in the world. Food lost its flavour, wine lost its taste, colour was bleached from everything I saw.” He stared around the room, meeting eyes, and took a sip from his goblet of port. As he met gazes, many gave him nods and small smiles. He pursed his lips. “In one way, I feel privileged to reach the age of seventy, especially having served in some dodgy campaigns with that old goat Jagged; in fact, quite frankly, having worked with the man I’m quite astounded I reached the age of thirty, never mind seventy!”

“You look nearer eighty!” shouted Jagged, from the back. There came a ripple of laughter, especially from Vornek, who turned nearly purple with mirth.

“Maybe in age, my friend, but alas, you’ve put eighty pounds on your belly feasting on Mrs Melkett’s fine pig pies down Baker’s Alley!”

More laughter.

“However, in all seriousness, it is an honour to reach seventy; and yet with great sadness I outlived my love. I only wish she could have been here to share the celebration. So, with love, and a lifetime of fabulous memories, I stand here and ask you to please charge your glasses and take a moment to remember my fabulous wife, whom I loved more than life… Farsala.” The gathered crowd raised their glasses and repeated her name, and there came a period of respectful silence.

General Jagged threaded his way to the front, and embraced his old comrade and they shared a minute of warmth. Theirs was the greatest of friendships, despite regular cantankerous banter; theirs was a friendship to kill for. A friendship to die for. Jagged pulled away and grinned at his old friend.

“You could have just shook my hand,” said Dalgoran.

“You always were an unaffectionate bastard.”

“Go on, go find me a drink.”

“What am I, your serving wench?”

“You always were, Jagged. Always were.”

“Ha!”

It was late. The barrels and bottles had been emptied, platters of food devoured, there had been much dancing to upbeat fast tempo music, then slow dances to sultry folk ballads by a master on a lyre. As the fires started to burn low, so they were stacked high again with chunks of axe-cut pine and ash; and more drink brought from the cellars. It was going to be a lengthy night.